The Shroud Conspiracy

by John Heubusch

  “Yes, with gas,” Parenti offered.

  “I’ll have the same,” Domenika said.

  “A Macallan, neat. Double it,” Bondurant said.

  Domenika looked at her watch. “You do realize it’s not yet one o’clock.” She could smell the whisky on his breath from across the table. “I’m sorry, sir,” the waitress interrupted apologetically as she rested her hand on Bondurant’s shoulder. “We have only wine and beer here. I would be happy to—”

  “Let’s try another restaurant, shall we?” Bondurant said. He began to get up from the table to leave.

  “Water for him as well,” Domenika said, her voice stern enough that it sent the waitress scurrying away. “Dr. Bondurant, I’m not sure how much you’ve been drinking or what you’re on, but I want you to listen to me for a moment, and I want you to listen very carefully. Are you prepared to do that, or are we in for another debate?”

  Bondurant looked away from her and forced a smile. She knew she was in a position to end the most important quest of his life or make it a living hell if she wanted, and there was little he could do about it. “I am prepared, Dominique.”

  “Domenika,” she insisted.

  “Domenika,” he repeated, apologetically.

  When he averted his eyes, she took the opportunity to frankly appraise him. Quirky as he might be, he had a presence about him up close that she hadn’t noticed during the Cambridge debacle. She couldn’t explain it, but she felt she hadn’t seen it in any man before. She was both attracted and repelled by the energy he exuded even in distress. Still, she saw how quickly he recovered and was determined to press on while she had the upper hand.

  She continued. “You’ll recall we inserted a morals clause into the agreement?”

  “Page twenty-nine, paragraph four,” Parenti interjected, reciting it from memory. “Participants agree to conduct themselves with due regard to public conventions and morals, and agree to refrain from committing any act during the course of the study to degrade themselves in the eyes of society or bring themselves into ridicule.”

  “I did not interpret that to mean a ban on single malt scotch whisky, Ms. Jozef,” Bondurant said as his anger started to surface.

  “Interpret it as you will, Dr. Bondurant. It is my responsibility to ensure the Church’s most sacred relic is in perfectly sober care, and we cannot, we will not, leave it in the hands of a . . . a . . .”

  “A complete fool?” he asked.

  She smiled. Maybe it was time to give him an inch of space.

  “I’m searching for the right word,” she said.

  “A drunk?” Parenti said, supplying the word for her.

  She shot the priest an annoyed look. She wanted Bondurant in his place, but wasn’t looking to insult him. “What I meant to say is that our research illustrates there is an issue with alcohol, Doctor.”

  “Your research?” Bondurant said, incredulous. He seemed to have fully regained his confidence.

  The waitress returned with a large bottle of sparkling water and poured it for the three of them.

  Parenti hunched over the table and extended his tiny arm to get his water, just out of reach. He rocked forward in his chair to grab the glass but in the process bumped into the table hard enough that he knocked over a delicate decanter of olive oil. Bondurant dove to reach the bottle, but it rolled off the table, exploding on the floor. Beyond the broken shards of glass that lay scattered across the aisle, the contents had splattered widely, making their way to the skirt of an elderly woman sitting at the table beside them. She was clearly startled and, seeing the mess, not amused.

  The maître d’, who had been standing vigil near their table, threw his arms in the air. “Bastardi!” he yelled loud enough for the entire restaurant to hear.

  Parenti cupped his face in his hands like an embarrassed child.

  Bondurant immediately rose from his seat and, towering at least a foot over the maître d’, stiff-armed him to keep him from approaching the table any further.

  “I am sorry,” Bondurant said, looking menacingly in the man’s eyes. “It’s my fault. I seem to have spilled something here. If you will take care of the floor, I will take care of this nice lady.”

  Domenika and those dining nearby watched in silence as Bondurant leaned in toward the woman at the neighboring table, whispered briefly in her ear as he reached for his wallet, and pressed a hundred-euro note in her hand. He gently dabbed at her skirt with a napkin, blotting the worst of the oil while she enjoyed the attention of the handsome stranger in front of her friends.

