The Turin Shroud Secret (31 page)

He walks the longest of the backed-up lines and knocks on several drivers’ windows until he finds an American. He shows a
bald man in his late fifties his LAPD shield and makes sure his leather jacket is open enough for the kids in the back and
Mom in the front to see the Beretta. ‘Could you please step out of the car, sir, and show me your ID?’

‘Sure, Officer.’ The good citizen climbs out of his Renault people carrier and is a foot shorter and twenty pounds heavier
than the out-of-town cop.

Nic looks carefully through the documentation of John Henry Watkins then adds, ‘Sir, could you please come around the back
of the vehicle with me.’ En route Nic puts his finger in his ear and talks as though he were on a hands-free police radio.
He turns his back on the driver, who is by now nervous, until he’s done. Finally, he swings slowly round to give him the bad
news. ‘Mr Watkins, I am assigned to an international anti-terrorist unit working with the Carabinieri. We have information
that an attack may take
place at this airport and we’ve been asked to look out for a vehicle identical to the one you’re driving.’

‘Mine?’

‘Yes sir, yours. I’m afraid I’m going to have to confiscate it, move you and your family from the scene and have you questioned.’

‘But I have to take it back. We’ve got to get home, we’re going to miss our flight.’

‘Not my problem, sir. I’m sure the Italian police will be sympathetic and deal with your case as quickly as they can.’ He
looks down the long line of vehicles. ‘Though you may have quite a wait for the senior officer in charge to come over. Things
go a little slower over here.’

Watkins is mortified. Already he is sensing the difficulties of coping with tired children at a foreign airport, not to mention
his short-fused wife. ‘Aw c’mon, Officer, can’t you cut us a break? We’re American citizens, I’ve got to return to Chicago,
get my family home and get to work.’

Nic rubs thoughtfully at his chin and looks around. ‘Okay. Listen, I just ran a check on you and I know you’re a law-abiding,
family man but I’ve still got to do my job and take this vehicle to the pound for checks. You know how formalities go. You
say your flight is leaving soon?’ Watkins nods. ‘I guess I might be able to do something for you. If you give me your documentation,
I can drop you, your wife and kids at the main terminal and when we’ve swept the car I’ll take it back to the car pool. But
you’d have to agree to keep this between us. It’s the kind of thing that could get my ass fired.’

‘I understand completely. And if we do that, we go straight home?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘What about our deposit?’

Nic puts on a suitable grimace. ‘You paid with a card?’

‘Yeah.’

‘I’ll have someone do the paperwork and get it refunded.’

Watkins looks relieved. ‘That would be great.’

Nic glances at his watch. ‘So shall we get moving?’

John Henry Watkins grins broadly, extends his sweaty hand and gratefully passes the detective the keys.

CARABINIERI HEADQUARTERS, TURIN

Carlotta Cappelini sits back from the computer screen that takes up most of her desk. In front of her, in full shocking HD
detail is Ephrem’s handiwork. She’s gone through every still frame, examining – or pretending to examine – the fatal crime
scene at Mario Sacconi’s home. The monk is an animal.

A young female officer turns up at the edge of her desk. ‘For you, ma’am.’ She hands over a single sheet of paper.

Cappelini sees the young brunette’s eyes snag on the screen, a shot of the knife wound straight through Sacconi’s
heart. The Luogotenente uses her mouse to shrink the image out of sight. ‘Grazie. That will be all.’

The girl gets herself together and walks away.

Cappelini looks at the document. It’s a trace report on the American’s phone. Turns out he used it several times after fleeing
the murder scene. Carried out searches from the Yahoo! browser, located a logistical services parcel delivery company out
near the airport and then called it.

He’s shipping something.

Something so important it has to cross a border even if he can’t.

No. Cappelini picks up the untraceable phone she uses to call the monk and dials his number. ‘Listen carefully, I’m going
to text you the address of a parcel company near the aeroporto. You need to go there, quickly. Find whatever Nic Karakandez
left to be shipped and stop it – at all costs. Do you understand?’

‘I understand.’

The line goes dead and she sends the SMS. Through the window of her boss’s office she sees Fusco with the Major and the Commander.
She knows exactly what they’re saying. And it’s not going to be good news for the LAPD cop.

