The Cloning Read online

  “Yes, I’m well aware of that fact,” she groused, pressing a fistful of message slips into his hand. “You’ve got to return some of these phone calls. Absolutely everybody’s trying to get in touch with you. Do you want to be on PBS or Fox first?”

  “You’re kidding!”

  “No, I’m not. Just read your messages!”

  “Okay, okay,” he agreed, thumbing through the slips and moving into the cluttered cubbyhole called his office. Relieved, Nora moved away to answer her ringing phone while Marc hurriedly pulled the under shorts from his pocket and stuffed them into his bottom drawer. No sooner had he kicked the drawer shut than Cynthia stepped into the office, closing the door behind her.

  “How do you think that makes me feel . . . announcing that you’ll never settle down?” she charged with quiet intensity.

  Marc gave her a quick appraising glance. That perfect blonde hair. That glowing English complexion. That fabulous figure . . . long and thin, but not too thin. And impeccably dressed in the best of conservative taste. A WASP all the way. A true lady. And a good lay as well.

  But her face was a scowl. “What’s your problem?” he asked.

  “Marc, it’s general knowledge that we’ve been seeing each other for quite a while. I’m a very well known decorator. I have a high profile. And you’re making me look cheap . . . like a used woman.”

  “Look,” he replied, trying to keep a lid on his annoyance, “I’ve always been up front with you about my ‘intentions.’ If you can’t accept that, I’m sorry.”

  Cynthia bit her lower lip, breathed a deep breath, then took another tack. “How’d the experiment go last night?”

  “Great. Great.”

  “Did you work late?” she inquired.

  “Not too late.”

  “What time did you get home?” she asked casually.

  “Cynthia, I passed my orals years ago,” Marc replied, moving toward the door in an attempt to escape her interrogation.

  “It’s only because I care about you.”

  “It was around midnight, I guess,” he said, evasively thumbing through his messages.

  “I called around midnight . . . as soon as I got in from the airport.”

  “My cell phone’s been on the blink,” he lied.

  “And I called your lab too.”

  “Guess I was on the way home. You must have just missed me.”

  “If you’d been at home at midnight, you’d have been back in your office at a reasonable hour this morning,” she challenged.

  “I don’t have time for this, Cynthia. Can we drop it?”

  “No, we can’t. Are you never going to stop running around?”

  “Not if I can help it,” he admitted candidly, then strode from the room to Nora’s desk. “What the hell does Cardinal Dugan want with me?” he asked.

  “He didn’t say . . . he just wants you to get in touch right away.”

  Perplexed, Marc could only come to one conclusion. “If he thinks I’ll tithe ten percent of my three hundred grand, he’s got another think coming.”

  *

  Later, Nora insisted that Marc go to his apartment and change before meeting the Cardinal. “Your clothes look like you slept in them last night

  “Funny, I distinctly remember somebody taking them off.”

  She chose to ignore his remark. “When was the last time you had this jacket dry cleaned?” she asked, scratching a morsel of dried food from his lapel.

  “Last year, I guess.”

  “Why don't you splurge and have it cleaned again before you start another winter with it,” she suggested, “or better yet, why don't you buy a new jacket, now that you're rolling in big bucks?”

  “There's nothing wrong with this one,” Marc insisted, looking down with a cursory glance. “That's the great thing about Harris tweed. It never wears out.”

  “But it gets tired. Very tired. It deserves a rest.”

  In his modest apartment a few blocks off-campus, he rummaged through his tiny closet, and realized that Nora's advice deserved some heed; he'd never been a clotheshorse, but in the last year or so, he'd hardly bought anything new. And the bulk of his clothes lay on the closet floor; waiting to be dry-cleaned, laundered, and/or mended. But he unearthed one blazer that was still in the plastic bag from the cleaners, and one fresh shirt lay in the bottom of a dresser drawer.

