Michael closed his eyes and reveled in thinking about the best time to call James Cardinal O’Rourke to explain the unfortunate development concerning the identities of the so-called couriers, followed by the problem’s ultimate resolution. Now that he was safe, he found himself smiling at what he’d had to endure. Hiding behind drapes in a hotel room while the couple made love was so preposterous as to defy belief. In some ways, he wished he could tell the cardinal, but he knew he couldn’t. The only person he would ultimately tell would be his confessor, and even that was not going to be easy.
   Knowing the cardinal’s schedule, Michael thought it best to wait until ten-thirty P.M. Italian time to make the call. It was during the predinner hour that the cardinal was the most accessible. During the call, what Michael was going to enjoy particularly was implying rather than directly telling the cardinal that it had been he who had by his own ingenuity single-handedly salvaged what could have been an embarrassment for the church in general and the cardinal in particular.
   By the time the taxi pulled up in front of the chancery, Michael felt almost back to normal. Although his pulse was still rapid, he was no longer perspiring, and his breathing was entirely regular. The only problem was that his shirt and underclothes were damp from the ordeal, making him feel chilled.
   Michael first went to see Valerio Garibaldi, whom he had befriended back when he’d attended the North American College in Rome, but he was informed that his friend had left the building on an official errand. Michael then walked down to Luigi Mansoni’s office. He knocked on the open door, and the monsignor motioned for him to come in and sit down. The cleric was on the phone. He quickly terminated the call and directed his full attention to Michael. Switching from Italian to English, he asked how Michael had fared. From his unblinking stare, it was apparent he was intensely interested.
   “Quite well, considering,” Michael said obliquely.
   “Considering what?”
   “Considering what I had to go through.” Triumphantly, he reached into his pocket and pulled out the embossed silver case. Carefully, he placed it on Luigi’s desk before pushing it toward the monsignor. He sat back with a self-satisfied smile on his thin face.
   Luigi’s eyebrows arched. He reached out, carefully lifted the case, and held it between both his palms. “I’m surprised they were willing to give it up,” he said. “They seemed like two very passionate people.”
   “Your assessment is more accurate than you know,” Michael said. “But they are not yet aware that they have surrendered the sample back to the church. And to be honest, I did not so much as talk with them.”
   A slight smile dimpled Luigi’s puffy face. “I’m thinking perhaps I shouldn’t ask how you have managed to get it.”
   “You shouldn’t,” Michael advised.
   “Well, then, that’s how we will proceed. For my part, I will merely return the sample to Professor Ballasari, and that will be it.” Luigi released the latch and lifted the case’s cover. He then started while staring into its bare innards. After a few quick glances back and forth between Michael and the case, he said: “I’m confused. The sample is not in here!”
   “No! Don’t say that!” Michael sat bolt upright.
   “I’m afraid I must,” Luigi responded. He turned the empty case around and held it up so Michael could see.
   “Oh, no!” Michael cried. He grabbed his head with both hands and slumped forward until his elbows rested on his knees. “I don’t believe it!”
   “They must have removed the sample.”
   “Obviously,” Michael responded, as he exhaled. He sounded depressed.
   “You are distraught.”
   “More than you would guess.”
   “Certainly all is not lost. Perhaps now you should approach the Americans directly and demand the sample’s return.”
   Michael rubbed his face forcibly and then exhaled. He looked at Luigi. “I don’t think that is an option, not after what I did to get the empty case. And even if I did, your assessment of their character is most likely correct. They would refuse. My sense is that they have a specific plan for the sample, to which they are committed.”
   “Do you know when they are leaving?”
   “Tomorrow morning at five after seven on Air France. They are flying to London via Paris.”
   “Well, there is another option,” Luigi said, tenting his fingers. “There is a sure way to get the sample back. I happen to be related on my mother’s side of the family to a gentleman by the name of Carlo Ricciardi. He is a first cousin. He also happens to be the Soprintendente Archeologico del Piedmonte, meaning the regional director, of NPPA, which stands for Nucleo Protezione Patrimonio Artistico e Archeologico.”
   “I’ve never heard of it.”
   “It is not surprising, since their activities are mostly carried out sub rose, but they are a special corps of the carabinieri responsible for the safety of Italy’s vast treasure of historical monuments and objects, which certainly includes the Shroud of Turin, despite the Holy See being its rightful owner. If I were to call Carlo, he would have no trouble retrieving the sample.”
   “What would you say? I mean, you gave the Americans the sample; it’s not like they stole it. In fact, since you gave it to them in a public place, an enterprising Italian lawyer could probably even produce a witness.”
   “I would not suggest the sample was stolen. I would merely say that the sample had been obtained under false pretenses, which apparently is the case. But more importantly, I would state that no authorization had been given for the sample to be taken out of Italy. In fact, I would add that removal of the sample from Italy had been strictly forbidden, and yet I had information the Americans were planning to do so tomorrow morning.”
   “And these archeological police would have the authority to confiscate it.”
   “Most definitely! They are a very powerful and independent agency. To give you an example, a number of years ago your then President Reagan asked the then Italian president if the recently found ancient bronzes pulled from the sea off Reggio di Calabria could be brought to the Los Angeles Olympics as the game’s icons. The Italian president agreed, but the regional Soprintendente Archeologico said no, and the statues stayed in Italy.”
   “Okay, I’m impressed,” Michael said. “Does the agency have its own uniformed enforcement division?”
   “They have their own plainclothes ispettori, or inspectors, but for general enforcement they use either uniformed carabinieri or Guardia di Finanza officers. At the airport, it would probably be the Guardia di Finanza, although if they are acting under Carlo’s specific orders, the carabinieri most likely would participate as well.”
   “If you make the call, what will happen to the Americans?”
   “Tomorrow morning, when they check in for their international flight, they will be arrested, jailed, and eventually tried. In Italy, charges of this nature are considered very serious. But they would not be tried right away. Such cases move slowly. But, the sample will be returned to us straightaway, and the problem will be solved.”
   “Make the call!” Michael said simply. He was disappointed, but all was not lost. Obviously, he would not be able to take credit for solving the problem with the shroud sample single-handedly. On the other hand, he could still make sure the cardinal knew he had been an indispensable participant.

   A contented belch rumbled from the pit of Daniel’s stomach to emerge between his puffed-up cheeks. His hand clasped his face in a halfhearted attempt to conceal his impish smile.
   Stephanie cast him one of what she considered her most scornful looks. She never thought it was funny when he gave vent to his mischievously juvenile side.
   Daniel laughed. “Hey, relax. We had a great dinner and a great bottle of Barolo. Let’s not ruin it!”
   “I’ll relax after I check out our room,” Stephanie said. “I think I have the right to be on edge after someone pawed through my belongings earlier.”
   Daniel keyed the door and pushed it open. Stephanie stepped over the threshold and let her eyes wander. Daniel started to go past her into the room. She held him back with her arm.
   “I’ve got to use the bathroom,” Daniel complained.
   “We had visitors!”
   “Oh! How can you tell?”
   Stephanie pointed toward the bureau. “The silver case is gone.”
   “Gone it is,” Daniel said. “I guess you were right all along.”
   “Of course I was right,” Stephanie responded. She walked over and put her hand on the bureau where the silver case had been, as if she didn’t believe it was gone. “But so were you. They must have been after the shroud sample.”
   “Well, I have to give you full credit for your idea of taking the sample out and leaving the case behind.”
   “Thank you,” Stephanie said. “But first, let’s make sure it wasn’t just that they thought the case was something valuable.” She went over to her suitcase and again checked her jewelry case. Everything was still in it, including the cash.
   Daniel did the same. The jewelry, cash, and traveler’s checks were all accounted for. He straightened up. “What do you want to do?” he asked.
   “Get out of Italy. Never in a million years did I ever think I’d feel that way.” Stephanie collapsed on the bed, coat and all, and stared up at the multicolored glass chandelier.
   “I’m talking about tonight.”
   “You mean whether to change hotels or rooms?”
   “Exactly.”
   “Let’s just stay here and use the dead bolt.”
   “I was hoping you’d say that,” Daniel said as he stepped out of his pants. Holding them by the cuffs, he arranged them to preserve the creases. “I cannot wait to climb into bed,” he added, as he eyed Stephanie, sprawled out on her back. He then went to the closet and hung up his trousers. Holding on to the jamb, he stepped out of his loafers.
   “It would be a humongous effort to move, and I’m bushed,” Stephanie said. With great effort, she got back on her feet and shook off her coat. “Besides, I’m not confident whoever has been plaguing us wouldn’t be able to find us wherever we went. Let’s just not leave this room until we’re ready to leave the hotel.” She pushed past Daniel and hung up her coat.
   “Fine by me,” Daniel said, as he unbuttoned his shirt. “In the morning, we can even skip trying to have something to eat here at the hotel. Instead, we can grab a bite of breakfast at one of those coffee bars at the airport. They all seem to have a selection of pastries. The concierge said we should be there around six, which means we are going to have to get up pretty damn early, even if we don’t try to eat before leaving.”
   “Excellent idea,” Stephanie said. “I can’t tell you how much I’m looking forward to getting to the airport, checking in, and getting on that plane.”

Thirteen

   4:45 A.M., Tuesday, February 26, 2002
   Despite the hefty security lock on the door, Stephanie slept poorly. Every noise from inside the hotel or from outside had caused a minor panic reaction, and there had been a lot of noises. At one point just after midnight, when guests had keyed and entered a neighboring room, Stephanie had sat up, ready for battle, certain the people were coming into her room. She’d sat up so quickly that she’d pulled the covers from Daniel, whose response was to yank them back angrily.
   After two A.M., Stephanie finally fell asleep. But it was far from a restful slumber, and it was a source of relief when Daniel shook her shoulder to wake her after what had seemed to her to be about fifteen minutes.
   “What time is it?” she asked groggily. She pushed herself up on one elbow.
   “It’s five A.M. Rise and shine! We should be out in a taxi in a half hour.”
   “Rise and shine” had been a phrase her mother had used to wake her when Stephanie had been a teenager, and since Stephanie had been an Olympic-class sleeper who hated to wake up, the phrase had always bothered her. Daniel knew the story and used the expression deliberately to provoke her, which, of course, was an effective way to wake her up. “I’m awake,” she said irritably when he shook her again. She eyed her tormentor, but he merely smiled before briefly mussing her hair with the palm of his hand. The gesture was something else Stephanie found irritating, even when her hair was in disarray, as it certainly was at that moment; it was demeaning, and she had told Daniel such on several occasions. It made her feel as if he considered her a child or, worse yet, a pet.
   Stephanie watched Daniel go into the bathroom. She rolled over on her back and winced at the light. The multicolored glass chandelier was blazing above her. Outside, it was still as dark as pitch. She took a breath. It seemed as if the only thing she wanted to do in the whole world was to go back to sleep. But then the cobwebs in her mind began to clear, and she thought about how much she wanted to get on the plane with the shroud fibers and get out of Italy.
   “Are you up?” Daniel shouted from the bathroom.
   “I’m up!” Stephanie shouted back. She had no compunction about fibbing, not after how merciless he’d been in waking her up. She stretched, yawned, and then sat up. After shaking off a brief sensation akin to nausea, she got to her feet.
   A shower worked wonders for both of them. Despite Daniel’s acting to the contrary, he had been far from feeling chipper initially and had had almost as much trouble getting out of bed after the alarm went off as Stephanie. Yet by the time they had gotten out of the bathroom, they were both in high spirits in anticipation of getting to the airport. They dressed and packed with great efficiency. By quarter past five, Daniel called the front desk to arrange for a taxi and to get someone to come get their bags.
   “It’s hard to believe we’ll be in Nassau by late this afternoon,” Daniel said, as he closed and locked his suitcase. The day’s itinerary was to fly to London on Air France via Paris, connect to British Airways, and then fly on directly to New Providence Island in the Bahamas.
   “What I find difficult to comprehend is that we’ll be going from winter to summer in a single day. It seems like ages since I’ve been in a pair of shorts and a summer top. I’m psyched.”
   The bellman arrived and took their luggage down to the lobby on a garment cart with instructions that it should be loaded into the taxi. While Stephanie dried her hair, Daniel stood in the bathroom doorway.
   “I think we should tell the manager about our intruder,” Stephanie said over the sound of the hotel’s hair dryer.
   “What would that accomplish?”
   “Not much, I suppose, but I’d think they’d want to know.”
   Daniel looked at his watch. “I think it’s a moot point. We don’t have time. It’s almost five-thirty. We need to be on our way.”
   “Why don’t you go down and check out,” Stephanie suggested. “I’ll be down in two minutes.”
   “Nassau, here we come,” Daniel said as he left.

