Julia Navarro - The Brotherhood Of The Holy Shroud

"You have a lot in common," Marco insisted. "Mary told us he loves art and archaeology, even finances excavations, sometimes goes on digs himself. And you, in case you didn't know, are also intelligent, educated, cultured, and gorgeous-right, Paola?"

"Well, of course. Mary even made a point of telling me that she'd never seen D'Alaqua as interested in a woman as he was in you tonight."

'All right, you two, let's drop it. The bottom line is that he told me in no uncertain terms that we'd crashed the party. Let's hope he doesn't lodge a protest with some government minister or president somewhere."

It was raining steadily, but a crackling fire enhanced the comfortable masculine luxury of the room, a library. Several paintings by Dutch masters revealed the sober taste of its owner. Settled on rich leather couches, the six men were deep in conversation.

They stood as the door opened and their elderly chief entered. One by one they stepped forward to embrace him. He motioned to them to resume their seats. "I'm sorry to be late, but it's hard to get anywhere in London at this hour. I couldn't get out of my bridge game with the duke and his friends and our brothers."

A soft tinkling sound at the door announced the butler, who entered to remove the tea service and offer the men drinks. When they were once again alone, the elderly man was the first to speak

'All right, then, let's have a review."

"Addaio has confined Zafarin, Rasit, and Dermisat to his estate outside Urfa. The penitence he's imposed on them is to last forty days, but my contact assures me that Addaio will not let it go at that, that he's preparing something further for them. As for sending a new team, he hasn't decided about that yet, but sooner or later he will send one. He's concerned about Mendib, the prisoner in jail in Turin. Apparently he's had a dream, one he can't shake, that Mendib will bring ruin to the community. Since then, he hardly eats, and he's not himself. My contact fears for his health and for what he might decide to do."

The man who had spoken was middle-aged, with a thick beard and skin tanned dark brown. He was well dressed, straight-backed, and spoke in an impeccable upper-crust accent. His bearing and presence were those of a retired military officer, accustomed to discipline and order.

The elderly man gestured to another of the men to speak.

"The Art Crimes Department knows a lot, but it doesn't know what it knows."

They all looked at him with concern and curiosity as he went on.

"They're pursuing their theory that all these 'accidents' that have happened in the Turin Cathedral over the years aren't accidents at all." He paused and looked around the room at his fellows. "They're convinced the events are tied to the shroud, that someone wants to steal or destroy it. But they can't figure out the motive. And they're still investigating COCSA, thinking they'll find their link there. As I reported earlier, their Trojan horse operation is under way, and Mendib will be set free from the Turin jail in a couple of months."

"The time has come to act," said the elderly man, a slight accent surfacing to reveal that English was not his native language.

"Mendib has to be taken care of," he went on. 'And as for the Art Crimes Department, it's time to pressure our friends to stop this Valoni. He and his people are moving in dangerous directions."

'Addaio may have reached the same conclusion, that the safety of the community requires Mendib's elimination," said the military gentleman. "Maybe we should wait to see what Addaio decides before we do anything ourselves. I'd prefer not to have his death on our conscience if we can avoid it."

"There's no reason for Mendib to die. All we have to do is make sure he reaches Urfa," said one of the other men.

"That's dicey," said another. "Once he's on the street, the Art Crimes Department will put a tail on him. They're not amateurs; they'll have a first-rate operation, and we could wind up in the position that to save his life we'll have to sacrifice many others-we're talking about dead cops and carabinieri. It looks like this last episode is going to burden our conscience however it plays out."

"Ah, yes. Our conscience!" exclaimed the elderly man. 'All too often we put it aside, telling ourselves there's no other way. Ours is a history in which death has always played a part. As has sacrifice, faith, mercy. We are human, only human, and we act in accordance with what we believe to be best. We make mistakes, we sin, we act correctly. May God have mercy on all of us."

For a moment no one spoke. The other men lowered their eyes, sorrow shadowing their faces. Finally, their master raised his eyes and sat up in his chair. 'All right, then-I'll tell you what I believe we must do, and then I'll hear your opinions."

Night had descended by the time the meeting ended. The rain was still falling all across the city.

A.D. 542-544

Eulalius, a young man is here asking to speak with you. He comes from Alexandria." The bishop finished his prayers and got to his feet with difficulty, assisted by the priest who had interrupted him.

"Tell me, Ephron, why is this visitor from Alexandria so important that you disturb my prayers?"

The priest was expecting the question, although Eulalius knew well that Ephron would summon him only on a matter of importance.

"He is a strange young man. My brother sent him."

'Abib? And what news does this strange young man bring?"

"I cannot-say. He says he will speak only to you. He is weary; for weeks he has been on the road, journeying here."

Eulalius and Ephron left the small church and made their way to a nearby house, where the bishop greeted the dark-skinned young man, whose exhaustion was evident in his eyes and parched lips.

"I come to speak to Eulalius, bishop of Edessa," the traveler said, as he drank the water Ephron offered him.

"I am Eulalius. Who are you?"

"Praise God! Eulalius, I am about to tell you an extraordinary thing, which will fill you with amazement. Can we not speak in private?"

Ephron looked at Eulalius, who nodded. The priest withdrew, leaving the two alone.

"You still have not told me your name," the bishop said, turning back to his visitor.

"John. I am called John."

"Be seated, then, John, and rest while you tell me this extraordinary thing."

"Extraordinary it is, sir. And it will be hard for you to believe me, but I trust in the help of God that I may convince you of what I have come to say."

"So-out with it."

"It is a long story. I have told you that I am called John, as was my father, and my father's father, and his grandfather and great-grandfather. I have traced my family to the fifty-seventh year of our era, when Timaeus, the leader of the first Christian community, lived in Sidon, now Alexandria. Timaeus was a friend of two disciples of our Lord Jesus Christ, Thaddeus and Josar, who lived here in Edessa. Timaeus's grandson was called John."

Eulalius listened intently, waiting for the young man to come to the heart of his tale.

"You must know that in this city there was a community of Christians under the protection of King Abgar. On Abgar's death, Maanu, the king's son, inherited the throne and persecuted the Christians of the city. He stripped them of their goods and possessions and subjected many of them to the pains of martyrdom for clinging to their faith in Jesus."

"I know the history of this city," Eulalius said impatiently.

"Then you know that Abgar, afflicted with leprosy, was cured by Jesus. Josar brought to Edessa the shroud in which the body of our Lord had been buried. When the shroud was placed upon the skin of the sick king, a miracle occurred. On the shroud there is something extraordinary: the image of our Lord and the signs of his martyrdom. As long as Abgar was alive, the shroud was an object of veneration in the city, for upon it was the face of the Christ."