The Brotherhood Of The Holy Shroud (48 page)

Once they established that the mute had eaten and settled himself on a thin mattress near the dormitory entrance, where one of the nuns sat to prevent fights among the inmates, Marco felt confident their subject wouldn't be moving again that night. He decided to go to the hotel and get a little sleep, and he ordered his team to do the same thing, except for Pietro, whom he left in charge with a relief team of three fresh carabinieri-enough to follow the mute if he emerged again unexpectedly.

Ana Jimenez was waiting in the Paris airport for a night flight to Rome. From there she'd continue on to Turin. She was nervous and disturbed by what she'd been reading in Elisabeth's file. If just a fraction of what was in it was true, it would be terrible. There were dimensions to this story she'd never imagined when she began, things that seemed to relate to the shroud-or some great secret-yet had nothing to do with France or Turin. But the reason she'd decided to go back to Turin anyway was that she'd seen one of the names that appeared in the file in another report-the one that Marco Valoni had given her brother to read. And if what Elisabeth said was true, that name belonged to one of the masters of the new Temple and related directly to the shroud.

She had made two decisions: one, to talk to Sofia, and two, to go to the cathedral and surprise Padre Yves. She'd spent most of the morning and part of the afternoon trying to contact Sofia, but the desk at the Alexandra had informed her that she'd left very early, and Ana had yet to get any reply from the several voice-mail messages she'd left for her. There seemed to be no way to get in touch with the dottoressa at this moment. As for Padre Yves, she'd see him the next day, one way or the other.

Elisabeth was right-she was getting close to something, although to what she wasn't sure.

Bakkalbasi's men had managed to lose the carabinieri. One of them stayed outside the Sisters of Charity shelter, watching to be sure Mendib didn't leave; the others dispersed. By the time they reached the cemetery, it was nightfall and the guard was waiting for them nervously.

"Hurry, hurry, I have to leave," he hissed as he motioned them inside. "I will give you a key to the gate, in case you come too late one night and I have had to go."

The entrance of the mausoleum he led them to was protected by an angel with a sword raised high in one hand. The four men went inside, lighting their way with a flashlight, and disappeared into the bowels of the earth.

Ismet was waiting for them in the underground room. He had brought water for them to wash with, and food. They were hungry and tired, and all they wanted was to sleep.

"Where is Mehmet?"

"He stayed where Mendib is sleeping, in case he decides to leave the shelter tonight. Addaio is right-they want Mendib to lead them to us. They have a big team shadowing him," said one of the men, who in Urfa was a police officer, as was one of his companions.

"Did they see you?" asked Ismet, worried.

"I don't think so," another of the men answered, "but we can't be sure-there are a lot of them."

"You mustn't lead them here. Do you understand? If you think you are being followed, you can't come back here," Ismet insisted.

"We know, we know," the police officer reassured him. "Don't worry. No one followed us."

By six a.m. Marco was positioned near the Sisters of Charity shelter again. He had called in reinforcements for the carabinieri team, who had lost the two Turkish tails the night before.

"If-when-they show up again, be sure they don't see you," he snapped. "I want them alive and squawking when this is over. If they're following the mute, we're going to want them. Meanwhile we need to give them a little more slack."

His men had nodded. Pietro insisted he was going to keep working, despite the fact that he hadn't slept the night before.

Sofia had heard the rising anxiety in Ana's voice in the voice-mail messages she'd left. At the hotel they'd told her that Ana had also called there five times. She felt a twinge of remorse for not having returned the calls, but this was no time to be distracting herself with the reporter's wild theories. She'd call when they closed the case; until then she was going to concentrate all her energies on following Marco's orders. She and Minerva were about to leave for carabinieri headquarters when a bellman came running toward them.

"Dottoressa Galloni, dottoressa!"

"Yes, what's wrong?"

"You have a telephone call; they say it's urgent."

"I can't take it now; tell the front desk to take a message and-"

"Front desk told me that Signor D'Alaqua says it's very important."

"D'Alaqua?"

