Brotherhood of the Tomb

The first of these was a quotation from a document found by Corradini in the Benedictine monastery of San Giorgio Maggiore. The text described it as a chronicle that had been kept on the blank pages of a vellum manuscript of Macrobius’s commentary on the Somnium Scipionis. The chronicle had been kept by a certain Brother Ubertino of Florence between 1223 and 1268. The passage marked by Siniscalchi was dated 1264, on the newly-instituted Feast of Corpus Christi.

Assefa read the passage slowly for Patrick’s benefit, explaining to him any particularly difficult words or phrases. The chronicle had been written in the Florentine dialect of the period, that was later to dominate Italian as a whole, and Brother Ubertino’s language had been tidied up and somewhat modernized by both Corradini and Battistella, so it did not prove particularly hard to follow.

‘ “This last week the flagellanti have been seen in our streets once more. And this despite the decree issued last month by the Doge and the Consiglio, that none in holy orders, whether lay or religious, should in any wise consort with such as term themselves ‘fraternities of discipline’, nor yet sit upon the councils that govern them. They were first seen here in the year of the plague, five years past now, having come in a body from Perugia, and it is said they number many thousands and are afraid of no one.

“You may behold them now on feast days and high holidays, parading in the streets or the piazza before the basilica, and ofttimes before other of the city churches, wearing, as is their custom, black veils of wondrous length, even to the ground, and beating their backs with leathern whips, all the time accompanying their efforts by howling and crying after the manner of wild beasts, or demons come up out of hell.” ‘

Assefa paused and asked Patrick if he was following the text.

‘I think I get the general drift. Do you know exactly who these flagellanti were?’

Assefa nodded.

‘Flagellants. The movement started in northern Italy about 1259 and soon spread into Germany and elsewhere. Thousands of people joined in religious processions, beating themselves with whips, weeping, seeking salvation.’

‘I see. But I don’t understand what this has got to do with Migliau or the Contarinis.’

Assefa shrugged.

‘Let’s go a bit further.’ He started reading again.

“Yesterday, I was visited shortly after Lauds by Umberto Trevisan, a young scholar who often comes here to use our great library. He told me that there are already many factions among the flagellanti and that, for the most part, they are but poor men, cripples, beggars, the feeble-minded, and women, as is indeed common in these manifestations of heresy. But there

are among them also certain gentlemen of good family and rich merchants besides that have bad consciences or little sense, and that fear the devil more than they love God.

“And he told me privily that he had heard that certain among the Contarinis, the Participazios, the Dandolos, and the Zianis have in secret pledged allegiance to a grim fraternity, wherein are none of the poor or ignoble to be found.”’

Assefa glanced up from the book. Patrick’s question had just been answered.

‘ “This is a most private matter for them, and has nothing in it of public flagellation or display. That they meet in private and hold secret cabals is the sum of Master Trevisan’s knowledge, for of their rites and heretical dispositions he knows, or pretends to know, nothing.”’

Assefa looked up.

‘There’s a mark a couple of lines later, where Corradini quotes Brother Ubertino again. It’s an extract from his entry for the Wednesday following Corpus Christi, about a week after the bit we’ve just read.

“I received tidings yesterday through Father Domenico, who came to hear my confession, that my friend Umberto Trevisan was yesterday in secret condemned by the three Avvogadori, whereupon he was rowed out to the Canale Orfano, and there his hands were tied behind his back and weights of lead attached to each of his several limbs, to make the faster work of his drowning, as was then carried out. May our Lord have mercy on his soul and give him peace. I thought it prudent not to confess to Father Domenico the matters lately divulged to me by my friend, though this lie heavy on my soul. This last night I have spent in prayer for his deliverance out of purgatory, yet I do not rest easy, and shall not again, I think.”’

THIRTY-SIX

Neither Patrick nor Assefa said a word, yet their thoughts were as transparent to one another as though they had been spoken.

The second passage was an account in Corradini’s own words.

‘”I reckon it neither nice nor proper, howsoever my lord Pisani deem it, to speak in these pages of the peccadilloes of the Nobility or the dissolution of the Rich, lest the common rabble, emboldened by talk of lasciviousness in their Betters, and encouraged falsely by the wanton behaviour of some of them that rule them, foment discord in this most serene of Republics. And yet, such is the manner of this Age, wherein Nobility is become Baseness and Baseness Nobility, that of certain families I know not what else I may in truth relate.

‘”Witness the numbers resorting to Spaderra’s and Ancilloto’s, the less to drink Coffee, I think, than to murmur against the State; or the rakes that gather nightly in the Casino degli Spiriti and old Cornaro’s place, to play at Bassetto or at Spigolo for a heap of gold sequins or a lady’s favours; or the Ladies with their cicisbei, betaking themselves in masks and pomaded wigs to see the latest plays at the Fenice or the Malibran.” ‘

‘Can’t you skip a little, get to the bit that interests us?’

‘I suppose so. Let’s see ...’ His finger ran lightly down the page, he frowned, bit his lip, and at last found something.

‘Here we are: I think this is it. There’s a footnote that says the next few paragraphs were omitted from the first edition and have been reinstated by Battistella from Corradini’s autograph manuscript.

‘ “Your Honours, if any among you care to listen, let me unfold to you Secrets that will make your Blood run cold, for herein lies the heart of our corruption, that a Family of Jewes are become Lords in Venice, and some of our most ancient Lines fast arrived at the deepest of depravities.

“You know well that there are Masons in this City, devoted to secret Worships and abominable Doctrines. Many, I know, deem the Contarinis and Migliaus, the Rezzonicos and Dandolos to belong to that Fraternity. Indeed, there may be some, that are so inclined. But most, I think, hold to a different Allegiance.” ‘

Assefa paused.

‘This begins to sound familiar,’ he said.

‘Yes,’ Patrick whispered. ‘Don’t stop.’

“I have heard tell - I will not say from whence -that certain of them assemble in one another’s Houses late at night, when the eyes of Men are fast asleep or fixed on Cards in the Ridotto. They travel in hooded Gondolas with muted oars, and are seen by no one, not even their own Servantes, for it is said they row alone to their destinations. What Infamies they practise or what corrupted rites perform, neither reason may know nor piety guess at.

“But I venture they fancy themselves Hermeticists, or Adepts of the Cabala, followers of Paracelsus, or Illuminati of the Rosy Cross; or, indeed, that they be Deists all, and have imported their foul Mysteries from France, where all such Abominations have their Source. I have heard it asserted that there are among them hieratick ranks, such as Priests, Deacons, and Bishops, and that certain among them dedicate themselves as Monks or Nuns in perpetuity. And these, I understand, their Fellowes call The Dead, inasmuch as they are departed this World before ever their bodies are bereft of Life. I am told they take such as are dedicated to this existence to their Graves, albeit in a representation, and that there are living among us even now persons whose Tombs we pass daily in our common Churches.”’

Patrick turned pale. He glanced at Assefa in horror. It was as though a fist of ice had taken his stomach and was tightening its inexorable grip.

“I have even heard it whispered - I will not say by whom - that they emulate the Jewes in this that, on occasion, they will steal a Christian Childe or purchase a Babe from Romanies, to take from it the Heart, that they may make of it a sacrifice. Though I pray this latter report but idle gossip.” ‘

Assefa paused. He noticed how pale Patrick had become.

‘Are you all right, Patrick?’

Patrick closed his eyes, trying to blot out the image that had formed in his mind, of a naked child, his heart ripped out, lying on a table in an Irish holiday cottage, while black crows hopped sightlessly through the sullen room. When he opened his eyes again, he saw Assefa watching him, concerned.

‘It’s all right,’ he said. ‘Please, go on.’

Assefa began to read again.

“It is said - though I cannot vouch for it - that on occasion the Illuminati among them repair to an Island in the Lagoon, where a ruined Church is made a sort of Oratory for their Mass. But where this Island lies, or which among so many Churches now abandoned may be their Temple, I am unable to relate, having heard this by report only. Yet one that claimed to have certain knowledge of these matters, albeit he would divulge little enough of them, admonished me

to look to the Word of God for sure counsel, and furnished me with Verses that he said would reveal all to the discerning eye.

“Yet these seven years have I made nothing of them, though I own that the first of them is taken from the prophet Ezekiel: ‘Qui oculos habent ad videndum et non vident: which have eyes to see, and see not’. Yet, for the delectation of your Lordships and maybe the Profit of any that have sharper eyes than mine, I set them down here as a Curiosity:

‘ “Abscondita est ab oculis omnium viventium (Job 28:31); Ad inferna descendunt (Job 21:13); Atque abysso subjacente (Deut. 33:13); Sumentes igitur lapidem, posuerunt subter eum (Ex. 17:12); En lapis iste erit vobis in testimonium (Josh. 24:27); Quis revolvet nobis lapidem ab ostio monumenti? (Marc. 16:3); Super lapidem unum septem oculi sunt (Zech. 3:9).”’

Assefa sighed and looked up.

‘That’s it,’ he said.

‘Are you sure? There’s nothing more?’ Patrick felt as though all his strength had drained away.

The priest shook his head.

‘Nothing,’ he answered. ‘It’s the end of the section.’

He closed the book and set it on one side. Outside, a factory hooter tore rasp-like through the oily slumber of early evening. Assefa and Patrick were sleepers, awakened suddenly to the harshness of day, yet not quite able to dispel the morbid fancies they have just been witnesses to in sleep.

THIRTY-SEVEN

They went out that night to find somewhere to eat other than the pensione. A cab took them into the centre of Mestre, and they spent the best part of an hour wandering the rain-dulled streets in search of somewhere that did not sell hamburgers or French fries. All around them, grey apartment blocks glowered behind a constant, niggling drizzle. Patrick had never felt more miserable in his life.

They settled on a place at last, a cramped trattoria caught helplessly between a budget furniture store and a video games arcade. As they ate, the constant sound of bleeps and roars and staccato firing rushed through the thin partition wall. The cheese on Patrick’s pizza was rubbery. Most of Assefa’s antipasti came out of a tin.

In the midst of the twentieth century, assaulted on every side by its sights and sounds and rancid smells, they huddled over a checked tablecloth trying to solve a mystery at least seven centuries old. Patrick was certain now that Francesca was alive, that he had seen her the night before, and that she was out there even now, watching from the shadows. He had thought once that the shadow in which she dwelt was death, but now he knew that to have been a lie. The dead do not return. Whatever came back from those other, crueller shadows, it would not be Francesca.

They ate slowly and talked of this and that, like lovers who have grown intimate yet jaded. Tragedy had brought them close, and a sense of mutual danger made elaborate what might have been a simple friendship. And yet, in reality, neither man understood much of the other or the world to which he belonged. Patrick’s scholarship was, in small measure, a link; but his Catholicism, with its frequent lapses and furious rejections, was less a bond than a barrier set between them.

‘Those Latin verses,’ Patrick asked. ‘Did they make any sense to you?’

Assefa shook his head wearily.

‘Not really,’ he said. He did not want to talk about them, nor even think of them. ‘I suppose,’ he went on, ‘they contain some sort of eighteenth-century play on words.’

Patrick nodded. He thought the same.

‘Can you translate them?’

‘Yes, of course. The first two are from the Book of Job: “It is hid from the eyes of all living” and “they shall go down to the grave”. The next is Deuteronomy: “and the deep that crouches beneath”. Then there was one from Exodus: “and they took a stone and put it under him”. Then Joshua: “Behold, this stone shall be a witness unto you”. The next from Mark is the only one from the New Testament: “Who shall roll us away the stone from the door of the sepulchre?” And the last is from Zechariah: “Upon one stone are set seven eyes”.’

Patrick slipped a wrinkled olive into his mouth and chewed on it morosely.

‘You’re right. None of it makes any sense.’

Assefa took a sip of wine.

‘I thought this sort of thing would have been just up your street.’

Patrick shook his head.

‘I worked in the field. I gathered intelligence, others made sense of it. I know almost nothing about cryptanalysis.’

‘Maybe it’s some sort of acrostic, using the first letters of the verses. Let’s see, that would give us AAASEQS. I don’t think that’s much use.’

What about the first letters of the words in a single verse?’

Well the first one from Job would read AEAOOV. That’s no help. The second reads AID. At least it means something in English. Then we’ve got AAS - that corresponds to three of the letters in the first group we came up with. The one from Exodus gives us SILPSE, which means nothing. Then ELIEVIT, which looks like Latin but isn’t. Maybe the first part refers to the prophet Elias. The one from Mark reads QRNLAOM, and Zechariah gives SLUSOS. Frankly, it’s all gibberish.’

From next door came a round of frantic bleeping as someone’s video game reached a crescendo.

Patrick sighed.

‘I think you’re right. But we’ll give it a more careful look when we get back to the pensione. At least we know it wasn’t done with the help of a computer, so in theory we don’t need one to help us unravel it.’

‘There is one thing, Patrick.’

‘Yes?’

‘Have you noticed that, if we take the first letters of the verses we come up with seven? And the last verse refers to “seven eyes”.’

Patrick shook his head.

‘Not if you include the very first one from Ezekiel.’ He put down his fork and took a sip of Pinot Nero. ‘You’re just starting to clutch at straws.’

‘If you say so. But with Claudio and Siniscalchi dead, where do we go from here, Patrick? You say the police are looking for us. What about giving ourselves up? Maybe someone will listen to our story, start an investigation. This sort of thing would have sounded outrageous not all that many years ago; but since the P2 scandal, people in Italy are ready to believe almost anything.’

‘Almost anything, Assefa - but not this. Not on our say-so, not without hard evidence. And the fact that the police are interested in us shows that someone in the force is already working for these people.’

‘So, what do you suggest?’

What was there to suggest? Why even bother to suggest anything? Events would take their course, whether they did anything or not. The result would be the same - death: for them, for anyone who got too close to this thing.

‘I don’t know,’ he murmured. ‘I don’t know.’

He ordered another bottle of wine. Tonight he wanted to drink as much as possible, to wipe out the bleak images that tormented him. The wine was cheap and acidic, but potent. Assefa watched detachedly as he got drunk. He himself wanted to remain sober. He feared the loss of self, however temporary, the vertigo of spirit that drunkenness entailed. Abandoning his priestly identity had not come easily to him, and in everything that happened now he found a further disjunction between reality and a growing sense of madness. He drank bottled water and listened to the machines next door acting out their own computerized fantasies.

Afterwards, they could not find a taxi anywhere. The drizzle continued, soft and chilling, pale against the street-lamps. Patrick walked unsteadily, helped along by Assefa. They followed signs to Porto Marghera, but in reality were lost. This was the real Venice now, the future stamped in glass and ferro-concrete, blunt, sterile, unlovely, devoid of either spiritual or earthly grace. Beyond the street-lights, the drab waters of the Adriatic stood waiting for their final incursion.

‘Assefa,’ mumbled Patrick as they turned into yet another stretch of featureless apartment buildings,

“what was the common element in those verses?’

‘Forget the verses, Patrick. They don’t mean anything.’

Patrick staggered and caught Assefa’s arm.

“You’re wrong. They must mean something. What’s the common element in most of them?’

‘I don’t know, Patrick. You tell me.’

‘The stone, for God’s sake. “They took a stone and put it under him”, “This stone shall be a witness for you”, “Who shall roll us away the stone from the door of the sepulchre?”, “Upon one stone are set seven eyes”. Don’t you see, there must be some connection.’

“You’re drunk, Patrick. It doesn’t mean a thing. Or if it does, it’s too late to find out now. Corradini had the verses for seven years and made nothing of them. Let’s try to get back to the main road. It’s not too late to get a taxi.’

What’s the Italian for stone?’

‘Pietra.’

‘And what else?’

Assefa shrugged.

‘Roccia?

‘No, not roccia. The name “Pietro”. Peter. And Peter in the Bible is the “rock” or the “stone”.’

‘I don’t see how that helps us, Patrick.’

Patrick stopped and took Assefa hard by the shoulder.

‘It does. Don’t you see, it helps us all the way.’

He said nothing more. They found a main road and waited in silence for a taxi to appear. One came past fifteen minutes later and took them back to the pensione. The fare was at least double the going rate.

Upstairs, Patrick headed straight for the copy of Corradini, which Assefa had left on the room’s rickety table. He handed it to Assefa.

‘Here,’ he said, ‘look up the chapter on the

Contarinis. See if there’s anything there about Pietro Contarini. He died somewhere around 870.’

‘Patrick, I...’

‘Just look it up, for God’s sake!’

Five minutes later, Assefa had found the reference.

‘ “Pietro Contarini. This noble-spirited Man was the true Founder of his family’s fortune, and the Fountain-head of their prosperity. Born of noble Parents, he was trained up from youth to take his rightful place among the nobili of his Generation. It is related that, at the age of fourteen, he...’

‘Get to where he dies,’ Patrick interrupted impatiently.

Assefa read on silently, scanning the lines.

‘Here,’ he said. ‘It says a bit about his final illness. Shall I read that?’

‘No, it’s his funeral I want.’

‘All right, I think that’s here. “He died at last on the thirteenth day of September in the year 869, and was accepted to the bosom of a bountiful and loving Saviour, requiescat in pace. And on the day following, his mortal Shell was taken by boat, with hundreds accompanying, to the monastery Church of San Giacomo, that in those days flourished on the island of San Vitale in Palude, which lies in the Paluda Maggiore, and is today in ruins. When, in the twelfth Century, the Church was rebuilt, Pietro’s Tomb was much enlarged by his descendants, at the same time being gilded and faced with marble. I have seen it myself, and deem it a thing of much beauty, though marvellous decayed.”’

That night, Patrick dreamed the last of his dreams, a long and harrowing vision that seemed to have neither beginning nor end. He was alone again, in a square-shaped room draped from end to end in heavy black curtains. All round the room tall candles burned in silver sticks held on heavy tripods. That he was in the house to which the gondola had brought him, he was certain. There was a smell of damp in the air, as though the room was low down, near the level of the canal. And another smell, subtler, unidentifiable, yet somehow disturbing.

He closed his eyes tightly, blotting out the room, telling himself it was all a hallucination brought on by something called focal epilepsy. He only had to ignore it and it would go away. He would wake up and it would have left him. And if it returned, he would have a CT scan and they would give him drugs to make it go for good. But though he sat and thought of other things and told himself he was asleep in a flea-bitten pensione in Mestre, the smell of the canal and the thinner odour it concealed persisted in his nostrils. He opened his eyes at last to see black curtains and candles that had scarcely burned down.

Suddenly, he heard footsteps approaching. A door opened, a section of curtain was pulled aside, and a man in eighteenth-century dress entered the room. He was followed by a second and a third, then others, until the room was full. Each one, as he entered, bowed slightly towards Patrick, then moved to stand along the wall. At the end, four women came into the room, all veiled in black lace, and joined the men.

Someone began to speak in a low voice, then others joined in, until the entire assembly spoke in unison. With mounting horror, Patrick realized that he too was speaking, his voice mingling with the others’, rising and falling in a gentle chant. At first he did not recognize the language, then, without surprise, realized it was Aramaic.

‘l tsbqnn’ ‘lh’ bhswk’

‘I tlsbqnn’ bhswk’ bry’ wbsryqwth

‘l t’lnn’ mr’n’ b’tr’ dy I’ bh nwhr’

Y thsyk ynyn’

Do not leave us, O God, in darkness.

Do not abandon us to the outer darkness and its emptiness.

Do not lead us, O Lord, to the place where there is no light.

Do not close our eyes with its blackness.

The chanting continued for about five minutes in similar vein, a long address to the Deity beseeching salvation from the terrors of the grave. And then the mood began to change. Patrick realized with dismay that he had begun to lead the incantation, speaking short verses to which the others responded. He was fully aware of what was happening, yet powerless to stop himself, as though someone else were speaking in his voice.

