Рыбаченко Олег Павлович
Hitler, the Unhurried Executioner

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  • Аннотация:
    So Hitler first attacked Britain and landed troops there.
  Hitler, the Unhurried Executioner
  ANNOTATION
  So Hitler first attacked Britain and landed troops there.
  CHAPTER No 1.
  This alternative history isn't the worst. But there are also less favorable ones. In one, Hitler didn't attack the USSR in '41, but first conquered Britain and all its colonies. And he only decided to invade in '44. Well, that wasn't a far-fetched idea either. The Nazis managed to churn out all sorts of Panthers, Tigers, Lions, and even Mause tanks. But the USSR, too, was standing still; the fourth five-year plan was already underway. The third had also been exceeded. In August '41, the KV-3, weighing sixty-eight tons and armed with a 107-millimeter gun, went into production. And in September, the KV-5, weighing one ton, also went into production. A little later, the KV-4 was also put into production, with Stalin choosing the heaviest of all the designs, weighing one hundred and seven tons, with 180-millimeter frontal armor and two 107-millimeter guns, and a 76-millimeter gun.
  For now, this is the series they settled on. They focused on mass production. True, in 1943, the even larger KV-6 appeared, with two 152-millimeter guns. The T-34, as simpler and more convenient, was put into production. Only in 1944 did the more powerfully armed T-34-85 series appear. The Germans had the Tiger, Panther, and, a little later, the Lion in production since 1943. Then the Tiger was replaced by the Tiger-2, and in September, the Panther-2 went into production. The latter tank had a very powerful 88-millimeter gun in the 71EL, 100-millimeter frontal hull armor sloped at 45 degrees, and 60-millimeter turret and hull sides. The turret front was 120-millimeter thick, plus a 150-millimeter mantlet. The Panther-2 weighed fifty-three tons, which, with a 900 horsepower engine, gave it satisfactory ergonomics and speed.
  In response, the USSR began producing the T-34-85 a few months later, but this was a half-measure. The Panther-2, the most widely produced tank in 1944, was more powerful in both armament and frontal armor. But the Soviet tank had the advantage of sheer numbers. Hitler, however, was not idle. Using Europe's resources, he also carried out Operation Polar Bear, capturing Sweden, and Operation Rock, conquering Switzerland and Monaco, completing the consolidation of the empire.
  Factories from many countries, including Britain, worked for the Third Reich. British factories also produced the Goering tank, or more accurately, the Churchill. It was well protected-with a 152-millimeter thick front and 95-millimeter thick sides-and had satisfactory maneuverability. The British Challenger, renamed the Goebbels, was also quite good, comparable in armor and armament to the standard Panther, but weighing thirty-three tons.
  Given the Third Reich's potential, the colonial resources, and the declared all-out war, tank production continued to increase. While the USSR still had the advantage in numbers, the gap began to narrow. The Nazis, however, had superior quality. The most powerful Nazi tank was the Maus, but it was discontinued due to frequent breakdowns and excessive weight. So, the Lev remained in production. The vehicle weighed ninety tons, with a thousand-horsepower engine, which generally provided satisfactory speed. The hull's 150-millimeter frontal armor, sloped at 45 degrees, and the turret's frontal armor, thanks to a 240-degree mantlet, gave the tank excellent frontal protection. One hundred-millimeter-thick, sloped armor on the sides and rear provided satisfactory protection from all sides. In any case, the most commonly used 76-millimeter gun was completely ineffective. The 85mm gun could only defeat a tank with a sub-caliber round. The Lev was armed with a 105mm gun with a barrel length of 71 EL, with a muzzle velocity of 1,000 meters per second, and the sub-caliber round even higher. This tank was superior to the Soviet KVs in both armament and armor.
  Overall, tank production in the Third Reich, thanks to greater equipment and manpower, including the population of the colonies, increased from 3841 to seven thousand in 1942. And to fifteen thousand in 1943, not counting self-propelled guns, of which both the USSR and Germany produced only a small number. Up to fifteen thousand tanks in the first half of 1944. And of these, the majority were medium and heavy tanks, with the most widely produced Panther-2. Although there was also the T-4, a modernized version with a 75-millimeter 48EL gun, easily produced, capable of defeating Soviet T-34s, and even the superior T-34-76, the most widely produced medium tank in the USSR, and other vehicles. And light tanks were also produced.
  There was also the problem that Hitler could throw practically all his tanks at Russia. The United States was far across the ocean and had concluded a truce with both Japan and the Third Reich. And the USSR still had to fend off Japan. Japan, which had light, but fast-moving diesel tanks, and a few medium tanks. It also license-produced the Panther, but had only just begun production. But Japan's air force and navy were strong. At sea, the USSR had no chance at all, while in the air, the Japanese had extensive combat experience, good, light, and maneuverable fighters, and kamikaze pilots. Plus, they had a lot of infantry, very brave infantry at that, capable of ruthless assaults and no regard for lives.
  So, despite a slight advantage in tank numbers, the USSR had a qualitative disadvantage compared to the Germans. Hitler had a significant advantage in infantry thanks to his colonial divisions. He also had many European divisions and satellites. Taking into account the Third Reich's allies and conquered states, his superiority in manpower over the USSR was significant. Plus, there were Africa, the Middle East, and India. India alone had more than three times the population of the USSR.
  So Hitler was able to muster a colossal amount of infantry. In terms of quality, the Third Reich had a significant advantage in cars, motorcycles, and trucks. And they had more combat experience. The Nazis marched practically across Africa, reached India, captured it, and took Britain. Their pilots had colossal experience. The USSR had far less. The Finnish air force was weak and there were practically no air battles. Khalkhil Gol was a limited local operation, and not many volunteer pilots fought in Spain, and even those pilots had already become obsolete. So it can't be compared with the experience of the Third Reich, or even the Japanese who fought the US.
  The Third Reich had already increased production during the air offensive against Britain, setting up factories across Europe and switching those that existed to a three-shift operation. And they developed formidable aircraft-the ME-309, with three 30-millimeter cannons and four machine guns, and a speed of 740 kilometers per hour. And the even more formidable TA-152, with two 30-millimeter and four 20-millimeter cannons and a speed of 760 kilometers per second. These formidable aircraft could serve as fighters, attack aircraft, thanks to their powerful armor and armament, and frontline bombers.
  Jet aircraft also appeared. But they were still imperfect. They still needed time to acquire real power. Still, the ME-262, with its four 30-millimeter cannons and a speed of 900 kilometers per hour, was a very dangerous machine and extremely difficult to shoot down. True, it still crashed frequently.
  The ratio, so to speak, isn't ideal for the USSR. Artillery also has its own nuances. True, unlike in real history, the Molotov defensive line was completed-a three-year head start. But it was too close to the border and lacked sufficient operational depth.
  Moreover, the Red Army wasn't trained to defend itself, but was more focused on the offensive. And this had an impact. And of course, achieving surprise was difficult, but the Nazis managed to achieve tactical surprise.
  And so, on June 22, 1944, the Great Patriotic War began exactly three years later. The USSR, on the one hand, was better prepared, but still not fully prepared, while the Third Reich had grown stronger. Plus, Japan had struck the Far East. And now it wasn't the Third Reich that was fighting on two fronts, but the USSR.
  What can you do? The Germans break through the powerful defensive line with their tank wedges, and the Soviet troops launch counterattacks. And everyone moves and fights.
  By June 30, the Nazis had already stormed Minsk. Street fighting erupted in the city itself. Soviet troops retreated, trying to hold the line.
  General mobilization was declared.
  But the defense was still failing. Moreover, unlike in real history, Hitler maintained his infantry superiority even after the Soviet mobilization. In real history, the Wehrmacht quickly lost its manpower advantage in 1941. The USSR had always had an advantage in tanks. But here, the enemy had the upper hand in everything. Moreover, due to heavy losses in tanks, the advantage in equipment became not only qualitative but also quantitative.
  A catastrophe was brewing. And now the only thing that could save the USSR was a landing force of time travelers.
  And what are Oleg and Margarita, eternal children with superpowers, and the daughters of the Russian Gods Elena, Zoya, Victoria, and Nadezhda, capable of providing stubborn resistance to the Wehrmacht and the samurai who were climbing from the east.
  And so Oleg and Margarita opened fire on the German tanks with their hypermag blasters. And the powerful, massive machines began to transform into cream-covered cakes.
  So delicious with a pink and chocolate crust, and the tank crews turned into boys of seven or eight years old.
  This is how a miracle happened.
  But of course, the daughters of the Russian gods also performed miracles. They transformed infantrymen into children, obedient and polite ones at that. Tanks, self-propelled guns, and armored personnel carriers became culinary creations. And planes, right in the air, turned into cotton candy, or some other, but very appetizing, culinary creation. And this was a truly high-class and incredibly cool transformation.
  These were the tasty treats that then descended from the air.
  And they moved very nicely, and plopped down with sweet sobs.
  Elena took it and said wittily:
  - It is better to gain from a fool than to lose from a smart man!
  Victoria, continuing to transform the Nazis with the wave of her magic wand, agreed:
  - Of course! Gains are always positive, losses are always negative!
  Zoya giggled and remarked with a sweet look:
  - Glory to us, the coolest girls in the universe!
  Nadezhda eagerly confirmed, baring her teeth and turning Hitler's equipment into delicacies:
  - True! You can't argue with that!
  And the girls, a boy and a girl, waving their magic wands, snapping their bare toes, began to sing:
  I was born in a fairly wealthy house,
  Although the family is not noble, it is not at all poor...
  We were in this well-fed, bright lot,
  Even though we didn't have thousands in our savings book...
  
  I was a girl growing up a little,
  Trying on outfits in delicate colors...
  So I became a servant in this house,
  Without knowing any evil troubles!
  
  But then trouble happened, I was guilty,
  They drive me barefoot out the door...
  Such an outrage happened,
  Oh help me Almighty God!
  
  Bare feet walk on the pebbles,
  The gravel of the pavement knocks down the feet...
  They give me crumbs of bread as alms,
  And they'll just rot you with a poker!
  
  And if it rains, it hurts,
  It's even worse when it snows...
  It seemed like we had enough grief now,
  When will we celebrate success!
  
  But I came across a boy,
  He is also barefoot and very thin...
  But he jumps like a playful bunny,
  And this guy is probably cool!
  
  We actually became friends in childhood,
  They shook hands and became as one...
  Now we've clocked up the miles together,
  Above us is a golden-headed cherub!
  
  Sometimes we ask for alms together,
  Well, sometimes we steal in gardens...
  Fate sends us a test,
  Which cannot be expressed in poetry!
  
  But we overcome troubles together,
  A shoulder is offered to a friend...
  We collect ears of grain in the field in summer,
  It can be hot even in frosty weather!
  
  I believe that great times will come,
  When Christ the great God comes...
  The planet will become a blooming paradise for us,
  And we'll pass the test with straight A's!
  Stalin's Preventive War 1911
  ANNOTATION
  The war continues, it's already October 1942. The Nazis and the anti-Russian coalition are drawing ever closer to Moscow. And this truly poses a serious threat to the existence of the USSR. A significant challenge is the enemy's numerical superiority, vast resources, and the fact that attacks are coming from multiple fronts. But barefoot Komsomol girls and Pioneer boys, in shorts and without shoes, fight in the front lines, despite the rapidly growing cold.
  CHAPTER 1
  October had already arrived, and the weather was getting colder. The Germans and the coalition had almost surrounded Tula and were tightening their grip on the city. The situation was getting worse.
  But when the weather turned colder, the numerous troops from Britain and its colonies began to freeze. They literally started shaking. So the fighting began to shift to Central Asia. There, everything literally escalated.
  In the north, it seems we will have to switch to a temporary defense.
  The new authorities have already driven civilians into building fortifications.
  And the work began.
  One of the pioneers took a shovel in his hands and pretended that he was going to dig, but in fact he took it and hit the policeman with it.
  The boy's clothes were torn off and he was hung on the rack.
  One policeman beat the pioneer with a whip, slashing the boy's back.
  And the other brought the torch to the child's bare feet.
  It was very painful, but the boy not only did not ask for mercy, but on the contrary, he sang bravely;
  It's not convenient for me, a pioneer, to cry,
  At least they put a brazier in the flame...
  I'm not asking, oh God help me,
  Because man is equal to God!
  
  I will be their pioneer forever,
  The fascists won't break me with torture...
  I believe the difficult years will pass,
  Victory will come in radiant May!
  
  And the evil executioner dog is roasting my feet,
  Breaks fingers, drives needles...
  But my motto is never cry,
  Live for the glory of the world of communism!
  
  No, don't give up, brave boy,
  Stalin will be with you forever in your heart...
  And Lenin is truly eternally young,
  And cast iron fists made of steel!
  
  We are not afraid of the Tiger, herds of Panthers,
  We will overcome all this at once...
  Let's show the Octoberites, know the example,
  Radiant Lenin is with us forever!
  
  No, communism shines forever,
  For the Motherland, for happiness, for freedom...
  May the supreme dream come true,
  We will give our hearts to the people!
  Indeed, the first Panthers appeared on the front lines. These tanks were quite powerful, with a rapid-fire, long-barreled gun.
  And they actually hit pretty well. And the tanks are pretty agile.
  In particular, Gerd's crew fights on them.
  And this terminator girl, with her bare toes, smashed the enemy. And she penetrated a Soviet T-34.
  After which Gerda sang:
  - Rule Germany - flower fields,
  We will never be slaves!
  And she'll bare her sweet little face. Now that's a truly wild girl.
  And then Charlotte will fire from the cannon, and she will do it very accurately, hitting the enemy, and sing:
  - We will really kill everyone,
  I am a Reich girl, completely barefoot!
  And the girls will laugh.
  Natasha and her team, on the other hand, are fighting hard. These girls are truly daring.
  And with their bare toes they throw grenades. And they defeat the Nazis.
  They fire at them from machine guns and sing at the same time;
  We are Komsomol members - the knights of Rus',
  We love to fight against fierce fascism...
  And not for us - the prayer God save,
  We are friends only with glorious communism!
  
  We fight for our Motherland against the enemy,
  Under the glorious city - our Leningrad...
  Pierce the Nazi with a mad bayonet,
  We must fight bravely for our Motherland!
  
  In the cold we rush into battle barefoot,
  To collect fallen trophies...
  The Fuhrer will get a punch in the face,
  Although the fascists have really gone crazy!
  
  We are Komsomol members - a beautiful girl,
  You have a good figure and a pretty face...
  There is dew under my bare feet,
  Let the devils make faces at us!
  
  We will achieve such success, believe me,
  That our thoughts flow like gold...
  And the beast will not receive our lands,
  And the possessed Fuhrer will be angry!
  
  Let's give the Fritzes a good whack on the brains,
  We will tear down the towers, under the dashing walls...
  The bastard will only receive shame and disgrace,
  The girls will trample you with their bare feet!
  
  It will be beautiful, know this on earth,
  In it, the land of great councils will blossom...
  We will not submit to the junta-Satan,
  And let's hold all these scumbags accountable!
  
  To the glory of our holy Motherland,
  The girls win with flying colors...
  Comrade Stalin is our Fatherland,
  May Lenin rule forever in the next world!
  
  What a wonderful communism will be,
  Let us fulfill the bright commandments of the Leader...
  And we will scatter Nazism into molecules,
  For the glory of the forever red planet!
  
  Holy Motherland, now we have,
  We repelled the Fritzes from Leningrad...
  I believe the hour of victory is coming,
  When we sing the anthem with valor in Berlin!
  
  We always hoped in God,
  But there are no girls, no bullets and no frost...
  For us barefoot, snowstorms are nothing,
  And a sparkling rose grows on the snow!
  
  Vote for communism with a dream,
  So that we have new updates...
  You can pressure the Nazis without fear,
  Then the order will be new!
  
  Believe me, what you wanted came true,
  There will come a life that is more beautiful than any other...
  The elk puts on golden antlers,
  And demolishes the enemy along with the tower!
  
  We are a friendly family of Komsomol members,
  Great deeds were able to be born again...
  The fascist snake has been strangled,
  No more need for us beauties to be angry!
  The girls sang so beautifully. And they stamped their bare, graceful feet.
  The boy Gulliver noted with a smile:
  - You sing beautifully, my dear beauties! So beautifully and eloquently!
  Natasha nodded with a smile:
  - That's right, my boy, we really love and know how to sing!
  Alice replied with delight:
  Song helps us to build and live,
  We go on a hike with a cheerful song...
  And he who walks through life with a song -
  He will never disappear anywhere!
  Augustine chirped and sang:
  - Who is used to fighting for victory,
  Let him sing with us,
  He who is cheerful laughs,
  Whoever wants it will achieve it,
  He who seeks will always find!
  Svetlana licked her lips, threw a piece of snow into her mouth and offered:
  - Let the pioneer boy Gulya delight us with his catchphrases again!
  Natasha agreed, stamping her bare foot:
  - Exactly! I really liked them!
  The pioneer boy Gulliver began to utter;
  Life is like chess: if art requires sacrifice, then the art of war, only
  mata!
  Don't claim to be Napoleon if you've only had Waterloos!
  The fangs of a wolf are not dulled by sheep's clothing!
  Superstition is strength to those who use it, weakness to those who believe in it!
  The only difference between mental patients and saints is that the former are confined to an icon frame, while the latter are placed in a madhouse!
  A pen is only equal to a bayonet if it is a thief's!
  The eye of science is sharper than a diamond, and the hand of a scientist is very powerful!
  It is prestigious for a man to let a woman go ahead in everything, but not in scientific discoveries!
  Capable boys make more discoveries than brilliant old men!
  Science is a shepherd - nature is a sheep, but a stubborn sheep that cannot be tamed with a simple whip!
  The salt of freedom is sweeter than the sugar of slavery!
  It is only possible to effectively brainwash people if they are absent!
  And sell your conscience if it"s worth nothing!
  Caution, the main trait of traitors!
  Fear is always selfish, because it excludes self-sacrifice!
  A stone head - even a scalpel becomes dull!
  A sharp tongue often hides a dull mind!
  Fear is such a gift that it is difficult to give to an enemy, but easy to keep for yourself!
  Anyone can make a woman scream, but only a true gentleman can make her shed tears.
  The church is like a store, only the goods are always expired, the prices are inflated, and the seller cheats you!
  There are no women among the priests, because the lies of the latter are visible on their faces!
  No matter how wide the gap between imagination and reality, science will still build bridges!
  Knowledge has no boundaries, imagination is limited by ambition!
  Talent and hard work, like husband and wife, give birth to discovery only in pairs!
  Mind and strength, like a young man and a young woman, cannot stand the absence of one, the absence of the other!
  Violence does not deny mercy, just as death does not deny resurrection!
  Torture, like sex, requires variety, alternating partners, and love for the process!
  There is nothing more natural than such a perversion as war!
  Every groan of the enemy is a step towards victory, unless of course it is a voluptuous groan!
  You can cut yourself with a dull razor, but you can't experience thrills with a dull partner!
  Magic cannot make an ordinary person a scientist, but science will make everyone a magician!
  Not everyone who is aggressive is a criminal, and not every criminal is aggressive!
  What burns most is cold hatred!
  Cruelty is always insane, even if it has a system!
  Without a fire, you can't cook dinner! Without a sucker, you can't skim the cream!
  If there are many child heroes, then there are few adult cowards!
  Courage and skill are like cement and sand - strong together, fragile apart!
  A brave mind is better than cowardly stupidity!
  Foolishness is always false and boastful, but wisdom is truthful and modest!
  Better to believe than a big lie, only a very big lie!
  A lie is the other side of the truth, only unlike a coin, it always seems smoother!
  To catch a wolf, you have to listen to its howl!
  It's good to die,
  But it"s better to stay alive!
  In the grave you rot - nothing,
  You can fight while you're still alive!
  A chicken pecks grain by grain, but gains more weight than a pig swallowing large pieces!
  True greatness needs no flattery!
  One calm blow is better than a hundred of the most piercing screams!
  Luck is just a mirror that reflects hard work!
  The aroma of the censer exudes a sweetness that attracts banknotes instead of flies!
  A person can remain at one level of intelligence for a long time, but no amount of effort will curb stupidity!
  Intelligence without effort always decreases, but stupidity grows without effort!
  A man is not a matter of age or even physical strength, but a combination of intelligence and will!
  The mind is like a bully, it goes beyond reason when it is weak!
  The cigarette is the most insidious saboteur, who always turns the victim into his accomplice!
  Money is more disgusting than feces, on the latter beautiful flowers grow, but in money there are only base vices!
  If the capitalist gains the power of God, the world will become hell!
  A politician's tongue, unlike a prostitute's, doesn't bring you to orgasm, but to insanity!
  The future depends on us! Even when it seems like nothing depends on us!
  The fascists can kill, of course, but what they cannot do is take away the hope of immortality!
  It's easier to fill an ice rink in hell than to squeeze a tear out of a soldier!
  The difference between a censer and a fan is that a fan drives away flies, while a censer attracts fools!
  A sword is like a dick, think seven times before you stick it in!
  Man is weak, God is strong, and the God-man is omnipotent only when he fights for a just cause!
  Words are like notes in a composition, one false note is enough and the speech is ruined!
  If you want to bore a girl, talk about weapons, and if you want to break up forever, talk about Soviet weapons!
  The strength of a tank is not in its armor, but in the tanker"s head!
  The ruler of those who take bread from the executioner, collects salt on his own backside!
  Honesty is a typical sacrifice on the altar of expediency!
  An attack triples its strength - a defense halves it!
  A head cut off by a blade is called a garden head, from which clusters of retribution sprout!
  In war, a person is a small change that depreciates faster than it is spent!
  A person's life in war is subject to inflation and at the same time priceless!
  War is like a stream of water: the crap floats to the surface, the valuable settles, and the priceless is exalted!
  A tank without a mechanic is like a horse without harness!
  Emptiness is especially dangerous when it lives in your own head!
  The emptiness in the head is filled with delirium, in the heart - with anger, in the wallet - with stolen goods!
  A long tongue is usually combined with crooked arms, a short mind and a straight convolution in the brain!
  The reddest tongue, with colorless thoughts!
  Science is not a horse to take a hurdle on an empty stomach!
  The thoughts of a child are like a frisky stallion, the thoughts of a smart child are like two frisky stallions, and the thoughts of a genius child are like a herd of stallions with singed tails!
  Boxer's gloves are too soft to dull a sharp mind!
  The price of victory is too high, it can devalue the trophies!
  The greatest trophy in war is a saved life!
  Meanness is more contagious than cholera, more deadly than the plague, and there is only one vaccine against it - conscience!
  A tiny tear of a small child gives rise to great disasters and enormous destruction!
  The most ridiculous stupidities are committed with a smart look, an empty head and a full belly!
  When an army has too many banners, it means the commanders lack imagination!
  Often, an excess of earned money is devalued by a lack of time to spend it!
  Silence is golden, but only in someone else's wallet!
  It is difficult to stay alive in battle, but it is doubly difficult to maintain modesty after victory!
  A soldier without a glass is a sentry without a shepherd dog!
  Anyone who wants to harness a Russian to a yoke will become fertilizer like shit!
  War is a funny movie, but the ending always makes you cry!
  War is a theatre in which to be a spectator is vile!
  You can't throw a grenade with your tongue, but you can crush an empire!
  The brain has no muscle fibers, but it knocks stars out of orbit!
  Intuition in war is like space at sea, only the magnetic needle jumps faster!
  Saving a wounded comrade is a greater feat than killing a healthy enemy!
  The strongest chain of vice is forged by human egoism!
  - Victory over a defenseless victim is worse than defeat from a worthy opponent!
  - If you want to punish a man, force him to live with one woman. If you want to punish him even more, force his mother-in-law to live with them!
  It is good to die for the Motherland, but it is even better to survive and win!
  Survival is a soldier's most valuable gift, and the one that generals value least!
  The biggest consequences come from small misdeeds!
  Even Almighty God cannot overcome human weaknesses!
  Necessity is as much a driving force for progress as a whip is a stimulator for a horse!
  The shoots of progress blossom under the generous watering of tears of need!
  In war, the concept of a child is as inappropriate as a clown at a funeral!
  By painting forget-me-nots on a cannon, you won't make its shot even a petal less harmful!
  If all traitors were like themselves, then honesty would rule the world!
  Soft sheep's wool won't dull a wolf's fangs!
  Excess of cruelty equals anarchy!
  Execute one innocent and you will create a dozen dissatisfied ones!
  One photon is not worth a hundred impulses!
  Your own penny is worth more than someone else's nickel!
  Talent is like ringing brass, but without the tin of testing, it will never become hard!
  You can destroy everything except a dream - you can conquer everything except a fantasy!
  Smoking prolongs life only when it is the last cigarette before execution on the scaffold!
  The language of a philosopher is like a propeller blade - it only moves the roof from its hinges, not the boat!
  Every murderer is a failed philosopher!
  Age will not add wisdom to a fool, any more than a gallows rope will add height to a dwarf!
  What the tongue has ground out, unlike a millstone, cannot be swallowed in one go!
  On New Year's Eve, even things that cannot be achieved at other times come true!
  The stomach swells from the grinding of a millstone, and the brain withers from the threshing of a tongue!
  War is like the wind in a mill - it grinds the flesh, but spreads its wings!
  Man is the king of nature, but he holds the scepter not in his hand, but in his head! 1
  A strong mind can replace weak muscles, but strong muscles can never replace a weak mind!
  A woman at war is like a stirrup in a saddle!
  A light bullet, the most powerful argument in a military dispute!
  Evil appeared with the birth of life, but will disappear long before the end of existence!
  Technology can punish evil, break a thousand hearts, but cannot eradicate hatred from even one!
  Betrayal is insidious: like a fisherman's hook, only the bait always stinks!
  Eating a cannibal may make you feel sick, but it will never make you feel full!
  A limited mind has limited ideas, but stupidity knows no bounds!
  It's easier to fix a wristwatch with an axe than to teach commissars to take care of people!
  While a person is made of proteins, he is weaker than suckers!
  A person has two mortal enemies - himself and his egoism!
  He who strikes in the heart, keeps his head!
  The machine gunner is also a musician, but he makes you cry much more often!
  The difference between the food ration and the mind is that when you add half of it, the value decreases!
  An angry child is more frightening than an angry adult: microorganisms are the cause of most deaths!
  Madness is a broom that clears away the junkyard of old ideas in your head, giving free rein to genius!
  The golden glow doesn't warm the skin, but it does ignite passions!
  Power without entertainment is like slavery in purple!
  A brave child can put an enemy army to flight, but a cowardly adult can betray his own mother!
  The goats live highest in the mountains, especially if it is the mountain of self-conceit!
  In the hands of an honest man, a word is gold and he holds it; in the hands of a just man, it is a slashing blade and he lets it go!
  There cannot be two truths, but there can be double standards!
  Gold is easy to hammer, polish, but adheres poorly!
  The dollar is as green as a crocodile, only its mouth is open wide, for the whole planet to see!
  A peaceful hammer is good, but even better when it forges bayonets!
  Time is not money, if you lose it, you can"t get it back!
  Legs are light, even with a heavy load, if it promises an easy life!
  He can"t live beautifully - he"s a moral freak!
  Blood is salty, but sweet when spilled from an enemy!
  Discovery is a goldfish that lives in the murky waters of ignorance!
  To catch the goldfish of discovery in the murky waters of experimentation, you need a net of inspiration!
  One minute of reflection shortens the journey by an hour, one second of haste leads to a life-long delay!
  A single photon won't move a quasar!
  Gold is heavy, but it lifts you up better than a hydrogen balloon!
  An unbeliever is like a baby: he feels the caresses of his mother, but does not believe that she exists!
  He who sells a lot often betrays!
  Power is sweet, but the bitterness of responsibility kills the taste!
  The imperfection of the body is the main incentive to improve technique!
  The difference between an executioner and an artist is that his work cannot be redrawn!
  The body is always a reformer, but the mind is conservative!
  A drop of reality quenches thirst better than an ocean of illusions!
  You can't write a masterpiece while prancing on a horse, but on a boulder!
  A great soldier knows everything except the word "surrender!"
  Knockout is like a girl, if you make them wait, they won't be able to get up themselves!
  Weakness is a disease that does not evoke feelings of compassion!
  Compassion: It is the weakness that causes illness!
  Golden wings are bad for the plane, but good for the career!
  The strong strive for the strong - the weak for the Almighty!
  This is what the desperate pioneer boy Gulliver said, and very witty and succinctly.
  And the Germans and their allies continued to act, and climbed like a toad on a snag.
  The Shermans seemed especially dangerous. But what about the Tigers and Panthers? One, two, and that's it. But there are plenty of Shermans, and they're well protected.
  They push themselves like a swarm of ants.
  These are truly monsters of hell.
  Lady Armstrong, in a heavier MP-16 tank, fires her cannon and overturns a Soviet gun with a precise hit. After which
  pronounces:
  - For Britain's victory in this war!
  And her eyes sparkled with something dazzling blue. Now that's a really cool girl.
  Gertrude kicked the enemy with her bare toes, hit the opponent and squealed:
  - For our lion!
  Malanya hit the enemy, and did it precisely and accurately, and said:
  - To the new frontiers of the British Empire!
  And Monica, too, will fire with great precision. And pierce the enemy with her hellish thrust.
  And he will destroy the Soviet cannon, after which he will sing:
  - These stupid Stalinists,
  You need to wash it in the toilet...
  We will kill the communists,
  There will be a new NATO!
  And he will laugh out loud.
  
  GULLIVER AND CHAMBERLAIN'S KNOWLEDGE MOVE
  ANNOTATION
  So, what was expected happened again: Chamberlain refused to resign and made a separate peace with Hitler. As a result, the USSR was attacked by the Third Reich and its satellites, as well as Japan and Turkey. The Red Army was in dire straits. But barefoot Komsomol beauties and brave Pioneers were marching into battle.
  CHAPTER No 1.
  Gulliver has to do something that's not exactly pleasant: turning a millstone and grinding grain into flour. And she herself is in the body of a boy of about twelve, muscular, strong, and tanned.
  But the slave boy keeps getting transported to various parallel worlds. And one of them turned out to be special.
  Chamberlain did not resign voluntarily on May 10, 1940, and managed to conclude an honorable peace with the Third Reich on July 3, 1940. Hitler guaranteed the inviolability of the British colonial empire. In return, the British recognized everything already conquered as German, including the colonies of France, Belgium, and Holland, and Italian control of Ethiopia.
  With that, the war, which wasn't called the Second World War, ended. For a time, of course. The Germans began to digest their conquests. At the same time, the Third Reich passed new laws, levying taxes on families with fewer than four children, and also allowing SS men and war heroes to take foreign second wives.
  The colonies were also being settled. And incentives for women giving birth to German children were increased.
  Hitler was also keeping an eye on the USSR. At the May 1, 1941, parade, KV-2 tanks with a 152-mm gun and T-34 tanks marched across Red Square, making an impression on the Germans. The Führer ordered the development of a whole series of heavy tanks. Work began on the Panther, Tiger II, Lion, and Maus tanks. All these tanks shared a common layout with sloped armor and increasingly powerful armament and armor. But tank development took time, as did the rearmament of the Panzerwaffe. The Führer was only able to be ready by May 1944. By then, the USSR was also fully prepared.
  Stalin did not fight again after the Finnish War. Hitler, who had signed a treaty with Suomi, forbade another campaign against Finland. The Germans themselves fought only against Greece and Yugoslavia, which lasted two weeks and were victorious. Mussolini attacked Greece first, but was defeated. And in Yugoslavia, there was an anti-German coup. So the Germans were forced to intervene. But it was just a blitzkrieg-style incident.
  Having won, the Führer continued to prepare for the campaign to the east. The Germans launched new aircraft into production-the propeller-driven ME-309 and the Ju-288. The Nazis also began producing the jet-powered ME-262 and the first Arado aircraft, but not yet in large numbers.
  But Stalin didn't stand still either. The USSR failed to develop jet aircraft, but they did produce propeller-driven aircraft in droves. The Yak-9, the MiG-9, the LaGG-7, and the Il-18 appeared. And some types of bombers, notably the Pe-18. Qualitatively, German aircraft were perhaps superior, but Soviet aircraft were far superior. The German ME-309 had only recently entered production, despite boasting very powerful armament: three 30mm cannons and four machine guns. The ME-262, meanwhile, had only just begun to enter service, and its engines weren't particularly reliable.
  The Focke-Wulf was a mass-produced, powerfully armed workhorse. Its speed surpassed that of Soviet aircraft, as did its armor and armament. While its maneuverability was weaker than Soviet aircraft, its high dive speed allowed it to evade Soviet aircraft tail-ends, and its powerful armament-six cannons at once-made it capable of downing aircraft on the first pass.
  One can, of course, compare the various forces of the opponents for a long time.
  The USSR developed the KV-3, KV-5, and KV-4 tanks. The T-34-76 series also included the later T-29 tracked and wheeled tanks. The T-30 and BT-18 also appeared. The KV-6, heavier than previous models, also appeared.
  But the Germans launched the Panther, which significantly outperformed the T-34 in terms of armor-piercing power and frontal armor. True, the USSR did have the T-34-85 tank, but its production didn't begin until March 1944. The Panther, however, entered production in late 1942, as did the Tiger. Well, the Tiger II, Lev, and Maus followed later.
  The USSR seems to have the advantage in terms of tank numbers, but the Germans' quality is arguably superior. Although the T-4 and T-3 tanks are also somewhat outdated, they don't yet offer a decisive advantage. But that's not all. Hitler has a whole coalition of allied nations, including Japan. The USSR, meanwhile, only has Mongolia. Japan, after all, has a population of 100 million, not counting its colonies. And it deployed nearly 10 million soldiers. And in China, they even managed to negotiate a truce with Chiang Kashi, who had launched an attack on Mao's army.
  So, Hitler deployed his army and satellites against the USSR. This time, the Molotov Line was completed, and there was a powerful defense. But the Third Reich managed to attract Turkey, which could strike from the Transcaucasus, and Japan to its side. Stalin mobilized, and the Red Army's strength was increased to twelve million. Hitler increased the Wehrmacht's strength to ten million. Plus the allies. That included Finland, Hungary, Croatia, Slovakia, Romania, Italy, Bulgaria, Turkey. And especially Japan, Thailand, and Manchuria.
  This time, Italy contributed a full million soldiers, as it hadn't fought in Africa and could throw its entire force into the battle. Overall, Stalin had seven and a half million troops in the West, against seven million Germans and two and a half million satellites and foreign divisions in the front line. The Germans had troops from France, Belgium, Holland, and elsewhere.
  There was an advantage in infantry, but the army was a mixed bag. In tanks and aircraft, the USSR had the advantage in quantity, but perhaps inferior in quality. In the east, the Japanese also had more infantry than the samurai. Tanks were equal, but the Soviets were heavier and more powerful. In aviation, however, the Japanese were more numerous in the Far East. And in the navy, they had an even greater advantage.
  In short, the war began on May 15th. The roads dried up, and the Germans and their satellites advanced.
  The war was protracted and brutal from the outset. In the very first days, the Germans managed only to cut off the Belostotsky salient and break through to the south, penetrating some positions. Soviet troops attempted a counterattack. The fighting dragged on... After a few weeks, the front line finally stabilized just east of the USSR border. The Germans advanced between twenty and one hundred kilometers without achieving any success. The Turks also had little success in the Transcaucasus, only slightly pushing back the Soviet defenses. Of the major cities, the Ottomans captured only Batumi. The Japanese, meanwhile, were able to make significant advances only in Mongolia, and only made minor inroads into the USSR. However, they did deal a strong blow to Vladivostok and Magadan. Fighting raged throughout the summer...
  In the fall, the Red Army attempted an offensive, but also to no avail. However, they made some progress, only south of Lviv, but even there the Germans pinned them down. In the air, it became clear that the ME-262 jets were ineffective and didn't live up to expectations.
  True, the Panther was good at defense, but not at attack. The fighting continued until winter. And then the Red Army attempted to attack again. This system emerged. But the Germans still managed to fight back.
  The Panther-2 appeared, with more powerful armament and armor. The spring of 1945 brought new combat triads. But once again, the front line remained stagnant.
  The Germans, however, launched an offensive bypassing Lviv to create a cauldron there. And the fighting became quite serious.
  Here are the Komsomol girls meeting the Nazis. And the barefoot beauties are fighting with great ferocity. And all the while, they're singing, throwing grenades under the tanks with their bare toes.
  These are truly some girls. And Natasha, the main character, of course, in just a bikini.
  And she sings so beautifully and with feeling;
  The anthem of the exalted holy Motherland,
  In our hearts we sing of barefoot girls...
  Comrade Stalin is the dearest,
  And the voices of the beauties are very clear!
  
  We were born to defeat the fascists,
  It will not bring the Wehrmacht to its knees...
  All the girls passed the exam with excellent marks,
  Let there be a radiant Lenin in your heart!
  
  And I love Ilyich with rapture,
  He is in thoughts with good Jesus...
  We will nip the fascists in the bud,
  And we will do it all so skillfully!
  
  To the glory of our holy Motherland,
  We will fight bravely for our Fatherland...
  Fight with the Komsomol member barefoot,
  Saints have such faces!
  
  We girls are brave fighters,
  Believe me, we always know how to fight bravely...
  Fathers are proud of the Komsomol members,
  I carry the badge in my military backpack!
  
  I run barefoot in the cold,
  A Komsomol member fights on a snowdrift...
  I will surely break the enemy's back,
  And I will bravely sing an ode to the rose!
  
  I will greet the Fatherland,
  The most beautiful girl in the universe is all the women...
  It will take many more years, though,
  But our faith will be inter-universal!
  
  There are no words more precious to the Motherland,
  Serve your Fatherland, barefoot girl...
  In the name of communism and the sons,
  Let us enter into the bright cover of the universe!
  
  What couldn't I do in battle?
  She chased the Tigers, burned the Panthers, jokingly...
  My fate is like a sharp needle,
  Changes will come to the universe!
  
  So I threw a bunch of those grenades,
  What hungry boys forged...
  The formidable Stalingrad will be behind us,
  We'll see communism soon!
  
  We will all be able to overcome it correctly,
  The Tigers and Panthers won't break us...
  The Russian God-bear will roar
  And we'll hit - without even knowing the limit!
  
  It's funny to walk barefoot in the cold,
  The beautiful girl runs very quickly...
  There is no need to drag them to the front by force,
  Having a lot of fun in the undead field!
  
  The fascist fighter is, alas, very strong,
  He can even move a rocket...
  The communists have plenty of names,
  After all, the exploits of heroism are sung!
  
  The girl was caught in terrible captivity,
  They drove her barefoot through the snowdrift...
  But decay will not touch the Komsomol member,
  We've seen colder than this!
  
  The monsters began to torture the girl,
  With red-hot iron to bare heels...
  And to torture with a whip on the rack,
  The fascists don't feel sorry for the Komsomol member!
  
  From the heat the red, furious metal,
  Touched the sole of a barefoot girl...
  The executioner tortured the naked beauty,
  He hung the beaten woman by her braids!
  
  My arms and legs were twisted terribly,
  They shoved fire under the girl's armpits...
  I was carried away in my thoughts, know, to the moon,
  I dove into communism, the light was given!
  
  In the end, the executioner ran out of steam,
  The Fritzes are driving me naked to the chopping block...
  And I hear the sound of a child's cry,
  The women also cry with pity for the girl!
  
  The bastards threw a noose around my neck,
  The monsters squeezed her tighter...
  I love Jesus and Stalin,
  Although the scum trampled the Motherland!
  
  Here the box is knocked out from under bare feet,
  The girl spun naked in the noose...
  May the Almighty God accept the soul,
  In paradise there will be eternal joy and youth!
  That's how Natasha sang it, with great aplomb and love. And it looked beautiful and rich. But what about the war going on? The Germans couldn't break through.
  But then the Red Army advanced, and again a fierce defense was established. The front line, as in World War I, froze. Although losses on both sides were heavy, where was the progress?
  Hitler, using the resources of his African colonies, attempted to rely on an air offensive and jet aircraft, following Göring's advice. But the hopes associated with the HE-162 were unfulfilled. The fighter, despite being inexpensive and easy to produce, was too difficult to fly and unsuitable for mass production. The ME-262X, with two more advanced engines and swept wings, proved somewhat better, proving more reliable in both use and production. The first such aircraft appeared as early as the end of 1945. And in 1946, the Germans developed even more advanced tailless jet bombers.
  The Third Reich had overtaken the USSR in jet aviation, especially in terms of equipment quality. And so the air offensive began, and Soviet pilots began to be attacked in the skies.
  The powerful German TA-400, and later the TA-500 and TA-600, began bombing enemy factories both in and beyond the Urals. The same went for the tailless aircraft.
  And now the Germans had more initiative. Furthermore, the Nazis had developed a more successful tank, the E-50, which was better protected, well-armed, and fast. Meanwhile, development of the more advanced and powerful T-54 was significantly delayed.
  And so, in 1947, the new German E-series tanks achieved their first significant successes, breaking through Soviet defenses and capturing Western Ukraine, along with the Lev. The Germans, along with the Romanians, were then able to break through into Moldova, cutting off Odessa by land from the rest of the USSR. Soviet troops were forced to retreat in the center as well, retreating to the so-called Stalin Line. Riga also fell, forcing a retreat from the Baltics.
  The Young Pioneers also fought bravely against the Nazis. A boy named Vasily even began to sing as he threw explosive packets at the Nazis with his bare feet.
  I am a modern boy like a computer,
  It's easier to just pass off a young prodigy...
  And it turned out really cool -
  That Hitler will be beaten by the madman!
  
  A boy barefoot through the snowdrifts,
  Under the barrels of the fascists goes...
  His legs became scarlet like a goose's,
  And a bitter reckoning awaits!
  
  But the pioneer straightened his shoulders boldly,
  And with a smile he walks towards the firing squad...
  The Fuhrer sends some to the ovens,
  Someone was hit by a fascist with arrows!
  
  A boy prodigy from our era,
  He took a blaster and rushed boldly into battle...
  The fascist chimeras will dissipate,
  And God Almighty is with you forever!
  
  A smart boy hit the Fritzes with a beam,
  And a whole row of monsters was mowed down...
  Now the distances of communism have become closer,
  He hit the fascists with all his might!
  
  The boy prodigy shoots a beam,
  After all, he has a very powerful blaster...
  "Panther" melts in one salvo,
  Because you just know, he's a loser!
  
  We will wipe out the fascists without any problems,
  And we will simply exterminate the enemies...
  Here our blaster hit with all its might,
  Here is a cherub rubbing his wings!
  
  I crush them, without a glint of metal,
  Here this powerful "Tiger" caught fire...
  What, the fascists know little about the land?
  You want more blood games!
  
  Russia is a big empire,
  Stretched from the sea to the deserts...
  I see a girl running around barefoot,
  And the barefoot boy - the devil may he disappear!
  
  The damned fascist quickly moved the tank,
  With a steel ram, he charged headlong into Rus'...
  But we'll put up jars of Hitler's blood,
  We'll smash the Nazis into smithereens!
  
  My Fatherland, you are the most precious thing to me,
  Endless from the mountains and darkness of the taiga...
  There is no need to let soldiers rest on their beds.
  The boots sparkle in a brave march!
  
  I became a great pioneer at the front,
  The hero's star was won in an instant...
  For others, I will be an example without borders,
  Comrade Stalin is simply ideal!
  
  We can win, I know for sure,
  Although the story turns out differently...
  There goes the attack of the evil fecal fighters,
  And the Fuhrer became really cool!
  
  There is little hope left for the United States,
  They swim without any mischief...
  The Fuhrer is capable of overthrowing him from his pedestal,
  The capitalists are terrible, just garbage!
  
  What to do if the boy turned out to be,
  In captivity, stripped naked and driven out into the cold...
  The teenager fought desperately with the Fritz,
  But Christ Himself suffered for us!
  
  Then he will have to endure torture,
  When you are burned with red iron...
  When you break bottles on your head,
  Press a red-hot rod to your heels!
  
  You better keep quiet, grit your teeth, boy,
  And endure torture like a titan of Rus'...
  Let your lips burn with a lighter,
  But Jesus can save the fighter!
  
  You will go through any torture, boy,
  But you will endure, without bowing under the whip...
  Let the rack tear out your hands greedily,
  The executioner is now both the tsar and the black prince!
  
  Someday the torment will end,
  You will find yourself in God's beautiful paradise...
  And there will be time for new adventures,
  We will enter Berlin when May sparkles!
  
  So what if they hanged the child?
  The fascist will be thrown into hell for this...
  In Eden a loud voice is heard,
  The boy has risen again - joy and result!
  
  So you don"t need to be afraid of death,
  Let there be heroism for the Motherland...
  After all, Russians have always known how to fight,
  Know that evil fascism will be destroyed!
  
  We will pass like an arrow through the heavenly bushes,
  With a girl who is barefoot in the snow...
  Below us is a garden, seething and blooming,
  I'm running on the grass like a pioneer!
  
  In paradise we will be forever in happiness, children,
  We are doing great there, very well...
  And there is no more beautiful place on the planet,
  Know that it will never become difficult!
  So the boy went and sang wittily and with feeling. And it looked great and felt.
  Soviet troops retreated to the Stalin Line and abandoned part of the USSR. This was a definite plus for the Wehrmacht.
  But the Stalin Line was still defensible. The Japanese also stepped up their attack, breaking through the front and cutting off Vladivostok from the mainland. They also almost completely captured Primorye. There, they cut off the Red Army's oxygen supply. Indeed, the Soviet troops had a very difficult time.
  But the fighting in Vladivostok itself was quite fierce. And beautiful Komsomol girls fought there. They wore nothing but bikinis and were barefoot. And with their bare toes, they threw lethal grenades. These are girls - their full breasts barely covered by thin strips of fabric.
  Which, however, does not stop them from fighting and singing;
  Komsomol girls are the coolest of all,
  They fight fascism like eagles...
  May our Motherland be successful,
  Warriors are like birds with passion!
  
  They burn with boundless beauty,
  In them the whole planet burns brighter...
  Let the result be limitless,
  The Fatherland will grind even mountains!
  
  To the glory of our holy Motherland,
  We will fight the fanatics...
  A girl runs barefoot through the snow,
  She carries grenades in a tight backpack!
  
  Throw a gift at a very powerful tank,
  Will tear it apart in the name of glory...
  The girl's machine gun is firing,
  But there is a knight of a valiant power!
  
  This girl can do anything, believe me,
  He can even fight in space...
  And the chains of fascism will be a beast,
  After all, Hitler is just a shadow of a pathetic clown!
  
  We will achieve this, there will be paradise in the universe,
  And the girl can move mountains with her heel...
  So you fight and dare,
  For the glory of our Motherland Russia!
  
  The Fuhrer will get a noose for himself,
  And he has a machine gun with a grenade...
  Don't talk stupidly, you idiot,
  We'll just bury the Wehrmacht with a shovel!
  
  And there will be such an Eden in the universe,
  Big as space and very flourishing...
  You surrendered to the Germans, you stupid Sam,
  And Jesus always lives in the soul!
  
  KOMSOMOLKA UNDER THE RED FLAG!
  It's very good to be a Komsomol member,
  To fly under the beautiful red flag...
  Although sometimes it is hard for me,
  But the beauty"s exploits are not in vain!
  
  I ran barefoot into the cold,
  Snowdrifts tickle my bare heel...
  The maiden's ardor has truly increased,
  Let us build a new world of communism!
  
  After all, the Motherland is our dear mother,
  We are dealing with flamboyant communism...
  Believe me, we will not trample our Fatherland,
  Let's put an end to this vile monster, fascism!
  
  I am always a beautiful girl,
  Although I'm used to walking barefoot in the snowdrifts...
  May a great dream come true,
  What golden braids I have!
  
  Fascism broke through right to Moscow,
  It's almost like they're shooting at the Kremlin...
  And we girls are barefoot in the snow...
  It's January, but we feel like we're in May!
  
  We will do everything for the Motherland, know everything,
  There is no country in the universe more precious to us...
  Let your life be very good,
  Just don't rest on your bed!
  
  Let us build a radiant communism,
  Where everyone has a palace with a lush garden...
  And fascism will perish into the abyss,
  We must fight hard for our Motherland!
  
  So it will be good in the universe,
  When we quickly kill our enemies...
  But today the battle is very difficult,
  The girls are walking in a barefoot formation!
  
  We are girls, heroic fighters,
  Let us overthrow into the hell of wild fascism...
  And you, barefoot beauty, look,
  May the banner of communism succeed!
  
  We will build, I believe, a paradise in the universe,
  And we will raise the red flag above the stars...
  For the glory of our Motherland, dare,
  Exalted, mighty light of Russia!
  
  We will achieve that everything is Eden,
  Rye and oranges are blooming on Mars...
  We will win despite everyone's arguments,
  When the people and the army are united!
  
  I believe a city will arise on the moon,
  Venus will become a new testing ground...
  And there is no more beautiful place on Earth,
  Moscow, the capital, was built with a groan!
  
  When we fly into space again,
  And we will enter Jupiter very boldly...
  The golden-winged cherub will spread out,
  And we will not give up anything to the fascists!
  
  Let the flag shine over the Universe,
  There is no holy country higher in the universe...
  The Komsomol member will pass the exam with an A,
  We will conquer all the expanses and rooftops!
  
  For the Motherland there will be no problems, know that,
  She will raise her eye above the quasar...
  And if the evil Sir comes to us,
  We'll sweep him away, consider it with one blow!
  
  Let's walk around Berlin barefoot,
  Dashing girls, know this, Komsomol members...
  And the dragon's power will be broken,
  And the pioneer bugle, screaming and ringing!
  CHAPTER No 2.
  And so the fighting unfolded... The Germans advanced slightly toward Minsk and half surrounded the city. The fighting unfolded in the capital of Belarus itself. The Germans and their satellites advanced slowly. The German E-series tanks were more advanced, boasting thicker armor, powerful engines, and powerful armament, as well as significantly sloped armor. The denser layout allowed for increased protection without significantly increasing the tank's weight.
  The Nazis put pressure on Minsk.
  In the north, the Nazis encircled and then finally captured Tallinn. After protracted fighting, Odessa fell. By winter, the Germans had finally captured Minsk. Soviet troops retreated to the Berezina. The winter passed in fierce skirmishes, but the Germans did not advance. So the Soviets, indeed, dug in their heels.
  In the spring of 1948, the German offensive finally resumed. The heavier and more heavily armored Panther-4 tanks took part in the fighting.
  The USSR deployed the first IS-7s and T-54s in somewhat larger numbers. The battles were fought with varying success. The first jet-powered MiG-15s also entered production, but they were inferior to German aircraft, especially the more advanced and modern ME-362. The TA-283 also performed well. And the TA-600 was unrivaled in long-range jet-powered bombing.
  But the Germans advanced even further, and the Soviet troops retreated beyond the Dnieper.
  Fierce battles were fought for Kyiv. And the Komsomol girls fought like heroines and sang;
  I am the daughter of the Fatherland of light and love,
  The most beautiful Komsomol girl...
  Even though the Fuhrer builds his rating on blood,
  Sometimes I feel awkward!
  
  This is a very glorious century of Stalinism,
  When everything around sparkles and shines...
  The proud man spread his wings -
  And Abel rejoices, Cain perishes!
  
  Russia is my homeland,
  Although sometimes I feel awkward...
  And the Komsomol is one family,
  Even if it's barefoot, it's a prickly path!
  
  Steep fascism attacked the Motherland,
  This boar bared his fangs in fury...
  From the sky poured mad napalm,
  But God and the brilliant Stalin are with us!
  
  Russia is the Red USSR,
  Mighty great Fatherland...
  In vain does Sir spread his claws,
  We will definitely live under communism!
  
  Even though the great war has begun,
  And the masses shed blood in abundance...
  Here the great country writhes,
  From tears, fires and great pain!
  
  But I believe we will revive our Fatherland,
  And let us raise the Soviet flag higher than the stars...
  Above us is a golden-winged cherub,
  To the great, most radiant Russia!
  
  This is my homeland,
  There is nothing more beautiful in the entire universe...
  Even though Satan's penalty has accumulated,
  Our faith will be strengthened in these sufferings!
  
  How the self-proclaimed Hitler did something funny,
  He managed to take all of Africa at once...
  Where does fascism get so much strength from?
  The infection has spread across the Earth!
  
  This is how much the Fuhrer captured,
  And it doesn"t even have any measure...
  What a quarrel this bandit has caused,
  A scarlet flag of horror flutters above them!
  
  The Fritzes are so strong now,
  They don"t have Tigers, but rather more terrifying tanks...
  And the sniper hit Adolf in the eye -
  Give the fascists some stronger cans!
  
  What we can't do, we'll do jokingly,
  Although barefoot girls in the frost...
  We are raising a very strong child,
  And a scarlet, most beautiful rose!
  
  Even though the enemy strives to break through to Moscow,
  But the girl's bare breasts stood up...
  We'll hit with a machine gun from a scythe,
  The soldiers are firing, my dears!
  
  We will make Russia above all others,
  The country that is more beautiful in the universe than the Sun...
  And there will be a convincing success,
  Our faith will be strengthened in Orthodoxy!
  
  And believe me, we will resurrect the dead, girls,
  Or by the power of God, or the flower of science...
  We will conquer the vastness of the universe,
  Without all the delays and vile boredom!
  
  We will be able to make our Motherland cool,
  Let us raise the throne of Russia higher than the stars...
  You are the Fuhrer's mustachioed hooray,
  Who imagines himself to be a messiah without any boundaries of evil!
  
  We will make the Fatherland like a giant,
  What will happen, like a monolith of one...
  The girls all stood up together and did the splits,
  After all, knights are invincible in battle!
  
  Protect the great Fatherland,
  Then you will receive a reward from Christ...
  It would be better for the Almighty to end the war,
  Although sometimes you have to fight bravely!
  
  In short, the battles will soon die down,
  The battles and losses will end...
  And the great eagle knights,
  Because everyone is a soldier from birth!
  But Kyiv fell, and the Germans forced the Soviet troops to retreat to the left bank of the Dnieper. At least there they could establish a defense. Pskov and Narva were also captured. Leningrad was just a stone's throw away.
  The Germans were already looming large. They were trying to cross the Dnieper and into the center of the Soviet positions.
  But the Red Army held out until winter. And then came the next year, 1949. And then everything could have gone differently. The T-54 finally saw widespread production, as did the MiG-15. But the IS-7 ran into problems: that tank was too complex to produce, expensive, and heavy.
  The Panther-4 replaced the Panther-3. It had a more powerful 105-mm cannon with a 100-EL barrel, comparable in combat power to the IS-7's 130-mm cannon with a 60-EL barrel. The Panther-4's frontal armor was even thicker, at 250 mm, sloped.
  So they butted heads with each other.
  The Germans again began to advance in the center and surrounded Smolensk. Then they broke through to Rzhev. The Komsomol girls fought desperately.
  And they sang at the same time;
  I am a Komsomol member, the daughter of Stalinism,
  We had to fight fascism, however...
  A colossal force came upon us,
  The atheism of the systems has come to pay!
  
  I fought Nazism in a hurry,
  I was barefoot in the bitter cold...
  And I got an A on the exam,
  Dealt with the furious Judas!
  
  Fascism is very insidious and cruel,
  And a steel horde broke through to Moscow...
  O be merciful, glorious God,
  I carry the RPK in a loose backpack!
  
  I am a girl of great beauty,
  It's nice to walk barefoot through a snowdrift...
  May a great dream come true,
  Oh, don't judge the beauty harshly!
  
  I crushed the fascists like peas,
  From Moscow to Stalingrad...
  And the Fuhrer turned out to be bad at fighting,
  I couldn't live to see the proud parade!
  
  O this boundless Stalingrad,
  You became a great turning point for us...
  There was a waterfall of cool awards,
  And Hitler got it with just a crowbar!
  We will go for the great Motherland,
  We are at the end of the world or the universe...
  I'll be left alone with the Komsomol member,
  And there will be a boundless calling!
  
  I ran barefoot across the coals,
  Those that burn right near Stalingrad...
  And my heels are burned by napalm,
  We will exterminate them - the fascists will be bastards!
  
  The Kursk Arc came with fire,
  And it seems like the whole planet is on fire...
  But we will wipe the Fuhrer's regiments into shit,
  Let there be a place in the radiant paradise!
  
  Although the Tiger is a very strong tank,
  And its trunk, believe me, is so powerful...
  But let us turn his influence into dust,
  And the sun will not disappear - the clouds will disappear!
  
  "Panther" is also powerful, believe me,
  The projectile flies like a solid meteorite...
  It's as if a beast were baring its fangs,
  Germany and the hordes of satellites!
  
  We firmly believe in our victory,
  We are knights and Komsomol girls...
  We will be able to crush the onslaught of the horde,
  And we will not leave the battle AWOL!
  
  We love to fight and win boldly,
  We will do any task beautifully...
  You write down our pioneer in your notebook,
  When you're with Marx, it's fair!
  
  We too can love with dignity,
  To the glory of the unearthly Jesus...
  Even though Satan's legions are crawling,
  We will win and we are not sad about it!
  
  And Berlin will be taken by the power of the Reds,
  We will soon visit Mars too...
  A cool son of a Komsomol member will be born,
  The one who says the first word is - hello!
  
  Let the vast expanses of the universe be with us,
  They will spread out, there will be no obstacle for them...
  We will receive the highest class of accomplishments,
  And the Lord Himself will present the Holy rewards!
  
  Science will resurrect everyone - I believe,
  There is no need to grieve for those who fell...
  We are a loyal family of communism,
  We will see the distances of the universe between the stars!
  That's how the girls sing and fight. The Komsomol girls are fierce and vocal. And if they fight, they fight with courage. Stalin, of course, also tries to find a way out.
  But the samurai are creeping up from the east, and Vladivostok has finally fallen. Kharkov has been captured. Leningrad is under siege. The Finns are pressing it from the north and the Germans from the south.
  And so it was until winter and the new year of 1950... The Germans attempted an offensive in the spring. But the Mozhaisk line of defense held thanks to the heroic efforts of the Red Army. The Germans were able to take Oryol and advanced southward in the summer. By the end of autumn, they had completed the near-complete capture of Ukraine and the Donbas. Soviet troops retreated beyond the Don and organized a defense there. Leningrad was still besieged.
  The year is 1951... The Germans are trying to expand their advantage in the air. Flying discs have become more sophisticated. The TA-700 and TA-800 bombers are even more powerful and fast. Tailless fighters and bombers are pressuring them in the sky. And the MiG-15 is completely ineffective against them. And all sorts of combat aircraft of all sizes. The Panther-5 is still in development. And other combat equivalents and gadgets. This will truly be extremely cool.
  The Germans attempted an offensive in the south and finally captured the city of Rostov-on-Don. Tikhvin and Volkhov also finally fell in the north. As a result, Leningrad found itself completely cut off from supplies by land.
  Winter is here again, and 1952 is upon us... In the spring, the Germans are once again advancing on Moscow. The Panther-5, with its 1,800-horsepower engine, 128-millimeter gun with a 100-degree barrel, and much thicker, higher-quality armor, appeared in the fighting.
  But Soviet troops are fighting the Nazis fiercely. And not only adults but children are fighting here, too.
  The Pioneer boys, wearing shorts, barefoot, and ties, put up such stubborn and fierce resistance to the Nazis that you'll simply stagger in amazement. How they fight for a brighter tomorrow.
  And at the same time the boy heroes sing;
  I am a warrior of the Motherland - a pioneer,
  A tough fighter, even though he's still a boy...
  And we will do a decent amount of different things,
  It won't seem too bad to the enemy!
  
  I can break a tree with my foot,
  And climb to the moon on ropes...
  Here I am running barefoot through the snowdrifts -
  And I'll even punch the Fuhrer in the balls!
  
  I'm a boy and of course I'm superman,
  Capable of inventing any project...
  And we will carry out an abundance of changes,
  Let's crush this cool greatness!
  
  The terrible year of forty-first has arrived,
  In which the fascists have a lot of power...
  We are facing a disastrous outcome,
  But we will be able to escape from the grave!
  
  We have such a thing, kids,
  But pioneers, you should know that you are not children...
  We will beat the fascists with all our hearts,
  And let's bring order to the planet!
  
  Let's build a filigree communism,
  And let us make the whole world a great paradise...
  Let evil fascism bare its claws,
  We will tear all tyrants to pieces at once!
  
  For a pioneer there is no word coward,
  And there is no word - this can"t happen anymore...
  With me in my heart is the Wise Jesus,
  Even if a dog from hell barks deafeningly!
  
  Fascism is powerful and simply strong,
  His grin is like the faces of the underworld...
  He advanced on very powerful tanks,
  But we will overcome by the power of the Lord!
  
  Let man fly to Mars,
  We know this very well, brothers...
  Any task goes smoothly for us,
  And we boys are daring and having fun!
  
  We will be able to protect peace and order,
  And no matter how the enemy was, he was cruel and insidious...
  We will beat the enemy hard,
  And the Russian sword will become famous in battles!
  
  I am a pioneer - a Soviet man,
  The boy is a relative of the great titans...
  And the blossoming will never come,
  If we don"t give the evil tyrants a thrashing!
  
  But I believe we will defeat the fascists,
  Although we had a hard time near Moscow...
  Above us is a radiant cherub,
  And I run through the snow with a girl barefoot!
  
  No, I will never surrender to the Fritzes,
  Let there be the courage of titans...
  After all, Lenin is with us in our hearts forever,
  He is the crusher of mad tyrants!
  
  I will make sure that there is communism,
  Comrade Stalin will raise the red flag...
  And we will crush the damned revanchism,
  And the Name of Jesus will be in the heart!
  
  What can a pioneer not understand for you,
  But he is capable of a lot, guys...
  Pass your subjects, boy, with excellent marks,
  Shoot at the Fritz, shoot from the machine gun!
  
  I solemnly swear to my Motherland,
  To give one's whole body in battle without reserve...
  Rus' will be invincible in the battle,
  At least a gauntlet has been thrown in the country's face!
  
  And we will enter defeated Berlin,
  Having walked there boldly under the red flag...
  We will conquer the vastness of the universe -
  And let's make our Fatherland beautiful!
  Barefoot boys, as they say, fight, as do Komsomol girls. The last warriors are almost naked. And everyone's feet are bare.
  March 1953 arrives. Stalin dies. The people, naturally, are in great grief. The Germans, with swift flanking attacks, encircle the Soviet capital. The Nazis then build on their success and push toward Ryazan. The first IS-10 tanks enter the battle on the Soviet side. In this case, it's something similar to the IS-3, only with a longer gun barrel. Not the EL-48, but the EL-60. This provides better and more lethal ballistics. And then there's the IS-11. The latter was more powerful than the IS-7, with a 152-millimeter gun and a 70-EL-long barrel. The new tank itself weighed 100 tons. Of course, it had the same drawbacks as the IS-7: heavy weight, high cost, and difficulty in production and transportation. Although the new gun could penetrate all German tanks, not only the bloated Panther-5, but also the Tiger family, even heavier but not very fashionable vehicles.
  Indeed, if the Panther-5 itself is a monster weighing eighty tons, what's the point of producing heavier vehicles? Nevertheless, the Tiger-5 did appear-a rare beast with a 210-millimeter gun and a weight of one hundred and sixty tons. Well, let's not even mention the Maus and Lev tanks. But vehicles heavier than two hundred tons are practically impossible to transport by rail. So the Lev-5 proved such a monster that it was never put into production.
  Be that as it may, after Stalin's death and the encirclement of Moscow, the war took a different course. And now the Germans seemed unstoppable. They had taken the city of Gorky and were already approaching Kazan.
  But the Komsomol girls fight with a wild and redeemed fury, like barefoot, short-clad pioneers. Meanwhile, they sing with the full force of their ringing throats:
  In the vastness of the wonderful Motherland,
  Tempered in battles and labor...
  We composed a joyful song,
  About a great friend and leader!
  
  Stalin is military glory,
  Stalin is the flight of youth....
  Fighting and winning with songs,
  Our people follow Stalin!
  
  CIA SPECIAL OPERATIONS - LATIN AMERICA
  ANNOTATION
  Spies of all stripes operate around the world. They infiltrate various spheres of power. And special operations are visible. Intelligence officers and others operate in Latin America and Africa. And, of course, the FSB and the CIA are in a life-or-death rivalry.
  CHAPTER No 1.
  Apostolic Palace
    
  Sábado, April 2, 2005, 9:37 PM.
    
    
    
  The man in the bed stopped breathing. His personal secretary, Monsignor Stanislav Dvišić, who had held the dying man's right hand for thirty-six hours, burst into tears. The men on duty had to forcefully push him away, and they spent over an hour trying to bring the old man back. They were far beyond anyone reasonable. As they began the resuscitation process again and again, they all knew they had to do everything possible and impossible to assuage their consciences.
    
  The private quarters of the Pontifex Sumo would have surprised an uninformed observer. The ruler, before whom the leaders of nations bowed with respect, lived in abject poverty. His room was incredibly austere, with bare walls save for a crucifix, and varnished wood furniture: a table, a chair, and a modest bed. The Ésentimo hab had been replaced in the last ú months with a hospital bed. Nurses bustled around her, trying to resuscitate her, while thick beads of sweat trickled down the immaculate white bathtubs. Four Polish nuns had exchanged them for días three times.
    
  Finally, Dr. Silvio Renato, my personal secretary to the Pope, put a stop to this attempt. He gestured to the nurses to cover the old man's face with a white veil. I asked everyone to leave, remaining close to Dvišić. Draw up the death certificate, all the same. The cause of death was more than obvious-cardiovascular collapse, aggravated by inflammation of the larynx. He hesitated when it came to writing the old man's name, though in the end I chose his civil name to avoid any problems.
    
  After unfolding and signing the document, the doctor handed it to Cardinal Samalo, who had just entered the room. The purple one faces the difficult task of officially confirming the death.
    
  -Thank you, doctor. With your permission, I will continue.
    
  - It's all yours, Your Eminence.
    
  - No, doctor. Now it's from God.
    
  Samalo slowly approached his deathbed. At 78, you had lived in the house many times at your husband's request, so as not to witness this moment. He was a calm and balanced man, aware of the heavy burden and the many responsibilities and tasks that now fell upon his shoulders.
    
  Look at this guy. This man lived to be 84 and survived a bullet wound to the chest, a colon tumor, and complicated appendicitis. But Parkinson's disease weakened him, and he overindulged so much that his heart eventually gave out and died.
    
  From a third-floor window of the palace, Cardinal Podí watched as nearly two hundred thousand people gathered in St. Peter's Square. The rooftops of the surrounding buildings were dotted with antennas and television stations. "The one who is bearing down on us-pensó Samalo-. The one who is bearing down on us. People worshiped him, admired his sacrifice and his iron will. To be a heavy blow, even if everyone expected it since January... and few wanted it. And then it will be another matter."
    
  I heard a noise at the door, and Vatican Security Chief Camilo Sirin entered, ahead of the three cardinals who were supposed to certify the death. Their faces were filled with concern and hope. The Purples approached the box. No one, except La Vista.
    
  "Let"s begin," said Samalo.
    
  Dvišić handed him an open suitcase. The maid lifted the white veil covering the deceased's face and opened the vial containing the holy lions. Begin ... the thousand-year ritual on Latin ín:
    
  - Si lives, ego te absolvo a peccatis tuis, in nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti, amén 1.
    
    Samalo draw a cross on the forehead of the deceased and attach it to the cross.
    
    - Per istam sanctam Unctionem, indulgeat tibi Dominus a quidquid... Amen 2.
    
  With a solemn gesture he calls her to the blessing and the apostle:
    
  - By the authority vested in me by the Apostolic See, I grant you plenary indulgence and absolution of all sins... and I bless you. In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and especially of Saint Rita... Amen.
    
  Tom takes a silver hammer from the suitcase, which he hands to the bishop. Carefully strike the dead man's forehead three times, saying after each strike:
    
  - Karol Wojtyla, is he dead?
    
  There was no answer. The Camerlengo looked at the three cardinals standing by the bed, who nodded.
    
  - Indeed, the Pope is dead.
    
  With his right hand, Samalo removed the Fisherman's Ring, the symbol of his worldly power, from the deceased. With my right hand, I again covered John Paul II's face with the veil. Take a deep breath and look at your three companions in Eros.
    
  - We have a lot of work.
    
    
  SOME OBJECTIVE FACTS ABOUT THE VATICAN
    
    (extraídos del CIA World Factbook)
    
    
    Area: 0.44 kilosq.m (the smallest in the world)
    
  Borders: 3.2 km (with Italy)
    
  Lowest point más: St. Peter's Square, 19 meters above sea level.
    
  Highest point: Vatican Gardens, 75 meters above sea level.
    
  Temperature: Moderate rainy winter from September to mid-May, hot dry summer from May to September.
    
  Land use: 100% urban areas. Cultivated land, 0%.
    
  Natural resources: None.
    
    
  Population: 911 citizens with passports. 3,000 workers during the día.
    
  System of government: church, monarchical, absolute.
    
  Fertility rate: 0%. Nine births in its entire history.
    
  Economy: based on almsgiving and the sale of postage stamps, postcards, stamps and the management of its banks and finances.
    
  Communications: 2200 telephone stations, 7 radio stations, 1 television channel.
    
  Annual income: $242 million.
    
  Annual expenses: $272 million.
    
  Legal system: Based on the rules established by the Canon Law. Although the death penalty has not been officially applied since 1868, it remains in force.
    
    
  Special Considerations: The Holy Father has a profound influence on the lives of over 1,086,000,000 believers.
    
    
    
    
    Iglesia de Santa Maria in Traspontina
    
  Via della Conciliazione, 14
    
    Tuesday , April 5 , 2005 , 10:41 AM .
    
    
    
    Inspector Dicanti squints at the entrance, trying to adjust to the darkness. It took him almost half an hour to reach the crime scene. If Rome is always a circulatory chaos, then after the death of the Holy Father, it turned into hell. Thousands of people flocked to the capital of Christendom every day to pay their last respects. The exhibition at St. Peter's Basilica. The pope had died a saint, and volunteers were already walking the streets, collecting signatures to begin the cause of beatification. 18,000 people passed by the body every hour. "A real success for forensic science," Paola quips.
    
  His mother warned him before leaving the apartment they shared on Via della Croce.
    
  "Don't go for Cavour, it'll take too long. Go up to Regina Margherita and down to Rienzo," he said, stirring the porridge she was preparing for him, as every mother did from the age of thirty-three to thirty-three.
    
  Of course, she went after Cavour, and it took a long time.
    
  She carried the taste of porridge in her mouth, the taste of his mothers. During my training at FBI headquarters in Quantico, Virginia, I missed this sensation almost to the point of nausea. He came and asked his mother to send him a can, which they heated up in the microwave in the break room of the Behavioral Sciences Division. I know no equal, but I will help him be so far from home during this difficult and at the same time so rewarding experience. Paola grew up a stone's throw from Via Condotti, one of the most prestigious streets in the world, and yet her family was poor. She didn't know what the word meant until she went to America, a country with its own standards for everything. She was immensely happy to return to the city she so hated growing up.
    
  In 1995, Italy created a Violent Crimes Unit specializing in serial killers. It seems incredible that the world's fifth-ranked president didn't have a unit capable of combating them so late. The UACV has a special department called the Behavioral Analysis Laboratory, founded by Giovanni Balta, Dicanti's teacher and mentor. Sadly, Balta died in early 2004 in a traffic accident, and Dr. Dicanti was destined to become Dicanti's handler at Lake Rome. His FBI training and Balta's excellent reports were a testament to his approval. After the death of its chief, the LAC staff was quite small: just herself. But as a department integrated into the UACV, they enjoyed the technical support of one of the most advanced forensic units in Europe.
    
  So far, however, everything had been unsuccessful. There are 30 unidentified serial killers in Italy. Of these, nine match the "hot" cases linked to recent deaths. Since she headed LAC, no new staff had been hired, and the lack of expert opinions increased the pressure on Dikanti, as psychological profiles sometimes morphed into psychological ones. The only thing I can do is produce a suspect. "Castles in the air," Dr. Boy called them, a fanatical mathematician and nuclear physicist who spent more time on the phone than in the lab. Alas, Boy was the general director of UACV and Paola's direct supervisor, and every time he ran into her in the hallway, he shot her an ironic glance. "My beautiful writer" was the phrase he used when they were alone in his office, a playful reference to the sinister imagination Dikanti wasted on profiles. Dikanti was eager for his work to begin bearing fruit so he could punch those jerks in the nose. She'd made the mistake of sleeping with him on a weak night. Long late hours, being caught off guard, an indefinite absence from El Corazón... and the usual complaints about Mamúñana. Especially considering Boy was married and almost twice his age. É he was a gentleman and didn't dwell on the subject (and was careful to keep his distance), but he never let Paola forget it, not with a single sentence. Between macho and charming. He gave it away, how I hated him.
    
  And finally, since your rise, you have a real case that needs to be addressed from the start, not based on flimsy evidence gathered by clumsy agents. He received a call during breakfast, and he returned to his room to change. She pulled her long black hair into a tight bun and discarded the trouser skirt and jumper she'd been wearing to the office, choosing a smart business suit. The jacket was also black. She was intrigued: the caller hadn't provided any information, unless he'd actually committed a crime within his purview, and she cited him in Santa María in Transpontina "with the utmost urgency."
    
  And everyone was at the church doors. Unlike Paola, a crowd of people had gathered along the nearly five-kilometer "cola" that extended to the Vittorio Emanuele II bridge. The scene looked on with concern. These people had been there all night, but those who might have seen something were already far away. Some pilgrims glanced casually at a nondescript pair of carabinieri who were blocking the entrance to the church for a random group of worshipers. They very diplomatically assured them that work was underway on the building.
    
  Paola inhaled the fortress and crossed the church's threshold in the semi-darkness. The house is a single nave flanked by five chapels. The smell of old, rusty incense hung in the air. All the lights were off, no doubt because they had been there when the body was discovered. One of Boy's rules was, "Let's see what he saw."
    
  Look around, squinting. Two people were quietly talking in the depths of the church, their backs to it. Near the holy water font, a nervous Carmelite, fingering his rosary, noticed the intentness with which he was staring at the stage.
    
  - It's beautiful, isn't it, signorina? It dates back to 1566. It was built by Peruzzi and his chapels...
    
  Dikanti interrupted him with a firm smile.
    
  "Unfortunately, brother, I'm not interested in art at all at the moment. I'm Inspector Paola Dicanti. Are you that crazy guy?"
    
  - Indeed, the dispatcher. I was also the one who discovered the body. This will certainly interest the masses. Blessed be God, on days like these... the saint has left us, and only demons remain!
    
  It was an elderly man with thick glasses, dressed in the Bito Marra Carmelite costume. A large spatula was tied around his waist, and a thick gray beard obscured his face. He walked in circles around the pile, slightly hunched over, limping slightly. Her hands fluttered over the beads, shaking violently and uncontrollably.
    
  - Calm down, brother. What's his name?
    
  -Francesco Toma, dispatcher.
    
  "Okay, brother, tell me in your own words how it all happened. I know I've already recounted it six or seven times, but it's necessary, my love."
    
  The monk sighed.
    
  "There"s not much to tell. Besides, Roco, I"m in charge of the church. I live in a small cell behind the sacristy. I get up like every day, at six in the morning. I wash my face and put on a bandage. I cross the sacristy, exit the church through a hidden door at the back of the main altar, and head to the chapel of Nuestra Señora del Carmen, where I say my prayers every day. I noticed that candles were lit in front of the chapel of San Toma, because no one was there when I went to bed, and then I saw it. I rushed to the sacristy, scared to death, because the killer had to be in the church, and I called 911."
    
  -¿ Don't touch anything at the crime scene?
    
  - No, dispatcher. Nothing. I was very scared, may God forgive me.
    
  -¿And you also didn't tryó to help víctima?
    
  - The dispatcher... it was obvious that he was completely deprived of any earthly help.
    
  A figure approached them down the church's central aisle. It was Sub-Inspector Maurizio Pontiero of the UACV.
    
  - Dikanti, hurry up, they are going to turn on the light.
    
  -One second. Here you go, brother. Here's my business card. My phone number is below. I'll be a meme anytime if I think of something I like.
    
  - I'll do it, dispatcher. Here's a gift.
    
  The Carmelite handed him a brightly colored print.
    
  -Santa Maria del Carmen. He will always be with you. Show him the way in these dark times.
    
  "Thank you, brother," Dikanti said, absentmindedly removing the seal.
    
  The inspector followed Pontiero through the church to the third chapel on the left, cordoned off with red UACV tape.
    
  "You"re late," the junior inspector reproached him.
    
  -Tráfico was mortally ill. There's a good circus outside.
    
  - You were supposed to come for Rienzo.
    
  Although the Italian police service held a higher rank than Pontiero, he was responsible for UACV field research, and therefore any laboratory researcher was subordinate to the police-even someone like Paola, who held the title of department head. Pontiero was a man between 51 and 241 years old, very thin and sullen. His raisin-like face was adorned with the wrinkles of years. Paola noticed that the sub-inspector adored her, although he tried very hard not to show it.
    
  Dikanti wanted to cross the street, but Pontiero grabbed his arm.
    
  "Wait a minute, Paola. Nothing you've seen has prepared you for this. This is absolutely insane, I promise you," her voice trembled.
    
  "I think I can work it out, Pontiero. But thank you."
    
  Enter the chapel. A UACV photography specialist lived inside. At the back of the chapel, a small altar is attached to the wall with a painting dedicated to Saint Thomas, the moment when the saint placed his fingers on Jesus's wounds.
    
  There was a body underneath it.
    
  -Holy Madonna.
    
  - I told you so, Dikanti.
    
  It was a dentist's view of an ass. The dead man was propped against the altar. I had gouged out his eyes, leaving two horrific blackish wounds in their place. From his mouth, open in a horrific and grotesque grimace, hung some brownish object. In the bright light of the flash, Dikanti discovered what seemed horrific to me. His hands had been severed and lay next to the body, cleaned of blood, on a white sheet. A thick ring was worn on one of the hands.
    
  The dead man was dressed in a black talard suit with a red border, typical of cardinals.
    
  Paola's eyes widened.
    
  - Pontiero, tell me he is not a cardinal.
    
  "We don't know, Dikanti. We'll examine him, though little remains of his face. We're waiting for you to see what this place looks like, as the killer saw it."
    
  -¿Dóndeá the rest of the crime scene team?
    
  The Analysis Team made up the bulk of the UACV. They were all forensic experts, specializing in collecting trace evidence, fingerprints, hairs, and anything else a criminal might leave on a body. They operated according to the principle that every crime involves a transfer: the killer takes something and leaves something behind.
    
  - He's already on his way. The van is stuck in Cavour.
    
  "I should have come for Rienzo," my uncle intervened.
    
  - Nobody ever asked his opinionón -espetó Dicanti.
    
  The man left the room, muttering something not very pleasant to the inspector.
    
  - You have to start controlling yourself, Paola.
    
  "My God, Pontiero, why didn't you call me earlier?" said Dikanti, ignoring the sub-inspector's recommendation. "This is a very serious matter. Whoever did this has a very bad head."
    
  -Is this your professional analysis, dottor?
    
  Carlo Boy entered the chapel and gave her one of his dark glances. He loved such unexpected tickets. Paola realized he was one of the two men who had been talking with their backs to the holy water font when she entered the church, and she chided herself for allowing him to catch her off guard. The other was next to the director, but he said nothing and did not enter the chapel.
    
  "No, Director Boy. My professional analysis will put it on your desk as soon as it's ready. Therefore, I warn you right away that whoever committed this crime is very ill."
    
  Boy was about to say something, but at that moment the lights in the church came on. And they all saw what the había had missed: written in not very large letters on the ground next to the deceased, había
    
    
  EGO I JUSTIFY YOU
    
    
  "It looks like blood," said Pontiero, putting into words what everyone was thinking.
    
  It's a nasty telephono with the chords of Handel's Hallelujah. All three looked at Comrade de Boy, who very seriously took the device out of his coat pocket and answered the call. He said almost nothing, just a dozen "aja"s and "mmm."
    
  After hanging up, I looked at Boy and nodded.
    
  "That's what we're afraid of, Amos," said the director of the UACV. "Ispetto Dikanti, Vice-Ispettore Pontiero, needless to say, this is a very delicate matter. The one with the akhí is Argentine Cardinal Emilio Robaira. If the murder of a cardinal in Rome is an indescribable tragedy in itself, then even more so at this stage. The vice president was one of 115 people who, for several months, participated in Cí225;n, the key to electing a new sumo wrestler. Therefore, the situation is delicate and complex. This crime must not fall into the hands of the press, in accordance with the concept of ningún. Imagine the headlines: 'Serial killer terrorizes the Pope's constituency.' I don't even want to think about it..."
    
  -Wait a minute, Director. Did you say serial killer? Is there something here we don't know?
    
  Fight Carraspeó and look at the mysterious character you came with from éL.
    
  -Paola Dicanti, Maurizio Pontiero, Permílet me introduce you to Camilo Sirin, Inspector General of the Vatican State Surveillance Corps.
    
  É Sentó nodded and took a step forward. When he spoke, he did so with effort, as if he did not want to utter a word.
    
  -We believe that é sta is the second vístima.
    
    
    
    
    Instituto Saint Matthew
    
  Silver Spring, Maryland
    
    August 1994
    
    
    
  "Come in, Father Karoski, come in. Please undress completely behind the screen, if you are so kind."
    
  The priest begins to remove the priest from himself. The captain's voice reached him from the other side of the white bulkhead.
    
  "You don't need to worry about the trials, Father. It's normal, right? Unlike ordinary people, heh-heh. There may be other prisoners who talk about her, but she's not as proud as they portray her, like my grandmother. ¿Who's with us?"
    
  - Two weeks.
    
  - Enough time to find out about it if you... or... went out to play tennis?
    
  - I don"t like tennis. Am I quitting already?
    
  - No, father, put on your green T-shirt quickly, don"t go fishing, heh-heh.
    
  Karoski emerged from behind the screen wearing a green T-shirt.
    
  - Go to the stretcher and lift it. That's all. Wait, I'll adjust the seat back. He should be able to see the image on the TV clearly. Everything okay?
    
  - Very good.
    
  - Excellent. Wait, I need to make some adjustments to the Medición tools, and then we'll get started right away. By the way, this one from ahí is a good TV, isn't it? He's 32 inches tall; if I had one as tall as his at home, I'm sure my relative would show me some respect, right? Heh-heh-heh.
    
  - I'm not sure.
    
  "Of course not, Father, of course not. That woman wouldn't have any respect for him, and at the same time wouldn't love him if he jumped out of a pack of Golden Grahams and kicked his greasy ass, heh-heh-heh."
    
  - One should not take the name of God in vain, my child.
    
  "He has a reason, Father. Well, that's it. You've never had a penile plethysmogram done before, have you?"
    
  - No.
    
  - Of course not, that's stupid, heh-heh. Have they explained to you what the test is yet?
    
  -In general terms.
    
  - Well, now I'm going to slip my hands under his shirt and attach these two electrodes to his penis, right? This will help us measure your level of sexual response to certain conditions. Okay, now I'm going to start placing it. That's it.
    
  - His hands are cold.
    
  - Yes, it's cool here, heh-heh. ¿ Thisá thisómode?
    
  - I'm fine.
    
  - So, here we go.
    
  My genes started replacing each other on the screen. The Eiffel Tower. Dawn. Fog in the mountains. Chocolate ice cream. Heterosexual intercourse. Forest. Trees. Heterosexual fellatio. Tulips in Holland. Homosexual intercourse. Las Meninas de Velásquez. Sunset on Kilimanjaro. Homosexual blowjob. Snow lies high on the roofs of a village in Switzerland. Felachi ped ped ped ped ped ped ped ped ped ped ped ped ped ped ped ped ped ped ped ped ped ped ped ped ped ped ped ped ped ped ped ped ped ped ped ped ped ped ped ped Nio looks straight at Samara while she sucks an adult's penis. There is sadness in his eyes.
    
  Karoski stands up, his eyes filled with rage.
    
  - Father, he can't get up, we're not finished yet!
    
  The priest grabs him by the neck, slams the psy-logos's head into the dashboard again and again, while blood soaks the buttons, the football player's white coat, Karoski's green jersey, and the whole world.
    
    - No cometerás actos impuros nunca más, ¿correcto? ¿ That's right, you dirty piece of shit, right?
    
    
    
    
    Iglesia de Santa Maria in Traspontina
    
  Via della Conciliazione, 14
    
    Tuesday , April 5 , 2005 , 11:59 AM .
    
    
    
    The silence that followed Sirin's words was broken by the bells ringing Christmas in nearby St. Peter's Square.
    
  "The second fifth part? They tore another cardinal to pieces, and we're finding out about it now?" Pontiero's expression made it clear what kind of opinion he deserved in the current situation.
    
  Sirin, impassive, stared at them. He was, without a doubt, a man beyond what he knew. Of medium height, with chaste eyes, of indeterminate age, in a discreet suit and gray coat. No feature overlapped another, and there was something unusual about that: it was a paradigm of normality. He spoke so quietly, as if he, too, wanted to fade into the background. But this didn't move Enga or anyone else present: they were all talking about Camilo Sirin, one of the most powerful men in the Vatican. He controlled the body of the smallest policeman in the world: Vatican Vigilance. A corps of 48 agents (officially), less than half the Swiss Guard, but infinitely more powerful. Nothing could happen in his small house without Sirin's knowledge. In 1997, someone tried to cast a shadow on him: the rector elected Alois Siltermann commander of the Swiss Guard. Two people after his appointment-Siltermann, his wife, and a corporal with an impeccable reputation-were found dead. I shot them. 3 The blame lies with the corporal, who supposedly went mad, shot the couple, and then stuck "his service weapon" in his mouth and pulled the trigger. All explanations would be correct if not for two small details: Swiss Guard corporals are unarmed, and the corporal in question had his front teeth knocked out. Everyone thinks the gun was cruelly shoved into their mouths.
    
  This story was told to Dikanti by a colleague from Inspectorate No. 4. Upon learning of the incident, él and his fellow ñeros were supposed to provide all possible assistance to the Security Service officers, but as soon as they set foot on the crime scene, they were cordially invited back to the inspection room and locked the door from the inside, without so much as a knock. Not even a thank you. The dark legend of Sirin was passed down by word of mouth among police stations throughout Rome, and the UACV was no exception.
    
  And all three, leaving the chapel, were stunned by Sirin"s statement.
    
  "With all due respect, Ispettore Generale, I think that if you became aware that a murderer capable of committing a crime like éste is at large in Rome, it is your duty to report it to the UACV," said Dicanti.
    
  "That's exactly what my esteemed colleague did," Boy replied. "I reported this to me personally. We both agree that this matter must remain strictly confidential for the greater good. And we both agree on something else, too. There's no one in the Vatican capable of dealing with such a... typical criminal as íste."
    
  Surprisingly, Sirin intervened.
    
  -Seré franco, signorina. Our work is disputes, defense, and counterintelligence. We are very good in these areas, I guarantee you that. But if you were to call this ¿sómo ó you? a guy with such a bad head is not within our purview. We will think about asking them for help until we receive word of a second crime.
    
  "We thought this case would require a much more creative approach, Controller Dikanti. That's why we don't want you to limit yourself to profiling as you have been doing. We want you to lead the investigation," Director Boy said.
    
  Paola remains mute. This was the job of a field agent, not a forensic psychiatrist. Of course, she could handle it as well as any field agent, since she had received the proper training for it at Quantico, but it was perfectly clear that such a request came from Boy, not me. At that moment, I left her with Nita.
    
  Sirin turned to the man in the leather jacket who was approaching them.
    
  -Oh, yes, I have. Allow me to introduce you to Superintendent Dante of the Vigilance Service. Be his liaison with the Vatican, Dikanti. Report the previous crime to him and work on both cases, as this is an isolated incident. Anything I ask of you is the same as asking of me. And for the Reverend, anything he denies is the same as me denying it for him. We have our own rules at the Vatican, I hope you understand. And I also hope they catch this monster. The murder of two priests of Holy Mother Church cannot go unpunished.
    
  And without saying a word, he left.
    
  Boy had become very close to Paola until he made her feel out of place. Their recent lovers' quarrel had surfaced in his mind.
    
  "He's already done that, Dikanti. You just made contact with a powerful figure in the Vatican, and he asked you for something very specific. I don't know why he's even noticed you, but mention his name directly. Take everything you need. He needs clear, concise, and simple daily reports. And, above all, a follow-up examination. I hope his 'castles in the air' will pay off a hundred times over. Try to tell me something, and quickly."
    
  Turning around, he headed towards the exit after Sirin.
    
  "What bastards," Dikanti finally exploded when she was sure that the others would not be able to niían, niírla.
    
  "Wow, if only he would talk," laughed Dante, who had arrived.
    
  Paola blushes and I extend my hand to her.
    
  -Paola Dikanti.
    
  -Fabio Dante.
    
  -Maurizio Pontiero.
    
  Dikanti took advantage of Pontiero and Dante's handshake to study the latter closely. He was short, dark, and strong, with his head attached to his shoulders by a little over five centimeters-meters of thick neck. Despite being only 1.70 meters tall, the superintendent was an attractive man, though not at all graceful. Keep in mind that the olive-green eyes, so characteristic of the southern PEN Club, give them a distinctive look.
    
  -¿ Am I supposed to understand that by the expression "bastards" you mean my boss, the inspector?
    
  - To tell the truth, yes. I think it was an undeserved honor.
    
  "We both know this isn't an honor, but a terrible mistake, Dikanti. And it's not undeserved; his track record speaks volumes about his preparation. He regrets it won't help him achieve results, but that's sure to change soon, isn't it?"
    
  - Do you have my story? Holy Madonna, is there really nothing confidential here?
    
  -Not for él.
    
  "Listen, you presumptuous one..." Pontiero was indignant.
    
  -Basta, Maurizio. There's no need for that. We're at a crime scene, and I'm responsible. Come on, monkeys, get to work, we'll talk later. Leave Mosl to them.
    
  -Well, now you're in charge, Paola. That's what the boss said.
    
  Two men and a woman in dark blue overalls stood waiting at a respectable distance behind the red door. They were the crime scene analysis unit, specializing in evidence collection. The inspector and two others exited the chapel and headed toward the central nave.
    
  -Okay, Dante. His-all this-pidió Dicanti.
    
  -Okay... the first víctima was the Italian cardinal Enrico Portini.
    
  "This can"t be!" Dikanti and Pontiero were surprised at the time.
    
  - Please, friends, I saw it with my own eyes.
    
  "A great candidate from the reformist-liberal wing of the church. If this news gets into the media, it will be terrible."
    
  -No, Pontiero, this is a disaster. George Bush arrived in Rome yesterday morning with his entire family. Two hundred other international leaders and heads of state are staying at home but are scheduled to attend the funeral on Friday. The situation worries me greatly, but you guys already know what the city is like. This is a very difficult situation, and the last thing we want is for Niko to fail. Please come outside with me. I need a cigarette.
    
  Dante led them to the street, where the crowds grew thicker and thicker, and it became increasingly crowded. The human race is cubría por completo la Via della Conciliazione. There are French, Spanish, Polish, Italian flags. Jay and you come with your guitars, religious figures with lit candles, even a blind old man with his guide dog. Two million people will attend the funeral of the Pope who changed the map of Europe. Of course, Pensó Dikanti, esent-the worst environment in the world to work. Any possible traces will be lost much earlier in the storm of pilgrims.
    
  "Portini was staying at the Madri Pie residence on Via de' Gasperi," Dante said. "He arrived Thursday morning, aware of the Pope's grave health. The nuns say he dined perfectly normally on Friday and that he spent quite a long time in the chapel, praying for the Holy Father. They didn't see him lie down. There were no signs of a struggle in his room. No one slept in his bed, otherwise whoever kidnapped him had remade it perfectly. The Pope didn't go to breakfast, but they assumed he stayed to pray in the Vatican. We don't know that the end of the world has come, but there was great confusion in the city. Do you understand? I disappeared a block from the Vatican."
    
  He stood up, lit a cigar and offered another to Pontiero, who rejected it with disgust and took out his own. Go on.
    
  "Yesterday morning, Anna appeared in the chapel of the residence, but, as here, the lack of blood on the floor indicated it was a staged scene. Fortunately, the one who discovered it was the respected priest who had called us in the first place. We photographed the scene, but when I suggested calling you, Sirin told me I would take care of it. And he orders us to clean absolutely everything. Cardinal Portini's body was transported to a very specific location within the Vatican grounds and everything was cremated."
    
  -¡Sómo! ¡ They destroyed evidence of a serious crime on Italian soil! I can't believe it, really.
    
  Dante looks at them defiantly.
    
  "My boss made a decision, and it might have been the wrong one. But he called his boss and laid out the situation. And here you guys are. Do they know what we're dealing with? We're not prepared to handle a situation like this."
    
  "That"s why I had to hand him over to the professionals," Pontiero intervened with a serious face.
    
  "He still doesn't understand it. We can't trust anyone. That's why Sirin did what he did, blessed soldier of our Mother Church. Don't look at me like that, Dikanti. I blame him for his motives. If it had ended with Portini's death, Amos could have found any excuse and hushed it up. But it wasn't an ace. It's nothing personal, Entiéndalo."
    
  "What I understand is that we're here, in our second year. And with half the evidence. A fantastic story. Is there anything we should know?" Dikanti was genuinely furious.
    
  "Not now, dispatcher," Dante said, hiding his mocking smile again.
    
  "Damn it. Damn it, damn it. We have a terrible lío on our hands, Dante. From now on, I want you to tell me absolutely everything. And one thing is absolutely clear: I am in charge here. You were tasked with assisting me in everything, but I want you to understand that, despite the fact that the trials are cardinal, both cases were under my jurisdiction, is that clear?"
    
  -Crystal clear.
    
  - It would be better to say así. Was the manner of action the same?
    
  - As far as my detective abilities go, yes. Cadaver was lying at the foot of the altar. His eyes were missing. His hands, as here, were severed and placed on the canvas to the side of the CAD. Below. It was disgusting. I put the body in the bag myself and carried it to the crematorium oven. I spent the whole night in the shower, believe me.
    
  - A small, masculine Pontiero would suit him.
    
    
  Four long hours after the court hearing for the cardinal de Robair concluded, filming could begin. At the express request of Director Boy, it was the team from Análisis who placed the body in a plastic bag and transported it to the morgue, so that the medical staff wouldn't see the cardinal's suit. It was clear that this was a special case, and the identity of the deceased had to remain secret.
    
  On good all .
    
    
    
    
  Instituto Saint Matthew
    
  Silver Spring, Maryland
    
    September 1994​​
    
    
    
    TRANSCRIPT OF INTERVIEW #5 BETWEEN PATIENT #3643 AND DR. CANIS CONROY.
    
    
    DR. CONROY: Good morning, Viktor. Welcome to my office. Are you feeling better? Are you feeling better?
    
  #3643 : Yes, thank you, doctor.
    
  DR. CONROY: Would you like something to drink?
    
  #3643 : No, thanks.
    
  DOCTOR CONROY: Well, a priest who doesn't drink... that's a completely new phenomenon. He doesn't care that I...
    
  #3643 : Go on, doctor.
    
  DR. CONROY: I imagine you spent some time in the infirmary.
    
  #3643 : I got some bruises last week.
    
  DR. CONROY: Do you remember who got those bruises?
    
  #3643: Of course, doctor. It was during the argument in the examination room.
    
    D.R. CONROY: Hábleme de ello, Viktor.
    
    #3643: I went to great lengths to have the plethysmography you recommended.
    
    D.R. CONROY: ¿Recuerda cuál era el propósito de la prueba, Viktor?
    
    #3643 : Determine the causes of my problem.
    
  DR. CONROY: Effective, Viktor. Admit you have a problem, and that's definitely progress.
    
  #3643: Doctor, I always knew you had a problem. Let me remind you that I am at Saint Centro voluntarily.
    
  DR. CONROY: This is a subject I'd love to discuss with you face to face during this initial interview, I promise. But now let's move on to something else.
    
  #3643 : I came in and undressed.
    
    D.R. CONROY: ¿Eso le incomodó?
    
    #3643 : Yes.
    
  DOCTOR CONROY: This is a serious test. It requires you to be naked.
    
  #3643 : I don't see the need for this.
    
  DOCTOR CONROY: The psychó logo must place Medición tools in an area of your body that's normally inaccessible. That's why you had to be naked, Victor.
    
  #3643 : I don't see the need for this.
    
  DR. CONROY: Well, let's assume for a moment that it was necessary.
    
  #3643 : If you say so, doctor.
    
    D.R. CONROY: ¿Qué sucedio después?
    
  #3643 : Lay some cables ahí.
    
  D.R. CONROY: ¿En donde, Viktor?
    
    #3643 : You already know.
    
  DR. CONROY: No, Victor, I don't know, and I want you to tell me.
    
  #3643 : In my case.
    
  D.R. CONROY: ¿Puede ser más explícito, Viktor?
    
  #3643 : On my... dick.
    
  DR. CONROY: Okay, Victor, that's right. It's the penis, the male organ that serves for copulation and urination.
    
  #3643 : In my case, it falls under the second, Doctor.
    
    D.R. CONROY: ¿Está seguro, Viktor?
    
    #3643 : Sí.
    
  DOCTOR CONROY: You weren't always like this in the past, Victor.
    
  #3643: The past is the past. I want it to change.
    
  DR. CONROY: What for?
    
  #3643 : Because it is God's will.
    
  DR. CONROY: Do you really believe that God's will has anything to do with this, Victor? With your problem?
    
  #3643 : God's will applies to everything.
    
  DR. CONROY: I'm a priest too, Victor, and I think that sometimes God allows nature to take its course.
    
  #3643 : Nature is an enlightened invention that has no place in our religion, Doctor.
    
  DOCTOR CONROY: Let's go back to the examination room, Victor. Kuéntemé kué sintió when they attached the wire to him.
    
  #3643 : Psychedelic logo of ten in the hands of a freak.
    
  D.R. CONROY: Solo frío, ¿nada más?
    
  #3643 : Нада мáс.
    
  DR. CONROY: And when did my genes start appearing on the screen?
    
  #3643: I didn't feel anything either.
    
  DR. CONROY: You know, Victor, I have these plethysmograph results, and they're showing certain responses here and here. ¿See the peaks?
    
  #3643 : I have an aversion to certain immunogens.
    
  DR. CONROY: Asco, Viktor?
    
  (there is a one-minute pause here)
    
  DR. CONROY: I have as much time as you need to answer, Victor.
    
  #3643: I was disgusted by my sexual genes.
    
    D.R. CONROY: ¿Alguna en concreto, Viktor?
    
  #3643 : All They .
    
  D.R. CONROY: ¿Sabe porqué le molestaron?
    
    #3643 : Because they insult God.
    
  DR. CONROY: And yet, with the genes it identifies, the machine registers a lump in your penis.
    
  #3643 : This is impossible.
    
  DR. CONROY: He became aroused by the sight of you, using vulgar words.
    
  #3643: This language insults God and his dignity as a priest. Long...
    
  D.R. CONROY: ¿Qué debería, Viktor?
    
  #3643 : Nothing.
    
  DR. CONROY: Did you just feel a big flash, Victor?
    
  #3643 : No, doctor.
    
  DR. CONROY: ¿ Another one from Cinthia to the violent outbreak?
    
  #3643: What else is from God?
    
  DOCTOR CONROY: Right, excuse my inaccuracy. You're saying that the other day, when I hit my psicólogo's head on the dashboard, was a violent outburst?
    
  #3643: This man was seduced by me. "If your right eye makes you fall, so be it," says the Priest.
    
    D.R. CONROY : Mateo, capítulo 5, versículo 19.
    
    #3643 : Indeed.
    
  DR. CONROY: What about the eye? For eye pain?
    
  #3643 : I don't understand him.
    
  DOCTOR CONROY: This man's name is Robert, he has a wife and a daughter. You'll take him to the hospital. I broke his nose, seven teeth, and gave him severe shock, though thank God the guards managed to save you in time.
    
  #3643 : I think I've become a little cruel.
    
  DR. CONROY: Do you think I could be violent now if my hands weren't strapped to the arms of the chair?
    
  #3643 : If you want us to find out, Doctor.
    
  DR. CONROY: We'd better finish this interview, Victor.
    
    
    
    
    Morgue Municipal
    
    Tuesday , April 5 , 2005 , 8:32 PM.
    
    
    
    The autopsy room was a gloomy space, painted a mismatched gray-purple, which did little to brighten the place up. A six-light spotlight rested on the dissection table, giving the cadet the chance to witness his final moments of glory before four spectators, who would determine who pulled him off the stage.
    
  Pontiero made a gesture of disgust as the coroner placed the statuette of Cardinal Robaira on the tray. A foul odor permeated the autopsy room as I began to cut him open with a scalpel. The odor was so strong that it even obscured the smell of formaldehyde and alcohol, which everyone used to disinfect the instruments. Dikanti absurdly wondered what the point of such extensive cleaning of the instruments before making the incisions was. Overall, it didn't seem like the dead man was going to become infected with bacteria or anything else.
    
  -Hey, Pontiero, do you know why the cruzó el bebé is dead on the road?
    
  -Yes, Dottore, because I was attached to the chicken. He told me about it six, no, seven times a year. Don't you know another joke?
    
  The coroner hummed very softly as he made the cuts. He sang very well, with a husky, sweet voice that reminded Paola of Louis Armstrong. " So I sang the canto from the era of 'What a wonderful world.'" He hummed the canto while making the cuts.
    
  "The only joke is watching you try so hard not to burst into tears, Vice President. Je je je. Don't think I don't find all this amusing. He é ste gave his..."
    
  Paola and Dante locked gazes over the cardinal's body. The coroner, a staunch old communist, was a consummate professional, but sometimes his respect for the dead let him down. She clearly grieved Robaira's death terribly, something Dikanti hadn't done with Miss Minima Grace.
    
  "Dottore, I must ask you to analyze the body and do nothing. Both our guest, Superintendent Dante, and I find his supposed attempts at amusement offensive and inappropriate."
    
  The coroner stared at Dikanti and continued examining the contents of the mage Robaira's box, but refrained from making any more rude comments, though he cursed everyone present and his ancestors through gritted teeth. Paola didn't listen to him, as she was concerned about Pontiero's face, which ranged in color from white to greenish.
    
  "Maurizio, I don't know why you're suffering so much. You've never tolerated blood."
    
  - Damn it, if that bastard can resist me, I can too.
    
  - You would be surprised to know how many autopsies I have been to, my delicate colleague.
    
  - Oh, right? Well, I remind you that at least you still have one left, although I think I like it better than you do...
    
  Oh God, they're starting again, Paola thought, trying to mediate between them. They were dressed like everyone else. Dante and Pontiero had disliked each other from the start, but frankly, the sub-inspector disliked anyone who wore pants and came within ten feet of her. I knew he saw her as a daughter, but sometimes he exaggerated. Dante was a bit rough around the edges and certainly not the wittiest of men, but at the moment he wasn't living up to the affection his girlfriend showed him. What I don't understand is how someone like the superintendent could take the position he occupied at Oversight. His constant jokes and caustic tongue contrasted too sharply with the gray, silent car of Inspector General Sirin.
    
  -Perhaps my esteemed visitors will be able to summon the courage to pay sufficient attention to the autopsy you have come to see.
    
  The coroner's hoarse voice brought Dikanti back to reality.
    
  "Please continue," I threw an icy glance at the two policemen to make them stop arguing.
    
  - Well, I have eaten almost nothing since breakfast, and everything points to the fact that I drank it very early, because I barely found any leftovers.
    
  - So you either miss out on food or fall into the hands of the killer early.
    
  "I doubt he skipped meals... he's obviously used to eating well. I'm alive, I weigh about 92 kg, and my weight is 1.83."
    
  "Which tells us the killer is a strong guy. Robaira wasn't a little girl," Dante interjected.
    
  "And from the back door of the church to the chapel is forty meters," Paola said. "Someone must have seen the killer introduce Gaddafi in the church. Pontiero, do me a favor. Send four trusted agents to the area. Let them be in civilian clothes, but wear their insignia. Don't tell them this happened. Tell them there was a robbery at the church, and let them find out if anyone saw anything during the night."
    
  -Look among the pilgrims for a creature that wastes time.
    
  "Well, don't do that. Let them ask the neighbors, especially the older ones. They usually wear light clothing."
    
  Pontiero nodded and left the autopsy room, clearly grateful not to have to continue everything. Paola watched him go, and when the doors closed behind him, he turned to Dante.
    
  -Can I ask what's going on with you if you're from the Vatican? Pontiero is a brave man who can't stand bloodshed, that's all. I beg you to refrain from continuing this absurd verbal dispute.
    
  "Wow, there are a lot of chatterboxes in the morgue," the coroner chuckled with a voice.
    
  "You're doing your job, Dottore, which we're now following. Is everything clear to you, Dante?"
    
  "Calm down, controller," the superintendent defended himself, raising his hands. "I don't think you understand what's going on here. If Manana herself had to walk into the room with a flaming pistol in her hand, shoulder to shoulder with Pontiero, I have no doubt she would have done it."
    
  "Then can we find out why he's getting involved with her?" Paola said, completely confused.
    
  -Because it's fun. I'm sure he enjoys being angry with me too. Pregnate.
    
  Paola shakes her head, muttering something not very nice about men.
    
  -So, let's continue. Dottore, do you already know the time and cause of death?
    
  The coroner is reviewing his records.
    
  "I remind you that this is a preliminary report, but I am almost certain. The Cardinal died around nine o'clock yesterday evening, Monday. The margin of error is one hour. I died with my throat cut. The cut was made, I believe, by a man of the same height as he. I can't say anything about the weapon, except that it was at least fifteen centimeters away, had a smooth edge, and was very sharp. It could have been a barber's razor, I don't know.
    
  "What about the wounds?" Dante said.
    
  -The disembowelment of the eyes occurred posthumously 5, as did the mutilation of the tongue.
    
  "Tear out his tongue? My God," Dante was horrified.
    
  "I think it was done with forceps, dispatcher. When you're done, fill the void with toilet paper to stop the bleeding. Then I removed it, but there were some cellulose remnants left. Hello, Dikanti, you surprise me. He didn't seem particularly impressed."
    
  -Well, I've seen worse.
    
  "Well, let me show you something you've probably never seen. I've never seen anything like it, and there are plenty of them already." He inserted his tongue into her rectum with astonishing skill. Afterwards, I wiped the blood from all sides. I wouldn't have noticed it if I hadn't looked inside.
    
  The coroner will show them some photographs of the severed tongue.
    
  "I put it in ice and sent it to the lab. Please make a copy of the report when it comes in, Dispatcher. I don't understand how I managed to do this."
    
  "Don"t pay any attention, I"ll take care of it personally," Dikanti assured him. "What"s wrong with your hands?"
    
  "These were postmortem injuries. The cuts aren't very clean. There are traces of hesitation here and there. It probably cost him... or he was in an awkward position."
    
  - Anything underfoot?
    
  -Air. Hands are spotlessly clean. I suspect they wash them with a jab. I think I smell a distinct scent of lavender.
    
  Paola remains thoughtful.
    
  - Dottore, in your opinion, how much time did it take the killer to inflict the víctima wounds on éstas?
    
  - Well, you didn't think about it. Let me see, let me count.
    
  The old man clasps his hands, thoughtful, forearms level with his hips, eye sockets, disfigured mouth. I continue humming to myself, and it's something from the Moody Blues again. Paola didn't remember the key of song #243.
    
  "Well, he prays... at least it took him half an hour to remove his hands and dry them, and about an hour to clean his entire body and dress him. It's impossible to calculate how long he tormented the girl, but it seems to have taken him a long time. I assure you he was with the girl for at least three hours, and it was probably más."
    
  A quiet and secret place. A secluded place, away from prying eyes. And isolated, because Robaire must have screamed. What kind of noise does a man make when his eyes and tongue have been torn out? Of course, a lot. They had to reduce the time, determine how many hours the cardinal had been in the killer's hands, and subtract the time it would have taken to do what he did to him. Once you reduce the radius of the biquadratic, if, hopefully, the killer wasn't camped out in the wild.
    
  - Yes, the guys didn't find any traces. Did you find anything abnormal before you washed it off, something that needs to be sent for analysis?
    
  -Nothing serious. A few fabric fibers and a few stains from what could have been makeup on the shirt collar.
    
  -¿Makeup? Curious. ¿Being a killer?
    
  "Well, Dikanti, perhaps our cardinal is secretly from everyone," said Dante.
    
  Paola le miro, shocked. Coroner rio clenched his teeth, unable to think clearly.
    
  "Oh, why am I going after someone else?" Dante hastened to say. "I mean, he was probably very concerned about his image. After all, you turn ten at a certain age..."
    
  - It's still a remarkable detail. Does Algíalgún have any traces of makeup on her face?
    
  "No, but the killer should have washed it off, or at least wiped the blood from her eye sockets. I'm looking at this carefully."
    
  "Dottore, just in case, send a cosmetic sample to the lab. I want to know the brand and the exact shade."
    
  "It may take some time if they don"t have a pre-prepared database to compare with the sample we send them.
    
  -Write in the work order that, if necessary, fill the vacuum safely and securely. This is the order that Director Boya really likes. What does he tell me about blood or sperm? Was there any luck?
    
  "Absolutely not. The victim's clothing was very clean, and traces of the same type of blood were found on it. Of course, it was his own."
    
  - Anything on your skin or hair? Spores, anything?
    
  "I found glue residue on what was left of the clothes, as I suspect the killer stripped the cardinal naked and bound him with duct tape before torturing him, then dressed him again. Wash the body, but do not submerge it in water, do you see that?"
    
  The coroner found a thin white scratch on the side of de Robaira's boot from a blow and a dry wound.
    
  -Give him a sponge with water and wipe it, but don't worry about him having a lot of water or not paying much attention to this part, as it leaves too much water and a lot of blows on the body.
    
  -¿А tip udarón?
    
  "Being more recognizable than makeup is easier, but also less noticeable than makeup. It's like a lavender jab from regular makeup."
    
  Paola sighed. It was true.
    
  -This is all?
    
  "There's also some glue residue on the face, but it's very small. That's all. Incidentally, the deceased was quite nearsighted."
    
  - And what does this have to do with the matter?
    
  "Dante, damn it, I'm fine." The glasses were missing.
    
  "Of course, I needed glasses. I'll rip out his damn eyes, but the glasses won't go to waste?"
    
  The coroner meets with the superintendent.
    
  - Well, look, I'm not trying to tell you to do your job, I'm just telling you what I see.
    
  -Everything is fine, doctor. At least until I have a full report.
    
  - Of course, dispatcher.
    
  Dante and Paola left the coroner to his cadávier and his versions of jazz clichés and went out into the hallway, where Pontiero was barking short, laconic commands to the móvil. When she hung up, the inspector addressed both of them.
    
  -Okay, here's what we're going to do. Dante, you'll return to your office and compile a report with everything you can remember from the scene of the first crime. I'd prefer it if he were alone, as he was alone. More fácil. Take all the photographs and evidence your wise and enlightened father allowed you to keep. And come to UACV headquarters as soon as you're finished. I'm afraid this is going to be a very long night.
    
    
    
    
    
  Nick's question: Describe in less than 100 words the importance of time in building a criminal case (segóp Rosper). Draw your own conclusion, relating the variables to the killer's experience level. You have two minutes, which you've already counted down from the moment you turned the page.
    
    
  Answer: The time required for:
    
    
  a) eliminate víctima
    
  b) interaction with CAD/CAM systems.
    
  c) erase his evidence from the body and get rid of him
    
    
  Comment: As I understand it, variable a) is determined by the killer's fantasies, variable b) helps to reveal his hidden motives, and c) determines his ability to analyze and improvise. In conclusion, if the killer spends more time on
    
    
  a) has an average level (3 crímenes)
    
  b) He is an expert (4 crímenes or más)
    
  c) he is a newbie (first or second offense).
    
    
    
    
  UACV Headquarters
    
  Via Lamarmora, 3
    
  Tuesday, April 5, 2005, 10:32 PM.
    
    
    
  - Let's see what we have?
    
  - We have two cardinals killed in a terrible way, Dikanti.
    
  Dikanti and Pontiero were having lunch at the café and drinking coffee in the lab's conference room. Despite its modernity, the place was gray and dreary. The colorful scene throughout the room brought her face to the hundreds of crime scene photographs spread out before them. On one side of the huge table in the living room stood four plastic bags containing forensic evidence. That's all you have at this point, except for what Dante told you about the first crime.
    
  -Okay, Pontiero, let's start with Robaira. What do we know about él?
    
  "I lived and worked in Buenos Aires. We'll arrive on an Aerolíneas Argentinas flight on Sunday morning. Take an open-booking ticket you bought a few weeks ago and wait until it closes at 1 p.m. on Saturday. Given the time difference, I'm guessing that was the time the Holy Father died."
    
  -¿ There and back?
    
  - Only Ida.
    
  "What's curious... either the cardinal was very short-sighted, or he came to power with great hopes. Maurizio, you know me: I'm not particularly religious. Do you know anything about Robaira's potential as pope?"
    
  -It's okay. I read him something about it a week ago, I think it was in La Stampa. They thought he was in a good position, but not one of the main favorites. In any case, you know, these are the Italian media. They're bringing this to the attention of our cardinals. About Portini sí habíleído and much more.
    
  Pontiero was a family man of impeccable integrity. From what Paola could tell, he was a good husband and father. "I went to Mass every Sunday like clockwork." How punctual was his invitation to accompany him to Arles, which Dikanti declined under a multitude of pretexts. Some were good, some bad, but none were suitable. Pontiero knows the inspector didn't have much faith. He went to heaven with his father ten years ago.
    
  "Something worries me, Maurizio. It's important to know what kind of disillusionment unites the murderer and the cardinals. Does he hate the color red, is he a mad seminarian, or does he simply hate little round hats?"
    
  -Cardinal Capello.
    
  "Thank you for the clarification. I suspect there's some connection between the two. In short, we won't get very far down this path without consulting a trusted source. Mama Ana Dante will have to pave the way for us to speak with someone higher up in the Curia. And when I say "higher up," I mean "higher up."
    
  -Don't be fácil.
    
  "We'll see about that. For now, focus on testing the monkeys. Let's start with the fact that we know Robaira didn't die in the church."
    
  "There really was very little blood. He should have died somewhere else."
    
  "Certainly, the murderer had to hold the cardinal in his power for a certain period of time in a secluded and secret place where he could use the body. We know he had to somehow gain her trust so that the victim would voluntarily enter that place. From Ahí, movió el Caddiáver to Santa Maria in Transpontina, obviously for a specific reason."
    
  -¿What about the church?
    
  "Talk to the priest. It was closed to conversation and singing when he went to bed. He remembers he had to open up to the police when he arrived. But there's a second door, a very small one, that opens onto Via dei Corridori. That was probably the fifth entrance. Have you checked that?"
    
  "The lock was intact, but it was Modern and strong. But even if the door had been wide open, I don't see where the killer could have gotten in."
    
  -¿Why?
    
  -Did you notice the number of people standing at the front door on Via della Conciliazione? Well, the street is damn busy. It's full of pilgrims. Yeah, they even cut it down to traffic. Don't tell me the killer walked in with a sapper in his hand for the whole world to see.
    
  Paola thought for a few seconds. Perhaps that influx of people was the best cover for the killer, but did he or she enter without breaking down the door?
    
  "Pontiero, figuring out what's our priority is one of our priorities. I feel it's very important. Mañanna, we'll go to Brother ¿sómo, what was his name?"
    
  -Francesco Toma, Carmelite monk.
    
  The junior inspector nodded slowly, making notes in his notebook.
    
  - To that. On the other hand, we have some creepy details: the message on the wall, the severed hands on the canvas... and those aqua bags. Go on.
    
  Pontiero began reading while Inspector Dikanti filled out Bolu Graf's test report. A state-of-the-art office and ten twentieth-century relics, like these outdated printed publications.
    
  -The examination is núsimply 1. Steal. A rectangle of embroidered cloth used by Catholic priests in the sacrament of confession. It was found hanging from the mouth of a sapra, completely covered in blood. The sanguineo group matches the víctima group. DNA analysis is ongoing.
    
  It was a brownish object that I couldn't make out in the dim light of the church. The DNA analysis took at least two months, thanks to UACV having one of the most advanced labs in the world. Dikanti laughed many times while watching CSI 6 on TV. I hope the tests are processed as quickly as they are in American TV shows.
    
  -Examination núprosto 2. White canvas. Origin unknown. Material, algodón. Presence of blood, but very slight. Severed hands of a víctima were found on the él. The Sanguíneo group matches the víctima group. DNA analysis is ongoing.
    
  -First of all, is ¿Robaira Greek or Latin? -dudó Dicanti.
    
  - With Greek, I think.
    
  -Okay, go ahead, Maurizio, please.
    
  -Expertise #3. A crumpled piece of paper, approximately three cents by three cents in size. It is located in the left eye socket on the fifth eyelid. The type of paper, its composition, fat content, and chlorine percentage are being examined. Letters are written on the paper by hand and with a graphic cup.
    
    
    
    
  "M T 16," said Dikanti. "What's your direction?"
    
  "The paper was found blood-stained and rolled up. It's clearly a message from the killer. The absence of eyes on the víctima may not be so much a punishment for él as a hint... as if he were telling us where to look."
    
  - Or that we are blind.
    
  "A brutal killer... the first of their kind to appear in Italy. I think that's why I wanted you to take care of yourself, Paola. Not an ordinary detective, but someone capable of creative thinking."
    
  Dicantió pondered the sub-inspector's words. If it was true, the stakes doubled. The killer's profile allows him to respond to very smart people, and usually I'm very hard to catch unless I make a mistake. Sooner or later, everyone does it, but for now, they were filling the morgue.
    
  -Okay, let's think for a minute. What kind of streets do we have with such initials?
    
  -Viale del Muro Torto...
    
  - It's okay, he's walking through the park and he doesn't have a púmeros, Mauricio.
    
  - Then Monte Tarpeo, which passes through the gardens of the Palazzo dei Conservatori, is not worth it either.
    
  -¿Y Monte Testaccio?
    
  -Through Testaccio Park... it might be worth it.
    
  -Wait a minute -Dicanti cogió el teléfono i Markó an nú simply intern- ¿Documentación? Oh, hello, Silvio. Check what's available at Monte Testaccio, 16. And please take us down Via Roma to the meeting room.
    
  While they waited, Pontiero continued to list the evidence.
    
  -At the very last (for now): Examination núsimply 4. Crumpled paper measuring approximately three by three centimeters. It is located in the lower right corner of the sheet, under ideal conditions, in which the test was conducted just 3. The type of paper, its composition, fat and chlorine content are indicated in the table below.;n are being studied. The word is written on the paper by hand and using a graphic cup
    
    
    
    
  - Undeviginti .
    
  - Damn it, it's like a puñetero ieroglifífiko -se desesperó Dikanti. I just hope this isn't a continuation of the message I left in the first part, because the first part went up in smoke.
    
  "I think we"ll have to make do with what we have at the moment."
    
  -Excellent, Pontiero. Why don't you tell me what undeviginti is so I can come to terms with it?
    
  "Your latitude and longitude are a little rusty, Dikanti. That means nineteen."
    
  - Damn it, it's true. I always got suspended from school. ¿And the arrow?
    
  At that moment, one of the assistants to the documentarian from Rome Street entered.
    
  "That's all, Inspector. I was looking for what I asked for: Monte Testaccio 16 doesn't exist. There are fourteen portals on this street."
    
  "Thank you, Silvio. Do me a favor, meet Pontiero and me here and check that the streets of Rome start from the mountain. It's a shot in the dark, but I had a hunch."
    
  "Let's hope you're a better psycho than you think, Dr. Dikanti. Hari, you'd better go get a Bible."
    
  All three turned their heads toward the door of the meeting room. A priest stood in the doorway, dressed like a cleric. He was tall and thin, wiry, and had a distinctly bald head. He looked to have fifty very well-preserved bones, and his features were firm and strong, characteristic of someone who had seen many sunrises outdoors. Dikanti thought he looked more like a soldier than a priest.
    
  "Who are you and what do you want? This is a restricted area. Do me a favor and leave immediately," Pontiero said.
    
  "I am Father Anthony Fowler, and I have come to help you," he spoke in correct Italian, but somewhat haltingly and hesitantly.
    
  "These are police stations, and you've entered them without permission. If you want to help us, go to church and pray for our souls."
    
  Pontiero approached the arriving priest, intending to invite him to leave in a bad mood. Dikanti had already turned to continue examining the photographs when Fowler spoke up.
    
  - It's from the Bible. From the New Testament, in particular, from me.
    
  - What? - Pontiero was surprised.
    
  Dicanti alzó la cabeza y miró a Fowler.
    
  - Okay, explain what.
    
  -Matthew 16:16. The Gospel of Matthew, section 16, chapter 237, Tul. ¿Leave³ any more notes?
    
  Pontiero seems upset.
    
  - Look, Paola, I'm really not going to listen to you...
    
  Dikanti stopped him with a gesture.
    
  - Listen, Mosle.
    
  Fowler entered the courtroom. He had a black coat in his hand, and he left it on a chair.
    
  As you well know, the Christian New Testament is divided into four books: Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John. In Christian bibliography, the book of Matthew is represented by the letters Mt. The simple number below nún refers to chapter 237 of the Gospel. And with two núsimple más, one should indicate the same quotation between two verses and the same number.
    
  -The killer left this.
    
  Paola will show you test #4, packaged in plastic. He stared into her eyes. The priest showed no sign of recognizing the note, nor did he feel any revulsion in the face of blood. She looked at him closely and said:
    
  - Nineteen. Which is appropriate.
    
  Pontiero was furious.
    
  -Are you going to tell us everything you know right away, or are you going to keep us waiting a long time, Father?
    
    - I give you the keys of the kingdom of heaven; whatever you bind on earth will be bound in heaven , and whatever you loose on earth will be loosed in heaven. Matthew 16:19. These are the words by which I confirm Saint Peter as the head of the apostles and empower him and his successors with authority over the entire Christian world.
    
  -Santa Madonna -exclamó Dicanti.
    
  "Considering what's about to happen in this city, if you're praying, I think you should be worried. And much more."
    
  "Damn it, some crazy man just slit a priest's throat, and you're turning on the sirens. I don't see anything wrong with that, Father Fowler," Pontiero said.
    
  "No, my friend. The killer is not a crazy maniac. He is a cruel, withdrawn, and intelligent man, and he is terribly insane, believe me."
    
  "Oh, yes? He seems to know a lot about your motives, Father," the junior inspector chuckled.
    
  The priest looks intently at Dikanti as I answer.
    
  - Yes, much more than that, I pray. Who is he?
    
    
    
    
    (ARTÍCULO EXTRAÍDO DEL DIARIO MARYLAND GAZETTE,
    
    
    
    JULY 29, 1999 PAGE 7)
    
    
  An American priest accused of sexual abuse has committed suicide.
    
    
    SILVER SPRING, Maryland (NEWS AGENCIES) - As allegations of sexual abuse continue to rock the Catholic clergy in America, a Connecticut priest accused of sexually abusing minors hanged himself in his room at a nursing home, a facility that treats people with disabilities, local police told the American-Press last Friday.
    
  Peter Selznick, 64, resigned from his position as priest at St. Andrew's Parish in Bridgeport, Connecticut, on April 27 of last year, just one day before his birthday. After Catholic Church officials interviewed two men who alleged Selznick abused them between the late 1970s and early 1980s, a Catholic Church spokesman said Selznick abused them between the late 1970s and early 1980s.
    
  The priest was being treated at St. Matthew's Institute in Maryland, a psychiatric facility that houses inmates accused of sexual abuse or "sexual confusion," according to the facility.
    
  "Hospital staff rang your doorbell several times and attempted to enter your room, but something blocked the door," Diane Richardson, a spokeswoman for the Prince George's County Police and Border Patrol Department, said at a press conference. "When they entered the room, they found the cadaver hanging from one of the exposed ceiling beams."
    
  Selznick hanged himself with one of his bed pillows, confirming to Richardson that his body had been taken to the morgue for an autopsy. He also categorically denies rumors that CAD was stripped and mutilated, rumors he called "completely unfounded." During the press conference, several journalists quoted "eyewitnesses" who claimed to have seen such mutilations. A spokesman claims that "a nurse from the county medical corps has connections to drugs, such as marijuana and other narcotics, under the influence of which she made such statements; the said municipal employee has been suspended from work and pay until his relationship is terminated," the Police Department spokeswoman concluded. Saint Perióu Dicó was able to contact the rumored nurse, who declined to make another statement; a brief "I was wrong."
    
  Bridgeport Bishop William Lopez confirmed that he was "deeply saddened" by Selznick"s "tragic" death, adding that the esc "believes it is disturbing to the North American branch of the Cat Church."#243The Leakeys now have "múltiples víctimas."
    
  Father Selznick was born in New York City in 1938 and was ordained in Bridgeport in 1965. I served in several parishes in Connecticut and for a short time in San Juan Vianney Parish in Chiclayo, Peru.
    
  "Every person, without exception, has dignity and value in the eyes of God, and every person needs and deserves our compassion," Lopez affirms. "The disturbing circumstances surrounding his death cannot undo all the good he accomplished," the bishop concludes.
    
  Father Canis Conroy, director of the Saint Matthew Institute, declined to make any statements at Saint Periódico. Father Anthony Fowler, director of the Institute for New Programs, claims Father Conroy was "in shock."
    
    
    
  UACV Headquarters
    
  Via Lamarmora, 3
    
  Tuesday, April 5, 2005, 11:14 PM.
    
    
    
  Fowler's statement struck like a mace. Dikanti and Pontiero remained standing, staring intently at the bald priest.
    
  - Can I sit down?
    
  "There are plenty of free chairs," said Paola. "Choose yourselves."
    
  He gestured towards the documentation assistant, who left.
    
  Fowler left a small black duffel bag with frayed edges and two rosettes on the table. It was a bag that had seen much of the world, one that spoke loudly of the kilos its double carried in tow. He opened it and pulled out a capacious briefcase made of dark cardboard with dog-eared edges and coffee stains. He placed it on the table and sat down opposite the inspector. Dikanti watched him closely, noting his economy of movement, the energy conveyed by his black eyes. She was deeply intrigued by the origins of this additional priest, but she was determined not to be backed into a corner, especially on her own turf.
    
  Pontiero took a chair, placed it across from the reverend, and sat to the left, resting his hands on the back. Dikanti Tomó mentally reminded him to stop imitating Humphrey Bogart's buttocks. The vice president had watched "The Halcón Maltés" about three hundred times. He always sat to the left of anyone he considered suspicious, compulsively smoking one unfiltered Pall Mall after another next to them.
    
  -Okay, father. Provide us with a document confirming your identity.
    
  Fowler pulled his passport from his inside jacket pocket and handed it to Pontiero. He gestured angrily at the cloud of smoke emanating from the sub-inspector's cigar.
    
  "Wow, wow. A diploma passport. ¿ He has immunity, huh? ¿ What the hell is that, some kind of espía?" ask Pontiero.
    
  - I am an officer of the United States Air Force.
    
  "What's wrong?" Paola said.
    
  -Major. Would you mind telling Sub-Inspector Pontier to stop smoking near me, please? I've abandoned you many times before, and I don't want to repeat myself.
    
  - He's a drug addict, Major Fowler.
    
  -Padre Fowler, dottora Dicanti. I am... retired.
    
  -Hey, wait a minute, do you know my name, father? Or from the dispatcher?
    
  The forensic scientist smiled between curiosity and amusement.
    
  - Well, Maurizio, I suspect that Father Fowler is not as withdrawn as he says.
    
  Fowler gave her a slightly sad smile.
    
  "It's true that I was recently reinstated to active military service. And what's interesting is that this was due to my training throughout my civilian life." He pauses and waves his hand, clearing away the smoke.
    
  -So what? Where is that son of a bitch who did this to the cardinal of the Holy Mother Church so we can all go home to sleep, kid?
    
  The priest remained silent, as impassive as his client. Paola suspected the man was too stern to make any impression on the little Pontiero. The furrows on their skin clearly indicated that life had instilled in them very bad impressions, and those eyes had seen worse things than the policeman, often even his stinking tobacco.
    
  -Goodbye, Maurizio. And put out your cigar.
    
  Pontiero threw his cigarette butt on the floor, pouting.
    
  "Okay, Father Fowler," Paola said, shuffling through the photographs on the table but looking intently at the priest, "you've made it clear to me that you're in charge right now. He knows what I don't know, and what I need to know. But you're on my field, my land. You'll tell me how we resolve this."
    
  -¿What do you say if you start by creating a profile?
    
  -¿ Can you tell me why?
    
  "Because in that case, you wouldn't need to fill out a questionnaire to find out the killer's name. That's what I'd say. In that case, you'd need a profile to find out where you are. And they're not the same thing."
    
  -Is this a test, Father? Do you want to see how good the man in front of you is? Is he going to question my deductive powers, like Boy does?
    
  - I think, dottor, that the person here who judges herself is you yourself.
    
  Paola took a deep breath and mustered all her composure to keep from screaming as Fowler pressed his finger to her wound. Just when I thought I'd fail, her boss appeared in the doorway. He stood there, studying the priest intently, and I handed him back the exam. Finally, they both bowed their heads in greeting.
    
  -Padre Fowler.
    
  -Director Boy.
    
  "I was warned of your arrival through, shall we say, an unusual channel. Needless to say, his presence here is impossible, but I admit he could be of use to us, if my sources are not lying."
    
  -They don't do that.
    
  - Then please continue.
    
  He always had the unpleasant feeling that he was late to the world, and this feeling was repeated at that time. Paola was tired of the whole world knowing everything she didn't. I would ask Boy to explain as soon as he had time. In the meantime, I decided to take advantage of the opportunity.
    
  "The director, Father Fowler, who is present here, told Pontiero and me that he knows the killer's identity, but it seems he wants a free psychological profile of the perpetrator before revealing his name. Personally, I think we're wasting precious time, but I've decided to play his game."
    
  She knelt down, impressing the three men who were staring at her. He walked over to the blackboard that took up almost the entire back wall and began writing on it.
    
  "The killer is a white male, between 38 and 46 years old. He is of average height, strong, and intelligent. He has a university degree and speaks languages. He is left-handed, received a strict religious education, and suffered from childhood disorders or abuse. He is immature, his work puts pressure on him beyond his psychological and emotional resilience, and he suffers from severe sexual repression. He likely has a history of serious violence. This is not the first or second time he has killed, and certainly not the last. He deeply despises us, both politicians and those close to him. Now, Father, name his killer," Dikanti said, turning and tossing the chalk into the priest's hands.
    
  Watch your listeners. Fowler looked at her with surprise, Pontiero with admiration, and Boy Scout with amazement. Finally, the priest spoke.
    
  "Congratulations, dottor. Ten. Even though I'm a psychopath and a logos, I can't understand the basis for all your conclusions. Could you explain it to me a little?"
    
  "This is a preliminary report, but the conclusions should be fairly accurate. His whiteness is noted in his victim profiles, as it's highly unusual for a serial killer to kill someone of a different race. He's of average height, as Robaira was a tall man, and the length and direction of the cut on his neck indicate he was killed by surprise by someone about 1.80 meters tall. His strength is obvious, otherwise it would have been impossible to place the cardinal inside the church, because even if he had used a car to transport the body to the gate, the chapel is about forty meters away. Immaturity is directly proportional to the type of killer, who deeply despises the victim, whom he considers an object, and the police officer, whom he considers inferior.
    
  Fowler interrupted her, raising his hand politely.
    
  "There are two details that particularly caught my attention, dottor. First, you said you weren't killing for the first time. Did he read that into the complex murder plot?"
    
  "Indeed, Father. This man has some in-depth knowledge of police work, and he's done this from time to time. My experience tells me the first time is usually very messy and improvised."
    
  - Secondly, it's that "his work puts pressure on him that exceeds his psychological and emotional resilience." I can't understand where he got that from.
    
  Dikanti blushed and crossed her arms. I didn't answer. Boy took the opportunity to intervene.
    
  "Ah, dear Paola. Her high intellect always leaves a loophole for penetrating her feminine intuition, doesn't it? Father, the guardian of Dikanti sometimes comes to purely emotional conclusions. I don't know why. Of course, I will have a great future as a writer."
    
  "More to me than you think. Because he hit the nail on the head," Fowler said, finally standing and walking to the board. "Inspector, is that the correct title for your profession? Profiler, right?"
    
  "Yes," Paola said, embarrassed.
    
  -¿Cuá degree of profiling achieved?
    
  - After completing a forensic science course and intensive training in the FBI's Behavioral Sciences Unit. Very few people manage to complete the full course.
    
  -¿ Could you tell us how many qualified profilers there are in the world?
    
  -Currently twenty. Twelve in the United States, four in Canada, two in Germany, one in Italy and one in Austria.
    
  -Thank you. Is everything clear to you, gentlemen? Twenty people in the world are capable of drawing a psychological profile of a serial killer with complete certainty, and one of them is in this room. And believe me, I will find that person...
    
  I turned around and wrote and wrote on the board, very large, in thick and hard letters, one name.
    
    
  VIKTOR KAROSKI
    
    
  -...we'll need someone who can get inside his head. They have the name they asked me for. But before you run to the phone to issue an arrest warrant, let me tell you your whole story.
    
    
    
  From the correspondence of Edward Dressler,
    
  psychiatrist and Cardinal Francis Shaw
    
    
    
  Boston, May 14, 1991
    
    
  (...) Your Eminence, we are undoubtedly dealing with a born recidivist. I have now been told that this is the fifth time he has been transferred to another parish. The tests carried out over the past two weeks confirm that we cannot risk forcing him to live with children again without endangering them. (...) I have no doubt whatsoever about his will to repent, for he is firm. I do doubt his ability to control himself. (...) You cannot afford the luxury of having him in the parish. I should clip his wings before he explodes. Otherwise, I will not be held responsible. I recommend an internship of at least six months at the Institute of St. Matthew.
    
    
  Boston, August 4, 1993
    
    
  (...) This is the third time I have dealt with él (Karoski) (...) I must tell you that the "change of scenery," as you call it, has not helped him at all, quite the opposite. He is increasingly beginning to lose control, and I notice signs of schizophrenia in his behavior. It is quite possible that at any moment he will completely cross the line and become someone else. Your Eminence, you know my devotion to the Church, and I understand the great shortage of priests, but ¡drop both listsón! (...) 35 people have already passed through my hands, Your Eminence, and some of them I have seen with a chance of recovery on their own (...) Karoski is clearly not one of them. Cardinal, on rare occasions His Eminence followed my advice. I beg you now, if you will: convince Karoski to join the Church of San Matteo.
    
    
    
  UACV Headquarters
    
  Via Lamarmora, 3
    
  Moyércoles, April 6, 2005, 12:03 am
    
    
    
  Paula Tom, please sit down and prepare to listen to Father Fowler's story.
    
  - It all started, at least for me, in 1995. In that short time, after I left the Royal Army, I became accessible to my bishop. Éste quiso aprovechar mi título de Psicología enviándome al Instituto Saint Matthew. ¿E ilií should I talk about él?
    
  Everyone shook their heads.
    
  "Don't deprive me." The very nature of the institute is the secret of one of the greatest public opinions in North America. Officially, it's a hospital facility designed to care for "problematic" priests and nuns, located in Silver Spring, Maryland. The reality is that 95% of its patients have a history of sexual abuse of minors or drug use. The on-site amenities are luxurious: thirty-five rooms for patients, nine for staff (almost all indoors), a tennis court, two tennis courts, a swimming pool, a recreation room, and a "leisure" area with billiards...
    
  "It almost looks more like a vacation spot than a mental hospital," Pontiero interjected.
    
  "Ah, this place is a mystery, but on many levels. It's a mystery on the outside, and it's a mystery for the prisoners, who initially see it as a place to retreat for a few months, a place to relax, although gradually they discover something entirely different. You guys know about the huge problem that has arisen in my life with certain Catholic priests over the past 250-241 years. It's very well known, from a public opinion perspective, that people accused of sexually abusing minors spend their paid vacations in luxury hotels."
    
  "And that was a year ago?" ask Pontiero, who seems deeply moved by the subject. Paola understands, as the sub-inspector has two children, aged between thirteen and fourteen.
    
  -No. I'm trying to sum up my entire experience as briefly as possible. When I arrived, I found a place that was deeply secular. It didn't look like a religious institution. There were no crucifixes on the walls, and none of the believers wore robes or cassocks. I spent many nights in the open air, in camp or on the front lines, and I never put down my telescopes. But everyone was scattered, coming and going. The lack of faith and control was obvious.
    
  -¿And don't tell anyone about this? -preguntó Dicanti.
    
  -Of course! The first thing I did was write a letter to the bishop of the diocese. I'm accused of being overly affected by my time in prison due to the "rigor of the castrated environment." I was advised to be more "permeable." These were difficult times for me, as I've experienced certain ups and downs during my career in the Armed Forces. I don't want to go into details, as it's irrelevant. Suffice it to say, they didn't convince me to enhance my reputation for uncompromisingness.
    
  - He doesn't need to justify himself.
    
  "I know, but my guilty conscience haunts me. In this place, the mind and soul weren't healed, they were simply nudged "a little" in the direction the intern was least disruptive. The exact opposite of what the diocese expected will happen.
    
  "I don"t understand," Pontiero said.
    
  "Me too," said Boy.
    
  "It's complicated. Let's start with the fact that the only psychiatrist with a degree on staff at the center was Father Conroy, the director of the institute at that short time. The others don't have degrees higher than those of nurses or licensed specialists. And he allowed himself the luxury of conducting extensive psychiatric examinations!"
    
  "Madness," Dikanti was surprised.
    
  -Completely. The best confirmation of my joining the Institute's staff was my membership in Dignity, an association that promotes the priesthood for women and sexual freedom for male priests. While I personally disagree with the association's tenets, it's not my place to judge them. What I can say is that I can judge the professional capabilities of the staff, and they were very, very few.
    
  "I don"t understand where all this is leading us," said Pontiero, lighting a cigar.
    
  "Give me five minutes, and I'll take a look. As is well known, Father Conroy, a great friend of Dignity and a supporter of Doors for Inside, completely misled St. Matthew's Church. Honest priests came, faced with some unfounded accusations (which there were), and, thanks to Conroy, ultimately renounced the priesthood, which had been the light of their lives. Many others were told not to fight their nature and to live their own lives. For a religious person, secularization and homosexual relationships were considered a success.
    
  - And this is a problem? -preguntó Dicanti.
    
  "No, that's not true, if that's what the person truly wants or needs." But Dr. Conroy wasn't concerned with the patient's needs at all. He set a goal first, and then applied it to the person, without knowing them in advance. He played God with the souls and minds of those men and women, some of whom had serious problems. And he washed it all down with good single malt whiskey. They watered it well.
    
  "Oh my God," Pontiero said in shock.
    
  - Believe me, I wasn't entirely right, Sub-Inspector. But that's not the worst part. Due to serious flaws in the selection of candidates during the 1970s and 1980s, many students entered my father's cat seminars who were unfit to lead souls. They were even unfit to behave as themselves. That's a fact. Over time, many of these boys began to wear cassocks. They did so much for the good name of the Catholic Church and, what's worse, for many. Many priests accused of sexual abuse, guilty of sexual abuse, did not attend the cárcel. They hid from view; they were moved from parish to parish. And some eventually ended up in Seventh Heaven. One day, everyoneí and, hopefully, they were sent into civilian life. But, sadly, many of them were returned to the ministry when they should have been behind bars. Dígra, dottora Dikanti, ¿is there any chance of rehabilitating a serial killer?
    
  -Absolutely none. Once you've crossed the border, there's nothing for you to do.
    
  "Well, it's the same with a pedophile prone to compulsive disorders. Unfortunately, in this area, there's no such blessed certainty as you have. They know they have a beast on their hands that needs to be hunted and locked up. But it's much more difficult for a therapist treating a pedophile to understand whether they've completely crossed the line or not. There was an instance when James had doubts about the maximum minimum. And that was the instance where there was something under the knife that I didn't like. "The edge, there was something there."
    
  -Déjeme adivinar: Viktor Karoski. Our killer.
    
  -The same.
    
  I laugh before intervening. An annoying custom you often repeat.
    
  - Father Fowler, would you be so kind as to explain to us why you are so sure that it was he who tore Robair and Portini to pieces?
    
  -Be that as it may. Karoski entered the institute in August 1994. Habí was transferred from several parishes, and his pastor passed the problems from one to the next. In all of them, there were complaints, some more serious than others, but none of them involved extreme violence. Based on the complaints collected, we believe that a total of 89 children were subjected to abuse, although they could have been children.
    
  - Damn it.
    
  - You said it, Pontiero. See Karoski's childhood problems. I was born in Katowice, Poland, in 1961, all...
    
  -Wait a minute, Father. ¿ So, he is 44 years old now?
    
  "Indeed, Dottore. He's 1.78 cm tall and weighs about 85 kg. He has a strong build, and his IQ tests yielded a quotient of 110 to 125, seconds per cubic meter, and 225 knots. He's made seven in school. It distracts him."
    
  - He has a raised beak.
    
  "Dottora, you're a psychiatrist, while I studied psychology and wasn't a particularly brilliant student." Fowler's acute psychopathic abilities emerged too late for him to have read the literature on the subject, as did the game: Is it true that serial killers are very intelligent?
    
  Paola allowed herself a half-smile to go to Nika and look at Pontiero, who grimaced in response.
    
  - I think the junior inspector will answer the question directly.
    
  -The doctor always says: Lecter doesn't exist, and Jodie Foster is obliged to participate in élittle dramas.
    
  Everyone laughed, not because of the joke, but to ease the tension a little.
    
  "Thank you, Pontiero. Father, the figure of the super-psychotic psychopath is a myth created by pelicula and the novels of Thomas Harris. In real life, no one could be like that. There were repeat killers with high coefficients and others with low coefficients. The big difference between them is that those with high coefficients usually act for more than 225 seconds because they are more than cautious. What means that they are recognized as the best at the academic level is a great ability to execute.
    
    -¿Y a nivel no académico, dottora?
    
    "On a non-academic level, Holy Father, I admit that any one of these bastards is smarter than the devil. Not clever, but smart. And there are some, the least gifted, who have a high quotient, an innate ability to carry out their despicable work and disguise themselves. And in one case, only one case to date, these three characteristics coincided with the criminal being a man of high culture. I'm talking about Ted Bundy."
    
  - Your case is very well known in my state. He strangled and raped about 30 women with the jack of his car.
    
  "36, Father. Let it be known," Paola corrected him, remembering the Bundy incident very well, as it was a required course at Quantico.
    
  Fowler, asintió, triste.
    
  -As you know, Doctor, Viktor Karoski was born in 1961 in Katowice, just a few kilometers from Papa Wojtyla's birthplace. In 1969, the Karoski family, consisting of her, her parents, and two siblings, moved to the United States. Her father found work at a General Motors factory in Detroit, and, according to all records, was a good worker, albeit very hot-tempered. In 1972, perestroika occurred, caused by the Piotr and Leo crisis, and Karoski's father was the first to hit the streets. At that time, my father received American citizenship and moved into a cramped apartment where the whole family lived, drinking away his compensation and unemployment benefits. He carries out his tasks meticulously, very meticulously. He became someone else and began to harass Viktor and his little brother. The eldest, from 14 to 241 years old, leaves for día from home, without más.
    
  "Caroski told you all this?" Paola said, intrigued and very sad at the same time.
    
  "This happens after intensive regression therapy. When I arrived at the center, his version was that he was born into a fashionable cat family."
    
  Paola, who was writing everything down in her small, official handwriting, passed her hand over her eyes, trying to shake off the tiredness before speaking.
    
  "What you're describing, Father Fowler, fits perfectly with the characteristics of a primary psychopath: personal charm, lack of irrational thinking, unreliability, lying, and a lack of remorse. Paternal abuse and widespread alcohol abuse by parents have also been observed in over 74% of known mentally ill individuals."
    
  -¿ Is the reason probable? -pregunto Fowler.
    
  -That's a good condition. I can give you thousands of cases where people grew up in unstructured families that were much worse than the one you describe and reached a completely normal adulthood.
    
  - Wait, dispatcher. He barely touched the surface of the anus. Karoski told us about his little brother, who died of meningitis in 1974, and no one seemed to care. I was very surprised by the coldness with which he recounted this episode in particular. Two months after the young man's death, the father mysteriously disappeared. Victor didn't say whether he had anything to do with the disappearance, although we think not, since he counted between 13 and 241 people. If we know that at this moment they start torturing small animals. But the worst thing for him was remaining at the mercy of an overbearing mother obsessed with religion, who even went so far as to dress him in pajamas so they could "play together." Apparently, he played under her skirt, and she told him to cut off her "bulges" to complete the costume. Result: Karoski wet his bed at 15. He wore ordinary clothes, old-fashioned or rough, because they were poor. At college, he suffered from ridicule and was very lonely. A man passing by made an unfortunate remark to his friend about his attire, and in a rage, he hit him repeatedly in the face with a thick book. Another man wore glasses, and the lenses were stuck in his eyes. Remain blind for life.
    
  -Eyes... as in cadeáveres. É it was his first violent crime.
    
  "At least, as far as we know, sir. Victor was sent to a penitentiary in Boston, and the last thing his mother said to him before saying goodbye was, 'I wish she'd aborted you.'" A few months later, he committed suicide.
    
  Everyone remained stunned silent. I do nothing to avoid saying something.
    
  - Karoski was in a correctional facility until the end of 1979. We have nothing from this año, but in 1980 I entered the seminary in Baltimore. His seminary entrance exam indicated that he had a clean record and that he came from a traditional Catholic family. He was 19 years old then, and he looked as if he had straightened up. We know almost nothing about his time in the seminary, but we do know that he studied to the point of insanity and that he was deeply resentful of the open homosexual atmosphere at Institute No. 9. Conroy insists that Karoski was a repressed homosexual who denied his true nature, but this is not true. Karoski is neither homosexual nor straight; he has no specific orientation. Sex is not ingrained in his identity, which, in my opinion, has caused serious damage to his psyche.
    
  "Explain, father," Pontiero asked.
    
  "Not really. I"m a priest and I"ve chosen to remain celibate. That doesn"t stop me from being attracted to Dr. Dikanti, who"s here," Fowler said, addressing Paola, who couldn"t help but blush. "So I know I"m heterosexual, but I freely choose chastity. In this way, I"ve integrated sexuality into my identity, albeit in an impractical way. Karoski"s case is different. The profound traumas of his childhood and adolescence led to a fractured psyche. What Karoski categorically rejects is his sexual and violent nature. He deeply hates and loves himself, all at the same time. This escalated into violent outbursts, schizophrenia, and finally, abuse of minors, echoing the abuse he suffered with their father. In 1986, during his pastoral ministry, Karoski had his first incident with a minor." I was 14, and there was kissing and touching, nothing out of the ordinary. We believe it wasn't consensual. In any case, there's no official evidence that this episode reached the bishop, so Karoski was eventually ordained a priest. Since then, he's had a mad obsession with his hands. He washes them thirty to forty times a day and takes exceptional care of them.
    
  Pontiero searched through the hundred grisly photographs displayed on the table until he found the one he was looking for and tossed it to Fowler. He flicked the Casó stele in mid-air with two fingers, exerting almost no effort. Paola secretly admired the elegance of the movement.
    
  Place two severed and washed hands on a white cloth. White cloth is a symbol of respect and reverence in the Church. There are over 250 references to it in the New Testament. As you know, Jesus was covered with a white cloth in his tomb.
    
  - Now he is not so white - Bromó Boy 11.
    
  -Director, I am convinced that you enjoy applying your tools to the canvas in questionón -confirmationó Pontiero.
    
  - No doubt about it. Continue, Fowler.
    
  "A priest's hands are sacred. With them, he performs the sacraments." This was still very much ingrained in Karoski's mind, as it later turned out. In 1987, I worked at the school in Pittsburgh where his first abuses occurred. His assailants were boys aged 8 to 11. He was not known to engage in any type of consensual adult relationship, homosexual or heterosexual. When complaints began to come in to their superiors, they initially did nothing. Afterwards, he was transferred from parish to parish. Soon, a complaint was filed about an assault on a parishioner, whom he had punched in the face without serious consequences... And eventually, he went to college.
    
  - Do you think if they had started helping you earlier, everything would have been different?
    
  Fowler arched his back in a gesture, his hands clenching, his body tensing.
    
  "Dear Deputy Inspector, we are not helping you and we will not help you. The only thing we have succeeded in doing is bringing the killer out into the street. And, finally, allowing him to elude us."
    
  - How serious was it?
    
  "Worse. When I arrived, he was overcome by both his uncontrollable urges and his violent outbursts. He had remorse for his actions, even if he repeatedly denied them. He simply couldn't control himself. But over time, with improper treatment, with contact with the scum of the priesthood gathered at St. Matthew's, Karoski became much worse. He turned and went to Niko. I lost my remorse. The vision blocked out the painful memories of his childhood. As a result, he became a homosexual. But after disastrous regressive therapy n..."
    
  -Why catastrophic?
    
  "It would have been somewhat better if the goal had been to bring the patient some peace. But I'm very afraid that Dr. Conroy has displayed a morbid curiosity about the Karoski case, reaching immoral extremes. In such cases, a hypnotist tries to artificially implant positive memories in the patient's memory; I recommend they forget the worst facts. Conroy forbade this action. It didn't make him remember Karoski, but it did make him listen to recordings of him, in a falsetto voice, begging his mother to leave him alone."
    
  "What kind of Mengele is in charge of this place?" Paola was horrified.
    
  -Conroy was convinced that Karoski needed to accept himself. He was the era of the solution. Debbie had to admit that he had a difficult childhood and that he was gay. As I told you before, I performed a preliminary diagnosis and then tried to put shoes on the patient. To top it all off, Karoski was administered a series of hormones, some of which were experimental, as a variant of the contraceptive Depo-Covetán. With the help of é ste fármaco, administered in abnormal doses, Conroy reduced Karoski's sexual response but increased her aggressiveness. The therapy went on for longer and longer, with no improvement. There were several instances when I was calm and simple, but Conroy interpreted this as a success of his therapy. In the end, the castration of mica occurred. Karoski can't get an erection and this frustration is destroying him.
    
  -¿Cuándo entró you're contacting él for the first time?
    
  - When I entered the institute in 1995. You talk a lot with [the doctor]. A certain trusting relationship had been established between them, which was broken, as I'll tell you now. But I don't want to get ahead of myself. See, fifteen days after Karoska entered the institute, he was recommended a penile plethysmograph. This is a test in which a device is attached to the penis with electrodes. This device measures the sexual response to certain conditions. men.
    
  "I know him," Paola said, like someone who says she was talking about the Boll virus.
    
  "Okay... He's taking it very badly. During the session, she was shown some terrible, extreme genes.
    
  -¿Sómo extremes?
    
  -Related to pedophilia.
    
  - Damn it.
    
  Karoski reacted violently and seriously injured the technician who controlled the machine. The guards managed to detain him; otherwise, he would have been killed. Because of this episode, Conroy should have admitted he was unable to treat him and committed him to a psychiatric hospital. But he didn't. He hired two strong guards with orders to keep a close eye on him and began regressive therapy. This coincided with my admission to the institute. After a few months, Karoski retired. His rages subsided. Conroy attributed this to significant improvements in his personality. They increased their vigilance around them. And one night, Karoski broke the lock on his room (which, for safety reasons, had to be locked from the outside at a certain time) and chopped off the hands of a sleeping priest in his own wing. He told everyone that the priest was unclean and had been seen "inappropriately" touching another priest. While the guards ran into the room from which the priest's screams were coming, Karoski washed his hands under the shower faucet.
    
  "The same course of action. I think, Father Fowler, that then there will be no doubt," said Paola.
    
  - To my astonishment and despair, Conroy did not report this fact to the police. The crippled priest received compensation, and several doctors from California managed to re-implant both of his arms, albeit with very limited mobility. Meanwhile, Conroy ordered security to be strengthened and a three-by-three-meter isolation cell to be built. This was Karoski's quarters until he escaped from the institute. Interview after interview, group therapy after group therapy, Conroy failed, and Karoski transformed into the monster he is today. I wrote several letters to the cardinal, explaining the problem to him. I received no response. In 1999, Karoski escaped from his cell and committed his first known murder: Father Peter Selznick.
    
  - Or we'll talk about it here. It was said that he committed suicide.
    
  "Well, that wasn't true. Karoski escaped from his cell by picking the lock with a cup and a piece of metal he'd sharpened in his cell to rip out Selznick's tongue and lips. I also tore off his penis and forced him to bite it. It took him three-quarters of an hour to die, and no one found out until the next morning."
    
  -What did Conroy say?
    
  "I officially classified this episode as a 'failure.' I managed to cover it up and force the judge and the county sheriff to rule it a suicide.
    
  "And they agreed to this? 'Sin más?'" Pontiero said.
    
  "They were both cats. I think Conroy manipulated you both, appealing to his duty to protect the Church as such. But even if I didn"t want to admit it, my former superior was truly frightened. He sees Karoski"s mind slipping away from him, as if consuming his will. día to día. Despite this, he repeatedly refused to report what happened to a higher authority, no doubt fearing losing custody of the prisoner. I write many letters to the Archbishop of Cesis, but they don"t listen. I spoke with Karoski, but I found no trace of remorse in him, and I realized that in the end they would all belong to someone else. Ahí, all contact between the two of them was severed. That was the last time I spoke with L. Frankly, that beast, locked in a cell, scared me. And Karoski was still in high school. Camaras were installed. Se contrató a más personal. Until one June night in 2000, he disappeared. Without más.
    
  -¿Y Conroy? What reaction?
    
  - I was traumatized. He gave me a drink. In the third week, he was blown up by the hógado and murió. Shame.
    
  "Don"t exaggerate," Pontiero said.
    
  "Leave Moslo, all the better." I was assigned to temporarily run the facility while a suitable replacement was sought. Archdeacon Cesis distrusted me, I believe because of my constant complaints about my superior. I only held the post for a month, but I made the most of it. We hastily restructured the staff, staffing it with professional personnel, and developed new programs for trainees. Many of these changes were never implemented, but others were implemented because they were worth the effort. Send a brief report to a former contact in the 12th Precinct named Kelly Sanders. He was concerned about the identity of the suspect and Father Selznick's unpunished crime and organized an operation to capture Karoski. Nothing.
    
  -What, without me? Disappeared? - Paola was shocked.
    
  "Disappear without me. In 2001, it was believed that Khabi had resurfaced following a mutilation crime in Albany. But it wasn"t him. Many believed him dead, but fortunately, his profile was entered into the computer. Meanwhile, I found myself working at a soup kitchen in Latino Harlem in New York City. Worked for several months, until yesterday. My former boss requested my return, as I believe I"ll be a chaplain again and castrating. I"ve been informed that there are signs that Karoski has returned to action after all this time. And here I am. I bring you a portfolio of relevant documents that you will collect on Karoski over the five years you will be dealing with," Fowler said, handing him a thick folder. A dossier, fourteen centimeters thick, fourteen centimeters thick. There are emails related to the hormone I told you about, transcripts of his interviews, periodicals in which he is mentioned, letters from psychiatrists, reports... It's all yours, Dr. Dikanti. Warn me if you have any doubts.
    
  Paola reaches across the table to pick up a thick stack of papers, and I can't help but feel a strong sense of unease. Clip the first photo of Gina Hubbard to Karoski's. She has fair skin, chaste or straight hair, and brown eyes. Over the years we've spent researching those empty scars that serial killers have, we've learned to recognize that blank stare deep in their eyes. From predators, from those who kill as naturally as they eat. There's something in nature that vaguely resembles this gaze, and it's the eyes of great white sharks. They stare without seeing, in a strange and frightening way.
    
  And everything was completely reflected in the pupils of Father Karoski.
    
  "Impressive, isn't it?" Fowler said, looking Paola over with a searching gaze. "There's something about this man, in his posture, in his gestures. Something indefinable. At first glance, it goes unnoticed, but when, shall we say, his entire personality lights up... it's terrifying."
    
  - And charming, isn't it, father?
    
  -Yes.
    
  Dikanti handed the photograph to Pontiero and Boy, who simultaneously leaned over it to examine the killer's face.
    
  "What were you afraid of, Father? Such danger, or looking this man straight in the eye and feeling stared at, naked? As if I were a representative of a superior race that had broken all our conventions?"
    
  Fowler stared at her, his mouth agape.
    
  - I believe, dottora, you already know the answer.
    
  "Over the course of my career, I've had the opportunity to interview three serial killers. All three left me with the feeling I just described to you, and others, far better than you or I, have sensed it. But that's a false sensation. One thing mustn't be forgotten, Father. These men are failures, not prophets. Human trash. They don't deserve an ounce of compassion."
    
    
    
  Progesterone Hormone Report
    
  sintética 1789 (depot-gestágeno inyectable).
    
  Trade name: DEPO-Covetan.
    
  Report Classification: Confidential - Encrypted
    
    
    
  For: Markus.Bietghofer@beltzer-hogan.com
    
  FROM: Lorna.Berr@beltzer-hogan.com
    
  COPY: filesys@beltzer-hogan.com
    
  Subject: CONFIDENTIAL - Report No. 45 on the 1789 hydroelectric power station
    
  Date: March 17, 1997, 11:43 AM.
    
  Attachments: Inf#45_HPS1789.pdf
    
    
  Dear Marcus:
    
  I am enclosing the preliminary report you requested from us.
    
  Tests conducted during field studies in ALPHA 13 zones revealed severe menstrual irregularities, menstrual cycle disturbances, vomiting, and possible internal bleeding. Severe cases of hypertension, thrombosis, CARD, and ACAs were reported. A minor issue arose: 1.3% of patients developed fibromyalgia, a side effect not described in the previous version.
    
  Compared to version 1786, which we currently sell in the United States and Europe, side effects have decreased by 3.9%. If the risk analysts are correct, we can calculate that over $53 million is in insurance costs and losses. Therefore, we are within the norm, which is less than 7% of profit. No, don't thank me... give me a bonus!
    
  Incidentally, the lab has received data on the use of LA 1789 in male patients to suppress or eliminate their sexual response. In medicine, sufficient doses have been shown to act as a myco-castrator. The reports and analyses reviewed by the lab suggest increased aggression in certain cases, as well as certain brain activity abnormalities. We recommend expanding the scope of the study to determine the percentage of subjects who may experience this side effect. It would be interesting to begin testing with Omega-15 subjects, such as psychiatric patients who have been evicted three times or death row inmates.
    
  I am pleased to personally lead such tests.
    
  Are we eating on Friday? I found a wonderful place near the village. They have truly divine steamed fish.
    
    
  Sincerely,
    
  Dr. Lorna Berr
    
  Research Director
    
    
  CONFIDENTIAL - CONTAINS INFORMATION AVAILABLE ONLY TO EMPLOYEES WITH AN A1 RATING. IF YOU HAVE HAD ACCESS TO THIS REPORT AND ITS CLASSIFICATION DOES NOT CONSISTENT WITH THE SAME KNOWLEDGE, YOU ARE RESPONSIBLE FOR REPORTING SUCH SECURITY VIOLATION TO YOUR IMMEDIATE SUPERVISOR WITHOUT DISCLOSING IT IN THIS CASE. THE INFORMATION CONTAINED IN THE PREVIOUS SECTIONS. FAILURE TO COMPLY WITH THIS REQUIREMENT MAY RESULT IN SEVERE LAWSUIT AND IMPRISONMENT OF UP TO 35 YEARS OR MORE THAN THE EQUIVALENT PERMITTED BY APPLICABLE U.S. LAW.
    
    
    
  UACV Headquarters
    
  Via Lamarmora, 3
    
  Moyércoles, April 6, 2005, 01:25
    
    
    
  The hall fell silent at Paola's harsh words. However, no one said anything. It was noticeable how the weight of the día weighed on their bodies, and the morning light on their eyes and minds. Finally, Director Boy spoke.
    
  - You will tell us what we are doing, Dikanti.
    
  Paola paused for half a minute before answering.
    
  "I think this has been a very difficult ordeal. Let's all go home and get a few hours of sleep. I'll see you back here at seven-thirty this morning. We'll start with furnishing the rooms. We'll go over the scenarios again and wait for the agents Pontiero has mobilized to find any clues we can hope for. Oh, and Pontiero, call Dante and let him know the meeting time."
    
  -Бьá площать -отчетокитеó éste, zumbón.
    
  Pretending nothing was happening, Dikanti walked up to Boy and grabbed his hand.
    
  -Director, I would like to speak with you alone for a minute.
    
  -Let's go out into the corridor.
    
  Paola preceded the mature scientist Fico, who, as always, gallantly opened the door for her and closed it behind him as she passed. Dikanti detested such deference to his boss.
    
  -Dígame.
    
  "Director, what exactly is Fowler's role in this matter? I just don't understand it. And I don't care about his vague explanations or anything like that."
    
  -Dicanti, were you ever called John Negroponte?
    
  - It sounds very similar to me. Is it Italian?
    
  -My God, Paola, get your nose out of that criminologist"s books someday. Yes, he"s American, but of Greek descent. Specifically, he was recently appointed Director of National Intelligence of the United States. He"s in charge of all the American agencies: the NSA, the CIA, the Drug Enforcement Administration, and so on and so forth and so on and so on and so on and so on and so on. This means that this sir, who, by the way, is Catholic, is the second most powerful man in the world, unlike President Bush. Well, well, Señor Negroponte personally called me on Santa Maria while we were visiting Robaira, and we had a long, long conversation. You warned me that Fowler was flying direct from Washington to join the investigation. He didn"t give me a choice. It's not just that President Bush himself is in Rome and, of course, informed of everything. He asked Negroponte to look into this matter before it reached the media. "We're lucky he's so knowledgeable about this topic," he said.
    
  "Do you know what I'm asking for?" Paola said, staring at the floor, stunned by the enormity of what she was hearing.
    
  "Ah, dear Paola... don't underestimate Camilo Sirin for a moment. When I showed up this afternoon, I called Negroponte personally. Seguín told me é ste, Jemás, before I spoke, and I don't have the slightest idea what I might get from him. He's just been around for a couple of weeks."
    
    -¿Y cómo supo Negroponte tan rápido a quién enviar?
    
    "It's not a secret. Fowler's friend from VICAP interprets Karoska's last recorded words before fleeing San Matteo Church as an overt threat, citing church officials, and how the Vatican reported it five years ago. When the old woman discovered Robaira, Sirin broke her rules about washing dirty rags at home. He made a few calls and pulled some strings. He's a well-connected son of a bitch with contacts at the highest level. But I think you already understand that, my dear.
    
  "I have a little idea," Dikanti says ironically.
    
  "Seguin told me, Negroponte, George Bush has taken a personal interest in this matter. The President believes he owes a debt to John Paul II, who makes you look him in the eye and beg him not to invade Iraq. Bush told Negroponte that he owes at least that much to Wojtyla's memory."
    
  -Oh my God. There won't be a team this time, right?
    
  -Answer the question yourself.
    
  Dikanti said nothing. If keeping this matter secret was the priority, I'll have to work with what I have. No mass.
    
  "Director, don't you think all this is a little tiresome?" Dikanti was very tired and depressed by the circumstances of the matter. He had never said anything like that in his life, and for a long time afterward, he regretted having uttered those words.
    
  Boy lifted her chin with his fingers and forced her to look straight ahead.
    
  "That surpasses all of us, Bambina. But Olvi, you can wish for everything. Just think about it: there's a monster that kills people. And you're hunting monsters."
    
  Paola smiled gratefully. "I wish you once again, for the last time, everything the same, even if I knew it was a mistake and that I would break the corazón." Fortunately, it was a fleeting moment, and he immediately tried to regain his composure. I was sure he didn't notice.
    
  "Director, I'm worried Fowler will be hanging around us during the investigation. I could be a hindrance."
    
  -Podía. And he could also be very useful. This man worked in the Armed Forces and is an experienced marksman. Among... other abilities. Not to mention the fact that he knows our prime suspect inside and out and is a priest. You will need to navigate a world you are not quite accustomed to, just like Superintendent Dante. Consider that our colleague from the Vatican opened doors for you, and Fowler opened minds.
    
  - Dante is an insufferable idiot.
    
  "I know. And it's also a necessary evil. All of our suspect's potential victims are in his hands. Even if we're only a few meters apart, it's their territory."
    
  "And Italy is ours. In the Portini case, they acted illegally, without regard for us. This is obstruction of justice."
    
  The director shrugged, as did Niko.
    
  -What will happen to the cattle owners if they condemn them? There's no point in creating strife between us. Olvi wants everything to be fine, so they can ruin it right then. Now we need Dante. As you already know, the éste are his team.
    
  - You're the boss.
    
  "And you're my favorite teacher. Anyway, Dikanti, I'm going to get some rest and spend some time in the lab, analyzing every last bit of whatever they bring me. I'm leaving it to you to build your 'castle in the air.'"
    
  Boy was already walking down the corridor, but suddenly stopped at the threshold and turned around, looking at her from step to step.
    
  - Just one thing, sir. Negroponte asked me to take him to the cabrón cabrón. He asked me for it as a personal favor. He... Follow me? And you can be sure that we will be glad that you owe us for the favor.
    
    
    
  Parish of St. Thomas
    
  Augusta, Massachusetts
    
  July 1992
    
    
    
  Harry Bloom placed the collection basket on the table at the bottom of the vestry. Take one last look at the church. There's no one left... Not many people gathered in the first hour of Saturday. Know that if you hurried, you'd arrive just in time to see the 100-meter freestyle final. You just have to leave the altar maid in the closet, change your shiny shoes for sneakers, and fly home. Orita Mona, his fourth-grade teacher, tells him every time he runs through the school hallways. His mother tells him every time he bursts into the house. But in the half mile that separated the church from his home, there was freedom... he could run as much as he wanted, as long as he looked both ways before crossing the street. When I'm older, I'm going to be an athlete.
    
  Carefully fold the case and put it in the closet. Inside was his backpack, from which he pulled out his sneakers. She was carefully removing her shoes when she felt Father Karoski's hand on her shoulder.
    
  - Harry, Harry... I'm very disappointed in you.
    
  Nío was about to turn around, but Father Karoska's hand prevented him.
    
  - Did I really do something bad?
    
  There was a change in tone in my father's voice. It was as if I was breathing faster.
    
  - Oh, and on top you play the role of a little boy. Even worse.
    
  - Father, I really don't know what I did...
    
  - What impudence. Aren't you late for praying the Holy Rosary before Mass?
    
  - Father, the thing is that my brother Leopold didn't let me use the baño, and, well, you know... It's not my fault.
    
  - Be silent, shameless one! Don't justify yourself. Now you admit the sin of lying is the sin of your self-denial.
    
  Harry was surprised to learn that I caught him. The truth is, it was her fault. Turn on the door, seeing what time it was.
    
  - I'm sorry, father...
    
  - It"s very bad that children lie to you.
    
  Jemas Habi had heard Father Karoski speak like that, so angry. Now she was starting to get really scared. He tried to turn around once, but my hand pinned him to the wall, really hard. Only it wasn't a hand anymore. It was a claw, like the one the Werewolf had on the NBC show. And the claw sank into his chest, pinning his face to the wall, as if it wanted to force him through it.
    
  - Now, Harry, take your punishment. Pull up your pants and don't turn around, otherwise it will be much worse.
    
  Niío heard the sound of something metallic falling to the ground. He pulled down Nico's pants, convinced he was in for a spanking. The previous servant, Stephen, had quietly told him that Father Karoski had once punished him and that it had been very painful.
    
