The Turin Shroud Secret (40 page)

The top drawer has the good stuff. A copy of
The Shroud
and a more recently filled notepad. Geagea turns to the back of the pad and examines the final entry. It seems to be some
kind of forensic checklist:

• Possible fingerprints from intruder at Nic’s hotel (on photographs)
  
• DNA sample from locket
  
• DNA from Tamara’s cat
  
• Hairs from Sacconi’s bed
  
• Tape from mouth of dead girl (possibly prints on edges)
  
• Shroud analysis report/Amy
  

Geagea feels his heart quicken. He looks around the room. There are voices in the corridor. No time to write down everything
he’s seen. He stares at the page and tries hard to commit it all to memory. The press officer shuts the drawer and stands,
just as a couple of sergeants roll in. They glare at him as he beats a hasty retreat to the corridor. He takes the stairs
two at a time and locks himself in the safety of his office.

From the bottom drawer of his own desk he gets out an untraceable cell phone. Geagea’s fingers are trembling as he dials the
number of his Maronite contact. The monk was supposed to be good. The best. Undetectable. Well, it doesn’t seem like that
to him.

BEVERLY HILLS, LOS ANGELES

Mitzi stares across the spacious lounge of the millionaire movie director and weighs up what he just said. ‘You’re saying
the Shroud of Turin bears the outline of the Muslim warlord Saladin, not Jesus Christ?’

‘That was one of Tamara’s shock points in the movie. Plus, of course, the revelation that the Catholic and Maronite churches
have been trying to cover up the fact for centuries.’

‘Sounds like BS to me.’

Svenson looks amused. ‘Tamara’s version is actually more credible than the one we’ve been led to believe by centuries of propaganda
from historians.’

‘How so?’

‘Surely, if Christ’s followers had found the Shroud in his empty tomb, they would have shown this miraculous image all around
the ancient world in order to convert people and spread his word?’ Svenson ticks off more key questions on his fingers. ‘Why
wasn’t the discovery independently documented back then? Why does the Shroud disappear for hundreds of years and then pop
up in the hands of rich Western dynasties like the Savoys?’

‘Good questions, but I still don’t get how the Catholics came to possess and venerate the Muslim shroud.’

‘They stole it.’

‘What?’

‘Simple as that. Back in those days, both Christian and Muslim armies sacked each other’s cities and temples. When they came
across a protected case containing a shroud of a bearded man, they had the arrogance to assume it was that of Christ. They
took it thinking they were actually reclaiming one of their own religious artefacts.’

‘And of course the Muslims wouldn’t be too keen to
admit Saladin had been assassinated and generations of people deceived by his replacement.’

‘Exactly. Historians even reported Saladin as though he were two separate people. Some chronicled him as blood-curdlingly
vicious. Others said he was a great statesman.’

Mitzi’s cell phone buzzes. She glances down at a text message from Carter: Hix has forensics. Harrison’s here – where are
you? She pulls herself out of the comfy chair and addresses Svenson. ‘I gotta go, but we’re not done.’

He gets up and walks her to the door. ‘Please keep the lawyers and press off my back. I’ll cooperate any way you want.’

She steps out onto the driveway. ‘I’ll try.’ She glances down at his short robe. ‘By the way, you either need a longer robe
or lessons in how to sit in it without showing all you’ve got.’

77TH STREET STATION, LOS ANGELES

Crime Scene Investigator Tom Hix lives for moments like this. The point in the grand play of homicide when science takes centre
stage and cops are rightfully reduced to mere supporting acts.

He hurries across the squad room floor as soon as he
sees Mitzi heading to her desk. ‘Hi there. I’ve got some reports—’

‘Jeez, Tom. I ain’t even put my bag down yet.’ She picks up the note left by Geagea. ‘Little prick.’ She balls it and tosses
it in the waste bin.

Hix looks offended.

‘Not you. Our freakin’ press officer. Now what you got?’

He lays a manila file on her desk ‘I’m flat-out running samples on the Creeper case, but I thought you’d want to see
this.’

She flips open the front of the folder.
‘This
being what?’ Then she remembers her call to him. ‘The Tamara Jacobs case?’

‘Let me talk you through it.’ He pulls two transparent sheets out and puts them side by side on the desk. ‘I’ve got a DNA
match.’

‘Which samples are these?’

‘The first is hair we took from the headrest on the Lexus traced out to the rental at LAX. The second is from skin we recovered
on the claw of the dead cat at the writer’s house.’