Suddenly, the door opened and a man entered, leading a boy of ten or eleven by the hand. The boy was dressed in a white shift. His hair was long and tied back with a red ribbon, and he seemed bewildered. A second man stepped forward from the congregation and took the boy’s other hand. Together, they turned him to face Patrick. The boy was trembling. Patrick stared into his eyes. He looked as though he had been drugged or hypnotized.

The men removed the boy’s robe and set it to one side, leaving him naked and shivering. Patrick tried to protest, but all power of movement or speech had been taken from him. It was as though he was present, but in another’s body, without power over it.

One of the men produced a rope, pulled the boy’s arms roughly behind his back, and tied him firmly by the wrists. The second man took a long silver knife from a leather satchel and handed it to Patrick. Patrick watched as his hands received the knife. For the first time he looked down. In front of him was a high marble slab, a sort of altar.

The men raised the boy to the altar. In the room, the chanting started again. The men stepped back into the congregation, leaving Patrick at the altar with the boy.

‘We offer you this sacrifice,’ he intoned.

‘Accept what we offer in Christ’s name,” the congregation responded.

‘Take the life that you have given this child, and give us life eternal in return.’

‘Grant us eternal life with Jesus, the Everlasting Sacrifice.’

He watched in horror as his hands raised the knife. Beneath him, the terrified child struggled against his bonds. Why did the boy not cry out? Why did the knife feel so light, so insubstantial in his hands?

Something happened to the boy. He began to scream, loudly, in the tones of an animal at the slaughterhouse, that has seen its companions dragged to the knife’s edge. Patrick tried to close his eyes, but they would not shut. He tried to drop the knife, but it was as though it had been glued to his hand. He felt his hand move, felt the knife touch the boy’s naked flesh, felt a shiver of erotic pleasure pass through his loins, felt the appalling silence crush him as the screams cut short and blood flooded across his fingers.

He woke out of blackness into light and looked round for Assefa. But it was still the same room, hung with black curtains, lit with candles that had almost guttered to nothing. He felt sick and dizzy. His hands were sticky. Standing, he caught sight of the altar in front of him, empty now and clean of blood. He could close and open his eyes again, control his

every movement as though once more in possession of his own body.

Swaying slightly, as though still drunk, he took several steps towards the door. Was this hallucination never going to end? He pulled back the curtain, revealing the low wooden door through which the others had come. The handle was iron, cold to his touch. He turned it, sweating.

A narrow hallway led to another door. He walked down it softly, as though frightened that he might waken someone. The floor was a mosaic, with spirals of golden angels. On the face of one angel, he saw a drop of glistening blood, still wet.

He opened the door and stepped inside. It was brightly lit by electric bulbs. On the wall facing him, a spotlight gave brilliance to a painting by Moreau. Near it stood a bookcase, its shelves tightly filled with paperback books. A television set in one corner was tuned to a game show. The volume had been turned off, but from somewhere there came the sound of low music. He recognized it at once as Albinoni’s Oboe Concerto No. 2 in D minor, a favourite from his years in Dublin, when Francesca had introduced him to the splendours of Venetian baroque: Vivaldi, Tartini, Marcello and Galuppi. This had been one of their best-loved pieces, played over and over in a recording by I Solisti Veneti. He looked round, as though expecting to see her come through the door.

Turning back, he caught sight of the television again. The game show had been replaced or interrupted by what looked like a news bulletin of some sort. People milled about in confusion. A SWAT team was tidying up in the background, while police tried to hold back a large and angry crowd. Red and blue lights flashed. Without sound, accompanied only by the ethereal tones of the music, the scene had

the appearance of a nightmare snatched out of the unconscious and projected on the tiny screen.

Suddenly, the camera shifted. On the ground, rows of bodies were being lined up by rescue workers. The camera moved in, greedy for spectacle. Patrick saw blood-stained faces, children’s faces, shattered bodies, severed limbs. The camera moved along the rows, its hunger growing. The music swelled. He saw small teeth pressed against bloodless lips, eyes fixed in death, hair matted with blood and plaster. He closed his eyes, and still bloody images marched across his vision, the screaming child, the knife, the flesh tearing, his hands plunging into the open chest, the steaming heart. He opened his eyes and saw the television faces again, saw the room rock, heard the music grow and fade, grow and fade, the walls bulge and close in. As he fell, he heard the voice of the oboe change to a last, despairing scream against the darkness.

THIRTY-EIGHT

Between Burano and the mainland lie the mud-flats and shattered islets of the northern lagoon. It is a region of the desolate heart, wreathed for much of the year in mists and shadows, dull, remote, full of reeds and marine sadnesses. Its narrow channels are marked by tall bricole, long wooden stakes that pattern out the shallows from the navigable deeps. They stand high in the tired sunlight like stumps of an ancient forest from whose branches the birds have long since fled.

They had taken the water-bus from the Fonda-menta Nuove to Burano. They carried small bags, with a little food and two flashlights with spare batteries. The boat had travelled slowly, as though bereft of purpose, cold, unsteady, and almost empty. Four other passengers kept them company: two as far as Murano, the remainder to Mazzorbo. They had gone the rest of the way alone, save for the pilot and his assistant, reaching Burano by mid-morning.

Once there, it had proved surprisingly difficult to find a boatman who would either admit to knowing the whereabouts of San Vitale in Palude, or show himself willing to take them to its shores. It was as though a curse had fallen on the place. Patrick detected a mute uneasiness in all with whom he spoke. Once, bending to tie a shoelace, he had noticed an old fisherman to whom they had previously spoken watching with an intent and troubled expression. After a little while, the shaking of heads and the sullen silences combined to produce in them a state of despair akin to hopelessness.

They found their man just after lunch in a small bar not far from the little harbour.

‘They tell me you’re looking for someone to take you to San Vitale.’

He was old and rather down-at-heel, with a hard leather face that might have been stretched and moulded over a frame in Claudio Surian’s workshop. White bristles peppered a weak chin that had once been badly injured and reassembled by a clumsy surgeon. Unfocussed eyes suggested longer hours at the bar than at the rudder. He smiled toothlessly and without the least trace of warmth.

Patrick nodded.

‘How much?’ the old boatman asked.

‘I’ll give you one hundred thousand. There and back.’

‘Vaffanculo! What you think I am, mister? A fucking gondolier? Listen - you want a nice little trip up some nice little canals, you want some cunt to sing some pansy arias, get the fuck back to Venice. Two hundred.’

Patrick shrugged. He was in no mood to argue. They had lost enough time already.

They left Burano in silence, creeping away like thieves whose movements are being watched. Having negotiated his price, the old man had clammed up. He evinced no curiosity about his passengers or their journey, expressed neither surprise nor disapproval. The last thing Patrick saw as their sandolo moved away from the harbour was a little knot of fishermen on the quayside, watching them turn into the channel that led to Torcello.

The only sound was the creaking of the oar turning in the rowlock. Patrick was reminded of his dreams. This, he thought with a stab of fear, was the dream’s continuation, its working out in the waking world.

But now that he felt himself so close, he feared a denouement, dreaded whatever revelation the next hours would bring. In the swirling water, he fancied he saw figures move across a television screen.

He had said nothing to Assefa about his dream of the night before. Waking at dawn, he had been covered in sweat and shivering, but he had not cried out. Images from the dream clung to his mind like flies to an old web; he could feel the feet of spiders moving close, but however hard he tried, he could not shake the images free. Above all, the sound of the child’s screams echoed across the empty landscape through which they passed. He dipped his hand into the water, as if to wash it clean of blood.

A low mist lay on the water like a mask. They were a small black shadow, a beetle or crab, crawling slowly across the flat white surface, pushing the mist aside only to see it form again behind their stern. It was cold out on the lagoon. Patrick and Assefa shivered, regretting they had not come better dressed. The old boatman seemed impervious to the damp chill of the place, as though his leathery carapace had been genetically created for the rigours of life on such desolate waters.

Once, Patrick thought he saw another boat move out from the shelter of an islet to their west, but when he drew it to Assefa’s attention, it had already gone. Here, beyond Torcello, the channels grew more treacherous and the bricole fewer and less certain. In places, fishermen had set thin willow-wands and rods of bramble to mark off their fish-traps.

They ran aground twice on hidden mud-flats, and all three men were forced out, knee-deep in mud, to push the sturdy little craft back into deeper waters. Here and there, a dismal islet showed the remains of an abandoned wall or gateway, tokens of vanished

glories: old monasteries long ago dissolved, forts useless now against a tide of tourists and international business executives, the wattle huts of fishermen, empty for the winter. Once, they passed a tall wooden tripod on whose top a shrine to the Madonna stood custodian over a particularly fretful channel. Faded flowers clung to her feet, and by her hand an extinguished candle marked the devotion of some passing boatman.

The old man raised one hand and nodded past the shrine.

‘La paluda maggiore. The great marsh. Not far now. Half an hour.’ They were the first words he had spoken since their departure.

Patrick felt uneasy to be so much at the old man’s mercy. Out here, in the lost reaches of the lagoon, where no sound carried and not even a sea-bird’s wing broke the expanse of mud and water, they could be left stranded without difficulty.

They drifted to a halt. The boatman shipped his oar and turned to face the side.

Why are we stopping?’ Patrick asked. Was the old man going to demand more money, now he had them in the middle of nowhere?

But he merely unbuttoned his trousers and proceeded to urinate over the side of the boat. Finished, he rowed on, but his brief action had further impressed on Patrick the man’s intimacy with this place: This is my lagoon, these are my waters, I piss in them as I would at home, they don’t mind.

Just over half-an-hour later, the hazy outlines of a low island appeared above the mist. As they drew nearer, it acquired shape and texture. Dark cypresses ringed the fractured lineaments of a squat, twelfth-century church. Closer still, the building developed depth and detail: the style was Ravenna Byzantine,

the materials chiefly brick and marble, both much distressed by inclement weather and long neglect. Beside the church, a free-standing campanile had lost its upper storey; it jutted up from the cypresses like an admonitory finger placed there to warn the curious away from the island’s deserted shores.

The old man beached the sandolo in a small cove just west of the church. Whatever landing-stage had once served the island had long ago collapsed or been covered by the tangled bushes that in most places crept unhampered to the water’s edge. They disembarked in two feet of water and helped the boatman pull the sandolo higher up, above the tide-mark. The beach was stony and green with water-weeds.

‘How long you going to be?’ The old man spat and took a mouldy pipe from his inside pocket.

‘Not long,’ Patrick replied. ‘We just want to look at the church. Let’s say a couple of hours at the most.’

The boatman shrugged and started filling his pipe with foul-smelling tobacco.

‘Suit yourselves. But I can’t stay here all day. I want to get back to Burano well before dark. A man can get lost in these waters. There aren’t no lights out this far.’ He found a small knoll further inland and sat on it, lighting his pipe and puffing out smoke like a chimney with indigestion.

‘If you aren’t back in two hours, I’m leaving. And if I leave, you’re stranded. Nobody comes here, understand? Nobody. If I’ve got to come back for you tomorrow, it’ll cost you double. No skin off my nose.’ He spat a gob of brown saliva on the ground and stuck his pipe back in his mouth.

There was no direct route to the church, but after a bit they came across what might once have been a path.

‘Why should anyone build a church on its own

out here?’ asked Assefa. ‘It seems sort of pointless.’

Patrick nodded. ‘It does now, yes. But the lagoon has a long history. There used to be some important settlements in these parts, before Venice became the centrepiece of the region. Places like Torcello or Mazzorbo, where we called this morning. They were great places once, with cathedrals and monasteries and palaces of their own. There’s not much of all that left now, so we think of the lagoon as just a wilderness.

‘I think this church must have served as a monastery church at first, then as a basilica for the surrounding islanders. Later, as Venice took over, people would have migrated there, leaving the church stranded among the reeds. No other explanation makes much sense.’

Assefa looked round at the rough, windswept landscape, the broken campanile whose bell had once tolled daily across bleak and treacherous waters.

‘Unless someone actually wanted a church where no one else would want to come,’ he said.

Patrick did not answer. He was thinking of the screams of the boy in his dream. How loud they had sounded, how easily they could be lost in all this wilderness.

They carried on in silence.

THIRTY-NINE

Close up, the church was more dilapidated than it had appeared from the sea. Parts of the roof had collapsed, many of the windows were broken, the main doors were unhinged and gaping. Pieces of masonry had fallen from the walls and lay scattered among long grass and reeds. Occasional flooding had left its mark on the lower courses of stone, and in the damp cracks between the brickwork, thick green moss had taken hold. And yet, in view of its age and the length of time it had been abandoned, the building was in remarkably good shape. It was as though, from time to time, someone had come to tidy it up a bit and hold back the elements a little longer.

The main door led directly into a dark, malodorous narthex, a hovel of crumbling plaster and spiders’ webs. An archway opened straight out of it into the main body of the church. Beyond the arch, wintry sunlight filtered through a thousand holes, creating a secret paradise in stone, as though another substance had come in place of it. Each brick, each marble fragment, each chipped and fractured piece of limestone shook with its own hue, its own antiphon of light. The ceiling, broken and torn, hung like a canopy of alchemical glass above the empty nave.

Like children, coming at last upon a place that adults have long reserved to their own uses, Patrick and Assefa stepped over the dim threshold. The silence unfolded about them like a Mass, plainchant rising among rose marble pillars, a solemn litany, stone and light made song. To their right, a great window of perforated alabaster sent shaft upon shaft of nacreous light into the hushed and hollow spaces

below. Bushes grew among fallen ornaments, grass wreathed the heads of saints, a heron had made its nest in a baptismal font.

But their eyes were riveted in front. The walls and roof of the apse had suffered least of all, and though the altar had been uprooted and the Host removed and the light extinguished forever, it was as if some miracle were still being worked there. Above the stone benches of the priests, above the single window of smoked glass, above the marble cladding, a figure of the Virgin holding her child rose triumphant to the domed ceiling. Fragments of the mosaic had fallen away, yet nothing had marred her beauty. She seemed to float against a sky of gold. She was slender and sad and full of light, and on the blue field of her robe, tiny red flowers lay like drops of a child’s blood.

From his jacket, Assefa took a thin white candle. He lit it with a match and set it on a stone in front of the apse. For a time he stood gazing at the Madonna, then he genuflected and recited a quiet prayer. When he had finished, he turned and spoke to Patrick.

‘Whatever we have to do, Patrick, let’s do it now.’

There were several tombs, all in a state of disrepair, around the sides of the church. It did not take long to find Pietro Contarini’s: it lay to the left of the spot where the main altar had once stood, an elaborate Gothic sepulchre built in marble and terracotta. The paint and gilding had long vanished, limbs had been broken from the figures of saints that stood in its niches, and the casing had cracked in places; but the tomb had remained intact. At the top, beneath a canopy held erect by angels, an effigy of Pietro Contarini lay in slumber. By his head, a marble jar held the stems of withered flowers. They could not have been there more than a year at the outside.

Patrick had no very definite idea of what he was looking for. But he was certain that the tomb held the answers to his questions. He began to go carefully over the reliefs carved in the facade of the monument, and soon a pattern began to emerge. With a shudder, he recognized the first of a series of panels as a representation of Abraham preparing to sacrifice his son, Isaac. The boy was strapped and gagged and lay on his back across a large rock, while his father stood over him, knife in hand.

The next panel was more obscure, and Patrick was not at first sure what it represented. A man was sacrificing a goat beside a tall stone pillar, watched by silent onlookers. And then he remembered the story of Jacob, and how he slaughtered a beast at Jegar-sahadutha, where he had set up a pillar of stone, and built a cairn of rocks. Someone was making the most of the play on words.

A third panel showed the Children of Israel slaughtering lambs and smearing their blood on the stone lintels of their houses: the institution of the Feast of Passover. Patrick felt his heart beat rapidly. Things were beginning to fit into place.

Other reliefs followed, most of them portraying scenes of sacrifice from the Old Testament. Above the first row stood a separate register of panels depicting incidents from the life of Christ, culminating in a relief of the Resurrection. Christ the supreme sacrifice, Christ the symbol of eternal life. For some reason, the thought made Patrick uneasy.

But clear as the iconography was, it seemed to offer no further help. Patrick had hoped for more than a lesson in how the Old Testament prefigured the New. He felt suddenly downcast, as though someone had broken a solemn promise to him.

‘Damn it!’ he exclaimed. ‘It makes no sense. Why

all the mystery? Why the cryptic verses? Half of them don’t even fit these scenes, and the ones that do are scarcely earth-shaking. There has to be something more.’

‘Not necessarily, Patrick. The religious mind sees significance even in the mundane. Perhaps the man who gave the verses to Corradini just wanted him to understand some esoteric interpretation of our Lord’s sacrifice. After all, that seems to be the message of the tomb. It’s nothing very new or exciting, but it has its own profundity.’

Patrick shook his head.

‘No, it isn’t that. Not just that. The sacrifice motif refers to something else. I know.’

They started to go over the carvings again, as though they concealed a message that they might read if only they had the eyes to see it. Panel by panel, figure by figure, they examined the scenes, trying to relate them somehow to the verses in Corradini’s book. Half an hour later, they gave up.

They had brought a little lunch in bags. Assefa opened them and spread the food out on a flat stone. They ate in silence, dejected, beaten, shivering in the damp air. Each man knew that, when they had finished their meal of salami and cheese, they would return to the boat and ask the old man to row them home. They drank by turns from a large bottle of Recoara water. The food was tasteless to Patrick; he ate slowly, without appetite. When he had taken his last mouthful, he raised the bottle to his lips. As he did so, he noticed the words on the label: Sorgente Recoara - Recoara Spring. And in that moment he knew.

It had been staring at him all along, like a clue in a cryptic crossword, that eludes the conscious mind and caves in all at once to the unconscious. He got to

his feet and walked back to the tomb. Assefa watched him, puzzled.

He had not been mistaken. Following the scene of the Passover, there had been one of Moses striking the rock in the desert, causing springs to gush out for the Children of Israel. Except that, where there should have been twelve springs - one for each of the twelve tribes, each tribe in turn a prefiguration of one of the twelve apostles - there were only seven. Perhaps the artist had been careless, perhaps he had preferred the number symbolism of the lower figure. But Patrick knew it was not that.

Pietro Contarini had brought something back from Egypt. He had returned there in later years, as had his son Andrea. The scene in the panel showed Moses in the desert, after the Exodus from Egypt. When Pietro Contarini had been in Alexandria, no one there spoke Egyptian any longer, they all spoke Arabic. And the play on words, Patrick now knew, had not been in Italian or Latin or Greek: it had been in Arabic.

The Arabic word ayn has two chief meanings: ‘eye’ and ‘spring’. It means other things besides, of course, but those are its basic meanings. Upon a single rock were set, not seven eyes, but seven springs.

Patrick put his hand on the rock, near the figure of Moses. He felt it give slightly and pushed harder. The panel slid aside. Inside, there was a handle, a great iron ring set in the stone. Inside the ring, carved into the stone, was a circle. And inside the circle a menorah bearing a cross.

He pulled the ring towards him. As he did so, the facade of the tomb shifted half-an-inch. He pulled again, harder this time. The stone moved, as though swinging on a pivot. Bracing himself, he pulled for a third time. The side of Pietro Contarini’s tomb swung away from the wall, exposing a dark, gaping aperture.

FORTY

Who shall roll us away the stone from the door of the sepulchre?’ whispered Assefa. He stood beside Patrick, gazing into the hole that had opened in the wall. They could just make out the dim shape of a staircase leading down.

‘They shall go down to the grave ... and the deep that crouches beneath,’ said Patrick. The meaning of the verses quoted by Corradini had suddenly become crystal clear.

Patrick took the flashlights from his bag and handed one to Assefa. He switched his on and started down the stairs.

