The Turin Shroud Secret

by Sam Christer

  ‘I am sorry, that is not possible. The Holy Shroud is locked and sealed in a metal and glass container.’

  ‘Seals can be broken. I’d like it opened please.’

  ‘I am sure you would but it is not possible. Only the Pontiff himself can order an exposition of the Holy Shroud.’

  Nic’s face reddens. ‘You mean only the Pope can break the seals and open up the container?’

  Di Rossi tries to keep anger out of his reply. ‘No. The Holy Father is not the custodian of the keys. That is not what I told you. But he is the only one who can command any viewing of the Sacra Sindone.’

  Nic looks to Carlotta. ‘I guess that’s not true – the Carabinieri could order the Shroud to be opened up for inspection, couldn’t they?’

  She looks nervous at being put on the spot. ‘I think this is not even something I could request. It would have to come from our Generale.’

  Without asking, Nic knows that would be a drawn-out route. He turns back to the verger. ‘So if the Pope isn’t the keeper of the keys, who is?’

  ‘This I cannot tell you.’

  ‘Cannot or will not?’

  ‘Signore.’ He sounds exasperated. ‘Security is of utmost importance to us. I act under instruction from the Archbishop, and he in turn from the Pontiff himself.’

  ‘Then I need to see him.’

  ‘His Eminence is not in Turin at the present. I will pass your request to his secretariat.’

  Nic’s had enough of being jerked about. ‘Then I’d like to speak to him on the phone. Today. Now if possible.’

  The verger’s eyes turn as cold as the statues around him. ‘I regret this meeting is now over. I have tried to be of assistance. Give your details to the Luogotenente. I will pass your request to His Eminence.’ Di Rossi’s black cloak swirls as he turns and walks away, leaving Nic staring at the bulletproof glass separating him from one of the biggest mysteries of modern times and maybe the answer to his homicide case.

  67

  Beneath the leaden sky of Piedmont’s capital, eighteen kilometres of arcades cover the sidewalks and shelter innumerable cafés. The sit-and-watch-the-world culture is a legacy from the time Turin was ruled by the House of Savoy and established as one of the arts capitals of the world.

  In a bar populated more by locals than tourists, Ephrem realises the target he’s been following since the man parked an hour ago is about to make his first mistake.

  He’s heading to the restroom.

  The monk could take him there. It would be messy but possible. His hand finds the dental floss container in his pocket and he imagines the thin wire it conceals being stretched around the throat of the man he’s hunting. Too risky. Too impetuous. Too public.

  He dismisses the thought. Patience is a virtue. He must wait.

  After a few minutes the man emerges. Ephrem slips from the cover of the arcade entrance directly opposite where he’s been pretending to make a phone call. The target moves cautiously, like he senses he’s being watched, like he knows this is the time anyone tracking him would have to break cover and fall in behind in order to pick up his trail. Ephrem is impressed by the caution – the confidence – the casual and controlled way the man walks about, looking around without any discernible effort, taking in all three hundred and sixty degrees of his environment without being obvious. He too shows no sign of hurry or nerves. They are worthy enemies.

  The monk varies the distance he tracks from, sometimes coming within touching distance, often hanging so far back the target is just a dot in the distance. He swaps his black woollen hat for a green baseball cap, reverses his coat to change from black to green.

  Over the course of an hour Ephrem becomes at least four different people, each with their own different way of walking and holding themselves. He is tourist, businessman, shopper, late-for-a-date boyfriend. Anyone other than who he really is.

  A trained assassin closing in on his prey.

  68

  PIAZZA COSTELLO, TURIN

  Nic and Carlotta take a table at the rear of the Baratti and Milano café with a view into the grand marble-floored atrium of a high-class shopping gallery. She hands him a menu across a table topped with fresh flowers and a crisp cotton cloth of burned orange. ‘Di Rossi – he is only following instructions. It is best to remember the Catholic Church is a law unto itself.’

  He takes the menu. ‘No, it isn’t. Nothing anywhere in the world is a law unto itself. This guy is not even going to talk to the Bishop and ask for me to see the Shroud, is he?’

  ‘Archbishop,’ she corrects him. ‘Why is this so important for you?’

