Indisputable Proof (2 page)

CHAPTER 2

September 10. Monday – 5:28 a.m. Jacksonville, Florida

Maria Varchin sat patiently at the nurses’ station on the 4
th
floor of Memorial Hospital. To her side, Susie Hampton looked down at the desk. The halls were quiet at this hour. Both nurses pretended to busy themselves with paperwork.

Susie glanced up at the clock on the wall. “T-minus two minutes and counting,” she recited aloud with a ghost of a smile.

Dr. Tanika Sager happened to be passing by and overheard her. “Shift ending?”

“Better than that,” Maria remarked.

Dr. Sager glanced down at her watch. “Oh, it’s
that
time,” she said with a wide grin. “You know, normally I’d consider this type of behavior unprofessional, but I have to admit…” she shook her head as if censoring herself. “Do either of you realize how rare it is for an African American man to have blue eyes?”

“Those eyes could melt Antarctica, Doctor,” Maria said.

For almost a week, Samuel Tolen had arrived on the 4th floor at precisely 5:30 a.m. At first, Maria had assumed the man was either a prominent doctor or someone high up in the hospital administration. He had an undeniably warm nature with virile good looks and a commanding presence. She had since learned he was some sort of federal agent and that his father was a patient on the floor. The circumstances of his visits were disheartening. On the flip side, his daily appearance brought an injection of life to the women working the floor. To Maria, Samuel Tolen was like a strong cup of coffee that jump-started her morning.

“You know,” Maria said, turning to Susie, “He’s probably old enough to be your father.”

“My kind of daddy,” Susie responded, buffing out her long, blonde ponytail.

“T-minus one minute,” Maria said, impatiently eying the clock.

Even Dr. Sager seemed anxious to get another glimpse of the man. She hung around the desk for no particular reason, shuffling and stacking some pages in an open folder on the counter.

At precisely 5:30, the elevator swished opened. Samuel Tolen emerged, dressed impeccably in a white, long-sleeve dress shirt covered by a fitted jacket, dark slacks, and black polished shoes. He casually ran a hand over his close-cropped hair as he strolled up the hallway. He looked to the nurses’ station and smiled, gazing at all three women with those wondrous blue eyes.

“NASA, we have
no
problem,” Maria said in a song-like whisper as he passed by.

“Liftoff,” Susie giggled.

Seconds later, the man disappeared inside Room 438 at the far end of the hallway.

****

Samuel Tolen sat beside the bed reading the various instruments which emitted a chorus of clicks, hums, and beeps in the otherwise quiet hospital room. The ventilator huffed and hissed its rhythmic cadence. The usual confluence of smells filled the air: disinfectant, rubbing alcohol, fresh sheets.

His 73-year-old father lay motionless in the bed. The sheet was pulled up to his neck and then folded neatly down. His gaunt features were a drastic departure from the robust man Tolen had known to be so vibrant and full of life. As always, the sight of the feeble man who had been so prominent in Samuel Tolen’s life stirred deep sadness.

When the opportunity had arisen several weeks ago for a leave of absence, Tolen had seized it. For the last six days, he had stayed at his father’s house on the St. Johns River in Green Cove Springs on the outskirts of Jacksonville. While there, he had busied himself with minor home repairs and dock maintenance to keep his mind off his father’s condition. Each morning, he drove to Memorial Hospital in Jacksonville to visit his father. Every day, he battled with the decision. All the while, Jaspar Tolen lay in the same position, eyes closed, with no hope of ever reviving.

Tolen looked down at the paperwork in his hand. There could be no disputing the document’s authenticity or intent. His father had ensured it was written in such precise detail that there was no danger of ambiguity or misinterpretation of his instructions. Legally, it was solid as a rock.

He looked back at his father, the man who had single-handedly raised him after his mother died when he was ten. The man had been his role model, dispensing inspirational quotes at every opportunity and, throughout his lifetime, Tolen had soaked them up like a sponge. Now, there would be no more intellectual sharing, no more comforting words. Now, his father’s dark skin was flaccid, his cheeks hollow. His once-solid muscles showed initial signs of atrophy.

Tolen looked again at the paperwork in his hand. Then he pushed up his sleeve and stared for a minute at the long scar on his right forearm. With an exhale, he dropped his sleeve, folded the document and tucked it inside his coat pocket.

He rose silently, bent down, and kissed his father on the forehead. Just as he reached the door, his cell phone went off. He closed the door behind him and answered in the hallway.

“Vakind,” Tolen said, recognizing the number, “can I call you back in a few minutes? I’m at the hospital.”

“You’re booked on the next flight to DC. Do you have a bag in your car?”

