They stood in silence, staring at each other. Guner realized that he had said more than he should have, and Addaio surprised himself by accepting, without a word, Guner’s reproaches. Their lives were irremediably intertwined, and neither of them was happy.
Was Guner capable of betraying him? Addaio rejected the thought—no, he was not. He trusted Guner; in fact, he entrusted his life to him. “Pack my bags for tomorrow,” he finally ordered.
Without replying, Guner turned and busied himself closing the windows. His jaw ached as he clenched his teeth. He breathed deep when he heard the quiet sound of the door closing behind the pastor.
He noticed a piece of paper on the floor, beside Addaio’s bed, and he stooped to pick it up. It was a letter written in Turkish, unsigned. The person who wrote it was informing Addaio that the parole board in Turin was studying the possibility of freeing Mendib, and he asked for instructions, especially what to do if Mendib was released.
Guner asked himself why Addaio hadn’t put away a letter as important as this. Had he wanted Guner to find it? Was he testing Guner—did he think he was the traitor?
Carrying the letter, he strode to Addaio’s office, knocked softly at the door, and waited for the pastor to give him permission to enter.
“Addaio, this letter was on the floor next to your bed,” he said without preamble when he again faced his master.
The pastor looked at him impassively and put out his hand for it.
“I read it. I imagine you intentionally dropped it so I would find it and read it—a trap to see whether I’m the traitor. I’m not. I have told myself a thousand times that I should leave; I’ve thought a thousand times about telling the world who we are and what we do. But I haven’t, and I won’t, in memory of my mother, and so that my family can go on living with its head held high and my nieces and nephews can enjoy a better, happier life than mine has been. For their sake, and because I do not know what would become of me, I don’t reveal our existence. I’m a man, a poor man, too old to start a new life. I am a coward, like you—both of us became cowards when we accepted this life.”
Addaio looked at him in silence, trying to see in Guner’s expression some thought, some emotion, the trace of something that would tell him that his only friend still felt some affection for him.
“Now I know why you’re leaving tomorrow,” the little servant continued. “You’re worried, you’re afraid of what might happen to Mendib. Have you told his father?”
“Since you are so certain that you will never betray me, I will tell you that I’m worried that they will set Mendib free. If you’ve read the letter, then you know that our contact in the jail saw the head of the Art Crimes Department visit Mendib, and tells us that it seems clear that the warden is planning something. We can take no risks.”
“What are you going to do?”
“Whatever may be necessary to ensure the survival of our community.”
“Even have Mendib murdered?”
“Is it you or I who has reached that conclusion?”
“I know you, and I know what you’re capable of.”
“Guner, you are the only friend I have ever had. I have never hidden anything from you; you know all the secrets of our community. But I realize now that you feel no affection for me whatever, and never have.”
“You are wrong, Addaio, you are wrong. You were always good to me, from the first day I arrived at your house, when I was ten. You knew how it grieved me to leave my parents, and you did everything in your power to help me see them. I shall never forget how you would go to my family’s house with me and let me spend the evening while you wandered through the countryside, taking your time so that your presence would not be a burden to us. I can never fault you for your behavior toward me. But your behavior toward the world, toward our community, the terrible pain you cause—that I cannot countenance.”
Guner left the office and made his way toward the chapel. There, kneeling, he allowed his tears to wet his cheeks as he sought in the cross lying on the altar an answer to the questions that tormented him.
A.D. 944
Edessa was in flames. The cries of its people rose above the crash of burning timbers and the sounds of battle as the emperor’s army began to engulf the city.
Why had God abandoned them?
The old bishop rose unsteadily to his feet as the towering commander of the emir’s forces entered the chapel, his battle-weary face creased with regret. The Muslim defenders of the city had fought fiercely on the Christians’ behalf, dying by the hundreds to preserve for Edessa the Mandylion of the great prophet Jesus, may Allah protect him.
But now there was no choice. The Mandylion must be surrendered. A great cry rose from the throng of Christians filling the church as the bishop moved forward to the altar and removed the precious cloth from the simple casket in which it had rested.
Then, with the elders of his community clustered around him, he made his way with halting steps to the waiting soldier and gave the carefully folded cloth over to him. They fell to their knees as the shroud of Jesus was taken from them, to begin its long journey from its ordained place in Edessa into the hands of the Emperor of Byzantium. They had broken their oath, the oath their forebears had died to uphold.
These men—descendants of the scribe Timeaus, the giant Obodas, Izaz the nephew of Josar, John the Alexandrine, and so many Christians who had sacrificed their lives for the Holy Shroud—would recover it, and if they did not, then their own children, and their children’s children after them, if need be, would not rest until that mission had been accomplished.
They swore this before God, before the imposing wooden cross that hung above the altar, before the painting of the Blessed Mother, before the Sacred Scriptures.
“YOU’RE GETTING A LITTLE NEUROTIC ABOUT THIS, BOSS,” Giuseppe complained as Marco brought up the subject of the Turin tunnels yet again. “We’ve studied the maps, and there’s no tunnel that goes to the cathedral. Period.”
