“I’ll admit that’s not terribly compelling,” Daniel remarked.
   “How about this one—the forger would have had to know the true method of crucifixion used by the Romans in ancient times. This was in contrast to all contemporary thirteenth-century depictions of the crucifixion, of which there were literally hundreds of thousands. In reality, the condemned individual’s wrists were nailed to the crossbeam, not his palms, which would not have been able to hold his weight. Also, the crown of thorns was not a ringlet, but rather like a skullcap.”
   Daniel nodded a few times in thought.
   “Try this one—the bloodstains block the image on the cloth, meaning this clever artist started with bloodstains and then did the image, which is backward from the way all artists would work. The image would be done first, or at least the outline. Then the details like blood would be added to be certain they would be in the correct locations.”
   “That’s interesting, but I’d have to put that one in the category with the foreshortening.”
   “Then let’s move on,” Stephanie said. “In 1979, when the shroud was subjected to five days of scientific scrutiny by teams of scientists from the U.S., Italy, and Switzerland, it was unequivocally determined that the shroud’s image was not painted. There were no brushstrokes, there was an infinite gradation of density, and the image was a surface phenomenon only with no imbibition, meaning no fluid of any kind was involved. The only explanation they came up with of the origin of the image was some kind of oxidative process of the surface of the linen fibers, as if they were exposed in the presence of oxygen to a sudden flash of intense light or other strong electromagnetic radiation. Obviously, this was vague and purely speculative.”
   “All right,” Daniel said. “I must admit you are getting into the downright compelling arena.”
   “There’s more,” Stephanie said. “Some of the U.S. scientists examining the shroud in 1979 were from NASA, and they subjected the shroud to analysis by the most sophisticated technologies available, including a piece of equipment known as a VP-8 Image Analyzer. This was an analog device that had been developed to convert specially recorded digital images of the surface of the moon and Mars into three-dimensional pictures. To everyone’s surprise, the image on the shroud contains this kind of information, meaning the density of the shroud’s image at any given location is directly proportional to the distance it was from the crucified individual it had covered. All in all, it would have had to have been one hell of a forger if he anticipated all this back in the thirteenth century.”
   “My word!” Daniel voiced, as he shook his head in amazement.
   “Let me add one other thing,” Stephanie said. “Biologists specializing in pollen have determined that the shroud contains pollen that only comes from Israel and Turkey, meaning the supposed forger would have had to be resourceful as well as clever.”
   “How could the results of the carbon dating have been so wrong?”
   “An interesting question,” Stephanie said, while taking another bite of her dinner. She chewed quickly. “No one knows for sure. There have been suggestions that ancient linen tends to support the continued growth of bacteria that leave behind a transparent, varnish-like biofilm that would distort the results. Apparently, there has been a similar problem with carbon-dating some linen on Egyptian mummies, whose antiquity is known rather precisely by other means.
   “Another idea suggested by a Russian scientist is that the fire that scorched the shroud in the sixteenth century could have skewed the results, although it’s hard for me to understand how it could have skewed it more than a thousand years.”
   “What about the historical aspect?” Daniel asked. “If the shroud is real, how come its history only goes back to the thirteenth century, when it appeared in France?”
   “That’s another good question,” Stephanie said. “When I first started reading the shroud material, I gravitated to the scientific aspects, and I’ve just started with the historical. Ian Wilson has cleverly related the shroud to another known and highly revered Byzantine relic called the Edessa Cloth, which had been in Constantinople for over three hundred years. Interestingly enough, this cloth disappeared when the city was sacked by crusaders in 1204.”
   “Is there any documentary evidence that the shroud and the Edessa Cloth are one and the same?”
   “That’s right where I stopped reading,” Stephanie said. “But it seems likely there is such evidence. Wilson cites a French eyewitness to the Byzantine relic prior to its disappearance, who described it in his memoirs as a burial shroud with a mystical, full, double-body image of Jesus, which certainly sounds like the Shroud of Turin. If the two relics are the same, then history takes it back at least to the ninth century.”
   “I can certainly understand why all this has captured your interest,” Daniel said. “It’s fascinating. And getting back to the science, if the image wasn’t painted, what are the current theories as to its origin?”
   “That question is probably the single most intriguing. There really aren’t any theories.”
   “Has the shroud been studied scientifically since the episode you mentioned in 1979?”
   “A lot,” Stephanie said.
   “And there are no current theories?”
   “None that have stood up to further testing. Of course, there is still the vague idea of some kind of flash of strange radiation…” Stephanie let her voice trail off as if to leave the idea hanging in the air.
   “Wait a second!” Daniel said. “You’re not about to spring some divine or supernatural nonsense on me, are you?”
   Stephanie spread her hands palms-up, shrugged, and smiled all at the same time.
   “Now I have the feeling you are toying with me,” Daniel remarked with a chuckle.
   “I’m giving you an opportunity to come up with a theory.”
   “Me?” Daniel questioned.
   Stephanie nodded.
   “I couldn’t come up with a hypothesis without having actual access to all the data. I assume the examining scientists have used things like electron microscopy, spectroscopy, ultraviolet fluorescence, as well as appropriate chemical analysis.”
   “All of the above and more,” Stephanie said. She sat back, with a provocative smile. “And still, there is no accepted theory about how the image was produced. It’s a conundrum for sure. But come on! Be a sport! Can’t you think of something with the details I’ve related?”
   “You’re the one who’s done the reading,” Daniel said. “I think you should come up with the suggestion.”
   “I have,” Stephanie said.
   “I’m wondering if I dare ask what it is.”
   “I find myself leaning in the direction of the divine. Here’s my reasoning—if the shroud is the burial cloth of Jesus Christ, and if Jesus was resurrected, meaning he went from the material to the nonmaterial, presumably in an instant, then the shroud would have been subjected to the energy of dematerialization. It was the flash of energy that created the image.”
   “What the hell is the energy of dematerialization?” Daniel asked with exasperation.
   “I’m not sure,” Stephanie admitted with a smile. “But it stands there would be a release of energy with a dematerialization. Look at the energy released with rapid elemental decay. That creates an atom bomb.”
   “I suppose I don’t have to remind you that you’re employing very unscientific reasoning. You’re using the shroud’s image to posit dematerialization so you can use dematerialization to explain the shroud.”
   “It’s unscientific, but it makes sense to me,” Stephanie said with a laugh. “It also makes sense to Ian Wilson, who described the shroud’s image as a snapshot of the Resurrection.”
   “Well, if nothing else, you’ve certainly convinced me to take a peek at the book you have.”
   “Not until I’m done!” Stephanie joked.
   “What has this information about the shroud done to your reaction about using its bloodstains to treat Butler?”
   “I’ve come around one hundred and eighty degrees,” Stephanie admitted. “At this point, I’m all for it. I mean, why not enlist the potentially divine for all our sakes? And, as you said down in Washington, using the shroud’s blood will add some challenge and excitement while creating the ultimate placebo.”
   Daniel lifted his hand, and he and Stephanie high-fived across the table.
   “What about dessert?” Daniel questioned.
   “Not for me. But if you have some, I’ll have a decaf espresso.”
   Daniel shook his head. “I don’t want dessert. Let’s get home. I want to see if there are any emails from the venture capital people.” Daniel motioned for the waiter to get the check.
   “And I want to see if there are any messages from Butler. The other thing I learned about the shroud is that we’re definitely going to need his help to get a sample. On our own, it would be impossible. The church has it sealed up under elaborate security within a space-age box in an atmosphere of argon. They also categorically stated there would be no more testing. After the carbon-dating fiasco, they are understandably gun-shy.”
   “Has there been any analysis of the blood?”
   “Indeed there has,” Stephanie said. “It was tested to be type AB, which was a lot more common in the ancient Near East than it is generally now.”
   “Any DNA work?”
   “That too,” Stephanie said. “Several specific gene fragments were isolated, including a beta globulin from chromosome eleven and even an amelogenin Y from chromosome Y.”
   “Well, there you go,” Daniel said. “If we can get a sample, it will be a piece of cake pulling out the segments we need with our HTSR probes.”
   “Things better start happening quickly,” Stephanie warned. “Otherwise, we’re not going to have the cells in time for Butler’s Senate recess.”
   “I’m well aware,” Daniel said. He took his credit card back from the waiter and signed the receipt. “If the shroud is going to be involved, we’ve got to go to Turin in the next few days. So Butler better get cracking! Once we have the sample, we can fly directly to Nassau from London on British Airways. I checked that out earlier this evening.”
   “We’re not going to do the cellular work here at our lab?”
   “Unfortunately, no. The eggs are down there, not up here, and I don’t want to take the risk of shipping them, and I want them fresh. Hopefully, the Wingate lab is as well equipped as they claim, because we’ll be doing everything there.”
   “That means we’ll be leaving in a few days and be gone a month or more.”
   “You got it. Is that a problem?”
   “I suppose not,” Stephanie said. “It’s not a bad time to spend a month in Nassau. Peter can keep things going in the lab. But I’ll have to go home tomorrow or Sunday to see my mom. She’s been under the weather, as you know.”
   “You’d better do it sooner rather than later,” Daniel said. “If word comes through from Butler about the shroud sample, we’re out of here.”

