MatchUp

OF ALL THE TEAMS, THIS one may have had the most difficulty. Eric’s character, Braverman “Bravo” Shaw is an accomplished medieval scholar and cryptanalyst, a solid East Coast kind of guy. Judith’s character is all western, born one afternoon while she was watching the news in Tucson. Her favorite female newscaster was not on that day. She later learned that the new thirtysomething news director had decided that, at age fifty-three, the woman had to go. That’s when ex-newscaster, Ali Reynolds, was born.

Like their characters, both writers live and breathe from different sides of the country. Further complicating things was the fact that collaboration was foreign to both of them. Neither had much worked with someone else on a story.

They’re both loners.

Their styles are quite different.

Eventually, though, they realized that those differences were actually strengths. Eric wrote a first draft, then Judith took it from there. In the end, despite all the hurdles, these two were the first, among the eleven teams, to finish their story, five months ahead of the deadline.

Not bad for a couple of loners.

You’re going to enjoy learning about—

Taking the Veil.

TAKING THE VEIL

BLACK HILLS, ARIZONA

1601

FRA IGNACIO WAS TIRED—EXHAUSTED, REALLY. He and his five fellow Jesuits had been on the run for the better part of a year. They had started in the Holy Land, where they had been sent on a secret mission by Pope Clement VIII to bring back to Rome the fabled Sudarium—the Veil of Saint Veronica—the cloth used to wipe the blood and sweat from the brow of Jesus on his way to the Crucifixion, imprinting his face on the fabric. He had been told that it had been unearthed in the Sinai by tomb raiders who had no idea of its significance to the Holy See, to the church itself.

Clement VIII had bought the holy relic from a merchant in the Levant. Fra Ignacio and his group had been dispatched from Rome to fetch it since the Holy Father trusted no one other than his beloved Jesuits to ensure that this Veronica, as it was sometimes called, was the genuine article as, over the years, any number of fakes had been foisted upon the Vatican.

He made contact with the merchant and the judicious biblical scholar, who had authenticated the Veronica for Clement VIII. He never saw the veil itself, for it was already housed in a quiverlike cylinder made of zinc, clad in three layers of copper, with a watertight seal at one end. Twelve days after arriving in the Levant, they made their way back to the ship Clement VIII had provided for them.

But luck was not with them.

Before they could board their ship with the treasure, they were ambushed and attacked by a band of thieves who had stolen the veil and boarded a waiting pirate ship. Fra Ignacio’s ship had pursued the pirate vessel across the full length of the Mediterranean, out into the Atlantic through the Straits of Gibraltar, and all the way to the pirates’ base in Honduras where his crew had retrieved the veil in a daring nighttime raid. With the veil in hand and their ship resupplied they had set off for home, only to be blown off course by a hurricane and left shipwrecked off the coast of Texas.

Stranded off the coast of the vast New World, he took the veil along with the few surviving members of his crew and headed north through the Rio Grande Valley. Turned away by the priests at the mission in Albuquerque but now reprovisioned and with horses and pack mules, they turned westward toward California.

Days later, after crossing through a red-rock-lined valley and in the face of an early winter storm, they had holed up for several days in a limestone cavern under a thick canopy of ponderosa pines. Late in the day, they said their prayers, then ate a meager dinner. Afterward, Fra Ignacio left the others, moving deeper into the cavern where he had buried the Veronica case upon arriving. It took all his strength to move aside the protective boulder he had used to conceal the treasure. Then, as he did every evening at this time, he placed his trembling hands around the cool copper protecting the relic.

It was at that precise moment he heard screams and pleas for mercy coming from the men he had left behind near the cavern’s mouth. He heard the soft whir of shot arrows, the clink of obsidian against rock, and knew a band of marauding Apaches had found them.

Returning the veil to its hiding place and rolling the boulder back into position, he kissed the rock before retreating deeper into the cavern. His torch guttered, and the way grew dim. Eventually utter blackness engulfed him. He slowed his pace and paused, waiting for his eyes to adjust.

Suddenly, without warning, he was grabbed from behind.

His throat was slit with the blade of a hunting knife.

BLACK HILLS, ARIZONA

PRESENT DAY

MARTIN PRICE LOVED AMERICAN INDIAN arrowheads. Over the years he’d amassed an impressive collection. None were more beautiful than the Apache obsidian arrowheads, masterfully chipped and honed to razor sharpness. So it was no surprise when he saw the glint of chipped obsidian on the floor of the limestone cavern adjacent to an abandoned glory hole. The hopeful miners from years past who’d dug the test hole must have left the place empty-handed and disappointed.

Not Martin.

Seeing the almost perfect arrowhead and slipping it into his pants pocket lifted his spirits. They needed lifting because he and his two fellow Gnostic Observatines had been up here in the wilds of the Black Hills, high above Sedona and Jerome, for over a week now without finding what had purportedly been hidden here since the beginning of the seventeenth century.

The Veil of Saint Veronica.

So many fakes had surfaced over the centuries that the Vatican had given up all hope that the Veronica still existed. But Bravo Shaw, the head of the Gnostic Observatines, a lay splinter sect of the Franciscan Observatines, had received information from one of his many worldwide sources not only that the Veronica existed, but that it was hidden in a limestone cave somewhere in Arizona’s high desert country. A diary entry found in the Vatican, purportedly written by the sole survivor of Fra Ignacio’s doomed expedition verified that fact. But the story of the Veronica ending up in Arizona had seemed far too preposterous to be believed.

By everyone, but Bravo.

He’d dispatched Price and his companions to go in search of both the cave and the veil. It was early November, about the same time of year when, according to the diary, Fra Ignacio and his men had been slaughtered. It was cold, and after weeks of rough living and of finding nothing, Price’s companions were growing restless, itching to get back to the warmth and comfort of their San Francisco headquarters.

But Price’s luck had changed when he had asked a group of elk hunters about the existence of a limestone cavern, and they’d directed them here. There were plenty of signs of human presence. Empty beer cans, tobacco cans, paper wrappers, a fire pit. And yet that arrow had somehow escaped everyone else’s notice.

Was it a sign that had been meant for him alone?

Thoughtfully, Price stood where he was and used his Maglite to examine his surroundings, looking for something to speak to him, but there was nothing. If the solid limestone walls around him held a secret, they weren’t telling. Moving deeper in the cavern, he heard the steady drip of water and saw the ghostly forms of looming stalactites and stalagmites. Looking at them rather than watching his feet, he stumbled over a boulder. As he struggled to regain his balance, the boulder moved. The movement was minuscule, but it was enough to tell him that the rock wasn’t a natural part of the cavern itself.

