The Blood of the Lamb

by Thomas F Monteleone

  “Does the Curia normally bring in foreign doctors?”

  “No,” said the Jesuit. “But with age comes privilege. We can do as we see fit.”

  They seemed to have everything planned, down to the smallest detail. Not that he hadn’t expected as much. From the very beginning of their association, he’d found the trio to be as coldly efficient as any organization he’d ever known. Hard to believe they were all Italian—there was an aspect to their operation that had a distinctly Teutonic cast. He smiled to himself. Other than these three, he was the only person in the world who knew what they had apparently succeeded in doing. He wondered if they would have let him live with that knowledge all this time, if they would have trusted him for so many years, if he wasn’t so necessary to the eventual follow-up. He also wondered how many others might have died because they knew even disconnected pieces of the story.

  “Any other questions?” asked the Cardinal.

  A few I’ll never ask, thought Rudolph. Then: “Where is the young man? I thought we were going to begin today?”

  “He’s been resting from his flight,” said Lareggia. “He is being brought here as we speak.”

  Rudolph nodded. He had a sudden craving for nicotine, though he’d given up his pipe more than five years earlier. “Does he know the entire story yet?”

  Father Francesco smiled, chuckled to himself. “He knows nothing at this point. We plan to ‘educate’ him gradually, after he becomes acclimated.”

  “I felt it might be wise for you to be present when we eventually tell him,” said Sister Victorianna. “When we reveal everything to him, it would be best if you explained what you did in your own words.”

  Krieger nodded. “I am available as long as you might need me. Is there anything else I should know?”

  Victorianna briefly recounted the story of Sister Etienne being in a state of shock after experiencing a vision, a possible revelation, which could be connected to the issue at hand.

  Although he said nothing, Rudolph was inclined to pass off such things as “visions” and other religious experiences as utter foolishness. To these people, such things were normal, but to see a cause-and-effect relationship between Etienne’s breakdown and what he’d done seemed silly and presumptuous. Up until this very moment, Rudolph had tried not to think very much about why he had been airlifted from his pastoral home into the heart of the Vatican. He had not wanted to accept that he was finally facing up to the responsibilities and mechanisms he’d set in motion so many years ago.

  What the hell had he done?

  What did it all mean?

  The questions caused him to smile to himself. He was certain many men had asked themselves the same questions over the centuries. Funny how they seemed to apply to so many situations…

  A light tapping on the conference room door caused everyone to look in that direction. The swarthy face of Father Orlando appeared.

  “Excuse me, Your Grace. Father Carenza is with me.”

  And then, suddenly, it sank in. He was finally going to be meeting the boy…the man, actually. All the time and all the work of long ago was being yanked out of the world of theory and made real.

  Cardinal Lareggia stood up, backing away from the table to give his stomach its sway. “Send him in. And leave us,” he said.

  Orlando nodded, disappeared for an instant, then escorted a young man in a black cassock into the room. “Father Peter Carenza,” said the Curial assistant, as though announcing a visitor to a royal court, then slipped silently away.

  In that moment before the door clicked shut, Rudolph Krieger took Carenza’s measure. He was tall and lean; his posture suggested a muscular, athletic body. He had dark eyes and hair, a classically aquiline nose, and a strong jawline. High cheekbones gave his face an angular, extremely handsome aspect. His olive complexion seemed to radiate good health, and the spark of high intelligence capered behind his eyes. Here stood a man who could have been an athlete, a movie star, anything at all—and they’d made him a priest. What a waste, Krieger thought.

  “Welcome, Father Carenza,” said Cardinal Lareggia, who appeared unable to hide the awe he was feeling. The large man had trouble getting out his next sentence. “Please, have a seat.”

  “Thank you,” said Carenza, sitting at the far end of the table. He seemed only slightly intimidated by everyone staring at him, determined to hold his own.

  The Cardinal looked at Father Francesco, nodded. The Jesuit stood up and faced Carenza.

