The Coptic Secret

I.

Leonardo da Vinci International Airport

Flumicino

0650 Local Time

Two Days Later

Lang was not surprised to be picked up by a tail the minute he cleared customs. He certainly had made it as easy as possible: an international flight on an airline rather than the Gulfstream booked in advance under his own name. He couldn't bring himself to check his bag and risk spending his time waiting while the airline conducted a fruitless search for luggage that, by that time, could well be in Singapore.

He wanted company.

He was almost certain he had identified his minder, a middle-aged man who had stood behind Lang in the line at the airport's rail terminal to buy a ticket into Rome. The last time Lang had seen an international traveler in coat and tie was when John Wayne nursed his crippled Constellation aircraft across part of the Pacific in The High and the Mighty on the late, late movie on TV.

Whatever the movie, the guy behind Lang wore a suit, albeit a cheap one, making himself as conspicuous as if he had worn a tutu. Certainly another amateur. He ordered his rail ticket in Italian, smiled at Lang and went over to the coffee bar to wait. Lang almost lost sight of him in the surge of embarking passengers swimming upstream against those getting off the train. Anywhere else, those boarding would have waited for the cars to empty. Well, maybe a New York subway… Lang's tail managed to wedge himself into the same car where he smiled again and stared out of the window.

Gurt had been less than happy with Lang's idea but unable to come up with a better one. After all, Lang had explained, with whom would Manfred be safer? After the shoot-out at Lang's country place, the attempt in Baden-Baden and the most recent kidnap attempt, he could hardly be entrusted to a hired nanny, and no matter how willing the Hendersons, their farm was no longer secure. Any way he looked at it, Lang felt the mountains of North Carolina provided a safe haven by the fact he had no connection with the area whatsoever. If trouble did arrive, he would be hard-pressed to think of a more capable guardian.

Thirty minutes later, he stepped down from the railcar into the bustling mob that was Roma Termini.

Outside, he ignored the cabstand. Only tourists waited in orderly if futile fashion while the experienced traveler walked a block or so farther to catch cabs as they arrived at the station. Lang was aware of the man from the train at his elbow. He stood patiently until the white taxi stopped to unload its passenger and what must have been her entire wardrobe. The cabby yelled for a porter and a dolly was soon loaded with an assortment of mismatched luggage from the largest on bottom to the small overnight case crowned by a… what? A rat with a rhinestone collar around its neck? Lang wasn't sure until the creature began to bark crossly. Its mistress's alternating coos and pleas failed to silence the ill-natured canine. Lang pitied the traveler who shared a car with that animal. He could only imagine the haggle involving the porter's tip.

As the porter staggered away under his load, the cab- driver looked expectantly at Lang, who stepped back, indicating the man beside him should have the taxi.

The Italians are a civilized, graceful people.

Except when it comes to the last seat on a bus, train, cab or in a trattoria.

Lang's shadow gaped, uncomprehending. He had two immediate choices: expose his intent to follow the American or accept the offer and lose his mark.

He chose the latter.

Perhaps so he might regale his grandchildren with the story of how someone had voluntarily relinquished a taxi to him.

More likely because he feared a confrontation.

Lang leaned into the next cab, giving his destination and asking the fare. Roman cabdrivers are notorious for bilking strangers to their city. A ride that should consist of a few blocks easily becomes an hour's tour.

The driver held up both hands, ten euro.

Lang shook his head, knowing the distance he would travel. He held up one hand, fingers spread. "Five."

Ultimately reaching an agreement, Lang climbed in. The ride in Roman traffic was the usual blaring horns and ignored traffic signals. It would be impossible to spot a tail in the chaos. As always, Lang was a little surprised to arrive intact.

The cab jolted to a stop at the limit of vehicular traffic at the edge of the crowded Piazza della Rotonda. Lang paid the driver, adding a small tip, retrieved his bag from the trunk and set out across the square. For what might have been the hundredth time, he stopped in front of the Pantheon, Rome's ultimate example of simplicity and symmetry.

Built under the direction of the second-century emperor Hadrian, it had served as a temple to all gods and now as a church and final resting place of Raphael, Marconi and several kings of modern Italy. Its dome of equal height and width had been studied by Michelangelo as a potential model for the new Vatican (the commission for the dome's construction ultimately went to someone else). Unlike other temples, its only natural illumination came from the oculus, the hole at the top of the dome.

With some difficulty, Lang turned his back on the building and continued across the cobblestoned pavement to a glass door bearing a drawing of a smiling sun and gilt letters announcing the Sole al Pantheon. A fifteenth-century palazzo, it was one of the city's oldest hotels. It had been occupied when Columbus first sailed and into its second century long before the rebuilding of the Vatican.

Happily, the plumbing had been updated.

In more contemporary times, it had housed the writers Jean-Paul Sartre and Simone de Beauvoir.

More important for Lang's purposes, it was centrally located, discreet and had a single entrance/exit, one easily monitored from his room's window.

He entered the tiny lobby and submitted his passport to the young man behind the desk. "I'm expecting a package. It should have arrived last night."

Lang faced a small fountain behind a pane of glass at the far end of the room while the clerk glanced around, stooped and retrieved a parcel from beneath the desk before finishing entering Lang's passport into a computer. Declining the use of the hotel's claustrophobic elevator, Lang climbed two flights of winding stairs and walked down a short tiled hall that changed levels every few feet. He unlocked a door and stepped into semidarkness. Crossing the tiled floor, he opened a shuttered window. Sounds of the piazza below as well as light flooded the room.

He had an unobstructed view of the Pantheon and its fountain and obelisk to his left, the same view a resident of the original palazzo might have had.

Except for the McDonald's almost directly below him, an anachronism that had delighted Dawn when they had stayed here a lifetime ago. The whole city had delighted her. From this window, in this room, they had made plans for other trips, plans both would shortly realize would never be fulfilled.

Had he chosen to return here because of a memory, deceiving himself that location and layout were the reasons? No matter; he was here. He sighed deeply as he unwrapped the package, marked machine parts. He opened a sturdy cardboard box and removed pieces of the Browning HP 35 he had purchased in Monk's pawnshop and two loaded clips. The risk in having it delivered via FedEx had been minimized by its disassembly. No one part would be recognizable to random X-ray. Besides, security for freight carriers was considerably more lax than at passenger terminals.