It seemed separate.

Had it been put there deliberately and for a reason?

Was that even possible?

With his heart rate climbing, he dropped to his knees and shoved against the rock with all his strength. With that much pressure exerted the boulder moved with surprising ease, revealing a hand-dug depression below. The beam of his flashlight illuminated the verdigrised surface of a metallic curved object. He had been told that the Veronica was preserved in a copper-clad cylinder. On the ground next to the cylinder lay a pile of beads and an ivory crucifix. He scooped up the crucifix and slid it in his pocket.

Two screams resounded through the cavern.

The Gnostic Observatines, declared anathema by Clement VIII for their belief that truth went beyond traditional church canon, were well trained. Price, one of the best of Bravo’s men, understood his priorities. The veil came first, his life and the lives of the others second.

Quickly now, for he had little time, he typed a message into his phone.

UNDER ATTACK.

Then he dropped the phone into the depression next to the cylinder and the scatter of beads. Shoving the boulder back in place, he loped deeper into the cavern and away from the spot where the veil lay buried, dousing his flashlight as he went and hearing the sound of pounding feet behind him. Light from some other source temporarily blinded him. He’d already drawn his .45, but before he could take cover behind the nearest looming stalactite, something whirred behind him and a stabbing pain shot through the space between his shoulder blades.

He fell facedown onto the cold damp rock.

Before he could regain his footing, hands he couldn’t see grabbed his arms and hauled him upward. A heavy blow shattered his cheekbone, then another punch in the pit of his stomach doubled him over. He gasped, trying and failing to suck air into his lungs. Whoever was holding him let go of his arms, and he crashed facedown on the cavern floor in an explosion of pain.

That pain, however, was nothing compared to what was to come.

SISTER ANSELM BECKER WAS STILL sleeping peacefully in her solitary cot at St. Bernadette’s Convent in Jerome, Arizona, when the jangling ringing of her cell phone awakened her. It was a distinctive ringtone, one that belonged to her benefactor, Bishop Francis Gillespie, calling from his residence at the archdiocese in Phoenix.

Glancing at her bedside clock, Sister Anselm read 4:45 a.m.—well before her normal waking time for morning prayers. A nighttime call like this could only mean one thing. Somewhere in Arizona a badly injured patient was in desperate need of a patient advocate. That was Bishop Gillespie’s self-appointed mission—to care for badly injured patients, often solo travelers or undocumented immigrants—who found themselves suddenly thrust into the world of hospital care and unable to cope. Sister Anselm, an eightysomething Sister of Providence, was the bishop’s main tool in that regard. Not only was she a skilled nurse, she was conversant in any number of languages and was able to translate health-care jargon into something understandable.

“Good morning, Father,” she said. “What seems to be the problem?”

“Two hours ago, a pair of elk hunters camped out in the Prescott National Forest came upon a badly injured, naked man lying in the roadway. There was an arrow in his back. I’m told he’d also been tortured and is suffering from severe hypothermia. The hunters were out in the middle of nowhere. They wrapped the guy up as best they could and drove him to St. Jerome’s Hospital in Flagstaff. I’m told he’s in serious condition.”

“Why did they call you?” she asked.

“They believe the victim may be a priest. The only thing he had in his possession was a bloodied crucifix. So far he hasn’t regained consciousness, and he’s likely to go into surgery soon. I’d like you to be there as soon as you can.”

“Absolutely,” she said. “I’m on my way.”

It took more than an hour for Sister Anselm to arrive at St. Jerome’s Hospital in Flagstaff. Once there, she paused outside the ER to read through what little information there was on John Doe’s chart. He had indeed been struck in the back by an arrow. After stabilizing the patient, ER personnel had used ultrasound imagery to thread the arrow through the chest cavity and out through his rib cage without damaging any additional internal organs. His next stop would be an operating room where surgeons would address other pressing internal injuries.

Squaring her shoulders, she entered the ER and approached the proper cubicle only to find that another visitor—a distinguished-looking and fit young man—had preceded her.

“Who are you?” he demanded, barring her way. “And what business do you have with Martin Price?”

“That’s his name?” she asked, making a notation on the iPad. She carried it with her. “Martin Price?”

The man nodded.

“I’m Sister Anselm Becker, a Sister of Providence,” she said. “I’ve been asked to serve as Mr. Price’s patient advocate. Who might you be, and how do you know this man? Are you a relative?”

“My name is Bravo Shaw,” he said. “I’m the director of the order of Gnostic Observatines. Martin Price is a member of our order.”

A pair of nurses hurried past Sister Anselm and Bravo Shaw and disappeared into the cubicle. They appeared moments later, wheeling Price and his IV tree out of the ER and toward the operating wing. While Shaw watched Price, Sister Anselm studied him. He didn’t look like any priest she’d ever seen, and if he and the patient were members of an order, why would Shaw refer to himself and the patient by their given names?

“Father Shaw, I’ve been a Sister of Providence for more than sixty years,” she said. “I’ve never heard of an order called the Gnostic Observatines inside or outside the church.”

“Bravo, please, rather than Father,” he said, smiling at her in a way she didn’t much care for. “We’re Franciscans, adhering to St. Francis’s original dicta. The order was cast out by Pope Clement VIII because we refused to go against St. Francis’s edict and remain Conventuals. Over the years, my predecessors developed an interest in religious relics and have conducted explorations outside the strict boundaries of the church.”

Father Shaw had a way of speaking that she found both intimidating as well as annoying. She also didn’t like the fact that he obviously knew far more than he was willing to share.

“I suppose you called the Vatican for support,” she said dryly.

A slow smile spread across Bravo’s face, a smile she found unsettling, even a bit wicked, and a little shiver traveled down her spine.

“The Vatican and the Gnostic Observatines are not in contact,” he said. “As I indicated, we haven’t been since the era of Clement VIII. When it comes to church doctrine, and methods, we don’t see eye to eye.”

“And just what is the Observatines’ mission, Father?”

Bravo gave a small laugh. “I see I have come up against an immovable object.”

She lifted one eyebrow. “And are you declaring yourself an unstoppable force?”

“I suppose,” he said, “you’ll have to judge for yourself.”

Sister Anselm allowed herself the ghost of a smile, the smallest treat. “Your mission, Father.”

