Switching to his native Italian, Luigi told his friend and superior about the phone conversation he’d just had.
“Oh, no,” Valerio Garibaldi responded in Italian. “I’m certain this is sooner than Father Maloney expected. Let’s hope he is in his room.” Valerio picked up his phone. He was relieved when Father Maloney answered. He told the American what had transpired and that he and Monsignor Mansoni were waiting for him in his office.
“This is all very curious,” Valerio said to Luigi while they waited.
“Indeed,” Luigi responded. “It makes me wonder if we shouldn’t alert one of the archbishop’s secretaries so that if there is ultimately a problem, it will be his fault His Reverence was not notified. After all, His Reverence is the official custodian of the shroud.”
“Your point is well taken,” Valerio said. “I believe I will take your suggestion.”
A knock preceded Father Maloney’s arrival. Valerio gestured for him to take a seat. Although both Valerio and Luigi outranked Michael in the church’s hierarchy, the fact that Michael was officially representing Cardinal O’Rourke, the most powerful Roman Catholic prelate of North America and a personal friend of their own archbishop, Cardinal Manfredi, they treated him with particular deference.
Michael sat down. In contrast to the monsignors, he was dressed in his usual simple black suit with a white clerical collar. Also in contrast to the others, who were both considerably corpulent, Michael was rail-thin, and with his hooked nose, his features were more stereotypically Italian than his hosts. His red hair also set him apart, since the others were both gray.
Luigi related his conversation with Daniel once again, emphasizing that there were two people involved, and one of them was a woman.
“That’s surprising,” Michael commented. “And I’m not fond of surprises. But we’ll just have to take it in stride. I assume the sample is ready.”
“Absolutely,” Luigi said. For Michael’s benefit, he was speaking in English, even though Michael spoke passable Italian. Michael had gone to divinity school in Rome for graduate training, where learning Italian had been mandatory.
Luigi reached into the recesses of his cassock and produced the slender silver box reminiscent of a cigarette case from the mid-twentieth century. “Here it is,” he said. “Professor Ballasari made the fiber selection himself to be sure it was representative. They definitely come from an area of bloodstain.”
“May I?” Michael asked. He reached out with his hand.
“Of course,” Luigi said. He handed the case to Michael.
Michael cupped the embossed case in both hands. It was an emotional experience for him. He had long ago been convinced of the authenticity of the shroud, and to hold a box that contained the real blood of his Savior rather than transubstantiated wine was overwhelming.
Luigi reached out and retrieved the case. It disappeared back beneath the voluminous folds of his cassock. “Are there any particular instructions?” he asked.
“There certainly are,” Michael said. “I need you to find out as much as possible about these people to whom you deliver the sample: names, addresses, whatever. In fact, demand to see their passports and get the numbers. With that information and your contacts with the civil authorities, we should be able learn a good deal about their identities.”
“What is it you are looking for?” Valerio asked.
“I’m not sure,” Michael admitted. “His Eminence James Cardinal O’Rourke is exchanging this tiny sample in return for a major political benefit to the church. At the same time, he wants to be one hundred percent sure the Holy Father’s dictums against scientific testing of the shroud are not violated.”
Valerio nodded as if he understood, but he really didn’t. Exchanging bits of a relic for political favors was beyond his experience, especially with the caveat of having no official documentation. It was worrisome. At the same time, he knew that the few fibers in the silver box had come from a sample of the shroud taken many years previously, and the shroud itself had not been recently disturbed. The Holy Father’s main concern about the shroud was conservancy.
Luigi stood up. “If I am to make the appointment on time, I should be leaving.”
Michael stood up as well. “We’ll go together, if you don’t mind. I’ll watch the exchange from afar. After the sample is handed over, I intend to follow these people. I want to know where they are staying, in the event their identities are troublesome.”
Valerio stood up with the others. His expression was one of confusion. “What will you do if, as you say, their identities are troublesome?”
“I will be forced to improvise,” Michael said. “On that point, the cardinal’s instructions were vague.”
“This city is rather attractive,” Daniel said, as he and Stephanie walked west along streets lined with palatial ducal residences. “I wasn’t impressed at first, but I am now.”
“I had the same impression,” Stephanie said.
Within a few blocks of walking, they reached Piazza San Carlo, and the vista opened up to a grand square the size of a football field lined with handsome, cream-colored baroque buildings. The façades were ornamented with a pleasing profusion of decorative forms. In the center of the square stood an imposing, bronze equestrian statue. The Caffè Torino was midway along the western side. Inside the café, they found themselves enveloped in an aroma redolent of freshly ground coffee. A number of large crystal chandeliers hanging from a frescoed ceiling washed the interior with a warm, incandescent glow.
They did not have to look long for Monsignor Mansoni. The priest stood up the moment they entered and waved them over to his table along the far wall. As they wended their way toward him, Stephanie glanced around at the other patrons. Monsignor Mansoni’s odd comment that there shouldn’t be many priests in the café was correct. Stephanie saw only one other. He was sitting by himself and, for a brief moment, Stephanie had the unsettling sensation that his eyes had locked onto hers.
“Welcome to Turin,” Luigi said. He shook hands with both his guests and gestured for them to sit. His eyes lingered on Stephanie long enough to make her feel mildly uncomfortable, as she remembered Daniel’s inappropriate description.
A waiter appeared in response to the monsignor’s snapping of his fingers and took Stephanie and Daniel’s order. Daniel had another espresso, while Stephanie was content with sparkling water.
Daniel eyed the prelate. His description of himself as being portly was no understatement. A large dewlap practically obscured the man’s white clerical collar. As a medical doctor, he wondered what the priest’s cholesterol level was.
“I suppose to begin we should introduce ourselves. I am Luigi Mansoni, formerly of Verona, Italy, but now I live here in Turin.”
Daniel and Stephanie took turns introducing themselves by giving their names and that they lived in Cambridge, Massachusetts. At that point, the coffee and water arrived.
Daniel took a sip and replaced the cup in its tiny saucer. “Without meaning to be rude, I’d like to get to business. I assume you have brought the sample.”
“Of course,” Luigi replied.
“We must be sure the sample comes from an area of the shroud with a bloodstain,” Daniel continued.
“I can assure you that it does. It was selected by the professor entrusted with the conservancy of the shroud by the Archbishop, Cardinal Manfredi, who is its current custodian.”
“Well?” Daniel questioned. “Can we have it?”
“In a moment,” Luigi said. He reached into his cassock and produced a small pad and pen. “Before I deliver the sample, I have been instructed to get particulars as to your identities. With the controversy and media frenzy swirling about the shroud, the church is insistent on knowing who has possession of all samples.”
“Senator Ashley Butler is to be the recipient,” Daniel said.