Seizure

eleven

7:00 A.M., Monday, February 25, 2002

“Stephanie!” Daniel called softly as he gently shook her shoulder. “They are about to serve breakfast. Do you want any, or should I let you sleep until we land?”

Stephanie forcibly opened her eyes, rubbed them, and yawned at the same time. Then she had to blink rapidly a few times before she was able to see. Her eyes were dry from the plane’s parched atmosphere.

“Where are we?” she asked in a husky voice. Her throat was dry as well. She sat up and stretched. Then she leaned over and looked out the window. Although there was a hint of dawn along the horizon, the ground below was still dark. She could see the lights of cities and towns dotting the landscape.

“My guess would be we’re over someplace in France,” Daniel said.

Despite attempts at planning to avoid a last-minute rush, the night before had been an anxious scramble to get out of Daniel’s apartment, get to Logan Airport, and get through security. They’d made the flight with less than ten minutes to spare. Thanks to Butler’s money, they were flying Alitalia’s Magnifica Class and were seated in the first two seats on the left side of the Boeing 767 aircraft.

Stephanie raised the back of her seat from its reclined position. “How come you’re so wide awake? Did you sleep?”

“Not a wink,” Daniel admitted. “I started reading these books of yours about the Shroud of Turin, particularly the one by Ian Wilson. I can see why you got hooked. It’s fascinating stuff.”

“You must be exhausted.”

“I’m not,” Daniel said. “Reading about the shroud has kind of energized me. I’m even more encouraged about treating Butler and using the shroud’s DNA fragments. In fact, it occurred to me that maybe after we finish with Butler, we should go ahead and treat another celebrity someplace offshore with the same DNA source, somebody who doesn’t mind publicity. Once the story of the cure hits the media, no politician would dare interfere, and better yet, the FDA would be forced to alter their protocol for approval of the treatment.”

“Whoa!” Stephanie warned. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. We need to concentrate on Butler for the time being. His cure is not a given by any stretch of the imagination.”

“You don’t think treating another celebrity is a good idea?”

“I need to give it some thought to respond intelligently,” Stephanie said, trying to be diplomatic. “Right now my mind is a bit addled. I need to use the restroom, and then I want some breakfast. I’m starved. When my mind is firing on all cylinders, I want to hear what you have read about the shroud, particularly whether you have a hypothesis of how the image was formed.”

Less than an hour later, they landed at Rome’s Fiumicino Airport. Along with a crush of other people arriving at the same time from various international destinations, they got through passport control and then managed to find their way to the gate for their connecting flight to Turin. At a nearby coffee bar, Daniel indulged himself with an Italian espresso that he bolted down like the local patrons. There was no Magnifica Class on this leg, and once they boarded the plane, they found themselves in a tight cabin filled with businessmen. Stephanie was in the middle seat and Daniel on the aisle, halfway down the aircraft’s cabin.

“This is cozy,” Daniel commented. Thanks to his six-foot-one-inch frame, his knees were pressed up against the seat in front of him.

“How are you feeling now? Are you tired?”

“No, and especially not after that jolt of high-test coffee.”

“Then talk to me about the shroud! I really want to hear.” Thanks to the long line waiting to use the restroom on the flight from Boston to Rome, there hadn’t been time for the subject to come up before they landed.

“Well, first off, I don’t have any theory about how the image was formed. It’s definitely an intriguing mystery, that much I’ll agree, and I was particularly taken by the poetic way Ian Wilson described it as ‘a photographic negative waiting dormant like a time capsule for the moment of photography’s invention.’ But the idea of the image being evidence of the Resurrection as both you and he suggested, I don’t buy. It’s faulty scientific reasoning. You can’t posit an unknown and counterintuitive process of dematerialization to explain an unknown phenomenon.”

“What about black holes?”

“What are you talking about?”

“Black holes have been posited to explain unknown phenomena, and black holes are certainly counterintuitive from our direct scientific experience.”

There was a period of silence, save for the muffled roar of the jet engines mingling with the rustle of morning newspapers and the tapping of laptop keyboards.

“You have a point,” Daniel admitted finally.

“Let’s move on! What else caught your interest?”

“Quite a few things. One that comes to mind is the result of reflectance spectroscopy showing dirt on the images of the feet. It seemed to me to be such an ordinary discovery, until I learned that some of the granules were identified by optical crystallography to be travertine aragonite that had a spectral signature matching limestone samples taken from ancient Jerusalem tombs.”

Stephanie laughed. “Leave it to you to be impressed by one of the more arcane scientific details. I don’t even remember that tidbit.”

“It strains one’s credibility that a fourteenth-century French forger would have gone to such an extent as to obtain and sprinkle such detritus on his supposed creation.”

