Twisted Linen

Twisted Linen
C.W. Cook
Copyright © 2014 by Chadwick W. Cook
All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America
Twisted Linen
Second Edition, Paperback – published 2014
ISBN-13: 978-1502480538
www.TwistedLinen.com
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.
TWISTED LINEN
“During times of universal deceit, telling the truth becomes a
revolutionary act.”
— 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.
TWISTED LINEN
1
Where’s the Blood?
T
oday, 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, 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
he knows something is about to happen. Gump understands
what the world has been through and he knows that something
big is coming.
Sometime earlier, the unthinkable had taken place: The
United States was crippled by a series of coordinated strikes
involving strategically deployed dirty bombs, bioterrorism,
and cyber-attacks. The origins of the attacks remain unknown,
but their effects were decimating. A decapitated government,
along with cascading failures in power, water and food
distribution, created mass hysteria and disease 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
1
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 and Iron
Beam technologies, Israel leveled its enemies while sustaining
little damage to its homeland. The result of the vicious Three
Day War was an overwhelming victory for Israel, leaving the
radical Islamic groups all but eradicated. Emboldened by a
victory that had been “given 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
TWISTED LINEN
connections within the top brass of foreign militaries stalled an
imminent attack on Israel.
Inside the small Israeli home, Gump takes a hard pull 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.”
At that moment, the front door opens with a sudden bang
and an imposing man barges into the hut. 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
3
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’s this?” Baculo asks in a deep, rumbling voice.
Gump trembles at the sound of 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 exhibits only a blank stare in response, obviously
petrified by Baculo's anger. In frustration, Baculo grabs the
back of Gump’s head and slams his face down into the table.
BANG! Gump's head bounces off the table like a flat football,
leaving him stunned and wincing in pain.
Still holding a fistful of hair, Baculo positions Gump’s
grimacing face over the package containing the linen cloth.
“There is no blood on it!” yells Baculo. “Where is the
blood of Jesus?”
“I don’t know,” Gump mumbles in response, unable to
resist Baculo’s incredible strength.
Just as blood begins to drip from Gump’s broken nose
onto the white linen cloth, Baculo jerks Gump's head up to
make eye contact.
“Call it off. Now!” yells Baculo with searing black eyes.
"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 pops off 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 momentous roar while Cohen gazes over the mass of people,
savoring this great moment. He longs for their allegiance, and
he will obtain it, for his time has finally come.
TWISTED LINEN
2
POW!
T
he cheering and chanting creates a thundering vibration
throughout the Convention Center as the crowd roars its
approval for David Cohen. Some hold up Cohen’s 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 hopeful and exuberant crowd applauds, spellbound by
his every word.
“Israel has no intention of further aggression.
We are not enemies of any country or any
peaceful religion. Today, I bring the promise of
peace and a final world order. A peace of a
thousand years can be upon us if we all have
the faith to embrace it.”
Cohen steps back from the podium and raises his right
hand high above his head, boldly forming the “OK” hand sign.
The adrenalized crowd goes berserk, waving the hand sign
back at him. Cohen’s eyes slowly sweep the crowd as if he’s
trying to lock eyes with each and every person.
5
Then suddenly, a gunshot rings out and echoes around the
convention center. POW! Cohen’s head snaps back from the
impact. Then a small dribble of blood trickles down his
forehead. Cheering stops and so does the perception of 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
KO’d 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, the long black coat worn
normally by Hasidic Jews, and discreetly moves toward a
nearby 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, and his eyes
exhibit the vacant stare of death.
TWISTED LINEN
3
LaCroix
I
n Rome a silver, late model sports car speeds through the
narrow alleyways surrounding the Luiss University. This is
a driver who 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 veers wide before cutting around a corner on
squealing tires. Out of habit, Simon adjusts his Ray-Ban
sunglasses, and then expertly down-shifts before stomping the
gas pedal. Then at the last moment, Simon turns the car
sharply, just on the edge of control, and enters 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, expectantly waiting for somebody to
exit the red Fiat.
As the Fiat door opens, a female leg emerges. It's a welldefined leg, sheathed in gray spandex leggings to the mid-calf.
For a moment, Simon sits there just looking at her. She’d
always been, hands-down, one of the best-looking women
he’d ever seen. Simon knows he’s lucky she wears his ring,
but not just because she’s beautiful.
Grace LaCroix is a bit younger than Simon, muscular but
lean, and possibly in better shape than him. Her long hair and
7
legs, combined with her striking eyes, create an unforgettable
first impression. It’s always been that way and she’s used to
it. Today, she’s dressed in Lulu leggings and her favorite
black sweatshirt. It’s a simple and informal outfit, but Grace
can make almost anything look attractive. The sweatshirt is
cut with a wide-neck that hangs from one shoulder, but fits
snugly around the waist. The only constant in Grace’s outfits
is a cross necklace worn just below the hollow of her neck.
Grace slams her car door, pulls the elastic of her sweatshirt
down around her hips, and then strides toward Simon's car.
She’s moving with a sense of urgency, and obviously
annoyed. Like Simon, Grace is deadly serious when it comes
to their business affairs, but unlike Simon she's more
meticulous and punctual.
“You’re late,” Grace grumbles as she approaches the car.
Simon attempts to reach over and open the passenger door
from within, but he gets caught in his own seat belt and can’t
reach the handle.
Grace waves him off. “Don’t bother,” she says just before
opening the door herself.
As Grace enters the car and swings her legs inside, Simon
peers at her over the top of his Ray-Bans, anxiously trying to
gauge the level of her frustration.
“Drive,” she demands.
The tone of her voice says it all: she is pissed. Simon
obeys; he knows he’s late again.
The sports car speeds off to the sound of squealing tires as
Grace places a small box of importance on the floor, and then
buckles in. The box contains an almost priceless miniature
cup that they must now deliver to their client.
“If you can’t be on time, I’ll start telling you times that are
thirty minutes early,” Grace gripes.
“I thought you were already doing that,” says Simon.
“Am I?” Grace snips. “Then maybe I’ll make it an hour.”
Grace takes a long moment to look closely at Simon, like
she’s trying to see behind his dark sunglasses.
“Seriously Simon…we can’t afford to blow this.”
TWISTED LINEN
Simon is a bit distracted and 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 to examine their
surroundings.
Many of the buildings are dilapidated and abandoned, and
the public streets are in constant turmoil. Carjackings,
kidnappings, and robberies are common occurrences, and 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, and it
offers a rare moment of peace and stillness.
Simon turns back toward Grace and responds to her
comment from moments earlier, “Have I let you down yet?”
It’s a reflex response, and as soon as the words leave his
mouth he winces in an apologetic grimace that says, don’t
answer that. 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 needed the affection, 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.
9
The stop light turns green and Simon drives forward,
approaching 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.
Simon exits the car and is abruptly greeted by the valet.
“Your keys, sir.”
With a bit of hesitation Simon surrenders the car keys.
Then he refocuses on the job at hand. A “game-time” look
comes over his face as he walks around to the front of the car
where Grace is waiting with the small box in hand. She too,
has that focused look in her eyes. They accepted this job as a
TWISTED LINEN
team and know it could turn deadly at any moment. But the
payoff is something they desperately want.
As Simon and Grace join forces side by side at the front of
the car, Grace takes his hand. It’s partly an instinct for selfprotection, but also because she knows Simon thrives when
they’re united as a team. The two walk hand in hand toward
the entrance of the hotel, not the least bit bashful of their
business partnership, nor their marriage union under God.
“Let’s get paid,” Simon says with bravado.
Grace counters with equal confidence, “Then off to Tahiti.
Just you and me, my love.”
“On a big yacht,” Simon quickly adds with a smirk.
11
4
The Morgue
I
srael decisively won the recent Middle East War and it now
controls the territories between the Nile and Euphrates
rivers: Syria, Lebanon, Jordan, and Iraq, plus the northern
parts of Saudi Arabia and Egypt.
Scattered throughout the ancient city of Jerusalem are
historic sites like the Dome of the Rock and the Temple
Mount. Thousands of Jews busily move about the streets inbetween prayer and worship. Because the Israeli people were
victorious over their radical Islamic enemies, they now exhibit
a boldness not seen since the days of King David. Earlier in
the year, the nation celebrated the 50th anniversary of the
reunification of Jerusalem. It was fifty years ago that Israel
reclaimed Jerusalem by winning the Six Day War, and all
believe that it is God’s divine appointment that exactly onehalf century later Israel regained more of God’s promised land
by obliterating the Islamic terrorist groups ISIS, Hamas, alQaeda, Muslim Brotherhood, or whatever name they call
themselves.
Also, the year 2017 marks the 120th Jubilee from
Creation, and the year of the coming Messiah to save the
world. The Biblical New Year begins on the first day of the
seventh month, and this Holy Day in Scripture is called the
Feast of Trumpets or Rosh HaShanah, which occurs each year
in late September. The Jews believe the final 120th Jubilee is
when all transgressions and sins will be forgiven, and all of
God's possessions will be returned to Him. Thus, September
2017 begins the 1000 years of rest when the King of Kings
and Lord of Lords reigns on the earth.
South of the Dome of the Rock in the City of David
hundreds of Jews gather at a newly built temple. Its
completion just a few months earlier is the most significant
construction to take place in the past 2500 years. Every detail
TWISTED LINEN
of the structure is prophetic, but three prophetic fulfillments
are especially notable: First, the Temple faces the Eastern
Gate of Jerusalem in anticipation of the coming Jewish
Messiah. Second, the Jews’ reinstituted the sacrificial system
so the Temple will soon conduct “blood sacrifices.” Third, a
pure red heifer had been born two years earlier, and it will
serve as the first sacrifice in atonement of sin since the death
of Jesus Christ.
A sacrifice is the offering of something precious for a
cause or a reason. Making atonement is satisfying someone
for an offense committed. The significance of blood in the
sacrificial system is based on the Old Testament portion of the
Bible, or Torah, as the Jews call it. In Leviticus 17:11, God
speaks to Moses and declares, “For the life of a creature is in
the blood, and I have given it to you to make atonement for
yourselves on the altar. It is the blood that makes atonement
for one’s life.” It means those who are covered by a blood
sacrifice are set free from the consequences of sin. However,
the animals used in blood sacrifices are imperfect and only
serve as a temporary atonement of sin. In this way, the
sacrifices only foreshadow the one and final sacrifice to come.
God said eternal atonement would only be found by the
sacrifice of a sinless and perfect being, and He promised to
send a Savior, the Christ or Messiah, for this purpose.
Christians believe the Messiah has already come, and it is
Jesus Christ of Nazareth who provides eternal life through the
shedding of His sinless blood. Through the righteous blood of
Jesus Christ, Christians stand before God without
condemnation. Therefore, the next “great one” who claims to
be the Messiah will actually be a false Messiah, the Great
Deceiver.
The Jewish people are still waiting for the Christ’s arrival,
through whom the eternal atonement of sin will be given.
Until that time, blood sacrifices are to be made as a temporary
13
atonement of sin. It is for this reason that the Temple priests
honor their red heifer and its sacrificial offering to take place
in two days, on the Feast of Trumpets / Rosh HaShanah.
Not far away, the city’s main morgue stands where it has been
for hundreds of years. A doctor examines David Cohen’s
body and states his autopsy observations for the orderlies to
record.
“Entrance wound one centimeter. Exit wound is about the
same. Minimal bleeding.”
The doctor rolls Cohen’s head to one side and back again.
“I see no sign of bullet fragmentation. The cranium looks
to be intact and otherwise undamaged. It appears the bullet
passed right through.”
The doctor looks up to the two orderlies and says with a
smirk, “A perfect head shot with a magic bullet.”
The two orderlies callously nod back at him, showing no
emotion.
“I think we are done here,” the doctor concludes as he
pulls off his rubber gloves with a snapping sound.
An attendant wraps things up as the orderlies collect the
body and roll it away on a gurney. They quickly push the
gurney through the hallway and oddly walk right past the
storage room for bodies.
The attending nurse is alarmed by their movements toward
the exit. She calls out, “Wait! Where are you going?”
The first orderly pulls a pistol with a silencer and shoots
her without breaking stride. The orderlies burst through the
exit and quickly load Cohen’s body into the back of a waiting
van.
As the first orderly starts the engine he instructs the other.
“Call Baculo. Let him know we’re on our way.”
Seconds later the van makes a quick turn down a nearby
alley and is lost in the congestion of pedestrians and cars. It’s
free and clear, and so is David Cohen’s body.
TWISTED LINEN
5
The Prince Spa
T
he ambient sound of running water echoes within the
lavish Prince Spa in the Parco dei Principi Hotel. It’s a
dimly lit spa-and-pool area within the lower levels of the
hotel. The area is private and hidden from the outside world
and reserved for only the elites’ enjoyment. The ceiling of the
spa is covered with tiny LED lights, like stars flickering in the
night sky, creating a shimmering reflection in the water below.
At this moment, only one man is enjoying the Prince Spa’s
luxurious accommodations, Mr. Yiguan. He is a plump man,
frolicking naked in the water with his two younger mistresses.
The spa is an artificial paradise for Yiguan to pleasure his
flesh, but he doesn’t care that it’s an imitation of the real
thing.
Simon and Grace wait patiently in an adjoining VIP
lounge, but there is no “bubbly” being served; this is a
business meeting. Simon sits tensely in a cross-legged
position, his designer shoe bouncing a bit over his knee. The
small box that Grace brought lay open on a teak lounge table
separating them from their Chinese clients.
Simon and Grace watch intently as their clients inspect the
rare item, a tiny porcelain cup adorned by ancient Chinese
artwork. One client is an exquisite Chinese woman, serving as
the translator in this meeting. The second is a meticulous art
expert pointing out the details of the artifact in hand. They
will soon be joined by the third client, Mr. Yiguan, the boss.
Mr. Yiguan finally ends his antics and wades over to the
pool’s ladder. He laboriously climbs up the steps as his
mistresses turn toward each other with stifled giggles. After
climbing the ladder, Yiguan covers himself with a waiting
15
robe. It’s a lavish robe, burgundy in color but certainly not
flattering to his plump appearance. He blots the water from
his face using the long sleeve of the robe as he enters the
lounge and approaches the table where Simon and Grace wait.
The Chinese woman and the art expert assume a firm posture
of attention as Yiguan takes his seat.
The Chinese woman gently utters something in Mandarin
to Yiguan about the tiny cup. The mood is stiff and awkward
as the three Chinese convene. Finally the confirmation comes
in the form of an almost imperceptible head nod from the art
analyst. Mr. Yiguan turns to the Chinese woman and
pompously dictates a statement for translation. Then she
conveys the message to Simon and Grace.
“Mr. Yiguan thanks you for your efforts. You have
proven yourself to be valuable to his needs.”
Simon responds in a business like manner.
“He is most welcome. Tell him not to sell the cup for at
least two years.”
The woman starts to translate what Simon said but Yiguan
laughs before she gets more than a few words out. It is
obvious Yiguan understands English, and more importantly,
he doesn’t need Simon’s advice on how to hide wealth from a
desperate world. Yiguan interjects and addresses his response
to the Chinese woman. After a pause to find the right words
for her translation, she conveys the message to Simon.
“Mr. Yiguan only liquidates currency, not genuine stores
of wealth.”
Simon and Grace quizzically gaze back at the Chinese
woman. A moment later, Grace breaks the awkward silence
and pushes their transaction forward.
“And the remainder of our agreed payment?” she asks.
“Of course,” the woman responds as she picks up a
briefcase and lays it on the table.
Grace looks at Simon as if to hint, “This can't be gold.”
The case is much too small, too light in weight. Grace
opens the case, and as expected, it's full of Chinese cash.
“I am sorry, but we specifically agreed on allocated
bullion. Fiat currency is not acceptable.”
TWISTED LINEN
Grace closes the case and pushes it slightly back toward
the woman.
“Mr. Yiguan was unable to secure the remaining gold, so
he graciously doubled your payment,” says the woman while
gently pushing the case back toward Grace.
Grace asserts, “Our contract was very clear, so with all due
respect...” But before she can finish Mr. Yiguan angrily
interjects in broken English.
“Wood yu wrather get pay in dead US dollar!”
The gravity of Yiguan’s interjection is obvious to Simon,
and he tries to diffuse what may become an explosive
situation.
“May I remind you, we had an agreement and we
delivered on our part of the deal?” he calmly remarks with
hands held out in a manner of peace and respect.
But Grace has had enough. She reaches for the cup and
declares, “The deal is off.”
The Chinese woman’s soft face turns deadly as she
snatches a handgun hidden under the tabletop.
“Our deal is closed!” she says, pointing the compact SIG
.45 pistol at Grace.
“Easy…” Simon pleads.
The situation is rapidly unraveling like a runaway spool of
twisted linen; it’s time to cut and run. In a calm manner,
Simon reaches for Grace’s arm and slowly stands, gently
lifting her to her feet. He then slides the briefcase off the table
and accepts the payment.
“We thank you,” Simon says with a nod to Mr. Yiguan.
Then with a nod to the Chinese woman he continues, “And we
will accept your payment.”
Grace is livid and Simon knows it, so he slightly squeezes
her arm, signaling his desire to abort. Grace narrows her eyes
on Simon in a clear but nonverbal challenge to his decision.
17
Simon turns to offer Mr. Yiguan a farewell, closing their
transaction with an ancient Chines proverb, “The emperor may
be rich, but it will not buy him one extra year.”
Mr. Yiguan counters Simon's sneer with a haughty smile,
but as the translation settles in his mind, the smile quickly
changes into a scowl.
The proverb proclaims that one’s business and money are
not the most important things in life; they are temporal things
that will all be left behind at death. The world’s richest man
could not buy a single paving stone in the streets of Heaven.
At gunpoint, Simon and Grace are shown the exit while a
wary Mr. Yiguan reclines in his chair and props his feet up on
the lounge table.
TWISTED LINEN
6
Fiat Currency
S
imon and Grace wait just outside the Prince Spa for the
elevator to arrive. Grace can’t take the silence any longer.
“The emperor?” she prods sarcastically.
“It’s a Chinese proverb,” responds Simon. “Given the
situation, I thought it was fitting.”
Grace is obviously not impressed so Simon tries to ease
her frustration.
“We’re going to figure this out,” he assures her.
BING! The elevator door opens and a frustrated Grace
ducks in first.
“But this is going to delay our bug-out plans for Tahiti,”
Simon adds.
“Oh no…we’re going, but you might not get your yacht.”
Simon sympathizes with Grace’s disappointment. They
took great risk to acquire the precious cup, and now all they
have to show for it is a briefcase full of paper money. As the
world sits today, cash is a depreciating asset. It can lose half
its value in a month, sometimes a week. It became this way
almost overnight following the collapse of the United States.
Now, simply called paper, it must be spent immediately.
Paper is used to pay for things but not for savings. The
difference between paper currency and “money” is that money
serves as a store of value. Currency is just for transacting. In
this new normal, only physical assets are stores of value; they
are real money.
In this double-cross Mr. Yiguan had simply peddled off a
bunch of quickly depreciating paper currency in the form of
the cash. When the faith in paper money failed, the world
19
resorted to using physical assets as money. Now gold and
silver and other precious artifacts hold their intrinsic value and
serve as money.
Simon tries to console Grace, “Why don’t we put this cash
to work? Find a place to have dinner and rest. Maybe a
pretend bug-out here in Rome.”
Grace doubtfully responds, “You’re willing to spend it all
on one night? All of it on a five-star hotel and dinner?”
“If it’s with you, and it’s what you want.”
Grace appreciates the gesture, but she knows there is no
point. They need to obtain a significant amount of real money
in order to purchase a yacht and live independently away from
the mainland. They need to find a way to some place safe,
some place self-sustaining, some place remote, just the two of
them. Tahiti sounds as good as any place right now. It’s a
long-shot, but the dream of it keeps them going.
“I have another idea,” says Grace.
“Oh?”
“It was my backup plan, just in case,” she continues.
“A backup plan?”
“Yep, and now look at us.”
Simon pulls her in close, snuggling her in his arms.
“That is what I love about you, Grace…you’ve always got
my back.”
Simon delivers a strong peck of a kiss on the top of
Grace’s forehead. She absorbs it and offers a gentle smile in
return.
“Let’s make this our last job,” she submits, now looking
squarely into Simon’s eyes. “We’re running out of time.”
Simon nods and seizes the moment to finish the kiss
rushed earlier in the car. It’s a much needed and intimate
moment that relieves the stress of what could have happened
in the spa moments earlier.
The dispassionate ding of the elevator interrupts them, and
Simon and Grace begrudgingly separate from their embrace
and step out of the elevator. Simon takes Grace’s hand as they
exit through the empty hotel lobby.
“What’s the job?” Simon quietly inquires.
TWISTED LINEN
“A religious artifact of some kind. I don’t have the details
yet.”
Simon is cautious considering the lack of details and
Grace’s haste. Grace senses it and gets to the point.
“They're offering forty-nine million in Special Drawing
Rights,” she adds.
That captures Simon’s interest. “They're paying in SDRs?
They must be well connected.”
Special Drawing Rights (SDRs) are the new currency of
choice. It was created when the IMF took over the world
currency system following the “currency wars” and physical
wars. The panic following these wars destroyed people’s faith
in paper currency, and the IMF quickly offered a new solution
— the SDR. It, too, is simply paper currency, similar to the
dead US dollar and all other dying world currencies, but
unlike those, the SDR retains its value from its backing.
When faith was lost in the world’s currencies, a financial
collapse quickly followed. Those in power, with assets of
value, structured a new currency, the SDR, and backed it with
their physical assets: gold, silver, platinum, palladium, oil,
natural gas, and whatever else they agree is a good store of
wealth. That is why the elite trust paper SDRs, because it can
be redeemed at any time for the stable value of the asset
backing it.
The doorman opens the lobby door for Grace and she
walks through, followed closely by Simon.
Just over her shoulder, Simon whispers, “You have my
attention.”
Grace continues, “It gets better. I asked for a twenty-five
percent deposit up front and in physical.”
“That sounds too good to be true,” Simon says as he waves
down the valet holding his car keys.
“We'll soon find out. They agreed to provide the deposit
at our meeting.”
21
The valet approaches and hands Simon the car keys.
Simon and Grace separate at the front of car, Simon toward
the driver’s side and Grace toward the passenger side. Chirp,
chirp! The car alarm is disabled.
“How’s that going to work?” asks Simon.
“We meet, we agree, they provide the transfer code, and
the bank moves it to our vault.”
Simon offers a momentary squint and tilts his head with
uncertainty.
“I want to know more,” he says.
TWISTED LINEN
7
A Dual Life
S
imon and Grace drive toward the garage where Grace left
her red Fiat. Overhead, small remote-controlled drones
called Heaxcopters occasionally pass by. These little flying
machines continuously survey the streets below, monitoring
the civilian population for threats. The mini-drones do their
job without question and without compassion.
The city streets are under constant surveillance now, and
the mini-drones use facial-recognition technology for realtime tracking of citizens. The drones connect to the cloud and
run imagery through a scene recognition database of deep
learning algorithms. The technology has done nothing to stop
crime, however, because those behind the surveillance have
little interest in law and order, nor suppressing crime. They
are more interested in letting the population cull itself through
an insidious and merciless agenda concerning global
depopulation. After the initial phase of self-extermination
runs its course, the next phase in the “great cull” will be
enacted: the targeted removal of the unworthy and resisting.
Simon scans his surroundings and asks, “Who are they?”
“I don't know yet,” Grace replies matter-of-factly.
“How long have you been in communication with them?”
“Since yesterday. The job request came over the wire
yesterday and I jumped on it.”
Simon is very suspicious. “Really? Well, I want to talk
about it more when I get home tonight.”
Grace finds it irritating that Simon has some place more
important to be. What could be more important than getting
the money required to buy a yacht for fleeing Rome?
23
“Where are you going?” she asks in frustration.
Simon pulls a hard right turn into the subterranean parking
garage and responds, “I've got to meet with Genovi.”
Simon winds the car down the parking garage aisles,
descending level by level, to where Grace’s car waits.
Grace denies the request with a sense of urgency.
“There's no time. These clients require this artifact in two
days.”
“Listen, Genovi's demand to see me sounded more urgent
than ever,” Simon says.
Grace has heard this before and she’s tired of Simon’s
loyalty to Genovi. Grace rarely complained about Simon’s
work; she spent a decade enduring his unpredictable work
schedule related to counter-terrorism for the Vatican, but
that’s over now. The world is a different place, and Simon
and Grace have to look out for their interests. Cardinal
Genovi and the Vatican will have to learn to survive without
Simon LaCroix.
“Why are you still leading this dual life? Tell Genovi
you're done. We don’t have time for this anymore.”
Simon stops their car right behind Grace’s parked Fiat.
“Are you with me, Simon?” she pleads.
Simon gazes straight ahead, unsure of how to make her
understand. Abandoning someone is not in Simon’s DNA, but
Genovi is especially unique. Simon owes him almost
everything. He at least owes Genovi a face-to-face meeting
before “bugging out.”
“Look here,” Grace snaps. “I gave up on Genovi years
ago.” Her voice brims with an undertone of hurt.
Simon responds defensively, “After all he's done for
me…I owe it to him. If it wasn’t for him, I would’ve never
met you, Grace.”
Grace continues pleading, “This may be the best shot we
have.”
But Simon is resolute. “Then try to delay the meeting. I'll
be back as soon as I can,” he says coldly.
Grace opens the car door and exits in a huff.
TWISTED LINEN
8
Yeshua
D
avid Cohen’s lifeless body lies on a large wooden table
in a nondescript room somewhere in Jerusalem. His
brown skin now appears pale and taut across his cheekbones,
while his lustrous black hair lay in disarray over a bloodied
forehead. There with Cohen are two thugs, the orderlies who
stole his body. They patiently wait with the windows propped
open, allowing a balmy breeze to pass through the room. It is
the essence of peace and quiet.
Baculo enters the room and immediately closes the door
behind him. The orderlies stand at attention, ready to greet
him.
“Sir,” one orderly bawls out.
Baculo ignores him and approaches Cohen’s body with
great reverence. Both orderlies step back, offering Baculo his
space. Baculo stares at Cohen’s lifeless face with a crooked
smile, and then gently skims the palm of his hand over
Cohen’s hair.
As he slowly brushes aside a lock of Cohen’s hair, he
whispers, “Yeshua…”
A moment later Baculo turns to the orderlies and asks,
“You’re sure you weren’t followed?”
“Yes, we are certain.”
“Why is he not dressed? Get him into the ceremonial
robe,” Baculo commands.
“Yes, sir.”
“And his blood?” Baculo requests.
“Right here,” the first orderly replies as he hands Baculo a
vial of blood.
25
Baculo holds the vial up to the light, gazing at it with high
esteem and amazement. “Beautiful. It’s the first of three
blood types we need. I must take it to the lab immediately.”