The walls of the staircase were cased in plaster and covered in an elaborate fresco. A row of figures in antique Roman dress walked in a solemn procession bearing small crosses over their shoulders. Some led small children by the hand, others followed with musical instruments: citharas, tabrets, timbrels, harps, dulcimers and cymbals. Yet no one danced. Whatever music they were playing was sad and slow.

Patrick set foot on the first step. He had expected the staircase to be mildewed and thick with cobwebs, but to his surprise it was clean and dry, as though swept only yesterday. Though they showed signs of age, the frescoes on the walls beside him were in an excellent state of preservation.

The steps were of marble and little worn. Patrick counted twenty in all. They ended at a rounded archway, much in the Byzantine style of those in the church above, leading into a vast underground chamber with a low, slightly domed ceiling. The

beam from Patrick’s flashlight swept over a painted universe, confined, huddled deep beneath the earth, independent of the world above.

Assefa joined him, and together they let the light from their torches trace the lineaments of the secret world to which they had descended. Above them, dark constellations turned to fire, and burning stars fell endlessly through a golden sky. Among them, angels in purple robes, their wings ablaze, tumbled in confusion. But at the centre, Christ sat in majesty upon a throne of glass. Around him, death and confusion ceased, and a great stillness crept out into the vortex.

Upon the walls, the chaste procession wove its way across the world: past tall towers, across the tops of hills, through forests, over rivers, along the shores of silent, waveless seas. They came from everywhere to join it - men and women in antique robes, kings, journeymen, musicians, priests, nuns, lepers ... and children everywhere, alone or led by the hand. In the air, birds with strange feathers flew above their heads, on the earth, curious animals watched them pass, and in the oceans, fish with monstrous eyes turned their heads and stared at them.

Whether intended or not, the artist had created a world of deep unease, in which the only comfort lay in the procession and the bearded face of Christ made God, serene in His contemplation of madness.

They followed the procession on each side, up and down the wall, now this way, now that, until they came together to the far end of the chamber, that had been in darkness until now. A great city stood domed and golden on a hill of grass. Above it, the sun shone out of a blue sky. Birds with beaks of jasper sang on tall, columned trees, and angels flew upwards, echoing their song. Patrick did not have

to ask what city it was the pilgrims had come to. He had seen numerous Byzantine representations of Jerusalem.

But none quite like this. In a complex series of paintings along the front wall of the city, the fresco he had seen in the Palazzo Contarini was repeated and expanded. In the centre, three crosses stood, black and naked, on a deserted hill. On either side, the artist had depicted scenes from the life of Christ: the raising of Lazarus, the expulsion of the demons known as Legion, the cleansing of the Temple. But below the crosses, as before, was a painting of an open tomb. Ten men carried Christ, bound and screaming, into the sepulchre.

Below that, the tomb appeared shut, a great stone rolled against its mouth. And near the entrance to the tomb, another stone had been set up, a sacrificial altar. This was the end of the long pilgrimage through an insane world: one by one, the pilgrims were bringing their children to be sacrificed; one by one, the children were being tied and laid on the stone. And on their left, a figure in a mask was turning a grinding wheel, sharpening long, thin knives.

In the exact centre of the room, beneath the face of the risen Christ, stood a stone altar exactly like the one in the painting, draped with a white cloth stained with blood. On the altar stood a silver candlestick. It had seven branches, elaborately worked by a master craftsman. And its stem was a cross. Seven candles had burned low, dripping thick white wax on the cloth.

‘Patrick, come over here.’ Assefa was in a corner of the room, holding something in his hand.

Patrick joined him. Assefa had discovered a pile of clothing in the corner.

‘Look,’ he said. He held out a scarlet-trimmed soutane and a scarlet biretta. ‘These belonged to a cardinal. They’re quite clean, no dust.’ He bent down and picked up a small object. ‘And here,’ he continued. ‘A cardinal’s ring. It has a coat of arms.’ He passed it to Patrick.

The arms consisted of a broad cardinal’s hat with tassels falling on either side of a shield. In the shield were set a heraldic sun and moon. Patrick had seen the coat of arms before. In Corradini’s book, in the section about the Migliau family.

It took a long time for Patrick to explain about the murdered child discovered in Ireland, the fresco in the Palazzo Contarini, and the dream he had had the night before. Assefa listened in silence, with mounting horror. Corradini’s hints did, in the end, have substance behind them. At some point in the past, the Contarinis and certain other families had practised child sacrifice in Venice. Today, they or their successors still kept the cult alive. The question was why. And what was Passover? And what had the patriarch of Venice been doing in a painted chamber beneath Pietro Contarini’s tomb?

It was beginning to grow dark when they left the church. They found the faint path that led back to their landing-place and hurried to get there before the boatman decided he had had enough. Behind them, the church huddled in the twilight, protecting its secrets.

The old man was nowhere to be seen. Patrick called, but his voice was swallowed up in the silence. No one answered. He looked at his watch: their two hours were not quite up.

‘The bastard’s gone!’

Assefa nodded.

‘So I see. What do we do now?’

Wait until he comes back, I suppose. He’ll be here in the morning, looking for his double payment.’

Assefa wandered down to the water’s edge and looked out at the lagoon, at the dim light fading across miles of empty water. He turned to come back, then stopped and looked at something to his right.

‘Patrick, come here!’

Patrick heard the urgency in Assefa’s voice and hurried to the little beach.

‘Look.’

The old man’s sandolo was there, still beached at the spot to which they had dragged it. They went closer.

Someone had taken a heavy stone and smashed the boat’s light hull in several places.

FORTY-ONE

There was no earth, no sky; no heaven, no hell. Only darkness, only the sound of waves, and once, far in the distance, the horn of a great ship passing in the night.

It was curious, thought Patrick, how easy it had been to beat them in the end. There had been no need for guns. Without a boat or the means to repair the one in the cove, they were trapped. Trapped and certain of a slow death. They might find water here, but it was highly unlikely that the island would furnish them with the sort of food needed for survival.

The Italian mainland was only a few miles away, but it might as well have been fifty. Boats sailed through the deep channels further out, and once or twice a day an aeroplane would pass by overhead; but no one could hear them or see them. Swimming was out of the question: the waters of the lagoon were treacherous to a high degree, the safe channels of this sector known only to a handful of fishermen. An inexperienced swimmer would find himself quickly lost and dragged down by mud and weeds.

The fire burned down slowly into the loose fabric of the night, but neither man had the energy or the will to get up and find more wood. They were physically and emotionally drained, yet sleep refused to come. Patrick feared the onset of further dreams, here above all, in a ruin that was not a ruin, at the heart of his nightmare. He closed his eyes and saw dark shapes creep across the corners of his vision. Another bout of epilepsy? Or phantoms singular to this island, the bloodless ghosts of children without hearts?

Assefa crouched beside him shivering, watching the last flames flicker against the night, wrestling with his own private ghosts. Every priest is haunted by them at some time: thoughts of what might have been, certainties that have crumbled and become doubts, prayers left unanswered, the faces of starving children dying without God. Tonight, they crowded around him like pimps, eager to show him what lay for sale, not in the church or its painted crypt, but deeper still, in his own heart, bloodier and more desolate than any act of martyrdom or sacrifice.

The fire crumbled to ashes, the darkness deepened around them, and still they sat, each wrapped in his own thoughts, waiting for the slow night to pass. Around midnight, Assefa struggled to his feet. His limbs were numb with cold.

‘Patrick,’ he whispered. ‘Are you awake?’

‘Yes. What’s wrong?’

‘I think we’ll die if we stay out here. If not tonight, tomorrow. We should take shelter in the crypt: light a fire, try to get a little warmth. Perhaps someone will come.’ For some reason, Assefa was impelled to go down to the crypt. He felt the urge like a bodily temptation, but less tangible, less easy to resist. It was common sense, after all. Their survival might depend on it. There is no temptation so undeniable as common sense.

‘No,’ answered Patrick. ‘I’d prefer to stay up here. You go, if you like.’

Assefa hesitated.

‘I’ll get some wood, at least. There must be brushwood outside the church.’

He took one of the flashlights and set off into the darkness. Patrick remained, fighting an almost irresistible drowsiness that could, he knew, prove fatal. Perhaps, as Assefa suggested, morning would bring some sort of hope. There would be light, they could explore the island. And perhaps, after all, someone would come. Plenty of people on Burano knew where they had gone. If their boatman did not return, surely someone would come looking for him. Patrick was sure the old man had been disposed of by whoever had staved in the sandolo. He remembered the boat he had seen momentarily the day before. Had they been followed all the way? Or was this simply standard practice when anyone enquired about San Vitale?

The whole thing was beginning to make a sort of crazy sense to him, though he still could not tie together its disparate strands. First and foremost was the notion of sacrifice. That was not too unusual: for many Christians, Christ’s death on the cross represented a sublimated, improved form of the Temple sacrifice of Judaism. He was the supreme offering, whose death made redundant all sacrifices of the past: ‘Neither by the blood of goats and calves, but by His own blood’. This Brotherhood, these keepers of the tomb of Christ, clearly believed in something similar, but to Christ’s own sacrifice they added that of innocent children.

Molech was nothing. How many innocents had died at the hands of Herod in order to save the infant Jesus? How many had died in Egypt in order that Yahweh’s chosen people could leave for a land of milk and honey?

Was that the meaning of ‘Passover’? A re-enactment of Egypt’s sacrifice so that another chosen race could have their freedom? Patrick shivered at the thought. It was a matter of days now.

He saw the light approaching from the far end of the nave. His first thought was that Assefa was returning, then he noticed that the light was different from that of the lamp his friend had been carrying: it was larger and rather brighter. He picked up his own flashlight and switched it on. It gave out only a dim, yellow light that made no impact on the darkness. The approaching light wavered, then changed direction slightly and headed straight for him.

He switched off the lamp and got to his feet.

Who’s there?’ he called. There was no answer. He took several steps back to the wall of the apse, and began to circle along it, trying to get back to the main body of the church. The light moved nearer. He could just make out the indistinct shape of a figure holding it. The figure stumbled and the light swung wildly for several seconds, before righting itself.

‘Who are you? What do you want?’ Could it already be someone from Burano, risking the supposed horrors of San Vitale for the sake of a drunken friend and two foolhardy strangers?

‘Patrick? Sei tu, Patrick?’

The voice was soft, familiar yet unfamiliar, little more than a whisper, yet louder than a cry of pain. His heart seemed to stop, he felt himself grow dizzy. Stretching out his hand, he steadied himself against the wall. It felt rough and damp beneath his fingers.

‘Where are you, Patrick? I can’t see you.’

It was a dream, a nightmare rather, the last step down into madness. All his senses were intact, there was nothing to cocoon him from his surroundings, but he knew he was dreaming. What else could it be?

She raised the lamp higher and he saw her face at last, the ghost’s face he had expected, dark eyes in a pale mask. He remembered a game he had played with others as a child, a flashlight propped beneath his chin, turning him into a thing of intense shadows and death-like pallor. But this was no game, this was truly someone who had been in the grave and returned.

‘I’m not a ghost, Patrick. You know that by now. You’ve been expecting me. Two nights ago, when you followed me, you knew then. Don’t be afraid -I haven’t come to harm you.’

He refused to believe that any of this was more than a dream. He had fallen asleep in the cold and damp, and the lesion in his brain was raising phantoms out of his inner darkness.

As though she could read his mind, she shook her head.

‘No, Patrick, I’m not a dream either. Don’t ask me to explain, not yet. Perhaps not at all. I’m not here to talk about myself. I’ve come to take you off San Vitale.’

He could see her face more clearly now. She had changed. Not aged so much as altered, subtly, less superficially than someone who has merely grown to middle age. Her eyes were not the eyes he had last looked into over twenty years ago. Perhaps she was real after all. He had no memories of her like this for his damaged brain to call upon.

He hesitated only another moment, then stepped into the light.

What have you done with Assefa?’ he asked.

‘He’s all right, I left him down at the cove.’ She paused, her eyes fixed on his face. ‘You’ve changed, Patrick,’ she said at last. ‘More than I imagined.’ He sensed the emotion in her voice. Do ghosts have feelings?

‘Where are you taking me?’ He took it for granted that she was in charge. Death confers privileges.

‘To the mainland. We’ve got to get there tonight. Migliau’s people will have someone watching. Please, Patrick - I know this is hard for you. It’s hard for me too. But you’ve got to come with me. If you stay here you will die.’

Numb, he followed her out of the church, walking several paces behind, her light always ahead of him, bobbing through the darkness. She seemed to know the way. In five minutes, they were back at the cove. Just before they reached the shore, Francesca switched off her lamp.

‘The path goes straight down to the beach here,’ she whispered. ‘Take my hand, I’ll help you down.’

Reluctantly, he reached out for her. With a shudder, he took her hand in his. It felt like ice, and for a horrid moment he thought the nightmare was real, that she was indeed dead. But it was only the night air, the cold night air that had frozen his hand as well. She led him down to the beach, just as she had taken him, many years before, to another beach, naked and shivering as the tide turned.

Assefa was waiting for them in the darkness. And beside him a third man stood leaning against a small boat.

FORTY-TWO

Rome, 2 March

The Madonna was very old and very worn. Her face was a filigree of cracks, the blue paint of her robe was flaking in places, and the gold leaf of her halo had all but disappeared. Whether it was age that had most taken its toll, or adoration, it was impossible to say. But her eyes seemed tired and unfocused, as though the prayers and laments of numberless generations had at last proved too much for her. The spirit, like the flesh, has its limits, and compassion, whatever the theologians say, is not inexhaustible.

Assefa stepped forward and added his candle to those already burning in front of the icon. He stood for almost a minute gazing at her ravaged face. She was black like him, and tired like him, and in her crumbling features he found more comfort than in all the city’s statues and paintings put together. He sighed and dropped to his knees, turning a plastic rosary between exhausted fingers.

In a shadow close behind him, Patrick stood in silence, his hands clasped before him, keeping careful watch. Santa Maria delle Grazie was a little-frequented church off the beaten track in the Vicolo de’ Renzi, just south of the river in Trastevere. No tourists came here, not even the clever sort who toss aside their Baedekers and lose themselves deliberately among alleyways smelling of cats and rotting citrus peel. Even pilgrims were few and far between, a mere handful of cognoscenti drawn by the Black Virgin.

According to legend, the icon had originally been brought to southern France from the Holy Land during the time of the Crusades, by a Templar knight, Guillaume de Pereille. Some said that it was, like so many other Black Virgins, the work of Saint Luke. After the Albigensian crusade of the thirteenth century, it had been carried from Languedoc to Turin, and from Turin to Rome, where it had been housed in its own chapel in Santa Maria delle Grazie and named La Madonna Mora. The more prosaic said it was probably the work of the Roman artist Pietro Cavallini, who was known to have painted a very similar Madonna di Constantinopoli for the Benedictine Abbey in Montevergine around 1290.

Assefa had found the little church early in his seminary days. It had, in a sense, become his private chapel, his place of retreat. At first the Virgin herself had been the attraction: he had sought in her blackness a sort of mirror for himself, a spiritual location for all that was African in him and in danger of being engulfed by the legacy of Greece and Rome. He had prayed to her, and she had answered him in her tired and wounded fashion. But with time the church itself had won his heart: the small side chapels, in which a single light burned before the altar; the shadowed recesses, with their tiny figures of saints on marble pedestals; the odours of beeswax and frankincense, of polish and dry rot, of musty linen and crumbling stone.

In the past, he had directed his feet to this asylum at least once a week. To flee the uninterrupted roar of traffic, the blaring of radios, the incessant chatter of the streets. To escape the cramped and closeted worlds of the seminary and the Accademia Pontificia. And more recently, to still the frenzied babble of his own thoughts.

Now he had been driven here by fear. By fear and loathing and a world of doubts. He felt frozen by doubt, unable to think or act, yet aware that, if he did not act soon, he would fail to avert a terrible tragedy.

Patrick waited patiently in the shadows. He himself felt no need for prayer. It was not a question of belief or disbelief; he had a simple horror of the numinous dark, of the loss of self that all these pleasant odours and muted colours signified. To Patrick, God would reveal himself in daylight or not at all.

Assefa rose at last. His face was marked with tears, but he seemed less ill at ease.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I’ve already taken more time than I should.’

‘That’s all right.’

‘What about you, Patrick? Don’t you want to offer a single prayer?’

Patrick shook his head.

‘I think it would only confuse me,’ he said.

What about your friend?’ He meant Francesca. She was waiting outside, keeping watch on the streets.

‘You know what she thinks, Assefa. That all this is just a travesty, that the truth lies somewhere else.’

Assefa sighed.

Won’t you at least light a candle for her? The Madonna may be old, but she isn’t deaf or blind.’

Patrick drew out a five-thousand-lire note from his pocket and dropped it in the slot at the candle stall. He took a long candle and lit it from Assefa’s. As he placed it in the holder, he glanced up at the icon. The fluttering light stroked the ancient gold like a moth’s wing brushing flame. The Virgin gazed at him. Had she really been in Languedoc? he wondered. Had she witnessed the first fires of the Inquisition, the blood of innocent children spilled at Beziers and Perpignan?

For the expiation of sins, for the glory of the true Church.

He turned his back on her. Not deaf? he thought. Not blind? Just callous, then.

The photograph Assefa had found in Dublin had in small measure prepared Patrick for seeing Francesca again, but not for touching her or talking with her. More than anything, he found it difficult to accept the changes in her. He now realized that, from the moment in San Michele when he had first taken seriously the possibility of her still being alive, he had thought of her as frozen - a girl of twenty preserved in a magic, timeless realm out of which she would re-emerge to him exactly as he remembered her, young, energetic and in love.

For him, of course, she had indeed been in limbo: a silent, frosted figure, wrapped away in his memory. The Francesca who had returned to him out of the darkness of San Vitale, however, was anything but a fragment of someone else’s past. There were streaks of grey in her hair, and her face was thin and pale and tired. In her eyes he could detect a far-away sadness, as though something deep within her had indeed died all those years ago.

Since her appearance on San Vitale, they had hardly spoken. She had taken them to the mainland in absolute silence, steering by means of small, bobbing lights she had placed along the channels. The man with her had been introduced to them as Roberto Quadri, a lawyer. After beaching the boat, they walked to Caposile, where Francesca and Quadri had left a vehicle, a windowless Transit van with bedding on the floor. While Patrick and Assefa tried to rest in the back, she and the lawyer drove through the night to Rome, travelling on the autostrada via Bologna and Florence.

Quadri had accompanied them as far as an apartment on the Via Grotta Pinta, a narrow, curving street in the old city, not far from the Campo de’ Fiori. The apartment was situated on the top floor of a tall, ochre-coloured building in a row of small shops and trattorie. It was large, sparsely-furnished and draughty, and it was clearly not anyone’s permanent residence. More like a safe house, Patrick thought.

Who does this place belong to?’ he had asked.

‘Later,’ she had replied. ‘I’ll tell you all about it later. But now I want to sleep.’

Quadri kissed her lightly on the cheek and shook hands with Patrick and Assefa.

‘I will see you all later,’ he said. ‘I have to sleep as well. But before that, I have other work to do. Ciao, Francesca. I’ll call on Dermot, tell him all went well.’

Francesca slept until after ten, and in the end both Patrick and Assefa had relaxed sufficiently to give in to sleep as well. Over a breakfast of rolls and coffee, Assefa had asked if he could visit Santa Maria delle Grazie, which he knew was just a short distance away, on the other bank of the Tiber.

Now, they walked back slowly over the Ponte Sisto. The river flowed sluggishly beneath their feet, yellow and muddy, almost out of strength. Assefa walked several paces ahead, preoccupied. Now that he was alone with Francesca, Patrick felt awkward and tongue-tied.

‘I feel this is still all a dream,’ he said. ‘This doesn’t make sense. You were dead: I saw them bury you.’

Francesca shook her head. Her hair was tied back in a pony tail, just as he remembered it.

