“So, as I told you a few days ago,” O’Neil said, “I’ve had three scientists study this blood DNA profile, each independent of the others. All of them are eminent in their field here at Oxford, and all used the same technique as Sehgal. And not one, not a one, mind you, will tell you the source of this blood was a goat. They report an anomaly in the human DNA they’ve never seen before. But they know for sure Ravi is not to be trusted on this.”
“Thank you, Terry,” Bondurant said sarcastically as he flicked his cigarette butt into the fireplace. “Now tell me something I don’t know.”
“You still haven’t told me how you’d already come to this conclusion when we talked earlier,” O’Neil said. “You ruined my surprise.”
“Coincidence. I don’t know. But right before you reached me, I was on the phone with the strangest of characters who called about the same thing,” Bondurant said.
“Who? Great minds think alike,” O’Neil said.
“I don’t know. He wouldn’t say. But this ‘great mind’ was a nervous wreck. He said his conscience was bothering him. That he had to get the truth out. I’m sure he had to be someone at Ravi’s lab. Someone close to him. He sent me Ravi’s DNA composites. Anyway, I didn’t know what to make of it. I didn’t know whether to believe him, and then you called with the same news.”
Bondurant took a deep breath to compose himself.
“Okay, listen. This is not about you. It’s not about me. I will eat all the crow one man can eat for publishing the wrong conclusion when the time comes. I’m going to have to retract our report entirely. Somebody’s going to sue, probably the Church. People will be burning our report, and they should.”
“You’re right.”
“Terry, I’m going to have to rethink a lot of things, not the least of which is that the Church has been right all along. I can’t believe I am saying this, but this Shroud is real!”
Bondurant lowered his head. For the first time in his career, he felt helpless and cornered. A lifetime of stoic disbelief in faith and spirituality had suddenly burst with the realization he might have been wrong about a lot of things. Was Domenika somehow right? Was there some dimension beyond the reach of science, a place he’d refused to admit existed, one would call divine?
O’Neil got up from the table and poured them each a scotch from the decanter on the sideboard next to them.
“Jon,” he said as he pushed a full tumbler in front of him, “every once in a while, there are things that happen in this world beyond our comprehension. Maybe this is just one of them.”
“Now you’re channeling Domenika,” Bondurant said, his voice hoarse. “That’s exactly what she would say.”
“Lovely girl, Jon. Whatever happened to her?”
Bondurant turned toward the window again. “I don’t know. If it’s a rock, I’ve looked under it,” he said. He could hear the exhaustion in his own voice.
The two of them stared into the glow of the fireplace and sat quietly nursing their drinks until Bondurant broke the silence.
“Listen, Terry,” he said. He grew more animated. “There’s another problem. And I’m not sure what to make of it.” He pulled another chart from his valise and slid it across the table toward O’Neil.
“What have we here?” O’Neil asked curiously.
“It’s Ravi’s real results. It’s the true results he got off the Shroud. It was sent to me last week by the fellow at his labs. Take a close look at it.”
O’Neil put on his glasses and placed the chart side by side with his own, the one produced in Oxford’s labs. He examined the two carefully for over a minute. The longer he stared, the more puzzled he appeared. He reversed their order on the table. He held them together, one on top of the other, in the light streaming in from the window to discern their differences. He looked at Bondurant, confused.
“The two bear no resemblance to each other. Not even close,” he said. “What’s the joke?”
“Terry, I’ve been asking myself that same question since you sent me your copy of the DNA results following our call.”
“What the devil?” O’Neil said, bemused.
Bondurant pushed the two charts back together, side by side. “Are you absolutely certain the blood sample you tested here at Oxford was one and the same as what came off the Shroud? Are you totally positive?”
“I’d stake my life on it, Jon,” O’Neil said solemnly.
“Then,” Bondurant said as he quickly downed the rest of his scotch, “the results prove it. There’s no match in the DNA composites here. There are two different sources of blood on the Shroud of Jesus. Unrelated. Do you get me, Terry? Unrelated. And believe me, neither are from a goat.”
“But that’s not possible.”
“I am beginning to believe that anything is possible,” Bondurant said as he gathered his papers and got up to leave. “What did you do with any remaining blood sample from the material you had, Terry?”
“I destroyed it, of course. The last thing I wanted was to turn my labs into some kind of tourist trap if people learned it was here.”
“Great. You did the right thing. Unfortunately, I don’t think I can say the same for Sehgal,” Bondurant said as he grabbed his jacket and made his way to the door. “It’s all come together,” Bondurant said. “He’s put his expertise to work. He saved some of his blood sample for another purpose. His higher calling, you might say.”
“Jon, where in God’s name are you going?” O’Neil called out.
“In God’s name? To India, Terry. Back to India.”
CHAPTER 39
Mumbai, India
March 2015
Kishan squeezed the brake handle and gunned the throttle of his Vespa at the traffic light on Mutton Street, the busy avenue that sliced like a jagged knife-edge through the markets along the Colaba Causeway in Mumbai. The bike let out a thin plume of white smoke and a groaning, choking sound, as if to ask for mercy from the strain he placed on the motor.