  "Now accept your punishment," Karoski repeated hoarsely, pressing his mouth very close to the back of her head. "I feel a chill. You'll be served fresh mint flavoring mixed with aftershave." In a stunning mental pirouette, she realized that Karoski's father had used the same loci as her father.
    
  - ¡Arrepiétete!
    
  Harry felt a jolt and a sharp pain between his buttocks, and he believed he was dying. He was so sorry he was late, so sorry, so sorry. But even if he told Talon this, it would do no good. The pain continued, intensifying with every breath. Harry, his face pressed against the wall, caught a glimpse of his trainers on the floor of the sacristy, wished he had them on, and ran away with them, free and far away.
    
  Free and far, very far away.
    
    
    
  The Dikanti family's apartment
    
  Via Della Croce, 12
    
  Moyércoles, April 6, 2005, 1:59 am
    
    
    
  - Wish for change.
    
  - Very generous,grazie tante.
    
  Paola ignored the taxi driver's offer. Such urban crap, even the taxi driver complained about it because the tip was sixty cents. That would have been... ugh. A lot. Of course. And to top it all off, he very rudely stepped on the gas before driving off. If I'd been a gentleman, I would have waited for him to enter the portal. It was two in the morning, and, my God, the street was deserted.
    
  Make it warm for her little one, but still... Paola Cintió shivered as she opened the portal. Did you see the shadow at the end of the street? I'm sure it was his imagination.
    
  Close the door behind her very quietly, I beg you, forgive me for being so afraid of a blow. I ran up all three floors. The wooden stairs made a terrible noise, but Paola didn't hear it because blood was pouring from her ears. We approached the apartment door almost out of breath. But when we reached the landing, she got stuck.
    
  The door was ajar.
    
  She slowly, carefully unbuttoned her jacket and reached for her purse. He drew his service weapon and assumed a fighting stance, his elbow in line with his torso. I pushed the door open with one hand, entering the apartment very slowly. The light in the entryway was on. He took a cautious step inside, then yanked the door open very sharply, pointing into the doorway.
    
  Nothing.
    
  -Paola?
    
  -¿Mamaá?
    
  - Come in, daughter, I'm in the kitchen.
    
  I sighed with relief and put the gun away. The only time Gem had ever learned to draw a gun in a real-life situation was at the FBI Academy. This incident was clearly making her extremely nervous.
    
  Lucrezia Dicanti was in the kitchen, buttering cookies. It was the sound of the microwave and a prayer, drawing two steaming cups of milk from within. We placed them on the small Formica table. Paola glanced around, her chest heaving. Everything was in its place: the little pig with wooden spoons at its waist, the shiny paint they'd applied themselves, the remnants of the scent of gold hanging in the air. He knew his mother was Echo Canolis. She also knew she'd eaten them all and that's why I offered her the cookies.
    
  -Will I get to you with Stas? If you want to anoint me.
    
  "Mom, for God's sake, you scared me to death. May I know why you left the door open?"
    
  I almost screamed. Her mother looked at her worriedly. Shake off the paper towel from the robe and wipe with your fingertips to remove any remaining oil.
    
  "Daughter, I was up and listening to the news on the terrace. All of Rome is in the throes of revolution, with the Pope's chapel burning, the radio is talking about nothing else... decide that I'll wait until you wake up, and I saw you getting out of the taxi. I'm sorry."
    
  Paola immediately felt ill and asked to fart.
    
  - Calm down, woman. Take the cookie.
    
  -Thank you, Mom.
    
  The young woman sat next to her mother, who kept her gaze fixed on her. Ever since Paola was little, Lucrezia had learned to immediately grasp any emerging problem and give her the right advice. Only the problem cluttering his head was too serious, too complex. I don't even know if that expression even exists.
    
  -Is it because of some work?
    
  - You know I can't talk about it.
    
  "I know, and if you have that face like someone stepped on your toe, you spend the night tossing and turning. Are you sure you don't want to tell me anything?"
    
  Paola looked at her glass of milk and added spoonful after spoonful of azikar as she spoke.
    
  "It's just... a different case, Mom. A case for crazy people. I feel like a damn glass of milk into which someone keeps pouring azú kar and azú kar. The nitrogen no longer dissolves and only serves to fill the cup."
    
  Lucrezia, my dear, boldly places her open hand on the glass, and Paola pours a spoonful of azúcar into her palm.
    
  -Sometimes sharing it helps.
    
  - I can't, Mom. I'm sorry.
    
  "It's all right, my dear, it's all right. Would you like a cookie from me? I'm sure you haven't had anything for dinner," Ora said, wisely changing the subject.
    
  "No, Mom, Stas is enough for me. I have a tambourine, like at the Roma stadium."
    
  - My daughter, you have a beautiful ass.
    
  - Yes, that's why I'm still not married.
    
  "No, my daughter. You're still single because you have a really bad car. You're pretty, you take care of yourself, you go to the gym... It's just a matter of time before you find a man who won't be moved by your yelling and bad manners."
    
  - I don't think that will ever happen, Mom.
    
  - Why not? What can you tell me about your boss, this charming man?
    
  - She's married, mom. And he could be my father.
    
  "How exaggerated you are. Please convey this to me, and see that I don't offend him. Besides, in the modern world, the question of marriage is irrelevant."
    
  If you only knew, think of Paola.
    
  - What do you think, mom?
    
  -I'm convinced. Madonna, what beautiful hands she has! I danced a slang dance with this...
    
  - Mamaá! He might shock me!
    
  "Since your father left us ten years ago, daughter, I haven't gone a single day without thinking about él. But I don't think I'll be like those Sicilian widows in black who throw shells next to their husbands' eggs. Come on, have another drink, and let's go to bed."
    
  Paola dipped another cookie in milk, mentally calculating how hot it was and feeling incredibly guilty about it. Fortunately, it didn't last very long.
    
    
    
  From the Cardinal's correspondence
    
  Francis Shaw and la señora Edwina Bloom
    
    
    
  Boston, 02/23/1999
    
  Darling, be and pray:
    
  In response to your letter of February 17, 1999, I wish to express to you (...) that I respect and regret your grief and the grief of your son Harry. I recognize the enormous suffering he has endured, the enormous suffering. I agree with you that the fact that a man of God makes the mistakes that Father Karoski did could shake the foundations of his faith (...) I admit my mistake. I should never have reassigned Father Karoski (...) perhaps the third time that concerned believers like you approached me with their complaints, I should have taken a different path (...). After receiving bad advice from psychiatrists who reviewed his case, such as Dr. Dressler, who jeopardized his professional prestige by declaring him fit for ministry, he relented (...)
    
  I hope that the generous compensation agreed upon with his lawyer has resolved this matter to the satisfaction of all (...), since it is more than we can offer (...) Amos, if, of course, we can. Wishing to ease his pain financially, of course, if I may be so bold as to advise him to remain silent, for the good of all (...) our Holy Mother Church has already suffered enough from the slanders of the wicked, from Satan mediático (...) for the good of all of us. Our little community, for the sake of his son and for his own sake, let us pretend that this never happened.
    
  Accept all my blessings
    
    
  Francis Augustus Shaw
    
  Cardinal Prelate of the Archdiocese of Boston and Cesis
    
    
    
    Instituto Saint Matthew
    
  Silver Spring, Maryland
    
    November 1995
    
    
    
  TRANSCRIPT OF INTERVIEW #45 BETWEEN PATIENT #3643 AND DR. CANIS CONROY. PRESENT WITH DR. FOWLER AND SALER FANABARZRA
    
    
  D.R. CONROY: Hola Viktor, ¿podemos pasar?
    
  #3643: Please, doctor. This is his wife, Nika.
    
  #3643: Come in, please, come in.
    
  DOCTOR CONROY Is she all right?
    
  #3643: Excellent.
    
  DR. CONROY You take your medications regularly, attend group sessions regularly... You're making progress, Victor.
    
  #3643: Thank you, doctor. I'm doing the best I can.
    
  DOCTOR CONROY: Okay, since we've been talking about this today, this is the first thing we'll start with in regression therapy. This is the beginning of Fanabarzra. He's Dr. Hindú, who specializes in hypnosis.
    
  #3643 : Doctor, I don't know if I felt as if I had just been confronted with the idea of being subjected to such an experiment.
    
  DOCTOR CONROY: This is important, Victor. We talked about this last week, remember?
    
  #3643 : Sí, I remember.
    
  If you are Fanabarzra, if you prefer the patient to sit?
    
  Mr. FANABARZRA: Be your normal routine in bed. It's important that you're as relaxed as possible.
    
  DOCTOR CONROY Túmbate, Viktor.
    
  #3643 : As you wish.
    
    Sr. FANABARZRA: Please, Viktor, come and see me. Would you mind lowering the blinds a little, Doctor? That's enough, thank you. Viktor, take a look at the boy, if you're so kind.
    
  (IN THIS TRANSCRIPT, Mr. FANABARZRA'S HYPNOSIS PROCEDURE HAS BEEN OMISED AT THE REQUEST EXPRESSED BY Mr. FANABARZRA. PAUSES HAVE ALSO BEEN REMOVED FOR EASE OF READING)
    
    
  Mr. FANABARZRA: Okay... it's 1972. What do you remember about its smallness?
    
  #3643: My father... was never home. Sometimes the whole family waits for him at the factory on Fridays. Mom, on December 225th I found out he was a drug addict and that we tried to avoid his money being spent in bars. Make sure the fríili get out. We wait and hope. We kick the ground to keep warm. Emil (Karoska's little brother) asked me for his scarf because he has a dad. I didn't give it to her. My mother hit me on the head and told me to give it to her. Eventually we got tired of waiting and left.
    
  Mr. FANABARZRA: Do you know where your father was?
    
  He was fired. I came home two days after I got sick. Mom said Habiá was drinking and hanging out with prostitutes. They wrote him a check, but he didn't last long. Let's go to Social Security for Papa's check. But sometimes Papa would come forward and drink it. Emil doesn't understand why anyone would drink paper.
    
  Mr. FANABARZRA: Did you ask for help?
    
  #3643: The parish sometimes gave us clothes. Other boys went to the Rescue Center for clothes, which was always better. But Mom said they were heretics and pagans and that it was better to wear honest Christian clothes. Beria (the elder) found out that his decent Christian clothes were full of holes. I hate him for that.
    
  Mr. FANABARZRA: Were you happy when Beria left?
    
  #3643 : I was in bed. I saw him crossing the room in the dark. He was holding his shoes in his hand. He gave me his keychain. Take the silver bear. He told me to insert the matching keys into the él. I swear by Mama Anna Emil Llor, because she wasn't fired from the él. I gave him the ring of keys. Emil kept crying and throwing the ring of keys. Cry all día. I smash the storybook I have for him to shut him up. I tore it apart with scissors. My father locked me in my room.
    
  Mr. FANABARZRA: Where was your mother?
    
  #3643: A game of bingo in the parish. It was Tuesday. On Tuesdays they played bingo. Each cart cost a penny.
    
  Mr. FANABARZRA: What happened in that room?
    
    #3643 : Nothing . Esper é.
    
  Sr. FANABARZRA: Viktor, tienes que contármelo.
    
    #3643: Don't miss ANYTHING, understand, sir, ANYTHING!
    
    Sr. FANABARZRA: Viktor, something that's wrong. Your father locked you in his room and did something to you, didn't he?
    
  #3643: You don't understand. I deserve it!
    
  Mr. FANABARZRA: ¿What is this what you deserve?
    
  #3643: Punishment. Punishment. I needed a lot of punishment to repent for my bad deeds.
    
  Mr. FANABARZRA: ¿ What's wrong?
    
  #3643: Everything bad. How bad it was. About cats. He met a cat in a trash can full of crumpled periodicals and set it on fire. Cold! Cold in a human voice. And about a fairy tale.
    
  Mr: Was this a punishment, Victor?
    
  #3643: Pain. It hurts me. And she liked him, I know. I decided that it hurt too, but it was a lie. It's in Polish. I can't lie in English, he hesitated. He always spoke Polish when he punished me.
    
  Mr. FANABARZRA: Did he touch you?
    
  #3643: He was hitting my ass. He wouldn't let me turn around. And I hit something inside. Something hot that hurt.
    
  Mr. FANABARZRA: Were such punishments common?
    
  #3643: Every Tuesday. When Mom wasn't around. Sometimes, when he was done, he'd fall asleep on top of me. As if he were dead. Sometimes he couldn't punish me and would hit me.
    
  Mr. FANABARZRA: Did he hit you?
    
  #3643: He held my hand until he got tired of it. Sometimes after you hit me, you can punish me, and sometimes you can't.
    
    Sr. FANABARZRA: Did your father punish them , Viktor?
    
  I think he punished Beria. Never Emil, Emil was doing well, so he died.
    
  : Do good guys die, Victor?
    
  I know good guys. Bad guys never.
    
    
    
  Governor's Palace
    
  Vatican
    
  Moyércoles April 6, 2005 10:34 am.
    
    
    
  Paola waited for Dante, wiping the carpet in the hallway with short, nervous walks. Life had gotten off to a bad start. He'd barely gotten any rest that night, and upon arriving at the office, he was faced with a crushing pile of paperwork and obligations. Guido Bertolano, the Italian Civil Protection Officer, was extremely concerned about the growing influx of pilgrims flooding the city. Sports centers, schools, and all manner of municipal institutions with roofs and numerous playgrounds were already completely full. Now they were sleeping on the streets, by portals, in squares, and at automated ticket machines. Dikanti contacted him to ask for help in finding and capturing the suspect, and Bertolano laughed politely in his ear.
    
  Even if that suspect were the same Simo Osama, there's little we could do. Of course, he could wait until everything is over, Saint Barullo.
    
  -I don"t know if you realize this...
    
  "The dispatcher... Dikanti said she was calling you, didn't she? En Fiumicino is aboard Air Force One 17. There isn't a single five-star hotel that doesn't have a crowned test in the presidential suite. Do you understand what a nightmare it is to protect these people? Every fifteen minutes there are hints of possible terrorist attacks and false bomb threats. I'm calling the carabinieri from the villages within two hundred meters. Cré love me, your business can wait. Now stop blocking my line, please," he said, abruptly hanging up.
    
  Damn it! Why didn't anyone take her seriously? That case was a serious shock, and the lack of clarity in the ruling on the nature of the case contributed to any complaints on his part being met with indifference from the democrats. I spent quite a bit of time on the phone, but got little. Between calls, I asked Pontiero to come and talk to the old Carmelite from Santa María in Transpontina while she went to speak to Cardinal Samalò. And everyone stood outside the door of the Duty Officer's office, circling like a tiger sated with coffee.
    
  Father Fowler, seated modestly on a luxurious rosewood pew, reads his breviary.
    
  - It's times like this that I regret quitting smoking, dottora.
    
  -Is Tambié nervous, father?
    
  - No. But you try very hard to achieve this.
    
  Paola caught the priest's hint and let him spin her around. He sat next to her. I pretended to read Dante's report on the first crime, reflecting on the extra glance the Vatican superintendent had given Father Fowler when he introduced them at UACV headquarters from the Ministry of Justice. "Anna. Dante, don't be like him." The inspector was alarmed and intrigued. I decided that at the first opportunity I would ask Dante to explain this phrase.
    
  I returned your attention to the report. It was absolute nonsense. It was obvious Dante hadn't been diligent in his duties, which, on the other hand, was fortunate for him. I'll have to thoroughly examine the place where Cardinal Portini died, hoping to find something more interesting. I'll do it that same day. At least the photographs weren't bad. Close the folder with a bang. He can't concentrate.
    
  She found it difficult to admit that she was frightened. He was in the same Vatican building, isolated from the rest of the city, in the center of Città. This structure contains over 1,500 dispatches, including that of the Supreme Pontius. Paola was simply disturbed and distracted by the abundance of statues and paintings filling the halls. This was the result that Vatican officials had strived for for centuries, the effect they knew had on their city and visitors. But Paola couldn't allow herself to be distracted by her work.
    
  -Padre Fowler.
    
  -¿Sí?
    
  -¿ Can I ask you a question?
    
  -Certainly.
    
  - This is the first time I see a cardinal.
    
  - That's not true.
    
  Paola thought for a moment.
    
  - I mean alive.
    
  - And ¿cuáis this your question?
    
  -¿Sómo addresses the cardinal alone?
    
  "Usually with respect, yours," Fowler closed his journal and looked her in the eye, "Calm, caring. He's a man just like you and me. And you're the inspector heading the investigation, and an excellent professional. Behave normally."
    
  Dikanti smiled gratefully. Finally, Dante opened the door to the hallway.
    
  -Please come this way.
    
  The former office contained two desks, behind which sat two priests, assigned to phone and email. Both greeted visitors with a polite bow, who proceeded without further ado into the valet's office. It was a simple room, devoid of paintings or rugs, with a bookcase on one side and a sofa with tables on the other. A crucifix on a stick adorned the walls.
    
  In contrast to the empty space on the walls, the desk of Eduardo González Samaló, the man who took over the reins of the church until the election of the new Sumo Pon Fis, was completely filled, piled high with papers. Samaló, dressed in a clean cassock, rose from his desk and came out to greet them. Fowler leaned down and kissed the cardinal's ring as a sign of respect and obedience, as all cats do when greeting a cardinal. Paola remained reserved, bowing her head slightly-somewhat sheepishly. She hadn't considered herself a cat since childhood.
    
  Samalo takes the inspector's fall naturally, but with weariness and regret clearly visible on her face and back. She had been the most powerful authority in the Vatican for decades, but she clearly didn't like it.
    
  "Sorry to keep you waiting. I'm currently on the phone with a delegate from the German commission, who is very nervous. There are no hotel rooms available anywhere, and the city is in complete chaos. And everyone wants to be in the front row at the funeral of their ex-mother and Anna."
    
  Paola nodded politely.
    
  - I suppose the whole thing must be damned cumbersome.
    
  Samalo, I dedicate their intermittent sigh to each answer.
    
  -Are you aware of what happened, Your Eminence?
    
  "Of course. Camilo Sirin informed me promptly of what had happened. This whole thing was a terrible tragedy. I suppose under different circumstances I would have reacted much more harshly to these vile criminals, but frankly, I didn't have time to be horrified."
    
  "As you know, we must think about the safety of the other cardinals, Your Eminence."
    
  Samalo gestured towards Dante.
    
  -Vigilance made special efforts to gather everyone at Domus Sanctae Marthae earlier than planned, and to protect the integrity of the site.
    
  -¿La Domus Sanctae Marthae?
    
  "This building was renovated at the request of John Paul II to serve as the residence of the cardinals during the Cónclave," Dante interjected.
    
  -A very unusual use for an entire building, isn't it?
    
  "The rest of the año is used to accommodate distinguished guests. I even believe you stayed there once, didn't you, Father Fowler?" Samalo said.
    
    Fowler stood there, his head bowed. For a few moments, it seemed as if a brief, non-hostile confrontation had taken place between them, a battle of wills. It was Fowler who bowed his head.
    
  - Indeed, Your Eminence. I was a guest of the Holy See for some time.
    
  - I think you had problems with Uffizio 18.
    
  - I was called in for a consultation regarding events I actually took part in. Nothing but me.
    
  The cardinal seemed satisfied with the priest's visible uneasiness.
    
  "Ah, but of course, Father Fowler... you don't need to give me any explanations. His reputation preceded him. As you know, Inspector Dikanti, I am at peace with the safety of my brother cardinals thanks to our excellent vigilance. Almost all of them are safe here, deep within the Vatican. There are those who have not yet arrived. In principle, residence at the Domus was optional until April 15th. Many cardinals were assigned to communities or priestly residences. But now we have informed you that you must all remain together."
    
  -¿Who is currently in Domus Sanctae Marthae?
    
  "Eighty-four. The rest, up to one hundred and fifteen, will arrive within the first two hours. We've been trying to contact everyone to let them know their route to improve security. These are the ones I care about. But as I've already told you, Inspector General Sirin is in charge. You have nothing to worry about, my dear Nina."
    
  -¿In these one hundred and fifteen states á including Robaira and Portini? -inquirió Dicanti, irritated by the Camerlengo's leniency.
    
  "Okay, I suppose I actually mean one hundred and thirteen cardinals," I replied sharply. Samalo. He was a proud man and didn't like it when a woman corrected him.
    
  "I'm sure His Eminence has already thought out a plan for that," Fowler intervened conciliatorily.
    
  "Indeed... We'll spread the rumor that Portini is ill at his family's country house in Córcega. The illness, unfortunately, ended tragically. As for Robaira, certain matters related to his pastoral work prevent him from attending the Cónclave, although he is traveling to Rome to submit to the new Pontifical Sumo. Unfortunately, he'll die in a car accident, as I could very well take out a life insurance policy. This news will be made public after it's published in the Cé#243;nclave, not before."
    
  Paola is not overcome with amazement.
    
  "I see that His Eminence has everything tied up and tied up well.
    
  The Camerlengo clears his throat before answering.
    
  "It's the same version as any other. And it's the one that doesn't and won't give to anyone."
    
  - Besides the truth.
    
  - This is the Church of Cats, the face, the dispatcher. Inspiration and light, showing the way to billions of people. We cannot afford to lose our way. From this point of view, what is the truth?
    
  Dikanti twisted her gesture, even though she recognized the logic implicit in the old man's words. She thought of many ways to object to him, but I realized I wouldn't get anywhere. I preferred to continue the interview.
    
  "I assume that you will not inform the cardinals of the reason for your premature concentration.
    
  -Not at all. They were directly asked not to leave, or the Swiss Guard, under the pretext that there was a radical group in the city that had issued threats against the church hierarchy. I think everyone understood that.
    
  -¿ Meet the girls in person?
    
  The cardinal's face darkened for a moment.
    
  "Yes, go and give me heaven. I agree less with Cardinal Portini, despite the fact that he was Italian, but my work was always very focused on the internal organization of the Vatican, and I dedicated my life to doctrine. He wrote a lot, traveled a lot... he was a great man. Personally, I didn't agree with his politics, so open, so revolutionary.
    
  -¿ Revolutionary? -se interesó Fowler.
    
  "Very much, Father, very much. He advocated the use of condoms, the ordination of women to the priesthood... he would have been the pope of the 21st century. Adam was relatively young, barely 59 years old. Had he sat in the Chair of Peter, he would have presided over the Third Vatican Council, which many consider so necessary for the Church. His death was an absurd and senseless tragedy."
    
  "Did he count on his vote?" Fowler said.
    
  The Camerlengo laughs through his teeth.
    
  -Don't ask me seriously to reveal who I'm going to vote for, right, Father?
    
  Paola is back to take over the interview.
    
  - Your Eminence, you said that I least agree with Portini, but what about Robaira?
    
  -A great man. Completely dedicated to the cause of the poor. Of course, you have your faults. It was very easy for him to imagine himself dressed in white on the balcony of St. Peter's Square. It's not that I was doing anything nice, which I wanted, of course. We are very close. We wrote to each other many times. His only sin was pride. He always showed off his poverty. He signed his letters with the blessed pauper. To infuriate him, I always ended mine with the letter beati pauperes spirito 19, although he never wanted to take this hint for granted. But beyond his faults, he was a statesman and a churchman. He did much good throughout his life. I could never imagine him in Fisherman's sandals 20; I suppose because of my large size they cover him. with él.
    
  As Seguú spoke of his friend, the old cardinal grew smaller and grayer, his voice saddened, and his face expressed the weariness accumulated in his body over seventy-eight years. Even though I don't share his ideas, Paola Cinti sympathizes with him. He knew that, hearing these words, which are an honest epitaph, the old Spaniard regretted not being able to find a place to weep for his friend alone. Damned dignity. Reflecting on this, she realized she was beginning to look at all the cardinal's robes and cassocks and see the man who wore them. She must learn to stop viewing churchmen as one-dimensional beings, for the prejudices of the cassock could jeopardize her work.
    
  "In short, I believe no one is a prophet in their own land. As I've already told you, we've had many similar experiences. Good Emilio came here seven months ago, never leaving my side. One of my assistants took a photo of us in the office. I think I have it on the algún website."
    
  The criminal approached the desk and pulled an envelope containing a photograph from a drawer. Look inside and offer the visitors one of your instant offers.
    
  Paola held the photograph without much interest. But suddenly he stared at it, his eyes wide as saucers. I grabbed Dante's hand tightly.
    
  - Oh, damn it. ¡Oh, damn it!
    
    
    
  Iglesia de Santa Maria in Traspontina
    
    Via della Conciliazione, 14
    
    My ércoles, April 6 , 2005 , 10:41 am .
    
    
    
    Pontiero knocked insistently on the back door of the church, the one leading to the sacristy. Following police instructions, Brother Francesco had hung a sign on the door, written in shaky letters, stating that the church was closed for renovations. But beyond obedience, the monk must have been slightly deafened, as the sub-inspector had been banging on the doorbell for five minutes. Afterward, thousands of people crowded Via dei Corridori, simply nú larger and more disorderly than Via della Conciliazione.
    
  Finally, I hear a noise on the other side of the door. The bolts have been slid shut, and Brother Francesco sticks his face out the crack, squinting in the bright sunlight.
    
  -¿Sí?
    
  "Brother, I'm Junior Inspector Pontiero. You remind me of yesterday."
    
  The religious man nods again and again.
    
  "What did he want? He came to tell me that I can now open my church, blessed be God. With pilgrims on the street... Come and see for yourself..." he said, addressing the thousands of people on the street.
    
  - No, brother. I need to ask him a few questions. Do you mind if I go through?
    
  - Does it have to be now? I've been praying my prayers...
    
  -Don't take up too much of his time. Just be for a moment, really.
    
  Francesco Menó shakes his head from one side to the other.
    
  "What times are these, what times are these? There's death everywhere, death and haste. Even my prayers don't allow me to pray."
    
  The door opened slowly and closed behind Pontiero with a loud bang.
    
  - Father, this is a very heavy door.
    
  -Yes, my son. Sometimes I have trouble opening it, especially when I come home from the supermarket loaded down. No one helps old people carry their bags anymore. What times, what times.
    
  - It's your responsibility to use the cart, bro.
    
  The junior inspector stroked the door from the inside, looked closely at the pin, and with his thick fingers attached it to the wall.
    
  - I mean, there are no marks on the lock and it doesn't look like it's been tampered with at all.
    
  "No, my son, or, thank God, no. It's a good lock, and the door was painted last time. Pinto is a parishioner, my friend, good Giuseppe. You know, he has asthma, and paint fumes don't affect him..."
    
  - Brother, I am sure that Giuseppe is a good Christian.
    
  - It is so, my child, it is so.
    
  "But that's not why I'm here. I need to know how the killer got into the church, if there are any other entrances at all. Ispetora Dikanti."
    
  "He could have gotten in through one of the windows if he had a ladder. But I don't think so, because I'm broken. My God, what a disaster it would be if she broke one of the stained-glass windows."
    
  -¿ Do you mind if I look at these windows?
    
  -No, I don't. It's game.
    
  The monk walked through the sacristy into the church, brightly lit by candles at the foot of the statues of saints. Pontiero was shocked that so few of them were lit.
    
  - Your offerings, Brother Francesco.
    
  - Ah, my child, it was I who lit all the candles that were in the Church, asking the saints to receive the soul of our Holy Father John Paul II into the bosom of God.
    
  Pontiero smiled at the simple naiveté of a religious man. They were in the central aisle, from which they could see both the sacristy door and the front door, as well as the windows of the façade, the alcoves that once filled the church. He ran his finger along the back of one of the pews, an involuntary gesture repeated at thousands of Masses on thousands of Sundays. This was the house of God, and it had been desecrated and insulted. That morning, in the flickering candlelight, the church looked completely different than the previous one. The sub-inspector couldn't suppress a shudder. Inside, the church was warm and cool, in contrast to the heat outside. He looked toward the windows. The low más stood about five meters above the ground. It was covered with exquisite stained glass, unblemished.
    
  "It's impossible for a murderer to enter through the windows, loaded with 92 kilograms. I'd have to use grúa. And thousands of pilgrims outside would see him. No, that's impossible."
    
  Two of them heard songs about those standing in line to say goodbye to Papa Wojtyla. They all spoke of peace and love.
    
  - Oh, you idiots. They're our hope for the future, aren't they, Junior Inspector?
    
  - Куáнта разóн есть, бара.
    
  Pontiero scratched his head thoughtfully. No entry point other than doors or windows came to mind. They took a few steps, which echoed throughout the church.
    
  "Listen, brother, does anyone have a key to the church? Maybe someone who does the cleaning."
    
  "Oh, no, not at all. Some very devout parishioners come to help me clean the temple during morning prayers very early, and in the afternoon, but they always come when I'm home. In fact, I have a set of keys that I always carry with me, you see?" He kept his left hand in the inside pocket of his Marrón habito, where the keys jingled.
    
  - Well, father, I give up... I don"t understand who could have entered unnoticed.
    
  - It's okay, son, I'm sorry I couldn't help...
    
  - Thank you, father.
    
  Pontiero turned and headed towards the sacristy.
    
  "Unless..." the Carmelite thought for a moment, then shook his head. "No, that"s impossible. It can"t be."
    
  -¿What, brother? Dígame. Any little thing can be úas long as.
    
  -No, dejelo.
    
  - I insist, brother, I insist. Play what you think.
    
  The monk thoughtfully stroked his beard.
    
  -Well... there's an underground access to the neo. It's an old secret passage, dating back to the second church building.
    
  -¿Segunda construcción?
    
  -The original church was destroyed during the sack of Rome in 1527. It was on the fiery mountain of those who defended Castel Sant'Angelo. And this church, in turn...
    
  -Brother, please, sometimes leave out the history lesson, so it will be better. Hurry to the aisle, quickly!
    
  -Are you sure? He's wearing a very nice suit...
    
  -Yes, father. I am sure, encéñemelo.
    
  "As you wish, Junior Inspector, as you wish," the monk said humbly.
    
  Walk to the nearest entrance, where the holy water font stood. Onñaló repairs a crack in one of the floor tiles.
    
  - See this gap? Insert your fingers into it and pull hard.
    
  Pontiero knelt and followed the monk's instructions. Nothing happened.
    
  -Do it again, applying force to the left.
    
  The sub-inspector did as Brother Francesco had been ordered, but to no avail. But as thin and short as he was, he nonetheless possessed great strength and determination. I tried a third time and watched as the stone tore loose and slipped away easily. It was, in fact, a trapdoor. I opened it with one hand, revealing a small, narrow staircase leading down only a few feet. I took out my flashlight and shone it into the darkness. The steps were stone and seemed solid.
    
  -Okay, let's see how all this will be useful to us.
    
  - Junior Inspector, don't go downstairs, just one, please.
    
  - Calm down, brother. No problem. Everything is under control.
    
  Pontiero could imagine the face he would see before Dante and Dikanti when he told them what he had discovered. He stood up and began to descend the stairs.
    
  -Wait, Junior Inspector, wait. Go get a candle.
    
  "Don't worry, brother. The flashlight is enough," Pontiero said.
    
  The staircase led to a short corridor with semicircular walls and a room about six square meters in size. Pontiero raised his flashlight to his eyes. It seemed as if the road had just ended. In the center of the room stood two separated columns. They seemed very ancient. He didn't know how to identify the style; of course, he'd never paid much attention to it in history class. However, on what remained of one of the columns, he saw what looked like the remains of something that shouldn't be everywhere. It seemed to belong to the era...
    
  Insulating tape.
    
  This was not a secret passage, but a place of execution.
    
  Oh no.
    
  Pontiero turned just in time to prevent the blow that should have broken his cráneo só, which struck him in the right shoulder. Kay fell to the ground, wincing in pain. The flashlight flew off, illuminating the base of one of the columns. Intuition-a second blow in an arc from the right, which he landed on his left arm. I felt the pistol in its holster and, despite the pain, managed to draw it with my left hand. The pistol weighed on him as if it were made of lead. He didn't notice his other hand.
    
  Iron rod. He must have an iron rod or something like that.
    
  Try to aim, but don't strain yourself. He tries to retreat toward the column, but a third blow, this time to the back, sends him to the ground. He held the pistol tightly, like someone clinging to life.
    
  He placed his foot on her hand and forced it to release. The foot continued to clench and unclench. A vaguely familiar voice, but with a very, very distinct timbre, joined the crunch of breaking bones.
    
  -Pontiero, Pontiero. While the previous church was under fire from Castel Sant'Angelo, this one was protected by Castel Sant'Angelo. And this church, in turn, replaced the pagan temple that Pope Alexander VI ordered overthrown. In the Middle Ages, it was believed to be the tomb of the same Cimoran Mula.
    
  The iron bar passed and came down again, hitting the sub-inspector on the back, who was stunned.
    
  "Ah, but his fascinating story doesn't end there, ahí. These two columns you see here are the ones on which Saints Peter and Paul were bound before they were martyred by the Romans. You Romans are always so considerate of our saints."
    
  The iron bar struck again, this time on his left leg. Pontiero howled in pain.
    
  "I could have heard all of this above if you hadn't interrupted me. But don't worry, you'll get to know Stas Stolbov very well. You'll get to know them very, very well."
    
  Pontiero tried to move, but was horrified to discover he couldn't. He didn't know the extent of his wounds, but he didn't notice his limbs. I feel very strong hands moving me in the darkness, and a sharp pain. Sound the alarm.
    
  "I don't recommend you try shouting. No one can hear him. And no one has heard of the other two either. I take a lot of precautions, you understand? I don't like being interrupted."
    
  Pontiero felt his consciousness falling into a black hole, similar to the one he gradually sinks into in Suño. As in Suño, or in the distance, he could hear the voices of people walking from the street, a few meters above. Believe me, you'll recognize the song they were singing in chorus, a memory from your childhood, a mile away in the past. It was "I have a friend who loves me, his name is Jess."
    
  "I actually hate being interrupted," Karoski said.
    
    
    
  Governor's Palace
    
  Vatican
    
  Moyércoles, April 6, 2005, 1:31 pm.
    
    
    
  Paola showed Dante and Fowler a photograph of Robaira. A perfect close-up, the cardinal smiled tenderly, his eyes sparkling behind thick shell-shaped glasses. Dante stared at the photograph at first, confused.
    
  - The glasses, Dante. The missing glasses.
    
  Paola looked for the vile man, dialed the number like crazy, went to the door, and quickly left the office of the astonished Camerlengo.
    
  - Glasses! Carmelita's glasses! - Paola shouted from the corridor.
    
  And then the superintendent understood me.
    
  - Come on, father!
    
  I quickly apologized to the waitress and went out with Fowler to get Paola.
    
  The inspector hung up angrily. Pontiero hadn't caught him. Debí must keep this quiet. Run down the stairs, out to the street. Ten steps to go, Via del Governatorato ends. At that moment, a utility vehicle with an SCV 21 matrix drove past. Three nuns were inside. Paola frantically gestured for them to stop and stood in front of the car. The bumper stopped just a hundred meters from his knees.
    
  - Holy Madonna! Are you crazy, are you an Orita?
    
  The forensic scientist comes to the driver's door and shows me her license plate.
    
  "Please, I don't have time to explain. I need to get to St. Anne's Gate."
    
  The nuns looked at her as if she had gone crazy. Paola drove the car up to one of the atrás doors.
    
  "It's impossible from here, I'll have to walk through the Cortil del Belvedere," the driver told her. "If you want, I can give you a ride to Piazza del Sant'Uffizio, that's the exit. Order from Città in éstos días. The Swiss Guard is setting up barriers for the Co-Key."
    
  - Anything, but please hurry.
    
  When the nun was already sitting down first and pulling out the nails, the car fell to the ground again.
    
  "But has everyone really gone mad?" the nun cried.
    
  Fowler and Dante positioned themselves in front of the car, their hands on the hood. When Nun Fran squeezed into the front of the utility room, the religious rites were over.
    
  "Begin, sister, for God"s sake!" said Paola.
    
  It took the stroller less than twenty seconds to cover the half-kilometer metro line separating them from their destination. It seemed the nun was in a hurry to rid herself of her unnecessary, untimely, and awkward burden. I didn't have time to stop the car in Plaza del Santo Agricó when Paola was already running toward the black iron fence that protected the entrance to the city, with a nasty thing in her hand. Mark, contact your boss immediately and answer the operator.
    
  - Inspector Paola Dicanti, Security Service 13897. Agent in danger, I repeat, agent in danger. Deputy Inspector Pontiero is at Via Della Conciliazione, 14. Church of Santa Maria in Traspontina. Dispatch to as many units as possible. Possible murder suspect inside. Proceed with extreme caution.
    
  Paola ran, her jacket flapping in the wind, revealing her holster, screaming like a madwoman because of this vile man. The two Swiss Guards guarding the entrance were astonished and tried to stop her. Paola tried to stop them by putting her arm around her waist, but one of them eventually grabbed her by the jacket. The young woman stretched out her arms toward him. The phone fell to the ground, and the jacket remained in the guard's hands. He was about to give chase when Dante arrived, at full speed. He was wearing his Vigilance Corps identification card.
    
    -¡ D é tyan ! ¡ It ours !
    
  Fowler the line, but a little slower. Paola decided to take a shorter route. To get through Plaza de San Pedro, as all the crowds were more than small: the police had formed a very narrow line in the opposite direction, with a terrible rumble from the streets leading to it. As they ran, the inspector held up a sign to avoid problems with her teammates. Having passed the esplanade and Bernini's colonnade without any problems, they reached Via dei Corridori, holding their breath. The entire mass of pilgrims was alarmingly compact. Paola pressed her left arm to her body to conceal her holster as much as possible, approached the buildings, and tried to advance as quickly as possible. The superintendent stood in front of her, serving as an impromptu but effective battering ram, using all his elbows and forearms. Fowler cerraba la formación.
    
  It took them ten agonizing minutes to reach the sacristy door. Two constables were waiting for them, ringing the doorbell insistently. Dikanti, drenched in sweat, wearing a T-shirt, with her holster at the ready and her hair loose, was a real discovery for the two officers, who nevertheless greeted her respectfully as soon as she showed them, breathlessly, her UACV accreditation.
    
  "We received your notification. No one is answering inside. There are four compañeros in the other building."
    
  - ¿ Can I find out why the colleagues haven't come in yet? ¿ Don't they know that there might be a comrade inside?
    
  The officers bowed their heads.
    
  "Director Boy called. He told us to be careful. A lot of people are watching,
    
  The inspector leans against the wall and thinks for five seconds.
    
  Damn it, I hope it's not too late.
    
  -¿ Did they bring the "master key 22"?
    
  One of the police officers showed him a double-ended steel lever. It was tied to her leg, hiding it from the numerous pilgrims on the street, who had already begun to return, threatening the group's position. Paola turned to the agent who had pointed the steel rod at her.
    
  -Give me his radio.
    
  The policeman handed him the telephone receiver he wore attached by a cord to a device on his belt. Paola dictated brief, precise instructions to the team at the other entrance. No one was to lift a finger until he arrived, and, of course, no one was to enter or exit.
    
  "Could someone please explain to me where this is all going?" Fowler said between coughs.
    
  "We believe the suspect is inside, Father. I'm telling her this slowly now. For now, I want him to stay here and wait outside," Paola said. He gestured toward the stream of people surrounding them. "Do everything you can to distract them while we break down the door. I hope we make it in time."
    
  Fowler asintió. Look around for a place to sit down. There wasn't a single car there, as the street was cut off from the intersection. Mind you, you need to hurry. There are only people who use this to gain a foothold. Not far from him, he saw a tall, strong pilgrim. Deb was six feet tall. He approached him and said:
    
  - Do you think I can climb onto your shoulders?
    
  The young man gestured that he didn't speak Italian, and Fowler gestured to him. The other finally understood. "Kneel down on one knee and stand before the priest, smiling." "Esteó" begins to sound in Latin like the chant of the Eucharist and the Mass for the Dead.
    
    
    In paradisum deducant te angeli,
    
  In tuo advente
    
  Suscipiant te martyres... 23
    
    
  Many people turned to look at him. Fowler gestured for his long-suffering porter to step into the middle of the street, distracting Paola and the police. Some of the faithful, mostly nuns and priests, joined him in the prayer for the deceased Pope, which they had been waiting for for many hours.
    
  Taking advantage of the distraction, two agents creaked open the sacristy door. They were able to enter without attracting attention.
    
  - Guys, there's a guy inside. Be very careful.
    
  They entered one after another, first Dikanti, exhaling, drawing his pistol. I left the sacristy to the two police officers and left the church. Miró hurried to the Chapel of San Tomas. It was empty, sealed with the red seal of the UACV. I circled the chapels on the left, weapon in hand. He turned to Dante, who crossed the church, peering into each chapel. The faces of the saints moved restlessly along the walls in the flickering, painful light of hundreds of candles lit everywhere. They both met in the central aisle.
    
  -Nothing?
    
  Dante is not good with his head.
    
  Then they saw it written on the ground, not far from the entrance, at the foot of a pile of holy water. In large, red, crooked letters it was written
    
    
  VEXILLA REGIS PRODEUNT INFERNI
    
    
  "The banners of the king of the underworld are moving," said one of them in a displeased voice.
    
  Dante and the inspector turned around, astonished. It was Fowler, who had managed to finish the job and slip inside.
    
  -Believe me, I told him to stay away.
    
  "It doesn't matter now," Dante said, walking over to the open hatch in the floor and pointing it out to Paola. Calling the others along.
    
  Paola Ten made a disappointed gesture. His heart told him to go downstairs immediately, but he didn't dare do so in the darkness. Dante walked to the front door and slid the bolts. Two agents entered, leaving the other two standing by the door. Dante asked one of them to lend him the maglite he wore on his belt. Dikanti snatched it from his hands and lowered it in front of him, his hands clenched into fists, his pistol pointed forward. "Fowler, I'm going to give you a pequeña oracion."
    
  After a while, Paola's head appeared, hurriedly stepping outside. Dante salió slowly. Look at Fowler and shake your head.
    
  Paola runs out into the street, sobbing. I snatched her breakfast and carried it as far away from the door as I could. Several foreign-looking men waiting in line approached to show interest in her.
    
  -¿Need help?
    
  Paola waved them away. Fowler appeared beside her, handing her a napkin. I took it and wiped away the bile and grimaces. Those on the outside, because those inside can't be extracted so quickly. His head was spinning. I can't be, I can't be the Pontiff of the bloody mass you found tied to that column. Maurizio Pontiero, the superintendent, was a good man, thin and full of a constant, sharp, simple-minded bad mood. He was a family man, a friend, a teammate. On rainy evenings, he fussed inside his suit, he was a colleague, always paid for the coffee, always there. I've been by your side many times. I couldn't have done this if I hadn't stopped breathing, turning into this shapeless lump. Try to erase that image from his pupils by waving your hand in front of his eyes.
    
  And at that moment, they were her vile husband. He took it out of his pocket with a gesture of disgust, and she was left paralyzed. On the screen, the incoming call was with
    
  M. PONTIER
    
    
  Paola de colgó is scared to death. Fowler la miró intrigada.
    
  -¿Sí?
    
    - Good afternoon, Inspector. What is this place?
    
  - Who is this?
    
  -Inspector, please. You yourself asked me to call you anytime if I remember anything. I just remembered that I had to finish off his ero comrade. I'm very sorry. He's crossing my path.
    
  "Let's get him, Francesco. What's wrong with Viktor?" Paola said, spitting out the words angrily, her eyes sunken in grimaces, but trying to remain calm. "Hit him where he wants to. So he knows his scar is almost healed."
    
  There was a short pause. Very brief. I didn't catch him off guard at all.
    
  -Oh, yes, of course. They already know who I am. Personally, I remind Father Fowler. She's lost her hair since we last saw each other. And I see you, Ma'am.
    
  Paola's eyes widened in surprise.
    
  -¿Dónde está, you fucking son of a bitch?
    
  - Isn't it obvious? From you.
    
  Paola looked at the thousands of people crowding the streets, wearing hats and caps, waving flags, drinking water, praying, singing.
    
  -Why isn't he coming closer, Father? We can chat a little.
    
  "No, Paola, unfortunately, I'm afraid I'll have to stay away from you for a while. Don't think for a second that you've made a step forward by discovering the good brother Francesco. His life was already exhausted. In short, I must leave her. I'll have news for you soon, don't pay attention. And don't worry, I've already forgiven your previous petty advances. You are important to me."
    
  And hang up.
    
  Dikanti plunged headlong into the crowd. I walked around the naked people, looking for men of a certain height, holding their hands, turning to those who were looking the other way, removing their hats and caps. People turned away from her. She was upset, with a distant look, ready to examine all the pilgrims one by one if necessary.
    
  Fowler pushed his way through the crowd and grabbed her arm.
    
  -Es inútil, ispettora .
    
  -¡Суéлтеме!
    
  -Paola. Dejalo. He's gone.
    
  Dikanti burst into tears and cried. Fowler the abrazó. Around him, a giant human snake slowly approached the inseparable body of John Paul II. And V him was murderer .
    
    
    
  Instituto Saint Matthew
    
  Silver Spring, Maryland
    
    January 1996
    
    
    
  TRANSCRIPT OF INTERVIEW #72 BETWEEN PATIENT #3643 AND DR. CANIS CONROY. PRESENT WITH DR. FOWLER AND SALER FANABARZRA
    
    
  D.R. CONROY: Buenas tardes Viktor.
    
    #3643: More once Hello .
    
  D.R. CONROY: Día de terapia regresiva, Viktor.
    
    
    (WE SKIP THE HYPNOSIS PROCEDURE AGAIN, AS IN PREVIOUS REPORTS)
    
    
  Mr. FANABARZRA: It's 1973, Victor. From now on, you will listen to it, my voice and no one else's, okay?
    
  #3643: Yes.
    
  Mr. FANABARZRA: Now you can no longer discuss it with you, gentlemen.
    
  Doctor Victor participated in the test as usual, collecting ordinary flowers and vases. Solo in Two told me he saw nothing. Please note, Father Fowler: when Victor seems uninterested in something, it means it's deeply affecting him. I seek to elicit this response during the regression state to discover its origin.
    
  DOCTOR FOWLER: In a regressed state, a patient doesn't have as many protective resources as in a normal state. The risk of injury is too high.
    
  Dr. Conroy: You know this patient experiences profound resentment about certain aspects of his life. We must break down barriers and uncover the source of his evil.
    
  DOCTOR FOWLER: At any cost?
    
  Mr. FANABARZRA: Gentlemen, don't argue. In any case, it's impossible to show him images, since the patient can't open his eyes.
    
  DOCTOR CONROY Go ahead, Fanabarzra.
    
  Mr. FANABARZRA: At your order. Viktor, it's 1973. I want us to go somewhere you like. Who do we choose?
    
  #3643: Fire escape.
    
  Mr. FANABARZRA: Do you spend a lot of time on the stairs?
    
    #3643: Yes .
    
  Sr. FANABARZRA: Explícame por qué.
    
    #3643: There's a lot of air there. It doesn't smell bad. The house smells rotten.
    
  Mr. FANABARZRA: Rotten?
    
  #3643: Same as the last fruit. The smell comes from Emil's bed.
    
  Mr. FANABARZRA: Is your brother sick?
    
  #3643: He's sick. We don't know who's sick. No one cares for him. My mom says it's his pose. He can't stand the light and he's shaking. His neck hurts.
    
  DOCTOR Photophobia, neck cramps, convulsions.
    
  Mr. FANABARZRA: ¿Nobody cares about your brother?
    
  #3643: My mother, when she remembers. He gives him crushed apples. He has diarrhea, and my father doesn"t want to know anything. I hate him. He looks at me and tells me to clean it. I don"t want to, I"m disgusted. My mother tells me to do something. I don"t want to, and he presses me against the radiator.
    
  DOCTOR CONROY Let's find out how the Rorschach test images make him feel. I'm particularly concerned about the ésta.
    
  Mr. FANABARZRA: Let's go back to the fire escape. Siéntate allí. Tell me how you feel.
    
  #3643: Air. Metal underfoot. I can smell Jewish stew from the building across the street.
    
  Mr. FANABARZRA: Now I want you to imagine something. A large black spot, very large. Take up everything in front of you. At the bottom of the spot is a small white oval spot. Is it offering you something?
    
  #3643: Darkness. Alone in the closet.
    
  DOCTOR CONROY
    
  Mr. FANABARZRA: What are you doing in the closet?
    
  #3643: I'm locked in. I'm alone.
    
  DOCTOR FOWLER She is suffering.
    
  DR. CONROY: Calle Fowler. We'll get where we need to go. Fanabrazra, I'll write you my questions on this board. I'll write the wings verbatim, okay?
    
  Mr. FANABARZRA: Victor, do you remember what happened before you were locked in the closet?
    
  #3643: A lot of things. Emil murió.
    
  Sr. FANABARZRA: ¿Cómo murió Emil?
    
  #3643: I'm locked in. I'm alone.
    
  Sr. FANABARZRA: Lo sé, Viktor. Tell me, Mo Muri, Emil.
    
  He was in our room. Dad, go watch TV, Mom wasn't there. I was on the stairs. Or from the noise.
    
  Mr. FANABARZRA: What's that noise?
    
  #3643: Like a balloon with the air escaping. I stuck my head into the room. Emil was very white. I went into the salon. I talked to my father and drank a can of beer.
    
  Mr. FANABARZRA: ¿ He gave it to you?
    
  #3643 : In the head. He's bleeding. I'm crying. My father stands up, raises one hand. I tell him about Emil. He's very angry. He tells me it's my fault. That Emil was in my care. That I deserve to be punished. And start all over again.
    
  Mr. FANABARZRA: Is this the usual punishment? Your turn, huh?
    
  #3643: It hurts. I'm bleeding from my head and my butt. But it's stopping.
    
  Mr. FANABARZRA: Why does it stop?
    
  I hear my mother's voice. She's screaming terrible things at my father. Things I don't understand. My father tells her that she already knows about it. My mother is screaming and yelling at Emil. I know that Emil can't speak, and I'm very happy. Then she grabs me by the hair and throws me into the closet. I scream and get scared. I knock on the door for a long time. She opens it and points a knife at me. He tells me that as soon as I open my mouth, I'll nail him to death.
    
  Mr. FANABARZRA: What are you doing?
    
  #3643: I am silent. I am alone. I hear voices outside. Unfamiliar voices. It has been several hours. I am still inside.
    
  DOCTOR CONROY
    
  : How long have you been in the closet?
    
  #3643: A long time. I'm alone. My mother opens the door. He tells me that I've been very bad. That God doesn't want bad boys who provoke their dads. That I'm about to learn the punishment God has in store for those who misbehave. He gives me an old jar. He tells me to do my chores. In the morning, she gives me a glass of water, bread, and cheese.
    
  Mr. FANABARZRA: But how long were you there in total?
    
  #3643: It was a lot of mañan.
    
  Mr. FANABARZRA: You don't have a watch? You don't know how to tell time?
    
  #3643: I'm trying to count, but it's too many. If I press Oído really hard against the wall, I can hear the sound of Ora Berger's transistor. She's a little deaf. Sometimes they play béisbol.
    
  Mr. FANABARZRA: ¿ Cuá what matches have you heard?
    
  #3643 : Eleven.
    
  DR. FOWLER: My God, oh, that boy was locked up for nearly two months!
    
    Sr. FANABARZRA: ¿No salías nunca?
    
  #3643: Once upon a time .
    
  Sr. FANABARZRA: ¿Por qué saliste?
    
    #3643: I make a mistake. I kick the jar and knock it over. The cabinet smells terrible. I throw up. When Mom comes home, she's angry. I bury my face in the dirt. Then he drags me out of the cabinet to clean it.
    
  Mr. FANABARZRA: You're not trying to escape?
    
  #3643: I have nowhere to go. Mom is doing this for my own good.
    
  Mr. FANABARZRA: And when will I let you out?
    
  #3643: Día. It brings me to baño. It cleanses me. He tells me he hopes I've learned my lesson. He says the closet is hell, and that it's where I'll go if I'm not good, only that I'll never come out. He puts his clothes on me. He tells me I have a responsibility to be a child, and that we have time to fix this. It concerns my bumps. He tells me everything is wicked. That we're going to hell anyway. That there's no cure for me.
    
    Sr. FANABARZRA: ¿Y tu padre?
    
    #3643: Dad isn't here. He's gone.
    
  DOCTOR FOWLER Look at his face. The patient is very ill.
    
  #3643 : He's gone, gone, gone...
    
    DR. FOWLER: ¡Conroy!
    
  DR. CONROY: Está bien. Fanabrazra, stop recording and come out of the trance.
    
    
    
    Iglesia de Santa Maria in Traspontina
    
  Via della Conciliazione, 14
    
    My ércoles, April 6 , 2005 , 3:21 pm .
    
    
    
    For the second time this week, they crossed the checkpoint at the Las Puertas de Santa Mar in Transpontina crime scene. They did so discreetly, dressed in street clothes so as not to alert the pilgrims. A female inspector inside barked orders over the loudspeaker and radio in equal measure. Father Fowler addressed one of the UACV officers.
    
  -Have you already gone on stage?
    
  -Yes, father. Let's take off the CADáver and look around the sacristy.
    
    Fowler interrogó con la mirada a Dicanti.
    
    -I'm going down with you.
    
  -Are you safe?
    
  - I don't want anything to be overlooked. What is it?
    
  In his right hand the priest held a small black case.
    
  -Contains the names of the i#225;ntos Óleo. This is to give him one last chance.
    
  - Do you think this will serve any purpose now?
    
  -Not for our investigation. But if a él. Era un católico devoto, ¿verdad?
    
    - He was. And I didn't really serve him either.
    
  - Well, dottora, with all due respect... you don't know that.
    
  The two descended the stairs, careful not to step on the inscription at the entrance to the crypt. They walked down a short corridor to the cámara. UACV specialists had installed two powerful generators, which now illuminated the area.
    
  Pontiero hung motionless between two columns that rose truncated in the center of the hall. He was naked to the waist. Karoski had bound his hands to the stone with duct tape, apparently from the same roll the había had used on Robaira. Bogí has neither eyes nor a tongue. His face was horribly disfigured, and shreds of bloody skin hung from his chest like gruesome ornaments.
    
  Paola bowed her head as her father administered the last sacrament. The priest's shoes, black and immaculate, stepped through a pool of dried blood. The inspector swallowed and closed her eyes.
    
  -Dikanti.
    
  I opened them again. Dante was next to them. Fowler had already finished and was politely getting ready to leave.
    
  -¿Dówhere are you going, father?
    
  -Outside. I don't want to be a nuisance.
    
  "That's not true, Father. If half of what they say about you is true, you are a very intelligent man. You were sent to help, weren't you? Well, woe to us."
    
  - With great pleasure, dispatcher.
    
  Paola swallowed and began to speak.
    
  "Apparently, Pontiero entered the atrós's door. Of course, they rang the doorbell, and the fake monk opened it normally. Talk to Karoski and attack him."
    
  - But ¿dónde?
    
  "It had to be down here. Otherwise, there'll be blood up there."
    
  - Why did he do that? Maybe Pontiero smelled something?
    
  "I doubt it," Fowler said. "I think it was right that Karoski saw an opportunity and took it. I'm inclined to think I'll show him the way to the crypt, and that Pontiero will descend alone, leaving the other man behind."
    
  "That makes sense. I'll probably renounce Brother Francesco immediately. I don't apologize to him for looking like a frail old man..."
    
  -...but because he was a monk. Pontiero wasn't afraid of monks, was he? Poor illusionist, Dante laments.
    
  -Do me a favor, Superintendent.
    
  Fowler caught her attention with an accusing gesture. Dante looked away.
    
  -I'm very sorry. Continue, Dicanti.
    
  "Once here, Karoski struck him with a blunt object. We think it was a bronze candlestick. The guys from UACV have already taken it away for prosecution. It was lying next to the cadaver. After he attacked her and did this to her. He suffered terribly.
    
  His voice broke. The other two ignored the forensic scientist's moment of weakness. É sta tozió to hide it and restore their tone before speaking again.
    
  -A dark place, very dark. Are you repeating the trauma of your childhood? The time I spend locked in the closet?
    
  -Maybe. Did they find any deliberate evidence?
    
  - We believe that there was no other message except the message from outside. "Vexilla regis prodeunt inferni."
    
  "The banners of the king of hell are moving forward," the priest translated again.
    
  -¿Qué significa, Fowler? -ask Dante.
    
  - You should know this.
    
  - If he intends to leave me in Ridízadnica, he will not get it, father.
    
  Fowler smiled sadly.
    
  "Nothing can distract me from my intentions." This is a quote from his ancestor, Dante Alighieri.
    
  "He's not my ancestor. My name is a family name, and his is a given name. We have nothing to do with this."
    
  -Ah, discúlpeme. Like all Italians, they claim to be descended from Dante or Julio César...
    
  -At least we know where we come from.
    
  They stood and looked at each other from milestone to milestone. Paola interrupted them.
    
  - If you're finished with your comments on xenóPhobos, we can continue.
    
    Fowler carraspeó antes de continuar.
    
    "As we know, 'inferni' is a quote from the Divine Comedy. It's about Dante and Virgil going to hell. It's a couple of phrases from a Christian prayer, only dedicated to the devil, not God. Many wanted to see heresy in this sentence, but in reality, all Dante did was pretend to frighten his readers.
    
  - Is that what you want? To scare us?
    
  "This warns us that hell is near. I don't think Karoski's interpretation is going to hell. He's not much of a cultured man, even if he likes to show it. Any messages from me?"
    
  "Not in the body," Paola replied. He knew they were seeing the owners, and he was scared. And he found out about it because of me, because I persistently called Mr. Vil de Pontiero.
    
  -Have we found the vile man? - ask Dante.
    
  "They called the company on Nick's phone. The cell-location system shows that the phone is switched off or out of service. The last post I'll attach the fence to is above the Atlante Hotel, less than three hundred meters from here," Dikanti answers.
    
  "This is exactly where I was staying," Fowler said.
    
  - Wow, I imagined him as a priest. You know, I'm a bit modest.
    
  Fowler didn't take it for granted.
    
  "Friend Dante, at my age, you learn to enjoy the things in life. Especially when Tíli Sam pays for them. I've been in some bad places before."
    
  - I understand, father. I'm aware.
    
  -¿Can we say what you are hinting at?
    
  "I don't mean anything or anything. I'm simply convinced you slept in worse places because of your... service."
    
  Dante was much more hostile than usual, and it seemed to be Father Fowler who was the cause. The forensic scientist didn't understand the motive, but she realized it was something the two of them would have to resolve alone, face to face.
    
  -Enough. Let's go outside and get some fresh air.
    
  They both followed Dikanti back to the church. The doctor informed the nurses that they could now remove Pontiero's body. One of the UACV leaders approached her and told her about some of the findings she had made. Paola nodded. And he turned to Fowler.
    
  -¿ Can we concentrate for a little while, Father?
    
  - Of course, dottora.
    
  -¿Dante?
    
  -Faltaría más.
    
  "Okay, here's what we've found out: there's a professional dressing room in the rector's office and ashes on the desk that we believe match the passport. We burned them with a fair amount of alcohol, so there's nothing significant left. The UACV staff took the ashes away, we'll see if they can shed any light on anything. The only fingerprints they found on the rector's house don't belong to Caroschi, since they'll have to look for his debtor. Dante, you have work to do today. Find out who Father Francesco was and how long he's been here. Search among the regular parishioners of the church."
    
  - Okay, dispatcher. I'm going to dive into senior life.
    
  "Dédjez was joking. Karoski played along, but he was nervous. He ran off to hide, and we won't know anything about him for a while. If we can figure out where he's been in the last few hours, maybe we can figure out where he's been."
    
  Paola secretly crossed her fingers in her jacket pocket, trying to believe what he was saying. The demons fought tooth and nail, and also pretended that such a possibility was more than just a distant suspense.
    
  Dante returned two hours later. They were accompanied by a middle-aged señora, who repeated his story to Dikanti. When the previous pope died, Brother Darío, Brother Francesco, appeared. That was about three years ago. Since then, I have been praying, helping to clean up the church and the rector. Seguín la señora el Fray Toma was an example of humility and Christian faith. He firmly led the parish, and no one had anything to object to regarding him.
    
  Overall, it was a rather unpleasant statement, but at least keep in mind that it's a clear fact. Brother Basano died in November 2001, which at least allowed Karoska to enter the país.
    
  "Dante, do me a favor. Find out what the Carmelites of Francesco Toma-pidio Dicanti-know."
    
  - Good for a few calls. But I suspect we'll get very few.
    
  Dante walked out the front door, heading to his office in Vatican custody. Fowler said goodbye to the inspector.
    
  -I'll go to the hotel, change, and see her later.
    
  -To be in the morgue.
    
  - You have no reason to do this, dispatcher.
    
  -Yes, I have one.
    
  A silence fell between them, punctuated by a religious song that the pilgrim began to sing, and which several hundred people joined in. The sun disappeared behind the hills, and Rome was plunged into darkness, though the streets were bustling with activity.
    
  - Undoubtedly, one of these questions was the last thing the junior inspector heard.
    
  Paola Siguió is silent. Fowler had seen the process the female forensic scientist was going through too many times, the process after the death of a fellow poñero. First, euphoria and a desire for revenge. Gradually, she would fall into exhaustion and sadness as she realized what had happened, the shock taking its toll on her body. And finally, she would sink into a dull feeling, a mixture of anger, guilt, and resentment that would only end when Karoski was behind bars or dead. And maybe not even then.
    
  The priest wanted to put his hand on Dikanti's shoulder, but at the last moment he stopped himself. Even though the inspector couldn't see him, as his back was turned, something must have prompted his intuition.
    
  "Be very careful, Father. Now he knows you're here, and that could change everything. Besides, we're not entirely sure what he looks like. He's proven himself very good at camouflage."
    
  -So much will change in five years?
    
  "Father, I saw the photograph of Karoska that you showed me, and I saw Brother Francesco. Have absolutely nothing to do with this."
    
  - It was very dark in the church, and you did not pay much attention to the old Carmelite.
    
  "Father, forgive me and love me. I'm a good expert in physiognomy. He may have worn hairpieces and a beard that covered half his face, but he looked like an older man. He's very good at hiding, and now he can become someone else.
    
  "Well, I looked her in the eye, Doctor. If he gets in my way, I'll know it's true. And I'm not worth his tricks."
    
  "It's not just a trick, Father. Now he also has a 9mm cartridge and thirty bullets. Pontiero's pistol and its spare magazine were missing."
    
    
    
  Morgue Municipal
    
  Thursday, April 7, 2005, 1:32 AM
    
    
    
  He gestured for the Treo to perform the autopsy. The initial adrenaline rush had worn off, and I was increasingly feeling depressed. Witnessing the coroner's scalpel dissect his colleague-it was almost beyond his powers, but I'd managed it. The coroner determined that Pontiero had been struck forty-three times with a blunt object, likely the bloody candlestick recovered after it was discovered at the crime scene. The cause of the cuts on his body, including the slit throat, was being deferred until lab technicians could provide impressions of the incisions.
    
  Paola would hear this opinion through a sensual haze that would in no way lessen her suffering. He would stand and watch everything-everything-for hours, willingly inflicting upon himself this inhuman punishment. Dante allowed himself to pop into the autopsy room, asked a few questions, and immediately left. Boy was also present, but that was merely evidence. He soon left, stunned and dumbfounded, mentioning that he had spoken with L. just a few hours earlier.
    
  When the coroner finished, he left the CAD system on the metal table. He was about to cover his face with his hands when Paola said:
    
  -No.
    
  And the coroner understood and left without saying a word.
    
  The body had been washed, but a faint scent of blood emanated from it. In the direct, white, cold light, the small sub-inspector looked at least 250 degrees. Blows would cover his body like marks of pain, and huge wounds, like obscene mouths, would exude the coppery scent of blood.
    
  Paola found the envelope containing the contents of Pontiero's pockets. Rosary beads, keys, wallet. The count's bowl, a lighter, a half-empty pack of tobacco. Seeing this last object, realizing that no one was going to smoke these cigarettes, she felt very sad and lonely. And he began to truly understand that his comrade, his friend, was dead. In a gesture of denial, I grab one of the cigarette cases. The lighter heats up the heavy silence of the autopsy room with a living flame.
    
  Paola left the hospital immediately after her father's death. I suppressed the urge to cough and downed my mahonda in one gulp. Throw the smoke straight toward the prohibited smoking area, as Pontiero liked to do.
    
  And start saying goodbye to él.
    
    
  Damn it, Pontiero. Damn it. Shit, shit, shit. How could you be so clumsy? This is all your fault. I'm not fast enough. We didn't even let your wife see your cadávidet. He gave you the go-ahead, damn it, if he gave you the go-ahead. She wouldn't have resisted it, she wouldn't have resisted seeing you like this. My God, Enza. You think it's okay that I'm the last person in this world to see you naked? I promise you, that's not the kind of intimacy I want to have with you. No, out of all the cops in the world, you were the worst candidate for prison, and you deserved it. All for you. Clumsy, clumsy, clumsy, couldn't they even notice you? How the hell did you even get yourself into this shit? I can't believe it. You were always running from the Pulma police, just like my fucking dad. God, you can't even imagine what I was imagining every time you smoked that dope shit. I'll come back and see my dad in a hospital bed, puking up lungs in bathtubs. And I study everything in the evenings. For money, for the department. In the evenings, I fill my head with questions based on coughs. I always believed that he, too, would come to the foot of your bed, hold your hand while you walked away to the other block between Avemar and our parents, and watch as the nurses fucked him in the ass. This, this was supposed to be, not this. Pat, could you call me? Damn it, if I think I see you smiling at me, it'll be like an apology. Or do you think this is my fault? Your wife and your parents aren't thinking about it now, but they're already thinking about it. When someone tells them the whole story. But no, Pontiero, it's not my fault. It's yours and yours alone, damn it, you, me and you, you fool. Why the hell did you get into this mess? Alas, cursed be your eternal trust in everyone who wears a cassock. Karoski the goat, somo us la jago. Well, I got it from you, and you paid for it tí. That beard, that nose. He put on glasses just to screw us, to ridicule us. Very pig. He looked me straight in the face, but I couldn't see his eyes because of those two glass cigarette butts he held to my face. That beard, that nose. You want to believe that I don't know if I would recognize him if I saw him again? I already know what you're thinking. Let him look at the photos from the crime scene of Robaira in case she appears in them, even in the background. And I'm going to do it, for God's sake. I'm going to do it. But stop pretending. And don't smile, you asshole, don't smile. This is for God's sake. Until you die, you want to shift the blame onto me. I don't trust anyone, I don't care. Be careful, I'm dying. Who knows what the point of so much other advice is if you don't follow it later? Oh, God, Pontiero. How often do you abandon me. Your constant awkwardness leaves me alone in front of this monster. Damn it, if we're following a priest, cassocks automatically become suspicious, Pontiero. Don't come at me with this. Don't use the excuse that Father Francesco looks like a helpless, lame old man. Damn it, what did he give you for your hair. Damn it, damn it. How I hate you, Pontiero. Do you know what your wife said when she found out you were dead? He said, "She can't die. He loves jazz." He didn't say, "He has two sons," or "He's my husband and I love him." No, he said you like jazz. Like Duke Ellington or Diana Krall is a fucking bulletproof vest. Damn it, she feels you, she feels how you live, she feels your hoarse voice and the meowing you hear. You smell like the cigars you smoke. What you smoked. How I hate you. Holy shit... What is everything you prayed for worth to you now? Those you trusted have turned their backs on you. Yeah, I remember that day we ate pastrami in Piazza Colonna. You told me that priests aren't just men with responsibilities, they're not people. That the Church doesn't understand this. And I swear to you that I'll tell this to the face of the priest who looks out onto the balcony of St. Peter's, I swear to you. I'm writing this on a banner so big I can see it even if I'm blind. Pontiero, you fucking idiot. This wasn't our fight. Oh, my gosh, I'm scared, so scared. I don't want to end up like you. This table looks so beautiful. What if Karoski follows me home? Pontiero, you idiot, this isn't our fight. This is the fight of the priests and their Church. And don't tell me that's my mother too. I don't believe in God anymore. Rather, I do. But I don't think they're very good people. My love for you... I'll leave you at the feet of a dead man who should have lived thirty years before. He's gone, I'm asking you for some cheap deodorant, Pontiero. And now there remains the smell of the dead, from all the dead we've seen these days. Bodies that sooner or later rot because God failed to do good to some of his creations. And your super is the stinkiest of them all. Don't look at me like that. Don't tell me God believes in me. A good God doesn't let things happen, he doesn't let one of his own become a wolf among the sheep. You're just like me, like Father Fowler. They left that mom down there with all the shit they dragged her through, and now she's looking for stronger emotions than raping a child. And what about you? What kind of God allows blissful bastards like you to stuff him in a fucking refrigerator while his company was rotten and stick your whole hand in his wounds? Damn it, it wasn't my fight before, I was all about getting a little aim on Boy, finally catching one of these degenerates. But apparently I'm not from around here. No, please. Don't say anything. Stop defending me! I'm not a woman and I'm not! God, I was so clingy. What's wrong with admitting it? I wasn't thinking clearly. This whole thing clearly got the better of me, but it's over now. It's over. Damn it, it wasn't my fight, but now I know it was. It's personal now, Pontiero. Now I don't care about the pressure from the Vatican, the Sirin, the Boyars, or that whore who put them all on the line. Now I'm going to do anything, and I don't care if they break heads along the way. I'm going to get him, Pontiero. For you and for me. For your woman who's waiting outside, and for your two brats. But mostly because of you, because you're frozen, and your face isn't your face anymore. God, what the hell left you. What bastard left you, and that I feel alone. I hate you, Pontiero. I miss you so much.
    
    
  Paola walked out into the hallway. Fowler was waiting for her, staring at the wall, sitting on a wooden bench. He stood up when he saw her.
    
  - Dottora, I...
    
  - Everything is fine, father.
    
  -This is not okay. I know what you're going through. You're not okay.
    
  "Of course I'm not okay. Damn it, Fowler, I'm not going to fall into his arms writhing in pain again. That only happens in the skins."
    
  He was already leaving when I showed up with both of them.
    
  -Dikanti, we need to talk. I'm very worried about you.
    
  -¿Usted también? What's new? Sorry, but I don't have time to chat.
    
  Doctor Boy stood in his way. Her head reached his chest, level with his chest.
    
  "He doesn't understand, Dikanti. I'm going to remove her from the case. The stakes are too high right now."
    
  Paola alzó la Vista. He will remainó staring at her and speakingó slowly, very slowly, in an icy voice, in a tone.
    
  "Be well, Carlo, because I'm only going to say this once. I'm going to catch whoever did this to Pontiero. Neither you nor anyone else has anything to say about this. Am I clear?"
    
  - It seems he doesn't quite understand who's in charge here, Dikanti.
    
  -Maybe. But it"s clear to me that this is what I must do. Step aside, please.
    
  Boy opened his mouth to reply, but instead turned away. Paola guided his furious steps toward the exit.
    
  Fowler sonreía.
    
  -¿What's so funny, father?
    
  -You, of course. Don't offend me. You're not thinking about removing her from the case anytime soon, are you?
    
  The UACV director feigned reverence.
    
  "Paola is a very strong and independent woman, but she needs to focus. All that anger you're feeling right now can be focused and channeled."
    
  -Director... I hear the words, but I don"t hear the truth.
    
  "Okay. I admit it. I feel fear for her. He needed to know that within himself he had the strength to continue. Any other answer than the one he gave me would have forced me to get him out of the way. We"re not dealing with anyone normal."
    
  - Now be sincere.
    
  Fowler saw that behind the policeman and administrator lived a man. She saw him as he had been that early morning, in tattered clothes and with a torn soul after the death of one of his subordinates. Boy might spend a lot of time on self-promotion, but he almost always had Paola's back. He felt a strong attraction to her; it was obvious.
    
  - Father Fowler, I must ask you for a favor.
    
  -Not really.
    
  "So he's speaking?" Boy was surprised.
    
  "He shouldn't ask me about this. I'll take care of it, much to her chagrin. For better or for worse, there are only three of us left. Fabio Dante, Dikanti, and myself. We'll have to deal with the Común."
    
    
    
  UACV Headquarters
    
  Via Lamarmora, 3
    
  Thursday, April 7, 2005, 08:15.
    
    
    
  "You can't trust Fowler, Dikanti. He's a murderer."
    
  Paola raised her somber gaze to Caroschi's file. He had slept only a few hours and returned to his desk just as dawn was breaking. This was unusual: Paola was the type who liked a long breakfast, a leisurely commute to work, and then trudging on well into the night. Pontiero insisted that he thus miss the Roman sunrise. The inspector didn't appreciate this mother, for she celebrated her friend in a completely different way, but from her office, the dawn was particularly beautiful. Light lazily crept over the hills of Rome, while rays lingered on every building, every ledge, welcoming the art and beauty of the Eternal City. The shapes and colors of bodies revealed themselves so delicately, as if someone had knocked on the door and asked permission. But the one who entered without knocking and with an unexpected accusation was Fabio Dante. The superintendent had arrived half an hour earlier than scheduled. He had an envelope in his hand and snakes in his mouth.
    
  - Dante, have you been drinking?
    
  -Nothing of the sort. I'm telling him he's a killer. Remember how I told you not to trust him? His name sent a ripple through my mind. You know, a memory deep in my soul. Because I did a little research into his supposed military connections.
    
  Paola sorbió cafeé every time when yaáe frío. I was intrigued.
    
  -Isn't he a military man?
    
  -Oh, of course it is. A military chapel. But that's not your order from the Force Aérea. He's from the CIA.
    
  -¿CIA? You're kidding.
    
  -No, Dikanti. Fowler isn't one to joke. Listen: I was born in 1951 into a wealthy family. My father is in the pharmaceutical industry or something like that. I studied psychology at Princeton. I graduated with a twenty-five and a summa cum laude degree.
    
  - Magna cum laude . My qualifications are ximaón. Then you lied to me. He said he wasn't a particularly brilliant student.
    
  "He lied to her about that and many other things. He didn't go pick up his high school diploma. Apparently, he had a falling out with his father and enlisted in 1971. He volunteered at the height of the Vietnam War. He trained for five months in Virginia and ten months in Vietnam as a lieutenant.
    
  -¿ Wasn't he a little young for a lieutenant?
    
  -Is this a joke? A volunteer college graduate? I'm sure he'll think about making him a general. It's unknown what happened to his head in those days, but I didn't return to the United States after the war. He studied at a seminary in West Germany and was ordained a priest in 1977. There are traces of him in many places afterward: Cambodia, Afghanistan, Romania. We know he was visiting China and had to leave in a hurry.
    
  - None of this justifies the fact that he is a CIA agent.
    
  "Dicanti, it's all here." As he spoke, he showed Paola photographs, the largest of which were black and white. In them, you see a strangely youthful Fowler, who gradually lost his hair over time, as my genes approached the present. He saw Fowler on a pile of earthen bags in the jungle, surrounded by soldiers. He wore a lieutenant's stripes. She saw him in the infirmary next to a smiling soldier. He saw him as the day of his ordination, having received the same communion in Rome from the same Simo Paulo VI. She saw him in a large square with airplanes in the background, already dressed as a soldier, surrounded by soldiers...
    
  -Since when is this ésta?
    
  Dante consult his notes.
    
    - It's 1977. Tras su ordenación Fowler volvió a Alemania, a la Base Aérea de Spangdahlem. Like a military chapel .
    
  - Then his story matches.
    
  -Almost... but not quite. In the file, John Abernathy Fowler, son of Marcus and Daphne Fowler, a U.S. Air Force lieutenant, receives a promotion and pay after successfully completing training in "field and counterintelligence specialties." In West Germany. At the height of the war, the Fria.
    
  Paola made an ambiguous gesture. He hadn't seen it clearly just now.
    
  -Wait, Dikanti, this isn't the end. As I told you before, I've been to many places. In 1983, he disappears for several months. The last person who knows anything about him is a priest from Virginia.
    
  Ah, Paola is starting to give in. A soldier missing in action for months in Virginia sends him to one place: CIA headquarters in Langley.
    
  -Continue, Dante.
    
  In 1984, Fowler briefly reappears in Boston. His parents died in a car accident in July. He goes to a notary's office and asks him to divide all his money and property among the poor. Sign the necessary papers and leave. According to the notary, the total value of his parents' and company's assets was eighty-and-a-half million dollars.
    
  Dikanti let out an inarticulate, frustrated whistle of pure astonishment.
    
  -It's a lot of money, and I got it in 1984.
    
  -Well, he's really out of it. It's a shame I didn't meet him sooner, huh, Dikanti?
    
  -¿Qué insinúa, Dante?
    
  "Nothing, nothing. Well, to top off the madness, Fowler leaves for France and, of all countries, for Honduras. He's appointed chapel commander of the El Avocado military base, already a major. And here he becomes a killer.
    
  The next set of photographs leaves Paola frozen. Rows of corpses lie in dusty mass graves. Workers with shovels and masks that barely conceal the horror on their faces. Bodies, dug up, rotting in the sun. Men, women, and children.
    
  -¿God, Iío, what is this?
    
  -What about your knowledge of history? I feel sorry for you. I had to look it up online, and all that. Apparently, there was a Sandinista revolution in Nicaragua. The counterrevolution, called the Nicaraguan counterrevolution, sought to restore a right-wing government to power. The Ronald Reagan government is supporting guerrilla rebels, who in many cases would be better described as terrorists, thugs, and thugs. And why can't you guess who the Honduran ambassador was during that brief period?
    
  Paola began to make ends meet at great speed.
    
  -John Negroponte.
    
  "A prize for a black-haired beauty! The founder of the Avocado Air Base, on the same border with Nicaragua, a training base for thousands of Contra guerrillas. "It was a detention and torture center, more akin to a concentration camp than a military base in a democratic country." 225;tico." Those very beautiful and rich photographs I showed you were taken ten years ago. 185 men, women, and children lived in those pits. And it is believed that there is simply an indeterminate number of bodies, perhaps as many as 300, buried in the mountains.
    
  "My God, how terrible this all is." The horror of seeing these photographs, however, didn't stop Paola from making an effort to give Fowler the benefit of the doubt. But that doesn't prove anything either.
    
  - I was all... It was a torture camp chapel, by God! Who do you think you're going to address the condemned before they die? Don't you know?
    
  Dikanti looked at him silently.
    
  - Okay, do you want anything from me? There"s plenty of material. The Uffizi dossier. In 1993, he was summoned to Rome to testify in the murder of 32 nuns seven years earlier. The nuns had fled Nicaragua and ended up in El Avocado. They were raped, taken for a ride in a Helicopter, and finally, a plaf, a nun"s flatbread. By the way, I"m also announcing the disappearance of 12 Catholic missionaries. The basis for the accusation was that he was aware of everything that happened and that he failed to condemn these egregious cases of human rights violations. For all intents and purposes, I"m as guilty as if I had been the one piloting the Helicopter.
    
  -And what does the Holy Fast dictate?
    
  "Well, we didn't have enough evidence to convict him. He's fighting for his hair. It's, like, disgraced both sides. I think I left the CIA of my own free will. He faltered for a while, and Ahab went to St. Matthew's."
    
  Paola looked at the photographs for quite a long time.
    
  - Dante, I am going to ask you a very, very serious question. Are you, as a citizen of the Vatican, claiming that the Holy Office is a neglected institution?
    
  - No, inspector.
    
  -¿ Dare I say that she is not marrying anyone?
    
  Now go wherever you want, Paola.
    
  - So, Superintendent, the strict institution of your Vatican State could find no evidence of Fowler's guilt, and you burst into my office, declaring that he is a murderer, and asking me not to find him guilty.#237;e in él?
    
  The aforementioned man stood up, became enraged and leaned over Dikanti's table.
    
  "Cheme, my dear... don't think I don't know the look in your eyes at that pseudo-priest. By some unfortunate twist of fate, we're supposed to hunt down that fucking monster on his orders, and I don't want him thinking about skirts. He's already lost his teammate, and I don't want that American watching my back when we run into Karoski. I want you to know how to react to this. He seems very devoted to his father... he's also on the side of his compatriot."
    
  Paola stood up and calmly crossed her face twice. "Place plus." Those were two champion slaps, the kind that deliver double-takes well. Dante was so surprised and humiliated that he didn't even know how to react. He would remain nailed to the spot, his mouth open and his cheeks flushed.
    
  -Now, allow me to introduce you, Superintendent Dante. If we're stuck on this 'damn investigation' of three people, it's because their Church doesn't want it known that a monster who raped children and was castrated in one of their slums is killing the cardinals he murdered. Some of them must choose their mandamus. This, and nothing else, is the cause of Pontiero's death. I remind him that it was you who came to ask for our help. Apparently, his organization is excellent when it comes to gathering information on a priest's activities in a Third World jungle, but he's not so good at controlling a sex offender who has relapsed dozens of times over ten years, in full view of his superiors and in a democratic spirit. So let him get his pat out of here before he starts thinking his problem is that he's jealous of Fowler. And don't come back until you're ready to work as a team. Got it?
    
  Dante regained his composure enough to take a deep breath and turn around. Just then, Fowler entered the office, and the superintendent expressed his disappointment that I'd thrown the photographs he'd been holding in his face. Dante scurried away, not even remembering to slam the door, so furious was he.
    
  The inspector felt immense relief from two things: first, that she had the chance to do what, as you might have guessed, she had been meaning to do several times. And second, that I was able to do it in private. If such a situation had happened to anyone present or outside, Dante would not have forgotten Jem and his retaliatory slaps. No man forgets things, like. There are ways to analyze the situation and calm down a little. Miró de reojo a Fowler. É stand motionless by the door, staring at the photographs that now cover the office floor.
    
  Paola sat down, took a sip of coffee and, without raising her head from Karoski"s file, said:
    
  "I think you have something to tell me, Holy Father."
    
    
    
    Instituto Saint Matthew
    
  Silver Spring, Maryland
    
    April 1997
    
    
    
  TRANSCRIPT OF INTERVIEW #11 BETWEEN PATIENT #3643 AND DR. FOWLER
    
    
    D.R. FOWLER: Buenas tardes, padre Karoski.
    
    #3643 : Come on, come on.
    
  DOCTOR FOWLER
    
  #3643: His attitude was offensive and I actually asked him to leave.
    
  DR. FOWLER: What exactly do you find offensive about him?
    
  #3643: Father Conroy questions the immutable truths of our Faith.
    
    D.R. FOWLER: Póngame un ejemplo.
    
    #3643: Claims the devil is an overrated concept! Finds it very interesting to see this concept thrust a trident into his buttocks.
    
  DOCTOR FOWLER: Do you think you're there to see it?
    
  #3643: It was a way of speaking.
    
  DOCTOR FOWLER: You believe in hell, don't you?
    
  #3643: With all my might.
    
  D.R. FOWLER: ¿Cree merecérselo?
    
  #3643: I am a soldier of Christ.
    
  DOCTOR FOWLER
    
  #3643: Since when?
    
  DOCTOR FOWLER
    
  #3643: If he is a good soldier, yes.
    
  DOCTOR FOWLER: Father, I must leave you a book which I think you will find very useful. I wrote it to Saint Augustine. It is a book about humility and inner struggle.
    
  #3643: I'd be glad to read this.
    
  DOCTOR FOWLER: Do you believe you'll go to heaven when you die?
    
    #3643: Me sure .
    
    DOCTOR
    
  #3643 :...
    
  DR. FOWLER: Let's say you're standing at the gates of heaven. God weighs your good deeds and your evil deeds, and the faithful are balanced on the scales. So he suggests you call anyone to clear your doubts. What do you think?
    
  #3643: Me Not sure .
    
  D.R. FOWLER: Permítame que le sugiera unos nombres: Leopold, Jamie, Lewis, Arthur...
    
    #3643: These names mean nothing to me.
    
    D.R. FOWLER:...Harry, Michael, Johnnie, Grant...
    
  #3643: С á fill .
    
  D.R. FOWLER:...Paul, Sammy, Patrick...
    
  #3643: I I say to him shut up !
    
  D.R. FOWLER:...Jonathan, Aaron, Samuel...
    
    #3643: ¡¡¡ ENOUGH!!!
    
    
  (In the background, a short, indistinct noise of struggle can be heard)
    
    
  DOCTOR FOWLER: What I am clutching between my fingers, my thumb and forefinger, is your cane, Father Karoski. Needless to say, being aún má is painful unless you calm down. Make the gesture with your left hand, if you understand me. Good. Now tell me if you are calm. We can wait as long as it takes. Already? Good. Here, some water.
    
  #3643 : Thank you.
    
  D.R. FOWLER: Siéntese, por favor.
    
  #3643: I'm feeling better already. I don't know what happened to me.
    
  DOCTOR FOWLER Just as we both know that the children on the list I gave are not supposed to speak in his favor when he stands before the Almighty, Father.
    
  #3643 :...
    
  DOCTOR FOWLER: You won't say anything?
    
  #3643 : You know nothing about hell.
    
  DR. FOWLER: Is that so? You're mistaken: I saw it with my own eyes. Now I'll turn off the recorder and tell you something that will surely interest you.
    
    
    
  UACV Headquarters
    
  Via Lamarmora, 3
    
  Thursday, April 7, 2005, 08:32.
    
    
    
  Fowler looked away from the photographs scattered across the floor. He didn't pick them up, but simply stepped gracefully over them. Paola wondered if what he meant in itself meant a simple answer to Dante's accusations. Over the years, Paola had often suffered from the feeling of standing before a man as inscrutable as he was learned, as eloquent as he was intelligent. Fowler himself was a contradictory being, an indecipherable hieroglyph. But this time, this feeling was accompanied by a low moan from Lera, trembling on her lips.
    
  The priest sat across from Paola, his tattered black briefcase set aside. In his left hand, he carried a paper bag containing three coffee pots. I offered one to Dikanti.
    
  -¿Cappuccino?
    
  "I hate cappuccino. It reminds me of the myth about the dog I had," Paola said. "But I'll still take it."
    
  Fowler was silent for a couple of minutes. Finally, Paola allowed herself to pretend to read Karoski's file and decided to confront the priest. Keep that in mind.
    
  - So what? Isn't that...?
    
  And he stands there dry. I haven't looked at his face since Fowler entered his office. But I also found myself thousands of meters away. His hands lifted the coffee to his mouth hesitantly, hesitantly. Small beads of sweat appeared on the priest's bald head, despite the cool air. And his green eyes proclaimed that it was his duty to contemplate indelible horrors, and that he would return to contemplate them.
    
  Paola said nothing, realizing that the apparent elegance with which Fowler walked around the photographs was merely a facade. Esperó. It took the priest a few minutes to compose himself, and when he did, the voice seemed distant and muffled.
    
  "It's hard. You think you've overcome it, but then it reappears, like a cork you're trying in vain to push into a bottle. It drains, floats to the surface. And then you're faced with it again..."
    
  - Talking will help you, father.
    
  "You can trust me, dottora... it's not true. He's never done that. Not all problems can be solved by talking."
    
  "A curious expression for a priest. Increase the psicó logo. Although appropriate for a CIA agent trained to kill."
    
  Fowler suppressed a sad grimace.
    
  "I wasn't trained to kill, like any other soldier. I was trained in counterintelligence. God gave me the gift of infallible aim, that's true, but I don't ask for that gift. And, anticipating your question, I haven't killed anyone since 1972. I killed 11 Viet Cong soldiers, at least as far as I know. But all those deaths were in combat."
    
  - You were the one who signed up as a volunteer.
    
  "Dottora, before you judge me, let me tell you my story. I've never told anyone what I'm about to tell you, because I ask you to accept my words. Not that he believes me or trusts me, because that would be asking too much. Just accept my words."
    
  Paola nodded slowly.
    
  - I assume all this information will be reported to the superintendent. If this is the Sant'Uffizio file, you would have a very rough idea of my service record. I volunteered in 1971 because of certain... differences with my father. I don't want to tell him the horror story of what war means to me, because words cannot describe it. ¿Ha visto usted "Apocalipsis Now", dottora?
    
  - Yes, a long time ago. I was surprised by his rudeness.
    
  -It's a farce. That's what it is. A shadow on the wall compared to what it means. I've seen enough pain and cruelty to fill several lifetimes. I've seen all this before my vocación. It wasn't in a trench in the middle of the night, with enemy fire raining down on us. It wasn't looking into the faces of ten- to twenty-year-olds wearing necklaces of human ears. It was a quiet evening in the rear, next to my regiment's chapel. All I knew was that I needed to dedicate my life to God and His creation. And so I did.
    
  -And the CIA?
    
  -Don't get ahead of yourself... I didn't want to go back to America. Everyone follows my parents. Because I went as far as I could, to the edge of the steel pipe. Everyone learns many things, but some of them don't fit in their heads. You have 34 años. To understand what communism meant to someone living in Germany in the 70s, I had to live through it. We breathe the threat of nuclear war daily. Hatred among my compatriots was a religion. It seems like each of us is just one step away from someone, them or us, jumping over the Wall. And then it will all be over, I assure you. Before or after someone presses the bot button, someone will press it.
    
  Fowler paused briefly to take a sip of coffee. Paola lit one of Pontiero's cigarettes. Fowler reached for the bag, but Paola shook her head.
    
  "These are my friends, father. I must smoke them myself."
    
  "Oh, don't worry. I'm not pretending to catch him. I was wondering why you suddenly came back."
    
  "Father, if you don't mind, I'd prefer you to continue. I don't want to talk about it."
    
  The priest felt great sorrow in his words and continued his story.
    
  "Of course... I'd like to stay connected to military life. I love companionship, discipline, and the meaning of a castrated life. If you think about it, it's not much different from the concept of priesthood: it's about giving your life for other people. Events in themselves are not bad, only wars are bad. I'm asking to be sent as a chaplain to an American base, and since I'm a diocesan priest, my bishop will be pleased."
    
  - What does diocesan mean, Father?
    
  "I'm either less or less a free agent. I'm not subject to a congregation. If I want, I can ask my bishop to assign me to a parish. But if I deem it appropriate, I can begin my pastoral work wherever I see fit, always with the bishop's blessing, understood as formal consent."
    
  -I understand.
    
  - All along the base, I lived with several Agency employees who were running a special counterintelligence training program for active duty, non-CIA personnel. They invited me to join them, four hours a day, five times a week, twice a week. It wasn't incompatible with my pastoral duties, as long as I was distracted by hours from Sue. Así que acepté. And, as it turned out, I was a good student. One evening, after class was over, one of the instructors approached me and invited me to join the kñía. The Agency calls through internal channels. I told him I was a priest and that being a priest was impossible. You have a huge job ahead of you with hundreds of Catholic priests on the base. His superiors devoted many hours to the Enseñarlu hating communists. I devoted an hour a week to reminding you that we are all children of God.
    
  - A lost battle.
    
  -Almost always. But the priesthood, dottora, is a career in the background.
    
  - I think I told you these words in one of your interviews with Karoski.
    
  "It's possible. We limit ourselves to scoring small points. Small victories. Every now and then we manage to achieve something great, but those chances are few. We sow small seeds in the hope that some of them will bear fruit. Often, it's not you who reaps the fruit, and that's demoralizing."
    
  - This must of course be spoiled, father.
    
  One day the king was walking in the forest and saw a poor little old man fussing in a ditch. She approached him and saw that he was planting walnut trees. I asked him why he was doing this, and the old man replied, "...." The king said to him, "Old man, do not bend your hunched back over this hole. Don"t you see that when the nut grows, you will not live to gather its fruit?" And the old man answered him, "If my ancestors had thought the same way as you, Your Majesty, I would never have tasted walnuts."
    
  Paola smiled, struck by the absolute truth of these words.
    
    -¿Sabe qué nos enseña esa anécdota, dottora ? -continuó Fowler-. That you can always move forward with willpower, love for God, and a little push.Johnnie Walker.
    
  Paola blinked slightly. He couldn't picture a righteous, polite priest with a bottle of whiskey, but it was obvious he'd been very lonely his whole life.
    
  "When the instructor told me that those who came from the base could be helped by another priest, but no one could help the thousands who came for the steel telephone, understand-let's have an important part of your mind. Thousands of Christians are languishing under communism, praying in the toilet and attending Mass in a monastery. They will be able to serve the interests of both my Pope and my Church in those areas where they coincide. Frankly, I thought then that there were many coincidences."
    
  - And what do you think now? Because he returned to active duty.
    
  - I'll answer your question right away. I was offered the opportunity to become a free agent, accepting missions that I considered just. I traveled to many places. In some, I was a priest. In others, as a normal citizen. I sometimes put my life in danger, although it was almost always worth it. I helped people who needed me in one way or another. Sometimes this help took the form of a timely notice, an envelope, a letter. In other cases, it was necessary to organize an information network. Or to help someone out of a difficult situation. I learned languages and even felt well enough to return to America. Until what happened in Honduras...
    
  "Father, wait. He missed the important part. His parents' funeral."
    
  Fowler made a gesture of disgust.
    
  "I'm not going to leave. Just secure the legal fringe that'll be hanging down."
    
  "Father Fowler, you surprise me. Eighty million dollars isn't the legal limit."
    
  "Oh, how do you know that too? Well, yes. Refuse the money. But I'm not giving it away, as many people think. I've designated it to create a nonprofit foundation that actively collaborates in various areas of social work both in the United States and abroad. It's named after Howard Eisner, the chapel that inspired me in Vietnam.
    
    -¿Usted creó la Eisner Foundation? - Paola was surprised . - Wow , he's old then.
    
  "I don't believe her. I gave him the impetus and invested financial resources in him. In fact, it was my parents' lawyers who created him. Against his will, I owe the Adir."
    
  "Okay, Father, tell me about Honduras. And you have as much time as you need."
    
  The priest looked at Dikanti curiously. His attitude toward life had suddenly changed, in a subtle but significant way. Now she was ready to trust him. He wondered what could have caused this change in him.
    
  "I don"t want to bore you with details, Dottore. Avocado"s story could fill an entire book, but let"s get to the basics. The CIA"s goal was to promote revolution. My goal was to help the cats suffering oppression at the hands of the Sandinista government. Form and deploy a volunteer force to wage guerrilla warfare with the goal of destabilizing the government. The soldiers were recruited from among Nicaragua"s poor. The weapons were sold by a former ally of the government, whose existence few suspected: Osama bin Laden. And command of the Contra passed to a high school teacher named Bernie Salazar, a fanatic like Sabr Amos Despa. During months of training, I accompanied Salazar across the border, undertaking increasingly risky forays. I assisted in the extradition of devout religious people, but my differences with Salazar became more and more serious. I began to see communists everywhere. There's a communist under every stone, сегúн éл.
    
  -An old manual for psychiatrists says that acute paranoia develops very quickly in fanatical drug addicts.
    
  -This incident confirms the impeccability of your book, Dikanti. I had an accident, which I didn't know about until I found out it was deliberate. I broke my leg and couldn't go on excursions. And the guerrillas began returning late every time. They didn't sleep in the camp barracks, but in clearings in the jungle, in tents. At night, they carried out supposed arson attacks, which, as it later turned out, were accompanied by executions and beheadings. I was bedridden, but the night Salazar captured the nuns and accused them of communism, someone warned me. He was a good boy, like many of those who were with Salazar, although I was a little less afraid of him than the others. If a little less, because you told me about it in the confessional. Know that I won't reveal this to anyone, but I will do everything I can to help the nuns. We've done everything we could...
    
  Fowler's face was deathly pale. The time it took to swallow was interrupted. He looked not at Paola, but at the dot más allá in the window.
    
  "...but that wasn't enough. Today, both Salazar and El Chico are dead, and everyone knows the guerrillas stole a helicopter and dropped nuns on a Sandinista village. It took me three trips to get there."
    
  -Why did he do that?
    
  "The message left little room for error. We will kill anyone suspected of ties to the Sandinistas. Whoever they are."
    
  Paola was silent for a few moments, thinking about what she had heard.
    
  - And you blame yourself, don't you, father?
    
  "Be different if you don't. I won't be able to save those women. And don't worry about those guys who ended up killing their own people. I would have crawled to anything that involved doing good, but that wasn't what I got. I was just a secondary figure in the crew of a monster factory. My dad's so used to it that he's no longer surprised when one of those we trained, helped, and protected turns against us."
    
  Even though the sunlight began to beat directly into his face, Fowler didn't blink. He limited himself to squinting his eyes until they became two thin green sheets and continued to stare over the rooftops.
    
  "When I first saw photographs of mass graves," the priest continued, "I was reminded of the sound of submachine gunfire on a tropical night. "Shooting tactics." I had grown accustomed to the noise. So much so that one night, half asleep, I heard a few cries of pain between shots and didn"t pay much attention. He, Sue... or will defeat me..." The next night, I told myself it was a figment of my imagination. If I had spoken to the camp commandant back then and Ramos had carefully examined me and Salazar, I would have saved many lives. That"s why I bear responsibility for all those deaths, that"s why I left the CIA, and that"s why I was called to testify before the Holy Office.
    
  "Father... I no longer believe in God. Now I know that when we die, everything is over... I think we all return to earth after a short journey through the worm's guts. But if you truly desire absolute freedom, I offer it to you. You saved the priests you could before they set you up."
    
  Fowler allowed himself a half-smile.
    
  "Thank you, dottora." She doesn't know how important her words are to me, though she regrets the deep tears that lie behind such a harsh statement in ancient Latin.
    
  - But Aún did not tell me what caused his return.
    
  -It's very simple. I asked a friend about it. And I never let my friends down.
    
  -Because it is you now... espía from God.
    
  Fowler sonrió.
    
  - I could call him an ace, I suppose.
    
  Dikanti stood up and walked towards the nearest bookshelf.
    
  "Father, this is against my principles, but, as in the case of my mother, this is a once-in-a-lifetime experience.
    
  I picked up a thick forensic science book and handed it to Fowler. Holy crap. The gin bottles had been emptied, leaving three gaps in the paper, conveniently filled with a Dewar bottle and two small glasses.
    
  - It's only nine o'clock in the morning,
    
  -Will you do the honors or wait until nightfall, Father? I'm proud to be drinking with the man who created the Eisner Foundation. Incidentally, Father, because that foundation pays my scholarship to Quantico.
    
  Then it was Fowler's turn to be surprised, though he said nothing. Pour me two equal measures of whiskey and pour his glass.
    
  -Who are we drinking to?
    
  -For those who left.
    
  -For those who left, then.
    
  And they both drained their glasses in one gulp. The lollipop stuck in her throat, and for Paola, who never drank, it was like swallowing ammonia-soaked cloves. She knew she'd have heartburn all day, but she felt proud to have raised her glass with this man. Certain things just had to be done.
    
  "Now our concern should be getting the superintendent back for the team. As you intuitively understand, you owe this unexpected gift to Dante," Paola said, handing over the photographs. "I wonder why he did this? Does he hold any grudge against you?"
    
  Fowler rompió a reír. His laughter surprised Paola, who had never heard such a joyful sound, which on stage sounded so heartbreaking and sad.
    
  - Just don't tell me you didn't notice.
    
  -Forgive me, father, but I don"t understand you.
    
  "Dottora, for being the kind of person who understands so much about applying engineering in reverse to human actions, you demonstrate a radical lack of judgment in this situation. Dante is clearly romantically interested in you. And for some absurd reason, he thinks I'm his competition."
    
  Paola stood there, completely stony, her mouth slightly open. He noticed a suspicious heat rising in his cheeks, and it wasn't from the whiskey. It was the second time that man had made her blush. I wasn't entirely sure it was me who was making him feel it, but I wanted him to feel it more often, the way the kid in the estómagico débil insists on riding a horse again on a Russian mountain.
    
  At that moment, they are the telephone, a providential means of rescuing an awkward situation. Dicanti contestó immediately. His eyes lit up with excitement.
    
  - I'll be right down.
    
  Fowler la miró intrigado.
    
  "Hurry, Father. Among the photographs taken by UACV officers at the crime scene in Robair, there's one that shows Brother Francesco. We might have something."
    
    
    
  UACV Headquarters
    
  Via Lamarmora, 3
    
  Thursday, April 7, 2005, 09:15.
    
    
    
  The image on the screen became blurry. The photograph showed a general view from inside the chapel, with Caroski in the background as Brother Francesco. The computer had magnified this area of the image by 1,600 percent, and the result wasn't very good.
    
  "It's not that it looks bad," Fowler said.
    
  "Calm down, Father," Boy said, entering the room with a stack of papers in his hands. "Angelo is our forensic sculptor. He's an expert in gene optimization and I'm confident he can give us a different perspective, right, Angelo?"
    
  Angelo Biffi, one of the UACV's leaders, rarely left his computer. He wore thick glasses, had greasy hair, and looked about thirty. He lived in a large but dimly lit office, permeated with the smell of pizza, cheap cologne, and burnt dishes. A dozen state-of-the-art monitors served as windows. Looking around, Fowler concluded that they would probably prefer to sleep with their computers than go home. Angelo looked like he'd been a bookworm his entire life, but his features were pleasant, and he always had a very pleasant smile.
    
  - See, father, we, that is, the department, that is, I...
    
  "Don't choke, Angelo. Drink some coffee," Alarg said, "the one Fowler brought for Dante."
    
  -Thank you, dottora. Hey, this is ice cream!
    
  "Don't complain, it's going to be hot soon. Indeed, when you grow up, say, 'It's hot April now, but not as hot as when Papa Wojtyla died.' I can already see it."
    
  Fowler looked in surprise at Dikanti, who placed a reassuring hand on Angelo's shoulder. The inspector was trying to make a joke, despite the storm she knew was raging inside her. "I'd barely slept, I had dark circles under my eyes like a raccoon," he said, "and his face was confused, pained, full of rage. You didn't need to be a psychologist or a priest to see that. And despite everything, he was trying to help this boy feel safe with that unknown priest who scared him a little. Right now, I love her, so even though I'm on the sidelines, I ask her to think about it." He hadn't forgotten the vergüenza the habí had forced him through a moment ago in his own office.
    
    -Explícale tu método al padre Fowler -pidió Paola-. I'm sure you'll find this interesting.
    
  The boy is inspired by this.
    
  - Pay attention to the screen. We have, I have, well, I developed special software for gene interpolation. As you know, every image is made up of colored dots called pixels. If a normal image, for example, is 2500 x 1750 pixels, but we want it to be in a small corner of the photograph, we end up with a few small colored spots that aren't particularly valuable. When you zoom in, you get a blurry image of what you're looking at. See, usually, when a normal program tries to enlarge an image, it does so by the color of the eight pixels adjacent to the one it's trying to multiply. So in the end, we have the same small spot, but larger. But with my program...
    
  Paola glanced sideways at Fowler, who was leaning over the screen with interest. The priest was trying to pay attention to Angelo's explanation, despite the pain he'd experienced just minutes earlier. Looking at the photographs taken there had been a profoundly difficult experience, one that had deeply moved him. You didn't need to be a psychiatrist or a criminologist to understand that. And despite everything, she was trying her best to please a man she would never see again. I loved him for that at the time, even if it was against his will, I ask for the thoughts of his mind. He hadn't forgotten the Vergüenza he'd just spent in his office.
    
  -...and by examining the variable light points, you enter a three-dimensional information program that you can examine. It's based on a complex logarithm, the rendering of which takes several hours.
    
  - Damn it, Angelo, is this why you made us come down?
    
  -This is something you have to see...
    
  "Everything is fine, Angelo. Dottora, I suspect that this smart boy wants to tell us that the program has been running for several hours and is about to give us results."
    
  - Exactly, Father. In fact, it's coming from behind that printer.
    
  The whirring of the printer while I was near Dikanti resulted in a tome that shows slightly aged facial features and some shadowed eyes, but much more focused than in the original image.
    
  "Excellent work, Angelo. It's not that it's useless for identification, but it's a starting point. Take a look, Father."
    
  The priest carefully examined the facial features in the photograph. Boy, Dikanti, and Angelo looked at him expectantly.
    
  "Swear it's él. But it's difficult without seeing his eyes. The shape of the sockets and something indefinable tell me it's él. But if I met him on the street, I wouldn't give him a second glance.
    
  - So, this is a new dead-end alley?
    
  "Not necessarily," Angelo remarked. "I have a program that can generate a 3D image based on certain data. I think we can draw quite a few conclusions from what we have. I was working with a photograph of an engineer."
    
  - An engineer? - Paola was surprised.
    
  "Yes, from engineer Karoski, who wants to pass for a Carmelite. What a head you have, Dikanti..."
    
  Dr. Boy's eyes widened, making demonstrative, anxious gestures over Angelo's shoulder. Paola finally realized that Angelo hadn't been briefed on the details of the case. Paola knew that the director had forbidden the four UACV employees who were working on collecting evidence at the Robaira and Pontiero scenes from going home. They were allowed to call their families to explain the situation, and they were placed on . Boy could be very tough when he wanted, but he was also a fair man: he paid them triple for overtime.
    
  - Ah, yes, what I'm thinking, what I'm thinking. Go on, Angelo.
    
  Of course, I had to gather information at all levels, so that no one had all the pieces of the puzzle. No one could know they were investigating the deaths of two cardinals. Something that clearly complicated Paola's work and left her with serious doubts that perhaps she herself wasn't quite ready.
    
  "As you can imagine, I've been working on a photograph of the engineer. I think in about thirty minutes we'll have a 3D image of his 1995 photo, which we can compare with the 3D image we've been getting since 2005. If they come back here in a little while, I can give them a treat."
    
  -Excellent. If you feel that way, Padre, Dispatch... I'd like you to repeat the áramos in the meeting room. Now we're going, Angelo.
    
  -Okay, Director Boy.
    
  The three of them headed for the conference room, located two floors above. Nothing could make me enter Paola's room, and she was overcome by a terrible feeling that the last time I visited her, everything had been fine. #237;from Pontiero.
    
  -¿ May I ask what you two did with Superintendent Dante?
    
  Paola and Fowler glanced at each other briefly and shook their heads towards Sono.
    
  -Absolutely nothing.
    
  - Better. I hope I didn't see him get mad because you guys were having problems. Be better than you were on the 24th match, because I don't want Sirin Ronda talking to me or the Minister of the Interior.
    
  "I don't think you have to worry. Danteá is perfectly integrated into the team-mintió Paola."
    
  -And why don't I believe it? Last night I saved you, boy, for a very short time, Dikanti. You want to tell me who Dante is?
    
  Paola is silent. I can't talk to Boy about the internal problems they were facing in the group. I opened my mouth to speak, but a familiar voice made me stop.
    
  - I went out to buy some tobacco, director.
    
  Dante's leather jacket and grim smile stood at the threshold of the conference room. I studied him slowly, very carefully.
    
  - This is the vice of the most terrible, Dante.
    
  - We have to die from something, director.
    
  Paola stood and looked at Dante, while Ste sat next to Fowler as if nothing had happened. But one glance from both of them was enough for Paola to realize that things weren't going as well as she'd hoped. As long as they'd been civilized for a few days, everything could have been sorted out. What I don't understand is why I'm asking you to convey your anger to your colleague at the Vatican. Something's wrong.
    
  "Okay," Boy said. "This damn thing gets complicated sometimes. Yesterday, we lost one of the best cops I've seen in years, in the line of duty, and no one knows he's in the freezer. We can't even give him a formal funeral until we can come up with a reasonable explanation for his death. That's why I want us to think together. Play what you know, Paola."
    
  - Since when?
    
  -From the very beginning. A brief summary of the case.
    
  Paola stood up and went to the board to write. I thought much better standing with something in my hands.
    
  Let's take a look: Victor Karoski, a priest with a history of sexual abuse, escaped from a low-security private institution where he was subjected to excessive amounts of a drug that led to his death sentence.237; significantly increased his level of aggression. From June 2000 until the end of 2001, there is no record of his activities. In 2001, he substituted the quoted and fictitious name of the Discalced Carmelite at the entrance to the church of Santa Maria in Traspontina, a few meters from St. Peter's Square.
    
  Paola draws a few stripes on the board and starts making a calendar:
    
  -Friday, April 1, twenty-four hours before the death of John Paul II: Karoschi kidnaps Italian Cardinal Enrico Portini from the Madri Pi residence. "Have we confirmed the presence of the blood of two cardinals in the crypt?" Boy made an affirmative gesture. Karoschi takes Portini to Santa Maria, tortures him, and finally returns him to the last place he was seen alive: the chapel of the residence. Sábadó, April 2: Portini's cadaver is discovered on the same night of the Pope's death, although a vigilant Vatican decides to "clean up" the evidence, believing it to be the isolated act of a madman. Fortunately, the case does not go beyond that, thanks in large part to those in charge of the residence. Sunday, April 3: Argentine Cardinal Emilio Robaira arrives in Rome on a one-way ticket. We think someone is meeting him at the airport or on his way to the residence of the priests of Santi Ambrogio, where he was expected on Sunday evening. We know we'll never arrive. Did we learn anything from the conversations at the airport?
    
  "Nobody checked this. We don't have enough staff," Boy apologized.
    
  -We have it.
    
  "I can't involve detectives in this. What's important to me is that it's closed, fulfilling the wishes of the Holy See. We'll play from beginning to end, Paola. Order the tapes yourself."
    
  Dikanti made a gesture of disgust, but it was the answer I expected.
    
  - We continue on Sunday, April 3rd. Karoski kidnaps Robaira and takes her to the crypt. Everyone tortures him during interrogation and reveals messages on his body and at the crime scene. The message on the body reads: MF 16, Deviginti. Thanks to Father Fowler, we know that the message refers to a phrase from the Gospel: " ," which refers to the election of the first Pontiff of the Church of Cat. This, along with the message written in blood on the floor, combined with the severe mutilations of the CAD, leads us to believe that the killer is targeting the key. Tuesday, April 5th. The suspect takes the body to one of the church chapels and then calmly calls the police, posing as Brother Francesco Toma. For added mockery, he always wears the glasses of the second víctima, Cardinal Robaira. The agents call the UACV, and Director Boy calls Camilo Sirin.
    
  Paola paused briefly, then looked straight at Boy.
    
  "By the time you call him, Sirin already knows the perpetrator's name, although in this case you'd expect him to be a serial killer. I've thought about this a lot, and I think Sirin has known the name of Portini's killer since Sunday evening. He likely had access to the VICAP database, and the entry for 'severed hands' led to a few cases. His network of influence activates the name of Major Fowler, who arrives here on the night of April 5th. The original plan probably wasn't to count on us, Director Boy. It was Karoski who deliberately drew us into the game. Why? That's one of the main questions in this case."
    
  Paola Trazó one ú last strip.
    
  -My letter of April 6: While Dante, Fowler and I are trying to find out something about the crimes in the office of the crime, Deputy Inspector Maurizio Pontiero is beaten to death by Victor Caroschi in the crypt of Santa Mar de Las Vegas.237;in Transpontina.
    
  - Do we have a murder weapon? - ask Dante.
    
  "There are no fingerprints, but we have them," I replied. "A fight. Karoski cut him several times with what could have been a very sharp kitchen knife, and stabbed him several times with a chandelier that was found at the scene. But I don't have too many hopes for the continuation of the investigation."
    
  -Why, director?
    
  "This is very far from all our ordinary friends, Dante. We strive to find out who... Usually, with the certainty of a name, our work ends. But we must apply our knowledge to recognize that the certainty of a name was our starting point. That's why this work is more important than ever."
    
  "I want to take this opportunity to congratulate the donor. I thought it was a brilliant chronology," Fowler said.
    
  "Extremely," Dante chuckled.
    
  Paola felt hurt by his words, but I decided it was best to ignore the topic for now.
    
  -Good resume, Dikanti, - happy birthday to you. ¿Cuál - the next step? ¿ Has that already occurred to Karoska? ¿ Have you studied the similarities?
    
  The forensic scientist thought for a few moments before answering.
    
  - All reasonable people are alike, but each of these crazy bastards is like that in his own way.
    
  - , besides the fact that you read Tolstoy 25? -preguntó Boi.
    
  -Well, we make a mistake if we think one serial killer is equal to another. You can try to find landmarks, find equivalents, draw conclusions from similarities, but in the hour of truth, each of these shit is a lonely mind living millions of light years from the rest of humanity. There is nothing there, ahí. They are not people. They feel no empathy. His emotions are dormant. What drives him to kill, what makes him believe that his selfishness is more important than people, the reasons he gives for justifying his sin-these are not what matters to me. I do not try to understand him any more than is absolutely necessary to stop him.
    
  - For this we need to know what your next step will be.
    
  "Obviously, to kill again. You're probably looking for a new identity or already have a predetermined one. But it can't be as industrious as Brother Francesco's work, since he dedicated several books to it. Father Fowler can help us in Saint Point."
    
  The priest shakes his head with concern.
    
  -Everything that is in the file I left you, But there is something I want in Arles.
    
  On the nightstand stood a pitcher of water and several glasses. Fowler filled one glass halfway and then placed a pencil inside.
    
  "It's very difficult for me to think like él. Look at the glass. It's as clear as day, but when I type the seemingly straight letter lápiz, it looks like a coincidence to me. Likewise, its monolithic relationship changes in fundamental ways, like a straight line that breaks off and ends in the opposite place."
    
  - This point of bankruptcy is key.
    
  "Perhaps. I don't envy your work, Doctor. Karoski is a man who one minute abhors lawlessness, and the next commits even greater lawlessness. What is clear to me is that we must look for him near the cardinals. Try to kill him again, and I will do it soon. The key to the castle is getting closer and closer.
    
    
  They returned to Angelo's lab somewhat confused. The young man met Dante, who barely noticed him. Paola couldn't help but notice the devastation. This seemingly attractive man was, deep down, a bad person. His jokes were completely honest; in fact, they were among the best the superintendent had ever made.
    
  Angelo was waiting for them with the promised results. I pressed a few keys and showed them 3D images of genes on two screens, consisting of thin green threads on a black background.
    
  -¿ Can you add texture to them?
    
  - Yes. They have skin here, rudimentary, but skin nonetheless.
    
  The screen on the left shows a 3D model of Karoski's head as it appeared in 1995. The screen on the right shows the top half of the head, exactly as it was seen in Santa Mar in Transpontina.
    
  "I didn't model the lower half because it's impossible with a beard. My eyes don't see anything clearly either. In the photo they left me, I was walking with hunched shoulders."
    
  -¿ Can you copy the handle of the first model and paste it over the current model?
    
  Angelo responded with a flurry of keystrokes and mouse clicks. In less than two minutes, Fowler's request was fulfilled.
    
  -¿Dígame, Angelo, to what extent do you rateí how reliable é your second model is? -inquirió priest.
    
  The young man immediately gets into trouble.
    
  -Well, to see... Without the game, suitable lighting conditions are in place...
    
  - That's out of the question, Angelo. We've already discussed this. -terció Boi.
    
  Paola spoke slowly and soothingly.
    
  "Come on, Angelo, no one's judging whether you've created a good model. If we want Him to know how much we can trust Him, then..."
    
  -Well... from 75 to 85%. No, not from me.
    
  Fowler looked closely at the screen. The two faces were very different. Too different. My nose is wide, my beaks are strong. But were these the subject's natural features or just makeup?
    
  -Angelo, please turn both images horizontally and make a medichióp from the pómules. Like ií. That's all. That's what I'm afraid of.
    
  The other four looked at him expectantly.
    
  - What, father? Let's win, for God's sake.
    
  "This isn't Victor Karoski's face. Those differences in size can't be replicated with amateur makeup. A Hollywood professional might be able to achieve it with latex molds, but it would be too noticeable to anyone looking closely. I wouldn't pursue a long-term relationship."
    
  -Then?
    
  -There's an explanation for this. Karoski underwent a course of Fano and a full facial reconstruction. Now we know we're looking for a ghost.
    
    
    
  Instituto Saint Matthew
    
  Silver Spring, Maryland
    
  May 1998
    
    
    
  TRANSCRIPT OF INTERVIEW #14 BETWEEN PATIENT #3643 AND DR. FOWLER
    
    
    DR. FOWLER: Hello, Padre Karoski. Will you allow me?
    
  #3643: Go ahead, Father Fowler.
    
    D.R. FOWLER: ¿Le gustó el libro que le presté?
    
    #3643: Oh, of course. Saint Augusta is already finished. I found that most interesting. Human optimism can only go so far.
    
  D.R. FOWLER: No le comprendo, padre Karoski.
    
  Well, you and only you in this place can understand me, Father Fowler. Niko, who doesn't call me by name, striving for an unnecessary, vulgar familiarity that demeans the dignity of both interlocutors.
    
    D.R. FOWLER: Está hablando del padre Conroy.
    
    #3643: Ah, this man. He simply tries to claim over and over again that I'm an ordinary patient in need of treatment. I'm as much a priest as he is, and he constantly forgets this dignity when he insists that I call him doctor.
    
  It's good that your relationship with Conroy is purely psychological and patient. You need help to overcome some of the shortcomings of your fragile psyche.
    
  #3643: ¿ Mistreated? ¿ Abused kemén? Do you also want to test the love for my holy mother? I pray he doesn't go down the same path as Father Conroy. He even claimed to make me listen to some tapes that would clear my doubts.
    
  DR. FOWLER : Unas cintas.
    
  #3643: That's what he said.
    
  DOCTOR: Don't be healthy for yourself. Talk to Father Conroy about it.
    
  #3643: As you wish. But I have no fear whatsoever.
    
  DOCTOR FOWLER: Listen, Holy Father, I'd like to take advantage of this mini-session, and there's something you said earlier that really interested me. About the optimism of Saint Augustus in the confessional. What do you mean?
    
  And although I look ridiculous in your eyes, I will turn to you with mercy."
    
  DOCTOR FOWLER Doesn't he trust you in the infinite goodness and mercy of God?
    
  #3643: A merciful God is a twentieth-century invention, Father Fowler.
    
    D.R. FOWLER: San Agustín vivió en el siglo IV.
    
    Saint Augustus was horrified by his sinful past and began to write optimistic lies.
    
  DOCTOR FOWLER May God forgive us.
    
  #3643: Not always. Those who go to confession are like those who wash a car... ahh, it makes me sick.
    
  DOCTOR FOWLER: What do you feel when you conduct confession? Disgust?
    
  #3643 : Disgust. Many times I vomited in the confessional from the disgust I felt at the man on the other side of the bars. Lies. Fornication. Adultery. Pornography. Violence. Theft. All of them, entering into this tight habit, filling their asses with pork. Let it all go, turn it all over on me...!
    
  DOCTOR FOWLER They tell God about it. We are simply a transmitter. When we put on the stole, we become Christ.
    
  #3643: They give up everything. They come in dirty and think they're leaving clean. "Bend over, father, because I sinned. I stole ten thousand dollars from my partner, father, because I sinned. I raped my little sister. I took photos of my son and posted them online." "Bend over, father, because I sinned. I offer my husband food to stop using marriage because I'm tired of his smell of onions and sweat.
    
  FOWLER: But, Father Karoski, confession is a wonderful thing if there is remorse and there is a chance to make amends.
    
  #3643: Something that never happens. They always, always dump their sins on me. They leave me standing before the impassive face of God. I am the one who stands between his iniquities and Alt-simo's vengeance.
    
  DOCTOR FOWLER: Do you really see God as a being of vengeance?
    
  #3643: "His heart is hard as flint
    
  hard as the bottom stone of a millstone.
    
  From His Majesty they fear the waves,
    
  the sea waves are retreating.
    
  The sword that touches him does not pierce,
    
  no spear, no arrow, no deer.
    
  He looks at everyone with pride
    
  "For he is the king of the cruel!"
    
  DOCTOR FOWLER: I must admit, Father, I am surprised at your knowledge of the Bible in general and the Old Testament in particular. But the Book of Job has become obsolete in the face of the truth of the Gospel of Jesus Christ.
    
  Jesus Christ is the Son, but the Father is the Judge. And the Father has a stony face.
    
  DOCTOR FOWLER Since the ahí da is mortal by necessity, Father Karoski. And if you listen to Conroy's tapes, rest assured, they will happen.
    
    
    
  Hotel Rafael
    
  Long February, 2
    
  Thursday, April 7, 2005, 2:25 PM.
    
    
    
  -Residence of Saint Ambrogio.
    
  "Good afternoon. I'd like to speak with Cardinal Robaira," the young journalist said in broken Italian.
    
  The voice on the other end of the phone becomes random.
    
  -¿ May I ask on behalf of quién?
    
  It wasn't much, the pitch barely varying by an octave. But it was enough to alert the journalist.
    
  Andrea Otero worked for four years at El Globo. Four years in which you visited third-rate newsrooms, interviewed third-rate characters, and wrote third-rate stories. From 10 p.m. until 12 a.m., when I walked into the office and got the job. Start in a culture where your editor-in-chief, Jema, takes you seriously. I remain in a society where her editor-in-chief never trusted her. And now he was at The International, where his editor-in-chief didn't believe he was up to the task. But she was. It wasn't all notes. Neither curr nor culum. There was also a sense of humor, intuition, a sense of smell, and period, and 237 years. And if Andrea Otero really possessed these qualities and ten percent of what she believed she should have, she would become a journalist worthy of the Pulitzer Prize. She had no shortage of self-confidence, not even her six-foot-six height, her angelic features, her chaste hair and blue eyes. They all revealed an intelligent and determined woman. That's why, when the company-supposed to cover the Pope's death-had a car accident on the way to the airport and broke both her legs, Andrea jumped at the chance to accept her boss's offer from his replacement. Get onto the plane by the hair and with all your luggage.
    
  Luckily, we were staying a few small shops away from lo má ;s mono near Piazza Navona, which was thirty meters from the hotel. And Andrea Otero acquired (at the expense of the peró dico, of course) a luxurious wardrobe, underwear, and a nasty phone, which she used to call the Santo Ambrogio residence to secure an interview with the papal Cardinal Robaira. But...
    
  - I'm Andrea Otero, from the newspaper Globo. The Cardinal promised me an interview for this Thursday. Unfortunately, you won't answer his nasty question. Would you be so kind as to show me to his room, please?
    
  - Señorita Otero, unfortunately, we cannot take you to your room because the cardinal will not be coming.
    
  -¿And when will you arrive?
    
  -Well, he just won't come.
    
  -Let's see, ¿he won't comeó or he won't come?
    
  - I won't come because he won't come.
    
  -Are you planning to stay somewhere else?
    
  - I don't think so. I mean, I think so.
    
  -Who am I talking to?
    
  - I have to hang up.
    
  The broken tone foreshadowed two things: a break in communication and a very nervous interlocutor. And that he was lying. Andrea was certain of it. She was too good a liar to fail to recognize anyone of her kind.
    
  There was no time to waste. It wouldn't have taken him ten minutes to reach the cardinal's office in Buenos Aires. It was almost a quarter to ten in the morning, a reasonable hour for a call. He was delighted at the lousy bill he was about to incur. Since they were paying him a paltry sum, at least they were screwing him over on the expenses.
    
  The telephone buzzed for a minute and then the connection was cut off.
    
  It was weird that there was no one there. I'll try that again.
    
  Nothing.
    
  Try it with just a switchboard. A female voice answered immediately.
    
  -Archbishopric, good afternoon.
    
  "With Cardinal Robair," he said in Spanish.
    
    -Ay señorita, marchó.
    
  -¿Marchó dónde?
    
    - After all, she is an orita. Rome .
    
  -¿Sabe dónde se hospeda?
    
    "I don't know, Orita. I'll take him to Father Seraphim, his secretary."
    
  -Thank you.
    
  I love the Beatles as long as they keep you on edge. Which is appropriate. Andrea decided to lie a little for a change. The cardinal has family in Spain. Let's see if he goes sour.
    
  -¿Hello?
    
  -Hello, I would like to speak with the cardinal. I am his niece, Asunsi. Españvolna.
    
  "Asunsi, I'm so pleased to meet you. I'm Father Seraphim, the cardinal's secretary. His Eminence never mentioned you to me. Is she the daughter of Angustias or Remedios?"
    
  It sounded like a lie. Andrea Cruzó's fingers. The chances of her getting it wrong were fifty percent. Andrea was also an expert in small details. His list of faux pas was longer than his own (and slender) legs.
    
  -From medications.
    
  "Of course, that's stupid. Now I remember that Angustias has no children. Unfortunately, the cardinal isn't here."
    
  -¿Kuá can I talk to él?
    
  There was a pause. The priest's voice grew wary. Andrea could almost see him on the other end of the line, clutching the telephone receiver and twisting the cord with the phone.
    
  -¿ What are we talking about?
    
  "You see, I"ve been living in Rome for a long time, and you promised me that you would come and visit me for the first time.
    
  The voice became wary. He spoke slowly, as if afraid of making a mistake.
    
  -I went to Soroba to take care of some business in this diósesa. I won't be able to attend C ánclave.
    
  - But if the switchboard told me that the cardinal had left for Rome.
    
  Father Seraphim gave a confused and clearly false answer.
    
  "Ah, well, the girl at the switchboard is new and doesn't know much about the archdiocese. Please excuse me."
    
  -My apologies. Should I tell my uncle to call him?
    
  -Of course. Could you tell me your phone number, Asunsi? It should be on the cardinal's agenda. I could...if I needed to...ramos contact you...
    
  - Oh, he already has it. Excuse me, my husband's name is Adiós.
    
  I leave the secretary with a word on her lips. Now she was sure something was wrong. But you need to confirm it. Luckily, the hotel has internet. It takes six minutes to find the phone numbers of three major companies in Argentina. The first one was lucky.
    
  -Aerolíneas Argentinas.
    
  He played to imitate his Madrid accent, or even to turn it into a passable Argentine accent. He wasn't bad. He was much worse at speaking Italian.
    
  -Good day. I'm calling him from the archdiocese. Who do I have the pleasure of speaking with?
    
  - I'm Verona.
    
  "Verona, my name is Asuncion." He called to confirm Cardinal Robaira's return to Buenos Aires.
    
  - On what date?
    
  - Return on the 19th of next month.
    
  -And your full name?
    
  -Emilio Robaira
    
  -Please wait while we check everything.
    
  Andrea nervously bites the bowl she is holding, checks the condition of her hair in the bedroom mirror, lies down on the bed, shakes her head and says: 243; nervous toes.
    
  - Hello? Listen, my friends told me you guys bought an open one-way ticket. The Cardinal has already traveled, so you're eligible to buy the tour at a ten percent discount after the promotion that's running now in April. Do you have a regular frequent flyer ticket handy?
    
  - For a moment I understand it in Czech.
    
  He hung up, stifling a laugh. But the mirth was immediately replaced by a joyful sense of triumph. Cardinal Robaira had boarded a plane bound for Rome. But he hadn't shown up. Perhaps he'd decided to stay elsewhere. But in that case, why was he lying in the cardinal's residence and office?
    
  "Either I'm crazy, or there's a good story here. A stupid story," she said to her reflection in the mirror.
    
  A few days were missing to choose who would sit in Peter's chair. And the great candidate of the Church of the Poor, a Third Worldist, a man who had shamelessly flirted with Liberation Theology No. 26, was missing in action.
    
    
    
    Domus Sancta Marthae
    
  Piazza Santa Marta, 1
    
    Thursday, April 7, 2005, 4:14 PM.
    
    
    
  Before entering the building, Paola was surprised by the large number of cars waiting at the gas station across the street. Dante explained that everything was 30 percent cheaper than in Italy, as the Vatican didn't levy taxes. A special card was required to fill up at any of the city's seven gas stations, and the long lines were endless. They had to wait outside for several minutes while the Swiss Guards guarding the door of the Domus Sancta Marthae alerted someone inside to the three of them. Paola had time to reflect on the events that had happened to her mother and Anna. Just two hours earlier, still at the UACV headquarters, Paola had pulled Dante aside as soon as he had managed to get rid of Boy.
    
  -Superintendent, I want to talk to you.
    
  Dante avoided Paola's gaze, but followed the forensic scientist into her office.
    
  - What are you going to tell me, Dikanti? Ií I á, we're in this together, okay?
    
  "I've already figured that out. I also noticed that, like Boy, he calls me a guardian, not a trustee. Because he's below superintendent. I'm not at all bothered by his feelings of inferiority, as long as they don't interfere with my responsibilities. Just like your previous issue with the photos."
    
  Dante blushed.
    
  - If I... what I want... to tell you. There is nothing personal about it.
    
  -Could you please inform me about Fowler? He's already done so. Is my position clear to you, or should I be very specific?
    
  "I've had my fill of your clarity, Dispatcher," he said guiltily, running his hand over his cheeks. "I had these damn fillings removed. What I don't know is that you didn't break your arm."
    
  - Me too, because you have a very stern face, Dante.
    
  - I'm a cool guy in every sense.
    
  "I have no interest in knowing any of them. I hope that's clear, too."
    
  - Is this a refusal from a woman, a dispatcher?
    
  Paola was very nervous again.
    
  -¿Sómo is not a woman?
    
  -Of those that are written as S - I.
    
  -That "no" is spelled "N-O", you fucking macho.
    
  - Calm down, you don't need to worry, Rika.
    
  The criminal mentally cursed herself. I was falling into Dante's trap, allowing him to toy with my emotions. But I was already fine. Adopt a formal tone so the other person will notice your disdain. I decided to emulate Boy, who was very good at such confrontations.
    
  "Okay, now that we've cleared that up, I should tell you that I spoke with our North American contact, Father Fowler. I expressed my concerns about his track record. Fowler made some very compelling arguments, which, in my opinion, are enough to justify my trust in him. I want to thank you for taking the trouble to gather information about Father Fowler. It was a small thing on his part."
    
  Dante was shocked by Paola's harsh tone. He said nothing. "Know that you've lost the game."
    
  "As the head of the investigation, I must formally ask you whether you are prepared to provide us with full support in capturing Victor Karoski.
    
  "Of course, dispatcher," Dante thrust the words in like hot nails.
    
  - Finally, all that remains for me to do is ask him about the reason for his request to return.
    
  "I called to complain to my superiors, but I was given no choice. I was ordered to overcome personal differences."
    
  Paola became wary at this last phrase. Fowler had denied that Dante had anything against him, but the superintendent's words convinced him otherwise. The forensic scientist had already remarked that they seemed to have known each other before, despite their previously contradictory behavior. I decided to ask Dante about this directly.
    
  -¿Conocía usted al padre Anthony Fowler?
    
  "No, dispatcher," Dante said in a firm and confident voice.
    
  - It was very kind of you to give me your dossier.
    
  - In the Vigilance Corps, we are very organized.
    
  Paola decided to leave him, ahí. As she was about to leave, Dante said three phrases to her that greatly flattered her.
    
  "Just one thing, dispatcher. If he feels the need to call me to order again, I prefer anything that involves a slap. I'm not good with formalities."
    
  Paola asked Dante to personally inquire where the cardinals would be staying. And they all did. At the Domus Sancta Marthae, or House of Saint Martha, located west of St. Peter's Basilica, though within the Vatican walls.
    
  From the outside, it was a building of austere appearance. Straight and elegant, without moldings, ornaments, or statues. Compared to the wonders surrounding it, the Domus stood out as inconspicuously as a golf ball in a bucket of snow. It would have been different if a casual tourist (and there were none in the restricted area of the Vatican) had taken two glances at the structure.
    
  But when they received permission and the Swiss Guards let them in without a hitch, Paola discovered that the outside looked very different from hers. It resembled a modern Simo hotel, with marble floors and jatoba trim. A faint scent of lavender hung in the air. While they waited, the forensic scientist watched them leave. On the walls hung paintings that Paola Crió recognized as the style of the great Italian and Dutch masters of the 16th century. And not a single one looked like a reproduction.
    
  "Oh my God," Paola said in surprise, trying to curb her copious taco emesis. "I got that from him when I was calm."
    
  "I know the effect it has," Fowler said thoughtfully.
    
  The forensic scientist notes that when Fowler was a guest at the House, his personal circumstances were not pleasant.
    
  "It's a real shock compared to the rest of the Vatican buildings, at least the ones I know. New and old."
    
  - Do you know the history of this house, sir? As you know, in 1978 there were two consecutive cónkeyas, separated by just two months.
    
  "I was very little, but I carry in my memory the unfixed genes of those children," Paola said, plunging into the past for a moment.
    
    
  Gelatin desserts from St. Peter's Square. Mom and Dad from Limon and Paola with chocolate and strawberries. Pilgrims are singing, and the atmosphere is joyful. Dad's hand, strong and rough. I love holding his fingers and walking as the evening falls. We look into the fireplace and see white smoke. Dad lifts me above his head and laughs, and his laughter is the best thing in the world. My ice cream falls and I cry, but Papa is happy and promises to buy me another one. "We will eat it to the health of the Bishop of Rome," he says.
    
    
  Two popes will soon be elected, as Paul VI's successor, John Paul I, died suddenly at the age of thirty-three. There was a second key, in which I was elected John Paul II. During that brief period, the cardinals stayed in the miniscule cells around the Sistine Chapel. Without amenities or air conditioning, and since the Roman summer was icy cold, some of the elderly cardinals endured a real ordeal. One of them had to seek urgent medical attention. After Wojtyła donned the Fisherman's Sandals, he swore to himself that he would leave everything as is, paving the way for nothing like this to happen again after his death. And the result is this building. Dottora, are you listening to me?
    
  Paola returns from her enso with a guilty gesture.
    
  "Sorry, I got lost in my memories. It won't happen again."
    
  At this point, Dante returns, having gone ahead to find the person responsible for Domus. Paola doesn't, since she's avoiding the priest, so let's assume she's trying to avoid confrontation. They both spoke to each other with feigned normality, but now I seriously doubt Fowler would have told her the truth when he suggested the rivalry was limited to Dante's jealousy. For now, even if the team held together, the best the podí could do was join in the farce and ignore the problem. Something Paola was never very good at.
    
  The superintendent arrived accompanied by a short, smiling, sweaty religious woman dressed in a black suit. Introduce yourself as Sister Helena Tobina from Poland. She was the center's director and described in detail the renovations that had already taken place. They had been completed in several phases, the last of which was completed in 2003. They climbed a wide staircase with gleaming steps. The building was divided into floors with long corridors and thick carpeting. Rooms were located along the sides.
    
  "There are one hundred and six suites and twenty-four single rooms," the nurse suggested, ascending to the first floor. "All the furniture dates back several centuries and consists of valuable pieces donated by Italian or German families."
    
  The nun opened the door to one of the rooms. It was a spacious space, about twenty square meters, with parquet floors and a beautiful carpet. The bed was also wooden, with a beautifully sculpted headboard. A built-in closet, a desk, and a fully equipped bathroom completed the room.
    
  "This is the residence of one of the six cardinals who did not arrive in the first place. The other one hundred and nine are already occupying their rooms," the sister clarified.
    
  The inspector believes that at least two of the missing persons should not have appeared, Jem and#225;s.
    
  "Is it safe for the cardinals here, Sister Helena?" ask Paola cautiously. I didn't know until the nun learned of the danger lurking for the purple ones.
    
  "Very safe, my child, very safe. The building is accessible and is constantly guarded by two Swiss Guards. We have ordered the soundproofing and televisions removed from the rooms."
    
  Paola goes beyond what is permitted.
    
  "The cardinals are held incommunicado during the Council. No telephone, no telephone, no television, no television, no computers, no internet. Contact with the outside world is prohibited under penalty of excommunication," Fowler explained. "The orders were issued by John Paul II before his death."
    
  - But it would be impossible to isolate them completely, wouldn"t it, Dante?
    
  Superintendent Sakō Grupa. He loved to boast about his organization's accomplishments as if he had personally accomplished them.
    
  -See, researcher, we have the latest technology in the field of señal inhibitors.
    
  - I'm not familiar with the Espías jargon. Explain what it is.
    
  "We have electrical equipment that has created two electromagnetic fields. One here, and one in the Sistine Chapel. They're practically like two invisible umbrellas. No device that requires contact with the outside world can work under them. Neither can a directional microphone, nor a sound system, nor even an e-spiá device. Check his phone and his phone."
    
  Paola did so and saw that you really had no cover. They went out into the corridor. Nada, no había señal.
    
  -¿What about food?
    
  "It's prepared right here in the kitchen," Sister Helena said proudly. The staff consists of ten nuns, who in turn serve the various services of Domus Sancta Marthae. Reception staff remain overnight, just in case of any emergency. No one is allowed inside the House unless it's a cardinal.
    
  Paola opened her mouth to ask a question, but it caught halfway through. I interrupted it with a terrible scream coming from the top floor.
    
    
    
  Domus Sancta Marthae
    
  Piazza Santa Marta, 1
    
  Thursday, April 7, 2005, 4:31 PM.
    
    
    
  Earning his trust enough to enter the room he occupied had been devilishly difficult. Now the cardinal had time to regret this mistake, and his regret would be written in mournful letters. Karoski made another cut with a knife on his bare chest.
    
  -Calm down, Your Eminence. It's already less than necessary.
    
  The fifth part is discussed with every step of the way, Mís debiles. The blood, soaking the bedspread and dripping like paste onto the Persian carpet, deprived him of strength. But at one fine moment, I lost consciousness. Cintió all the blows and all the cuts.
    
  Karoski finished his work on the chest. "With the pride of an artisan, we look at what you've written. I keep my finger on the pulse and seize the moment. It was necessary to have a memory. Unfortunately, not everyone can use a digital video camera, but this disposable camera, operating purely mechanically, works perfectly." Running his thumb across the roll to take another photo, he mocked Cardinal Cardoso.
    
  - Greetings, Your Eminence. Ah, of course you can't. Ungag him, for I need his "gift of tongues."
    
  Karoski laughed alone at his own terrible joke. I put down the knife and showed it to the cardinal, sticking out my tongue in a mocking gesture. And he made his first mistake. Begin untying the gag. Purple was terrified, but not as frightened as the other vampires. He gathered the few strengths he had left and let out a terrifying scream that echoed through the halls of the Domus Sancta Marthae.
    
    
    
    Domus Sancta Marthae
    
  Piazza Santa Marta, 1
    
    Thursday, April 7, 2005, 4:31 PM.
    
    
    
  When she heard the scream, Paola reacted immediately. I motioned for the nun to stay put, and I walked past-he shoots at you three at a time, drawing his pistol. Fowler and Dante followed him down the stairs, their legs nearly colliding as they raced up the steps at full speed. Once they reached the top, they stopped, confused. They stood in the center of a long corridor full of doors.
    
  "Where was that?" Fowler said.
    
  "Damn it, I like it, me specifically. Don't go away, gentlemen," said Paola. "He could be a bastard, and he's a very dangerous bastard."
    
  Paola chose the left side, opposite the elevator. Believe me, there was a noise in room 56. He held the knife to the wood, but Dante motioned for him to back off. The burly superintendent motioned to Fowler, and they both rammed the door, which opened without difficulty. Two police officers burst in, Dante aiming from the front and Paola from the side. Fowler stood in the doorway, arms folded.
    
  The cardinal was lying on the bed. He was terrified, scared to death, but unharmed. I looked at them in horror, my hands raised.
    
  -Don't make me give it, please.
    
  Dante looks everywhere and lowers his pistol.
    
  -¿Dówhere was it?
    
  "I think in the next room," he said, pointing his finger but not lowering his hand.
    
  They emerged into the corridor again. Paola stood to one side of door 57, while Dante and Fowler performed the human battering ram. The first time, both shoulders took a good hit, but the lock didn't budge. The second time, the blow came with a huge crunch.
    
  The cardinal was lying on the bed. It was very stuffy and very dead, but the room was empty. Dante crossed himself in two steps and looked into the room. Meneo's head. At that moment, another cry was heard.
    
  -¡ Help!¡ Help!
    
  The three of them hurried out of the room. At the end of the corridor, near the elevator, the cardinal lay on the floor, his robes balled up. They walked toward the elevator at full speed. Paola reached him first and knelt down beside him, but the cardinal had already risen.
    
  "Cardenal Shaw!" said Fowler, recognizing his compatriot.
    
  "I'm fine, I'm fine. He pushed me to it. He left because of aí," he said, opening a familiar door, different from the one in the rooms.
    
  - Whatever you wish for me, father.
    
  "Calm down, I'm fine. Catch this impostor monk," Cardinal Shaw said.
    
  -¡Go back to your room and close the door! -le gritó Fowler.
    
  The three of them walked through the door at the end of the hallway and onto the service staircase. The smell of damp and rotting paint wafted from the walls. The stairwell was poorly lit.
    
  Perfect for an ambush, Paola thought. Karoska has a Pontiero pistol. He could be waiting for us at any turn and blow off the heads of at least two of us before we even know it.
    
  And yet, they quickly descended the steps, not without tripping over something. They followed the stairs to the sótano, below the street level, but the allí door was heavily padlocked.
    
  -He didn't come out here.
    
  They followed in his footsteps. On the floor above, they heard a noise. They walked through the door and straight into the kitchen. Dante overtook the forensic scientist and entered first, his finger on the trigger and his cannon pointed forward. The three nuns stopped fiddling with the pans and stared at them with eyes like plates.
    
  "Has anyone passed by here?" Paola shouted.
    
  They didn't answer. They continued to stare ahead with bullish eyes. One of them even continued to curse at her pouting lip, ignoring her.
    
  - What if someone passed here! A monk! - repeated the forensic scientist.
    
  The nuns shrugged. Fowler put his hand on her shoulder.
    
  -Dégelas. They don't speak Italian.
    
  Dante walked to the end of the kitchen and came across a glass door about two meters wide. "Have a very pleasant appearance. Try to open it without success." He opened the door for one of the nuns, simultaneously showing his Vatican ID card. The nun approached the superintendent and inserted the key into a drawer hidden in the wall. The door swung open with a bang. He emerged onto a side street, Plaza de Santa Marta. Before them was the San Carlos Palace.
    
  - Damn it! Didn't the nun say that Domusó has access to him?
    
  "Well, you see, dispatchers. There are two of them," Dante said.
    
  - Let's go back to our steps.
    
  They ran up the stairs, starting with the vest, and reached the "top floor." They all found a few steps leading to the roof. But when they reached the door, they found it locked to Cal and the singing.
    
  -Nobody could get out here either.
    
  Subdued, they all sat down together on the dirty, narrow stairs leading to the roof, breathing like bellows.
    
  "He hid in one of the rooms?" Fowler said.
    
  "I don't think so. He probably got away," Dante said.
    
  - But why from God?
    
  "Of course, it was the kitchen, due to the nuns' oversight. There's no other explanation. All the doors are locked or secured, as is the main entrance. Jumping out of the windows is impossible; it's too great a risk. Vigilance agents patrol the area every few minutes-and we're the center of attention, for heaven's sake!"
    
  Paola was furious. If I hadn't been so tired from running up and down the stairs, I would have made her kick the walls.
    
  -Dante, ask for help. Have them cordon off the square.
    
  The superintendent shook his head in despair. He placed his hand on his forehead, damp with sweat, which fell in cloudy beads onto his ever-present leather windbreaker. His hair, always neatly combed, was dirty and frizzy.
    
  -Sómo wants me to call, beautiful? Nothing works in this damn building. There are no security cameras in the hallways, no phones, no microphones, no walkie-talkies. Nothing more complex than a damn lightbulb, nothing that requires waves or ones and zeros to work. It's like I'm not sending a carrier pigeon...
    
  "By the time I get down, I'll already be far away. A monk doesn't attract attention in the Vatican, Dikanti," Fowler said.
    
  "Can anyone explain to me why you ran out of this room? It's the third floor, the windows were closed, and we had to break down the damn door. All the entrances to the building were guarded or closed," he said, slamming his open palm on the roof door several times, causing a dull thud and a cloud of dust.
    
  "We are so close," Dante said.
    
  - Damn it. Damn, damn and damn. ¡Ле тенíхозяева!
    
  It was Fowler who stated the terrible truth, and his words echoed in Paola's ears like a shovel scratching the letter l.request.
    
  - Now we have another dead man, dottora.
    
    
    
    Domus Sancta Marthae
    
  Piazza Santa Marta, 1
    
    Thursday, April 7, 2005, 4:31 PM.
    
    
    
  "We must act with caution," Dante said.
    
  Paola was beside herself with rage. If Sirin had been standing in front of her at that moment, she wouldn't have been able to contain herself. I think this was the third time I wanted to pull out Puñetasasos's teeth, very much so, to test whether Aún should maintain that calm demeanor and his monotone voice.
    
  After running into a stubborn ass on the roof, I descended the stairs, crouching low. Dante had to cross the square to get the vile man to take over and speak with Sirin to call for backup and have him investigate the crime scene. The general's response was that you could access the UACV document and that you were required to do so in civilian clothes. You should carry the tools you need in a regular suitcase.
    
  - We can't let all this go beyond más doún. Entiéndalo, Dikanti.
    
  - I don't understand a damn thing. We have to catch the killer! We have to clear the building, find out who came in, collect evidence...
    
  Dante looked at her as if she'd lost her mind. Fowler shook his head, unwilling to interfere. Paola knew she'd allowed this matter to seep into her soul, poisoning her peace. He always tried to be overly rational, because he knew the sensitivity of his being. When something entered her, her dedication turned into obsession. At that moment, I noticed that the fury emanating from the esprit was like a drop of acido periodically falling onto a piece of raw meat.
    
  They were in the third-floor corridor where it all happened. Room 55 was already empty. Its occupant, the man who had ordered them to search room 56, was Belgian Cardinal Petfried Haniels, aged between 73 and 241. I was very upset by what had happened. The dormitory apartment was on the top floor, where he had been given temporary housing.
    
  "Fortunately, the eldest cardinal was in the chapel, attending the afternoon meditation. Only five heard the screams, and they'd already been told that a madman had entered and started howling through the corridors," Dante said.
    
  -¿Y ya está? ¿ Is this control daños? - Paola was indignant. ¿ Make it so that even the cardinals themselves don"t know that they killed one of their own?
    
  -It's a fáresnica. We'll say he got sick and was transferred to Gemelli Hospital with gastroenteritis.
    
  - And with this, everything is already decided - replica, iconic.
    
  -Well, there is one thing, sir. You cannot speak to any of the cardinals without my permission, and the crime scene must be confined to the room.
    
  "He can't be serious. We have to look for fingerprints on doors, at access points, in the hallways... He can't be serious."
    
  "What do you want, Bambina? A collection of patrol cars at the gate? Thousands of flashbulbs from photo galleries? Of course, shouting about it from the rooftops is the best way to catch your degenerate," Dante said with an air of authority. "Or does he just want to wave his Quantico bachelor's degree in front of the cameras? If you're so good at being, then show it."
    
  Paola won't allow herself to be provoked. Dante fully supported the thesis of the occult's primacy. You have a choice: either lose in time and crash into this great, centuries-old wall, or give in and try to hurry to take advantage of as many resources as possible.
    
  "Call Sirin. Please convey this to your best friend. And that his men are on guard in case the Carmelite appears in the Vatican."
    
  Fowler cleared his throat to get Paola's attention. I pulled her aside and spoke quietly to her, pressing her mouth very close to mine. Paola couldn't help but feel his breath sending goosebumps up her spine, and was glad to put on her jacket so no one would notice. I remembered their strong touch when she had rushed madly into the crowd, and he had grabbed her, pulled her close, and held her close. And attached to sanity. She longed to hug him again, but in this situation, her desire was completely inappropriate. Everything was quite complicated.
    
  "Undoubtedly, these orders have already been given and will be carried out right now, dottor. And Olvi wants the police operation to be carried out because he won't get any djemaas in the Vatican. We'll have to accept that we're playing the cards fate has dealt us, no matter how poor the éstas. In this situation, the old saying about my land is very appropriate: the king is 27."
    
  Paola immediately understood what he was getting at.
    
  "We also say this phrase in Rome. You have a reason, Father... for the first time in this case, we have a witness. That's something."
    
  Fowler bajó aún más el tono.
    
  "Talk to Dante. Be the diplomat this time. Let him leave us free until Shaw. Quiz, let's come up with a viable description."
    
  - But without a criminologist...
    
  "That will come later, Doctor. If Cardinal Shaw saw him, we'll get a robotic portrait. But what's important to me is access to his testimony."
    
  - His name sounds familiar to me. Is this Shaw the one who appears in Karoski's reports?
    
  -Same here. He's a tough and smart man. I hope you can help us with a description. Don't mention our suspect's name: we'll see if you recognize him.
    
  Paola nods and returns with Dante.
    
  -¿What, are you two done with secrets, lovebirds?
    
  The criminal lawyer decided to ignore the comment.
    
  "Father Fowler advised me to calm down, and I think I will follow his advice.
    
  Dante looked at him suspiciously, surprised by his attitude. This woman was clearly very attractive to him.
    
  - That's very wise of you, dispatcher.
    
    - Noi abbiamo dato nella croce 28, ¿verdad, Dante?
    
    "That's one way to look at it. It's quite another to realize you're a guest in a foreign country. This mother had her own way. Now it's up to us. It's nothing personal."
    
  Paola took a deep breath.
    
  - It's okay, Dante. I need to speak with Cardinal Shaw.
    
  - He is in his room recovering from the shock he experienced. Denied.
    
  -Superintendent. Do the right thing this time. Quiz on how we'll catch him.
    
  The policeman crunched his bull neck, first to the left, then to the right. It was clear he was thinking about this.
    
  - Okay, dispatcher. On one condition.
    
  -¿Cuáeto?
    
  - Let him use simpler words.
    
  - Go and go to bed.
    
  Paola turned and met Fowler's disapproving gaze, who had been watching the conversation from a distance. He turned back to Dante.
    
  -Please.
    
  -Por favor qué, ispettora?
    
  This very pig took pleasure in its humiliation. Well, never mind, aí desyatía.
    
  -Please, Superintendent Dante, I request your permission to speak with Cardinal Shaw.
    
  Dante smiled openly. "You had a wonderful time." But suddenly he became very serious.
    
  "Five minutes, five questions. Nothing but me. I play this too, Dikanti."
    
  Two Vigilance members, both wearing black suits and ties, exited the elevator and stood on either side of door 56, where I was. Guard the entrance until the UACV inspector arrives. Take advantage of the waiting time by interviewing the witness.
    
  -¿ Where is Shaw's room?
    
  I was on the same floor. Dante led them to room 42, the last room before the door leading to the service stairs. The superintendent rang the bell delicately, using only two fingers.
    
  I revealed Sister Helena to them, who had lost her smile. Relief appeared on his face at the sight of them.
    
  -Luckily, you're okay. If they were chasing the sleepwalker down the stairs, were they able to catch him?
    
  "Unfortunately, no, sister," Paola replied. "We think she escaped through the kitchen."
    
  - Oh God, Iíili, ¿ from behind the entrance to the mercancías? Holy Virgin of the Olives, what a disaster.
    
  - Sister, didn't you tell us you had access to it?
    
  - There's one, the front door. It's not a driveway, it's a carport. It's thick and has a special key.
    
  Paola was beginning to realize that she and her sister Helena didn't speak the same Italian. He took nouns very personally.
    
  -¿ Ace... that is, the attacker could have entered through the akhí sister?
    
  The nun shook her head.
    
  "The key is our sister, the ek noma, and I have it. And she speaks Polish, as do many of the sisters who work here."
    
  The forensic scientist concluded that the Esonoma sister must have been the one who opened Dante's door. There were two copies of the keys. The mystery deepened.
    
  -Can we go to the cardinal?
    
  Sister Helena shakes her head in a harsh tone.
    
  -Impossible, dottora. It's... as they say... nervous. In a nervous state.
    
  "Let it be so," said Dante, "for one minute."
    
  The nun became serious.
    
  - Zaden. No and no.
    
  It seemed he'd prefer to retreat to his native tongue to give a negative answer. I was already closing the door when Fowler stepped on the frame, preventing it from closing completely. He spoke to her hesitantly, chewing over his words.
    
  - Sprawia przyjemno, potrzebujemy eby widzie kardynalny Shaw, siostra Helena.
    
  The nun opened her eyes like plates.
    
    - Wasz jzyk polski nie jest dobry 29.
    
    "I know. I'm obliged to visit her wonderful father often. But I haven't been there since I was born." Solidarity 30.
    
  The religious woman bowed her head, but it was clear the priest had earned her trust. Then the regañadientes opened the door completely, stepping aside.
    
  "Since when do you know Polish?" Paola whispered to her as they entered.
    
  "I only have vague notions, Doctor. You know, travel broadens your horizons."
    
  Dikanti allowed herself to stare at him for a moment, astonished, before turning her full attention to the man lying in the bed. The room was dimly lit, as the blinds were almost drawn. Cardinal Shaw ran a wet towel across the floor, barely visible in the dim light. As they approached the foot of the bed, the purple man raised himself on one elbow, snorted, and the towel slid off his face. He was a man with strong features and a very stocky build. His hair, completely white, was plastered to his forehead where the towel had soaked through.
    
  -Forgive me, I...
    
  Dante leaned over to kiss the cardinal's ring, but the cardinal stopped him.
    
  - No, please. Not now.
    
  The inspector took an unexpected step, something unnecessary. He had to protest before he could speak.
    
  -Cardinal Shaw, we regret the intrusion, but we need to ask you a few questions, do you feel able to answer us?
    
  "Of course, my children, of course." I distracted him for a moment. It was a terrible experience to see myself robbed in a holy place. I do have an appointment to take care of some business in a few minutes. Please be brief.
    
  Dante looked at Sister Helena and then at Shaw. Éste comprendió. Without witnesses.
    
  - Sister Helena, please warn Cardinal Paulich that I will be a little late, if you would be so kind.
    
  The nun left the room, repeating curses that were certainly not typical of a religious woman.
    
  "What happened during all this time?" ask Dante.
    
  - I went up to my room to get my diary when I heard a terrible scream. I remain paralyzed for a few seconds, probably trying to figure out if it was a figment of my imagination. I heard the sound of people hurrying up the stairs, and then a creak. "Go out into the hallway, please." There was a Carmelite monk living near the elevator door, hiding in a small recess that formed the wall. I looked at him, and he turned and looked at me too. There was so much hatred in his eyes, Holy Mother of God. At that moment, there was another crunch, and the Carmelite rammed me. I fell to the ground and screamed. You guys already know the rest.
    
  "Could you see his face clearly?" Paola intervened.
    
  "He was almost completely covered in a thick beard. I don't remember much."
    
  -¿ Could you describe his face and build to us?
    
  "I don't think so. I only saw him for a second, and my vision isn't what it used to be. However, I do remember that he had white hair and was a CEO. But I immediately realized he wasn't a monk."
    
  -¿ What made you think so, Your Eminence? -inquirió Fowler.
    
  - His demeanor, of course. All glued to the elevator door, not at all like a servant of God.
    
  At that moment, Sister Helena returned, giggling nervously.
    
  "Cardinal Shaw, Cardinal Paulich says the Commission is expecting him as soon as possible to begin preparations for the Novendial Masses. I've prepared a conference room for you on the first floor."
    
  "Thank you, sister. Adele, you should be with Antoon because you need something. Wales, who will be with you in five minutes."
    
  Dante realized that Shaw was ending the reunion.
    
  -Thank you for everything, Your Eminence. We must go.
    
  "You have no idea how sorry I am. Novendiales are celebrated in every church in Rome and by the thousands around the world, praying for the soul of our Holy Father. This is a proven work, and I will not postpone it because of a simple nudge."
    
  Paola was about to say something, but Fowler discreetly squeezed her elbow, and the forensic scientist swallowed his question. He also waved goodbye to the purple one. As they were about to leave the room, the cardinal asked them a question that interested me greatly.
    
  - Does this man have anything to do with the disappearances?
    
  Dante turned very slowly, and I answered with words in which the almíbar stood out with all its vowels and consonants.
    
  "From ninú modo, Your Eminence, he's just a provocateur. Probably one of those involved in anti-globalization. They usually dress up to attract attention, you know that."
    
  The cardinal regained his composure a little before sitting up on the bed. He turned to the nun.
    
  "There are rumors among some of my brother cardinals that two of the Curia's most prominent figures will not be attending the Cónclave. I hope you are both well."
    
  "What is it, Your Eminence?" Paola was shocked. In his life, he had heard a voice as soft, sweet, and humble as the one with which Dante asked his final question.
    
  "Alas, my children, at my age much is forgotten. I eat kwai and I whisper kwai between coffee and dessert. But I can assure you that I am not the único who knows this."
    
  "Your Eminence, this is, of course, just a baseless rumor. If you'll excuse us, we must begin searching for the troublemaker."
    
  "I hope you find him soon. There's too much unrest in the Vatican, and perhaps it's time to change course in our security policy."
    
  Shaw's evening threat, as glazed with Azúcar as Dante's question, didn't go unnoticed by any of the three. Even Paola's blood ran cold at the tone, and it disgusted every member I encountered.
    
  Sister Helena left the room with them and walked down the hallway. A rather stocky cardinal, undoubtedly Pavlich, with whom Sister Helena had descended, was waiting for him on the stairs.
    
  As soon as Paola saw Sister Elena's back disappear down the stairs, Paola turned to Dante with a bitter grimace on her face.
    
  "It appears your control over the house is not working as well as you think, Superintendent."
    
  "I swear, I don't understand it," Dante said, regret written all over his face. "At least, let's hope they don't know the real reason. Of course, that seems impossible. And anyway, even Shaw could be the PR man who puts on the red sandals."
    
  "Like all of us criminals, we know something strange is going on," the forensic scientist said. "Frankly, I'd like for the damn thing to explode under their noses, so the pudiéramos can work the way the job requires."
    
  Dante was about to angrily protest when someone appeared on the landing of the mármol. Carlo Boy xabí decided to send someone he considered a better and more reserved UACV employee.
    
  - Good afternoon everyone.
    
  "Good afternoon, Director Boy," Paola replied.
    
  It's time to come face to face with Karoski's new scene.
    
    
    
  FBI Academy
    
  Quantico, Virginia
    
  August 22, 1999
    
    
    
  - Come in, come in. I suppose you know who I am, don't you?
    
  For Paola, meeting Robert Weber was like being invited for coffee by Ramses II, an Egyptian professor. We entered a conference room where the renowned criminalist was giving evaluations to four students who had completed a course. He had been retired for ten years, but his confident stride inspired awe in the corridors of the FBI. This man had revolutionized forensic science by creating a new tool for tracking down criminals: psychological profiling. At the elite course the FBI ran to train new talent worldwide, he was always responsible for giving evaluations. The students loved it because they were able to meet face to face with someone they greatly admired.
    
  - Of course I know him, they... I have to tell him...
    
  "Yes, I know, it's a great honor to meet you and blah-blah-blah. If I had a bad grade for every time someone said that to me, I'd be a rich man right now."
    
  The forensic scientist buried his nose in a thick folder. Paola puts her hand in her pants pocket and pulls out a crumpled piece of paper, which I hand to Weber.
    
  - It is a great honor for me to meet you, sir.
    
  Weber looked at the paper and then back at it. It was a one-dollar bill. I reached out and took it. I smoothed it out and put it in my jacket pocket.
    
  "Don't crumple the bills, Dikanti. They belong to the United States Treasury from America," but he smiled, pleased with the young woman's timely response.
    
  - Keep that in mind, sir.
    
  Weber's face hardened. This was the moment of truth, and every word I said next was like a blow to the young woman.
    
  "You're an idiot, Dikanti. Touch m ínimos in physical tests and in puntería tests. And he doesn't have a car. He immediately collapses. He closes down too easily in the face of adversity.
    
  Paola was utterly sad. It's a difficult task to have a living legend strip you of your color at some point. It's even worse when his hoarse voice leaves no trace of empathy.
    
  - You're not reasoning. She's good, but she needs to reveal what's inside her. And for that, he must invent. Invent, Dikanti. Don't follow instructions to the letter. Improvise and believe. And let this be my diploma. Here are his latest notes. Put her bra on when she leaves the office.
    
  Paola took Weber's envelope with trembling hands and opened the door, grateful to have been able to escape from everyone.
    
  - I know one thing, Dikanti. Is ¿Cuál the serial killer's true motive?
    
  - His lust for murder. Which he cannot contain.
    
  denies it with disgust.
    
  - He's not far from where he should be, but he's not aá akhí. He's thinking like books again, onñorita. Can you understand the lust for murder?
    
  - No, it is... or.
    
  "Sometimes you have to forget about psychiatric treatises. The real motive is the body. Analyze his work and get to know the artist. Let that be the first thing on his mind when he arrives at a crime scene."
    
    
  Dikanti ran to his room and locked himself in the bathroom. When I had regained sufficient composure, I opened the envelope. It took a long time to understand what he saw.
    
  He received top grades in all subjects and learned valuable lessons. Nothing is as it seems.
    
    
    
  Domus Sancta Marthae
    
  Piazza Santa Marta, 1
    
  Thursday, April 7, 2005, 5:10 PM.
    
    
    
  Less than an hour later, the killer fled the room. Paola could feel his presence in the room, like someone inhaling invisible, steely smoke. He always spoke rationally about serial killers, in his lively voice. He must have done so when he expressed his opinions (mostly) via email.
    
  It was completely wrong to enter the room like that, careful not to step in the blood. I don't do that to avoid desecrating the crime scene. The main reason I didn't step in it was because the cursed blood would ruin my good shoes forever.
    
  And about the soul too.
    
    
  Almost three years ago, it was discovered that Director Boy hadn't personally processed the crime scene. Paola suspected Boy was compromising to this degree to gain favor with the Vatican authorities. Of course, he wouldn't be able to make political progress with his Italian superiors, because this whole damned thing had to be kept secret.
    
  He entered first, along with Paola Detrás. The Demiás waited in the hallway, staring straight ahead, and sintiéndose incóregimes. The forensic scientist overheard Dante and Fowler exchange a few words-they even swore some of them were spoken in a very rude tone-but she tried to focus all her attention on what was inside the room, not on what was left outside.
    
  Paola remained by the door, leaving Boy to his task. First, take forensic photographs: one from each corner of the room, one vertical to the ceiling, one from each possible angle, and one from each object the investigator might deem important. In short, more than sixty flashes, illuminating the scene with unreal, whitish, intermittent hues. Paola also prevailed over the noise and excess light.
    
  Take a deep breath, trying to ignore the smell of blood and the unpleasant aftertaste it left in your throat. Close your eyes and very slowly count mentally from one hundred to zero, trying to match your heartbeat to the rhythm of the countdown. The bold gallop of one hundred was merely a smooth trot at fifty and a dull, precise drumbeat at zero.
    
  Open your eyes.
    
  Lying on the bed was Cardinal Geraldo Cardoso, aged between 71 and 241. Cardoso was tied to the bed's ornate headboard with two tightly knotted towels. He wore a cardinal's chaplain's robe, fully starched, with a wickedly mocking expression.
    
  Paola slowly repeated Weber's mantra. "If you want to know an artist, look at his work." I repeated it over and over, silently moving my lips until the meaning of the words faded from his mouth, but I imprinted it on his mind, like someone who wets a stamp with ink and leaves it dry after stamping it on paper.
    
    
  "Let"s begin," Paola said loudly and took a voice recorder out of her pocket.
    
  Boy didn't even glance at her. Meanwhile, I was busy collecting traces and studying the blood spatter patterns.
    
  The forensic scientist began dictating into her recorder, just like last time at Quantico. Observation and immediate inference. The resulting conclusions look quite similar to a reconstruction of how it all happened.
    
    
  Observation
    
  Conclusion:Karoski was introduced into the roomón by means of the algún trick and quickly and silently reduced to víctima.
    
  Observation: There's a bloody towel on the floor. She looks crumpled.
    
  Conclusion: In all likelihood, Karoski inserted a gag and removed it to continue his horrible act of cutting out the tongue.
    
  Watch: We hear an alarm.
    
  The most likely explanation is that, after removing the gag, Cardoso found a way to scream. Then the tongue is the last thing he cuts off before going to the eyes.
    
  Observation: both eyes are intact and the throat is slit. The cut appears jagged and covered in blood. The hands remain intact.
    
  The Karoski ritual in this case begins with the torture of the body, followed by the ritual dissection. Remove the tongue, remove the eyes, remove the hands.
    
    
  Paola opened the bedroom door and asked Fowler to come in for a minute. Fowler grimaced, looking at the terrifying backside, but not looking away. The forensic scientist rewound the tape, and they both listened to the last item.
    
  - Do you think there is something special about the order in which you perform the ritual?
    
  "I don't know, Doctor. Speech is the most important thing about a priest: the sacraments are celebrated with his voice. The eyes in no way determine the priestly ministry, since they don't directly participate in any of its functions. However, the hands do, and they are sacred, since they touch the body of Christ during the Eucharist. A priest's hands are always sacred, no matter what he does."
    
  -What do you mean?
    
  "Even a monster like Karoski still has holy hands. Their ability to perform sacraments is equal to that of saints and pure priests. It defies common sense, but it's true."
    
  Paola shuddered. The idea that such a pitiful creature could have direct contact with God seemed repulsive and horrific. Try to remember that this was one of the motives that had driven her to renounce God, to consider herself an intolerable tyrant in her own heavenly firmament. But delving into the horror, into the depravity of those like Caroschi, who were supposed to be doing Their work, had an entirely different effect on her. Cintió had betrayed her, which she-she-was bound to feel, and for a few moments, she put herself in Her place. Remind me, Maurizio, that I would never do such a thing, and regret that I wasn't there to try to make sense of all this damned madness.
    
  -My God.
    
  Fowler shrugged, not quite sure what to say. I turned back and left the room. Paola turned the recorder back on.
    
    
  Observation: Víctimaá is wearing a talar suit, completely open. Underneath, he wears something resembling a tank top and... The shirt is torn, likely by a sharp object. There are several cuts on his chest that form the words "EGO, I JUSTIFY YOU."
    
  The Carosca ritual in this case begins with the torture of the body, followed by ritual dismemberment. Remove the tongue, remove the eyes, remove the hands. The words "I GO JUSTIFY THEE" were also found in Portini segas scenes in photographs presented by Dante y Robaira. The variation in this case is additional.
    
  Observation: There are numerous splashes and splatter marks on the walls. There's also a partial footprint on the floor near the bed. It looks like blood.
    
  Conclusion: Everything at this crime scene is completely unnecessary. We can't conclude that his style has evolved or that he's adapted to the environment. His mode is strange, and...
    
    
  The forensic scientist presses the bot's "" button. Everyone was used to something that didn't fit, something that was terribly wrong.
    
  - How are you, director?
    
  "Bad. Really bad. I lifted fingerprints from the door, the nightstand, and the headboard, but I didn't find much. There are several sets of prints, but I think one matches Karoski's."
    
  At the time, I was holding a plastic mine bearing a fairly clear fingerprint, the one I'd just lifted from the headboard. He compared it by light with the print Fowler had provided from Karoski's card (which Fowler himself had obtained in his cell after his escape, as fingerprinting patients at St. Matthew's Hospital wasn't routinely done).
    
  -This is a preliminary impression, but I think there are some similarities. This ascending fork is quite characteristic of ística and ésta cola deltica... -decíBoi, más for sí is the same as for Paola.
    
  Paola knew that when Boy declared a fingerprint good, it was true. Boy had become renowned as a specialist in fingerprinting and graphics. I saw it all-I regret-the slow decay that turned a fine coroner into a tomb.
    
  - Is it okay for me, doctor?
    
  - Nada mas. No hairs, no fibers, nothing. This man really is a ghost. If he'd started putting on gloves, I'd think Cardoso had killed him with a ritual expander.
    
  "There is nothing spiritual about this broken pipe, doctor.
    
  The director looked at the CAD system with undisguised admiration, perhaps pondering his subordinate's words or drawing his own conclusions. Finally, I answered him:
    
  - No, not really, really.
    
    
  Paola left the room, leaving Boy to his work. "But know that I'll find next to nothing." Karoschi was deadly clever and, despite his haste, left nothing behind. A nagging suspicion lingers over his head. Look around. Camilo Sirin arrived, accompanied by another man. He was a small man, thin and frail in appearance, but with a gaze as sharp as his nose. Sirin approached him and introduced him as Magistrate Gianluigi Varone, the Vatican's chief judge. Paola doesn't like this man: he resembles a gray, massive vulture in a jacket.
    
