“Tell me this,” Bondurant said. “Tell me you and Laurent hit a wall trying to do this. I stopped the thug you sent in Turin who was after more of the blood. Tell me you didn’t have enough. Tell me I’m not too late.”
Sehgal clenched his teeth from the pain that streaked through his leg as he tried to move it, but then he managed to break into a glorious smile.
“It’s done, Jon. It’s done,” he exalted. “It turned out I had all the blood I needed from the sample I took with me. It’s just a matter of hours before the Christ child arrives. I was on my way to the birth. That’s where I was headed before you jumped me.”
Sehgal watched Bondurant grimace at the news and close his eyes.
“One lie brings another, Ravi,” Bondurant said as he rubbed his shoulder. “Maybe you were able to reconstitute the DNA from the blood you had. That’s what you do. But Laurent? He’s—”
“You’re right, he’s no genius,” Sehgal interrupted. “But he didn’t have to be. It turns out it’s just about numbers. Big numbers. The DNA, a batch of stem cells to get it going, a lot of enucleated eggs, and a lot of tries. And these Demanians, God bless them, were happy to oblige with the virgins and the eggs. I’m convinced they’re led by the devil, but they have done the world a divine service.”
“And this miracle child is to be born where? Where’s the manger?” Bondurant asked.
“Not far from here. In a convent close by,” Sehgal said as he tried to get up and hobble on one leg. It was no use, and he sat back down, unable to take the pain. “I can take you there if you will help me out of here. Obviously I am not going to make it out by myself.” He had no intention of leading Bondurant to the birth, but he would promise anything to avoid dying in a canyon alone.
“And the mother?” Bondurant said with suspicion. “Who won the role of the Virgin Mary?” he said. The sarcasm in his voice grew thick.
Sehgal shifted uncomfortably against the log and avoided Bondurant’s gaze. He could tell from the question that Bondurant had probably put the pieces together. There was a long silence as he considered how to respond. He reached deliberately into his jacket pocket for the object inside, ready to produce it if necessary.
“The mother?” Bondurant asked again.
Sehgal remained defiantly silent and refused to respond. He knew she had never fully consummated her relationship with Jon, as she believed. The evidence was there during the in vitro procedure. He turned away from Bondurant altogether.
“Ravi,” Bondurant said. “If you want out of this canyon, then—”
Bondurant stopped midsentence, and a pall fell slowly over his face. Sehgal had extracted his gleaming pistol and was pointing it directly at him.
“I originally bought this for protection, wondering if I’d need it,” Sehgal said. “Today I just might.”
“Protection from what?” Bondurant said.
“From the likes of you, were you to find out,” Sehgal said. He paused to gather his courage for what he would say next. “The first thing I want you to know is that she is fine.”
“Who? The mother?”
“Yes, the mother.” He gripped the pistol. “Domenika.”
Anticipating that Bondurant’s rage might give him the strength to charge, Sehgal placed his finger on the trigger, stretched both arms outward, and aimed the gun directly at Bondurant’s chest. He didn’t want to miss. But there was no need. Bondurant slumped against the rock behind him and stared blankly forward. A look of disappointment spread across his face.
“You’re telling me Domenika is the mother. Is that what I heard?” Bondurant asked, expecting confirmation of the worst.
“You know her, Jon. Can you imagine finding someone more devout? She was perfect in every way. She knew it.”
“She volunteered for this?” Bondurant asked. “She’s been part of this all along?”
“Yes, of course,” Sehgal said. “We tried dozens of virgins before her. None of them conceived.”
Bondurant looked stricken.
“I have spent almost a year worried sick and combing the world for her. And she’s been hiding here with you?” he yelled. “For what? To play the mother of God?” Bondurant began to tremble visibly at the reality of the notion that once had been only a wild suspicion. “Who else is in on this?”
“Jon, you have to understand. We needed a virgin. But also a truly devout one. You see—”
“No, you don’t understand, Ravi. You, Meyer, Laurent, Domenika. You’re all insane. Just insane. Did you ever stop to think that there is no proof the DNA you’ve resurrected is from the blood of Jesus Christ?”
