Twisted linen, p.1
Twisted Linen, page 1
Twisted Linen
by C.W. Cook
Copyright 2014 Chadwick W. Cook
Smashwords Edition
www.TwistedLinen.com
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Though this book draws upon research, it is entirely a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. Where a real organization or a real person is cited, it is in a fictional context only.
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“The more society drifts from the truth, the more it will hate those that speak it.”
– George Orwell
* * *
The Shroud of Turin is a centuries-old burial cloth made of finely twisted linen. It bears the miraculous image of a crucified man, an image that cannot be explained by modern science. Millions of people believe it’s the image of Jesus Christ of Nazareth.
There have been hundreds of thousands of hours of intense scientific study and research on the Shroud, making it one of the most closely studied religious artifacts in history.
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CONTENTS
1 Where’s the Blood? 2 POW! 3 LaCroix 4 The Morgue
5 The Prince Spa 6 Fiat Currency 7 A Dual Life 8 Yeshua
9 The Shroud 10 Golden Dawn 11 My Father 12 G650ER
13 The Cell 14 It’s Just Science 15 Clean Yourself Up
16 Let’s Run 17 San Sebastian 18 Paseo Nuevo 19 My Collateral
20 Deep Undercover 21 The Appointed Time 22 Remember Me
23 Cave of Souls 24 The Safe House 25 The Unholy Ovum
26 Our Blood 27 Creation Declares His Glory 28 A Great Wonder
29 Revelation 12:1-2 30 Out of the Blue 31 Twisted Linen
32 Shed for Me 33 Dr. Seed 34 Forgive Me Father 35 Into the Black
36 No Coincidences 37 Two Blisters 38 Sacrifices 39 The Source
40 The Beast 41 The Revealing 42 The Reckoning 43 The Great Deceiver
Acknowledgments
* * *
1
Where’s the Blood?
Today, late September, 2017, the future of civilization hangs on a fragile peace treaty that ended a short and decisive war in the Middle East.
As the sun comes up over the iconic nation of Israel, a new day is born. Blanketed by a blue desert sky, the first light warms the walls of a small Israeli home in the middle of nowhere. It’s a simple and dilapidated home, scarcely bigger than a hut, made mainly of stone, plaster and wood. Inside the boxlike home is nothing more than a large wooden table, a few chairs, a cot-type bed, and a henchman watching his 1980’s style CRT television. He is a gnomish little man nicknamed Gump. Gump sits anxiously on the edge of his chair, intently watching a live broadcast with great suspense, watching as if waiting to see something he knows is about to happen. Gump knows what the world has been through and he knows that something big is coming.
Earlier, the unthinkable had taken place…
The United States was crippled by a series of coordinated strikes involving strategically deployed dirty bombs, EMP detonations, and cyber-attacks. The origins of the attacks were unknown, but their effects were decimating. A decapitated government, along with cascading failures in power, water and food distribution, created mass hysteria among the American people. The social chaos eventually led to a complete societal collapse. Just as the Congressional Electromagnetic Pulse (EMP) Commission warned a decade earlier, a “blackout” lasting more than a year would kill up to nine of every ten Americans.
For a year following the attacks, the United Nations and foreign governments monitored the U.S.A from afar. They eventually stopped offering aid and counting the dead with the last estimate at seven out of ten Americans dead. Now, the once great United States of America sits economically and militarily impotent on the world stage; the eagle’s wings had been plucked.
With the United States neutralized, Israel was left vulnerable and threatened with imminent extinction. It preemptively attacked its Arab neighbors claiming fair warning under the “Samson Option.” The Samson Option is the name given to Israel’s strategy of preservation through deterrence. It warned of massive retaliation, using any means necessary, against a threatening enemy. The Samson Option was a “last resort” strategy based on the Biblical figure, Samson, who pushed apart the pillars of a Philistine temple, collapsing its roof and killing all that were threatening him.
Under the defensive cover of its “Iron Dome” technology, Israel’s offensive aggression decimated its enemies. The result of the vicious Three Day War was an overwhelming victory for Israel, leaving Islam all but eradicated. Emboldened by a victory that had been “given to it by God,” Israel rolled tanks in all directions.
Russia and China, along with a remnant of the European Union, expressed grave concern over Israel's sudden expansion of power, most significantly their sole control over the world's key oil fields and precious minerals. They soon united for a counter-strike against Israel. It would be World War III but their plans were delayed in an effort to explore peace negotiations. The peace negotiations were championed by an unlikely and relatively unknown man.
This young Israeli reformer, David Cohen, arose from nowhere on the world stage. He calmed the threats of World War III with promises of peace and a share in Israel's new resources. His persona captivated the public, while his connections within the top brass of foreign militaries stalled an imminent attack on Israel.
Inside the small Israeli home, Gump takes a hard drag off his cigarette and exhales a billow of smoke, then glances down at the package sitting by his feet. The large rectangular case is an important package and he looks at it frequently.