‘I was never dead, Patrick. Not ... in the sense that you mean. In other ways, perhaps. In all the ways that matter.’ She paused. For a moment, just as they stepped down from the bridge, he caught sight of her profile. At that moment, he knew for the first time that she was truly alive. Other things might alter, but her profile was exactly the same.

‘I lost over twenty years, Patrick. I’m sorry, for you more than anything or anyone. Nothing I can do can ever make that up to you. But I had no choice; or I thought I had none. Believe me, I really thought that then.’

‘And now...?’

‘If I thought I could undo a single moment... But I can’t, so I don’t even try. I just try to make amends, that’s all.’

‘I don’t understand any of this.’

‘No,’ she said. ‘I know that. But in a few minutes we can get down to explanations. I’ve asked Roberto and another friend to meet us at the apartment. They’ll help me make things clear.’

They walked through to the Campo de’ Fiori, where several market stalls were still open for business. Francesca seemed to know the stall-keepers well, and bought a quantity of vegetables, cheese and fish. Next to the fish stall stood an arch leading into a narrow alleyway.

Francesca led them along it, explaining that it was a short-cut through to the Via Grotta Pinta. Half-way along, the alley became a covered passageway, dark and smelling of urine. They passed heavy iron gates on either side, and Patrick noticed that, behind them, the ground was littered with used hypodermics. Francesca glanced behind her.

‘You have to take care round here,’ she said. ‘Never come this way alone at night. There are muggings, sometimes worse.’ She walked on, her feet echoing between the passage’s narrow walls. ‘The old campo,’ she went on, ‘used to be the place where executions were carried out. They burned Giordano Bruno there in 1600. Because he said the earth wasn’t the centre of the universe, that nothing was finite.’ She paused and looked back again at Patrick, at the rusting hypodermics. ‘Do you think it hurts,’ she asked, ‘to be burned alive? Slowly, without strangulation? Would ideas help? Like a drug.’

‘Ideas?’

‘Beliefs, convictions, some sort of certainty.’ She looked into his face. He thought he saw traces of tears at the corners of her eyes. ‘Do you think it would ease the pain, believing the universe to be infinite? Do saints or scientists feel less than criminals when it comes to the stake?’

‘I can’t answer that,’ he said. ‘No one can.’ Assefa stood near them silently.

Francesca said nothing. She looked along the dark passage to a patch of sunlight that indicated the position of the square.

‘No,’ she said at last. ‘No one has ever been able to give me an answer.’

She turned and walked quickly away down the passage.

FORTY-THREE

When they got back to the apartment building, two men were waiting for them at the street door. Francesca smiled and greeted them warmly, kissing each briefly on the cheek. The taller of the two was a heavy man of about fifty, dressed in a short leather jacket and lightly checked trousers. His companion was Quadri, whom they now saw clearly for the first time. He was elegantly dressed, in his early thirties, and very thin.

‘Patrick, Assefa,’ said Francesca, calling them closer, ‘let me introduce Father Dermot O’Malley. Father O’Malley is an Irishman by training, but an Italian by profession. He’s lived here almost as long as I have. And he speaks better Italian.’

The older man stepped forward and shook hands. He was robust, built more like a soldier than a priest. At one time, he had sported red hair, but the life had gone out of it years ago, leaving a thick grey mop that had broad streaks the colour of an old russet apple. Patrick fancied his sermons would lean towards the declamatory. He noticed that he did not wear a dog-collar.

‘You’ve already met Roberto,’ Francesca continued, turning to the younger man. ‘When he isn’t rescuing strangers from mysterious islands, Roberto works with Father O’Malley. That’s why he looks so tired, isn’t it, Roberto?’

Patrick detected the concern underlying the mockery in her voice, and for a crazy instant felt something like a pang of jealousy. But he felt only grief for Francesca now, not love; what right had grief to jealousy?

Quadri shook hands a little formally and stepped back. Patrick thought he looked ill. The handshake had been that of a sick man.

‘Patrick,’ said Francesca, ‘I hope you don’t mind, but Father O’Malley wants you to go with him while I take Assefa and Roberto up to the apartment. We’ll all meet here for lunch in about two hours.’

Patrick felt a prick of disappointment. He was gradually growing accustomed to the thought that Francesca was not dead after all, and he had been anticipating an opportunity to ask some direct questions about what had happened to her. The questions, he supposed, would have to wait.

‘Yes, that’s fine,’ he lied. He wished someone would explain just who these people were and what their connection was with Francesca.

O’Malley had parked his car, a Fiat, further down the street. As the priest lurched off into a maelstrom of honking traffic, Patrick braced himself for a rough ride and asked where they were going.

‘A mystery tour, Mr Canavan, a mystery tour. Not very magical, perhaps, but I think you’ll find it interesting.’ He spoke in what Patrick recognized as a broad Cork accent, an accent that thirty-odd years in Rome had done nothing to diminish.

‘Why just me? What about Assefa?’

‘Now, Mr Canavan, you must have noticed that your friend is not inconspicuous. There are people everywhere looking for the both of you. I don’t think they know yet that you’re in Rome, and I’d as soon keep it that way. I’m sure you would too. To be honest, I’m taking risks enough with yourself, but Father Makonnen is another matter entirely. He has far too many friends in this city for him to be wandering the streets. As it is, he should never have been out this morning.’

The car swung across the Corso Vittorio Emanuele, joining the traffic on the other side like a bee taking its place in a fast-moving swarm. As they headed up towards the Tiber, Patrick took a deep breath. He had guessed where they were going.

O’Malley glanced sideways at him.

‘Relax, Mr Canavan. Or may I call you Patrick? You’ll be perfectly all right with me. We won’t stray within a million miles of Cardinal Fazzini’s office. Or a number of other offices I could mention but won’t.’

As they drew closer to the Piazza Paoli, the traffic began to thicken and snarl up. Finally they came to a complete standstill among a pack of honking cars and motorcycles, yards from the bridge. O’Malley slipped into neutral and pulled on his handbrake.

‘We’ll be here for a little while,’ he said. ‘It’s a bad time of day. But then, in Rome it’s always a bad time of day. Suppose we fill in the time by your telling me how you came to be mixed up in all of this.’

Bit by bit, Patrick went through the events that had brought him here, while all around him the traffic roared and drivers took out a lifetime’s frustrations on everybody in sight. The priest listened to him in silence, his manner growing increasingly serious as Patrick’s story unfolded. He asked no questions, showed no surprise, expressed no sentiments of either outrage or sympathy. By the time Patrick had finished, the brawling, angry world around them seemed to have been switched off, leaving them quiet in the sunshine, ringed by darker shadows and menaced by a different anger.

‘How well did you know Eamonn De Faoite?’ the priest asked finally.

‘Very well. I met him first when I was a student, in my Freshman year. He helped me a lot. You speak as if you knew him yourself.’

O’Malley nodded.

‘Oh yes,’ he said, gazing out through the small windscreen at rays of sunlight falling on metal and glass, ‘Eamonn and I were old friends, very old friends. We met when I was a seminarian at May-nooth. He used to hear my confessions.’ He gave a short laugh. ‘Jesus, I was never done confessing my sins in those days. I think I had the idea that, since I was going to be a priest, I had to be better than everybody else, get absolution for the most trivial act. Well, Eamonn got me out of that habit soon enough. Mind you, if I thought I had things to confess then ...’

There was a roar outside as the traffic began to loosen up. O’Malley let in the clutch and moved off honking loudly.

We kept in touch after that, a bit like yourself and him. In fact, I think he mentioned your name to me once or twice. From time to time he’d come to Rome for a visit, and we’d have a week or two together then. He never could stand to stay at the Irish College. And I didn’t blame him: they think the only food in the world is champ and carrots.’

Patrick could tell that O’Malley was struggling to smother powerful emotions, that Eamonn De Faoite’s death had brought him intense and permanent personal pain.

They turned into the Via dei Corridoni, heading down towards the Vatican. On their left, the massive dome of St Peter’s struggled above the rooftops as though aching to be free of the nervous, jostling streets that hemmed it about like relatives about the bedside of a dying man.

On the Via di Porta Angelica, they turned left through St Anne’s gate, the Vatican’s service entrance. It was almost clogged with cars, vans and motorcycles. The Swiss Guard on duty waved them

through. A second guard on the inner gate took greater care. O’Malley wound down his window and held out a small pass. The guard nodded, saluted, and let them through.

They headed straight along the Via del Belvedere and through a short tunnel into a courtyard where dozens of cars were parked, most of them bearing plates with the letters SCV, standing for Sacra Citta Vaticano. O’Malley drove into a space on the left.

‘Have you ever been in the Vatican before, Patrick?’

Patrick shook his head.

‘Oh, that’s a pity. It’s a great place. Maybe we’ll have time for a proper tour another time. For your present information, you’re in the Cortile del Belvedere, the Belvedere Court. That door on your right takes you into the Vatican Library. But the door on the left is the one for us. It leads to the Secret Archives.’

Patrick raised his eyebrows.

‘Ah, you needn’t look so surprised,’ said the priest. ‘There’s precious little secret in there these days. Indeed, I don’t think there ever was. If they don’t want you to see something in this place, you can be sure they don’t leave it lying around somewhere you might stumble across it. But that doesn’t mean there aren’t nice little discoveries to be made from time to time by them as knows where to look.’ He glanced at Patrick. Tour friend Eamonn De Faoite knew where to look. More’s the pity for the man.’

They got out of the car, leaving it unlocked. Theft was almost unknown here, and the Vatican gaol enjoyed the reputation of being the least used in the world.

Inside the main door, a stern-faced custodian sat behind a large mahogany table. He looked as though he was aged somewhere between fifty and one hundred and ninety. With a look of irritation, he glanced

up from the improving book he was reading and adjusted a pair of bifocals heavily clouded with specks of dandruff. Looking first at Patrick, then at O’Malley, he drew himself up straight in his high-backed chair.

‘Yes? May I help you?’

‘My name is Father O’Malley. I’ve come to look at some manuscripts. I take it you still keep some manuscripts here.’ His Italian was strangely perfect, not tainted in the least by the heavy brogue that coloured his English.

The custodian stared at him as though he had just claimed to be the Pope.

‘I see. You have a tessera of course.’

‘Sure, what would I need one of them things for? I’ve better things to do than spend half my life among dirty old books. God knows what I might catch.’

The custodian’s face, already the colour and texture of faded parchment, turned several shades paler.

‘I regret that...’

‘But I’ve got something better than a tessera, if it’s a permit you’re after. Here, take a sniff at this.’

O’Malley took a heavy envelope from the inside pocket of his jacket and passed it to the man behind the table. The custodian picked it up and glanced at it as though it had rabies.

‘What’s this?’

‘Open it and see.’

The custodian hesitated, guessing he had been outmanoeuvred, then opened the envelope and took out a sheet of thick, letter-headed paper. Less than a minute later, he was bowing and scraping as he escorted Patrick and Father O’Malley to seats at one of the huge black desks in the main reading-room.

O’Malley bent towards Patrick as they walked, whispering in his ear, ‘After twenty-odd years,

Patrick, even a man like me gets to know some people in high places. Would you believe that was a letter from the Pope’s private secretary? A man called Foucauld. We were friends a long time ago.’

Once they were seated, the custodian approached the prefect, a sort of gargoyle with jaundice who sat upright on a tall, throne-like chair surveying his little, ageless realm, and spoke with him briefly before leaving. The room was empty save for the prefect, his assistants, and a handful of privileged scholars hunched over heavy black volumes as desiccated as themselves. On one wall, a huge clock ticked loudly, a reminder to everyone that, in the end, the pendulum and the calendar take care of everything, even learning.

While an assistant scurried off to fetch the file O’Malley had requested, the priest bent close to Patrick and whispered quietly in his ear.

‘The Church has had some sort of archive in Rome since the sixth century. Most of what was in its keeping then was held in the Lateran, but it’s said it was all destroyed in fighting at the beginning of the thirteenth century. However, it’s my opinion that what I’m about to show you came from there.

‘In any case, after that the archives were kept either in the Vatican or with the Pope himself whenever he travelled about the country. Later on, the whole lot was moved to the Castel Sant’ Angelo for safe-keeping. The really important stuff- things like privileges and papal charters - was held in what they called the Archivium Arcis.

‘Then, in 1611, Paul V founded the Secret Archive, the Archivium Secretum Vaticanum. He had eighty armaria, great wooden chests, filled with material from different sources - the Biblioteca Segreta, the Camera, the Archivium Arcis. Until 1879, the archive

really was secret, but it was then that Leo XIII decided to let reputable scholars in to study the documents. Some of them look as though they’ve been here ever since. As you can see, I’m not all that reputable; but I’m not without a little influence either. In my experience, there’s nothing in the Vatican that a little bottle of Black Bush in the right hands won’t arrange.’

He paused as the assistant returned, carrying a small book in his hands. Without a word, he set it down on the desk in front of them and left.

‘Now, Patrick, listen carefully. You’ll see that the call number on the back of this file reads AA Arm. I-XVIII 6725. All that means is that it comes from the Archivium Arcis, that it’s stored in the lower set of armaria, series one to eighteen, and that its item number is 6723.’

‘What is it?’

‘Now, don’t go getting impatient. If you’ll just open it...’

There was a hissing sound from the direction of the prefect’s chair. They looked up to see the old buzzard holding a bent finger to his lips. O’Malley lowered his voice even further.

‘If you look inside, you’ll see that it’s a copy of a Gnostic Gospel written in Coptic. According to a little note in Latin pasted in at the front, it was found among the contents of the Archivium Arcis when everything was transferred to the Secret Archive. Of course, Gnostic Gospels weren’t exactly popular in those days, so the book sort of rotted away here in its wee box without anyone ever taking a proper look at it.’

He looked down at the worn leather cover, the curious Coptic binding tied with thongs.

‘Eamonn De Faoite was the first person in centuries

to do more than glance at it. And what do you think he found?’

‘Suppose you show me.’

‘Be my guest.’

Patrick untied the thongs and opened the little volume. Page after page of crabbed Coptic script in black ink with the capitals in red. It looked dreary and quite unreadable.

‘I can’t read Coptic’

‘Can’t you? That’s a terrible pity. Neither can I. But look here.’

The priest opened the book again, leafing through it until he came to two leaves near the middle. Carefully, he peeled one away from the other. Inside lay a third sheet, unbound. O’Malley lifted it out and spread it on the table in front of Patrick.

“You can read Aramaic, though, can’t you?’

Patrick looked down. Unfolded, the sheet was a large piece of papyrus, covered in fine Aramaic writing. Aramaic: the language of much of the Old Testament, the language of Palestine at the time of Jesus.

FORTY-FOUR

‘At times trumpets blow on the high towers. Now on the tower of Psephinus, now on the tall pinnacles of Hippicus and Phasael and Mariamme. They chase the birds from the sky, and we think the end is come. Simon bar Goria and his men hold the Upper City and much of the Lower also. The Temple and Ophel are in the hands of John of Gischala and his followers. All that lies between has been burned to the ground. There is smoke everywhere. Smoke and the sound of wailing. Some say the Temple has begun to burn.’

Patrick looked up. He could hear the sound of the clock ticking and the scratch of a pencil as someone took notes at another table. O’Malley watched him, impassive, like a teacher waiting for his star pupil to show what he is made of.

‘Am I to take it that this is genuine?’ whispered Patrick.

‘I don’t know. What do you think? You’re the one who reads Aramaic, not me.’

Patrick pondered. It was years since he had read Josephus, but there could be no mistake.

‘I think it’s a description of the Siege of Jerusalem in AD 70, during the Jewish War with the Romans. But that’s impossible. Nothing in writing survived the siege.’

‘You mean nothing anyone knew of before this.’

Patrick nodded. There was nothing inherently implausible in such a document having been rescued.

‘Do you think they could fetch me a magnifying glass? This script is very fine.’

‘Good idea. Make them do a bit of work.’

O’Malley summoned an assistant, and minutes later

an enormous magnifying glass made its appearance on the table in front of Patrick. He lifted it and continued reading.

‘Passover has come and gone, but there has been no deliverance. Three weeks ago, the Continual Sacrifice ceased and the altar was deserted. Outside the city walls, the armies of Pharaoh’s son are massed. Four legions, and with them Arab and Syrian auxiliaries.’

For a moment Patrick was puzzled. Then he understood. The Roman general in charge of the campaign was Titus. His father, Vespasian, had just been made Emperor. So Vespasian was ‘Pharaoh’ and Titus was ‘Pharaoh’s son’.

‘He has moved his own camp to a spot opposite the Tower of Psephinus. The Tenth Legion remains on the Mount of Olives. Their engines of war are the largest and the most terrible: quick-loaders, stone-throwers, catapults. They hurl great stones of white marble into the city. The watchers on the walls cry out when they see them coming, and we flee in terror. On every side, the sound of battering rams rises to the heavens. But our prayers stay here below. They have brought rams to the western arcade of the Temple. The end cannot be long now. Lord, why have youforsaken your people?

‘Those of the brethren that remain in the city meet daily in the house of John the Zealot, who was blessed by James in the days before his death. We pray no longer for forgiveness, but for understanding. There is one still among us who remembers the words of our Lord, when he came out of the Temple with his disciples. He said to them: “See you all these? I tell you solemnly, not one stone here shall remain on another: all will be destroyed.” Even so, it is coming to pass. Then, we pray, all things will be fulfilled, and his promise unto us, that he will return.’

Patrick looked up, rubbing his eyes.

‘Whoever wrote this was a Christian. Did you know that?’

‘Oh, yes, certainly. What you are holding in your hands is without question the earliest surviving document of the Christian church. I think you’ll find your man was a Jewish Christian, not one of Paul’s upstart Gentiles.’

Patrick nodded. James, the brother of Jesus, had been head of the church in Jerusalem. He and his followers, unlike Paul and those he converted, had observed the Jewish law and attended the Temple regularly, while teaching that Jesus was the Messiah. Up to the destruction of the city in the year 70, they had been the most important group in the early church. Then Jerusalem was destroyed and they were either killed or scattered, leaving Paul and his followers free to run the new faith as they wished.

Patrick continued reading.

‘Of the brotherhood of Jesus that were in the city before the days of Passover, breaking bread together and praying according to the teaching of the apostles, but a few are now left. We pray daily that our brothers who have gone have reached Egypt in safety, and that they will be spared the wrath of these last days.

‘A party among us, numbering seven, according to the number of deacons presented to the Twelve, have met on this, the eighth day of Loos, to take counsel together in secret. Chief among us is John the Zealot, a holy man fired by the love of God, and a prophet sent to guide the brethren in these days of darkness. He was appointed head of the Twelve by James, the brother of the Lord, in the days before they stoned him to death. Beneath him are seated Eleazar bar Simon, Judas of Gamala, Barnabas the son of Jeshua the Elder, Jonathon, a deacon of Emmaus, Paul of Acrabetta, and myself, Simon bar Matthias, the Levite.

We have named ourselves the Seven of the Tomb, swearing to defend the sepulchre of our Lord, in which are also buried his brother James and his mother. The sepulchre lies hidden among the tombs that lie beyond the walls, to the north of the tomb of Simon the Just. John knows a secret way that passes through the Valley of Hinnom in the south. From there, we shall go by night westwards, skirting the camps of the invader, until we come again to the north.

‘And when there comes to pass that which has been decreed for the city, that it may fall stone from stone, if any still be alive, by God’s grace, he shall go unto Egypt, which is Babylon, that he may strike down Pharaoh, even as he sits on his throne, in vengeance for God’s Temple, both the earthly Temple and the Temple that was crucified.

‘And that shall be the true Passover, that God’s chosen people shall pass out of the land of Egypt and come into the Land of the Promise. And our Lord shall return. There shall be a new Jerusalem, and God and the Lamb shall be its Temple. Egypt shall fall then, and Babylon, all them that have scattered the children of God among the nations. For Jesus said: “Do not think I have come to send peace on earth: I came not to send peace, but a sword.”And so it shall be.