He spent the next few minutes reassembling the weapon and then shoved a magazine into place with a decisive click. Removing the holster from his suitcase, he placed the pistol into position in the small of his back, put on a light jacket and went out.

He found a cab where he had left the one in which he had arrived, negotiated a fare and directed the driver to the Via Veneto entrance to the Villa Borghese, Rome's largest park and site of one of its most impressive palaces. Upon arrival, he waited for the taxi to depart before setting off. He wanted whoever had been trying to kill him to know he was in town but making no effort to foil observation might well seem suspicious.

A few blocks from the park he dodged his way across the busy Corso D'ltalia, cut down a side street and entered an office of Hertz. Although he still experienced nightmares from the last time he drove in Rome, an automobile was essential to his plan. He had reserved not just any car but a bright red Alfa Romeo two-seat sport model, one that would draw attention.

It would also draw the car thieves for which Italy was famous.

Either way, if his plan worked, Mr. Hertz was never going to see this baby again.

Before getting in the car, he stopped at one of the stands that seemed to have been randomly scattered throughout Rome, selling maps, photographs and prints of the city's attractions. It took him only a minute to find what he wanted.

He returned to the car rental, where a young man was standing over the sports car with the hood raised.

Lang had had enough experience with Italian cars to expect the worst. "Problem?"

"Si, signore. She will not start. Perhaps domani?"

"Tomorrow won't do."

Lang took a look at the engine compartment, an incomprehensible spaghetti of various colored wires, ducts that seemed to go nowhere and somewhere beneath, an engine block.

The man from the rental agency slid into the driver seat and cranked the car. The starter ground away, the engine turned over once, twice and died. Perhaps that was why the US Department of Transportation no longer allowed importation of Alfas: terminal frustration. That was certainly the reason Lang slammed the hood shut.

The engine purred to life.

Lang was thankful his plan did not call for reliability.

Gritting his teeth and holding the Alfa's steering wheel in a death grip, Lang drove back to the Piazza della Rotonda. He found a narrow space between a Fiat and a subcompact Lancia in front of a conspicuous no parking sign and only a few yards from the open-air seating of one of the piazza's numerous trattorias, where he could keep an eye on the Alfa. The tables were beginning to fill with those seeking to quench the morning's thirst, people- watch or have an early lunch. He had ordered a La Rossa and began to study the reproduced engraving of the Piazza dei Cavalieri he had bought in the stand near the Hertz office. The beer had just arrived when a man sat beside him. There was no mistaking the rancid odor of stale tobacco.

"Hello, Jacob," Lang said.

II.

Piazza della Rotonda

Jacob signaled a waiter with the hand not holding his pipe. The man ignored him. "Bloody guineas! Man could die of thirst before they'd pay attention."

Lang ignored the condemnation of the Italian people, saying mildly, "Looks like there are plenty of other customers. I take it you acquired what you need?"

Jacob was sucking a match's flame into the bowl of the briar. "Yes, yes, of course. The question is where and when."

The waiter finally approached, regretted the menu did not include British ale and took Jacob's reluctant order for whatever Lang was having. Both men waited until the server was out of earshot.

"I'm not sure, but we can get started right now."

Jacob took a puff on his pipe and exhaled, sending acrid blue smoke drifting toward Lang on the day's fitful breeze. "Tell me exactly what you have in mind. You were less than specific on the phone."

When Lang finished, Jacob's beer had arrived. He took the pipe out of his mouth long enough to take a long sip. "Ahh. That settles the dust of travel! Your plan's a bit edgy. I mean, assuming this Knights of Malta lot are the villains, how do we…?"

"Their sovereign council meets every five years. The meeting starts tonight. Drink up and we'll have a look."

"You're just going to bait the lion in his den, are you? Not the method I'd fancy. I'd imagine the blokes'll spot us."

"I hope so."

Jacob wriggled his way into the passenger seat. "You should have gotten a car we rode in, not one we wear."

Lang pulled the hood latch and opened the engine compartment. "You're only young once."

Jacob watched with unspoken curiosity as Lang slammed the hood closed. "That was true some time ago."

Lang got into the driver seat. The car cranked immediately.

III.

Aventine Hill

Via S. Sabina

Fifteen Minutes Later

The street was largely residential. Tops of cypress trees peeked timidly over a high wall, giving evidence of the private piazza within. What little traffic there was consisted of large cars moving sedately, many chauffeured and the occupants shielded by tinted glass. It was as if the sounds of the city were too heavy to float up the steep slope.

Lang pulled the Alfa to the curb and cut the engine, opposite massive wooden doors about fifteen feet high. Their most prominent feature was a huge brass keyhole through which a queue of Japanese tourists were alternately looking and consulting guidebooks.

They parted long enough for the gates to slowly swing open to admit a Mercedes limo. Even through its darkened glass, Lang caught a glimpse of a man in a plumed hat and black robe trimmed in scarlet. The momentary view of the piazza itself was of multiple buildings, two of which looked like churches. Lang strained to see where the Mercedes went, but the doors closed before he could.

"Doesn't look like Dracula's castle to me," Jacob observed. "In fact, the chap in the car looked like he was on his way to perform in a Gilbert and Sullivan operetta."

"More likely to a meeting of the sovereign council."

"So you think the grand pooh-bah himself will be there."

"Grand master, yeah. He presides over the council until they elect a new one."

Jacob was fumbling in his pocket for his pipe and tobacco pouch. "Jolly good show if you can be sure these are the sods that have caused you bother. Bag 'em on the spot." He reached up to touch the convertible's top. "May as well put the lid down".

"Good idea. See if you can give me a hand getting the top down on this hot rod, will you?"

In the course of an hour, Lang watched seven trucks pass through that gate, each bearing the names of foodstuffs. From the designs or pictures on the sides, he guessed at seafood, a butcher, two vegetable suppliers, two pasta makers and a baker. That wasn't counting the vintner.

"Looks like someone is having a party, all right," Jacob commented, "bringing the goodies in by the lorry load."

Lang got out of the car as a van, this one an electrician, pulled up to the gate. "Think I'll have a little look-see."