“In a nutshell, Sister, we’re humanists. We are locked in an eternal battle against evil for the souls of mankind.”

“As is the church.”

“Method, Sister. I told you our methods differ.”

Having been put in a thoughtful mode, she made another note.

“Returning to facts,” she said, looking up from her iPad. “Father Price’s date of birth? Next of kin? Place of residence?”

Bravo continued to be amused by her use of the word Father but had said all he was going to on the subject. “All that information is confidential, I’m afraid. Because of the nature of what we do and the dangers involved to ourselves and potentially to our loved ones, that information is never divulged.”

“Then tell me what Father Price and his team were doing up in the mountains.”

“I’m afraid I can’t do that, either.”

“Can’t or won’t?” she asked, irritated. “I’m quite sure they were looking for something, and if you are who you say you are, the odds are you sent them to find it.”

Bravo remained silent.

“Very well then,” she said, slipping her iPad into the generous pocket of her jacket. “In that case, we’re even.”

“What do you mean?”

“Have you ever heard of HIPAA?”

Shaw frowned. “Of course.”

“It’s now officially invoked. Father Price was the victim of a vicious attack. He’s been tortured, was unconscious when he was brought to the ER, and remains unable to communicate. You claim to be concerned about him. Perhaps you are, but for all I know, you may have been responsible for what happened to him in the first place. What if you’re here masquerading as his friend, but really came here for the express purpose of finishing the job? Until I have a clearer idea of whether or not you pose a threat, you won’t be allowed anywhere near him.”

“Are you kidding?” Bravo demanded. “You’re trying to kick me out?”

“I will kick you out,” she declared without a hint of smile. “That’s not a threat. It’s a promise. Since you won’t tell me what Father Price was searching for, I won’t allow you to have access to my patient, simple as that. In fact, I could most likely have you thrown out of the hospital altogether. Once the police get here.”

“The cops aren’t coming,” Bravo said.

She appeared to be genuinely startled. “What do you mean they’re not coming?”

“The hunters who found Martin didn’t report the incident to the authorities at the time they brought him to the hospital, and I’ve been assured that they won’t be doing so in the future. Neither will the hospital. Once he leaves here, all trace of his having been here will be erased.”

“You’re impeding an official investigation into the commission of a crime,” she said. “Why would you do such a thing?”

“Because the presence of law enforcement would instantly alert our enemies to the fact that Martin is still alive, in which case, the first thing they would do is send someone here to finish the job. Once Martin is out of danger and declared fit to travel, I intend to have him transported back to our U.S. headquarters where he’ll be able to recover in relative safety.”

“You believe he’s still in danger?”

“Absolutely.”

“If I’m caring for him, doesn’t that mean I’m in danger, as well?” she asked.

Looking uncomfortable, Bravo nodded. “I suppose it does.”

She fell silent for a moment. “As long as Martin Price is a patient in this hospital, Bishop Francis Gillespie has charged me with protecting him. I fully intend to do so, against all comers.”

“But, Sister,” Bravo said, “you have no idea what you’re up against.”

“I’m up against it?” she asked. “It sounds as though we’re both up against it, so why don’t you explain it to me? If I’m expected to defend the man, it’s only fair that I know from what. It also seems reasonable that I should have some understanding of what Father Price was doing or some idea of who his attacker or attackers might be. Now, if you’ll excuse me.”

Turning her back on Bravo, she walked into Martin Price’s empty cubicle. She returned a moment later carrying two small clear plastic bags, which she handed to Bravo. Inside one was a wooden crucifix, black with dried blood. In the other was the bloodied tip of a hunting arrow.

“The crucifix was found on his person, clutched in Father Price’s hand. The arrow was in his back,” she said. “By giving these to you, I’m now guilty of concealing evidence of a crime. So how about we declare a peace treaty? What if we decide right now that Father Price is both our responsibilities? In which case I need you to be straight with me, but first let’s go out into the lobby and find somewhere to sit. They’re ready to clean this cubicle, and we’re in the way.”

IT WASN’T LIKE BRAVO SHAW to concede defeat to anyone, especially to an elderly nun, but there was something fearless about this woman that he could not help but respect. Obligingly he followed her out into the hospital’s main lobby where she led him to a quiet corner seating area.

“Tell me,” she said, once they were both seated.

But he was busy examining the crucifix, which he’d removed from the plastic bag. As he turned it over and over in his hands, Sister Anselm said, “What is it?”

“This is old. Perhaps from the time.” He looked up at her. “It seems possible now that Martin found what he and his team had been sent to find.”

She cocked her head. “And that would be?”

He sighed. “We’re a lay order. Part of our mission is locating lost artifacts dating from the earliest days of the Christian church. Once those priceless relics are found and authenticated, we see to it that they are returned to their rightful place. Unfortunately, there are powerful forces both inside and outside the church who would prefer to keep those treasures for their own benefit and profit. Those people have always allied themselves with an organization called the Knights of Saint Clement, named for the pope who branded us heretics.”

“So you’re supposedly the good guys and the so-called Knights are the bad guys?” she asked. “But if you’re returning the artifacts to the church, what’s the problem?”

“Unfortunately, not everyone inside the church or even inside the Vatican is trustworthy.”

“And if the Knights and their friends lay hands on those relics before you do, what happens then?”

“They usually auction them off to the highest bidder, which is often someone among the most rich and powerful people in the world. And dangerous.”

“It sounds to me as though you must consider Bishop Gillespie to be on the right side of this conflict, on the side of the angels, as it were.”

He couldn’t help smiling. “I don’t know the man, but since people I trust in turn trust him, you could say that. At this point, however, it’s important that the good bishop not be drawn into this incident any more than he has been already. He could be in mortal danger, as could you.”

“I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself,” Anselm bristled, “but you still haven’t told me what Martin Price and his cohorts were searching for. And speaking of his teammates, what about them. Are they even still alive?”

He shook his head. “I doubt it. The Gnostic Observatines operate either individually or in teams. The same is true for the Knights of Saint Clement. Their teams refer to themselves as extramuros. Believe me, they are utterly ruthless. I can’t imagine how Martin managed to escape their clutches. As for his teammates? I would hazard a guess that they’re both dead and their bodies will never be found.”

“Which now means we’re interfering with the investigation into three crimes rather than just one?”

He nodded.

“And what exactly was Father Price’s team searching for?”

Knowing he was going all in, he sighed. “What do you know about the Veil of Saint Veronica?”

