“What I know is that you’re not going to start poking around in Marco’s investigation.”
“At least tell me what you think.”
“I think things are usually simpler than they appear to be.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“Well, it’s all you’re going to get.” And with that he hung up.
Ana slammed the phone down on her end, too, just to make herself feel better. She looked at the pile of papers lying on her desk, alongside more than a dozen books, all on the Shroud of Turin. She had been reading about the shroud for days. Esoteric treatises, religious books, histories…She knew the key lay somewhere in the object’s long history. Marco Valoni had said as much: There had been nothing remarkable about the Turin Cathedral until the shroud was installed there. The incidents weren’t new—and therefore neither was the motive for them. She was sure of it.
The hell with Santiago. She made a decision: Once she’d gone as deep as she could into the history of the shroud and traced it back as far as was possible, she’d put in for some vacation time and go to Turin. It was a city she’d never particularly liked; she’d never have chosen it as a holiday destination, but that’s where the story was—a story she was more determined than ever to write.
Marco had called the meeting for immediately after lunch. It hadn’t been easy to convince the necessary ministers, but he had at last been given full clearance to mount the Trojan horse operation his way, with no interference and with additional resources at his command. They were authorized to turn the mute loose and trail him to Timbuktu if he took them there. Now he wanted to brief the team on the details.
Sofia was the last to arrive. Marco couldn’t put his finger on it, but he had found her different somehow on her return to Rome from Turin. As stunning as always, but changed in some subtle way.
“Okay, the plan is simple,” he began. “You all know that every month the parole board makes the rounds to all the various prisons and jails. On the board there’s a judge and a state attorney, psychologists and social workers, and the warden of each installation. They visit all the prisoners, especially those who are approaching the end of their sentences, have demonstrated good behavior, and may have earned some consideration for early out. Tomorrow I’ll be in Turin to meet with the board members. I’m going to ask them to mount a little charade.”
Everyone listened attentively as he continued.
“I want them to help us gauge the mute’s reactions if possible and to also start acclimating him to the idea of release. When they’re in Turin next, they’ll visit him and talk about him among themselves, the way they always have, thinking he doesn’t understand them. Only this time I’ll ask the social worker and the psychologist to let it drop that they don’t see much sense in keeping him behind bars any longer—his behavior has been exemplary, he poses no threat to society, and, according to the law, he’s eligible for parole. The warden will make some objection, and they’ll leave. We’ll have variations on that played out over the next couple of months, until they finally let him loose.”
“Will they cooperate?” Pietro asked.
“The ministers are relaying instructions to the relevant department heads. I don’t think anyone will object; when it comes right down to it, they’re not turning loose some murderer or terrorist, just a nickel-and-dime thief.”
“It’s a good plan,” Minerva said.
“Absolutely,” seconded Giuseppe.
“I’ve got more. Sofia, you’ll like this. Lisa, John Barry’s wife, called me. Lisa’s sister is a woman named Mary Stuart—who just happens to be married to James Stuart. And James Stuart, in case you didn’t know, is one of the wealthiest men in the world. Friend of the President of the United States and heads of state of half the countries in the world—the rich countries, that is—chairmen and CEOs of major international corporations, and most of the bankers on the planet. The Stuarts’ daughter, Gina, is an archaeologist, like Lisa, and is spending some time in Rome, in her aunt’s house; she’s also working on the financing for the excavation at Herculaneum. So here’s the deal: Mary and James Stuart are coming to Rome in two weeks. Lisa is going to throw a dinner party for them, with a lot of their prominent Italian friends in attendance. And among those friends is your friend Umberto D’Alaqua.” Marco nodded at Sofia. “Paola and I are going, and I’m hoping that John and Mary will kindly let me take you, too, Dottoréssa Galloni.”
Sofia’s face lit up, her pleasure obvious. “That’s one way to get us closer to this guy,” she said wryly. “Probably the only way.”
After the meeting, she and Marco chatted for a few minutes.
“I remember Lisa, of course,” she said to him. “I wouldn’t have thought that a woman like her would have a sister married to a business mogul.”
“It’s not really that much of a stretch. Their father was a medieval-history professor at Oxford, and they both followed pretty much in his footsteps. Mary studied medieval history just like him; Lisa went into archaeology. Lisa got a fellowship to do her Ph.D. in Italy, and while they remained close, Mary’s life took another direction. She went to work at Sotheby’s as an expert in medieval art and began to mix with a more rarefied set of people, among them her future husband, James Stuart. They met, fell in love, and got married, and while they lead very different lives than Lisa and John, they apparently are genuinely happy, from what Lisa has to say. Mary prefers high society; Lisa worked hard to make a name for herself in academia. Her sister supports her, as she does her daughter, Gina, by underwriting excavations from time to time.”
“Well, we’re lucky that you’re friends with John.”
“Yes, they’re both really wonderful people. John is the only American I know with zero interest in making tons of money, and they both really love it here. He resists being transferred anywhere else, and I imagine the Stuarts’ influence can’t hurt with the embassy.”
“You think they’ll let you take me to the party?”
“I’m going to ask. D’Alaqua made an impression on you, didn’t he?”
