“But I thought all the ossuaries were considered fabrications?” I add.
She shakes her head, vehemently.
“The find was so stunning, Chase, so insanely out of this world and, if I dare say it, so frightening, that no one knew how to handle it. Especially the member of the Israeli Antiquities Authority, the organization in charge of the dig.”
“Ancestors of the very religious sect responsible for putting Jesus to death in the first place.”
She nods in the affirmative. “Yes, under Caiphus whose true ossuary incidentally, was also uncovered not far from the Jesus tomb, adding further credence to the claim.”
“Holy Christ,” I say, trying to keep my voice down. “The Israelis really did discover the true Jesus, didn’t they? Under an apartment complex of all places.”
“And the find threatened to undermine Christianity or, in other words, destroy the Jesus myth all over again. So, knowing the IAA had a potential religious time bomb on their hands they decided to simply deny the obvious. After all, nothing in archaeology is one hundred percent and they knew that if they denied the truth about the mortal, physical Jesus being less than divine, than so would the rest of the world. Things would be neater and cleaner that way.
“So what did they do? The ossuaries were removed from the tomb which was then closed up, the site covered over with concrete, never to be seen by human eyes again. IAA even went a step further by burying the ossuaries in a temporary unmarked grave somewhere in the hills above Jerusalem, probably near the Mount of Olives. But even an unmarked grave was considered unsafe.”
“Enter the Pope,” I interject.
“Exactly. By now, news of the site had hit the world vine and even though reports were suppressed as much as humanly possible, the Vatican knew they had to work closely with IAA in order to hide the evidence.”
“Because you can’t just destroy the bones of Jesus and his family.”
“Right again, Chase. So the Vatican insisted the bones of the Jesus family be moved to a place where no one could ever possibly uncover them, unless of course they knew precisely where to look.”
“And that’s where the shroud comes in.”
“Yes, that’s where the shroud comes in. That’s where it’s been coming in for centuries since there has never been any one single resting place of Jesus. Even the tomb located beneath the Israeli apartment complex was not the very first and final resting place of Jesus and his immediate family.”
“One question: How were the 1978 archaeologists certain that the most recent Jesus tomb was that of the true Jesus family? Jesus was as common a name as Tom or John is now.”
“Yes, but what made the tomb unique and certainly uncommon, is that it contained the bodies of, and I quote, Jesus son of Joseph, James brother of Jesus, Simon brother of Jesus, Joseph father of Jesus, Mary mother of Jesus and one more special person.”
“Who would that be?” I ask, already knowing the answer before I hear it.
“Mary of Magdelaina. Jesus’s wife.”
I find myself reaching around and scratching the fine hairs that have for the third time in a single day, risen on the back of my neck. I feel myself shaking my head at Anya’s revelation and the fact that it hasn’t yet taken the world and the global religious community by storm.
“No wonder the Vatican wants to protect the bones of Jesus but at the same time, make them disappear. They’ve been playing this shell game for years. Eons.”
“Back in 1978, the bones were dug up from the temporary grave in Jerusalem, moved under the cover of darkness across the border to Egypt and hidden in some secret vault or chamber, probably somewhere near or perhaps inside one of the ancient pyramids themselves. And judging by the Shroud wounds sharing the same position as those of the pyramids, it’s more than likely that one of the pyramids was the true resting place of Jesus after he died as an old man. At least that’s what Andre believes. He is convinced that when the Vatican ordered the remains back to the Giza Plateau in 1978, the Pope was essentially sending Jesus back home. Andre’s beliefs were further vindicated when he uncovered the Joseph remains inside a chamber outside the Third Pyramid inside the Giza Plateau. He now believed with all his spiritual and scientific heart that although the 1978 team split the Jesus family remains up by reburying them in separate locations throughout the Plateau, the remains of Jesus were close by, nonetheless.”
Yes, he did believe that. If only he had told me more. But I was his simple sandhog. I wasn’t privy to the secrets. I was there to dig, along with my crew, in the spot where he told me to dig. And that was all.
“The Vatican and the IAA has been playing hide and seek the with Jesus family remains for centuries,” I deduce. “Hide the bones, block any and all chances for a scientist to perform DNA testing on them. In the end, you maintain the balance of religion in both the Judeo/Christian world, and the Muslim world.”
“Andre was convinced that the 1978 team working on the shroud were entrusted with marking their precise burial location on the shroud. In that sense, the shroud and the divine body it once protected in death, will have been reunited.”
“What better place to record the location of the dead divinity than on its burial robe?”
In my head I’m picturing the shroud covered in maps and symbols indicating former Jesus burial locations. Or perhaps the former locations have been erased, or covered over, or they are simply too obscure or old to be noticed.
“Clever, huh?” Anya goes on. “And get this: Almost at the exact moment the bones were said to be securely reburied, the scientific examination of the shroud officially came to a close.”
“Why go to such lengths to suppress the truth?”
“It’s a matter of faith, Chase. No one wants to steal heaven from a man or woman dying of cancer, or from some little child’s bedtime prayers. Do you?”
