The Brotherhood Of The Holy Shroud

37

MINERVA, P1ETRO, AND ANTONINO HAD AR-rived in Turin on the first plane that morning, and Marco invited the team to lunch.

They were just finishing when Sofia's cell phone rang. When she recognized the voice on the other end, she blushed and got up and left the room. Pietro's tension was evident when she returned. He had become increasingly nasty. But she knew that as long as she worked in the Art Crimes Department she'd have to deal with him, which just reconfirmed her decision to move on as soon as they'd closed this case.

"Marco, it was D'Alaqua. He invited me to join him tomorrow at some sort of farewell luncheon for Dr. Bolard and the rest of the scientific committee."

'And you said yes, I hope," Marco replied.

"No," Sofia answered. "Tomorrow is our general run-through with the whole team-I thought I was supposed to coordinate everything."

"Yeah, but that would have been a golden opportunity to check out the scientists again, especially Bolard."

"Well, we put it off until the day after tomorrow, although the scientists won't be there."

Everyone looked at her in surprise, and Marco couldn't suppress a smile.

He called for the check, and the conversation turned to the details of the upcoming operation.

A few kilometers out of Turin, the car D'Alaqua had sent turned down a small road that ended in front of an imposing Renaissance-style palazzo surrounded by woods. Sofia had dressed simply, in jeans and a casual jacket, her hair pulled into a ponytail. She had wanted to underscore the working nature of the lunch but now began to regret not having made more of an effort.

The gate opened automatically as the car approached it. She couldn't spot the security cameras but figured they were everywhere.

Umberto D'Alaqua was waiting for her at the door, wearing an elegant dark gray silk suit. He greeted her warmly and smiled when she complimented him on the loveliness of his home. "I asked you here because I knew you would enjoy the paintings," he said as he led her through an imposing entrance hall.

The palazzo was a museum, a museum turned into a house. For more than an hour they wandered through room after room, all boasting impressive works of art hung with intelligence and superb taste.

Over a long lunch they talked animatedly about art, politics, literature. The time passed so quickly that Sofia was shocked when D'Alaqua excused himself, saying that he had to get to the airport for a seven o'clock flight to Paris.

"Oh, I'm sorry. I've kept you," she apologized.

"Not at all, not at all. It's not six yet, and if I didn't have to be in Paris tonight, I'd ask you to stay for dinner. I'll be back in ten days. If you are still in Turin, I'd like to see you again."

"I'm not sure… By then we may have finished or be close to it."

"Finished?"

"With the investigation."

"Oh, yes! How's it going?"

"Fine. We're in the final phase, I think."

"Have you reached any conclusions?"

"Well…" Sofia paused uncomfortably.

"Don't worry," D'Alaqua broke in, waving the question away with a smile. "I understand. When you've finished your work and everything is cleared up, you can tell me about it."

Sofia was relieved. Marco had absolutely forbidden her to tell him anything, and although she no longer shared her chief's suspicions about D'Alaqua, she would never disobey his direct order.

Two cars were waiting at the door. One would take Sofia back to the Hotel Alexandra and the other would drive D'Alaqua to the airport, where his private plane was waiting. He pressed her hand warmly and held it for a moment as he settled her into her car.

"Why do they want to kill him?" the capo asked his informant.

"I don't know. They've been planning it for days. They're trying to bribe a guard to leave his cell door open, along with theirs. The plan is to go in tomorrow night, slit his throat, and get back to their cell with no one the wiser. Nobody'11 know-mutes don't scream."

"Will the guard take the bribe?"

"Probably. I heard it's fifty thousand euros."

"Jesus! Who else knows about this?"

"Two other prisoners. Turks, like them."

"Okay, get out of here."

"What about my money?"

"You'll get paid."

Frasquello was thoughtful. Why would the Bajerai brothers want to kill the guy? A murder for hire, sure- but who was hiring?

He sent for his lieutenants, two mafioso serving life sentences for murder. The three met for about half an hour. Then he asked a guard to send for Genari.

The head guard entered the capo's cell after midnight. Frasquello was watching television and didn't move when he heard Genari come in.

"Sit down, and keep quiet. Tell your cop friend he was right. They're going to kill the mute."

"Who?"

"The Bajerais."

