The Brotherhood Of The Holy Shroud

51

IT WAS SEVEN A.M., AND THE CORE MEMBERS of the Art Crimes Department looked like they'd just gotten out of bed after a sleepless night. Now they were waiting for their breakfast orders to be brought in. The hotel dining room had just opened and they'd been the first guests to enter.

At nine the mute was to be released from the Turin jail.

Marco had planned for the operation to tail him meticulously. They would be backed up by a group of carabinieri and by Interpol.

Sofia was nervous, and she thought Minerva looked uneasy too. Even Antonino showed the tension in the way he tightened his lips. Marco, Pietro, and Giuseppe, however, seemed fine-loose and easy. All three were cops, and for them a tail was routine. They had reviewed their respective roles and responsibilities until they could practically recite them in their sleep. There was nothing to do now but wait.

To fill the time, Sofia began to update Marco and the team about some of the more intriguing leads-or hints, really-that she'd come across on her most recent forays into the shadowy history of the shroud, paging through biblical Apocrypha and books on Edessa and its role as an ancient center of trade. The more she delved into the connection they'd unearthed to Urfa, Edessa's modern incarnation, the more convinced she became that there was indeed a thread stretching from there through the centuries-cryptic allusions to inquiries emanating from powerful forces within the city seeking the whereabouts of a mysterious lost treasure. The probes seemed to reach into every kingdom on the continent and beyond, even as far as England, Scotland, and Ireland. She was certain that the treasure was Edessa's stolen shroud-and that perhaps the effort to recover it hadn't stopped when the historical accounts broke off.

"Jesus, I never heard anything so stupid!" Pietro interrupted her. "It's too early in the morning for this bullshit, Sofia."

"This is not bullshit! I mean, it's speculation, I know that, and it's a little 'out there,' and I'm not saying that it's true, but you can't call everything that doesn't agree with what you think 'bullshit.' "

"Cool it!" Marco barked. "Sofia, I don't know… it seems a bit fantastic that this could have been going on all these years. But with a little luck, and close attention to the job at hand," he looked pointedly around the table at them all, "we'll have some hard answers soon. Now let's run through everything one more time."

Far from Turin, the animated atmosphere within the opulent penthouse of one of the world's most powerful shipping magnates was in stark contrast to the storm outside now lashing New York City. Guests milled about, chatting happily, laughing, and although it was after midnight, the party seemed to be just beginning. The group of men ensconced comfortably in a discreet corner with champagne and Havana cigars seemed to perfectly reflect the festive mood of the night.

Their conversation, however, belied their relaxed postures.

"Mendib will be leaving the prison about now," the oldest murmured discreetly to the others. "Everything is ready."

"I'm concerned about this situation. Bakkalbasi has seven men in all, Addaio has hired a professional killer, and Marco Valoni has put a whole team of men and equipment in place. Won't we be terribly exposed? Wouldn't it be better to let them resolve this themselves?" the Frenchman asked.

"We have been briefed on all the details of both operations-we can monitor them with little danger of exposure of our people. As for Addaio's man, there is no problem there. He can be easily controlled," replied the older man.

"Even so, I, too, am inclined to believe that there are too many people in this," said a gentleman with an indeterminate accent.

"Mendib is a problem for Addaio and for us because Valoni will not let go of this as long as he has a lead," the older man insisted. "But I am much more concerned about the reporter, the sister of the Europol representative, and that Dottoressa Galloni. The conclusions those two are reaching bring them perilously close to us. Ana Jimenez has met with Lady Elisabeth McKenny, who gave her a file, or the summary of a file, on the Templars. You know the one. I'm sorry, very sorry, to come to this point, but Lady Elisabeth, Ms. Jimenez, and Dottoressa Galloni are becoming a problem. A threat to our existence, in fact."

A heavy silence fell over the others, who exchanged surreptitious glances.

"What do you propose to do?" The Italian's tone carried a touch of defiance as he asked the direct question.

"What has to be done. I'm sorry."

"We mustn't rush into this."

'And we haven't, which is why they're much further along in their speculations than is comfortable for us. We must act before it is too late. I want your advice, but I also want your consent."