  The judge draws up a protocol for the removal of the cadasme, which is carried out in conditions of absolute secrecy. The two Guard Corps agents who had previously been assigned to guard the door changed clothes. Both were wearing black overalls and latex gloves. They would be responsible for cleaning and sealing the room after Boy and his team left. Fowler sat on a small bench at the end of the corridor, quietly reading his diary. When Paola saw that Sirin and the magistrate were free, she approached the priest and sat next to him. Fowler couldn't help but feel
    
  -Well, dottor. Now you know several cardinals.
    
  Paola laughed sadly. Everything had changed in just thirty-six hours, since they'd both waited together at the flight attendant's office door. But they were nowhere near catching Karoski.
    
  "I believed that dark jokes were the prerogative of Superintendent Dante.
    
  - Oh, and that's true, dottora. I'm visiting him.
    
  Paola opened her mouth and closed it again. She wanted to tell Fowler what was going through her head about the Karoska ritual, but he didn't know that was what she was so worried about. I decided to wait until I'd thought about it enough.
    
  Since Paola will be bitterly checking on me belatedly from time to time, this decision will be a huge mistake.
    
    
    
    Domus Sancta Marthae
    
  Piazza Santa Marta, 1
    
    Thursday, April 7, 2005, 4:31 PM.
    
    
    
  Dante and Paola boarded the car bound for Tra-Boy. The director left them at the morgue before heading to the UACV to try to determine the murder weapon in each scenario. Fowler was also about to head upstairs to his room when a voice called him from the doors of the Domus Sancta Marthae.
    
  -¡Padre Fowler!
    
  The priest turned. It was Cardinal Shaw. He gestured, and Fowler stepped closer.
    
  - Your Eminence. I hope he's feeling better.
    
  The cardinal smiled at her affectionately.
    
  "We humbly accept the trials the Lord sends us. Dear Fowler, I would like the opportunity to personally thank you for your timely rescue."
    
  - Your Grace, when we arrived, you were already safe.
    
  -Who knows, who knows what I could have done that Monday if I had returned? I am very grateful to you. I will personally make sure the Curia knows what a good soldier you are.
    
  - There is really no need for that, Your Eminence.
    
  "My child, you never know what favor you might need. Someone is going to ruin everything. It's important to score points, you know that."
    
    Fowler le miró, inescrutable.
    
  " Of course , my son , I ... " Shaw continued. "The Curia's gratitude can be complete. We could even make our presence known here in the Vatican. Camilo Sirin seems to be losing his reflexes. Perhaps his place will be taken by someone who will ensure that the escándalo is completely removed. That it disappears."
    
  Fowler was beginning to understand.
    
  -¿His Eminence asks me to skip the algúndossier?
    
  The cardinal made a rather childish and rather inappropriate gesture of complicity, especially given the subject they were discussing. "Trust me, you get what you want."
    
  "Exactly so, my child, exactly so. Believers should not insult each other."
    
  The priest smiled maliciously.
    
  -Wow, that's a Blake quote 31. Jemás había ilií makes the cardinal read "The Parables of Hell."
    
  The voice of the brewer and the starch rose. He didn't like the priest's tone.
    
  - The ways of the Lord are mysterious.
    
  "The Lord's ways are the opposite of the Enemy's, Your Eminence. I learned this at school, from my parents. And it remains relevant."
    
  - A surgeon's instruments sometimes get dirty. And you're like a well-sharpened scalpel, son. Let's say that sé represents más of one interés in éste case.
    
  "I am a humble priest," said Fowler, pretending to be very glad.
    
  "I have no doubt. But in certain circles they talk about his... abilities."
    
  - And these articles also do not talk about my problem with the authorities, Your Eminence?
    
  "Some of that, too. But I have no doubt that when the time comes, you will act appropriately. Don't let the good name of your Church be erased from the headlines, son."
    
  The priest responded with a cold, contemptuous silence. The cardinal patronizingly patted him on the scapular of his impeccable cassock and lowered his voice to a whisper.
    
  - In our time, when everything is over, who has no secret but another? Perhaps, if his name had appeared in other articles. For example, in the quotes from Sant'Uffizio. One day, Mass.
    
  And without saying a word, he turned and re-entered the Domus Sancta Marthae. Fowler climbed into the car, where his comrades were waiting for him with the engine running.
    
  "Are you all right, Father?" This doesn't bring a good mood-he's interested in Dikanti.
    
  -Absolutely correct, dottor.
    
  Paola studied him carefully. The lie was obvious: Fowler was as pale as a lump of flour. I wasn't even ten years old at the time, and I looked older than I was ten.
    
    -¿Qué quería el cardenal Shaw?
    
    Fowler offers Paola an attempt at a carefree smile, which only makes matters worse.
    
  - Your Eminence? Oh, nothing. So just give the memories to a friend you know.
    
    
    
  Morgue Municipal
    
  Friday, April 8, 2005, 1:25 AM
    
    
    
  - It has become our custom to receive them early in the morning, Dottora Dikanti.
    
  Paola repeats something between abbreviation and absence. Fowler, Dante, and the coroner stood on one side of the autopsy table. She stood opposite. All four were dressed in the blue gowns and latex gloves typical of this place. Meeting the tuzi for the third time in such a short time made him remember the young woman and what he did to her. Something about hell repeating itself. That's what mo is about: repetition. They may not have had hell before their eyes back then, but they certainly considered the evidence of its existence.
    
  The sight of Cardoso filled me with fear as he lay on the table. Washed away by the blood that had covered him for hours, it was a white wound with horrific, dried wounds. The Cardinal was a thin man, and after the bloodshed, his face was grim and accusing.
    
  "What do we know about él, Dante?" said Dikanti.
    
  The superintendent brought a small notebook, which he always carried in his jacket pocket.
    
  -Geraldo Claudio Cardoso, born in 1934, cardinal since 2001. A renowned advocate for workers' rights, he always championed the poor and homeless. Before becoming a cardinal, he gained a wide reputation in the Diocese of St. Joseph. Everyone has important factories in Suramea Rica-here, Dante sits two world-famous car brands. I always acted as a mediator between the worker and the company. The workers loved him, calling him the "union bishop." He was a member of several congregations of the Roman Curia.
    
  Once again, even the coroner's guard remained silent. Seeing Robaira naked and smiling, he mocked Pontiero's lack of restraint. A few hours later, a mocked man lay on his desk. And the next second, another one of the purple ones. A man who, at least on paper, had done much good. He wondered if there would be consistency between the official biography and the unofficial one, but it was Fowler who ultimately turned the question to Dante.
    
  -Superintendent, is there anything other than a press release?
    
  - Father Fowler, do not be mistaken in thinking that all the people of our Holy Mother Church lead a double life.
    
    -Procuraré recordarlo -Fowler tenía el rostro rígido-. Now, please answer me.
    
  Dante pretended to think as I squeezed his neck left and right, his signature gesture. Paola got the feeling she either knew the answer or was preparing for the question.
    
  "I made a few calls. Almost everyone confirms the official version. He had a few minor slip-ups, apparently of no consequence. I was addicted to marijuana in my youth, before I became a priest. He had some questionable political affiliations in college, but nothing out of the ordinary. Even as a cardinal, he often met with some of his Curial colleagues, as he was a supporter of a group not very well known in the Curia: the Charismatics. 32 Overall, he was a good guy."
    
  "Like the other two," Fowler said.
    
  - It looks like it.
    
  "What can you tell us about the murder weapon, Doctor?" Paola intervened.
    
  The coroner applied pressure to the victim's neck and then cut her chest.
    
  "It's a sharp, smooth-edged object, probably not a very large kitchen knife, but it's very sharp. In previous cases, I stuck to my guns, but after seeing the cut impressions, I think we used the same tool all three times."
    
  Paola Tomó please pay attention to this.
    
  - Dottora -dijo Fowler-. Do you think there's a chance Karoski will do something during Wojtyla's funeral?
    
  -Hell, I don't know. Security around Domus Sancta Marthae will undoubtedly be tightened...
    
  "Of course," Dante boasts, "They're so locked up that I wouldn't even know which house they're from without checking the time."
    
  -...although security was high before and served little purpose. Karoski demonstrated remarkable ability and incredible bravery. Frankly, I have no idea. I don't know if it's worth trying, although I doubt it. In a hundred cases, he couldn't complete his ritual or leave us a bloody message, as in the other two cases.
    
  "That means we've lost the trail," Fowler complained.
    
  -Yes, but at the same time, this circumstance should make him nervous and make him vulnerable. But with éste cabró, you never know.
    
  "We will have to be very vigilant to protect the cardinals," Dante said.
    
  "Not only to protect them, but also to seek Him. Even if I don't try anything, be all, look at us and laugh. He can play with my neck.
    
    
    
  St. Peter's Square
    
  Friday, April 8, 2005, 10:15 AM.
    
    
    
  The funeral of John Paul II was tediously normal. All that can be normal is the funeral of a religious figure, attended by some of the most important heads of state and crowned heads on Earth, a figure whose memory is more than a billion people. But they weren't the only ones. Hundreds of thousands of people crowded St. Peter's Square, and each of those faces was dedicated to the story that raged in his eyes like a fire in a fireplace. Some of those faces, however, will have enormous significance in our history.
    
    
  One of them was Andrea Otero. He hadn't seen Robair anywhere. The journalist discovered three things on the roof where she and her fellow Televisión Alemán crew were sitting. First, if you look through a prism, you'll get a terrible headache after half an hour. Second, the backs of all the cardinals' heads look the same. And three-let's say one hundred and twelve purple ones-sitting on those chairs. I've checked this several times. And the list of voters you have, printed on your lap, proclaimed that there should be one hundred and fifteen of them.
    
    
  Camilo Sirin wouldn't have felt anything if he'd known what was on Andrea Otero's mind, but he had his own (and serious) problems. Victor Karoschi, a serial killer of cardinals, was one of them. But while Karoschi didn't cause Sirin any trouble during the funeral, he was shot dead by an unknown assailant who invaded the Vatican office in the midst of Valentine's Day celebrations. The grief that momentarily overwhelmed Sirin at the memory of the September 11 attacks was no less intense than that of the pilots of the three fighter jets that pursued him. Fortunately, relief came a few minutes later when it was revealed that the pilot of the unidentified plane was a Macedonian who had made a mistake. The episode would put Sirin's nerves in a pincer movement. One of his closest subordinates commented afterward that it was the first time he'd heard Sirin raise his voice in fifteen of his orders.
    
    
  Another of Sirin's subordinates, Fabio Dante, was among the first. Curse your luck, because people were scared when the féretro with Pope Wojtyła passed by on él, and many shouted "Holy Subito! 33" in their ears. I desperately tried to peer over the posters and heads, looking for the Carmelite monk with the full beard. Not that I was glad the funeral was over, but almost.
    
    
  Father Fowler was one of many priests who distributed communion to parishioners, and on one occasion, I believed when I saw Karoska's face on the face of the man he was about to receive the body of Christ from his hands. While hundreds of people marched before him to receive God, Fowler prayed for two reasons: one was the reason he had been brought to Rome, and the other was to ask the Almighty for enlightenment and strength in the face of what he had seen; found in the Eternal City.
    
    
  Unaware that Fowler was asking the Maker for help, largely for her sake, Paola peered intently into the faces of the crowd from the steps of St. Peter's. He'd been placed in a corner, but he wasn't praying. He never does. He also didn't look at the people with much attention, because after a while, all the faces seemed the same to him. All I could do was ponder the monster's motives.
    
    
  Dr. Boy sits in front of several television monitors with Angelo, the UACV forensic scientist. Get a live view of the celestial hills that towered over the square before they were slated for reality TV. They've all staged their own hunt, which has left them with headaches like Andrea Otero's. There's no trace left of "the engineer," as I followed him by the nickname Angelo in his blissful ignorance.
    
    
  On the esplanade, George Bush's Secret Service agents clashed with Vigilante agents when the estos refused to allow those in the square to pass. For those who know, even if this is true, about the Secret Service's work, I would have wanted them to remain out of the way during this time. No one in Ninja had ever refused them permission so categorically. Vigilantes were denied permission. And no matter how much they insisted, they remained outside.
    
    
  Victor Karoski attended John Paul II's funeral with devout devotion, praying aloud. He sang in a beautiful, deep voice at the right moments. Vertió's grimace was very sincere. He was making plans for the future.
    
  Nobody paid any attention to ól.
    
    
    
  Vatican Press Center
    
  Friday, April 8, 2005, 6:25 PM.
    
    
    
  Andrea Otero arrived at the press conference with his tongue hanging out. Not only because of the heat, but also because he'd left the press car at the hotel and had to ask the astonished taxi driver to turn around to pick him up. The oversight wasn't critical, as I'd left the hotel an hour before lunch. I'd wanted to arrive earlier so I could talk to Vatican spokesman Joaquín Balcells about Cardinal Robaira's "sweating." All attempts to find him, which he had made, had been unsuccessful.
    
  The press center was located in an annex to the large auditorium built during the reign of John Paul II. The modern building, designed to seat over six thousand people, was always filled to capacity and served as the Holy Father's audience hall. The entrance opened directly onto the street and was located near the Sant'Uffizio Palace.
    
  The room at the sí was designed to seat one hundred and eighty-five people. Andrea thought she'd find a good place to sit by arriving fifteen minutes early, but it was clear that I, among the three hundred journalists, had the same idea. It wasn't surprising that the room was still small. There were 3,042 media outlets from ninety countries accredited to cover the funeral that took place that day, and the funeral home. More than two billion human beings, half of them cats, were dismissed to the comfort of their late Pope's living rooms that same night. And here I am. I, Andrea Otero Ha-if only you could see her now, her classmates from the journalism department.
    
  Well, I was at a press conference where they were supposed to explain what was happening at the Cínclave, but there was no place to sit. He leaned against the door as best he could. It was the only way in, because when Balcells arrived, I would be able to approach him.
    
  Calmly recount your notes about the press secretary. He was a gentleman converted into a journalist. A numerary of Opus Dei, born in Cartagena and, by all accounts, a serious and very decent guy. He was about to turn seventy, and unofficial sources (which Andrea finds difficult to trust) praise him as one of the most influential people in the Vatican. He was supposed to take information from the Pope himself and present it to the great Pope. If you decide something was secret, secret will be what you want it to be. With the Bulkells, there are no leaks. His resume was impressive. Andrea Leio's awards and medals she was awarded. Commandant of this, Commandant of that, Grand Cross of that... The insignia took up two pages, and the award for the first. It doesn't look like I'm going to be a biter.
    
  But I have strong teeth, damn it.
    
  She was busy trying to hear her thoughts over the growing din of voices when the room exploded in a terrible cacophony.
    
  At first there was only one, like a solitary droplet foreshadowing a drizzle. Then three or four. After that, loud music of various sounds and tones would be heard.
    
  It seemed like dozens of disgusting sounds were emanating simultaneously. A penis lasts a total of forty seconds. All the journalists looked up from their terminals and shook their heads. Several loud complaints were audible.
    
  "Guys, I'm a quarter of an hour late. That won't give us time to edit."
    
  Andrea heard a voice speaking Spanish a few meters away. She nudged it and confirmed it was a girl with tanned skin and delicate features. From her accent, he realized she was Mexican.
    
  -Hi, what's wrong? I'm Andrea Otero from El Globo. Hey, can you tell me why all those nasty words came out at once?
    
  The Mexican woman smiles and points her phone.
    
  -Look at the Vatican press release. They send us all an SMS every time important news breaks. This is the Moderna PR they told us about, and it's one of the most popular articles in the world. The only problem is that it's annoying when we're all together. This is the final warning that Sr. Balcells will be postponed.
    
  Andrea admired the wisdom of the measure. Managing information for thousands of journalists can't be easy.
    
  -Don't tell me you didn't sign up for cell phone service-it's extrañó Mexican.
    
  - Well... no, not from God. No one warned me about anything.
    
  -Well, don't worry. Do you see that girl from Ahí?
    
  -¿ Blonde?
    
  "No, the one in the gray jacket with the folder in his hand. Go up to her and tell her to register you on her cell phone. I'll have you in their database in less than half an hour."
    
  Andrea did just that. I approached the girl and gave her all her information. The girl asked him for his credit card and entered his car number into her electronic diary.
    
  "It's connected to the power station," he said, gesturing at the technologist with a tired smile. "What language do you prefer to receive messages from the Vatican in?"
    
  -In Spainñpr.
    
  - Traditional Spanish or Spanish variants of English?
    
  "For life," he said in Spanish.
    
  - Skuzi? - that's the extrañó other, in perfect (and ñbearish) Italian.
    
  -Excuse me. In Spanish, old traditional, please.
    
  - I'll be discharged from duty in about fifty minutes. If you require me to sign this printout, if you would be so kind, allow us to send you the information.
    
  The journalist scribbled her name at the bottom of the sheet of paper the girl had pulled out of her folder, barely glancing at it, and said goodbye to her, thanking her.
    
  I returned to his website and tried to read something about Balkell, but a rumor announced the arrival of a representative. Andrea turned his attention back to the front door, but the rescuer entered through a small door hidden behind the platform he now climbed onto. With a calm gesture, he pretended to sort through his notes, giving the cá Mara cameramen time to position him in the frame and the journalists to sit down.
    
  Andrea cursed her misfortune and tiptoed toward the podium, where the press secretary waited behind the lectern. I barely managed to reach her. While the rest of her fellow poñeros sat down, Andrea approached Bulkell.
    
  - Etoñor Balcells, I'm Andrea Otero from Globo. I've been trying to find him all week, but to no avail...
    
  -Afterwards.
    
  The press secretary didn't even look at her.
    
  - But if you, Balkells, don"t understand, I need to compare some information...
    
  - I told her that after this she would die. Let's begin.
    
  Andrea was in Nita. The moment she looked up at him, it infuriated her. She was too used to subduing men with the glare of her two blue headlights.
    
  "But Buñor Balcells, I remind you that I belong to a major Spanish daily..." The journalist tried to score points by dragging out her colleague who represented the Spanish media outlet, but I wasn't serving her. Nothing. The other one looked at her for the first time, and there was ice in his eyes.
    
  -When did you tell me your name?
    
  -Andrea Otero.
    
  - How so?
    
  -From the globe.
    
  -¿Y dónde está Paloma?
    
  Paloma, the official correspondent for Vatican affairs. The one who, coincidentally, drove a few kilometers from Spain and got into a non-fatal car accident to give up her seat to Andrea. It's too bad Bulkels asked about her, too bad.
    
  -Well... he didn't come, he had a problem...
    
  Balkells frowned, because only the elder of the Opus Dei numeraria is physically capable of frowning. Andrea stepped back slightly, surprised.
    
  "Young lady, please notice the people you find unpleasant," Balkells said, heading toward the crowded rows of chairs. These are his colleagues from CNN, BBC, Reuters, and hundreds of other media outlets. Some of them were already accredited journalists at the Vatican before you were born. And they are all waiting for the press conference to begin. Do me a favor and take his seat right now.
    
  Andrea turned away, embarrassed and her cheeks sunken. The reporters in the front row smiled only in response. Some of them seemed as old as that Bernini colonnade. As he tried to return to the back of the room, where he had left the suitcase containing his computer, he heard Bulkels making a joke in Italian with someone in the front row. A low, almost inhuman laughter sounded behind him. She had no doubt the joke was on her. Faces turned to her, and Andrea blushed to her ears. With my head down and my arms outstretched, trying to navigate the narrow corridor to the door, I felt like I was swimming in a sea of bodies. When I finally reached his seat, he wouldn't just pick up his port and turn around, he'd slip out the door. The girl who had taken the data held her hand for a moment and warned:
    
  -Remember, if you leave, you won't be able to re-enter until the press conference is over. The door will close. You know the rules.
    
  Just like in the theater, Andrea thought. Exactly like in the theater.
    
  He freed himself from the girl's grasp and left without a word. The door closed behind her with a sound that couldn't banish the fear from Andrea's soul, but at least partially alleviated it. She desperately needed a cigarette and rummaged frantically through the pockets of her elegant windbreaker until her fingers found a box of mints that served as a solace in the absence of her nicotine-addicted friend. Write down that you left him last week.
    
  This is a damn bad time to leave.
    
  Takes out a box of mints and drinks three. Know that this is a recent myth, but at least keep your mouth busy. It won't do the monkey much good, though.
    
  Many times in the future, Andrea Otero will recall that moment. Remember how she stood by that door, leaning against the frame, trying to calm herself down and cursing herself for being so stubborn, for allowing herself to be so embarrassed like a teenager.
    
  But I don't remember him because of that detail. I'll do it because the terrible discovery that was a hair's breadth away from killing her and that would ultimately bring her into contact with the man who would change her life occurred because she decided to wait for the mints to take effect. They dissolved in his mouth before he ran away. Just to calm herself down a bit. How long does it take for a mint to dissolve? Not that long. For Andrea, however, it felt like an eternity, as her whole body begged her to go back to the hotel room and crawl under the bed. But she forced herself to do it, even though she did it so she wouldn't have to watch herself run away, whipped between her legs by a tail.
    
  But those three mints changed his life (and most likely the history of the Western world, but you never knew, right?) for the simple desire to be in the right place.
    
  There was barely a trace of mint left, a thin wrinkle to the taste, when the messenger turned the corner of the street. He was wearing orange overalls, a matching cap, sake in hand, and in a hurry. He headed straight for her.
    
  -¿Excuse me, is this the press center?
    
  -Sí, aquí es.
    
  - I have an urgent delivery for the following people: Michael Williams from CNN, Berti Hegrend from RTL...
    
  Andrea interrupted him with Gast's voice: "oh."
    
  "Don't worry, buddy. The press conference has already started. I'll have to wait an hour."
    
  The messenger looked at her with an incomprehensibly stunned face.
    
  -But that can't be. I was told that...
    
  The journalist finds a kind of evil satisfaction in shifting her problems onto someone else.
    
  -You know. Those are the rules.
    
  The messenger ran his hand over his face with a feeling of despair.
    
  "She doesn't understand, Onañorita. I've already had several delays this month. Express delivery must be made within an hour of receipt, otherwise it's not charged. That's ten envelopes at thirty euros each. If I lose your order to my agency, I could lose my route to the Vatican and I'll probably be fired."
    
  Andrea softened immediately. He was a good man. Impulsive, thoughtless, and capricious, you must admit. Sometimes I win their support with lies (and a lot of luck), okay. But he was a good man. He noticed the courier's name written on the ID card pinned to his overalls. This was another of Andrea's idiosyncrasies. He always called people by their first names.
    
  "Listen, Giuseppe, I'm so sorry, but even if I wanted to, I couldn't open the door for you. The door only opens from the inside. If it's secured, there's no doorknob or lock."
    
  The other one let out a cry of despair. He placed his hands in the jugs, one on each side of his protruding intestines, visible even under his overalls. I tried to think. Look up at Andrea. Andrea thought he was looking at her breasts-like a woman who had had this unpleasant experience almost daily since she hit puberty-but then she noticed he was looking at the identification card she wore around her neck.
    
  - Hey, I get it. I'll leave you the envelopes and it's all set.
    
  The ID card bore the Vatican coat of arms, and the envoy must have thought that she had been working all this time.
    
  -Mire, Giuseppe...
    
  "Nothing about Giuseppe, Mr. Beppo," said the other, rummaging through his bag.
    
  - Beppo, I really can't...
    
  "Listen, you have to do me this favor. Don't worry about signing, I'm already signing for the deliveries. I'll make a separate sketch for each one, and everything is ready. You promise to tame him so that he delivers the envelopes to you as soon as the doors open."
    
  -That's what...
    
  But Beppo had already placed ten of Marras's envelopes in his hand.
    
  "Each one has the name of the journalist they're intended for. The client was confident we'd all be here, don't worry. Well, I'm off now, as I still have one delivery to make to Corpus and another to Via Lamarmora. Adi, and thank you, beautiful."
    
  And before Andrea could object, the curious guy turned around and left.
    
  Andrea stood and looked at the ten envelopes, a little confused. They were addressed to correspondents from ten of the world's largest media outlets. Andrea was familiar with the reputations of four of them and recognized at least two in the newsroom.
    
  The envelopes were half the size of a sheet of paper, identical in every way except the title. What awakened his journalistic instincts and set off all his alarms was the phrase repeated in them all. Handwritten in the upper left corner.
    
    
  EXCLUSIVE - WATCH NOW
    
    
  This was a moral dilemma for Andrea for at least five seconds. I solved it with a mint. Look left and right. The street was deserted; there were no witnesses to a possible postal crime. I chose one of the envelopes at random and carefully opened it.
    
  Simple curiosity.
    
  Inside the envelope were two objects. One was a Blusens DVD, with the same phrase written in permanent marker on the cover. The other was a note written in English.
    
    
  "The contents of this disc are of paramount importance. It is probably the most important news of Friday and the quiz show of the century. Someone will try to silence it. View the disc as soon as possible and spread its contents as soon as possible. Father Viktor Karoski"
    
    
  Andrea doubted it was a joke. If only there was a way to find out. After removing the port from the suitcase, I turned it on and inserted the disc into the drive. It cursed the operating system in every language I knew-Spanish, English, and crappy Italian with instructions-and when it finally booted, it was convinced the DVD was useless.237;kula.
    
  He only saw the first forty seconds before he felt the urge to vomit.
    
    
    
  UACV Headquarters
    
  Via Lamarmora, 3
    
  Sábado, April 9, 2005, 01:05.
    
    
    
  Paola searched everywhere for Fowler. It was no surprise when I found him-still-downstairs, pistol in hand, his priest's jacket neatly folded on a chair, his stand on the shelf of the conning tower, his sleeves rolled up behind his collar. I was wearing ear protection, as Paola waited for me to empty the charger before approaching. He was mesmerized by the gesture of concentration, the perfect shooting position. His arms were incredibly strong, despite being half a century old. The barrel of the pistol pointed forward, not deviating a thousand meters after each shot, as if it were embedded in living stone.
    
  The forensic scientist saw him empty not one, but three magazines. He drew slowly, deliberately, squinting, his head slightly cocked to the side. Eventually, he realized she was in the training room. It consisted of five cabins separated by thick logs, some of which were entangled with steel cables. Targets hung from the cables, which, using a pulley system, could be raised to a height of no more than forty meters.
    
  - Good night, dottor.
    
  -A little extra hour for PR, right?
    
  "I don't want to go to a hotel. You should know that I won't be able to sleep tonight."
    
  Paola asintió. He understands this perfectly. Standing at the funeral, doing nothing, was terrible. This creature is a guaranteed sleepless night. He's dying to do something, for now.
    
  -¿Dónde está my dear friend superintendent?
    
  "Oh, I got an urgent call. We were reviewing Cardoso's autopsy report when he ran off, leaving me speechless."
    
  -It is very typical of él.
    
  - Yes. But let's not talk about that... Let's see what kind of exercise you were given, father.
    
  The forensic scientist clicked on the bot, which zoomed in on a paper target with a black silhouette of a man. The monkey had ten white swirls in the center of its chest. He arrived late because Fowler had hit the bull's eye from half a mile away. I wasn't at all surprised to see that almost all the holes were inside the hole. What surprised him was that one of them had missed. I was disappointed that he hadn't hit all the targets, like the protagonists of an action movie.
    
  But he's not a hero. He's a creature of flesh and blood. He's smart, educated, and a very good shot. In alternate mode, a bad shot makes him human.
    
  Fowler followed the direction of her gaze and laughed merrily at his own blunder.
    
  "I've lost a bit of PR, but I really enjoy shooting. It's an exceptional sport."
    
  -For now it"s just a sport.
    
    -Aún no confía en mí, ¿verdad dottora ?
    
    Paola didn't answer. She liked seeing Fowler in everything-braless, dressed simply in a shirt with rolled-up sleeves and black pants. But the photos of "Avocado" that Dante showed him continued to hit him over the head with boats from time to time, like drunken monkeys in a drunken state.
    
  -No, Father. Not exactly. But I want to trust you. Is that enough for you?
    
  -That should be enough.
    
  -¿ Where did you get weapons from? The armory is closed for éstas horas.
    
  - Ah, Director Boy lent it to me. It's his. He told me he hasn't used it for a long time.
    
  "Unfortunately, it's true. I should have met this man three years ago. He was a great professional, a great scientist and physicist. He still is, but there used to be a sparkle of curiosity in his eyes, and now that sparkle has faded. It's been replaced by the anxiety of an office worker."
    
  -¿ Is there bitterness or nostalgia in your voice, dottor?
    
  -A little bit of both.
    
  -How long will I forget him?
    
  Paola pretended to be surprised.
    
  -¿Sómo speaks?
    
  "Oh, come on, no offense. I saw how he creates airspace between the two of you. Boy keeps the distance perfectly."
    
  - Unfortunately, this is something he does very well.
    
  The forensic scientist hesitated for a moment before continuing. I felt again that feeling of emptiness in a magical land that sometimes arises when I look at Fowler. The sensation of Montana and Russia. ¿ Debídoverat' él? Pensó with a sad, faded iron face, who, after all, was a priest and very used to seeing the mean side of people. Just like her, by the way.
    
  "Boy and I had an affair. Briefly. I don't know if he stopped liking me or if I was just getting in the way of his career advancement."
    
  - But you prefer the second option.
    
  -I like enga i#241;arme. In this and in many other ways. I always tell myself that I live with my mother to protect her, but in reality, it"s I who need protection. Perhaps that"s why I fall in love with strong but inadequate people. People I can"t be with.
    
  Fowler didn't respond. It was crystal clear. They both stood very close to each other. Minutes passed in silence.
    
  Paola was absorbed in Father Fowler's green eyes, knowing exactly what he was thinking. In the background, I thought I heard a persistent sound, but I ignored it. It must have been the priest reminding him of this.
    
  - It would be better if you answer the call, doctor.
    
  And then Paola Keió realized that this annoying noise was her own vile voice, which was already beginning to sound furious. I answered the call, and for a moment he became furious. He hung up without saying goodbye.
    
  "Come on, Father. It was the lab. This afternoon, someone sent a package by courier. The address listed the name Maurizio Pontiero."
    
    
    
  UACV Headquarters
    
  Via Lamarmora, 3
    
  Sábado, April 9, 2005, 01:25
    
    
    
  -É The package arrived almost four hours ago. ¿Can we know this because no one realized what they contained before?
    
  Boy looked at her patiently, but wearily. It was too late to tolerate his subordinate's stupidity. However, he restrained himself until he picked up the pistol Fowler had just returned to him.
    
  "The envelope was addressed to you, Paola, and when I arrived, you were in the morgue. The receptionist left it with her mail, and I took my time going through it. Once I realized who sent it, I got everyone in motion, and that took time. The first thing I needed to do was call the bomb squad. They didn't find anything suspicious in the envelope. When I find out what's going on, I'll call you and Dante, but the superintendent's nowhere to be found. And Sirin isn't calling.
    
  -Being asleep. God, it's so early.
    
  They were in the fingerprinting room, a cramped space filled with bulbs and bulbs. The smell of fingerprint powder was everywhere. Some people liked the scent-one even swore he'd sniffed it before being with his girlfriend because she was aphrodisiac-but Paola liked it. It was unpleasant. The smell made her want to sneeze, and the stains stuck to her dark clothes, requiring several washes to remove.
    
  - Well, we know for sure that this message was sent by Karoski's man?
    
  Fowler studied the letter, addressed to #243. Hold the envelope slightly outstretched. Paola suspects she might have trouble seeing things up close. I'll probably have to wear reading glasses soon. He wonders what he might end up doing this year.
    
  "That's your Count, of course." And the dark joke involving the junior inspector's name also seems typical of Karoski.
    
  Paola took the envelope from Fowler's hands. I placed it on the large table set in the living room. The surface was entirely glass and backlit. The contents of the envelope lay on the table in simple transparent plastic bags. Boy señaló first bag.
    
  "This note has his fingerprints on it. It's addressed to you, Dikanti."
    
  The inspector held up a package containing a note written in Italian. Its contents were spelled out loud, in plastico.
    
    
  Dear Paola:
    
  I miss you so much! I'm at MC 9, 48. It's very warm and relaxed here. I hope you can come and greet us as soon as possible. In the meantime, I'll send you my best wishes for my vacation. Love, Maurizio.
    
    
  Paola couldn't contain her trembling, a mixture of anger and horror. Try to suppress your grimaces, force yourself, if you must, to keep them inside. I wasn't going to cry in front of Boy. Maybe in front of Fowler, but not in front of Boy. Never in front of Boy.
    
  -¿Padre Fowler?
    
  -Mark chapter 9, verse 48. "Where the worm does not die and the fire is not extinguished."
    
  -Hell.
    
  -Exactly.
    
  - Bloody son of a bitch.
    
  "There's no indication he was being followed a few hours ago. It's entirely possible the note was written earlier. The record was recorded yesterday, the same date as the archives inside."
    
  -¿Do we know the model of the cámara or the computer it was recorded on?
    
  "The program you're using doesn't store this data on disk. It's the time, the program, and the operating system version. Not a simple serial number, nor anything that could help identify the transmitting equipment."
    
  -¿ Traces?
    
  -Two parts. Both by Karoski. But I didn't need to know that. Just watching the content would have been enough.
    
  -Well, what are you waiting for? Put on the DVD, Boy.
    
  - Father Fowler, will you excuse us for a moment?
    
  The priest immediately grasped the situation. Look Paola in the eyes. She waved slightly, assuring him everything was fine.
    
  -No, no. ¿Café for three, dottora Dikanti?
    
  -Mío with two lumps, please.
    
  Boy waited until Fowler left the room before grabbing Paola's hand. Paola didn't like the touch, too fleshy and gentle. He'd sighed many times over the feeling of those hands on his body again; he hated his father, or his contempt and indifference, but at that moment, not a single ember remained of that fire. It had died out within a year. Only her pride remained, which the inspector was absolutely delighted with. And, of course, she wasn't about to give in to his emotional blackmail. I shake his hand, and the director removes it.
    
  - Paola, I want to warn you. What you are about to see will be very difficult for you.
    
  The forensic scientist gave him a hard, humorless smile and crossed her arms over her chest. "I want to keep my hands as far away from his touch as possible. Just in case."
    
  - What if you're playing a joke on me again? I'm very used to seeing Gaddafi, Carlo.
    
  -Not from your friends.
    
  The smile trembles on Paola's face like a rag in the wind, but her ánimo does not waveró for a second.
    
  - Put on the video, Director Boy.
    
  -How do you want it to be? It could be completely different.
    
  "I'm not a muse for you to treat me however you want. You rejected me because I was dangerous to your career. You preferred to return to the fashion of your wife's misfortune. Now I prefer my own misfortune."
    
  -Why now, Paola? Why now, after all this time?
    
  -Because before I didn't have the strength. But now I have it.
    
  He runs his hand through his hair. I was beginning to understand.
    
  "I'll never be able to have him, Paola. Although that's what I'd like."
    
  "Perhaps you have a reason. But this is my decision. You made your decision long ago. Preferring to give in to Dante's obscene glances."
    
  Boy winced in disgust at the comparison. Paola was delighted to see him, because the director's ego hissed with rage. She'd been a little harsh with him, but her boss deserved it for treating her like shit all these months.
    
  - As you wish, Dottora Dikanti. I'll be IróNico's boss again, and you'll be a pretty writer.
    
  - Thank you, Carlo. This is better.
    
  Boy smiled, sad and disappointed.
    
  -Okay then. Let's look at the record.
    
  As if I had a sixth sense (and by then Paola was sure I did), Father Fowler arrived with a tray of something I could have passed on to the café if I could have tried this infusion.
    
  - They have it here. Poison from coffee with quinoa and coffee on. ¿ I should assume we can resume the meeting now?
    
  "Of course, Father," I replied. Boy. Fowler les estudió dissimuladamente. Boy seems sad to me, but I also don't notice any relief in his voice? And Paola saw that she was very strong. Less insecure.
    
  The director donned Lótex gloves and removed the disk from the bag. The lab staff brought him a rolling table from the break room. On the nightstand was a 27-inch TV and a cheap DVD player. I would have preferred to see all the recordings, as the walls in the conference room were glass, and it was as if I were showing them to everyone who passed by. By then, rumors of the case Boy and Dikanti were pursuing had spread throughout the building, but neither of them came close to the truth. Never.
    
  The record began playing. The game launched directly, without any pop-ups or anything like that. The style was sloppy, the decor was saturated, and the lighting was pitiful. Boy had already cranked the TV's brightness almost to maximum.
    
  - Good night, souls of the world.
    
  Paola sighed when she heard Karoska's voice, the voice that had tormented her with that call after Pontiero's death. However, nothing was visible on the screen.
    
  "This is a recording of how I intend to wipe out the holy men of the Church, carrying out the work of Darkness. My name is Victor Karoski, an apostate priest of the Roman cult. During my childhood abuse, I was protected by the cunning and connivance of my former bosses. Through these rites, I was personally chosen by Lucifer to carry out this task at the same time as our enemy, the Carpenter, selects his franchisees in the Mud Ball franchise."
    
  The screen fades from pitch black to a dim light. The image shows a bloodied, bareheaded man tied to what looks like the columns of the Santa María in Transpontina crypt. Dikanti barely recognized him as Cardinal Portini, the First Viceroy. The man you saw was invisible, because Vigilance burned him to ashes. Portini's jewel trembles slightly, and all Karoschi can see is the tip of a knife embedded in the flesh of the cardinal's left hand.
    
  "This is Cardinal Portini, too tired to scream. Portini did much good to the world, and my Master is disgusted by his vile flesh. Now let's see how he ended his miserable existence."
    
  The knife is pressed to her throat and slits it with one blow. The shirt turns black again, then is attached to a new shirt tied in the same place. It was Robaira, and I was terrified.
    
  "This is Cardinal Robair, full of fear. Have a great light within you. The time has come to return this light to its Creator."
    
  This time Paola had to look away. Mara's gaze revealed that the knife had emptied Robaira's eye sockets. A single drop of blood splashed onto the visor. This was the horrific aspect the forensic scientist saw in the jam, and Cinti turned to face him. He was a magician. The image changed when she saw me, revealing what she feared to see.
    
  - É ste - Sub-Inspector Pontiero, a follower of the Fisherman. They placed him in my búskvedá, but nothing can withstand the power of the Father of Darkness. Now the sub-inspector is bleeding out slowly.
    
  Pontiero looked straight at Siamara, and his face wasn't his. He clenched his teeth, but the power in his eyes didn't fade. The knife slowly cut her throat, and Paola looked away again.
    
  - É ste - Cardinal Cardoso, friend of the disinherited, lice, and fleas. His love was as disgusting to me as the rotten entrails of a sheep. He, too, died.
    
  Wait a minute, everyone was living in disarray. Instead of looking at genes, they were looking at several photographs of Cardinal Cardoso on his bed of sorrow. There were three photographs, greenish in color, and two of the virgin. The blood was unnaturally dark. All three photographs were shown on the screen for about fifteen seconds, five seconds each.
    
  "Now I am going to kill another holy man, the holiest of them all. There will be someone who will try to stop me, but his end will be the same as those you saw die before your eyes. The Church, the coward, hid this from you. I can't do this anymore. Good night, souls of the world."
    
  The DVD stopped with a hum, and Boy turned off the TV. Paola was white. Fowler clenched his teeth in rage. The three of them were silent for several minutes. He needed to recover from the bloody brutality he'd witnessed. Paola, the only one affected by the recording, was the first to speak.
    
  - Photos. ¿Por qué fotografías? ¿Por qué no video?
    
    -Porque no podía -dijo Fowler-. Because there is nothing more complex than a light bulb. So said Dante.
    
  - And Karoski knows it.
    
  -¿What are they telling me about a little game of pozuón diabólica?
    
  The forensic scientist sensed something was wrong again. This god was throwing him in completely different directions. I needed a quiet night at Sue's, rest, and a quiet place to sit and think. Karoski's words, the hints left in the cadaveres-they all had a common thread. If I found him, I could unravel the skein. But until then, I didn't have the time.
    
  And of course, to hell with my night with Sue
    
  "Carosca's historical intrigues with the devil aren't what I'm worried about," Boy points out, anticipating Paola's thoughts. "The worst part is, we're trying to stop him before he kills another cardinal. And time is running out."
    
  "But what can we do?" Fowler asked. He did not take his own life at John Paul II's funeral. Now the cardinals are more protected than ever, the Casa Sancta Marthae is closed to visitors, as is the Vatican.
    
  Dikanti bit his lip. "I'm tired of playing by this psychopath's rules. But now Karoski has made another mistake: he left a trail they could follow."
    
  - Who did this, director?
    
  "I've already assigned two guys to follow up on this. He arrived via an envoy. The agency was Tevere Express, a local delivery company in the Vatican. We weren't able to speak with the route manager, but security cameras outside the building captured the courier's motorcycle's image sensor. The plaque is registered in the name of Giuseppe Bastina from 1943 to 1941. He lives in the Castro Pretorio neighborhood, on Via Palestra."
    
  -¿ You don't have a phone?
    
  -The telephone number is not listed in the Tréfico report, and there are no telephone numbers in his name in Información Telefónica.
    
    -Quizás figure a nombre de su mujer -apuntó Fowler.
    
    -Viktorinaás. But for now, this is our best lead, since a walk is mandatory. Are you coming, Father?
    
  -After you,
    
    
    
  The Bastin family's apartment
    
  Via Palestra, 31
    
  02:12
    
    
    
  -¿Giuseppe Bastina?
    
  "Yes, it's me," said the messenger. "Offer to a curious girl in panties, holding a child barely nine or ten months old." At this early hour, it was nothing out of the ordinary that they were awakened by the doorbell.
    
  "I'm Inspector Paola Dikanti, and I'm Father Fowler. Don't worry, you're not in any trouble and nothing's happened to anyone. We'd like to ask you some very pressing questions."
    
  They were on the landing of a modest but very well-kept house. A doormat with a smiling frog greeted visitors. Paola decided that this didn't concern them either, and rightly so. Bastina was very upset by his presence.
    
  -Can't wait for the car? The team has to hit the road, you know, they have a schedule.
    
  Paola and Fowler shook their heads.
    
    -Just a moment, sir. You see, you made a delivery late this evening. An envelope on Via Lamarmora. Do you remember that?
    
  "Of course I remember, listen. What do you think about it? I have an excellent memory," the man said, tapping his temple with the index finger of his right hand. The left side was still full of children, though, fortunately, she wasn't crying.
    
  -¿ Could you tell us where I got the envelope? It's very important, this is a murder investigation.
    
  - As always, they called the agency. They asked me to go to the Vatican post office and make sure there were a few envelopes on the desk next to the bedel.
    
  Paola was shocked.
    
  -¿Más from the envelope?
    
  "Yes, there were twelve envelopes. The client asked me to first deliver ten envelopes to the Vatican press office. Then one more to the Vigilance Corps offices, and one to you."
    
  "Didn't anyone deliver any envelopes to you? Should I just pick them up?" Fowler asked with annoyance.
    
  -Yes, there's no one at the post office at this hour, but they leave the outer door open until nine. In case anyone wants to drop something off in the international mailboxes.
    
  -And when will the payment be made?
    
  - They left a small envelope on top of the demás. This envelope contained three hundred and seventy euros, 360 for the emergency service fee and a 10 tip.
    
  Paola looked up at the sky in despair. Karoski had thought of everything. Another eternal dead-end street.
    
  -Have you seen anyone?
    
  -To no one.
    
  - And what did he do then?
    
  -What do you think I did? Go all the way to the press center, and then return the envelope to the watch officer.
    
  - To whom were the envelopes from the news department addressed?
    
  - They were addressed to several journalists. All foreigners.
    
  - And I divided them between ourselves.
    
  "Hey, why so many questions? I'm a serious worker. I hope this isn't all, because I'm going to make a mistake today. I really need to work, please. My son needs to eat, and my wife has a bun in the oven. I mean, she's pregnant," he explained, to the puzzled looks of his visitors.
    
  "Listen, this has nothing to do with you, but it's not a joke either. We'll win what happened, period. Or, if I don't promise you that every cop in traffic will know his mother's name by heart, she-or Bastina."
    
  Bastina is very scared and the baby starts crying at Paola's tone.
    
  -Okay, okay. Don't frighten or scare the child. Does he really not have a heart? ón?
    
  Paola was tired and very irritable. I felt sorry to talk to this man in his own home, but I hadn't found anyone so persistent in this investigation.
    
  - Sorry, it's Bastina. Please, give us grief. It's a matter of life and death, my love.
    
  The messenger relaxed his tone. With his free hand, he scratched his overgrown beard and gently stroked it to stop it from crying. The baby gradually relaxed, and so did the father.
    
  "I gave the envelopes to the newsroom employee, okay? The doors to the room were already locked, and I'd have to wait an hour to hand them over. And special deliveries must be made within an hour of receipt, otherwise they won't be paid for. I'm really in trouble at work, you guys know that? If anyone finds out I did this, they could lose their job."
    
  "Because of us, no one will find out," said Bastina. "Kré love me."
    
  Bastina looked at her and nodded.
    
  - I believe her, dispatcher.
    
  - Does she know the name of the keeper?
    
  -No, I don't know. Take the card with the Vatican coat of arms and a blue stripe at the top. And turn on the press.
    
  Fowler walked a few meters down the hallway with Paola and returned to whispering to her in that special way she liked. Try to focus on his words, not on the sensations you experience from his closeness. It wasn't fácil.
    
  "Dottora, that card with this man on it doesn't belong to Vatican staff. It's press accreditation. The records never reached their intended recipients. What happened?"
    
  Paola tried to think like a journalist for a second. Imagine receiving an envelope while in the press center, surrounded by all the competing media outlets.
    
  "They didn't reach their intended recipients because, if they had, they would have been broadcast on every TV channel in the world right now. If all the envelopes had arrived at once, you wouldn't have gone home to check the information. The Vatican representative was probably cornered."
    
  -Exactly. Karoski tried to issue his own press release, but was stabbed in the gut by this good man's haste and my perceived dishonesty on the part of the person who took the envelopes. Either I'm seriously mistaken, or I'll open one of the envelopes and take them all. Why share the good fortune you brought from heaven?
    
  - Right now, in Alguacil, in Rome, this woman is writing the news of the century.
    
  "And it's very important that we know who she is. As soon as possible."
    
  Paola understood the urgency in the priest's words. They both returned with Bastina.
    
  - Please, Mr Bastina, describe to us the person who took the envelope.
    
  -Well, she was very beautiful. Chaste blond hair that reached his shoulders, about twenty-five or so... blue eyes, a light jacket and beige trousers.
    
  -Wow, if you have a good memory.
    
  -¿ For pretty girls? - I smile, halfway between sarcastic and offended, as if they doubt his worth. I'm from Marseille, dispatcher. Anyway, it's a good thing my wife is in bed now, because if she heard me talk like... She has less than a month left until the baby is due, and the doctor has sent her absolute rest.
    
  -¿ Do you remember anything that could help identify the girl?
    
  -Well, it was Española, that's for sure. My sister's husband is Español, and he sounds just like me trying to imitate an Italian accent. You already have the idea.
    
  Paola comes to the conclusion that it is time to leave.
    
  -We're sorry to disturb you.
    
  -Don't worry. The only thing I like is that I don't have to answer the same questions twice.
    
  Paola turned around, slightly alarmed. I raised my voice almost to a shout.
    
  - Have you been asked this before? Who? What was it?
    
  Niíili I cried again. My father encouraged him and tried to calm him down, but without much success.
    
  -¡Váand you guys, all at once, look how you brought my ragazzo to !
    
  "Please let us know and we'll leave," Fowler said, trying to defuse the situation.
    
  "He was his comrade. You'll show me the Security Corps badge. At the very least, that casts doubt on the identification. He was a short, broad-shouldered man. In a leather jacket. He left here an hour ago. Now go and don't come back."
    
  Paola and Fowler stared at each other, faces twisted. They both rushed to the elevator, maintaining a worried expression as they walked down the street.
    
  - Do you think the same as me, dottor?
    
  -Exactly the same. Dante disappeared around eight in the evening, apologizing.
    
  -After receiving the call.
    
  "Because you'll already have opened the package at the gate. And you'll be amazed at its contents. Didn't we connect these two facts before? Damn it, at the Vatican they beat the asses of those who enter. It's a basic measure. And if Tevere Express regularly works with them, it was obvious I'd have to track down all their employees, including Bastina.
    
  - They followed the packages.
    
  "If the journalists had opened the envelopes all at once, someone in the press center would have used their port. And the news would have exploded. There would be no human way to stop it. Ten well-known journalists..."
    
  - But in any case, there is a journalist who knows about it.
    
  -Exactly.
    
  - One of them is very manageable.
    
  Paola thought of many stories. The kind that police officers and other law enforcement officers in Rome whisper to their comrades, usually before their third cup of tea. Dark legends about disappearances and accidents.
    
  - Do you think it is possible that they...?
    
  -I don't know. Perhaps. Relying on the journalist's flexibility.
    
  "Father, are you going to come at me with euphemisms too? You mean to say, and it's perfectly clear, that you can extort money from her to give her the record."
    
  Fowler said nothing. It was one of his eloquent silences.
    
  "Well, for her sake, it would be better if we found her as soon as possible. Get in the car, Father. We need to get to the UACV as soon as possible. Start searching hotels, businesses, and the surrounding area..."
    
  "No, dottora. We need to go somewhere else," he said, giving her the address.
    
  - It's on the other side of town. What kind of ahé is ahí?
    
  -Friend. He can help us.
    
    
    
  Somewhere in Rome
    
  02:48
    
    
    
  Paola drove to the address Fowler had given her without taking them all with her. It was an apartment building. They had to wait at the gate for quite a while, pressing their finger against the automatic gatekeeper. While they waited, Paola asked Fowler:
    
  -This friend... did you know him?
    
  "Can I say, Amos, that this was my last mission before leaving my previous job? I was between ten and fourteen then, and I was quite rebellious. Since then, I've been... how can I put it? A sort of spiritual mentor for el. We've never lost touch.
    
  - And now it belongs to your company, Father Fowler?
    
  - Dottora, if you don't ask me any incriminating questions, I won't have to give you a plausible lie.
    
  Five minutes later, the priest's friend decided to reveal himself to them. As a result, you will become a different priest. Very young. He led them into a small studio, furnished cheaply but very clean. The house had two windows, both with the blinds fully drawn. At one end of the room stood a table about two meters wide, covered with five computer monitors, the kind with flat screens. Under the table, hundreds of lights glowed like an unruly forest of Christmas trees. At the other end stood an unmade bed, from which its occupant had apparently jumped briefly.
    
    -Albert, I present to Dr. Paola Dicanti. I collaborate with her.
    
  - Father Albert.
    
  "Oh, please, solo Albert," the young priest smiled pleasantly, though his smile was almost a yawn. "Sorry for the mess. Damn it, Anthony, what brings you here at this hour? I don't feel like playing chess right now. And by the way, I could have warned you about coming to Rome. I learned that you were returning to the police last week. I'd like to hear it from you."
    
  "Albert was ordained a priest in the past. He's an impulsive young man, but also a computer genius. And now he's going to do us a favor, Doctor."
    
  - What have you gotten yourself into now, you crazy old man?
    
  "Albert, please. Respect the donor present," Fowler said, feigning insult. "We want you to make us a list."
    
  - Which?
    
  - List of accredited representatives of the Vatican press.
    
  Albert remains very serious.
    
  - What you are asking me for is not fácil.
    
  "Albert, for God's sake. You enter and exit Gono's Penthouse computers the same way others enter his bedroom."
    
  "Baseless rumors," Albert said, though his smile suggested otherwise. "But even if it were true, one has nothing to do with the other. The Vatican's information system is like the land of Mordor. It's impenetrable."
    
  -Come on, Frodo26. I'm sure you've been to allí before.
    
  -Chissst, never say my hacker name out loud, psycho.
    
  - I'm very sorry, Albert.
    
  The young man became very serious. He scratched his cheek, where the traces of puberty remained in the form of empty red marks.
    
  -Is this really necessary? You know I'm not authorized to do this, Anthony. It's against all the rules.
    
  Paola didn't want to ask from whom the permission for something like this had to come.
    
  "A person's life could be in danger, Albert. And we've never been people of rules." Fowler looked at Paola and asked her to lend him a helping hand.
    
  -¿Could you help us, Albert? ¿I really managed to get inside earlier?
    
  -Si, dottora Dicanti. I've been all this before. Once, and I didn't go too far. And I can swear to you that I've never felt fear in my life. Pardon my language.
    
  - Calm down. I've heard that word before. What happened?
    
  "I was spotted. At the very moment it happened, a program was activated that placed two guard dogs on my heels."
    
  -What does this mean? Remember, you're talking to a woman who doesn't understand this issue.
    
  Albert was inspired. He loved talking about his work.
    
  "That there were two hidden servants there, waiting to see if anyone would break through their defenses. As soon as I realized this, they deployed all their resources to find me. One of the servers was desperately trying to find my address. The other started putting thumbtacks on me."
    
  -¿ What are pushpins?
    
  "Imagine you're walking along a path crossing a stream. The path is made up of flat stones jutting out from the stream. What I did to the computer was remove the stone I was supposed to jump from and replace it with malicious information. A multifaceted Trojan horse."
    
  The young man sat down in front of the computer and brought them a chair and a bench. It was obvious I wouldn't get many visitors.
    
  -¿ Virus?
    
  "Very powerful. If I took even one step, his assistants would destroy my hard drive, and I would be completely at his mercy. This is the only time in my life I've used Niko's botaón," the priest said, pointing to a harmless-looking red botaón standing to the side of the central monitor. From the botaón, go to a cable that disappears into the sea below.
    
  - What is this?
    
  "It's a bot that shuts off power to the entire floor. It resets after ten minutes."
    
  Paola asked him why he'd turned off the power to the entire floor instead of just unplugging the computer from the wall. But the guy wasn't listening anymore, his eyes glued to the screen as his fingers flew across the keyboard. It was Fowler, to whom I replied...
    
  "Information is transmitted in milliseconds. The time it takes Albert to bend down and pull the cord could be crucial, you understand?"
    
  Paola half-understood, but she wasn't particularly interested. At the time, finding the blonde Spanish journalist was important to me, and if they found her this way, so much the better. It was obvious the two priests had seen each other in similar situations before.
    
  -What is he going to do now?
    
  "Raise the screen." It's not very good, but he connects his computer through hundreds of computers in a sequence that ends up on the Vatican network. The more complex and lengthy the camouflage, the longer it takes them to detect it, but there's a safety margin that can't be breached. Each computer knows the name of the previous computer that requested a connection, and the name of the computer during the connection. Just like you, if the connection is lost before they reach you, you'll be lost.
    
  A long press on the tablet's keyboard lasted almost a quarter of an hour. Every now and then, a red dot would light up on the world map displayed on one of the screens. There were hundreds of them, covering almost most of Europe, North Africa, Japan, and Japan. Paola noticed that they inhabited most of Europe, North Africa, Japan, and Japan. A higher density of dots was found in more economically developed and wealthy countries, only one or two in the Horn of Africa and a dozen in Suram Rica.
    
  "Each of these dots you see on this monitor corresponds to a computer Albert plans to use to access the Vatican system using a sequence. It could be the computer of a guy from an institute, a bank, or a law firm. It could be in Beijing, Austria, or Manhattan. The further apart they are geographically, the more effective the sequence becomes."
    
  -¿Cómo knows that one of these computers didn't turn off accidentally, interrupting the entire process?
    
  "I use my connection history," Albert said in a distant voice, continuing to type. "I usually use computers that are always on. These days, with file-sharing programs, many people leave their computers on 24/7, downloading music or pornography. These are ideal systems for using as bridges. One of my favorites is a computer-and it's a very well-known character in European politics-he has fans of photos of young girls with horses. From time to time, I replace these photos with images of a golfer. He or she forbids such perversions."
    
  -¿ Aren't you afraid of replacing one pervert with another, Albert?
    
  The young man recoiled from the priest's iron face, but kept his eyes fixed on the commands and instructions his fingers were materializing on the monitor. Finally, I raised one hand.
    
  "We're almost there. But I warn you, we won't be able to copy anything. I'm using a system where one of your computers does the work for me, but it erases the information copied to your computer once it exceeds a certain number of kilobytes. Like everything else, I have a good memory. From the moment we're discovered, we have sixty seconds."
    
  Fowler and Paola nodded. He was the first to take on Albert's role as director in his busqueda.
    
  - It's already here. We're inside.
    
  - Contact the press service, Albert.
    
  - Already there.
    
  -Look for confirmation.
    
    
  Less than four kilometers away, in the Vatican offices, one of the security computers, dubbed "Archangel," was activated. One of its subroutines detected the presence of an external agent in the system. The containment program was immediately activated. The first computer activated another, dubbed "Saint Michael 34." These were two Cray supercomputers, capable of performing 1 million operations per second and each costing over 200,000 euros. Both began working to the last of their cycles to track down the intruder.
    
    
  A warning window will appear on the main screen. Albert pursed his lips.
    
  - Damn it, here they are. We have less than a minute. There's nothing there about accreditation.
    
  Paola tensed as she saw the red dots on the world map begin to shrink. There had been hundreds of them at first, but they disappeared at an alarming rate.
    
  -Press passes.
    
  - Nothing, damn it. Forty seconds.
    
  -¿Media? -aim at Paola.
    
  -Right now. Here's the folder. Thirty seconds.
    
  A list appeared on the screen. It was a database.
    
  - Damn it, there are over three thousand tickets in it.
    
  -Sort by nationality and search for Spain.
    
  - Already have. Twenty seconds.
    
  - Damn it, there are no photos. How many names are there?
    
  -I'm over fifty. Fifteen seconds.
    
  There were only thirty red dots left on the world map. Everyone leaned forward in the saddle.
    
  - He eliminates men and distributes women by age.
    
  - Already there. Ten seconds.
    
  -You, máy, me and#243; you come first.
    
  Paola squeezed his hands tightly. Albert lifted one hand from the keyboard and typed a message on Niko's bot. Large beads of sweat trickled down his forehead as he wrote with his other hand.
    
  -¡Here! ¡Here it is, finally! ¡Cinco segundos, Anthony!
    
  Fowler and Dikanti quickly read and memorized the names, and they appeared on the screen. It wasn't all over yet when Albert pressed the bot's button, and the screen and the entire house turned black as coal.
    
  "Albert," Fowler said in the complete darkness.
    
  -¿Si, Anthony?
    
  - Do you happen to have any sails?
    
  - You should know that I don't use anal systems, Anthony.
    
    
    
  Hotel Rafael
    
  Long February, 2
    
  Thursday, April 7, 2005, 03:17.
    
    
    
  Andrea Otero was very, very scared.
    
  Scared? I don't know, I'm excited.
    
  The first thing I did when I got to my hotel room was buy three packs of tobacco. The nicotine in the first pack was a true blessing. Now, as the second one began, the contours of reality began to even out. I felt a slight, calming giddiness, like a soft cooing.
    
  She sat on the floor of the room, her back against the wall, one arm wrapped around her legs, the other smoking compulsively. At the far end of the room stood a port computer, completely turned off.
    
  Given the circumstances, the había acted appropriately. After watching the first forty seconds of Victor Karoska's film-if that was even his real name-I felt the urge to vomit. Andrea, never one to hold back, searched the nearest trash can (at full speed and with her hand over her mouth, yes) and dumped it all in. She had noodles for lunch, croissants for breakfast, and something I didn't remember eating, but which must have been the previous day's dinner. He wondered if it would be sacrilegious to vomit into a Vatican trash can, and concluded that it wouldn't be.
    
  When the world stopped spinning again, I was back at the door of the NEWS office, thinking I'd put together a terrible damn thing and that someone must have taken it or something. You were probably there before when a couple of Swiss Guards rushed in to arrest her for post office robbery, or whatever the hell it was called, for opening an envelope that clearly wasn't meant for you, because none of those envelopes were meant for you.
    
  Well, you see, I was an agent, I believed I could be the bomb, and I acted as bravely as I could. Calm down, wait here while they come for my medal...
    
  Something that isn't very religious. Absolutely nothing is believable. But the rescuer didn't need any version to tell her kidnappers, because none of them showed up. So Andrea calmly gathered her things, left-with all the sobriety of the Vatican, smiling coquettishly at the Swiss Guards at the bell arch through which journalists enter-and crossed St. Peter's Square, empty of people after so many years. Allow yourself to feel the Swiss Guards' gaze as you step out of a taxi near your hotel. And I stopped believing that I followed her half an hour later.
    
  But no, no one was following her, and she suspected nothing. I threw nine envelopes, unopened until now, into the trash can in Piazza Navona. He didn't want to be caught with all that on him. And he sat down to her right in his room, without first stopping at the nicotine station.
    
  When she felt confident enough, about the third time I'd inspected the dried flower vase in the room without finding any hidden microphones, I replaced the record. Until we start watching the movie again.
    
  The first time, I managed to get to the first minute. The second time, he almost saw it all. The third time, he saw it all, but had to run to the bathroom to vomit the glass of water he'd drunk upon arrival and any remaining bile. The fourth time, he managed to serenade himself enough to convince himself it was real, and not a tape like "The Blair Witch Project 35." But, as we've said before, Andrea was a very smart journalist, which was usually both her greatest asset and her biggest problem. His great intuition had already told him that everything had been self-evident from the moment he first visualized it. Perhaps another journalist would have questioned the DVD too much since then, thinking it was a fake. But Andrea had been searching for Cardinal Robair for several days and was suspicious of the missing Cardinal Mas. Hearing Robair's name on a recording will erase your doubts like a drunken fart, erasing five hours in Buckingham Palace. Cruel, dirty, and effective.
    
  He watched the recording for the fifth time, to get used to my genes. And the sixth, to make a few notes, just a few scattered scribbles in a notebook. After you turn off the computer, sit as far away from it as possible-somewhere between the desk and the air conditioner-and you'll leave it. #243; to smoking.
    
  Definitely not the right time to quit smoking.
    
  These genes of mine were a nightmare. At first, the disgust that gripped her, the filth I made her feel, was so profound that she couldn't react for hours. When sleep leaves your brain, start truly analyzing what you have in your hands. Get out your notebook and write down three points that will serve as the key to the report:
    
    
  1º The assassin of the satánico está deals with the cardinals of the Catholic Church.
    
  2º The Catholic Church, probably in collaboration with the Italian police, is hiding this from us.
    
  3º Coincidentally, the main hall where these cardinals were to have their prime importance was located within nine rooms.
    
    
  Cross out the nine and replace it with an eight. I was already a sabado.
    
  You need to write a great report. A full report, in three parts, with a summary, explanations, props, and a headline on the front page. You can't pre-send any images to disk, because that will prevent you from quickly discovering them. Of course, the director will drag Paloma out of her hospital bed so that the art's ass will have the proper weight. Maybe they'll let her sign one of the props. But if I sent the entire report to a voice recorder, simulated and ready to be sent to other countries, no director would have the nerve to remove their signature. No, because in that case Andrea would limit herself to sending a fax to La Nasi and another to Alphabet with the full text and photos of the artworks-the ass before they were published. And to hell with the big exclusive (and his work, by the way).
    
  As my brother Michelangelo says, we're all either fucking or getting fucked.
    
  It wasn't that he was such a nice guy, perfect for a young lady like Andrea Otero, but he made no secret of the fact that she was a young lady. It wasn't typical for a señoritas to steal mail like she did, but damn if she cared. You've already seen him write a bestseller, "I Recognize the Cardinal Killer." Hundreds of thousands of books with his name on the cover, interviews all over the world, lectures. Certainly, brazen theft deserves punishment.
    
  Although, of course, sometimes you have to be careful who you steal from.
    
  Because this note wasn't sent to the press office. This message was sent to him by a ruthless killer. You're probably counting on your message being distributed around the world in these hours.
    
  Consider your options. Era sábado. Of course, whoever ordered this record wouldn't have discovered that you hadn't arrived at your destination until morning. If the courier agency was working for a bado who doubted it, I should be able to track him down in a few hours, maybe by ten or eleven. But she doubted the messenger had written her name on the card. It seems those who care about me care more about the surrounding inscription than what's written on it. At best, if the agency doesn't open until Monday, set aside two days. At worst, you'll have a few hours.
    
  Of course, Andrea had learned that it was always wise to act according to the worst-case scenario. Because you had to write a report immediately. While the art-ass was leaking through the editor-in-chief and director's printers in Madrid, he had to comb his hair, put on sunglasses, and walk out of the hotel buzzing.
    
  Standing up, he plucked up his courage. I turned on the port and launched the disk layout program. Write directly on the layout. He felt much better when he saw his words superimposed on the text.
    
  It takes three quarters of an hour to prepare a mock-up with three shots of gin. I was almost done when they... their vile mo...
    
  ¿ Whoé n koñili callá a é sten nú mero at three o'clock in the morning?
    
  This nú just has this on the disk. I haven't given it to anyone, not even my family. Because I have to be someone from the editorial office on urgent business. He gets up and rummages through his bag until he finds él. He looked at the screen, expecting to see the demonstrative trick of nén from números that appeared in the viewfinder every time someone called from Spain, but instead saw that the space where the caller's identity should have been listed was blank. Don't even appear. "Nú simply unknown."
    
  Descolgó.
    
  -Tell?
    
  The only thing I heard was the tone of communication.
    
  He will make a mistake in п áп úпросто.
    
  But something inside her told her this call was important and that she'd better hurry. I returned to the keyboard, typing "I beg you never." She encountered a typo-never a spelling error, she hadn't had one since eight years ago-but I didn't even go back to correct it. "I'll do it during the day." Suddenly, I felt a huge rush to finish.
    
  It took him four hours to complete the rest of the report, several hours gathering biographical information and photographs of the deceased cardinals, news, images, and death. The art piece contains several screenshots from Karoski's own video. One of those genes was so strong it made her blush. What the hell. Let them be censored in the editorial office if they dare.
    
  He was writing his last words when there was a knock at the door.
    
    
    
  Hotel Rafael
    
  Long February, 2
    
  Thursday, April 7, 2005, 07:58.
    
    
    
  Andrea looked toward the door as if she'd never seen it before. I removed the disk from the computer, shoved it into its plastic case, and tossed it in the trash can in the bathroom. I returned to the room with El Coraz on the down jacket, wanting him, whoever he was, to go away. The knock on the door came again, polite but insistent. I'm not going to be a cleaning lady. It was only eight o'clock in the morning.
    
  - Who are you?
    
  -¿Señorita Otero? Welcome breakfast at the hotel.
    
  Andrea opened the door, extrañada.
    
  - I didn't ask for ninún...
    
  He was suddenly interrupted because it wasn't one of the hotel's elegant bellhops or waiters. It was a short, but broad-shouldered and stocky man, dressed in a leather windbreaker and black trousers. He was unshaven and smiling openly.
    
  - Ms. Otero? I am Fabio Dante, Superintendent of the Vatican Vigilance Corps. I would like to ask you a few questions.
    
  In your left hand, you hold a badge with a clearly visible photo of yourself. Andrea examined it carefully. Authentic parecía.
    
  "You see, Superintendent, I'm very tired right now and I need to sleep. Come back some other time."
    
  I reluctantly closed the door, but someone else nudged me with the agility of an encyclopedia salesman with a large family. Andrea was forced to remain in the doorway, looking at him.
    
  - Didn't you understand me? I need to sleep.
    
  "It seems you misunderstood me. I need to talk to you urgently because I'm investigating a burglary."
    
  Damn it, were they really able to find me as quickly as I asked?
    
  Andrea kept her eyes on her face, but inside, her nervous system was going from "alarm" to "full crisis." You need to get through this temporary state, whatever it is, because what are you doing is sticking your fingers in your palms, curling your toes, and asking the superintendent to come through.
    
  - I don't have much time. I have to send an artillery ass to my perió member.
    
  -It's a little early to send out artíass, isn't it? The newspapers won't start printing for many hours.
    
  -Well, I like doing things with Antelachi.
    
  "Is this some kind of special news, a quiz?" Dante said, taking a step toward Andrea's portico. Ésta stood in front of her, blocking her path.
    
  -Oh, no. Nothing special. The usual speculation about who won't be the new Sumo Pontífice.
    
  - Of course. It's a matter of utmost importance, isn't it?
    
  "Indeed, it is of paramount importance. But it doesn't provide much in the way of news. You know, the usual reports about people here and around the world. There's not much news, you know?"
    
  - And as much as we would like it to be so, Orita Otero.
    
  -Except, of course, for that theft he told me about. What did they steal from them?
    
  -Nothing otherworldly. A few envelopes.
    
  -¿What does the year contain? Surely something very valuable. ¿ La-nóThe Cardinals' Mine?
    
  -¿ What makes you think content is valuable?
    
  "That must be it, otherwise he wouldn't have sent his best bloodhound on the trail. ¿Perhaps some collection of Vatican postage stamps? He or... that philatelic people kill for them."
    
  - Actually, those weren't stamps. Do you mind if I smoke?
    
  - It's time to switch to mint candies.
    
  The junior inspector sniffs the surrounding environment.
    
  - Well, as far as I understand, you don't follow your own advice.
    
  "It's been a rough night. Smoke if you can find an empty ashtray..."
    
  Dante lit a cigar and blew out smoke.
    
  "As I already said, Etoíorita Otero, the envelopes don't contain stamps. This was extremely confidential information that mustn't fall into the wrong hands."
    
  -For example?
    
  -I don"t understand. For example, what?
    
  -What wrong hands, Superintendent.
    
  -Those whose duty does not know what suits them.
    
  Dante looked around and, of course, didn't see a single ashtray. Zanjo asked, throwing ashes on the ground. Andrea took the opportunity to swallow: if this wasn't a threat, she was a cloistered nun.
    
  - And what kind of information is this?
    
  -Confidential type.
    
  - Valuable?
    
  "I could be. I hope that when I find the person who took the envelopes, it will be someone they know how to bargain with."
    
  -Are you willing to offer a lot of money?
    
  - No. I'm ready to offer you to keep your teeth.
    
  It wasn't Dante's offer that scared Andrea, but his tone. Saying those words with a smile, in the same tone you'd ask for decaf, was dangerous. Suddenly, she regretted letting him in. The last letter would be played out.
    
  "Well, Superintendent, this was very interesting to me for a while, but now I must ask you to leave. My friend, the photographer, is about to return, and he's a little jealous..."
    
    Dante se echó a reír. Andrea wasn't laughing at all. The other man pulled out a gun and pointed it between her breasts.
    
  "Stop pretending, beauty. There's not a single friend there, not a single friend. Give me the recordings, or we'll see the color of his lungs in person."
    
  Andrea frowned, pointing the gun to the side.
    
  "He's not going to shoot me. We're at a hotel. The police will be here in less than half a minute and won't find Jem, who they're looking for, whatever that is."
    
  The superintendent hesitates for a few moments.
    
  -What? He has a reason. I'm not going to shoot him.
    
  And I dealt him a terrible blow with my left hand. Andrea saw multicolored lights and a blank wall in front of her until she realized the blow had knocked her to the floor, and the wall was the bedroom floor.
    
  "It won't take long, Onaéorita. Just long enough to grab what I need."
    
  Dante walked over to the computer. I pressed keys until the screensaver disappeared, replaced by the report Andrea was working on.
    
  -Prize!
    
  The journalist enters a semi-delirious state, raising her left eyebrow. "That jerk was throwing a party. He was bleeding, and I couldn't see out of that eye."
    
  -I don"t understand. He found me?
    
  - Señorita, you yourself gave us permission to do this, providing us with your simple written consent and signing the acceptance certificate. - While you were talking, Superintendent Sakópópópópópópópópópópópópópópópópópópópópóp243; from your jacket pocket, two objects: a screwdriver and a shiny metal cylinder, not very large. Turn off the port, turn it over, and use the screwdriver to open the hard drive. Turn the cylinder over a few times, and Andrea realized what it was: a powerful impulse. Take note of the report and all the information on the hard drive -. If I had carefully read the fine print on the form I'm signing, I would have seen that in one of them you give us permission to look up your vile address at satélite "in case you don't agree."; "His safety is in danger." Kluá uses herself in case a terrorist from the press gets through to us, but this led to me being in his case. Thank God I found her and not Karoski.
    
  - Ah, sí. I'm jumping for joy.
    
  Andrea managed to rise to her knees. With his right hand, he fumbled for the Murano glass ashtray you'd planned to take from the room as a souvenir. He lay on the floor by the wall where she smoked like a madwoman. Dante walked over to her and sat down on the bed.
    
  "I must admit, we owe him a debt of gratitude. If it weren't for that vile act of hooliganism I committed, óa é stas horas, the fainting fits of that psychopath would have become public knowledge. You sought to profit personally from the situation and failed. That's a fact. Now be smart, and we'll leave things as they are. I won't have his exclusivity, but I will save his face. What is he telling me?"
    
  -Records... -and some incomprehensible words playing.
    
  Dante leans down until his nose touches the journalist's nose.
    
  -¿Sómo, you say, lovely?
    
  "I'm saying, fuck you, you bastard," Andrea said.
    
  And I hit him over the head with an ashtray. There was an explosion of ash as the solid glass hit the superintendent, who screamed and grabbed his head. Andrea stood up, staggered, and tried to hit him again, but another one was too much for me. I held his hand as the ashtray dangled several hundred meters from his face.
    
  -Wow, wow. Because the little slut has claws.
    
  Dante grabbed her wrist and twisted her hand until she dropped the ashtray. Then he punched the magician in the mouth. Andrea Keyó fell to the ground again, gasping for breath, feeling the steel ball pressing on her chest. The superintendent touched his ear, from which a trickle of blood was dripping. Look at yourself in the mirror. His left eye is half-closed, full of ash and cigarette butts in his hair. Return to the young woman and step toward her, intending to kick her in the rax. If I had hit him, the blow would have broken several of his ribs. But Andrea was ready. As the other man raised his leg to strike, he kicked him in the ankle of the leg he was leaning on. Dante Keyó, sprawled on the carpet, gives the journalist time to run to the toilet. I slam the door.
    
  Dante stands up, limping.
    
  - Open up, bitch.
    
  "Fuck you, you son of a bitch," Andrea said, more to herself than to her attacker. She realized she was crying. I thought about praying, but then I remembered who Dante worked for and decided that maybe that wasn't such a good idea. He tried to lean against the door, but it didn't do him much good. The door swung open, pinning Andrea against the wall. The superintendent walked in, furious, his face red and swollen with rage. She tried to defend herself, but I grabbed her by the hair and dealt her a vicious blow that tore out some of her good fur. Unfortunately, he held her with ever-increasing force, and she could do little but wrap her arms and face around him, trying to free the cruel prey. I managed to cut two bloody grooves on Dante's face, who was enraged.
    
  -¿Dónde están?
    
  -What you...
    
  -¡¡¡ DÓNDE...
    
  -...to hell
    
  -... EAT!!!
    
  He pressed her head firmly against the mirror before pressing his forehead against the el. A web stretched across the entire mirror, and in its center remained a round trickle of blood, which gradually flowed into the sink.
    
  Dante forced her to look at her own reflection in the broken mirror.
    
  -¿ Do you want me to continue?
    
  Suddenly Andrea felt she had had enough.
    
  - In the trash can baño -murmuró.
    
  -Very good. Grab it and hold it with your left hand. And stop pretending, or I'll cut off your nipples and make you swallow them.
    
  Andrea followed the instructions and handed the disk to Dante. É I'll check it out. It looks like the man you met on
    
  -Very good. And the other nine?
    
  The journalist swallows.
    
  -Dash.
    
  - And shit.
    
  Andrea Sinti, who was flying back into the room-and in fact, she flew almost a meter and a half, dropped by Dante. I landed on the carpet, covering my face with my hands.
    
  - I don't have any, damn it. I don't have any! Look in the damn trash cans in Piazza Navona, Colorado!
    
  The superintendent approached, smiling. She remained lying on the floor, breathing very quickly and agitatedly.
    
  "You don't understand, do you, bitch? All you had to do was give me those damn records, and you'd come home with a bruise on your face. But no, you think I'm ready to believe that the son of God prays to Dante, and that can't be true. Because we're about to get down to more serious matters. Your chance to get out of this predicament has passed."
    
  Place one foot on either side of the journalist's body. Draw the gun and point it at his head. Andrea looked him in the eye again, even though she was terrified. This bastard was capable of anything.
    
  "You're not going to shoot. It'll make a lot of noise," he said, much less convincingly than before.
    
  -You know what, bitch? As soon as I die, you'll have a reason.
    
  And he takes a silencer from his pocket and begins to screw it into the pistol's breech. Andrea once again found herself facing the promise of death, this time less loudly.
    
  -Tírala, Fabio.
    
  Dante turned, his face written in amazement. Dikanti and Fowler stood in the bedroom doorway. The inspector was holding a pistol, and the priest was holding the electric key that allowed you to enter. Dikanti's badge and Fowler's chest badge had been crucial in obtaining it. We arrived late because, before heading to the allí habí, I checked another name from the four we'd received at Albert's house. They sorted them by age, starting with the youngest of the Spanish journalists, Olas, who turned out to be an assistant on the television crew and had chaste hair, or, as I told them, she was very beautiful; the talkative doorman at his hotel. The one at Andrea's hotel was equally eloquent.
    
  Dante stared at Dikanti's gun, his body turned towards them while his gun followed Enka, aiming at Andrea.
    
  , you won't do it.
    
  "You're attacking a citizen of the community on Italian soil, Dante. I'm a law enforcement officer. He can't tell me what I can and can't do. Put the gun down, or you'll see how I'm forced to shoot."
    
  "Dicanti, you don't understand. This woman is a criminal. He stole confidential information belonging to the Vatican. He's not afraid of reasons and can ruin everything. It's nothing personal.
    
  "He's already said that phrase to me before. And I've already noticed that you personally handle a lot of completely personal matters."
    
  Dante became noticeably angry, but chose to change tactics.
    
  -Okay. Let me accompany her to the Vatican just to find out what she did with the envelopes she stole. I personally vouch for your safety.
    
  Andrea's breath caught when she heard those words. "I don't want to spend another minute with this bastard." Start turning your legs very slowly to get your body into a certain position.
    
  "No," Paola said.
    
  The superintendent's voice grew harsher. Se dirigió a Fowler.
    
  -Anthony. You can't let this happen. We can't let him reveal everything. By the Cross and the Sword.
    
  The priest looked at him very seriously.
    
  "These are no longer my symbols, Dante. And even less so if they enter into battle to shed innocent blood."
    
  - But she is not innocent. ¡Steal the envelopes!
    
  Before Dante could finish speaking, Andrea had achieved the position she had been searching for for ages. Calculate the moment and throw your leg up. He didn't do it with all his might-or lack of desire-but because he was prioritizing the target. I want him to hit this goat right in the balls. And that was exactly where I hit it.
    
  Three things happened at once.
    
  Dante let go of the disc he was holding and grabbed the test stocks with his left hand. With his right, he cocked the pistol and began pulling the trigger. The superintendent emerged like a trout from the water, gasping for breath in pain.
    
  Dikanti covered the distance separating him from Dante in three steps and rushed headlong at his wizard.
    
  Fowler reacted half a second after speaking-we don't know whether he was losing his reflexes with age or because he was assessing the situation-and lunged for the gun, which, despite the impact, continued to fire, pointing it at Andrea. I managed to grab Dante's right arm almost at the same moment Dikanti's shoulder slammed into Dante's chest. The gun fired into the ceiling.
    
  All three fell in disarray, covered in a hail of plaster. Fowler, still holding the superintendent's hand, pressed both thumbs down on the joint where hand met arm. Dante dropped his pistol, but I managed to knee the inspector in the face, and he bounced senselessly to the side.
    
  Fowler and Dante joined in. Fowler held the pistol by the forend with his left hand. With his right hand, he pressed the magazine release mechanism, and it fell heavily to the ground. With his other hand, he knocked the bullet out of RecáMara's hands. Two movements-ra pidos más-and hold the hammer in his palm. I toss it across the room and drop the pistol on the floor, at Dante's feet.
    
  - Now it's no use.
    
  Dante smiled, drawing his head into his shoulders.
    
  - You don't serve very much either, old man.
    
  -Demuéstralo.
    
  The superintendent lunges at the priest. Fowler steps aside, throwing out his arm. He nearly falls face-first into Dante's face, hitting his shoulder. Dante throws a left hook, and Fowler dodges to the other side, only to meet Dante's punch right between the ribs. Keió falls to the ground, gritting his teeth, gasping for breath.
    
  - He's rusty, old man.
    
  Dante took the pistol and magazine. If she didn't manage to find and install the firing pin in time, she wouldn't be able to leave the weapon where it was. In her haste, she hadn't realized that Dikanti also had a weapon she could have used, but fortunately, it remained under the inspector's body when she fell unconscious.
    
  The superintendent looked around, looked at the bag, and in the closet. Andrea Otero was gone, and the puck the khabi had dropped during the fight was also gone. A drop of blood on the window made her peek out, and for a moment I believed the journalist possessed the ability to walk on air, like Christ on water. Or, rather, by crawling.
    
  He soon realized that the room they were in was at the height of the roof of the neighboring building, which protected the beautiful cloister of the Monastery of Santa Mar de la Paz, built by Bramante.
    
  Andrea has no idea who built the monastery (and, of course, Bramante was the original architect of St. Peter's Basilica in the Vatican). But the gate is exactly the same, and on those brown tiles, which glistened in the morning sun, trying not to attract the attention of earlier tourists strolling through the monastery. He wanted to reach the other end of the roof, where an open window promised salvation. I was already halfway there. The monastery is built on two high levels, so the roof overhangs precariously over the stones of the courtyard at a height of almost nine meters.
    
  Ignoring the torture being inflicted on his genitals, Dante walked to the window and followed the journalist out. She turned her head and saw him place his feet on the tiles. She tried to move forward, but Dante's voice stopped her.
    
  -Quiet.
    
  Andrea turned around. Dante was aiming his unused gun at her, but she didn't know it. She wondered if this guy was crazy enough to fire his gun in broad daylight, in the presence of witnesses. Because the tourists had seen them and were raptly contemplating the scene unfolding above their heads. The number of spectators was gradually increasing. One of the reasons Dicanti was lying senseless on the floor of his room was because he was missing a textbook example of what's known in forensic psychiatry as the "effect," a theory he believes can be used as evidence (which has been proven), which states that as the number of bystanders who see a person in distress increases, the likelihood that someone will help the victim decreases (and the likelihood that someone will help the victim increases). (Wave your finger and tell your contacts so they can see it.)
    
  Ignoring the stares, Dante walked slowly toward the journalist, hunched over. Now, as he approached, he saw with satisfaction that he was holding one of the records. To tell you the truth, I was such an idiot that I threw away the other envelopes. So, this record took on much greater significance.
    
  - Give me the disk and I'll go. I swear. I don't want to make you Dante's daño -mintió.
    
  Andrea was scared to death, but she showed courage and bravery that would have put a Legion sergeant to shame.
    
  - And shit! Get out or I'll shoot him.
    
  Dante stopped mid-step. Andrea extended her arm, her hip slightly bent. With one simple gesture, the disk flies like a Frisbee. It might shatter on impact. Or check the disk, gliding in a gentle breeze, and I might catch it in mid-flight with one of the peepers, vaporizing it before it reaches the monastery. And then, Adiós.
    
  Too much risk.
    
  These were the tablets. What to do in such a case? Distract the enemy until the scales tip in your favor.
    
  "Be kind," he said, raising his voice considerably, "don't jump. I don't know what pushed him into such a situation, but life is very beautiful. If you think about it, you'll see that you have many reasons to live."
    
  Yeah, that makes sense. Get close enough to help a bloody-faced lunatic who's climbed onto the roof threatening suicide, try to hold her down so no one notices when I snatch the disk, and after she fails to save it in a fight, I lunge at her... Tragedy. De Dikanti and Fowler have already taken care of her from above. They know how to apply pressure.
    
  -Don't jump! Think about your family.
    
  - But what the hell are you saying? - Andrea was amazed. - I'm not even thinking of jumping!
    
  The peeping tom from below used their fingers to lift the wing instead of pressing the keys on the phone and calling the police. " No one found it strange that the rescuer had a gun in his hand (or maybe he didn"t notice what he was wearing). 233;I ask the rescuer in my right hand.) Dante is happy with his inner state. Every time I found myself next to a young female reporter.
    
  - Don't be afraid! I'm a policeman!
    
  Andrea realized too late what I meant by the other one. He was already less than two meters away.
    
  -Don't come closer, goat. ¡Drop it!
    
  The onlookers below thought they heard her throw herself, barely noticing the record she was holding. Shouts of "no, no" rang out, and one of the tourists even declared his undying love for Andrea if she made it safely down from the roof.
    
  The superintendent's outstretched fingers almost touched the journalist's bare feet, as she turned to face him. He stepped back a little and slipped several hundred meters. The crowd (for there were already almost fifty people in the monastery, and even some guests were peering out of the hotel windows) held their breath. But then someone shouted:
    
  - Look, a priest!
    
  Dante stood. Fowler stood on the roof, holding a tile in each hand.
    
  "Aquí no, Anthony!" the superintendent shouted.
    
  Fowler no pareció escucharle. I throw one of the tiles at him with the help of a devilish pointer. Dante is lucky he covered his face with his hand. If he hadn't, the crunch I hear as the tile hits his forearm might have been the crack of his broken bone, not his forearm. He falls onto the roof and rolls toward the edge. Miraculously, he manages to grab onto the ledge, his feet hitting one of the precious columns, carved by a wise sculptor under Bramante's direction, five hundred naños atrás. Only those spectators who didn't help the spectators did the same to Dante, and three people managed to pick up that broken T-shirt from the floor. I thanked him for knocking him unconscious.
    
  On the roof, Fowler heads towards Andrea.
    
  - Please, Orita Otero, return to the room before everything is done.
    
    
    
  Hotel Rafael
    
  Long February, 2
    
  Thursday, April 7, 2005, 09:14.
    
    
    
  Paola returned to the world of the living and discovered a miracle: Father Fowler's caring hands placed a wet towel on her forehead. She immediately stopped feeling so good and began to regret not having her body on his shoulders, as her head ached terribly. She came to just in time to meet two police officers who finally entered the hotel room and tell them to clean up in the fresh air, to be careful, everything was under control. Dikanti swore to them and perjured himself that none of them had committed suicide and that it had all been a mistake. The officers looked around, a little stunned by the disarray in the place, but complied.
    
  Meanwhile, in the bathroom, Fowler was trying to repair Andrea's forehead, bruised after his encounter with the mirror. As Dikanti disengaged himself from the guards and looked at the apologetic man, the priest told the journalist that glasses would be needed for this.
    
  -At least four in the forehead and two in the eyebrow. But now she can't waste time going to the hospital. I'll tell you what we're going to do: you're going to get in a taxi now, heading to Bologna. It took about four hours. Everyone's waiting for my best friend, who will give me some points. I'll take you to the airport, and you'll get on an airliner heading to Madrid, via Milan. Everyone, be safe. And try not to come back through Italy in a couple of years.
    
  "Wouldn't it be better to catch the avión at the Poles?" Dikanti intervened.
    
  Fowler looked at her very seriously.
    
  -Dottora, if you ever need to escape from... from these people, please don't run towards the Nápoles. They have too much contact with everyone.
    
  - I would say that they have contacts everywhere.
    
  "Unfortunately, you're right. Vigilance won't be pleasant for either you or me."
    
  -We will go into battle. He will take our side.
    
  Fowler Gardó be quiet for a minute.
    
  -Perhaps. However, the first priority right now is to get Señorita Otero out of Rome.
    
  Andrea, whose face was permanently grimacing in pain (the wound on her Scottish forehead was bleeding profusely, though thanks to Fowler it was bleeding much less), didn't like this conversation at all and decided she wouldn't object. The one you silently help. Ten minutes later, when she saw Dante disappear over the edge of the roof, she felt a surge of relief. I ran up to Fowler and wrapped both arms around his neck, risking them both sliding off the roof. Fowler briefly explained to him that there was a very specific sector of the Vatican's organizational structure that didn't want this matter revealed, and that his life was in danger because of it. The priest made no comment on the unfortunate theft of the envelopes, which had been quite detailed. But now she was imposing her opinion, which the journalist didn't like. She thanked the priest and the forensic scientist for their timely rescue, but did not want to give in to blackmail.
    
  "I'm not even thinking about going anywhere, I'm praying. I'm an accredited journalist, and my friend works for mí to bring you news from the Cónclave. And I want you to know that I uncovered a high-level conspiracy to cover up the deaths of several cardinals and a member of the Italian police at the hands of a psychopath. The Globe will publish several stunning covers featuring this information, and they will all be named after me."
    
  The priest will listen with patience and answer firmly.
    
  "Sinñorita Otero, I admire your bravery. You have more courage than many soldiers I've known. But in this game, you'll need far more than you're worth."
    
  The journalist clutched the bandage covering her forehead with one hand and clenched her teeth.
    
  - Don't you dare do anything to me once I publish the report.
    
  "Maybe so, maybe not. But I don't want him to publish the report either, Honorita. It's inconvenient."
    
  Andrea gave him a puzzled look.
    
  -¿Sómo speaks?
    
  "To put it simply: give me the disk," Fowler said.
    
  Andrea stood up unsteadily, indignant and clutching the disc tightly to her chest.
    
  "I didn't know you were one of those fanatics willing to kill to keep their secrets. I'm leaving right now."
    
  Fowler pushed her until she sat back down on the toilet.
    
  "Personally, I think the edifying phrase from the Gospel is, 'The truth shall set you free,' and if I were you, I might run up to you and tell you that a priest who was once involved in pederasty has gone crazy and is beating around the bush. Ah, cardinals with knives. Maybe the Church will understand once and for all that priests are always and first and foremost human beings. But it all depends on you and me. I don't want this to become known, because Karoski knows he wants it to become known. When some time has passed and you see that all your efforts have failed, make one more move. Then maybe we'll take him and save lives."
    
  At that moment, Andrea fainted. It was a mixture of fatigue, pain, exhaustion, and a feeling that couldn't be expressed in a single word. That feeling halfway between fragility and self-pity that comes when a person realizes how small they are compared to the universe. I hand the record to Fowler, bury my head in his arms, and cry.
    
  -Lose your job.
    
  The priest will take pity on her.
    
  - No, I won't. I'll take care of it personally.
    
    
  Three hours later, the US Ambassador to Italy called Niko, the director of Globo. "I apologized for hitting the newspaper's special envoy in Rome with my official car. Secondly, according to your version, the incident occurred the previous day, when the car was speeding from the airport. Fortunately, the driver braked in time to avoid hitting the road, and, apart from a minor head injury, there were no consequences. The journalist apparently insisted again and again that she should continue her work, but the embassy staff who examined her recommended that she take a couple of weeks off, for example, so she could rest. Whatever was done to send her to Madrid at the embassy's expense. Of course, and given the enormous professional damage you caused her, they were willing to compensate her. Another person in the car expressed interest in her and wanted to grant her an interview. He will contact you again in two weeks to clarify the details.
    
  After hanging up, the Globe director was puzzled. I don't understand how this unruly and troubled girl managed to escape the planet during the time that was probably spent on an interview. I attribute it to sheer luck. Feel a pang of envy and wish you were in his shoes.
    
  I've always wanted to visit the Oval Office.
    
    
    
  UACV Headquarters
    
  Via Lamarmora, 3
    
  Moyércoles, April 6, 2005, 1:25 pm.
    
    
    
  Paola entered Boy's office without knocking, but she didn't like what she saw. Or rather, she didn't like who he saw. Sirin was sitting across from the director, and I chose that moment to get up and leave, without looking at the forensic scientist. "This intention" stopped him at the door.
    
  - Hey, Sirin...
    
  The Inspector General paid no attention to him and disappeared.
    
  "Dikanti, if you don"t mind," Boy said from the other side of the desk in the office.
    
  - But, director, I want to report the criminal behavior of one of this man's subordinates...
    
  "That's enough, Dispatcher. The Inspector General has already briefed me on the events at the Rafael Hotel."
    
  Paola was stunned. As soon as she and Fowler put the Español journalist in a taxi bound for Bologna, they immediately headed to the UACV headquarters to explain Boy's case. The situation was undoubtedly difficult, but Paola was confident that her boss would support the journalist's rescue. I decided to go alone to talk to Él, although of course the last thing I hoped for was that her boss wouldn't even want to listen to her poetry.
    
  - He would have been considered Dante who attacked a defenseless journalist.
    
  "He told me there was a disagreement that was resolved to everyone's satisfaction. Apparently, Inspector Dante was trying to calm a potential witness who was a little nervous, and the two of you attacked her. Dante is currently in the hospital."
    
  -But this is absurd! What really happened...
    
  "You also informed me that you are renouncing your trust in us in this matter," Boy said, raising his voice considerably. "I am very disappointed with his attitude, always intransigent and aggressive toward Superintendent Dante and the soberan of our neighboring pope, which, by the way, I was able to observe myself. You will return to your normal duties, and Fowler will return to Washington. From now on, you will be the Vigilant Authority that will protect the cardinals. We, for our part, will immediately hand over to the Vatican both the DVD that Caroschi sent us and the one received from journalist Española, and we will forget about its existence."
    
  -¿And what about Pontiero? I remember the face you drew at his autopsy. ¿Also, was it a sham? ¿Quién hará justice for his death?
    
  -It's none of our business anymore.
    
  The forensic scientist was so disappointed, so upset, that she felt terribly upset. I couldn't recognize the man standing before me; I could no longer recall any of the attraction I'd felt for him. He wondered sadly if this could be partly why she'd so quickly abandoned his support. Perhaps the bitter outcome of the confrontation the night before.
    
  -Is it because of me, Carlo?
    
  -¿Perdón?
    
  -Is this because of last night? I don't believe you're capable of this.
    
  "Ispettora, please don't think this is so important. My interest lies in effectively cooperating with the needs of the Vatican, which you have obviously failed to achieve."
    
  In her thirty-four years of life, Paola Gem had seen such a huge discrepancy between a person's words and what was reflected on their face. He couldn't help himself.
    
  - You're a pig to the core, Carlo. Seriously. I don't like it when everyone laughs at you behind your back. How did you manage to finish?
    
  Director Boy blushed to his ears, but I managed to suppress the flash of anger trembling on his lips. Instead of giving in to his anger, he turned it into a harsh and measured verbal slap.
    
  "At least I got through to Alguacil, Dispatcher. Please put your badge and gun on my desk. She's suspended from work and pay for a month until she has time to thoroughly review her case. Go home and lie down."
    
  Paola opened her mouth to reply, but found nothing to say. In conversation, the kind man always found a tolerable remark to anticipate his triumphant return whenever a despotic boss stripped him of his authority. But in real life, she was speechless. I threw my badge and pistol on the desk and walked out of the office without looking at the atrás.
    
  Fowler was waiting for her in the hallway, accompanied by two police agents. Paola intuitively realized that the priest had already received a heavy phone call.
    
  "Because this is the end," said the forensic scientist.
    
  The priest smiled.
    
  "It was nice meeting you, Doctor. Unfortunately, these gentlemen are going to accompany me to the hotel to pick up my bags and then to the airport."
    
  The female forensic scientist grabbed his arm, her fingers tightening on his sleeve.
    
  -Father, can't you call someone? ¿ Is there any way to postpone this?
    
  "I'm afraid not," he said, shaking his head. "I hope the algún día can treat me to a good cup of coffee."
    
  Without saying a word, he let go and walked down the corridor ahead, followed by the guards.
    
  Paola hoped she would be home to cry.
    
    
    
    Instituto Saint Matthew
    
  Silver Spring, Maryland
    
    December 1999
    
    
    
  TRANSCRIPT OF INTERVIEW #115 BETWEEN PATIENT #3643 AND DR. CANIS CONROY
    
    
  (...)
    
  DOCTOR CONROY: I see you've been reading something... Riddles and curiosities. Any good ones?
    
  #3643 : They are very cute.
    
  DR. CONROY: Go ahead, offer me one.
    
  #3643: They're actually really cute. I don't think he liked them.
    
  DOCTOR CONROY: I like mysteries.
    
  #3643: Okay. If one man makes a hole in an hour, and two men make two holes in two hours, then how much does it take one man to make half a hole?
    
  DR. CONROY: It's a bloody... half hour.
    
  #3643: (Laughs)
    
  DOCTOR CONROY: What makes you so sweet? It's half an hour. An hour, a hole. Half an hour, half a minute.
    
  #3643: Doctor, there are no half-empty holes... A hole is always a hole (Laughs)
    
  DR. CONROY: Are you trying to tell me something with this, Victor?
    
  #3643: Of course, doctor, of course.
    
  DOCTOR You are not hopelessly doomed to be who you are.
    
  #3643: Yes, Dr. Conroy. And I have you to thank for pointing me in the right direction.
    
  DR. CONROY: The way?
    
  #3643: I've struggled for so long to distort my nature, to try to be something I'm not. But thanks to you, I realized who I am. Isn't that what you wanted?
    
  DOCTOR CONROY I couldn't have been so wrong about you.
    
  #3643: Doctor, you were right, you made me see the light. It made me realize that it takes the right hands to open the right doors.
    
    D.R. CONROY: ¿Eso eres tú? Hand?
    
  #3643: (Laughs) No, doctor. I am the key.
    
    
    
  The Dikanti family's apartment
    
  Via Della Croce, 12
    
  Sábado, April 9, 2005, 11:46 PM.
    
    
    
  Paola cried for quite a while, the door closed and the wounds on her chest wide open. Luckily, his mother wasn't there; she'd gone to Ostia for the weekend to visit friends. This was a real relief for the forensic scientist: it had truly been a bad time, and she couldn't hide it from Seíor Dicanti. In a way, if he'd seen her anxiety, and if she'd tried so hard to cheer him up, it would have been even worse. She needed to be alone, to calmly absorb her failure and despair.
    
  She threw herself onto the bed, fully dressed. The bustle of the nearby streets and the rays of the April evening sun filtered in through the window. With that cooing, and after I'd replayed a thousand conversations about Boy and the events of the last few days, I managed to fall asleep. Almost nine hours after she'd fallen asleep, the wonderful smell of coffee penetrated her consciousness, rousing her.
    
  -Mom, you came back too early...
    
  "Of course I"ll be back soon, but you"re wrong about people," he said in a hard, polite voice with a rhythmic, hesitant Italian: the voice of Father Fowler.
    
  Paola's eyes widened and, without realizing what she was doing, she threw both arms around his neck.
    
  -Careful, careful, you spilled some coffee...
    
  The forensic scientist lets the guards go. Fowler sat on the edge of her bed, looking at her cheerfully. In her hand, she carried a cup she'd taken from the kitchen at home.
    
  -Sómo came in here? And did he manage to escape from the police? I'll take you on your way to Washington...
    
  "Calm down, one question at a time," Fowler laughed. "As for how I managed to escape from two fat and poorly trained officials, I beg you, please, don't insult my intelligence. As for the cómo I entered here, the answer is fícil: c ganzúa."
    
  -I see. SICO training at the CIA, right?
    
  -Mas or less. Sorry for the intrusion, but I called several times and no one answered. Believe me, you could be in trouble. When I saw her sleeping so peacefully, I decided to keep my promise to invite her to a café.
    
  Paola stood, accepting the chalice from the priest. He took a long, soothing sip. The room was brightly lit by streetlights, casting long shadows on the high ceiling. Fowler looked around the low-ceilinged room in the dim light. On one wall hung diplomas from school, university, and the FBI Academy. Furthermore, from Natasha's medals and even some of her drawings, I read that she must be at least thirteen years old. Once again, I sense the vulnerability of that intelligent and strong woman, still tormented by her past. A part of her has never left her early youth. Try to guess which side of the wall should be visible from my bed, and believe me, then you'll understand. At that moment, as she mentally draws her imaginary face from the pillow to the wall, she sees a picture of Paola next to her father in the hospital room.
    
  -This cafe is very good. My mother makes it terribly.
    
  - A question about fire regulation, dottor.
    
  -Why did he come back, father?
    
  -For various reasons. Because I wouldn't want to leave you in the lurch. To prevent this madman from getting away with it. And because I suspect there's much more here, hidden from prying eyes. I feel like we've all been used, you and I. Besides, I imagine you'll have a very personal reason for moving on.
    
  Paola frunchió ecño.
    
  "You have a reason. Pontiero was Ero's friend and comrade. Right now, I'm concerned about bringing justice to his killer. But I doubt we can do anything right now, Father. Without my badge and without his support, we're just two little clouds of air. The slightest breath of wind would send us apart. And besides, it's entirely possible you're looking for him."
    
  "Perhaps you really are looking for me. I gave two police officers a corner at Fiumicino 38. But I doubt Boy will go so far as to issue a search warrant against me. With what's in town, it wouldn't lead to anything (and wouldn't be very justifiable). Most likely, I'll let him escape."
    
  - And your bosses, father?
    
  "Officially, I'm in Langley. Unofficially, they have no doubt I'll be staying here for a while."
    
  - Finally, some good news.
    
  - What is more difficult for us is to get into the Vatican, because Sirin will be warned.
    
  -Well, I don't see how we can protect the cardinals if they are inside and we are outside.
    
  "I think we should start from the beginning, Doctor. Review this whole damn mess from the very beginning, because it's clear we've missed something."
    
  - But what? I don't have any relevant materials; the entire file on Karoski is in the UACV.
    
    Fowler le dedicó una media sonrisa pícara.
    
    -Well, sometimes God gives us little miracles.
    
  He gestured toward Paola's desk at one end of the room. Paola turned on the flexo printer on the desk, illuminating the thick stack of brown binders that made up Karoski's dossier.
    
  "I'm offering you a deal, Doctor. You do what you do best: a psychological profile of the killer. A complete one, with all the data we have now. In the meantime, I'll serve him some coffee."
    
  Paola finished the rest of her cup in one gulp. He tried to peer into the priest's face, but his face remained outside the cone of light illuminating Carosca's file. Once again, Paola Cinti had a premonition that she had been attacked in the corridor of the Domus Sancta Marthae and that she had kept silent until better times. Now, after the long list of events following Cardoso's death, I was more convinced than ever that this intuition had been correct. I turned on the computer on his desk. Select a blank form from among my documents and begin to forcefully fill it out, periodically consulting the pages of the file.
    
  -Make another pot of coffee, Father. I need to confirm the theory.
    
    
    
  PSYCHOLOGICAL PROFILE OF A KILLER TYPICAL FOR ME.
    
    
  Paciente: KAROSKI, Viktor.
    
  Profile by Dr. Paola Dikanti.
    
  Patient situation:
    
  Date of writing:
    
  Age: 44 to 241 years.
    
  Height: 178 cm.
    
  Weight: 85 kg.
    
  Description: eyes, intelligent (IQ 125).
    
    
  Family background: Viktor Karoski was born into a middle-class immigrant family dominated by his mother and with profound problems with reality due to the influence of religion. The family emigrated from Poland, and from the very beginning, the roots of his family are evident in all its members. The father presents a picture of extreme work inefficiency, alcoholism, and abuse, which is exacerbated by repeated and periodic sexual abuse (understood as punishment) when the subject reaches adolescence. The mother has always been aware of the abuse and incest committed by her nuge husband, although she apparently pretended not to notice. The older brother runs away from home under threat of sexual abuse. The younger brother dies unattended after a long recovery from meningitis. The subject is locked in a closet, isolated and incommunicado for an extended period after the mother "discovers" the abuse at the hands of the subject's father. When he is released, his father abandons the family home, and it is his mother who imposes her personality on him. In this case, the subject plays the role of a cat, suffering from a fear of hell, which is undoubtedly caused by sexual excesses (always with the subject's mother). To achieve this, she dresses him in her clothes and even goes so far as to threaten him with castration. The subject develops a severe distortion of reality, resembling a serious disorder of unintegrated sexuality. The first traits of anger and an antisocial personality with a strong nervous system begin to emerge. He attacks a high school classmate, resulting in his placement in a correctional facility. Upon his release, his record is cleared, and he decides to enroll in a seminary from 19 to 241. He does not undergo a preliminary psychiatric evaluation and receives help.
    
    
  Case history in adulthood: Signs of a disorder of unintegrated sexuality are confirmed in the subject between the ages of nineteen and 241, shortly after the death of his mother, with touching of a minor that gradually becomes more frequent and severe. There is no punitive response from his church superiors to his sexual assaults, which take on a delicate nature when the subject is responsible for his own parishes. His file records at least 89 assaults on minors, of which 37 were full acts of sodomy, and the rest were touching or forced masturbation or fellatio. His interview history suggests that, however extra- or #241;r may seem, he was a priest completely convinced of his priestly ministry. In other cases of pederasty among priests, it was possible for them to use their sexual urges as a pretext for entering the priesthood, like a fox entering a henhouse. But in Karoski's case, the reasons for taking the vows were entirely different. His mother pushed him in this direction, even going so far as to coacción. After the incident with the parishioner I assaulted, doctor Ndalo Karoski can't hide for a moment, and the subject eventually arrives at the San Mateo Institute, a rehabilitation center for priests. [The text appears to be incomplete and likely a mistranslation.] We find Karoski strongly identifying with the Old Testament, especially the Bible. An episode of spontaneous aggression occurs against a staff member of the institute within a few days of his admission. From this case, we deduce a strong cognitive dissonance between the subject's sexual desires and his religious beliefs. When both sides come into conflict, violent crises arise, such as an episode of aggression on the part of the Man.
    
    
  Recent medical history: The subject exhibits anger, reflecting her repressed aggression. She has committed several crimes in which she exhibited a high level of sexual sadism, including symbolic rituals and insertional necrophilia.
    
    
  Characteristic profile - notable features that appear in his actions:
    
  - Pleasant personality, average to high intelligence
    
  - A common lie
    
  -A complete lack of remorse or feelings towards those who have offended them.
    
  - Absolute egoist
    
  -Personal and emotional detachment
    
  -Impersonal and impulsive sexuality aimed at satisfying needs, such as sex.
    
  -Antisocial personality
    
  -High level of obedience
    
    
  INCONSISTENCY!!
    
    
  -Irrational thinking built into his actions
    
  -Multiple neurosis
    
  -Criminal behavior is understood as a means, not an end
    
  -Suicidal tendencies
    
  - Mission-oriented
    
    
    
  The Dikanti family's apartment
    
  Via Della Croce, 12
    
  Sunday, April 10, 2005, 1:45 AM
    
    
    
  Fowler finished reading the report, which he handed to Dikanti. I was very surprised.
    
  - I hope you don't mind, but this profile is incomplete. He only wrote a summary of what you already know, Amos. Frankly, it doesn't tell us much.
    
  The forensic scientist stood up.
    
  "Quite the opposite, Father. Karoski presents a very complex psychological picture, from which we concluded that his heightened aggression transformed a purely castrated sexual predator into a simple murderer."
    
  - This is the basis of our theory, indeed.
    
  "Well, that's not worth a damn. Look at the profile characteristics at the end of the report. The first eight identify a serial killer."
    
  Fowler las consultó y asintió.
    
  There are two types of serial killers: disorganized and organized. This isn't a perfect classification, but it's fairly consistent. The former are criminals who commit rash and impulsive acts, with a high risk of leaving behind evidence. They often encounter loved ones, who are usually in their immediate vicinity. Their weapons are convenient: a chair, a belt... whatever they find handy. Sexual sadism manifests itself posthumously.
    
  The priest rubbed his eyes. I was very tired, as I had only slept a few hours.
    
  -Discúlpeme, dottora. Please continue.
    
  "The other guy, the organized one, is a highly mobile killer who captures his victims before using force. The victim is an extra person who meets certain criteria. The weapons and slings used correspond to a pre-conceived plan and never cause harm. The super is left in neutral territory, always with careful preparation. So, which of these two groups do you think Karoski belongs to?"
    
  -Obviously, to the second one.
    
  "That's what any observer could do. But we can do anything. We have his dossier. We know who he is, where he came from, what he's thinking. Forget everything that happened in these last few days. It was in Karoski that I entered the institute. What was that?"
    
  - An impulsive person who, in certain situations, explodes like a charge of dynamite.
    
  - And after five therapy sessions?
    
  - It was a different person.
    
  -¿ Tell me, did this change happen gradually or was it sudden?
    
  "It was pretty rough. I felt the change the moment Dr. Conroy made him listen to his regression therapy tapes."
    
  Paola took a deep breath before continuing.
    
  "Father Fowler, no offense, but after reading dozens of interviews I've given you between Karoski, Conroy, and yourself, I think you're mistaken. And that mistake has set us on the right track."
    
  Fowler shrugged.
    
  "Dottora, I can't be offended by that. As you already know, despite my psychology degree, I studied at a rebound institute because my professional self-esteem is something else entirely. You're a criminal expert, and I'm lucky to be able to count on your opinion. But I don't understand what he's getting at."
    
  "Look over the report again," Paola said, turning to Ndolo. "In the 'Inconsistency' section, I identified five characteristics that make it impossible to consider our subject an organized serial killer. Any expert with a criminologist's book in hand will tell you that Karoski is an organized and evil individual, developed as a result of trauma, when confronted with his past. Are you familiar with the concept of cognitive dissonance?"
    
  "It's a state of mind in which the subject's actions and beliefs are radically at odds. Karoski suffered from acute cognitive dissonance: he considered himself a model priest, while his 89 parishioners claimed he was a homosexual."
    
  "Excellent. So, if you, the subject, are a determined, nervous person, invulnerable to any outside intrusions, in a few months you will become an ordinary, untraceable killer. [The sentence is incomplete and likely a mistranslation.] ...
    
  "From that point of view... it seems like a bit of a complicated thing," Fowler said sheepishly.
    
  "That's impossible, Father. This irresponsible act committed by Dr. Conroy undoubtedly hurt him, but it certainly couldn't have caused such extreme changes in him. A fanatical priest who turns a blind eye to his sins and becomes enraged when you read him the list of his victims aloud cannot become an organized killer just a few months later. And let's remember that his first two ritual murders take place within the Institute itself: the mutilation of one priest and the murder of another."
    
  "But, dottora... the murders of the cardinals are the work of Karoska. He himself admitted it, his traces are on three stages."
    
  "Of course, Father Fowler. I don't dispute that Karoski committed these murders. That's more than obvious. What I'm trying to tell you is that the reason he committed them wasn't because of what you consider Amos. The most fundamental aspect of his character, the fact that I brought him to the priesthood despite his tormented soul, is the same thing that drove him to commit such terrible acts."
    
  Fowler comprendió. In shock, he had to sit on Paola's bed to keep from falling to the floor.
    
  -Obedience.
    
  - That's right, Father. Karoski is not a serial killer. He hired murderer .
    
    
    
  Instituto Saint Matthew
    
  Silver Spring, Maryland
    
    August 1999​​
    
    
    
    There's no sound, no noise in the isolation cell. That's why the whisper calling to him, insistent, demanding, invaded Karoski's two rooms like a tide.
    
  - Viktor.
    
  Karoski quickly got out of bed, as if nothing had happened. Everything was back again. You came to me one day to help you, to guide you, to enlighten you. To give him a sense and a support for his strength, his need. He had already resigned himself to Dr. Conroy's brutal intervention, who examined him like a butterfly impaled on a pin under his microscope. He was on the other side of the steel door, but I could almost feel his presence in the room, next to him. A podía respetarle, podía seguirle. I will be able to understand Him, to guide Him. We talked for hours about what we should do. From now on, I must do it. From the fact that she must behave, from the fact that she must answer Conroy's repeated, irritating questions. In the evenings, I rehearsed his role and waited for him to arrive. They see him once a week, but I waited for him impatiently, counting down the hours, the minutes. Mentally rehearsing, I sharpened the knife very slowly, trying not to make a noise. I command him... I command him... I could give him a sharp knife, even a pistol. But he would like to moderate his courage and his strength. And the habií did what the habií asked. I gave him proof of his devotion, his fidelity. First, he crippled the sodomite priest. A few weeks after the habií killed the pederast priest. She must mow the weeds, as I asked, and finally receive the prize. The prize I desired more than anything in the world. I will give it to you, because no one will give it to me. No one can give it to me.
    
  - Viktor.
    
  He demanded her presence. He crossed the room quickly and knelt by the door, listening to the voice speaking to him of the future. From one mission, far from everyone. In the coraze of Christendom.
    
    
    
  The Dikanti family's apartment
    
  Via Della Croce, 12
    
  Sábado, April 9, 2005, 02:14.
    
    
    
  Silence followed Dikanti's words like a dark shadow. Fowler raised his hands to his face, torn between astonishment and despair.
    
  - Could I be so blind? He kills because he is ordered to. God is mine... but what about messages and ritual?
    
  "If you think about it, it doesn't make any sense, Father. 'I justify you,' written first on the ground, then on the chests of the altars. Washed hands, cut out tongues... all of it was the Sicilian equivalent of shoving a coin into the víctima's mouth."
    
  - It's a mafia ritual to indicate that the dead man has talked too much, isn't it?
    
  -Exactly. At first, I thought Karoski held the cardinals guilty of something, perhaps a crime against himself or against their own dignity as priests. But the clues left on the paper balls made no sense. Now I think they were personal biases, their own adaptations of a scheme dictated by someone else.
    
  -But what's the point of killing them this way, dottor? Why not remove them without més?
    
  "Mutilation is nothing more than a ridiculous fiction in relation to the fundamental fact: someone wants to see them dead. Consider the flexography, Father."
    
  Paola approached the table where Karoski's file lay. Since the room was dark, everything outside the spotlight remained in darkness.
    
  -I understand. They force us to look at what they want us to see. But who could want something like that?
    
  -The basic question is, to find out who committed the crime, who benefits? A serial killer erases the need for this question in one fell swoop, because he benefits himself. His motive is the body. But in this case, his motive is the mission. If he wanted to vent his hatred and frustration on the cardinals, assuming he had any, he could have done it at another time, when everyone was in the public eye. Much less protected. Why now? What's changed now?
    
  -Because someone wants to influence Cóklyuch.
    
  "Now I ask you, Father, allow me to try to influence the key. But to do that, it's important to know who they killed."
    
  "These cardinals were outstanding church figures. Quality people."
    
  "But with a common connection between them. And our task is to find it."
    
  The priest stood up and walked around the room several times, his hands behind his back.
    
  "Dottora, it occurs to me that I'm ready to eliminate the cardinals, and I'm all for it. There's one clue we haven't quite followed correctly. Karoschi underwent a full facial reconstruction, as we can see from Angelo Biffi's model. This operation is very expensive and requires a complex recovery. If done well and with the proper guarantees of confidentiality and anonymity, it could cost over 100,000 French francs, which is about 80,000 of your euros. That's not a sum a poor priest like Karoschi could easily afford. He also didn't have to enter Italy or cover it from the moment he arrived. These were issues I'd been pushing to the back burner all along, but suddenly they become crucial."
    
  - And they confirm the theory that a black hand is in fact involved in the murders of the cardinals.
    
  -Really.
    
  "Father, I don't have the knowledge you have about the Catholic Church and the functioning of the Curia. ¿Cuál, what do you think, is the common denominator that unites the three supposed dead?"
    
  The priest thought for a few moments.
    
  "Perhaps there is a nexus of unity. One that would be much more obvious if they simply disappeared or were executed. They were all, from ideologues to liberals. They were part of... how should I put it? The left wing of the Espritual Santo. If she had asked me the names of the five cardinals who supported the Second Vatican Council, these three would have been listed."
    
  - Explain to me, father, please.
    
  With the accession of Pope John XXIII to the papacy in 1958, the need for a change in direction in the Church became obvious. John XXIII convened the Second Vatican Council, calling on all the world's bishops to come to Rome to discuss with the Pope the status of the Church in the world. Two thousand bishops responded. John XXIII died before the Council's completion, but Paul VI, his successor, completed its task. Unfortunately, the sweeping reforms envisaged by the Council did not go as far as John XXIII had envisioned.
    
  -¿ What do you mean?
    
  - The Church has undergone great changes. It was probably one of the greatest milestones of the twentieth century. You don't remember it anymore because you're so young, but until the late sixties, a woman couldn't smoke or wear trousers because it was a sin. And these are just isolated anecdotal examples. Suffice it to say that the changes were great, though insufficient. John XXIII strove to have the Church open its doors wide to the life-giving air of the Holy Temple. And they did open them a little. Paul VI proved himself a rather conservative pope. John Paul I, his successor, lasted only a month. And John Paul II was a sole pope, strong and mediocre, who, it's true, did great good to humanity. But in his policy of Church renewal, he was an extreme conservative.
    
  -¿How andí that the great church reform should be carried out?
    
  "Indeed, there's much work to be done. When the results of the Second Vatican Council were published, conservative Catholic circles were practically up in arms. And the Council has enemies. People who believe that anyone who isn't a cat can go to hell, that women don't have the vote, and even worse ideas. The clergy are expected to demand a strong and idealistic pope, a pope who will dare to bring the Church closer to the world. Undoubtedly, the ideal person for this task would be Cardinal Portini, a staunch liberal. But he would have won the votes of the ultra-conservative sector. Another singer would be Robaira, a man of the people but possessing great intellect. Cardoso was cut out by a similar patriot. They were both defenders of the poor."
    
  - And now he's dead.
    
  Fowler's face darkened.
    
  "Dottora, what I'm about to tell you is a complete secret. I'm risking my life and yours, and please love me, I'm scared. It's what's driving me to think in a direction I don't like to look, let alone walk in," he paused briefly to catch his breath. "Do you know what the Holy Testament is?"
    
  Once again, just like at Bastina's, stories of spies and murders returned to the criminologist's mind. I'd always dismissed them as drunken tales, but at that hour and with that extra company, the possibility that they were real took on a new dimension.
    
  "They say it's the Vatican's secret service. A network of spies and secret agents who don't hesitate to kill when the opportunity arises. It's an old wives' tale used to scare rookie cops. Almost no one believes it."
    
  "Dottora Dikanti, can you believe the stories about the Holy Testament? Because it exists. It's been around for four hundred years and is the Vatican's left hand in matters that even the Pope himself shouldn't know about."
    
  - I find it very difficult to believe.
    
  -The motto of the Holy Alliance, dottor, is "Cross and Sword."
    
  Paola records Dante at the Hotel Raphael, pointing a gun at the journalist. Those were his exact words when he asked Fowler for help, and then I understood what the priest had meant.
    
  - Oh, my God. Then you...
    
  "I was, a long time ago. Serve two banners, my father and my religion. After that, I had to quit one of my two jobs.
    
  -¿What happened?
    
  "I can't tell you that, dottor. Don't ask me about it."
    
  Paola didn't want to dwell on it. It was part of the priest's dark side, his mental anguish that gripped his soul like an icy vice. He suspected there was much more to it than I was telling him.
    
  "Now I understand Dante's hostility towards you. It has something to do with that past, doesn't it, Father?"
    
  Fowler permaneció mudo. Paola had to make a decision because there was no longer time or opportunity to allow herself any doubts. Let me speak to his lover, who, as you know, is in love with the priest. With every part of him, with the dry warmth of his hands and the ailments of his soul. I want to be able to absorb them, rid him of them, all of them, return to him the frank laughter of a child. He knew the impossible in his desire: within this man lived years of bitterness that had stretched back to ancient times. It was not simply an insurmountable wall, which for him meant the priesthood. Anyone who wanted to reach him would have to ford mountains, and most likely drown in them. In that moment, I understood that I would never be with her, but I also knew that this man would allow himself to be killed before he allowed her to suffer.
    
  "It's all right, Father, I'm counting on you. Please continue," he said with a sigh.
    
  Fowler sat back down and told a stunning story.
    
  -They've existed since 1566. In those dark times, the Pope was concerned about the growing number of Anglicans and heretics. As head of the Inquisition, he was a tough, demanding, and pragmatic man. Back then, the Vatican State itself was much more territorial than it is today, though it now enjoys greater power. The Holy Alliance was created by recruiting priests from Venice and uomos, trusted laymen of proven Catholic faith. Its mission was to protect the Vatican as the Pope and the Church in a spiritual sense, and its mission grew over time. In the nineteenth century, they numbered in the thousands. Some were simply informants, ghosts, sleepers... Others, only fifty, were the elite: the Hand of Saint Michael. A group of special agents scattered throughout the world, capable of carrying out orders quickly and precisely. Injecting money into a revolutionary group at their discretion, trading influence, obtaining crucial information that could change the course of wars. To silence, to silence, and, in extreme cases, to kill. All members of the Hand of Saint Michael were trained in weapons and tactics. In the past, digos, camouflage, and hand-to-hand combat were used to control the population. One hand was capable of cutting grapes in half with a knife thrown from fifteen paces and spoke four languages fluently. It could decapitate a cow, throw its ruined body into a well of clean water, and pin the blame on a rival group with absolute dominance. They trained for centuries at a monastery on an undisclosed island in Mediterraneo. With the advent of the twentieth century, training evolved, but during World War II, the Hand of Saint Michael was severed almost entirely. It was a small, bloody battle in which many fell. Some defended very noble causes, while others, alas, not so good.
    
  Fowler paused to take a sip of coffee. The shadows in the room grew dark and gloomy, and Paola Cinti was terrified to the core. He sat down in a chair and leaned against the back while the priest continued.
    
  - In 1958, John XXIII, Pope II of the Vatican, decided that the time of the Holy Alliance had passed. That its services were no longer needed. And in the midst of the French War, he dismantled the communications networks with informants and categorically forbade members of the Holy Alliance from taking any action without their consent. (Preliminary version.) And for four years, this was the case. Only twelve hands remained, out of the fifty-two who had been there in 1939, and some were much older. They were ordered to return to Rome. The secret location where the Ardios mysteriously trained in 1960. And the head of Saint Michael, the leader of the Holy Alliance, died in a car accident.
    
  -Who was he?
    
  "I can't forgive this, not because I don't want to, but because I don't know. The identity of the Head always remains a mystery. It could be anyone: a bishop, a cardinal, a member of the board of trustees, or a simple priest. It must be a varón, over forty-five years old. That's all. From 1566 to the present day, he is known as the Head: the priest Sogredo, an Italian of Spanish descent, who fought fiercely against Naples. And this is only in very limited circles."
    
  "It"s not surprising that the Vatican doesn"t acknowledge the existence of a spy service if they use all of this."
    
  "That was one of the motives that led John XXIII to break the Holy Alliance. He said that killing is unjust even in the name of God, and I agree with him. I know that some of the speeches of the Hand of St. Michael had a profound influence on the Nazis. One blow from them saved hundreds of thousands of lives. But there was a very small group whose contact with the Vatican was interrupted, and they committed egregious mistakes. It is not right to speak of this here, especially in this dark hour."
    
  Fowler waved his hand, as if trying to dispel ghosts. For someone like him, whose economy of movement was almost supernatural, such a gesture could only indicate extreme nervousness. Paola realized she was eager to finish the story.
    
  "You don't need to say anything, Father. If you think it's necessary for me to know."
    
  I thanked him with a smile and continued.
    
  But this, as I suppose you could imagine, was not the end of the Holy Alliance. The accession of Paul VI to the Throne of Peter in 1963 was surrounded by the most horrific international situation of all time. Just a year earlier, the world was a hundred meters away from war on Mica 39. Just a few months later, Kennedy, the first President of the United States of America, was shot. When Paul VI learned of this, he demanded that the Holy Covenant be restored. The networks of espías, although weakened over time, were rebuilt. The difficult part was recreating the Hand of Saint Michael. Of the twelve Hands summoned to Rome in 1958, seven were restored to service in 1963. One of them was tasked with rebuilding a base for retraining field agents. The task took him almost fifteen minutes, but he managed to assemble a group of thirty agents. Some were chosen from scratch, while others could be found in other secret services.
    
  -Like you: a double agent.
    
  "Actually, my job is called a potential agent. It's someone who typically works for two allied organizations, but whose director is unaware that the subsidiary organization is making changes or altering the guidelines for its mission on each mission. I agree to use my knowledge to save lives, not to destroy others. Almost all the missions I've been assigned have been restoration-related: rescuing loyal priests in difficult locations."
    
  -Almost everything.
    
  Fowler bowed his face.
    
  "We had a difficult mission where everything went wrong. The one who must stop being a hand. I didn't get what I wanted, but here I am. I believe I'll be a psychologist for the rest of my life, and look how one of my patients led me to you."
    
  -Dante is one of the hands, isn't he, Father?
    
  "At the beginning of 241, after my departure, there was a crisis. Now there are few of them again, so I'm on my way. They're all busy far away, on missions from which they're not easy to extract. Niko, who was available, was a man of very little knowledge. In fact, I'm going to work, if my suspicions are correct."
    
    - So ¿ Sirin is​ Head ?
    
  Fowler miró al frente, impasible. After a minute, Paola decided that I wasn't going to answer her, as I wanted to ask one more question.
    
  -Father, please explain why the Holy Alliance would like to make such a montage as éste.
    
  "The world is changing, Doctor. Democratic ideas resonate in many hearts, including those of ardent members of the Curia. The Holy Covenant needs a Pope who firmly supports it, otherwise it will disappear." But the Holy Covenant is a preliminary idea. What the three cardinals mean is that they were convinced liberals-all that a cardinal can be, after all. Any one of them could destroy the Secret Service again, perhaps forever.
    
  -By eliminating them, the threat disappears.
    
  "And at the same time, the need for security increases. If the cardinals had disappeared without me, many questions would have arisen. I also can't imagine it as a coincidence: the papacy is paranoid by nature. But if you're right..."
    
  -A disguise for murder. God, I'm disgusted. I'm glad I left the Church.
    
  Fowler walked over to her and squatted down next to the chair, Tom grabbed both her hands.
    
  "Dottora, make no mistake. Unlike this Church, created from blood and filth, which you see before you, there is another Church, infinite and invisible, whose banners are raised high to the sky. This Church lives in the souls of millions of believers who love Christ and His message. Rise from the ashes, fill the world, and the gates of hell will not prevail against it."
    
  Paola looks at him forehead.
    
  - Do you really think so, father?
    
  - I believe it, Paola.
    
  They both stood up. He kissed her tenderly and deeply, and she accepted him as he was, with all his scars. Her suffering was diluted by grief, and for a few hours they knew happiness together.
    
    
    
  The Dikanti family's apartment
    
  Via Della Croce, 12
    
  Sábado, April 9, 2005, 08:41.
    
    
    
  This time Fowler woke up to the smell of brewing coffee.
    
  - Here it is, father.
    
  I looked at her and longed for her to speak to you again. I returned her gaze firmly, and she understood. Hope gave way to the motherly light that was already filling the room. She said nothing, because she expected nothing and had nothing to offer but pain. However, they felt comforted by the certainty that they had both learned from the experience, found strength in each other's weaknesses. I'll be damned if I think Fowler's determination in his calling shook that belief. Sería fácil, pero sería erróneo. On the contrary, I would be grateful to him for silencing his demons, at least for a while.
    
  She was glad he understood. He sat on the edge of the bed and smiled. And it wasn't a sad smile, because that night she'd overcome the barrier of despair. This fresh mother didn't bring reassurance, but at least it dispelled confusion. Even if he thought she'd pushed him away so he wouldn't feel any more pain. Sería fácil, pero sería erróneo. On the contrary, she understood him and knew that this man owed her his promise and his own crusade.
    
  - Dottora, I have to tell you something and not beá fácil assume.
    
  "You will say, father," she said.
    
  "If you ever leave your career as a forensic psychiatrist, please don't have a cafe," he said, grimacing at her cafe.
    
  They both laughed, and for a moment everything was perfect.
    
    
  Half an hour later, after showering and refreshing yourself, discuss all the details of the case. The priest stands at Paola's bedroom window. The female forensic scientist sits at her desk.
    
  -Does Father know? Given the theory that Karoski could be an assassin led by the Holy Alliance, that becomes unrealistic.
    
  "It's possible. However, in light of it, his injuries are still very real. And if we have any sense, then the only ones who can stop him are you and me."
    
  Only with these words did the mañ ana lose its luster. Paola Cintió strains her soul like a string. Now, more than ever, I realized that catching the monster was his responsibility. For Pontiero, for Fowler, and for herself. And as I held him in my arms, I wanted to ask him if anyone was holding him by the leash. If he were, he wouldn't even think of holding back.
    
  -Vigilance is heightened, I understand that. But what about the Swiss Guard?
    
  "A beautiful form, but very little real use. You probably don't even suspect that three cardinals have already died. I don't count on them: They're simple gendarmes."
    
  Paola scratched the back of her head with concern.
    
  -What should we do now, father?
    
  "I don't know. We don't have the slightest clue that Dónde might attack Karoski, and since yesterday the murder has been blamed on Más Fácil."
    
  -¿ What do you mean?
    
  - The cardinals began with the Novendial Mass. This is a novenary for the soul of the late Pope.
    
  - Don't tell me...
    
  -Exactly. Masses will be celebrated all over Rome. San Juan de Letrán, Santa Maríla Mayor, San Pedro, San Pablo Abroad... The cardinals celebrate Mass two by two in the fifty most important churches of Rome. It's tradition, and I don't think they'd trade it for anything in the world. If the Holy Covenant is committed to this, it's sometimes ideologically motivated not to commit murder. Things haven't gone so far that the cardinals would also rebel if Sirin tried to prevent them from praying the Novenarium. No, the Masses will not take place, no matter what. I'll be damned if even one more cardinal could be dead already, and we, the hosts, won't know it.
    
  - Damn it, I need a cigarette.
    
  Paola felt Pontiero's package on the table, felt the suit. I put my hand in the inside pocket of my jacket and found a small, rigid cardboard box.
    
  ¿ What is this?
    
  It was an engraving of the Madonna del Carmen. The one that Francesco's brother Toma had given her as a farewell gift in Santa Marín in Transpontina. The false Carmelite, Caroschi's murderer. He was wearing the same black suit as the Madonna del Carmen, and it bore the seal of the Aún Seguíalleí.
    
  -¿Сóнеу I could forget about this? This trial .
    
  Fowler se acercó, intrigado.
    
    -An engraving of the Madonna del Carmen. Something written on it is Detroit.
    
  A priest recites the law aloud in English.
    
    
    "If your very own brother, or your son or daughter, or the wife you love, or your closest friend secretly entices you, do not yield to him or listen to him. Show him no pity. Do not spare him or shield him. You must certainly put him to death. Then all Israel will hear and be afraid, and no one among you will do such an evil thing again."
    
    
    Paola translated "A Life of Rage and Fury."
    
  "If your brother, your father"s son, your mother"s son, your son, your daughter, your wife who is in your womb, or your friend who is your other self, tries to seduce you secretly, do not forgive him or hide it from him. But I will kill him and all Israel when I learn of it and become afraid and stop doing this evil among you."
    
  - I think it's from Deuteronomy. Chapter 13, verses 7 or 12.
    
  "Damn it!" the forensic scientist spat. "It was in my pocket the whole time!" Debía realized it was written in English.
    
  "No, dottora." A monk gave him a stamp. Given his lack of faith, it's no wonder he didn't pay the slightest attention.
    
  "Perhaps, but since we learned who that monk was, I have to remember that you gave me something." I was troubled, trying to remember how little I'd seen of his face in that darkness. If before...
    
  I intended to preach the word to you, remember?
    
  Paola stopped. The priest turned with the seal in his hand.
    
  -Listen, dottor, this is a regular stamp. Attach some adhesive paper to the stamp part...
    
  Santa Maria del Carmen .
    
  -... with great skill, to be able to accommodate the text. Deuteronomy is...
    
  He
    
  -...the source of the unusual in engraving, you know? I think...
    
  To show him the way in these dark times.
    
  -...if I shoot from around the corner a little, I can tear it off...
    
  Paola grabbed his hand, her voice rising to a shrill scream.
    
  -¡ DON'T TOUCH HER!
    
  Fowler parpadeó, sobresaltado. I'm not moving an inch. The forensic scientist removed the stamp from her hand.
    
  "I'm sorry I yelled at you, Father," Dikanti told him, trying to calm down. "I just remembered Karoski told me the seal would show me the way in these dark times. And I think it contains a message meant to mock us."
    
  -Viktorinaás. Or it could be a clever maneuver to throw us off.
    
  "The only certainty in this case is that we're far from having all the pieces of the puzzle. I hope we can find something here."
    
  He turned the stamp over, looked at it through the glass, and saw a cart.
    
  Nothing.
    
  -A Bible passage may be a message. But what does it mean?
    
  "I don't know, but I think there's something special about it. Something invisible to the naked eye. And I think I have a special tool here for such cases."
    
  The forensic scientist, Trust, was in the next cabinet. He finally pulled out a dusty box from the bottom. Place it carefully on the table.
    
  - I haven't used this since I was in high school. It was a gift from my dad.
    
  Open the box slowly, reverently. To forever imprint on your memory the warning about this device, how expensive it is, and how much you must take care of it. I take it out and place it on the table. It was an ordinary microscope. Paola had worked at the university with equipment a thousand times more expensive, but she had never treated any of them with the respect she had for the ste. She was glad she retained this feeling: it had been a wonderful visit with her father, a rarity for her, that she had lived with her father, regretting the day she had fallen into. I lost. She briefly wondered if she should cherish these bright memories instead of clinging to the thought that they had been ripped from her too soon.
    
  "Give me the printout, Father," he said, sitting down in front of the microscope.
    
  Sticky paper and plastic protect the device from dust. Place the print under the lens and focus. He slides his left hand over the colorful basket, slowly studying the image of the Virgin Mary. "I can't find anything." He turned the stamp over so he could examine the back.
    
  -Wait a minute... there's something here.
    
  Paola handed the viewfinder to the priest. The letters on the stamp, magnified fifteen times, appeared as large black stripes. One of them, however, contained a small whitish square.
    
  - It looks like a perforation.
    
  The inspector returned to the butt of the microscope.
    
  "Swear it was done with a pin. Of course it was done intentionally. It's too perfect."
    
  -¿ In which letter does the first mark appear?
    
  -The letter F comes from If.
    
  - Dottora, please check if there is a hole punch in the other letters.
    
  Paola Barrió is the first word in the text.
    
  - There is another one here.
    
  -Go on, go on.
    
  After eight minutes, the forensic scientist managed to find a total of eleven perforated letters.
    
    
    "IF youR very own brother, or your son or dA ughter, or the wife you love, or your closest frieN d secretly entiC es you, do not yield to hI m or listen to him.S how him no pity. Do not spare him or shield him. You muS t certainly putH im to death. ThenA I Israel "W ill hear and be afraid, and no one among you will do such an evil thing again."
    
    
    When I was sure that neither of my perforated hieroglyphs were present, the forensic scientist wrote down the ones he had on him. They both shuddered when they read what he had written, and Paola wrote it down.
    
  If your brother is trying to secretly seduce you,
    
  Write down the psychiatrists' reports.
    
  Don't forgive him and don't hide it from him.
    
  Letters to relatives of victims of Karoski's sexual violence.
    
  But I will kill him.
    
  Write down the name that was on them.
    
  Francis Shaw.
    
    
    
  (REUTERS TELETYPE, APRIL 10, 2005, 8:12 AM GMT)
    
    
  CARDINAL SHAW CELEBRATED THE NOVENDIAL MASS IN ST. PETER'S BASIL TODAY
    
    
  ROMA, (Associated Press). Cardinal Francis Shaw will celebrate the Novediales Mass today at 12:00 p.m. at the Basilica of St. Peter. The Most Reverend American has the honor of presiding over the Novediales Mass for the soul of John Paul II at the Basilica of St. Peter.
    
  Certain groups in the United States were not particularly welcoming of Shaw's participation in the ceremony. In particular, the Surviving Network of Abuse by Priests (SNAP) sent two of its members to Rome to formally protest Shaw's permission to serve in Christendom's premier church. "We are just two people, but we will file an official, vigorous, and organized protest before the cámaras," said Barbara Payne, president of SNAP.
    
  This organization is the leading association fighting sexual abuse by Catholic priests and has over 4,500 members. Its primary activities are educating and supporting children, as well as conducting group therapy aimed at confronting the facts. Many of its members first turn to SNAP in adulthood, after experiencing an awkward silence.
    
  Cardinal Shaw, currently Prefect of the Congregation for the Clergy, was implicated in the investigation of clerical sexual abuse cases that occurred in the United States in the late 1990s. Shaw, Cardinal of the Archdiocese of Boston, was the most important figure in the Catholic Church in the United States and, in many cases, the strongest candidate to succeed Karol Wojtyla.
    
  His career was severely tested after it was revealed that he had concealed more than three hundred sexual abuse cases in his jurisdiction over the course of a decade. He frequently transferred priests accused of state crimes from one parish to another, hoping to avoid them. In almost all cases, he limited himself to recommending that the accused "get a change of scenery." Only when the cases were very serious were the priests referred to a specialized algún center for treatment.
    
  When the first serious complaints began to arrive, Shaw entered into economic agreements with the families of the latter to ensure their silence. Eventually, the revelations of the Ndalos became known throughout the world, and Shaw was forced to resign by "the highest authorities in the Vatican." He moved to Rome, where he was appointed Prefect of the Congregation for the Clergy, a position of some importance, but by all accounts, it would prove to be the crowning achievement of his career.
    
  Nevertheless, there are some who continue to regard Shaw as a saint who defended the Church with all his might. "He was persecuted and slandered for defending the Faith," asserts his personal secretary, Father Miller. But in the constant media cycle of speculation about who the Pope should be, Shaw stands little chance. The Roman Curia is typically a cautious body, not prone to extravagance. Although Shaw enjoys support, we cannot rule out the possibility that he will gain many votes, barring a miracle.
    
  2005-08-04-10:12 (AP)
    
    
    
  Sacristan of the Vatican
    
  Sunday, April 10, 2005, 11:08 AM.
    
    
    
  The priests who will celebrate the service with Cardinal Shaw vest in the auxiliary sacristy near the entrance to St. Peter's Basilica, where they, along with the altar servers, await the celebrant five minutes before the ceremony begins.
    
  Until this point, the museum was empty except for two nuns who were assisting Shaw, another fellow minister, Cardinal Paulic, and a Swiss guard who was guarding them at the door of the sacristy.
    
  Karoski stroked his knife, hidden among his clothes. Mentally calculate your chances.
    
  Finally, he was going to win his prize.
    
  It was almost time.
    
    
    
  St. Peter's Square
    
  Sunday, April 10, 2005, 11:16 AM.
    
    
    
  "It's impossible to enter through St. Anne's Gate, Father. It's also under heavy surveillance and doesn't allow anyone in. This applies only to those with permission from the Vatican."
    
  Both travelers surveyed the approaches to the Vatican from a distance. Separately, to be more discreet. Less than fifty minutes remained until the beginning of the Novendiales Mass in San Pedro.
    
  In just thirty minutes, the revelation of Francis Shaw's name on the "Madonna del Carmen" engraving gave way to a frantic online advertising campaign. News agencies posted the location and time Shaw was scheduled to appear, in full view of anyone who wanted to read it.
    
  And they were all in St. Peter's Square.
    
  -We will need to enter through the front door of Basilica.
    
  "No. Security has been tightened at all points except this one, which is open to visitors, since that's precisely why they're expecting us. And although we were able to enter, we couldn't get anyone to approach the altar. Shaw and the one serving with him depart from the sacristy of St. Peter's. From the altar, there's a direct route to the basilica. Don't use St. Peter's altar, which is reserved for the Pope. Use one of the secondary altars, and there will be about eight hundred people at the ceremony."
    
  -¿ Will Karoskiá dare to speak in front of so many people?
    
  "Our problem is that we don't know who's playing what role in this drama. If the Holy Alliance wants Shaw dead, they won't let us stop him from celebrating Mass. If they want to track down Karoski, then don't let us warn the cardinal either, because that's the perfect bait. I'm convinced that whatever happens, this is the final act of the comedy."
    
  -Well, at this stage there will be no role for us in él. It's already a quarter to eleven.
    
  "No. We'll enter the Vatican, surround Sirin's agents, and reach the sacristy. Shaw must be prevented from celebrating Mass."
    
  -¿Sómo, father?
    
  - We will use the path that Sirin Jem can imagine.
    
    
  Four minutes later, the doorbell rang at the modest five-story building. "Paola le dio la razón a Fowler." Sirin couldn't have imagined that Fowler would voluntarily knock on the door of the Palace of the Holy Office, even in a mill.
    
  One of the entrances to the Vatican is located between the Bernini Palace and the colonnade. It consists of a black fence and a gatehouse. Usually, it's guarded by two Swiss Guards. That Sunday, there were five of them, and a plainclothes policeman came to see us. Esentimo was holding a folder, and inside (though neither Fowler nor Paola knew this) were his photographs. This man, a member of the Vigilance Corps, saw a couple who seemed to match the description walking along the sidewalk opposite. He saw them only for a moment, when they disappeared from his sight, and he wasn't sure it was them. He wasn't allowed to leave his post, as he didn't try to follow them to check. His orders were to report whether these people were attempting to enter the Vatican and to detain them for a while, by force if necessary. But it seemed obvious these people were important. Press the bot button on the radio and report what you saw.
    
  Almost at the corner of Via Porta Cavalleggeri, less than twenty meters from the entrance where the policeman was receiving instructions over the radio, stood the palace gates. The door was closed, but the doorbell rang. Fowler let his finger stick out until he heard the sound of bolts being pulled back on the other side. The face of a mature priest peered through the crack.
    
  "What did they want?" he said in an angry tone.
    
  - We came to visit Bishop Khan.
    
  -¿On behalf of whom?
    
  - From Father Fowler.
    
  -It doesn't look like it to me.
    
  - I'm an old acquaintance.
    
  "Bishop Hanög is resting. It's Sunday, and the Palazzo is closed. Good afternoon," he said, making tired hand gestures, as if shooing away flies.
    
  -Please tell me in which hospital or cemetery the bishop is, Father.
    
  The priest looked at him in surprise.
    
  -¿Sómo speaks?
    
  "Bishop Khan told me I wouldn't rest until he made me pay for my many sins, since he must be sick or dead. I have no other explanation.
    
  The priest's gaze changed slightly from hostile detachment to mild irritation.
    
  "It seems you know Bishop Khan. Wait here outside," he said, closing the door in their faces again.
    
  -¿Cómo sabía que ese Hanër estaría aquí? -ask Paola.
    
  "Bishop Khan never rested a single Sunday in his life, dottor. It would be a sad accident if I did so today."
    
  -¿Your friend?
    
  Fowler carraspeó.
    
  "Well, actually, it's the man who hates me the world over. Gontas Hanër is the current delegate of the Curia. He's an old Jesuit who seeks to end the unrest on the outside of the Holy Alliance. The Church's version of its internal affairs. He was the one who brought the case against me. He hates me because I didn't say a single word about the missions entrusted to me.
    
  -¿ What is his absolutism?
    
  -Pretty bad. He told me to anathematize my name, and that before or after he had it signed by the Pope.
    
  -¿ What is anathema?
    
  "A solemn decree of excommunication. The Khan knows what I fear in this world: that the Church I fought for will not allow me to enter heaven when I die."
    
  The forensic scientist looked at him with concern.
    
  - Father, may I know what we are doing here?
    
  - I came to confess everything.
    
    
    
  Sacristan of the Vatican
    
  Sunday, April 10, 2005, 11:31 AM.
    
    
    
  The Swiss Guard fell as if mown down, without a sound, not even the sound his halberd made as it bounced off the mármol floor. The cut on his throat had completely severed his throat.
    
  One of the nuns came out of the sacristy at the noise. He had no time to scream. Karoski struck him brutally in the face. The religious Kay fell face down on the floor, completely stunned. The killer took his time, slipping his right foot under the flattened sister's black kerchief. I was looking for the back of her head. Choose the precise spot and transfer all your weight to the sole of your foot. The neck splits dry.
    
  Another nun pokes her head confidently through the sacristy door. He needed the help of his comrade from the era.
    
  Karoski stabbed him in the right eye. When I pulled her out and stood her in the short corridor leading to the sacristy, she was already dragging the corpse.
    
  Look at the three bodies. Look at the sacristy door. Look at the clock.
    
  Aín has five minutes to sign his work.
    
    
    
  Exterior of the Palace of the Holy Office
    
  Sunday, April 10, 2005, 11:31 AM.
    
    
    
  Paola froze, her mouth hanging open at Fowler's words, but before she could protest, the door slammed open. Instead of the mature priest who had been tending to them earlier, a handsome bishop with neatly trimmed blond hair and a beard appeared. He looked to be around fifty years old. He spoke to Fowler with a German accent, laced with contempt and repetitive mistakes.
    
  - Wow, how can you suddenly appear at my door after all these events? To whom do I owe this unexpected honor?
    
  -Bishop Khan, I have come to ask you for a favor.
    
  "I'm afraid, Father Fowler, you're in no condition to ask me for anything. Twelve years ago I asked you for something, and you remained silent for two hours. ¡Días! The commission finds him innocent, but I don't. Now go and calm down."
    
  His extended speech praised Porta Cavallegeri. Paola thought his finger was so hard and straight that he could hang Fowler in the el.
    
  The priest helped him tie his own noose.
    
  -Aún hasn't heard what I can offer in return.
    
  The bishop crossed his arms over his chest.
    
  -Hable, Fowler.
    
  "It's possible that a murder will occur in St. Peter's Cathedral in less than half an hour. We've come to prevent it. Unfortunately, we can't access the Vatican. Camilo Sirin has denied us entry. I request your permission to pass through the Palazzo to the parking lot so I can enter La Città unnoticed."
    
  - And what in return?
    
  - Answer all your questions about avocados. Mañanna.
    
  He turned to Paola.
    
  -I need your ID.
    
  Paola wasn't wearing a police badge. The police officer had taken it. Luckily, he had a magnetic access card for the UACV. He held it firmly in front of the bishop, hoping that would be enough to convince him to trust them.
    
  The bishop takes the card from the forensic expert. I examined his face and the photograph on the card, the UACV badge, and even the magnetic strip of his ID card.
    
  "Oh, how true that is. Believe me, Fowler, I'll add lust to your many sins."
    
  Here Paola looked away, to prevent him from seeing the smile that had appeared on her lips. It was a relief that Fowler took the bishop's case very seriously. He clicked his tongue in disgust.
    
  "Fowler, wherever he goes, he's surrounded by blood and death. My feelings about you are very strong. I don't want to let him in."
    
  The priest was about to object to Khan, but he called him with a gesture.
    
  "Nevertheless, Father, I know you are a man of honor. I accept your deal. Today I'm going to the Vatican, but Mama Anna must come to me and tell me the truth."
    
  Having said this, he stepped aside. Fowler and Paola entered. The entrance hall was elegant, painted cream and devoid of any embellishments or trim. The entire building was silent, befitting Sunday. Paola suspected that Nico, who remained everything, was the one with that taut, slender figure, like foil. This man saw God's righteousness within himself. He dreaded even to think what such an obsessed mind could have done four hundred years before.
    
    -Le veré mañana, Padre Fowler. Since I will have the pleasure of giving you the document I am keeping for you.
    
  The priest led Paola down the corridor of the first floor of the Palazzo, without looking back once, perhaps afraid to make sure that the priest was waiting for his return the following day at the door.
    
  "It's interesting, Father. Usually people leave the church for the Holy Mass, they don't enter through it," Paola said.
    
  Fowler grimaced between sadness and anger. Nika.
    
  "I hope that capturing Karoski won't save the life of a potential victim who will ultimately sign my excommunication as a reward.
    
  They approached the emergency door. The adjacent window overlooked the parking lot. Fowler pressed the door's center bar and poked his head out discreetly. The Swiss Guards, thirty yards away, watched the street with unmoving eyes. Close the door again.
    
  "The monkeys are in a hurry. We need to talk to Shaw and explain the situation to him before Karoski finishes off L."
    
  -Indísburnt the road.
    
  "We'll exit into the parking lot and continue moving as close to the wall of the building on Indian Row as possible. We'll soon reach the courtroom. We'll continue hugging the wall until we reach the corner. We'll have to cross the ramp diagonally and turn our heads to the right, because we won't know if anyone's watching in the area. I'll go first, okay?"
    
  Paola nodded, and they set off at a brisk pace. They reached St. Peter's Sacristy without incident. It was an imposing building adjacent to St. Peter's Basilica. Throughout the summer, it was open to tourists and pilgrims, as in the afternoons it served as a museum housing some of the greatest treasures of Christendom.
    
  The priest places his hand on the door.
    
  It was slightly open.
    
    
    
  Sacristan of the Vatican
    
  Sunday, April 10, 2005, 11:42 AM.
    
    
    
    -Mala señal, dottora -susurró Fowler.
    
    The inspector places his hand on his waist and takes out a .38 caliber revolver.
    
  -Let's go in.
    
  -I believed that Boy took the gun from him.
    
  "He took the machine gun from me, which is the weapon of the rules. This toy is for just in case."
    
  They both crossed the threshold. The museum grounds were deserted, the display cases closed. The paint covering the floors and walls cast a shadow of the meager light that filtered through the rare windows. Despite midday, the rooms were almost dark. Fowler led Paola silently, silently cursing the creak of her shoes. They passed four museum halls. In the sixth, Fowler stopped abruptly. Less than half a meter away, partially obscured by the wall that formed the corridor they were about to turn down, I stumbled upon something highly unusual. A hand in a white glove and a hand covered in fabric in vibrant yellow, blue, and red tones.
    
  Turning the corner, they confirmed that the arm was attached to a Swiss guard. Aín clutched a halberd in his left hand, and what had been his eyes were now two blood-soaked holes. A little later, all of a sudden, Paola saw two nuns in black robes lying face down, locked in a final embrace.
    
  They don't have eyes either.
    
  The forensic scientist cocked the trigger. She crossed eyes with Fowler.
    
  -Está aquí.
    
  They were in a short corridor leading to the Vatican's central sacristy, usually guarded by a security system but with double doors open to visitors so they could view from the entrance the place where the Holy Father vests before celebrating Mass.
    
  At that time it was closed.
    
  "For God"s sake, let it not be too late," Paola said, staring at the bodies.
    
  By then, Karoski had already met at least eight times. She swears she's the same as she's been in recent years. Don't think twice about it. I ran two meters down the hallway to the door, dodging the SAPRáveres. I pulled the blade with my left hand, while my right hand was raised, holding the revolver at the ready, and stepped over the threshold.
    
  I found myself in a very tall octagonal hall, about twelve meters long, filled with golden light. Before me stood an altar surrounded by columns, depicting a lion descending from the Cross. The walls were covered with bellflowers and finished in gray marble, and ten cabinets of teak and lemongrass held the sacred vestments. If Paola had looked up at the ceiling, she might have seen a pool decorated with beautiful frescoes, with windows that flooded the space with light. But the forensic scientist kept this in plain sight of the two people in the room.
    
  One of them was Cardinal Shaw. The other was also a purebred. He sounded vague to Paola until she finally recognized him. It was Cardinal Paulich.
    
  They were both standing at the altar. Paulich, Shaw's assistant, was just finishing handcuffing her when the forensic scientist burst in with a gun pointed directly at them.
    
  -¿Dónde está? - Paola shouts, and her cry echoes throughout the súpul. ¿Have you seen him?
    
  The American spoke very slowly, without taking his eyes off the pistol.
    
  -¿Dónde está quién, señorita?
    
  -Karoski. The one who killed the Swiss guard and the nuns.
    
  I hadn't finished speaking when Fowler entered the room. He hates Paola. He looked at Shaw and for the first time met Cardinal Paulich's eyes.
    
  There was fire and recognition in that look.
    
  "Hello, Victor," the priest said in a low, hoarse voice.
    
  Cardinal Paulic, known as Victor Karoski, held Cardinal Shaw by the neck with his left hand and with his extra right hand held Pontiero's pistol and placed it to the purple one's temple.
    
  "STAY THERE!" Dikanti shouted, and the echo repeated his words.
    
  "Don't move a finger," and fear, from the pulsing adrenaline she felt. í in her temples. Remember the rage that gripped her when, seeing Pontiero's image, this animal called her on the phone. on the phone.
    
  Aim carefully.
    
  Karoski was more than ten meters away, and only part of his head and forearms were visible behind the human shield formed by Cardinal Shaw.
    
  With his dexterity and marksmanship, it was an impossible shot.
    
  , or I'll kill you right here.
    
  Paola bit her lower lip to keep from screaming in rage. "Pretend you're a killer and do nothing."
    
  "Don't pay any attention to him, Doctor. He would never harm either the da or the cardinal, would he, Victor?"
    
  Karoski clings tightly to Shaw's neck.
    
  - Of course, yes. Throw the gun on the ground, Dikanti. ¡ Tírela!
    
  "Please do what he tells you," Shaw said, his voice shaking.
    
  "Excellent interpretation, Victor," Fowler's voice trembled with excitement. "Lera. Remember how we thought it was impossible for the killer to escape Cardoso's room, which was closed to outsiders? Damn it, that was pretty damn cool. I never left it."
    
  - What? - Paola was surprised.
    
  - We broke down the door. We didn't see anyone. And then a timely call for help sent us on a mad chase down the stairs. Victor is probably under the bed? In the closet?
    
  - Very clever, father. Now drop the gun, dispatcher.
    
  "But, of course, this request for help and the description of the criminal are confirmed by a man of faith, a man of complete trust. A cardinal. An accomplice to the murderer."
    
  -¡Сáзаплеть!
    
  - What did he promise you to get rid of his competitors in pursuit of glory, which he has long ceased to deserve?
    
  "Enough!" Karoski was like a madman, his face drenched in sweat. One of the artificial eyebrows she wore was peeling off, almost above one of her eyes.
    
    -¿Te buscó en el Instituto Saint Matthew, Victor? É he was the one who recommended youó enter into everythingí, ¿ right?
    
  "Stop these absurd insinuations, Fowler. Order the woman to drop the gun, or this madman will kill me," Shaw ordered in despair.
    
  "Was this His Eminence Victor's plan?" said Fowler, ignoring the matter. "Ten, are we to pretend to attack him in the very center of St. Peter's? And shall I dissuade you from attempting this all in full view of all God's people and the television audience?"
    
  -¡ Don't follow him, otherwise I'll kill him! ¡Kill him!
    
  -I would be the one who would die. Y él sería un héroe.
    
    -What did I promise you in exchange for the keys to the Kingdom, Victor?
    
  -¡Heavens, you damned goat! ón! ¡Eternal life!
    
  Karoski, except for the gun pointed at Shaw's head. Aim at Dikanti and shoot.
    
  Fowler pushed Dikanti forward, who dropped his pistol. Karoski's bullet missed-too close to the inspector's head and pierced-the priest's left shoulder.
    
  Karoski pushed away Si Shaw, who dove for cover between two cabinets. Paola, with no time to look for her revolver, slammed into Karoski, head down, fists closed. I slammed my right shoulder into the wizard's chest, smashing him against the wall, but I didn't knock the wind out of him: the layers of padding he wore to pretend he was fat protected him. Despite this, Pontiero's pistol fell to the floor with a loud, resounding thud.
    
  The killer strikes Dikanti in the back, who howls in pain, but gets up and manages to strike Karoski in the face, who staggers and almost loses his balance.
    
  Paola made her own mistake.
    
  Look around for the gun. And then Karoski hit her in the face, in the status of a magician, in the reason. And finally, I grabbed her with one arm, just like I did with Shaw. Only this time she was carrying a sharp object, which she used to stroke Paola's face. It was an ordinary fish knife, but a very sharp one.
    
  "Oh, Paola, you can"t imagine how much pleasure this will give me," I whisper oó do oído.
    
  -¡VIKTOR!
    
  Karoski turned. Fowler had fallen to his left knee, pinned to the ground, his left shoulder bruised, and blood running down his arm, which hung limply to the ground.
    
  Paola's right hand took hold of the revolver and aimed it straight at Karoski's forehead.
    
  "He's not going to shoot, Father Fowler," the killer gasped. "We're not so different. We both live in the same private hell. And you swear by your priesthood that you'll never kill again."
    
  With a terrible effort, flushed with pain, Fowler managed to raise his left arm into a standing position. I yanked it from his shirt in one motion and tossed it into the air, between the killer and the el. The lifter spun in the air, its fabric perfectly white, save for a reddish imprint, all where Fowler's thumb had rested on the el. Karoski watched it with a mesmerized gaze, but didn't see it fall.
    
  Fowler fired one perfect shot that hit Karoski in the eye.
    
  The killer fainted. In the distance, he heard his parents' voices calling him, and he went to meet them.
    
    
  Paola ran up to Fowler, who sat motionless and absent-minded. As he ran, he'd taken off his jacket to cover the wound on the priest's shoulder.
    
  - Accept, father, the path.
    
  "It's good you came, my friends," said Cardinal Shaw, suddenly mustering the courage to stand. "That monster has kidnapped me."
    
  "Don't just stand there, Cardinal. Go and warn someone..." Paola began to speak, helping Fowler to the floor. Suddenly, I realized he was heading for El Purpurado. Heading for Pontiero's pistol, he was next to Carosca's body. And I realized that they were now very dangerous witnesses. I extended my hand toward the Reverend Leo.
    
  "Good afternoon," said Inspector Sirin, entering the room accompanied by three Security Service constables and frightening the cardinal, who had already bent down to pick up his pistol from the floor. "I'll be right back and put Guido on."
    
  "I was beginning to believe he wouldn't introduce himself to you, Inspector General. You must arrest Stas immediately," he said, turning to Fowler and Paola.
    
  -Excuse me, Your Eminence. I'm with you now.
    
  Camilo Sirin glanced around. He approached Karoski, picking up Pontiero's pistol along the way. Touch the killer's face with the tip of his shoe.
    
  -¿Is it él?
    
  "Yes," Fowler said without moving.
    
  "Damn it, Sirin," Paola said. "A fake cardinal. Could this have happened?"
    
  -Have good recommendations.
    
  Sirin on the capes at vertical speed. Disgust at that stony face instilled in his brain, which was working at full capacity. Let's note right away that Paulicz was the last cardinal appointed by Wojtyla. Six months ago, when Wojtyla could barely get out of bed. Note that he announced to Somalian and Ratzinger that he had appointed a cardinal in pectore, whose name he revealed to Shaw so that it would announce his death to the people. He finds nothing special in imagining lips inspired by the exhausted Bridge pronouncing Paulicz's name, and that he will never accompany him. He then goes to the "cardinal" at Domus Sancta Marthae for the first time to introduce him to his curious fellow poñeros.
    
  - Cardinal Shaw, you have a lot of explaining to do.
    
  - I don't know what you mean...
    
  -Cardinal, please.
    
  Shaw volvió a envararse una vez más. He began to restore his pride, his long-standing pride, the very one he had lost.
    
  "John Paul II spent many years preparing me to continue your work, Inspector General. You tell me that no one knows what might happen when control of the Church falls into the hands of the faint of heart. Rest assured that you are now acting in the way that is best for your Church, my friend."
    
  Sirin's eyes made the correct judgment about Simo in half a second.
    
  - Of course I will do that, Your Eminence. ¿Domenico?
    
  "Inspector," said one of the constables, who arrived wearing a black suit and tie.
    
  -Cardinal Shaw is coming out now to celebrate the novendiales mass at La Basílica.
    
  The cardinal smiled.
    
  "After that, you and another agent will accompany you to your new destination: the Albergratz monastery in the Alps, where the cardinal will be able to consider his actions in solitude. I will also engage in occasional mountaineering."
    
  "It's a dangerous sport, segyn on oído," Fowler said.
    
  -Of course. It's fraught with accidents -corroboró Paola.
    
  Shaw was silent, and in the silence you could almost see him falling. His head was bowed, his chin pressed to his chest. Do not say goodbye to anyone as you leave the sacristy accompanied by Domenico.
    
  The Inspector General kneeled next to Fowler. Paola held his head, pressing her jacket against the wound.
    
  -Permípriruchit.
    
  The forensic scientist's hand was off to the side. Her makeshift blindfold was already soaked, and she had replaced it with her wrinkled jacket.
    
  -Calm down, the ambulance is already on the way. ¿Tell me, please, how did I get a ticket to this circus?
    
  "We avoid your lockers, Inspector Sirin. We prefer to use the words of Holy Scripture."
    
  The imperturbable man raised an eyebrow slightly. Paola realized it was her way of expressing surprise.
    
  "Oh, of course. Old Gontas Hanër, unrepentant toiler. I see that your criteria for admission to the Vatican are more than lax."
    
  "And their prices are very high," Fowler said, thinking about the dreadful interview that awaited him next month.
    
  Sirin nodded understandingly and pressed his jacket to the priest's wound.
    
  - I think this can be fixed.
    
  At that moment, two nurses arrived with a folding stretcher.
    
  While the orderlies tended to the wounded man, inside the altar, by the door leading to the sacristy, eight altar servers and two priests with two censers waited, lined up in two rows, to assist the wounded man. Cardinals Schaw and Paulich were waiting. The clock showed four minutes past eleven. Mass must have already begun. The senior priest was tempted to send one of the altar servers to see what was going on. Perhaps the oblate sisters assigned to oversee the sacristy were having trouble finding suitable clothing. But protocol demanded that everyone remain motionless while awaiting the celebrants.
    
  Finally, only Cardinal Shaw appeared at the door leading into the church. Altar servers escorted her to the altar of St. Joseph, where she was to celebrate Mass. The faithful who were with the cardinal during the ceremony commented among themselves that the cardinal must have loved Pope Wojtyla very much: Shaw spent the entire Mass in tears.
    
    
  "Calm down, you're safe," said one of the orderlies. "We'll head to the hospital immediately to fully treat him, but the bleeding has stopped."
    
  The bearers lifted Fowler, and at that moment, Paola suddenly understood him. Estrangement from his parents, renunciation of his inheritance, terrible resentment. He stopped the bearers with a gesture.
    
  "Now I understand. The personal hell they shared. You were in Vietnam to kill your father, weren't you?"
    
  Fowler looked at him in surprise. I was so surprised that I forgot to speak Italian and answered in English.
    
  - Sorry?
    
  "It was anger and resentment that drove him to everything," Paola replied, also whispering in English so the porters wouldn't overhear. "A deep hatred for his father, his father... or rejection of his mother. Refusal to receive an inheritance. I want to end everything connected with the family. And her interview with Victor about hell. It's in the file you left me... It was right under my nose the whole time..."
    
  -¿A donde wants to stop?
    
  "Now I understand," Paola said, leaning over the stretcher and placing a friendly hand on the priest's shoulder, who stifled a groan in pain. "I understand that he accepted the job at the St. Matthew Institute, and I understand that I'm helping him become who he is today. Your father abused you, didn't he? And his mother knew it all along. The same with Karoski. That's why Karoski respected him. Because they were both on opposite sides of the same world. You chose to become a man, and I chose to become a monster."
    
  Fowler didn't answer, but there was no need. The bearers resumed their movements, but Fowler found the strength to look at her and smile.
    
  -Where I wish, .
    
    
  In the ambulance, Fowler struggled with unconsciousness. He closed his eyes for a moment, but a familiar voice brought him back to reality.
    
  -Hello, Anthony.
    
  Fowler sonrió.
    
  -Hello, Fabio. How about your hand?
    
  - Pretty screwed up.
    
  - You were very lucky on that roof.
    
  Dante didn't answer. El and Sirin sat together on the bench adjacent to the ambulance. The superintendent grimaced in displeasure, despite his left arm being in a cast and his face covered in wounds; the other kept his usual poker face.
    
  -So what? Are you going to kill me? Cyanide in a packet of serum, will you let me bleed to death or will you be a murderer if you shoot me in the back of the head? I'd prefer it to be the latter.
    
  Dante laughed without joy.
    
  "Don't tempt me. Maybe, but not this time, Anthony. This is a round trip. There will be a more appropriate occasion."
    
  Sirin looked the priest straight in the eyes with an unperturbed face.
    
  - I want to thank you. You were very helpful.
    
  "I didn't do this for you. And not because of your flag."
    
  - I know.
    
  - In fact, I believed that you were the one who was against it.
    
  - I know that too and I don"t blame you.
    
  The three were silent for several minutes. Finally, Sirin spoke again.
    
  -Is there a chance that you will come back to us?
    
  "No, Camilo. He already made me angry once. It won't happen again."
    
  -For the last time. For old times' sake.
    
  Fowler meditó unos segundos.
    
  - On one condition. You know what it is.
    
  Sirin nodded.
    
  "I give you my word. No one is to come near her."
    
  - And from another one too. In Spanish.
    
  "I can't guarantee that. We're not sure he doesn't have a copy of the disc."
    
  - I spoke to her. He doesn't have her, and he doesn't talk.
    
  -It's all right. Without the disk, you won't be able to prove anything.
    
  Another silence fell, a long one, punctuated by the intermittent beeping of the electrocardiogram the priest held to his chest. Fowler gradually relaxed. Through the mists, Sirin's final words reached him.
    
  -¿Sabes, Anthony? For a moment I believed I would tell her the truth. The whole truth.
    
  Fowler didn't hear his own answer, though he didn't. Not all truths are set free. Know that I can't even live with my own truth. Let alone place that burden on someone else.
    
    
    
  (El Globo, p. 8 Gina, April 20, 2005, April 20, 2003)
    
    
  RATZINGER APPOINTED POPE WITHOUT ANY OBJECTION
    
  ANDREA OTERO.
    
  (Special Envoy)
    
    
  ROME. The ceremony to elect John Paul II's successor concluded yesterday with the election of Joseph Ratzinger, former Prefect of the Congregation for the Doctrine of the Faith. Despite his swearing an oath on the Bible to keep his election secret under penalty of excommunication, the first leaks have already begun to appear in the media. Apparently, the Most Reverend Aleman was elected with 105 votes out of a possible 115, far more than the 77 required. The Vatican insists that Ratzinger's enormous number of supporters is a fact, and given that the key issue was resolved in just two years, the Vaticanist has no doubt that Ratzinger will not withdraw his support.
    
  Experts attribute this to the lack of opposition to a candidate who was generally very popular in the pentathlon. Sources very close to the Vatican indicated that Ratzinger's main rivals, Portini, Robair, and Cardoso, have not yet garnered enough votes. The same source went so far as to comment that he saw these cardinals as "a bit absent" during the election of Benedict XVI (...)
    
    
    
  ЕРí LOGOTIP
    
    
    
    
  Dispatch from Pope Benedict XVI
    
    Palazzo del Governatoratto
    
    My ércoles, April 20 , 2005 , 11:23 am .
    
    
    
    The man in white got her in sixth place. A week later, having stopped and gone down a floor below, Paola, waiting in a similar corridor, was nervous, unaware that her friend had died. A week later, his fear of not knowing how to act was forgotten, and his friend avenged. Many events had occurred in those seven years, and some of the most important took place in Paola's soul.
    
  The forensic scientist noticed that red ribbons with wax seals hung on the front door, which had protected the office between the death of John Paul II and the election of his successor. The Supreme Pontiff followed his gaze.
    
  "I asked you to leave them alone for a while. Servant, to remind me that this position is temporary," he said in a tired voice as Paola kissed his ring.
    
  -Holiness.
    
  - Ispettora Dikanti, welcome. I called her to personally thank her for her courageous performance.
    
  -Thank you, Your Holiness. If only I had fulfilled my duty.
    
  "No, you have fully fulfilled your duty. If you will stay, please," he said, pointing to several armchairs in the corner of the office beneath the beautiful Tintoretto.
    
  "I was really hoping to find Father Fowler here, Your Holiness," Paola said, unable to hide the melancholy in her voice. "I haven't seen him for ten years."
    
  Dad took his hand and smiled encouragingly.
    
  "Father Fowler is safely at rest. I had the opportunity to visit him last night. I asked you to say goodbye, and you gave me a message: It's time for both of us, you and I, to let go of the pain for those left behind."
    
  Hearing this phrase, Paola felt an internal tremor and grimaced. "I'm spending half an hour in this office, even though what I discussed with the Holy Father will remain between the two of them."
    
  At midday, Paola stepped out into the light of day in St. Peter's Square. The sun was shining, it was past noon. I took out a pack of Pontiero tobacco and lit my last cigar. Raise your face to the sky, blowing smoke.
    
