Sidney Sheldon's Chasing Tomorrow (Tracy Whitney) (23 page)

CHAPTER 21

H
OUSED BENEATH THE ULTRAMODERN
Metropol Parasol project in Seville’s famous Plaza de la Encarnación, the Antiquarium museum is a maze of Roman remains, dating from the first century AD. Jeff Stevens marveled at the mosaic of Bacchus and the perfectly preserved pillars of an ancient mansion as he lined up for his ticket to the “Sábana Santa” exhibition, the Spanish term for the Holy Shroud.

Jeff had expected lines around the block. After all, this was the first time in almost half a century that the icon had left its carefully temperature-controlled home in the royal chapel of the Cathedral of Saint John the Baptist in Turin, an industrial city in northern Italy. But perhaps because this was March, the off-season for tourists, as well as midweek, only a handful of people had turned out to see the linen cloth bearing the image of a man who may or may not have been Christ Himself.

“Would you like the audio tour?”

The girl smiled at Jeff, addressing him in perfect English.

“Thank you. Yes.”

Jeff slipped the headphones on and proceeded into the first chamber of the exhibition. He already knew most of the history of the Shroud and the intense scientific and theological debate that accompanied it. But it never hurt to learn more, and the earphones gave him a chance to move slowly through the museum, carefully detailing all of the security arrangements, alarms, fire exits and so forth with an expert eye. He’d noticed that there was no additional security at the entrance to the museum, besides the usual, unarmed security guards. But there was a permanent police presence in the square throughout the exhibition’s run. Plus the fact that the Antiquarium was basically a crypt meant that there were only two ways out to ground level—the front entrance and a single set of fire stairs leading up into the Metropol Parasol. As for the Shroud itself, it was housed at the end of the exhibition, in the center of a large spiral of “false” rooms, like the bull’s-eye on a dartboard or the end of a Victorian maze. Anyone attempting to remove it would have no option but to retrace their steps to the outermost ring of the circle, and choose an exit from there. With each room along the way alarmed and monitored by a high-tech system of infrared beams, not to mention the ubiquitous cameras, Jeff felt reassured that any attempt at a straightforward smash and grab would certainly fail.

Moving from room to room, Jeff began to focus less on his surroundings and more on the audio tour. It was quite fascinating.

“The image on the cloth, thrown into sharp relief as a photographic negative, shows a man who has suffered physical trauma consistent with crucifixion and torture. Although radiocarbon dating places the cloth’s origins in the medieval period, between 1260 and 1390, later scientific studies have cast doubt on those findings. Chemical tests suggest that parts of the Shroud at least may be considerably older.”

Jeff walked through room after room, with the audio explaining the science. Never-seen-before images of the Shroud captured by sophisticated NASA satellites were displayed next to early Christian artwork and sculptures relating to the cult of the Sábana. Despite apparently definitive carbon dating and other tests carried out in the 1970s and again in 1988, experts still remained baffled as to the nature of the image and
how,
exactly, it was fixed on the cloth. No paint had been used. Human blood had been found and DNA-tested, but the negative photographic image made no sense. One gruesome, and widely held theory was that some poor soul had been deliberately tortured and crucified in the Middle Ages in order to fake Jesus’ Shroud. But that still didn’t explain how such a perfect image was captured, eternally, on the cloth.

By the time Jeff entered the final room and stood in front of the Shroud itself, he was so engrossed in the mysteries of its origin that he’d almost forgotten why he had come. But then he found himself gazing into a face from the distant past and it came back to him in a rush of emotion, so violent he could hardly breathe.

That face! So full of human suffering, and yet so peaceful in death. The injuries to the body were horrific—from nails through the wrists to flagellation, bones shattered by beatings to stab wounds, scores of them, blow after blow after blow.
This isn’t about God and man,
Jeff thought.
It’s about cruelty and forgiveness, life and death. It’s about humanity, in all its glory and all its filth, its beauty and its ugliness.

In that moment, he realized, he would quite happily fight to the death to protect this object: this relic, this scrap of cloth, this miracle, this fraud.

If Cooper
was
in Seville . . . if there
was
some madman out paying millions to have the Shroud stolen and destroyed . . . they must be stopped.

Jeff Stevens had to stop them.

