He sat on the inner surface of the bag, pulled off his hiking boots. Marion did the same and moved close to him. This time, their embrace was more graceful—not practiced, but light-years beyond their earlier attempt. He was a quick study, but of course, she’d expected that.
Another early autumn breeze capered across the farmscape. But as she kissed him, ran her hands over his shoulders, down his back, and along his thighs, she could have been on a tropical beach, so strong was the heat of their mutual desire.
Slowly, as though following a carefully observed ritual, she undressed him. She savored each new revelation of his body. Peter’s skin gleamed in the dim firelight—warmly tanned, unblemished. His body was sinewy, lean, subtly muscled. There were no extremes in him. Everything in proportion, the geometry and symmetry of his body was simply beautiful.
Marion helped him remove her clothes. There was a boyish quality to his actions, a fumbling uncertainty which she found utterly charming. He seemed grateful for her help, her understanding—making her want him all the more. She kept thinking how new and wild all this must be for him. For Marion, the common fantasy of schooling an adolescent boy in the arts of the flesh had become a reality.
He explored her, slowly, carefully, with his hands, tongue, and body, so choked with sensation and emotion, he could not speak, other than the few times he managed her name. There was a breathless, endless joy to his explorations, and she tried to return each pleasure he gave her so unselfishly.
She could have stayed with him, like that, forever. If she had died in his arms, it would have been perfectly all right.
He was completely without control himself, coming too fast, then coming again. He seemed to be limitless in energy and enthusiasm, and she feared she couldn’t keep pace with him.
Finally, they sank into the softness of the downy bag. The white light of the stars burned down on their nakedness. They seemed to float in each other’s arms, not speaking, barely breathing.
Then, without warning, he collapsed, trembling, buried his face in her hair and neck, and began to cry.
She wanted to ask him what was wrong, but she already knew the answer.
Nothing was wrong.
And that was the problem.
THIRTY-THREE
St. Louis, Missouri—Targeno
* * *
November 29, 1998
He drove his rental car, a functional but ugly Ford, west on Interstate 64. The onboard stereo was tuned to a classical music station; the Baltimore Symphony Orchestra with Claudio Abbado worked its way majestically through the final movement of Rachmaninoff’s Third Piano Concerto. Targeno felt the luxury of being able to relax for a brief moment.
He watched the horizon, where the shining arch of St. Louis gradually grew brighter and more prominent. The arch furnished that city’s otherwise undistinguished skyline with a touch of class. It was yet another example of the outlandish vision of Americans—there simply was not another nation on earth that would trouble to erect such a structure.
Traffic was relatively light; rush hour had ended two hours previous. The Rachmaninoff piece ended and the low-key announcer introduced an hourly segment of news presented by the unashamedly left-wing National Public Radio.
Targeno reached out to punch in a different station, then paused as the lead story opened with the continuing phenomenon of Catholic priest Peter Carenza. Targeno leaned back in his seat and laughed aloud. It was truly absurd. His bosses had him running surveillance on a subject who was getting worldwide blanket media coverage. Francesco probably needed his reports as much as he needed a terminal case of lung cancer. Shit, journalists could stay closer to the scene, and their material was fresher and cleaner than anything Targeno could gather at his discreet distances.
But he might provide the Vatican crowd something otherwise unavailable: interpretations, inferences, and projections of Carenza’s next moves. Targeno’s years of experience in studying and modifying human behavior qualified him as an expert on the subject of people under pressure.
The question remained, however: for how long would Francesco and the others feel the need for his input?
The news program continued, detailing the latest developments in the Carenza story—some of which Targeno already knew. Peter and his coterie had arrived in St. Louis to a new outpouring of support from the citizenry. The mayor greeted him and there was a semi-spontaneous parade in his honor. Wherever he appeared, the people loved him. He had received invitations to speak from every large city in the country, and thousands of small towns.
One of St. Louis’s wealthiest land developers offered Peter a chunk of real estate and the funds to construct his own church. Peter declined. He believed it was his mission to keep traveling, to help people. He repeatedly disavowed any connection with organized religion, despite his identity as a Catholic priest. The Vatican had remained silent; attempts to question either the Pope or representatives of the College of Cardinals resulted in the standard “no comment” reply.
Targeno smiled as he drove along. What the fuck were those fools doing in Rome? Their little boy was running all over America playing God, and all they could say was “no comment”? Targeno smiled as he drove along. If he were a journalist, the closed-mouth posture of the Vatican would make him very suspicious. And yet, Targeno had noted as he’d scanned the newspaper reports, the magazine articles, and the television coverage, little attention was being paid to the curious silence coming out of Rome.
Exiting the interstate, he worked his way through the city streets until he came to a Holiday Inn. He checked in, ignoring the unrelenting sameness of chain hotel rooms in America. The designers obviously made a conscious effort to strip away any trace of originality, character, and charm from their rooms. What would they think if they traveled the hostelries and inns of Europe? The variety of the experience might prove fatal.
Targeno picked up the phone, keyed in the necessary codes, and finally dialed the unhappy Jesuit in Rome. The phone rang many times before the wiry old bastard picked up.