   The phone’s insistent jangle yanked Michael Maloney from the depths of sleep. He had the phone to his ear before he was totally awake. It was Father Peter Fleck, Cardinal O’Rourke’s other personal secretary.
   “Are you awake?” Peter asked. “Sorry to be calling you at such an hour.”
   “What time is it?” Michael asked. He fumbled for the bedside light, then tried to make out what time it was on his watch.
   “It’s twenty-five minutes before midnight here in New York. What time is it there in Italy?”
   “It is five-thirty-five in the morning.”
   “Sorry, but you told me when you called this afternoon that it was imperative you speak with the cardinal as soon as possible, and His Eminence has just returned to the residence. Let me put him on the line.”
   Michael rubbed his face and patted his cheek to wake himself. A moment later, James Cardinal O’Rourke’s gentle voice sounded in Michael’s ear. He too apologized for calling at such an inconvenient hour and explained that he’d been forced to remain at an interminable function with the governor, which had started in the late afternoon.
   “I’m sorry I must add to your burdens,” Michael said, with some trepidation. He was not fooled by the powerful man’s humble graciousness. Behind the apparent benevolence, Michael was well aware of how ruthless he could be, especially to a subordinate who was either foolish or unlucky enough to displease him. At the same time, to those who pleased him, he could be extraordinarily generous.
   “Are you implying there has been a problem in Turin?” the cardinal questioned.
   “Unfortunately, yes,” Michael said. “The two people whom Senator Butler sent to receive the sample of the shroud are both biomolecular scientists.”
   “I see,” James commented.
   “Their names are Dr. Daniel Lowell and Dr. Stephanie D’Agostino.”
   “I see,” James repeated.
   “From your instructions,” Michael continued, “I knew you would be distressed about this development because of its implications about unauthorized testing. The good news is that by working quickly with Monsignor Mansoni, I have managed to arrange that the sample will be returned forthwith.”
   “Oh,” James said simply. There was an uncomfortable pause. As far as Michael was concerned, this was hardly the response he was expecting. By this point in the conversation, he counted on a definitively positive reaction from the cardinal.
   “Obviously, the goal is to avoid any more scientific indignity for the shroud,” Michael added quickly. A shiver ascended his spine. His intuition was telling him the conversation was about to take an unexpected turn.
   “Have doctors Lowell and D’Agostino voluntarily agreed to give up the sample?”
   “Not exactly,” Michael admitted. “The sample will be confiscated by the Italian authorities when they check in for a flight to Paris this morning.”
   “And what will happen to the scientists?”
   “I believe they will be detained.”
   “Was it true that the shroud itself did not have to be touched to produce this sample, as Senator Butler suggested?”
   “That is true. The sample was a tiny piece from a swatch that had been cut from the shroud a number of years ago.”
   “Was it turned over to the scientists in strict confidentiality, without official documentation?”
   “To the best of my knowledge,” Michael said. “I had communicated that that was your specific wish.” Michael began to perspire, certainly not as copiously as he had while hiding in the hotel room the previous day, but from a similar stimulus—fear. He could feel a knot of anxiety building in his stomach and tensing his muscles. The tone of the cardinal’s questions had a barely perceptible sharpness that most people would not have perceived but which Michael heard immediately and recognized. He knew His Eminence was becoming progressively angry.
   “Father Maloney! For your information, the senator has already introduced his promised legislation limiting charitable tort liability, which he now believes with his backing has a better chance of passing than he did when he proposed the idea on Friday. I don’t need to explain to you the value of this legislation for the church. As far as the shroud sample is concerned, with no official documentation, even if some ill-advised testing were to be done, the results could not be authenticated and could be simply repudiated.”
   “I’m sorry,” Michael blurted lamely. “I thought Your Eminence would want the sample back.”
   “Father Maloney, your instructions were clear. You were not sent to Turin to think. You went there to find out who took possession of the sample and follow if necessary to see to whom it was ultimately delivered. You were not to arrange for the sample to be returned and thereby put in jeopardy an extremely important legislative process.”
   “I don’t know what to say,” Michael managed.
   “Don’t say anything. Instead, I strongly advise you to reverse what you have set in motion if it is not already a fait accompli; that is, of course, unless your immediate career goal is to be assigned a small parish someplace in the Catskill Mountains. I do not want the shroud sample confiscated, nor do I want the American scientists arrested, which is a more accurate term for what awaits them than the euphemism you employed. Most important, I do not want Senator Butler calling to say he has withdrawn his bill, which I believe will be his response if what you have described were to occur. Am I clear, Father?”
   “Perfectly clear,” Michael stammered. He found himself holding a dead line. The cardinal had abruptly disconnected.
   Michael swallowed with some difficulty as he hung up the receiver. Being sent to a small parish in Upstate New York was the church’s equivalent of being sent to Siberia.
   All at once, Michael snapped the phone up out of its cradle. The American scientists’ plane wasn’t leaving until after seven. That meant there was still a chance to avert a career disaster. First, he phoned the Grand Belvedere, only to learn that the Americans had already checked out. Next, he tried to call Monsignor Mansoni, but the prelate had left his residence a half hour earlier on church business at the airport.
   Galvanized by these revelations, Michael jumped into his clothes, which were conveniently draped over a bedside chair. Without shaving or showering or even using the toilet, he ran from his room. Unwilling to wait for the elevator, he took the stairs. Within minutes and out of breath, he fumbled with his rent-a-car keys before climbing into his rented Fiat. Once the engine turned over, he backed up and raced out of the parking lot.
   Hazarding a glance at his watch, he estimated that he could get to the airport a little after six. The main problem was that he had no idea what he was going to do once he arrived.

   “Are you going to give him a big tip?” Stephanie questioned provocatively, as the taxi mounted the ramp leading to the departure-drop-off area of the Turin airport. Daniel’s taxi phobia was beginning to get on her nerves, although to Daniel’s credit, the driver had completely ignored Daniel’s repeated requests for him to slow down. Every time Daniel had spoken, the man had merely shrugged his shoulders and said, “No English!” At the same time, he hadn’t driven any faster than the other cars on the highway.
   “He’s going to be lucky if I even pay the fare!” Daniel snapped.
   The taxi came to a stop in a sea of other taxis and cars discharging passengers. In contrast to the center city, the airport was already busy. Stephanie and Daniel climbed out, along with the driver. With the three of them working, they got all the luggage out of the small taxi and piled it on the curbside. Daniel grudgingly paid the man, and he left.
   “How should we work this?” Stephanie asked. They had more bags than the two of them could reasonably carry. She glanced around the immediate area.
   “I don’t like the idea of leaving anything unattended,” Daniel said.
   “I agree. How about one of us going to get a cart while the other stands guard.”
   “Sounds good. What’s your preference?”
   “Since you have the tickets and passports, why don’t you get them out and ready while I find the cart?”
   Stephanie worked her way through the crowd, keeping her eyes peeled for a cart, but all were in use. She had better luck inside the terminal especially after she had walked past the check-in counters to the security area. Travelers going through security to the departure gates had to leave their carts in the terminal proper. Stephanie took an abandoned one and retraced her steps. She found Daniel sitting on the largest of their suitcases, impatiently tapping his toe.
   “It took you long enough,” he complained.
   “Sorry, but I did the best I could. This place is hopping. There must be quite a few flights leaving around the same time.”
   Together they loaded all but their laptop cases on the cart to create a rather precarious pile. The laptops went over their shoulders. While Daniel pushed, Stephanie walked alongside to keep the stack of bags from toppling over.
   “I noticed a lot of police wandering around,” Stephanie said, as they entered the terminal. “More than I’ve ever seen. Of course, Italian carabinieri stand out with their snappy outfits.”
   They stopped about twenty feet inside the door. The crowds swirled about them like a river of people. Standing where they were, they created a minor cataract.
   “Where do we go?” Daniel questioned. Several people jostled him. “I don’t see any Air France display.”
   “The flights are listed on the LCD screens next to each check-in counter,” Stephanie said. “Wait here! I’ll find our flight.”
   It took Stephanie only a few minutes to find the right counter. When she got back to Daniel, she found that he had moved to the side to get out of the stream of people coming through the door. Stephanie pointed in the direction they had to go, and they set off.
   “I see what you mean about the police,” Daniel commented. “A half dozen walked by just while you were gone. What caught my attention were the machine guns.”
   “There’s even a group behind the counter where we have to check in,” Stephanie said.
   They got to the rather sizable line waiting to check in for the Paris flight and joined the queue. Five minutes dragged by as the line inched forward.
   “What the hell are they doing up there?” Daniel questioned. He stood on his tiptoes to try to see what was holding things up. “I can never imagine what takes so long. I wonder if the police are slowing up the process somehow.”
   “As long as we don’t get bottled up going through security, I think we’ll be fine.” Stephanie glanced at her watch. It was twenty past six.
   “Since this counter is just for this flight, we’re all in the same boat.” Daniel was still eyeing the front of the line.
   “I hadn’t thought of that, but you’re right.”
   “My gosh!” Daniel said.
   “What now?” Daniel’s exclamation and his change of tone made Stephanie aware of how tense she still was. She tried to follow Daniel’s line of sight, but she couldn’t see over the people in front of them.
   “Monsignor Mansoni, the priest who gave us the shroud sample, is standing up there with the police behind the check-in counter.”
   “Are you sure?” Stephanie questioned. It seemed like too big a coincidence. She tried again to see but couldn’t.
   Daniel shrugged. He glanced back at the counter again before returning his attention to Stephanie. “It certainly looks like him, and I can’t imagine there are too many priests quite as obese as he.”
   “Do you think this has anything to do with us?”
   “I can’t imagine, although combining his presence with the fact that someone tried to take our shroud sample from our hotel room makes me feel uneasy.”
   “I don’t like this,” Stephanie said. “I don’t like this at all.”
   The line ahead of them moved forward. Daniel hesitated, unsure of what to do until the gentleman immediately behind impatiently nudged Daniel forward. Daniel pushed the towering cart forward but purposefully stayed shielded behind it. He and Stephanie were now four parties away from the front of the line. Stephanie moved a few steps laterally and surreptitiously glanced ahead. She returned immediately to stand with Daniel behind the cart.
   “It’s Monsignor Mansoni for sure,” she said. She and Daniel stared at each other.
   “What the hell are we going to do?” Daniel blurted out.
   “I don’t know. It’s the police who bother me, not the priest.”
   “Obviously,” Daniel retorted angrily.
   “Where is the shroud sample?”
   “I told you earlier. It’s in my laptop case.”
   “Hey, don’t yell at me.”
   The line moved ahead. With the man behind them breathing down Daniel’s neck, he felt obligated to push the cart forward. Moving closer to the counter exacerbated both their anxieties.