He waited until the vehicle had been admitted and the gates nearly closed before hurrying across the empty street to put his face against the keyhole. To his left was an ochre-colored building in neoclassic style. From the engraving he had bought at the stand near the Hertz office, he guessed he was looking at the priory church, Santa Maria del Priorato. Across the piazza, he could turn his head to see a somewhat more modest building of gray stone. From the number of windows, he gathered it housed offices or living quarters or both rather than the second church he had thought. After watching a crew carrying folding tables in, he guessed he was looking at the dining area. Several men in chefs' white jackets came out to inspect one of the grocery trucks. Whatever the structure, it was going to be the site of what looked like a major banquet.

Lang returned to the Alfa.

"If you're wanting to be seen, you have been," Jacob said cheerfully. "Chap in a dark suit watched you from down the street, was talking on a cell phone."

Lang turned the key in the ignition. "Good enough. Now let's see what we can flush out."

IV.

Aventine Hill

2100 Local Time

Lang stopped down the hill from the Knights of Malta priory. He let Jacob out into the dusky shadows between streetlights with a clear view of the gates. Parking in the same spot he had that afternoon, Lang scanned the blank walls with binoculars, well aware the lenses would reflect such little light as was available. Once, he got out of the cramped sports car to walk around it, a man stretching his legs during a tedious wait.

Half an hour later, he repeated the process, this time squatting beside the car at the end of his stroll. He slammed the door closed as loudly as possible.

If there was revelry going on inside, the walls muffled it. The only sound Lang could hear was a faint hum of city traffic below punctuated with a honk of distant horns. The cypress trees sighed contentedly with the fresh evening breeze as though thankful to be relieved of the heat of the day.

One or two limousines entered the priory, no doubt carrying latecomers. Nothing else entered or left.

Lang was about to decide he needed another tactic when he heard a sound, something that did not belong among the whispers of the trees or the faraway murmur of distant automobiles. He tensed, his eyes trying to probe the darkness. Shadows of gently moving cypress branches haunted the street. Somewhere down the hill a motor scooter coughed to life.

Then he heard it again, a scuffling, scraping sound, the sound of shoe leather on pavement.

They were on the Alfa almost before Lang saw them, four men, each carrying something.

He hardly had time to guess what before the night was shredded with gunfire. Four sets of muzzle flashes burned into Lang's retinas as his ears rang with what must have been hundreds of rounds from automatic weapons.

Like a living creature, the Alfa shuddered under the impact of the fusillade, bullets shattering glass and piercing metal The little car seemed to utter a death shudder as it sank on bare rims from which the tires had been shredded.

The storm of gunfire passed as quickly as it had begun. Quiet pressed on Lang's eardrums, relieved only by the hissing of a punctured radiator. The pulsating wail of a siren was growing stronger. There would be no time for the would-be killers to verify their work.

From the shadows in which he had hidden the second time he had gotten out of the car, he watched as the gates across the street swung slowly open to allow the silhouettes of four men entry.

Up and down the street, lights were coming on. The curious and foolhardy were wandering outside. Questions were shouted into the dark.

"I'd say you've gotten your proof."

Lang flinched. He hadn't heard Jacob come up from his post downhill. "I'd say. Now we go to the second part of the plan."

Jacob placed a hand on Lang's shoulder, gently moving him away from the hole-riddled Alfa. "We'd best get along before the coppers show up."

V.

Thirty Minutes Later

Deputy Chief Police Inspector Hanaratti put a hand to his eyes to shade them from the glare of the lights arranged around the ruins of what had been an Alfa Romeo Spyder, the sort of car the inspector would have lusted after twenty years, three children and an ex-wife ago. It was so much scrap metal now. Not a square centimeter of the once sleek coachwork that didn't have a bullet hole in it. Fortunate for the driver he had escaped; he would not have survived the hailstorm of lead.

Hanaratti scowled. This looked very much like a botched Mafia job. Personally, he couldn't care less how many mafiosi bodies littered the streets. Good riddance to bad garbage. The problem was, one shooting usually begat another and another. The criminals could go to mattress as they called it, but the unaware civilian too often got caught in the cross fire.

And a strange location, too. One of the city's more upscale neighborhoods and right across the street from the Piazza dei Cavalieri di Malta. Could the shooting be related to the fact the order was having some sort of meeting? Like any good policeman, the inspector was suspicious of coincidences.

But it would be absurd to see a connection between some church order and organized crime, particularly the Mafia, which the church had denounced for centuries. He dismissed the idea but it stubbornly refused to vanish.

There was something else tiptoeing around the perimeter of his mind, like a man wary of stepping onto a floor of rotted wood. What…?

"No one inside heard the shots, Inspector."

Hanaratti had not noticed that Manicci was standing beside him. "It seems those old walls deafen a lot of sound," the junior inspector said.

It would take walls a lot thicker to prevent the sound of so much gunfire, Hanaratti thought sourly. The precinct had gotten telephone calls from as far as nearly a kilometer away. The priestly members of the order should set a better example than trying to evade cooperating with an investigation, no matter how important their meeting.

The priests.

The thought stirred something, an idea a little less reticent to step forward.

"From the license plate, we have learned the car was rented," Manicci continued.

We? Hanaratti thought. The inspector was a master of claiming credit due others, equally adept at passing along blame like a soup bowl too hot to hold. The perfect bureaucrat but not someone Hanaratti would have chosen for this particularly brazen crime. But he didn't get to choose with whom he worked. Manicci was married to the daughter of the chief inspector's wife's first cousin.

In Italy, nepotism was a matter of family pride.

"We have already located the Hertz office and the manager will meet one of my men there to ascertain the name of the person renting it."

Opportunity knocked.

"One of your men? It is too important to entrust to an underling. Go yourself."

Hanaratti tried not to smile as he savored the disappointment on Manicci's face at being banished from the crime scene where he might seize the accolades for someone's discovery of an important bit of evidence. It was only as he was watching Manicci reluctantly climb into the blue and white Fiat that the idea he had been toying with solidified.

Priests.

A religious order.

It had been only a few weeks since that Greek Orthodox priest had been fished out of the Tiber after Hanaratti had investigated some sort of gun battle at his apartment near the Vatican.

Connection?

