Robin Cook - Seizure

Carol had to suppress a scornful laugh at how easily and convincingly the senator could lie. On the same night the senator had told her the story of his poor mother, he said that his father would not allow her to be buried in his church’s cemetery, necessitating her burial in the town’s potter’s field.

“I believe,” Ashley added, “that if she could have one wish, this would be it, to help her immortal soul gain entrance into everlasting paradise.”

James looked up at Father Maloney. “I don’t know anything about these recalled samples. Do you?”

“No, Your Eminence,” Father Maloney said. “But I could find out. Archbishop Manfredi, whom you know well, has been installed in Turin. And Monsignor Garibaldi, who I know well, is there also.”

The cardinal looked back at Ashley. “You would be happy with just a few fibers?”

“That is all I ask,” Ashley said. “Although I should add that I would like them just as soon as possible, since I will be planning a trip home in the very near future.”

“If this tiny sample of fiber were to be made available, how would we get them to you?”

“I would immediately dispatch an agent to Turin,” Ashley said. “It is not the type of thing I would trust to the mail or any commercial carrier.”

“We’ll see what we can do,” James said, as he got to his feet. “And I assume you will introduce the suggested legislation soon.”

Ashley got to his feet as well. “Monday morning, Your Eminence, provided I hear from you by then.”

Stairs were a distinct effort for the cardinal, and he took them slowly, pausing frequently to catch his breath. The main problem with wearing his formal regalia was that he felt restricted with so many layers and frequently became overheated, especially when climbing the stairs to his private quarters. Father Maloney was right behind him, and when the cardinal stopped, he stopped as well.

Holding on to the banister with one hand, the cardinal leaned his other arm on his raised knee. He exhaled through pale, puffed-up cheeks and ran a hand across his brow. There was an elevator, but he avoided it as a kind of penance.

“Is there something I can get for you, Your Eminence?” Father Maloney questioned. “I could bring it down to spare your climbing these steep steps. It has been a strenuous afternoon.”

“Thank you, Michael,” James said. “But I must freshen up if I am to last through the dinner with the mayor and our visiting cardinal.”

“When do you want me to contact Turin?” Father Maloney asked, to take advantage of the moment.

“Tonight after midnight,” James said between breaths. “That will be six in the morning their time, and you should be able to catch them before Mass.”

“It is a surprising request if I may say so, Your Eminence.”

“Indeed! Surprising and curious! If the senator’s information about the samples is correct, which I would be surprised if it weren’t, knowing what I do of the man, it should be an easy request to fulfill since it obviates the need to touch the shroud itself. But in your conversations with Turin, be sure to emphasize that the affair is to be completely sub-rosa. There should be strict confidentiality and absolutely no documentation whatsoever. Am I clear?”

“Perfectly clear,” Michael said. “Are you questioning the senator’s purported use of the samples, Your Eminence?”

“That is my only concern,” James said, with a final deep breath. He recommenced slowly mounting the stairs. “The senator is a master of bargaining. I am certain he would not want the sample to do any unauthorized testing, but he may be exchanging favors with someone who is interested in testing. The Holy Father has decreed ex cathedra that the shroud should not be subjected to any more scientific indignity, and I am in full agreement. But beyond that, I believe it is a noble cause to exchange a few of the sacred fibers for a chance to ensure the economic viability of the church. Do you agree, Father?”

“Most assuredly.”

They reached the top of the stairs, and the cardinal paused again to catch his breath.

“Do you feel confident the senator will do what he proposes concerning the legislation, Your Eminence?”

“Absolutely,” James said without hesitation. “The senator always fulfills his side of a bargain. As an example, he has been instrumental in the school voucher program that is going to save our parochial schools. In exchange, I saw that he got the Catholic vote in his last reelection. It was, as they say, a clear win-win situation. But this current exchange is not quite so clear. Consequently, if it is to be arranged, as added insurance, I want you to go to Turin to see who takes possession of the sample and then follow the sample to see to whom it is delivered. In that way, we will be able to anticipate any potentially negative fallout.”

“Your Eminence! I cannot think of a more pleasant assignment.”

“Father Maloney!” the cardinal snapped. “This is a serious commission and not one meant for your enjoyment. I expect absolute discretion and commitment.”

“Of course, Your Eminence! I did not mean to imply anything less.”

7:25 P.M., Friday, February 22, 2002

“Oh, jeez!” Stephanie mumbled out loud after glancing at her watch. It was almost seven-thirty! It was amazing to her how time could fly when she was absorbed, and she’d been absorbed all afternoon. First, she’d been captivated at the bookstore with the books about the Shroud of Turin, and for the last hour, she’d been mesmerized by what she was learning sitting in front of the computer.

She had returned to the office just before six to find it empty. Assuming Daniel had gone home, she had sat down at her makeshift desk in the lab, and with the help of the Internet and a few newspapers’ archives, she had involved herself in finding out what had happened to the Wingate Clinic a little less than a year previously. It had been engrossing if disturbing reading.

Stephanie slid her laptop into its soft case, grabbed the plastic bag from the bookstore, and pulled on her coat. At the lab door she killed the lights, which then required her blindly to make her way across the already darkened reception area. Once outside on the street, she turned toward Kendall Square. She walked with her head bent over against the biting wind. Typical of New England weather, there had been a marked change from earlier in the afternoon. With the wind now coming from the north instead of the west, the temperature had plummeted into the mid-twenties from the relatively balmy upper forties. Along with the north wind came snow flurries that had coated the city as if it had been dusted with confectioners’ sugar.

At Kendall Square, Stephanie caught the Red Line subway out to Harvard Square, familiar territory from her university years. As usual and despite the weather, the square was alive with students and the rabble that gravitates to such an environment. Even a few street musicians had braved the harsh weather. With blue fingers, they serenaded the passersby. Stephanie felt sorry enough for them to leave a train of dollar bills in their upturned hats as she passed from Harvard Square through Eliot Square.

The lights and bustle of the honky-tonk quickly dropped behind as Stephanie trudged out Brattle Street. She passed through a section of Radcliffe College as well as the celebrated Longfellow House. But she was unmoved by her surroundings. Instead, she mused about what she had learned over the previous three and a half hours and was eager to share it with Daniel. She was also interested to hear what he had found out.

It was after eight by the time she mounted the front steps of Daniel’s condominium building. He occupied the top floor unit of a converted three-story late-Victorian house complete with all the trimmings, including elaborate bargeboard. He had bought the condo in 1985 when he had returned to academia at Harvard. It had been a big year for Daniel. Not only had he left his job at Merck pharmaceuticals; he had also left his wife of five years. He had explained to Stephanie that he had felt stifled by both. His wife had been a nurse whom he met while doing his combined medical residency and Ph.D., a feat Stephanie equated to running back-to-back marathons. He had told Stephanie that his ex-wife was a plodder and that being married to her had made him feel like Sisyphus, constantly rolling a rock up a hill. He had also said that she had been too nice and had expected him to be the same. Stephanie had not known what to make of either explanation, but she did not press the issue. She was thankful they had not had any children, which apparently the former wife had desperately wanted.