The Shroud Key Page 3

  “Who’s Manion?”

  “Oh, I forgot to tell you. Manion is our meal ticket home. He’s apparently gone missing in the desert. Probably outside Cairo where he’s working on digging up the bones of Jesus and who knows what else. I worked with him once before, until he ran out on the dig and me.”

  “Jesus …You mean the Jesus Died-On-The-Cross-For-Our-Sins Christ?”

  “The one and only. What’s important is that if I find Manion, I just might get a chance at digging up a few treasures of my own. Or perhaps even assisting in acquiring the very relic Manion is looking for. What a payday that would bring in my canine friend.”

  Lu coughs something up into her mouth, then swallows whatever it is.

  “Isn’t that stealing?” she asks.

  “No. Errr, yes. But not like stealing in the classical sense. If those unearthed relics are truly up for grabs then it’s first come, first serve. That’s the law of the desert and the law of tomb raiding. But I am a little confused about one thing: the Professor Manion I once knew would never think of selling out to a private collector. But from the looks of it, somebody’s financing his new dig and that somebody has enough money to not only lure him away from his teaching gig in Florence, but also to simply render himself legally missing.”

  “Sounds dangerous. Jesus is one important human.”

  “In human terms, perhaps the most important man who ever lived.”

  “Then it stands to reason that if this Manion guy is about to locate his mortal body, a lot of people are going to want to have at it. Maybe even be willing to kill for it. You still got a gun, Chase?”

  I drink some beer, pat my left rib cage upon which hangs my newly liberated 9 mm.

  “As always, Lu.”

  “Where you gonna start looking?”

  “Not sure. I need to speak to Manion’s estranged wife first since she’s the one financing the search. Word up is she’s in town already. So I guess you could say my search starts right here in Flo.”

  “Be careful, and remember, you’re talking to a dog here.”

  “Thanks Lu. I trust you won’t tell anyone about our conversations.”

  “That would be up to you since you’re the one making this shit up.”

  “Duly noted.”

  The last items contained in the package are several newspaper clippings.

  The first one is lifted from the New York Times and it’s dated February, 2002. It shows Manion standing before what I immediately recognize as an ossuary, which is nothing more than a square shaped box carved out of sandstone. It’s about the size of a banker’s box and the lid is gable-shaped. The headline on the piece reads, Bones of Jesus’s Stepfather Found?

  The article describes the controversial discovery of a box on the Israel side of the Sinai which supposedly contains the bones of Joseph, Jesus’s father and husband to the Virgin Mary. The article states that the ossuary has been carbon dated back to the early first century and contains both Aramaic and Latin text of the time. According to Manion, the inscription of the box reads, “Here lies the body of Joseph, father of Jesus and James, husband of Mary.” Naysayers however, say that the bones could belong to anyone since the names Joseph, Mary, James and even Jesus were very common in those days.

  “I guess the court is still out on that one,” I whisper to myself. “But then how many men actually had sons named Jesus and James while being married to a Mary, way back in first century Palestine? Couldn’t have been all that many.”

  I’m still contemplating the Joseph ossuary when my doorbell rings.

  Setting down the article, I slide off the stool, head out of the kitchen, through the dining room which also serves as my writing room. Past the library and its bookshelves, and relic-covered walls, past the living room and its high, wood-beamed ceiling and finally to the stone-covered vestibule.

  Unlocking the deadbolt, I open the wood door to a woman. A tall, very well built woman of maybe forty, with short light brown hair and deep blue eyes. She’s wearing a black turtleneck sweater, black jeans and black, lace-up boots. She’s also wearing a matching leather jacket. Strapped over her shoulder is a bag, also made of leather, and perhaps purchased in the Florence leather markets. The kind of bag I might store a manuscript in.

  “Mr. Chase Baker?” she says, her eyes wide, her bottom lip trembling just slightly. “I hope I’m not intruding.”

  I have to force myself to peel my eyes off of her. But me, being me, it isn’t easy.

  “Can I help you with something, lady? I’m working.”

  Lu scrambles up beside me, pressing her muscular body against my shin. She growls which catches me a bit by surprise. Lu usually loves people. Even strangers.

  “It’s okay, Lu,” I say.

  The woman catches sight of the pit bull, takes a tentative step back. She tries working up a smile. But it’s obvious the dog is making her uncomfortable. Or maybe it’s me who’s making her nervous.

  She says, “I thought Detective Cipriani would have told you I was coming?”

  I shake my head.

  “Must have slipped his mind. Who are you and what are you doing on my doorstep?”

  “Do you always act this tough?”

  “Only around beautiful women who come calling unannounced.”

  “Maybe I should introduce myself,” she says, reaching out and gently touching my arm. “I’m Mrs. Andre Manion. It’s my husband who’s gone missing.”

  I stare down at her hand.

  “Your husband?”

  “Correction,” she exhales, gently retreating her hand. “Ex-husband.”

  “So I hear,” I say, still playing it cool despite her luscious eyes. “And what would you like me to do about it?”

  “I want you to find him.”

  “And then what?”

  “Bring him back alive,” she says.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  She enters into the apartment, her shoulder brushing against mine as she walks past. Setting her bag on the couch, she gives the place the once over.