  “I am Father Giovanni Francesco. Normally I serve as Papal Liaison for the Society of Jesus. Today I function as part of the Committee on the Investigation of Miracles. My colleagues…” Francesco introduced the others, with their titles. Even the normally brusque Jesuit appeared tempered in the presence of Carenza. Francesco gave Krieger’s credentials simply, stating that he was a retired scientist and winner of the Nobel Prize.

  Carenza leaned forward, apparently impressed but hesitant, perhaps confused. Krieger felt sorry for him and for what was to come his way in the next few weeks.

  “For the next day or two, we will want to put you through a series of examinations. Nothing serious,” said Krieger, “just a baseline physical, and some specially designed tests.”

  “What kind of tests?” asked Carenza. There was no suspicion in his voice.

  Krieger cleared his throat. “Tests which will determine whether or not you show signs of psychokinetic ability, and also tests of a more psychological nature.”

  Carenza smiled. “You mean you want to know if I’m nuts.”

  Krieger liked the young priest’s candor. “Not exactly, but yes, I suppose you could say that.”

  “Listen, Dr. Krieger, I didn’t ask to be interviewed by any miracles committee. I’d rather just forget the whole incident—instead of having it dissected like a dead frog.”

  “Please, Father, there is no need to be alarmed,” said Victorianna, in an obvious effort to placate. “I assure you we understand how you feel.”

  “Is there anything we can do to make to make you feel more at ease, Father?” asked Cardinal Lareggia.

  Carenza stared directly at him. “Pardon me, Your Grace, but I killed another human being. I won’t apologize for being a bit sensitive about it.”

  Well said, thought Krieger. He liked this young man already.

  “Very well, then: let’s start with a few questions, shall we?” Francesco smiled. “Could you please tell exactly what happened to you?”

  Krieger smiled. Carenza’s presence had already produced a change in the Jesuit’s demeanor. How long could it have been since the man had employed the word “please”?

  “Yes, I think so.” Carenza sighed, just audibly.

  “If you could—we would want every detail,” said the nun.

  Krieger leaned back and listened to Carenza’s story. True to their request, the priest tried to be meticulous in recalling everything. Sometimes his listeners interrupted, but they did so with obvious trepidation. Trying to mask their respect for Carenza proved difficult, although Francesco—true to his gangsterlike persona—appeared the least in awe. Sometimes he burrowed deep, ferreting out details that seemed trivial at best. Although Krieger was free to ask questions, he chose to remain silent. He would have plenty of time to get to know the young man and his story.

  The doctor admired Carenza’s toughness in spite of the ordeal he’d experienced. Killing another human being must be a terrible burden to carry, but the young priest bore it well, obviously holding on to a basic belief in his own dignity.

  The initial interview lasted until past sundown. Everyone grew fatigued, but the trio never lost their basic respect for Carenza, or their clear belief in the truth of his tale. Gradually they grew more comfortable in his presence, more relaxed. Rudolph watched it in silence, waiting.

  Finally, Father Orlando was summoned to take the young priest to his room. Tomorrow, the real tests would begin.

  THIRTEEN

  Vatican City—Carenza


  * * *

  August 25, 1998

  After they left the committee meeting room, Father Orlando took Peter on a brief tour of the place which would be his home for the next few days—the Academy of Sciences complex. He saw the labs and the offices on the second floor, where he would be examined and tested, and was then taken to his quarters on the floor above.

  His room was small and functional. The furniture was virtually without style, and the cot had a military look about it. A small bathroom outfitted with toiletries completed the picture. The rooms had the look of being hastily converted to living quarters. Perhaps they had originally been some kind of utility rooms or a small lab. Not exactly the Hyatt Regency, but it wasn’t a Turkish jail either. A single window revealed a starry night above the low Vatican hills and the neatly trimmed shrubbery that graced the grounds of the Academy of Sciences buildings.