  - We caught him, Mauricio. Tenías razón. Now go to the eternal light and give me peace. Oh, and give Papa some memories.
    
    
  Madrid, January 2003 - Santiago de Compostela, August 2005
    
    
    
  ABOUT THE AUTHOR
    
    
    
  Juan Gómez-Jurado (Madrid, 1977) is a journalist. He has worked for Radio España, Canal +, ABC, Canal CER, and Canal Cope. He has received various literary awards for his short stories and novels, the most important of which is the 7th Torrevieja International Novel Prize in 2008 for The Emblem of the Traitor, published by Plaza Janés (now available in paperback). With this book, Juan celebrated reaching three million readers worldwide in 2010.
    
  Following the international success of his first novel, Especially with God (published in 42 países a día today), Juan became an international author in Spanish, along with Javier Sierra and Carlos Ruiz Zafón. Besides seeing your life's dream come true, you must dedicate yourself entirely to storytelling. Publication in A Contract with God was his confirmation (still published in a 35-page collection and counting). To keep his passion for journalism alive, he continued reporting and writing a weekly news column for the newspaper "Voice of Galicia." The fruit of one such report during a trip to the United States, the resulting book;Virginia Tech Massacre, is his still only popular science book, which has also been translated into several languages and won several awards.
    
  As a person... Juan loves books, movies, and the company of his family most. He's an Apollo (which he explains by saying he's interested in politics but suspicious of politicians), his favorite color is blue-his daughter's eyes-and he loves her. His favorite food is fried eggs with potatoes. Like a good Sagittarius, he talks nonstop. Jemás leaves the house without a novel under his arm.
    
    
  www.juangomezjurado.com
    
  On Twitter: Arrobajuangomezjurado
    
    
    
    
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  1 [1] If you live, I will forgive you your sins in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit. Yaén.
    
    
  2 [2] I swear by Holy Jesus that God will forgive you for any sins you may have committed. Yaén.
    
    
  3 [3] This case is real (though names have been changed out of respect for the ví articles), and its consequences deeply undermine his position in the power struggle between the Freemasons and Opus Dei in the Vatican.
    
    
  4 [4] A small detachment of Italian police in the inner districts of the Vatican. It consists of three men, whose presence is merely evidence, and they perform auxiliary work. Formally, they have no jurisdiction in the Vatican, since it is another country.
    
    
  5 [5] Before death.
    
    
  6 [6] CSI: Crime Scene Investigation is the plot of a gripping (though unrealistic) North American science fiction series in which DNA tests are performed in minutes.
    
    
  7 [7] Real numbers: Between 1993 and 2003, the St. Matthew Institute served 500 religious workers, of whom 44 were diagnosed with pedophilia, 185 with phobes, 142 with compulsive disorder, and 165 with unintegrated sexuality (difficulty integrating the same into one's own personality.)
    
    
  8 [8] There are currently 191 known male serial killers and 39 known female serial killers.
    
    
  9 [9] St. Mary's Seminary in Baltimore was dubbed the Pink Palace in the early 1980s for the generosity with which homosexual relations were accepted among seminarians. Secondly, Father John Despard "in my days at St. Mary's, there were two guys in the shower, and everybody knew it-and nothing happened. Doors were constantly opening and closing in the hallways at night..."
    
    
  10 [10] The seminary usually consists of six courses, the sixth of which, or pastoral, is a preaching course in various places where the seminarian can give assistance, be it a parish, a hospital, or a school, or about an institution based on Christian ideology.
    
    
  11 [11] Director Boy refers to the Holy of Holies of Turábana Santa de Turín. Christian tradition claims that this is the cloth in which Jesus Christ was wrapped and on which His image was miraculously imprinted. Numerous studies have failed to find convincing evidence, either positive or negative. The Church has not officially clarified its position on the Turábana cloth, but has unofficially emphasized that "this is a matter that is left to the faith and interpretation of each Christian."
    
    
  12 [12] VICAP is an acronym for the Violent Offender Apprehension Program, a division of the FBI that focuses on the most violent criminals.
    
    
  13 [13] Some transnational pharmaceutical corporations have donated their surplus contraceptives to international organizations operating in Third World countries such as Kenya and Tanzania. In many cases, men she sees as impotent, because patients die in her hands due to a lack of chloroquine, have their medicine cabinets overflowing with contraceptives. Thus, companies are faced with thousands of involuntary testers of their products, without the possibility of suing. And Dr. Burr calls this practice the Alpha Program.
    
    
  14 [14] An incurable disease in which the patient experiences severe pain in the soft tissues. It is caused by sleep disturbances or biological disorders caused by external agents.
    
    
  15 [15] Dr. Burr refers to people with nothing to lose, possibly with a violent past. The letter Omega, the last letter of the Greek alphabet, has always been associated with nouns such as "death" or "the end."
    
    
  16 [16] The NSA (National Security Agency) or National Security Agency is the world's largest intelligence agency, far outnumbering the infamous CIA (Central Intelligence Agency). The Drug Enforcement Administration is the drug control agency in the United States. In the wake of the September 11th attacks on the Twin Towers, American public opinion insisted that all intelligence agencies be coordinated by a single thinking head. The Bush administration faced this problem, and John Negroponte became the first Director of National Intelligence in February 2005. This novel presents a literary version of the Saint Paul miko and a controversial real-life character.
    
    
  17 [17] The name of the assistant to the President of the United States.
    
    
  18 [18] The Holy Office, whose official nomenclature is the Congregation for the Doctrine of the Faith, is the modern (and politically correct) name for the Holy Inquisition.
    
    
  19 [19] Robaira haquis with reference to the quotation "Blessed are the poor, for yours is the kingdom of God" (Luke VI, 6). Samalo answered him with the words: "Blessed are the poor, especially because of God, for from them is the kingdom of heaven" (Matthew V, 20).
    
    
  20 [20] The red sandals, along with the tiara, ring, and white cassock, are the three most important symbols that symbolize victory in pon-sumo. They are referenced several times throughout the book.
    
    
  21 [21] Stato Cittá del Vaticano.
    
    
  22 [22] This is what the Italian police call a lever that is used to break locks and open doors in suspicious places.
    
    
  23 [23] In the name of all that is holy, may the angels lead you, and may the Lord meet you upon your arrival...
    
    
  24 [24] Fútbol italiano.
    
    
  25 [25] Director Boy notes that Dikanti paraphrases the beginning of Tolstoy's Anna Karenina: "All happy families are alike, but unhappy ones are different."
    
    
  26 [26] A school of thought which holds that Jesus Christ was a symbol of humanity in the class struggle and liberation from the "oppressors." Although this idea is attractive as an idea, since it protects the interests of the Jews, since the 1980s the Church has condemned it as a Marxist interpretation of the Holy Scriptures.
    
    
  27 [27] Father Fowler refers to the saying "One-eyed Pete is the marshall of Blindville," which in Spanish means "One-eyed Pete is the sheriff of Villasego." For better understanding, the Spanish ñol is used.
    
    
  28 [28] Dikanti quotes Don Quixote in his Italian poems. The original phrase, well known in Spain, is: "With the help of the Church we gave." Incidentally, the word "gotcha" is a popular expression.
    
    
  29 [29] Father Fowler asks to please see Cardinal Shaw, and the nun tells him that his Polish is a little rusty.
    
    
  30 [30] Solidarity is the name of a Polish trade union founded in 1980 by Nobel Peace Prize-winning electrician Lech Walesa. Walesa and John Paul II always had a close relationship, and there is evidence that funding for the Solidarity organization came in part from the Vatican.
    
    
  31 [31] William Blake was an eighteenth-century English Protestant poet. "The Marriage of Heaven and Hell" is a work that spans multiple genres and categories, although we can call it a dense satirical poem. Much of its length corresponds to Parables from Hell, aphorisms supposedly given to Blake by a demon.
    
    
  32 [32] The Charismatics are a funny group whose rituals are usually quite extreme: during their rituals, they sing and dance to the sound of tambourines, do somersaults (and even the brave maas go so far as to do somersaults), throw themselves on the ground and attack people, church pews or have people sit on them, speak in tongues... All of this is supposedly imbued with sacred ritual and great euphoria. The Church of the Cats has never looked upon this group favorably.
    
    
  33 [33] "Soon a Saint." With this cry, many demanded the immediate canonization of John Paul II.
    
    
  34 [34] According to the cat doctrine, Saint Michael is the head of the heavenly host, the angel who drives Satan out of the heavenly kingdom. #225;angel who drives Satan out of the heavenly kingdom. heaven and the protector of the Church.
    
    
  35 [35] The Blair Witch Project was a supposed documentary about some residents who got lost in the woods to report on the extraterrestrial phenomena in the area, and they all ended up disappearing. Some time later, the tape was found, supposedly too. In reality, it was a montage by two directors, Jóvenes and Hábiles, who had achieved great success on a very limited budget.
    
    
  36 [36] Road effect.
    
    
  37 [37] John 8:32.
    
    
  38 [38] One of Rome's two airports, located 32 km from the city.
    
    
  39 [39] Father Fowler must surely be referring to the missile crisis. In 1962, Soviet Premier Khrushchev sent several ships carrying nuclear warheads to Cuba, which, once deployed in the Caribbean, could strike targets in the United States. Kennedy imposed a blockade on the island and promised to sink the cargo ships if they did not return to the USSR. From half a mile away from the American destroyers, Khrushchev ordered them to return to their ships. For five years, the world held its breath.
    
    
    
    
    
    
    
    
    
    
    
  Juan Gomez-Jurado
    
    
  The emblem of the traitor
    
    
    
  Prologue
    
    
    
  DISTINCTIVE FEATURES OF GIBRALTAR
    
  March 12, 1940
    
  As the wave tossed him against the gunwale, pure instinct drove Captain González to clutch the wood, scraping the skin off his palm. Decades later-by then the most prominent bookseller in Vigo-he shuddered as he recalled that night, the most terrifying and unusual of his life. As he sat in his chair, an old, gray-haired man, his mouth would recall the taste of blood, saltpeter, and fear. His ears would remember the roar of what they called the "fool's capsize," a treacherous wave that takes less than twenty minutes to rise and which sailors in the straits-and their widows-had learned to fear; and his astonished eyes would again see something that simply couldn't be there.
    
  When he saw this, Captain Gonzalez completely forgot that the engine was already misfiring, that his crew consisted of no more than seven men when there should have been at least eleven, and that among them, he was the only one who hadn't been seasick in the shower just six months ago. He completely forgot that he was about to pin them to the deck for not waking him when all this rocking started.
    
  He held tightly to the porthole to turn and pull himself onto the bridge, bursting onto it in a gust of rain and wind that soaked the navigator.
    
  "Get away from my helm, Roca!" he shouted, giving the navigator a hard shove. "No one in the world needs you."
    
  "Captain, I... You said not to disturb you until we were about to go down, sir." His voice trembled.
    
  That's exactly what was about to happen, the captain thought, shaking his head. Most of his crew consisted of the pitiful remnants of the war that had devastated the country. He couldn't blame them for not sensing the approach of the great wave, just as no one could blame him now for focusing his attention on turning the boat around and getting it to safety. The wisest course of action would be to ignore what he'd just seen, because the alternative was suicide. Something only a fool would do.
    
  And I'm that fool, thought Gonzalez.
    
  The navigator watched him, his mouth wide open, as he steered, holding the boat firmly in place and cutting through the waves. The gunboat Esperanza had been built at the end of the last century, and the wood and steel of its hull creaked loudly.
    
  "Captain!" the navigator yelled. "What the hell are you doing? We"re going to capsize!"
    
  "Watch your port side, Roca," the captain replied. He, too, was frightened, though he couldn't allow even the slightest trace of that fear to show.
    
  The navigator obeyed, thinking that the captain had completely gone mad.
    
  A few seconds later, the captain began to doubt his own judgment.
    
  No more than thirty strokes away, the small raft bobbed between two ridges, its keel at a dangerous angle. It seemed on the verge of capsizing; in fact, it was a miracle it hadn't already. Lightning flashed, and suddenly the navigator understood why the captain had staked eight lives on such a gamble.
    
  "Sir, there are people over there!"
    
  "I know, Roca. Tell Castillo and Pascual. They need to leave the pumps, go out on deck with two ropes, and hold on to those gunwales like a whore clings to her money."
    
  "Yes, yes, captain."
    
  "No... Wait..." the captain said, grabbing Roku"s arm before he could leave the bridge.
    
  The captain hesitated for a moment. He couldn't manage the rescue and steer the boat at the same time. If they could just hold the bow perpendicular to the waves, they could do it. But if they didn't remove it in time, one of his men would end up at the bottom of the sea.
    
  To hell with all this.
    
  "Leave it, Roca, I'll do it myself. You take the wheel and hold it straight, like this."
    
  "We can"t hold out much longer, Captain."
    
  "As soon as we get these poor souls out of there, head straight for the first wave you see; but just before we reach the top, turn the wheel as hard as you can to starboard. And pray!"
    
  Castillo and Pascual appeared on deck, their jaws clenched and their bodies tense, their expressions trying to hide the fear in their bodies. The captain stood between them, ready to direct this dangerous dance.
    
  "On my signal, discard your mistakes. Now!"
    
  Steel teeth bit into the edge of the raft; the ropes tightened.
    
  "Pull!"
    
  As they pulled the raft closer, the captain thought he heard screams and saw waving arms.
    
  "Hold her tighter, but don't get too close!" He leaned down and raised the boat hook to twice his height. "If they hit us, it will destroy them!"
    
  And it's quite possible it will tear a hole in our boat too, the captain thought. Beneath the slippery deck, he felt the hull creak louder and louder as they were tossed by each new wave.
    
  He maneuvered the boathook and managed to grab hold of one end of the raft. The pole was long and helped him hold the small craft at a fixed distance. He gave the order to tie ropes to the whips and drop the rope ladder, while he clung with all his might to the boathook, which twitched in his hands, threatening to split his skull.
    
  Another flash of lightning illuminated the ship's interior, and Captain Gonzalez could now see that there were four people on board. He could also finally understand how they managed to cling to the floating soup bowl as it bounced between the waves.
    
  Damned madmen - they tied themselves to the boat.
    
  A figure in a dark cloak leaned over the other passengers, brandishing a knife and frantically cutting the ropes that tied them to the raft, cutting the ropes that ran from his own wrists.
    
  "Keep going! Get up before this thing sinks!"
    
  The figures approached the side of the boat, their outstretched arms reaching for the ladder. The man with the knife managed to grab it and urged the others to go ahead of him. Gonzalez's crew helped them up. Finally, there was no one left but the man with the knife. He grabbed the ladder, but as he leaned on the side of the boat to pull himself up, the boat hook suddenly slipped. The captain tried to reattach it, but then a wave, higher than the others, lifted the raft's keel, slamming it against the Esperanza's side.
    
  There was a crunch, then a scream.
    
  Horrified, the captain let go of the boat hook. The raft's side hit the man in the leg, and he hung on the ladder with one hand, his back pressed against the hull. The raft was moving away, but it was only a matter of seconds before the waves tossed him back toward the Esperanza.
    
  "Rows!" the captain shouted to his men. "For God's sake, cut them off!"
    
  The sailor standing closest to the gunwale fumbled for a knife at his belt and then began cutting the ropes. Another tried to lead the rescued men to the hatch leading to the hold before a wave struck them head-on and swept them out to sea.
    
  With a sinking heart, the captain searched under the gunwale for the axe, which he knew had been rusting there for many years.
    
  "Get out of my way, Pascual!"
    
  Blue sparks flew from the steel, but the axe's blows were barely audible over the growing roar of the storm. At first, nothing happened.
    
  Then something went wrong.
    
  The deck shook as the raft, freed from its moorings, rose up and shattered against the Esperanza's bow. The captain leaned over the gunwale, certain all he'd see was the dancing end of the ladder. But he was wrong.
    
  The shipwrecked man was still there, his left arm flailing, trying to regain his grip on the ladder's rungs. The captain leaned toward him, but the desperate man was still more than two meters away.
    
  There was only one thing left to do.
    
  He swung one leg over the side and grabbed the ladder with his injured hand, simultaneously praying and cursing the God who was so determined to drown them. For a moment, he almost fell, but the sailor Pascual caught him just in time. He descended three steps, just far enough to reach Pascual's hands if he loosened his grip. He didn't dare go any further.
    
  "Take my hand!"
    
  The man tried to turn around to reach Gonzalez, but he couldn't. One of the fingers he was using to grip the ladder slipped.
    
  The captain completely forgot his prayers and concentrated on cursing, albeit quietly. After all, he wasn't so upset as to mock God any further at such a moment. However, he was mad enough to take another step down and grab the poor man by the front of his cloak.
    
  For what seemed like an eternity, all that kept the two men on the swinging rope ladder were nine toes, a worn boot sole, and sheer willpower.
    
  The castaway then managed to turn around enough to grab the captain. He hooked his feet onto the rungs, and the two men began their climb.
    
  Six minutes later, bent over his own vomit in the hold, the captain could hardly believe their luck. He struggled to calm down. He still wasn't entirely sure how the useless Roque had managed to survive the storm, but the waves were no longer pounding the hull so persistently, and it seemed clear that this time the Esperanza would survive.
    
  The sailors stared at him, a semicircle of faces filled with exhaustion and tension. One of them held out a towel. Gonzalez waved it away.
    
  "Clean up this mess," he said, straightening up and pointing to the floor.
    
  The drenched castaways huddled in the darkest corner of the hold, their faces barely visible in the flickering light of the cabin's single lamp.
    
  Gonzalez took three steps towards them.
    
  One of them stepped forward and extended his hand.
    
  "Danke schon."
    
  Like his comrades, he was wrapped from head to toe in a black hooded cloak. Only one thing distinguished him from the others: a belt around his waist. On his belt gleamed the red-handled knife with which he had cut the ropes tying his friends to the raft.
    
  The captain couldn't help himself.
    
  "Damn son of a bitch! We could all be dead!"
    
  Gonzalez pulled his hand back and struck the man across the head, knocking him down. His hood fell back, revealing a shock of blond hair and a face with angular features. One cold blue eye. Where the other should have been, there was only a patch of wrinkled skin.
    
  The shipwrecked man stood up and replaced the bandage, which must have been dislodged by the blow above his eye socket. Then he placed his hand on his knife. Two sailors stepped forward, fearing he would rip the captain apart right then and there, but he simply carefully pulled it out and tossed it to the floor. He extended his hand again.
    
  "Danke schon."
    
  The captain couldn't help but smile. That damn Fritz had balls of steel. Shaking his head, Gonzalez extended his hand.
    
  "Where the hell did you come from?"
    
  The other man shrugged. It was clear he didn't understand a word of Spanish. Gonzalez studied him slowly. The German must have been thirty-five or forty years old, and beneath his black coat he wore dark clothing and heavy boots.
    
  The captain took a step toward the man's comrades, wanting to know for whom he had staked his boat and crew, but the other man extended his arms and stepped aside, blocking his path. He stood firmly on his feet, or at least tried to, as he was having difficulty staying upright, and his expression was pleading.
    
  He doesn't want to challenge my authority in front of my men, but he's not prepared to let me get too close to his mysterious friends. Very well then: have it your way, damn you. They'll deal with you at headquarters, Gonzalez thought.
    
  "Pascual".
    
  "Sir?"
    
  "Tell the navigator to set course for Cadiz."
    
  "Aye, aye, Captain," said the sailor, disappearing through the hatch. The captain was about to follow him, heading back to his cabin, when the German's voice stopped him.
    
  "Nein. Bitte. Nicht Cadiz."
    
  The German's face changed completely when he heard the name of the city.
    
  What are you so afraid of, Fritz?
    
  "Commander. Comer. Right here," said the German, gesturing for him to come closer. The captain leaned over, and the other man began to plead in his ear. "Not Cadiz. Portugal. Right here, Captain."
    
  Gonzalez pulled away from the German, studying him for more than a minute. He was certain he couldn't get anything more out of the man, as his understanding of German was limited to "Yes," "No," "Please," and "Thank you." Once again, he faced a dilemma where the simplest solution was the one he liked the least. He decided he'd done enough to save their lives.
    
  What are you hiding, Fritz? Who are your friends? What are four citizens of the most powerful nation in the world, with the largest army, doing crossing the Strait on a tiny old raft? Were you hoping to reach Gibraltar on this thing? No, I don't think so. Gibraltar is full of Englishmen, your enemies. And why not come to Spain? Judging by the tone of our glorious Generalísimo, we'll all soon be crossing the Pyrenees to help you kill frogs, most likely by throwing stones at them. If we really are as friendly with your Führer as thieves... Unless, of course, you yourself are delighted with him.
    
  Damn it.
    
  "Keep an eye on these people," he said, turning to the crew. "Otero, get them some blankets and something warm to put on them."
    
  The captain returned to the bridge, where Roca was setting course for Cadiz, avoiding the storm that was now blowing into the Mediterranean.
    
  "Captain," said the navigator, standing at attention, "can I just say how much I admire the fact that..."
    
  "Yes, yes, Roca. Thank you very much. Is there any coffee here?"
    
  Roca poured him a cup, and the captain sat down to enjoy it. He removed his waterproof cape and the sweater he was wearing underneath, which was soaking wet. Fortunately, it wasn't cold in the cabin.
    
  "There's been a change in plan, Roca. One of the Boches we rescued gave me a tip. It seems there's a smuggling ring operating at the mouth of the Guadiana. We'll head to Ayamonte instead, see if we can stay away from them."
    
  "As you say, Captain," said the navigator, a little frustrated by the need to plot a new course. Gonzalez stared at the back of the young man's head, slightly worried. There were certain people he couldn't talk to about certain matters, and he wondered if Roca might be an informant. What the captain was proposing was illegal. It would be enough to send him to prison, or worse. But he couldn't do it without his second-in-command.
    
  Between sips of coffee, he decided he could trust Roque. His father had killed the Nationals after the fall of Barcelona a couple of years earlier.
    
  "Have you ever been to Ayamonte, Roca?"
    
  "No, sir," the young man replied without turning around.
    
  "It's a charming place, three miles up the Guadiana. The wine is good, and in April it smells of orange blossom. And on the other side of the river, Portugal begins."
    
  He took another sip.
    
  "Two steps away, as they say."
    
  Roca turned around in surprise. The captain smiled wearily at him.
    
  Fifteen hours later, the Esperanza's deck was empty. Laughter drifted from the dining room, where the sailors were enjoying an early dinner. The captain had promised that after they ate, they would drop anchor in the port of Ayamonte, and many of them could already feel the sawdust of the taverns beneath their feet. Presumably, the captain himself was tending the bridge, while Roca guarded the four shipwrecked passengers.
    
  "Are you sure this is necessary, sir?" the navigator asked uncertainly.
    
  "It'll just be a tiny bruise. Don't be such a coward, dude. It should look like the castaways attacked you to escape. Lie down on the floor for a bit."
    
  There was a dry thud, and then a head appeared in the hatch, quickly followed by the castaways. Night was beginning to fall.
    
  The captain and the German lowered the lifeboat onto the port side, farthest from the mess hall. His comrades climbed inside and waited for their one-eyed leader, who had pulled his hood back over his head.
    
  "Two hundred meters as the crow flies," the captain told him, pointing toward Portugal. "Leave the lifeboat on the beach; I'll need it. I'll return it later."
    
  The German shrugged.
    
  "Listen, I know you don't understand a word. Here..." Gonzalez said, handing him back the knife. The man tucked it into his belt with one hand, while rummaging under his cloak with the other. He pulled out a small object and placed it in the captain's hand.
    
  "Verrat," he said, touching his chest with his index finger. "Rettung," he then said, touching the Spaniard's chest.
    
  Gonzalez examined the gift carefully. It was something like a medal, very heavy. He held it closer to the lamp hanging in the cabin; the object emitted an unmistakable glow.
    
  It was made of pure gold.
    
  "Listen, I can"t accept..."
    
  But he was talking to himself. The boat was already moving away, and none of its passengers looked back.
    
  Until the end of his days, Manuel González Pereira, a former captain in the Spanish navy, devoted every minute he could find outside his bookstore to studying this golden emblem. It was a double-headed eagle mounted on an iron cross. The eagle held a sword, with the number 32 above its head and a huge diamond encrusted on its chest.
    
  He discovered that it was a Masonic symbol of the highest rank, but every expert he spoke to told him it must be a fake, especially since it was made of gold. German Freemasons never used precious metals for the emblems of their Grand Masters. The size of the diamond-as far as the jeweler could determine without disassembling the piece-dated the stone to around the turn of the century.
    
  Often, sitting up late, the bookseller recalled his conversation with the "One-Eyed Mysterious Man," as his little son Juan Carlos liked to call him.
    
  The boy never tired of hearing this story, and he came up with far-fetched theories about the identities of the castaways. But what moved him most were these parting words. He deciphered them with a German dictionary and repeated them slowly, as if that would help him understand better.
    
  "Verrat is betrayal. Rettung is salvation."
    
  The bookseller died without unraveling the secret hidden in his emblem. His son, Juan Carlos, inherited the work and, in turn, became a bookseller. One September day in 2002, an unknown elderly writer walked into the bookstore to give a talk about his new work on Freemasonry. No one showed up, so Juan Carlos, to kill time and ease his guest's obvious discomfort, decided to show him a photograph of the emblem. At the sight, the writer's expression changed.
    
  "Where did you get this photo?"
    
  "This is an old medal that belonged to my father."
    
  "Do you still have it?"
    
  "Yes. Because of the triangle containing the number 32, we decided that it was...
    
  "A Masonic symbol. Obviously a fake, due to the shape of the cross and the diamond. Have you appraised it?"
    
  "Yes. The materials cost about 3,000 euros. I don"t know if it has any additional historical value."
    
  The author stared at the article for a few seconds before responding, his lower lip trembling.
    
  "No. Definitely not. Perhaps out of curiosity... but I doubt it. And yet, I"d like to buy it. You know... for my research. I"ll give you 4,000 euros for it."
    
  Juan Carlos politely declined the offer, and the writer left, offended. He began coming to the bookstore daily, even though he didn't live in town. He pretended to browse through the books, but in reality spent most of his time watching Juan Carlos over the top of his thick plastic-rimmed glasses. The bookseller began to feel persecuted. One winter night, on his way home, he thought he heard footsteps behind him. Juan Carlos hid in the doorway and waited. A moment later, the writer appeared, an elusive shadow, shivering in a worn raincoat. Juan Carlos emerged from the doorway and cornered the man, pinning him against the wall.
    
  "This has to stop, do you understand?"
    
  The old man began to cry and, muttering something, fell to the ground, clasping his knees with his hands.
    
  "You don"t understand, I have to get this..."
    
  Juan Carlos softened. He led the old man to the bar and placed a glass of brandy in front of him.
    
  "That"s right. Now tell me the truth. It"s very valuable, isn"t it?"
    
  The writer took his time answering, studying the bookseller, who was thirty years his junior and six inches taller. Finally, he gave in.
    
  "Its value is incalculable. Although that's not the reason I want it," he said with a dismissive gesture.
    
  "Then why?"
    
  "For the glory. The glory of discovery. It would form the basis of my next book."
    
  "On the figurine?"
    
  "On its owner. I managed to reconstruct his life after years of research, delving into fragments of diaries, newspaper archives, private libraries... the sewers of history. Only ten very uncommunicative people in the world know his story. All of them are great masters, and I am the only one with all the pieces. Although no one would believe me if I told them."
    
  "Try me."
    
  "Only if you promise me one thing. That you"ll let me see it. Touch it. Just once."
    
  Juan Carlos sighed.
    
  "Okay. As long as you have a good story to tell."
    
  The old man leaned over the table and began to whisper a story that had until then been passed down by word of mouth by people sworn never to repeat. A story of lies, of impossible love, of a forgotten hero, of the murder of thousands of innocent people at the hands of one man. The story of a traitor's emblem...
    
    
  UNHOLY
    
  1919-21
    
    
  Where understanding never goes beyond itself
    
  The symbol of the profane is an outstretched hand, open, lonely, but capable of grasping knowledge.
    
    
    
    
  1
    
    
  There was blood on the steps of the Schroeder mansion.
    
  Paul Rainer shuddered at the sight. Of course, it wasn't the first time he'd seen blood. Between early April and May 1919, the residents of Munich experienced, in just thirty days, all the horror they'd escaped during four years of war. In the uncertain months between the end of the empire and the proclamation of the Weimar Republic, countless groups tried to impose their agendas. Communists seized the city and declared Bavaria a Soviet republic. Looting and murder became widespread as the Freikorps closed the gap between Berlin and Munich. The rebels, knowing their days were numbered, tried to get rid of as many political enemies as possible. Mostly civilians, executed in the dead of night.
    
  This meant Paul had seen traces of blood before, but never at the entrance to the house where he lived. And although there were few of them, they were coming from under the large oak door.
    
  With any luck, Jurgen will fall on his face and knock out all his teeth, Paul thought. Maybe that way he'll buy me a few days' peace. He shook his head sadly. He hadn't had such luck.
    
  He was only fifteen, but a bitter shadow had already settled over his heart, like clouds obscuring the languid mid-May sun. Half an hour earlier, Paul had been lounging in the bushes of the English garden, glad to be back at school after the revolution, though not so much because of the lessons. Paul was always ahead of his classmates, including Professor Wirth, who bored him terribly. Paul read everything he could get his hands on, devouring it like a drunk on payday. He only pretended to pay attention in class, but he always ended up at the top of the class.
    
  Paul had no friends, no matter how hard he tried to connect with his classmates. But despite everything, he truly enjoyed school, because the hours of lessons were hours spent away from Jurgen, who attended an academy where the floors weren't linoleum and the desks weren't chipped.
    
  On his way home, Paul always turned into the Garden, the largest park in Europe. That day, it seemed almost deserted, even with the omnipresent red-jacketed guards who reprimanded him whenever he strayed. Paul took full advantage of the opportunity and removed his worn shoes. He enjoyed walking barefoot on the grass, and he absentmindedly stooped as he walked, picking up a few of the thousands of yellow brochures that Freikorps planes had dropped over Munich the previous week, demanding the unconditional surrender of the Communists. He tossed them in the trash. He would have happily stayed to tidy up the entire park, but it was Thursday, and he needed to polish the floor of the fourth floor of the mansion, a task that would keep him busy until lunch.
    
  If only he hadn't been there... Paul thought. Last time, he locked me in the broom closet and dumped a bucket of dirty water on the marble. It's a good thing Mom heard my screams and opened the closet before Brunhilde found out.
    
  Paul wanted to remember a time when his cousin hadn't behaved like this. Years ago, when they were both very young and Eduard would take them by the hand and lead them into the garden, Jurgen would smile at him. It was a fleeting memory, almost the only pleasant one he had of his cousin. Then the Great War began, with its bands and parades. And Eduard strode away, waving and smiling, as the truck carrying him picked up speed, and Paul ran alongside him, wanting to march alongside his older cousin, wanting him to sit beside him in that impressive uniform.
    
  For Paul, the war consisted of the news he read every morning, posted on the wall of the police station on his way to school. Often, he had to push his way through thickets of foot traffic-which was never difficult for him, as he was as thin as a sliver. There, he read with delight about the achievements of the Kaiser's army, which was taking thousands of prisoners daily, occupying cities, and expanding the borders of the Empire. Then, in class, he would draw a map of Europe and amuse himself by imagining where the next great battle would be fought, wondering if Edward would be there. Suddenly, and completely without warning, "victories" began to happen closer to home, and military dispatches almost always announced a "return to the security originally envisaged." Until one day, a huge poster announced that Germany had lost the war. Underneath it was a list of the prices to be paid, and it was a very long list indeed.
    
  Reading this list and the poster, Paul felt as if he'd been deceived, cheated. Suddenly, there was no cushion of fantasy to soften the pain of the mounting beatings he'd received from Jurgen. The glorious war wouldn't wait for Paul to grow up and join Eduard at the front.
    
  And, of course, there was nothing glorious about it at all.
    
  Paul stood there for a moment, looking at the blood at the entrance. He mentally dismissed the possibility that the revolution had begun again. Freikorps troops patrolled all of Munich. However, this puddle seemed fresh, a small anomaly on a large stone whose steps were large enough to accommodate two men lying side by side.
    
  I better hurry. If I'm late again, Aunt Brunhilda will kill me.
    
  He hesitated for a moment between fear of the unknown and fear of his aunt, but the latter prevailed. He took the small key to the service entrance from his pocket and entered the mansion. Everything inside seemed quite quiet. He was approaching the stairs when he heard voices coming from the main living areas of the house.
    
  "He slipped while we were going up the steps, madam. It's hard to hold him, and we're all very weak. Months have passed, and his wounds continue to open."
    
  "Incompetent fools. No wonder we lost the war."
    
  Paul crept through the main hallway, trying to make as little noise as possible. The long bloodstain that stretched beneath the door narrowed into a series of streaks that led to the largest room in the mansion. Inside, his Aunt Brunhilde and two soldiers were hunched over a sofa. She continued to rub her hands until she realized what she was doing, then hid them in the folds of her dress. Even hidden behind the door, Paul couldn't help but tremble with fear when he saw his aunt in this state. Her eyes were like two thin gray lines, her mouth twisted into a question mark, and her commanding voice trembled with rage.
    
  "Look at the condition of the upholstery. Marlis!"
    
  "Baroness," said the servant, approaching.
    
  "Go and get a blanket, quickly. Call the gardener. His clothes will have to be burned; they're covered in lice. And someone, tell the baron."
    
  "And Master Jurgen, Baroness?"
    
  "No! Especially not him, you understand? He came back from school?"
    
  "He has fencing today, Baroness."
    
  "He'll be here any minute. I want this disaster dealt with before he returns," Brunhilde ordered. "Forward!"
    
  The maid rushed past Paul, her skirts fluttering, but he still didn't move, for he noticed Edward's face behind the soldiers' legs. His heart began to beat faster. So that's who the soldiers had carried in and laid on the sofa?
    
  Good God, it was his blood.
    
  "Who is responsible for this?"
    
  "Mortar shell, madam."
    
  "I already know that. I'm asking why you brought my son to me only now, and in this condition. Seven months have passed since the war ended, and not a word of news. Do you know who his father is?"
    
  "Yes, he's a baron. Ludwig, on the other hand, is a mason, and I'm a grocer's assistant. But shrapnel has no respect for titles, madam. And it was a long road from Turkey. You're lucky he came back at all; my brother won't be coming back."
    
  Brunhilde's face turned deathly pale.
    
  "Get out!" she hissed.
    
  "That's sweet, madam. We're giving you back your son, and you're throwing us out on the street without even a glass of beer."
    
  Perhaps a flicker of remorse crossed Brunhilde's face, but it was clouded by rage. Speechless, she raised a trembling finger and pointed toward the door.
    
  "Piece of shit aristo," said one of the soldiers, spitting on the carpet.
    
  They turned reluctantly to leave, heads bowed. Their sunken eyes filled with weariness and disgust, but not surprise. "There's nothing right now," Paul thought, "that could shock these people." And when the two men in loose gray coats stepped aside, Paul finally realized what was happening.
    
  Eduard, Baron von Schröder's firstborn, lay unconscious on the sofa at an odd angle. His left arm rested on some pillows. Where his right arm should have been, there was only a poorly stitched crease in his jacket. Where his legs should have been, there were two stumps covered in dirty bandages, one of which was oozing blood. The surgeon hadn't cut them in the same place: the left one was torn above the knee, the right one just below.
    
  An asymmetrical mutilation, Paul thought, remembering his morning art history class and his teacher discussing the Venus de Milo. He realized he was crying.
    
  Hearing the sobs, Brunhilde raised her head and rushed toward Paul. The contemptuous look she usually reserved for him was replaced by an expression of hatred and shame. For a moment, Paul thought she was about to strike him, and he jumped back, falling backwards and covering his face with his hands. There was a terrible crash.
    
  The doors to the hall were slammed.
    
    
  2
    
    
  Eduard von Schroeder was not the only child to return home that day, a week after the government declared the city of Munich safe and began burying more than 1,200 communist dead.
    
  But unlike Eduard von Schröder's emblem, this homecoming was planned down to the last detail. For Alice and Manfred Tannenbaum, the return journey began on the "Macedonia," from New Jersey to Hamburg. It continued in a luxurious first-class compartment on the train to Berlin, where they found a telegram from their father ordering them to stay at the Esplanade until further instructions. For Manfred, this was the happiest coincidence in his ten years of life, because Charlie Chaplin just so happened to be staying in the room next door. The actor gave the boy one of his famous bamboo canes and even walked him and his sister to a taxi on the day they finally received the telegram informing them it was now safe to make the final leg of their journey.
    
  So, on May 13, 1919, more than five years after their father sent them to the United States to escape the looming war, the children of Germany's greatest Jewish industrialist stepped onto Platform 3 of Hauptbahnhof Station.
    
  Even then, Alice knew things wouldn't end well.
    
  "Hurry up with this, will you, Doris? Oh, just leave it, I'll take it myself," she said, snatching the hatbox from the servant her father had sent to meet them and placing it on a trolley. She'd commandeered it from one of the young assistants at the station who were buzzing around her like flies, trying to take charge of the luggage. Alice shooed them all away. She couldn't stand it when people tried to control her or, worse, treated her as if she were incompetent.
    
  "I'll race you, Alice!" Manfred said, breaking into a run. The boy didn't share his sister's concern and was only worried about losing his precious cane.
    
  "Just wait, you little brat!" Alice shouted, pulling the cart in front of her. "Keep up, Doris."
    
  "Miss, your father wouldn't approve of you carrying your own luggage. Please..." the servant pleaded, trying unsuccessfully to keep up with the girl, all the while looking at the young men, who were playfully nudging each other with their elbows and pointing at Alice.
    
  This was precisely the problem Alice had with her father: he programmed every aspect of her life. Although Joseph Tannenbaum was a man of flesh and bone, Alice's mother always claimed he had gears and springs instead of organs.
    
  "You could wind your watch after your father, my dear," she whispered in her daughter's ear, and the two of them laughed quietly, for Mr. Tannenbaum did not like jokes.
    
  Then, in December 1913, the flu took her mother. Alice didn't recover from the shock and grief until four months later, when she and her brother were en route to Columbus, Ohio. They settled with the Bushes, an upper-middle-class Episcopalian family. The patriarch, Samuel, was the general manager of Buckeye Steel Castings, a business with which Joseph Tannenbaum had many lucrative contracts. In 1914, Samuel Bush became a government official in charge of arms and ammunition, and the products he purchased from Alice's father began to take on a new form. Specifically, they took the form of millions of bullets flying across the Atlantic. They traveled west in crates when the United States was still supposedly neutral, then in the bandoliers of soldiers heading east in 1917, when President Wilson decided to spread democracy across Europe.
    
  In 1918, Busch and Tannenbaum exchanged friendly letters lamenting that "due to political inconveniences," their business relationship would have to be temporarily suspended. Trade resumed fifteen months later, coinciding with the young Tannenbaums' return to Germany.
    
  The day the letter arrived, Joseph taking his children away, Alice thought she was going to die. Only a fifteen-year-old girl, secretly in love with one of the sons of her host family and discovering she must leave forever, could be so completely convinced that her life was coming to an end.
    
  Prescott, she cried in her cabin on her way home. If only I'd talked to him more... If only I'd made more of a fuss about him when he came back from Yale for his birthday, instead of showing off like all the other girls at the party...
    
  Despite her own prognosis, Alice did survive, and she swore on the soggy pillows of her cabin that she would never again allow a man to make her suffer. From now on, she would make every decision in her life, no matter what anyone said. Least of all her father.
    
  I'll find a job. No, Dad will never allow that. It would be better if I asked him to give me a job in one of his factories until I saved up enough for a ticket back to the United States. And when I set foot in Ohio again, I'll grab Prescott by the throat and squeeze him until he asks me to marry him. That's what I'll do, and no one can stop me.
    
  But by the time the Mercedes pulled up at Prinzregentenplatz, Alice's resolve had deflated like a cheap balloon. She was struggling to breathe, and her brother was bouncing nervously in his seat. It seemed incredible that she had carried her resolve with her for more than four thousand kilometers-halfway across the Atlantic-only to see it fall apart during the four thousand ton journey from the station to this opulent building. A uniformed porter opened the car door for her, and before Alice knew it, they were riding up in the elevator.
    
  "Do you think Dad is having a party, Alice?" I"m starving!
    
  "Your father was very busy, young master Manfred. But I took the liberty of buying some cream buns for tea."
    
  "Thank you, Doris," Alice muttered as the elevator stopped with a metallic crunch.
    
  "It'll be weird living in an apartment after the big house in Columbus. I hope no one touched my stuff," Manfred said.
    
  "Well, if there were, you"ll hardly remember, shrimp," his sister replied, momentarily forgetting her fear of meeting her father and ruffling Manfred"s hair.
    
  "Don't call me that. I remember everything!"
    
  "All?"
    
  "That's what I said. There were blue boats painted on the wall. And at the foot of the bed was a picture of a chimpanzee playing cymbals. Dad wouldn't let me take it with me because he said it would drive Mr. Bush crazy. I'll go and get it!" he shouted, sliding between the butler's legs as he opened the door.
    
  "Wait, Master Manfred!" Doris shouted, but to no avail. The boy was already running down the corridor.
    
  The Tannenbaums' residence occupied the top floor of the building, a nine-room apartment of over three hundred and twenty square meters, tiny compared to the house the brother and sister had lived in in America. For Alice, the dimensions seemed to have completely changed. She wasn't much older than Manfred was now, when she left in 1914, and somehow, from this perspective, she looked at it all as if she had shrunk a foot.
    
  "... Fraulein?"
    
  "I"m sorry, Doris. What were you talking about?"
    
  "The master will receive you in his office. He did have a visitor with him, but I think he's leaving."
    
  Someone was walking down the hallway toward them. A tall, burly man, dressed in an elegant black frock coat. Alice didn't recognize him, but Herr Tannenbaum stood behind him. When they reached the entrance, the man in the frock coat stopped-so abruptly that Alice's father nearly bumped into him-and stood staring at her through a monocle on a gold chain.
    
  "Ah, here comes my daughter! What perfect timing!" Tannenbaum said, casting a confused glance at his interlocutor. "Herr Baron, allow me to introduce my daughter Alice, who has just arrived with her brother from America. Alice, this is Baron von Schroeder."
    
  "Very nice to meet you," Alice said coldly. She neglected the polite curtsy that was almost obligatory when meeting members of the nobility. She didn't like the baron's haughty bearing.
    
  "A very beautiful girl. Although, I'm afraid she may have adopted some American manners."
    
  Tannenbaum cast an indignant glance at his daughter. The girl was sad to see that her father had changed little in five years. Physically, he was still stocky and short-legged, with noticeably thinning hair. And in his manner, he remained as accommodating to those in authority as he was firm with those under his command.
    
  "You can't imagine how much I regret this. Her mother died very young, and she didn't have much of a social life. I'm sure you understand. If only she could have spent a little time in the company of people her own age, well-bred people..."
    
  The Baron sighed resignedly.
    
  "Why don't you and your daughter join us at our house on Tuesday around six? We'll be celebrating my son Jurgen's birthday."
    
  From the knowing look the men exchanged, Alice realized that this had all been a pre-arranged scheme.
    
  "Certainly, Your Excellency. It's such a sweet gesture of you to invite us. Let me walk you to the door."
    
  "But how could you be so inattentive?"
    
  "I'm sorry, Dad."
    
  They sat in his office. One wall was lined with bookcases, which Tannenbaum had filled with books bought by the yard, based on the color of their bindings.
    
  "Are you sorry? 'Sorry' doesn't fix anything, Alice. You must understand that I'm on very important business with Baron Schroeder."
    
  "Steel and metals?" she asked, using her mother's old trick of showing interest in Josef's business whenever he was in another rage. If he started talking about money, he could go on for hours, and by the time he was done, he'd have forgotten why he was angry in the first place. But this time, it didn't work.
    
  "No, land. Land... and other things. You'll find out when the time comes. Anyway, I hope you have a nice dress for the party."
    
  "I just got here, Dad. I really don"t want to go to a party where I don"t know anyone."
    
  "Don't feel like it? For heaven's sake, it's a party at Baron von Schroeder's house!"
    
  Alice winced slightly when she heard him say this. It was not normal for a Jew to take God's name in vain. Then she remembered a small detail she hadn't noticed when she entered. There was no mezuzah on the door. She looked around in surprise and saw a crucifix hanging on the wall next to her mother's portrait. She was speechless. She wasn't particularly religious-she was going through that stage of adolescence when she sometimes doubted the existence of a deity-but her mother was. Alice experienced that cross next to her photograph as an unbearable insult to her memory.
    
  Joseph followed the direction of her gaze and had the decency to look embarrassed for a moment.
    
  "These are the times we live in, Alice. It's hard to do business with Christians if you're not one."
    
  "You've done enough business before, Dad. And I think you've done well," she said, gesturing around the room.
    
  "While you were gone, things turned out terribly for our people. And they'll get worse, you'll see."
    
  "So bad that you're willing to give up everything, Father? Remade for... for money?"
    
  "It"s not about the money, you insolent child!" Tannenbaum said, his voice no longer a trace of shame, and he slammed his fist on the table. "A man in my position has responsibilities. Do you know how many workers I"m responsible for? Those idiotic scoundrels who join ridiculous communist unions and think Moscow is heaven on earth! Every day I have to tie myself up to pay them, and all they can do is complain. So don"t even think about throwing in my face all the things I do to keep a roof over your head."
    
  Alice took a deep breath and made her favorite mistake again: saying exactly what she thought at the most inopportune moment.
    
  "You don"t need to worry about that, Dad. I"m going to leave very soon. I want to go back to America and start my life there."
    
  When he heard this, Tannenbaum's face turned purple. He waved a chubby finger in Alice's face.
    
  "Don't you dare say that, do you hear me? You're going to this party and you're going to behave like a polite young lady, okay? I have plans for you, and I won't let them be ruined by the whims of a poorly behaved girl. Do you hear me?"
    
  "I hate you," Alice said, looking straight at him.
    
  Her father's expression did not change.
    
  "It doesn"t bother me as long as you do what I say."
    
  Alice ran out of the office with tears in her eyes.
    
  We'll see about that. Oh yeah, we'll see.
    
    
  3
    
    
  "Are you sleeping?"
    
  Ilse Rainer turned over on the mattress.
    
  "Not anymore. What"s the matter, Paul?"
    
  "I was wondering what we were going to do."
    
  "It"s already half past eleven. How about getting some sleep?"
    
  "I was talking about the future."
    
  "The future," his mother repeated, almost spitting the word out.
    
  "I mean, it doesn"t mean you actually have to work here at Aunt Brunhilde"s, does it, Mom?"
    
  "In the future, I see you going to university, which turns out to be just around the corner, and coming home to eat the delicious food I prepared for you. Now, goodnight."
    
  "This is not our home."
    
  "We live here, we work here, and we thank heaven for it."
    
  "As if we should..." Paul whispered.
    
  "I heard that, young man."
    
  "I"m sorry, Mom."
    
  "What's wrong with you? Did you have another fight with Jurgen? Is that why you came back all wet today?"
    
  "It wasn't a fight. He and two of his friends followed me into the English Garden."
    
  "They were just playing."
    
  "They threw my pants in the lake, Mom."
    
  "And you didn"t do anything to upset them?"
    
  Paul snorted loudly but said nothing. This was typical of his mother. Whenever he got into trouble, she tried to find a way to make it his fault.
    
  "You better go to bed, Paul. We have a big day tomorrow."
    
  "Oh, yes, Jurgen"s birthday..."
    
  "There will be cakes."
    
  "Which will be eaten by other people."
    
  "I don"t know why you always react like this."
    
  Paul thought it was outrageous that a hundred people were having a party on the first floor while Edward, whom he had not yet been allowed to see, was languishing on the fourth, but he kept it to himself.
    
  "There will be a lot of work tomorrow," Ilze concluded, turning over.
    
  The boy stared at his mother's back for a moment. The bedrooms in the service wing were at the back of the house, in a sort of basement. Living there, rather than in the family quarters, didn't bother Paul as much, because he'd never known any other home. Ever since he was born, he'd accepted the strange sight of watching Ilse wash her sister Brunhilde's dishes as normal.
    
  A thin rectangle of light filtered through a small window just under the ceiling, a yellow echo of the streetlight that mingled with the flickering candle Paul always kept by his bed, as he was terrified of the dark. The Rainers shared one of the smaller bedrooms, which contained just two beds, a closet, and a desk on which Paul's homework was scattered.
    
  Paul was depressed by the lack of space. It wasn't that there was a shortage of available rooms. Even before the war, the baron's fortune had begun to decline, and Paul watched it melt away with the inevitability of a tin can rusting in a field. It was a process that had been going on for years, but it was unstoppable.
    
  "The cards," the servants whispered, shaking their heads as if they were talking about some contagious disease, "it's because of the cards." As a child, these comments horrified Paul so much that when the boy came to school with a French deck he'd found at home, Paul ran out of the classroom and locked himself in the bathroom. It took some time before he finally understood the extent of his uncle's problem: a problem that wasn't contagious, but still deadly.
    
  As the servants' unpaid wages began to mount, they began to quit. Now, of the ten bedrooms in the servants' quarters, only three were occupied: the maid's room, the cook's room, and the one Paul shared with his mother. The boy sometimes had trouble sleeping because Ilse always rose an hour before dawn. Before the other servants left, she had been merely a housekeeper, tasked with ensuring everything was in its proper place. Now she, too, had to take on their work.
    
  That life, his mother's grueling duties, and the tasks he'd performed himself for as long as he could remember, initially seemed normal to Paul. But at school, he discussed his situation with his classmates, and soon he began making comparisons, noticing what was happening around him and realizing how odd it was that the Baroness's sister had to sleep in the staff quarters.
    
  Over and over again he heard the same three words used to define his family slip past him as he walked between desks at school, or slam behind him like a secret door.
    
  Orphan.
    
  Servant.
    
  Deserter. This was the worst of all, because it was directed against his father. A man he never knew, a man his mother never spoke of, and a man Paul knew little more than his name. Hans Reiner.
    
  And so, piecing together the fragments of overheard conversations, Paul learned that his father had done something terrible (... in the African colonies, they say...), that he had lost everything (... lost his shirt, gone broke...), and that his mother was living at the mercy of his Aunt Brunhilde (... a servant in the house of her own brother-in-law - no less than a baron! - can you believe it?).
    
  Which seemed no more honorable than the fact that Ilse didn't charge her a single mark for her work. Or that during the war, she would be forced to work in a munitions factory "to contribute to the upkeep of the household." The factory was in Dachau, sixteen kilometers from Munich, and his mother had to rise two hours before sunrise, do her share of the housework, and then catch the train to her ten-hour shift.
    
  One day, just after she returned from the factory, her hair and fingers green with dust, her eyes clouded from a day of inhaling chemicals, Paul asked his mother for the first time why they hadn't found another place to live. A place where they both weren't subjected to constant humiliation.
    
  "You don"t understand, Paul."
    
  She gave him the same answer over and over again, always looking away, or leaving the room, or turning over to go to sleep, just as she had done a few minutes ago.
    
  Paul stared at his mother's back for a moment. She seemed to be breathing deeply and evenly, but the boy knew she was only pretending to sleep, and he wondered what ghosts could have attacked her in the middle of the night.
    
  He looked away and stared at the ceiling. If his eyes could pierce plaster, the square of ceiling directly above Paul's pillow would have long since caved in. This was where he focused all his fantasies about his father at night, when he had trouble falling asleep. All Paul knew was that he had been a captain in the Kaiser's navy and that he had commanded a frigate in Southwest Africa. He had died when Paul was two, and the only thing he had left of him was a faded photograph of his father in uniform, with a large mustache, his dark eyes looking proudly straight into the camera.
    
  Ilse put the photograph under her pillow every night, and the greatest pain Paul caused his mother wasn't the day Jürgen pushed him down the stairs and broke his arm; it was the day he stole the photograph, took it to school, and showed it to everyone who called him an orphan behind his back. By the time he returned home, Ilse had turned the room upside down looking for it. When he carefully pulled it out from under the pages of his math textbook, Ilse slapped him and then began to cry.
    
  "This is the only thing I have. The only one."
    
  She hugged him, of course. But first she took the photograph back.
    
  Paul tried to imagine what this impressive man must have been like. Under the dingy white ceiling, by the light of a street lamp, his mind's eye conjured up the outline of the Kiel, the frigate on which Hans Reiner "sank in the Atlantic with his entire crew." He conjured up hundreds of possible scenarios to explain those nine words, the only information about his death that Ilse had passed on to her son. Pirates, reefs, mutiny... However it began, Paul's fantasy always ended the same: Hans, clutching the rudder, waving goodbye as the waters closed over his head.
    
  When he reached this point, Paul always fell asleep.
    
    
  4
    
    
  "Honestly, Otto, I can't stand the Jew for a moment longer. Just look at him stuffing himself with Dampfnudel. There's custard on the front of his shirt."
    
  "Please, Brunhilde, speak more quietly and try to remain calm. You know as well as I do how much we need Tannenbaum. We spent our last penny on this party. Incidentally, it was your idea..."
    
  "Jurgen deserves better. You know how confused he's been since his brother returned..."
    
  "Then don"t complain about the Jew."
    
  "You can't imagine what it's like to play hostess to him, with his endless chatter and ridiculous compliments, as if he doesn't know he holds all the cards. Some time ago, he even had the nerve to suggest that his daughter and Jurgen marry," Brunhilde said, expecting Otto's scornful response.
    
  "This could put an end to all our problems."
    
  A tiny crack appeared in Brunhilde's granite smile as she looked at the Baron in shock.
    
  They stood at the entrance to the hall, their tense conversation muffled through clenched teeth and interrupted only when they paused to receive guests. Brunhilda was about to reply, but instead was forced to once again assume a welcoming grimace:
    
  "Good evening, Frau Gerngross, Frau Sagebel! How nice of you to come."
    
  "Sorry we're late, Brunhilda, my dear."
    
  "Bridges, oh bridges."
    
  "Yes, the traffic is just terrible. Really, monstrous."
    
  "When are you going to leave this cold old mansion and move to the east coast, my dear?"
    
  The Baroness smiled with pleasure at their twinges of envy. Any one of the many nouveau riche at the party would have killed for the class and power that her husband's coat of arms radiated.
    
  "Please pour yourself a glass of punch. It's delicious," said Brunhilde, pointing to the center of the room, where a huge table, surrounded by people, was piled high with food and drink. A meter-high ice horse towered over the punch bowl, and at the back of the room, a string quartet added to the general hubbub with popular Bavarian songs.
    
  When she was sure the new arrivals were out of earshot, the Countess turned to Otto and said in a steely tone that very few ladies of Munich high society would have found acceptable:
    
  "You arranged our daughter's wedding without even telling me, Otto? Over my dead body."
    
  The Baron didn't blink. A quarter century of marriage had taught him how his wife would react when she felt slighted. But in this case, she would have to give in, because there was much more at stake than her foolish pride.
    
  "Brünnhilde, my dear, don't tell me you didn't see this Jew coming from the start. In his supposedly elegant suits, attending the same church we do every Sunday, pretending not to hear when he's called a 'convert,' he sidles his way to our seats..."
    
  "Of course I noticed. I"m not stupid."
    
  "Of course not, Baroness. You're perfectly capable of putting two and two together. And we don't have a penny to our name. The bank accounts are completely empty."
    
  The color drained from Brunhilde's cheeks. She had to grab the alabaster molding on the wall to keep from falling.
    
  "Damn you, Otto."
    
  "That red dress you're wearing... The dressmaker insisted on being paid in cash for it. Word spread, and once rumors start, there's no stopping them until you end up in the gutter."
    
  "You think I don't know that? You think I haven't noticed the way they look at us, the way they take little bites out of their cakes and smirk at each other when they realize they're not from Casa Popp? I can hear what those old women are muttering as clearly as if they were shouting in my ear, Otto. But to go from that to letting my son, my Jürgen, marry a filthy Jew..."
    
  "There's no other solution. All we have left is the house and our land, which I signed over to Eduard on his birthday. If I can't convince Tannenbaum to lend me the capital to set up a factory on this land, we might as well give up. One morning the police will come for me, and then I'll have to act like a good Christian gentleman and blow my brains out. And you'll end up like your sister, working for someone else. Is that what you want?"
    
  Brunhilde removed her hand from the wall. She took advantage of the pause caused by the new arrivals to gather her strength and then hurl it at Otto like a stone.
    
  "You and your gambling are what got us into this mess, what destroyed the family fortune. Deal with it, Otto, just like you dealt with Hans fourteen years ago."
    
  The Baron took a step back, shocked.
    
  "Don"t you dare mention that name again!"
    
  "You were the one who dared to do something back then. And what good did it do us? I had to put up with my sister living in that house for fourteen years."
    
  "I still haven't found the letter. And the boy is growing. Perhaps now..."
    
  Brunhilde leaned toward him. Otto was almost a head taller, but still looked small next to his wife.
    
  "There is a limit to my patience."
    
  With an elegant wave of her hand, Brunhilda dove into the crowd of guests, leaving the Baron with a frozen smile on his face, trying with all his might not to scream.***
    
  Across the room, Jurgen von Schroeder put down his third glass of champagne to open a gift one of his friends was handing him.
    
  "I didn't want to put it with the others," the boy said, pointing behind him to a table littered with brightly colored packages. "This one is special."
    
  "What do you say, guys? Should I open Kron's gift first?"
    
  Half a dozen teenagers huddled around him, all wearing stylish blue blazers bearing the Metzingen Academy emblem. They all came from good German families, and all were uglier and shorter than Jurgen, and they laughed at every joke Jurgen made. The baron's young son had a knack for surrounding himself with people who didn't overshadow him and in front of whom he could show off.
    
  "Open this, but only if you open mine too!"
    
  "And mine!" the others echoed in chorus.
    
  They're fighting for me to open their gifts, Jurgen thought. They worship me.
    
  "Now don't worry," he said, raising his hands in what he assumed was a gesture of impartiality. "We'll break with tradition, and I'll open your gifts first, then those from the other guests after the toasts."
    
  "Great idea, Jurgen!"
    
  "Well then, what could it be, Kron?" he continued, opening a small box and holding its contents up to eye level.
    
  Jurgen held a gold chain in his fingers, bearing a strange cross, its curved arms forming a nearly square pattern. He stared at it, mesmerized.
    
  "It's a swastika. An anti-Semitic symbol. My dad says they're in fashion."
    
  "You're mistaken, my friend," Jurgen said, placing it around his neck. "Now they are. I hope we see many of these."
    
  "Definitely!"
    
  "Here, Jurgen, open mine. Although it's best not to show it off in public..."
    
  Jurgen unwrapped the tobacco-sized package and found himself staring at a small leather box. He opened it with a flourish. His chorus of admirers laughed nervously when they saw what was inside: a cylindrical cap of vulcanized rubber.
    
  "Hey, hey... that looks big!"
    
  "I"ve never seen anything like this before!"
    
  "A gift of a most personal nature, eh, Jurgen?"
    
  "Is this some kind of proposal?"
    
  For a moment, Jurgen felt like he was losing control of them, like they were suddenly laughing at him. This isn't fair. This isn't fair at all, and I won't let it happen. He felt anger rising inside him and turned to the one who had made the last remark. He placed the sole of his right foot on top of the other man's left foot and leaned his full weight onto it. His victim paled, but gritted his teeth.
    
  "I"m sure you"d like to apologize for that unfortunate joke?"
    
  "Of course, Jurgen... I"m sorry... I wouldn"t dream of questioning your masculinity."
    
  "That's what I thought," Jurgen said, slowly lifting his leg. The group of boys fell silent, a silence accentuated by the noise of the party. "Well, I don't want you to think I'm humorless. In fact, this... thing will be extremely useful to me," he said with a wink. "With her, for example."
    
  He pointed to a tall, dark-haired girl with dreamy eyes holding a glass of punch in the center of the crowd.
    
  "Nice tits," whispered one of his assistants.
    
  "Do any of you want to bet that I can premiere this thing and be back in time for toasts?"
    
  "I"ll bet fifty marks on Jurgen," the one whose foot had been trampled felt obliged to say.
    
  "I"ll take the bet," said another behind him.
    
  "Well, gentlemen, just wait here and watch; perhaps you"ll learn something."
    
  Jürgen swallowed quietly, hoping no one would notice. He hated talking to girls, as they always made him feel awkward and inadequate. Although he was handsome, his only contact with the opposite sex had been in a brothel in Schwabing, where he'd experienced more shame than excitement. His father had taken him there a few months earlier, dressed in a discreet black coat and hat. While he went about his business, his father waited downstairs, sipping cognac. When it was over, he patted his son on the back and told him he was now a man. That was the beginning and end of Jürgen von Schröder's education on women and love.
    
  I'll show them how a real man behaves, the boy thought, feeling the gaze of his comrades on the back of his head.
    
  "Hello, Fraulein. Are you enjoying yourself?"
    
  She turned her head but did not smile.
    
  "Not exactly. Do we know each other?"
    
  "I can understand why you don"t like it. My name"s Jurgen von Schroeder."
    
    "Alice Tannenbaum," she said, holding out her hand without much enthusiasm.
    
  "Want to dance, Alice?"
    
  "No".
    
  The girl's sharp answer shocked Jurgen.
    
  "You know I'm throwing this party? It's my birthday today."
    
  "Congratulations," she said sarcastically. "No doubt this room is full of girls desperate for you to ask them to dance. I wouldn't want to take up too much of your time."
    
  "But you must dance with me at least once."
    
  "Oh, really? And why is that?"
    
  "That's what good manners dictate. When a gentleman asks a lady..."
    
  "You know what irritates me most about arrogant people, Jurgen? The number of things you take for granted. Well, you should know this: the world is not as you see it. By the way, your friends are giggling and can't seem to take their eyes off you."
    
  Jurgen looked around. He couldn't fail, he couldn't allow this rude girl to humiliate him.
    
  She's playing hard to get because she really likes me. She must be one of those girls who thinks the best way to turn a man on is to push him away until he goes crazy. Well, I know how to handle her, he thought.
    
  Jurgen stepped forward, grabbing the girl by the waist and pulling her towards him.
    
  "What the hell do you think you"re doing?" she gasped.
    
  "I"m teaching you to dance."
    
  "If you don't let me go right now, I'll scream."
    
  "You wouldn"t want to make a scene now, would you, Alice?"
    
  The young woman tried to slip her arms between her body and Jurgen's, but she was no match for his strength. The baron's son pressed her even closer, feeling her breasts through her dress. He began to move to the rhythm of the music, a smile on his lips, knowing Alice wouldn't scream. Making a fuss at a party like this would only damage her reputation and that of her family. He saw the young woman's eyes fill with cold hatred, and suddenly toying with her seemed very amusing, far more satisfying than if she had simply agreed to dance with him.
    
  "Would you like something to drink, miss?"
    
  Jurgen stopped abruptly. Paul was next to him, holding a tray with several glasses of champagne, his lips pressed firmly into a tight line.
    
  "Hi, this is my cousin, the waiter. Get lost, you idiot!" Jurgen barked.
    
  "First I would like to know if the young lady would like a drink," Paul said, handing him the tray.
    
  "Yes," Alice said quickly, "this champagne looks amazing."
    
  Jurgen half-closed his eyes, trying to figure out what to do. If he released her right hand to let her take the glass from the tray, she would be able to pull away completely. He eased the pressure on her back slightly, allowing her left hand to go free, but he squeezed her right hand even tighter. Her fingertips turned purple.
    
  "Then come on, Alice, have a glass. They say it brings happiness," he added, feigning good humor.
    
  Alice leaned toward the tray, trying to free herself, but it was no use. She had no choice but to take the champagne with her left hand.
    
  "Thank you," she said weakly.
    
  "Perhaps the young lady would like a napkin," Paul said, raising his other hand, which held a saucer with small squares of cloth. He shifted so that he was now on the other side of the couple.
    
  "That would be wonderful," Alice said, looking intently at the Baron"s son.
    
  For a few seconds, no one moved. Jurgen assessed the situation. Holding the glass in her left hand, she could only take the napkin with her right. Finally, seething with rage, he was forced to abandon the battle. He released Alice's hand, and she stepped back, taking the napkin.
    
  "I think I"ll go out for some fresh air," she said with remarkable composure.
    
  Jurgen, as if rejecting her, turned his back to return to his friends. As he passed Paul, he squeezed his shoulder and whispered,
    
  "You will pay for this."
    
  Somehow, Paul managed to keep the champagne flutes balanced on the tray; they clinked but didn't topple. His inner balance was another matter entirely, and at that very moment, he felt like a cat trapped in a barrel of nails.
    
  How could I be so stupid?
    
  There was only one rule in life: stay as far away from Jurgen as possible. It wasn't easy, since they both lived under the same roof; but at least it was simple. He couldn't do much if his cousin decided to make his life miserable, but he certainly could avoid crossing him, much less publicly humiliating him. That would cost him dearly.
    
  "Thank you".
    
  Paul looked up and for a few moments forgot everything: his fear of Jurgen, the heavy tray, the pain in the soles of his feet from working twelve hours straight preparing for the party. It all disappeared because she was smiling at him.
    
  Alice wasn't the kind of woman who takes a man's breath away at first sight. But if you'd given her a second glance, it would probably have been a long one. The sound of her voice was alluring. And if she'd smiled at you the way she smiled at Paul at that moment...
    
  There was no way Paul couldn't fall in love with her.
    
  "Ah... it was nothing."
    
  For the rest of his life, Paul would curse that moment, that conversation, that smile that had caused him so much trouble. But he didn't notice then, and neither did she. She was genuinely grateful to the small, thin boy with the intelligent blue eyes. Then, of course, Alice became Alice again.
    
  "Don"t think I couldn"t get rid of him on my own."
    
  "Of course," Paul said, still unsteady.
    
  Alice blinked; she wasn't used to such an easy victory, so she changed the subject.
    
  "We can"t talk here. Wait a minute, then meet me in the locker room."
    
  "With great pleasure, Fraulein."
    
  Paul walked around the room, trying to empty his tray as quickly as possible so he could have an excuse to disappear. He'd been eavesdropping on conversations early in the party and was surprised to discover how little attention people paid him. He truly was invisible, which is why he found it odd when the last guest to take a glass smiled and said, "Well done, son."
    
  "I'm sorry?"
    
  He was an elderly man with gray hair, a goatee, and protruding ears. He gave Paul a strange, meaningful look.
    
  "Never has a gentleman rescued a lady with such gallantry and discretion. This is Chrétien de Troyes. My apologies. My name is Sebastian Keller, bookseller."
    
  "Nice to meet you."
    
  The man pointed his thumb towards the door.
    
  "You better hurry. She"ll be waiting."
    
  Surprised, Paul tucked the tray under his arm and left the room. The cloakroom was set up at the entrance and consisted of a high table and two enormous rolling shelves, on which hung hundreds of coats belonging to the guests. The girl had collected hers from one of the servants the Baroness had hired for the party and was waiting for him at the door. She didn't offer her hand when introducing herself.
    
  "Alys Tannenbaum."
    
  "Paul Reiner."
    
  "Is he really your cousin?"
    
  "Unfortunately, that"s how it is."
    
  "You just don"t look like..."
    
  "The Baron's nephew?" Paul asked, pointing to his apron. "It's the latest Parisian fashion."
    
  "I mean, you don"t look like him."
    
  "It"s because I"m not like him."
    
  "I'm glad to hear that. I just wanted to thank you again. Take care, Paul Rainer."
    
  "Certainly".
    
  She placed her hand on the door, but before opening it, she quickly turned and kissed Paul on the cheek. Then she ran down the steps and disappeared. For a few moments, he scanned the street anxiously, as if she might return, retrace her steps. Then, finally, he closed the door, leaned his forehead against the frame, and sighed.
    
  His heart and stomach felt heavy and strange. He couldn't put a name to the feeling, so for lack of anything better, he decided-correctly-that it was love, and he felt happy.
    
  "So, the knight in shining armor got his reward, didn"t he, boys?"
    
  Hearing the voice he knew so well, Paul turned as quickly as he could.
    
  The feeling instantly changed from happiness to fear.
    
    
  5
    
    
  There they were, there were seven of them.
    
  They stood in a wide semicircle at the entrance, blocking the way into the main hall. Jurgen was in the center of the group, slightly ahead, as if he couldn't wait to get to Paul.
    
  "You've gone too far this time, cousin. I don't like people who don't know their place in life."
    
  Paul didn't answer, knowing that nothing he said would change anything. If there was one thing Jurgen couldn't bear, it was humiliation. That it had to happen publicly, in front of all his friends-and at the hands of his poor, mute cousin, the servant, the black sheep of the family-was incomprehensible. Jurgen was determined to hurt Paul as much as he could. The more-and the more noticeable-the better.
    
  "After this, you'll never want to play knight again, you piece of shit."
    
  Paul looked around in despair. The woman in charge of the cloakroom had disappeared, no doubt on the birthday boy's orders. Jurgen's friends had spread out across the center of the hallway, blocking any escape route, and were slowly approaching him. If he turned and tried to open the door to the street, they would grab him from behind and wrestle him to the ground.
    
  "You"re shaking," Jurgen chanted.
    
  Paul ruled out the corridor leading to the servants' quarters, which was practically a dead end and the only route they left open for him. Although he'd never hunted in his life, Paul had heard the story too often about how his uncle had packed up all the copies hanging on his study wall. Jurgen wanted to force him to head that way, because down there, no one would be able to hear his screams.
    
  There was only one option.
    
  Without a second's hesitation, he ran straight towards them.
    
  Jurgen was so surprised to see Paul rushing toward them that he simply turned his head as he passed. Kron, two meters behind, had a little more time to react. He planted both feet firmly on the floor and prepared to punch the boy running toward him, but before Kron could hit him in the face, Paul threw himself to the floor. He landed on his left hip, leaving a bruise for two weeks, but his momentum allowed him to glide across the polished marble tiles like hot butter on a mirror, finally coming to a stop at the foot of the stairs.
    
  "What are you waiting for, idiots? Take him!" Jurgen shouted irritably.
    
  Without stopping to look back, Paul rose to his feet and raced up the stairs. He was out of ideas, and only survival instinct kept his legs moving. His legs, which had been bothering him all day, were starting to ache terribly. Halfway up the stairs to the second floor, he nearly tripped and tumbled, but managed to regain his balance just in time when the hands of one of Jurgen's friends caught his heels. Grasping the bronze railing, he continued to climb higher and higher, until on the final flight between the third and fourth floors, he suddenly slipped on one of the steps and fell, arms outstretched in front of him, nearly knocking his teeth out on the edge of the stairs.
    
  The first of his pursuers caught up with him, but he, in turn, stumbled at the crucial moment and barely managed to grab the edge of Paul's apron.
    
  "I got him! Hurry!" his captor said, grabbing the railing with his other hand.
    
  Paul tried to get to his feet, but another boy tugged at his apron, causing him to slip down the step and hit his head. He blindly kicked the boy, but he couldn't free himself. Paul struggled with the knot in his apron for what seemed like an eternity, hearing the others approaching.
    
  Damn it, why did I have to do it so forced? he thought as he struggled.
    
  Suddenly, his fingers found the exact right spot to tug, and the apron came undone. Paul ran and reached the fourth and top floor of the house. With nowhere else to go, he ran through the first door he came to and closed it, slamming the bolt.
    
  "Where did he go?" Jurgen shouted as he reached the landing. The boy who had grabbed Paul by the apron was now clutching his injured knee. He pointed to the left of the hallway.
    
  "Forward!" Jurgen said to the others, who had stopped a few steps below.
    
  They didn't move.
    
  "What the hell are you..."
    
  He stopped abruptly. His mother was watching him from the floor below.
    
  "I'm disappointed in you, Jurgen," she said icily. "We gathered the finest of Munich to celebrate your birthday, and then you disappear in the middle of the party to goof off on the stairs with your friends."
    
  "But..."
    
  "That"s enough. I want you all to come downstairs immediately and join the guests. We"ll talk later."
    
  "Yes, Mom," Jurgen said, humiliated in front of his friends for the second time that day. Gritting his teeth, he headed down the stairs.
    
  That's not the only thing that will happen later. You'll pay for that too, Paul.
    
    
  6
    
    
  "It's nice to see you again."
    
  Paul was focused on calming himself and catching his breath. It took him a few moments to figure out where the voice was coming from. He was sitting on the floor, leaning his back against the door, afraid that Jurgen might force his way in at any moment. But when he heard those words, Paul jumped to his feet.
    
  "Edward!"
    
  Without realizing it, he'd entered his older cousin's room, a place he hadn't visited in months. It all looked the same as before Edward had left: an organized, calm space, but one that reflected its owner's personality. Posters hung on the wall, along with Edward's collection of rocks, and, above all, books-books everywhere. Paul had already read most of them. Spy novels, westerns, fantasy novels, books on philosophy and history... They filled the bookcases, the desk, and even the floor next to the bed. Edward had to place the volume he was reading on the mattress so he could turn the pages with his only hand. A few pillows were piled beneath his body so he could sit up, and a sad smile played across his pale face.
    
  "Don't feel sorry for me, Paul. I couldn't bear it."
    
  Paul looked into his eyes and realized that Edward had been watching his reaction closely, and he found it strange that Paul wasn't surprised to see him like this.
    
  "I saw you before, Edward. The day you returned."
    
  "So why have you never visited me? I've hardly seen anyone except your mother since the day I returned. Your mother and my friends May, Salgari, Verne, and Dumas," he said, holding up the book he was reading so Paul could see the title. It was The Count of Monte Cristo.
    
  "They forbade me to come."
    
  Paul bowed his head in shame. Of course, Brunhilda and his mother had forbidden him to see Edward, but he could at least try. In truth, he was afraid to see Edward in such a state again after the terrible events of the day he returned from the war. Edward looked at him bitterly, no doubt understanding what Paul was thinking.
    
  "I know how embarrassing my mother is. Haven't you noticed?" he said, gesturing to the tray of cakes from the party, which remained untouched. "I shouldn't have let my stumps ruin Jurgen's birthday, so I wasn't invited. By the way, how's the party going?"
    
  "There's a group of people drinking, talking about politics and criticizing the military for losing a war we were winning."
    
  Edward snorted.
    
  "It's easy to criticize from where they stand. What else do they say?"
    
  "Everyone's talking about the Versailles negotiations. They're happy that we're rejecting the terms."
    
  "Damned fools," Eduard said bitterly. "Since no one fired a single shot on German soil, they can't believe we lost the war. Still, I suppose it's always the same. Are you going to tell me who you were running from?"
    
  "Birthday boy".
    
  "Your mother told me that you didn"t get along very well."
    
  Paul nodded.
    
  "You haven't touched the cakes."
    
  "I don"t need much food these days. There"s much less of me left. Take these; go on, you look hungry. And come closer, I want to get a better look at you. God, how you"ve grown."
    
  Paul sat on the edge of the bed and began to devour the food ravenously. He hadn't eaten anything since breakfast; he'd even skipped school to prepare for the party. He knew his mother would be looking for him, but he didn't care. Now that he'd overcome his fear, he couldn't pass up this chance to be with Edward, the cousin he missed so much.
    
  "Eduard, I want... I'm sorry I didn't come to see you. I could sneak in during the day when Aunt Brunhilda goes for a walk..."
    
  "It's okay, Paul. You're here, and that's what matters. You're the one who should forgive me for not writing. I promised I would."
    
  "What stopped you?"
    
  "I could tell you I was too busy shooting at the English, but I'd be lying. A wise man once said that war is seven parts boredom and one part terror. We had plenty of time in the trenches before we started killing each other."
    
  "And what?"
    
  "I couldn't have done it, just like that. Not even at the beginning of this absurd war. The only people who came back from this were a handful of cowards."
    
  "What are you talking about, Eduard? You're a hero! You volunteered for the front, one of the first!"
    
  Edward let out an inhuman laugh that made Paul's hair stand on end.
    
  "Hero... Do you know who decides for you whether you will volunteer? Your schoolteacher, when he talks to you about the glory of the Fatherland, the Empire, and the Kaiser. Your father, who tells you to be a man. Your friends-the same friends who not long ago argued with you in gym class about who was the tallest. They all throw the word "coward" in your face if you show the slightest doubt and blame you for the defeat. No, cousin, there are no volunteers in war, only the stupid and cruel. The last ones stay at home."
    
  Paul was stunned. Suddenly, his war fantasies, the maps he'd drawn in his notebooks, the newspaper reports he'd loved to read-all seemed ridiculous and childish. He considered telling his cousin about it, but he was afraid Edward would laugh at him and throw him out of the room. For at that moment, Paul could see the war, right in front of him. The war wasn't a continuous list of advances behind enemy lines or horrible stumps hidden under sheets. The war was in Edward's empty, devastated eyes.
    
  "You could have... resisted. Stayed home."
    
  "No, I couldn"t," he said, turning his face away. "I lied to you, Paul; at least, it was partly a lie. I went too, to escape them. So that I wouldn"t become like them."
    
  "For example, who?"
    
  "Do you know who did this to me? It was about five weeks before the end of the war, and we already knew we were lost. We knew that at any moment they would call us home. And we were more confident than ever. We didn't worry about the people falling near us because we knew it wouldn't be long before we were back. And then one day, during the retreat, a shell landed too close."
    
  Edward's voice was quiet - so quiet that Paul had to lean in to hear what he was saying.
    
  "I"ve asked myself a thousand times what would have happened if I"d run two meters to the right. Or if I"d stopped to tap my helmet twice, like we always did before leaving the trench." He tapped Paul"s forehead with his knuckles. "It made us feel invincible. I didn"t do that that day, you know?"
    
  "I wish you never left."
    
  "No, cousin, believe me. I left because I didn't want to be Schroeder, and if I came back, it's only to make sure I was right to leave."
    
  "I don"t understand, Eduard."
    
  "My dear Paul, you should understand this better than anyone. After what they did to you. What they did to your father."
    
  That last sentence cut into Paul's heart like a rusty hook.
    
  "What are you talking about, Edward?"
    
  His cousin looked at him silently, biting his lower lip. Finally, he shook his head and closed his eyes.
    
  "Forget what I said. Sorry."
    
  "I can't forget it! I never knew him, no one ever talks to me about him, though they whisper behind my back. All I know is what my mother told me: that he sank with his ship on the way back from Africa. So, please tell me, what did they do to my father?"
    
  Another silence followed, this time much longer. So long that Paul wondered if Edward had fallen asleep. Suddenly, his eyes opened again.
    
  "I'll burn in hell for this, but I have no choice. First, I want you to do me a favor."
    
  "Whatever you say."
    
  "Go to my father's study and open the second drawer on the right. If it's locked, the key was usually kept in the middle drawer. You'll find a black leather bag; it's rectangular, with the flap folded back. Bring it to me."
    
  Paul did as he was told. He tiptoed down to the office, afraid he might run into someone on the way, but the party was still in full swing. The drawer was locked, and it took him a few moments to find the key. It wasn't where Edward had said, but he eventually found it in a small wooden box. The drawer was filled with papers. Paul found a piece of black felt on the back, with a strange symbol etched in gold. A square and compass, with the letter G inside. Beneath it lay a leather bag.
    
  The boy hid it under his shirt and returned to Eduard's room. He felt the weight of the bag on his stomach and trembled, just imagining what would happen if someone found him with this object that didn't belong to him hidden under his clothes. He felt an enormous sense of relief when he entered the room.
    
  "Do you have it?"
    
  Paul pulled out a leather bag and headed for the bed, but on the way he tripped over one of the stacks of books scattered around the room. The books scattered, and the bag fell to the floor.
    
  "No!" Edward and Paul exclaimed simultaneously.
    
  The bag fell between copies of May's Blood Vengeance and Hoffman's The Devil's Elixirs, revealing its contents: a mother-of-pearl pen.
    
  It was a pistol.
    
  "What do you need a gun for, cousin?" Paul asked in a trembling voice.
    
  "You know why I want this." He held up the stump of his arm in case Paul had any doubts.
    
  "Well, I won"t give it to you."
    
  "Listen carefully, Paul. Sooner or later I'll get through this, because the only thing I want to do in this world is leave it. You can turn your back on me tonight, put her back where you took her from, and put me through the terrible humiliation of having to drag myself on this mangled arm in the dead of night to my father's office. But then you'll never know what I have to tell you."
    
  "No!"
    
  "Or you can leave this on the bed, listen to what I have to say, and then give me the opportunity to choose with dignity how I leave. It's your choice, Paul, but whatever happens, I'll get what I want. What I need."
    
  Paul sat down on the floor, or rather collapsed, clutching his leather bag. For a long moment, the only sound in the room was the metallic ticking of Eduard's alarm clock. Eduard closed his eyes until he felt movement on his bed.
    
  His cousin dropped the leather bag within his reach.
    
  "God, forgive me," Paul said. He stood by Edward's bed, crying, but not daring to look at him directly.
    
  "Oh, he doesn't care what we do," Edward said, stroking his fingers over the soft skin. "Thank you, cousin."
    
  "Tell me, Edward. Tell me what you know."
    
  The wounded man cleared his throat before beginning. He spoke slowly, as if each word had to be drawn from his lungs rather than spoken.
    
  "It happened in 1905, they told you, and up to this point, what you know is not so far from the truth. I distinctly remember that Uncle Hans was on a mission to Southwest Africa, for I liked the sound of the word, and I repeated it over and over, trying to find the right place on the map. One night, when I was ten years old, I heard shouting in the library and went down to see what was going on. I was very surprised that your father came to see us at such a late hour. He was discussing it with my father, the two of them sitting at a round table. There were two other people in the room. I could see one of them, a short man with delicate features like a girl"s, who did not say anything. I couldn"t see the other one because of the door, but I could hear him. I was about to go in and greet your father-he always brought me gifts from his travels-but just before I went in, my mother grabbed me by the ear and dragged me to my room. 'Did they see you?' she asked. And I said no, over and over again. 'Well, you mustn't say a word about it, ever, do you hear me?' And I
    
  ... I swore I would never tell..."
    
  Edward's voice trailed off. Paul grabbed his hand. He wanted him to continue the story, no matter the cost, even though he knew the pain it was causing his cousin.
    
  "You and your mother came to live with us two weeks later. You weren"t much more than a child, and I was pleased because it meant I had my own platoon of brave soldiers to play with. I didn"t even think about the obvious lie my parents told me: that Uncle Hans"s frigate had sunk. People said other things, spreading rumors that your father was a deserter who had gambled everything away and disappeared in Africa. Those rumors were just as untrue, but I didn"t think about them either and eventually forgot. Just as I forgot what I heard shortly after my mother left my bedroom. Or rather, I pretended I"d made a mistake, despite the fact that no mistake was possible, given the excellent acoustics in that house. Watching you grow up was easy, watching your happy smile when we played hide-and-seek, and I lied to myself. Then you started growing up-enough adults to understand. Soon you were the same age as I was that night. And I went to war."
    
  "So tell me what you heard," Paul whispered.
    
  "That night, cousin, I heard a shot."
    
    
  7
    
    
  Paul's understanding of himself and his place in the world had been teetering on the edge for some time, like a porcelain vase at the top of a staircase. The last sentence was the final blow, and the imaginary vase fell, shattering into pieces. Paul heard the crack as it broke, and Edward saw it on his face.
    
  "I"m sorry, Paul. God, help me. You better leave now."
    
  Paul stood and leaned over the bed. His cousin's skin was cool, and when Paul kissed his forehead, it was like kissing a mirror. He walked to the door, not quite able to control his legs, only vaguely aware of leaving the bedroom door open and falling to the floor outside.
    
  When the shot rang out, he barely heard it.
    
  But, as Eduard had said, the acoustics of the mansion were superb. The first guests to leave the party, busy with farewells and empty promises as they gathered their coats, heard a muffled but unmistakable pop. They had heard too much over the previous weeks not to recognize the sound. All conversation ceased by the time the second and third shots echoed through the stairwell.
    
  In her role as the perfect hostess, Brunhilde said goodbye to the doctor and his wife, whom she couldn't stand. She recognized the sound, but automatically activated her defense mechanism.
    
  "The boys must be playing with firecrackers."
    
  Incredulous faces appeared around her like mushrooms after rain. At first, there were only a dozen people there, but soon even more appeared in the hallway. It wouldn't be long before all the guests realized something had happened in her house.
    
  In my house!
    
  Within two hours, all of Munich would have been talking about it if she hadn't done something about it.
    
  "Stay here. I"m sure this is nonsense."
    
  Brunhilde quickened her pace when she smelled gunpowder halfway up the stairs. Some of the bolder guests looked up, perhaps hoping she would confirm their mistake, but none of them set foot on the stairs: the social taboo against entering the bedroom during a party was too strong. However, the murmuring grew louder, and the Baroness hoped Otto wouldn't be foolish enough to follow her, as someone would inevitably want to accompany him.
    
  When she got to the top and saw Paul sobbing in the hallway, she knew what had happened without even poking her head through Edward's door.
    
  But she did it anyway.
    
  A spasm of bile rose in her throat. She was overcome with horror and another inappropriate feeling, which only later, with self-loathing, she recognized as relief. Or at least the disappearance of the oppressive feeling she had carried in her chest since her son returned crippled from the war.
    
  "What have you done?" she exclaimed, looking at Paul. "I"m asking you: what have you done?"
    
  The boy did not raise his head from his hands.
    
  "What have you done to my father, witch?"
    
  Brunhilde took a step back. For the second time that night, someone recoiled at the mention of Hans Reiner, but ironically, the person doing so now was the same one who had previously used his name as a threat.
    
  How much do you know, child? How much did he tell you before...?
    
  She wanted to scream, but she couldn"t: she didn"t dare.
    
  Instead, she clenched her fists so tightly that her nails dug into her palms, trying to calm herself and decide what to do, just as she had done that night fourteen years ago. And when she managed to regain a modicum of composure, she went back downstairs. On the second floor, she poked her head over the railing and smiled down into the lobby. She didn't dare go any further, because she didn't think she could maintain her composure for long in front of this sea of tense faces.
    
  "You'll have to excuse us. My son's friends were playing with firecrackers, just as I thought. If you don't mind, I'll clean up the chaos they caused," she pointed at Paul's mother, "Ilse, my dear."
    
  Their faces softened upon hearing this, and the guests relaxed when they saw the housekeeper follow her hostess up the stairs as if nothing had happened. They had already had a lot of gossip about the party, and they could hardly wait to get home and annoy their families.
    
  "Don"t even think about screaming," was all Brunhilde said.
    
  Ilse expected some childish prank, but when she saw Paul in the hallway, she was startled. Then, when she cracked open Eduard's door, she had to bite her fist to keep from screaming. Her reaction wasn't all that different from the Baroness's, except that Ilse was tearful, and also terrified.
    
  "Poor boy," she said, wringing her hands.
    
  Brunhilde watched her sister, her own hands on her hips.
    
  "Your son was the one who gave Edward the gun."
    
  "Oh, Holy God, tell me this isn't true, Paul."
    
  It sounded like a plea, but there was no hope in her words. Her son didn't respond. Brunhilda approached him, irritated, waving her index finger.
    
  "I'm going to call the magistrate. You're going to rot in jail for giving a gun to a disabled man."
    
  "What have you done to my father, witch?" Paul repeated, slowly rising to face his aunt. This time, she didn't retreat, though she was frightened.
    
  "Hans died in the colonies," she replied without much conviction.
    
  "That's not true. My father was in this house before he disappeared. Your own son told me."
    
  "Eduard was ill and confused; he was making up all sorts of stories about the wounds he sustained at the front. And despite the doctor forbidding him from visiting, you were here, driving him to the point of a nervous breakdown, and then went and gave him a pistol!"
    
  "You're lying!"
    
  "You killed him."
    
  "That's a lie," the boy said. Still, he felt a chill of doubt.
    
  "Paul, that"s enough!"
    
  "Get out of my house."
    
  "We're not going anywhere," Paul said.
    
  "It's up to you," Brunhilde said, turning to Ilse. "Judge Stromeyer is still downstairs. I'll go down in two minutes and tell him what happened. If you don't want your son to spend tonight in Stadelheim, you'll leave immediately."
    
  Ilse paled with horror at the mention of prison. Strohmayer was a good friend of the Baron, and it wouldn't take much to convince him to accuse Paul of murder. She grabbed her son's hand.
    
  "Paul, let"s go!"
    
  "No, not yet..."
    
  She slapped him so hard her fingers hurt. Paul's lip began to bleed, but he stood there, watching his mother, refusing to move.
    
  Then, finally, he followed her.
    
  Ilse didn't allow her son to pack his suitcase; they didn't even enter his room. They descended the service stairs and left the mansion through the back door, sneaking through the alleys to avoid being seen.
    
  Like criminals.
    
    
  8
    
    
  "And may I ask where the hell you were?"
    
  The baron appeared, furious and tired, the hem of his frock coat rumpled, his mustache disheveled, his monocle dangling from the bridge of his nose. An hour had passed since Ilse and Paul had left, and the party had only just ended.
    
  Only when the very last guest had left did the baron go in search of his wife. He found her sitting on a chair she had carried out into the fourth-floor hallway. The door to Eduard's room was closed. Even with her formidable will, Brunhilde couldn't bring herself to return to the party. When her husband appeared, she explained to him what was inside the room, and Otto felt his share of pain and remorse.
    
  "You'll call the judge in the morning," Brunhilde said, her voice emotionless. "We'll say we found him in this state when we came to feed him breakfast. That way, we can keep the scandal to a minimum. It might not even come to light."
    
  Otto nodded. He removed his hand from the doorknob. He didn't dare enter, and never would. Even after the traces of the tragedy had been erased from the walls and floor.
    
  "The judge owes me one. I think he can handle this. But I wonder how Eduard got his hands on the gun. He couldn't have gotten it himself."
    
  When Brunhilde told him about Paul's role and that she had thrown the Rainers out of the house, the Baron was furious.
    
  "Do you understand what you"ve done?"
    
  "They were a threat, Otto."
    
  "Have you by any chance forgotten what"s at stake here?" Why have they been in this house all these years?
    
  "To humiliate me and ease her conscience," said Brunhilda with a bitterness she had suppressed for years.
    
  Otto didn't bother to answer because he knew what she said was true.
    
  "Edward spoke with your nephew."
    
  "Oh, my God. Do you have any idea what he might have told him?"
    
  "It doesn't matter. After leaving tonight, they're suspects, even if we don't hand them over tomorrow. They won't dare speak out, and they have no evidence. Unless the boy finds something."
    
  "Do you think I'm worried about them finding out the truth?" For that, they'd have to find Clovis Nagel. And Nagel hasn't been in Germany for a long time. But that doesn't solve our problem. Your sister is the only one who knows where Hans Reiner's letter is."
    
  "Then keep an eye on them. From afar."
    
  Otto thought for a few moments.
    
  "I have just the man for this job."
    
  Someone else was present during this conversation, though hidden in a corner of the hallway. He listened, uncomprehending. Much later, when Baron von Schroeder had retired to their bedroom, he entered Eduard's room.
    
  When he saw what was inside, he fell to his knees. By the time he was resurrected, what remained of the innocence his mother had failed to burn-those parts of his soul she had failed to sow with hatred and envy toward his cousin over the years-were dead, reduced to ashes.
    
  I'll kill Paul Reiner for this.
    
  Now I am the heir. But I will be a baron.
    
  He could not decide which of the two competing thoughts excited him more.
    
    
  9
    
    
  Paul Rainer shivered in the light May rain. His mother had stopped dragging him and was now walking beside him through Schwabing, the bohemian district in central Munich, where thieves and poets rubbed shoulders with artists and prostitutes in taverns until the early hours. Only a few taverns were open now, however, and they didn't go into any of them, as they were broke.
    
  "Let"s find shelter in this doorway," Paul said.
    
  "The night watchman will throw us out; this has happened three times already."
    
  "You can't keep going like this, Mom. You'll get pneumonia."
    
  They squeezed through the narrow doorway of a building that had seen better days. At least the overhang protected them from the rain that drenched the deserted sidewalks and uneven flagstones. The dim light from the streetlamps cast a strange reflection on the wet surfaces; it was unlike anything Paul had ever seen.
    
  He became frightened and pressed himself even closer to his mother.
    
  "You still wear your father"s wristwatch, don"t you?"
    
  "Yes," Paul said anxiously.
    
  She'd asked him this question three times in the last hour. His mother was exhausted and drained, as if slapping her son and dragging him through the alleys far from the Schroeder mansion had drained a reserve of energy she'd never known she possessed, now lost forever. Her eyes were sunken, and her hands were shaking.
    
  "Tomorrow we"ll lay this down and everything will be fine."
    
  There was nothing special about the wristwatch; it wasn't even made of gold. Paul wondered if it would be worth more than a night's stay at a boarding house and a hot dinner, if they were lucky.
    
  "That"s an excellent plan," he forced himself to say.
    
  "We need to stop somewhere, and then I"ll ask to go back to my old job at the gunpowder factory."
    
  "But, Mom... the gunpowder factory doesn"t exist anymore. They tore it down when the war ended."
    
  And you were the one who told me that, thought Paul, now extremely worried.
    
  "The sun will rise soon," said his mother.
    
  Paul didn't answer. He craned his neck, listening to the rhythmic tapping of the night watchman's boots. Paul wished he'd stay away long enough to let him close his eyes for a moment.
    
  I'm so tired... And I don't understand anything that happened tonight. She's acting so strange... Maybe now she'll tell me the truth.
    
  "Mom, what do you know about what happened to Dad?"
    
  For a few moments, Ilse seemed to awaken from her lethargy. A spark of light burned deep in her eyes, like the last embers of a fire. She took Paul by the chin and gently stroked his face.
    
  "Paul, please. Forget it; forget everything you heard tonight. Your father was a good man who died tragically in a shipwreck. Promise me you"ll cling to that-that you won"t search for a truth that doesn"t exist-because I couldn"t lose you. You"re all I have left. My boy, Paul."
    
  The first glimmers of dawn cast long shadows across the streets of Munich, taking the rain with them.
    
  "Promise me," she insisted, her voice fading.
    
  Paul hesitated before answering.
    
  "I promise."
    
    
  10
    
    
  "Ooooooo!"
    
  The coal merchant's cart screeched to a halt on the Rhinestrasse. Two horses shifted restlessly, their eyes covered by blinders, their hindquarters blackened with sweat and soot. The coal merchant jumped to the ground and absently ran his hand along the side of the cart, where his name, Klaus Graf, was written, though only the first two letters were still legible.
    
  "Take that away, Halbert! I want my customers to know who supplies them with raw materials," he said, almost amiably.
    
  The man in the driver's seat removed his hat, pulled out a rag that still held a distant memory of its original color, and, whistling, began to work on the wood. It was his only way to express himself, as he was mute. The melody was gentle and swift; he, too, seemed happy.
    
  It was the perfect moment.
    
  Paul had been following them all morning, ever since they left the stables the Count kept in Lehel. He'd also observed them the day before and realized the best time to ask for work was just before one o'clock, after the coalman's midday nap. Both he and the mute had polished off large sandwiches and a couple of liters of beer. The irritable drowsiness of early morning, when dew had collected on the cart while they waited for the coal yard to open, was behind them. Gone, too, was the irritable weariness of the late afternoon, when they'd quietly finished their last beer, feeling the dust clogging their throats.
    
  If I can't do this, God help us, Paul thought despairingly.***
    
  Paul and his mother spent two days trying to find work, during which time they ate nothing at all. By pawning their watches, they earned enough money to spend two nights in a boarding house and have a breakfast of bread and beer. His mother persistently searched for work, but they soon realized that in those days, work was a pipe dream. Women were fired from the positions they held during the war when the men returned from the front. Naturally, not because their employers wanted it.
    
  "Damn this government and its directives," the baker told them when they asked him for the impossible. "They forced us to hire war veterans when women do the job just as well and charge much less."
    
  "Were women really as good at the job as men?" Paul asked him cheekily. He was in a bad mood. His stomach was growling, and the smell of bread baking in the ovens made it worse.
    
  "Sometimes better. I had one woman who knew how to make money better than anyone else."
    
  "So why did you pay them less?"
    
  "Well, that"s obvious," the baker said with a shrug. "They"re women."
    
  If there was any logic to this, Paul couldn't see it, though his mother and the staff in the workshop nodded in agreement.
    
  "You'll understand when you're older," one of them said as Paul and his mother left. Then they all burst into laughter.
    
  Paul wasn't any luckier. The first thing a potential employer always asked him before finding out if he had any skills was whether he was a war veteran. He'd experienced many disappointments in the past few hours, so he decided to approach the problem as rationally as he could. Trusting in luck, he decided to follow the coal miner, study him, and approach him as best he could. He and his mother managed to stay at the boarding house for a third night after promising to pay the next day, and because the landlady took pity on them. She even gave them a bowl of thick soup, with chunks of potato floating in it, and a piece of black bread.
    
  So there was Paul, crossing the Rhinestrasse. A noisy and happy place, filled with peddlers, newspaper vendors, and knife sharpeners selling their matchbooks, the latest news, or the benefits of well-sharpened knives. The smell of bakeries mingled with horse manure, which was far more common in Schwabing than cars.
    
  Paul took advantage of the moment when the coalman's assistant left to call the doorman of the building they were about to supply, forcing him to open the basement door. Meanwhile, the coalman prepared the huge birch wood baskets in which they would transport their goods.
    
  Maybe if he was alone, he'd be friendlier. People reacted differently to strangers in the presence of their younger siblings, Paul thought as he approached.
    
  "Good afternoon, sir."
    
  "What the hell do you want, boy?"
    
  "I need a job."
    
  "Get lost. I don"t need anyone."
    
  "I am strong, sir, and I could help you unload that cart very quickly."
    
  The coal miner deigned to look at Paul for the first time, looking him up and down. He was dressed in his black trousers, white shirt, and sweater, still looking like a waiter. Compared to the large man's bulk, Paul felt weak.
    
  "How old are you, boy?"
    
  "Seventeen, sir," Paul lied.
    
  "Even my Aunt Bertha, who was terrible at guessing people's ages, poor thing, wouldn't have put you over fifteen. Besides, you're too skinny. Get lost."
    
  "I turn sixteen on May twenty-second," Paul said in an offended tone.
    
  "You are of no use to me anyway."
    
  "I can carry a basket of coal just fine, sir."
    
  He climbed onto the cart with great agility, picked up a shovel, and filled one of the baskets. Then, trying not to show his effort, he slung the straps over his shoulder. He could tell the fifty kilograms were crushing his shoulders and lower back, but he managed a smile.
    
  "See?" he said, using all his willpower to keep his legs from buckling.
    
  "Kid, there's more to it than just lifting a basket," said the coalman, pulling a pack of tobacco from his pocket and lighting a battered pipe. "My old Aunt Lotta could lift that basket with less fuss than you. You should be able to carry it up those steps, which are as wet and slippery as a dancer's crotch. The cellars we go down to are almost never lit, because the building management doesn't care if we break our heads. And maybe you could lift one basket, maybe two, but by the third..."
    
  Paul's knees and shoulders could no longer support the weight, and the boy fell face down onto a pile of coal.
    
  "You'll fall, like you just did. And if that had happened to you on that narrow staircase, your skull wouldn't have been the only one to get cracked."
    
  The guy stood up on stiff legs.
    
  "But..."
    
  "There's no 'buts' that'll make me change my mind, baby. Get off my cart."
    
  "I... could tell you how to make your business better."
    
  "Just what I need... And what could that mean?" asked the coal miner with a mocking laugh.
    
  "You lose a lot of time between finishing one delivery and starting the next because you have to go to the warehouse to pick up more coal. If you bought a second truck..."
    
  "This is your brilliant idea, isn't it? A good cart with steel axles, capable of supporting all the weight we're hauling, costs at least seven thousand marks, not counting the harness and horses. Do you have seven thousand marks in those tattered trousers? I'd guess not."
    
  "But you..."
    
  "I make enough to pay for coal and support my family. You think I haven't thought about buying another cart? I'm sorry, kid," he said, his tone softening as he noticed the sadness in Paul's eyes, "but I can't help you."
    
  Paul bowed his head, defeated. He'd have to find work elsewhere, and quickly, because the landlady's patience wouldn't last long. He was getting off the cart when a group of people approached.
    
  "Then what is it, Klaus? A new recruit?"
    
  Klaus's assistant was returning with the doorman. But the coal miner was approached by another man, older, short, and bald, wearing round glasses and carrying a leather briefcase.
    
  "No, Herr Fincken, he"s just a guy who came looking for work, but he"s on his way now."
    
  "Well, he has the mark of your craft on his face."
    
  "He seemed determined to prove himself, sir. What can I do for you?"
    
  "Listen, Klaus, I have another meeting to get to, and I was thinking about paying for the coal this month. Is that the whole lot?"
    
  "Yes, sir, the two tons you ordered, every ounce."
    
  "I trust you completely, Klaus."
    
  Paul turned around at these words. He had just realized where the coal miner's real capital lay.
    
  Trust. And he'd be damned if he couldn't turn it into money. If only they'd listen to me, he thought, returning to the group.
    
  "Well, if you don"t mind..." Klaus spoke.
    
  "Just a minute!"
    
  "May I ask what exactly you're doing here, boy? I already told you I don't need you."
    
  "I would be of use to you if you had another cart, sir."
    
  "Are you stupid? I don't have another cart! Excuse me, Herr Fincken, I can't get rid of this madman."
    
  The coal miner's assistant, who had been casting suspicious glances at Paul for some time, made a move toward him, but his boss motioned for him to stay put. He didn't want to make a scene in front of the customer.
    
  "If I could provide you with the funds to buy another cart," Paul said, walking away from the assistant, trying to maintain his dignity, "would you hire me?"
    
  Klaus scratched the back of his head.
    
  "Well, yes, I suppose I would," he admitted.
    
  "Okay. Would you be so kind as to tell me what margin you get for delivering coal?"
    
  "The same as everyone else. A respectable eight percent."
    
  Paul did some quick calculations.
    
  "Herr Fincken, would you agree to pay Herr Graf a thousand marks as a down payment in exchange for a four percent discount on coal for a year?"
    
  "That's an awful lot of money, man," Finken said.
    
  "But what are you trying to say? I wouldn't take money upfront from my clients."
    
  "The truth is, it's a very tempting offer, Klaus. It would mean great savings for the estate," the administrator said.
    
  "You see?" Paul was delighted. "All you have to do is offer the same to six other clients. They'll all accept, sir. I've noticed people trust you."
    
  "It"s true, Klaus."
    
  For a moment the coalman's chest swelled like a turkey's, but complaints soon followed.
    
  "But if we reduce the margin," said the coal miner, not yet seeing all this clearly, "how will I live?"
    
  "With the second cart, you'll work twice as fast. You'll get your money back in no time. And two carts with your name painted on them will drive through Munich."
    
  "Two carts with my name on them..."
    
  "Of course, it will be a little tough at first. After all, you'll have to pay another salary."
    
  The coal miner looked at the administrator, who smiled.
    
  "For God's sake, hire this guy, or I'll hire him myself. He's got a real business mind."
    
  Paul spent the rest of the day walking around the estate with Klaus, speaking with the estate administrators. Of the first ten, seven were accepted, and only four insisted on a written guarantee.
    
  "It seems you have received your cart, Herr Count."
    
  "Now we have a hell of a lot of work to do. And you'll need to find new clients."
    
  "I thought you..."
    
  "No way, kid. You get along with people, though a little shy, like my dear old Aunt Irmuska. I think you'll do well."
    
  The boy was silent for a few moments, reflecting on the day's successes, then turned again to the coal miner.
    
  "Before I agree, sir, I would like to ask you a question."
    
  "What the hell do you want?" Klaus asked impatiently.
    
  "Do you really have that many aunts?"
    
  The coal miner burst into a roar of laughter.
    
  "My mother had fourteen sisters, baby. Believe it or not."
    
    
  11
    
    
  With Paul in charge of collecting coal and finding new customers, business began to flourish. He drove a full cart from the shops on the banks of the Isar to the house, where Klaus and Halbert-the mute assistant's name-were finishing unloading. First, he dried the horses and gave them water from a bucket. Then he changed the crew and harnessed the animals to help in the wagon he had just brought.
    
  Then he helped his comrades get the empty cart moving as quickly as possible. It was difficult at first, but once he got used to it and his shoulders broadened, Paul was able to carry huge baskets everywhere. Once he finished delivering coal around the estate, he would start the horses and head back to the warehouses, singing joyfully while the others headed to another house.
    
  Meanwhile, Ilse found a job as a housekeeper at the boarding house where they lived, and in return the landlady gave them a small discount on the rent - which was just as well, since Paul's salary was barely enough for the two of them.
    
  "I"d like to do it more quietly, Herr Rainer," said the landlady, "but it doesn"t look like I really need much help."
    
  Paul usually nodded. He knew his mother wasn't much help. Other boarders whispered that Ilse would sometimes pause, lost in thought, halfway through sweeping the hallway or peeling potatoes, clutching a broom or knife and staring into space.
    
  Concerned, Paul spoke to his mother, who denied it. When he persisted, Ilse eventually admitted that it was partly true.
    
  "Perhaps I've been a little absent-minded lately. Too much going on in my head," she said, stroking his face.
    
  Eventually, this will all pass, Paul thought. We've been through a lot.
    
  However, he suspected there was something else, something his mother was hiding. He was still determined to learn the truth about his father's death, but he didn't know where to begin. Getting close to the Schroeders would be impossible, at least not while they could count on the judge's support. They could send Paul to prison at any moment, and that was a risk he couldn't take, especially not with his mother in the state she was in.
    
  That question tormented him at night. At least he could let his thoughts wander without worrying about waking his mother. They now slept in separate rooms, for the first time in his life. Paul moved to one on the second floor, at the back of the building. It was smaller than Ilse's, but at least he could enjoy some privacy.
    
  "No girls in the room, Herr Rainer," the landlady would say at least once a week. And Paul, who had the same imagination and needs as any healthy sixteen-year-old, found time to let his thoughts wander in that direction.
    
  In the following months, Germany reinvented itself, just as the Rainers had done. The new government signed the Treaty of Versailles in late June 1919, signaling Germany's acceptance of sole responsibility for the war and the payment of colossal sums of economic reparations. On the streets, the humiliation inflicted upon the country by the Allies sparked a murmur of peaceful indignation, but overall, people breathed a sigh of relief for a time. In mid-August, a new constitution was ratified.
    
  Paul began to feel his life returning to some sort of order. A precarious order, but an order nonetheless. Gradually, he began to forget the mystery surrounding his father's death, whether because of the difficulty of the task, the fear of facing it, or the growing responsibility of caring for Ilse.
    
  However, one day, in the middle of his morning nap - the very time of day he had gone to ask for a job - Klaus pushed aside his empty beer mug, crumpled up his sandwich wrapper, and brought the young man back down to earth.
    
  "You seem like a smart kid, Paul. Why don"t you study?"
    
  "Just because of... life, war, people," he said with a shrug.
    
  "You can't help life or war, but people... You can always strike back at people, Paul." The coalman blew a cloud of bluish smoke from his pipe. "Are you the type to strike back?"
    
  Suddenly, Paul felt frustrated and helpless. "What if you know someone hit you, but you don't know who it was or what they did?" he asked.
    
  "Well then, you leave no stone unturned until you find out."
    
    
  12
    
    
  Everything was calm in Munich.
    
  However, a quiet murmur could be heard in the luxurious building on the east bank of the Isar. Not loud enough to wake the occupants; merely a muffled sound emanating from a room overlooking the square.
    
  The room was old-fashioned, childish, belying its owner's age. She'd left it five years ago and hadn't yet had time to change the wallpaper; the bookcases were filled with dolls, and the bed had a pink canopy. But on a night like this, her vulnerable heart was grateful for the objects that had returned her to the safety of a long-lost world. Her nature cursed itself for having gone so far in its independence and determination.
    
  The muffled sound was crying, smothered by a pillow.
    
  A letter lay on the bed, only the first few paragraphs visible among the tangled sheets: Columbus, Ohio, April 7, 1920, Dear Alice, I hope you are well. You can't imagine how much we miss you, for dance season is only two weeks away! This year we girls will be able to go together, without our fathers, but with a chaperone. At least we will be able to attend more than one dance a month! However, the big news of the year is that my brother Prescott is engaged to an eastern girl, Dottie Walker. Everyone is talking about the fortune of her father, George Herbert Walker, and what a nice couple they make. Mother couldn't be happier about the wedding. If only you could be here, for it will be the first wedding in the family, and you are one of us.
    
  Tears slowly rolled down Alice's face. She clutched the doll with her right hand. She was suddenly ready to throw it across the room when she realized what she was doing and stopped herself.
    
  I am a woman. A woman.
    
  Slowly, she let go of the doll and began to think about Prescott, or at least what she remembered of him: They were together under the oak bed in the house in Columbus, and he was whispering something as he held her. But when she looked up, she discovered that the boy wasn't tanned and strong like Prescott, but fair and lean. Lost in her reverie, she couldn't recognize his face.
    
    
  13
    
    
  It happened so quickly that even fate could not prepare him for it.
    
  "Damn you, Paul, where the hell have you been?"
    
  Paul arrived at Prinzregentenplatz with a full cart. Klaus was in a foul mood, as he always did when they worked in the wealthy districts. The traffic was terrible. Cars and carts waged an endless war against beer vendors' vans, handcarts driven by dexterous delivery men, and even workers' bicycles. Police officers crossed the square every ten minutes, trying to bring order to the chaos, their faces impenetrable beneath their leather helmets. They had already warned the coal miners twice that they should hurry up and unload their cargo if they didn't want to face hefty fines.
    
  The coal miners, of course, couldn't afford this. Although that month, December 1920, had brought them many orders, just two weeks earlier, encephalomyelitis had claimed two horses, forcing them to replace them. Hulbert shed many tears, for these animals were his life, and since he had no family, he even slept with them in the stable. Klaus had spent the last penny of his savings on new horses, and any unexpected expense could now ruin him.
    
  It is no wonder then that the coalman started shouting at Paul the moment the cart came around the corner that day.
    
  "There was a huge commotion on the bridge."
    
  "I don't care! Get down here and help us with the cargo before those vultures come back."
    
  Paul jumped out of the driver's seat and began carrying the baskets. It required much less effort now, although at sixteen, almost seventeen, his development was still far from complete. He was quite thin, but his arms and legs were solid tendons.
    
  When only five or six baskets remained to be unloaded, the coal burners quickened their pace, hearing the rhythmic, impatient clatter of the hooves of the police horses.
    
  "They"re coming!" Klaus yelled.
    
  Paul came down with his last load, practically running, tossed it into the coal cellar, sweat streaming down his forehead, then ran back down the stairs to the street. As soon as he emerged, something struck him square in the face.
    
  For a moment, the world around him froze. Paul only noticed his body spinning in the air for half a second, his feet struggling to find purchase on the slippery steps. He flailed his arms, then fell backward. He had no time to feel the pain, because the darkness had already closed in on him.
    
  Ten seconds earlier, Alice and Manfred Tannenbaum had emerged from a stroll through the nearby park. Alice wanted to take her brother for a walk before the ground became too frozen. The first snow had fallen the night before, and although it hadn't settled yet, the boy would soon be facing three or four weeks without being able to stretch his legs as much as he'd like.
    
  Manfred savored these last moments of freedom as best he could. The day before, he'd taken his old soccer ball out of the closet and was now kicking it around, bouncing it off the walls, under the reproachful glances of passersby. Under other circumstances, Alice would have frowned at them-she couldn't stand people who considered children a nuisance-but that day, she felt sad and uncertain. Lost in her thoughts, her gaze fixed on the tiny clouds her breath created in the frosty air, she paid little attention to Manfred, except to make sure he picked up the ball as he crossed the street.
    
  Just a few meters from their door, the boy spotted the gaping basement doors and, imagining they were in front of the goal at the Grünwalder Stadium, kicked with all his might. The ball, made of extremely durable leather, described a perfect arc before hitting the man square in the face. The man disappeared down the stairs.
    
  "Manfred, be careful!"
    
  Alice's angry scream turned into a wail when she realized the ball had hit someone. Her brother froze on the sidewalk, gripped by terror. She ran to the basement door, but one of the victim's coworkers, a short man in a shapeless hat, had already run to his aid.
    
  "Damn it! I always knew that stupid idiot would fall," said another of the coal miners, a larger man. He was still standing by the cart, wringing his hands and glancing anxiously toward the corner of Possartstrasse.
    
  Alice paused at the top of the stairs leading to the basement, but didn't dare descend. For a few terrifying seconds, she stared down into a rectangle of darkness, but then a figure appeared, as if the black had suddenly taken human form. It was the coal miner's colleague, the one who had run past Alice, and he was carrying the fallen man.
    
  "Holy God, he"s just a kid..."
    
  The wounded man's left arm hung at an odd angle, and his trousers and jacket were torn. His head and forearms were pierced, and the blood on his face was mixed with coal dust in thick brown streaks. His eyes were closed, and he showed no reaction when another man laid him on the ground and tried to wipe away the blood with a dirty cloth.
    
  I hope he's just unconscious, Alice thought, squatting down and taking his hand.
    
  "What"s his name?" Alice asked the man in the hat.
    
  The man shrugged, pointed to his throat, and shook his head. Alice understood.
    
  "Can you hear me?" she asked, fearing that he might be deaf as well as mute. "We have to help him!"
    
  The man in the hat ignored her and turned to the coal carts, his eyes wide and saucer-like. Another coal miner, the older one, had climbed into the driver's seat of the first cart, the one with the full load, and was desperately trying to find the reins. He cracked his whip, drawing an awkward figure eight in the air. The two horses reared, snorting.
    
  "Forward, Halbert!"
    
  The man in the hat hesitated for a moment. He took a step toward another cart, but seemed to change his mind and turned around. He placed the bloody cloth in Alice's hands, then walked away, following the old man's example.
    
  "Wait! You can"t leave him here!" she screamed, shocked by the men"s behavior.
    
  She kicked the ground. Furious, furious and helpless.
    
    
  14
    
    
  The hardest part for Alice wasn't convincing the police to let her care for the sick man in her home, but overcoming Doris's reluctance to let him in. She had to scream at her almost as loudly as she had screamed at Manfred to get him, for God's sake, to move and get help. Finally, her brother complied, and two servants cleared a path through the circle of onlookers and loaded the young man into the elevator.
    
  "Miss Alice, you know that Sir doesn't like strangers in the house, especially when he's not here. I'm absolutely against it."
    
  The young coal porter hung limply, unconscious, between servants too old to bear his weight any longer. They were on the landing, and the housekeeper was blocking the door.
    
  "We can't leave him here, Doris. We'll have to send for a doctor."
    
  "It"s not our responsibility."
    
  "That"s right. The accident was Manfred"s fault," she said, pointing to the boy standing next to her, pale-faced, holding the ball very far from his body, as if afraid it might hurt someone else.
    
  "I said no. There are hospitals for... for people like him."
    
  "He will be better taken care of here."
    
  Doris stared at her as if she couldn't believe what she was hearing. Then her mouth twisted into a condescending smile. She knew exactly what to say to irritate Alice, and she chose her words carefully.
    
  "Fräulein Alice, you are too young to..."
    
  So it all comes back to this, Alice thought, feeling her face flush with rage and shame. Well, it won't work this time.
    
  "Doris, with all due respect, get out of my way."
    
  She walked to the door and pushed it open with both hands. The housekeeper tried to close it, but it was too late, and the wood hit her shoulder as the door swung open. She fell backward onto the hallway carpet, watching helplessly as the Tannenbaum children led two servants into the house. The latter avoided her gaze, and Doris was sure they were trying not to laugh.
    
  "That's not how things are done. I'll tell your father," she said furiously.
    
  "You don't have to worry about that, Doris. When he returns from Dachau tomorrow, I'll tell him myself," Alice replied without turning around.
    
  Deep down, she wasn't as confident as her words seemed to suggest. She knew she'd have problems with her father, but at that moment, she was determined not to let the housekeeper have her way.
    
  "Close your eyes. I don"t want to stain them with iodine."
    
  Alice tiptoed into the guest room, trying not to disturb the doctor as he washed the wounded man's forehead. Doris stood angrily in the corner of the room, constantly clearing her throat or stamping her feet to show her impatience. When Alice entered, she redoubled her efforts. Alice ignored her and looked at the young coal miner sprawled on the bed.
    
  The mattress was completely ruined, she thought. At that moment, her eyes met the man's, and she recognized him.
    
  The waiter from the party! No, it can't be him!
    
  But it was true, because she saw his eyes widen and his eyebrows raise. More than a year had passed, but she still remembered him. And suddenly she realized who the fair-haired boy was, the one who had slipped into her imagination when she tried to picture Prescott. She noticed Doris staring at her, so she faked a yawn and opened the bedroom door. Using him as a screen between herself and the housekeeper, she looked at Paul and raised a finger to her lips.
    
  "How is he?" Alice asked when the doctor finally came out into the corridor.
    
  He was a skinny, bulging-eyed man who had been responsible for the Tannenbaums' care since before Alice was born. When her mother died of the flu, the girl spent many sleepless nights hating him for not saving her, though now his strange appearance only sent a shudder through her, like the touch of a stethoscope on her skin.
    
  "His left arm is broken, although it looks like a clean break. I've put a splint and bandages on it. He'll be fine in about six weeks. Try to keep him from moving it."
    
  "What"s wrong with his head?"
    
  "The rest of the injuries are superficial, although he's bleeding profusely. He must have scraped himself on the edge of the steps. I've disinfected the wound on his forehead, although he should get a good bath as soon as possible."
    
  "Can he leave right away, doctor?"
    
  The doctor nodded in greeting to Doris, who had just closed the door behind her.
    
  "I would recommend that he stay here overnight. Well, good-bye," said the doctor, decisively pulling on his hat.
    
  "We'll take care of it, Doctor. Thank you very much," Alice said, bidding him farewell and giving Doris a challenging look.
    
  Paul shifted awkwardly in the bathtub. He had to keep his left hand out of the water to avoid wetting the bandages. With his body covered in bruises, there was no position he could take that didn't cause pain somewhere. He looked around the room, stunned by the luxury that surrounded him. Baron von Schröder's mansion, though located in one of Munich's most prestigious neighborhoods, lacked the amenities this apartment had, starting with hot water that flowed straight from the tap. Usually, it was Paul who fetched hot water from the kitchen whenever a family member wanted to take a bath, which was a daily occurrence. And there was simply no comparison between the bathroom he found himself in now and the vanity cabinet and sink at the boarding house.
    
  So this is her home. I thought I'd never see her again. It's a shame she's ashamed of me, he thought.
    
  "This water is very black."
    
  Paul looked up, startled. Alice was standing in the bathroom doorway, a cheerful expression on her face. Even though the bathtub reached almost to his shoulders and the water was covered in grayish foam, the young man couldn't help but blush.
    
  "What are you doing here?"
    
  "Restoring balance," she said, smiling at Paul's feeble attempt to cover himself with one hand. "I owe you for saving me."
    
  "Considering that your brother's ball knocked me down the stairs, I'd say you're still in my debt."
    
  Alice didn't answer. She looked at him carefully, focusing on his shoulders and the defined muscles of his sinewy arms. Without the coal dust, his skin was very fair.
    
  "Thanks anyway, Alice," Paul said, taking her silence for a silent reproach.
    
  "You remember my name."
    
  Now it was Paul's turn to remain silent. The glint in Alice's eyes was astonishing, and he had to look away.
    
  "You"ve put on quite a bit of weight," she continued after a pause.
    
  "Those baskets. They weigh a ton, but carrying them makes you stronger."
    
  "How did you end up selling coal?"
    
  "It's a long story."
    
  She took a stool from the corner of the bathroom and sat down next to him.
    
  "Tell me. We have time."
    
  "Aren"t you afraid they"ll catch you here?"
    
  "I went to bed half an hour ago. The housekeeper checked on me. But it wasn't hard to slip past her."
    
  Paul took a piece of soap and began to twirl it in his hand.
    
  "After the party, I had a nasty argument with my aunt."
    
  "Because of your cousin?"
    
  "It was because of something that happened years ago, something to do with my father. My mother told me he died in a shipwreck, but on the day of the party, I found out she'd been lying to me for years."
    
  "That"s what grown-ups do," Alice said with a sigh.
    
  "They kicked us out, me and my mother. This job was the best I could have gotten."
    
  "I guess you're lucky."
    
  "You call that luck?" Paul said, wincing. "Working from dawn to dusk with nothing to look forward to but a few pennies in your pocket. A little luck!"
    
  "You have a job; you have your independence, your self-respect. That's something," she replied, upset.
    
  "I'd trade it for any of these," he said, gesturing around himself.
    
  "You have no idea what I mean, Paul, do you?"
    
  "More than you think," he spat, unable to contain himself. "You have beauty and intelligence, and you're ruining it all by pretending to be miserable, a rebel, spending more time complaining about your luxurious situation and worrying about what other people think of you than by taking risks and fighting for what you really want."
    
  He paused, suddenly realizing everything he'd said and seeing the emotions dancing in her eyes. He opened his mouth to apologize, but thought it would only make things worse.
    
  Alice rose slowly from her chair. For a moment, Paul thought she was about to leave, but that was just the first of many times he'd misread her feelings over the years. She walked over to the bathtub, knelt down beside it, and, leaning over the water, kissed him on the lips. At first, Paul froze, but soon he began to react.
    
  Alice pulled back and stared at him. Paul understood her beauty: the glint of challenge that burned in her eyes. He leaned forward and kissed her, but this time his mouth was slightly parted. After a moment, she pulled away.
    
  Then she heard the sound of the door opening.
    
    
  15
    
    
  Alice immediately jumped to her feet and backed away from Paul, but it was too late. Her father entered the bathroom. He barely glanced at her; there was no need. The sleeve of her dress was completely wet, and even someone with the limited imagination of Joseph Tannenbaum could get some idea of what had happened just a moment ago.
    
  "Go to your room."
    
  "But, Dad..." she faltered.
    
  "Now!"
    
  Alice burst into tears and ran out of the room. On the way, she almost tripped over Doris, who gave her a triumphant smile.
    
  "As you can see, Fraulein, your father returned home earlier than expected. Isn"t that wonderful?"
    
  Paul felt completely vulnerable, sitting naked in the rapidly cooling water. As Tannenbaum approached, he tried to rise to his feet, but the businessman grabbed him brutally by the shoulder. Although shorter than Paul, he was stronger than his plump appearance suggested, and Paul found it impossible to get a foothold on the slippery bathtub.
    
  Tannenbaum sat down on the stool where Alice had been just minutes earlier. He didn't loosen his grip on Paul's shoulder for a moment, and Paul feared he might suddenly decide to push him down and hold his head underwater.
    
  "What is your name, coal miner?"
    
  "Paul Reiner."
    
  "You"re not Jewish, Rainer, are you?"
    
  "No, sir."
    
  "Now pay attention," Tannenbaum said, his tone softening, like a trainer talking to the last dog in the litter, the one slowest to learn his tricks. "My daughter is an heiress to a large fortune; she"s from a class far above yours. You"re just a piece of shit stuck to her shoe. Understand?"
    
  Paul didn't answer. He managed to overcome his shame and stared back, gritting his teeth in rage. At that moment, there was no one in the world he hated more than this man.
    
  "Of course you don't understand," Tannenbaum said, letting go of his shoulder. "Well, at least I got back before she did something stupid."
    
  His hand reached for his wallet and he pulled out a huge handful of bills. He folded them neatly and placed them on the marble sink.
    
  "This is for the trouble Manfred's ball caused. Now you can go."
    
  Tannenbaum headed for the door, but before he left, he took one last look at Paul.
    
  "Of course, Rainer, although you probably wouldn't care, I spent the day with my daughter's future father-in-law, finalizing the details of her wedding. She'll be marrying a nobleman in the spring."
    
  I guess you're lucky... you have your independence, she told him.
    
  "Does Alice know?" he asked.
    
  Tannenbaum snorted derisively.
    
  "Never speak her name again."
    
  Paul got out of the bath and dressed, barely bothering to dry himself. He didn't care if he caught pneumonia. He grabbed a wad of bills from the sink and went into the bedroom, where Doris watched him from across the room.
    
  "Let me walk you to the door."
    
  "Don't bother," the young man replied, turning into the corridor. The front door was clearly visible at the far end.
    
  "Oh, we wouldn"t want you to accidentally pocket anything," the housekeeper said with a mocking grin.
    
  "Give these back to your master, ma'am. Tell him I don't need them," Paul replied, his voice shaking as he handed over the bills.
    
  He almost ran for the exit, although Doris no longer looked at him. She looked at the money, and a sly smile flickered across her face.
    
    
  16
    
    
  The following weeks were a struggle for Paul. When he showed up at the stables, he had to listen to a reluctant apology from Klaus, who had escaped a fine but still felt remorse for abandoning the young man. At least it assuaged his anger over Paul's broken arm.
    
  "It's the middle of winter, and it's just me and poor Halbert unloading, considering all the orders we have. It's a tragedy."
    
  Paul refrained from mentioning that they only had so many orders thanks to his scheme and the second cart. He didn't feel like talking much, and he sank into a silence as deep as Halbert's, frozen stiff for hours in the driver's seat, his mind elsewhere.
    
  He once tried to return to Prinzregentenplatz when he thought Herr Tannenbaum wouldn't be there, but a servant slammed the door in his face. He slipped Alice several notes through the mailbox, asking her to meet him at a nearby café, but she never showed up. He occasionally passed by the gate of her house, but she never showed up. It was a policeman, undoubtedly instructed by Joseph Tannenbaum, who did so; he advised Paul not to return to the area unless he wanted to end up picking his teeth in the asphalt.
    
  Paul became increasingly withdrawn, and the few times his paths crossed with his mother at the boarding house, they barely exchanged a word. He ate little, slept almost nothing, and was oblivious to his surroundings. One day, the back wheel of a cart nearly hit the cart. As he endured the curses of passengers who shouted that he could have killed them all, Paul told himself he had to do something to escape the thick, stormy clouds of melancholy that hovered in his head.
    
  It's no wonder he didn't notice the figure watching him one afternoon on Frauenstrasse. The stranger first approached the cart slowly for a closer look, careful to stay out of Paul's line of sight. The man was taking notes in a booklet he carried in his pocket, carefully writing the name "Klaus Graf." Now that Paul had more time and a healthy hand, the sides of the cart were always clean and the letters visible, which somewhat mitigated the coalman's anger. Finally, the observer sat in a nearby beer hall until the carts left. Only then did he approach the estate they provided to make some discreet inquiries.
    
  Jurgen was in a particularly bad mood. He'd just received his grades for the first four months of the year, and they weren't the least bit encouraging.
    
  I should get that idiot Kurt to give me private lessons, he thought. Maybe he'll do a couple of jobs for me. I'll ask him to come over to my house and use my typewriter so they don't find out.
    
  It was his final year of high school, and a place at university, with all that entailed, was at stake. He had no particular interest in earning a degree, but he liked the idea of strutting around campus, flaunting his baronial title. Even if he didn't actually have one yet.
    
  There will be a lot of pretty girls there. I will fight them off.
    
  He was in his bedroom, fantasizing about girls from university, when the maid - the new one his mother had hired after she had kicked the Reiners out - called out to him from the door.
    
  "Young Master Kron is here to see you, Master Jurgen."
    
  "Let him in."
    
  Jurgen greeted his friend with a grunt.
    
  "Just the man I wanted to see. I need you to sign my report card; if my father sees this, he'll be furious. I spent all morning trying to forge his signature, but it doesn't look like it at all," he said, pointing to the floor, which was covered in crumpled pieces of paper.
    
  Kron glanced at the report lying open on the table and whistled in surprise.
    
  "Well, we had fun, didn"t we?"
    
  "You know that Waburg hates me."
    
  "From what I can tell, half the teachers share his dislike. But let's not worry about your school performance right now, Jurgen, because I have news for you. You need to get ready for the hunt."
    
  "What are you talking about? Who are we hunting?"
    
  Kron smiled, already enjoying the recognition he would earn for his discovery.
    
  "The bird that flew from the nest, my friend. The bird with the broken wing."
    
    
  17
    
    
  Paul had absolutely no idea anything was wrong until it was too late.
    
  His day began as usual, with a trolley ride from the boarding house to Klaus Graf's stables on the banks of the Isar. It was still dark each day when he arrived, and he sometimes had to wake Halbert. He and the mute man had gotten along after the initial mistrust, and Paul truly treasured those moments before dawn when they hitched the horses to the carts and headed to the coal yards. There, they would load the cart into the loading bay, where a wide metal pipe filled it in less than ten minutes. A clerk recorded how many times the Graf men came to load each day so the total could be calculated on a weekly basis. Then Paul and Halbert would set off for their first meeting. Klaus would be there, waiting for them, impatiently puffing on his pipe. A simple, exhausting routine.
    
  That day, Paul reached the stable and pushed the door open, as he did every morning. It was never locked, as there was nothing inside worth stealing except the seat belts. Halbert slept just half a meter from the horses, in a room with a rickety old bed to the right of the stalls.
    
  "Wake up, Halbert! There's more snow than usual today. We'll have to set off a little earlier if we want to reach Musakh on time."
    
  There was no sign of his silent companion, but that was normal. It always took him a while to appear.
    
  Suddenly, Paul heard the horses stamping nervously in their stalls, and something inside him twisted, a feeling he hadn't experienced in a long time. His lungs felt leaden, and a sour taste appeared in his mouth.
    
  Jurgen.
    
  He took a step toward the door, but then stopped. They were there, emerging from every crevice, and he cursed himself for not noticing them sooner. From the shovel closet, from the horse stalls, from under the wagons. There were seven of them-the same seven who had haunted him at Jurgen's birthday party. It seemed an eternity ago. Their faces had grown broader, harder, and they no longer wore school jackets, but thick sweaters and boots. Clothes better suited to the task.
    
  "You won"t be sliding on marble this time, cousin," Jurgen said, pointing dismissively at the dirt floor.
    
  "Halbert!" Paul cried desperately.
    
  "Your mentally retarded friend is tied up in his bed. We certainly didn't need to gag him," one of the thugs said. The others seemed to find this very amusing.
    
  Paul jumped onto one of the carts as the boys approached him. One of them tried to grab his ankle, but Paul lifted his foot just in time and lowered it onto the boy's toes. There was a crunching sound.
    
  "He broke them! The absolute son of a bitch!"
    
  "Shut up! In half an hour, that little piece of shit will wish he were in your shoes," Jurgen said.
    
  Several boys walked around the back of the wagon. Out of the corner of his eye, Paul saw another grab the driver's seat, trying to climb in. He felt the glint of a penknife blade.
    
  He suddenly remembered one of the many scenarios he'd imagined surrounding the sinking of his father's boat: his father surrounded by enemies trying to get aboard. He told himself that the cart was his boat.
    
  I won't let them get on board.
    
  He looked around, desperately searching for something he could use as a weapon, but the only thing at hand were the remains of coal scattered across the cart. The fragments were so small that he would have to throw forty or fifty before they would do any harm. With a broken arm, Paul's only advantage was the cart's height, which put him at just the right height to strike any attacker in the face.
    
  Another boy tried to sneak to the back of the cart, but Paul sensed a trick. The one next to the driver's seat took advantage of the momentary distraction and pulled himself up, no doubt preparing to jump on Paul's back. With a swift movement, Paul unscrewed the lid of his thermos and splashed hot coffee in the boy's face. The pot wasn't boiling hot, as it had been an hour earlier when he'd been cooking it on the stove in his bedroom, but it was hot enough that the boy clasped his hands to his face as if scalded. Paul lunged at him and pushed him off the cart. The boy fell backward with a groan.
    
  "What the hell are we waiting for? Everyone, get him!" Jurgen shouted.
    
  Paul saw the glint of his penknife again. He spun around, raising his fists in the air, wanting to show them he wasn't afraid, but everyone in the filthy stables knew it was a lie.
    
  Ten hands grabbed the cart in ten places. Paul stomped his foot left and right, but within seconds they had him surrounded. One of the thugs grabbed his left arm, and Paul, trying to free himself, felt another's fist hit him in the face. There was a crunch and an explosion of pain as his nose was broken.
    
  For a moment, all he saw was a pulsating red light. He flew out, missing his cousin Jurgen by several miles.
    
  "Hold on to him, Kron!"
    
  Paul felt them grab him from behind. He tried to twist away from their grip, but it was no use. Within seconds, they had pinned his arms behind his back, leaving his face and chest at the mercy of his cousin. One of his captors held him by the neck in an iron grip, forcing Paul to look directly at Jurgen.
    
  "No more running away, huh?"
    
  Jurgen carefully shifted his weight onto his right leg, then pulled his arm back. The blow landed squarely in Paul's stomach. He felt the air leave his body, as if a tire had been punctured.
    
  "Hit me all you want, Jurgen," Paul croaked when he managed to catch his breath. "It won't stop you from being a useless pig."
    
  Another blow, this time to the face, split his eyebrow in two. His cousin shook his hand and massaged his injured knuckles.
    
  "You see? There are seven of you for every one of me, someone is holding me back, and you're still acting worse than me," Paul said.
    
  Jurgen lunged forward and grabbed his cousin's hair so hard that Paul thought he would pull it out.
    
  "You killed Edward, you son of a bitch."
    
  "All I did was help him. The same can't be said for the rest of you."
    
  "So, cousin, you suddenly claim some kind of relationship with the Schroeders? I thought you'd renounced all that. Isn't that what you told the little Jewish slut?"
    
  "Don't call her that."
    
  Jurgen moved even closer until Paul could feel his breath on his face. His eyes were fixed on Paul, savoring the pain he was about to inflict with his words.
    
  "Relax, she's not going to remain a whore for long. She's going to be a respectable lady now. The future Baroness von Schroeder."
    
  Paul immediately realized this was true, not just his cousin's usual boasting. A sharp pain rose in his stomach, eliciting a formless, desperate cry. Jurgen laughed loudly, his eyes wide. Finally, he let go of Paul's hair, and Paul's head fell onto his chest.
    
  "Well then, guys, let"s give him what he deserves."
    
  At that moment, Paul threw his head back with all his might. The man behind him loosened his grip after Jurgen's blows, no doubt believing victory was theirs. The top of Paul's skull struck the bandit in the face, and he let go of Paul, falling to his knees. The others rushed at Paul, but they all landed on the floor, huddled together.
    
  Paul swung his arms, striking blindly. In the midst of the chaos, he felt something hard beneath his fingers and grabbed it. He tried to rise to his feet, and almost succeeded when Jurgen noticed and lunged at his cousin. Paul reflexively covered his face, unaware that he was still holding the object he had just picked up.
    
  There was a terrible scream, then silence.
    
  Paul pulled himself to the edge of the cart. His cousin was on his knees, writhing on the floor. The wooden handle of a penknife protruded from the socket of his right eye. The boy was lucky: if his friends had come up with the brilliant idea to create something more, Jurgen would be dead.
    
  "Get it out! Get it out!" he shouted.
    
  The others watched him, paralyzed. They didn't want to be there anymore. For them, it was no longer a game.
    
  "It hurts! Help me, for God's sake!"
    
  Finally, one of the thugs managed to get to his feet and approach Jurgen.
    
  "Don't do this," Paul said in horror. "Take him to the hospital and have them remove it."
    
  The other boy glanced at Paul, his face expressionless. It was almost as if he wasn't there or had no control over his actions. He walked up to Jurgen and placed his hand on the handle of his penknife. However, as he was squeezing it, Jurgen suddenly jerked in the opposite direction, and the blade of the penknife knocked out most of his eyeball.
    
  Jurgen suddenly fell silent and raised his hand to the place where the penknife had been a moment ago.
    
  "I can"t see. Why can"t I see?"
    
  Then he lost consciousness.
    
  The boy who had pulled out the penknife stood staring blankly at it as the pinkish mass that was the future baron's right eye slid down the blade to the ground.
    
  "You have to take him to the hospital!" Paul shouted.
    
  The rest of the gang slowly rose to their feet, still not quite sure what had happened to their leader. They had gone to the stables expecting a simple, crushing victory; instead, the unthinkable happened.
    
  Two of them grabbed Jurgen by the arms and legs and carried him to the door. The others joined them. None of them said a word.
    
  Only the boy with the penknife remained in place, looking questioningly at Paul.
    
  "Then go ahead if you dare," Paul said, praying to heaven that he wouldn"t.
    
  The boy let go, dropped his penknife to the ground, and ran out into the street. Paul watched him go; then, finally alone, he began to cry.
    
    
  18
    
    
  "I have no intention of doing this."
    
  "You are my daughter, you will do what I say."
    
  "I am not an object that you can buy or sell."
    
  "This is the greatest opportunity of your life."
    
  "In your life, you mean."
    
  "You are the one who will become Baroness."
    
  "You don't know him, Father. He's a pig, rude, arrogant..."
    
  "Your mother described me in very similar terms when we first met."
    
  "Keep her out of this. She would never..."
    
  "Did I want the best for you? Did I try to ensure my own happiness?"
    
  "... forced her daughter to marry a man she hates. And a non-Jew, at that."
    
  "Would you rather have someone better? A starving beggar like your coal miner friend? He's not Jewish either, Alice."
    
  "At least he"s a good person."
    
  "It is what you think."
    
  "I mean something to him."
    
  "You mean exactly three thousand marks to him."
    
  "What?"
    
  "The day your friend came to visit, I left a wad of banknotes on the sink. Three thousand marks for his troubles, on the condition that he never shows up here again."
    
  Alice was speechless.
    
  "I know, my child. I know it"s hard..."
    
  "You're lying."
    
  "I swear to you, Alice, on your mother's grave, that your coal miner friend took the money from the sink. You know, I wouldn't joke about something like that."
    
  "I..."
    
  "People will always disappoint you, Alice. Come here, give me a hug.
    
  ..."
    
  "Don"t touch me!"
    
  "You will survive this. And you will learn to love Baron von Schroeder's son the way your mother eventually loved me."
    
  "I hate you!"
    
  "Alice! Alice, come back!"
    
  She left home two days later, in the dim morning light, amid a blizzard that had already blanketed the streets with snow.
    
  She took a large suitcase filled with clothes and all the money she could scrape together. It wasn't much, but it would be enough to last her a few months until she could find a decent job. Her absurd, childish plan to return to Prescott, concocted back when it seemed normal to travel first class and gorge on lobster, was a thing of the past. Now she felt like she was a different Alice, someone who had to forge her own path.
    
  She also took a locket that had belonged to her mother. It contained a photograph of Alice and another of Manfred. Her mother wore it around her neck until the day she died.
    
  Before leaving, Alice paused for a moment at her brother's door. She placed her hand on the doorknob but didn't open it. She feared the sight of Manfred's round, innocent face would weaken her resolve. Her willpower was already proving considerably weaker than she expected.
    
  Now it was time to change all that, she thought as she walked out into the street.
    
  Her leather boots left muddy tracks in the snow, but the blizzard took care of that, washing them away as it passed.
    
    
  19
    
    
  On the day of the attack, Paul and Halbert arrived an hour late for their first delivery. Klaus Graf turned white with rage. When he saw Paul's battered face and heard his story-confirmed by Halbert's constant nodding as Paul found him tied to his bed, a look of humiliation on his face-he sent him home.
    
  The next morning, Paul was surprised to find the Count in the stables, a place he rarely visited until later in the day. Still confused by recent events, he didn't notice the strange look the charcoal burner gave him.
    
  "Hello, Herr Count. What are you doing here?" he asked cautiously.
    
  "Well, I just wanted to make sure there weren't any more problems. Can you assure me those guys won't be coming back, Paul?"
    
  The young man hesitated for a moment before answering.
    
  "No, sir. I can"t."
    
  "That"s what I thought."
    
  Klaus rummaged through his coat and pulled out a couple of crumpled, dirty bills. He guiltily handed them to Paul.
    
  Paul took them, counting in his mind.
    
  "Part of my monthly salary, including today"s. Sir, are you firing me?"
    
  "I was thinking about what happened yesterday... I don"t want any problems, you understand?"
    
  "Of course, sir."
    
  "You don"t seem surprised," Klaus said, who had deep bags under his eyes, no doubt from a sleepless night trying to decide whether he should fire the guy or not.
    
  Paul looked at him, debating whether to explain the depths of the abyss into which the bills in his hand had plunged him. He decided against it, as the coal miner already knew of his plight. Instead, he opted for irony, which was increasingly becoming his currency.
    
  "This is the second time you've betrayed me, Herr Count. Betrayal loses its charm the second time."
    
    
  20
    
    
  "You can"t do this to me!"
    
  The Baron smiled and sipped his herbal tea. He was enjoying the situation, and what was worse, he made no attempt to pretend otherwise. For the first time, he saw an opportunity to get his hands on Jewish money without marrying off Jurgen.
    
  "My dear Tannenbaum, I don"t understand how I do anything at all."
    
  "Exactly!"
    
  "There is no bride, is there?"
    
  "Well, no," Tannenbaum admitted reluctantly.
    
  "Then there can't be a wedding. And since the bride's absence," he said, clearing his throat, "is your responsibility, it's reasonable that you should take care of the expenses.
    
  Tannenbaum shifted uneasily in his chair, searching for an answer. He poured himself more tea and half a bowl of sugar.
    
  "I see you like it," the Baron said, raising an eyebrow. The disgust Joseph had inspired in him gradually transformed into a strange fascination as the balance of power shifted.
    
  "Well, after all, I"m the one who paid for this sugar."
    
  The Baron responded with a grimace.
    
  "There is no need to be rude."
    
  "Do you think I'm an idiot, Baron? You told me you'd use the money to build a rubber factory, like the one you lost five years ago. I believed you and transferred the enormous sum you asked for. And what do I find two years later? Not only did you fail to build the factory, but the money ended up in a stock portfolio that only you have access to."
    
  "These are safe reserves, Tannenbaum."
    
  "That may be. But I don't trust their keeper. It wouldn't be the first time you've bet your family's future on a winning combination."
    
  A look of resentment crossed Baron Otto von Schröder's face that he couldn't bring himself to feel. He'd recently relapsed into gambling fever, spending long nights staring at the leather binder containing the investments he'd made with Tannenbaum's money. Each had an instant liquidity clause, meaning he could convert them into bundles of banknotes in just over an hour, with only his signature and a stiff penalty. He wasn't trying to deceive himself: he knew why the clause had been included. He knew the risk he was taking. He began drinking more and more before bed, and last week he returned to the gambling tables.
    
  Not in a Munich casino; he wasn't that stupid. He changed into the most modest clothes he could find and visited a place in the Altstadt. A basement with sawdust on the floor and prostitutes with more paint on them than you'd find in the Alte Pinakothek. He asked for a glass of Korn and sat down at a table where the starting bet was just two marks. He had five hundred dollars in his pocket-the most he'd spend.
    
  The worst thing that could happen happened: he won.
    
  Even with those dirty cards stuck together like newlyweds on their honeymoon, even with the intoxication of the homemade liquor and the smoke that stung his eyes, even with the foul odor that hung in the air of that basement, he won. Not much-just enough so he could leave that place without a knife in his gut. But he won, and now he wanted to gamble more and more often. "I'm afraid you'll just have to trust my judgment when it comes to money, Tannenbaum."
    
  The industrialist smiled skeptically.
    
  "I see that I'll be left without money and without a wedding. Although I could always redeem that letter of credit you signed for me, Baron."
    
  Schroeder swallowed. He wouldn't let anyone take the folder from the drawer in his office. And not for the simple reason that dividends were gradually covering his debts.
    
  No.
    
  That folder - as he stroked it, imagining what he could do with the money - was the only thing that got him through the long nights.
    
  "As I said before, there's no need to be rude. I promised you a wedding between our families, and that's what you'll get. Bring me a bride, and my son will be waiting for her.
    
  Jurgen didn't talk to his mother for three days.
    
  When the baron went to pick up his son from the hospital a week ago, he listened to the young man's deeply biased story. He was hurt by what had happened-even more than when Eduard returned so badly disfigured, Jurgen thought foolishly-but he refused to involve the police.
    
  "We must not forget that it was the boys who brought the penknife," said the Baron, justifying his position.
    
  But Jurgen knew his father was lying and that he was hiding a more important reason. He tried to talk to Brunhilda, but she kept dodging the subject, confirming his suspicions that they were only telling him part of the truth. Furious, Jurgen locked himself in complete silence, believing this would soften his mother.
    
  Brunhilda suffered, but did not give up.
    
  Instead, she counterattacked, lavishing her son with attention, bringing him endless gifts, sweets, and his favorite foods. It reached a point where even someone as spoiled, ill-mannered, and self-centered as Jürgen began to feel suffocated, yearning to leave the house.
    
  So when Krohn came to Jurgen with one of his usual suggestions - that he should come to a political meeting - Jurgen responded differently than usual.
    
  "Let"s go," he said, grabbing his coat.
    
  Krohn, who had spent years trying to get Jürgen involved in politics and was a member of various nationalist parties, was delighted with his friend's decision.
    
  "I"m sure this will help take your mind off things," he said, still feeling ashamed of what had happened in the stables a week ago, when seven had lost to one.
    
  Jurgen had low expectations. He was still taking sedatives for the pain of his wound, and as they rode the trolleybus toward the city center, he nervously touched the bulky bandage he would have to wear for a few more days.
    
  And then a badge for the rest of his life, all because of that poor pig Paul, he thought, feeling incredibly sorry for himself.
    
  To top it all off, his cousin vanished into thin air. Two of his friends went to spy on the stables and discovered he was no longer working there. Jurgen suspected there would be no way to track Paul down anytime soon, and this made his insides burn.
    
  Lost in his own hatred and self-pity, the baron's son barely heard what Kron was saying on the way to the Hofbräuhaus.
    
  "He's an outstanding speaker. A great man. You'll see, Jurgen."
    
  He also paid no attention to the magnificent setting, the old beer factory built for the kings of Bavaria over three centuries ago, or the frescoes on the walls. He sat next to Kron on one of the benches in the vast hall, sipping his beer in somber silence.
    
  When the speaker Kron had spoken so glowingly of took the stage, Jürgen thought his friend had lost his mind. The man walked as if he'd been stung in the ass by a bee, and didn't look like he had anything to say. He radiated everything Jürgen despised, from his hairstyle and mustache to his cheap, wrinkled suit.
    
  Five minutes later, Jurgen looked around in awe. The crowd gathered in the hall, at least a thousand strong, stood in complete silence. Lips barely moved, except to whisper, "Well said," or "He's right." The crowd's hands spoke, clapping loudly at each pause.
    
  Almost against his will, Jurgen began to listen. He could barely understand the topic of the speech, living on the periphery of the world around him, preoccupied only with his own amusement. He recognized scattered fragments, scraps of phrases his father had dropped during breakfast while hiding behind his newspaper. Curses against the French, the English, the Russians. Utter nonsense, all of it.
    
  But from this confusion, Jurgen began to extract a simple meaning. Not from the words, which he barely understood, but from the emotion in the little man's voice, from his exaggerated gestures, from the clenched fists at the end of each line.
    
  A terrible injustice has occurred.
    
  Germany was stabbed in the back.
    
  Jews and Freemasons kept this dagger in Versailles.
    
  Germany was lost.
    
  The blame for poverty, for unemployment, for the bare feet of German children fell on the Jews, who controlled the government in Berlin as if it were a huge, mindless puppet.
    
  Jürgen, who didn't care in the least about the bare feet of German children, who didn't care about Versailles-who never cared about anyone but Jürgen von Schröder-was on his feet fifteen minutes later, applauding the speaker wildly. Before the speech was over, he told himself he would follow this man wherever he went.
    
  After the meeting, Kron excused himself, saying he'd be back soon. Jurgen sank into silence until his friend patted him on the back. He brought in the speaker, who again looked poor and disheveled, his gaze shifty and distrustful. But the baron's heir could no longer see him in this light and stepped forward to greet him. Kron said with a smile:
    
  "My dear Jurgen, let me introduce you to Adolf Hitler."
    
    
  ACCEPTED STUDENT
    
  1923
    
    
  In which the initiate discovers a new reality with new rules
    
  This is the secret handshake of an incoming apprentice, used to identify fellow Masons as such. It involves pressing the thumb against the top of the knuckle of the index finger of the person being greeted, who then responds in kind. Its secret name is BOOZ, after the column representing the moon in Solomon's Temple. If a Mason has any doubts about another person claiming to be a fellow Mason, he will ask them to spell their name. Impostors begin with the letter B, while true initiates begin with the third letter, thus: ABOZ.
    
    
  21
    
    
  "Good afternoon, Frau Schmidt," said Paul. "What can I get you?"
    
  The woman glanced around quickly, trying to appear to be considering her purchase, but the truth was, she'd set her sights on the bag of potatoes, hoping to spot the price tag. It was no use. Tired of having to change their prices daily, Paul began memorizing them every morning.
    
  "Two kilos of potatoes, please," she said, not daring to ask how much.
    
  Paul began placing the tubers on the scale. Behind the lady, a couple of boys were examining the sweets on display, their hands tucked tightly into their empty pockets.
    
  "They cost sixty thousand marks a kilo!" boomed a gruff voice from behind the counter.
    
  The woman barely glanced at Herr Ziegler, the grocery store owner, but her face flushed in response to the high price.
    
  "I'm sorry, madam... I don't have many potatoes left," Paul lied, sparing her the embarrassment of having to cut back on her order. He'd exhausted himself that morning stacking sack after sack of them in the backyard. "Many of our regular customers are still to come. Do you mind if I give you just one kilo?"
    
  The relief on her face was so obvious that Paul had to turn away to hide his smile.
    
  "Fine. I guess I"ll have to make do."
    
  Paul picked up several potatoes from the bag until the scale stopped at 1,000 grams. He didn't remove the last, particularly large one from the bag, but held it in his hand while he checked the weight, then returned it to the bag, handing it over.
    
  The action didn't escape the woman, whose hand trembled slightly as she paid and took her bag from the counter. As they were about to leave, Herr Ziegler called her back.
    
  "Just one moment!"
    
  The woman turned around, turning pale.
    
  "Yes?"
    
  "Your son dropped this, madam," the shopkeeper said, handing over the smallest boy"s cap.
    
  The woman muttered words of gratitude and practically ran out.
    
  Herr Ziegler headed back behind the counter. He adjusted his small round glasses and continued wiping down the cans of peas with a soft cloth. The place was spotless, as Paul kept it meticulously clean, and in those days, nothing stayed in the store long enough to collect dust.
    
  "I saw you," the shop owner said without looking up.
    
  Paul pulled a newspaper from under the counter and began leafing through it. They wouldn't have any more customers that day, as it was Thursday, and most people's paychecks had dried up several days earlier. But the next day would be hell.
    
  "I know, sir."
    
  "So why were you pretending?"
    
  "It had to look like you didn't notice I was giving her a potato, sir. Otherwise, we'd have to give everyone a free emblem."
    
  "These potatoes will be deducted from your paycheck," Ziegler said, trying to sound threatening.
    
  Paul nodded and returned to his reading. He had long since ceased to fear the shopkeeper, not only because he never carried out his threats, but also because his rough exterior was merely a disguise. Paul smiled to himself, remembering that just a moment before, he'd noticed Ziegler stuffing a handful of candy into the boy's cap.
    
  "I don"t know what the hell you found so interesting in those newspapers," the shop owner said, shaking his head.
    
  What Paul had been frantically searching for in the newspapers for some time now was a way to save Herr Ziegler's business. If he didn't find it, the store would go bankrupt within two weeks.
    
  Suddenly, he stopped between two pages of the Allgemeine Zeitung. His heart leaped. It was right there: the idea, presented in a small, two-column article, almost inconsequential next to the large headlines announcing endless disasters and the possible collapse of the government. He might have missed it if he hadn't been looking for exactly that.
    
  It was madness.
    
  It was impossible.
    
  But if it works... we will be rich.
    
  It would work. Paul was sure of it. The hardest part would be convincing Herr Ziegler. A conservative old Prussian like him would never agree to such a plan, not even in Paul's wildest dreams. Paul couldn't even imagine proposing it.
    
  So I better think quickly, he told himself, biting his lip.
    
    
  22
    
    
  It all began with the assassination of Minister Walther Rathenau, a prominent Jewish industrialist. The despair that plunged Germany between 1922 and 1923, when two generations saw their values completely upended, began one morning when three students drove up to Rathenau's car, peppered him with machine gun fire, and threw a grenade at him. On June 24, 1922, a terrible seed was sown; more than two decades later, it would lead to the deaths of over fifty million people.
    
  Until that day, Germans thought things were already bad. But from that moment on, when the entire country had become a madhouse, all they wanted was to return to the way things had been. Rathenau headed the Foreign Ministry. In those turbulent times, when Germany was at the mercy of its creditors, this was a job that was even more important than the presidency of the republic.
    
  On the day Rathenau was assassinated, Paul wondered whether the students did it because he was Jewish, because he was a politician, or to help Germany come to terms with the catastrophe of Versailles. The impossible reparations the country would have to pay-until 1984!-had plunged the population into poverty, and Rathenau was the last bastion of common sense.
    
  After his death, the country began printing money simply to pay its debts. Did those responsible understand that every coin they printed devalued the others? They probably did, but what else could they have done?
    
  In June 1922, one mark bought two cigarettes; two hundred and seventy-two marks equaled one US dollar. By March 1923, the very day Paul carelessly slipped an extra potato into Frau Schmidt's bag, it took five thousand marks to buy cigarettes, and twenty thousand to go to the bank and walk out with a crisp dollar bill.
    
  Families struggled to keep up as the madness spiraled. Every Friday, payday, women waited for their husbands at the factory doors. Then, all at once, they besieged the shops and grocery stores, flooded the Viktualienmarkt on Marienplatz, and spent their last penny of pay on necessities. They returned home laden with food and tried to hold out until the end of the week. On other days of the week, not much business was transacted in Germany. Pockets were empty. And on Thursday evening, the head of BMW production had the same purchasing power as an old tramp dragging his stumps through the mud under the Isar bridges.
    
  There were many who couldn't bear it.
    
  Those who were old, who lacked imagination, who took too much for granted, were the ones who suffered the most. Their minds couldn't cope with all these changes, with this world going back and forth. Many committed suicide. Others sank into poverty.
    
  Others have changed.
    
  Paul was one of those who changed.
    
  After Herr Graf dismissed him, Paul had a terrible month. He barely had time to overcome his anger at Jürgen's attack and the revelation of Alice's fate, or to devote more than a fleeting thought to the mystery of his father's death. Once again, the need to survive was so acute that he was forced to suppress his own emotions. But a searing pain often flared at night, filling his dreams with ghosts. He often couldn't sleep, and often in the mornings, as he walked the streets of Munich in scuffed, snow-covered boots, he thought about death.
    
  Sometimes, when he returned to the boarding house without work, he caught himself staring at Isar of Ludwigsbrucke with empty eyes. He wanted to throw himself into the icy waters, let the current drag his body down to the Danube, and from there to the sea. That fantastical expanse of water he had never seen, but where, he always thought, his father had met his end.
    
  In such cases, he had to find an excuse not to climb the wall or jump. The image of his mother waiting for him every night at the boarding house and the certainty that she wouldn't survive without him prevented him from extinguishing the fire in his belly once and for all. In other cases, he was held back by the fire itself and the reasons for its origin.
    
  Until finally a glimmer of hope appeared. Although it led to death.
    
  One morning, a delivery man collapsed at Paul's feet in the middle of the road. The empty cart he was pushing had flipped over. The wheels were still spinning when Paul crouched down and tried to help the man up, but he couldn't move. He was desperately gasping for air, his eyes glassy. Another passerby approached. He was dressed in dark clothes and carrying a leather briefcase.
    
  "Make way! I"m a doctor!"
    
  For some time, the doctor tried to revive the fallen man, but to no avail. Finally, he stood up, shaking his head.
    
  "Heart attack or embolism. Hard to believe for someone so young."
    
  Paul looked at the dead man's face. He must have been only nineteen years old, maybe younger.
    
  So do I, Paul thought.
    
  "Doctor, will you take care of the body?"
    
  "I can"t, we have to wait for the police."
    
  When the officers arrived, Paul patiently described what had happened. The doctor confirmed his account.
    
  "Do you mind if I return the car to its owner?"
    
  The officer glanced at the empty cart, then stared long and hard at Paul. He didn't like the idea of dragging the cart back to the police station.
    
  "What"s your name, buddy?"
    
  "Paul Reiner."
    
  "And why should I trust you, Paul Reiner?"
    
  "Because I"ll make more money taking this to the shop owner than trying to sell these pieces of poorly nailed wood on the black market," Paul said with complete honesty.
    
  "Very well. Tell him to contact the police station. We need to know his next of kin. If he doesn't call us within three hours, you'll answer to me."
    
  The officer gave him the bill he had found, with the address of a grocery store on a street near the Isartor listed in neat handwriting, along with the last items the dead boy had transported: 1 kilogram of coffee, 3 kilograms of potatoes, 1 bag of lemons, 1 can of Krunz soup, 1 kilogram of salt, 2 bottles of corn alcohol.
    
  When Paul arrived at the shop with a wheelbarrow and asked for the dead boy's job, Herr Ziegler gave him a disbelieving look, similar to the one he gave Paul six months later when the young man explained his plan to save them from ruin.
    
  "We need to turn the store into a bank."
    
  The shopkeeper dropped the jam jar he was cleaning, and it would have shattered on the floor if Paul had not managed to catch it in mid-air.
    
  "What are you talking about? Were you drunk?" he said, looking at the huge circles under the boy's eyes.
    
  "No, sir," said Paul, who hadn't slept all night, going over the plan in his mind over and over again. He left his room at dawn and took up position at the town hall door half an hour before it opened. Then he ran from window to window, collecting information on permits, taxes, and conditions. He returned with a thick cardboard folder. "I know this may seem crazy, but it's not. Right now, money has no value. Wages are rising daily, and we have to calculate our prices every morning."
    
  "Yeah, that reminds me: I had to do all this myself this morning," the shopkeeper said, exasperated. "You can't imagine how hard that was. And this is on a Friday! The shop will be heaving in two hours."
    
  "I know, sir. And we must do everything possible to get rid of all the stock today. This afternoon, I'm going to speak with several of our customers, offering them goods in exchange for labor, because the work is due on Monday. We'll pass the municipal inspection on Tuesday morning, and we'll open on Wednesday."
    
  Ziegler looked as if Paul had asked him to smear his body with jam and walk naked across Marienplatz.
    
  "Absolutely not. This store has been here for seventy-three years. It was started by my great-grandfather, then passed on to my grandfather, who passed it on to my father, who eventually passed it on to me."
    
  Paul saw the alarm in the shop owner's eyes. He knew he was one step away from being fired for insubordination and insanity. So he decided to go all in.
    
  "It's a wonderful story, sir. But unfortunately, in two weeks, when someone whose name isn't Ziegler takes over the store at a creditors' meeting, this whole tradition will be considered crap."
    
  The store owner raised an accusing finger, ready to chastise Paul for his remarks, but then remembered his situation and collapsed into a chair. His debts had been piling up since the crisis began-debts that, unlike so many others, hadn't simply vanished in a cloud of smoke. The silver lining of all this madness-for some-was that those with mortgages with annual interest rates were able to pay them off quickly, given the wild fluctuations in interest rates. Unfortunately, those like Ziegler, who had donated a portion of their income rather than a fixed sum of cash, could only end up losing.
    
  "I don"t understand, Paul. How will this save my business?"
    
  The young man brought him a glass of water, then showed him an article he'd torn out of yesterday's newspaper. Paul had read it so many times that the ink was smudged in places. "It's an article by a university professor. He says that in times like these, when people can't rely on money, we should look to the past. To a time when there was no money. To exchange."
    
  "But..."
    
  "Please, sir, give me a moment. Unfortunately, no one can exchange a bedside table or three bottles of liquor for other things, and the pawnshops are full. So we must take refuge in promises. In the form of dividends."
    
  "I don"t understand," said the shop owner, his head starting to spin.
    
  "Stocks, Herr Ziegler. The stock market will grow out of this. Stocks will replace money. And we will sell them."
    
  Ziegler gave up.
    
  Paul barely slept for the next five nights. Convincing the tradesmen-carpenters, plasterers, cabinetmakers-to take their groceries for free that Friday in exchange for weekend work wasn't difficult at all. In fact, some were so grateful that Paul had to offer his handkerchief several times.
    
  We must be in a real pickle when a burly plumber bursts into tears when you offer him a sausage in exchange for an hour's work, he thought. The main difficulty was bureaucracy, but even in this regard, Paul was lucky. He studied the guidelines and instructions conveyed to him by government officials until he could hear the bullet points. His greatest fear was that he would stumble upon some phrase that would shatter all his hopes. After filling pages of notes in a small book outlining the steps that needed to be taken, the requirements for establishing Ziegler Bank boiled down to two:
    
  1) The director had to be a German citizen over twenty-one years of age.
    
  2) A guarantee of half a million German marks had to be deposited in the town hall offices.
    
  The first was simple: Herr Ziegler would be director, although it was already perfectly clear to Paul that he should remain locked in his office for as long as possible. As for the second... a year earlier, half a million marks would have been an astronomical sum, a way to ensure that only solvent people could start a business based on trust. Today, half a million marks was a joke.
    
  "Nobody updated the drawing!" Paul shouted, jumping around the workshop, frightening the carpenters who had already begun ripping shelves off the walls.
    
  I wonder if government employees wouldn't prefer a couple of drumsticks, Paul thought with amusement. At least they could find some use for them.
    
    
  23
    
    
  The truck was open, and the people riding in the back had no protection from the night air.
    
  Almost all of them were silent, focused on what was about to happen. Their brown shirts barely protected them from the cold, but it didn't matter, since they would soon be on their way.
    
  Jürgen squatted down and began pounding the metal floor of the truck with his club. He'd picked up this habit during his first foray, when his comrades still regarded him with some skepticism. The Sturmabteilung, or SA-the Nazi Party's "storm troopers"-were made up of hardened former soldiers, men from the lower classes who could barely read a paragraph without stuttering. Their first reaction to the appearance of this elegant young man-the son of a baron, no less!-was refusal. And when Jürgen first used the truck's floor as a drum, one of his comrades gave him the finger.
    
  "Sending a telegram to the Baroness, eh, boy?"
    
  The rest laughed evilly.
    
  That night, he felt ashamed. But tonight, as he began to fall to the floor, everyone else quickly followed. At first, the rhythm was slow, measured, distinct, the beats perfectly synchronized. But as the truck approached its destination, a hotel near the central train station, the rumble intensified until it became deafening, the roar filling them all with adrenaline.
    
  Jürgen smiled. It hadn't been easy to win their trust, but now he felt like he had them all in the palm of his hand. When, almost a year earlier, he'd heard Adolf Hitler speak for the first time and insisted that the party secretary register his membership in the National Socialist German Workers' Party on the spot, Krohn had been delighted. But when, a few days later, Jürgen applied to join the SA, that delight turned to disappointment.
    
  "What the hell do you have in common with those brown gorillas?" You're smart; you could have a career in politics. And that eye patch... If you spread the right rumors, it could become your calling card. We could say you lost an eye defending the Ruhr."
    
  The baron's son paid him no attention. He joined the SA impulsively, but there was a certain subconscious logic to his actions. He was drawn to the brutality inherent in the paramilitary wing of the Nazis, their pride as a group, and the impunity for violence it afforded them. A group he didn't fit into from the start, where he was the target of insults and ridicule, like "Baron Cyclops" and "One-Eyed Pansy."
    
  Intimidated, Jurgen abandoned the gangster attitude he'd adopted toward his school friends. They were genuine tough guys, and they would have immediately closed ranks if he'd tried to achieve anything by force. Instead, he gradually earned their respect, demonstrating a lack of remorse every time he encountered them or their enemies.
    
  The screeching of brakes drowned out the furious sound of the batons. The truck stopped abruptly.
    
  "Get out! Get out!"
    
  The stormtroopers crowded into the back of the truck. Then twenty pairs of black boots stomped across the wet cobblestones. One of the stormtroopers slipped in a puddle of muddy water, and Jurgen quickly offered him a hand to help him up. He'd learned that such gestures would earn him points.
    
  The building across from them had no name, only the word "T AVERN" painted above the door, with a red Bavarian hat painted next to it. The place was often used as a meeting place by the Communist Party branch, and at that very moment, one such meeting was drawing to a close. More than thirty people were inside, listening to a speech. Hearing the screech of a truck's brakes, some of them looked up, but it was too late. The tavern had no back door.
    
  The stormtroopers entered in orderly ranks, making as much noise as possible. The waiter hid behind the counter in terror, while the first arrivals snatched beer glasses and plates from the tables and hurled them at the counter, the mirror above it, and the shelves of bottles.
    
  "What are you doing?" asked a short man, presumably the tavern owner.
    
  "We've come to disperse an illegal gathering," said the SA platoon commander, stepping forward with an inappropriate smile.
    
  "You don"t have the authority!"
    
  The platoon leader raised his baton and struck the man in the stomach. He fell to the ground with a groan. The leader gave him a couple more kicks before turning to his men.
    
  "Fall together!"
    
  Jürgen immediately moved forward. He always did this, only to step back cautiously to allow someone else to lead the charge-or take a bullet or a blade. Firearms were now banned in Germany-this Germany whose teeth had been extracted by the Allies-but many war veterans still had their service pistols or weapons they had captured from the enemy.
    
  Forming shoulder to shoulder, the stormtroopers advanced toward the back of the tavern. Terrified, the communists began throwing everything they could get their hands on at their enemy. A man walking next to Jurgen was hit in the face with a glass jug. He staggered, but those behind him caught him, and another stepped forward to take his place in the front line.
    
  "You sons of bitches! Go suck your Fuhrer's dick!" shouted a young man in a leather cap, lifting a bench.
    
  The stormtroopers were less than three meters away, within easy reach of any furniture thrown at them, so Jurgen chose that moment to feign a stumble. The man stepped forward and stood at the front.
    
  Just in time. The benches flew across the room, a groan rang out, and the man who had just taken Jurgen's place collapsed forward, his head split open.
    
  "Ready?" the platoon commander shouted. "For Hitler and Germany!"
    
  "Hitler and Germany!" the others shouted in chorus.
    
  The two groups charged at each other like children playing a game. Jurgen dodged a giant in a mechanic's overalls who was heading toward him, hitting his knees as he passed. The mechanic fell, and those standing behind Jurgen began beating him mercilessly.
    
  Jurgen continued his advance. He leaped over an overturned chair and kicked a table, which slammed into the thigh of an elderly man wearing glasses. He fell to the floor, taking the table with him. He still held some scribbled scraps of paper in his hand, so the baron's son concluded that this must be the speaker they had come to interrupt. He didn't care. He didn't even know the old man's name.
    
  Jurgen headed straight towards him, trying to step on him with both feet as he made his way to his real target.
    
  A young man in a leather cap fought off two stormtroopers using one of the benches. The first man attempted to flank him, but the young man tipped the bench toward him and managed to hit him in the neck, knocking him down. The other man swung his baton, trying to catch the man off guard, but the young communist dodged and managed to elbow the stormtrooper in the kidney. As he doubled over, writhing in pain, the man broke the bench over his back.
    
  So this one knows how to fight, thought the baron's son.
    
  Normally he would have left the strongest opponents to be dealt with by someone else, but something about this thin, sunken-eyed young man offended Jurgen.
    
  He looked at Jurgen defiantly.
    
  "Then go ahead, Nazi whore. Afraid of breaking a nail?"
    
  Jurgen sucked in a breath, but he was too cunning to let the insult affect him. He counterattacked.
    
  "I'm not surprised you're so into reds, you skinny little shit. That Karl Marx beard looks just like your mother's ass."
    
  The young man's face lit up with rage and, lifting the remains of the bench, he rushed at Jurgen.
    