We sit for a bit in a silence filled with the mechanical sounds of the speeding train.
“I wonder if there’s truth to the Koran? That the man who was truly crucified on Golgitha back in the first century wasn’t Christ at all, but an imposter. A paid double.”
“Now wouldn’t that make the Vatican crumble?”
She takes hold of my hand. I feel a kind of sadness in her grip, but a tenderness also. I lean in to her, to kiss her. I would go through with it too if I don’t feel a pistol barrel pressing up against my back.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
“Don’t turn around,” says the man with the gun.
He’s speaking the King’s English mixed with a foreign accent. But the accent doesn’t quite sound Italian in origin. Of course, I could be wrong about that. The Italian language consists of many dialects.
I look straight ahead, but since the sun has gone down almost entirely and the electric lighting is illuminating the car, I’m able to get a look at his reflection in the semi-tinted window glass just by glancing over my left shoulder. He’s of medium height and bald. Clean shaven, as far as I can tell. Dressed entirely in dark clothing. A turtleneck and an overcoat. I have no idea what age he is. Or if it matters.
“Might I ask you your name, my son,” I say.
“Cut the bullshit, Chase Baker,” he giggles. “I’m well aware of who you truly are. Who the false sister is also.”
“Nice to meet you, asshole,” Anya says. “Maybe I should stand and start screaming about the man who has a gun pointed at my back.”
“It’s pointed more at Mr. Baker, actually,” he corrects. “But consider a quick death aimed at you too.”
“Sixty four thousand dollar question,” I say. “Who are you? What do you want? Who do you work for? Are your motives political or religious or both?”
“Let’s just say we all want the same thing.”
“I’m just a humble servant of the Lord,” I say. “You must have me mixed up for someone else.”
“Those pictures of the Shroud of Turin on your lap tell a different story, my friend.”
“What is it you want from
us?”
“Consider me your new partner.”
“I don’t understand. We are people of God.”
He laughs.
“You go right ahead with your charade. It will make things easier for what I am about to do.”
“And what is it you are about to do?” Anya chimes in, speaking under her breath.
“I am going to accompany you to the cathedral in Turin. Once we have uncovered the secret of the shroud, you are going to show me the burial place of the true grail: The body and bones of Jesus Christ.”
“When that is done?” I say.
He laughs once more.
“That will be up to God.”
The train slows as we begin to enter into Milan where we’re required to switch trains. It’s here we either find a way to ditch the man with the gun, or else fail at our mission.
I slowly slide my hand over to Anya. Press it against her leg.
“Take hold of your bag,” I whisper.
The train slows. The travelers rise up from out of their seats, enter into the car’s narrow corridor, begin making their way towards the front of the car. The train is bucking, as though the conductor were tapping the breaks as we enter into the busy station.
Gathering up the photos and the map, I slowly shove them back inside my satchel. Then I slip the satchel strap back over my shoulder. I feel the gun poke my rib cage, only inches from my spine.
“Sit back,” the man demands in a whispering scream. “Keep your hands where I can see them.”
When the train comes to an abrupt, final stop, I know the time to shake the gunman is now. Fingering the seat-recline trigger located on the underside of the left-hand armrest, I quickly set my right foot up square against the seat-back in front of me and press down on my leg with all the explosiveness and power of a pole vaulter. The result is that my seat-back jams into the gunman’s face.
“Go Anya!” I scream.
She doesn’t hesitate. She lifts herself from the seat, her small leather bag in hand, and makes a mad dash through the queued people to the front of the car. Confused travelers fall back into the empty seats. Some shout at her. Most make way since she is dressed like nun.
I twist my body around, prop myself up on my knees, slide the 9 mm from my shoulder holster, press the barrel against the man’s face. His hairless face, I should say. A round face and scarred skin head that is entirely devoid of hair. The man doesn’t even possess eyebrows.
People scream at the sight of the gun.
“Go!” I shout, reaching into my pocket for my passport, quick-flashing it to the panicked people. “Get off the train. I am the police and that is an order. Vai! Vai!”
The muse works. No one questions me or tries to stop me. They just get off the train as fast as they can.
I return the passport to my pocket, and at the same time, cold-cock the man across his jaw. The skin opens up on his fleshy bottom lip and the blood flows. I grab his gun, shove it into my pocket. Then I press the barrel against his forehead.
“Who are you?” I demand.
His eyes are glassy, bloodshot. These are not the eyes of a frightened or exhausted man. They are the eyes of an obsessed man. I look over my right shoulder out the window. The train platform is buzzing with alarm. I know it’s only a matter of seconds before myself and this hairless man and I are made to stand down at police gunpoint.
“Are you with the Vatican?” I push, thumbing back the pistol hammer. “Tell me.”
“In my left jacket pocket,” he says, “you will find my identification. My country and myself have nothing to hide.”
I dig for it, pull out the wallet, flick it open. There’s a laminated ID in the place where a photograph of a loved one might go. The man’s photograph is included in the ID, along with his name: Lee Einhorn, Senior Archaeologist, Israeli Antiquities Authority.
