One to the 3rd Degree: The Shroud of Turin Conspiracy

Lord

PROLOGUE

THE SUN WAS JUST BEGINNING to peek over the Eastern sky and Jonathan Avalov was already blinded by its first rays. The cold Syrian desert air, he knew, would heat up slowly during this 13th day of January. It won’t get above the mid-40s, he thought. The more familiar hot, dry summer winds in this semiarid steppe land extending across three-quarters of the country were still a long way off. Jonathan shivered from lying so long on the hard ground. This bullshit has been going on since almost midnight now.

I can’t believe we’re fucking doing this, Jonathan bitched under his breath. I’m a Secret Service agent for cri-sakes. He was used to guarding the President in his White House mansion. Yet, the former special ops Marine now found himself in the middle of a terrorist mission beyond his wildest dreams. Crazy, man. Crazy.

What’s that? asked his taller mission side-kick, Robert Scarsborough.

Jonathan smiled. He knew Scar was also a one-time Marsoc Marine with expert marksman credentials. His debonair looks today aside, the CIA operative had more kills to his credit than a James Bond. Huh? Oh. Nothing. Nothing, Jonathan replied. My bro’s just down there with those freakin’ maniacs and I’m gonna shoot the shit out of them.

Easy, my friend, Scarsborough reassured. This is going to be a piece of cake.

From the crest upon which they lay and overlooking the ISIS encampment their intelligence colleagues had targeted below, the two comrades gazed upon a scene far more bone chilling than the cold.

In terrorists’ ceremonial orange garb and a black hood they first surmised the outlines of the kidnapped New York Times journalist Joe Morgenthau. A masked, sword-wielding man stood over him, while others ran about shouting epithets or quietly filming the choreographed ordeal … This is personal, Jonathan reminded himself. His brother, Alex, was standing nearby, also in ceremonial orange robes.

We never should have let Alex go down there, just to stall for more time for his friend, Jonathan said. He brushed his wiry, short blond hair back to wipe away the accumulated dust he knew was sticking to it.

Let’s not go there, Scarsborough replied. "Alex knew what he was doing. We all agreed on the plan. The President, too. Your brother’s doing his bit to stall the ISIS long enough so the rest of our strike team and Navy Seals get positioned to do job done properly. 13:13 hours, we make our move. Not before."

And, what if they don’t get their act together in time? Or, if something gets screwed up and its D-Day time? Then, what?

Then, you and I are going to fucking improvise and get Joe and Alex out of there ourselves … before Johnny Blade does his executioner’s thing.

Jonathan and Scarsborough looked yet again at their watches, then, the maps, with an X that marked their spot, right in line with the 33 degree latitude. As predicted. Another look at the geography and logistics they were facing told a grim tale. Bastards, the younger Avalov whispered again upon eyeing the pit with the burnt remains of executed men and women. Next to it was his brother, with head defiantly held high … You know I’d trade places with you if I could, bro.

Alex, meanwhile, sensed as well as knew his brother was watching. It’s time to suck it up, Alex told himself. Just like it were another Illini football game and you were playing linebacker against Michigan. Ok. Today, you’re just another Georgetown Professor of Political Theory, he breathed under his breath. But, that job somehow got you here. It’s what gave you a chance to bargain for Joe’s life. Let’s see what you’re really made of.

The night before, Alex recalled, he had left Jonathan and Scarsborough on the hill above and had walked into camp … to negotiate a ransom and buy the desperately needed time to pull off his friend’s unlikely rescue. We need to talk terms again, was the 11th hour message for the mullah. "The Morgenthau family is willing to pay …"

Alex was interrupted by a rifle butt to the back of the head. He had dropped to his knees, then, struggled to his feet. But, another rifle butt to the stomach had dropped him again. Breathless, Alex remembered staggering to his feet yet again as a rifleman was about to shoot him in the temple.

Tawaqaf, Hasan Abd al-R had finally yelled. Halt, the ISIS religious leader and enforcer of the Sharia Law added in broken English. We’ve heard that same begging from the man’s father. But, let him live until tomorrow, so he sees what Justice means to us.

Alex breathed a sigh of relief. The ISIS Caliph, Amir al-Rashid, must have crapped bullets when he got al-R’s message from me, he now mused. What would have been more unexpected than another offer from an Avalov … with connections to the White House? And, that low chopper flight during the night was just like in the movies … let alone my waltzing into camp right on time and exactly like I said I would … what was the Lady in White’s prophesy that I delivered to the Pope last year? Would not the WORD, the TRUTH prevail? But, then, whose Word? Who’s Truth?