  Jurgen stood sideways to his attacker and waited for the attack. When the man lunged at him, Jurgen moved aside, and the communist fell to the floor, losing his cap. Jurgen hit him three times in a row with his baton on the back-not very hard, but enough to knock him out of breath, but still allowing him to kneel. The young man tried to crawl away, which was exactly what Jurgen was after. He pulled his right leg back and kicked him hard. The toe of his boot caught the man in the stomach, lifting him more than half a meter off the ground. He fell backward, struggling to breathe.
    
  Jurgen grinned and lunged at the communist. His ribs cracked under the blows, and when Jurgen stood on his arm, it snapped like a dry twig.
    
  Grabbing the young man by the hair, Jurgen forced him to stand up.
    
  "Try saying now what you said about the Fuhrer, you communist scum!"
    
  "Go to hell!" the boy muttered.
    
  "You still want to say such nonsense?" Jurgen shouted incredulously.
    
  Grabbing the boy's hair even tighter, he raised the club and aimed it at his victim's mouth.
    
  One day.
    
  Twice.
    
  Three times.
    
  The boy's teeth were nothing more than a pile of bloody remains on the tavern's wooden floor, and his face was swollen. In an instant, the aggression that had fueled Jurgen's muscles ceased. He finally understood why he had chosen this man.
    
  There was something of his cousin about him.
    
  He let go of the communist's hair and watched as he fell limply to the floor.
    
  He doesn't look like anyone else, Jurgen thought.
    
  He looked up and saw that the fighting had ceased all around him. The only ones left standing were the stormtroopers, who watched him with a mixture of approval and fear.
    
  "Let"s get out of here!" the platoon commander shouted.
    
  Back in the truck, a stormtrooper Jurgen had never seen before and who wasn't traveling with them sat down next to him. The baron's son barely glanced at his companion. After such a brutal episode, he usually sank into a state of melancholy isolation and didn't like being disturbed. That's why he growled in displeasure when the other man spoke to him in a low voice.
    
  "What is your name?"
    
  "Jurgen von Schroeder," he answered reluctantly.
    
  "So it"s you. They told me about you. I came here today specifically to meet you. My name is Julius Schreck."
    
  Jurgen noticed subtle differences in the man's uniform. He wore a skull and crossbones emblem and a black tie.
    
  "To meet me? Why?"
    
  "I'm creating a special group... people with courage, skill, and intelligence. Without any bourgeois scruples."
    
  "How do you know I have these things?"
    
  "I saw you in action back there. You acted smart, unlike all the other cannon fodder. And, of course, there's the matter of your family. Your presence on our team would give us prestige. It would distinguish us from the rabble."
    
  "What do you want?"
    
  "I want you to join my support group. The SA elite, who answer only to the Führer."
    
    
  24
    
    
  Alice had been having a terrible night ever since she spotted Paul at the other end of the cabaret club. It was the last place she expected to find him. She looked again, just to be sure, as the lights and smoke might have led to some confusion, but her eyes didn't deceive her.
    
  What the hell is he doing here?
    
  Her first impulse was to hide the Kodak behind her back in shame, but she couldn't stay that way for long because the camera and flash were too heavy.
    
  Besides, I work. Damn it, that's something I should be proud of.
    
  "Hey, nice body! Take a picture of me, beauty!"
    
  Alice smiled, raised the flash-on a long stick-and pulled the trigger, so it fired without using a single roll of film. Two drunks, blocking her view of Paul's tables, toppled over. Though she had to recharge the flash with magnesium powder from time to time, it was still the most effective way to get rid of those bothering her.
    
  A crowd of people fussed around her on evenings like this one, when she had to take two or three hundred photographs of BeldaKlub's patrons. After they were taken, the owner would select half a dozen to hang on the wall by the entrance, shots showing the patrons enjoying themselves with the club's dancing girls. According to the owner, the best photos were taken early in the morning, when you could often see the most notorious spendthrifts drinking champagne from women's shoes. Alice hated the whole place: the loud music, the sequined costumes, the provocative songs, the alcohol, and the people who consumed it in enormous quantities. But that was her job.
    
  She hesitated before approaching Paul. She felt she looked unattractive in her dark blue thrift-store suit and the small hat that didn't quite suit her, yet she continued to attract losers like a magnet. She'd long since concluded that men enjoyed being the center of her attention, and she decided to use this fact to break the ice with Paul. She still felt shame over the way her father had kicked him out of the house and a little uneasy about the lie she'd been told about him keeping the money for himself.
    
  I'll play a trick on him. I'll approach him with a camera covering my face, I'll take a photo, and then I'll reveal who I am. I'm sure he'll be pleased.
    
  She set off on her journey with a smile.
    
  Eight months earlier, Alice was on the streets looking for work.
    
  Unlike Paul, her search wasn't desperate, as she had enough money to last her a few months. Still, it was hard. The only work available to women-called out on street corners or whispered about in back rooms-was as prostitutes or mistresses, and that was a path Alice was not prepared to take under any circumstances.
    
  Not this, and I won't go home either, she swore.
    
  She considered traveling to another city: Hamburg, Dusseldorf, Berlin. However, the news coming from those places was as bad as what was happening in Munich, or even worse. And there was something-perhaps the hope of meeting a certain person again-that kept her going. But as her reserves dwindled, Alice sank deeper and deeper into despair. And then one afternoon, while strolling along Agnesstrasse in search of a tailor shop she'd been told about, Alice saw an ad in a shop window: Assistant Wanted
    
  Women do not need to use
    
  She didn't even check what kind of business it was. She indignantly threw open the door and approached the only person behind the counter: a thin, elderly man with dramatically thinning gray hair.
    
  "Good afternoon, Fraulein."
    
  "Good afternoon. I"m here about work."
    
  The little man looked at her intently.
    
  "May I venture to guess that you actually can read, Fraulein?"
    
  "Yes, although I always have difficulty with any nonsense."
    
  At these words, the man's face changed. His mouth stretched into a cheerful crease, revealing a pleasant smile, followed by laughter. "You're hired!"
    
  Alice looked at him, completely bewildered. She'd walked into the establishment ready to confront the owner about his ridiculous sign, thinking all she'd achieve was make a fool of herself.
    
  "Surprised?"
    
  "Yes, I"m quite surprised."
    
  "You see, Fräulein..."
    
  "Alys Tannenbaum."
    
  "August Münz," the man said with an elegant bow. "You see, Fraulein Tannenbaum, I put up this sign so that a woman like you would respond. The job I'm offering requires technical skill, presence of mind, and, above all, a fair amount of chutzpah. It seems you possess the latter two qualities, and the former can be learned, especially given my own experience..."
    
  "And you don"t mind that I..."
    
  "Jewish? You'll soon realize I'm not very traditional, my dear."
    
  "What exactly do you want me to do?" Alice asked suspiciously.
    
  "Isn't it obvious?" the man said, gesturing around him. Alice looked at the store for the first time and saw that it was a photo studio. "Take photos."
    
  Although Paul changed with each job he took, Alice was completely transformed by hers. The young woman instantly fell in love with photography. She had never been behind a camera before, but once she learned the basics, she realized she wanted nothing else in life. She especially loved the darkroom, where chemicals mixed in trays. She couldn't take her eyes off the image as it began to appear on the paper, as features and faces became distinct.
    
  She, too, hit it off with the photographer right away. Although the sign on the door read "MUNTZ AND SONS," Alice soon discovered they had no sons and never would. August lived in an apartment above a store with a frail, pale young man he called "my nephew Ernst." Alice spent long evenings playing backgammon with the two of them, and eventually her smile returned.
    
  There was only one aspect of the job she didn't like, and that was precisely what August had hired her for. The owner of a nearby cabaret club-August confided to Alice that the man was his former lover-offered a handsome sum of money to have a photographer there three nights a week.
    
  "He'd like it to be me, of course. But I think it would be better if it was a pretty girl... someone who wouldn't let anyone bully her," Augusta said with a wink.
    
  The club owner was delighted. Photos posted outside his establishment helped spread the word about BeldaKlub, until it became one of Munich's most vibrant nightlife spots. Sure, it couldn't compare to the likes of Berlin, but in these dark times, any business based on alcohol and sex was destined to succeed. Rumors spread that many customers would spend their entire paychecks in five frantic hours before resorting to a trigger, a rope, or a bottle of pills.
    
  As Alice approached Paul, she believed he wouldn't be one of those clients out for one last fling.
    
  No doubt he came with a friend. Or out of curiosity, she thought. After all, everyone came to BeldaKlub these days, even if it was just to spend hours sipping a single beer. The bartenders were understanding, and they were known to accept engagement rings in exchange for a couple of pints.
    
  Moving closer, she held the camera up to her face. There were five people at the table, two men and three women. On the tablecloth were several half-empty or overturned bottles of champagne and a pile of food, almost untouched.
    
  "Hey, Paul! You should pose for posterity!" said the man standing next to Alice.
    
  Paul looked up. He was wearing a black tuxedo that sat ill on his shoulders and a bow tie that was unbuttoned and hanging over his shirt. When he spoke, his voice was hoarse, his words slurred.
    
  "Did you hear that, girls? Put a smile on those faces."
    
  The two women flanking Paul wore silver evening gowns and matching hats. One of them grabbed his chin, forced him to look at her, and gave him a sloppy French kiss just as the shutter clicked. The surprised recipient returned the kiss and then burst into laughter.
    
  "See? They really do put a smile on your face!" his friend said, bursting into laughter.
    
  Alice was shocked to see this, and Kodak almost slipped from her hands. She felt sick. This drunkard, just another one of those she'd despised night after night for weeks, was so far removed from her image of a shy coal miner that Alice couldn't believe it was really Paul.
    
  And yet it happened.
    
  Through the alcoholic haze, the young man suddenly recognized her and rose unsteadily to his feet.
    
  "Alice!"
    
  The man who was with him turned to her and raised his glass.
    
  "Do you know each other?"
    
  "I thought I knew him," Alice said coldly.
    
  "Excellent! Then you should know that your friend is the most successful banker in Isartor... We sell more shares than any other bank that has appeared recently! I am his proud accountant.
    
  ... Come on, have a toast with us."
    
  Alice felt a wave of contempt run through her. She'd heard all about the new banks. Almost all the establishments that had opened in recent months had been founded by young people, and scores of students flocked to the club every night to blow their earnings on champagne and prostitutes before the money finally lost its value.
    
  "When my father told me you took the money, I didn't believe him. How wrong I was. Now I see that's the only thing you care about," she said, turning away.
    
  "Alice, wait..." the young man muttered, embarrassed. He stumbled around the table and tried to grab her hand.
    
  Alice turned and slapped him, a blow that rang like a bell. Though Paul tried to save himself by clinging to the tablecloth, he toppled over and found himself on the floor under a hail of broken bottles and the laughter of three chorus girls.
    
  "By the way," Alice said as she left, "in that tuxedo you still look like a waiter."
    
  Paul used the chair to rise, just in time to see Alice's back disappear into the crowd. His accountant friend was now leading the girls onto the dance floor. Suddenly, someone's hand grabbed Paul tightly and pulled him back into the chair.
    
  "Looks like you patted her the wrong way, huh?"
    
  The man who helped him seemed vaguely familiar.
    
  "Who the hell are you?"
    
  "I'm your father's friend, Paul. The one who right now is wondering if you're worthy of his name."
    
  "What do you know about my father?"
    
  The man took out a business card and put it in the inside pocket of Paul's tuxedo.
    
  "Come to me when you sober up."
    
    
  25
    
    
  Paul looked up from the postcard and stared at the sign above the bookstore, still unsure what he was doing there.
    
  The shop was just a few steps from Marienplatz, in the tiny center of Munich. It was here that the butchers and peddlers of Schwabing had given way to watchmakers, milliners, and cane shops. Next to Keller's establishment, there was even a small cinema showing F.W. Murnau's Nosferatu, more than a year after its original release. It was midday, and they must have been halfway through the second showing. Paul imagined the projectionist in his booth, changing worn-out film reels one after another. He felt sorry for him. He had slipped in to see this film-the first and only film he had ever seen-at the cinema next to the boarding house, when it was the talk of the town. He hadn't much enjoyed the thinly veiled adaptation of Bram Stoker's Dracula. For him, the true emotion of the story lay in its words and silences, in the white that surrounded the black letters on the page. The cinematic version seemed too simple, like a puzzle consisting of only two pieces.
    
  Paul entered the bookstore cautiously, but soon forgot his apprehension as he studied the volumes neatly arranged on floor-to-ceiling bookcases and large tables by the window. There was no counter in sight.
    
  He was leafing through the first edition of Death in Venice when he heard a voice behind him.
    
  "Thomas Mann is a good choice, but I'm sure you've read him already."
    
  Paul turned around. There was Keller, smiling at him. His hair was pure white, he wore an old-fashioned goatee, and every now and then he scratched his large ears, drawing even more attention to them. Paul felt he knew the man, though he couldn't say where.
    
  "Yes, I read it, but in a hurry. Someone at the boarding house where I live lent it to me. Books don't usually stay in my hands for long, no matter how much I want to reread them."
    
  "Ah. But don't reread, Paul. You're too young, and people who reread tend to become too quickly filled with inadequate wisdom. For now, you should read everything you can, as widely as possible. Only when you reach my age will you realize that rereading isn't a waste of time."
    
  Paul looked at him again carefully. Keller was well into his fifties, though his back was as straight as a stick, and his body was trim in an old-fashioned three-piece suit. His white hair gave him a respectable appearance, though Paul suspected it might have been dyed. Suddenly, he realized where he'd seen this man before.
    
  "You were at Jurgen"s birthday party four years ago."
    
  "You have a good memory, Paul."
    
  "You told me to leave as soon as I could... that she was waiting outside," Paul said sadly.
    
  "I remember you saving a girl with absolute clarity, right in the middle of the ballroom. I've had my moments in my time too... and my flaws, though I've never made a mistake as big as the one I saw you make yesterday, Paul."
    
  "Don't remind me. How the hell was I supposed to know she was there? It's been two years since I last saw her!"
    
  "Well then, I guess the real question here is: what the hell were you doing getting drunk like a sailor?"
    
  Paul shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the other. He felt awkward discussing these matters with a complete stranger, yet at the same time he felt a strange sense of calm in the bookseller's company.
    
  "In any case," Keller continued, "I don"t want to torment you, since the bags under your eyes and the pale face tell me that you have tormented yourself enough already."
    
  "You said you wanted to talk to me about my father," Paul said anxiously.
    
  "No, that"s not what I said. I said you should come and see me."
    
  "Then why?"
    
  This time it was Keller's turn to remain silent. He led Paul to a display case and pointed to St. Michael's Church, directly across from the bookstore. A bronze plaque depicting the Wittelsbach family tree towered above the statue of the archangel who gave the building its name. In the afternoon sun, the statue's shadows were long and menacing.
    
  "Look... three and a half centuries of splendor. And this is just a short prologue. In 1825, Ludwig I decided to transform our city into a new Athens. Alleys and boulevards full of light, space, and harmony. Now look a little lower, Paul."
    
  Beggars had gathered at the church door, lining up for the soup the parish distributed at sunset. The line had only just begun to form, and it already stretched further than Paul could see from the store window. He wasn't surprised to see war veterans still in their shabby uniforms, banned almost five years ago. Nor was he shocked by the appearance of the vagrants, their faces etched with poverty and drunkenness. What really surprised him was seeing dozens of grown men dressed in shabby suits but with perfectly pressed shirts, none of whom showed any sign of a coat, despite the strong wind that June evening.
    
  The coat of a family man who has to go out every day to find bread for his children is always one of the last things to be pawned, thought Paul, nervously shoving his hands into his own coat pockets. He'd bought the coat secondhand, surprised to find such good quality fabric for the price of a medium-sized cheese.
    
  Just like a tuxedo.
    
  "Five years after the fall of the monarchy: terror, street killings, hunger, poverty. Which version of Munich do you prefer, boy?"
    
  "Real, I suppose."
    
  Keller looked at him, obviously pleased with his answer. Paul noticed his attitude shift slightly, as if the question were a test for something much greater yet to come.
    
  "I met Hans Reiner many years ago. I don"t remember the exact date, but I think it was around 1895, because he went into a bookstore and bought a copy of Verne"s Carpathian Castle, which had just come out."
    
  "Did he also love to read?" Paul asked, unable to hide his emotions. He knew so little about the man who had given him life that any glimmer of resemblance filled him with a mixture of pride and confusion, like an echo of another time. He felt a blind need to trust the bookseller, to extract from his mind any trace of the father he could never have met.
    
  "He was a real bookworm! Your father and I talked for a couple of hours that first day. In those days, that took a long time, since my bookstore was full from opening to closing, not deserted like it is now. We discovered common interests, like poetry. Although he was very intelligent, he was rather slow with words and admired what people like Holderlin and Rilke were capable of. Once, he even asked me to help him with a short poem he wrote for your mother."
    
  "I remember her telling me about that poem," Paul said sullenly, "though she never let me read it."
    
  "Perhaps it is still among your father"s papers?" the bookseller suggested.
    
  "Unfortunately, what little we had was left in the house where we used to live. We had to leave in a hurry."
    
  "It's a shame. In any case... every time he came to Munich, we spent interesting evenings together. That's how I first heard about the Grand Lodge of the Rising Sun."
    
  "What is this?"
    
  The bookseller lowered his voice.
    
  "Do you know who the Freemasons are, Paul?"
    
  The young man looked at him in surprise.
    
  "The newspapers write that they are a powerful secret sect."
    
  "Ruled by Jews who control the fate of the world?" Keller said, his voice full of irony. "I've heard that story many times too, Paul. Especially these days, when people are looking for someone to blame for all the bad things that happen."
    
  "So, what is the truth?"
    
  "The Freemasons are a secret society, not a sect, made up of select individuals who strive for enlightenment and the triumph of morality in the world."
    
  "By 'chosen' you mean 'powerful'?"
    
  "No. These people choose for themselves. No Mason is allowed to ask a layman to become a Mason. It is the layman who must ask, just as I asked your father to grant me admission to the lodge."
    
  "My father was a Freemason?" Paul asked, surprised.
    
  "Wait a minute," Keller said. He locked the shop door, flipped the sign to CLOSED, and then went into the back room. Upon returning, he showed Paul an old studio photograph. It depicted a young Hans Reiner, Keller, and three other men Paul didn't know, all staring intently at the camera. Their frozen pose was typical of turn-of-the-century photography, when models had to remain still for at least a minute to prevent blurring. One of the men held a strange symbol that Paul remembered seeing years ago in his uncle's office: a square and a pair of compasses facing each other, with a large "L" in the middle.
    
  "Your father was the keeper of the temple of the Grand Lodge of the Rising Sun. The keeper ensures that the door to the temple is closed before work begins... In layman's terms, before the ritual begins."
    
  "I thought you said it had nothing to do with religion."
    
  "As Masons, we believe in a supernatural being whom we call the Great Architect of the Universe. That's all there is to dogma. Each Mason reveres the Great Architect as he sees fit. In my lodge, there are Jews, Catholics, and Protestants, although we don't speak of this openly. Two topics are forbidden in the lodge: religion and politics."
    
  "Did the lodge have anything to do with my father"s death?"
    
  The bookseller paused for a moment before answering.
    
  "I don't know much about his death, except that what you were told is a lie. The day I last saw him, he sent me a message, and we met near a bookstore. We spoke hurriedly, in the middle of the street. He told me he was in danger and that he feared for your life and the life of your mother. Two weeks later, I heard rumors that his ship had sunk in the colonies."
    
  Paul considered telling Keller about his cousin Eduard's last words, about the night his father visited the Schroeder mansion, and about the gunshot Eduard had heard, but he decided against it. He'd pondered the evidence, but couldn't find anything convincing to prove his uncle was responsible for his father's disappearance. Deep down, he believed there was something to the idea, but until he was completely sure, he didn't want to share the burden with anyone.
    
  "He also asked me to give you something when you were old enough. I've been looking for you for months," Keller continued.
    
  Paul felt his heart turn over.
    
  "What is this?"
    
  "I don"t know, Paul."
    
  "Well, what are you waiting for? Give her to me!" Paul said, almost shouting.
    
  The bookseller gave Paul a cold look, making it clear that he didn't like people giving him orders in his own home.
    
  "Do you think you're worthy of your father's legacy, Paul? The man I saw the other day at BeldaKlub seemed like nothing more than a drunken lout."
    
  Paul opened his mouth to respond, to tell this man about the hunger and cold he'd endured when they'd been thrown out of the Schroeder mansion. About the exhaustion of lugging coal up and down damp stairs. About the despair of having nothing, knowing that despite all the obstacles, you still had to continue your quest. About the temptation of the frigid waters of the Isar. But in the end, he repented, because what he'd endured didn't give him the right to behave as he had in the previous weeks.
    
  If anything, it made him feel even more guilty.
    
  "Herr Keller... if I belonged to a lodge, would that make me more worthy?"
    
  "If you asked for it with all your heart, that would be a start. But I assure you, it won't be easy, even for someone like you."
    
  Paul swallowed before answering.
    
  "Then I humbly ask for your help. I want to be a Mason like my father."
    
    
  26
    
    
  Alice finished moving the paper around in the developing tray, then placed it in the fixing solution. Looking at the image, she felt strange. On the one hand, I'm proud of the technical perfection of the photograph. The gesture of that whore as she held onto Paul. The glint in her eyes, his half-closed ones... The details made it feel like she could almost touch the scene, but despite her professional pride, the image ate away at Alice from the inside.
    
  Lost in her thoughts in the dark room, she barely noticed the ringing of the bell announcing a new customer. However, she looked up when she heard a familiar voice. She peered through the red glass viewing hole, which afforded a clear view of the store, and her eyes confirmed what her ears and heart were telling her.
    
  "Good afternoon," Paul called again, approaching the counter.
    
  Realizing that the stock trading business could prove extremely short-lived, Paul was still living in a boarding house with his mother, so he made a long detour to stop by Münz & Sons. He got the address of the photo studio from one of the club's employees, having loosened his tongue with a few banknotes.
    
  He carried a carefully wrapped package under his arm. It contained a thick black book, embossed in gold. Sebastian had told him it contained the basics any layman should know before becoming a Freemason. First Hans Rainer, then Sebastian, had been initiated with it. Paul's fingers itched to skim the lines his father had also read, but first, something more urgent had to be done.
    
  "We"re closed," the photographer told Paul.
    
  "Really? I thought it was ten minutes until closing," Paul said, glancing suspiciously at the clock on the wall.
    
  "We are closed to you."
    
  "For me?"
    
  "So you"re not Paul Rainer?"
    
  "How do you know my name?"
    
  "You fit the description. Tall, thin, glassy-eyed, handsome as the devil. There were other adjectives, but it's better if I don't repeat them."
    
  A crash came from the back room. Hearing it, Paul tried to peer over the photographer's shoulder.
    
  "Is Alice there?"
    
  "It must be a cat."
    
  "It didn"t look like a cat."
    
  "No, it sounded like an empty developing tray dropped on the floor. But Alice isn't here, so it must have been the cat."
    
  There was another crash, louder this time.
    
  "Here's another one. It's a good thing they're made of metal," said August Münz, lighting a cigarette with an elegant gesture.
    
  "You better go feed that cat. He looks hungry."
    
  "More like furious."
    
  "I can understand why," Paul said, lowering his head.
    
  "Listen, my friend, she actually left something for you."
    
  The photographer handed him a photograph face down. Paul turned it over and saw a slightly blurry photo taken in a park.
    
  "This is a woman sleeping on a bench in an English garden."
    
  August took a deep drag on his cigarette.
    
  "The day she took this photo... it was her first solo walk. I"d lent her my camera so she could explore the city, looking for an image that would move me. She was strolling through the park, like all newcomers. Suddenly, she noticed this woman sitting on a bench, and Alice was drawn to her calm. She took a photo and then went to thank her. The woman didn"t respond, and when Alice touched her shoulder, she fell to the ground."
    
  "She was dead," Paul said in horror, suddenly realizing the truth of what he was looking at.
    
  "Died of hunger," Augustus replied, taking a final drag, then stubbed out the cigarette in the ashtray.
    
  Paul gripped the counter for a moment, his gaze fixed on the photograph. He eventually handed it back.
    
  "Thank you for showing me this. Please tell Alice that if she comes to this address the day after tomorrow," he said, taking a piece of paper and a pencil from the counter and making a note, "she'll see how well I understood."
    
  A minute after Paul left, Alice walked out of the photo lab.
    
  "I hope you didn't dent these trays. Otherwise, you'll be the one who gets them back into shape."
    
  "You said too much, August. And this thing with the photo... I didn't ask you to give him anything."
    
  "He's in love with you."
    
  "How do you know?"
    
  "I know a lot about men in love. Especially how hard it is to find them."
    
  "Things started badly between us," Alice said, shaking her head.
    
  "So what? The day begins at midnight, in the midst of darkness. From that moment on, everything becomes light."
    
    
  27
    
    
  There was a huge line at the entrance to Ziegler Bank.
    
  Last night, as she went to bed in the room she'd rented near the studio, Alice had decided she wasn't going to see Paul. She repeated this to herself as she got ready, tried on her hat collection (which consisted of only two), and sat down in the cart she usually didn't use. She was completely surprised to find herself standing in line at the bank.
    
  As she approached, she noticed there were actually two lines. One led into the bank, the other to the entrance next door. People emerged from the second door with smiles on their faces, carrying bags filled with sausages, bread, and huge stalks of celery.
    
  Paul was in the establishment next door with another man who was weighing vegetables and ham and serving his customers. Seeing Alice, Paul pushed his way through the crowd of people waiting to get into the store.
    
  "The tobacconist's shop next to us had to close when business went under. We reopened it and converted it into another grocery store for Herr Ziegler. He's a lucky man."
    
  "People are happy too, as far as I can see."
    
  "We sell goods at cost, and we sell on credit to all bank clients. We eat up every last penny of our profits, but workers and pensioners-everyone who can't keep up with the ridiculous rate of inflation-are all very grateful to us. Today, the dollar is worth over three million marks."
    
  "You're losing a fortune."
    
  Paul shrugged.
    
  "We'll be distributing soup to those in need in the evenings, starting next week. It won't be like the Jesuits, because we only have enough for five hundred servings, but we already have a group of volunteers."
    
  Alice looked at him, her eyes narrowed.
    
  "Are you doing all this for me?"
    
  "I"m doing this because I can. Because it"s the right thing to do. Because I was moved by the photo of the woman in the park. Because this city is going to hell. And yes, because I acted like an idiot, and I want you to forgive me."
    
  "I"ve already forgiven you," she replied as she left.
    
  "Then why are you going?" he asked, throwing up his hands in disbelief.
    
  "Because I"m still mad at you!"
    
  Paul was about to run after her, but Alice turned around and smiled at him.
    
  "But you can come and pick me up tomorrow evening and see if it"s gone."
    
    
  28
    
    
  "So I believe you are ready to begin this journey where your worth will be tested. Bend over."
    
  Paul obeyed, and the man in the suit pulled a thick black hood over his head. With a sharp tug, he adjusted the two leather straps around Paul's neck.
    
  "Do you see anything?"
    
  "No".
    
  Paul's own voice sounded strange inside the hood, and the sounds around him seemed to come from another world.
    
  "There are two holes in the back. If you need more air, pull it away from your neck slightly."
    
  "Thank you".
    
  "Now, wrap your right arm tightly around my left. We will cover a great distance together. It"s crucial that you move forward when I tell you to, without hesitation. There"s no need to rush, but you must listen carefully to your instructions. At certain points, I will tell you to walk with one foot in front of the other. At other times, I will tell you to lift your knees to go up or down stairs. Are you ready?"
    
  Paul nodded.
    
  "Answer the questions loudly and clearly."
    
  "I'm ready".
    
  "Let's get started."
    
  Paul moved slowly, grateful to finally be able to move. He'd spent the previous half hour answering questions from the man in the suit, even though he'd never seen the man before. He knew the answers he should have given beforehand, because they were all in the book Keller had given him three weeks ago.
    
  "Should I learn them by heart?" he asked the bookseller.
    
  "These formulas are part of a ritual that we must preserve and respect. You will soon discover that initiation ceremonies and the way they change you are an important aspect of Freemasonry."
    
  "There are more than one?"
    
  "There's one for each of the three degrees: Accepted Apprentice, Fellow Craftsman, and Master Mason. After the third degree, there are thirty more, but these are honorary degrees that you'll learn about when the time comes."
    
  "What is your degree, Herr Keller?"
    
  The bookseller ignored his question.
    
  "I want you to read the book and study its contents carefully."
    
  Paul did just that. The book tells the story of the origins of Freemasonry: the builders' guilds of the Middle Ages, and before them, the mythical builders of Ancient Egypt: all of them discovered the wisdom inherent in the symbols of construction and geometry. You must always spell this word with a capital G, because G is the symbol of the Great Architect of the Universe. How you choose to worship it is up to you. In the lodge, the only stone you will work is your conscience and everything you carry within it. Your brothers will give you the tools for this after initiation... if you pass the four trials.
    
  "Will it be difficult?"
    
  "Are you afraid?"
    
  "No. Well, just a little."
    
  "It will be difficult," the bookseller admitted after a moment. "But you are brave, and you will be well prepared."
    
  No one had yet challenged Paul's courage, though the trials hadn't begun. He was summoned to an alley in the Altstadt, the city's old town, at nine o'clock on a Friday evening. From the outside, the meeting place looked like an ordinary house, though perhaps rather run-down. A rusty mailbox with an illegible name hung next to the doorbell, but the lock appeared new and well-oiled. A man in a suit approached the door alone and led Paul into a hallway cluttered with various pieces of wooden furniture. It was there that Paul underwent his first ritual interrogation.
    
  Beneath the black hood, Paul wondered where Keller might be. He assumed the bookseller, his only connection to the lodge, would be the one to introduce him. Instead, he was greeted by a complete stranger, and he couldn't shake the feeling of vulnerability as he walked blindly, leaning on the arm of a man he'd first met half an hour earlier.
    
  After what seemed like a vast distance-he climbed up and down various flights of stairs and several long corridors-his guide finally stopped.
    
  Paul heard three loud knocks, then an unfamiliar voice asked: "Who is ringing the doorbell of the temple?"
    
  "A brother who brings a wicked man who wishes to be initiated into our secrets."
    
  "Was he properly prepared?"
    
  "He has."
    
  "What is his name?"
    
  "Paul, son of Hans Rainer."
    
  They set out again. Paul noticed the ground beneath his feet was harder and slipperier, perhaps made of stone or marble. They walked for a long time, though inside the hood, time seemed to have a different sequence. At certain moments, Paul felt-more intuitively than with any real certainty-that they were going through the same things they had been through before, as if they were walking in circles and then being forced to retrace their steps.
    
  His guide stopped again and began to unfasten the straps of Paul's hood.
    
  Paul blinked as the black cloth was pulled back, and he realized he was standing in a small, cold room with a low ceiling. The walls were completely covered in limestone, on which one could read jumbled phrases written by different hands and at different heights. Paul recognized various versions of the Masonic commandments.
    
  Meanwhile, the man in the suit removed metal objects from him, including his belt and boot buckles, which he tore off without thinking. Paul regretted remembering to bring his other shoes.
    
  "Are you wearing anything gold? Entering the lodge wearing any precious metal is a grave insult."
    
  "No, sir," Paul replied.
    
  "Over there you'll find a pen, paper, and ink," the man said. Then, without another word, he disappeared through the door, closing it behind him.
    
  A small candle illuminated the table where writing utensils lay. Next to them was a skull, and Paul realized with a shudder that it was real. There were also several flasks containing elements symbolizing change and initiation: bread and water, salt and sulfur, ashes.
    
  He was in the Room of Reflections, the place where he was supposed to write his testimony as a layman. He picked up a pen and began writing an ancient formula he didn't quite understand.
    
  This is all bad. All this symbolism, repetition... I have a feeling it's nothing more than empty words; there's no spirit in it, he thought.
    
  Suddenly, he desperately wanted to walk down Ludwigstrasse under the streetlights, his face exposed to the wind. His fear of the dark, which hadn't faded even in adulthood, crept up under his hood. They'd be back in half an hour to get him, and he could simply ask them to let him go.
    
  There was still time to turn back.
    
  But in that case, I would never have known the truth about my father.
    
    
  29
    
    
  The man in the suit returned.
    
  "I"m ready," Paul said.
    
  He knew nothing of the actual ceremony that was to follow. All he knew were the answers to the questions they asked him, nothing more. And then the time for the tests had come.
    
  His guide placed a rope around his neck, then covered his eyes again. This time, he didn't use a black hood, but a blindfold made of the same material, which he tied with three tight knots. Paul was grateful for the relief of breathing, and his sense of vulnerability eased, but only momentarily. Suddenly, the man pulled Paul's jacket off and tore off the left sleeve of his shirt. Then he unbuttoned the front of his shirt, exposing Paul's torso. Finally, he rolled up Paul's left pant leg and removed his shoe and sock.
    
  "Let"s go."
    
  They walked again. Paul felt a strange sensation as his bare sole touched the cold floor, which he was now sure was marble.
    
  "Stop!"
    
  He felt a sharp object against his chest and felt the hair on the back of his neck stand on end.
    
  "Did the applicant bring his testimony?"
    
  "He has."
    
  "Let him place it on the point of the sword."
    
  Paul raised his left hand, holding the piece of paper he'd written on in the Chamber. He carefully attached it to the sharp object.
    
  "Paul Rainer, did you come here of your own free will?"
    
  That voice... that"s Sebastian Keller! Paul thought.
    
  "Yes".
    
  "Are you ready to face the challenges?"
    
  "I," Paul said, unable to suppress a shudder.
    
  From that moment on, Paul began drifting in and out of consciousness. He understood the questions and answered them, but his fear and inability to see heightened his other senses to the point where they took over. He began breathing faster.
    
  He climbed the stairs. He tried to control his anxiety by counting his steps, but he quickly lost count.
    
  "Here begins the air test. Breath is the first thing we receive at birth!" Keller's voice boomed.
    
  A man in a suit whispered in his ear: "You're in a narrow passage. Stop. Then take one more step, but make it decisive, or you'll break your neck!"
    
  The floor obeyed. Beneath him, the surface seemed to change from marble to rough wood. Before taking the final step, he wiggled his bare toes and felt them rest on the edge of the passage. He wondered how high he could be, and in his mind, the number of steps he had climbed seemed to multiply. He imagined himself at the top of the Frauenkirche towers, hearing the cooing of pigeons around him, while below, in eternity, the bustle of Marienplatz reigned.
    
  Do it.
    
  Do it now.
    
  He took a step and lost his balance, falling headfirst in what seemed like a split second. His face hit the thick mesh, and the impact set his teeth chattering. He bit the insides of his cheeks, and his mouth filled with the taste of his own blood.
    
  When he came to, he realized he was clinging to a net. He wanted to remove the blindfold, to make sure it was true, that the net had actually softened his fall. He needed to escape the darkness.
    
  Paul barely had time to register his panic before several pairs of hands pulled him out of the net and straightened him up. He was back on his feet and walking when Keller's voice announced the next challenge.
    
  "The second test is the test of water. This is what we are, what we come from."
    
  Paul complied when he was told to lift his legs, first his left, then his right. He began to tremble. He stepped into a huge container of cold water, and the liquid reached his knees.
    
  He heard his guide whisper in his ear again.
    
  "Duck. Fill your lungs. Then allow yourself to retreat and stay underwater. Don't move or try to get out, or you'll fail the test."
    
  The young man bent his knees, curling into a ball as the water covered his scrotum and stomach. Waves of pain ran down his spine. He took a deep breath, then leaned back.
    
  The water closed over him like a blanket.
    
  At first, the dominant sensation was cold. He'd never felt anything like it. His body seemed to harden, turning to ice or stone.
    
  Then his lungs started to complain.
    
  It began with a hoarse groan, then a dry croak, and then an urgent, desperate plea. He moved his hand carelessly, and it took all his willpower not to brace his hands against the bottom of the container and push himself toward the surface, which he knew was as close as an open door through which he could escape. Just when he thought he couldn't stand it another second, there was a sharp tug, and he found himself on the surface, gasping for breath, his chest filling.
    
  They walked again. He was still soaking wet, his hair and clothes dripping. His right foot made a funny sound as his boot hit the floor.
    
  Keller's voice:
    
  "The third test is the test of fire. This is the spark of the Creator, and what drives us."
    
  Then there were hands twisting his body and pushing him forward. The one holding him moved very close, as if wanting to embrace him.
    
  "There's a circle of fire in front of you. Take three steps back to gain momentum. Stretch your arms out in front of you, then run up and jump forward as far as you can."
    
  Paul felt the hot air on his face, drying his skin and hair. He heard an ominous crackling sound, and in his imagination the burning circle grew enormous in size until it became the mouth of a huge dragon.
    
  As he took three steps back, he wondered how he'd be able to leap over the flames without burning alive, relying on his clothes to keep him dry. It would be even worse if he misjudged his jump and fell headfirst into the flames.
    
  I just have to mark an imaginary line on the floor and jump from there.
    
  He tried to visualize the jump, to imagine himself hurtling through the air as if nothing could harm him. He tensed his calves, flexed and extended his arms. Then he took three running steps forward.
    
  ...
    
  ... and jumped.
    
    
  30
    
    
  He felt the heat on his hands and face as he was in the air, even the sizzle of his shirt as the fire evaporated some of the water. He fell to the floor and began patting his face and chest, searching for signs of burns. Other than his bruised elbows and knees, there was no damage.
    
  This time they didn't even let him get to his feet. They were already lifting him like a shaking sack and dragging him into the confined space.
    
  "The final test is the test of the earth, to which we must return."
    
  There was no word of advice from his guide. He simply heard the sound of a stone blocking the entrance.
    
  He felt everything around him. He was in a tiny room, not even big enough to stand up. From his crouching position, he could touch three walls and, by extending his arm slightly, touch the fourth and the ceiling.
    
  Relax, he told himself. This is the final test. In a few minutes it will all be over.
    
  He was trying to even out his breathing when he suddenly heard the ceiling begin to descend.
    
  "No!"
    
  Before he could say the word, Paul bit his lip. He wasn't allowed to speak at any of the trials-that was the rule. He briefly wondered if they'd heard him.
    
  He tried to push off the ceiling to stop its fall, but in his current position, he couldn't resist the enormous weight bearing down on him. He pushed with all his might, but to no avail. The ceiling continued to descend, and soon he was forced to press his back against the floor.
    
  I have to scream. Tell them to STOP!
    
  Suddenly, as if time itself had stopped, a memory flashed through his mind: a fleeting image from his childhood, walking home from school with the absolute certainty that he was in for a dressing down. Every step he took brought him closer to what he feared most. He never looked back. There are options that simply aren't options at all.
    
  No.
    
  He stopped hitting the ceiling.
    
  At that moment she began to rise.
    
  "Let the voting begin."
    
  Paul was back on his feet, clinging to his guide. The tests were over, but he didn't know if he'd passed them. He'd collapsed like a stone during the air test, failing to take the decisive step they'd told him to. He'd moved during the water test, even though it was forbidden. And he'd spoken during the Earth trial, which was the gravest mistake of all.
    
  He could hear a noise like shaking a jar of rock.
    
  He knew from the book that all current lodge members would make their way to the center of the temple, where a wooden box stood. They would throw a small ivory ball into it: white if they agreed, black if they rejected it. The verdict had to be unanimous. Just one black ball would be enough to have him marched to the exit, his eyes still blindfolded.
    
  The sound of voting ceased, replaced by a loud stomping sound that ceased almost immediately. Paul assumed someone had dumped the votes onto a plate or tray. The results were there for everyone to see but him. Perhaps there would be a lone black ball, rendering all the trials he'd endured meaningless.
    
  "Paul Reiner, the vote is final and cannot be appealed," Keller's voice boomed.
    
  There was a moment of silence.
    
  "You have been admitted to the secrets of Freemasonry. Remove the blindfold from his eyes!"
    
  Paul blinked as his eyes returned to the light. A wave of emotion washed over him, a wild euphoria. He tried to take in the whole scene at once:
    
  The huge room he stood in had a checkerboard marble floor, an altar, and two rows of benches along the walls.
    
  The lodge members, nearly a hundred formally dressed men in elaborate aprons and medals, all stand and applaud him with white-gloved hands.
    
  The testing equipment, laughably harmless once his sight was restored: a wooden ladder over a net, a bathtub, two men holding torches, a large box with a lid.
    
  Sebastian Keller, standing in the center next to an altar decorated with a square and compass, holds a closed book on which he can swear.
    
  Paul Rainer then placed his left hand on the book, raised his right hand and swore never to reveal the secrets of Freemasonry.
    
  "...under the threat of having my tongue torn out, my throat cut, and my body buried in the sea sand," Paul concluded.
    
  He glanced around at the hundred anonymous faces around him and wondered how many of them knew his father.
    
  And if somewhere among them there was a person who betrayed him.
    
    
  31
    
    
  After his initiation, Paul's life returned to normal. That night, he returned home at dawn. After the ceremony, the Masonic brothers enjoyed a banquet in the next room, which lasted until the early hours of the morning. Sebastian Keller presided over the feast because, as Paul learned to his great surprise, he was the Grand Master, the highest-ranking member of the lodge.
    
  Despite all his efforts, Paul was unable to find out anything about his father, so he decided to wait a while to earn the trust of his fellow Masons before asking questions. Instead, he devoted his time to Alice.
    
  She spoke to him again, and they even went out together. They discovered they had little in common, but surprisingly, this difference seemed to bring them closer. Paul listened attentively to her story of how she ran away from her home to escape a planned marriage to his cousin. He couldn't help but admire Alice's courage.
    
  "What are you going to do next? You're not going to spend your whole life taking pictures at the club."
    
  "I like photography. I think I"ll try to get a job at an international press agency... They pay good money for photography, although it"s very competitive."
    
  In turn, he shared with Alice the story of his previous four years and how his search for the truth about what happened to Hans Reiner had become an obsession.
    
  "We make a good couple," Alice said, "you're trying to recover your father's memory, and I'm praying I never see mine again."
    
  Paul grinned from ear to ear, but not because of the comparison. She said "couple," he thought.
    
  Unfortunately for Paul, Alice was still upset about that scene with the girl at the club. When he tried to kiss her one night after walking her home, she slapped him, making his back teeth chatter.
    
  "Damn it," Paul said, holding his jaw. "What the hell is wrong with you?"
    
  "Don"t even try."
    
  "No, if you're going to give me another one of those, I won't. You obviously don't hit like a girl," he said.
    
  Alice smiled and, grabbing him by the lapels of his jacket, kissed him. An intense kiss, passionate and fleeting. Then she suddenly pushed him away and disappeared at the top of the stairs, leaving Paul confused, his lips parted as he tried to comprehend what had just happened.
    
  Paul had to fight for every little step toward reconciliation, even in matters that seemed simple and straightforward, like letting her walk through the door first-something Alice hated-or offering to carry a heavy package or pay the bill after they had a beer and a bite to eat.
    
  Two weeks after his initiation, Paul picked her up at the club around three in the morning. As they walked back to Alice's boarding house, which was nearby, he asked her why she objected to his gentlemanly behavior.
    
  "Because I'm perfectly capable of doing these things for myself. I don't need anyone to let me go first or walk me home."
    
  "But last Wednesday, when I fell asleep and didn"t come for you, you became furious."
    
  "You're so smart in some ways, Paul, and so stupid in others," she said, waving her arms. "You're getting on my nerves!"
    
  "That makes two of us."
    
  "So why don"t you stop stalking me?"
    
  "Because I"m afraid of what you"ll do if I do stop."
    
  Alice stared at him silently. The brim of her hat cast a shadow over her face, and Paul couldn't tell how she reacted to his last remark. He feared the worst. When something irritated Alice, they could go days without speaking.
    
  They reached the door of her boarding house on Stahlstrasse without exchanging another word. The absence of conversation was emphasized by the tense, hot silence that had gripped the city. Munich was bidding farewell to the hottest September in decades, a brief respite from a year of misfortune. The silence of the streets, the late hour, and Alice's mood filled Paul with a strange melancholy. He felt she was about to leave him.
    
  "You"re very quiet," she said, searching for her keys in her purse.
    
  "I was the last one to speak."
    
  "Do you think you can remain this quiet when you're climbing the stairs? My landlady has very strict rules about men, and the old cow has exceptionally good hearing."
    
  "Are you inviting me up?" Paul asked, surprised.
    
  "You can stay here if you want."
    
  Paul almost lost his hat running through the doorway.
    
  There was no elevator in the building, so they had to climb three flights of wooden stairs that creaked with every step. Alice kept close to the wall as they climbed, which made less noise, but still, as they passed the second floor, they heard footsteps inside one of the apartments.
    
  "It"s her! Forward, quickly!"
    
  Paul ran past Alice and reached the landing just before a rectangle of light appeared, outlining Alice's slender figure against the peeling paint of the stairs.
    
  "Who"s there?" asked a hoarse voice.
    
  "Hello, Frau Kasin."
    
  "Fraulein Tannenbaum. What an inopportune time to return home!"
    
  "That"s my job, Frau Kasin, as you know."
    
  "I can"t say I condone this kind of behavior."
    
  "I don"t really approve of leaks in my bathroom either, Frau Kassin, but the world is not a perfect place."
    
  At that moment, Paul moved slightly, and the tree groaned under his feet.
    
  "Is there someone up there?" the apartment owner asked indignantly.
    
  "Let me check!" Alice replied, running up the stairs that separated her from Paul and leading him to her apartment. She inserted the key into the lock and barely had time to open the door and push Paul inside when the elderly woman hobbling behind her poked her head over the top of the stairs.
    
  "I"m sure I heard someone. Do you have a man there?"
    
  "Oh, you have nothing to worry about, Frau Kasin. It's just the cat," Alice said, closing the door in her face.
    
  "Your cat trick works every time, doesn't it?" Paul whispered, hugging her and kissing her long neck. His breath was hot. She shuddered and felt goosebumps run down her left side.
    
  "I thought we were going to be interrupted again, like that day in the bath."
    
  "Stop talking and kiss me," he said, holding her by the shoulders and turning her towards him.
    
  Alice kissed him and moved closer. Then they fell onto the mattress, her body underneath his.
    
  "Stop."
    
  Paul stopped abruptly and looked at her with a shadow of disappointment and surprise on his face. But Alice slipped between his arms and moved on top of him, taking on the tedious task of stripping them both of the rest of their clothing.
    
  "What is this?"
    
  "Nothing," she replied.
    
  "You are crying."
    
  Alice hesitated for a moment. Telling him the reason for her tears would mean baring her soul, and she didn't think she could do that, even at a moment like this.
    
  "It"s just that... I"m so happy."
    
    
  32
    
    
  When he received the envelope from Sebastian Keller, Paul couldn't help but shudder.
    
  The months since his acceptance into the Masonic lodge had been frustrating. At first, there was something almost romantic about joining a secret society almost blindly, a thrill of adventure. But once the initial euphoria wore off, Paul began to question the meaning of it all. For starters, he was forbidden to speak at lodge meetings until he'd completed three years as an apprentice. But that wasn't the worst part: the worst part was performing extremely lengthy rituals that seemed a complete waste of time.
    
  Devoid of their rituals, the meetings were little more than a series of conferences and debates on Masonic symbolism and its practical application to enhancing the virtue of fellow Masons. The only part that Paul found even remotely interesting was when the participants decided which charities they would donate to with the money collected at the end of each meeting.
    
  For Paul, the meetings became a burdensome obligation, which he attended every two weeks to get to know the lodge members better. Even this goal was difficult to achieve, as the senior Masons, those who undoubtedly knew his father, sat at separate tables in the large dining hall. Sometimes he tried to get closer to Keller, hoping to pressure the bookseller into fulfilling his promise to give him everything his father had left him. In the lodge, Keller kept his distance, and in the bookstore, he dismissed Paul with vague excuses.
    
  Keller had never written to him before, and Paul knew immediately that whatever was in the brown envelope the boarding house owner had given him was what he had been waiting for.
    
  Paul sat on the edge of his bed, his breathing labored. He was certain the envelope would contain a letter from his father. He couldn't hold back his tears as he imagined what must have motivated Hans Reiner to write the message to his son, who was then only a few months old, trying to hold back his voice until his son was ready to understand.
    
  He tried to imagine what his father would have wanted to tell him. Perhaps he would have given wise advice. Perhaps he would have accepted it, given time.
    
  Perhaps he can give me clues about the person or people who were going to kill him, Paul thought, gritting his teeth.
    
  With extreme care, he tore open the envelope and reached inside. Inside was another envelope, smaller and white, along with a handwritten note on the back of one of the bookseller's business cards. Dear Paul, congratulations. Hans would be proud. This is what your father left for you. I don't know what it contains, but I hope it helps you. SK
    
  Paul opened the second envelope, and a small piece of white paper with blue lettering fell to the ground. He was paralyzed with disappointment when he picked it up and saw what it was.
    
    
  33
    
    
  Metzger's pawnshop was a cold place, colder even than the early November air. Paul wiped his feet on the doormat as it was raining outside. He left his umbrella on the counter and looked around curiously. He vaguely recalled that morning, four years ago, when he and his mother had gone to the shop in Schwabing to pawn his father's watch. It had been a sterile place with glass shelves and employees in ties.
    
  Metzger's shop resembled a large sewing box and smelled of mothballs. From the outside, the store appeared small and insignificant, but once you stepped inside, you discovered its immense depth, a room crammed with furniture, galena crystal radios, porcelain figurines, and even a golden birdcage. Rust and dust coated the various objects that had dropped anchor there for the last time. Astonished, Paul examined a stuffed cat, caught in the act of snatching a sparrow mid-flight. A web had formed between the cat's outstretched leg and the bird's wing.
    
  "This is not a museum, man."
    
  Paul turned around, startled. A thin, sunken-faced old man had materialized next to him, wearing blue overalls that were too big for his frame and emphasized his thinness.
    
  "Are you Metzger?" I asked.
    
  "I am. And if what you brought me isn"t gold, I don"t need it."
    
  "The truth is, I didn't come to pawn anything. I came to pick something up," Paul replied. He had already taken a dislike to this man and his suspicious behavior.
    
  A flash of greed flickered in the old man's tiny eyes. It was obvious that things were not going well.
    
  "Sorry, man... Every day, twenty people come here thinking their great-grandmother's old copper cameo is worth a thousand marks. But let's see... let's see what you're here for."
    
  Paul handed over a blue and white piece of paper he'd found in the envelope the bookseller had sent him. In the upper left corner was Metzger's name and address. Paul rushed there as quickly as he could, still recovering from his surprise at not finding a letter inside. Instead, there were four handwritten words: Item No. 91231
    
  21 characters
    
  The old man pointed to the sheet of paper. "There"s a little missing here. We don"t accept damaged forms."
    
  The top right corner, which should have shown the name of the person making the deposit, was torn off.
    
  "The part number is very legible," Paul said.
    
  "But we cannot hand over items left by our customers to the first person who walks through the door."
    
  "Whatever this was, it belonged to my father."
    
  The old man scratched his chin, pretending to study the piece of paper with interest.
    
  "In any case, the quantity is very small: the item must have been pawned many years ago. I'm sure it will be put up for auction."
    
  "I understand. And how can we be sure?"
    
  "I believe that if a customer were willing to return the item, taking inflation into account..."
    
  Paul winced when the moneylender finally revealed his hand: it was clear he wanted to get as much as possible out of the deal. But Paul was determined to get the item back, no matter the cost.
    
  "Very good".
    
  "Wait here," said the other man with a triumphant smile.
    
  The old man disappeared and returned half a minute later with a moth-eaten cardboard box marked with a yellowed ticket.
    
  "Here you go, boy."
    
  Paul reached out to take it, but the old man grabbed his wrist tightly. The touch of his cold, wrinkled skin was repulsive.
    
  "What the hell are you doing?"
    
  "Money first."
    
  "First you show me what"s inside."
    
  "I won't tolerate any of this," the old man said, shaking his head slowly. "I believe you are the rightful owner of this box, and you believe what's inside is worth the effort. A double act of faith, so to speak."
    
  Paul struggled with himself for a few moments, but he knew he had no choice.
    
  "Let me go."
    
  Metzger released his grip, and Paul reached into the inside pocket of his coat. He pulled out his wallet.
    
  "How many?"
    
  "Forty million marks."
    
  At the exchange rate at the time, this was equivalent to ten dollars - enough to feed a family for many weeks.
    
  "That"s a lot of money," Paul said, pursing his lips.
    
  "Take it or leave it."
    
  Paul sighed. He had the money with him, as he had to make some bank payments the next day. He'd have to deduct it from his salary for the next six months, the little he'd earned after transferring all his business profits to Herr Ziegler's thrift store. To make matters worse, stock prices had been stagnating or falling lately, and investors were dwindling, causing the lines at the welfare canteens to lengthen with each passing day, with no end in sight.
    
  Paul pulled out a huge stack of freshly printed banknotes. In those days, paper money never went out of date. In fact, the banknotes from the previous quarter were already worthless and fueled Munich's chimneys because they were cheaper than firewood.
    
  The moneylender snatched the bills from Paul's hands and began slowly counting them, holding them up to the light. Finally, he looked at the young man and smiled, revealing his missing teeth.
    
  "Satisfied?" Paul asked sarcastically.
    
  Metzger pulled his hand back.
    
  Paul carefully opened the box, raising a cloud of dust that floated around him in the light of the bulb. He pulled out a flat, square box made of smooth, dark mahogany. It had no embellishments or varnish, only a clasp that popped open when Paul pressed it. The lid of the box rose slowly and silently, as if it hadn't been nineteen years since it was last opened.
    
  Paul felt an icy fear in his heart as he looked at the contents.
    
  "You better be careful, boy," said the moneylender, from whose hands the bills had vanished as if by magic. "You could be in big trouble if they find you on the streets with that toy."
    
  What were you trying to tell me by this, father?
    
  On a red velvet-covered stand lay a gleaming pistol and a magazine containing ten rounds.
    
    
  34
    
    
  "It better be important, Metzger. I'm extremely busy. If it's about fees, come back another time."
    
  Otto von Schröder sat by the fireplace in his office, and he didn't offer the moneylender a seat or a drink. Metzger, forced to remain standing with his hat in hand, contained his anger and feigned a subservient bow of his head and a false smile.
    
  "The truth is, Herr Baron, I came for a different reason. The money you've been investing all these years is about to bear fruit."
    
  "He"s back in Munich? Nagel"s back?" the Baron asked, tense.
    
  "It"s much more complicated, your grace."
    
  "Well, then don"t make me guess. Tell me what you want."
    
  "The truth is, your lordship, before I share this important information, I would like to remind you that the items I have suspended sales of during this time, which has cost my business dearly..."
    
  "Keep up the good work, Metzger."
    
  "-has increased significantly in price. Your Lordship promised me an annual sum, and in exchange, I was to inform you whether Clovis Nagel would buy any of them. And with all due respect, Your Lordship has not paid either this year or last."
    
  The Baron lowered his voice.
    
  "Don't you dare blackmail me, Metzger. What I've paid you over the past two decades more than makes up for the junk you've been storing in your dump."
    
  "What can I say? Your Lordship gave your word, and your Lordship did not keep it. Well then, let us consider our agreement concluded. Good afternoon," said the old man, putting on his hat.
    
  "Wait!" said the baron, raising his hand.
    
  The moneylender turned around, suppressing a smile.
    
  "Yes, Herr Baron?"
    
  "I have no money, Metzger. I'm broke."
    
  "You surprise me, Your Highness!"
    
  "I have Treasury bonds that could be worth something if the government pays dividends or restabilizes the economy. Until then, they're worth as much as the paper they're written on."
    
  The old man looked around, his eyes narrowed.
    
  "In that case, Your Grace... I suppose I could accept as payment that small bronze and marble table that stands next to your chair."
    
  "This is worth much more than your annual fee, Metzger."
    
  The old man shrugged but said nothing.
    
  "Very good. Speak."
    
  "You would, of course, have to guarantee your payments for many years to come, Your Grace. I suppose the embossed silver tea set on that little table would be appropriate."
    
  "You"re a bastard, Metzger," said the Baron, giving him a look full of undisguised hatred.
    
  "Business is business, Herr Baron."
    
  Otto was silent for a few moments. He saw no other choice but to give in to the old man's blackmail.
    
  "You won. For your sake, I hope it was worth it," he said finally.
    
  "Today someone came to redeem one of the items pawned by your friend."
    
  "Was it Nagel?"
    
  "Not unless he found some way to turn back time thirty years. It was a boy."
    
  "Did he give his name?"
    
  "He was thin, with blue eyes and dark blond hair."
    
  "Floor..."
    
  "I already told you, he didn"t give his name."
    
  "And what was it that he collected?"
    
  "Black mahogany box with pistol."
    
  The Baron jumped up from his seat so quickly that it fell backwards and crashed into the low crossbar surrounding the fireplace.
    
  "What did you say?" he asked, grabbing the moneylender by the throat.
    
  "You're hurting me!"
    
  "Speak, for God"s sake, or I"ll wring your neck right now."
    
  "A simple black box made of mahogany," the old man whispered.
    
  "A gun! Describe it!"
    
  "A Mauser C96 with a broom-shaped grip. The grip wood was not oak, like the original model, but black mahogany, matching the body. A beautiful weapon."
    
  "How can this be?" asked the baron.
    
  Suddenly weakened, he let go of the moneylender and leaned back in his chair.
    
  Old Metzger straightened up, rubbing his neck.
    
  "He's crazy. He's gone crazy," Metzger said, rushing for the door.
    
  The Baron didn't notice him leaving. He remained sitting, his head in his hands, absorbed in dark thoughts.
    
    
  35
    
    
  Ilse was sweeping the hallway when she noticed the shadow of a visitor cast on the floor by the light from the wall lamps. She realized who it was even before she looked up, and froze.
    
  Holy God, how did you find us?
    
  When she and her son first moved into the boarding house, Ilse had to work to pay part of the rent, as Paul's earnings hauling coal weren't enough. Later, when Paul converted Ziegler's grocery store into a bank, the young man insisted they find better housing. Ilse refused. Her life had undergone too many changes, and she clung to anything that offered security.
    
  One such item was a broom handle. Paul-and the boardinghouse owner, whom Ilse hadn't been much help to-pressed her to stop working, but she ignored them. She needed to feel useful somehow. The silence she sank into after they were thrown out of the mansion was initially the result of anxiety, but later became a voluntary expression of her love for Paul. She avoided talking to him because she dreaded his questions. When she did speak, it was about unimportant things, which she tried to convey with all the tenderness she could muster. The rest of the time, she simply looked at him from afar, silently, grieving for what she had been deprived of.
    
  That's why her suffering was so intense when she came face to face with one of the people responsible for her loss.
    
  "Hello, Ilse."
    
  She took a cautious step back.
    
  "What do you want, Otto?"
    
  The Baron tapped the ground with the end of his cane. He felt uneasy here, that much was clear, as was the fact that his visit signaled some sinister intentions.
    
  "Can we talk in a more private place?"
    
  "I don't want to go anywhere with you. Say what you need to say and go."
    
  The baron snorted in irritation. Then he pointed dismissively at the moldy wallpaper, the uneven floor, and the dim lamps, which cast more shadow than light.
    
  "Look at you, Ilse. Sweeping the hallway in a third-class boarding school. You should be ashamed of yourself."
    
  "Sweeping floors is sweeping floors, no matter if it's a mansion or a boarding house. And there are linoleum floors, which are more respectable than marble."
    
  "Ilsa, darling, you know you were in bad shape when we took you in. I wouldn't want..."
    
  "Stop right there, Otto. I know whose idea this was. But don't think I'll fall for the routine, that you're just a puppet. You're the one who controlled my sister from the very beginning, making her pay dearly for the mistake she made. And for what you did hiding behind that mistake."
    
  Otto took a step back, shocked by the anger that burst from Ilse's lips. His monocle fell from his eye and dangled from the chest of his coat, like a condemned man hanging from the gallows.
    
  "You surprise me, Ilse. They told me that you..."
    
  Ilze laughed joylessly.
    
  "Lost it? Lost my mind? No, Otto. I'm perfectly sane. I've decided to keep quiet all this time because I'm afraid of what my son might do if he finds out the truth."
    
  "Then stop him. Because he"s going too far."
    
  "So that's why you came," she said, unable to contain her contempt. "You're afraid the past will finally catch up with you."
    
  The Baron took a step toward Ilsa. Paul's mother retreated toward the wall as Otto brought his face close to hers.
    
  "Now listen carefully, Ilse. You are the only thing that connects us to that night. If you don't stop him before it's too late, I'll have to sever that connection."
    
  "Then go ahead, Otto, kill me," Ilse said, feigning a courage she didn't feel. "But you must know that I wrote a letter exposing the whole matter. All of it. If anything happens to me, Paul will get it."
    
  "But... you can't be serious! You can't write this down! What if it falls into the wrong hands?"
    
  Ilse didn't answer. All she did was stare at him. Otto tried to hold her gaze; the tall, strong, well-dressed man looked down at the frail woman in tattered clothes, clinging to her broom to keep from falling.
    
  Finally the baron gave in.
    
  "It doesn"t end there," Otto said, turning and running out.
    
    
  36
    
    
  "Did you call me, father?"
    
  Otto glanced at Jürgen doubtfully. Several weeks had passed since he had last seen him, and he still found it difficult to recognize the uniformed figure standing in his dining room as his son. He suddenly became aware of the way Jürgen's brown shirt clung to his shoulders, the way the red armband with the curved cross framed his powerful biceps, and how his black boots increased his height to the point where he had to duck slightly to pass under the doorframe. He felt a hint of pride, but at the same time, a wave of self-pity washed over him. He couldn't resist making comparisons: Otto was fifty-two, and he felt old and tired.
    
  "You were away for a long time, Jurgen."
    
  "I had important things to do."
    
  The Baron didn't answer. While he understood the Nazis' ideals, he never truly believed in them. Like the vast majority of Munich's high society, he considered them a party with little prospects, doomed to extinction. If they had gone so far, it was only because they were profiting from a social situation so dire that the dispossessed would trust any extremist willing to make them wild promises. But at that moment, he had no time for subtleties.
    
  "So much so that you neglect your mother? She was worried about you. Can we find out where you slept?"
    
  "In the premises of the SA."
    
  "You were supposed to start university this year, two years late!" Otto said, shaking his head. "It's already November, and you still haven't shown up for a single class."
    
  "I am in a position of responsibility."
    
  Otto watched as the fragments of the image he'd retained of this ill-mannered teenager, who not long ago would have thrown his cup on the floor because the tea was too sweet, finally fell apart. He wondered what the best way to approach him would be. Much depended on whether Jurgen would do as he was told.
    
  He lay awake for several nights, tossing and turning on his mattress, before he decided to visit his son.
    
  "A responsible post, you say?"
    
  "I am protecting the most important man in Germany."
    
  "The most important man in Germany," his father mimicked. "You, the future Baron von Schröder, hired a thug for a little-known Austrian corporal with delusions of grandeur. You should be proud."
    
  Jurgen flinched as if he had just been hit.
    
  "You don"t understand..."
    
  "Enough! I want you to do something important. You"re the only person I can trust with this."
    
  Jurgen was confused by the change in course. His answer died on his lips as curiosity got the better of him.
    
  "What is this?"
    
  "I found your aunt and your cousin."
    
  Jurgen didn't answer. He sat down next to his father and removed the bandage from his eye, revealing the unnatural emptiness beneath the wrinkled skin of his eyelid. He slowly stroked the skin.
    
  "Where?" he asked, his voice cold and distant.
    
  "At the boarding house in Schwabing. But I forbid you from even thinking about revenge. We have something far more important to deal with. I want you to go to your aunt's room, search it from top to bottom, and bring me every paper you find. Especially any handwritten ones. Letters, notes-anything."
    
  "Why?"
    
  "I can"t tell you that."
    
  "You can't tell me? You brought me here, you ask for my help after you ruined my chance to find the man who did this to me-the same man who gave my sick brother a gun so he could blow his brains out. You forbid me all this, and then expect me to obey you without any explanation?" Now Jurgen was screaming.
    
  "You will do what I tell you unless you want me to turn you off!"
    
  "Go on, Father. I've never cared much for debt. There's only one thing of value left, and you can't take it from me. I will inherit your title, whether you like it or not." Jurgen left the dining room, slamming the door behind him. He was about to head outside when a voice stopped him.
    
  "Son, wait."
    
  He turned around. Brunhilde was coming down the stairs.
    
  "Mother".
    
  She walked up to him and kissed him on the cheek. She had to stand on tiptoe to do it. She adjusted his black tie and stroked the spot where his right eye had once been with her fingertips. Jurgen stepped back and pulled off his patch.
    
  "You must do as your father asks."
    
  "I..."
    
  "You have to do what you're told, Jurgen. He'll be proud of you if you do. And so will I."
    
  Brunhilde continued speaking for a while longer. Her voice was gentle, and for Jurgen, it conjured up images and feelings he hadn't experienced in a long time. He had always been her favorite. She had always treated him differently, never denied him anything. He wanted to curl up in her lap, like he had when he was a child, and the summer seemed endless.
    
  "When?"
    
  "Tomorrow".
    
  "Tomorrow is November 8th, Mom. I can"t..."
    
  "It should happen tomorrow afternoon. Your father was watching the boarding house, and Paul is never there at this time."
    
  "But I already have plans!"
    
  "Are they more important than your own family, Jurgen?"
    
  Brunhilde raised her hand to his face again. This time, Jurgen didn't flinch.
    
  "I suppose I could do it if I act quickly."
    
  "Good boy. And when you get the papers," she said, lowering her voice to a whisper, "bring them to me first. Don't say a word to your father."
    
    
  37
    
    
  Alice watched from around the corner as Manfred exited the tram. She took up position near her old house, as she had done every week for the past two years, to see her brother for a few minutes. Never before had she felt such a strong need to approach him, talk to him, surrender once and for all, and return home. She wondered what her father would do if she showed up.
    
  I can't do that, especially like... like this. It would be like finally admitting he was right. It would be like death.
    
  Her gaze followed Manfred, who was transforming into a handsome young man. Unruly hair escaped from under his cap, his hands were in his pockets, and he held a sheet of music under his arm.
    
  I bet he's still a terrible piano player, Alice thought with a mixture of irritation and regret.
    
  Manfred walked along the sidewalk and, before reaching the gate of his house, stopped at the pastry shop. Alice smiled. She had first seen him do this two years ago, when she had accidentally discovered that on Thursdays her brother returned from piano lessons by public transport instead of in their father's chauffeur-driven Mercedes. Half an hour later, Alice went into the pastry shop and bribed the saleswoman to give Manfred a bag of toffees with a note inside when he came in the following week. She hastily scrawled, "It's me." Come every Thursday, I'll leave you a note. Ask Ingrid, give her your answer. Love you-A.
    
  She waited impatiently for the next seven days, fearing her brother wouldn't respond or that he'd be angry that she'd left without saying goodbye. His reply, however, was typical Manfred. As if he'd seen her only ten minutes ago, his note began with a funny story about the Swiss and Italians and ended with a story about school and what had happened since he'd last heard from her. The news from her brother filled Alice with happiness again, but there was one line, the last, that confirmed her worst fears. "Papa is still looking for you."
    
  She ran out of the pastry shop, terrified that someone might recognize her. But despite the danger, she returned every week, always pulling her hat down low and donning a coat or scarf that hid her features. She never once raised her face to her father's window, in case he looked and recognized her. And every week, no matter how dire her own situation, she found comfort in the daily successes, the small victories and defeats, in Manfred's life. When he won a track and field medal at the age of twelve, she wept with joy. When he received a dressing-down in the schoolyard for confronting several children who called him a "dirty Jew," she howled with rage. However insubstantial they were, these letters connected her to memories of a happy past.
    
  On that particular Thursday, November 8th, Alice waited a little shorter than usual, afraid that if she stayed on Prinzregentenplatz for too long, she'd become overwhelmed by doubts and choose the easiest-and worst-option. She went into the store, asked for a pack of peppermint toffees, and paid, as usual, three times the standard price. She waited until she could get into the cart, but that day she immediately looked at the piece of paper inside the package. There were only five words, but they were enough to make her hands shake. They've figured me out. Run.
    
  She had to restrain herself from screaming.
    
  Keep your head down, walk slowly, don't look away. They might not be watching the store.
    
  She opened the door and stepped outside. She couldn't help but look back as she left.
    
  Two men in cloaks followed her at a distance of less than sixty yards. One of them, realizing she had seen them, motioned to the other, and both quickened their pace.
    
  Crap!
    
  Alice tried to walk as quickly as she could without breaking into a run. She didn't want to risk attracting the attention of a police officer, because if he stopped her, the two men would catch up with her, and then she would be finished. No doubt these were detectives hired by her father, who would concoct a story to detain her or return her to the family home. She wasn't yet legally an adult-she still had eleven months until her twenty-first birthday-so she would be completely at her father's mercy.
    
  She crossed the street without stopping to look. A bicycle sped past her, and the boy riding it lost control and fell to the ground, impeding Alice's pursuers.
    
  "Are you crazy or something?" the guy shouted, clutching his injured knees.
    
  Alice glanced back again and saw that two men had managed to cross the road, taking advantage of a lull in traffic. They were less than ten meters away and rapidly gaining altitude.
    
  Now it's not far to the trolleybus.
    
  She cursed her wooden-soled shoes, which made her skid slightly on the wet sidewalk. The bag she kept her camera in hit her thighs, and she caught the strap she wore diagonally across her chest.
    
  It was obvious she wouldn't succeed unless she could think of something quickly. She felt her pursuers right behind her.
    
  This can't happen. Not when I'm so close.
    
  At that moment, a group of schoolchildren in uniform emerged from around the corner in front of her, led by a teacher who escorted them to the trolleybus stop. The boys, about twenty of them, lined up in a row, blocking her from the road.
    
  Alice managed to push through and reach the other side of the group just in time. The cart rolled along the rails, ringing a bell as it approached.
    
  Reaching out, Alice grabbed the bar and stepped onto the front of the cart. The driver slowed slightly as she did so. Safely aboard the packed vehicle, Alice turned to look out onto the street.
    
  Her pursuers were nowhere to be seen.
    
  With a sigh of relief, Alice paid and grabbed the counter with trembling hands, completely oblivious to the two figures in hats and raincoats who were at that moment getting into the back of the trolleybus.
    
  Paul was waiting for her on Rosenheimerstrasse, near Ludwigsbrucke. When he saw her getting off the trolleybus, he walked over to kiss her, but stopped when he saw the worry on her face.
    
  "What's happened?"
    
  Alice closed her eyes and sank into Paul's strong embrace. Safe in his arms, she didn't notice her two pursuers disembarking from the trolleybus and entering a nearby café.
    
  "I went to pick up my brother's letter, as I do every Thursday, but I was followed. I can't use this method of contact anymore."
    
  "This is terrible! Are you okay?"
    
  Alice hesitated before answering. Should she tell him everything?
    
  It would be so easy to tell him. Just open my mouth and say those two words. So simple... and so impossible.
    
  "Yes, I suppose so. I lost them before I got on the tram."
    
  "Okay then... But I think you should cancel tonight," Paul said.
    
  "I can"t, this is my first assignment."
    
  After months of persistence, she finally caught the attention of the head of the photography department of the Munich newspaper Allgemeine. He told her to go that evening to the Burgerbraukeller, a beer hall less than thirty steps from where they were now. Bavarian State Commissioner Gustav Ritter von Kahr would be giving a speech in half an hour. For Alice, the chance to stop spending her nights enslaved in clubs and start earning a living doing what she loved most-photography-was a dream come true.
    
  "But after what happened... don"t you just want to go to your apartment?" Paul asked.
    
  "Do you realize how important this evening is to me? I've been waiting for an opportunity like this for months!"
    
  "Calm down, Alice. You"re making a scene."
    
  "Don't tell me to calm down! You need to calm down!"
    
  "Please, Alice. You're exaggerating," Paul said.
    
  "You're exaggerating! That's exactly what I needed to hear," she snorted, turning and walking toward the pub.
    
  "Wait! Weren"t we supposed to have coffee first?"
    
  "Take one like this for yourself!"
    
  "Don't you at least want me to come with you? These political gatherings can be dangerous: people get drunk, and sometimes arguments break out."
    
  The moment the words left his lips, Paul knew he'd done his job. He wished he could catch them in mid-air and swallow them back, but it was too late.
    
  "I don"t need your protection, Paul," Alice replied icily.
    
  "I"m sorry, Alice, I didn"t mean..."
    
  "Good evening, Paul," she said, joining the crowd of laughing people filing inside.
    
  Paul was left alone in the middle of a crowded street, wanting to strangle someone, scream, beat his feet on the ground and cry.
    
  It was seven o'clock in the evening.
    
    
  38
    
    
  The hardest part was slipping into the boarding house unnoticed.
    
  The apartment's owner lurked at the entrance like a bloodhound, wearing her overalls and carrying a broom. Jurgen had to wait a couple of hours, wandering the neighborhood and secretly watching the building's entrance. He couldn't risk doing it so brazenly, as he needed to be sure he wouldn't be recognized later. On a busy street, hardly anyone would pay much attention to a man in a black coat and hat, walking with a newspaper under his arm.
    
  He hid his baton in a folded piece of paper and, afraid it might fall out, pressed it so hard against his armpit that he would have a significant bruise the next day. Under his civilian clothes, he wore a brown SA uniform, which would undoubtedly attract too much attention in a Jewish neighborhood like this one. His cap was in his pocket, and he had left his shoes in the barracks, opting instead for a pair of sturdy boots.
    
  Finally, after passing by many times, he managed to find a gap in the defense line. The woman had left her broom leaning against the wall and disappeared through a small interior door, perhaps to prepare dinner. Jürgen took full advantage of this gap to slip into the house and run up the stairs to the top floor. After passing through several landings and corridors, he found himself at Ilse Rainer's door.
    
  He knocked.
    
  If she wasn't here, everything would be simpler, Jurgen thought, eager to complete the mission as quickly as possible and cross to the east bank of the Isar, where the Stosstrupp members had been ordered to rendezvous two hours earlier. It had been a historic day, and here he was, wasting his time on some intrigue he couldn't care less about.
    
  If I could at least fight Paul... everything would be different.
    
  A smile lit up his face. At that moment, his aunt opened the door and looked him straight in the eyes. Perhaps she read betrayal and murder in them; perhaps she simply feared Jurgen's presence. But whatever the reason, she reacted by trying to slam the door.
    
  Jurgen was fast. He managed to get his left hand in just in time. The door frame hit his knuckles hard, and he suppressed a cry of pain, but he succeeded. No matter how hard Ilse tried, her frail body was powerless against Jurgen's brutal strength. He threw his full weight against the door, sending his aunt and the chain protecting her crashing to the floor.
    
  "If you scream, I"ll kill you, old woman," Jurgen said, his voice low and serious as he closed the door behind him.
    
  "Have a little respect: I"m younger than your mother," Ilse said from the floor.
    
  Jurgen didn't answer. His knuckles were bleeding; the blow had been harder than it looked. He put the newspaper and baton down on the floor and walked over to the neatly made bed. He tore off a piece of the sheet and was wrapping it around his hand when Ilse, thinking he was distracted, opened the door. Just as she was about to run away, Jurgen yanked her dress hard, pulling her back down.
    
  "Nice try. So, can we talk now?"
    
  "You didn"t come here to talk."
    
  "This is true".
    
  Grabbing her by the hair, he forced her to stand up again and look him in the eyes.
    
  "So, auntie, where are the documents?"
    
  "How typical of the Baron, sending you to do what he doesn't dare do himself," Ilse snorted. "Do you know what exactly he sent you to do?"
    
  "You people and your secrets. No, my father didn't tell me anything, he simply asked me to get your documents. Luckily, my mother told me more details. She said I should find your letter full of lies, and another one from your husband."
    
  "I have no intention of giving you anything."
    
  "You don"t seem to understand what I"m willing to do, Auntie."
    
  He took off his coat and placed it on a chair. Then he pulled out a red-handled hunting knife. The sharp edge gleamed silver in the light of the oil lamp, reflected in his aunt's flickering eyes.
    
  "You wouldn't dare."
    
  "Oh, I think you"ll find that I would."
    
  Despite all his bravado, the situation was more complex than Jurgen imagined. This wasn't like a tavern brawl, where he'd let his instincts and adrenaline take over, turning his body into a feral, brutal machine.
    
  He felt almost no emotion as he took the woman's right hand and placed it on the bedside table. But then sadness bit into him like the sharp teeth of a saw, scraping at his lower abdomen and showing as little mercy as he had shown when he held the knife to his aunt's fingers and made two dirty cuts on her index finger.
    
  Ilse screamed in pain, but Jürgen was ready and covered her mouth with his hand. He wondered where the excitement that usually fueled violence was, and what had first drawn him to the SA.
    
  Could it be because of the lack of a challenge? Because this scared old crow wasn't a challenge at all.
    
  The screams, stifled by Jurgen's palm, dissolved into silent sobs. He stared into the woman's tear-stained eyes, trying to derive the same pleasure from this situation as he had felt knocking out the young communist's teeth a few weeks earlier. But no. He sighed resignedly.
    
  "Are you going to cooperate now? This isn't much fun for either of us."
    
  Ilze nodded vigorously.
    
  "I'm glad to hear it. Give me what I asked you for," he said, letting her go.
    
  She stepped away from Jurgen and walked unsteadily toward the wardrobe. The mangled hand she held to her chest left a growing stain on her cream dress. With her other hand, she rummaged through her clothes until she found a small white envelope.
    
  "This is my letter," she said, handing it to Jurgen.
    
  The young man picked up an envelope with a bloodstain on its surface. His cousin's name was written on the other side. He tore open one side of the envelope and pulled out five sheets of paper covered in a neat, rounded handwriting.
    
  Jurgen skimmed the first few lines, but then became captivated by what he read. Halfway through, his eyes widened, and his breathing became ragged. He cast a suspicious glance at Ilse, unable to believe what he was seeing.
    
  "It"s a lie! A dirty lie!" he screamed, taking a step towards his aunt and putting the knife to her throat.
    
  "That"s not true, Jurgen. I"m sorry you had to find out like this," she said.
    
  "You're sorry? You pity me, don't you? I just cut off your finger, you old hag! What's to stop me from slitting your throat, huh? Tell me it's a lie," Jurgen hissed in a cold whisper that made Ilse's hair stand on end.
    
  "I was a victim of this particular truth for years. It's part of what turned you into the monster you are."
    
  "Does he know?"
    
  This last question was too much for Ilse to bear. She staggered, her head spinning from emotion and blood loss, and Jurgen had to catch her.
    
  "Don"t you dare faint now, you useless old woman!"
    
  There was a washbasin nearby. Jurgen pushed his aunt onto the bed and splashed some water on her face.
    
  "That"s enough," she said weakly.
    
  "Answer me. Does Paul know?"
    
  "No".
    
  Jurgen gave her a few moments to compose herself. A wave of conflicting emotions raced through his mind as he reread the letter, this time to the end.
    
  When he finished, he carefully folded the pages and put them in his pocket. Now he understood why his father had been so insistent on getting these papers, and why his mother had asked him to bring them to her first.
    
  They wanted to use me. They think I'm an idiot. This letter will go to no one but me... And I will use it at the right moment. Yes, it's her. When they least expect it...
    
  But there was something else he needed. He slowly walked over to the bed and leaned over the mattress.
    
  "I need Hans"s letter."
    
  "I don't have it. I swear to God. Your father was always looking for it, but I don't have it. I'm not even sure it exists," Ilse muttered, stuttering, clutching at her mangled arm.
    
  "I don't believe you," Jurgen lied. At that moment, Ilse seemed incapable of hiding anything, but he still wanted to see what reaction his disbelief would provoke. He raised the knife to her face again.
    
  Ilse tried to push his hand away, but her strength was almost gone, and it was like a child pushing a ton of granite.
    
  "Leave me alone. For God's sake, haven't you done enough to me?"
    
  Jurgen looked around. Stepping away from the bed, he grabbed an oil lamp from the nearest table and threw it into the closet. The glass shattered, spilling burning kerosene everywhere.
    
  He returned to the bed and, looking Ilse straight in the eyes, placed the tip of the knife against her stomach. He inhaled.
    
  Then he plunged the blade all the way to the hilt.
    
  "Now I have it."
    
    
  39
    
    
  After his argument with Alice, Paul was in a foul mood. He decided to ignore the cold and walk home, a decision that would become the greatest regret of his life.
    
  It took Paul almost an hour to walk the seven kilometers separating the pub from the boarding house. He barely noticed his surroundings, his mind lost in memories of his conversation with Alice, imagining things he could have said that would have changed the outcome. One moment he regretted not being conciliatory, the next he regretted not responding in a way that would hurt her, so she would know how he felt. Lost in the endless spiral of love, he didn't notice what was happening until he was just a few steps from the gate.
    
  Then he smelled smoke and saw people running. A fire truck was parked in front of the building.
    
  Paul looked up. There was a fire on the third floor.
    
  "Oh, Holy Mother of God!"
    
  A crowd of curious passersby and people from the boarding house had formed on the other side of the road. Paul ran toward them, looking for familiar faces and shouting Ilse's name. Finally, he found the landlady sitting on the curb, her face smeared with soot and lined with tears. Paul shook her.
    
  "My mother! Where is she?"
    
  The owner of the apartment began to cry again, unable to look him in the eyes.
    
  "No one escaped from the third floor. Oh, if only my father, may he rest in peace, could see what became of his building!"
    
  "What about the firefighters?"
    
  "They haven't entered yet, but there's nothing they can do. The fire has blocked the stairs."
    
  "And from the other roof? The one at number twenty-two?"
    
  "Perhaps," said the hostess, wringing her calloused hands in despair. "You could jump from there..."
    
  Paul didn't hear the rest of her sentence because he was already running to the neighbors' door. A hostile policeman was there, questioning one of the boarding house residents. He frowned when he saw Paul rushing toward him.
    
  "Where do you think you're going? We're cleaning up - Hey!"
    
  Paul pushed the policeman aside, knocking him to the ground.
    
  The building had five floors, one more than the boarding house. Each was a private residence, though they must have all been empty at the time. Paul felt his way up the stairs, as the building's power had clearly been cut off.
    
  He had to stop on the top floor because he couldn't find his way to the roof. Then he realized he'd have to reach the hatch in the middle of the ceiling. He jumped up, trying to grab the handle, but he was still a couple of feet short. Desperately, he looked around for something that might help him, but there was nothing he could use.
    
  I have no choice but to break down the door of one of the apartments.
    
  He lunged at the nearest door, ramming it with his shoulder, but achieved nothing except a sharp pain running up his arm. So he began kicking at the lock and succeeded in opening the door after half a dozen blows. He grabbed the first thing he could find in the dark vestibule, which turned out to be a chair. Standing on it, he reached the hatch and lowered a wooden ladder that led to the flat roof.
    
  The air outside was unbreathable. The wind blew smoke in his direction, and Paul had to cover his mouth with a handkerchief. He nearly fell into the space between two buildings, a gap of just over a meter. He could barely see the neighboring rooftop.
    
  Where the hell should I jump?
    
  He pulled the keys from his pocket and tossed them in front of him. There was a sound that Paul identified as a stone or tree hitting him, and he jumped in that direction.
    
  For a brief moment, he felt his body floating in smoke. Then he fell to all fours, scraping his palms. He finally reached the boarding house.
    
  Hang in there, Mom. I'm here now.
    
  He had to walk with his arms outstretched in front of him until he cleared the smoke-filled area, which was at the front of the building, closest to the street. Even through his boots, he could feel the intense heat of the roof. At the back was an awning, a rocking chair without legs, and what Paul was desperately searching for.
    
  Access to the next floor below!
    
  He ran to the door, afraid it would be locked. His strength began to fail him, and his legs felt heavy.
    
  Please, God, don't let the fire reach her room. Please. Mom, tell me you were smart enough to turn on the faucet and pour something wet into the cracks around the door.
    
  The door to the stairs was open. The stairwell was thick with smoke, but it was bearable. Paul rushed down as fast as he could, but on the second-to-last step, he tripped over something. He quickly stood up and realized he only had to reach the end of the hallway and turn right, and then he'd find himself at the entrance to his mother's room.
    
  He tried to move forward, but it was impossible. The smoke was a dirty orange color, there was not enough air, and the heat from the fire was so intense that he couldn't take another step.
    
  "Mom!" he said, wanting to scream, but the only thing that came out of his lips was a dry, painful wheeze.
    
  The patterned wallpaper began to burn around him, and Paul realized he would soon be surrounded by flames if he didn't get out quickly. He backed away as the flames illuminated the stairwell. Now Paul could see what he'd tripped over, the dark stains on the carpet.
    
  There, on the floor, at the bottom step, lay his mother. And she was in pain.
    
  "Mom! No!"
    
  He squatted down next to her, checking for a pulse. Ilse seemed to respond.
    
  "Paul," she whispered.
    
  "You have to hold on, Mom! I'll get you out of here!"
    
  The young man picked up her small body and ran up the stairs. Once outside, he moved as far away from the stairs as he could, but the smoke spread everywhere.
    
  Paul stopped. He couldn't push through the smoke with his mother in her current state, let alone leap blindly between two buildings with her in his arms. They also couldn't stay where they were. Entire sections of the roof had now caved in, sharp red spears licking at the cracks. The roof would collapse in minutes.
    
  "You have to hang in there, Mom. I"m going to get you out of here. I"m going to take you to the hospital, and you"ll get better soon. I swear. So you have to hang in there."
    
  "Earth..." Ilze said, coughing slightly. "Let me go."
    
  Paul knelt down and set her feet on the ground. It was the first time he saw his mother's condition. Her dress was covered in blood. A finger on her right hand had been severed.
    
  "Who did this to you?" he asked with a grimace.
    
  The woman could barely speak. Her face was pale, and her lips trembled. She crawled out of the bedroom to escape the fire, leaving a red trail behind her. The injury that forced her to crawl on all fours had paradoxically prolonged her life, as her lungs absorbed less smoke in that position. But by this point, Ilsa Rainer barely had any life left.
    
  "Who, Mom?" Paul repeated. "Was it Jurgen?"
    
  Ilze opened her eyes. They were red and swollen.
    
  "No..."
    
  "Then who? Do you recognize them?"
    
  Ilse raised a trembling hand to her son's face, gently stroking him. Her fingertips were cold. Overwhelmed with pain, Paul knew this was the last time his mother would touch him, and he was afraid.
    
  "It wasn"t..."
    
  "Who?"
    
  "It wasn"t Jurgen."
    
  "Tell me, Mom. Tell me who. I"ll kill them."
    
  "You mustn"t..."
    
  Another coughing fit interrupted her. Ilse's arms fell limply to her sides.
    
  "You mustn't hurt Jurgen, Paul."
    
  "Why, Mom?"
    
  Now his mother was fighting for every breath, but she was also fighting inside. Paul could see the struggle in her eyes. It took a tremendous effort to get air into her lungs. But it took even more effort to tear those last three words from her heart.
    
  "He is your brother."
    
    
  40
    
    
  Brother.
    
  Sitting on the curb, next to where his mistress had sat an hour earlier, Paul tried to process the word. In less than thirty minutes, his life had been turned upside down twice-first by his mother's death, and then by the revelation she made with her last breath.
    
  When Ilse died, Paul embraced her and was tempted to let himself die too. To remain where he was until flames consumed the earth beneath him.
    
  Such is life. Running across a roof that is doomed to collapse, Paul thought, drowning in pain that was bitter, dark, and thick as oil.
    
  Was it the fear that kept him on the roof in the moments after his mother's death? Perhaps he was afraid to face the world alone. Perhaps if her last words had been "I love you so much," Paul would have allowed himself to die. But Ilse's words gave a completely different meaning to the questions that had tormented Paul his entire life.
    
  Was it hatred, revenge, or a need to know that finally drove him to action? Perhaps a combination of all three. What is certain is that Paul gave his mother a final kiss on the forehead and then ran to the opposite end of the roof.
    
  He nearly fell over the edge, but managed to stop himself in time. The kids in the neighborhood sometimes played on the building, and Paul wondered how they'd managed to get back up. He figured they'd probably left a wooden plank somewhere. He didn't have time to look for it in the smoke, so he took off his coat and jacket, reducing his weight for the jump. If he missed, or if the opposite side of the roof collapsed under his weight, he'd fall five stories. Without thinking twice, he took a running leap, blindly confident he'd succeed.
    
  Now that he was back on ground level, Paul tried to piece together the puzzle, with Jürgen-my brother!-being the most difficult piece of all. Could Jürgen really be Ilse's son? Paul didn't think it was possible, as their birth dates were only eight months apart. Physically, it was possible, but Paul was more inclined to believe Jürgen was the son of Hans and Brünnhilde. Eduard, with his darker, rounder complexion, looked nothing like Jürgen, and they were dissimilar in temperament. However, Jürgen did resemble Paul. They both had blue eyes and high cheekbones, though Jürgen's hair was darker.
    
  How could my father sleep with Brunhilde? And why did my mother hide it from me all this time? I always knew she wanted to protect me, but why didn't she tell me? And how was I supposed to find out the truth without going to the Schroeders?
    
  The landlady interrupted Paul's thoughts. She was still sobbing.
    
  "Herr Rainer, the fire department says the fire is under control, but the building must be demolished as it is no longer safe. They asked me to tell the residents that they can take turns coming in to get their clothes, as you will all have to spend the night elsewhere."
    
  Like a robot, Paul joined the dozen or so people who were about to retrieve some of their belongings. He stepped over hoses still pumping water, walked through soaking hallways and stairways, accompanied by a firefighter, and finally reached his room, where he randomly selected a few clothes and stuffed them into a small bag.
    
  "That's enough," insisted the fireman, who was waiting anxiously in the doorway. "We have to go."
    
  Still stunned, Paul followed him. But after a few meters, a faint idea flickered in his mind, like the edge of a gold coin in a bucket of sand. He turned and ran.
    
  "Hey, listen! We have to get out!"
    
  Paul ignored the man. He ran into his room and dove under his bed. In the tight space, he struggled to push aside the stack of books he'd placed there to hide what was behind them.
    
  "I told you to get out! Look, it's not safe here," the fireman said, pulling Paul's legs up until his body emerged.
    
  Paul didn't object. He had what he came for.
    
  The box is made of black mahogany, smooth and simple.
    
  It was nine thirty in the evening.
    
  Paul took his small bag and ran across the city.
    
  If he hadn't been in such a state, he would undoubtedly have noticed that something more than his own tragedy was happening in Munich. There were more people around than usual for this time of night. Bars and taverns were bustling, and angry voices could be heard from within. Anxious people were huddled in groups on street corners, and there wasn't a single policeman in sight.
    
  But Paul wasn't paying attention to what was happening around him; he simply wanted to cover the distance separating him from his goal in as little time as possible. Right now, this was the only clue he had. He bitterly cursed himself for not seeing it, for not realizing it sooner.
    
  Metzger's pawn shop was closed. The doors were thick and sturdy, so Paul didn't waste time knocking. Nor did he bother shouting, though he assumed-correctly-that a greedy old man like the pawnbroker would live there, perhaps on a rickety old bed in the back.
    
  Paul set his bag by the door and looked around for something solid. There were no scattered stones on the pavement, but he found a trash can lid the size of a small tray. He picked it up and threw it at the store window, shattering it into a thousand pieces. Paul's heart was pounding in his chest and his ears, but he ignored it, too. If someone called the police, they might arrive before he got what he came for; then again, they might not.
    
  I hope not, thought Paul. Otherwise, I'll run away, and the next place I'll go for answers will be Schroeder's mansion. Even if my uncle's friends send me to prison for the rest of my life.
    
  Paul leaped inside, his boots crunching on a blanket of shards of glass, a mixture of shards from the broken window and the Bohemian crystal dinner service, which had also been shattered by his projectile.
    
  The store was completely dark inside. The only light came from the back room, from which loud screams could be heard.
    
  "Who"s there? I"m calling the police!"
    
  "Forward!" Paul shouted back.
    
  A rectangle of light appeared on the floor, casting into sharp relief the ghostly outlines of the pawnshop's wares. Paul stood among them, waiting for Metzger to appear.
    
  "Get out of here, you damned Nazis!" the moneylender shouted, appearing in the doorway, his eyes still half-closed from sleep.
    
  "I am not a Nazi, Herr Metzger."
    
  "Who the hell are you?" Metzger walked into the store and turned on the light, checking to make sure the intruder was alone. "There's nothing valuable in here!"
    
  "Maybe not, but there is something I need."
    
  At that moment, the old man's eyes focused and he recognized Paul.
    
  "Who are you... Oh."
    
  "I see you remember me."
    
  "You were here recently," Metzger said.
    
  "Do you always remember all your clients?"
    
  "What the hell do you want? You'll have to pay me for this window!"
    
  "Don't try to change the subject. I want to know who pawned that gun I took."
    
  "I don't remember".
    
  Paul didn't answer. He simply pulled a gun from his pants pocket and pointed it at the old man. Metzger retreated, holding his hands out in front of him like a shield.
    
  "Don't shoot! I swear to you, I don't remember! It's been almost two decades!"
    
  "Let"s assume I believe you. What about your notes?"
    
  "Put the gun down, please... I can't show you my notes; that information is confidential. Please, son, be reasonable..."
    
  Paul took six steps toward him and raised the pistol to shoulder height. The barrel was now just two centimeters from the moneylender's forehead, which was drenched in sweat.
    
  "Herr Metzger, let me explain. Either you show me the tapes, or I'll shoot you. It's a simple choice."
    
  "Very good! Very good!"
    
  Still holding his hands up, the old man headed for the back room. They crossed a large storage room, filled with cobwebs and even dustier than the store itself. Cardboard boxes were stacked floor to ceiling on rusty metal shelves, and the stench of mold and damp was overpowering. But there was something else in the smell, something indefinable and putrid.
    
  "How can you stand this smell, Metzger?"
    
  "Does it smell? I don't smell anything," the old man said without turning around.
    
  Paul guessed the moneylender had gotten used to the stench, having spent countless years among other people's belongings. The man had clearly never enjoyed his own life, and Paul couldn't help but feel a certain pity for him. He had to push such thoughts out of his mind to continue clutching his father's pistol with determination.
    
  There was a metal door at the back of the storage room. Metzger pulled some keys from his pocket and opened it. He gestured for Paul to come in.
    
  "You first," Paul replied.
    
  The old man looked at him curiously, his pupils hard. In his mind's eye, Paul pictured him as a dragon, protecting his treasure cave, and he told himself to be more vigilant than ever. The miser was as dangerous as a cornered rat, and at any moment he could turn and bite.
    
  "Swear that you won"t steal anything from me."
    
  "What would be the point? Remember, I'm the one holding the weapon."
    
  "Swear to it," the man insisted.
    
  "I swear I won't steal anything from you, Metzger. Tell me what I need to know, and I'll leave you alone."
    
  To the right was a wooden bookcase filled with black-bound books; to the left, a huge safe. The moneylender immediately stood in front of her, shielding her with his body.
    
  "Here you go," he said, pointing Paul to the bookcase.
    
  "You will find it for me."
    
  "No," the old man replied in a tense voice. He wasn't ready to leave his corner.
    
  He's getting bolder. If I push him too hard, he might attack me. Damn it, why didn't I load the gun? I would have used it to overpower him.
    
  "At least tell me which volume to look in."
    
  "It"s on the shelf, at your head level, fourth from the left."
    
  Without taking his eyes off Metzger, Paul found the book. He carefully removed it and handed it to the moneylender.
    
  "Find the link."
    
  "I don"t remember the number."
    
  "Nine one two three one. Hurry up."
    
  The old man reluctantly took the book and carefully turned the pages. Paul glanced around the warehouse, fearing that a group of police officers might appear at any moment to arrest him. He had already been here too long.
    
  "Here it is," said the old man, handing back the book, open to one of the first pages.
    
  There was no date entry, just a brief 1905 / Week 16. Paul found the number at the bottom of the page.
    
  "It's just a name. Clovis Nagel. There's no address."
    
  "The customer preferred not to provide any further details."
    
  "Is this legal, Metzger?"
    
  "The law on this issue is confusing."
    
  This wasn't the only entry where Nagel's name appeared. He was listed as "Depositing Client" on ten other accounts.
    
  "I want to see other things he's put in."
    
  Relieved that the burglar had gotten away from his safe, the pawnbroker led Paul to one of the bookshelves in the outer storage room. He pulled out a cardboard box and showed Paul its contents.
    
  "Here they are."
    
  A pair of cheap watches, a gold ring, a silver bracelet... Paul examined the trinkets but couldn't figure out what connected Nagel's objects. He was beginning to despair; after all the effort he'd put in, he now had even more questions than before.
    
  Why would one man pawn so many items on the same day? He must have been running away from someone-maybe my father. But if I want to learn anything more, I'll have to find this man, and a name alone won't help much.
    
  "I want to know where to find Nagel."
    
  "You've already seen it, son. I don't have an address..."
    
  Paul raised his right hand and struck the old man. Metzger fell to the floor and covered his face with his hands. A trickle of blood appeared between his fingers.
    
  "No, please, no - don"t hit me again!"
    
  Paul had to restrain himself from striking the man again. His entire body was filled with a vile energy, a vague hatred that had been building for years and suddenly found its target in the pitiful, bleeding figure at his feet.
    
  What am I doing?
    
  He suddenly felt sick at what he had done. This had to end as soon as possible.
    
  "Speak, Metzger. I know you"re hiding something from me."
    
  "I don't remember him too well. He was a soldier, I could tell by the way he spoke. A sailor, perhaps. He said he was going back to Southwest Africa and that he wouldn't need any of these things there."
    
  "What was he like?"
    
  "Rather short, with delicate features. I don't remember much... Please don't hit me anymore!"
    
  Short, with fine features... Edward described the man who was in the room with my father and my uncle as short, with delicate features, like a girl's. It could have been Clovis Nagel. What if my father had discovered him stealing things from the boat? Perhaps he was a spy. Or had my father asked him to pawn the pistol in his name? He certainly knew he was in danger.
    
  Feeling like his head was about to explode, Paul walked out of the pantry, leaving Metzger whimpering on the floor. He jumped onto the front windowsill, but suddenly remembered he'd left his bag by the door. Luckily, it was still there.
    
  But everything else around him changed.
    
  Dozens of people filled the streets, despite the late hour. They huddled on the sidewalk, some moving from one group to another, passing on information like bees pollinating flowers. Paul approached the nearest group.
    
  "They say the Nazis set fire to a building in Schwabing..."
    
  "No, it was the communists..."
    
  "They are setting up checkpoints..."
    
  Concerned, Paul took one of the men by the arm and pulled him aside.
    
  "What's happening?"
    
  The man took the cigarette out of his mouth and gave him a wry smile. He was glad to find someone willing to hear the bad news he had to deliver.
    
  "Haven't you heard? Hitler and his Nazis are staging a coup d'état. It's time for a revolution. Finally, some changes are going to happen."
    
  "You say this is a coup d"état?"
    
  "They stormed the Burgerbraukeller with hundreds of men and kept everyone locked inside, starting with the Bavarian state commissioner."
    
  Paul's heart did a somersault.
    
  "Alice!"
    
    
  41
    
    
  Until the shooting started, Alice thought the night belonged to her.
    
  The argument with Paul left a bitter taste in her mouth. She realized she was madly in love with him; she could see it clearly now. That's why she was more scared than ever.
    
  So she decided to focus on the task at hand. She entered the main room of the beer hall, which was more than three-quarters full. Over a thousand people were crowded around the tables, and soon there would be at least five hundred more. German flags hung from the wall, barely visible through the tobacco smoke. The room was humid and stuffy, which is why customers continued to pester the waitresses, who pushed through the crowd, carrying trays with half a dozen beer glasses over their heads without spilling a drop.
    
  This was hard work, Alice thought, grateful again for everything that today's opportunity had given her.
    
  Elbowing her way through, she managed to find a spot at the foot of the speakers' podium. Three or four other photographers had already taken their positions. One of them looked at Alice in surprise and nudged his comrades.
    
  "Be careful, beauty. Don't forget to take your finger away from the lens."
    
  "And don't forget to take yours out of your ass. Your nails are dirty."
    
  The photographer examined his fingertips and blushed. The others cheered.
    
  "Serves you right, Fritz!"
    
  Smiling to herself, Alice found a position with a good view. She checked the lighting and made a few quick calculations. With a little luck, she might get a good shot. She was starting to worry. Putting that idiot in his place had done her good. Besides, things were going to get better from that day on. She would talk to Paul; they would face their problems together. And with a new, stable job, she would truly feel accomplished.
    
  She was still lost in her reverie when Gustav Ritter von Kahr, the Bavarian state commissioner, took the stage. She took several photographs, including one she thought might be quite interesting, showing Kahr gesturing wildly.
    
  Suddenly, a commotion erupted at the back of the room. Alice craned her neck to see what was going on, but between the bright lights surrounding the podium and the wall of people behind her, she couldn't see anything. The roar of the crowd, along with the crash of tables and chairs falling and the clinking of dozens of broken glasses, was deafening.
    
  Someone emerged from the crowd next to Alice, a small, sweaty man in a rumpled raincoat. He pushed aside the man sitting at the table closest to the podium, then climbed onto his chair and then onto the table.
    
  Alice turned the camera towards him, capturing in an instant the wild look in his eyes, the slight tremor of his left hand, the cheap clothes, the pimp's haircut stuck to his forehead, the cruel little mustache, the raised hand, and the gun pointed at the ceiling.
    
  She wasn't afraid, and she didn't hesitate. All that flashed through her mind were the words August Müntz had spoken to her many years ago:
    
  There are moments in a photographer's life when a photograph passes before you, just one photograph, that can change your life and the lives of those around you. That's the defining moment, Alice. You'll see it before it happens. And when it does, shoot. Don't think, shoot.
    
  She pressed the button just as the man pulled the trigger.
    
  "The national revolution has begun!" the little man shouted in a powerful, raspy voice. "This place is surrounded by six hundred armed men! No one is leaving. And if there is no immediate silence, I will order my men to set up a machine gun on the gallery."
    
  The crowd fell silent, but Alice didn't notice, and she wasn't alarmed by the stormtroopers that appeared from all sides.
    
  "I declare the Bavarian government deposed! The police and army have joined our flag, the swastika: let it hang in every barracks and police station!"
    
  Another frantic cry rang out in the room. Applause erupted, interspersed with whistles and cries of "Mexico! Mexico!" and "South America!" Alice paid no attention. The gunshot still rang in her ears, the image of the little man shooting was still imprinted on her retinas, and her mind was stuck on those three words.
    
  The decisive moment.
    
  I did it, she thought.
    
  Clutching her camera to her chest, Alice dove into the crowd. Right now, her only priority was getting out of there and getting to the darkroom. She couldn't quite remember the name of the man who had fired the gun, though his face was very familiar; he was one of the many fanatical anti-Semites shouting their opinions in the city's taverns.
    
  Ziegler: No... Hitler. That's all - Hitler. The crazy Austrian.
    
  Alice didn't believe this coup had any chance at all. Who would follow a madman who declared he would wipe the Jews off the face of the earth? In synagogues, people joked about idiots like Hitler. And the image she captured of him, with beads of sweat on his forehead and a wild look in his eyes, would put that man in his place.
    
  By this she meant a madhouse.
    
  Alice could barely move through the sea of bodies. People started screaming again, and some of them started fighting. One man smashed a beer glass over another's head, and the garbage soaked Alice's jacket. It took her almost twenty minutes to reach the other end of the hall, but there she found a wall of Brownshirts armed with rifles and pistols blocking the exit. She tried to talk to them, but the stormtroopers refused to let her through.
    
  Hitler and the dignitaries he had disturbed disappeared through a side door. A new speaker took his place, and the temperature in the hall continued to rise.
    
  With a grim expression, Alice found a place where she would be as protected as possible and tried to think of a way to escape.
    
  Three hours later, her mood bordered on despair. Hitler and his henchmen had made several speeches, and the orchestra in the gallery had played the Deutschlandlied more than a dozen times. Alice tried to quietly return to the main hall in search of a window through which she could climb out, but the stormtroopers blocked her path there too. They weren't even allowing people to use the restroom, which in such a crowded place, with waitresses still pouring beer after beer, would soon become a problem. She had already seen more than one person relieving themselves against the back wall.
    
  But wait a minute: waitresses...
    
  Struck by a sudden flash of inspiration, Alice walked over to the serving table. She picked up an empty tray, took off her jacket, wrapped the camera in it, and placed it under the tray. Then she collected a couple of empty beer glasses and headed to the kitchen.
    
  They might not notice. I'm wearing a white blouse and a black skirt, just like the waitresses. They might not even notice I'm not wearing an apron. Until they notice my jacket under the tray...
    
  Alice walked through the crowd, holding her tray high, and had to bite her tongue when a couple of patrons brushed against her buttocks. She didn't want to draw attention to herself. Approaching the revolving doors, she stood behind another waitress and passed the SA guards, thankfully none of whom gave her a second glance.
    
  The kitchen was long and very large. The same tense atmosphere reigned there, though without the smoke and flags. A couple of waiters filled glasses of beer, while the kitchen boys and cooks chatted among themselves at the stoves under the stern gaze of a pair of stormtroopers who were again blocking the exit. Both carried rifles and pistols.
    
  Crap.
    
  Unsure of what to do, Alice realized she couldn't just stand there in the middle of the kitchen. Someone would figure out she wasn't part of the staff and throw her out. She left the glasses in the huge metal sink and grabbed a dirty rag she found nearby. She ran it under the tap, wet it, wrung it out, and pretended to wash herself while she tried to come up with a plan. Looking around cautiously, an idea occurred to her.
    
  She sidled over to one of the trash cans next to the sink. It was almost full of leftovers. She put her jacket in it, closed the lid, and picked up the can. Then she brazenly began walking toward the door.
    
  "You can"t pass by, Fraulein," said one of the stormtroopers.
    
  "I need to take out the trash."
    
  "Leave it here."
    
  "But the jars are full. Kitchen trash cans shouldn't be full: that's illegal."
    
  Don't worry about it, Fraulein, we are the law now. Put the can back where it was."
    
  Alice, deciding to go all in on one hand, placed the jar on the floor and crossed her arms.
    
  "If you want to move it, move it yourself."
    
  "I'm telling you to get that thing out of here."
    
  The young man kept his eyes on Alice. The kitchen staff noticed the scene and glared at him. Since Alice had her back to them, they couldn't tell she wasn't one of them.
    
  "Come on, dude, let her through," another stormtrooper interjected. "It's bad enough being stuck here in the kitchen. We'll have to wear these clothes all night, and the smell will stick to my shirt."
    
  The one who spoke first shrugged and stepped aside.
    
  "Then you go. Take her to the trash can outside, and then come back here as quickly as possible."
    
  Cursing quietly, Alice led the way. A narrow door led into an even narrower alley. The only light came from a single bulb at the opposite end, closer to the street. A trash can sat there, surrounded by skinny cats.
    
  "So... How long have you been working here, Fraulein?" the stormtrooper asked in a slightly embarrassed tone.
    
  I can't believe it: we're walking down an alley, I'm carrying a trash can, he's got a machine gun in his hands, and this idiot is flirting with me.
    
  "You could say I'm new," Alice replied, feigning friendliness. "And what about you: have you been carrying out coups for a long time?"
    
  "No, this is my first," the man answered seriously, not catching her irony.
    
  They reached the trash can.
    
  "Okay, okay, you can go back now. I"ll stay and empty the jar."
    
  "Oh, no, Fraulein. You empty the jar, then I must accompany you back."
    
  "I wouldn"t want you to have to wait for me."
    
  "I would wait for you anytime you want. You are beautiful..."
    
  He moved to kiss her. Alice tried to retreat, but found herself pinned between a trash can and a stormtrooper.
    
  "No, please," Alice said.
    
  "Come on, Fraulein..."
    
  "Please no."
    
  The stormtrooper hesitated, full of remorse.
    
  "I'm sorry if I offended you. I just thought..."
    
  "Don"t worry about it. I"m just already engaged."
    
  "I"m sorry. He"s a happy man."
    
  "Don"t worry about it," Alice repeated, shocked.
    
  "Let me help you with the trash can."
    
  "No!"
    
  Alice tried to pull away the Brownshirt's hand, but he dropped the can in confusion. She fell and rolled on the ground.
    
  Some of the remains are scattered in a semicircle, revealing Alice's jacket and its precious cargo.
    
  "What the hell is this?"
    
  The package was slightly open, and the camera lens was clearly visible. The soldier looked at Alice, who had a guilty expression. She didn't need to confess.
    
  "You damn whore! You're a communist spy!" said the stormtrooper, fumbling for his baton.
    
  Before he could grab her, Alice lifted the metal lid of the trash can and attempted to hit the stormtrooper over the head. Seeing the attack approaching, he raised his right hand. The lid struck his wrist with a deafening sound.
    
  "Aaaaah!"
    
  He grabbed the lid with his left hand, throwing it far away. Alice tried to dodge him and run, but the alley was too narrow. The Nazi grabbed her blouse and yanked it hard. Alice's body twisted, and her shirt ripped off one side, revealing her bra. The Nazi, raising his hand to strike her, froze for a moment, torn between arousal and rage. That look filled her heart with fear.
    
  "Alice!"
    
  She looked towards the entrance to the alley.
    
  Paul was there, in terrible shape, but still there. Despite the cold, he was wearing only a sweater. His breathing was ragged, and he was cramping from running across the city. Half an hour ago, he had planned to enter the Burgerbräukeller through the back door, but he couldn't even cross Ludwigsbrucke because the Nazis had set up a roadblock.
    
  So he took a long, roundabout route. He searched for police officers, soldiers, anyone who might answer his questions about what had happened in the pub, but all he found were citizens applauding those who had taken part in the coup, or booing them-from a reasonable distance.
    
  Having crossed to the opposite bank via Maximilianbrücke, he began questioning people he met on the street. Finally, someone mentioned an alley that led to the kitchen, and Paul ran there, praying he would arrive before it was too late.
    
  He was so surprised to see Alice outside, fighting a stormtrooper, that instead of launching a surprise attack, he announced his arrival like an idiot. When another man drew his pistol, Paul had no choice but to lunge forward. His shoulder caught the Nazi in the stomach, knocking him down.
    
  The two of them rolled on the ground, struggling for the gun. The other man was stronger than Paul, who was also completely exhausted from the events of the previous hours. The struggle lasted less than five seconds, at the end of which the other man pushed Paul aside, knelt, and pointed his gun.
    
  Alice, who had now lifted the metal lid of the trash can, intervened, furiously smashing it into the soldier. The blows echoed through the alley like the clash of cymbals. The Nazi's eyes went blank, but he didn't fall. Alice hit him again, and finally he toppled forward and landed flat on his face.
    
  Paul stood up and ran to hug her, but she pushed him away and sat down on the ground.
    
  "What"s wrong with you? Are you okay?"
    
  Alice stood up, furious. In her hands, she held the remains of the camera, which had been completely destroyed. It had been crushed during Paul's fight with the Nazis.
    
  "Look".
    
  "It"s broken. Don"t worry, we"ll buy something better."
    
  "You don"t understand! There were photographs!"
    
  "Alice, there's no time for this now. We have to leave before his friends come looking for him."
    
  He tried to take her hand, but she pulled away and ran ahead of him.
    
    
  42
    
    
  They didn't look back until they were well away from the Burgerbräukeller. Finally, they stopped at the Church of St. Johann Nepomuk, whose impressive spire pointed like an accusing finger into the night sky. Paul led Alice to the arch above the main entrance to shelter from the cold.
    
  "God, Alice, you have no idea how scared I was," he said, kissing her on the lips. She returned the kiss without much conviction.
    
  "What's happening?"
    
  "Nothing".
    
  "I don't think it's what it looks like," Paul said irritably.
    
  "I said it was nonsense."
    
  Paul decided not to pursue the matter further. When Alice was in that mood, trying to pull her out of it was like trying to climb out of quicksand: the more you struggled, the deeper you sank.
    
  "Are you okay? Did they hurt you or... something else?"
    
  She shook her head. Only then did she fully comprehend Paul's appearance. His shirt was stained with blood, his face was sooty, his eyes bloodshot.
    
  "What happened to you, Paul?"
    
  "My mother died," he replied, lowering his head.
    
  As Paul recounted the events of that night, Alice felt sadness for him and shame for how she had treated him. More than once, she opened her mouth to ask for his forgiveness, but she never believed the meaning of the word. It was a disbelief fueled by pride.
    
  When he told her his mother's last words, Alice was stunned. She couldn't understand how the cruel, vicious Jurgen could be Paul's brother, and yet, deep down, it didn't surprise her. Paul had a dark side that emerged at certain moments, like a sudden autumn wind rustling the curtains in a cozy home.
    
  When Paul described breaking into the pawnshop and having to hit Metzger to get him to talk, Alice became terrified for him. Everything related to this secret seemed unbearable, and she wanted to get him away from it as quickly as possible before it consumed him completely.
    
  Paul concluded his story by recounting his dash to the pub.
    
  "And that"s all."
    
  "I think that"s more than enough."
    
  "What do you mean?"
    
  "You're not seriously planning on continuing to dig around this, are you? Clearly, there's someone out there who's willing to do anything to cover up the truth."
    
  "This is precisely the reason we need to keep digging. It proves that someone is responsible for my father's murder..."
    
  There was a short pause.
    
  "...my parents."
    
  Paul didn't cry. After what had just happened, his body begged him to cry, his soul needed it, and his heart was overflowing with tears. But Paul held it all inside, forming a small shell around his heart. Perhaps some absurd sense of masculinity would prevent him from showing his feelings to the woman he loved. Perhaps this was what triggered what happened moments later.
    
  "Paul, you have to give in," Alice said, growing increasingly alarmed.
    
  "I have no intention of doing this."
    
  "But you have no evidence. No leads."
    
  "I have a name: Clovis Nagel. I have a place: Southwest Africa."
    
  "Southwest Africa is a very big place."
    
  "I'll start with Windhoek. It shouldn't be hard to spot a white man over there."
    
  "Southwest Africa is very big... and very far away," Alice repeated, emphasizing every word.
    
  "I have to do this. I'll leave on the first boat."
    
  "So that"s all?"
    
  "Yes, Alice. Haven't you heard a word I've said since we met? Don't you understand how important it is for me to find out what happened nineteen years ago? And now... now this."
    
  For a moment, Alice considered stopping him. Explaining how much she would miss him, how much she needed him. How deeply she had fallen in love with him. But pride bit her tongue. Just as it had prevented her from telling Paul the truth about her own behavior over the past few days.
    
  "Then go, Paul. Do whatever you have to do."
    
  Paul looked at her, completely confused. The icy tone of her voice made him feel as if his heart had been ripped out and buried in the snow.
    
  "Alice..."
    
  "Go immediately. Leave now."
    
  "Alice, please!"
    
  "Go away, I"m telling you."
    
  Paul seemed on the verge of tears, and she prayed for him to cry, for him to change his mind and tell her he loved her and that his love for her was more important than a search that had brought him nothing but pain and death. Perhaps Paul had been waiting for something like this, or perhaps he was simply trying to imprint Alice's face on his memory. For long, bitter years, she cursed herself for the arrogance that had overtaken her, just as Paul had blamed himself for not taking the tram back to the boarding school before his mother was stabbed to death...
    
  ...and for turning around and leaving.
    
  "You know what? I"m glad. This way you won"t barge into my dreams and trample them," Alice said, throwing the shards of the camera she"d been clinging to at her feet. "Ever since I met you, only bad things have happened to me. I want you out of my life, Paul."
    
  Paul hesitated for a moment, then, without turning around, said, "So be it."
    
  Alice stood in the church doorway for several minutes, silently fighting her tears. Suddenly, out of the darkness, from the same direction Paul had disappeared, a figure appeared. Alice tried to compose herself and force a smile onto her face.
    
  He's coming back. He's understood, and he's coming back, she thought, taking a step toward the figure.
    
  But the streetlights revealed the approaching figure to be a man in a gray coat and hat. Too late, Alice realized it was one of the men who had been following her that day.
    
  She turned to run, but at that moment she saw his companion emerge from around the corner, less than three meters away. She tried to run, but two men rushed at her and grabbed her by the waist.
    
  "Your father is looking for you, Fraulein Tannenbaum."
    
  Alice struggled in vain. There was nothing she could do.
    
  A car pulled out from a nearby street, and one of her father's gorillas opened the door. The other one pushed her toward him and tried to pull her head down.
    
  "You better be careful around me, idiots," Alice said with a disdainful look. "I'm pregnant."
    
    
  43
    
    
  Elizabeth Bay, August 28, 1933
    
  Dear Alice,
    
  I've lost count of how many times I've written to you. I must get over a hundred letters a month, all unanswered.
    
  I don't know if they got through to you and you decided to forget me. Or perhaps you moved and didn't leave a forwarding address. This one will go to your father's house. I write to you there from time to time, even though I know it's useless. I still hope that one of them will somehow slip past your father. In any case, I will continue to write to you. These letters have become my only contact with my former life.
    
  I want to start, as always, by asking you to forgive me for the way I left. I've thought about that night ten years ago so many times, and I know I shouldn't have acted the way I did. I'm sorry I shattered your dreams. I prayed every day for you to achieve your dream of becoming a photographer, and I hope you've succeeded over the years.
    
  Life in the colonies isn't easy. Since Germany lost these lands, South Africa has controlled a mandate over former German territory. We're not welcome here, even though they tolerate us.
    
  There aren't many openings. I work on farms and in diamond mines for a few weeks at a time. When I save a little money, I travel the country in search of Clovis Nagel. It's no easy task. I found traces of him in the villages of the Orange River basin. Once, I visited a mine he had just left. I missed him by only a few minutes.
    
  I also followed a tip that led me north to the Waterberg Plateau. There I met a strange, proud tribe, the Herero. I spent several months with them, and they taught me how to hunt and gather in the desert. I caught a fever and was very weak for a long time, but they took care of me. I learned much from these people, beyond physical skills. They are exceptional. They live in the shadow of death, a constant daily struggle to find water and adapt their lives to the pressures of white men.
    
  I'm out of paper; this is the last piece from a batch I bought from a peddler on the road to Swakopmund. Tomorrow I'm heading back there in search of new leads. I'll be walking, as I'm out of money, so my search must be brief. The hardest thing about being here, besides the lack of news of you, is the time it takes me to earn a living. I've often been on the verge of giving up. However, I don't intend to give up. Sooner or later, I'll find him.
    
  I'm thinking about you and everything that's happened over the last ten years. I hope you're healthy and happy. If you decide to write to me, please write to the Windhoek post office. The address is on the envelope.
    
  Once again, forgive me.
    
  I love you,
    
  Floor
    
    
  FRIEND IN CRAFT
    
  1934
    
    
  In which the initiate learns that the path cannot be walked alone
    
  The secret handshake of the Fellow Craft degree involves a firm pressure on the knuckle of the middle finger and ends with the Brother Mason returning the greeting. The secret name for this handshake is JACHIN, named after the column representing the sun in Solomon's Temple. Again, there's a trick to the spelling, which should be written as AJCHIN.
    
    
  44
    
    
  Jurgen admired himself in the mirror.
    
  He tugged gently at his lapels, adorned with a skull and the SS emblem. He never tired of looking at himself in his new uniform. Walter Heck's designs and the superb craftsmanship of Hugo Boss clothing, praised in the gossip press, inspired awe in everyone who saw them. As Jürgen walked down the street, children stood at attention and raised their hands in salute. Last week, a couple of elderly ladies stopped him and said how nice it was to see strong, healthy young men getting Germany back on track. They asked if he'd lost an eye fighting the communists. Pleased, Jürgen helped them carry their shopping bags to the nearest building.
    
  At that moment there was a knock at the door.
    
  "Come in."
    
  "You look well," his mother said as she entered the large bedroom.
    
  "I know".
    
  "Will you be having dinner with us tonight?"
    
  "I don't think so, Mom. I've been called to a meeting with the Security Service."
    
  "They no doubt want to recommend you for promotion. You've been an Untersturmführer for too long."
    
  Jurgen nodded cheerfully and took his cap.
    
  "The car is waiting for you at the door. I'll tell the cook to prepare something for you in case you return early."
    
  "Thank you, Mother," Jurgen said, kissing Brunhilde on the forehead. He stepped out into the hallway, his black boots clattering loudly on the marble steps. The maid was waiting for him in the hallway with his coat.
    
  Since Otto and his cards disappeared from their lives eleven years ago, their economic situation had gradually improved. An army of servants once again handled the day-to-day running of the mansion, though Jürgen was now the head of the family.
    
  "Will you be back for dinner, sir?"
    
  Jurgen inhaled sharply when he heard her use this form of address. It always happened when he was nervous and unsettled, like that morning. The slightest details broke his icy exterior and revealed the storm of conflict raging within.
    
  "The Baroness will give you instructions."
    
  Soon they'll start calling me by my real title, he thought as he stepped outside. His hands were shaking slightly. Luckily, he'd draped his coat over his arm, so the driver didn't notice when he opened the door for him.
    
  In the past, Jürgen might have channeled his impulses through violence; but after the Nazi Party's election victory last year, undesirable factions became more cautious. With each passing day, Jürgen found it increasingly difficult to control himself. As he traveled, he tried to breathe slowly. He didn't want to arrive agitated and nervous.
    
  Especially if they are going to promote me, as my mother says.
    
  "Frankly speaking, my dear Schroeder, you give me serious doubts."
    
  "Doubts, sir?"
    
  "Doubts about your loyalty."
    
  Jurgen noticed that his hand had started to shake again, and he had to squeeze his knuckles hard to get it under control.
    
  The conference room was completely empty, save for Reinhard Heydrich and himself. The head of the Reich Main Security Office, the Nazi Party's intelligence agency, was a tall man with a distinct brow, just a couple of months older than Jürgen. Despite his youth, he had become one of the most influential people in Germany. His organization was tasked with identifying threats-real or imagined-to the Party. Jürgen had heard this the day they interviewed him for the job.
    
  Heinrich Himmler asked Heydrich how he would organize a Nazi intelligence agency, and Heydrich responded by retelling every spy novel he'd ever read. The Reich Main Security Office was already feared throughout Germany, though it was unclear whether this was due more to cheap fiction or innate talent.
    
  "Why do you say that, sir?"
    
  Heydrich placed his hand on the folder in front of him that had Jurgen's name on it.
    
  "You started in the SA in the early days of the movement. That"s wonderful, that"s interesting. It"s surprising, however, that someone from your... lineage should specifically ask for a place in an SA battalion. And then there are the repeated episodes of violence reported by your superiors. I"ve consulted a psychologist about you... and he suggests that you may have a serious personality disorder. However, that in itself is not a crime, although it could," he emphasized the word "could" with a half-smile and a raised eyebrow, "become an obstacle. But now we come to what worries me most. You were invited-like the rest of your staff-to attend a special event at the Burgerbraukeller on November 8, 1923. However, you never showed up."
    
  Heydrich paused, letting his final words hang in the air. Jürgen began to sweat. After winning the election, the Nazis began, slowly and systematically, to exact revenge on everyone who had impeded the 1923 uprising, thereby delaying Hitler's rise to power by a year. For years, Jürgen had lived in fear of someone pointing a finger at him, and it had finally happened.
    
  Heydrich continued, his tone now threatening.
    
  "According to your superior, you did not report to the meeting place as requested. However, it appears that-and I quote-'Stormtrooper Jürgen von Schröder was with a squadron of the 10th Company on the night of November 23rd. His shirt was soaked with blood, and he claimed to have been attacked by several communists, and that the blood belonged to one of them, the man he stabbed. He asked to join the squadron, commanded by the police commissioner from the Schwabing district, until the end of the coup.' Is that correct?"
    
  "Right down to the last comma, sir."
    
  "Correct. The investigating committee must have thought so, because they awarded you the Party's gold insignia and the Blood Order medal," Heydrich said, pointing to Jürgen's chest.
    
  The party's golden emblem was one of the most sought-after decorations in Germany. It consisted of a Nazi flag in a circle surrounded by a golden laurel wreath. It distinguished those party members who joined before Hitler's victory in 1933. Until then, the Nazis had to recruit people to join their ranks. From that day on, endless lines formed at party headquarters. Not everyone was granted this privilege.
    
  As for the Order of Blood, it was the most valuable medal in the Reich. It was worn only by those who took part in the 1923 coup d'état, which tragically ended with the death of sixteen Nazis at the hands of the police. It was an award that even Heydrich didn't wear.
    
  "I am really wondering," continued the head of the Reich Main Security Office, tapping his lips with the edge of a folder, "whether we should not set up a commission of inquiry into you, my friend."
    
  "That wouldn"t be necessary, sir," Jurgen said in a whisper, knowing how brief and decisive the commissions of inquiry were these days.
    
  "No? The most recent reports, which emerged when the SA was absorbed into the SS, say that you were somewhat 'cold-blooded in the performance of your duties,' that there was a 'lack of commitment'... Should I continue?"
    
  "That"s because I was kept off the streets, sir!"
    
  "Then is it possible that other people are worried about you?"
    
  "I assure you, sir, my commitment is absolute."
    
  "Well then, there is one way to regain the trust of this office."
    
  Finally, the penny was about to drop. Heydrich had summoned Jürgen with a proposition in mind. He wanted something from him, and that was why he had been pressuring him from the very beginning. He probably had no idea what Jürgen was doing that night in 1923, but what Heydrich knew or didn't know was irrelevant: his word was law.
    
  "I"ll do anything, sir," Jurgen said, a little calmer now.
    
  "Well then, Jurgen. I can call you Jurgen, can"t I?"
    
  "Of course, sir," he said, suppressing his anger at the other man"s failure to return the favor.
    
  "Have you heard of Freemasonry, Jurgen?"
    
  "Of course. My father was a lodge member in his youth. I think he soon tired of it."
    
  Heydrich nodded. This didn't come as a surprise to him, and Jürgen assumed he already knew.
    
  "Since we came to power, the Masons have been... actively discouraged."
    
  "I know, sir," Jürgen said, smiling at the euphemism. In Mein Kampf, a book every German read-and displayed in their homes if they knew what was good for them-Hitler expressed his visceral hatred of Freemasonry.
    
  "A significant number of lodges voluntarily disbanded or reorganized. These particular lodges were of little significance to us, as they were all Prussian, with Aryan members and nationalist tendencies. Since they voluntarily disbanded and handed over their membership lists, no action was taken against them... for the time being."
    
  "I understand that some lodges are still bothering you, sir?"
    
  "It's perfectly clear to us that many lodges have remained active, the so-called humanitarian lodges. Most of their members hold liberal views, are Jews, and so on..."
    
  "Why don"t you just ban them, sir?"
    
  "Jürgen, Jürgen," Heydrich said patronizingly, "at best, that would only hinder their activities. As long as they have a shred of hope, they'll continue to meet and talk about their compasses, squares, and other Jewish nonsense. What I want is each of their names on a small card measuring fourteen by seven."
    
  Heydrich's small postcards were known throughout the party. A large room next to his Berlin office housed information on those the party considered "undesirable": communists, homosexuals, Jews, Freemasons, and anyone else inclined to comment that the Führer seemed a little tired in his speech that day. Every time someone was denounced, a new postcard was added to the tens of thousands. The fate of those appearing on the postcards was still unknown.
    
  "If Freemasonry were banned, they would simply go underground like rats."
    
  "Absolutely right!" Heydrich said, slamming his palm on the table. He leaned toward Jürgen and said confidentially, "Tell me, do you know why we need the names of this rabble?"
    
  "Because Freemasonry is a puppet of the international Jewish conspiracy. It's well known that bankers like the Rothschilds and...
    
  A loud chuckle interrupted Jurgen's passionate speech. Seeing the Baron's son's face fall, the head of state security restrained himself.
    
  "Don't repeat the editorials of the Volkischer Beobachter to me, Jürgen. I helped write them myself."
    
  "But, sir, the Führer says..."
    
  "I have to wonder how far the dagger that took out your eye went, my friend," Heydrich said, studying his features.
    
  "Sir, there is no need to be offensive," said Jurgen, furious and confused.
    
  Heydrich flashed a sinister smile.
    
  "You are full of spirit, Jürgen. But this passion must be governed by reason. Do me a favor and don"t become one of those sheep who bleat at demonstrations. Allow me to teach you a little lesson from our history." Heydrich stood up and began pacing around the large table. "In 1917, the Bolsheviks dissolved all the lodges in Russia. In 1919, Bela Kun got rid of all the Freemasons in Hungary. In 1925, Primo de Rivera banned the lodges in Spain. That year, Mussolini did the same in Italy. His Blackshirts dragged Freemasons out of their beds in the middle of the night and beat them to death in the streets. An instructive example, don"t you think?"
    
  Jurgen nodded, surprised. He knew nothing about this.
    
  "As you can see," Heydrich continued, "the first act of any strong government that intends to remain in power is to get rid of-among other things-the Freemasons. And not because they're carrying out orders for some hypothetical Jewish conspiracy: they do this because people who think for themselves create a lot of problems."
    
  "What exactly do you want from me, sir?"
    
  "I want you to infiltrate the Masons. I'll give you some good contacts. You're an aristocrat, and your father belonged to a lodge a few years ago, so they'll accept you without any fuss. Your goal will be to obtain a membership list. I want to know the name of every Freemason in Bavaria."
    
  "Will I have carte blanche, sir?"
    
  "Unless you hear anything to the contrary, yes. Wait here a minute."
    
  Heydrich walked to the door, opened it, and barked a few instructions to his adjutant, who was sitting on a bench in the hallway. The adjutant clicked his heels and returned a few moments later with another young man, dressed in his outerwear.
    
  "Come in, Adolf, come in. My dear Jürgen, allow me to introduce you to Adolf Eichmann. He is a very promising young man who works at our Dachau camp. He specializes in, shall we say... extra-judicial cases."
    
  "Nice to meet you," Jurgen said, extending his hand. "So you're the kind of man who knows how to get around the law, huh?"
    
  "Likewise. And yes, sometimes we have to bend the rules a little if we ever want to return Germany to its rightful owners," Eichmann said, smiling.
    
  "Adolf has requested a position in my office, and I'm inclined to ease the transition for him, but first I'd like him to work with you for a few months. You will pass on all the information you receive to him, and he will be responsible for making sense of it. And once you've completed this assignment, I believe I'll be able to send you to Berlin on a larger mission."
    
    
  45
    
    
  I saw him. I'm sure of it, thought Clovis, elbowing his way out of the tavern.
    
  It was a July night, and his shirt was already soaked with sweat. But the heat didn't bother him too much. He'd learned to cope with it in the desert, when he first discovered Rainer following him. He'd had to abandon a promising diamond mine in the Orange River basin to throw Rainer off the scent. He'd left the last of his excavation materials, taking only the bare essentials. At the top of a low ridge, rifle in hand, he saw Paul's face for the first time and rested his finger on the trigger. Fearing he'd miss, he slid down the other side of the hill like a snake in tall grass.
    
  Then he lost Paul for several months, until he was forced to flee again, this time from a brothel in Johannesburg. This time, Rainer spotted him first, but from a distance. When their gazes met, Clovis was foolish enough to show his fear. He immediately recognized the cold, hard glint in Rainer's eyes as the gaze of a hunter memorizing the shape of his prey. He managed to escape through a hidden back door, and even had time to return to the hotel dump where he was staying and throw his clothes into a suitcase.
    
  Three years passed before Clovis Nagel grew tired of the feeling of Rainer's breath on the back of his neck. He couldn't sleep without a gun under his pillow. He couldn't walk without turning around to check if he was being followed. And he wouldn't stay in one place for more than a few weeks, for fear that one night he might wake to the steely glare of those blue eyes watching him from behind the barrel of a revolver.
    
  Finally, he gave in. Without funds, he couldn't run forever, and the money the baron had given him had long since run out. He began writing to the baron, but none of his letters were answered, so Clovis boarded a ship bound for Hamburg. Returning to Germany, en route to Munich, he felt a moment of relief. For the first three days, he was convinced he had lost Rainer... until one night, he walked into a tavern near the train station and recognized Paul's face in the crowd of patrons.
    
  A knot formed in Clovis's stomach and he fled.
    
  As he ran as fast as his short legs would carry him, he realized the terrible mistake he'd made. He'd traveled to Germany without a firearm because he was afraid he'd be stopped at customs. He still hadn't had time to grab anything, and now all he had to defend himself with was his folding knife.
    
  He pulled it from his pocket as he ran down the street. He dodged the cones of light cast by the streetlamps, darting from one to the next as if they were islands of safety, until it occurred to him that if Rainer was pursuing him, Clovis was making things too easy for him. He turned right down a dark alley that ran parallel to the train tracks. A train was approaching, rumbling toward the station. Clovis couldn't see her, but he could smell the smoke from the chimney and feel the vibrations in the ground.
    
  A sound came from the other end of the side street. The former Marine was startled and bit his tongue. He ran again, his heart pounding. He tasted blood, a foreboding omen of what he knew would happen if the other man caught up with him.
    
  Clovis reached a dead end. Unable to go any further, he hid behind a pile of wooden crates that smelled of rotting fish. Flies buzzed around him, landing on his face and hands. He tried to brush them away, but another noise and a shadow at the entrance to the alley made him freeze. He tried to slow his breathing.
    
  The shadow transformed into the silhouette of a man. Clovis couldn't see his face, but there was no need. He knew perfectly well who it was.
    
  Unable to bear the situation any longer, he rushed to the end of the alley, knocking over a pile of wooden crates. A pair of rats scurried in terror between his legs. Clovis followed them blindly and watched as they disappeared through a half-open door he had unwittingly passed in the darkness. He found himself in a dark corridor and pulled out his lighter to get his bearings. He allowed himself a few seconds of light before darting off again, but at the end of the corridor he tripped and fell, scraping his hands on the damp cement steps. Not daring to use the lighter again, he rose and began to climb, constantly listening for the slightest sound behind him.
    
  He climbed for what seemed like an eternity. Finally, his feet touched level ground, and he dared to flick his lighter. A flickering yellow light revealed he was in another corridor, at the end of which was a door. He pushed it, and it was unlocked.
    
  I finally threw him off the scent. This looks like an abandoned warehouse. I'll spend a couple of hours here until I'm sure he's not following me, Clovis thought, his breathing returning to normal.
    
  "Good evening, Clovis," said a voice behind him.
    
  Clovis turned, pressing the button on his switchblade. The blade ejected with a barely audible click, and Clovis lunged, arm outstretched, toward the figure waiting by the door. It was like trying to touch a moonbeam. The figure stepped aside, and the steel blade missed by almost half a meter, piercing the wall. Clovis tried to rip it free, but barely managed to remove the dirty plaster before the blow knocked him off his feet.
    
  "Make yourself comfortable. We're going to be here for a while."
    
  A voice came from the darkness. Clovis tried to stand, but a hand pushed him back to the floor. Suddenly, a white beam split the darkness in two. His pursuer turned on a flashlight. He pointed it at his own face.
    
  "Does this face look familiar to you?"
    
  Clovis studied Paul Rainer for a long time.
    
  "You don't look like him," Clovis said, his voice hard and tired.
    
  Rainer pointed the flashlight at Clovis, who covered his eyes with his left hand to shield himself from the bright light.
    
  "Point that thing somewhere else!"
    
  "I'll do whatever I want. We play by my rules now."
    
  The beam of light moved from Clovis's face to Paul's right hand. In his hands he held his father's Mauser C96.
    
  "Very well, Rainer. You"re in charge."
    
  "I'm glad we came to an agreement."
    
  Clovis reached into his pocket. Paul took a threatening step toward him, but the former Marine pulled out a pack of cigarettes and held it up to the light. He also grabbed a few matches, which he carried with him in case he ran out of lighter fluid. There were only two left.
    
  "You've made my life miserable, Rainer," he said, lighting an unfiltered cigarette.
    
  "I know little about ruined lives myself. You ruined mine."
    
  Clovis laughed, a deranged sound.
    
  "Does your imminent death amuse you, Clovis?" Paul asked.
    
  A laugh caught in Clovis's throat. If Paul had sounded angry, Clovis wouldn't have been so frightened. But his tone was casual, calm. Clovis was sure Paul was smiling in the darkness.
    
  "Easy, like this. Let"s just see..."
    
  "We won"t see anything. I want you to tell me how you killed my father and why."
    
  "I didn"t kill him."
    
  "No, of course you didn't. That's why you've been on the run for twenty-nine years."
    
  "It wasn"t me, I swear!"
    
  "So who then?"
    
  Clovis paused for a few moments. He was afraid that if he answered, the young man would simply shoot him. The name was the only card he had, and he had to play it.
    
  "I"ll tell you if you promise to let me go."
    
  The only answer was the sound of a gun being cocked in the darkness.
    
  "No, Rainer!" Clovis shouted. "Look, it"s not just about who killed your father. What good would knowing that do you? What matters is what happened first. Why."
    
  There was silence for a few moments.
    
  "Then go on. I"m listening."
    
    
  46
    
    
  "It all began on August 11, 1904. Up until that day, we'd spent a wonderful couple of weeks in Swakopsmund. The beer was decent by African standards, the weather wasn't too hot, and the girls were very friendly. We'd just returned from Hamburg, and Captain Rainer had appointed me his first lieutenant. Our boat was to spend a few months patrolling the colonial coast, hoping to strike fear into the English."
    
  "But the problem wasn"t the English?"
    
  "No... The natives had revolted a few months earlier. A new general arrived to take command, and he was the biggest son of a bitch, the most sadistic bastard I"d ever seen. His name was Lothar von Trotha. He started pressuring the natives. He"d received orders from Berlin to reach some kind of political agreement with them, but he didn"t care one bit. He said the natives were subhuman, apes who"d come down from the trees and only learned to use rifles by imitation. He pursued them until the rest of us showed up in Waterberg, and there we all were, those of us from Swakopmund and Windhoek, with weapons in our hands, cursing our lousy luck."
    
  "You won."
    
  "They outnumbered us three to one, but they didn't know how to fight as an army. More than three thousand fell, and we took all their livestock and weapons. Then..."
    
  The former Marine lit another cigarette from the butt of the previous one. In the flashlight's light, his face lost all expression.
    
  "Trota told you to advance," Paul said, encouraging him to continue.
    
  "I"m sure you"ve been told this story, but no one who wasn"t there knows what it really was like. We pushed them back into the desert. No water, no food. We told them not to come back. We poisoned every well for hundreds of kilometers and gave them no warning. Those who hid or turned around to get water were the first warning they received. The rest... more than twenty-five thousand, mostly women, children, and the elderly, made their way to Omaheke. I don"t want to imagine what became of them."
    
  "They died, Clovis. No one crosses the Omaheke without water. The only people who survived were a few Herero tribes in the north."
    
  "We were given leave. Your father and I wanted to get as far away from Windhoek as possible. We stole horses and headed south. I don"t remember the exact route we took, because for the first few days we were so drunk we barely remembered our own names. I remember we passed through Kolmanskop and that a telegram from Trotha was waiting for your father there, saying his leave was over and ordering him to return to Windhoek. Your father tore up the telegram and said he would never return. It all affected him too deeply."
    
  "Did it really affect him?" Paul asked. Clovis heard the concern in his voice and knew he'd found a chink in his opponent's armor.
    
  "That was it, for both of us. We kept drinking and driving, trying to get away from it all. We had no idea where we were going. One morning, we arrived at a secluded farm in the Orange River basin. There was a family of German colonists living there, and damn if the father wasn"t the dumbest bastard I"ve ever met. There was a creek running through their property, and the girls kept complaining that it was full of small pebbles and that their feet hurt when they went swimming. The father would take these little pebbles out one by one and pile them around the back of the house, "to make a pebble path," he said. Except they weren"t pebbles."
    
  "They were diamonds," said Paul, who, after years of working in the mines, knew this mistake had happened more than once. Some types of diamonds, before being cut and polished, appear so rough that people often mistake them for translucent stones.
    
  "Some were fat as pigeon eggs, son. Others were small and white, and there was even a pink one, this big," he said, raising his fist to the beam of light. "You could find them in orange pretty easily in those days, though you risked being shot by government inspectors if you were caught sneaking too close to a dig site, and there was never a shortage of dead bodies drying in the sun at intersections under signs labeled "DIAMOND THIEF." Well, there were plenty of diamonds in orange, but I"ve never seen so many in one place as I did on that farm. Never."
    
  "What did this man say when he found out?"
    
  "Like I said, he was stupid. All he cared about was his Bible and his harvest, and he never let any of his family go down to town. They had no visitors either, since they lived in the middle of nowhere. Which was just as well, because anyone with half a brain would have known what those stones were. Your father saw a pile of diamonds when they were showing us around the property, and he elbowed me in the ribs-just in time, because I was about to say something stupid, hang me if it wasn"t true. The family took us in without asking any questions. Your father was in a foul mood at dinner. He said he wanted to sleep, that he was tired; but when the farmer and his wife offered us their room, your father insisted on sleeping in the living room under several blankets."
    
  "So you can get up in the middle of the night."
    
  "That"s exactly what we did. There was a chest of family knick-knacks next to the fireplace. We emptied them onto the floor, trying not to make a sound. Then I went around to the back of the house and put the rocks in the trunk. Believe me, even though the chest was large, the rocks still filled it three-quarters. We covered them with a blanket and then lifted the chest onto the little covered wagon my father used to deliver supplies. Everything would have gone perfectly if it weren"t for that damned dog that was sleeping outside. As we hitched our own horses to the wagon and started off, we ran over its tail. How that damned animal howled! The farmer was on his feet, shotgun in hand. While he may have been stupid, he wasn"t completely insane, and our amazingly ingenious explanations came to no good, because he figured out what we were up to. Your father had to pull out his pistol, the same one you"re pointing at me, and blow him out of the head."
    
  "You're lying," Paul said. The beam of light wavered slightly.
    
  "No, son, I"ll be struck by lightning this minute if I"m not telling you the truth. He killed a man, he killed him good, and I had to spur the horses on because a mother and two daughters came out on the porch and started screaming. We hadn"t gone ten miles when your father told me to stop and ordered me out of the wagon. I told him he was crazy, and I don"t think I was wrong. All this violence and alcohol had reduced him to a shadow of his former self. Killing the farmer was the last straw. It didn"t matter: he had a gun, and I lost mine one drunken night, so to hell with it, I said and walked out."
    
  "What would you do if you had a gun, Clovis?"
    
  "I'd shoot him," the former Marine replied without a second thought. Clovis had an idea of how he could turn the situation to his advantage.
    
  I just need to get him to the right place.
    
  "So, what happened?" Paul asked, his voice now less confident.
    
  "I had no idea what to do, so I continued down the path that led back to town. Your father left early that morning, and by the time he returned, it was already past noon, only now he had no wagon, only our horses. He told me he'd buried the chest in a place known only to him, and that we'd come back to retrieve it when things calmed down."
    
  "He didn"t trust you."
    
  "Of course he didn"t. And he was right. We left the road, afraid the dead colonist"s wife and children might raise the alarm. We headed north, sleeping in the open, which wasn"t very comfortable, especially since your father talked and screamed a lot in his sleep. He couldn"t get that farmer out of his head. And so it went until we returned to Swakopmund and learned that we were both wanted for desertion and because your father lost control of his boat. If it hadn"t been for the diamond incident, your father would undoubtedly have surrendered, but we were afraid they would connect us with what happened in Orange Pool, so we continued to hide. We narrowly escaped the military police by hiding on a ship bound for Germany. Somehow, we managed to return unharmed."
    
  "Was that when you approached the Baron?"
    
  "Hans was obsessed with the idea of returning to Orange for the chest, just like me. We spent several days hiding in the Baron"s mansion. Your father told him everything, and the Baron went crazy... Just like your father, just like everyone else. He wanted to know the exact location, but Hans refused to tell. The Baron was bankrupt and didn"t have the money necessary to finance the trip back to find the chest, so Hans signed some papers transferring the house you and your mother lived in, along with the small business they owned together. Your father suggested the Baron sell them to raise funds to return the chest. None of us could do that, since by then we, too, were wanted in Germany."
    
  "What happened on the night of his death?"
    
  "There was a heated argument. A lot of money, four people shouting. Your father ended up with a bullet in his stomach."
    
  "How did this happen?"
    
  Clovis carefully took out a pack of cigarettes and a box of matches. He took the last cigarette and lit it. Then he lit the cigarette and blew smoke into the beam of the flashlight.
    
  "Why are you so interested in this, Paul? Why are you so concerned with the life of a murderer?"
    
  "Don"t call my father that!"
    
  Come on... a little closer.
    
  "No? What would you call what we did in Waterberg? What did he do to the farmer? He took his head off; he let him get it right there," he said, touching his forehead.
    
  "I'm telling you to shut up!"
    
  With a cry of rage, Paul stepped forward and raised his right hand to strike Clovis. With a deft move, Clovis threw a lit cigarette into his eyes. Paul jerked back, reflexively protecting his face, giving Clovis enough time to jump up and run out, playing his last card, a desperate last attempt.
    
  He won't shoot me in the back.
    
  "Wait, you bastard!"
    
  Especially if he doesn't know who shot.
    
  Paul chased after him. Dodging the flashlight beam, Clovis ran toward the back of the warehouse, trying to escape the way his pursuer had entered. He could just make out a small door next to a tinted window. He quickened his pace and almost reached the door when his feet caught in something.
    
  He fell face down and was trying to get to his feet when Paul caught up with him and grabbed him by the jacket. Clovis tried to hit Paul, but missed and stumbled dangerously toward the window.
    
  "No!" Paul screamed, lunging at Clovis again.
    
  Trying to regain his balance, the former Marine reached out to Paul. His fingers brushed the younger man's for a moment before he fell and hit the window. The old glass gave way, and Clovis's body tumbled through the opening and disappeared into the darkness.
    
  There was a short scream and then a dry knock.
    
  Paul leaned out the window and pointed the flashlight at the ground. Ten meters below him, in the middle of a growing pool of blood, lay Clovis's body.
    
    
  47
    
    
  Jurgen wrinkled his nose as he entered the asylum. The place reeked of urine and excrement, poorly masked by the scent of disinfectant.
    
  He had to ask the nurse for directions, as this was the first time he'd visited Otto since he'd been placed there eleven years ago. The woman sitting at the desk was reading a magazine with a bored expression on her face, her feet dangling loosely in her white clogs. Seeing the new Obersturmführer appear before her, the nurse stood up and raised her right hand so quickly that the cigarette she'd been smoking fell from her mouth. She insisted on accompanying him personally.
    
  "Aren"t you afraid one of them will escape?" Jurgen asked as they walked through the corridors, pointing to the old men wandering aimlessly near the entrance.
    
  "It happens sometimes, mostly when I go to the bathroom. It doesn't matter, though, because the guy at the kiosk on the corner usually brings them back."
    
  The nurse left him at the door of the baron's room.
    
  "He's here, sir, all set up and comfortable. He even has a window. Heil Hitler!" she added just before leaving.
    
  Jurgen reluctantly returned the salute, glad to see her go. He wanted to savor this moment alone.
    
  The door to the room was open, and Otto was asleep, slumped in a wheelchair next to the window. A trickle of drool dripped down his chest, running down his robe and an old monocle on a gold chain, the lens now cracked. Jürgen remembered how different his father had looked the day after the coup attempt-how furious he had been that the attempt had failed, even though he had done nothing to cause it.
    
  Jürgen was briefly detained and interrogated, though long before it was over, he had the good sense to change his blood-soaked brown shirt for a clean one, and he wasn't carrying a firearm. There were no consequences for him or anyone else. Even Hitler only spent nine months in prison.
    
  Jürgen returned home because the SA barracks were closed and the organization disbanded. He spent several days locked in his room, ignoring his mother's attempts to find out what had happened to Ilse Rainer and pondering the best use of the letter he had stolen from Paul's mother.
    
  My brother's mother, he repeated to himself, confused.
    
  Finally, he ordered photocopies of the letter and one morning after breakfast he gave one to his mother and one to his father.
    
  "What the hell is this?" asked the baron, accepting the sheets of paper.
    
  "You know very well, Otto."
    
  "Jurgen! Show more respect!" his mother said in horror.
    
  "After what I"ve read here, there"s no reason why I should."
    
  "Where is the original?" Otto asked in a hoarse voice.
    
  "Somewhere safe."
    
  "Bring it here!"
    
  "I have no intention of doing that. These are just a few copies. I sent the rest to the newspapers and police headquarters."
    
  "What have you done?" Otto shouted, walking around the table. He tried to raise his fist to hit Jurgen, but his body seemed unresponsive. Jurgen and his mother watched in shock as the Baron lowered his hand and tried to raise it again, but to no avail.
    
  "I can"t see. Why can"t I see?" Otto asked.
    
  He staggered forward, dragging the breakfast tablecloth as he fell. Cutlery, plates, and cups toppled over, scattering their contents, but the baron seemed unnoticed as he lay motionless on the floor. The only sounds in the dining room were the cries of the maid, who had just entered, holding a tray of freshly made toast.***
    
  Standing by the door to the room, Jurgen couldn't suppress a bitter smile, remembering the ingenuity he'd displayed back then. The doctor explained that the baron had suffered a stroke, which had left him speechless and unable to walk.
    
  "Considering the excesses this man has indulged in throughout his life, I'm not surprised. I don't think he'll last more than six months," the doctor said, putting his instruments away in a leather bag. Which was fortunate, because Otto didn't see the cruel smile that flashed across his son's face when he heard the diagnosis.
    
  And here you are, eleven years later.
    
  Now he entered without making a sound, brought a chair, and sat down opposite the invalid. The light from the window may have looked like an idyllic ray of sunlight, but it was nothing more than the sun's reflection on the bare white wall of the building opposite, the only view from the baron's room.
    
  Tired of waiting for him to come to, Jurgen cleared his throat several times. The Baron blinked and finally raised his head. He stared at Jurgen, but if he felt any surprise or fear, his eyes didn't show it. Jurgen held back his disappointment.
    
  "You know, Otto? For a long time, I tried very hard to earn your approval. Of course, it didn't matter to you at all. You only cared about Eduard."
    
  He paused briefly, waiting for some reaction, some movement, anything. All he got was the same stare as before, wary but frozen.
    
  "It was a huge relief to learn you weren't my father. Suddenly, I felt free to hate the disgusting, cuckolded pig who had ignored me my entire life."
    
  The insults also had no effect whatsoever.
    
  "Then you had a stroke, and you finally left me and my mother alone. But of course, like everything you've done in your life, you didn't follow through. I gave you too much leeway, waiting for you to right that wrong, and I spent some time thinking about how to get rid of you. And now, how convenient... someone comes along who could relieve me of the hassle."
    
  He picked up the newspaper he was carrying under his arm and held it close to the old man's face, close enough for him to read it. He recited the article from memory. He had read it over and over again the previous night, anticipating the moment when the old man would see it.
    
    
  MYSTERIOUS BODY IDENTIFIED
    
    
  Munich (Editorial) - Police have finally identified the body found last week in an alley near the main train station. It is that of former Marine Lieutenant Clovis Nagel, who had not been summoned to a court martial since 1904 for abandoning his post during a mission in Southwest Africa. Although he returned to the country under an assumed name, authorities were able to identify him by the numerous tattoos covering his torso. There are no further details regarding the circumstances of his death, which, as our readers will recall, was the result of a fall from a great height, possibly as a result of the impact. Police remind the public that anyone who had contact with Nagel is under suspicion and ask that anyone with information contact authorities immediately.
    
  "Paul"s back. Isn"t that wonderful news?"
    
  A glimmer of fear flashed in the baron's eyes. It lasted only a few seconds, but Jurgen savored the moment, as if it were the greatest humiliation imaginable to his twisted mind.
    
  He stood up and headed to the bathroom. He picked up a glass and half-filled it from the tap. Then he sat down next to the baron again.
    
  "You know he's coming for you now. And I don't think you want to see your name in the headlines, do you, Otto?"
    
  Jurgen pulled a metal box from his pocket, no larger than a postage stamp. He opened it and took out a small green pill, which he left on the table.
    
  "There's a new SS unit experimenting with these wonderful things. We have agents all over the world, people who might have to disappear quietly and painlessly at any moment," the young man said, forgetting to mention that painlessness hadn't yet been achieved. "Spare us the shame, Otto."
    
  He picked up his cap and pulled it resolutely back onto his head, then headed for the door. When he reached it, he turned around and saw Otto fumbling for the tablet. His father held the tablet between his fingers, his face as blank as it had been during Jürgen's visit. Then his hand rose to his mouth so slowly the movement was almost imperceptible.
    
  Jurgen left. For a moment, he was tempted to stay and watch, but it was better to stick to the plan and avoid potential problems.
    
  Starting tomorrow, the staff will address me as Baron von Schroeder. And when my brother comes for answers, he'll have to ask me.
    
    
  48
    
    
  Two weeks after Nagel's death, Paul finally dared to go outside again.
    
  The sound of the former Marine's body hitting the ground echoed in his head the entire time he spent locked in the room he rented in the Schwabing boarding house. He tried to return to the old building where he lived with his mother, but it was now a private residence.
    
  This wasn't the only thing that changed in Munich during his absence. The streets were cleaner, and there were no longer groups of unemployed people loitering on street corners. The lines at churches and employment offices had disappeared, and people no longer had to lug around two suitcases full of small bills every time they wanted to buy bread. There were no bloody brawls in taverns. The huge bulletin boards that lined the main roads announced other things. Previously, they were filled with news of political meetings, fiery manifestos, and dozens of "Wanted for Theft" posters. Now they displayed peaceful matters, such as meetings of gardening societies.
    
  Instead of all these omens of doom, Pavel discovered that the prophecy had been fulfilled. Wherever he went, he saw groups of boys wearing red armbands with swastikas on their sleeves. Passersby were forced to raise their hands and shout "Heil Hitler!" lest they risk being tapped on the shoulder by a pair of plainclothes agents and ordered to follow them. A few, a minority, hurried to hide in doorways to avoid the salute, but such a solution wasn't always possible, and sooner or later everyone was forced to raise their hand.
    
  Everywhere you looked, people were displaying the swastika flag, that mischievous black spider, whether on hairpins, armbands, or scarves tied around the neck. They were sold at trolleybus stops and kiosks, along with tickets and newspapers. This surge of patriotism began in late June, when dozens of SA leaders were murdered in the middle of the night for "betraying the fatherland." With this act, Hitler sent two messages: that no one was safe and that in Germany, he was the only person in charge. Fear was etched on every face, no matter how hard people tried to hide it.
    
  Germany had become a death trap for Jews. With each passing month, the laws against them grew stricter, the injustices around them quietly worsening. First, the Germans targeted Jewish doctors, lawyers, and teachers, depriving them of the jobs they dreamed of and, in the process, depriving these professionals of the opportunity to earn a living. New laws meant that hundreds of mixed marriages were now annulled. A wave of suicides, unlike anything Germany had ever seen, swept across the country. And yet, there were Jews who looked the other way or denied, insisting that things weren't really that bad, partly because few knew how widespread the problem was-the German press barely wrote about it-and partly because the alternative, emigration, was becoming increasingly difficult. The global economic crisis and the oversupply of qualified professionals made leaving seem insane. Whether they realized it or not, the Nazis held Jews hostage.
    
  Walking around the city brought Paul some relief, though at the cost of the anxiety he felt about the direction Germany was heading.
    
  "Do you need a tie pin, sir?" the young man asked, looking him up and down. The boy wore a long leather belt, decorated with several designs, from a simple twisted cross to an eagle holding the Nazi coat of arms.
    
  Paul shook his head and moved on.
    
  "You should wear it, sir. It's a fine sign of your support for our glorious Fuhrer," insisted the boy running after him.
    
  Seeing that Paul was not giving up, he stuck out his tongue and went in search of new prey.
    
  I would rather die than wear this symbol, Paul thought.
    
  His mind plunged back into the feverish, nervous state he'd been in since Nagel's death. The story of the man who had been his father's first lieutenant made him question not only how to continue the investigation, but also the nature of this search. According to Nagel, Hans Rainer had lived a complex and twisted life, and had committed the crime for money.
    
  Of course, Nagel wasn't the most reliable of sources. But despite this, the song he sang was in keeping with the note that always resonated in Paul's heart whenever he thought of the father he never knew.
    
  Looking at the calm, clear nightmare into which Germany was plunging with such enthusiasm, Paul wondered if he was finally waking up.
    
  I turned thirty last week, he thought bitterly as he strolled along the banks of the Isar, where couples gathered on benches, and I've spent more than a third of my life searching for a father who perhaps wasn't worth the effort. I left the man I loved and found nothing but sorrow and sacrifice in return.
    
  Perhaps that was why he idealized Hans in his daydreams - because he needed to compensate for the gloomy reality that he guessed from Ilse's silence.
    
  He suddenly realized he was saying goodbye to Munich once again. The only thought in his head was the desire to leave, to escape Germany and return to Africa, a place where, although he wasn't happy, he could at least find a piece of his soul.
    
  But I've come this far... How can I afford to give up now?
    
  The problem was twofold. He also had no idea how to proceed. Nagel's death had destroyed not only his hopes but also the last concrete lead he had. He wished his mother had trusted him more, because then she might still be alive.
    
  I could go and find Jurgen, talk to him about what my mother told me before she died. Maybe he knows something.
    
  After a while, he dismissed the idea. He was fed up with the Schröders, and in all likelihood, Jürgen still hated him for what had happened in the coal miner's stables. He doubted time had done anything to calm his anger. And if he had approached Jürgen, with no evidence whatsoever, and told him he had reason to believe they might be brothers, his reaction would surely have been horrific. He also couldn't imagine trying to talk to the Baron or Brunhilde. No, that alley was a dead end.
    
  It's over. I'm leaving.
    
  His erratic journey led him to Marienplatz. He decided to pay a final visit to Sebastian Keller before leaving the city forever. Along the way, he wondered if the bookstore was still open, or if its owner had fallen victim to the crisis of the 1920s, like so many other businesses.
    
  His fears proved unfounded. The establishment looked as neat as ever, with its generous display cases offering a carefully selected selection of classic German poetry. Paul barely paused before entering, and Keller immediately poked his head through the back room door, just as he had done on that first day in 1923.
    
  "Paul! Good heavens, what a surprise!"
    
  The bookseller extended his hand with a warm smile. It seemed as if time had barely passed. He still dyed his hair white and wore new gold-rimmed glasses, but beyond that and the strange wrinkles around his eyes, he continued to radiate the same aura of wisdom and calm.
    
  "Good afternoon, Herr Keller."
    
  "But this is such a pleasure, Paul! Where have you been hiding all this time? We thought you were lost... I read in the papers about the fire at the boarding house and was afraid you died there too. You could have written!"
    
  Somewhat ashamed, Paul apologized for keeping silent all these years. Contrary to his usual practice, Keller closed the bookstore and took the young man into the back room, where they spent a couple of hours sipping tea and chatting about old times. Paul spoke of his travels in Africa, the various jobs he'd held, and his experiences with different cultures.
    
  "You have had real adventures... Karl May, whom you admire so much, would like to be in your place."
    
  "I suppose so... Although novels are a completely different matter," Paul said with a bitter smile, thinking about Nagel"s tragic end.
    
  "What about Freemasonry, Paul? Did you have any connections with any lodges during this time?"
    
  "No, sir."
    
  "Well, then, when all is said and done, the essence of our Brotherhood is order. It so happens that there's a meeting tonight. You must come with me; I won't take no for an answer. You can pick up where you left off," Keller said, patting him on the shoulder.
    
  Paul reluctantly agreed.
    
    
  49
    
    
  That night, returning to the temple, Paul felt the familiar feeling of artificiality and boredom that had gripped him years earlier when he began attending Masonic meetings. The place was packed to capacity, with over a hundred people in attendance.
    
  At the opportune moment, Keller, still Grand Master of the Rising Sun Lodge, stood up and introduced Paul to his fellow Masons. Many of them already knew him, but at least ten members were greeting him for the first time.
    
  Except for the moment when Keller addressed him directly, Paul spent most of the meeting lost in his own thoughts... near the end, when one of the older brothers - someone named Furst - stood up to introduce a topic that was not on that day's agenda.
    
  "Most Honorable Grand Master, a group of brothers and I have been discussing the current situation."
    
  "What do you mean, Brother First?"
    
  "For the disturbing shadow that Nazism casts on Freemasonry."
    
  "Brother, you know the rules. No politics in the temple."
    
  "But the Grand Master will agree with me that the news from Berlin and Hamburg is disturbing. Many lodges there have dissolved themselves of their own accord. Here in Bavaria, not a single Prussian lodge remains."
    
  "So, are you proposing the dissolution of this lodge, Brother First?"
    
  "Of course not. But I think it might be time to take the steps others have taken to ensure their permanence."
    
  "And what are these measures?"
    
  "The first would be to break our connections with fraternities outside Germany."
    
  This announcement was followed by much grumbling. Freemasonry had traditionally been an international movement, and the more connections a lodge had, the more respected it was.
    
  "Please be quiet. When my brother is finished, everyone will be able to express their own thoughts on this matter."
    
  "The second would be to rename our society. Other lodges in Berlin changed their names to the Order of the Teutonic Knights."
    
  This sparked a new wave of discontent. Changing the order's name was simply unacceptable.
    
  "And finally, I think we should discharge from the lodge - with honor - those brothers who put our survival at risk."
    
  "And what kind of brothers would they be?"
    
  Furst cleared his throat before continuing, clearly uncomfortable.
    
  "Jewish brothers, of course."
    
  Paul jumped up from his seat. He tried to take the floor to speak, but the church erupted into a pandemonium of shouts and curses. The chaos lasted for several minutes, with everyone trying to speak at once. Keller struck his lectern several times with his mace, which he rarely used.
    
  "Give orders, give orders! We will speak in turns, or I will have to disband the meeting!"
    
  Passions cooled slightly, and speakers took the floor to support or reject the motion. Paul counted the number of people who had voted and was surprised to find an even split between the two positions. He tried to come up with a coherent contribution. He was determined to convey how unfair he considered the entire debate.
    
  Finally, Keller pointed his mace at him. Paul stood up.
    
  "Brothers, this is the first time I've spoken in this lodge. It may well be my last. I've been astonished by the discussion Brother First's proposal has generated, and what astonishes me most is not your opinion on the matter, but the fact that we had to discuss it at all."
    
  There was a murmur of approval.
    
  "I am not Jewish. Aryan blood flows through my veins, or at least I think so. The truth is, I"m not entirely sure who I am. I came to this noble institution, following in my father"s footsteps, with no other goal than to learn more about myself. Certain circumstances in my life kept me away from you for a long time, but when I returned, I never imagined things would be so different. Within these walls, we supposedly strive for enlightenment. So, brothers, can you explain to me why this institution discriminates against people for anything other than their actions, right or wrong?"
    
  More cheers erupted. Paul saw First rise from his seat.
    
  "Brother, you"ve been gone for a long time, and you don"t know what"s going on in Germany!"
    
  "You're right. We're going through dark times. But in times like these, we must cling tightly to what we believe in."
    
  "The lodge"s survival is at stake!"
    
  "Yes, but at what cost?"
    
  "If we have to..."
    
  "Brother First, if you were crossing the desert and saw the sun getting hotter and your canteen getting empty, would you pee in it to stop it from leaking?"
    
  The temple roof shook with laughter. Furst was losing the match, and he was seething with rage.
    
  "And to think that these are the words of the rejected son of a deserter," he exclaimed in rage.
    
  Paul absorbed the blow as best he could, gripping the back of the chair in front of him until his knuckles turned white.
    
  I have to control myself or he will win.
    
  "Most Honorable Grand Master, are you going to let Brother Ferst subject my statement to crossfire?"
    
  "Brother Rainer is right. Stick to the debate rules."
    
  Furst nodded with a wide smile that made Paul wary.
    
  "I'm delighted. In that case, I ask you to take the floor from Brother Rainer."
    
  "What? On what grounds?" Paul asked, trying not to shout.
    
  "Do you deny attending lodge meetings just a few months before your disappearance?"
    
  Paul became agitated.
    
  "No, I don"t deny it, but..."
    
  "So, you have not reached the rank of Fellow Craftsman, and you are not eligible to contribute to the meetings," First interrupted.
    
  "I was an apprentice for over eleven years. The degree of Fellow Craftsman is awarded automatically after three years."
    
  "Yes, but only if you attend work regularly. Otherwise, you must be approved by a majority of the brothers. So you have no right to speak in this debate," First said, unable to hide his satisfaction.
    
  Paul looked around for support. Everyone stared back at him silently. Even Keller, who had seemed eager to help him just moments ago, was calm.
    
  "Very well. If such is the prevailing spirit, I resign my membership in the lodge."
    
  Paul stood up and left the bench, heading toward Keller's lectern. He removed his apron and gloves and threw them at the Grand Master's feet.
    
  "I am no longer proud of these symbols."
    
  "Me too!"
    
  One of those present, a man named Joachim Hirsch, stood up. Hirsch was Jewish, Paul recalled. He, too, threw the symbols at the foot of the lectern.
    
  "I'm not going to wait for a vote on whether I should be expelled from the lodge I've belonged to for twenty years. I'd rather leave," he said, standing next to Paul.
    
  Hearing this, many others stood up. Most of them were Jews, although, as Paul noted with satisfaction, there were a few non-Jews who were clearly as outraged as he was. Within a minute, more than thirty aprons had accumulated on the checkered marble. The scene was chaotic.
    
  "That's enough!" Keller shouted, slamming his mace down in a futile attempt to be heard. "If I were in a position to do so, I would throw off this apron too. Let's respect those who made this decision."
    
  The group of dissidents began to leave the temple. Paul was one of the last to leave, and he left with his head held high, though it saddened him. Being a lodge member had never been his particular passion, but it pained him to see such a group of intelligent, cultured people divided by fear and intolerance.
    
  He silently walked toward the lobby. Some of the dissidents had gathered in groups, though most had collected their hats and were heading outside in groups of two or three to avoid attracting attention. Paul was about to do the same when he felt someone touch his back.
    
  "Please allow me to shake your hand." It was Hirsch, the man who had thrown his apron after Paul. "Thank you so much for leading by example. If you hadn't done what you did, I wouldn't have dared to do it myself."
    
  "You don't need to thank me. I just couldn't bear to see the injustice of it all."
    
  "If only more people were like you, Rainer, Germany wouldn't be in the mess it's in today. Let's just hope it's just a bad wind."
    
  "People are scared," Paul said with a shrug.
    
  "I'm not surprised. Three or four weeks ago, the Gestapo was given the authority to act extrajudicially."
    
  "What do you mean?"
    
  "They can detain anyone, even for something as simple as "suspicious walking"."
    
  "But this is ridiculous!" Paul exclaimed in amazement.
    
  "That's not all," said another of the men, who was about to leave. "The family will receive notification in a few days."
    
  "Or they're being called in to identify the body," a third added grimly. "This already happened to someone I know, and the list is growing. Krickstein, Cohen, Tannenbaum..."
    
  When he heard that name, Paul's heart jumped.
    
  "Wait, did you say Tannenbaum? What Tannenbaum?"
    
  "Joseph Tannenbaum, industrialist. Do you know him?"
    
  "Something like that. You could say I"m... a friend of the family."
    
  "Then I'm sorry to tell you that Joseph Tannenbaum is dead. The funeral will take place tomorrow morning."
    
    
  50
    
    
  "Rain should be mandatory at funerals," Manfred said.
    
  Alice didn't answer. She simply took his hand and squeezed it.
    
  He was right, she thought, looking around. The white tombstones glistened in the morning sun, creating an atmosphere of serenity completely at odds with her state of mind.
    
