The Shroud

The Shroud

By Barry Friedman

The Shroud

Copyright © 2011 by Barry Friedman

Smashwords Edition

Acknowledgements

The plot for The Shroud was the brainchild of my son Steve Friedman. In addition, Steve gave me a number of valuable suggestions. My thanks also go out to a group of talented writers whose recommendations have improved the book. They are: Shirley Allen, Judith Hand, Phyllis Humphrey, Pete Johnson and Kathy Kotsos.

Dedication

This book is for:

Keri Friedman, Shaina Friedman, Matthew Friedman, Lesley Bargar and Brooke Bargar. They represent a new generation who have already shown enormous talent. I am confident that they will continue to express their thoughts in words.

Also By Barry Friedman

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Dead End

Assignment: Bosnia

Prescription For Death

Sleeper

Hyde

Max

Fracture

Non-Fiction

The Short Life of a Valiant Ship: USS Meredith (DD434)

That’s Life: It’s Sexually Transmitted and Terminal

Prologue

Vincenzo Rossi told the fat poliziotto that the first thing he knew he’s lying on the floor with the biggest headache he’d ever had. They sat facing each other in Rossi’s office located in a transept off the cathedral’s sanctuary. The office was so small their knees touched. The policeman’s blue uniform coat gaped open, his belly sloshing over his belt, his blue tie food-stained. In one hand he held a pad, in the other, a pencil. He seemed to be writing down every word Rossi said.

You were sleeping, no? the fat poliziotto said.

Rossi caught the accusation; his eyes fill with tears. Thirty-three years I been a guard here at the Duomo and never—not once, did I sleep on the job. He felt like adding, you fat slob. He pointed to his head. How you think I got this lump? You think I hit myself? And then I tied up my own hands behind my back? He massaged the tender red circles around his wrists where the wire had cut into his skin. If the porter who’d come in to clean shortly after midnight hadn’t found him on the floor, dazed and trussed up, he might have lain there until morning.

The cop gazed at Rossi’s head and reached forward to touch the small bandage behind Rossi’s left ear. The doctor who’d been called wanted to take him to the hospital for observation but Rossi refused. He was still on duty and would stay until Dominic relieved him.

Hmm, was the fat cop’s comment. He wet the tip of his pencil with his tongue and scribbled in his pad, then snapped it shut. What were you doing?

Reading. Rossi glanced at the torn and wrinkled pages of Corriere della Sera that littered the floor.

So you didn’t hear them come in.

Rossi shook his head and winced as pain shot from his eyeballs to the back of his skull. The cop was probably trying to trick him. He quickly added, I don’t know if was ‘them’ or ‘him’ or maybe even ‘her.’ He got up, squeezed himself between the cop’s chair and the wall, and started for the door. He had answered all the questions he was going to.

The fat cop said, Hey, where you going?

I gotta talk to His Eminence.

The cop put out his hand to stop him, Rossi pushed it away and kept going. He entered the dimly-lit nave, the rows of pews empty since a police guard had been placed at the entrance to the cathedral. He genuflected and quickly crossed himself. Behind him, he heard the cop’s chair squeaking on the cement floor, knew he was coming after him, but figured he wasn’t going to make a big fuss in the sanctity of the Duomo. Using the backs of the pews for support, Rossi hurried down the left side aisle, then ducked into a narrow passageway leading to the rear entrance of the left transept. Except for a few low voltage bulbs that hung from the ceiling and cast pools of light, the passageway was dark. It was also dank from centuries of moisture that constantly seeped through its stone walls. The cop’s footfalls could no longer be heard; he’d probably decided not to follow knowing that Rossi couldn’t get out of the cathedral without passing him. Rossi inched his way, slipping over the marble floor, toward a light in the apse where the cardinal and detectives had gone. A few steps further and he could hear voices, one unmistakably that of Cardinal Fenocci. As the apse came into view he made out the scarlet skullcap. His heart raced. How was he going to explain to His Eminence what had happened. He had seen the old man fly into a rage at much less important mistakes. And wasn’t this a mistake? A mistake of his judgment? Of course, he should have been more alert since he, Vincenzo Rossi, was charged with the responsibility of guarding one of the Catholic Church’s—no, Christianity’s—most valued treasures: the priceless coverlet that had draped the Lord Jesus Christ’s body after He had been cut down from the Cross. The Shroud of Turin.

