The Cloning

  “My God.”

  “So aren’t you happy?”

  “You’re not jerking me around, are you?”

  “I don’t kid about the Pope,” Steve replied solemnly.

  “Then I can proceed with my work?”

  “You got it.”

  “Holy Christ!” Marc shouted.

  “Yeah . . . maybe,” Steve concurred.

  Jane looked from one man to the other, wondering if she’d just been screwed out of a screwing. She had.

  *

  Marc threw himself back into his work with gusto. Fortunately, the holidays allowed him a total break from his academic activities so he was able to work full time on preparations for the actual cloning. His concentration was intense as he completed the final steps for the process that would start the autogenesis. He could make no errors because the Pope’s edict explicitly stated that the Church was in no way giving its imprimatur to any other human cloning, but that this case could be God’s holy will; in other words, the Pope wasn’t backing a series of experiments with the hair. The White House went along with this, and Congress was unable to mount an organized opposition… essentially bowing to the moral clout of the Pope. Marc would have one—and only one—opportunity to perform the cloning. If it worked, its success would be deemed an expression of God’s omnipotence. If it failed, that would make it clear that that the experiment lacked God’s blessing, that cloning was not His intention. It was all or nothing for Marc. Still he'd never felt such a sense of expectation, and he rose early each morning to go to his lab, almost fearing that this was too good to last.

  *

  In Rome meanwhile, a major schism in the hierarchy of the Church developed between those who supported the Pope’s precedent-shattering edict and those who were ferociously opposed. There were varying degrees of fervor on both points of view. On the pro-cloning side, many unreservedly applauded the Pope for embracing modern science, for making a sharp break from the Church’s traditional conservatism. Others were not as enthusiastic in their praise but were willing to support the Pope’s position because no matter how radical his decision, he was, after all, the duly chosen Pope. In the opposition camp, there were likewise many shades of opinion. The more radical faction declared the new Pope’s selection by the College of Cardinals a mistake, even espousing his removal. Privately, Cardinal Nani was rabidly opposed to the cloning, but he was devious enough not to tip his hand either way publicly because he knew that there were other means of stopping the cloning without an outright challenge to the Pope’s authority, a route fraught with dangerous implications for the Church.

  Nani orchestrated a private meeting with one Giovanni Capaletto, a suave politician with connections into every byway of Italian power. The two men had known one another for many years, long enough that no questions would be raised about Capaletto’s visiting the Cardinal’s office, and well enough to allow communication without total explicitness. After solicitously inquiring of Capaletto’s family, each by name, the Cardinal skillfully brought up the Pope’s edict, an easy segue since the subject seemed to dominate virtually all discussions these days.

  “Of course I have followed these developments carefully,” Capaletto said unctuously, shooting the cuffs of his perfectly pressed white shirt from the sleeves of his impeccably tailored dark gray silk suit.

  “I confide in you my dear friend, there was much dissention within the consistory, because, of course, it was well known that he was progressive. Some feared that he might make some radical changes . . . that he might even modify the position on birth control, possibly even soften his stand on women’s role in the priesthood. But never was it even imagined that he’d tamper with the very heart of our belief.”

  “Of course not.”

  “Then you agree that it’s sacrilege?”

  “With all my heart.” Capaletto instinctively knew that they’d arrived at the reason for his being summoned to Nani’s office. “This makes me very sad,” he added.

  “If only the American were to see the error of his ways,” Nani ventured cautiously, as if toying with a brand-new thought. “If his sacrilegious experimentation were to cease, the Holy Father would be unburdened.”

  Message received, the flawlessly groomed Capaletto thought. Aloud he agreed, “It would be a blessing.”

  “We shall see if God wills it.”

  “Of course.”

  “Thank you for coming, my son,” Nani said, rising and extending his hand.

  “I’m always at your service, Your Eminence,” Capaletto said, then took the Cardinal’s hand and kissed his ring.

  As soon as Capaletto left the room, Bishop Bottero waddled in by another door. Seeing Nani’s pleased expression, Bottero inferred that the wheels had been set in motion, but he had reservations. “You’re playing a dangerous game, my friend.”

  “Of course I’m playing a dangerous game! What else can I do? What if the experiment were to work? Would you have me wait for the second coming and do nothing about it until it’s too late?” Nani demanded with agitation.

  “You might have taken less drastic action,” Bottero suggested vaguely, opting to avoid the profound implications of Nani’s question.

  Nani’s voice rose with passion and deep conviction. “Don’t you understand, Bottero, that the Church would be destroyed if Our Lord were to come back to earth? The entire organization is built on the hope of the second coming . . . not the real thing. That would ruin us all!”

  “Let us pray that you’re right,” the Bishop commented with a note of doubt in his voice.

  *

  The question of whether it was appropriate for Marc to conduct his experiment on University property was raised by some members of the Harvard faculty. Since the University derived considerable sums from various segments of the government—either directly or indirectly—some felt that the separation of church and state was being infringed. Over the next week the controversy became so volatile that the Chancellor was forced to call a meeting of department heads. Marc was not invited, so he waited anxiously in his lab all afternoon to hear the outcome. Of course, he mused, if worse comes to worse, I could rent space in a privately owned building somewhere, but moving would be a pain in the ass that would delay everything.

