The Cloning

  *

  That same night at Stephens College in Columbia, Missouri, Maria Madeira also had a dream. Earlier in the evening, she and her roommate sneaked a case of Bud Lite into their dorm room, and at midnight they drew the curtains, lit candles, and invited four sorority sisters into their impromptu “club.” They were unable to play the music at a volume they’d have liked for fear of waking the hall monitor, but the room was soon filled with cigarette smoke, and it began to take on the semblance of a real club . . . even though there were no guys.

  By three A.M., all the beer had been consumed except for one can, so rather than risk being caught with one incriminating beer, Maria downed it herself. By three fifteen, all of the empties had been stowed in the trunk of her roommate’s car for disposal the next day, and Maria was fast asleep, hoping to squeeze eight hours of rest into the four and a half hours remaining before her first class.

  But her sleep was brief because of a disturbingly vivid dream: an angel in a long white robe came into her room with a silver trumpet and blew it at such a volume that it wakened everyone in the dorm, including the hall monitor who rushed into her room and gave Maria hell for playing the hi-fi so loudly. Naturally, Maria was hesitant to say that the blare had been made by an angel (who had conveniently vanished), so, lacking any excuse for the noise, she was given probation for a week.

  When Maria wakened abruptly from the dream, there was no monitor to be seen, and her roommate was sleeping peacefully. So what was that all about? She pondered. Why would she dream of an angel coming to her room to blow a trumpet? It must have been about her mother, she concluded, who had surely gone to heaven and had probably come back to warn Maria about drinking so much beer. That had to be it.

  It set her to thinking about her mother . . . thinking how much she missed her. They had been very close, closer than most mothers and daughters because circumstances dictated that they spend more time together than ordinary. As her father had begun his climb from an obscure union worker to the presidency of his country, there were many times when he felt that his family was in physical jeopardy . . . and with good reason. The infighting between various factions during those unsettled days was intense, and murder was a tool often used to gain political ascendancy. So whenever Juan Madeira got wind of possible violence, he’d pack his wife and little Maria onto the next plane and send them to the United States until the danger either blew over or was handled.

  On these trips, they were sent to a variety of locations . . . never the same place twice, so they had little opportunity to make friends or acquaintances. Their homes were hotels, motels, spas and various resorts where room service and restaurants became a way of life, and the two of them clung close to one another, never knowing whether the next knock on their door would be the chamber maid or one of Madeira’s political enemies who had tracked them down.

  This unnatural way of life took its toll on both of them. Carmen Madeira, deprived of the fulfillment of being a homemaker and wife, focused all her attention on being a mother. She became unnaturally protective of her little girl. Maria, not fully aware of the degree of danger in their lives, was more disturbed by being allowed to bring only a few of her toys along when they were rushed from Santo Cristo to some new hiding place in the States. Consequently, the child developed an extraordinary desire to replace her favorite dolls and games with new ones, and since there was no lack of money, her mother pampered her by taking her shopping as much as she wished. Over time, shopping became Maria’s passion.

  The emotional pressure of this life-style was corrosive to the Madeiras’ marriage. The general and his wife grew further apart, and whenever circumstances allowed them to be together they argued constantly. Carmen begged her husband to give up his quest for power, but he was already addicted to it and was determined to be president of his country.

  Carmen developed cervical cancer when Maria was twelve. It went undiagnosed for too long, and by the time the doctors in Miami found the problem, Carmen only had five months left.

  Maria was devastated by her mother’s sudden death, and she sub-consciously put the blame on the nearest survivor, her father, feeling instinctively that his constant fighting with his wife had brought on her cancer. Without realizing why she was doing it, Maria sought ways to punish her father whenever possible, and she found many ways to make his life miserable.

  And so, the next autumn, out of desperation the then-Colonel Madeira sent his only child to a private all-girl boarding school in Connecticut. Subsequently, he took the precaution of sending her to a new school—never a coed school—each year until she finally graduated. Then she was sent to college, again transferring annually. It was Stephens this year.

  At the end of each academic year she had to leave her girlfriends, and soon, in a reflexive act of self-protection, she stopped making close friends; it was just too painful to lose them so often. The pals who’d partied with her tonight would only be memories this time next year when she’d find herself in another college.

  But the greatest pain, of course, was the loss of her mother. It still brought a lump to Maria’s throat every time she thought of her.

  *

  At about the same hour in London, a car arrived to drive Marc to Chelsea College where the conference was to take place. As the driver plied the streets of London, Marc was glad not to be driving his Ferrari in left-hand traffic; the chances of a fender-bender were too great.

  At the college, he was warmly welcomed by the chairman of the conference who took him directly to the huge lecture hall where Marc was introduced to an assembly of his peers, eminent scientists from around the world. He was greeted with enthusiastic applause, and after his talk, when the floor was opened for questions, most of inquiries were about his investigation in Turin rather than the research which had won him the National Science Award. Later, over lunch, he was fawned over by a number of professionals who'd never given him the time of day previously, all curious about his involvement with the shroud. Even scientists are victims of hype, he thought.