THE PLAINCLOTHES POLICEMAN IN
the green parka watched Jeff Stevens leave the museum. He had dark hair and a beakish, aquiline nose that gave him an almost Roman look. The girl at the front desk noticed it when he flashed his ID and thought,
He fits in here, down among the ruins.
She almost expected him to start speaking in Latin, or at least Italian.

Instead, he asked her in perfect Spanish: “The man who just left. Did he pay for his ticket by cash or credit card?”

“By cash.”

“Did he do or say anything unusual when he came in?”

“No. Not that I noticed. He was smiling. He seemed relaxed.”

The man in the green jacket turned and walked away.

THE ALFONSO HOTEL WAS
the grandest in town, a 1929 landmark built in an Andalusian style and full of opulent, Moorish touches. The lobby and bars boasted marble pillars and mosaic floors, high, ornately carved ceilings and walls hung with exquisitely eclectic artwork and lit by thousands of gold lamps, like vast Aladdin’s caves. There were one hundred and fifty-one guest rooms, accessed by old-fashioned, 1930s elevators with gold grille gates, or by a wonderfully grand and sweeping staircase that wound its way around a central courtyard filled with flowers.

Jeff’s room boasted an antique walnut four-poster bed and a bath big enough for a family of five to live in. He figured if he were going to leave the comforts of Professor Domingo Muñoz’s farm, it should be for somewhere spectacular. The Alfonso was certainly that.

The only downside was that it was full of American tourists, as Jeff discovered when he went downstairs to the bar.

“Couldn’t we have met somewhere more private?” The contact Jeff was meeting glanced furtively around the wood-paneled room. They were seated at a corner table, sipping grappa. “I feel like a monkey in a zoo.”

“I can’t think why,” Jeff observed drily. “Nobody’s looking at us. They’re all on vacation, getting drunk.”

Right on cue, a group of American business men at the bar laughed loudly, patting one of their party on the back in some sort of private joke.

“What have you got for me?”

The man pulled some photographs out of his coat pocket and slid them across the table. The first two showed a man with a Roman nose and curly dark hair deep in conversation with a traditionally dressed Arab. They appeared to be in a hotel lobby.
Not here though,
thought Jeff. There were too many Arabs in the background for the photo to have been taken here in Seville. The hotel looked grand and opulent.
Maybe Dubai?

Jeff’s contact asked, “Do you know them?”

“No. I’m assuming the guy in the robes is this Iranian Domingo mentioned?”

“Sharif Ebrahim Rahbar. The world’s sixth richest man. Reclusive. Ruthless. And not an enormous amount of fun. Drinking, sex, personal freedom of any kind, are all no-nos for this dude. He’s not the biggest fan of women’s rights either.”

“A woman hater?” Jeff sounded curious.

“I wouldn’t say that. He has at least eleven concubines in a harem in Qatar. Anyway it’s the other guy you’re interested in, right?”

“I was,” Jeff said. “But I’m not sure it matters anymore.” He studied the man in the picture. “That’s not Daniel Cooper. Domingo’s sources must have made a mistake.”

“Could be. But I’ll tell you this. Whoever he is, he’s interested in the Sábana Santa. And he’s interested in you, my friend.”

Jeff flicked through the other pictures. They showed the same man, but this time in Seville. In some shots he was entering the museum housing the Shroud. In others he was walking in the vicinity, sometimes taking pictures or stopping to talk on the phone. Most of the time he wore a green parka.

“He’s visited the Antiquarium fourteen times in the last five days. He claims to be Luís Colomar, a detective in the Cuerpo Nacional de Policía.”

Jeff nodded. The CNP were Spain’s national police.

“Problem is, no one’s ever heard of him. Not in Seville, not in Madrid, not anywhere as far as I can tell. He could be secret service.”

“CNI, Centro Nacional de Inteligencia?”

“It’s possible. Or even CIA. His Spanish is flawless, but plenty of Americans speak good Spanish.
Or,
he could be here to steal the Shroud for Rahbar. Maybe he’s working with this guy Cooper.”

“I doubt it,” said Jeff. “Cooper’s not much of a team player. Then again, I don’t see how he could even attempt a job like this without help. And he does like to hang back in the shadows. Maybe this Colomar is his front man?”

