Indisputable Proof

by Gary Williams

  Diaz’s words hung in the still room.

  “What was archaeologist Phillip Cherrigan working on in Costa Rica when he was killed? Surely not searching for a relic tied to Jesus Christ in Central America?” Tolen asked.

  Vakind responded. “Cherrigan was a biblical archaeologist, and he had teamed with a British archaeologist, Dr. Jade Mollur. They were doing some sort of work on the Dead Sea Scrolls, I believe. I don’t have the details. At the time Cherrigan was killed, Mollur was in the United States. Subsequently, after attending Cherrigan’s funeral in New Jersey several days ago, an attempt was made on Mollur’s life when she was driven off the road. She only suffered minor abrasions.”

  “Do you think it’s related?” Sheila Shaw asked. “I didn’t realize vehicular homicide was an Apostle’s death.”

  “At the CIA’s request, and for her own protection, she’s been detained by local police in Morristown, New Jersey. Tolen, you and Diaz are to pick her up, question her, and return with her to Costa Rica this evening to examine the crime scene. It’s the best we have to go on right now. Oh, and one more thing to consider: as I mentioned, the ‘True Sons of Light’ may have gotten their name from the ancient Jewish sect ‘Sons of Light.’ The ‘Sons of Light’ are also known as the Essenes, a monastic community which included scribes—”

  Tolen finished the thought, “—who lived on the shores of the Dead Sea. The Essenes are credited by most scholars as having written the Dead Sea Scrolls, and if Phillip Cherrigan and Jade Mollur were conducting research on those scrolls, Dr. Mollur is the obvious starting point.”

  CHAPTER 4

  September 10. Monday – 4:01 p.m. Washington, DC

  Samuel Tolen and Inspector Pascal Diaz rode in a chauffeur-driven car which Vakind had arranged to drive them to Ronald Reagan National Airport. They were booked on the next flight to Newark, New Jersey.

  After the debriefing, Tolen had learned in a sidebar conversation with Vakind that former Director of Operations, Carlton Tannacay, had been relieved of duty. His insistence that the Spanish keep the theft of the Sudarium quiet, which implied CIA guilt, had proven to be career suicide.

  Tolen also found out from Vakind that Diaz had requested to act alone in the U.S. but had been denied, so his pairing with Tolen was not to his liking. At the same time, Tolen found it odd that Vakind had consented at all to allow Diaz to participate in the investigation given his personal relationship to one of the victims. No doubt the CIA had been coerced by the Spanish government, or more likely succumbed to internal bureaucratic pressure, to include Diaz. Either way, it was Tolen’s problem now, and it was not productive to dwell on decisions he could not influence. Tolen wanted to ensure Ramsey got a fair trial. He feared Diaz might be too trigger-happy given the opportunity for revenge. He would rein Diaz in if the need arose. It would not be the first time he had worked with a challenging partner.

  Tolen considered Diaz’s situation. He felt for the Spaniard, losing his brother so suddenly and tragically. Family members can never be replaced. Tolen knew this all too well. The scars of his own mother’s sudden passing when he was young remained even to this day.

  Riding in the car, there had been few words between Tolen and Diaz. Diaz was brooding, his discord visible in his perpetual scowl. Halfway to the airport, and shielded from the driver by a Plexiglas curtain, the inspector broke the silence. “So this Tiffany Bar is your resource? She seems young and inexperienced. I am not sure your government understands the magnitude of the situation. Frankly, Tiffany Bar sounds like the stage name of a stripper.”

  “Analyst Bar has done many things, but that’s one job which doesn’t appear on her resume,” Tolen responded nonchalantly. He was not about to be played.

  “So you have worked with her in the past? Before she graduated from grammar school?”

  Tolen responded sedately. “To set your mind at ease, Inspector, Tiffany Bar graduated summa cum laude with a dual bachelor’s and master’s degree at 17. She earned a doctorate from Princeton in forensic research and analysis before her 20th birthday. She and I have worked together on several assignments in the past, and I assure you that whatever maturity she might lack is more than offset by her ability to research and analyze data.”