  When the old VW coughed and chugged a few times en route to Brighton, Marc patted the dashboard affectionately. “Hey, old girl, are you worried you’re going to be sold for scrap . . . now that I’ve got all that cash? Don’t give it another thought. I’ll find you a new owner who’ll take good care of you . . . maybe give you a wash and a lube. So don’t desert me now.” The car sputtered once again as if in reply and managed to convey Marc to his destination.

  Spruced up for his interview, he entered Stephen's office in the chancery with a bouncy step, and the old classmates shook hands heartily. “All these years, and you haven’t changed a bit, Steve,” Marc lied, noting that his pal looked a little chubby. “The black hides the weight I’ve put on,” Stephen smiled guiltily, looking down at his clerical suit.

  “No. No kidding, you look terrific.”

  “If I do, that’s one of the advantages of the celibate life.”

  “I wouldn’t know about that,” Marc admitted, “thank goodness. “

  “You're not married, I take it?”

  “No way.”

  “Anybody on the horizon?”

  “Not even on a clear day.”

  Stephen laughed, albeit somewhat nervously because it appeared that Marc hadn't changed his ways at all since their collegiate days when he was the most notorious cocksman in their class. “How's your mom? Still living in Manhattan?” Stephen asked.

  “She passed away last year.”

  “Oh, I'm sorry. She was a neat lady.”

  “Yeah. Except that she was a pretty bad alcoholic the last fifteen years of her life. How're your folks?”

  “Fine. They're still across the river in Englewood. Have four grandchildren already, and couldn't be happier.”

  “Your mom still cooking those great meals? I remember pigging out when you'd invite me over there for a weekend.”

  “She's still dishing out the calories.”

  “So what's this meeting all about, Steve? I don’t get summoned to see Cardinals very often.”

  “Cardinal Dugan would rather broach the subject himself. He’ll see you in just a minute. But I’ll tell you this, he’s very impressed with your achievement.”

  “I was pretty impressed myself,” Marc confessed with a laugh, “and damned surprised. That money’s really going to come in handy.”

  The buzzer on Stephen’s desk sounded.

  “He’s ready,” Stephen announced. “But one thing, Marc. You said that it’s been a while since you’ve had any dealings with the church.”

  “More like a lifetime.”

  “Just a reminder. It’s customary to kiss the Cardinal’s ring . . . merely a courtesy, you understand.”

  Stephen opened the door, and Marc preceded him into the spacious mahogany paneled room. His eye immediately found the Cardinal who was turned away, gazing from one of the soaring windows that framed his desk. Marc nearly stumbled as he stepped onto the deep, silken pile of the dark Oriental carpet.

  “Your Eminence, may I present my old friend, Marc Solovino?”

  Cardinal Dugan turned to them. His face was a map of Ireland, flushed from generations of drink. His vivid blue—and severely blood-shot—eyes protruded slightly, giving him an aloof appearance, Marc noticed. Dugan said nothing, nor did he take a step in Marc’s direction. He simply held out his hand, palm down, clearly waiting for the obligatory kiss of his ring, the symbolic act of obeisance.

  Marc’s mind was clouded momentarily by a parade of graying clerics who had browbeaten him throughout his youth, both in church and parochial school. He hadn’t liked a single one of them. Rule on top of rule; punishment on top
of punishment. As a kid he’d had no recourse to their senseless protocols, but he was a grown man now. Screw you, Marc thought instinctively, then moved to the prelate, took the extended hand, and gave it a hearty shake. “How do you do?” Marc said flatly.

  Dugan raised an eyebrow and shot a quick disapproving glance toward Stephen who looked away nervously, sorry again to be involved in this introduction. “Congratulations on your award, Doctor. I’m sure it’s well deserved.”

  “I’m not so sure about that,” Marc replied modestly, “but thanks anyway.”

  “Please make yourself comfortable,” the Cardinal offered, pointing to an armchair across the desk. “I know that you’re a very busy man, so I’ll get right to the point. You’re familiar with the Shroud of Turin, I assume?”

  “Sure. I’ve heard about it.”

  “It’s the burial cloth in which our Savior’s body was wrapped when He was taken down from the cross.”

  “And there’s an imprint of a face on the cloth, right?” Marc interjected.