Tolen thought for a moment before responding. “Enough to make do.”

“My apology for cutting your leave short, but this is an urgent matter. I’ll brief you when you arrive at the office. To clarify, I mean the office at your new assignment. Oh, and by the way, I’m now the acting Director of Operations.” There was a click, then silence.

Tolen returned the cell phone, and at the same time pushed the paperwork further inside his inner pocket.
Acting Director of Operations? What happened to Carlton Tannacay?

CHAPTER 3

September 10. Monday – 1:56 p.m. Washington, DC

The elevator doors opened to the third underground level at the Smithsonian Institution. Samuel Tolen followed a banal hallway past a warren of offices, most with their doors closed. He emerged into a tiled foyer where a no-nonsense, fifty-something administrative technician with a bored expression stood filing manila folders in a cabinet. He asked for directions to conference room L311 and, with a drastic change in body language, she offered a remarkably friendly smile. “You must be Dr. Tolen,” she said with an informed nod. “This way, please.” She gestured for him to follow her down a side hallway, leading him toward the far end.

Upon reaching the conference room door, the woman knocked, opened it, cordially motioned Tolen inside, and closed the door behind him. He was greeted by four pairs of eyes belonging to two men and two women, all dressed professionally. Seated at the far end of a long, polished mahogany table was acting Director of Operations, Morris Vakind, with his signature strong chin, dirty-blond hair (longer than would have been expected of a CIA director), and a deep skin tone which rivaled any California surfer’s tan. He was dressed in a charcoal gray suit and sported a blue tie; his hands firmly folded before him. To Vakind’s right, Tolen recognized Dr. Sheila Shaw, the prim and proper, yet very personable, director of the Smithsonian Institution, whom Tolen had met prior to starting his leave. To her right sat CIA Analyst Tiffany Bar. She was as much an enigma to Tolen as any woman would ever be. Brilliant, witty, short, with her own unique style, she was in her fourth year with the agency, although she had yet to reach the age of 24. On Vakind’s left was a man Tolen did not recognize. He had stubby black hair and looked to be in his early forties with classic European features. He wore a white shirt, dress slacks, and a sports jacket. Tolen noticed the slight swell of a pistol secured in a holster underneath his left arm. The man was obviously law enforcement.

Vakind silently motioned for Tolen to take a chair next to the unknown man. As he approached, the diminutive Tiffany Bar gave Tolen one of her trademark smiles as she brushed her long blonde bangs back over her ears. He returned a nod and then looked to the unknown man, extending his hand.

Vakind began the introduction, “Agent Tolen, this is Spanish Inspector Pascal Diaz with the Cuerpo Nacional de Policia, the National Police Corps of Spain. He reports directly to Spain’s Ministry of the Interior.”

Diaz took Tolen’s proffered hand, gave it a curt shake, and wheeled back toward Vakind. The Spanish inspector’s posture was rigid. Whatever business was to be discussed, Diaz was anxious to get under way and did not wish to waste time exchanging pleasantries.

“Tolen, I know your work as a liaison with the Smithsonian was to commence upon your return from leave, but a situation has arisen. As such, since you technically now report to this Institution, I’ve invited Sheila to sit in on this briefing so she’ll be aware of your activities,” Vakind paused, appraising those present in the room with a sweeping glance. “This discussion is to be kept in the strictest confidence.”

Vakind turned to Tolen. The acting director’s expression had been noncommittal up to this point, but now his face hardened. Tolen noticed a folder on the table before Vakind. “Have you ever heard of the Cámara Santa in Oviedo, Spain?”

Tolen’s curiosity waxed as he quickly searched his memory, nodding. “It’s a small building attached to the Cathedral of San Salvador, a Gothic church built in the Middle Ages. It houses numerous reliquary items of religious significance.”

“Correct. Eleven days ago, on August 30
th
, someone broke into the Cámara Santa. They breached the inner sanctum, picked the locked gate, and stole the Sudarium from inside a medieval reliquary chest, known as the Arca Santa.”

“What’s a Sudarium?” Bar asked with a perplexed look.

Tolen explained. “The Sudarium is a shroud. It’s the cloth that was purportedly wrapped around the head of Jesus Christ immediately following the crucifixion while he was still on the cross.”

“I thought it was called the Shroud of Turin?” Bar remarked, still confused.

“They’re two different relics,” Dr. Shaw added. “The lesser known Sudarium suffers from little-brother syndrome to the more famous Shroud of Turin, which was said to be wrapped around Christ’s entire body after He was removed from the cross.” She smiled patiently as she tented her fingers on the table and leaned in slightly. “Whereas the Turin cloth is large and finely made and has an imprint of a man, the Oviedo material is much smaller and rougher, and has no discernible image. Instead, there are blotches of what is thought to be human blood and lymph on the Sudarium.”