"But why?" Genari asked in surprise.

"How the fuck should I know! And why should I care? I'm doing my part-tell him he better do his."

The capo spoke in low tones for a few minutes more, filling in the guard on what he had learned.

Genari left the cell and hurried to his office, where he dialed Marco Valoni's cell phone number.

"Signor Valoni, it's Genari."

Marco looked at the clock-past midnight. He was tired. Yesterday they'd done a run-through of the operation that would swing into action as soon as the mute was released from prison. Today he'd gone back to inspect some of the tunnels under Turin again, and for two hours he'd wandered around, tapping on walls, listening for hollow spots. Comandante Colombaria, making a great show of patience, had come along, continuing to insist there was nothing to find.

"You were right, they're going to try to kill the tongue less guy." The guard was clearly agitated.

"Tell me everything."

"Frasquello's people say that two Turks, the Bajerai brothers, are going to take care of him tomorrow night. They're throwing a lot of money around. We might be able to stop it this time, but we can't protect him for long with that kind of money in play. You need to get him out of here as soon as possible."

"We can't. He'd suspect there was something going on, and the whole operation would go to shit. Will Frasquello do his job?"

"He already is-he told me to remind you to do yours."

"I will. Are you at the prison?"

"Yes."

'All right. I'm going to call the warden. I'll be there in an hour-I want all the information you've got on those two brothers."

"They're Turks. Good boys, really. They killed a guy in a fight, but they're not murderers-not professionals, anyway."

"You can tell me about it when I get there. One hour."

Marco woke up the warden and told him to meet him in his office at the prison. Then he called Minerva.

"Were you asleep?"

"Reading. What's up?"

"Get dressed. I'll be waiting for you downstairs in the lobby in fifteen minutes. I want you to go to cara-binieri headquarters, get on their computer, and find whatever you can on a couple of guys we need to know about. I'm going to the prison, and I'll call you from there with everything they've got on them."

"Wait a minute, wait a minute! What's happening?"

"I'll tell you downstairs. Don't be late."

When Marco arrived at the prison, the warden was waiting for him in his office, half awake. Genari was there, too, pacing nervously.

"I want everything you've got on these Bajerais," Marco said without preamble.

"The Bajerai brothers?" the warden sputtered. "What have they done? You believe Frasquello's story? Listen, Genari, when this is over you've got a lot of explaining to do about your dealings with that thug."

The warden pulled the files on the Bajerai brothers and handed them to Marco, who plopped down on the sofa and began reading. When he finished, he talked the information through with the warden and Genari and then called Minerva.

"I'm exhausted. I almost fell asleep on the keyboard," she said.

"Well, wake up. Find everything you can on this family of Turks-they were born here, but their parents were immigrants. I want to know everything about them and their families." He filled her in on what he had. 'Ask Interpol, talk to the Turkish police, let's say three hours for a complete report."

"Three hours! No way. Give me till morning."

"Seven o'clock," Marco snapped.

"Okay, five hours. That's something."

The hotel dining room opened at seven. Minerva, her eyes red from lack of sleep and hours in front of the computer screen, walked in, confident that she'd find Marco there.

Her boss was reading the newspaper and drinking coffee. Like her, he looked terrible.

Minerva tossed two file folders on the table and dropped into a chair.

"I'm dead!"

"I imagine. Find anything interesting?"

"Depends on what you're interested in."

"Try me."

"The Bajerai brothers are the sons of Turkish immigrants, as you know. Their parents went first to Germany and from there came to Turin. They found work in Frankfurt, but the mother didn't like Germany or the Germans, so they decided to try their luck in Italy since they had relatives here. The boys are Italian-they've lived in Turin all their lives. The father worked at the Fiat plant and the mother as a cleaning lady. They were average students in school, no better or worse than most. The older one got into some scraps, seems to have quite a temper, but he's probably the smarter of the two-his grades were better than his brother's. When they finished high school the older one started working for Fiat, like his father. The younger one was hired as a driver for some bigwig in the regional government, guy named Regio, who took him on because the kid's mother had been a cleaning lady at his house. The older one lasted a little while at Fiat, but he didn't like the old eight-to-five, so he rented a stall in the market and started selling fruits and vegetables. Did okay, the both of them, never had any trouble with the cops or anybody else. Nothing. The father is retired, the mother too. They live on a pension from the state and their savings. They've got nothing, really, except their house, which they bought about fifteen years ago, scrimping and saving.

