The eye of the lion

I had forgotten how much I hated English weather until I got off the plane in London, after an agonizing eight-hour flight, and the grey sky and constant frozen drizzle were a slap in the face.

Randall B. was waiting for me in the terminal and greeted me with the courtesy and elation that can only be expected of an Englishman. We went to his apartment and while we ate dinner we talked about trivial matters and what we’d both done since we last saw each other six years previously in Berlin. After dinner we went to his study, and while we smoked some delicious Cubans he’d been guarding jealously for a long time, we started talking about work. Randall seemed anxious.

“Thirty million dollars,” he murmured, as though trying to picture the money in front of him. “Hell!”

I nodded. The tracking of Voquessi’s bank transaction in Paris had been successful, thanks to my boys, who had sent me the information during my flight to England. That was the exorbitant sum that Voquessi, the iron man of the Vatican, had

paid in exchange for...

“A lock of hair...!” It was more of a statement than a question.

“Which, let’s not forget, may have originated in Kelly’s crypt,” I added.

“Haile, that hair could be off the taxi-driver or off Waiss himself. The guy’s swindling the pants off the Vatican, selling them the fakest relic in history!”

I took a drag of my delicious “Cohiba” and looked at Randall, realizing that there was a lot of information I still hadn’t given him.

“We have good reason to believe that Voquessi plans to put an end to Kelly’s myth using a high-caliber weapon: Vajpayee.”

“The Nobel Prize-winner?”

“He was in Rome three weeks ago. They photographed him twice in the Vatican, near Voquessi’s office. It’s obvious he’s not there to see the sights.”

Randall shook his head as though he couldn’t see something clearly in his mind.

“I don’t see how Voquessi could use the Indian guy to ruin Kelly’s image.”

“Think about it. Vajpayee could easily take that hair and verify that it’s from this century or last century, and that therefore: either Kelly was idiotic enough to mess up and confuse the tomb of some poor wretch with the tomb of Christ... which to me seems totally absurd for a man of his talent...”

“Or...?”

“Or he was an evil trickster who wanted to fool the world and make himself famous by way of an elaborate fraud, and when he realised he wasn’t going to succeed, he planned the destruction of the false proofs of his find and staged his own death so that he could escape, which if you ask me, seems even more stupid for a man of his reputation.

“And the other possibility?” Randall asked with a glint in his eye that reminded me of a curious child.

“What?” I looked at him seriously, realizing that this was the first time I had stopped to think that there might be another possibility.

“That Vajpayee finds something strange in the hair,” said Randall as though thinking aloud.

“Something weird or different...” I theorized out loud. “Which would lead us to believe that the hair really did come from...?”

Suddenly I shivered. We looked at each other for several moments. Voquessi would be enthroned in history as the man who provided scientific proof of the divine nature of Christ. He would secure the power of the Catholic Church for ever, and he himself would be its greatest Apostle.

His power would be immense.

Randall nodded. “Either way, the man can’t lose. But wait a second. What about Waiss?”

“What about him?”

“One: If the hair is fake, and it’s clear that he has the means for finding that out, would he risk conning Voquessi and unleashing his wrath? I don’t think so.”

“And two?” I asked, following Randall’s reasoning.

“And two: if it’s not fake, and it’s... really Christ’s hair, would he be so stupid as to sell it to Voquessi without trying to auction it at the best price? Knowing there must be others who could surely offer him more? So that he could destroy it to the detriment of the Church, for example, or hide it?”

“OK, that would be speculating, Randall...”

“OK, fine. Let’s say I’m speculating, but an item like that would stir up the greed of a whole lot of people. For many reasons.”

“And what’s more...” continued Randall, approaching and sitting next to me on the sofa, looking at me with his deep grey eyes.

“Think about this, Haile: a lot has leaked out into the press about the illegal genetic experiments that Waiss has performed in the United States, do you remember the protests in front of his building in New York?”

“Yes, I saw it on CNN.”

“And the inspections they carried out in his plant in Essex to prove he wasn’t breaking the law and working with embryos, remember?”

“Yes, I heard something about it.”

“And everything seemed above-board even though people kept talking about his work as ethically questionable, even immoral, which you and I know is very likely given that he works in such secrecy and protects his plants with such excessive security...”

“Yeah... what about it?” I asked, not seeing where his deductions were leading.

“There’s something that doesn’t fit, Haile, think about it. Waiss obtains an object of extraordinary value in every aspect, including scientific, and despite the fact that he holds in his hands a lock of hair that for a geneticist who’s crazy about

cloning, like Waiss, would be like possessing the Holy Grail, he decides to blackmail the Vatican and sell it for thirty million. Why? It doesn’t make sense.”

We know that he’s had serious trouble financing his projects,” I argued. “And that the church has publicly demonized his work on many occasions. It would be a good way to settle accounts.”

“And hand over those specimens that have such enormous value to a man like him, in order to finance less important work, work that’s, let’s say, less close to his heart? I don’t think so. And anyway, I’m absolutely positive that Waiss would never dare to try to swindle Voquessi by handing him a false relic. Not with a man like Vajpayee as that holy man of God’s consultant.”

I smiled at my friend’s delicate English sarcasm.

“Unless...” I added,

“Waiss didn’t give Voquessi the complete specimen, which isn’t possible, given that Voquessi had a copy of the account of the articles from the crypt, written by Kelly. And knowing the man, we can be sure that the account would have included the exact number of hairs found in that tomb, which Voquessi doubtless counted personally before closing the deal.”

Randall was thoughtful for a few moments, regarding a Millet lithograph which was hanging on the study wall. Then he looked at me.

“Voquessi has a copy of the booklet where Kelly wrote the account, and as far as we know, the copy was made before the accident, which would mean Voquessi is sure that it’s authentic and he trusts it.”

“But if the original is in Waiss’ hands like he himself confirmed...” I concluded, following his train of thought, “He or someone else could well have altered the account before the accident, even before the copy of it was made.”

“So Waiss could have kept some items, including some of the famous hair, and while he was at it, defrauded the Vatican of thirty million.”

“He would be killing two birds with one stone. He would have the cloning genius’ “Holy Grail”, and the money to carry out his most audacious projects with no problem.”

We looked at each other in silence for a moment, realizing that we had hit on an important point to consider for the investigation. The job of closely observing Elias Waiss and discovering his intentions would be hard, but now on top of that there was a detail that would complicate the operation even more.

I looked at Randall as I sat in silence, stubbing out what was left of my cigar in an ash-tray.

“We have to get Kelly’s note-book.”

The next day the rest of my team arrived, and Jessica spent the morning making the mold of a latex mask that I would use for my appointment with Waiss two days later.

I was going to be transformed into Richard Castañeda, Colombian coffee magnate.