The Shroud Conspiracy

by John Heubusch

  “Took it where?” Bondurant asked.

  “No one knows.”

  “Right, and then?”

  “Fifty years later it shows up in the hands of Geoffroi de Charny, the most chivalrous, pious, and magnificent of all the knights of his time. He was a nephew of a member of the Knights Templar. I don’t know what the Knights Templar is, but it’s on the recording and apparently it’s a big deal.”

  “Yes, and how did he come to find it?” Bondurant asked.

  “No one knows. But we do know he died valiantly in its defense and left it to his wife, Jeanne de Vergy. Although the church first insisted the Shroud was nothing more than forgery, de Vergy placed it in their hands. They brought it here, where it has been on display for over five hundred years.”

  “Aren’t you leaving out a part or two?” Bondurant asked.

  “You said the short version.”

  “Yes, but even the short version has—”

  “Fire and water,” the janitor said. “Yes, fire and water. It has been nearly lost to fire and water. It was traded at one time for a castle, then moved—”

  “To where?”

  “No one knows.”

  “Uh-huh. And from there?”

  “No one knows. But we know it traveled from church to church across the continent five hundred years ago and then was lost and found numerous times over many more years. Like I said, it arrived here over five hundred years ago. Now that I know with certainty, as the Shroud stands before you and the records are here to prove it. It hasn’t left us since.”

  “Bravo,” Bondurant said as he looked intensely into the eyes of the image before him. He was so mesmerized by the composition of the face on the Shroud that he hadn’t heard a single word of his newfound friend’s last remark. He wished he had. Because as Bondurant turned to address his companion once more, his friend was gone.

  CHAPTER 14

  Turin, Italy

  June 2014

  After two days holed up in a windowless conference room at the Hotel Victoria with Bondurant and his team of scientists, reviewing seemingly endless protocols for the study of the Shroud, Domenika and her handful of Vatican colleagues were satisfied they had heard enough about Bondurant’s plans. Bondurant was left with only twelve days for his investigation. At the end of the meeting, Bondurant had asked Domenika if she knew how to get to the nearest department store so that he might pick up some clothes. He’d been so focused on the work ahead that he hadn’t had a moment to think about his wardrobe. His suitcase still sat in the trunk of his rental car in Baltimore, and the extra clothes he’d packed in his carry-on would last only another day.

  Domenika had seen a beautiful pair of Italian shoes in the window of a department store right down the street earlier. She offered to take him there.

  Once inside, she stepped off the escalator, pointed him in the right direction, and turned to find the shoes she sought. But Bondurant surprised her by insisting she stay to help him choose a few things, and she reluctantly complied.

  For a short while she trailed behind him as he seemed to wander aimlessly about the store. It was the least she could do, she thought. She felt guilty over how she’d treated him during their disastrous encounter a few days earlier at the restaurant and wanted to make amends.

  They were surrounded by neatly maintained aisles of fine clothing bearing designer labels shipped straight from Milan, but he was getting nowhere in his quest. She watched in amusement as he made a few fainthearted attempts to select an item that caught his eye, but she could tell he was helpless. After just a few minutes of his directionless roaming, she stepped ahead of him and took the lead. He followed her from aisle to aisle like a child as she browsed. She couldn’t help but exact a price for her service, and she decided to have some fun.

  “What’s the matter?” she asked as she turned around and stared at him. He looked like a lost puppy. “Does your wife do this shopping for you at home?”

  “Oh, no. Never been married,” Bondurant said.

  Not surprising, she thought. While the clothes he’d been wearing were disheveled, she could tell they were expensive and nicely tailored. Someone had helped him with his look.

  “Your girlfriend, then?” she asked. She was curious to know his story but tried to sound disinterested. She spun him around so that he faced away from her, glanced at the width of his shoulders, and pressed a pinstriped Oxford against them for size. His athletic, swimmer’s frame presented an impressive V-shape from his shoulders down to his waist. She reached for another size of the same shirt from a higher shelf. The one she had chosen was several sizes too small.