"Yes. That's who's calling."

Sofia waved Minerva on, turned, and headed directly to one of the house phones.

"This is Dottoressa Galloni; I think I have a, call."

"Oh, dottoressa, thank goodness! Signor D'Alaqua was very insistent that we find you. One moment, please."

Umberto D'Alaqua's distinctive voice had a different quality, tense, controlled. "Sofia…"

"Yes, how are you?"

"I need to see you."

"I'd love to, but-"

"No buts. My car will be there in ten minutes."

"I'm sorry-I'm on my way to work. I can't today. Is something wrong?"

"I have a proposal for you. You know that my great passion is archaeology-well, I'm off to Syria. I have permission for a dig there, and my people have found some pieces that I'd like you to look at. I have to leave immediately, but on the way I'd like to talk to you. I'd like to make you a job offer."

"I appreciate that, really, but right now I can't possibly go. I'm sorry," she replied, astonished by the entire exchange.

"Sofia, sometimes there are once-in-a-lifetime opportunities."

"That's true. But there are also responsibilities that one can't abandon. And right now I just can't leave what I'm doing. If you can wait two or three days, then maybe-"

"No, it can't wait three days."

"Is it so important that you leave for Syria
today?"

"Yes."

"Well, I'm sorry. I really am. I might be able to go in a few days…"

"No, I don't think so. I beg you to come with me now."

Sofia hesitated. Umberto D'Alaqua's proposal was as disconcerting as his peremptory tone.

"What's happening? Tell me."

"I'm telling you."

"I'm sorry, truly. Listen, I've got to go, they're waiting for me."

"Good luck, then, dottoressa," he said, the life evaporating from his voice. "Take care of yourself."

"Yes, of course, thank you." She heard the line click and placed the phone back in its cradle.

Why was he wishing her good luck? He'd sounded utterly defeated. Good luck with what? Could he possibly know about the operation they were in the midst of?

When she finished the case she'd call him. She was sure that there was something else behind his extraordinary offer and that it was not a love affair he had in mind.

"What did D'Alaqua want?" Minerva had waited for her, and they walked out of the hotel together.

"For me to go with him to Syria."

"Syria! What for?"

"He's got a permit to do an archaeological excavation there. He wanted me to help him."

"Some romantic getaway."

"He was asking me to go away, but it wasn't romantic. He sounded worried."

By the time they reached carabinieri headquarters, Marco had called twice. He was in a foul mood. The transmitter they'd planted on the mute wasn't working. It was sending out beeps, but the beeps didn't match the direction in which he was walking. They soon realized that their man had changed shoes. The ones he was wearing now were older, more worn-looking. He'd also put on a pair of filthy jeans and an equally filthy jacket. Somebody had made a great deal on the trade.

At the moment they were watching their target walk aimlessly around the Parco Carrara. The two tails from the day before were nowhere to be seen, at least so far.

The mute was carrying a hunk of bread, and as he walked he pinched pieces off it and scattered crumbs for the birds. He crossed paths with a man walking hand-in-hand with two little girls, and Marco thought the man stared into the mute's eyes for a few seconds before he moved on.

The killer came to the same conclusion. That must be the guy's contact. He still couldn't make his move- there was no way; the guy was surrounded by cops. Shooting him would be tantamount to committing suicide. He'd follow him for two more days, and if things didn't change, he'd forget about the contract-he wasn't going to risk his own neck just to kill some miserable tongueless Turk.

Neither Marco nor his men, nor the Turkish tail, nor even, this time, the killer, noticed that they themselves were being watched. After he took his girls home, Arslan, the long-time community contact, called his cousin. Yes, he had seen Mendib; they'd crossed paths in the Parco Carrara. He looked fine. But he hadn't made any sign-nothing. Apparently he didn't feel secure yet-and with good reason.

Ana Jimenez asked the taxi driver to take her to the Turin Cathedral. She entered through the door to the cathedral offices and asked to see Padre Yves.

"He is not in, I'm afraid," said the secretary. "He is with the cardinal, on a pastoral visit. You do not have an appointment, I think; is that correct?"