‘Kitty’s revenge.’ She overlays the transparencies. ‘One and the same. You’re right, you’ve got a matching pair, but to win
the game you have to also have the name of a perp to pin to the samples.’

His face says he hasn’t. ‘Ran Profiler, no hit. Didn’t expect there to be. I already told you, your guy is an out-of-towner.’

‘Way out. You said Lebanon.’

‘Mount Lebanon to be precise.’

Mitzi looks across at the photograph of Tamara Jacobs pinned to a board, the one reproduced every time
Variety
or
Hollywood Reporter
ran a story on her. ‘Her script contains whole scenes set in the Middle East. Historic scenes not modern. Svenson told me
a tale about Maronite—’

The phone on her desk rings.

She snatches it. ‘Fallon.’ After a slight pause she adds, ‘Okay, tell her I’ll be right down.’ She drops the receiver back
on the cradle and looks pissed at the distraction. ‘Sorry. My other case calls. Jenny Harrison is acting up downstairs. The
uniform minding her says she’s going to walk if I don’t get my ass down there quick.’

‘I understand.’ He shuffles the transparencies back in his file. ‘You know where to find me when you want to come back to
this.’

GENEVA-NEW YORK

An hour out from Geneva the seatbelt lights are still on. Storms and high winds are blowing in from the Atlantic and the Bay
of Biscay. France and Spain are getting a savage whipping and the turbulence is tossing the plane as it heads west.

‘I hate flying.’ Broussard pulls down the window blind,
hoping to shut out the misery. ‘As a young man I had phobias. Now I can cope, but I still do not like it.’

‘Unnatural, isn’t it?’ Nic agrees. ‘So much heavy metal and so many people, floating through the air, defying science. But
you know, statistically—’

Broussard holds up a hand. ‘Science it does not defy. It only flies because of the science.’ His tension makes him sound curt.
‘And I know all the statistics,
merci.
It is safer than crossing a road, smoking a cigarette, etc. but I still do not like it.’

‘The storm will pass,’ says Nic, reassuringly. ‘And when it does, I’m going to walk the plane. It’s routine, that’s all. I
just want to make sure the only people we’re up here with are friends.’

‘Surely, you can’t think the man who attacked us is on this flight?’

‘I
have
to think that. It’s incredibly unlikely. But I
have
to think it. Don’t worry. Let me do my job. Everything will be fine.’

Broussard distracts himself by pulling out dreary magazines from the seat pocket in front of him. He wishes none of this was
happening, that he’d never met Roberto Craxi and wasn’t leaving his wife thousands of miles behind.

Finally, the turbulence passes and Nic hits the call button above his head. A heavy-hipped brunette is soon bending over him.
She introduces herself as Glenda and asks how she can help. Conscious of others watching, Nic unfolds his ID wallet on his
lap and answers in hushed tones. ‘Miss, I’m a
Los Angeles police officer and I need to see both the chief steward and the air marshal. Can you fix that for me?’

Glenda’s experienced enough to take it all in her stride. A ten-year transatlantic veteran, she’s dealt with everything from
heart attacks to terrorist alerts. ‘Certainly, Officer. If you come with me to my station, I’ll call them both.’

He follows her to the curtains and glances back at the scientist as he goes. Broussard has his head in some magazine article
and looks happy enough. Nic stands in the galley kitchen while Glenda calls the steward, then makes a discreet announcement
only the air marshal would understand. ‘Could any passengers who forgot to pick up duty-free when boarding the plane in Geneva
please identify themselves to a member of the cabin crew. We have a bottle of very nice brandy here that doesn’t
yet
have an owner. Thank you.’

A prim middle-aged steward with dyed black hair appears through the curtains, eyes wide as he addresses Glenda. ‘What’s wrong?’

She nods to Nic. ‘This is Detective Karakandez from the LAPD. He wanted to see you and the marshal.’

The steward pulls his tie straight. ‘My name is Brian. May I see your identification, please?’

‘Sure.’ Nic pulls it from his back pocket and hands it over.

Brian is reading as a stocky, blond-haired guy with gingery stubble comes into the galley. He’s mid-thirties, in a baggy grey
sweat top over black Levis and, if Nic is right, is packing a standard-issue Taser.

The steward hands him the ID. ‘This is Officer Karakandez.’

The man glances at the wallet and passes it back to Nic. ‘Gerry Brookes. What’s going on?’

