The Cloning

  Nora put the offending magazine on the desk and quietly left the room.

  “Don’t take the article too personally, Your Eminence. You’re not the only cleric I was referring to,” Marc said, taking keen pleasure in sticking it to the old guy.

  “You tried an end run, didn’t you, you sneaky little bastard?” Dugan charged, shaking the Reader’s Digest in Marc’s face, then hurling it across the room. “You’ve made me a laughing stock. But we’ll soon see who has the final word.”

  “Don’t you think the Pope will have the final word?” Marc challenged.

  “For your information, this is no longer a Church matter. I’ve already contacted the District Attorney. He’ll get the rest of that relic from you. And then I’ll see to it that you’re put away for a good long stay behind bars where you can’t do any more mischief. The search warrant’s being drawn up this very minute to retrieve the relic.”

  The telephone rang.

  Marc answered. “Monsignor Lissaro,” he replied, glancing meaningfully at Dugan. “It’s good to hear from you.”

  The Cardinal froze in anticipation.

  “No, I haven’t started yet,” Marc continued. There was a long pause as he listened carefully. Finally he replied, “No, I won’t begin. You have my word.” Another pause. “As a matter of fact, the Cardinal’s right here in my office. Shall I put him on? All right, I’ll tell him.”

  Dugan sank into a chair, the color draining from his face.

  “I’ll look forward to hearing from you,” Marc concluded, then hung up and turned to his guest. It gave him great satisfaction to hold back the news for a few delicious moments while Dugan visibly quavered. Finally Marc continued, “The Pope has asked me to put everything on hold until I hear from him.”

  “What exactly does he mean?” Dugan stuttered.

  “You’ll have to ask him. But in the meantime, maybe you’d like to use my phone to call the District Attorney . . . cancel that search warrant.”

  Marc shoved the phone toward Dugan.

  *

  Consternation raced through the hallways of the Vatican, and within the hour Cardinal Nani and Bishop Bottero were with the Pope in his private study.

  “I feared something like this would happen,” Nani intoned dolefully.

  “But we do have recourse,” Bottero said reassuringly to the Pontiff, just as he and Nani had rehearsed it, “through civil channels . . . to see that the matter is rectified.”

  “Yes, I’m sure that we do,” the Pope replied calmly. He appeared to be extremely preoccupied, Nani thought, not focused on the enormity of the matter at hand.

  “It could be handled in such a manner that the Holy See would not be directly involved,” Nani said with confidence.

  Bottero picked up his cue without a missed beat. “If you’d give your approval now, the wheels could be set in motion within minutes. And we could recover the other portion of the relic in a matter of days.”

  “I’ve already spoken unofficially with the Ambassador from the United States,” Nani continued.

  “Already?” the Pope asked. “Even before I said anything?”

  “I didn’t think there was a moment to be wasted, Your Holiness,” Nani riposted, “and it was off the record.”

  “I’d prefer that we do nothing for the moment.”

  “But sir . . .” Nani began with agitation.

  The Pope lifted his hand in a gesture for silence and quietly but firmly overrode him. “The events that have led us to this moment did not happen without a cause. In God’s infinite plan, the reasons are not always immediately apparent to us. We must search for the truth.”

  “The forces of Evil could be the reason,” Nani suggested cautiously.

  “Perhaps. In any case, I want to pray on the matter.”

  Cardinal Nani exchanged a quick, worried look with Bishop Bottero, then bowed his acquiescence.

  *

  Marc tried to force himself to continue preparations for the cloning as if things might somehow work out in his favor, but his heart wasn't in it. He even considered going ahead with the project despite his promise to Lissaro, but somehow he felt that it would be a slap in the face to the Pope who had put himself on the line, who'd been so decent. With every passing day, Marc became more convinced that his gamble had failed, and he felt totally defeated.

  On the morning of the third day, there was a loud knock on his door.

  “Doctor Solovino, this is the Sheriff.”

