The Cloning Read online

  “Thanks,” Marc replied, shaking his hand and noting his open smile and warm, intelligent eyes.

  “I trust you had a comfortable trip?”

  “Fine. First class is the only way to travel.”

  “Still, I realize that you must be fatigued; but the Holy Father is most anxious to meet you. If you’d be kind enough to follow me, the driver will see that your luggage is taken to your quarters.”

  “Lead the way,” Marc told the cleric.

  As Lissaro turned to go inside, Marc’s eye was distracted by a group of six young women being escorted across the courtyard by a nun in black habit. The girls were chatting happily in German, apparently a student group being given the VIP tour of the Vatican. One of them glanced in Mark’s direction with a little smile. Too bad the Pope’s waiting, he thought ruefully, and gave the girl a quick wink before following the Monsignor through the imposing doorway into the Papal Palace.

  Although the exterior of the building was far from spectacular, the interior was a different story. The colonnaded hallways were wide and high, paved with shining, inlaid marble. Adorning the walls were huge antique paintings in ornate frames depicting ancient Popes and saints. These were interspersed with statues, glorious works in bronze, others in stone, which almost appeared to glow in the soft light from the opulent chandeliers overhead.

  After climbing a long marble stairway, they passed through another gilded archway, and Marc surmised that they must be approaching the Pope’s area because there was a Swiss Guard on either side, dressed in the ancient, colorful uniforms that Michelangelo reputedly designed, each carrying a halberd. Marc wondered if they had some more advanced means of protecting the Pontiff. Maybe loaded Uzis hidden inside their striped pantaloons?

  Monsignor Lissaro stopped outside a superbly carved doorway. “Just a reminder, Doctor Solovino,” he said. “His Holiness doesn’t stand on ceremony in private audiences such as this . . . but as a matter of form you are expected to kneel and kiss his ring.”

  Here we go again, Marc thought to himself, just like Dugan. What’s he going to do, throw me into a dungeon if I give him a good old American handshake? he mused.

  The Monsignor knocked, then opened the door, motioning Marc to enter. “Your Holiness, may I present Doctor Marc Solovino from Harvard University?”

  The Pope, dressed in a simple, white cassock, stood in front of a large window through which sunlight streamed. He appeared younger than Marc expected from his photographs. His only adornment was a large golden cross over his heart. The man seemed so small, so simple, compared to the regal surroundings. His face was wreathed in a warm, sincere smile, and Mark, in spite of his cynicism, was overwhelmed with a sense of awe.

  “Welcome, my son,” the Pope said. “Thank you for coming such a great distance,” he added, extending his hand.

  There was a power about the man, and for a split second Marc was tempted to kiss the ring as instructed. But the years of resentment toward the church hierarchy weren’t so easily forgotten, and instead he took the Pontiff’s hand and gave it a hearty shake. To Marc’s surprise, the Pope returned the shake with a firm grip, apparently unfazed by the breach in protocol.

  “Cardinal Dugan tells me fine things about you,” he continued.

  “I’ve had some pretty lucky breaks lately,” Marc rejoined.

  “The Cardinal also tells me that you feel your faith is lacking.”

  With a little smile, Marc corrected the Pope. “Nonexistent might be more accurate.”

  “Sometimes it may seem that way because there’s been no challenge to prove one’s faith. You were baptized into the Mother Church, weren’t you?”

  “When I was a baby . . . sure,” Marc confessed. “And later I was confirmed. But I had some pretty rotten experiences in parochial school, so confirmation is about as far as my involvement with the Church ever went.”

  The Pope thought about this for a moment, then asked, “Then may I ask why you came here?”

  “I wanted to get away from . . . ” Marc hesitated at getting too specific about his private life with a man who’d been celibate for longer than Mark had been around, if not longer, “from some distractions back home.” But something about the Pope’s way of phrasing his question, his open demeanor, was disarming to Marc, and he continued. “You really want the whole truth?”

  “Please.”

  “I guess your staff didn’t bother you with the details of my trip, but they’ve arranged for me to visit the Ferrari factory in Maranello. I’m buying the latest model with my prize money.”