  “Of His entire body . . . including the wounds in His hands and His side,” Stephen interjected.

  Marc nearly rolled his eyes toward the ceiling dubiously, but out of respect for his old pal, he controlled the urge and nodded his head noncommittally.

  The Cardinal continued. “Of course there are those who doubt the authenticity of the cloth. Every few years, someone puts forth some new, outrageous theory about the way the image was ‘manufactured’,” he said with a scathing sneer. “And that’s exactly why I’ve asked you here. I want to see the problem tackled by a brilliant, young American who will use his native intellect and the very latest technical advances to determine the source of the image . . . to authenticate the imprint of our Lord’s body.”

  Marc could no longer bite his tongue. “You really believe that?”

  Cardinal Dugan appeared not the least bit unsettled by the obvious doubt in Marc’s tone. He’d clearly dealt with this sort of question for decades. “Whether I believe it or not isn’t the point. I want to know—once and for all—what’s the scientific explanation for the image. From what I’ve heard, I infer that your latest research and developments equip you perfectly for investigating the image. The DNA and all that. True?”

  “True enough,” Marc conceded modestly, “but what if the explanation isn’t what you want? What if I could prove that some hot-shot priest did a fancy painting job a few hundred years ago . . . just to perk up the interest of the congregation and raise a few lire on the side?”

  Stephen’s stomach sank. Even though the whole idea of approaching Marc had been the Cardinal’s, Stephen could imagine the old man’s blaming him if the brainstorm fell through. Back to being a parish priest.

  “I think that after you’ve done a little reading on the subject you’ll have to agree it’s much more involved than that. But, if that were proven, we’d have to accept it, wouldn’t we?” Dugan replied with cool lucidity. Fat chance, Stephen though to himself.

  “You could lose a lot of believers,” Marc challenged.

  “But if that theory were disproved with finality, we could win a lot of new believers. And, much more importantly, in the process, we could arouse the interest of a whole fresh generation. If this thing is handled properly, it can make the entire Pentecostal movement look like child’s play! You have a great deal of charisma, Doctor Solovino. You’re young, good looking, and a celebrity now. You’ve got the scientific credentials to make the cover of Time. You could give us just the hype we need.”

  Marc couldn’t help smiling at the old guy’s trendy attitude. “The church needs hype?”

  “The church is a living institution . . . or it should be,” the Cardinal expostulated, rising from his huge chair and pacing behind his desk, obviously feeling deep conviction. “The Mother Church has been static for so long that it’s about to turn up its toes, and it’s up to those of us here in the New World to do something about that. With a new Pope on the Throne of Peter, now’s the time to act. Our best chance of reviving the Church is to appeal to a new generation, to give them a contemporary handle on religion. This investigation could be just the thing to promulgate an entirely fresh movement! And you, Doctor Solovino, could be the keystone of that movement.”

  And you, Stephen silently corrected his boss, could be the capstone! It was obvious to Stephen that the old man was no longer satisfied with simply being a Cardinal. Dugan knew, of course, that the chances of an American’s becoming Pope were non-existent within his lifetime, but he was determined to make more of a name for himself, one way or another. And ever since his old pal was elected Pope, Dugan’s taste for grandeur had been running rampant. Only last month he’d called Stephen into this very room at three A.M. He’d had a vision, he said, of rejuvenating the Church, of personally leading it back to its roots. He’d had too many drinks, Steven could see, and it required all his self-control to refrain from calling the Cardinal an old sot. But later Stephen chided himself for being so cynical; maybe the Cardinal had had a vision. Still, it appeared to be an odd mixture of religious fervor and ego.

  “No way,” Marc replied evenly. “I can’t help you.”

  The prelate didn’t hesitate a second before insisting, “Oh, yes you can!”

  It was Marc’s turn to rise now. “I’m not the man for this job. My spiritual life is what you might call . . . lacking.”

  “Why don’t you let the Holy Father decide that?” Dugan suggested.

  “The Pope’s in on this?” Marc asked, astonished.