“I couldn’t agree more.”

“Another fact that caught my attention was that when one looks at the intersection of the habitats of the three Middle-Eastern plants whose pollens are the most prevalent on the shroud, it narrows the shroud’s apparent origin to the twenty miles between Hebron and Jerusalem.”

“Curious, isn’t it?”

“It’s more than curious,” Daniel said. “Whether the shroud is the burial cloth of Jesus Christ or not is certainly not proved-nor, I might add, can it ever be-but in my mind the artifact came from Jerusalem, and it wrapped a man who had been scourged in the ancient Roman fashion, whose nose had been broken, who had thorn wounds on his head, and who had been crucified and suffered a lance wound to his chest.”

“What did you think of the historical aspect?”

“It was well presented and captivating,” Daniel acknowledged. “After reading it, I’m willing to entertain the idea that the Shroud of Turin and the Edessa Cloth are one and the same. I was particularly taken by the way the shroud’s crease marks have been used to explain how it could have been displayed in Constantinople as merely the head of Jesus, as the Edessa Cloth was generally described, or Jesus’ entire body, front and back, as described by the crusader Robert de Clari. He was the individual who saw it just prior to its disappearance during the sacking of Constantinople in 1204.”

“Which means the carbon-dating results are in error.”

“As troublesome as that sounds to me as a scientist, it seems to be true.”

Hardly had they gotten their orange juices before the seat-belt sign came back on, along with an announcement that the pilots were making their initial approach to Turin’s Caselle Airport. Fifteen minutes later, they landed. As full as the plane was, it took them almost as long as the flight from Rome to get off the plane, walk the length of the concourse, and find the appropriate luggage carousel.

While Daniel waited for their bags to appear, Stephanie noticed a cell phone concession, and she went over to rent one. Before leaving Boston, she had learned that her stateside cell phone would not function in Europe, although it would in Nassau, and to be sure she did not miss any emails from Butler while in Turin, she needed a European cell phone number. As soon as she could, she planned to set it up so Butler’s emails would go to both numbers.

Emerging from the terminal with their luggage in tow and their coats on, they joined a taxi line. While they waited, they got their first glimpse of the Piedmont. To the west and north they could see snowcapped mountains. To the south, a mauve haze hung over the industrial part of the city. The weather was cool and not too dissimilar to what they had left in Boston, which made sense, since the two cities were at approximately the same latitude.

“I hope I don’t regret not renting a car,” Daniel said, while watching the full taxis rocket away.

“The guidebook said parking in the city is impossible,” Stephanie reminded him. “The positive side is that Italian drivers are supposed to be good, even if they are fast.”

Once underway, Daniel held on with white-knuckle intensity as the driver lived up to Stephanie’s description. The taxi was a postmodern Fiat with blocky styling that made it appear to be an amalgam of an SUV and a compact car. Unfortunately for Daniel, it was remarkably responsive to the accelerator.

Stephanie had been to Italy on several occasions and had specific expectations of what the city would look like. Initially, she was disappointed. Turin had none of the medieval or Renaissance charm she associated with places like Florence or Siena. Instead, it seemed to be an indeterminately modern city beset with suburban sprawl and, at the moment, caught in the clutches of morning rush hour. The traffic was heavy, and all the Italian drivers seemed equally aggressive, with lots of horn blowing, rapid accelerations, and equally rapid braking. The ride was nerve-racking, especially for Daniel. Stephanie tried to start a conversation, but Daniel was too engrossed with watching for the next close call out the windshield.

Daniel had booked a single-night stay in what his guidebook described as the city’s best hotel, the Grand Belvedere. It was in the center of the old city, and as they entered that quarter, Stephanie’s impression of Turin began to change. She still wasn’t seeing the kind of architecture she expected, but the city began to have its own unique charm, with wide boulevards, arcaded squares, and elegant Baroque buildings. By the time they pulled up in front of their hotel, Stephanie’s disappointment had metamorphosed into a qualified appreciation.

The Grand Belvedere was the last word in late-nineteenth-century luxury. The lobby was embellished with more gilded putti and cherubs than Stephanie had ever seen in one place. Marble columns soared up to support archways, while fluted pilasters lined the walls. Liveried doormen rushed to carry in their luggage, which was a rather extensive collection, since they had packed for a month’s stay in Nassau.

Their room had a high ceiling, a large Murano chandelier, and less ornamentation than the lobby, but it was just as glitzy. Gilded winged cherubs hovered in all four corners of the heavy cornice. The tall windows looked out onto the Piazza Carlo Alberto, on which the hotel was sited. Heavy, dark red brocade curtains with hundreds of tassels draped the windows. The furniture, including the bed, was all composed of massively carved dark wood. On the floor was a thick Oriental carpet.