The TV comes to life with a breaking news flash. With great enthusiasm, the newscaster reports to the world:
“Today is conclusive for David Cohen. This bold thirty-year-old has just become Israel's youngest Prime Minister. He was the most unlikely of candidates, arising on the world stage from nowhere…”
On TV, David Cohen shakes hands with the crowd. He is an Israeli “John F. Kennedy,” articulate and handsome, modern but historic. As he greets his loyal followers, he forms his signature “OK” sign with his hand (thumb and index finger in an “O” with the remaining three fingers extended upward). He boldly holds the gesture above his head as someone would do when they give the “thumbs up” to a crowd.
“…Cohen brokered a peace treaty that ended the Middle East War, and now with the threat of World War III fading, his claims of global peace may become a reality.”
The front door opens with a sudden bang and an imposing man barges in with authority. The man is Julian Felipe Baculo, a fierce Spaniard in his mid-forties. He is a dark-haired, dark-eyed, thick man who moves quickly. Gump scrambles to stand at attention while fumbling to put out his cigarette. He hastily grabs the case off the floor and places it on the table for Baculo to inspect.
Baculo opens the package slowly with great anticipation, as Gump fearfully retreats a few steps. Baculo knows exactly what he is looking for…and this twisted linen cloth is not it.
“What is this?” Baculo asks with a scowl.
Gump trembles at the anger in Baculo's voice. “The Shroud of Turin,” he responds with a bit of uncertainty.
“Come here!” Baculo demands, motioning for him to come closer. “Does this look like a 2000 year old burial shroud?…Does it!”
Gump is petrified and responds with a blank stare. Baculo grabs the back of Gump’s head, and BANG! In an instant, he slams his face into the table. Gump's head bounces off the table like a flat football, leaving him stunned and grimacing in pain. Still holding a fistful of hair, Baculo positions Gump’s face over the white linen cloth.
“There is no blood!” yells Baculo. “Where is the blood of Jesus?”
Blood begins to drip from Gump’s broken nose, directly onto the linen cloth below.
“I don’t know,” Gump mumbles in response, unable to resist Baculo’s incredible strength.
Baculo jerks his head up to make eye contact.
“Call it off. Now!”
"I can't," responds Gump in-between gasps. "It's too late."
With cat-like speed, Baculo puts a pistol to Gump’s head and fires a single round. Blood and tissue splatter the TV behind them, and his lifeless body drops to the floor with a thud. Baculo snorts in frustration and quickly exits the hut.
On the blood-spattered TV screen, David Cohen takes the podium at the Israeli Convention Center. The crowd erupts in a roar as Cohen gazes over the mass of people; he longs for their allegiance, savoring this great moment.
* * *
2
POW!
The sound of cheering creates a thundering roar in the Convention Center while hands wave at Cohen, some holding up the signature “OK” sign in alliance to their newly appointed leader. Cohen positions the microphone, ready to address the world. He begins:
“War is not a permanent solution, but rather a temporary remedy for an extreme situation. The people of Israel are prepared to share with the world its newfound bounty in energy and precious materials.”
The young and hopeful crowd applauds, riveted by his every word.
“Israel has no intention of further aggression. We are not enemies of Russia, China or any other nation. I bring the promise of peace and a new world order. A peace of a thousand years can be upon us if we all have the faith to embrace it.”
The crowd cheers and chants as Cohen raises his right hand high above his hea d, boldly forming the “OK” hand sign sign. The crowd goes berserk, posting the hand sign back at him. Cohen pauses for a moment, as if he is trying to make eye contact with each person in the crowd.
Then suddenly … POW!
A gun shot rings out and echoes around the convention center. Cohen’s head snaps back from the impact. Then a small amount of blood appears dead center of his forehead. Cheering stops and so does time.
David Cohen, the icon of hope and global peace, stands dead on his feet with a bullet hole in his forehead. As silence blankets the convention center, Cohen hangs for a brief moment and then buckles at the knees, straight down like a kayoed boxer.
A woman close to the stage breaks the stone-cold silence with a chilling shriek, and then pandemonium erupts. In the back of the Convention Center the sniper’s spotter gestures with a quick head nod; it’s a confirmed kill. The sniper conceals the rifle under his bekishe (a long black coat worn normally by Hasidic Jews) and discreetly moves toward the Convention Center exit.
Every TV broadcast cuts to commercial as security personnel try to control the situation. Cohen lies motionless on the ground surrounded by horrified supporters; his eyes exhibit the vacant stare of death.
* * *
3
LaCroix
In Rome a silver, late model sports car speeds through the narrow alleyways surrounding the Luiss University. This is a driver that doesn't mind attracting attention in the Municipio II district of Rome. His precision-cut dark hair and slick designer shoes match the car perfectly, although the shoes are a bit too slick for the tough times facing this world.
The face behind the wheel is Simon LaCroix, an urbane man in his mid-thirties. Simon is solidly built, the epitome of devil-may-care modern English cool, trained in hand-to-hand combat and an expert marksman with a sidearm.