  Domenika looked down at her menu and feigned a lack of interest, not wanting to let on that she found his chivalry toward the little priest endearing. She was certain Parenti had actually been sent to Turin as a spy, another set of eyes and ears who would report back daily to the Vatican on the project’s findings, but she liked him nonetheless.

  When he finished tending to the woman, Bondurant sat down and placed Parenti’s water glass where he could reach it. He resumed where they had left off.

  “So let’s hear about this research again,” he said calmly, trying to put the priest at ease.

  Domenika thought about stopping to thank him for his kindness, but thought better of it. “As I was saying,” she said, determined to reassert control of the conversation, “surely you can understand that the Church would not place its most valuable possession in the hands of someone we cannot fully trust to protect it. There will be no drinking of alcohol during the course of the study. There can be no missteps. I can start this; I can stop it.”

  “I see,” Bondurant said. “And what else does your research say? Does it go so far as to reveal the size of my underwear?”

  Parenti stared up at the ceiling for a moment as if to recall whether he had studied the topic. He kept silent.

  “Let’s not be ridiculous,” Domenika said.

  “Well, you are going to wish it did,” Bondurant responded after a while. “I seem to have misplaced my suitcase containing all my clothes.”

  “Misplaced it? You mean the airline has lost it?” she asked. “We have people who can contact them and ensure its delivery.” She began to pull out her cell phone.

  “Maybe ‘misplaced’ is the wrong word,” Bondurant said. “I have a notion I left it in the trunk of my car.”

  “Here in Turin?” she asked.

  “No, in Baltimore, at the airport,” Bondurant said with a sigh.

  Domenika and Parenti looked at each other and broke into laughter. Domenika tried to hold back the outburst for Bondurant’s sake but couldn’t. It was exactly the kind of absentmindedness they had been warned about. Bondurant had fit the mold described for him to a tee, and for the first time in his presence, she felt firmly in control.

  “Does it go so far as to tell you what my findings on the Shroud will reveal before I’ve even begun? Maybe I shouldn’t have bothered to make the trip,” he said.

  “In fact,” Parenti said, “we have some unique material on that. Contrary to your previous writings and assertions, we are absolutely certain you will determine the Shroud of our Lord Savior is authentic.”

  “And what gives you such confidence, Father?” Bondurant asked.

  “Well, it’s obvious. It’s the book. As soon as we discovered that—”

  Parenti stopped midsentence and swallowed the rest of his words, then bent down and massaged his shin from Domenika’s swift kick under the table.

  Domenika had started to pity Bondurant, but had no interest in providing him clues the Vatican hadn’t authorized and which he didn’t deserve.

  “What Father Parenti is saying, Dr. Bondurant,” Domenika said, “is that the Lord’s book, the Bible, is very clear on the events of the death and resurrection of Jesus Christ, and the Church has every confidence that your investigation of the Shroud will support it.”

  “May I ask a more fundamental question, then?” Bondurant said. “It’s something that has been gnawing at me for weeks.”

 
“Please do, Dr. Bondurant,” she said.

  “Why me? Of all the forensic anthropologists in the world, why has the Vatican chosen me to lead this effort? I can’t seem to get a straight answer.”

  “Are you suggesting your interest in the project is waning?” Domenika said with a twinge of hope in her voice.

  “No, no, no. Don’t get me wrong. It’s the opportunity of a lifetime, and I would trade it with no one. But why choose a well-known skeptic of the Church?”

  “Put simply, Dr. Bondurant,” Domenika said, “you may be a skeptic, but you’re the best in your field. We expected you to pull together a team whose findings will be universally accepted by the world, and you have.” She had to give him that.

  Bondurant looked across the table, shifted in his seat, and stared directly into her eyes for the first time. She could tell he had completely regained his footing, and recognized the look he’d sent. It was one she’d seen from other men she’d had to rebuff before. Let’s not go there, she thought. Of all people, not you. She was also certain as he held his eyes on hers that he knew her explanation was not the entire truth.

