THE HOODED FORM moved silently through the estate. The mysterious figure stole silently up the old stone stairwell. Reaching the top of the stairwell, he extended his hand, pointing to the locked wooden door. With a click, the large door slowly swung open. Looking around to be certain he remained undetected, the form gracefully slipped into the open room. A large wrapped bundle was tucked under his arm.

Another gesture of his hand illuminated the room ever so slightly with a golden glow. It was there, as he knew it would be, hanging on the wall across the room.

He walked over to it deliberately. An unlit candle sat on a table in front of where the linen tapestry hung. The figure lifted the candle, and with a touch of a finger to the wick, the candle flame ignited. He passed it over the cloth, looking for something. There, in the lower left corner. The skull crest of the de Charny family was stamped into the cloth.

The figure smiled. Quickly and expertly, he removed the linen from the wall and folded it into a compact bundle. Then he unwrapped the bundle he had brought with him and placed it where the original Shroud had been hanging. The forgery was perfect, and undetectable, he marveled, with a silent acknowledgment to its creators. He stepped back to view the Shroud hanging on the wall. The only difference between the two was the absence of the de Charny crest. He rectified that by placing his hand over the bottom right-hand corner. When he removed his hand, the de Charny crest was scorched into its proper place.

The hooded form stepped toward the center of the old musty room. The door swung closed, and with a click, was sealed once more. A blazing white light enveloped him, and he was gone. The candle extinguished itself and the room was dark once again. No evidence of the mysterious visit was left behind.

FOR MANY ROMAN Catholics, prayers and ritual observances repeated over time slowly lose whatever meaning they may have had. Father Guido Salvatore had never known that phenomenon. His reverence for the mystical meaning behind the ceremonies, the Holy Mass, and all the other Catholic devotions had only grown with repetition.

As dawn approached, his heart grew light as he made his way up the gravel pathway to the Cathedral for his daily ritual. This was Father Salvatore's personal devotion. Every morning for the past twenty-five years he had maintained it faithfully and reverently. In the Cathedral of John the Baptist in an ornate reliquary behind the altar, the Holy Shroud of Turin was housed, and every morning Father Salvatore knelt in humble worship before it.

To Father Salvatore, the Shroud was the most sacred of all Catholic relics. It was within this very piece of linen that the Lord Jesus Christ had been wrapped when his crucified body had been removed from the torturous cross on which he had been condemned to die so cruelly and laid to rest in the stone tomb on the outskirts of ancient Jerusalem. It was this Shroud, which bore the holy essence of the Lord's spirit, seared into it at the moment of resurrection. A man with a faith as deep as Father Salvatore's did not require evidence, of course. Yet, the Shroud stood for all of mankind to see as proof ... yes proof, that God Himself had walked among men, died as the Gospel chroniclers had reported, and been resurrected from that death to go forth and prepare Heaven for all of mankind. For Father Salvatore, to worship such an icon was more natural and logical than his very existence.

Walking with a light bounce in his step, Father Salvatore approached the tall door of the Chapel. Inserting a large key in an even larger lock he opened the door. The loud creaking of the door reverberated off the tall ceilings and a loud thud filled the chapel. As the altar came into focus through the dim light he let out a loud cry of horror. It's gone! His sacred and Holy Shroud was missing from its exalted spot behind the altar. Not believing his eyes, Father Salvatore ran up to the altar and stared incredulously at the empty space where the Shroud had hung for centuries. Feeling dizzy and faint, he reached for the altar to steady himself. His eyes fell upon a gold coin left upon it. He picked it up with a trembling hand. It bore the Latin inscription, Libertus Kristos est, Kristos Libertus est.

Father Salvatore fell to his knees, crossed himself, and began praying frantically. He had failed the Lord in his role as protector of the holiest of all church icons. Surely, he was not worthy of the forgiveness for which he was so desperately praying. Then he started to sob with the pain that welled up from the core of his being.

