Bondurant reluctantly slipped on the robe and buttoned it from top to bottom. It hung toward the floor. A perfect fit. He turned toward the mirror to see himself robed as a priest ready for the celebration of Mass and laughed to himself. He wondered what Domenika would think of him now.
“Come, come,” Parenti whispered, “we have no time to lose.”
The journey from the first floor of St. Peter’s all the way to the Vatican Library required the negotiation of a long and winding unmarked trail. Very few could navigate the course from memory, Parenti had told him, but the priest reckoned he had made the confusing trip through the dark passages and up the hidden staircases a thousand times. He took Bondurant by the sleeve and slipped into an alcove nearby before they made their ascent. It contained the first of many ancient doors they would pry open or unlock on their way through the complex labyrinth of corridors comprising the hidden nerve center of the Holy City. They climbed several narrow stairways, carefully opened one door after another, and crept like mice along the darkened and deserted pathways. Parenti had warned Bondurant that it would be a disaster if they were spotted. The priest had lost his permission to enter the library when his position as secretary had been unceremoniously eliminated the previous year. Entry without explicit authorization from the pope was strictly forbidden. For him to be caught inside the Vatican’s most secret sanctum, aiding, of all people, a “Judas,” the scientist who had betrayed the Vatican’s trust, would definitely be grounds for instant defrocking.
Higher and higher they ascended, until they reached the top of a long staircase at the base of the tower, home to the ancient library. The marble entry foyer, deserted by Swiss Guards after hours, held two massive, ornate wooden doors containing a single large keyhole. Parenti dug into his satchel for the worn iron key he had never returned despite admonitions and threats from Father Barsanti. It had faithfully unlocked the doors to the secret library for centuries. Aldo took the opening the priest had given him when the satchel opened, jumped from the bag, and landed lightly on the floor beside them. As Parenti turned the heavy key, several loud clanks echoed throughout the marble entryway, and the massive doors swung slowly open. The library sat in total darkness, save the faint blue glow from its stained glass windows, which absorbed the light reflected off the nearby dome of St. Peter’s. Aldo, anxious to enter an old haunt, bolted inside.
“That’s a problem,” Parenti said as soon as the dog vanished from sight.
“What do you mean?” Bondurant asked. “I’ve never seen you without him. He must know these stacks as well as you.”
“Maybe so,” the priest whispered. “But the last time I let him slip from my sight for even just a moment, he ended up dead.”
“Hours ago I would have questioned your sanity,” Bondurant said as he shook his head. “Today, I can believe anything.”
Bondurant crept slowly through the entryway with his arms extended to feel his way through the dark. He couldn’t see his hands in front of him.
“It’s impossible to see in here, Father,” he whispered.
“Never you mind. I could do this blindfolded,” Parenti responded. Taking several steps into the pitch black, the priest stumbled into a small wooden book cart hidden in the darkness. It toppled over with a loud crash.
“Porco diavolo!” Parenti whispered.
Both Bondurant and Parenti held their collective breath momentarily and listened for any sign of life around them. Parenti quickly pulled a large flashlight from his bag, turned it on, and threw a large beam of bright light across the room.
“So much for blindfolded,” Bondurant said dryly.
He followed the priest past countless aisles as they wound and twisted their way in the darkness through the most magnificent collection of books Bondurant had ever seen. All the while he could hear the dog prance ahead of them like a scout in the distance, presumably knowing where they were headed. While he could see only what Parenti’s flashlight illuminated immediately in front of them, he knew he was passing far too quickly through one of the greatest wonders of the world. The priest seemed to know where he was going, and after several minutes at a deliberate pace, they reached a small opening between two massive rows of shelves. A reading table and several chairs sat in the opening.
“Wait here. Sit. Don’t move,” Parenti whispered. “It might take me a moment to find the book.”
Bondurant sat in complete darkness next to the dog as he watched the bobbing flashlight make its way past a shelf several aisles from their spot. A few minutes later, the priest returned with a purposeful look on his face and a large book under his arm.
Bondurant peered at the massive tome Parenti held. He could tell it was ancient, but could make out little else in the darkness.
The priest’s voice lowered to a whisper. “I have read every word of every interview with our Ravi since we last met. I’m convinced you are right. He wants to save mankind from misery and has turned to this beast Meyer and his Demanians for help. I am but a humble priest, but even I know that God cannot and will not come from man.”
“Funny,” Bondurant said, “I spent my entire life believing that man did not come from God, and that God did come from man. But I never imagined I would be a victim in someone’s absurd experiment to prove it.”
The two sat silently and stared at each other in the glow of the flashlight Parenti had set on the table between them.
“Are you ready for my tale, good Doctor? Would you like to hear my plan?” Parenti asked as he broke the silence.
“I came as you asked, didn’t I?”
“Yes, you did. And when I finish, you will be glad of it. But first I must ask you to promise on your life that you will not reveal to anyone, not a soul, what I am about to tell you.”
“That is a promise,” Bondurant said as he leaned in to listen intently.