John the Blade, once a bricklayer from Liverpool, continued to recite in perfect English for the terrorist camera crew his indictment of Joe Morgenthau that would appear later that day on YouTube. It was Alex’s turn to feel his brother’s fear. Stay with the plan. Hold your shit together. You’ve got two choppers with Navy Seals coming. You have Jon and Scar here, too. When 20 minutes out … Jon and Scar will guide them all in, give them the green light to attack just after a drone missile attack blasts the camp. The earliest possible time for the synchronized assault is 13:00 hours; 13:13 still ok. Maybe.

You, Infidel, have defiled Muhammad and the Holy Scriptures, Executioner John taunted his captive journalist. Blasphemer! You deserve the Fate of all who desecrate the One Truth, the One God.

Alex could hear his friend weeping softly as the beheading sword was lowered and its cold steel was touching the nape of his neck. Hold on, Joe! Hold on! I will not let this happen to you …

Wait! Hasan! Alex shouted. I come not only from the prisoner’s newspaper with an offer … but, from the American President himself … Yes! A message … and a promise … for you!

Executioner John raised the sword to strike, but looked to his right where his leader stood, along with several of his closest lieutenants.

You have nothing from the President for us, al-R laughed.

You’re wrong. I do. I do. You can check the messages I’ve posted to the Internet. It includes a link to a special page on the White House website, created for Caliph Amir’s eyes only.

Why should I? Allah’s will be done. Your President cannot change that.

I know. He knows. But, the President’s message is now personal. He will triple the newspaper’s offer. For Allah’s glory. It is Allah’s will.

You blasphemer! You will pay for your insolence.

"Hasan! Yes! You know my work. My books, my teachings, have been true to the Quran. If I lie, if I blaspheme now, you know I will accept my Fate at your hands, which are instruments of the Almighty One God."

Al-R turned to consult with his personal guards and advisors. Alex heard the whispered voices wafting through the slowly warming air. Oh, I fucking hope those drones are still overhead, getting all this on camera … He saw flashes of familiar numbers before his eyes: 1. 9.11 … 33.1.13 … 13.13. Then, 6:17:27 made him think of what John the Baptist’s last moments must have been like before being beheaded by Herod’s executioners. Yeah, that’s what these bastards are talking about. This, after all, is Land of the Beheadings. The sheer weight of the danger facing him made Alex start. Not only did he have the family gift of hearing Inner Voices at critical times in his life, but could see images of fateful events before they happened. What’s that? Am I seeing the Lady in White again? Surrounded by three men. She just called them Michael, Gabriel and Raphael. Archangels.

Alex thought back to the aftermath of his having helped foil the Locust terrorists’ attempt to assassinate the President at his party’s national nominating convention just six month earlier. Joe had dubbed it L’Affaire Locust Deux in the Times. I tried to explain to my family and friends the prophesies this spiritual vision revealed to me and that helped stop those murderers …

And, the third prediction? Georgetown University Chancellor Jones had wanted to know at the celebration party thrown in Alex’s honor by his father and prominent Chicago lawyer, Mike.

Alex did not mean to be coy to the assembled guests, just honest. I wrote it down before I forgot, he had explained. But, the Lady asked that her final prediction be revealed only to the Pope.

Like the Lady of Fatima?

The Chancellor’s remarkable follow up question had hushed everyone again.

Sort of, I guess … let’s just say it had something to do with the Church’s Doctrine of the Holy Trinity …

Another conspiracy?

In a blink this day in the Syrian desert, however, the vision of the Lady and three Archangels was gone. Still, Alex thought he heard something that sounded like the word "Faith." Then, In the beginning there was the Word. Then, Father, Son, Holy Spirit.

American Professor, al-R asked. Tell us again. How did you locate our camp?

"I helped the CIA interpret the Holy Scriptures and the importance of the number 33 in them … a Marine helicopter flew me within marching distance last night … five miles from here … But, the truth? It was Providence that led me here."

You do not act or speak like an American.

I tell you the truth, Hasan. Tell your Caliph, Amir, that if you go through with the execution of this blameless man, fire will rain down upon your camp and all within will perish.

Even with an American Professor from Georgetown standing next to us?

Even then.

Al-R looked skyward. American military drones might be keyed on our position after all, he decided.