  Alice, who knew so little about her own emotions and who so often fell victim to this emotional blindness, didn't quite understand what she felt that day. Ever since he'd summoned them back from Ohio fifteen years ago, she'd hated her father to the core. Over time, her hatred had taken on many shades. At first, it was tinged with the resentment of an angry teenager who was always being contradicted. From there, it grew into contempt, as she saw her father in all his selfishness and greed, a businessman willing to do anything to prosper. Finally, there was the evasive, fearful hatred of a woman afraid of becoming dependent.
    
  Ever since her father's henchmen captured her that fateful night in 1923, Alice's hatred for him had turned into a cold hostility of the purest kind. Emotionally drained by her breakup with Paul, Alice had stripped her relationship with him of all passion, focusing on it from a rational perspective. He-it was best to call him "he"; it hurt less-was sick. He didn't understand that she should be free to live her own life. He wanted to marry her off to someone she despised.
    
  He wanted to kill the child she was carrying in her belly.
    
  Alice had to fight tooth and nail to prevent this. Her father slapped her, called her a dirty whore, and worse.
    
  "You won't get that. The Baron will never accept a pregnant whore as a bride for his son."
    
  So much the better, Alice thought. She withdrew into herself, flatly refusing to have an abortion, and told her shocked servants that she was pregnant.
    
  "I have witnesses. If you make me lose my temper, I'll turn you in, you bastard," she told him with a composure and confidence she'd never felt before.
    
  "Thank heavens that your mother didn"t live to see her daughter in such a state."
    
  "Like what? Her father sold her to the highest price?"
    
  Joseph found himself obliged to go to the Schröder mansion and confess the whole truth to the baron. With an expression of poorly feigned sadness, the baron informed him that, under these conditions, the agreement would obviously have to be annulled.
    
  Alice never spoke to Joseph again after that fateful day when he returned, seething with rage and humiliation, from a meeting with the mother-in-law he was never destined to be. An hour after his return, Doris, the housekeeper, came to tell her she had to leave immediately.
    
  "The owner will allow you to take a suitcase of clothes with you if you need them." The sharp tone of her voice left no doubt about her feelings on the matter.
    
  "Tell the master thank you very much, but I don"t need anything from him," said Alice.
    
  She headed for the door, but turned around before leaving.
    
  "By the way, Doris... Try not to steal the suitcase and say I took it with me, like you did with the money my dad left on the sink."
    
  Her words pierced the housekeeper's arrogant attitude. She blushed and began to choke.
    
  "Now, listen to me, I can assure you that I..."
    
  The young woman left, cutting off the end of her sentence with a slam of the door.***
    
  Despite being left to her own devices, despite everything that had happened to her, despite the enormous responsibility growing within her, the look of indignation on Doris's face made Alice smile. The first smile since Paul had left her.
    
  Or was it I who made him leave me?
    
  She spent the next eleven years trying to find the answer to this question.
    
  When Paul appeared on the tree-lined path to the cemetery, the question answered itself. Alice watched him approach and then step aside, waiting for the priest to read the prayer for the dead.
    
  Alice completely forgot about the twenty people surrounding the coffin, a wooden box empty except for the urn containing Joseph's ashes. She forgot that the ashes had arrived in the mail, along with a note from the Gestapo stating that her father had been arrested for sedition and died "trying to escape." She forgot that he had been buried under a cross, not a star, because he had died a Catholic in a country of Catholics who had voted for Hitler. She forgot about her own confusion and fear, because in the midst of it all, one certainty now appeared before her eyes, like a beacon in a storm.
    
  It was my fault. I was the one who pushed you away, Paul. Who hid our son from you and didn't let you make your own choice. And damn you, I'm still just as in love with you as I was when I first saw you fifteen years ago, when you were wearing that ridiculous waiter's apron.
    
  She wanted to run to him, but she thought that if she did, she might lose him forever. And although she had matured greatly since becoming a mother, her legs were still shackled with pride.
    
  I have to approach him slowly. Find out where he was, what he did. If he still senses anything...
    
  The funeral ended. She and Manfred accepted the guests' condolences. Paul was last in line and approached them with a cautious air.
    
  "Good morning. Thank you for coming," Manfred said, extending his hand without recognizing him.
    
  "I share your sadness," Paul replied.
    
  "Did you know my father?"
    
  "A little. My name is Paul Rainer."
    
  Manfred let go of Paul's hand as if it had burned him.
    
  "What are you doing here? Do you think you can just walk back into her life? After eleven years of silence?"
    
  "I wrote dozens of letters and got no response to any of them," Paul said excitedly.
    
  "It doesn't change what you did."
    
  "It"s okay, Manfred," Alice said, placing her hand on his shoulder. "You"re going home."
    
  "Are you sure?" he asked, looking at Paul.
    
  "Yes".
    
  "Okay. I"ll go home and see if..."
    
  "Wonderful," she interrupted him before he could say the name. "I"ll be there soon."
    
  With one last angry glance at Paul, Manfred put on his hat and left. Alice turned down the cemetery's central path, walking silently beside Paul. Their eye contact was brief, but intense and painful, so she chose not to look at him for now.
    
  "So, you"re back."
    
  "I came back last week, following a lead, but things turned out badly. Yesterday, I ran into someone your father knew, who told me about his death. I hope you've been able to get closer over the years."
    
  "Sometimes distance is the best thing."
    
  "I understand".
    
  Why should I say such things? He might think I was talking about him.
    
  "What about your travels, Paul? Did you find what you were looking for?"
    
  "No".
    
  Tell me you were wrong to leave. Tell me you were wrong, and I'll admit my mistake, and you'll admit yours, and then I'll fall into your arms again. Say it!
    
  "I've actually decided to give up," Paul continued. "I've reached a dead end. I have no family, I have no money, I have no profession, I don't even have a country to return to, because it's not Germany."
    
  She stopped and turned to look at him for the first time. She was surprised to see that his face hadn't changed much. His features were stern, there were deep circles under his eyes, and he'd gained a little weight, but he was still Paul. Her Paul.
    
  "Did you really write to me?"
    
  "Many times. I sent letters to your address at the boarding house, as well as to your father"s house."
    
  "So... what are you going to do?" she asked. Her lips and voice trembled, but she couldn't stop them. Perhaps her body was sending a message she didn't dare articulate. When Paul answered, there was emotion in his voice, too.
    
  "I was thinking about going back to Africa, Alice. But when I heard about what happened to your father, I thought..."
    
  "What?"
    
  "Don"t take this the wrong way, but I"d like to talk to you in a different setting, with more time... To tell you about what"s happened over the years."
    
  "This is a bad idea," she forced herself to say.
    
  "Alice, I know I don't have the right to come back into your life whenever I want. I... Leaving when I did was a big mistake-it was a huge mistake-and I'm ashamed of it. It took me a while to realize that, and all I ask is that we can sit down and have coffee together one day."
    
  What if I told you you had a son, Paul? A gorgeous boy with sky-blue eyes like yours, blond hair and stubbornness like his father? What would you do, Paul? What if I let you into our lives and then it didn't work out? No matter how much I wanted you, no matter how much my body and soul longed to be with you, I can't let you hurt him.
    
  "I need some time to think about this."
    
  He smiled, and little wrinkles Alice had never seen before gathered around his eyes.
    
  "I"ll wait," Paul said, handing over a small piece of paper with his address on it. "As long as you need me."
    
  Alice took the note and their fingers touched.
    
  "Okay, Paul. But I can"t promise anything. Leave now."
    
  Slightly stung by the unceremonious dismissal, Paul left without saying another word.
    
  As he disappeared down the path, Alice prayed he wouldn't turn around and see how much she was shaking.
    
    
  51
    
    
  "Well, well. Looks like the rat took the bait," Jürgen said, clutching his binoculars tightly. From his vantage point on the hill eighty meters from Josef's grave, he could see Paul making his way up the line to offer his condolences to the Tannenbaums. He recognized him instantly. "Was I right, Adolf?"
    
  "You were right, sir," Eichmann said, a little embarrassed by this deviation from the program. During the six months he had been working with Jürgen, the newly minted Baron had managed to infiltrate many lodges thanks to his title, his outward charm, and a series of forged credentials provided by the Lodge of the Prussian Sword. The Grand Master of this lodge, a defiant nationalist and acquaintance of Heydrich, supported the Nazis with every fiber of his being. He shamelessly awarded Jürgen a Master's degree and gave him a crash course in how to pass as an experienced Freemason. He then wrote letters of recommendation to the Grand Masters of the humanitarian lodges, urging their cooperation "to weather the current political storm."
    
  Visiting a different lodge every week, Jürgen managed to learn the names of over three thousand members. Heydrich was delighted with the progress, and so was Eichmann, who saw his dream of escaping the grim work at Dachau coming closer to reality. He wasn't averse to printing postcards for Heydrich in his spare time, or even taking the occasional weekend trip with Jürgen to nearby cities like Augsburg, Ingolstadt, and Stuttgart. But the obsession that had awakened in Jürgen over the past few days was deeply disturbing. The man thought of almost nothing but this Paul Rainer. He didn't even explain Rainer's role in the mission Heydrich had assigned them; he said only that he wanted to find him.
    
  "I was right," Jurgen repeated, more to himself than to his nervous companion. "She's the key."
    
  He adjusted the lenses of his binoculars. They were difficult to use for Jurgen, who only had one eye, and he had to lower them occasionally. He shifted slightly, and Alice's image appeared in his field of view. She was very beautiful, more mature than the last time he'd seen her. He noticed how her black short-sleeved blouse accentuated her breasts and adjusted the binoculars for a better view.
    
  If only my father hadn't rejected her. What a terrible humiliation it would be for this little slut to marry me and do whatever I wanted, Jürgen fantasized. He had an erection and had to put his hand in his pocket to position himself discreetly so Eichmann wouldn't notice.
    
  Come to think of it, it's better that way. Marrying a Jew would have been fatal to my SS career. And this way I can kill two birds with one stone: lure Paul and get her. The whore will find out soon enough.
    
  "Shall we continue as planned, sir?" Eichmann asked.
    
  "Yes, Adolf. Follow him. I want to know where he"s staying."
    
  "And then? We hand him over to the Gestapo?"
    
  With Alice's father, everything was so simple. One call to a familiar Obersturmführer, a ten-minute conversation, and four men had spirited the insolent Jew away from his apartment on Prinzregentenplatz without offering any explanation. The plan worked perfectly. Now Paul came to the funeral, just as Jürgen had been sure he would.
    
  It would be so easy to do it all over again: find out where he slept, send out a patrol, then head to the cellars of the Wittelsbach Palace, the Gestapo headquarters in Munich. Enter the padded cell-padded not to prevent people from hurting themselves, but to muffle their screams-sit before him and watch him die. Perhaps he would even bring a Jewish woman and rape her right in front of Paul, enjoying her while Paul desperately struggled to free himself from his bonds.
    
  But he had to think about his career. He didn't want people talking about his cruelty, especially now that he was becoming more famous.
    
  On the other hand, his title and his achievements were such that he was so close to promotion and a trip to Berlin to work side by side with Heydrich.
    
  And then there was his desire to meet Paul face to face. Pay the little bastard back for all the pain he'd caused him, without hiding behind the machinery of state.
    
  There must be a better way.
    
  Suddenly he realized what he wanted to do, and his lips curled into a cruel smile.
    
  "Excuse me, sir," Eichmann insisted, thinking he had misheard. "I asked if we were going to hand over Rainer."
    
  "No, Adolf. This will require a more personal approach."
    
    
  52
    
    
  "I'm home!"
    
  Returning from the cemetery, Alice entered the small apartment and braced herself for Julian's usual savage attack. But this time, he didn't show up.
    
  "Hello?" she called out, puzzled.
    
  "We're in the studio, Mom!"
    
  Alice walked down the narrow hallway. There were only three bedrooms. Hers, the smallest, was as bare as a closet. Manfred's office was almost exactly the same size, except that her brother's was always cluttered with technical manuals, odd English books, and a stack of notes from the engineering course he'd completed the previous year. Manfred had been living with them since he'd started university, when his arguments with his father had intensified. It was supposedly a temporary arrangement, but they'd been together so long that Alice couldn't imagine juggling her photography career and looking after Julian without the help he provided. He also had few opportunities for advancement, because despite his excellent degree, job interviews always ended with the same phrase: "Too bad you're Jewish." The only money coming into the family was what Alice earned selling photographs, and paying the rent was becoming increasingly difficult.
    
  The "studio" was what a living room would be in a normal home. Alice's educational equipment completely replaced it. The window was covered with black sheets, and the single light bulb glowed red.
    
  Alice knocked on the door.
    
  "Come in, Mom! We"re just finishing up!"
    
  The table was laden with developing trays. Half a dozen rows of pegs stretched from wall to wall, holding photographs left out to dry. Alice ran over to kiss Julian and Manfred.
    
  "Are you okay?" her brother asked.
    
  She gestured to say they would talk later. She didn't tell Julian where they were going when they left him with a neighbor. The boy had never been allowed to know his grandfather in life, and his death would have provided him with no inheritance. In fact, all of Josef's property, greatly depleted in recent years as his business lost momentum, was donated to a cultural foundation.
    
  The last wishes of a man who once said he was doing it all for his family, Alice thought, listening to her father's lawyer. Well, I have no intention of telling Julian about his grandfather's death. At least we'll spare him that embarrassment.
    
  "What is this? I don"t remember taking these photos."
    
  "Looks like Julian was using your old Kodak, sis."
    
  "Really? The last thing I remember was the bolt jamming."
    
  "Uncle Manfred fixed it for me," Julian replied with an apologetic smile.
    
  "Gossip Girl!" Manfred said, giving him a playful shove. "Well, that's how it was, or let him have his way with your Leica."
    
  "I'd skin you alive, Manfred," Alice said, feigning irritation. No photographer appreciates having a child's small, sticky fingers anywhere near their camera, but neither she nor her brother could deny Julian anything. Ever since he could talk, he'd always gotten his way, but he was still the most sensitive and affectionate of the three.
    
  Alice walked over to the photographs and checked to see if the oldest ones were ready for processing. She picked one up and held it up. It was a close-up of Manfred's desk lamp, with a stack of books lying next to it. The photograph was exceptionally well taken, the cone of light half-illuminating the titles and providing excellent contrast. The image was slightly out of focus, no doubt the result of Julian's hands pressing the trigger. A rookie mistake.
    
  And he's only ten. When he grows up, he'll be a great photographer, she thought proudly.
    
  She glanced at her son, who was watching her intently, desperate to hear her opinion. Alice pretended not to notice.
    
  "What do you think, Mom?"
    
  "About what?"
    
  "About the photograph."
    
  "It's a little shaky. But you chose the aperture and depth very well. Next time you want to take a still life without much lighting, use a tripod."
    
  "Yes, Mom," Julian said, grinning from ear to ear.
    
  Since Julian's birth, her personality had softened considerably. She ruffled his blond hair, which always made him laugh.
    
  "So, Julian, what would you say about a picnic in the park with Uncle Manfred?"
    
  "Today? Will you let me borrow the Kodak?"
    
  "If you promise to be careful," Alice said resignedly.
    
  "Of course I"ll do it! Park, park!"
    
  "But first, go to your room and change."
    
  Julian ran out; Manfred remained, silently watching his sister. Under the red light that obscured her expression, he couldn't tell what she was thinking. Alice, meanwhile, pulled Paul's piece of paper from her pocket and stared at it as if half a dozen words could transform the man himself.
    
  "Did he give you his address?" Manfred asked, reading over her shoulder. "And to top it all off, it's a boarding house. Please..."
    
  "He may mean well, Manfred," she said defensively.
    
  "I don't understand you, little sister. You haven't heard a word from him for years, even though you knew he was dead or worse. And now suddenly he appears..."
    
  "You know how I feel about him."
    
  "You should have thought about this before."
    
  Her face distorted.
    
  Thanks for that, Manfred. As if I didn't regret it enough.
    
  "I'm sorry," Manfred said, seeing he'd upset her. He gently patted her shoulder. "That's not what I meant. You're free to do whatever you want. I just don't want you to get hurt."
    
  "I have to try."
    
  For a few moments, they were both silent. They could hear the sounds of things being thrown to the floor in the boy's room.
    
  "Have you thought about how you"re going to tell Julian?"
    
  "I have no idea. I think a little bit."
    
  "What do you mean, "little by little," Alice? Couldn"t you show him the leg first and say, "This is your father"s leg"? And the arm the next day? Look, you have to do it all at once; you"ll have to admit that you"ve been lying to him his whole life. Nobody said it wouldn"t be hard."
    
  "I know," she said thoughtfully.
    
  Another sound, louder than the previous one, came from behind the wall.
    
  "I"m ready!" Julian shouted from the other side of the door.
    
  "You two better go ahead," Alice said. "I'll make some sandwiches and we'll meet at the fountain in half an hour."
    
  After they left, Alice tried to bring some semblance of order into her thoughts and the battlefield of Julian's bedroom. She gave up when she realized she was matching socks of different colors.
    
  She walked into the small kitchen and filled her basket with fruit, cheese, jam sandwiches, and a bottle of juice. She was trying to decide whether to get one beer or two when she heard the doorbell ring.
    
  They must have forgotten something, she thought. It will be better this way: we can all leave together.
    
  She opened the front door.
    
  "You really are that forgetful..."
    
  The last word sounded like a sigh. Anyone would have reacted the same way to the sight of an SS uniform.
    
  But there was another dimension to Alice's anxiety: she recognized the man wearing it.
    
  "So, did you miss me, my Jewish whore?" Jurgen said with a smile.
    
  Alice opened her eyes just in time to see Jurgen's fist raised, ready to strike her. She had no time to duck or duck out the door. The blow landed squarely on her temple, sending her crashing to the ground. She tried to stand and kick Jurgen in the knee, but couldn't hold it for long. He yanked her head back by her hair and growled, "It would be so easy to kill you."
    
  "Then do it, you son of a bitch!" Alice sobbed, trying to break free, leaving a strand of her hair in his hand. Jurgen punched her in the mouth and stomach, and Alice fell to the ground, gasping for breath.
    
  "Everything in its time, my dear," he said, unbuttoning her skirt.
    
    
  53
    
    
  When he heard a knock on his door, Paul was holding a half-eaten apple in one hand and a newspaper in the other. He hadn't touched the food his landlady had brought him, as the emotion of meeting Alice had upset his stomach. He forced himself to chew the fruit to calm his nerves.
    
  Hearing the sound, Paul stood up, threw aside the newspaper, and pulled the pistol from under his pillow. Holding it behind his back, he opened the door. It was his landlady again.
    
  "Herr Rainer, there are two people here who want to see you," she said with a worried expression on her face.
    
  She stepped aside. Manfred Tannenbaum stood in the middle of the hallway, holding the hand of a frightened boy who was clinging to a worn soccer ball like a life preserver. Paul stared at the child, and his heart leaped. Dark blond hair, distinctive features, a dimple in his chin, and blue eyes... The way he looked at Paul, frightened but not avoiding his gaze...
    
  "Is this...?" he paused, seeking confirmation that he didn"t need, as his heart told him everything.
    
  The other man nodded, and for the third time in Paul's life, everything he thought he knew exploded in an instant.
    
  "Oh God, what have I done?"
    
  He quickly led them inside.
    
  Manfred, wanting to be alone with Paul, said to Julian: "Go and wash your face and hands - continue."
    
  "What happened?" Paul asked. "Where is Alice?"
    
  "We were going on a picnic. Julian and I went ahead to wait for his mother, but she didn't show up, so we went back home. Just as we turned the corner, a neighbor told us that a man in an SS uniform had taken Alice. We didn't dare go back in case they were waiting for us, and I thought this was the best place for us to go."
    
  Trying to remain calm in Julian's presence, Paul walked over to the sideboard and pulled a small, gold-topped bottle from the bottom of his suitcase. He broke the seal with a twist of his wrist and handed it to Manfred, who took a long swig and began coughing.
    
  "Not so fast, or you'll sing too long..."
    
  "Damn, it burns. What the hell is this?"
    
  "It's called Krugsle. It's distilled by German colonists in Windhoek. The bottle was a gift from a friend. I was saving it for a special occasion."
    
  "Thank you," Manfred said, handing it back. "I"m sorry you had to find out this way, but..."
    
  Julian returned from the bathroom and sat down on a chair.
    
  "Are you my father?" the boy asked Paul.
    
  Paul and Manfred were horrified.
    
  "Why do you say that, Julian?"
    
  Without answering his uncle, the boy grabbed Paul's hand, forcing him to sit down so they were face to face. He traced his fingertips over his father's features, studying them as if a simple glance wasn't enough. Paul closed his eyes, trying to hold back the tears.
    
  "I"m like you," Julian finally said.
    
  "Yes, son. You know. It looks like it."
    
  "Can I have something to eat?" I"m hungry, said the boy, pointing to the tray.
    
  "Of course," Paul said, resisting the urge to hug him. He didn't dare get too close, knowing the boy must be in shock too.
    
  "I need to speak with Herr Rainer outside in private. You stay here and eat," Manfred said.
    
  The boy folded his arms across his chest. "Don"t go anywhere. The Nazis took Mom, and I want to know what you"re talking about."
    
  "Julian..."
    
  Paul placed his hand on Manfred's shoulder and looked at him questioningly. Manfred shrugged.
    
  "Then very good."
    
  Paul turned to the boy and tried to force a smile. Sitting there, looking at the smaller version of his own face, was a painful reminder of his last night in Munich, back in 1923. Of the terrible, selfish decision he'd made, leaving Alice without even trying to understand why she'd told him to leave her, walking away without putting up a fight. Now all the pieces fell into place, and Paul realized what a grave mistake he'd made.
    
  I lived my entire life without a father, blaming him and those who killed him for his absence. I swore a thousand times that if I had a child, I would never, ever let them grow up without me.
    
  "Julian, my name is Paul Reiner," he said, extending his hand.
    
  The boy returned the handshake.
    
  "I know. Uncle Manfred told me."
    
  "And he also told you that I didn"t know I had a son?"
    
  Julian shook his head silently.
    
  "Alice and I always told him his father was dead," Manfred said, avoiding his gaze.
    
  It was too much for Paul. He felt the pain of all those nights when he'd lain awake, imagining his father as a hero, now projected onto Julian. Fantasies built on lies. He wondered what dreams the boy must have had in those moments before he fell asleep. He couldn't bear it anymore. He ran over, lifted his son from the chair, and hugged him tightly. Manfred stood up, wanting to protect Julian, but stopped when he saw Julian, his fists clenched and tears in his eyes, hugging his father back.
    
  "Where have you been?"
    
  "I"m sorry, Julian. I"m sorry."
    
    
  54
    
    
  Once their emotions had calmed somewhat, Manfred told them that when Julian was old enough to ask about his father, Alice decided to tell him he was dead. After all, no one had heard from Paul for a long time.
    
  "I don't know if it was the right decision. I was only a teenager at the time, but your mother thought long and hard about it."
    
  Julian sat listening to his explanation, his expression serious. When Manfred finished, he turned to Paul, who attempted to explain his long absence, though the story was as difficult to tell as it was to believe. Yet Julian, despite his sadness, seemed to understand the situation and interrupted his father only to ask the occasional question.
    
  He's a smart kid with nerves of steel. His world has just been turned upside down, and he's not crying, stamping his feet, or calling for his mother like many other kids would.
    
  "So you spent all these years trying to find the person who hurt your father?" the boy asked.
    
  Paul nodded. "Yes, but it was a mistake. I should never have left Alice because I love her very much."
    
  "I understand. I would search everywhere for the one who hurt my family," Julian replied in a low voice that seemed odd for a man his age.
    
  Which brought them back to Alice. Manfred told Paul the little he knew about his sister's disappearance.
    
  "It's happening more and more often," he said, looking at his nephew out of the corner of his eye. He didn't want to blurt out what had happened to Joseph Tannenbaum; the boy had suffered enough. "Nobody's doing anything to stop it."
    
  "Is there anyone we can contact?"
    
  "Who?" Manfred asked, throwing up his hands in despair. "They left no report, no search warrant, no list of charges. Nothing! Just a blank. And if we show up at Gestapo headquarters... well, you can guess. We"d have to be accompanied by an army of lawyers and journalists, and I"m afraid even that wouldn"t be enough. The entire country is in the hands of these people, and the worst part is, no one noticed until it was too late."
    
  They continued talking for a long time. Outside, dusk hung over the streets of Munich like a gray blanket, and the streetlights began to come on. Tired from so much emotion, Julian kicked the leather ball around wildly. Eventually, he put it down and fell asleep on top of the bedspread. The ball rolled to his uncle's feet, who picked it up and showed it to Paul.
    
  "Sound familiar?"
    
  "No".
    
  "This is the ball I hit you over the head with many years ago."
    
  Paul smiled as he remembered his descent down the stairs and the chain of events that led him to fall in love with Alice.
    
  "Julian exists because of this ball."
    
  "That's what my sister said. When I was old enough to confront my dad and reconnect with Alice, she asked for the ball. I had to get it from storage, and we gave it to Julian for his fifth birthday. I think that was the last time I saw my dad," he recalled bitterly. "Paul, I..."
    
  He was interrupted by a knock on the door. Alarmed, Paul gestured for him to be quiet and stood to fetch the gun he'd put away in the closet. It was the apartment's owner again.
    
  "Herr Rainer, you have a telephone call."
    
  Paul and Manfred exchanged curious glances. No one knew Paul was staying there except Alice.
    
  "Did they say who they were?"
    
  The woman shrugged.
    
  "They said something about Fraulein Tannenbaum. I didn't ask anything else."
    
  "Thank you, Frau Frink. Just give me a minute, I'll get my jacket," Paul said, leaving the door ajar.
    
  "It could be a trick," Manfred said, holding his hand.
    
  "I know".
    
  Paul put the gun in his hand.
    
  "I don"t know how to use this," Manfred said, frightened.
    
  "You must keep this for me. If I don"t come back, look in the suitcase. There"s a flap underneath the zipper where you"ll find some money. It"s not much, but it"s all I have. Take Julian and get out of the country."
    
  Paul followed his landlady down the stairs. The woman was bursting with curiosity. The mysterious tenant, who had spent two weeks locked in his room, was now causing a stir, receiving strange visitors and even stranger phone calls.
    
  "Here it is, Herr Rainer," she said to him, pointing to the telephone in the middle of the hallway. "Perhaps after this, you'd all like something to eat in the kitchen. On the house."
    
  "Thank you, Frau Frink," Paul said, picking up the phone. "Paul Rainer here."
    
  "Good evening, little brother."
    
  When he heard who it was, Paul flinched. A voice deep inside him told him that Jurgen might have had something to do with Alice's disappearance, but he suppressed his fears. Now the clock turned back fifteen years, to the night of the party, when he stood surrounded by Jurgen's friends, alone and defenseless. He wanted to scream, but he had to force the words out.
    
  "Where is she, Jurgen?" he said, clenching his hand into a fist.
    
  "I raped her, Paul. I hurt her. I hit her really hard, multiple times. Now she's in a place she can never escape from."
    
  Despite his rage and pain, Paul clung to a tiny piece of hope: Alice was alive.
    
  "Are you still there, little brother?"
    
  "I'm going to kill you, you son of a bitch."
    
  "Perhaps. The truth is, this is the only way out for you and me, isn't it? Our fates have hung by a single thread for years, but it's a very thin thread-and eventually, one of us must fall."
    
  "What do you want?"
    
  "I want us to meet."
    
  It was a trap. It had to be a trap.
    
  "First, I want you to let Alice go."
    
  "I'm sorry, Paul. I can't promise you that. I want us to meet, just you and me, somewhere quiet where we can settle this once and for all, without anyone interfering."
    
  "Why don"t you just send your gorillas and get it over with?"
    
  "Don't think it hasn't occurred to me. But that would be too easy."
    
  "And what will happen to me if I leave?"
    
  "Nothing, because I"m going to kill you. And if by some chance you"re the only one left alive, Alice will die. If you die, Alice will die too. No matter what happens, she will die."
    
  "Then you can rot in hell, you son of a bitch."
    
  "Now, now, not so fast. Listen to this: 'My dear son: There is no right way to begin this letter. The truth is, this is just one of several attempts I've made...'"
    
  "What the hell is this, Jurgen?"
    
  "A letter, five sheets of tracing paper. Your mother had very neat handwriting for a kitchen maid, you know that? Terrible style, but the content is extremely instructive. Come and find me, and I'll give it to you."
    
  Paul slammed his forehead against the black dial of his phone in despair. He had no choice but to give up.
    
  "Little brother... You didn"t hang up, did you?"
    
  "No, Jurgen. I"m still here."
    
  "Well then?"
    
  "You won."
    
  Jurgen let out a triumphant chuckle.
    
  "You'll see a black Mercedes parked outside your boarding house. Tell the driver I've sent for you. He has instructions to give you the keys and tell you where I am. Come alone, unarmed."
    
  "Okay. And, Jurgen..."
    
  "Yes, little brother?"
    
  "You may find that I am not so easy to kill."
    
  The line went dead. Paul rushed to the door, nearly knocking over his landlady. A limousine was waiting outside, completely out of place in this neighborhood. As it approached, a liveried chauffeur emerged.
    
  "I'm Paul Reiner. Jürgen von Schröder sent for me."
    
  The man opened the door.
    
  "Go ahead, sir. The keys are in the ignition."
    
  "Where should I go?"
    
  "Herr Baron didn't give me the real address, sir. He only said that you should go to the place where, thanks to you, he had to start wearing an eye patch. He said you'd understand."
    
    
  MASTER MASON
    
  1934
    
    
  Where the hero triumphs when he accepts his own death
    
  The Master Mason's secret handshake is the most difficult of the three degrees. Commonly known as the "lion's claw," the thumb and little finger are used as a grip, while the other three fingers are pressed against the inside of the brother Mason's wrist. Historically, this was done with the body in a specific position known as the five points of friendship-foot to foot, knee to knee, chest to chest, hand on the other's back, and cheeks touching. This practice was abandoned in the twentieth century. The secret name for this handshake is MAHABONE, and a special way to write it involves dividing it into three syllables: MA-HA-BOONE.
    
    
  55
    
    
  The tires squealed slightly as the car came to a stop. Paul studied the alley through the windshield. A light rain had begun to fall. In the darkness, she would have been barely visible if not for the yellow cone of light cast by a lone streetlamp.
    
  A couple of minutes later, Paul finally got out of the car. Fourteen years had passed since he'd set foot in that alley on the banks of the Isar. The smell was as foul as ever: wet peat, rotting fish, and dampness. At this time of night, the only sound was his own footsteps echoing on the sidewalk.
    
  He reached the stable door. Nothing seemed to have changed. The peeling, dark green stains covering the wood were perhaps a little worse than they had been when Paul had crossed the threshold every morning. The hinges still made the same shrill scraping sound when they opened, and the door was still stuck halfway, requiring a push to open it fully.
    
  Paul walked in. A bare lightbulb hung from the ceiling. Stalls, a dirt floor, and a coal miner's cart...
    
  ...and on it is Jurgen with a pistol in his hand.
    
  "Hello, little brother. Close the door and put your hands up."
    
  Jurgen wore only the black trousers and boots of his uniform. He was naked from the waist up, save for an eye patch.
    
  "We said no firearms," Paul replied, raising his hands cautiously.
    
  "Lift your shirt," Jurgen said, pointing his gun as Paul followed his orders. "Slowly. That"s it-very good. Now turn around. Good. Looks like you played by the rules, Paul. So I"ll play by them, too."
    
  He removed the magazine from the pistol and placed it on the wooden partition separating the horses' stalls. However, there must have been a bullet left in the chamber, and the barrel was still pointed at Paul.
    
  "Is this place as you remember it? I really hope so. Your coal miner friend's business went bankrupt five years ago, so I was able to get my hands on these stables for next to nothing. I was hoping you'd come back one day."
    
  "Where is Alice, Jurgen?"
    
  His brother licked his lips before answering.
    
  "Ah, Jewish whore. Have you heard of Dachau, brother?"
    
  Paul nodded slowly. People didn't talk much about the Dachau camp, but everything they said was bad.
    
  "I'm sure she'll be very comfortable there. At least, she seemed happy enough when my friend Eichmann brought her there this afternoon."
    
  "You are a disgusting pig, Jurgen."
    
  "What can I say? You don't know how to protect your women, brother."
    
  Paul staggered as if he had been struck. Now he understood the truth.
    
  "You killed her, didn't you? You killed my mother."
    
  "Damn, it took you a long time to figure that out," Jurgen chuckled.
    
  "I was with her before she died. She... she told me it wasn't you."
    
  "What did you expect? She lied to protect you until her last breath. But there are no lies here, Paul," Jurgen said, holding up Ilse Rainer's letter. "Here you have the whole story, from beginning to end."
    
  "Are you going to give this to me?" Paul asked, looking anxiously at the sheets of paper.
    
  "No. I've already told you, there's absolutely no way you can win. I intend to kill you myself, Little Brother. But if lightning somehow strikes me from the sky... Well, here it is."
    
  Jurgen bent down and pinned the letter to a nail sticking out of the wall.
    
  "Take off your jacket and shirt, Paul."
    
  Paul obeyed, throwing his scraps of clothing to the floor. His bare torso was no longer than that of a skinny teenager. Powerful muscles rippled beneath his dark skin, which was crisscrossed with small scars.
    
  "Satisfied?"
    
  "Well, well... Looks like someone's been taking vitamins," Jurgen said. "I wonder if I should just shoot you and save myself the trouble."
    
  "Then do it, Jurgen. You"ve always been a coward."
    
  "Don"t even think about calling me that, little brother."
    
  "Six against one? Knives against bare hands? What would you call that, Big Brother?"
    
  In a gesture of rage, Jurgen threw the pistol to the ground and grabbed a hunting knife from the driver's seat of the cart.
    
  "Yours is over there, Paul," he said, pointing to the other end. "Let"s get this over with."
    
  Paul walked up to the cart. Fourteen years earlier, he had been there, defending himself from a gang of thugs.
    
  This was my boat. My father's boat, attacked by pirates. Now the roles have reversed so much that I don't know who's the good guy and who's the bad guy.
    
  He walked to the back of the wagon. There he found another knife with a red handle, identical to the one his brother was holding. He held it in his right hand, pointing the blade upward, just as Gerero had taught him. Jurgen's emblem was pointed downward, hindering his hand movements.
    
  I may be stronger now, but he's much stronger than me: I'll have to tire him out, not let him throw me to the ground or pin me back against the walls of the wagon. Use his blind right side.
    
  "Who"s the chicken now, brother?" asked Jurgen, calling him over.
    
  Paul braced his free hand against the side of the cart, then pulled himself up. Now they stood face to face for the first time since Jurgen had gone blind in one eye.
    
  "We don"t have to do this, Jurgen. We could..."
    
  His brother didn't hear him. Raising his knife, Jurgen attempted to slash Paul across the face, missing by millimeters as Paul dodged to the right. He nearly fell off the cart and had to catch himself on one side to break his fall. He kicked out, hitting his brother in the ankle. Jurgen stumbled back, giving Paul time to right himself.
    
  The two men now stood facing each other, two steps apart. Paul shifted his weight onto his left leg, a gesture Jurgen took to mean he was about to strike the other way. Trying to forestall this, Jurgen attacked from the left, as Paul had hoped. As Jurgen's hand lashed out, Paul ducked and slashed upward-not with too much force, but just enough to cut him with the edge of the blade. Jurgen screamed, but instead of retreating as Paul had expected, he punched Paul twice in the side.
    
  They both stepped back for a moment.
    
  "First blood is mine. Let's see whose blood will be spilled last," Jurgen said.
    
  Paul didn't respond. The blows had taken his breath away, and he didn't want his brother to notice. It took him a few seconds to recover, but he wasn't about to take any. Jurgen lunged at him, holding the knife at shoulder level in a deadly version of the ridiculous Nazi salute. At the last moment, he twisted to the left and delivered a short, straight cut to Paul's chest. With nowhere to retreat, Paul was forced to jump off the cart, but he couldn't avoid another cut that marked him from his left nipple to his sternum.
    
  When his feet touched the ground, he forced himself to ignore the pain and rolled under the cart to avoid an attack from Jurgen, who had already jumped down after him. He emerged from the other side and immediately tried to climb back onto the cart, but Jurgen anticipated his move and returned there himself. Now he was running toward Paul, ready to impale him the moment he stepped onto the logs, forcing Paul to retreat.
    
  Jurgen made the most of the situation, using the driver's seat to lunge at Paul, knife held high. Trying to avoid the attack, Paul tripped. He fell, and that would have been his end, had not the wagon shafts been in the way, forcing his brother to duck under the thick wooden slabs. Paul took full advantage of the opportunity, kicking Jurgen in the face, hitting him square in the mouth.
    
  Paul turned and tried to wriggle out from under Jurgen's arm. Furious, blood foaming at his lips, Jurgen managed to grab him by the ankle, but he loosened his grip when his brother threw it away and struck him in the arm.
    
  Panting, Paul managed to get to his feet almost at the same time as Jurgen. Jurgen bent down, picked up a bucket of wood chips, and threw it at Paul. The bucket hit him square in the chest.
    
  With a cry of triumph, Jurgen lunged at Paul. Still stunned by the impact of the bucket, Paul was knocked off his feet, and the two of them fell to the floor. Jurgen tried to slit Paul's throat with the tip of his blade, but Paul used his own hands to defend himself. However, he knew he couldn't hold out for long. His brother outweighed him by over forty pounds, and besides, he was on top. Sooner or later, Paul's arms would give way, and the steel would sever his jugular vein.
    
  "You"re finished, little brother," Jurgen screamed, spattering Paul"s face with blood.
    
  "Damn it, that's who I am."
    
  Gathering all his strength, Paul kneed Jurgen hard in the side, sending Jurgen toppling over. He immediately lunged back at Paul, his left hand grabbing Paul's neck and his right hand struggling to free itself from Paul's grip as he struggled to keep the knife away from his throat.
    
  Too late, he realized he'd lost sight of Paul's hand, holding his own knife. He looked down and saw the tip of Paul's blade grazing his stomach. He looked up again, fear written all over his face.
    
  "You can't kill me. If you kill me, Alice will die."
    
  "That's where you're wrong, Big Brother. If you die, Alice will live."
    
  Hearing this, Jurgen desperately tried to free his right hand. He succeeded, and raised his knife to plunge it into Paul's throat, but the movement seemed to happen in slow motion, and by the time Jurgen's hand came down, there was no strength left in it.
    
  Paul's knife was buried up to the hilt in his stomach.
    
    
  56
    
    
  Jurgen collapsed. Utterly exhausted, Paul lay sprawled on his back next to him. The labored breathing of the two young men mingled, then subsided. Within a minute, Paul felt better; Jurgen was dead.
    
  With great difficulty, Paul managed to get to his feet. He had several broken ribs, superficial cuts all over his body, and a much more disfiguring one on his chest. He needed to get help as soon as possible.
    
  He climbed over Jurgen's body to get to his clothes. He tore the sleeves of his shirt and improvised bandages to cover the wounds on his forearms. They immediately became soaked with blood, but that was the least of his worries. Luckily, his jacket was dark, which would help hide the damage.
    
  Paul stepped out into the alley. When he opened the door, he didn't notice the figure slipping into the shadows to the right. Paul walked straight past, oblivious to the presence of the man watching him, so close he could have touched him if he had reached out.
    
  He reached the car. As he got behind the wheel, he felt a sharp pain in his chest, as if a giant hand were squeezing it.
    
  I hope my lung isn't punctured.
    
  He started the engine, trying to forget the pain. He didn't have far to go. Along the way, he spotted a cheap hotel, probably the place his brother had called from. It was a little over six hundred yards from the stables.
    
  The clerk behind the counter turned pale when Paul walked in.
    
  I can't look too good if someone is afraid of me in a hole like this.
    
  "Do you have a phone?"
    
  "On that wall over there, sir."
    
  The phone was old, but it worked. The boarding house owner answered on the sixth ring and seemed completely awake, despite the late hour. She usually stayed up late, listening to music and TV series on her radio.
    
  "Yes?"
    
  "Frau Frink, this is Herr Rainer. I would like to speak with Herr Tannenbaum."
    
  "Herr Reiner! I was very worried about you: I wondered what you were doing outside at that time. And with those people still in your room..."
    
  "I"m fine, Frau Frink. May I..."
    
  "Yes, yes, of course. Herr Tannenbaum. Immediately."
    
  The wait seemed to last forever. Paul turned to the counter and noticed the secretary studying him carefully over her Volkischer Beobachter.
    
  Just what I need: a Nazi sympathizer.
    
  Paul looked down and realized blood was still dripping from his right hand, running down his palms and forming a strange pattern on the wooden floor. He raised his hand to stop the drip and tried to wipe the stain away with the soles of his shoes.
    
  He turned around. The receptionist kept his eyes on him. If he'd noticed anything suspicious, he likely would have alerted the Gestapo the moment Paul left the hotel. And then it would have been over. Paul wouldn't be able to explain his injuries or the fact that he'd been driving the baron's car. The body would have been found within days if Paul hadn't disposed of it immediately, as some vagrant would undoubtedly have noticed the stench.
    
  Pick up the phone, Manfred. Pick up the phone, for God's sake.
    
  Finally he heard Alice's brother's voice, full of worry.
    
  "Paul, is that you?"
    
  "It's me".
    
  "Where the hell have you been? I-"
    
  "Listen carefully, Manfred. If you ever want to see your sister again, you must listen. I need your help."
    
  "Where are you?" Manfred asked in a serious voice.
    
  Paul gave him the address of the warehouse.
    
  "Take a taxi and it will take you here. But don't come straight away. First, stop by the pharmacy and buy gauze, bandages, alcohol, and stitches for the wounds. And anti-inflammatory medication-very important. And bring my suitcase with all my things. Don't worry about Frau Frink: I've already..."
    
  Here he had to pause. He was dizzy from exhaustion and blood loss. He had to lean on the phone to keep from falling.
    
  "Floor?"
    
  "I paid her two months in advance."
    
  "Okay, Paul."
    
  "Hurry up, Manfred."
    
  He hung up and headed for the door. As he passed the receptionist, he gave a quick, jerky version of the Nazi salute. The receptionist responded with an enthusiastic "Heil Hitler!" that made the paintings on the walls tremble. Approaching Paul, he opened the front door for him and was surprised to see a luxury Mercedes parked outside.
    
  "Good car."
    
  "That"s not bad."
    
  "Was that a long time ago?"
    
  "A couple of months. It"s used."
    
  For God's sake, don't call the police... You saw nothing but a respectable worker stopping to make a phone call.
    
  He felt the officer's suspicious gaze on the back of his head as he got into the car. He had to grit his teeth to keep from crying out in pain as he sat down.
    
  It's okay, he thought, focusing all his senses on starting the engine without losing consciousness. Go back to your newspaper. Go back to your good night. You don't want to get involved with the police.
    
  The manager kept his eyes on the Mercedes until it turned the corner, but Paul couldn't be sure whether he was simply admiring the bodywork or mentally noting the license plate.
    
  When he arrived at the stables, Paul allowed himself to fall forward onto the steering wheel, his strength gone.
    
  He was awakened by a knock on the window. Manfred's face looked down at him with concern. Next to him was another, smaller face.
    
  Julian.
    
  My son.
    
  In his memory, the next few minutes were a jumble of disjointed scenes. Manfred dragging him from the car to the stable. Washing his wounds and stitching them. Searing pain. Julian offering him a bottle of water. He drank for what seemed an eternity, unable to quench his thirst. And then silence again.
    
  When he finally opened his eyes, Manfred and Julian were sitting on the cart, watching him.
    
  "What is he doing here?" Paul asked hoarsely.
    
  "What was I supposed to do with him? I couldn't leave him alone in the boarding house!"
    
  "What we have to do tonight is not work for children."
    
  Julian got off the cart and ran over to hug him.
    
  "We were worried."
    
  "Thank you for coming to save me," Paul said, ruffling his hair.
    
  "Mom does the same to me," the boy said.
    
  "We"re going to go and get her, Julian. I promise."
    
  He stood up and went to freshen up in the small outhouse in the backyard. It consisted of little more than a bucket, now covered in cobwebs, sitting under the faucet and an old, scratched mirror.
    
  Paul studied his reflection carefully. Both his forearms and his entire torso were bandaged. Blood was seeping through the white cloth on his left side.
    
  "Your wounds are terrible. You have no idea how much you screamed when I applied the antiseptic," said Manfred, who approached the door.
    
  "I don"t remember anything."
    
  "Who is this dead man?"
    
  "This is the man who kidnapped Alice."
    
  "Julian, put the knife back!" shouted Manfred, who was looking over his shoulder every few seconds.
    
  "I'm sorry he had to see the body."
    
  "He's a brave boy. He held your hand the whole time I was working, and I can assure you it wasn't pretty. I'm an engineer, not a doctor."
    
  Paul shook his head, trying to clear it. "You'll have to go out and buy some sulfa. What time is it?"
    
  "Seven in the morning."
    
  "Let's get some rest. We'll go and pick up your sister this evening."
    
  "Where is she?"
    
  "Camp Dachau".
    
  Manfred opened his eyes wide and swallowed.
    
  "Do you know what Dachau is, Paul?"
    
  "This is one of those camps the Nazis built to house their political enemies. Essentially, an open-air prison."
    
  "You"ve just returned to these shores, and it shows," Manfred said, shaking his head. "Officially, these places are wonderful summer camps for unruly or undisciplined children. But if you believe the few decent journalists still here, places like Dachau are living hell." Manfred continued to describe the horrors taking place just a few miles outside the city limits. A few months earlier, he had come across a couple of magazines that described Dachau as a low-level correctional facility where prisoners were well fed, dressed in starched white uniforms, and smiled for the cameras. The photos were prepared for the international press. The reality was quite different. Dachau was a prison of quick justice for those who spoke out against the Nazis-a parody of real trials that rarely lasted more than an hour. It was a forced labor camp where guard dogs prowled the perimeter of electric fences, howling in the night under the constant glare of floodlights from above.
    
  "It's impossible to obtain any information about the prisoners held there. And no one ever escapes, you can be sure of that," Manfred said.
    
  "Alice won't have to run away."
    
  Paul laid out a rough plan. It was only a dozen sentences, but enough to make Manfred even more nervous by the end of his explanation.
    
  "There are a million things that can go wrong."
    
  "But this might work too."
    
  "And the moon might be green when it rises tonight."
    
  "Listen, are you going to help me save your sister or not?"
    
  Manfred looked at Julian, who had climbed back onto the cart and was kicking his ball around the sides.
    
  "I suppose so," he said with a sigh.
    
  "Then go and get some rest. When you wake up, you will help me kill Paul Reiner."
    
  When he saw Manfred and Julian sprawled on the ground, trying to rest, Paul realized how exhausted he was. However, he still had one more thing to do before he could get some sleep.
    
  At the other end of the stable, his mother's letter was still pinned to a nail.
    
  Once again, Paul had to step over Jurgen's body, but this time it was a far more difficult ordeal. He spent several minutes examining his brother: his missing eye, the increasing pallor of his skin as blood pooled in his lower parts, the symmetry of his body, mutilated by the knife that had plunged into his stomach. Even though this man had caused him nothing but suffering, he couldn't help but feel a deep sadness.
    
  It should have been different, he thought, finally daring to step through the wall of air that seemed to have solidified above his body.
    
  With extreme care he removed the letter from the nail.
    
  He was tired, but nevertheless, the emotions he felt when he opened the letter were almost overwhelming.
    
    
  57
    
    
  My dear son:
    
  There's no right way to begin this letter. The truth is, it's just one of several attempts I've made over the past four or five months. After a while-an interval that grows shorter each time-I have to pick up a pencil and try writing it all over again. I always hope you won't be at the boarding house when I burn the previous version and throw the ashes out the window. Then I get to work on the task, this pathetic substitute for what I need to do: tell you the truth.
    
  Your father. When you were little, you often asked me about him. I would have given you vague answers or kept my mouth shut because I was afraid. In those days, our lives depended on the Schroeders' charity, and I was too weak to look for an alternative. If only I had
    
  ...But no, ignore me. My life is full of "only," and I'm tired of feeling regret a long time ago.
    
  It's also been a long time since you stopped asking me about your father. In some ways, that bothered me even more than your relentless interest in him when you were little, because I know how obsessed you still are with him. I know how hard it is for you to sleep at night, and I know what you want most of all is to know what happened.
    
  That's why I must remain silent. My mind doesn't work so well, and sometimes I lose track of time or where I am, and I only hope that in such moments of confusion I don't reveal the location of this letter. The rest of the time, when I'm conscious, all I feel is fear-fear that the day you learn the truth, you'll rush to confront those responsible for Hans's death.
    
  Yes, Paul, your father didn't die in a shipwreck, as we told you, as you realized shortly before we were thrown out of the Baron's house. It would have been a fitting death for him, anyway.
    
  Hans Reiner was born in Hamburg in 1876, though his family moved to Munich when he was still a boy. He eventually fell in love with both cities, but the sea remained his only true passion.
    
  He was an ambitious man. He wanted to be a captain, and he succeeded. He was already a captain when we met at a dance at the turn of this century. I don't remember the exact date, I think it was late 1902, but I can't be sure. He asked me to dance, and I accepted. It was a waltz. By the time the music ended, I was hopelessly in love with him.
    
  He courted me between sea voyages and eventually made Munich his permanent home, simply to please me, no matter how inconvenient it was for him professionally. The day he walked into my parents' house to ask your grandfather for my hand was the happiest day of my life. My father was a large, kind-hearted man, but that day he was very serious and even shed a tear. It's sad you never had the chance to meet him; you would have liked him very much.
    
  My dad said we'd have an engagement party, a big, traditional affair. A whole weekend with dozens of guests and a wonderful banquet.
    
  Our small house wasn't suitable for this, so my father asked my sister's permission to hold the event at the baron's country house in Herrsching an der Ammersee. In those days, your uncle's gambling habits were still under control, and he owned several properties scattered throughout Bavaria. Brunhilde agreed, more to maintain a good relationship with my mother than for any other reason.
    
  When we were little, my sister and I were never this close. She was more interested in boys, dancing, and fashionable clothes than I was. I preferred to stay at home with my parents. I was still playing with dolls when Brunhilde went on her first date.
    
  She's not a bad person, Paul. She never was: only selfish and spoiled. When she married the Baron, a couple of years before I met your father, she was the happiest woman in the world. What made her change? I don't know. Perhaps out of boredom, or because of your uncle's infidelity. He was a self-proclaimed womanizer, something she never noticed before, blinded by his money and title. Later, however, it became too obvious for her not to notice. She had a son with him, something I never expected. Edward was a good-natured, lonely child who grew up in the care of maids and wet nurses. His mother never paid him much attention because the boy didn't fulfill her purpose: to keep the Baron on a short leash and away from his whores.
    
  Let's get back to the weekend party. Around midday on Friday, guests started arriving. I was thrilled, strolling with my sister in the sun, waiting for your father to arrive to introduce us. Finally, he showed up in his military jacket, white gloves, and captain's cap, holding his dress sword. He was dressed as he would have been for an engagement party on Saturday night, and he said he did it to impress me. That made me laugh.
    
  But when I introduced him to Brunhilde, something strange happened. Your father took her hand and held it a little longer than was proper. And she seemed bewildered, as if struck by lightning. At the time, I thought-fool that I was-that it was simply embarrassment, but Brunhilde had never in her life shown even a hint of such emotion.
    
  Your father had just returned from a mission in Africa. He brought me an exotic perfume, the kind worn by the natives in the colonies, made, I believe, from sandalwood and molasses. It had a strong and distinctive scent, but at the same time it was delicate and pleasant. I clapped my hands like a fool. I liked it and promised him I'd wear it to our engagement party.
    
  That night, while we were all asleep, Brunhilde entered your father's bedroom. The room was completely dark, and Brunhilde was naked beneath her robe, wearing only the perfume your father had given me. Without a sound, she climbed into bed and made love to him. It's still hard for me to write these words, Paul, even now, twenty years later.
    
  Your father, believing I wanted to give him an advance on our wedding night, didn't resist. At least, that's what he told me the next day when I looked him in the eye.
    
  He swore to me, and swore again, that he hadn't noticed anything until it was all over and Brunhilde spoke for the first time. She told him she loved him and asked him to run away with her. Your father threw her out of the room, and the next morning he took me aside and told me what had happened.
    
  "We can call off the wedding if you want," he said.
    
  "No," I replied. "I love you, and I will marry you if you swear to me that you truly had no idea it was my sister."
    
  Your father swore again, and I believed him. After all these years, I'm not sure what to think, but right now there's too much bitterness in my heart.
    
  The engagement took place, as did the wedding in Munich three months later. By then, it was easy to see your aunt's swollen belly beneath the red lace dress she was wearing, and everyone was happy except me, because I knew all too well whose child it was.
    
  Finally, the Baron found out too. Not from me. I never confronted my sister or reproached her for what she did, because I'm a coward. I also didn't tell anyone what I knew. But sooner or later, it was bound to come out: Brunhilde probably threw it in the Baron's face during an argument about one of his affairs. I don't know for sure, but the fact is, he found out, and that was partly why it happened later.
    
  Soon after, I became pregnant too, and you were born while your father was on what was to be his final mission to Africa. The letters he wrote to me grew increasingly gloomy, and for some reason-I'm not sure why-he took less and less pride in the work he was doing.
    
  One day he stopped writing altogether. The next letter I received was from the Imperial Navy, informing me that my husband had deserted and that I was obliged to inform the authorities if I heard from him.
    
  I wept bitterly. I still don't know what prompted him to desert, and I don't want to know. I learned too many things about Hans Rainer after his death, things that don't fit the portrait I painted of him at all. That's why I never spoke to you about your father, because he wasn't a role model or someone to be proud of.
    
  At the end of 1904, your father returned to Munich without my knowledge. He returned secretly with his first lieutenant, a man named Nagel, who accompanied him everywhere. Instead of returning home, he sought refuge in the Baron's mansion. From there, he sent me a short note, and this is exactly what it said:
    
  "Dear Ilse: I've made a terrible mistake, and I'm trying to right it. I've asked your brother-in-law and another good friend for help. Perhaps they can save me. Sometimes the greatest treasure is hidden where the greatest destruction is, or at least that's what I always thought. Love, Hans."
    
  I never understood what your father meant by those words. I read the note over and over again, though I burned it a few hours after receiving it, afraid it might fall into the wrong hands.
    
  Regarding your father's death, all I know is that he was staying at the Schroeder mansion, and one night there was a violent altercation, after which he died. His body was thrown off the bridge into the Isar under cover of darkness.
    
  I don't know who killed your father. Your aunt told me what I'm telling you here, almost verbatim, even though she wasn't there when it happened. She told me this with tears in her eyes, and I knew she still loved him.
    
  The boy Brunhilda bore, Jurgen, was the spitting image of your father. The love and unhealthy devotion his mother always showed him was hardly surprising. His wasn't the only life thrown off course that terrible night.
    
  Defenseless and frightened, I accepted Otto's offer to go and live with them. For him, it was both atonement for what had been done to Hans and a way to punish Brunhilde by reminding her of whom Hans had chosen. For Brunhilde, it was her own way of punishing me for stealing the man she had come to love, even though he had never belonged to her.
    
  And for me, it was a way to survive. Your father left me nothing but his debts when the government deigned to declare him dead a few years later, though his body was never found. So, you and I lived in that mansion, filled with nothing but hatred.
    
  There's one more thing. For me, Jurgen was never anything other than your brother, because even though he was conceived in Brunhilde's womb, I considered him my son. I could never show him any affection, but he is a part of your father, the man I loved with all my soul. Seeing him every day, even for a few moments, was like seeing my Hans again.
    
  My cowardice and selfishness shaped your life, Paul. I never meant for your father's death to affect you. I tried to lie to you and cover up the facts so that when you were older, you wouldn't go on a quest for some absurd revenge. Don't do that-please.
    
  If this letter ends up in your hands, which I doubt, I want you to know that I love you very much and all I was trying to do with my actions was protect you. Forgive me.
    
  Your mother who loves you,
    
  Ilse Reiner
    
    
  58
    
    
  After finishing reading his mother's words, Paul cried for a long time.
    
  He shed tears for Ilsa, who had suffered her entire life because of love and who had made mistakes because of it. He shed tears for Jürgen, who had been born into the worst possible situation. He shed tears for himself, for the boy who had cried for a father who didn't deserve it.
    
  As he drifted off to sleep, a strange sense of peace washed over him, a feeling he didn't remember ever experiencing before. Whatever the outcome of the madness they were about to embark on in a few hours, he had achieved his goal.
    
  Manfred woke him with a gentle pat on the back. Julian was a few meters away, eating a sausage sandwich.
    
  "It"s seven o"clock in the evening."
    
  "Why did you let me sleep for so long?"
    
  "You needed a rest. In the meantime, I went shopping. I brought everything you asked for. Towels, a steel spoon, a spatula, everything."
    
  "So, let"s get started."
    
  Manfred forced Paul to take sulfa to stop his wounds from becoming infected, then the two of them pushed Julian into the car.
    
  "Can I start?" the boy asked.
    
  "Don"t even think about it!" Manfred shouted.
    
  Then he and Paul removed the dead man's trousers and shoes and dressed him in Paul's clothes. They put Paul's documents in his jacket pocket. Then they dug a deep hole in the floor and buried him.
    
  "I hope this will throw them off for a while. I don't think they'll find him for a few weeks, and by then there won't be much left," Paul said.
    
  Jurgen's uniform hung on a nail in the stalls. Paul was more or less the same height as his brother, though Jurgen was stockier. Thanks to the voluminous bandages Paul wore on his arms and chest, the uniform fit well enough. The boots were tight, but the rest of the outfit was fine.
    
  "This uniform fits you like a glove. That's what will never go away."
    
  Manfred showed him Jürgen's ID card. It was in a small leather wallet along with his Nazi Party card and SS ID. The resemblance between Jürgen and Paul had grown over the years. Both had a strong jaw, blue eyes, and similar facial features. Jürgen's hair was darker, but they could make up for that with the hair grease Manfred had bought. Paul could easily pass for Jürgen, except for one small detail Manfred had pointed out on the card. Under "distinguishing features," the words "Missing right eye" were clearly written.
    
  "One stripe won't be enough, Paul. If they ask you to pick it up..."
    
  "I know, Manfred. That"s why I need your help."
    
  Manfred looked at him in complete amazement.
    
  "You don"t think about..."
    
  "I have to do this."
    
  "But this is madness!"
    
  "Just like the rest of the plan. And that's its weakest point."
    
  Finally, Manfred agreed. Paul sat in the driver's seat of the cart, towels covering his chest, as if he were at a barber shop.
    
  "Are you ready?"
    
  "Wait," said Manfred, sounding frightened. "Let's go through this again to make sure there are no mistakes."
    
  "I'm going to put a spoon to the edge of my right eyelid and pull my eye out by the root. While I'm doing this, you need to apply some antiseptic and then some gauze. Is everything okay?"
    
  Manfred nodded, so frightened he could hardly speak.
    
  "Ready?" he asked again.
    
  "Ready".
    
  Ten seconds later, there was nothing but screams.
    
  By eleven o'clock, Paul had taken almost a whole pack of aspirin, leaving two more for himself. The wound had stopped bleeding, and Manfred was disinfecting it every fifteen minutes, applying fresh gauze each time.
    
  Julian, who had returned a few hours earlier, alarmed by the screams, found his father clutching his head in his hands and howling at the top of his lungs, while his uncle screamed hysterically, demanding that he get out. He returned and locked himself in the Mercedes, then burst into tears.
    
  When things calmed down, Manfred went to fetch his nephew and explained the plan. Seeing Paul, Julian asked, "Are you doing all this just for my mother?" His voice was reverent.
    
  "And for you, Julian. Because I want us to be together."
    
  The boy didn't answer, but he gripped Paul's hand tightly and still didn't let go when Paul decided it was time for them to leave. He climbed into the backseat of the car with Julian, and Manfred drove the sixteen kilometers that separated them from the camp, a tense expression on his face. It took them almost an hour to reach their destination, as Manfred barely knew how to drive and the car kept slipping.
    
  "When we get there, the car must not stall under any circumstances, Manfred," Paul said worriedly.
    
  "I will do everything I can."
    
  As they approached Dachau, Paul noticed a striking difference from Munich. Even in the dark, the poverty of this city was obvious. The sidewalks were in poor condition and dirty, the road signs were pockmarked, and the building facades were old and peeling.
    
  "What a sad place," Paul said.
    
  "Of all the places they could have taken Alice, this was definitely the worst."
    
  "Why do you say that?"
    
  "Our father owned a gunpowder factory that used to be located in this city."
    
  Paul was about to tell Manfred that his own mother had worked at that munitions plant and that she had been fired, but he found he was too tired to start the conversation.
    
  "The really ironic thing is that my father sold the land to the Nazis. And they built a camp on it."
    
  Finally, they saw a yellow sign with black letters telling them that the camp was 1.2 miles away.
    
  "Stop, Manfred. Turn around slowly and step back a little."
    
  Manfred did as he was told and they returned to a small building that looked like an empty barn, although it seemed to have been abandoned for some time.
    
  "Julian, listen very carefully," Paul said, holding the boy by the shoulders and forcing him to look him in the eye. "Your uncle and I are going to go to the concentration camp to try to rescue your mother. But you can"t come with us. I want you to get out of the car right now with my suitcase and wait in the back of this building. Hide as best you can, don"t talk to anyone, and don"t come out until you hear me or your uncle call you, understand?"
    
  Julian nodded, his lips trembling.
    
  "Brave boy," Paul said, hugging him.
    
  "What if you don"t come back?"
    
  "Don"t even think about it, Julian. We"ll do it."
    
  Having located Julian in his hiding place, Paul and Manfred returned to the car.
    
  "Why didn"t you tell him what to do if we don"t come back?" Manfred asked.
    
  "Because he's a smart kid. He'll look in the suitcase; he'll take the money and leave the rest. Anyway, I have no one to send him to. What does the wound look like?" he asked, turning on the reading lamp and removing the bandage from his eye.
    
  "It"s swollen, but not too much. The cap isn"t too red. Does it hurt?"
    
  "Like hell."
    
  Paul glanced at himself in the rearview mirror. Where his eyeball had once been, there was now a patch of wrinkled skin. A small trickle of blood trickled from the corner of his eye, like a scarlet tear.
    
  "This must look old, damn it."
    
  "They might not ask you to take off your patch."
    
  "Thank you".
    
  He pulled the patch from his pocket and put it on, throwing the pieces of gauze out the window into the gutter. When he looked at himself in the mirror again, a shiver ran down his spine.
    
  The man looking back at him was Jurgen.
    
  He looked at the Nazi armband on his left arm.
    
  I once thought I'd rather die than wear this symbol, Paul thought. Today Floor Rainer dead . I am now Jurgen von Schroeder.
    
    He climbed out of the passenger seat and into the back, trying to remember what his brother was like, his disdainful demeanor, his arrogant manner. The way he projected his voice as if it were an extension of himself, trying to make everyone else feel inferior.
    
  I can do it, Paul told himself. We'll see...
    
  "Get her going, Manfred. We mustn't waste any more time."
    
    
  59
    
    
  Arbeit Macht Frei
    
  These were the words written in iron letters above the camp gates. The words, however, were nothing more than strokes in another form. No one there would earn their freedom through labor.
    
  As the Mercedes pulled up at the entrance, a sleepy security guard in a black uniform emerged from the guard booth, briefly shone his flashlight inside the car, and gestured for them to proceed. The gates opened immediately.
    
  "It was simple," Manfred whispered.
    
  "Have you ever known a prison that was hard to get into? The hard part is usually getting out," Paul replied.
    
  The gate was fully open, but the car did not move.
    
  "What the hell is wrong with you? Don't stop there."
    
  "I don"t know where to go, Paul," Manfred replied, his hands tightening on the steering wheel.
    
  "Crap".
    
  Paul opened the window and gestured for the guard to come over. He ran up to the car.
    
  "Yes, sir?"
    
  "Corporal, my head is splitting. Please explain to my idiot driver how to get to the guy in charge here. I'm bringing orders from Munich."
    
  "The only people at the moment are in the guardhouse, sir."
    
  "Well then, go ahead, Corporal, tell him."
    
  The guard gave Manfred instructions, who didn't have to feign displeasure. "Aren't you a bit overboard?" Manfred asked.
    
  "If you ever saw my brother talking to the staff... that would be him on one of his best days."
    
  Manfred drove around the fenced area, a strange, acrid smell seeping into the car despite the closed windows. On the other side, they could see the dark outlines of countless barracks. The only movement came from a group of prisoners running alongside a lit streetlamp. They wore striped overalls with a single yellow star embroidered on the chest. Each man's right leg was tied to the ankle of the person behind him. When one fell, at least four or five others fell with him.
    
  "Get moving, you dogs! You'll keep going until you've completed ten laps without tripping!" the guard shouted, waving the stick he'd been using to beat the fallen prisoners. Those who had quickly scrambled to their feet, their faces covered in mud and terrified.
    
  "Oh my God, I can't believe Alice is in this hell," Paul muttered. "We better not fail, or we'll end up next to her as honored guests. That is, unless we get shot to death."
    
  The car stopped in front of a low white building, whose illuminated door was guarded by two soldiers. Paul had already reached for the door handle when Manfred stopped him.
    
  "What are you doing?" he whispered. "I have to open the door for you!"
    
  Paul caught himself just in time. His headache and disorientation had worsened over the past few minutes, and he was struggling to organize his thoughts. He felt a pang of dread at what he was about to do. For a moment, he was tempted to tell Manfred to turn around and get out of this place as quickly as possible.
    
  I can't do this to Alice. Or to Julian, or to myself. I have to go in... no matter what.
    
  The car door was open. Paul placed one foot on the cement and stuck his head out, and the two soldiers instantly stood at attention and raised their hands. Paul stepped out of the Mercedes and returned the salute.
    
  "At ease," he said as he walked through the door.
    
  The guardroom consisted of a small, office-like room with three or four neat desks, each with a tiny Nazi flag hanging next to a pencil holder, and a portrait of the Führer as the only decoration on the walls. Next to the door stood a long, counter-like table, behind which sat a sour-faced official. He straightened up when he saw Paul enter.
    
  "Heil Hitler!"
    
  "Heil Hitler!" Paul replied, scanning the room. At the back was a window overlooking what appeared to be some kind of common room. Through the glass, he could see about ten soldiers playing cards in a cloud of smoke.
    
  "Good evening, Herr Obersturmführer," the official said. "What can I do for you at this time of night?"
    
  "I'm here on urgent business. I have to take a female prisoner with me to Munich for... for interrogation."
    
  "Of course, sir. And the name?"
    
  "Alys Tannenbaum."
    
  "Ah, the one they brought in yesterday. We don't have many women here-no more than fifty, you know. It's a shame they're taking her. She's one of the few who's... not bad," he said with a lustful smile.
    
  "You mean for a Jew?"
    
  The man behind the counter swallowed at the threat in Paul's voice.
    
  "Certainly, sir, not bad for a Jew."
    
  "Of course. Well, then what are you waiting for? Bring her!"
    
  "Right away, sir. May I see the transfer order, sir?"
    
  Paul, his hands clasped behind his back, clenched his fists. He had prepared his answer to this question. If his little speech had worked, they would have pulled Alice out, hopped in the car, and left this place, free as the wind. Otherwise, there would have been a phone call, perhaps more than one. In less than half an hour, he and Manfred would be the camp's honored guests.
    
  "Now listen carefully, Herr..."
    
  "Faber, sir. Gustav Faber ."
    
  "Listen, Herr Faber. Two hours ago, I was in bed with this gorgeous girl from Frankfurt, the one I've been chasing for days. Days! Suddenly the phone rang, and do you know who it was?"
    
  "No, sir."
    
  Paul leaned over the counter and carefully lowered his voice.
    
  "It was Reinhard Heydrich, the great man himself. He said to me, "Jürgen, my good man, bring me that Jewish girl we sent to Dachau yesterday because it turns out we didn"t get enough out of her." And I said to him, "Can"t someone else go?" And he said to me, "No, because I want you to work on her on the way. Frighten her with that special method of yours." So I got in my car, and here I am. Anything to do a friend a favor. But that doesn"t mean I"m not in a bad mood. So get that Jewish whore out of here once and for all so I can get back to my little friend before she falls asleep."
    
  "Sir, I'm sorry, but..."
    
  "Herr Faber, do you know who I am?"
    
    " No , sir ."
    
  "I'm Baron von Schroeder."
    
    At these words, the little man's face changed.
    
  "Why didn't you say this before, sir? I'm a good friend of Adolf Eichmann's. He's told me a lot about you," he lowered his voice, "and I know you two are on a special mission for Herr Heydrich. Anyway, don't worry, I'll handle it."
    
  He stood up, walked into the common room, and called out to one of the soldiers, who was clearly annoyed at the interruption of his card game. A few moments later, the man disappeared through a door out of Paul's sight.
    
  Meanwhile, Faber returned. He pulled a purple form from under the counter and began filling it out.
    
  "Can I have your ID? I need to write down your SS number."
    
  Paul held out a leather wallet.
    
  "It"s all here. Do it quickly."
    
  Faber pulled out his ID and stared at the photograph for a moment. Paul watched him closely. He saw a shadow of doubt cross the official's face as he glanced at him, then looked back at the photograph. He had to do something. Distract him, strike him a fatal blow, remove all doubt.
    
  "What"s the matter, you can"t find her? I need to take a look at her?"
    
  When the official looked at him in confusion, Paul lifted his stripe for a moment and chuckled unpleasantly.
    
  "N-no, sir. I"m just noting it now."
    
  He returned the leather wallet to Paul.
    
  "Sir, I hope you don"t mind me mentioning this, but... there"s blood in your eye socket."
    
  "Oh, thank you, Herr Faber. The doctor is draining tissue that took years to form. He says he can insert a glass eye. For now, I'm at the mercy of his instruments. In any case..."
    
  "Everything is ready, sir. Look, they will bring her here now."
    
  The door opened behind Paul, and he heard footsteps. Paul didn't turn to look at Alice yet, afraid his face would betray even the slightest emotion, or worse, that she would recognize him. Only when she stood next to him did he dare cast a quick sideways glance at her.
    
  Alice, dressed in what looked like a rough gray robe, bowed her head, staring at the floor. She was barefoot, and her hands were cuffed.
    
  Don't think about what she's like, Paul thought. Just think about getting her out of here alive.
    
  "Well, if that"s all..."
    
  "Yes, sir. Sign here and below, please."
    
  The fake baron picked up a pen and tried to make his scribbles illegible. Then he took Alice's hand and turned, pulling her along with him.
    
  "Just one last thing, sir?"
    
  Paul turned again.
    
  "What the hell is this?" he shouted irritably.
    
  "I will have to call Herr Eichmann to get him to authorize the prisoner"s departure, since he was the one who signed it."
    
  Horrified, Paul tried to find what to say.
    
  "Do you think it is necessary to wake up our friend Adolf for such a trivial matter?"
    
  "It won't take a minute, sir," the official said, already holding the telephone receiver.
    
    
  60
    
    
  "We're done for," thought Paul.
    
  A bead of sweat formed on his forehead, ran down his brow, and dripped into the socket of his good eye. Paul blinked cautiously, but more beads formed. The security room was extremely hot, especially where Paul stood, directly under the light that illuminated the entrance. Jurgen's cap, which was too tight, didn't help.
    
  They shouldn't see that I'm nervous.
    
  "Herr Eichmann?"
    
  Faber's sharp voice echoed throughout the room. He was one of those people who spoke louder on the phone to help his voice carry better over the cables.
    
  "Sorry to disturb you at this time. I have Baron von Schroeder here; he has come to pick up a prisoner who..."
    
  The pauses in the conversation were a relief to Paul's ears, but torture to his nerves, and he would have given anything to hear the other side. "Right. Yes, indeed. Yes, I understand."
    
  At that moment, the official looked up at Paul, his face very serious. Paul held his gaze as another drop of sweat traced the path of the first.
    
  "Yes, sir. Understood. I will do so."
    
  He hung up slowly.
    
  "Herr Baron?"
    
  "What's happening?"
    
  "Could you wait here for a minute?" I"ll be right back."
    
  "Very good, but do it quickly!"
    
  Faber walked back out the door that led to the common room. Through the glass, Paul saw him approach one of the soldiers, who in turn approached his colleagues.
    
  They've figured us out. They found Jurgen's body and now they're going to arrest us. The only reason they haven't attacked yet is because they want to take us alive. Well, that's not going to happen.
    
  Paul was utterly terrified. Paradoxically, the pain in his head had eased, no doubt due to the rivers of adrenaline coursing through his veins. More than anything else, he felt the touch of his hand on Alice's skin. She hadn't looked up since she'd entered. At the far end of the room, the soldier who'd brought her in wait, impatiently tapping the floor.
    
  If they come for us, the last thing I'll do is kiss her.
    
  The official returned, now accompanied by two other soldiers. Paul turned to face them, prompting Alice to do the same.
    
  "Herr Baron?"
    
  "Yes?"
    
  "I spoke with Herr Eichmann, and he told me some astonishing news. I had to share it with the other soldiers. These people want to talk to you."
    
  The two who had come from the common room stepped forward.
    
  "Please allow me to shake your hand, sir, on behalf of the entire company."
    
  "Permission granted, Corporal," Paul managed to say, amazed.
    
  "It's an honor to meet a true old fighter, sir," the soldier said, pointing to a small medal on Paul's chest. An eagle in flight, wings spread, holding a laurel wreath. The Order of Blood.
    
  Paul, who had no idea what the medal meant, simply nodded and shook hands with the soldiers and the official.
    
  "Was that when you lost your eye, sir?" Faber asked him with a smile.
    
  Alarm bells rang in Paul's head. This could be a trap. But he had no idea what the soldier was getting at or how to respond.
    
  What the hell would Jurgen tell people? Would he say it was an accident during a stupid fight in his youth, or would he pretend his injury was something it wasn't?
    
  The soldiers and the official watched him, listening to his words.
    
  "My whole life was dedicated to the Führer, gentlemen. And my body too."
    
  "So you were wounded during the coup of the 23rd?" Faber pressed him.
    
  He knew Jurgen had lost an eye before, and he wouldn't have dared tell such an obvious lie. So the answer was no. But what explanation would he give?
    
  "I'm afraid not, gentlemen. It was a hunting accident."
    
  The soldiers seemed a little disappointed, but the official was still smiling.
    
  So maybe it wasn't a trap after all, Paul thought with relief.
    
  "So, are we done with social niceties, Herr Faber?"
    
  "Actually, no, sir. Herr Eichmann told me to give you this," he said, holding out a small box. "This is the news I was talking about."
    
  Paul took the box from the official's hands and opened it. Inside was a typewritten sheet and something wrapped in brown paper. My dear friend, I congratulate you on your excellent performance. I feel that you have more than fulfilled the task I entrusted to you. Very soon we will begin to act on the evidence you have collected. I also have the honor to convey to you the Führer's personal thanks. He asked me about you, and when I told him that you already wore the Blood Order and the gold Party emblem on your chest, he wanted to know what special honor we could bestow upon you. We talked for a few minutes, and then the Führer came up with this brilliant joke. He is a man with a subtle sense of humor, so much so that he commissioned it from his personal jeweler. Come to Berlin as soon as you can. I have great plans for you. Sincerely yours, Reinhard Heydrich
    
  Understanding nothing of what he had just read, Paul unfolded the object. It was a golden emblem of a double-headed eagle on a diamond-shaped Teutonic cross. The proportions were off, and the materials a deliberate and offensive parody, but Paul recognized the symbol immediately.
    
  It was the emblem of a thirty-second degree Mason.
    
  Jurgen, what have you done?
    
  "Gentlemen," said Faber, pointing at him, "applause for Baron von Schroeder, the man who, according to Herr Eichmann, carried out a task so important to the Reich that the Führer himself ordered a unique award created especially for him."
    
  The soldiers applauded as a confused Paul walked outside with the prisoner. Faber accompanied them, holding the door open for him. He placed something in Paul's hand.
    
  "The keys to the handcuffs, sir."
    
  "Thank you, Faber."
    
  "It was an honor for me, sir."
    
  As the car approached the exit, Manfred turned slightly, his face wet with sweat.
    
  "What the hell took you so long?"
    
  "Later, Manfred. Not until we get out of here," Paul whispered.
    
  His hand sought Alice's, and she silently squeezed it back. They remained like that until they passed through the gate.
    
  "Alice," he said finally, taking her chin in his hand, "you can relax. It's just us."
    
  Finally she looked up. She was covered in bruises.
    
  "I knew it was you the moment you grabbed my hand. Oh, Paul, I was so scared," she said, laying her head on his chest.
    
  "Are you okay?" Manfred asked.
    
  "Yes," she answered weakly.
    
  "Did that bastard do anything to you?" her brother asked. Paul didn't tell him that Jurgen had bragged about brutally raping Alice.
    
  She hesitated for a few moments before answering, and when she did, she avoided Paul's gaze.
    
  "No".
    
  No one will ever know, Alice, Paul thought. And I'll never let you know that I know.
    
  "That's just as well. Either way, you'll be pleased to know Paul killed the son of a bitch. You have no idea how far that man went to get you out of there."
    
  Alice looked at Paul, and suddenly she understood what this plan entailed and how much he had sacrificed. She raised her hands, still cuffed, and removed the patch.
    
  "Paul!" she cried, holding back sobs. She hugged him.
    
  "Quiet... don"t say anything."
    
  Alice fell silent. And then the sirens began to wail.
    
    
  61
    
    
  "What the hell is going on here?" Manfred asked.
    
  He had fifty feet to go before reaching the camp's exit when a siren blared. Paul looked out the rear window of the car and saw several soldiers fleeing the guardhouse they had just left. Somehow, they'd figured out he was an impostor and hurried to close the heavy metal exit door.
    
  "Step on it! Get in there before he locks it!" Paul yelled at Manfred, who instantly bit down hard and gripped the steering wheel tighter, simultaneously pressing down on the gas pedal. The car shot forward like a bullet, and the guard jumped aside just as the car crashed into the metal door with a mighty roar. Manfred's forehead bounced off the steering wheel, but he managed to keep the car under control.
    
  The guard at the gate pulled out a pistol and opened fire. The rear window shattered into a million pieces.
    
  "Whatever you do, don't head towards Munich, Manfred! Stay off the main road!" Paul shouted, shielding Alice from the flying glass. "Make the detour we saw on the way up."
    
  "Are you crazy?" Manfred said, hunched low in his seat and barely able to see where he was going. "We have no idea where this road leads! What about..."
    
  "We can"t risk them catching us," Paul said, interrupting.
    
  Manfred nodded and took a sharp detour, heading down a dirt road that disappeared into the darkness. Paul pulled his brother's Luger from its holster. It felt like a lifetime ago he'd picked it up from the stable. He checked the magazine: there were only eight rounds. If they were being followed, they wouldn't get very far.
    
  Just then, a pair of headlights pierced the darkness behind them, and they heard the click of a pistol and the rattle of a machine gun. Two cars were following them, and although neither was as fast as the Mercedes, their drivers knew the area. Paul knew it wouldn't be long before they caught up. And the last sound they heard would be deafening.
    
  "Damn it! Manfred, we have to get them off our tail!"
    
  "How are we supposed to do this? I don't even know where we're going."
    
  Paul had to think quickly. He turned to Alice, who was still huddled in her seat.
    
  "Alice, listen to me."
    
  She glanced at him nervously, and Paul saw fear in her eyes, but also determination. She tried to smile, and Paul felt a pang of love and pain for everything she had been through.
    
  "Do you know how to use one of these?" he asked, holding up the Luger.
    
  Alice shook her head. "I need you to pick it up and pull the trigger when I tell you to. The safety is off. Be careful."
    
  "So what now?" Manfred shouted.
    
  "Now you step on the gas, and we're trying to get away from them. If you see a path, a road, a horse trail-anything-take it. I have an idea."
    
  Manfred nodded and pressed the pedal as the car roared, consuming potholes as it careened along the rough road. Gunfire erupted again, and the rearview mirror shattered as more bullets hit the trunk. Finally, up ahead, they found what they were looking for.
    
  "Look over there! The road goes uphill, then there's a fork to the left. When I tell you to, turn off the lights and dive down that path."
    
  Manfred nodded and sat up straight in the driver's seat, ready to pull over as Paul turned toward the back seat.
    
  "Okay, Alice! Shoot twice!"
    
  Alice sat up, the wind blowing her hair into her face, making it difficult to see. She held the pistol with both hands and pointed it at the lights pursuing them. She pulled the trigger twice and felt a strange sense of power and satisfaction: retribution. Surprised by the gunfire, their pursuers retreated to the side of the road, momentarily distracted.
    
  "Come on, Manfred!"
    
  He turned off the headlights and jerked the steering wheel, steering the car toward the dark abyss. Then he shifted into neutral and headed down the new road, which was little more than a path into the forest.
    
  All three held their breath and crouched in their seats as their pursuers sped past at full speed, unaware that their fugitives had escaped.
    
  "I think we've lost them!" Manfred said, stretching his arms, which ached from gripping the steering wheel so tightly on the rutted road. Blood was dripping from his nose, though it didn't look broken.
    
  "Okay, let"s get back to the main road before they realize what happened."
    
  Once it became clear they had successfully eluded their pursuers, Manfred headed toward the barn where Julian was waiting. As he approached his destination, he pulled off the road and parked next to it. Paul took the opportunity to uncuff Alice.
    
  "Let's go and get him together. He's in for a surprise."
    
  "Bring whom?" she asked.
    
  "Our son, Alice. He's hiding behind the hut."
    
  "Julian? You brought Julian here? Are you both crazy?" she screamed.
    
  "We had no choice," Paul protested. "The last few hours have been terrible."
    
  She didn't hear him because she was already getting out of the car and running towards the hut.
    
  "Julian! Julian, darling, it"s Mom! Where are you?"
    
  Paul and Manfred rushed after her, afraid she'd fall and hurt herself. They collided with Alice in the corner of the hut. She stopped dead in her tracks, terrified, her eyes wide.
    
  "What"s going on, Alice?" Paul said.
    
  "What"s going on, my friend," said a voice from the darkness, "is that you three are really going to have to behave yourself if you know what"s good for this little man."
    
  Paul stifled a cry of rage as the figure took a few steps toward the headlights, getting close enough for them to recognize him and see what he was doing.
    
  It was Sebastian Keller. And he was aiming a pistol at Julian's head.
    
    
  62
    
    
  "Mom!" Julian screamed, completely terrified. The old bookseller had his left arm around the boy's neck; the other hand was pointed at his gun. Paul searched in vain for his brother's pistol. The holster was empty; Alice had left it in the car. "Sorry, he caught me by surprise. Then he saw the suitcase and pulled out a gun..."
    
  "Julian, dear," Alice said calmly. "Don't worry about it now.
    
  I-"
    
  "Everyone be quiet!" Keller shouted. "This is a private matter between Paul and me."
    
  "You heard what he said," Paul said.
    
  He tried to pull Alice and Manfred out of Keller's line of fire, but the bookseller stopped him, squeezing Julian's neck even tighter.
    
  "Stay where you are, Paul. It would be better for the boy if you stood behind Fraulein Tannenbaum."
    
  "You're a rat, Keller. Only a cowardly rat would hide behind a defenseless child."
    
  The bookseller began to retreat back, hiding in the shadows again until all they could hear was his voice.
    
  "I"m sorry, Paul. Believe me, I"m sorry. But I don"t want to end up like Clovis and your brother."
    
  "But how..."
    
  "How was I supposed to know? I've been keeping an eye on you since you walked into my bookstore three days ago. And the last twenty-four hours have been very informative. But right now, I'm tired and would like to get some sleep, so just give me what I ask for, and I'll free your son."
    
  "Who the hell is this crazy guy, Paul?" Manfred asked.
    
  "The Man Who Killed My Father."
    
  There was obvious surprise in Keller's voice.
    
  "Well, now... it means you"re not as naive as you seem."
    
  Paul stepped forward, standing between Alice and Manfred.
    
  "When I read the note from my mother, she said he was with her brother-in-law Nagel and a third party, a 'friend.' That's when I realized you'd been manipulating me from the start."
    
  "That night, your father called on me to intercede on his behalf with some influential people. He wanted the murder he committed in the colonies and his desertion to disappear. It was difficult, though your uncle and I might have been able to accomplish it. In exchange, he offered us ten percent of the stones. Ten percent!"
    
  "So you killed him."
    
  "It was an accident. We were arguing. He pulled out a gun, I lunged at him... What does it matter?"
    
  "Except that it mattered, didn"t it, Keller?"
    
  "We expected to find a treasure map among his papers, but there was no map. We knew he sent an envelope to your mother, and we thought she might have saved it at some point... But years passed, and it never surfaced."
    
  "Because he never sent her any card, Keller."
    
  Then Paul understood. The final piece of the puzzle fell into place.
    
  "Did you find it, Paul? Don"t lie to me; I can read you like a book."
    
  Paul glanced around before answering. The situation couldn't be worse. Keller had Julian, and the three of them were unarmed. With car headlights pointed at them, they would be perfect targets for the man hiding in the shadows. And even if Paul decided to attack, and Keller diverted the gun from the boy's head, he would have a perfect shot at Paul's body.
    
  I have to distract him. But how?
    
  The only thing that came to his mind was to tell Keller the truth.
    
  "My father didn"t give you the envelope for me, did he?"
    
  Keller laughed contemptuously.
    
  "Paul, your father was one of the biggest bastards I've ever seen. He was a philanderer and a coward, though he was fun to be around, too. We had a good time, but the only person Hans ever cared about was himself. I made up the story about the envelope just to spur you on, to see if you could stir things up a bit after all these years. When you took the Mauser, Paul, you took the gun that killed your father. That, in case you hadn't noticed, is the same gun I'm pointing at Julian's head."
    
  "And all this time..."
    
  "Yes, I've been waiting all this time for a chance to claim the prize. I'm fifty-nine, Paul. I've got another ten good years ahead of me, if I'm lucky. And I'm sure a chest full of diamonds will spice up my retirement. So tell me where the map is, because I know you know."
    
  "It"s in my suitcase."
    
  "No, that"s not true. I looked through it from top to bottom."
    
  "I'm telling you, this is where it is."
    
  There was silence for a few seconds.
    
  "Very well," Keller finally said. "This is what we"re going to do. Fräulein Tannenbaum will take a few steps toward me and follow my instructions. She"ll pull the suitcase into the light, and then you"ll squat down and show me where the map is. Is that clear?"
    
  Paul nodded.
    
  "I repeat, is this clear?" Keller insisted, raising his voice.
    
  "Alice," Paul said.
    
  "Yes, that"s clear," she said in a firm voice, taking a step forward.
    
  Concerned by her tone, Paul grabbed her hand.
    
  "Alice, don't do anything stupid."
    
  "She won't do that, Paul. Don't worry," Keller said.
    
  Alice pulled her hand free. There was something in the way she walked, her seeming passivity-the way she stepped into the shadows without showing the slightest hint of emotion-that made Paul's heart clench. He suddenly felt a desperate certainty that it was all pointless. That in a few minutes, there would be four loud bangs, four bodies would be laid out on a bed of pine needles, seven dead, cold eyes would contemplate the dark silhouettes of the trees.
    
  Alice was too terrified by Julian's predicament to do anything. She followed Keller's short, dry instructions to the letter and immediately emerged into the illuminated area, backing away and dragging an open suitcase full of clothes behind her.
    
  Paul squatted down and began rummaging through a pile of his things.
    
  "Be very careful what you do," Keller said.
    
  Paul didn't answer. He had found what he was looking for, the key his father's words had led him to.
    
  Sometimes the greatest treasure is hidden in the same place as the greatest destruction.
    
  The mahogany box in which his father kept his pistol.
    
  With slow movements, keeping his hands visible, Paul opened it. He dug his fingers into the thin red felt lining and gave a sharp tug. The fabric tore away with a snap, revealing a small square of paper. On it were various drawings and numbers, handwritten in Indian ink.
    
  "So, Keller? How does it feel knowing that map was right under your nose all these years?" he said, holding up a piece of paper.
    
  There was another pause. Paul enjoyed seeing the disappointment on the old bookseller's face.
    
  "Very good," Keller said hoarsely. "Now give the paper to Alice, and have her come very slowly toward me."
    
  Paul calmly put the card in his trouser pocket.
    
  "No".
    
  "Didn"t you hear what I said?"
    
  "I said no."
    
  "Paul, do what he tells you!" Alice said.
    
  "This man killed my father."
    
  "And he"s going to kill our son!"
    
  "You must do as he says, Paul," Manfred urged.
    
  "Very well," Paul said, reaching back into his pocket and pulling out the note. "In that case..."
    
  With a quick movement he crumpled it up, put it in his mouth and began to chew.
    
  "Nooooo!"
    
  Keller's cry of rage echoed through the forest. The old bookseller emerged from the shadows, dragging Julian behind him, the gun still pointed at his skull. But as he approached Paul, he pointed it at Paul's chest.
    
  "Damn son of a bitch!"
    
  Come a little closer, Paul thought, preparing to jump.
    
  "You had no right!"
    
  Keller stopped, still out of Paul's reach.
    
  Closer!
    
  He started to squeeze the trigger. Paul's leg muscles tensed.
    
  "These diamonds were mine!"
    
  The last word turned into a piercing, amorphous scream. The bullet left the pistol, but Keller's hand jerked upward. He released Julian and turned strangely, as if trying to reach something behind him. As he turned, the light revealed a strange appendage with a red handle on his back.
    
  The hunting knife that fell from Jurgen von Schroeder's hand twenty-four hours ago.
    
  Julian kept the knife tucked into his belt the entire time, waiting for the moment when the gun would no longer be pointed at his head. He stabbed the blade with all the force he could muster, but at an odd angle, doing little more than inflicting a superficial wound on Keller. With a howl of pain, Keller aimed for the boy's head.
    
  Paul chose that moment to leap, and his shoulder struck Keller in the lower back. The bookseller collapsed and tried to roll over, but Paul was already on top of him, pinning his arms with his knees and punching him in the face again and again.
    
  He attacked the bookseller more than two dozen times, oblivious to the pain in his hands, which were completely swollen the next day, and the abrasions on his knuckles. His conscience vanished, and the only thing that mattered to Paul was the pain he was causing. He didn't stop until he could do no more harm.
    
  "Paul. That's enough," Manfred said, placing a hand on his shoulder. "He's dead."
    
  Paul turned around. Julian was in his mother's arms, his head buried in her chest. He prayed to God that his son wouldn't see what he had just done. He removed Jurgen's jacket, which was soaked in Keller's blood, and walked over to hug Julian.
    
  "Are you okay?"
    
  "I"m sorry I disobeyed what you said about the knife," the boy said, starting to cry.
    
  "You were very brave, Julian. And you saved our lives."
    
  "Really?"
    
  "Indeed. Now we have to go," he said, heading toward the car. "Someone might have heard the shot."
    
  Alice and Julian climbed into the back, while Paul settled into the passenger seat. Manfred started the engine, and they returned to the road.
    
  They kept glancing nervously in the rearview mirror, but no one was watching them. Someone was undoubtedly pursuing the Dachau escapees. But it turned out that heading in the opposite direction from Munich had been the right strategy. Still, it was a small victory. They would never be able to return to their former lives.
    
  "There"s one thing I want to know, Paul," Manfred whispered, breaking the silence half an hour later.
    
  "What is this?"
    
  "Did this little piece of paper really lead to a chest full of diamonds?"
    
  "I believe that's how it happened. He's buried somewhere in Southwest Africa."
    
  "I see," Manfred said disappointedly.
    
  "Would you like to take a look at her?"
    
  "We need to leave Germany. Going on a treasure hunt wouldn't be such a bad idea. Too bad you swallowed that."
    
  "The truth is," Paul said, pulling a map from his pocket, "I swallowed the note about awarding my brother a medal. Although, given the circumstances, I'm not sure he would have minded."
    
    
  Epilogue
    
    
    
  STRAIT OF GIBRALTAR
    
  March 12, 1940
    
  As the waves crashed into the makeshift vessel, Paul began to worry. The crossing was supposed to be simple, just a few miles across calm seas, under cover of night.
    
  Then things got more complicated.
    
  Not that anything had been easy in the last few years, of course. They escaped Germany across the Austrian border without any major setbacks and reached South Africa in early 1935.
    
  It was a time of new beginnings. Alice's smile returned, and she became the strong, stubborn woman she always was. Julian's terrible fear of the dark began to subside. And Manfred developed a strong friendship with his brother-in-law, especially because Paul allowed him to win at chess.
    
  The search for Hans Rainer's treasure proved more challenging than it initially seemed. Paul returned to work at the diamond mine for several months, now accompanied by Manfred, who, thanks to his engineering qualifications, became Paul's boss. Alice, for her part, wasted no time, becoming the unofficial photographer at every social event under the Mandate.
    
  Together, they managed to save enough money to buy a small farm in the Orange River basin, the very same one from which Hans and Nagel had stolen diamonds thirty-two years earlier. Over the previous three decades, the property had changed hands several times, and many said it was cursed. Several people warned Paul that he would be throwing his money away if he bought the place.
    
  "I'm not superstitious," he said. "And I have a feeling my luck might change."
    
  They were cautious about this. They waited several months before they began searching for diamonds. Then one night in the summer of 1936, the four of them set out under the light of a full moon. They knew the surrounding area well, having walked through it Sunday after Sunday with picnic baskets, pretending to go for a walk.
    
  Hans's map was surprisingly accurate, as one would expect from a man who spent half his life poring over navigational charts. He'd drawn a ravine and a stream bed, as well as an arrowhead-shaped rock where they'd met. Thirty paces north of the cliff, they began digging. The ground was soft, and it didn't take them long to find the chest. Manfred whistled in disbelief when they opened it and saw the rough stones by the light of their torches. Julian began to play with them, and Alice danced a lively foxtrot with Paul, and there was no music except the chirping of crickets in the ravine.
    
  Three months later, they celebrated their wedding in the town church. Six months later, Paul went to the gemological appraisal office and said he'd found a couple of stones in a stream on his property. He picked up a few of the smaller ones and watched with bated breath as the appraiser held them up to the light, rubbed them on a piece of felt, and smoothed his mustache-all those unnecessary touches of magic that experts employ to appear important.
    
  "They're pretty good quality. If I were you, I'd buy a sieve and start draining this place, kid. I'll buy whatever you bring me."
    
  They continued to "extract" diamonds from the stream for two years. In the spring of 1939, Alice learned that the situation in Europe was becoming very dire.
    
  "The South Africans are on the side of the British. Soon we won't be welcome in the colonies."
    
  Paul knew it was time to leave. They'd sold a larger shipment of stones than usual-so much so that the appraiser had to call the mine manager to send him cash-and one night they left without saying goodbye, taking only a few personal belongings and five horses.
    
  They made a crucial decision about what to do with the money. They headed north, to the Waterberg Plateau. It was there that the surviving Herero lived, the people his father had tried to eradicate and with whom Paul had lived for a long time during his first stay in Africa. When Paul returned to the village, the medicine man greeted him with a welcoming song.
    
  "Paul Mahaleba has returned, Paul the white hunter," he said, waving his feathered wand.
    
  Paul immediately went to talk to the boss and handed him a huge bag containing three-quarters of what they had earned from selling the diamonds.
    
  "This is for the Herero. To bring dignity back to your people."
    
  "You are the one who restores your dignity with this act, Paul Mahaleba," the shaman declared. "But your gift will be welcomed among our people."
    
  Paul nodded humbly at the wisdom of those words.
    
  They spent several wonderful months in the village, helping as best they could to restore it to its former glory. Until the day Alice heard terrible news from one of the merchants who occasionally passed through Windhoek.
    
  "War has broken out in Europe."
    
  "We've done enough here," Paul said thoughtfully, looking at his son. "Now it's time to think about Julian. He's fifteen, and he needs a normal life, somewhere with a future."
    
  Thus began their long pilgrimage across the Atlantic. First to Mauritania by boat, then to French Morocco, from where they were forced to flee when the borders were closed to anyone without a visa. This was a difficult formality for an undocumented Jewish woman or a man who was officially dead and had no other identification except an old card belonging to a missing SS officer.
    
  After talking to several refugees, Paul decided to try to cross into Portugal from a place on the outskirts of Tangier.
    
  "It won't be difficult. The conditions are good, and it's not too far."
    
  The sea loves to contradict the foolish words of overconfident people, and that night a storm broke. They struggled for a long time, and Paul even tied his family to a raft so the waves wouldn't tear them away from the pitiful vessel they had bought for an arm and a leg from a swindler in Tangier.
    
  If the Spanish patrol had not appeared just in time, four of them would undoubtedly have drowned.
    
  Ironically, Paul was more frightened in the hold than during his spectacular attempt to board, hanging over the side of the patrol boat for what seemed like endless seconds. Once on board, they all feared being taken to Cadiz, from where they could easily be sent back to Germany. Paul cursed himself for not trying to learn at least a few words of Spanish.
    
  His plan was to reach a beach east of Tarifa, where someone would presumably be waiting for them-a contact of the scammer who had sold them the boat. This man was supposed to transport them to Portugal by truck. But they never had a chance to find out if he showed up.
    
  Paul spent many hours in the hold, trying to come up with a solution. His fingers touched the secret pocket of his shirt where he'd hidden a dozen diamonds, Hans Reiner's final treasure. Alice, Manfred, and Julian had similar cargo in their clothes. Perhaps if they bribed the crew with a handful...
    
  Paul was extremely surprised when the Spanish captain pulled them out of the hold in the middle of the night, gave them a rowboat and headed for the Portuguese coast.
    
  By the light of the lantern on the deck, Paul made out the face of this man, who must have been his own age. The same age as his father when he died, and the same profession. Paul wondered how things would have turned out if his father hadn't been a murderer, if he himself hadn't spent the better part of his youth trying to figure out who killed him.
    
  He rummaged through his clothes and pulled out the only thing he had left as a memento of that time: the fruit of Hans's villainy, the emblem of his brother's betrayal.
    
  Perhaps things would have been different for Jurgen if his father had been a noble man, he thought.
    
  Paul wondered how he could make this Spaniard understand. He placed the emblem in his hand and repeated two simple words.
    
  "Betrayal," he said, touching his chest with his index finger. "Salvation," he said, touching the Spaniard's chest.
    
  Perhaps someday the captain will meet someone who can explain to him what these two words mean.
    
  He jumped into the small boat, and the four of them began rowing. A few minutes later, they heard the splash of water against the shore, and the boat creaked softly over the gravel of the riverbed.
    
  They were in Portugal.
    
  Before he got out of the boat, he looked around just to make sure there was no danger, but he saw nothing.
    
  It's strange, Paul thought. Ever since I gouged out my eye, I see everything so much clearer.
    
    
    
    
    
    
    
    
    
  Gomez-Jurado Juan
    
    
    
    
  The Contract with God, also known as the Moses Expedition
    
    
  The second book in the Father Anthony Fowler series, 2009
    
    
  Dedicated to Matthew Thomas, a greater hero than Father Fowler
    
    
    
    
  How to create an enemy
    
    
    
  Start with a blank canvas
    
  Sketch out the shapes in general
    
  men, women and children
    
    
  Dive into the well of your own unconscious
    
  renounced darkness
    
  with a wide brush and
    
  unnerve strangers with a sinister undertone
    
  from the shadows
    
    
  Follow the face of the enemy - greed,
    
  Hatred, carelessness that you dare not name
    
  Your own
    
    
  Hide the sweet individuality of each face
    
    
  Erase all hints of myriad loves, hopes,
    
  fears that are reproduced in a kaleidoscope
    
  every infinite heart
    
    
  Rotate your smile until it forms a downward facing smile
    
  arc of cruelty
    
    
  Separate the flesh from the bones until only the
    
  abstract skeleton of death remains
    
    
  Exaggerate every feature until the person becomes
    
  turned into a beast, a parasite, an insect
    
    
  Fill the background with malignant
    
  figures from ancient nightmares - devils,
    
  demons, myrmidons of evil
    
    
  When your enemy icon is complete
    
  you will be able to kill without feeling guilty,
    
  slaughter without shame
    
    
  What you destroy will become
    
  just an enemy of God, an obstacle
    
  to the secret dialectic of history
    
    
  on behalf of the enemy
    
  Sam Keen
    
    
  The Ten Commandments
    
    
    
  I am the Lord your God.
    
  You shall have no other gods before me.
    
  You shall not make any idol for yourself.
    
  You shall not take the name of the Lord your God in vain
    
  Remember the Sabbath day to keep it holy
    
  Honor your father and mother
    
  You must not kill
    
  You shall not commit adultery
    
  You must not steal
    
  You shall not bear false witness against your neighbor.
    
  You shouldn't covet your neighbor's house.
    
    
    
  Prologue
    
    
    
  I'M AT THE SPIEGELGRUND CHILDREN'S HOSPITAL
    
  VEIN
    
    
  February 1943
    
    
  As she approached a building with a large swastika flag flying above it, the woman couldn't suppress a shiver. Her companion misinterpreted this and pulled her closer to keep her warm. Her thin coat offered scant protection from the sharp afternoon wind, which warned of an approaching snowstorm.
    
  'Put this on, Odile,' the man said, his fingers shaking as he unbuttoned his coat.
    
  She wrenched herself free from his grip and clutched the bag tighter to her chest. The six-mile walk through the snow had left her exhausted and numb with cold. Three years ago, they would have set off on their journey in their chauffeur-driven Daimler, and she would have been wearing her fur coat. But their car now belonged to the brigade commissar, and her fur coat was probably being paraded in a theater box somewhere by some Nazi wife with mascara. Odile steeled herself and rang the bell three times before answering.
    
  'It's not the cold, Joseph. We don't have much time before curfew. If we don't get back in time...'
    
  Before her husband could respond, the nurse suddenly opened the door. As soon as she glanced at the visitors, her smile vanished. Years under the Nazi regime had taught her to recognize a Jew immediately.
    
  'What do you want?' she asked.
    
  The woman forced herself to smile, even though her lips were painfully chapped.
    
  'We want to see Dr. Graus.'
    
  'Do you have an appointment?'
    
  'The doctor said he would see us.'
    
  'Name?'
    
  'Joseph and Odile Cohen, Father Uleyn'.
    
  The nurse took a step back when their last name confirmed her suspicions.
    
  'You're lying. You don't have an appointment. Go away. Go back to the hole you came from. You know you're not allowed in here.'
    
  'Please. My son is inside. Please!'
    
  Her words were wasted as the door slammed shut.
    
  Joseph and his wife stared helplessly at the enormous building. As they turned away, Odile suddenly felt weak and stumbled, but Joseph managed to catch her before she fell.
    
  'Come on, we'll find another way to get inside.'
    
  They headed toward one side of the hospital. As they rounded the corner, Joseph pulled his wife back. The door had just opened. A man in a thick coat was pushing a cart filled with trash toward the back of the building with all his might. Keeping close to the wall, Joseph and Odile slipped through the open doorway.
    
  Once inside, they found themselves in a service hall leading to a labyrinth of stairs and other corridors. As they walked along the corridor, they could hear distant, muffled cries that seemed to come from another world. The woman concentrated, listening for her son's voice, but it was futile. They passed through several corridors without encountering anyone. Joseph had to hurry to keep up with his wife, who, obeying pure instinct, moved quickly forward, pausing only for a second at each doorway.
    
  They soon found themselves peering into a dark, L-shaped room. It was filled with children, many of whom were tied to beds and whining like wet dogs. The room was stuffy and pungent, and the woman began to sweat, feeling a tingling sensation in her extremities as her body warmed up. She paid no attention, however, as her eyes darted from bed to bed, from one young face to another, desperately searching for her son.
    
  'Here's the report, Dr. Grouse.'
    
  Joseph and his wife exchanged glances upon hearing the name of the doctor they needed to see, the man who held their son's life in his hands. They turned to the far corner of the room and saw a small group of people gathered around one of the beds. An attractive young doctor sat at the bedside of a girl who looked to be about nine years old. Beside him, an elderly nurse held a tray of surgical instruments, while a middle-aged doctor took notes with a bored expression.
    
  "Doctor Graus..." Odile said hesitantly, gathering her courage as she approached the group.
    
  The young man waved dismissively at the nurse, not taking his eyes off what he was doing.
    
  'Not now, please.'
    
  The nurse and the other doctor stared at Odile in surprise, but said nothing.
    
  When she saw what was happening, Odile had to grit her teeth to keep from screaming. The young girl was deathly pale and seemed semi-conscious. Graus held her hand over a metal basin, making small incisions with a scalpel. There was hardly a spot on the girl's hand that wasn't touched by the blade, and blood slowly trickled into the basin, which was nearly full. Finally, the girl's head tilted to the side. Graus placed two slender fingers on her neck.
    
  'Okay, she has no pulse. What's the time, Dr. Strobel?'
    
  'Six thirty-seven.'
    
  Almost ninety-three minutes. Exceptional! The subject remained conscious, although her level of awareness was comparatively low, and she showed no signs of pain. The combination of opium tincture and datura is undoubtedly superior to anything we've tried so far. Congratulations, Strobel. Prepare a sample for autopsy.
    
  'Thank you, Herr Doctor. Immediately.'
    
  Only then did the young doctor turn to Joseph and Odile. His eyes held a mixture of irritation and contempt.
    
  'And who could you be?'
    
  Odile took a step forward and stood next to the bed, trying not to look at the dead girl.
    
  My name is Odile Cohen, Dr. Graus. I am Elan Cohen's mother.
    
  The doctor looked coldly at Odile and then turned to the nurse.
    
  'Get these Jews out of here, Father Ulein Ulrike.'
    
  The nurse grabbed Odile by the elbow and roughly pushed her between the woman and the doctor. Joseph rushed to his wife's aid and wrestled with the massive nurse. For a moment, they formed a strange trio, moving in different directions, but neither was making any progress. Father Ulrike's face flushed with the effort.
    
  "Doctor, I'm sure there's been a mistake," Odile said, trying to poke her head out from behind the nurse's broad shoulders. "My son is not mentally ill."
    
  Odile managed to free herself from the nurse's grip and turned to face the doctor.
    
  'It's true he hasn't spoken much since we lost our home, but he's not crazy. He's here because of a mistake. If you let him go... Please, let me give you the only thing we have left.'
    
  She placed the package on the bed, making sure not to touch the dead girl's body, and carefully removed the newspaper wrapping. Despite the dim light of the room, the golden object cast its glow onto the surrounding walls.
    
  'It's been in my husband's family for generations, Dr. Graus. I'd rather die than give it up. But my son, Doctor, my son...'
    
  Odile burst into tears and fell to her knees. The young doctor barely noticed, his eyes fixed on the object on the bed. However, he managed to open his mouth long enough to shatter any hope the couple had left.
    
  'Your son is dead. Go away.'
    
    
  As soon as the cold air outside touched her face, Odile regained some of her strength. Holding onto her husband as they hurried away from the hospital, she dreaded the curfew more than ever. Her thoughts were focused solely on returning to the far side of town, where their other son was waiting.
    
  'Hurry, Joseph. Hurry.'
    
  They quickened their pace under the steadily falling snow.
    
    
  In his hospital office, Dr. Graus hung up the phone with an absent-minded expression and caressed a strange gold object on his desk. A few minutes later, when the wail of SS sirens reached him, he didn't even look out the window. His assistant mentioned something about Jews fleeing, but Graus ignored it.
    
  He was busy planning young Cohen's operation.
    
  Main characters
    
  Clergy
    
  FATHER ANTHONY FOWLER, an agent working with both the CIA and the Holy Alliance.
    
  FATHER ALBERT, former hacker. Systems analyst at the CIA and liaison to Vatican intelligence.
    
  BROTHER CESÁREO, Dominican. Custodian of Antiquities in the Vatican.
    
    
  Vatican Security Corps
    
  CAMILO SIRIN, Inspector General. Also head of the Holy Alliance, the Vatican's secret intelligence service.
    
    
  Civilians
    
  ANDREA OTERO, reporter for El Globo newspaper.
    
  RAYMOND KANE, multimillionaire industrialist.
    
  JACOB RUSSELL, Executive Assistant to Cain.
    
  ORVILLE WATSON, terrorism consultant and owner of Netcatch.
    
  DOCTOR HEINRICH GRAUSS, Nazi genocidist.
    
    
  Moses' expedition staff
    
  CECIL FORRESTER, biblical archaeologist.
    
  DAVID PAPPAS, GORDON DARWIN, KIRA LARSEN, STOWE EARLING, and EZRA LEVIN, assisted by Cecil Forrester
    
  MOGENS DEKKER, Chief of Security of the expedition.
    
  ALOIS GOTTLIEB, ALRIK GOTTLIEB, TEVI WAHAKA, PACO TORRES, LOUIS MALONEY and MARLA JACKSON, Decker soldiers.
    
  DOCTOR HAREL, doctor at the excavations.
    
  TOMMY EICHBERG, chief driver.
    
  ROBERT FRICK, BRIAN HANLEY, Administration/Technical Staff
    
  NURI ZAYIT, RANI PETERKE, cooks
    
    
  Terrorists
    
  NAZIM and HARUF, members of the Washington cell.
    
  O, D and W, members of the Syrian and Jordanian cells.
    
  HUCAN, head of three cells.
    
    
  1
    
    
    
  RESIDENCE OF BALTHASAR HANDWURTZ
    
  STEINFELDSTRA ßE, 6
    
  KRIEGLACH, AUSTRIA
    
    
  Thursday, December 15, 2005. 11:42 AM.
    
    
  The priest carefully wiped his feet on the welcome mat before knocking on the door. Having tracked the man for the past four months, he had finally discovered his hiding place two weeks ago. Now he was certain of Handwurtz's true identity. The moment had come to meet him face to face.
    
  He waited patiently for a few minutes. It was midday, and Graus, as usual, was taking an afternoon nap on the sofa. At this hour, the narrow street was almost deserted. His neighbors on Steinfeldstrasse were at work, unaware that at number 6, in a small house with blue curtains on the windows, the genocidal monster was peacefully dozing in front of the television.
    
  Finally, the sound of a key in the lock alerted the priest that the door was about to open. The head of an elderly man with the venerable air of someone in a health insurance ad emerged from behind the door.
    
  'Yes?'
    
  'Good morning, Herr Doctor.'
    
  The old man looked the man who had addressed him up and down. He was tall, thin, and bald, about fifty years old, with a priest's collar visible beneath his black coat. He stood in the doorway with the rigid stance of a military guard, his green eyes watching the old man intently.
    
  'I think you're mistaken, Father. I used to be a plumber, but I'm retired now. I've already contributed to the parish fund, so if you'll excuse me...'
    
  'Are you by any chance Dr. Heinrich Graus, the famous German neurosurgeon?'
    
  The old man held his breath for a moment. Other than that, he had done nothing to give himself away. However, this small detail was enough for the priest: the proof was positive.
    
  'My name is Handwurtz, father.'
    
  'That's not true, and we both know it. Now, if you'll let me in, I'll show you what I've brought with me.' The priest raised his left hand, in which he held a black briefcase.
    
  In response, the door swung open, and the old man limped quickly toward the kitchen, the ancient floorboards protesting with every step. The priest followed him, but paid little attention to his surroundings. He had peered through the windows three times and already knew the location of every piece of cheap furniture. He preferred to keep his eyes on the old Nazi's back. Although the doctor walked with some difficulty, the priest saw him lift sacks of coal from the shed with an ease that would have made a man decades younger envious. Heinrich Graus was still a dangerous man.
    
  The small kitchen was dark and smelled rancid. There was a gas stove, a counter with a dried onion on it, a round table, and two magnificent chairs. Graus gestured for the priest to sit. Then the old man rummaged through the cupboard, pulled out two glasses, filled them with water, and placed them on the table before sitting down himself. The glasses remained untouched as the two men sat there, impassive, looking at each other for over a minute.
    
  The old man wore a red flannel robe, a cotton shirt, and worn trousers. He had begun to go bald twenty years earlier, and the little hair he had left was completely white. His large round glasses had gone out of fashion even before the fall of communism. The relaxed expression around his mouth gave him a good-natured appearance.
    
  None of this deceived the priest.
    
  Dust particles floated in the beam of light cast by the weak December sun. One of them landed on the priest's sleeve. He tossed it aside, never taking his eyes off the old man.
    
  The smooth confidence of this gesture did not go unnoticed by the Nazi, but he had time to regain his composure.
    
  'Aren't you going to drink some water, Father?'
    
  'I don't want to drink, Dr. Grouse.'
    
  'So you're going to insist on calling me by that name. My name is Handwurz. Balthasar Handwurz.'
    
  The priest didn't pay attention.
    
  "I must admit, you're quite perceptive. When you got your passport to leave for Argentina, no one imagined you'd be back in Vienna a few months later. Naturally, that was the last place I looked for you. Just forty-five miles from Spiegelgrund Hospital. Nazi hunter Wiesenthal spent years searching for you in Argentina, unaware that you were just a short drive from his office. Ironic, don't you think?"
    
  'I think this is ridiculous. You are American, aren't you? You speak German well, but your accent gives you away.'
    
  The priest placed his briefcase on the table and pulled out a worn folder. The first document he showed was a photograph of a young Graus, taken at the hospital in Spiegelgrund during the war. The second was a variation of the same photograph, but with the doctor's features aged using computer software.
    
  'Isn't technology magnificent, Herr Doctor?'
    
  'That doesn't prove anything. Anyone could have done it. I watch TV too,' he said, but his voice betrayed something else.
    
  'You're right. It doesn't prove anything, but it does prove something.'
    
  The priest pulled out a yellowed sheet of paper to which someone had attached with a paper clip a black and white photograph, over which was written in sepia: TESTIMONY OF FORNITA, next to the Vatican seal.
    
  "Balthasar Handwurz. Blond hair, brown eyes, strong features. Identification marks: a tattoo on his left arm with the number 256441, inflicted by the Nazis during his time in the Mauthausen concentration camp." A place you've never set foot in, Graus. Your number is a lie. The person who tattooed you made it up on the spot, but that's the least of it. It's worked so far.
    
  The old man touched his hand through his flannel robe. He was pale with anger and fear.
    
  'Who the hell are you, you bastard?'
    
  'My name is Anthony Fowler. I want to make a deal with you.'
    
  'Get out of my house. Right now.'
    
  "I don't think I'm making myself clear. You were deputy director of the Am Spiegelgrund Children's Hospital for six years. It was a very interesting place. Almost all the patients were Jewish and suffered from mental illness. 'Lives not worth living,' isn't that what you called them?"
    
  'I have no idea what you're talking about!'
    
  'No one suspected what you were doing there. Experimenting. Cutting up children while they were still alive. Seven hundred and fourteen, Dr. Graus. You killed seven hundred and fourteen of them with your own hands.'
    
  'I told you...
    
  'You kept their brains in jars!'
    
  Fowler slammed his fist down on the table so hard that both glasses toppled over, and for a moment the only sound was water dripping onto the tiled floor. Fowler took several deep breaths, trying to calm himself.
    
  The doctor avoided looking into the green eyes that seemed ready to cut him in half.
    
  'Are you with the Jews?'
    
  'No, Graus. You know that's not true. If I were one of them, you'd be hanging from a noose in Tel Aviv. I... am connected to the people who facilitated your escape in 1946.'
    
  The doctor suppressed a shudder.
    
  'Holy alliance,' he muttered.
    
  Fowler did not answer.
    
  'And what does the Alliance want from me after all these years?'
    
  'Something at your disposal.'
    
  The Nazi pointed to his entourage.
    
  'As you can see, I'm not exactly a rich man. I have no money left.'
    
  'If I needed money, I could easily sell you to the attorney general in Stuttgart. They're still offering 130,000 euros for your capture. I want a candle.'
    
  The Nazi stared at him blankly, pretending not to understand.
    
  'What candle?'
    
  'Now you're the one being ridiculous, Dr. Graus. I'm talking about the candle you stole from the Cohen family sixty-two years ago. A heavy, wickless candle covered in gold filigree. That's what I want, and I want it now.'
    
  'Take your bloody lies somewhere else. I don't have any candle.'
    
  Fowler sighed, leaned back in his chair, and pointed to the overturned glasses on the table.
    
  "Do you have anything stronger?"
    
  'Behind you,' said Grouse, nodding towards the closet.
    
  The priest turned and reached for the bottle, which was half full. He took the glasses and poured two fingers of the bright yellow liquid into each. Both men drank without a toast.
    
  Fowler grabbed the bottle again and poured another glass. He took a sip, then said, "Weitzenkorn. Wheat schnapps. It's been a long time since I've had that."
    
  'I'm sure you didn't miss it.'
    
  'True. But it's cheap, isn't it?'
    
  Grouse shrugged.
    
  'A man like you, Graus. Brilliant. Futile. I can't believe you're drinking this. You're slowly poisoning yourself in a filthy hole that stinks of urine. And you want to know something? I understand...'
    
  'You don't understand anything.'
    
  'Pretty good. You still remember the Reich's methods. Rules for officers. Section three. "In case of capture by the enemy, deny everything and give only short answers that will not compromise you." Well, Graus, get used to it. You're compromised up to your neck.'
    
  The old man grimaced and poured himself the rest of the schnapps. Fowler watched his opponent's body language as the monster's resolve slowly crumbled. He was like an artist stepping back after a few brushstrokes to study the canvas before deciding which colors to use next.
    
  The priest decided to try to use the truth.
    
  "Look at my hands, Doctor," Fowler said, placing them on the table. They were wrinkled, with long, thin fingers. There was nothing unusual about them, except for one small detail. At the top of each finger, near the knuckles, was a thin whitish line that continued straight across each hand.
    
  'These are ugly scars. How old were you when you got them? Ten? Eleven?'
    
  Twelve. I was practicing the piano: Chopin's Preludes, Opus 28. My father walked up to the piano and, without warning, slammed the lid of the Steinway piano shut. It was a miracle I didn't lose my fingers, but I was never able to play again.
    
  The priest grabbed his glass and seemed to immerse himself in its contents before continuing. He was never able to acknowledge what had happened while looking another human being in the eye.
    
  'Ever since I was nine years old, my father... forced himself on me. That day I told him I'd tell someone if he did it again. He didn't threaten me. He simply destroyed my hands. Then he cried, begged me to forgive him, and called the best doctors money could buy. No, Graus. Don't even think about it.'
    
  Graus reached under the table, feeling for the cutlery drawer. He quickly called it back.
    
  'That's why I understand you, Doctor. My father was a monster whose guilt went beyond his own capacity for forgiveness. But he had more courage than you. Instead of slowing down in the middle of a sharp turn, he stepped on the gas and took my mother with him.'
    
  "A very touching story, Father," said Graus in a mocking tone.
    
  'If you say so. You've been hiding to avoid facing your crimes, but you've been exposed. And I'm going to give you what my father never had: a second chance.'
    
  'I'm listening.'
    
  'Give me the candle. In return, you will receive this file containing all the documents that will serve as your death warrant. You can hide here for the rest of your life.'
    
  "Is that all?" the old man asked incredulously.
    
  'As far as I'm concerned.'
    
  The old man shook his head and stood up with a forced smile. He opened a small cabinet and took out a large glass jar filled with rice.
    
  'I never eat grains. I'm allergic.'
    
  He poured the rice onto the table. A small cloud of starch appeared, followed by a dry thud. A bag, half-buried in the rice.
    
  Fowler leaned forward and reached for it, but Graus's bony paw grabbed his wrist. The priest looked at him.
    
  'I have your word, right?' the old man asked anxiously.
    
  'Is this worth anything to you?'
    
  'Yes, as far as I can tell.'
    
  'Then you have it.'
    
  The doctor released Fowler's wrist, his own hands shaking. The priest carefully shook off the rice and pulled out a dark cloth packet. It was tied with twine. With great care, he untied the knots and unwrapped the cloth. The dim rays of the early Austrian winter filled the dingy kitchen with a golden light that seemed at odds with the surroundings and the dirty gray wax of the thick candle standing on the table. The candle's entire surface had once been covered in thin gold leaf with an intricate design. Now the precious metal had almost disappeared, leaving only traces of filigree in the wax.
    
  Grouse smiled sadly.
    
  'The pawn shop took the rest, father.'
    
  Fowler didn't answer. He pulled a lighter from his trouser pocket and flicked it. Then he set the candle upright on the table and held the flame to its tip. Although there was no wick, the heat of the flame began to melt the wax, which emitted a nauseating odor as it dripped in gray drops onto the table. Graus watched this with bitter irony, as if he enjoyed speaking for himself after so many years.
    
  "I find this amusing. A Jew in a pawnshop has been buying Jewish gold for years, thereby supporting a proud member of the Reich. And what you're seeing now proves that your search was completely pointless."
    
  'Appearances can be deceiving, Grouse. The gold on that candle isn't the treasure I'm hunting. It's just a pastime for idiots.'
    
  As a warning, the flame suddenly flared up. A pool of wax formed on the fabric below. The green edge of a metal object was almost visible at the top of what remained of the candle.
    
  "Okay, it's here," said the priest. "Now I can go."
    
  Fowler stood up and wrapped the cloth around the candle again, being careful not to burn himself.
    
  The Nazis looked on in amazement. He was no longer smiling.
    
  'Wait! What is this? What's inside?'
    
  'Nothing that concerns you.'
    
  The old man stood, opened the cutlery drawer, and pulled out a kitchen knife. With trembling steps, he walked around the table and toward the priest. Fowler watched him motionless. The Nazi's eyes burned with the maddened light of a man who spent entire nights contemplating this object.
    
  'I must know.'
    
  'No, Graus. We made a deal. A candle for the file. That's all you get.'
    
  The old man raised his knife, but the look on his visitor's face made him lower it again. Fowler nodded and tossed the folder onto the table. Slowly, with a bundle of cloth in one hand and his briefcase in the other, the priest backed toward the kitchen door. The old man took the folder.
    
  'There are no other copies, right?'
    
  'Only one. It's with two Jews waiting outside.'
    
  Graus's eyes nearly bulged. He raised the knife again and moved toward the priest.
    
  'You lied to me! You said you'd give me a chance!'
    
  Fowler looked at him dispassionately for the last time.
    
  'God will forgive me. Do you think you'll be as lucky?'
    
  Then, without saying another word, he disappeared into the corridor.
    
  The priest walked out of the building, clutching the precious package to his chest. Two men in gray coats stood guard a few feet from the door. Fowler warned them as he passed: "He's got a knife."
    
  The taller one cracked his knuckles, and a slight smile played on his lips.
    
  "That's even better," he said.
    
    
  2
    
    
    
  THE ARTICLE WAS PUBLISHED IN EL GLOBO
    
  December 17, 2005, page 12
    
    
  AUSTRIAN HEROD FOUND DEAD
    
  Vienna (Associated Press)
    
  After more than fifty years of evading justice, Dr. Heinrich Graus, the "Butcher of Spiegelgrund," was finally located by Austrian police. According to authorities, the infamous Nazi war criminal was found dead, apparently of a heart attack, in a small house in the town of Krieglach, just 35 miles from Vienna.
    
  Born in 1915, Graus joined the Nazi Party in 1931. By the start of World War II, he was already deputy commander of the Am Spiegelgrund children's hospital. Graus used his position to conduct inhumane experiments on Jewish children with so-called behavioral problems or mental retardation. The doctor repeatedly claimed that such behavior was hereditary and that his experiments were justified because the subjects had "lives not worth living."
    
  Graus vaccinated healthy children against infectious diseases, performed vivisections, and injected his victims with various anesthetic mixtures he developed to measure their response to pain. It is believed that approximately 1,000 murders took place within the walls of Spiegelgrund during the war.
    
  After the war, the Nazis fled, leaving no trace except 300 children's brains preserved in formaldehyde. Despite the efforts of German authorities, no one was able to track him down. Famed Nazi hunter Simon Wiesenthal, who brought over 1,100 criminals to justice, remained determined to find Graus, whom he called "his assignment in waiting," until his death, relentlessly hunting the doctor across South America. Wiesenthal died in Vienna three months ago, unaware that his target was a retired plumber not far from his own office.
    
  Unofficial sources at the Israeli embassy in Vienna lamented that Graus died without having to answer for his crimes, but nonetheless celebrated his sudden death, given that his advanced age would have complicated the extradition and trial process, as in the case of Chilean dictator Augusto Pinochet.
    
  "We can't help but see the hand of the Creator in his death," the source said.
    
    
  3
    
    
    
  KINE
    
  'He's downstairs, sir.'
    
  The man in the chair drew back slightly. His hand trembled, though the movement would have been imperceptible to anyone who didn't know him as well as his assistant.
    
  'What is he like? Have you examined him thoroughly?'
    
  'You know what I have, sir.'
    
  There was a deep sigh.
    
  'Yes, Jacob. My apologies.'
    
  The man stood up as he spoke, reaching for the remote control that controlled his surroundings. He pressed one of the buttons hard, his knuckles turning white. He'd already broken several remotes, and his assistant finally gave in and ordered a special one, made of reinforced acrylic that fit the shape of the old man's hand.
    
  "My behavior must be tiresome," said the old man. "I'm sorry."
    
  His assistant didn't respond; he realized his boss needed to let off some steam. He was a modest man, but he was well aware of his position in life, if those traits could be said to be compatible.
    
  'It hurts me to sit here all day, you know? Every day I find less and less pleasure in ordinary things. I've become a pathetic old idiot. Every night when I go to bed, I tell myself, "Tomorrow." Tomorrow will be the day. And the next morning I get up, and my resolve is gone, just like my teeth.'
    
  "We'd better get going, sir," said the aide, who had heard countless variations on this theme.
    
  'Is this absolutely necessary?'
    
  'You're the one who asked for it, sir. As a way to control any loose ends.'
    
  'I could just read the report.'
    
  'It's not just that. We're already in Phase Four. If you want to be part of this expedition, you'll have to get used to interacting with strangers. Dr. Houcher was very clear on that point.'
    
  The old man pressed a few buttons on his remote control. The blinds in the room lowered and the lights went out as he sat back down.
    
  'There is no other way?'
    
  His assistant shook his head.
    
  'Then very good.'
    
  The assistant headed towards the door, the only remaining source of light.
    
  'Jacob'.
    
  'Yes, sir?'
    
  'Before you go... Do you mind if I hold your hand for a minute? I'm scared.'
    
  The assistant did as he was asked. Cain's hand was still shaking.
    
    
  4
    
    
    
  KAYN INDUSTRIES HEADQUARTERS
    
  NEW YORK
    
    
  Wednesday, July 5, 2006. 11:10 AM.
    
    
  Orville Watson nervously drummed his fingers on the thick leather folder in his lap. For the past two hours, he'd been sitting on his plush backseat in the reception area on the 38th floor of Kayn Tower. At $3,000 an hour, anyone else would have been happy to wait until Judgment Day. But not Orville. The young Californian was getting bored. In fact, fighting boredom was what made his career.
    
  College bored him. Against his family's wishes, he dropped out during his sophomore year. He found a good job at CNET, a company at the forefront of new technology, but boredom once again overtook him. Orville constantly craved new challenges, and his true passion was answering questions. At the turn of the millennium, his entrepreneurial spirit prompted him to leave CNET and start his own company.
    
  His mother, who read daily newspaper headlines about yet another dot-com bust, objected. Her concerns didn't deter Orville. He packed his 660-pound frame, his blond ponytail, and a suitcase full of clothes into a ramshackle van and drove across the country, ending up in a basement apartment in Manhattan. Thus, Netcatch was born. Its slogan was, "You ask, we answer." The entire project could have remained nothing more than the wild dream of a young man with an eating disorder, too many worries, and a peculiar understanding of the internet. But then 9/11 happened, and Orville immediately realized three things that Washington bureaucrats had taken far too long to figure out.
    
  First, their information-processing methods were thirty years out of date. Second, the political correctness brought in by the eight-year Clinton administration made information gathering even more difficult, since you could only rely on "reliable sources," which were useless when dealing with terrorists. And third, the Arabs turned out to be the new Russians when it came to espionage.
    
  Orville's mother, Yasmina, was born and lived for many years in Beirut before marrying a handsome engineer from Sausalito, California, whom she met while he was working on a project in Lebanon. The couple soon moved to the United States, where the beautiful Yasmina taught her only son Arabic and English.
    
  By adopting different online identities, the young man discovered that the internet was a haven for extremists. Physically, it didn't matter how far apart ten radicals might be; online, distance was measured in milliseconds. Their identities might be secret and their ideas wild, but online, they could find people who thought exactly like them. Within a few weeks, Orville had accomplished something no one in Western intelligence could have achieved through conventional means: he had infiltrated one of the most radical Islamic terrorist networks.
    
  One morning in early 2002, Orville drove south to Washington, D.C., with four boxes of folders in the trunk of his van. Arriving at CIA headquarters, he asked to speak to the man responsible for Islamic terrorism, claiming he had important information to disclose. In his hand was a ten-page summary of his findings. The unassuming official who met with him kept him waiting for two hours before even bothering to read his report. After finishing, the official was so alarmed that he called his supervisor. A few minutes later, four men appeared, tackled Orville to the floor, stripped him, and dragged him into an interrogation room. Orville smiled inwardly throughout the humiliating procedure; he knew he'd hit the nail on the head.
    
  When the CIA brass realized the extent of Orville's talent, they offered him a job. Orville told them that what was in the four boxes (which ultimately led to twenty-three arrests in the United States and Europe) was simply a free sample. If they wanted more, they should contract for the services of his new company, Netcatch.
    
  'I must add that our prices are very reasonable,' he said. 'Now, can I please have my underwear back?'
    
  Four and a half years later, Orville had gained another twelve pounds. His bank account had also gained some weight. Netcatch currently employs seventeen full-time staff, preparing detailed reports and conducting information research for the major Western governments, primarily on security matters. Orville Watson, now a millionaire, was beginning to feel bored again.
    
  Until this new task appeared.
    
  Netcatch had its own way of doing things. All requests for its services had to be made as a question. And this last question was accompanied by the words "budget unlimited." The fact that this was done by a private company, not the government, also piqued Orville's curiosity.
    
    
  Who is Father Anthony Fowler?
    
    
  Orville rose from the plush sofa in the reception area, trying to ease the numbness in his muscles. He clasped his hands together and stretched them as far behind his head as he could. A request for information from a private company, especially one like Kayn Industries, a Fortune 500 company, was unusual. Especially such a strange and precise request from an ordinary priest from Boston.
    
  ...about a seemingly ordinary priest from Boston, Orville corrected himself.
    
  Orville was just stretching his arms when a dark-haired, well-built executive, dressed in an expensive suit, entered the waiting room. He was barely thirty, and he regarded Orville earnestly from behind his rimless glasses. The orange tint of his skin made it clear he was no stranger to tanning beds. He spoke with a sharp British accent.
    
  'Mr. Watson. I'm Jacob Russell, Raymond Kane's executive assistant. We spoke on the phone.'
    
  Orville tried to regain his composure, without much success, and extended his hand.
    
  'Mr. Russell, I'm very pleased to meet you. Excuse me, I...'
    
  'Don't worry. Please follow me, and I will take you to your meeting.'
    
  They crossed the carpeted waiting room and approached the mahogany doors at the far end.
    
  'A meeting? I thought I was supposed to explain my findings to you.'
    
  'Well, not quite, Mr. Watson. Today Raymond Kane will hear what you have to say.'
    
  Orville couldn't answer.
    
  "Is there a problem, Mr. Watson?" Are you feeling unwell?
    
  'Yes. No. I mean, there's no problem, Mr. Russell. You just caught me off guard. Mr. Cain...'
    
  Russell pulled the small handle on the mahogany door frame, and the panel slid aside, revealing a simple square of dark glass. The manager placed his right hand on the glass, and an orange light flashed, followed by a brief chime, and then the door opened.
    
  'I can understand your surprise, given what the media has said about Mr. Cain. As you probably know, my employer is a man who values his privacy...'
    
  He's a fucking hermit, that's what he is, Orville thought.
    
  '...but you don't have to worry. He's usually reluctant to meet strangers, but if you follow certain procedures...'
    
  They walked down a narrow corridor, at the end of which loomed the shiny metal doors of an elevator.
    
  'What do you mean by "usually", Mr. Russell?'
    
  The manager cleared his throat.
    
  'I must inform you that you will be only the fourth person, not counting the top executives of this firm, who has met Mr. Cain in the five years that I have worked for him.'
    
  Orville gave a long whistle.
    
  'This is something.'
    
  They reached the elevator. There was no up or down button, only a small digital panel on the wall.
    
  'Would you be so kind as to look the other way, Mr. Watson?' said Russell.
    
  The young Californian did as he was told. A series of beeps sounded as the executive entered the code.
    
  'Now you can turn around. Thank you.'
    
  Orville turned to face him again. The elevator doors opened, and two men entered. Again, there were no buttons, only a magnetic card reader. Russell took out his plastic card and quickly inserted it into the slot. The doors closed, and the elevator moved smoothly upward.
    
  "Your boss certainly takes his safety seriously," Orville said.
    
  Mr. Kane has received quite a few death threats. In fact, he suffered a rather serious assassination attempt a few years ago, and he was lucky to escape unharmed. Please don't be alarmed by the fog. It's perfectly safe.
    
  Orville wondered what the hell Russell was talking about when a fine mist began to fall from the ceiling. Looking up, Orville noticed several devices emitting a fresh cloud of spray.
    
  'What's happening?'
    
  'It's a mild antibiotic compound, completely safe. Do you like the smell?'
    
  Hell, he even sprays his visitors before he sees them to make sure they don't pass their germs on to him. I've changed my mind. This guy isn't a hermit, he's a paranoid freak.
    
  'Mmmm, yeah, not bad. Minty, right?'
    
  'Wild mint essence. Very refreshing.'
    
  Orville bit his lip to keep from replying, focusing instead on the seven-figure bill he'd be charging Cain once he emerged from this gilded cage. The thought perked him up somewhat.
    
  The elevator doors opened onto a magnificent space filled with natural light. Half of the thirty-ninth floor was a gigantic terrace, surrounded by glass walls, offering panoramic views of the Hudson River. Hoboken lay directly ahead, and Ellis Island to the south.
    
  'Impressive.'
    
  'Mr. Kain likes to reminisce about his roots. Please follow me.' The simple decor contrasted with the majestic view. The floor and furniture were entirely white. The other half of the floor, overlooking Manhattan, was separated from the glassed-in terrace by a wall, also white, with several doors. Russell stopped in front of one of them.
    
  'Very well, Mr. Watson, Mr. Cain will see you now. But before you enter, I'd like to lay out a few simple rules for you. First of all, don't look directly at him. Secondly, don't ask him any questions. And thirdly, don't try to touch him or get close to him. When you enter, you'll see a small table with a copy of your report and the remote control for your PowerPoint presentation, which your office provided us this morning. Remain at the table, give your presentation, and leave as soon as you're finished. I'll be here waiting for you. Is that understood?'
    
  Orville nodded nervously.
    
  'I will do everything in my power.'
    
  'Then very well, come in,' said Russell, opening the door.
    
  The Californian hesitated before entering the room.
    
  "Oh, one more thing. Netcatch discovered something interesting during a routine investigation we were conducting for the FBI. We have reason to believe that Cain Industries may be a target of Islamic terrorists. It's all in this report," Orville said, handing his assistant a DVD. Russell took it with a worried look. "Consider it a courtesy on our part."
    
  'Indeed, thank you very much, Mr. Watson. And good luck.'
    
    
  5
    
    
    
  HOTEL LE MERIDIEN
    
  AMMAN, Jordan
    
    
  Wednesday, July 5, 2006. 6:11 PM.
    
    
  On the other side of the world, Tahir Ibn Faris, a minor official in the Ministry of Industry, was leaving his office a little later than usual. The reason wasn't his dedication to his job, which was in fact exemplary, but his desire to remain unnoticed. It took him less than two minutes to reach his destination, which was no ordinary bus stop, but the luxurious Meridien, Jordan's finest five-star hotel, where two gentlemen were currently staying. They had requested the meeting through a prominent industrialist. Unfortunately, this particular intermediary had earned his reputation through channels that were neither respectable nor clean. Therefore, Tahir suspected that the invitation for coffee might have dubious undertones. And although he was proud of his twenty-three years of honest service at the Ministry, he needed pride less and less and cash more; the reason was that his eldest daughter was getting married, and it would cost him dearly.
    
  As he headed to one of the executive suites, Tahir examined his reflection in the mirror, wishing he looked more greedy. He stood barely five feet six inches tall, and his belly, graying beard, and growing bald spot made him look more like a friendly drunkard than a corrupt civil servant. He wanted to erase every trace of honesty from his features.
    
  What more than two decades of honesty hadn't given him was a proper perspective on what he was doing. When he knocked on the door, his knees began to thump. He managed to calm down a moment before entering the room, where he was greeted by a well-dressed American man, apparently in his fifties. Another man, much younger, sat in the spacious living room, smoking and talking on his cell phone. When he spotted Tahir, he ended the conversation and stood to greet him.
    
  "Ahlan wa sahlan," he greeted him in perfect Arabic.
    
  Tahir was stunned. When he had refused bribes on various occasions to rezone land for industrial and commercial use in Amman-a veritable gold mine for his less scrupulous colleagues-he had done so not out of a sense of duty, but because of the insulting arrogance of Westerners, who, within minutes of meeting him, would throw wads of dollar bills on the table.
    
  The conversation with these two Americans couldn't have been more different. Before Tahir's astonished eyes, the older one sat down at a low table where he had prepared four dellas, Bedouin coffee pots, and a small coal fire. With a confident hand, he roasted fresh coffee beans in an iron pan and let them cool. Then he ground the roasted beans with the more mature ones in a mahbash, a small mortar. The entire process was accompanied by a continuous flow of conversation, except for the rhythmic striking of the pestle on the mahbash, a sound considered by Arabs to be a form of music, the artistry of which must be appreciated by the guest.
    
  The American added cardamom seeds and a pinch of saffron, carefully steeping the mixture in accordance with a centuries-old tradition. As was customary, the guest-Tahir-held the cup, which had no handle, while the American filled it halfway, as the host's privilege was to be the first to serve the most important person in the room. Tahir drank the coffee, still a little skeptical of the results. He thought he wouldn't drink more than one cup, as it was already late, but after tasting the drink, he was so delighted that he drank four more. He would have ended up drinking a sixth cup, if not for the fact that it was considered impolite to drink an even number.
    
  "Mr. Fallon, I never imagined that someone born in the land of Starbucks could perform the Bedouin ritual of gahwah so well," Tahir said. By this point, he was feeling quite comfortable and wanted them to know so he could figure out what the hell these Americans were up to.
    
  The youngest of the presenters handed him a gold cigarette case for the hundredth time.
    
  'Tahir, my friend, please stop calling us by our last names. I'm Peter and this is Frank,' he said, lighting another Dunhill.
    
  'Thank you, Peter.'
    
  'Okay. Now that we're relaxed, Tahir, would you consider it rude if we discussed business?'
    
  The elderly civil servant was pleasantly surprised again. Two hours had passed. Arabs don't like to discuss business before half an hour or so has passed, but this American even asked his permission. At that moment, Tahir felt ready to remodel any building they were hunting, even King Abdullah's palace.
    
  'Absolutely, my friend.'
    
  'Okay, that's what we need: a licence for Kayn Mining Company to mine phosphates for one year, starting today.'
    
  'It won't be that easy, my friend. Almost the entire Dead Sea coastline is already occupied by local industry. As you know, phosphates and tourism are practically our only national resources.'
    
  'No problem, Tahir. We're not interested in the Dead Sea, only a small area of about ten square miles centered on these coordinates.'
    
  He handed Tahir a piece of paper.
    
  '29ў 34' 44" north, 36ў 21' 24" east? You can't be serious, my friends. That's northeast of Al-Mudawwara.'
    
  'Yes, not far from the Saudi Arabian border. We know, Tahir.'
    
  The Jordanian looked at them in confusion.
    
  There are no phosphates there. It's a desert. Minerals are useless there.
    
  "Well, Tahir, we have great confidence in our engineers, and they believe they can extract significant quantities of phosphate in this area. Of course, as a gesture of goodwill, you will be paid a small commission."
    
  Tahir's eyes widened as his new friend opened his briefcase.
    
  'But it must be...'
    
  'Enough for little Miesha's wedding, right?'
    
  And a small beach house with a two-car garage, thought Tahir. Those damn Americans probably think they're smarter than everyone else and can find oil in this area. As if we haven't looked there countless times. In any case, I'm not going to be the one to ruin their dreams.
    
  "My friends, there is no doubt that you are both men of great value and knowledge. I am confident that your business will be welcomed in the Hashemite Kingdom of Jordan."
    
  Despite Peter and Frank's saccharine smiles, Tahir continued to puzzle over what all this meant. What the hell were these Americans looking for in the desert?
    
  No matter how much he struggled with this question, he did not even come close to the assumption that in a few days this meeting would cost him his life.
    
    
  6
    
    
    
  KAYN INDUSTRIES HEADQUARTERS
    
  NEW YORK
    
    
  Wednesday, July 5, 2006. 11:29 AM.
    
    
  Orville found himself in a darkened room. The only source of light was a small lamp burning on a lectern ten feet away, where his report sat, along with a remote control, as his supervisor had instructed. He walked over and picked up the remote. As he examined it, wondering how to begin his presentation, he was suddenly struck by a bright glow. Less than six feet from where he stood was a large, twenty-foot-wide screen. It displayed the first page of his presentation, featuring the red Netcatch logo.
    
  'Thank you very much, Mr. Kane, and good morning. Let me start by saying it's an honor...'
    
  There was a small hum and the image on the screen changed, showing the title of his presentation and the first of two questions:
    
    
  WHO IS FATHER ANTHONY FOWLER?
    
    
  Apparently Mr. Cain valued brevity and control, and he had a second remote on hand to speed up the process.
    
  Okay, old man. I get the message. Let's get down to business.
    
  Orville pressed the remote control to open the next page. It depicted a priest with a thin, wrinkled face. He was balding, and what hair he had left was cut very short. Orville began speaking to the darkness before him.
    
  'John Anthony Fowler, aka Father Anthony Fowler, aka Tony Brent. Born December 16, 1951, in Boston, Massachusetts. Green eyes, approximately 175 pounds. Freelance CIA agent and a complete enigma. Unraveling this mystery took two months of research by ten of my best investigators, who worked exclusively on this case, as well as a significant amount of cash to grease the palms of some well-placed sources. That goes a long way toward explaining the three million dollars it took to prepare this report, Mr. Kane.'
    
  The screen changed again, this time showing a family photograph: a well-dressed couple in the garden of what looked like an expensive home. Next to them was an attractive, dark-haired boy of about eleven. The father's hand seemed to be clasped around the boy's shoulder, and all three wore tense smiles.
    
  The only son of Marcus Abernathy Fowler, a business magnate and owner of Infinity Pharmaceuticals, now a multimillion-dollar biotech company. After his parents died in a suspicious car accident in 1984, Anthony Fowler sold the company and their remaining assets and donated everything to charity. He retained his parents' Beacon Hill mansion, renting it to a couple with their children. But he kept the top floor and converted it into an apartment, furnished with some furniture and a hoard of philosophy books. He stays there occasionally when he's in Boston.
    
  The next photo showed a younger version of the same woman, this time on a college campus, wearing a graduation gown.
    
  Daphne Brent was a skilled chemist working at Infinity Pharmaceuticals until the owner fell in love with her and they married. When she became pregnant, Marcus turned her into a housewife overnight. That's all we know about the Fowler family, except that young Anthony attended Stanford instead of Boston College like his father.
    
  Next slide: A young Anthony, looking not much older than a teenager, with a serious expression on his face, stands under a poster that says '1971'.
    
  At the age of twenty, he graduated with honors from university with a degree in psychology. He was the youngest in his class. This photo was taken a month before classes ended. On the last day of the semester, he packed his bags and went to the university recruiting office. He wanted to go to Vietnam.
    
  An image of a worn, yellowed form that had been filled out by hand appeared on the screen.
    
  This is a photo of his AFQT, the Armed Forces Qualification Test. Fowler scored ninety-eight out of one hundred. The sergeant was so impressed that he immediately sent him to Lackland Air Force Base in Texas, where he underwent basic training, followed by advanced instruction with the Parachute Regiment for a special operations unit that recovered downed pilots behind enemy lines. While at Lackland, he learned guerrilla tactics and became a helicopter pilot. After a year and a half of combat, he returned home as a lieutenant. His medals include the Purple Heart and the Air Force Cross. The report details the actions that earned him these medals.
    
  A photo of several men in uniform at an airfield. Fowler stood in the center, dressed as a priest.
    
  After Vietnam, Fowler entered a Catholic seminary and was ordained in 1977. He was assigned as a military chaplain to Spangdahlem Air Force Base in Germany, where he was recruited by the CIA. With his language skills, it's easy to see why they wanted him: Fowler speaks eleven languages fluently and can communicate in fifteen others. But the Company wasn't the only unit that recruited him.
    
  Another photo of Fowler in Rome with two other young priests.
    
  In the late 1970s, Fowler became a full-time agent for the company. He maintains his status as a military chaplain and travels to a number of Armed Forces bases around the world. The information I've given you so far could have been obtained from any number of agencies, but what I'm about to tell you next is top secret and very difficult to obtain.
    
  The screen went dark. In the light of the projector, Orville could just about make out a soft chair with someone sitting in it. He made an effort not to look directly at the figure.
    
  Fowler is an agent of the Holy Alliance, the Vatican's secret service. It's a small organization, generally unknown to the public, but active. One of its achievements is saving the life of former Israeli President Golda Meir when Islamic terrorists came close to blowing up her plane during a visit to Rome. Medals were awarded to the Mossad, but the Holy Alliance didn't care. They take the phrase 'secret service' literally. Only the Pope and a handful of cardinals are officially informed of their work. Within the international intelligence community, the Alliance is both respected and feared. Unfortunately, I can't add much about Fowler's history with this institution. Regarding his work with the CIA, my professional ethics and my contract with the Company prevent me from revealing anything further, Mr. Cain.
    
  Orville cleared his throat. Although he didn't expect a response from the figure sitting at the end of the room, he paused.
    
  Not a word.
    
  'As for your second question, Mr. Cain...'
    
  Orville briefly considered whether he should reveal that Netcatch wasn't responsible for finding this particular piece of information. That it had arrived in his office in a sealed envelope from an anonymous source. And that other interests were involved, clearly wanting Kayn Industries to obtain it. But then he remembered the humiliating waft of menthol mist and simply continued speaking.
    
  A young woman with blue eyes and copper-colored hair appeared on the screen.
    
  'This is a young journalist named...'
    
    
  7
    
    
    
  EL GLOBO EDITORIAL STAFF
    
  MADRID, SPAIN
    
    
  Thursday, July 6, 2006. 8:29 PM.
    
    
  'Andrea! Andrea Otero! Where the hell are you?'
    
  To say the editor-in-chief's shouts fell silent in the newsroom wouldn't be entirely accurate, as the office of a daily newspaper is never quiet an hour before going to press. But there were no voices, making the background noise of telephones, radios, televisions, fax machines, and printers seem awkwardly quiet. The editor-in-chief carried a suitcase in each hand, a newspaper tucked under his arm. He dropped the suitcases at the entrance to the newsroom and headed straight to the International Desk, to the only empty desk. He angrily slammed his fist on it.
    
  'You can come out now. I saw you dive in there.'
    
  Slowly, a mane of copper-blond hair and the face of a young, blue-eyed woman emerged from under the table. She tried to act nonchalant, but her expression was tense.
    
  'Hey, boss. I just dropped my pen.'
    
  The veteran reporter reached out and adjusted his wig. The subject of the editor-in-chief's baldness was taboo, so it certainly didn't help Andrea Otero that she'd just witnessed this maneuver.
    
  'I'm not happy, Otero. Not happy at all. Can you tell me what the hell is going on?'
    
  'What do you mean, chief?'
    
  'Do you have fourteen million euros in the bank, Otero?'
    
  'Not the last time I looked.'
    
  In fact, the last time she checked, her five credit cards were seriously overdrawn, thanks to her insane addiction to Hermès bags and Manolo Blahnik shoes. She was considering asking the accounting department for an advance on her Christmas bonus. For the next three years.
    
  'You better have a rich aunt who's about to take off her clogs, because that's how much you're going to cost me, Otero.'
    
  'Don't be angry with me, Chief. What happened in Holland will not happen again.'
    
  'I'm not talking about your room service bills, Otero. I'm talking about François Dupré,' said the editor, throwing yesterday's newspaper on the table.
    
  Damn it, so that's it, Andrea thought.
    
  'Once! I took one crappy day off in the last five months, and you all screwed up.'
    
  In an instant, the entire newsroom, down to the last reporter, stopped gaping and turned back to their desks, suddenly able to focus on their work again.
    
  'Come on, boss. A waste is a waste.'
    
  'Waste? Is that what you call it?'
    
  'Of course! Transferring a huge amount of money from your clients' accounts to your personal account is definitely a waste.'
    
  'And using the front page of the international section to trumpet a simple mistake made by the majority shareholder of one of our largest advertisers is a complete failure, Otero.'
    
  Andrea swallowed, feigning innocence.
    
  'The main shareholder?'
    
  'Interbank, Otero. Who, if you didn't know, spent twelve million euros last year on this newspaper and was planning to spend another fourteen next year. Was in deep thought. Past tense.'
    
  'The main thing... the truth has no price.'
    
  'Yes, that's right: fourteen million euros. And the heads of those responsible. You and Moreno get out of here. Gone.'
    
  Another guilty party shuffled in. Fernando Moreno was the night editor who had cancelled an innocuous story about oil company profits and replaced it with Andrea's sensationalist piece. It had been a brief burst of courage, one he now regretted. Andrea looked at her colleague, a middle-aged man, and thought of his wife and three children. She swallowed again.
    
  'The boss... Moreno had nothing to do with this. I was the one who placed the article just before it went to press.'
    
  Moreno's face brightened for a second, then returned to its previous expression of remorse.
    
  "Don't be stupid, Otero," said the editor-in-chief. "That's impossible. You don't have permission to go blue."
    
  Hermes, the newspaper's computer system, worked on a color scheme. The newspaper's pages were highlighted in red while a reporter was working on them, green when they were sent to the editor-in-chief for approval, and then blue when the night editor handed them off to the printers for printing.
    
  "I logged into the blue system using Moreno's password, boss," Andrea lied. "He had nothing to do with it."
    
  'Oh yeah? And where did you get the password? Can you explain it?'
    
  'He keeps it in the top drawer of his desk. It was easy.'
    
  'Is this true, Moreno?'
    
  "Well... yeah, boss," the night editor said, trying hard not to show his relief. "I'm sorry."
    
  El Globo's editor-in-chief still wasn't satisfied. He turned to Andrea so quickly that his wig slipped slightly onto his bald head.
    
  'Damn, Otero. I was wrong about you. I thought you were just an idiot. Now I realize you're an idiot and a troublemaker. I'll personally make sure no one ever hires a mean bitch like you again.'
    
  'But, boss...' Andrea's voice was filled with desperation.
    
  'Save your breath, Otero. You're fired.'
    
  'I didn't think...
    
  'You're so fired that I can't see you anymore. I can't even hear you.'
    
  The boss walked away from Andrea's desk.
    
  Looking around the room, Andrea saw nothing but the backs of her fellow reporters' heads. Moreno came over and stood next to her.
    
  'Thank you, Andrea.'
    
  'It's okay. It would be crazy for both of us to be fired.'
    
  Moreno shook his head. "I'm sorry you had to tell him you hacked the system. Now he's so angry, he's really going to make things difficult for you there. You know what happens when he goes on one of his crusades..."
    
  "Looks like he's already started," Andrea said, gesturing toward the newsroom. "Suddenly I'm a leper. Well, it's not like I was anyone's favorite before."
    
  You're not a bad person, Andrea. In fact, you're a pretty fearless reporter. But you're a loner and never worry about the consequences. Anyway, good luck.
    
  Andrea swore to herself she wouldn't cry, that she was a strong and independent woman. She gritted her teeth as security packed her things into a box, and with great difficulty, she managed to keep her promise.
    
    
  8
    
    
    
  APARTMENT ANDREA OTERO
    
  MADRID, SPAIN
    
    
  Thursday, July 6, 2006. 11:15 PM.
    
    
  What Andrea hated most since Eva had left forever was the sound of her own keys when she came home and placed them on the small table next to the door. They echoed emptyly in the hallway, which, in Andrea's opinion, summed up her life.
    
  When Eva was there, everything was different. She'd run to the door like a little girl, kiss Andrea, and start babbling about what she'd done or the people she'd met. Andrea, stunned by the whirlwind that had prevented her from reaching the sofa, prayed for peace and quiet.
    
  Her prayers were answered. Eva left one morning, three months ago, just as she had arrived: suddenly. There were no sobs, no tears, no regrets. Andrea said practically nothing, even felt a slight sense of relief. She would have plenty of time for regrets later, when the faint echo of jingling keys broke the silence of her apartment.
    
  She tried to cope with the emptiness in various ways: leaving the radio on when she left the house, putting her keys back in her jeans pocket as soon as she entered, talking to herself. None of her tricks could mask the silence, for it emanated from within.
    
  Now, as she entered the apartment, her foot kicked aside her last attempt at not being lonely: the orange tabby cat. At the pet store, the cat had seemed sweet and loving. It had taken Andrea almost forty-eight hours to start hating it. She was okay with that. You could deal with hatred. It was active: you simply hated someone or something. What she couldn't deal with was disappointment. You just had to deal with it.
    
  'Hey, LB. They fired Mom. What do you think?'
    
  Andrea nicknamed him LB, short for "Little Bastard," after the monster infiltrated the bathroom and managed to track down and rip apart an expensive tube of shampoo. LB didn't seem impressed by the news of his mistress's dismissal.
    
  'You don't care, do you? Although you should,' Andrea said, taking a can of whiskey from the refrigerator and spooning its contents onto a plate in front of L.B. 'When you have nothing left to eat, I'll sell you to Mr. Wong's Chinese restaurant on the corner. Then I'll go and order chicken with almonds.'
    
  The thought of being on the menu at a Chinese restaurant didn't curb L.B.'s appetite. The cat respected nothing and no one. He lived in his own world, hot-tempered, apathetic, undisciplined, and proud. Andrea hated him.
    
  Because he reminds me so much of myself, she thought.
    
  She looked around, irritated by what she saw. The bookcases were covered in dust. The floor was littered with food scraps, the sink was buried under a mountain of dirty dishes, and the manuscript of the unfinished novel she'd started three years ago lay scattered across the bathroom floor.
    
  Damn. If only I could pay the cleaning lady with a credit card...
    
  The only place in the apartment that seemed tidy was the enormous-thank goodness-closet in her bedroom. Andrea was very careful with her clothes. The rest of the apartment looked like a war zone. She believed her clutter was one of the main reasons for her breakup with Eva. They had been together for two years. The young engineer was a cleaning machine, and Andrea affectionately dubbed her the Romantic Vacuum Cleaner because she enjoyed tidying the apartment to the accompaniment of Barry White.
    
  At that moment, as she surveyed the wreckage her apartment had become, Andrea had a revelation. She would clean out the pigsty, sell her clothes on eBay, find a well-paying job, pay off her debts, and make peace with Eva. Now she had a goal, a mission. Everything would work out perfectly.
    
  She felt a surge of energy through her body. It lasted exactly four minutes and twenty-seven seconds-that's how long it took her to open the trash bag, throw a quarter of the remains onto the table along with several dirty plates that couldn't be saved, move haphazardly from one place to another, and then knock over the book she'd been reading the night before, sending the photograph inside crashing to the floor.
    
  The two of them. The last one they took.
    
  It's useless.
    
  She fell onto the couch, sobbing as the trash bag spilled some of its contents onto the living room carpet. L.B. came over and took a bite of pizza. The cheese was starting to turn green.
    
  'It's obvious, isn't it, L.B.? I can't run away from who I am, at least not with a mop and broom.'
    
  The cat didn't pay the slightest attention, but ran up to the apartment entrance and began rubbing against the doorframe. Andrea stood up instinctively, realizing someone was about to ring the doorbell.
    
  What kind of madman could come at this time of night?
    
  She threw open the door, surprising her visitor before he could ring the bell.
    
  'Hello, beautiful.'
    
  'I think news travels fast.'
    
  'I have bad news. If you start crying, I'm leaving here.'
    
  Andrea stepped aside, her expression still filled with disgust, but secretly she felt relieved. She should have known. Enrique Pascual had been her best friend and her shoulder to cry on for years. He worked at one of Madrid's major radio stations, and every time Andrea stumbled, Enrique would show up at her door with a bottle of whiskey and a smile. This time, he must have thought she was especially needy, because the whiskey was twelve years old, and to the right of his smile was a bouquet of flowers.
    
  "You had to do it, didn't you? A top reporter had to screw one of the paper's top advertisers," Enrique said, walking down the hallway to the living room without tripping over LB. "Is there a clean vase in this dump?"
    
  'Let them die and give me the bottle. What difference does it make! Nothing lasts forever.'
    
  "Now you've lost me," Enrique said, ignoring the flower issue for the moment. "Are we talking about Eva or about getting fired?"
    
  "I don't think I know," Andrea muttered, emerging from the kitchen with a glass in each hand.
    
  'If you had slept with me, maybe everything would have been clearer.'
    
  Andrea tried not to laugh. Enrique Pascual was tall, handsome, and perfect for any woman for the first ten days of their relationship, then turned into a nightmare for the next three months.
    
  'If I liked men, you'd be in my top twenty. Probably.'
    
  Now it was Enrique's turn to laugh. He poured two fingers of neat whiskey. He barely had time to take a sip before Andrea drained her glass and reached for the bottle.
    
  'Calm down, Andrea. It's not a good idea to end up in an accident. Again.'
    
  'I think that would be a damn great idea. At least I'd have someone to look after me.'
    
  'Thank you for not appreciating my efforts. And don't be so dramatic.'
    
  'You think it's not dramatic to lose your loved one and your job within two months? My life is crap.'
    
  "I'm not going to argue with you. At least you're surrounded by what's left of her," Enrique said, gesturing with disgust at the mess in the room.
    
  'Maybe you could be my cleaning lady. I'm sure it would be more useful than this shitty sports program you pretend to work on.'
    
  Enrique's expression didn't change. He knew what was coming next, and so did Andrea. She buried her head in the pillow and screamed at the top of her lungs. Within seconds, her screams turned into sobs.
    
  'I should have grabbed two bottles.'
    
  Just at that moment the mobile phone rang.
    
  "I think this is yours," Enrique said.
    
  "Tell whoever it was to go fuck themselves," Andrea said, her face still buried in the pillow.
    
  Enrique opened the telephone receiver with an elegant gesture.
    
  'A stream of tears. Hello...? Wait a minute...'
    
  He handed Andrea the phone.
    
  "I think you better figure this out. I don't speak foreign languages."
    
  Andrea picked up the phone, wiped her tears with the back of her hand and tried to speak normally.
    
  'Do you know what time it is, idiot?' Andrea said through clenched teeth.
    
  'I'm sorry. Andrea Otero, please?' a voice said in English.
    
  "Who is it?" she replied in the same language.
    
  'My name is Jacob Russell, Miss Otero. I'm calling from New York on behalf of my boss, Raymond Kane.'
    
  'Raymond Kane? From Kine Industries?'
    
  'Yes, that's right. And are you the same Andrea Otero who gave that controversial interview to President Bush last year?'
    
  Of course, the interview. This interview had a huge impact in Spain and even the rest of Europe. She was the first Spanish reporter to enter the Oval Office. Some of her more direct questions-the few that weren't pre-arranged and which she managed to slip in unnoticed-made the Texan more than a little nervous. This exclusive interview launched her career at El Globo. At least briefly. And it seemed to shake some nerves on the other side of the Atlantic.
    
  "Same thing, sir," Andrea replied. "So tell me, why does Raymond Kane need a great reporter?" she added, sniffling softly, glad that the man on the phone couldn't see the state she was in.
    
  Russell cleared his throat. 'Can I trust you not to tell anyone about this in your paper, Miss Otero?'
    
  "Absolutely," Andrea said, surprised by the irony.
    
  'Mr. Cain would like to give you the greatest exclusive of your life.'
    
  'Me? Why me?' Andrea said, making a written appeal to Enrique.
    
  Her friend pulled a notepad and pen from his pocket and handed them to her with a questioning look. Andrea ignored him.
    
  "Let's just say he likes your style," Russell said.
    
  'Mr Russell, at this stage of my life I find it hard to believe that someone I have never met is calling me with such a vague and probably unbelievable proposition.'
    
  'Well, let me convince you.'
    
  Russell spoke for fifteen minutes, during which a bewildered Andrea continually took notes. Enrique tried to read over her shoulder, but Andrea's spidery handwriting made it futile.
    
  '...that's why we're counting on you to be at the dig site, Ms. Otero.'
    
  'Will there be an exclusive interview with Mr. Cain?'
    
  'As a rule, Mr. Cain does not give interviews. Never.'
    
  'Maybe Mr. Kane should find a reporter who cares about the rules.'
    
  An awkward silence fell. Andrea crossed her fingers, praying that her shot in the dark would hit its target.
    
  'I guess there can always be a first time. Do we have a deal?'
    
  Andrea thought about this for a few seconds. If what Russell had promised was true, she could have signed a contract with any media company in the world. And she would have sent that son of a bitch, the editor of El Globo, a copy of the check.
    
  Even if Russell isn't telling the truth, we have nothing to lose.
    
  She didn't think about it anymore.
    
  'You can book me on the next flight to Djibouti. First class.'
    
  Andrea hung up.
    
  "I didn't understand a single word except 'first class,'" Enrique said. "Can you tell me where you're going?" He was surprised by Andrea's obvious change of mood.
    
  'If I said "to the Bahamas," you wouldn't believe me, would you?'
    
  "Very sweet," Enrique said, half annoyed, half jealous. "I bring you flowers, whiskey, I scrape you off the floor, and this is how you treat me..."
    
  Pretending not to listen, Andrea went into the bedroom to pack her things.
    
    
  9
    
    
    
  CRYPT WITH RELICS
    
  VATICAN
    
    
  Friday, July 7, 2006. 8:29 PM.
    
  A knock on the door startled Brother Cesáreo. No one had descended into the crypt, not only because access was restricted to a very few people, but also because it was damp and unhealthy, despite the four dehumidifiers humming constantly in every corner of the vast chamber. Pleased with company, the old Dominican monk smiled as he opened the armored door, standing on tiptoe to embrace his visitor.
    
  'Anthony!'
    
  The priest smiled and hugged the smaller man.
    
  'I was in the neighborhood...'
    
  "I swear to God, Anthony, how did you get this far?" This place has been monitored by cameras and security alarms for some time now.
    
  There's always more than one way in if you take your time and know the way. You taught me, remember?
    
  The old Dominican massaged his goatee with one hand and patted his potbelly with the other, laughing heartily. Beneath the streets of Rome lay a system of more than three hundred miles of tunnels and catacombs, some more than two hundred feet beneath the city. It was a veritable museum, a labyrinth of winding, unexplored passages that connected nearly every part of the city, including the Vatican. Twenty years earlier, Fowler and Brother SesáReo had devoted their free time to exploring these dangerous and labyrinthine tunnels.
    
  'Looks like Sirin's going to have to rethink his impeccable security system. If an old dog like you can sneak in here... But why not use the front door, Anthony? I hear you're no longer persona non grata in the Holy Office. And I'd like to know why.'
    
  'Actually, I might be too grata for some people's tastes right now.'
    
  'Sirin wants you back, doesn't he? Once that Machiavelli brat gets his teeth into you, he won't let go so easily.'
    
  'Even the old guardians of relics can be stubborn, too. Especially when it comes to things they shouldn't know about.'
    
  'Anthony, Anthony. This crypt is the best-kept secret in our tiny country, but its walls echo with rumors.' Cesáreo gestured around the area.
    
  Fowler looked up. The crypt's ceiling, supported by stone arches, was blackened by the smoke of millions of candles that had illuminated the chamber for nearly two thousand years. However, in recent years, candles had been replaced by a modern electrical system. The rectangular space was approximately two hundred and fifty square feet, part of which had been hewn out of the living rock with a pickaxe. The walls, from ceiling to floor, were lined with doors concealing niches containing the remains of various saints.
    
  "You've spent too much time breathing this awful air, and it certainly doesn't help your customers," Fowler said. "Why are you still down here?"
    
  A little-known fact was that for the past seventeen centuries, every Catholic church, no matter how humble, had a relic of a saint hidden in the altar. This site housed the largest collection of such relics in the world. Some niches were nearly empty, containing only small bone fragments, while in others, the entire skeleton was intact. Every time a church was built anywhere in the world, a young priest would take the steel suitcase from Brother Cecilio and travel to the new church to place the relic in the altar.
    
  The old historian took off his glasses and wiped them with the edge of his white cassock.
    
  "Security. Tradition. Stubbornness," Ses áreo said in response to Fowler's question. "Words that define our Holy Mother Church."
    
  'Excellent. Besides the dampness, this place reeks of cynicism.'
    
  Brother SesáReo tapped the screen of his powerful Mac book Pro, where he had been writing when his friend arrived.
    
  'Here lie my truths, Anthony. Forty years of cataloging bone fragments. Have you ever sucked an ancient bone, my friend? It's an excellent method for determining whether a bone is fake, but it leaves a bitter taste in the mouth. After four decades, I'm no closer to the truth than when I started.' He sighed.
    
  'Well, maybe you can get on this hard drive and help me out, old man,' Fowler said, handing Ces Éreo a photograph.
    
  'There's always something to do, always...'
    
  The Dominican paused mid-sentence. For a moment, he stared myopically at the photograph, then walked over to the desk where he was working. From a stack of books, he pulled out an old volume in classical Hebrew, covered in pencil marks. He leafed through it, comparing the various symbols with the book. Astonished, he looked up.
    
  'Where did you get this, Anthony?'
    
  'From an ancient candle. It belonged to a retired Nazi.'
    
  'Camilo Sirin sent you to bring him back, didn't he? You must tell me everything. Don't leave out a single detail. I need to know!'
    
  'Let's say I owed Camilo a favor and agreed to carry out one last mission for the Holy Alliance. He asked me to find an Austrian war criminal who stole a candle from a Jewish family in 1943. The candle was covered in layers of gold, and the man had had it since the war. A few months ago, I caught up with him and retrieved the candle. After melting the wax, I discovered the copper sheet you see in the photograph.'
    
  "Don't you have a better one with higher resolution?" I can barely make out the writing on the outside.'
    
  'It was rolled too tightly. If I had unrolled it completely, I could have damaged it.'
    
  'It's a good thing you didn't. What you could have destroyed was priceless. Where is it now?'
    
  "I passed it on to Chirin and didn't really think much of it. I figured someone in the Curia wanted it. Then I returned to Boston, convinced I'd repaid my debt-"
    
  "That's not quite true, Anthony," a calm, dispassionate voice interjected. The owner of the voice had slipped into the crypt like a seasoned spy, which is precisely what the squat, plain-faced man in gray was. Sparing in words and gestures, he hid behind a wall of chameleon-like insignificance.
    
  'Entering a room without knocking is bad form, Sirin,' said Cecilio.
    
  "It's also bad form not to answer when called upon," the head of the Holy Alliance said, staring at Fowler.
    
  'I thought we were done. We agreed on a mission - just one.'
    
  'And you've completed the first part: returned the candle. Now you must ensure that what it contains is used correctly.'
    
  Fowler, frustrated, did not answer.
    
  "Perhaps Anthony would appreciate his task more if he understood its importance," Sirin continued. "Since you now know what we are dealing with, Brother Cecilio, would you be so kind as to tell Anthony what is depicted in this photograph, which you have never seen?"
    
  The Dominican cleared his throat.
    
  'Before I do that, I need to know if it's genuine, Sirin.'
    
  'This is true'.
    
  The monk's eyes lit up. He turned to Fowler.
    
