The Shroud Key Read online

  Anya steps up on the landing beside me, and I can’t help but notice Checco’s eyes go wide. He takes her hand and, like David Niven would in some 1940’s Hollywood production, kisses it.

  “Enchanted,” he says in his perfect but accented King’s English.

  Anya returns her smile, slowly lowers her hand.

  “A real gentleman,” she says, her eyes on me. “You might take a lesson from Checco, Ren Man.”

  I slap the Italian on the arm.

  “Thanks for making me look bad.”

  “Nothing to it,” Checco laughs. “You do a very good job of it on your own.”

  “We don’t have a whole lot of time,” I say, cutting to the chase.

  “What is it precisely you need?” Checco asks.

  “I’ll tell you when we get inside. Preferably, over a couple of drinks.”

  “You both look like you could use more than a couple drinks,” he says.

  A half hour and two glasses of Chianti later, I’ve explained everything I know to Checco. I’ve told him about the missing professor and how Detective Cipriani personally handed me the case after threatening me with deportation. I also told him how Anya, Manion’s estranged wife, showed up at my door a few hours ago and how we haven’t had a moment of peace since, including a soldier of the Vatican making an attempt on our lives. I told him everything.

  “Don’t worry about your dog,” Checco says, coming around to his desk inside the fifth floor guest house office. “I promise you we will find her and bring her back here. But before all else, we need to get that man out of your apartment before Detective Cipriani’s officers in blue get to snooping.”

  “That is if his own people haven’t already done it for him. Assuming he isn’t working solo, that is.”

  “Very true,” he says, logging onto his laptop computer. “Unfortunately it would not be a very good idea for you to head back there and make a check on the place. Too dangerous. I’ll send one of my own men.”

  “Second thing?” I pose.

  He smiles. “The Shroud,” he says, as if reading my mind. “You want to get an up-front-and-personal visit with one of the most protected sacred relics in the Roman Catholic canon.”

  “Can it be done?”

  Checco sits back in his swivel chair, cathedrals his fingers at the knuckles, rests them in his lap.

  “It’s possible,” he nods. Then, smiling, “Do you recall my old girlfriend, Natalia?”

  “From Moscow,” I say, picturing a tall, beautifully built long-haired blond woman of about thirty. “How could I forget her?”

  “Boys,” Anya whispers, crossing her arms over her chest.

  “She is a curator for the shroud,” he says. “I will call her. See what I can arrange. But no promises.” He stands. “In the meantime, you need a place to rest and I need to gather up some transport tickets for you. Train and air. I’ll need both your passports.”

  We hand them to him. He pulls a key from the drawer, comes around his desk.

  “I only have one room available,” he says, not without a grin. “I’m sorry.”

  “Suits me,” I say, tossing him a wink.

  “Spare me, Chase,” Anya says. “You wouldn’t know where to begin with me even if you had the chance.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Slipping off my bomber, I decide to leave my shoulder holster strapped to my chest. You never know what might come through the door when you least expect it. The prize at the end of this journey isn’t cash. It isn’t jewels. It isn’t some ancient pottery dug up in and around the Giza pyramids. The prize is nothing other than Jesus of Nazareth whom some call God. God is within my grasp.

  Startling thing is, I may be closer to the Jesus remains than even Andre, that is my intuition…my gut…is serving me well. All that stands between the bones and my hands, is the Shroud of Turin. Getting at the professor and getting him safely back will come too. But not before I’m certain of where the bones are hidden.

  I pour myself another glass of wine, put my feet up on the bed. I lie back against the propped up pillow while Anya heads into the bathroom, starts the shower, gets undressed. I try not to think too hard about her getting naked. Best to keep it professional. At least for the time being.

  Coming from outside the open window are the sounds and smells of this busy Tuscan city. People walking in both directions, the hard soles on their boots making a distinctive slap against cobbles that were laid hundreds of years before they were born and that will still be here hundreds of years after their death. After their children’s children’s deaths.