  “No, no girlfriend,” he said, sounding aloof. “It’s rare they stick around long enough to make it to the shopping stage.”

  “Oh, and why’s that?” Domenika asked nonchalantly. She pressed another shirt to his shoulders, checking once more for size. Her choice was still too small. She could see two female store clerks eyeing them, ready to make their way over to assist. Domenika held up her hand in their direction to stop them in their tracks.

  “I suppose it’s my preoccupation with work,” he said as he laid the shirt she had chosen across his arm, along with a brown polo shirt he had hastily chosen earlier. “At least that’s what most of them say.”

  “I see.” She picked up the polo he had selected and gave it a bemused look. “Not your color,” she said as she set it aside. “What do the rest of them say?”

  “What do you mean, ‘the rest of them’?” he asked.

  “You said ‘most of them’ lose you to work,” she said. “What about the rest?”

  She pulled a deep blue chambray shirt from a table and held it next to his face for a moment to frame it against the color of his eyes. They were magnetic. “That’s a keeper,” she said, quickly turning away from his gaze.

  Bondurant hesitated for a moment before he answered.

  “The rest? I don’t know. There’ve been a lot. But I try not to stick around long enough for love to set in with the serious ones,” he admitted. “It bores me. They bore me.”

  “I see,” Domenika said. She turned her back toward him, rolled her eyes, and motioned for him to follow. She had enjoyed the innocent flirtation, but he’d proven to be predictable, and it was time to move on. “Let’s make our way over to the pants, shall we?”

  She held up a pair of black slacks that looked like they would go with the shirt she’d chosen. “Here, try these on,” she said.

  He slung the slacks over his shoulder and looked about the store for a dressing room. By the look on his face, Domenika sensed he was looking for a graceful end to their conversation as well. She couldn’t help herself.

  “Humor me, Doctor,” she said. “How does someone who does not believe in God ever actually love someone else?”

  “What’s that supposed to mean? I don’t believe you have to believe in God before you can be attracted to another person,” he said.

  “That’s not love. That’s sex,” she said as she shoved another pair of pants she judged might fit into his arms. He took a step back, and she could tell she’d hit a nerve.

  “All right, then,” he said. “You define it. Define love.”

  Domenika took a deep breath, reached for the pile of clothes he held, and set them all down on a table that displayed an assortment of brightly colored ties. Why not? she thought. She reached her arms forward, took his face in her hands, and stared directly into his eyes, only inches away. His confidence seemed to vanish instantly.

  “I’m sure I might as well be talking to a wall, and I’m not going to debate you again, not here in the middle of a store,” she said. “But God is love, Dr. Bondurant. Love comes from God. To know love, to love another, you must first love God with all your heart.”

  She watched him process her words, carefully calculating each of them. For a brief moment, she thought she might have broken through.

  “Now, that’s deep,” he said disparagingly. “How many times have you prac
ticed that?”

  She continued to stare directly into his eyes, this time with some remorse. “Three years later and you’re still a complete damn fool,” she said.

  As she squeezed his face tighter to reinforce her words, he grabbed her wrists and slipped them behind her. “Childish insults to convince me how to become a better lover?” he said, staring unflinchingly into her eyes.

  She flushed and struggled to remove her hands. He let go, and she rubbed her wrists.

  “You bring it out in me,” she said, startled at how easily he pushed her buttons. The man was infuriating.

  He smiled at her discomfort, but she was surprised to see there was no sign of mocking.

  “You bring it out in me as well,” he said.

  “Are you flirting with me, Dr. Bondurant?”

  “No more than you are with me,” he said. He smiled and then gestured toward the dressing room he’d spotted.

  “Will you accompany me, or must I struggle alone?”

  “I’ll wait out here,” she said. Her face burned.

