Shroud of the Healer

by Christopher Wright

  He returned to the writing table to read the batch of letters between Dr. Kappa in Avignon and Cardinal Delgardo of the Vatican Medical Assembly. His mind had lost none of its agility, even though he was now in his early sixties. He quickly assessed the implications as he ran his eyes over the words highlighted by Delgardo in yellow marker pen. Confidentiality. Skilled diagnosis. Outstanding operating room facilities. Impressive recovery rate. After-care of an unparalleled proficiency. A guarantee of total privacy.

  An assortment of Vatican staff had visited Avignon over the past two weeks, and the clinic had come out smelling of roses -- and miracles. Valdieri re-read the latest document. Professor Rossano and Dr. Bisenti, the Pope's personal physicians, had at last consented to the visit, albeit somewhat unwillingly. Nevertheless he still had not solved the key problem: how could the Vatican account for the Holy Father's absence from Rome without raising unwelcome rumors?

  The two cardinals were still below, but the laughter had ceased. Perhaps the sense of foreboding was insidiously penetrating every corner of the Vatican. Valdieri placed the letters inside the folder on the writing table, his forehead a mass of deep wrinkles. The laughter of the two cardinals began again. But it was innocent laughter.

  His face relaxed. He ambled over to the window and looked down on the two men staring into a bright green souvenir camera. He recalled an overused saying from his convent schooldays: Smile and the world smiles with you. Problem? What problem? Suddenly he had the answer. The plan was so good that the press would suspect nothing. Valdieri felt like joining with the cardinals' laughter.

  The Holy Father had once mentioned the need for an investigation into alleged visions by a sister at Tourvillon in Provence. Such visions required substantiation before official recognition could be given. Very well, there was a simple excuse for the journey. The Holy Father would go to the Convent of the Little Sisters to hear the story for himself. Such a visit was certainly unusual but not without precedent. The press would be informed and the reason for the itinerary made clear. But because of the great age of the alleged eye witness the press would not be permitted into the Convent. It would simply be a papal visit to validate a holy place -- followed by a holiday in the peaceful countryside of Provence.

  The press would surely respect the Holy Father's need for privacy while on vacation, but he would secretly enter the adjacent Clinic of the Little Sisters of Tourvillon to undergo tests. And even, God forbid that it should be necessary, major surgery.

  The Successor to Saint Peter in Rome would receive the best earthly care without sending alarm bells ringing throughout the Christian Church. An announcement would be made that the Holy Father was going to France for confirmation of a young girl's visions. Our Lady of Tourvillon. Valdieri smiled. It sounded agreeable.

  The Pope's life depended on this visit to Avignon, the one-time home of the anti-popes. The irony of the situation was not lost on him; he doubted it would be lost on the Pontiff. Valdieri rubbed his hands together slowly. He had been desperate to get to Tourvillon for an extended visit. As soon as he arrived he could start banging the woodwork and see what dropped out. He returned to the window. The courtyard was empty now. Idly he wondered about the third prediction. According to the girl's account the lady in the garden had talked about three messages. It was easy to see that two of them had already happened.

  Third predictions in cases like this customarily took the form of a warning of a horrifying event about to overtake the faithful. If the Sister had fabricated the visions then the third message would be total nonsense. There could be no deception of course. If it transpired that the girl had been over-enthusiastic in 1934 there would be no official confirmation today. Even the smallest dishonesty in these matters was a betrayal of the Lord's trust.

  Valdieri picked up the file of papers. Was there a third message, a terrible warning?

  Chapter Fifteen

  Avignon

  ZOÉ MOVED the pages from the fax machine to one side so the waiter could lower the first course of bouillabaisse onto her place mat. "It is probably a lot of fuss about nothing."

  "There is a problem, madame?" The waiter paused.

  "I was talking about the message," said Zoé.

  "I hope it is clear enough to read." The waiter smiled and returned to the kitchen.

  "He is after the generous tip from me again." Zoé drained her glass of white wine.

  "Just give him money this time. Merci." Matt's bowl of bouillabaisse arrived. The waiter poured more of the Muscadet into Zoé's glass and left them alone.

  "What do you make of the fax?" she asked.

