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The Turin Shroud Secret

Page 21

by Sam Christer


  ‘Mitzi, it’s Nic.’

  ‘Hi Nic. I’m sorry this isn’t a good time.’

  He can tell that from her tone. She’s in a car going somewhere – there’s the noise of traffic and of one of the girls shouting at her and another crying. ‘Mitz, I can hardly hear you. Call me back when you can. There are some strange things happening and I need to bring you up to speed.’ The line goes dead and he closes down his phone. ‘Seems like my boss is having a tough time too.’

  ‘Tough times sometimes they make for good memories,’ says Goria, swerving to avoid a pothole. ‘For me, the happiest time of my marriage was when our lives were tough and we had nothing. My wife and I just ate soup and went to bed to stay warm and make love.’ He turns and smiles at Nic. ‘You know what I mean?’

  ‘Yeah. I know what you mean.’

  They head north-west across the city to Venaria Reale, a quiet area not far from the sprawling grounds of the Strada Militare Carlo Grassi. Goria’s place is a small new house protected by its own iron gates and high metal fence. He thumbs an electronic zapper. The gates open and a roller door slides up and reveals a long garage.

  Nic can’t help but look over his shoulder as they exit the narrow street. He sees a flash of passing headlights but no following cars.

  ‘We are safe here. Do not worry any more tonight.’ Goria turns off the car engine and steps out into the garage. ‘I have security cameras and a full perimeter alarm around the house. All necessary precautions in my line of work.’ He goes to a metal box set in the cinderblock wall and presses several buttons. ‘It is armed now for the night, nothing can get in without it being triggered.’

  ‘Talking of arms,’ Nic follows him through a door into a cool, dark kitchen. ‘Do you have a piece you can give me?’

  ‘Of course. But you did not get it from me.’ Overhead neons flicker on. He opens a large steel larder fridge, dips into the coolbox and turns around with a bottle in one hand and a gun in the other. ‘Beer and a Beretta – how’s that for service?’

  ‘Perfect.’ Nic’s phone rings in his pocket.

  Goria places the pistol and Peroni on a worktop and goes for his own beer.

  Caller display says it’s Mitzi. ‘Hello.’

  ‘Hi, Nic. Sorry about earlier. Hey, what time is it there?’

  He glances at his wrist. ‘Four a.m.’

  ‘Gee, I’m sorry. This too late?’

  ‘I don’t even know what late is any more.’ He manages a tired laugh as he picks up the beer. ‘I’m just about to have a drink then crash.’

  There’s a pause then her voice changes. ‘Alfie beat up on me again and I got him busted.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘He started slapping me about and coming the big I am. Then it all turned nasty and I called it in.’

  ‘Are you okay? Did that bastard hurt you?’

  She’s touched to hear the anger in his voice. ‘Not so much physically.’

  ‘And the girls?’

  ‘They’re in bits. That’s why I couldn’t talk.’

  Nic puts the bottle down. ‘Listen, screw this damned job, if you need me to come back, I can be on the next plane to LA.’

  She laughs. ‘No way, cowboy. You finish this job.’

  ‘Seriously—’

  ‘No. I’m fine. Besides, Amy’s looking after me.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘She asked about you.’

  ‘Yeah, sure she did. What’s happening with Alfie?’

  ‘They already put him through court. Thirty days in the Big House.’

  ‘And then?’

  ‘I’m not thinking of having him back, if that’s what you mean.’

  ‘That was exactly what I meant.’

  ‘Lesson learned.’

  ‘Glad to hear it. If I can help – in any way – let me know.’

  ‘Thanks. I will. You can help right now by closing this freakin’ case.’

  ‘Wish I could. I just moved out the hotel. Someone turned it over while I was chasing down Craxi.’

  ‘You sure?’

  ‘Absolutely. Dave Burge from the FBI fixed a PI to help me chase down some leads. Good guy by the name of Fabio Goria.’

  ‘I told you there was no money for that, Nic.’

  ‘None spent. It’s a favour. Burge owed me one. Owed me several actually.’

  ‘Good. And Craxi?’