  'This, my friend, is a treasure map. Or, to be more precise, half of one. That is, if my memory serves me correctly, because it's been many years since I held the other half in my hands. This is the part that was missing from the Qumran Copper Scroll.'
    
  The priest's expression darkened considerably.
    
  'You want to tell me...
    
  'Yes, my friend. The most powerful object in history can be found through the meaning of these symbols. And all the problems that come with it.'
    
  'Good God. And it has to happen right now.'
    
  "I'm glad you finally understand, Anthony," Sirin interjected. "Compared to this, all the relics our good friend keeps in this room are nothing but dust."
    
  "Who put you on the trail, Camilo? Why were you trying to find Dr. Graus now, after all this time?" asked Brother Cesáreo.
    
  'The information came from one of the Church's benefactors, a certain Mr. Kane. A benefactor from another faith and a great philanthropist. He needed us to find Graus, and he personally offered to finance an archaeological expedition if we could recover the candle.'
    
  'Where?'
    
  He didn't reveal the exact location. But we know the area. Al-Mudawwara, Jordan.
    
  "Fine, then there's nothing to worry about," Fowler interrupted. "Do you know what will happen if anyone even gets wind of this? No one on this expedition will live long enough to lift a shovel."
    
  'Let's hope you're wrong. We're planning to send an observer with the expedition: you.'
    
  Fowler shook his head. 'No.'
    
  'You understand the consequences, the ramifications.'
    
  'My answer is still negative.'
    
  'You can't refuse.'
    
  "Try and stop me," the priest said, heading for the door.
    
  "Anthony, my boy." The words followed him as he walked toward the exit. "I'm not saying I'm going to try to stop you. You must be the one who decides to go. Luckily, over the years, I've learned how to deal with you. I had to remember the only thing you value more than your freedom, and I found the perfect solution."
    
  Fowler stopped, still standing with his back to them.
    
  'What have you done, Camilo?'
    
  Sirin took a few steps toward him. If there was one thing he disliked more than talking, it was raising his voice.
    
  "In a conversation with Mr. Cain, I suggested the best reporter for his expedition. In fact, as a reporter, she's quite mediocre. And not particularly likable, or sharp, or even overly honest. In fact, the only thing that makes her interesting is that you once saved her life. How should I put it-she owes you her life? So now you won't rush to hide in the nearest soup kitchen, because you know the risk she's taking."
    
  Fowler still didn't turn around. With each word Sirin spoke, his hand tightened, until it formed a fist, his nails digging into his palm. But the pain wasn't enough. He slammed his fist into one of the niches. The impact shook the crypt. The wooden door of the ancient resting place splintered, and a bone rolled from the desecrated vault onto the floor.
    
  "The kneecap of Saint Essence. Poor fellow, he limped all his life," said Brother SesáReo, bending down to pick up the relic.
    
  Fowler, who had now resigned, finally turned to face them.
    
    
  10
    
    
    
  EXTRACT FROM RAYMOND KEN: AN UNAUTHORIZED BIOGRAPHY
    
  ROBERT DRISCOLL
    
    
  Many readers may wonder how a Jew with little formal education, who as a child lived off charity, managed to build such a vast financial empire. From the preceding pages, it's clear that Raymond Cain didn't exist before December 1943. There's no entry on his birth certificate, no document confirming his American citizenship.
    
  The period of his life best known began when he enrolled at MIT and amassed a significant list of patents. While the United States was experiencing the glorious 1960s, Cain was inventing the integrated circuit. Within five years, he owned his own company; within ten, half of Silicon Valley.
    
  This period was well documented in Time magazine, along with the misfortunes that ruined his life as a father and husband...
    
  Perhaps what most troubles the average American is his invisibility, this lack of transparency that turns someone so powerful into a disturbing enigma. Sooner or later, someone must dispel the aura of mystery that surrounds Raymond Kane...
    
    
  11
    
    
    
  On board the "hippopotamus"
    
  RED SEA
    
    
  Tuesday, July 11, 2006, 4:29 PM.
    
    
  ...someone needs to dispel the aura of mystery surrounding the figure of Raymond Ken...
    
  Andrea smiled broadly and put down the Raymond Kane biography. It was a bleak, biased piece of crap, and she was thoroughly bored with it as she flew over the Sahara Desert en route to Djibouti.
    
  During the flight, Andrea had time to do something she rarely did: take a good look at herself. And she decided she didn't like what she saw.
    
  The youngest of five siblings-all male except her-Andrea grew up in an environment where she felt completely protected. And it was completely banal. Her father was a police sergeant, and her mother a housewife. They lived in a working-class neighborhood and ate pasta almost every night and chicken on Sundays. Madrid is a wonderful city, but for Andrea, it served only to highlight her family's mediocrity. At fourteen, she swore that the minute she turned eighteen, she would walk out the door and never return.
    
  Of course, arguing with your dad about your sexual orientation hastened your departure, didn't it, dear?
    
  It was a long journey from leaving home-being kicked out-to her first real job, aside from the ones she'd had to take to pay for her journalism studies. The day she started working at El Globo, she felt like she'd won the lottery, but the euphoria didn't last long. She moved from one section of the article to the next, each time feeling like she was plummeting, losing her sense of perspective and control over her personal life. Before leaving, she'd been assigned to the International Desk...
    
  They threw you out.
    
  And now this is an impossible adventure.
    
  My last chance. With the job market for journalists being what it is, my next job will be as a supermarket checkout clerk. There's just something about me that doesn't work. I can't do anything right. Even Eva, who was the most patient person in the world, couldn't stay with me. The day she left... What did she call me? "Recklessly out of control," "emotionally cold"... I think "immature" was the nicest thing she said. And she must have meant it, because she didn't even raise her voice. Fuck! It's always the same. I better not screw this up this time.
    
  Andrea shifted gears in her mind and turned up the volume on her iPod. The warm voice of Alanis Morissette calmed her mood. She leaned back in her seat, wishing she were already at her destination.
    
    
  Luckily, first class had its perks. The most important was the ability to disembark the plane before everyone else. A young, well-dressed African-American driver was waiting for her next to a battered SUV at the edge of the runway.
    
  Well, well. No formalities, right? Mr. Russell had arranged everything, Andrea thought as she walked down the steps from the plane.
    
  'Is that all?' The driver spoke in English, pointing to Andrea's carry-on bag and backpack.
    
  "We're heading into the fucking desert, aren't we?" Keep going.'
    
  She recognized the way the driver looked at her. She was used to being stereotyped: young, blonde, and therefore stupid. Andrea wasn't sure whether her carefree attitude toward clothes and money was a way to bury herself even deeper in that stereotype, or whether it was simply her own concession to banality. Perhaps a combination of both. But for this trip, as a sign of leaving her old life behind, she kept her luggage to a minimum.
    
  As the jeep traveled the five miles to the ship, Andrea took photos with her Canon 5D. (It wasn't actually her Canon 5D, but the one the paper had forgotten to return. They deserved it, the pigs.) She was shocked by the utter poverty of the land. Dry, brown, covered in rocks. You could probably cross the entire capital on foot in two hours. There seemed to be no industry, no agriculture, no infrastructure. Dust from their jeep's tires covered the faces of the people who looked at them as they passed. Faces without hope.
    
  'The world is in a bad place if people like Bill Gates and Raymond Kane earn more in a month than this country's gross national product in a year.'
    
  The driver shrugged in response. They were already at the port, the most modern and well-maintained part of the capital, and effectively its only source of income. Djibouti capitalized on its prime location within the Horn of Africa.
    
  The jeep skidded to a halt. When Andrea regained her balance, what she saw made her jaw drop. The behemoth was not the ugly cargo ship she'd expected. It was a sleek, modern vessel, its massive hull painted red and its superstructure a dazzling white, the colors of Kayn Industries. Without waiting for the driver to help her, she grabbed her things and ran up the ramp, eager to begin her adventure as soon as possible.
    
  Half an hour later, the ship weighed anchor and set sail. An hour later, Andrea locked herself in her cabin, intending to puke alone.
    
    
  After two days of being stuck on fluids, her inner ear declared a truce, and she finally felt brave enough to go outside for some fresh air and explore the ship. But first, she decided to throw Raymond Kayn: The Unauthorized Biography overboard with all her might.
    
  'You shouldn't have done that.'
    
  Andrea turned away from the railing. An attractive, dark-haired woman of about forty was walking toward her along the main deck. She was dressed like Andrea, in jeans and a T-shirt, but she wore a white jacket over them.
    
  'I know. Pollution is bad. But try being locked up for three days with this crap book, and you'll understand.'
    
  'It would have been less traumatic if you had opened the door for something other than taking water from the crew. I understand you were offered my services...'
    
  Andrea stared at the book, which was already floating far behind the moving ship. She felt ashamed. She didn't like it when people saw her sick, and she hated feeling vulnerable.
    
  "I was fine," Andrea said.
    
  'I understand, but I'm sure you'd feel better if you took some Dramamine.'
    
  'Only if you wanted me dead, doctor...'
    
  'Harel. Are you allergic to dimenhydrinates, Miss Otero?'
    
  'Among other things. Please call me Andrea.'
    
  Dr. Harel smiled, a row of wrinkles softening her features. She had beautiful eyes, the shape and color of almonds, and her hair was dark and curly. She stood two inches taller than Andrea.
    
  "And you can call me Dr. Harel," she said, extending her hand.
    
  Andrea looked at the hand without extending hers.
    
  'I don't like snobs.'
    
  'Me too. I'm not telling you my name because I don't have one. My friends usually call me Doc.'
    
  The reporter finally extended her hand. The doctor's handshake was warm and pleasant.
    
  'That should break the ice at parties, doc.'
    
  'You can't imagine. This is usually the first thing people notice when I meet them. Let's take a little walk, and I'll tell you more.'
    
  They headed toward the bow of the ship. A hot wind blew in their direction, causing the American flag on the ship to flutter.
    
  "I was born in Tel Aviv shortly after the end of the Six-Day War," Harel continued. "Four members of my family died during the conflict. The rabbi interpreted this as a bad omen, so my parents didn't give me a name, to deceive the Angel of Death. They alone knew my name."
    
  'And it worked?'
    
  'For Jews, a name is very important. It defines a person and has power over that person. My father whispered my name in my ear during my bat mitzvah while the congregation sang. I can never tell anyone else about it.'
    
  "Or will the Angel of Death find you?" No offense, Doc, but that doesn't make much sense. The Grim Reaper isn't looking for you in the phone book.
    
  Harel laughed heartily.
    
  'I encounter this kind of attitude often. I must tell you, I find it refreshing. But my name will remain confidential.'
    
  Andrea smiled. She liked the woman's casual style and looked into her eyes, perhaps a little longer than was necessary or appropriate. Harel looked away, slightly taken aback by her directness.
    
  "What's a doctor with no name doing aboard the Behemoth?"
    
  'I'm a last-minute replacement. They needed a doctor for the expedition. So you're all in my hands.'
    
  Beautiful hands, Andrea thought.
    
  They reached the bow. The sea retreated beneath them, and the day shone majestically and brightly. Andrea looked around.
    
  'When I don't feel like my insides are in a blender, I have to admit this is a fine ship.'
    
  "His strength is in his loins, and his power is in the navel of his belly. His bones are like strong pieces of copper; his legs are like iron bars," the doctor recited in a cheerful voice.
    
  'Are there any poets among the crew?' Andrea laughed.
    
  'No, dear. It's from the Book of Job. It refers to a huge beast called Behemoth, brother of Leviathan.'
    
  'Not a bad name for a ship.'
    
  "At one point, this was a Danish Hvidbjørnen-class naval frigate." The doctor pointed to a metal plate, about ten feet square, welded to the deck. "There used to be a single pistol there. Cain Industries bought this ship for ten million dollars at auction four years ago. A bargain."
    
  'I wouldn't pay more than nine and a half.'
    
  'Laugh if you want, Andrea, but this beauty's deck is two hundred and sixty feet long; she has her own helipad, and she can cruise eight thousand miles at fifteen knots. She could travel from Cadiz to New York and back without refueling.'
    
  At that moment, the ship crashed over a huge wave, and the vessel tilted slightly. Andrea slipped and nearly fell over the railing, which was only a foot and a half high at the bow. The doctor grabbed her by the shirt.
    
  'Watch out! If you fell at that speed, you would either be torn to pieces by the propellers or you would drown before we had a chance to save you.'
    
  Andrea was about to thank Harel, but then she noticed something in the distance.
    
  "What is this?" she asked.
    
  Harel squinted, raising her hand to shield her eyes from the bright light. At first, she saw nothing, but five seconds later, she could make out outlines.
    
  'Finally, we're all here. This is the boss.'
    
  'Who?'
    
  'Didn't they tell you? Mr. Cain will be personally overseeing the entire operation.'
    
  Andrea turned around with her mouth open. 'Are you kidding?'
    
  Harel shook her head. "This will be the first time I meet him," she replied.
    
  'They promised me an interview with him, but I thought it would be at the end of this ridiculous charade.'
    
  'You don't believe that the expedition will be successful?'
    
  'Let's say I have my doubts about its real purpose. When Mr. Russell hired me, he said we were hunting for a very important relic that had been lost for thousands of years. He didn't go into details.'
    
  We're all in the dark. Look, it's getting closer.
    
  Now Andrea could see what looked like some kind of flying machine about two miles off to port, approaching quickly.
    
  'You're right, Doc, it's a plane!'
    
  The reporter had to raise his voice to be heard over the roar of the plane and the joyful shouts of the sailors as he described a semicircle around the ship.
    
  'No, it's not an airplane - look.'
    
  They turned to follow him. The plane, or at least what Andrea thought was a plane, was a small craft, painted in the colors and bearing the Kayn Industries logo, but its two propellers were three times larger than normal. Andrea watched in amazement as the propellers began to rotate on the wing, and the plane stopped circling Behemoth. Suddenly, it hung in the air. The propellers had rotated ninety degrees, and like a helicopter, they now held the plane steady as concentric waves fanned out across the sea below.
    
  'This is a BA-609 tiltrotor. The best in its class. This is her maiden voyage. They say it was one of Mr. Cain's own ideas.'
    
  'Everything this man does seems impressive. I would like to meet him.'
    
  'No, Andrea, wait!'
    
  The doctor tried to hold Andrea back, but she slipped into a group of sailors leaning over the starboard railing.
    
  Andrea climbed up to the main deck and descended one of the gangways beneath the ship's superstructure, which connected to the aft deck where the plane was currently hovering. At the end of the corridor, a blond, six-foot-two sailor blocked her path.
    
  'That's all you can do, miss.'
    
  'I'm sorry?'
    
  'You will be able to take a look at the plane as soon as Mr. Cain is in his cabin.'
    
  'I see. What if I want to take a look at Mr. Cain?'
    
  'My orders are to not allow anyone to go beyond the stern. Sorry.'
    
  Andrea turned away without saying a word. She didn't like being turned down, so now she had double the incentive to fool the guards.
    
  Slipping through one of the hatches to her right, she entered the main compartment of the ship. She needed to hurry before they took Cain below. She could try going down to the lower deck, but there would surely be another guard there. She tried the handles on several doors until she found one that wasn't locked. It looked like a lounge, with a couch and a rickety ping-pong table. At the end was a large open porthole overlooking the stern.
    
  Et voilà .
    
  Andrea placed one of her small feet on the corner of the table and the other on the sofa. She stuck her arms through the window, then her head, and then her body through the other side. Less than ten feet away, a deckhand in an orange vest and ear protectors was signaling to the pilot of BA-609 as the plane's wheels screeched to a stop on the deck. Andrea's hair fluttered in the wind from the rotor blades. She ducked instinctively, even though she'd sworn countless times that if she ever found herself under a helicopter, she wouldn't imitate those movie characters who duck their heads even though the rotor blades were nearly five feet above them.
    
  Of course, it was one thing to imagine the situation, and another to be in it...
    
  Door BA-609 began to open.
    
  Andrea felt movement behind her. She was about to turn around when she was thrown to the ground and pinned to the deck. She felt the heat of metal on her cheek as someone sat on her back. She squirmed as hard as she could, but couldn't break free. Though she was having trouble breathing, she managed to glance at the plane and saw a tanned, handsome young man in sunglasses and a sports jacket exiting the plane. Behind him walked a bullish man, weighing about 220 pounds, or so it seemed to Andrea from the deck. When this brute looked at her, she saw no expression in his brown eyes. An ugly scar ran from his left eyebrow to his cheek. Finally, he was followed by a thin, short man dressed entirely in white. The pressure on her head increased, and she could barely make out this last passenger as he crossed her limited field of vision-all she could see were the shadows of the slowing propeller blades on the deck.
    
  'Let me go, okay? The fucking paranoid lunatic is already in his cabin, so leave the hell alone.'
    
  "Mr. Kane is neither crazy nor paranoid. I'm afraid he suffers from agoraphobia," her captor replied in Spanish.
    
  His voice wasn't that of a sailor. Andrea remembered that educated, serious tone well, so measured and detached that it always reminded her of Ed Harris. When the pressure on her back eased, she jumped to her feet.
    
  'You?'
    
  Father Anthony Fowler stood before her.
    
    
  12
    
    
    
  OUTSIDE NETCATCH OFFICES
    
  225 SOMERSET AVENUE
    
  WASHINGTON, DC
    
    
  Tuesday, July 11, 2006. 11:29 AM.
    
    
  The taller of the two men was also the younger, so he was always the one bringing coffee and food as a sign of respect. His name was Nazim, and he was nineteen years old. He had been in Haruf's group for fifteen months and was happy because his life finally had meaning, a path.
    
  Nazim idolized Haruf. They met at a mosque in Clive Cove, New Jersey. It was a place full of "Westernized," as Haruf called them. Nazim loved playing basketball near the mosque, where he met his new friend, who was twenty years his senior. Nazim was flattered that someone so mature, and a college graduate at that, would talk to him.
    
  Now he opened the car door and climbed into the passenger seat with difficulty, which is not easy when you are six feet two inches tall.
    
  'I only found a burger bar. I ordered salads and hamburgers.' He handed the bag to Haruf, who smiled.
    
  'Thank you, Nazim. But I have something to tell you, and I don't want you to get angry.'
    
  'What?'
    
  Haruf took the hamburgers out of the boxes and threw them out the window.
    
  "These burger joints add lecithin to their burgers, and there's a chance they might contain pork. It's not halal," he said, referring to the Islamic restriction on pork. "I'm sorry. But the salads are great."
    
  Nazim was disappointed, but at the same time, he felt empowered. Haruf was his mentor. Whenever Nazim made a mistake, Haruf corrected him respectfully and with a smile, which was the complete opposite of how Nazim's parents had treated him over the past few months, constantly yelling at him ever since he met Haruf and started attending a different, smaller, and more "devoted" mosque.
    
  At the new mosque, the imam not only read the Holy Quran in Arabic but also preached in that language. Despite being born in New Jersey, Nazim read and wrote fluently in the language of the Prophet. His family was from Egypt. Thanks to the imam's hypnotic sermon, Nazim began to see the light. He broke away from the life he had been leading. He had good grades and could have started studying engineering that same year, but instead, Haruf found him a job at an accounting firm run by a believer.
    
  His parents didn't agree with his decision. They also didn't understand why he locked himself in the bathroom to pray. But as painful as these changes were, they slowly accepted them. Until the incident with Hana.
    
  Nazim's comments became increasingly aggressive. One evening, his sister Hana, who was two years older than him, arrived home at two in the morning after drinking with her friends. Nazim was waiting for her and scolded her for the way she was dressed and for being a little drunk. Insults were exchanged. Finally, their father intervened, and Nazim pointed his finger at him.
    
  'You are weak. You don't know how to control your women. You let your daughter work. You let her drive and you don't insist that she wear a veil. Her place is in the house until she has a husband.'
    
  Hana started to protest, and Nazim slapped her. That was the last straw.
    
  'I may be weak, but at least I'm the master of this house. Go away! I don't know you. Go away!'
    
  Nazim went to see Haruf wearing only the clothes he was wearing. That night, he cried a little, but the tears didn't last long. He now had a new family. Haruf was both his father and his older brother. Nazim greatly admired him, for thirty-nine-year-old Haruf was a true jihadist and had been to training camps in Afghanistan and Pakistan. He shared his knowledge with only a handful of young men who, like Nazim, had endured countless insults. At school, even on the street, people distrusted him as soon as they saw his olive skin and hooked nose and realized he was an Arab. Haruf told him it was because they feared him, because Christians knew that the Muslim believers were stronger and more numerous. Nazim liked this. The time had come when he deserved the respect he deserved.
    
    
  Haruf rolled up the driver's side window.
    
  'Six minutes and then we're off.'
    
  Nazim glanced at him with concern. His friend noticed that something was wrong.
    
  'What's the matter, Nazim?'
    
  'Nothing'.
    
  'It never means anything. Come on, you can tell me.'
    
  'It's nothing.'
    
  'Is this fear? Are you afraid?'
    
  'No. I am a soldier of Allah!'
    
  'The soldiers of Allah are allowed to fear, Nazim.'
    
  'Well, I'm not like that.'
    
  'Is that a gun firing?'
    
  'No!'
    
  'Come on, you had forty hours of practice at my cousin's slaughterhouse. You must have shot over a thousand cows.'
    
  Haruf was also one of Nazim's shooting instructors, and one of the exercises involved shooting live cattle. In other cases, the cows were already dead, but he wanted Nazim to get used to firearms and see what bullets do to flesh.
    
  'No, the practical training was good. I'm not afraid to shoot people. I mean, they're not really people.'
    
  Haruf didn't answer. He leaned his elbows on the steering wheel, staring straight ahead and waiting. He knew the best way to get Nazim to speak was to allow a few minutes of awkward silence. The boy always ended up blurting out everything that was bothering him.
    
  'It's just... well, I'm sorry I didn't say goodbye to my parents,' he said finally.
    
  'I see. Do you still blame yourself for what happened?'
    
  'A little. Am I wrong?'
    
  Haruf smiled and put his hand on Nazim's shoulder.
    
  'No. You are a sensitive and loving young man. Allah has endowed you with these qualities, blessed be His name.'
    
  "May his name be blessed," Nazim repeated.
    
  He also gave you the strength to overcome them when you need it. Now take up the sword of Allah and carry out His will. Rejoice, Nazim.
    
  The young man tried to smile, but it ended up looking more like a grimace. Haruf increased the pressure on Nazim's shoulder. His voice was warm, full of love.
    
  Relax, Nazim. Allah isn't asking for our blood today. He's asking others for it. But even if something were to happen, you recorded a video message for your family, didn't you?
    
  Nazim nodded.
    
  'Then there's nothing to worry about. Your parents may have moved a little to the West, but deep down they're good Muslims. They know the reward of martyrdom. And when you reach the Hereafter, Allah will allow you to intercede for them. Just think how they'll feel.'
    
  Nazim imagined his parents and sister kneeling before him, thanking him for saving them, begging him to forgive them for their mistakes. In the transparent haze of his imagination, this was the most beautiful aspect of the next life. He finally managed to smile.
    
  'There you go, Nazim. You have the smile of a martyr, the basamat al-farah. This is part of our promise. This is part of our reward.'
    
  Nazim put his hand under his jacket and squeezed the handle of the pistol.
    
  They calmly got out of the car with Haruf.
    
    
  13
    
    
    
  On board the "hippopotamus"
    
  On the way to the Gulf of Aqaba, Red Sea
    
    
  Tuesday, July 11, 2006, 5:11 PM.
    
    
  'You!' Andrea said again, more with anger than surprise.
    
  The last time they saw each other, Andrea was precariously poised thirty feet above the ground, pursued by an unlikely enemy. Father Fowler had saved her life then, but he had also prevented her from getting the kind of big story about her career that most reporters only dream of. Woodward and Bernstein had done it with Watergate, and Lowell Bergman with the tobacco industry. Andrea Otero could have done the same, but the priest had stood in the way. At least he had gotten her-Damned if I know how, Andrea thought-an exclusive interview with President Bush, which had landed her aboard this ship, or so she assumed. But that wasn't all, and right now she was more concerned with the present. Andrea wasn't going to waste this opportunity.
    
  'I'm glad to see you too, Miss Otero. I see the scar is hardly a memory.'
    
  Andrea instinctively touched her forehead, the spot where Fowler had given her four stitches sixteen months ago. All that remained was a thin, pale line.
    
  'You're a reliable pair of hands, but that's not what you're here for. Are you spying on me? Are you trying to ruin my work again?'
    
  'I am participating in this expedition as an observer from the Vatican, nothing more.'
    
  The young reporter eyed him suspiciously. Because of the intense heat, the priest was dressed in a short-sleeved shirt with a clerical collar and well-pressed trousers, all plain black. Andrea noticed his tanned arms for the first time. His forearms were enormous, with veins as thick as ballpoint pens.
    
  This is not a biblical scholar's weapon.
    
  'And why does the Vatican need an observer on an archaeological expedition?'
    
  The priest was about to answer when a cheerful voice interrupted them.
    
  'Great! Have you two been introduced yet?'
    
  Dr. Harel appeared at the stern of the ship, flashing her charming smile. Andrea didn't return the favor.
    
  'Something like that. Father Fowler was about to explain to me why he was pretending to be Brett Favre a few minutes ago.'
    
  "Miss Otero, Brett Favre is a quarterback, he's not a very good tackler," Fowler explained.
    
  'What happened, father?' Harel asked.
    
  'Miss Otero came back here just as Mr. Kane was getting off the plane. I'm afraid I had to restrain her. I was a little rough. I'm sorry.'
    
  Harel nodded. "I understand. You should know that Andrea was not present at the security session. Don't worry, Father."
    
  "What do you mean don't worry? Is everyone completely crazy?"
    
  "Calm down, Andrea," the doctor said. "Unfortunately, you've been ill for the last forty-eight hours and haven't been kept informed. Let me bring you up to speed. Raymond Kane suffers from agoraphobia."
    
  'That's what Father Tackler just told me.'
    
  'Besides being a priest, Father Fowler is also a psychologist. Please interrupt me if I'm missing anything, Father. Andrea, what do you know about agoraphobia?'
    
  'It's a fear of open spaces.'
    
  'That's what most people think. In reality, people with this condition experience symptoms that are much more complex.'
    
  Fowler cleared his throat.
    
  "Agoraphobics' greatest fear is losing control," the priest said. "They're afraid of being alone, of ending up in places with no way out, or of meeting new people. That's why they stay home for long periods of time."
    
  'What happens when they can't control the situation?' Andrea asked.
    
  "It depends on the situation. Mr. Cain's case is particularly severe. If he finds himself in a difficult situation, he may well panic, lose touch with reality, experience dizziness, tremors, and a racing heart."
    
  'In other words, he couldn't have been a stockbroker,' Andrea said.
    
  "Or a neurosurgeon," Harel joked. "But sufferers can lead normal lives. There are famous agoraphobics, like Kim Basinger or Woody Allen, who battled the disease for years and emerged victorious. Mr. Cain built an empire out of nothing. Unfortunately, his condition has worsened over the past five years."
    
  'I wonder what the hell provoked such a sick man to risk coming out of his shell?'
    
  "You hit the nail on the head, Andrea," Harel said.
    
  Andrea noticed that the doctor was looking at her strangely.
    
  They were all silent for a few moments, and then Fowler resumed the conversation.
    
  'I hope you can forgive my over-persistence earlier.'
    
  'Maybe, but you almost ripped my head off,' Andrea said, rubbing her neck.
    
  Fowler looked at Harel, who nodded.
    
  'You will understand in time, Ms. Otero... You could see people getting off the plane?' Harel asked.
    
  "There was a young man with olive skin," Andrea replied. "Then a man in his fifties, dressed in black, who had a huge scar. And finally, a thin man with white hair, who I assume must be Mr. Cain."
    
  "The young man is Jacob Russell, Mr. Cain's executive assistant," Fowler said. "The man with the scar is Mogens Dekker, head of security for Cain Industries. Believe me, if you got any closer to Cain, given your usual style, Dekker would get a little nervous. And you don't want that to happen."
    
  A warning signal sounded from bow to stern.
    
  "Well, it's time for the introductory session," Harel said. "Finally, the great secret will be revealed. Follow me."
    
  "Where are we going?" Andrea asked as they returned to the main deck via the gangway the reporter had slipped down a few minutes earlier.
    
  The entire expedition team will meet for the first time. They will explain the role each of us will play, and most importantly... what we are really looking for in Jordan.
    
  'By the way, Doc, what's your specialty?' Andrea asked as they entered the conference room.
    
  "Combat medicine," Harel said casually.
    
    
  14
    
    
    
  COHEN FAMILY REFUGE
    
  VEIN
    
    
  February 1943
    
    
  Jora Mayer was beside herself with anxiety. A sour sensation settled in the back of her throat, making her feel nauseous. She hadn't felt this way since she was fourteen, escaping the 1906 pogroms in Odessa, Ukraine, with her grandfather holding her hand. She was fortunate, at such a young age, to find work as a servant for the Cohen family, who owned a factory in Vienna. Joseph was the eldest child. When a Shadchan, a marriage broker, eventually found him a sweet Jewish wife, Jora went with him to look after their children. Their firstborn, Elan, spent his early years in a pampered and privileged environment. The youngest, Yudel, was a different story.
    
  Now the child lay curled up on his makeshift bed, which consisted of two folded blankets on the floor. Until yesterday, he had shared the bed with his brother. Lying there, Yudel seemed small and sad, and without his parents, the stuffy space seemed enormous.
    
  Poor Yudel. Those twelve square feet had been his entire world practically since birth. On the day he was born, the entire family, including Jora, was in the hospital. None of them returned to the luxurious apartment on Rhinestrasse. It was November 9, 1938, the date the world would later know as Kristallnacht, the Night of Broken Glass. Yudel's grandparents were the first to die. The entire building on Rhinestrasse burned to the ground, along with the synagogue next door, while firefighters drank and laughed. The only things the Cohens took with them were some clothes and a mysterious bundle Yudel's father had used at the ceremony when the baby was born. Jora didn't know what it was because during the ceremony, Mr. Cohen had asked everyone to leave the room, including Odile, who was barely able to stand.
    
  With virtually no money, Josef was unable to leave the country, but like many others, he believed the problems would eventually subside, so he sought refuge with some of his Catholic friends. He also remembered Jora, something Miss Mayer would never forget in her later life. Few friendships could withstand the terrible obstacles faced in occupied Austria; however, there was one that did. The aging Judge Rath decided to help the Cohens, at great risk to his own life. Inside his home, he built a shelter in one of the rooms. He bricked up the partition with his own hands, leaving a narrow opening at the base through which the family could enter and exit. Judge Rath then placed a low bookcase in front of the entrance to conceal it.
    
  The Cohen family entered their living grave on a December night in 1938, believing the war would last only a few weeks. There wasn't enough room for them all to lie down at once, and their only comforts were a kerosene lamp and a bucket. Food and fresh air arrived at 1:00 AM, two hours after the judge's maid had gone home. Around 12:30 AM, the old judge slowly began to move the bookcase away from the hole. Due to his age, it could take almost half an hour, with frequent breaks, before the hole was wide enough to admit the Cohens.
    
  Along with the Cohen family, the judge was also a prisoner of that life. He knew the maid's husband was a Nazi party member, so while he built the shelter, he sent her on vacation to Salzburg for a few days. When she returned, he told her they had to replace the gas pipes. He didn't dare find another maid, as it would arouse suspicion, and he had to be careful with the amount of food he bought. Rationing made it even more difficult to feed the five additional people. Jora felt sorry for him, as he had sold most of his valuable possessions to buy meat and potatoes on the black market, which he hid in the attic. At night, when Jora and the Cohens emerged from their hiding place, barefoot, like strange, whispering ghosts, the old man would bring them food from the attic.
    
  The Cohens didn't dare remain outside their hiding place for more than a few hours. While Zhora made sure the children washed and moved around a bit, Joseph and Odile quietly conversed with the judge. During the day, they were unable to make the slightest noise and spent most of their time asleep or semi-conscious, which for Zhora resembled torture until she began hearing about the concentration camps at Treblinka, Dachau, and Auschwitz. Even the smallest details of daily life became complicated. Basic needs, such as drinking or even swaddling baby Yudel, were tedious procedures in such a confined space. Zhora was constantly amazed by Odile Cohen's ability to communicate. She developed a complex system of signs that allowed her to carry on long and sometimes bitter conversations with her husband without uttering a word.
    
  More than three years passed in silence. Yudel learned no more than four or five words. Fortunately, he had a calm nature and almost never cried. He seemed to prefer being held by Jora rather than his mother, but this didn't bother Odile. Odile seemed to care only for Elan, who suffered the most from imprisonment. He had been an unruly, spoiled five-year-old when the pogroms broke out in November 1938, and after more than a thousand days on the run, there was something lost, almost mad, in his eyes. When it was time to return to the shelter, he was always the last one in. Often he refused or remained clinging to the entrance. When this happened, Yudel would approach and take his hand, encouraging Elan to make one more sacrifice and return into the long hours of darkness.
    
  But six nights ago, Elan couldn't bear it anymore. He waited until everyone else had returned to the pit, then slipped away and left the house. The judge's arthritic fingers barely managed to touch the boy's shirt before he vanished. Joseph tried to follow, but by the time he reached the street, there was no trace of Elan.
    
  The news broke three days later in the Kronen Zeitung. A young Jewish boy with mental disabilities, apparently without a family, had been placed in the Spiegelgrund Children's Center. The judge was horrified. As he explained, words choking in his throat, what would likely happen to their son, Odile became hysterical and refused to listen to reason. Jora felt weak the moment she saw Odile walk out the door, carrying the very package they had brought to their shelter, the very one they had taken to the hospital many years ago when Judel was born. Odile's husband accompanied her despite her protests, but as he left, he handed Jora an envelope.
    
  "For Yudel," he said. "He shouldn't open it until his bar mitzvah."
    
  Two terrible nights had passed since then. Jora was eager for news, but the judge was more silent than usual. The day before, the house had been filled with strange sounds. And then, for the first time in three years, the bookcase began to move in the middle of the day, and the judge's face appeared in the opening.
    
  'Quickly, come out. We can't waste another second!'
    
  Jora blinked. It was hard to recognize the brightness outside the shelter as sunlight. Yudel had never seen the sun. Startled, he ducked back.
    
  "Jora, I'm sorry. Yesterday I learned that Josef and Odile were arrested. I didn't say anything because I didn't want to upset you even more. But you can't stay here. They're going to interrogate them, and no matter how much the Cohens resist, the Nazis will eventually find out where Yudel is."
    
  'Frau Cohen won't say anything. She's strong.'
    
  The judge shook his head.
    
  'They'll promise to save Elan's life in exchange for her telling them where the baby is, or worse. They can always make people talk.'
    
  Jora started to cry.
    
  'There's no time for this, Jora. When Josef and Odile didn't return, I went to visit a friend at the Bulgarian embassy. I have two exit visas in the names of Biljana Bogomil, a tutor, and Mikhail Zhivkov, the son of a Bulgarian diplomat. The story is that you're returning to school with the boy after spending Christmas holidays with his parents.' He showed her the rectangular tickets. 'These are train tickets to Stara Zagora. But you're not going there.'
    
  "I don't understand," Jora said.
    
  Your official destination is Stara Zagora, but you'll get off in Cernavoda. The train stops there briefly. You'll get off so the boy can stretch his legs. You'll exit the train with a smile on your face. You won't have any luggage or anything in your hands. Disappear as soon as you can. Constanta is thirty-seven miles to the east. You'll either have to walk or find someone to take you there in a cart.
    
  "Constanza," Jora repeated, trying to remember everything in her confusion.
    
  'It used to be Romania. Now it's Bulgaria. Who knows what tomorrow will bring? The important thing is that it's a port, and the Nazis aren't watching it too closely. From there, you can take a ship to Istanbul. And from Istanbul, you can go anywhere.'
    
  'But we don't have money for a ticket.'
    
  'Here are some marks for the trip. And in this envelope is enough money to book passage for the two of you to safety.'
    
  Jora looked around. The house was almost empty of furniture. Suddenly, she realized what those strange sounds had been the previous day. The old man had taken almost everything he had to give them a chance to escape.
    
  'How can we thank you, Judge Rath?'
    
  'Don't. Your trip will be very dangerous, and I'm not sure exit visas will protect you. God forgive me, but I hope I'm not sending you to your death.'
    
    
  Two hours later, Jora managed to drag Yudel up the building's stairs. She was about to go outside when she heard a truck pull up on the sidewalk. Anyone who lived under the Nazis knew exactly what that meant. It was like a bad melody, beginning with the screeching of brakes, followed by someone shouting orders and the dull staccato of boots in the snow, which became clearer as the boots hit the wooden floors. At that moment, you prayed for the sounds to fade; instead, an ominous crescendo culminated in banging on the door. After a pause, a chorus of sobs would erupt, punctuated by machine-gun solos. And when the music ended, the lights would come back on, people would return to their tables, and the mothers would smile and pretend nothing had happened next door.
    
  Jora, who knew the melody well, hid under the stairs as soon as she heard the first notes. While his colleagues were breaking down Rath's door, a soldier with a flashlight paced nervously back and forth near the main entrance. The flashlight's beam cut through the darkness, narrowly missing Jora's worn gray boot. Yudel grabbed it with such animal fear that Jora had to bite her lip to keep from screaming in pain. The soldier approached them so close that they could smell his leather jacket, cold metal, and pistol oil.
    
  A loud shot rang out on the stairs. The soldier stopped his search and rushed up to his screaming comrades. Zhora picked up Yudel and slowly walked out into the street.
    
    
  15
    
    
    
  On Board the Hippopotamus
    
  On the way to the Gulf of Aqaba, Red Sea
    
    
  Tuesday, July 11, 2006, 6:03 PM.
    
    
  The room was dominated by a large rectangular table, covered with twenty neatly arranged folders, and a man seated in front of it. Harel, Fowler, and Andrea were the last to enter and were required to occupy the remaining seats. Andrea found herself between a young African-American woman dressed in what appeared to be a paramilitary uniform and an older, balding man with a thick mustache. The young woman ignored her and continued talking to the men to her left, who were dressed more or less identically to her, while the man to Andrea's right extended a hand with thick, calloused fingers.
    
  'Tommy Eichberg, driver. You must be Miss Otero.'
    
  'Another person who knows me! Nice to meet you.'
    
  Eichberg smiled. He had a round, pleasant face.
    
  'I hope you feel better.'
    
  Andrea was about to answer, but was interrupted by a loud, unpleasant sound, like someone clearing their throat. An old man, well into his seventies, had just entered the room. His eyes were almost hidden in a nest of wrinkles, an impression accentuated by the tiny lenses of his glasses. His head was shaved, and he sported a huge graying beard that seemed to float around his mouth like a cloud of ash. He wore a short-sleeved shirt, khaki pants, and thick black boots. He began speaking, his voice harsh and unpleasant, like the scraping of a knife against teeth, before it reached the head of the desk where a portable electronic screen was mounted. Cain's assistant sat next to him.
    
  'Ladies and gentlemen, my name is Cecil Forrester, and I am Professor of Biblical Archaeology at the University of Massachusetts. It's not the Sorbonne, but at least it's home.'
    
  There was a polite chuckle among the professor's assistants, who had heard this joke a thousand times.
    
  'You've no doubt been trying to find out the reason for this journey since you stepped aboard this ship. I hope you haven't been tempted to do so beforehand, considering that your-or should I say, our-contracts with Kayn Enterprises require absolute secrecy from the moment they're signed until our heirs rejoice in our deaths. Unfortunately, the terms of my contract also require that I let you in on the secret, which I plan to do within the next hour and a half. Don't interrupt me unless you have a reasonable question. Since Mr. Russell gave me your details, I'm familiar with every detail, from your IQ to your favorite brand of condom. As for Mr. Decker's crew, don't even bother opening your mouth.'
    
  Andrea, who was partially turned towards the professor, heard threatening whispers from the men in uniform.
    
  'That son of a bitch thinks he's smarter than everyone else. Maybe I'll make him swallow his teeth one by one.'
    
  'Silence'.
    
  The voice was soft, but it held such fury that Andrea flinched. She turned her head enough to see the voice belonged to Mogens Dekker, the scarred man who had leaned his chair against the bulkhead. The soldiers immediately fell silent.
    
  'Good. Well, now that we're all in the same place,' Cecil Forrester continued, 'I'd better introduce you to each other. Twenty-three of us have gathered together for what will be the greatest discovery of all time, and each of you will play a part in it. You already know Mr. Russell on my right. He's the one who chose you.'
    
  Cain's assistant nodded his head in greeting.
    
  To his right is Father Anthony Fowler, who will act as the Vatican's observer for the expedition. Next to him are Nuri Zayit and Rani Peterke, the cook and assistant cook. Then Robert Frick and Brian Hanley, the administration.
    
  The two cooks were older men. Zayit was thin, about sixty, with a downturned mouth, while his assistant was stocky and several years younger. Andrea couldn't accurately guess his age. Both administrators, on the other hand, were young and almost as dark as Peterke.
    
  'Besides these highly paid employees, we have my idle and sycophantic assistants. They all have degrees from expensive colleges and think they know more than me: David Pappas, Gordon Darwin, Kira Larsen, Stowe Erling, and Ezra Levin.
    
  The young archaeologists shifted uncomfortably in their chairs and tried to look professional. Andrea felt sorry for them. They must have been in their early thirties, but Forrester kept them on a tight leash, making them seem even younger and less confident than they actually were-a complete contrast to the uniformed men sitting next to the reporter.
    
  'At the other end of the table, we have Mr. Dekker and his bulldogs: the Gottlieb twins, Alois and Alrik; Tevi Waaka, Paco Torres, Marla Jackson, and Louis Maloney. They will be in charge of security, adding a high-class component to our expedition. The irony of that phrase is devastating, don't you think?'
    
  The soldiers didn't react, but Decker straightened his chair and leaned across the table.
    
  'We are heading into the border zone of an Islamic country. Given the nature of our... mission, the locals may become violent. I'm sure Professor Forrester will appreciate the level of our protection, should it come to that.' He spoke with a strong South African accent.
    
  Forrester opened his mouth to reply, but something on Decker's face must have convinced him that now was not the time for sour remarks.
    
  'To your right is Andrea Otero, our official reporter. I ask that you cooperate with her if and when she requests any information or interviews so she can tell our story to the world.'
    
  Andrea gave the people around the table a smile, which some people returned in kind.
    
  'The man with the mustache is Tommy Eichberg, our main driver. And finally, on the right, Doc Harel, our official charlatan.'
    
  "Don't worry if you can't remember everyone's names," the doctor said, raising her hand. "We're going to be spending quite a bit of time together in a place not known for its entertainment, so we'll get to know each other pretty well. Don't forget to bring the identification badge the crew left in your quarters..."
    
  "As far as I'm concerned, it doesn't matter whether you know everyone's names or not, as long as you do your job," the old professor interrupted. "Now, if you'll all turn your attention to the screen, I'm going to tell you a story."
    
  The screen lit up with computer-generated images of an ancient city. A settlement with red walls and tiled roofs, surrounded by a triple outer wall, towered over the valley. The streets were filled with people going about their daily business. Andrea was amazed by the quality of the images, worthy of a Hollywood production, but the voice narrating the documentary belonged to a professor. This guy has such a huge ego, he doesn't even notice how lousy his voice sounds, she thought. He gives me a headache. The voiceover began:
    
  Welcome to Jerusalem. It is April 70 AD. The city has been occupied for four years by rebellious Zealots, who have expelled the original inhabitants. The Romans, officially the rulers of Israel, can no longer tolerate the situation, and Rome commissions Titus to carry out decisive punishment.
    
  The peaceful scene of women filling their water vessels and children playing near the outer walls near the wells was interrupted when distant banners topped with eagles appeared on the horizon. Trumpets sounded, and the children, suddenly frightened, fled back within the walls.
    
  Within hours, the city is surrounded by four Roman legions. This is the fourth attack on the city. Its citizens repelled the previous three. This time, Titus uses a clever trick. He allows pilgrims entering Jerusalem for the Passover celebrations to cross the front lines. After the festivities, the circle closes, and Titus prevents the pilgrims from leaving. The city now has twice the population, and its food and water supplies are quickly depleted. The Roman legions launch an attack from the northern side of the city and destroy the third wall. It is now mid-May, and the city's fall is only a matter of time.
    
  The screen showed a battering ram destroying the outer wall. The priests of the temple on the city's highest hill watched the scene with tears in their eyes.
    
  The city finally falls in September, and Titus fulfills the promise he made to his father, Vespasian. Most of the city's inhabitants are executed or dispersed. Their homes are plundered, and their temple is destroyed.
    
  Surrounded by corpses, a group of Roman soldiers carried a giant menorah out of the burning temple, while their general watched from his horse, smiling.
    
  Solomon's Second Temple was burned to the ground and remains so to this day. Many of the temple's treasures were stolen. Many, but not all. After the third wall fell in May, a priest named Yirm əy áhu devised a plan to salvage at least some of the treasures. He selected a group of twenty brave men, distributing parcels to the first twelve with precise instructions on where to take the items and what to do with them. These parcels contained the more traditional temple treasures: large quantities of gold and silver.
    
  An old priest with a white beard, dressed in a black robe, talked to two young men while others waited their turn in a large stone cave lit by torches.
    
  Yirməy áhu entrusted the last eight people with a very special mission, ten times more dangerous than the rest.
    
  Holding a torch, the priest led eight men carrying a large object on a stretcher through a network of tunnels.
    
  Using secret passages beneath the temple, Yirmāy ákhu led them beyond the walls and away from the Roman army. Although this area, behind the 10th Fretensis Legion, was occasionally patrolled by Roman guards, the priest's men managed to elude them, reaching Richo, modern-day Jericho, with their heavy load the following day. And there, the trail vanished forever.
    
  The professor pressed a button and the screen went dark. He turned to the audience, who were waiting impatiently.
    
  What these men accomplished was absolutely incredible. They traveled fourteen miles, carrying a huge load, in about nine hours. And that was only the beginning of their journey.
    
  'What were they carrying, Professor?' Andrea asked.
    
  "I believe it was the most valuable treasure," Harel said.
    
  'All in good time, my dears. Yirm əy áhu returned to the city and spent the next two days writing a very special manuscript on an even more special scroll. It was a detailed map with instructions on how to retrieve the various pieces of treasure that had been salvaged from the temple... but he couldn't handle the job alone. It was a verbal map, etched onto the surface of a copper scroll nearly ten feet long.'
    
  "Why copper?" someone asked from behind.
    
  Unlike papyrus or parchment, copper is extremely durable. It is also very difficult to write on. It took five people to complete the inscription in one sitting, sometimes taking turns. When they were finished, Yirm áhu divided the document into two parts, giving the first to a messenger with instructions for its safekeeping in the Issene community who lived near Jericho. The other part he gave to his own son, one of the Kohanim, a priest like himself. We know this large part of the story firsthand because Yirm áhu wrote it down in full in copperplate. After that, all traces of it were lost for 1882.
    
  The old man paused to take a sip of water. For a moment, he no longer resembled a wrinkled, pompous puppet, but seemed more human.
    
  Ladies and gentlemen, you now know more about this story than most experts in the world. No one has figured out exactly how the manuscript was written. However, it became quite famous when a section of it surfaced in 1952 in a cave in Palestine. It was among some 85,000 fragments of text found at Qumran.
    
  "Is this the famous Qumran Copper Scroll?" asked Dr. Harel.
    
  The archaeologist turned on the screen again, which now displayed an image of the famous scroll: a curved plate of dark green metal covered in barely legible writing.
    
  'That's what it's called.' The researchers were immediately struck by the unusual nature of the discovery, both the odd choice of writing material and the inscriptions themselves-none of which could be properly deciphered. It was clear from the start that it was a treasure list, containing sixty-four items. The entries gave hints about what would be found and where. For example, "At the bottom of the cave, which is forty paces east of the Tower of Achor, dig three feet. There you will find six gold bars." But the directions were vague, and the quantities described seemed so unrealistic-something like two hundred tons of gold and silver-that "serious" researchers assumed it must be some kind of myth, a hoax, or a joke.
    
  "It seems like too much effort for a joke," said Tommy Eichberg.
    
  'Exactly! Excellent, Mr. Eichberg, excellent, especially for a driver,' said Forrester, who seemed incapable of offering the slightest compliment without an accompanying insult. 'There were no hardware stores in 70 AD. A huge plate of ninety-nine percent pure copper must have been very expensive. No one would have written a work of art on such a precious surface.' A glimmer of hope. According to the Qumran scroll, item number sixty-four was 'a text similar to this, with instructions and a code for finding the objects described.'
    
  One of the soldiers raised his hand.
    
  'So, this old man, this Ermiyatsko...'
    
  'Йирм əяху'.
    
  'Never mind. The old man cut this thing in two, and each piece held the key to finding the other?'
    
  'And they both had to be together to find the treasure. Without the second scroll, there was no hope of figuring it all out. But eight months ago, something happened...'
    
  'I'm sure your audience would prefer a shorter version, Doctor,' Father Fowler said with a smile.
    
  The old archaeologist stared at Fowler for a few seconds. Andrea noticed the professor seemed to be struggling to continue, and wondered what the hell had happened between the two men.
    
  "Yes, of course. Well, suffice it to say, the second half of the scroll has finally surfaced thanks to the Vatican's efforts. It was passed down from father to son as a sacred object. It was the family's duty to keep it safe until the appropriate time. What they did was hide it in a candle, but eventually, even they lost track of what was inside."
    
  "That doesn't surprise me. There were-what?-seventy, eighty generations? It's a miracle they kept up the tradition of protecting the candle all this time," someone sitting in front of Andrea said. It was the administrator, Brian Hanley, she thought.
    
  "We Jews are a patient people," said chef Nuri Zayit. "We have been waiting for the Messiah for three thousand years."
    
  "And you'll have to wait another three thousand," said one of Dekker's soldiers. Loud bursts of laughter and hand clapping accompanied the unpleasant joke. But no one else was laughing. From the names, Andrea guessed that, with the exception of the hired guards, almost all the expedition members were of Jewish descent. She felt the tension rising in the room.
    
  "Let's get on with it," Forrester said, ignoring the soldiers' jeers. "Yes, it was a miracle. Look at this."
    
  One of the assistants brought a wooden box about three feet long. Inside, protected by glass, was a copper plate covered in Jewish symbols. Everyone, including the soldiers, stared at the object and began commenting on it in hushed voices.
    
  'It looks almost new.'
    
  'Yes, the Copper Scroll of Qumran must be older. It is not shiny and is cut into small strips.'
    
  "The Qumran scroll appears older because it was exposed to the air," the professor explained, "and it was cut into strips because researchers couldn't find another way to open it to read the contents. The second scroll was protected from oxidation by a wax coating. That's why the text is as clear as the day it was written. Our own treasure map."
    
  'So you managed to decipher it?'
    
  "Once we had the second scroll, figuring out what the first one said was child's play. What wasn't easy was keeping the discovery secret. Please don't ask me about the details of the actual process, because I'm not authorized to reveal more, and besides, you wouldn't understand."
    
  'So, we're going in search of a pile of gold? Isn't that a bit cliche for such a pretentious expedition? Or for someone with money coming out of their ears like Mr. Cain?' Andrea asked.
    
  'Miss Otero, we're not looking for a pile of gold. In fact, we've already discovered something.'
    
  The old archaeologist signaled to one of his assistants, who spread a piece of black felt on the table and, with some effort, placed the shiny object on it. It was the largest gold ingot Andrea had ever seen: the size of a man's forearm, but roughly shaped, likely cast in some millennia-old foundry. Although its surface was dotted with small craters, bumps, and irregularities, it was beautiful. Every eye in the room was drawn to the object, and admiring whistles erupted.
    
  'Using clues from the second scroll, we discovered one of the caches described in the Copper Scroll of Qumran. This was in March of this year, somewhere in the West Bank. There were six gold bars like this one.'
    
  'How much does it cost?'
    
  'About three hundred thousand dollars...'
    
  The whistles turned into exclamations.
    
  '... but believe me, it's nothing compared to the value of what we're looking for: the most powerful object in human history.'
    
  Forrester gestured, and one of the assistants took the block but left the black felt. The archaeologist pulled a sheet of graph paper from a folder and placed it where the gold bar lay. Everyone leaned forward, eager to see what it was. They all immediately recognized the object drawn on it.
    
  'Ladies and gentlemen, you are the twenty-three people who have been chosen to return the Ark of the Covenant.'
    
    
  16
    
    
    
  On board the "hippopotamus"
    
  RED SEA
    
    
  Tuesday, July 11, 2007, 7:17 PM.
    
    
  A wave of amazement swept through the room. Everyone began talking excitedly, then peppered the archaeologist with questions.
    
  'Where is the Ark?'
    
  'What's inside...?'
    
  'How can we help...?'
    
  Andrea was shocked by her assistants' reactions, as well as her own. The words "Ark of the Covenant" had a magical ring to them, heightening the archaeological significance of discovering an object over two thousand years old.
    
  Even the interview with Cain couldn't top this. Russell was right. If we find the Ark, it will be the sensation of the century. Proof of God's existence...
    
  Her breathing quickened. Suddenly, she had hundreds of questions for Forrester, but she immediately realized there was no point in asking them. The old man had brought them this far, and now he was going to leave them there, begging for more.
    
  A great way to get us involved.
    
  As if confirming Andrea's theory, Forrester looked at the group like the cat that swallowed the canary. He gestured for them to be quiet.
    
  'That's enough for today. I don't want to give you more than your brains can handle. We'll tell you the rest when the time comes. For now, I'm going to hand over...'
    
  "One last thing, Professor," Andrea interrupted. "You said there were twenty-three of us, but I only counted twenty-two. Who's missing?"
    
  Forrester turned and consulted with Russell, who nodded that he could continue.
    
  'Number twenty-three on the expedition is Mr. Raymond Kane.'
    
  All conversations stopped.
    
  "What the hell does this mean?" asked one of the mercenary soldiers.
    
  'This means the boss is leaving on an expedition. As you all know, he boarded a few hours ago and will be traveling with us. Doesn't that seem strange to you, Mr. Torres?'
    
  "Jesus Christ, everyone says the old man is crazy," Torres replied. "It's hard enough to defend those who are sane, but the crazy ones..."
    
  Torres appeared to be from South America. He was short, thin, dark-skinned, and spoke English with a strong Latin American accent.
    
  "Torres," said a voice behind him.
    
  The soldier leaned back in his chair but didn't turn around. Decker was obviously determined to make sure his man wouldn't pry into other people's business again.
    
  Meanwhile, Forrester sat down, and Jacob Russell spoke. Andrea noticed that his white jacket was unwrinkled.
    
  Good afternoon, everyone. I want to thank Professor Cecil Forrester for his moving presentation. And on behalf of myself and Kayn Industries, I want to express my gratitude to all of you for attending. I have nothing to add, except two very important points. First, from this moment on, all communication with the outside world is strictly prohibited. This includes cell phones, email, and verbal communication. Until we complete our mission, this is your universe. In time, you will understand why this measure is necessary both to ensure the success of such a delicate mission and for our own safety.
    
  There were a few whispered complaints, but they were half-hearted. Everyone already knew what Russell had told them, because it was stipulated in the lengthy contract they had each signed.
    
  The second point is far more disturbing. A security consultant has provided us with a report, not yet confirmed, that an Islamic terrorist group is aware of our mission and is planning an attack.
    
  'What...?'
    
  '...it must be a hoax...'
    
  '... dangerous...'
    
  Cain's assistant raised his hands to calm everyone down. He was obviously prepared for a barrage of questions.
    
  'Don't be alarmed. I just want you to be vigilant and not take any unnecessary risks, much less tell anyone outside this group about our final destination. I don't know how the leak could have occurred, but believe me, we'll investigate and take appropriate action.'
    
  "Could this have come from within the Jordanian government?" Andrea asked. "A group like ours is bound to attract attention."
    
  "As far as the Jordanian government is concerned, we are a commercial expedition conducting preparatory surveys for a phosphate mine in the Al-Mudawwara area of Jordan, near the Saudi Arabian border. None of you will clear customs, so don't worry about your cover."
    
  "I'm not worried about my cover, I'm worried about terrorists," said Kira Larsen, one of Professor Forrester's assistants.
    
  "You don't have to worry about them as long as we're here to protect you," one of the soldiers flirted.
    
  "The report is unconfirmed, it's just a rumor. And rumors can't hurt you," Russell said with a broad smile.
    
  But there could be confirmation, Andrea thought.
    
    
  The meeting ended a few minutes later. Russell, Decker, Forrester, and a few others went to their cabins. Two carts with sandwiches and drinks, thoughtfully left there by a crew member, stood by the conference room door. Apparently, the expedition members had already been isolated from the rest of the crew.
    
  Those remaining in the room animatedly discussed the new information, devouring their food. Andrea had a long conversation with Dr. Harel and Tommy Eichberg while devouring roast beef sandwiches and a couple of beers.
    
  'I'm glad your appetite has returned, Andrea.'
    
  'Thanks, Doc. Unfortunately, after every meal my lungs crave nicotine.'
    
  "You'll have to smoke on deck," Tommy Eichberg said. "Smoking is prohibited inside the Behemoth. As you know..."
    
  "Mr. Cain's orders," all three chorused, laughing.
    
  'Yeah, yeah, I know. Don't worry. I'll be back in five minutes. I want to see if there's anything stronger than beer in this cart.'
    
    
  17
    
    
    
  ON BOARD THE HIPPOT
    
  RED SEA
    
    
  Tuesday, July 11, 2006, 9:41 PM.
    
    
  It was already dark on deck. Andrea emerged from the gangway and slowly made her way toward the front of the ship. She could have kicked herself for not wearing a sweater. The temperature had dropped just a bit, and a chilly wind blew through her hair, making her shiver.
    
  She pulled a crumpled pack of Camel cigarettes from one jeans pocket and a red lighter from the other. It wasn't anything special, just a refillable one with flowers stamped on it, and it probably wouldn't have cost more than seven euros at a department store, but it was her first gift from Eva.
    
  Because of the wind, it took her ten tries before she lit a cigarette. But once she succeeded, it was heavenly. Ever since she boarded the Behemoth, she'd found that smoking was practically impossible, not from lack of trying, but from seasickness.
    
  Enjoying the sound of the bow cutting through the water, the young reporter rummaged through her memory, searching for everything she could recall about the Dead Sea Scrolls and the Copper Scroll of Qumran. There wasn't much. Fortunately, Professor Forrester's assistants promised to give her a crash course so she could more clearly describe the significance of the discovery.
    
  Andrea couldn't believe her luck. The expedition was far better than she'd imagined. Even if they failed to find the Ark, and Andrea was certain they never would, her report on the second copper scroll and the discovery of part of the treasure would be enough to sell an article to any newspaper in the world.
    
  The smartest thing would be to find an agent to sell the whole story. I wonder if it would be better to sell it as an exclusive to one of the giants, like National Geographic or the New York Times, or to make multiple sales at smaller retail outlets. I'm sure that kind of money would free me from all my credit card debt, Andrea thought.
    
  She took a final drag on her cigarette and walked to the railing to toss it overboard. She tread carefully, remembering the incident that day with the low railing. As she raised her hand to throw away the cigarette, she saw a fleeting image of Dr. Harel's face, reminding her that polluting the environment was wrong.
    
  Wow, Andrea. There is hope, even for someone like you. Imagine doing the right thing when no one is looking, she thought, studding her cigarette against the wall and tucking the butt into the back pocket of her jeans.
    
  At that moment, she felt someone grab her ankles, and her world turned upside down. Her hands flailed around in the air, trying to grab onto something, but to no avail.
    
  As she fell, she thought she saw a dark figure watching her from the railing.
    
  A second later, her body fell into the water.
    
    
  18
    
    
    
  RED SEA
    
  Tuesday, July 11, 2006, 9:43 PM.
    
    
  The first thing Andrea felt was the cold water piercing her limbs. She flailed, trying to get back to the surface. It took her two seconds to realize she didn't know which way up. The air she had in her lungs was running out. She exhaled slowly to see which way the bubbles were moving, but in the complete darkness it was useless. She was losing strength, and her lungs were desperately starved for air. She knew that if she inhaled water, she would die. She clenched her teeth, vowed not to open her mouth, and tried to think.
    
  Damn. This can't be happening, not like this. It can't end like this.
    
  She moved her arms again, thinking she was swimming towards the surface, when she felt something powerful pulling her.
    
  Suddenly her face was in the air again, and she gasped. Someone was supporting her shoulder. Andrea tried to turn around.
    
  'It's simple! Breathe slowly!' Father Fowler shouted in her ear, trying to be heard over the roar of the ship's propellers. Andrea was shocked to see the force of the water pulling them closer to the back of the ship. 'Listen to me! Don't turn around yet, or we'll both die. Relax. Take off your shoes. Move your feet slowly. In fifteen seconds, we'll be in the dead water behind the ship's wake. Then I'll let you go. Swim as fast as you can!'
    
  Andrea used her feet to remove her shoes, all the while staring at the churning gray foam that threatened to suck them to their deaths. They were only forty feet from the propellers. She resisted the urge to break free of Fowler's grasp and move in the opposite direction. Her ears were ringing, and fifteen seconds felt like an eternity.
    
  'Now!' Fowler shouted.
    
  Andrea felt the suction stop. She swam away from the propellers, away from their hellish roar. Almost two minutes passed when the priest, who had been watching her closely, grabbed her arm.
    
  'We did it.'
    
  The young reporter turned her gaze to the ship. It was now quite far away, and she could only see one side of it, illuminated by several spotlights pointed at the water. They had begun their hunt.
    
  "Damn," Andrea said, struggling to stay afloat. Fowler grabbed her before she went completely under.
    
  Relax. Let me support you like I did before.
    
  "Damn," Andrea repeated, spitting out salt water as the priest supported her from behind in the standard rescue position.
    
  Suddenly, a bright light blinded her. The Behemoth's powerful searchlights had spotted them. The frigate approached them, then held its position alongside them while the sailors shouted instructions and pointed from the railing. Two of them tossed a pair of life preservers in their direction. Andrea was exhausted and chilled to the bone now that her adrenaline and fear had subsided. The sailors tossed them a rope, and Fowler wrapped it around his armpits, then tied it in a knot.
    
  "How the hell did you manage to fall overboard?" the priest asked as they were pulled up.
    
  'I didn't fall, Father. I was pushed.'
    
    
  19
    
    
    
  ANDREA AND FOWLER
    
  'Thank you. I didn't think I could do it.'
    
  Wrapped in a blanket and returned aboard, Andrea was still shivering. Fowler sat next to her, watching her with a concerned expression. The sailors left the deck, mindful of the ban on speaking to expedition members.
    
  'You have no idea how lucky we were. The propellers were turning very slowly. An Anderson turn, if I'm not mistaken.'
    
  'What are you talking about?'
    
  "I came out of my cabin for some fresh air and heard you making your evening dive, so I grabbed the nearest ship's phone, yelled 'Man overboard, port,' and dived after you. The ship had to make a full circle, which is called an Anderson turn, but it had to be to port, not starboard."
    
  'Because...?'
    
  'Because if the turn is made in the opposite direction from where the person fell, the propellers will chop him into mincemeat. That's what almost happened to us.'
    
  'Somehow, becoming fish food wasn't part of my plans.'
    
  'Are you sure about what you told me earlier?'
    
  'As sure as I know my mother's name.'
    
  'Did you see who pushed you?'
    
  'I saw only a dark shadow.'
    
  'Then, if what you say is true, the ship turning to starboard instead of port was not an accident either...'
    
  'Perhaps they heard you wrong, Father.'
    
  Fowler paused for a moment before answering.
    
  "Miss Otero, please tell no one of your suspicions. When asked, simply say you fell. If it's true that someone on board is trying to kill you, reveal it now..."
    
  '... I would have warned the bastard.'
    
  "Exactly," Fowler said.
    
  "Don't worry, Father. These Armani shoes cost me two hundred euros," Andrea said, her lips still trembling slightly. "I want to catch the son of a bitch who sent them to the bottom of the Red Sea."
    
    
  20
    
    
    
  APARTMENT OF TAHIR IBN FARIS
    
  AMMAN, Jordan
    
    
  Wednesday, July 12, 2006. 1:32 AM.
    
    
  Tahir entered his house in the dark, trembling with fear. An unfamiliar voice called out to him from the living room.
    
  'Come in, Tahir.'
    
  It took all the official's courage to cross the hallway and head into the small living room. He searched for the light switch, but it didn't work. Then he felt a hand grab his arm and twist it, forcing him to his knees. A voice came from the shadows somewhere in front of him.
    
  'You have sinned, Tahir.'
    
  'No. No, please, sir. I have always lived by taqwa, honestly. Westerners have tempted me many times, and I never gave in. That was my only mistake, sir.'
    
  'So you're saying you're honest?'
    
  'Yes, sir. I swear by Allah.'
    
  "And yet you allowed the Kafirun, the infidels, to possess part of our land."
    
  The one who was twisting his arm increased the pressure, and Tahir let out a muffled cry.
    
  'Don't shout, Tahir. If you love your family, don't shout.'
    
  Tahir raised his other hand to his mouth and bit hard on the sleeve of his jacket. The pressure continued to build.
    
  There was a terrible dry crackling sound.
    
  Tahir fell, crying quietly. His right arm hung from his body like a stuffed sock.
    
  'Bravo, Tahir. Congratulations.'
    
  'Please, sir. I have followed your instructions. No one will approach the excavation site for the next few weeks.'
    
  'Are you sure about this?'
    
  'Yes, sir. Nobody ever goes there anyway.'
    
  'And the desert police?'
    
  'The nearest road is just a highway about four miles from here. The police only visit this area two or three times a year. When the Americans set up camp, they'll be yours, I swear.'
    
  'Well done, Tahir. You've done a good job.'
    
  At that moment, someone turned the power back on, and the light came on in the living room. Tahir looked up from the floor, and what he saw made his blood run cold.
    
  His daughter Miesha and wife Zaina were bound and gagged on the sofa. But that wasn't what shocked Tahir. His family had been in the same state when he'd left five hours earlier to comply with the hooded men's demands.
    
  What filled him with horror was that the men no longer wore hoods.
    
  'You're welcome, sir,' said Tahir.
    
  The official returned hoping that everything would be alright. That the bribe from his American friends wouldn't be discovered, and that the hooded men would leave him and his family alone. Now that hope has evaporated like a drop of water on a hot frying pan.
    
  Tahir avoided the gaze of the man sitting between his wife and daughter, their eyes red from crying.
    
  'Please, sir,' he repeated.
    
  The man had something in his hand. A pistol. At the end of it was an empty plastic Coca-Cola bottle. Tahir knew exactly what it was: a primitive but effective silencer.
    
  The bureaucrat could not control his trembling.
    
  "You have nothing to worry about, Tahir," the man said, leaning down to whisper in his ear. "Hasn't Allah prepared a place in Paradise for honest people?"
    
  There was a light report, like the crack of a whip. Two more shots followed within minutes of each other. Installing a new bottle and securing it with duct tape takes little time.
    
    
  21
    
    
    
  ON BOARD THE HIPPOT
    
  GULF OF AQABAH, RED SEA
    
    
  Wednesday, July 12, 2006. 9:47 PM.
    
    
  Andrea woke up in the ship's sickbay, a large room with a couple of beds, several glass cabinets, and a desk. A worried Dr. Harel had forced Andrea to spend the night there. She must have slept little, because when Andrea opened her eyes, she was already sitting at the desk, reading a book and sipping coffee. Andrea yawned loudly.
    
  'Good morning, Andrea. You miss my beautiful country.'
    
  Andrea rose from the bed, rubbing her eyes. The only thing she could clearly discern was the coffee maker on the table. The doctor watched her, amused by the way the caffeine was working its magic on the reporter.
    
  "Your beautiful country?" Andrea said when she could speak. "Are we in Israel?"
    
  'Technically, we're in Jordanian waters. Come on deck and I'll show you.'
    
  As they emerged from the infirmary, Andrea sank into the morning sun. The day promised to be hot. She took a deep breath and stretched in her pajamas. The doctor leaned against the ship's railing.
    
  "Be careful you don't fall overboard again," she teased.
    
  Andrea shuddered, realizing how lucky she was to be alive. Last night, with all the excitement of the rescue and the shame of having to lie and say she'd fallen overboard, she truly hadn't had the opportunity to be afraid. But now, in the light of day, the sound of the propellers and the memory of the cold, dark water flashed through her mind like a waking nightmare. She tried to focus on how beautiful everything had looked from the ship.
    
  The Behemoth was slowly heading toward some piers, towed by a tugboat from the port of Aqaba. Harel pointed to the ship's bow.
    
  This is Aqaba, Jordan. And this is Eilat, Israel. Look how the two cities face each other, like mirror images.
    
  "That's great. But that's not the only thing..."
    
  Harel blushed slightly and looked away.
    
  "You can't really appreciate it from the water," she continued, "but if we had flown in, you could have seen how the gulf outlines the coastline. Aqaba occupies the eastern corner, and Eilat the western.
    
  'Now that you mention it, why didn't we fly?'
    
  Because officially, this isn't an archaeological dig. Mr. Cain wants to recover the Ark and bring it back to the United States. Jordan would never agree to that under any circumstances. Our cover story is that we're looking for phosphates, so we arrived by sea, just like other companies. Hundreds of tons of phosphate are shipped daily from Aqaba to locations around the world. We're a humble exploration team. And we carry our own vehicles in the ship's hold.
    
  Andrea nodded thoughtfully. She enjoyed the tranquility of the coastline. She glanced toward Eilat. Pleasure boats floated on the waters near the city, like white doves around a green nest.
    
  'I've never been to Israel.'
    
  "You should go sometime," Harel said, smiling sadly. "It's a beautiful land. Like a garden of fruits and flowers, torn from the blood and sand of the desert."
    
  The reporter observed the doctor closely. Her curly hair and tanned complexion were even more beautiful in the light, as if any minor imperfections she might have had were softened by the sight of her homeland.
    
  'I think I see what you mean, Doc.'
    
  Andrea pulled a crumpled pack of Camels from her pajama pocket and lit a cigarette.
    
  'You shouldn't have fallen asleep with them in your pocket.'
    
  'And I shouldn't smoke, drink, or sign up for expeditions that are threatened by terrorists.'
    
  'Obviously we have more in common than you think.'
    
  Andrea stared at Harel, trying to understand what she meant. The doctor reached out and took a cigarette from the pack.
    
  'Wow, Doc. You have no idea how happy this makes me.'
    
  'Why?'
    
  'I like to see doctors who smoke. It's like a chink in their smug armor.'
    
  Harel laughed.
    
  'I like you. That's why it bothers me to see you in this damn situation.'
    
  "What's the situation?" Andrea asked, raising an eyebrow.
    
  'I'm talking about yesterday's attempt on your life.'
    
  The reporter's cigarette froze halfway to his mouth.
    
  'Who told you?'
    
  'Fowler'.
    
  'Does anyone else know?'
    
  'No, but I'm glad he told me.'
    
  "I'm going to kill him," Andrea said, crushing her cigarette on the railing. "You have no idea how embarrassed I was when everyone was looking at me..."
    
  'I know he told you not to tell anyone. But believe me, my case is a little different.'
    
  'Look at this idiot. She can't even keep her balance!'
    
  'Well, that's not entirely untrue. Remember?'
    
  Andrea was embarrassed by the reminder of the previous day, when Harel had to grab her by the shirt just before the BA-160 appeared.
    
  "Don't worry," Harel continued. "Fowler told me this for a reason."
    
  'Only he knows. I don't trust him, Doc. We've encountered each other before...'
    
  'And then he saved your life too.'
    
  'I see you were informed of this as well. While we're on the subject, how the hell did he manage to get me out of the water?'
    
  Fowler's father was an officer in the United States Air Force, part of an elite special forces unit specializing in pararescue.
    
  'I've heard of them: they go out to find downed pilots, don't they?'
    
  Harel nodded.
    
  'I think he likes you, Andrea. Maybe you remind him of someone.'
    
  Andrea looked at Harel thoughtfully. There was some connection she couldn't quite grasp, and she was determined to find it. More than ever, Andrea was convinced that her report on a lost relic or her interview with one of the world's most bizarre and elusive multimillionaires were only part of the equation. To top it all off, she'd been thrown into the sea from a moving ship.
    
  I'll be damned if I can figure this out, the reporter thought. I have no idea what's going on, but the key must be Fowler and Harel... and how much they're willing to tell me.
    
  'You seem to know a lot about him.'
    
  'Well, Father Fowler loves to travel.'
    
  'Let's be a little more specific, Doc. The world is a big place.'
    
  'Not the one he moves in. You know he knew my father?'
    
  "He was an extraordinary man," Father Fowler said.
    
  Both women turned around to see the priest standing a few steps behind them.
    
  "Have you been here long?" Andrea asked. A stupid question that only showed you'd told someone something you didn't want them to know. Father Fowler ignored it. He had a serious expression.
    
  'We have urgent work,' he said.
    
    
  22
    
    
    
  NETCATCH OFFICES
    
  SOMERSET AVENUE, WASHINGTON, D.C.
    
    
  Wednesday, July 12, 2006. 1:59 AM.
    
    
  A CIA agent led a shocked Orville Watson through the reception area of his burned-out office. Smoke still hung in the air, but worse was the smell of soot, dirt, and burned bodies. The wall-to-wall carpeting was at least an inch deep in dirty water.
    
  'Be careful, Mr. Watson. We've cut off the power to avoid short circuits. We'll have to find our way with flashlights.'
    
  Using the powerful beams of their flashlights, Orville and the agent walked between the rows of desks. The young man couldn't believe his eyes. Every time the beam of light fell on an overturned table, a soot-blackened face, or a smoldering trash can, he wanted to cry. These people were his employees. This was his life. Meanwhile, the agent-Orville thought it was the same one who had called him on his cell phone as soon as he got off the plane, but he wasn't sure-explained every horrific detail of the attack. Orville silently clenched his teeth.
    
  'Armed men entered through the main entrance, shot the administrator, cut the telephone lines, and then opened fire on everyone else. Unfortunately, all your employees were at their desks. There were seventeen of them, is that correct?'
    
  Orville nodded. His horrified gaze fell on Olga's amber necklace. She worked in accounting. He'd given her the necklace for her birthday two weeks ago. The torchlight gave it an unearthly glow. In the darkness, he couldn't even recognize her scorched hands, which were now curved like claws.
    
  They killed them one by one in cold blood. Your people had no way out. The only way out was through the front door, and the office was... what? One hundred and fifty square meters? There was nowhere to hide.
    
  Of course. Orville loved open spaces. The entire office was one transparent space, made of glass, steel, and wenge, a dark African wood. There were no doors or cubicles, just light.
    
  'After they were done, they placed a bomb in the closet at the far end and another one by the entrance. Homemade explosives; nothing particularly powerful, but enough to set everything on fire.'
    
  Computer terminals. Millions of dollars' worth of equipment and millions of incredibly valuable pieces of information collected over the years, all lost. Last month, he'd upgraded his backup storage to Blu-ray discs. They'd used nearly two hundred discs, over 10 terabytes of information, which they'd been storing in a fireproof cabinet... which now lay open and empty. How the hell did they know where to look?
    
  "They detonated the bombs using cell phones. We think the whole operation took no more than three minutes, four at most. By the time someone called the police, they were long gone."
    
  The office was in a one-story building, in a neighborhood far from the city center, surrounded by small businesses and a Starbucks. It was the perfect location for the operation-no fuss, no suspicion, no witnesses.
    
  The first agents to arrive cordoned off the area and called the fire department. They kept the spies away until our damage control team arrived. We told everyone there had been a gas explosion and one person had died. We don't want anyone to know what happened here today.
    
  It could have been any one of a thousand different groups. Al-Qaeda, the Al-Aqsa Martyrs' Brigade, IBDA-C... any of them, having learned of Netcatch's true purpose, would have made its destruction a priority. Because Netcatch had exposed their weak point: their communications. But Orville suspected this attack had deeper, more mysterious roots: his latest project for Kayn Industries. And a name. A very, very dangerous name.
    
  Hakan.
    
  'You were very lucky to be traveling, Mr. Watson. In any case, you needn't worry. You will be placed under the full protection of the CIA.'
    
  Hearing this, Orville spoke for the first time since he had entered the office.
    
  'Your fucking protection is like a first-class ticket to the morgue. Don't even think about following me. I'm going to disappear for a couple of months.'
    
  "I can't let that happen, sir," the agent said, stepping back and placing his hand on his holster. With his other hand, he pointed the flashlight at Orville's chest. The colorful shirt Orville wore contrasted with the burned-out office like a clown at a Viking funeral.
    
  'What are you talking about?'
    
  'Sir, people from Langley would like to speak to you.'
    
  'I should have known. They're willing to pay me vast sums of money; willing to insult the memory of the men and women who died here by making it look like some fucking accident, not murder at the hands of enemies of our country. What they don't want to do is shut down the information flow, do they, Agent?' Orville insisted. 'Even if it means risking my life.'
    
  'I know nothing about this, sir. My orders are to deliver you to Langley safely. Please cooperate.'
    
  Orville lowered his head and took a deep breath.
    
  'Great. I'll go with you. What else can I do?'
    
  The agent smiled with visible relief and moved the flashlight away from Orville.
    
  'You have no idea how glad I am to hear that, sir. I wouldn't want to have to take you away in handcuffs. Anyway-'
    
  The agent realized what was happening too late. Orville had fallen on him with all his weight. Unlike the agent, the young Californian had no training in hand-to-hand combat. He wasn't a triple black belt, and he didn't know the five different ways to kill a man with his bare hands. The most brutal thing Orville had ever done in his life was spend time playing with his PlayStation.
    
  But there's little you can do against 240 pounds of pure desperation and rage when they slam you into an overturned table. The agent crashed onto the table, breaking it in two. He turned, trying to reach his pistol, but Orville was faster. Leaning over him, Orville hit him in the face with his flashlight. The agent's arms went limp, and he froze.
    
  Suddenly frightened, Orville raised his hands to his face. This had gone too far. No more than a couple of hours ago, he had stepped off a private jet, master of his own destiny. Now he had attacked a CIA agent, perhaps even killed him.
    
  A quick check of the agent's pulse on his neck told him he hadn't done it. Thank heavens for small mercies.
    
  Okay, now think. You need to get out of here. Find a safe place. And above all, stay calm. Don't let them catch you.
    
  With his huge frame, ponytail, and Hawaiian shirt, Orville wouldn't have gotten far. He walked to the window and began to formulate a plan. Several firefighters were drinking water and sinking their teeth into orange slices near the door. Just what he needed. He calmly walked out the door and headed for the nearby fence, where the firefighters had left their jackets and helmets, too heavy in the heat. The men were busy joking, standing with their backs to their clothes. Praying the firefighters wouldn't notice him, Orville grabbed one of the coats and his helmet, retraced his steps, and headed back to the office.
    
  'Hello, buddy!'
    
  Orville turned around anxiously.
    
  'Are you talking to me?'
    
  "Of course I'm talking to you," said one of the firefighters. "Where do you think you're going with my coat?"
    
  Answer him, dude. Come up with something. Something convincing.
    
  'We need to look at the server and the agent said we need to take precautions.'
    
  'Didn't your mother ever teach you to ask for things before you borrow them?'
    
  'I'm really sorry. Could you lend me your coat?'
    
  The fireman relaxed and smiled.
    
  "Sure, man. Let's see if this is your size," he said, opening his coat. Orville shoved his arms into the sleeves. The fireman buttoned it and put on his helmet. Orville wrinkled his nose for a moment at the combined smells of sweat and soot.
    
  'It fits perfectly. Right, guys?'
    
  "He'd look like a real fireman if it weren't for the sandals," another crew member said, pointing to Orville's feet. They all laughed.
    
  'Thank you. Thank you very much. But let me buy you a glass of juice to make up for my bad manners. What do you say?'
    
  They gave him a thumbs-up and nodded as Orville walked away. Beyond the barrier they'd erected five hundred feet away, Orville saw a couple dozen spectators and a few television cameras-just a few-trying to capture the scene. From this distance, the fire must have looked like nothing more than a boring gas explosion, so he assumed they'd be gone soon. He doubted the incident would make more than a minute of the evening news; not even half a column in tomorrow's Washington Post. Right now, he had a more pressing concern: getting out of there.
    
  Everything will be fine until you run into another CIA agent. So just smile. Smile.
    
  "Hello, Bill," he said, nodding to the policeman guarding the cordoned-off area as if he had known him all his life.
    
  'I'm going to get some juice for the boys.'
    
  'I'm Mac.'
    
  'Okay, sorry. I mistook you for someone else.'
    
  'You're from fifty-four, right?
    
  'No, Eight. I'm Stewart,' Orville said, pointing to the Velcro name badge on his chest and praying the policeman wouldn't notice his shoes.
    
  "Go ahead," the man said, pushing the "Do Not Cross" barrier back a little so Orville could pass. "Get me something to eat, will you, buddy?"
    
  "No problem!" Orville replied, leaving the smoking ruins of his office behind and disappearing into the crowd.
    
    
  23
    
    
    
  ON BOARD THE HIPPOT
    
  PORT OF AQABAH, JORDAN
    
    
  Wednesday, July 12, 2006. 10:21 AM.
    
    
  "I won't do it," Andrea said. "It's crazy."
    
  Fowler shook his head and looked to Harel for support. This was the third time he'd tried to convince the reporter.
    
  "Listen to me, my dear," the doctor said, squatting down next to Andrea, who was sitting on the floor against the wall, her legs held close to her body with her left arm and nervously smoking with her right. "As Father Fowler told you last night, your accident is proof that someone has infiltrated the expedition. Why they targeted you in particular eludes me..."
    
  'It may escape you, but it is of the utmost importance to me,' Andrea murmured.
    
  '...but what's important to us now is to get our hands on the same information Russell has. He's not going to share it with us, that's for sure. And that's why we need you to take a look at these files.'
    
  'Why can't I just steal them from Russell?'
    
  'Two reasons. First, because Russell and Cain sleep in the same cabin, which is under constant surveillance. And second, because even if you managed to get in, their quarters are huge, and Russell probably has papers everywhere. He brought with him quite a bit of work to continue running Cain's empire.'
    
  'Okay, but that monster... I saw the way it looked at me. I don't want to get close to it.'
    
  "Mr. Dekker can recite all of Schopenhauer's works from memory. Perhaps that will give you something to talk about," Fowler said in one of his rare attempts at humor.
    
  "Father, you're not helping," Harel scolded him.
    
  'What's he talking about, Doc?' Andrea asked.
    
  'Decker quotes Schopenhauer whenever he gets worked up. He's famous for it.'
    
  'I thought he was famous for eating barbed wire for breakfast. Can you imagine what he would do to me if he caught me snooping around his cabin? I'm out of here.'
    
  "Andrea," Harel said, grabbing her hand. "From the very beginning, Father Fowler and I were concerned about you participating in this expedition. We were hoping to convince you to come up with some excuse to resign once we docked. Unfortunately, now that they've told us the purpose of the expedition, no one will be allowed to leave."
    
  Damn it! Locked in with the exclusive insider's view of my life. A life I hope won't be too short.
    
  "You're in this whether you want to or not, Miss Otero," Fowler said. "Neither the doctor nor I can go near Decker's cabin. They're watching us too closely. But you can. It's a small cabin, and he won't have much in it. We're confident the only files in his quarters are the mission briefing. They should be black with a gold logo on the cover. Decker works for a security detail called DX5."
    
  Andrea thought for a moment. No matter how much she feared Mogens Dekker, the fact that there was a killer on board wouldn't go away if she simply looked the other way and continued writing her story, hoping for the best. She had to be pragmatic, and teaming up with Harel and Father Fowler wasn't a bad idea.
    
  As long as it serves my purpose and they don't get between my camera and the Ark.
    
  'Fine. But I hope that Cro-Magnon doesn't cut me into little pieces, otherwise I'll come back as a ghost and haunt you both, damn it.'
    
    
  Andrea headed toward the middle of Aisle 7. The plan was simple: Harel found Decker near the bridge and occupied him with questions about vaccinations for his soldiers. Fowler was to keep watch on the stairs between the first and second decks-Decker's cabin was on the second level. Incredibly, his door was unlocked.
    
  Self-righteous bastard, Andrea thought.
    
  The small, bare cabin was almost identical to her own. A narrow bunk, tightly made up, military style.
    
  Just like my dad. Fucking militaristic assholes.
    
  A metal cabinet, a small bathroom, and a desk with a stack of black folders on it.
    
  Bingo. That was easy.
    
  She reached out to them when a silky voice almost made her spit out her heart.
    
  'So, so. To what do I owe this honor?'
    
    
  24
    
    
    
  On Board the Hippopotamus
    
  BERTHS OF THE PORT OF AQABAH, JORDAN
    
    
  Wednesday, July 12, 2006. 11:32 AM.
    
    
  Andrea tried her best not to scream. Instead, she turned around with a smile on her face.
    
  'Hello, Mr. Decker. Or is it Colonel Decker? I've been looking for you.'
    
  The hired hand was so big and stood so close to Andrea that she had to tilt her head back to avoid talking to his neck.
    
  "Mr. Decker is fine. Did you need something... Andrea?"
    
  Make an excuse and make it a good one, Andrea thought, smiling broadly.
    
  "I came to apologize for showing up yesterday afternoon when you were seeing Mr. Cain off his plane."
    
  Decker limited himself to a grumble. The brute was blocking the door to the small cabin, so close that Andrea could see more clearly than she'd liked the reddish scar on his face, his chestnut hair, blue eyes, and two-day stubble. The smell of his cologne was overpowering.
    
  I can't believe it, he uses Armani. By the liter.
    
  'Well, say something.'
    
  'You're saying something, Andrea. Or haven't you come to apologize?'
    
  Andrea suddenly remembered the cover of National Geographic, where a cobra was looking at a guinea pig she had seen.
    
  'I'm sorry'.
    
  'No problem. Luckily, your friend Fowler saved the day. But you must be careful. Almost all of our sorrows stem from our relationships with other people.'
    
  Decker took a step forward. Andrea retreated.
    
  'This is very profound. Schopenhauer?'
    
  'Ah, you know the classics. Or are you getting lessons on the ship?'
    
  'I've always been self-taught.'
    
  'Well, a great teacher said, "A person's face usually says more and more interesting things than their mouth." And your face looks guilty.'
    
  Andrea glanced sideways at the files, though she immediately regretted it. She had to avoid suspicion, even if it was too late.
    
  'The Great Teacher also said: "Every person mistakes the boundaries of his own field of vision for the boundaries of the world."'
    
  Decker showed his teeth and smiled with satisfaction.
    
  'That's right. I think you'd better go and get ready - we're heading ashore in about an hour.'
    
  'Yes, of course. Excuse me,' Andrea said, trying to move past him.
    
  At first, Decker didn't move, but eventually he moved the brick wall of his body, allowing the reporter to slip through the space between the table and himself.
    
  Andrea will always remember what happened next as a ruse on her part, a brilliant trick to get the information she needed right from under the South African's nose. The reality was more prosaic.
    
  She tripped.
    
  The young woman's left leg caught on Decker's left foot, which didn't budge an inch. Andrea lost her balance and fell forward, bracing her hands on the table to keep from hitting her face on the edge. The contents of the folders spilled onto the floor.
    
  Andrea looked at the ground in shock and then at Decker, who was staring at her, smoke billowing from his nose.
    
  'Oops'.
    
    
  '...so I stuttered out an apology and ran out. You should have seen the way he looked at me. I'll never forget it.'
    
  "I'm sorry I couldn't stop him," Father Fowler said, shaking his head. "He must have come down some service hatch from the bridge."
    
  The three of them were in the infirmary, Andrea was sitting on the bed, Fowler and Harel were looking at her with concern.
    
  'I didn't even hear him come in. It seems incredible that someone his size could move so quietly. And all that effort for nothing. Anyway, thank you for the Schopenhauer quote, Father.' For a moment, he was speechless.
    
  'You're welcome. He's a rather boring philosopher. It was hard to come up with a decent aphorism.'
    
  'Andrea, do you remember anything you saw when the folders fell to the floor?' Harel interrupted.
    
  Andrea closed her eyes, concentrating.
    
  'There were photos of the desert, plans for what looked like houses... I don't know. Everything was a mess, and there were notes everywhere. The only folder that looked different was yellow with a red logo.'
    
  'What did the logo look like?'
    
  'What difference would it make?'
    
  'You would be surprised how many wars are won over minor details.'
    
  Andrea focused again. She had an excellent memory, but she'd only glanced at the scattered sheets for a few seconds and was in shock. She pressed her fingers to the bridge of her nose, squinted, and made strange, soft sounds. Just when she thought she couldn't remember, an image appeared in her mind.
    
  'It was a red bird. An owl, because of the eyes. Its wings were spread out.'
    
  Fowler smiled.
    
  'This is unusual. This might help.'
    
  The priest opened his briefcase and pulled out a cell phone. He pulled out its thick antenna and began to turn it on, while the two women watched in amazement.
    
  'I thought all contact with the outside world was forbidden,' Andrea said.
    
  "That's right," Harel said. "He'll be in real trouble if he gets caught."
    
  Fowler peered intently at the screen, waiting for the news report. It was a Globalstar satellite phone; it didn't use conventional signals, but instead connected directly to a network of communications satellites whose range covered approximately 99 percent of the Earth's surface.
    
  "That's why it's important we check something today, Miss Otero," the priest said, dialing a number from memory. "We're currently near a large city, so the ship's signal will go unnoticed among all the others from Aqaba. Once we reach the excavation site, using any phone will be extremely risky."
    
  'But what...
    
  Fowler interrupted Andrea with a raised finger. The challenge was accepted.
    
  'Albert, I need a favor.'
    
    
  25
    
    
    
  SOMEWHERE IN FAIRFAX COUNTY, VIRGINIA
    
  Wednesday, July 12, 2006. 5:16 AM.
    
    
  The young priest jumped out of bed, half-asleep. He immediately realized who it was. This cell phone only rang in emergencies. It had a different ringtone than the others he used, and only one person had the number. The person for whom Father Albert would have given his life without a second thought.
    
  Of course, Father Albert wasn't always Father Albert. Twelve years ago, when he was fourteen, his name was FrodoPoison, and he was America's most notorious cybercriminal.
    
  Young Al was a lonely boy. His parents both worked and were too busy with their careers to pay much attention to their skinny, blond son, even though he was so frail they had to keep the windows closed in case a draft blew him away. But Albert didn't need a draft to soar through cyberspace.
    
  "There's no way to explain his talent," the FBI agent handling the case said after his arrest. "He wasn't trained. When a kid looks at a computer, he doesn't see a device made of copper, silicon, and plastic. He just sees doors."
    
  Let's start with the fact that Albert opened quite a few of these doors simply for fun. Among them were secure virtual vaults of Chase Manhattan Bank, Mitsubishi Tokyo Financial Group, and BNP, the Banque Nationale de Paris. In the three weeks of his short criminal career, he stole $893 million by hacking into bank programs and redirecting the money as loan fees to a non-existent intermediary bank called Albert M. Bank in the Cayman Islands. It was a bank with a single client. Of course, naming a bank after himself wasn't the most brilliant move, but Albert was barely a teenager. He discovered his mistake when two SWAT teams burst into his parents' house during dinner, ruining the living room carpet and stepping on his tail.
    
  Albert would never have known what went on in a prison cell, proving the adage that the more you steal, the better you're treated. But while he was handcuffed in the FBI interrogation room, the meager knowledge he'd acquired about the American prison system from watching television continued to swirl around in his head. Albert had a vague notion that prison was a place where you could rot, where you could be somonized. And while he wasn't sure what the second thing meant, he guessed it would hurt.
    
  The FBI agents looked at this vulnerable, broken child and sweated uncomfortably. This boy had shocked many people. Tracking him down was incredibly difficult, and if not for his childhood mistake, he would have continued to fleece megabanks. Corporate bankers, of course, had no interest in the case going to court and the public learning what had happened. Incidents like this always made investors nervous.
    
  "What are you doing with a fourteen-year-old nuclear bomb?" asked one of the agents.
    
  "Teach him not to explode," replied the other.
    
  And that's why they handed the case over to the CIA, which could utilize such a raw talent as his. To talk to the boy, they awakened an agent who had fallen out of favor within the Company in 1994, a mature Air Force chaplain with a background in psychology.
    
  When a sleepy Fowler walked into the interrogation room early one morning and told Albert he had a choice: spend time behind bars or work six hours a week for the government, the boy was so happy he broke down and cried.
    
  Being the nanny of this boy genius was imposed on Fowler as a punishment, but for him, it was a gift. Over time, they developed an unbreakable friendship based on mutual admiration, which in Albert's case led to his conversion to the Catholic faith and, ultimately, to seminary. After his ordination as a priest, Albert continued to collaborate with the CIA from time to time, but, like Fowler, he did so on behalf of the Holy Alliance, the Vatican's intelligence service. From the very beginning, Albert became accustomed to receiving calls from Fowler in the middle of the night, partly as payback for that night in 1994 when they first met.
    
    
  'Hello, Anthony.'
    
  'Albert, I need a favor.'
    
  'Do you ever call at your usual time?'
    
  'Watch therefore, for you do not know what hour...'
    
  "Don't get on my nerves, Anthony," said the young priest, walking over to the refrigerator. "I'm tired, so talk quickly. Are you in Jordan yet?"
    
  'Did you know about the security service whose logo features a red owl with outstretched wings?'
    
  Albert poured himself a glass of cold milk and returned to the bedroom.
    
  'Are you kidding? That's the Netcatch logo. These guys were the new gurus for the Company. They won a significant portion of the CIA's intelligence contracts for the Islamic Terrorism Directorate. They also consulted for several private American firms.'
    
  'Why do you talk about them in the past tense, Albert?'
    
  The company issued an internal bulletin a few hours ago. Yesterday, a terrorist group blew up Netcatch's offices in Washington, killing all staff. The media knows nothing about it. They're blaming it on a gas explosion. The company has received a lot of criticism for all the counterterrorism work they've been doing under contract with private entities. This kind of work would leave them vulnerable.
    
  'Are there any survivors?'
    
  "Just one, someone named Orville Watson, the CEO and owner. After the attack, Watson told agents he didn't need protection from the CIA, then fled. The brass at Langley are very angry at the idiot who let him get away. Finding Watson and placing him under protective custody is a priority."
    
  Fowler was silent for a moment. Albert, accustomed to his friend's long pauses, waited.
    
  "Look, Albert," Fowler continued, "we're in a bind, and Watson knows something. You have to find him before the CIA does. His life is in danger. And what's worse, ours is."
    
    
  26
    
    
    
  On the Road to the Excavations
    
  AL-MUDAWWARA DESERT, JORDAN
    
    
  Wednesday, July 12, 2006, 4:15 PM.
    
    
  It would be an exaggeration to call the ribbon of solid ground across which the expedition convoy moved a road. Viewed from one of the cliffs dominating the desert landscape, the eight vehicles must have seemed little more than dusty anomalies. The journey from Aqaba to the excavation site was just over a hundred miles, but it took the convoy five hours due to the uneven terrain, combined with the dust and sand kicked up by each subsequent vehicle, resulting in zero visibility for the drivers following them.
    
  At the head of the convoy were two Hummer H3 utility vehicles, each carrying four passengers. Painted white with an exposed red Kayn Industries hand on the doors, these vehicles were part of a limited series designed specifically for operation in the harshest conditions on earth.
    
  "That's one hell of a truck," said Tommy Eichberg, driving the second H3, to a bored Andrea. "I wouldn't call it a truck. It's a tank. It can climb a fifteen-inch wall or climb a sixty-degree slope."
    
  "I'm sure it's worth more than my apartment," the reporter said. Due to the dust, she couldn't take any photos of the landscape, so she limited herself to a few candid shots of Stowe Erling and David Pappas, who were sitting behind her.
    
  'Almost three hundred thousand euros. As long as this car has enough fuel, it can handle anything.'
    
  "That's why we brought the tankers, right?" David said.
    
  He was a young man with olive skin, a slightly flattened nose, and a narrow forehead. Whenever he widened his eyes in surprise-which he did quite often-his eyebrows almost touched his hairline. Andrea liked him, unlike Stowe, who, despite being tall and attractive, with a neat ponytail, acted like something out of a self-help manual.
    
  "Of course, David," Stowe replied. "You shouldn't ask questions you already know the answer to. Assertiveness, remember? That's the key."
    
  "You're very confident when the professor isn't around, Stowe," David said, sounding slightly offended. "You didn't seem so assertive this morning when he was correcting your grades."
    
  Stowe lifted his chin, making a "can you believe this?" gesture at Andrea, who ignored him and busied herself with replacing the memory cards in her camera. Each 4GB card held enough space for 600 high-resolution photos. Once each card was full, Andrea transferred the images to a special portable hard drive, which could store 12,000 photos and featured a seven-inch LCD screen for previewing. She would have preferred to bring her laptop, but only Forrester's team was allowed to bring theirs on the expedition.
    
  'How much fuel do we have, Tommy?' Andrea asked, turning to the driver.
    
  Eichberg stroked his mustache thoughtfully. Andrea was amused by how slowly he spoke and how every other sentence began with a long 'S-h-e-l-l-l-l-l.'
    
  'The two trucks behind us are carrying supplies. Russian Kamaz, military grade. Tough stuff. The Russians tried them in Afghanistan. Well... after that, we have tankers. The one with water holds 10,500 gallons. The one with gasoline is a little smaller, holding just over 9,000 gallons.'
    
  'That's a lot of fuel.'
    
  'Well, we're going to be here for a few weeks and we need electricity.'
    
  'We can always go back to the ship. You know... to send more supplies.'
    
  'Well, that's not going to happen. The orders are: once we get to the camp, we're forbidden from communicating with the outside world. No contact with the outside world, period.'
    
  'What if there's an emergency?' Andrea said nervously.
    
  "We're pretty self-sufficient. We could have survived for months on what we brought with us, but every aspect was taken into account in the planning. I know because, as the official driver and mechanic, I was responsible for overseeing the loading of all the vehicles. Dr. Harel has a proper hospital there. And, well, if there's anything more to it than a sprained ankle, we're only forty-five miles from the nearest town, Al-Mudawwara."
    
  'That's a relief. How many people live there? Twelve?'
    
  'Did they teach you this attitude in journalism class?' Stowe interjected from the back seat.
    
  'Yes, it's called Sarcasm 101.'
    
  'I bet that was your best topic.'
    
  Smart ass. I hope you have a stroke while you're digging. Then let's see what you think about getting sick in the middle of the Jordanian desert, thought Andrea, who never got high grades in anything at school. Insulted, she maintained a dignified silence for a while.
    
    
  "Welcome to South Jordan, my friends," Tommy said cheerfully. "The Simun's house. Population: zero."
    
  'What is a simun, Tommy?' Andrea said.
    
  'A giant sandstorm. You have to see it to believe it. Yeah, we're almost there.'
    
  The H3 slowed down and trucks began to line up at the side of the road.
    
  "I think this is the turnoff," Tommy said, pointing to the GPS on the dashboard. "We only have about two miles left, but it'll take us a while to cover that distance. Trucks will have a hard time in these dunes."
    
  As the dust began to settle, Andrea spotted a huge dune of pink sand. Beyond it lay Talon Canyon, the place, according to Forrester, where the Ark of the Covenant had been hidden for over two thousand years. Small whirlwinds chased each other down the dune's slope, calling Andrea to join them.
    
  "Do you think I could walk the rest of the way?" I'd like to take some photos of the expedition as it arrives. It looks like I'll get there before the trucks.
    
  Tommy looked at her with concern. 'Well, I don't think that's a good idea. Climbing that hill will be tough. It's steep inside the truck. It's 104 degrees out there.'
    
  'I'll be careful. We'll maintain eye contact the whole time, anyway. Nothing will happen to me.'
    
  "I don't think you should either, Ms. Otero," David Pappas said.
    
  "Come on, Eichberg. Let her go. She's a big girl," Stowe said, more for the pleasure of antagonizing Pappas than supporting Andrea.
    
  "I'll have to consult with Mr. Russell."
    
  'Then go ahead.'
    
  Against his better judgment, Tommy grabbed the radio.
    
    
  Twenty minutes later, Andrea was regretting her decision. Before she could begin the climb to the top of the dune, she had to descend about eighty feet from the road, then slowly climb another 2,500 feet, the last fifty of which were at a 25-degree incline. The top of the dune seemed deceptively close; the sand deceptively smooth.
    
  Andrea had brought a backpack containing a large bottle of water. Before she reached the top of the dune, she drank every drop. Her head ached, despite wearing a hat, and her nose and throat were sore. She was wearing only a short-sleeved shirt, shorts, and boots, and despite applying high-SPF sunscreen before getting out of the Hummer, the skin on her arms was starting to sting.
    
  Less than half an hour, and I'm ready to take the burns. Let's hope nothing happens to the trucks, otherwise we'll have to walk back, she thought.
    
  This seemed unlikely. Tommy personally drove each truck to the top of the dune-a task requiring experience to avoid the risk of tipping. First, he took care of the two supply trucks, leaving them parked on the hill just below the steepest part of the climb. Then he dealt with the two water trucks while the rest of his team watched from the shadow of the H3s.
    
  Meanwhile, Andrea watched the entire operation through her telephoto lens. Every time Tommy exited the car, he waved to the reporter at the top of the dune, and Andrea returned the gesture. Tommy then drove the H3s to the edge of the final climb, intending to use them to tow heavier vehicles, which, despite their large wheels, lacked traction for such a steep sandy incline.
    
  Andrea took a few photos of the first truck as it climbed to the top. One of Dekker's soldiers was now operating an all-terrain vehicle, which was connected to the KAMAZ truck via a cable. She observed the enormous effort required to lift the truck to the top of the dune, but after it passed her, Andrea lost interest in the process. Instead, she turned her attention to Claw Canyon.
    
  At first, the vast, rocky gorge looked like any other in the desert. Andrea could see two walls, about 150 feet apart, stretching into the distance before dividing. On the way there, Eichberg showed her an aerial photograph of their destination. The canyon looked like the triple claws of a giant hawk.
    
  Both walls were between 100 and 130 feet high. Andrea aimed her telephoto lens at the top of the rock wall, looking for a better vantage point from which to shoot.
    
  That's when she saw him.
    
  It only lasted a second. A man dressed in khaki watches her.
    
  Surprised, she tore her gaze away from the lens, but the spot was too far away. She pointed the camera again at the edge of the canyon.
    
  Nothing.
    
  Shifting her position, she scanned the wall again, but it was no use. Whoever had seen her had quickly hid, which wasn't a good sign. She tried to decide what to do.
    
  The smartest thing to do would be to wait and discuss it with Fowler and Harel...
    
  She walked over and stood in the shadow of the first truck, which was soon joined by a second. An hour later, the entire expedition arrived at the top of the dune and was ready to enter Talon Canyon.
    
    
  27
    
    
    
  An MP3 file recovered by Jordanian desert police from Andrea Otero's digital recorder after the Moses expedition disaster.
    
  The title, all caps. The Ark Rebuilt. No, wait, delete that. The title... Treasure in the Desert. No, that's no good. I have to refer to the Ark in the title-it'll help sell the papers. Okay, let's leave the title until I finish writing the article. Leading sentence: To mention its name is to invoke one of the most pervasive myths of all mankind. It marked the beginning of Western civilization, and today it is the most coveted object by archaeologists worldwide. We accompany Moses' expedition on its secret journey through the southern Jordanian desert to Claw Canyon, the place where nearly two thousand years ago a group of believers hid the Ark during the destruction of Solomon's Second Temple...
    
  This is all too dry. I'd better write this first. Let's start with Forrester's interview... Damn, that old man's raspy voice gives me goosebumps. They say it's because of his illness. Note: Look up the spelling of pneumoconiosis online.
    
    
  QUESTION: Professor Forrester, the Ark of the Covenant has captured the human imagination since time immemorial. What do you attribute this interest to?
    
    
  ANSWER: Look, if you want me to fill you in on the situation, you don't have to go around in circles and tell me things I already know. Just tell me what you want, and I'll talk.
    
    
  Question: Do you give a lot of interviews?
    
    
  A: Dozens. So, you're not asking me anything original, anything I haven't heard or answered before. If we had internet access at the dig, I'd suggest you look at some of them and copy the answers.
    
    
  Question: What's the problem? Are you worried about repeating yourself?
    
    
  A: I'm worried about wasting my time. I'm seventy-seven years old. Forty-three of those years I've spent searching for the Ark. It's now or never.
    
    
  Q: Well, I'm sure you've never answered like that before.
    
    
  A: What is this? An originality contest?
    
    
  Question: Professor, please. You are an intelligent and passionate person. Why don't you try to reach out to the public and share some of your passion with them?
    
    
  A: (short pause) Do you need a master of ceremonies? I'll do my best.
    
    
  Question: Thank you. The Ark...?
    
    
  A: The most powerful object in history. This is no coincidence, especially considering it marked the beginning of Western civilization.
    
    
  Q: Wouldn't historians say that civilization began in Ancient Greece?
    
    
  A: Nonsense. Humans spent thousands of years worshiping soot stains in dark caves. Stains they called gods. As time passed, the stains changed in size, shape, and color, but they remained stains. We didn't know of a single deity until it was revealed to Abraham just four thousand years ago. What do you know about Abraham, young lady?
    
    
  Q: He is the father of the Israelites.
    
    
  A: Right. And the Arabs. Two apples that fell from the same tree, right next to each other. And immediately the two little apples learned to hate each other.
    
    
  Question: What does this have to do with the Ark?
    
    
  A: Five hundred years after God revealed Himself to Abraham, the Almighty grew tired of people continuing to turn away from Him. When Moses led the Jews out of Egypt, God revealed Himself to His people once again. Just one hundred and forty-five miles away. And it was there that they signed a contract. On one hand, humanity agreed to abide by ten simple points.
    
    
  Question: The Ten Commandments.
    
    
  A: On the other hand, God agrees to grant man eternal life. This is the most important moment in history-the moment when life acquired its meaning. Three thousand five hundred years later, every human being carries this contract somewhere in their consciousness. Some call it a natural law, others dispute its existence or meaning, and they will kill and die to defend their interpretation. But the moment Moses received the Tablets of the Law from the hands of God-that's when our civilization began.
    
  Q: And then Moses places the tablets in the Ark of the Covenant.
    
    
  A: Along with other objects. The Ark is a safe that contains the contract with God.
    
    
  Q: Some say the Ark has supernatural powers.
    
    
  A: Nonsense. I'll explain this to everyone tomorrow when we start work.
    
    
  Q: So you don't believe in the supernatural nature of the Ark?
    
    
  A: With all my heart. My mother read to me from the Bible before I was born. My life has been dedicated to the Word of God, but that doesn't mean I'm not willing to refute any myths or superstitions.
    
    
  Q: Speaking of superstitions, your research has sparked controversy for years in academic circles, which are critical of the use of ancient texts for treasure hunting. Insults have flown from both sides.
    
    
  A: Academics... they couldn't find their own asses with two hands and a flashlight. Would Schliemann have found the treasures of Troy without Homer's Iliad? Would Carter have found Tutankhamun's tomb without the little-known Papyrus of Jut? Both were heavily criticized in their time for using the same methods I am now. No one remembers their critics, but Carter and Schliemann are immortal. I intend to live forever.
    
  [severe coughing fit]
    
    
  Question: What is your illness?
    
    
  A: You can't spend so many years in damp tunnels, breathing filth, without paying the price. I have chronic pneumoconiosis. I never stray too far from my oxygen tank. Please continue.
    
    
  Question: Where were we? Oh, yes. Were you always convinced of the historical existence of the Ark of the Covenant, or does your belief date back to the time you began translating the Copper Scroll?
    
  A: I was raised Christian but converted to Judaism when I was relatively young. By the 1960s, I could read Hebrew as well as English. When I began studying the Qumran Copper Scroll, I didn't discover the Ark was real-I already knew it. With over two hundred references to it in the Bible, it is the most frequently described object in scripture. What I realized when I held the Second Scroll in my hands was that I would be the one who finally rediscovered the Ark.
    
    
  Question: I see. How exactly did the second scroll help you decipher the Qumran Copper Scroll?
    
    
  A: Well, there was a lot of confusion with consonants like on, het, mem, kaf, vav, zayin and yod...
    
    
  Question: From a layman's point of view, professor.
    
    
  A: Some of the consonants weren't very clear, making the text difficult to decipher. And the strangest thing was that a series of Greek letters were inserted throughout the scroll. Once we had a key to understanding the text, we realized that these letters were section titles, but their order and, therefore, context had changed. It was the most exciting period of my professional career.
    
    
  Q: It must have been frustrating to have spent forty-three years of your life translating the Copper Scroll and then have the whole issue resolved within three months of the Second Scroll appearing.
    
    
  A: Absolutely not. The Dead Sea Scrolls, including the Copper Scroll, were discovered by chance when a shepherd threw a stone into a cave in Palestine and heard something shatter. That's how the first of the manuscripts was found. That's not archaeology: it's luck. But without all these decades of in-depth study, we would never have come across Mr. Cain...
    
    
  Question: Mr. Cain? What are you talking about? Don't tell me the Copper Scroll mentions a billionaire!
    
    
  A: I can't talk about this anymore. I've already said too much.
    
    
  28
    
    
    
  EXCAVATIONS
    
  AL-MUDAWWARA DESERT, JORDAN
    
    
  Wednesday, July 12, 2006, 7:33 PM.
    
    
  The next hours were a frantic comings and goings. Professor Forrester decided to set up camp at the entrance to the canyon. The site would be protected from the wind by two rock walls that first narrowed, then widened, and finally joined again at a distance of 800 feet, forming what Forrester called the index finger. Two branches of the canyon to the east and southeast formed the middle and ring fingers of the claw.
    
  The group would be staying in special tents designed by an Israeli company to withstand the desert heat, and pitching them took a good part of the day. Unloading the trucks fell to Robert Frick and Tommy Eichberg, who used hydraulic winches on KamAZ trucks to unload large metal boxes containing the expedition's numbered equipment.
    
  'Four thousand five hundred pounds of food, two hundred fifty pounds of medicine, four thousand pounds of archaeological equipment and electrical equipment, two thousand pounds of steel rails, a drill and a mini-excavator. What do you think of that?'
    
  Andrea was stunned and made a mental note for her article, checking off the items on the list Tommy had given her. Due to her limited experience pitching tents, she volunteered to help with the unloading, and Eichberg assigned her responsibility for assigning each crate to its destination. She did this not out of a desire to help, but because she believed the sooner she finished, the sooner she could speak with Fowler and Harel alone. The doctor was busy helping set up the infirmary tent.
    
  "Here comes number thirty-four, Tommy," Frick called from the back of the second truck. The chain on the winch was attached to two metal hooks on either side of the crate; it made a loud clanking sound as it lowered the load onto the sandy soil.
    
  'Be careful, this one weighs a ton.'
    
  The young journalist looked at the list with concern, fearing she had missed something.
    
  'This list is wrong, Tommy. There are only thirty-three boxes on it.'
    
  "Don't worry. This particular box is special... and here come the people responsible for it," Eichberg said, unfastening the chains.
    
  Andrea looked up from her list and saw Marla Jackson and Tevi Waak, two of Decker's soldiers. They both knelt down next to the box and undid the locks. The lid popped off with a soft hiss, as if it had been sealed in a vacuum. Andrea discreetly glanced at its contents. The two mercenaries didn't seem to mind.
    
  It was as if they expected me to look.
    
  The suitcase's contents couldn't have been more mundane: bags of rice, coffee, and beans, arranged in rows of twenty. Andrea didn't understand, especially when Marla Jackson grabbed a packet in each hand and suddenly threw them at Andrea's chest, the muscles in her arms rippling beneath her black skin.
    
  'That's it, Snow White.'
    
  Andrea had to drop her tablet to catch the packages. Waaka stifled a giggle, while Jackson, ignoring the surprised reporter, reached into the empty space and pulled hard. The layer of packages slid aside, revealing a far less prosaic cargo.
    
  Rifles, machine guns, and small arms lay layer upon layer on trays. While Jackson and Waaka removed the trays-six in all-and carefully stacked them on top of the other boxes, Dekker's remaining soldiers, as well as the South African himself, approached and began arming themselves.
    
  "Excellent, gentlemen," Decker said. "As a wise man once said, great men are like eagles... they build their nests on lonely heights. First watch belongs to Jackson and the Gottliebs. Find covering positions here, there, and there." He pointed to three spots atop the canyon walls, the second of which wasn't too far from where Andrea thought she'd seen the mysterious figure a few hours earlier. "Break radio silence only to report every ten minutes. That includes you, Torres. If you trade recipes with Maloney like you did in Laos, you'll have me to deal with. March."
    
  Twins Gottlieb and Marla Jackson set out in three different directions, searching for accessible approaches to the sentry posts from which Decker's soldiers would continuously guard the expedition during its stay at the site. Once they had identified their positions, they secured rope and aluminum ladders to the rock face every ten feet to facilitate the vertical climb.
    
    
  Meanwhile, Andrea marveled at the ingenuity of modern technology. Never in her wildest dreams had she imagined her body would be so close to a shower within the next week. But to her surprise, among the last items unloaded from the KAMAZ trucks were two ready-made showers and two portable toilets made of plastic and fiberglass.
    
  "What's the matter, beauty?" Aren't you glad you don't have to shit in the sand?' Robert Frick said.
    
  The bony young man was all elbows and knees, and he moved nervously. Andrea responded to his vulgar remark with a loud burst of laughter and began helping him secure the toilets.
    
  'That's right, Robert. And from what I see, we'll even have his and hers bathrooms...'
    
  'That's a bit unfair, considering there are only four of you and twenty of us. Well, at least you'll have to dig your own latrine,' said Freak.
    
  Andrea paled. No matter how tired she was, even the thought of lifting the shovel made her hands blister. The freak was picking up speed.
    
  'I don't see what's funny about this.'
    
  'You've become whiter than my Aunt Bonnie's butt. That's the funny thing.'
    
  "Don't mind him, honey," Tommy interjected. "We'll use the mini-excavator. It'll take us ten minutes."
    
  'You always ruin the fun, Tommy. You should have let her sweat a little longer.' Freak shook his head and walked off to find someone else to bother.
    
    
  29
    
    
    
  HACAN
    
  He was fourteen when he started studying.
    
  Of course, at first he had to forget a lot.
    
  For starters, everything he learned at school, from his friends, at home. None of it was real. It was all a lie, invented by the enemy, the oppressors of Islam. They had a plan, the imam told him, whispering in his ear. They start by giving women freedom. They put them on the same level as men to weaken us. They know we are stronger, more capable. They know we are more serious in our commitment to God. Then they brainwash us, they take over the minds of the holy imams. They try to cloud our judgment with impure images of lust and debauchery. They promote homosexuality. They lie, they lie, they lie. They even lie about dates. They say it"s May 22nd. But you know what day it is.
    
  'The sixteenth day of Shawwal, teacher.'
    
  They talk about integration, about getting along with others. But you know what God wants.
    
  "No, I don't know, teacher," said the frightened boy. How could he be in God's mind?
    
  "God wants revenge for the Crusades; the Crusades that took place a thousand years ago and today. God wants us to restore the Caliphate they destroyed in 1924. Since that day, the Muslim community has been divided into pockets of territory controlled by our enemies. You only need to read the newspaper to see how our Muslim brothers live in a state of oppression, humiliation, and genocide. And the greatest insult is the stake driven into the heart of Dar al-Islam: Israel."
    
  'I hate Jews, teacher.'
    
  'No. You only think you are doing it. Listen carefully to my words. This hatred that you think you feel now will seem like a tiny spark in a few years compared to the conflagration of an entire forest. Only true believers are capable of such a transformation. And you will be one of them. You are special. I only need to look into your eyes to see that you have the power to change the world. To unite the Muslim community. To bring Sharia to Amman, Cairo, Beirut. And then to Berlin. To Madrid. To Washington.'
    
  'How can we do this, teacher? How can we spread Islamic law throughout the world?'
    
  'You are not ready to answer.'
    
  'Yes, it's me, teacher.'
    
  'Do you want to learn with all your heart, soul and mind?'
    
  'There is nothing I want more than to obey God's word.'
    
  'No, not yet. But soon...'
    
    
  30
    
    
    
  EXCAVATIONS
    
  AL-MUDAWWARA DESERT, JORDAN
    
    
  Wednesday, July 12, 2006, 8:27 PM.
    
    
  The tents were finally erected, toilets and showers installed, pipes connected to the water tank, and the expedition's civilian staff rested inside the small square formed by the surrounding tents. Andrea, sitting on the ground with a bottle of Gatorade in hand, abandoned her attempts to find Father Fowler. Neither he nor Dr. Harel seemed nearby, so she devoted herself to contemplating the fabric and aluminum structures that were unlike anything she had ever seen. Each tent was an elongated cube with a door and plastic windows. A wooden platform, raised about a foot and a half above the ground on a dozen concrete blocks, protected the occupants from the scorching heat of the sand. The roof was made of a large piece of fabric, anchored to the ground on one side to improve the refraction of the sun's rays. Each tent had its own electrical cable, which ran to a central generator near the fuel tanker.
    
  Of the six tents, three were slightly different. One was a sick bay, crudely designed but hermetically sealed. Another formed a combined kitchen and dining tent. It was air-conditioned, allowing the expedition members to rest there during the hottest hours of the day. The last tent belonged to Kain and was slightly separated from the others. It had no visible windows and was roped off-a silent warning that the billionaire did not wish to be disturbed. Kain remained in his H3, piloted by Dekker, until they finished pitching his tent, but he never showed up.
    
  I doubt he'll show up before the end of the expedition. I wonder if his tent has a built-in toilet, Andrea thought, absentmindedly taking a sip from her bottle. Here comes someone who might know the answer.
    
  'Hello, Mr. Russell.'
    
  "How are you?" said the assistant, smiling politely.
    
  'Very well, thank you. Listen, about this interview with Mr. Cain...'
    
  "I'm afraid that's not possible yet," Russell interjected.
    
  'I hope you brought me here for more than just sightseeing. I want you to know that...'
    
  "Welcome, ladies and gentlemen," Professor Forrester's harsh voice interrupted the reporter's complaints. "Contrary to our expectations, you managed to erect all the tents on time. Congratulations. Please contribute to this."
    
  His tone was as insincere as the feeble applause that followed. The professor always made his listeners feel a little uncomfortable, if not downright humiliated, but the expedition members managed to remain in their places around him as the sun began to set behind the cliffs.
    
  "Before we get to dinner and dividing up the tents, I want to finish my story," the archaeologist continued. "Remember how I told you that a select few carried the treasure out of the city of Jerusalem? Well, that group of brave men..."
    
  "One question keeps circling around in my head," Andrea interjected, ignoring the old man's piercing gaze. "You said that Yirm Əy áhu was the author of the Second Scroll. That he wrote it before the Romans destroyed Solomon's Temple. Am I wrong?"
    
  'No, you are not mistaken.'
    
  'Did he leave any other notes?'
    
  'No, he didn't do that.'
    
  'Did the people who carried the Ark out of Jerusalem leave anything behind?'
    
  'No'.
    
  'Then how do you know what happened? These people carried a very heavy object covered in gold, what, almost two hundred miles? All I did was climb up that dune with a camera and a bottle of water, and that was...'
    
  The old man blushed more and more with every word Andrea spoke, until the contrast between his bald head and his beard made his face look like a cherry lying on a wad of cotton wool.
    
  "How did the Egyptians build the pyramids?" How did the Easter Islanders erect their ten-thousand-ton statues? How did the Nabataeans carve the city of Petra from these same rocks?
    
  He spat every word at Andrea, leaning in as he spoke until his face was right next to hers. The reporter turned away to avoid his rancid breath.
    
  'With faith. You need faith to walk one hundred and eighty-five miles in the blazing sun and over rough terrain. You need faith to believe you can do it.'
    
  "So, apart from the second scroll, you have no evidence," Andrea said, unable to stop herself.
    
  'No, I'm not doing that. But I have a theory, and let's hope I'm right, Miss Otero, or we'll go home empty-handed.'
    
  The reporter was about to respond when she felt a light nudge from an elbow in her ribs. She turned to see Father Fowler looking at her with a warning expression.
    
  "Where have you been, Father?" she whispered. "I've looked everywhere. We need to talk."
    
  Fowler silenced her with a gesture.
    
  'The eight men who left Jerusalem with the Ark reached Jericho the following morning.' Forrester stepped back and addressed the fourteen men, who listened with growing interest. 'We're entering the realm of speculation now, but it happens to be the speculation of someone who has pondered this very question for decades. In Jericho, they would have picked up supplies and water. They crossed the Jordan River near Bethany and reached the King's Highway near Mount Nebo. The highway is the oldest continuous line of communication in history, the path that led Abraham from Chaldea to Canaan. These eight Hebrews walked south along this route until they reached Petra, where they left the highway and headed toward a mythical place that would have seemed to Jerusalemites like the end of the world. This place.'
    
  "Professor, do you have any idea where in the canyon we should look? Because this place is huge," Dr. Harel said.
    
  'This is where you all step in, starting tomorrow. David, Gordon... show them the equipment.'
    
  Two assistants appeared, each wearing a strange device. Across their chests was a harness, to which was attached a metal device shaped like a small backpack. The harness had four straps, from which hung a square metal structure, framing the body at hip level. At the front corners of this structure were two lamp-like objects, reminiscent of car headlights, pointed toward the ground.
    
  This, good people, will be your summer clothes for the next few days. The device is called a proton precession magnetometer.
    
  There were whistles of admiration.
    
  "It's a catchy title, isn't it?" said David Pappas.
    
  'Shut up, David. We're working on a theory that the people chosen by Yirm hu hid the Ark somewhere in this canyon. The magnetometer will tell us the exact location.'
    
  'How does it work?' Andrea asked.
    
  The device sends out a signal that registers the Earth's magnetic field. Once it's tuned to this, it will detect any anomaly in the magnetic field, such as the presence of metal. You don't need to understand exactly how it works, because the equipment transmits a wireless signal directly to my computer. If you find something, I'll know before you do.
    
  "Is it difficult to manage?" Andrea asked.
    
  'Not if you know how to walk. Each of you will be assigned a series of sectors in the canyon, spaced approximately fifty feet apart. All you have to do is press the start button on your harness and take a step every five seconds. That's it.'
    
  Gordon took a step forward and stopped. Five seconds later, the instrument emitted a low whistle. Gordon took another step, and the whistle stopped. Five seconds later, the whistle sounded again.
    
  "You'll be doing this for ten hours a day, in shifts of an hour and a half, with fifteen-minute rest breaks," Forrester said.
    
  Everyone started complaining.
    
  "What about people who have other responsibilities?"
    
  'Take care of them when you're not working in the canyon, Mr. Freak.'
    
  'You expect us to walk ten hours a day in this sun?'
    
  I advise you to drink plenty of water-at least a liter every hour. At 111 degrees, the body quickly becomes dehydrated.
    
  'What if we haven't worked our ten hours by the end of the day?' another voice squeaked.
    
  'Then you'll finish them tonight, Mr. Hanley.'
    
  "Isn't democracy fucking great," Andrea muttered.
    
  Apparently not quietly enough, because Forrester heard her.
    
  "Does our plan seem unfair to you, Miss Otero?" the archaeologist asked in an ingratiating voice.
    
  "Now that you mention it, yes," Andrea replied defiantly. She leaned to the side, fearing another elbow from Fowler, but none came.
    
  "The Jordanian government gave us a bogus one-month license to mine phosphate. Imagine if I slowed down? We might finish collecting data from the canyon in three weeks, but by the fourth we won't have enough time to excavate the Ark. Would that seem fair?"
    
  Andrea lowered her head in embarrassment. She truly hated this man, there was no doubt about it.
    
  'Anyone else want to join Miss Otero's union?' Forrester added, scanning the faces of those present. 'No? Good. From now on, you are not doctors, priests, oil rig operators, or cooks. You are my pack animals. Enjoy.'
    
    
  31
    
    
    
  EXCAVATIONS
    
  AL-MUDAWWARA DESERT, JORDAN
    
    
  Thursday, July 13, 2006. 12:27 PM.
    
    
  Step, wait, whistle, step.
    
  Andrea Otero never made a list of the three worst events in her life. First, because Andrea hated lists; second, because, despite her intelligence, she had little capacity for introspection; and third, because whenever problems confronted her, her invariable reaction was to rush away and do something else. If she had spent five minutes reflecting on her worst experiences the night before, the bean incident would undoubtedly have topped the list.
    
  It was the last day of school, and she was navigating her teenage years with a firm, determined stride. She left class with only one idea in mind: attending the opening of the new swimming pool at the apartment complex where her family lived. That's why she finished her meal, eager to get into her swimsuit before everyone else. Still chewing her last bite, she stood up from the table. That's when her mother dropped the bomb.
    
  'Whose turn is it to wash the dishes?'
    
  Andrea didn't even hesitate, because it was her older brother, Miguel Angel's, turn. But her other three brothers weren't prepared to wait for their leader on such a special day, so they answered in unison, "Andrea's!"
    
  'It sure looks like it. Are you crazy? It was my turn the day before yesterday.'
    
  'Honey, please don't make me wash your mouth with soap.'
    
  "Come on, Mom. She deserves it," one of her brothers said.
    
  "But, Mom, it's not my turn," Andrea whined, stamping her foot on the floor.
    
  "Well, you'll do them anyway and offer them to God as repentance for your sins. You're going through a very difficult time," her mother said.
    
  Miguel Angel suppressed a smile, and his brothers nudged each other victoriously.
    
  An hour later, Andrea, who never knew how to restrain herself, was trying to come up with five good responses to this injustice. But at that moment, she could only think of one.
    
  'Mommmmmm!'
    
  'Mom, it's okay! Wash the dishes and let your brothers go ahead to the pool.'
    
  Suddenly Andrea understood everything: her mother knew it was not her turn.
    
  It would be hard to understand what she did next if you weren't the youngest of five children and the only girl, raised in a traditional Catholic home where you're guilty before you've sinned; the daughter of an old-school military man who made it clear that his sons came first. Andrea was stepped on, spat on, mistreated, and cast aside simply for being a woman, even though she possessed many of the qualities of a boy and certainly shared the same feelings.
    
  That day she said she had had enough.
    
  Andrea returned to the table and removed the lid from the pot of bean and tomato stew they'd just finished eating. It was half full and still warm. Without thinking, she poured the rest over Miguel Ángel's head and left the pot standing there like a hat.
    
  'You wash the dishes, you bastard.'
    
  The consequences were dire. Not only did Andrea have to wash the dishes, but her father came up with a more interesting punishment. He didn't forbid her from swimming all summer. That would have been too easy. He ordered her to sit at the kitchen table, which had a beautiful view of the pool, and laid seven pounds of dried beans on it.
    
  'Count them. When you tell me how many there are, you can go down to the pool.'
    
  Andrea laid the beans out on the table and began counting them one by one, transferring them to the pot. When she reached one thousand two hundred and eighty-three, she got up to go to the bathroom.
    
  When she returned, the pot was empty. Someone had put the beans back on the table.
    
  Dad, your hair will turn grey before you hear me cry, she thought.
    
  Of course she cried. For the next five days, no matter why she left the table, every time she returned, she had to start counting the beans all over again, forty-three different times.
    
    
  Last night, Andrea would have considered the incident with the beans one of the worst experiences of her life, even worse than the brutal beating she suffered in Rome the year before. Now, however, the experience with the magnetometer has risen to the top of the list.
    
  The day began promptly at five o'clock, three-quarters of an hour before sunrise, with a series of hooters. Andrea had to sleep in the infirmary with Dr. Harel and Kira Larsen, the two sexes separated by Forrester's prudish rules. Decker's guards were in another tent, the support staff in another, and Forrester's four assistants and Father Fowler in the remaining one. The professor preferred to sleep alone in the small tent that cost eighty dollars and accompanied him on all his expeditions. But he slept little. By five o'clock in the morning, he was there, among the tents, blaring his horn until he received a couple of death threats from the already exhausted crowd.
    
  Andrea stood up, cursing in the dark, searching for her towel and toiletries, which she'd left next to the air mattress and sleeping bag that served as her bed. She was heading for the door when Harel called her. Despite the early hour, she was already dressed.
    
  'You're not thinking about taking a shower, are you?'
    
  'Certainly'.
    
  'You might have learned this the hard way, but I must remind you that showers operate on individual codes, and each of us is allowed to use the water for no more than thirty seconds a day. If you waste your share now, you'll be begging us to just spit on you tonight.'
    
  Andrea fell back on the mattress, defeated.
    
  'Thanks for ruining my day.'
    
  'True, but I saved your night.'
    
  "I look terrible," Andrea said, pulling her hair back into a ponytail she hadn't done since college.
    
  'Worse than terrible.'
    
  'Damn it, Doc, you should have said, "Not as bad as me," or "No, you look great." You know, female solidarity.'
    
  "Well, I've never been an ordinary woman," Harel said, looking straight into Andrea's eyes.
    
  What the hell did you mean by that, Doc? Andrea asked herself as she pulled on her shorts and laced up her boots. Are you who I think you are? And more importantly... should I make the first move?
    
    
  Step, wait, whistle, step.
    
  Stowe Erling escorted Andrea to her designated area and helped her into her harness. There she was, in the middle of a fifty-foot-square plot of ground, marked with string attached to eight-inch spikes at each corner.
    
  Suffering.
    
  First, there was the weight. Thirty-five pounds didn't seem like much at first, especially when they were hanging from the seatbelt. But by the second hour, Andrea's shoulders were killing her.
    
  Then came the heat. By midday, the ground wasn't sand-it was a grill. And she ran out of water half an hour into her shift. Rest periods between shifts were fifteen minutes long, but eight of those minutes were taken up by leaving and returning to sectors and getting bottles of cold water, and another two by reapplying sunscreen. That left about three minutes, which consisted of Forrester constantly clearing his throat and checking his watch.
    
  On top of that, it was the same routine over and over again. This stupid step, wait, whistle, step.
    
  Hell, I'd be better off in Guantanamo. Even though the sun beats down on them, at least they don't have to carry that stupid weight.
    
  'Good morning. It's a bit hot, isn't it?' said a voice.
    
  'Go to hell, father.'
    
  "Have some water," Fowler said, offering her a bottle.
    
  He was dressed in serge trousers and his usual black short-sleeved shirt with a clerical collar. He stepped back from her quadrant and sat on the ground, watching her with amusement.
    
  'Can you explain who you bribed so you wouldn't have to wear this thing?' Andrea asked, greedily draining the bottle.
    
  Professor Forrester has great respect for my religious duties. He is also a man of God, in his own way.
    
  'More like a selfish maniac.'
    
  'That too. What about you?'
    
  'Well, at least promoting slavery isn't one of my mistakes.'
    
  'I'm talking about religion.'
    
  'Are you trying to save my soul with half a bottle of water?'
    
  'Will this be enough?'
    
  "I need at least a full contract."
    
  Fowler smiled and handed her another bottle.
    
  'If you take small sips, it will quench your thirst better.'
    
  'Thank you'.
    
  'You're not going to answer my question?'
    
  'Religion is too deep for me. I prefer to ride a bicycle.'
    
  The priest laughed and took a sip from his bottle. He seemed tired.
    
  'Come on, Miss Otero; don't be mad at me for not having to do the mule's work right now. You don't think all these squares just appeared by magic, do you?'
    
  The quadrants began two hundred feet from the tents. The remaining expedition members were spread out across the canyon surface, each with their own pace, waiting, whistling, shuffling. Andrea reached the end of her section and took a step to the right, turned 180 degrees, and then continued walking again, her back to the priest.
    
  'And so I was there, trying to find you two... So that's what you and Doc were doing all night.'
    
  'There were other people there, so you don't need to worry.'
    
  'What do you mean by that, father?'
    
  Fowler said nothing. For a long time, there was only the rhythm of walking, waiting, whistling, and shuffling.
    
  "How did you know?" Andrea asked anxiously.
    
  'I suspected it. Now I know.'
    
  'Crap'.
    
  'I regret invading your privacy, Miss Otero.'
    
  "Damn you," Andrea said, biting her fist. "I'd kill for a cigarette."
    
  'What's stopping you?'
    
  'Professor Forrester told me it was interfering with the instruments.'
    
  'You know what, Ms. Otero? For someone who acts like she's on top of everything, you're pretty naive. Tobacco smoke doesn't affect the Earth's magnetic field. At least, not according to my sources.'
    
  'Old bastard.'
    
  Andrea rummaged through her pockets, then lit a cigarette.
    
  'Are you going to tell Doc, Father?'
    
  'Harel is smart, much smarter than I am. And she's Jewish. She doesn't need the old priest's advice.'
    
  'Should I?'
    
  'Well, you're a Catholic, right?'
    
  'I lost confidence in your equipment fourteen years ago, Father.'
    
  'Which one? The military one or the clerical one?'
    
  "Both. My parents really screwed me over."
    
  'All parents do this. Isn't this how life begins?'
    
  Andrea turned her head and managed to see him out of the corner of her eye.
    
  'So we have something in common.'
    
  'You can't imagine. Why were you looking for us last night, Andrea?'
    
  The reporter glanced around before answering. The closest person was David Pappas, strapped into a harness a hundred feet away. A gust of hot wind blew in from the canyon entrance, creating beautiful sand swirls at Andrea's feet.
    
  'Yesterday, when we were at the entrance to the canyon, I climbed up that huge dune on foot. At the top, I started shooting with my telephoto lens and saw a man.'
    
  'Where?' Fowler blurted out.
    
  'On the top of the cliff behind you. I only saw him for a second. He was wearing light brown clothes. I didn't tell anyone because I didn't know if it had anything to do with the man who tried to kill me on Behemoth.'
    
  Fowler narrowed his eyes and ran a hand over his bald head, taking a deep breath. His face looked worried.
    
  'Miss Otero, this expedition is extremely dangerous, and its success depends on secrecy. If anyone knew the truth about why we are here...'
    
  'Will they throw us out?'
    
  'They would have killed us all.'
    
  'ABOUT'.
    
  Andrea looked up, acutely aware of how isolated this place was and how trapped they would be if anyone broke through Decker's thin line of sentries.
    
  "I need to speak to Albert immediately," Fowler said.
    
  'I thought you said you couldn't use your satellite phone here? Decker had a frequency scanner?'
    
  The priest just looked at her.
    
  'Oh, shit. Not again,' Andrea said.
    
  'We'll do it tonight.'
    
    
  32
    
    
    
  2700 FEET WEST OF THE EXCAVATION
    
  AL-MUDAWWARA DESERT, JORDAN
    
    
  Friday, July 14, 2006. 1:18 AM.
    
    
  The tall man's name was O, and he was crying. He had to leave the others. He didn't want them to see him show his feelings, let alone talk about them. And it would have been very dangerous to reveal why he was crying.
    
  In reality, it was because of the girl. She reminded him too much of his own daughter. He hated having to kill her. Killing Tahir was easy, a relief, in fact. He had to admit, he even enjoyed toying with him-showing him hell, but here, on earth.
    
  The girl was a different story. She was only sixteen years old.
    
  And yet D and W agreed with him: the mission was too important. Not only the lives of the other brothers gathered in the cave were at stake, but the entire Dar al-Islam. Mother and daughter knew too much. There could be no exceptions.
    
  "It's a pointless, shitty war," he said.
    
  'So are you talking to yourself now?'
    
  It was W who crawled up to me. He didn't like taking risks and always spoke in a whisper, even inside the cave.
    
  'I prayed.'
    
  'We have to get back into the hole. They might see us.'
    
  There's only one sentry on the western wall, and he has no direct line of sight from here. Don't worry.
    
  'What if he changes position? They have night vision goggles.'
    
  "I said, don't worry. The big black one is on duty. He smokes all the time, and the light from the cigarette prevents him from seeing anything," O said, annoyed at having to talk when he wanted to enjoy the silence.
    
  'Let's go back to the cave. We'll play chess.'
    
  It didn't fool him for a moment. We knew he was feeling down. Afghanistan, Pakistan, Yemen. They'd been through a lot together. He was a good comrade. No matter how clumsy his efforts, he tried to cheer him up.
    
  O stretched out full length on the sand. They were in a void at the base of a rock formation. The cave at its base was only about a hundred square feet. O had discovered it three months earlier, planning the operation. There was barely enough room for them all, but even if the cave had been a hundred times larger, O would have preferred to be outside. He felt trapped in this noisy hole, assaulted by the snores and farts of his brothers.
    
  'I think I'll stay here a little longer. I like the cold.'
    
  'Are you waiting for Hookan's signal?'
    
  'It will be some time before that happens. The infidels haven't found anything yet.'
    
  'I hope they hurry up. I'm tired of sitting around, eating out of cans and peeing in a tin.'
    
  O didn't answer. He closed his eyes and concentrated on the breeze on his skin. The wait suited him just fine.
    
  "Why are we sitting here and doing nothing?" We are well armed. I say we go there and kill them all," insisted W.
    
  'We will follow Hukan's orders.'
    
  'Hookan is taking too many risks.'
    
  'I know. But he's clever. He told me a story. You know how a bushman finds water in the Kalahari when he's far from home? He finds a monkey and watches it all day. He can't let the monkey see him, or it's game over. If the bushman is patient, the monkey eventually shows him where to find water. A crack in the rock, a small pool... places the bushman would never have found.'
    
  'And what does he do then?'
    
  'He drinks water and eats monkey.'
    
    
  33
    
    
    
  EXCAVATIONS
    
  AL-MUDAWWARA DESERT, JORDAN
    
    
  Friday, July 14, 2006. 01:18
    
    
  Stow Erling nervously chewed on his ballpoint pen and cursed Professor Forrester with all his might. It wasn't his fault that the data from one of the sectors hadn't gone where it was supposed to. He was busy enough, dealing with complaints from their hired prospectors, helping them put on and take off their harnesses, changing batteries in their gear, and ensuring no one crossed the same sector twice.
    
  Of course, no one was around to help him don the harness now. And it wasn't as if the operation would be easy in the middle of the night, with only a camp gas lantern to light it. Forrester didn't care about anyone-anyone, that is, except himself. The moment he discovered the anomaly in the data, after dinner, he ordered Stowe to run a new analysis of Quadrant 22K.
    
  In vain, Stowe asked-almost begged-Forrester to let him do it the next day. If the data from all sectors weren't linked, the program wouldn't function.
    
  Fucking Pappas. Isn't he considered the world's leading topographic archaeologist? A qualified software developer, right? Shit-that's what he is. He should never have left Greece. Fuck! I find myself kissing the old man's ass so he'll let me prepare the magnetometer code headers, and he ends up giving them to Pappas. Two years, two whole years, researching Forrester's recommendations, correcting his childish mistakes, buying him medication, taking out his trash can full of infected, bloody tissue. Two years, and he treats me like this.
    
  Fortunately, Stowe had completed the complex series of movements, and the magnetometer was now on his shoulders and operational. He lifted the light and set it up halfway up the slope. Sector 22K covered a portion of the sandy slope near the knuckle of the canyon's index finger.
    
  The soil here was different, unlike the spongy pink surface at the base of the canyon or the baked rock that covered the rest of the area. The sand was darker, and the slope itself had a slope of about 14 percent. As he walked, the sand shifted, as if an animal were moving beneath his boots. As Stow climbed the slope, he had to hold tightly to the magnetometer straps to keep the instrument balanced.
    
  As he bent down to set the lantern down, his right hand caught a shard of iron protruding from the frame, drawing blood.
    
  'Oh, damn!'
    
  Sucking on the piece, he began to move the instrument over the area in that slow, irritating rhythm.
    
  He's not even American. Not even Jewish, for fuck's sake. He's a lousy fucking Greek immigrant. An Orthodox Greek before he started working for the professor. He converted to Judaism only after three months with us. Quick conversion - very convenient. I'm so tired. Why am I doing this? I hope we find the Ark. Then the history departments will fight over me, and I can find a permanent position. The old man won't last long - probably just long enough to take all the credit. But in three or four years, they'll be talking about his team. About me. I wish his rotten lungs would just burst in the next few hours. I wonder who Cain would have put in charge of the expedition then? It wouldn't have been Pappas. If he shits his pants every time the professor even looks at him, imagine what he'll do if he sees Cain. No, they need someone stronger, someone with charisma. I wonder what Cain is really like. They say he's very ill. But then why did he come all this way here?
    
  Stow stopped dead, halfway up the slope and facing the canyon wall. He thought he heard footsteps, but that was impossible. He glanced back at the camp. Everything was the same.
    
  Of course. The only one out of bed is me. Well, except for the guards, but they're bundled up and probably snoring. Who are they planning on protecting us from? It would be better if-
    
  The young man paused again. He heard something, and this time he knew he wasn't imagining it. He cocked his head to the side, trying to hear better, but the annoying whistle sounded again. Stowe fumbled for the switch on the instrument and quickly pressed it once. This way, he could turn off the whistle without turning off the instrument (which would have triggered an alarm in Forrester's computer), something a dozen people would have died to find out yesterday.
    
  It must be a couple of soldiers changing shifts. Come on, you're too old to be afraid of the dark.
    
  He turned off the tool and started down the hill. Now that he thought about it, it would be better if he went back to bed. If Forrester wanted to get angry, that was his business. He started first thing in the morning, skipping breakfast.
    
  That's all. I'll get up before the old man when there's more light.
    
  He smiled, chiding himself for worrying over trivial matters. Now he could finally go to bed, and that was all he needed. If he hurried, he could get three hours of sleep.
    
  Suddenly, something tugged at the harness. Stowe fell back, flailing his arms to maintain his balance. But just as he thought he was going to fall, he felt someone grab him.
    
  The young man didn't feel the knife's tip dig into his lower spine. The hand gripping his harness tightened. Stowe suddenly remembered his childhood, when he and his father would go fishing for black crappie on Lake Chebacco. His father would hold the fish in his hand and then, with one swift motion, gut it. The motion produced a wet, hissing sound, very similar to the last thing Stowe had heard.
    
  The hand released the young man, who fell to the ground like a rag doll.
    
  Stow made a broken sound as he died, a short, dry groan, and then there was silence.
    
    
  34
    
    
    
  EXCAVATIONS
    
  AL-MUDAWWARA DESERT, JORDAN
    
    
  Friday, July 14, 2006. 2:33 PM
    
    
  The first part of the plan was to wake up on time. So far, so good. From that point on, everything became a disaster.
    
  Andrea placed her wristwatch between her alarm clock and her head, set for 2:30 a.m. She was supposed to meet Fowler in Quadrant 14B, where she worked, when she told the priest about seeing a man on the cliff. All the reporter knew was that the priest needed her help to disable Decker's frequency scanner. Fowler hadn't told her how he planned to do that.
    
  To ensure she showed up on time, Fowler gave her his wristwatch, as hers lacked an alarm. It was a rugged black MTM Special Ops watch with a Velcro strap that looked almost as old as Andrea herself. On the back of the watch was the inscription: "So that others may live."
    
  "So that others may live." What kind of person wears a watch like that? Certainly not a priest. Priests wear watches that cost twenty euros, at best a cheap Lotus with a faux leather strap. Nothing has character like that, Andrea thought before falling asleep. When the alarm went off, she prudently turned it off immediately and took the watch with her. Fowler had made it clear what would happen to her if she lost it. Besides, there was a small LED light on her face that would make it easier to navigate the canyon without tripping over one of the quadrant's ropes or smashing her head on a rock.
    
  While she searched for her clothes, Andrea listened to see if anyone had woken up. Kira Larsen's snoring reassured the reporter, but she decided to wait until she was outside to put on her shoes. As she crept toward the door, she displayed her usual clumsiness and dropped her watch.
    
  The young reporter tried to control her nerves and recall the layout of the infirmary. At the far end stood two stretchers, a table, and a cabinet with medical instruments. Three roommates slept near the entrance on their mattresses and sleeping bags. Andrea was in the middle, Larsen to her left, and Harel to her right.
    
  Using Kira's snoring to orient herself, she began searching the floor. She felt the edge of her own mattress. A little further on, she touched one of Larsen's discarded socks. She grimaced and wiped her hand on the back of her pants. She continued on her own mattress. A little further on. This must be Harel's mattress.
    
  It was empty.
    
  Surprised, Andrea pulled a lighter from her pocket and flicked it, shielding the flame from Larsen with her body. Harel was nowhere to be found in the infirmary. Fowler had told her not to tell Harel what they were planning.
    
  The reporter didn't have time to ponder the matter further, so she grabbed the watch she'd found lying between the mattresses and left the tent. The camp was as quiet as a grave. Andrea was glad the infirmary was located near the northwest wall of the canyon, so she'd avoid encountering anyone on her way to or from the restroom.
    
  I'm sure Harel is there. I can't understand why we can't tell her what we're doing if she already knows about the priest's satellite phone. Those two are up to something strange.
    
  A moment later, the professor's horn sounded. Andrea froze, fear gripping her like a cornered animal. At first, she thought Forrester had discovered what she was doing, until she realized the sound was coming from somewhere far away. The horn was muffled, but it echoed faintly throughout the canyon.
    
  There were two explosions and then everything stopped.
    
  Then it started again and didn't stop.
    
  This is a distress signal. I would bet my life on it.
    
  Andrea wasn't sure who to turn to. With Harel nowhere in sight and Fowler waiting for her in 14B, her best option was Tommy Eichberg. The maintenance tent was currently the closest, and with the help of her watch, Andrea found the tent's zipper and burst inside.
    
  'Tommy, Tommy, are you there?'
    
  Half a dozen heads lifted their heads from their sleeping bags.
    
  "It's two o'clock in the morning, for God's sake," said a disheveled Brian Hanley, rubbing his eyes.
    
  'Get up, Tommy. I think the professor is in trouble.'
    
  Tommy was already climbing out of his sleeping bag.
    
  'What's happening?'
    
  'It's the professor's horn. It hasn't stopped.'
    
  'I don't hear anything.'
    
  'Come with me. I think he's in the canyon.'
    
  'One minute.'
    
  'What are you waiting for, Hanukkah?'
    
  'No, I'm waiting for you to turn around. I'm naked.'
    
  Andrea emerged from the tent, muttering apologies. The horn was still blaring outside, but each successive blast was fainter. The compressed air was running low.
    
  Tommy joined her, followed by the rest of the men in the tent.
    
  "Go and check the professor's tent, Robert," Tommy said, pointing to the skinny drill operator. "And you, Brian, go and warn the soldiers."
    
  This last order was unnecessary. Decker, Maloney, Torres, and Jackson were already approaching, not fully dressed, but with machine guns at the ready.
    
  "What the hell is going on?" Decker said, a walkie-talkie in his huge hand. "My guys say there's something raising hell at the end of the canyon."
    
  "Miss Otero thinks the professor is in trouble," Tommy said. "Where are your observers?"
    
  'This sector is at a blind angle. Vaaka is looking for a better position.'
    
  "Good evening. What's going on? Mr. Cain's trying to sleep," Jacob Russell said, approaching the group. He was wearing cinnamon-colored silk pajamas, and his hair was slightly tousled. "I thought..."
    
  Decker interrupted him with a gesture. The radio crackled, and Vaaki's even voice came through the speaker.
    
  'Colonel, I see Forrester and the body on the ground. Over.'
    
  'What's Professor doing, Nest Number One?'
    
  He bent over the body. Finished.
    
  'Roger that, Nest One. Remain at your position and cover us. Nests Two and Three, standby. If a mouse farts, I want to know about it.'
    
  Decker cut the connection and continued issuing further orders. In the few moments he spent communicating with Vaaka, the entire camp came to life. Tommy Eichberg turned on one of the powerful halogen floodlights, casting enormous shadows on the canyon walls.
    
  Meanwhile, Andrea stood slightly apart from the circle of people gathered around Decker. Over his shoulder, she could see Fowler walking behind the infirmary, fully dressed. He glanced around, then came over and stood behind the reporter.
    
  'Don't say anything. We'll talk later.'
    
  'Where is Harel?'
    
  Fowler looked at Andrea and arched his eyebrows.
    
  He has no idea.
    
  Suddenly, Andrea's suspicions arose and she turned to Decker, but Fowler grabbed her arm and held her back. After exchanging a few words with Russell, the massive South African made his decision. He left Maloney in charge of the camp and, along with Torres and Jackson, headed for Sector 22K.
    
  'Let me go, Father! He said there was a body there.' Andrea said, trying to free herself.
    
  'Wait'.
    
  'It could have been her.'
    
  'Hold on.'
    
  Meanwhile, Russell raised his hands and addressed the group.
    
  'Please, please. We're all very worried, but running from one place to another won't help anyone. Look around and tell me if anyone is missing. Mr. Eichberg? And Brian?'
    
  'He's dealing with the generator. It's low on fuel.'
    
  'Mr. Pappas?'
    
  "Everyone here except Stow Erling, sir," Pappas said nervously, his voice shaking with tension. "He was about to cross Sector 22K again. The data headers were incorrect."
    
  'Dr. Harel?'
    
  'Dr. Harel is not here,' said Kira Larsen.
    
  'She's not like that? Does anyone have any idea where she might be?' said a surprised Russell.
    
  "Where could anyone be?" a voice said behind Andrea. The reporter turned, relief etched on her face. Harel stood behind her, her eyes bloodshot, wearing only boots and a long red shirt. "You'll have to excuse me, but I took some sleeping pills and I'm still a little groggy. What happened?"
    
  As Russell briefed the doctor, Andrea experienced mixed feelings. While she was glad Harel was okay, she couldn't understand where the doctor could have been all this time or why she'd lied.
    
  And I'm not the only one, Andrea thought, watching her other tentmate. Kira Larsen kept her eyes on Harel. She suspects the doctor of something. I'm sure she noticed she wasn't in her bed a few minutes ago. If stares were laser beams, Doc would have a hole in his back the size of a small pizza.
    
    
  35
    
    
    
  KINE
    
  The old man stood on a chair and untied one of the knots that held up the tent walls. He tied it, untied it, and tied it again.
    
  'Sir, you're doing it again.'
    
  'Someone's dead, Jacob. Dead.'
    
  'Sir, the knot is fine. Please come down. You need to take this.' Russell held out a small paper cup with some pills in it.
    
  'I'm not going to take them. I need to be on my guard. I could be next. Do you like this knot?'
    
  'Yes, Mr. Kine.'
    
  'It's called a double figure eight. It's a very good knot. My father showed me how to do it.'
    
  'It's a perfect knot, sir. Please get down from your chair.'
    
  'I just want to make sure...'
    
  'Sir, you are relapsing into obsessive-compulsive behavior again.'
    
  'Don't use that term in relation to me.'
    
  The old man turned so abruptly that he lost his balance. Jacob moved to catch Kain, but he wasn't fast enough, and the old man fell.
    
  "Are you okay?" I'll call Dr. Harel!'
    
  The old man cried on the floor, but only a small part of his tears were caused by the fall.
    
  'Someone's dead, Jacob. Someone's dead.'
    
    
  36
    
    
    
  EXCAVATIONS
    
  AL-MUDAWWARA DESERT, JORDAN
    
    
  Friday, July 14, 2006. 3:13 AM.
    
    
  'Murder'.
    
  'Are you sure, doctor?'
    
  Stow Erling's body lay in the center of a circle of gas lamps. They cast a pale light, and the shadows on the surrounding rocks dissolved into a night that suddenly seemed filled with danger. Andrea suppressed a shudder as she looked at the body in the sand.
    
  When Decker and his entourage arrived at the scene just minutes ago, he found the old professor holding the dead man's hand and continuously playing a now-useless alarm. Decker pushed the professor aside and called for Dr. Harel. The doctor asked Andrea to come with her.
    
  "I'd rather not," Andrea said. She felt dizzy and confused when Decker radioed in that they'd found Stow Erling dead. She couldn't help but remember wishing the desert would just swallow him up.
    
  'Please. I'm very worried, Andrea. Help me.'
    
  The doctor seemed genuinely worried, so without another word, Andrea walked beside her. The reporter tried to figure out how she could ask Harel where the hell she was when this whole mess started, but she couldn't do it without revealing that she, too, had been somewhere she shouldn't have been. When they reached Quadrant 22K, they discovered that Decker had managed to illuminate the body so Harel could determine the cause of death.
    
  "You tell me, Colonel. If it wasn't murder, it was a very determined suicide. He has a knife wound to the base of his spine, which is definitely fatal."
    
  "And it's very difficult to accomplish," Decker said.
    
  'What do you mean?' Russell interjected, standing next to Decker.
    
  A little further away, Kira Larsen squatted next to the professor, trying to comfort him. She draped a blanket over his shoulders.
    
  "What he means is that it was a perfectly executed wound. A very sharp knife. There was hardly any blood at all from Stowe," Harel said, removing the latex gloves she had been wearing while examining the body.
    
  'A professional, Mr. Russell,' Decker added.
    
  'Who found him?'
    
  "Professor Forrester's computer has an alarm that goes off if one of the magnetometers stops transmitting," Decker said, nodding toward the old man. "He came here to share with Stow. When he saw him on the ground, he thought he was sleeping and started blowing his horn in his ear until he realized what had happened. Then he continued blowing his horn to warn us."
    
  'I don't even want to imagine how Mr. Kane will react when he finds out that Stowe was killed, where the hell were your people, Decker? How could this happen?'
    
  'They must have been looking beyond the canyon, as I ordered. There are only three of them, covering a very large area on a moonless night. They did the best they could.'
    
  "It's not that much," Russell said, pointing to the body.
    
  "Russell, I told you. It's crazy to come into this place with just six men. We have three men on emergency four-hour security. But to cover a hostile area like this, we really need at least twenty. So don't blame me."
    
  'That's out of the question. You know what will happen if the Jordanian government-'
    
  'Will you two please stop arguing!' The professor stood up, the blanket hanging from his shoulders. His voice shook with anger. 'One of my assistants is dead. I sent him here. Could you please stop blaming each other?'
    
  Russell fell silent. To Andrea's surprise, so did Decker, though he kept his cool as he addressed Dr. Harel.
    
  'Can you tell us anything else?'
    
  'I assume he was killed there and then he slid down the slope, given the rocks that fell with him.'
    
  'Can you imagine?' Russell said, raising an eyebrow.
    
  'Sorry, but I'm not a forensic pathologist, just a doctor specializing in combat medicine. I'm definitely not qualified to analyze a crime scene. In any case, I don't think you'll find footprints or any other clues in the mixture of sand and rock we have here.'
    
  'Do you know if Erling had any enemies, Professor?' Decker asked.
    
  'He didn't get along with David Pappas. I was responsible for the rivalry between them.'
    
  'Have you ever seen them fight?'
    
  'Many times, but it never came to blows.' Forrester paused, then shook a finger in Decker's face. 'Wait a minute. You're not suggesting one of my assistants did this, are you?'
    
  Meanwhile, Andrea watched Stow Erling's body with a mixture of shock and disbelief. She wanted to walk up to the circle of lamps and tug his ponytail to prove he wasn't dead, that it had all just been the professor's stupid joke. She only realized the gravity of the situation when she saw the frail old man shaking his finger in the face of the giant Dekker. At that moment, the secret she'd kept hidden for two days cracked like a dam under pressure.
    
  'Mr. Decker'.
    
  The South African turned to face her, his expression clearly not friendly.
    
  'Miss Otero, Schopenhauer said that the first encounter with a face leaves an indelible impression on us. For now, I've had enough of your face-understand?'
    
  "I don't even know why you're here, no one asked you to come," Russell added. "This story is not for publication. Go back to camp."
    
  The reporter took a step back, but met the gaze of both the mercenary and the young executive. Ignoring Fowler's advice, Andrea decided to come clean.
    
  'I'm not leaving. This man's death may be my fault.'
    
  Decker came so close to her that Andrea could feel the dry heat of his skin.
    
  'Speak louder.'
    
  'When we arrived at the canyon, I thought I saw someone on top of that cliff.'
    
  'What? And it didn't occur to you to say anything?'
    
  'I didn't think much of it at the time. I'm sorry.'
    
  'Awesome, you're sorry. Then it's okay. Fuck!'
    
  Russell shook his head in amazement. Decker scratched the scar on his face, trying to comprehend what he'd just heard. Harel and the professor looked at Andrea with disbelief. The only one to react was Kira Larson, who pushed Forrester aside, rushed toward Andrea, and slapped her.
    
  'Bitch!'
    
  Andrea was so stunned she didn't know what to do. Then, seeing the pain on Kira's face, she understood and dropped her hands.
    
  I'm sorry. Forgive me.
    
  "Bitch," the archaeologist repeated, lunging at Andrea and punching her in the face and chest. "You could have told everyone we were being watched. Don't you know what we're looking for? Don't you understand how this affects all of us?"
    
  Harel and Decker grabbed Larsen's arms and pulled her back.
    
  "He was my friend," she muttered, moving away slightly.
    
  At that moment, David Pappas arrived on the scene. He was running, sweating. It was obvious he had fallen at least once, as there was sand on his face and glasses.
    
  'Professor! Professor Forrester!'
    
  'What's the matter, David?'
    
  'Data. Stowe data,' Pappas said, bending over and kneeling to catch his breath.
    
  The professor made a dismissive gesture.
    
  'Now is not the time, David. Your colleague is dead.'
    
  'But, Professor, you must listen. The headlines. I have corrected them.'
    
  'Very well, David. We'll talk tomorrow.'
    
  Then David Pappas did something he never would have done if not for the tension of that night. He grabbed Forrester's blanket and yanked the old man around to face him.
    
  'You don't understand. We have peak 7911!'
    
  At first Professor Forrester did not react, but then he spoke very slowly and deliberately, in such a quiet voice that David could hardly hear him.
    
  'How big?'
    
  'Huge, sir.'
    
  The professor fell to his knees. Unable to speak, he leaned forward and back in silent pleading.
    
  'What is 7911, David?' Andrea asked.
    
  Atomic weight 79. Position 11 on the periodic table,' the young man said, his voice breaking. It was as if, in delivering his message, he had emptied himself. His eyes were fixed on the corpse.
    
  'And this is...?'
    
  'Gold, Miss Otero. Stow Erling has found the Ark of the Covenant.'
    
    
  37
    
    
    
  Some facts about the Ark of the Covenant, copied from Professor Cecil Forrester's Moleskine notebook
    
  The Bible says: 'And they shall make an ark of shittim wood: its length shall be two and a half cubits, its breadth one and a half cubits, and its height one and a half cubits. And you shall overlay it with pure gold, overlaying it within and without, and make on it a crown of gold all round. And you shall cast four gold rings for it and put them in its four corners; two rings shall be on this side of it, and two rings on that side of it. And you shall make poles of shittim wood and overlay them with gold. And you shall put the poles into the rings on the sides of the ark, that the ark may be carried with them.'
    
  I'll use measurements in the common cubit. I know I'll be criticized because few scientists do this; they rely on the Egyptian cubit and the "sacred" cubit, which are much more glamorous. But I'm right.
    
  This is what we know for sure about the Ark:
    
  • Year of construction: 1453 BC at the foot of Mount Sinai.
    
  • length 44 inches
    
  • width 25 inches
    
  • height 25 inches
    
  • 84 gallon capacity
    
  • 600 pounds in weight
    
  There are people who would guess the Ark weighed more, around 1,100 pounds. Then there's the idiot who dared insist the Ark weighed over a ton. That's insane. And they call themselves experts. They love to exaggerate the weight of the Ark itself. Poor idiots. They don't understand that gold, even if heavy, is too soft. The rings couldn't support that weight, and the wooden poles wouldn't be long enough for more than four men to comfortably carry it.
    
  Gold is a very soft metal. Last year, I saw an entire room covered in thin sheets of gold, crafted from a single, good-sized coin using techniques dating back to the Bronze Age. The Jews were skilled artisans, and they didn't have a large amount of gold in the desert, nor would they have burdened themselves with such a heavy weight that they would have made themselves vulnerable to their enemies. No, they would have used a small amount of gold and fashioned it into thin sheets to cover wood. Shittim wood, or acacia, is a durable wood that can last for centuries without damage, especially if it was covered with a thin layer of metal that doesn't rust and is unaffected by the effects of time. This was an object built for eternity. How could it be otherwise, after all, it was the Timeless One who gave the instructions?
    
    
  38
    
    
    
  EXCAVATIONS
    
  AL-MUDAWWARA DESERT, JORDAN
    
    
  Friday, July 14, 2006. 2:21 PM.
    
    
  'So the data was manipulated.'
    
  'Someone else got the information, Father.'
    
  'That's why they killed him.'
    
  'I understand what, where, and when. If you just tell me how and who, I will be the happiest woman in the world.'
    
  'I'm working on it.'
    
  "Do you think it was a stranger?" Maybe the man I saw at the top of the canyon?
    
  'I don't think you're that stupid, young lady.'
    
  'I still feel guilty.'
    
  'Well, you should stop. I was the one who asked you not to tell anyone. But believe me: someone on this expedition is a killer. That's why it's more important than ever that we talk to Albert.'
    
  'Fine. But I think you know more than you're telling me-much more. There was unusual activity in the canyon yesterday for this time of day. The doctor wasn't in her bed.'
    
  'I told you... I'm working on it.'
    
  'Damn, Father. You're the only person I know who speaks so many languages but doesn't like to talk.'
    
  Father Fowler and Andrea Otero sat in the shade of the canyon's west wall. Since no one had slept much the night before, following the shock of Stowe Earling's murder, the day had begun slowly and heavily. However, little by little, the news that Stowe's magnetometer had detected gold began to overshadow the tragedy, changing the mood in the camp. Activity around Quadrant 22K was in full swing, with Professor Forrester at the center: rock composition analysis, further magnetometer testing, and, most importantly, soil hardness measurements for digging.
    
  The procedure involved passing an electrical wire through the ground to determine how much current it could carry. For example, a hole filled with earth has lower electrical resistance than the undisturbed earth around it.
    
  The test results were conclusive: the ground at that moment was extremely unstable. This enraged Forrester. Andrea watched as he gesticulated wildly, throwing papers into the air and insulting his workers.
    
  "Why is the professor so angry?" Fowler asked.
    
  The priest sat on a flat rock about a foot and a half above Andrea. He was playing with a small screwdriver and some cables he'd taken from Brian Hanley's toolbox, paying little attention to what was going on around him.
    
  "They've been running tests. They can't just dig up the Ark," Andrea replied. She'd spoken to David Pappas a few minutes earlier. "They believe it's in a man-made hole. If they use a mini-excavator, there's a good chance the hole will collapse."
    
  'They may have to work around this. It could take weeks.'
    
  Andrea took another series of photos with her digital camera and then looked at them on the monitor. She had several excellent photos of Forrester, literally foaming at the mouth. A horrified Kira Larsen throws her head back in shock after hearing the news of Erling's death.
    
  'Forrester is yelling at them again. I don't know how his assistants put up with it.'
    
  'Maybe that's what they all need this morning, don't you think?'
    
  Andrea was about to tell Fowler to stop talking nonsense when she realized she had always been a strong advocate of using self-punishment as a way to avoid grief.
    
  LB is proof of that. If I practiced what I preached, I would have thrown him out the window a long time ago. Damn cat. I hope he doesn't eat the neighbor's shampoo. And if he does, I hope she doesn't make me pay for it.
    
  Forrester's screams made people scatter like cockroaches when the lights came on.
    
  'Perhaps he's right, Father. But I don't think continuing to work shows much respect for their deceased colleague.'
    
  Fowler looked up from his work.
    
  'I don't blame him. He needs to hurry. Tomorrow is Saturday.'
    
  'Oh, yes. Saturday. Jews can't even turn on the lights after sunset on Friday. That's nonsense.'
    
  'At least they believe in something. What do you believe in?'
    
  'I have always been a practical person.'
    
  'I suppose you mean an unbeliever.'
    
  'I suppose I mean practically. Spending two hours a week in a place full of incense would take up exactly 343 days of my life. No offense, but I don't think it's worth it. Not even for the supposed eternity.'
    
  The priest chuckled.
    
  'Have you ever believed in anything?'
    
  'I believed in relationships.'
    
  'What's happened?'
    
  'I screwed up. Let's just say she believed it more than I did.'
    
  Fowler remained silent. Andrea's voice sounded slightly forced. She realized the priest wanted her to unburden herself.
    
  'Besides, Father... I don't think faith is the only motivating factor for this expedition. The Ark will cost a lot of money.'
    
  There are approximately 125,000 tons of gold in the world. Do you believe Mr. Cain needs to go get thirteen or fourteen inside the Ark?
    
  "I'm talking about Forrester and his busy bees," Andrea replied. She loved to argue, but she hated it when her arguments were so easily refuted.
    
  'Okay. You need a practical reason? They deny it all. Their work keeps them going.'
    
  'What the hell are you talking about?'
    
  'The Stages of Mourning by Dr. C. Blair-Ross'.
    
  'Oh, yeah. Denial, anger, depression, and all that stuff.'
    
  'Exactly. They are all in the first stage.'
    
  'Judging by the way the professor is screaming, you'd think he was in the second one.'
    
  They'll feel better this evening. Professor Forrester will give the eulogy. I believe it will be interesting to hear him say something nice about someone other than himself.
    
  'What will happen to the body, father?'
    
  'They will put the body in a sealed body bag and bury it for now.'
    
  Andrea looked at Fowler incredulously.
    
  'You're kidding!'
    
  'This is Jewish law. Everyone who dies must be buried within twenty-four hours.'
    
  'You know what I mean. Aren't they going to return him to his family?'
    
  'No one and nothing may leave the camp, Miss Otero. Remember?'
    
  Andrea put the camera in her backpack and lit a cigarette.
    
  'These people are crazy. I hope this stupid exclusive doesn't end up destroying us all.'
    
  'You always talk about your exclusivity, Miss Otero. I can't understand what you're so desperate for.'
    
  'Fame and fortune. How about you?'
    
  Fowler stood up and held out his arms. He leaned back, his spine cracking loudly.
    
  'I'm just following orders. If the Ark is real, the Vatican wants to know so they can recognize it as an object containing God's commandments.'
    
  A very simple answer, quite original. And it's absolutely not true, Father. You're a very bad liar. But let's pretend I believe you.
    
  "Perhaps," Andrea said after a moment. "But in that case, why didn't your bosses send a historian?"
    
  Fowler showed her what he had been working on.
    
  'Because a historian couldn't do it.'
    
  "What is this?" Andrea asked curiously. It looked like a simple electrical switch with a couple of wires coming out of it.
    
  'We'll have to forget about yesterday's plan to contact Albert. After killing Erling, they'll be even more wary. So, this is what we'll do instead...'
    
    
  39
    
    
    
  EXCAVATIONS
    
  AL-MUDAWWARA DESERT, JORDAN
    
    
  Friday, July 14, 2006, 3:42 PM.
    
    
  Father, tell me again why I am doing this.
    
  Because you want to know the truth. The truth about what's going on here. About why they bothered to contact you in Spain when Cain could have found a thousand reporters, more experienced and famous than you, right there in New York.
    
  The conversation continued to echo in Andrea's ears. The question was the same one a small voice in her head had been asking for quite some time. It was drowned out by the Pride Philharmonic Orchestra, accompanied by Mr. Wiz Duty, a baritone, and Miss Glory at Any Price, a soprano. But Fowler's words brought the small voice into focus.
    
  Andrea shook her head, trying to focus on what she was doing. The plan was to take advantage of the off-duty period when soldiers were trying to rest, nap, or play cards.
    
  "That's where you come in," Fowler said. "On my signal, you slide under the tent."
    
  'Between the wooden floor and the sand? Are you crazy?'
    
  'There's plenty of room there. You'll have to crawl about a foot and a half until you reach the electrical panel. The cable connecting the generator to the tent is orange. Quickly pull it out; connect it to the end of my cable, and the other end of my cable back to the electrical panel. Then press this button every fifteen seconds for three minutes. Then get out of there quickly.'
    
