Archbishop Valdieri from New York is impatient to get the Pope to the Clinic of the
Little Sisters of Grace in Avignon, France, for urgent treatment. The surgeons at
the American-
Matt Rider, an English PI, is on holiday in Avignon with his girlfriend Zoé. They get talking to a local nurse in Avignon. She tells them that all is not well at the American clinic up on the hill. Matt thinks the nurse is crazy – until her husband calls with devastating news.
To investigate the clinic, Matt needs some bugs and a phone tap. But he doesn’t know that the national security forces are involved, and he doesn’t know that one of the surgeons will soon want Zoé dead.
SHROUD OF THE HEALER is the second Matt Rider detective thriller.
ISBN-
228 pages
READ THE OPENING PAGES
Prologue
New York—1985
“FATHER, I HAVE SINNED.”
No request for absolution, just a blunt statement of fact. Father Stephen Valdieri
nodded dutifully in the shadows of the confessional, even though he knew it was impossible
for the middle-
“Tell me your sins.”
“Father, I have sinned, but I am not here for forgiveness.”
Valdieri waited. Never before had he encountered such an astonishing situation. Admissions of dishonesty, anger, blasphemy, bizarre perversions, sins of the flesh—all of them everyday fare within the community. But never had a person come to confession refusing forgiveness.
The man continued after a considerable pause. “I am here because it is vital that I confide in someone who will not seek me out for retribution. Someone who will understand that my motives were not exclusively selfish.” He spoke with the measured formality of a highly educated man. This was certainly not a parishioner.
The clock on the tower struck eight times, the jarring chimes reverberating through the musty fabric of the building. Stephen Valdieri said nothing. Even the most reluctant confessor would feel duty bound to fill the silence that followed.
“I was with the U.S. embassy in Moscow.” The man hesitated. “Father, I have the Smolensk icons.”
Adrenaline pumped through the priest. The man on the other side of the screen claimed to possess the fabulous art treasures that the Communist state stole from the people of Russia in 1918. Over a hundred religious icons that had recently been stolen from the Communists by... By a Catholic? An American?
“How did you get them?”
“I paid the custodian for them, Father. It was a fair price. I do not regard payment as theft.”
Valdieri drew his breath sharply. “I fail to see a distinction in this instance. The Russian custodian was not the owner.”
“If I return them to the Communists they will confiscate them from the people. What advice do you have for me, Father?”
The advice was far from obvious. The Communists would indeed appropriate them once more, and the Christian Church might never see them again. “Are you prepared to take me to them now?”
“I cannot do that.”
Valdieri tried to remain calm. If the Catholic Church could hold the treasure safely in the West until such time as Communism collapsed—for that time would surely come—then he, Father Stephen Valdieri, might well be heralded as the person responsible for healing a thousand years of rancor with the Russian Church.
But his work in this Brooklyn parish ended on Sunday.
He had been offered a step up in his calling. A choice of steps, in fact. A move to Rome as a simple priest in the Vatican, or promotion from Father to Monsignor in Saint Patrick’s Cathedral in Fifth Avenue across the East River. Monsignor Stephen Valdieri? It sounded great. His fellow clerics had gasped at the news and told him that of course he only had one possible option.
But he was off to Rome on Monday. And now he could see how opportune had been his decision. A satisfactory outcome could guarantee his swift advancement into the Vatican hierarchy. Maybe he should change his name to Stefano in readiness. His grandparents had come to the States from Italy, and proudly taught him to speak the language of his ancestors. But his parents were American citizens. And so was he. He would stay as Stephen Valdieri, an American with Italian roots. Maybe he would become Monsignor Valdieri in Rome one day, even Bishop Valdieri. Archbishop? Cardinal? Someone in the Vatican obviously thought he had potential.
“You must give me the icons,” he said aloud. “You will be regarded as a hero in the West, saving them from the Communists.”
“The icons are not in America.”
“Wherever you have them concealed, I implore you to lead me to them.”
“They are in a European country that has long captivated me. I am retiring there shortly.”
“Without forgiveness?”
“Forgiveness can keep until I am dead, Father. That is when the icons will be returned.”
“Remember it is easier for a camel to pass through the eye of a needle than for a rich man to enter the Kingdom of Heaven. You are playing with fire.”
But the man had already gone. Stephen Valdieri snatched the curtain aside to see the church door closing. The sanctity of the confessional. He slapped the polished wood in frustration. Over the centuries people had died for those icons. Something told him that the killing had not stopped. To find fame through recovering those works of religious art was to risk death. But fame always had a price. Maybe one day....
Chapter One
England—The Present
MATT REACHED FOR the key ring as it spun towards him through the air. “Not another inside job?”
“Just the one, kiddo. A small painting in an empty house. I’ve even got a photo of it. Take my BMW.”
Matt turned the house door and alarm keys in his hand and studied them suspiciously. “You sure the house is empty?”
