Julia Navarro - The Brotherhood Of The Holy Shroud

"But you say there are two shrouds: the authentic one, which was bought from Emperor Balduino, and the other one-this one, I mean the one that's in the cathedral-which is something like a photographic negative of the authentic one. Where is that one? Tell me."

"Where is what?" The Templar's voice was growing weaker, much of his remaining strength expended in relating the remarkable story.

"The authentic shroud, the one the shroud in the cathedral is a copy of."

"No, it's authentic too."

"Yes, but where's the other one, the first?" cried Ana.

"Even I, a de Charny, do not know that. Jacques de Molay sent it off to be hidden. It is a secret known by only a very few. Only the Grand Master and the six masters know its location now."

"Could it be in McCall's castle in Scotland?"

"I don't know. I swear it."

"But you do know that McCall is the Grand Master, and that Umberto D'Alaqua, Paul Bolard, Armando de Quiroz, Geoffrey Mountbatten, Cardinal Visier-"

'Ana, quiet, please… the pain is terrible… I'm dying.".

But she wouldn't-couldn't-stop. "They're the masters of the Temple, aren't they, Yves? Which is why they never marry or engage in any of the other activities of men with as much money and power as they have. They stay out of the spotlight, avoid publicity. Elisabeth was right."

"Lady McKenny is a very intelligent woman, like you, like Dottoressa Galloni."

"You people are a sect! A dangerous, deadly sect."

"No, Ana, no. Strong measures are taken, yes… but only when absolutely necessary. Measures that we-I-sometimes question. But you should know the good of it too. The Temple survived because the accusations made against it were false. Philippe of France and Pope Clement knew that but they wanted our treasure for themselves. And along with the gold, the king wanted to own the shroud. He thought that if he could get it, he would become the most powerful sovereign in Europe. I swear to you, Ana, that down through the centuries, we Templars have been on the side of good. We have played a role in many fundamental events- the French Revolution, Napoleon's empire, Greece's independence, and the French resistance during the Second World War. We have helped move democratic processes forward around the world-"

Ana shook her head. "The Temple lives in the shadows, and there is no democracy in the shadows. Its leaders are extremely wealthy men, and no man gets wealthy without paying a moral price."

"They are wealthy, but theirs is a fortune that does not belong to them-it belongs to the Temple. They administer it, manage it, although it's also true that their own gifts have made them wealthy in their own right-but when they die, everything they own goes to the order."

"To the order?"

"To a foundation… at the heart of the Temple's finances, of everything we are and do. We are everywhere… we are everywhere," Padre Yves repeated, his voice now little more than a whisper.

"Even in the Vatican."

"May God forgive me."

Those were the last words that Yves de Charny spoke. Ana cried out in terror when she realized he was dead, his eyes staring sightlessly into infinity. She closed them with the palm of her hand and began to sob, asking herself how long it would take her to die as well. Maybe days, and the worst thing would be not dying but knowing that she was buried alive. She brought the telephone to her lips.

"Sofia? Sofia, help me!"

The telephone was dead. There was no one there.

'Ana, Ana! Hang on! We'll get you out!"

The connection had been broken just seconds earlier. The battery had probably run out on Ana's phone. Sofia had heard the shoot-out in the tunnel over the walkie-talkies, then Marco and the carabinieri shouting that the tunnel was going to come down. She hadn't hesitated a second-she ran for the street. But she hadn't reached the downstairs door when her cell phone began to ring; she thought it was Marco. She froze when she heard the voices of Ana Jimenez and Padre Yves. With the telephone held tight to her ear so as not to miss a word, she stood stock-still, hardly aware of the men rushing past her, racing to save the others trapped in the tunnel.

Minerva found her sobbing, cell phone in hand. She put her arms around her and shook her gently. "Sofia, please! What's happening? Calm down!"

Sofia was barely coherent, able to blurt out only a small part of what she had heard.

Minerva led her outside. "Let's go to the cemetery-we can't do anything here."

There were no official cars in sight. The two women waved down a passing taxi. Tears continued to stream down Sofia's face as Ana's cries rang in her mind.

The taxi stopped at a light. Just as it started up again, the driver shouted. They looked up to see a massive truck headed straight at them. The noise of the crash shattered the silence of the night.

ADDAIO WEPT IN SILENCE.

He had locked himself in his office and would allow no one-not even Guner-to enter.

He had been closeted for more than ten hours, sitting, pacing, staring into space, allowing himself to be swept along by a wave of contradictory emotions.

He had failed, and many men had died because of his obstinacy. There was nothing in the newspapers about what had happened, just that a collapse had occurred in the tunnels below Turin and that a number of workers had been killed, among them several Turks.

Mendib, Turgut, Ismet, and other brothers had been buried alive under the rubble-their bodies would never be recovered. He had borne the harsh gaze of Mendib's and Ismet's mothers. They did not forgive him; they would never forgive him. Neither would the mothers of the other young men he had asked to sacrifice themselves on the altar of an impossible mission.

God had turned against him. The community now had to resign itself to never recovering the grave cloth of Christ, for that was God's will. Addaio could not believe that so many failures were simply tests that God put them to in order to confirm their strength.

Perhaps this, the simple acceptance of God's will, was the true legacy of the shroud, a legacy that had always been theirs to embrace. Addaio had learned that too late. He wondered if his old adversaries, those who guarded the shroud so fiercely, might someday embrace it as well.

He finished writing his will. Overriding his previous orders, he was leaving precise instructions about the man to be his successor-a good man of clean heart, with no ambition, and who loved life as he, Addaio, had not. Guner would become their leader, their pastor. He folded the letter and sealed it. It was addressed to the community's eight pastors; it would be they who would see that his last wishes were carried out. He would not be denied, he knew: The pastor of the flock selected the next leader. Thus it had been down through the centuries, and thus it would always be.

He took out a bottle of pills he kept in his desk drawer and took them all. Then he sat in the wingback chair and let himself be overcome by sleep.

Eternity awaited.

A.D. 1314

Beltran de Santillana had carefully folded theHoly Shroud and placed it in a shoulder bag that was never out of his sight. He was waiting for the tide to rise on a boat out in the river, so that he might reach the sea and the ship that was to bear him off to Scotland. Of all the nations of Christendom, Scotland was the only one where news of the order to dissolve the Temple had not yet reached-or would ever reach. The king of Scotland, Robert Bruce, had been excommunicated, and he paid no mind to the Church, nor the Church to Scotland.

Thus, the Knights Templar had naught to fear from Robert Bruce, and Scotland had become the only land in which the Temple might preserve its great power.