Baculo moves toward the exit, but suddenly turns back to
the orderlies with military precision.
“Do not leave under any circumstances. No one comes in,
no one goes out. Am I understood?”
The orderlies nod silently.
“And defend him with your life!” Baculo commands.
“It's our honor,” the first orderly responds.
Baculo takes a moment to walk back over to the orderlies.
He puts his arms over their shoulders, pulling them close to
his side.
“My brothers, you are guardians of the Holy Tomb. There
is no greater honor.”
With that, Baculo turns to have one more look at Cohen’s
body. “Soon, my Lord…soon.”
Baculo pats the orderlies on the back and moves toward
the exit. As he walks away he offers the orderlies words of
inspiration
Before exiting he offers the orderlies words of inspiration:
“Soon there will be no more death, nor sorrow, nor crying.”
The orderlies simultaneously repeat, “No more death!”
Baculo is gone.
TWISTED LINEN
9
The Shroud
A
pair of designer shoes strides over a centuries-old marble
floor in the Vatican. The shoes are out of place in the
Vatican and don’t fit the black suit adorning the man wearing
them. He walks briskly down the maze of hallways, as he
knows exactly where he’s going.
The man approaches a door with restricted access and
places his right hand over the palm scanner. The infrared light
scans the pattern of veins in his palm for authentication as he
speaks into the voice authenticator.
“Simon LaCroix, Vatican security and intelligence.”
The door unlocks and Simon continues on his way. At the
end of the long hall, he rounds a corner and approaches a set
of rustic office doors. A priest guarding the double doors sees
Simon coming and opens the doors in advance.
Simon marches into the grand office; he has been here
many times before. The office is splendid, exhibiting the
weight of time. An impossibly tall and narrow window
extends from the floor to the ceiling, creating a large column
of light within the room.
Standing at the window, looking upward into the sunlight,
is Cardinal Genovi. He’s a gentle-looking, white-haired man
in a majestic, flowing red robe. Simon is very familiar with
his office, and Genovi is used to having him there. Genovi
senses Simon's arrival but does not turn to face him.
“Cohen is dead,” Genovi states.
“Yes, I heard,” Simon responds unemotionally.
27
Genovi continues to gaze up into the light with his eyes
closed.
“What do you make of it?” Genovi probes.
“My initial assessment based on the video…I’d say an
armor piercing, high velocity round because it went clean
through his head. The assassin may be a remnant of Islamic
Jihad…an amateur, expecting to shoot Cohen through body
armor, but he couldn't resist the head shot.”
Genovi snaps his head around. “It wasn't an amateur.”
“Really?” Simon snaps in response.
The aging Cardinal looks back up into the light, seeking to
warm his face. “We’re losing our world,” he mumbles.
The bold intelligence agent doesn't share Genovi's
oppressiveness. “Hard to lose a world that's already lost,” he
responds coldly.
Genovi is unresponsive, and Simon realizes he’s deep in
thought, struggling with something bigger than just another
dead political leader.
“What's going on Genovi?” he probes.
Genovi sighs as he stares out the massive window,
searching for clarity while crafting his words carefully.
“How long have you faithfully served this office?”
A little smile forms on Simon’s face as he reminisces on
the question.
“Since the day you brought me in…a long time.”
Suddenly a sense of apprehension crawls up Simon’s back
as he thinks about the earlier conversation with Grace. Now is
the time to tell Genovi he is out. Grace is all that matters now.
Simon babbles, “But I need to talk to you about…”
“In a minute,” Genovi interjects.
With a sense of purpose, Genovi walks over to his desk
and takes an intelligence folder from the top drawer, then
slides it into the center of the desk with the tips of his fingers.
It’s simply titled: THE SHROUD
Simon peers at the folder, and then mumbles, “The
Shroud…of Turin?”
TWISTED LINEN
10
Golden Dawn
G
enovi waves his hand at the chair in front of his desk.
“Take a seat,” he says to Simon before falling into his
leather chair on the other side of the desk.
“What do you know about the Hermetic Order of the
Golden Dawn?” Genovi asks.
The mere sight of an intelligence file spontaneously puts
Simon in the mindset of a Special Agent in Charge.
“It’s an ancient cult, undergoing a modern revival based
on the teachings of Aleister Crowley and Alice Bailey.”
“Yes,” Genovi confirms. “But it's also a magical Order
that uses modern science in combination with perverse pagan
rituals. Their present-day practices involve rituals around
astrology and theurgy.”
“Theurgy?”
“Black magic…the art of combining religious rituals with
modern-day science. The purpose is to evoke the presence of
spirits and unite the spirits with man.”
“And they want to use the burial shroud of Jesus Christ?”
Simon asks suspiciously, seeking confirmation.
Genovi nods. “The cult’s chief priest does. He wants to
extract Jesus’ DNA from the blood left behind on the Shroud.”
“Why do we care? Isn't the Shroud currently held in the
Cathedral of Turin?”
Genovi flashes a conspiratorial smile, almost as if he’s
proud. But there is no happiness in the smile, just resolve.
“That’s a replica. The real Shroud was hidden years ago
when scientists began experimenting with DNA clones.”
29
Simon looks at Genovi in disbelief before suspiciously
asking, “Hidden by whom…the Vatican?”
Genovi doesn’t offer clarification but rather leans forward
to point at a picture in the intelligence file. The face matches
the person who stole Cohen's body: Julian Felipe Baculo.
Written next to his picture is the alias “Magick.” Simon pulls
the file close, flipping through the printouts.
Genovi asserts, “He's trying to engage a thief to obtain the
genuine Shroud, someone with intimate knowledge of the
Vatican.”
The words cause Simon’s eyes to move involuntary
toward Genovi. There’s a sense of panic in his gaze as he
says, “If you want me to bring this guy in, take him down…I
can't. Grace and I are…”
“I want you to meet with Baculo…play along. Help me
expose those at the top.”
“What? I'm in charge of Vatican Security. He won't meet
with me!”
“You were a thief when I found you…were you not?”
“That was another life, a long time ago.”
“Simon, I understand it's once again part of your life. Isn't
it?”
Simon is speechless, frozen, chagrin at the thought of
Genovi knowing what he and Grace have been up to. Genovi
expected Simon to feel this guilt, so he offers a bit of grace.
“I know you are fearful with all that's happened, the US
collapse, and the recent war.”
Simon stammers, trying to find his words. “I, I'm only
doing it for Grace. The Church can't protect us anymore.”
“Whoever said the Church protects us from anything!”
A leaden silence separates the two for a moment.
“Simon, the Lord will use even our most selfish intentions
for His glory. I think your lapse in faith is such.”
Simon looks down. He feels a bit ashamed, as though he
has failed Genovi.
Genovi continues to push his agenda forward.
“In the eyes of this world, it’s logical that a man of your
talents would be tempted to provide for his own safety and for
TWISTED LINEN
those he loves. Your selfish acts of recent are now your cover.
I need you to continue being the ‘thief’ you now are.”
Genovi extends his hand, gesturing at the intelligence file.
“I'll need that file back. You leave for Spain tonight.
Meet with Baculo and convince him you're the right man for
the job.”
Simon is stunned and can only sheepishly nod in response.
“This is not sanctioned by the Church…is it?”
Genovi shakes his head. He puts the file back in his
drawer, closes and locks it.
“Remember what I did for you long ago?” Genovi asks.
“Of course I do,” Simon defensively replies.
“Can I trust you again?”
Simon is offended that he’d ask that.
“Yes, of course!” he snaps back.
“Good…because you will be tested.”
Simon now realizes how gravely serious Genovi is about
this cult and feels compelled to relieve the tension.
“Genovi, we’ve seen these types of cults before. They
have limited followings. They’re just deceived by the
witchcraft.”
“It’s not witchcraft. And their following are many…and
they are powerful.”
Simon is taken back and questions Genovi with concern.
“Is this cult really a present danger? What can they really
do with the DNA of Jesus?”
“Get going,” Genovi commands. “I’ll make my jet ready
to fly you to Spain.”
Simon is confounded by Genovi’s hesitancy to share the
details; it’s not their usual type of interaction. The uncertainty
brings forth a deep desire to plead, even beg, to explain why
he can’t take on this task. Not now, not after all the plans he
and Grace have made. All the risk and work they have put
into their future life in Tahiti. He wants to explain that he has
31
given up on this way of life, fighting the evil in the world. But
most of all, Simon just wants to yell: “All I care about is
Grace! I need to find a safe escape for us!”
But he simply mutters, “I don't even know where to go in
Spain.”
Genovi quickly replies, “San Sebastian…the train station.
We have two days, so get moving.”
Genovi looks away, making it clear that their meeting is
over.
Simon gets up and begins to walk toward the door.
Everything about the situation unnerves him. After a few
steps, he stops. Without turning back to Genovi, he utters,
“They'll need more than Jesus' DNA to make a clone. They
need an embryo and a surrogate woman to carry it to term.”
Genovi is haunted by those words. “Yes…that's correct,”
he begrudgingly responds.
Simon continues fishing for more information.
“So this cult has geneticists? And what about a woman?
Who would be crazy enough to birth it?”
Genovi quickly stands, leaning forward over his desk, his
body posture displaying an unusual side of aggression.
“Take the meeting with Baculo. Help me put a stop to this
once and for all.”
Simon nods in obedience and leaves the office. As the
office doors gently close, Genovi remains motionless at his
desk, shaken, almost buckling under the pressure. His guilty
conscience becomes unbearable as he pulls a different folder
from the very back of the drawer.
It’s an older file labeled TWISTED LINEN
In the folder is a photo of Grace LaCroix as a very young
girl, and the sight of it breaks Genovi’s heart. He runs his
finger along the picture while his eyes slowly close.
He whispers, “Forgive me, my child. Forgive me…”
Genovi snatches the phone off his desk, and with forced
resolve barks into the phone, “Prepare my plane immediately.”
He slaps the Twisted Linen folder down on the desk and
clarifies, “Three of us will be flying…San Sebastian, Spain.”
TWISTED LINEN
11
My Father
G
race scurries about their apartment, preparing for their
“backup” job. Simon sits in the car, parked tight along
the curb. He leans forward to see into their second story
window, trying to get a sense of the situation before going up.
Grace hurries by the window with a purpose. Then she
passes back-by again. She’s obviously on a mission and
Simon chuckles to himself. What else should he expect? This
is their new life now, so reminiscent of Simon’s old life,
before Genovi intervened.
About two decades earlier Genovi saved Simon from a life
of depravity, a thug’s life as a thief. He was a proficient thief,
getting better every year, getting more ruthless, too. Simon
was slowly moving out of the blue and into the black, and the
evolution into depravity was unperceivable to him. Simon’s
“good run” as a thief would eventually come to an end, and
he’d have to pay for the consequences of his actions. Simon
had one more strike left and then the courts would lock him up
for the rest of his life.
Simon didn’t know his biological father, and he was never
close to his stepfather, a man who showed his love by
swinging a heavy-buckled leather belt. Genovi became
Simon’s surrogate father the day he grabbed his arm and
yanked him from a street corner. It wasn’t done with a fancy
sermon; it was just a simple question and statement, but it
spoke to the soul, and Simon never forgot it: “My son, what
are you doing out here in the dark? The darkness won’t
provide what you’re seeking.”
33
Simon breaks free from his memory, leaps from the car,
scats up the stairs and barges through their apartment door.
He has an urgent question for Grace, and he fears he already
knows the answer. “Grace?” he calls out.
“Yes…I'm in here,” she shouts back from the other room.
Simon follows her voice into the bedroom.
“Listen, the meeting can't be delayed,” Grace says. “We
must leave now.”
Simon ignores her and blurts out his burning question,
“What's the religious artifact they want?”
“Well hello to you too,” responds Grace with a glare.
“Is it the Shroud of Turin?” Simon demands.
“Shroud of what? I told you Simon, we'll find out the
details at the meeting. Now get changed. Your bag is
packed.”
Grace twists her hair in one hand as she prepares a
ponytail band in the other.
“Don't say San Sebastian?” Simon challenges in a
questioning way.
As Grace pulls her hair through the band and tightens it
with a yank, her face acknowledges that San Sebastian is
indeed their destination.
“Yes, how'd you know?” she demands.
“Oh no…not this time!”
Grace anxiously reaches for Simon’s arm. “What's going
on?” she asks.
“You are not coming. That’s what’s going on,” Simon
declares while pulling away.
“Says who?…My father?” Grace asks testily.
“Yes, he knows. He wants me to investigate these
maniacs you’re in communication with.”
“Maniacs?” Grace echoes.
Simon runs a hand over his hair, trying to gather his wits.
Grace reaches for his arm again and says, “We stick
together…no matter what.”
Simon turns his back to her. Then after a moment he
mumbles, “Genovi was scared. I've never seen him like this.”
TWISTED LINEN
Grace grabs his arm and turns him back around.
“Don't forget, I know how he operates. If Dad knows
about this meeting, he knows I'm going with you.”
“Maybe that's why he's scared,” Simon somberly insists.
A startled and contemplative look flashes across Grace’s
face as she realizes there is more going on. She grabs Simon’s
shoulders and pushes him against the wall, kissing him hard.
It's unexpected, maybe even ill-timed, but it's the most
defusing response she can think of given the tension growing
between them.
“I love you completely,” she says, still visibly shaken.
“You know that, right?”
The intensity of the moment reminds Simon how much he
cherishes this woman, and how he will do anything to protect
her. He softy murmurs, “I love you more than anything.”
“I know that, but I'll never expose you to one of these
back-stabbing elites unless the best person in the world is
watching your back. And that’s me.”
After a firm head-nod she adds, “Now, I'll get the
communications equipment. Have you thought about what to
wear?”
Simon cocks his head. He has no idea what to wear.
Grace smirks and teases, “See what I mean? Change into
something less…agent.”
With that settled she kisses him again; it’s a we're-donehere kind of peck. "Let's go," she concludes before hurrying
off into the other room.
Simon hollers in response, “These aren’t the elite. These
people are really dangerous…sicko dangerous!”
“Of course they're dangerous. That's why you need me,”
Grace yells back from the other room.
Simon wags his head with angst, but he can’t help but
think, “I can’t argue with that.”
35
12
G650ER
G
enovi slowly makes his way up the stairs of the private
Gulfstream G650ER business jet. The extended range
luxury jet was purchased a couple years earlier, right before
the United States collapsed. Genovi lobbied hard for approval
to purchase the jet and in hindsight, considering how
dangerous travel is today, it was the best purchase the Vatican
ever made.
Grace and Simon will also be flying on the jet to San
Sebastian, but they have yet to arrive. Genovi’s got a bad
feeling about this meeting. He’s not sure if it’s related to his
lack of faith in Simon, or to this cult. Regardless, he feels
called to join the detail, but he must keep his distance and
conceal his involvement even to Simon and Grace. Simon and
Grace will be more effective working alone, and Genovi’s
presence would surely jeopardize their cover. That’s what
Genovi keeps telling himself, but the truth is more
complicated than that. Either way, Genovi’s got a plan that
should work.
Inside the plane, Genovi opens the cockpit door and greets
the pilots, “Good evening gentlemen.”
“Evening, Your Eminence,” says the first pilot. “We are
just finishing our checklist while waiting for clearance.”
“Good. There are three of us flying tonight. Mr. and Mrs.
LaCroix should arrive shortly.”
“Yes, Your Eminence,” responds the pilot with a nod, but
not looking up from his checklist.
“As always, I'll be in my private cabin, but I want to make
a special request this evening.”
Both pilots now turn to look at Genovi.
“Tonight, I want to tag along undisclosed. Don't mention
I’m here unless there is an emergency. Understood?”
TWISTED LINEN
After a slight hesitation the pilot in charge complies.
“Understood.”
“Thank you. I’ll let you get back to work.”
Genovi closes the door to the cockpit and walks toward the
back of the plane. On the way down the aisle, he places his
Bible on the rear seat and pauses for a moment to scrutinize it.
The sight of a Bible, alone in a seat, brings back memories:
memories from long ago, memories of how he came to know
Jesus and his journey thereafter.
“Let’s see what God will do with a lone Bible this time,”
Genovi ponders inwardly as he enters his private cabin and
locks the door behind him.
Barricaded in his private cabin, Genovi can finally let
down his guard. He lets out a deep sigh and drops into a
leather chair. His breathing slows, but his mind isn’t doing
him any favors. When Genovi thinks of Grace and her
mother, regret always follows.
Grace had been conceived out of wedlock and Genovi
never married her mother or even publically acknowledged
her. He fought hard to hide his mistake from the Church, but
it was an endless fight of deception. He made deals to keep
the sinful act in the dark, and the consequences still chase him
today.
After Grace’s conception, Genovi worried that God would
bring consequences upon him for breaking his vows as a priest
and bearing a child out of wedlock. If God would punish King
David, His beloved, certainly He would castigate a mere
Cardinal. And He did; God administered many consequences
throughout Genovi’s life.
But tonight, Genovi’s mind wanders to that rainy day
sixteen years earlier in London when he visited St. Stephen’s
School for Girls. The warm rain rapped the windshield as he
waited for the school’s grand iron gates to open. He wore
37
civilian clothes and felt naked without his priestly frock. He
was too ashamed to introduce himself as her father while
wearing the collar.
As the school’s gate slowly opened, Genovi suddenly felt
the overwhelming desire to retreat. No one was watching, and
certainly no one was expecting him that rainy day. Genovi
had anonymously arranged Grace’s adoption when she was an
infant, but Grace had now turned fifteen and Genovi’s excuse
to visit was that she deserved explanations about her birth, or
that’s what he continued to repeat to himself. In reality, it was
more about Genovi’s selfish desire to speak with, or maybe
hold, his only child—if only just this one time. Genovi took
his foot off the brake and the car slowly rolled toward the
stately main building nestled amongst the gardens and greens
of the privileged boarding school.
As Genovi waited in the school’s Administration Office he
prayed many things all at once—forgiveness, strength, the
courage to be honest, but most of all, for the Lord’s mercy and
grace. All of Genovi’s mental preparation evaporated when
he saw this teenage vision of beauty walking toward him. It
wasn’t only his daughter; it was the ghost of her mother, and it
rattled him to the core.
In amazement and wonder, Genovi rose to his feet and
extended his hand, and then without thinking, the following
words escaped from his lips: “Hello Grace. I am your father.”
Grace stood frozen behind a blank stare, and a long silence
ensued as she tried to process the revelation. Eventually, a
weak smile formed on her face, and she lifted her hand toward
Genovi’s.
Throughout that rainy day, father and daughter walked the
school grounds under separate umbrellas, often just listening
to the soft pitter-patter of rain. And when they spoke, their
conversation was polite and free-flowing, albeit distant. Grace
appeared to be at peace with her life, and her inward serenity
was evidence that she knew her heavenly Father intimately.
Genovi avoided the details of who he really was, and made
a great effort to paint a rosy picture of her mother and their act
of passion long ago. Grace didn’t seem to care about the
TWISTED LINEN
details; she was content simply walking beside her biological
father. During lulls in the conversation Genovi found himself
daydreaming about the life that might have been: a life lived
as God would have intended it, a life where Genovi sincerely
repented of his mistakes, a life lived under God’s forgiveness
and grace, a life where he remained united with his daughter,
and her mother.
Eventually visitation hours ended and the pair parted with
an awkward embrace. It was strange for Genovi, a priest, to
be held, and even more so by his daughter.
Then the awkwardness grew heavy when Grace asked,
“So, will you be visiting again?”
“Of course,” Genovi instinctually uttered.
It was a disingenuous claim because Genovi would not
return to Grace until Simon announced their engagement over
a decade later.
In the jet cabin, Genovi leans forward and places both hands
over his face, the weight of regret crushing him. He
desperately wants the tormenting memories of his past to leave
him, but as it often is, he can’t find rest. Maybe it’s the chair
he sits in. Searching for relief elsewhere, he staggers out of
the chair and collapses onto his private bed. The whirring jet
engine provides little solace for what is sure to be a fitful
flight to San Sebastian.
39
13
The Cell
B
aculo stands in a Spanish villa home, classic but
extravagant, and filled with the latest in technology. The
style of the home is a direct contrast to the pagan cult robe
he’s wearing. It’s a simple white robe, hooded and held
closed by a tasseled rope belt. After raking his fingers through
his hair, he flips the robes deep hood over his head, then
moves to open a nearby door. It’s a normal looking door,
something you’d expect to lead to a pantry or common room,
but behind this door is an elevator. He presses a call button on
the panel, and adjusts his belt one last time while he waits.
Once inside the elevator, Baculo reaches out, allowing his
hand to hover over the control panel of floor buttons. The
labels on the panel read: 2, 1, Parking, and Emergency. His
index finger tracks down the buttons and comes to a stop over
the Emergency button with a red flame icon on it. It’s not a
button you’d ever expect to press on purpose, but Baculo
presses it and the weak fire bell begins to ring. He quickly
swipes his access card over the authorization reader, and the
bell goes silent. Then, the elevator starts to move; it’s headed
down, subterranean.
At the bottom, the elevator door opens to an artificially lit
hallway with cell doors along the corridor. Unlike the
upstairs, this area feels like a hospital or a mental institution.
Baculo steps out and approaches one of the cell doors in the
middle of the corridor. He pauses in front of the door and
pulls his deep hood up over his head. The hood hangs down a
bit over his face, creating a shadow over his eyes; it’s just the
way Baculo likes it. He then swipes his access card and the
cell door unlocks with a startling unlatching sound. Baculo
steps through the doorway to reveal something straight ahead,
waiting for him. It’s an adult woman, hanging by her arms
and legs, spread in the form of an X. Her limbs are pulled in
TWISTED LINEN
four different directions by chains attached to a pulley system
in the far corners of the room.
The woman yelps behind her gag as she struggles against
her restraints, terrified by the sight of Baculo. The fear in her
eyes makes one thing obvious: Magick has visited her before.
41
14
It’s Just Science
S
imon and Grace sit aboard the Vatican’s Gulfstream jet, en
route to San Sebastian. Grace works diligently, trying to
configure her laptop to connect with a camera concealed in a
pair of eyeglasses.
Simon sits across the aisle, reading from the Bible. Grace
looks over and sees an intense look on his face. Simon is
reading from Revelation, Chapter 21; it’s entitled The New
Jerusalem.
“I haven't seen you with a Bible in a while,” Grace says.
“Huh? Oh, it's Genovi's. He must have left it.”
Simon exhales with a deep sigh, trying to expel some
stress.
Grace senses his tension and inquires, “What's up?”
“I’m not sure. I've just got a really bad feeling about this.”
“Why do you keep saying that?” Grace asks with
noticeable tension in her voice.
“Genovi mentioned the real Shroud isn't in Turin. He's the
only one who knows where it is. It can't be a coincidence that
you and I were engaged to steal it.”
Grace looks away and thinks about this for a moment.
Maybe he’s right. “It’s not a coincidence,” she says turning
back toward Simon. “Our clients are well-connected, the elite.
They’re able to find the right people, people who have access
to what they want.”
“Listen Grace, these clients are not the elite. They’re the
occult.”
“A cult,” Grace says in shock. “Did Dad tell you this?”
“It’s called the Golden Dawn, and I think they want to
genetically engineer a clone of Jesus Christ.”
Grace tilts her head and furrows her brow.
“A clone? Like a sheep?” she asks.
“Science is beyond that. They want another Jesus Christ.”
TWISTED LINEN
Grace glares with a look of absurdity and asserts, “A cult
can’t bring Jesus back with blood rituals…no matter how hard
they pray.”
“I know it doesn’t seem probable, but it’s not
impossible…not with today’s technology. Not if it’s really
Jesus’ DNA on the Shroud of Turin.”
Grace intensely pries for more information. “You think
this cloth really holds the blood of Jesus?”
“Well, science confirmed the stains on the Shroud are the
blood of a man, and the Shroud’s twisted linen matches the
type used to create burial cloths in Jesus’ day. Plus, the image
on the Shroud is miraculous. It can’t be explained and it
shows a man who was crucified. There has been no other
burial shrouds in history that have an image like this. So yes, I
think it’s Jesus’ blood on the Shroud of Turin.”
Simon’s conviction worries Grace. Simon also knows the
best minds in science studied and authenticated the Shroud
with over nine different types of analyses. Major institutions
were involved in the research, the likes of Los Alamos, New
England Institute of Medicine, US Air Force, the Jet
Propulsion Laboratory, and others.
After listening intently, Grace nods, then looks away,
trying to digest the reality of this revelation.
Simon and Grace know that geneticists have been
manipulating DNA for disease cures and tissue regeneration
for years. And for decades they have been perfecting the
science of cloning. They realize that if the Golden Dawn has
access to the latest therapeutic nanotechnologies, and if they
have a capable and willing scientist, they’ll try to fertilize a
woman’s egg with the seed of Jesus Christ.
Grace mumbles, almost to herself, “So this cult might
actually try to clone Him.”
43
15
Clean Yourself Up
T
he soft whirr of lab equipment hum in the air while a
scientist sits with his eyes glued to an electron
microscope. He is working under great distress and against
his will, evident by the sweat-beads peppering his furrowed
forehead. A bead of sweat breaks free and skirts along his
brow and down his cheek. He quickly lifts his head from the
microscope and wipes it away with his lab coat, and then
adjusts the settings on a nearby blood separating device.
The scientist is an expert in the field of epigenetics for
medicinal application, the practice of changing a gene’s
expression for a healing purpose. It is ironic that the scientist
is being forced to exploit dual-coding genes because this
genetic feature was conveniently ignored in a recent journal
paper authored by the scientist. He ignored it because it
directly contradicts the theory of natural selection and
evolution. He wasn’t alone in his selective reasoning
following the ENCODE II study—most scientists chose to
ignore the evolutionary implications of dual-coding genes.
The trait should have never evolved if natural selection and
evolutionary theories are true. But now, in his dungeon cell,
the scientist is being forced to utilize this very genetic trait to
accomplish an ominous task: combine dual-coding features
with DNA sequence manipulation using a novel technique
called “molecular scissors.” This technique makes genome
editing with engineered nucleases (GEEN) feasible, but the
task is tedious and difficult under these stressful conditions.
The scientist peers intently at the whirring blood separator in
front of him. Beside the separator is an empty blood vial
labeled “Cohen.”
“Please synthesize ... please,” he mumbles.
TWISTED LINEN
At that moment a noise from outside the room, deep within
the corridor halls, breaks the scientist’s desperate plea. He
snaps his head around to better discern the origin of the sound,
but there’s no option of investigating. He’s locked inside this
room, assigned an insidious task, or pay the ultimate price.
Baculo’s tormenting words echo in his mind, I’m personally
looking after her.
“Heran?” the scientist instinctively whispers in a small
voice.