  I sip the wine, feel the alcohol’s calming effect. Then, pulling my smartphone from my pocket, I dial Detective Cipriani. He answers after two rings. I offer him a short update, minus the part about my plan to get my hands on the Jesus remains, if they do indeed exist, as soon as the job of finding Manion is finished.

  “And you are safe for now?” he asks, in his raspy, but low-toned voice.

  “I can only assume.”

  “Soon you will find Dr. Manion and you will be able to go home.”

  “I just want to see my daughter and not get arrested at the gate when I land in New York.”

  “Keep on doing the right thing, Chase, and you will see her very soon.”

  “You think so, huh, Cip? Appreciate you not pulling the plug on my resident status.”

  He laughs.

  “I’ve never known you to be so polite, Chase. But thank you for trying. I’m certain you are not very pleased with me at present. But one hand washes the other, as they say, and right now, both our hands are dirty. Call me as soon as something new develops.”

  He hangs up at the same time the sound of running water coming from the shower stops. Sitting back on the bed, I know that Cip’s use of the adjective “dirty” isn’t indiscriminate. If he knows anything about the Jesus bones then I can only assume it’s possible he wants something out of them too. In fact, perhaps it’s even possible that he’s not overly concerned about Manion, so much as he’s interested in what prize Manion is after. Being a cop in Italy, where the prime minister openly carries on affairs with child prostitutes, is not the straightforward business it can be in the states. Chip might be a good cop, but he can also recognize an opportunity to make some good side cash when he sees it. I should know. I’ve gone after several would-be criminals on his behalf who weren’t wanted for any crime in particular, other than they owed him money. The bones of Jesus … should they happen to fall into his hands … would most definitely constitute the chance to make some excellent side cash. Millions upon millions of dollars or Euros of side cash.

  A couple of minutes later, Anya emerges from the bathroom. She’s wearing only a white towel that barely covers her breasts and the top couple of inches of her smooth, milky thighs. Her brown hair is wet but neatly slicked back, her brown eyes wet, her lips thick and inviting. She pours herself a glass of wine, issues me a slight sideways glance as she goes to the window, opens the shutters wide, allowing the air to cool and dry her at the same time.

  “What are you looking at, Ren Man?” she says while stealing a slow drink of wine.

  I sit up, slide off the bed. Stepping up beside her, so close I can smell the heat coming off her naked skin, I take hold of her glass, set it down onto the window ledge. I take her in my arms, gently. She pretends to struggle, but not enough to tell me to back off.

  “If you’re trying to figure out a way to say thank you,” I say, “it’s okay. You don’t have to.”

  She issues a quick laugh.

  “Remember,” she says, “you’re being paid … Paid well. You’re doing me no favors.”

  Our eyes lock and I feel drawn into her. I sense she’s feeling drawn into me also. With the window open, I can feel the cool air on my neck. I know she can feel it on her exposed shoulders. Moving in closer, I feel my mouth gravitating to hers and hers to mine. Our lips touch …

  … Then Checco barrels into the room.

  “No time for
love, Chase,” he barks. “Time is wasting. If you want to see the shroud you have to leave now.”

  Anya quickly pulls away from me, as if we’re back in junior high school and her parents have just arrived home unannounced.

  Checco smiles, his brown eyes bright and shiny.

  “Am I interrupting something? Perhaps I should leave.”

  “No, Checco,” Anya says, making the towel more tight and secure around her torso. “Chase and I were just enjoying the view outside the window … Isn’t that right, Chase?”

  “Couldn’t have said it better,” I exhale. “Just enjoying the view.” Then, “What do you have for us, Checco?”

  He reaches into his jacket pocket, produces a stack of tickets, our passports and also a new smartphone for Anya.

  “Natalia and I have discussed the situation,” he says. “She will grant you access to the shroud. But you must come immediately.”

  “How soon is immediately?” I say.