"Can we not wait awhile longer?" asked the ex-military man.

"No, we can't, not without endangering everything. It would be madness to go on taking risks. I'm sorry, sincerely sorry. The decision is as repugnant to me as it is to you, but I can find no other solution. If you think there is one, tell me."

The other six men were silent. They all knew deep down that he was right. The enormous amount of money Paul Bisol had spent on security had been for nothing. For years they had intercepted the couple's mail. They had inserted spyware on their computers, a keystroke logger program, and they had tapped Enigmas' telephones; they had installed sophisticated bugs in the editorial offices and in their home.

They knew everything about them-as for months they had been learning everything about Sofia Galloni and Ana Jimenez, from the perfume they wore to what they read at night, who they spoke to, their love life… everything, absolutely everything.

The other members of the Art Crimes Department had all been under relentless surveillance as well-all their telephone calls, both landline and cellular, had been intercepted, and each of them had been followed around the clock.

"So?" the older man insisted.

"I hesitate to-"

"I understand," the older man interrupted the Italian, "I understand. Say no more. You need not take part in the decision."

"Do you think that lightens my conscience?"

"No, I know it doesn't. But it can help. I think you need that help, spiritual help. We have all passed through moments like this in our lives. It has not been easy, but we have not chosen the easy road-we have chosen the impossible. It is in circumstances such as these that the nobility of our mission becomes the measure of ourselves."

'After dedicating my entire life… do you think that I still have to prove that I am worthy of our mission?"

"Of course not. You need not prove anything," his master replied. "But you are suffering. We can all see that. You must look within yourself, and to God, for the strength you have always had. For now, please, trust in our judgment and let us act as we must."

"No, I cannot agree to that."

"I can suspend you temporarily, until you are yourself again."

"You can do that. What else will you do?"

As other guests began to glance toward them, the military man interrupted.' "That's enough. They're looking at us. Let's leave this for another moment."

"There is no time," the older man replied. "I must ask for your consent now."

"So be it," said all the men but one, who, lips tight with anger and frustration, turned on his heel and strode away.

Sofia and Minerva were at carabinieri headquarters in Turin. It was two minutes till nine, and through the microphone hidden under the lapel of his jacket, Marco had notified them that the gates of the prison were opening. He watched the mute come out, walking slowly, looking straight ahead, even as the gate closed behind him. His calm was surprising, Marco thought. There was no emotion, no sign that he welcomed freedom after years of confinement.

Mendib told himself that he was being watched. He didn't see them, but he knew they were there, watching. He was going to have to throw them off his trail, lose them, but how? He would try to follow the plan he had made in prison. He would go to the center of the city, wander about, sleep on a bench in some park. He didn't have much money; he could pay for a room in a pensione for three or four days at the most and eat only panini. He would also get rid of these clothes and shoes; although he had gone over them carefully and found nothing, he was instinctively uncomfortable about them since they had been in the possession of the guards for laundering.

He knew Turin. Addaio had sent him and his brothers here a year before their attempt to steal the shroud, precisely so that they could become familiar with the city. He had followed the pastor's instructions: walk and walk and walk, all over the city. It was the best way to come to know it. He'd also learned the bus routes.

He was approaching the center of Turin, walking through the Crocetta district. The moment of truth had come-the moment to escape the people who were surely following him.

"I think we've got company."

Marco's voice came over the transmitter in their operations center.

"Who are they?" asked Minerva.

"No idea-but they look like Turks."

"Turks or Italians," they heard Giuseppe say. "Black hair, olive skin."

"How many are there?" Sofia asked.

"Two, for the moment," Marco said, "but there may be more. They're young. The mute seems oblivious. He's wandering around, looking at the windows-as out to lunch as usual."

They heard Marco give the carabinieri instructions not to lose sight of the two unknown tails.

Neither Marco nor the other police officers focused on a limping old man who was selling lottery tickets. Neither tall nor short, neither heavyset nor thin, dressed anonymously and impersonally, the old man was just part of the landscape of the neighborhood.