  He lowers the menu. ‘Where I come from making cases means finding out what people don’t want to show you. When someone snow-blinds me like your verger did, I know there is some kind of a cover-up going on.’

  A waitress arrives and Carlotta talks in Italian, occasionally pointing at Nic. The girl gives him a studied look and then slips away.

  He realises Carlotta just ordered for him.

  She smiles almost mischievously. ‘This place, it is famous for espresso and hot chocolate. I also order their tramezzini – small sandwiches of ham, mozzarella, salmon, tuna and vegetables. And the Torta barattina.’

  ‘Tart of the House?’

  ‘Very good.’ She laughs at him. Another time, another place, he might even be fun to be with. ‘Thick chocolate tart, with cream and raspberries.’

  ‘You think I have a sweet tooth?’

  ‘There must be something sweet about you. I am hoping the food will change your mood. In Italy when men are sour-tempered, we feed them things to make them sweet.’

  ‘I think I have good reason to be sour-tempered.’

  ‘Perhaps.’ She notices he’s playing with the wedding band on his finger, twisting it round and round. It’s a chance to change the subject. ‘You and your wife have any children?’ She nods at the ring.

  Nic stares through her. He heard the question but at the back of his mind he’s still processing information about the verger. The guy’s behaviour was odd. Not quite right in some way, but he doesn’t yet know exactly why.

  ‘Children,’ repeats Carlotta, wondering if she mispronounced the word. ‘Bambini – do you have any babies?’

  ‘No. I had a son, only a few months old. He was killed with his mother.’

  ‘Oh.’ She can see pain in his eyes. ‘I am sorry. I feel stupid for asking.’

  He twists the wedding band again. ‘I can’t bring myself to take this off. Probably never will.’

  The waitress arrives with their food but Carlotta can tell that for once the sweetness on the plate isn’t going to alter the mood of the man opposite her. ‘Turin,’ she says, changing the subject, ‘is divided into two cities. The place where the Shroud is kept we know as the Holy City. Not far away, under the Palazzo Madama is what we call the Satanic City.’

  ‘Sounds like tourist claptrap.’ He picks a dainty sandwich from the fine china plate. ‘From my experience, true evil doesn’t advertise itself. It stays hidden and moves like a criminal on the run.’

  ‘It is not an invention to part foreigners from their money, it is a piece of our heritage. Beneath the ground are the Alchemist Caves in which during the first century Apollonio of Tyana, a great occult wizard, hid a powerful talisman. The scientists of Savoy thought it was the Philosopher’s Stone and even Nostradamus came looking for it.’

  Nic stops eating. ‘And apparently didn’t find anything. What’s your point?’

  She sips her hot chocolate. ‘Turin likes to keep its secrets. We have a long history of it. Just be aware that your search may be as fruitless as theirs.’

  69

  SANTA MONICA, LOS ANGELES

  Amy Chang yawns as she opens the curtains. She pads across the living room in her short white robe and takes a prod at the heap on the floor by the couch.

  Mitzi groans.

  ‘Morning. Just checking you’re alive. So many of the bodies I find on a floor aren’t.’


  ‘I aren’t.’

  ‘Then stay dead a while longer. I’ll make coffee.’

  Mitzi willingly does as she’s told. Just thinking about moving her head is a terrible proposition. She closes her eyes and runs a mental replay to see if she needs to apologise for anything. Save finishing a bottle of wine on her own, she thinks she’s in the clear.

  ‘You want some water too? Maybe breakfast?’ Amy turns on the coffee machine. The sound of the beans grinding is enough to make Mitzi pull the covers over her head.

  ‘Just coffee. Quiet coffee.’

  ‘Anything in the quiet coffee?’

  ‘Just black.’ Mitzi sits up and pulls the covers back. ‘What time is it?’ Blood floods her head and she feels like she’s on fire.

  ‘Seven-fifteen. I’m afraid I’m an early riser.’

  Mitzi struggles to her feet and staggers to the bathroom in her bra and knickers.

  She uses the loo, then swears at the sink, an elegant designer bowl with a mixer tap and no obvious way of turning it on. She twists the tall gold tube, feeling like she’s strangling a chicken. It suddenly spurts cold water so forcefully into the basin it splashes over her bare stomach.