The nun’s eyes widened. “The cloth used to wipe the blood and sweat from Jesus’s brow along the Via Dolorosa?”

“We had reason to believe that centuries ago it was hidden somewhere here in the Arizona high country. Martin and his team were dispatched to search for it. Two weeks into the hunt, Martin texted me that he thought they were getting closer, but he gave me no further details. His last text to me said they were being attacked. After that, he didn’t answer repeated texts and calls.”

“The phone wasn’t found with him?”

“No, the elk hunters who brought him to the hospital said he was stark naked when they found him. The only thing he had in his possession was this crucifix.”

“It sounds to me as if you . . . and I,” she said, “have some serious opponents.”

He agreed. “The Knights of Saint Clement want the veil as much as we do. In fact, given what’s happened, they may already have it. If not, once Martin awakens, I have no doubt that they’ll stop at nothing in trying to gain its possession. Centuries ago, their original purpose was to eradicate our order, and that is still high on their list. These days, however, their agenda has shifted. They take our operatives out when they can—as they did here, but they are far more focused on grabbing power, which they do through a cabal of corrupt cardinals inside the Vatican.”

“Then we’ll have to stop them at once, won’t we,” she said, sitting bolt upright. “And I happen to know of someone who could help.”

“Please,” Bravo said. “No help. I must insist on absolute secrecy. I simply can’t afford to involve anyone else.”

“Tell me about Father Price’s phone,” she said. “You said that he left you a message just before he was attacked. But you don’t know exactly where he was at the time.”

“I have the names of the two hunters who brought him to the hospital. I’m hoping that if I speak to them, they’ll be able to give me the general location. The clerk in the ER said something about a place called Mingus Mountain, although I have no idea where that is.”

“But it may be close to where the attack took place.”

He nodded. “A good place to start the search.”

“Except it’s November,” she said. “Did you happen to notice the snow on the ground outside? There’ll be snow on Mingus Mountain, too, and I’ve heard it’s likely that a storm is blowing in from the west. We can’t risk going out searching blind. We need help, but you have to agree to let someone else into our little circle.”

He was intrigued. “And who might that be?”

“Ali Reynolds, a close friend I trust absolutely. She and her husband live in Sedona and run a cybersecurity company called High Noon Enterprises that operates out of Cottonwood. If you’d give me Father Price’s phone number, I wouldn’t be surprised that they’d be able to give you the exact coordinates on the phone when it was last in use.”

“But the phone’s battery is probably dead.”

“That doesn’t necessarily matter. If it pinged somewhere, they’ll be able to find it. In addition, Ali grew up in this area. Her father was an avid outdoorsman in his day, and Ali tagged along with him wherever he went. She knows the backwoods around here like the back of her hand. I’m sure she’d be able to help.”

This nun knew a lot about things that nuns don’t usually deal with. But still he had to object.

“Sister,” he began.

“Ali has had police training. She’s quite resourceful. And she has Bishop Gillespie’s stamp of approval.”

“That may well be,” he said. “But, as I said before, I don’t want to endanger anyone else in this endeavor.”

An audible ding on her iPad announced the arrival of an e-mail. “I’m afraid it’s too late for that.”

“What do you mean?”

“Did you happen to look at the arrow tip I gave you?”

He shook his head.

“If you had, you might have noticed that it’s stamped with a serial number of some kind. Before I bagged it, I took a photo and sent it to Ali. Turns out it’s from a high-end hunting arrow sold at only a few outlets in the area. The one you’re holding in your hand was sold a week ago at a specialty hunting store in Phoenix that caters specifically to bow hunters. Does this person look like anyone you know?”

She passed him her iPad. Bravo studied the photo. He said nothing, but the slight stiffening of his jaw spoke volumes.

“One of those Knights?” she asked.

“How did you get this?” he asked.

“As I said before, Ali Reynolds is resourceful. Her people were able to trace the serial number on the arrow tip, the manufacturer came up with the batch number that went to a specific retailer, and the retailer remembered the woman. The way she talked, the arrows she requested, he assumed that she was an expert bow hunter. The owner located the security footage, Ali’s team enhanced it, and there you are. Who is she?”

“Her name is Maria Elena Donahue. She works with an extramuros team leader named Anson Stone, sometimes referred to as the Archer. She’s one of the only females inside the Knights. She wasn’t worried about being seen purchasing the arrow. It was never supposed to be found.”

“But Father Price escaped,” Sister Anselm said thoughtfully.

“Martin is probably one of the best team leaders I’ve ever trained.”

He stood abruptly.

“Where are you going?” she asked.

“I need to go back to the beginning and find the place where the attack took place. If Martin really did find the Veronica, there’s a chance it’s still there.”

“He was tortured,” she said.

“Doesn’t matter. He wouldn’t give up the veil no matter what.”

She frowned. “You’re suggesting that perhaps the veil is still there, but what if the phone is, too? You said that Father Price texted you that he and his team were under attack, and that was the last communication you had from him. What if there was a struggle and the phone somehow disappeared in the course of that? Maybe the Knights didn’t know he had a phone with him and they didn’t bother to look for it.”

“I know cell-phone companies can track the pings on phones, but getting them to do it is a complicated, time-consuming process, even for cops. And as I said before, we’re not involving cops.”

“I understand,” she said. “But as I told you earlier, Ali’s company, High Noon Enterprises, is a cybersecurity company. In order to do what they do, they deal in a lot of cyber insecurity. I have every reason to believe that Ali’s people will be able to track Father Price’s phone regardless of where it may be at the moment.”

He thought about that, but not for long.

“If Ali Reynolds and her people can find Martin’s phone, she sounds like someone I should have met yesterday.”

BRAVO DISCOVERED THAT ALI REYNOLDS and her husband, B. Simpson, lived in a large midcentury modern house in Sedona. As he stepped up onto the wisteria-shaded front porch, a tall, fit woman somewhere in her fifties opened the door to welcome and beckon him inside.

“You must be Father Shaw. I’m Ali,” she said as she escorted him into the house. “My office is this way. I’ve asked the butler to serve coffee.”

He followed her through a spacious living room and a pair of French doors into a cozy office. The desk in front of the window was littered with files. She motioned him into one of a pair of wingback chairs set in front of a burning gas-log fireplace. He had no more than sat down when a miniature long-haired dachshund leaped into his lap.

“That’s Bella,” she said with a smile. “That’s also a good sign. She’s pretty picky when it comes to making friends with strangers.”

“I’m assuming Sister Anselm told you why I’m here?”

