Christ Clone

by McLeod, David

  ***

  Dr Viktor Borgoff read his e-mail with trepidation. How did they find my e-mail address? he wondered. He hit the link and went through to the web page. As he read, his interest grew; his facility was more than capable of fulfilling the challenge, although the government would need to be left out of the loop on this one.

  He called the heads of departments together and they spent the rest of the day mapping out what would be needed from each of them.

  The head of the Memory Data Extraction Department showed the greatest concern. 'Our techniques are unorthodox; they certainly cross Geneva Convention boundaries. I'm not sure that we should share our methods with the rest of the world,' he said.

  Viktor understood the implications, but leading the world in this challenge would put them on the map — maybe they would no longer have to hide out in the hills. 'The global unification of cloning data and techniques would surely be worth that risk,' he said. Everyone present eventually agreed.

  7

  CHAMPAGNE REGION, FRANCE

  His leather-gloved hand shook slightly as he tapped in the alarm code. It was the only part of the plan that had been left in the hands of his employer, and therefore outside his direct control. The fee offered for this job was far too good to turn down but it still made him nervous to have anything unverified, especially since they wanted the job done so urgently. As he punched the final number, the flashing red light on the keypad turned green, indicating the code had been accepted. A huge sigh of relief left his lungs, and his shoulders dropped. Closing the plastic door on the control box, he turned to take in the full beauty of the château.

  Never one to take things at face value, he'd done his homework on the place. Originally owned by an aristocratic family, the château had been passed down through generations and, though a little tired looking, its elegance and splendour were still awe-inspiring. Over the past week, while researching the job, he'd begun to fall in love with the building. Its extensive grounds had been the scene of a variety of battles during the civil war known as the Fronde and the Napoleonic wars, and now produced some of the finest wines in France. The building, with its bay windows and stately presence, had come full circle. Starting life as an impressive family seat, it had been everything from a hospital and elder-care home to an asylum and a military headquarters. Several years ago, in desperate need of tender love and care, the château had been purchased by the Caviette family for a price far below market value, and they had set about restoring it to its former glory.

  The meeting with the suits just over a week ago had been weird. First, they didn't question or haggle over his fee, a fee he'd over-inflated due to the fact they looked loaded and the urgency with which they wanted the job performed. Clients who didn't question his fee always concerned him. Second, and more important, it was a very large fee for such a seemingly worthless commission. What would someone want with a two thousand-year-old lump of wood, regardless of its alleged origin? But, when all was said and done, he was still quietly kicking himself — he should have gone even higher.

  And it still wasn't his weirdest job; that honour went to the people who'd hired him to break into the Sydney Zoo. There had been a package to be picked up, and then hidden in the koala petting area. He'd never learned what was inside the package — but the way it felt and the way it sounded still gave him shivers some nights. It certainly had been important enough for them to pay a one hundred thousand-dollar fee — a fee that had helped dispel his nightmares and ease his sleep.

  The instructions and information provided for the château job were the best he'd ever received. Plans of the grounds, blueprints, photos, schedules for the family and the staff, and the all-important alarm code — all perfect, all adding up to make this one of the easiest scores ever. Maybe too good to be true, which was why he'd done his own research. Smiling to himself, he made his way towards his private goal.

  The jewels contained within the château's safe were from the French Revolution and would carry a hefty price tag on the black market. This was going to be a good night's work.

  Walking through the main lobby, he shone his torch up the walls alongside the marbled staircases. They were covered with what he assumed to be ancestral portraits: dark canvases mounted in heavy gilded frames. He berated himself a little, wishing he knew more about the art world; he felt sure they'd be worth a fair price. The rubber soles on his shoes squeaked as he moved through the lobby to the library doors between the stairs. Opening one of the double doors to the room, he waited for a moment, listening for any signs of life. Once he felt confident the place was vacant, he entered.