Down the corridor hall, out of sight from the scientist,
Baculo unlatches a heavy door, preparing to exit the cell he
entered earlier. Heran still hangs by chains in the back of the
room. Crimson blood streaks her legs and pools in a messy
puddle on the floor below her feet. Her blood also covers
Baculo’s mouth, chin, and portions of his robe. It was a feast,
and like a feasting lion he licks at the blood with a slow swipe
of the tongue. Before exiting the cell, Baculo swipes at a lever
and releases Heran’s restraints.
Slack chains run free and Heran drops to the cold floor in a
heap. She squirms into the fetal position, yanking at the
remains of her shredded gown, desperately trying to cover
exposed flesh. Baculo slowly tilts his nose upward, inhales
deeply, and then looks back over his shoulder.
“Clean yourself up,” he coldly commands.
45
16
Let’s Run
G
race sits close to Simon aboard the Gulfstream, nervously
biting her lip, waiting for Simon to clarify the situation.
“Genovi is very concerned about this cult,” Simon states
with grave sincerity. “And I’m sure he’s not telling me
everything.”
Spooked and fidgety, Grace abruptly stands and walks
forward in the cabin. While Simon talks about what this cult
might do with the Shroud, Grace is consumed with how it
might put them at risk.
“And they'll force a woman to birth such a thing?” she
asks.
Simon nods. Grace was hoping that wouldn’t be his
response, and now she loses any trace of skepticism.
“Simon, you’re scaring me,” she says with a slight tremble
in her voice. “Maybe we should run?”
“Run?” Simon echoes, as if he’s caught off guard by the
suggestion.
“Yes, run with their down payment. Listen…” Grace
implores. “Go to the meeting tonight and accept the job. I'll
confirm their money clears our bank account, and then we
disappear.”
“Grace, Genovi can't do this without me!”
Grace senses the need to convince Simon. He must
understand why her plan makes sense.
“You’re going to wear these spycam glasses,” she states.
“We’ll use them to get a facial-recognition ID on this Baculo.
I’ll run it through the intelligence database to find out who he
really is.”
Simon stares back at Grace, one eye slightly squinting.
“What’s that look?” Grace asks. “This should be all Dad
needs to track Baculo from here.”
“I can’t abandon Genovi,” Simon counters.
TWISTED LINEN
“Your instincts about this cult are right,” Grace pleads.
“You’ve convinced me…they’re too dangerous. After tonight,
we’re out.”
Simon swallows hard.
Grace is determined to convince Simon, refusing to relent.
She reaches toward her laptop and unplugs the spycam
glasses.
“Look, these will work great,” she says.
With the spy glasses in hand, Grace swings her leg over
Simon’s lap, straddling him in the seat.
“Here…let’s try on your new glasses.”
Simon offers a slightly annoyed frown in response.
Grace wiggles her hips, trying to get Simon to relax.
“I can't lose you, Simon. Now relax and trust me,” she
demands before gently placing the glasses on Simon.
After a touch-tap adjustment of the glasses, her fingers
linger by his ears while she massages his head and face.
Simon slowly closes his eyes and leans his head back into
the seat. “Hmmm…that feels good.”
“This relaxes you?” Grace asks tenderly.
“Yeah, it helps.”
“You look very handsome in these glasses,” Grace adds
seductively.
“Do I?” he musters in response.
Grace makes a small adjustment to Simon’s shirt collar,
and then runs her palms down his chest. Simon’s eyes open
with a bit of excitement.
Grace slowly nods in confirmation and says, “But I need
you completely relaxed and focused for this meeting.”
“Do you?” Simon asks with anticipation.
Grace’s eyes remain intimately fixed on Simon’s as she
gently removes the hair band from her ponytail.
“Ummhmm,” Grace murmurs as she waves her long hair
back and forth with a few gentle turns of her head.
47
Grace then runs each hand through her hair, pulling it
forward over her shoulders. Simon loves when she does that,
and Grace knows it. Grace sits tall in Simon’s lap and leans
forward so that her face is directly above his, allowing her
thick hair to naturally fall to each side of his face.
“I may never have you all to myself on a private jet again,”
she softly whispers under the confines of her hair.
“You may not,” Simon whispers back.
“What’s back there?” Grace alludes with a nod toward
Genovi’s private cabin door.
Simon’s eyes widen. “It’s a place to get horizontal,” he
concedes. “But it’s reserved for your dad.”
Grace wrinkles her nose and makes a funny-sad pouting
face; Simon loves when she does that too.
“Want me to pick the lock?” he jests.
“No, I think I’m satisfied in this position…for now.”
“I love when you are satisfied,” Simon insists.
Grace’s lips open slightly as they slowly fall onto Simon’s.
And soon, their sensual moment progresses into a full-blown
“horizontal refreshment.” Captivated by the pleasures of
carnal knowledge between husband and wife, Simon and
Grace temporarily forget about the dangers ahead, and simply
become one.
It would be a perfectly intimate moment within the
unsuspecting cabin of a private G650ER jet, if it weren’t for
the third wheel in the back cabin. There, lying stiff on his
back, Genovi glares straight up at the ceiling. He turns to look
out the window, searching for a distraction. But there’s
nothing but the full moon glaring back at him. Genovi quickly
pulls the pillow from behind his head and smothers it over his
face, desperately trying to block the throbbing sounds of love.
“This wasn’t part of my plan,” Genovi grumbles to
himself.
TWISTED LINEN
17
San Sebastian
A
s the jet makes its final approach over the coastal city of
San Sebastian, the full moon bathes the landscape with
its ivory pearl-light, offering a panoramic view of the
horseshoe bay, its pristine waters, and the historic Spanish
architecture. Simon looks intently out the window. He
understands situational awareness; it’s a critical success factor
in any engagement. True awareness requires calm
observation, and there is no better vantage point than having
eyes in the sky.
The seaside city is connected by a labyrinth of narrow,
winding cobbled streets, and Simon quickly spots the train
station on the edge of town. Off to the right side of the bay
sits Urgull Hill, rising high over the city. At its peak stands
the ancient ruins of a castle that later served as a Christian
church. There a twelve meter high sculpture of Jesus Christ
stands with a palm peacefully extended outward. Jesus
eternally holds the bold pose like He’s watching and
protecting the city of San Sebastian below.
Moments after the jet rolls to a stop in San Sebastian’s
private jet hangar, Simon disembarks and approaches the
waiting customs agent. Grace lags behind a bit, fiddling with
her bag at the bottom of the stairs. Both of them are traveling
light with only a roller-bag each.
As Simon nears the customs agent, he holds out his
Vatican credentials.
“Simon LaCroix, Vatican Security,” he says.
The customs agent confirms Simon’s name matches one of
the names in the log file.
49
“My logs show there are three passengers traveling.
Where’s the third?” asks the customs agent.
“No, just two of us,” Simon says as he nods back at Grace.
“Where’s our car? We’re in a hurry.”
“Over there,” responds the customs agent, gesturing at a
nearby car.
It’s a white VW Pollo, clean and in good condition, but
Simon is offended by the thought of driving it.
“Are you serious? Don’t you have anything else?”
The customs agent ignores the plea and stares hard at
Simon’s roller bag.
“Do you have anything to declare?” the agent asks curtly.
Simon dismisses the question and walks by him, only
turning back to say, “Yes. Diplomatic immunity my friend.”
The agent is about to offer his rebuttal when Grace
athletically trots by, hurrying to catch up with Simon. The
agent’s mouth drops open like a seal pup wanting to be fed,
obviously beguiled by Grace’s passing figure. Grace offers a
tight-lipped smile as she passes.
Simon watches as well, knowing his wife usually ignores
this type of awkward first impression, but this guy’s posture
and lewd gaze requires a response.
“Feel free to call the consulate,” Grace says, followed by a
quick wink.
The customs agent realizes he’s gawking, there’s no
denying it. He quickly snaps his gaze away, and then bores
his eyes into the fine print of the travel log papers. Simon
knows it’s hopeless. He’s too flustered to read anything, and
he rustles the papers in a desperate attempt to look
preoccupied.
As Simon scoots around the rear of the car, he glances
back at the agent and catches the leftovers of his debauched
look. It’s not the first time Simon walked through a lustful
stare meant for Grace, but it doesn’t faze him. The afterglow
of their ride on the G650ER has Simon calm, confident and
laser-focused on the mission of ensnaring Julian Baculo, aka
“Magick.”
TWISTED LINEN
As the VW rolls away from the jet hangar, Genovi surfaces
from within the jet cabin. He pauses at the plane’s door to
make sure Simon and Grace are out of sight, then slowly
makes his way down the jet stairs. It’s been a disruptive flight
to say the least, one with little rest and zero satisfaction for
Genovi.
The customs agent looks up from his travel log and sees
Genovi coming.
“Cardinal! So there are three of you?”
Genovi nods as he shuffles toward the agent.
“Yes, my son. I’m working deep undercover,” he says in a
voice heavy with fatigue.
The agent looks at him in a confused and doubtful manner.
Genovi gives him a befitting smirk before putting an end to
the charade.
“The plane will remain on standby. We won’t be here
long. Understood?”
The agent comes to attention. “Yes, Your Eminence,” he
responds.
Genovi heads directly toward two men in dark suits
waiting in the shadows of the hanger. They stand next to an
imposing black vehicle. It’s a H3 Hummer, one of the last
made in GM’s South Africa factory before the collapse of the
United States. But this H3 is customized for police
enforcement. The most obvious additions are a driver’s side
search light; a military grade push bar that wraps the front
grill; and bullet proof windows tinted black as a starless night.
Genovi quickens his step as he approaches the two darksuits.
“Let’s go. I’ll brief you on the way,” he commands.
51
18
Paseo Nuevo
I
n more than one way, Grace’s persistence was effective.
Now her plan is operational: Simon will meet with Baculo
and pretend he’s willing to steal the Shroud of Turin. While
Baculo and Simon converse, Grace will gather Baculo’s full
dossier using facial-recognition software. If all goes as
planned, Simon and Grace will leave the meeting very rich,
$12.25 million in physical gold richer and in possession of
accurate intelligence on the true identity of Julian Baculo.
They’ll surrender the intelligence to Genovi and then
disappear into the islands of Tahiti on a newly purchased
yacht. That’s the plan; it’s the hope of a life reminiscent of
the way it used to be.
Simon drives the little VW while Grace scouts the area
from the passenger seat. Simon takes them past the San
Sebastian train station where the meeting with Baculo will
soon take place while Grace reiterates their game plan.
“Just find a seat next to Terminal C. Baculo will look for
you there.”
“Got it,” Simon acknowledges. “But you can't be
anywhere nearby.”
Simon turns the car left onto a bridge that crosses the Rio
Urumea. On the other side, he turns right and continues along
Paseo Nuevo. It’s a narrow and remote road around the base
of Urgull Hill. The farther they follow the road, the more
isolated it gets. Finally, it dead ends at the tip of the horseshoe
bay where the river head opens into the ocean.
Simon stops the car in a deserted location and says, “This
will have to do. I want you to establish communications
here.”
Grace peers out the small car window into the darkness,
scrutinizing their surroundings. A steep hill climbs up to their
left, leading to the top of Urgull Hill where the statue of Christ
TWISTED LINEN
silently watches over the city. To the right is a small drop
over a tide wall into the bay where the tranquil water gently
laps against the rocks.
Simon continues to state his demands. “I want you to stay
in the car and monitor the video feed from here. Don’t leave
this spot, no matter what.”
“This location is too far from the train station. I won't be
able to help if something goes wrong,” Grace pleads.
“If something goes wrong, I want you to disappear. Take
what we have and get as far from here as you can.”
Grace doesn’t like the feeling she gets when Simon
becomes tense and definitive; her breathing becomes shallow
and a bit irregular knowing that Simon has good instincts.
And his instincts say something bad may happen tonight.
Grace fights to hold her anxiety at bay and warns, “You
know I won't ever do that.”
Simon grabs her hand and squeezes tightly.
“As far from here as you can…promise me!”
Grace isn’t willing, but she nods just to appease him.
It’s rare for Simon to get this spooked and Grace knows
there’s more going on than meets the eye. The dangers are
more than physical; she senses a spiritual struggle mounting.
“It’s still not too late to abort…change our course,” she
suggests. “We can drive back down this road, right out of
town. Figure it out as we go…live day-by-day.”
Simon’s expression says it all. That’s a desperate plan;
they won’t last a year. It’s not an option.
53
19
My Collateral
S
imon discreetly enters the side entrance of the San
Sebastian train station. He’s tieless, wearing jeans and
sporting a blue blazer to conceal his 9mm pistol. The spycam
glasses Grace prepared for him fit the business-casual attire
perfectly. Feeling confident with their plan, Simon casually
strolls into the quiet area of Terminal C. He quickly identifies
an appropriately reclusive seat for the secret meeting with
Baculo.
Not a minute later, Baculo appears out of nowhere, as if he
were following Simon. He holds a briefcase and is neatly
dressed in a high-dollar business suit. The attire is overly
flamboyant for a secret meeting of this type, and compared to
Simon, he looks the part of a rich elite.
“Mr. LaCroix, I'm glad you made it.”
Simon turns to face him and is initially caught off-guard
by Baculo’s brazen dress. Instantly, Simon becomes more
disturbed by Baculo’s presence; he is more sinister in person
than Simon imagined. His eyes manifest the most devious and
vile presence Simon has ever experienced.
“Likewise,” Simon puts forth, trying to act polite.
Baculo gently places his briefcase down and casually sits
down beside Simon.
“Your associate…she is not here?” Baculo inquires.
“I'm afraid you're stuck with me.”
While Simon's spy glasses record images of Baculo’s face,
Grace monitors the real-time video and audio feed on her
laptop in the safe confines of the parked VW Pollo.
“No, I'm here you sicko. I see you,” Grace mumbles to
herself.
Grace’s laptop runs sophisticated facial-recognition
software that Simon “borrowed” from the Vatican. It captures
TWISTED LINEN
and analyzes imagery of Baculo's face. His image bounces
around the laptop screen while the software works to identify
key facial points. As it does, it locks each point in place.
Baculo pushes his agenda forward and says, “I understand
you can retrieve an artifact I'm very fond of.”
“It depends. What might that be?” Simon responds,
stalling for time while he holds his head still so the camera can
focus on Baculo’s face.
Baculo chuckles at the absurdity in Simon’s fake charade.
Grace encourages Simon over the comms. “Another minute
and I'll have his ID made.”
“I understand it's a religious artifact,” Simon offers,
playing ignorant of the details of their engagement.
“Let's not play games, Mr. LaCroix. My associates and I
require the Shroud within two days.”
Grace gets a facial-recognition hit. Baculo's bio and
dossier appear on screen. She begins to confidently read the
information aloud into Simon’s earpiece.
“Here we go…he is Julian Felipe Baculo. A Sicilian
music teacher and composer. No religious affiliation.”
Grace is confused. The information is obviously fake.
“This makes no sense,” she hisses. “It says he died in
1944. He's a shadow!”
Baculo has somehow managed to access the government’s
repository of “identity management” and changed his identity
to shadow another person, and that person died over seventy
years ago.
Back in the train station Simon hears the bad news. He
looks closely at Baculo now. This guy is a step ahead and
untraceable. It infuriates Simon.
Grace starts to anxiously chatter into the comms
equipment. There is now a bit of panic in her voice. “Okay
listen…just get the money and get out of there!”
55
Simon turns stone cold, maybe a bit dazed, his mind races,
trying to determine the best course of action.
Baculo offers a tight, encouraging little smile. “Mr.
LaCroix, two days. Are you the right man for the job?” he
prods.
“Ah…yes. Of course,” Simon says, trying to sound
confident. “And our arrangement?”
“It’s as I stated, forty-nine million in SDRs, twenty-five
percent up front in the form of allocated bullion. As requested
by your associate…Grace was it?”
Simon simply nods, trying to figure out how to handle this
character.
Baculo hands Simon a slip of paper and says, “Have her
run this authorization and transfer code.”
Simon takes the slip and reaches for his phone.
Baculo stops him by remarking, “No need for the phone.
Just read it to Grace over your mic.”
Simon sits up tall in his chair, thinking hard for a long
moment with the phone frozen to his hand. This guy is
dangerously good whoever he is; he’s a dialed-in
observationalist smart enough to see around corners. Simon
begins to pan the train station, not comfortable being the one
under surveillance, looking for anything out of place.
Baculo smiles wickedly, now watching Simon closely.
After a pause, Simon’s eyes fall to the slip of paper and he
relays the number to Grace in a robotic tone. “The transfer
code is +011972569023017. Do you copy?” He says the last
three words with a great sense of dejection.
“Yep, I'm running it. Hang in there, love.”
Tense silence ensues as Simon walks his eyes all over
Baculo, but Baculo immediately pulls Simon’s focus back to
their agreement.
“Mr. LaCroix, we take our appointments very seriously.
Please don't lose that piece of paper.”
Simon’s external appearance is stone cold, but internally,
he fights to control the debilitating emotions of fear and rage.
Baculo’s fake identity means Simon has nothing to turn over
to Genovi, and if Simon aborts now and flees with Grace,
TWISTED LINEN
Genovi will flounder in his effort to chase down the Golden
Dawn leaders.
Grace rescues his emotional dilemma with an encouraging
update, “We got it…the gold is ours. Get out of there!”
Simon chooses to focus on the positive and he abruptly
stands and automatically extends his hand.
“Okay, I'll have the Shroud within two days,” he says.
Suddenly Grace’s voice comes in over the comms, “Keep
watch of your ten and three o'clock.”
Simon turns to survey the area and sees two dark-suits,
maybe security guards, watching unobtrusively from a
distance. Baculo remains seated, dead calm, not threatened by
his surroundings, and not extending his hand. Simon aborts
the awkward handshake and turns to leave. Yet, after only a
few steps, Baculo summons him back.
“Simon!”
Baculo’s call demands attention and Simon freezes.
“You forgot to ask how to contact me. You know…to
make the exchange in two days,” Baculo chides.
Simon is done looking foolish and cannot restrain his fury
any longer. He knows Grace has the money now, and the
thought of Baculo going free infuriates him.
Simon turns back to confront Baculo.
“It took two hundred seventy-one attempts to make
Dolly,” he says while leaning down into Baculo’s face. “Two
hundred seventy sheep died before one survived. Are you
accounting for that?”
Baculo smiles, even more wickedly this time, then slowly
stands and buttons his suit jacket. Baculo’s face hardens and
his eyes glow with a sinister glare.
“Now I am done playing games,” Baculo declares.
“So am I!” Simon zings with a tensed body, contemplating
whether to do something – maybe chop Baculo’s throat or
perhaps lunge forward with a head-butt.
57
“I can’t let you disappear with our gold,” Baculo states
calmly.
Simon is perplexed by the comment. That wasn’t what he
expected. A head-butt, maybe, but not more talk.
Baculo exhibits an eerie expression that forms suddenly
and then vanishes.
“It's time for my collateral,” Baculo adds with a dark look.
Simon cocks his head, closely evaluating Baculo’s
wording. But at that very moment, Grace’s distressed voice
bursts out over Simon’s earpiece.
“Simon!” Grace murmurs as if a hand is covering her
mouth, stifling her shout.
The audio comms begin to screech and then change to a
loud static noise. Simon yanks out his earpiece and yells,
“Grace!”
Simon immediately flips back his jacket, and in one
motion unclips his holstered pistol and flicks the safety off.
His hand firmly grips the pistol, ready to draw.
Baculo smirks as if this was all planned, posturing like he
is in complete control. “Stay calm, Simon. We don't want to
call attention.”
Baculo then turns around and does something
unsuspecting: He shouts, “Help! He has a gun!”
The two men Simon noticed earlier, the “dark-suits”, rush
toward them as Simon grabs the back of Baculo’s collar and
pushes the 9mm muzzle into the back of his head.
“You bloody bastard! If you touch her...” Simon
threatens.
Baculo faces away from Simon with his hands up, trying
to garner attention. “Touch who? I don't know what you’re
talking about,” Baculo shouts so it’s audible to the crowd
around them.
“I'll blow your head off!” Simon shrieks in panic.
The two dark-suits close in on Simon. The first man grabs
Simon before he has time to react, expertly disarming him
with a wrist lock and forcing his arm behind his back. The
other dark-suit addresses Baculo's claims.
TWISTED LINEN
“Officer, help! This man thinks I've taken his wife. I
think he’s deranged.”
Simon struggles with the dark-suit restraining his arm,
then yells, “Get off of me! He’s kidnapping my wife!”
Baculo counters, “I assure you I'm not involved with this
man's wife. I’m a banker at the Banco Nacional, visiting here
on business.”
In response to Baculo’s plea, the first dark-suit directs his
partner to further restrain Simon. “Take him into custody.”
Simon resists violently, instinctually using hand-to-hand
combat techniques. He delivers a vicious heel stomp to the
foot of the man restraining him. The stomp opens a small
window of opportunity for Simon to turn and execute a
reflexive throat chop with the edge of his hand. The dark-suit
clutches his throat with both hands, and gasps for air. Simon
delivered a targeted strike to the man's throat. It’s effective in
neutralizing the threat, so Simon turns back for Baculo. But
before Simon can reach Baculo, the other dark-suit shocks him
with a Taser. The electrical shock causes Simon’s entire body
to spastically tighten into one big cramp. He stiffens upright
onto his tippy toes before expelling a final grunt, then falls
face down onto the floor.
As Simon’s body twitches involuntarily, the two dark-suits
quickly FlexCuff his hands, and drag him toward the train
station exit. Onlookers quickly swarm to the ruckus,
enthralled by the disturbance and apprehension. As the
commotion builds, Baculo coolly backs away, slowly fading
into the crowd.
59
20
Deep Undercover
T
he train station doors burst open with Simon violently
resisting a dark-suit on each arm. They struggle to control
Simon as best they can, but his strength and wits are now
back. He yanks and pulls them around like rag dolls.
“You don’t understand!” Simon yells as he flings one
dark-suit off his arm.
“Stop resisting,” commands the remaining agent.
“Look here! I'm with Vatican security.”
The suits are unresponsive to Simon’s pleas as they
wrestle him around the corner. With his hands tied behind his
back, Simon launches his shoulder into the jaw of one of them.
The targeted blow knocks the agent to the ground. Simon tries
to launch a second attack but the agent prevents it with another
Taser-shock. The cracking pulse of electricity overwhelms his
neuromuscular system, and he again falls to the ground. This
time the agent covers Simon’s head with a black hood.
While travelers in the background shout in confusion, the
dark-suits drag Simon to his feet and force him into the back
of a waiting vehicle. The first agent tries to wave off the
agitated crowd before jumping into the driver's seat. The other
agent skirts the front of the vehicle, wanting to address a third
man waiting in the front seat. It’s Genovi, and he is furious.
“I told you to stick with Baculo!” Genovi angrily yells.
Simon is shocked into stillness.
“You failed to follow my clear orders, Genovi continues
with fury. “Now, go! Find him.”
The agent turns and darts back into the train station in a
desperate and futile search for Baculo, while in the back seat
of the Hummer, Simon screams from under his hood.
“Get this off my head!”
Genovi immediately turns his attention to Simon and
demands, “Where is Grace?”
TWISTED LINEN
“Genovi?” Simon bellows in a tone of confusion.
“Drive!” Genovi shouts, directing the remaining agent.
“This is the exact outcome I came to prevent.”
Genovi reaches into the back seat and rips the hood off
Simon’s head. “Answer me! Where is she?”
Simon, still baffled, stares at Genovi with wide eyes.
Eventually he’s able to mutter a response. “In the car…across
the bridge.”
“Turn left!” Genovi barks to the agent driving.
The Hummer squeals left across two lanes of traffic and
flies across the river’s bridge. The Hummer’s engine roars as
it accelerates down the remote road of Paseo Nuevo, heading
toward the parked VW Pollo.
“What are you doing here?” Simon asks.
Genovi is unresponsive while he swivels his head,
searching the sides of the road.
“Where! Where is her car?” Genovi demands in
desperation.
Simon hastily nods to go farther down the road, and the
Hummer roars even louder.
“There!” Simon shouts, nodding with his chin at the VW
Pollo just ahead. “That’s the car…now get these wrist ties off
me.”
61
21
The Appointed Time
B
aculo walks briskly across the grass of the Gipuskoa
Gardens. This quaint and charming green space adjacent
to the train station resembles a small English wood. It is home
to a large variety of trees, flowers and plants. Ducks and
swans often bathe in a small water pond in its center, but there
is no wildlife present tonight. It’s as if they sensed Baculo
was coming and fled.
Baculo skirts a life-size, marble statue of a virgin female
and then stops to look back over his shoulder to see if anybody
is following him. There is nobody; Baculo has the gardens all
to himself tonight.
He continues across the tiny wooden bridge into the center
of the garden where an ornate structure stands. It’s a small
gazebo-like structure, and Baculo finds cover in its shadows
so he can make an urgent phone call.
“Do you have her?” he asks.
“Yes,” a squawking voice replies. “She is restrained, but
unharmed.”
“Get her to the extraction point. Immediately!”
Baculo quickly terminates the call and again scrutinizes
the garden area, searching for anybody in pursuit of him.
Only the trickling sounds of water hail his presence. His
insidious plan is working perfectly.
Baculo steps out of the cover of shadows and looks up to
the dark heavens. The constellation Virgo shines bright in the
sky directly overhead; it’s an encouraging sign to Baculo.
“Our virgin Gracie. The appointed time is near.”
TWISTED LINEN
22
Remember Me
T
he Hummer is stopped diagonally next to the white VW
Pollo. The VW’s door is wide open and the
communication equipment is in disarray. Simon is distraught,
locked in the back seat of the Hummer with his hands bound
behind his back, while Genovi and his agent make a mad
scramble to find any sign of Grace. Genovi peers over the tide
wall railing, down to the water's edge, while the agent
frantically searches around the base of Urgull Hill.
“Who are these greenhorn agents?” Simon ponders in
frustration. They couldn’t track a bulldozer through a corn
field. The agents are young and appear to be just out of
training and Simon won’t stand for their ineptitude. He flips
himself on his back and kicks at the back window of the
Hummer. The first kick fails so he kicks harder a second time,
and the window shatters.
Simon slides his hands down the back of his legs and
around his feet, bringing his arms in front. Using shards of
glass left in the window frame, he slices the Flexcuffs and
frees his hands. Upon exiting the vehicle, a faint whooshing
sound from above captures his attention. But before locating
its source an agent jumps him from behind. Simon
instinctively hip-throws the man to the ground, and heel
stomps his sternum.
With the agent temporarily incapacitated, Simon looks up
to discern the source of the sound. It’s a helicopter
approaching in the distance, headed toward the top of Urgull
Hill. Simon looks up the large hillside and assumes the peak
63
is where the helicopter is going to land. The path before him
is heavily wooded but it’s the most direct route to Grace.