“She did. The Reader’s Digest condensed version, but now that you’re here, maybe you’d like to tell me more.”

Before he could reply, an older gentleman wearing a suit and tie stepped through the French doors bearing a tray laden with coffee, cups and saucers, sugar and cream, and a plate of gingerbread cookies.

“Fresh out of the oven,” he said, placing the tray on the coffee table between them.

“Thank you, Leland.” Reaching toward the carafe, she asked, “Coffee, Father Shaw?”

“Call me Bravo, please. And yes, coffee is perfect.”

While Ali poured, he examined his surroundings. The house was impressive in an understated yet elegant way, and the fact that a manservant had delivered the coffee spoke of a certain amount of money. As for the woman seated across from him? Even in jeans and with her hair pulled back in a ponytail, she had a classy, no-nonsense way about her.

She passed him a brimming cup and saucer, then settled back in her chair. “Sister Anselm filled me in as best she could with the information you provided. Finding your injured associate’s cell phone is something my people can do. However, to be honest, Sister Anselm seems to think it is highly unlikely that the actual veil exists. She says that according to Bishop Gillespie, several items alleged to be the veil have shown up at the Vatican over the centuries and that each in turn has been proven to be a fake.”

“I don’t believe this one is a fake. Martin sent me a text to that effect just as they came under attack.”

“You call it an attack, but it was more than that,” she observed. “It was an assault with intent. Martin Price was severely injured and two of his teammates are missing and presumed dead. Sister Anselm mentioned your reasoning against involving local law enforcement.” She hesitated for a beat. “So your contention is that you’re above the rule of law?”

“Not so much above, as outside. If a local law enforcement agency were to try to lay hands on Anson Stone or one of his team members, they’d forfeit their lives. Believe me, Ms. Reynolds, this is not something you’ve encountered before. And, other than helping locate Martin Price’s cell phone, you’d be well advised to stay out of it now.”

She set down her coffee. “One thing puzzles me. If you’re a priest, I’m a bit confused about why I’m supposed to address you by your given name.”

“The Gnostic Observatines are a lay order. Addressing our members as ‘Father’ is unnecessary.” He tossed her a wry smile. “A distinction your Sister Anselm refuses to acknowledge.”

She nodded, slightly amused. “Yes, that certainly sounds like her.”

Her phone rang.

“Excuse me,” she said. “It’s Sister Anselm.” She listened for a moment. “Good,” she said, before turning to Bravo. “She says Martin Price is out of surgery. They’ve removed his spleen and one of his kidneys. He’s in critical condition and has been moved to the ICU.”

“Please thank her for me. I’m sure Martin will appreciate her tender mercies.”

She relayed the message. “Yes,” she answered, apparently a question from Sister Anselm. “Stuart has the hospital surveillance in place. And yes, we’ll have eyes and facial rec on all exits and entrances. And yes, if push comes to shove, that’s probably a good plan.”

She ended the call.

“What’s a good plan?” he asked.

“We’ve created a backup security plan at the hospital.”

“I have additional personnel flying in to Flagstaff even as we speak.”

“Who may or may not arrive,” she said, “since by all accounts there’s a blizzard on its way. And if you have people showing up to help out, we need to have photos of them. Otherwise, our facial recognition program will have no way to tell good guys from bad guys. Neither will Sister Anselm.”

He pulled out his phone. “Where should I send them?”

She gave him an e-mail address for Stuart Ramey. She waited until he’d pressed Send before adding, “If you want us to try locating that phone, you’ll need to send along both Martin’s number and yours.”

He keyed in more information and sent that off too.

“Do you really think any of this is going to work?” he asked, pocketing his phone. “I only came here at Sister Anselm’s insistence, but the idea of your getting a good result doesn’t seem likely. I’m quite sure Martin would have been using a burner phone for the purposes of this expedition, and all our in-house communications systems are encrypted and supposedly secure.”

“But what if they’re not?” she asked. “What if your encryption program has somehow been penetrated? Suppose someone managed to gain access to your phone. In that case, the Knights may have learned that Martin had found the veil at the same time you did.”

Looking troubled, he made as if to rise. “I should go back to the hospital. That way, when Martin comes around, maybe he’ll be able to tell me exactly what happened and where I should look.”

“My understanding is that the hunters who rescued Martin Price found him on the back side of Mingus Mountain. Going there from here will be a shorter trip than it will be starting from Flagstaff. Besides, if and when Martin recovers enough to speak, Sister Anselm will pass along that information.”

The words were barely out of her mouth when her phone rang again. “It’s Sister Anselm again.”

She answered and switched the phone to speaker.

“I just spoke to him,” Sister Anselm said. “He was able to tell me his name. When I asked if he knew Bravo, he nodded and said something about a boulder. I couldn’t make out any more than that, but I suspect it has something to do with the location of the veil.”

“But no indication of the location of said boulder?”

“None.”

“Keep us posted.”

The call ended.

Ali turned back to him. “At the time Martin was delivered to the hospital, no one knew who he was. How did you know he was there?”

“All Gnostic Observatines are outfitted with medical alert chips that can be scanned if one of us is hospitalized. It gives hospital personnel access to our medical records, but it also notifies us so we can come in and do damage control.”

“So you can make sure your so-called war casualties don’t end up in any official police or hospital records?”

He smiled and nodded. “Exactly. But it would seem I wasn’t the only one who had that information. I’m not sure about his sources, but Sister Anselm’s friend, Bishop Gillespie, must have known something about it as well. Is he trustworthy enough?”

“He always has been, as far as I can tell.”

“But what about those above him, the people he answers to?” he said. “Can you vouch for all of them?”

She sat forward. “You think some of the people inside the church might be members of the Knights?”

“It’s entirely possible. That’s why the possibility that the veil might be found here in Arizona has been handled with such strict secrecy.”

Just then her cell dinged and she looked at the incoming text message. “We now have the last coordinates of Martin’s cell phone before the battery died. They’re being sent to us along with both topo maps and satellite imagery of the area.

He was impressed. “That was fast.”

Ali smiled. “You’d be surprised how fast Stu can do things when he isn’t hampered by having to wait around for properly drawn warrants.”

They were seated side by side at a dining room table peering at the two sets of images Stu had sent along, both of them with a pin indicating the location of Martin’s missing phone.

“Wait a minute,” Ali said, after studying the expanded images for some time. “I remember this place.”

“You’ve been there?” he asked.