CASELLE AIRPORT, TURIN

The Watkins family wave gratefully from beside their suitcases and Nic waves guiltily back from the driver’s seat of the people
carrier as he leaves them at the revolving doors of the terminal.

He drives away from the drop-off zone and joins the main traffic flow. Once he clears the airport grounds he pulls over on
a quiet dirt road to set the satnav for the long journey ahead. The touch screen is tiny and it takes several goes to finger
in the address Erica Craxi gave him of Mario Sacconi’s former boss, Édouard Broussard.

The little computer does its work and automatically announces that the journey is 366 kilometres long, will take just under
four hours, involve two major motorways with toll charges and will cost forty euros in fuel.

He starts up the engine again and hopes the trip doesn’t prove to be a lot costlier than the computer’s promised.

BOYLE HEIGHTS, LOS ANGELES

Mitzi parks outside Jenny Harrison’s place and wishes she was anywhere else other than here. Given her own personal problems,
the last thing she needs professionally is to be interviewing a young woman about how she discovered the corpse of her best
friend.

She knocks on the busted front door and a uniformed cop jerks it open from the other side. He’s dark-haired, mid-thirties
and already carrying too much weight and attitude.

‘Lieutenant Fallon.’ Mitzi badges him. ‘You got one Jenny Harrison in here?’

‘Unfortunately,’ He swings the door open. ‘She’s quite a lady.’

‘Meaning?’

‘She’s got a real mouth on her.’

‘Good. A mouth is what she needs to be able to answer my questions.’ Mitzi rolls her eyes as she walks past him. ‘What happened
to the door?’

He pushes it closed. ‘Says she’s been burglarised. The neighbourhood’s full of junkies and pimps.’

Mitzi enters a room filled with smoke and struggles not to cough. Her eyes settle on a bleached blonde wreck of a
woman chain-smoking on an old brown Dralon two-seater. ‘Jenny, I’m Mitzi Fallon. I’ve just come from your friend’s house.
I need to ask you some questions. You want to do it here or downtown?’

Harrison looks up, ash from her cigarette falling on the arm of the couch. ‘What happened to Kim?’ She sounds doped. ‘What
did they do to her?’

‘That’s what we need to find out, Jenny.’ She moves closer and sees the girl’s eyes. She’s high as a kite. Probably been burning
joints right from the moment she saw her girlfriend’s corpse. Who could blame her? ‘Go have a shower. Get yourself a change
of clothes and I’ll take you for some food.’

‘Don’t want no shower and I ain’t freakin’ hungry.’

Mitzi drops down so they’re eye to eye. ‘It’s not an offer, honey. It’s an instruction. I’ve got a murder to clear up and
you’re no use to me wasted.’

Harrison swears under her breath. She heaves herself up from the couch and disappears into the bathroom with a slam of the
door. The uniform sidles up to Mitzi. ‘The great unwashed has a temper. This’ll be the first shower she’s taken this year.’

‘She might be dirty but you’re an asshole. Ten minutes from now she’ll be clean and you’ll still be an asshole.’

‘I was just sayin’.’

‘Then don’t. Your first step towards not being an A-hole is shutting the hell up.’

The uniform drifts off and pretends to inspect the damaged front door.

Mitzi walks around. There are no framed photographs, no landline, no cooker, just a small old TV, a microwave oven and a kettle.
She’s seen jail cells better furnished than this.

A once-white bed quilt is chequered with coffee stains and cigarette burns. The base sheets look like they’ve never been changed.
She lifts the mattress and finds a strange stash – dozens of condoms, a vicious-looking vegetable knife and an ultrasound
picture of an unborn baby. It’s a sixteen-week scan, date-stamped two years ago. She guesses Harrison caught pregnant and
either lost the child or aborted it. The fact she kept the photo means she harbours thoughts of being a mom.

Mitzi drops the mattress, brushes her hands clean and checks the kitchen area. On the front of the small fridge are a couple
of snaps pinned by fruit-shaped magnets. There’s one of Harrison and the dead girl in a nightclub, both laughing and holding
big cocktails complete with straws and lots of greenery. There’s another of them at the beach in bikinis, blowing kisses off
their palms at the camera. Harrison looks pretty much as she does now. Mitzi guesses the beach shot was probably summer and
the cocktail shot maybe New Year.

