“This is Dr. Jon Bondurant. I’ve been trying to reach him for some time.”
“EVERYONE HAS STOPPED MOVING ABOUT. THEY LOOK LIKE FROZEN PEOPLE!”
“Excuse me, can I have that name again?” the voice from the sixth floor said.
“Dr. Jon Bondurant. I’m just downstairs. I’ve come all the way from Rome to see him.”
“I see. Please hold for just a moment,” the voice said.
“ALL THE LIGHTS ON THE SIXTH FLOOR JUST WENT DARK. THEY LOOK LIKE SHADOW PUPPETS!” the cabbie called out.
“I’m sorry, Dr. Bondurant, but Dr. Sehgal is out of the country right now. We’re so sorry you’ve missed him.”
“ONE OF THE SHADOW PUPPETS IS RUNNING OUT OF THE ROOM VERY QUICKLY!”
“I see,” said Bondurant. “Do you know when Dr. Sehgal will be returning to India?”
“I’m sorry, I don’t have that information,” the voice said. “We are closed for the evening.”
“ALL OF THE LIGHTS IN THE ENTIRE BUILDING ARE GOING OUT, AND THE SHADOW PUPPETS ARE GONE!”
“If I could just leave a message,” Bondurant said. “I’d like to—” But the line was disconnected.
“I HEAR A CAR STARTING UP!” the cabbie yelled.
It was evident from the car doors slamming and the shouts from the garage that a car was about to emerge from down below. Bondurant raced from the front door of the building over to his cab.
“I’M BETTING E-CLASS MERCEDES,” the cabbie cried out.
As if on cue, a large, black E-class Mercedes came roaring up the garage ramp, sending itself airborne for twenty feet as it accelerated past within a few yards of them both.
“Great work! All right now, follow that car,” Bondurant yelled as he jumped into the front seat of the cab.
As they lurched from the parking lot and out into the street, Bondurant sensed quickly that something was wrong. The red taillights of the Mercedes had begun to shrink into tiny dots on the road out ahead.
“MY CAR WILL NOT GO FASTER THAN THIRTY! MY CAR WILL NOT GO FASTER THAN THIRTY!” the cabbie shouted. His car whined terribly loudly, as though it wanted to make chase but its wheels would sadly not comply.
Bondurant could only place his face in his hands. He knew he’d likely lost Sehgal for more than one night. He might have lost him for good. He reached out to console the cabbie, who was clearly upset that his cab was not up to the chase.
“Don’t trouble yourself. We’ll be back,” Bondurant said. “For now, let’s give your hero his honor and his due.”
CHAPTER 37
St. Michaels, Maryland
February 2015
Bondurant was not one to give up easily, but he knew he had hit a dead end. It was late winter, and in the months that had passed since his trip to India he hadn’t turned up a clue of either Domenika or Sehgal, beyond the slip Sehgal had pulled late that night. He’d lost count of the number of leads he had chased in his effort to track down Domenika. His leave of absence from the Institute was over, and the quest to find her had become a frustrating full-time job.
She had simply vanished. Her fate remained a mystery to the police in Rome, who’d found no trace of her there or anywhere else in Italy. Bondurant worked with her sister, Joanna, to place Domenika on Interpol’s missing persons list. It ensured that her profile went to every major law-enforcement organization in over 150 countries. But not a single sighting of her had occurred since she’d gone missing almost seven months before. One of the organizations he contacted to help during a trip to Geneva was the International Committee of the Red Cross. They had tried to find her through their global locator service, but it turned up nothing as well.
He turned to social media and created a Facebook page, “Finding Domenika,” where he posted photos of her and encouraged the site’s visitors to help in his search. The mystery of the beautiful missing woman caught the imagination of thousands, who posted to his board. More than ten thousand “friends” from San Francisco to Cairo “liked” the page, but their comments proved worthless.