“Targeno, what do you want?”
He laughed. “How did you know it was me?”
“Who else would call at such an uncivilized hour?” Francesco’s voice was harsh, raspy.
Targeno chuckled. “I thought it was appropriate for such an uncivilized man.”
“All right, what do you want?”
“What do I want? You who hired me to get your information!”
“You have a report to make—then make it.” Francesco cleared his throat, coughed. “And let me get back to bed.”
“Flattery will get you everywhere—as usual,” Targeno said, “so let’s stop fucking around. Carenza’s in St. Louis, getting the keys to the city. Everybody loves him. There are more people following him around than the Pied Piper. I believe he and Marion Windsor are sleeping together.”
“Why do you say so?” Francesco tried to sound impassive, but Targeno knew the thought of Peter Carenza screwing some redhead was a consummate outrage to Giovanni Francesco.
“From watching the way they act around each other. I stay alive by observing other people, by knowing what they’re thinking and doing.”
“And…?” Francesco sounded more awake now.
“And there’s something about the way they look at each other, the way they move when near each other. It’s a manner unconsciously exhibited by people who are intimate.” Targeno paused to light a cigarette. “Take my word for it.”
Francesco coughed dryly. “We have been wondering whether or not to remove you from the mission.”
“I figured as much. With all the media attention why do you need me?”
“If I trusted the integrity of the American media, I would dump you in an instant. But I am of two minds. The others feel you should remain on the mission.”
“So? What do I do?”
“If you want out, you can come home immediately. Bring me a full report and pick up your fee. We have decided we don’t want him back in R
ome—at least not for now.”
“That’s obvious—but why?”
“There is a prophecy that says the last Pope will come from across a great sea.”
“Oh, yes,” said Targeno, grinning. “Then it all fits, doesn’t it?”
“Yes, it all fits.” Francesco sounded pleased with himself. Targeno decided to take advantage of his good mood. His research had left him with a few questions.
“If Peter Carenza was cloned from the blood of the Sindone—the Shroud—then how do you account for the findings of the independent tests back in 1988?”
“You mean the Papal Authorization?”
“Whatever you want to call it. ’Vanni, they had seven independent agencies carbon-date the linen. They announced—with the Pope’s imprimatur—that the cloth only dated back to the fourteenth century. The Shroud is a hoax.”
Giovanni Francesco chuckled softly. “I’m surprised at you. You, who supposedly prides himself in catching the smallest details.”
“Go on. Educate me. Make me feel foolish—if you can.”
Francesco cleared his throat, segueing into a rolling, greasy cough. Targeno could hear him hawking up phlegm. Stylish indeed.
“All right. Listen,” said the priest. “The scientists were correct—the linen is only seven hundred years old. But they assumed the image impressed upon the substance is the same age.”
“But it is not,” said Targeno.
The priest laughed softly. An overly dramatic and evil-sounding heh-heh. “The original Holy Shroud was more than a relic, you see. It was a physical manifestation of Christ’s Body and Blood. It was the symbol of the Holy Sacrament of the Eucharist made real! The Holy Shroud was and is the Body and Blood of Christ. The linen contains the molecular elements of both.”
“But if the linen only dates from the fourteenth century, then the image had to have been transferred from the original shroud to the current one…”
“Ah, Targeno, you are so bright. It is no wonder you’ve survived so long.”
“But how and by whom? The idea of transferring such a delicate image sounds challenging—even for today’s technology.”
Francesco laughed openly. “Is today’s technology any better than the engineering feats or the mummification skills of the Egyptians? The astronomy of the Druids or the Aztecs?”
“I see your point. Go on.”
“There is not much to explain, really. The first Pope created Il Ordine della Sindone—The Order of the Shroud—a secret society of priests committed to the preservation of the Holy Shroud. By early in the fourteenth century, the original linen was beginning to seriously deteriorate. The friars at the Belle Castro Monastery in Padua, who were well known for their successful alchemies, had studied the secrets of the ancient Egyptians and devised a technique for transferring the substance and the image of the Shroud to a new piece of linen.”
“That simple, eh?”
“Indeed. Although ‘simple’ is not exactly the correct word.”
“And you and your old cronies are members of L’Ordine, no doubt?”
“Targeno, how could you have ever guessed such a thing?” The priest laughed softly again.
What the old Jesuit had revealed was not surprising when Targeno thought about it. The Vatican and the Catholic Church in general had been thick with secret orders and organizations.
“One more thing—why did the Pope authorize the 1988 announcement about the fourteenth century dating of the Shroud? Why would the Church do anything that would discredit such a well-known relic?”
“Why?” echoed Francesco.
“It is like an affidavit, that Shroud; it is physical proof of Christ’s existence. Why would the Church allow such seeming proof to be debunked?”
“Because L’Ordine advised His Grace to do so…”
“Oh, that explains everything,” Targeno said sarcastically. “I suppose you had good reasons.”
“Of course,” said Francesco. “In case anyone traced Peter to Krieger, they would not make the final connection to the Shroud—because it had been ‘proven’ to be a fake. Our secret would still be safe. Besides, prior to 1988, the Church had never officially stated the Shroud was authentic.”