'A couple of years ago, one Saturday night, the brothers were at a discotheque with their girlfriends. A couple of drunks started hitting on the girls-apparently one of them pinched one of the girls' ass. The police report says the brothers pulled out knives and they all went at it. They killed one guy and wounded the other one so bad he can't use his arm anymore. They got twenty years-tantamount to life. Their girlfriends married other people."

"What do you know about their family in Turkey?"

"Just regular people-poor, struggling. They come from Urfa, near the Iraq border. Through Interpol, the Turkish police e-mailed what they've got on the family there, which is very little-absolutely nothing of interest. The father has a younger brother in Urfa, although younger is relative-he's about to retire. He works in the oil fields. There's also a sister, married to a schoolteacher; they have eight children. They're good, decent people, never gotten into any trouble. The Turks were surprised we were looking at them. The truth is, we may have caused these people some problems-you know how their minds work over there."

'Anything else?"

"Yeah. Here in Turin, there's a cousin of the mother's-guy named Amin, apparently exemplary citizen. He's an accountant, been working for years for an advertising agency. He's married to an Italian woman; she works in a high-end clothing store. They have two daughters. The older one is at the university; the younger one is about to graduate from high school. They all go to Mass on Sundays."

"Mass?"

"Yeah, Mass. Shouldn't be a big surprise-this is Italy."

"Yeah, but this cousin-he's not Muslim?"

"I don't know-I guess he is, or was, but he's married to an Italian woman, in the Church. He must have converted-although there's nothing in his file about a conversion."

"Look into him. And try to find out whether the Bajerais belong to a mosque here."

"Mosque?" Minerva asked skeptically.

"Okay-this is Italy. But somebody must know whether they are-or were-Muslims. And if there are others they associate with. Did you get into their bank records?"

"Yeah-nothing out of the ordinary there. The cousin earns a pretty good salary; so does his wife. They live pretty well, although they've got a mortgage on their apartment. No suspicious deposits. They're a tight-knit family; at least some of them go every visiting day to see the brothers, take them food, sweets, tobacco, books, clothes-they're trying their best for them."

"Yeah, I know. I've got a copy of the visitors' log. This Amin has visited them twice this month-when he normally visits them once."

"I wouldn't think visiting them one extra day was anything to get suspicious about."

"We have to look at everything," Marco reminded her.

"Yeah, sure-but we shouldn't lose perspective either."

"You know what strikes me? The fact that this cousin of theirs goes to Mass and was married by the Church. Muslims don't go apostate just like that."

"And you're also going to investigate all the Italians who never set foot in a church? Listen, I've got a girlfriend who converted to Judaism because she fell in love with an Israeli one summer when she was in a kibbutz. The guy's mother was an Orthodox Jew who would never have allowed her darling boy to marry a shiksa, so my friend converted and every Saturday she goes to synagogue. She doesn't believe in anything, but she goes."

"That's your girlfriend. Here we have two Turks who want to kill somebody."

"Uh-huh, but they're the killers, not their cousin, and you can't turn him into a suspect because he goes to Mass."

Pietro came into the dining room and headed over. A minute later, Antonino and Giuseppe joined them. Sofia was the last to arrive.

Minerva brought them up to speed on what had been happening overnight and at Marco's behest handed out copies of the report she'd produced.

"So? What do you think?" Marco asked when they'd all finished reading through the file.

"They aren't pros-if they've been hired for the job it's either because they've got some relationship to our guy or because somebody who does trusts the hell out of them," Pietro observed.

Giuseppe chimed in. "There are men in that prison who'd cut his throat without thinking twice, but die person who's contracted the hit either doesn't know how to get to those types, which means he doesn't have underworld ties, or, as Pietro says, he trusts these two, who seem to be nothing special. They've never been tied to dirty money, never so much as stolen their neighbor's Vespa for a joyride. A stupid bar fight doesn't put them in the big leagues."

"Fine, Giuseppe, but tell me something we don't know," Marco insisted.