“A long time ago when I was a kid. My dad was into prospecting back then. We went up and explored some old glory holes, looking for gold and silver.”

“What’s a glory hole?”

“Test holes dug, mostly by hand, by early explorers looking to strike it big. Some of them date from the time your Fra Ignacio was wandering in these parts. But what really impressed me about that trip was the cavern. Complete with stalagmites and stalactites. I’d never seen one like that. It seemed to go on forever.”

“Can you take me there?” he asked.

“Now?”

“Please. Because that’s what the fragment we found in the Vatican said. That the veil was hidden in a cavern. We’ll need backup, though. I’ll call and see if my people are on the ground in Flagstaff.”

She glanced out the window where fat snowflakes were already starting to fall. “That cavern is a lot higher than we are here in Sedona. By the time your people get here from Flagstaff, if they’re even in Flagstaff, the road into the mountains may be impassable. Besides, you’ll have backup. You’ll have me and Mr. Leland Brooks.”

“The old guy who was here a little while ago?” he asked with no attempt to conceal his disbelief. “The one who brought our coffee?”

She nodded.

“Please, Ms. Reynolds. This might be terribly dangerous for everyone concerned, and the idea of involving a frail old man is out of the question. Tell me how to get there and I’ll do it alone.”

“I saw your rental. A front-wheel-drive sedan. Where we’re going, that will never do. As for Mr. Brooks? You’d be surprised. He came of age as a Royal Marine, and you know what they say, ‘Once a marine, always a marine.’ ”

The butler appeared at the French doors.

“You called, madame?”

“I did,” Ali said. “Stuart Ramey has located the spot where one of Mr. Shaw’s associates, Martin Price, was viciously attacked. He and I are about to set off on a mission to retrieve an item of Mr. Price’s property. Would you care to join us?”

“What kind of mission?”

“Most likely a dangerous and snowy one.”

“So winter gear then,” Leland said without so much as a pause. “What about weaponry?”

“We’re hoping there won’t be any law enforcement involvement. But just to be on the safe side, nothing that can be traced back to you,” she noted.

“So batons then, rather than handguns?”

“Probably a good idea.” She turned to Bravo. “What kind of hiking gear do you have along?”

“I came prepared. Everything I need is out in the car.”

She nodded. “Leland can show you to the guest room so you can change, and I’ll go do the same. Wheels up in ten.”

LEFT IN A GUEST ROOM to change out of business clothing and into something more suitable for wintertime hand-to-hand combat, Bravo did more stewing than changing. He wasn’t accustomed to working with people outside the order, and yet, in this case, shorthanded as he was, there didn’t seem to be a choice. If the veil really was within reach, he didn’t want to lose it to the Knights of Saint Clement.

That meant speed was of the essence.

Ali knew how to get to the location where they needed to be. He did not. In the meantime, the weather outside the guest room window was deteriorating by the minute. He supposed, if nothing else, the old man could serve as a lookout while he and Ali searched for the veil. It was possible that Anson Stone was no longer anywhere nearby, but if things came down to taking out Anson Stone?

He himself would handle that task.

Once dressed, he called his sister back in New York. Emma was in charge of research for the inner circle of Gnostic Observatines.

“How’s Martin?” she asked.

“He’s out of surgery, but still iffy. It’s unknown if he’ll make it. I’m working with a woman named Ali Reynolds from a company called High Noon Enterprises. They located an image of the woman who bought the arrow used on Martin. Maria Elena Donahue.”

“The Archer’s sidekick?”

“None other,” he said. “Ali’s people have also locked in on the location where the veil is still hidden. We’re about to go there now.”

“You and who else?”

“The three of us. Ali, an elderly gentleman named Leland Brooks who’s supposedly a former Royal Marine, and yours truly.”

“Three people, including a woman and an old man, up against Anson Stone? That’s nuts.”

“If it goes bad, sis, I want you to know where we are and who’s involved. In the meantime, I want you to find everything there is to find on the Archer.”

“Will do,” she said. “But I don’t like this. I don’t like any of it. Can’t you wait for reinforcements?”

“The more we delay, the better the chance that we lose the veil.”

“Be careful,” she said with a sigh. “Please be careful.”

He left the guest room just as Ali was leaving a room at the end of the hall. She was dressed in a pair of sturdy hiking boots along with jeans topped by what looked like several layers of flannel shirts.

“Ready?” she asked.

He nodded.

“In case this takes longer than just in and out, Leland is in the kitchen putting together a few supplies.”

Minutes later, he found himself in the front passenger seat of a silver Porsche Cayenne. As far as he was concerned this was a life-and-death mission. He shook his head as Leland Brooks loaded a woven picnic hamper into the back of the SUV. Seeming to read Bravo’s disapproval, the old man winked.

“Eat when you can,” he said with a grin as he closed the luggage gate, “but carry a big stick.” And Leland pulled what was clearly a weighted baton from the vest pocket of a down-filled jacket.

Ali immediately connected her phone to the Cayenne’s Bluetooth. They had yet to reach the bottom of the driveway when the phone rang.

“Push just came to shove,” Sister Anselm said over the car’s speaker system. “Stu and Cami spotted the woman from the hunting video and a man walking through the hospital parking lot. By the time they made it to the entrance, we had Father Price on the maternity ward.”

Bravo was concerned.

“It’s the only part of St. Jerome’s that can go on complete lockdown on a moment’s notice,” Ali explained. “It’s also the least likely place for a critically injured patient to be taken for treatment.” To Sister Anselm, Ali said, “What happened?”

“They came inside and went up to the desk where they were told no one by the name of Martin Price was being treated in the hospital. They tried arguing with the desk clerk. She and a security guard ended up sending them packing. They left the hospital under protest, but Stu tells me that as they drove out of the lot, they were being followed by another vehicle. Facial rec of the driver of the car following matches one of the ones provided by Father Shaw earlier.”

“That means they’re handled then,” he said quietly. “If Stone is on his own, that makes our odds a little better.”

“I didn’t quite get that,” Sister Anselm said.

“Doesn’t matter,” Ali said. “Are you and Martin staying on the maternity floor for now?”

“They’ve lifted the lockdown, but since we’re already here, it can be reinstated at a moment’s notice.”

“Has Martin said anything more?” Bravo asked, speaking loudly enough so Sister Anselm could hear.

“Not so far. His doctors are keeping him heavily sedated for the time being.”

“Keep us posted,” Ali said, ending the call. “What will happen to the man and the woman?”