   “Maybe this is just a case of overactive imaginations,” Stephanie suggested hopefully.
   “It’s too big a coincidence to explain away as mere paranoia,” Daniel responded. “If it were just the priest or just the police it would be one thing, but with both at this particular counter, it’s something else entirely. The problem is, we are going to have to make some sort of decision here. I mean, not doing anything is a decision of sorts, because in a couple of minutes, we’ll be front and center, and whatever is going to happen will happen.”
   “At this point, what is there that we can do? We’re hemmed in here by a crowd of people and burdened with a truckload of luggage. Worst case, we give them the sample if that’s what they want.”
   “There wouldn’t be this many uniformed policemen if they were merely planning to confiscate the sample.”
   “Excuse me,” an out-of-breath, panicky voice called from behind them in irrefutable American English.
   As tense as Stephanie and Daniel were, their heads shot around in unison to confront an obviously distressed cleric with wild, staring eyes. The man’s chest was heaving, presumably from the exertion of running, while beads of perspiration dotted his forehead. Adding to his distraught appearance was an unshaven face and an uncombed shock of red hair, both of which were in sharp contrast to his reasonably pressed priestly attire. Apparently he’d reached Stephanie and Daniel by forcing his way between the check-in counter queues, judging from the expressions of irritation on nearby travelers’ faces.
   “Dr. Lowell and Dr. D’Agostino!” Father Michael Maloney panted. “It is imperative that I talk with you.”
   “Scusi!” the man behind Daniel said irritably. He gestured for Daniel to move ahead. The line had advanced, and while eyeing Michael, Daniel had yet to do so.
   Daniel motioned for the man to go ahead of them, and he gladly did.
   Michael cast a quick glance ahead over the top of Daniel and Stephanie’s luggage cart. Catching sight of the monsignor and the police, he ducked down and squeezed in alongside Daniel. “We have only a few seconds,” he blurted in a forced whisper. “You must not check in for your flight to Paris!”
   “How do you know our names?” Daniel questioned.
   “There’s no time for me to explain.”
   “Who are you?” Stephanie asked. There was something about the man she recognized, but she couldn’t place him.
   “It doesn’t matter who I am. What is important is that you are about to be arrested, and the shroud sample will be confiscated.”
   “I remember you,” Stephanie said. “You were in the café when we were given the sample yesterday.”
   “Please!” Michael begged. “You have to get away from here. I have a car. I will get you out of Italy.”
   “Drive?” Daniel questioned, as if the suggestion was ridiculous.
   “It is the only way. Planes, trains, all mass transit will be watched, but particularly planes and particularly this flight to Paris. I’m serious; you are about to be arrested and jailed. Believe me!”
   Daniel and Stephanie exchanged glances. Both were thinking the same thing—this distraught priest’s sudden arrival and warning was unbelievably serendipitous, which lent powerful credence to what had been a mere fearful supposition seconds earlier. They were not going to check in for the flight to Paris.
   Daniel started to turn the luggage cart around. Michael grabbed his arm. “There’s no time for all the luggage.”
   “What are you talking about?” Daniel demanded.
   Michael craned his neck to steal a brief glance at the counter a mere twenty feet away. Instantly, he pulled his head back down like a turtle, hunching his shoulders. “Damn! Now I’ve been seen, which means we’re all seconds away from disaster here. Unless you are interested in spending time in jail, we have to run. You have to leave most of the baggage! You have to make a decision about what is more important—your freedom or your luggage.”
   “It’s all my summer clothes,” Stephanie said. She was aghast at the idea.
   “Signore!” the man behind Daniel said, with obvious irritation, while gesturing for Daniel to move forward. “Va! Va via!” A number of people behind him chimed in as well. The queue had again moved forward, and by blocking the back of the line, Daniel and Stephanie were causing a scene.
   “Where’s the sample?” Michael demanded. “And your passports?”
   “They’re in my shoulder bag,” Daniel responded.
   “Good!” Michael snapped. “Keep your shoulder bags, but leave the rest! Later, I’ll have the U.S. consulate try to deal with the remainder of your belongings and forward it to wherever you are going beyond London. Come on!” He tugged at Daniel’s arm while pointing away from the counter.
   Daniel looked over the top of the loaded cart just in time to see Monsignor Mansoni grab the arm of one of the uniformed policemen and point in their direction. With mounting urgency, Daniel switched his attention to Stephanie. “I think we better do as he says.”
   “Fine! We’ll leave the bags.” Stephanie responded with resignation by throwing up her arms.
   “Follow me!” Michael barked. As rapidly as he could, he led the way away from the luggage cart. Travelers in the immediate area who were pressed together in their queues parted reluctantly and sluggishly. While repeating “scusi” over and over, Michael was forced to push people aside and trip over hand luggage resting on the floor. Daniel and Stephanie followed in his footsteps as if Michael were blazing a trail through a jungle of human beings. It was frustratingly hard going, and the effort reminded Stephanie of a nightmare she’d been having when Daniel awakened her an hour and a half earlier.
   Cries of “alt!” coming from behind them spurred them on to greater efforts. Breaking free from the crowds surrounding the check-in counters, their progress was significantly easier, but Michael restrained them from running.
   “It would be one thing if we were running into the terminal,” Michael explained. “Running out will attract too much attention. Just walk quickly!”
   All at once, directly ahead, two youthful-looking policemen appeared, hurrying toward them with their machine guns unslung from their shoulders.
   “Oh, no!” Daniel moaned. He slowed.
   “Keep going!” Michael said between clenched teeth. Behind them, there was now an audible commotion with unintelligible shouts.
   Heading on a collision course, the two groups closed in on each other rapidly. Both Daniel and Stephanie were sure the policemen were coming to apprehend them, and it wasn’t until the last minute that they realized they weren’t. Both sighed with relief as the policemen swept by without a glance, presumably rushing toward the furor at the check-in area.
   Other travelers began stopping to stare at the policemen, with varying degrees of fear registered on their faces. After 9/11, disturbances at an airport anyplace in the world, no matter what the cause, put people on edge.
   “My car is at arrivals on the lower level,” Michael explained, as he directed them toward the stairs. “There was no way I could leave it even for a moment on the departure level.”
   They descended the stairs as rapidly as they could. Below the terminal was relatively deserted, since incoming flights had yet to arrive. The only people in evidence were a handful of airport employees preparing for the onslaught of passengers and baggage, and rent-a-car agents readying their kiosks.
   “It’s even more important now not to rush,” Michael said under his breath. A few people glanced in their direction, but only for a moment, before going back to their respective tasks. Michael led Daniel and Stephanie to the main doors, which opened automatically. They quickly exited, but then Michael halted. With his arms out to his sides, he stopped the others as well.
   “This does not look good.” Michael moaned. “Unfortunately, that’s my rent-a-car up there.”
   About fifty feet ahead, a tan Fiat van with its blinkers flashing was parked by the curb. Immediately behind it was a blue-and-white police car with its blue light flashing. The heads of two officers were silhouetted in the front seat.
   “What should we do?” Daniel asked urgently. “What about renting another?”
   “I don’t think the rent-a-car concessions are open yet,” Michael retorted. “It would take too long.”
   “What about a taxi?” Stephanie offered. “We have to get away from this airport. We could rent a car in town.”
   “That’s a thought,” Michael said. He looked at the empty taxi line. “The problem is, there won’t be taxis down here until the first flight arrives, and I don’t know when that will be. For us to get a cab, we’d have to go back upstairs, which I hardly feel is a good idea. I think we have to risk taking my car. These are Vigli Urbani, or municipal traffic police. I doubt they are specifically looking for us, at least not yet. They’re probably waiting for a tow truck.”
   “What will you say?”
   “I’m not sure,” Michael admitted. “There’s no time to be particularly creative. I’ll just try to take advantage of my status as a priest.” He took a breath to fortify himself. “Come on! When we get to the car, just get in. I’ll do the talking.”
   “I don’t like this,” Stephanie said.
   “Nor do I,” Michael admitted. He urged everyone forward. “But I think it is our best shot. In a few minutes, every security person here at the airport is going to be searching for all of us high and low. Monsignor Mansoni caught sight of me.”
   “You two know each other?” Stephanie asked.
   “Let’s say we are acquaintances,” Michael responded.
   There was no more talking as the group walked quickly and deliberately toward the Fiat Ulysse. Michael went around behind the police car to pass on the driver’s side. When he got to the Fiat, he keyed it open and slid in behind the wheel as if he hadn’t even noticed the police car. Stephanie and Daniel arrived at the passenger side and immediately climbed into the backseat.
   “Padre!” one of the policeman yelled. He’d alighted from his car when he’d caught sight of Michael getting into the Fiat. The second policeman stayed in the car.
   Michael had not yet closed the car door when the policeman called. He climbed back out of the car and stood up.
   Daniel and Stephanie watched from inside. The policeman walked up to Michael. He was dressed in a two-tone blue uniform with a white belt and a white holster. He was a slightly built fellow who spoke in a rapid staccato fashion, as did Michael. The conversation was accompanied by lots of gesticulations culminating in the policeman pointing ahead and then making sweeping motions with his hand. At that point, Michael climbed back into the car and started the engine. A moment later, the Fiat emerged from beneath the departure ramp and headed for the airport exit.
   “What happened?” Stephanie questioned nervously. She looked out the back window to make sure they were not being followed.
   “Luckily, he was mildly cowed by my being a priest.”
   “What did you say?” Daniel asked.
   “I just apologized and said it was an emergency. Then I asked where the nearest hospital was, which apparently he bought. From then on, all he was doing was giving me directions.”
   “You speak fluent Italian?” Stephanie asked.
   “It’s not too bad. I went to the seminary in Rome.”
   As soon as he could, Michael left the main thoroughfare to drive along a small country road. After driving a short distance, they were in a rural setting.
   “Where are we going?” Daniel asked. He looked out the window with obvious concern.
   “We are going to stay off the autostradas,” Michael said. “It will be safer. To tell you the truth, I don’t know the extent to which they will search for you people. But I just don’t want to risk going through the tollbooths.”
   When an opportunity presented itself, Michael pulled off onto the shoulder and stopped the car. With the engine running, he got out of the car and disappeared for a few minutes into the darkness of the bushes. The sun had yet to come up, but it was light.
   “What’s going on?” Stephanie asked.
   “I haven’t the slightest idea,” Daniel said. “But if I had to guess, I’d say he’s relieving himself.”
   Michael reappeared and climbed back into the car. “Sorry,” he said, without further explanation. He leaned across and got several maps out of the glove compartment.
   “I’m going to need a copilot,” he said. “Are either one of you good at reading a map?”
   Daniel and Stephanie exchanged glances.
   “She’s probably better than I,” Daniel admitted.
   Michael unfolded one of the maps. He looked over his shoulder at Stephanie. “How about coming up here in the front seat. I really am going to need help until we get beyond Cuneo.

