The History Thief: Ten Days Lost (The Sterling Novels) (17 page)

“Is there enough of the blood?” asked the Primitus.

“It is difficult to say. The test for DNA can fail for a number of reasons. Amplification of spurious DNA output can be caused if the blood has other DNA mixed in it or any number of foreign products. My concern is that the crown is quite old; degradation of the DNA could have occurred at any time.”

“Are there techniques to minimize this?”

“There are buffers that I will use in addition to a polymerase enzyme. They should help, but there are no guarantees.”

The Primitus nodded, and then replied, “Very well. Please continue.”

As the liquid scintillation counter hummed in the background, the scientist returned his focus to the second thorn. Gerald and the Primitus watched as the scientist stayed hunched over the table, working with precision and unwavering focus. He separated the second thorn into a number of smaller pieces. He then measured and mixed a number of solutions until he had the precise reaction solution at the ready.

Next to the aluminum tray was a strip of eight PCR tubes. The scientist simultaneously filled each of the eight tubes with the reaction solution and then followed the action by placing some of the small pieces of the second thorn into each tube.

When seemingly satisfied, he stood and breathed out heavily while stretching out the tightness and aches in his old back.

Next to the liquid scintillation counter sat another machine. It was a thermal cycler to be used for the PCR DNA test.

The scientist returned to the computer terminal and tapped a few keys. The machine used for the carbon-14 dating began its process, and the low hum that had been omnipresent built into a metallic whir. Turning to the eight PCR tubes, he carefully picked them up and put them into the thermal cycler to conduct the initialization and first step of the polymerase chain reaction DNA test.

Another set of strokes to the computer’s keyboard, and the thermal cycler began its process to map out the DNA of the blood on the thorns.

The scientist stood in front of both machines, unmoving. His hands remained crossed at his front, and his eyes unwavering.

In the back of the room, Gerald eyed the Primitus. The old man’s eyes were closed, and he appeared to be in a meditative state.

As the devices worked, not one of the old men spoke. Each was stoic and patient.

Inside, Gerald was screaming for answers, wanting to know the results. His body ached, and his muscles felt ready to cramp. He had been sitting for far too long. He feigned patience, but had either old man gazed down at his hands, they would have seen that they were firmly clenched to the sides of the wooden chair as he waited.

He scanned the faces of the two men. They didn’t look at each other, nor did they speak. Simply, one sat and the other stood; both were disciplined in their patience. He was impressed at their conviction.

Time passed, and his anxiousness was overcome by his body’s aches. Almost unable to stand the quiet, Gerald wanted one of the men to explain everything. Inside, he screamed at the two old men but dared not verbalize his frantic thoughts. As if sensing his near loss of control, a low and nondescript chime disrupted the silence. A small blue light lit up the front of the liquid scintillation device.

The scientist looked at the Primitus for his approval to proceed.

He nodded.

At the sides of each device was a small printer. A roll of narrow paper spat out of the first one. A few moments later, just as the scientist had calculated, the thermal cycler spat out its results, too.

Ripping the narrow sheets from the printer, he studied them.

It was then that Gerald noticed the man’s first display of emotion.

Turning to the others, he said, “The thorns date to approximately AD 30-80; to the first century.”

“And the blood?” the Primitus quietly asked with eyes closed.

The scientist hesitated for a moment; with a slight quiver in his voice, he said, “We have his DNA.”

The older man closed his eyes in prayer. Gerald was sure that he saw one corner of the man’s mouth turn up, forming a slight smile.

He opened his eyes and looked slowly toward Gerald, and said, “I understand the thief is on his way to Italy now.”

“Yeah.” Gerald’s response was quick and came out sounding disrespectful. It wasn’t his fault—he too was overwhelmed by what he had just witnessed: they had Christ’s DNA.

The scientist eyed Gerald oddly.

Gerald retreated. “I mean, yes, sir…I am sorry. Please forgive my insolence. Yes, sir, he has his instructions.”

“Good,” said the old man. “I cannot tell you how important his success in retrieving the shroud will be. Without it, what we have just completed here means nothing. When the shroud is in your hands, there is one last matter that we would like the thief to take care of; all that you need is in the instructions provided. When the thief gives you the shroud, use the infrared scanner that is in the package, it will date the shroud to it origin. It won’t be exact, but it will be close enough for you to verify that what the thief is giving you is the shroud.”

As if on cue, the scientist chimed in, “Make sure that he agrees to do the final job.”

He looked at both of the men. “And if he doesn’t agree?”

The leader of the Order stood with some difficulty. His breathing was coming in slightly faster cycles. A raspy wheeze escaped through his nostrils as he said, “See that he does—”

With an uneasy groan, the old man finished his statement: “Otherwise, kill him.”

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CASELLE INTERNATIONAL
AIRPORT NORTHERN
ITALY

C
aselle International Airport Sandro Pertini was absent the hordes of tourists typical for Northern Italy, clearly a sign of the current economic woes. Charney’s flight from Paris was direct and comfortable. Fortunately, the plane was not full, and he was able to work on his plans without the worrisome interjections from lonely travelers sitting next to him. Charney was the only passenger sitting in first class, and he had used that unadulterated time to perfect his next project.

Having disembarked, he followed the overhead signs that led him to ground transportation and to the Dora Train Station; it would be a short train ride to Turin. The thirteen kilometers between the airport and the town’s center went fast; Charney had nary enough time to enjoy the undulating landscape as it sped past. Not that it mattered much: Charney was focused solely on his next task.

The squeal of the train’s brakes was his signal: he had arrived in Turin.