One more look out the window. Two policemen have arrived. They are drawing their weapons while directing the onlookers to move away.
“What you’re doing is not only illegal,” Einhorn spits, “it is very dangerous. You have no idea the firestorm you will unleash upon the world should you uncover the bones of Christ. You will upset a delicate balance that has existed for thousands of years. Legions of people have already died believing in Christ as divine. Now, if you make him human, even more will die defending his humanity or lamenting what will be only a future of blackness. Don’t you see? I must stop you as others surely will attempt.”
Another glance at the glass. I know the cops are about to board the train.
“Not if I can help it, Einhorn,” I say, tossing his ID back at him. “The world is going to blow itself to hell no matter what I dig up. Always been that way and always will be.” I can’t help but feel myself smiling. “’Sides, there’s a lot of money at stake.”
I hear the sound of footsteps bounding the three metal steps up into the car.
I pocket my weapon. Sliding out of the seat, I turn and head straight for the exit as the policemen make the ninety degree turn into the car’s interior.
“In there officer,” I say, pulling down on the satchel strap. “Thank God almighty you are here.”
The police brush past me and burst into the car. I take the stairs down to the platform, my eyes seeking out Anya. She’s standing behind the crowd of onlookers at the area where the platform connects with the main station.
I make my way towards her, never looking back.
Not even once.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
“You okay?” I ask, as I take hold of her arm.
“I’m a nun,” she says. “Suffering is my life.”
I take a look up at the giant electronic Departures/Arrivals billboard mounted to the station’s polished stone interior. The Turin train has arrived at Platform 2 and is now boarding.
“Shit,” I say. “Damn train is scheduled to depart at 7:05pm.” I shoot a glance at my wrist watch. “That’s one minute ago.”
“We’ll have to wait for the next one,” Anya says.
“Let’s go,” I say, taking hold of her hand.
“The platform is all the way on the other side of the station, Chase. We’ll never make it.”
“Run sister run!”
We make our way through the throngs of travelers and commuters going in and out of Milan station. Mixed in with the people are the many polizia who have arrived to investigate the man who pulled a gun on some unsuspecting Roman Catholic clergy on the incoming arrival from Florence. We move on in the direction of the number 2 platform, our shoulders slamming into the shoulders and arms of the people who move too slow, or who come at us in the opposite direction. I know that under normal circumstances people would be yelling at us, swearing, shoving us back, if not for our divine costumes.
I spot the platform.
“The train is leaving,” Anya huffs.
“We’ll make it,” I insist, pulling her arm even harder.
We round the corner onto the platform as the train strains to begin its forward movement out of the station.
“Come on!” I shout. “Come! On!”
The doors on the first car have yet to be closed all the way. Reaching out, I manage to get a handhold on it while jumping up onto the landing platform.
“I can’t make it!” Anya screams, her hand still gripped in mine as she runs, keeping pace with train. “You go. I will meet you!”
“No,” I insist. “Someone will get to you. The police or the gunman.”
I yank on her arm as the train picks up speed. I feel her losing her balance, her footing. I feel myself losing her entirely. Only one choice: Bracing myself I yank her up and onto the platform, the both of us collapsing onto the metal steps. I take my foot away and the door closes. The both of us lie there, looking at one another. We look into one another’s eyes. I kiss her then. Rather, she kisses me, our tongues moving in and out of one another’s mouth, our beating hearts pressed together. When we come up for air, we smile. It’s a crazy scene. Absurd even. A
nun and a priest kissing one another on the steps of a speeding train car.
“We’d better get up before we get caught,” Anya says.
“Amen to that,” I say, watching her lift herself up and gather her black bag.
I stand, straighten out my satchel on my shoulder, and together we go in search of our seating assignments. In one half-hour’s time, we will arrive in Turin. With the help of God or fate, the shroud key will be revealed.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
We arrive in Turin on schedule.
It’s dark out now. Foggy. The fog laps the curved cobbled roads like a gray/black tongue while the inverted arcs of sodium lamp light spewing forth from the black, metal street fixtures create an eerie misty glow. As we make our way on foot away from the train station towards the cathedral, I can’t help but feel the dark silence that seems to drape this place like the shroud it houses. To say it feels different here is an understatement of Biblical proportions. Pun intended. This is a holy place if ever there was one. It radiates with an electric spirit, the memory of a soul that shook the world two thousand years ago and continues to shake it today.
Already we can make out the towering spires of the Cathedral. As we approach it, I keep wide eyes out for a secure hiding place for my 9mm and the revolver I stripped from the IAA gunman on the train. I locate one in the form of a dumpster. A blue, heavy-duty plastic box set beside a second identical box. One for paper, the other for glass and metals. Reaching into my black leather coat, I unclasp the shoulder holster, pull it off. Bending at the knees, I set the holster and the gun it carries onto the dumpster’s undercarriage. Then I set the revolver beside it. Standing, I button my coat.
“The truth about Jesus,” I say to myself more than Anya. “It resides inside that old church.”
The Shroud Key Page 7