“An eye for an eye,” he responded quietly. “That’s the way it works in our world. May God have mercy on their souls. As for Anson Stone? My sister just sent me a file. The Archer is exceptionally dangerous on every level. He’s ex–Special Forces, and that was before he took to the bow and arrow.”

“Can I read it?” Leland asked from the backseat. “It’s always a good idea to know thy enemy.”

Bravo nodded and handed over his cell.

Leland scanned the file, nodding to himself, then returned the phone to Bravo. “Invaluable. Thank you.”

They drove in silence for more than an hour, through darkening clouds and thickening snow. Steering with confidence, Ali guided the nimble-footed vehicle up one trackless road after another, with each branch narrower than the one before. Even though they were under a thick canopy of pine, enough snow had filtered down that there was at least four inches on the ground when Ali finally stopped and cut the engine.

“We’re here,” she said. “As close as we can get, anyway. The cavern is going to be another mile or so in that direction. From here on, we walk.” She pulled out a compass. “The snow canopy is playing havoc with the GPS. But I’ve been in snowstorms before.”

They left the Cayenne and headed north, straight into the teeth of a rising wind that galloped over the mountains to the north and west. It bore down on them with a gathering ferocity, cutting visibility to nothing more than a few feet.

Ali pressed forward with confidence.

Bravo followed on her heels with Leland Brooks behind him. Despite the sharply steepening and narrowing path, he noted that the spry old man had no difficulty keeping up.

“There were mines up here?” he asked, huffing with exertion at the unaccustomed elevation.

“Not this far up,” she replied. “The really big strike was back down at Jerome. Even though people had known the ore was there for centuries, it couldn’t be profitably extracted until someone finally invented the narrow gauge railroad. Men, horses, mules all died attempting to bring the riches from up here down to market.”

A rumble of thunder rolled around overhead, accompanied by a sudden flash of lightning. The flash illuminated their way in bizarre and lurid colors.

“Lightning in a snowstorm,” she said. “Highly unusual, and bad luck for us. This one’s about to become a doozy.”

The snow fell in diagonal sheets, driven so hard by the wind that it stung their faces, forcing them to continue half blinded. Their progress slowed. The snow piled up at an alarming rate. It was already above their ankles. Drifts had formed in some spots, driven against the rock face calf high.

“Let’s keep going,” she advised. “We’ll be able to shelter inside the cavern and wait it out.”

They reached a particularly hairy stretch where both Ali and Bravo slid back twice. Looking behind him, he noticed that Leland had fallen behind.

“Are you all right?” he called.

“You go on,” Leland yelled. “I’ll just rest here a minute and then catch up.”

He and Ali plodded on.

She stopped time and again to check the compass, and each time he was convinced they were hopelessly lost. He’d fallen behind by a few steps when she suddenly disappeared completely, melting into a gash in the cliff wall that had been entirely invisible in the swirling snow.

He followed.

Inside, he removed a Maglite from his pack and used it to examine the interior of the cave. Dark stains on the floor testified to what had happened here. It shook him beyond measure to know that this was where his people had made their last stand against the Knights. Here and there he caught sight of bloodied bits of cartilage that told him this had also been the scene of Martin’s appalling torture.

He said nothing to Ali.

“If the veil is here,” she said, “where do we start looking?”

A sound broke the silence.

The soft skitter of a pebble or boot heel against rock.

SISTER ANLEM WATCHED AS MARTIN price, in his bed of drug-blunted pain, stirred briefly, opened his eyes, and stared upward into her face.

“Welcome back,” she said, squeezing his hand. “My name is Sister Anselm. You’re in St. Jerome’s Hospital in Flagstaff, Arizona. You’ve been gravely injured, but an excellent surgeon has taken care of all that. Your job now is to rest and let your body heal.”

Instead of calmness a look of urgent dread flashed across his face. “Bravo Shaw. I must speak with him at once.”

His voice came out thin and reedy. Some words dropped to little more than whispers, others disappeared altogether, forcing her to piece them together like a patchwork quilt.

“Not to worry,” she said. “Father Shaw has been here already. He’s discovered where you were when you sent that last text, and he’s probably there by now.”

“In the cavern? Oh, no.”

“Please be still,” she begged. “It’s okay.”

“It’s not okay. You don’t understand. It’s a trap,” he whispered, and she bent closer to hear his words. “I hid the veil. I didn’t tell the Archer.”

He stopped, panting.

Monitors indicated that his pulse raced.

“The Archer will be there waiting for him. You . . . must . . . warn him.”

“I will,” she said. “You mentioned a boulder earlier. Something about a boulder.”

“Inside the cavern,” he said. “On the floor . . . a boulder that moves.”

His eyelids fluttered.

His heart rate spiked and he slid back into unconsciousness.

She reached for her iPad. The day before, Martin Price had been able to send a text message from somewhere inside that cavern. Now, falling to her knees, she prayed that the reverse would also be true.

ALI FULLY EXPECTED LELAND TO step into the cavern. But he was nowhere to be seen. Instead, an arriving text dinged on her phone. She glanced down at the message.

ARCHER’S THERE. TRAP.

Before she could pass the warning along to Bravo, the figure of a woman materialized in the entrance of the cave behind them. She was dressed all in black. Assuming a bowman’s stance, she sent an arrow whirring into the cavern. Bravo ducked to the ground, shoving Ali down with him an instant before the arrow ricocheted off the cavern wall an inch from her right cheek.

Their attacker reached for another arrow.

BRAVO LAUNCHED HIMSELF FORWARD AND slammed his left forearm into the woman’s head, then raced past into the snowy void at the cavern’s mouth, hoping to engage the Archer.

To his surprise, the woman didn’t give chase.

Behind him, though, he could hear the sounds of a one-on-one battle as Ali engaged the Knight he’d thrown off-balance. He hoped he’d given her enough of an opening.

Another vague outline, far larger than the first, appeared out of the snow. He shifted right at Anson Stone, striking him before his adversary had time to notch an arrow.

The Archer tumbled over backward, arms and legs flying.

He struck three or four times with his closed fist, driving the Archer back beneath the thickening carpet of snow. The Archer’s right arm arced upward and slammed a rock into Bravo’s temple.

He collapsed.

The Archer grabbed the front of his coat, jerked it hard to the left. Bravo tried to clear the fog the blow had caused. The Archer reversed their positions, now on top, trying to pound the back of Bravo’s skull against the ground.

But the snow acted like a cushion.