  "Looks like the Pope is sharpening his knife. It says he's ready to take on all sorts of Masonic and occult groups that intrude on the Catholic Church." Matt looked around the bar, an unnecessary precaution since all the customers were engrossed in their food. The man in the florid shirt was not here this evening. "There's a group called the Order of the Solar something or other." He licked his spoon and waved it at Zoé as he read. "Now they do sound scary. Everyone in it seems to be dropping dead. This is the bit we want. K7, Knights of the Holy Succession. Sounds like a grandiose title to me."

  "What have they succeeded in? And keep your spoon down."

  Matt took a final mouthful of croutons and pushed the remaining flakes of fish to one side. "Let's hope there's more flavor in the main course. I don't think the Knights have succeeded in anything -- except getting rich. The succession bit means they succeeded from another group. Like the succession of the royal family."

  "Yes, it is a word I know."

  "There's something here about the original Knights of Saint John. Seems they weren't quite the gems of good behavior you thought they were."

  Zoé picked up the wine bottle and read the label. "I believe my grandfather was a Freemason in Clermont-Ferrand." She replaced the bottle unsteadily on the table. "Did the Freemasons start from the Knights of Saint John?"

  "The Knights Templar, according to this. I can't see why Ken was getting worked up. This cutting is nothing dramatic. It looks as though K7 is just a harmless, pseudo-religious group of men operating throughout Europe."

  "They are not occult?"

  Matt shrugged and tried to keep one step ahead of Zoé's questions with his reading. "Their main objective is the accumulation of wealth for members, with the belief that it will lead to a higher form of civilization."

  "That, mon ami, sounds like my sort of club," observed Zoé as she sipped her wine. "Is there an application form for membership?"

  Matt pushed his chair back slightly and let the first page fall into his lap. "There are seven Elder Knights, representing the major forces of power and wealth in civilization."

  Zoé giggled. "Let me guess." The Muscadet on an empty stomach was obviously making her evening an adventure. "Private investigators, car repossessors, writ servers, wire tappers, and..." She put her hand to her mouth and laughed loudly enough to make a few heads turn in their direction. "I was going to say bug ... Whoops!"

  Matt continued reading the copy of the press cutting. "Listen to this. K7: seven Elder Knights representing the Church, royalty, medicine, government, academia, industry and the media."

  "I bet you one thousand euros you could not learn that lot off by heart," said Zoé with a laugh. "See, medicine is included. I bet you one million euros they are all at it up at the Clinic of the Little Sisters of Wotsit."

  Matt moved the nearly empty bottle of Muscadet out of reach. "Just keep your voice down." But there seemed no need for caution. No one was paying the slightest attention. "Just a few drops of wine and you go all tiddly. What would you be like with a whole bottle?"

  Zoé leaned forwards over the table, knocking her empty glass sideways. Her eyes opened wide. "Try me, lover boy, just try me. I would be like a caged beast."

  *

  ZOÉ WOKE the next morning with a headache. Matt pulled a kitchen chair into the small back yard to read the fax again, while listening to one of Zoé's Debuss
y piano études on their portable CD player. He'd not brought even the mildest of his Shostakovich recordings. Zoé had been in too bad a mood before leaving to risk it.

  In two days they would be meeting Leanne Corbin again. There wasn't much in here to worry her with. He hit out at a wasp and wondered how Leanne was getting on. She'd probably forgotten all about her suspicions. There she'd be, up at the clinic in the hills, working hard and not bothering to keep an eye open for anything unusual. That was women for you.

  The journalist who'd done the write-up for Ken's paper claimed that secret brotherhoods controlled the key professions. It was nothing but a rehash of standard press speculation. Their worst crime seemed to be providing jobs for the boys while all the members got rich.

  "What does hedonistic mean, Zoé?"

  Zoé stood in the doorway, her hair a dangling mess. "It is what you are, lover boy. Hell bent on pleasure, and hang the consequences. Can you turn the sound of the piano down, please? Look what you did to me last night. And where have you put the orange juice?"