  Lying on the cot, which was hard and not even close to comfortable, Peter reviewed the events of the last two days, culminating with his initial interview with the Miracle Committee. He grinned as he stared at the white stucco ceiling…and what a weird crew they were…! The fat cardinal, the gaunt priest, and the classic nun. Strange bedfellows, as they say.

  And then there was Krieger. Peter found it more than a little strange that a Nobel Prize-winning scientist would be employed by the Vatican to investigate so-called miracles. Even if he was retired, it sure seemed like a weird way to spend his sunshine years.

  Peter’s eyelids grew heavy as he continued to recast the events of the day. Though his mind kept sparking and jumping from one topic to another, his body was running down, finally succumbing to the demands of jet lag. Closing his eyes, he drifted off into sea-choppy sleep…

  …and awoke for absolutely no reason in the middle of the night. Stretching, his muscles screaming from the torture of the cot, he got up and looked out the window. The city was still, blued with the night, quiet. As he stood there, collecting his thoughts, he realized there was something wrong with his situation. It was like looking at a photograph of a perfectly mundane scene, and knowing all the while that aberration lurked somewhere within the picture—if you could only find it.

  Aberration?

  Well, maybe that was the wrong word. But he was certain things were not as they’d been portrayed. He smiled, shook his head. He was not a particularly intuitive thinker, nor prone to instinctive feelings, but an alarm he could not ignore had been triggered deep within his mind.

  Screw it, he thought as he turned to the door.

  He wouldn’t have been surprised to find the portal locked, but it swung open silently, inviting him into a dark, utterly silent hallway. Ambient light from fire-exit signs gave off sufficient illumination to do some exploring, and that was all he needed. His Reeboks afforded him silent passage as he walked slowly up the corridor. Locating the nearest stairwell, he descended to the second floor and the labs Orlando had shown him earlier.

  If questioned, he’d have to admit he was trespassing, but he didn’t believe he was doing anything wrong. Although more than curiosity motivated him, he only wished to find out about things directly concerning himself.

  Opening the second-floor stairwell door carefully, he peered into the dim emptiness of a long, featureless hall. Peter held his position for perhaps a minute, listening, waiting for a sign of anyone else’s presence. Satisfied that he was truly alone, he retraced his earlier path with Orlando to the clutch of offices and laboratory rooms. The doors were locked, but the latch assemblies were old, made long before the age of Visa cards. Peter pulled out his wallet and was soon inside the room.

  It would have been completely dark in the lab except for the glow of several computer monitors. He paused to let his eyes adjust to the dim illumination. The usual laboratory assortment of rubber and chemical smells assaulted him as he moved past worktables, desks, cabinets and shelves full of vials and bottles arrayed like soldiers at parade rest. He had never been much of a practical scientist, although he did have good basic computer skills. None of the other stuff in the lab would mean much to him.

  Pausing before the monitor of the nearest PC, Peter studied the MainMenu screen:

  PROJECT TORINO

  (A) PROJECT LOG

  (B) WORK FILES

  (C) STATISTICAL ANALYSIS

  (D) MATH FUNCTIONS

  Just for fun, Peter selected the Project Log, and heard a soft beep, which sounded as a Klaxon in the quiet lab. The screen display had changed: the menu had disappeared and a blinking prompt, asking for a password, stared at him.

  Knowing he had little chance of stumbling on the right access word, he nonetheless made a few entries. After several rejections, the MainMenu reappeared. The PC wanted nothing to do with him. Okay, fine. I can take a hint, he thought.

  At one end of the lab another ordinary door guarded a smaller room. Another flash of Peter’s credit card and the simple lock surrendered. He stepped into a large, dark office. Bulky half-shapes and shadows defined bookcases, a large oak desk, specimen cases, and file cabinets. Heavy drapes covered the room’s single window, and Peter decided he would chance the light from a small, cantilevered halogen lamp on the big desk. It was doubtful anyone would be in the gardens beneath the window at such an empty hour.

