Shroud of the Healer

by Christopher Wright

  "And what was the purpose of the visions?" asked Matt.

  "Ah, a difficult question, Monsieur Rider. What indeed? Soon I hope our humble order will get official validation. Our Lady of Tourvillon. What do you think, monsieur? Such a good title."

  Matt noticed that the reply had been deliberately evasive. "The purpose of the visions," he persisted.

  The woman seemed to be overcome with a sudden need to unburden her heart. "You think there always has to be a purpose? Certainly the Church has a long history of visions, but events frequently get out of hand." She smiled and it looked like a genuine smile. "Perhaps it is easier for you than it is for a devout Catholic to understand what I am trying to say."

  Matt nodded optimistically, but he understood less now than he did before coming.

  "You see, my children, a vision frequently receives a hostile reception. Often, I am sorry to say, from the clergy in the local church."

  "That cannot be true," said Zoé, who had been sharing her attention between the Mother Superior and Sister Angela. "I was brought up as a Catholic."

  "Oh, my child, believe me, I have seen much division and bitterness over such issues."

  "But the Church gets plenty of good publicity," said Matt. "I've read about a few of the more famous visions."

  "Sometimes the outcome is good, as man views goodness. But the area is frequently unable to cope with the hordes of visitors. The priest and congregation see the vision as a source of easy money and set up stalls -- to sell shoddy souvenirs. Tell me, how is God honored by such vulgarity?"

  "So visions don't work?" said Matt, his arm still round Zoé's shoulder.

  "Infrequently, my child. Whether it is through division or through greed, the people completely lose sight of the Lord's intended message."

  A sudden thought struck Matt. "Maybe that's why visionaries don't rush to share their experiences."

  The Mother Superior laughed out loud.

  "I was being serious," he said.

  The smile quickly faded. "Monsieur, you are an extremely perceptive man. It must make our Lord sad to see the way we handle the ... the ... What was the word you used, my child?"

  "Publicity."

  "Ah yes." The tall woman sighed. Matt could see surprise in the large eyes set in the untanned Mediterranean skin. "You may not be a member of our Church, monsieur, but what you say is so right. We do not know how to handle the Lord's gifts. It is indeed a wonder that there are any blessed appearances at all. However, of one thing I am sure, a personal relationship with God is worth a thousand visions."

  *

  AS THEY drove from the site Zoé leaned forward from the small rear seat to switch on the car radio.

  "What are you doing?" Matt's thoughts were still on the bright figure of Sister Angela and the rather sad Mother Superior. Somehow he had expected their qualities would have been reversed. The frail Sister seemed fully at ease with her minor role. Perhaps she was fortunate the Church had ignored her for so long.

  Zoé kept her hand on the radio. "I am tuning in for our bugs. What is the frequency?"

  "Bug." Matt pulled the Mini over to the side of the road. A broad patch of reddish-brown soil marked an area that had recently been scoured by heavy rain. "We only planted one. In the room where we met Kappa and Bernetti. I told you, a job like this needs planning. They'll find it if they do a sweep."

  "They will probably find them both." Zoé sounded cheerful. "I put the other one behind the books on the table of Sister Angela."

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Clinic of the Little Sisters of Tourvillon

  THE ELECTRONIC pager let out a series of high-pitched pulses, stabbing into Mario Bernetti's mind. His thoughts had been far away.

  Without a doubt Jim Kappa was using the Pope's visit to further his own ends. If K7 got their way, there would be no stopping the power of the Knight Commanders. Jim had one plan for the Holy Father. He had another.

  The small receiver on his belt continued its urgent summons. He reached down and pressed the red button to produce an immediate silence. The small display screen gave the number of the emergency operating room. He picked up his desk phone and dialed.

  "Dr. Bernetti," said an anxious voice, "Dr. Kappa needs you in Operating Room Two. Cardiac arrest."

  Bernetti grunted a hasty acknowledgement and slammed the phone back in place. Jim had been planning a quick radio nucleotide scan on a British politician's heart. No surgery involved; not yet. He began to run, anxious to be at hand immediately. Seconds counted when a heart had stopped. The brain could suffer irreversible damage. The doors of the operating room were open. There was no time for scrubbing up and a full change of clothing. What had caused the man's heart to stop under an opaque injection for radiography?

