HOUSED BENEATH THE ULTRAMODERN Metropol Parasol project in Seville’s famous Plaza de la Encarnación, the Antiquarium museum is a maze of Roman remains, dating from the first century AD. Jeff Stevens marveled at the mosaic of Bacchus and the perfectly preserved pillars of an ancient mansion as he lined up for his ticket to the “Sábana Santa” exhibition, the Spanish term for the Holy Shroud.
Jeff had expected lines around the block. After all, this was the first time in almost half a century that the icon had left its carefully temperature-controlled home in the royal chapel of the Cathedral of Saint John the Baptist in Turin, an industrial city in northern Italy. But perhaps because this was March, the off-season for tourists, as well as midweek, only a handful of people had turned out to see the linen cloth bearing the image of a man who may or may not have been Christ Himself.
“Would you like the audio tour?”
The girl smiled at Jeff, addressing him in perfect English.
“Thank you. Yes.”
Jeff slipped the headphones on and proceeded into the first chamber of the exhibition. He already knew most of the history of the Shroud and the intense scientific and theological debate that accompanied it. But it never hurt to learn more, and the earphones gave him a chance to move slowly through the museum, carefully detailing all of the security arrangements, alarms, fire exits and so forth with an expert eye. He’d noticed that there was no additional security at the entrance to the museum, besides the usual, unarmed security guards. But there was a permanent police presence in the square throughout the exhibition’s run. Plus the fact that the Antiquarium was basically a crypt meant that there were only two ways out to ground level—the front entrance and a single set of fire stairs leading up into the Metropol Parasol. As for the Shroud itself, it was housed at the end of the exhibition, in the center of a large spiral of “false” rooms, like the bull’s-eye on a dartboard or the end of a Victorian maze. Anyone attempting to remove it would have no option but to retrace their steps to the outermost ring of the circle, and choose an exit from there. With each room along the way alarmed and monitored by a high-tech system of infrared beams, not to mention the ubiquitous cameras, Jeff felt reassured that any attempt at a straightforward smash and grab would certainly fail.
Moving from room to room, Jeff began to focus less on his surroundings and more on the audio tour. It was quite fascinating.
“The image on the cloth, thrown into sharp relief as a photographic negative, shows a man who has suffered physical trauma consistent with crucifixion and torture. Although radiocarbon dating places the cloth’s origins in the medieval period, between 1260 and 1390, later scientific studies have cast doubt on those findings. Chemical tests suggest that parts of the Shroud at least may be considerably older.”
Jeff walked through room after room, with the audio explaining the science. Never-seen-before images of the Shroud captured by sophisticated NASA satellites were displayed next to early Christian artwork and sculptures relating to the cult of the Sábana. Despite apparently definitive carbon dating and other tests carried out in the 1970s and again in 1988, experts still remained baffled as to the nature of the image and how, exactly, it was fixed on the cloth. No paint had been used. Human blood had been found and DNA-tested, but the negative photographic image made no sense. One gruesome, and widely held theory was that some poor soul had been deliberately tortured and crucified in the Middle Ages in order to fake Jesus’ Shroud. But that still didn’t explain how such a perfect image was captured, eternally, on the cloth.
By the time Jeff entered the final room and stood in front of the Shroud itself, he was so engrossed in the mysteries of its origin that he’d almost forgotten why he had come. But then he found himself gazing into a face from the distant past and it came back to him in a rush of emotion, so violent he could hardly breathe.
That face! So full of human suffering, and yet so peaceful in death. The injuries to the body were horrific—from nails through the wrists to flagellation, bones shattered by beatings to stab wounds, scores of them, blow after blow after blow. This isn’t about God and man, Jeff thought. It’s about cruelty and forgiveness, life and death. It’s about humanity, in all its glory and all its filth, its beauty and its ugliness.
In that moment, he realized, he would quite happily fight to the death to protect this object: this relic, this scrap of cloth, this miracle, this fraud.
If Cooper was in Seville . . . if there was some madman out paying millions to have the Shroud stolen and destroyed . . . they must be stopped.
Jeff Stevens had to stop them.
THE PLAINCLOTHES POLICEMAN IN the green parka watched Jeff Stevens leave the museum. He had dark hair and a beakish, aquiline nose that gave him an almost Roman look. The girl at the front desk noticed it when he flashed his ID and thought, He fits in here, down among the ruins. She almost expected him to start speaking in Latin, or at least Italian.
