“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 intently 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, André de Saint-Rémy, 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 duc de Valant and his young protégé 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 duc 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-Rémy 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 François 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.
When asked if Ali would live, Said invariably answered, to the frustration of the two Templars, “Allah alone knows.” On the seventh day, Ali awoke from the sleep into which he had fallen and which had seemed so much like death. There was a sharp and fiery pain in his lung, and breathing was difficult, but Said at last pronounced that he would live, and at that, the Templars’ spirits revived.
It was another seven days before Ali was able to sit up, and seven more before he could ride on his docile steed, to which he lashed himself with leather straps so that should he once more lose consciousness he would not fall off. Over the next days and weeks he recovered, and now here he was, alongside the others, on the last approach to the fortress, when they were suddenly enveloped in a cloud of dust raised by the hooves of a dozen horses. The captain of the patrol shouted at them to halt.
When Saint-Rémy and de Charney revealed who they were, they were escorted to the fortress and taken immediately into the presence of the Grand Master.
Renaud de Vichiers, the Grand Master of the Order of the Temple, received them warmly. Despite their weariness, Saint-Rémy and de Charney sat with de Vichiers for an hour, reporting on the details of their journey and delivering to him the letter and documents that André de Saint-Rémy had given them, as well as the cloth sack that held the Mandylion.
Then the Grand Master sent them off to rest and gave orders that Ali be exempted from any service until he had completely recovered.
When he was alone, with trembling hands Renaud de Vichiers took from the sack the coffer that held the Mandylion. He felt his senses almost overwhelmed by emotion, for he was about to see the face of Jesus, the Christ.
He unfolded the cloth and fell to his knees and prayed, giving thanks to God for having allowed him to contemplate this miracle.
It was dusk on the day after the arrival of Robert de Saint-Rémy and François de Charney when the Grand Master called all the knights of the order into the chapter’s grand hall. There on a long table lay the Mandylion, at full length. One by one, they passed before the shroud of Christ, and some of those hardened knights could hard
ly contain their tears. After prayers, Renaud de Vichiers explained to his brothers that the grave cloth of Jesus would be placed in a cask, hidden from prying eyes. It was the most precious jewel of the order’s possessions, and they were to defend it with their lives.
Gathered together, the knights swore a sacred oath: No matter what transpired, until death and after, they would never reveal where the shroud was held. Its very possession would become one of the great secrets of the Order of the Knights Templar.
MINERVA, PIETRO, AND ANTONINO HAD ARRIVED IN Turin on the first plane that morning, and Marco invited the team to lunch.
They were just finishing when Sofia’s cell phone rang. When she recognized the voice on the other end, she blushed and got up and left the room. Pietro’s tension was evident when she returned. He had become increasingly nasty. But she knew that as long as she worked in the Art Crimes Department she’d have to deal with him, which just reconfirmed her decision to move on as soon as they’d closed this case.
“Marco, it was D’Alaqua. He invited me to join him tomorrow at some sort of farewell luncheon for Dr. Bolard and the rest of the scientific committee.”
“And you said yes, I hope,” Marco replied.
“No,” Sofia answered. “Tomorrow is our general run-through with the whole team—I thought I was supposed to coordinate everything.”
“Yeah, but that would have been a golden opportunity to check out the scientists again, especially Bolard.”
“Well, we put it off until the day after tomorrow, although the scientists won’t be there.”
Everyone looked at her in surprise, and Marco couldn’t suppress a smile.
He called for the check, and the conversation turned to the details of the upcoming operation.
A few kilometers out of Turin, the car D’Alaqua had sent turned down a small road that ended in front of an imposing Renaissance-style palazzo surrounded by woods. Sofia had dressed simply, in jeans and a casual jacket, her hair pulled into a ponytail. She had wanted to underscore the working nature of the lunch but now began to regret not having made more of an effort.
The gate opened automatically as the car approached it. She couldn’t spot the security cameras but figured they were everywhere.
Umberto D’Alaqua was waiting for her at the door, wearing an elegant dark gray silk suit. He greeted her warmly and smiled when she complimented him on the loveliness of his home. “I asked you here because I knew you would enjoy the paintings,” he said as he led her through an imposing entrance hall.
The palazzo was a museum, a museum turned into a house. For more than an hour they wandered through room after room, all boasting impressive works of art hung with intelligence and superb taste. Over a long lunch they talked animatedly about art, politics, literature. The time passed so quickly that Sofia was shocked when D’Alaqua excused himself, saying that he had to get to the airport for a seven o’clock flight to Paris.
“Oh, I’m sorry. I’ve kept you,” she apologized.
“Not at all, not at all. It’s not six yet, and if I didn’t have to be in Paris tonight, I’d ask you to stay for dinner. I’ll be back in ten days. If you are still in Turin, I’d like to see you again.”
“I’m not sure…. By then we may have finished or be close to it.”
“Finished?”
“With the investigation.”
“Oh, yes! How’s it going?”
“Fine. We’re in the final phase, I think.”
“Have you reached any conclusions?”
“Well…” Sofia paused uncomfortably.
“Don’t worry,” D’Alaqua broke in, waving the question away with a smile. “I understand. When you’ve finished your work and everything is cleared up, you can tell me about it.”
Sofia was relieved. Marco had absolutely forbidden her to tell him anything, and although she no longer shared her chief’s suspicions about D’Alaqua, she would never disobey his direct order.
Two cars were waiting at the door. One would take Sofia back to the Hotel Alexandra and the other would drive D’Alaqua to the airport, where his private plane was waiting. He pressed her hand warmly and held it for a moment as he settled her into her car.
