The Shroud Codex - Jerome R. Corsi [95]
Once Fathers Morelli and Middagh were on board, together with Fernando Ferrar and his three-man video crew, the pilot was ready to take off. Leaving JFK at around 6 P.M. Tuesday, their estimated time of arrival was early morning Wednesday in Rome. They would gain six hours in the time zone changes involved in going to Italy, making the night a short one, despite a cross-Atlantic air trip of some 4,260 miles.
On the flight over, Dr. Castle did his best to make himself scarce. The Alitalia crew served a multicourse dinner, complete with excellent Italian wines.
Still, Fernando Ferrar managed to get him alone as they were finishing the meal with an assortment of fine cheeses and after-dinner drinks.
“I understand you cannot talk to me about Father Bartholomew because that would violate doctor-patient confidential privileges,” Ferrar began. “But could you answer me one question?”
“What’s that?” Castle asked, hoping one question had to be harmless. Besides, he could always decline to answer.
“You have all the money in the world, so you don’t need to take Father Bartholomew’s case for the money. What is it, then? Why are you interested?”
“Don’t necessarily assume money isn’t important,” Castle said, correcting him.
“Okay,” Ferrar said. “I concede the point.”
“But to answer your question, I guess what drives me is the people. I’ve worked with Archbishop Duncan and Pope John-Paul Peter I before, when he was a cardinal. They asked me to take on this case and I guess I couldn’t refuse.”
“Why not? I doubt you take every case you’re asked to take.”
“You’re right,” Castle conceded. “But let me ask you. Why did you take up this story? You’re obviously ambitious, but is that the extent of why?”
“Maybe,” Ferrar answered. “Is there anything wrong with being ambitious?”
“No, not necessarily. But there’s lots of stories out there. Why this one?”
“In my case, I’m intrigued,” Ferrar said. “I was raised Catholic in Puerto Rico. The Shroud is fascinating to me and you have to admit, Father Bartholomew is a good story.”
“Yes, he is,” Castle said. “But what if it turns out all this is a fraud, or that Father Bartholomew is just mentally ill? Will you report that?”
Ferrar thought for a minute. “It would be a lot less interesting story,” he finally said. “I guess I would report it, but who would care? People want to believe in God. They want to believe in miracles.”
“I know,” Castle said, moving in for the kill. “I would even go so far as to say people need to believe. But that is not my question. My question is about you. Do you want to believe? Is that why you’re doing the story? Is it because you want the Shroud to be the burial cloth of Christ and you want Father Bartholomew to be a miracle man?”
Again, Ferrar thought before he answered. “I see where you’re headed. You’re a smart guy and I don’t want to fall into your trap. Let me answer you this way: To tell you the truth, I’m not really sure about the Shroud, or about Bartholomew. But what I know is this—I’m covering the story because there is a good chance it’s all true. Otherwise, I wouldn’t waste my time.”
“And from my point of view, it’s just the opposite,” Castle countered. “I took on Father Bartholomew as a patient because there’s a good chance it’s all false. Otherwise, I wouldn’t waste my time.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Thursday morning
Bologna, Italy
Day 22
The eight passengers—Dr. Castle and Anne Cassidy, Fathers Morelli and Middagh, Fernando Ferrar and his three-man crew—fit comfortably in the eight-seat, two-engine Citation XLS the Vatican had chartered for the forty-seven-minute flight from Rome to Bologna.
Two limos picked up the passengers at the airport and transported