   Stephanie shrugged, got out from the backseat, and came around to get in the front.
   “This is where we are,” Michael said, after turning on the interior light and pointing to a spot on the map northeast of Turin. “And this is where we are going.” He moved his finger down to the base of the map and plunked it down on the coast of the Mediterranean.
   “Nice, France?” Stephanie questioned.
   “Yes. That’s the closest major airport outside of Italy if we go south, which I recommend, since we can travel on minor roads. We could head north to Geneva, but that would require going on major roads, including a major border crossing. I think south is safer and therefore better. Do you both agree?”
   Daniel and Stephanie shrugged. “I suppose,” Daniel remarked.
   “All right,” Michael said. “Here’s the route.” He again used his finger as he spoke. “We’ll drive through Turin on our way to Cuneo. From there, we go over the Colle di Tenda. Once we cross the border, which is unmanned, we will stay in France, even though the main road south goes back into Italy. At Menton, on the coast, we can get on the toll road, which will take us in short order to Nice. That section will be the quickest part. As far as timing is concerned, I’d say the whole trip will take us five or six hours, but it’s just a guess. Is this acceptable?”
   Daniel and Stephanie again shrugged after glancing at each other. They were both so befuddled by the events that they hardly knew what to say. It was difficult even to think, much less talk.
   Michael looked from one to the other. “I’ll take the silence as a yes. I can understand your bewilderment; it’s been an unexpected morning, to say the least. So first let’s get through Turin. Hopefully, we can beat the worst of the traffic.” He opened the second map, which was a plan of Turin and the immediate environs. He showed Stephanie where they were and where they wanted to go. She nodded.
   “It shouldn’t be difficult,” Michael said. “One thing the Italians are good at is signage. First we follow signs for Centro Citta, and then we follow signs for route S-twenty heading south. Okay?”
   Stephanie nodded again.
   “Let’s do it!” Michael said. He settled back behind the steering wheel and put the car in gear.
   At first the traffic was not bad, but as they got closer to the city, it got worse, and the worse it got, the more time the driving took, and the more time the driving took, the worse the traffic became, in a self-fulfilling prophecy. Just before they reached the city center, the day dawned clear and bright with a pale blue sky. They rode in silence, save for occasional directions from Stephanie, who attentively followed their progress on the map and pointed out appropriate signs. Daniel didn’t say a word. He was at least pleased that Michael was a prudent and defensive driver.
   It was almost nine A.M. by the time they broke free, heading south on S20 to leave the Turin rush-hour traffic behind. By then, Stephanie and Daniel had had time to relax a degree and collect their thoughts, which centered mostly on their driver and their abandoned luggage.
   Stephanie carefully folded both maps and put them on the dashboard. From then on, the route was clear. She eyed Michael’s hollow-cheeked, hawklike profile, the stubble on his face, and his mat of disarrayed red hair. “Perhaps this is a good time to ask who you are,” she said.
   “I’m just a simple priest at heart,” Michael said. He smiled weakly. He knew the questions would come, and he wasn’t sure how much he wanted to say.
   “I think we deserve to know more,” Stephanie said.
   “My name is Michael Maloney. My present affiliation is with the Archbishop of New York, but I happen to be in Italy on church-related business.”
   “How did you know our names?” Daniel asked from the backseat.
   “I’m sure both of you are intensely curious,” Michael said. “And for good reason. But the fact of the matter is, I would rather not get into the details of my participation. It would be best for all concerned. Would it be possible for you to accept that I have been able to save you from the major inconvenience of being arrested without your questioning me? I’m asking it as a favor. Perhaps you can just attribute my help as a bit of divine intervention, for which I was merely the Good Lord’s servant.”
   Stephanie shot a glance back at Daniel before refocusing on Michael. “It’s interesting you used the term divine intervention. It’s a coincidence, since we heard that specific phrase in association with what brought us to Italy, namely to get the sample of the Shroud of Turin.”
   “Oh?” Michael questioned vaguely. He tried to think of a way to turn the conversation away from sensitive areas, but nothing came to mind.
   “Why were we going to be arrested?” Daniel asked. “That shouldn’t have anything to do with your participation.”
   “Because it was learned you are biomedical scientists. That was an unexpected and unwelcome surprise. Presently, the church does not want any more scientific testing concerning the shroud’s authenticity, and because of your backgrounds, there is the legitimate worry that that is what you intend to do. At first, the church merely wanted the sample of the shroud returned, but when that seemed not to be feasible, they wanted it confiscated.”
   “That explains a few things,” Stephanie said. “Except why you decided to help us. Are you confident we are not going to test the sample?”
   “I’d rather not get into that. Please!”
   “How did you know we were going to London when we were checking in for a flight to Paris?” Daniel strained forward to hear. Michael’s voice didn’t carry well into the backseat.
   “That is a question I’d be too embarrassed to answer.” Michael’s face reddened as he recalled hiding behind the curtain in the hotel room. “I beg of you. Can you just let it go? Accept what I have done as a favor—merely a friend helping a couple of fellow Americans in need.”
   They drove in silence for a few miles. Finally, Stephanie spoke up. “Well, thank you for helping us. And for whatever it’s worth, we are not at all interested in testing the shroud’s authenticity.”
   “I will convey that to the proper church authorities. I’m certain they will be relieved to hear it.”
   “What about our luggage?” Stephanie asked. “Is there a chance you can help us retrieve it?”
   “I will be happy to do my best in that regard, and I am optimistic I will be successful, especially knowing for certain you have no intention of testing the shroud. If all goes well, I will have your belongings forwarded to your home in Massachusetts.”
   “We’re not going to be home for a month,” Daniel said.
   “I will leave my card with you,” Michael said. “As soon as you have an address, you can call me.”
   “We have an address already,” Daniel said.
   “I have a question,” Stephanie said. “From now on, will we be personae non grata in Italy?”
   “As with the luggage issue, I am confident that I will be able, as they say, to have your slates wiped clean. You won’t have any trouble visiting Italy in the future, if that is your concern.”
   Stephanie turned and looked back at Daniel. “I suppose I can live without knowing the gory details. What about you?”
   “I suppose so,” Daniel said. “But I would like to know who it was who managed to get into our hotel room.”
   “I certainly don’t want to talk about that,” Michael responded quickly, “which is not to suggest that I know anything in particular.”
   “Then just tell me this—was he or she a member of the church or a professional hireling or part of the hotel staff?”
   “I can’t say,” Michael added. “I’m sorry.”

   Once Daniel and Stephanie resigned themselves to the fact that Michael was not going to be forthcoming about the whys and wherefores of his helpful intervention, and once it was apparent to them that the Italian authorities had indeed been evaded by the Fiat’s passing into France, they relaxed and enjoyed the drive. The scenery was spectacular as they rose up into the snow-covered Alps and passed through the ski village of Limone Piemonte.
   On the French side of the pass, they descended the craggy Gorge de Saorge on a road literally cut out of the side of the canyon’s sheer rock walls. At the French town of Sospel, they stopped for a bite of lunch. By the time they pulled into the Nice airport, it was after two in the afternoon.
   Michael gave them his card and took the address of the Ocean Club in Nassau, where Daniel had made a reservation. He shook each of their hands, promised to look into the baggage issue the moment he got back to Turin, and then drove off.
   Daniel and Stephanie watched the Fiat until it disappeared from sight before turning to each other.
   Stephanie shook her head in amazement. “What a weird experience!”
   Daniel nodded. “That’s an understatement.”
   A quick, derisive laugh escaped from Stephanie’s lips. “I don’t mean to be cruel but I can’t help but remember how you gloated yesterday morning how easy it had been to get the shroud sample and how you thought it was a harbinger of things to come in terms of treating Butler. Do you want to take that back?”
   “Maybe I was a little premature.” Daniel admitted. “Yet things turned out okay. We’re certainly going to lose a day or maybe two, but otherwise it should all be smooth sailing from here.”
   “I can only hope,” Stephanie said. She hoisted her bag onto her shoulder. “Let’s get inside and see about connections to London. That’s going to be the first test.”
   They walked into the terminal and looked up at the flight schedules displayed on a monster electronic board. Almost simultaneously, their eyes spotted a British Airways nonstop flight to London at three-fifty P.M.
   “See what I mean,” Daniel said happily. “Now that could hardly be more convenient.”

Fourteen

   3:55 P.M., Thursday, February 28, 2002
   “Holy crap!” Daniel shouted. “What the hell are you doing? You’re going to have us killed!”
   Daniel was straining against his seat belt with his hand on the back of the bench front seat of the taxi, which happened to be a vintage black Cadillac. Daniel and Stephanie had just arrived on New Providence Island in the Bahamas. Passport control and customs had been a mere formality since they had no luggage. What little clothing and toiletries Stephanie and Daniel had bought on their forced thirty-six-hour stay in London had been conveniently packed in a third carry-on bag. They had been the first of the people on their flight out of the terminal and had taken the first cab in the taxi line.
   “My God!” Daniel moaned as the oncoming car swept past them on the right. His head swiveled around to watch the car recede into the distance.
   Alarmed by the outburst, the taxi driver was eyeing his fares in his rearview mirror. “Hey, man! What’s the matter?” he asked urgently.
   Daniel swung back around to face forward, fearing more oncoming traffic. The color had drained from his face. The car that they passed had been the first they had encountered on the narrow two-lane road leading from the airport. As usual, Daniel had been nervously watching out the front window and had seen the car approach. Daniel had progressively stiffened as the driver, who had been carrying on a welcoming monologue as if he were a member of the island’s chamber of commerce, began drifting to the left. Daniel had assumed the driver would notice his error and move over to the right. But he didn’t. At the moment Daniel estimated it was too late for them to get over to the right to avoid an accident, he’d yelled in desperation.
   “Daniel, calm down!” Stephanie soothed. She put a restraining hand on his tensed thigh. “Everything is okay. Obviously, they drive on the left here in Nassau.”
   “Why the hell didn’t you tell me?” Daniel demanded.
   “I didn’t know, at least not until we passed the oncoming car. But it makes sense. It was a British colony for centuries.”
   “Then how come the steering wheel is on the left, like normal cars?”
   Stephanie could tell Daniel was in no mood to be placated. Instead, she changed the subject. “I can’t get over the color of the ocean from the plane when we flew over the Bahamas. It must be because it’s shallow. I’ve never seen such bright aquamarine or such deep sapphire.”
   Daniel merely grunted. He was preoccupied with another car approaching. Stephanie switched her attention outside and rolled down the window, despite the car’s air-conditioning. Coming from the dead of winter, the silky, tropical air and the lushness of the flora was startling, particularly the brilliant scarlet and luminous purple bougainvillea that seemed to be creeping over every wall. The tiny towns and buildings they were passing seemed reminiscent of New England, except for their vibrant tropical hues set off to full effect by the relentless Bahamian sun. The people they passed, whose skin color ranged from pale white to deep mahogany brown, appeared relaxed. Even from a distance, their smiles and laughter were apparent. Stephanie sensed it was a happy place, and she hoped it was an auspicious sign of what she and Daniel were there to accomplish.
   As far as their accommodations were concerned, Stephanie had no idea of what to expect, since it had not been discussed. Daniel had made all the arrangements prior to leaving for Italy, while she had seen to Butler’s fibroblast culture and had visited her family. On the twenty-second of March, exactly three weeks away, she knew where they would be staying. At that time, Ashley Butler would arrive, and she and Daniel would move with Butler to the enormous Atlantis hotel to take advantage of the reservations Butler had made. Stephanie imperceptibly shook her head at the thought of all they had to accomplish before the senator got there. She hoped his tissue culture was doing well back in Cambridge. If it wasn’t, there was no way they would make the three-week deadline to do the implant.
   After a half hour of driving, they began to see some of the hotels off to their left on what the driver said was Cable Beach. Most of the structures were large high-rises and, as such, not particularly inviting to Stephanie. Next came the town of Nassau itself, which was far more bustling than Stephanie had envisioned, with a profusion of cars, trucks, buses, scooters, mopeds, and pedestrians. Yet with all its hustle and bustle, imposingly elegant banks, and colorful but official-appearing colonial buildings, there was the same sense of general happiness that Stephanie had noted earlier. Even being stuck in traffic was not only tolerated by the people she saw but seemingly enjoyed.
   The taxi took them over a high, arched bridge to Paradise Island, which the driver said had been called Hog Island in colonial times. He said the original developer, Huntington Hartford, had felt the name was not an attraction. Both Stephanie and Daniel agreed. On the island side of the bridge, the driver pointed out a modern shopping plaza to the right and the gigantic Atlantis resort to the left.
   “Are there clothing stores in the shopping area?” Stephanie questioned. She turned to look back. The shops appeared to be unexpectedly upscale.
   “Yes, ma’am. But they’re expensive. If you’re looking for islandwear, I recommend Bay Street in town.”
   After a short drive east, the taxi turned north onto what turned out to be a long, serpentine driveway lined with particularly lush, dense vegetation. At the entrance stood a sign proclaiming:


PRIVATE, THE OCEAN CLUB, FOR GUESTS ONLY.