After tipping the bellmen and the cutaway-attired receptionist who had accompanied them to their room, Daniel glanced around their digs with a satisfied expression on his face. “Not bad! Not bad at all,” he remarked. He glanced in at the marbled bathroom before turning back to Stephanie. “I’m finally living the way I deserve.”

“You’re too much!” Stephanie scoffed. She opened her bag to get out her toiletries.

“Really!” Daniel laughed. “I don’t know why I put up with being an academic pauper as long as I did.”

“Let’s get to work, King Midas! How are we going to figure out how to call the Chancery of the Archdiocese to get ahold of Monsignor Mansoni?” Stephanie went into the bathroom. More than anything else, she wanted to brush her teeth.

Daniel went to the desk and began pulling out drawers, looking for a city phone book. When that wasn’t successful, he looked in the closets.

“I think we should go downstairs and have the concierge do it,” Stephanie called out from the bathroom. “We can have them set up a dinner reservation for this evening as well.”

“Good idea,” Daniel said.

As Stephanie anticipated, the concierge was happy to help. Producing a phone book in a matter of seconds, he had Monsignor Mansoni on the line before Stephanie and Daniel had decided who should talk with him. After a moment of confusion, Daniel took the phone. As instructed in Butler’s email, Daniel identified himself as a representative of Ashley Butler and that he was in Turin to pick up a sample. In an attempt to be discreet, he wasn’t any more descriptive.

“I have been waiting for your call,” Monsignor Mansoni answered with a heavy Italian accent. “I am prepared to meet with you this morning, if that is appropriate.”

“The sooner the better, as far as we are concerned,” Daniel replied.

“We?” the monsignor questioned.

“My partner and I are here together,” Daniel explained. He thought the term partner was sufficiently vague. He felt uncharacteristically self-conscious talking to a Roman Catholic priest who might be offended at his and Stephanie’s living style.

“Am I to assume your partner is a woman?”

“Very much so,” Daniel answered. He looked at Stephanie to make sure she was comfortable with the term partner. He’d never before used it to describe their relationship, despite its appropriateness. Stephanie smiled at his discomfiture.

“Will she be coming to our meeting?”

“Absolutely,” Daniel stated. “Where would be convenient for you?”

“Perhaps the Caffè Torino in Piazza San Carlo would be agreeable. Are you and your partner staying at a hotel within the city?”

“I believe we’re right in the center.”

“Excellent,” the monsignor commented. “The café will be close to your hotel. The concierge could give you directions.”

“Fine,” Daniel said. “When should we be there?”

“Should we say in an hour?”

“We’ll be there,” Daniel said. “How will we recognize you?”

“There shouldn’t be many priests present, but if there are, I will surely be the most portly. I’m afraid I have gained far too much weight with my present sedentary position.”

Daniel glanced at Stephanie. He could tell she could hear the priest’s side of the conversation. “We’ll probably be easy to spot as well. I’m afraid we look rather American with our clothes. Also, my partner is a raven-haired beauty.”

“In that case, I’m certain we will recognize each other. I will see you about eleven-fifteen.”

“We look forward to it,” Daniel said, before handing the phone back to the concierge.

“Raven-haired beauty?” Stephanie questioned in a forced whisper after they’d gotten their directions and were walking away from the concierge’s desk. She was embarrassed. “You’ve never described me with such a cliché. Worse yet, it’s patronizingly sexist.”

“I’m sorry,” Daniel said. “I was a bit nonplussed, making an assignation with a priest.”

Luigi Mansoni opened one of the drawers of his desk. Reaching in, he picked up a slender silver box and pocketed it. He then gathered up his cassock to keep from stepping on the hem as he stood and hurried out of his office. At the end of the hall, he knocked on Monsignor Valerio Garibaldi’s door. He was out of breath, which was embarrassing, since he’d walked less than a hundred feet. He checked his watch and wondered if he shouldn’t have told Daniel an hour and a half. Valerio’s voice bellowed for him to come in.

Switching to his native Italian, Luigi told his friend and superior about the phone conversation he’d just had.

“Oh, no,” Valerio Garibaldi responded in Italian. “I’m certain this is sooner than Father Maloney expected. Let’s hope he is in his room.” Valerio picked up his phone. He was relieved when Father Maloney answered. He told the American what had transpired and that he and Monsignor Mansoni were waiting for him in his office.

“This is all very curious,” Valerio said to Luigi while they waited.

