Seizure (15 page)

“How about this one: The forger would have had to know the true method of crucifixion used by the Romans in ancient times. This was in contrast to all contemporary thirteenth-century depictions of the crucifixion, of which there were literally hundreds of thousands. In reality, the condemned individual's wrists were nailed to the crossbeam, not his palms, which would not have been able to hold his weight. Also, the crown of thorns was not a ringlet, but rather like a skullcap.”

Daniel nodded a few times in thought.

“Try this one: The bloodstains block the image on the cloth, meaning this clever artist started with bloodstains and then did the image, which is backward from the way all artists
would work. The image would be done first, or at least the outline. Then the details like blood would be added to be certain they would be in the correct locations.”

“That's interesting, but I'd have to put that one in the category with the foreshortening.”

“Then let's move on,” Stephanie said. “In 1979, when the shroud was subjected to five days of scientific scrutiny by teams of scientists from the U.S., Italy, and Switzerland, it was unequivocally determined that the shroud's image was not painted. There were no brushstrokes, there was an infinite gradation of density, and the image was a surface phenomenon only with no imbibition, meaning no fluid of any kind was involved. The only explanation they came up with of the origin of the image was some kind of oxidative process of the surface of the linen fibers, as if they were exposed in the presence of oxygen to a sudden flash of intense light or other strong electromagnetic radiation. Obviously, this was vague and purely speculative.”

“All right,” Daniel said. “I must admit you are getting into the downright compelling arena.”

“There's more,” Stephanie said. “Some of the U.S. scientists examining the shroud in 1979 were from NASA, and they subjected the shroud to analysis by the most sophisticated technologies available, including a piece of equipment known as a VP-8 Image Analyzer. This was an analog device that had been developed to convert specially recorded digital images of the surface of the moon and Mars into three-dimensional pictures. To everyone's surprise, the image on the shroud contains this kind of information, meaning the density of the shroud's image at any given location is directly proportional to the distance it was from the crucified individual it had covered. All in all, it would have had to have been one hell of a forger if he anticipated all this back in the thirteenth century.”

“My word!” Daniel voiced, as he shook his head in amazement.

“Let me add one other thing,” Stephanie said. “Biologists specializing in pollen have determined that the shroud contains pollen that only comes from Israel and Turkey, meaning the supposed forger would have had to be resourceful as well as clever.”

“How could the results of the carbon dating have been so wrong?”

“An interesting question,” Stephanie said, while taking another bite of her dinner. She chewed quickly. “No one knows for sure. There have been suggestions that ancient linen tends to support the continued growth of bacteria that leave behind a transparent, varnish-like biofilm that would distort the results. Apparently, there has been a similar problem with carbon-dating some linen on Egyptian mummies, whose antiquity is known rather precisely by other means.

“Another idea suggested by a Russian scientist is that the fire that scorched the shroud in the sixteenth century could have skewed the results, although it's hard for me to understand how it could have skewed it more than a thousand years.”

“What about the historical aspect?” Daniel asked. “If the shroud is real, how come its history only goes back to the thirteenth century, when it appeared in France?”

“That's another good question,” Stephanie said. “When I first started reading the shroud material, I gravitated to the scientific aspects, and I've just started with the historical. Ian Wilson has cleverly related the shroud to another known and highly revered Byzantine relic called the Edessa Cloth, which had been in Constantinople for over three hundred years. Interestingly enough, this cloth disappeared when the city was sacked by crusaders in 1204.”

“Is there any documentary evidence that the shroud and the Edessa Cloth are one and the same?”

“That's right where I stopped reading,” Stephanie said. “But it seems likely there is such evidence. Wilson cites a French eyewitness to the Byzantine relic prior to its disappearance, who described it in his memoirs as a burial shroud with a mystical, full, double-body image of Jesus, which certainly sounds like the Shroud of Turin. If the two relics are the same, then history takes it back at least to the ninth century.”