   What particularly impressed Stephanie was that the hotel itself could not be seen until the taxi made the final turn.
   “This looks heavenly,” she commented as the taxi pulled in under the porte cochere to be met by doormen in crisp white shirts and Bermuda shorts.
   “It’s supposed to be one of the best hotels,” Daniel announced.
   “You got that right, man,” the driver commented.
   The resort turned out to be even better than Stephanie could have hoped. It comprised low, two-story buildings scattered along a gorgeous concave stretch of beach and mostly hidden by flowering trees. Daniel had managed to reserve a ground-floor suite, from which the white-sand beach was a mere step away, across an expanse of manicured lawn. After they had put away their few clothes and arranged their toiletries in the marbled bath, Daniel turned to Stephanie. “It’s five-thirty. What do you think we should do?”
   “Not much,” Stephanie responded. “It’s almost midnight for us European time, and I’m bushed.”
   “Should we call the Wingate Clinic and let them know we’re here?”
   “I suppose it wouldn’t hurt, although I’m not sure what it will accomplish, since we’ll undoubtedly go over there in the morning. It would probably be more helpful if you went back to the lobby and arranged for a rent-a-car. What’s more important is for me to call Peter and see if he’s ready to overnight some of Butler’s fibroblasts. There’s really little we can do before we have them. Then after I call Peter, I need to call my mother. I promised her I’d get in touch with her to give her an address as soon as we got situated here in Nassau.”
   “We’re going to need some more clothes,” Daniel said. “How about this? I’ll go get a rent-a-car, you make your calls, and then we’ll head back to that shopping plaza near the bridge and see if there are any decent clothing shops.”
   “Why not just do the rent-a-car. I’m ready to take a shower, get something to eat, and hop into bed. There will be time for clothes shopping tomorrow.”
   “I suppose you’re right,” Daniel admitted. “My eagerness at having finally gotten here to Nassau has me fired up, whereas in actuality I’m bushed too.”
   As soon as Daniel left the room, Stephanie sat herself down at the desk. She was surprised and pleased to see she had a reasonable signal on her cell phone. As she’d suggested to Daniel, she made her first call to Peter, and as she suspected, he was still at the lab.
   “John Smith’s culture is doing fine,” Peter said, in response to Stephanie’s question. “I’ve been prepared to overnight a cryopreserved aliquot for several days. I expected to hear from you on Tuesday.”
   “A minor problem held us up unexpectedly,” Stephanie said vaguely. She smiled wryly at how much of an understatement that was, considering they had to flee out of Italy by car to avoid arrest and leave their luggage behind.
   “Are you ready for me to ship it?”
   “Absolutely,” Stephanie said. “Pack it up with the usual HTSR reagents, plus the collection of dopaminergic gene probes and growth factors I put together. And I just thought of something else. Include the ecdysone construct with the tyrosine hydroxylase promoter we used with our recent mouse experiments.”
   “My gosh!” Peter intoned. “What on earth are you guys up to down there?”
   “It’s best if I don’t explain,” Stephanie said. “What are the chances you could ship the whole consignment out tonight?”
   “I don’t see why not. Worst case, I have to drive it out to Logan, but that’s not a problem. Where do you want it sent?”
   Stephanie thought for a moment. Her first thought was to have it come to the hotel, but then she thought it would be wise to limit its travel as well as get it into a liquid-nitrogen freezer, which she assumed the Wingate Clinic would have. Asking Peter to hold on, she used the house phone to contact the concierge’s desk to get Wingate’s island address. It was 1200 Windsor Field Road. She then passed it on to Peter along with the clinic’s phone number.
   “I’ll get this in FedEx tonight,” Peter promised. “When will you be back?”
   “I’d say a month, maybe a little less.”
   “Good luck with whatever the hell you are doing!”
   “Thanks. We’ll need it.”
   Stephanie stared out at the pink-and-silver-tinted ocean with its gentle swells. A line of cumulus clouds was aligned along the horizon. Each was tipped with a dab of intense rose-purple from the setting sun off to her left. The sliding glass door was open, and a gentle breeze scented with some exotic flower caressed her face. The vista and ambience was luscious and calming after the frenetic days of travel and intrigue. She could feel herself begin to relax in such a serene environment, aided by the news about how well Butler’s fibroblast culture had progressed. The nagging worry that it had gone sour had lurked in the back of her mind ever since she had left on the trip. All in all, she began to entertain the idea that perhaps Daniel’s optimism about the Butler project might ultimately be reasonable, despite her intuition to the contrary and despite the trouble she and Daniel had experienced in Turin.
   Once the sun set, night fell precipitously. Torches were lit along the edge of the beach to flicker in the breeze. Stephanie picked up her cell phone again and dialed her parents’ number. She wanted her mother to have the name of the hotel, the room number, and the phone number, in case her mother took a turn for the worse. As the call went through, Stephanie found herself hoping her father wouldn’t answer. It was always so awkward trying to have a conversation with him. She was pleased when she heard her mother’s soft voice

  Although Tony had no reason to think that his headstrong sister wouldn’t carry out her threat to languish in the Bahamas while her company tanked, he’d been entertaining the hope that she’d see the light after what he’d told her, cancel the trip, and do what she could to turn things around. But such was not to be the case, as her phone call to their mother had just proved. The bitch and her freaking boyfriend were in Nassau, staying at some posh oceanfront resort in a suite, no less, with a view of the beach. It was galling.
   Tony shook his head at her nerve. Ever since she’d gotten into Harvard, she’d been thumbing her nose at him every time he turned around, which he’d tolerated since she was his kid sister. But now she’d gone too far, especially considering the academic nerd she was hooked up with. A hundred grand was a lot of money, no matter how you looked at it, and that wasn’t even considering the Castiglianos’ share. The whole situation wasn’t right, that was for damn sure, yet she still was his kid sister, so things weren’t as clear as they could have been.
   The big Cadillac crunched over the gravel and came to a halt in front of the Castigliano Brothers Plumbing Supply store. Tony turned off his headlights and killed the engine. But he didn’t get out of the car immediately. Instead, he sat for a moment to calm himself down. He could have just called and given the information to either Sal or Louie over the phone. But because it was his sister, he had to know what they had in mind. He knew they were just as pissed as he was, but without the restraint from having a family member involved. He didn’t care what they did to the boyfriend. Hell, he wouldn’t mind pushing him around himself. But his sister was another thing entirely. If she were to be pushed around, Tony wanted to be the perpetrator.
   Tony opened the door and was assaulted by the putrid smell of the salt marsh. He couldn’t understand how anyone could hang around a place where every time the wind changed direction, it smelled like rotten eggs. It was a moonless night, and Tony walked carefully. He didn’t want to trip over a discarded sink or any other debris.
   Since it was after hours, the store was closed, as evidenced by a sign in the door’s window. But the door was unlocked. Gaetano was behind the cash register, totaling the day’s receipts. He had a nub of a yellow wooden pencil tucked behind his surprisingly small ear, dwarfed by his large head.
   “Sal and Louie?” Tony questioned.
   Gaetano motioned toward the rear with his head without interrupting what he was doing. Tony found the twins at their respective desks. After a slapping handshake and the usual curt greeting with each, Tony sat down on the sofa. The twins eyed him expectantly. The only light in the room came from small, hooded desk lamps on each desk, emphasizing the twins’ cadaverous faces. From Tony’s perspective, their eye sockets were mere black holes.
   “Well, they are in Nassau,” Tony began. “I was hoping I could come here and tell you differently, but that’s not the case. They just checked into a ritzy resort called the Ocean Club. They are in suite 108. I’ve even got the phone number.”
   Tony leaned over and put a small piece of paper on Louie’s desk, which was closer to the sofa than Sal’s.
   The door opened, and Gaetano’s head popped in. “You want me or what?”
   “Yeah,” Louie said, as he picked up the paper with the phone number and glanced at it.
   Gaetano stepped into the room and closed the door.
   “Any change in the company’s prospects?” Sal asked.
   “Not that I’m aware of,” Tony said. “If there had been, my accountant would have told me.”
   “It’s like this twerp’s flipping us off,” Louie said. He laughed mirthlessly. “Nassau! I still don’t believe it. It’s like he’s asking us to beat the crap out of him.”
   “Is that what you are going to do?” Tony asked.
   Louie looked over at his twin. “We want him to get his ass back here and save the company and our investment. Am I right, brother?”
   “Damn straight,” Sal said. “We’ve got to let him know who’s involved here and emphasize we want our money back, come hell or high water. Not only does he have to get his ass back here, he’s got to have a clear idea of what the consequences are if he ignores us or thinks he can hide behind a bankruptcy filing or some other legal shenanigan. He needs to be knocked around good!”
   “What about my sister?” Tony asked. “She’s not blameless in this mess, but if she’s going to be knocked around, I want to be the person doing the knocking around.”
   “No problem,” Louie said. He tossed the slip of paper with the phone number onto his desk. “Like I said Sunday—our beef’s not with her.”
   “Are you ready to go to Nassau, Gaetano?” Sal asked.
   “I can leave first thing in the morning,” Gaetano said. “But what should I do after I deliver the message? Should I hang around or what? I mean, what if he doesn’t get the message?”
   “You’d better be damn sure he gets the message,” Sal said. “I don’t want you to have the mistaken impression this is some sort of paid vacation. Besides, we need you up here. After you give him the message, you get your ass back to Boston.”
   “Gaetano has a point,” Tony said. “What will you do if this asshole ignores the message?”
   Sal looked at his brother. There was an apparent immediate meeting of the minds as each nodded. Sal looked back at Tony. “If this twerp wasn’t around, could your sister run the company?”
   Tony shrugged. “How am I supposed to know?”
   “She’s your sister,” Sal said. “Doesn’t she have a Ph.D.?”
   “She’s got a Ph.D. from Harvard,” Tony said. “Big deal! All it’s done is make her impossible to get along with, thinking she’s so high and mighty. And as far as I know, it only means she knows a ton of stuff about germs and genes and all that crap, not how to run a company.”
   “Well, the twerp’s got a Ph.D. too,” Louie said. “So it seems to me the company wouldn’t be much worse off if your sister were running things. And if she were, you’d have a lot more influence about how things were going.”
   “So what are you saying?” Tony asked.
   “Hey, am I not talking English here?” Louie questioned.
   “Of course you’re talking English,” Sal added.
   “Look,” Louie said. “If the head of the company doesn’t get the message, which I think we can count on Gaetano making very clear, then we whack him. Simple as that, and end of story for the professor. If nothing else, that should send a very specific message to your sister that she’d better mend her ways.”
   “You’re right about that,” Tony said.
   “Are you okay with this, Gaetano?” Sal asked.
   “Yeah, sure,” Gaetano replied. “But I’m confused. Do you or don’t you want me to stay down there until we’re sure what his response will be to getting roughed up?”
   “For the last time,” Sal said threateningly. “You’re to deliver the message and get back here. If it goes down easily and if the flight schedule is copasetic, maybe you can do it in one day. Otherwise, you’ll stay over. But we want you back here ASAP, because there’s a lot going on around here. If he’s got to be whacked, you’ll go back. Understood?”
   Gaetano nodded, but he was disappointed. When the task was first suggested on Sunday, he’d hoped to get a week in the sun out of the deal.
   “I’ve got a suggestion,” Tony said. “Since we can’t rule out Gaetano having to return, then I don’t think he should do what he has to do at their hotel. If the professor turns out not to be cooperative, we don’t want him on the run, which he might do if he thinks the hotel is not safe. In the Bahamas alone, there are literally hundreds of islands.”
   “You’re right,” Sal said. “We don’t want him to disappear, not with our money on the line.”
   “So maybe I should stay down there and keep an eye on him,” Gaetano suggested hopefully.
   “What do I have to say to you, you moron,” Sal spat while glaring at Gaetano. “For the last time, you’re not heading south on a holiday. You’re going to do your thing and get the hell back here. This problem with the professor isn’t the only one we’ve got.”
   “Okay, okay!” Gaetano said, motioning as if surrendering. “I won’t have my meeting with the guy at the hotel. I’ll just use the hotel to spot him, which means I’ll be needing some photos.”
   “I thought of that,” Tony said. He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out several snapshots. “These were taken of the lovebirds just this past Christmas.” He handed them over to Gaetano, who was still standing at the door.
   Gaetano glanced at the photographs.
   “Are they okay?” Louie asked.
   “They’re not bad at all,” Gaetano responded. Then, looking at Tony, he added, “I have to say, your sister’s a looker.”
   “Yeah, well forget it,” Tony said. “She’s off-limits.”
   “Too bad,” Gaetano said with a crooked smile.
   “One other thing,” Tony said. “With all this airport security nonsense, I don’t think it’s advisable even to pack a gun in a checked suitcase. If Gaetano needs one, it would be better to make arrangements to get one on the island through contacts in Miami. You do have contacts in Miami, don’t you?”
   “Sure,” Sal said. “That’s another good idea. Anything else?”
   “I think that’s all about it,” Tony said. He stubbed out his cigarette and stood up.