Ken Habgood nodded in encouragement. “Planning, that’s what it’s all about. But keep your eyes open and be careful. Believe me, the house owner can be trouble.”
“Sounds much more fun than going to the south of France,” observed Matt dryly.
The tall man behind the desk smiled a row of large teeth. “You sound down in the dumps today, kiddo. Most people would be looking forward to their summer break.”
Matt wasn’t going to tell Ken about his worries over Zoé Champanelle. He was now
wondering if Zoé would be there when he got back after work. He’d been playing Shostakovich
last night, the Fourth String Quartet, loudly. The music helped control his pent-
He tossed the key ring to the ceiling and caught it with one hand. “I hope you’ve done your homework.”
Ken closed his eyes and sighed noisily. “It will be okay,” he promised, but with little conviction. “Leave the painting in the back of my car.”
Matt Rider was already wondering why he’d bothered to come to work at all. There must be better ways for someone in his thirties to spend his time. He should be off this evening to France. But he wouldn’t go without Zoé.
THE HOUSE STOOD at the end of a short drive, its front door in serious need of paint,
and the curtain linings gray with years of grime. Scattered sheets of newspaper hung
amongst the shrubs. This was not the residence of a house-
The open ground gave no cover. He wouldn’t walk. He needed wheels to leave quickly. He started to sweat as he inched Ken’s maroon BMW towards the black gates. Every move had to be made without hesitation. There were never second chances.
He rehearsed the procedure once more in his mind. Drive confidently up to the house, ring the bell, wait one minute, ring again, wait, unlock the front door, disable the house alarm with the small key, grab the painting, jump in the car, start the engine—then floor the pedal. It was routine stuff. He’d done it before, sometimes with the house alarm sounding and the strobe light flashing. The keys in his pocket felt reassuring. There would be no problems today. According to Ken.
Just take the painting and go. Jobs like this worried Zoé, and could be the cause of recent arguments.
He glanced briefly along the tree-
The hall smelt strongly of cooking. Fried onions. He was glad there was no one at home. People could go to great lengths to keep hold of a valuable painting. It tallied with the photo and was exactly where Ken had said it would be. He lifted it from the wall and hurried back to the car.
Ken’s BMW was ten years old. He held his breath and willed the motor to fire first time. The engine purred into life. A sharp blip on the throttle released a surge of power and a hum of energy. The clutch bit with the revs still high. Someone shouted. A bulky figure in jeans and a dirty vest stood blocking the exit. Matt saw the scaffold pole in the man’s hands and was tempted to cut the engine and run, but he guessed he’d be a lot safer if he stayed in the car and kept going.
With its tires spinning wildly on the loose gravel the BMW thundered backwards towards the gates—and the raised scaffold pole. At first it looked as though the man would hold his ground, but at the last moment he jumped to one side, smashing the metal shaft down on the rear window. Matt’s view in the mirror was blasted away in a cloud of white splinters.
Before the man could raise the weapon for a second strike Matt was in the road, twisting the steering wheel for a rapid getaway. From close behind he could hear the frantic sound of a horn and the screech of brakes from a large van, but there was no collision. The man hurled the pole as Matt took off in a cloud of burning rubber.
Chapter Two
Clinic of the Little Sisters of Tourvillon—Avignon, France
DR. JIM KAPPA read his leaked copy of the copy of the memo that Cardinal Delgardo of the Vatican Medical Assembly had sent to Archbishop Valdieri twelve days ago. He should have been shown it much sooner. The Archbishop presented a substantial threat to K7 if he was investigating the clinic. Many members of K7 wanted to see the Pope dead.
MEMO FROM OTTORINO CARDINAL DELGARDO
CHIEF ADVISER, VATICAN MEDICAL ASSEMBLY
TO ARCHBISHOP STEPHEN VALDIERI
VATICAN SECURITY SERVICES, ROME
EXTREMELY CONFIDENTIAL
My Dear Stephen,
The health of the Holy Father continues to deteriorate. The Vatican Medical Assembly is once more considering the generous offer of treatment by Dr. Kappa at the Clinic of the Little Sisters of Tourvillon, in Avignon, France.
I know you have recently been investigating Dr. Kappa and his clinic, but according to your report you have exposed nothing to cause us concern. There would therefore no longer seem to be a good reason to decline Dr. Kappa’s offer.
Since you are responsible for the Holy Father’s safety whenever he is absent from Rome, please prepare a detailed security schedule for an immediate visit, and attend to the matter with the maximum confidentiality. You will appreciate it is essential that the media are not alerted, since the world is unaware of the serious nature of the Holy Father’s ill health.
If you want to know what happens next, you will have to buy the book! Available as a paperback, or in several electronic formats for immediate download. Try one of these sites, or most other internet booksellers:
© 2008 Chris Wright