  That afternoon, he attended another seminar but found the going slow. He caught himself counting the strokes as Big Ben chimed in the distance. Maybe he was a little groggy from having too much wine the night before. Or maybe he was thinking of that chalet in Chamonix?

  Doctor Albert Zurcher, the famous German researcher, was speaking. “Our new-found ability to manipulate forms of life to suit our own purposes brings with it a profound obligation not only to ourselves but to future generations. I cite particularly human clones, which as we all know, have not been without problems. But with further experimentation, these problems can undoubtedly be overcome. Still, before this procedure becomes more common, extreme care must be taken to examine our motives lest we overlook the ethical and moral results of our work. The same respect that was once given to each human life must now be given to each single cell because therein lies a potential new life. The greatest caution possible must be taken that we not overstep the bounds . . .”

  Marc was no longer thinking of Chamonix. He was thinking of the fragment of hair. A single cell, he thought. A single cell. That’s all it would take! He reached into his pocket and pulled out the vial.

  Dr. Zurcher continued, “. . . And yet we cannot universally condemn the cloning of a human being because there will inevitably be circumstances under which even the staunchest critic would deem it desirable . . . perhaps even necessary.”

  Marc realized at that moment why he’d taken the hair from Turin. And why he’d snitched it from Freda. He returned the vial to his pocket, rose quietly, and left the meeting.

  CHAPTER 5

  Pale winter light was fading in the west, and the streets of Boston's South End were almost deserted; only an occasional car passed. No pedestrians were in sight as Marc approached the Cathedral of the Holy Cross. The huge Romanesque structure dominated the entire area, a neighborhood that had been prosperous when the Cathedral was opened in 1875, but it was now a “project” district where d
rugs and violence dominated life, particularly after dark. A cold, steady wind blew hard off Massachusetts Bay, and he pulled his pea coat closer while hesitating a moment to look up at the two square towers of gray stone. They had been built as beacons for the great influx of Irish immigrants, constructed to last, with no thought to the possibility that the society they were meant to serve might move away, that the world might change.

  Marc ascended the steps to the central door but found it locked. He tried the two other arched doors on either side, but they too were shut tight.

  “Damn,” he muttered as he turned and moved toward the side of the building, hoping to find another entrance. The secretary at Diocesan headquarters had told him that Stephen was hearing confessions, so why were the front doors shut?

  A woman pushing a stroller hurried by, giving him a look that seemed to ask what he was doing in this neighborhood?

  “Excuse me,” he stopped her. “Do you know how I can get into the cathedral?”

  She hesitated, clearly wondering why this obvious stranger wanted to get into the church. “At the back,” she said in a heavy Spanish accent, pointing toward another entrance down the block.

  “Thanks,” Marc said, then proceeded along Monsignor Reynolds Way to an obscure entrance that led to the basement. There he encountered another Spanish woman who directed him upstairs to the main sanctuary.

  The nave was quiet, filled with its own echo, and there were only two people kneeling in prayer in the cavernous space. He moved along the side wall, past a few flickering candles under a blue-clad statue of the Virgin, to a confessional. He stepped inside the cubicle, then spoke quietly into the grill.

  “Steve?”

  A small door in the partition slid open, and a voice answered from the other side of the confessional. “Yes?”

  “It’s Marc.”

  This is unorthodox to say the least, Father Reilly thought, but then, of course, so is Marc. “Welcome back,” he said.

  “Thanks,” Marc replied. “Can we talk? I need a little feedback.”

  “Is something wrong?”

  “I stole a relic.”

  Oddly, Stephen wasn’t terribly surprised. From the outset, he’d felt that his association with Marc in this enterprise was problematic. “Yes?” he inquired cautiously, hoping against hope this wouldn’t be too serious.

  “It might be a piece of Christ’s body,” Marc continued.

  It’s more than serious, Stephen thought instantly. “You mean a piece of the host?”

  “No, a real piece of Jesus’ body.”

  Stephen reflexively crossed himself. “What do you mean?”

  “I found a hair on the shroud.”

  “A hair?”

  “Just a little piece. You want to see it?”

  “What do you mean? You brought it back with you?”

  “I’ve got it here in my pocket.”

  “Why?” Steve asked, his voice approaching the tone of hysteria. “What are you going to do with it?”

  “I’m going to clone it.”

  “Clone . . . ?” the young priest began, then stopped. “Wait for me downstairs. Okay? We can’t talk here. I’ll be out in ten minutes.”

  *

  In a small, dingy bar just off Union Park, Stephen lifted a shot of whiskey, downed it in a gulp, then said, “All right. Let me see it.”

  Marc reached into his pocket, pulled out the vial, and offered it to his friend who hesitated before touching it. After a moment, Stephen warily took it and held it up to the light reverently, squinting to see the tiny piece of hair.

  “It’s so small.”

  “You only need one cell,” Marc said.

  “Is it really possible? From something so tiny?”

  “Hypothetically,” Marc replied, taking a sip from his drink “Every single cell of any living creature contains all the building blocks needed to recreate that creature.”

  “Creature? You’re talking about more than just a creature. I mean, this could be from the Son of God.”