Fifteen

   9:15 A.M., Friday, March 1, 2002
   It had been a long, delightful, and rejuvenating morning. With their circadian cycles awry, compliments of their brief European trip, both Stephanie and Daniel had awakened well before the sun had brightened the eastern horizon. Unable to fall back asleep, they’d gotten up, showered, and taken a protracted stroll around the hotel grounds and along the deserted Cabbage Beach, as a cloudless, tropical dawn broke. Back at the hotel, they’d been the first guests for breakfast and had lingered over their coffee while discussing the schedule for creating Butler’s treatment cells. With only three weeks until his scheduled arrival, they knew they were up against a significant time constraint, and they were eager to get started, although they recognized they could do little until the package arrived from Peter. By eight o’clock, they’d called the Wingate Clinic to tell the receptionist they were in Nassau and would arrive at the clinic at about nine-fifteen. She said she’d let the doctors know.
   “This western part of the island looks different than the eastern part,” Daniel observed, as they drove west along Windsor Field Road. “It’s much flatter.”
   “It’s also less developed and a lot drier,” Stephanie added. They were passing long, low stretches of semiarid pine forest infiltrated with palmettos. The sky was a deep azure, dotted with a few wispy white clouds.
   Daniel had insisted on driving, which Stephanie didn’t mind until he’d suggested she might have more trouble driving on the left than he. Her initial reaction was to challenge what seemed to her an unwarranted, chauvinistic assertion, but then she just let it go. The issue wasn’t worth an argument. Instead, she climbed into the passenger seat and contented herself with getting out the map. As had been the case when they’d fled Italy, she’d be the navigator.
   Daniel drove slowly, which was fine with Stephanie, considering the reflex to bear to the right at corners and while circling roundabouts. They’d driven along the northern coast of the island, noting once again the high-rise resorts lined up like soldiers at attention along Cable Beach. After passing a number of limestone caves sculpted by prehistoric seas, they’d turned inland. Bearing right at the next intersection on Windsor Field Road, they’d caught a glimpse of the airport in the distance.
   Continuing west, they had no trouble finding the turnoff to the Wingate Clinic. It was on the left side of the road and marked by a huge sign.
   Stephanie leaned forward to get a better view out the windshield as they approached. “My word! Do you see the sign?”
   “It would be hard to miss. It’s the size of a billboard.”
   Daniel made the turn onto the newly paved, tree-lined drive.
   “They must have a lot of land,” Stephanie said. She sat back. “I can’t see the building.”
   After several turns through a dense copse of evergreens, the serpentine driveway was abruptly blocked by a gate. A formidable chain-link fence topped with razor wire disappeared into the pine forest in both directions. On Stephanie’s side of the car stood a small booth. A uniformed guard, complete with a holstered sidearm, a visored, military-style hat, and aviator sunglasses, stepped out. He was holding a clipboard. Daniel pulled to a stop while Stephanie lowered her window.
   The guard leaned over to look at Daniel across Stephanie’s lap. “Can I help you, sir?” His voice was decidedly businesslike and devoid of emotion.
   “It’s Dr. D’Agostino and Dr. Lowell,” Stephanie said. “We’re here to meet with Dr. Wingate.”
   The guard checked his clipboard and then touched the brim of his hat before returning to the gatehouse. A moment later, the gate rolled open like a pocket door. Daniel accelerated forward.
   It took another few minutes before the clinic came into view. Nestled among carefully landscaped shrubbery and flowering trees was a two-story, postmodern, U-shaped complex. It was composed of three separate buildings connected by arcaded covered walkways. Each building was clad in white limestone with white concrete tile roofs, the pediments of which were capped by fanciful, shell-themed acroteria reminiscent of an ancient Greek temple. Latticework was interspersed between multipaned windows along the sides of each structure. At the base of each lattice, young, brightly colored bougainvillea plants were beginning their climb skyward.
   “Good grief,” Stephanie exclaimed. “I wasn’t prepared for this. It’s beautiful. It looks more like a spa than an infertility clinic.”
   The driveway led to a parking area in front of a central building, the entrance of which was adorned by a columned portico. The columns were squat, with exaggerated entases and capped with simple Doric capitals.
   “I hope they saved some money for their laboratory equipment,” Daniel commented. He pulled their rented Mercury Marquis in between several new BMW convertibles. Several spaces away were two limousines, their liveried drivers smoking and chatting while leaning up against their vehicles’ front fenders.
   Daniel and Stephanie stepped out of the car and paused to gaze at the complex, which was dazzling in the bright Bahamian sun. “I’d heard that infertility was lucrative,” Daniel commented, “but I didn’t imagine it was this lucrative.”
   “Nor did I,” Stephanie said. “But I wonder how much of this resulted from them being able to collect on their fire insurance following their flight from Massachusetts.” She shook her head. “No matter where the money came from, with the cost of healthcare, opulence and medicine are inappropriate bedfellows. There is something wrong with this picture, and my qualms about getting involved with these people are coming back big time.”
   “Let’s not let our prejudices and self-righteousness run away with themselves,” Daniel warned. “We’re not here on a social crusade. We’re here to treat Butler, and that’s it.”
   The large bronzed front door opened and a tall, deeply tanned, silver-haired man appeared. He was dressed in a long white doctor’s coat. He waved and called out “Welcome!” in a high, lilting voice.
   “At least we’re getting a personalized greeting,” Daniel said. “Let’s go! And keep your opinions to yourself.”
   Daniel and Stephanie met up at the front of the car and began walking toward the entrance. “I hope that’s not Spencer Wingate,” Stephanie whispered.
   “Why not?” Daniel whispered back.
   “Because he’s handsome enough to be a soap-opera doctor.”
   “Oh, I forgot! You wanted him to be short, fat, and have a wart on his nose.”
   “Precisely.”
   “Well, we can still hope he’s a chain-smoker and has bad breath.”
   “Oh, shut up!”
   Daniel and Stephanie mounted the three steps to the portico. As they approached, Spencer extended his hand while keeping the door open with his foot. He introduced himself with a great flourish of smiles and handshaking. He then grandly motioned for them to precede him into the building.
   In keeping with the exterior, the interior had a simple classical ambience, with plain pilasters, dentil moldings, and Doric columns. The floor was polished limestone, softened with Oriental scatter rugs. The walls were painted a very light lavender, which at first glance appeared to be pale gray. Even the varnished hardwood furniture had a classical aura, with dark green leather upholstery. A faint smell of fresh paint permeated the air-conditioned air, as a reminder of the clinic’s recent completion. For Daniel and Stephanie, the dry coolness was a welcome contrast to the moist tropical heat outdoors, which had been steadily climbing since sunrise.
   “This is our main waiting room,” Spencer said as he gestured around the voluminous room. Two moderately elderly, well-dressed couples were sitting on separate sofas. They were nervously flipping through magazines and briefly looked up. The only other occupant was a receptionist with bright pink fingernail polish who was manning a half-circle desk just inside the door.
   “This building serves as the initial check-in location for new patients,” Spencer explained. “It also houses our administration offices. We’re very proud of the clinic, and we’re eager to show you the entire complex, although we suspect you’re mainly interested in our laboratory facilities.”
   “And the operating room,” Daniel said.
   “Yes, of course, the operating room. But first, come up to my office for some coffee and meet the others.”
   Spencer led the way over to a spacious elevator, even though they were only going up one floor. During the brief ride, Spencer questioned like a concerned host whether their incoming flight had been pleasant. Stephanie assured him it had been fine. On the second level, they passed a secretary who interrupted her word processing to smile cheerfully.
   Spencer’s vast office was in the northeast corner of the building. The airport could be seen to the east and a blue line of the ocean to the north. “Help yourselves,” Spencer said, motioning to a coffee service spread out on a low marble table in front of an L-shaped sofa. “I’ll get the two department heads.”
   For a moment, Daniel and Stephanie were alone.
   “This looks like an office of a CEO of a Fortune Five Hundred company,” Stephanie said. “I have to say, I find all of this opulence obscene.”
   “Let’s hold our value judgments until we see the lab.”
   “Do you think those two couples reading magazines downstairs are patients?”
   “I haven’t the slightest idea, nor do I care.”
   “They seemed a bit old for infertility treatment.”
   “It’s not our concern.”
   “Do you think the Wingate Clinic is getting older women pregnant like that maverick infertility specialist in Italy?”
   Daniel flashed Stephanie an exasperated, irritated look as Spencer reappeared. The clinic founder had a man and a woman in tow, both dressed like himself in white, highly starched, long doctor’s coats. First, he introduced Paul Saunders, who was short and squat, and whose thick-necked silhouette reminded Stephanie of the columns supporting the building’s entrance portico. In keeping with his body, everything about Paul’s face was round with puffy, pasty, pale skin, all of which was in sharp contrast to Spencer’s tall, slender frame, sharply angled features, and bronzed complexion. A mat of unruly dark hair with a striking white forelock completed Paul’s eccentric image and accentuated his paleness.
   As he vigorously shook hands with Daniel, Paul smiled broadly to reveal square, widely spaced, yellowed teeth. “Welcome to the Wingate, doctors,” he said. “We’re honored to have you here. I can’t tell you how excited I am about our collaboration.”
   Stephanie smiled weakly as he moved to her and pumped her hand. She was mesmerized by the man’s eyes. With his broad-based nose, his eyes appeared closer together than usual. Also, she’d never seen a person with different-colored irises.
   “Paul is our head of research,” Spencer announced, giving Paul a pat on the back. “He is looking forward to having you in his lab and eager to be of assistance and to learn a few things, I might add.” Spencer then draped his arm over the shoulders of the woman, who was almost as tall as he. “And this is Dr. Sheila Donaldson, head of clinical services. She’ll be making the arrangements for your use of one of our two operating rooms, as well as our inpatient facility, which we assume you’ll be taking advantage of.”
   “I didn’t know you had inpatient capabilities,” Daniel said.
   “We are a full-service, self-contained operation,” Spencer said proudly. “Although for long-term inpatient care, which we don’t expect, we will be referring patients to Doctors Hospital in town. Our inpatient facility is limited and more just for an occasional overnight, which should serve your needs admirably.”
   Stephanie pulled her attention away from Paul Saunders and looked at Sheila Donaldson. She had a narrow face framed by lank, chestnut hair. In comparison to the exuberant men, she seemed withdrawn, almost shy. Stephanie had the feeling the woman was reluctant to look her in the eye as they shook hands.
   “No coffee for you folks?” Spencer questioned.
   Both Stephanie and Daniel shook their heads. “I think we’ve both had our fill of coffee,” Daniel explained. “We’re still on European time, and we’ve been up since the crack of dawn.”
   “Europe?” Paul questioned enthusiastically. “Did your travel to Europe have anything to do with the Shroud of Turin?”
   “Indeed it did,” Daniel responded.
   “I trust it was a successful trip,” Paul said, with a conspiratorial wink.
   “Withering, but successful,” Daniel remarked. “We…” He paused, as if trying to decide what he wanted to say.
   Stephanie held her breath. She was hoping Daniel wouldn’t describe their Turin experience. She very much wanted to maintain a distance from these people. For Daniel to share their recent travail would be too personal and would cross a boundary she did not want to cross.
   “We managed to get a bloodstained swatch from the shroud,” Daniel said. “In fact, I have it with me at the moment. What I’d like to do is get it into a buffered saline solution to stabilize the DNA fragments, and I’d like to do it sooner rather than later.”
   “Sounds good to me,” Paul said. “Let’s head directly over to the laboratory.”
   “There’s no reason the tour can’t start there,” Spencer said agreeably.
   With a sense of relief that appropriate personal distance had been maintained, Stephanie let out her breath and relaxed a degree as the group trooped out of Spencer’s office.
   At the elevator, Sheila excused herself by saying there were patients scheduled, and she wanted to be certain things went smoothly. She then left the group to take the stairs.
   The laboratory was off to the left side of the central building and was reached by traversing one of the gracefully curved, covered walkways. “We designed the clinic as separate buildings to force ourselves to get outside, even if we work all the time,” Paul explained. “It’s good for the soul.”
   “I get out a bit more than Paul,” Spencer added, with a laugh. “As if you couldn’t tell by my tan. I’m not quite the workaholic he is.”
   “Is this building all laboratory?” Daniel questioned, as he stepped through the door held open by Spencer.
   “Not entirely,” Paul explained, as he went ahead to stop by a periodical rack where he bent over to pick up a glossy-covered magazine from a stack. The group had entered a room that appeared to be a combination lounge and library. Bookshelves lined the walls. “This is our journal room, and I have here a copy for you of our latest issue of the Journal of Twenty-first Century Reproductive Technology.” He proudly handed the publication to Daniel. “There’s a few articles you might find interesting.”
   “That’s very kind of you,” Daniel managed. He scanned the contents printed on the cover before handing it to Stephanie.
   “This building has living accommodations in addition to the laboratory,” Paul said. “That includes some guest apartments, which are nothing fancy but certainly adequate. We would like to offer for you to use them if you are inclined to be near your work. We even have a cafeteria, which serves three meals a day, in the clinic building across the garden, so you wouldn’t have to leave the premises unless you wanted. You see, many of our employees live here in the complex, and their apartments are also in this building.”
   “Thank you for your offer,” Stephanie responded quickly. “That’s very hospitable of you, but we have very comfortable accommodations in town.”
   “Where are you staying, if I may ask?” Paul questioned.
   “The Ocean Club,” Stephanie said.
   “A very good choice,” Paul said. “Well, the offer holds if you decide to change your minds.”
   “I don’t think so,” Stephanie said.
   “Let’s get back to the tour,” Spencer suggested.
   “By all means,” Paul said. He motioned for the group to move toward a pair of double doors leading into the depths of the building. “Besides the laboratory and living quarters, this building also houses some diagnostic equipment, like the PET scanner. We had it installed here because we felt we’d be using it more for research than clinical work.”
   “I didn’t realize you had a PET scanner,” Daniel said. He glanced at Stephanie with raised eyebrows to communicate his contented amazement as a counterpoint to her palpable negativity. He knew a PET scanner, which uses gamma rays to study physiological function, might be handy if a problem arose with Butler after the treatment.
   “We’ve planned the Wingate to be a full-service research and clinical facility,” Paul said proudly. “As long as we were putting in a CT scanner and an MRI, we thought we might as well add a PET.”