But the old man had seen them. The killer hired by Addaio missed nothing, and so far he had identified half a dozen cops, plus four of the men sent by Bakkalbasi.

He was irritated-the man who'd hired him hadn't told him that the cops would be swarming all over the place or that there were other killers like him after his target. He'd have to take his time, develop a new plan.

Another man made him suspicious, too, at first, but he'd shaken it off after a while. No, that one was no cop, and he didn't look Turkish either-he didn't have anything to do with this, although the way he moved… Then he was gone, and the killer breathed easy. The guy was nothing.

All day, Mendib wandered through the city. He had rejected the idea of sleeping on a bench; it would be a mistake. If someone wanted to kill him, he would be making it too easy if he slept out in the open in a park. So at dusk he made his way to a homeless shelter that he'd seen that morning, run by the Sisters of Charity. He would be safer there.

Once they established that the mute had eaten and settled himself on a thin mattress near the dormitory entrance, where one of the nuns sat to prevent fights among the inmates, Marco felt confident their subject wouldn't be moving again that night. He decided to go to the hotel and get a little sleep, and he ordered his team to do the same thing, except for Pietro, whom he left in charge with a relief team of three fresh carabinieri-enough to follow the mute if he emerged again unexpectedly.

Ana Jimenez was waiting in the Paris airport for a night flight to Rome. From there she'd continue on to Turin. She was nervous and disturbed by what she'd been reading in Elisabeth's file. If just a fraction of what was in it was true, it would be terrible. There were dimensions to this story she'd never imagined when she began, things that seemed to relate to the shroud-or some great secret-yet had nothing to do with France or Turin. But the reason she'd decided to go back to Turin anyway was that she'd seen one of the names that appeared in the file in another report-the one that Marco Valoni had given her brother to read. And if what Elisabeth said was true, that name belonged to one of the masters of the new Temple and related directly to the shroud.

She had made two decisions: one, to talk to Sofia, and two, to go to the cathedral and surprise Padre Yves. She'd spent most of the morning and part of the afternoon trying to contact Sofia, but the desk at the Alexandra had informed her that she'd left very early, and Ana had yet to get any reply from the several voice-mail messages she'd left for her. There seemed to be no way to get in touch with the dottoressa at this moment. As for Padre Yves, she'd see him the next day, one way or the other.

Elisabeth was right-she was getting close to something, although to what she wasn't sure.

Bakkalbasi's men had managed to lose the carabinieri. One of them stayed outside the Sisters of Charity shelter, watching to be sure Mendib didn't leave; the others dispersed. By the time they reached the cemetery, it was nightfall and the guard was waiting for them nervously.

"Hurry, hurry, I have to leave," he hissed as he motioned them inside. "I will give you a key to the gate, in case you come too late one night and I have had to go."

The entrance of the mausoleum he led them to was protected by an angel with a sword raised high in one hand. The four men went inside, lighting their way with a flashlight, and disappeared into the bowels of the earth.

Ismet was waiting for them in the underground room. He had brought water for them to wash with, and food. They were hungry and tired, and all they wanted was to sleep.

"Where is Mehmet?"

"He stayed where Mendib is sleeping, in case he decides to leave the shelter tonight. Addaio is right-they want Mendib to lead them to us. They have a big team shadowing him," said one of the men, who in Urfa was a police officer, as was one of his companions.

"Did they see you?" asked Ismet, worried.

"I don't think so," another of the men answered, "but we can't be sure-there are a lot of them."

"You mustn't lead them here. Do you understand? If you think you are being followed, you can't come back here," Ismet insisted.

"We know, we know," the police officer reassured him. "Don't worry. No one followed us."

By six a.m. Marco was positioned near the Sisters of Charity shelter again. He had called in reinforcements for the carabinieri team, who had lost the two Turkish tails the night before.

"If-when-they show up again, be sure they don't see you," he snapped. "I want them alive and squawking when this is over. If they're following the mute, we're going to want them. Meanwhile we need to give them a little more slack."

His men had nodded. Pietro insisted he was going to keep working, despite the fact that he hadn't slept the night before.

