“A couple of years ago, one Saturday night, the brothers were at a discotheque with their girlfriends. A couple of drunks started hitting on the girls—apparently one of them pinched one of the girls’ ass. The police report says the brothers pulled out knives and they all went at it. They killed one guy and wounded the other one so bad he can’t use his arm anymore. They got twenty years—tantamount to life. Their girlfriends married other people.”
“What do you know about their family in Turkey?”
“Just regular people—poor, struggling. They come from Urfa, near the Iraq border. Through Interpol, the Turkish police e-mailed what they’ve got on the family there, which is very little—absolutely nothing of interest. The father has a younger brother in Urfa, although younger is relative—he’s about to retire. He works in the oil fields. There’s also a sister, married to a schoolteacher; they have eight children. They’re good, decent people, never gotten into any trouble. The Turks were surprised we were looking at them. The truth is, we may have caused these people some problems—you know how their minds work over there.”
“Anything else?”
“Yeah. Here in Turin, there’s a cousin of the mother’s—guy named Amin, apparently exemplary citizen. He’s an accountant, been working for years for an advertising agency. He’s married to an Italian woman; she works in a high-end clothing store. They have two daughters. The older one is at the university; the younger one is about to graduate from high school. They all go to Mass on Sundays.”
“Mass?”
“Yeah, Mass. Shouldn’t be a big surprise—this is Italy.”
“Yeah, but this cousin—he’s not Muslim?”
“I don’t know—I guess he is, or was, but he’s married to an Italian woman, in the Church. He must have converted—although there’s nothing in his file about a conversion.”
“Look into him. And try to find out whether the Bajerais belong to a mosque here.”
“Mosque?” Minerva asked skeptically.
“Okay—this is Italy. But somebody must know whether they are—or were—Muslims. And if there are others they associate with. Did you get into their bank records?”
“Yeah—nothing out of the ordinary there. The cousin earns a pretty good salary; so does his wife. They live pretty well, although they’ve got a mortgage on their apartment. No suspicious deposits. They’re a tight-knit family; at least some of them go every visiting day to see the brothers, take them food, sweets, tobacco, books, clothes—they’re trying their best for them.”
“Yeah, I know. I’ve got a copy of the visitors’ log. This Amin has visited them twice this month—when he normally visits them once.”
“I wouldn’t think visiting them one extra day was anything to get suspicious about.”
“We have to look at everything,” Marco reminded her.
“Yeah, sure—but we shouldn’t lose perspective either.”
“You know what strikes me? The fact that this cousin of theirs goes to Mass and was married by the Church. Muslims don’t go apostate just like that.”
“And you’re also going to investigate all the Italians who never set foot in a church? Listen, I’ve got a girlfriend who converted to Judaism because she fell in love with an Israeli one summer when she was in a kibbutz. The guy’s mother was an Orthodox Jew who would never have allowed her darling boy to marry a shiksa, so my friend converted and every Saturday she goes to synagogue. She doesn’t believe in anything, but she goes.”
“That’s your girlfriend. Here we have two Turks who want to kill somebody.”
“Uh-huh, but they’re the killers, not their cousin, and you can’t turn him into a suspect because he goes to Mass.”
Pietro came into the dining room and headed over. A minute later, Antonino and Giuseppe joined them. Sofia was the last to arrive.
Minerva brought them up to speed on what had been happening overnight and at Marco’s behest handed out copies of the report she’d produced.
“So? What do you think?” Marco asked when they’d all finished reading through the file.
“They aren’t pros—if they’ve been hired for the job it’s either because they’ve got some relationship to our guy or because somebody who does trusts the hell out of them,” Pietro observed.
Giuseppe chimed in. “There are men in that prison who’d cut his throat without thinking twice, but the person who’s contracted the hit either doesn’t know how to get to those types, which means he doesn’t have underworld ties, or, as Pietro says, he trusts these two, who seem to be nothing special. They’ve never been tied to dirty money, never so much as stolen their neighbor’s Vespa for a joyride. A stupid bar fight doesn’t put them in the big leagues.”
“Fine, Giuseppe, but tell me something we don’t know,” Marco insisted.
“Hold on, Marco, I think Giuseppe and Pietro are saying a lot,” Antonino argued. “Now we know for sure that our guy is a link to something—somebody wants him dead because they know he can lead us to them. That means there’s a leak—they’re on to our plans; otherwise they’d have gotten rid of him a long time ago. But no, they want to kill him now, all of a sudden, just as he’s about to go free.”
“Who exactly knows about this part the operation?” Sofia asked.
“Too many people,” Marco replied. “And Antonino is right on target. They know where we’re going before we get there. Minerva, Antonino, see what else you can get on the Bajerai family—they’re one link. They have to be connected to someone who wants our man dead. Go over everything again, look into even the smallest details. I’m going back to the prison.”
“Why don’t we talk to the parents and cousin?” Pietro asked.