“Very well, then. Hear me carefully. I hold in my hand a book that is known to only a very few. It is second in importance to another book, one that I found here in the library many months ago and which I am not at liberty to discuss with you tonight. One day I will. It is safe in the hands of our Holy Father, and its discovery, interestingly enough, led us to you.”
“I’m not following you, Father.”
“No matter. It is this book, this book that I hold, that is of use to us tonight. I know you are familiar with religious relics, both real and imagined?”
“They have been a central part of my life’s work, Father.”
“Then you will be interested to know that the book I am holding is a catalog of sorts. A catalog of many Christian relics examined by special investigators of the Church and as commissioned by popes over the centuries. You might call them inquisitors of a sort. A truth squad. For many years, they have been on a journey for the truth. They have had but one purpose: a determination of the authenticity of our most holy relics.”
“This is the same book you mentioned last night?” Bondurant asked.
“Indeed,” the priest continued. “By design, there are only a handful of Church officials who are aware of this book and its contents. The book reveals that there are many, many relics throughout the Christian world that are venerated by millions of faithful but are of no interest to us. They are fabrications. Trinkets. They belong in the flea markets of Porta Portese here in Rome.”
“I’ve written books on the subject,” Bondurant said.
Parenti ran his tiny thumb across at least a hundred pages that contained lists of such examples and opened the book for Bondurant to see a page in the glow of the flashlight. Bondurant reached for the book to inspect it more closely, but the priest pushed his hand away.
“But there are some, a very few, that are beyond the shadow of a doubt authentic. They are listed plainly here. For those who believe, the very existence of these objects and the meaning they hold for the faithful stir the soul. They are divine.”
Parenti paused for a long while and stared intently at Bondurant. Then he thumbed to a page he had
marked when he first retrieved the book from the shelf.
“According to this book, there is one true relic in existence that may bear the blood of Jesus Christ. By the way, your work on the Shroud has confirmed for us a second.”
Bondurant listened intently but shook his head. “And where do I find this ‘true’ relic? The Church has not exactly been forthcoming with them in the past, and I am sure I am the one person on earth it has no interest in sharing such relics with now.”
“Very true. This is why we are going to have to steal it, Doctor.”
“Are you really a priest, or do you just wear the collar?” Bondurant asked. “Thou shalt not steal, or am I wrong?”
“Yes, and thou shalt not make for thyself any likeness of anything that is in heaven above as well, sir. No false gods,” Parenti replied. “Let me put it another way: no cloning.”
The light from the flashlight he had set on the reading table began to flicker and fade and threatened to trap them both in the pitch darkness. They needed to find themselves back at the library’s entryway soon. Parenti stood up, shoved the book into his bag, and made haste to leave. As soon as he did, the faint sound of footsteps could be heard in the distance. Someone was heading in their direction. Aldo, who heard the noise, began to bark and jump and circle about Parenti in a frantic effort to leap back into his satchel. The priest looked astonished, as it was the first time he had ever heard the dog bark. He had thought him a mute.
“Can’t you keep him quiet?” Bondurant said as the tiny creature continued to yap. “He’s going to give us away.”
“I’m afraid it’s too late for that,” the priest said. “I think I recognize the sound of those shoes, and if I’m right, God have mercy on us.”
“Run or hide, Father?” Bondurant said. “Which is it?” The sound of the footsteps grew perilously close.
“He knows these shelves as well as I do. We have no choice,” the priest said. Bondurant could tell he was calculating the best escape route. “Follow me, and run, run, run,” the priest shouted.
With that, Parenti began to wind his way through the confusing maze of shelves as fast as his little legs would take him. Bondurant and the dog, who barked with every step, followed close behind. Bondurant couldn’t see Parenti out ahead in the dark but could tell where he was from the occasional flicker of fading light that came from the dying flashlight. Parenti tried to be quick, but he moved too slowly, and Bondurant could hear the footsteps gaining on them.
They dashed down long corridors, turned right and left, and then right and right and left and left again. Bondurant was sure they had doubled back, and hoped the priest wasn’t lost. Then, as he peered into the barely lit distance, he could tell they had finally emerged onto a central aisle. There was a faint light at its very end. Bondurant presumed it was the entryway, picked up speed, and urged on both Parenti and the dog along the way. When he reached the front entryway alone, he turned to look behind him and could make out the faint silhouette of a tall, lanky figure gaining ground on Parenti and the dog, now only fifty feet behind them.
“Gobbo!” the figure yelled out. “You’ll burn in hell for this!”
Parenti, completely out of breath, struggled to make the last few steps to the door. Their pursuer, now only ten feet behind, stumbled slightly, dove for the little priest, and slid to a stop just feet away. His fall gave Parenti a chance to catch up to Bondurant, who had made it to the bottom of the first long flight of marble steps below the library landing. When the pursuer recovered and emerged into the light of the foyer, he stood atop the landing above them, his chest heaving from exhaustion. He glowered at the intruders.
“Not another step,” Barsanti said. “I’ll have the guards on you before you know it.”
Bondurant, having gotten this far, was certain he could escape in a footrace, but hadn’t a clue how to find his way out of the labyrinth that had brought them through the dozens of passages and doorways below. He was determined to snatch up Parenti and carry him as his guide to escape. But Parenti, scared for his life, was the first to ignore Barsanti’s command. He made a dash toward the second flight of steps.