The car tires squeal around a corner and down another alley. Out of habit, Simon adjusts his Ray-Ban sunglasses, and then expertly down-shifts before stomping the gas pedal.
Simon turns the car sharply, just on the edge of control, entering a subterranean garage. The car carves its way to a remote part of the garage and comes to a slow stop behind another car. It’s a red Fiat, parked solo in a vacant area of the garage.
Simon rolls down his passenger window, urgently looking for the other car’s occupant. The Fiat door opens and a leg emerges. It's a beautifully defined female leg, enveloped in gray spandex leggings to the mid-calf.
It is Grace LaCroix stepping out. She’s a few years younger than Simon, muscular but lean, possibly in better shape than him. Like Simon, she is deadly serious when it comes to their business affairs. Yet, her intensity is balanced by an unwavering loyalty for those she loves, that being only Simon. Her long fit legs, combined with her long dark hair, create an unforgettable first impression. It’s always been that way and Grace is used to it.
Today she’s dressed in Lulu leggings and her favorite black sweatshirt. It’s a bit simple and informal, but Grace can make almost any outfit look fashionable. The sweatshirt is cut with a wide-neck that hangs from one shoulder. It’s loose fitting up top and snug down around the waist. The stylish ensemble is held together by a gold cross necklace worn just below the hollow of her neck.
Grace slams her car door closed, pulls the elastic of her sweatshirt down firmly around her hips and strides toward Simon's car. She moves with a sense of urgency, obviously annoyed.
“You’re late!”
Simon attempts to reach over to open her door from within, but he gets caught in his own seat belt. Grace waves him off as she approaches the car. “Don’t bother.”
Grace opens the passenger door before Simon has time to free himself and she gracefully swings her legs inside the car.
“Drive,” she demands while buckling-in.
Simon obeys; he knows he’s late again. The tires squeal as the car speeds off.
“I am going to start telling you to be places thirty minutes early,” Grace grumbles as she places a small box of importance on the dash.
“I thought you were already doing that.”
“Am I?” Grace retorts. “Then maybe I’ll make it an hour.”
Grace looks at Simon as if she is trying to see behind his dark sunglasses and says, “Seriously Simon, we can’t afford to blow this.”
Simon, a bit distracted, suddenly slams on the brakes for a traffic light. Their heads snap forward and back in unison. They glance at each other, and then Simon immediately looks outside the car, examining their surroundings.
The public streets are in constant turmoil; carjackings, kidnappings, and robberies are common occurrences. The crime rate is through the roof, but that’s the “new normal” now. Unlike the United States, the electricity still flows here in Europe but most of the population is disadvantaged and suffering greatly. Disease is rampant and food is scarce. It’s only a select class, the ultra-wealthy, the elite, who have the resources to live the way it used to be, the way it used to be before the United States was crippled. But at this moment, in this particular traffic intersection, the streets are vacant; it offers a rare moment of peace and stillness.
“Have I let you down yet?” Simon confidently asks.
As soon as the words leave his mouth, he winces with a “don’t answer that” look. Simon quickly leans over toward Grace, then a bit closer for a kiss. It’s a passionate and spontaneous kiss, part apologetic but mostly to see if he and Grace are “good.” Grace needs the kiss, an affirmation of her importance.
As Simon separates from the kiss, he tries to soothe her frustration. “I’m sorry I was late. I can do better.”
Simon and Grace have recently undertaken a lifestyle change, one of high-risk, high-reward endeavors. Each of them is vital to the well-being of the other. Of late, it’s Grace leading the charge. She’s the one sourcing the jobs, doing the intelligence gathering, negotiating the deals, and keeping the clients happy.
“You’re forgiven…again,” she replies with a quick nod.
The stop light turns green and Simon drives toward a security checkpoint. It’s the designated entrance into a barricaded and restricted part of town. It’s a lavish area where the elite still gather often, and they tightly control who are considered “guests.”
The security guard extends his hand, signaling Simon to stop. Simon complies.
“We’re here to see Mr. Yiguan. He’s expecting us.”
“Your name?” asks the guard.
It’s a rhetorical question because the guard also presents Simon with a biometric hand scanner. It uses infrared light to take an image of the veins in the palm of the hand. The pattern of veins is a uniquely identifiable pattern for each person and this new “palm vein imaging” technology is more accurate than a finger print, and it’s much harder to fake.
Simon complies by placing his hand over the infrared light. The reason for all this security lies straight ahead. It is the Parco dei Principi Roma, an urban resort in the heart of Rome. Minus the crowds of yester-year, everything appears normal on the grounds here.
“Password,” the security guard demands.
“Virgo,” Simon answers.
The guard looks at his device and confirms Simon is approved and clear to proceed.
“Pull forward and stop at the next checkpoint. Leave your keys with the valet.”
The guard steps back from the car and waves him through. Simon follows his instructions and pulls the car forward to the valet. They’re not really “valets” but rather a second line of defense in the security protocol.