“Indeed,” Luigi responded. “It makes me wonder if we shouldn’t alert one of the archbishop’s secretaries so that if there is ultimately a problem, it will be his fault His Reverence was not notified. After all, His Reverence is the official custodian of the shroud.”

“Your point is well taken,” Valerio said. “I believe I will take your suggestion.”

A knock preceded Father Maloney’s arrival. Valerio gestured for him to take a seat. Although both Valerio and Luigi outranked Michael in the church’s hierarchy, the fact that Michael was officially representing Cardinal O’Rourke, the most powerful Roman Catholic prelate of North America and a personal friend of their own archbishop, Cardinal Manfredi, they treated him with particular deference.

Michael sat down. In contrast to the monsignors, he was dressed in his usual simple black suit with a white clerical collar. Also in contrast to the others, who were both considerably corpulent, Michael was rail-thin, and with his hooked nose, his features were more stereotypically Italian than his hosts. His red hair also set him apart, since the others were both gray.

Luigi related his conversation with Daniel once again, emphasizing that there were two people involved, and one of them was a woman.

“That’s surprising,” Michael commented. “And I’m not fond of surprises. But we’ll just have to take it in stride. I assume the sample is ready.”

“Absolutely,” Luigi said. For Michael’s benefit, he was speaking in English, even though Michael spoke passable Italian. Michael had gone to divinity school in Rome for graduate training, where learning Italian had been mandatory.

Luigi reached into the recesses of his cassock and produced the slender silver box reminiscent of a cigarette case from the mid-twentieth century. “Here it is,” he said. “Professor Ballasari made the fiber selection himself to be sure it was representative. They definitely come from an area of bloodstain.”

“May I?” Michael asked. He reached out with his hand.

“Of course,” Luigi said. He handed the case to Michael.

Michael cupped the embossed case in both hands. It was an emotional experience for him. He had long ago been convinced of the authenticity of the shroud, and to hold a box that contained the real blood of his Savior rather than transubstantiated wine was overwhelming.

Luigi reached out and retrieved the case. It disappeared back beneath the voluminous folds of his cassock. “Are there any particular instructions?” he asked.

“There certainly are,” Michael said. “I need you to find out as much as possible about these people to whom you deliver the sample: names, addresses, whatever. In fact, demand to see their passports and get the numbers. With that information and your contacts with the civil authorities, we should be able learn a good deal about their identities.”

“What is it you are looking for?” Valerio asked.

“I’m not sure,” Michael admitted. “His Eminence James Cardinal O’Rourke is exchanging this tiny sample in return for a major political benefit to the church. At the same time, he wants to be one hundred percent sure the Holy Father’s dictums against scientific testing of the shroud are not violated.”

Valerio nodded as if he understood, but he really didn’t. Exchanging bits of a relic for political favors was beyond his experience, especially with the caveat of having no official documentation. It was worrisome. At the same time, he knew that the few fibers in the silver box had come from a sample of the shroud taken many years previously, and the shroud itself had not been recently disturbed. The Holy Father’s main concern about the shroud was conservancy.

Luigi stood up. “If I am to make the appointment on time, I should be leaving.”

Michael stood up as well. “We’ll go together, if you don’t mind. I’ll watch the exchange from afar. After the sample is handed over, I intend to follow these people. I want to know where they are staying, in the event their identities are troublesome.”

Valerio stood up with the others. His expression was one of confusion. “What will you do if, as you say, their identities are troublesome?”

“I will be forced to improvise,” Michael said. “On that point, the cardinal’s instructions were vague.”

“This city is rather attractive,” Daniel said, as he and Stephanie walked west along streets lined with palatial ducal residences. “I wasn’t impressed at first, but I am now.”

“I had the same impression,” Stephanie said.

Within a few blocks of walking, they reached Piazza San Carlo, and the vista opened up to a grand square the size of a football field lined with handsome, cream-colored baroque buildings. The façades were ornamented with a pleasing profusion of decorative forms. In the center of the square stood an imposing, bronze equestrian statue. The Caffè Torino was midway along the western side. Inside the café, they found themselves enveloped in an aroma redolent of freshly ground coffee. A number of large crystal chandeliers hanging from a frescoed ceiling washed the interior with a warm, incandescent glow.

They did not have to look long for Monsignor Mansoni. The priest stood up the moment they entered and waved them over to his table along the far wall. As they wended their way toward him, Stephanie glanced around at the other patrons. Monsignor Mansoni’s odd comment that there shouldn’t be many priests in the café was correct. Stephanie saw only one other. He was sitting by himself and, for a brief moment, Stephanie had the unsettling sensation that his eyes had locked onto hers.

