The Cloning

  “I told you, I don’t want to meet the Pope!”

  Marc realized that he was obscured by the tall back of his chair and was unseen by the new arrivals, but after hearing the female’s sentiments, he made no move to announce his presence. This was too good to miss.

  It was the same military officer and his daughter who had attended the Mass in Saint Peter’s. “You got your new iPod, and now you’re going to see him. That’s that!” the man replied in a strong Spanish accent.

  “It’s a total waste of time.”

  “Don’t be stupid. Everyone wants to meet a Pope, especially a new Pope.”

  “Not me,” the young woman insisted in completely Americanized tones. “I don’t care if he’s old or new. It’s a drag.”

  “You’ll meet him whether you want to or not! Other girls would kill to have a private audience. Don’t you want to go to heaven?”

  “I want to go shopping.”

  “You’ll go shopping after we’ve saved your soul. This is a great honor for our country.”

  “It’s a bore.”

  Marc could hear her heels as she stamped her foot. Then there was the sound of cellophane.

  “This is no place for smoking, Maria,” her father said.

  “What do I care?” she snapped back. The sound of a match striking could be heard, and a moment later, Marc could smell the tobacco.

  “If your mother was alive, she’d never allow this.”

  “It’s too bad you drove her to an early grave,” Maria replied.

  “I should slap your face!”

  “You do, and the Pope will hear the loudest scream he’s ever heard. Oh, I hate these long sleeves and this dumb hat.”

  What a hellion, Marc thought to himself. Although curious to see what this pair looked like, he knew that if he revealed himself, their fascinating conversation would end. Unfortunately, it was cut short by the arrival of Monsignor Lissaro who entered by another door. Seeing the couple, he went directly to them. “Generalissimo, the Holy Father will see you and your daughter soon.”

  “Thank you very much, Father,” the Generalissimo said obsequiously.

  Lissaro then moved across the room to Marc. “Doctor, will you follow me, please?”

  As Marc stood up, he saw the astonishment on the Generalissimo’s face when he realized that the argument with his daughter had been overheard. He was speechless. Marc gave the girl a quick, well-practiced glance. She was dark and thin, wearing a black dress and matching hat. Not my type, Marc concluded right away. Seeing him, she defiantly took another puff from her cigarette.

  As he passed by, Marc couldn’t resist giving them a smile and quipping, “Enjoy your shopping.”

  *

  While the Pope silently pored over some documents on his desk, Cardinal Nani and Bishop Bottero waited impatiently, bitter with disappointment and anger that the Pontiff appeared to have dismissed all their arguments.

  When Lissaro lead Marc into the room, the Pope put his papers aside and said to Marc, “We’ve arrived at a final decision, Doctor.”

  Assuming that Nani had gotten his way, Marc told the Pope not to worry about hurting his feelings, adding, “As soon as I get my new car, I’m going to drive around the continent for a while, so my trip over here won’t be a total loss.”

  With a tolerant smile, the Pontiff asked, “Do you think you could delay that excursion for a bit?”

  Marc was astonished. “You mean you want me to . . . ?”

  “Your faith needs a challenge,” the Pope informed him.

  Marc returned a smile, then turned to the taciturn Nani. “Yep, I guess it does.”

  *

  Early that evening, Monsignor Lissaro took Marc for a private tour of the Sistine Chapel. Even though Marc had hurriedly seen it years earlier, it was a very different experience this time. Not that he’d turned into an art aficionado, but now that the frescoes had been cleaned and restored, the vivid colors made the masterpiece much more alive, and it seemed that the figures were only an arm’s length away. The tour was made all the more fascinating by Lissaro’s concise explanation of the chapel’s history and his insight into Michelangelo’s inspired work. When they stepped outside, the sky was beginning to darken.

  “Any suggestions where I should go this evening?” Marc inquired. “Some nightclub or restaurant?”

  “Dinner will be served in your suite, Doctor . . . in exactly a half hour. You needn’t worry.”

  “I though I might see some of the sights.”