Sofia had heard the rising anxiety in Ana's voice in the voice-mail messages she'd left. At the hotel they'd told her that Ana had also called there five times. She felt a twinge of remorse for not having returned the calls, but this was no time to be distracting herself with the reporter's wild theories. She'd call when they closed the case; until then she was going to concentrate all her energies on following Marco's orders. She and Minerva were about to leave for carabinieri headquarters when a bellman came running toward them.

"Dottoressa Galloni, dottoressa!"

"Yes, what's wrong?"

"You have a telephone call; they say it's urgent."

"I can't take it now; tell the front desk to take a message and-"

"Front desk told me that Signor D'Alaqua says it's very important."

"D'Alaqua?"

"Yes. That's who's calling."

Sofia waved Minerva on, turned, and headed directly to one of the house phones.

"This is Dottoressa Galloni; I think I have a, call."

"Oh, dottoressa, thank goodness! Signor D'Alaqua was very insistent that we find you. One moment, please."

Umberto D'Alaqua's distinctive voice had a different quality, tense, controlled. "Sofia…"

"Yes, how are you?"

"I need to see you."

"I'd love to, but-"

"No buts. My car will be there in ten minutes."

"I'm sorry-I'm on my way to work. I can't today. Is something wrong?"

"I have a proposal for you. You know that my great passion is archaeology-well, I'm off to Syria. I have permission for a dig there, and my people have found some pieces that I'd like you to look at. I have to leave immediately, but on the way I'd like to talk to you. I'd like to make you a job offer."

"I appreciate that, really, but right now I can't possibly go. I'm sorry," she replied, astonished by the entire exchange.

"Sofia, sometimes there are once-in-a-lifetime opportunities."

"That's true. But there are also responsibilities that one can't abandon. And right now I just can't leave what I'm doing. If you can wait two or three days, then maybe-"

"No, it can't wait three days."

"Is it so important that you leave for Syria today?"

"Yes."

"Well, I'm sorry. I really am. I might be able to go in a few days…"

"No, I don't think so. I beg you to come with me now."

Sofia hesitated. Umberto D'Alaqua's proposal was as disconcerting as his peremptory tone.

"What's happening? Tell me."

"I'm telling you."

"I'm sorry, truly. Listen, I've got to go, they're waiting for me."

"Good luck, then, dottoressa," he said, the life evaporating from his voice. "Take care of yourself."

"Yes, of course, thank you." She heard the line click and placed the phone back in its cradle.

Why was he wishing her good luck? He'd sounded utterly defeated. Good luck with what? Could he possibly know about the operation they were in the midst of?

When she finished the case she'd call him. She was sure that there was something else behind his extraordinary offer and that it was not a love affair he had in mind.

"What did D'Alaqua want?" Minerva had waited for her, and they walked out of the hotel together.

"For me to go with him to Syria."

"Syria! What for?"

"He's got a permit to do an archaeological excavation there. He wanted me to help him."

"Some romantic getaway."

"He was asking me to go away, but it wasn't romantic. He sounded worried."

By the time they reached carabinieri headquarters, Marco had called twice. He was in a foul mood. The transmitter they'd planted on the mute wasn't working. It was sending out beeps, but the beeps didn't match the direction in which he was walking. They soon realized that their man had changed shoes. The ones he was wearing now were older, more worn-looking. He'd also put on a pair of filthy jeans and an equally filthy jacket. Somebody had made a great deal on the trade.

At the moment they were watching their target walk aimlessly around the Parco Carrara. The two tails from the day before were nowhere to be seen, at least so far.

The mute was carrying a hunk of bread, and as he walked he pinched pieces off it and scattered crumbs for the birds. He crossed paths with a man walking hand-in-hand with two little girls, and Marco thought the man stared into the mute's eyes for a few seconds before he moved on.

The killer came to the same conclusion. That must be the guy's contact. He still couldn't make his move- there was no way; the guy was surrounded by cops. Shooting him would be tantamount to committing suicide. He'd follow him for two more days, and if things didn't change, he'd forget about the contract-he wasn't going to risk his own neck just to kill some miserable tongueless Turk.