  The nurse held out a green gown. "Dr. Kappa was preparing to do an optical inspection," she explained. "The anesthetist had only just begun. ECG's gone wild, temperature's one hundred and seven, and there's no pulse."

  Kappa stood pale-faced beside an inert figure which was naked apart from black trunks. The patient's chest had been shaved, painted bright orange, his face now hidden by the oxygen mask. The full emergency team was in action, rubbing packs of ice over the sweating body. Quickly a nurse applied two large pads of the high voltage defibrillator to the chest. Kappa glanced up, gave the signal, and the patient jerked violently as a massive charge of electricity smashed through his body.

  "We're losing him." Kappa turned to the anesthetist. "What the hell are you pumping into him?"

  Mario Bernetti studied the readings. "The defibrillator again. Now!"

  The body arched under the high voltage.

  The flat trace of the ECG rose in a series of erratic pulses. The patient's heart was back in action but the beats were too rapid. Suddenly the frantic tone of the electrocardiograph slowed to a series of irregular pulses, then recorded a steady heartbeat.

  "We've got him back," said Kappa quietly.

  "It's a miracle," said the senior operating room nurse, crossing herself with a quick movement. "Thank God for another miracle."

  "Thanks, Mario." Kappa wiped his forehead with a large tissue. "Malignant hypothermia. Now we have to get his temperature down." He looked in no condition to continue. "A close thing, Mario. We must change the anesthetic. The sooner I get the endoscope inside his chest the sooner we can have the answer. I was looking for myocardial necrosis. Hell of a time to lose a patient, with the Pope coming."

  "It sound like it turning into a major," said Bernetti.

  Kappa agreed. "I brought the operation forward so I could get the answer quickly. I was hoping to get as many patients as possible through here before the big day."

  "You look all in, Jim. Maybe I take over. I got experience in heart surgery." He turned to the senior nurse. "A shot of dantrolene sodium and intravenous fluids."

  "Jack of all trades, that's what we call someone like you." Jim Kappa was smiling now. "Toxins, pathology, cardiology and now neurosurgery. You've done the rounds -- and shone at every point. Talented."

  Bernetti tried to smile. "Talented? Dotato. A good word."

  "Sure, Mario, and no one doubts your skill. Thanks. I'd like you to stay and help."

  Bernetti went to the trolley to administer the IV.

  "I'd like you with me when the Pope is in the operating room, Mario." Kappa's color returned as he began to check the cardiograph, the machine now beeping regularly. "You saved the day here."

  Bernetti smiled. "Grazie, Jim." At least he would be in the operating room with the Holy Father. He could use his experience to prevent Jim Kappa having his way. The recorder on the trolley churned out a long strip of paper. Bernetti noticed the nurse cross herself again in a simple prayer. Who could he pray to for the right outcome to the Pope's visit? Certainly not to God. A lapsed Catholic, long outside the power of the Church, he was Mario Bernetti, the famous Italian neurosurgeon. But Archbishop Valdieri was here to spoil things with his inquiry. Nothing was secret from that man.


  Bernetti tore the printed paper trace from the recorder. Always something to worry about.

  Chapter Thirty

  Tourvillon Village

  "JUST HURRY UP and tune it in." Zoé returned to the small cramped seat of the orange Mini, sounding unrepentant.

  "You're mad." Matt felt furious.

  A quarter of a mile behind them the white building of the Clinic of the Little Sisters dominated the hillside. The heavy steel gates were now open but the barrier was down. Matt felt vulnerable in the car.

  "If they do a sweep they'll guess it was us. I bet they don't get many visitors." He thought for a moment. "Well, not visitors who go to the senior executive's office and Sister Angela's room on the same day."

  Alain Corbin looked on in bewilderment.

  "I am sorry, Alain." Matt switched to French. "Zoé has done something stupid with one of les micros."

  "Ah, les micros."

  "It is not stupid!" Zoé retorted. "I saw the medical records of Leanne. She found out something accablant."

  "Accablant?" The word was new to Matt.