Sehgal let out a sickening laugh. “Oh, I see, Jon. Now you are going to tell me it’s from the blood of a goat. And we are back to where we started.”
“No, Ravi, you fool,” Bondurant said as he shook his head. “I am telling you there were at least two sources of blood on that Shroud. And that your miracle child, whoever it may be, stems from only one.”
The claim was preposterous, but it shook Sehgal. He grew quiet and pointed the barrel of the gun squarely at Bondurant’s head.
“Now you are the liar, Jon,” he said, angry enough to fire.
“I wish I were, Ravi. The other blood sample, the one I held back from you for O’Neil. You remember that one, don’t you?”
“Yes. It was for his tests. But he’s long destroyed it by now for carbon dating.”
“Not exactly.”
“What do you mean, ‘not exactly’?”
“I mean he can lie as well as you. It turns out he never needed it. He just didn’t trust you. He used it to run DNA tests of his own later on. And, Ravi,” Bondurant said as he stared intently at the gun barrel pointed directly at his face, “if these are my last words, they are ones you can believe. I have the DNA profile from your sample, and—”
“I know that,” Sehgal said. He winced as an image of Kishan’s broken body lying in the morgue came to mind.
“And I have O’Neil’s.”
“Yes?”
“And there is not a match. Did you hear me? Not a match. You won the Nobel. I know you’re smart enough to understand what that means, Ravi.”
Sehgal’s face began to contort slightly from confusion. He lowered the gun to his side. The moment he did, Bondurant’s cell phone vibrated twice, signaling a text had arrived. Bondurant pulled the phone from his pocket and stared down at the message. He shook his head slowly and tossed the phone to Sehgal to read it for himself:
JON: TESTS CONCLUDED. PERFECT MATCH. OUR SAMPLE IDENTICAL TO WHAT YOU’VE “BORROWED” FROM BRUGES. CONGRATULATIONS. YOU ARE THE PROUD OWNER OF THE TRUE BLOOD OF JESUS CHRIST. RAVI IS PLAYING WITH FIRE. FATHER, FORGIVE HIM, HE KNOWS NOT WHAT HE CLONES.
Sehgal read the message several times. A feeling of dread crept over him. Soon he was paralyzed with fear.
“What did you ‘borrow’ in Bruges, Jon?” Sehgal asked.
“It’s a long story, Ravi. But when one of the world’s biggest religious skeptics—that’s me—tells you he’s held the blood of someone known as Jesus Christ, then believe me, he’s held the blood of Jesus Christ. And Ravi, now we know that you have not.”
“Jon, I don’t know what to say,” was all the despondent Sehgal could choke out.
The two of them sat quietly as Sehgal was left to the horror of his private thoughts and what he’d done. After a while, he began to shudder. He’d made a terrible mistake.
“Ravi, where is Domenika?” Bondurant demanded. “Exactly where is she giving birth?”
“Domenika? She’s very close,” he responded, distracted. His voice began to trail off from despair. He had no doubt that once the child was born, she’d be considered useless. Worse, she would know too much, just like the Sisters of Mercy in the convent, who would be disposed of. “Knowing Meyer, she’s in real danger. I’m sure it’s the child he wants, not her.”
“Okay, then. No more lies, Ravi. No more secrets. What have you done with her?” Bondurant demanded.
Sehgal’s guilt was overwhelming. For the lies he’d told. For the death of his son. For what he’d done to Domenika and the danger she now faced. And, finally, for the fate of the unknown soul of the Shroud about to be reborn.
“She’s at the convent of the Sisters of Mercy, only a mile from here.”
Sehgal paused for a long time. He couldn’t look up. He was completely overcome with shame and guilt.
“She’s innocent, Jon. We coaxed her here. We tricked her. We drugged her.” Sehgal began to weep. “God forgive me, we raped her by in vitro. From the start, she’s believed the child was her own by another man. We let her believe it all along.” Sehgal covered his eyes with his hand.
Bondurant got to his feet and stood as motionless as a statue before Sehgal. “There’s a place in hell for you. You know that, don’t you, Ravi?” Bondurant said.
