The Shroud Conspiracy

by John Heubusch

  Even the Vatican understood the political implications. It had a long tradition of changing the subject rather than facing hard questions. Unfortunately for the Church, this strategy had lost its potency as the scandal’s depth and scope expanded. Its diminished coffers proved the Church needed a shiny new miracle immediately. Domenika was both devout and professional enough to recognize the opportunity. For her, the past five years of managing damage control for the Vatican over the pedophilia scandal had been heartbreaking. It had shaken her confidence in Church leadership and, after a great deal of soul searching, her own faith as well. Now, with the discovery of the ancient codex, the Church had a once-in-a-thousand-lifetimes opportunity it could ill afford to waste.

  Which was why she was so distraught with the Holy Father’s decision to withhold the news of the text’s existence. She had spent the past two weeks devising a worldwide media plan to announce what Pope Augustine had termed the “Glorious Discovery.” Her team of highly vetted, confidential professionals had created a high-impact multimedia campaign unlike any effort the Vatican had planned before. However, the pope had rejected the plan and sided with a special committee of cardinals assembled to pray and consider a “divine way forward.” She was convinced the “divine way forward” could not be more backward.

  “Your Holiness, with your permission,” Cardinal Ponti said, “I will summarize our plan for your final blessing.”

  The Holy Father folded his hands once more as if in prayer and nodded.

  “For the time being, the Revelation of the Shroud will remain a secret. There shall be no announcements,” Ponti said firmly. He glanced coldly at Domenika to prevent any further interruptions. “While there is little question that news of the codex will be released at some time in the future and will provide sustenance to many, the belief of the faithful in Christ’s suffering and resurrection has not required such perfect proof for almost two thousand years. The Shroud’s authenticity has no relationship with the divine inspiration of the words of Jesus Christ and his teachings. It is our faith, and not the secrets of our library, that serves as the backbone of the Church. Is that not correct, Father Parenti?”

  Parenti, who had spent the latter half of the meeting contorting in his chair to hide behind the giant silver candelabra between him and Father Barsanti’s glare, sat upright as best he could. “Yes, Your Eminence. It is faith that sustains us all,” he said.

  Cardinal Ponti continued. “However, there is an opportunity here to end the debate that has had the Church seemingly at war with science over the Shroud for many years,” he noted. “Now that we know with absolute certainty the Shroud of Turin is a genuine article, the Church will open it once again to the deepest of scientific scrutiny. Its authenticity will be proven. We will invite from around the world a team of scientists, some representing the most credible skeptics on record, to join us in an unprecedented examination of this most holy relic. We have nothing to lose and much to gain. And with certainty, this is our moment for the disbelievers themselves, using all the modern tools at their disposal, to make our case for us.”

  The pope beamed and nodded in affirmation.

  “Please remind me,” the pontiff said, “who is the scientist-scholar you are suggesting should lead the effort?”

  “Dr. Jon Bondurant of the Enlightenment Institute in America, Holy Father,” the cardinal replied. “He is a leading anthropologist and well-known skeptic in the field of sacred relics, precisely what we are after. I am told that he—”

  “Excuse me, Your Eminence,” Barsanti interjected in amazement. “Is this not the same man I have had Parenti research at length for you? He has been disgraced, has he not? And he is an avowed atheist counted as an enemy of the Church.”

  “All the more reason to use him. Truly use him,” Ponti declared with obvious satisfaction.

  Dr. Jon Bondurant. Domenika cringed at the sound of the name. Three years ago she had squared off with him on stage in front of the Cambridge Union Society, the world’s oldest and most prestigious debating club. Much to her consternation, she was a last-minute stand-in for Bishop Robert Dorn. Dorn had fallen ill a day before his much-anticipated debate with Bondurant on the topic of the existence of God. She remembered Bondurant looking at her with disdain across the space between them. They had debated for forty minutes, and while their respective podiums were separated by less than five feet, their positions on God and the origin of the universe were light-years apart.

  “You mean to stand there and tell me,” Bondurant had said to her, “that in all the universe—this ever-expanding, limitless universe, with over a billion potentially habitable planets in our tiny Milky Way alone—that this God of yours has chosen us, just us, to watch over? That we are the center of his world?”

  “Yes, that’s exactly what I mean,” Domenika replied coolly. “And this evidence you refer to that God has created life on other planets—tell me, Dr. Bondurant, in what book do I find that science has demonstrated this?”

  She gripped the podium with both hands as if to steer the argument away from the cosmos and onto friendlier, more theological ground. She envied his relaxed poise, although she suspected it was the result of liquid courage from the four shots of scotch she had watched him down just before they took the stage. If he was a drunk, he was a darn good one, she thought. While she vehemently disagreed with his views, she was reluctantly impressed by his confidence and obvious intelligence, both of which appeared to defy the effects of alcohol.