  As she sat outside the curtained fitting rooms and waited for Bondurant to emerge, she seethed. It had been a mistake to offer to help him in the first place, she thought. It went against her better instincts. It had been an even bigger mistake to join him inside the store. She could have simply shown him the front door. And it had definitely been a mistake to carry on about love and God or any other meaningful concept when she knew that they were worlds apart on things that mattered.

  Yet she had. She didn’t know why; she had to remind herself that in less than two weeks the project would be complete and he’d be gone. Stick to the plan, she thought. Soon, he’d find his tail between his legs, having to report to the world that he was wrong and the Shroud was real. He’d have some serious thinking to do, and she would relish a conversation with him after that.

  As she looked up from the notes she had prepared to transmit to Rome, she saw Bondurant emerge from behind the curtain of the fitting room with three young female clerks now in tow, including the two who had been eyeing them since they first arrived. Shirtless, tan, barefoot, and wearing only the black slacks she had chosen for him, he strode up to her.

  “What do you think?” he said. “Will these do?”

  She swallowed hard. The man was simply beautiful, and it was almost painful to look at him. The trousers fit as though they’d been custom tailored, and it was all she could do to resist the urge to put her hands back on his face and pull him toward her.

  This is ridiculous, she thought. She scorned her girlfriends for their shallow crushes on good-looking men. But he was the whole package. Smart and gorgeous, and he knew it. He’d have to be a moron not to notice how the fawning saleswomen gawked at him. It was as if an alarm had sounded and a small crowd gathered around. She smirked, seeing how easily he grinned back at his admirers.

  “Do I pass inspection?” he asked her.

  “I guess they’ll do,” she said as she turned away from him.

  “Bellissimo,” one of the clerks said. She was clearly enjoying viewing everything about Bondurant, including the pants.

  “Magnifico,” said another.

  An older woman, saying nothing, simply stared as if she were admiring a painting.

  “Had enough love for one day yet?” Domenika asked, agitated. “How about you put on a shirt and we get out of here?”

  Bondurant smiled at her reaction and retreated behind the fitting-room curtain, once more followed by the store clerks. Domenika was left alone. She shook her head.

  She cursed herself quietly all the way back to their hotel for volunteering for the silly shopping adventure. She took solace in the fact that they’d be going their separate ways in a matter of days.

  When they arrived at the lobby, Bondurant thanked her awkwardly for her help and went directly to his room. Domenika expected several messages from the Vatican and went to the front desk to get them. Soon, she felt a tap on her shoulder and turned. The woman who stood before her was the attractive waitress who had served them at Trattoria Torrecelli the day they arrived. Domenika looked her up and down, surprised.

  “Pardon me, signora,” the waitress said apologetically. “I am sorry to be disturbing to you.”

  “Oh, no, that’s fine,” Domenika said, a little off balance. “Nice to see you again.”

  “Sì, signora. I am in the right place to meet him?” She was dressed impeccably for an evening out and didn’t look at all the part of a waitress now.

  Domenika looked further confused. “I’m not sure what you mean. What do you mean ‘the right place’?”

  “He tells me to meet him here, at the hotel. Maybe you know his room?”

  “Dr. Bondurant? Is that who you mean?” Domenika asked. “You are supposed to meet him here?”

  “Sì, sì,” she said excitedly. “He say he might be here to find him.” Domenika paused and stared at the beautiful girl, certain she was half Bondurant’s age. For some strange reason, she hadn’t felt so awkward in years. She bit her bottom lip, almost breaking the skin. There was a reason she rarely opened her heart.

  “I’m sorry to tell you I don’t know his room number. I haven’t seen him all day,” she said as she cast her eyes about the lobby as if to search for him.

  “Va bene,” the waitress said. “Okay.”

  “Oh, if I do see him, I’ll absolutely tell him you’re looking for him,” Domenika said, now infuriated with herself. She knew the sarcasm would be lost on the pretty brunette. “You can count on it. Just the minute I see him. I’m sure he would just love to see you.”