Tenuous at best, but priests were not the type one would ordinarily connect with violent acts, certainly not as perpetrators and usually not as victims.

Coincidences.

"Inspector?"

One of the uniforms was at his elbow.

"We have just received a report that the car, the Alfa there, was stolen from near the Pantheon."

Hanaratti felt his gut clinch as he saw the most obvious clue in this shooting begin to fade. "Stolen?"

"Yes, sir. It was rented to an American who is staying at a hotel near there."

"When?"

The officer looked confused. "

"'When'?"

The deputy chief inspector swallowed the urge to scream at the man. "When was it stolen?"

The policeman shrugged. "The American doesn't know. He went into a restaurant and when he came out, the car was gone."

Perfect.

At least Hanaratti would have the pleasure of assigning Manicci to a mundane car theft. After all, it was connected to a shooting, and interviewing the American would keep the junior inspector out of the main investigation for at least half of tomorrow.

Even misfortune had its bright side.

VI.

Piazza dei Cavalieri di Malta

Aventine Hill

The Next Morning

It had taken most of the morning for Lang and Jacob to find a truck from the electrician they had seen entering the piazza yesterday. A few euro liberally spread among the two-man crew and Lang and Jacob were dressed in the same coveralls as the two legitimate workers. A little more money and the van was in front of the wooden gates, honking for admission.

The one electrician who spoke English was explaining in Italian that they were here to check on yesterday's job and, no, there would be no additional costs involved for the service. Once inside, Lang and Jacob, toolboxes in hand, split up to explore the multiwindowed gray stone building.

Their hopes the uniforms would give them the invisibility of anonymity proved to be correct. Cooks, serving personnel as well as a few workmen filled the hallways with good-natured confusion. The five-year meeting of the council had the air of a country fair. No one gave the two electricians a second look.

The larger offices were deserted, leaving only what Lang guessed was salaried administrative staff. Members and officials would be attending the meeting of the grand council in the church next door.

Jacob peered around the corner of the largest office either he or Lang had found. "Boss's digs, I'd bet."

Standing in the hall, Lang nervously looked both ways. "So?"

"So, we take a look."

Jacob was inside while Lang stood sentry in the hall.

Jacob picked up the phone on the desk, pushing all four buttons on its base one by one. Nodding as though confirming an undivulged theory, he followed the line to the wall plug, where he inserted an instrument resembling a thermometer.

"Got it."

"Got what?" Lang asked.

"The private line."

"But why…?"

"Later, lad. Let's go. Right after…"

Jacob produced a package about the size of a bar of soap and stuck it to the bottom of the desktop with a wad of putty. "We're done."

Outside, Lang learned his friend's reconnaissance revealed the upper floors were residential. From the clothing Jacob had noted in the closets, almost all rooms were occupied by priests, the hospitaliers and chaplains of the Rome priory, no doubt.

The two collected the real electricians and left.

On the way back to the hotel, Jacob produced what looked like some sort of schedule or program printed in Italian, English, German and some language Lang did not recognize. "Tonight is the time," he said. "The visiting members of the council have a special dinner at the Vatican."

Lang looked at him. "So?"

"So, the professionals, the full-time people, should still be at the priory. Reduce the chance of collateral damage."

A euphemism for civilian casualties.

Lang thought of the terror on Manfred's face as bullets tore through the thin wooden walls of a farmhouse in Georgia, of his son's frightened face in Atlanta.

"Vatti, I was so scared!"

For just an instant, Lang couldn't have cared less about collateral damage.

VII.

Piazza delta Rotonda

Sole al Pantheon

Fifteen Minutes Later

Lang and Jacob entered their hotel and stopped just inside the doorway. The man sitting in one of the two ornately carved, silver-painted chairs in the microscopic lobby reeked of police.

The man rose, exhibiting a police badge. "Which one of you is Mr. Langford Reilly?" he asked in English.

Lang studied the badge before answering. "I am."

The policeman favored him with a humorless smile. "I am Inspector Antonio Manicci and am here to inquire about the car you reported stolen."

He didn't offer a hand.

An inspector chasing down stolen cars? In Italy where few European insurance companies would write car theft coverage because the crime was endemic to the country? The fact the vehicle had been recovered looking like it had been used by Bonnie and Clyde was the likely explanation.

Lang became uncomfortably aware both of the weight of the Browning in the small of his back and the severe penalties meted out for possession of firearms in Italy.

The inspector looked around, searching for a place to talk. The two carved chairs were it.

The desk clerk said something in Italian and Manicci gave that same dead smile. "Grazie. He tells me we may use the bar."

Like most rooms here, the bar was not level with the lobby but two or three steps down to the left. A single table with four chairs sat in front of a wooden bar whose shelves were largely bare. The dim light created atmosphere, but

anyone looking for a nightcap other than grappa or brandy would be deeply disappointed.

Seated, Manicci put a small tape recorder on the table. "Where was the car when stolen?"

Lang pointed as though the walls were not there. "Right along this edge of the piazza."

The Italian frowned. "Parking is forbidden there."

"No doubt the thief was merely enforcing the law."

"How did you know the car had been stolen and not, dragged…"

"Towed?"

"Towed. How do you know the car was not towed rather than stolen?"

Lang looked at him blankly. "When is the last time you saw a car towed in this city for parking in a no-parking space?"

The inspector made a noise that had equal chances of being a laugh, cough or clearing his throat. He leaned forward, studying Lang's face. "It was found on the Aventine shot full of holes. Do you have an idea who would do this?"

Lang hoped he was successful in demonstrating surprise. "Perhaps someone frustrated when he couldn't get the car started?"

"You make the joke, Mr. Reilly. My investigation is serious."

Lang leaned back, hoping the shadows helped obscure his face. "I apologize. I have no idea who would shoot that car."

Uncertain of the sincerity of the admission of fault, the inspector continued. "You are in Rome on business?"

"I come almost every year to enjoy the museums, the churches, the architecture. One cannot live long enough to see it all."

"And how much longer will you remain?"

"Several more days at least. But I doubt I'll rent a car."

"And you have no guess as to who would shoot the car?"

"None. Perhaps the thief had enemies." "Why did you rent the car, Mr. Reilly? Is not Rome's bus and metro good enough?"