“Because we don’t want to raise any flags. We can’t afford to be more visible than we already are. And we can’t pull the mute out of prison, because then it’ll be him that gets suspicious. We have to keep him alive, out of range of these brothers,” Marco answered.
“How?” asked Sofia.
“A capo in the drug mafia, a guy named Frasquello. I made a deal with him. All right, everybody, let’s go,” he said abruptly, brushing aside their questions.
They ran into Ana Jiménez in the lobby. She was leaving the reception desk, carry-on in tow.
“You guys look like you’re on to something big,” she joked.
“You’re leaving?” Sofia asked.
“I’m on my way to London, and then to France.”
“Work?” Sofia pressed.
“Work. I may call you, dottoréssa. I may need your advice.”
The doorman told Ana her taxi was waiting, and she blew them a kiss as she headed out the door.
“That girl makes me nervous,” Marco confessed.
Sofia nodded. “Yeah, you never much liked her.”
“No, you’re wrong, I like her, but I don’t like her sticking her nose into our case. What’s she going to London for? And France? She either sees something we don’t, or she’s going to stir things up, chasing after one of her batty theories.”
“I’ve been impressed by her,” Sofia answered, “and her theories may not be so batty. Everyone thought Schliemann was a crackpot, and he found Troy.”
“All she needs is you for a defense lawyer! I’d still like to know what she’s up to. I’ll call Santiago. You and I both know it has something to do with the shroud.”
The prison was silent. The inmates had been locked down for the night two hours earlier. The corridors and passageways were illuminated only by the wan, yellowish light of ten-watt bulbs, and the guards on the night shift were dozing.
The Bajerais pushed at the door to their cell, checking to make sure it was open. Yes, the guard had kept his part of the deal…. Keeping close to the wall and crouching until they were almost crawling, the two brothers began to make their way to the other end of the corridor, where the mute’s cell was. If everything went as they planned, in less than five minutes they’d be back in their own cell as though they had never left.
They had traveled halfway down the corridor when the smaller one, in back, felt someone’s hand grip his neck half a second before a hard blow to the head knocked him unconscious. The older brother turned around just in time to catch a massive fist full in the nose. Blood streaming, he fell to his knees without a sound as a hand of iron fastened on his throat. Struggling for air, finding none, he felt his life slipping away from him.
Light was just beginning to brighten the corridors of the Turin jail when the guard on morning rounds stopped dead in front of the Bajerais’ cell. Then he ran to sound the alarm, as the two bloody heaps tangled together on the floor began to stir and moan.
In the infirmary, the doctor ordered the brothers sedated and pumped them full of pain medication. Their faces had been beaten to pulp, their eyes narrow slits within the massive swelling.
When Marco arrived at the warden’s office in response to his call, the agitated official relayed what had happened. He had to inform the judicial authorities and the carabinieri.
Marco calmed him down, then asked to see Frasquello.
“I did my part,” the capo spat at him the second he walked into the warden’s office.
“Yes, and I’ll do mine. What happened?”
“Don’t ask questions. It went like you wanted. Your mute is alive and the Turks are too—what more could you ask for, eh? Nobody’s been hurt. Those two brothers just got a little bruised, is all.”
“I want you to continue to keep an eye out. They may try again.”
“Who, those two? You’re kidding.”
“Them or somebody else, I don’t know. Just keep watching.”
“When do you talk to the parole board?”
“When this is over.”
“Which is when?”
“No more than four or five days, I hope.”
“Okay. But you want to do what you said you would, cop, or you’ll wish you had.”
“And what you want is not to threaten me.”
“Just do it.”
Frasquello slammed the door behind him as he left the office.
ADDAIO WAS WORKING IN HIS OFFICE WHEN HIS CELL phone rang. The conversation was brief, but by the time he hung up, he was red with rage. He shouted for Guner, who came running.
“What is it, pastor?”
“Find Bakkalbasi at once. I don’t care where he is, I have to see him. And I want all the elders here within half an hour.”
“What has happened?”
“A catastrophe. Now get them.”
When he was alone, he put his hands to his temples and pressed hard. His head hurt all the time. For days he had been experiencing terrible, almost unbearable headaches. He was sleeping badly, and he had no appetite. More and more, he felt it would be a blessing just to die now. He was tired of the lifelong trap he was in—the trap of being Addaio.
The news could not have been worse. The Bajerai brothers had been found out. Someone within the prison had learned of their plans and blocked them. Perhaps the two had talked too much, or someone may simply have been protecting Mendib. It could even be them, them again, or that cop, sticking his nose in everywhere. Apparently in the last few days he had been in and out of the warden’s office constantly. He was planning something, but what? It had been reported that he met a couple of times with a drug capo, a man named Frasquello. Yes, yes, the pieces fit—no doubt this Valoni had put the mafioso in charge of protecting Mendib. He was their only lead—a lead that could bring them here, to Urfa—and they had to protect him. That was it, yes, that was it.