Sehgal opened his mouth to answer, but he was speechless. Bondurant watched as Sehgal struggled to respond several times but couldn’t, as if the breeze that had begun to blow through the canyon had stolen his words away. Then suddenly, Bondurant watched as Sehgal sat upright and raised the gun again. In one quick motion, he inserted the barrel in his mouth, leaned his head back, and pulled the trigger. A single, loud shot rang out and killed him instantly.
CHAPTER 47
Outside Mumbai
March 2015
Bondurant peered from behind the tall hedge at the rear of the convent in the faint light of dusk, waiting impatiently for the dark of night to fall.
He’d stolen Sehgal’s car from his driveway and parked it a hundred yards down the dirt service road, just out of sight of the sanctuary. Only darkness would give him the cover necessary to cross the thirty yards that separated him from the two-story structure where he hoped he’d find Domenika alive. A small motorcade of dark Mercedes 4x4s were parked bumper to bumper next to the convent, and just behind them was a pickup truck, last in line.
A wave of nausea had nearly overcome Bondurant as he crouched behind the hedge to look out. From his vantage point, he counted five black body bags zippered shut and stacked like logs along the length of the truck. Two tall men hoisted a sixth bag over the open tailgate and into the bed of the pickup. The guards were dressed all in black and had automatic weapons slung over their shoulders.
Inside, the convent was almost totally dark except for one window on the ground floor where a light was on. Bondurant could make out the profiles of two men sitting opposite each other at a table. He couldn’t hear them but could see they were animated, as if in a heated argument. On the table between them, Bondurant could see a shotgun and what looked like a radio-sized box that one of the men continually adjusted. Standing guard beside the two men was another tall man who looked to be as well armed as the two who were loading bodies into the truck.
Bondurant knew that if he could make it into the convent undetected and find Domenika inside, only half his work would be done. Their chances of escape would increase dramatically if he could take a chase, whether by car or foot, out of the equation. He had to. He was alone, vastly outmatched and outgunned, and the body bags were a sure sign they were going to die if he failed. Armed with only the bloodstained handgun he’d pried from Sehgal’s fingers an hour earlier and a long carving knife he’d grabbed from Sehgal’s kitchen, Bondurant knew time was running out for him to make his move inside.
His plan was to sabotage the convoy in the driveway to prevent pursuit should he get away with Domenika alive. The motorcade was parked between a tall driveway wall and the convent. The line of cars could be rendered useless if he could somehow disable the lead car. He made his way on his hands and knees through thick brush along the hedgerow and ducked behind the wall that ran the length of the convent’s driveway. He crawled along its length to the point where the lead car was and slowly raised his head to look over the wall. The guards he’d been watching before had moved back inside, and the driveway was deserted. If he could move quickly enough, it would be only a matter of getting under the hood of the lead car. Once there, he could reach the engine’s critical distributor wire and disable it by slicing it in two.
He climbed over the wall and hoped he’d find the car unlocked. He knew the latch for the hood could be reached only from the inside. He slowly pulled the handle of the driver’s side door and breathed a sigh of relief when it popped open.
As he swung the door halfway open and leaned in toward the floorboard to find the hood latch, his heart nearly stopped. He heard breathing. A major problem sat in the passenger seat a foot away. Another guard, a huge man with a set of double chins that seemed to form a pillow on his chest, was sound asleep beside him.
Bondurant knew there was no turning back. He slowly slipped the kitchen knife from his jacket pocket and held it firmly in his right hand. He positioned the tip of the knife blade only a few inches from the guard’s throat, and with his left hand reached down to feel for the hood latch he sought. If the sound of the lever popping were to wake the guard, he was ready to drive the long steel blade through the man’s trachea before he could let out a scream. Bondurant paused for a moment to look at the guard’s eyes, still completely closed. Then he pulled on the latch as slowly as he could, hoping to dampen its sound. As he did, a pop that sprang the hood open echoed through the interior of the car. To Bondurant the sound seemed like a clap of thunder, loud enough to wake the guard as well as the neighbors next door. Bondurant had no choice. He quickly turned and placed both his hands on the knife handle, aimed the knife at the guard’s throat, and prepared to plunge the blade as deep as he could.