"I had hoped to drive out to Hadrian's villa. I understand it is both interesting and beautiful."

Lang was certain the man was more interested in studying his face than asking fruitless questions.

He stood. "Inspector, I know nothing of what happened on the Aventine. I do know I have a lunch date with a business associate. I'd prefer not to keep him waiting."

Manicci stood also, stuffing the recorder in his pocket, an admission the interview was unproductive. "Very well then. I may wish to contact you again."

"I'll be right here."

Jacob and Lang watched the policeman's departure through the hotel's glass door.

"From what I heard from the lobby, the copper didn't learn a thing," Jacob observed.

Lang was still looking out into the piazza. "After the first few minutes, it wasn't information he was after."

"Oh?"

"Remember, I told you about the gunfire in the priest's apartment building, the one where I gave last rites in the priest's cassock before disappearing?"

"So?"

"That cop, Manicci, was one of the investigating officers."

"You're sure he saw you there?"

"Your people took the same course in face recognition we did, hours of looking at different photos, different views of the same person. Yep, that's him. He kept trying to get a better look at my face. Sooner or later, he'll place me."

Jacob stuck his pipe in his mouth. "Bloody hell! I'd say it's jolly well time to bid farewell to this place before he comes back. As our Froggie friends would say, tout de suite."

VIII.

Piazza Venezia

Minutes Later

Inspector Antonio Manicci was oblivious to the huge Monument Victor Emmanuel that filled the unmarked Fiat's windshield. Referred to by irreverent Romans as the Typewriter or the Wedding Cake because of its tiered structure and mass of white Brescian marble, it was completed in 1911 in honor of Victor Emmanuel II of Savoy, the first king of a unified Italy. Also commemorated were architectural bad taste, self-importance and insensitivity to the ocher tones of surrounding buildings.

Instead of the universal loathing of the thing, Manicci's mind was occupied with the man he had just interrogated. He had seen Reilly before. He was sure. Remembering faces went with his job.

But where?

He swung left, south, onto the Via del Teatro di Marcello. Michelangelo's steep staircase, the Cordonata, stretched up to his Piazza del Campidogli at the top of the Capitoline Hill. Tour buses blocked the first of the northbound lanes and Roman motorists, ever impatient, were honking their disapproval.

Where would he have met the American?

The wooded flanks of the hill were on his left now but he didn't notice. Instead, his eyes fixed on three priests walking along the sidewalk.

Priests!

That Greek priest whose apartment had been the scene of some sort of gun battle, a Wild West shoot-out like something in the American Western films.

Another priest, one who had murmured last rites over the dead man on the stairs and then disappeared.

The realization was as violent as an electrical shock, so disconcerting he had to jam on the Fiat's brakes at the last moment to avoid running over a young woman on a Vespa. A young woman whose small dog had been riding at her feet. The animal turned to snarl his anger at the inspector, an expression that closely matched that on his mistress's face.

That priest had been the American, Langford Reilly. He was certain of it.

He fought the temptation to attempt a U-turn, aware such a move would likely be fatal even with his siren and lights hidden in the grille turned on. Instead, he pulled his cell phone from its holder on his belt and scrolled down before punching in a number. He ignored the chorus of horns behind him.

He identified himself, then, "I want you to check the immigration records for the last three months for Langford Reilly, an American. He should have entered the country recently, but more important, I want the date he entered before. Entry and exit."

He listened for a moment of protest.

"I don't care if the office is closed until 1600; the computer records aren't!"

He pushed the disconnect button among a cavalcade of more excuses.

If he were right, if Lang Reilly had been in the country when the shooting took place-and the Greek priest subsequently found dead-the American would have a lot more questions to answer.

IX.

Via Campania

An Hour Later

The safe house Jacob had managed to scrounge from his former colleagues on short notice was no more than a third-floor suite of three rooms, a bath and a tiny kitchen. Were it not for the tedious sameness shared by safe houses, Lang could have sworn this was the apartment he had shared with Jacob and Gurt for a few days during the Pegasus affair. Through a pair of grime-streaked windows, he could see just over the top of the ancient city wall, where a strip of green denoted the park of the Villa Borghese, the only thing remotely cheerful in sight.

Two chairs and a sofa that Goodwill would have rejected were placed against walls bare of any decoration other than cracks in the plaster. A wooden table, its surface scarred by cigarette burns, stood forlornly between the main room and a two-burner stove, sink and small refrigerator that seemed to be gasping its last breaths.

Lang was thankful they would be there only a few hours. Jacob seemed to be taking contentment from his pipe, which he had smoked continually since their arrival.

The place was not only dismal, now it stunk.

Jacob looked at his watch. "Suppose the inspector has made the connection by now?"

Lang tossed down a two-month-old copy of Der Spiegel." I wouldn't have wanted to hang around the hotel and find out."

Jacob gently puffed a smoke ring. It shimmered across the floor before dissolving against a table leg. "Too bad we can't be at the airport. If he's noodled out who you are, the place will be rife with coppers. Bright idea, that: making reservations on the next flight back to Atlanta."

"Should keep him busy while we attend to unfinished business. Tell me again, what time will the visiting members of the council be at the Vatican?"

"1900. I'd say give it an hour to make sure it's dark."

X.

Piazza della Rotonda

Sole al Pantheon

At the Same Time

The two policeman stood at the desk shifting their weight from foot to foot.

Deputy Chief Police Inspector Hanaratti leaned over to put his face as close to the clerk's as possible. "Checked out? The man said he would be here a few more days!"

He looked at Manicci, who attested to the truth of the statement with a nod.

Unruffled, the desk clerk thumbed his guest ledger. "He was scheduled to stay." He shrugged, his expression saying the coming and going of guests was hardly his affair. "Then he and his friend asked for their passports and checked out unexpectedly."

"Did he say where they were going?" Hanaratti asked.

"One of them told the cabdriver to take them to the airport."

"They have not arrived there, yet," Manicci said. "I have a number of men waiting for them." He smiled the smile of a man way ahead in the game. "I ran Reilly's name through reservations lists. He has a return flight to Atlanta, Georgia, via New York this evening."

Skeptical, Hanaratti checked his watch. "They have had time to get to Flumicino." He turned back to the clerk. "Do you know this driver?"