Instead, he asked her in perfect Spanish: “The man who just left. Did he pay for his ticket by cash or credit card?”
“By cash.”
“Did he do or say anything unusual when he came in?”
“No. Not that I noticed. He was smiling. He seemed relaxed.”
The man in the green jacket turned and walked away.
THE ALFONSO HOTEL WAS the grandest in town, a 1929 landmark built in an Andalusian style and full of opulent, Moorish touches. The lobby and bars boasted marble pillars and mosaic floors, high, ornately carved ceilings and walls hung with exquisitely eclectic artwork and lit by thousands of gold lamps, like vast Aladdin’s caves. There were one hundred and fifty-one guest rooms, accessed by old-fashioned, 1930s elevators with gold grille gates, or by a wonderfully grand and sweeping staircase that wound its way around a central courtyard filled with flowers.
Jeff’s room boasted an antique walnut four-poster bed and a bath big enough for a family of five to live in. He figured if he were going to leave the comforts of Professor Domingo Muñoz’s farm, it should be for somewhere spectacular. The Alfonso was certainly that.
The only downside was that it was full of American tourists, as Jeff discovered when he went downstairs to the bar.
“Couldn’t we have met somewhere more private?” The contact Jeff was meeting glanced furtively around the wood-paneled room. They were seated at a corner table, sipping grappa. “I feel like a monkey in a zoo.”
“I can’t think why,” Jeff observed drily. “Nobody’s looking at us. They’re all on vacation, getting drunk.”
Right on cue, a group of American business men at the bar laughed loudly, patting one of their party on the back in some sort of private joke.
“What have you got for me?”
The man pulled some photographs out of his coat pocket and slid them across the table. The first two showed a man with a Roman nose and curly dark hair deep in conversation with a traditionally dressed Arab. They appeared to be in a hotel lobby. Not here though, thought Jeff. There were too many Arabs in the background for the photo to have been taken here in Seville. The hotel looked grand and opulent. Maybe Dubai?
Jeff’s contact asked, “Do you know them?”
“No. I’m assuming the guy in the robes is this Iranian Domingo mentioned?”
“Sharif Ebrahim Rahbar. The world’s sixth richest man. Reclusive. Ruthless. And not an enormous amount of fun. Drinking, sex, personal freedom of any kind, are all no-nos for this dude. He’s not the biggest fan of women’s rights either.”
“A woman hater?” Jeff sounded curious.
“I wouldn’t say that. He has at least eleven concubines in a harem in Qatar. Anyway it’s the other guy you’re interested in, right?”
“I was,” Jeff said. “But I’m not sure it matters anymore.” He studied the man in the picture. “That’s not Daniel Cooper. Domingo’s sources must have made a mistake.”
“Could be. But I’ll tell you this. Whoever he is, he’s interested in the Sábana Santa. And he’s interested in you, my friend.”
Jeff flicked through the other pictures. They showed the same man, but this time in Seville. In some shots he was entering the museum housing the Shroud. In others he was walking in the vicinity, sometimes taking pictures or stopping to talk on the phone. Most of the time he wore a green parka.
“He’s visited the Antiquarium fourteen times in the last five days. He claims to be Luís Colomar, a detective in the Cuerpo Nacional de Policía.”
Jeff nodded. The CNP were Spain’s national police.
“Problem is, no one’s ever heard of him. Not in Seville, not in Madrid, not anywhere as far as I can tell. He could be secret service.”
“CNI, Centro Nacional de Inteligencia?”
“It’s possible. Or even CIA. His Spanish is flawless, but plenty of Americans speak good Spanish. Or, he could be here to steal the Shroud for Rahbar. Maybe he’s working with this guy Cooper.”
“I doubt it,” said Jeff. “Cooper’s not much of a team player. Then again, I don’t see how he could even attempt a job like this without help. And he does like to hang back in the shadows. Maybe this Colomar is his front man?”
“Maybe. Anyway he was at the exhibition again today, following you. He asked a bunch of questions after you left. Maybe he thinks you’re here to steal the Shroud.”
Jeff shook his head. “Why would he think that?”
“Because apparently someone’s trying to steal it. You are a con man, Jeff, the best, and an antiquities specialist. And here you are in town, hanging around the exhibition. If this guy is with an intelligence organization”—he jabbed the photographs with a pudgy forefinger—“you’d better watch your back.”
“He’s not with any intelligence organization,” said Jeff, looking at the photos intently, one after another. “He’s a thief. I can feel it in my bones. He’s working for this Sharif Rahbar. Possibly with Daniel Cooper’s help.”