“Welcome to Turin,” Luigi said. He shook hands with both his guests and gestured for them to sit. His eyes lingered on Stephanie long enough to make her feel mildly uncomfortable, as she remembered Daniel’s inappropriate description.

A waiter appeared in response to the monsignor’s snapping of his fingers and took Stephanie and Daniel’s order. Daniel had another espresso, while Stephanie was content with sparkling water.

Daniel eyed the prelate. His description of himself as being portly was no understatement. A large dewlap practically obscured the man’s white clerical collar. As a medical doctor, he wondered what the priest’s cholesterol level was.

“I suppose to begin we should introduce ourselves. I am Luigi Mansoni, formerly of Verona, Italy, but now I live here in Turin.”

Daniel and Stephanie took turns introducing themselves by giving their names and that they lived in Cambridge, Massachusetts. At that point, the coffee and water arrived.

Daniel took a sip and replaced the cup in its tiny saucer. “Without meaning to be rude, I’d like to get to business. I assume you have brought the sample.”

“Of course,” Luigi replied.

“We must be sure the sample comes from an area of the shroud with a bloodstain,” Daniel continued.

“I can assure you that it does. It was selected by the professor entrusted with the conservancy of the shroud by the Archbishop, Cardinal Manfredi, who is its current custodian.”

“Well?” Daniel questioned. “Can we have it?”

“In a moment,” Luigi said. He reached into his cassock and produced a small pad and pen. “Before I deliver the sample, I have been instructed to get particulars as to your identities. With the controversy and media frenzy swirling about the shroud, the church is insistent on knowing who has possession of all samples.”

“Senator Ashley Butler is to be the recipient,” Daniel said.

“That is my understanding. However, until then we need to have proof of your identities. I’m sorry, but those are my instructions.”

Daniel looked at Stephanie. Stephanie shrugged. “What kind of proof are you looking for?”

“Passports and current addresses would be adequate.”

“I don’t have a problem with that,” Stephanie said. “And the address in the passport is my current address.”

“I suppose I don’t have a problem either,” Daniel said.

The two Americans produced their documents and slid them across the table. Luigi opened each in turn and copied down the information. He then pushed them back. Pocketing his pad and pen, he produced the silver box. With obvious deference, he slid it toward Daniel.

“May I?” Daniel questioned.

“Of course,” Luigi replied.

Daniel picked up the silver box. There was a small latch on its side, which he slid to the open position. Carefully, he lifted the lid. Stephanie leaned so she could see over his shoulder. Inside was a small, sealed, semitransparent glassine envelope containing a tiny but adequate mat of fibers of indeterminate color.

“Looks good,” Daniel said. He closed the lid and secured the latch. He handed the case to Stephanie, who slipped it into her shoulder bag along with their passports.

Fifteen minutes later, Daniel and Stephanie reemerged into the pale midday midwinter sunshine. They headed diagonally across San Carlo Square en route back to their hotel. Despite their jet lag, there was a spring to their step. Both felt mildly euphoric.

“Now, that couldn’t have been any easier,” Daniel commented.

“I’d have to agree,” Stephanie said.

“I would never remind you of your earlier pessimism,” Daniel teased. “I’d never do that.”

“Wait a second,” Stephanie chided. “We got the shroud sample with ease, but we’re still a long way from treating Butler. My worries are about the whole affair.”

“I think this little episode is just a harbinger of things to come.”

“I hope you are right.”

“What do you think we should do with the rest of the day?” Daniel asked. “Our flight to London is not until five after seven in the morning.”

“I need a short nap,” Stephanie said. “And you must need one as well. Why don’t we go back to the hotel, have a bite of lunch followed by a half hour of shut-eye, and then head out? There are a few things I’d like to see while we’re here, particularly the church where the shroud is housed.”

“Sounds like a good plan to me,” Daniel said agreeably.

Michael Maloney hung back as far as he dared without losing Daniel and Stephanie. He was surprised at how quickly they were moving, and he had to keep pace. When he’d emerged from the café, he’d been lucky to catch sight of them, as they had practically already cleared the square.

At the moment the two Americans had left the café, Michael had conferred briefly with Luigi to encourage him to run the identities through the civil authorities and let him know on his cell phone as soon as any information was available. Michael said he intended to keep the Americans in sight or at least know their location until he was satisfied with the information.