  The little smile played around the Pope’s lips. “You’re very honest,” he said, sharing his amusement with a glance to Monsignor Lissaro.

  “Too honest to compromise myself,” Marc added.

  “That’s essential in a scientist. You know, I was interested in becoming a scientist when I was a young man in university.”

  “No, I didn’t know,” Marc commented. “What field?”

  “Actually, I never quite decided that. There were so many fascinating areas. But then I felt the calling to the priesthood, and I never had to make the choice in science. In any case, Cardinal Dugan has sent me a résumé of your scientific accomplishments, which are most impressive. He thinks you’re the right man to investigate the Holy Shroud of Turin.”

  “He’s right about my credentials, but he may be suffering from a mild case of xenophobia.”

  The Pope smiled again. “You could be partially correct about that, but still, I trust his instincts.”

  “Cardinals aren’t infallible, are they?” Marc challenged, hoping that he might lead the Pope to comment on his own infallibility. That would be a gas, Marc thought, coming from a guy who once wanted to be a scientist.

  But the Pope easily avoided an argument. “Why don’t we allow our Father in heaven to answer these questions?”

  “Meaning?”

  “This could be the Lord’s way of bringing you back into the fold.”

  “With all due respect, you shouldn’t count on it,” Marc shot back with a wry smile.

  “Miracles still happen, Doctor Solovino. I’m sure that you will do a thorough and commendable job of the investigation,” the Pope said, landing the ball squarely back in Marc’s court. “You will be in my prayers.”

  Good Lord, Marc thought to himself, the interview's over and I haven't told him that I don't want the job. What the hell's wrong with me? All I have to say is, “Thanks, but no thanks.” But there was something beguiling about the Pope, something that held Marc back from being too abrupt with him; in a way, he didn't want to disappoint the man.

  Monsignor Lissaro then spoke up. “Your Holiness, Cardinal Nani asked to see Doctor Solovino before you make a final decision.”

  “Of course,” the Pontiff agreed. “Will you arrange a meeting? After Doctor Solovino has had a rest.”

  “Who’s Cardinal Nani?” Marc asked.

  “He’s the Under Secretary of State for the Vatican,” Lissaro explained. “I’ll introduce you.”

  “Fine,” Marc said, thinking to himself that the next interview might not go so smoothly, and that would give him a handy excuse to bow out gracefully.

  *

  Later, after a leisurely nap to counter his jet lag, Marc was served a bounteous luncheon in the sitting room of his suite. He found the meal fabulous but a little lonely since the nun who served him couldn’t speak a word of English. At moments like this, he wished that he'd listened to his father and learned to converse in Italian. Although the elder Solovino, Tony, had been born in the United States, his parents had emigrated from Italy, and he’d always felt a strong affinity with his roots and took pride in being bi-lingual. Unfortunately, Marc's interest was so strongly directed to other matters that he never gave much time to his ethnic background. In fact, he never gave much time to anything his Dad suggested.

  Antonio Solovino was brought up in Boston where his family had started an import business, handling primarily olive oil and pasta
from Italy. He was a handsome man who savored life to the fullest; he enjoyed good food, wine, and women. He couldn't resist women . . . and vice versa. Even after he married Marc's mother, the flirtations—and the affairs—never stopped. Marc's earliest memories were of his parents fighting at the top of their lungs. Their mutual antagonism continued unabated until Marc was twelve and they finally separated.

  Marc and his mother then moved to New York, but he often spent holidays with his father in Boston. In fact, as his mother's drinking problem became more intolerable, Marc spent as much time as possible away from New York, finally asking his father to let him move back with him. But Antonio had remarried, and his young bride wasn't interested or equipped to raise a teen-ager. So Marc was sent away to boarding school his senior year and then went directly to college. His father died suddenly while Marc was working on his Masters. Too bad Dad can’t see me living it up in the Vatican, Marc mused; he’d be very proud. Through all the vicissitudes of his life, Antonio Solovino had attended Mass every Sunday, no matter what, and it was a great disappointment to him when Marc turned away from the Church.