  The waitress winked appreciatively and turned away. As she turned toward the elevators and drifted from sight, Domenika quickly left the hotel for a walk so she wouldn’t have to be there when Bondurant emerged with his date.

  It was the first time in years she had felt like a child—indeed, a girl. Just like the one Bondurant had claimed he’d met just a few years before.

  CHAPTER 15

  Mumbai, India

  June 2014

  Kishan’s scooter had sputtered for almost a half mile, which meant he would soon run out of gas, as he had countless times before on his biweekly trip to Dharavi. The slums of Dharavi, his home until the age of twelve, were best approached from the heavily commercialized Sion-Mahim Road. There he could chain his scooter to a lamppost or guardrail and still stand a decent chance of it being there when he returned with a small bottle of gas to fill it once more and head home.

  Today, he would need to walk the rest of the way up the steep and muddy incline, past the slum’s occasional small temple and an assortment of tiny makeshift factories. The small huts were filled with gleaming pottery, just baked, and the smell of cheap leather goods destined for sale around the world.

  The two plastic bags slung over Kishan’s shoulders were heavy, and he made his way carefully along raised wooden planks meant to spare his feet from the sewer water that flowed freely to Mahim Creek. He’d tried to get used to the stench of the water and rancid waste that lined his route up the road, but he never did.

  His bags were filled with locally grown vegetables and fruits, some potatoes, rice, lentils, bottles of water, and even a jar of milk pudding with cashews and raisins for dessert. All of this, plus a few rupees, was destined for someone his adoptive father, Ravi Sehgal, did not know about. It was meant for Kishan’s sister, Saanvi.

  Saanvi, fourteen years old and pregnant with her first child, bore a remarkable resemblance to her brother, Kishan. Naturally pretty, with long, dark, lustrous hair and eyes near emerald green, she somehow had the grim and hardened look of a woman at least twice her age. The lines of her young face were carved deep by years of survival, pain, and very little joy. A life of poverty could rob the youth of even the most promising and enchanting of girls.

  Her husband of one year, Parth, owned a ramshackle leather goods workshop several alleyways from their tin-clad home. It was a house held together by heavy twine, containing a si
ngle room that measured twelve by eighteen feet. Parth’s tannery stamped out twenty to thirty belts, necklaces, and bracelets each day, plus an occasional purse when Saanvi put her mind to it. Often, extra cash was needed at the end of the month to keep the bill collectors at bay. As difficult as it was to make ends meet, Parth was both a clever and fortunate man. After months of digging beneath their hovel, he had found a way, like so many others, to tap into the city’s water and gas lines for free. This was dangerous and illegal, but these savings alone greatly increased the odds that their first newborn might survive.

  Many words and many stories had been shared between Kishan and Saanvi since his adoption by Sehgal ten years before. But never—not once—had they discussed how she might be spared her miserable life if only Kishan were to say these words to Sehgal: “I have a sister. She is in trouble. Can you take her in?” Saanvi, eight years younger than her brother, had been nowhere in sight on the day Ravi Sehgal had found Kishan selling his wares atop a hill of trash. In fact, Kishan had not seen his sister for a week at the time. And while Kishan could remember the countless times he had the opportunity to talk with his adoptive father about his sister, the words had, strangely, always been out of reach. Kishan convinced himself that asking Ravi to take her in after he had done so much for his adoptive son was a terrible and greedy overreach. It might threaten his own standing and comfortable way of life. Then, as the years slowly passed, Kishan worried Ravi might find him selfish and cruel for hiding her existence for so long. How could he have sentenced her to a miserable life that might have been so vastly improved long ago? Whatever the reason, Kishan found his best and only way to make amends for the state of affairs was to support her as best he could. Much of his own salary, occasional winnings from gambling, and even some of Sehgal’s petty cash, if necessary, was used to alleviate her plight. The guilt he felt for her as the child left behind was oftentimes overwhelming. His missions of mercy every other week were the very least he could do.