Nine

   2:45 P.M., Saturday, February 23, 2002
   Daniel sensed he was getting a vague idea of what it was like to have manic-depressive disorder as he hung up the phone from yet another disappointing conversation with the venture capital people in San Francisco. Just prior to the call, he felt on top of the world after outlining the schedule for the next month on a legal pad. With Stephanie now enthusiastically behind the plan to treat Butler, including using blood from the shroud, things were beginning to fall into place. That morning, between the two of them, they had drawn up an encompassing release for Butler’s signature and had emailed it to the senator. As per their instructions, it was to be signed, witnessed by Carol Manning, and faxed back.
   When Stephanie had disappeared back into the lab to check on Butler’s fibroblast culture, Daniel had convinced himself that things were going so smoothly that it was reasonable to call the moneymen in hopes of changing their minds about releasing the second round of financing. But the call had not gone well. The key person had ended the conversation by telling Daniel not to call back unless he had proof in writing that HTSR would not be banned. The banker had explained that in light of recent events, word of mouth, particularly in the form of vague generalities, would not be adequate. The banker had added that unless such documentation was forthcoming in the near future, the money allocated for CURE would be transferred to another promising biotech firm whose intellectual property was not in political jeopardy.
   Daniel sagged in his chair with his hips perched precariously on the edge, resting his head on the chair’s back. The idea of returning to stable-but-impecunious academia, with its snail’s-pace predictability, was sounding progressively appealing. He was beginning to loathe the precipitous ups and downs of trying to achieve the moneyed celebrity status he deserved. It was galling that movie stars only had to memorize a few lines and famous athletes only had to show mindless dexterity with a stick or a ball in order to command the lucre and attention showered on them. With his credentials and a brilliant discovery to his credit, it was ludicrous that he had to bear such travail and associated anxiety.
   Stephanie’s face poked around the corner. “Guess what?” she said brightly. “Things are going fantastic with Butler’s fibroblast culture. Thanks to the atmosphere of five-percent CO and air, a monolayer is already starting to form. The cells are going to be ready sooner than I anticipated.”
   “Wonderful,” Daniel said in a depressed monotone.
   “What’s the problem now?” Stephanie asked. She came into the room and sat down. “You look like you’re about to ooze off onto the floor. Why the long face?”
   “Don’t ask! It’s the same old story about money, or at least the lack of it.”
   “I suppose that means you called the venture capitalists again.”
   “How very clairvoyant!” Daniel said sarcastically.
   “Good grief! Why are you torturing yourself?”
   “So now you think I’m doing this to myself.”
   “You are if you keep calling them. From what you said yesterday, their intentions were pretty clear.”
   “But the Butler plan is moving ahead. The situation is evolving.”
   Stephanie closed her eyes for a moment and took a breath. “Daniel,” she began, trying to think how best to word what she was about to say without irritating him, “you can’t expect other people to view the world as you do. You’re a brilliant man, maybe too smart for your own good. Other people don’t look at the world the way you do. I mean, they can’t think the way you do.”
   “Are you being patronizing?” Daniel eyed his lover, scientific collaborator, and business partner. Lately, with the stress of recent events, it was more the latter than the former, and the business was not going well.
   “Heavens, no!” Stephanie stated emphatically. Before Stephanie could continue, the phone rang. Its raucous sound in the otherwise silent office startled both of them.
   Daniel reached for the phone but didn’t pick it up. He glanced at Stephanie. “Are you expecting a call?”
   Stephanie shook her head.
   “Who could be calling here at the office on a Saturday?”
   “Maybe it’s for Peter,” Stephanie suggested. “He’s back in the lab.”
   Daniel lifted the receiver and used the long name of their business rather than the acronym. “Cellular Replacement Enterprises,” he said officially.
   “This is Dr. Spencer Wingate from the Wingate Clinic. I’m calling from Nassau for Dr. Daniel Lowell.”
   David motioned for Stephanie to go out in the reception area and pick up Vicky’s extension. He then identified himself to Spencer.
   “I certainly didn’t expect to get you directly, Doctor,” Spencer said.
   “Our receptionist doesn’t come in on Saturdays.”
   “My word!” Spencer remarked. He laughed. “I didn’t realize it was the weekend. Since we’ve recently opened our new facility, we’ve all been working twenty-four-seven to iron out the wrinkles. Many pardons if I’m causing a disturbance.”
   “You are not disturbing us in the slightest,” Daniel assured him. Daniel heard the faint click as Stephanie came on the line. “Is there some problem vis-à-vis our discussion yesterday?”
   “Quite the contrary,” Spencer said. “I was afraid there had been a change on your end. You said you would call last night or today at the latest.”
   “You’re right, I did say that,” Daniel responded. “I’m sorry. I’ve been waiting for word about the shroud to start the ball rolling. I apologize for not getting back to you.”
   “No apologies are necessary. Although I hadn’t heard from you, I thought I’d call to let you know that I have already spoken with a neurosurgeon by the name of Dr. Rashid Nawaz who has an office in Nassau. He’s a Pakistani surgeon trained in London who I’ve been assured is quite talented. He’s even had some experience with fetal cell implants as a house officer, and he is eager to be of assistance. He’s also agreed to arrange for the stereotaxic equipment to be brought from Princess Margaret Hospital.”
   “Did you mention the need for discretion?”
   “Most certainly, and he is fine with it.”
   “Marvelous,” Daniel responded. “Did you discuss his fee?”
   “I did. It seems that his services will be somewhat more than I thought, perhaps due to the required discretion. He is asking for one thousand dollars.”
   Daniel momentarily debated with himself if he should make an effort to negotiate. A thousand dollars was significantly higher than the original estimate of two or three hundred. But it wasn’t his money, and in the end he told Spencer to make the arrangements.
   “Any further information about when we can expect you?” Spencer asked.
   “Not at the moment,” Daniel said. “I’ll let you know as soon as I can.”
   “Perfect,” Spencer said. “While I have you on the phone, there are a few details I’d like to discuss.”
   “By all means.”
   “First, we’d like to request half the agreed-upon fees up front,” Spencer said. “I can fax you wiring instructions.”
   “You want the money immediately?”
   “We’d like it as soon as we have a date for your arrival. It will make it possible for us to begin scheduling appropriate staffing. Will that be a problem?”
   “I suppose not,” Daniel responded.
   “Good,” Spencer said. “Next, we’d like to arrange for instruction in HTSR for our staff, particularly for Dr. Paul Saunders, as well as the opportunity to discuss with you a future licensing agreement for HTSR and rates for the required probes and enzymes.”
   Daniel hesitated. His intuition was telling him he was being pushed for having agreed too quickly to the compensation the day before. He cleared his throat. “I will not have a problem with Dr. Saunders observing, but as for the licensing issue, I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to grant such requests. CURE is a corporation with a board of directors that would have to agree to any such arrangement, with full consideration of the stockholders. But as the current CEO, I can promise you we will visit the issue in the future, and your help in the current situation will be taken into consideration.”
   “Perhaps I was asking a bit much,” Spencer admitted amiably. He chuckled. “But as the saying goes—there’s no harm in trying.”
   Daniel rolled his eyes, lamenting the indignities he had to endure.
   “One last thing,” Spencer said. “We would like to know the name of the patient, so we can start the admission process and the patient record. We’d like to be prepared for his or her arrival.”
   “There is to be no record,” Daniel said flatly. “Yesterday I made it clear this treatment is to be done under absolute secrecy.”
   “But we will have to identify the patient for lab tests and such,” Spencer said.
   “Call him Patient X or John Smith,” Daniel said. “It doesn’t make any difference. I anticipate his being in your facility for only twenty-four hours at most. We’ll be with him the entire time, and we’ll be doing all the lab tests.”
   “What if the Bahamian authorities question his admission?”
   “Is that likely?”
   “No, I suppose not. But if they do, I’m not sure what we would say.”
   “I’m trusting that with your experience dealing with the authorities during the clinic’s construction, you can be creative. That’s part of the reason we’re paying you forty thousand dollars. Make sure they don’t question.”
   “We’ll need a bribe or two. Perhaps if you were to raise the price by five K, we could guarantee no problems with the authorities.”
   Daniel didn’t respond immediately while he controlled his anger. He hated to be manipulated, especially by a clown of Wingate’s caliber. “All right,” he said at last, without camouflaging his irritation. “We’ll be wiring twenty-two and a half thousand. However, I want your personal assurances that this operation will go smoothly from here on out, and there’s to be no more demands.”
   “You have my assurance as the founder of the Wingate Clinic that we will make every effort to ensure your association with us meets your expectations and complete satisfaction.”
   “You’ll be hearing from us shortly.”
   “We’ll be here!”

   The screaming jet engines made the walls of Spencer’s office shudder as the Boeing intercontinental 767 passed over the Wingate Clinic at an altitude of less than five hundred feet in preparation for landing. With the building’s heavy insulation, the vibration was more tactile than audible though strong enough to jiggle Spencer’s array of framed diplomas. Spencer was already accustomed to the daily intermittent disturbance and paid no heed other than to absently right his diplomas on occasion.
   “How did I do?” Spencer yelled through the open door.
   Paul Saunders appeared in the doorway after having listened to Spencer’s conversation with Daniel from his office next door. “Well, let’s look on the bright side. You didn’t find out the name of the patient, but you managed to eliminate close to half the world’s rich and famous. We now know it is a man.”
   “Very funny,” Spencer said. “We didn’t expect him to give us the name on a silver platter. But I did get him to up the offer to forty-five thousand and agree to allow you to observe the cellular work. That’s not bad.”
   “But you didn’t press him on the favorable licensing issue. That could save us big bucks with our burgeoning stem cell therapy down the line.”
   “Yeah, well, he had a point. He’s running a corporation.”
   “It might be a corporation, but it’s a private company, and dollars to donuts, he’s the major stockholder by a long shot.”
   “Well, we win some and lose some. Anyway, I didn’t scare him off. Remember that was one of our worries—that if we pressed too hard, he’d go somewhere else.”
   “I’ve reconsidered that worry, provided he was telling us the truth about his tight time frame. We’re probably the only place that can supply him overnight with a first-rate lab, a hospital setting, and human oocytes with no questions asked. But it doesn’t matter. Our potential bonanza payoff is going to come from finding out the name of the patient. I’m convinced of it. And the sooner we find out, the better.”
   “I couldn’t agree more, and to that end, I did find out Lowell was at his office for the day, which was the real purpose of the call.”
   “True! And I have to give you credit for that. As soon as you hung up, I called Kurt Hermann to let him know. He said he’d relay the information immediately to his compatriot who’s positioned in Boston, waiting to break into Lowell’s apartment.”
   “I hope this compatriot, as you’ve called him, is capable of finesse. If Lowell gets spooked—or, even worse, hurt—the whole thing might be off.”
   “I specifically relayed your fears about heavy-handedness to Kurt.”
   “And what did he say?”
   “You know Kurt doesn’t say much. But he understands.”
   “I hope you are right, because we could truly use a financial windfall. With what we’ve spent getting this place up and running, the well is just about dry, and besides our stem-cell work, there’s very little infertility business on the immediate horizon.”

   “Dr. Spencer Wingate sounds just like the sleaze I feared,” Stephanie said. She’d come back into Daniel’s office after listening in on the conversation. “He talks about bribery as if it were an everyday occurrence.”
   “Maybe it is in the Bahamas,” Daniel said.
   “I hope he’s short, fat, and has a wart on his nose.”
   Daniel gave Stephanie a confused look.
   “Maybe he’s a chain-smoker and has bad breath.”
   “What on earth are you talking about?”
   “If Spencer Wingate looks as bad as he sounds, maybe I won’t lose complete faith in the medical profession. I know it is irrational, but I don’t want him to look anything like my mental image of a physician. It scares me to think he’s a practicing doctor. And that goes for his partners as well.”
   “Oh, come on, Stephanie! Don’t be so naïve. The medical profession, like any profession, is far from perfect. There are good ones and bad ones, with the majority somewhere in between.”
   “I thought self-regulation was part of the definition of this profession. Anyway, the real issue is that I wish my intuition wasn’t telling me that working with these people is a bad idea.”
   “For the last time,” Daniel said with frustration, “we’re not working with those clowns. God forbid! We’re using their facilities and that’s it. End of story.”
   “Let’s hope it’s that simple,” Stephanie said.
   Daniel returned Stephanie’s gaze. They’d been together long enough for him to tell that she was not buying his simple assessment, and it irritated him that she wasn’t being more supportive. The problem was, her misgivings called attention to his own, which he was actively trying to ignore. He wanted to believe the whole episode was going to go smoothly and soon be over, but Stephanie’s negativity kept undermining his hopes.
   The fax sprang to life out in the reception area.
   “I’ll see what it is,” Stephanie said. She got up and went out of the room.
   Daniel watched her go. It was a relief to escape her stare. People had a way of irritating him—even Stephanie, on occasion. He wondered if he’d be better off alone.
   “It’s the release from Butler already,” Stephanie called out. “Signed and witnessed along with a note saying the hard copy is in the mail.”
   “Great!” Daniel yelled back. At least Butler’s cooperation was encouraging.
   “The cover sheet asks if we have checked our email this afternoon.” Stephanie appeared at the door with a questioning expression. “I didn’t check. Did you?”
   Daniel shook his head and tilted forward, connecting to the Internet. At the new, special email account set up for Butler’s treatment, there was a message from the senator. Stephanie came around Daniel’s desk and looked over his shoulder as he opened it.


   My dear doctors,
   I hope this note finds you busy with your preparations for my imminent treatment. I too have been productively occupied, and I am happy to report that the custodians of the Shroud of Turin have been most helpful, thanks to the intercession by an influential colleague. You are to travel to Turin at your first opportunity. Upon arrival, you will call the Chancery of the Archdiocese of Turin to speak with Monsignor Mansoni. You will inform the monsignor that you are my representatives. At that point, my understanding is that the monsignor will arrange a meeting at an appropriate location to give you the sacred sample. Please understand that this is to be done with the utmost discretion and secrecy, so as not to jeopardize my esteemed colleague. Meanwhile, I remain your dear friend,

A.B.