‘And if all die, let him that conies after take up the sword in our place, that the days may be numbered and the wicked brought to a reckoning. For the Tomb is a sacred trust, and the sword also, that goodness endure and all manner of wickedness perish from the earth.’

Patrick looked up.

‘That’s the main text. There are just a few more lines in a different hand, in Hebrew. They’re a bit more difficult to read.’

‘I’m sure you can manage. Have a go.’

Slowly, Patrick deciphered the broken script in front of him.

‘I, John of Amathus, known as the Zealot, though long baptized, leave here what Simon the Levite has written concerning the last days of Jerusalem, that it may serve as a testimony to others. Of the Brotherhood of the Tomb, I alone remain alive. I shall seal the sepulchre and seek refuge in Egypt, where others have gone before me. I shall carry with me the secret of the tomb, and the secret of him that entered it, and of the manner in which he came to enter it, lest those things be forgotten. There are among the believers who have preceded me still a number that know a little of those matters. If God wills it, I shall choose among them six Elders to lead the Brotherhood. These words I leave for him whom God shall send in the latter days, that he may take up this sword and deliver God’s people out of bondage. May he finish what I have begun and determine all things with justice.’

Patrick looked up. O’Malley was looking at him intently.

‘So now you know,’ he said.

FORTY-FIVE

When they returned to the apartment, the others had already eaten lunch. Francesca prepared fresh pasta and fish and left them in the kitchen to eat it in peace.

When they finally joined the others in the living room, coffee had been prepared. Francesca poured out large cups of espresso and passed round a plate of amaretti. Father O’Malley was the first to speak.

‘You must be wondering by now what this is all about. I didn’t like to say too much until I’d had a chance to show something to Patrick.’ He paused and glanced at Assefa. ‘Roberto will have explained to you, Father Makonnen, why I thought it best not to have you with us. We paid a little visit to the Vatican Archives, Patrick and I, and there was a fair to even chance that someone there or in the vicinity would have recognized you. At the moment, even an old friend could be unwittingly dangerous to you. I’m sure you understand the reasons for my caution.’

Assefa nodded. A sense of personal danger had become second nature to him by now. He wondered how he had got by without it before.

O’Malley sat forward on the edge of his chair. For all his size, he seemed to Patrick a remarkably gentle man. Gentle, but not soft. Patrick sensed something in him, a kind of righteous anger that would tear his gentleness to shreds and burn it if it seemed necessary.

‘You’ll have to forgive my theatricality in taking you off so mysteriously, Patrick. But I did have a serious purpose in showing you that document. Had you not seen it - the original, mind, not a copy - you

might think some of the things I am about to tell you a little ... far-fetched. Unfortunately, they are not. I would give anything to have them so, but they will not be other than what they are.’

He paused and folded his hands in front of him as though in prayer.

‘Roberto Quadri and I,’ he began, speaking slowly, ‘are directors of an organization called fraternita. The name is really an acronym: Fondazione per Reabilitazione degli Aderenti e Transfughi delle Religioni Nuove in Italia - the Foundation for the Rehabilitation of Adherents and Fugitives from New Religions in Italy. Actually, the Foundation is just the Italian branch of a much larger network set up by the Church a few years ago to help people who have been harmed in some way by their involvement in new religious movements - what the newspapers sometimes call cults. Moonies, Scientologists, followers of Bhagwan Shree Rajneesh, Children of God, Krishna devotees, Baha’is, Divine Light Missionaries - the list is endless.

‘We’re only interested in people who think they have suffered through their involvement: disciples who are in and want help getting out, former members who have problems adjusting to the ordinary world again. We find them jobs, give them temporary accommodation, help reconcile them with their families. And sometimes protect them from other cult members who want to get them back or teach them a lesson for leaving in the first place. If someone’s in a group and is happy that way, we’re just as happy to leave him there. Unlike some organizations I could mention, we don’t go in for kidnapping sect members and deprogramming them. That only amounts to brainwashing them to accept what society thinks is normal.’

He glanced round the room.

‘But since modern society is itself even more abnormal than many of the sects, I see no particular benefits in forcing someone who has found some sort of meaning for himself to return to the lunatic asylum out in the streets.’

He paused.

‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to preach. To continue. Our little group has been in existence about ten years now, but during the last five of those Roberto and I have spent an increasingly large amount of our time with one particular cult. Roberto, by the way, used to be a member of ISKCON, the Hare Krishna movement. He stopped travelling to other planets twelve years ago, studied law, and started helping fraternitA full time six years back. I think I’d better let him take over at this point.’

Quadri put his cup on the floor. Again, Patrick noticed the tiredness, the slow movements of someone critically ill. When the lawyer spoke, however, his voice had none of the languor Patrick expected. He was incisive, clear, and wholly in command of his subject.

‘Okay, where do I start? At the beginning, I suppose. So, how did all this start? Not fraternita, but this thing we’re all involved in.’ He paused.

‘Not long after I started working for Dermot, a woman arrived at our office in Rome. I was on duty. I answered the door and brought her in. She looked to me as though she was in her mid-forties, but something made me think she might be much younger than that. At first, she was in a state of extreme distress - very frightened, very jumpy. She kept looking round, as though expecting someone she didn’t want to see. It took a long time before she could summon up enough courage to talk. It

took days. Weeks for all the details to emerge.

We’d just bought this apartment as a refuge for people on the run from the more violent sects, and I brought her here the same evening. After Dermot and I heard her story, we gave her exclusive use. Since the deeds had not yet been transferred to fraternita, I was able to make the entire transaction disappear. Not even the other directors knew of its existence. They still don’t.’

He paused to pour more coffee into his cup.

‘For weeks I stayed here in the apartment with her. She was so frightened, she could not be left alone, not for a moment. Dermot came on the second day and every day after that. Sometimes we talked into the early morning, sometimes we just sat with her in silence, reading, waiting for her to talk again. She was on edge, you see, so much on edge. But the more she talked the calmer she became. It was a sort of therapy, you understand, just to tell us what she knew.

‘At first we thought, she’s making this up; she’s telling lies or she has a vivid imagination. No doubt we thought other things too - that she was mad at heart, frantic with some grief, perhaps, a lonely woman looking for fears to comfort her, to give her existence meaning and purpose. Well, we were used then to milder sorts of madness, the trivial obsessions of spiritual misfits. Sex is the chief obsession: if they dream, they dream of sex. Some have too little, some too much, others none at all; it makes no difference. But not for her. If she was mad, she was mad with violence. If she dreamed, she had dreams of slaughter.’

He paused, as though entranced by the mere possibility of such dreams. ‘But the more we talked with her, the more we came to know she was not

mad. She was sane, you see. Very sane indeed.

‘She gave us a list of things we could investigate without drawing attention to ourselves. And everywhere we looked, we found confirmation of what she had told us. Her story held water. I wish ...’ He hesitated, glancing at Patrick, then at Assefa, ‘I wish now it had been a lie, or she had been mad.’

Then his eye caught Francesca’s and he smiled, a little wan smile, lonely, private. ‘Well, perhaps not that. How could we have wished that? Mistaken, let

us say.’ He paused briefly, fixing his eye on Patrick before

continuing.

‘Signor Canavan, the document you were shown this morning at the Vatican - you are satisfied as to its authenticity?’

Patrick hesitated.

‘I’m not an expert,’ he said. ‘But superficially, yes - it seemed genuine. It had the feel of the thing, it felt like ... what I imagine a document from that period would be like.’ He paused. ‘I’m sorry, that isn’t very specific. Well, the Aramaic was convincing, the details of the siege were historical, as far as I remember them from Josephus. But for any sort of certainty, you’d have to bring in a paleographer, someone with the right equipment, with the expertise to do a proper job, to examine the material, the ink, the script, the language. Ideally, a team of experts.’

‘Yes,’ said Roberto. ‘I know. But that has already been done to our satisfaction. Eamonn De Faoite examined the letter in the Archives under the pretence of working on the other documents in that volume. There are facilities there, excellent facilities. They are not so medieval as they would like to seem. I have a copy of his report here, if you would like to examine it.’

Patrick shook his head.

‘Very well. Perhaps you will give us a description of the contents of the letter, for the benefit of Father Makonnen, who has not seen it.’

Hesitantly, Patrick did as requested. Assefa listened carefully, motionless, like a condemned man hearing his sentence read out in court, slowly, with deliberation, line by damning line. When Patrick finished, he said nothing. He had come to a redundancy of words.

Quadri spoke again in his quiet lawyer’s voice. ‘As you will have guessed by now, the Brotherhood to which that letter refers did not vanish into the mists of time. They are still very much with us. Over the centuries, they have grown subtle and rich and powerful, and now they are poised to make a bid for a power and influence even they have never previously dreamed of.’ He paused and took a mouthful of hot coffee.

‘I think Francesca should explain the rest in her own words,’ he said.

Patrick turned his eyes to Francesca, only to find her gaze fixed on the floor, avoiding all contact with the others. He watched her collect herself, and with a pang recognized the way she drew her brows together, frowning briefly as she gathered her thoughts.

‘There has always been a Brotherhood,’ she began. ‘Since the days of John the Zealot, there has been in existence somewhere a body of men and women dedicated to the preservation of mankind’s greatest secret, the whereabouts of Christ’s tomb. They have had many names, gone under many disguises, but the Brotherhood itself has always been one and indivisible. In almost two thousand years, until I came back from the dead and poured my heart out in this room to Dermot and Roberto, no one has ever betrayed them.’ She hesitated. ‘No, that’s not quite true. They

have been betrayed many times. But no one before this has ever betrayed them and lived this long.’

She looked up and caught Patrick’s eye.

‘Yes, Patrick, I know,’ she said. ‘Long before I betrayed them, I betrayed you. You want me to explain it all, and I don’t know how to. Not without telling you more than it may be fair for you to know.’

‘Let me be the judge of what’s fair, Francesca. What happened to you happened to me as well. I have a right.’

She did not reply at once. Her hair fell across her eyes, as it had fallen years ago; but now it was streaked with grey, and the eyes beneath it harboured memories unthought-of then.

‘Very well,’ she said, ‘I shall try to explain. But first ... Dermot - please help me. Father Makonnen ...’

O’Malley nodded.

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I understand.’ He turned to Assefa. ‘Father Makonnen,’ he said, ‘I know you have been sorely tested in the past few days. I feel I should warn you that, if you stay, you may hear things you might prefer not to have heard. Things that will test, not only your vocation, but your faith. I do not say this lightly. Whatever else, I am a priest like yourself. I know that, if you hear what Francesca is about to tell us, you will not know a full night’s sleep for a very long time to come. Perhaps never again. If you prefer to leave, none of us will think the less of you, least of all myself. But it must be your decision.’

Assefa got up and went to the window. He looked down into the street, at the coming and going of people and cars, at the world of his vocation. He was thinking of the Virgin he had prayed to that morning, of her blackness and her virginity, like two sides of a coin, knowledge and ignorance, wisdom and unwisdom. To be black was to know things other men could never know. To have suffered always, to have been poor always, to have known no hope of change in your own lifetime. Suffering was a kind of knowledge, pain was a kind of wisdom. Ignorance, like virginity, gave no trouble to the heart. But his own virginity, the denial he had chosen for himself, was a virginity of suffering. He could not turn his back on it as Patrick had turned his back on the Virgin that morning. ‘I would prefer to stay,’ he said.

FORTY-SIX

‘They called us the Dead.’

Francesca held herself tensely in the chair, as though braced against a storm at sea.

We were chosen. Chosen out of all the world, they said. A new nobility, a priesthood consecrated by God. So they told us. Our families chose us and the Seven approved their choice. Or disapproved it if they had doubts. Once chosen, there was no going back. It was as if someone had taken a sponge and wiped our names from a slate. From that moment, we were treated as though we were truly dead.’

She glanced at Patrick.

‘You know that: you rode to my funeral, you watched them bury me, heard them pray for my soul’s rest. You think now it was a mere pretence, an elaborate game they played. Perhaps. But their grief was no more simulated than yours. For them, it was as though I had really died. My parents knew they would never set eyes on me again. My brothers, Giulietta my sister, they all knew. So you see, they suffered almost as much as you, dear Patrick. Almost as much as you.’

She halted, her eyes nervously seeking his, as though to reassure him, to tell him his grief had not been wasted. But her own eyes held a sadness that frightened him more than simple grief.

‘The Dead are a brotherhood within a brotherhood,’ she continued. ‘Strictly speaking, they are divided into a brotherhood for men and a sisterhood for women. Like the first Christian monks, like the first Brothers of the Tomb themselves, they live in Egypt, in two order houses close together in the western desert

beyond the Dakhla oasis. Whenever their services are needed in Europe or America, they are sent for. For centuries, they have been the heart of the Brotherhood. Its eyes, its ears ... its hands.’

She shivered slightly, as though a thin draught had passed unseen through the room. They were close, she thought, closer than they had ever been. Events during the past few months had forced her to show her hand more than had, perhaps, been wise. They were still hunting, still waiting for her to make the one mistake that would put her in their hands. And when they found her, they would have no mercy. None at all.

‘Having died once,’ she said, ‘they are willing to die again. Or to kill. They are, in a sense, beyond morality. Of course, they have a morality of their own; but they bend it to their own ends, like fashioners of glass who pull and twist and draw it so fine that, in the end, it has no other purpose than to break.’

Patrick watched her thin fingers move as though spinning glass filaments. He remembered going with her once to see a craftsman on Murano work with the thinnest of glass, fashioning the legs of tiny insects. He had bought her a glass spider, but by the time she brought it home, two of its eight legs had broken.

‘The Dead,’ she was saying, ‘are substitutes. By accepting death while still alive, they renew Christ’s sacrifice.’ She hesitated. ‘How can I explain this? Patrick, when you were in the palazzo with my father, did you see a painting on the wall, a fresco?’

‘Yes, it showed ...’

‘The figure of Christ bound hand and foot, dragged to the tomb.’ She paused. ‘That isn’t how the Bible tells us he died, is it? But it’s not a painter’s fantasy either, nor some ghastly attempt at blasphemy. For

the Brotherhood, it is the literal truth. It is the centre of their faith.’

Patrick remembered Alessandro Contarini as he had last seen him, angry, his long white hair falling loose across his face, his finger raised, pointing again and again at the fresco on the wall and crying: ‘For that, you fool! For that!’

Francesca hesitated and turned to O’Malley.

‘Dermot, I...’

‘It’s all right, my dear. You’re doing well. Keep going.’

She closed her eyes briefly, then opened them again, as though, in a moment’s darkness, she had found strength.

‘The Old Testament,’ she said, ‘is built around the notion of sacrifice. Bullocks, rams and sheep, goats, turtle-doves, pigeons: an endless flow of sacrificial blood.

‘But there is human blood as well. Abraham goes to a mountain with his son and prepares to slit his throat as an offering to his God. Moses is sent by the same God to redeem His people from Pharaoh: the price is the blood of Egypt’s first-born. God gives them their Promised Land, and the price is yet more blood - whole cities put to the sword, men, women and children without distinction. Jephtha returns from his victory over the children of Ammon and the price is his only daughter, to fulfil a vow to God. Hiel the Bethelite rebuilds Jericho and pays with the blood of his sons, Abiram and Segub, cast beneath the foundations and the gate. In time, the Temple reeks of blood.’

The unseen storm that raged round her was reaching its height. She fought against it, denying its force in her.

‘Christ was born into a world obsessed with sacrifice. The daily burnt offering, the weekly sacrifice

on the Sabbath, the monthly offering, Passover; burnt offerings, drink offerings, sin offerings. Within days of his birth the streets were awash with the blood of little children. That was God’s price, the ransom that allowed him safe passage to Egypt. In Jerusalem, in the Temple, the altar was red.

‘He wanted to change that world, to invest the throats of doves and the necks of rams with a different sanctity. His own life for the world, his own body as a final sacrifice, his own blood as the price of everything, the coin that would buy God’s pardon. That is what the Church teaches, what the Church believes. The Mass repeats his sacrifice endlessly, flesh and blood on God’s new altar.’

She looked at Patrick, then at Assefa. Her eyes had a faraway look now.

‘That is what you believe, isn’t it? That in one man the Temple sacrifice became universal. But the Brotherhood thinks otherwise. The Brotherhood knows the truth.’

From the table next to her, she lifted a small book bound in black.

‘This is a copy of the Aramaic Gospel of James,’ she said. ‘It has been in the possession of the Brotherhood since its inception. Any other manuscripts that may have existed have long ago been lost or destroyed. The Brotherhood itself has only ever printed a few hundred copies. I stole this one from my father’s library just before I came to Rome. It’s an Italian translation. Let me read James’s account of the death of Jesus.

“He went up to the cross, and they nailed him and hung him on it, as the prophet had foretold. And he suffered greatly from the sixth hour until the ninth, whereupon he cried out with a loud voice and hung upon the cross as one dead. And yet he had not died,

but still lived. For when they came to take him down that they might carry him to the tomb, they rejoiced that they found him still alive.

“His mother and Mary Magdalene tended his wounds and nursed him by day and night for three months, until he recovered. And in those days but a tiny number of his followers knew what had passed, that he had not died as predicted, but was still alive. For most of the disciples thought he had been buried and had risen from the dead.

“For three months, his mother and the Magdalene tended him in secret. They let the Sanhedrin and the Romans think him dead, for in that thought lay his only hope of safety. It was their plan, once he was fully come once more to his strength and could walk again, that they might find a way for him to take himself out of Palestine, into another country. And he himself desired it greatly, for the cross had broken him, and he could not face the nails again.

“But I, James his brother, together with Simon the Canaanite, Andrew the brother of Peter, and seven others from among the disciples other than the twelve, all of us who knew the truth thought otherwise. For God’s will had been thwarted, and His Sacrifice remained unfinished. Wherefore, we met together in Simon’s house that is in the Street of the Water Gate and swore a solemn oath binding us to finish what had been left undone. That night, we came to a place outside the city, where Jesus had been hidden, and took him from there over the cries of the women that watched over him, and carried him to the place outside the city, where Joseph of Arimathea had given a tomb for his burial. And he was bound with cords and his mouth tied with cloth, lest he break free or the Romans hear his cries and send men to investigate.

“And we laid him in the sarcophagus that Joseph

had inscribed with his name and the circumstances of his crucifixion under Pilate. It was a great anguish to us to treat him thus, but we remembered God’s promise to us that He would forgive us all sins through the blood of His son, and the sins of all men. And so we laid him in his place and covered him with the stone and sealed the tomb.” ‘

She stopped reading and the room filled with a terrible silence. Minutes passed and still no one spoke. At last Assefa turned to Father O’Malley.

‘Do you believe this?’ he asked.

The priest laughed loudly, breaking the spell of gloom that had settled round them all. ‘Good God, no,’ he said. ‘I can’t say it isn’t all true, of course. How would I know? How would anyone know? But the world is full of apocryphal Gospels, isn’t it? Sure, the Gnostics had Gospels and Epistles and Apocalypses and God knows what coming out of them like eggs out of a chicken. I choose not to believe in the Gospel of Thomas or the Gospel of Peter or the Gospel of the Ebionites, or, for that matter, the Acts of Paul or Peter or Thomas, and the Lord alone knows what besides. So why on earth should I believe this Gospel of James? And if it is true, what difference would it make to anything? If the saints are in hell, I’d far rather be there with them than in heaven with James and his gang.’

He paused and looked sadly at Assefa.

‘I don’t doubt that the Brotherhood exists; I know too much about them and their doings for that. And the papyrus I showed Patrick is proof enough that they go back a long way. But it doesn’t mean they know all there is to know.’

He smiled.