  “I’m certain that there’ll be other more suitable occasions for that. Tomorrow will be a very busy day for you, meeting the media. We’ve arranged a full schedule of appearances and interviews. You’ll want to be on your toes, I’m sure. And you must be quite exhausted after all you’ve done today.”

  Marc was a little put off by this degree of supervision but didn’t argue because it would be simple enough after he’d had his dinner to take a stroll and find a taxi. Taxi drivers are always good for knowing the hot spots. As it turned out, however, Monsignor Lissaro was quite right: Marc was exhausted, and after another fabulous meal alone in his suite he went straight to bed and slept like the proverbial log for nine hours.

  *

  The “schedule of appearances and interviews” was much grander than anything Marc had imagined. The day began early with a press conference in the Pope’s audience chamber. The ornate room was awash with the lights from dozens of TV cameras, and the flashbulbs from the still cameras practically blinded him when he first entered with the Pope. The new Pontiff—obviously setting an innovative standard of accessibility to the media—personally introduced Marc to the assemblage, explained the scope of his assignment in Turin, summarized his qualifications, and then allowed questions to be directed to Marc. Marc had never experienced anything like this; it was a major gathering of the media—television, radio, newspapers, and magazines—not just from Italy but from all over the world. Questions were directed to Marc in a number of languages, some of which he’d never even heard spoken. Monsignor Lissaro had provided interpreters for the occasion, of course, and Marc had the good sense to be straightforward, making it clear that he was undertaking the investigation with absolutely no bias and that his findings would be shared with the press, whether favorable to the Church’s beliefs or not.

  Afterwards, in a private moment alone with Marc, the Pope commended the forthright way he’d handled the occasion. “Your honesty will take you a long way, Doctor.”

  The remainder of the morning was spent with private interviews, mostly with television journalists, in which Marc basically reiterated all that had been said earlier, but in one-on-one appearances that would be featured on assorted news programs back in the U.S.A. and on web-sites internationally. As the interviews wore on, he began to consider how media-savvy the Church was, staging an event of this scope on such short notice. Further, he began to consider some of the ramifications of this exposure on his personal life. One thing for certain, this publicity far exceeded the coverage he’d received from the National Science Award, and hereafter his face would undoubtedly be recognized frequently. That could be an advantage, especially when it came to meeting members of the opposite sex, he mused; on the other hand, he didn’t want to completely lose his anonymity and the many advantages it provided.

  Over a quick lunch with Monsignor Lissaro, he asked where he’d be staying in Turin.

  “The archbishop of Torino will provide room for you in his quarters.”

  Marc though that over for a milli-second, and quickly realized that he’d have no privacy there; every night would be like last night . . . early to bed and early to rise. “If you don’t mind, I’d prefer to stay in a hotel . . . if that’s not inconvenient.”

  Lissaro looked closely at Marc. Marc could almost see the wheels turning in the cleric’s head as he speculated on the number of worldly reasons for Marc’s wanting to be on his own. But Lissaro had the good grace not to question the request. “Of course. That
can be arranged,” he agreed pleasantly, then checked his watch and announced that Marc’s limousine was waiting to take him to the airport. “Okay,” Marc agreed, “but I’ll have to pack my things. It’ll only take a few minutes.”

  “That’s already been handled. One of the sisters did your laundry and packed everything for you. Your luggage is waiting in the car.”

  “Thanks,” Marc said with satisfaction.

  When he stepped out into the courtyard, there stood the Pope—wearing a magnificent full-length scarlet cloak over his white cassock—present to wish him bon voyage. Again the strobes flashed as his departure was recorded.

  With a motorcycle escort, Marc was whisked to the airport and driven directly onto the tarmac where an Alitalia jet awaited him. He was the only passenger for the short hop to Modena where another limo would be waiting to take him to Maranello..

  Being a celebrity’s not all that bad, he thought.