   Daniel took a moment to delete the message just as he and Stephanie had made a point of deleting the senator’s other emails. It had been their collective decision that there was to be as little evidence as possible of the affair. When he was done, he looked up at her. “The senator is certainly doing his part.”
   Stephanie nodded. “I’m impressed. I’m also starting to get excited. The affair is definitely acquiring a touch of international intrigue.”
   “When can you be ready to leave? Alitalia has daily flights to Rome that depart in the evening with connections to Turin. Remember, you’re going to have to pack for a month.”
   “Packing is not the problem,” Stephanie said. “My two problems are my mom and Butler’s tissue culture. I need to spend some time with my mom, as I mentioned. I also want to get Butler’s tissue culture to a point where Peter can take over.”
   “How much time are you talking about with the culture?”
   “Not long. As good as it looks this morning, probably by tomorrow morning I’ll be satisfied. I just want to be sure a true monolayer is forming. Then Peter can maintain it, passage it, and cryopreserve it. My plan is for him to overnight an aliquot down to Nassau in a liquid-nitrogen container when we’re ready for it. We’ll keep the rest of the culture here in case we need it in the future.”
   “Let’s not be pessimistic,” Daniel said. “What about your mother?”
   “Tomorrow I can see her for a few hours during the day. She’s always in on Sundays, cooking.”
   “Then you could conceivably be ready to leave tomorrow night?”
   “Sure, if I pack this evening.”
   “Then let’s get back to the apartment ASAP. I’ll make the necessary calls from there.”
   Stephanie walked back into the lab to get her laptop and her coat. After making sure Peter was planning to be in the lab the following morning so they could discuss Butler’s culture, she returned to the reception area. She found Daniel impatiently holding the hallway door open for her.
   “My, you are in a hurry!” Stephanie remarked. It was usual for Stephanie to have to wait for Daniel. Whenever they were going someplace, he always found one more thing to do.
   “It’s already almost four o’clock, and I don’t want you to have an excuse for not being ready to leave tomorrow night. I remember how long it took you to pack to go to Washington for two nights, and this is for a month. I’m sure it is going to take you longer than you think.”
   Stephanie smiled. It was true since, among other things, she needed to do some ironing. She also realized she’d want to hit the drugstore for some travel necessities. What she didn’t expect was how fast Daniel drove once they were in the car. She hazarded a glance at the speedometer as they tore down Memorial Drive. They were going almost fifty in a thirty-mile-an-hour zone.
   “Hey, slow down!” Stephanie managed. “You’re driving like one of the taxi drivers you complain about.”
   “Sorry,” Daniel said. He slowed down slightly.
   “I promise I’ll be ready, so there’s no need to risk our lives.” Stephanie glanced over at Daniel to see if he realized she was trying to be funny, but his determined expression didn’t change.
   “I’m eager to get this whole unfortunate affair over with now that I feel we’re really starting,” he said without taking his eyes from the road.
   “I thought of something I should do,” Stephanie said. “I’m going to set it up so that any future Butler emails also go to my cell phone inbox. That way, we’ll know when a message comes in, and we’ll be able to access it ASAP.”
   “Good idea,” Daniel agreed.
   They pulled up to the curb in front of Daniel’s house. He turned off the engine and hopped out. He was halfway up the front walk by the time Stephanie got her laptop from the backseat. She shrugged. He could be such an absentminded professor when he became focused on a single thought. He could ignore her totally, as he was doing presently. But she wasn’t about to take his behavior personally. She knew him too well.
   Daniel took the stairs two at a time while deciding he’d first make the call to the airlines to book the flights and then get back in touch with the Wingate people. He thought that scheduling a single overnight stay in Turin would be appropriate. Then he reminded himself to get the money-wiring instructions from Spencer when he made the call to Nassau so he could get the money issue out of the way as well.
   Daniel reached the third-floor landing and paused while he fiddled with his keys. It was at that moment that he noticed the apartment door was slightly ajar. For a split second, he tried to remember who had been the last one out that morning—he or Stephanie. Then he remembered it had been he, since he’d had to return for his wallet. He distinctly remembered locking the door, including the dead bolt.
   The sound of the building’s front door opening and closing drifted up the stairwell, along with Stephanie’s footfalls on the creaky, aged stairs. Otherwise, the house was silent. The first-floor tenants were off to the Caribbean on vacation, while the second-floor tenant was never home during the day. He was a mathematician who haunted the MIT computer center and only came home to sleep.
   Gingerly, Daniel pushed open the door to get a progressively larger view of his foyer. Now he could see down the hallway into the living room. With the sun nearing the distant southwestern horizon, the apartment was in deep shadow. All at once, he caught sight of a flashlight beam as it momentarily flickered across the living room wall. At the same time, he heard one of the drawers of his upright file click closed.
   “Who the hell is in here?” Daniel shouted at the top of his lungs. He was outraged that an intruder had gotten into his apartment, but he was not foolhardy. Although the intruder had obviously entered through the front door, Daniel was confident he’d cased the apartment and knew of the back exit from the study onto the fire escape. As Daniel pulled out his cell phone to call 911, he fully expected the burglar to flee by taking this route.
   To Daniel’s shock, the intruder immediately presented himself in Daniel’s line of sight and blinded him with his flashlight. Daniel tried to block the beam with his hand. He wasn’t entirely successful, but it was enough to see that the man was coming at him with breathtaking speed. Before Daniel could react, he was roughly shoved to the side by a gloved hand hard enough to cause him to literally bounce off the wall. His ears rang from the concussion. Regaining his equilibrium, Daniel caught sight of a large man dressed in a tight-fitting black outfit, including a black ski mask, rapidly descend the stairs on silent feet. After a shriek from Stephanie, the front door to the building burst open and banged shut.
   Daniel dashed to the banister and looked down. On the landing below, Stephanie was pressed up against the mathematician’s locked door with her laptop clasped against her chest with both hands. Her face was white. “Are you okay?” he asked.
   “Who the hell was that?” she demanded.
   “A goddamn burglar,” Daniel responded. He turned back to examine the door. Stephanie came up the final flight of stairs to look over his shoulder.
   “At least he didn’t break the door,” Daniel said. “He must have had a key.”
   “Are you sure it was locked?”
   “Absolutely! I specifically remember even locking the dead bolt.”
   “Who else has a key?”
   “No one,” Daniel said. “There’s only two. That’s all I had made when I bought the place and changed the locks.”
   “He must have picked the lock.”
   “If he did, then he was a professional. But why would a professional be breaking into my apartment? I don’t own anything valuable.”
   “Oh, no!” Stephanie suddenly voiced. “I left all my jewelry on top of the bureau, including my grandmother’s diamond watch.” She pushed past Daniel and headed for the bedroom.
   Daniel followed her down the hall. “That reminds me—I was stupid enough to leave all the cash I got from the ATM last night on the desk.”
   Daniel ducked into the study. To his surprise, the ATM money was exactly where he’d placed it in the center of the blotter. He picked it up, and as he did so he noticed that everything else on the desk had been moved. Daniel admitted he wasn’t the neatest person in the world, but he was supremely well organized. There might be stacks of correspondence, bills, and scientific journals on his desk, but he knew their exact location, if not the order within each pile.
   His eyes wandered over to his upright four-drawer file cabinet. Even the journal article reprints stacked on top and waiting to be filed had been moved. They hadn’t been moved a lot, but their position had definitely been changed.
   Stephanie appeared in the doorway. She sighed with relief. “We must have come home in the nick of time. Apparently, he hadn’t yet had a chance to get into the bedroom. All my stuff was where I’d left it last night.”
   Daniel held up the stack of bills. “He didn’t even take the money, and he was in here for sure.”
   Stephanie laughed hollowly. “What kind of burglar was he?”
   “I don’t find this at all funny,” Daniel said. He began opening individual drawers of both the desk and the file cabinet to check the appearance of their contents.
   “I’m not suggesting I find it funny either,” Stephanie said. “I’m trying to use humor to defuse my real feelings.”
   Daniel looked up. “What are you talking about?”
   Stephanie shook her head and breathed out forcibly. She successfully fought back tears. She was trembling. “I’m upset. This kind of unexpected event really disturbs me. I feel violated that someone was in here, invading our privacy. It emphasizes the reality that we’re always living on the edge, even when we don’t know it.”
   “I’m disturbed too,” Daniel said. “But not philosophically. I’m disturbed because there is something here I don’t understand. It seems pretty clear to me that this intruder wasn’t a run-of-the-mill burglar. He was looking for something specific, and I have no idea what it could be. That’s troubling.”
   “You don’t think we just came home before he had a chance to take anything?”
   “He’d been here for a while, certainly long enough to take some valuables, if that was what he was after. He had time to go through the desk and maybe even the file cabinet.”
   “How can you tell?”
   “I just know because of my own brand of compulsiveness. This man was a professional, and he was looking for something in particular.”
   “You mean like intellectual property perhaps associated with HTSR?”
   “It’s possible, but I doubt it. That’s all covered with adequate patents. Besides, then the break-in would have been at the office, not here.”
   “Then what else?”
   Daniel shrugged. “I don’t know.”
   “Did you call the police?”
   “I started to, but that was when he bolted out of here. Now I’m not sure we should.”
   “Why not?” Stephanie was surprised.
   “What would they do? The man’s obviously long gone. We don’t seem to be missing anything, so there’s no insurance issues, and besides, I’m not sure I want us to be asked a lot of questions about what we have been doing lately, if that were to come up. On top of that, we’re leaving tomorrow night, and I don’t want anything to mess that up.”
   “Wait a sec!” Stephanie said suddenly. “What if this episode has something to do with Butler?”
   Daniel stared across his desk at Stephanie.
   “How and why would it involve Butler?” Daniel asked.
   Stephanie returned Daniel’s gaze. The sound of the refrigerator compressor turning on in the kitchen broke the early evening silence. “I don’t know,” she said finally. “I was just thinking about his connections with the FBI, and the fact that he had had you investigated in some form or fashion. Maybe they haven’t finished.”
   Daniel nodded as he considered Stephanie’s idea, realizing it couldn’t be dismissed out of hand, despite its outlandishness. After all, the clandestine nighttime meeting with Butler two nights previously had been equally outlandish.
   “Let’s try to forget this incident for the moment,” Daniel said. “We’ve got a lot to do to get ready. Let’s start!”
   “Okay,” Stephanie said, marshaling her fortitude. “Maybe concentrating on packing will get me to relax. But first I think we should call Peter in the event this character is planning to break into the office as well.”
   “Good idea,” Daniel said. “But we’re not going to tell him about Butler. I mean, you haven’t told him, have you?”
   “No. I haven’t told him a thing.”
   “Good!” Daniel said, as he picked up the phone.