‘Listen, we’ll talk about this later. In the meantime, I’ll let Francesca get to the end of her story.’

Francesca laid the book back on the table.

‘There’s not much more to say,’ she continued. ‘The Brotherhood grew, at first in Egypt, later in Italy. My ancestor Pietro Contarini met some Brothers there and was initiated into their secret. By that time, Egypt was under Muslim rule, and the Brotherhood wanted to find a way into Christian territories. From Venice, they spread to Rome, and in Rome they became bishops and cardinals. About the same time Pietro brought the faith to Italy, an Irish pilgrim on his way back from Jerusalem had taken it to Ireland. During the Crusades, French and English knights were welcomed into the Brotherhood by a branch living in Jerusalem, the Guardians of the Tomb itself.

‘As the years went by, the Brotherhood grew powerful. My family and others like it in Venice made it the centre of their existence. It was a tie that bound them more tightly than any bonds of kinship. Well, in one sense the bond was one of blood. It was not just the secret they shared that held them to one another: it was something darker and more primitive than that.

‘When the Brotherhood first reached Egypt, their faith had been tested to breaking point. Jerusalem had been destroyed, the Temple razed to the ground, the Holy of Holies put to the torch. They had no way of knowing how long the Tomb of Jesus would remain inviolate, or whether it had already been found and desecrated.

‘The Jews of Alexandria were of no help to them. They prayed and wrung their hands, but they were powerless. So the Brothers vowed that one day they would avenge the destruction of their Holy City. And in confirmation of that vow, they put to death their own children, their first-born sons and daughters, regardless of age. Jesus had not been enough, otherwise the Temple would never have been burned. God

was angry, He required more blood. If they were to come out of Egypt once more, like the Children of Israel following Moses, Passover had to be repeated. Not the blood of Egyptians this time, but their own blood freely given, a sin-offering, reparation for the sins of an entire people.

‘So it went on. Of course, they could not put all their first-born to death in every generation. So the institution of the Dead was introduced. I explained earlier that they were substitutes: instead of physical death, they embraced the grave while still living. From time to time, a child would actually be sacrificed. By then, child sacrifice had become more than a ritual of atonement. The leaders of the Brotherhood, the Seven, knew that involvement in murder would hold their followers together more firmly than any vows. Who would betray such a secret, to bring himself and his whole family into disgrace and worse?’

She stopped speaking. Patrick could see that she was growing agitated again.

‘I found out all of this by accident,’ she said, her voice almost inaudible. ‘Most of us had no idea, you see. Only the Seven, the Apostles immediately below them, the abbots of the Order of the Dead, and the heads of the families ever knew the full truth. But ... I learned of it and ... witnessed it. I saw my own father ... I’m sorry, I can’t...’

Francesca was shaking now, haunted by a memory she could not exorcise. She had no need for words, the horror was in the room with them, raw and bloody and full of strength. Patrick went across to her, oblivious of the others. He took her hand and lifted her from the chair, taking her gently into his arms, not as a lover, but as someone bound to her by grief.

‘What has happened to you has happened to me,’ he repeated.

But she shook her head and pulled away from him.

‘No,’ she said. ‘Love doesn’t enter into this. Whatever you felt for me, whatever I felt for you, it’s all irrelevant. They don’t care a thing for love. Not even the love of God. They don’t want God to love them, they want Him to reward them in return for what they offer Him. Not love, but power, Patrick. Power and the forgiveness of sins. Power in this world and glory in the next. They will sacrifice anything for that: their feelings, their loves, their children ... their souls.’

He stood watching her, perplexed, frightened, understanding nothing.

‘Mr Canavan.’ It was Quadri’s voice. ‘Please sit down. We have not finished yet.’ He turned to Francesca. ‘Please, Francesca, sit down too. You did well. I’m grateful to you.’

He paused and looked round the room slowly. His thin face showed signs of pain. His eyes were full and hard.

‘Mr Canavan, Father Makonnen,’ he continued. ‘For several years now, with Francesca’s help, a small group of people chosen by Father O’Malley and myself has been investigating the Brotherhood. We have identified several of its leading members, gathered evidence of their activities, compiled a dossier for presentation to the Public Prosecutor when the time is ripe. Because of the size and secrecy of their organization, we have had to proceed with the utmost circumspection. Every step we have taken has been planned and debated most carefully. At every moment we have been aware that a single slip might place our entire mission in jeopardy. An indiscretion, a premature revelation, a careless question - anything might serve to make them aware of our existence. So far,

we believe we have succeeded in eluding suspicion.

We have run a terrible risk in bringing you here today. The Brotherhood knows of you, it has members hunting you everywhere. Francesca is already marked for death. Ordinarily, I would have recommended leaving you to your fate. Our task is too important to be endangered for the sake of one or two lives. That is how we have to be to survive. But we had a reason for seeking you out.

‘We want to know everything you may have heard about Passover. One of our people heard of it first over a year ago. Since then, we have done everything in our power to find out more, with almost no success. All we know is that what they are planning is going to be their greatest triumph in the two thousand years they have been in existence; that it is going to take place very soon; and that over one hundred of the Dead have been brought to Italy from Egypt to carry it out. We need your help. Please think hard. If you know anything that may give us a clue, anything that...’

He looked round. Assefa had risen half out of his chair. On his face was a look of sheer horror. Slowly, he raised one hand and placed it over his mouth as though he was about to be sick. O’Malley got up and went over to him, taking his arm and holding him steady.

‘Father Makonnen, are you all right?’

The Ethiopian took O’Malley’s arm, squeezing it tightly, then looked into his face, his eyes wide open, an expression of fear and grief stamped on his features.

‘My God,’ he whispered. ‘O Jesus Christ, sweet Mary, I know. I know.’

‘What is it, Father? What do you know?’ O’Malley could feel ice in his veins.

‘I know what they are planning. God forgive me, I should have thought before this. I know what it is. And I know it will happen tomorrow.’

FORTY-SEVEN

O’Malley found a bottle of grappa in the kitchen. Assefa sipped it in small, nervous gulps, gasping each time the fiery liquid caught his breath. Roberto showed him how to calm himself with slow, rhythmical breaths from the diaphragm. For a while, he sat with eyes closed, breathing gently, letting the tension dissolve. When he opened his eyes again, it was only to stare at the floor; excitement had given way to languor and impassivity.

‘Father Makonnen.’ Roberto spoke gently, yet firmly, as though pressing a reluctant witness to admit what he had seen. ‘You must tell us what you know. It’s very important. Lives may depend on it. Innocent lives.’

Assefa shook his head.

‘It’s too late,’ he whispered. ‘What can we do? There’s no time.’

‘Please let me be the judge of that. Tell me what you can.’

Assefa looked up. His eyes were full of tears, and in them Roberto sensed a mute appeal, an unspoken plea for reassurance. He had seen it many times in other eyes, under very different circumstances. But the appeal was always the same: ‘Tell me this is just a dream, that in a moment I’ll wake up and find none of this has happened.’ It was the look of a man who has just been told he is dying of a fatal disease. It was a look Roberto knew very well indeed.

‘Very well,’ said Assefa. ‘I’ll tell you what I can.’ He paused, then began to speak, choosing his words with care. ‘For the last few months, the nunciature in Dublin has been involved with a series of highly

delicate discussions. I was present at a number of meetings, some at the nunciature itself, others at Leinster House, and some at the Egyptian and Iraqi embassies. You understand that I am only an addetto, that I was never privy to any but the lowest-level talks. But Archbishop Balzarin confided in me. I was expected to handle certain items of correspondence.’

He paused and raised the glass of grappa, then thought twice about it and put it down again.

‘About a year ago, the Holy Father decided to begin a series of negotiations aimed at achieving peace in the Middle East. His plan is to start with Lebanon, since he has direct influence there through the Maronite Christians. If the settlement there proves successful, he intends to attempt a demarche on Palestine or possibly the Gulf.

‘His great ally is the new President of Ireland, Mr MacMaolain. You may know that, before he became president two years ago, MacMaolain was a Lieutenant General in the Irish defence forces. For several years he was Force Commander with UNIFIL, the UN Irish Force in Lebanon. He learnt a lot then about the politics of the region.

‘It seems that he wants the Nobel Peace Prize like his old friend Sean McBride. It happens that he and the Holy Father got to know one another well after the war, when the Pope was studying at the Angelicum, the Dominican University here in Rome. MacMaolain had an older brother in holy orders who was also writing a thesis at the Angelicum, so he was sent to Rome himself for a year. His parents wanted him to be a diplomat like his father, and they thought a knowledge of Italian would help him get a posting to the embassy in Rome. Of course, he entered the army when he got back to Dublin; but it looks as though he wants to make up for that early change of direction.’

Patrick listened intently. Two of the hardest puzzles in this affair seemed to have cleared up simultaneously: why Ireland should have been involved at all, and why Alex Chekulayev had been in Dublin.

What sort of scheme are they cooking up for Lebanon?’ he asked.

Assefa bit his lip.

‘I don’t have the details, I’m sorry. But Balzarin gave me a broad idea. The Holy Father is of the opinion that people are sick to death of civil war now and will do anything for peace. If we forget about all the different factions, the basic division in the country is between Christians and Muslims. Roughly speaking, the Christians make up about forty-three per cent of the population.

‘The Holy Father intends to meet with the heads of the different churches, and then with the Muslim leaders. In return for a promise to use his influence in the United States to get the Israelis to agree to concessions on the Palestinians, he will propose a coalition government. Technically, Lebanon will become a Muslim state. But the Christian minority will be guaranteed full representation at all levels of government. It’s not that much different to the system established in 1926, except that the Shi’ites will be properly recognized as the majority within the Muslim population.

‘God knows if the plan has any chance of working. The Holy Father intends to establish a special Vatican secretariat in Beirut, responsible for supervision of the new constitution in conjunction with a Council of Shi’ite, Sunni and Druse clergy. The Irish have promised to install observers under the auspices of the UN. The hope is that they’ll be particularly acceptable to the Shi’ites because Ireland is a non-imperial power supposed to be engaged in a struggle for independence from Britain.’

He paused and drained the glass of grappa.

‘I don’t understand,’ said Patrick. ‘I can’t see how this relates to what we’ve been talking about.’

Francesca interrupted.

‘It could, Patrick. The Brotherhood has very strong feelings about Islam. When Muslim armies conquered Palestine and Egypt in the seventh century, the Brothers thought they were a scourge sent by God to teach the churches a lesson, perhaps to prepare the way for their own rise to power. But the Arabs stayed and took possession of the towns and cities in which their holy places were situated: the tomb of Christ in Jerusalem and that of John of Amathus in Alexandria, the church of the Seven at Babylon near modern Cairo, their private catacombs at Qum al-Shuqaffa. The Brothers swore a sort of holy war against the invaders, and through the centuries they did what they could to make life uncomfortable for them.’

Patrick thought of what he had seen that time in Egypt, his first brush with the Brotherhood of the Tomb: the blood of Muslim children filling a basalt bowl, a village torn with grief.

‘About twenty years ago,’ she went on, ‘leadership of the Brotherhood passed to a bishop named Migliau. He is now a cardinal and the patriarch of Venice.’

Patrick and Assefa exchanged glances. Another piece of the puzzle had fallen into place.

‘Migliau,’ continued Francesca, ‘has a deep animosity towards Islam. It isn’t a rational thing with him, merely part of his general baggage of fears and prejudices. He was furious when the Vatican Council issued a document called Nostra Aetate, calling for mutual understanding between Muslims and Christians. And when the present Pope visited

Muslim countries like Turkey or Morocco and talked about bonds of spiritual unity between the two faiths, he went crazy. He sent an encyclical letter to all branches of the Brotherhood declaring the Pope an apostate who had betrayed the faith of Christ.’

‘I don’t understand,’ Assefa broke in. ‘Surely this Brotherhood has never recognized the authority of the Pope. What difference would it make, whatever the Holy Father said?’

Francesca frowned.

‘It’s not that simple, Father. At the very beginning, the Brotherhood was entirely at odds with the Church. But in time, as the Church grew more powerful, they came to see it as the public expression of Christianity, designed for the world at large, while the Brotherhood held the truth. The Church was the shell, while the Brotherhood was the kernel. But now Migliau wants to change all that. He says the Pope has become Antichrist and that he, Migliau, is the true Pope, sent by God to unite the inward and the outward realms of faith. He is quite mad, you see. I think he would consider the Pope’s solution for Lebanon as a final betrayal. He might try to upset the plan in some way.’

‘I think he has started.’ Assefa explained what he and Patrick knew of Migliau’s disappearance. The others listened in silence. Even if they could not understand why the cardinal had chosen to vanish, it was clear that his absence was not a coincidence, but a prelude to something more dramatic.

You said you knew what Passover was,’ prompted Boberto. Assefa nodded.

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I think so. I can’t tell you what they intend to do. But I think I can tell you when and where.’

He paused.

‘Can you tell me if there has been anything in the papers about a conference at the Vatican tomorrow?’

O’Malley nodded.

‘Yes, of course. About three days ago. It had been kept quiet until then in case of trouble. Something about the Middle East. I think the Holy Father is going to meet with religious leaders from different countries. It wasn’t described as anything very important.’

Assefa nodded.

‘No, but it is part of the Holy Father’s plan for peace negotiations. The meeting tomorrow will be the first of a series of public conferences designed to pave the way for his mission. That’s not how it will be presented, of course. Nothing will be said about Lebanon or any of the other projects, not even his hopes or fears or dreams. This will simply be a summit of Christian and Muslim leaders organized by the Secretariat for Non-Christian Beligions.

‘There will be the Pope himself, the cardinals representing the Secretariats for Non-Christian Beligions and the Promotion of Christian Unity, bishops from Catholic dioceses throughout the Middle East, patriarchs of the Greek Catholic churches, representatives of the Maronite, Coptic, Armenian and Assyrian Christian communities, Muslim shaykhs from the Azhar University in Cairo, Saudi ulama from Mecca and Medina, Ismaili leaders from Bombay and East Africa, and a Shi’ite mujtahid from Lebanon.

‘At the opening ceremony, Mr MacMaolain will be present, along with the President of Egypt and ambassadors from several Muslim states.’

‘Did you say the President of Egypt? That wasn’t in any of the papers.’ O’Malley’s face bore a look of deep concern. Assefa nodded.

‘Do you remember the papyrus I showed you this

morning?’ asked the Irishman, turning to Patrick, who was seated on his left. ‘Do you recall what Simon the Levite said about Egypt?’

Patrick nodded numbly.

‘Well man, come on, what did he say?’

‘ “If any still be alive ... he shall go unto Egypt, which is Babylon, that he may strike down Pharaoh ...” I... I can’t remember the rest.’

‘ “And that shall be the true Passover, that God’s chosen people shall pass out of the land of Egypt and come into the Land of the Promise ... Egypt shall fall, and Babylon, all them that have scattered the children of God among the nations.” I know the text well, Patrick. It’s a good many times I’ve read it now. But, by God, it never made as much sense to me before as it does this instant.’

There was a shocked silence as the meaning of the ancient words became clear. Simon and John and all the dispossessed of Jerusalem would have their revenge. A different pharaoh in a different age, yet perfect somehow for such a vengeance: the ruler of Egypt struck down side by side with the man who had inherited the mantle of the old Roman emperors. And struck down, for that matter, in Rome itself, the Babylon of so many apocalypses.

‘Is there anything more we should know?’ O’Malley asked at last, his tone subdued and hesitant for the first time since Patrick and Assefa had met him.

Assefa nodded.

‘Yes. Two things. First, the conference is only going to last two days. Press coverage has been kept deliberately low-key. Only the more important agencies and correspondents have been invited to be there. By the time hostile elements in Iran or Libya or Egypt can so much as react, the last session will have finished and the delegates will be on their way

home. And the Holy Father will have won a major public relations success. He will be able to say that he has sown the seeds of Muslim-Christian unity, wiping out centuries of mutual distrust and bigotry in forty-eight hours. Whatever the fundamentalists on either side will say, he will have made a gesture for peace. Since Gorbachev came to power, the value of such gestures in international affairs has become very great.’

He fell silent.

‘You said there were two things.’

Assefa hesitated.

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Two things. The second is this. At ten o’clock tomorrow morning, a special papal audience will be held in the Apostolic Palace, in the Sala Clementina. All the high-ranking delegates will be there, along with the Irish and Egyptian presidents and members of the Curia who will not be present at the actual conference. But the highlight of the audience will be an event which His Holiness hopes will win the hearts of men and women throughout the world.’

He paused and closed his eyes for a moment.

‘After he has greeted the dignitaries and seated them round the chamber, the Pope will welcome a party of orphans selected from every country of Europe and the Middle East, but chiefly from Italy and Egypt. Christian children and Muslim children, the hope of a new generation.’

Assefa looked at the others one by one.

‘Do you understand what I am saying?’ he whispered. ‘Tomorrow morning, the Pope will give his blessing to over one hundred children.’

No one said a word. From the street below, a faint sound of feet and voices and engines rose up to them, a thousand miles away, empty, without meaning. Assefa’s final words seemed to echo and re-echo around the little room, filling it until there was space for nothing else.

Dermot O’Malley broke the silence. He sat in his chair without moving, listening to the echo wipe away the world outside.

‘ “And it came to pass,”’ he said in a flat voice from which all emotion had gone,’ “that at midnight the Lord smote all the firstborn in the land of Egypt, from the firstborn of Pharaoh that sat on his throne unto the firstborn of the captive that was in the dungeon.” ‘

But Patrick did not hear him. He sat rigid in his chair, staring ahead as though he saw something there in the dying afternoon light, a television screen, red and blue lights flashing, a child’s face stained with blood, small teeth on bloodless lips, dead eyes, bodies like dolls, scattered across a patterned marble floor.

FORTY-EIGHT

They were on the terrace at the rear of the apartment. O’Malley had gone with Assefa to the Vatican. Roberto was on his way to deliver sealed letters to several members of the government and the judiciary. There seemed to be nothing for either Patrick or Francesca to do but wait.

The last light had almost faded from the sky. Directly opposite, in the grey dome of Sant’ Andrea della Valle, a pair of kestrels were nesting. As they flew back and forth, their wings caught fire in a strip of sunlight that lay slantwise across the back of the dome.

‘That’s the male,’ said Patrick, pointing as one of the birds hovered briefly before darting away in search of fresh building material. ‘The one with blue wings.’

‘Yes,’ said Francesca. The birds set her on edge. She had never been that free, to wing effortlessly in unencumbered air, to turn feathers into light, to be the hunter, not the hunted. ‘They come here every year,’ she said. ‘They build a nest and hatch their chicks and fly away again.’

She wished she could just flap a pair of wings and fly away with a kestrel’s ease, away from Rome, from Italy, from the past.

‘How did you find me?’ he asked. ‘How did you come to follow me in Venice, the night I visited your father?’

She smiled. Not her old smile, he thought. That had gone forever. But another very much like it, wry, enigmatic - not in the manner of the Gioconda, but darker, as though it were not a smile at all but a mask embellishing fear. Fear, great sadness, longings that had grown stale and useless - motifs for an entire life. He thought of masks: the white alabaster masks in Claudio Surian’s workshop, the coloured mask on his dead face, the bautas worn by the figures in his dreams, the high, elaborate costumes he and Francesca had worn at the carnival the year before she died and did not die - an entire city cloaked and veiled and sworn to silence.

‘Your arrival in Italy did not go unnoticed by the Brotherhood,’ she said. ‘They lost you in Rome and put out an alert to all their members. That was how we came to hear that you were here. At first I thought it was some sort of trap for me, but I couldn’t understand how you could have become involved. And then we found out who Father Makonnen was and realized it made some sense after all.

‘Anyway, I guessed you would go to Venice. The rest was easy. There were two places you could not avoid - my tomb on San Michele and the Palazzo Contarini. Brother Antonio told Dermot you had been on San Michele, and ...’