Very well. You are honored by Allah, al-R suddenly said. We will consider your new offer. If you lie, if your people launch an attack, you will surely pay for it with your life.

Chapter 1: December 3

IT WAS AN UNUSUALLY cool morning outside Rome’s Basilica of San Silvestro in Capite. But, the square was already full of people, either on their way to work or queuing up to see the skull of John the Baptist enshrined inside. The sun was migrating quickly from the East and would soon shine upon portions of both church and square.

Muhammad looked on the busy scene with growing concern from his idling scooter. He felt uneasy dressed in fashionable Euro clothing and uncomfortably adjusted his raincoat’s collar to better protect his neck. Pausing to look up in disgust at the baroque statues of four saints atop the Basilica’s giant façade order, Muhammad glanced at the security below. Then, he spied the several edifices encircling the scene. This will not be as easy as the Avenger says, Muhammad said while peering down at his two shorter comrades standing next to him on the far side of Piazza San Silvestre and in front of Santi Claudio e Andrea dei Borgognoni.

Why not? demanded a squat Sulaimon as he stroked his full, black beard.

Won’t this narrow space allow us to do what we want with these people? a slim and clean-shaven Mustafa also asked.

Yes, but that advantage can be a disadvantage, Muhammad half-agreed. It can trap us, too. It can prevent us from getting into the church, through its atrium and narthex, then, to the chapel. After all, that’s where the Baptist’s bones are kept.

I saw the church layout, too, Muhammad. We will just have to cut our way to the relic, Sulaimon boasted. It’s in a glass casing. And, even a relic will crumble when our clubs and axes smash it.

You do not listen, my friend, Muhammad thought, but kept his reticence to himself. The gated entrance to the Basilica can easily be closed once trouble starts, he noted, and can prevent us from even getting into the small garden beyond, let alone entrance to the church. And, those security guards and gendarmes are plentiful as always at this corner of Via del Gambero and the Via della Mercede. Just a few feet away sits Rome’s main post office. Do you have the axes? he asked the others.

Underneath, replied Sulaimon, while patting his more conspicuous trench coat with the right hand.

Me, too, added Mustafa, also clad in a pocketed coat and jeans that hung badly on his slighter build.

See Dalia there, with the scarf? Near the front of the line? Muhammad pointed. Let’s wait for her signal to move in.

Almost as soon as Muhammad finished talking, Dalia looked directly at the trio and gave them the start or ok signal with a downward movement of her head.

We strike, Muhammad shouted.

Instantly, the men launched their attack. Muhammad jumped off his bike and pulled from it a long, hardwood club that had been attached. As he stormed forward, Sulaimon and Mustafa followed close behind, clutching their steeled axes and pressing them close to their chests. Few in the crowd nearest the Basilica’s gate had noticed them coming. Then, Dalia gave out a war hoop. She slashed at the unsuspecting American woman immediately behind her with a Yemeni dagger, severing an artery in the victim’s neck. With another fiendish yelp, Dalia plunged the weapon into the husband’s chest as he came to his wife’s aid. Frightful screams suddenly echoed about the square as dozens raced to get away from the woman who had now jumped onto one of two hapless security guards manning the front gate and began slashing at the back of his neck, too.

The pandemonium that ensued helped disguise the real assault to come.

Allah is Great! shouted Muhammad as he clubbed the nearest pedestrian running past him.

Death to the Infidel bellowed Mustafa, while hammering an elderly Italian woman to the ground with the dull side of his axe, then, administering a second blow to the back of the fallen with the sharp end.

It was Sulaimon whose purpose was the most clever. Getting past that gate and into the church is all that matters, he told himself. Sulaimon plowed the sea of terrorized humanity in front of him by swinging his axe much like a farmer harvesting his crop on a sugar cane plantation. One person was smashed to his right. Another went flying to his left. And, a third was nearly cut in half length-wise with one mighty stroke. Still, the more he swung his axe, the more Sulaimon encountered bodies fleeing the other three merchants of mayhem. Blood now seemed everywhere and his own vision was impaired from all that had flew onto his face. Looking up, Sulaimon spotted Dalia and Mohammed just a handful of feet from the gate, but struggling with those collecting themselves enough to fight back.

Get to the gate, he yelled. Get to the gate.