Neither Marco nor his men, nor the Turkish tail, nor even, this time, the killer, noticed that they themselves were being watched. After he took his girls home, Arslan, the long-time community contact, called his cousin. Yes, he had seen Mendib; they'd crossed paths in the Parco Carrara. He looked fine. But he hadn't made any sign-nothing. Apparently he didn't feel secure yet-and with good reason.

Ana Jimenez asked the taxi driver to take her to the Turin Cathedral. She entered through the door to the cathedral offices and asked to see Padre Yves.

"He is not in, I'm afraid," said the secretary. "He is with the cardinal, on a pastoral visit. You do not have an appointment, I think; is that correct?"

"No, you're right, but I know that Padre Yves would be delighted to see me," Ana said curtly, knowing she was being rude, annoyed by the secretary's smugness.

She'd been doubly unlucky. She'd called Sofia again and missed her. She decided to linger in the neighborhood around the cathedral and wait until Yves de Charny returned.

Listening to the report, Bakkalbasi was in a quandary. Mendib was still wandering around the city-it looked as though it would be very, very difficult, if not impossible, to kill him. There were carabinieri everywhere. If Bakkalbasi's men continued the pursuit, they were going to wind up being spotted themselves.

He didn't know what to tell his team. If the operation failed, Mendib might bring on the fall of the community. Sooner or later he would head to the cemetery, or home. Mendib's great-uncle was waiting. Several days ago he had prepared himself, as so many in the community had done through the centuries. He had had all his teeth pulled, his tongue cut out, and his fingerprints burned ofF. A doctor had anesthetized him so he would not suffer unduly. Now it was past time to send him in…

Mendib thought he had seen a familiar face, the face of a man from Urfa-was he there to help him or kill him? He knew Addaio, and he knew that he would never allow the community to be discovered. Mendib was aware that if he was careless he could lead unbelievers to the community-and that Addaio would prevent that at all costs. As soon as it got dark, he would go back to the shelter and if possible sneak from there to the cemetery. He would jump the wall and find the tomb. He remembered it perfectly well-and remembered where the key was hidden. He would go through the tunnel to the house of Turgut and ask Turgut to save him. If he could get to Turgut's house without being discovered, Addaio could organize an escape. He did not mind waiting two or three months underground, until the carabinieri tired of looking for him. He had waited for years in a cell.

He walked toward Porta Palazzo, the open-air market, to buy something to eat and try to lose himself among the stalls. The people following him would have a hard time camouflaging themselves in the narrow corridors of the market, and if he could manage to see their faces, it would be easier for him to lose them later.

They had come for him. The old man took the knife from Bakkalbasi without hesitation. His nephew's son had to be killed, and he preferred to do it himself rather than allowing other men to profane themselves. In the car, Bakkalbasi's cell phone chimed; Mendib was moving toward the Piazza della Repubblica, probably to Porta Palazzo, the marketplace. Bakkalbasi ordered the driver to head in that direction and stop near the place Mendib had been seen. As they pulled up, he embraced the old man and said good-bye. He prayed that he might complete his mission.

Within minutes, Mendib saw his father's uncle and felt his heart fill with relief. The community, his family, had not forsaken him. He began to make his way carefully toward the old man. Then he saw his great-uncle's anguished expression. It was the look of a desperate man.

Their eyes met. Mendib did not know what to do- flee or approach the old man casually to give him an opportunity to pass a note or whisper instructions.

He decided to trust his great-uncle. The desperation in his eyes no doubt reflected fear, nothing else. Fear of Addaio, fear of the carabinieri.

As their bodies brushed against each other, Mendib felt a deep pain in his side. Then the old man fell to his knees and crumpled facedown on the ground. A knife protruded from his back. People around him began to scream and push away, and Mendib did the same-panicked, he ran. Someone had murdered his father's uncle, but who?

The killer ran along with the crowd, acting as terrified as the rest. He'd stabbed an old man instead of the mute. An old man who was carrying a knife too. That did it; he was not going to make another attempt. The man who'd hired him hadn't told him the whole story by a long shot, and he couldn't work in the dark, not knowing what he'd be facing. The contract was over, and he was keeping the up-front money.