  His clumsy flirtation with her beforehand and the statement he made with his two-day-old beard and casual dress at such a formal affair gave her the impression that he was as much a rogue as a genius, but she also knew looks could be deceiving. She was pleased to have held her own during the scheduled hour-long debate, particularly given that she had had so little time to prepare. Schooled at the Vatican for years by some of the pope’s most senior theologians, she sensed she had the audience with her. It was her God as creative designer rather than Bondurant’s random selection due to the big bang that was winning the day. She expected him to pounce again, and he did.

  Bondurant reached into the pockets of his jeans and pulled out a lighter. “I am reminded of our friend Galileo,” he said. “Yes; if I remember correctly—and I do—it was the Church that clung to the belief in the face of all evidence against it that it was the sun that revolved around the earth. Having lost that argument, the Church continues to expect us to swallow the concept that while the sun might not revolve around us, a god does. How ridiculously egotistical of mankind, don’t you think?”

  He fumbled around in the pockets of his sport coat and produced a crushed, nearly empty pack of cigarettes. In an instant he had lit one and started to wave it about like a wand as he prepared to continue.

  “Excuse me, Dr. Bondurant,” the evening’s surprised debate moderator interrupted from the chair centered on risers behind them. The distinguished, gray-haired gentleman was the dean of Cambridge’s School of Anthropology and looked completely offended. “This hall has a strict nonsmoking policy, and I must ask you to extinguish that.”

  “Before or after I extinguish her line of logic?” Bondurant asked. He took a single, deep drag from his cigarette and looked directly into Domenika’s eyes. “Honestly, if you’d only had a mind to match that body,” he said as he covered his microphone and whispered the insult just loud enough for only her to hear. “Why send a girl to do a man’s job?”

  “You are a, a—” Domenika stammered, her fury collapsing her words.

  “A what, madam?” Bondurant said into the microphone to egg her on.

  “A complete fool!” she blurted out. She instantly realized that her gaffe was out of place but reveled in the fact that the audience behind her let out a supportive gasp. Some even began to applaud. Bondurant broke into a broad smile.

  •  •  •

  She shuddered as she remembered the embarrassing but winning moment, one she had tried to forget for years. It was only
the pontiff’s declaration that brought her back to the present.

  “Then it shall be,” he said as he rose slowly from his chair to signal an end to the meeting.

  “Curse him,” Barsanti muttered under his breath purposefully loud enough for Domenika to hear as he rose to leave. She could tell he was referring to Parenti, who had hastily departed but obviously gained the favor of the pope.

  God help us, Domenika thought as she considered the prospect of working with Jon Bondurant. God help us all.

  CHAPTER 4

  Mumbai, India

  April 2014

  Dr. Ravi Sehgal slid into his sleek leather chair in the darkened television studio, his back to a collage of digital monitors that displayed news feeds from scenes around the world. Sehgal, now forty-five years old and always dressed impeccably, was slight of build, with a dark complexion and jet-black hair. He was also one of those fortunate few who had a boyish face that made him appear ten years younger than his age.

  The buzz of busy reporters who crisscrossed the high-tech set behind him like drones near a hive added to the distraction. Sound engineers whispered to one another as they monitored mixing boards behind glass walls in anticipation of the moment. The studio, black from floor to ceiling, seemed unusually cold, perhaps to manage the room temperature given the bright lights on the set, Sehgal thought. He exhaled slowly. It would require steely focus to ignore the frenzy behind the television camera aimed at him like a gun.

  “Please look at only me during the interview, not at the camera, Dr. Sehgal,” the news anchor said. She tossed her dark, silky hair behind her shoulder and adjusted the tiny lapel microphone clipped to her red Chanel suit.

  I would be pleased to, he thought. Annapurna Shankar was the most famous news personality in India and was as distracting as she was talented. The lead anchor for CNN-IBN TV in Mumbai, she had secured the first interview with Sehgal since the announcement the previous day of his Nobel Prize in Biology. His once quiet life had been a blur of media requests and messages from family and other well-wishers in the last twenty-four hours, many of whom he had not heard from in years. One phone message in particular intrigued him. The well-known American anthropologist Jon Bondurant had left a voice mail insisting they meet about a project he was certain would be dear to Sehgal’s heart. Sehgal made a mental note to return the call as soon as the interview was finished.

  “Are we all set? Do you need a level?” Anna asked the cameraman as she glanced back in his direction somewhat impatiently. “One . . . two . . . three. One . . . two . . . three,” she repeated mechanically.

  “Rolling, Anna,” the camera operator said.

  “Good, then let’s get started,” she said as she broke into a practiced smile Sehgal presumed she had perfected years ago. She began with an easy question. “Dr. Sehgal, can you tell us what it feels like to be the first Indian scientist in history to capture the Nobel Prize in Biology? You must be thrilled.”

  “It is a great honor, Anna,” he said as he nervously cleared his throat. “When prizes such as these are won, it is very rarely the result of the work of a single person, and that is the case here as well. Many of my colleagues have helped along the way. They deserve a great deal of credit and share in this award.” That came out all right, he thought. He sat back in his chair more comfortably and relaxed.

  “Your modesty is appreciated, Dr. Sehgal. But I’m sure that prizes such as these are awarded only for truly groundbreaking science,” she said. He could tell she wanted to move the interview quickly past the usual pleasantries, as it was only a few minutes before their conversation would be packaged for a satellite feed across India and around the world.