Hunching as though it might make him a smaller target, Rossi limped through the gate of iron grillwork into the apse, most of its space taken up by a long table covered with a cloth that draped all sides to the floor. About two years ago he had watched a crew of four build the vault below that very table. The vault was constructed from a block of aluminum about three meters long and wide, and one meter high with a lid of thick crystal. Within it rested the silver reliquary that held the Shroud. No. He corrected himself. The reliquary had held the Shroud. Only a privileged few knew where the Shroud had been hidden . So how then could…? Never mind, too late to think of that now. What had happened, happened. Above the table, hanging like a rectangular pennant, was a cloth replica, one-third the size of the real Shroud. A plate glass the size of a store window partitioned the apse from the sanctuary. Through it visitors could peer while a guide would point out on the replica the features of the image on the Shroud.

The coffin-like silver reliquary, its lid open, had been removed from the vault, and now rested on the table. In front of the table, hunched over on a canvas-back chair sat Agostino Cardinal Fenocci. Alongside him, one arm resting on the back of the cardinal’s chair as though to protect him, stood Virgilio Caprio, his secretary. Two men in dark suits, the detectives, were leaning into the reliquary, playing the beams of their flashlights into its interior where the Shroud had been locked. But, of course, the Shroud was not there. Because of Vincenzo Giovanni Carlo Rossi’s carelessness, where it was God only knows. Gone. Stolen. A treasure, a strip of linen about one meter in width and four meters in length, the cloth in which Joseph of Arimathea had wrapped the body of Jesus after he had taken him down from the cross, a cloth that had been in the custody of the Cardinal of Turin since 1578. Rossi recalled the chill that had coursed through his body the first time he stood less than a meter from the Shroud and had witnessed with his own eyes the imprint of Jesus, the splotches of His blood on the cloth. He was that close to God. And now…

You are the guard who was on duty? The detective with a walrus mustache wearing a neatly-pressed suit spoke in a tone that Rossi interpreted as implying he was involved in the theft.

Rossi nodded. Why couldn’t this have happened on a night when Tonini was on guard duty? But, no. He would not wish this disgrace on Dominic or anyone else. He dropped to a knee before the cardinal and reached for his hand. Your Eminence.

Cardinal Fenocci withdrew his hand, his lips curled downward, his brows drawn, his face a mask of disgust. He would not allow this incompetent to kiss his ring.

Please, Eminence. Let me explain.

The cardinal’s lips trembled, his face paled. What is there to explain? he rasped, the words echoing in the hollow chamber. You allowed someone to—to… He left the rest unsaid and turned his head. As far as he was concerned this idiota no longer existed.

One of the detectives grasped Rossi’s arm. Go back to the sanctuary and wait. We want to ask you some questions.

Caprio said, Come Vincenzo. I will go with you.

One

In the ten years Arturo Benavivo had served with the Rome office of International Criminal Police Organization, known by its telegraphic designation as Interpol, he had compiled a remarkable record for recovery of paintings and sculptures that had disappeared from Italian galleries and museums. Now he sat in the office of Ettore Casoria, Chief of Interpol Roma studying a directive he’d been handed.

Benavivo, with the fair complexion and reddish-brown hair of his Florentine heritage appeared younger than his forty-one years. Of medium height, he’d kept the broad shoulders and narrow waist he had developed as a star soccer player during his years at St. Ignatius Academy, and later at the University of Florence. The sport had also given him a somewhat flattened nose and slightly chipped upper incisor, but most women, especially Teresa, considered him ruggedly handsome. He looked up, his brows creased. Stolen art?

Casoria shrugged. A loose translation. We have no division for religious artifacts.

So we’re calling the Shroud an artifact, not a relic?