  The musty smell of old books and papers filled his nose, reminding him of his university days and the hours he'd wasted researching information he'd never need, nor ever use again. Looking up at the portrait above the fireplace, he reminisced about the jobs he'd done on safes hidden behind pictures. Shaking his head, he wondered. Did people really think a thief wouldn't look behind a picture? It was such a cliché, but they still did it.

  At opposing ends of the mantelpiece stood silver candlesticks; twisting them both clockwise, he heard a latch click behind him. A small wooden wall panel had popped open. He gently swung the panel back, exposing the safe within. Rubbing his gloved hands together, he unzipped his bag and slipped out his equipment. Placing a small box of electronic wizardry next to the dial, and slipping earphones on, he set to work. The safe was quite modern but he cracked it easily. The thick steel door opened slowly, exposing the bounty inside; a smile spread across his face.

  Pulling off the earphones and rubbing the inside of his ears, he remembered why he hated doing these safe jobs. The soft sponge always irritated his skin, making it itch in a place that was hard to scratch, deep within his ear. Halfway through, and still using his tongue to massage the roof of his mouth, he heard the distant sound of gravel crunching in the driveway.

  He leapt to attention. His heart began to race. Moving quickly to the front window, he cautiously pulled back the heavy, velvet curtain. The sight made him curse out loud. 'Fucking silent alarms,' he said through gritted teeth.

  The driveway was filling up with the local gendarmerie.

  Having planned for most setbacks, he made his way upstairs towards his emergency escape point, taking the steps two at a time. Admittedly this wasn't the first time he'd tripped a silent alarm, but this was more than just an inconvenience for him. How am I going to explain to the suits that I haven't managed to acquire their piece of wood? What was I doing in the library? That's bound to be their first question. Reviewing excuses in his head, he found the small room in the top corner of the mansion, and went straight to the window.

  Downstairs, the front door burst open, and the gendarmes announced their arrival. Although they were yelling in French, he guessed the translation would go something like, 'This is the police! Give up! You're surrounded!'

  Returning his attention to the window, he released the catch and pushed on the frame. It refused to budge. He saw the problem; it was sealed by years of accumulated paint. 'Shitty fucking decorators,' he muttered. He wasn't having a good night.

  Rifling rapidly through his tool bag, he found a knife and started to slice around the edges, breaking through the paint. Aware of how long it was taking, but also trying not to make any noise, his pulse raced; he could hear it beating in his ears and they started to itch again.

  Having secured the lower level, the police were coming up the stairs; thankfully, the window was starting to give a little. At the sound of bedroom doors down the hall being thrust open, sweat began to form on his forehead; it wouldn't be long before they reached this room. He lunged towards the window frame with both palms open, forcing the window. As he did, the paint cracked and the window flew open; unfortunately, his momentum carried him out with it.

  With his weapon drawn, an officer opened the door of the small room just in time to catch a glimpse of the feet of the intruder leaving the room via the window. He was watching as the man
hit the ground headfirst, shattering his skull, breaking his neck, and killing him instantly.

  8

  ROME

  The brochure read: 'The Vatican City State, Holy See, is situated on the Vatican hill, on the right bank of the Tiber River, within the city of Rome. After establishing its local independence from Italy in 1929, and at 0.44 square kilometres, it is the smallest country in the world.'

  Beneath the dome of the Sistine Chapel, on a balcony high above St Peter's Square, the Pope, having addressed the crowd below, turns and makes his way back inside St Peter's Basilica. As the crowd starts to disperse, two men head towards the main building. One stands tall and one is vertically challenged, both are dressed in shorts and T-shirts, with their mandatory tourist cameras slung around their necks.

  'Inside Vatican City, the population is 911. All the dignitaries, priests, nuns, guards and 3,000 lay workers live outside. The Swiss guards are the military force, and the security for the City and the Pope is provided by the Papal Swiss Guard.'