Already, police sirens and whistles could be heard in the distance. One burly Army corporal with bleeding hands that had been used to fend off Dalia’s wild dagger blows, was saved by a buddy who managed to land a ferocious blow of his own to her jaw, cold-cocking her momentarily. The freed corporal intuitively wheeled and wrapped his arms around Muhammad, forcing him to the ground. There, they scratched and clawed at one another, then, head-butted until both were dazed.

Forget him, Sulaimon ordered Mustafa to his right. Come, follow me.

Together Sulaimon and Mustafa renewed their march to the wrought iron gate that was the key to their mission, not realizing that a priest had bravely raced to the gate and locked it. Two armed gendarmes who had just arrived on the scene yelled for the men to halt. They were ignored. When Sulaimon turned to lunge at the gendarme nearest him, a shot rang out, the force of the bullet knocking him off his feet. Sulaimon got up. A second shot cut him down. There, he slowly bled to death.

I will kill you … screamed an incensed Mustafa as he hurled his sharpened axe at the gendarme who had fired the shots, killing him instantly as well. Racing to his fallen comrade, Mustafa was himself hit by three shots fired in rapid succession, this time, by the remaining gendarme.

Nearby, twenty Italian SWAT team members rushed into the square, herding many of those still remaining to safety. Muhammad, meanwhile, had managed to free himself from his Army captor and struggled to his feet. Allah is Victorious, he shouted as he looked about at the carnage. He grabbed his club and bludgeoned the corporal yet again. Turning to the gate, however, twenty shots rang out. A panoply of fresh wounds made Muhammad nearly unrecognizable.

Awakening to see her ISIS comrades slain, Dalia found her dagger. Grasping the blade, she ran headlong toward the wall of riflemen. Another 20 bullets tore into her head and torso. Dalia fell dead as well.

ALEXANDER AVALOV’S HEAD spun as he groped for the rickety chair next to his single bed. Overreaching, the chair’s worn bottom slipped outward and he fell to the ground. The right side of his head banged onto the concierge room’s dirty stone floor. His teeth rattled. His temples felt a sharp pain that traveled to his right eye.

What the hell … he groaned. Alex spied the nearby wood table on which various research papers were strewn about a half-empty bottle of chianti. A spent joint had burnt a notch in the table top. If I could just get a hold of that chair over there, he thought …

The bright morning sun was pouring through the single paned window and blinding. Alex could still taste the red grape of his drinking binge the night before. A queasy stomach forced him to stay bent at the waist. Rolling over was difficult. This will teach me to buy the cheaper wine. Alex did not notice the English language newspaper now lying in front of his aching eye or grasp the two headlines in front of them. The first would have immediately hit home: Axe-Wielding Terrorists Assault Baptist Relics in Rome. The second was no less alarming: Italian Journalist Beheaded By Brutal ISIS Captors. Alex was not ready to pull out of his funk, however.

I’ve been bouncing back and forth between Rome and this sleepy little northern Italian town studying the Shroud of Turin since, what? Summer? Ha! So, you think you’re nearing another breakthrough that will shock the world! You, Georgetown Professor, will again … tell all in your third book! You will reveal through this centuries old, beaten up relic … that some scientists have called a fake … the hidden truths and historical influence numbers have had on the minds of men, no, the course of the most important human events!

Screw this, Alex decided after three feeble tries at getting up to walk. I can’t move my fucking arms … or legs. Just lay here a few.

Staring at the peeling paint on the ceiling above, Alex recalled the happier fall days, when he had been immersed in research at the Vatican’s immense library in Rome. Hundreds of hours more were spent simply viewing … and meditating upon … the venerated shroud now housed in the royal chapel of the Cathedral of Saint John the Baptist. Only fleetingly did he conjure up the memories of Mary Alistair Fairchild and his Spring-time role in helping the first American woman presidential candidate to get nominated by a major party … by fending off terrorist threats, no less … then, seriously campaigning, for the presidency through June and July. Going on two years, in fact, Alex had somehow been in the right place at the right time. Somehow, he had used his unique skills in helping the nation’s intelligence community decode the communications of the now infamous Locust terrorists embedded in most major Western cities. Twice he had been instrumental in uncovering planned lethal attacks on whole populations, even the assassination of the United States’ President.

This is too much for any one ordinary guy like me, Alex reminded himself.

The brass-knuckles politicking he had witnessed on the presidential campaign trail seemed in some ways almost as disillusioning as the terrorists waging jihad. Finally taking a sabbatical leave from Mary Fairchild’s campaign as well