  Clicking on the lamp, adjusting its balanced arm so that it burned close and low to the desk blotter, he allowed his eyes to acclimate to the light. Scanning the bookcases, Peter noticed whole shelves of titles on microbiology, genetics, semiology, and other arcane subjects. This was probably where Krieger would be working, probably where he’d worked in the past. Peter had gotten the impression during the day’s session that Krieger had been associated with the committee for a fair amount of time. That he had his own work space and office in the Vatican Academy suggested the same conclusion.

  Anything interesting or revealing would probably be contained in the file cabinets, but Peter had no idea where to search. Rather than poking about randomly, he took a pragmatic approach, and just to be contrary, he started with the end of the alphabet instead of the beginning.

  An hour later, with his thumbs sore from paging through numerous folders, he finally touched on something that got his instincts kicking. All the files under the title “Torino” had been removed, replaced by a sealed plastic card that said: CLASSIFIED—SEE COMPUTERIZED FILES.

  Well, he’d already tried that. “Torino,” whatever that was, clearly meant something to Krieger and the Miracle Committee. Peter checked his watch—still an hour and a half before he had to get out. Nobody would be coming to work much before 5:00 AM.

  The files contained acres of cross-indexed information, journal abstracts, statistics, graphs, charts, tables, and other scientific arcana. And each time something referred to “Torino,” the path leading from it had been excised. Peter grew weary and frustrated. Maybe he was wasting his time. No sense playing detective when he didn’t know what he was looking for.

  But something kept kicking at his subconscious like an annoying kid who simply won’t go away. When he finally got around to rummaging through the big desk he discovered Rudolph Krieger’s private journal. It was handwritten in German, but Peter’s classical Jesuit education would allow him to translate. Slowly, he started reading the words that would change his life irrevocably.

  Written in clear, Teutonic hand, Krieger’s notes in a folio-sized ledger began with the date January 15, 1968.

  “This contains what we believe to be blood samples,” Father Francesco told me. The angular, athletic man in his late thirties was holding a glass vial containing six lengths of dark-stained thread.

  Accepting the vial, I held the glass up to the light at my workbench.

  “First,” said Father Francesco, “I want you to verify the existence of human blood on these threads. Others are also working on this question, but I prefer to trust the results of a Nobel Prize winner.”

  Basking in the warm praise of my recent accomplishment, I promised him I would have incontrovert
ible answers within several days.

  Tests I had perfected during the previous decade would now yield conclusive information from fragments even as small as the tiny linen threads. The peroxidase method could confirm the existence of a drop of human blood on a man’s shoe, even if it had been supposedly wiped clean. The idea was to find a trace of hemoglobin, the substance that imparts to blood its distinctive red color. I knew I could do it.

  Peroxidase, a component of hemoglobin, remains stable over long periods of time—even centuries—and would reveal itself under the microscope as pink stains when treated with test solutions of phenolphthalein.

  The tests were positive, but just to make certain, I repeated the technique several times. I then sent a simple report to Father Francesco: without any doubt, the linen threads contained samples of human blood.

  Today, all three of them came to see me in my new laboratory. Besides the wolf-like Jesuit, there was a Cardinal named Lareggia—a big-boned man with a tendency toward obesity. Still, he looked very strong and capable of taking care of himself, as if he would be more comfortable in a dockside bar than a church. The third member of the visiting party was a nun. Her name was Victorianna and she was, quite frankly, one of the most beautiful women I had ever seen. Even though she wore the starched habit and cowl of her order, I was transfixed by her flawless complexion, her fawnlike eyes, and the delicate perfection of her features. Why would such a woman hide herself in a convent?

  “We are pleased with your results, Dr. Krieger,” the Jesuit said. “And we’re ready for the next step.”

  I asked him what that might be.

  “A complete analysis,” said the Cardinal.

  They want me to find out everything about this blood sample. In addition, they wanted me to obtain a genetic blueprint of the person whose blood this represents.

  I can remember my pulse actually jumping. What they asked of me would place my work on the cutting edge of biochemical research! I couldn’t imagine being more fortunate.