The Archer pressed one hand onto Bravo’s face, trying to force his head under the snow. But the chill only served to revive Bravo, and he emerged from his stupor with the alacrity of someone fleeing an ice bath.

Still, his breathing was being stifled.

Full understanding of his dire situation flooded him.

He forced his body to go limp.

The Archer, sensing that his prey was either unconscious or dead, heaved Bravo’s head upward to find out which. He intended to deliver a closed-fingered blow straight to the Archer’s windpipe.

But never had a chance.

He heard the dull thud of Leland Brooks’s weighted baton smash into the back of Anson Stone’s head.

The Archer landed dead weight on Bravo’s back, forcing what little breath he still had out of his lungs. Seconds later, the still body was rolled away and Leland helped Bravo to his feet.

The two men then raced into the cavern.

They could hear breathing in the pitch dark. Bravo had lost his Maglite during the struggle. Fortunately Leland still had his, which was switched on. In the beam’s glare they saw Ali leaning against the side of the cavern, gasping for breath, her opponent on the rocky floor, out cold.

Bravo dug into his backpack and came out with a fistful of tie wraps. “We need to secure them.” He looked at Ali. “Are you all right?”

She nodded. “You?”

“I wouldn’t be if it weren’t for Leland.”

Who was busy fastening the prisoner’s arms behind her.

“He thumped Anson Stone a good one on the head with that baton of his. I don’t think Anson’s dead, but it’s going to be a while before he comes around.”

“Let’s get him tied up before that happens,” Leland said.

Bravo nodded. “And bring him inside.”

“Do you think there are any others?” Ali asked.

“I hope not.”

WHILE THE TWO MEN STEPPED back outside, Ali struggled to locate her phone. She found the unit and sent Sister Anselm a text created with trembling fingers.

THANKS FOR THE WARNING. IT WAS A TRAP. WE’RE ALL OKAY.

A few moments later a reply text came.

FATHER PRICE SAYS TO LOOK FOR A LOOSE BOULDER INSIDE THE CAVERN. IT’S THERE, SOMEWHERE. I THINK IT MAY BE ON THE RIGHT HAND SIDE.

Anson Stone was still unconscious when Leland and Bravo carried him inside the cave, then dropped him to the ground.

“I heard from Sister Anselm. Martin tried to warn us that it might be a trap. But he said to look for a boulder inside the cavern.”

“What exactly are we looking for?” Leland asked.

“A copper tube, probably green with verdigris,” Bravo said. “It contains the Veil of Saint Veronica.”

LELAND MANAGED TO BUILD A fire just outside the entrance to the cave, leaving their prisoners next to it for warmth while Bravo and Ali searched for the boulder. When they finally found it, they were surprised at how readily it moved, revealing the treasures hidden underneath—a dead, no-brand flip phone, a pile of loose beads, and the copper tube.

“The Veronica,” Bravo said in a reverential tone. “The cloth used to wipe Christ’s brow on his way to the Crucifixion. A holy relic from the earliest days of Christianity.”

“An ancient holy relic,” Ali agreed. “Along with a modern burner phone.”

“Kind of emblematic of how the world works nowadays.” Bravo rolled the tube, examining it closely. “Amazing craftsmanship. It had to be to ensure the veil’s survival over the centuries.”

“Are you going to open it here?” she asked.

“Absolutely not.”

He shoved the quiverlike tube into his backpack. “The veil is more than two thousand years old. It will need to be opened by a professional, under the most controlled of circumstances.”

“Inside the Vatican?” she asked.

He shook his head. “Not until we’ve established what it is.”

“And your prisoners?”

“They’ll be handled.”

“Murdered, you mean?”

“No. We’ll give them a chance to tell us what they know.”

“Tortured then?”

He smiled. “We’re the good guys, remember?”

“Sometimes it’s hard to tell. But still no cops?”

“Not our style.”

“What about the two men you lost?”

“If the Knights tells us where they are, we’ll arrange for a proper burial.”

“If not?”

He shrugged and said nothing.

He’d earlier sent a text to the men he’d brought to Flagstaff as backup, the ones last seen following the part of the extramuros team that had come to the hospital. With the backup agents on their way, and before Ali and Bravo had launched their search, Leland had offered to hike back down to the end of the road to guide the new arrivals back to the cavern. By the time Leland returned, the snow had stopped falling. Bravo and Ali were sitting outside the cave, huddled next to the fire, keeping it going.

His men dealt with the prisoners, who were starting to come around.

Leland deposited the picnic hamper in a spot near the fire and then settled down next to it. “Since I went to the trouble of preparing this food, we’re going to sit here and eat it before we hike back down the mountain. Now, would anyone care for a Cornish pasty?”

SIX WEEKS LATER, SISTER ANSELM Becker sat by the gas-burning log fire at the newly remodeled St. Bernadette’s Convent in Jerome while another fierce snowstorm, the third of the season, swirled outside.

It was almost Christmas.

She was glad to be home and warm on this cold and windy night.

When her phone rang with Bishop Gillespie’s distinctive ring, she was sure she was about to be summoned to some poor soul’s bedside.

“No,” the bishop said. “No call-out tonight. At least not so far, but I’ve just had a fascinating conversation with Bravo Shaw.”

Sister Anselm had never taken to the man she still insisted on referring to as Father Shaw. He claimed to be a Franciscan, and she was determined to have him live by those words.

“What did he have to say for himself?” she asked, not bothering to conceal the disapproval in her voice.

“They opened the sealed quiver earlier this afternoon. What they found inside wasn’t the Veil of Saint Veronica.”

“I knew it,” she declared. “The whole thing was a fake from beginning to end, just like all the others.”

“It’s not exactly a fake,” the bishop said. “It’s cloth all right—fragments of cloth—but it turns out the fragments are from something even more valuable than the veil. It contains seven tiny words written in Phoenician glyphs.”

“What difference does that make?”

“It means,” he said, “rather than coming from the time of Christ, it may be much older than that. In addition to the glyphs there appears to be the seal of King Solomon inconspicuously woven into one corner.”

She was nothing short of astonished.

“In this instance,” the bishop said, with a smile she could hear in his voice, “it seems we’ve encountered something that is both fake and real at the same time. I also believe that Bravo Shaw and his associates will see to it that those fragments end up where they belong.”

“You’re saying I misjudged the man?”

“I believe so.”

He chuckled.

“Sister Anselm wrong? I’m marking that down on the calendar. As far as I know this is a singular occurrence.”