Chasing Tomorrow

“You’re hardly a cat burglar,” Domingo corrected him, refilling his glass. “You’re an artist.”

“And a thief.”

“A gentleman thief. As you said, the coins are where they’re supposed to be. You could hardly leave them in the hands of that grasping, philistine young woman, could you?”

Jeff agreed that he could not.

“So what’s next?” Domingo asked him, his bony fingers coiling around the stem of his wineglass like a snake choking its prey. “Not that I’m trying to get rid of you.”

“I have no idea.” Jeff sat back in his chair. “This is actually the first time in forever that I haven’t had jobs lined up back to back. I might take a vacation. Travel through Europe, revisit some of my favorite museums.”

“You’ve seen the Shroud in Seville, I assume?”

The Holy Shroud of Turin was on display in Seville’s Antiquarium, a museum housed beneath the city in an ancient Roman crypt, for twelve weeks. It was the first time the relic had been allowed out of Italy in a generation, so the exhibition had attracted worldwide interest. Believed by many Catholics to be that actual cloth in which Jesus’ body had been wrapped after crucifixion—and by most historians to be an elaborately worked medieval fake—the Holy Shroud was almost certainly the most celebrated and revered religious artifact in the world. For many, including Jeff Stevens, the beauty and serenity of the man’s face so perfectly captured on the faded cloth meant more than all the wild conspiracy theories regarding its origin. Whether or not it was Jesus’ face didn’t matter to Jeff. The Shroud was a thing of sublime beauty, of magic, an image of human suffering and goodness that transcended religion and science and even time. The thought of going to see it, in the flesh, made his hair stand on end with excitement, like a small child about to enter Santa’s workshop for the first time.

“Not yet,” he told Domingo. “I’ve been saving it for last.”

“Well, don’t wait too long.” The professor finished his rioja and poured himself another glass. “Rumor has it there’s a sting in the offing. Someone’s going to try and steal it.”

Jeff laughed loudly. “That’s ridiculous.”

“Is it? Why?”

“Because it’s impossible. And pointless

. Trust me, I should know. Why would anybody want to steal the Shroud of Turin? It’s not like you can sell it. It has to be the most recognizable artifact in the known world. It’d be like trying to fence the Mona Lisa!”

Domingo shrugged. “I’m only passing on information. But I’ve heard it from a number of sources. Besides, you used to tell me there was no such thing as impossible,” he added, a wry smile playing on his thin lips.

“Yeah, well. I was talking out of my behind.” Jeff laughed, but he didn’t seem amused. “What sources?”

Domingo gave him a look that clearly said, You know I can’t answer that.

“What have you heard, exactly?”

“Nothing ‘exactly.’ Just rumor, some of it conflicting. But the common thread is that there’s a fundamentalist out there, Iranian, unimaginably wealthy. He wants the Shroud so he can destroy it. ‘Burn the tokens of the heretics,’ that sort of thing. I’m sure you know the type.”

Jeff shuddered. He felt physically ill.

Domingo went on. “Anyway, supposedly this ayatollah wannabe has hired some brilliant American to come up with a plan to spirit the Shroud out of Seville. I gather he’s been offered an insane amount of money.”

“How much is insane?”

“The figure I heard was ten million euros. Why? Are you thinking of going into competition with him?” Domingo asked teasingly.

“I wouldn’t steal the Shroud of Turin for a hundred million,” Jeff said hotly. “Especially not for a guy who wants to burn it. That’s disgusting! That’s criminal and inhuman and anyone involved in something like that should be shot.”

“Heavens above, calm down. I was only joking with you.”

“Has anybody informed the authorities?”

“Called the police, you mean? Of course not. These are rumors, Jeff, nothing more. You know how people like to gossip in this underworld of ours. It’s probably all hot air. After all, you said yourself that stealing the Shroud would be impossible.”

“It would.”

“Well then. Have another drink.”

Jeff did. But he could no longer relax. The image of some bearded, robed, Iranian lunatic dousing the Holy Shroud in gasoline refused to dislodge itself from his brain. Eventually he asked Domingo, “Did you hear a name at all? Among all these sources of yours. Did anyone know who the ‘brilliant American’ was supposed to be?”