“Not thought to be,
is
,” Diaz cut in sternly. His English was crisp, with a moderate Spanish accent. “Analysis has confirmed it is human blood, type AB positive. The same type found on the Shroud of Turin. The Sudarium is also mentioned in the Bible. It is truly a magnificent object.”

Tolen noticed that the CIA director averted his eyes away from Diaz as he continued. “During the theft, a security guard was killed. He was stabbed with a knife, then struck with a first-century Roman halberd—an axe blade topped with a spike mounted on a long shaft. The halberd had been on display in a diorama in one of the nearby cloisters.” He exhaled with a remorseful expression as he pulled a photograph from the folder and held it up for the others to see. “The axe was buried in the man’s chest with a single blow.”

Tolen studied the image for a few seconds. He had seen the results of brutal deaths before, but never using a halberd. The gash to the man’s chest was enormous and bloody. He noticed that Diaz glimpsed at the picture and quickly looked away.

Bar’s expression belied her relative inexperience with gruesome cases. At times like these, with her bobbed blonde hair and long bangs, she looked as young as she was. Sheila Shaw also blanched slightly and shifted in her seat. The 61-year-old director of the Smithsonian Institution—with her proper demeanor and sensible blouse, skirt, and shoes—had just passed beyond her comfort zone.

“There were no witnesses,” Vakind said, returning the photograph to the folder and running a thumb over his firm chin. “Authorities did find a partial fingerprint at the scene, but it matched over 11,000 people in the Interpol database. Of that number, only four are currently in Spain. Two are dead, one is in prison, and one was at the other end of the country with a solid alibi. There are no other leads.”

“Does the Cathedral have a security system? Cameras?” Tolen asked.

“Yes,” Diaz responded, “a security system, but no video cameras. The Cámara Santa was broken into in 1977, and an alarm system was installed at that time. Unfortunately, it has not been upgraded since, and as you can imagine, has become antiquated. That is why a night guard is on site. The system was easily disarmed by the intruder or intruders before entering the Cathedral and Cámara Santa.”

Vakind added, “Three days later, on September 2
nd
, an American archaeologist, Phillip Cherrigan, was found dead in his motel room in Palmar Sur, Costa Rica. He had been decapitated with what appeared to be a sword, although the murder weapon was not found.” Vakind eyed the folder as if he were about to show them the image of the headless man, then must have decided against it.

The color had still not fully returned to Dr. Shaw’s face as she spoke. “Are we to assume the two crimes—the murder and theft of the Sudarium in Spain and the murder in Costa Rica—are related?”

“They
are
related,” Vakind replied.

Diaz chimed in. “In both cases, the manner of death mirrored the martyrdom of one of Jesus’ Apostles.” He paused, and Tolen sensed a pained hesitance. Diaz visibly swallowed and continued. “The security guard was killed with a halberd in the manner of the Apostle Matthew; your American archaeologist was beheaded with a sword like the Apostle James.”

“
That’s
your connection?” Bar blurted out incredulously.

Tolen gave her a furtive look. One thing he had stressed to her before was that when Director Vakind conducted a briefing, all bases had been covered beforehand. There was obviously something more to connect the two crimes. Bar shrank as she received Tolen’s nonverbal message.

Vakind eyed Bar and continued with a modicum of sarcasm. “In fact, there
is
more, Analyst Bar. After the second murder, the Spanish press received a communiqué from a group that called themselves the ‘True Sons of Light.’ The group claimed responsibility for both murders and the theft of the Sudarium. The press had a field day with it, printing the letter in every major newspaper in the country. The ‘True Sons of Light” claimed as their charter to…” he picked up a piece of paper from the folder and read from it, “ ‘
Dispel the fraud upon humanity that Jesus ever existed as an historical figure
.’ They vowed to continue to acquire these ‘
hoax
’ relics mankind has collected, such as the Sudarium. Thus,” his eyes turned back to the paper, “ ‘
humanity will be rid of this deception
.’ They also vowed to ‘
stop those who propagate the lie with false evidence
,’ ” he looked up, then back down at the paper, “threatening to do so by ‘
executing them in the same manner in which the Apostles were silenced
.’ ”

He looked up gravely at those assembled before continuing. “An added dilemma was that Spanish authorities had chosen to suppress the news of the initial theft and murder, hoping to solve the case quickly and return the Sudarium to the Cámara Santa before anyone knew it was missing. Only the police and the church canons knew the truth. As you heard Inspector Diaz say, the Sudarium is a treasured Spanish relic. News of its disappearance would be taken very hard by the Spanish people and Christians everywhere.”