  Marc couldn't imagine what this visit concerned, unless Cardinal Dugan was up to some new scheme.

  The Sheriff was a formidable hulk of a man wearing a trench coat that smacked of Colombo. “Doctor Marc Solovino, I have a warrant for your arrest,” he continued, handing Marc an official looking document.

  “For what?” Marc asked.

  The Sheriff explained that, according to the warrant, Marc had given the Hair of Turin to a Swedish national by the name of Freda Jeanpierre while they were cohabiting in her French chalet some weeks ago.

  So, she finally realized who I am . . . and why I was carrying the hair, Marc mused to himself. “Freda who?” he inquired innocently.

  “Jeanpierre. She’s charged you with grand theft. She demands the return of the hair.”

  “This has gotta be some kind of joke.”

  “No, it’s not a joke,” came Freda's heavily accented voice as she slinked into the lab wearing a full-length mink coat, exuding a cloud of Chanel No. 5. “You gave it to me for a gift, and you cannot steal it back.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Marc claimed. “Why would I give you something that valuable?”

  “I don’t know what made you do it. But you did it.”

  “You can’t prove that.”

  “You want to bet? Don’t you remember the little restaurant? And the waitress I paid for the drinks . . . with your money? She saw it all.”

  Marc realized that he was probably beaten on that score even though he had kept his dark glasses on the whole time he was in the restaurant. “Okay, maybe she did. But it was just a silly gesture . . . a flirtation. You would have gladly given it back to me on the spot if I’d asked you.”

  “Maybe I would have . . . maybe not,” she shrugged. “But you didn’t ask. And then you stole it.”

  “What about the other part of the hair that’s back in Italy? The big part? Are you going to have the Pope arrested too?”

  “Yes, I am,” Freda declared matter-of-factly. “I demand what belongs to me!”

  “Why are you wasting your time, Freda? No court in the world would award the hair to you. If the question of ownership ever goes to trial, it’ll be the Pope who’ll get it.”

  “Look,” the Sheriff interrupted, “you two can argue this out in front of the judge. Let’s go.”

  Freda turned to him. “Can I talk to the Doctor alone,” she asked, dropping her eyes pitifully, “for just a few minutes?”

  The Sheriff, clearly wowed by Freda’s striking looks and European accent, glanced at his watch, then agreed that he’d give her five minutes. After he’d stepped outside, Freda turned to Marc, threw her arms around him, and was about to kiss him when he pushed her aside.

  “Cut the shit, will you? What are you trying to pull anyway?”

  “I thought we understood each other, Marc.”

  “Yeah, I thought we did too, but I guess I was wrong.”

  “I had to put on the show for the Sheriff, but that was all pretend. I just want to make a deal with you.”

  “Okay. Let’s hear it.”

  “This is my chance to revive my acting career, don’t you see? You’re hot, Marc. Not just here and in Europe, but all over the world. If you’ll just help me, I won’t make any trouble.”

  “Help you how?”

  “Just some publicity. Some pictures of the two of us together . . . a statement on television.

  “What kind of statement?” he asked suspiciously.

  “Just something to tie me t
o you . . . and to the hair. If you just say that you left the hair by mistake at my chalet . . . but I found it and returned it to you. Something like that would give me identity with the relic, and it will revive my career. It’s very simple.”

  “You really think so?”

  “I’m sure of it. My ex-husband has been in touch with me. He says that I’m sitting on the sack of gold.”

  Suddenly it became clear to Marc exactly what was going on. Her ex was trying to get in on the act too, give his career a little kick in the butt as well. “You’re going back to him?”

  “Oh, who knows about that?” Freda equivocated, “But he promised to get my career moving again. Will you help me too, Marc? Please.”

  Her eyes brimmed with tears, her voice trembled with emotion. This is beyond acting, Marc felt instinctively. He saw what a truly pitiful creature she was, saw how desperate she was for the love and attention that she believed stardom would insure. He had no way of judging if she had true talent, no way of knowing if she might actually achieve the success she so desperately wanted, but her request seemed easy enough to fulfill. And if it stood any chance of giving her happiness, why not? After all, she’d showed him a damned good time . . . and she wasn’t asking him to marry her.