On the edge of the market, Bakkalbasi watched Mendib run away as the old man lay dying on the pavement. Who had killed him? It had not been the carabinieri. Might it have been them? But why kill the old man? Distraught, he called Addaio. He didn't know what to do. Everything was coming apart. The pastor listened and gave a brief order. Bakkalbasi nodded, calming himself.

With his men right behind him, Marco ran over to the old man lying on the pavement. They were all burned, for anyone who was looking.

"Is he dead?" Pietro asked.

The old man's pulse was fading. He opened his eyes, looked up at Marco as though he wanted to say something, and died.

Sofia and Minerva had followed everything on the police radio; they'd heard Marco's footsteps, running, the orders he was issuing rapid-fire, Pietro's question.

"Marco! Marco! What happened?" Minerva shouted into the mike. "For God's sake, tell us something!"

"Somebody tried to kill the mute-we don't know who, we didn't see him-but he killed an old man who stepped in front of him. We don't know who he is, he's got no papers. The ambulance is coming. Jesus! Shit, shit, shit!"

"You want us over there?" Sofia asked.

"No, just stay there. Where the hell is the mute?!" they heard him yell.

"We lost him," said a voice over the walkie-talkies.

"We lost him," it repeated. "He got away in the confusion."

"Son of a bitch! How the hell could you people let him get away? Goddammit!"

"Calm down, Marco, calm down…" Giuseppe was saying.

Minerva and Sofia listened in silence. After so many months of preparation for Trojan Horse, the horse had galloped away.

"Find him! All of you! Find him!"

Well out of the neighborhood by now, Mendib was having trouble breathing. He pressed his hand over the stab wound at his side. The pain was becoming unbearable. The worst thing was that he was leaving a trail of blood. He stopped and looked for a doorway to step into and rest for a moment. He thought he had managed to throw off his pursuers, but he was not sure. His only chance lay in reaching the cemetery, but it was still far, and he should wait until nightfall. But where?

Willing himself to move onward, he pressed service doors all along the way until one finally gave. It was a little janitor's closet, holding mops and buckets and a large trash container. He sat on the floor behind the trash can, trying not to lose consciousness. He was losing a great deal of blood, and he needed to stanch the wound. He took off the jacket he was wearing and pulled out the lining to make a bandage, which he held tight against the wound. He was exhausted; he did not know how long he would be able to hide there-perhaps until nightfall, if he was lucky

His old uncle, a man who had loved him since he was a baby, had stabbed him. What was going on? Then Mendib felt himself growing light-headed and lost consciousness.

Ana was sitting on a terrace at the Porta Palatina, waiting to return to Padre Yves's office, when people began to run past, shouting. They were screaming that a man had been killed-the killer was still on the loose. She scanned the crowd and noticed a young man on its fringes running, stumbling. As if he was hurt. He ducked into a doorway and disappeared. She walked in the direction the people had come from, trying to find out what was happening. But except that somebody had been murdered, no one could tell her anything coherent.

She saw two young men, similar in appearance to the one who'd looked hurt, heading in that same direction, and instinctively she followed them.

The two men from Urfa saw the woman lingering behind them, so they began to slow, and then to backtrack. She was probably a cop. They could watch for Mendib to emerge from a distance and keep an eye on her as well. If necessary, they would kill her too.

Yves de Charny had been back in his office for a while. His handsome features were shadowed with worry.

His secretary entered the office. "Padre, those two friends of yours, the priests Padre Joseph and Padre David, are here. I told them you had just come in and I wasn't sure you could see them."

"Yes, yes, have them come in. His Eminence doesn't need me anymore, he's going to Rome, and the work for today is almost done. If you want, take the rest of the afternoon off."

"Have you heard that there was a murder just around the corner, at the Porta Palazzo?"

"Yes, I heard it on the radio. My God, such violence!"

"Heavens, yes, padre… Well, if you don't mind my leaving, I can use the time-I've been wanting to have my hair done; tomorrow I'm having dinner at my daughter's house."