  “Now.” Looking at his watch. “The five-ten train to Milan and from there, you connect to Turin. Natalia will see you tonight at seven thirty outside the sacristy doors of St. John the Baptiste. You will be travelling together. But with an assumed identity.” He disappears into his office down the hall. When he comes back he’s holding a box in his hands. “The sizes might not be perfect, but they will have to do on such short notice.”

  He sets the box on the bed. I go to it, open it, lift out the first article of clothing.

  A navy blue nun’s veil.

  I toss it to Anya.

  “That is going to look damn good on you, Sister,” I say.

  “And this will look heavenly on you, Chase,” Checco says, pulling something else out of the box.

  It’s a priest’s collar.

  “You have a plan to go with these getups, Checco?”

  “Allow me to refresh your wine,” he says, heading back out of the room, “and I will confess everything to you.”

  “Good choice of words,” Anya adds.

  “Get dressed, Sister,” I say. “I’m having unholy thoughts.”

  “The shower’s right in there,” she says, cocking her head towards the bathroom.

  “The cold water will do you wonders, padre.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  For the time being, I’ve become a priest and my present employer, Anya Manion, has become a nun.

  Dressed in black pants, matching jacket over a black shirt and stiff white collar, I am travelling under the assumed name of Father John Crews. Anya is playing the part of Sister Rosaire de Marie, and the navy blue nun habit she dons proves it. We are two ecumenical scholars studying the shroud and its history. Together we believe the fourteen foot length of cotton fabric is not a medieval fake, but the true two thousand year old burial robe of Christ. That is, according to the documentation provided to us by Checco. The forged documentation signed and sealed by the Vatican and presently stored in my shoulder bag, along with fake passports, grants a private one hour viewing of the shroud, even though the sacred relic is presently unavailable for viewing by the public for at least another three years.

  Now seated on the high-speed train, the Tuscan countryside speeding past, bathed in the orange glow of the spring dusk, I open the shoulder bag, pull out the shroud photos and the Egypt map I found in Manion’s office. The first photo reveals the full shroud. The photo is really a negative image of the body imprinted on the cloth so that the crucified Jesus appears in white, superimposed over a black background. I place the photo on top of the map and turn it upside down, then sideways, then right side up.

  “What are you looking for?” Anya asks.

  “We both know that Andre believes there is information on the shroud that will lead us to the exact place where the bones are buried.”

  “A map,” she says. “Or a diagram. Or a series of diagrams.”

  “Well, that’s my guess. A map. But what if what we’re looking for is something else entirely?”

  “I’m not understanding you.”

  “What if the guide we’re looking for is not a map or a diagram at all, but some kind of code, or series of words, or some other kind of image that’s been inked into the thing?”

  “What’s your point?”

  I take a quick glance out the window, onto the sun which is setting beyond the green, vineyard-covered hills.

  “I guess my point is this: What if the answer to the location of Jesus’s bones is right before me, and I can’t recognize it?”

  She sets her hand on top of mine.

  “Don’t doubt yourself so much. Let’s just do the best we can, and see what we can see. If Andre couldn’t find what he was looking for in a photo then chances are, neither will we. We have a unique opportunity to see the shroud up close and personal. Something my husband would have given his left nut for.”

  “Thank you for your confidence, Sister,” I say, allowing her hand to slip into mine and squeezing it. But that’s when it dawns on me. “You,” I say, turning to gaze into her eyes. “You know what to look for don’t you?”

  She smiles.

  “Maybe I do, Father,” she says. “Maybe I don’t. Let’s just put it this way. I’ll know it when I see it.” Then, shifting herself so that she can point to the first, full-length photo of the shroud. “For instance, Chase, do you see this symbol written here in my husband’s famous red Sharpie?”

  Following the tip of her index finger she points to a non-descript triangle that’s been more or less scribbled onto the photo. Only it’s not a true triangle since there’s no bottom to it. More like a bi-angle or, if you will, a flat, one-dimensional pyramid. Inscribed in the center of the bottomless triangle or pyramid, is a small circle. In fact, the more I stare at the photographs … the more I scan through them … the more I can see that Dr. Manion has scribbled dozens of these images on them in various or even strategic places.