Artifact, relic, who knows. There’s no unanimity on this. Anyway, His Holiness wants our best man on it. It’s your baby, Benny. He gestured at the directive. "Read it

Benavivo glanced once again at the heading: in bold letters were the words:

"Urgent and confidential.

"His Holiness, Ioannes Paulus PP. II requests the assistance of Interpol in the matter of the theft of The Holy Shroud of Torino.

On Monday, February…

Benavivo finished reading and shook his head. "This is crazy, Chief. It’s like stealing the Mona Lisa. There’s no market for anything as well known as this.

Casoria shifted his bulky frame in his chair, lit a cigar and directed a puff of smoke at the ceiling. Probably ransom.

The thought had occurred to Benavivo as well. As with a number of art treasures too well known to be sold, thieves knew they had been insured. Rather than risk having it damaged or destroyed, an insurance company that didn’t want the hassle of trying to find the thieves, would pay to get the article back.

Benavivo dropped the directive on Casoria’s desk. How did this end up in our laps? Shouldn’t the investigation be conducted by the local police? The Italian government?

The Shroud is property of the Holy See. As an independent state any crime against it is an international affair.

Like it or not, the case was Benny Benavivo’s bambino.

***

In his study at home, Benavivo gazed into his computer screen. Here it was Saturday, a day he should be taking Camilla and Antonio off Teresa’s hands instead of bringing work home. She’d never complain, although she had enough to do taking care of the baby and the housework.

He heaved a sigh and focused his attention back to his work. To the list on his notepad, he scribbled the name and Modus Operandi of the beetle-browed thug who stared back at him from the computer screen. Salvatore Antonio Pisano. Like many of the others on Benavivo’s list, Pisano had a two-page sheet of convictions for thefts, mostly objets d’art. Three of his offenses had been accomplished after he’d knocked out and trussed-up the guard or art dealer. Pisano looked promising. He added an asterisk in front of the name, then scrolled to the bottom of the screen—and crossed Pisano off the list. He was serving his fifth year of a thirty-year term in the penitentiary just outside Ancona.

He stretched, then studied the remaining fifteen names on the notepad. Four were starred. He’d start with these: locate them through their probation officers, question them, determine if they had associates who had to be located and questioned, ad infinitum. He groaned at the thought of the legwork. He’d get some help from the police in the localities where the criminals were residing, but his experience had taught him not to depend upon anyone but himself.

Maybe he should have stayed in academia. By now he might have become a full professor of medieval art at the University of Florence instead of a glorified poliziotto. Ten years ago a career as art detective promised to offer more excitement than lecturing to a class of bored students. Casoria’s predecessor as chief of Interpol Roma had asked him to authenticate a work purported to be a sketch for the Allegory of Poverty fresco by Giotto. Benavivo easily identified it as a fake. Already fed up with academic politics, he grabbed the offer of a permanent position with Interpol. Although the glamour had lost some of its sheen, his work was far from dull. His only real complaint was that it required more travel than he had anticipated, mostly by auto. Before Antonio was born, Teresa would frequently accompany him. But since then…

Tapping at the door of his study interrupted his thoughts. "Come in, cara, " he called.

Teresa came in carrying a tray containing a cup of steaming coffee and a brioche. You’ve been at that machine for six hours. You must be groggy.

Wonderful, thoughtful Teresa. She placed the tray on a table beside his computer. He reached over and squeezed her buttock, still firm and shapely at thirty-six and after three kids.

She slapped his hand and quickly looked behind her toward the hall. The children—.

Thanks for keeping them out of my hair.

She leaned over, her long dark hair brushing his cheek, and kissed him lightly on the lips. I’m going to miss you. You’re driving or flying?

Driving. He’d found it more convenient not having to depend on plane schedules. He’d save Interpol a few lire having his own car rather than a rental once he got to his destination.

Do you have any idea how long you’ll be gone?

Benavivo shook his head. I’ll probably be in Torino only a day or two. Where I go from there depends on the leads that develop. Look, I might get lucky, wrap up the investigation in a couple of days. Unlikely, but maybe the thought would give Teresa peace of mind for a while.