  “I’m impressed,” Daniel admitted.
   “I thought you’d be,” Paul said. “And as the discoverer of HTSR, you’ll surely be interested to know we plan to be a major player in stem-cell therapy as well as infertility.”
   “That’s an interesting combination,” Daniel said vaguely, unsure of his reaction to this unexpected news. As with so many things about the Wingate Clinic, the idea that they were thinking of doing stem-cell therapy was a surprise.
   “We thought it a natural extension of our work,” Paul explained, “considering our access to human oocytes and our extensive experience with nuclear transfer. The irony is that we thought it was going to be a sideline, but since we’ve opened our doors, we’ve done more stem-cell treatment than infertility.”
   “That’s true,” Spencer said. “In fact, those patients you saw earlier in the main waiting area are here for stem-cell therapy. Word of mouth concerning our services seems to be spreading quickly. We haven’t had to advertise at all.”
   Both Daniel and Stephanie’s faces reflected their dismayed surprise.
   “What kind of illnesses are you treating?” Daniel asked.
   Paul laughed. “Just about anything and everything! A lot of people understand stem cells’ promise for a host of ailments, from terminal cancer and degenerative diseases to the problems of aging. Since they can’t get stem-cell treatments in the USA, they come to us.”
   “But that’s absurd!” Stephanie exclaimed. She was aghast. “There are no established protocols for treating anything with stem cells.”
   “We’re the first to admit we’re breaking new ground,” Spencer responded. “It’s experimental, like what you folks are planning with your patient.”
   “Essentially, we’re using public demand to fund the needed research,” Paul explained. “Hell, it’s only reasonable since the U.S. government is so chary about funding the work and making it so difficult for you researchers on the mainland.”
   “What kinds of cells are you using?” Daniel asked.
   “Multipotent stem cells,” Paul said.
   “You’re not differentiating the cells?” Daniel questioned, with mounting disbelief, since undifferentiated stem cells would not treat anything.
   “No, not at all,” Paul said. “Of course, we’ll be trying that in the future, but for now we do the nuclear transfer, grow out the stem cells, and infuse them. We let the patient’s body use them as it sees fit. We’ve had some interesting results, although not with everyone, but that is the nature of research.”
   “How can you call what you are doing research?” Stephanie questioned hotly. “And I beg to differ with you—there’s no parallel between what we are planning to do and what you are doing.”
   Daniel gripped Stephanie’s arm and eased her away from Paul. “Dr. D’Agostino’s point is merely that we will be treating with differentiated cells.”
   Stephanie tried to pull her arm free from Daniel’s grasp. “My point is a hell of a lot bigger than that,” she rejoined. “What you people are talking about doing with stem cells is nothing but pure, unadulterated quackery!”
   Daniel tightened his grip on Stephanie’s arm. “Excuse us for just a moment,” he said to Paul and Spencer, whose expressions had clouded. He forcibly pulled Stephanie to the side and spoke to her in an angry whisper. “What the hell are you doing, trying to sabotage our project and get us thrown out of here?”
   “What do you mean, what am I doing?” Stephanie whispered back with equal vehemence. “How can you not be outraged? On top of everything else, these people are snake-oil charlatans.”
   “Shut up!” Daniel sputtered. He gave Stephanie a short shake. “Do I have to keep reminding you we’re here for one thing and one thing only—to treat Butler! Can’t you restrain yourself, for Christ’s sake? The future of CURE and HTSR is on the line. These people are far from saints. We knew that from the start. That’s why they are here in the Bahamas and not in Massachusetts. So let’s not muck up everything with righteous indignation!”
   For a moment, Daniel and Stephanie stared at each other with blazing eyes. Finally, Stephanie broke off and hung her head. “You’re hurting my arm,” she said.
   “Sorry!” Daniel responded. He let go of her arm, which Stephanie immediately began to rub. Daniel took a deep breath to get his anger under control. He glanced back at Spencer and Paul, who were watching them with quizzical expressions. Returning his attention to Stephanie, he said, “Can we concentrate on the mission? Can we accept the fact that these people are unethical, venal morons and leave it at that?”
   “I suppose the aphorism ‘People in glass houses shouldn’t throw stones’ fits here, considering what we are planning. Maybe that’s why this all bothers me so much.”
   “And maybe you’re right,” Daniel said. “But keep in mind we’re being forced to push ethical boundaries. With that accepted, can I count on you to keep your reactions to the Wingate Clinic and its mission to yourself, at least until we get off by ourselves?”
   “I’ll try my best.”
   “Good,” Daniel said. He took another deep breath for fortitude before walking back to join the others. Stephanie followed a few paces behind.
   “I think we’re suffering a bit of jet lag,” Daniel explained to their hosts. “We’ve both been a tad emotional. Also, Dr. D’Agostino tends to exaggerate to make a point. Intellectually, she feels that differentiated cells would be a more efficacious way to take advantage of the promise of stem cells.”
   “We’ve been having some darn good results,” Paul said. “Perhaps, Dr. D’Agostino, you’d like to review them before you make a blanket judgment.”
   “I’d find that very instructive,” Stephanie managed.
   “Let’s move along,” Spencer suggested. “We want you to see the rest of the clinic before lunch, and there is a lot to see.”
   In stunned silence, Daniel and Stephanie passed through the double doors into a vast laboratory. Once again, they were taken aback. The sheer size of the facility combined with its array of equipment, from DNA sequencers to mundane tissue culture-incubators, was much greater than either had envisioned or hoped. The only thing lacking was personnel. A single technician could be seen working in the distance at a dissecting stereomicroscope.
   “We’re understaffed at the moment,” Spencer said, as if reading his guests’ minds. “But that’s soon to be rectified, as patient demand balloons.”
   “I’ll get our lab supervisor,” Paul said, before disappearing briefly into a nearby side office.
   “We project to be up to full strength in about six months,” Spencer said.
   “How many technicians do you plan to have?” Stephanie asked.
   “Around thirty,” Spencer replied. “At least, that’s what our current projections suggest. But if the stem-cell treatment demand continues to increase at its present rate, we’ll have to adjust that figure upward.”
   Paul reappeared, holding the hand of a slight woman who appeared practically emaciated, with all her bony prominences poking through her skin, particularly her cheekbones. She had gray-streaked, mousy-colored hair and a narrow, knifelike nose that stood like an exclamation point above a small, tight-lipped mouth. She was wearing a short lab coat with the sleeves rolled up over a pantsuit. Paul brought her over to the group and introduced her. Her name was Megan Finnigan, as advertised by the laboratory supervisor nametag clipped to her jacket pocket.
   “We’re all ready for you,” Megan said, after the introductions. She spoke softly, with a Boston accent. She pointed toward a nearby lab bench. “We’ve prepared this area with what we thought you would need. If there is anything else, all you have to do is ask. My office door is always open.”
   “Dr. Lowell needs a small flask of buffered saline,” Paul said. “He has a fabric sample containing blood whose DNA he wants to preserve.”
   “That’s no problem at all,” Megan said. She called out for the single lab technician to get it. In the distance, the woman pushed back from her microscope and busied herself with the request.
   “When would you like to start your work?” Megan asked, while Daniel and Stephanie inspected the area of the lab set aside for them.
   “As soon as possible,” Daniel said. “What about the human oocytes? Will they be available when we need them?”
   “Absolutely,” Paul said. “All we need is about twelve hours notice.”
   “That’s amazing,” Daniel said. “How is it possible?”
   Paul smiled. “That’s a trade secret. Perhaps after we have worked together, we can share such secrets. I’m equally interested in your HTSR.”
   “Does that mean you want to start today?” Megan asked.
   “Unfortunately, we can’t,” Daniel said. “We have to wait for a FedEx package before we can start, other than getting the fabric sample into an appropriate salt solution.” He turned to Spencer. “I don’t suppose anything has come for us this morning.”
   “When was it sent?” Spencer asked.
   “Last night from Boston,” Stephanie said.
   “How much did it weigh?” Spencer asked. “It makes a difference when it will arrive. Nassau is, after all, an international destination for a shipment from Boston. If it were an envelope or a very small package, it may get here overnight and be here sometime in the afternoon.”
   “It wasn’t an envelope,” Stephanie said. “It will be big enough to hold an insulated pack containing a cryopreserved tissue culture plus a stock of reagents.”
   “Then the earliest you can expect it is tomorrow,” Spencer said. “It has to go through customs, which will take an extra day at least.”
   “It’s important we get the tissue culture in the freezer before it thaws,” Stephanie said.
   “I can call customs and expedite it,” Spencer said. “During our construction over the last year, we’ve been dealing with them almost on a daily basis.”
   The lab tech arrived with a stoppered flask of buffered saline. She was a light-skinned African-American in her early twenties who wore her hair in a tight bob. A sprinkling of freckles graced the bridge of her nose, and an impressive array of piercings with associated jewelry ringed the helices of her ears.
   “This is Maureen Jefferson,” Paul said, introducing her. “Her nickname’s Mare. I don’t mean to embarrass her, but she has the golden touch when it comes to micropipettes and nuclear transfer. So if you need any help, she’ll be here. Am I right, Mare?”
   Mare smiled demurely as she handed the saline container to Daniel.
   “That’s very generous,” Stephanie said, “but I think we’ll be fine in the cellular manipulation department.”
   While the others watched, Daniel took the sealed glassine envelope from his pocket. With a pair of scissors proffered by Megan, he cut off one end. By compressing the envelope from the edges, he got it to open. He then carefully dropped the small, pale-reddish swatch of aged linen into the solution without touching it. It floated on the surface of the fluid. He fitted the flask with its rubber stopper and pushed the stopper in tightly. With a grease pencil, also proffered by Megan, he marked the outside of the flask with the initials ST

   “Is there someplace safe to store this while the blood components elute?” Daniel questioned.
   “The entire lab is safe,” Paul said. “There’s no need to worry. We have our own professional security department.”
   “Consider the clinic the Fort Knox of Nassau,” Spencer said.
   “I can lock it in my office,” Megan suggested. “I can even put it in a small safe I have.”
   “I’d appreciate it,” Daniel said. “It’s irreplaceable.”
   “Have no fear,” Paul said. “It will be safe. Believe me! Would you mind if I held it for a minute?”
   “Of course not,” Daniel said. He handed the flask to Paul.
   Paul held the bottle up to backlight it with one of the overhead lights. “Can you imagine?” he questioned, squinting at the tiny bit of reddish fabric floating on the fluid’s surface. “We have some of Christ’s DNA! It gives me shivers just to think about it.”
   “Let’s not be overly theatrical,” Spencer said.
   “How did you manage to get it?” Paul asked, ignoring Spencer’s comment.
   “We had high-level clerical assistance,” Daniel said vaguely.
   “And how did you arrange that?” Paul asked, as he continued gazing at the fluid-filled flask while slowly turning it.
   “Actually, we didn’t,” Daniel said. “Our patient did.”
   “Oh, really,” Paul said. He lowered the flask and glanced at Spencer. “Is your patient associated with the Catholic Church?”
   “Not to our knowledge,” Daniel said.
   “At the very least, he must have some serious pull,” Spencer suggested.
   “Perhaps,” Daniel said. “We wouldn’t know.”
   “Now that you’ve been over to Italy,” Spencer said, “where do you come down on the issue of the Shroud of Turin’s authenticity?”
   “As I told you on the phone,” Daniel said, with barely concealed exasperation, “we’re not involving ourselves in the controversy about the shroud. We’re only using it at our patient’s insistence as a source of the DNA we need for HTSR.” The last thing Daniel wanted to do was get into an intellectual discussion with these bozos.
   “Well, I’m looking forward to meeting this patient of yours,” Paul said. “He and I have something in common—we both believe the Shroud of Turin is the real thing.” He handed the flask to Megan. “Let’s be doubly careful now! I have a feeling this little tidbit is going to make history.”
   Megan took the flask and held it with both hands. She turned to Daniel. “What are your plans for this suspension?” she asked. “You don’t expect the ancient linen to dissolve, do you?”
   “Certainly not,” Daniel said. “I just want to let the swatch sit in the saline to let the lymphocytic DNA present to leech into solution. In twenty-four hours or so, I’ll run an aliquot through the PCR. Electrophoresis with some controls should give us an idea what we have. If we find we have enough DNA fragments, which I’m reasonably sure we will have, we’ll amplify it and then see if our probes pick up what we need for HTSR. Of course, we may have to do the whole exercise a few times and sequence any gaps. Anyway, the swatch will stay in the saline until we have what we need.”
   “Very well,” Megan said. “I’ll put the flask in my safe as I suggested. Tomorrow, just let me know when you want it.”
   “Perfect,” Daniel said.
   “If we’re finished here, why don’t we head over to the clinic building,” Spencer suggested. He checked his watch. “We want you to see our operating rooms as well as our inpatient facility. You can meet the personnel over there, and then we can show you our cafeteria. We’ve even planned a luncheon on your behalf, to which we have invited Dr. Rashid Nawaz, the neurosurgeon. We thought you’d like to meet him.”
   “We would indeed,” Daniel remarked.