“Listen, Giuseppe, these guys are going in and out through something other than the front door. The ground under Turin is like Swiss cheese. It’s full of tunnels, and they’re not all on the maps.”
Sofia thought Marco was right. The cathedral intruders seemed to appear and disappear as though by magic, and without a trace.
Her boss had decided at the last moment that he’d go to Turin with them. The Minister of Culture had persuaded the Ministry of Defense to issue Marco a permit to explore the tunnels, including those closed to the public. On the army maps of Turin’s subsurface infrastructure, there was no tunnel that led to the cathedral, but Marco figured the maps were wrong. With the help of a commander in the engineering section and fortifications specialists from the Pietro Micca regiment, he was going to explore the tunnels that were closed. He had signed a waiver exempting the army and the city government from all responsibility if he got himself killed or injured, and the minister had told him in no uncertain terms that he was not to endanger the lives of the men who accompanied him.
“Giuseppe,” Sofia broke in, “we simply don’t know what’s under Turin. If we were to dig, God knows what we’d find. Some of the tunnels that run underneath the city have never been explored in modern times; others seem to go nowhere. The truth is, one of them might lead to the cathedral. It would be logical, after all—the city has been under siege how many times? And the cathedral has dozens of irreplaceable objects that the citizens would want to safeguard if the city was assaulted or conquered by an enemy.”
Giuseppe fell silent. He knew when to give up.
They had checked into the Hotel Alexandra, near the historic old center of the city. The next day they would start working. Marco would go through the city’s tunnels, Sofia had asked for an appointment with the cardinal, and Giuseppe was meeting with the city carabinieri to decide how many officers they’d need for the tail on the mute. But at the moment, at Marco’s invitation, they were enjoying dinner at Al Ghibellin Fuggiasco, a classic, comfortable Turin
restaurant known for its world-class seafood.
The second course had just been served when they were surprised by Padre Yves. The priest approached their table with a smile and shook everyone’s hand warmly, as though he was delighted to see them.
“I didn’t know you were coming to Turin too, Signor Valoni. The cardinal did tell me that Dottoréssa Galloni would be visiting us—I believe you have an appointment with His Eminence tomorrow, dottoréssa?”
“Yes, that’s right,” Sofia answered.
“And how is your investigation going? Well, I hope?” Marco nodded but said nothing as Padre Yves went on. “The work on the cathedral is finished, and the shroud is on view for the faithful once again. We have strengthened our security measures, and COCSA has installed a state-of-the-art fire control system. I don’t think there’ll be any further catastrophes now.”
“I hope you’re right, padre,” said Marco.
“Yes, actually I do too. Well, I’ll leave you. Buon appetito.”
They watched him sit down at a nearby table, where a dark-haired young woman was waiting for him. Marco laughed.
“Know who that is with our good Padre Yves?”
“A good-looking girl, obviously—you gotta wonder about those priests,” said Giuseppe in surprise.
“It’s Ana Jiménez, Santiago’s sister. Now it’s my turn to go over and say hello!”
Marco crossed the floor, making his way over to them. Ana gave him a big smile and asked if he could spare a few minutes to speak with her when he had some time. She’d arrived in Turin four days ago.
Marco was noncommittal; he told her he’d be delighted to have coffee if he had time but he wasn’t going to be in Turin very long. When he asked what hotel he might call to find her, Ana told him the Hotel Alexandra.
“What a coincidence. We’re staying there too.”
“My brother recommended it, and it’s perfect for a few days.”
“Well, then, I’m sure we’ll find a minute to talk.”
“She’s staying at the Alexandra,” he said when he rejoined Sofia and Giuseppe.
“No kidding! What a coincidence!”
“It’s no coincidence. Santiago recommended it to her—I might have known. That’s going to make it harder to avoid her.”
“I’m not sure I want to avoid a good-looking thing like that!” Giuseppe said, laughing.
“Well, you will, and for two reasons: first, because she’s a reporter and she’s determined to find out what we’re doing on the cathedral case, and second, because she’s Santiago’s sister and I don’t want complications, all right?”
“All right, boss, it was just a joke.”
“Ana Jiménez is a determined, intelligent woman—I’d take her seriously if I were you.”
“The e-mail she sent her brother is full of interesting ideas. I wouldn’t mind talking to her,” Sofia interjected.
“I won’t say no, Sofia, but we need to be careful with what we tell her.”
“I wonder what she’s doing with Padre Yves,” Sofia mused.
“She’s smart,” Marco answered. “As I said—we’ll have to be careful.”
The elderly man hung up the telephone and let his eyes wander to the scene outside the window for a few seconds. The English countryside glowed emerald-green in the warm sunshine.
His companions waited expectantly for him to speak.
“He’ll be released within the month. The parole board has formally taken up the parole request.”
“That’s why Addaio has gone to Germany and, according to our informant, will be crossing into Italy. Mendib has become his biggest immediate problem,” said the Italian.
“Do you suppose he’ll kill him?” the gentleman with the French accent asked.