  ‘Found him and lost him. It’s a long story. Anyway, I’m about to go AWOL on the Carabinieri.’

  ‘Fine by me. I’m gonna hang up now, let you get a little sleep.’

  ‘I’ll call you tomorrow – I mean later today.’

  ‘Great. Stay in touch.’

  ‘Oh, Mitz?’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘I’m glad you got that bum busted. You’re a great cop, great mom and great lady. I hope this is the first step towards you having the great life you and the girls deserve.’

  ‘Thanks.’ She hangs up quick. Doesn’t want him to hear her get emotional.

  99

  In the damp, fetid darkness Roberto Craxi thanks God for small mercies.

  He’s alive. And he knows he so easily could be dead.

  His hands and feet are untied and he isn’t gagged. Whoever is holding him is doing so in a secluded place, somewhere they’re sure any shouts for help will go unheard. Somewhere out of the city.

  Craxi rubs his wrists. He can feel a ridge on his skin where the rope was pulled tight. He reaches down and feels his ankles. The same is true down there. Whoever attacked him came prepared to tie him up. If it was a lone attacker, the guy was also strong enough to carry him unconscious to a vehicle and move him around. It’s a worrying thought. He would rather not think of a single enemy with such power.

  He wipes a hand across and around his mouth. It’s sticky. Adhesive residue. A sign that tape has been plastered across his lips. Another sign that his foe is professional and well prepared for any eventuality. Finally, he touches his windpipe. The pain here is intense. He can feel a ridge where the wire sliced into his throat. The man choking him had known exactly how hard to pull. He understood how to control life and death. He was a man like him.

  The place he’s being held is pitch black – not a single speck of light. It’s cold too. Craxi puts his palms flat on the floor where he’s sitting. It’s hard and smooth. Some form of polished stone, not earth. He knows better than to try to stand up – there’s every chance he could knock himself out or fall off some unseen ledge.

  He raises his hands above his head. Or at least he tries to. Sat down he has about a foot of space above him. He runs his fingers over the ceiling. It feels like the floor – cold and smooth. Stone. His heart thumps out an objection. Craxi puts his hands to his sides. There’s not much room there either. Maybe a foot on one side and perhaps a little more on the other. The surfaces are also stone.

  Cautiously, he lowers himself into a lying position. A shade less than six feet, his head and toes don’t touch any walls. He reaches up behind him and scrapes his fingers – stone. Barely six inches away. He shuffles forward. His feet quickly reach a hard stop. More stone. So now he knows. He’s being held in an airless seven-foot-by-four-foot stone block. Or, to use a more familiar description, a tomb.

  100

  GARDENA, LOS ANGELES

  By day the neighbourhood is a suburban boiling pot. People of all hues go about their business. Cars stick bumper-to-bumper. Noise rises like steam above the suburb. Right now it’s a ghost town. Dark and deserted. Silent and spectral.

  It’s just the way JJ likes it. He scans for house lights and surveillance cameras as he walks slowly past the clapboard buildings that run the length of Emma Varley’s street. The place she used to live. It’s 3 a.m. and there’s nothing to disturb him. No reason why he can’t go return his queen to her domestic throne. Just one more circle around the block and then he’ll do it.

  He winds his way back up West 169th, swings open the front gate and crosses the worn grass to her front door. JJ
stops on the doorstep. Turns. Takes a final look at the street then pulls out the ring of keys he took from her purse. Satisfied he’s unwatched, he tries several. The last, a square-headed brass one, does the trick.

  The place is filled with the essences of Em. Her perfumes, soaps and talcs. Her hair sprays, washing powders and fabrics. He stands in the dark and inhales them all. It is like she is here with him. The rental is small – just two downstairs rooms – a sitting area and cramped kitchen-diner. Upstairs there’s an adequate enough bedroom, a much smaller spare room that has no furniture in it and a tiny bathroom with a sink that’s coming loose from the wall. He picks up her toothbrush from a cracked glass shelf and runs a hand over the worn bristles. He closes his eyes and puts it to his lips, glides it into his mouth and over his tongue. The taste of her makes him tremble.