  “Looks like a museum,” she laughs. Then, turning to me, “If you’re making coffee, I’d love some.”

  “Is that an order?” I say, playing hard to get. “Because if it is, I haven’t agreed to taking on this job. Looks dangerous enough for me to lose my skin. And I like my skin. It fits nice.”

  By all appearances she has no idea about my history with her husband, and that’s the way I want to keep it, at least for the moment. If she knows I went after the Jesus bones with him once before and he had cause to run out on me, no way in hell will she tolerate me getting a second chance to make a grab for them. She’ll just assume I’m some sort of opportunistic grave robber looking to make a quick buck. And the hell of it is, she’d be right.

  “That’s not your reputation, Mr. Chase Baker,” she says. “I’m told you are quite handy around an archaeology dig and even handier when it comes to finding a missing person. Both in real life and in your novels.”

  “You’ve read my books.” It’s a question.

  “All three of them. Deception was my favorite. I loved how the detective deciphered clues only by looking at their reflection in a special hand held mirror. Clever. Even your prose was passable. I teach English, you know.”

  “The mirror was the book’s hook, Ms. English Prof.”

  “Indeed and it’s a good one. It’s almost like you took it from real life.”

  “Maybe I did. But how do I know you’re not just trying to butter me up here?”

  She cocks her head, which admittedly, is a very pretty head, then bites down gently on her bottom lip.

  “I have no reason to compliment you on your work. If I want something from you, I will ask you directly.”

  “So why not just ask me politely to help you find your husband?”

  She smiles.

  “I already have, and so has the detective. I’ve just come to confirm the status of your employment.”

  The room falls silent on us, on the ma
ny books, on the many pieces of treasure I’ve accumulated over the years in Europe, the Middle East, South America and God knows where else. Skulls, amulets, statuettes, rocks, jars of ashes, and a mirror. A special mirror about the size of a credit card and almost as thin. A mirror that’s broken in half and that I dug up inside a deep pit outside the Third Pyramid within the Giza Plateau back when I was sandhogging for Manion … But that’s only for me to know.

  “Think I’ll make some coffee,” I say, heading into the kitchen.

  Pulling down the stove-top coffee pot from the shelf over the sink, I fill the bottom with tap water, and the coffee receptacle with Lavazza espresso. I light the gas stove, set the pot on the burner and wait for the magic to happen. When it does three minutes later, I pour the coffee into an espresso cup, grab hold of my already open beer, and carry them back out to the living room.

  I find her standing, facing my floor-to-ceiling shelves, gazing upon the books and relics.

  “You have quite the collection,” she says. “You remind me of the most interesting man in the world…a real Renaissance man.”

  “I’ve heard a lot of women call me a lot of things. But never that.” I hand her the coffee. Then, “So, Mrs. Manion, remind me of your given name again.”

  She turns to me, carefully sipping her coffee.

  “My first name,” she says. “It’s Anya.”

  “Anya and Andre,” I say. “How cute.”

  “We were a cute couple. Very much in love. A long, long time ago.”

  “Now you are divorcing. Or already divorced.”

  She nods, sadly.

  “My husband has been carrying on an affair for a long time, Mr. Chase—”

  “—Just Chase.”

  “Thank you, Renaissance man, Chase Baker … Anyway, my husband has been carrying on an affair that has become his obsession.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” I say, visions of the many women who have come through this door over the years, their husbands still waiting for them unawares back in their hotel room. “Seems like nothing is sacred when it comes to marriage these days.”

  She shakes her head vehemently.

  “You don’t understand,” she adds. “If my husband were to have an affair with another woman, that would be one thing. We might be able to work that out, and start over. But this one is different.”

  “I’m not following,” I say, taking a swig of beer.

  She sips her coffee, comes up for air.

  “My husband is not carrying on an affair with a woman.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” I say. “He’s switched teams.”

  “No,” she laughs. “I could deal easily enough with that too.”

  “Okay, Anya, let’s have it. Who is your missing husband seeing behind your back?”

  She finishes her coffee, sets the cup down onto the wood coffee table, straightens up, crossing her arms over her chest.

  “He’s carrying on an affair with Jesus,” she says. “And that’s why I’ve left him.”

  I finish my beer, go grab another one, take it back with me into the living room.

  “Let me get this straight,” I say. “You left your husband because he’s overly obsessed with finding the bones of Jesus. Yet here you are standing in my living room asking me to find him? Why not just let him go and get on with his obsession? Live your life? Teach your English classes?”

  Her face takes on a pained expression. Like the coffee I just served her is making her sick. She gently sits herself down onto the couch.

  “I didn’t say I don’t love Andre, Chase,” she says. “Love and care about him. All I said is that our marriage is over.”

  “But you still want me to find him for you?”

  “I’m worried about him. About his…let’s say health.”

  “Why not leave it to the police? To Interpol? Doesn’t make sense to pay me when they can do it for free.”

  Me, still playing hard to get. To perhaps up my price. Maybe considerably so.

  “No,” she says. “I would prefer to keep the police out of the loop as much as possible. Andre’s work is very sensitive.”