  “She looks like a lost child.”

  “Only two people have achieved perfect scores on the CIA Analyst entrance exam, a test where a 100% was once thought to be impossible to obtain. One is the man we’re after, Boyd Ramsey, considered the premier CIA analyst. The other was Tiffany Bar.”

  Diaz looked unimpressed. “That’s comforting. She has the same qualifications as the man heading a terrorist organization.”

  “We are fortunate to have her assistance in our endeavor.”

  Diaz’s entire demeanor changed, and he looked incensed. “Endeavor? My brother was murdered by a ruthless killer: your Boyd Ramsey. The sacred cloth bearing Jesus’ blood was stolen by atheist radicals. We are on a holy mission to return the Sudarium to its place among the people of Spain and bring the culprits to justice, and you refer to it as an endeavor?”

  “I worked with Ramsey for ten years. As far as I’m concerned, his involvement is undetermined at this point.”

  “Undetermined? What is undetermined when Boyd Ramsey’s fingerprints are found at both crime scenes and on the letter sent to the press?”

  “I know the man personally. It’s not in his character to murder.”

  “Señor, men are often persuaded to new vices when properly motivated. I believe you should stand back and look at the situation objectively. Though I may be driven by my brother’s death to catch those responsible, I am still an inspector and will observe the facts rationally and impartially. It would serve you to do likewise.”

  Indeed, Diaz was right. Men could change. Tolen had seen it countless times in this profession. Yet he simply could not fathom what might cause Boyd Ramsey to affiliate himself with a radical, anti-Christian sect. The man had no qualms about other people’s beliefs or religion.

  “Now you want me to feel comforted that the American CIA is involved with finding one of their own?” Diaz mused. “Aren’t you the ones who employed a man for a decade who was sending American secrets to one of your enemies?”

  It was true. The CIA had been plagued in the last two decades with acts which had brought worldwide embarrassment. The agency’s assistance in locating and confirming Osama bin Laden’s hiding place at the compound in Pakistan had been one of the few feathers in their cap of late. Tolen considered raising this point, then opted to change the subject instead. If they were going to work together, he wanted to keep the lines of communication open. He chose a topic he knew Diaz would welcome. “Tell me more about the Sudarium and its history. I could stand a refresher from the perspective of someone at its source.”

  There was a sudden gleam in Diaz’s eye. Then he set his face to a thoughtful yet almost beatic pose as he proudly recited the history of the Sudarium from memory. “Certainly, as I said in our meeting, the Sudarium is the holy cloth which was wrapped around the head of Jesus Christ just after the crucifixion while He was still on the cross. The Bible mentions it in John, Chapter 20, Verses 6 and 7:”

  Then Simon Peter, who was behind him, arrived and went into the tomb. He saw the strips of linen lying there, as well as the burial cloth that had been around Jesus’ head. The cloth was folded up by itself, separate from the linen.

  “You can see where John pointed out specifically that there were two cloths: the Sudarium and the larger linen that wrapped the body, which some say is a reference to the Shroud of Turin. Interestingly, unlike the Turin cloth, whose recorded history begins in the Middle Ages, the Sudarium can be traced back to 614 AD when Persia attacked Jerusalem. To avoid destruction by the invading forces, it was first moved to Alexandria, then across Africa. It eventually made its way to Spain by way of the
masses fleeing the Persians. It was carried in the Arca Santa. The chest and relics within were given to Leandro, Bishop of Seville, and then it was moved to Toledo until 718 before being sent further north to escape destruction by the invading Muslims. For a time, it was kept in a grotto ten kilometers from Oviedo. Alfonso II had a chapel erected, the Cámara Santa, to house the Arca Santa. This building was later incorporated into the Cathedral of San Salvador.

  “In 1075, the Arca Santa was officially opened before King Alfonso VI. A manifest was made of the relics contained within, including the Sudarium. It has been kept in the Cámara Santa in Oviedo ever since and, as you know, is only brought out and displayed three times a year: Good Friday, the Feast of the Cross on 14 September, and its octave on 21 September.”