‘I’ve been working a case that brought me to Europe.’ Nic nods beyond the curtain. ‘Man back there in 48A is an important
witness, connected to a homicide. I want to walk the plane and check there’s no threat to him. Would you babysit while I do
the rounds?’

‘Sure thing. What’s his name?’

‘Édouard Broussard.’

‘When do you want to do this?’

‘Now would be good.’ Nic turns to the chief steward. ‘Do you have a copy of the passenger manifest? I need to put faces to
names as I do the sweep.’

‘Certainly.’ The steward unfastens a list hanging from a clip board on the galley wall. ‘That’s everyone.’

‘Any way you can identify late bookings?’

Brian shakes his head. ‘Not from this list. We could have done it at the gate.’ He glances to Glenda. ‘Do you have any prelim
sheets?’

Her face says she hasn’t.

‘Sorry,’ says the steward.

‘One thing,’ adds Glenda. ‘Even when we’re coming in to land we always find empty seats. People who’ve snuck off to the washrooms
or they’ve swapped places with other passengers or just moved to a spare seat for a bit more space. You want we order everyone
back to their own places?’

Nic thinks about it for a second. He doesn’t want to frighten passengers after the storm – or, if the assassin
is
on board, make him edgy and aware that someone is looking for him. ‘No, leave it for now. Let me do a circuit and see how
many people I miss. If necessary we could make your announcement.’

77TH STREET STATION, LOS ANGELES

‘You look like shit, Jenny. What the hell have you been taking?’ Mitzi holds the door of the interview room for the uniform
to leave. ‘Thanks,’ she says, as he escapes into the corridor.

Harrison looks up sulky-faced from the interview room table. ‘I ain’t taken nothin’ – that’s why I look like shit.’

Mitzi pulls up a chair. ‘Where you been today?’

‘Walkin’. Tryin’ to get my head straight. I didn’t sleep none last night.’

Mitzi’s not surprised. The kid’s world is upside down and she knows how sleep is the first thing that goes out of the window
when that happens. ‘I’ll get you coffee and a smoke.’

‘Coffee and cigarettes?’ she says, disparagingly. ‘Big freakin deal.’

‘Hey, watch your tongue. I’m trying to help.’

Mitzi ducks out and bums a couple of Marlboro Ultra Lites and a box of matches from a traffic cop near the vending machine.
On the way back she grabs two mugs of black crap that might be coffee and returns to the interview room. ‘Here you go, best
I can do.’

‘Thanks.’ Harrison’s face says she’s thought about behaving better. ‘Sorry I snapped.’

‘You should be. Today I feel almost as bad as you do.’ She slides across the matches. ‘You’re not supposed to smoke in here
– then again people aren’t supposed to be in police stations on Sundays, so what the hell.’

Harrison lights up. Pulls hard and draws in a big hit of nicotine.

Mitzi watches her fingers shake. The girl’s in a bad way. She waits until she’s exhaled and taken a second drag. ‘We’ve got
a guy in a holding cell down the corridor. I want you to take a look at him.’

Harrison’s eyes pulse wide. ‘You got him? Kim’s killer?’

‘Calm down. I just want you to look and tell me if you recognise him.’

Harrison bangs her fist on the table. ‘I want to kill the fucking bastard.’

‘Hey. I said calm down. Now cool it. This guy isn’t even under arrest. He came in here voluntarily.’

‘It ain’t him?’

‘I just want you to take a look, Jenny. Can you do that?’

She is close to tears. Anger. Sorrow. Rage. Grief. Her
emotions are about as mixed as they can be. ‘Yeah.’ She pinches the end of the cigarette. ‘I can do it.’

‘You can bring your coffee.’

Harrison picks up the paper mug and follows the lieutenant into the grey corridor.

Mitzi leads the way into the holding area. Jimmy Berg has gone home and a new sergeant is now working the desk. ‘Witness in
the Bass case,’ shouts Mitzi to the officer, who looks like a bald Tiger Woods. ‘I need her to take an unofficial squint at
our guy in cell one.’

‘Be my guest.’ He waves them through.

Mitzi uses her ID pass to swipe an electronic plate. She pulls open a heavy door of iron bars, lets Harrison through and bangs
it shut again. ‘Don’t say anything. Just put your eye to the peep hole. Take a long look then step away and tell me if you
recognise the man in there.’ She nods to a grey door to her right.