Jeff’s contact said, “I think so too. So what now?”
Jeff thought about it. “If he has Rahbar’s money and Cooper’s expertise behind him, he’s dangerous. They might actually do this thing. They might actually steal and destroy the Shroud.”
Jeff pulled out a wad of cash and handed it to the other man, who swiftly slipped it into his jacket pocket. “Thanks for this. You’ve been a great help.”
“What are you going to do?” the man asked.
“I think I’m going to break the habit of a lifetime. I’m going to call the police.”
COMISARIO ALESSANDRO DMITRI WAS in his office at the new Sevillan police headquarters on Avenida Emilio Lemos when his telephone rang. Known as “the Greek” on account of his last name and unusually long nose, Comisario Dmitri was a short, arrogant peacock of a man with the sort of ego a rap star could be proud of.
“Sí?” he barked into the receiver.
“There’s going to be a robbery. Someone’s going to steal the Sábana Santa.”
Comisario Dmitri laughed. “Really?”
“Yes. Really. It’s going to happen in the next few days unless you act now to prevent it.”
The voice on the end of the line was male, American and supremely confident. Comisario Alessandro Dmitri disliked its owner instantly.
“Who is this?”
“My name isn’t important. You need to take notes. One of the men involved is short, around five foot seven, with dark curly hair and a hooked nose.”
“No one is going to steal the Shroud.”
“He often wears a green parka and is known to the exhibition staff as a police officer.”
Alessandro Dmitri was starting to lose his temper. “I don’t have time for this. Unless you tell me your name, I—”
“You should also try to trace a Mr. Daniel Cooper. He’s a similar height with brown eyes and a small mouth and looks kind of effeminate. Cooper is dangerous and brilliant. You must increase your security, comisario.”
“Who the hell put you through to my office?” Dmitri fumed. “I’m a busy man. I don’t have time for conspiracy theories. The security at the Sábana Santa exhibition is excellent.”
“No, it’s not. It’s okay, but nothing Cooper can’t get around. Hell, I could get around it.”
“I sincerely advise you not to try,” Dmitri said icily. “Anyone foolish enough to attempt to steal the Shroud will be apprehended immediately. You’d be looking at twenty years in a Spanish jail, Mr.—?”
“Please. Just listen to me . . .”
Dmitri had hung up.
“SEÑORA PRIETO?”
“Yes?”
Magdalena Prieto answered in English. A long career as a museum curator had given her a good ear for accents. She could hear at once that the caller was American, and switched from Spanish without even thinking.
“Someone is planning to steal the Sábana Santa.”
Great. A crank call. That’s all I need.
The curator of Seville’s most prestigious exhibition had already had a long and trying day. The fine-art-and-antiquities world in Spain was still almost exclusively run by men, and Señora Prieto battled sexism and bigotry on a daily basis. A lot of noses had been put out of joint when Magdalena had landed the plum job of curating the Sábana Santa’s first exhibition outside of Italy. Every day was a struggle.
“A man posing as a police officer may be involved,” the caller went on. “He’s using the name Luís Colomar and is already known to your staff. Another man, Daniel Cooper, may be working with him. Cooper’s an ex–insurance investigator. He’s incredibly sharp and—”
“Señor. If you seriously suspect anybody of attempting to steal the Sábana, I suggest you call the police.”
“I already have. They didn’t take me seriously.”
“I can’t imagine why,” Magdalena Prieto observed drily. “I can assure you that our security here is state-of-the-art.”
“I know your security systems,” the caller said, somewhat disconcertingly. “They’re good. But Daniel Cooper’s better. Please, tell your staff to be hypervigilant.”
“My staff is always hypervigilant. Do you have any evidence of this supposed plot?”
The caller hesitated. “Nothing concrete.”
“Then I suggest you stop wasting my time, señor.”
For the second time in an hour, Jeff Stevens heard the click of a phone line going dead.
Damn it!
“IT’S HARDLY SURPRISING.”
Professor Domingo Muñoz sat opposite Jeff over dinner at the Alfonso.
“You don’t give your name, you call up with these wild accusations, and you offer no proof. Why should they listen to you?”
“Dmitri’s a buffoon,” grumbled Jeff. “The classic big fish in a little pond. I shouldn’t think he’s listened to anyone about anything since 1976. Arrogant prick.”
“Señora Prieto’s supposed to be very good. Thorough and tough. You have to be to make it to her position as a woman, especially in Spain.”