Pain was eating up his brain. He searched a moment for a key and opened a drawer, took out a bottle of pills, gulped down two, and then sat with his eyes closed to wait for it to pass. With a little luck, by the time the elders arrived it would be better.
Guner knocked softly at the office door. The elders were waiting for Addaio in the large meeting room. When there was no response, Guner entered and found Addaio with his head on the desk, his eyes closed, motionless. Guner approached with trepidation and shook his master gently until he awoke. The servant breathed a soft sigh of relief.
“You were asleep.”
“Yes…my head hurt.”
“You should go back to the doctor; this pain is killing you. You need to have a brain scan.”
“I’m fine.” Addaio brushed aside further discussion.
A few minutes later he strode into the meeting room. The eight members of the council made an imposing picture, arrayed around the heavy mahogany table in their black chasubles.
Concern filled their faces as Addaio informed them of the events in the Turin prison.
“Mendib will be released in four or five days and will attempt to contact us,” Addaio went on. “We must prevent that; our people cannot fail again. That is why it is imperative that you be there, Bakkalbasi, coordinating the operation, in constant contact with me. We are on the verge of disaster.”
“I have news of Turgut.”
All eyes turned to Talat, their main conduit to the porter in the Turin Cathedral. His piercing blue eyes were fixed on Addaio.
“We should get him out of there. He’s becoming more unhinged by the day. He swears he is being followed, that they no longer trust him in the bishop’s offices, and that Rome police officers have remained in Turin to arrest him.”
“That is the last thing we can do in the middle of all this, Talat,” Bakkalbasi replied.
“Is Ismet ready to travel?” Addaio asked. “He was to prepare himself to take his uncle’s place at the cathedral. That is our best course for now.”
“His parents have agreed, but the young man seems reluctant. He has a girlfriend here,” Talat explained.
“Girlfriend! And because he has a girlfriend he would endanger the entire community? Call them. He will leave today, with our brother Bakkalbasi. Tell Ismet’s parents to call Turgut and tell him they are sending their son to reside with him while he looks for a future in Italy. And do it now.”
Addaio’s peremptory tone left no room for hesitation or disagreement. A short while later, the eight left the mansion, each with precise orders to carry out.
ANA JIMÉNEZ RANG THE DOORBELL OF A LOVELY Victorian house in one of London’s most elegant neighborhoods. An elderly butler opened the door and greeted her politely. The home could have been the residence of a lord. If this was indeed the bastion of the present-day Knights Templar, it was a far cry from the medieval fortresses they had once defended.
Ana introduced herself and asked to see the director of the organization, Anthony McGilles. It had not been easy to secure an appointment with the well-known scholar, but Ana had called friends of friends, trading on connections in diplomatic circles, and the meeting had eventually been arranged.
The butler asked her to wait in a large, handsomely furnished vestibule, its wood parquet floor covered with thick Persian carpet, its walls hung with paintings of religious scenes. A silver-haired gentleman promptly emerged from a nearby office and greeted her cordially.
McGilles directed Ana to the sofa in his office while he took a seat in a leather armchair. They had barely settled themselves when the butler entered with a tea tray.
For several minutes Ana answered McGilles’s questions—he was interested in her work as a reporter and in the political situation in Spain. Finally, the professor got to the point of her visit.
“You’re interested in the Templars?”
“Yes. I have to say I was surprised to learn that they still exist and even have an Internet address. That’s what led me here.”
“This is a center for research and study, that’s all. What is it exactly that you want to know?”
“Well, if the Templars really do exist in this day and age, then I’d like to know more about the nature and scope of the organization today, and what it does. And if possible I’d like to ask you about some historical events that the Templars took part in—a very prominent part.”
“Well, miss, the Templars as you seem to be imagining t
hem, as they once were, no longer exist.”
“Then the Internet listing isn’t authentic?”
“No, it’s authentic. You’re here speaking with me, aren’t you? But don’t let your imagination run wild picturing knights in shining armor. This is the twenty-first century.”
“So I’ve been told.”
“Well, then—we are an organization dedicated to research and study. Our mission is intellectual and social.”
“But you are the true heirs of the Temple?”
“When Pope Clement the Fifth suspended the order, the Templars became part of other orders. In Aragon, they became part of the Order of Montesa; in Portugal, King Dinis created a new order, the Orden do Cristo; in Germany they became part of the Teutonic Order. Only in Scotland did the order itself never dissolve. The uninterrupted existence of the Order of Scotland embodies how the Templar spirit has come down to our own days. In the fifteenth century the Scottish Templars became part of the French Garde Ecossaise, which protected the king, and they supported the Jacobites in Scotland. Since 1705 the order has been in the open; that year it adopted new statutes, and Louis Philippe of Orleans became its Grand Master. There were Templars who took part in the French Revolution, in Napoleon’s empire, in the struggle for Greek independence, and of course they were part of the French resistance during World War Two….”