Her name was Chanda. He wanted to impress her. She had given him a strange look when he handed her a helmet at the front door of her family’s upscale home, expecting him to arrive for their first date in a car. He had been saving to buy one for years, but he still needed a new job first, and it would be many more paychecks before a car was a possibility.
On this warm evening, Kishan had her right where he wanted her. She sat close behind him on his scooter, her arms wrapped tight around his waist, just as he had fantasized from the first time he had seen her. After months of circling and stalling, he had finally summoned the courage to approach her at her parents’ restaurant where she worked, down the street from his apartment. He’d hesitated about asking her out for a long time. She was show-stoppingly cute, with wide, intense eyes and long, lustrous hair always pulled back in a ponytail, and he’d had to work up the courage to meet her. But she’d said yes, and now they were off to explore the ancient “thieves’ market” of Chor Bazaar, dotted with shops and cafés strewn along the narrow lanes like pearls on a thousand strands. He smiled from ear to ear. The warmth from her body penetrated the back of his jacket, and he swore to himself he had never been with a prettier girl.
As he edged his way through the halting traffic and into the bustling intersection ahead, he found it gridlocked. He stopped, hung his arms at his side in frustration, and looked into his side-view mirrors to scan the scene behind them. Then he saw something unusual. Pressing through the traffic behind him, creeping slowly about a hundred feet back, was what looked to be an entourage that consisted of two dark, gleaming Land Rovers surrounded by a pack of matching motorcycles. The riders were all wearing identical black uniforms. The small motorcade’s attempt to force others aside to part the sea of traffic had created a cacophony of horns and shouts loud enough to rise above the noise of the already-chaotic bazaar.
Who was in the expensive cars close at his rear? Kishan stared intently into his mirror to get a glimpse of the VIPs. But the windshields of the trucks were tinted so that
it was impossible to see inside. As the Land Rovers moved within ten feet of his rear, the motorcycle escorts, all of whose jackets bore an odd insignia he had never seen before, pulled forward like a swarm of wasps and encircled his bike. He tried to give them room and slowly inched his scooter along the line of parked cars against the crowded sidewalk to clear a path for them. One of the escorts, who wore a red knit mask under his open-faced helmet like the others, inserted his own bike between Kishan’s and the parked cars, which prevented him from edging further away. The shiny bikes that crowded his tiny scooter revved their engines in a thunderous roar. It was impossible to hear anything else above them.
As he looked to his left to press for an escape route, he saw it was too late. The Land Rover in front pulled directly beside him and stopped. The rear window of the car glided down and revealed the profiles of two men obscured in the darkness of the interior. Over the din of the screaming engines, he could barely hear a single voice call out.
“Drop the bike and the girl, and get in the car,” it commanded.
Kishan’s date began to squeeze his shoulders with a grip that signaled real fear. He thought the voice from inside the car sounded faintly familiar, but the roar that surrounded them was so loud he couldn’t be sure. Whoever these people are, it must be a mistake, he thought. He found a small opening in front of him behind the car and surged his bike forward several feet to get out of the Land Rover’s line of sight. He didn’t want any trouble. But the truck found a similar opening beside him and followed suit. The voice from inside the car called out again, this time with more urgency.
“I said drop the bike and lose the girl, Kishan,” the voice demanded. “I’m not going to ask again.”
The moment he heard his name called out, Kishan’s pulse began to race. They knew exactly who they were looking for. He glanced down at his handlebars and thought about hitting the kill switch. He could stop the engine and comply and try to reason with whoever was in the car. He moved his thumb toward the button, but hesitated as he craned his neck to look for any openings in the traffic ahead. The moment he did, the rider on the massive bike beside him extended his leather-booted leg and kicked Kishan hard in the knee. A sharp pain ran down his leg. He struggled to keep his scooter upright. His frightened passenger began to pound on his back and cry out for him to do something, anything. In an instant, Kishan’s fear turned to anger as he realized his long-sought date was probably over before it had begun. His first night with her was likely to be his last.
He detected a small sliver of space, maybe two feet wide, that began to open between the trucks ahead of him. It was far too small for a larger bike or the Land Rover to make it through. He hit his throttle hard. His scooter answered quickly and shot through the opening as his mirrors scraped sharply against the sides of the vehicles on either side. He heard horn blasts and the enormous roar of the entourage now stuck behind him, and he quickly darted his eyes about to seek any opening in the oncoming traffic circle. It was a crowded mess of vehicles, carts, and humanity that crisscrossed in a dozen different directions. A moving van that had been blocking a galis, a narrow lane packed with street merchants and food carts, had opened up on his right. He hit his horn, pressed it like it was a siren, and accelerated down the restricted alley. He missed one pedestrian after another by inches. Some shouted in panic and darted from his path. He came upon an even smaller lane, for pedestrians only, and barnstormed into it at full throttle. The tiny alley erupted with angry cries as shoppers jumped toward booth keepers hawking rugs, glassware, and copper pots. They all tried to get out of the path of his speeding scooter.