STEVEN HAMILTON LOVED his work, but never more than in these quiet late hours of the night, when he could review his research, skim the medical journals, and just be able to think without distraction. The rest of the research lab was empty. He remained alone, his feet propped up on his desk, leaning back in his chair, enjoying the solitude. Tonight, a special excitement coursed through his veins. If he was correct ... if the experimental data bore him out ... he and his research team had just discovered the Rosetta stone of biology, one of nature's most jealously guarded mysteries--the secret of exact duplicate cloning. In a few hours, he would know with certainty.

In the background, a radio played quietly. Steven found his attention jump to the radio as a Mozart concerto was suddenly interrupted.

"This is a breaking bulletin from NBS news. The famous Shroud of Turin has been stolen from its sacred reliquary in the Guarini Cathedral of John the Baptist in Turin, Italy. For more, we now go to NBS Vatican correspondent, Susan Morgan at the Vatican."

The hard, businesslike voice of Susan Morgan seemed to blast from the radio.

"Highly placed sources at the Vatican told me moments ago that the famous Shroud of Turin, believed by many to be the actual burial cloth of Jesus Christ, was stolen last night. After initially expressing shock and outrage, officials have refrained from any additional comment. A special meeting of the Curia, the Pope's inner council of advisors, is taking place at this time, undoubtedly to decide exactly how to deal with what is sure to be a crisis of faith. During these early morning hours, the Vatican is usually a very quiet and sedate place. Not this morning, however. This place has become alive with activity. One can feel a very tangible sense of confusion and dismay as the reality of the disappearance of this, one of the most holy relics of the Catholic Church, begins to sink in.

"Amazingly, although word of the Shroud's disappearance was only announced moments ago, a large crowd of supporters and curious onlookers is already gathering in St. Peter's Square, no doubt expecting an announcement of some sort from the Pope. There has been no official word just when that might occur, or even if it will occur."

The radio report continued with sound bites from various Vatican officials, each expressing his outrage at such a blatantly blasphemous act. Steven let the voices return to the background. Being a scientist, he always found religious faith to be suspect. He was not exactly an atheist or an agnostic like many of his colleagues, but he nevertheless found himself regarding the religiously devout with a small amount of disdain. To Steven, blind faith was just plain laziness ... and dangerous. He was grateful that years of academic training had taught him to trust only empirical evidence. That which was observable and provable was all that warranted a commitment of resources in time and/or money. Indeed, it had been his reputation for pragmatism, which had earned him the position as Director of the current cloning project.

How can these people take all of this stuff so seriously? he mused to himself. When you came right down to it, all you had was a piece of cloth of questionable age, bearing an outline image of what appeared to be a crucified male body. In the late 1980's, a panel of scientific experts had been allowed to examine a very tiny piece of the shroud, and although they were pretty certain the dating of the material postdated Jesus by several centuries, that conclusion was by no means certain. As for the mysterious image "burned" into the shroud, science had not been able to definitively answer that question. Most accepted the theory that some sort of "corrosive" effect caused by bacteria unique to the Mediterranean region, combined with some of the traditional herbs used to treat the body, had created the detailed image. One rather unique theory had circulated, postulating that the ancients had somehow stumbled upon a crude photographic technique, which had created the unique photo-negative image on the cloth.

Unfortunately, for the cause of science and reason, none of these claims could be definitively proven. Thus, the believers in the validity and so-called spiritual power of the Shroud found stronger justification to deepen their faith in the holy icon. Steven had always thought an examination of the cloth for DNA traces would have been interesting. In fact, he once wrote to his old friend Brendon Flescher, director of the research group, suggesting that very experiment. Flescher had written back that although he agreed that such an experiment might prove to be interesting to the press, he could not justify diverting any of the financial resources earmarked for the project toward a search of questionable scientific value. Flescher being Flescher, Steven knew that was the end of the matter.