Simon glances back toward Genovi who stands across the
street at the water’s edge. Genovi is pensive but calm, gazing
deep into Simon's soul. Simon looks down at the agent
moaning on the ground, and then runs off, up the steep
embankment toward the peak of Monte Urgull.
As Simon scrambles up the hillside, the huge monument of
Jesus Christ points the way from above. Occasionally Simon
hears Grace's muffled screams echoing in the night air. Her
distressed voice sickens him with nauseous fear, but his rage
pumps adrenalin through his veins.
Simon spots the helicopter, preparing to land just above
the next embankment. Grace screams again, driving him
forward. He takes a step in that direction when suddenly he’s
knocked off his feet by one of Baculo's goons.
The goon is a nasty looking fellow, short and stocky with a
broad forehead and pointy nose. He threw an unexpected and
surprisingly strong punch that dropped Simon to the ground,
leaving him dazed and bloodied. The ghastly looking goon
continues his attack with a vicious kick into Simon’s gut.
Simon absorbs the blow and rolls away, creating separation so
that he can fight through the fog of his daze and get to his feet.
The stocky goon is no match for Simon’s grappling skills, and
the kick will be the goon’s last strike.
Simon quickly stutter-steps into position and
systematically chops him down, one strategic blow at a time.
The scrapple ends with a vicious hip-toss, leaving the goon
hanging over a high crag in the embankment. Simon
precariously holds the goon’s forearm, trying to prevent him
from falling.
“Who are you working for?” Simon demands in
desperation, unsure how long he can retain the grip.
The goon doesn’t respond. His feet scrape the cliff face,
searching for some type of foothold. He looks down at the
drop below him; it’s a fatal fall. He then looks back at Simon.
“Where are you taking her? Tell me!” Simon threatens
with a “tell me or I’ll let you go” action.
TWISTED LINEN
A short distance up the hill, the loud whirl of the
helicopter captures Simon’s attention as it throttles-up its
engine in an effort to take off. The helicopter slowly pulls
itself upward, out over the dark ocean water. The goon’s head
follows it as it flies off into the distance, cloaked by the dark
night sky. Satisfaction grows across the goon’s face. It’s the
satisfaction of a mission accomplished.
“She's gone,” the goon utters with contentment.
The goon then looks up into the heavens, and like Baculo,
he is emboldened by the prophetic sign of Virgo in the sky.
He views the constellation as affirmation of a life not lived in
vain, but rather a life filled with “works” and “sacrifices”
worthy of heavenly rewards.
“Lord, remember me when you come again,” the goon
exhales as his last words before yanking his arm free from
Simon’s grip.
The goon slides down the steep cliff face, quickly gaining
speed as he falls. His feet suddenly catch a small ledge,
sending him into a wild and out-of-control tumble. Simon can
only gape at the sight of his suicide.
A stunned Simon rolls away from the edge and covers his
face with his hands. Why would he do that? He ponders for a
split second. Then…No, she can’t be gone!
Simon jumps to his feet and runs toward the remnant
sound of Grace’s last plea for help. After a few moments he
staggers into a clearing, the helicopter’s assumed pickup
location. It’s vacant and Grace is gone. Simon frantically
spins in a circle, blankly staring at everything twirling around
him. His face exhibits a grave heartache coming from deep in
his soul. She is gone, and for a split second, everything stops.
“No-o-o-o-o!” he bellows with a voice of desolation.
The call echoes in the night air and then a piercing pain
emanates from his forehead like a migraine crawling around
his skull. The anguish overwhelms him, and he buckles to his
65
knees before sprawling face down in the dirt. Simon lies still,
thinking how he failed Grace, thinking what they might do to
her, thinking of the worst possibilities. His body goes limp
with no intention of getting up.
Some time later, the black Hummer pulls alongside a
motionless Simon, still sprawled in the dirt. The dark-suit
jumps out of the SUV as Genovi rolls his window part way
down.
“Get in the car,” Genovi commands from behind the
window.
Simon remains unresponsive, bleeding, and demoralized.
“Get in the car,” Genovi repeats. “Now!”
Simon slowly lifts his face from the ground and glances
over at Genovi. There’s nothing to say. Simon collapses face
down into the dirt.
The agent comes around to stand beside Simon, but shifts
his feet and looks at the Cardinal. Genovi gives him a nod and
the agent puts a knee in Simon’s lower back. He then pulls his
arms back and Flexcuffs his wrists.
“We can’t lose Baculo,” Genovi says. “Let’s go.”
The agent angrily wrestles Simon to his feet and into the
Hummer. They race back to the train station to find the other
agent waving his hand at them, indicating for them to stop.
The agent jumps into the Hummer and confesses with a
sense of dejection, “He’s gone. I lost him.”
Simon’s mumble from the back seat says it all: “They have
Grace.”
Genovi erupts in an unusual manner. “You don’t think I
understand that!”
The pressure mounts as Genovi rubs his forehead, trying to
gather his senses. Then with a bit of clarity, he instructs the
driver, “Take us to the safe house. We'll have to play this out
now.”
The Hummer speeds off, fading into the dark night.
TWISTED LINEN
23
Cave of Souls
A
n old priest in a hooded white robe adorned with a prayer
shawl, descends the stairs leading into a cave. The cave
is located just below the surface of the Dome of the
Rock shrine in Jerusalem. The ancient cave formation is small
and round in shape, partly natural and partly man-made. Its
entrance descends ten feet, down a narrow set of stairs carved
in the bedrock. Oil lamps flicker along its walls, providing a
dim glow of light. The cave is no more than an ancient hollow
in the limestone carved out by water over time, but for the
“enlightened” cult, it is magical and supernatural. The ancient
location is known to the Golden Dawn as the Cave of Souls.
There is a low table about knee height, covered by a white
linen sheet. The table, six feet in length, is just big enough to
lay an adult, and the priest feels compelled to adjust the linen
sheet, making sure it is just right. The priest has been
planning and preparing for this day for over forty years. His
name is Jean Sebastian Olivier, and he is the Chief Priest
ruling over the Golden Dawn.
“May I come down, Great Prophet?” calls out a young
boyish sage from the cave’s entrance.
“Yes, please come,” answers Olivier.
Like Priest Olivier, the sage also wears a white robe made
of finely twisted linen. In two days, a holy feast called Rosh
HaShanah takes place and it’s tradition that all entering the
cave must wear white, indicating purity and a new beginning.
Rosh HaShanah is a holy day that marks one of seven holy
appointments between God and His people, and it’s commonly
67
referred to as the Feast of Trumpets because a Shofar horn is
blown during the ceremony.
“My Sage, in honor of this coming day of creation, have
you been following your morning prayers of repentance?”
“Yes, each morning for the past week,” the sage
confidently responds.
“It was 6000 years ago that God created man. The sixth
day now comes to an end and a new day begins.”
Priest Olivier turns to make eye contact with the sage
before he finishes. “Everyone's name will be sealed in a book,
the righteous to the Book of Life, the wicked to the Book of
Death.”
“May it be so, Great Prophet.”
“And anyone's name not found in the Book of Life will be
thrown into the Lake of Fire,” Priest Olivier adds with
emphasis.
A grave silence follows, eventually broken by the sage.
“Chief Priest, I have prepared all the items you requested.
Is there anything else you need?”
“Yes. There will be three of us attending the feast, so
prepare a ceremonial robe for our guest.”
“As you command,” the sage responds, holding a long
head bow.
The sage quickly exits the cave, leaving Priest Olivier in
solitude. He slowly glides over to a second table where
various ceremonial items lay. One is a Shofar, a trumpet
ornately carved from a ram’s horn. The Shofar sits dormant
now, awaiting the appointed time, the time when it will come
to life with the sound of four great blasts. Next to the Shofar
sits a bowl of apple slices, adjoined by a dipping-dish of
honey.
Priest Olivier holds his prayer shawl close to his body with
one hand as he takes an apple slice and dips it into the honey
with his other hand. The honey hangs long off the apple, and
with one motion the priest turns and twists the apple to capture
the falling honey, and pops it into his mouth. As he chews the
apple, his fingers search for a place to wipe themselves. He
can find nothing to wash away the sticky mess of disgrace. In
TWISTED LINEN
a bit of aggravation Priest Olivier wipes his fingers on his
prayer shawl.
Chief Priest Olivier is an impostor in all ways; he’s a wolf
in sheep’s clothing who doesn’t have any respect for the
Jewish faith and tradition. He believes the Jews failed to
recognize Jesus’ divinity the first time He came to Earth;
therefore, he believes the Jews forfeited their elite status as
God’s chosen people. It is now the occult, the Golden Dawn,
who are permitted to inherit the Kingdom to come. And Priest
Olivier’s expertise in the Jewish traditions, and the deception
of his “priestcraft,” provides the perfect cover for executing on
the cult’s grand plan.
69
24
The Safe House
T
he Hummer makes a final right turn onto a worn gravel
drive leading to a ranch-style cottage. As the vehicle
comes to a stop, the two agents exit the Hummer with great
urgency.
“Get him inside,” Genovi barks in a berating tone.
Simon, still brooding, and with his hands bound behind his
back, is dragged through the front door of the cottage and
seated beside the kitchen table.
“I won't sit here knowing they have Grace,” he solemnly
reiterates as Genovi enters the cottage.
Genovi pauses before responding, then says, “Cut his
hands free.”
The two dark-suits abruptly look at each other, as if they
are communicating, Why would we do that? One of them
finally acknowledges with a nod and cuts off Simon’s
Flexcuffs.
“Where’d you find these guys?” Simon growls as he glares
back and forth between the two agents.
“They can be trusted,” Genovi says in a dull tone. “Now
give me that piece of paper.”
Simon doesn’t initially acknowledge Genovi’s request.
Rather, he continues to rub his wrists while glaring at the two
agents.
“What?” Simon finally snips dismissively.
“The money transfer code. Give it to me!”
Simon huffs, then stands and fumbles through his pockets,
searching for the slip of paper Baculo gave him.
“He said to not lose it,” Genovi states with anticipation.
“Why would he say that?”
Simon finds the slip and flips it at Genovi. The paper
flutters to the floor and Genovi bends down to pick it. At that
TWISTED LINEN
moment he notices some kind of message written on the back
of the paper slip:
CALL WHEN YOU HAVE
THE SHROUD - TWO DAYS
“What do you make of that?” Genovi asks, as he holds the
slip up to Simon’s face.
“No idea. Maybe it's a tormenting reminder,” Simon
responds in a cavalier manner.
“Is that a telephone number?” Genovi asks as he shows
Simon the transfer code on the front of the slip.
Simon gives it a close look and hesitantly responds, “It
might be. The international code for Israel is 972, but the
56…No, there are too many digits.”
After a second thought, Simon continues, “Unless…unless
it's a cell phone number. The 56 could designate a cell phone,
and that leaves seven digits remaining.”
Genovi hastily dials the number on his phone, but he’s
unable to respond when apparently someone answers. His
mouth simply gapes open in response.
Simon jumps from his chair in anticipation. “Who is it?”
he probes.
Genovi remains unresponsive, now frowning down at the
phone. Simon quickly snatches it from Genovi’s hand.
“Is this you, you bastard?” he yells into the phone.
“Answer me!”
“You're wasting time, Mr. LaCroix,” Baculo finally says.
“Bring me the Shroud or you'll never see Grace again.”
“I'll bring a shroud of pain over you. You hear me…do
you hear me!”
“Are you done, Simon?” Baculo chides in a calm manner.
Simon can hardly contain his rage. He’s now a man who
fears nothing and he blurts out, “You are dead…I'm coming to
gut you!”
71
Baculo breaths deeply into the phone, taking pause before
responding.
“Mr. LaCroix. Don't take this so personal,” he taunts.
“It couldn't be more personal,” Simon counters just before
the line goes dead.
Simon glares at the phone with a furrowed brow before
tossing it to the floor. Then, Simon’s glare erupts into furor
targeted toward Genovi. Simon lunges to grab Genovi by the
throat, backing him against the wall.
“You let this happen. I trusted you!”
Genovi, too frail to do anything but hold on to Simon's
wrist, pleads, “She is my daughter…she is my daughter.”
Genovi gasps for air; his face scarlet red, then a brilliant
purple. Simon is close to choking him unconscious. Just
before Genovi passes out, the dark-suit jabs his Taser gun into
Simon’s back and releases the electrical charge. Simon
spastically buckles at the knees and falls limp on the floor.
Genovi inhales frantically while stumbling over to the
door frame for support.
“You better get a hold of yourself, Simon.”…Gasp…“Or
we'll lose Grace forever.”
Genovi staggers out the front door into the night. He
shuffles along the driveway and then drops to his knees in
desperation. Almost weeping, he looks up into heaven and
asks, “Why? Why, my Lord? Why have you done this to me
again?”
Genovi closes his eyes and drops his head, then reluctantly
holds his hands out, palms up.
“Is it that time? Have you abandoned this sin-wracked
world?”
He pauses to ponder something, seeking clarity; it’s time
to listen and discern.
“Fill me, Lord. Help me resist my uncertainty.”
There is a sense that something convicts Genovi, convicts
him spiritually, and he quickly accepts it.
“Your will…may your will be done,” Genovi mutters as
his hands slowly fall to his knees.
TWISTED LINEN
A moment later the cottage door bangs open and one of the
dark-suits rushes out to Genovi.
“Your Eminence, are you okay?” the agent asks.
“Yes,” Genovi begrudgingly responds.
The agent helps Genovi to his feet, and they walk back
into the cottage where Simon waits, slumping in his chair.
Genovi steps in front of him and says, “This is worse than
you can imagine.”
“I know. Grace…Oh God, please…” Simon says before
raking his fingers through his hair.
Genovi interjects at the mention of God's holy name.
“Simon! It will blow your mind when GOD finally pulls
back the curtain and enables you to see into the spiritual
world, the world of angels and demons, the world of heaven
and hell.”
Simon is taken aback, gaping in response, not expecting
such harsh criticism. Genovi recognizes that it was a rash
response and decides to make his point by sharing his
revelation from moments ago.
“We're going to deliver the Shroud to them.”
“Forget the Shroud! Let me organize my team at the
Vatican, set up a formal dragnet. We'll find these guys.”
Genovi counters, “That’s not an option! You’re the only
one I’ve told because I can’t trust anyone in the Vatican now.”
“I know my agents. You can trust them,” Simon pleads.
“No…we can’t!” Genovi states, implying that Simon is
unaware of certain things.
Genovi understands that the Golden Dawn has a long history
of influencing Vatican policy. An early incarnation of the cult
infiltrated the Vatican in the late thirteenth century. Their
influence convinced Pope Clement V that the Knights
Templar was a heretical Order and a grave threat to the
Kingdom of God. The Pope issued an edict officially
73
dissolving the Templar and branded them traitors and heretics.
It was no coincidence that the cult purposely manipulated the
Vatican and turned it against the Knights Templar. The cult
misled the Vatican because the Templar held the Shroud of
Turin and vowed to protect it from all forms of evil, even until
death. So the cult worked to undermine the Knights Templar
in an attempt to flush out the Shroud of Turin.
The cult’s plan worked. Once the Knights Templar was
disbanded, its members were heavily persecuted—even
burned at the stake. They were no long able to protect the
Shroud, and it was again lost to history for several centuries.
But a lost Shroud was better than a defended Shroud. Once
the Shroud was dislodged from the protection of the Knights
Templar, there was hope of obtaining it for their cultic
purposes.
Genovi steps over to the cottage door and glares back toward
Simon. “Let’s take a walk…we need to talk,” he demands.
“Walk where?”
“Somewhere confidential,” Genovi quietly mumbles
before exiting the cottage.
TWISTED LINEN
25
The Unholy Ovum
S
imon and Genovi firmly walk side by side under a moonlit
night. They stride along the gravel driveway, heading
away from the cottage. It’s a remote location, surrounded by
vacant hillsides, deep woods, and baleful sounds that emerge
only in the dark of night.
“They did it, Simon. They already cloned their Jesus
using the Shroud of Turin.”
Simon shakes his head with a furrowed brow. “You said
you have it hidden. How?”
“It was done many years ago, before I hid it, about the
time Grace was born.”
Simon is partially relieved to hear that a clone has already
been born. This means his worst fear is off the table: Grace
won’t be forced to carry and birth such a beast. But suspicion
now niggles in the back of Simon’s mind. Why is Genovi just
now revealing this information? What is he hiding?
At that moment a barn owl hoots in the distance. Genovi
seems to answer its call. “Grace’s birth came with
complications that required an emergency surgery. I had
doctors within the priesthood treat her, but I found out later
they also used her.”
Simon comes to an abrupt stop. Horror wraps around him.
“Used her?” he asks in desperation.
Genovi doesn’t stop walking but rather turns off the
driveway, heading down a narrow path into the woods. Simon
hurries to catch up, hovering over his shoulder, terrified at
what he will say next.
75
Genovi continues to tell the story, almost like he is
flashing back in time, recalling the emotions as if the events
occurred yesterday.
“I was deceived by a brother of the Church and a good
friend, or so I thought. Actually, we were all deceived!”
Genovi says these last words in his defense. “It wasn't until
many years later that we found out this ‘priest’ was an active
member of the occult.”
“The Golden Dawn,” Simon interjects.
Genovi offers a short nod in confirmation just as the barn
owl hoots again. This time the owl unveils itself high above in
a dead tree. Its large, white-hooded face is illuminated by the
moonlight as it gazes directly at Genovi. The owl’s fixed eyes
glare with a glint of secret knowledge while it swivels its head
to better collect the sounds of the night, almost like it’s
eavesdropping.
“Just say it, Genovi…what did they do to Grace?”
“They used her as the egg donor,” Genovi utters with a
quiver in his voice.
Simon is aghast, then disgusted, then furious.
Genovi continues to explain, “When she underwent
surgery, they extracted some of my baby girl’s eggs.”
“Where the hell were you?” Simon berates with fury.
“I didn’t know! I didn’t know until after her mother died.
That is when I hid the Shroud, and placed Grace with an
adopted family in London.”
The path Genovi and Simon are following now opens into
an old cemetery with a grove of trees scattered throughout.
Tombs surround the observable area, illuminated only by the
full moon over head. It's a very old cemetery and not well
maintained. Genovi is headed directly toward a particular
tomb in the far corner.
“Don't tell me this clone-beast is Baculo? Is he the thing
they made?”
“No. It’s not Baculo,” Genovi insists as he comes to a
temporary stop to look at Simon. “It's Cohen.”
Simon silently glares at Genovi, then turns away in
dismay.
TWISTED LINEN
“David…Cohen,” Simon murmurs to himself. “Grace is
Cohen’s biological mother?”
Genovi is now approaching the front of the tomb he was
targeting. Oddly, there is only a first name and year stamped
on the tombstone. It reads: “Sarah – 1984.”
Genovi clasps his hands together and closes his eyes, as if
to pray. Simon is oblivious to Genovi’s actions; he’s
completely overwhelmed by the shocking revelation
concerning Grace and the Golden Dawn.
With Genovi’s head bowed in prayer, Simon unmindfully
jabbers in his ear, “David Cohen is a clone made from Jesus’
DNA and Grace’s egg?”
Genovi remains motionless and unresponsive, ardently
praying. Simon continues to question him. “Are you sure
about that?”
A moment later Genovi’s eyes open like he has just been
motivated by a distant memory. Simon’s frustration grows as
he anxiously waits for Genovi’s response.
“What are you doing, Genovi?” he demands. “What is
really going on?”
Genovi finally responds, “We must go and retrieve the
Shroud. It is the only leverage we have to save Grace.”
“No! I’m not doing anything else you say,” Simon hollers
as he grabs the sleeve of Genovi’s robe.
“You used us!” he shouts again. This time with a sense of
betrayal in his voice. “You used Grace as bait.”
“It wasn't supposed to go this way,” Genovi argues.
Simon scoffs suspiciously and turns away.
Genovi’s face suddenly hardens. Almost like he wears a
mask, and he's now beyond contempt.
“You don’t have a choice,” he states coldly. “We only
have a day so we must fly back to Rome.”
77
26
Our Blood
T
he scientist worked feverishly all night. He’s still locked
in the lab against his will while Baculo holds his wife,
Heran, as collateral. On the lab desk, next to Cohen’s blood
vial, is an untouched glass of lemonade. It’s now foul and
lukewarm. Earlier, Baculo offered the drink as refreshment, a
twisted gesture to lift the scientist’s spirit. It didn’t work, and
Baculo didn’t really expect it to.
Now the scientist manipulates Cohen’s DNA with state of
the art molecular scissors. The term “scissors” are restriction
enzymes that cut DNA into pieces so the scientist can modify
Cohen’s DNA sequence. He needs two more blood specimens
to complete the genetic recombination: Grace’s and Jesus’.
He plans to construct recombinant DNA by cutting DNA from
their blood, and then recombine it into Cohen’s DNA. Baculo
won’t tell him the reason for wanting this specific hybrid
DNA sequence, but previous experience indicates it’s for
some type of therapeutic purpose. Under the circumstances,
the details are irrelevant to the scientist. All that matters is
Baculo promised to free his wife once the serum is complete.
Their life literally depends on his success.
A momentary shiver sweeps across the scientist, as if a
draft of cold air just blew through the room. It breaks the
scientist’s concentration, and he pulls his face away from the
electron microscope, trying to discern the eerie feeling.
Standing behind him is the dark and austere figure of Julian
Baculo, aka “Magick.”
Baculo now appears washed and well-manicured in a clean
white robe. His “bloody side” was left in Heran’s cell, and
he's again ready to serve the cult’s agenda.
“How is it coming, Doctor?” Baculo asks, breaking his
silent observation.
TWISTED LINEN
“You scared me!” blurts out the edgy scientist, almost
knocking over his glass of lemonade.
Baculo glares in disdain at the man’s startled response.
The scientist returns his glare with a scowling response, and
then repositioning his chair near the desk. With a deep breath,
he places his thick eyeglasses over the microscope.
“How is my wife doing?” he mumbles while looking into
the microscope. “Is she comfortable?”
“Yes, I am personally looking after her,” Baculo says
through hooded eyes.
The scientist snaps his head back to look at Baculo. That’s
the second time Baculo used those exact words, and a siren
immediately goes off in his head.
“I need to see her,” the scientist stammers, his eyes now
bulging behind coke-bottle glasses.
“You'll finish your job or you’ll never see her again.”
The scientist’s throat constricts while his eyes spastically
swim behind the thick glasses. A slow drowning would be
less tormenting than this.
“So, how is it coming?” Baculo asks again in an even
more demanding manner.
The scientist can only offer a slow, resigned nod of the
head before saying, “The first specimen’s blood is almost
ready. I’ll need the second soon.”
“Yes, of course,” Baculo says softly. “I’ll get the mother’s
blood now,” he concludes underneath an eerie smirk.
“But…” the scientist adds. “I want something to eat.”
Baculo pats him on the back in a derogatory manner.
“Drink your lemonade. You don’t need anything to eat.”
Baculo exits the lab to the unsettling sound of a locking
door. It’s a demoralizing sound, indicative of hopeless
circumstances. The scientist’s bleak expression quickly
transforms into a scowl of dread. Who is he kidding? These
circumstances never end as promised.
79
Baculo paces down the long hallway lined with cell doors,
then stops at a specific door, pulls his hood over his head, and
swipes his access card. The door opens to reveal a bound
Grace LaCroix. She is gagged and hanging by chains in the
back of the room with arms and legs spread wide just like the
scientist’s wife. The position is eerily similar to a crucifix, but
it’s an evil crucifix. Like everything the Golden Dawn stands
for, it’s a distorted version of the truth.
Grace strains against the chains and whimpers behind her
gag as Baculo latches the door closed. He pauses before
approaching Grace, reveling in the sight of Grace held captive
before him. It fosters an immediate sense of excitement, and
with leering eyes he devours every part of her.
Finally, Baculo approaches Grace and says, “Look at our
virgin baby girl from long ago.”
Reaching for her shoulder, he continues, “But now mature,
and such a beautiful woman.”
Baculo lightly runs his finger along Grace’s exposed
collarbone, up her neck, and then into her hair. With a sudden
jerk, he grabs a fistful of hair and tilts Grace’s head back so he
can glare into her eyes.
“But you are no longer a virgin. Are you?”
Baculo moves his face close to Grace's, almost close
enough to kiss her. Grace quivers and strains to look away.
“Well let's find out,” Baculo says as he releases her hair
and slowly moves his hand along her arm.
Grace squirms to avoid his touch, but Baculo takes control
of her arm and forces her sleeve upward.
“Blood reveals all,” Baculo hints softly as he tourniquets
her arm and positions a needle above the backside of her
elbow.
“Now hold still,” Baculo whispers while aligning the
needle above a vein. “I wouldn’t want to hurt you,” he adds
before puncturing her arm.
Grace yelps behind her gag and frantically thrashes her
head from side to side, and then gasps a short breath that
seems to catch in the back of her throat. As her blood slowly
TWISTED LINEN
flows through the needle and into the syringe, Baculo gapes in
ecstasy. He views her blood as holy, and the sight of it is
electrifying to the senses.
“You see, blood is the life force. It always has
been…from the very beginning. And now we can manipulate
its power to do unimaginable things.”
Grace can only chew her lip and fight to hold back tears as
the syringe fills. After a long moment, Baculo pulls the needle
from her arm and holds her blood up to the light.
“I’m almost done,” Baculo taunts as he steps back to place
the syringe on a small metal chair. “The last time you were
used, you were young…too young.”
Baculo once again approaches Grace. This time he presses
his body against hers, before forcing himself on her with a
disgusting kiss. The rattling sound of chains indicates a
lecherous and relentless struggle, but it’s an untidy attempt
that offers no satisfaction for Baculo.
In frustration, Baculo retreats and simply leers at Grace,
taking sick pleasure in the sight of his saliva spread over her
face. He reminds himself to slow down. There is time, he’s
got an entire evening planned.
Baculo slowly strides toward the door, retrieving the
needle and syringe on the way. Before exiting, he turns back
to address Grace one last time.
“I have something for you to wear…to dinner tonight,” he
says while pointing to a dress hung by the door. “You’ll be
expected upstairs in the dining room.”
After pausing just long enough to make sure Grace
understands his demands, Baculo unlocks the chain
mechanism and slams the cell door shut behind him.
Grace’s chains go slack and she collapses to the cold floor.
Struggling to her hands and knees, she begins scrutinizing the
dress from afar. It’s a long red dress, Spanish in style,
hanging neatly on a wall hook. The thought of wearing it
81
makes her stomach nauseous, and the thought of what Baculo
might do next makes her gag as if she’s about to throw up, but
her body won’t comply.
Grace then thinks of Simon. Where is he? Is he able to
find her? How could he? They flew out over the ocean for
maybe fifteen minutes before turning back over land. She
might not even be in Spain any longer. Her thoughts feed a
sense of overwhelming helplessness, and Grace begins to
hyperventilate. A mounting panic saps her energy as another
wave of nausea sweeps over her.