“Its significance to our country
cannot
be overstated,” Diaz cut in; his eyes fiery and his words filled with resounding passion. He paused, glancing up toward the ceiling and then back to the people seated around the table. His next words softened in reverence. “It is a treasure that the people of Spain hold dear—an earthly connection to our Holy Savior, Jesus Christ.”

“By the time the ‘True Sons of Light’ released the communiqué to the press, the United States was involved,” Vakind continued. “We urged the Spanish government to rebuke the claim of the Sudarium’s theft. Since the Sudarium is only removed and displayed to the public three times a year, we felt there was time to locate the culprits, whoever the ‘True Sons of Light’ are, and return the Sudarium before the next showing. The Spanish agreed, and have publicly denounced the claim in the communiqué, insisting that the Sudarium is safe in storage within the Cámara Santa.” Vakind paused. “We’ve also warned several governments, including Italy, where the Shroud of Turin is maintained, that the CIA has received information about the possibility of thefts of artifacts related to Jesus Christ.”

Diaz looked down. “The problem is the guard’s…Javier’s…death.” When he looked back up, his eyes had turned glossy.

Tolen understood in an instant: Javier was someone close to Diaz. Bar and Dr. Shaw must have realized this as well. For a few seconds, the room remained quiet as they all waited for Diaz to continue.

“The guard who was murdered—he was my brother, Javier Diaz. Certain members of the Spanish press have learned Javier worked in security at the Cathedral of San Salvador and that he is no longer employed there. Despite the government’s denial that a theft of the Sudarium ever occurred, some have become suspicious because of Javier’s…um…disappearance. Some are even claiming he was involved, which they say explains why no one can find him now.” The muscles in the Spaniard’s neck went taut. His teeth clenched as his voice escalated, and he practically spat the next words. “Some say Javier is a member of this ‘True Sons of Light.’ So until the press knows the truth, my brother cannot receive a proper Christian burial in the family mausoleum!” Slamming a fist on the table, he closed his eyes and exhaled in an attempt to calm himself.

No one spoke.

Dr. Shaw looked to Director Vakind, finally breaking the silence. “No disrespect to Inspector Diaz or the Spanish government, but why did the U.S. become involved? Why did we advise them to deny the claim by the ‘True Sons of Light’ that the Sudarium had been stolen?”

“Because,” Tolen began, having read the hidden message in Vakind’s words, “there is U.S. involvement in the crime.”

“Correct,” Vakind confirmed. “Another partial fingerprint found at the Costa Rica murder site had too few pattern points to make more than a generalized identification, but when Spanish authorities analyzed the hard copy of the communiqué, they were able to lift a single, clear print. It was unmistakable. The match also tied the partial prints from both crime scenes: the Cámara Santa in Oviedo, Spain and Palmar Sur in Costa Rica.”

“
Si
…yes,” Diaz said with a thinly veiled smirk. “We know
exactly
who did it.”

Vakind nodded reluctantly. He looked Tolen squarely in the eyes. “The man we’re looking for is Boyd Ramsey.”

A hush fell over the room. Bar’s expression was nothing short of utter surprise. While Tolen remained stoic, he understood her astonishment.

Vakind turned, looking to Dr. Shaw as he explained for her benefit, “Boyd Ramsey was a CIA analyst. The man is in his sixties and retired last year. Last I heard, he was living in the Smoky Mountains just outside Gatlinburg, Tennessee, but no one in the States has seen him in months. We were able to track him to Spain earlier in the summer, but he disappeared there.

“Somehow, information has leaked in Spain about Ramsey and his CIA background. Rumors are now swirling that the ‘True Sons of Light’ is a cover group for a U.S.–backed plan to steal the Sudarium, and some are claiming the theft has already occurred. This information has recently flooded the Internet in Spain, spawning wild conspiracy theories. A groundswell of backlash is growing. If, by the next display date, the Sudarium is confirmed to be missing, it will fuel tremendous outrage toward the U.S. Several European radical religious sects have already promised severe retaliation against U.S. citizens at home and abroad. As you can see, the situation has escalated into an international issue which could turn extremely deadly.”

“To complicate matters,” Diaz interjected, “the Sudarium is to be displayed on September 14
th
for the start of the Feast of the Cross. That is the day the canons of San Salvador are to remove the Sudarium and use it to bless thousands of people in an elaborate and hallowed ceremony. That gives us less than four days.”