The Brotherhood Of The Holy Shroud (34 page)

He feared for his life. That policeman who'd visited him had not seemed to be bluffing-he'd threatened to do everything in his power to see that Mendib spent the rest of his life in prison. Then suddenly, the way was cleared for his release. The carabinieri, he thought, were preparing some trap.

He continued to pace back and forth, back and forth, without realizing that he was being observed. Tall, dark-skinned, their faces blank and stupid from their time in jail, the two Bajerai brothers studied him surreptitiously through one of the windows that opened onto the courtyard as they talked quiedy about the murder they would soon commit.

In the warden's office, Marco Valoni was in the midst of an argument.

"I know it's unlikely that anything will happen, but we can't leave that to chance. We have to ensure his safety for the rest of the time he's here," he insisted to the warden and the head guard.

"Signor Valoni, the mute barely exists for the other inmates-he's of no interest to anyone. He doesn't speak, he has no friends, he communicates with none of them. No one will do him any harm, I assure you," the guard replied.

"We can't run that risk. Think about it-we don't know who we're dealing with. He may be some poor jerk, or he may not be. We haven't made much noise about releasing him, but it's enough to be heard by those who may be listening. Someone has to answer to me for his safety here."

"But Marco," the warden argued, "we haven't had any paybacks in this jail or killings among the prisoners-nothing like that-in years. I just don't share your concern here."

"I don't care. I
am
concerned. I want to talk to the capos here. Signor Genari, as head guard, I'm sure you know who they are."

Genari shrugged his shoulders. There was no way to convince this guy not to go sticking his nose into jail politics. The cop actually thought that he was going to tell him which prisoners gave the orders inside, as though Genari could do that without risking his own neck.

Marco picked up on Genari's reservations and rephrased his request.

"Look, Genari, there has to be one prisoner inside that the others respect, defer to, you know. Let's talk to him."

The warden shifted uncomfortably in his chair while Genari maintained a stubborn silence. Finally, he intervened. "Genari, you know this prison better than anyone -which one of the men fits the bill? Get him in here."

Genari stood up and walked out of the office. He knew he couldn't stonewall longer without arousing the suspicions of both the warden and this son of a bitch from Rome. His jail ran like a Swiss watch-there were unwritten laws that everyone followed, and now Valoni wanted to know who pulled the strings.

He sent one of the guards for the capo, Frasquello. At that hour he'd be on his cell phone, giving his sons instructions for running the drug-smuggling operation that had sent him to prison-a snitch had paid the price for
that,
but that was another story.

Frasquello swaggered into Genari's little office, looking pissed.

"What do you want? What the fuck is so fucking important?"

"There's a cop who wants to talk to you."

"I don't talk to cops."

"Well, you're going to have to talk to this one, because if you don't, he'll turn this prison inside out."

"There's nothing in it for me-talking to some fucking cop. If he's got a problem, he can solve it himself. Leave me out of it."

"No! I'm not leaving you out of it!" shouted Genari. "You're coming with me to see this guy, and you're going to talk to him. The sooner this shit is over the better, so let's go."

"What's he after? What does he want with me? I don't know any cop, and I don't want to know one. Just leave me the fuck alone."

The capo made a move to leave the office, but before he could open the door Genari had him against the wall, his arm twisted behind his back.

"Turn me loose, you fuck! Are you crazy? You're a dead man!"

Just then the office door opened. Marco stood there, staring hard at both men.

"Turn him loose!" he ordered Genari.

Genari released his grip on Frasquello, who turned around slowly, measuring the newcomer.

"I decided I'd come down myself. Looks like I got here just in time. Sit down," he ordered Frasquello.

The capo didn't move. Genari shoved him into a chair.

"I don't know who the fuck you are, but I know my rights, and I don't have to talk to any fucking cop," the capo spat. "I'll call my lawyer."

"You won't call anybody, and you'll listen to me and do what I tell you, because if you don't you'll be transferred to a place where your good friend Genari won't be looking after you."