  “In the briefing, you mentioned the blood type on the Sudarium matches the Shroud of Turin: AB positive,” Tolen said.

  “Si, a rare type that only three percent of the world’s population has, but there are other similarities between the two cloths as well. Three species of pollen specific to the region around Jerusalem are on both the Sudarium and on the Shroud. Also, the Sudarium contains traces of pollen from Israel, Africa, and Spain, confirming its documented history of flight from invading armies that took it from Jerusalem through Northern Africa and eventually to Oviedo.

  “Tests have confirmed that the man whose face was covered by the Sudarium had a beard, moustache, and long hair tied up at the nape of the neck. These are the same findings as the Shroud, although most people of Jewish descent at the time had those features, so it is not an unusual finding. In addition, the stains on the Sudarium show a series of wounds produced in life by some sharp objects, such as, say, from a crown of thorns. These, too, match the Shroud.”

  Tolen could not resist playing devil’s advocate, but he did so delicately. “I understand Carbon-14 dating places the Sudarium’s origination in the 7th century.”

  “True,” Diaz said firmly, surveying Tolen. To Tolen, the Spaniard seemed to welcome the question, which could only mean he had a convincing rebuttal. “About thirty years ago, an Italian Professor, Pierluigi Baima Bollone, conducted the carbon dating, but even he was unable to vouch for the validity. He is quoted as saying, ‘the result is not easy to interpret due to the well-known difficulties of dating textiles and to the conditions under which the sample was kept when it was taken in 1979 until it came to us in 1983.’ At a conference on the Sudarium in the 1990s, participants agreed, stating that ‘textiles left alone in normal atmospheric conditions are prone to becoming highly contaminated.’”

  “Are all inspectors in Spain this well versed on religious relics?” Tolen asked.

  “You can attribute some of my newfound knowledge of the Sudarium to my long flight to the U.S. I had plenty of time to read and needed to focus my mind somewhere other than Javier’s death for awhile.” Diaz paused and cocked his head sideways; his eyebrows pitched in concern. “Your use of the term ‘religious relic’ is quite troublesome. You say it as if you are referring to any class of artifact in history: a wheel from a 3rd–century Roman chariot, an amulet from an Egyptian tomb, a Chinese terracotta warrior statue.” He leaned toward Tolen, speaking slowly. “The Sudarium is the cloth which touched Jesus’ face when He died for our sins and commended His soul into the Lord’s hands. It is not a mere artifact; it is our connection to the Savior of Mankind. To refer to it as anything less is blasphemy.”

  There was a momentary silence before Tolen responded. “Point taken.”

  It must not have been the response Diaz sought. He wheeled in his seat, obviously intent on pushing the conversation further. He raised a finger as if to make a resounding point. Just then, Tolen’s cell phone beeped. He fished it from his inside coat pocket and answered, forcing Diaz to retract his hand from the air and turn back in his seat to sulk.

  “Yes, Ms. Bar?” Tolen answered and listened intently.

  “I see. Okay, nice work. Please let the director know, as we discussed.”

  He hung up and turned to Diaz.

  “A lead?” Diaz asked.

  The news was troubling. Tolen was reluctant to share the information with Diaz, but that would sour their already rocky new partnership. They had less than four days to find the Sudarium and return it to Oviedo, Spain. Any chance of being successful was going to take their mutual cooperation. Fracturing Diaz’s trust was not an option.

  “Boyd Ramsey had a short relationship with a woman in San Francisco eight years ago and fathered a child. The boy was unknown to the Agency. He confided in me and, to my knowledge, I was the only one who knew about his son, Nolan. I asked Analyst Bar to check on Nolan, hoping that maybe Boyd had made recent contact.” Tolen exhaled. “The boy and his mother were killed a year and a half ago by a drunk driver in an automobile accident.”

  Diaz slowly nodded his head, a grim grin forming upon his face. “It seems we have a man who blames God for his son’s death, and thus, we have a motive.”