“Addaio can’t let the police follow Mendib home or lead them to any of their other contacts. Because even if Mendib doesn’t approach them, he could reveal their presence without intending to. Addaio has realized that it’s a trap, and he’s come to prevent the obvious outcome,” replied the former military man.
“Where will they eliminate him?” the Frenchman wanted to know.
“In the jail, of course,” said the Italian. “It’s the safest place. There will be a small scandal but nothing more.”
“So what do you gentlemen propose?” the elderly man asked.
“It will be best for everyone if Addaio solves our problem,” said the Italian.
“What arrangements have you made if Mendib manages to leave the prison alive?” asked the old man.
“Our brothers will try to prevent the police from following him,” replied the Italian.
“It is not enough that our brothers try; they cannot fail.” The leader’s voice was as stern as thunder.
“They will succeed,” the Italian replied. “I hope within the next few hours to learn all the details of the operation.”
“All right, we have come to the central issue in this matter—there can be only one conclusion: We must divert the carabinieri from Mendib, or…”
The elderly man did not finish his sentence. The others nodded, almost in unison; they knew that with respect to Mendib, their interests coincided with Addaio’s. They could not allow the mute to become a Trojan horse and bring the community under scrutiny.
A light knock at the door, preceding a liveried servant’s entrance into the room, served to bring the early-morning meeting to an end.
“The guests have begun to dress for the hunt, sir. They will be coming down soon.”
“Very well.”
One by one, the seven men, dressed for the day’s hunt, left the library and entered a warm dining room, where breakfast awaited them. A few minutes later, an elderly aristocrat accompanied by his wife entered the room.
“Heavens, I thought we were the early birds, but you see, Charles, that our friends have risen even earlier than we have.”
“Early birds indeed, out to get the worm. No doubt taking advantage of the morning to talk business,” huffed the husband.
The French gentleman assured them that they wanted nothing more than to get started. More guests continued to drift into the dining room, until at last there were thirty people standing or milling about. There was a good deal of animated conversation.
The elderly man looked at them resignedly. He hated hunting, as did his colleague-brethren, but he could not stand off from such a very English diversion. The members of the royal family adored this sport, and they had asked him, as on so many occasions in the past, to organize an event on his splendid estate. And there they were.
Sofia had spent most of the morning with the cardinal. She hadn’t seen Padre Yves; another priest had showed her into His Eminence’s office.
The prelate was happy with the finished repair work and remodeling. He had special praise for Umberto D’Alaqua, who had personally interceded to increase the number of workers on the job, at no additional cost to the cathedral, and to ensure that the work was completed sooner than estimated.
Under the supervision of Dr. Bolard, the shroud had been returned to the Guarini Chapel, to its silver display-case. But neither Sofia nor Marco had called the cardinal to update him on the progress of their investigation, and he subtly let her know he was not pleased. Sofia apologized, and she managed to win her way back into his good graces by giving him a broad, undetailed outline of where they were with their work. On Marco’s instruction, she gently urged him to take even greater safety precautions than usual now that the shroud was back in the cathedral and she advised him of Marco’s search for possible entry points from the tunnels beneath the city.
“You say that Signor Valoni is looking for an underground tunnel that leads to the cathedral? But that’s absurd. Your team asked Padre Yves to review our archives, and I believe he sent you a detailed report on the history of the cathedral. Nowhere does it indicate that there is a tunnel or secret passage.”
“But that doesn’t mean there isn’t one.”
“Or that there is. Do
n’t believe all the fantastic stories written about cathedrals.”
“Your Eminence, I’m a historian. I don’t generally deal in fantastic stories.”
“I know, I know, dottoréssa; I apologize. I admire and respect the work you and your team do. It was not my intention to offend you, I assure you.”
“I’m sure of that, Your Eminence, but I want to assure you, too, that history is not just what’s written down. We don’t know everything that happened in the past, much less the intentions of the people who lived in it.”
When Sofia returned to the hotel she ran into Ana Jiménez in the lobby. She had the feeling the reporter had been waiting for her.
“Dottoréssa Galloni…”
“How are you?”
“Fine, thank you. Do you remember me?”
“Of course. You’re our friend Santiago Jiménez’s sister.”
“Do you know what I’m doing in Turin?”
“Investigating the fires in the cathedral.”
“I know your boss isn’t too happy about that.”
“That’s only natural, don’t you think? You wouldn’t like it much if the police started meddling in your work.”
“No, I wouldn’t, and I’d try my best to give them the slip. But this is different. I know I may seem naive, but I really believe I can help you, and I want you to know you can trust me. My brother is everything to me—I’d never do anything to get him in trouble, or even give him a headache, for that matter. It’s true that I’d like to write a story on this—I’m dying to cover it. But I won’t. I swear to you I won’t write a line until you and your team have closed the investigation, until the case has been solved.”
“Ana, this isn’t about trusting you or not. You have to understand that the department can’t let you into its investigative team ‘just because’—because you’re honest and trustworthy and have an interest in the case. Surely you understand that?” Sofia responded.
“But we can work in parallel. I can tell you what I’m finding out, and you do the same with me.”
The Brotherhood of the Holy Shroud Page 18