‘He knows?’

She nodded.

‘Only a little. He’s an old friend of Dermot’s, they used to be in Rome together. Dermot once told him a little, asked for help. Since all burials in Venice take place on San Michele, he’s been able to trace back many of the Dead for us, and through them their families. We’ve uncovered some very useful information that way.’

She looked out towards the dome again. The light had gone completely now, leaving the sky a dark shade of purple, like a heavy bruise. The kestrels were gone. A sound of moving traffic rose up from the city below, like a caged beast circling.

‘So you were there that night waiting?’ he said.

‘Yes. I was in the calle outside. I didn’t expect you to catch sight of me in the mist, much less know who I was. I’d no idea then that you had found a photograph, that you guessed I might still be alive.’

‘You wouldn’t have tried to speak to me?’

Her eyes widened.

‘No, of course not. For all I knew, you thought I was dead. I still had no idea of the nature of your involvement. From your point of view, my sudden appearance might have been a terrible shock. From mine, there was a very real danger that you could lead them to me.’

‘But you took me to the hospital.’

‘Of course. When you called my name, I realized you must know or guess that I was alive. Then you collapsed. I couldn’t just leave you there.’

Her hand lay unmoving on the terrace railing. His rested beside it, close, yet not touching. Once, holding hands had been the simplest of gestures. But here, tonight, with a grave and a score of years between them, it would have seemed almost a sacrilege.

‘I had Roberto follow you when you left the hospital,’ she continued. ‘Did you know there was a policeman waiting for you?’

‘Yes. Was he ... ?’

She nodded.

‘Matteo Maglione. He’s their chief man in the Venice carabinieri. He made a mistake going to the hospital himself. Roberto recognized him and realized that you might try getting out the back way. He followed you to Porto Marghera.

‘You made your own mistake, of course, when you started asking questions on Burano, trying to find someone to take you to San Vitale. They were on to you straight away. Fortunately, we were just behind them. Too late to save the old fisherman; but at least we got you both off. You took a great risk going there.’

‘You did as much,’ he said.

She shrugged.

‘I’ve grown used to it. I don’t expect to live forever.’ She shivered. ‘Let’s go in,’ she said. ‘It’s getting cold.’

They went to the kitchen and made coffee. They needed something to do, something to distract them from the tension of waiting. Above all, there was an unspoken agreement between them not to enter into a discussion of what had happened twenty years ago. For Patrick, grief was beginning to slide into outrage at what had, in the final analysis, been nothing more nor less than a betrayal. If Francesca had left him for another man, his life might never have been as damaged as it had been by her supposed death.

She may have been resurrected, but nothing that happened now could give life back to the years he had wasted grieving for her. Nor, he thought, could anything give new life to the love she had destroyed. Perhaps she had been blameless, the victim of pressures she was powerless to resist. But he was in no position to judge. With a shock, he realized that he had already started to resent the fact that she was still alive. So much of his life had been built around her death, so much of him had been buried with her empty coffin, that he wondered if he could find the energy to fill the void her return had left.

He told her what he could of his life after leaving university, omitting all references to his state of mind. In consequence, all he said was curiously grey and barren, a numb recitation of facts, as though compiled by an agency about someone else. He said little of his work with the CIA, and simply concentrated on places he had been and people he had known.

He said a little of the women he had pursued in a desperate and unsuccessful attempt to mitigate his grief after her supposed death. But in speaking of them he made no reference to the grief that had underpinned each of his relationships and, in the end, turned them sour. Without intending to do so, he made himself sound callous, his feelings shallow.

There had been an attempt at marriage, five years after Francesca. Unable to admit his continuing need for her, he had inflicted a merciless destruction on the relationship, day after day, night after night, until it had grown pale and sick beyond help. He and his wife had stayed together less than a year.

He talked at length about Ruth. Since leaving Ireland, he had thought of her constantly. The image of her body, pale on a grey shore, haunted him. He understood now why her father had killed her or had her killed, that she had been his necessary sacrifice. Patrick had never loved her as he had once loved Francesca, but until now he had not found the courage to admit it. Since Francesca’s return, Ruth’s ghost had already begun to fade.

Francesca listened in silence. For over twenty years, her own imagination had tormented her with this. How long had he grieved? A year? Two years? She had pictured him in bed with other women, with a wife and children, always happy, all memory of her buried. It gave her no satisfaction now to learn that he had never known the happiness her imagination had so freely granted him.

Strangely, she gave little in return. For the most part, she talked about fraternita - how she had come to hear about it, the help they had given her, the work she had done for them in return. Even if Passover had not happened, she told him, they would eventually have taken their expanding file on the Brotherhood to the State Prosecutor.

‘Do you remember P2?’ she asked.

He nodded.

The P2 scandal had broken in 1981. Fifteen years earlier, a man called Licio Gelli had organized a Masonic Lodge called Raggruppamento Gelli Propaganda Due - P2 for short. By various means, he succeeded in getting some of the most powerful men in the country to join. Members of the Cabinet, several former Prime Ministers, top Civil Servants, almost two hundred senior military men, bankers, magistrates, university professors.

In 1980 one of Gelli’s close friends, a banker named Michele Sindona, was under investigation for fraud. Gelli got mixed up in the case, his villa was raided, and papers were found, including the P2 membership files. It turned into the biggest political crisis in Italy since the war. The Prime Minister resigned and the government collapsed.

‘Roberto used to talk a lot about the P2 affair,’ she said. ‘He’d studied it in detail and thought our best plan would be to expose the Brotherhood in the same way. But we had to be in an unassailable position first. We couldn’t afford to go public while there were still powerful Brotherhood members unknown to us. The authorities had been lucky with P2: the lists they found at Gelli’s villa contained almost one thousand names, the entire membership of the lodge. Short of a miracle, we have no way of obtaining a list like that for the Brotherhood. As far as I know, none exists.’

She paused and rubbed her forehead as though the tension was giving her a headache.

‘We have our own files, of course. They’re stored in duplicate copies in three separate bank vaults, and Roberto has a master set on computer disks that are kept in a secure location. We’re guessing a little, but we think our list is nearly complete. What we have been looking for over the past two years is hard evidence of the Brotherhood’s activities. All we need is enough to convince one or two people in the right positions that a series of synchronized raids would be justified: the rest of our evidence would turn up then.

Tour friend Eamonn De Faoite worked for us. He started out translating some things from Aramaic, then he branched out for himself, tracking down the Brotherhood in Ireland. There have always been links. They’ve had members in Ireland for hundreds of years. That’s why I was sent to Trinity to study.’

Patrick thought suddenly of the first of his hallucinations, when he had imagined Francesca speaking Irish in an eighteenth-century room in Dublin. Had an ancestor of hers lived there once?

Francesca continued.

‘It wasn’t intended originally that I should be one of the Dead. That privilege had been reserved for my older brother, Umberto. But ... Umberto really was killed in an accident, and I had to take his place. They didn’t tell me until I got to Venice. I tried to... contact you, I...’ She closed her eyes, the pain of the memory returning. ‘They stopped me. I had to leave at once, I had to go to Egypt.’

She paused.

‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to talk about this. Not yet.’

‘It’s all right.’

She took several deep breaths.

‘Eamonn ... I was talking about Eamonn. He was the first to stumble across references to Passover.’ She paused. ‘You say he sent papers to Balzarin?’

‘Yes.’

‘I see. Yes, that makes sense. He told us he had information, but that it was incomplete. I think he mentioned that he had a possible source for more. I remember now that he said Balzarin had approached him, hinting that he knew something about the Brotherhood. We had nothing on Balzarin here. I think maybe Eamonn gave his file on the Brotherhood to him in an attempt to find out more about Passover.’

‘What about this man Father O’Malley has taken Assefa to see? This cardinal. Can he be relied on?’

‘Dermot says he can. Good God, Patrick, we never meant it to be rushed like this. Roberto wanted us to take our time, to muster our forces, get all the ammunition we could, approach several people in positions of influence simultaneously. He was patient, in spite of...’

She stopped and stood up abruptly. For a moment, she stood staring at the door, as though uncertain, then she walked into the next room. Patrick followed her, uncomprehending. She was standing by the window.

‘They’re late,’ she said. ‘Roberto said he’d ring as soon as he’d delivered the letters. I’m worried.’

‘It’s still early,’ Patrick said. ‘Just gone eight.’ But he was worried too. Roberto should have been in touch.

‘I’m going to ring his apartment,’ Francesca said. There was a door beside her, leading to the study. Patrick followed her inside. As he stepped through the door, she switched on the lights. For a second, Patrick noticed nothing, then, all at once, he realized. He had been in this room before. Not since his arrival at the apartment with Francesca. Before that.

On one wall a print of Moreau’s ‘Salome’, lit by a single spotlight. Beside it a well-filled bookcase. In the corner a small television set, its screen blank.

This was the room of his vision, the room he had dreamed about in his last nightmare in Venice.

FORTY-NINE

As they drove to the Vatican, Assefa tried to pray, but his thoughts were too jumbled to fashion even the simplest of supplications. They hurried through familiar streets grown unfamiliar. Nothing seemed quite real or habitual. Everything had changed subtly: the streets, the shops, the cafes, the people. Rome had become a film set, a pastiche of a city, its inhabitants mere extras in a bad movie. He could not believe that here, somewhere in these streets, there were men and women preparing such a monstrous slaughter.

O’Malley had made several phone calls before setting off. He was leaving nothing to chance. He wanted to speak to the right people, but he had to take great care that what he said was not reported to anyone connected to the Brotherhood, least of all Cardinal Fazzini or any of the other members of the Curia known to be members. O’Malley knew that this was scarcely the moment to go lobbing accusations against cardinals. Fazzini was closely involved in the preparations for tomorrow’s ceremony. To leave the Secretary of State and his department out of discussions about security would be a major breach of etiquette.

The priest hoped he could persuade a small handful of individuals to take personal responsibility for whatever had to be done. Fortunately, he believed he had identified the right people.

Colonel Hans Meyer, the commander of the Swiss Guard, had immediate responsibility for Vatican security. Those of his men not actually carrying out ceremonial duties tomorrow would be armed with Uzis instead of halberds. It was vital for them to be ready to react to an attack from whatever quarter it might be launched. O’Malley was confident that Meyer and his men could be trusted completely. From several sources he had confirmed that the Brotherhood had never been able to infiltrate the Swiss Guard.

True, the old Noble Guards, Palatine Guards and Papal Gendarmerie had harboured several Brothers in every generation, but they had been abolished by Paul VI in 1970 and, as far as O’Malley had been able to ascertain, had bequeathed no legacy of that corruption to the Swiss. Meyer himself had been born and bred in Lucerne, an area seemingly free of Brotherhood influence. He could be trusted.

Overall responsibility for security lay with Cardinal John Fischer, President of the Vatican’s Central Security Office. Fischer was as clean as a whistle. Born in Chicago to German immigrants, he had worked his way up the Catholic hierarchy there under Cardinal John Cody. All they had had in common was their first name. As soon as he was able, Fischer had left Chicago to work for Catholic Relief Services in the Third World: Africa, the Philippines, Mexico. In the early seventies, shortly after Cor Unum had been set up to co-ordinate Catholic charity work, he had been called to Rome to serve on its board. Once in the Vatican, his considerable abilities as an administrator had led to repeated preferments. His move to Security five years earlier had been seen as a major step towards closer involvement with the papal household.

Finally, O’Malley had left a message for his old friend, Monsignor Giuseppe Foucauld, the Pope’s private secretary. Born in Rome of Italian-French parents, Foucauld was one of the most powerful men in the Vatican. He had the Holy Father’s trust, and anything that was destined for the Pope’s ear had to pass through him first. O’Malley had still not decided whether or not the Pope should be told of the plot or, for that matter, of the Brotherhood itself. In the long run, he would have to know, of course. But O’Malley was frightened of the consequences of a premature revelation.

A meeting had been set up in Fischer’s office, on the second floor of the Governor’s Palace, a long four-storey building behind St Peter’s which serves as the City Hall of the Vatican State. O’Malley had suggested this venue himself, thinking it better to meet there, away from curious eyes in the Apostolic Palace. The Brotherhood would be on the lookout tonight.

They drove straight through the Arco delle Campane to the left of St Peter’s: the Guards on duty at the gates were expecting them. A few moments later, O’Malley parked in front of the Governorato. He took a large bundle of papers from the rear seat and stepped out.

The cardinal was waiting for them in a private reception room behind his office. The building was quiet: all staff except for security personnel had left for the day. A young priest escorted them upstairs, gave them directions, and left discreetly.

Fischer greeted them himself, advancing with an outstretched hand and a warm smile. He was a cheerful-looking man in his early sixties. Over the years, he had put on more weight than was altogether good for him, but he managed to carry it with dignity. His skull-cap was perched far to the back of his head, giving him a rather jaunty appearance.

‘Father O’Malley? I’m pleased to meet you at last. I’ve heard a great deal about your work. You may not know it, but we’ve crossed paths more than once. Used to have problems with new religions out in Africa - Kimbanguists, Aladura, all those native churches. Pretty crazy. But the worst are the new cults getting into the old mission fields. Jehovah’s Witnesses, Mormons, Baha’is. Your people used to give us a lot of help.’ He shook hands firmly, then turned to Assefa.

‘Tenastillin. Indamin adderu.’

‘Dahina,’ answered Assefa.

‘I’m afraid that’s about the extent of my Amharic,’ said the cardinal, smiling broadly. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t think Father O’Malley mentioned your name.’

‘Makonnen. Father Assefa Makonnen.’

‘I’m pleased to meet you, Father Makonnen. Are you attached to Father O’Malley’s office?’

Assefa shook his head.

‘No, Your Eminence, I’m ...’

‘Father Makonnen will explain who he is later,’ interrupted O’Malley. ‘I think it would make more sense that way. There are some things I have to explain first.’

The cardinal raised his eyebrows.

‘You sure believe in keeping things mysterious, Father. You weren’t too forthcoming on the phone either.’

‘No. No, I wasn’t. I...’ O’Malley hesitated. ‘Your Eminence, have Colonel Meyer and Monsignor Foucauld got here yet? I’d rather not start without them.’

Fischer glanced at his wrist.

‘I’m expecting the colonel any minute now. Monsignor Foucauld sends his apologies and says he’ll be joining us later. He’s having dinner with the Holy Father tonight. They have a few important guests, so he can’t really get away until about ten. Do you mind if we start without him? I have some very important business to attend to myself tonight.’

Well, it’s about that I’ve come. The ...’

There was a loud knock on the door. A moment later it opened and a tall man dressed in the gaudy Renaissance uniform of a Swiss Guard entered the room. He saluted the cardinal, then the others.

‘Hans, come on in.’

The cardinal stepped forward, drawing the colonel into the room.

‘Hans, this is Father Dermot O’Malley, the Director of fraternitA. You know? The guys who deal with the Moonies and loonies for us. And this is Assefa Makonnen. Father Makonnen’s some sort of mystery man. But not for long, I’m assured.’

Once the introductions were finished, the American had them draw up easy chairs round a small table.

‘Can I get you something to drink? I’ve got some great Scotch my brother sent me for New Year. No? Nothing? Well, let me get one for myself. I’ll be right back.’

‘Before we start, Your Eminence,’ O’Malley broke in, ‘would you mind if I made a telephone call?’

‘Sure, be my guest. There’s a phone right over there. Is it an outside line?’

O’Malley nodded.

‘You’ll have to go through the switchboard. Just give them the number. They’ll put you through.’

While the cardinal fixed his whisky, Father O’Malley made his call to Francesca. He explained briefly where he was and promised to ring again before leaving.

Cardinal Fischer came back to his seat, an ice-filled tumbler in hand.

Who was that, Father?’

‘Oh, just a friend who might be anxious about me.’

‘Anxious? You’re not in any trouble, are you?’

‘No more than any of us, Your Eminence. But it’s trouble I’ve come about this evening. Serious trouble. I have evidence of a plot against the life of the Holy Father.’

The cardinal put down his glass. He looked keenly at O’Malley, then at Assefa.

‘I think you’d better tell us all you know, Father.’

It took a long time. Now that he had made his knowledge public, O’Malley took care not to throw everything away by rushing. He took Fischer and Meyer step by step through the evidence he had collated, showing them documents to back up each statement. The more bizarre features of the Brotherhood and its history he left till last, saving them until his audience had been well prepared. Finally, with Assefa’s help, he outlined what he believed to be the scenario for the morning.

‘I have no proof that this is what they intend. Perhaps we have leapt to conclusions. But I’d rather be safe than sorry. It can do no harm to step up security for the audience tomorrow, even to call it off. The Holy Father’s life is at risk, I’m certain of it.’

The cardinal nodded.

‘Yes, Father, I think you’re right. You’ve made a very good case for yourself. Your evidence is extremely convincing.’ He turned to Colonel Meyer, who was seated on his right. ‘Do you agree, Colonel?’

Meyer said nothing at first. He picked up some papers from the table and examined them carefully. Finally, he laid them down and looked up.

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I can’t comment on most of this, it’s outside my competence. But you’ve told me enough to make me very worried indeed. There isn’t time to organize fresh security. I’d have to bring in the Carabinieri’s anti-terrorist unit, the GIS. But they’re already up in Venice handling the business of Cardinal Migliau’s disappearance. I’d say we have to look very seriously at calling tomorrow morning’s audience off.’

‘You don’t think that’s a little alarmist, Colonel?’ Cardinal Fischer leaned across the table. ‘I’m pretty sure Father O’Malley’s right about this thing, about this Brotherhood. But surely you have enough men at your disposal to handle any threat they may pose. Your men are well-trained and well-armed. Now you know the danger, you can seal off the Sala Clementina.’

‘I’m sorry, Your Eminence, but I’d prefer not to do that. If there is some sort of assault, I may lose men holding it off. Innocent bystanders could be hurt. As a professional soldier, I can’t recommend any other course of action: the audience must be called off. But I will need your authority to persuade the Holy Father. Perhaps Monsignor Foucauld could be asked to expect us and to arrange for us to see the Pope at once.’

The cardinal seemed to hesitate for a moment.

‘Very well. I’ll see what I can do.’

He picked up the telephone.

‘Interno due, perfavore.’

There was a pause, then a voice came on the line.

‘Monsignor Foucauld, please. Tell him this is Cardinal Fischer. Thank you.’

Another pause, a longer one this time.

‘Hello, is that you Giuseppe? ... John Fischer here. I’ve got Father Dermot O’Malley with me. He spoke with you earlier tonight, asking for a meeting ... That’s right... Yes, I know. Look, Giuseppe, I’ve had a long chat with him and Colonel Meyer. There’s

really nothing to worry about... No, nothing at all. A false alarm.’

O’Malley looked at Assefa. He could not understand. Fischer went on speaking.

‘I’m sure his Holiness is tired. There’s no need to worry him tonight. Everything can go ahead in the morning as planned ... The same to you, Giuseppe. Please give the Holy Father my greetings. I’ll be praying that everything goes as planned tomorrow. I’m sure it’ll be a great success. Ciao.’

Both O’Malley and Meyer were already on their feet by the time the cardinal replaced the receiver. O’Malley spoke sharply.

‘Your Eminence, what ... is the meaning of this? We agreed that the Holy Father’s life may be in danger. I must protest. Please let me speak to Monsignor Foucauld.’

‘Please sit down, Father. There’s no reason to be upset. Everything’s under control.’

Meyer stepped forward.

‘I’m sorry, Your Eminence, but Father O’Malley is right. We cannot afford to take any risks with the Holy Father’s life. Or any other lives.’

Fischer pushed himself out of his chair.

‘I asked Father O’Malley to sit down. I would like you to do the same.’

‘I cannot...’

‘Colonel, you are on the verge of insolence. Remember your place.’ Fischer’s face had reddened. His eyes glinted with anger. The colonel stood his ground.