  “I look forward to working with you,” Domenika said. “But I want to repeat, Dr. Bondurant—”

  “I know. I know,” he said as he cut her short. “You can start it. You can stop it. I heard you,” he said.

  Domenika could tell the anger that grew in his voice was from the predicament he was in at the hands of a woman.

  Bondurant abruptly got up from his chair. “This is going to be a very long two weeks, Ms. Jozef.”

  “Where are you going?” Parenti asked. “We’ve not even ordered yet.”

  “I seem to have lost my appetite, Father,” Bondurant said as he looked at Domenika once more. “And I’d like to see the Shroud in its resting place in St. John’s Cathedral before it’s moved to our labs. I’m sure I’ll see you both at the hotel as we get under way this evening.”

  As the front door of the restaurant closed behind Bondurant, Parenti was the first to speak.

  “Do you think we might have been a bit hard on him?” he asked.

  “He’s a big boy, Father,” she replied. “We needed to get this off on the right foot. He is one of the best in the world, and for his sake and ours, he needs to act it.” She was speaking with bravado, but the look he had given her and what it might mean for the next two weeks was unsettling.

  “But he’s a good man. Why aren’t we telling him, of all people, about the existence of the codex?” Parenti complained as he rubbed his sore ankle.

  “The Vatican’s orders, not mine,” she said. She didn’t like being so curt or hiding the existence of the codex either, but knew they had no choice, given the plan.

  “It would assist his work and drive the truth,” Parenti complained. “It seems unfair. He’s turned out to be such a nice fellow, and he’s going to be humiliated. I didn’t sign up for this.”

  “Believe me,” she said, “I didn’t either. It was Cardinal Ponti’s plan. His decision.”

  “Mark my words, Domenika,” the priest said as he lowered his voice so no one but she could hear. “I think we are asking for trouble.”

  The waitress finally returned to their table to take their order. She looked disappointed. “The gentleman, he is gone?” she asked. “He is finished before he has begun?”

  “Yes, he is,” Domenika said as she watched the once crowded restaurant begin to empty. “Yes, he is.”

  CHAPTER 13

  Turin, Italy

  June 2014

  Bondurant was pleasantly surprised.

  When he arrived, after hours, through an unlocked side door of St. John’s Cathedral to get his first look at the Shroud of Turin, he had expected some sort of an official handler and plenty of security to protect the world’s most famous religious relic. Preparations were soon to be made to move the Shroud from the cathedral and into Bondurant’s hands at a secure laboratory nearby, but you wouldn’t know it. Instead, what he found when he made his way through the large, dark cathedral to the Chapel of the Shroud was a lone janitor at work, mopping the elaborate marble floor just in front of where the famous but hidden relic stood.

  “You are the American? They told me you would be coming,” the aged, balding man said to Bondurant. He had more hair stemming from his bushy eyebrows than the top of his head, and the kindly man had a natural stoop that looked to have been formed from many years of laboring with his mop.

  “That’s me,” Bondurant said. He was pleased that there was no bevy of church officials with whom he’d have to glad-hand while he tried to get a good glimpse of the Shroud. He had seen thousands of photos of the relic over the years, but this was the first time he would actually see the controversial artifact in person. “I don’t suppose there is an attraction nearby, one that people wait in line to see?”

  The janitor pointed his finger toward a large, gold braided rope that hung from an ornate frame. The frame supported a thick, red velvet curtain nearly thirty feet wide.

  “Would you mind giving me a hand?” the janitor asked. “They told me you’d want to see it.”

  Bondurant was happy to help. He walked over to the braided rope and, joined by his newfound guide, pulled down hard to open the massive velvet wall that hung between him and the Shroud. With each yank of the rope, the royal red fabric parted further, opening in both directions from the center. After about ten good pulls, the curtain was completely open and exposed what looked to be a large brass display case roughly twenty feet long, paneled with glass on both sides. The chapel surrounding the case was dark enough that it was nearly impossible for Bondurant to make out the contents of the rectangular box, although he was certain that with a little light he would find exactly what he’d come to see.