“Father, I need you. Help me,” Grace whispers between
gasps of air.
She looks to the cell door, as if expecting Jesus to walk
through. He doesn’t; there is nothing but evilness behind the
door, and Grace’s panting becomes heavier.
Then, unexpectedly and suddenly, her breathing slows and
the nausea fades. A calming peace begins to grow insider her;
it brings a feeling of secure warmth. The phrase Be of good
courage fills her mind and strengthens her resolve. Her
thoughts slow and her thinking becomes lucid. She
methodically unlatches her wrist shackles and then quickly
moves to her ankle shackles. There is hope. If she is free
from this cell, free to go to a dining room, then there is hope.
Hope of an escape.
TWISTED LINEN
27
Creation Declares His Glory
T
he Spanish villa that Baculo frequents is hidden away
behind a wall of trees at the end of a long pebble
driveway. It’s a vast piece of property surrounded by vacant
countryside. Flanking the home on one side grows swathes of
lemons and pomegranates, and there’s an aging olive grove on
the other side. The interior is comfortable in appearance on
the first two floors, albeit a bit extravagant. It’s underneath
the villa, subterranean, where the genome science lab and
holding cells hide. The Golden Dawn retrofitted an
emergency bunker to serve as their lab, and it offers the
perfect hiding place to perfect their “science.”
The Golden Dawn chose this location in Spain because of
its close proximity to a supercomputer in Barcelona, a
computer they gained access to over a decade earlier. Within
the stone walls of the former Chapel Torre Girona in
Barcelona bleeps a supercomputer that became operational in
2005 when the nineteenth century church building was
deconsecrated so it could house the latest Supercomputer
named MareNostrum. The computer is encased in a glass box
that runs the length of the chapel and is dedicated to crunching
its way toward breakthroughs in human genome research,
astrophysics, and weather forecasting. In 2012, researchers at
the Barcelona Supercomputing Center reported on their use of
MareNostrum to simulate the structure of triple helix DNA in
a vacuum. It was the breakthrough the Golden Dawn needed
in their therapeutic science, making their endgame feasible.
83
Above ground, in the villa’s dining room, Baculo sits in
anticipation of Grace’s arrival. Like the rest of the home, the
dining room is striking. Its walls are covered with shimmering
gold paper, adorned by vertical wood paneling. On one side
of the room a large fireplace is ablaze. Above the fireplace
hangs an even larger flat screen TV. Normally, Baculo uses
the TV as a digital picture frame to showcase great works of
art. He has an affinity for landscape and nature paintings, and
he’s configured the TV to cycle through a new masterpiece
every seven seconds so he can sit and admire the art collection
in totality. Using the art as inspiration, Baculo ponders a topic
for exactly seven seconds, and when the image on the TV
changes to another masterpiece, he refocuses his mind to
another prophetic topic.
But now, while Baculo waits for Grace, he simply watches
news coverage of recent events taking place around Israel.
There is a void of power following Cohen’s death, and things
are quickly spinning out of control. A frenzy of attacks and
growing social unrest broke out following Cohen’s
assassination, and now road side bombings and attacks on
public infrastructure are once again common occurrences.
With the icon of hope and global peace dead, Russia and
China quickly united for a counter-attack on Israel. But none
of this is threatening to the Golden Dawn, especially not
Baculo. He holds the future of the world in his hand, and his
thoughts are of only Grace LaCroix and the special evening he
has planned.
In anticipation of dinner with Grace, Baculo changed into
a lustrous black suit and gold tie. This is his chance: Baculo
will present a divine revelation to Grace, and she must accept
his special role in the coming Kingdom. But most
importantly, Baculo just desires a more intimate relationship
with the modern-day Virgin Mary.
Baculo sits at the far end of a huge mahogany table. The
table is so grand that it takes up most of the space the dining
room has to offer. A large silver candelabra with cream pillar
candles commands attention at the center of the table. And
presently the table is set for only two, each to be seated at
TWISTED LINEN
opposite ends of the table. Meticulously arranged polished
silver cutlery appears heavy to the hand and shines dimly
under the candle light. But Baculo is ready to command
attention of his own. He patiently waits at the far end of the
table—his feet propped up and crossed at the ankles.
Everything is almost perfect. All that’s missing is mutton to
feast upon, and Grace.
85
28
A Great Wonder
I
nside an ascending elevator Grace LaCroix stands barefoot,
wearing only the required red flamenco dress. She is denied
shoes in an effort to negate a flight risk during her “dinner
date” with Baculo. As the cold elevator ascends, Grace
shivers in the sleeveless dress, then rubs her arms in an
attempt to warm up. The dress Baculo picked for her is made
of a shiny fabric, and frames her sturdy figure nicely. The
chest and abdomen portion softly hug her torso, while below
the waistline, the dress flows freely to her ankles.
At ground level the elevator door slowly opens to reveal a
luxurious hall. Before exiting the elevator, Grace calmly
assesses the situation and mentally plans her attack. The
alluring dress she’s forced to wear will become a weapon,
rather than an object of humiliation. With this resolved in her
mind, she gracefully steps out of the elevator where she’s
coldly greeted by two of Baculo’s thugs.
Grace exhibits no sign of fear as the thugs lead her into the
dining room, and toward a table seat opposite Baculo. The
thugs quickly retreat to their guard positions in the back of the
room as she places her hands on the back of a tall wooden
chair, and then slightly repositions her stance. Grace presents
a still and stoic pose, and Baculo immediately begins
appraising her from the far end of the table. His depraved
gaze wanders over her hair, face, and body; he’s obviously
mesmerized at the sight of Grace in her shiny red dress.
Baculo blinks hard, mutes the TV, and then quickly stands
to great her.
“Grace, you look stunning,” he says as a coy smile crosses
his face.
Grace ignores the lustful compliment and begins surveying
the room in a purposeful manner. She notices glass doors
leading off the dining room, out to a terrace. It is dark outside,
TWISTED LINEN
and the details are obscured by the glass pane doors. But
maybe she can reach help out there; maybe there is hope of an
escape on the other side of those doors.
The violent image of a beheading on TV suddenly captures
Grace’s attention. The gruesome sight startles her and she
reflexively turns away, inadvertently toward Baculo. Grace’s
eyes lock onto Baculo’s intimidating eyes, and she gulps a
deep breath of air in response.
“Not to be worried,” Baculo insists. “It will all end soon,”
he assures her as he turns off the TV.
“Please sit,” Baculo coaxes as he motions to the table
setting in front of her.
Grace fakes a tight-lipped smile and complies.
“It's a pleasure to dine with you,” Baculo continues in his
most gentle manner. “Are you hungry?”
Grace denies him with a look of disgust.
“Then please have something to drink,” says Baculo as he
holds up his wine glass. “May we make a toast to your son?”
Grace is perplexed by his offer. She denies him with a
shake of her head.
Baculo clarifies his intentions: “A toast to his birth,
death…and resurrection.”
“You're a lunatic,” Grace mumbles.
Baculo huffs and pours himself a deep glass of Cabernet
Sauvignon. After a portioned sip of wine, he places the wine
glass back on the table, then gently clasps his hands in his lap,
and leans back into his chair.
“Grace, share your thoughts with me. You must find this
all very overwhelming.”
Grace doesn’t think. She just speaks, as if somebody
inside her is crafting her words.
“I think you’re blinded with science. Flesh and blood
won't make you another Jesus Christ. It’s God and the Holy
Ghost that makes Jesus the Christ.”
87
Baculo raises a chastising finger in reproach before
cautioning, “You know so little. Now please allow me to
explain some things.”
Baculo snatches a heavy knife from the table and points it
upward. “Did you know…at Jesus' birth there were specific
signs in the heavens?”
After a pause, Baculo answers his own question: “There
were! The king planet, Jupiter, moved around the king star,
Regulus. It circled it two times—crowning it.”
Baculo rotates his knife in a circular motion in the air
before speaking again, this time with greater intensity:
“Regulus is the primary star in the king constellation of Leo.
And Leo represents the tribe of Judah. You know this, right?”
Grace shifts awkwardly in her chair, tilts her head and
glares back at him in silence, wondering what he’s up to.
Baculo stands and opens his arms wide before announcing,
“He gave us this glorious wonder in the sky!”
Baculo now begins to stroll around the dining room,
talking faster as he carves the air with his knife, excited to
expound on the arcane facts surrounding Jesus’ birth.
“This ‘crowning’ of the King Star, in the King
constellation, by the King planet was a sign. A great sign!
And it led the Magi out on their journey.”
Baculo pauses to look closely at Grace, as if he hopes
she’ll express admiration in response to his secret knowledge.
Grace refuses to give him the satisfaction.
So he tries to simplify the esoteric term, Magi.
“I should say this led the three wise men on their journey.
The wise men were religious priests, trained by the
descendants of the Prophet Daniel, trained to watch for the
Messiah's arrival, trained to recognize the signs in the
heavens, the appointed times.”
Baculo recounts the conclusion of the story like he was
there and part of the divine story.
“It's now history. The Magi saw this sign and set off for
Bethlehem, following the bright star. And they found their
prophesied king, still a toddler with his mother, Mary.”
“Fascinating,” Grace flippantly responds.
TWISTED LINEN
Baculo turns to glare at her from the far side of the dining
table. “It’s more than fascinating, Grace. It’s actually very
relevant to you.”
Baculo places both hands on the table and leans forward as
if he might crawl the table if Grace refuses to offer her
undivided attention. Grace begins to stir in her large wooden
chair.
“You see…you are the next Virgin Mary, the mother of
our god’s second coming,” Baculo confidently expounds.
The words startle Grace, but she tries to hide her
skepticism behind a disingenuous look of interest. Baculo
sees right through her.
“Don't be scared, Grace. Most people today don't want to
hear about prophets and prophecies. But we know there is an
order to everything—a time and a place, appointed times.”
Grace is inwardly not interested in Baculo’s exposition,
but she realizes he is trying to win her favor, and she
recognizes he thinks she plays a special role in something the
cult is planning. Grace glances at the two thugs, pondering
how they can be removed from the equation. Maybe she can
exploit Baculo’s infatuation with the stars and get him to take
her outside so she can explore a potential escape.
With a tone of urgency and sincerity Baculo transitions
into an elucidation of future prophecy: “Now, in a couple
days, on the Feast of Trumpets, some 2000 years after Jesus’
death, another great sign is appearing in the heavens.”
Baculo grabs the TV remote and a laser pointer as he says,
“Let me show you this new sign in the heavens.”
The TV flickers as Baculo pushes buttons on his remote,
setting it to display a Stellarium software product. Stellarium
software presents a visual rendition of the precise position of
all the stars and planets in the sky. It calculates the exact
location of each heavenly body at any given date in the past,
present or future. Baculo uses it to illustrate the movement of
89
the planets and stars over a background of constellation
artwork.
“Look! You must see this for yourself.”
Baculo slowly advances the date-timer forward, causing
the stars, planets, moon and sun to move across the TV screen.
“In two days, on September 23, Jupiter will descend out of
the belly of Virgo.”
Grace squints at the TV, trying to make sense of it all.
Baculo continues, “Jupiter spent exactly forty-two weeks
in the womb of Virgo. Notice that Jupiter did not just pass
through the virgin womb as it moved through the sky, but
rather, its retrograde motion stopped it in the womb of Virgo
for exactly forty-two weeks.”
Grace understands that retrograde motion refers to the
apparent backwards motion of planets in the sky. When Earth
passes by the outer orbiting planet, the planets appear to stop
and move backward before continuing on its normal path.
Baculo turns to look at Grace, “You know that forty-two
weeks is the average gestation period for a baby? And now,
after forty-two weeks, a king is ready to be born.”
Baculo’s drop-jaw smile is boastful, like he plays a divine
role in the movement of God’s heavenly bodies.
“You can’t make this stuff up!” he adds for emphasis.
Grace realizes she is gawking in confusion, so she fakes an
expression of surprise and interest. Now is the time to bait
Baculo and see if she can exploit his desire to be understood.
“I hope this doesn’t offend you…” Grace says with as
much sincerity and innocence as she can conjure up. “But, I
think you have simply created fancy star movements in a
software program.”
“You think I’m faking this?” Baculo defensively responds.
“This sign declares another king will rise…a king born of a
virgin.”
Grace pushes her objective forward and demurely
demands, “Prove it to me. Show me the real thing in the sky
outside.”
TWISTED LINEN
Baculo squints at her for a long moment, hesitant to accept
her proposal. Grace attacks Baculo with her alluring eyes,
beaming manipulative charm at him.
“I could. I’d love to!” Baculo boasts.
With tantalizing excitement, Baculo saunters toward
Grace, coming to stand behind her chair.
“Join me out on the terrace? I have a telescope I’d like to
show you.”
Grace shudders as Baculo’s hot, heavy breath descends
over her head. Then he gently slides Grace’s chair back from
the table, inviting her to stand. As she does, Baculo takes a
long, deep sniff of her hair.
“Please…it’s right this way,” Baculo says gesturing
toward the door, desperately trying to exhibit a sense of
composure.
Grace fakes a nod of gratitude and sashays by him, while
internally she quivers in disgust at Baculo’s courting game.
91
29
Revelation 12:1-2
O
ut the doors of Baculo’s dining room and down two
steps, is a spacious terrace with a terracotta tile floor. It’s
a dimly lit place with wrought-iron fixtures, most notably a
decorative iron railing wrapping the perimeter. Baculo leads
the way out, stepping down the two short steps, then turning
back to extend a hand for Grace. She tries not to hesitate, but
it requires all her fortitude to place her hand in his. As
Grace’s hand touches Baculo’s, her eyes close briefly and she
imagines that it is Simon’s hand she holds. “You can do this,”
she thinks.
Grace glides down the steps as Baculo waves his right
hand back in a panoramic manner, presenting his extravagant
outdoor retreat. The terrace offers an unobstructed view of the
surrounding hillsides and a breathtaking view of the stars
above. Grace gently retracts her hand and paces across the
terrace, coming to lean over the iron railing, acting as if she is
overwhelmed by the ambiance.
“What a splendid night,” she announces.
The words are hollow, but they offer Grace an opportunity
to evaluate her surroundings. No city light is visible and it’s
obvious that they are in a very remote location. In fact, Grace
can’t see a single light, not one home can be identified in the
rolling hills that surround them. She turns her attention to the
terrace and estimates it’s fifteen, maybe twenty, feet off the
ground. Either way, it would be a dangerous jump for her.
But Grace also notices an opening in the hand railing, off in
the far corner. She needs a closer look in order to determine
where it leads, but that will require a distraction.
Grace swings around to face Baculo, glistens her lips with
a lick of her tongue, then leans back against the railing—
striking a pose. Her sultry pose obviously flusters Baculo and
he senselessly adjusts his necktie in response. Almost
TWISTED LINEN
instantly, Grace’s tactic proves effective, and Baculo is
irresistibly drawn out to the hand railing to be near her.
“Do you like the view?” he asks in an undertone.
Grace nods, vaguely. “Yes, it’s very peaceful out here,”
she says while her eyes scrutinize the far corner of the terrace.
In the corner, the railing opens to accommodate a spiral
staircase descending into the unknown. It’s not apparent
where the stairs lead, but Grace notices the two thugs
observing from the dining room doorway. She must be careful
to conceal her intentions of escape, and the thugs need to be
removed from the equation.
“Are they going to join us?” Grace asks with a quick hand
gesture toward Baculo’s two henchmen.
The two men wait for Baculo’s instructions.
“Please,” Baculo barks as he waves them off. “Leave us!”
he commands.
And just like that, Grace isolates Baculo outside on the
terrace. It’s a small victory, but evidence that her tactics are
working. Grace smirks at the thugs as they retreat back inside,
imagining that she’s blowing a “bye-bye” kiss their way. Her
playful interlude yields a sense of power and confidence,
something she desperately needs right now. But it doesn’t last
long. Her confidence is immediately shaken when Baculo
moves behind her and places his hands on her shoulders.
“I want you to experience something,” Baculo whispers
into her ear from behind.
Grace closes her eyes and swallows hard, fighting the urge
to gag on his hot breath.
“Show me…please,” she responds trying to sound coy.
Baculo points over her left shoulder, directly above in the
night sky.
“Look up there. Do you see the constellation Virgo?”
“Hmmm…yes I see her.”
93
“And now look between her legs. The bright star you see
is the king planet Jupiter.”
Grace pretends to strain in search of Jupiter in the night
sky, but she knows what Baculo is pointing at.
“I’m not sure which one it is. How do I know which star
you’re talking about?”
“The first time is never easy,” Baculo says with a hint of
perversion. “Here, let me make it easier for you.”
Baculo swaggers over to the far corner of the terrace, just
beside the spiral staircase. He is unsuspecting as he places the
items in his right hand down onto a small patio table; it’s the
knife and laser pointer.
“I think this will help,” Baculo says as he pulls a heavy
tarp off a large Cassegrain telescope. The telescope is huge.
Normally it would be taller than Baculo, but he has it
configured at the lowest setting to accommodate his short
stature.
With both hands he grabs the telescope’s controls and
expertly adjusts it to focus on the king planet Jupiter. Grace
wanders toward Baculo, glancing over his shoulder at the
knife and laser pointer. Would she be able to defeat Baculo
with a knife? The only thing Grace has ever stabbed was
lying dead on a dinner plate. She’ll have to find another way.
Grace looks away from the knife just as Baculo withdraws
his eye from the telescope. “See for yourself. The king planet
is almost ready to be birthed between her legs. In two days he
will rise,” Baculo says before backing away slightly, offering
Grace a tight space in front of the telescope.
Grace steps in front of the telescope and bends her knees,
assuming a semi-squatting position in order to accommodate
the low telescope configuration. She gingerly arches her back
to look through the telescope. Baculo remains close behind
her, definitely too close for comfort. “Whatever it takes,” she
justifies in thought.
After a few blinks of her eye, the field of view comes into
focus and the beautiful planet Jupiter shines forth. In the
planet Jupiter, Grace sees God’s hand in creation; the majesty
of it strengthens her will once again.
TWISTED LINEN
Grace knows more about astronomy than she is letting on.
Genovi first introduced astronomy to Simon when he assigned
Simon the task of researching cultic practices years earlier.
Simon found it so fascinating that he included Grace in his
research and findings. Astronomical observation quickly
became a romantic hobby for Simon and Grace, one they often
shared over a glass of wine while lying under the stars. So,
Grace understands that the heavens declare the glory of God,
and she understands how unlikely it is for large, gaseous
planets like Jupiter to form far from a central star like our Sun.
Gases dissipate rapidly in the vacuum of outer space,
especially the lightest two gases, hydrogen and helium, which
comprise most of the mass of Jupiter. Scientific explanation
claims all the planets coalesced over billions of years out of a
disk of particles orbiting our young Sun, but gas molecules
orbiting a massive star do not gravitationally merge with
themselves; there’s not enough internal attraction to overcome
the Sun’s gravitational force. The lack of attraction reminds
Grace of the fallacious attraction she must present to Baculo.
“That’s amazing,” she disingenuously says, trying to build
Baculo’s confidence and relax his senses.
“But there is more,” Baculo adds as he walks away, out
toward the terrace railing. “As the king planet is birthed in
two days, the new moon will sit at Virgo’s feet. And, above
her head lies a twelve star crown, formed only when the nine
star constellation, Leo, unites with three additional planets—
Venus, Mars and Mercury.”
While Baculo’s back is turned, Grace snatches the laser
pointer and knife from the nearby table. She then quickly
resumes a pose beside the telescope with the items hidden
behind her back.
Baculo turns around to face Grace with his hands held out
wide. “See…now you must see?”
95
Grace simply gapes back at him, trying to determine her
next move. The stairs are just beside Baculo, and she needs to
find a way past him. She has an idea.
Baculo continues with more conviction, “It's what John
describes as the wondrous sign in Revelation, Chapter 12.
This celestial alignment marks a unique moment in time,
never seen before in the past…maybe never again in the
future.”
Grace wants to dismiss Baculo’s message, but she knows
that one of his claims is true: God put the stars and planets in
the sky for signs and for markers. Her confusion is
disconcerting and Grace hastily blurts out, “This sounds like
astrology.”
A look of frustration crosses Baculo’s face.
“It's not astrology…it's astronomy! And God flung the
stars and planets into the vastness of space for signs and
seasons…for divine appointments.”
“So you’re an astronomer?” Grace heckles in response.
With a glowering stare, Baculo begins to walk directly
toward Grace. That is what she needs; this is her chance.
Grace points the laser at Baculo’s face and presses the button.
The green laser beam pierces through the night air, hitting just
above his right eye. Her hand quivers as she tries to adjust her
aim, trying to strike Baculo directly in the eye.
Baculo growls in pain and turns his back as he covers his
eye with both hands. Grace darts past a hunched over Baculo
and scampers down the spiral staircase, following the metal
stairs down into the darkness, unsure of where it will take her.
It’s a desperate act, but it might be the only chance she has to
escape. Her eyes fight to see what’s below while her long
dress trails behind, slithering down the winding stairs. Every
turn of the staircase moves her closer to ground level, but what
waits there in the darkness is still a great unknown.
“Grace! There’s nowhere to run,” Baculo bellows out
from the top of the staircase.
In a startled and immediate reaction, Grace looks up
towards Baculo’s voice. It is a mistake; she slams face first
TWISTED LINEN
into a wrought iron gate at the bottom of the stairs. The
sudden impact stuns her and she collapses to the floor.
While fighting through the fog of confusion, she pulls
herself up by the rails of the gate and desperately jerks on its
handle. The gate is locked; it’s a dead end. Knowing that the
stair railing is too high to climb, she realizes that there is no
escape. And her glimmer of hope fades in an instant. What’s
going to be the consequence of this failed attempt to escape?
Baculo’s feet make a slow and rhythmic clapping sound on
the metal stairs as he slowly descends.
“I’m no astronomer,” grumbles Baculo as he steps down a
stair at a time. “It was the Vatican, decades ago, that
originally discovered this great sign.”
Grace hastily prepares herself, fondling the laser pointer in
one hand, firmly grasping the knife in the other.
“It was discovered by a team of Jesuit astronomers using
the Vatican’s very own VATT observatory, in fact. But I’m
now done sharing divine knowledge with you.”
Baculo’s certainty on the matter haunts Grace. She had no
idea the Vatican took these types of things seriously. She
assumed this was the kind of thing only the occult and tarot
card readers practiced.
Then, Baculo’s legs appear around the last turn in the
staircase, slowly moving down the last few stairs. He
declares, “We are simply fulfilling God's will, bringing God
back to Earth on His holy appointed day.”
Grace activates the laser pointer in her hand, trying to
anticipate where Baculo’s face will emerge from behind the
winding staircase. Finally, Baculo’s dark eyes reveal
themselves. They appear even blacker now, deadly black and
ominous in appearance.
The Holy Spirit speaks through Grace as she refutes
Baculo’s claims: “Why would God need ‘man’ to genetically
97
manipulate His creation? He doesn’t need you to bring Him
back.”
Baculo withholds his response. Grace frantically tries to
aim the laser beam at Baculo’s eye, but he bobs his head from
side to side, dodging her repeated attempts, while slowly
approaching her. As Baculo nears, Grace jabs the knife
forward, but he snatches her wrist and bends her arm back
over her shoulder. He squeezes Grace’s wrist with freakish
strength and the knife slips from her grip and falls to the tile
floor with a clatter.
Baculo quickly kicks the knife to the side and grabs a fistful of Grace’s hair, yanking her head back so he can look into
her eyes.
“I want my answer to be crystal clear. It’s because God
answers our prayers. He answers the prayers of His chosen
people.”
“It’s not ‘God’ answering your prayers,” Grace mumbles
in a whimper. “You’re a blood-worshiping, Luciferian cult.”
Baculo attacks Grace with his fierce eyes. It’s an
unnerving glare that torments her soul. In fright, she wildly
strikes Baculo across the face with a cracking blow. It’s
ineffectual, and the sting of it causes Baculo to smirk in
response.
Baculo turns and begins to pull Grace up the staircase,
dragging her along by the hair. She clutches onto the railing,
trying to resist his intimidating strength, but Baculo jerks her
loose and quickens his step, ascending the stairs with speed
now. Grace scrambles behind, trying to keep her feet under
her.
“You have deceived me, Grace," Baculo grumbles in a
menacing tone of voice. “I can’t express how angry this
makes me,” he continues, still pulling her upward by the hair.
After yanking Grace up the last stair, Baculo flings her
body to the terrace floor, and she quickly scrambles to keep
him in sight. Baculo glances at his henchmen who anxiously
stand in the dining room doorway awaiting his command. He
wags his head at them, as if to say, do not approach her.
Baculo turns back toward Grace, his face now a grotesque
TWISTED LINEN
mask of evil. In desperate fear, Grace scoots her body so that
her feet point toward him, ready to kick and fight off an
attack. But her panicky movements cause Baculo to erupt in a
bellowing, evil laugh.
Fortunately for Grace, Chief Priest Olivier holds Grace in
high reverence; she is considered the holy mother of their
coming king. And Olivier made his mandate crystal clear:
Grace LaCroix is not to be harmed—she must remain
unblemished and preserved until Rosh HaShanah when the
last trumpet blows.
In mental submission to his priest, Baculo beckons his
henchmen with a snarl and a quick hand gesture.
“I’m finished with her,” he commands in a deep, rumbling
voice. “Take her back to the cell.”
99
TWISTED LINEN
30
Out of the Blue
S
imon had a restless night on the flight back to Rome with
Genovi. He eventually drifted off to sleep and wrestled
with nightmares about Grace’s captivity. His subconscious
worked through his dreams, trying to find answers, trying to
find the right way forward. But he awoke to the reality that
the dreams weren’t simply tormenting figments of his
imagination. It was really happening.
Now they walk side by side down a quiet hallway in the
Vatican, strategizing on how to best retrieve the Shroud. It’s a
whispered conversation in an effort to conceal the topic until
they reach the sanctuary of Genovi’s office, but sleep
deprivation and stress are making it very difficult to think
clearly. And critical thinking will be vital for Genovi and
Simon to navigate the next twenty-four hours.
“The Shroud is under video surveillance 24/7,” states
Genovi.
“Where exactly is it?” Simon asks in a whispered voice.
“Deep in the Vatican Grottoes, hidden in a fireproof
compartment.”
Simon comes to a sudden stop. “You hid the Shroud in the
Grottoes?” he asks behind a sarcastic chuckle.
A somber looking Genovi steps back close to Simon and
quibbles, “Actually, it’s in the catacombs, but it’s only
accessible from the Grottoes. So yes, I did, and why do you
care?”