  Finally, just as it was growing dark, Professor Swanson arrived to inform Marc that, after lengthy discussion, a vote had been taken. Marc had prevailed by a comfortable margin. It was the consensus that the scientific implications took precedence over the religious, and that an experiment of this significance would bring credit to Harvard, no matter what its outcome.

  “And our department’s behind you one hundred percent,” Swanson assured him.

  “Keep your fingers crossed that I can pull it off,” Marc said.

  “I’m not worried about that. But, Marc, have you thought about where you’re going to get the donor egg, and where you’re going to implant it?”

  “I’ve already contacted one of the fertility labs here in Boston. They’ll come up with an appropriate volunteer.”

  Swanson frowned. “You may be oversimplifying.”

  “Come on, Larry. Certain women have been renting their wombs for years.”

  “This is a little more complicated than that,” Swanson elaborated soberly. “There’s already been some disagreement in the Philosophy Department about who would be an appropriate . . . uh, receptacle for the fetus. Don’t forget, this is supposed to be a deity you’re re-creating. And in a manner of speaking, the womb you’re talking about will belong to the mother of that . . . that god, if you will.”

  Marc considered the implications for only a moment, then asked, “You’re saying that it would be an honor?”

  “For some people, yes. Perhaps even an honor worth fighting for.”

  “Oh shit, I can’t deal with that kind of thinking!” Marc blurted out. “I could care less who carries the baby, as long as she’s healthy.”

  “I’m sure you have other things to think about, but you co
uld offend a lot of people if the choice weren’t made fairly . . . or at least perceived that way. So you might do well to give it a bit more consideration.”

  “Yeah, you’re right,” Marc agreed. “I’d better do that.”

  “Let me know if there’s any help I can give you.”

  “Thanks, Larry,” Marc said, clapping his friend on the back and seeing him to the door.

  Alone, Marc walked over to the window and looked out into the night, thinking over Swanson’s advice. Damn, Marc thought, every time I solve one problem, two more crop up. He wished that someone with a more philosophical bent would deal with this aspect of the cloning. Finally he decided to let it rest before making any decision; tonight there was other work to be done. He started reading the specs on a new centrifuge.

  *

  Across the quad, on the roof of the English building, the dark figure of a man stepped out of the shadows, then stooped down to open a leather case and began assembling a marksman’s rifle with a laser designator. That done, he screwed a silencer to the end of the barrel. Stealthily, he moved to the edge of the roof where he could look directly across the quad into Marc’s laboratory window. Lifting the rifle to his shoulder and steadying it on the parapet, he peered though the sight and moved the menacing red dot toward Marc who was sitting quietly, reading. The man carefully centered the dot to Marc’s temple and began to gently squeeze the trigger.

  Suddenly Marc stood up, put his papers aside with a sigh, then moved to get his jacket. Just as he opened the door, he nearly collided with Nora in the doorway.

  “Leaving already?” she asked, stopping in her tracks.

  “I was getting hungry.”

  “I thought you might be. I heard the news. Congratulations.”

  “It’s about time we had some good news.”

  “I figured you’d be working, so I brought some of your favorites from the deli,” she said, indicating a paper bag she carried.

  Through the rifle’s sight, only Marc’s silhouette could be seen through the frosted glass of the opened door.

  “Aren’t you an angel,” he said, stepping aside to allow Nora to enter. In that split second, her silhouette replaced Mark’s through the frosted glass, and simultaneously, the barrel of the rifle exploded in flame. The window shattered, the frosted glass of the door blew into a million splinters, and Nora fell to the floor, blood pouring from her head.

  In utter shock, Marc knelt at her side. “Nora! What . . .?”

  But before he could complete his thought, another bullet smashed through the door, and his instincts took over. Keeping low, he dragged Nora’s body through the shards of glass into the hallway, out of the line of fire. Without wasting another second, he made a dash across the lab toward the telephone, and another bullet burst through the window just as Marc dived behind a metal file cabinet. He grabbed the cord, pulled the phone to him, then punched out 911. “I need an ambulance right away. A woman’s been shot!”

  CHAPTER 7

  The next morning, while still in his private quarters, the Pope was informed by Monsignor Lissaro of the shooting. The Pontiff hurried to his study where Cardinal Nani and Bishop Bottero, both appearing highly agitated, soon joined him. There was no doubt that the threat to Marc’s life was an attempt to stop the cloning, Nani expostulated.

  “Of course,” the Pope agreed. “It’s most regrettable.”

  “Indeed it is,” Nani concurred, turning a worried glance to Bishop Bottero who promptly added, “We knew, of course, that there would be some who would disagree with your decision.”

  “It was almost inevitable,” Nani continued with concern.

  The Pope nodded his agreement, then added, “But we must do everything in our power to protect Doctor Solovino and his experiment. I want you to use your contact with the American ambassador to insure that the doctor is shielded from any further belligerence. I have already instructed Cardinal Dugan to use all his influence as well. He’ll be our liaison in the United States.”