  “I have studied the Nobel Committee’s announcement, and the area of your discovery is fascinating. Could you describe your achievement for our audience in layman’s terms?”

  “I’ll do my best,” he said confidently. “For the past twenty years, at Cambridge and MIT and then my own labs, I have focused on advancing an area of science that deals with ancient DNA—or ‘aDNA,’ as we call it. By ‘ancient,’ we mean truly ancient, as in strands of life and genetic structures that are millions of years old. A few decades ago, it was the case that biomolecules with important information about ancient plants and animals could be rescued from nature for advanced study, but the decoding processes of the time most often produced very little in the way of valuable information from these specimens. More often than not the ancient DNA was severely degraded from extreme temperatures, water dilution, or contamination from old or newly attached bacteria. It most often proved to be useless for scientific purposes.”

  “Okay, so far I’m with you,” Anna said as she stared intently into his eyes. She had warned him prior to the interview to keep his answers short and nontechnical, and he could see by her look that he had already failed.

  “Fast-forward to the development of high-throughput gene sequencers, the type used in the Human Genome Project,” he continued. “My work focused very specifically on chemical processes that, with polymerase chain reaction techniques, or PCR, allow the use of these sequencers to analyze even the smallest amounts of degraded DNA fragments, something we deal with all the time in our study of ancient DNA.”

  “Now you’re losing me, Doctor,” she complained.

  Sehgal could tell. He had never met a scientist, including himself, who had mastered a sound bite for TV.

  “What’s important to know at this point, Anna,” he said patiently, “is that with this capability in hand it became possible for us to separate the wheat from the chaff. But I am talking about microscopic wheat and microscopic chaff. We developed the ability to confidently differentiate and divide the contaminated DNA from the authentic, ancient DNA, which in turn allows us, after a great deal of effort, to fully and accurately manufacture full DNA sequences very quickly. From there, we can focus on ancient genes of real interest.”

  “And why is that of value?” she asked.

  “Well, with these new tools in place,” he continued, certain he had lost her, “it is possible to rapidly sequence entire genome structures for plants and animals when only microscopic bits of their authentic genetic material can be found. This is a tremendous leap forward. It is now possible to fully understand the evolution and composition of the look and feel of plants and animals long ago extinct.”

  She leaned forward, staring at him with unblinking intensity. “By that, Dr. Sehgal, do you mean extinct creatures as old as dinosaurs, for example?”

  “Yes, as old as dinosaurs,” Sehgal grinned, happy to see she had regained her footing. “For example, at this point in time, the entire genetic sequence for the ancient woolly mammoth is known.”

  Her look grew incredulous.

  “Are you saying, Doctor,” she pressed now more confidently, “and forgive me if this sounds silly, but the world of Jurassic Park is here? That you can retrieve the genetic detail to reproduce and clone dinosaurs? That seems impossible.”

  “Yes, at present it is impossible,” he said. “There are really two massive hurdles to reproducing a dinosaur. First, you must have the extinct creature’s full genetic code in hand. Today, that’s possible.” He folded his arms. “But it’s another thing entirely to replicate it, to give it life, when there are no living hosts walking the earth that match its own species-specific DNA and that can nurture it into existence. Are you following me?”

  “Yes, yes. Please go on.” He could see she actually was.

  “Today it’s the case that if we can locate even the tiniest bit of degraded DNA from an extinct animal, we have the ability to capture its genetic code. Mind you, it’s a hugely complex process. Still, we can accurately determine everything from the color of its skin to the length of its feathers, its weight, or the size of its brain. We can determine its appearance and know its composition, but we cannot clone it. At least, not yet. Eventually, with enough DNA material and synthesis, we will.”

  “Fascinating,” she said, shifting gears quickl
y. “Now if I may, I’d like to turn to an amazing human-interest piece of the story. There is a rumor circulating that you have already decided to donate the entire one-point-four-million-dollar prize to charity. Is this true?”

  “Yes, it is,” Sehgal said, surprised she had discovered this. He shifted uncomfortably in his chair for the first time during the interview.

  “Would you mind telling us who will be the lucky recipient of your generosity and why you chose to support them?” she asked.

  “I’m afraid that would take us into a whole other topic,” he said. “I’m not sure your audience will want me to jump on my soapbox.”

  “Let’s let them be the judge of that, Dr. Sehgal,” she pressed.

  He folded his arms again, this time as if preparing to avoid answering the question. She was good enough that he knew he couldn’t.

  “Well, as I said, I am sure the charitable causes of a scientist are not of any real interest to your viewers,” he said reluctantly. “I have been a very lucky man to have so many who have helped me throughout the years. There are many who are not so fortunate.”

  He paused and wondered where to begin. Suddenly, the camera lens aimed at him appeared to quadruple, to the size of a cannon. His success over the years was due to a lifetime of intense self-discipline and a propensity to look forward, not backward. And now he was in front of a national television audience being asked to bare his soul about the past.