“I can certainly understand why all this has captured your interest,” Daniel said. “It's fascinating. And getting back to the science, if the image wasn't painted, what are the current theories as to its origin?”

“That question is probably the single most intriguing. There really aren't any theories.”

“Has the shroud been studied scientifically since the episode you mentioned in 1979?”

“A lot,” Stephanie said.

“And there are no current theories?”

“None that have stood up to further testing. Of course, there is still the vague idea of some kind of flash of strange radiation. . . . ” Stephanie let her voice trail off as if to leave the idea hanging in the air.

“Wait a second!” Daniel said. “You're not about to spring some divine or supernatural nonsense on me, are you?”

Stephanie spread her hands palms-up, shrugged, and smiled all at the same time.

“Now I have the feeling you are toying with me,” Daniel remarked with a chuckle.

“I'm giving you an opportunity to come up with a theory.”

“Me?” Daniel questioned.

Stephanie nodded.

“I couldn't come up with a hypothesis without having actual access to all the data. I assume the examining scientists have used things like electron microscopy, spectroscopy, ultraviolet fluorescence, as well as appropriate chemical analysis.”

“All of the above and more,” Stephanie said. She sat back, with a provocative smile. “And still, there is no accepted theory about how the image was produced. It's a conundrum for sure. But come on! Be a sport! Can't you think of something with the details I've related?”

“You're the one who's done the reading,” Daniel said. “I think you should come up with the suggestion.”

“I have,” Stephanie said.

“I'm wondering if I dare ask what it is.”

“I find myself leaning in the direction of the divine. Here's my reasoning: If the shroud is the burial cloth of Jesus Christ, and if Jesus was resurrected, meaning he went from the material to the nonmaterial, presumably in an instant, then the shroud would have been subjected to the energy of dematerialization. It was the flash of energy that created the image.”

“What the hell is the energy of dematerialization?” Daniel asked with exasperation.

“I'm not sure,” Stephanie admitted with a smile. “But it stands there would be a release of energy with a
dematerialization. Look at the energy released with rapid elemental decay. That creates an atom bomb.”

“I suppose I don't have to remind you that you're employing very unscientific reasoning. You're using the shroud's image to posit dematerialization so you can use dematerialization to explain the shroud.”

“It's unscientific, but it makes sense to me,” Stephanie said with a laugh. “It also makes sense to Ian Wilson, who described the shroud's image as a snapshot of the Resurrection.”

“Well, if nothing else, you've certainly convinced me to take a peek at the book you have.”

“Not until I'm done!” Stephanie joked.

“What has this information about the shroud done to your reaction about using its bloodstains to treat Butler?”

“I've come around one hundred and eighty degrees,” Stephanie admitted. “At this point, I'm all for it. I mean, why not enlist the potentially divine for all our sakes? And, as you said down in Washington, using the shroud's blood will add some challenge and excitement while creating the ultimate placebo.”

Daniel lifted his hand, and he and Stephanie high-fived across the table.

“What about dessert?” Daniel questioned.

“Not for me. But if you have some, I'll have a decaf espresso.”

Daniel shook his head. “I don't want dessert. Let's get home. I want to see if there are any emails from the venture capital people.” Daniel motioned for the waiter to get the check.

“And I want to see if there are any messages from Butler. The other thing I learned about the shroud is that we're definitely going to need his help to get a sample. On our own, it would be impossible. The church has it sealed up under elaborate security within a space-age box in an atmosphere of argon. They also categorically stated there would be no more testing. After the carbon-dating fiasco, they are understandably gun-shy.”

“Has there been any analysis of the blood?”

“Indeed there has,” Stephanie said. “It was tested to be type AB, which was a lot more common in the ancient Near East than it is generally now.”

“Any DNA work?”

“That too,” Stephanie said. “Several specific gene fragments were isolated, including a beta globulin from chromosome eleven and even an amelogenin Y from chromosome Y.”

“Well, there you go,” Daniel said. “If we can get a sample, it will be a piece of cake pulling out the segments we need with our HTSR probes.”