  Zoé nodded. "It means devastating," she said in English.

  "They certainly had a nasty way of keeping her quiet," Matt said quietly. "But I still don't like those bugs being up there."

  "Well they are!" snapped Zoé. "So now we will listen in."

  Matt flicked slowly up the frequencies until the normal broadcasts of talking and music had been left behind. The RDS player was one of the few modern additions to this rusting wreck. "There, that should be one of them."

  The radio stayed silent.

  "Perhaps no one is talking," suggested Zoé, sounding a little more reasonable now. "Try the other one,"

  Matt went almost to the top of the FM frequency on the digital display. "Quiet." He raised his hand. The sound was broken by a strong echo. He turned to Zoé. "I said those transmitters were rubbish."

  "It sounds like they are talking from inside a garbage can. With the lid on." Zoé sat back in disappointment. "So now we all go to jail -- just because we listen to someone talking inside a garbage can."

  Matt tried to set the tuning more precisely. "It's breaking up. That's typical of a bug with a flat battery."

  "You are the PI, the expert." Zoé spoke again in English, a sign that she was annoyed. "You should have tested them first."

  "I didn't know you were going to be crazy enough to use them. You rushed me into this, Zoé."

  "Would it be better if we drove closer?" She was ignoring his excuses. "You said they have a very short range."

  "They have zero range when the batteries go flat."

  "Then you had better get under the fence to fit new ones."

  Matt tried the tuning again but the signal had gone. "We don't have any spares -- and I'm not going under anything. Or over it. If they catch me, they could have me in that operating room. I'd probably end up singing falsetto in the White Lion next Christmas."

  They could hear a large vehicle climbing the hill in low gear. A long-distance bus turned the corner, making its way laboriously towards the clinic.

  "Les touristes," said Alain.

  "Young men," observed Zoé, raising her eyebrows. "I wonder what they want."

  "They look like soldiers," said Alain.

  "Could be," agreed Matt. "Or police. No uniforms though. Just as well I'm not squeezing underneath the wire. That settles it. We're going back to Avignon."

  As the bus approached the gates, the man at the guardhouse raised the barrier and allowed it to drive through without stopping.

  "Remember," said Zoé, looking at her watch, "Dr. Kappa told us we had to be away by midday. It is a security exercise."

  "They're certainly taking it seriously." Matt pushed the fine tune button on the radio. Suddenly the voices started again. Someone seemed to be calling out loudly, something in English. It sounded like, They've arrived. Tell Dr. Kappa. But the sound was distorted. Then something he couldn't catch.

  "What has this place got to do with the Pope?" asked Zoé in surprise.

  "Pope?" asked Matt.

  "They said something about the Pope."

  Matt shook his head. "You're thinking about the boring history lesson I gave you in Avignon."

  Zoé turned to Alain. "Did you hear something about the Pope?"

  Alain shrugged apologetically. "It was not clear, and my English is not good."

  "You men are hopeless." Zoé leaned forward. "They must have left the room."

  "More likely the battery's dead." Matt started the engine. "If they're holding a security exercise they'll have those soldiers out here, checking all parked vehicles."

  "If they were soldiers," added Zoé.

  "Probably a Vatican outing." Matt let the clutch in. He felt angry and helpless.

  The wheels slipped on the orange soil as the car accelerated down to the village of Tourvillon, the small engine buzzing. At some stage in its life the old Mini had been fitted with twin carbs, giving it a surprising turn of speed, although not so impressive with three people on board.

  He called to Zoé as he slammed the gearshift down into second and braked enthusiastically for the bend. "You're so observant, I'm surprised you didn't notice the Pope sitting in the front seat."

  "I saw him." Zoé sounded peevish. "He was driving."

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Clinic of the Little Sisters of Tourvillon

  VALDIERI SNATCHED up his phone on its second ring. The clock on the windowsill showed the time as fifteen minutes after midday.

  "Valdieri speaking."

  "Stephen, this is Umberto, at the Vatican. The Holy Father is in no condition to travel." There was a pause. "Ten minutes ago the Medical Assembly refused permission for us to move him anywhere." Umberto could be a forceful man who regularly managed to get his own way. It was unlike him to sound defeated.

