The Turin Shroud Secret (38 page)

YOUSEFF

Brother, our Holy Father has sent us to you.

The camera slowly zooms over
YOUSEFF’S
shoulder into the darkness of the cell. For seconds there is only blackness. Gradually a man’s red staring eyes grow larger
and larger until they fill the frame.

YOUSEFF
(cont.)

We are here to take down your stones and release you. It is the moment for you to raise the sword of God and slay the greatest
of his enemies.

SAINT-JULIEN-EN-GENEVOIS

Two miles from the crash site, Ephrem pulls over and puts on his rental’s hazard lights. He descends the steep banking and
in a thicket at the bottom busts open Nic’s cheap case. On top of the crushed clothes he sees what he wants.

What he crossed continents for.

What he killed for.

He holds the glossy, black-and-white DNA print in his hand and marvels at it. Ten rows of dark and light columns, dozens of
blocks of magic stacked on each other, the ultimate historic tracer, a unique treasure.

He takes out his phone and dials a number long ago memorised and seldom called. The tone blips out into cyberspace. It crosses
countries and comes to rest in the handset of Nabih Hayek. The Lebanese cleric answers on the second ring.

‘It is Ephrem. I have the profile, the original transparency and the data file it came from.’

Hayek heaves a sigh of relief. ‘You are sure?’

‘I am. I have just taken them from the scientist who conducted the tests and the American who was trying to protect him.’

Hayek doesn’t ask if they are still alive. He wants to avoid
explicit knowledge,
wants to be able to talk to Andreas Pathykos truthfully and in return have him speak openly to the Pontiff. ‘You have done
well, my brother.

‘You wish me to destroy them?’

Hayek hesitates. Destroying something so historically important is still hard to sanction. ‘Yes.’ He swallows hard.

‘Very well.’

The cleric thinks a moment, then adds pointedly, ‘We would all sleep better knowing this never happened – knowing such a thing
could never be repeated, and could never be spoken of.’

‘I understand, Father.’

And Ephrem does. He
fully
understands what is expected of him. His mission is not yet complete.

77TH STREET STATION, LOS ANGELES

Mitzi scans another page of the script. Searches every scene, every sentence of dialogue for clues that might help her solve
the Tamara Jacobs murder.

The movie’s action has moved to Damascus, the ancient city sited in the shadows of the Eastern Lebanon mountain range. The
year is 1187, soon after Salahuddin recaptured the city of Jerusalem.

DAMASCUS: THE PALACE OF SALAHUDDIN (SALADIN):

EXTERIOR.
Late evening.

Scene 74

Two crimson-cloaked guards on black horses cross each other’s paths as they patrol the circumference of the palace. Closer
to the towering walls are foot-soldiers, posted no more than an arm’s length from each other.

INTERIOR.

Scene 75

In the grand hall there is loud music and excited celebration.
SALAHUDDIN
is staging a lavish feast and night of entertainment for his most trusted men. They are marking their great victory at Hattin.
As well as jugs of wine, pipes of hashish are being smoked and exotic women dance tantalisingly close to the soldiers.

SOLDIER ONE
(taking hash pipe from friend)

Revenge is so sweet. The Holy City of Jerusalem – the place the Christians slaughtered our
ancestors – is painted in their blood. It is rightfully ours again and will now remain so until the end of time.

SOLDIER TWO
(shouting excitedly)

We praise you and salute you! Our greatest of generals – Salahuddin!

The lone cry from the soldier sparks a spontaneous and intoxicating chorus from the mass of soldiers.

MEN

Salahuddin! Salahuddin! Salahuddin!

SALAHUDDIN
modestly acknowledges the refrain with a raised hand. To his right is
NOUREDDINE,
one of his most-valued generals. He is older and smaller than his master. An angry red scar, still unhealed from the last
conflict, runs from his left ear down his cheek and across to where the tip of his nose used to be.

NOUREDDINE

Behold, master – these are your men, men who would die a thousand times for you. We have taken Egypt, Syria, Arabia and now
Jerusalem. All of the world could soon be ours.

SALAHUDDIN
(starting to walk away) God’s, Noureddine. Not ours – God’s.

NOUREDDINE
(ignoring the reproach)

Stay with us, master. Share with us the moment when the blessed light of morning rises over Islam’s blossoming empire.

SALAHUDDIN
(smiling)

Enjoy yourself – you have earned it. I am fit now only for my scribes, my prayers and my rest. May God be with you.

NOUREDDINE

And with you.

SALAHUDDIN
exits.

The Sultan is flanked by two bodyguards – both the tallest of all his soldiers. They march with shields aloft and swords drawn.
As they climb a winding stone staircase one soldier advances a step, while the other drops behind.

En route to the general’s chambers they pass great treasures looted from the countries his armies have conquered – giant statues,
bronzes and pottery from the palaces of Syria and Arabia. More guards stand in pairs at each turn of corridor and a new hallway.

SALAHUDDIN
pauses as the foremost soldier opens the door to his rooms. Inside stands another armed guard and two learned scribes.

SALAHUDDIN
(to his escorts)

Leave me now. Return to the feasting and revive yourselves. Make the most of the last embers of celebration. May God be with
you.

SOLDIERS
(responding together)

And with you.

The antechamber is vast and filled with personal trophies from battle – flags, shields and pennants of those who dared stand
and fight against him. Upside down, gathering dust, is a large wooden crucifix made from the wood of the so-called True
Cross’, the one upon which the Christians claimed their Lord Jesus died. It was prised from the hands of a slain bishop in
the aftermath of the Battle of Hattin and is spattered with blood. The arms of the cross had been used as a resting block
to behead captured Christian soldiers who would not convert to Islam or were not worth releasing for ransom.