  “Do you think that perhaps the experiment should be postponed until the threat has been fully investigated? We certainly wouldn’t want any additional bloodshed,” Nani suggested tactfully.

  “No. I’m convinced that we should go ahead. If it is God’s will, the plan will succeed in spite of all opposition.”

  Cardinal Nani was barely able to conceal his displeasure as he nodded his head in acquiescence and silently cursed the ineptitude of the would-be assassin in Cambridge. Surely Capaletto could have selected someone more competent.

  *

  After talking to Nora’s doctors at seven A.M., Marc quietly entered her hospital room. The blinds were drawn against the morning sunshine, and Nora lay unmoving on her bed, her head bandaged, an I.V. leading to her arm. Marc looked down at her silently, but she sensed his presence and opened her eyes.

  “The doctors say you’re going to be fine. The bullet just grazed your scalp,” he whispered.

  Nora replied weakly. “That’s what I hear. But what about you?”

  “I’m fine,” Marc assured her. “Only the good die young, and I failed to qualify. Besides, they’ve put bodyguards on me around the clock. There’s one just outside,” he said, pointing to the door.

  She breathed a sign of relief and smiled wanly. “Good. And your experiment?”

  “Everything’s okay. The lab’s being guarded like Fort Knox.”

  “I want you to go ahead with your work, Marc.”

  “We’ll see about that.”

  “No. Do it. Do it for me if nothing else,” she pleaded, her jaw set hard. “Don’t you let them stop you . . . don’t you dare!” she said with deep intensity.

  Her spunk brought a smile to his lips. “Okay, Nora. For you I’ll do it.”

  *

  The shooting excited the media into a feeding frenzy. What previously had been a hot story suddenly became a sizzler. Every time he appeared outdoors, Marc found himself stalked by journalists and cameramen, shouting questions, anxious to get some new angle on his activities. He kept to his laboratory most of the time, repairing the damage done to his equipment by the gunman and making final preparations for the actual experiment. His windows were painted black as a precaution, giving him a feeling of dislocation and isolation. Sometimes he totally lost track of the time.

  The cloning had grabbed the public’s attention and had taken on such enormous implications, it had a life of its own. Passions were ignited by every aspect of the experiment. But, as fascinating as the idea of a cloned Jesus was, there was at least as much interest in who would furnish the egg and carry it to term. Who would she be?

  Talk shows buzzed constantly with speculation. On every network, the evening news led off nightly with some aspect of the “the new Madonna” story. What would her ethnic origin be? What country would receive this highest of honors? The question crossed international boundaries, quickly becoming a cause célèbre.

  Marc was infuriated at the uproar the media was stirring up. But occasionally, upon deeper reflection, he was infuriated at himself because, after all, none of this would have happened if he hadn’t had the brainstorm in the first place. If he’d simply left that tiny piece of hair with the Shroud, this whole state of affairs would never have evolved. What in God’s name had made him do it? he wondered.

  ABC reported, “The controversy has leapt all national boundaries and is threatening to create tension between otherwise friendly nations. The European Community today voted unanimously not to even debate the question of the ‘new Madonna’ for fear that old nationalistic animosities would be ignited.”

  The next evening CBS told the nation, “In Johannesburg today, there was a meeting of eight African prime ministers who issued a demand that the black race not be ignored in this question. Their communiqué stated, “A black Madonna is as desirable as one of any other color.” And the problem is also responsible for the deepening split within the Catholic faith. Here from Athens is Frank Baker with the latest.”

  B
aker stood in front of the Acropolis, wearing a safari jacket. “The Eastern Orthodox Church has issued a formal complaint to the Vatican for making important decisions about the Hair of Turin without first consulting officials of the Eastern Church. Here with us is Archbishop Dicopoulis who delivered the note. Sir, have you had any response from the Vatican yet?”

  The bearded Archbishop, dressed in his full clerical regalia, replied sternly, “No, regrettably I have not. Not a word. But if the ecumenical advances made within our faith are to be maintained, we must be given a voice in this process. Simply because the Hair of Turin was found in a sanctuary of the Roman branch does not mean that the rest of Christendom can be excluded. The Bishop of Rome must not ignore us!”

  Marc began to fear that the Pope, his strongest ally, was losing control of the situation.

  *

  Monsignor Lissaro displayed an international selection of periodicals to the Pontiff. “As you can see, Your Holiness, the question has taken on major implications. Doctor Solovino’s picture is on the cover of Der Spiegel, Paris Match, L’Uomo, Time . . . just to name a few.

  The Pope glanced at the magazines, then said, “But this is good, is it not? The people of the world appear to have a much stronger interest in our faith than anyone had imagined.”

  “Yes, that’s true,” Lissaro concurred. “But it also creates a risky public relations role for the Holy See. It involves so many breaks with tradition, there’s no way to accurately predict what unexpected permutations might evolve . . . not only with the cloning itself, but also in the sociological and religious reactions to it. And without some accurate expectations, we are at a distinct disadvantage in preparing our responses. Our current position could easily turn into a negative backlash.”

  “Let us not expect the worst, Lissaro. Take one step at a time. Our Heavenly Father will surely lead us to make decisions that are best for His kingdom on earth.”