"Hold on, Marco, I think Giuseppe and Pietro are saying a lot," Antonino argued. "Now we know for sure that our guy is a link to something-somebody wants him dead because they know he can lead us to them. That means there's a leak-they're on to our plans; otherwise they'd have gotten rid of him a long time ago. But no, they want to kill him now, all of a sudden, just as he's about to go free." <

"Who exactly knows about this part the operation?" Sofia asked.

"Too many people," Marco replied. 'And Antonino is right on target. They know where we're going before we get there. Minerva, Antonino, see what else you can get on the Bajerai family-they're one link. They have to be connected to someone who wants our man dead. Go over everything again, look into even the smallest details. I'm going back to the prison."

"Why don't we talk to the parents and cousin?" Pietro asked.

"Because we don't want to raise any flags. We can't afford to be more visible than we already are. And we can't pull the mute out of prison, because then it'll be him that gets suspicious. We have to keep him alive, out of range of these brothers," Marco answered.

"How?" asked Sofia.

"A capo in the drug mafia, a guy named Frasquello. I made a deal with him. All right, everybody, let's go," he said abruptly, brushing aside their questions.

They ran into Ana Jimenez in the lobby. She was leaving the reception desk, carry-on in tow.

"You guys look like you're on to something big," she joked.

"You're leaving?" Sofia asked.

"I'm on my way to London, and then to France."

"Work?" Sofia pressed.

"Work. I may call you, dottoressa. I may need your advice."

The doorman told Ana her taxi was waiting, and she blew them a kiss as she headed out the door.

"That girl makes me nervous," Marco confessed.

Sofia nodded. "Yeah, you never much liked her."

"No, you're wrong, I like her, but I don't like her sticking her nose into our case. What's she going to London for? And France? She either sees something we don't, or she's going to stir things up, chasing after one of her batty theories."

"I've been impressed by her," Sofia answered, "and her theories may not be so batty. Everyone thought Schliemann was a crackpot, and he found Troy."

"All she needs is you for a defense lawyer! I'd still like to know what she's up to. I'll call Santiago. You and I both know it has something to do with the shroud."

The prison was silent. The inmates had been locked down for the night two hours earlier. The corridors and passageways were illuminated only by the wan, yellowish light of ten-watt bulbs, and the guards on the night shift were dozing.

The Bajerais pushed at the door to their cell, checking to make sure it was open. Yes, the guard had kept his part of the deal… Keeping close to the wall and crouching until they were almost crawling, the two brothers began to make their way to the other end of the corridor, where the mute's cell was. If everything went as they planned, in less than five minutes they'd be back in their own cell as though they had never left. They had traveled halfway down the corridor when the smaller one, in back, felt someone's hand grip his neck half a second before a hard blow to the head knocked him unconscious. The older brother turned around just in time to catch a massive fist full in the nose. Blood streaming, he fell to his knees without a sound as a hand of iron fastened on his throat. Struggling for air, finding none, he felt his life slipping away from him.

Light was just beginning to brighten the corridors of the Turin jail when the guard on morning rounds stopped dead in front of the Bajerais' cell. Then he ran to sound the alarm, as the two bloody heaps tangled together on the floor began to stir and moan.

In the infirmary, the doctor ordered the brothers sedated and pumped them full of pain medication. Their faces had been beaten to pulp, their eyes narrow slits within the massive swelling.

When Marco arrived at the warden's office in response to his call, the agitated official relayed what had happened. He had to inform the judicial authorities and the carabinieri.

Marco calmed him down, then asked to see Frasquello.

"I did my part," the capo spat at him the second he walked into the warden's office.

"Yes, and I'll do mine. What happened?"

"Don't ask questions. It went like you wanted. Your mute is alive and the Turks are too-what more could you ask for, eh? Nobody's been hurt. Those two brothers just got a little bruised, is all."

"I want you to continue to keep an eye out. They may try again."

"Who, those two? You're kidding."

"Them or somebody else, I don't know. Just keep watching."

"When do you talk to the parole board?"

"When this is over."

"Which is when?"

"No more than four or five days, I hope."

"Okay. But you want to do what you said you would, cop, or you'll wish you had."

'And what you want is not to threaten me."

"Just do it."

Frasquello slammed the door behind him as he left the office.