  “Got a light?” Bondurant asked his companion.

  “We have a light,” his guide responded. The janitor slowly shuffled over to the wall on one side of the case and flipped the simple light switch on. A light inside the brass case flickered on and off for a moment, and then went completely dark. A couple good whacks from the janitor’s wooden mop handle against the box that held the light switch resolved the problem right away. The image inside the display case was now awash in golden light.

  “Sir, behold the Holy Shroud of Turin,” the janitor said in a Roman dialect familiar to Bondurant. He spoke with a practiced but clearly exaggerated enthusiasm. With that, he resumed the work with his mop and pushed the sudsy water before him from side to side.

  Bondurant smiled as he stood at eye level with the artifact. He was within five feet of the display case and studied the Shroud for about ten seconds.

  “It’s a fake,” Bondurant said. This time he smiled even wider. “It’s a painting.”

  “They said you’d say that,” the janitor said.

  “Who’s ‘they’?” Bondurant asked. He walked from one end of the image to the other as he began to study the relic more carefully. What he saw appeared to be a shadow of both sides of a male body, lying prostrate, left behind on a badly burned and damaged linen sheet.

  “ ‘They’ are the ‘royalty,’ ” his companion responded. “A few cardinals. Several bishops. Made their way up from Rome. They said you’d say that. Overheard them.”

  Bondurant stared intently at the face of the image. The ghostly visage he could see reminded him greatly of the Jesus so many Christians wore on medallions or had seen depicted in paintings and books throughout the world. It was a handsome face, with strong features.

  “Would you like the audio tour?” the janitor asked. “We have it in three languages. Costs just a euro.”

  “Fine,” Bondurant said, curious to know how the Church had packaged and promoted the history of its famous prize. “Are there headsets? Where do I get the device?”

  “No headsets. That’s for day visitors,” his companion said. “I’m afraid you’ll have to get it from me.”

  Bondurant laughed at his newfound friend’s entrepreneurial spirit.

/>   “Go ahead, then, friend,” Bondurant said as he handed him two euro coins. “I’m all ears.”

  “Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls,” the janitor said. “Welcome to the world-famous Holy Shroud of Turin, the one and only authentic burial cloth of our Savior, the Lord Jesus Christ.” The old man’s practiced delivery started off as a tired drone that Bondurant feared might last a long time.

  “Wait,” Bondurant said. “I want my money back.”

  “Why’s that?”

  Bondurant chuckled again. “Because that’s not true. You said it’s authentic, but you don’t know that.”

  “Neither do you. Listen,” the janitor said. “It’s a great story. And I need the money. Let me tell it.”

  “You were at ‘Ladies and Gentlemen,’ I believe.”

  “Yes, yes,” the janitor said. “The journey of the Shroud is a long one.”

  “Can I at least get the short version?” Bondurant asked.

  His friend looked perturbed but pressed onward.

  “Legend has it that Joseph of Arimathea, a disciple of Christ, bought the relic you see here after the Crucifixion of Jesus. It’s in all the books: Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John. You can look it up.”

  “Yes, continue, please.”

  “Then Saint Peter finds the rags in Jesus’s tomb after being alerted by an angel that the cloth was there. We know this to be true because it was all written down several hundred years later when the Bible was first written.”

  “I see,” said Bondurant. “So for about four hundred years, the Shroud is somewhere. But no one knows where. Someone just wrote about it, right?”

  “Well, yes, but it’s common legend that the Shroud was taken by Thaddeus Jude to Edessa, somewhere in Turkey. We are talking almost two thousand years ago.”

  “Go on,” Bondurant said.

  “There, he hid it inside a city wall, where it sat for several hundred years.”

  “I see. It sat in a wall for over five hundred years. No one messed with it?”

  “Right. It is then spirited to Constantinople. Unfortunately, the city was sacked. Burned to the ground. The Venetians found it and stole it.”