Charney climbed down the train’s steps and stood on the station’s platform. As he inhaled deeply, he expected to inhale fresh, but he was met with the near opposite. Nearly surrounded by the dominant Alpine Arch, Charney could barely make out the outline of the impressive range of mountains: a thick cushion of ubiquitous smog hung low in the city. Nearby, Charney knew the dark, dirty waters of the Po River flowed: the smell of the pungent waters, mixed with that of acrid, burnt rubber, dominated his nostrils where fresh air should have been.

Although the city was as rich culturally as any in Italy—home to some of the more important and prestigious museums and the Polytechnic University—over the years it had been overcome by the negative externalities of industry; much of the infrastructure necessary to become classified as a “world city” was ignored.

Charney glanced around and soon found what he needed. Across from the station was a small tabacchi shop. Inside, he quickly scanned for overhead cameras and when satisfied that there were none, asked the shopkeeper in simple fashion, “Gruppo Torinese Trasporti ATM?”

The old man sitting behind the counter was hunched over from his years and surrounded by the stale cloud of tobacco smoke. Showing that he could care less about his customer, he raised his yellowed, crooked finger without looking up, pointing to the machine in the corner.

Charney instinctively nodded his thanks—a nod the man didn’t see—and went to the machine. Putting in a one-euro coin, the machine coughed out a bus ticket that would allow him to travel for the next eighty minutes throughout Turin, more than enough time to get to the hotel.

Outside of the shop was a bus stop. Littered with the cigarette butts of multiple users—no doubt most having been bought at the tabacchi shop he just left—the stop had a map of Turin with corresponding bus routes. Finding the one he needed, Charney waited. From the corner of his left eye, Charney saw a young, scantily dressed woman walking toward him.

Turning to meet her approach, Charney knew right away what she was: a lonely male tourist’s best friend.

The woman—the girl, really—that approached was young; Charney guessed that she couldn’t have been much older than sixteen. Her body still bore the hallmarks of her youth: toned, shapely, and desirable, but her makeup was cheap and applied with the hand of an amateur, and her malnourished skin was pale. The way she gazed at Charney, through him really—as if he wasn’t another human, but a means to an end—spoke of experience, of a life belonging to a woman much older than her true age.

Charney shared the same gaze; he felt no pity for her, she was just another being that walked on the same road he did.

In reasonably good English, she asked, “Do you need some help, signore?” It was code for
do want to pay me for my company?

Charney was about to wave her off and send her on to her next potential customer, but he caught a glimpse of her eyes. What he saw didn’t make him feel sorry for her. To the contrary, he saw something familiar. He was stunned by the colors of her corneas, which were an odd mix of emerald green with slight flecks of gold; he was even more stunned by how they latched on to his. His impulse was to look away, but yet his stare remained steadfast: they were Annette’s eyes.

The young girl had readied to turn away from the man, completely tuned in to the signal that she was not wanted, when he said, “Wait.”

A slight smile widened across her face; she turned back to him, coddled up closer, and purred, “Si, signore? What would you like?”

Charney let out a long exhale; he studied her eyes again. “I am looking for Hotel Chelsea, do you know it?”

“Si. We are a short bus ride from it.”

“Good,” said Charney, “get us there.”

At the narrow intersection of Via Cappelle Verde and Settembre, Hotel Chelsea sat by no means in an unassuming fashion. To the contrary, although the four-story building matched the city’s uniform skyline and architecture, on the corner of the edifice and hanging loudly over the intersection, buzzed an unnecessary and gaudy neon pink and blue sign that boldly stated the hotel’s place on the corner.

At the base of the hotel was a small bar called Duomo—fitting, given the place Charney would pay a visit to later that evening. Charney pointed to the bar, and said, “Go in there and wait for me. I am going to check in to my room.”

The young girl replied, “Of course, signore, but drinks are not free.”

Charney reached into his pants and pulled out a wad of euros; peeling a ten-euro note from the stack, he handed it to the precocious girl. “I will be down in ten minutes.”

As Charney checked in to the hotel, he summarily reconnoitered his surroundings. His room was on the top floor, as he had requested, and he noted its proximity to the stairs leading to the roof. This would serve him well later.

Once settled and satisfied with his room, Charney returned to the bar. Inside, he found the young whore sitting in a dark corner, sipping on a half-empty glass of orange-tinged Barolo.

Even the street urchins know their wines
, thought Charney.

He sat next to her and raised his hand to the bartender. Pointing at her glass, Charney motioned for two more to be delivered to the table.

Soon, both sipped on a 1996 Pio Cesare. Charney eyed the long, well-shaped legs of the young harlot. They aroused him. His attention to her appendages did not go unnoticed, and she reached under the table and gave his loins a slight squeeze.

Charney’s commands were simple. “Finish your wine and then wash that makeup from your face; meet me in my room—412—in fifteen minutes.”

Committing a minor French faux pas, Charney tossed back the entire glass of wine and left.

Waiting, Charney sat in the corner of his room, under the low light of the room’s only lamp. At the precise moment, the soft knock of the young girl came through the door.

“It’s open.”

The door opened slowly, and the young girl entered. “It will cost you two hundred euros for an hour; five hundred for the night,” she flatly said.

Charney didn’t say a word. Pulling out his cash, he peeled off five one-hundred euro notes and set them on the table.

She smiled.

In a low, baritone voice, Charney said, “Take off your clothes; let me see you without them.”

Complying with his wishes, she started to remove them. Charney was surprised that she did so slowly and in a sultry fashion. Clearly, she had been working in her profession for some time.

As she peeled each layer, Charney’s carnal reactions grew. The soft light played with her features, caressing each of her young curves. Her shape was perfect and seemed unused in the dim light. Her silhouette was more than erotic, it was inviting. She stood before him fully nude and beckoned him to her with those green and gold eyes.