“Things better start happening quickly,” Stephanie warned. “Otherwise, we're not going to have the cells in time for Butler's Senate recess.”

“I'm well aware,” Daniel said. He took his credit card back from the waiter and signed the receipt. “If the shroud is going to be involved, we've got to go to Turin in the next few days. So Butler better get cracking! Once we have the sample, we can fly directly to Nassau from London on British Airways. I checked that out earlier this evening.”

“We're not going to do the cellular work here at our lab?”

“Unfortunately, no. The eggs are down there, not up here, and I don't want to take the risk of shipping them, and I want them fresh. Hopefully, the Wingate lab is as well equipped as they claim, because we'll be doing everything there.”

“That means we'll be leaving in a few days and be gone a month or more.”

“You got it. Is that a problem?”

“I suppose not,” Stephanie said. “It's not a bad time to spend a month in Nassau. Peter can keep things going in the lab. But I'll have to go home tomorrow or Sunday to see my mom. She's been under the weather, as you know.”

“You'd better do it sooner rather than later,” Daniel said. “If word comes through from Butler about the shroud sample, we're out of here.”

2:45
P
.
M
., Saturday, February 23, 2002

 

Daniel sensed he
was getting a vague idea of what it was like to have manic-depressive disorder as he hung up the phone from yet another disappointing conversation with the venture capital people in San Francisco. Just prior to the call, he felt on top of the world after outlining the schedule for the next month on a legal pad. With Stephanie now enthusiastically behind the plan to treat Butler, including using blood from the shroud, things were beginning to fall into place. That morning, between the two of them, they had drawn up an encompassing release for Butler's signature and had emailed it to the senator. As per their instructions, it was to be signed, witnessed by Carol Manning, and faxed back.

When Stephanie had disappeared back into the lab to check on Butler's fibroblast culture, Daniel had convinced himself that things were going so smoothly that it was reasonable to call the moneymen in hopes of changing their minds about releasing the second round of financing. But the call had not gone well. The key person had ended the conversation by telling Daniel not to call back unless he had proof in writing that HTSR would not be banned. The banker had explained
that in light of recent events, word of mouth, particularly in the form of vague generalities, would not be adequate. The banker had added that unless such documentation was forthcoming in the near future, the money allocated for CURE would be transferred to another promising biotech firm whose intellectual property was not in political jeopardy.

Daniel sagged in his chair with his hips perched precariously on the edge, resting his head on the chair's back. The idea of returning to stable-but-impecunious academia, with its snail's-pace predictability, was sounding progressively appealing. He was beginning to loathe the precipitous ups and downs of trying to achieve the moneyed celebrity status he deserved. It was galling that movie stars only had to memorize a few lines and famous athletes only had to show mindless dexterity with a stick or a ball in order to command the lucre and attention showered on them. With his credentials and a brilliant discovery to his credit, it was ludicrous that he had to bear such travail and associated anxiety.

Stephanie's face poked around the corner. “Guess what?” she said brightly. “Things are going fantastic with Butler's fibroblast culture. Thanks to the atmosphere of five-percent CO and air, a monolayer is already starting to form. The cells 2 are going to be ready sooner than I anticipated.”

“Wonderful,” Daniel said in a depressed monotone.

“What's the problem now?” Stephanie asked. She came into the room and sat down. “You look like you're about to ooze off onto the floor. Why the long face?”

“Don't ask! It's the same old story about money, or at least the lack of it.”

“I suppose that means you called the venture capitalists again.”

“How very clairvoyant!” Daniel said sarcastically.

“Good grief! Why are you torturing yourself?”

“So now you think I'm doing this to myself.”

“You are if you keep calling them. From what you said yesterday, their intentions were pretty clear.”

“But the Butler plan is moving ahead. The situation is evolving.”

Stephanie closed her eyes for a moment and took a breath. “Daniel,” she began, trying to think how best to word what she
was about to say without irritating him, “you can't expect other people to view the world as you do. You're a brilliant man, maybe too smart for your own good. Other people don't look at the world the way you do. I mean, they can't think the way you do.”