  CHAPTER 3

  Thanks to the Vatican’s influence, Marc was given a private tour of the Ferrari factory, a privilege not allowed to many common mortals, and then he was introduced to his shiny new vehicle, the latest update of the famed grand touring berlinetta, the 599GTB. It was a thing of true beauty, sleek and low with lines that not only pleased the eye but also promised to reduce wind drag to an absolute minimum. The weight-saving carbon-fiber bucket seats—in black and red—fit every contour of his body. And the ball-shaped chrome gearshift knob was the definitive feelie. Even the interior machinery is beautiful, he thought, as he opened the matching engine cover and studied the fantastic maze of sparkling new equipment that surrounded the precision-engineered motor. With titanium connecting rods, it provided the strength of six hundred and ten very responsive horses.

  A bit later, he gave those horses a chance to prove themselves. As he shifted, the gears meshed as smoothly as the fingers of lovers’ hands, propelling the fire-red Ferrari up the ramp onto the Autostrada. Beaming with satisfaction at his new marvel of machinery, Marc gunned the motor, and the oversize Pirelli P Zero tires dug into the roadway, instantly merging him into the speeding traffic headed northwest toward Turin.

  He geared down, pressed hard on the accelerator, and the horses took it up to two hundred and ten kilometers per hour. Making a quick conversion, Marc could hardly believe that he was actually traveling at one hundred and thirty miles per hour. The auto held the road as if it were sitting still while outside the Italian countryside passed in a blur. Then he dropped back to a more leisurely ninety-five mph. It groaned like a contented lion. And so did Marc. He’d never had such a feeling of freedom and exhilaration, certainly not at the hands of a machine.

  God, if only my old man could see me now, he silently wished. Antonio had made a comfortable living, but he’d never been able to afford anything as sumptuous as this. Marc thought about his dad’s old VW, continuing to rust in a parking lot in Cambridge. Would he junk the old car when he returned home? Or hang on to it for sentimental reasons?

  When he switched on the radio, the cabin was filled with deep, rich sound, enveloping him as if he were seated in the midst of the orchestra, stroking his eardrums like satin. A tenor, probably Pavarotti, was singing Take Me Back to Sorrento. To complete the sensory pleasures, the aroma of the new leather interior was almost intoxicating. All I need now, Marc thought, is a beautiful babe in the next seat. But that would have to wait.

  In near-record time, he saw the first sign announcing “Torino – Centro.” Upon arriving at his hotel, he was more than pleased that he’d declined the offer to stay in the Cardinal’s quarters because his accommodations at the Excelsior, a four-star establishment in the old European tradition, couldn’t have been more cushy.

  Because of its huge industrial capacity, Turin was heavily bombed during World War II, and much of the city was rebuilt in a modern style, but this fine old hostelry had been spared and stood as a reminder of a life-style that hardly existed any longer. Marc’s suite consisted of a spacious living room with an intricately designed parquet floor and tall doors leading to a balcony that looked over the rooftops of Turin and down one of the great avenues that divided the city into a neat grid of rectangles. His bedroom was equally commodious with a high ceiling and its own balcony. The adjoining bathroom—as large as his bedroom back in Cambridge—was a masterpiece of Italian marble workmanship, provided with stacks of luxurious bath sheets, and furnished with not only a giant bathtub and a bidet but also a shower that could easily have accommodated four adults. Too bad Jane’s not here, he thought.

  In fact, he restrained his animal instincts in Turin. The discreet red-carpet welcome he’d received from management and staff of the hotel made it clear that they all knew he’d been sent from the Pope and was a guest of Cardinal Lucassi; obviously, the anonymity he’d envisioned was not to be. So he sublimated his desires with a visit to the hotel spa, including a swim, some steam, and finally the ultimate in hedonism . . . a deep-tissue massage. Later, he wandered around the city and did a little shopping in several luxury stores, had a late dinner, and turned in.

  The next morning, after a leisurely breakfast in bed, Marc showered, then tried on a new outfit he’d purchased the evening before: a suit of soft tan wool, a dark silk shirt, and creamy suede loafers. Nora will be very pleased, he thought, as he checked himself out in the full-length mirror. Next he indulged in another luxury: he called the barber to his room for a shave and haircut. And finally he took great pleasure in driving his Testarossa to St. John’s Cathedral for his meeting with the archbishop of Turin, Cardinal Lucassi.