Crash! They jumped at the sudden noise. A moment later, Camilla came running into the study, shrieking. Tears coursed down the cheeks of the five-year old. Like her father, she had reddish hair, blue eyes and fair complexion. She wrapped her arms around Teresa’s waist. Mama, papa, ‘Tonio pushed me down. I bumped my head.

Teresa held the child to her. Antonio! Come here this minute. She turned to Benavivo. You’ve got to talk to that boy. He’s getting out of hand.

Benavivo sighed and slowly got up from his chair. Antonio was a normal seven-year-old: wild and needing a father’s supervision. Something Benavivo’s full schedule and out of town trips, sometimes lasting a week, did not permit. He hated putting the burden on Teresa, and lived for the day that he’d be moved up the ladder and could delegate the travel to someone else.

He smoothed Camilla’s hair as he walked past. I’ll talk to him.

Half an hour later, he had finished giving Antonio the you’re-the-family-protector-while-I’m-away speech. He concluded, as he had a half-dozen times in the past, with a rhetorical question: And what don’t family protectors do?

They don’t beat up on their sister, said a solemn-faced Antonio.

Sure.

***

As Benavivo walked down the long corridor between rows of lockers, he breathed in the distinctive odor of St. Ignatius Academy. The scent was a mixture of books and dirty gym socks and sandwiches in paper bags. It hadn’t changed in the twenty-three years since he’d graduated.

What had changed was Brother Pascuale Tremontano, now Father Pascuale. For the first few years after leaving St. Ignatius, Benavivo had occasionally stopped by for a friendly visit with Tremontano, and the two had exchanged birthday and holiday cards, but it had been almost ten years since he was here last. Although he knew that Tremontano was suffering from some form of abdominal cancer, when he entered the office, Benavivo was shocked at his jaundiced and almost skeletal appearance. He found it hard to remember the smooth-cheeked vibrant young priest in whose History of Catholicism classroom he’d first heard of the Shroud and its controversial background.

Tremontano extended his hand and smiled through cracked lips. So my young Arturo is now the famous Interpol investigator.

Benavivo took his hand. Good of you to see me, Father.

I’m glad if I can be of some help. As you can tell, I won’t have many more opportunities in this world.

Benavivo searched for something encouraging to say in response, but he knew any optimistic remark would ring false. Fighting to talk through the lump that had formed in his throat, he managed a hoarse whisper. Father, any success I’ve achieved is in large part because of the inspiration you’ve given me.

Tremontano waved a dismissive hand. Let’s not get maudlin, my friend. Save your eulogies for after I’m gone. Now, how can I help you?

It’s about the Shroud. I’ve been assigned to find it.

Tremontano shook his head. A horrible crime. Shouldn’t you be in Turin?

Actually, I’m on my way. I’ll be on the road soon as I leave here. One reason for his last minute decision to make this short detour was Tremontano’s illness, to see his old friend perhaps for the last time. But beyond that, Tremontano had been a life-long student of the Shroud. He knew more of its history than anyone Benavivo knew, and had kept himself abreast of all of the investigations that had been conducted, past and current. I’m anxious to hear your thoughts, Father. Can you conceive of any reason for anyone to steal it?

You think I can provide you with a motive?

Benavivo shrugged. I’ve racked my brain but I’ve come up empty. The reason they assigned me the case is that it loosely falls into my purview. But you know as well as I that the Shroud can’t have any marketable value.

Tremontano shook his head. I’m flattered that you ask. But ever since I heard of the theft I’ve asked myself the same question. He pointed a bony finger. The way it was carried out would require a good deal of planning. The theft itself had to be the work of more than one person, although one individual could have been the organizer. Probably someone with money.

Benavivo grinned. Maybe you should be the investigator. Your reasoning is the most logical I’ve heard yet. Have you any candidates in mind?

You mean people who fit the profile?

Benavivo nodded.

Tremontano chuckled. No, I’m afraid that’s your department.

My department is concerned with catching art thieves. The ones in my database don’t have the organizational ability to carry out such a project. And if they had the money to fund it, they wouldn’t be thieves in the first place.

Tremontanto gazed mindlessly at the wall. "Can’t you picture some