The Brotherhood Of The Holy Shroud (47 page)

Listening to Elisabeth, Ana realized how ridiculous she herself must have looked, taking the time of serious scholars to expound on her own theories.

At that moment she didn't like herself much. She felt like a fool that she'd lost her head over a far-fetched story, trying to out-investigate the pros in the Art Crimes Department. It was over, she told herself; she was going back to Barcelona on the next plane. She'd call Santiago. She knew he'd be delighted when she told him she was moving on, that she'd had enough of the shroud to last a lifetime.

Elisabeth and Paul left her to her thoughts. They could see the skepticism-incredulity, really-reflected on her face. They had spoken to only a handful of people about their investigations into the new Temple, because they feared for their lives and the life of anyone who helped them. But this reporter had gotten herself in pretty deep, and they thought she had a right to know what she was up against.

"Elisabeth, are you going to give it to her?"

Paul's words brought Ana out of her reverie.

"Give me what?" asked Ana.

"This file, Ana. It's a summary of my work over the last five years. Michael's and my work, rather. It lists the names and biographies of the men we think are the new masters of the Temple. In my opinion, Lord McCall is the Grand Master. But read it and see what you think. And however ridiculous we seem to you, be careful, for your sake and ours. Only a few people know about this. We're trusting you because we think you're on the verge of an important discovery-we aren't sure exactly what it is, or what direction it'll take you, but you seem to be zeroing in on something, something big, that we've been missing. There are notes and historical details in the file you may want to think about, too, which may be relevant to your shroud, things we've discovered about the fall of the order, where they fled, speculations about what happened to their records and their riches, how they reconstituted themselves……

"If these papers fall into the wrong hands, we'll all die-don't doubt that. So I ask that you confide in no one, absolutely no one. They have ears everywhere-in the judiciary, in the police, in parliaments, in the stock markets-everywhere. I'm sure you're already on their radar. They know you've been with us; what they don't know is what we've told you. We've invested a great deal in security, and we have electronic scanners to find bugs. Even so, it's possible that we haven't found them all."

"Elisabeth, I'm sorry. This is too far into John le Carre territory, even for me."

"Think whatever you want, Ana, but you've put yourself into this. Will you do what we ask?"

"Look-you've taken me into your confidence, and I'm grateful. Your secrets are safe with me. Not a word to anyone, I promise. Shall I return this file when I've finished reading it?"

"Destroy it. It's just a summary, but I promise- you'll find it useful, very useful, especially if you decide to go on."

"What makes you think I'm turning back?"

Elisabeth took a deep breath before replying, then smiled ever so slightly.

"That's what you should do, Ana, believe me. Stop now. But somehow I don't think you will."

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.