Steven directed his focus once more to the matter at hand--the research data that might very well contain the secret which could open up a whole new era of scientific exploration. His heart pounded as his eyes fell upon it. He sat up with a start. There it was! Steven raised his eyes in silent thanks to the gods of science. It was conclusive. Trembling with excitement, he reached for the phone.

"John. It's me. Sorry to wake you, but I knew you would want to know this. We have it ... ! Of course, I'm sure.... No, no anomalous reactions at all. This is it.... Yes, I'll be here.... Ok, I'll see you in a half hour." Steven returned the receiver to its cradle and felt himself begin to break through the haze of euphoria. Yes ... it was certain. Now the question shifted from How do we do it? to What was to be done with it? Strangely, he noted, that question had not even occurred to him before.

POPE TIMOTHY I surveyed the faces of the cardinals and bishops seated around the long marble table. These men constituted the Curia, the body of administrators who ruled the worldwide Roman Catholic Church. Many were engaged in agitated conversation. They had not yet noticed him standing in the tall archway that led into the ornate room. Only Cardinal Gregory MacArthur sat alone, listening to all of the conversations going on around him without appearing to do so. His gaze was fixed upon a small gold medallion he was holding in his hands. The Pope fixed his eyes on him, and almost as if sensing it, MacArthur raised his gaze to meet the Pope's.

"Holy Father! Please forgive us." Cardinal MacArthur rose quickly to his feet. The murmurs in the room came to an abrupt halt and each man quickly rose and struck the appropriate pose of deference. Pope Timothy stood unmoving for a moment, his regal presence accentuated by the heavy silence that now hung over the room. Deliberately, his eyes fell upon each man present, staring just a fraction of a second longer than necessary to acknowledge each presence. Taking advantage of moments like these was always useful ... moments when he could assert his authority by an action as subtle as a raised eyebrow, or as blatant as a stern scowl of disapproval.

"Please be seated." The tension in the room abated noticeably as each man took his seat. Cardinal MacArthur occupied the foot of the table directly across from the Holy Father.

"Let me be direct. This is a matter of extreme gravity."

Cardinal MacArthur was the first to speak. "Holy Father, if I may?"

The Cardinal produced the metallic object he had been fondling in his hands and slid it across the table to the Pope, who was momentarily taken aback by the uncharacteristic familiarity of the action. His annoyance faded quickly and was replaced by seething anger as his eyes fell upon the medallion that glittered on the table before him. The medallion bore the image of an eagle in flight superimposed upon a simple cross. At the bottom of the coin was engraved the Latin phrase, Libertus Kristos est, Kristos Libertus est, which translated as "Christ is freedom, freedom is Christ."

"Your Holiness, that was found in the basilica. A courier delivered it moments ago. It was placed on the altar to be easily discovered. He is toying with us."

The Pope grasped the medallion tightly in his fist and hissed with anger. "Angelino!"

Cardinal MacArthur nodded gravely. "Yes, Holy Father. Angelino."

To the others at the table, the Pope commanded, "Not a word of this leaves this room."

STEVEN HAMILTON PACED back and forth, still clutching the folder of computer printouts, as he awaited the arrival of John Barber, his friend, colleague, and on this project, his chief researcher. In the intervening time since ending his quick phone call to John, Steven's mind had started racing through all the implications of their discovery. The magnitude of their breakthrough was enormous. Until now, the science of cloning had been really no more than synthesizing the process by which nature produced identical twins, limited exclusively to animals. Two duplicate entities were created from one parent cell. Nothing really too startling about it, but the public never really understood that. Public ignorance wasn't helped much by the media, which characteristically sensationalized the whole thing. Allusions to the mythical Frankenstein monster were trotted out as a warning to man that he was not fit to play God. Of course, that whole line of reasoning was pure nonsense to Steven and he had little patience for it. Life was a chemical reaction. All you had to do was crack the code. There was nothing metaphysical or mystical about it. It was all just chemistry. Consciousness, self-awareness, emotions--all were merely the result of chemicals and enzymes reacting in unique and as yet unknown ways. Cloning was merely chemistry. It made no sense to moralize about it, any more than it made sense to moralize about dissolving salt in water.