  Monsignor Lissaro returned an hour later and ushered Marc through another series of magnificent corridors to the impressive office of Cardinal Nani overlooking Saint Peter’s square. Marc could sense the hostility the minute he walked into the room.

  The Cardinal was a tall man with thin lips and steel gray hair. Monsignor Lissaro introduced Marc to him and to four other clerics whose cold smiles only reinforced Marc’s initial impression. Their black cassocks and mirthless eyes strongly reminded him of some dictatorial clerics from his childhood. As soon as Lissaro left, the Cardinal got right to the point.

  “You’re a friend of Cardinal Dugan’s, Doctor?”

  “No. We just met recently.”

  “Really? But you must have had some connections.”

  “An old friend of mine is the Cardinal's assistant. He introduced us. Father Stephen Reilly.”

  “Ah ha, so that's it,” Nani pounced.

  “That’s what?”

  “It explains that your allegiance is to Father Reilly.”

  “I don't know what you're implying,” Marc replied. “I hadn't heard a word from Steve in ten or twelve years . . . until he called about the shroud. My allegiance is to myself.”

  “Hmm,” Nani mused. “I'm surprised that Cardinal Dugan would place so much trust in someone so . . . so unproven.”

  “Unproven how?”

  “Someone with unproven—or at best questionable—fidelity. But perhaps he found another way to insure that.”

  “Look, if you think I'm Dugan's flunky, that he 'bought' me, you’d better think again. I can't be bought by anybody . . . including yourself.”

  Taken aback by Marc’s impudence, the Cardinal turned away and moved slowly to the window, regaining his composure while glancing down on the hundreds of visitors streaming into the portals of Saint Peter’s. Marc looked uncomfortably at the other four clerics who returned his look with stony gazes. The ornate gold clock on the far wall ticked loudly. What is this shit? Marc thought to himself.

  Finally, Cardinal Nani spoke again. “You’re very young to have achieved such fame.”

  “I’ve paid my dues,” Marc snapped back, “just like you have, presumably”

  Further displeased by Marc’s matter-of-fact tone, the Cardinal again turned toward the window to hide his anger. One of his colleagues, the rotund Bishop Bottero, stepped forward and asked, “What makes you think that you’re the proper candidate to investigate the Shroud of Turin?”

  “Hey, it wasn’t my idea,” Marc asserted.

  “Yes, I know it is Cardinal Dugan’s plan. But do you agree with him that the Shroud ought to be examined again?” the Bishop queried.

  “Look, I’m a scientist. My opinion on that doesn’t matter.”

  “One might infer that you really have no interest in this undertaking, that you’re actually unsuited for the job.”

  This really pissed Marc. He may not have wanted the job, but he sure as hell was suited to do it. “You’ve got somebody better lined up?” he queried.

  “At the moment, you're the only candidate. But I daresay, we would have no trouble finding someone equally qualified if you choose to exclude yourself.”

  “You don't want this investigation to happen, do you?” demanded Marc.

  “If the Holy Father wants it, of course we do,” Bottero insisted indignantly, wringing his pudgy hands. “We simply want the best person for the job.”

  This really rankled Marc because he knew that he was the best. And even though the timing was purely coincidental, his most recent research had involved the latest techniques for handling exactly such an investigation. He saw clearly that this group was trying to undermine the Pope's effort . . . and Dugan's too, probably because they don't want an American to get ahead in the game. And suddenly Marc realized that, despite his earlier resolution, he now wanted the job. Was it because they had questioned his qualifications? Or was it because they doubted his personal integrity? Or was it because they'd touched some Chamber of Commerce kind of nerve, prompting a latent patriotic response? He couldn't explain the reason, but there was no doubt that he now wanted to investigate the Shroud of Turin.

  “If you’re looking for somebody to put a rubber stamp on the status quo . . . no, I’m not suited for the job. But if you want an unbiased investigation, then I’m as good as you’ll find.”

  “I think you may fail to understand the import of this task,” the Bishop baited.