Outraged, the wraithlike figure leapt forward. Gaining ground on them with his long legs, he bound down the steps with apparent ease. But what he hadn’t noticed when he planted his right foot to make a giant leap down the stairwell was the little dog by his ankle. Aldo sank his tiny but razor-sharp teeth deep into his skin. Barsanti yanked his foot away mid-leap and lost his balance when he landed hard on the opposing foot. His ankle broke instantly with a loud snap as he collapsed on the stairway. From there, he thumped his way down the remainder of the marble steps on his back. There were exactly twenty, by Parenti’s count. He watched the back of Barsanti’s balding head greeting each and every one. Barsanti lay unconscious at the foot of the stairs, his neck likely broken in the fall.
Bondurant, with Parenti behind him, bolted down five more flights of stairs and stopped briefly at the bottom to listen for signs of other pursuers. Hearing no one, they stopped for a moment to catch their breath.
“Whoever that was, he must be dead,” Bondurant whispered as he looked up the stairwell. “Did you see his head hit that landing?”
“He’s Barsanti, the prefect,” Parenti said. “Don’t worry about him. The devil himself couldn’t kill him.”
“Prefect or not,” Bondurant said. “Once we clear the Vatican walls, we’ll call one-one-two for the police.” He continued, “How about this relic? The one you said bears the true blood of Christ. What is it? Where is it? There are hundreds all over the world that are certain fakes.”
“According to what I could tell from this book, you will find it in Bruges,” Parenti said.
“Bruges? In Belgium?”
“Yes, in the Basilica of the Holy Blood. Do you know it?”
“Of course. Of course. The legend is well known. Joseph of Arimathea wipes the body of Christ after the Crucifixion. The bloodstained cloth is placed in a vial that has never been opened. It lies in the Chapel of Blood, where it’s been for a thousand years. There’s just one problem, Father.”
“What is that?”
“You said ‘steal it.’ It can’t be stolen. It’s kept in a locked tabernacle of the Church under constant watch. It is one of the most guarded relics in Christianity.”
“All true. But you are forgetting something.”
“And what is that?”
“Once a year, in early spring, it is removed from that tabernacle and paraded by the Bishop of Bruges through the streets of that fair city. It is the Procession of the Holy Blood. It is really quite a colorful affair; one I have always longed to see. There are costumes and actors, revelry and confusion. No setting could be more perfect in which to steal the vial as it goes on parade.”
“It’s a huge long shot,” Bondurant said. “If I remember, the Procession takes place—”
“Tomorrow, Doctor. We make haste for Bruges tonight.”
CHAPTER 44
Mumbai, India
March 2015
Sehgal slammed his fist onto the heavy metal lab table so hard it toppled the centrifuge at the other end. He was angry enough with Laurent to kill him. At the same time, he was so despondent over what had happened the previous day that he was ready to kill himself.
“This did not have to happen, Laurent!” he shouted. “That boy was a son to me. I took him off the streets. I raised him. He was a good boy, my boy. And then, just like that, gone? In an instant? And that poor girl as well? You and Meyer will burn in hell for this. We will all burn in hell for this. And we should.”
Crestfallen over the death of Kishan and his young companion, Sehgal was numb from head to toe. His legs had grown so weak that they’d been buckling underneath him since he heard the miserable news the night before. He hadn’t slept. It was as if the once-radiant life force that was Kishan had been ripped from him, leaving him with nothing left inside.
“Ravi, it was Meyer’s idea, but we are n
ot at fault for this. It was an accident, and you know it,” Laurent said.
Sehgal’s hands began to tremble. He knew no amount of explaining would relieve the nausea he felt or bring the body he had just identified in the morgue back to life.
“We only meant to counsel him, you know, scare him a little to shut him up,” Laurent said.
Sehgal could tell Laurent was still trying to convince himself that what he’d said was true.
Laurent tried again. “Who could have known he would flee from us like such a fool?”
Sehgal reached for a pair of scissors to cut tape for the boxes they were packing. For a moment, he imagined plunging them directly into Laurent’s heart, twisting them slowly. And once he found Meyer, he would be next. But he also knew the pain was his body telling him something: that he was as much to blame as they were. Looking back, he wished he could eat every regrettable word he had hurled at Kishan when he last saw him on the rooftop several months before.
“Say what you want, Laurent. I count myself guilty in this. We have killed two young innocents, and believe me, for that you burn in hell.”
“Were we supposed to let him wander around with what he knew? We were not supposed to pursue him?”
“You could have left him alone.”
“After we heard him crying out to Bondurant for help?” Laurent said. “And he sent him the documents. Who knows who else he told?”
Sehgal said nothing.
“It’s terrible, I know,” Laurent said. “I lost a son to an accident as well. But your boy had to be stopped before he brought the entire project to a halt. We are just a few weeks from glory. You said that yourself.”
Laurent turned his attention to the scale he had packed into the large wooden crate. The lab they had set up in the warehouse eight months earlier was no longer needed. It required only another hour of dismantling before their work was complete.
The Shroud Conspiracy Page 30
