beside these marble pillars and metal bars, he seemed that much stronger, a one-lung, one-kidney Samson.
At his side stood Bud Parsifal and two Dominican friars, along with five carabinieri carrying rifles and machine guns. 'This way, please,' said Parsifal. 'We have little time. Our opportunity with the image lasts only an hour.'
The two Dominicans began whispering with great concern, obviously about Branch. One of the carabinieri set his rifle to the side and unlocked a door made of bars. As the group passed through, a Dominican said something to the carabinieri, and they blocked Branch's entrance. He stood before them, a virtual ogre dressed in a worn sports jacket.
'This man's with us,' January said to the Dominican.
'Excuse me, but we are the custodians of a holy relic,' the friar said. 'And he does not look like a man.'
'You have my oath he is a righteous man,' Thomas interrupted.
'Please understand,' the friar said. 'These are days of disquiet. We must suspect everyone.'
'You have my oath,' Thomas repeated.
The Dominican considered the Jesuit, his order's enemy. He smiled. His power was explicit now. He gestured with his chin, and the carabinieri let Branch through.
The troupe filed deeper into the vault, following Parsifal and the two friars into an even larger room. The room was kept dark until everyone was inside. Then the lights blazed on.
The Shroud hung before them, almost five meters high. From darkness to radiant display, it made a dramatic first impression. Just the same, even knowing its significance, the relic appeared to be little more than a long, unlaundered tablecloth that had seen too many dinner parties.
It was singed and scorched and patched and yellowed. Occupying the center, in long blotches like spilled food, lay the faint image of a body. The image was hinged in the middle, at the top of the man's head, to show both his front and back. He was naked and bearded.
One of the carabinieri could not contain himself. He handed his weapon to an understanding comrade and knelt before the cloth. One beat his breast and mumbled mea culpas.
'As you know,' the older Dominican began, 'the Turin Cathedral suffered extensive damage from a fire in 1997. Only through the greatest heroism was the sacred artifact itself rescued from destruction. Until the cathedral's renovation is complete, the holy sydoine will reside in this place.'
'But why here, if you don't mind?' Thomas asked lightly. Wickedly. 'From a temple to a bank? A place of merchants?'
The older Dominican refused to be baited. 'Sadly, the mafiosi and terrorists will stoop to any level, even kidnapping Church relics for ransom. The fire at Turin Cathedral was essentially an attempt to assassinate this very artifact. We decided a bank vault would be most secure.'
'And not the Vatican itself?' Thomas persisted.
The Dominican betrayed his annoyance with a birdlike tapping of his thumb against thumb. He did not answer.
Bud Parsifal looked from the Dominicans to Thomas and back again. He considered himself today's master of ceremonies, and wanted everything to go just right.
'What are you driving at, Thomas?' asked Vera, equally mystified.
De l'Orme chose to answer. 'The Church denied its shelter,' he explained. 'For a reason. The shroud is an interesting artifact. But no longer a credible one.'
Parsifal was scandalized. As current president of STURP – the semi-scientific Shroud of Turin Research Project, Inc. – he had used his influence to obtain this showing. 'What are you saying, de l'Orme?'
'That it's a hoax.'
Parsifal looked like a man caught naked at the opera. 'But if you don't believe in it, why did you ask me to arrange all of this? What are we doing in here? I thought –'
'Oh, I believe in it,' de l'Orme reassured him. 'But for what it is, not for what you would have it be.'
'But it's a miracle,' the younger Dominican blurted out. He crossed himself, incredulous at the blasphemy.
'A miracle, yes,' de l'Orme said. 'A miracle of fourteenth-century science and art.'
'History tells us that the image is achieropoietos , not made by human hands. It is the sacred winding cloth.' The Dominican quoted, ''And Joseph took the body and wrapped it in a clean linen shroud, and laid it in his own new tomb.''
'That's your proof, a bit of scripture?'
'Proof?' interjected Parsifal. Nearly seventy, there was still plenty of the golden boy left in him. You could almost see him bulling through a hole in the line, forcing the play. 'What proof do you need? I've been coming here for many years. The Shroud of Turin Research Project has subjected this artifact to dozens of tests, hundreds of thousands of hours, and millions of dollars of study. Scientists, including myself, have applied every manner of skepticism to it.'
'But I thought your radiocarbon dating placed the linen's manufacture between the thirteenth and fifteenth centuries.'
'Why are you testing me? I've told you about my flash theory,' Parsifal said.
'That a burst of nuclear energy transfigured the body of Christ, leaving this image. Without burning the cloth to ash, of course.'
'A moderate burst,' Parsifal said. 'Which, incidentally, explains the altered radiocarbon dating.'
'A moderate burst of radiation that created a negative image with details of the face and body? How can that be? At best it would show a silhouette of a form. Or just a large blob of darkness.'
These were old arguments. Parsifal made his standard replies. De l'Orme raised other difficulties. Parsifal gave complicated responses.
'All I'm saying,' said de l'Orme, 'is that before you kneel, it would be wise to know to whom you kneel.' He placed himself beside the Shroud. 'It's one thing to know who the
shroud-man is not. But today we have a chance to know who he is. That's my reason for asking for this display.'
'The Son of God in human form,' said the younger Dominican.
The older Dominican cut a sideways glance at the relic. Suddenly his whole expression widened. His lips formed a thin O.
'As God is my Father,' the younger one said.
Now Parsifal saw it, too. And the rest of them, as well. Thomas couldn't believe his eyes.
'What have you done?' Parsifal cried out.
The man in the Shroud was none other than de l'Orme.
'It's you!' Mustafah laughed. He was delighted.
De l'Orme's image was naked, hands modestly crossed over his genitals, eyes closed. Wearing a wig and a fake beard. Side by side, the man and his image on the cloth were the same size, had the same short nose, the same leprechaun shoulders.
'Dear Christ in heaven,' the younger Dominican wailed.
'A Jesuit trick,' hissed the older.
'Deceiver,' howled the younger.
'De l'Orme, what in the world?' said Foley.
The carabinieri were excited by the sudden alarm. Then they compared man to image and put two and two together for themselves. Four promptly dropped to their knees in front of de l'Orme. One placed his forehead on the blind man's shoe. The fifth soldier, however, backed against the wall.
'Yes, it is me on this cloth,' said de l'Orme. 'Yes, a trick. But not of Jesuits. Of science. Alchemy, if you will.'
'Seize this man,' shouted the older Dominican. But the carabinieri were too busy adoring the man- god.