“Well, she’s not thorough enough. I don’t know about this other guy, but Cooper’s a machine. You don’t know what thorough is until you’ve seen him operate.”
“You outsmarted him, though, didn’t you? You and Tracy? For years. He can’t be that good.”
Jeff sat back in his chair. A contemplative look came over his face. Professor Domingo Muñoz could practically see his mind working.
“What?” he asked nervously. “What are you thinking, Jeff?”
“If the police and the museum authorities won’t save the Shroud from Daniel Cooper, then maybe we need a plan B. Like you say, I’ve outsmarted Cooper before.”
Domingo frowned. “You’re not going to try to steal it yourself?”
Jeff looked up at him and grinned.
“SEÑORA PRIETO. THANK GOD you’re here. You need to see this.”
Magdalena Prieto had just arrived at work. Her half-drunk coffee was still in her hand and her dark hair was still wet from the light spring rain that had been falling all morning. The look on her deputy’s face told her at once that what she “needed to see” wasn’t good.
“What is it, Miguel?”
“The Sábana Santa. There’s been a security breach.”
Magdalena Prieto’s blood ran cold. She thought immediately of the mysterious phone call she’d received two days earlier. “Someone is planning to steal the Sábana Santa.”
Why didn’t I take it seriously?
If anything had happened to the Shroud on Magdalena Prieto’s watch, her career would be over and her reputation shredded. Following her deputy at a run toward the central room where the Shroud was housed, the American caller’s voice drifted back to her, taunting her.
“I know your security systems . . .
“They’re good, but Daniel Cooper’s better.”
Magdalena felt physically sick. As she turned the corner, her knees practically gave way with relief. It’s still there. Thank God!
The Shroud was housed in a case of reinforced, bulletproof glass, laid flat on an aluminum support stand, mimicking the conditions in which it had been kept in Turin. Infrared alarms protected it, both inside and outside the case, which could only be opened after entering an elaborate series of codes. Within the glass, the temperature was carefully controlled in order to protect the delicate and priceless fabric. Magdalena checked the dials on the control panel. Everything seemed normal. No alarm had been triggered. The temperature and humidity remained at the correct levels, as did the argon and oxygen levels (at 99.5 and 0.5 percent, respectively). If anyone had broken into the case, the readings would have gone haywire.
Magdalena Prieto turned to her deputy. “I don’t get it. What’s the problem?”
He pointed. There, at the base of the aluminum stand, propped up casually like a hand-delivered Christmas card, was a white envelope. It was addressed simply: Señora Prieto.
Magdalena’s voice was a whisper. “Call the police.”
“THIS IS A DISASTER.”
Felipe Agosto, the mayor of Seville, paced the room melodramatically. “If Seville were to lose the Shroud, or allow it to be damaged in any way, it would bring shame on our entire city. On the whole of Spain!”
“Yes, but the Shroud hasn’t been lost, or damaged.” Magdalena Prieto spoke with a calmness she did not feel. Along with Mayor Agosto and Comisario Dmitri, she had gathered in Dmitri’s office to discuss the security breach at the Sábana Santa exhibition. “This letter was a warning. A friendly warning. I’m not saying we shouldn’t take it seriously but—”
“There’s nothing ‘friendly’ about breaking and entering and endangering a priceless relic, señora.” Comisario Dmitri interrupted her rudely. “Whoever did this is a criminal, pure and simple. He must be caught and punished severely.”
Dmitri talked tough to hide his own nerves. Señora Prieto had admitted receiving a warning phone call about the shroud two days earlier, but Dmitri had denied all knowledge of the mystery American.
“That’s odd,” Prieto commented. “He told me he’d already called the police, but no one had listened to him.”
“There’s nothing odd about criminals lying, señora.”
Mayor Agosto said, “Let me see that note again.”
Inside the envelope was a single sheet of white paper, folded twice. It read simply: If I can do it, so can Daniel Cooper.
“Do we think this Daniel Cooper even exists?”
“Probably not.” Dmitri was dismissive. “I’m more concerned about an actual break-in than an imaginary superthief supposedly hiding out in the city. This man probably made him up to throw us off the scent.”
Magdalena Prieto said, “I doubt it. The other man he mentioned, the man posing as a cop, was definitely seen by my staff. We should at least check out this Cooper guy. Have you contacted Interpol, comisario?”