  “He was a man, wasn’t he? A real, living, breathing person? Isn’t that the whole point of Christianity?”

  “Of course,” Stephen conceded, then took another tack. “But how do you know it’s actually His?”

  “I don’t, for sure,” Marc confessed. “But if a bloody corpse were wrapped up for three days in the cloth, it’s not hard to believe that a piece of hair may have stuck to it.”

  Stephen carefully handed the vial back to Marc before continuing. “Can you prove that?”

  “No.”

  “What about one of those carbon tests?” Stephen queried, instinctively wanting to prove the authenticity of the hair. “Wouldn’t that at least tell you how old it is?”

  “You have to burn some of the material in a carbon-14 test. There’s not enough of the hair to do that . . . and still have any left for experimentation.”

  Stephen nodded, then continued. “Okay, let’s say it is authentic. That would make it two thousand years old.”

  “Give or take a few years,” Marc interjected.

  “Could it still be viable?”

  “Technically, it could. And that’s what I want to find out.”

  Stephen was clearly unhappy with this concept; he signaled to a passing waiter and ordered another round. “Why do you want to do it?” he pressed.

  “Why does any scientist want to do something new? That’s what science is all about.”

  “Yes, but you could try to do a cloning with any cell, from any human being. Why from this?”

  “I don’t know,” Marc acknowledged. “It’s hard to explain.”

  “Have you had some sort of religious conversion?”

  “Hell no!”

  “Then why perform an experiment with a cell that could be possibly from the body of our Lord . . . if it has no spiritual significance to you? You’re just going to make trouble for yourself . . . and a lot of other people.”

  “I’m well aware of that. And I told you, I don’t know why.”

  “Can’t you just do your experiment with somebody else’s hair? I’ll furnish one if it’ll stop you from this . . . this folly.”

  “Nope,” Marc insisted. “I want to try cloning this.”

  The waiter brought their drinks, and they both sipped thoughtfully. Finally, Stephen broke the silence. “I wish you hadn’t told me.”

  “Why not?”

  “I can’t just sit by quietly and do nothing.”

  Marc looked closely into Stephen’s eyes and saw the seriousness of his intent. “You’re saying that Dugan has to get in on the act. Right?”

  “Of course,” Stephen replied with intense conviction.

  “Do you think he’ll put the kibosh on it?”

  “I would imagine so. You know the Church is dead set against human cloning. Although maybe . . . to tell you the truth, I’m not sure how he’ll react. But in all conscience, I can’t keep this to myself. I’ll have to report it first thing tomorrow morning.”

  “I told you in the privacy of the confessional, Steve.”

  “Bullshit! You know damned well you weren’t making your confession.”

  “All right, go ahead and tell the old lush. But while you’re doing it, point out that this could stir up a hell of a lot of the hype he’s been looking for.”

  “This is not the sort of hype I was seeking, Doctor!” Cardinal Dugan shouted from behind his huge desk, his face purple with rage. Marc stood opposite him, feeling like a schoolboy who’d been called to the headmaster’s office. And he didn’t like feeling that way. “What will the Pope think when he hears about this?” Dugan demanded.

  “Why does he have to hear about it until after it’s done?” Marc suggested.

  “It’s not going to be done! Just get that through your head right now.”

  “Why not?” Marc persisted. “This could be the biggest thing that ever hit the Catholic Church.”

  Hoping to make the best of a bad situation, Stephen spoke up. “He
has a point, Your Eminence.”

  Dugan whirled, even more enraged. “Keep your mouth shut, Reilly. You’ve done enough harm by suggesting this . . . this maniac in the first place,” he shouted, ignoring the fact that he—not Stephen—had come up with the idea when he read about Marc’s receiving the National Science Award. But the young cleric bit his tongue and decided not to contradict his superior at this moment.

  “You don’t have to have a shit fit about it,” Marc pointed out.

  “Watch your language, Doctor. Don’t you realize that what you’re talking about is heresy?”

  “You want to burn me at the stake?” Marc asked with an absolutely straight face.

  “That will be up to others,” the Cardinal replied in a tone implying that the possibility of immolation was quite real. “But you will pay for this,” he continued, “mark my word.”

  Marc rose from his chair. “Look, I’ve had about enough of your threats, Your Eminence. If I want to try cloning a cell from that hair, I’ll damned well do it.”

  “That relic doesn’t belong to you, Doctor Solovino. It’s not only a stolen object, but it’s an antique imported illegally from a foreign country. You’ll find yourself in prison if you persist.”

  “I think he’s right about that, Marc,” Stephen suggested, hoping to regain a bit of the Cardinal’s approval.

  “Of course I’m right! So if you have any gumption left about you, you’ll turn the relic over to me right now,” Dugan said, holding out his ring hand toward Marc.

  “And what’ll you do with it?”

  “I’ll return it to its proper place . . . in Turin.”

  “And try to hush the whole thing up to save your reputation. Correct?” Marc challenged.

  “My motives are none of your concern. But I’m willing not to prosecute if you return the relic and keep the entire matter just among the three of us. And there must be absolutely no mention of cloning. No mention whatsoever. Is that clear?”