When the Americans disappeared around a corner, Michael broke into a run until they were back in sight. He was intent on not losing them. Taking a direct clue from his mentor and boss, James Cardinal O’Rourke, Michael was treating his current commission with great seriousness. He strongly aspired to rising in the church hierarchy, and to date, things had been going as planned. First, there had been the opportunity to study in Rome. Next had come the recognition of his talents by the then Bishop O’Rourke, the invitation to join his staff, and the elevation of the bishop to archbishop. At this point in his career, Michael knew his success depended solely on pleasing his powerful superior, and he intuitively knew this assignment concerning the shroud was a golden opportunity. Thanks to its importance to the cardinal, it was affording him a unique circumstance to demonstrate his unswerving loyalty, dedication, and even his ability to improvise, given the lack of specific guidelines.

Emerging into the Piazza Carlo Alberto, Michael surmised the couple was headed toward the Grand Belvedere. He quickened his pace to almost a jog in order to be right behind the Americans as they entered. Inside, he held back as they boarded an elevator, and then watched the indicator as it rose to the fourth floor. Satisfied, Michael retreated to the sitting area within the hotel’s lobby. He sat down on a velvet couch, picked up a copy of the Corriere della Sera, and began to read while keeping one eye on the bank of elevators. So far, so good, he thought.

He didn’t have to wait long. The couple reemerged and then went into the dining room. Michael responded by moving from one couch to another, which afforded a better view of the dining room entrance. He was confident that no one had paid him the slightest heed. He knew that in Italy, wearing Roman Catholic priestly garb gave one both access and anonymity.

A half hour later, when the couple came out of the dining room, Michael had to smile. A half hour for lunch was so American. He knew that the Italians in the room were all settled in for at least two hours. The Americans went back to the elevator and once more rose up to the fourth floor.

Michael had considerably longer to wait on this occasion. Finishing the newspaper, he looked around for something else to read. Not finding anything and reluctant to risk going to the sundries shop, he began thinking about what he would do if the information he hoped to get from Luigi was not appropriate. He wasn’t even sure what wasn’t going to be appropriate. What he expected to learn was that at least one of the pair worked in some capacity for Senator Butler or possibly an organization that had ties to the senator. He remembered the senator specifically saying he would dispatch an agent to get the sample. Exactly what he meant by “agent” remained to be seen.

Michael stretched and looked at his watch. It was now going on three in the afternoon, and his stomach began to growl. He’d not eaten, save for the bit of pastry at the Caffè Torino. While his mind teased him with images of his favorite pastas, his cell phone buzzed in his pocket. He’d deliberately turned off its ringer. In a bit of a panic lest he miss the call, he got the phone out and answered. It was Luigi.

“The report just came in from my contacts with the immigration people,” Luigi said. “I don’t believe you are going to like what I have learned.”

“Oh!” Michael commented. He tried to remain calm. Unfortunately, at that moment the Americans stepped from the elevator with coats on and guidebooks in hand, obviously ready to go on an outing. Fearing they might take a taxi, which would add an element of difficulty, Michael struggled to get into his own coat while keeping the phone pressed to his ear. The Americans moved quickly, as they had done earlier. “Hang on, Luigi!” Michael said, interrupting the monsignor. “I’m on the move here.” With one arm in his coat, Michael had gotten the free sleeve caught in the revolving door. He had to back up to free himself.

“Prego!” the doorman said, as he lent a hand.

“Mi scusi,” Michael responded. Freed from the door, he rushed outside and was rewarded to see the Americans passing the taxi stand and heading toward the northwest corner of the square. He slowed to a fast walk.

“Sorry, Luigi,” Michael said into the phone. “The couple just decided to leave the hotel the moment you called. What were you saying?”

“I said they are both scientists,” Luigi responded.

Michael felt his pulse quicken. “That’s not good news!”

“I didn’t think so either. Apparently, their names came right up when the Italian authorities contacted their American counterparts asking for information. They are both Ph.D.s in the biomolecular arena, with Daniel Lowell more of a chemist and Stephanie D’Agostino more of a biologist. They are apparently well known in their fields, he more than she. Since they both have the same home address, they are apparently cohabitating.”

“Good grief!” Michael commented.

“They certainly don’t sound like normal couriers.”

“This is a worst-case scenario.”

“I agree. With their backgrounds, they must be planning on some sort of testing. What are you going to do?”

“I don’t know yet,” Michael said. “I’ve got to think.”

“Let me know if I can help!”

“I’ll be in touch,” Michael said before terminating the call.

Although Michael had just told Luigi he didn’t know what he was going to do, that wasn’t quite true. He had already decided he was going to retrieve the shroud sample; he just didn’t know how. What he did know is that he wanted to do it himself so that when he reported back to Cardinal O’Rourke, he could take full credit for saving his Savior’s blood from further scientific indignity.

The Americans reached the expansive Piazza Castello but did not slow down. Michael’s first thought was that they planned to visit the Palazzo Reale, the former residence of the House of Savoy, but he changed his mind when the Americans skirted the Piazzeta Reale to reach the Piazza Giovanni.