“But it was being cared for by the priests at St. John the Baptist’s Cathedral at Turin,” said Targeno. “That looks pretty official to me.”
“Officially, that was done as a favor to the family of Umberto II of Savoy—he is still the actual owner of the Shroud. The important thing is this—our secret remains secure.”
Targeno said, “I think you and your friends are more than a little insane.”
“It is the world which makes us us.”
“Oh yes, this ‘vale of tears,’ right. If this world is such a terrible place, how come you don’t seem to be in such a rush to be rid of it? I have the angel of your deliverance in my pocket, ’Vanni. She’s only nine millimeters wide, but you say the word, and she is yours.”
“I still have work to be done. That is why God has granted me these many years.”
“Yes, of course. Sorry. I forgot.”
“Come home and collect your blood money, Targeno. Or continue your reports. It is your choice. As for me, I am going back to sleep.”
Before he could reply, the old man hung up. Suddenly, Targeno felt very much alone in the bland hotel room. The new knowledge of the Shroud had left him feeling strangely empty. Collapsing on the much too soft bed, he realized he was thoroughly exhausted. Perhaps he was finally getting too old for his craft. In the past, he had banished such thoughts immediately, but maybe now there was some truth to his fears. No doubt he was not as strong or as quick as when he wore a younger man’s clothes, but he was infinitely wiser than those earlier years. Was there not a balance?
Yes. For a while. But then the scales would inevitably shift.
For a moment he allowed himself to wonder if the balance might be shifting now. But there was no percentage, no edge, and certainly no pleasure in such thoughts. He turned his mind to other things. What was his next move to be?
He was tired of chasing Carenza across the States, and he had a decision to make. The whole Peter Carenza phenomenon intrigued him. To be so close to the unfolding events could turn out to be a very special privilege. Would it be wise to turn his back on everything and descend once again into the tarpit of international espionage?
Spy versus spy. Steal or be stolen from. Kill or be killed.
It was a weary game he’d played out so many, many times; surely there was room for something more in his life. Looking for distraction, Targeno turned on the television. Absently he punched through the ration of cable channels—a collage of new and old cinema, sports, news, children’s pabulum, talking heads, and religious strunge. American television contained, without doubt, the most diverse, silly, yet fascinating mix of entertainment and information in the entire world.
At this time of year, Targeno knew, he could find an abundance of American football—played primarily by incredibly agile, large-proportioned, black men. Although he did not really understand the finer points of the game, he could watch football for long stretches of time because it was such a highly structured game. He liked the high level of organization required by all members of each squad; and he enjoyed the choreographed spectacle of its ballet-like violence. In terms of pure ferocity, in an endlessly changing display of combinations and permutations, American football had no equal.
Stretched out on the bed, he watched part of a game between teams from Baltimore and Chicago until the halftime break. Bored with the blather of the announcers and the rash of commercials, he scanned the other channels, pausing on one of the televangelist satellite channels. These programs were basically the same the world over—a richly appointed set with lots of drapery and gold trim, a choir of well-scrubbed, youthful faithful, and a sweeping audience of mostly older people. The star preachers were usually extremely square-looking despite the obvious expense and tailoring of their clothes. Targeno often watche
d snippets of such broadcasts because they contained some of the most genuine and untainted humor in all of television.
But there was definitely a different look to this show. The set was full of high-tech appurtenances—everything decorated with burnished metal surfaces, laser-lighting, postmodern optical art. There was a glitzy, full-energy, ultra-power gestalt about the show which, Targeno was forced to admit, was somehow attractive and tasteful.
He lay back on the hammock like bed and watched.
The centerpiece of the broadcast was a man whose name Targeno recognized, but whom he had never before seen—Freemason Cooper. He was a tall, broad-shouldered man with a thick head of silvering hair, cut according to the latest fashion. He wore stylish eyeglasses and an elegantly tailored suit. Savoir-faire literally radiated from the man. His demeanor was confident, polished, supremely professional. There was none of the snake-oil salesman about Reverend Cooper. He had a way of staring boldly into the camera that almost challenged the viewer not to believe every word he was saying.
Targeno smiled as Cooper ran through a standard reading and interpretation of some chapter and verse from the Bible. To the religious, it was probably quite stirring. To Targeno, it was the usual sanctimonious drivel.
What he found far more interesting was_ the unique way Freemason Cooper integrated his sermon into a fantastic video and audio display. Three large screens semi-enclosed him and his podium, surrounding him in a triptych of ever-changing images. Whoever was orchestrating the three images was a video virtuoso. Not only did the pictures coincide with the Reverend’s comments, but they flashed and changed in perfect synchronization with the cadence of Cooper’s voice.
The result was a fascinating, almost hypnotic, assault on the visual and auditory senses. Targeno admired the man’s skill at using so many current events to illustrate biblical scenes and lessons. It was as skillful a use of high-tech propaganda equipment as he’d ever seen. It was no surprise this Cooper fellow was popular. Lesser minds than Targeno, would have little choice other than to watch their glass teat screens, sucking up its message like helpless infants.
The Blood of the Lamb Page 24