  “That triangle with the circle inside it,” I say. “Is it a symbol?”

  “You see on the shroud how many triangles and pyramid shapes exist. There are many of them. But there are also, three key triangles. The first where Jesus’s crucified hands meet. The second where the crucified feet meet. The third is in the place where Longinus’s spear pierced him and he is said to have bled blood and water. All these areas are triangular or pyramidal in nature.”

  “And the circle represents the nail holes and the spear laceration.” It’s a question.

  “Perhaps,” she says. “But then look at the map of Egypt. Especially the Giza Plateau portion.”

  I slide the photos away and gaze down at the map. It’s then something goes “click” in my brain. I can see how the geographic position of the pyramids forms a very similar triangle. In fact, the wounds on Christ line up in nearly the same position and alignment as the pyramids in the Giza Plateau. It’s either a remarkable mystery how this miracle of positioning came to be or an even more remarkable coincidence. Even the Sphinx temple is laid out in the same position as the spear wound, the three tiny pyramids reserved for the wives of the Pharaohs representing the crown of thorns. Yet the pyramids were constructed thousands of years prior to Jesus’s crucifixion.

  Once more, I feel the fine hairs on the back of my neck rise up.

  So Manion was right all the time. The bones of Christ must presently be buried inside the Giza Plateau. We were closer than we thought eight years ago. But at the same time so very far away. After all, the Giza plateau is a massive place. There are literally hundreds or even thousands of chambers, tunnels, passageways, and vaults that have yet to be unearthed.

  “It’s quite the theory isn’t it?” Anya goes on. “It’s one that Andre was even banking on. But, he needed to see the Shroud for himself to know if it was true. He was convinced that not only would there be symbols giving him clues to where the bones are buried, but an actual map or blueprint made by the men and women of the 1978 Shroud inquiry, which is hopefully what we’re going to find. A blueprint that would be far too small or too well
concealed to show up on the average photo you can pull off of Google or Picassa.”

  I find myself tracing the triangular position of the pyramids and then tracing the triangular position of Christ’s hands and ankles in the shroud image. Relatively speaking, they are nearly identical in position. Geometrically speaking, that is.

  “Remarkable for certain,” I say. “But it could all just be an amazing coincidence.”

  “All I can say is maybe,” Anya admits. “But keep in mind that thirty-four years ago the Vatican allowed the first modern scientific examination of the shroud to occur, after centuries of stiff resistance. They even allowed samples of the shroud to be removed for the purposes of carbon dating. Don’t you see? They weren’t examining the shroud for authenticity. They were providing the cloth with yet the latest in the Jesus burial locations.” She inches closer to me, so that her chin is nearly resting on my black leather coat-covered shoulder. “But here’s where things get interesting, Chase,” she goes on. “At the very same time the shroud examination was happening in Italy, an excavation in Jerusalem was also taking place under the cover of darkness.”

  “Excavation,” I say. “Jerusalem…You’re losing me.”

  “Allow me to back up. In the late seventies, while foundation excavation was commencing for a new apartment complex being built in the territory between Jerusalem and Bethlehem, a tomb was unearthed. Construction immediately halted and archaeologists were called in to examine its contents. Inside the tomb were uncovered nine ossuaries. All of them purportedly belonging to the family of Jesus.”

  The high speed train speeds along the rails and the sky continues to grow darker, as if we were driving into the darkness and not the other way around. Anya’s words are indeed incredible, but they are not altogether shocking. Anyone having anything to do with archaeology … even an old sandhog like myself … has heard about the supposed Jesus tomb uncovered in the Holy Land many years ago. It’s just that no one ever took it seriously. No one except Manion, that is. After all, he himself uncovered what he claimed was the Joseph ossuary and bones, in Egypt of all places.