“Well I don't know,” grumbles Simon. “I guess I expected
it to be under lock and key in some kind of climate-controlled
case or something.”
101
Genovi delivers a look of dismissal and retorts, “The real
Shroud isn’t a tourist attraction, Simon.”
Genovi’s response has the benefit of knowing the history of
the Shroud of Turin. It changed hands many times over the
millennium, and there was much blood spilled to protect it.
History has proven that secrecy, not security, was the best
way to protect the Shroud. In France, in 1532, the Shroud was
severely damaged by fire, believed to be started by arson.
Ironically, the very security measures put in place to protect
the Shroud from theft hindered the Shroud's rescue from fire.
The burn damage seen today is from that very fire.
At some point during the Middle Ages, fine craftsmen
repaired the Shroud’s burnt edges. They painstakingly
intertwined new twisted linen with the original linen, then
colored the new linen fibers to match. Only recent
microscopic analysis revealed this restoration had been done.
Unfortunately, the restoration led to conflicting and inaccurate
carbon-dating tests; and thus, mass confusion about the
Shroud’s age and authenticity.
Genovi and Simon silently turn the corner and approach
Genovi’s office. The priest guarding Genovi’s office comes to
attention and greets Genovi.
“Cardinal,” he announces while opening the door for
Genovi and Simon.
“Thank you, my son. That will be all for today.”
“Yes, Cardinal,” the priest responds.
The attending priest withdraws from the doorway, strides
down the hallway and turns the corner. Simon confirms the
hallway is clear and closes the door to Genovi’s office. As
usual, Genovi wanders over to his customary position by the
window. With closed eyes he gazes at the early morning light.
Simon assumes his customary seat in front of Genovi’s grand
desk. After a moment, Genovi lets out a sigh, trying to dispel
some tension. Simon shifts awkwardly in his chair and glares
at Genovi.
TWISTED LINEN
“You want me to go down into the Grottoes?” Simon asks.
“Isn't that restricted to only priests?”
“Yes, I have something you can wear,” counters Genovi.
Simon chuckles dismissively. Genovi responds with a
serious look, then continues.
“The Shroud is located in a secret compartment by the
tomb of Saint Francis. Decades ago, while we were
undergoing renovation on the catacombs, construction of a
secret escape tunnel was undertaken. At that time I made
arrangements to have a top secret hiding place made for the
Shroud.”
Genovi lays both hands on the cross necklace near his
heart, and whispers the words, Munire me digneris, asking the
Lord for strength and protection against all evil. After a long
moment, he pulls the necklace over his head and moves
toward Simon. With reverence, Genovi gently places the
cross and chain into Simon’s hand.
“You’ll use this as a key,” he says.
Simon’s eyes fall to the cross, gleaning gold with a blue
stone in the middle. “It doesn’t look like a key.”
“Pull the bottom off the cross,” Genovi instructs.
Simon pulls on the lower part of the cross, increasingly
harder, until it pops free. It slides off to reveal a hidden metal
shaft underneath. At first glance the shaft looks like a simple
rod, but it has a unique shape. It was “keyed” into an
elongated hexagon like a very weirdly shaped hex-key.
Genovi continues to explain. “There are four flower
carvings on Saint Francis’ tomb, one on each corner. Insert
the key into the center of the bottom left flower. It will unlock
a hidden door leading to the emergency escape tunnel. Once
inside the escape tunnel, look to the floor. I hid the Shroud in
a compartment under the stone floor. One of the paver stones
in the floor will be larger than all the rest. If you look closely,
you’ll see what I mean.”
103
“You’ve got to be kidding. Who set this up for you?”
Simon asks in bewilderment.
Genovi ignores the question and continues. “My key has
been magnetized with a unique code that will release the paver
stone and unlock the secret compartment. Once you have the
Shroud, follow the emergency escape tunnel through the
catacombs, and then make your way back to the jet. I’ll meet
you there.”
“You want me to exit through the emergency escape
tunnel?”
“Yes, we can’t risk bringing the Shroud through the
Vatican.”
Simon is aghast at the lapse of security, which he’d never
known about during his tenure. He shakes his head.
“Okay, now look here,” he rants. “The escape tunnel is
restricted and accessing it is a direct violation of Vatican
protocols. Every entrance is monitored with its own video
surveillance and dedicated storage system. I’ll never get away
with this…I won’t do it without sign-off from the very top.”
“There’s no time…now pay attention!” Genovi yells,
temporarily losing his composure.
Genovi is obviously uncomfortable and Simon isn’t certain
why. This is a man who until recently was supremely calm in
almost any situation, but now there is definitely something
nagging at his conscience.
Genovi puts both hands on the desk and leans in close to
Simon. “We can’t involve anybody else,” he says in a calmer
tone.
Simon pushes his chair away from the desk in frustration.
“Why not?” he protests.
“Because I don’t know who I can trust!” Genovi
uncontrollably exclaims.
Simon is hushed by the revelation, and the two men
glower at each other. Genovi reluctantly admitted it; the place
he spent his life serving is cracking from within, and Simon is
struggling to make sense of it all.
TWISTED LINEN
“There are deep fractures in the church,” Genovi says.
“There always have been, but now they go all the way to the
top.”
“What makes you think that?”
“I was questioned by the Holy Father. When I pulled the
intelligence file on Cohen and discovered his body was stolen
from the morgue by the Golden Dawn, he told me to back
off.”
“Cohen’s dead,” Simon declares. “What does the Vatican
care about a missing dead body?”
Genovi takes a long pause before answering.
“The truth is…the Golden Dawn bred Cohen decades ago
to be their King. They have not given up on him; they plan on
resurrecting him from the dead using the Shroud.”
“That’s ridiculous!” Simon berates, now at his wit’s end.
“Cohen took a bullet to the head.”
“It’s not! Not with Jesus’ DNA. They’ll recombine
Christ’s DNA with Cohen’s and with his mother’s—Grace’s.
If they heal his fatal head wound, he’ll be revered as the
returning Messiah. And he’ll be used to usher in the New
Golden Age…the New Jerusalem.”
Simon shakes his head in denial and bewilderment.
“Why do you doubt?” Genovi demands.
“Because, he…is…dead. There’s nothing to heal!”
Genovi turns his back on Simon and steps toward the
window. He mumbles just loud enough for Simon to hear,
“You underestimate their magic and the power of Jesus’
blood…and you’ll regret it.”
Simon scoffs at Genovi with a huff and a forbidding hand
gesture. A long moment of silence calms the tension between
them, and Genovi finally says, “Trust me Simon. If
resurrected, Cohen will present himself on equal ground to
Jesus Christ. They'll claim today's wars, threats of wars, and
social chaos can be stopped through him.”
105
Simon scowls with great doubt. “Why? He’s not God.
He’s just a man. And even if they heal him, he’ll still be just a
man.”
But Genovi knows Jesus’ blood is unique. It was an
archeologist, Ron Wyatt, who claimed to find the Ark of the
Covenant in 1982, and he collected ancient blood from it.
When Israeli scientists analyzed this blood they were amazed
at what they saw. The dried blood cells began dividing when
placed in a growth medium; the blood was still alive! The
scientists were also able to conduct a chromosome count on
the blood, and it was genetically different than any human
blood ever seen. It had 23 chromosomes from the mother but
only one chromosome from the father. The scientists said this
was impossible unless the father was not of this world.
The world watched Cohen’s assassination on television,
and doctors confirmed his death. If he’s brought back to life,
it will be considered a modern-day miracle, and the world will
demand an investigation. Scientist will study Cohen’s blood
and confirm his DNA fingerprint matches Jesus’ holy
fingerprint. As a clone of Jesus, Cohen’s flesh will be of pure
Hebrew heritage and thus meet the prophetic requirements of
Jesus’ second coming. It’s all the proof this science-following
world needs.
Genovi’s turns to face Simon and comes down on him
hard. “If you can’t do it for God, then think about Grace. The
Shroud is the only thing that will save her.”
Simon squints hard at Genovi, wondering if Genovi’s
threat is in earnest. The Shroud is his best chance to free
Grace, and maybe God wants him to rescue her with the
Shroud. Maybe this is his destiny and God has a plan that will
be revealed later. Who knows? How will he ever know?
Genovi interrupts his doubting thoughts. “We’re running
out of time. What’s it going to be?”
Simon closes his eyes and swallows hard. Then he begins
to mumble soundlessly, visibly thinking it through, trying to
mentally commit himself.
After a long moment, he sighs a ragged sigh and then
squares his shoulders to Genovi. “Okay, I’ll do it,” he says.
TWISTED LINEN
31
Twisted Linen
G
enovi wastes no time preparing his Gulfstream for the
flight back to San Sebastian. For over an hour he has
been patiently waiting for Simon in the jet’s common area.
With a lowered head, Genovi clasps his hands over a polished
lacquered table, expectantly praying for Simon’s safe return
from the Vatican grottoes.
As if summoned by the prayer, Simon enters the jet
hangar. He holds an archival box containing the treasured
Shroud of Turin. Frazzled and a bit disheveled in his priest’s
garb, Simon quickly carries the box up the stairs and into the
jet cabin.
“I see you were successful,” Genovi utters with a sense of
satisfaction.
Simon slaps the box down on the table, and then tosses the
pectoral cross necklace into Genovi’s lap.
“The image of me impersonating a priest and stealing from
the Vatican is recorded on our surveillance system. I’m a
wanted man now…is that what you consider successful?”
“I’ll deal with that later,” Genovi cavalierly replies as he
gently lays his hands on the box holding the Shroud.
“You better. I’m trusting you,” Simon flippantly remarks.
“You know this is the blood of Jesus that you just threw
down.”
Simon scowls as if to say he doesn’t give a darn.
“Do you understand the labor of love that went into
making a burial shroud like this some 2000 years ago?”
“No. But I assume you’re going to explain it anyway.”
107
“Yes, I am,” Genovi declares as he gently runs his hands
over the top of the box.
“It was made by highly skilled workers who laboriously
hand-stitched every thread of the finely twisted linen. The
fabric is woven in a three to one Harringbone pattern twill in
honor of the garments worn by the Hebrew priesthood. The
Shroud was one of the most expensive fabrics you could buy
at the time, and it suggests that Joseph of Arimathea, a rich
Pharisee who secretly believed in Jesus, is the man who gave
it to Jesus’ disciples for His burial.”
Simon flutters his eyes as he looks away, but Genovi
won’t relent.
“God’s truth is that wealth and status cannot be expressed
at death. Everything we acquire on this earth is temporal.
Nothing comes with us to the next life. That is why there are
no pockets in any burial shrouds, like the hymn’s lyrics,
‘Nothing in my hands I bring, simply to the cross I cling.’”
“That’s an interesting history lesson, Genovi. Now how
about showing me some emotional intelligence.”
Genovi recognizes his sermon was ill-timed so he tries to
lighten the mood. “Well, I think you look good as a priest.”
“Give me a break,” Simon retorts with a huff, obviously
short of patience. “Have you heard from Baculo? What’s the
plan?”
Genovi tosses Simon a small bag containing a change of
clothes and says, “Get changed, then we'll talk.”
“Here? In the aisle?”
“Use my cabin.” Genovi waves his hand.
“Oh, now I see. So priests get cabin privileges? I’m really
moving up in the world.”
Genovi takes Simon’s sarcasm for what it’s worth as
Simon grabs the bag and marches to the back.
As Simon closes the cabin door Genovi takes a deep
breath, then lets out a long sigh. He then calls out to the
pilots, “Gentlemen, we’re all aboard…let's get this bird in the
air!”
TWISTED LINEN
32
Shed for Me
A
cross the Mediterranean Sea, deep within the Golden
Dawn’s subterranean bunker, Baculo unlocks the door to
his science lab. He calmly strolls toward the lone scientist and
places a vial containing Grace’s blood on the desk.
“The blood…will it do?” Baculo asks.
The scientist picks up the vial to examine the quantity.
"Yes, it’s fine.”
“Are you making the required progress?” Baculo asks.
“I think I’ve figured it out. Things are moving along
quickly now.”
“Good,” Baculo grunts as he turns to leave.
“But I'll need the third specimen of blood to complete the
serum,” the scientist calls out.
“Soon…you will have it soon,” Baculo says, not breaking
stride. “Get back to work. I must pray.”
Baculo exits the lab and locks the door behind him. He
glides down the hallway of holding cells, as if he is floating
over the floor. He drags his hand along the passing cell doors
while reciting a passage from the Book of Revelation: “He'll
wipe away every tear and be their God. And there will be no
more death, nor sorrow, nor crying, nor pain, for the old order
of things has passed away.”
As Baculo passes by Grace’s cell door, he taps his knuckle
twice on her door and emphasizes the "nor crying" phrase. By
the next cell door, where the scientist’s wife is held, he taps
his knuckle twice and emphasizes the "nor pain" phrase.
God’s Word has been spoken, now it’s time to pray.
109
Within Baculo’s prayer closet sits a small table covered with a
twisted linen cloth. On the table is a slice of unleavened bread
and a small communion cup that’s filled with a thick, red
substance. Next to the cup lays the large syringe he used to
collect Grace’s blood.
Baculo steps toward the table, then pauses in front of it
while he pulls his hood over his head. With his hands
extended forward, palms up, he begins to silently pray. After
a moment of prayer, Baculo drops to his knees; prayer is over,
now it’s time for an unholy communion.
“Father, this is your body shed for me.”
Baculo tears a piece of bread and eats it.
“Father, this is her blood shed for me.”
Baculo gulps a mouthful of Grace's blood and slowly
swallows, allowing her blood to ease down his throat. As he
savors the moment his eyes flutter in ecstasy and his body
begins to twitch as if he’s lapsing into some type of trance.
He then lifts his chin upward, trying to discern a foreign
presence materializing from above. Baculo now sees
something we cannot, and a wicked smile grows crooked
across his face. In a heightened sense of euphoria he reaches
toward the image, trying to touch the abyss before him.
TWISTED LINEN
33
Dr. Seed
S
imon emerges from Genovi’s private cabin, no longer
wearing the priest garb. Genovi blankly gazes forward
while casually fiddling with his phone, as if he just ended a
phone call.
“Was that Baculo?” Simon demands with intensity.
“Yes,” Genovi responds flatly. “Take a seat.”
“Is Grace okay?”
“Yes, they’re willing to make the trade.”
“How do you know she's okay? Did you talk to her?”
Simon asks in earnest.
“No…now listen to me. They want us separated for the
exchange.”
“Separated…where?”
“They want you at the San Telmo Museum. That’s where
they’ll release her.
“Where will you be?” Simon demands.
“They want me at the Cave of Souls. Apparently, I need
to terminate a relationship with an old friend.”
“That's the last thing we’re going to do! Call him back.
Negotiate a different plan.”
“I think you blew our negotiations when you told Baculo
you'd gut him.”
“Yeah…I still might.”
“I'll make sure you and Grace are free before I confront
them,” Genovi says.
“This is ridiculous! We’re playing right into their hands.”
“We might be, but as long as I have the Shroud, they’ll
have to free Grace.”
111
Simon slides his hands back over his temples and down
the back of his neck, trying to deal with constantly changing
variables. The emotional strain builds inside him, and he
blurts out, “I don’t get it. What is this cave?”
“I assume it’s a sacred place where they conjure up spirits
and conduct their rituals.”
“And who will be there?”
“Other than the Chief Priest, I don’t care.”
“And Baculo…do you think he’ll be there?”
“No, he wants to meet you at the museum with Grace.”
Simon lets the vicious feeling rise in his soul. No more
meetings, no more talking. He’s going to track Baculo down,
and kill him.
“What time?” Simon demands. “What time does he want
to meet me?”
“Late tonight. They won't tell me exactly.”
Simon looks at his watch.
“So I should have at least an hour after we land.”
“To do what?” Genovi asks as if in pain.
“To get ahead of this guy,” Simon declares with an
overcaffeinated glint in his eye.
He snatches his tablet computer from the nearby seat.
Genovi reacts with words of warning: “Don't do anything
stupid. Let's follow their lead. They don't need Grace once
they have the Shroud.”
Simon quickly logs in to the Vatican security system and
begins typing feverishly. He wants to gather more
information on Baculo. Maybe his alias, Magick, will reveal
something.
“I should have done this at the start. I’m not letting this
guy control the situation any longer.”
Simon types “Magick” into the alias search field, and the
name Dr. Garard Seed, PhD appears on the screen.
Simon is not surprised that the mainframe’s algorithm
found some type of social correlation because all information
communicated over a phone, typed into a computer, or posted
on a social profile page is gathered and centralized on
supercomputers. Through casual communication people
TWISTED LINEN
inadvertently disclose intricate details about their relationships
and opinions, and using data mining algorithms a person’s indepth profile comes to light. There’s no hiding, and the
sheeple willingly accept it as the new normal. They have no
choice.
The search results state that Dr. Garard Seed led the
Reproductive Genetics Unit at Georgetown University
decades ago.
“Have you looked into this guy, Genovi?”
Genovi apprehensively looks away, and then says, “No…I
haven’t.”
“It says that this sick bastard cloaked his research
experiments while posing as a fertility doctor. In the 1980s,
he led the way in artificial insemination. He apparently used
his own semen in hundreds of unsuspecting female patients.”
Simon continues to read silently to himself, slowly
ferreting out the truth: Dr. Seed expressed intentions to be the
first to clone a man. He believed God intended man to
become one with God using scientific methods.
“That sounds like the Golden Dawn,” Simon thinks.
After Dr. Seed lost his medical license, he fled to Europe
and became one of the early founders of the Human Cloning
Organization whose research and experimentation were
privately funded.
“Genovi, did you ever follow their money trail?”
Genovi shakes his head and firmly says, “No.”
“Where is that paper slip?” Simon says, talking to himself.
He pulls the creased paper from his pocket and types the
bank account number into a reverse ID lookup query. Within
seconds the result comes back—the account reveals a
relationship with the Banco Nacional de San Sebastian.
“Well, how about that!” Simon says in an insolent way.
The Cloning Organization holds its finances with the
Banco Nacional, managed by a Mr. Aaron Diego.
113
“Let’s take a look at Aaron Diego.” Simon’s fingers dance
over the tablet’s touchscreen keyboard.
Aaron Diego married Dr. Seed’s granddaughter. Aaron
currently works as a private banker serving the wealthy at the
Banco Nacional.
“All right! So, now I need to find a pressure point. How
shall I squeeze Mr. Aaron Diego?” Simon mumbles, still
talking to himself.
Genovi fidgets, walks forward a few steps and then turns
back as if to say something.
Simon doesn’t let him talk first, but continues, “Yes,
here…Aaron has a brother.”
Simon crosses his arms and leans back in the chair.
“Look here…” he says through a closed-lip smirk. “The
family has a religious bent to them. His brother is a priest in
San Sebastian.”
At that moment, the pilot comes over the intercom to
announce it’s time to prepare the cabin for landing: they’ll be
on the ground in a few minutes.
“I’m on it,” Simon says as he tosses the tablet aside.
Genovi blankly stares into Simon’s eyes.
“What’s that look for?” Simon quips. “I know where to
find Father Diego. I’m going to pay a visit to his church and
kindly ask for a private introduction to his brother.”
“Simon, slow down. Think this through…this could be
disastrous.”
“It’s already disastrous, Genovi.”
Simon figures this is his last chance. He made a vow as he
had watched that helicopter fly away with Grace: find those
holding Grace and make them pay with their life if she’s
harmed. He’s willing to spill his blood and anybody who gets
in his way, so now it’s time to have a chat with Father
Diego—a little chat about God’s coming Kingdom, an honest
discussion about how his brother Aaron runs the Golden
Dawn’s finances, and how they will release Grace…or else.
TWISTED LINEN
34
Forgive Me Father
U
nder the warm glow of evening twilight, Simon slows his
run and stutter-steps before leaping onto the front stoop
of a small and very old church in the outskirts of San
Sebastian. The church windows are adorned with ornate
stained glass, while its entrance is dominated by two large
wooden doors. The doors are currently propped open, as they
are most of the time.
Simon ducks through the doorway into what appears to be
a vacant church. Suddenly, a noticeably upset woman steps
out of the confessional booth at the front of the church; she
has been crying. Simon and the woman make awkward eye
contact, then she looks down and scurries toward the exit.
Simon slowly walks forward, offering a gentle smile just in
case she looks up. After she passes, Simon pauses to look
back, confirming that she exited the church.
I should confess my sins to the good Father Diego, Simon
sarcastically thinks.
Simon quickly approaches the confessional booth and
snatches aside the curtain on the priest’s side of the
confessional, revealing a startled Father Diego. Diego gasps
as Simon places the 9mm barrel under his chin.
"Forgive me Father, but I may sin if you don't answer my
questions."
Father Diego clenches his jaw and clutches the arms of his
chair. Through tight lips he mumbles, “Who are you?”
“I guess you could say I am the Vatican. And you are the
Golden Dawn.”
“I don't know what you mean,” Diego blurts forth.
115
“Where can I find Julian Baculo?”
Father Diego stiffens in response to the sound of Baculo’s
name. That is all the confirmation Simon needed; it’s time to
escalate his crude interrogation tactics.
“If you refuse to cooperate, there will be nobody to
confess my sin.”
Simon pokes the muzzle of his gun into Father Diego’s
neck. “Right now!” he yells for shock value.
Unexpectedly, Father Diego softens in demeanor, as if he
is preparing for death. He recites a verse from the Bible: “And
I saw a new heaven and a new earth…”
Simon erupts in frustration, grabs Father Diego by the
neck and then throws him out of the confessional. He then
grabs Father Diego by the back of the shoulder and jabs the
pistol into the small of his back, forcing him toward the
church exit.
“The Vatican can’t stop this,” Father Diego says in a
resolute tone.
“They have my wife. I’ll stop it,” Simon proclaims.
Father Diego jerks his head around to look at Simon.
“Mary?” he inquires with glee. “We have Mary again?”
“She's not 'Mary'!” Simon barks.
“What does she look like?” the Father asks in sincere
anticipation.
“No! You answer my questions!” Simon growls as he
shoves Father Diego forward.
When they reach the doorway, Simon takes hold of Father
Diego’s collar and guides him down the stoop to the street
curb, discreetly concealing the pistol in his side.
“Your wife is the most blessed among woman of this age,”
Diego murmurs.
“You think so…then take me to her.”
“I don’t have that information,” Diego contends.
Simon’s interrogation of Father Diego is going nowhere
fast. It is time to move up the chain of command and meet
with the Father’s banker brother, Aaron.
TWISTED LINEN
“Then let’s have a chat with your brother, the banker
scumbag,” Simon demands as he pauses at the curb, trying to
identify a discreet form of transportation.
“I will not allow that,” the Father solemnly swears.
With his final declaration, Father Diego lunges both
himself and Simon into oncoming traffic. They tumble over
each other, sprawling into the middle of the street. Simon
pushes his body off Diego’s to find himself in a staring match
with the headlights of an oncoming van. Simon jumps to his
feet, leaps to the side, and tumbles to the curb. The screeching
noise of skidding tires is immediately followed by a bumpbump. Father Diego is dead, crushed and killed instantly, and
the screams of passersby confirm the reality of what just
happened.
Simon grabs his 9mm from the street and makes a panicky
dash around the side of the church, seeking a safe position in
the shadows in order to evaluate the next course of action.
Along with the goon who fell to his death, this is the second
deranged cult member to take his own life. It’s now obvious
this cult doesn’t fear death, and this is making conventional
interrogation difficult.
Simon warily peeks around the corner and sees a small
crowd forming in the street, huddled around the carnage of
Father Diego’s dead body. The pedestrians buzz with
concern, some pointing in different directions, others frozen
with a hand over their mouth. As the ruckus in the street
escalates into chaos, the thought let no crisis go to waste
comes to mind. That’s what the Americans used to say, before
they faced the terminal crisis of Western capitalism. Simon’s
panic quickly changes to anxiety, and anxiety makes him
smart. He has an idea; he won’t let Father Diego’s death
hinder the mission. It’s time to adapt, make use of the tragic
death because circumstance cannot dictate action.
117
Simon skirts the frantic crowd of onlookers, headed
toward the Banco Nacional; he has urgent news to deliver to
Father Diego’s bankster brother, Aaron Diego.
TWISTED LINEN
35
Into the Black
A
cross town Aaron Diego ends another profitable day at
the Banco Nacional. As twilight fades into
semidarkness, Aaron casually walks down the street, heading
for home. At the end of the street he turns right around a
corner, out of sight.
Not long after, Simon trots up to the bank’s entrance and
pauses to catch his breath and brush off his pants. After a
deep inhale and exhale, Simon pulls open the heavy metal
doors and enters the bank. A security guard just inside the
entrance immediately stops him.
“Sir, may I help you? This is a private bank for
appointments only.”
Simon nods and says, “I understand, but this is a bit of an
emergency.”
Simon flashes his Vatican security credentials and says, “I
am a friend of Father Diego. He’s had a life-threatening
accident and he personally asked me to find his brother. I
need to speak with Mr. Aaron Diego.”
“I’m sorry, but Mr. Diego left for the evening.”
“Where did he go?”
“Ah, I assume he went home.”
“What is the address?”
The guard hesitates.
“Please,” Simon pleads. “The Father made it his dying
wish to see his brother one last time.”
119
The guard stares at Simon a moment longer and then says,
“It’s 616 La Pasada Oscuro. Go down the street and take a
right. You’ll see it up ahead on the left.”
Simon dashes off, invigorated by the thought of making
the acquaintance of Aaron Diego.
It’s not far and Simon makes easy work of the run. When
he approaches the front terrace of Aaron’s beautiful Spanish
villa, he slows to a walk. Swathes of morning glory and
jasmine adorn the exterior, and their sweet fragrances remind
him of Grace. Grace may soon be dead and he’s not fired a
single bullet. Simon instinctually checks the pistol’s ammo
clip: it’s full. He then chambers a round; it’s time to put the
lethal weapon to work.
Simon pauses just outside the front door. He can’t hear
Aaron on the other side of the door, but he can sense him. He
takes one final deep breath and bangs on the door with three
thundering raps. A moment later, Aaron Diego opens the door
and greets him casually.
“Senor LaCroix, I was informed that you might be
visiting.”
“Your brother is dead,” Simon states.
“Please…come in,” Aaron responds unemotionally.
The interior of Aaron’s villa is designed in a traditional
style with tiled floors and beamed ceilings. It’s neatly and
comfortably furnished, but there is an overt pagan ambiance.
Most notable is a large-scale golden bull with horns that span
four feet across, presented off in the corner of the room. It's a
modern incarnation of ancient Egyptian worship and
witchcraft, and the same animal totem of Moloch that the Jews
began worshiping while waiting for Moses to return from
Mount Sinai.
“Did you hear what I said?” Simon barks.
Aaron gently closes the door to the villa and says, “It is
only the first death.”
In an instant Simon places his 9mm to Aaron’s forehead.