“I have to say he did, Marco. Of course, he’s one of those larger-than-life personalities that any woman could fall in love with.”
“Which is not, I hope, your case.”
“No? Why not?”
“Sofia, for heaven’s sake, you can’t get mixed up with somebody we’re investigating, and you shouldn’t get mixed up with this guy at all—rich, never married, clearly not looking for the woman of his life….”
“Marco, please. I hope you know my feet are planted firmly on the ground, and there’s not a thing—or man—in the world that could change that. Nor is D’Alaqua exactly in my league, for that matter. So not to worry.”
“I’m going to ask you a personal question. If it makes you uncomfortable, you can tell me to screw myself. What’s going on with Pietro?”
“You don’t have to go screw yourself, boss. I’ll tell you the truth: It’s over. It was going nowhere.”
“How does he feel about it?”
“We’re having dinner tonight, to talk. But he’s not stupid—he knows. I think he feels the same way, honestly.”
“I’m glad.”
“Glad? How come?”
“Because Pietro’s not the right one for you. He’s a nice guy, with a great wife who’ll be immensely happy to get her husband back. And you, Sofia, one of these days ought to get out of here and start a new career, with other people, other ways of looking at the world. Frankly, the Art Crimes Department is small potatoes for you.”
“Marco! Don’t say that! Are you trying to tell me something? Don’t you know how happy I am here? I don’t want to leave; I don’t want to change a thing!”
“You know I’m right. But put it on a back burner if it’s too much to think about right now. I’m happy to have you as long as you want to stay.”
“Your house?” Pietro asked Sofia as they left work later that day.
“No, let’s go to a restaurant.”
Finally, over coffee, Sofia put her hand on his. “Pietro—”
“It’s okay. I know what you’re going to tell me, and I agree.”
“You know?”
“Anyone would. In some things you’re an open book.”
“Pietro, I care about you, but I’m not in love with you, and I don’t want a commitment. I’d like us to be friends and to work together the way we have so far, with no awkwardness or hard feelings.”
“Sofia, I love you. Only an idiot wouldn’t be in love with you, but I’m well aware that we’re from different sides of the tracks—”
Sofia, uncomfortable, made a gesture to stop him. “Don’t say that. That’s ridiculous.”
“I’m a cop. I look like a cop and I act like a cop. You’re a university girl, a woman with class, whether you’re in jeans or Armani. I’ve been lucky to be with you, but I’ve always known that someday you’d be out the door, and that day has come. D’Alaqua?”
“Where did that come from? He couldn’t have been less interested. No, Pietro, this isn’t about someone else. It’s just that we took what was between us as far as it could go. We’ve come to an end. You love your wife, and I understand that. She’s a great person, and beautiful to boot. You’ll never divorce her; you couldn’t bear to live without your kids.”
“Sofia, if you’d given me an ultimatum I would have left her.”
They sat in silence. Sofia struggled to hold back tears. She’d made up her mind to break it off with him and not let herself be swayed by any emotion that put off the decision she should have made months ago. “I think it’s best for us both,” she finally said. “Can we be friends?”
“I don’t know,” he answered after a moment.
“Why not?”
“Because I don’t know. I honestly don’t know how I’ll feel when I see you and can’t be with you, or when you come in one day and announce there’s another man in your life. It’s easy to say we’ll be friends, but I don’t want to lie to you—I don’t know if I’ll be able to. And if I can’t, I’ll leave before I start hating you.”
Sofia was moved by Pietro’s candor. His eyes were filled with tears. She had never dreamed that he cared so much. Or maybe it was just injured pride. Marco was so right—it was deadly to mix work and private life. But what was done was done. Now they had to get past it.
“No, I’ll go,” she told him. “I just want to see our work on the shroud through to the end. Then I’ll ask for a transfer, or a leave.”
“No, that wouldn’t be fair. I know that you’ll be able to treat me as a friend, just one of the guys. I’m the problem, not you—I know myself. I’ll ask for the transfer.”
“No, Pietro. You like Art Crimes, it’s been a move up for you, and you’re not going to lose it because of me. Marco says I should be looking for something new, and the truth is, I feel like taking on other things—teaching at the university, doing archaeology, maybe even opening an art gallery. I feel like one phase of my life is ending and another one is beginning to open up. Marco has seen that, and he’s been encouraging me to find something else—and deep down I know he’s right. I just want to ask you one favor: Do everything you can to stick it out for a few more months, until we wrap up this investigation. Please, let’s make these months as good as they can be.”
Izaz and Obodas devoured the cheese and figs that Timaeus had set before them. They were weary from the long days of travel, which had been shadowed by the constant fear of capture by the soldiers of Maanu.
But now they were here, in Sidon, at the house of Timaeus. Harran, the leader of the caravan, had promised them he would send a messenger to Senin in Edessa, to report that their journey had ended safely.
Timaeus’s gaze was penetrating, despite his advanced years. He had greeted them warmly and insisted that they rest before they recounted the incidents of their journey, knowing they were weary in body and soul. He had been expecting them for months, ever since he had received a letter from Thaddeus telling him of his concern over Abgar’s health and explaining the difficult situation the Christians would face when the king died, despite the queen’s support for them. The queen herself had sent messages as well.