  The shorter of the two men reads out the facts with authority, trying to pick relevant points, but he senses his colleague isn't listening. 'They've got their own currency, "Peter's Pence," they've even got their own radio and TV stations!' The last points were to test his theory.

  'Okay, you can stop with the facts now; we'll get enough of that from the tour guide.' The taller man hadn't taken his eyes off the guards, but made it clear he'd been listening and had heard enough.

  They'd planned to take the general tour and made their way to the starting point to meet with their guide. The guide was mesmerizing; her olive skin and long, flowing hair — matched by her enthusiasm and wealth of knowledge — made her hard to ignore, but the two men, preoccupied with their own agenda, hadn't yet registered her presence.

  After welcoming everyone, the tour guide introduced herself; 'Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen, my name is Lucia.' Her Italian accent matched her looks, and for a moment both men were distracted by her.

  Lucia began her set speech and pointed up at Michelangelo's dome. 'It is called the Cuppolone and it offers symbolic protection to the Square; the colonnade around us is a masterpiece by Bernini.' She asked everyone to follow her, reminding them that if they got lost they should look for the bright yellow flag she held high above her on an old Roman standard. The group followed quickly and obediently, but the two men dawdled. They had time to kill, and more than the usual sights to take in.

  The next stop was the Sistine Chapel and, in particular, the ceiling frescoes by Michelangelo — Genesis and The Last Judgement. These works were outstanding, the architecture and images breathtaking; the sheer size of the structures dwarfed the visitors. Having surveyed the area for longer than was really necessary, the taller of the two men pointed towards the pulpits way below, and they slowly moved off again. They followed the guide down the Royal Stairway.

  '. . . Projected by Bernini to the Basilica of St Peter, the most important temple of Christianity . . . and The Pieta, by Michelangelo.' Lucia's hands were pointing left and right.

  As they moved down the aisle towards the statue of Jesus Christ on the cross, the smaller of the two men stopped and moved his hand from his head to his solar plexus, and across his chest from left to right. He was not a devoutly religious man, but always felt compelled to do this in churches and cathedrals.

  They stood at the foot of the statue of Christ, taking in the full extent of the image in front of them; their eyes moved from the nailed and bloody feet, up the legs to the pierced chest and finally came to rest on his face, captivated by the eyes. As in so many depictions of the crucifixion, the eyes looked tired and gazed skyward; the smaller man had, over time, considered this look far too often. Was Jesus looking forward to his ascent, or averting his gaze from the world below?

  To the left of the crucifix was an old oak display cabinet, ringed off by a red felt barrier — having the effect of tape marked 'Police Line. Do Not Cross' — a flimsy barrier that somehow projected an imaginary force-field protecting whatever was within its care. The men peered inside at the spear tip resting on a deep red, silk-covered base. To the bottom right of the case was a small plaque proclaiming the spear tip to be, in fact, the one used to inflict Christ's fatal wound.

  In smaller text below was a printed statement:

  The actual use of the spear was to confirm to the Roman guards that the person being crucified was in fact dead. By spearing the heart of the criminal, the guard could then grant removal of the corpse.

  The two men took a last look at the spear tip and then smiled at each other; they knew this was only a replica, but they also knew the real artefact wasn't far away.

  As the group moved on towards the Apostle Palace, their guide continued her narration. 'The oldest section of the complex of Vatican Palaces . . .' They were shown the apartments of Julius II, '. . . beautifully decorated by Raphael.' A quick view of the Galleries of the Candelabra, the Greek Cross Room with the sarcophagi of St Helene and St Constance, then on to the room of the Belvedere Torso, '. . . a fine example of first-century BC work, admired by the Renaissance artists.'

  The taller man started to pace out his steps as they walked through the museum. Stopping in the Belvedere Courtyard between the gallery and the museum, he made mental notes of the area while his accomplice tied his shoelace.