  *

  The Cardinal was small and frail, at least eighty years old Marc guessed, with deep-set eyes, but they appeared sharp as they quickly scanned Marc from head to toe. Accompanied by his younger aide, Monsignor Monza, the Cardinal welcomed Marc into his salon where a nun was serving coffee.

  The salon’s walls were covered with dark red brocade, and the windows were hung with matching velvet draperies. Every object in the room was gilt . . . the chairs, the tables, the desk, the picture frames, the valences, the chandelier, and most prominent of all, a crucifix that appeared nearly life size. Marc couldn’t decide if the place was more suited for King Midas or the Whore of Babylon.

  “I regret that you are not staying here with us,” the Cardinal said. He spoke slowly in English with a heavy Italian accent.

  “Thank you,” Marc replied, “but I expect that my hours will be quite long and unpredictable, and I don’t want to inconvenience you.”

  “You’re most thoughtful. I trust you’re comfortable at the Excelsior?”

  “Very comfortable.”

  “You’re our guest there, of course. Monsignor Monza will take care of everything for you.”

  “You’re very generous. What about a place for me to do my work?”

  “Monsignor Monza has taken care of that also,” the Cardinal informed him. “He has arranged a laboratory adjacent to the Cathedral . . . with all the special equipment you requested”

  “Thank you very much,” Marc said to them both.

  The Monsignor smiled with oily satisfaction as Lucassi continued, “I must confess, Doctor, that some of my flock—not Monsignor Monza, of course—are unhappy that you’re to be given access to the Holy Relic without supervision.”

  Marc had read extensively during the flight to Rome from a number of books and journals assembled hurriedly by Stephen, so he was aware of numerous organizations worldwide whose members were strongly focused on the shroud. These people even had a name: “sindonologists,” from the Greek sindon, meaning shroud. He felt certain that the Centro Internazionale di Sindonologia in Turin had exerted considerable pressure on the Cardinal, feeling that an upstart American was invading its bailiwick. And undoubtedly, members of the Pontifical Academy of Sciences had voiced objections as well since they had performed the most recent examination of the shroud, including carbon-14 dating. “I’ll be very cautious,” Marc said to the old prelate.

  “I pray
that you will, my son. I have very little time left before I go to meet our heavenly Father. I had hoped to enjoy my final days in peace.”

  “I won’t disturb you, don’t worry,” Marc assured him with a helpful smile.

  The Cardinal lifted his shoulders in a gesture of helplessness. “What about the results of your research?”

  “I can’t predict that.”

  The old man sipped his dark coffee, then asked, “What if you were to conclude that the Holy Shroud is not authentic?”

  “Do you think that’s possibly true?” Marc ventured.

  “No, of course not,” Lucassi insisted, rising in agitation. “That’s entirely out of the question. But if the forces of evil were to influence you . . . if you were led by the Devil to make some sort of error in your calculations, the repercussions would be profound.”

  Marc sensed that the Cardinal was trying to work out a deal. “Would you like me to give you the results of my investigation before I’ve even started?”

  “By no means. I simply ask that you proceed with the greatest possible caution . . . always remembering that many harmful things have been done in the name of truth.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind,” Marc assured him, then put down his coffee cup. “Do you think I could get started now?”

  “Already?”

  “Why not?” Marc asked.

  Again, the old cleric shrugged, implying that this matter was completely out of his control.

  “We have already removed the Shroud from its casket,” Monsignor Monza volunteered, “and placed it in your private laboratory. It was done last midnight to avoid any untoward attention.”

  “Great,” Marc replied. “I’d like to see it.”

  *

  The so-called “private laboratory” was, in fact, a small stone chapel adjacent to the main Cathedral. Monsignor Monza escorted him there along an ancient cloister to a formidable oak door that was guarded by a uniformed carabiniere carrying an automatic weapon slung over his shoulder. Monza greeted the man, unlocked the double-locked door, and was about to lead Marc inside. But, determined to handle this entirely alone from the outset, Marc edged his way into the doorway first, then turned to the over-eager cleric.