“Are you being patronizing?” Daniel eyed his lover, scientific collaborator, and business partner. Lately, with the stress of recent events, it was more the latter than the former, and the business was not going well.

“Heavens, no!” Stephanie stated emphatically. Before Stephanie could continue, the phone rang. Its raucous sound in the otherwise silent office startled both of them.

Daniel reached for the phone but didn't pick it up. He glanced at Stephanie. “Are you expecting a call?”

Stephanie shook her head.

“Who could be calling here at the office on a Saturday?”

“Maybe it's for Peter,” Stephanie suggested. “He's back in the lab.”

Daniel lifted the receiver and used the long name of their business rather than the acronym. “Cellular Replacement Enterprises,” he said officially.

“This is Dr. Spencer Wingate from the Wingate Clinic. I'm calling from Nassau for Dr. Daniel Lowell.”

David motioned for Stephanie to go out in the reception area and pick up Vicky's extension. He then identified himself to Spencer.

“I certainly didn't expect to get you directly, Doctor,” Spencer said.

“Our receptionist doesn't come in on Saturdays.”

“My word!” Spencer remarked. He laughed. “I didn't realize it was the weekend. Since we've recently opened our new facility, we've all been working twenty-four-seven to iron out the wrinkles. Many pardons if I'm causing a disturbance.”

“You are not disturbing us in the slightest,” Daniel assured him. Daniel heard the faint click as Stephanie came on the line. “Is there some problem vis-à-vis our discussion yesterday?”

“Quite the contrary,” Spencer said. “I was afraid there had been a change on your end. You said you would call last night or today at the latest.”

“You're right, I did say that,” Daniel responded. “I'm sorry.
I've been waiting for word about the shroud to start the ball rolling. I apologize for not getting back to you.”

“No apologies are necessary. Although I hadn't heard from you, I thought I'd call to let you know that I have already spoken with a neurosurgeon by the name of Dr. Rashid Nawaz who has an office in Nassau. He's a Pakistani surgeon trained in London who I've been assured is quite talented. He's even had some experience with fetal cell implants as a house officer, and he is eager to be of assistance. He's also agreed to arrange for the stereotaxic equipment to be brought from Princess Margaret Hospital.”

“Did you mention the need for discretion?”

“Most certainly, and he is fine with it.”

“Marvelous,” Daniel responded. “Did you discuss his fee?”

“I did. It seems that his services will be somewhat more than I thought, perhaps due to the required discretion. He is asking for one thousand dollars.”

Daniel momentarily debated with himself if he should make an effort to negotiate. A thousand dollars was significantly higher than the original estimate of two or three hundred. But it wasn't his money, and in the end he told Spencer to make the arrangements.

“Any further information about when we can expect you?” Spencer asked.

“Not at the moment,” Daniel said. “I'll let you know as soon as I can.”

“Perfect,” Spencer said. “While I have you on the phone, there are a few details I'd like to discuss.”

“By all means.”

“First, we'd like to request half the agreed-upon fees up front,” Spencer said. “I can fax you wiring instructions.”

“You want the money immediately?”

“We'd like it as soon as we have a date for your arrival. It will make it possible for us to begin scheduling appropriate staffing. Will that be a problem?”

“I suppose not,” Daniel responded.

“Good,” Spencer said. “Next, we'd like to arrange for instruction in HTSR for our staff, particularly for Dr. Paul
Saunders, as well as the opportunity to discuss with you a future licensing agreement for HTSR and rates for the required probes and enzymes.”

Daniel hesitated. His intuition was telling him he was being pushed for having agreed too quickly to the compensation the day before. He cleared his throat. “I will not have a problem with Dr. Saunders observing, but as for the licensing issue, I'm afraid I'm not at liberty to grant such requests. CURE is a corporation with a board of directors that would have to agree to any such arrangement, with full consideration of the stockholders. But as the current CEO, I can promise you we will visit the issue in the future, and your help in the current situation will be taken into consideration.”