His most promising trail from the start, but one that had grown cold quickly, was the airline manifest Domenika’s sister had discovered in her apartment late the previous summer. It had taken weeks for Interpol to confirm that she had actually boarded Jetstar Asia Flight 1009 to Chhatrapati Shivaji International Airport in Mumbai. Indian immigration authorities had confirmed that she had entered the country under a tourist visa, but there was not a trace of her to be found. Even though Mumbai was a city of more than thirteen million people, he was convinced she’d stand out, given her striking European features. But Mumbai’s police force, with more than forty thousand cops, could find no trace of her. They had checked every hotel, hospital, and morgue in the city, but she was not to be found. They stressed to Bondurant after his journey to India that she had only landed in Mumbai. India was a large country, with more than a billion people. He might search for a lifetime and find nothing, they warned.
Then, late one February evening, as Bondurant was in his office skimming recent worthless posts on the “Finding Domenika” page, he decided it was time to shut it down. It had been a long-shot idea from the start, and the vast majority of messages posted to the site had been useless, some even frightening. Most who had seen the handful of photos of Domenika were men who just wanted to meet her if she could be found. Beyond the lonely hearts, most of the other messages posted were from those who sent photos and facts of their own about loved ones for whom they too were searching. He found the whole process pitiful and exhausting.
But just as he prepared to shut down the site at the Institute that evening, a strange message arrived. It was from “ibcnudawg,” an odd username Bondurant had never seen before. The text box was empty, but in the subject line was a question in bold:
WHEN IS A GOAT NOT A GOAT?
It was the reference to the word “goat” that forced Bondurant to hesitate before he deleted it as spam. Bondurant quickly typed a response:
I GIVE. WHEN IS A GOAT NOT A GOAT?
He expected no reply, but one arrived within seconds:
WHEN IT BLEEDS ON A SHROUD. CALL ME + 91 22 226 20735.
Bondurant had seen a lot of strange messages on his board, but this one had his undivided attention. He quickly typed the international area code “91 22” into his search bar to find the country of origin for the phone number posted.
MUMBAI, CENTRAL.
Bondurant’s heart skipped a beat. He immediately grabbed the phone on his desk to dial the number. The full seven rings that passed before someone finally answered seemed endless.
“What’s up, my brother?” the male voice casually answered.
“Excuse me?” Bondurant said, taken aback by the greeting.
“I said, what’s up, brother?” the voice repeated.
“I’m sorry. I must have dialed the wrong number. I apologize,” Bondurant said, agitated. He began to put down the receiver. He had better things to do than deal with pranks.
“This is no wrong number, my man,” came the response. “What’s up?”
“Who is this?” Bondurant pressed.
There was an ominous tone in the other man’s voice. “Can’t tell you that, Doc. But I can tell you this. There’s been some things going on here for months you need to know about. And here’s another thing. This one’s gonna make you wet your pants. You got that?”
“Go ahead,” Bondurant said as he laid his tired head on his desk and pressed the button for his speakerphone. “What have I got to lose?”
“Just your reputation, Doc,” the voice said confidently.
“What do you mean by that? Who is this?”
“Like I said, Doc, can’t tell you that. Hold on. I just hit Send.”
Bondurant raised his head off his desk and watched his e-mail in-box intently. Within a few seconds, a new message popped up.
“Okay, I’ve got it,” Bondurant said. He rubbed his eyes and started to stare at the screen.
“Open
the first attachment, my man,” the voice on the other end of the line said.
“Okay, I’m looking at it. It looks like . . . like a—”
“A DNA composite, Doc. No doubt, my man, you read these in your sleep. But let me break it down for you. What you’re looking at is DNA, male, Mediterranean origin. About two thousand years old, more or less.”
“Yeah, so what?” Bondurant said. He wondered where the mystery man was headed and whether it was worth staying on the line a few seconds more to humor him. “What makes this sample so special, and where did you get it?”
“Can’t tell you that, Doc. Don’t work there no more. Lost my job. But let me tell you this, my brother: I have my sources. Now listen up. It’s a human DNA profile all right, but with an anomaly I’ve never seen before, and I’ve seen ’em all. You with me?”
“Yes, I see it. I see what you mean,” Bondurant said. It was a human profile, but there was something unusual about the array. “What’s this got to do with me? I’ve got lab assistants who can help you with this during office hours.”
“Well, now you ready for da B-O-M-B?” the man whispered.
“Bomb away,” Bondurant said. The man’s approach was driving him nuts.