  JJ lingers in every room. He takes her carefully ironed and packed clothes from a rickety chest of drawers and smells and holds them. He opens the tiny one-door wardrobe and embraces the only two dresses that she owned – one short and black, one long, flowing and hippy-like.

  He lies on her unmade bed, his face in the same pillow crease she made during her last night under the covers. How he wishes he’d come here earlier, spent longer among her things, got to know her even better. Painful as it is, he drags himself away from the sensual reminiscences, leaves the house and returns to the Explorer.

  He drives slowly and kills the lights fifty yards from Em’s place. Ten yards away he turns off the engine and lets the big old bus glide to the kerb. With darkness pressed to breath-misted glass he sits patiently and watches the street and surrounding houses. He winds down the window and listens for approaching traffic or people.

  Nothing. This is the dead of night.

  JJ makes his move. Quickly. Smartly. Confidently. He opens the driver’s door then the rear door. He grabs Em under the arms and hauls her out of the vehicle. ‘Sorry,’ he whispers as her feet thud down onto the asphalt. He shuffles backwards and drags her through the gate he left open, up the doorstep and into the house.

  JJ lays her out on the hall floor. He walks calmly back to the Explorer and shuts the doors. He knows he can’t delay now. Can’t spend the time he’d like with her. He quickly returns to the house, shuts the door behind him and crouches down to get a good lifting grip of her. The stench of decomposition is awful but it doesn’t matter. He lifts her in his arms and feels like a groom carrying his bride over a threshold.

  He struggles up the stairs and almost falls when her feet bang on a wall. Moonlight is streaming through her window as he lays her on the bed. It’s as though God is shining a light for him, affording him a final parting view of his beloved. He leans over her pale face and kisses her lips. Then he covers her. Wraps the bottom sheet around her. Tucks her in. Tight.

  ‘Night, night, my queen,’ he says from the doorway. ‘I will see you on the other side.’

  101

  TURIN

  A lesser man would have gone mad by now. The darkness of the tomb. The stench. The silence. The cramping of muscles. The claustrophobia. Any, or all of those things, would have broken someone who lacked Roberto Craxi’s willpower and training.

  He’s experienced enough to know that he’s being kept alive for a purpose, that right now his life isn’t intentionally going to be ended. But captors make mistakes – sometimes fatal ones – and as a result hostages are abandoned and left to suffocate or starve.

  He concentrates on lowering his heartbeat. The slower it thumps, the less oxygen he uses and the longer he lives. The mathematics of survival. His focus is so intense he can feel the organ’s soft thuds in his chest and all but hear blood slowing in his veins.

  Sixty-nine.

  Fifty-two.

  Forty-seven.

  That’s as low as he can get it. Forty-seven beats a minute. Twenty years ago he would have had it down another ten, but he’s nowhere near being the athlete he was.

  ‘Signore Craxi, are you awake?’

  The voice startles him. Bumps his heartbeats per minute back over the sixty mark. It was polite and foreign. English with a strange accent. Oddly formal.

  ‘Signore Craxi.’

  It is coming out of nowhere.

  ‘Can you hear me?’

  Somewhere in the darkness is a tiny wireless loudspeaker. He has no idea where. He rubs his hands over the cold stone but can’t find anything. He stays silent. The fact that his abductor has gone to the trouble of putting the device in here means the man needs to communicate with him. Well, if he wants to do that, he’s going to have to come and get him out of this god forsaken place.

  ‘Signore.’ The voice is louder this time and Craxi detects an accent.

  Foreign. Not European – African. No, not African. Arabic.

  A bored sigh hisses like steam through the thick stone. ‘Signore, there is good reason why I let your wife live. Should you not cooperate with me, I am confident that I can torture her into doing so.’

  ‘What do you want?’ Craxi’s voice is thin and strained. ‘I am ready to give you whatever you want.’

  102

  LOS ANGELES

  JJ steers the Explorer through the dark backstreets of Gardena, then out into the bright lights of the freeway and over to Boyle Heights.

  It is time to pay Jenny Harrison a visit. The display on the dash shows 4 a.m. He knows he has only a couple of hours before the sun comes up and the poor folk that work late-night shifts come drifting home.