  “Maybe you can fill me in.”

  “There are those persons,” the Bishop lectured, “who claim that the blood stains on the Shroud prove that Christ was still alive when He was taken down from the cross . . . and that He subsequently recovered from His wounds. These heretics believe that Christ never actually died to save us from our sins.”

  “Hey, my job would be to explain the images on the cloth . . . not interpret them,” Marc countered.

  Foiled by Marc’s unassuming logic, Bishop Bottero turned away, his fleshy jowls quivering with indignation, and the Cardinal picked up the thread of his interrogation. “But as an American, do you think you’re capable of working in harmony with other members of the commission?”

  Marc was taken aback. “I haven’t heard about any commission.”

  The Cardinal smiled superciliously. “Surely you don’t imagine that you’d be given this assignment entirely alone.”

  “Yes, I did imagine that.”

  “Wouldn’t that be an awesome responsibility for one person?”

  “I don’t think so. I did some reading on the plane about the earlier so-called ‘investigations.’ One reason they were inconclusive is that there were too many cooks in the kitchen.”

  “That’s your opinion solely,” Nani retorted.

  Marc had had enough of the inquisition. “Okay. But the Pope didn’t mention any commission, so I’ll do the job alone . . . or not at all.”

  Satisfied that he’d successfully pressed Marc into an indefensible position, Cardinal Nani simply shrugged his shoulders, smiled, and said, “Very well, Doctor. I’ll report that to His holiness.”

  *

  With full confidence that they had managed to achieve their own ends, Cardinal Nani and Bishop Bottero presented their “findings” to the Pope.

  “There’s absolutely no precedent for such an approach, Your Holiness,” Bottero insisted.

  “It could be extremely dangerous to place such responsibility in the hands of a single individual, particularly someone so young.” Nani added.

  “What’s wrong with a young person?” the Pope inquired with disarming tranquility.

  “It’s more than simply a question of years. It also involves his perspective, and since Doctor Solovino comes from a country with little—or no—tradition, he might not fully appreciate the centuries of custom, the way of thinking here about relics . . . precious objects that have been adored since before his countr
y was even discovered.”

  “That might be an advantage,” the Pope postulated. “It could give him an unbiased approach.”

  “With respect, Your Holiness, the young man is impudent. He’s clearly intent on aggrandizing himself.”

  “I believe that you’ve misread him, Nani,” the Pontiff said evenly. “I know for a fact that he came here primarily to buy a new Ferrari in Maranello. I think that makes him more objective about the shroud than any commission we could possibly appoint.”

  Bishop Bottero interjected another objection. “The Archbishop of Torino could be highly offended, Your Holiness. Unless he has his own representative present at the investigation, he might consider this is a ploy by Cardinal Dugan to gain ascendancy.”

  “But on the other hand,” the Pope reasoned, “he would be very pleased if Doctor Solovino were able to confirm conclusively what the Church has been maintaining for centuries about the shroud.”

  *

  Meanwhile in a spacious anteroom nearby, Marc was seated in a large armchair, thumbing through a book. He'd cooled down since his encounter with the hierarchy of the Curia, but he realized that he’d been placed right in the middle of a power play. It was surprising to him that the sides were so sharply drawn, but it was possibly due to the Pope’s relative inexperience in his role as Pontiff. The Curia might well be in the process of asserting it’s strength early in the new man’s Papacy. And as a convenient pawn, Marc had fallen into the trap Nani had set with Jesuitical cunning. He'd lost his composure and made a demand that probably ran counter to the Pope’s plans . . . and by making it an either/or demand, Marc had in all likelihood ruined his own chances of performing the investigation. He still wanted to do it but was reasonable enough to anticipate being turned down. Oh well, he concluded, I've got my Ferrari to look forward to. His reverie was interrupted by the sound of the door opening on the far side of the room.

  “Please wait here,” came the voice of the young priest who manned the desk outside.

  “Thank you,” Marc heard another male voice say. Then the door closed. Immediately, there was the sound of a female voice . . . a very upset female.