"Of course, Inspector. The hotel would not enlist someone it did not know to serve our guests."

Or who would not pay a fee for the referral.

"Call this cabdriver. I wish to speak to him," Hanaratti ordered.

A few minutes later, he put down the phone. "The driver says the two changed their minds and instructed him to drop them off at Stazione Termini."

"They could be on a train headed almost anywhere," observed Manicci, always a spokesman for the obvious.

Hanaratti thought for a moment. "Call headquarters. Find out every train that has departed in the last hour and a half. Have the local polizia board each at the next stop."

"And how will Reilly and his companion be identified?" Manicci asked. "We have no pictures of them."

The senior inspector hadn't thought of that. "Every male passenger from twenty-five to fifty will have to show papers if it comes to it."

Manicci could only imagine the bureaucratic turf war with Ferrovie dello Stato, the Italian state railway, that would ignite.

XI.

Questure di Aventine

(Aventine Precinct Police Station)

Via di Son Teodoro

Two Hours Later

Deputy Chief Inspector Hanaratti stood behind a series of desks where computers blinked as they scrolled lists. The national railway agency had been surprising cooperative. Or at least they had not been obstructionist. It had been the local police stations that had balked. Only a connection with a higher up in the Carabiniere, the national military police, had produced the manpower to board each of more than a dozen trains. That favor would cost the deputy chief inspector dearly.

So far, the search had produced two Bulgarians who had entered the country illegally, one man with a warrant outstanding for a minor crime and a woman smuggling cigarettes. Hardly a major war against crime. Manicci's men at the airport had lingered until after the flight on which Reilly had reservations had departed.

The net was, so far, empty.

Hanaratti lit his first cigarette in three years, ignoring the signs depicting a cigarette with a red line drawn through it. The first puff made him giddy. Perhaps it was the tobacco that gave him the idea.

"Manicci," he said. "The airline reservation was intended to throw us off the trail, do you not agree?"

Unsurprisingly, the junior inspector did.

"Why, then, would not getting off at Termini also be intended to mislead?"

Manicci was not one to risk giving answers that might conflict with what a superior had in mind. "But, then how would this Reilly man and his companion leave the city? We have sent warnings to the rental car agencies."

Well, perhaps the registered ones. A number of entrepreneurs rented a selection of automobiles out of storefronts or their homes to evade the numerous and burdensome taxes.

"I was thinking," Hanaratti continued, "they might not have left Rome at all."

"Quite possible," Manicci agreed, trying not to make a show of fanning away the cigarette smoke. "But to what end?"

Hanaratti dropped the smoldering butt into a coffee cup, where it hissed angrily. "We do not yet know. The only real connection Reilly has here was the rental car."

"In which he was going to visit Hadrian's villa."

The senior inspector nodded, a teacher encouraging a not-so-bright pupil. "Perhaps, perhaps not. Perhaps he was the one who drove the car to the place it was destroyed."

"To what end? He could have been killed"

"But he wasn't."

Manicci knew better than to ask the point of his superior's rambling. He said nothing.

"Perhaps he had a reason to have the car so shot up. Or a reason to have it where it was."

"Do we know what that might be?" Manicci ventured.

"No, but I think it might be in order to go back to the Knights of Malta, ask more pointed questions. I do not believe they neither heard nor saw anything last night. Someone must have at least heard gunfire. Someone would have at least looked out of a window. They are a large and wealthy organization. It would not surprise me if they had enemies, enemies who wished to make them appear in a less than favorable light. Having a crime committed on their doorstep might achieve that."

Manicci failed to see how having a sports car shot up outside the priory could reflect anything, good or bad, but he knew better than to admit it. "Shall I call for an appointment? With whom?"

Hanaratti picked up a newspaper. "Happily for us, the media has taken an interest in an event that takes place only every five years." He held up a page, showing a picture of a procession of men in what looked like seventeenth-century attire. "Even publish schedules for the various meetings. Visiting members of their supreme council will be at a function at the Vatican this evening. That should leave the grand master and full-time staff at the priory. I think that would be an ideal time for a surprise visit."

XII.

Circo Massimo Metro Station

Via del Circo Massimo

1830 Local Time

Lang and Jacob had chosen the anonymity of public transportation but now had the long uphill trudge to the priory before them. As they climbed the stairs out of the station, they faced west. Across the Tiber, a bloodred balloon of a setting sun limned the domes and towers of the Trastevere in picture postcard perfection.

Lang was more interested in the steep hill to his left. "How far do we have to go?"

Jacob puckered his lips. "I'd say a kilometer and a half. If you don't think you've recovered enough, lad, I can go it alone."

"Not a chance. How close do we have to get?"

"Hard to say. You saw where I put the device but exactly how close…"

Lang's legs were already complaining of the climb. "Explain it to me again."

Jacob took out his pipe, thought better of it and returned it to a pocket. "We had three choices: We could have tossed something nasty over the wall that would have wreaked bloody hell. That was a bit of a dice because we wanted to make sure we eliminated the people most likely involved in trying to suppress the James Gospel by killing you or nicking someone close to you. That would most likely be the grand master and his full-time staff. Once we located where they might be, we could have left a timed device, except we had no way of knowing when the sodding grand master and his henchmen would be where. So, the little gem I left can be set off with this."

He held up a small black box.

Lang squinted in the fading light. "Looks like a an automatic garage-door opener to me."

"Right you are! That's exactly what it is. It works by sending out a low-frequency signal that activates the receiver, usually attached to your garage door. The question is, how close to the blooming door do we have to get for the signal to reach?"

Lang paused to bend over and massage his calves. "And we find that out how?"

Jacob paused, too, puffing from the climb. "By the most common of scientific methods: trial and error."

"And suppose the wall prevents us from getting close enough?"

"Well, now, that would be a spot of bother. But it shouldn't. The ad on the telly said this bugger worked up to fifty meters."

Lang began the uphill climb again. "And if it doesn't, you get your money back?"

Jacob looked puzzled for a moment. "Well yes, I suppose I do."

Swell.

XIII.

Aventine Hill

At the Same Time

The dark, unmarked Alfa Romeo sedan pulled up to the massive wooden gates. The driver, a uniformed policeman, got out and rang the buzzer. After a prolonged exchange, the gates swung open and the car drove inside.