“Of course!” Michael said out loud. He knew the Duomo di San Giovanni stood on the square, and the church was the current home of the shroud following the 1997 fire in its chapel. Michael followed a little farther behind, to be certain of the Americans’ destination. As soon as he saw them mount the front steps of the cathedral, he turned around and began retracing his steps. Assuming his charges would be suitably engaged away from their hotel for the time being, Michael thought he’d better take advantage of the opportunity. If he were to retrieve the shroud sample, this might be the best time, if not the only time, assuming they would be leaving in the morning.

Although Michael was already slightly out of breath, he pushed himself to quicken his pace. He wanted to get back to the Grand Belvedere as quickly as possible. Despite his obvious inexperience with intrigue in general and with burglary in particular, he had to find out which room in the hotel Daniel and Stephanie occupied, manage to get into it, and find the silver case, all within a couple hours.

“Is this the actual shroud we’re looking at?” Daniel asked in a whisper. There were a number of other people in the cathedral, but they were either kneeling in prayer in the pews or lighting candles in front of religious statuary. The only sounds were the occasional echoes of heels against the marble floor as people moved about.

“No, it’s not the shroud,” Stephanie whispered back. “It’s a full-sized photographic replica.” She was holding the guidebook open to the proper page. She and Daniel were facing a glass-front alcove that encompassed the first floor of the north transept of the church. One story above the enclosure was the curtained box from which the former Dukes and Duchesses of Savoy witnessed the celebration of the Mass.

The photograph was displayed landscape-wise. The heads of the front and back image of the crucified man almost touched in the center, which was explained by the man having been placed supine on the cloth and then the cloth having been folded over on top of him. The frontal image was to the left. The photograph was positioned on what appeared to be a table fourteen feet long and four feet wide, draped to the floor with pleated blue fabric.

“The photograph is sitting on the new conservation case that houses the shroud,” Stephanie explained. “It has a hydraulic system, so that when the shroud is to be displayed, the top can be rotated upward, and the relic can be viewed through bulletproof glass.”

“I remember reading about it,” Daniel commented. “It sounds like an impressive setup. For the first time in the shroud’s long life, it rests completely horizontal in a controlled atmosphere.”

“It’s truly amazing that the image has lasted as long as it has, considering what it has been through.”

“Looking at this full-size photo, I find the image more difficult to discern than I imagined. In fact, if this is what the shroud itself looks like, it’s somewhat anticlimactic. It can be seen and appreciated better in the book you got.”

“And better still in the negative,” Stephanie added.

“Apparently, the image hasn’t faded. What’s happened is the background has yellowed, so the contrast is diminished.”

“I hope the new conservation case keeps that from happening any more,” Stephanie remarked. “Well, so much for where the shroud rests.” She turned and glanced around the cathedral’s interior. “I thought we might want to stroll around in here, but for an Italian Renaissance Church, this is rather plain.”

“I was thinking the same thing,” Daniel said. “Let’s move on. How about taking a peek at the royal palace? The interior is supposed to be quintessentially rococo.”

Stephanie looked at Daniel askance. “When have you become such an expert on architecture and interior design?”

Daniel laughed. “I just read it in the guidebook before we left.”

“Well, I’d love to see the palace, except I have a problem.”

“What kind of problem?”

Stephanie looked down at her feet. “I forgot to put on some decent walking shoes instead of these that I wore to lunch. I’m afraid my feet are going to be killing me if we traipse around all afternoon. I’m sorry, but would you mind terribly if we went back to the hotel briefly?”

“As far as I’m concerned, now that we got the shroud sample, we’re just killing time. I don’t care what we do.”

“Thanks,” Stephanie said, relieved. Daniel could be impatient with such lapses. “I really am sorry. I should have known better. And while we’re there, I’m going to put on another sweater. It’s colder out than I thought.”

Except in conjunction with some harmless pranks as a college student, Father Michael Maloney had never knowingly broken a civil law, and the fact that he was now about to do so caused more anxiety than he had anticipated. Not only was he shaky and perspiring, but he also had enough epigastric distress to wish he had an antacid. Adding to his burden was the concern about time. He certainly did not want to be caught flagrante delicto by the Americans. Although he was confident they would be away for two or more hours on their sightseeing foray, he decided to limit himself to one hour just to be sure. The mere thought of being surprised made his knees feel weak.

As he had approached the Grand Belvedere, he had no idea how he was going to accomplish his goal, at least not until he had passed a flower shop in the same square with the hotel. Ducking into the shop, he had inquired if one of their prepared flower arrangements could be delivered immediately to the hotel. When he’d gotten a positive reply, he picked out an arrangement, addressed an envelope with the Americans’ names, and signed the card: Welcome to the Grand Belvedere, the management.