Inside the fridge is a four-stack of TV dinners, a tub of cheap spread, a stack of mouldy cheese slices, four cans of tuna
and a quarter bottle of vodka. Two cupboards next to a single-drainer sink are empty bar a few non-matching cups, three bowls
and two plates.

Harrison comes back in the room looking tired but a little less wasted. She’s naked except for a faded green towel that
barely covers her modesty. Her bleached hair has turned into brown rats’ tails. Mitzi walks to the front door and opens it
for the uniformed cop. ‘Give us five.’

He’s glad to. Harrison slides open a built-in wardrobe and pulls on a faded pink T-shirt and black jeans. She either doesn’t
have clean underwear or doesn’t want to wear any. She pushes bare feet into filthy sneakers then uses the towel to rub her
wet head. ‘Dryer’s screwed. I got hair like one of them wiry dogs.’

‘You look fine. The cop out there says you were burgled. What they take?’

‘Nothing. There wasn’t nothing to take.’ She downs the towel and then realises she’s been too honest for her own good. ‘Shit,
that’s not true. They stole some cash I’d been savin’ – vacation money, maybe five hundred dollars, and some jewellery and
stuff and my cell phone, a new one.’

‘Sure they did. By the time we get downtown I bet you’ll have remembered that fifty-inch 3D plasma they took as well, along
with the Valentino dresses and enough Jimmy Choos to fit out a centipede.’

TURIN

The noise wakes Roberto Craxi.

A dull thump. Then another. He has no idea how long
he’s been asleep. The air is hot and stale – and he’s weak from lack of water. The ground beneath him shakes. Something heavy
has been dropped nearby. There’s another dull thud.

And another.

He works out what it is. Someone is moving heavy stones off the slab. In the next few moments he’ll be free – or dead.

The noise is clearer now. Stone on stone. Boulders of some kind must have been heaped on the slab to secure it. Those at the
top have been moved; now the last of them are being slid away. He summons all his physical and mental strength in preparation
for the grand opening of the tomb. Silence.

He guesses his captor is thinking about how to oslide the lid off the tomb. The man won’t want to lean over it and push it
away because that would leave him off-balance and exposed. Nor will he try to pull it towards him and risk it falling on him.
No, he’ll probably slide it off from one end – the end above Craxi’s head. It’s the only way to remain positioned directly
above him.

Craxi is right. Ephrem hauls the slab to his left in one powerful movement. The former soldier makes his move. Springs up
as fast as he can.

The monk is knocked back. He’d expected resistance but nothing as swift and powerful as this.

Craxi’s ankles buckle as soon as his feet hit the ground.

The monk’s right hand twitches. A split-second movement – but a decisive one. Craxi sees the flash too late. He grabs his
abdomen.

Ephrem watches Craxi struggle with the pointed iron railing he’s impaled him on.

Craxi holds it with both hands and tries not to fall. He goes dizzy and drops to his knees.

Ephrem walks towards him. Looks indifferently at the blood blotting into his captive’s shirt and makes a cold calculation.

It will take a long time for him to die like that. A very long time.

He circles Roberto. Stands behind him. Takes his head in the crook of his arm and with one violent twist breaks his neck.

Nic hits crawling traffic as soon as he picks up signs for the Tangenziale Ovest-Sud/Savona/Piacenza. So much for the confident
predictions of the satnav. It takes more than an hour to get from the A55 to the A6. He thinks about calling Mitzi and Amy.
There are things he has to tell them. Actions that must be carried out. But he has no intention of using the cell phone in
his pocket. Save the brief bit of web surfing to find the parcel company, it’s been turned off since he left Fabio and it’s
going to stay that way. Sooner or later he’ll find a pay phone. From now on, the cell is for emergencies only.

Thirty miles and forty minutes further on, he struggles through another jam at a toll road rolling out to Savona. He
tries to drown out blaring horns by switching on the radio. As he finally picks up speed, he realises his attention has been
so focused on looking for the dark-blue cruisers of the Carabinieri or the paler blue and white ones of the Polizia that he
has barely noticed the strange mix of urban and agricultural areas flashing past the Bravo’s windows. The thin winter light
is already fading as the satnav interrupts his thoughts to announce his estimated arrival time – he’s still more than two
hours away from his chosen destination.