  “Okay,” he agreed. “It’s a deal.”

  She took the warrant and tore it to bits, then told the Sheriff that she was dropping the charges.

  *

  It only took a phone call from Marc to the local TV station to set the media wheels turning; within the hour, he and Frieda were being taped in an appropriately photogenic spot near the Harvard Boat House with the Charles River in the background. He told a sanitized—but convincing—story about their chance meeting, about her inviting him to dine at her chalet, how the tiny vial containing the hair fell from his pocket accidentally, and how, instead of throwing it away, she sensed that it was something extremely important and returned it to him before he left. Without her, the Hair of Turin would have been lost forever, Marc told the media. He was pleased with his own performance and considered the possibility that not only might she become a movie star but also eventually a minor saint as a result of his moving tale. Later they were photographed at other picturesque locations on campus and with some of the scientific equipment in his lab.

  After the press departed, she thanked him with all her heart for his help. “I invite you to my premiere,” she assured him, and this time he let her give him a lingering farewell kiss. It was just as good as he remembered, and he pulled her tight against him.

  “How about some supper?” he suggested. “Where are you staying?”

  “At the Taj,” she purred suggestively. “We’ll have room service.”

  Freda was an expert at ordering food and drink, and to Marc’s surprise she spared no expense for the celebratory meal. Apparently she was confident that the rash of publicity would produce a quick flow of cash. Her choice of dishes was impeccable, and excellent French wines accompanied each course. Then champagne flowed with desert. He marveled at the capacity of Europeans to consume wine so copiously with so little ill effect.

  When the waiter had cleared the last dishes, Marc was feeling quite drunk, yet not so drunk that his desire was quelled. But when he took her hand and led her toward the bedroom, she pulled back.

  “No, Marc. I can’t.”

  “Why?”

  “It’s Rene. You see . . .” she hesitated, “we have gone back together. And I cannot be untrue to him. Can you understand?”

  Marc couldn’t understand at all. Clearly she’d gone to a lot of trouble to set up a seduction scenario, but when the time came for the pay-off, she suddenly reneged. It seemed oddly out of character, he thought, and it left him not only horny in the extreme but too drunk to drive home. Rather than beg, he settled for the relative comfort of her sofa, fell asleep almost instantly, and slept straight through until she shook him awake at eight AM.

  “It's time to go, chéri,” she cooed. When he opened his eyes, he saw that her red hair was beautifully coiffed, she was totally made up . . . and was wearing a sheer peignoir that left little to the imagination around her breasts. He reached to pull her down to him, hoping that her resolve might have weakened overnight, but she moved away. “I must not miss my plane to Geneva,” she protested.

  “You’re traveling in that?” he asked groggily.

  “Of course not. I’ll change as soon as you go. But you must hurry.”

  So Marc dressed quickly and headed for the door. She made a point of putting her arm in his just as he opened the door . . . and the strobe light flashed in their faces. He quickly closed the door, then turned to Freda. Her expression answered his question even before he asked it.

  “Just a little more publicity,” she offered in a pleading tone.

  He was royally ticked off at being used so blatantly—again—but he had little choice except to leave and face the camera once more in the hallway. Later that week, he was seen in every grocery store across the nation on the cover of the National Inquirer under the headline, “Marc Jilts Cynthia For All Night Tryst With Freda.”

  *

  This latest deluge of publicity gave an unexpected spin to Marc’s public image, transforming him overnight into a sex symbol. Having always felt that his sex life was a very private area, he found this turn of events humiliating, especially since the night at the Taj had been completely chaste, but there was no way of clarifying that without bringing even more attention to his amorous history.