  The problem is, Ramsey never had faith to begin with, Tolen thought.

  CHAPTER 5

  September 10. Monday – 7:38 p.m. Morristown, New Jersey

  Upon landing at Newark International Airport, Tolen and Diaz took a taxi to Morristown. Traffic was steady, but they had missed rush hour and reached the outskirts of town a respectable forty minutes later. The driver turned off Interstate 287 onto South Street where low brownstone buildings and newer office complexes were sprinkled on either side of the road. It was a typical small New Jersey township consisting of mostly vacant buildings, a result of a decade’s worth of economic downturn.

  They passed a downtrodden grocery/liquor store, where several people were milling about outside, and turned into the parking lot of the Morristown police station. The light-faced, two-story contemporary structure seemed severely out of place among the nearby aged and weathered buildings. They exited the cab, and Tolen instructed the driver to wait for them.

  Inside, the cool flow of air conditioning was a welcome relief to the late summer humidity. Tolen flashed his credentials to the desk sergeant, a middle-aged man with deep dimples in his cheeks and blond crewcut hair. They had obviously been expected, as the officer slid a clipboard with a prisoner release form before Tolen. “I’ve never been so happy to see a female detainee leave this station house. That one in there is a real piece of work. Don’t get cut on her words,” the sergeant warned sarcastically.

  Diaz raised an eyebrow and gave Tolen a vexing stare. Tolen signed the paper, and the sergeant wordlessly waved Tolen and Diaz toward a secured door to the side. There was an electronic buzz, and the door clicked open.

  Inside, they were met by a portly male officer who seemed uncertain if he should greet them with a smile or a solemn expression. It was a clear indication that the local authorities also knew Tolen was CIA. It was a reaction he had seen before.

  “You’re here for Dr. Jade Mollur?” the man asked, casting his eyes from Tolen to Diaz. He continued to vacillate between a grin and a frown unable to decide where to stop.

  “I’m Samuel Tolen,” Tolen said, extending his hand in an attempt to put the man at ease. “And this is Inspector Pascal Diaz from Spain.”

  The man shook their proffered hands. The officer finally landed on a grin. “Pleasure to make your acquaintance. I’m Tom Rennsol. We don’t get many feds this way. You think someone’s trying to kill this Dr. Mollur?”

  “It’s a distinct probability,” Tolen responded. “Did Dr. Mollur arrive with any personal effects we need to collect?”

  Rennsol nodded. “Yeah, a laptop, clothes, and some manila folders with papers in a PC case. They’ll be waiting for you at Sarge’s desk as you leave.” Rennsol stood in place as if expecting to field another question.

  Tolen was anxious to secure Dr. Mollur and be on their way. They had a long flight ahead of them to Costa Rica
. “May we see the prisoner?” he prodded, his tone firm yet personable.

  “Certainly, certainly,” Rennsol said stirring. He turned and waved them through another secured door with a porthole window to a series of holding cells and then followed behind. Once inside the corridor, they heard a succession of faint clicks. An unexpected fragrance filled the air.

  “This smells much better than our Spanish jails,” Diaz said to Tolen.

  “And most of ours,” Tolen added.

  The first cell on the left held a shoddily dressed man asleep on the low rack. The next cell was empty. They approached the third, and last, cell.

  Tolen had conjured up an image of Dr. Jade Mollur as a frumpy, scholarly woman in her fifties. Instead, an attractive woman with short black hair stood behind the bars glaring at them with hazel eyes. Her left hand was cocked on her hip; her right hand turned sideways drumming her fingernails incessantly on one of the iron bars: the source of the clicks. She looked no more than thirty-five years old, medium height, with a smart figure, wearing black dress pants and a black, long–sleeved blouse. She had obviously not changed clothes since Dr. Phillip Cherrigan’s funeral. The woman eyed Tolen and Diaz with an uncompromising glare. She spoke with an edge to her decidedly British accent. “Are you with the British consulate?” The finger drumming stopped as she waited on their response with steely eyes.