  “I’ve discussed my idea with him, yes. You see, we worked together very closely some years ago in Rome. He’s a man of the twenty-first century, that’s for sure. He has true vision. A new vision, I might even say. And if I send him the right man for this job, he’ll give us the green light.”

  Marc gave a quick glance to Stephen, just to make sure that the Cardinal hadn’t lost his marbles. Stephen’s stony look indicated that this was for real.

  “You’re saying that you want me to meet the Pope?” Marc asked.

  “All your expenses would be paid to Rome, naturally,” the Cardinal explained helpfully. “And to Turin as well.”

  “Wait a minute,” Marc interjected as the memory of something he’d read in Car & Driver tickled the back of his mind. “Do you think a visit to the Ferrari factory could be arranged? It’s about half way between Rome and Turin . . . in a little place called Maranello.”

  “The Vatican can arrange anything you might want in Italy,” Cardinal Dugan asserted without hesitation. “We could contact them immediately.”

  Think of picking up a shiny new Ferrari at the factory door, Marc thought. And think of breaking it in on the Autostrada . . . with no speed limit. And think of all those hot Italian babes.

  “You’ve got yourself a deal,” he said.

  “Let’s have a drink on that,” the Cardinal suggested, “and then you must go pack your suitcase.” Stephen quietly closed his eyes in prayer, trying not to imagine how his old college buddy would impress the Holy Father.

  CHAPTER 2

  The Mercedes limousine whisked Marc directly from DaVinci airport to the center of Rome. On the Via della Conciliazione, the dome of Saint Peter’s loomed into view, then the colossal plaza, embraced by Bernini’s magnificent colonnades.

  Marc remembered his first visit here when he was only nineteen, the summer before his junior year at Fordham. He and two pals had bummed around the continent, getting laid as often as possible, drinking as much beer as they could hold, and seeing the main tourist attractions whenever the two other activities permitted. Touring the sights had been an obligatory drag, but they realized they’d have to come up with some fairly cogent replies when their parents asked what they’d seen; after all, their folks had largely financed the trip, and in return for their investment they expected a little culture to rub off on their progeny. The guys had spent several hours in Saint Peter’s basilica, even climbing up to the roof, then through the hellishly n
arrow stairway inside the dome to see the vast panorama of the Eternal City below. Never in his craziest dreams had Marc imagined that someday he’d be chauffeured here in a long, black limo to meet the Supreme Pontiff, Bishop of Rome.

  But he still wasn’t certain why he’d come. Sure, he’d enjoyed the royal treatment on Alitalia. And he’d already placed the order for his new Ferrari to be picked up at the factory. But with his prize money, he could have afforded these things on his own. Why was he playing footsie with the Roman Catholic Church, an institution that he took with a very large grain of salt? Was spending one night in the Vatican that a big deal? And since he didn’t believe that the Pope had a hot-line to heaven—or that there even was a heaven, for that matter—what was the point of meeting with the guy? After all, until a few months ago, he’d been just another prince of the church, and not a very important one at that. Hadn’t his election been a shock to practically everyone? He’d just suddenly been blasted from relative obscurity to supremacy by a plurality of the College of Cardinals that even most of the Cardinals found impossible to explain. Mark should just tell the driver to turn around and take him back to the airport. But what the hell, he concluded, at least I can have the decency to meet the guy face to face and tell him I’m not interested.

  The car continued a short distance, then swung into a huge double doorway that opened automatically as they approached. He was now in Vatican City State, an independent little country with its own constitution, monetary system, postal service, and flag . . . over which the Pope had supreme legislative, executive and judicial power. After passing along a narrow passage and under a dark archway, the car emerged into the light of a large cobblestone courtyard, the Court of Saint Damaso, then pulled to a halt under a porte-cochere. As the chauffeur opened the door, a priest in a black cassock approached Marc with hand outstretched in greeting.

  “Doctor Solovino, I’m Monsignor Lissaro, the Pope’s chamberlain. Welcome to the Vatican,” he offered in impeccable English with only a trace of an Italian accent.