"Go, go-don't worry."

Padre Joseph and Padre David looked grim as they entered Padre Yves's office. The three men waited for the sounds of the secretary leaving.

"You heard what's happened," Padre David finally said, as they heard the outer door closing behind her.

"Yes. Where is he?"

"He's hidden himself near here. Our people are watching him, but it wouldn't be smart to go in after him. The reporter is hanging around too."

"The reporter! Why?"

"Bad luck. She was sitting on the terrace having a soft drink, probably waiting for you. If she shows up here again, we'll have to do it," said Padre Joseph.

"Not here-too dangerous."

"There's nobody here," Padre Joseph insisted.

"You never know. What about Galloni?"

'Any moment now, as soon as she leaves carabinieri headquarters. Everything is ready," Padre David reported.

"Sometimes…"

"Sometimes you doubt, as we do, but we are soldiers, and we follow orders," said Joseph.

"This isn't necessary." Yves stared hard at him.

"We have no choice but to obey," David said quietly.

"Yes. But that doesn't mean we can't speak up against our orders, even as we obey them. We have been taught to think for ourselves."

Finally luck seemed to be turning Marco's way. Giuseppe had just walkie-talkied that he'd spotted one of the Turkish tails near the cathedral, and Marco raced over there. When he arrived in the piazza he slowed his pace to that of the other pedestrians, who were still buzzing about the earlier incident.

"Where is he?" he asked as he joined Giuseppe.

"Over there-they're both there, on the terrace. The same ones as yesterday."

'Attention all units-stay down. Repeat: Stay down. You're all invisible. Pietro, get over here; the rest of you, surround the piazza, but keep your distance. These tails have already shown us they can lose us. But they're our best bet at this point."

It was late afternoon, and Ana Jimenez decided to try Padre Yves again. The men who had caught her attention earlier had vanished. No one answered the bell for the cathedral offices, but the door opened when she tried it. Everyone seemed to have gone home for the night, but the porter hadn't yet locked up. She stepped toward Padre Yves's office and was about to knock when she heard voices inside.

She didn't recognize the voice of the man talking, but what he was saying froze her in her tracks.

"Most of them are coming in through the tunnel. They want them off the street with all the carabinieri swarming all over the place. What about the others?… All right, we're on our way. If he makes it out, he'll try to hide here; it's the safest place."

In the office, Padre Joseph closed up his cell phone and turned to the others.

"Two of Addaio's men are waiting out in the piazza, and Mendib is still in his closet. They must not know exactly where he is, but I imagine he'll be on the move again; he's not too secure there."

"Where's Valoni?" asked Padre David.

"They say he's furious-the operation has gotten away from him," Padre Joseph answered.

"That's closer to the truth than even he thinks," Padre Yves said wryly.

"No, you're wrong," said David firmly. "He doesn't know anything; he just had a good idea-use Mendib to get to the bigger quarry. But he doesn't actually know anything about the community, much less about us."

"Don't delude yourself," Padre Yves insisted. "He's getting dangerously close to Addaio and his people. They've uncovered the Urfa connection with the shroud. Dottoressa Galloni is pointing them straight in that direction. It's a shame a woman like that has to-"

'All right," Padre Joseph interrupted. "They want us in the tunnel. Let's hope Turgut and his nephew are already down there. Our men are at the cemetery."

Ana crouched behind a filing cabinet in the outer office, trembling, as the three men headed for the door. Was Padre Yves a Templar, or did he belong to another organization? And what about the two with him? Their voices were those of young men.

She held her breath as they hurried across the room and through the main office door. She waited a few moments and then, gathering her courage, glided silently behind them, following the muffled sounds of their progress not far ahead of her.

They reached a small door leading to the cathedral porter's apartment. Padre Yves knocked at the door, but there was no response. A few seconds later, he pulled a key from within his cassock and opened the door. They vanished inside.

Clinging to the wall, Ana crept to the entrance to the porter's apartment and listened. Nothing. She stepped inside, praying that the three men wouldn't surprise her.