"You can't threaten me."

"I'm not threatening you."

For no more than a few seconds, Frasquello considered that.

"Fuck it, what do you want?"

"Well, now that you're being reasonable, I'll tell you: There's a man here in this prison I want protected."

"Tell Genari-he's the boss. I'm just an inmate."

"I'm telling you because you're the one who's going to make sure nothing happens to him."

"Oh, yeah? And how am I supposed to do that?"

"I don't know, and I don't care."

"Supposing I agree, what's in it for me?"

"Some… perks here inside."

"Ha! That's funny, cop. My friend Genari already takes care of that. Who do you think you're dealing with?"

"All right, I'll look over your file and see if there's some way to reduce your sentence for cooperating."

"That's not enough-I need a guarantee."

"I'm not guaranteeing anything. I'll speak with the warden and recommend that the parole board take your behavior into account. But that's it."

"No deal."

"If there's no deal, then you're going to start losing some of the accommodations you've gotten used to. Your cell will be turned upside down every other day, and you'll follow the rules. Genari will be transferred, and then we'll move you too. To a place you won't find nearly as comfortable."

"Who's the man?"

"Will you do it?"

"Tell me who we're talking about."

"A
guy that doesn't talk."

Frasquello began to laugh. "You want me to protect that poor jerk? Nobody pays him any attention, cop, nobody cares about him. You know why? Because he's
nobody."

"I don't want anything to happen to him in the next week."

"Who'd be wanting to hurt him?"

"I don't know. But you need to keep it from happening."

"What do you care about him?"

"That's none of your business. Just do what you need to do and you'll continue to enjoy your little vacation at the state's expense."

"Okay. I'll baby-sit the son of a bitch."

Marco left the office, relieved. The capo was no fool. He'd do it.

Now came the tricky part-getting hold of the tennis shoes the mute wore, the only shoes he owned, and planting the transmitter. The warden had promised he'd send a guard to get the shoes in the next few days. He wasn't sure what excuse he'd make, but he'd get it done. John Barry was sending a colleague to Turin-an expert in microtransmitters who was able, John said, to slip a microphone into a fingernail. Well, Marco would see whether he was as good as he was reported to be.

The due de Valant had requested an audience with the chancellor. He arrived at the appointed hour in the company of a richly dressed young merchant.

"Tell me, my lord," the chancellor asked, "what is this urgent matter that you wish to discuss with the emperor?"

"My dear de Molesmes, I bid you attend this gentleman, who honors me with his friendship. He is a respected merchant in the city of Edessa."

Pascal de Molesmes, with a bored expression but out of courtesy to the duke, listened to the young merchant, who with no courtly flourishes went directly to the reason for his journey to Constantinople.

"I know of the empire's financial difficulties, and I come with an offer for the emperor."

"You come with an offer for the emperor?" the chancellor repeated with a mixture of irritation and amusement. 'And what offer might that be?"

"I represent a group of wealthy nobleman merchants in Edessa. As you know, many years ago the armed forces of a certain Byzantine emperor removed from the protection of my city its most treasured relic, the Mandylion. We are men of peace; we live honestly, but we wish to return to our community what once belonged to it but was stolen. I come not to supplicate that you return to us what now belongs to the emperor, for it is known to all that he forced the bishop to deliver it into his keeping and that the king of France swears that his nephew did not sell it to him. If the Mandylion is in the hands of Balduino, we wish to buy it. Whatever the price, we will pay it."

"What community are you speaking of? Edessa is in Muslim hands, is it not?"

"We are Christians, but we maintain good relations with the governors of Edessa. They have never troubled us. We pay substantial tributes, and in return we carry out our lives in peace. We have nothing to complain of. But the Mandylion belongs to us, and it must return to our city."

De Molesmes stared intendy at the impertinent young man who so brazenly dared to suggest that the Mandylion was for sale.

'And how much are you disposed to pay?"

"Ten sacks of gold of the weight of a man."