  "What's wrong?"

  There was another pause. "This is in absolute confidence. We have a problem. With the medical team."

  Valdieri picked up the anxiety in the Private Secretary's voice. "Dr. Bisenti?"

  "Dr. Bisenti and Professor Rossano. Severe food poisoning. There is no way either of them will be leaving Rome for a few days."

  "Surely the Holy Father can be flown to Tourvillon without them." He looked at the clock but a movement outside the window caught his eye. The bus that had brought the GIGN from Istres was already leaving. An enterprising idea of his to use civilian transport. No one would have paid attention to a tourist bus coming from the autoroute south of Avignon. "The Holy Father is not leaving Rome, Stephen, and that's final. The Medical Assembly still has faith in Dr. Kappa and his team at Tourvillon, so they want them to fly to the Vatican immediately."

  Valdieri groaned. "We've been through all this. Tourvillon is a holy site, Umberto. Will the Church be happy if the Holy Father dies in Rome, when he could so easily have been healed here?"

  "What you say makes sense." Umberto sounded resigned to disaster. "Unfortunately everyone in the Medical Assembly is adamant."

  Valdieri was unable to conceal his frustration. "Suddenly we have a major hold-up," he snapped. "The Medical Assembly argue amongst each other, we both spend time discussing options, and the Holy Father's condition deteriorates by the hour. Isn't that so?"

  "That's just about it, Stephen."

  Why was it that experts could never agree on the correct action to take -- if they were all so clever? "And what would you do, Umberto?"

  Umberto sounded weary. "I would welcome your views, Stephen."

  Valdieri did not even bother to affect hesitation. "If it was up to me I'd put the Holy Father on a helicopter and have him up here before the Little Sisters could finish evensong." He paused. "But I'm in charge of papal security, not health."

  "It might be possible, Stephen."

  Valdieri felt his heart thump. The prospect was dynamite, a step of blind faith. Umberto was a man who could fix most things. "Help me, Umberto."

  There was a
considerable pause. "With what?"

  "Sometimes we have to take the decision-making out of the hands of others. Call it intuition."

  "A way that seems right to man, Stephen?"

  Valdieri felt his stomach sink. Umberto was referring to the same verse from Proverbs that the Holy Father had used in Rome. There is a way that seems right to a man. The Bible could sometimes pack a powerful punch. Was God saying something? "But the end is the way of death," he finished aloud for the second time.

  "It's like a farmyard full of headless chickens down here with Rossano and Bisenti out of the way. I might be able to get the three signatures we need. Do you want me to try?"

  Valdieri bit his lip. "I'm instructing you to do it, Umberto."

  There was another delay while Umberto considered this order. "We could lose our positions through this, Archbishop."

  "The Holy Father could lose his life while we pussyfoot around following the niceties of ecclesiastical protocol. Get the three signatures and have that helicopter in the air this afternoon. And make sure the Holy Father is on board. Understand?"

  Umberto seemed to be going through anguish. "You are sure?"

  Valdieri wasn't prepared to think about it any longer. "Yes, I'm sure." Perhaps in his frustration he sounded too harsh. "Relax, Umberto, it will work out." He replaced the clock on the windowsill. Twelve-twenty. If Umberto moved quickly, the Pope could be in Avignon and into the operating room for an exploratory before teatime. He must pray to God that the obstinate bureaucrats in the Vatican would quickly see sense.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Convent of the Little Sisters of Tourvillon

  SISTER ANGELA had been listening to men coming and going for over an hour. Reverend Mother had told her to stay in her room until evensong, yet she longed to know what was happening outside. She would be able to see down into the grounds if she had her bed by the window. But the heavy metal frame refused to move one jot. The deep voices fascinated and at the same time annoyed her.

  She took the brown leather book of hand-written meditations from the small table. The Reflections of the Blessed Marguerite of Caspia, copied laboriously by hand in 1793. But today the fading lines of brown ink provided no nourishment for her soul. The voices were French. It made a change from the English she usually heard when people stopped to talk below her window. Englishmen, Americans, all of them talking a language she had never learned.