“So this shouldn’t bother you,” Simon threatens.
“It does not,” Aaron responds. “I do not fear death.”
TWISTED LINEN
Simon shoves Aaron backwards causing him to stumble
and fall into a nearby wicker chair. As Simon approaches
Aaron, he raises the 9mm and places the tip of the muzzle
against his forehead.
“Elaborate…before I test your faith,” demands Simon
while tilting Aaron’s head back with the gun muzzle.
“Test me,” Aaron willingly complies. “How can I
enlighten you?”
“Let's start with Dr. Seed and your mission to unite man
with God.”
“I offer no secrets. The plan has been open for all to see
for decades. The late doctor founded an organization for the
purpose of extending human life. He led the way in somaticcell nuclear transfer.”
“And its headquarters are here in San Sebastian?”
“Headquarters? It's a distributed organization…there is no
head.”
“Wrong answer!” Simon abruptly responds as he jabs the
muzzle into Aaron’s weathered forehead. “You're taking me
there. Now!”
Aaron offers a noncompliant glare.
“You willing to die, right now?” Simon asks.
Aaron slowly turns his head away from the gun, toward
the window. He looks pensively through the window at the
mountain view in the distance, and then calmly states,
“Tomorrow is Rosh HaShanah. Tomorrow the Lord returns
and I will see my brother before I see the sun rise over those
mountains.”
His tranquil gaze is broken by Simon’s vicious pistol whip
to the head. “Take me there.”
Aaron remains unfazed in his stance. He shakes his head
in disdain and says, “You are unworthy.”
“Take me to my wife!” Simon yells with a hint of panic.
“No,” Aaron responds.
121
The two stare at each other with icy resolve. Aaron’s a
cool customer, and Simon is frustrated by his inability to elicit
information from him. In fact, he finds the commitment of
this cult and its unwavering faith astounding.
A fierce determination grows inside Simon. A fierce
determination to maim or murder in order to save the only
thing that ever seemed to matter in his life—the angel who
settled him and brought peace where there had been so much
rage. In frustration he backs away to peer out the window,
searching for something, anything. He wipes his forehead
with a sweaty forearm as Grace’s fate flashes before him.
Then adrenaline begins to boil in his veins, and rage gets the
better of him.
“You people,” Simon fumes in disbelief. “What possesses
you?”
The uncontrollable presence of fear and hate takes over as
Simon turns back to face Aaron. He attacks with a fierce sidekick to Aaron’s chest, knocking him backwards out of the
chair. Aaron gasps for air as Simon methodically steps over
him and stomp-kicks him in the stomach. He then bends
down to grab a fist full of Aaron’s hair, and slams his head
against the tile floor. Aaron's eyes roll back in his head and he
temporarily loses consciousness.
Simon’s heart pounds in his chest, like pistons pumping
rage up and down; he has lost all sense of compassion. It’s a
fracas that Satan is applauding from the shadows, relishing in
the deception he’s created between them. Each convicted in
their beliefs, each dedicated to what they believe is the truth.
Simon lowers down to a knee and arouses Aaron with a
swift cheek slap. Aaron’s eyes blink their way back to
consciousness, and Simon once again places the pistol to his
forehead.
“This is it,” Simon warns. “Take me to my wife.”
“I will not,” Aaron mumbles. “Cohen will be born again.
It's Grace’s destiny.”
Simon strikes him across the face with a wild backhandslap. “He's not her son, you bastard!”
TWISTED LINEN
Aaron chuckles in response. He knows this could go on
all night, so he challenges Simon with an ultimatum: “You'll
need to make a choice now. There's a price to pay…every
choice we make.”
“Look who's talking,” Simon responds.
Simon places two fingers just above Aaron’s collarbone
and presses into a vulnerable pressure point. Aaron shrieks in
agonizing pain as his arms coil in a contorted posture. After a
few seconds, Simon releases the pressure so Aaron has one
last chance to speak.
“What's your decision?” Simon demands.
Aaron turns his face away in defiance. It’s futile, Aaron
won’t give in.
Simon slowly rises to a standing position and takes aim
with the pistol.
Simon fires a warning shot that hits just beside Aaron’s
head. POW! Then he says, “There are only two
absolutes…good and evil. No in-between. Either you're right,
or I am.”
Aaron acknowledges the truth with a short nod.
Simon tells him, “The next bullet is taking you to your
God. He'll bring extreme elation or painful agony. Which
God is waiting for you?”
Aaron closes his eyes, as if preparing for death, and quotes
from Scripture: “And the time is coming when those who kill
you will think they are doing a holy service for God.”
Simon’s never killed anybody, but a sinister voice in his
head says this guy deserves it. Simon readies his weapon with
an icy calm, then begins to slowly squeeze the trigger. But,
he’s stopped by a familiar and commanding voice.
“Simon!” Genovi hollers. “That's not the way.”
Genovi stands in the doorway in his Cardinal red, palms
held open to the room before him. His voice and imposing
presence freezes Simon before firing.
123
“Put the gun down,” Genovi demands.
Simon looks down at what he’s done to Aaron, then back
at Genovi. His rage almost led him to the other side, into the
black.
Simon slowly lowers the gun to his side, and Genovi
confirms the decision with a gentle nod as he approaches him.
Genovi places his hand on Simon’s shoulder and says,
“You will not get Grace this way.”
Genovi then turns his attention to Aaron. He assumes a
kneeling position beside him, and places the palm of his hand
on Aaron’s head. With a look of condemnation, Genovi
quotes from the Book of Revelation: “The time is at hand. He
that is filthy, let him be filthy still. And he that is holy, let him
be holy still.”
Aaron lies motionless, his gaze fixed on Genovi like he
might recognize him. Suddenly, a microexpression flashes
across Aaron's face, one that communicates a sense of fear and
awe. Genovi quickly rises and turns his back to Aaron.
“We must hurry now,” he says to Simon.
As Simon follows Genovi toward the exit, Aaron groans
behind clenched teeth and staggers to his feet. Standing in a
hunched position, he shouts: “And there will be no more
suffering. For the old order has passed away.”
Simon and Genovi simultaneously turn to observe Aaron
awkwardly galloping toward his golden bull statue, gaining
speed as he approaches it. With a final and unintelligible
shriek, Aaron impales his chest with one of the statue’s large
horns. He wheezes and gurgles slightly, and after a
momentary contortion, his lifeless body collapses over the
head of the beast.
Genovi has nothing to add to the verdict; the outcome is
just. He steps outside villa and says, “Come. We are short on
time.”
TWISTED LINEN
36
No Coincidences
G
enovi leads a disorderly Simon down a dark alleyway,
heading toward their waiting Hummer. Simon follows at
a questionable distance, and one of Genovi’s dark-suits trails
even farther behind.
"I can finish this," Simon shouts forward to Genovi.
Genovi abruptly stops and turns back to reprimand Simon,
"No! You're ruining everything."
“No, I’m fighting,” Simon contends. “I’m fighting for
Grace…for God.”
“You’re making it worse for Grace,” Genovi says in a
grave tone. “Baculo may take retribution on her for your
actions tonight!”
Simon struggles to swallow, demoralized by the thought of
what Baculo might do.
“We must hurry,” Genovi adds as he turns toward the
waiting Hummer. “There’s no time for theatrics.”
As they near the Hummer, a dark-suit exits the SUV and
opens the passenger doors for Genovi and Simon. Genovi
turns back toward Simon and waves his hand for him to hurry.
“Get in the car,” Genovi demands.
“Buckle up!” commands the dark-suit behind the wheel,
and a moment later the Hummer speeds off in route to the San
Telmo Museum.
Silence fills the Hummer cabin during the drive. The only
sounds are from the tires beating the road. It’s a rhythmic
sound that resonates throughout the Hummer as four noggins
gently bob in synchronicity.
Simon is the first to break the silence. “What is wrong
with these people, Genovi?” His voice now has the edge of
125
someone well on the way to being strung out. “They are so
convicted in their beliefs. They are certain of God’s will.”
Genovi turns one eye toward Simon in the back seat and
says, “In the Last Days…and I believe we are in those times,
many will be deceived. The Bible warns that even His elect
could be deceived if He permitted it.”
“So how can we be sure?”
“I can’t provide that answer, but I’m sure that God is
sovereign over all things and His will prevails in the end. In
the end, He imposes His Kingdom on this earth so we must
never lose hope and continually seek spiritual discernment.
Otherwise, we risk being left outside the gates.”
“Hope?” Simon asks in a dejected manner. “Hope is not
going to save Grace from evil like this.”
Genovi turns completely around to face Simon, “All your
battles are fought in the flesh…the physical world.”
“That's the world we live in,” Simon aggressively asserts.
“No, there's so much more.”
Simon turns away, pretending to look out the window.
“Look at me, son. Grace's life depends on it.”
Simon briefly glances at Genovi, as if saying, Go ahead,
I’m listening.
“Now is the time where you need to decide: Are you going
to save Grace or avenge her? If you want to save her then
we'll do it together with the Shroud. But if you want to
avenge her, then go on another rampage and kill as many as
you can. If you choose to avenge, you’ll go alone.”
Genovi knows this is gut-check time for Simon. Being
physically passive is not his training, nor his upbringing; he
has always surrendered the things of “faith and hope” to
Genovi.
Genovi offers some perspective as encouragement.
“Cohen's creation has changed everything. There is no
running from this.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“His blood gives him authority that nobody can deny.
He’ll usher in the prophesized New Jerusalem.”
TWISTED LINEN
Genovi reminds Simon that a genetic clone of Jesus
provides irrefutable scientific proof. Cohen will use his
genetic relationship to justify his authority over all men.
Simon surprises Genovi with his next question. “You left
that Bible for me? The Bible on the plane… didn't you?”
Genovi nods and then pauses to prepare his response.
“Do you know how I was led to the Lord?”
Simon doesn’t respond; Genovi continues anyway.
“The Lord left a Bible for me once. I was young,
ambitious for things of this world, much like you were and
still are. I thought the things of the world would make me
secure, so God let me run. Now looking back on it, He was
taking me through a process of learning to trust Him. It all
came to a head when I was just one step away from realizing
my goal.”
“What goal?”
“Power, fame…taking a company public on the London
Stock Exchange.”
“You never told me you were a business man.”
“I was a young company founder, in the right place at the
right time. All I had to do was keep the hype going and the
company would turn public, and I’d be a rich man.”
“I never knew,” Simon says, shocked. “I mean, I knew
you lived a very different life before entering the priesthood
but not about your power seat in the business world.”
Genovi continues to tell the story. “The 'road show'
required I fly all over the place but nothing seemed to be
going right. Presentation material was lost and analysts poked
holes in our financials. Well, I was waiting in the airport to
catch a flight for the biggest presentation yet: The Big One; it
would determine the company's fate. The airport got socked
in with snow and I was trapped. That’s when I noticed a Bible
in the seat next to me. I had been sitting in this seat for a long
while and honestly don't remember anybody leaving it behind.
127
Something called me to pick it up, and I randomly opened it to
James, Chapter 1. As I read it, a guy tapped me on the
shoulder and said, ‘I claimed those verses about seven years
ago.’”
“Really?”
Genovi chuckles weakly. “That's what I said.”
“Was it his Bible?” Simon asks.
“No. I don’t know whose Bible it was or even how it got
there, but this guy rattled off a story about his life and it
paralleled mine in so many ways. He had a different career,
but the events and struggles were eerily similar to mine.”
“And?”
“And, like this man, I surrendered everything of myself to
Jesus Christ. I repented of my sinful past and acknowledged I
could not live a sinless future. My salvation would be solely
dependent on Jesus Christ. That lone Bible was no
coincidence. And, neither is you reading Revelation on the
plane last night.”
A heavy quietness envelops the Hummer as Simon tries to
absorb everything Genovi just shared with him, but he
wonders why Genovi never mentioned this before; apparently
Genovi is full of secrets.
TWISTED LINEN
37
Two Blisters
T
he Hummer turns a corner and slows as it approaches the
San Telmo Museum. The old museum is located in a
historic area in the outskirts of San Sebastian. It’s a quiet
location far away from the town residents. But Grace is near;
Simon can sense her presence.
As the SUV rolls to a stop in the cobblestone alley, Genovi
looks at his watch. It’s almost midnight. “We’re here. It’s
time.”
One could cut the tension with a medieval dagger as
Genovi swivels a stern gaze Simon’s way.
“It's time to put that gun away,” he soberly declares.
Simon curls his upper lip slightly, but he understands
Genovi’s point.
“The museum doors are open,” Genovi says. “They'll be
waiting for you inside.”
“And you?”
“I’ll wait in the background…protect the Shroud. You
make sure they release Grace. Call me when she’s free.”
“And then what?”
“I can’t answer that,” Genovi says after a short pause. “If
we don’t see each other again, lean on the Bible. Let the
Word be a light unto your path.”
Simon lays his hand on Genovi’s shoulder and says, “This
isn’t over.”
Simon waits for a response from his mentor, the closest
thing he’s had to a father, but it doesn’t come and something
doesn’t feel right. Can’t turn back now. Simon climbs out of
the SUV.
129
The dark-suit in the back seat quickly closes Simon’s door
from within. The eerie feeling brewing within grows stronger.
Simon reaches for his 9mm, and pulls the slide back just far
enough to confirm there is a round in the chamber.
“Genovi, let’s go…” Simon says in a halting voice,
wondering why Genovi is taking so long to exit the Hummer.
In a cracking voice, Genovi shouts from within the
Hummer, "Free Grace! You must free Grace!”
Simon immediately snatches at Genovi’s door handle, but
his arm jerks against a door that’s been locked from within.
"Unlock the door!" Simon yelps.
Then the dark-suit in the back of the vehicle rolls the
window down a few inches to deliver a command:
"Keep your hands off the gun and make your way to the
center courtyard. Baculo will look for you there." He says the
last few words as he’s rolling the window up.
I knew it, Simon rails in thought. These agents couldn’t be
trusted!
In an instinctual and fluid motion Simon draws his 9mm
and fires two quick bursts at the agent’s tinted window. Both
shots blister the window, marking the exact spot where the
agent's head should be, but the shots don’t penetrate the bulletresistant glass. The Hummer blasts away from the curb with a
roar and accelerates down the street. Simon steps down off
the curb and follows the fleeing Hummer with two more
disciplined shots aimed at the rear tire. There’s no effect. The
Hummer squeals as it makes a power-turn around the corner,
out of sight.
Simon stands frozen in a two-handed firing position, still
looking down the gun sights, looking into the dark shadows.
A desperate feeling suddenly hits him in the gut: they now
have Genovi and the Shroud, so what collateral does he have
to free Grace? Nothing, but he will not abandon her. He
would rather die than abandon her.
TWISTED LINEN
38
Sacrifices
F
ootsteps are the only noise in the dark halls of an ancient
monastery that is now the San Telmo Museum. Simon
walks quickly and purposely below an ornately carved stone
ceiling. His brisk footsteps come to an abrupt stop at the end
of the hall, and Simon attempts to regain his composure before
proceeding into an open courtyard.
The space is a dark “arena” type of enclosure, towering
over a large grass-covered courtyard in its center. The
courtyard is open to the night sky and vulnerable to multiple
points of attack around its perimeter. The lowest level, where
Simon will enter, is surrounded by numerous archways
covering tunnels that lead back into the interior of the
museum. The second level is wrapped with a balcony railing
about thirty feet above the courtyard. It feels like a big
ambush site.
Simon pauses under the cover of an archway and clears his
throat, then draws in a deep breath, trying to ease the tension
in his body. It’s time.
“Baculo! I’m here,” Simon yells, blowing off his tension.
He steadies his breathing and listens carefully, but there is
no response. Only the solitary sound of his voice echoes in
response.
The courtyard is open and exposed, and it’s too dark to see
much of anything in the archways that surround it. With no
other option, Simon resolutely treads into the center of the
courtyard, stopping two times along the way, straining to see
into the dark shadows, hoping to gain some sense of this
131
meeting place, trying to gain some sense of what’s coming.
Things can’t be any grimmer.
Suddenly his phone rings. In a spastic attempt to answer
it, he babbles, “Yes…Yes!” before placing the phone to his
ear.
“Mr. LaCroix,” Baculo sternly responds.
“I’m here,” Simon says. “Where in hell are you?”
“Of course you are…but are you done playing games?”
“Where is Grace? Bring me Grace.”
“I understand you got a little sidetracked earlier. I find
that very irritating.”
Simon weighs his answer carefully. “I’m done. It’s over.
You can have the Shroud. Just bring me Grace.”
Baculo breathes deeply into the phone for a long moment,
then declares, “Not until we shed blood…make a sacrifice.”
Simon’s eyes narrow. “It won’t go down that way,” he
responds with a hint of desperation. “Genovi will destroy the
Shroud if you don’t let Grace go.”
Baculo chuckles, and then the phone line goes dead.
Simon is left staring at the phone as a dreadful silence lingers.
But the silence is soon broken when a large circuit breaker is
thrown shut, producing a blinding light. The light descends on
Simon from all directions, shining down on the center of the
courtyard from high above. It illuminates the courtyard, but
the glare makes the shadows within the surrounding archways
completely opaque.
A muffled scream captures Simon’s attention as Baculo’s
thug steps into the light on the balcony above. The thug holds
Grace from behind. She’s gagged with her hands bound
behind her back, and wearing a shiny red dress Simon had
never seen before.
“Simon!” Grace shrieks.
It’s a stifled word barely recognizable through her gag, but
Simon knows she’s pleading for his aid.
He springs toward her and screams, “Let her go!”
In response, the thug forces Grace’s torso over the balcony
railing, threatening to push her over. Simon immediately
TWISTED LINEN
draws his pistol, but the thug quickly hunches down behind
Grace’s body, negating a clean shot.
“I won’t repeat myself!” Simon bluffs.
Grace uses her bare feet to kick at the thug concealed
behind her, and the struggle causes her to slide farther over the
railing. She is helpless with her hands bound behind her back,
and she’s unable to resist the awkward position.
Just then, a gunshot rings out from high above. Simon
didn’t shoot—somebody’s shooting at him. The bullet
splatters the ground just beside his feet. The shot is
immediately followed by the sound of Baculo’s voice from
behind, somewhere in the upper balcony.
“Put that gun down! Do it now, before I have you both
killed,” Baculo demands.
As Baculo coolly steps out of the shadows and into the
light, Simon spins around and levels his gun on the knot of his
gold tie. But Baculo doesn’t have a gun, and he’s not an
immediate threat. Simon spins back toward Grace, aims at the
thug’s exposed leg calf, hoping to squeeze off one good shot
that won’t put Grace at risk. Just then another round is fired at
Simon—this time the bullet blows a divot from the ground in
between his feet. Obviously a sniper stalks somewhere above,
and he could be anywhere. Simon’s efforts are in vain, and he
recognizes there’s little chance of freeing Grace is a gun fight.
In surrender Simon tosses the pistol to the ground and
holds his hands out to his sides.
“Easy! Just take it easy,” Simon pleads. “Check with
Genovi. He’ll surrender the Shroud directly to your priest.”
“Good boy,” Baculo arrogantly responds.
Baculo begins to walk the perimeter of the balcony above,
meandering through each archway, in and out of shadows, in
and out of the light, making his way around toward Grace.
“Did you know that you stand in an ancient monastery,
Mr. LaCroix?” Baculo says. “Before becoming the museum
133
we see today, this monastery was used as a bull fighting ring.
In the not too distant past, bloody sacrifices took place right
under your feet.”
Baculo stops for a moment to extend his arms like an
emperor would do in that day. “Those in power would stand
in these very balconies and celebrate the sacrifices.”
Simon tracks Baculo’s movements, glancing back and
forth between him and Grace.
“Can you imagine a bull running out from one of these
dark archways below…charging you? If your livelihood
depended on it, I think you would sacrifice it.”
As Baculo moves closer to Grace with each step, Simon
realizes this is a familiar circumstance. It’s a situation Simon
finds very demoralizing.
“How I would like to see you fight such a great beast,”
Baculo says before turning to address all the ghostly quadrants
of the arena. “I can almost hear the echoes of the crowds.”
Grace struggles to look up from her awkward position,
trying to make eye contact with Simon. She calls out but the
pressure of the railing in her stomach takes away her breath.
Baculo passes through the last archway separating him
from Grace and then slowly reaches over the railing so he can
caress her hair.
Simon balls his fists and thinks of new ways to hurt
Baculo.
“Do you like the virgin dress I picked out for her?” Baculo
taunts as he adjusts the shoulder strap of her dress.
Simon remains unwavering and resists the temptation to
show any emotion. He knows it will only encourage Baculo’s
tormenting nature. “What are you doing, Baculo? Do you
have any idea what you are doing?”
Baculo continues relentlessly.
“You know we are all called to make sacrifices to our
Gods? You know that, Simon?”
Baculo grabs a handful of Grace’s hair and gently pulls her
head upward, suggesting her as the sacrifice. “Are you
willing?” Baculo asks with a wicked smirk.
TWISTED LINEN
Silent tears stream down Grace’s face, her eyes plead in
terror. Simon struggles to hold his emotions at bay and says,
“You know that you are completely sadistic. You know that?
Right?”
Baculo pauses, and then darkens a little before saying,
“Time is running out…”
Baculo releases Grace’s hair and the thug pulls her body
upright, clutching her throat from behind. Simon and Grace
exchange one last tender gaze before she is pulled back
through an archway, and disappears into its dark corridor.
“Wait!” Simon screams, his voice cracking and faltering.
“Let me talk with Genovi.”
Baculo snickers and then boldly says, “You think Genovi
answers to you.”
Simon holds out his hands in surrender, then slowly pulls
the phone out of his pocket. “Just one call…you’ll have your
Shroud,” he pleads.
Baculo agrees with a short nod before disappearing into
the same dark corridor where Grace was taken.
“Baculo, give me a minute!” Simon pleads in desperation.
Baculo is gone, and Simon begins to mumble in distress
while he dials Genovi.
“It’s over! Give it to them,” Simon yells into the phone as
soon as Genovi answers.
“If I do, Cohen will be healed,” Genovi warns.
“Forget Cohen,” Simon jabbers, baffled by Genovi’s
calmness. “They’re going to sacrifice Grace…give them the
Shroud!”
“Cohen was genetically engineered, man-made. He’s
empty, soulless, void of the Spirit of God.”
“Don't fight this, Genovi…Now listen to me! I will take
care of Cohen. If they heal him, I will hunt him down. I'll
won’t stop until I blow his head completely off. I’ll make sure
135
there’s nothing left to heal this time. I give you my word, just
surrender the Shroud.”
“You won't…you can't. He'll be God in the flesh,” Genovi
calmly responds.
“Have you lost your mind?” Simon yells into the phone in
utter panic. “What have they done to you?”
“Simon, we are all called to make sacrifices. He is coming
soon. I pray you will be found worthy, my son.”
“Please Genovi…she’s your daughter.”
After a momentary silence, Genovi ends the call, and
along with it, Simon’s last glimmer of hope.
Nausea strikes deep in Simon’s gut and his hand drops to a
knee for balance just as the crack of another sniper shot rings
out. This was no warning shot; the near miss was meant for
his head. It’s now apparent the Golden Dawn wants to
sacrifice Simon, not Grace.
Before Simon can react, the color red catches his attention.
It’s Grace dashing out of the lower-level shadows of the
courtyard. She is alone and unrestrained, bearing down on
him like a frightened cat. Tears streak her cheeks while her
long red dress waves wildly in the air behind. The moment is
surreal, almost unbelievable, and Simon leaps in her direction
just as the sniper fires again. It’s another fortunate miss.
Simon charges Grace, closing the distance between them
with a sense of agonizing slow motion. His mind races with a
fear of disillusionment, not sure if her semblance is real or just
a hopeful apparition. His uncertainty is answered when
Grace’s body crashes into his. It’s a tangible but glancing
embrace as she runs right over him. Their bodies entangle and
tumble to the ground.
“Thank God you’re okay,” Simon mumbles into Grace’s
ear, unmindful of the surrounding threats.
Grace squirms in an uncertain embrace, squeezing him
tightly to her body. Simon at first tries to roll her behind him,
but then realizes they don’t want to hurt her. She has
unwittingly become Simon’s shield.
“Hold your fire!” Baculo commands in an acutely
frustrated voice, confirming Simon’s suspicion.
TWISTED LINEN
Simon squeezes Grace close while asking, “How did you
get free?”
“They just let me go…they said I fulfilled my purpose,”
Grace stammers in response before burying her face into his
shoulder.
From deep in the shadows Baculo calls out, “God found
favor with you tonight, Simon, but we must go now. Let’s
shed blood another time.”
Simon’s trepidation gives way to a sense of relief that this
may now finally be over.
Baculo would never fire upon their virgin Grace, mother
of their coming king, and the occult’s sacrifice of Simon is not
critical to the Golden Dawn’s agenda. Baculo’s revenge will
have to come another day.
“It’s okay…it’s okay,” Simon utters, trying to comfort
Grace, as well as himself. “It’s over…it’s over. They won’t
harm you. They can’t harm you.”
“I love you…I love you, Simon.”
“I love you so completely,” Simon responds right before
kissing her long and hard, like they'd die if they stopped.
Above in the night sky, the constellation Virgo completes the
prophetic sign and symbolic birth of the king planet, Jupiter.
Virgo’s twelve star crown, formed by the constellation Leo
and three additional planets, adorn her head. It’s a perfect
match to the Apostle John's warning sign in the book of
Revelation, and evil events must soon follow. The cult now
has the Shroud of Turin, and on it Jesus’ blood. Along with
Grace’s blood, they will complete the genetic healing serum
for Cohen, and install their Final World Order.
137
39
The Source
F
or the past seven days black thunderheads and pounding
rain has kept the residents of San Sebastian indoors. But
today, a week after Rosh HaShanah, the sky begins to lighten
and the drizzling rain fades. With the storm clouds far off in
the distance, the faint rumble of thunder is barely audible.
Now, the sun peeks out through the fleeing clouds as it falls
low in the sky. This “age” is coming to an end; darkness is
almost upon us.
Locals start to emerge from their villas with a common
chatter, and they once again stroll through the streets and
meander along the seashore. The activity brings forth quiet
sounds, sounds that indicate something is moving on.
Simon and Grace just finished an early evening swim in the
ocean and now walk aimlessly along the water’s edge. Small
waves gently break offshore and quietly roll up to their feet.
Grace turns her face into the breeze, letting the wind gently
pull on her long hair.
"Tomorrow looks like it might be better," Grace says as
she grabs Simon’s hand.
Simon looks up at the orange and red hues in the evening
sky, wondering if that will be so. Grace flicks her toe at the
water rolling up to her feet. She is recovering, slowly but
surely. But for Simon, the storm has not passed.