The guard stirred, turned slowly on his side toward Bondurant, and started to open his eyes. Bondurant reared back and prepared to thrust every ounce of his body weight behind the knife and into the guard’s gullet. He thought the blade would be just barely long enough to pin the man’s massive head to the leather headrest behind him. But just as quickly as the guard’s eyes had blinked momentarily open, they closed again. Bondurant held his breath for what seemed an eternity and waited for the guard to wake once more. The next sound Bondurant heard from the man was a welcome one—the beginning of a low, guttural snore.
Bondurant’s heart was racing. He quietly slid from the front seat of the car out the driver’s side door, leaving it slightly ajar, and worked his way to the front of the car. He delicately lifted the hood halfway open and strained his eyes to find the motor’s distributor in the dark. It was no use. The engine compartment was shrouded in darkness, and, without a source of light, he hadn’t a clue where the essential wire was. He quickly reached inside the compartment and frantically sliced as many wires as he could find, hoping to cut something vital enough to stop the car from starting. Then he turned, scrambled back over the wall, and retraced his steps toward the hedgerow where he’d begun.
Looking over, Bondurant could see a set of three lower-floor windows on the opposite end of the convent, one of them barely illuminated. The middle window was brightly lit and cast a small amount of light into each of the adjoining rooms. Now that he felt confident he’d likely disabled the convoy, he bolted from the hedgerow across the lawn and made his way to the wall with the dimly lit windows. As he looked in, he could see the light was from a bathroom in the middle with no one inside. Next door to it was a room lit by an object that glowed eerily in the dark. It radiated a faint orange hue. He knew what it was: an incubator with a tiny infant inside. Wrapped tightly in a newborn’s blanket, the infant didn’t stir. Alongside the incubator were several monitoring devices blinking on a rack, and in the corner of the room, Bondurant caught the outline of someone in the dark who sat in a rocking chair pointed toward the incubator. Bondurant leaned in more closely and realized he’d found another guard asleep on the job. This guard too seemed as wide as a wall. Bondurant pressed his hands against the brick and moved slowly away from the window to ensure he was out of sight. Then he gazed once more at the peaceful child, sure that he stared at the newborn, identity unknown, but remarkably
cloned from the Shroud.
He had no time to waste. If Domenika was still alive, he knew she’d be very near. He quietly slid toward the window of the room on the other side of the bathroom and fixed his eyes on the dark space inside. There was just a trace amount of light, and as his eyes further adjusted to the dark, Bondurant could see the faint outline of a bed next to a large bay window on the opposite wall. A body lay on top of the bed. He couldn’t tell if it was dead or alive.
He squinted and searched the window frame and glass for any sign of wires or magnets tied to an alarm. He saw none, and tried to pry the window open. It wouldn’t budge. It was locked. But the window was old, and he could see the brass hook on the center of the sill needed only a nudge to pull it from its ringlet fastener. He inserted his knife blade between the sill and the frame and craned his neck so he could guide the tip of the blade against the hook. He turned the blade into position, and with a slight twist on the handle, the hook broke free.
He slid open the tall window and slowly stepped one leg through the opening. Then he straddled the sill and twisted the rest of his body into the room. He stood as still as a statue in the dark for almost a minute so his eyes could adjust to the light. He listened for the sound of anyone who might have detected him. He heard nothing. He walked over to the door and pushed the button on the knob to lock it. Beside the door was a heavy chair, one he quietly propped against the doorknob. Then he made his way across the room to the bed.
A woman was lying motionless, facedown. He was not sure yet whether it was Domenika. Bondurant grabbed a pillow from the bed and held it in his right hand. Whether it was Domenika or not, there was going to be a commotion if the woman was alive, and he needed to smother the sound. He reached down and gently grasped the woman’s shoulder to turn her. As she turned over and he caught a glimpse of her face in the dark, he knew instantly it was Domenika. As she began to stir, he instinctively leaned in to kiss her.
Her eyes grew large, and she started to scream. Bondurant jammed the corner of the pillow into her mouth and smothered what little sound she could make.
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