Alessandro Dmitri looked at the museum director with withering contempt. The last thing he wanted were a bunch of international busybodies on his turf. Bloody woman. How did she land the directorship of the Antiquarium anyway? She should be at home making soup, not stirring up trouble, telling professional men like me how to do our jobs.
“I have no need of Interpol’s help, señora. If Mr. Cooper exists, and if he is in Seville, my men and I will find him. Have you contacted the authorities in Turin, to let them know what happened at your museum, on your watch?”
Magdalena blanched. “No. As I said, nothing’s been damaged or stolen. There’s nothing to tell.”
“Well, I expect both of you to keep it that way.” The mayor jabbed a finger accusingly at the police chief and museum director in turn. “For now, this stays within these four walls. But I want the police presence doubled at the museum and surrounding areas and I want staff on duty at the exhibition around the clock. Are we clear?”
“Clear,” said Magdalena Prieto.
“Clear,” said Comisario Dmitri. “Just as long as city hall’s prepared to pay for it.”
DAYS PASSED. NOTHING HAPPENED.
Jeff Stevens began to grow anxious.
Perhaps Daniel Cooper wasn’t in Seville after all? None of Jeff’s contacts had managed to track him down, and neither, it seemed, had the police. Perhaps the Roman-looking fellow posing as a cop wasn’t Cooper’s accomplice but was acting alone, on behalf of the shady Iranian sheikh? Since Jeff’s little stunt with the letter (a simple matter of tripping the main fuse had disabled all the alarms, while leaving the temperature controls intact), police had been crawling over the Plaza de la Encarnación like flies on shit. Maybe the Roman had thought better of it and left town? Jeff hoped so, but he wasn’t convinced.
It was too dangerous to go back to the exhibition himself. He might be recognized as the electrician who’d arrived to do some “maintenance” the day of the security breach. He really ought to leave Seville, but until he was certain that the Shroud was safe, he couldn’t tear himself away. Instead he hunkered down in his luxury suite at the Alfonso, sightseeing and shopping and trying—without success—to relax.
It was a full six days after Jeff’s letter stunt that he received a letter himself. It was delivered to him by a waiter over at breakfast at the Alfonso. Opening it, he almost choked on his croissant.
“Where did you get this? Who gave this to you?”
The elderly waiter was shocked by the panic in Jeff’s voice. “A gentleman left it at reception, sir.”
“When?”
“A few minutes ago. He didn’t give any indication that it was urgent, although . . .”
Jeff was already running. Erupting out of the hotel’s grand front door, he sprinted down the steps and out of the cobbled driveway into the Calle San Fernando. The streets were relatively empty, but there was no sign of Daniel Cooper.
Five minutes later, Jeff was back at his breakfast table, out of breath, his heart pounding as he read the letter again.
Dear Mr. Stevens,
I was impressed by your efforts at the Antiquarium last week. I see that you are aware of some of my plans regarding a certain object, although I fear you have been gravely misinformed as to my intentions. It would be my pleasure to enlighten you, and possibly even to work with you in this endeavor. The money involved in a successful acquisition of this object would be substantial. I would be prepared to split any fee equally, should you do me the honor of becoming my partner.
Jeff thought, So he thinks I’m greedy. He thinks I’d steal the Shroud for money. I guess he isn’t such a shrewd judge of character after all.
But it was the final paragraph of the letter that really aroused Jeff’s excitement.
I suggest we meet. There’s a little church across the river, San Buenaventura. I trust you not to alert the police but to meet me privately and hear me out. You will not regret it. I will be there on Wednesday night at eleven P.M. Naturally, if you do attempt to contact the authorities, I will not be at the rendezvous and you will not hear from me again.
Respectfully, D.C.
Jeff’s mind raced. He was intrigued by Cooper’s claim that he had misunderstood his intentions. Was the Iranian not involved? Was Cooper double-crossing him perhaps, or in competition with him somehow? Either way, it was hard to imagine any good reason someone might have for wanting to steal the Shroud of Turin. Stealing it for money was better than burning it, but it was still outrageous and flat-out wrong.
Talking to the police was out of the question. Jeff had no doubt that Cooper would find out if he tried anything. He knew him too well to imagine otherwise. Besides which, involving the moronic Dmitri, or the smart but complacent Señora Prieto, had done him precious little good so far.
Perhaps if I meet Cooper, I can talk him out of it? Or string him along, pretend to be interested in the money for long enough to sabotage his plan in some way?
To go or not to go.
That was the only real choice Jeff had to make.