  She pulls a towel off the edge of the bath and dries herself. In the mirror she sees her sorry reflection. Beneath tired eyes and alcohol-flushed cheeks are the scars of her marriage – marks from Alfie’s belt. Shameful purples, browns and reds spread across her stomach, arms and legs. Hands dangling by her side, she stares at herself. ‘Shit, girl, how did you let all this happen?’ She examines a couple of welts in close-up, turning one way and then another. No wonder she nearly killed him. She’d kill someone who treated a dog like this, let alone another person.

  She straightens up. Cautiously fills the basin and washes her hands and face. Towels dry and avoids the mirror. She’ll sort her hair out later. Amy’s busy in the kitchen area when Mitzi reappears. ‘Coffee and chopped fruit on the table. Be good if you eat something.’

  ‘Yes, Doctor. Thanks.’ She pulls on her clothes so her friend doesn’t see the bruises. ‘How about I eat some Ibuprofen with this?’

  ‘Not on an empty stomach.’

  ‘I need it.’ Mitzi holds out a hand.

  ‘Pathetic. You get any sleep?’

  ‘First straight six hours I’ve had for a while.’

  ‘Good.’ Amy passes over a foil strip of tablets and a glass of water. ‘Here you go.’

  Mitzi pops two pills and swills them down with water. ‘Thanks for being there last night.’

  ‘No problem. I’ll always be there.’

  ‘I know. Me too – should you ever need me. Not for this kind of shit, though. I’ll kick your ass if you let any guy mess with you like I did with that jerk.’

  ‘You’re going to move on, right?’

  ‘You bet. Today is the first day of the rest of my life.’

  The pathologist smiles. ‘An oldie but goldie.’

  ‘You gotta believe it.’ Mitzi takes a sip of newly poured coffee. ‘Did I mention the Turin Shroud to you last night?’

  ‘Sort of. You said it was why Nic was in Italy but you didn’t make much sense after that.’

  ‘Okay. Here’s the thing – we think the Shroud has something to do with the Tamara Jacobs case and we can’t yet figure out what.’

  ‘So how can I help?’

  ‘Not sure. We’re just opening every door and seeing what’s behind them. One thing that keeps coming up is whether the Shroud really was Christ’s. If I send you some high-def pics, could you tell me whether you think the marks on the linen are consistent with crucifixion injuries?’

  ‘Wow.’ The request takes Amy totally by surprise. ‘You want me to PM the Son of God?’

  If Mitzi’s head didn’t hurt so much, she’d laugh. ‘Sort of. You’re bigging up your part a little.’

  ‘I know. But I still get to file a report marked “Jesus Christ”. How many medics can say that?’

  70

  TURIN

  The desk jockeys in Carlotta’s office link one of Nic’s numbers to the apartment of a Roberto Craxi in a block off Piazza Castello near the Quadrilatero. It’s in the historic heart of the city, inside the perimeter of the ancient Roman Castrum, and bears the same address as several restaurants he found receipts for in Tamara’s apartment. It takes a junior lieutenant called Fredo Battisti five minutes to drive them to the place and twice as long to find a parking spot on the busy cobbled streets.

  They may as well not have bothered. Not only is Nic’s main lead not there, but according to neighbours, he and his wife haven’t been around for more than a month. Apparently they just vanished. Never said goodbye to anyone. Simply disappeared.

  Carlotta and Fredo question neighbours on other floors while the landlord, Paolo Llorente, shows Nic around the empty apartment. Llorente, who is almost eighty-five, is dressed in unironed black trousers that hang four inches short of his shoes and a crumpled white shirt and saggy blue cardigan. Hip and knee replacements mean he shuffles more than walks but despite his appearance, his mind is still sprightly. ‘In my youth, I had many American girls,’ he says, flashing a nostalgic grin. ‘I worked in Venice as a gondolier.’ He mimes a punting motion. ‘American girls drink a lot and they teach me bad words and good times.’

  ‘I’m sure they did. Lucky you.’ Nic pushes open the door to the living room.