Their breakthrough was truly revolutionary and unexpected. What Steven and his staff had discovered was the means by which an exact duplicate of a host--a replica indistinguishable in any way from the original--could be cloned from any cell of that host. That breakthrough was not expected to occur for another twenty years, at least. But John had discovered the mechanism within the DNA itself that triggered independent growth. Furthermore, the method they had stumbled upon, almost by accident, did not require a living host organ in which to grow the embryo. Simple gestation tanks, filled with artificially manufactured embryonic fluids, provided the environment in which the cloned entities grew. They didn't really understand how the entire procedure worked, much like a surgeon did not fully understand how severed nerves and muscles would somehow reattach and repair themselves, but work it did! Nature often guarded its secrets in that fashion, like a blushing maiden tantalizing her suitor with glimpses of her delectable fruits, and then playfully withdrawing.

Yet despite his deep belief in the chemical nature of life, he found himself filled with a deep uneasiness over this revolutionary breakthrough. Whatever his own beliefs might be, he knew there would be those who would fight against their research with tenacious zeal. That would be a serious distraction to the important work which lay ahead, and the danger of an outright ban on his research coming to pass was not out of the question. He and John had often discussed the possibility, neither of them realizing just how close such problems might lie.

Steven walked over to a cage divided into two segments. In each segment a house cat paced back and forth. The cats were indistinguishable from each other. Only careful tagging identified the cat in the left-hand cage as Lucy and the cat in the right-hand cage as Little Lucy.

Suddenly, the door to the lab flew open and John raced in. As John was usually quite meticulous with his appearance, Steven was amused to see he had not even bothered combing his hair in his rush to get to the lab. "You made it in twenty," he smiled.

"Let me see it." John, trembling with excitement, ignored the comment as he literally ripped the printouts from Steven's hands. His eyes immediately fell upon the key elements of data.

"My god, Steven! We've done it! Show me the DNA scans."

Steven tapped the keys of a computer terminal sitting on a desk near the cages and two images of DNA strands appeared, one above the other. He tapped a few more keys and the image from the top moved down, superimposing itself upon the lower image. The bottom image disappeared completely beneath the top one. "Perfect match," he beamed, with just a shade of triumph in his voice.

John froze, with his jaw dropped and eyes glazed over.

Steven moved his hand up and down in front of his eyes. "Helloooo. Anybody in there?"

John blinked as if coming out of a deep trance. "Yeah. Sorry Steve. This is a little much to absorb, ya know."

Steven nodded in understanding. "Yeah. It sure is. Come over here. Take a look at our ladies." He gestured toward the cage.

John gasped, "Steven, is this possible?"

"Yep."

"How...?" Then he slapped himself on the forehand. "Duh ... of course it's possible," he said, waving the computer printout casually, the statistical proof for what his eyes told him could not be. Just this morning, Little Lucy had been no more than a kitten. Now, a mere eighteen hours later, she had grown so much she was indistinguishable from her "parent," Lucy.

John could not contain himself any longer. He let out a loud whoop, and almost screamed. "Goddamn it, Steven. We did it!"

THE CROWD IN the St. Peter's Square was building. Cardinal MacArthur, positioned so as not to be observed, watched with growing concern. The crowd, though large, was eerily quiet. Many carried candles and Rosary Beads. Others were praying silently, though fervently. The Cardinal had never really made his own mind up as to the Shroud's authenticity. Many members of the Vatican believed in it devoutly however, and he knew that those who gathered beneath the Vatican balcony most assuredly did. It didn't really matter to him whether the Shroud was real or not. Icons were for solidifying the faith and as long as the faithful remained so, there was a chance that God's word would eventually rule mankind.

"Gregory," the pope addressed him with his familiar given name as he often did when they were alone. Their association and friendship went back ... could it really be almost fifty years already?