Ten

   11:45 A.M., Sunday, February 24, 2002
   As accustomed as Stephanie was to mercurial New England weather, she was still surprised at the balmy, beautiful day Sunday turned out to be. Although the winter sunlight was pale, the air was warm and the birds were loud and omnipresent as if spring were just around the corner. It was a far cry from her frigid Friday night walk home from Harvard Square with a dusting of snow on the ground.
   Stephanie had parked Daniel’s car in the city garage at Government Center and walked east into the North End, one of Boston’s quaintest neighborhoods. It was a warren of narrow streets lined with three– or four-story brick row houses. Southern Italian immigrants had adopted the area in the nineteenth century and transformed it into an ersatz Little Italy, complete with the usual sights and smells. There were always people engaged in animated conversation on the street, and the aroma of simmering Bolognese sauce permeated the air. When school was out, there were children everywhere.
   Everything seemed familiar to Stephanie as she descended Hanover Street, the commercial avenue that bisected the neighborhood. In general, the community had been a nice, social, and warmly nurturing environment for her to grow up. The only problems were the family issues she had recently admitted to Daniel. That conversation had reawakened feelings and thoughts she’d long since suppressed, the same way Anthony’s indictment did.
   Stephanie paused outside the open door of the Café Cosenza. It was one of her family’s holdings and offered Italian pastries and gelato as well as the usual espresso and cappuccino. A babble of conversation mixed with laughter and accompanied by the hiss and clank of the espresso machine drifted out, as did the smell of freshly roasted coffee. She had spent many pleasant hours enjoying cannoli, ice cream, and the camaraderie of her friends in that room, with its kitschy wall painting of Mt. Vesuvius and the Bay of Naples, yet from her current perspective, it seemed like a hundred years ago.
   Standing outside and looking in, Stephanie realized how separated she felt from her childhood and her family except, perhaps, her mother, whom she frequently phoned. Excluding her younger brother Carlo, who had gone into the priesthood, a calling she could not fathom, she was the only person in her family to have gone to college, much less get a Ph.D. And most all of her elementary school and high school girlfriends, even those who had gone on to school, were presently either living in the North End or in the Boston suburbs along with houses, husbands, SUVs, and children. Instead, she was cohabiting with a man sixteen years her senior, with whom she was struggling to keep a biotech start-up company afloat by secretly treating a U.S. senator with an unapproved, experimental, but hopefully promising therapy.
   Continuing down Hanover Street, Stephanie pondered her disconnect with her previous life. She found it interesting that it did not bother her. In retrospect, it had been a natural reaction to her discomfort about her father’s business deals and her family’s role in the community. What she found herself wondering was whether her life story would have taken a completely different track had her father been more emotionally available. As a young child, she had tried to break through the barrier of his self-centered male chauvinism and his preoccupation with whatever it was he was doing, but it had never worked. The vain effort had eventually nurtured a strong independent streak that had carried her to where she was today.
   Stephanie stopped when a curious thought occurred to her. Her father and Daniel had some things in common, despite their enormous and obvious differences. Both were equally self-centered, both could be brash on occasion to the point of being considered asocial, and both were fiercely competitive within their own worlds. On top of that, Daniel was equivalently chauvinistic; it just involved intellect rather than gender. Stephanie laughed inwardly. She questioned why the thought had never crossed her mind, since Daniel in his preoccupations could also be emotionally unavailable, especially lately, with the advent of CURE’s financial difficulties. Although psychology was far from her forte, she vaguely wondered if the similarities between her father and Daniel could have had anything to do with the attraction she felt for Daniel in the first place.
   Recommencing walking, Stephanie promised herself she’d revisit the issue when she had more time. Now she had too much to do with the Turin departure scheduled for that evening. She’d gotten up at the crack of dawn to finish packing. Then she had spent a good part of the morning at the lab with Peter, describing exactly what she wanted him to do with Butler’s culture. Luckily, the cells were progressing commendably. She’d given the culture the name of John Smith, taking the hint from Daniel’s conversation with Spencer Wingate. If Peter had any questions about what was going on regarding why they were going to Nassau, and why he was going to be sending down some of John Smith’s cryopreserved cells, he didn’t mention them.
   Stephanie turned left on Prince Street and quickened her pace. This area was even more familiar, especially when she passed her old school. Her childhood house where her parents still lived was half a block beyond the school on the right.
   The North End was a safe community, thanks to an unofficial “neighborhood watch.” There was always at least a half dozen people in sight who were socially addicted to knowing what everybody else was doing. The downside as a child was that you couldn’t get away with anything, but at the moment Stephanie savored the sense of security. Although Daniel had seemingly recovered from the intruder the previous afternoon and had dismissed the episode as unimportant in the grand scheme, Stephanie hadn’t gotten over it, at least not completely, and being back in her old surroundings was reassuring. What Stephanie continued to find unsettling was that without an explanation, the incident tended to exacerbate her unease about the Butler affair.
   Stopping in front of her old house, Stephanie eyed the fake gray stone that covered the brick on the first floor, the red aluminum awning with white scalloped trim over the front door, and the gaudily painted, plaster statue of a saint that stood in its niche. She smiled at how long it had taken her to recognize how tacky these embellishments were. Prior to that revelation, she hadn’t even noticed them.
   Although she had a key, Stephanie knocked and waited. She’d telephoned from the office to say she’d be stopping by, so there was to be no surprise. A moment later, the door was pulled open by her mother, Thea, who welcomed her with open arms. Thea’s grandfather had been Greek, and subsequently female given names had been favored on the family’s maternal side down through the years, Stephanie’s included.
   “You must be hungry,” Thea said, pulling back to eye her daughter. With her mother, food was always an issue.
   “I could use a sandwich,” Stephanie said, knowing that refusing would be impossible. She followed her mother’s slight frame into the kitchen that was redolent with the aroma of simmering food. “Something smells good.”
   “I’m making osso buco, your father’s favorite. Why don’t you stay for dinner? We’ll be eating around two.”
   “I can’t, Mom.”
   “Say hello to your father.”
   Dutifully, Stephanie poked her head into the living room immediately adjacent to the kitchen. Its décor hadn’t changed one iota from Stephanie’s earliest memories. As per usual, prior to a Sunday dinner, her father was hidden behind the Sunday paper clutched in his beefy hands. A brimming beanbag ashtray was perched on one of the La-Z-Boy’s arms.
   “Hi, Dad,” Stephanie said cheerfully.
   Anthony D’Agostino Sr. lowered the top edge of his paper. He peered at Stephanie over his reading glasses with his mildly rheumy eyes. A halo of cigarette smoke hung around him like thick smog. Despite being athletic in his youth, he was now the picture of corpulent immobility. He had gained considerable weight over the last decade, despite dire warnings from his physicians, even after his heart attack three years ago. As much as her mother lost weight, he gained in an unhealthy inverse proportionality.
   “I don’t want you upsetting your mother, you hear me? She’s been feeling good the last few days.”
   “I’ll try my best,” Stephanie said.
   He raised the paper back into position. So much for conversation, Stephanie thought, as she shrugged and rolled her eyes. She retreated back to the kitchen. Thea had gotten out cheese, bread, Parma ham, and fruit, and was arranging it on the table. Stephanie watched as Thea worked. Her mother had lost more weight since Stephanie had last seen her, which wasn’t a good sign. The bones of her hands and face protruded, with minimal flesh. Two years before, Thea had been diagnosed with breast cancer. Following surgery and chemotherapy, she’d been fine until three months ago, when there had been a relapse. A tumor had been found in one of her lungs. The prognosis was not good.
   Stephanie sat down and made herself a sandwich. Her mother got some tea and sat across from her.
   “Why can’t you stay for dinner?” Thea asked. “Your older brother is coming.”
   “With or without his wife and kids?”
   “Without,” Thea said. “He and your father have some business.”
   “That sounds familiar.”
   “Why don’t you stay? We hardly ever get to see you.”
   “I’d like to, but I can’t. I’m going away this evening for about a month, which is why I particularly wanted to come over today. I’ve got a lot to do to get ready.”
   “Are you going with that man?”
   “His name is Daniel, and yes, we are going together.”
   “You shouldn’t be living with him. It’s not right. Besides, he’s too old. You should be married to a nice, young man. You’re not so young anymore.”
   “Mother, we’ve been over this.”
   “Listen to your mother,” Anthony Sr. bellowed from the living room. “She knows what she is talking about.”
   Stephanie held her tongue.
   “Where are you going?”
   “Mostly to Nassau in the Bahamas. We’re going someplace first, but only for a day or so.”
   “Is this a vacation?”
   “No,” Stephanie said. She told her mother the trip was work-related. She didn’t give any specifics, nor did her mother ask, especially since Stephanie switched the conversation to her nieces and nephews. The grandchildren were Thea’s favorite subject. An hour later, when Stephanie was about to make her exit, the door opened and in walked Anthony Jr.
   “Will wonders never cease?” Tony said in mock surprise when he caught sight of Stephanie. He had a strong, cultivated blue-collar accent. “The high-and-mighty Harvard doctor has decided to pay us poor, working slobs a visit.”
   Stephanie looked up and smiled at her older brother. She held her tongue like she had earlier with her father. She had long ago learned not to be baited. Tony had always derided Stephanie’s schooling, as did her father, but not entirely for the same reason. With Tony, Stephanie suspected it was more jealousy, since he’d barely made it through high school. Tony’s problem wasn’t a lack of intelligence, but a lack of motivation as a teenager. As an adult, he liked to pretend he didn’t care that he hadn’t gone to college, but Stephanie knew better.
   “Mom says your boy is turning out to be quite the hockey player,” Stephanie said, to turn the conversation away from the testy subject of schooling. Tony had a twelve-year-old son and a ten-year-old daughter.
   “Yeah, a chip off the old block,” Tony said. He shared Stephanie’s coloring and approximate height, but he was built more squarely, with a thick neck and large hands like their father. And also like their father, Tony projected in Stephanie’s mind an unflattering, chauvinistic male animus, which made her feel sorry for her sister-in-law and worry about her niece.
   Tony kissed his mother on both cheeks before stepping into the living room.
   Stephanie heard the rustle of the newspaper as it was thrown aside, a slapping of hands that she could picture as a handshake, and an exchange of “How’s it going? Great! How’s it going for you? Great.” When the conversation switched to sports talk involving the various Boston professional teams, Stephanie tuned them out.
   “I’ve got to be going, Mom,” Stephanie said.
   “Why don’t you stay? I can have the dinner on the table in no time.”
   “I can’t, Mom.”
   “Dad and Tony will miss you!”
   “Oh, yeah, sure!” Stephanie said.
   “They love you in their own way.”
   “I’m certain they do,” Stephanie said with a smile. The irony was, she believed it. Stephanie reached across and squeezed Thea’s wrist. It felt fragile, as though if she pressed too hard, the bones might break. Stephanie pushed back her chair and stood up. Thea did likewise, and they hugged.
   “I’ll call from the Bahamas as soon as I get situated and give you the details about where we’re staying and the number,” Stephanie said. She gave her mother a peck on her cheek before sticking her head back into the living room. The cigarette haze was denser with both men smoking. “Goodbye, you two. I’m on my way.”
   Tony looked up. “What’s this? You’re taking off already?”
   “She’s going on a trip for a month,” Thea said over Stephanie’s shoulder. “She has to get ready.”
   “No!” Tony said. “You can’t go. Not yet! I got to talk with you. I was going to call you, but since you’re here, face-to-face is better.”
   “Then you’d better come in here on the double,” Stephanie said. “I really have to be on my way.”
   “You’ll wait until we’re finished,” Anthony said. “Tony and I are talking business.”
   “It’s okay, Pop,” Tony said. He gave his father’s knee a squeeze as he stood up. “What I have to say to Steph won’t take long.”
   Anthony grumbled as he reached for his discarded newspaper.
   Tony walked back into the kitchen. He sat down backward on one of the kitchen chairs and motioned for Stephanie to sit in one of the others. Stephanie hesitated for a moment. Tony had become increasingly peremptory since he’d assumed more of his father’s roles, and it was irksome. To avoid making it an issue, Stephanie sat, but as a compromise with herself, she told her brother he’d better be quick. She also told him to put out his cigarette, which he did grudgingly.
   “The reason I was going to call you,” Tony began, “is because Mikey Gualario, my accountant, told me that CURE is about to tank. I said that’s impossible, because my kid sister would have told me. But he says he read it in the Globe. What’s the scoop?”
   “We’re having financial difficulties,” Stephanie admitted. “It’s a political problem that is holding up our second round of financing.”
   “So the Globe wasn’t making this all up?”
   “I didn’t read the article, but as I said, we are in rather a bind.”
   Tony screwed up his face as if in thought. He nodded a few times. “Well, that’s not such great news. I guess you can understand that I might be concerned about my two-hundred-thousand-dollar loan.”

   “Correction! It wasn’t a loan. It was an investment.”
   “Wait a minute! You came to me crying that you needed money.”
   “Correction again! I said we needed to raise money, and I certainly wasn’t crying.”
   “Yeah, well, you said it was a sure thing.”
   “I said I thought it was a good investment, because it was based on a brilliant and fully patented, newly discovered procedure that promises to be a boon to medicine. But I said it wasn’t risk-free, and I gave you the prospectus. Did you read it?”
   “No, I didn’t read it. I don’t understand that kind of crap. But if the investment was so good, what’s the problem?”
   “What’s happened that no one anticipated is the possibility of a congressional ban being enacted on the procedure. But I can assure you we’re working on it, and we think we have it under control. The whole thing has been a bolt out of the blue for all of us, and proof of that is that both Daniel and I have invested every penny we have in the company, including mortgaging Daniel’s condo. I’m sorry that at the moment the investment looks less than rock-solid. I might add, I’m sorry we took your money.”
   “You and me both!”
   “What’s going to happen about this indictment of yours?”
   Tony batted the air as if shooing a fly. “Nothing. It’s a bunch of nonsense. The DA is just trying to drum up publicity to get reelected. But let’s not change the subject. You said you think you have this political problem under control.”
   “We believe so.”
   “Does this have anything to do with this monthlong trip your going on?”
   “It does,” Stephanie said. “But I can’t give you the details.”
   “Oh, really?” Tony questioned sarcastically. “I got two hundred K involved here, and you can’t give me the details. There’s something wrong with this picture.”
   “If I were to divulge what we’re doing, it would jeopardize its efficacy.”
   “Divulge, jeopardize, efficacy!” Tony mimicked derogatorily. “Give me a break! I hope you don’t think I’m going to be satisfied with a handful of ten-dollar words. Not a chance! So where are you going, Washington?”
   “She’s going to Nassau,” Thea said suddenly from where she was standing near the stove. “And don’t you be nasty to your own sister. You hear me?”
   Tony sat bolt upright with his hands dangling lifelessly at his sides. His lower jaw slowly dropped open in utter amazement. “Nassau!” he yelled. “This is getting crazier and crazier. If CURE’s ready to tank because of a political bombshell, don’t you think you should hang around and do something?”
   “That’s why we’re going to Nassau,” Stephanie said.
   “Ha!” Tony shouted. “What it sounds like to me is this so-called boyfriend of yours has it in his mind to pull off a scam.”
   “That couldn’t be further from the truth. Tony, I wish I could tell you more, but I can’t. Hopefully, in a month things will be back on track, and at that time we’ll be happy to consider your money a loan, and we will pay it back with interest.”
   “I’ll try to remember not to hold my breath.” Tony sneered. “You say you can’t tell me more, but I can tell you something. That two hundred grand wasn’t all mine.”
   “No?” Stephanie questioned. She sensed the unpleasant conversation was about to get worse.
   “You painted it as such a sweet deal, I felt I had to share it. Half the money came from the Castigliano brothers.”
   “You never told me that!”
   “I’m telling you now.”
   “Who are the Castigliano brothers?”
   “Business partners. And I can tell you something else. They are not going to like hearing about their investment loan going south. They are not accustomed to that. As your brother, I think I should tell you it’s not a good idea to go to the Bahamas.”
   “But we have to.”
   “You said that, but you’re not telling me why. It forces me to repeat myself—you and your Harvard boyfriend better stay put and mind the store, because it looks like you’re planning on frolicking in the sun with our money while we stooges freeze our asses here in Boston.”
   “Tony,” Stephanie said in the calmest, most reassuring tone she could muster. “We’re going to Nassau, and we are going to deal with this unfortunate problem.”
   Tony threw his hands up into the air, palms up. “I tried! God knows I tried!”