  The place is empty. Not a stick of furniture but spick and span. Polished oak floors, clean white walls and large patio windows lead to a neat balcony filled with terracotta pots and plants. Two bedrooms are similarly denuded and sparkling clean.

  In a small but spotless kitchen Nic opens cupboards and finds them bare. No pots, pans, cutlery or crockery. It’s like no one has ever lived here. All trace of the Craxis has been wiped away.

  ‘Signore Llorente, do you rent the properties furnished or unfurnished?’

  The former gondolier leans on a worktop to take the weight off his strained legs. ‘Unfurnished, but if a tenant asks for beds and things, then I buy.’ He grins again. ‘I buy and put a little extra on top.’

  ‘So the Craxis took everything with them when they went?’

  ‘Si.’

  ‘They didn’t leave anything behind at all?’

  The old man shakes his head. ‘No, nothing.’

  ‘Did you see them go?’ Nic gestures to the empty rooms. ‘I mean, it looks like they cleared the whole place out, so they must have hired a van and I guess workmen to carry furniture downstairs.’

  ‘This I did not see.’ Llorente touches a discreet hearing aid, a small transparent curl of plastic tucked behind his left ear. ‘I am old and sleep a lot. At night I would not hear a bomb.’

  ‘What about the rent?’

  ‘They pay in advance. By the bank.’

  ‘And they didn’t default? They paid the last payment okay?’

  ‘Si, they pay. They were good couple.’

  Nic smells something. Something sharp and clean. White spirits? Paint? His eyes roam over the walls and woodwork. He gets it now. The place has been redecorated, ceiling to floor. Not a doorframe or window ledge isn’t freshly glossed.

  ‘How long have your other tenants on this floor been here, Mr Llorente?’

  The landlord needs time to think. ‘The Tombolini family three years. Then the Mancinis, only six months, I think. Luca Balotelli moved in five years ago – he divorced from his wife, and—’

  Nic cuts him off. ‘Could I trouble you to look at the Mancini place? Is it like this one?’

  The old man frowns. ‘Si. It is just the same as this.’ He realises that’s not exactly true. ‘Except their living room faces the opposite side.’

  ‘I understand.’ Nic follows him out of the Craxi place.

  Llorente rings Mancini’s bell and knocks on the door. When he’s sure the family isn’t in, he opens up and stands to one side to let the detective in.

  Nic opens every door and scans the place from top to bottom. It’s exactly as
he thought it would be. Feared it would be. It bears all the wear and tear of a place the landlord should have decorated two years back. ‘Thanks,’ he says, stepping back outside. ‘I’m done in there.’

  71

  The tram journey is unexpected.

  Ephrem berates himself for not being more alert. He knew Turin had more than a hundred miles of overground network and should have anticipated the target would use it at some point. The man he’s following has jumped on board and he’s been forced to slip onto the tram at the last moment.

  Just a carriage away.

  In a confined space like this it’s too close for comfort. Much too close. The monk consoles himself with the fact that three other people climbed on when he did. There’s a reasonable chance they masked his movements. Ephrem doesn’t look up from his seat and doesn’t stare intently towards the target’s carriage as he is itching to do. He’s made a mistake and what happens next is going to be a gamble. At the next stop he has to be first off. He has to disembark like he’s late for a meeting and then walk confidently in one direction. If he hangs back, his cover will be blown.

  The bell rings and the old tram hisses to a halt. Ephrem jumps off and walks slowly away. Doesn’t look back. Doesn’t even think about it. It could be that the target is still on board and he lost him, but he doesn’t think so. Crowds of people block his way. They’re squeezing into the biggest open-air market in Europe in the Piazza della Repubblica. Ephrem sees the signs to a metro station.

  His heart thumps. If the target goes down there, he could easily lose him.

  The Porta Palazzo Market or the metro?

  He gambles on the metro. It’s where he would head. Maximum distance in minimum time. It makes perfect sense. To the best of his knowledge there are more than twenty stations but only one main line, running east to west between Turin and Collegno.

  He trots quickly down the stone steps. He doesn’t have a ticket and the target might well have. At the cashier’s window he asks for a biglietto. As he pushes the money through the slit he turns and sees his man descending into the darkness below.