And now, five minutes later, while Michael was sitting on the same sofa in the hotel lobby he’d occupied earlier, the flower arrangement came through the revolving door. Lifting his newspaper to cover his face, Michael watched surreptitiously as the same woman he’d dealt with in the flower shop delivered the flowers to the bell desk. One of the bellmen signed for them, and the woman left.

Unfortunately, for the next ten minutes nothing happened. The flowers stood on the bell desk as the bellmen engaged in animated conversation with each other.

“Come on!” Michael voiced silently while gritting his teeth. He wanted to go over to the bell desk and complain, but he dared not. He didn’t want to draw any attention to himself. His plan was to take full advantage of his priestly garb to appear harmless, if not relatively invisible.

Finally, one of the bellmen checked the envelope on the flowers and then went behind the bell desk. Michael could tell he was checking a computer screen by the reflection of light on the man’s face. A moment later, he came from behind the desk, picked up the flowers, and headed for the elevator. Michael put his newspaper aside and stayed right behind him.

The bellman nodded a greeting to Michael as the doors closed. Michael smiled back. At the fourth floor, the bellman exited and Michael did the same. Keeping a little distance between himself and the bellman, Michael followed. When the bellman stopped outside room 408 and knocked, Michael passed by. The bellman nodded and smiled. Michael did the same.

Michael rounded a corner and stopped. Carefully, he looked back. He saw the bellman knock again before getting out a ring of keys on a chain. He opened the door and disappeared for a moment. When he reappeared sans flowers, he was whistling softly. He closed the door and walked back to the elevators.

When the bellman was gone, Michael walked back to room 408. He didn’t expect the door to be unlocked, and it wasn’t. Looking down the length of the corridor, he saw a cleaning cart. Taking a deep breath and blowing up his cheeks momentarily to bolster his courage, Michael headed toward the cart. It was positioned next to a door held open by a doorstop.

Michael knocked tentatively on the open door. “Scusi!” he called out. He heard a television playing in the background. Entering the room, he saw two middle-aged women in brown dress uniforms making the bed. “Scusi!” Michael called, considerably more loudly.

The women responded as if shocked. Both perceptively blanched. One recovered enough to run over and turn off the television.

Marshaling his best Italian, Michael asked the women if they could help him. He explained he’d left his key in room 408, and he needed to make an immediate telephone call. He wanted to know if they would be so kind as to open his door to keep him from having to go down to the front desk.

The women exchanged a confused glance. It took Michael a moment to realize that they spoke very little Italian. He explained his supposed predicament again, speaking slowly and distinctly. On this occasion, one of the women got the message, and to Michael’s relief held up her passkeys. Michael nodded.

As if to make up for the communication difficulties, the woman pushed past Michael and practically ran down the hall. It was all Michael could do to keep up with her. She unlocked room 408 and held the door open. Michael thanked her as he stepped over the threshold. The door closed.

Michael exhaled. He didn’t realize he’d been holding his breath. He backed up to lean against the door as he surveyed the room. The drapes were open, and there was plenty of light. There was more luggage than he expected, although all but two of the bags were still zippered or latched as if they had yet to be opened. Unfortunately, there was no silver box visible on the bureau, the desk, or the nightstands.

Michael could feel his pulse racing. He was also perspiring copiously. “I’m not good at this,” he whispered. He desperately wanted to find the silver box and leave. It took all his willpower to stay in the room.

Pushing off from the door, he went first to the desk. Centered on the blotter between two laptop shoulder bags was a room key for 408. After a moment’s hesitation, Michael picked it up and pocketed it. Rapidly, he searched the laptop bags: no silver case. It took only a moment for him to go through the desk drawers. Save for the hotel stationery, they were empty. Next was the bureau. It too was empty, except for laundry forms and plastic laundry bags. The small drawers of the nightstands were also empty. He checked the bathroom, but no silver box. Looking into the closet, he saw a safe and breathed a sigh of relief. The door was ajar and it was empty. He checked the pockets of a man’s jacket hanging on the rod: nothing.

Turning back into the room, he eyed the unlatched suitcases. They were on luggage stands at the foot of the bed. Approaching each in turn, he raised their lids and ran his hand around their peripheries. He encountered various and sundry objects but no silver box. He then carefully lifted the clothing to search more thoroughly. Suddenly, he heard voices, and to his horror, it sounded like American English. He stood up, frozen in place. In the next instant, he heard the worst sound he could have imagined. It was the sound of a key being thrust into the door lock!