   Thanks to power steering, Tony only needed the index finger of his right hand to turn the steering wheel of his black Cadillac DeVille. With such a balmy evening, he had his window open with his left hand dangling outside, holding his cigarette. The distinctive crunching sound of the car tires on gravel drowned out his radio as he entered the parking area in front of the Castigliano Brothers Plumbing Supply building. It was a gray one-story, flat-roofed cinderblock structure that backed onto mudflats.
   Tony came to a stop next to three vehicles similar to his own—all of them were Cadillacs, and all of them were black. He flicked his cigarette into a pile of rusting sinks and killed the engine. As he got out of the car, he was assaulted by the odor of the salt marsh. It wasn’t pleasant. With night rapidly approaching, the wind had shifted to the east.
   The building’s façade was in need of paint. In addition to the firm’s name in block letters, there was a smattering of graffiti on the walls. The door was unlocked, and Tony walked in without knocking, as was his custom. A counter stood in the middle of the room. Behind the counter were rows of floor-to-ceiling shelves filled with plumbing materials. No one was in sight. A radio on the counter was tuned to a station playing music from the fifties.
   Tony skirted the counter and walked down the center aisle. At the rear, he opened a second door that led into an office. In contrast to the supply area, this area was relatively plush, with a leather sofa and two desks on a threadbare Oriental carpet. Small, paned windows looked out onto the mudflats that were ringed with cattails and dotted with discarded tires and other debris. There were three men sitting in the room, one at each desk and one on the sofa.
   Along with terse greetings, Tony shook hands with the two men at the desks first and then with the man on the sofa before sitting down himself. The men at the desks were the Castigliano brothers. They were twins named Sal and Louie. Tony had known them from the third grade, but by name only and not as friends. In high school they’d been scrawny, pimply kids who’d been teased mercilessly, and as adults they were still gaunt, with cadaverous cheeks and deeply set eyes.
   The man on the sofa next to Tony was Gaetano Baresse, who’d grown up in New York City. He was built like Tony, but larger and with heavier features. He normally manned the plumbing supply counter in the outer room. As a side job, he was the twin’s muscle. Most people thought he was around to make up for all the teasing the twins had weathered as schoolkids, but Tony knew better. Gaetano’s strong-arm contribution was an occasional requirement with the twins’ other business activities—some legal, some less so. It was in these business activities that Tony and the twins had become acquainted.
   “First off,” Tony said, “I want to thank you all for coming out on a Sunday.”
   “No problem,” Sal said. He was sitting to Tony’s left. “I hope you don’t mind that we invited Gaetano.”
   “When you called and said there was trouble, we thought he should be included,” Louie added.
   “No problem,” Tony said. “I just wish we could have had this get-together a little earlier, which I’ll explain.”
   “We did the best we could,” Sal said.
   “My cell phone battery was dead,” Gaetano said. “I was at my sister-in-law’s house, playing pool. I was hard to find.”
   Tony lit up a cigarette and offered them all around. Everyone took one. Soon they were all smoking.
   After taking a few deep drags, Tony put his cigarette down. He needed his hands to gesture while he talked. Thus prepared, he told the Castigliano brothers word for word as he remembered it the conversation he’d had earlier that afternoon with Stephanie. He left nothing out, nor did he mince words. He said it was his opinion and that of his accountant that Stephanie’s company was going belly-up.
   While Tony spoke, the twins became progressively agitated. Sal, who had been fiddling with a paper clip by bending it back and forth, snapped it in two. Louie angrily stubbed out his half-smoked cigarette.
   “I don’t believe this!” Sal said when Tony concluded.
   “Is your sister married to this twerp?” Louie demanded.
   “No, they just live together.”
   “Well, I tell you, we’re not going to sit around while this bastard enjoys himself in the sun,” Sal said. “No way!”
   “We have to let him know we’re not pleased,” Louie said. “He’s either got to get his ass back up here and straighten things out, or else. You got that, Gaetano?”
   “Yeah, sure. When?”
   Louie looked at Sal. Sal looked at Tony.
   “It’s too late today,” Tony said. “Which is why I would have liked to have seen you guys earlier. They’re on their way someplace before they head to Nassau. But my sister will be calling my ma when she’s settled in the Bahamas.”
   “You’ll let us know?” Sal questioned.
   “Yeah, sure. But the deal is, you leave my sister out of it.”
   “Our beef’s not with her,” Louie said. “At least, I don’t think it is.”
   “It’s not,” Tony said. “Trust me! I don’t want there to be bad blood between us.”
   “Our beef’s with him,” Sal said.
   Louie looked at Gaetano. “I guess you’ll be going to Nassau.”
   Gaetano cracked the knuckles of his right hand with his left. “Sounds good to me!”

Eleven

   7:00 A.M., Monday, February 25, 2002
   “Stephanie!” Daniel called softly as he gently shook her shoulder. “They are about to serve breakfast. Do you want any, or should I let you sleep until we land?”
   Stephanie forcibly opened her eyes, rubbed them, and yawned at the same time. Then she had to blink rapidly a few times before she was able to see. Her eyes were dry from the plane’s parched atmosphere.
   “Where are we?” she asked in a husky voice. Her throat was dry as well. She sat up and stretched. Then she leaned over and looked out the window. Although there was a hint of dawn along the horizon, the ground below was still dark. She could see the lights of cities and towns dotting the landscape.
   “My guess would be we’re over someplace in France,” Daniel said.
   Despite attempts at planning to avoid a last-minute rush, the night before had been an anxious scramble to get out of Daniel’s apartment, get to Logan Airport, and get through security. They’d made the flight with less than ten minutes to spare. Thanks to Butler’s money, they were flying Alitalia’s Magnifica Class and were seated in the first two seats on the left side of the Boeing 767 aircraft.
   Stephanie raised the back of her seat from its reclined position. “How come you’re so wide awake? Did you sleep?”
   “Not a wink,” Daniel admitted. “I started reading these books of yours about the Shroud of Turin, particularly the one by Ian Wilson. I can see why you got hooked. It’s fascinating stuff.”
   “You must be exhausted.”
   “I’m not,” Daniel said. “Reading about the shroud has kind of energized me. I’m even more encouraged about treating Butler and using the shroud’s DNA fragments. In fact, it occurred to me that maybe after we finish with Butler, we should go ahead and treat another celebrity someplace offshore with the same DNA source, somebody who doesn’t mind publicity. Once the story of the cure hits the media, no politician would dare interfere, and better yet, the FDA would be forced to alter their protocol for approval of the treatment.”
   “Whoa!” Stephanie warned. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. We need to concentrate on Butler for the time being. His cure is not a given by any stretch of the imagination.”
   “You don’t think treating another celebrity is a good idea?”
   “I need to give it some thought to respond intelligently,” Stephanie said, trying to be diplomatic. “Right now my mind is a bit addled. I need to use the restroom, and then I want some breakfast. I’m starved. When my mind is firing on all cylinders, I want to hear what you have read about the shroud, particularly whether you have a hypothesis of how the image was formed.”
   Less than an hour later, they landed at Rome’s Fiumicino Airport. Along with a crush of other people arriving at the same time from various international destinations, they got through passport control and then managed to find their way to the gate for their connecting flight to Turin. At a nearby coffee bar, Daniel indulged himself with an Italian espresso that he bolted down like the local patrons. There was no Magnifica Class on this leg, and once they boarded the plane, they found themselves in a tight cabin filled with businessmen. Stephanie was in the middle seat and Daniel on the aisle, halfway down the aircraft’s cabin.
   “This is cozy,” Daniel commented. Thanks to his six-foot-one-inch frame, his knees were pressed up against the seat in front of him.
   “How are you feeling now? Are you tired?”
   “No, and especially not after that jolt of high-test coffee.”
   “Then talk to me about the shroud! I really want to hear.” Thanks to the long line waiting to use the restroom on the flight from Boston to Rome, there hadn’t been time for the subject to come up before they landed.
   “Well, first off, I don’t have any theory about how the image was formed. It’s definitely an intriguing mystery, that much I’ll agree, and I was particularly taken by the poetic way Ian Wilson described it as ‘a photographic negative waiting dormant like a time capsule for the moment of photography’s invention.’ But the idea of the image being evidence of the Resurrection as both you and he suggested, I don’t buy. It’s faulty scientific reasoning. You can’t posit an unknown and counterintuitive process of dematerialization to explain an unknown phenomenon.”
   “What about black holes?”
   “What are you talking about?”
   “Black holes have been posited to explain unknown phenomena, and black holes are certainly counterintuitive from our direct scientific experience.”
   There was a period of silence, save for the muffled roar of the jet engines mingling with the rustle of morning newspapers and the tapping of laptop keyboards.
   “You have a point,” Daniel admitted finally.
   “Let’s move on! What else caught your interest?”
   “Quite a few things. One that comes to mind is the result of reflectance spectroscopy showing dirt on the images of the feet. It seemed to me to be such an ordinary discovery, until I learned that some of the granules were identified by optical crystallography to be travertine aragonite that had a spectral signature matching limestone samples taken from ancient Jerusalem tombs.”
   Stephanie laughed. “Leave it to you to be impressed by one of the more arcane scientific details. I don’t even remember that tidbit.”
   “It strains one’s credibility that a fourteenth-century French forger would have gone to such an extent as to obtain and sprinkle such detritus on his supposed creation.”
   “I couldn’t agree more.”
   “Another fact that caught my attention was that when one looks at the intersection of the habitats of the three Middle-Eastern plants whose pollens are the most prevalent on the shroud, it narrows the shroud’s apparent origin to the twenty miles between Hebron and Jerusalem.”
   “Curious, isn’t it?”
   “It’s more than curious,” Daniel said. “Whether the shroud is the burial cloth of Jesus Christ or not is certainly not proved—nor, I might add, can it ever be—but in my mind the artifact came from Jerusalem, and it wrapped a man who had been scourged in the ancient Roman fashion, whose nose had been broken, who had thorn wounds on his head, and who had been crucified and suffered a lance wound to his chest.”
   “What did you think of the historical aspect?”
   “It was well presented and captivating,” Daniel acknowledged. “After reading it, I’m willing to entertain the idea that the Shroud of Turin and the Edessa Cloth are one and the same. I was particularly taken by the way the shroud’s crease marks have been used to explain how it could have been displayed in Constantinople as merely the head of Jesus, as the Edessa Cloth was generally described, or Jesus’ entire body, front and back, as described by the crusader Robert de Clari. He was the individual who saw it just prior to its disappearance during the sacking of Constantinople in 1204.”
   “Which means the carbon-dating results are in error.”
   “As troublesome as that sounds to me as a scientist, it seems to be true.”
   Hardly had they gotten their orange juices before the seat-belt sign came back on, along with an announcement that the pilots were making their initial approach to Turin’s Caselle Airport. Fifteen minutes later, they landed. As full as the plane was, it took them almost as long as the flight from Rome to get off the plane, walk the length of the concourse, and find the appropriate luggage carousel.
   While Daniel waited for their bags to appear, Stephanie noticed a cell phone concession, and she went over to rent one. Before leaving Boston, she had learned that her stateside cell phone would not function in Europe, although it would in Nassau, and to be sure she did not miss any emails from Butler while in Turin, she needed a European cell phone number. As soon as she could, she planned to set it up so Butler’s emails would go to both numbers.
   Emerging from the terminal with their luggage in tow and their coats on, they joined a taxi line. While they waited, they got their first glimpse of the Piedmont. To the west and north they could see snowcapped mountains. To the south, a mauve haze hung over the industrial part of the city. The weather was cool and not too dissimilar to what they had left in Boston, which made sense, since the two cities were at approximately the same latitude.
   “I hope I don’t regret not renting a car,” Daniel said, while watching the full taxis rocket away.
   “The guidebook said parking in the city is impossible,” Stephanie reminded him. “The positive side is that Italian drivers are supposed to be good, even if they are fast.”
   Once underway, Daniel held on with white-knuckle intensity as the driver lived up to Stephanie’s description. The taxi was a postmodern Fiat with blocky styling that made it appear to be an amalgam of an SUV and a compact car. Unfortunately for Daniel, it was remarkably responsive to the accelerator.
   Stephanie had been to Italy on several occasions and had specific expectations of what the city would look like. Initially, she was disappointed. Turin had none of the medieval or Renaissance charm she associated with places like Florence or Siena. Instead, it seemed to be an indeterminately modern city beset with suburban sprawl and, at the moment, caught in the clutches of morning rush hour. The traffic was heavy, and all the Italian drivers seemed equally aggressive, with lots of horn blowing, rapid accelerations, and equally rapid braking. The ride was nerve-racking, especially for Daniel. Stephanie tried to start a conversation, but Daniel was too engrossed with watching for the next close call out the windshield.
   Daniel had booked a single-night stay in what his guidebook described as the city’s best hotel, the Grand Belvedere. It was in the center of the old city, and as they entered that quarter, Stephanie’s impression of Turin began to change. She still wasn’t seeing the kind of architecture she expected, but the city began to have its own unique charm, with wide boulevards, arcaded squares, and elegant Baroque buildings. By the time they pulled up in front of their hotel, Stephanie’s disappointment had metamorphosed into a qualified appreciation.
   The Grand Belvedere was the last word in late-nineteenth-century luxury. The lobby was embellished with more gilded putti and cherubs than Stephanie had ever seen in one place. Marble columns soared up to support archways, while fluted pilasters lined the walls. Liveried doormen rushed to carry in their luggage, which was a rather extensive collection, since they had packed for a month’s stay in Nassau.
   Their room had a high ceiling, a large Murano chandelier, and less ornamentation than the lobby, but it was just as glitzy. Gilded winged cherubs hovered in all four corners of the heavy cornice. The tall windows looked out onto the Piazza Carlo Alberto, on which the hotel was sited. Heavy, dark red brocade curtains with hundreds of tassels draped the windows. The furniture, including the bed, was all composed of massively carved dark wood. On the floor was a thick Oriental carpet.
   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.”
   “What is it you are looking for?” Valerio asked.
   “I’m not sure,” Michael admitted. “His Eminence James Cardinal O’Rourke is exchanging this tiny sample in return for a major political benefit to the church. At the same time, he wants to be one hundred percent sure the Holy Father’s dictums against scientific testing of the shroud are not violated.”
   Valerio nodded as if he understood, but he really didn’t. Exchanging bits of a relic for political favors was beyond his experience, especially with the caveat of having no official documentation. It was worrisome. At the same time, he knew that the few fibers in the silver box had come from a sample of the shroud taken many years previously, and the shroud itself had not been recently disturbed. The Holy Father’s main concern about the shroud was conservancy.
   Luigi stood up. “If I am to make the appointment on time, I should be leaving.”
   Michael stood up as well. “We’ll go together, if you don’t mind. I’ll watch the exchange from afar. After the sample is handed over, I intend to follow these people. I want to know where they are staying, in the event their identities are troublesome.”
   Valerio stood up with the others. His expression was one of confusion. “What will you do if, as you say, their identities are troublesome?”
   “I will be forced to improvise,” Michael said. “On that point, the cardinal’s instructions were vague.”