Grace pulls on Simon’s hand, turning him so she can flash
her brilliant smile. It’s a relaxed and genuine smile that can be
seen in her eyes.
“Where’s my kiss,” she demands.
They embrace in a still but long kiss, and during it Simon
catches a glimpse of her captivating eyes. Her coy manner
charms him every time, each time in a slightly different way.
God only declared nine characteristic “fruits of the Spirit,” but
TWISTED LINEN
if He would permit another, Simon would claim Grace’s
charm as the tenth. This time Grace’s charm wipes away
Simon’s sullen mood and he’s no longer able to deny the new
sense of joy building within. It’s evident by the warm smile
sneaking across his face.
“Ready to head back to your boat?” Simon teases.
Grace offers a kittenish look of humorous play and
responds, “You mean your boat.”
“Ha, I'll race you,” Simon jests.
Simon leads the way into the water, diving over the first
wave. Graces laughs with a joy that has been long overdue and
then chases after him.
Anchored not far offshore, a weathered forty-foot SeaRay
Sundancer gently bobs up and down. It’s theirs and they
named it: The Source. Simon and Grace race toward The
Source while the eternal and unwavering statue of Jesus Christ
stands high above on Urgull Hill, watching with His hand
extended, as if He’s beckoning them to come to the source.
Grace eventually closes the gap on Simon, and as she
swims by him, Simon pulls on her leg in an attempt to slow
her down. As they approach the boat, Simon wrestles his way
around Grace and starts up the ladder. Grace grabs his swim
trunks from behind and pulls him back into the water.
“Ladies first…you cheater.”
Simon is silenced by the truth of those claims. He tries to
mimic Grace's funny-sad pouting face in response, but it’s a
flop. Grace smirks, climbs aboard, and then collapses to the
deck with a sighing sense of satisfaction.
“The water feels great!” Grace exclaims as Simon leans on
the transom door, trying to catch his breath.
The boat is much smaller than they originally wanted, but
it has proven to be exactly what they needed. Isolated and
sealed off from the world, they gather in each other's arms on
the deck of the boat.
139
The evening air is light and mild, gently swirling against
their still-hot skin. Simon rests his head on Grace's chest,
looking down toward her stomach. The small scar on her
abdomen captures his attention and he softly touches it.
Grace feels his touch and says, “I always thought it was a
birth mark.”
Simon nods a “me too” kind of nod.
“Still no word from your dad,” Simon says.
“I assumed not,” Grace murmurs before taking a deep
breath like she’s trying to let go of something. “I’m sorry,
Simon. He was always more of a father to you than me. How
are you handling this?”
“Well, Genovi always said he’d fight the battle until the
very end…that’s what I keep reminding myself.”
Simon turns to look upon Grace’s face, to see if she’s
really “okay” with the loss of her father. Simon knows that
Grace never expected Genovi to be her dad, but he wants her
eyes to confirm it.
Grace was dealt a tough hand in life, never knowing her
biological mother and having a biological dad that didn’t
surface until she was a teenager. But there were blessings
behind those trials. God made his presence known to Grace
early in her life, first in the form of a loving foster family, then
through the Holy Scripture. God was doing a good work in
her life, and the first thing He fixed was her longing for a
father. Grace had unrealistic expectations of what a “real”
father was like. She only saw the best in her friends’ fathers,
and that only fueled the delusion further. Grace painted a
picture in her head of the perfect father, and only God could
fill those shoes. And it was no coincidence; He planned it that
way from the very beginning. What God knew, that Grace
didn’t know, was that He is a better Father than any earthly
father could ever be. He is eternal and unchanging; there is
nothing more stable to lean upon. Grace leans on Him in all
her ways, and He brings forth a deep sense of security and
hope that’s carries her through all of life’s trials, even the
trials imposed on her by Magick.
TWISTED LINEN
Grace lets her expression give Simon his answer. She rests in
a peace that she wished Simon could find. Realizing this is a
good time to ask about the topic they’ve avoided for seven
stormy days, she sits up and asks, “Do you think the Golden
Dawn healed Cohen?”
Simon looks away, toward the shoreline. “Well, I haven't
seen him on the news yet, so I’m hoping Genovi destroyed the
Shroud before they could use it.”
Then Simon looks back toward Grace, “You know, there
were two hundred and seventy failed attempts at making Dolly
the sheep?”
Grace gives him a “that’s encouraging” response.
“You've given any more thought to Tahiti?” Simon asks.
“Yes,” Grace says honestly. “Now, for some reason, it
feels too far away. Almost like a hopeful refuge that’s no
different in the end.”
Faithful smiles are exchanged between them both.
“I think this little boat likes it here in San Sebastian,”
Simon adds with a wink.
“No more backup plans,” Grace says. “Let's just live each
day as they come.”
After hearing Grace’s revelation, Simon reaches for her
body, gently positioning his on top of hers.
“Live with some faith,” he adds in agreement.
141
40
The Beast
T
he Source bobs and sways in the tranquil bay of San
Sebastian while Grace prepares a small dinner in the
boat’s galley. Simon sits nearby at the cramped galley table.
There on the table lie Genovi's Bible and Simon’s laptop.
Earlier, Simon had been using the laptop to watch a YouTube
channel on prophecy. He clicks “play” to resume watching.
Grace glances over toward Simon as she moves a dirty pan
into the sink, noticing the Bible next to him.
“You’ve been reading that a lot lately,” she comments.
Simon is lost in thought, listening intently to the video
sermon. The speaker in the video is describing the Sign in the
Heavens and its reference to the Great Tribulation. The
sermon describes the seven Jewish Feasts, four that have been
prophetically fulfilled and the three that await fulfillment.
Simon turns his head toward Grace and says in an
undertone, “Grace…what do you make of this?”
Grace steps close to watch how Revelation 12 details Jesus
Christ’s warning to the Apostle John. It’s the point when
Satan’s spirit falls to Earth and dwells in a man. It’s also the
point when Satan reveals himself, and requires all men to
accept the “Mark of the Beast” or be killed.
Simon pauses the video and adds, “Revelation also says
the Beast will take a fatal head wound, but then survive.”
“Now, read this,” he says, pointing at first few verses of
Revelation 12 with a nearby pencil.
Grace silently reads the Apostle John’s description of a
great warning sign in heaven. “It’s Virgo giving birth to a
king, with the moon at her feet, clothed in the Sun. It’s what
Baculo showed me in the sky that night.”
Simon snaps the pencil in his hand, obviously unable to
knock off the feelings of violence still lurking at the thought of
Baculo touching his wife. Then, he turns to stare out the
TWISTED LINEN
window blankly, as if he is trying to recall the details of
something.
After a moment he says, “Genovi described Cohen as
‘man-made.’ Cohen is man’s creation, not God’s. And God
will not breathe life into Man’s attempt at creation.”
“So Cohen would be…soulless,” Grace ponders aloud.
Now Simon puts all the pieces together. “The Golden
Dawn wanted to heal Cohen’s flesh with genetic engineering,
and then used black magick to possess his body. They’re not
looking for Jesus, they wanted to impersonate Jesus.”
“Three days dead…resurrected …a counterfeit Christ,”
Grace says.
Grace puts her hand firmly on Simon’s. “The Antichrist.”
Simon stares long and hard into Grace’s eyes, and then
nods vaguely.
“Simon, let's pray,” pleads Grace. “Pray that we are found
worthy to escape all these things.”
“In the name of Jesus Christ of Nazareth,” Simon adds.
143
41
The Revealing
S
even days earlier, on Rosh HaShanah…
Cohen lay motionless on a low wooden table in the Cave
of Souls with his arms iconically crossed over his lower
abdomen. He is deader than dead, but the initial symptoms of
rigor mortis are gradually dissipating. He wears an ancientlooking crown that covers the area where his head wound once
bled. The Golden Dawn’s captive scientist was successful in
repairing Cohen’s flesh wound. His soft tissue was
regenerated using a serum made of genetically modified cells
extracted from his genetic mother and father; that is, Grace
and blood from the Shroud of Turin. But the scientist didn’t
live to celebrate his success—he and his wife were disposed of
just hours ago.
In the Cave of Souls, Chief Priest Olivier patiently waits
for his honorary guest to arrive. Olivier is the one who had
the wisdom and foresight to usher David Cohen into a position
of power, and exhibited the patience required to execute a
playbook three decades in the making. But he needed access
to the Shroud one last time, and his guest was a key part in
providing it.
As Priest Olivier waits, he meticulously adjusts ceremonial
items on a nearby table—one of those items being the Shofar
horn. Rosh HaShanah is a Jewish Feast day that
commemorates the creation of the world by the King of Kings,
and it’s customary to blow a trumpet at a king's coronation;
therefore, the Golden Dawn finds it fitting to sound the Shofar
horn in honor of Cohen’s resurrection.
Baculo is present too, begrudgingly wearing a white
ceremonial robe with a prayer shawl. He strolls over to
Cohen’s body, and then slowly descends to one knee while
TWISTED LINEN
gazing at his face. Gazing as if he expects Cohen’s eyes to
suddenly open, Baculo says, “Rosh HaShanah is here, my
Lord. It is time.”
At that moment, the young sage enters the cave with
urgent news. “Chief Priest, your guest has arrived.”
It is Genovi slowly descending the cave steps into the dim
light of oil lamps.
Priest Oliver excitedly welcomes him. “My brother, may
your name be found in the Book of Life!”
“Same to you,” Genovi responds as he strolls toward Priest
Olivier.
They reunite with a rigid hug, one that has been a decade
in the waiting.
“It has been a long time,” Genovi says as they separate
from their hug.
Priest Olivier grabs Genovi’s shoulders in admiration.
“It has, but we agreed to play a long game, and now the
endgame is finally here. Today, a New Age begins.”
He gently squeezes Genovi’s shoulders and asks, “May I
see the Shroud?”
“Of course. It is here, as we planned.”
Genovi instructs the young sage to bring down the Shroud
of Turin.
145
42
The Reckoning
J
ust hours earlier, the morning of Rosh HaShanah…
A predawn alarm startles an utterly exhausted Cardinal
Genovi. It has been a very short night’s sleep, but a very long
two days’ time. Last night Genovi and the two agents faked
his kidnapping and left Simon alone at the museum to face
Baculo. The night before that, Grace had been kidnapped and
Baculo declared the Golden Dawn’s ultimatum: bring the
Shroud or never see Grace again.
The Golden Dawn required Grace’s blood to heal Cohen’s
head wound, and Genovi used her contrived situation to
motivate Simon. He coaxed Simon into stealing the Shroud
from the Vatican, serving as a perfect scapegoat for Genovi.
This is the playbook he’s been given and he’s not proud of it,
but it’s what needed to be done to bring the next millennium
to fruition.
Genovi lies groggy in bed, stretching his old, tight limbs,
wondering if everything went as planned. He quickly sits up
and grabs his eyeglasses and phone from the bedside table.
On his phone is a text message from Baculo. It had been sent
a few hours earlier, not long after Genovi passed out in bed.
Genovi blinks hard and reads, “As planned, Grace is free.
Simon survived, lucky bastard. See you in the morning.”
Genovi’s head collapses back into the pillow; his arms fall
limp to his sides; it’s a full-body sensation of relief. He never
doubted the well being of Grace, but he feared the worst
concerning Simon. Although Baculo would not agree, Genovi
found good news in Simon’s survival.
Genovi forces himself out of bed, pulls a robe over his
aching body, and then shuffles over to the glass doors leading
out to the veranda. There, he gazes toward a beautiful sunrise.
His entire body rides a jerky and deep yawn. The yawn is
TWISTED LINEN
partially due to exhaustion, but mostly due to a yearning deep
in his gut. Like a double helix, the DNA of Genovi’s humble
service to the Church is entwined with something else — his
prideful desire to be an esteemed leader in God’s coming
Kingdom.
Through the door windows, Genovi studies the towering
statue of Jesus Christ in the distance. Its golden hue makes
Genovi think of the Golden Dawn and how their time has
finally come. This is the day he has waited thirty-five years to
see. The day when he would look directly into the eyes of a
flesh and blood Jesus. He paid an enormous price to be in this
position, and there was little joy along the way. Now he
carries ghostly memories that are hard to acknowledge, but it
was worth the sacrifice, or so the thought continuously echoes
in his mind. Genovi opens the doors to his veranda and the
cool dawn air takes his mind on a journey back in time, back
to the ghosts of his past.
From the time Genovi left seminary he sought a fast track in
God’s Kingdom. At thirty, he was one of the youngest priests
ever appointed to the position of Director of Vatican Archives.
He was in charge of the cataloguing and safe-keeping of all of
the manuscripts, early Bibles and Holy Relics. The crown
jewel of his new domain was, of course, the Shroud of Turin.
With the emergence of genetic science, Genovi recognized the
Shroud’s importance. It held the only biological evidence of
Jesus’ blood. It was the true Holy Grail of the future.
Not long into his position, Genovi soon became embittered
by Vatican politics. He was a bold young man of ideas with a
passion to bring the Church into the coming millennium and
beyond, but the Office of Archives was not a “fast track” to a
position of influence or power in the Church. It was simply a
depository for rebels, and Genovi begrudgingly knew it.
147
In Genovi’s discontent, the Golden Dawn identified and
approached him. It was a priest, Jean Sebastian Olivier, who
visited Genovi at the Office of the Archives to inquire about
certain Papal Letters. Priest Olivier had no genuine interest in
these letters, but Genovi was unsuspecting. He also didn’t
suspect Olivier was the Chief Priest of the Golden Dawn.
During their repeated interactions Olivier flattered Genovi and
subsequently befriended him. Eventually, Genovi took Olivier
into his confidence, sharing his discontent with his position in
the Church, and his ambitions to serve the coming Kingdom of
God. Genovi’s pride and ambition provided the weakness
Olivier had been waiting for.
Olivier cunningly seduced Genovi’s prideful mind with a
new and radical theology, one of mysticism and science
wrapped in a twisted view of Scripture, and Genovi soon fell
prey to the “wolf in sheep’s clothing.” Little by little, Olivier
led Genovi deeper and deeper into the arcane recesses of the
Golden Dawn theology. The cult’s objective seemed very
enticing and transformative, but Genovi was not the cult type.
It would take a little more encouragement through extortion,
and Genovi’s sinful relationship with Grace’s mother, Sarah,
offered the perfect opportunity.
Genovi met Sarah at a quiet café in Rome. For many
weeks they innocently shared morning coffee together, but
over time their conversations became more in depth and their
relationship more intimate. Eventually, their lives were
shattered with the news that Sarah was pregnant. The news
was a crushing blow to Genovi who deeply wanted to be
found worthy in God’s eyes. But stepping down from the
Vatican would make him nothing more than a simple father.
That spring Sarah gave birth to a beautiful baby girl,
Grace. In order to secretly support Grace, Genovi chose to fall
deeper into depravity by skimming off the books of the
Vatican Archives’ budget. During the dilemma Genovi never
turned to God; he felt too ashamed to ask God for help and
forgiveness in such a grievous mistake, and he was unwilling
to give up his great aspirations in the Church. His solution
was to keep their situation secret, and it was his downfall.
TWISTED LINEN
The Golden Dawn’s plot to clone Christ was underway,
and soon Priest Olivier reappeared, and his demands were
diabolical. Olivier presented Genovi with this ultimatum:
First, he must obtain a sample of blood from the Shroud of
Turin so Jesus’ DNA could be extracted. That was relatively
easy. But the most painful choice of Genovi’s life came with
Olivier’s next two demands. Second, Genovi must allow
doctors to surgically remove an egg from Grace’s infant
ovary. Prophecy required a new “Mary” with the purity of a
virgin. Grace would play that role because the cult believed
nothing could be more pure than a baby girl. And his final
demand, Genovi must offer up Sarah as the surrogate mother
to carry and birth the Jesus clone.
Genovi was destroyed and enraged. He emphatically
refused Olivier’s demands, but Olivier threatened that if he did
not cooperate, he would disclose his love child and expose his
theft crimes against the Vatican. Olivier also made the case
that the Golden Dawn would have their way with or without
Genovi’s permission, and this was his only opportunity to be
part of the coming New Age.
As the futility of the situation metastasized like a cancer in
Genovi’s gut, Olivier wooed him with some final words of
hope: “Your pastoral responsibilities are an obligation to serve
the coming kingdom on Earth. Don’t waiver. Sarah and
Grace will be revered above all women. Together, we will all
usher in the second coming of Christ.” The lie sounded so
tantalizing, and Genovi could no longer resist Olivier’s
relentless extortion. He eventually surrendered, and the blood
pact was sealed.
Sarah was kidnapped and taken to the newly built facilities
in San Sebastian, under the custody of Olivier. The world’s
preeminent mind in DNA and cloning, Dr. Garard Seed,
successfully fertilized Grace’s ovum with a cell from Christ’s
DNA using a process called in vitro fertilization. A few days
149
after the egg was fertilized, it was transferred from the
laboratory’s petri dish into Sarah’s uterus for normal
development and the eventual birth. After nine months of
hell, Sarah gave birth to the world’s first human clone, a baby
boy who the Golden Dawn named David Cohen. The cult
immediately anointed him as their future King.
Sarah would not live to see the torment her bastard son
would inflict on the world. Following the delivery she was
murdered via lethal injection. Genovi was told there were
complications and she died during childbirth. The truth was a
dead woman can tell no tales. Baby Grace, on the other hand,
was revered by the Golden Dawn. She was the next Virgin
Mary, the genetic mother of God’s second coming. The cult
placed her in Genovi’s care, along with a trust fund of six
million dollars. Genovi used the money to hire a Christian
family in London to secretly adopt and raise her.
Genovi disappeared from Grace’s life for over a decade,
and he kept his dark past concerning the Golden Dawn and
Sarah a secret. It was a secret he planned to take to the grave.
But like all lies and secrets, they require more lies and deceit
to shroud the original sin. It would never end, not until the
final reckoning when Genovi kneeled before Jesus Christ and
accounted for all he had done. And the Golden Dawn was not
done with Genovi.
The Golden Dawn knew it would one day have to heal and
resurrect Cohen in order to present him as the second coming
of Jesus Christ. Their plan required patience and decades of
cunning operation to bring it to fruition. The endgame
required the necessary advancements in therapeutic science
and DNA manipulation to heal his flesh. Now the final piece
of the puzzle, conjure a spirit using black magick to inhabit
Cohen’s body, and bring him back from the dead.
The agent standing next to Genovi on the veranda says,
“Cardinal Genovi, Priest Olivier is waiting for your arrival at
the Cave of Souls.”
Genovi is unresponsive, fixed in a vacant gaze over the
horizon, sparring with memories and demons. The events that
TWISTED LINEN
await him this morning, the morning of Rosh HaShanah,
should justify Sarah’s sacrifice long ago. It should justify
Genovi’s dark past. It better, because Genovi bet his eternal
justification on his actions and accomplishments. So after all
these years, Genovi finds hope, hope of a better world, hope of
God once again walking among His people in the flesh.
“Cardinal!” the agent says again, trying to elicit a response
from Genovi.
Genovi rouses from his dark memories and says, “Let me
get washed up. I’ll be ready in fifteen minutes.”
151
43
The Great Deceiver
T
he morning of Rosh HaShanah…
The young sage enters the Cave of Souls with the Shroud
of Turin folded neatly within his arms.
“At last,” Priest Olivier utters. “Do my eyes deceive me?”
“They do not,” Genovi confirms.
After gazing at the Shroud of Turin, Olivier nods in
satisfaction, and then instructs his sage.
“Cover Cohen’s body with the Shroud, for it’s now
Cohen’s blood staining the twisted linen.”
Olivier motions for Genovi and Baculo to come together
so he can address them as a team. “I, the final prophet,
declare the morning star will now walk among us.”
In the background the sage carefully unfolds the Shroud
and covers Cohen's soulless body.
Olivier continues, “Tomorrow, we will present Cohen to
the Sanhedrin as the long awaited Messiah.”
“Yes, Great Prophet,” Baculo says with a head bow. “Our
New Jerusalem is almost ready.”
Just a few feet away, the sage makes a final adjustment to
Cohen’s burial shroud. His face is left uncovered, and his
eyes remain firmly closed.
“It is time. Let the ceremonial proceedings begin,” Genovi
proclaims.
Baculo holds the Shofar horn up to his mouth, ready to
herald each blast following Olivier’s command.
The Feast of Trumpets ceremony involves four calls, sung
aloud by Chief Priest Olivier, followed by four Shofar blasts
blown by Baculo. After a few words in Hebrew, Olivier sings
out the first call, “Tekiahhh…”, and Baculo follows it with a
blast of the Shofar trumpet. Then “Shevarim…” and the
TWISTED LINEN
corresponding blast of the trumpet. Then the third call,
“Teru'ahhh…” and its subsequent blast. Finally the fourth
call, “Tekiah ha-Gadol…” followed by the final long blast,
held for as long as Baculo has breath to blow forth.
Genovi is kneeling throughout the call and response
sequence of Priest Olivier’s calls and Baculo’s Shofar blasts.
He waits beside the body of Cohen with his head bowed and
hands held out, palms up.
While the final long blast still sounds, a dark and thick
“mist” spontaneously appears along the cave’s ceiling. It ebbs
and flows in a shapeless form, void of detail, but definitely
exhibiting a spirit life force of some kind. The mist descends
and hovers over Cohen's soulless body, as if it’s waiting for
permission to enter. Before Baculo reaches the end of his
breath, he terminates the Shofar blast with a final high pitch
sound, and the dark spirit is absorbed into Cohen's body. His
body arches off the table slightly, as his face begins to
emanate an emerald green glow. Cohen is now possessed by
something…
A moment later, Cohen's eyes open, and he inhales air for
the first time in three days. Olivier and Baculo immediately
drop to one knee, bowing to their risen King. Cohen slowly
sits up, as if he is in a trance, and sweeps the Shroud of Turin
off his body.
Genovi, still kneeling beside Cohen, lifts his head to
scrutinize the first man to be resurrected since Jesus Christ
2000 years ago. Then he boldly addresses him.
“Yeshua, may you be inscribed in the Book of Life for one
thousand years and serve as King during the final seventh
day.”
Although he does not know it yet, Genovi has been physically
misled and spiritually deceived: he believes Cohen’s
resurrection is prophetically parallel to Jesus’ transfiguration.
153
The transfiguration event occurred when Jesus led three
disciples, Peter, James and John, to the top of a high mountain.
The event is regarded by Christians as one of Jesus’ greatest
miracles because it proved He was anointed and chosen by the
Most High to be the sole “doorway” for man’s salvation. On
that mountain top, the voice of God was heard by all three
disciples, and they witnessed Jesus being physically
transfigured into the glory of God. The disciples reported that
Jesus’ face shone white, bright as the Sun, and God’s voice
proclaimed Jesus as His anointed son, the Christ. But even a
young child could see what Genovi is blind to see: this cave is
no high mountain top reaching into the heavens. It is an
abominable hole reaching down into the pit of hell.
The good news is that Genovi’s salvation was purchased
with the atoning blood of Jesus, and Genovi’s salvation is
sealed by the gift of the Holy Spirit. The gift was given to
Genovi decades earlier in that frigid airport socked in with
snow when he penitently accepted Jesus’ sacrifice as the
pardon for his past, present and future sins.
No matter how small a measure, the Holy Spirit dwells in
Genovi, and the penalty of sin has been paid in full. So,
regardless of Genovi’s failure to discern wisely, regardless of
his selfish ambitions that failed to glorify God, regardless of
all his foolish actions, God’s verdict for Genovi’s salvation is
“innocent” and he will not fall into perdition. This is because
when God looks at Genovi, He sees nothing but the righteous
life and sacrifice of Jesus Christ. It was God who offered the
perfect sacrifice to save man. Genovi doesn’t deserve
salvation, and he certainly didn’t earn it. But Jesus Christ
earned it, and this is what Genovi accepted into his heart that
cold afternoon long ago. But because of Genovi’s actions in
this life, few of his life “works” have eternal value to the
Alpha and Omega so there will be few, if any, rewards given
to Genovi at the judgment seat of Christ. Genovi’s salvation
is the good news as defined in the Gospel. The bad news is
that the ominous spirit that entered Cohen’s body is the unholy
spirit, and it’s the most evil presence to ever step foot on
Earth, and pure evilness cannot coexist with the Holy Spirit.
TWISTED LINEN
Cohen’s cold, black eyes lock on Genovi with intense hate and
purpose. His wicked sneer causes a shiver of fear to run down
Genovi’s spine. Genovi instinctually prays his last silent
prayer: “Forgive me Father, I have blasphemed your glorious
image. Forgive me…”
Cohen supernaturally discerns the silent prayer and thrusts
his hand forward, grabbing Genovi by the throat, squeezing
with savage force. Cohen instantly crushes Genovi’s neck
with superhuman strength and Genovi’s lifeless body droops
limp. Instantly, Genovi’s spirit flees his dead flesh, straight up
through the cave ceiling into the timeless and eternal third
heaven. Cohen’s upper lip curls in response to Genovi’s
sudden escape as he drops Genovi’s body to the cave floor.
Cohen slowly steps over Genovi’s dead body and strides
toward Olivier and Baculo, who remain unmoving, heads
down, and unrelenting in their kneeling poses. After taking a
moment to supernaturally discern the character of Olivier and
Baculo’s souls, Cohen places his hands on each of their
bowing heads.
Cohen speaks his first words: “My Prophet and Little
Horn, who do you think I am?”
After a long pause Olivier is first to respond. He bravely
lifts his head and says, “My Lord, you are who you say.”
Cohen pushes his palm forward, forming the OK 666 sign
with his thumb and index finger and declares, “I will be
addressed only by this gesture. And I will give you great
power to call fire down from heaven like Elijah.”
Baculo now lifts his eyes from the floor and gazes at his
risen King for the first time. He stutters these words in
submission: “Lord, how may I serve you?”
Cohen’s eyes narrow and his nostrils flare. “My time has
come,” he proclaims. “Let the Great Tribulation begin.”
155
“Has this world been so kind to you that you should leave with
regret? There are better things ahead than any things we leave
behind.”
“Christianity, if false, is of no importance, and if true, of
infinite importance. The only thing it cannot be is moderately
important.”
— C.S. Lewis
TWISTED LINEN
Acknowledgments
First, I offer praise and thanks to the Alpha and the
Omega. I pray that He uses this work to speak to His elect.
Second, I thank my wife and children for their patience
and support, as I secluded myself for long periods of time to
write this novel.
Third, I thank John Ward. He is a brilliant thinker and
story teller. His help with character development was critical
in making this story more palatable to the general public.
Fourth, I thank all the friends and family who sacrificed
time and energy to read and edit the early versions of this
story. Their perspective, opinions and edits were very helpful
in transforming this story into a first-edition novel.
Last, I thank all those on the Web who freely published the
concepts and information that seeded this story.
May the LORD bless you and keep you.
157