“Why do they want to kill him?” the capo asked his informant.
“I don’t know. They’ve been planning it for days. They’re trying to bribe a guard to leave his cell door open, along with theirs. The plan is to go in tomorrow night, slit his throat, and get back to their cell with no one the wiser. Nobody’ll know—mutes don’t scream.”
“Will the guard take the bribe?”
“Probably. I heard it’s fifty thousand euros.”
“Jesus! Who else knows about this?”
“Two other prisoners. Turks, like them.”
“Okay, get out of here.”
“What about my money?”
“You’ll get paid.”
Frasquello was thoughtful. Why would the Bajerai brothers want to kill the guy? A murder for hire, sure—but who was hiring?
He sent for his lieutenants, two mafioso serving life sentences for murder. The three met for about half an hour. Then he asked a guard to send for Genari.
The head guard entered the capo’s cell after midnight. Frasquello was watching television and didn’t move when he heard Genari come in.
“Sit down, and keep quiet. Tell your cop friend he was right. They’re going to kill the mute.”
“Who?”
“The Bajerais.”
“But why?” Genari asked in surprise.
“How the fuck should I know! And why should I care? I’m doing my part—tell him he better do his.” The capo spoke in low tones for a few minutes more, filling in the guard on what he had learned.
Genari left the cell and hurried to his office, where he dialed Marco Valoni’s cell phone number.
“Signor Valoni, it’s Genari.”
Marco looked at the clock—past midnight. He was tired. Yesterday they’d done a run-through of the operation that would swing into action as soon as the mute was released from prison. Today he’d gone back to inspect some of the tunnels under Turin again, and for two hours he’d wandered around, tapping on walls, listening for hollow spots. Comandante Colombaria, making a great show of patience, had come along, continuing to insist there was nothing to find.
“You were right, they’re going to try to kill the tongueless guy.” The guard was clearly agitated.
“Tell me everything.”
“Frasquello’s people say that two Turks, the Bajerai brothers, are going to take care of him tomorrow night. They’re throwing a lot of money around. We might be able to stop it this time, but we can’t protect him for long with that kind of money in play. You need to get him out of here as soon as possible.”
“We can’t. He’d suspect there was something going on, and the whole operation would go to shit. Will Frasquello do his job?”
“He already is—he told me to remind you to do yours.”
“I will. Are you at the prison?”
“Yes.”
“All right. I’m going to call the warden. I’ll be there in an hour—I want all the information you’ve got on those two brothers.”
“They’re Turks. Good boys, really. They killed a guy in a fight, but they’re not murderers—not professionals, anyway.”
“You can tell me about it when I get there. One hour.”
Marco woke up the warden and told him to meet him in his office at the prison. Then he called Minerva.
“Were you asleep?”
“Reading. What’s up?”
“Get dressed. I’ll be waiting for you downstairs in the lobby in fifteen minutes. I want you to go to carabinieri headquarters, get on their computer, and find whatever you can on a couple of guys we need to know about. I’m going to the prison, and I’ll call you from there with everything they’ve got on them.”
“Wait a minute, wait a minute! What’s happening?”
“I’ll tell you downstairs.
Don’t be late.”
When Marco arrived at the prison, the warden was waiting for him in his office, half awake. Genari was there, too, pacing nervously.
“I want everything you’ve got on these Bajerais,” Marco said without preamble.
“The Bajerai brothers?” the warden sputtered. “What have they done? You believe Frasquello’s story? Listen, Genari, when this is over you’ve got a lot of explaining to do about your dealings with that thug.”
The warden pulled the files on the Bajerai brothers and handed them to Marco, who plopped down on the sofa and began reading. When he finished, he talked the information through with the warden and Genari and then called Minerva.
“I’m exhausted. I almost fell asleep on the keyboard,” she said.
“Well, wake up. Find everything you can on this family of Turks—they were born here, but their parents were immigrants. I want to know everything about them and their families.” He filled her in on what he had. “Ask Interpol, talk to the Turkish police, let’s say three hours for a complete report.”
“Three hours! No way. Give me till morning.”
“Seven o’clock,” Marco snapped.
“Okay, five hours. That’s something.”
The hotel dining room opened at seven. Minerva, her eyes red from lack of sleep and hours in front of the computer screen, walked in, confident that she’d find Marco there.
Her boss was reading the newspaper and drinking coffee. Like her, he looked terrible.
Minerva tossed two file folders on the table and dropped into a chair.
“I’m dead!”
“I imagine. Find anything interesting?”
“Depends on what you’re interested in.”
“Try me.”
“The Bajerai brothers are the sons of Turkish immigrants, as you know. Their parents went first to Germany and from there came to Turin. They found work in Frankfurt, but the mother didn’t like Germany or the Germans, so they decided to try their luck in Italy since they had relatives here. The boys are Italian—they’ve lived in Turin all their lives. The father worked at the Fiat plant and the mother as a cleaning lady. They were average students in school, no better or worse than most. The older one got into some scraps, seems to have quite a temper, but he’s probably the smarter of the two—his grades were better than his brother’s. When they finished high school the older one started working for Fiat, like his father. The younger one was hired as a driver for some bigwig in the regional government, guy named Regio, who took him on because the kid’s mother had been a cleaning lady at his house. The older one lasted a little while at Fiat, but he didn’t like the old eight-to-five, so he rented a stall in the market and started selling fruits and vegetables. Did okay, the both of them, never had any trouble with the cops or anybody else. Nothing. The father is retired, the mother too. They live on a pension from the state and their savings. They’ve got nothing, really, except their house, which they bought about fifteen years ago, scrimping and saving.