"Bloody hell!" Jacob spat. "The sodding coppers are here! Now what?"

Lang stepped back into the shadows that now consumed almost everything at street level. "We'll just have to wait." "Wait? How long? The visiting council members will be back from tea with the pope or whatever they're at."

"I know, but we can't just ignore the fact the police are inside, probably in the building."

"I thought collateral damage wasn't a concern."

"It is where cops are concerned. Kill one of them and every law enforcement officer in Europe will be on our ass."

Jacob shook his head. "I wasn't planning on claiming credit for this any more than I was expecting the sodding Nobel Peace Prize. We either get this done soon or there'll be a lot more people likely to get hurt."

Lang thought a minute. "OK, here's what we're gonna do…"

Two minutes later, Lang crossed the street like a man without a care in the world. He pushed the buzzer by the gate as casually as though he were a guest invited to a dinner party. The response was immediate if unintelligible.

"Please tell the police that Langford Reilly wants to see them."

There was a pause before more Italian squawked through the speaker box, then, "Langford Reilly? Police?"

"Yes, si."

It was as if someone had been expecting him. The giant gates began to rumble open. By the time they had parted wide enough, two plainclothesmen and a uniform squeezed through.

Lang easily recognized Manicci. "I understand you're looking for me?"

Across the street, Jacob dialed a number on his cell phone and waited. Two rings later the call was answered. "Prego?"

"The grand master," Jacob said.

The voice switched to English. "How did you get this number?"

"That doesn't matter. Tell the grand master Lang Reilly wishes to speak with him."

Pause.

"Momento, just a moment."

The second voice came so quickly the grand master must have been in the room when the call came through. "Yes?"

Jacob pushed the button on his garage-door opener and winced.

Nothing.

Bloody hell! He had tested the tiny battery before he left London. He pushed the button again with the same lack of result.

"Hello?" The grand master was getting impatient. He wasn't going to hang on the line forever. If he left the room, the explosive device might not do the job.

Across the street, the policeman approached Lang.

"Ah, Mr. Reilly," the older of the two men in plain clothes said in accented English, "we are indeed looking for you. But I am curious, how did you know Inspector Manicci and I would be here?"

"Lucky guess."

The policeman nodded his head slightly. "Perhaps so. Will you be so kind as to step inside? We have much to talk about."

Lang took a step back. "If it is all the same to you, I'd rather talk out here."

Another nod, this time to the uniformed officer. Arms reached around Lang, pulling his hands behind him.

"I regret we cannot accommodate you, Mr. Reilly," the older inspector said. "But I'm sure you understand."

Lang was shoved toward the open gate.

Jacob looked at the device in his hand as though he could actually see it in the dark.

"Mr. Reilly?" the voice on the other end of the line asked.

"Reilly here. I think we might have something to talk about."

Stall, keep the man on the line before he hung up and left the room.

Jacob was holding the phone with one hand, fumbling with the door opener with the other. If the problem wasn't the battery, it must be the contact point. Blindly, his fingers searched for the seam in the plastic casing. He thought he had found it when the thing slipped from his hand. It was pure luck it fell at his feet. It took only seconds to retrieve, but from what he saw across the street, there weren't any seconds to waste.

Lang shoved back. "Look, there's no reason we can't talk out here."

Delay, stall. Standard agency tactics. When things are going badly, make your opponent spend time he hadn't planned on. There's always the chance something will happen. In this case, Lang knew exactly what. But he couldn't figure out why it hadn't already. According to Jacob's announced plan, there should have been an explosion several minutes ago. Lang had a sinking feeling at the bottom of his stomach. Now was not the time for one of his friend's concoctions to fail.

"If you prefer," the older man said, "we can handcuff you and have you bodily carried to a proper place to ask you questions. The grand master has kindly consented to give us an office for the purpose."

Hardly good news.

At the moment, there were only three possibilities, none attractive: Either he would be inside the building when Jacob's contraption went off or he was about to meet the grand master himself. Or both. Lang doubted he would be greeted with anything resembling traditional hospitality.

"And what did you have in mind, Mr. Reilly?" the voice on Jacob's cell phone asked. "I'm not sure I know why you called."

"I think you have a bleeding good notion," Jacob said as he managed to insert a thumbnail into the seam between the two plastic parts of the door opener's plastic casing. Taking care not to drop it again, or dislodge the battery, he pried the two halves apart and blew gently. If condensation on the contact point had been the problem, that should take care of it. If not, Lang was in for a spot of bother.

"What's that you say?" The grand master's temper was getting shorter and shorter.

As slowly as he could manage, Lang let himself be pushed through the gates. The piazza was tastefully lit, hidden lights accenting a number of monuments as well as the facades of buildings. A double file of cypress trees were columns reaching into infinity. In the distance, Rome's lights sparkled like a handful of jewels.

He was being taken to the building he and Jacob had entered that morning.

"I said, we have something to talk about." Jacob fumbled in the dark, trying to get the two halves back together. Across the street, those formidable doors were beginning to swing shut.

He forced himself to take a deep breath. Somewhere there was a catch. He ran fingers made clumsy by anxiety around the edge, found the protruding piece of plastic.

With a snap, the device closed.

Lang and the police were less than fifty yards away from the building.

"Ah, Mr. Reilly?" A man was standing in the open door. "Then who is the grand master talking to…?"

He turned to dash inside.

"I'm curious how the grand master of the Knights of Malta knew who you were," one of the policemen said.

Lang wondered. Did the order's power reach into the police, too?

He would never know.

At that moment, night became day, a day with the light of a dozen suns. A wall of heat knocked Lang over as an explosion clapped silencing hands over his ears.

Groggy, he got to his knees, able to see only streaks of light as though someone had fired a flashbulb in his face. His ears felt pressure as if he were in a rapidly descending aircraft. The grip on his arms was gone. He could only guess at the direction of the way out of the piazza and stumbled that way.

Blurs of vision were returning as he reached the gates and squeezed through before they completely shut.

He felt a hand on his arm. "This way, lad!"

His last sight of the piazza was of blazing rubble where the building had been. The flames reflected from the windows of the nearby church. Not a one had been damaged. Then the gates clicked shut, sealing off pursuit.