"Yes, Holy Father?" MacArthur could never make himself address his lifelong friend with the same familiarity since his consecration as the Bishop of Rome ten years ago.

"How long has it been since we last saw Angelino?"

The Cardinal turned from the window and moved toward Timothy, who was still seated at his position at the head of the long marble table. "I'm not sure, Your Holiness. Maybe fifteen years."

The Pope let out a wistful sigh. "Who could have known the twists and turns our lives would take back in those days, eh, Gregory?"

"Indeed."

Cardinal MacArthur let his memories drift back to a simpler time, when he and two other young idealistic seminary students had enjoyed a lighter existence than the heavy load that he now bore. Had he known he and his friend, Ronald Johnson, now Pope Timothy I, the first American Pope in history, would one day carry the entire weight of the Roman Catholic Church on their shoulders, would he have still been so enthusiastic about dedicating his life to God? He guessed he probably would have. For as long as he could remember, he had wanted nothing more than to be a Roman Catholic Priest, to serve God by spreading his Holy Word throughout the world. As heavy as the load had become for him, he knew his old friend carried an infinitely heavier burden. The President of the United States, considered the most powerful man in the world, bore the weight of office for at most eight years before sinking back into relative anonymity. His decisions would affect an entire nation, and even the whole world. It was certainly a serious responsibility. Yet the legacy of the presidency was a tradition of a little more than two centuries--a brief flicker in time. The papacy was a continuing mission that ultimately affected the entire fate of mankind. For what could be more important than the very relationship of Man to God? The Pope bore that responsibility until his death. Tracing its lineage back to the apostle Peter, the papacy was mankind's oldest link to Jesus Christ, and therefore God Himself. What a mighty weight it was which must be bearing down on his beloved friend.

"Holy Father, Angelino was never a person to follow convention. But this ... this ... disgrace is too much to tolerate. He must be stopped this time."

"Yes, yes, Gregory." The Pope sounded weary. "I am happy to entertain any ideas you might have to accomplish that."

Cardinal MacArthur was indulging his frustration now. "Excommunicate him, Your Holiness! Take away the church as an official vehicle through which he may act." His fist pounded the table for emphasis. Timothy looked at him with surprise, the barest trace of a smile on his lips.

"Forgive me, Holy Father."

Timothy tilted his head with a slight nod to assure his old friend that no offense was taken. "Gregory, we have discussed excommunication many times. I thought we agreed that the dangers of that outweighed any harm he might do from within the church."

"Father, he is a renegade and he has gone too far. What are we supposed to do ... sit back and allow him to humiliate the Church ... humiliate you, Your Holiness?"

"Even if I were to follow your advice, the question remains: how do we find him ... and how do we ensure the safe return of the Holy Shroud? No. I'm afraid for now we must bide our time."

MacArthur turned and walked toward the window, not bothering to conceal the frustration, which he displayed with a loud sigh. Timothy walked up behind him and placed his hands gently on his shoulders. "I know, old friend, but we must be patient. Our best strategy is to allow Angelino to discredit himself. He has always been reckless. Let us use that to our advantage."

"But what about the Shroud, Holy Father? We must recover it."

"Yes, my friend, and we shall. Come now. I must say something to the people and I want you by my side."

"THIS IS SUSAN MORGAN, NBS News. We are awaiting the appearance of the Pope in St. Peter's Square. Apparently he has an announcement to make to the crowd, which began forming here early this morning when the theft of the Shroud of Turin was first announced. The crowd has been growing steadily all morning. For some reactions, here is NBS correspondent Peter James."

The camera switched to James, standing in another portion of the assembled crowd. "Thank you, Susan. As you might expect, people are outraged and shocked at the theft of the Shroud. I spoke with several of them earlier." A succession of comments from various people on hand followed:

"I'm really outraged and embarrassed for my church that something so horrible could have happened," said one elderly lady, in broken English with a thick Italian accent.

"Well, I think that whoever stole the Shroud should be shot ... SHOT!" said a middle-aged man, angrily.