The amount was beyond anything the chancellor had imagined. The empire was once again in debt, and Balduino was desperately seeking sources of loans, even though his uncle the king of France had not abandoned him.

De Molesmes remained impassive. "I will communicate your offer to the emperor, and I will send for you when there is a reply."

Balduino listened sorrowfully to his counselor. He knew without doubt that if he broke his vow to the Templars it could cost him his life.

"You must tell this merchant that I reject his offer."

"But my lord, consider it!"

"No, I cannot. And I forbid you ever again to ask me to sell the Mandylion! Ever!"

Pascal de Molesmes left the throne room crestfallen. He was suspicious of Balduino's discomfort when he spoke to him of the Mandylion. The cloth had been in the possession of the emperor for many months, though no one had seen it, not even he, the emperor's chancellor.

Rumors circulated that the generous amount of gold brought to the palace by the superior of the Templars of Constantinople, Andre de Saint-Remy, had been payment for possession of the Mandylion. But Balduino vehemently denied those rumors; he swore that the sacred shroud was in his safekeeping.

When King Louis had been freed and returned to France, he once more sent the Comte de Dijon to Constantinople, with an even more generous offer for the Mandylion. To the surprise of everyone at court, the emperor remained inflexible, and he proclaimed before them all that he would not sell his uncle the relic. Now once more he had rejected a truly substantial offer. Pascal de Molesmes knew the emperor as no other. It was becoming clear to him that Balduino no longer possessed the Mandylion, that he had indeed sold it to the Templars.

That evening he sent for the due de Valant and his young protege to inform them of the emperor's decision. De Molesmes was surprised when the Edessan merchant told him that he was willing to double the offer. But the chancellor would not have the young man harbor false hopes.

"Then it is true what they say at court?" the due de Valant asked.

'And what is it they say at court, my friend?"

"That the emperor is no longer the guardian of the Mandylion, that he has delivered it over to the Templars in exchange for the gold the Temple gave him to pay Venice and Genoa. That is the only way one can fathom the emperor's rejection of this very generous offer."

"I pay no mind to rumors or the other intrigues of the court-and I counsel you not to believe everything you hear. I have brought you the emperor's decision, and there is nothing further to say."

Pascal de Molesmes had seen men tortured and seen them die. But he would never forget the expression on the young merchant's face when he told him his quest was hopeless. As he saw his visitors out, he knew they had the same suspicions he did: the Templars. The Holy Shroud of the Savior Jesus Christ was now in the hands of the Order of Knights Templar.

The Templar fortress stood on a rocky promontory on the coast. The golden color of the rock it was built upon resembled the sands of the nearby desert, and its height provided it with perspectives over miles of land around it. Saint-Jean d'Acre was one of the last Christian bastions in the Holy Land.

Robert de Saint-Remy rubbed his eyes as though the vision of the fortress were a mirage. He calculated that in but a few minutes they would be surrounded by knights, who for two or three hours now had been observing them. Both he and Francois de Charney looked like authentic Saracens; even their horses, purebred Arabians, helped to maintain the illusion.

Ali, his squire, had once more shown himself to be an expert guide and loyal friend. Indeed, Robert owed him his life, for Ali had saved him when the four travelers were attacked by an Ayubi patrol. He fought fiercely by Robert's side, and when a spear was launched straight at Robert's heart, he stepped in front of the Templar and took what could have been a mortal wound to his own flesh. Not one of the Ayubis survived the attack, but Ali lay feverish and on the verge of death for several days. Robert never left his side.

Ali had been returned to life by medicinal compounds made up by Said, de Charney's squire, who had learned special remedies from the Temple's physicians and also from the Muslim physicians whom he had met in his travels. It was Said who pulled the spearhead from Ali's chest and thoroughly cleaned the wound, which he then covered with an unguent he had made from certain herbs he always carried with him. He also had made Ali drink a foul-smelling liquid, which put the young man into a calming sleep.