   It seemed to have taken forever, but finally Gaetano was next in line at the rent-a-car concession at the Nassau International Airport. He wondered why it had taken the people ahead of him so long to rent a freakin’ car, since all they had to do was sign the goddamn form. He looked at his watch. It was half past twelve in the afternoon. He had arrived only twenty minutes earlier, even though he’d left Logan Airport at six A.M., before it was even light. The problem had been the lack of nonstop or even direct flights, and he had had to change planes in Orlando.
   Gaetano shifted his muscled weight nervously. Sal and Lou had made it crystal clear they wanted him to accomplish his mission in a single day and get his ass back to Boston. They specifically warned him they were not going to brook any lame excuses, even though in the same breath they admitted success depended on Gaetano connecting expeditiously with Dr. Daniel Lowell, which wasn’t a given, since they graciously admitted there were a few variables. Gaetano had promised he’d do his best, yet there wasn’t going to be any possibility whatsoever of getting the job done if he didn’t get the hell over to the Ocean Club hotel ASAP.
   The plan was simple. Gaetano was to go to the hotel, locate the mark, who Lou and Sal were absolutely sure would be lounging on the beach, considering the weather, lure him away from the hotel by some clever ruse, and do what he had to do, meaning deliver the bosses’ message and beat the crap out of him so the message would be taken seriously. Then Gaetano was to race back to the airport and take one of the puddle jumpers back to Miami in time to catch the last flight to Boston. If that wasn’t going to happen for some unknown reason, then Gaetano would carry out his mission that evening, providing the professor left the hotel, and then Gaetano would spend the night at some fleabag flophouse and return the following day. The only problem with the latter plan was that there was no way to guarantee that the mark would leave the hotel, which would mean pushing everything to the following day. If that happened, Lou and Sal would be mad, no matter what Gaetano said, so he felt he was caught between a rock and a hard place. The problem boiled down to the fact that Gaetano was needed in Boston. As his bosses had reminded him, there was a lot going these days, with the economy in a tailspin and people complaining that they did not have the cash to meet their loan and gambling obligations.
   Gaetano wiped away the sweat that had beaded along the border of his dark, cropped hair and expansive forehead. He was dressed in what had been carefully pressed tan slacks, a flowered short-sleeve shirt, and a blue sports jacket. The idea was to look upscale so he wouldn’t stand out like a sore thumb hanging around the Ocean Club. At the moment, he had the jacket slung over his shoulder, and his pants had some serious damp creases behind each knee. With his compact bulk, he was sensitive to the moist, tropical heat.
   Fifteen minutes later, Gaetano was out in a parking lot that was as hot as Hades, looking for a white Jeep Cherokee. If he was hot before, he was boiling now, with triangles of sweat-soaked shirt under each arm. He was holding his carry-on overnight bag in his right hand while his left gripped his car rental papers and a map he’d gotten from the agent. The idea of driving on the left, as instructed by the rent-a-car agent, had initially given him pause, but now he thought he could handle it, provided he kept reminding himself. To him, it seemed the height of ridiculousness for the Bahamians to drive on the wrong side.
   He found the car. Without delay, he climbed in and got it started. His first order of business was to get the air-conditioning on full blast and to redirect all the vents in his direction. After checking the map and spreading it out on the seat next to him, he started out of the lot.
   There had been some talk of getting a gun, but the idea had been dropped. First of all, it would take time, and second of all, he didn’t need it to deal with a pissant professor. He checked the map again. The route was pretty simple, since most of the roads led into the town of Nassau. From there, he’d take the bridge over to Paradise Island, where he assumed the Ocean Club would be easy to find.
   Gaetano smiled at fate. A few years earlier, who would have guessed that he’d be driving along in the Bahamas, dressed to beat the band, feeling good, and anticipating some action? A quiver of excitement made the hairs on the back of his neck momentarily stand up. Gaetano liked violence in any form. It was an addiction of sorts that had gotten him into trouble in the past, starting in middle school but particularly in high school. He loved violent action movies and violent computer games, but mostly he loved the real thing. Thanks to his size, which he’d attained at a young age, and his athleticism, he managed to come out on top in most scuffles.
   The biggest problem had occurred in the year 2000. He and his older brother had been employed as he was now, as enforcers or musclemen, but back then it had been in the big leagues in Queens, New York, for one of the major crime families. A job came up for which he and his brother, Vito, were both assigned. They were to teach a lesson to a cop who was on the take but not coming through with his side of the bargain. It was supposed to be straightforward, but it went awry. The cop pulled out a hidden gun and managed to seriously wound Vito before Gaetano disarmed him.
   Unfortunately, Gaetano had seen red. When it was over, not only had he killed the policeman, but he’d also killed the man’s wife and teenage son, both of whom had stupidly tried to intervene, the woman with another gun and the kid with a baseball bat. Everyone was furious. None of it was supposed to have happened, and it caused a huge overreaction on the part of New York law enforcement, as if the cop had been some kind of hero. At first, Gaetano thought he was going to be sacrificed, either whacked himself or given over to the police on a silver platter. But then out of the blue came the opportunity to disappear by going to Boston to work for the Castigliano brothers, who were somehow distantly related to the family the Barreses had worked for.
   Initially, Gaetano had hated the move. He hated Boston, which he considered a puny town compared to New York, and he hated being a clerk in the plumbing supply business, a position he felt was demeaning. But slowly he got used to it.
   “Holy crap!” Gaetano voiced, as he caught his first view of the Bahamian ocean. He’d never seen such an intense blue and aquamarine. As traffic increased, Gaetano slowed down accordingly and enjoyed the scenery. He had adjusted more easily than he thought he would to driving on the left, which left his eyes free to wander, and there was a lot to see. He began to become optimistic about the afternoon until he got to Nassau itself. In town, he found himself bogged down completely and for a time stuck behind a bus at a complete standstill.
   He looked at his watch. It was already after one in the afternoon. He shook his head as his optimism rapidly faded. He couldn’t help but feel that the chances of being able to do what he needed to do and get back to the airport by four-thirty or so, which is what he’d have to do if he were to make the Miami-to-Boston flight, were getting smaller every minute that went by.

   “Screw it!” Gaetano said vehemently. All at once, he decided he wasn’t going to let the time factor ruin his day. He took a deep breath and looked out his side window. He even smiled at a handsome black woman who smiled back at him, making him feel that spending the night might be rather entertaining. He rolled his window down, but the woman had already disappeared. A moment later, the bus in front of him began to move forward.
   Gaetano finally drove up and over the graceful span that connected New Providence Island with Paradise Island, and soon found himself in the Ocean Club’s lot, which, by the look of the vehicles, was more for the employees than the guests.
   Leaving his bag and jacket in the back of the Cherokee, Gaetano proceeded west on a tree– and flower-lined walkway before turning north between two of the hotel’s buildings. That brought him to the lawn separating the hotel from the beach. Turning east, he wandered back toward the central buildings comprising the public spaces and restaurants. He was impressed with all he saw. It was a gorgeous setting.
   An outdoor restaurant with a central bar and a thatched roof stood high above the steeply sloped beach’s edge, affording a pleasant view up and down the strand. At one-thirty, the eatery was still filled to overflowing, including a line of people patiently waiting for tables or empty barstools. Gaetano stopped and took out his photos to review the images of the professor and Tony’s sister. His eyes lingered on the sister, while he wished she were the mark. The thought of the various ways to give her a violent message brought a smile to his face.
   Armed with a refreshed mental image of the people he was searching for, Gaetano took a slow walk around the bar/restaurant. The tables were arranged around the periphery, with the bar in the center. Every table and every seat at the bar were occupied, mostly with scantily clad people of all shapes, sizes, and ages in bathing suits and cover-ups.
   Gaetano found himself back where he’d started, without seeing anyone who resembled either the guy or the girl. Leaving the restaurant, he took a flight of stairs that led down to a landing with several outdoor showers before descending another flight to the beach. To the right, at the foot of the stairs, was the hotel’s beach concession, with towels, umbrellas, and lounge chairs for the guests. Gaetano took off his shoes and socks and rolled his pant bottoms before traipsing down to the water’s edge, where gentle waves lapped at the shore. When he stuck his toes into the water, he found himself wishing he had on his bathing suit. The water was crystal clear, shallow, and delightfully warm.
   Walking on the damp, densely packed sand, Gaetano first rambled to the east while scanning the faces of all the people on the beach. It wasn’t particularly crowded, because most everybody was having lunch. When he ran out of people, he turned around and walked west. When he ran out of people in that direction, he decided the professor and the sister weren’t on the beach. So much for that idea, he thought moodily.
   Gaetano went back and retrieved his shoes. He helped himself to a towel and went up to the landing, where he rinsed his feet off. With his shoes back on, he climbed the remaining stairs and set off up the sidewalk that traversed the lush lawn in front of the hotel’s plantation-style main building. Inside, he found himself in what looked like the living room of a large, luxurious house. A small bar in the corner with six stools reminded him it was, after all, a hotel. With no customers, the bartender was busy cleaning his glasses.
   Using a house phone on a desk stocked with hotel stationery, Gaetano called the hotel operator. He asked how to dial one of the guest rooms and was told she would be happy to connect him. Gaetano said he wanted room 108.
   While the phone rang, Gaetano helped himself to a bowl of fruit on the desk. He let it ring ten times before the operator came back on the line to ask if he’d like to leave a message. Gaetano said he’d try again later and hung up.
   At that point, Gaetano wondered if the hotel had a pool. He hadn’t seen one where he would have expected it, namely out in the middle of the expansive lawn, but since the hotel’s grounds were obviously large, Gaetano figured there still could have been one. Accordingly, he walked across the living room-like lounge and entered the hotel’s reception area. There he asked and was given directions.
   It turned out the pool was to the east, set away from the ocean at the base of a formal garden that rose up in successive tiers to be capped by a medieval cloister. Gaetano was impressed with the setting but disappointed at having the same luck as he had on the beach. The professor and Tony’s sister were neither at the pool nor in the snack bar next to the pool. They also weren’t in a nearby health club or on one of the many tennis courts.
   “Crap!” Gaetano mumbled. It was clear to him that his marks were currently not in the hotel. He looked at his watch. It was now after two. He shook his head. Instead of wondering if he would have to spend the night, he started thinking how many nights it might take at the rate he was going.
   Retracing his steps back to the reception area, Gaetano found a comfortable couch that had another bowl of fruit as well as a stack of classy magazines that were positioned so as to afford a clear view through an archway to the front entrance of the hotel. Resigned to waiting, Gaetano sat down and made himself comfortable.