  Matt turned the volume down, but only slightly. He was getting to like Debussy. "If you're the after-effects of hedonism, I'll take care to tame my enjoyment of life. What a state you're in, Nurse Champanelle. You'd better go back to bed for the morning."

  "I keep thinking about Ken 'Abgood."

  "You're in no state to think about anything. I'm going down to the pâtisserie for a baguette."

  Zoé held tightly to the doorframe. "Phone Ken from the square and remind him to send those bugs. Leanne will be asking for them on Sunday."

  "You know me, always one to keep a woman happy."

  "Whatever turns you on, Saint George."

  "Well certainly you don't, not in that state." Matt grinned. Zoé seemed to know quite a few colloquial English expressions. She came across to the table and stood behind, holding him tightly.

  "Go back indoors," he told her. "The neighbors might see you."

  Chapter Sixteen

  The Vatican

  ARCHBISHOP VALDIERI placed his heavy black-rimmed glasses on the bridge of his expansive nose and ran his hands through his silver hair. Then he straightened the large pectoral cross of plain wood that hung around his neck, made sure his purple skull cap was correctly in place, and knocked gently on the door of the room belonging to the Pope's Private Secretary.

  "Umberto," he said apologetically, "I came as quickly as I could. I have drafted an urgent reply to Dr. Kappa." He placed a folder carefully on the antique desk. "Professor Rossano and his team assure me the Holy Father is capable of making the journey to France. The GIGN are on standby to provide essential safety measures. Do not panic, Umberto; the Holy Father will be in safe hands at the Clinic of the Little Sisters."

  The Private Secretary, a small man with penetrating eyes, made a noise that conveyed disbelief. "A dark cloud hangs over Tourvillon, Stephen. The Holy Father cannot condone Masonic practices."

  "Quite."

  For all his years of service in the Vatican, Valdieri still felt inferior in the presence of Italians -- a foreign intruder with responsibilities in an empire staffed by Latins. An Italian surname and an American upbringing. He considered himself a mongrel. Many times his friends had assured him that such feelings of disapproval were imagined. Maybe he should have changed the spelling of his name to Stefano. "The Holy Father is happy in his own mind, Umberto."

  "And this treatment is the unanimous opinion of his team of advisers?"

  Stephen Valdieri shrugged his broad shoulders. "Umberto, my feelings as head of the Holy Father's security are already on the record. To use a medical term, the Clinic of the Little Sisters of Tourvillon is benign."

  "But Kappa. Jim Kappa is a Knight of the Holy Succession."

  "We have no confirmation of that."

  "An Elder Knight, one of the inner Seven perhaps. Such men would like to see the Holy Father dead." Umberto jumped to his feet, his high-pitched voice querulous.

  Valdieri allowed his impatience to show. "Would a society intent on the creation of wealth seek to harm the Vicar of Christ? They would be buffoni, clowns, to bring down the wrath of the Church."

  The Private Secretary seemed to be choosing his words carefully. "Stephen, the clinic at Tourvillon has presented us with a problem ever since the Vatican advanced funds for the new building. The original agreement was for a division of the clinic's considerable income with the Church."

  "I understand that there are legal problems with the agreement we made with the new owners."

  "Precisely, Stephen. Ten years ago the administration changed hands and since then, as the sailor said, we have been left high and dry. A vast amount of money is being raised at Tourvillon, but only a small sum ever finds its way to Rome."

  "A matter for the lawyers, Umberto."

  Umberto sat down heavily. "But these things should not require legal giants to fight them out, Stephen. It is a matter of honor, of ethics, of basic Christian honesty."

  "Their achievements in medicine are magnificent."

  "Their morals are suspect."

  "The Holy Father needs them, Umberto."

  Umberto removed his glasses and polished the lenses. He was unquestionably used to awkward clerics. "The Holy Father will be advised of your report, Stephen. And he is no better this morning, I'm afraid."

  "Yes, yes, I should have inquired after his health. Very remiss of me."

  Umberto replaced his glasses. His penetrating eyes began to scour through some internal document. There was no more to be said on the subject.