He had arranged that Izaz and Obodas would stay with him in his home, sharing a small room, the only one he had besides his own. His was a modest residence, in keeping with a follower of the true teachings of the Christ.
As they ate, Timaeus told his guests about Sidon’s small community of Christians. The group met every evening at dusk to pray and share the news; there was always some traveler who brought word of Jerusalem, or a family member who sent letters from Rome.
Izaz listened to the old fellow attentively, and when he and Obodas had finished their meal, he asked to speak with Timaeus alone.
Obodas frowned. Senin’s instructions had been clear: He was not to let Josar’s nephew out of his sight, and he was to defend him with his own life.
Old Timaeus, seeing the cloud of uncertainty in the giant’s eyes, spoke to him soothingly. “Be not troubled, Obodas. We have spies always watching, and we will know if Maanu’s men should reach Sidon. Rest while I speak with Izaz. We will be just outside, and you will be able to see us from the window of the room you are to sleep in.”
Obodas dared not contradict the old man, but when he reached his chamber he sat beside the little window, where he could observe Izaz every moment. He watched as the young man spoke softly with Timaeus. His words were lost on the soft morning breeze, but Obodas could see a multitude of emotions cross the old man’s face. Amazement, grief, concern—these and other emotions came as he listened to Izaz’s story.
When Izaz finished speaking, Timaeus embraced him warmly and blessed him with the sign of the cross, in memory of Jesus. Then they came back into the house, where Izaz and Obodas would rest until that evening, when they would join the small community of Christians in Sidon, their new home. They knew that they would never be able to return to the land of their forebears.
When the two had drifted off to sleep, Timaeus entered the small temple next to the house. There, he knelt and prayed to Jesus, asking the Lord to help him know what to do with the secret that Izaz had confided to him and for which Josar, Thaddeus, Marcius, and other Christians had by now almost certainly been martyred.
Only he and Izaz now knew where the shroud of Jesus was hidden. Timaeus trembled to think that a secret of such magnitude lay with them alone. At some moment he in turn would confide the secret to another man, because he was old and would soon die. Izaz was young, but what would happen when he, too, became an old man? Maanu, of course, might well die before them, so that Christians could return to Edessa, but what if he did not? They must ensure that the secret of the place where Marcius had hidden the shroud was preserved until it could be reclaimed. Neither he nor Izaz could carry the secret to the tomb.
Hours passed without Timaeus’s noticing. There, on his knees praying, Izaz and Obodas found him at sunset. By that point, the old man had made a decision.
Timaeus rose to his feet slowly. His knees were stiff and painful. He smiled at his guests and asked them to accompany him to the house of his grandson, which was just across a small garden from his own home.
“John! John!” the old man called outside a whitewashed house shaded from the sun by a grapevine. A young woman with a child in her arms emerged. “He has not yet returned, Grandfather. He will not be long; he always returns for the hour of prayer.”
“This is Alaida, my grandson’s wife. And this is her daughter, Myriam.”
Alaida invited the strangers inside. “Come in. There is cool water with honey.”
“No, my daughter, not now; our brothers and sisters will be arriving to pray to our L
ord. I wanted only for you and John to meet these two young men, who will live with me now.”
The three men made their way to the community’s temple, where there was already a group of families talking amicably among themselves—country people and small artisans who had converted to faith in Jesus. Timaeus introduced them, one by one, to Izaz and Obodas and then asked the two young men to recount their flight from Edessa.
Timidly at first, Izaz began to relate the news of Edessa and to reply to the questions asked him by members of the community. When he finished speaking, Timaeus invited the group to pray to Jesus to help their brothers and sisters in Edessa. And so they all prayed and sang and shared among themselves the bread and wine that Alaida had brought.
John’s skin was dark olive and his beard was black, as black as his hair; he was neither tall nor short. He had arrived late, in the company of Harran and several men from the caravan, bearing heavy sacks. Timaeus instructed them to bring them to his house.
“My lord Senin,” Harran said to them there, “wishes to present you with these gifts, which will aid you in your support of Izaz, Josar’s nephew, and his guardian, Obodas. He also bids me give you this bag of gold, which will be useful to you in times of hardship.”
Izaz looked on in astonishment at the presentation of so many things. Senin was very, very generous; before Izaz had left Edessa Senin had given him, too, a bag of gold, enough to live comfortably for the rest of his life.
“Thank you, Harran, my good friend,” Timaeus said, his voice filled with emotion as he grasped the caravan leader’s hands. “I pray that you return to find Senin as you left him and that the wrath of Maanu has not fallen upon him. Tell your lord that these presents, like those you brought me from the queen several months ago, shall be dedicated to help the poor, as Jesus taught us, and to secure the well-being of our small community. Since you will not be leaving Sidon to return to Edessa for several more days, I will have time to write Senin myself.”
Nightmares plagued Izaz’s sleep. In his dream, he saw faces consumed by fire, a field running with blood. When he awoke, just at dawn, he was covered with sweat, the sweat of fear.
The Brotherhood of the Holy Shroud Page 12