At the end of the long alley, they emerged onto Ambalal Doshi Road just steps from the ornate Taj Mahal Hotel. He didn’t see anyone behind him. He headed west as fast as he could, toward the University of Mumbai. It was a campus he knew well. They could stop and lie low, and he could get his bearings. His date’s grip on his jacket had loosened, and he relaxed a little, since they were out of immediate danger. Maybe this date was salvageable after all, he thought.
As they coasted down the hill toward Mahatma Gandhi Road, he began to turn over and over in his mind who his pursuers could be. How could they possibly have an interest in him? He ticked through the list of possibilities. He was behind in his rent, his school loans, and his utilities, but not by much. He had paid his parking tickets. He had a small gambling debt, but it was for less than five thousand rupees, about a hundred dollars. Certainly not enough to be worth the effort for such a chase.
And then it hit him. As he rounded the corner by Elphinstone College, his mind began to race. It was the Shroud. It had to be. It was the only real secret he knew about, and the only thing he had stuck his neck out for in a long time. But what was he supposed to do? Leave the lie alone forever?
As he rolled into the university grounds, his eye caught a commotion across the cricket fields. Fear spread through him. Accelerating along the central footpath of the fields, where cars did not belong, was the motorcade of cycles and trucks he thought he had shaken only minutes ago. They kicked up a huge cloud of dust behind them. They had spotted him and were headed in his direction at high speed.
His date grasped his shoulders again and let out a cry. “Take me home, Kishan! Please take me home!” she begged.
He hit the gas with all the force his throttle could find, but the engine stalled. The swarm of cyclists, who raced slightly ahead of the Land Rovers was less than a half mile away and closing fast. He panicked and hit the kill switch instead of the start button several times before he realized what was wrong. His scooter’s battery, which had turned the motor over and over without a start, began to weaken and moan with every attempt.
He pushed the bike with both feet as hard as he could down the incline they faced, popped the clutch, and kick-started the engine. It sputtered, mercifully clicked into gear, and lurched forward. With his pursuers less than a few hundred yards behind, he aimed his scooter toward the direction of Convocation Hall, the largest of the theaters on campus. He hoped an event was under way that would have hundreds of people gathered and would afford some protection in a crowd.
But the hall was deserted, with the exception of a few cars that made their way out of the large multi-deck parking garage next door. It sat right next to a second, twin garage still under construction, where crews of men were at work on the top floor, cutting steel. With his pursuers now right on his tail and walls that trapped them on both sides, his only way forward lay straight ahead, toward the parking garage. If there was a small opening or exit door just wide enough for a scooter to fit through on the first floor, he reasoned, he might still escape. His engine, close to overheating, whined as he charged into the dimly lit garage entryway and found it deserted. He scanned the lot on the bottom floor with his headlight for any kind of crevice or door that might provide an opening, but saw none.
Left with no choice, he began the dizzying, circular ascent up the ramps of the garage toward the upper levels. Level Two. Level Three. Level Four. They had climbed high enough now to be trapped, and he knew it. He could feel the motorcycles only yards behind them. The trucks’ tires squealed with every sharp turn up the ramp and were only a hundred feet farther back. While escape was futile, he remembered the handful of workers he had seen laboring atop the unfinished parking garage next door. He decided to seek what little protection he could out in the open of the top floor, where the construction workers might serve as witnesses to whatever happened next. As he reached the rooftop deck, his scooter burst into the sunlight. The instant he reached the dizzying height, his acrophobia kicked in, and he knew he had made a mistake. Some of the workers across the way on the adjacent roof were busy grinding steel, but a handful stopped what they were doing to watch the commotion of the motorcycles and the trucks racing in hot pursuit of the couple on the scooter that approached them.
Forty feet separated the two six-story garages. As Kishan’s bike accelerated toward the opposite roof, he and his date both bega
n to wave frantically to the workers for help. Kishan spotted a large wooden plank ahead of them that served as a makeshift footbridge from one garage to the other. While it had no guardrails and was only a few feet wide, it looked sturdy enough to hold whatever heavy construction material had moved across it before. If he could keep his scooter squarely in the middle of the plank, he could bolt across it to safety on the adjacent rooftop in an instant. He knew the bikes and trucks that pursued were far too large to make it across. It was a high-wire act, to be sure. And he would rather go through fire than risk the height. But he knew that if he hesitated for even a moment, the gang would be upon them.
He aimed his front wheel toward the ramp, gunned his engine, bounded onto the narrow board at high speed, and tried not to look down. His date squeezed his waist and held on tight. A third of the way across, it was clear to him that the sturdy plank would hold their weight. But what he didn’t see as he careened forward were the construction workers frantically waving him off. And what he would never know was that the temporary footbridge they traversed had not been used in months. It was badly out of position. The far end of the board he rushed toward extended barely an inch onto the opposite rooftop deck. As soon as his bike reached the center of the bridge, the plank bowed downward mercilessly beneath their weight and pulled the board entirely away from the lip of the building. In one horrid moment, the footbridge flipped sideways and fell away, sending the scooter, Kishan, and the loveliest girl he would never come to know in a tumble toward a pile of construction debris on the ground six floors down.
The Shroud Conspiracy Page 27