SALAHUDDIN
unfastens a gold breast clasp bearing his crest and removes his cloak. He walks into an adjoining chamber where his two personal
scribes are sat working. These are men who for more than a decade have travelled at his side, chronicled his rise to power
and described his philosophies. The scribes stand and bow as he approaches. Both look tired but dare not yawn. They know their
master’s dictation may take hours.

SALAHUDDIN

Come my wordsmiths, muster a little more life – I need your penmanship to convey the excitement of the history we are creating.

As
SALAHUDDIN
begins a monologue about the battles he still faces and the Jihad still to come, the camera zooms in to the flowing ink curves
of the ornate Arabic writing the scribes begin to create. The lines of dictation then fade into a wide shot of sand dunes
cresting a heat-shimmering horizon.

SAINT-JULIEN-EN-GENEVOIS

Neither of the Broussards can give a good description of the man who took Nic’s suitcase. Thin not fat. Olive-skinned – no
beard. Short hair – very short. That’s the best the detective can get out of them. It could match millions of males in France
and tens of millions across the Med region.

The scientist looks crestfallen. ‘If he has taken your case, then both my work and your time have been wasted.’

‘No, not completely. Erica Craxi gave me a Saint Christopher – a locket on a chain. Inside it, behind a picture of the saint,
were fragments of the Shroud – I guess Craxi wanted back-up in the event something went wrong. I have sent them to Los Angeles
for our lab to examine.’

Édouard sees a problem. ‘But still – you have nothing to compare them with. It is impossible for me to remember all the sequencing.’

Nic produces his BlackBerry. ‘This isn’t the best camera in the world, but I think its imaging is good enough for you to recognise
the Shroud’s DNA profile.’ He opens up the media files and plays a saved video. ‘I made this footage of your profile when
I was in my room at the Sheraton. I’ve
already mailed it as a digital file to my own AOL account.’

The scientist squints at the tiny screen. ‘Yes, I can confirm that it is the profile I produced.’

‘Good.’ Nic shuts down the file. ‘It’s not as powerful as having the original prints but if you come back with me, you’ll
be able to examine the LAPD tests and compare the results with those you produced.’

Édouard thinks it through. ‘It is possible. Yes, I am willing to do this.’

Nic thumbs through the BlackBerry’s contacts. ‘I’ll call the lab in LA and set the wheels in motion.’

THE SHROUD-TAMARA JACOBS

Scene 76

DAMASCUS: SALAHUDDIN’S PALACE. 1187.

EXTERIOR.
Morning.

The morning after the night before. The soft pink light of dawn falls on the sand outside the palace gates. Horses’ hooves
kick up dust as we see the now-familiar sight of patrolling guards riding slowly.

CUT TO

INTERIOR.

Scene 77

The grand hall is littered with men and women sleeping at long tables, on floors and entwined in seats. The remains of the
great feast still strewn around them.

As the wide-angle camera tracks low, up the winding stone staircase, a dull thumping sound can be heard with increasing urgency.
It is the banging of a clenched fist on wood. The sound becomes louder as the camera swoops between pairs of guards standing
at each corner of the twisting corridors that lead to
SALAHUDDIN’S
chambers.

The giant oak and iron-studded doors to his rooms are closed.
DHUL FIQAR,
the Commander of the Guards, is shouting through the panels. More men hurriedly arrive. Pushing his way through the middle
is
GENERAL NOUREDDINE.
He has come straight from bed, his garments are in disarray and he is still robing as he arrives.

NOUREDDINE

Force an entry! What are you fools waiting for? Our master could be in danger – break down the doors! Call for his surgeon.

FIQAR

Do as he says.

He looks around and then points to a stone statue of Isis taken from an Egyptian tomb.

FIQAR
(cont.)

Use that false god to open the way.

It takes six soldiers to lift the giant granite representation of the Egyptian goddess. They let out a mighty cry as they
run at the double doors. With a thunderous crash they break through. Several soldiers fall on impact.

NOUREDDINE

Wait!

He holds a commanding hand aloft and stops the men.

NOUREDDINE
(cont.)

I, alone, will enter first.

NOUREDDINE
takes a sword from the belt of a guard and steps through the splintered wood and gaping doorway into the antechamber. He
pushes open the doors to the inner room.

NOUREDDINE

Sweet Muhammad! This cannot be.

The camera tilts from
NOUREDDINE
to the floor. It pans over the corpse of a guard – his throat has been slit and his heart punctured by a single knife wound.
It focuses on the dead face, then the body of a scribe – his intestines spilled through a deep sword wound. The camera moves
on and stops on the iconic and now dead face of
SALAHUDDIN.
The shot pulls out and widens to reveal the sultan’s corpse – only now do we see the full horror that has
NOUREDDINE
transfixed.
SALAHUDDIN
has
been stripped and nailed to the captured crucifix made from the wood of the True Cross. His body is a chequerboard of cuts,
slashes from a knife or sword, and shards of broken glass have been beaten into his skull to create a bloody crown.

NOUREDDINE
rushes to the antechamber door to prevent soldiers entering. He holds it closed and shouts through it for the Commander of
the Guards.

NOUREDDINE

Dhul! Dhul, come into the chamber. The Sultan is unwell, he is asking for you.

DHUL
pushes through the door.
NOUREDDINE
quickly closes it behind him.

NOUREDDINE
(visibly shaken)

Salahuddin is dead.

FIQAR

What?

NOUREDDINE

Assassins have killed him in his chamber.

FIQAR

It is not so.
Swear
it is not.

NOUREDDINE

I swear by God’s holy name that it is. Come.

The General leads the Commander of the Guards through to the inner chamber. For a moment both men stand in mournful silence.

FIQAR

How can this have happened?

NOUREDDINE

A scribe is missing. He will have been an Ismaili or Christian plant. I can still smell his stench.