“Maybe. Anyway he was at the exhibition again today, following you. He asked a bunch of questions after you left. Maybe he thinks
you’re
here to steal the Shroud.”

Jeff shook his head. “Why would he think that?”

“Because apparently someone’s trying to steal it. You
are
a con man, Jeff, the best, and an antiquities specialist. And here you are in town, hanging around the exhibition. If this guy is with an intelligence organization”—he jabbed the photographs with a pudgy forefinger—“you’d better watch your back.”

“He’s not with any intelligence organization,” said Jeff, looking at the photos intently, one after another. “He’s a thief. I can feel it in my bones. He’s working for this Sharif Rahbar. Possibly with Daniel Cooper’s help.”

Jeff’s contact said, “I think so too. So what now?”

Jeff thought about it. “If he has Rahbar’s money and Cooper’s expertise behind him, he’s dangerous. They might actually do this thing. They might actually steal and destroy the Shroud.”

Jeff pulled out a wad of cash and handed it to the other man, who swiftly slipped it into his jacket pocket. “Thanks for this. You’ve been a great help.”

“What are you going to do?” the man asked.

“I think I’m going to break the habit of a lifetime. I’m going to call the police.”

COMISARIO ALESSANDRO DMITRI WAS
in his office at the new Sevillan police headquarters on Avenida Emilio Lemos when his telephone rang. Known as “the Greek” on account of his last name and unusually long nose, Comisario Dmitri was a short, arrogant peacock of a man with the sort of ego a rap star could be proud of.

“Sí?”
he barked into the receiver.

“There’s going to be a robbery. Someone’s going to steal the Sábana Santa.”

Comisario Dmitri laughed. “Really?”

“Yes. Really. It’s going to happen in the next few days unless you act now to prevent it.”

The voice on the end of the line was male, American and supremely confident. Comisario Alessandro Dmitri disliked its owner instantly.

“Who is this?”

“My name isn’t important. You need to take notes. One of the men involved is short, around five foot seven, with dark curly hair and a hooked nose.”

“No one is going to steal the Shroud.”

“He often wears a green parka and is known to the exhibition staff as a police officer.”

Alessandro Dmitri was starting to lose his temper. “I don’t have time for this. Unless you tell me your name, I—”

“You should also try to trace a Mr. Daniel Cooper. He’s a similar height with brown eyes and a small mouth and looks kind of effeminate. Cooper is dangerous and brilliant. You
must
increase your security,
comisario
.”

“Who the hell put you through to my office?” Dmitri fumed. “I’m a busy man. I don’t have time for conspiracy theories. The security at the Sábana Santa exhibition is excellent.”

“No, it’s not. It’s okay, but nothing Cooper can’t get around. Hell,
I
could get around it.”

“I sincerely advise you not to try,” Dmitri said icily. “Anyone foolish enough to attempt to steal the Shroud will be apprehended immediately. You’d be looking at twenty years in a Spanish jail, Mr.—?”

“Please. Just listen to me . . .”

Dmitri had hung up.

“SEÑORA PRIETO?”

“Yes?”

Magdalena Prieto answered in English. A long career as a museum curator had given her a good ear for accents. She could hear at once that the caller was American, and switched from Spanish without even thinking.

“Someone is planning to steal the Sábana Santa.”

Great. A crank call. That’s all I need.

The curator of Seville’s most prestigious exhibition had already had a long and trying day. The fine-art-and-antiquities world in Spain was still almost exclusively run by men, and Señora Prieto battled sexism and bigotry on a daily basis. A lot of noses had been put out of joint when Magdalena had landed the plum job of curating the Sábana Santa’s first exhibition outside of Italy. Every day was a struggle.

“A man posing as a police officer may be involved,” the caller went on. “He’s using the name Luís Colomar and is already known to your staff. Another man, Daniel Cooper, may be working with him. Cooper’s an ex–insurance investigator. He’s incredibly sharp and—”

“Señor. If you seriously suspect anybody of attempting to steal the Sábana, I suggest you call the police.”

“I already have. They didn’t take me seriously.”

“I can’t imagine why,” Magdalena Prieto observed drily. “I can assure you that our security here is state-of-the-art.”

“I know your security systems,” the caller said, somewhat disconcertingly. “They’re good. But Daniel Cooper’s better. Please, tell your staff to be hypervigilant.”