   “This city is rather attractive,” Daniel said, as he and Stephanie walked west along streets lined with palatial ducal residences. “I wasn’t impressed at first, but I am now.”
   “I had the same impression,” Stephanie said.
   Within a few blocks of walking, they reached Piazza San Carlo, and the vista opened up to a grand square the size of a football field lined with handsome, cream-colored baroque buildings. The façades were ornamented with a pleasing profusion of decorative forms. In the center of the square stood an imposing, bronze equestrian statue. The Caffè Torino was midway along the western side. Inside the café, they found themselves enveloped in an aroma redolent of freshly ground coffee. A number of large crystal chandeliers hanging from a frescoed ceiling washed the interior with a warm, incandescent glow.
   They did not have to look long for Monsignor Mansoni. The priest stood up the moment they entered and waved them over to his table along the far wall. As they wended their way toward him, Stephanie glanced around at the other patrons. Monsignor Mansoni’s odd comment that there shouldn’t be many priests in the café was correct. Stephanie saw only one other. He was sitting by himself and, for a brief moment, Stephanie had the unsettling sensation that his eyes had locked onto hers.
   “Welcome to Turin,” Luigi said. He shook hands with both his guests and gestured for them to sit. His eyes lingered on Stephanie long enough to make her feel mildly uncomfortable, as she remembered Daniel’s inappropriate description.
   A waiter appeared in response to the monsignor’s snapping of his fingers and took Stephanie and Daniel’s order. Daniel had another espresso, while Stephanie was content with sparkling water.
   Daniel eyed the prelate. His description of himself as being portly was no understatement. A large dewlap practically obscured the man’s white clerical collar. As a medical doctor, he wondered what the priest’s cholesterol level was.
   “I suppose to begin we should introduce ourselves. I am Luigi Mansoni, formerly of Verona, Italy, but now I live here in Turin.”
   Daniel and Stephanie took turns introducing themselves by giving their names and that they lived in Cambridge, Massachusetts. At that point, the coffee and water arrived.
   Daniel took a sip and replaced the cup in its tiny saucer. “Without meaning to be rude, I’d like to get to business. I assume you have brought the sample.”
   “Of course,” Luigi replied.
   “We must be sure the sample comes from an area of the shroud with a bloodstain,” Daniel continued.
   “I can assure you that it does. It was selected by the professor entrusted with the conservancy of the shroud by the Archbishop, Cardinal Manfredi, who is its current custodian.”
   “Well?” Daniel questioned. “Can we have it?”
   “In a moment,” Luigi said. He reached into his cassock and produced a small pad and pen. “Before I deliver the sample, I have been instructed to get particulars as to your identities. With the controversy and media frenzy swirling about the shroud, the church is insistent on knowing who has possession of all samples.”
   “Senator Ashley Butler is to be the recipient,” Daniel said.
   “That is my understanding. However, until then we need to have proof of your identities. I’m sorry, but those are my instructions.”
   Daniel looked at Stephanie. Stephanie shrugged. “What kind of proof are you looking for?”
   “Passports and current addresses would be adequate.”
   “I don’t have a problem with that,” Stephanie said. “And the address in the passport is my current address.”
   “I suppose I don’t have a problem either,” Daniel said.
   The two Americans produced their documents and slid them across the table. Luigi opened each in turn and copied down the information. He then pushed them back. Pocketing his pad and pen, he produced the silver box. With obvious deference, he slid it toward Daniel.
   “May I?” Daniel questioned.
   “Of course,” Luigi replied.
   Daniel picked up the silver box. There was a small latch on its side, which he slid to the open position. Carefully, he lifted the lid. Stephanie leaned so she could see over his shoulder. Inside was a small, sealed, semitransparent glassine envelope containing a tiny but adequate mat of fibers of indeterminate color.
   “Looks good,” Daniel said. He closed the lid and secured the latch. He handed the case to Stephanie, who slipped it into her shoulder bag along with their passports.
   Fifteen minutes later, Daniel and Stephanie reemerged into the pale midday midwinter sunshine. They headed diagonally across San Carlo Square en route back to their hotel. Despite their jet lag, there was a spring to their step. Both felt mildly euphoric.
   “Now, that couldn’t have been any easier,” Daniel commented.
   “I’d have to agree,” Stephanie said.
   “I would never remind you of your earlier pessimism,” Daniel teased. “I’d never do that.”
   “Wait a second,” Stephanie chided. “We got the shroud sample with ease, but we’re still a long way from treating Butler. My worries are about the whole affair.”
   “I think this little episode is just a harbinger of things to come.”
   “I hope you are right.”
   “What do you think we should do with the rest of the day?” Daniel asked. “Our flight to London is not until five after seven in the morning.”
   “I need a short nap,” Stephanie said. “And you must need one as well. Why don’t we go back to the hotel, have a bite of lunch followed by a half hour of shut-eye, and then head out? There are a few things I’d like to see while we’re here, particularly the church where the shroud is housed.”
   “Sounds like a good plan to me,” Daniel said agreeably.

   Michael Maloney hung back as far as he dared without losing Daniel and Stephanie. He was surprised at how quickly they were moving, and he had to keep pace. When he’d emerged from the café, he’d been lucky to catch sight of them, as they had practically already cleared the square.
   At the moment the two Americans had left the café, Michael had conferred briefly with Luigi to encourage him to run the identities through the civil authorities and let him know on his cell phone as soon as any information was available. Michael said he intended to keep the Americans in sight or at least know their location until he was satisfied with the information.
   When the Americans disappeared around a corner, Michael broke into a run until they were back in sight. He was intent on not losing them. Taking a direct clue from his mentor and boss, James Cardinal O’Rourke, Michael was treating his current commission with great seriousness. He strongly aspired to rising in the church hierarchy, and to date, things had been going as planned. First, there had been the opportunity to study in Rome. Next had come the recognition of his talents by the then Bishop O’Rourke, the invitation to join his staff, and the elevation of the bishop to archbishop. At this point in his career, Michael knew his success depended solely on pleasing his powerful superior, and he intuitively knew this assignment concerning the shroud was a golden opportunity. Thanks to its importance to the cardinal, it was affording him a unique circumstance to demonstrate his unswerving loyalty, dedication, and even his ability to improvise, given the lack of specific guidelines.
   Emerging into the Piazza Carlo Alberto, Michael surmised the couple was headed toward the Grand Belvedere. He quickened his pace to almost a jog in order to be right behind the Americans as they entered. Inside, he held back as they boarded an elevator, and then watched the indicator as it rose to the fourth floor. Satisfied, Michael retreated to the sitting area within the hotel’s lobby. He sat down on a velvet couch, picked up a copy of the Corriere della Sera, and began to read while keeping one eye on the bank of elevators. So far, so good, he thought.
   He didn’t have to wait long. The couple reemerged and then went into the dining room. Michael responded by moving from one couch to another, which afforded a better view of the dining room entrance. He was confident that no one had paid him the slightest heed. He knew that in Italy, wearing Roman Catholic priestly garb gave one both access and anonymity.
   A half hour later, when the couple came out of the dining room, Michael had to smile. A half hour for lunch was so American. He knew that the Italians in the room were all settled in for at least two hours. The Americans went back to the elevator and once more rose up to the fourth floor.
   Michael had considerably longer to wait on this occasion. Finishing the newspaper, he looked around for something else to read. Not finding anything and reluctant to risk going to the sundries shop, he began thinking about what he would do if the information he hoped to get from Luigi was not appropriate. He wasn’t even sure what wasn’t going to be appropriate. What he expected to learn was that at least one of the pair worked in some capacity for Senator Butler or possibly an organization that had ties to the senator. He remembered the senator specifically saying he would dispatch an agent to get the sample. Exactly what he meant by “agent” remained to be seen.
   Michael stretched and looked at his watch. It was now going on three in the afternoon, and his stomach began to growl. He’d not eaten, save for the bit of pastry at the Caffè Torino. While his mind teased him with images of his favorite pastas, his cell phone buzzed in his pocket. He’d deliberately turned off its ringer. In a bit of a panic lest he miss the call, he got the phone out and answered. It was Luigi.