  Looking back on the events of the past few months, he was astonished at the changes in his life. He never had been one to seek the spotlight; in fact, he preferred just the opposite, a large degree of privacy if not anonymity. Now suddenly, with no premeditation on his part, a series of events had thrown him into the headlines at a level that happens to very few people. Of course, he mused, everybody has fifteen minutes of fame they say, but what had been happening to him was taking a hell of lot longer than fifteen minutes . . . and there was no end in sight. Still, some gut feeling convinced him that it was too late to pull out, that he must follow through, no matter how odd it seemed at moments.

  He wondered how negatively this new publicity would affect the Pope’s decision. Not a word came from either Rome or the chancery in Brighton. With every passing day, Marc became more convinced that his rampant id had derailed all his plans.

  But his new fame obviously eradicated Jane’s misgivings about their last meeting because she arrived unannounced at his lab one evening, wearing a little too much eye make-up and much too much of some cheap perfume; she was obviously thirsty for sex with a celebrity. Marc took her for a beer at a spot just off Harvard Square, and right away her foot began playing up and down his leg underneath the table. But Marc wasn’t in the mood.

  “I don’t get it, sweetie. Have you turned queer or something?”

  “Not that I’ve noticed,” he replied with a devilish grin. “But it might be a good idea.”

  “That’ll be the day,” she giggled. “No kidding, what’s the matter? Here I’m willing to forgive you, to give myself to you again . . . no strings attached. But you’re as cold as a clam.”

  “Jane,” he stalled, “I’ve got a lot on my mind these days.”

  “Well sure, I understand that. Every time I pick up a paper, there’s your picture or some article about you. But you need a little relaxation. You’re looking tense, big boy.”

  “I guess I am.”

  Marc hadn’t had any desire for sex since the episode with Freda hit the front pages. Waiting for word from the Pope preoccupied him totally even though he knew that the odds in his favor were marginal at best. Still, the fact that he hadn’t heard from the Vatican for well over a week kept some hope alive.

  “Come on!” Jane pleaded. “Don’t you remember how much fun we had last time you were at my place?”

  Her bare foot reached up to his crotch, and she wiggled her toes. Yes indeed, he did remember. It had been great. Off the wall. True,
Freda was a wild lay, but there was something slightly studied about it, almost as if it were a practiced performance, whereas Jane was a master of the extemporaneous, the uncontrollable, the unexpected. And Cynthia was still avoiding him like the plague.

  “Where would you like to start? In the shower again? Or what about the bath tub this time? Maybe with Jello,” she cooed.

  “Jello?” he chortled incredulously.

  “Sure. It would be fun . . . all jiggly and sweet.”

  “Maybe you’re right,” he conceded, wondering even as he uttered the words why he was doing it. Was he fated to be a slave to his crotch forever?

  “Wild!” she exulted. “Just pay the bill, and let’s go.”

  Marc was reaching for his money when Stephen joined them, smiling ear to ear as he slid into their booth. “Congratulations,” he offered.

  Marc looked up, surprised. “Hey, Steve. I didn’t know if you’d still be speaking to me. This is Jane. Jane, Father Reilly.”

  “How you doing, Father?” Jane smiled and tossed her auburn mane, looking the young priest up and down.

  “I guess you didn’t hear me,” Steve said to Marc. “I said congratulations.”

  “For what?” Marc asked, alerted.

  “This is the most unbelievable thing imaginable. The Pope has issued an edict that maintains the cloning could be God’s way of arranging the second coming of Christ.”

  Marc couldn’t believe what he’d heard. “Run that by me again.”

  “Instead of creating another Jesus, you’d actually be bringing Him back to life again. The original one. In a modern way. Instead of coming down from heaven intact, He’d be born again, more or less like He was the first time . . . of a woman.” Marc was speechless. “Cloning’s another form of a virgin birth. Isn’t it?” Stephen asked.

  “Well . . . ” Marc began, still incredulous, “sort of. What about the legalities?”

  “The Holy Father has appealed directly to the White House to withdraw its objections to cloning in this one instance only.”