“It is the DNA—the human DNA—hot off your Shroud,” the man said.
“This,” Bondurant said as he raised his head off the desk in anger to mimic the man’s slang, “is where you’re full of it.”
“Thought you’d say that, my man,” the man said confidently. “And that’s why I’m sending you this!”
“And what’s this?” Bondurant asked, clearly miffed.
“It’s the next attachment you open on your screen, arriving right . . .”
“Now,” Bondurant said. “I got it. Wait a second,” Bondurant said as he double-clicked on it to reveal an entirely new and different DNA array than the one that had been sent to him only seconds before.
“Okay. So humor me: What’s this?” Bondurant asked as he stared at the second DNA profile chart, radically different from the first.
“BAAAA. That’s a goat,” the voice whispered.
“So what are you saying?” Bondurant asked, growing a little more nervous but intent on playing the mystery through.
“I’m saying I have the evidence, my man. It’s goat DNA, but not off your Shroud. There’s no goat’s blood on that Shroud. I’m a fool for not finding you to tell you this months ago, Doc, and you’re a fool all this time for telling the world a lie. That Shroud’s no fake, Doc. It’s you that’s been had, my man.”
“This is insane,” Bondurant said.
“Woahawhooooeeee,” the strange voice said. “That’s the boogeyman, and he’s telling you there ain’t no goat’s blood on that Shroud,” he whispered, even lower.
“Uh-huh,” Bondurant said warily, ready to end the call. “I think I’m being had right now.”
“Yeah, I figured you’d say that, Doc. Don’t believe me. So let me ask you one more question. What’s that say at the bottom of both these charts in my possession? Why don’t you read it for me, my brother?”
Bondurant scanned to the bottom of the attachments. He stared at the identical watermarks on both slides, and what they displayed started to make him feel ill:
PROPERTY OF SEHGAL LABORATORIES, MUMBAI, INDIA.
“Who is this, and where did you get these?” Bondurant demanded, now concerned that the documents might actually be authentic. He reached for the wastebasket, worried he was about to get sick. If what the man implied was true, there would be extraordinary consequences.
“Can’t tell you that, Doc. Don’t want no trouble. Don’t want no medal. This has been bothering me for too long. I want the truth, and I want it out. Like Dr. King said, ‘The truth shall set you free,’ ” the voice declared.
“That’s the Bible, from John,” Bondurant corrected him. His stomach churned again as he stared at the DNA charts in disbelief. The chart labeled “Shroud” was dated June 20 of the previous year, the exact time of his investigation in Turin.
“Okay, then, my man,” the voice said. “Like Spike Lee said, ‘Do the right thing.’ Now I know that’s Spike Lee, and I know that’s what I’m doing.”
“And what’s the right thing?” Bondurant asked. He fixed his gaze on the contrasting DNA profiles. They could not be mistaken for each other. He still couldn’t believe what was right before his eyes.
“Tell the world. Tell the world, my man. You have to set the record straight. And you or somebody needs to get over here before it’s too late,” the man on the other end of the line pleaded. Bondurant could tell the desperation in the voice was real.
“Too late for what?” Bondurant asked.
“Too late to stop this, man! To stop whatever they got going on with this woman they’re experimenting with. Man, who knows what happened to her!” he said.
“You’re losing me. What are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about this Darth Vader dude with the tube in his neck. I’m talking about that crazy Frenchman,” the voice whimpered. “I got to go, my man.”
“Wait a minute. What woman? Did you say Frenchman?” Bondurant shouted into the phone.
The line went dead before he could get a response, but there was no dial tone, so he could tell a line was still open. Someone else had been monitoring the call.
“Hello? Hello? Did you say Frenchman? Did you say Frenchman?” Bondurant shouted into the receiver once more.
Then he heard another click, followed by the dial tone a few seconds later, a sure sign the other man’s phone was tapped. He didn’t move for a few seconds, trying to take in the implications of what the strange voice had said. And then Bondurant vomited every bit of his dinner directly into the trash can he’d shoved between his knees.
When he looked up from the mess, one of his research assistants stood at his office door and grimaced. He reluctantly held out a pink message slip.