   “The report just came in from my contacts with the immigration people,” Luigi said. “I don’t believe you are going to like what I have learned.”
   “Oh!” Michael commented. He tried to remain calm. Unfortunately, at that moment the Americans stepped from the elevator with coats on and guidebooks in hand, obviously ready to go on an outing. Fearing they might take a taxi, which would add an element of difficulty, Michael struggled to get into his own coat while keeping the phone pressed to his ear. The Americans moved quickly, as they had done earlier. “Hang on, Luigi!” Michael said, interrupting the monsignor. “I’m on the move here.” With one arm in his coat, Michael had gotten the free sleeve caught in the revolving door. He had to back up to free himself.
   “Prego!” the doorman said, as he lent a hand.
   “Mi scusi,” Michael responded. Freed from the door, he rushed outside and was rewarded to see the Americans passing the taxi stand and heading toward the northwest corner of the square. He slowed to a fast walk.
   “Sorry, Luigi,” Michael said into the phone. “The couple just decided to leave the hotel the moment you called. What were you saying?”
   “I said they are both scientists,” Luigi responded.
   Michael felt his pulse quicken. “That’s not good news!”
   “I didn’t think so either. Apparently, their names came right up when the Italian authorities contacted their American counterparts asking for information. They are both Ph.D.s in the biomolecular arena, with Daniel Lowell more of a chemist and Stephanie D’Agostino more of a biologist. They are apparently well known in their fields, he more than she. Since they both have the same home address, they are apparently cohabitating.”
   “Good grief!” Michael commented.
   “They certainly don’t sound like normal couriers.”
   “This is a worst-case scenario.”
   “I agree. With their backgrounds, they must be planning on some sort of testing. What are you going to do?”
   “I don’t know yet,” Michael said. “I’ve got to think.”
   “Let me know if I can help!”
   “I’ll be in touch,” Michael said before terminating the call.
   Although Michael had just told Luigi he didn’t know what he was going to do, that wasn’t quite true. He had already decided he was going to retrieve the shroud sample; he just didn’t know how. What he did know is that he wanted to do it himself so that when he reported back to Cardinal O’Rourke, he could take full credit for saving his Savior’s blood from further scientific indignity.
   The Americans reached the expansive Piazza Castello but did not slow down. Michael’s first thought was that they planned to visit the Palazzo Reale, the former residence of the House of Savoy, but he changed his mind when the Americans skirted the Piazzeta Reale to reach the Piazza Giovanni.
   “Of course!” Michael said out loud. He knew the Duomo di San Giovanni stood on the square, and the church was the current home of the shroud following the 1997 fire in its chapel. Michael followed a little farther behind, to be certain of the Americans’ destination. As soon as he saw them mount the front steps of the cathedral, he turned around and began retracing his steps. Assuming his charges would be suitably engaged away from their hotel for the time being, Michael thought he’d better take advantage of the opportunity. If he were to retrieve the shroud sample, this might be the best time, if not the only time, assuming they would be leaving in the morning.
   Although Michael was already slightly out of breath, he pushed himself to quicken his pace. He wanted to get back to the Grand Belvedere as quickly as possible. Despite his obvious inexperience with intrigue in general and with burglary in particular, he had to find out which room in the hotel Daniel and Stephanie occupied, manage to get into it, and find the silver case, all within a couple hours.

   “Is this the actual shroud we’re looking at?” Daniel asked in a whisper. There were a number of other people in the cathedral, but they were either kneeling in prayer in the pews or lighting candles in front of religious statuary. The only sounds were the occasional echoes of heels against the marble floor as people moved about.
   “No, it’s not the shroud,” Stephanie whispered back. “It’s a full-sized photographic replica.” She was holding the guidebook open to the proper page. She and Daniel were facing a glass-front alcove that encompassed the first floor of the north transept of the church. One story above the enclosure was the curtained box from which the former Dukes and Duchesses of Savoy witnessed the celebration of the Mass.
   The photograph was displayed landscape-wise. The heads of the front and back image of the crucified man almost touched in the center, which was explained by the man having been placed supine on the cloth and then the cloth having been folded over on top of him. The frontal image was to the left. The photograph was positioned on what appeared to be a table fourteen feet long and four feet wide, draped to the floor with pleated blue fabric.
   “The photograph is sitting on the new conservation case that houses the shroud,” Stephanie explained. “It has a hydraulic system, so that when the shroud is to be displayed, the top can be rotated upward, and the relic can be viewed through bulletproof glass.”
   “I remember reading about it,” Daniel commented. “It sounds like an impressive setup. For the first time in the shroud’s long life, it rests completely horizontal in a controlled atmosphere.”
   “It’s truly amazing that the image has lasted as long as it has, considering what it has been through.”
   “Looking at this full-size photo, I find the image more difficult to discern than I imagined. In fact, if this is what the shroud itself looks like, it’s somewhat anticlimactic. It can be seen and appreciated better in the book you got.”
   “And better still in the negative,” Stephanie added.
   “Apparently, the image hasn’t faded. What’s happened is the background has yellowed, so the contrast is diminished.”
   “I hope the new conservation case keeps that from happening any more,” Stephanie remarked. “Well, so much for where the shroud rests.” She turned and glanced around the cathedral’s interior. “I thought we might want to stroll around in here, but for an Italian Renaissance Church, this is rather plain.”
   “I was thinking the same thing,” Daniel said. “Let’s move on. How about taking a peek at the royal palace? The interior is supposed to be quintessentially rococo.”
   Stephanie looked at Daniel askance. “When have you become such an expert on architecture and interior design?”
   Daniel laughed. “I just read it in the guidebook before we left.”
   “Well, I’d love to see the palace, except I have a problem.”
   “What kind of problem?”
   Stephanie looked down at her feet. “I forgot to put on some decent walking shoes instead of these that I wore to lunch. I’m afraid my feet are going to be killing me if we traipse around all afternoon. I’m sorry, but would you mind terribly if we went back to the hotel briefly?”
   “As far as I’m concerned, now that we got the shroud sample, we’re just killing time. I don’t care what we do.”
   “Thanks,” Stephanie said, relieved. Daniel could be impatient with such lapses. “I really am sorry. I should have known better. And while we’re there, I’m going to put on another sweater. It’s colder out than I thought.”

   Except in conjunction with some harmless pranks as a college student, Father Michael Maloney had never knowingly broken a civil law, and the fact that he was now about to do so caused more anxiety than he had anticipated. Not only was he shaky and perspiring, but he also had enough epigastric distress to wish he had an antacid. Adding to his burden was the concern about time. He certainly did not want to be caught flagrante delicto by the Americans. Although he was confident they would be away for two or more hours on their sightseeing foray, he decided to limit himself to one hour just to be sure. The mere thought of being surprised made his knees feel weak.
   As he had approached the Grand Belvedere, he had no idea how he was going to accomplish his goal, at least not until he had passed a flower shop in the same square with the hotel. Ducking into the shop, he had inquired if one of their prepared flower arrangements could be delivered immediately to the hotel. When he’d gotten a positive reply, he picked out an arrangement, addressed an envelope with the Americans’ names, and signed the card:


Welcome to the Grand Belvedere, the management.

   And now, five minutes later, while Michael was sitting on the same sofa in the hotel lobby he’d occupied earlier, the flower arrangement came through the revolving door. Lifting his newspaper to cover his face, Michael watched surreptitiously as the same woman he’d dealt with in the flower shop delivered the flowers to the bell desk. One of the bellmen signed for them, and the woman left.
   Unfortunately, for the next ten minutes nothing happened. The flowers stood on the bell desk as the bellmen engaged in animated conversation with each other.
   “Come on!” Michael voiced silently while gritting his teeth. He wanted to go over to the bell desk and complain, but he dared not. He didn’t want to draw any attention to himself. His plan was to take full advantage of his priestly garb to appear harmless, if not relatively invisible.
   Finally, one of the bellmen checked the envelope on the flowers and then went behind the bell desk. Michael could tell he was checking a computer screen by the reflection of light on the man’s face. A moment later, he came from behind the desk, picked up the flowers, and headed for the elevator. Michael put his newspaper aside and stayed right behind him.
   The bellman nodded a greeting to Michael as the doors closed. Michael smiled back. At the fourth floor, the bellman exited and Michael did the same. Keeping a little distance between himself and the bellman, Michael followed. When the bellman stopped outside room 408 and knocked, Michael passed by. The bellman nodded and smiled. Michael did the same.
   Michael rounded a corner and stopped. Carefully, he looked back. He saw the bellman knock again before getting out a ring of keys on a chain. He opened the door and disappeared for a moment. When he reappeared sans flowers, he was whistling softly. He closed the door and walked back to the elevators.
   When the bellman was gone, Michael walked back to room 408. He didn’t expect the door to be unlocked, and it wasn’t. Looking down the length of the corridor, he saw a cleaning cart. Taking a deep breath and blowing up his cheeks momentarily to bolster his courage, Michael headed toward the cart. It was positioned next to a door held open by a doorstop.
   Michael knocked tentatively on the open door. “Scusi!” he called out. He heard a television playing in the background. Entering the room, he saw two middle-aged women in brown dress uniforms making the bed. “Scusi!” Michael called, considerably more loudly.
   The women responded as if shocked. Both perceptively blanched. One recovered enough to run over and turn off the television.
   Marshaling his best Italian, Michael asked the women if they could help him. He explained he’d left his key in room 408, and he needed to make an immediate telephone call. He wanted to know if they would be so kind as to open his door to keep him from having to go down to the front desk.
   The women exchanged a confused glance. It took Michael a moment to realize that they spoke very little Italian. He explained his supposed predicament again, speaking slowly and distinctly. On this occasion, one of the women got the message, and to Michael’s relief held up her passkeys. Michael nodded.
   As if to make up for the communication difficulties, the woman pushed past Michael and practically ran down the hall. It was all Michael could do to keep up with her. She unlocked room 408 and held the door open. Michael thanked her as he stepped over the threshold. The door closed.
   Michael exhaled. He didn’t realize he’d been holding his breath. He backed up to lean against the door as he surveyed the room. The drapes were open, and there was plenty of light. There was more luggage than he expected, although all but two of the bags were still zippered or latched as if they had yet to be opened. Unfortunately, there was no silver box visible on the bureau, the desk, or the nightstands.
   Michael could feel his pulse racing. He was also perspiring copiously. “I’m not good at this,” he whispered. He desperately wanted to find the silver box and leave. It took all his willpower to stay in the room.
   Pushing off from the door, he went first to the desk. Centered on the blotter between two laptop shoulder bags was a room key for 408. After a moment’s hesitation, Michael picked it up and pocketed it. Rapidly, he searched the laptop bags—no silver case. It took only a moment for him to go through the desk drawers. Save for the hotel stationery, they were empty. Next was the bureau. It too was empty, except for laundry forms and plastic laundry bags. The small drawers of the nightstands were also empty. He checked the bathroom, but no silver box. Looking into the closet, he saw a safe and breathed a sigh of relief. The door was ajar and it was empty. He checked the pockets of a man’s jacket hanging on the rod—nothing.
   Turning back into the room, he eyed the unlatched suitcases. They were on luggage stands at the foot of the bed. Approaching each in turn, he raised their lids and ran his hand around their peripheries. He encountered various and sundry objects but no silver box. He then carefully lifted the clothing to search more thoroughly. Suddenly, he heard voices, and to his horror, it sounded like American English. He stood up, frozen in place. In the next instant, he heard the worst sound he could have imagined. It was the sound of a key being thrust into the door lock!