  They admired the Apollo Belvedere and the Laocoon Group, '. . . defined by Pliny the Elder — the biggest sculpture known at that time.' Through the Belvedere Palace, housing the Apoxyomenos by Lisippo, they arrived at '. . . the Court of the Pigna, designed by Bramante in the sixteenth century.'

  The tour finally ended and Lucia wished them all a pleasant farewell. Both men looked at each other with a 'thank fuck that's over' look, but both took a moment to watch Lucia leave and introduce herself to the next group. The sun was beginning to set, so they made their way back to their hotel room for a brief nap before the night's activities.

  ***

  A full moon shone over Vatican City; the jet-black of the night sky enhanced its glaring whiteness, its light cast deep shadows. In the distance, Rome slept. Two men dressed in black moved slowly from shadow to shadow in a counter-clockwise direction, rounding the vast medieval walls of St Peter's Square, heading towards the rear of the city. In shadow, they silently climbed the wall of an outer building and came to rest on the inside near the museums.

  The taller of the two men unzipped his jacket pocket and produced a blueprint of the building; with his penlight torch he checked his bearings and pointed to the right-hand side. They hugged the side of the museum and library, heading for the Papal Palace complex. Both crouched low and crawled to the bland wall of a warehouse facility; the treasure was located inside.

  Reaching a large twelve-paned window, the two men peered inside. Confident there was no one around, the smaller man slid a thin metal strip under the window frame closest to the alarm connectors; once in position, he fixed the strip in place. Next, with a rubber suction cup, he attached a small diamond-headed cutting tool to the windowpane. He cut a circular hole large enough to slide his hand through and removed the glass. His hand moved silently around the window's centre until it struck the catch. Within seconds the window was open and both men were inside the warehouse. The larger man checked the blueprint again, and they moved to the far end of the room where a small office was located.

  The safe was almost as old as the treasure they sought. The smaller man smiled as he took the equipment he needed from his black rucksack; he believed he could probably crack this with only the help of his trusted stethoscope, or even just an ear to the door. The high-tech gadgetry was complete overkill — but better safe than sorry. After a few swift turns, clockwise and anticlockwise, the copper handle was pushed down and pulled back, and the safe door creaked open.

  The men looked at each other, mutual admiration for their craft passing between them. They quickly surveyed the contents of the safe; among the manuscripts and books was a chunky woo
den box. Holding his torch between his teeth, the taller man gently removed the box from the safe and slipped open the catch. Carefully, he lifted the lid. Inside he saw blackened gauze, the tarnished material in stark contrast to the deep-red velvet interior of the box. Placing the box on a desk, he became aware that he had begun to salivate. Removing the torch from between his teeth, he wiped his mouth on his sleeve and repositioned the torch; in the limited light it looked like a large Cuban cigar waiting to be fired into life.

  'What's the matter with you?' The shorter man asked, impatient but also intrigued; he had never seen his partner in crime acting like this.

  'Nu-hing, juh don wunna huck his uhp!' The torch between his teeth made the taller man's words difficult to understand.

  'What?'

  The taller man dismissed the question with a wave of his hand and returned to what he was doing.

  Taking the gauze-wrapped object from the box, he placed it on the desktop and carefully unwrapped a forged and rusted Roman spear tip. Still mounted on a small jagged piece of wooden staff, its ancient ferocity had not been completely dulled by time. A slight shiver ran down both men's spines. Although it was widely known that several years earlier the Spear of Christ was relocated to the Vatican City from a museum in Austria, they were among the very few people who were aware that only a copy had been put on public display; ironically, the spear had been moved and copied for security reasons.

  After confirming they had the correct prize they rewrapped and rehoused the spear, snapped the catch on the box and slipped it into taller man's backpack. The men retraced their steps and slipped out into the darkness.

  ***

  Having wrapped up his story for the next day's edition, the reporter turned to his blog. He had done some investigation in the course of his work for the newspaper into a mysterious disappearance, and was developing some theories of his own through the blog.