Lang's sight and hearing had returned by the time they reached the bottom of the hill, just in time to hear the wail of fire trucks on the way. He turned and looked behind him to see a flickering glow that turned the Aventine into a contemporary Vesuvius. The curious, singly and in small groups, were already filling the street as they hurried uphill to see what had happened.

Minutes later, Lang and Jacob were on the metro again.

"You destroyed the entire building," Lang finally said in wonderment, "but I saw not even a crack in the church's windows."

Jacob was sucking on an empty pipe. Public transportation was one of the few places in Rome where smoking bans were actually enforced. "Better bomb than I thought. Artistry is not confined to painting and sculpture."

Lang believed him.

They got off at different stations, since the police, if the two inspectors reacted in time, would be looking for two men rather a single traveler. Jacob at Termini, where they had paid a porter to keep a watchful eye on their suitcases. Lang went on to Tiburtina, from where he would take an Appian Line bus to Venice, cross over into Slovenia and, eventually, to Vienna and a flight to Paris and then home.

XIV.

Excerpt from the next day's International Herald Tribune:

Explosion Rocks Rome Landmark

ROME-A building at the headquarters of the Order of St. James, internationally known as the Knights of Malta, was destroyed yesterday in a blast that killed the grand master and a number of full-time rank-and-file members.

The order's headquarters, known as a "priory," was filled with members visiting Rome for the every-fifth-year election of leadership and members of the supreme council. Fortunately, all the visiting members were attending a function at the Vatican at the time of the explosion or the casualty list would have been far greater, according to a spokesman for the order who declined to be identified.

Also unharmed were three members of Rome's police force who were on the premises at the time. The police declined to state why they were present.

The same spokesman for the order attributed the explosion to a leaking gas main.

The Order of St. James became known as the Knights of Malta…

XV.

472 LaFayette Drive

Atlanta

A Month Later

Lang and Gurt stood on a grassy lawn, looking at the house. Lang thought it had vaguely Victorian lines; Gurt saw something slightly more contemporary. Either way, it was typical of Ansley Park, Atlanta's upscale, midtown neighborhood where mansions of frame and shingle were as common as Craftsman cottages. Built in the first decades of the last century, The Park, as it was known to its residents, featured towering oaks, winding streets, a number of parks and grassy squares and a small-town atmosphere. You always knew your neighbors and they always knew your business.

Lang had spent a lot of time at his sister's home only a short distance away. Janice and Jeff, her adopted son, had loved the area. Lang had often thought if he ever had a child of his own, this would be a good place to live. Now he had a son who had already made himself at home on the swing set in the backyard before the final papers had been signed.

The condominium at Park Place had sold for somewhat more than Lang had anticipated. The new buyer loved the fixtures, those that had actually been paid for and installed. The deliveries from Home Depot, as far as Lang knew, continued. Lang suspected the decline in the price of the company's stock might well be attributable to the sizable inventory overflowing Park Place's storage space. For certain, any needs for his future residence would be fulfilled by Sears, Lowe's or some other vendor that did not view itself as a cornucopia of unordered and unwanted merchandise.

"It is good, no?" Gurt said.

Lang reached out to take her hand. "It is good, yes. Manfred seems to like it."

"Few European children have a room and bath of their own."

"Neither does Manfred, not unless he can get Grumps to sleep elsewhere."

Neither spoke, enjoying the euphoria of travelers who have finally managed to return from a long and perilous journey. The homely shingled two-story was surrounded on three sides by a porch, the roof of which ran just below the upstairs windows. The effect was of the house having the beetle-browed expression of the genetically witless. But then, the sheer ugliness of most of the neighboring houses gave the area its unique character. Still, it had a certain cozy charm that had infected both Lang and Gurt. They had not debated buying it; they both knew this was home the minute they walked in.

Behind them, a car door opened. As one, they turned to see Francis climbing out of the church's six-year-old Toyota.

"Hi! Was visiting parishioners and thought I'd stop by!"

Lang smiled. The chances of overwhelmingly white, protestant Ansley Park inhabitants leaving their million-dollar homes to attend a Catholic church, mostly black, poor and in south Atlanta was a stretch, even for the wildly liberal views professed by many of the residents.

Francis was meddling. Lang had no doubt his friend had his and Gurt's best interests at heart, at least as the priest perceived those interests to be, but meddling nonetheless.

Lang and Gurt exchanged glances, knowing what was coming.

Francis, hands behind his back, joined them in viewing the house. "A fine place for Manfred to grow up."

Silence.

The priest cleared his throat. "Exactly when do you two plan to get married?"

Deeper silence.

Undeterred, Francis cleared his throat again and continued. "It would be difficult but I might, just might, be able to get a special dispensation to allow me to perform the ceremony. I mean, with neither of you being practicing Catholics…"

"There's no one I'd rather have marry us," Lang said.

"If we got married," Gurt added.

"But you must." Now Francis was facing them. "Think of your obligation to your son. You want the other children snickering behind his back when he starts school? Do you want-"

"If I wanted a husband, it would be one who does not bring danger to his family," Gurt said with finality. "A man who doesn't become a target."

The remark was patently unfair. Danger had followed Lang like an unwanted stray dog. He had never sought trouble. Well, almost never. Besides, Gurt enjoyed the thrill of life-and-death action as much as he.

Motherhood, he thought, had changed her viewpoint, a she-bear protective of her cub.

But he kept his mouth shut.

Francis looked from one to the other, well aware of the facts. "Suppose both of you disavow violence, promise each other to live like normal people?"

Boring people.

Gurt shrugged nonchalantly. "If he so agrees, so will I."

Lang wasn't sure he had heard correctly. "You mean you'll quit working for the agency, come live permanently in the United States?"

Gurt grinned, the first evidence she was enjoying the exchange. "With a rich husband I should work?"

Francis touched his clerical collar, a gesture of which he was unaware. "Good! Then it's all settled."

Lang was far from sure but hoped so. He wasn't, as they say, getting any younger and a little peace and quiet might even do him some good. And spending every day with the two people he loved more than anything was a prospect of nothing but joy.

His BlackBerry chimed as though to remind him of the real world outside Ansley Park. Without taking it out of his pocket, he turned it off.

The real world could wait.