Twelve

   3:45 P.M., Monday, February 25, 2002
   “What on Earth?” Stephanie questioned. She was standing in the doorway to their room. Daniel peered over her shoulder.
   “What’s the matter?” Daniel asked.
   “There are flowers on the bureau,” Stephanie said. “Who in God’s name would be sending us flowers?”
   “Butler?”
   “He doesn’t know we’re here in Turin, unless you emailed him.”
   “I didn’t email him,” Daniel said, as if it were totally out of the realm of possibility. “But with his intelligence connections, maybe he knows. After having me investigated, I wouldn’t put it past him. Or maybe Monsignor Mansoni communicated that the sample had been delivered.”
   Stephanie walked over to the arrangement and opened the envelope. “Oh, for goodness sake. It’s just the hotel management.”
   “That’s nice,” Daniel said indifferently. He went into the bathroom to use the toilet.
   Stephanie moved over to her suitcase that was perched on the luggage stand. She had a pair of walking shoes tucked along the left side. Lifting up the unlatched top to the bag, she hesitated. A linen shirt she had painstakingly packed back in Boston was mildly amiss, with its edge folded over. With her finger, she righted the fold. As she feared, a crease remained, even after she tried to smooth it out with the palm of her hand. Mumbling one of her private vulgarities to herself, she started to reach for the walking shoes when her eye caught an article of lingerie, which was also slightly disarranged and which she had packed with equal care.
   Stephanie righted herself and stared down at her open suitcase. “Daniel! Come in here!”
   With the sound of the toilet flushing in the background, Daniel’s face appeared in the bathroom doorway. He was holding a towel. “What’s up?” he questioned with raised eyebrows. He could tell from the sound of her voice that she was mildly perturbed.
   “Someone has been in our room!”
   “We already knew that when we saw the flowers.”
   “Come over here!”
   Daniel slung the towel over his shoulder as he walked over to stand next to Stephanie. He followed her pointing finger and looked down at her open suitcase.
   “Someone has been in my bag,” Stephanie said.
   “How can you tell?”
   Stephanie explained.
   “Those are pretty subtle changes,” Daniel said. He patted her patronizingly on her back. “You’ve been in your bag yourself before we went out. Are you sure you’re not having a minor attack of paranoia, thanks to the Cambridge break-in?”
   “Someone has been in my bag!” Stephanie repeated heatedly. She pushed his hand away. With her jet lag and being overtired, she felt instantly frustrated that Daniel was being so dismissive. “Look in your suitcase!”
   Rolling his eyes, Daniel opened his unlatched bag on the stand next to Stephanie’s. “Okay, I’m looking in mine,” he reported.
   “Anything amiss?”
   Daniel shrugged. He was far from the world’s neatest packer, and he had rummaged in his bag earlier when retrieving clean underwear. All at once, he froze, then slowly raised his eyes to Stephanie’s. “My God! There is something missing!”
   “What?” Stephanie clutched Daniel’s arm as she looked into his bag.
   “Somebody took my vial of plutonium!”
   Stephanie swatted Daniel’s shoulder. He responded by protecting himself in an exaggerated fashion from further blows, which never came.
   “I’m being serious,” Stephanie complained stridently. Returning to her own bag, she picked up her hairbrush and brandished it. “Here’s something else! When we left on our outing, this brush was directly on top of my clothes, not lying in the suitcase’s gutter. I remember because I thought about taking it back into the bathroom. I’m telling you—someone has been in my bag!”
   “All right! All right!” Daniel soothed. “Take it easy!”
   Stephanie reached into her bag’s side pocket and pulled out a zippered velvet pouch. She opened it and peered inside. “At least my jewelry is okay, including the little bit of cash that I keep in here. It’s a good thing I didn’t bring anything truly valuable.”
   “Maybe housekeeping had to move the bags?” Daniel suggested.
   “Give me a break!” Stephanie responded, as if Daniel’s suggestion was preposterous. Her eyes wandered around the room until they came to rest on the desk. “My room key is gone! I left it on the blotter.”
   “Are you sure?”
   “Don’t you remember we talked about it before we left, whether we needed two keys?”
   “Vaguely.”
   Stephanie strode into the bathroom. Daniel’s eyes roamed the room. He couldn’t decide if Stephanie’s paranoia was worth indulging, since he was aware she was still upset about the intruder in Cambridge. He knew that hotel people such as housekeeping, minibar stockers, room-service personnel, and bellmen were in and out of rooms all the time. Maybe one of them had poked their hands into her bag. For some people, it might be a huge temptation.
   “Someone has also been in my cosmetics bag,” Stephanie called from the bathroom.
   Daniel walked to the door and stood on the threshold. “Is anything missing?”
   “No, nothing is missing!” Stephanie answered irritably.
   “Hey, don’t get mad at me!”
   Stephanie straightened up, shut her eyes, and took a deep breath. She nodded a few times. “You’re right. I’m sorry. I’m not mad at you, just frustrated you’re not as upset about this as I.”
   “If we were missing something, it would be different.”
   Stephanie closed the cover of her makeup bag. She stepped over to Daniel and put her arms around him. He enveloped her similarly.
   “It upsets me when people paw through my belongings, especially after what happened the day before we left.”
   “That’s entirely understandable,” Daniel said.
   “It is curious nothing is missing, like the cash. That makes this episode exactly like the one in Cambridge, although having it happen here is more confusing. At least there we could postulate industrial espionage, even if it’s unlikely. What could someone be looking for here if not valuables and cash?”
   “The only thing I can think of is the shroud sample.”
   Stephanie leaned away from Daniel so she could see up into his face. “Why would someone be looking for that?”
   “Beats me. It’s just the only thing we have that’s unique.”
   “But presumably the only person who knows we have it is the man who gave it to us.” Stephanie’s brows were knitted together as if she was troubled anew.
   “Calm down! I don’t think anyone was looking for the shroud sample. I was just thinking out loud. But as long as we are talking about it, where is it?”
   “It’s still in my shoulder bag,” Stephanie said.
   “Get it! Let’s have another look!” Daniel thought it best to steer the subject away from a possible intruder.
   They retreated back to the middle of the room. Stephanie picked up her bag from where she’d tossed it on the bed. She took out the silver case and opened it. Daniel gingerly lifted out the glassine envelope and held it up to the diffused light coming from the windows. Backlit, the mat of linen fibers was distinct, although its color was still indeterminate. “My gosh!” Daniel said with a shake of his head. “It is truly amazing to think that there is even the slightest chance this contains the blood of arguably the most famous person to have trod this Earth, and that’s not even addressing the divine aspect.”
   Stephanie put the silver case down on the desk and took the envelope. Stepping over to the window, she too held it up to the light. Shielding the slanting rays of the sun from her eyes with her free hand, she used the pale but direct white light to examine the envelope. Now even the fibers’ red ochre color could be appreciated. “It looks like blood,” she said. “You know, it must be my Catholic background mysteriously reasserting itself, because I have a strong intuition it is the blood of Jesus Christ.”

   Although Father Michael Maloney could not see Stephanie D’Agostino, he was so close he could hear her breathe. He was terrified his own heartbeat pounding in his temples would give him away or, if not that, then the sound of drops of perspiration dripping from his face and falling to splatter against the floor. She was mere inches away.
   In utter desperation when he’d heard the key thrust into the door, he’d dashed behind the drapes. It had been a reflex act. In retrospect, going behind the curtains was an embarrassment in and of itself, as if he were some common thief. He should have stood his ground, accepted his fate at being caught, and taken full responsibility for his actions. He understood the best defense was an offense, and in the present situation, to justify his actions he should have used his indignation about these people’s true identities and the upcoming unauthorized testing of the shroud that they were obviously planning.
   Unfortunately, his fight-or-flight reaction had been overwhelming, particularly on the flight side, such that when he’d come to his senses he was already hiding, and once hiding, it was too late to play the indignation card. Now all he could do was hope and pray he’d not be discovered.
   At first he thought all was lost with Stephanie’s exclamation the moment the door opened. He imagined that he’d either been seen or at the very least the curtain’s movement had been apparent. It had been a relief beyond words when he realized it had been the flower arrangement that had caught her attention.
   Then he had to endure Stephanie’s discovery of his inaptness at searching her suitcase and the fact that he’d taken her key from the desk. That was when his pulse began to rise again after having slowed a degree from the initial shock. He feared she would start searching the room, which would mean he’d be immediately discovered. The embarrassment and consequences of such an event were too horrible to contemplate. What had begun as a way of ensuring his future career was now threatening to have the absolute opposite effect.
   “What we think about the shroud is not important,” Daniel said. “It’s just what Butler thinks that matters.”
   “I’m not sure I agree with you entirely,” Stephanie responded. “But that’s a discussion for another day.”
   Michael stiffened as Stephanie brushed against the drapes. Thankfully, they were heavy Italian brocade, and she apparently did not notice that she had also touched Michael’s arm through the fabric. Another adrenaline rush coursed through Michael’s body, resulting in more perspiration. To him, the sound of the intermittent drops of sweat splattering against the floor were as loud as pebbles dropping on a drum. He never imagined he could perspire so profusely, especially when he wasn’t even all that hot.
   “What should I do with the sample?” Stephanie asked, as she moved away.
   “Give it to me,” Daniel replied from someplace in the room.
   Michael allowed himself to take a deep breath, and he relaxed a degree. He had himself pressed up against the wall as flat as he could be, to minimize the bulge his body made in the drape. He heard more sounds he could not identify, along with what he guessed was the silver casing snapping shut.
   “You know, we could change rooms,” Daniel said. “Or even hotels if you want.”
   “What do you think we should do?”
   “I think we should just stay put. There are multiple keys for every room in every hotel. Tonight when we sleep, we’ll be sure to use the dead bolt.”
   Michael heard the heavy click of the security lock being activated on the door to the hall.
   “That’s a lock and a half,” Daniel commented. “What do you say? I don’t want you to feel nervous. There’s no need.”
   Michael heard the door to the hall shake.
   “I guess the lock’s all right,” Stephanie said. “It seems secure.”
   “With that dead bolt thrown, no one would be able to come through that door without us knowing it. They’d have to use a battering ram.”
   “Okay,” Stephanie said. “Let’s just stay here. It is only one night, and a short one at that, since you have us flying out to London at five after seven. What an ungodly hour. By the way—how come we’re going through Paris?”
   “There was no choice. British Airways apparently doesn’t serve Turin. It was either Air France to Paris or Lufthansa to Frankfurt. I figured it was better not to backtrack.”
   “It seems ridiculous not to have a direct flight to London, of all places. I mean, Turin is one of the major industrial cities of Italy.”
   “What can I say?” Daniel questioned with a shrug. “But for now, how about you getting your walking shoes and whatever else you want so we can get back to our sightseeing.”
   “Oh, please do!” Michael pleaded silently.
   “I’ve had a change of heart,” Stephanie said, to Michael’s immediate chagrin. “What about staying in until we go out to dinner? It’s already after four, and it will be dark soon. As little as you slept last night, you must be exhausted.”
   “I am tired,” Daniel admitted.
   “Let’s take off our clothes and get in bed. I’ll even give you a little back rub, and we’ll see what else happens, depending on how tired you are. What do you say?”
   Daniel laughed. “I’ve never heard a better idea in my life. To be honest, I wasn’t all that interested in the sightseeing. I was doing it more for your benefit.”
   “Well, that’s no longer necessary, my dear!”
   Michael cringed as he heard sounds of disrobing, giggles, and endearments. He feared one of them would come to close the drapes, but that didn’t happen. He heard the sounds the bed made, as bodies settled into it. He heard the sound of lotion being squeezed from a bottle and even the sound of flesh against slippery flesh. There was the murmur of contentment from Daniel, as his massage progressed.
   “All right,” Daniel said finally. “Now it’s your turn.” The bed complained as bodies shifted.
   Time dragged. Michael’s muscles began to ache, particularly in his legs. Fearing he might get a cramp, which he knew would surely give him away, he shifted his weight, then held his breath in case his movement was noticed. Thankfully, it wasn’t, but the pain came back within minutes. Yet worse than the physical discomfort was the torture of hearing the sounds of intimacy between a man and a woman leading to the rhythmic and unmistakable noise of actual lovemaking. Michael was being forced by circumstance to be an auditory voyeur, and despite his attempts at silently reciting by rote selections from his breviary, he found himself titillated to mock his vows of celibacy.
   After a few moans of pleasure, the room fell silent for a few minutes. Then there were whispers Michael could not make out, followed by laughter and giggles. Finally, to Michael’s relief, the couple went into the bathroom. He could tell by the muffled sounds of their voices over the sound of the shower.
   Michael allowed himself to rotate his head, flex his stiff shoulders, raise his arms, and even walk briefly in place. After less than a minute, he returned to his frozen position, unsure when one of the couple would choose to return to the room proper. He didn’t have long to wait and soon heard one of them at the suitcases.
   Unfortunately for Michael, it took Stephanie and Daniel another three quarters of an hour to dress, don their coats, and find their remaining room key before they finally left for dinner. At first, the silence seemed deafening, as he strained to hear any noises that would suggest they were returning for some forgotten item. Five minutes crept by. Finally, Michael warily reached around the edge of the drape and slowly drew it aside, revealing progressively more of the now-darkened room. The couple had left the light on in the bathroom, and it spilled out into the room to puddle alongside the bed.
   Michael eyed the door to the hall and tried to estimate how quickly he could get to it, through it, and get it closed behind himself. It wouldn’t take long, but it made him nervous he’d be completely exposed before putting some distance between himself and room 408. At this point, being caught would be significantly more problematic than when Stephanie and Daniel had first come home.
   As Michael tried to build his courage to leave the relative safety of the drapes, his eyes roamed around the room. A glint off a shining object on the bureau next to the flower arrangement caught his eye. He blinked, not believing what he was looking at. “Praise be to God!” he whispered. It was the silver case.
   Marveling at his luck after all, Michael took a deep breath and emerged from his hiding place. For another second he hesitated, listening before rushing to the bureau, snapping up the silver case, slipping it into his pocket, and dashing out the door. To his relief, the corridor was empty. He quickly moved away from room 408, afraid to look back and terrified someone would accost him. It wasn’t until he reached the elevators that he allowed himself to glance back down the hallway. It was still empty.
   A few minutes later, Michael passed through the hotel’s revolving door and stepped out into the night. Never had the chill of a midwinter evening felt so good against his flushed face. He walked quickly away from the door, each step a bit more buoyant than the previous. With his right hand thrust into his jacket pocket, clutching the silver case as a reminder of what he’d been able to accomplish, an exhilaration spread through him not unlike the euphoria of absolution he’d occasionally felt after particularly difficult visits as a supplicant to the confessional. It was as if the stressful trials and tribulations of resaving his Savior’s blood sample had made the experience that much more poignant.
   Michael took a taxi from the hotel’s cabstand and gave the address of the Chancery of the Archdiocese to the driver. He sat back and tried to relax. He looked at his watch. It was almost six-thirty. He’d been caught behind the couple’s curtain for more than two hours! But it was a nightmare with a happy ending, as evidenced by the cold feel of the silver case in his pocket.