“Pardon me, Dr. Bondurant,” the intern choked out. A sickened look stretched across his face. “There’s a Dr. Terry O’Neil from Oxford on the line.”
“I’m a little busy, Bill,” Bondurant groaned. “Can you tell him I’ll call him back?”
“Doctor,” the assistant insisted apologetically. He held out the note but turned his head away from the putrid scene so that he could continue. “He says it’s a matter of life and death.”
CHAPTER 38
Oxford, England
March 2015
Bondurant tossed the chart onto the table between them and quietly stared out of O’Neil’s stately, oak-paneled office at the scene outside. The spires of Christ Church at Oxford were barely visible across the lush, green lawn. Spring was near. A fog had begun to creep in with the drizzle that had arrived earlier that morning. It was a gray afternoon, and like Bondurant’s mood, there were no signs of improvement on the horizon. A small but inviting fire burned in the fireplace, popping and crackling a few feet from where they sat. Bondurant broke the uncomfortable silence between them.
“Terry, how long have I known you? Fifteen years?” he asked. “And all that time, I thought I could trust you.”
“Maybe you have a problem with trust, Jon,” O’Neil snapped back. “You trust the wrong people. I’m not your problem. If I was, I would never have called you.”
“Like I wasn’t supposed to trust Ravi?” Bondurant said defensively. “When’s the last time you didn’t trust a Nobel Prize winner?”
“Now, see? There’s your problem. Just because a guy wins an award, you think he walks on water.”
“An award? Are you kidding me? We’re talking about the Nobel.”
“Nobel, Schnobel!” O’Neil said sarcastically. He prostrated himself before Bondurant as if in worship. “Who cares, Jon? It’s just a bunch of old farts in Norway who lock themselves in a room until they think they’ve found someone whose excrement doesn’t stink. Who cares?”
Bondurant had been angry with O’Neil for a couple of days and hadn’t been a
ble to shake it. His head had been spinning ever since O’Neil’s phone call to confess what he had found out about the Shroud. O’Neil, who had argued loudly during their previous summer experiments that he required four samples to achieve the carbon dating accuracy Bondurant demanded, had been less than truthful from the start. He had needed only three. And, in fact, he had used only three. What he had done secretly with the fourth sample—the one with precious blood from the Shroud on it—had produced the stunning evidence on the chart that sat on the table between them.
“Okay,” Bondurant said, resigned to putting his anger behind for the moment, “so, let’s go through this again. What gave you the idea to test the fourth sample for DNA?”
“I never trusted Ravi from the start, Jon. I can’t tell you exactly why. I just didn’t. You didn’t either. Maybe it was all the hype I was reading after he won the prize—how he was going to save the world and all that. Like he was some sort of Messiah. We had two drops of blood from the Shroud between us, and there was no way I was going to let him get them both.”
“That’s why you insisted on four for your own tests?”
“Yes, but just after Turin, after our videoconference call when Ravi started babbling about goat blood and all that, I went off the grid for that Tutankhamun project I’ve been working on,” O’Neil said. “A couple of hundred miles outside of Cairo, two camels, and no working sat phone. I forgot about it all for a while. We were busy.”
“Right. Then what?”
“Last week we had a couple that made their way out from Cambridge with a sat phone that worked. I got ahold of Serge at my lab and had him run a DNA test on the fourth sample immediately. As soon as I got the results, I came home and called you.”
“I see.”
“Truth be known, Jon, I could have dated the Shroud with two. But three was for good measure, to keep in my hip pocket in case the results were ever questioned. The fourth, the one with blood, well, like I said on the phone. Here are the results. You can read them for yourself.”
They both stared down at the DNA results O’Neil had received from the Molecular Anthropology Laboratory at Oxford, one of the most prestigious DNA labs in the world. As he had told Bondurant on the phone, O’Neil had asked the lab to give him a complete genetic breakdown of the blood found on the fourth sample he had secretly kept. Unfortunately for Bondurant, O’Neil’s curiosity hadn’t peaked until it was too late. Based on Sehgal’s evidence, Bondurant had already issued the final report proclaiming to the world that the Shroud was a fake. The chart they were looking at was the same one O’Neil had sent Bondurant after their call earlier that week.
The Shroud Conspiracy Page 26