  He’s going to have to be quick. Her big old house is in total blackness. He parks down the street in almost exactly the same position he occupied last time he was here. He sits with the window down, watching and listening, waiting to see if anyone has heard his vehicle and is stupid enough to take a closer look.

  At ten after four he reaches into the passenger foot well, picks up the tyre iron he put there and slips out of the car. He walks briskly across the road, through the gate and up the path. The patchy lawn around him smells of dog shit and is peppered with discarded cigarette butts.

  JJ jogs up the steps onto the porch, turns and checks the scene behind him. Nothing. No movement. No noise. No people. He puts his hand on the front door and twists the big round knob. Hopefully the lock will be old and there’ll be enough movement for him to get the thin end of the iron in.

  The door is unlocked. He feels a jolt of excitement. God is indeed looking after him tonight. He enters the lobby and the unmistakable stench of a doss-house hits him. It disgusts him. What a fitting place for Jenny Harrison to die. Around him are more doors than he anticipated, all brown and without numbers.

  JJ moves to the foot of an uncarpeted wooden staircase. He takes out his cell phone and calls the number she gave him. The dial tone rolls into cyberspace. There’s a click. From above JJ’s head comes the noise of a ringing phone.

  103

  TURIN

  A repetitive thump haunts the darkness. Not a loud one. Not hoof beats on hardened earth, more a woodpecker tapping stone.

  Roberto Craxi cranes his head anxiously to the right. He shouts through the walls of the tomb to the man who’s imprisoned him – a man he’s never seen. ‘What are you doing? What’s going on?’

  Suddenly the stone vibrates. A loud screaming noise penetrates the casement.

  ‘Hey!’

  It feels like the whole tomb is going to collapse. Craxi’s training kicks in. He calms himself. Tries to work out what’s happening. His captor is drilling. Boring some kind of hole. There’s a bang as the whirling steel breaks through and the chuck hits the exterior. Debris from the drill bit spatters Craxi’s face. The mechanical screaming stops.

  Through the hole bursts a shaft of bright light as thick as a pencil. He rolls on his right side and shuffles along so he can see outside the tomb.

  An eyeball stares down at him.

  Craxi’s heart jumps.

  ‘Move back.’ The voice is cold and insistent.

  He edges away.

  Ephrem pu
ts down the high-speed battery-powered drill. ‘This hole will give you air. If what you’ve told me is true, I will call the police and they will come and find you. If it is not, then when I have finished with your wife, I will come back for you.’

  The monk bags up the tools he’d bought in Turin after Craxi had given him the slip in the subway. He leaves the old church and returns to the rental car. He’ll need different tools for the next part of the mission. Very different ones.

  104

  BOYLE HEIGHTS, LOS ANGELES

  It takes four rings of the phone for JJ to track the tone to an upstairs room.

  He places his own cell back in his trousers and examines the door in front of him. It’s cheap and insubstantial. A low-quality block of painted plywood fitted with a barely decent lock. No match for the tyre iron he’s brought with him. He could easily prise it open.

  But not yet. He sits patiently on the floor outside and listens for movement. The phone most probably woke her. He needs her to fall back to sleep. Needs her to be in a state of rest when he takes her.

  JJ is waiting for the sound of her using the bathroom. The noise of a TV being put on or a kettle being boiled.

  There is nothing. Forty minutes pass. Two thousand four hundred long seconds tick away, before he’s satisfied enough to wriggle the fluted end of the tyre iron into the door jamb. He lets the metal chew slowly into the soft wood, nosing deeper into the space where the edge of the door and the frame meet. The work is hard and sweat beads on his forehead. Finally, it is in the right position. He’s satisfied he has enough purchase – sufficient leverage – to be able to force the door open. In one crisp movement he jerks the iron to his left while ramming his right shoulder and hip against the door.

  It bursts open. Bangs noisily against the wall. Certainly loudly enough to wake Harrison. He forgets about closing it and rushes inside. The room is in darkness. There’s a bed and a couch and a window and a sink. No Jenny. He swings round. Another door. He pushes it open.

 

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