  Valdieri closed the massive wooden door softly as he left the papal apartment. How was it possible for one man to stand in the way of healing? No, he was being unfair on Umberto. It seemed that many men in the Vatican stood in the way of healing. Was he alone in finding Tourvillon the only hope? The Holy Father's life depended on the right decision.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Avignon

  "I REALIZE you're busy, Ken, but you know what Zoé is like once she gets an idea."

  Ken was of the old school. If anyone mentioned a problem with a nagging woman, a great bond would immediately exist.

  "I didn't realize you were serious last night, kiddo. You're always jumping in with your eyes shut."

  "I'm not jumping in. It's some crackpot idea of Zoé's, so make sure they're decent bugs."

  "I haven't got anything good that I can spare just now."

  "That's not what you promised. Any fool with a trace can find the cheap ones."

  "Is that so? Tell me, what's it all about?"

  Matt lowered his voice. "Zoé has met this old nursing friend of hers. She thinks something suspicious is going on at ... at the place where she works. It's just that, well, there might be something in it." Matt wondered why he'd hesitated over using the name of the clinic. No one would be listening in to a public phone line.

  "You can't bug a hospital."

  "Maybe I won't need to. Maybe I'll just go through the motions."

  "As the man said as he fell into the sewer. How about two micro transmitters and a phone probe? It's hellish busy here, kiddo."

  "Sure, Ken." Ken's idea of being busy was having to make his own coffee.

  "Three bugs to keep the little woman all content. That's a promise." Even Ken was starting to sound enthusiastic.

  "We're meeting this nurse on Sunday. Any chance of sending the stuff direct to Marseilles?"

  "By mail?"

  "Air to Marseilles. Can you manage it today? We'll driving down to the coast tomorrow and can pick the package up at the same time."

  He could hear Ken drawing in a sharp breath. "Think of customs and things. That sort of package will cause a panic at the postal service if the bugs come up on the x-ray. I can't afford the wrong sort of publicity. I'll use a twenty-four hour carrier to your holiday home. And you pay for them if they get nicked."

  "That's a promise."

  "You'll get them Monday."

  "It's Friday today. That's not twenty-f
our hours."

  "I'm not paying for weekend delivery, kiddo."

  "Don't let me down, Ken, or Zoé will be on the warpath. You wouldn't like that."

  Ken laughed quietly. "Twenty-four hours? That's the best I can do. You're still not messing with this K7? These bugs are not for them by any chance?"

  "No problem, Ken. K7 are just a group looking after themselves -- according to the article you faxed me."

  "I'd take that with a pinch of salt. I'm a ... I have this friend, a Freemason, and he reckons you can't trust K7."

  "You're probably right." Matt was grateful for Ken's assistance. All this talk of bugging made him feel exhilarated. This could be a vacation to remember.

  The pâtisserie was not far. The bread smelt great. He bought a baguette and walked slowly back to the house, picking at the crust. Zoé stood outside the door, her face whiter than it had been when he left.

  "Alain Corbin is here." It was all she could say.

  "Leanne's husband? What does he want?"

  Zoé stared at the pavement.

  "What is it, Zoé? You've got to tell me."

  Then, "It is Leanne, Matt." Zoé's voice was a whisper. "Alain has come to tell us. She is dead."

  Chapter Eighteen

  Avignon

  "I'LL MAKE some coffee," said Zoé. "Or perhaps tea?"

  "Un café, please, madame."

  Alain Corbin spoke quite good English, but seemed relieved to discover that Zoé was French. As Matt shook hands he noticed a roughness on Alain's fingers. The grip was less strong than expected. But if Zoé had got the news right, it was little wonder this man had lost his energy.

  "You were friends of Leanne?"

  Matt spoke in French, not to show off, but to help Alain feel more at ease. "We met Leanne in Avignon last weekend. She worked with Zoé at the hospital in Lyon a few years ago."

  Alain Corbin nodded in understanding. He was a short man, but strongly built. His hair grew in tight curls, with his sunburned face almost hidden by a huge moustache bursting from his top lip. "Leanne was excited at the thought of seeing you again on Sunday."

  "Was her death an accident?" asked Matt.

  "No, not an accident, monsieur."

  "Call me Matt." Matt passed a white mug with a blue rim to the devastated stranger. It was painfully difficult to know what to say in circumstances like this.