Father O’Malley made to take Fischer by the shoulders. The cardinal drew back a hand and slapped him hard across the cheek.

‘You will remain seated, Father.’ The voice was hard. ‘It’s time you understood just how matters really stand.’

Fischer reached for a second telephone, a white office model, and dialled a single digit. It rang briefly, then a voice answered. The cardinal said, ‘Could you come up now, please?’ and replaced the handset.

No one spoke. Assefa glanced at O’Malley nervously. He could not understand how it was possible for Cardinal Fischer not to believe their story. They had evidence. Assefa had provided full details of events in Dublin. What more could the cardinal want? He glanced at the American.

The cardinal had resumed his seat. He sat impassively, all anger gone, hands folded calmly in his ample lap. His red-piped soutane was perfectly creased. His shoes were immaculately polished. His rosy cheeks glowed with contentment. He seemed like a large wax doll.

Assefa’s eye was drawn by something on the wall, just behind Fischer’s head. It was the cardinal’s personal coat of arms, painted on a ceramic plate. Assefa had noticed it several times that evening, but now it was as though he saw it properly for the first time.

At the centre of the heraldic design, beneath a red cardinal’s hat with long, hanging tassels, sat a broad shield. And in the centre of the shield a man stood upright in the prow of a small boat, one arm raised high above his head, about to cast a net on the water.

Fischer. Fisher. The fisherman. Il Pescatore.

FIFTY

The door opened. Two priests stepped into the room and inclined their heads towards the cardinal. They were carrying small sub-machine guns in what seemed a very professional manner.

‘Colonel Meyer,’ Fischer said, ‘I regret to inform you that you are being placed under arrest. If you would be so kind as to accompany these gentlemen, they will see you are treated properly.’

‘Verfluchte Scheisse!’ Meyer spluttered and leapt out of his chair. At the door, there was a sound of bolts being drawn back.

‘I demand to know what you think you’re playing at,’ the colonel raged. ‘You have no authority to do this. Who are these men? No one but my Guard is authorized to carry arms here. I don’t care if you...’

‘Take him away,’ Fischer waved a dismissive hand at Meyer. The priests - if priests they were - stepped forward and grabbed the colonel roughly, each one taking an arm. Before he had time for further protest, he had been bundled through the door. It slammed behind them. There was a sound of footsteps clicking across the marble floor outside, followed by another door slamming, then silence.

Fischer leaned back in his easy chair.

‘So,’ he said, smiling first at O’Malley, then at Makonnen. “What am I going to do with you two?’

‘Absolutely nothing at all,’ the Irishman replied. ‘And, contrary to expectations, you’re going to have Colonel Meyer brought back here. He is going to make his telephone call to Monsignor Foucauld after all.’

‘Is he indeed? I’m interested to hear that. Perhaps you could tell me why you think that is.’

O’Malley gestured towards the table.

‘What do you see there, Your Eminence?’ There was more than a hint of sarcasm in the way O’Malley used the title. ‘A list of names, documentary evidence of their connection to an organization called the Brotherhood of the Tomb, documents proving that this Brotherhood exists. As valuable a bundle of papers as ever existed, don’t you agree? Now, did you think I’d come here tonight bringing the only copies in existence? Did you imagine I was that trusting?’

He paused and reached for the list of names. He lifted it from the table and waved it in front of Fischer’s face.

‘Copies of this list, together with xeroxes of every relevant piece of documentation, have been deposited in the vaults of three major Italian banks. I have prepared letters for the Public Prosecutor, the Minister of Justice, the Prime Minister, and the editors of Il Tempo, Messaggero and the Giornale d’ltalia. By now, they will all have been delivered by hand by a colleague of mine.’

He laid the list back on the table.

‘Now,’ he said, ‘I want you to listen carefully. If I do not contact each of the individuals I have mentioned by seven o’clock tomorrow morning, they have instructions to open the envelopes. Equally, if any major act of terrorism should occur anywhere in Italy within the next few days, they will open the envelopes. In any event, they will under no circumstances destroy them. Inside, as you will have guessed, they will discover my letter, together with written authorization to open the vaults and extract the documents I have deposited in them.

‘Do you understand? You can harm me or not, as you choose. You can go ahead with your plan for tomorrow morning, knowing that it may be preempted. In either case, your Brotherhood is finished. Migliau is on that list. Fazzini. Well, you have seen for yourself. I’m sure you can complete the rest.’

He let out a deep sigh.

‘It’s finished, Your Eminence. It’s all over.’

Fischer said nothing. He sat watching O’Malley, his eyes unblinking. At the end of a minute, still silent, he got up. He walked slowly into an adjoining room. Another minute passed, then he reappeared. In his arms he was carrying a large pile of papers, all packed in neat brown files and tied with string.

‘Are these the papers you mean, Father O’Malley?’

He put the files down on the table. O’Malley stared at them like a man who has just been shown an open grave and told that it is his own. The life seemed to have gone out of him. His body sagged, his head bent, his shoulders seemed bowed beneath an intolerable weight.

There was a knock at the door.

‘Avanti!’ Fischer called.

The door opened and a thin man dressed in the robes of a cardinal stepped into the room.

‘Tommaso, please come in,’ said Fischer, welcoming him. ‘We were just talking about you.’

‘Really?’ The new arrival raised his eyebrows. ‘How flattering.’

‘I don’t think you know Father Dermot O’Malley.’

‘But I’ve heard so much about him.’ The stranger held out his hand, waiting for O’Malley to rise and kiss his ring. But the Irishman did not move.

‘I see we have forgotten our manners.’ The cardinal lowered his hand.

‘And this,’ said Fischer, ‘is Father Makonnen. I think you already know one another.’

Assefa said nothing. He knew Fazzini well enough.

‘Please, Tommaso, come and have a drink.’

‘Just a fruit juice for me, please. I’ve been dining with the Holy Father. My mind should be clear for tomorrow.’

‘Of course, of course.’

Fazzini took a comfortable chair beside Fischer.

‘And how was the Holy Father?’

‘Fine, fine. He has great hopes for tomorrow, great hopes. Oh, by the way, before I forget. I dropped into my office before coming over. I have the letters you wanted.’

He reached inside his soutane and drew out a bundle of about half a dozen thick envelopes. Father O’Malley closed his eyes as though in pain.

‘Thank you, Tommaso. I’ve dealt with Meyer. I think we’ve taken care of everything.’ He glanced at his wrist. ‘Ah, you’re just in time for the news bulletin.’

He stood and went across to a small television set in the corner. It warmed up in seconds. He switched it to the local channel and returned to his seat.

They did not have to wait long. Half a minute later, a female announcer appeared. The second item was the first public announcement of tomorrow’s audience and the conference that would follow it. A photograph of the Pope greeting Presidents MacMaolain and Mirghani was followed by film of other dignitaries arriving at Fiumicino airport. A professor from Rome’s Istituto di Studi Orientali mumbled platitudes about Muslim-Christian relations, only to be outdone by a spokesman from the SNCR, the Secretariat for Non-Christian Religions, who managed to slip in quotations from Saint Francis, the Qur’an and Herman Hesse.

Fischer did not switch off after the piece came to an end. He made them sit and watch the rest of the local news: an item about housing in the EUR, another about a by-election, and one on the price of salami. Finally, the announcer shuffled her papers and came to the last item.

‘News has just reached us of a road accident in the city involving a fatality. A car with a single driver collided with a heavy lorry in the Via del Corso, not far from the Palazzo Chigi. First reports indicate that the car skidded into the path of the lorry and was crushed on impact. The driver of the car was dead on arrival at San Giovanni hospital. His name has just been released by the Vigili Urbani. He was Roberto Quadri, a lawyer who worked for a Catholic organization for ex-convicts. The driver of the lorry is reported to be unhurt. There are no further details at this time.

‘And that’s all for this evening. We’ll be on the air again tomorrow at seven with the first news bulletin of the day. There will be a full report on the papal audience and full coverage of the event at ten. Please join us then.’

Fischer used a remote-control device to turn the set off. The room filled with an unhurried silence. Dermot O’Malley did not move. Tears ran down his cheeks, but he did not lift a hand to wipe them away.

‘What about that other matter, Tommaso? Has it been taken care of as well?’

‘Oh, yes - the American and the Contarini girl. I have men on their way there now. It shouldn’t take long.’

O’Malley looked up. All the gentleness had gone from his face as though it had never been. In its place was a look of blind rage mixed with pain. He threw his head back and roared at the top of his voice, then leapt to his feet, grabbing for Fazzini, toppling the old

man from his chair. They fell together, O’Malley on top, his anger overpowering, his hands on the cardinal’s neck.

Fischer stood and reached a hand inside his soutane. He took out a small handgun, took two steps towards O’Malley, kicked him off Fazzini, and shot him twice. The big Irishman was thrown backwards by the force of the shots. He looked at Fischer with a puzzled expression, raised himself on one elbow, and tried to stand. Fischer fired again, two more shots. O’Malley fell back again, choking. Fischer helped Fazzini back to his chair. When he looked round again, O’Malley was on his knees in a pool of blood, reaching for a chair to pull himself up. The American raised the gun.

‘No!’ shouted Assefa. The Ethiopian ran for Fischer, grabbing at his wrist. The cardinal swung his arm round, striking him hard across the cheek with the gun barrel. Assefa staggered and fell back against an armchair. O’Malley was on his feet now. With a roar, he made a lunge for Fischer. The American emptied the rest of the magazine, three shots in quick succession. O’Malley collapsed face downwards and lay still.

FIFTY-ONE

‘In the kitchen,’ he said, ‘you said that Roberto was patient in spite of something. Then you broke off.’

They had left the study after Francesca failed to get a reply from Roberto’s apartment. She had not noticed his unease at being in the study. Back in the living-room, she had poured grappa for them both. She was standing by the window, staring into the street.

‘Did I?’

‘Yes.’

She did not answer. With her hands flat against the pane, she rested her cheek on the cold window. Beyond the glass, the sound of traffic was muffled. There was a stillness in the night, a quietness that seemed to have its origin in her, as though she were the calm point in a storm.

‘We were lovers once,’ she said, her voice hushed, her breath clouding the windowpane. ‘Not like you and me, Patrick. With Roberto, it was ... quieter. Less happy, often sad. But after so long away from the world, he brought me back to it. He showed me how to live again. That wasn’t easy. It took all our energy. There was very little time for love.’

She looked out into the night, and for the first time he sensed how lost she was, like a child waking from a dream to find herself in a strange bedroom, thousands of miles from home.

‘We’d both had our gods and lost them,’ she went on, ‘and we understood that well enough, I think. But he had danced and sung for his god, while I had wept and bled for mine. I had no understanding of his rapture, he mistook my tears for blindness.

‘But we made a certain happiness for each other. A sort of balance. Is that the right word? Not like scales, I don’t mean that, one weight lying against another. It was more like ... a tightrope walker, someone who finds balance only by constant movement, who will fall to his death if he remains still for more than a moment. We were like that, always moving, always seeking a new point of equilibrium.’

One hand stretched out and brushed the glass, wiping away a film of misted breath like gauze. There were bars across the window, heavy bars designed to keep intruders out. She looked past them as though this apartment had been, not a refuge, but a prison for her.

‘Perhaps if we had been more like weights, it would have lasted longer. I don’t know. Our balance was too fine; we lost it in the end. Roberto became too involved in his investigation of the Brotherhood. He let it become his life. But I was just the opposite, you see. It had already been my life, I was trying to put it behind me, to find new ways to live. We might have found a balance there, I can’t say. But it was already too late anyway. Roberto’s sick. He doesn’t have long to live.’

She looked away from the window, into the room, but her eyes did not meet Patrick’s.

‘Three years ago,’ she said, ‘he was diagnosed as suffering from AIDS. His doctor told him he had about a year to eighteen months to live. He was shattered at first. For a month or more, he went about like a zombie, as though he’d lost interest in everything and was just waiting to die. And then, quite suddenly, he changed. He’d found out he could fight it, that a diagnosis of AIDS wasn’t a death sentence, whatever his doctors said.

‘There were scores of people in the United States who’d lived seven, eight years with the disease. Some of them were completely free of symptoms, living normal lives. What they had in common was a decision not to give in. They meditated, practised visualization, had acupuncture, herbal remedies - anything that might turn their immune systems round and give them a fighting chance. That sounds incredible. You’d think it should make headlines. But the media aren’t interested. They want people to die of AIDS. What use is an epidemic if some of its victims won’t lie down?

‘It’s the same with doctors. Roberto’s already outlived their predictions, but every time he tells them what he’s doing, it’s like a wall comes down. They don’t want to know about people getting better outside their control.’

She sighed.

‘The way he’s been fighting, by now he should be like some of those people in America, living a normal life again. But any energy he gains, he uses up fighting the Brotherhood. That’s what’s killing him now, not AIDS. Isn’t that stupid?’

She turned back to the window.

‘I think of all those people out there, frightened to death of AIDS. They’d come to believe a myth, you see, that medicine could cure them of anything. And then AIDS came along and they were powerless again. But AIDS is just a word, just four letters: they’re dying of four letters. They think a virus is killing them, but it isn’t. People with healthy immune systems can catch the virus and hardly notice it. It’s people who are already tuned in to death who die of AIDS. And our whole society encourages them. Their priests tell them they’re sinners and deserve to die. Their doctors say they’re incurable and their deaths are certain. The media treat them like lepers.

‘I’ve already been as good as dead, I know just what it’s like to be outside the world. That’s how Roberto felt when they first told him he had AIDS, as though they’d taken him to a door and pushed him through, never to let him back again.’

She paused. Her eyes were focused elsewhere, not on him, not on the room.

‘That’s why we have to destroy Migliau and the Brotherhood if we can. They stand for death, they believe sacrifice is essential to survival, they think there’s nothing wrong in shedding innocent blood in search of salvation. Migliau is willing to put any number to death for the sake of the few. It’s like the medical profession. They don’t want people to die. And yet they’ll let thousands succumb to AIDS sooner than admit they’re wrong. See, they say, without us you’re helpless. Believe in us, give us power, and we’ll grant you salvation.

‘Priests are the same. A woman’s life is in danger, she needs an abortion - what do they tell her? Your child’s life is more important than yours, you have to be sacrificed so it can live. People are starving, they need contraceptives; but the priests tell them God will be angry if they use them.

‘That’s why Migliau is so dangerous. The world makes a special place for people like him. He’ll find scapegoats everywhere: AIDS victims, Muslims, homosexuals, the poor, anyone who doesn’t fit in to his new order. They’ll all become sacrifices, and people will stand around and applaud. It’s a hygienic measure, he’ll say. Wipe out the viruses and health will be yours. Destroy the cancer cells and you’ll live for ever. It wouldn’t be so bad if it was just a metaphor. But it isn’t: he wants real blood on his altar. Tomorrow will be just the beginning if we don’t stop him.’

She stopped.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘This isn’t what you wanted to talk about. We ...’

‘Shhhhh.’

He raised a hand.

‘What is it?’

‘I thought I heard something. Is there another way into this apartment?’

She looked round, startled.

‘You think ... ?’ She hesitated. ‘There are just two entrances: the main door from the stairs and the side door to the fire escape.’

‘Which way is that?’ He spoke in a low whisper, drawing her away from the door.

She pointed.

‘Along the passage to the left.’

‘Okay. Go out to the terrace and wait for me there.’

She shook her head.

‘Thanks, but I’d prefer to stay.’

He took her by the shoulders.

‘Please, Francesca, don’t argue. I know how to handle myself. You haven’t been trained.’

She raised an eyebrow.

‘Oh? And what do you suppose they taught us out there in the desert? How to knit?’

There was a definite sound outside.

‘Quickly,’ she hissed. ‘Through here!’

She took his hand and pulled him to the kitchen. Hurriedly, she opened the cupboard beneath the sink and drew out a roll of sacking.

‘Here!’ she said, thrusting it into Patrick’s hands. He unrolled it to find a Beretta 92SBF pistol.

‘It’s loaded,’ she whispered. ‘Fifteen rounds.’ She had already unpacked a second gun for herself.

There was a loud crash as the door of the living-room was kicked open. Through the frosted glass door of the kitchen, Patrick could see a human figure move into the room. Patrick reached for the door handle. He was about to turn it when the glass exploded in his face, blown to pieces by a round of machine-gun fire just above his head. He fell back, dropping his gun. The gunfire from the living-room continued, raking the kitchen, smashing plates and glasses, tearing the cupboards to shreds.

Francesca threw herself to the floor on top of Patrick, lifting her gun in two hands. The gunman’s head was visible through the hole where the glass had been. She fired quickly, before he changed his angle of fire. Her bullet sliced his cheek.

She rolled for the door, crashing hard against it, twisting sideways behind the wall. A blast of fire raked the floor behind Patrick’s legs. Francesca reached behind her, pulling Patrick out of the line of fire into the shelter of the wall. A third burst from the machine gun smashed the door apart and ploughed up the floor immediately behind it, where she and Patrick had been seconds before.

There was a pause. Francesca heard the sound of a magazine being withdrawn. She leapt to her feet, aimed through the hole in the door, and fired a succession of shots at the point from which the shooting had come. There was a cry followed by a heavy crash.

Someone shouted from one of the bedrooms.

‘Paolo! Che succede?!’

‘Quickly!’ Francesca helped Patrick to his feet. Blood was streaming down his face. ‘Are you all right? Can you see?’

He nodded. ‘I’m okay. Not... badly hurt. Just cut.’

‘Let’s get out of here,’ she said. His gun was on the floor where he had dropped it. She picked it up and handed it to him.

They were half-way across the living-room when a second man appeared in the doorway. He wore a black hood over his face and carried a Steyr AUG assault rifle in a gloved hand. He took in the scene with a single glance and ducked back behind the door-jamb.

Francesca moved to the left behind an armchair, Patrick to the right, throwing a coffee table over for a barricade. The gunman opened fire on Francesca. Heavy-duty 5.56mm bullets tore the top of the chair away in a matter of seconds. She fired back round the side of the chair, but her shots went high, splintering the top of the door frame.

Patrick caught sight of a third man entering the passage from the bedroom beside the fire escape. He fired on him half a second too late. The first man fired a second burst into the chair, forcing Francesca to roll out from behind it, towards the wall. The gunman saw her move and swung his weapon, trying to follow the same arc, but as he did so Patrick fired twice through the thin partition wall. There was a cry and the man toppled into the room.

‘Be careful, Francesca! There’s a third one in the passage!’

The third man had disappeared. But they knew that, if he was going to fire, he would have to come to the door. They made a run for the wall on either side of the door, flattening themselves against it.

Patrick saw a hand reach round the jamb, caught sight of something flying through the air. Seconds later, there was a blinding flash accompanied by a loud explosion. Patrick staggered back, clutching his hands to his ears, dropping his gun to the floor. Francesca cried out, firing wildly. A second stun grenade followed, knocking her flat against the wall.

Patrick fought against the dizziness, trying to get to his knees. He could not tell which way was up and which down. The room seemed to be pulsating, fluttering, rippling in long, swirling waves. He could not see or hear. He reached out for something to grab hold of. There was a hand, someone had hold of him. And then the hand was gone and he was tumbling like a brick down a well that had no bottom and no top and sides of the darkest night.

FIFTY-TWO

No one came for Dermot O’Malley’s body. Neither Fischer nor Fazzini seemed to care. They sat and talked of personal matters: a niece’s first communion, a mutual friend’s illness, the difficulty of obtaining good French wine through the Anonna, the Vatican commissary. From time to time, one or the other would cast glances at Assefa, only to return to the discussion a moment later, indifferent to his presence. He sat immobile, dreaming of Abyssinia, where they built churches beneath the earth and dressed in robes of purest white. Sometimes he thought he wanted to be sick.