“Perhaps I was asking a bit much,” Spencer admitted amiably. He chuckled. “But as the saying goes: There's no harm in trying.”

Daniel rolled his eyes, lamenting the indignities he had to endure.

“One last thing,” Spencer said. “We would like to know the name of the patient, so we can start the admission process and the patient record. We'd like to be prepared for his or her arrival.”

“There is to be no record,” Daniel said flatly. “Yesterday I made it clear this treatment is to be done under absolute secrecy.”

“But we will have to identify the patient for lab tests and such,” Spencer said.

“Call him Patient X or John Smith,” Daniel said. “It doesn't make any difference. I anticipate his being in your facility for only twenty-four hours at most. We'll be with him the entire time, and we'll be doing all the lab tests.”

“What if the Bahamian authorities question his admission?”

“Is that likely?”

“No, I suppose not. But if they do, I'm not sure what we would say.”

“I'm trusting that with your experience dealing with the authorities during the clinic's construction, you can be creative. That's part of the reason we're paying you forty thousand dollars. Make sure they don't question.”

“We'll need a bribe or two. Perhaps if you were to raise the price by five K, we could guarantee no problems with the authorities.”

Daniel didn't respond immediately while he controlled his anger. He hated to be manipulated, especially by a clown of Wingate's caliber. “All right,” he said at last, without camouflaging his irritation. “We'll be wiring twenty-two and a half thousand. However, I want your personal assurances that this operation will go smoothly from here on out, and there's to be no more demands.”

“You have my assurance as the founder of the Wingate Clinic that we will make every effort to ensure your association with us meets your expectations and complete satisfaction.”

“You'll be hearing from us shortly.”

“We'll be here!”

 

The screaming jet engines made the walls of Spencer's office shudder as the Boeing intercontinental 767 passed over the Wingate Clinic at an altitude of less than five hundred feet in preparation for landing. With the building's heavy insulation, the vibration was more tactile than audible though strong enough to jiggle Spencer's array of framed diplomas. Spencer was already accustomed to the daily intermittent disturbance and paid no heed other than to absently right his diplomas on occasion.

“How did I do?” Spencer yelled through the open door.

Paul Saunders appeared in the doorway after having listened to Spencer's conversation with Daniel from his office next door. “Well, let's look on the bright side. You didn't find out the name of the patient, but you managed to eliminate close to half the world's rich and famous. We now know it is a man.”

“Very funny,” Spencer said. “We didn't expect him to give us the name on a silver platter. But I did get him to up the offer to forty-five thousand and agree to allow you to observe the cellular work. That's not bad.”

“But you didn't press him on the favorable licensing issue. That could save us big bucks with our burgeoning stem cell therapy down the line.”

“Yeah, well, he had a point. He's running a corporation.”

“It might be a corporation, but it's a private company, and dollars to donuts, he's the major stockholder by a long shot.”

“Well, we win some and lose some. Anyway, I didn't scare him off. Remember that was one of our worries—that if we pressed too hard, he'd go somewhere else.”

“I've reconsidered that worry, provided he was telling us the truth about his tight time frame. We're probably the only place that can supply him overnight with a first-rate lab, a hospital setting, and human oocytes with no questions asked. But it doesn't matter. Our potential bonanza payoff is going to come from finding out the name of the patient. I'm convinced of it. And the sooner we find out, the better.”

“I couldn't agree more, and to that end, I did find out Lowell was at his office for the day, which was the real purpose of the call.”

“True! And I have to give you credit for that. As soon as you hung up, I called Kurt Hermann to let him know. He said he'd relay the information immediately to his compatriot who's positioned in Boston, waiting to break into Lowell's apartment.”

“I hope this compatriot, as you've called him, is capable of finesse. If Lowell gets spooked—or, even worse, hurt—the whole thing might be off.”

“I specifically relayed your fears about heavy-handedness to Kurt.”