Robin Cook - Seizure

After tipping the bellmen and the cutaway-attired receptionist who had accompanied them to their room, Daniel glanced around their digs with a satisfied expression on his face. “Not bad! Not bad at all,” he remarked. He glanced in at the marbled bathroom before turning back to Stephanie. “I’m finally living the way I deserve.”

“You’re too much!” Stephanie scoffed. She opened her bag to get out her toiletries.

“Really!” Daniel laughed. “I don’t know why I put up with being an academic pauper as long as I did.”

“Let’s get to work, King Midas! How are we going to figure out how to call the Chancery of the Archdiocese to get ahold of Monsignor Mansoni?” Stephanie went into the bathroom. More than anything else, she wanted to brush her teeth.

Daniel went to the desk and began pulling out drawers, looking for a city phone book. When that wasn’t successful, he looked in the closets.

“I think we should go downstairs and have the concierge do it,” Stephanie called out from the bathroom. “We can have them set up a dinner reservation for this evening as well.”

“Good idea,” Daniel said.

As Stephanie anticipated, the concierge was happy to help. Producing a phone book in a matter of seconds, he had Monsignor Mansoni on the line before Stephanie and Daniel had decided who should talk with him. After a moment of confusion, Daniel took the phone. As instructed in Butler’s email, Daniel identified himself as a representative of Ashley Butler and that he was in Turin to pick up a sample. In an attempt to be discreet, he wasn’t any more descriptive.

“I have been waiting for your call,” Monsignor Mansoni answered with a heavy Italian accent. “I am prepared to meet with you this morning, if that is appropriate.”

“The sooner the better, as far as we are concerned,” Daniel replied.

“We?” the monsignor questioned.

“My partner and I are here together,” Daniel explained. He thought the term partner was sufficiently vague. He felt uncharacteristically self-conscious talking to a Roman Catholic priest who might be offended at his and Stephanie’s living style.

“Am I to assume your partner is a woman?”

“Very much so,” Daniel answered. He looked at Stephanie to make sure she was comfortable with the term partner. He’d never before used it to describe their relationship, despite its appropriateness. Stephanie smiled at his discomfiture.

“Will she be coming to our meeting?”

“Absolutely,” Daniel stated. “Where would be convenient for you?”

“Perhaps the Caffè Torino in Piazza San Carlo would be agreeable. Are you and your partner staying at a hotel within the city?”

“I believe we’re right in the center.”

“Excellent,” the monsignor commented. “The café will be close to your hotel. The concierge could give you directions.”

“Fine,” Daniel said. “When should we be there?”

“Should we say in an hour?”

“We’ll be there,” Daniel said. “How will we recognize you?”

“There shouldn’t be many priests present, but if there are, I will surely be the most portly. I’m afraid I have gained far too much weight with my present sedentary position.”

Daniel glanced at Stephanie. He could tell she could hear the priest’s side of the conversation. “We’ll probably be easy to spot as well. I’m afraid we look rather American with our clothes. Also, my partner is a raven-haired beauty.”

“In that case, I’m certain we will recognize each other. I will see you about eleven-fifteen.”

“We look forward to it,” Daniel said, before handing the phone back to the concierge.

“Raven-haired beauty?” Stephanie questioned in a forced whisper after they’d gotten their directions and were walking away from the concierge’s desk. She was embarrassed. “You’ve never described me with such a cliché. Worse yet, it’s patronizingly sexist.”

“I’m sorry,” Daniel said. “I was a bit nonplussed, making an assignation with a priest.”

Luigi Mansoni opened one of the drawers of his desk. Reaching in, he picked up a slender silver box and pocketed it. He then gathered up his cassock to keep from stepping on the hem as he stood and hurried out of his office. At the end of the hall, he knocked on Monsignor Valerio Garibaldi’s door. He was out of breath, which was embarrassing, since he’d walked less than a hundred feet. He checked his watch and wondered if he shouldn’t have told Daniel an hour and a half. Valerio’s voice bellowed for him to come in.

Switching to his native Italian, Luigi told his friend and superior about the phone conversation he’d just had.

“Oh, no,” Valerio Garibaldi responded in Italian. “I’m certain this is sooner than Father Maloney expected. Let’s hope he is in his room.” Valerio picked up his phone. He was relieved when Father Maloney answered. He told the American what had transpired and that he and Monsignor Mansoni were waiting for him in his office.

“This is all very curious,” Valerio said to Luigi while they waited.

“Indeed,” Luigi responded. “It makes me wonder if we shouldn’t alert one of the archbishop’s secretaries so that if there is ultimately a problem, it will be his fault His Reverence was not notified. After all, His Reverence is the official custodian of the shroud.”

“Your point is well taken,” Valerio said. “I believe I will take your suggestion.”

A knock preceded Father Maloney’s arrival. Valerio gestured for him to take a seat. Although both Valerio and Luigi outranked Michael in the church’s hierarchy, the fact that Michael was officially representing Cardinal O’Rourke, the most powerful Roman Catholic prelate of North America and a personal friend of their own archbishop, Cardinal Manfredi, they treated him with particular deference.

Michael sat down. In contrast to the monsignors, he was dressed in his usual simple black suit with a white clerical collar. Also in contrast to the others, who were both considerably corpulent, Michael was rail-thin, and with his hooked nose, his features were more stereotypically Italian than his hosts. His red hair also set him apart, since the others were both gray.

Luigi related his conversation with Daniel once again, emphasizing that there were two people involved, and one of them was a woman.

“That’s surprising,” Michael commented. “And I’m not fond of surprises. But we’ll just have to take it in stride. I assume the sample is ready.”

“Absolutely,” Luigi said. For Michael’s benefit, he was speaking in English, even though Michael spoke passable Italian. Michael had gone to divinity school in Rome for graduate training, where learning Italian had been mandatory.

Luigi reached into the recesses of his cassock and produced the slender silver box reminiscent of a cigarette case from the mid-twentieth century. “Here it is,” he said. “Professor Ballasari made the fiber selection himself to be sure it was representative. They definitely come from an area of bloodstain.”

“May I?” Michael asked. He reached out with his hand.

“Of course,” Luigi said. He handed the case to Michael.

Michael cupped the embossed case in both hands. It was an emotional experience for him. He had long ago been convinced of the authenticity of the shroud, and to hold a box that contained the real blood of his Savior rather than transubstantiated wine was overwhelming.

Luigi reached out and retrieved the case. It disappeared back beneath the voluminous folds of his cassock. “Are there any particular instructions?” he asked.

“There certainly are,” Michael said. “I need you to find out as much as possible about these people to whom you deliver the sample: names, addresses, whatever. In fact, demand to see their passports and get the numbers. With that information and your contacts with the civil authorities, we should be able learn a good deal about their identities.”