"I think that it's pretty bad," said a young teen girl. "But it's really only a piece of cloth. I mean, it's not like that old rag is actually God or anything."

The camera returned to James. "It is safe to say that among devout Roman Catholics, the theft of the Shroud of Turin is a serious matter, and one can sense a growing anger among those gathered here in St. Peter's Square. Back to you, Susan."

"Thank you, Peter." A wave of cheers rippled through the crowd behind her. Susan Morgan turned her head to look. "It appears Pope Timothy is making his appearance now. Let's hear what he has to say."

The Pope appeared with Cardinal MacArthur beside him. He lifted his hands, gesturing for silence. Gradually, the cheers became a quiet murmur.

"My friends. Brothers and Sisters. As you know, the Holy Shroud of Turin, the burial cloth of our Lord Jesus Christ, was stolen from its resting place in Turin overnight." Loud cries of protest and anger filled the air. Many in the crowd had hoped the reports would be false. Again the Pope gestured for silence and just as quickly it was granted.

"This act is a blasphemy against Christ, against devout believers throughout the Holy Roman Catholic Church, and against God Himself."

Angry cries again filled the air. The Pope continued.

"But let us all be reminded that the Church is more than the relics and holy icons that it worships and venerates as symbols of the Holy Kingdom. We, my fellow Catholics, carry the torch passed down by Christ Himself through His anointed Apostle Peter down through the centuries to this very day ... this very moment in time. We carry the Word, the very voice of God, not only to the members of the Holy Catholic Church, but to every man, woman, and child of the world who wishes to hear that voice.

"The Church has survived the persecutions of the Roman Empire, the decimation of Europe by hoards of thundering barbarians during the dark ages, and the modern moral decadence that permeates the hearts and minds of so much of the world today.

"Today, we have been served a reminder that our holy mission still faces challenges, resistance, and, yes even enemies. Enemies who would betray God's will and send this world swirling downward into a vortex of sin and iniquity. Tonight such an enemy besmirches the faith of all of us. But I remind each of you that victory eludes the forces of darkness while each heart remains steadfast in its devotion to living out God's will. Only when we allow our hearts to waver, can evil enter and destroy our souls.

"I make to you this solemn promise, this pledge: the Shroud shall be recovered and returned to its rightful place in Turin."

A loud and heartfelt cheer erupted from the mass of people. Pope Timothy smiled and waved to the crowd for a moment before retreating from the balcony. The camera returned to Susan Morgan.

"There you have it. A stirring speech by the Pope, well received by the crowd gathered here in the Vatican. The Vatican clearly doesn't have any further information it wishes to share it with the public."

THE TELEPHONE RANG, and David Warrenger turned off the NBS coverage he had been watching.

"Hello?"

"David? This is Steven. Are you sitting down?" came the voice on the other end of the line.

"Steven, I haven't even finished my first cup of coffee yet. If this is bad news, can't it wait?"

Steven chuckled on the other end of the line. "Always the optimist, David. No. It's not bad news. We've got it!"

"What?" David tried to hide his excitement.

"We've got it, David. No shit! No doubt about it."

"You're positive? This isn't like that bullshit about cold fusion, is it?" Warrenger's statement referred to an announcement several years back that two scientists at MIT had discovered a method of cold nuclear fusion. If true, it would have revolutionized the energy industry. However, no one else had ever been able to duplicate the results under controlled conditions, including the scientists who had originally announced the discovery.

"No, David. Do you want me to stop by your office this morning?"

"Um ... no ... I'll meet you at the lab. Where are you now?"

"At the lab."

"You been there all night?"

"Yes. John's here with me."

"Give me a chance to finish my coffee and I'll head right over."

"Ok, David. See you then."

Warrenger hung up the phone. Gulping down the remaining coffee in his cup, he refilled it, threw on his jacket, and coffee cup in hand, headed to his car, a part of him anxious to see what Steven and his crew had discovered, another part wishing this day had never come.