  “So are the people he’s working for, no doubt.”

  She stares at the wood plank floor.

  “Yes,” she says. “It’s possible that if the police were to become involved by making themselves plainly visible, grave harm could come to my husband.”

  “Better to hire me and put my head on the chopping block,” I say. “I don’t come cheap. Neither does my head.”

  She says nothing for a heavily weighted moment. Just as well. I use the time to drink a little more beer. It’s while drinking the beer that it hits me. Professor Manion didn’t just get up one morning, get dressed, head to the airport and fly away on his own. He had a little help in the matter.

  “Anya,” I say. “Is it possible your husband was kidnapped?”

  She looks at me hard. Not at me, but into me.

  “It’s not only possible, Renaissance Man,” she sighs. “It’s the sad truth.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  “I’m gonna come clean,” I say, straightening out the shoulder strap on my black, Tough Traveler writing satchel. “I know your husband. Or, used to know him. I worked as a sandhog for him eight years ago in the Giza Plateau.”

  “I had no idea,” she says, shooting me a look of suspicion. But I’m listening to my insides and they are telling me she could be putting on an act. “Why did you wait until now to tell me?”

  “I didn’t want you to think I’m some opportunist who wants to find your husband only to ultimately find the treasure he’s no doubt seeking.”

  She works up a grin that makes me want to press my lips against hers. But not yet.

  “Seems strange your not knowing about my past relationship with your husband,” I say recalling my conversation with Cipriani. “You just happen to call on the one man in all of Florence to try and find your husband and it turns out I’m very familiar with him.”

  “Stranger things have happened, Renaissance Man,” she says, brushing back her lush hair with her hands. “Do you still want the job?”

  “Give me the rest of the truth,” I say, shifting the weight of my satchel over my shoulder. “Straight, no bullshit.”

  The apartment has grown too cramped, too tense. What I want is for Anya to tell me everything about her husband … everything I don’t already know, that is … and do so over a drink at a nice quiet bar down the road in the less touristy Via Guelfa, American University area not far from where Manion was supposed to be teaching. It’s precisely why I’ve put Lu back outside on the terrace and locked up the apartment.

  Now walking side by side on the cobbled Via Guelfa, Anya goes on with her story: “My husband has been researching the remains of Jesus and his family for years. Most people, including scholars thought him crazy. Because even if the remains somehow exist, it’s likely they would never be found. The desert, even around the Giza plateau, is just too massive. Or perhaps they’ve already been found and now reside in a secret chamber in the Vatican. Or perhaps they have turned to dust like so many ancient bones. But then Andre found the Joseph remains, and the world took notice. So did the church. From there on in, the greater possibility that Christ’s bones could be found, took on a greater reality.”

  I’m aware of most of this. It was what attracted me to Andre in the first place in the early years of the new century. Not only his knowledge about the possible resting place of the Jesus remains, but his utter belief in their existence.

  Up ahead is the DaVinci Bar. The exposed brick building is mostly frequented by art students and professors drinking coffee and smoking cigarettes. It’s also quiet, dark and cavernous enough that we can talk in privacy while fading into the far shadows.

  We enter and take a table in back. Setting my satchel onto the table, I go to the bar, retrieve us both a glass of vino rosso a piece. I bring the wine back with me to the table, set it down and sit across from her.

 
“But I thought the Joseph bones were found to be frauds,” I say, continuing where we left off. “You telling me the Joseph bones were real?”

  “The Vatican did it’s best to debunk them,” she says. “And the media sided with the Pope. But Andre knew different. He knew he was on the trail of finding Jesus now that he had Joseph’s bones and evidence of a Jesus family crypt outside the Jerusalem walls. He was also gathering the attention of some pretty serious investors, which made him nervous, of course.”

  “Such as?”

  “One man in particular. A wealthy Egyptian from Cairo and a friend of their new, rather radical President.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “That’s just it. I don’t know his name because he never would tell me. Something about the less I knew the healthier it would be for the both of us. But I do know this: The wealthy man is an oil tycoon by trade and in the possession of infinite resources.”

  “Do you think it’s possible he is the one who kidnapped Andre?”

  She sips her wine. Nods.

  “You have to ask? The wealthy man is no doubt a part of the Muslim Brotherhood which worked so hard to push their party into absolute power after a revolution which promised freedom.”

  “I don’t get it,” I say. “Why would a Muslim be interested in Jesus?”

  “Power,” she says. “The ultimate act of crushing the Roman Catholic Church and tipping western belief onto its side.”

  I steal a sip of wine. I also take a look over my right shoulder at the small crowd gathered around the half dozen tables that fill the place. At one of the tables near the front entrance sits a solitary man. Not an unusual situation for this place. A dark-haired man, with a salt and pepper beard, black leather coat, reading glasses. He’s gazing at a newspaper. The Florentine. Florence’s English newspaper. Probably a professor, if I had to guess. No doubt from the same school where Andre was teaching before his abduction.

  I turn back to Anya.

  “I’m still not making the connection between the bones of Christ and the Muslim Brotherhood, other than their tremendous monetary value to the right investor.”

  She straightens herself up, runs her hand through her thick hair.