"No, you're right, but I know that Padre Yves would be delighted to see me," Ana said curtly, knowing she was being rude, annoyed by the secretary's smugness.

She'd been doubly unlucky. She'd called Sofia again and missed her. She decided to linger in the neighborhood around the cathedral and wait until Yves de Charny returned.

Listening to the report, Bakkalbasi was in a quandary. Mendib was still wandering around the city-it looked as though it would be very, very difficult, if not impossible, to kill him. There were carabinieri everywhere. If Bakkalbasi's men continued the pursuit, they were going to wind up being spotted themselves.

He didn't know what to tell his team. If the operation failed, Mendib might bring on the fall of the community. Sooner or later he would head to the cemetery, or home. Mendib's great-uncle was waiting. Several days ago he had prepared himself, as so many in the community had done through the centuries. He had had all his teeth pulled, his tongue cut out, and his fingerprints burned ofF. A doctor had anesthetized him so he would not suffer unduly. Now it was past time to send him in…

Mendib thought he had seen a familiar face, the face of a man from Urfa-was he there to help him or kill him? He knew Addaio, and he knew that he would never allow the community to be discovered. Mendib was aware that if he was careless he could lead unbelievers to the community-and that Addaio would prevent that at all costs. As soon as it got dark, he would go back to the shelter and if possible sneak from there to the cemetery. He would jump the wall and find the tomb. He remembered it perfectly well-and remembered where the key was hidden. He would go through the tunnel to the house of Turgut and ask Turgut to save him. If he could get to Turgut's house without being discovered, Addaio could organize an escape. He did not mind waiting two or three months underground, until the carabinieri tired of looking for him. He had waited for years in a cell.

He walked toward Porta Palazzo, the open-air market, to buy something to eat and try to lose himself among the stalls. The people following him would have a hard time camouflaging themselves in the narrow corridors of the market, and if he could manage to see their faces, it would be easier for him to lose them later.

They had come for him. The old man took the knife from Bakkalbasi without hesitation. His nephew's son had to be killed, and he preferred to do it himself rather than allowing other men to profane themselves. In the car, Bakkalbasi's cell phone chimed; Mendib was moving toward the Piazza della Repubblica, probably to Porta Palazzo, the marketplace. Bakkalbasi ordered the driver to head in that direction and stop near the place Mendib had been seen. As they pulled up, he embraced the old man and said good-bye. He prayed that he might complete his mission.

Within minutes, Mendib saw his father's uncle and felt his heart fill with relief. The community, his family, had not forsaken him. He began to make his way carefully toward the old man. Then he saw his great-uncle's anguished expression. It was the look of a desperate man.

Their eyes met. Mendib did not know what to do- flee or approach the old man casually to give him an opportunity to pass a note or whisper instructions.

He decided to trust his great-uncle. The desperation in his eyes no doubt reflected fear, nothing else. Fear of Addaio, fear of the carabinieri.

As their bodies brushed against each other, Mendib felt a deep pain in his side. Then the old man fell to his knees and crumpled facedown on the ground. A knife protruded from his back. People around him began to scream and push away, and Mendib did the same-panicked, he ran. Someone had murdered his father's uncle, but who?

The killer ran along with the crowd, acting as terrified as the rest. He'd stabbed an old man instead of the mute. An old man who was carrying a knife too. That did it; he was not going to make another attempt. The man who'd hired him hadn't told him the whole story by a long shot, and he couldn't work in the dark, not knowing what he'd be facing. The contract was over, and he was keeping the up-front money.

On the edge of the market, Bakkalbasi watched Mendib run away as the old man lay dying on the pavement. Who had killed him? It had not been the carabinieri. Might it have been
them?
But why kill the old man? Distraught, he called Addaio. He didn't know what to do. Everything was coming apart. The pastor listened and gave a brief order. Bakkalbasi nodded, calming himself.

With his men right behind him, Marco ran over to the old man lying on the pavement. They were all burned, for anyone who was looking.