  'What will this give?'
    
  'Nothing too complicated from a technological standpoint. It will cause a slight drop in the electrical current without shutting it off completely. The frequency scanner will only shut off twice: once when the cable is connected, and again when it is disconnected.'
    
  'And the rest of the time?'
    
  'It'll be in startup mode, like a computer when it's loading its operating system. As long as they don't look under the tent, there won't be any problems.'
    
  Except for what was: heat.
    
  Crawling under the tent when Fowler gave the signal was easy. Andrea crouched down, pretending to tie a shoelace, looked around, and then rolled under the wooden platform. It was like plunging into a vat of hot oil. The air was thick with the day's heat, and the generator next to the tent produced a searing stream of heat that radiated into the space where Andrea crawled.
    
  She was now under the electrical panel, her face and hands burning. She retrieved Fowler's switch and held it ready in her right hand while she tugged sharply on the orange wire with her left. She connected it to Fowler's device, then connected the other end to the panel and waited.
    
  This useless, lying clock. It says only twelve seconds have passed, but it feels more like two minutes. God, I can't stand this heat!
    
  Thirteen, fourteen, fifteen.
    
  She pressed the interrupt button.
    
  The tone of the soldiers' voices above her changed.
    
  It looks like they noticed something. I hope they don't make a big deal out of it.
    
  She listened more closely to the conversation. It had started as a way to distract her from the heat and keep her from fainting. She hadn't drunk enough water that morning, and now she was paying for it. Her throat and lips were dry, and her head was spinning slightly. But thirty seconds later, what she heard made Andrea panic. So much so that three minutes later, she was still there, pressing the button every fifteen seconds, fighting the feeling that she was about to faint.
    
    
  40
    
    
  SOMEWHERE IN FAIRFAX COUNTY, VIRGINIA
    
    
  Friday, July 14, 2006. 8:42 AM.
    
    
  'Do you have it?'
    
  'I think I have something. It wasn't easy. This guy is very good at covering his tracks.'
    
  'I need more than guesses, Albert. People have started dying here.'
    
  'People always die, don't they?'
    
  'This time it's different. It scares me.'
    
  'You? I don't believe it. You weren't even afraid of the Koreans. And that time...'
    
  'Albert...'
    
  'Excuse me. I asked for a few favors. CIA experts recovered some data from the Netcatch computers. Orville Watson is on the trail of a terrorist named Hakan.'
    
  'Syringe'.
    
  'If you say so. I don't know any Arabic. Looks like the guy was hunting Kain.'
    
  'Anything else? Nationality? Ethnic group?'
    
  'Nothing. Just some vague information, a couple of intercepted emails. None of the files escaped the fire. Hard drives are very fragile.'
    
  'You must find Watson. He is the key to everything. It's urgent.'
    
  'I'm in it.'
    
    
  41
    
    
    
  IN THE SOLDIER'S TENT, FIVE MINUTES BEFORE
    
  Marla Jackson wasn't used to reading newspapers, and that's why she ended up in prison. Of course, Marla saw it differently. She thought she was in prison for being a good mother.
    
  The truth about Marla's life lay somewhere between these two extremes. She had a poor but relatively normal childhood-as normal as it was possible to be in Lorton, Virginia, a town its own citizens called America's armpit. Marla was born into a lower-class black family. She played with dolls and jump rope, attended school, and became pregnant at the age of fifteen and a half.
    
  Marla was essentially trying to prevent the pregnancy. But she had no way of knowing Curtis had poked a hole in the condom. She had no choice. She'd heard of a crazy practice among some teenage boys who tried to gain credibility by getting girls pregnant before they graduated high school. But that was something that happened to other girls. Curtis loved her.
    
  Curtis has disappeared.
    
  Marla graduated from high school and joined a rather exclusive club for teenage mothers. Little Mae became the center of her mother's life, for better or worse. Marla's dreams of saving enough money to study weather photography were left behind. Marla took a job at a local factory, which, in addition to her maternal duties, left her little time to read the newspaper. This, in turn, forced her to make a regrettable decision.
    
  One afternoon, her boss announced he wanted to increase her work hours. The young mother had already seen women leaving the factory exhausted, heads down, carrying their uniforms in supermarket bags; women whose sons were left alone and either sent to reform school or shot in a gang fight.
    
  To prevent this, Marla enlisted in the Army Reserve. This way, the factory couldn't increase her work hours, as that would have conflicted with her instructions at the military base. This would have allowed her to spend more time with baby May.
    
  Marla decided to join the day after the Military Police Company was notified of its next destination: Iraq. The news appeared on page 6 of the Lorton Chronicle. In September 2003, Marla waved goodbye to May and climbed aboard a truck at the base. The girl, hugging her grandmother, cried at the top of her lungs with all the grief a six-year-old can muster. Both died four weeks later, when Mrs. Jackson, who wasn't as good a mother as Marla, tried her luck with a final cigarette in bed.
    
  When she received the news, Marla found herself unable to return home and begged her astonished sister to make all the arrangements for the wake and funeral. She then requested an extension to her tour of duty in Iraq and devoted herself wholeheartedly to her next assignment - as a member of parliament at the prison called Abu Ghraib.
    
  A year later, several unfortunate photographs appeared on national television. They demonstrated that something inside Marla had finally cracked. The kind mother from Lorton, Virginia, had become a tormentor of Iraqi prisoners.
    
  Of course, Marla wasn't alone. She believed the loss of her daughter and her mother was somehow the fault of "Saddam's dirty dogs." Marla was dishonorably discharged and sentenced to four years in prison. She served for six months. After her release, she went straight to the security firm DX5 and asked for a job. She wanted to return to Iraq.
    
  They gave her a job, but she didn't immediately return to Iraq. Instead, she fell into the hands of Mogens Dekker. Literally.
    
  Eighteen months passed, and Marla had learned a lot. She could shoot much better, knew more philosophy, and had experience making love to a white man. Colonel Decker became almost instantly aroused by a woman with large, strong legs and an angel's face. Marla found him somewhat comforting, and the rest of the comfort came from the smell of gunpowder. She was killing for the first time, and she loved it.
    
  Much.
    
  She also liked her crew... sometimes. Decker had chosen them well: a handful of unscrupulous killers who enjoyed killing with impunity on government contracts. While they were on the battlefield, they were blood brothers. But on a hot, sticky day like this, when they ignored Decker's orders to get some sleep and played cards instead, everything took a different turn. They became as irritable and dangerous as a gorilla at a cocktail party. The worst of them was Torres.
    
  "You're leading me on, Jackson. And you haven't even kissed me," said the little Colombian. Marla was especially uncomfortable as he played with his small, rusty razor. Like him, it was seemingly harmless, but it could cut a man's throat as if it were butter. The Colombian cut small white strips from the edge of the plastic table they were sitting at. A smile played on his lips.
    
  "You're a big jerk, Torres. Jackson has a full house, and you're full of shit," said Alric Gottlieb, who constantly struggled with English prepositions. The taller of the twins had hated Torres with renewed vigor ever since they watched the World Cup match between their two countries. They had exchanged nasty words and used their fists. Despite his six-foot-two height, Alric had trouble sleeping at night. If he was still alive, it could only be because Torres wasn't confident he could beat both twins.
    
  "All I'm saying is that her cards are a little too good," Torres retorted, her smile widening.
    
  "So, are you going to make a deal or what?" asked Marla, who had cheated but wanted to keep her cool. She had already won almost two hundred dollars from him.
    
  This streak can't go on much longer. I need to start letting him win, or one night I'll end up with this blade in my neck, she thought.
    
  Gradually Torres began to distribute, making all sorts of faces to distract them.
    
  The truth is, this bastard is cute. If he weren't such a psycho and didn't smell weird, he would have turned me on in a big way.
    
  At that moment, a frequency scanner, which was sitting on a table six feet from where they were playing, began to beep.
    
  "What the hell?" Marla said.
    
  "It's a verdammt scanner, Jackson."
    
  'Torres, come look at this.'
    
  'I'll fucking do it. I bet you five bucks.'
    
  Marla stood up and looked at the scanner screen, a device the size of a small VCR that no one else used, except this one had an LCD screen and cost a hundred times as much.
    
  "It seems to be all right; it's back on track," Marla said, returning to the table. "I'll see your A and I'll give you a fiver."
    
  "I'm leaving," Alric said, leaning back in his chair.
    
  'Bullshit. He doesn't even have a date,' Marla said.
    
  'You think you're running the show, Mrs. Decker?' Torres said.
    
  Marla wasn't so much bothered by his words as by his tone. Suddenly, she forgot that she'd let him win.
    
  'No way, Torres. I live in a colorful country, bro.'
    
  'What color? Brown shit?'
    
  'Any color but yellow. Funny... the color of the underpants, the same as the one on the top of your flag.'
    
  Marla regretted it as soon as she said it. Torres might be a dirty, degenerate rat from Medellin, but to a Colombian, his country and his flag were as sacred as Jesus. Her opponent pressed his lips so tightly together they almost disappeared, and his cheeks flushed slightly. Marla felt simultaneously terrified and thrilled; she enjoyed humiliating Torres and reveling in his rage.
    
  Now I have to lose the two hundred dollars I won from him, and another two hundred of my own. This pig is so angry that he'll probably hit me, even though he knows Decker will kill him.
    
  Alrik looked at them, more than a little concerned. Marla knew how to take care of herself, but at that moment she felt like she was crossing a minefield.
    
  'Come on, Torres, get Jackson up. She's bluffing.'
    
  'Leave him alone. I don't think he's planning on shaving any new clients today, is he, bastard?'
    
  'What are you talking about, Jackson?'
    
  'Don't tell me you weren't the one doing the white prof last night?'
    
  Torres looked very serious.
    
  'It wasn't me.'
    
  'It had your signature all over it: a small, sharp instrument, positioned low at the back.'
    
  'I tell you, it wasn't me.'
    
  'And I'm saying I saw you arguing with a white dude with a ponytail on the boat.'
    
  'Give it up, I argue with a lot of people. Nobody understands me.'
    
  'Then who was it? Simun? Or perhaps a priest?'
    
  'Of course, it could have been an old crow.'
    
  "You're not serious, Torres," Alric interjected. "This priest is just a warmer brother."
    
  'Didn't he tell you? That big-time assassin is deathly afraid of the priest.'
    
  "I'm not afraid of anything. I'm just telling you he's dangerous," Torres said, grimacing.
    
  'I think you bought the story about him being CIA. He's an old man, for Christ's sake.'
    
  'Only three or four years older than your senile boyfriend. And for all I know, the boss could break a donkey's neck with his bare hands.'
    
  "Damn right, bastard," said Marla, who loved to brag about her man.
    
  'He's a lot more dangerous than you think, Jackson. If you took your head off your ass for a second, you'd read the report. This guy's a pararescue special forces guy. There's no one better. A few months before the boss picked you as the group mascot, we ran an operation in Tikrit. We had a couple of special forces guys in our unit. You wouldn't believe what I've seen this guy do... they're crazy. Death is all over those dudes.'
    
  "Parasites are bad news. Hard as hammers," Alric said.
    
  "Go to hell, you two fucking Catholic babies," Marla said. "What do you think he's carrying in that black briefcase? C4? A pistol? You're both patrolling this canyon with M4s that can fire nine hundred rounds a minute. What's he going to do, hit you with his Bible? Maybe he'll ask the doctor for a scalpel so he can cut your balls off."
    
  "I'm not worried about the doc," Torres said, waving his hand dismissively. "She's just some Mossad lesbian. I can handle her. But Fowler..."
    
  'Forget about the old crow. Hey, if all this is an excuse to avoid admitting you took care of a white professor...'
    
  'Jackson, I'm telling you, it wasn't me. But believe me, no one here is who they say they are.'
    
  "Then thank goodness we have Upsilon Protocol for this mission," Jackson said, showing off her perfectly white teeth, which had cost her mother eighty double shifts at the diner where she worked.
    
  "The moment your boyfriend says 'sarsaparilla,' heads will roll. The first one I'm going after is the priest."
    
  'Don't mention the code, bastard. Go ahead and upgrade.'
    
  "Nobody's going to raise the stakes," Alric said, pointing at Torres. The Colombian held his chips. "The frequency scanner's not working. She keeps trying to start."
    
  'Damn. Something's wrong with the electricity. Leave it alone.'
    
  'Halt die klappe Affe. We can't turn this thing off or Decker will kick our asses. I'm going to check the electrical panel. You two keep playing.'
    
  Torres looked like he was about to continue playing, but then he looked coldly at Jackson and stood up.
    
  'Wait, white man. I want to stretch my legs.'
    
  Marla realized she'd gone too far in mocking Torres's masculinity, and the Colombian placed her high on his list of potential hits. She only felt a little regret. Torres hated everyone, so why not give him a good reason?
    
  "I'm leaving too," she said.
    
  The three stepped out into the scorching heat. Alrik squatted down near the platform.
    
  'Everything looks fine here. I'm going to check the generator.'
    
  Shaking her head, Marla returned to the tent, wanting to lie down for a bit. But before she went inside, she noticed the Colombian kneeling at the end of the platform, digging in the sand. He picked up the object and looked at it with a strange smile on his lips.
    
  Marla didn't understand the meaning of the red lighter decorated with flowers.
    
    
  42
    
    
    
  EXCAVATIONS
    
  AL-MUDAWWARA DESERT, JORDAN
    
    
  Friday, July 14, 2006, 8:31 PM.
    
    
  Andrea's day was a hair's breadth from death.
    
  She barely managed to crawl out from under the platform when she heard the soldiers rise from the table. And not a minute sooner. A few more seconds of hot air from the generator and she would have lost consciousness forever. She crawled out the side of the tent opposite the door, stood up, and very slowly made her way toward the infirmary, trying her best not to fall. What she really needed was a shower, but that was out of the question, as she didn't want to go that way and run into Fowler. She grabbed two bottles of water and her camera and left the infirmary tent again, looking for a quiet spot on the rocks near her index finger.
    
  She found shelter on a small slope above the canyon floor and sat there, watching the archaeologists' work. She didn't know what stage their grief had reached. At some point, Fowler and Dr. Harel had passed by, likely looking for her. Andrea hid her head behind the rocks and tried to piece together what she'd heard.
    
  The first conclusion she came to was that she couldn't trust Fowler-that was something she already knew-and she couldn't trust Doc-which made her feel even more uneasy. Her thoughts about Harel didn't go much beyond a huge physical attraction.
    
  All I have to do is look at her and I get turned on.
    
  But the thought that she was a Mossad spy was more than Andrea could bear.
    
  The second conclusion she came to was that she had no choice but to trust the priest and the doctor if she wanted to get out of this alive. These words about the Upsilon Protocol completely undermined her understanding of who was truly in charge of the operation.
    
  On one side, there's Forrester and his minions, all too meek to pick up a knife and kill one of their own. Or maybe not. Then there's the support staff, stuck in their thankless jobs-no one pays them much attention. Cain and Russell, the brains behind this madness. A group of mercenaries and a secret code word to start killing people. But kill who, or who else? What's clear, for better or for worse, is that our fate was sealed the moment we joined this expedition. And it seems perfectly clear it's for the worse.
    
  Andrea must have fallen asleep at some point, because when she woke up, the sun was setting, and a heavy gray light replaced the usual high contrast between the sand and shadows in the canyon. Andrea regretted missing the sunset. Every day, she made sure to go to the open area beyond the canyon at this time. The sun sank into the sand, revealing layers of warmth that looked like waves on the horizon. Its last burst of light was like a giant orange explosion that lingered in the sky for several minutes after it disappeared.
    
  Here, at the "index finger" of the canyon, the only twilight landscape was a large, bare sandstone cliff. With a sigh, she reached into her pants pocket and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. Her lighter was nowhere to be found. Surprised, she began searching her other pockets until a voice in Spanish made her heart leap into her throat.
    
  'Are you looking for this, my little bitch?'
    
  Andrea looked up. Five feet above her, Torres lay on the slope, his hand outstretched, offering her a red lighter. She guessed the Colombian must have been there for a while-stalking her-and it sent a shiver down her spine. Trying not to show her fear, she stood and reached for the lighter.
    
  'Didn't your mother teach you how to talk to a lady, Torres?' Andrea said, controlling her nerves enough to light a cigarette and blow smoke in the mercenary's direction.
    
  'Of course, but I don't see any lady here.'
    
  Torres stared at Andrea's smooth thighs. She wore a pair of trousers, which she had unzipped above the knees to make shorts. She had rolled them up even further in the heat, and her white skin against her tan seemed sensual and inviting to him. When Andrea noticed the direction of the Colombian's gaze, her fear intensified. She turned toward the end of the canyon. One loud scream would have been enough to attract everyone's attention. The team had begun digging several test holes a couple of hours earlier-almost at the same time as her brief journey under the soldiers' tent.
    
  But when she turned around, she saw no one. The mini-excavator was standing there by itself, off to the side.
    
  'Everyone's gone to the funeral, baby. We're all alone.'
    
  'Shouldn't you be at your post, Torres?' Andrea said, pointing to one of the cliffs, trying to appear nonchalant.
    
  'I'm not the only one who's been where they shouldn't have been, right? That's something we need to fix, no question about it.'
    
  The soldier jumped down to where Andrea stood. They were on a rocky platform no larger than a ping-pong table, about fifteen feet above the canyon floor. A pile of irregularly shaped rocks had been piled against the edge of the platform; it had previously served as Andrea's cover but now blocked her escape.
    
  "I don't understand what you're talking about, Torres," Andrea said, trying to buy time.
    
  The Colombian took a step forward. He was now so close to Andrea that she could see beads of sweat covering his forehead.
    
  'Of course you do. And now you'll do something for me if you know what's good for you. It's a shame that such a beautiful girl has to be a lesbian. But I think it's because you've never had a good puff.'
    
  Andrea took a step back toward the rocks, but the Colombian stepped between her and where she had climbed onto the platform.
    
  'You wouldn't dare, Torres. The other guards could be watching us right now.'
    
  'Only Waaka can see us... and he's not going to do anything. He'll be a little jealous, won't be able to do it anymore. Too many steroids. But don't worry, mine's working fine. You'll see.'
    
  Andrea realized escape was impossible, so she made a decision out of sheer desperation. She threw her cigarette to the ground, planted both feet firmly on the stone, and leaned forward slightly. She wasn't going to make this any easier for him.
    
  'Then come on, you son of a whore. If you want it, come and get it.'
    
  A sudden glint flashed in Torres's eyes, a mixture of excitement at the challenge and anger at the insult to his mother. He rushed forward and grabbed Andrea's hand, pulling her roughly toward him with a strength that seemed impossible for someone so small.
    
  'I love that you ask for it, bitch.'
    
  Andrea twisted her body and slammed her elbow into his mouth, hard. Blood spilled onto the stones, and Torres let out a growl of rage. He tugged furiously at Andrea's T-shirt, tearing the sleeve, revealing her black bra. Seeing this, the soldier grew even more aroused. He grabbed both of Andrea's arms, intending to bite her breast, but at the last minute, the reporter stepped back, and Torres's teeth sank into nothing.
    
  'Come on, you'll like it. You know what you want.'
    
  Andrea tried to knee him between the legs or in the stomach, but, anticipating her movements, Torres turned away and crossed his legs.
    
  Don't let him bring you down, Andrea told herself. She remembered a story she'd followed two years ago about a group of rape survivors. She'd gone with several other young women to an anti-rape workshop led by an instructor who'd almost been raped as a teenager. The woman had lost an eye, but not her virginity. The rapist had lost everything. If he brought you down, he had you.
    
  Another forceful grip from Torres ripped off her bra strap. Torres decided that was enough and increased the pressure on Andrea's wrists. She could barely move her fingers. He viciously twisted her right arm, leaving her left free. Andrea now had her back to him, but was unable to move due to the Colombian's pressure on her arm. He forced her to bend over and kicked her ankles to force her legs apart.
    
  A rapist is weakest at two points, the instructor's words echoed in her mind. The words were so powerful, the woman was so confident, so in control, that Andrea felt a surge of new strength. "When he takes off your clothes and when he takes off his. If you're lucky and he takes off his work first, take advantage of it."
    
  With one hand, Torres unbuckled his belt, and his camouflage pants fell to his ankles. Andrea could see his erection, hard and menacing.
    
  Wait until he bends over you.
    
  The mercenary leaned over Andrea, searching for the fastener on her trousers. His wiry beard scraped the back of her neck, and it was the signal she needed. She suddenly raised her left arm, shifting her weight to her right. Taken by surprise, Torres let go of Andrea's right hand, and she fell to the right. The Colombian tripped over his trousers and fell forward, hitting the ground hard. He tried to stand, but Andrea was on her feet first. She delivered three quick kicks to his stomach, making sure the soldier didn't grab her ankle and cause her to fall. The kicks connected, and when Torres tried to curl into a ball to defend himself, he left a much more sensitive area open to attack.
    
  "Thank you, God. I'll never get tired of doing this," the youngest and only female of the five siblings quietly confessed, pulling her leg back before exploding Torres' testicles. His scream echoed off the canyon walls.
    
  "Let's keep this between us," Andrea said. "Now we're even."
    
  "I'm going to get you, you bitch. I'm going to make you so bad you'll choke on my dick," Torres whined, almost crying.
    
  "Come to think of it..." Andrea began. She reached the edge of the terrace and was about to descend, but quickly turned and ran a few steps, aiming her foot again between Torres's legs. It was useless for him to try to cover himself with his hands. This time the blow was even more powerful, and Torres was left gasping for breath, his face flushed, and two large tears streaming down his cheeks.
    
  'Now we are really doing well and we are equal.'
    
    
  43
    
    
    
  EXCAVATIONS
    
  AL-MUDAWWARA DESERT, JORDAN
    
    
  Friday, July 14, 2006, 9:43 PM.
    
    
  Andrea returned to camp as quickly as she could without running. She didn't look back or worry about her torn clothes until she reached the row of tents. She felt a strange sense of shame about what had happened, mixed with fear that someone would find out about her tampering with the frequency scanner. She tried to look as normal as possible, despite the looseness of her T-shirt, and headed toward the infirmary. Fortunately, she didn't run into anyone. As she was about to enter the tent, she bumped into Kira Larsen, who was carrying out her things.
    
  'What's going on, Kira?'
    
  The archaeologist looked at her coldly.
    
  "You didn't even have the decency to show up on the Hespeda for Stowe. I guess it doesn't matter. You didn't know him. He was just a nobody to you, right? That's why you didn't even care that he died because of you."
    
  Andrea was about to reply that other things were keeping her at a distance, but she doubted Kira would understand, so she remained silent.
    
  "I don't know what you're planning," Kira continued, pushing past her. "You know very well the doctor wasn't in her bed that night. She may have fooled everyone else, but not me. I'm going to sleep with the rest of the team. Thanks to you, there's an empty bed."
    
  Andrea was happy to see her go-she wasn't in the mood for further confrontation, and deep down, she agreed with every word Kira said. Guilt had played a major role in her Catholic education, and sins of omission were as constant and painful as any other.
    
  She entered the tent and saw Dr. Harel, who had turned away. It was obvious she had quarreled with Larsen.
    
  "I'm glad you're okay. We were worried about you."
    
  'Turn around, Doc. I know you've been crying.'
    
  Harel turned to her, rubbing her reddened eyes.
    
  'It's really stupid. A simple secretion from the tear glands, and yet we all feel awkward about it.'
    
  'Lies are even more shameful.'
    
  The doctor then noticed Andrea's torn clothing, something Larsen, in her anger, seemed to have overlooked or not bothered to comment on.
    
  'What happened to you?'
    
  'I fell down the stairs. Don't change the subject. I know who you are.'
    
  Harel chose every word carefully.
    
  'What do you know?'
    
  'I know that combat medicine is highly valued by the Mossad, or so it seems. And that your emergency replacement wasn't as much of a coincidence as you told me.'
    
  The doctor frowned, then walked over to Andrea, who was rummaging through her backpack for something clean to wear.
    
  "I'm sorry you had to find out this way, Andrea. I'm just a low-ranking analyst, not a field agent. My government wants eyes and ears on every archaeological expedition searching for the Ark of the Covenant. This is the third expedition I've been a part of in seven years."
    
  "Are you really a doctor?" Or is that a lie too?' Andrea said, putting on another T-shirt.
    
  'I am a doctor'.
    
  "And how come you get along so well with Fowler?" Because I also found out he's a CIA agent, in case you didn't know.
    
  'She already knew, and you owe me an explanation,' Fowler said.
    
  He stood by the door, frowning but relieved after searching for Andrea all day.
    
  "Bullshit," Andrea said, pointing a finger at the priest, who stepped back in surprise. "I nearly died from the heat under that platform, and to top it all off, one of Decker's dogs just tried to rape me. I'm not in the mood to talk to you two. At least not yet."
    
  Fowler touched Andrea's hand, noticing the bruises on her wrists.
    
  "Are you okay?"
    
  "Better than ever," she said, pushing his hand away. The last thing she wanted was contact with a man.
    
  'Miss Otero, did you hear the soldiers talking while you were under the platform?'
    
  "What the hell were you doing there?" Harel interrupted, shocked.
    
  'I sent her. She helped me disable the frequency scanner so I could call my contact in Washington.'
    
  "I would like to be informed, Father," Harel said.
    
  Fowler lowered his voice to almost a whisper.
    
  "We need information, and we're not going to lock her in this bubble. Or do you think I don't know you sneak out every night to send text messages to Tel Aviv?"
    
  "Touch," Harel said, grimacing.
    
  Was that what you were doing, Doc? Andrea thought, biting her lower lip, trying to figure out what to do. Maybe I was wrong, and I should have trusted you after all. I hope so, because there's no other choice.
    
  'Very well, Father. I will tell you both what I heard...'
    
    
  44
    
    
    
  FOWLER AND HAREL
    
  "We must get her out of here," the priest whispered.
    
  The shadows of the canyon surrounded them, and the only sounds came from the dining tent, where the expedition members were beginning to eat dinner.
    
  'I don't see how, Father. I thought about stealing one of the Humvees, but we'd have to get it over that dune. And I don't think we'd get very far. What if we told everyone in the group what's really going on here?'
    
  'Suppose we could do this, and they believed us... what good would it do?'
    
  In the darkness, Harel suppressed a groan of rage and helplessness.
    
  'The only thing I can think of is the same answer you gave me yesterday about the mole: wait and see.'
    
  "There is one way," Fowler said. "But it will be dangerous, and I will need your help."
    
  'You can count on me, Father. But first, explain to me what this Upsilon Protocol is.'
    
  "It's a procedure by which security forces kill all members of the group they're supposed to protect if a code word comes over the radio. They kill everyone except the person who hired them and anyone else he says should be left alone."
    
  'I don't understand how something like this can exist.'
    
  'Officially, this isn't true. But several soldiers dressed as mercenaries who served in special forces, for example, imported the concept from Asian countries.'
    
  Harel froze for a moment.
    
  'Is there any way to find out who is on?'
    
  "No," the priest said weakly. "And the worst thing is that the person who hires the military guards is always different from the one who is supposed to be in charge."
    
  'Then Kain...' Harel said, opening her eyes.
    
  'That's right, Doctor. Cain isn't the one who wants us dead. It's someone else.'
    
    
  45
    
    
    
  EXCAVATIONS
    
  AL-MUDAWWARA DESERT, JORDAN
    
    
  Saturday, July 15, 2006. 2:34 AM.
    
    
  At first, the infirmary tent was completely silent. Since Kira Larsen was sleeping with the other assistants, the breathing of the two remaining women was the only sound.
    
  After a while, a slight scraping sound was heard. It was the Hawnv ëiler zipper, the most airtight and secure in the world. Even dust couldn't penetrate, but nothing could prevent an intruder from gaining access once it was unzipped twenty inches or so.
    
  This was followed by a series of faint sounds: the sound of socked feet on wood; the click of a small plastic box being opened; then an even fainter but more ominous sound: twenty-four nervous keratin legs scurrying inside the small box.
    
  Then followed a subdued silence, for the movements were almost inaudible to the human ear: the half-open end of the sleeping bag lifted, twenty-four little feet landed on the fabric inside, the end of the fabric returned to its original position, covering the owners of those twenty-four little feet.
    
  For the next seven seconds, breathing once again dominated the silence. The sliding of socked feet leaving the tent was even quieter than before, and the tramp hadn't zipped up when he left. The movement Andrea made inside her sleeping bag was so brief as to be almost silent. However, it was enough to provoke those in her sleeping bag to express their anger and confusion after the tramp shook it so vigorously before entering the tent.
    
  The first sting struck her, and Andrea broke the silence with her screams.
    
    
  46
    
    
    
  Al-Qaeda manual found by Scotland Yard in safe house, pages 131 et seq. Translated by WM and SA 1.
    
    
  Military Research for Jihad Against Tyranny
    
    
  In the name of Allah, the Merciful, the Compassionate [...]
    
  Chapter 14: Kidnappings and Murders with Rifles and Pistols
    
  A revolver is a better choice because, although it holds fewer rounds than an automatic pistol, it does not jam and the empty cartridges remain in the cylinder, making it more difficult for investigators.
    
  [...]
    
    
  The most important parts of the body
    
  The shooter must be familiar with the vital body parts or [where] to inflict a critical wound in order to aim at these areas of the person to be killed. They are:
    
  1. The circle that includes the two eyes, nose and mouth is the kill zone and the shooter should not aim lower, left or right, otherwise he risks the bullet not being able to kill.
    
  2. The part of the neck where arteries and veins converge
    
  3. Heart
    
  4. Stomach
    
  5. Liver
    
  6. Kidneys
    
  7. Spinal column
    
  Principles and rules of fire
    
  The biggest aiming errors are caused by physical tension or nerves, which can cause the hand to twitch. This can be caused by applying too much pressure on the trigger or by pulling the trigger instead of squeezing it. This causes the gun's muzzle to deviate from the target.
    
  For this reason, brothers must follow these rules when aiming and shooting:
    
  1. Control yourself when you pull the trigger so that the gun does not move.
    
  2. Pull the trigger without too much force or squeezing it
    
  3. Don't let the sound of the gunshot affect you and don't concentrate on how it will sound, because it will make your hands shake.
    
  4. Your body should be normal, not tense, and your limbs should be relaxed; but not too much
    
  5. When you shoot, aim your right eye at the center of the target
    
  6. Close your left eye if you shoot with your right hand, and vice versa.
    
  7. Don't spend too much time aiming, otherwise your nerves may fail you.
    
  8. Don't feel remorse when you pull the trigger. You're killing the enemy of your God.
    
    
  47
    
    
    
  WASHINGTON SUBURB
    
  Friday, July 14, 2006. 8:34 PM.
    
    
  Nazim took a sip of his Coke but immediately put it down. It had too much sugar, like all drinks in restaurants where you could refill your cup as many times as you wanted. The Mayur kebab shop, where he'd bought his dinner, was one such place.
    
  'You know, I watched a documentary the other day about a guy who ate nothing but McDonald's hamburgers for a month.'
    
  'This is disgusting.'
    
  Haruf's eyes were half-closed. He'd been trying to sleep for a while, but couldn't. Ten minutes ago, he'd given up and raised the car seat back upright. This Ford was too uncomfortable.
    
  'They said his liver had turned to p &# 226;t é.'
    
  'This could only happen in the United States. The country with the fattest people in the world. You know, it consumes up to 87 percent of the world's resources.'
    
  Nazim said nothing. He was born an American, but a different kind of American. He never learned to hate his country, though his lips suggested otherwise. To him, Haruf's hatred of the United States seemed too all-encompassing. He would rather imagine the president kneeling in the Oval Office, facing Mecca, than see the White House destroyed by fire. He once said something along those lines to Haruf, and Haruf showed him a CD containing photographs of a little girl. They were crime scene photos.
    
  'Israeli soldiers raped and murdered her in Nablus. There isn't enough hatred in the world for such a thing.'
    
  Nazim's blood boiled at the memory of these images, but he tried to push such thoughts from his mind. Unlike Haruf, hatred wasn't the source of his energy. His motives were selfish and twisted; they were aimed at gaining something for himself. His prize.
    
  A few days earlier, when they'd walked into the Netcatch office, Nazim had been almost completely unaware. In a way, he felt bad, because the two minutes they'd spent destroying Kafirun 2 had almost been erased from his mind. He tried to recall what had happened, but it was as if they were someone else's memories, like those crazy dreams in those glamorous movies his sister liked, where the main character sees herself from the outside. No one has dreams in which they see themselves from the outside.
    
  'Harouf'.
    
  'Talk to me.'
    
  'Remember what happened last Tuesday?'
    
  'Are you talking about surgery?'
    
  'Right'.
    
  Haruf looked at him, shrugged and smiled sadly.
    
  'Every detail'.
    
  Nazim looked away because he was ashamed of what he was about to say.
    
  'I... I don't remember too much, you know?'
    
  'You should thank Allah, blessed be His name. The first time I killed someone, I couldn't sleep for a week.'
    
  'You?'
    
  Nazim's eyes widened.
    
  Haruf playfully ruffled the young man's hair.
    
  'That's right, Nazim. You're a jihadist now, and we're equals. Don't be so surprised that I, too, have gone through hard times. Sometimes it's hard to act as God's sword. But you've been blessed with the ability to forget the unpleasant details. The only thing left is pride in what you've accomplished.'
    
  The young man felt much better than he had in the last few days. He remained silent for a while, saying a prayer of thanks. He felt sweat trickling down his back, but he didn't dare start the car's engine to turn on the air conditioning. The wait began to seem interminable.
    
  "Are you sure he's there?" I'm beginning to wonder,' said Nazim, pointing to the wall that surrounded the estate. 'Don't you think we should look elsewhere?'
    
  2 unbelievers, according to the Koran.
    
  Haruf thought for a moment and then shook his head.
    
  'I wouldn't have the slightest idea where to look. How long have we been following him? A month? He only came here once, and was laden with packages. He left empty-handed. This house is empty. For all we know, it could have belonged to a friend, and he was doing him a favor. But this is the only link we have, and we should thank you for finding it.'
    
  It was true. One day, when Nazim was supposed to be following Watson on his own, the boy started acting strangely, changing lanes on the highway and returning home on a route completely different from the one he usually took. Nazim turned up the radio and imagined he was a character in Grand Theft Auto, a popular video game in which the protagonist is a criminal who must complete missions such as kidnappings, murders, drug dealing, and fleecing prostitutes. There was a part of the game where you had to follow a car trying to get away. It was one of his favorite parts, and what he learned helped him follow Watson.
    
  'Do you think he knows about us?'
    
  "I don't think he knows anything about Hukan, but I'm sure our leader has good reasons for wanting him dead. Pass me the bottle. I need to take a leak."
    
  Nazim handed him a two-liter bottle. Haruf unzipped his pants and urinated inside. They had several empty bottles so they could discreetly relieve themselves in the car. Better to put up with the hassle and throw the bottles away later than have anyone see them peeing in the street or going into one of the local bars.
    
  'You know what? To hell with it,' Haruf said, grimacing. 'I'm going to throw this bottle in the alley, and then we're going to look for him in California, at his mother's house. To hell with it.'
    
  'Wait, Haruf.'
    
  Nazim pointed to the estate gate. A courier on a motorcycle rang the bell. A second later, someone appeared.
    
  'He's there! See, Nazim, I told you so. Congratulations!'
    
  Haruf was excited. He slapped Nazim on the back. The boy felt both happy and nervous, as if a hot wave and a cold wave had collided deep within him.
    
  'Great, kid. We're finally going to finish what we started.'
    
    
  48
    
    
    
  EXCAVATIONS
    
  AL-MUDAWWARA DESERT, JORDAN
    
    
  Saturday, July 15, 2006. 2:34 AM.
    
    
  Harel woke up, startled by Andrea's screams. The young reporter was sitting on her sleeping bag, clutching her leg as she screamed.
    
  'Oh God, that hurts!'
    
  The first thing Harel thought was that Andrea had started having cramps while she was sleeping. She jumped up, turned on the light in the infirmary, and grabbed Andrea's leg to massage it.
    
  That's when she saw the scorpions.
    
  There were three of them, at least three, who had crawled out of the sleeping bag and were scurrying around frantically, their tails raised, ready to sting. They were a sickly yellow color. Horrified, Dr. Harel jumped onto one of the examination tables. She was barefoot and therefore easy prey.
    
  'Doc, help me. Oh God, my leg is on fire... Doc! Oh God!'
    
  Andrea's cries helped the doctor channel her fear and give her some perspective. She couldn't leave her young friend helpless and suffering.
    
  Let me think. What the hell do I remember about these bastards? They're yellow scorpions. The girl has twenty minutes tops before things get bad. If only one of them stung her, that is. If more than one...
    
  A terrible thought occurred to the doctor. If Andrea was allergic to scorpion venom, she was finished.
    
  'Andrea, listen to me very carefully.'
    
  Andrea opened her eyes and looked at her. Lying on her bed, clutching her leg and staring blankly ahead, the girl was clearly in agony. Harel had made a superhuman effort to overcome her own paralyzing fear of scorpions. It was a natural fear, one that any Israeli woman like her, born in Beersheba on the edge of the desert, would have acquired as a young girl. She tried to put her foot on the floor, but couldn't.
    
  'Andrea. Andrea, were cardiotoxins on the allergy list you gave me?'
    
  Andrea howled in pain again.
    
  'How should I know? I'm carrying a list because I can't remember more than ten names at a time. Ewwww! Doc, get down from there, for God's sake, or Jehovah's sake, or whoever. The pain's even worse...'
    
  Harel tried to overcome her fear again by placing her foot on the floor and in two jumps she found herself on her mattress.
    
  I hope they're not here. Please, God, don't let them be in my sleeping bag...
    
  She dropped the sleeping bag on the floor, grabbed a boot in each hand, and returned to Andrea.
    
  'I need to put my boots on and go to the first aid kit. You'll be fine in a minute,' she said, pulling on her boots. 'The poison is very dangerous, but it takes almost half an hour to kill a person. Hang in there.'
    
  Andrea didn't answer. Harel looked up. Andrea raised her hand to her neck, and her face began to turn blue.
    
  Oh, my God! She's allergic. She's going into anaphylactic shock.
    
  Forgetting to put on her other shoe, Harel knelt next to Andrea, her bare feet touching the floor. She had never been so aware of every square inch of her flesh. She searched for the place where the scorpions had stung Andrea and discovered two spots on the reporter's left calf, two small holes, each surrounded by an inflamed area about the size of a tennis ball.
    
  Damn. They really got her.
    
  The tent flap opened and Father Fowler walked in. He, too, was barefoot.
    
  'What's happening?'
    
  Harel leaned over Andrea, trying to give her mouth-to-mouth resuscitation.
    
  'Father, please hurry. She's in shock. I need adrenaline.'
    
  'Where is it?'
    
  'In the cabinet at the end, on the second shelf from the top. There are several green vials. Bring me one and a syringe.'
    
  She leaned over and breathed more air into Andrea's mouth, but the tumor in her throat was blocking air from reaching her lungs. If Harel hadn't recovered from shock immediately, her friend would be dead.
    
  And it will be your fault for being such a coward and climbing on the table.
    
  "What the hell happened?" the priest said, running to the closet. "Is she in shock?"
    
  "Get out," Doc yelled at the half-dozen sleepy heads peering into the infirmary. Harel didn't want one of the scorpions to escape and find someone else to kill. "She got stung by a scorpion, Father. There are three of them here right now. Be careful."
    
  Father Fowler winced slightly at the news and cautiously approached the doctor with adrenaline and a syringe. Harel immediately administered five CCS injections into Andrea's exposed thigh.
    
  Fowler grabbed the five-gallon water jar by the handle.
    
  "You take care of Andrea," he told the doctor. "I'll find them."
    
  Now Harel turned her full attention to the young reporter, though by this point all she could do was observe her condition. It would be the adrenaline, which would work its magic. As soon as the hormone entered Andrea's bloodstream, the nerve endings in her cells would begin to fire. The fat cells in her body would begin to break down lipids, releasing additional energy, her heart rate would increase, glucose would rise in the blood, her brain would begin to produce dopamine, and, most importantly, her bronchi would dilate, and the swelling in her throat would disappear.
    
  With a loud sigh, Andrea took her first independent breath of air. To Dr. Harel, the sound was almost as beautiful as the three dry thuds she'd heard in the background against Father Fowler's gallon jug as the medicine took effect. As Father Fowler sat down on the floor next to her, Doc had no doubt the three scorpions had now become three spots on the floor.
    
  'And the antidote? Something to deal with the poison?' asked the priest.
    
  'Yes, but I don't want to give her the injection yet. It's made from the blood of horses that have been exposed to hundreds of scorpion stings, so they eventually become immune. The vaccine always contains traces of the toxin, and I don't want to be subjected to another shock.'
    
  Fowler watched the young Spaniard. Her face slowly began to look normal again.
    
  "Thank you for everything you've done, Doctor," he said. "I won't forget it."
    
  "No problem," replied Harel, who by now was all too aware of the danger they had passed through and began to tremble.
    
  'Will there be any consequences?'
    
  'No. Her body can fight the poison now.' She held up the green vial. 'It's pure adrenaline, it's like giving her body a weapon. Every organ in her body will double its capacity and prevent her from suffocating. She'll be fine in a couple of hours, though she'll feel like crap.'
    
  Fowler's face relaxed slightly. He pointed toward the door.
    
  'Are you thinking the same thing as me?'
    
  'I'm not an idiot, Father. I've been to the desert hundreds of times in my country. The last thing I do at night is check that all the doors are locked. In fact, I double-check. This tent is safer than a Swiss bank account.'
    
  Three scorpions. All at the same time. In the middle of the night...
    
  'Yes, Father. This is the second time someone has tried to kill Andrea.'
    
    
  49
    
    
    
  ORVILLE WATSON'S SAFE HOUSE
    
  WASHINGTON, D.C. OUTSKIRTS
    
    
  Friday, July 14, 2006. 11:36 PM.
    
    
  Ever since Orville Watson began hunting terrorists, he'd taken a number of basic precautions: he'd made sure he had phone numbers, addresses, and zip codes under different names, then purchased a house through an unnamed foreign association that only a genius could have traced back to him. An emergency shelter in case things went south.
    
  Of course, a safe house known only to you has its challenges. For starters, if you want to stock it, you'll have to do it yourself. Orville took care of that. Every three weeks, he'd bring in canned goods, meat for the freezer, and a stack of DVDs with the latest movies. Then he'd get rid of anything outdated, lock up the place, and leave.
    
  It was paranoid behavior... no question about it. The only mistake Orville ever made, other than letting Nazim stalk him, was forgetting a bag of Hershey bars the last time he was there. It was an unwise indulgence, not only because of the 330 calories in a bar, but also because a rush order on Amazon could have let terrorists know you were in the house they were watching.
    
  But Orville couldn't help himself. He could have done without food, water, internet access, his collection of sexy photos, his books, or his music. But when he walked into the house early Wednesday morning, threw his fireman's jacket in the trash, looked in the cupboard where he kept his chocolates, and saw it was empty, his heart sank. He couldn't go three or four months without chocolate, having been completely dependent since his parents' divorce.
    
  I could have worse addictions, he thought, trying to calm himself. Heroin, crack, voting Republican.
    
  Orville had never tried heroin in his life, but even the mind-numbing madness of that drug couldn't compare to the uncontrollable rush he felt when he heard the sound of crisping foil as he unwrapped the chocolate.
    
  If Orville were a true Freudian, he might conclude it was because the last thing the Watson family did together before their divorce was spend Christmas 1993 at his uncle's house in Harrisburg, Pennsylvania. As a special gift, his parents took Orville to the Hershey factory, located just fourteen miles outside of Harrisburg. Orville's knees buckled the first time they entered the building and inhaled the aroma of chocolate. He was even given a few Hershey bars with his name on them.
    
  But now Orville was even more disturbed by another sound: the sound of breaking glass, unless his ears were playing tricks on him.
    
  He carefully pushed aside a small pile of chocolate wrappers and got out of bed. He'd resisted the urge to go without chocolate for three hours, a personal best, but now that he'd finally given in to his addiction, he planned to go all out. And again, if he'd been using Freudian reasoning, he'd figured he'd eaten seventeen chocolates, one for each member of his company who died in Monday's attack.
    
  But Orville didn't believe in Sigmund Freud and his dizziness. When it came to broken glass, he believed in Smith & Wesson. That's why he kept a special .38 pistol next to his bed.
    
  This can't be happening. The alarm is on.
    
  He picked up the gun and the object lying next to it on the nightstand. It looked like a keychain, but it was a simple remote control with two buttons. The first activated a silent alarm at the police station. The second activated a siren throughout the estate.
    
  "It's so loud it could wake Nixon up and make him tap dance," said the man who set the alarm clock.
    
  'Nixon is buried in California.'
    
  'Now you know how powerful it is.'
    
  Orville pressed both buttons, not wanting to take any chances. Hearing no sirens, he wanted to beat the crap out of the idiot who'd installed the system and sworn it couldn't be turned off.
    
  Shit, shit, shit, Orville cursed under his breath, clutching his pistol. What the hell am I supposed to do now? The plan was to get here and be safe. What about the cell phone...?
    
  It was on the nightstand, on top of an old copy of Vanity Fair.
    
  His breathing became shallow, and he began to sweat. When he heard the sound of breaking glass-probably in the kitchen-he was sitting in his bed in the dark, playing The Sims on his laptop and sucking on a chocolate bar still stuck to its wrapper. He hadn't even realized the air conditioning had turned off a few minutes earlier.
    
  They probably cut the power at the same time as the supposedly reliable alarm system. Fourteen thousand bucks. Son of a bitch!
    
  Now, with his fear and the sticky Washington summer soaking him with sweat, his grip on the pistol became slippery, and every step he took felt precarious. There was no doubt Orville needed to get out of there as quickly as possible.
    
  He crossed the locker room and peered into the upstairs corridor. No one was there. There was no way to get down to the ground floor except by the stairs, but Orville had a plan. At the end of the corridor, on the opposite side from the stairs, was a small window, and outside grew a rather frail cherry tree that refused to bloom. No matter. The branches were thick and close enough to the window to allow someone as untrained as Orville to attempt the descent that way.
    
  He dropped to all fours and tucked the gun into the tight waistband of his shorts, then forced his large body to crawl ten feet across the carpet toward the window. Another noise from the floor below confirmed that someone had indeed broken into the house.
    
  Opening the window, he clenched his teeth, as thousands of people do every day when trying to keep quiet. Fortunately, their lives didn't depend on it; unfortunately, his certainly did. He could already hear footsteps climbing the stairs.
    
  Throwing caution to the wind, Orville stood up, opened the window, and leaned out. The branches were about five feet apart, and Orville had to stretch just to brush his fingers against one of the thickest ones.
    
  This won't work.
    
  Without thinking, he placed one foot on the windowsill, pushed off, and leaped with a precision that even the kindest observer would not have called graceful. His fingers managed to grab a branch, but in his haste, the gun slipped into his shorts, and after a brief, cold contact with what he called "little Timmy," the branch slid down his leg and fell into the garden.
    
  Fuck! What else could go wrong?
    
  At that moment the branch broke.
    
  Orville's full weight landed on his backside, making quite a noise. More than thirty percent of the fabric of his shorts had given way during the fall, as he later realized when he saw bleeding gashes on his back. But at that moment, he didn't notice them, as his only concern was getting the thing as far away from the house as possible, so he headed for the gate to his property, about sixty-five feet down the hill. He didn't have the keys, but he would have broken through it if necessary. Halfway down the hill, the fear that had been creeping up on him was replaced by a sense of accomplishment.
    
  Two impossible escapes in one week. Get over it, Batman.
    
  He couldn't believe it, but the gates were open. Stretching his arms out in the darkness, Orville headed for the exit.
    
  Suddenly, a dark figure emerged from the shadows of the wall surrounding the property and slammed into his face. Orville felt the full force of the impact and heard a horrific crunch as his nose broke. Whimpering and clutching his face, Orville fell to the ground.
    
  A figure ran down the path from the house and pointed a gun at the back of his head. The move was unnecessary, as Orville had already passed out. Nazim stood next to his body, nervously holding a shovel, which he used to strike Orville, adopting a classic batter's stance in front of the pitcher. It was a perfect move. Nazim had been a good hitter when he played baseball in high school, and in some absurd way, he thought his coach would be proud to see him make such a fantastic swing in the dark.
    
  "Didn't I tell you?" Haruf asked breathlessly. "Broken glass works every time. They run like scared little rabbits wherever you send them. Come on, put this down and help me carry it into the house."
    
    
  50
    
    
    
  EXCAVATIONS
    
  AL-MUDAWWARA DESERT, JORDAN
    
    
  Saturday, July 15, 2006. 6:34 AM.
    
    
  Andrea woke up feeling like she'd chewed cardboard. She was lying on the examination table, next to which Father Fowler and Dr. Harel, both in their pajamas, were dozing in chairs.
    
  She was about to get up to go to the bathroom when the door zipped open and Jacob Russell appeared. Assistant Cain had a walkie-talkie slung from his belt, and his face was furrowed in thought. Seeing that the priest and doctor were asleep, he tiptoed to the table and whispered to Andrea.
    
  'How are you doing?'
    
  'Do you remember the morning after the day you graduated from school?'
    
  Russell smiled and nodded.
    
  'Well, it's the same thing, but it's like they replaced the booze with brake fluid,' Andrea said, clutching her head.
    
  'We were really worried about you. What happened with Erling, and now this... We're really unlucky.'
    
  At that moment, Andrea's guardian angels woke up simultaneously.
    
  "Bad luck? That's bullshit," Harel said, stretching in her chair. "What happened here was an attempted murder."
    
  'What are you talking about?'
    
  "I'd like to know too," Andrea said, shocked.
    
  "Mr. Russell," Fowler said, standing and walking toward his assistant, "I formally request that Miss Otero be evacuated to Behemoth."
    
  'Father Fowler, I appreciate your concern for Miss Otero's welfare, and normally I would be the first to agree with you. But that would mean violating the safety regulations of the operation, and that's a huge step...'
    
  'Listen,' Andrea intervened.
    
  'Her health is not in immediate danger, is it, Dr. Harel?'
    
  "Well... technically no," Harel said, forced to concede.
    
  'A couple of days and she'll be as good as new.'
    
  'Listen to me...' Andrea insisted.
    
  'You see, Father, there would be no point in evacuating Miss Otero before she had a chance to accomplish her task.'
    
  'Even when someone's trying to kill her?' Fowler said tensely.
    
  There's no evidence for that. It was an unfortunate coincidence that the scorpions got into her sleeping bag, but...
    
  'STOP!' Andrea screamed.
    
  Astonished, all three turned to face her.
    
  "Could you please stop talking about me like I'm not here and listen to me for just one fucking moment? Or am I not allowed to speak my mind before you throw me off this expedition?"
    
  'Of course. Go ahead, Andrea,' said Harel.
    
  'First, I want to know how the scorpions got into my sleeping bag.'
    
  "An unfortunate accident," Russell commented.
    
  "It couldn't have been an accident," Father Fowler replied. "The infirmary is a sealed tent."
    
  "You don't understand," Cain's assistant said, shaking his head in disappointment. "Everyone's nervous about what happened to Stow Erling. Rumors are flying everywhere. Some people say it was one of the soldiers, others that it was Pappas when he learned Erling had discovered the Ark. If I evacuate Miss Otero now, a lot of other people will want to leave too. Every time they see me, Hanley, Larsen, and a few others say they want me to send them back to the ship. I told them that for their own safety, they must stay here because we simply can't guarantee they'll get to the Behemoth safely. That argument wouldn't matter much if I evacuated you, Miss Otero."
    
  Andrea was silent for a few moments.
    
  'Mr Russell, am I to understand that I am not free to leave whenever I want?'
    
  'Well, I came to offer you an offer from my boss.'
    
  'I'm all ears.'
    
  'I don't think you quite understand. Mr. Cain himself will be making you an offer.' Russell took the radio from his belt and pressed the call button. 'Here it is, sir,' he said, handing it to Andrea.
    
  'Hello and good morning, Miss Otero.'
    
  The old man's voice was pleasant, although he had a slight Bavarian accent.
    
  Like that governor of California. The one who was an actor.
    
  'Miss Otero, are you there?'
    
  Andrea was so surprised to hear the old man's voice that it took her a while to recover her dry throat.
    
  'Yes, I'm here, Mr. Cain.'
    
  'Miss Otero, I'd like to invite you to have a drink with me later, around lunchtime. We can chat, and I can answer any questions you may have.'
    
  'Yes, of course, Mr. Cain. I would like that very much.'
    
  'Are you feeling well enough to come to my tent?'
    
  'Yes, sir. It's only forty feet from here.'
    
  'Well, see you then.'
    
  Andrea handed the radio back to Russell, who politely said goodbye and left. Fowler and Harel didn't say a word; they simply stared at Andrea disapprovingly.
    
  "Stop looking at me like that," Andrea said, letting herself lean back on the examination table and closing her eyes. "I can't let this chance slip through my fingers."
    
  'Don't you think it's a surprising coincidence that he offered you an interview just as we were asking if you could leave?' Harel said ironically.
    
  "Well, I can't refuse this," Andrea insisted. "The public has a right to know more about this man."
    
  The priest waved his hand dismissively.
    
  'Millionaires and reporters. They're all the same, they think they have the truth.'
    
  'Just like the Church, Father Fowler?'
    
    
  51
    
    
    
  ORVILLE WATSON'S SAFE HOUSE
    
  WASHINGTON, D.C. OUTSKIRTS
    
    
  Saturday, July 15, 2006. 12:41 PM
    
    
  The slaps woke Orville up.
    
  They weren't too heavy or too numerous, just enough to bring him back to the land of the living and force him to cough up one of his front teeth, which had been damaged by a blow from the shovel. As young Orville spat it out, the pain of his broken nose raced through his skull like a herd of wild horses. The almond-eyed man's slaps beat a rhythmic rhythm.
    
  'Look. He's awake,' the older man said to his partner, who was tall and thin. The older man hit Orville a couple more times until he groaned. 'You're not in the best shape, are you, kunde 3?'
    
  Orville found himself lying on the kitchen table, bare except for his wristwatch. Despite never cooking at home-in fact, he never cooked anywhere-he had a fully equipped kitchen. Orville cursed his need for perfection as he surveyed the cookware lined up next to the sink, regretting buying that set of sharp kitchen knives, corkscrews, barbecue skewers...
    
  'Listen...'
    
  'Shut up!'
    
  A young man aimed a pistol at him. The older one, who must have been in his thirties, picked up one of the skewers and showed it to Orville. The sharp tip flashed briefly in the light of the halogen ceiling lights.
    
  'Do you know what this is?'
    
  'It's shashlik. They're $5.99 a set at Walmart. Listen...' Orville said, trying to sit up. Another man put his hand between Orville's thick breasts and forced him to lie down again.
    
  'I told you to shut up.'
    
  He picked up the skewer and, leaning forward, plunged the tip straight into Orville's left hand. The man's expression didn't change even as the sharp metal pinned his hand to the wooden table.
    
  At first, Orville was too stunned to process what had happened. Then, suddenly, pain ran through his arm like an electric shock. He screamed.
    
  "Do you know who invented skewers?" the shorter man asked, grabbing Orville's face to force him to look at him. "It was our people. Actually, in Spain they were called Moorish kebabs. They invented them when it was considered bad manners to eat at the table with a knife."
    
  That's it, you bastards. I have something to say.
    
  Orville wasn't a coward, but he wasn't stupid either. He knew how much pain he could take, and he knew when he was being hit. He took three noisy breaths through his mouth. He didn't dare breathe through his nose and cause even more pain.
    
  'Okay, enough. I'll tell you what you want to know. I'll sing, I'll spill the beans, I'll draw a rough diagram, some plans. No need for violence.'
    
  The last word almost turned into a scream when he saw the man grab another skewer.
    
  'Of course you'll talk. But we're not a torture committee. We're an executive committee. The thing is, we want to do this very slowly. Nazim, put the gun to his head.'
    
  The man named Nazim, his expression completely blank, sat down on a chair and pressed the barrel of a pistol to Orville's skull. Orville froze when he felt the cold metal.
    
  'While you're in the mood to talk... tell me what you know about Hakan.'
    
  Orville closed his eyes. He was scared. So, that's it.
    
  'Nothing. I just heard things here and there.'
    
  "That's bullshit," the short man said, slapping him three times. "Who told you to follow him? Who knows what happened in Jordan?"
    
  'I don't know anything about Jordan.'
    
  'You're lying.'
    
  'It's true. I swear by Allah!'
    
  These words seemed to awaken something in his attackers. Nazim pressed the barrel of the pistol harder against Orville's head. The other pressed a second skewer to his naked body.
    
  "You make me sick, kunde. Look how you used your talent - to bring your religion to the ground and betray your Muslim brothers. And all for a handful of beans."
    
  He ran the tip of the skewer across Orville's chest, pausing briefly on his left breast. He carefully lifted a fold of flesh, then suddenly let it fall, causing fat to ripple across his stomach. The metal left a scratch in the flesh, and drops of blood mingled with the nervous sweat on Orville's naked body.
    
  "Except it wasn't exactly a handful of beans," the man continued, sinking the sharp steel a little deeper into the flesh. "You have several houses, a nice car, employees... And look at that watch, blessed be the name of Allah."
    
  You can get it if you let go, Orville thought, but he didn't say a word because he didn't want another steel rod to pierce him. Damn, I don't know how I'm going to get out of this.
    
  He tried to think of something, anything, he could say to make the two men leave him alone. But the terrible pain in his nose and arm screamed at him that such words didn't exist.
    
  With his free hand, Nazim removed the watch from Orville's wrist and handed it to the other man.
    
  'Hello... Jaeger Lecoultre. Only the best, right? How much does the government pay you for being a rat? I'm sure it's a lot. Enough to buy a twenty-thousand-dollar watch.'
    
  The man threw his watch on the kitchen floor and began stamping his feet as if his life depended on it, but all he managed to do was scratch the dial, which lost all of its theatrical effect.
    
  "I only go after criminals," Orville said. "You don't have a monopoly on Allah's message."
    
  "Don't you dare say His name again," the short man said, spitting in Orville's face.
    
  Orville's upper lip began to tremble, but he was no coward. He suddenly realized he was about to die, so he spoke with all the dignity he could muster. "Omak zanya fih erd 4," he said, looking the man straight in the face and trying not to stutter. Anger flashed in the man's eyes. It was clear the two men thought they could break Orville and watch him beg for his life. They hadn't expected him to be brave.
    
  "You'll cry like a girl," said the older man.
    
  His hand rose and came down hard, plunging the second skewer into Orville's right arm. Orville couldn't contain himself and let out a cry that belied his courage just moments earlier. Blood sprayed into his open mouth, and he began to choke, coughing spasms that racked his body with pain as his hands were pulled away from the skewers that held them to the wooden table.
    
  Gradually, the coughing subsided, and the man's words came true as two large tears rolled down Orville's cheeks onto the table. It seemed that was all the man needed to free Orville from his torture. He had grown a new kitchen utensil: a long knife.
    
  "It's over, kunde-'
    
  A shot rang out, echoing off the metal pans hanging on the wall, and the man fell to the floor. His partner didn't even turn to see where the shot came from. He vaulted over the kitchen counter, his belt buckle scratching the expensive finish, and landed on his hands. A second shot shattered part of the door frame a foot and a half above his head as Nazim vanished.
    
  Orville, his face battered, his palms shot and bleeding like some strange parody of a crucifix, could barely turn to see who had saved him from certain death. It was a thin, fair-haired man of about thirty, dressed in jeans and wearing what looked like a priest's dog collar.
    
  "Nice pose, Orville," the priest said, running past him in pursuit of the second terrorist. He ducked behind the doorframe, then suddenly popped out, holding his pistol in both hands. The only thing in front of him was an empty room with an open window.
    
  The priest returned to the kitchen. Orville would have rubbed his eyes in amazement if his hands hadn't been pinned to the table.
    
  'I don't know who you are, but thank you. See what you can do to let me go, please.'
    
  With his damaged nose it sounded like 'ice white blaze'.
    
  "Grit your teeth. This is going to hurt," the priest said, grabbing the skewer with his right hand. Even though he tried to pull it straight out, Orville still screamed in pain. "You know, you're not easy to find."
    
  Orville interrupted him, raising his hand. The wound was clearly visible. Gritting his teeth again, Orville rolled to the left and pulled out the second skewer himself. This time, he didn't scream.
    
  "Can you walk?" the priest asked, helping him to stand.
    
  'The Pope is Polish?'
    
  'Not anymore. My car is nearby. Any idea where your guest went?'
    
  'How the hell should I know?' Orville said, grabbing a roll of kitchen towels next to the window and wrapping his hands in thick layers of paper, like giant wads of cotton candy that slowly began to turn pink with blood.
    
  'Leave that and step away from the window. I'll bandage you in the car. I thought you were a terrorist expert.'
    
  "And I suppose you're from the CIA?" I thought I was lucky.'
    
  'Well, more or less. My name is Albert, and I'm from ISL 5.'
    
  'Link? With whom? Vatican?'
    
  Albert didn't answer. Agents of the Holy Alliance never acknowledged their affiliation with the group.
    
  "Then forget it," Orville said, fighting the pain. "Look, no one here can help us. I doubt anyone even heard the gunshots. The nearest neighbors are half a mile away. Do you have a cell phone?"
    
  'Not a good idea. If the police show up, they'll take you to the hospital and then want to interrogate you. The CIA will arrive in your room in half an hour with a bouquet of flowers.'
    
  'So you know how to use this thing?' Orville said, pointing at the pistol.
    
  'Not really. I hate guns. You're lucky I stabbed the guy and not you.'
    
  "Well, you better start liking them," Orville said, raising his cotton candy hands and pointing his gun. "What kind of agent are you?"
    
  "I only had basic training," Albert said grimly. "My thing is computers."
    
  "Well, this is just wonderful! I'm starting to feel dizzy," Orville said, on the verge of fainting. The only thing that kept him from falling to the floor was Albert's hand.
    
  'Do you think you can get to the car, Orville?'
    
  Orville nodded, but he wasn't too sure.
    
  "How many are there?" Albert asked.
    
  'The only one left is the one you scared away. But he'll be waiting for us in the garden.'
    
  Albert glanced briefly out the window, but could not see anything in the darkness.
    
  'Then let's go. Down the slope, closer to the wall... he could be anywhere.'
    
    
  52
    
    
    
  ORVILLE WATSON'S SAFE HOUSE
    
  WASHINGTON, D.C. OUTSKIRTS
    
    
  Saturday, July 15, 2006. 1:03 PM.
    
    
  Nazim was very scared.
    
  He had imagined the scene of his martyrdom many times. Abstract nightmares in which he would perish in a colossal fireball, something enormous, broadcast on television around the world. Haruf's death was an absurd disappointment, leaving Nazim confused and afraid.
    
  He fled into the garden, afraid the police might appear at any moment. For a moment, he was tempted by the main gate, still half-open. The sounds of crickets and cicadas filled the night with promise and life, and for a moment, Nazim hesitated.
    
  No. I dedicated my life to the glory of Allah and the salvation of my loved ones. What would happen to my family if I ran away now, if I softened?
    
  So Nazim didn't go out the gate. He remained in the shadows, behind a row of overgrown snapdragons that still had a few yellowish blossoms. Trying to ease the tension in his body, he shifted his pistol from one hand to the other.
    
  I'm in good shape. I vaulted over the kitchen counter. The bullet that was coming after me missed me by a mile. One of them is a priest, and the other is wounded. I'm more than a match for them. All I have to do is watch the road to the gate. If I hear police cars, I'll climb over the wall. It's expensive, but I can do it. There's a spot to the right that looks a little lower. It's a shame Haruf isn't here. He was a genius at opening doors. The gate to the estate only took him fifteen seconds. I wonder if he's with Allah already? I'll miss him. He would have wanted me to stay and finish off Watson. He would be dead by now if Haruf hadn't waited so long, but nothing angered him more than someone who betrayed his own brothers. I don't know how it would help jihad if I died tonight without removing the kunda first. No. I can't think like that. I must focus on what's important. The empire I was born into is destined to fall. And I will help it do so with my blood. Though I wish it weren't today.
    
  A noise came from the path. Nazim listened more carefully. They were getting closer. He had to act quickly. He had to-
    
  'Okay. Drop your weapon. Continue.'
    
  Nazim didn't even think. He didn't say a final prayer. He simply turned around, pistol in hand.
    
    
  Albert, who had emerged from the back of the house and kept close to the wall to safely reach the gate, noticed the fluorescent stripes on Nazim's Nike sneakers in the darkness. It wasn't the same as when he'd instinctively shot at Haruf to save Orville's life and hit him by pure chance. This time, he caught the young man off guard just a few feet away. Albert planted both feet on the ground, aimed at the center of Nazim's chest, and half-pulled the trigger, urging him to drop the gun. As Nazim turned, Albert pulled the trigger all the way, tearing the young man's chest open.
    
    
  Nazim was only vaguely aware of the shot. He felt no pain, though he was aware of being knocked down. He tried to move his arms and legs, but it was pointless, and he couldn't speak. He saw the shooter lean over him, checking his pulse, then shaking his head. A moment later, Watson appeared. Nazim saw a drop of Watson's blood fall as he leaned over. He never knew if that drop mixed with his own blood flowing from the chest wound. His vision grew blurrier with each passing second, but he could still hear Watson's voice, praying.
    
  Blessed be Allah, who has given us life and the opportunity to glorify Him righteously and honestly. Blessed be Allah, who has taught us the Holy Quran, which states that even if someone were to raise a hand against us to kill us, we should not raise a hand against him. Forgive him, Lord of the Universe, for his sins are the sins of the deceived innocent. Protect him from the torments of Hell and bring him close to You, O Lord of the Throne.
    
  Afterwards, Nazim felt much better. It was as if a weight had been lifted from him. He gave everything for Allah. He allowed himself to sink into such a state of peace that, hearing police sirens in the distance, he mistook them for the sound of crickets. One of them was singing next to his ear, and that was the last thing he heard.
    
    
  A few minutes later, two uniformed police officers leaned over a young man wearing a Washington Redskins jersey. His eyes were open, looking up at the sky.
    
  'Central, this is Unit 23. We have 10:54. Send an ambulance-'
    
  'Forget about it. He didn't succeed.'
    
  'Central, cancel that ambulance for now. We'll go ahead and cordon off the crime scene.'
    
  One of the officers looked at the young man's face, thinking it a shame he'd died from his wounds. He was young enough to be my son. But the man wouldn't lose sleep over that. He'd seen enough dead children on the streets of Washington to carpet the Oval Office. And yet, none of them had an expression like this one.
    
  For a moment, he considered calling his partner and asking him what the hell was wrong with that guy's peaceful smile. Of course, he didn't.
    
  He was afraid of looking like a fool.
    
    
  53
    
    
    
  SOMEWHERE IN FAIRFAX COUNTY, VIRGINIA
    
  Saturday, July 15, 2006. 2:06 PM.
    
    
  Orville Watson's safe house and Albert's were located nearly twenty-five miles apart. Orville traveled the distance in the backseat of Albert's Toyota, half asleep and half conscious, but at least his hands were properly bandaged, thanks to the first-aid kit the priest carried in his car.
    
  An hour later, dressed in a terrycloth robe-the only thing Albert had that fit him-Orville swallowed several Tylenol tablets, washing them down with the orange juice the priest had brought him.
    
  'You've lost a lot of blood. This will help stabilize the situation.'
    
  All Orville wanted was to stabilize his body in a hospital bed, but given his limited capabilities, he decided he might as well stay with Albert.
    
  'Do you happen to have a Hershey's bar?'
    
  'No, sorry. I can't eat chocolate - it gives me pimples. But in a little while, I'll stop by Seven Eleven to get something to eat, some oversized T-shirts, and maybe some candy if you want.'
    
  'Forget it. After what happened tonight, I think I'm going to hate Hershey for the rest of my life.'
    
  Albert shrugged. "It's up to you."
    
  Orville gestured toward the multitude of computers cluttering Albert's living room. Ten monitors sat on a twelve-foot-long table, connected to a mass of cables as thick as an athlete's thigh that ran along the floor next to the wall. "You have excellent equipment, Mr. International Liaison," Orville said, breaking the tension. Watching the priest, he realized they were both in the same boat. His hands were shaking slightly, and he seemed a little lost. "A HarperEdwards system with TINCom motherboards... So you tracked me down, right?"
    
  'Your offshore company in Nassau, the one you used to buy the safe house. It took me forty-eight hours to track down the server where the original transaction was stored. Two thousand, one hundred and forty-three steps. You're a good boy.'
    
  "You too," said Orville, impressed.
    
  The two men looked at each other and nodded, recognizing their fellow hackers. For Albert, this brief moment of relaxation meant that the shock he'd been suppressing suddenly invaded his body like a group of hooligans. Albert didn't make it to the bathroom. He vomited into the bowl of popcorn he'd left on the table the night before.
    
  'I've never killed anyone before. This guy... I didn't even notice the other guy because I had to act, I shot without thinking. But the kid... he was just a kid. And he looked me in the eyes.'
    
  Orville said nothing because he had nothing to say.
    
  They stood like that for ten minutes.
    
  'Now I understand him,' the young priest finally said.
    
  'Who?'
    
  'My friend. Someone who had to kill and who suffered because of it.'
    
  'Are you talking about Fowler?'
    
  Albert looked at him suspiciously.
    
  'How do you know this name?'
    
  'Because this whole mess started when Cain Industries contracted my services. They wanted to know about Father Anthony Fowler. And I can't help but notice that you're also a priest.'
    
  This made Albert even more nervous. He grabbed Orville by the robe.
    
  'What did you tell them?' he shouted. 'I have to know!'
    
  "I told them everything," Orville said firmly. "His training, his involvement with the CIA, with the Holy Alliance..."
    
  'Oh God! Do they know his real mission?'
    
  'I don't know. They asked me two questions. The first was, who is he? The second was, who would be important to him?'
    
  'What did you find out? And how?'
    
  'I didn't find out anything. I would have given up if I hadn't received an anonymous envelope with a photo and the reporter's name: Andrea Otero. The note in the envelope said Fowler would do everything to prevent harm from coming to her.'
    
  Albert let go of Orville's robe and began pacing the room, trying to piece everything together.
    
  "It's all starting to make sense... When Cain went to the Vatican and told them he held the key to finding the Ark, that it might be in the hands of an old Nazi war criminal, Sirin promised to enlist his best man. In exchange, Cain was to bring a Vatican observer with him on the expedition. By telling you Otero's name, Sirin ensured that Cain would allow Fowler to participate in the expedition because then Chirin could control him through Otero, and that Fowler would accept the mission to protect her. Manipulative son of a bitch," Albert said, suppressing a smile that was half disgust, half admiration.
    
  Orville looked at him with his mouth open.
    
  'I don't understand a word you're saying.'
    
  'You're lucky: if you had, I'd have had to kill you. Just kidding. Look, Orville, I didn't rush to save your life because I'm a CIA agent. I'm not that. I'm just a simple link in a chain, doing a favor for a friend. And that friend is in grave danger, in part because of the report you gave Cain about him. Fowler is in Jordan, on a crazy expedition to recover the Ark of the Covenant. And, strange as it may seem, the expedition may be successful.'
    
  "Khakan," Orville said, barely audible. "I accidentally learned something about Jordan and Khukan. I passed the information on to Cain."
    
  'The guys at the company extracted this from your hard drives, but nothing else.'
    
  'I managed to find a mention of Cain on one of the mail servers used by terrorists. How much do you know about Islamic terrorism?'
    
  "Just what I read in the New York Times.
    
  'Then we're not even at the beginning. Here's a crash course. The media's high opinion of Osama bin Laden, the villain in this film, is meaningless. Al-Qaeda as a super-evil organization does not exist. There is no head to chop off. Jihad has no head. Jihad is a commandment from God. There are thousands of cells at different levels. They control and inspire each other, but have nothing in common with each other.'
    
  'It's impossible to fight this.'
    
  'Exactly. It's like trying to cure a disease. There's no magic bullet like invading Iraq, Lebanon, or Iran. We can only produce white blood cells to kill germs one by one.'
    
  'It's your job.'
    
  'The problem is that it's impossible to penetrate Islamic terrorist cells. They can't be bribed. What drives them is religion, or at least their warped understanding of it. I think you can understand that.'
    
  Albert's expression was shy.
    
  "They use a different vocabulary," Orville continued. "It's too complex a language for this country. They might have dozens of different aliases, they use a different calendar... a Westerner needs dozens of checks and mental codes for every piece of information. That's where I come in. With a click of the mouse, I'm right there, between one of these fanatics and another three thousand miles away."
    
  'Internet'.
    
  "It looks a lot better on the computer screen," Orville said, stroking his flattened nose, which was now orange from the Betadine. Albert tried to straighten it out using a piece of cardboard and some tape, but he knew that if he didn't get Orville to the hospital soon, they'd have to break it again in a month to straighten it.
    
  Albert thought for a moment.
    
  'So this Hakan, he was going to go after Cain.'
    
  "I don't remember much, other than the guy seemed pretty serious. The truth is, what I gave Kaine was raw information. I didn't have a chance to analyze anything in detail."
    
  'Then...'
    
  'You know, it was like a free sample. You give them a little bit, and then you sit back and wait. Eventually, they'll ask for more. Don't look at me like that. People have to earn a living.'
    
  "We need to get this information back," Albert said, drumming his fingers on his chair. "First, because the people who attacked you were concerned about what you knew. And second, because if Hookan is part of the expedition..."
    
  'All my files disappeared or were burned.'
    
  'Not all of them. There is a copy.'
    
  Orville didn't immediately understand what Albert meant.
    
  'No way. Don't even joke about it. This place is impenetrable.'
    
  "Nothing is impossible, except one thing - I have to survive another minute without food," Albert said, taking the car keys. "Try to relax. I'll be back in half an hour."
    
  The priest was about to leave when Orville called out to him. The mere thought of breaking into the fortress that was Kain Tower made Orville uneasy. There was only one way to cope with his nerves.
    
  'Albert...?'
    
  'Yes?'
    
  'I've changed my mind about chocolate.'
    
    
  54
    
    
    
  HACAN
    
  The Imam was right.
    
  He told him that jihad would enter his soul and heart. He warned him about those he called weak Muslims because they called true believers radicals.
    
  You can't be afraid of how other Muslims will react to what we do. God didn't prepare them for this task. He didn't temper their hearts and souls with the fire that's within us. Let them think that Islam is a religion of peace. It helps us. It weakens our enemies' defenses; it creates holes through which we can penetrate. It's bursting at the seams.
    
  He felt it. He could hear the cries in his heart that were only mutterings on the lips of others.
    
  He first felt this when he was asked to lead the jihad. He was invited because he had a special talent. Earning the respect of his brothers had not been easy. He had never been to the fields of Afghanistan or Lebanon. He did not follow the orthodox path, and yet the Word clung to the deepest part of his being, like a vine to a young tree.
    
  It happened outside the city, in a warehouse. Several brothers were holding back another who had allowed the temptations of the outside world to interfere with God's commandments.
    
  The imam told him that he had to remain steadfast and prove his worth. All eyes would be on him.
    
  On the way to the warehouse, he bought a hypodermic needle and lightly pressed its tip against the car door. He had to go and talk to the traitor, the one who wanted to take advantage of the very amenities they were meant to wipe off the face of the Earth. His task was to convince him of his error. Completely naked, with his hands and feet bound, the man was sure he would obey.
    
  Instead of talking, he entered the warehouse, walked straight up to the traitor, and plunged a curved syringe into the man's eye. Ignoring his screams, he yanked the syringe out, injuring his eye. Without waiting, he stabbed the other eye and pulled it out.
    
  Less than five minutes later, the traitor begged them to kill him. Hakan smiled. The message was clear. His job was to inflict pain and make those who had turned against God want to die.
    
  Hakan. Syringe.
    
  That day he earned his name.
    
    
  55
    
    
    
  EXCAVATIONS
    
  AL-MUDAWWARA DESERT, JORDAN
    
    
  Saturday, July 15, 2006, 12:34 PM.
    
    
  'White Russian, please.'
    
    
  "You surprise me, Miss Otero. I imagined you'd be drinking a Manhattan, something more trendy and postmodern," Raymond Kane said, smiling. "Let me mix it myself. Thank you, Jacob."
    
  'Are you sure, sir?' asked Russell, who didn't seem too happy to leave the old man alone with Andrea.
    
  'Relax, Jacob. I'm not going to attack Miss Otero. That is, unless she wants me to.'
    
  Andrea realized she was blushing like a schoolgirl. While the billionaire prepared the drink, she surveyed her surroundings. Three minutes earlier, when Jacob Russell had come to fetch her from the infirmary, she had been so nervous her hands were shaking. After a couple of hours spent revising, polishing, and then rewriting her questions, she tore five pages from her notebook, crumpled them into a ball, and stuffed them in her pocket. This man wasn't normal, and she wasn't going to ask him normal questions.
    
  When she entered Kain's tent, she began to doubt her decision. The tent was divided into two rooms. One was a sort of foyer, where Jacob Russell apparently worked. It contained a desk, a laptop, and, as Andrea suspected, a shortwave radio.
    
  So that's how you keep in touch with the ship... I thought you wouldn't be cut off like the rest of us.
    
  To the right, a thin curtain separated the foyer from Kaine's room, evidence of the symbiosis between the young assistant and the old man.
    
  I wonder how far these two go in their relationship? There's something I don't trust about our friend Russell, with his metrosexual attitude and his ego. I wonder if I should hint at something like that in the interview.
    
  Passing through the curtain, she caught a whiff of sandalwood. A simple bed-though certainly more comfortable than the air mattresses we slept on-occupied one side of the room. A scaled-down version of the toilet/shower shared by the rest of the expedition, a small desk devoid of papers-and no visible computer-a small bar, and two chairs completed the decor. Everything was white. A stack of books, as tall as Andrea, threatened to topple over if anyone got too close. She was trying to read the titles when Cain appeared and walked straight up to her to greet her.
    
  Up close, he seemed taller than when Andrea had glimpsed him on the Behemoth's aft deck. Five feet seven inches of wrinkled flesh, white hair, white clothes, bare feet. Yet the overall effect was oddly youthful, until you looked closer at his eyes, two blue holes surrounded by bags and wrinkles that put his age into perspective.
    
  He didn't extend his hand, leaving Andrea hanging in midair as he looked at her with a smile that was more apologetic. Jacob Russell had already warned her not to touch Kane under any circumstances, but she wouldn't be true to herself if she didn't try. In any case, it gave her a certain advantage. The billionaire obviously felt a little awkward when he offered Andrea a cocktail. The reporter, true to her profession, wasn't about to refuse a drink, no matter the time of day.
    
  "You can tell a lot about a person by what they drink," Cain said now, handing her the glass. He kept his fingers close to the top, leaving Andrea enough room to take it without touching it.
    
  'Really? And what does the White Russian say about me?' Andrea asked, sitting down and taking her first sip.
    
  'Let's see... Sweet concoction, lots of vodka, coffee liqueur, cream. This tells me that you enjoy drinking, that you know how to handle alcohol, that you've spent some time finding what you like, that you're mindful of your surroundings, and that you're picky.'
    
  "Excellent," Andrea said with a hint of irony, her best defense when she was unsure of herself. "You know what? I'd say you'd done your research beforehand and knew perfectly well that I liked to drink. You won't find a bottle of fresh cream in any portable bar, let alone one owned by an agoraphobic billionaire who rarely has customers, especially in the middle of the Jordanian desert, and who, from what I can see, drinks Scotch and water."
    
  "Well, now I'm the one who's surprised," Kane said, standing with his back to the reporter and pouring himself a drink.
    
  'That's as close to the truth as the difference in our bank balances, Mr. Kane.'
    
  The billionaire turned to her, frowning, but said nothing.
    
  "I would say it was more of a test, and I gave you the answer you expected," Andrea continued. "Now, please tell me why you are giving me this interview."
    
  Kain took another chair, but avoided Andrea's gaze.
    
  'It was part of our agreement.'
    
  'I think I asked the wrong question. Why me?'
    
  "Ah, the curse of the g'vir, the rich man. Everyone wants to know his hidden motives. Everyone thinks he has a plan, especially when he's a Jew."
    
  'You didn't answer my question.'
    
  'Young lady, I'm afraid you'll have to decide which answer you want - the answer to this question or to all the others.'
    
  Andrea bit her bottom lip, furious with herself. The old bastard was smarter than he looked.
    
  He challenged me without even ruffling his feathers. Okay, old man, I'll follow your example. I'm going to open my heart completely, swallow your story, and when you least expect it, I'll find out exactly what I want to know, even if I have to rip your tongue out with tweezers.
    
  'Why are you drinking if you're taking your medication?' Andrea said, her voice deliberately aggressive.
    
  "I suppose you've concluded that I take medication for my agoraphobia," Kane replied. "Yes, I take medication for anxiety, and no, I shouldn't drink. I do anyway. When my great-grandfather was eighty, my grandfather hated to see him shicker. That's drunk. Please interrupt me if there's a Yiddish word you don't understand, Ms. Otero."
    
  'Then I'll have to interrupt you often because I don't know anything.'
    
  'As you wish. My great-grandfather drank and didn't drink, and my grandfather used to say, "You should calm down, Tate." He always said, "Fuck you, I'm eighty years old, and I'll drink if I want to." He died at the age of ninety-eight when a mule kicked him in the stomach.'
    
  Andrea laughed. Cain's voice changed as he spoke of his ancestor, bringing his anecdote to life like a natural storyteller, using different voices.
    
  'You know a lot about your family. Were you close with your elders?'
    
  "No, my parents died during World War II. Despite the stories they told me, I remember little because of how we spent my early years. Almost everything I know about my family was gleaned from various outside sources. Let's just say that when I finally got around to it, I scoured Europe in search of my roots."
    
  "Tell me about these roots. Do you mind if I record our interview?" Andrea asked, taking her digital recorder out of her pocket. It could capture thirty-five hours of high-quality voiceover.
    
  'Go on. This story begins one harsh winter in Vienna, with a Jewish couple walking to a Nazi hospital...'
    
    
  56
    
    
    
  ELLIS ISLAND, NEW YORK
    
  December 1943
    
    
  Yudel wept quietly in the darkness of the hold. The ship approached the pier, and the sailors gestured for the refugees, who had filled every inch of the Turkish cargo vessel, to leave. They all hurried forward in search of fresh air. But Yudel didn't budge. He grabbed Jora Mayer's cold fingers, refusing to believe she was dead.
    
  This wasn't his first brush with death. He'd seen plenty of it since leaving the secret place in Judge Rath's house. Escaping that small hole, suffocating yet safe, had been a tremendous shock. His first experience of sunlight had taught him that monsters lived out there, in the open. His first experience in the city had taught him that every little corner was a hiding place from which he could survey the street before quickly scurrying to the next. His first experience with trains had terrified him of their noise and the monsters pacing the aisles, looking for someone to grab. Fortunately, if you showed them yellow cards, they wouldn't bother you. His first experience of working in the open fields had made him hate snow, and the bitter cold had left his feet freezing as he walked. His first encounter with the sea was an encounter with terrifying and impossible spaces, a prison wall seen from the inside.
    
  On the ship that took him to Istanbul, Yudel felt better, huddled in a dark corner. It took them only a day and a half to reach the Turkish port, but seven months passed before they were able to leave.
    
  Jora Mayer fought tirelessly to obtain an exit visa. At the time, Turkey was a neutral country, and many refugees crowded the docks, forming long lines in front of consulates and humanitarian organizations like the Red Crescent. With each passing day, Britain restricted the number of Jews entering Palestine. The United States refused to allow more Jews to enter. The world remained deaf to the alarming news of mass murder in concentration camps. Even a renowned newspaper like London's The Times dismissed the Nazi genocide as mere "horror stories."
    
  Despite all the obstacles, Jora did what she could. She begged on the streets and covered tiny Yudel with her coat at night. She tried to avoid using the money Dr. Rath gave her. They slept wherever they could. Sometimes it was a stinking hotel or the crowded Red Crescent lobby, where refugees covered every inch of the gray tiled floor at night, and the ability to get up to relieve themselves was a luxury.
    
  All Jora could do was hope and pray. She had no contacts and could only speak Yiddish and German, refusing to use the former as it brought back unpleasant memories. Her health wasn't improving. That morning, when she first coughed up blood, she decided she couldn't wait any longer. She gathered her courage and decided to give all their remaining money to a Jamaican sailor working aboard an American-flagged cargo ship. The ship was leaving in a few days. A crew member managed to smuggle it into the hold. There, it mingled with hundreds of people fortunate enough to have Jewish relatives in the United States who supported their visa applications.
    
  Jora died of tuberculosis thirty-six hours before arriving in the United States. Yudel never left her side, despite his own illness. He developed a severe ear infection, and his hearing was blocked for several days. His head felt like a barrel filled with jam, and any loud noise sounded like horses galloping on its lid. That's why he couldn't hear the sailor yelling at him to leave. Tired of threatening the boy, the sailor began kicking him.
    
  Get moving, you idiot. They're waiting for you at customs.'
    
  Yudel tried to restrain Jora again. The sailor-a short, pimply man-grabbed him by the neck and violently tore him away.
    
  Someone will come and take her away. You, get out!'
    
  The boy broke free. He searched Jora's coat and managed to find the letter from his father that Jora had told him about so many times. He took it and hid it in his shirt before the sailor grabbed him again and pushed him out into the terrifying daylight.
    
  Yudel descended the steps into the building, where customs officers in blue uniforms waited at long tables to process lines of immigrants. Shivering with fever, Yudel waited in line. His feet burned in their worn-out boots, yearning to escape and hide from the light.
    
  Finally, it was his turn. A customs official with small eyes and thin lips looked at him over his gold-rimmed glasses.
    
  - Name and visa?
    
  Yudel stared at the floor. He didn't understand.
    
  I don't have all day. Your name and your visa. Are you mentally retarded?'
    
  Another customs officer, younger and with a bushy moustache, tried to calm his colleague.
    
  Calm down, Creighton. He's traveling alone and doesn't understand.'
    
  These Jewish rats understand more than you think. Damn it! Today is my last ship and my last rat. I've got a cold beer waiting for me at Murphy's. If that makes you happy, take care of him, Gunther.
    
  An official with a large mustache walked around the desk and squatted down in front of Yudel. He began speaking to Yudel, first in French, then in German, and then in Polish. The boy continued to stare at the floor.
    
  "He doesn't have a visa and he's mentally retarded. We'll send him back to Europe on the next damn ship," the bespectacled official intervened. "Say something, idiot." He leaned across the table and punched Yudel in the ear.
    
  For a second, Yudel felt nothing. But then his head suddenly filled with pain, as if he'd been stabbed, and a stream of hot pus erupted from his infected ear.
    
  He shouted the word "compassion" in Yiddish.
    
  "Rahmones!"
    
  The mustachioed official turned angrily to his colleague.
    
  "Enough, Creighton!"
    
  'Unidentified child, doesn't understand the language, no visa. Deportation.'
    
  The man with the mustache quickly searched the boy's pockets. There was no visa. In fact, there was nothing in his pockets except a few bread crumbs and an envelope with Hebrew writing. He checked for money, but found only the letter, which he put back in Yudel's pocket.
    
  'He got you, damn it! Didn't you hear his name? He probably lost his visa. You don't want to deport him, Creighton. If you do, we'll be here for another fifteen minutes.'
    
  The bespectacled official took a deep breath and gave in.
    
  Tell him to say his last name out loud so I can hear him, and then we'll go have a beer. If he can't, he'll face outright deportation.
    
  "Help me, kid," the mustachioed man whispered. "Trust me, you don't want to go back to Europe or end up in an orphanage. You have to convince this guy there are people out there waiting for you." He tried again, using the only word he knew in Yiddish. "Mishpoche?" meaning: family.
    
  With trembling lips, barely audible, Yudel uttered his second word. 'Cohen,' he said.
    
  The mustachioed man looked at the bespectacled man with relief.
    
  'You heard him. His name is Raymond. His name is Raymond Kane.'
    
    
  57
    
    
    
  KINE
    
  Kneeling in front of the plastic toilet inside the tent, he fought the urge to vomit, while his assistant tried in vain to get him to drink some water. The old man finally managed to hold back the nausea. He hated vomiting, that relaxing yet exhausting sensation of expelling everything that was eating away at him from within. It was a true reflection of his soul.
    
  'You have no idea how much this cost me, Jacob. You have no idea what's in the speech ladder 6... Talking to her, I feel so vulnerable. I couldn't take it anymore. She wants another session.'
    
  'I'm afraid you'll have to bear with her a little longer, sir.'
    
  The old man glanced at the bar across the room. His assistant, noticing the direction of his gaze, gave him a disapproving look, and the old man looked away and sighed.
    
  'Human beings are full of contradictions, Jacob. We end up enjoying what we hate most. Telling a stranger about my life lifted a weight off my shoulders. For a moment, I felt connected to the world. I had planned to deceive her, perhaps mix lies with the truth. Instead, I told her everything.'
    
  'You did this because you know this isn't a real interview. She can't publish it.'
    
  'Perhaps. Or maybe I just needed to talk. Do you think she suspects anything?'
    
  'I don't think so, sir. In any case, we're almost there.'
    
  'She's very smart, Jacob. Keep a close eye on her. She may turn out to be more than a minor player in this whole thing.'
    
    
  58
    
    
    
  ANDREA AND DOC
    
  The only thing she remembered from the nightmare was cold sweat, fear gripping her, and gasping for breath in the darkness, trying to remember where she was. It was a recurring dream, but Andrea never knew what it was about. Everything was erased the moment she woke up, leaving only traces of fear and loneliness.
    
  But now Doc was immediately at her side, crawling over to her mattress, sitting down next to her, and putting his hand on her shoulder. One was afraid to go further, the other that she wouldn't. Andrea was sobbing. Doc hugged her.
    
  Their foreheads touched, and then their lips.
    
  Like a car that had been struggling up a mountain for hours and had finally reached the top, the next moment was going to be decisive, the moment of balance.
    
  Andrea's tongue desperately sought out Doc's, and she returned the kiss. Doc pulled down Andrea's T-shirt and ran his tongue over the wet, salty skin of her breasts. Andrea fell back onto the mattress. She was no longer afraid.
    
  The car rushed downhill without any brakes.
    
    
  59
    
    
    
  EXCAVATIONS
    
  AL-MUDAWWARA DESERT, JORDAN
    
    
  Sunday, July 16, 2006. 1:28 AM.
    
    
  They stayed close to each other for a long time, talking, kissing every few words, as if they couldn't believe they had found each other and that the other person was still there.
    
  'Wow, Doc. You really know how to take care of your patients,' Andrea said, stroking Doc's neck and playing with the curls in her hair.
    
  'It's part of my hypocritical oath.'
    
  'I thought it was the Hippocratic Oath.'
    
  'I took another oath.'
    
  'No matter how much you joke, you won't make me forget that I'm still angry at you.'
    
  'I'm sorry I didn't tell you the truth about myself, Andrea. I suppose lying is part of my job.'
    
  'What else does your job involve?'
    
  'My government wants to know what's going on here. And don't ask me anymore about it, because I'm not going to tell you.'
    
  "We have ways to make you talk," Andrea said, moving her caresses to another place on Doc's body.
    
  "I'm sure I can fight off the interrogation," Doc whispered.
    
  Neither woman spoke for several minutes, until Doc let out a long, almost silent groan. Then she pulled Andrea close and whispered in her ear.
    
  'Chedva'.
    
  "What does that mean?" Andrea whispered back.
    
  'This is my name.'
    
  Andrea let out a breath of surprise. Doc sensed the joy in her and hugged her tightly.
    
  'Your secret name?'
    
  'Never say this out loud. You're the only one who knows now.'
    
  'And your parents?'
    
  'They are no longer alive.'
    
  'I'm sorry'.
    
  'My mother died when I was a girl, and my father died in prison in the Negev.'
    
  'Why was he there?'
    
  'Are you sure you want to know? This is a shitty, disappointing story.'
    
  'My life is full of shitty disappointments, Doc. It would be nice to listen to someone else for a change.'
    
  There was a short silence.
    
  "My father was a katsa, a special agent for the Mossad. There are only thirty of them at any one time, and hardly anyone in the Institute reaches that rank. I've been in it for seven years, and I'm only a bat leveiha, the lowest rank. I'm thirty-six, so I don't think I'll be promoted. But my father was a katsa at the age of twenty-nine. He did a lot of work outside of Israel, and in 1983, he carried out one of his last operations. He lived in Beirut for a few months."
    
  'You didn't go with him?'
    
  I only traveled with him when he was going to Europe or the United States. Beirut was not a suitable place for a young girl then. In fact, it was not a suitable place for anyone. There he met Father Fowler. Fowler was heading to the Bekaa Valley to rescue some missionaries. My father respected him greatly. He said that rescuing those people was the bravest act he had ever seen in his life, and there was not a word about it in the press. The missionaries simply said they had been freed.
    
  'I believe this kind of work does not welcome publicity.'
    
  "No, that's not true. During the mission, my father discovered something unexpected: information suggesting that a group of Islamic terrorists with a truck full of explosives was planning an attack on an American installation. My father reported this to his superior, who responded that if the Americans were sticking their noses into Lebanon, they deserved everything they got."
    
  'What did your father do?'
    
  He sent an anonymous note to the American embassy to warn them; but without a reliable source to back it up, the note was ignored. The next day, a truck packed with explosives crashed through the gates of the Marine base, killing two hundred and forty-one Marines.
    
  'My God'.
    
  My father returned to Israel, but the story didn't end there. The CIA demanded an explanation from the Mossad, and someone mentioned my father's name. A few months later, while returning home from a trip to Germany, he was stopped at the airport. Police searched his bags and found two hundred grams of plutonium and evidence that he had tried to sell it to the Iranian government. With that amount of material, Iran could have built a medium-sized nuclear bomb. My father went to prison, practically without trial.
    
  'Did someone plant evidence against him?'
    
  The CIA got its revenge. They used my father to send a message to agents around the world: If you hear about anything like this again, be sure to let us know, or we'll make sure you're fucked.
    
  'Oh, Doc, that must have destroyed you. At least your father knew you believed in him.'
    
  Another silence followed, this time a long one.
    
  'I'm ashamed to say this, but... for many years I didn't believe in my father's innocence. I thought he was tired, that he wanted to make a little money. He was completely alone. Everyone forgot about him, including me.'
    
  'Were you able to make peace with him before he died?'
    
  'No'.
    
  Suddenly Andrea hugged the doctor, who began to cry.
    
  "Two months after his death, Sodi Bayoter's highly confidential report was declassified. It stated that my father was innocent, and it was supported by concrete evidence, including the fact that the plutonium belonged to the United States."
    
  'Wait... You mean the Mossad knew all about this from the start?'
    
  'They sold him out, Andrea. To cover up their duplicity, they handed my father's head over to the CIA. The CIA was satisfied, and life went on - except for two hundred and forty-one soldiers and my father in his maximum-security prison cell.'
    
  'Bastards...'
    
  My father is buried in Gilot, north of Tel Aviv, in a place reserved for those who fell in battle against the Arabs. He was the seventy-first Mossad officer to be buried there with full honors and hailed as a war hero. None of this erases the misfortune they caused me.
    
  'I don't understand it, Doc. I really don't know. Why the hell are you working for them?'
    
  'For the same reason my father put up with prison for ten years: because Israel comes first.'
    
  'Another madman, just like Fowler.'
    
  'You still haven't told me how you two know each other.'
    
  Andrea's voice darkened. This memory was not entirely pleasant.
    
  In April 2005, I went to Rome to cover the death of the Pope. By chance, I came across a recording of a serial killer claiming to have murdered a pair of cardinals who were scheduled to participate in the conclave electing John Paul II's successor. The Vatican tried to hush it up, and I found myself on the roof of a building, fighting for my life. Granted, Fowler made sure I didn't end up splattered on the sidewalk. But in the process, he escaped with my exclusive.
    
  'I understand. It must have been unpleasant.'
    
  Andrea didn't have a chance to respond. A terrible explosion sounded outside, shaking the walls of the tent.
    
  'What was that?'
    
  'For a moment I thought it was... No, it couldn't be...' Doc stopped mid-sentence.
    
  A scream was heard.
    
  And one more thing.
    
  And then much more.
    
    
  60
    
    
    
  EXCAVATIONS
    
  AL-MUDAWWARA DESERT, JORDAN
    
    
  Sunday, July 16, 2006. 1:41 AM.
    
    
  There was chaos outside.
    
  'Bring the buckets.'
    
  'Take them there.'
    
  Jacob Russell and Mogens Dekker shouted conflicting orders amid the river of mud flowing from one of the water trucks. A giant hole in the rear of the tank was spewing out precious water, turning the surrounding ground into a thick, reddish sludge.
    
  Several archaeologists, Brian Hanley, and even Father Fowler ran from one place to another in their underwear, trying to form a chain with buckets to collect as much water as possible. Little by little, the rest of the sleepy expedition members joined them.
    
  Someone-Andrea wasn't sure who it was, as they were covered in mud from head to toe-was trying to build a sand wall near Kain's tent to block the river of mud heading toward it. He shoveled into the sand again and again, but soon he had to shovel away the mud, so he stopped. Luckily, the billionaire's tent was slightly higher, and Kain didn't have to leave his shelter.
    
  Meanwhile, Andrea and Doc quickly dressed and joined the line of other latecomers. As they returned empty buckets and sent full ones ahead, the reporter realized that what she and Doc had been doing before the explosion was the reason they were the only ones who bothered to put on all their clothes before leaving.
    
  "Get me a welding torch," Brian Hanley shouted from the front of the line next to the tank. The line carried the command, repeating his words like a litany.
    
  'There is no such thing,' the chain signaled back.
    
  Robert Frick was on the other end of the line, fully aware that with a torch and a large sheet of steel, they could seal the hole, but he couldn't remember unpacking it and hadn't had time to look. He had to find some way to store the water they were saving, but he couldn't find anything large enough.
    
  It suddenly occurred to Frick that the large metal containers they were using to transport the equipment might contain water. If they carried them closer to the river, they might be able to collect more. The Gottlieb twins, Marla Jackson, and Tommy Eichberg picked up one of the boxes and attempted to move it toward the leak, but the last few feet were impossible, as their feet lost traction on the slippery ground. Despite this, they managed to fill two containers before the water pressure began to weaken.
    
  'It's empty now. Let's try to plug the hole.'
    
  When the water approached the hole, they were able to improvise a plug using several feet of waterproof canvas. Three men applied pressure to the canvas, but the hole was so large and irregularly shaped that all it did was slow the leak.
    
  After half an hour the result was disappointing.
    
  "I think we managed to save about 475 gallons out of the 8,700 that were left in the tank," said Robert Frick, dejected, his hands shaking with exhaustion.
    
  Most of the expedition members were crowded in front of the tents. Frick, Russell, Decker, and Harel were near the tanker.
    
  "I'm afraid there won't be any more showers for anyone," Russell said. "We've got enough water for ten days if we allocate a little over twelve pints per person. Will that be enough, Doctor?"
    
  It's getting hotter every day. By midday, the temperature will reach 110 degrees. It's tantamount to suicide for anyone working in the sun. Not to mention the need to practice at least some basic personal hygiene.
    
  "And don't forget we have to cook," Frick said, clearly worried. He loved soup and could imagine eating nothing but sausages for the next few days.
    
  "We'll have to cope," Russell said.
    
  'What if it takes more than ten days to complete the job, Mr. Russell? We'll have to bring more water from Aqaba. I doubt that will jeopardize the mission's success.'
    
  'Dr. Harel, I'm sorry to tell you, but I learned from the ship's radio that Israel has been at war with Lebanon for the past four days.'
    
  'Really? I had no idea,' Harel lied.
    
  "Every radical group in the region supports the war. Can you imagine what would have happened if a local merchant had accidentally told the wrong person he'd sold water to a few Americans running around in the desert? Being broke and dealing with the same criminals who killed Erling would have been the least of our problems."
    
  "I understand," Harel said, realizing her chance to get Andrea out of there had vanished. "But don't complain when everyone gets heatstroke."
    
  "Damn!" Russell said, venting his frustration by kicking one of the truck's tires. Harel barely recognized Cain's assistant. He was covered in dirt, his hair was disheveled, and his worried expression belied his usual demeanor, a male version of Bree Van de Kamp 7, as Andrea said, always calm and unflappable. It was the first time she'd heard him swear.
    
  "I was just warning you," Doc replied.
    
  'How are you, Decker? Do you have any idea what happened here?' Cain's aide turned his attention to the South African commander.
    
  Decker, who hadn't said a word since the pathetic attempt to salvage some of their water supplies, knelt in the back of the water truck, studying the massive hole in the metal.
    
  'Mr. Decker?' Russell repeated impatiently.
    
  The South African stood up.
    
  'Look: a round hole in the middle of the truck. That's easy to do. If that were our only problem, we could cover it up with something.' He pointed to the irregular line that crossed the hole. 'But that line complicates things.'
    
  'What do you mean?' Harel asked.
    
  'Whoever did this placed a thin line of explosives on the tank, which, combined with the water pressure inside, caused the metal to bulge outward instead of inward. Even if we had a welding torch, we couldn't have sealed the hole. This is the work of an artist.'
    
  'Amazing! We're dealing with fucking Leonardo da Vinci,' Russell said, shaking his head.
    
    
  61
    
    
    
  An MP3 file recovered by Jordanian desert police from Andrea Otero's digital recorder after the Moses expedition disaster.
    
  QUESTION: Professor Forrester, there is something that interests me greatly, and that is the alleged supernatural phenomena that have been associated with the Ark of the Covenant.
    
    
  ANSWER: We're back to it.
    
    
  Question: Professor, the Bible mentions a number of unexplained phenomena, such as this light-
    
    
  A: It's not the other world. It's the Shekinah, God's presence. You have to speak with respect. And yes, the Jews believed that a glow would occasionally appear between the cherubim, a clear sign that God was within.
    
    
  Question: Or the Israelite who fell dead after touching the Ark. Do you truly believe that God's power resides in the relic?
    
    
  A: Ms. Otero, you must understand that 3,500 years ago, people had a different conception of the world and a completely different way of relating to it. If Aristotle, who is more than a thousand years closer to us, saw the heavens as a multitude of concentric spheres, imagine what the Jews thought of the Ark.
    
    
  Q: I'm afraid you've confused me, Professor.
    
    
  A: It's simply a question of the scientific method. In other words, a rational explanation-or, rather, the lack thereof. The Jews couldn't explain how a golden chest could glow with its own independent light, so they limited themselves to giving a name and a religious explanation to a phenomenon that was beyond the understanding of antiquity.
    
    
  Question: And what is the explanation, professor?
    
    
  A: Have you heard of the Baghdad Battery? No, of course not. It's not something you'd hear about on TV.
    
    
  Question: Professor...
    
    
  A: The Baghdad Battery is a series of artifacts found in the city's museum in 1938. It consisted of clay vessels containing copper cylinders held in place by asphalt, each containing an iron rod. In other words, it was a primitive but effective electrochemical device used to coat various objects with copper through electrolysis.
    
    
  Q: That's not all that surprising. In 1938, this technology was almost ninety years old.
    
    
  A: Ms. Otero, if you'd let me continue, you wouldn't look such an idiot. Researchers who analyzed the Baghdad Battery discovered that it originated in ancient Sumer, and they were able to date it to 2500 BCE. That's a thousand years before the Ark of the Covenant and forty-three centuries before Faraday, the man who supposedly invented electricity.
    
    
  Question: And was the Ark similar?
    
    
  A: The Ark was an electrical capacitor. The design was very clever, allowing for the accumulation of static electricity: two gold plates, separated by an insulating layer of wood, but connected by two golden cherubs, which acted as positive and negative terminals.
    
    
  Question: But if it was a capacitor, how did it store electricity?
    
    
  A: The answer is rather prosaic. The objects in the Tabernacle and Temple were made of leather, linen, and goat's hair, three of the five materials that can generate the greatest amount of static electricity. Under the right conditions, the Ark could emit around two thousand volts. It makes sense that the only ones who could touch it were a "chosen few." You can bet those chosen few had very thick gloves.
    
  Question: So you insist that the Ark did not come from God?
    
    
  A: Ms. Otero, nothing could be further from my intention. I mean to say that God asked Moses to keep the commandments in a safe place so that they could be honored throughout the centuries to come and become a central aspect of the Jewish faith. And that people have invented artificial means to keep the legend of the Ark alive.
    
    
  Question: What about other disasters, such as the collapse of the walls of Jericho, and sand and fire storms that destroyed entire cities?
    
    
  A: Invented stories and myths.
    
    
  Question: So you reject the idea that the Ark could bring disaster?
    
    
  A: Absolutely.
    
    
  62
    
    
    
  EXCAVATIONS
    
  AL-MUDAWWARA DESERT, JORDAN
    
    
  Tuesday, July 18, 2006. 1:02 PM.
    
    
  Eighteen minutes before her death, Kira Larsen thought about baby wipes. It was a kind of mental reflex. Shortly after giving birth to little Bente two years ago, she discovered the benefits of the small towels, which were always moist and left a pleasant scent.
    
  Another advantage was that her husband hated them.
    
  It wasn't that Kira was a bad person. But for her, one of the fringe benefits of marriage was that she spotted the little cracks in her husband's defenses and inserted a few barbs to see what would happen. Right now, Alex would have to make do with a few baby wipes, because he had to take care of Bent until the expedition was over. Kira returned triumphant, satisfied that she'd scored some real points against Mr. They-Made-Me-Partner-in-Law.
    
  Am I a bad mother for wanting to share responsibility for our child with him? Am I really? Hell no!
    
  Two days ago, when an exhausted Kira heard Jacob Russell say they'd have to intensify their work and that there would be no more showers, she thought she could live with anything. Nothing would stop her from making a name for herself as an archaeologist. Unfortunately, reality and imagination don't always align.
    
  She stoically endured the humiliation of the search that followed the attack on the water truck. She stood there, covered in mud from head to toe, watching as soldiers rummaged through her papers and underwear. Many members of the expedition protested, but they all breathed a sigh of relief when the search ended and nothing was found. The group's morale had been greatly affected by the recent events.
    
  "At least it's not one of us," David Pappas said as the lights went out and fear seeped into every shadow. "That might comfort us."
    
  'Whoever it was probably doesn't know what we're doing here. They could be Bedouins, angry at us for invading their territory. They won't do anything else with all those machine guns on the cliffs.'
    
  'Not that the machine guns did Stowe much good.'
    
  "I still say that Dr. Harel knows something about his death," Kira insisted.
    
  She told everyone that, despite the pretense, the doctor was not in her bed when Kira woke up that night, but no one paid much attention to her.
    
  "Calm down, all of you. The best thing you can do for Erling and for yourselves is to figure out how we're going to dig this tunnel. I want you thinking about it even in your sleep," said Forrester, who, at Dekker's urging, had left his personal tent on the opposite side of the camp and joined the others.
    
  Kira was frightened, but she was inspired by the professor's furious indignation.
    
  No one is going to drive us out of here. We have a mission to accomplish, and we will accomplish it, no matter the cost. Everything will be better after this, she thought, unaware that she had zipped her sleeping bag all the way up in a foolish attempt to protect herself.
    
    
  Forty-eight grueling hours later, the team of archaeologists mapped out the route they would follow, digging at an angle to reach the object. Kira refused to call it anything other than 'the object' until they were sure it was what they expected, and not... not just something else.
    
  By dawn on Tuesday, breakfast had already become a distant memory. Everyone on the expedition helped build a steel platform that would allow the mini-excavator to find its entry point on the mountainside. Otherwise, the uneven ground and steep slope would have meant the small but powerful machine would have risked tipping over once it began work. David Pappas designed the structure so they could begin digging a tunnel approximately twenty feet above the canyon floor. The tunnel would then extend fifty feet deep, then diagonally in the opposite direction to the target.
    
  That was the plan. Kira's death would have been one of the unforeseen consequences.
    
    
  Eighteen minutes before the crash, Kira Larsen's skin was so sticky it felt like she was wearing a stinking rubber suit. The others used part of their water rations to clean themselves up as best they could. Not Kira. She was incredibly thirsty-she always sweated profusely, especially after pregnancy-and even took small sips from other people's water bottles when they weren't looking.
    
  She closed her eyes for a moment and pictured Bente's room: on the dresser sat a box of baby wipes, which would have felt divine on her skin at that moment. She fantasized about rubbing them over her body, removing the dirt and dust that had accumulated in her hair, on the insides of her elbows, and along the edges of her bra. And then she would cuddle her little one, play with her on the bed, as she did every morning, and explain to her that her mother had found buried treasure.
    
  The best treasure of all.
    
  Kira carried several wooden planks that Gordon Darwin and Ezra Levin had used to reinforce the tunnel walls to prevent collapse. It was supposed to be ten feet wide and eight feet high. The professor and David Pappas had argued over the dimensions for hours.
    
  'It'll take us twice as long! You think this is archaeology, Pappas? This is a damn rescue operation, and we have a limited amount of time, in case you hadn't noticed!'
    
  "If we don't make it wide enough, we won't be able to easily dig the earth out of the tunnel, the excavator will hit the walls, and the whole thing will collapse on us. That's assuming we don't hit the cliff's bedrock, in which case the end result of all this effort will be another two days' loss."
    
  'To hell with you, Pappas, and your Harvard master's degree.'
    
  In the end, David won, and the tunnel was ten feet by eight.
    
    
  Kira absentmindedly brushed a bug from her hair as she headed to the far end of the tunnel, where Robert Frick was struggling with the earthen wall in front of him. Meanwhile, Tommy Eichberg was loading the conveyor belt, which ran along the tunnel floor and ended a foot and a half from the platform, raising a steady cloud of dust from the canyon floor. The mound of earth excavated from the hillside was now almost as high as the tunnel opening.
    
  "Hello, Kira," Eichberg greeted her. His voice sounded tired. "Have you seen Hanley? He was supposed to relieve me."
    
  'He's downstairs, trying to install some electric lights. Soon we won't be able to see anything down here.'
    
  They had penetrated nearly twenty-five feet into the mountainside, and by two o'clock in the afternoon, daylight no longer reached the back of the tunnel, making work virtually impossible. Eichberg cursed loudly.
    
  "Do I have to keep shoveling earth like this for another hour?" That's nonsense, he said, throwing the shovel on the ground.
    
  'Don't go, Tommy. If you go, Freak won't be able to continue either.'
    
  'Well, you take control, Kira. I need to take a leak.'
    
  Without saying another word, he left.
    
  Kira looked at the ground. Shoveling earth onto the conveyor belt was a dreadful job. You were constantly bending over, you had to move quickly and watch the excavator's lever to make sure it didn't hit you. But she didn't want to imagine what the professor would say if they took a break for an hour. He would blame her, as usual. Kira was secretly convinced that Forester hated her.
    
  Perhaps he resented my involvement with Stowe Erling. Perhaps he wished he were Stowe. Dirty old man. I wish you were him right now, she thought, bending down to pick up the shovel.
    
  'Look over there, behind you!'
    
  Freak turned the excavator slightly, and the cabin almost crashed into Kira's head.
    
  'Be careful!'
    
  'I warned you, beauty. I'm sorry.'
    
  Kira grimaced at the machine, because it was impossible to be angry with Freak. The big-boned operator had a nasty temper, constantly cursing and farting while working. He was a man in every sense of the word, a real person. Kira valued that more than anything, especially when she compared him to the pale imitations of life that were Forrester's assistants.
    
  The Ass Kissing Club, as Stowe called them. He wanted nothing to do with them.
    
  She began shoveling debris onto the conveyor belt. After a while, they would have to add another section to the belt as the tunnel went deeper into the mountain.
    
  'Hey, Gordon, Ezra! Stop fortifying and bring another section for the conveyor, please.'
    
  Gordon Darwin and Ezra Levin obeyed her orders mechanically. Like everyone else, they felt they had already reached the limits of their endurance.
    
  As useless as a frog's tits, as my grandfather would say. But we're so close; I can sample the appetizers at the Jerusalem Museum's welcome reception. One more drag, and I'll be keeping all the journalists at bay. One more drink, and Mr. I-Work-Late-With-My-Secretary will have to look up to me for once. I swear to God.
    
  Darwin and Levin carried another conveyor section. The equipment consisted of a dozen flat sausages, each about a foot and a half long, connected by an electric cable. They were nothing more than rollers wrapped in durable plastic tape, but they moved a large amount of material per hour.
    
  Kira picked up the shovel again, just to make the two men hold the heavy conveyor belt a little longer. The shovel made a loud, metallic clanking sound.
    
  For a second, the image of the tomb that had just been opened flashed through Kira's mind.
    
  Then the ground tilted. Kira lost her balance, and Darwin and Levin stumbled, losing control of the section, which fell on Kira's head. The young woman screamed, but it wasn't a cry of horror. It was a cry of surprise and fear.
    
  The ground shifted again. The two men vanished from Kira's view, like two children sledding down a hill. They might have screamed, but she didn't hear them, just as she didn't hear the huge chunks of earth that broke off the walls and fell to the ground with a dull thud. She also didn't feel the sharp stone that fell from the ceiling, turning her temple into a bloody mess, or the scraping metal of the mini-excavator as it crashed off the platform and smashed into the rocks thirty feet below.
    
  Kira was unaware of anything, because all five of her senses were focused on her fingertips, or more precisely, on the four and a half inches of cable she used to hold onto the transporter module that had fallen almost parallel to the edge of the abyss.
    
  She tried kicking her legs for purchase, but it was no use. Her hands were on the edge of the abyss, and the ground began to give way under her weight. The sweat on her hands meant Kira couldn't hold on, and the four and a half inches of cable became three and a half. Another slip, another tug, and now there were barely two inches of cable left.
    
  In one of those strange tricks of the human mind, Kira cursed the fact that she'd made Darwin and Levin wait a little longer than necessary. If they'd left the section lying against the tunnel wall, the cable wouldn't have been caught in the conveyor's steel rollers.
    
  Finally, the cable disappeared and Kira fell into darkness.
    
    
  63
    
    
    
  EXCAVATIONS
    
  AL-MUDAWWARA DESERT, JORDAN
    
    
  Tuesday, July 18, 2006. 2:07 PM.
    
    
  'Several people are dead.'
    
  'Who?'
    
  'Larsen, Darwin, Levine and Frick'.
    
  'Hell, no, not Levin. They got him out alive.'
    
  'The doctor is up there.'
    
  'You are sure?'
    
  'I'm fucking telling you.'
    
  'What happened? Another bomb?'
    
  'It was a collapse. Nothing mysterious.'
    
  'It was sabotage, I swear. Sabotage.'
    
    
  A circle of pained faces gathered around the platform. A murmur of alarm erupted as Pappas emerged from the tunnel entrance, followed by Professor Forrester. Behind them stood the Gottlieb brothers, who, thanks to their skill at descent, had been assigned by Decker to rescue any possible survivors.
    
  The German twins carried out the first body on a stretcher, covered with a blanket.
    
  'That's Darwin; I recognize his shoes.'
    
  The professor approached the group.
    
  'The collapse occurred due to a natural cavity in the ground that we hadn't considered. The speed with which we dug the tunnel didn't allow us...' He stopped, unable to continue.
    
  "I think this is the closest he'll come to admitting he's wrong," Andrea thought, standing in the middle of the group. She had her camera in hand, ready to take pictures, but when she realized what had happened, she put the lens cap back on.
    
  The twins carefully laid the body on the ground, then pulled the stretcher out from under it and returned to the tunnel.
    
  An hour later, the bodies of three archaeologists and a cameraman lay at the edge of the platform. Levin was the last to emerge. It took another twenty minutes to pull him out of the tunnel. Although he was the only one to survive the initial fall, Dr. Harel could do nothing for him.
    
  "He's got too much internal damage," she whispered to Andrea as soon as she left. The doctor's face and hands were covered in dirt. "I'd rather..."
    
  "Say no more," Andrea said, secretly squeezing her hand. She let go of him to cover her head with her cap, as did the rest of the group. The only ones who didn't follow Jewish custom were the soldiers, perhaps out of ignorance.
    
  The silence was absolute. A warm breeze blew off the cliffs. Suddenly, a voice broke the silence, sounding deeply moved. Andrea turned her head and couldn't believe her eyes.
    
  The voice belonged to Russell. He was walking behind Raymond Keen, and they were no more than a hundred feet from the platform.
    
  The billionaire approached them barefoot, his shoulders hunched and his arms crossed. His assistant followed him, his expression a thunderbolt. He calmed down when he realized the others could hear him. It was obvious that seeing Kaine there, outside his tent, had made Russell extremely nervous.
    
  Slowly, everyone turned to look at the two approaching figures. Besides Andrea and Decker, Forrester was the only spectator to have seen Raymond Ken in person. And that had only happened once, during a long, tense meeting in the Cain Tower, when Forrester, without thinking twice, had agreed to his new boss's strange demands. Of course, the reward for agreeing was enormous.
    
  As was the cost. He lay there on the ground, covered with blankets.
    
  Kain stopped a dozen feet away, a shaky, hesitant old man, wearing a yarmulke as white as the rest of his clothing. His thinness and short stature made him seem even more frail, yet Andrea found herself resisting the urge to kneel. She felt the attitudes of the people around him change, as if they were being influenced by some invisible magnetic field. Brian Hanley, less than three feet away, began to shift his weight from one foot to the other. David Pappas bowed his head, and even Fowler's eyes seemed to gleam strangely. The priest stood apart from the group, slightly apart from the others.
    
  "My dear friends, I haven't had a chance to introduce myself. My name is Raymond Kane," the old man said, his clear voice belying his frail appearance.
    
  Some of those present nodded, but the old man did not notice and continued speaking.
    
  'I regret that we had to meet for the first time under such terrible circumstances, and I would like to ask us to join in prayer.' He lowered his eyes, bowed his head, and recited: "El malei rachamim shochen bamromim hamtzi menukha nehonach al kanfei hashechina bema alot kedoshim utehorim kezohar harakiya meirim umazhirim lenishmat. 8 Amen."
    
  Everyone repeated "Amen."
    
  Oddly enough, Andrea felt better, even though she didn't understand what she'd heard, and it wasn't part of her childhood beliefs. For a few moments, an empty, lonely silence fell over the group, until Dr. Harel spoke.
    
  'Should we go home, sir?' She held out her hands in a silent gesture of pleading.
    
  "Now we must observe the Halak and bury our brothers," Cain replied. His tone was calm and reasonable, in contrast to Doc's raspy exhaustion. "After that, we will rest for a few hours and then continue our work. We cannot let the sacrifice of these heroes be in vain."
    
  Having said this, Kaine returned to his tent, followed by Russell.
    
  Andrea looked around and saw nothing but agreement on the others' faces.
    
  "I can't believe these people buy into this crap," she whispered to Harel. "He didn't even come close to us. He stood a few yards away from us, like we were suffering from the plague or about to do something to him."
    
  'We are not the ones he feared.'
    
  'What the hell are you talking about?'
    
  Harel did not answer.
    
  But the direction of her gaze didn't escape Andrea, nor did the look of sympathy that passed between the doctor and Fowler. The priest nodded.
    
  If it wasn't us, then who was it?
    
    
  64
    
    
    
  A document extracted from Haruf Waadi's email account, used as a communication hub between terrorists belonging to the Syrian cell
    
  Brothers, the chosen moment has arrived. Hakan has asked you to prepare for tomorrow. A local source will provide you with the necessary equipment. Your journey will take you by car from Syria to Amman, where Ahmed will give you further instructions. K.
    
    
  Salam Alaikum. I just wanted to remind you before I leave of the words of Al-Tabrizi, which have always been a source of inspiration to me. I hope you will find similar comfort in them as you set out on your mission.
    
  The Messenger of God said: A martyr has six privileges before God. He forgives your sins after the shedding of the first drop of your blood; He delivers you to Paradise, sparing you the torment of the grave; He offers you salvation from the horrors of Hell and places on your head a crown of glory, each ruby of which is worth more than the entire world and everything in it; He marries you to seventy-two houris with the blackest eyes; and He will accept your intercession on behalf of seventy-two of your relatives.
    
  Thank you, U. Today my wife blessed me and bid me farewell with a smile on her lips. She told me, 'From the day I met you, I knew you were destined for martyrdom. Today is the happiest day of my life.' Blessed be Allah for bequeathing me someone like her.
    
    
  Blessings to you, D.O.
    
  Isn't your soul overflowing? If we could share this with anyone, shout it out loud.
    
    
  I'd love to share this too, but I don't feel your euphoria. I find myself strangely at peace. This is my last message, as in a few hours I'm leaving with my two brothers for our meeting in Amman.
    
    
  I share W's sense of peace. Euphoria is understandable, but dangerous. Morally, because it's the daughter of pride. Tactically, because it can lead you to make mistakes. You need to clear your head, D. Once you find yourself in the desert, you'll have to wait for hours under the blazing sun for Hakan's signal. Your euphoria can quickly turn to despair. Seek out what will fill you with peace. O
    
    
  What would you recommend? D
    
    
  Think of the martyrs who came before us. Our struggle, the struggle of the Ummah, consists of small steps. The brothers who slaughtered the infidels in Madrid took one small step. The brothers who destroyed the Twin Towers achieved ten such steps. Our mission consists of a thousand steps. Its goal is to bring the invaders to their knees forever. Do you understand? Your life, your blood, will lead to an end that no other brother can even aspire to. Imagine an ancient king who led a virtuous life, multiplying his seed in a vast harem, defeating his enemies, expanding his kingdom in the name of God. He can look around him with the satisfaction of a man who has fulfilled his duty. That is exactly how you should feel. Take refuge in this thought and pass it on to the warriors you will take with you to Jordan.
    
    
  I've spent many hours reflecting on what you told me, O, and I'm grateful. My spirit is different, my state of mind is closer to God. The only thing that still saddens me is that these will be our last messages to each other, and that although we will be victorious, our next meeting will be in another life. I've learned much from you and have passed on that knowledge to others.
    
  Until eternity, brother. Salam Aleikum.
    
    
  65
    
    
    
  EXCAVATIONS
    
  AL-MUDAWWARA DESERT, JORDAN
    
    
  Wednesday, July 19, 2006. 11:34 AM
    
    
  Suspended from the ceiling by a harness twenty-five feet above the ground in the same place where four people had died the day before, Andrea couldn't help but feel more alive than ever in her life. She couldn't deny that the imminent possibility of death thrilled her, and strangely, it awakened her from the slumber she'd been in for the past ten years.
    
  Suddenly, questions about who you hate more, your father for being a homophobic bigot or your mother for being the stingiest person in the world, begin to take a back seat to questions like, 'Will this rope support my weight?'
    
  Andrea, who never learned to ski, asked to be slowly lowered to the bottom of the cave, partly out of fear and partly because she wanted to try different angles for her photos.
    
  Come on, guys. Slow down. I have a good contract,' she yelled, throwing her head back and looking at Brian Hanley and Tommy Eichberg, who were lowering her with the lift.
    
  The rope stopped moving.
    
  Beneath her lay the remains of an excavator, like a toy smashed by an angry child. Part of an arm protruded at an odd angle, and dried blood was still visible on the shattered windshield. Andrea turned the camera away from the scene.
    
  I hate blood, I hate it.
    
  Even her lack of professional ethics had its limits. She focused on the cave floor, but just as she was about to press the shutter, she began spinning on the rope.
    
  'Can you stop this? I can't concentrate.'
    
  'Miss, you're not made of feathers, you know?' Brian Hanley shouted down at her.
    
  'I think it's best if we continue to demote you,' Tommy added.
    
  'What's the matter? I only weigh eight and a half stone - can't you accept that? You seem much stronger,' said Andrea, always one to manipulate men.
    
  'She weighs well over eight stone,' Hanley complained quietly.
    
  "I heard that," Andrea said, pretending to be offended.
    
  She was so thrilled by the experience that it was impossible for her to be angry with Hanley. The electrician had done such an excellent job of lighting the cave that she didn't even need to use her camera's flash. The wider aperture on her lens allowed her to get excellent shots of the final stages of the excavation.
    
  I can't believe it. We're one step away from the greatest discovery of all time, and the photo that appears on every front page will be mine!
    
  The reporter took his first close look at the cave's interior. David Pappas calculated that they needed to build a diagonal tunnel down to the Ark's supposed location, but the route-in the most abrupt way possible-ran into a natural chasm in the ground that bordered the canyon wall.
    
    
  "Imagine the canyon walls 30 million years ago," Pappas explained the day before, making a small sketch in his notebook. "There was water in the area back then, which created the canyon. As the climate changed, the rock walls began to erode, creating this landform of compacted earth and rock that surrounds the canyon walls like a giant blanket, sealing off the type of caves we stumbled upon. Unfortunately, my mistake cost several lives. If I had checked to make sure the ground was solid on the tunnel floor..."
    
  'I wish I could say I understand how you feel, David, but I have no idea. I can only offer my help, and to hell with everything else.'
    
  'Thank you, Miss Otero. It means a lot to me. Especially since some members of the expedition still blame me for Stowe's death simply because we argued all the time.'
    
  'Call me Andrea, okay?'
    
  "Of course." The archaeologist shyly adjusted his glasses.
    
  Andrea noticed that David was almost exploding from the stress of it all. She considered hugging him, but there was something about him that made her feel increasingly uneasy. It was like a painting you'd been looking at suddenly lit up, revealing a completely different scene.
    
  'Tell me, David, do you think the people who buried the Ark knew about these caves?'
    
  'I don't know. Maybe there's an entrance to the canyon we haven't found yet because it's covered in rocks or mud-somewhere they used when they first lowered the Ark there. We probably would have found it by now if this damn expedition hadn't been run so crazy, making it up as we went along. Instead, we did something no archaeologist should ever do. Maybe a treasure hunter, yes, but it's definitely not what I was trained to do.'
    
    
  Andrea had been taught photography, and that's exactly what she was doing. Still struggling with the rotating rope, she reached her left hand overhead and grabbed a protruding piece of rock, while her right hand pointed the camera toward the back of the cave: a high but narrow space with an even smaller opening at the far end. Brian Hanley had set up a generator and powerful flashlights, which now cast large shadows of Professor Forrester and David Pappas on the rough rock wall. Every time one of them moved, fine grains of sand fell from the rock and floated down through the air. The cave smelled dry and acrid, like a clay ashtray left in a kiln too long. The professor continued to cough, despite wearing a respirator.
    
  Andrea took a few more pictures before Hanley and Tommy got tired of waiting.
    
  'Let go of the stone. We're going to take you to the very bottom.'
    
  Andrea did as she was told, and a minute later she was standing on solid ground. She unfastened her harness, and the rope returned to the top. Now it was Brian Hanley's turn.
    
  Andrea approached David Pappas, who was trying to help the professor sit up. The old man was shaking, and his forehead was covered in sweat.
    
  "Have some of my water, Professor," David said, offering him his flask.
    
  "Idiot! You're drinking this. You're the one who should be going to the cave," the professor said. These words triggered another coughing fit. He tore off his mask and spat a huge lump of blood onto the ground. Even though his voice was damaged by the disease, the professor could still hurl a sharp insult.
    
  David hung the flask back on his belt and walked over to Andrea.
    
  'Thank you for coming to help us. After the accident, it was just the professor and me left... And in his condition, he's of little use,' he added, lowering his voice.
    
  'My cat's shit looks better.'
    
  'He's going to... well, you know. The only way he could delay the inevitable was to get on the first plane to Switzerland for treatment.'
    
  'That's what I meant.'
    
  'With the dust inside that cave...'
    
  "I may not be able to breathe, but my hearing is perfect," the professor said, though every word ended in a wheeze. "Stop talking about me and get to work. I'm not going to die until you get the Ark out of there, you useless idiot."
    
  David looked furious. For a moment, Andrea thought he was about to respond, but the words seemed to die on his lips.
    
  You're completely screwed, aren't you? You hate him with all your heart, but you can't resist him... He didn't just cut your nuts, he made you fry them for breakfast, Andrea thought, feeling a little sorry for her assistant.
    
  'Well, David, tell me what I should do.'
    
  'Follow me.'
    
  About ten feet into the cave, the surface of the wall changed slightly. If not for the thousands of watts of light illuminating the space, Andrea probably wouldn't have noticed. Instead of bare, solid rock, there was an area that appeared to be formed from chunks of rock piled on top of each other.
    
  Whatever it was, it was man-made.
    
  'Oh my God, David.'
    
  'What I don't understand is how they managed to build such a strong wall without using any mortar and without being able to work on the other side.'
    
  'Maybe there's an exit on the other side of the chamber. You said there was supposed to be one.'
    
  'You may be right, but I don't think so. I took new magnetometer readings. Behind this rock block is an unstable area, which we identified with our initial readings. In fact, the Copper Scroll was found in exactly the same pit as this one.'
    
  'Coincidence?'
    
  'I doubt it'.
    
  David knelt down and carefully touched the wall with his fingertips. When he found the slightest crack between the stones, he tried to pull with all his might.
    
  "There's no way," he continued. "This hole in the cave was deliberately sealed; and for some reason, the stones are even more tightly packed than when they were first placed there. Perhaps over two thousand years, the wall has been subjected to downward pressure. Almost as if..."
    
  'As if what?'
    
  'It's as if God himself sealed the entrance. Don't laugh.'
    
  I'm not laughing, Andrea thought. None of this is funny.
    
  'Can't we just take the stones out one at a time?'
    
  'Not knowing how thick the wall is and what is behind it.'
    
  'And how are you going to do that?'
    
  'Looking inside'.
    
  Four hours later, with the help of Brian Hanley and Tommy Eichberg, David Pappas managed to drill a small hole in the wall. They had to disassemble the engine of a large drilling rig-which they hadn't used yet, as they were only digging earth and sand-and lower it piece by piece into the tunnel. Hanley assembled a strange contraption from the remains of a wrecked mini-excavator at the cave entrance.
    
  'Now that's a rework!' said Hanley, pleased with his creation.
    
  The result, besides being ugly, wasn't very practical. It took all four of them to hold it in place, pushing with all their might. Worse, only the smallest drill bits could be used to avoid excessive vibration of the wall. "Seven feet," Hanley shouted over the clanking sound of the motor.
    
  David threaded a fiber optic camera connected to a small viewfinder through the hole, but the cable attached to the camera was too stiff and short, and the ground on the other side was full of obstacles.
    
  'Damn! I won't be able to see anything like that.'
    
  Feeling something brush against her, Andrea raised her hand to the back of her neck. Someone was throwing small stones at her. She turned around.
    
  Forrester tried to get her attention, unable to be heard over the noise of the engine. Pappas approached and leaned his ear toward the old man.
    
  "That's it," David yelled, both excited and overjoyed. "That's what we'll do, Professor. Brian, do you think you could make the hole a little bigger? Say, about three-quarters of an inch by an inch and a quarter?"
    
  "Don't even joke about it," Hanley said, scratching his head. "We don't have any small drills left."
    
  Wearing thick gloves, he extracted the last of the smoking drill bits, which had lost their shape. Andrea remembered trying to hang a beautifully framed photograph of the Manhattan skyline on a load-bearing wall in her apartment. Her drill bit was about as useful as a pretzel stick.
    
  "Freak would probably know what to do," Brian said sadly, looking at the corner where his friend had died. "He had a lot more experience with this kind of thing than I did."
    
  Pappas said nothing for a few minutes. The others could almost hear his thoughts.
    
  'What if I let you use the medium sized drill bits?' he finally said.
    
  'Then there wouldn't be a problem. I could do it in two hours. But the vibrations would be much greater. The area is clearly unstable... it's a big risk. Are you aware of that?'
    
  David laughed, without a hint of humor.
    
  "You're asking me if I realize that four thousand tons of rock could collapse and turn the greatest object in the history of the world into dust? That it would destroy years of work and millions of dollars in investment? That it would make the sacrifice of five people meaningless?"
    
  Damn! He's completely different today. He's just as... infected with all this as the professor, Andrea thought.
    
  "Yes, I know, Brian," David added. "And I'm going to take that risk."
    
    
  66
    
    
    
  EXCAVATIONS
    
  AL-MUDAWWARA DESERT, JORDAN
    
    
  Wednesday, July 19, 2006. 7:01 PM.
    
    
  Andrea took another photo of Pappas kneeling in front of the stone wall. His face was in shadow, but the device he used to peer through the hole was clearly visible.
    
  "Much better, David... Not that you're particularly handsome," Andrea remarked wryly to herself. A few hours later, she would regret the thought, but at the time, nothing could have been closer to the truth. This car was stunning.
    
  'Stowe used to call it an attack. An annoying robotic explorer, but we call him Freddy.'
    
  'Is there any special reason?'
    
  "Just to screw Stowe. He was an arrogant jerk," David replied. Andrea was surprised by the anger displayed by the usually timid archaeologist.
    
  Freddie was a mobile, remote-controlled camera system that could be used in places where human access would be dangerous. It was designed by Stow Erling, who, sadly, won't be there to witness his robot's debut. To overcome obstacles like rocks, Freddie was equipped with treads similar to those used on tanks. The robot could also remain underwater for up to ten minutes. Erling copied the idea from a group of archaeologists working in Boston and recreated it with the help of several engineers from MIT, who sued him for sending the first prototype on this mission, though this no longer bothered Erling.
    
  "We'll pass it through the hole to get a view of the inside of the grotto," David said. "That way, we can figure out if it's safe to destroy the wall without damaging what's on the other side."
    
  'How can a robot see there?'
    
  Freddy is equipped with night vision lenses. The central mechanism emits an infrared beam that only the lens can detect. The images aren't great, but they're good enough. The only thing we have to watch out for is that he doesn't get stuck or flip over. If that happens, we're screwed.
    
    
  The first few steps were fairly straightforward. The initial section, though narrow, gave Freddy enough room to enter the cave. Crossing the uneven section between the wall and the ground was a bit more challenging, as it was uneven and full of loose rocks. Fortunately, the robot's treads can be controlled independently, allowing it to turn and overcome smaller obstacles.
    
  "Sixty degrees left," David said, focusing on the screen, where he could see little more than a field of rocks in black and white. Tommy Eichberg operated the controls at David's request, as he had a steady hand despite his chubby fingers. Each track was controlled by a small wheel on the control panel, connected to Freddie by two thick cables that provided power and could also be used to manually pull the machine back up if something went wrong.
    
  'We're almost there. Oh no!'
    
  The screen jumped as the robot nearly tipped over.
    
  'Damn! Be careful, Tommy,' David shouted.
    
  "Calm down, man. These wheels are more sensitive than a nun's clit. Pardon the language, miss," Tommy said, turning to Andrea. "My mouth is straight from the Bronx."
    
  "Don't worry about it. My ears are from Harlem," Andrea said, agreeing with the joke.
    
  "You need to stabilize the situation a little more," David said.
    
  'I'm trying!'
    
  Eichberg carefully turned the steering wheel, and the robot began to cross the uneven surface.
    
  'Any idea how far Freddie traveled?' Andrea asked.
    
  "About eight feet from the wall," David replied, wiping sweat from his forehead. The temperature was rising by the minute due to the generator and the intense lighting.
    
  'And he has - Wait!'
    
  'What?'
    
  "I think I saw something," Andrea said.
    
  'Are you sure? It's not easy to turn this thing around.'
    
  'Tommy, please go left.'
    
  Eichberg looked at Pappas, who nodded. The image on the screen began to slowly move, revealing a dark, circular outline.
    
  'Go back a little.'
    
  Two triangles with thin protrusions appeared, one next to the other.
    
  A row of squares grouped together.
    
  'A little further back. You're too close.'
    
  Finally, geometry was transformed into something recognizable.
    
  'Oh, my God. It's a skull.'
    
  Andrea looked at Pappas with satisfaction.
    
  'Here's your answer: that's how they managed to seal the chamber from the inside, David.'
    
  The archaeologist wasn't listening. He was focused on the screen, muttering something, his hands clutching it like a mad fortune teller gazing into a crystal ball. A bead of sweat rolled down his greasy nose and landed on the image of a skull where the dead man's cheek should have been.
    
  Just like a tear, Andrea thought.
    
  "Quick, Tommy! Go around that, and then move forward a little more," Pappas said, his voice even more tense. "Left, Tommy!"
    
  'Easy, baby. Let's do this calmly. I think there is...'
    
  "Let me do this," David said, grabbing the controls.
    
  "What are you doing?" Eichberg said angrily. "Damn it! Let go."
    
  Pappas and Eichberg struggled for control for several seconds, knocking the steering wheel loose in the process. David's face was bright red, and Eichberg was breathing heavily.
    
  "Be careful!" Andrea screamed, staring at the screen. The image was darting wildly.
    
  Suddenly, he stopped moving. Eichberg released the controls, and David fell backward, cutting his temple when he hit the corner of the monitor. But at that moment, he was more concerned with what he'd just seen than the cut on his head.
    
  "That's what I was trying to tell you, kid," Eichberg said. "The ground is uneven."
    
  'Damn. Why didn't you let go?' David screamed. 'The car flipped over.'
    
  "Just shut up," Eichberg yelled back. "You're the one rushing things."
    
  Andrea screamed at them both to shut up.
    
  'Stop arguing! It didn't fail completely. Take a look.' She pointed to the screen.
    
  Still angry, the two men approached the monitor. Brian Hanley, who had gone outside to get some tools and had been rappelling during the brief fight, also came closer.
    
  "I think we can fix this," he said, studying the situation. "If we all pull the rope at the same time, we can probably get the robot back on its tracks. If we pull it too gently, all we'll do is drag it around and it'll get stuck."
    
  "That won't work," Pappas said. "We'll pull the cable."
    
  'We have nothing to lose by trying, right?'
    
  They lined up, each holding the cable with both hands, as close to the hole as possible. Hanley pulled the rope taut.
    
  'My calculation is, pull with all your might. One, two, three!'
    
  The four of them tugged on the cable simultaneously. It suddenly felt too loose in their hands.
    
  'Damn. We disabled it.'
    
  Hanley continued to pull on the rope until the end appeared.
    
  'You're right. Damn! Sorry, Pappas...'
    
  The young archaeologist turned away in irritation, ready to beat up whoever or whatever appeared before him. He raised a wrench and was about to hit the monitor, perhaps in retaliation for the cut he'd received two minutes earlier.
    
  But Andrea came closer, and then she understood.
    
  No.
    
  I can't believe it.
    
  Because I never really believed it, did I? I never thought you could exist.
    
  The robot's transmission remained on the screen. When they pulled the cable, Freddy straightened up before it detached. In a different position, without the skull blocking the way, the image on the screen showed a flash of something Andrea couldn't identify at first. Then she realized it was an infrared beam reflecting off a metal surface. The reporter thought she saw the jagged edge of what appeared to be a huge box. At the top, she thought she saw a figure, but she wasn't sure.
    
  The man who was sure was Pappas, who watched, mesmerized.
    
  'It's there, Professor. I found it. I found it for you...'
    
  Andrea turned to the professor and took a photo without thinking. She was trying to capture his initial reaction, whatever it might be-surprise, joy, the culmination of his long search, his dedication, and his emotional isolation. She took three pictures before she actually looked at the old man.
    
  There was no expression in his eyes, and only a trickle of blood flowed from his mouth and down his beard.
    
  Brian ran up to him.
    
  'Damn! We have to get him out of here. He's not breathing.'
    
    
  67
    
    
    
  LOWER EAST SIDE
    
  NEW YORK
    
    
  December 1943
    
    
  Yudel was so hungry he could barely feel the rest of his body. He was only aware of trudging through the streets of Manhattan, seeking refuge in back alleys and alleys, never staying in one place for long. There was always a sound, a light, or a voice that startled him, and he'd flee, clutching the tattered change of clothes he owned. Except for his time in Istanbul, the only homes he'd known were the shelter he shared with his family and the hold of a ship. For the boy, the chaos, noise, and bright lights of New York were part of a frightening jungle, rife with danger. He drank from public fountains. At one point, a drunken beggar grabbed the boy's leg as he passed. Later, a policeman called out to him from around the corner. Its shape reminded Yudel of the flashlight-wielding monster who had been searching for them while they hid under the stairs in Judge Rath's house. He ran to hide.
    
  The sun was setting on the afternoon of his third day in New York when the exhausted boy collapsed onto a pile of trash in a dingy alley off Broome Street. Above him, the living quarters were filled with the clanking of pots and pans, arguments, sexual encounters, and life. Yudel must have blacked out for a few moments. When he came to, something was crawling across his face. He knew what it was even before he opened his eyes. The rat paid him no attention. He headed toward an overturned trash can, where he smelled dry bread. It was a large piece, too big to carry, so the rat devoured it greedily.
    
  Yudel crawled to the trash can and grabbed a can, his fingers trembling with hunger. He threw it at the rat and missed. The rat glanced at him briefly, then returned to gnawing on the bread. The boy grabbed the broken handle of his umbrella and shook it at the rat, who eventually ran off in search of an easier way to satisfy its hunger.
    
  The boy grabbed a piece of stale bread. He opened his mouth greedily, but then closed it again and placed the bread on his lap. He pulled a dirty rag from his bundle, covered his head, and blessed the Lord for the gift of bread.
    
  "Baruch Atah Adonai, Eloheinu Melech ha-olam, ha motzi lechem min ha-aretz." 10
    
  A moment before, a door had opened in the alley. The old rabbi, unnoticed by Yudel, had witnessed the boy fighting the rat. When he heard the blessing over the bread from the lips of the starving child, a tear rolled down his cheek. He had never seen anything like it. There was no despair or doubt in this faith.
    
  The rabbi continued to stare at the child for a long time. His synagogue was very poor, and he could barely find enough money to keep it open. For this reason, even he didn't understand his decision.
    
  After eating the bread, Yudel instantly fell asleep among the rotting garbage. He didn't wake up until he felt the rabbi carefully lift him and carry him into the synagogue.
    
  The old stove will keep the cold for a few more nights. Then we'll see, thought the rabbi.
    
  While stripping the boy of his dirty clothes and covering him with his only blanket, the rabbi found the blue-green card the officers had given Yudel at Ellis Island. The card identified the boy as Raymond Kane, with his family in Manhattan. He also found an envelope with the following written in Hebrew:
    
  For my son, Yudel Cohen
    
  Will not be read until your bar mitzvah in November 1951
    
    
  The rabbi opened the envelope, hoping it would provide him with a clue to the boy's identity. What he read shocked and confused him, but it confirmed his conviction that the Almighty had directed the boy to his door.
    
  Outside, snow began to fall heavily.
    
    
  68
    
    
    
  Letter from Joseph Cohen to his son Yudel
    
  Vein,
    
  Tuesday, February 9, 1943
    
  Dear Yudel,
    
  I write these hurried lines in the hope that the affection we feel for you will fill some void left by the urgency and inexperience of your correspondent. I have never been one to show much emotion, as your mother knows only too well. Ever since you were born, the forced proximity of the space in which we were confined has gnawed at my heart. It saddens me that I have never seen you play in the sun, and never will. The Eternal forged us in the crucible of a trial that proved too difficult for us to bear. It depends on you to fulfill what we could not.
    
  In a few minutes, we'll set out to find your brother and not return. Your mother won't listen to reason, and I can't let her go there alone. I realize I'm walking toward certain death. When you read this letter, you'll be thirteen years old. You'll wonder what madness drove your parents to walk straight into the arms of the enemy. Part of the purpose of this letter is so that I can understand the answer to that question myself. When you grow up, you'll know that there are some things we must do, even if we know the outcome may be against us.
    
  Time is running out, but I must tell you something very important. For centuries, members of our family have been the guardians of a sacred object. It is the candle that was present at your birth. By an unfortunate coincidence, it is now the only thing we own of any value, and that is why your mother is forcing me to risk it to save your brother. It will be a sacrifice as senseless as our own lives. But I do not mind. I would not have done this if you had not been left behind. I believe in you. I wish I could explain to you why this candle is so important, but the truth is, I do not know. I only know that my mission was to keep him safe, a mission passed down from father to son for generations, and a mission in which I failed, as I have failed in so many aspects of my life.
    
  Find the candle, Yudel. We're going to give this to the doctor holding your brother at the Am Spiegelgrund Children's Hospital. If this will at least help buy your brother's freedom, then you can search for it together. If not, I pray to the Almighty to keep you safe, and that by the time you read this, the war will finally be over.
    
  There's something else. Very little remains of the large inheritance intended for you and Elan. The factories our family owned are in Nazi hands. The bank accounts we had in Austria were also confiscated. Our apartments were burned during Kristallnacht. But fortunately, we can leave you something. We always kept a family emergency fund in a bank in Switzerland. We added to it little by little by taking trips every two or three months, even if what we brought with us was only a few hundred Swiss francs. Your mother and I enjoyed our little trips and often stayed there for weekends. It's not a fortune, about fifty thousand marks, but it will help with your education and starting a job, wherever you are. The money is deposited into a numbered account at Credit Suisse, number 336923348927R, in my name. The bank manager will ask for the password. This is 'Perpignan'.
    
  That's all. Say your prayers every day and don't give up the light of Torah. Always honor your home and your people.
    
  Blessed be the Eternal, He who is our only God, the Universal Presence, the True Judge. He commands me, and I command you. May He keep you safe!
    
  Your father,
    
  Joseph Cohen
    
    
  69
    
    
    
  HACAN
    
  He held back for so long that when they finally found him, the only thing he felt was fear. Then the fear turned to relief, relief that he could finally shed that terrible mask.
    
  It was supposed to happen the next morning. They would all have breakfast in the mess tent. No one would suspect a thing.
    
  Ten minutes ago, he'd crawled under the dining tent's platform and set it up. It was a simple device, but incredibly powerful, perfectly camouflaged. They would have been above it without suspecting it. A minute later, they'd have to explain themselves to Allah.
    
  He wasn't sure if he should give the signal after the explosion. The brothers would come and crush the arrogant little soldiers. Those who survived, of course.
    
  He decided to wait a few more hours. He would give them time to finish their work. There were no options and no way out.
    
  Remember the Bushmen, he thought. The monkey found the water, but hasn't brought it back yet...
    
    
  70
    
    
    
  TOWER OF KAIN
    
  NEW YORK
    
    
  Wednesday, July 19, 2006. 11:22 PM.
    
    
  "You too, buddy," said the skinny, blond plumber. "I don't care. I get paid whether I work or not."
    
  "Amen to that," agreed the plump plumber with the ponytail. His orange uniform fit him so tightly that it looked like it was about to burst at the back.
    
  "Maybe that's for the best," the guard said, agreeing with them. "You come back tomorrow, and that's it. Don't make my fucking life harder. I've got two men out sick, and I can't assign anyone to look after you two. These are the rules: no nanny, no outside personnel after 8 p.m."
    
  "You have no idea how grateful we are," the blond man said. "With any luck, the next shift should take care of this problem. I don't feel like fixing burst pipes."
    
  'What? Wait, wait,' said the guard. 'What are you talking about, burst pipes?'
    
  'That's all. They failed. The same thing happened at Saatchi. Who handled that, Benny?'
    
  "I think it was Louie Pigtails," said the fat man.
    
  'Great guy, Louis. God bless him.'
    
  'Amen to that. Well, see you later, Sergeant. Good night.'
    
  'Shall we go to Spinato's, friend?'
    
  Do bears shit in the forest?
    
  The two plumbers gathered their gear and headed for the exit.
    
  "Wait," said the guard, growing more and more worried. "What happened to Louie Pigtails?"
    
  'You know, he had an emergency like this. One night, he couldn't get into the building because of an alarm or something. Anyway, the pressure built up in the drain pipes and they started bursting, and, you know, shit was everywhere, fucking everywhere.'
    
  'Yeah... like fucking Vietnam.'
    
  'Dude, you never set foot in Vietnam, right? My dad was there.'
    
  'Your father spent the seventies high.'
    
  'The thing is, Louis with pigtails is now Bald Louis. Think about what a shitty scene that was. I hope there's nothing too valuable up there, because by tomorrow everything will be a shitty brown.'
    
  The security guard glanced again at the central monitor in the lobby. The emergency light in room 328E was constantly flashing yellow, indicating a problem with the water or gas pipes. The building was so smart it could tell you when your shoelaces had come undone.
    
  He checked the directory to verify the location of 328E. When he realized where it was, he turned pale.
    
  'Damn it, this is the boardroom on the thirty-eighth floor.'
    
  "Bad deal, huh, buddy?" said the fat plumber. "I'm sure it's full of leather furniture and Van Gongs."
    
  'Van Gongs? What the hell! You have no culture at all. This is Van Gogh. My God. You know.'
    
  'I know who he is. An Italian artist.'
    
  'Van Gogh was German, and you're an idiot. Let's split up and go to Spinato's before they close. I'm starving here.'
    
  The guard, who was an art lover, did not bother to insist that Van Gogh was actually Dutch, because at that moment he remembered that there really was a painting by Zann hanging in the meeting room.
    
  "Guys, wait a minute," he said, walking out from behind the reception desk and running after the plumbers. "Let's talk about this..."
    
    
  Orville plopped down in the presidential chair in the conference room, a chair its owner rarely used. He thought he could take a nap there, surrounded by all that mahogany paneling. Just as he recovered from the adrenaline rush of speaking in front of the building's security guard, the fatigue and aching in his arms washed over him again.
    
  'Damn it, I thought he'd never leave.'
    
  "You did a great job convincing the guy, Orville. Congratulations," Albert said, pulling out the top tier of his toolbox, from which he pulled out a laptop computer.
    
  "It's a simple enough procedure to get in here," Orville said, pulling on the huge gloves that covered his bandaged hands. "Good thing you were able to enter the code for me."
    
  'Let's get started. I think we have about half an hour before they decide to send someone to check us out. At that point, if we don't manage to get inside, we'll have about five more minutes before they get to us. Show me the way, Orville.'
    
  The first panel was simple. The system was programmed to recognize only the palmprints of Raymond Kane and Jacob Russell. But it contained a flaw common to all systems that rely on electronic codes that utilize a lot of information. And an entire palmprint is certainly a whole lot of information. In the expert's opinion, the code was easily detected in the system's memory.
    
  'Bang, bam, here comes the first one,' Albert said, closing the laptop as an orange light flashed on the black screen and the heavy door buzzed open.
    
  "Albert... They're going to realize something's wrong," Orville said, pointing to the area around the plate where the priest had used a screwdriver to pry open the cover to access the system's circuits. The wood was now cracked and splintered.
    
  'I'm counting on it.'
    
  'You're kidding.'
    
  "Trust me, okay?" the priest said, reaching into his pocket.
    
  The mobile phone rang.
    
  'Do you think it's a good idea to answer the phone right now?' Orville asked.
    
  "I agree," the priest said. "Hello, Anthony. We're inside. Call me in twenty minutes." He hung up.
    
  Orville pushed the door open and they entered a narrow, carpeted corridor that led to Cain's private elevator.
    
  "I wonder what kind of trauma a person must have experienced to lock themselves behind so many walls," Albert said.
    
    
  71
    
    
    
  An MP3 file recovered by Jordanian desert police from Andrea Otero's digital recorder after the Moses expedition disaster.
    
  QUESTION: I want to thank you for your time and your patience, Mr. Kane. This is proving to be a very difficult task. I truly appreciate the way you shared the most painful details of your life, such as your escape from the Nazis and your arrival in the United States. These incidents add a real human depth to your public persona.
    
    
  ANSWER: My dear young lady, it is not like you to beat around the bush before asking me what you want to know.
    
    
  Q: Great, it seems like everyone is giving me advice on how to do my job.
    
    
  A: I'm sorry. Please continue.
    
    
  Question: Mr. Kane, I understand that your illness, your agoraphobia, was caused by painful events in your childhood.
    
    
  A: That's what doctors believe.
    
    
  Question: Let's continue in chronological order, although we may have to make some adjustments when the interview is broadcast on the radio. You lived with Rabbi Menachem Ben-Shlomo until you came of age.
    
    
  A: That's true. The rabbi was like a father to me. He fed me, even when he had to go hungry. He gave me a purpose in life so I could find the strength to overcome my fears. It took more than four years before I could go out and interact with other people.
    
    
  Question: That was quite an achievement. A child who couldn't even look another person in the eye without panicking became one of the world's greatest engineers...
    
    
  A: This only happened thanks to the love and faith of Rabbi Ben-Shlomo. I thank the All-Merciful for placing me in the hands of such a great man.
    
    
  Question: Then you became a multimillionaire and finally a philanthropist.
    
    
  A: I prefer not to discuss the last point. I'm not very comfortable talking about my charitable work. I always feel like it's never enough.
    
    
  Q: Let's return to the last question. When did you realize you could lead a normal life?
    
    
  A: Never. I've struggled with this illness my whole life, my dear. There are good days and bad days.
    
    
  Question: You run your business with an iron fist, and it's ranked among the top fifty of Fortune's top five hundred companies. I think it's safe to say there have been more good days than bad. You've also gotten married and had a son.
    
    
  A: That's true, but I'd rather not talk about my personal life.
    
    
  Question: Your wife left and went to live in Israel. She is an artist.
    
    
  A: She painted some very beautiful pictures, I can assure you.
    
  Question: What about Isaac?
    
    
  A: He... was great. Something special.
    
    
  Question: Mr. Kane, I can imagine it's difficult for you to talk about your son, but this is an important point, and I want to continue it. Especially seeing the look on your face. It's clear you loved him very much.
    
    
  A: Do you know how he died?
    
    
  Question: I know he was one of the victims of the Twin Towers attack. And after fourteen, almost fifteen hours of interviews, I understand that his death triggered the return of your illness.
    
    
  A: I'm going to ask Jacob to come in now. I want you to leave.
    
    
  Question: Mr. Kane, I think deep down you really want to talk about this; you need to. I'm not going to bombard you with cheap psychology. But do what you think is best.
    
    
  A: Turn off your tape recorder, young lady. I want to think.
    
    
  Question: Mr. Kane, thank you for continuing the interview. When will you be ready...
    
    
  A: Isaac was everything to me. He was tall, slim, and very handsome. Look at his picture.
    
    
  Question: He has a nice smile.
    
    
  A: I think you would have liked him. In fact, he was very much like you. He would rather ask for forgiveness than permission. He had the strength and energy of a nuclear reactor. And everything he achieved, he did himself.
    
    
  Q: With all due respect, it is difficult to agree with such a statement about a person who was born to inherit such a fortune.
    
    
  A: What should a father say? God told the prophet David that he would be His son forever. After such a display of love, my words... But I see you're just trying to provoke me.
    
    
  Q: Forgive me.
    
    
  A: Isaac had many faults, but taking the easy way out wasn't one of them. He never worried about going against my wishes. He went to Oxford, a university to which I made no contribution.
    
    
  Question: And there he met Mr. Russell, is that correct?
    
    
  A: They studied macroeconomics together, and after Jacob graduated, Isaac recommended him to me. Over time, Jacob became my right-hand man.
    
    
  Question: What position would you like to see Isaac hold?
    
    
  A: And which he would never have accepted. When he was very young... [holding back a sob]
    
    
  Question: We are now continuing the interview.
    
  A: Thank you. Forgive me for getting so emotional at the memory. He was just a child, no more than eleven. One day he came home with a dog he found on the street. I was very angry. I don't like animals. Do you like dogs, my dear?
    
    
  Question: Great deal.
    
    
  A: Well, then you should have seen it. It was an ugly mongrel, dirty, and it only had three legs. It looked like it had been on the streets for years. The only sensible thing to do with an animal like that was to take it to the vet and end its suffering. I said this to Isaac. He looked at me and replied, 'You were picked up off the street, too, Father. Do you think the rabbi should have put you out of your misery?'
    
  Question: Oh!
    
    
  A: I felt a shock inside, a combination of fear and pride. This child was my son! I gave him permission to keep the dog if he would take responsibility for it. And he did. The creature lived for another four years.
    
    
  Q: I think I understand what you said earlier.
    
    
  A: Even as a boy, my son knew he didn't want to live in my shadow. On his... last day, he went to a job interview at Cantor Fitzgerald. He was on the 104th floor of the North Tower.
    
    
  Question: Do you want to stop for a while?
    
    
  A: Nichtgedeiget. I'm fine, honey. Isaac called me that Tuesday morning. I was watching what was happening on CNN. I hadn't spoken to him all weekend, so it never occurred to me that he might be there.
    
    
  Question: Please drink some water.
    
    
  A: I picked up the phone. He said, 'Dad, I'm at the World Trade Center. There's been an explosion. I'm really scared.' I stood up. I was in shock. I think I yelled at him. I don't remember what I said. He said to me, 'I've been trying to call you for ten minutes. The network must be overloaded. Dad, I love you.' I told him to stay calm, that I would call the authorities. That we would get him out of there. 'We can't go down the stairs, Dad. The floor below us has collapsed, and the fire is spreading through the building. It's really hot. I want...' And that was it. He was twenty-four years old. [Long pause.] I stared at the phone, stroking it with my fingertips. I didn't understand. The connection was cut off. I think my brain short-circuited at that moment. The rest of the day was completely erased from my memory.
    
    
  Question: You didn't learn anything else?
    
    
  A: I wish it were like that. The next day I opened the newspapers, looking for news of survivors. Then I saw his picture. There he was, in the air, free. He had jumped.
    
    
  Question: Oh my God. I'm so sorry, Mr. Kane.
    
  A: I'm not like that. The flames and heat must have been unbearable. He found the strength to smash the windows and choose his fate. Perhaps he was destined to die that day, but no one was going to tell him how. He accepted his fate like a man. He died strong, flying, master of the ten seconds he was in the air. The plans I had made for him all these years came to an end.
    
    
  Q: Oh my God, this is terrible.
    
    
  A: It would all be for him. All of it.
    
    
  72
    
    
    
  TOWER OF KAIN
    
  NEW YORK
    
    
  Wednesday, July 19, 2006. 11:39 PM.
    
    
  'Are you sure you don't remember anything?'
    
  'I'm telling you. He made me turn around and then dialed a few numbers.'
    
  'This can't go on. There are still about sixty percent of combinations to go. You have to give me something. Anything.'
    
  They were near the elevator doors. This discussion group was certainly more complex than the previous one. Unlike the palmprint-controlled panel, this one had a simple numeric keypad, similar to an ATM, and it was virtually impossible to extract a short sequence of numbers from any large memory. To open the elevator doors, Albert connected a long, thick cable to the input panel, intending to crack the code using a simple but brutal method. In the broadest sense, this involved forcing the computer to try every possible combination, from all zeros to all nines, which could take quite a while.
    
  "We have three minutes to get into this elevator. The computer will need at least another six to scan the twenty-digit sequence. That's if it doesn't crash in the meantime, because I've diverted all of its processing power to the decryption program."
    
  The laptop fan was making a hellish noise, like a hundred bees trapped in a shoebox.
    
  Orville tried to remember. He turned to face the wall and looked at his watch. No more than three seconds had passed.
    
  "I'm going to limit it to ten digits," Albert said.
    
  "Are you sure?" Orville said, turning around.
    
  'Absolutely. I don't think we have any other option.'
    
  'How long will it take?'
    
  "Four minutes," Albert said, scratching his chin nervously. "Let's hope this isn't the last combination he tries, because I can hear them coming."
    
  At the other end of the corridor, someone was pounding on the door.
    
    
  73
    
    
    
  EXCAVATIONS
    
  AL-MUDAWWARA DESERT, JORDAN
    
    
  Thursday, July 20. 6:39 a.m.
    
    
  For the first time since they reached Talon Canyon eight days earlier, dawn found most of the expedition members asleep. Five of them, buried under six feet of sand and rock, would never wake again.
    
  Others shivered in the morning chill under their camouflage blankets. They stared at what should have been the horizon and waited for the sun to rise, turning the chill air into hell on what would become the hottest day of a Jordanian summer in forty-five years. Every now and then, they nodded uneasily, and that in itself frightened them. For every soldier, the night watch is the hardest; and for one with blood on his hands, it's the time when the ghosts of those he killed might come to whisper in his ear.
    
  Halfway between the five campers underground and the three on guard duty on the cliff, fifteen people rolled over in their sleeping bags; perhaps they missed the sound of the horn Professor Forrester had used to rouse them from their beds before dawn. The sun rose at 5:33 a.m. and was greeted by silence.
    
  Around 6:15 a.m., about the same time Orville Watson and Father Albert were entering the Kine Tower lobby, the first member of the expedition to regain consciousness was cook Nuri Zayit. He nudged his assistant, Rani, and headed outside. As soon as he reached the dining tent, he began making instant coffee, using condensed milk instead of water. There weren't many cartons of milk or juice left, as people were drinking them to compensate for the lack of water, and there was no fruit, so the chef's only option was to make omelets and scrambled eggs. The old mute poured all his energy and a handful of remaining parsley into the meal, communicating, as he always did, through his culinary skills.
    
  In the infirmary tent, Harel broke free from Andrea's embrace and went to check on Professor Forester. The old man was hooked up to oxygen, but his condition had only worsened. The doctor doubted he would last more than that night. Shaking her head to dispel the thought, she returned to wake Andrea with a kiss. As they caressed each other and made small talk, they both began to realize they were falling in love. Finally, they got dressed and headed to the dining hall for breakfast.
    
  Fowler, now sharing a tent with only Pappas, started his day against his better judgment and made a mistake. Thinking everyone in the soldiers' tent was asleep, he slipped outside and called Albert on the satellite phone. A young priest answered and impatiently asked him to call back in twenty minutes. Fowler hung up, relieved the call was so short, but worried he'd have to try his luck again so soon.
    
  As for David Pappas, he woke up just before half past six and went to visit Professor Forrester, hoping to feel better, but also hoping to shake off the guilt he had felt after the previous night's dream in which he was the only archaeologist left alive when the Ark finally saw daylight.
    
  In the soldier's tent, Marla Jackson covered the back of her commander and lover from her mattress-they never slept together while on assignment, but occasionally sneaked out together on "reconnaissance missions." She wondered what the South African was thinking.
    
  Decker was one of those for whom dawn brought the breath of the dead, making the hair on the back of his neck stand on end. In a brief moment of wakefulness between two successive nightmares, he thought he saw a signal on the frequency scanner screen, but it was too fast to pinpoint its location. Suddenly, he jumped up and began issuing orders.
    
  In Raymond Cain's tent, Russell laid out his boss's clothes and urged him to at least take his red pill. Reluctantly, Cain agreed, then spat it out when Russell wasn't looking. He felt strangely calm. Finally, the whole goal of his sixty-eight years would be achieved.
    
  In a more modest tent, Tommy Eichberg discreetly stuck his finger up his nose, scratched his butt, and went to the bathroom in search of Brian Hanley. He needed his help fixing a part needed for the drill. They had eight feet of wall to clear, but if they drilled from above, they could reduce the vertical pressure a bit and then remove the rocks by hand. If they worked quickly, they could be finished in six hours. Of course, it didn't help that Hanley was nowhere to be seen.
    
  As for Hookan, he glanced at his watch. Over the past week, he'd worked out the best spot to get a good view of the entire area. Now he waited for the soldiers to change. Waiting suited him just fine. He'd been waiting all his life.
    
    
  74
    
    
    
  TOWER OF KAIN
    
  NEW YORK
    
    
  Wednesday, July 19, 2006, 11:41 AM.
    
    
  7456898123
    
  The computer found the code in exactly two minutes and forty-three seconds. This was fortunate, because Albert had miscalculated how long it would take the guards to appear. The door at the end of the corridor opened almost simultaneously with the elevator door.
    
  'Hold this!'
    
  Two guards and a policeman entered the corridor, frowning, their pistols at the ready. They weren't exactly thrilled about all this commotion. Albert and Orville rushed into the elevator. They could hear the sound of running feet on the carpet and saw a hand outstretched to try and stop the elevator. It missed by inches.
    
  The door creaked shut. Outside, they could make out the muffled voices of the guards.
    
  "How do you open this thing?" the policeman asked.
    
  'They won't get far. This elevator requires a special key to operate. No one can get it through without it.'
    
  'Activate the emergency system you told me about.'
    
  'Yes, sir. Right away. This will be like shooting fish in a barrel.'
    
  Orville felt his heart pound as he turned to Albert.
    
  'Damn it, they're going to get us!'
    
  The priest smiled.
    
  "What the hell is wrong with you? Think of something," Orville hissed.
    
  "I already have one. When we logged into the Kayn Tower computer system this morning, it was impossible to access the electronic key in their system that opens the elevator doors."
    
  "Damned impossible," agreed Orville, who didn't like being beaten, but in this case he was up against the mother of all firewalls.
    
  "You may be a great spy, and you certainly know a few tricks... but you lack one thing a great hacker needs: lateral thinking," Albert said. He folded his arms behind his head, as if relaxing in his living room. "When the doors are locked, you use the windows. Or in this case, you change the sequence that determines the elevator's position and the order of the floors. A simple step that wasn't blocked. Now the Kayn computer thinks the elevator is on the thirty-ninth floor instead of the thirty-eighth."
    
  "So?" asked Orville, slightly annoyed by the priest's boasting, but also curious.
    
  'Well, my friend, in this kind of situation, all the emergency systems in this city make the elevators go down to the last available floor and then open the doors.'
    
  At that very moment, after a brief shudder, the elevator began to rise. They could hear the screams of the shocked guards outside.
    
  "Up is down, and down is up," said Orville, clapping his hands in a cloud of mint disinfectant. "You're a genius."
    
    
  75
    
    
    
  EXCAVATIONS
    
  AL-MUDAWWARA DESERT, JORDAN
    
    
  Thursday, July 20, 2006. 6:43 AM.
    
    
  Fowler wasn't prepared to risk Andrea's life again. Using a satellite phone without any precautions was madness.
    
  It made no sense for someone with his experience to make the same mistake twice. This would be the third time.
    
  The first was the previous night. The priest looked up from his prayer book as the excavation team emerged from the cave carrying Professor Forrester's half-dead body. Andrea ran to him and told him what had happened. The reporter said they were certain the gold box was hidden in the cave, and Fowler no longer had any doubts. Taking advantage of the general excitement generated by the news, he called Albert, who explained that he was going to try one last time to get information about the terrorist group and Hakan around midnight in New York, a couple of hours after dawn in Jordan. The call lasted exactly thirteen seconds.
    
  The second occurred earlier that morning, when Fowler hurriedly made a call. That call lasted six seconds. He doubted the scanner had time to determine where the signal was coming from.
    
  The third call was due in six and a half minutes.
    
  Albert, for God's sake, don't let me down.
    
    
  76
    
    
    
  TOWER OF KAIN
    
  NEW YORK
    
    
  Wednesday, July 19, 2006. 11:45 PM.
    
    
  "How do you think they'll get there?" Orville asked.
    
  'I think they'll bring in a SWAT team and rappel down from the roof, maybe shoot out the glass windows and all that crap.'
    
  A SWAT team for a couple of unarmed robbers? Don't you think it's like using a tank to hunt a couple of mice?
    
  'Look at it this way, Orville: two strangers broke into the private office of a paranoid multimillionaire. You should be happy they're not planning to drop a bomb on us. Now, let me focus. To be the only one with access to this floor, Russell must have a very secure computer.'
    
  'Don't tell me that after everything we went through to get here, you can't get into his computer!'
    
  'I didn't say that. I'm just saying it'll take me at least another ten seconds.'
    
  Albert wiped the sweat from his brow, then let his hands flutter over the keyboard. Even the best hacker in the world couldn't penetrate a computer unless it was connected to a server. This had been their problem from the start. They had tried everything to find Russell's computer on the Kayn network. It was impossible, because, system-wise, the computers on this floor didn't belong to Kayn Tower. To his surprise, Albert learned that not only Russell but also Kayn used computers connected to the internet and to each other via 3G cards, two of the hundreds of thousands in use in New York at the time. Without this crucial information, Albert could have spent decades searching the internet for two invisible computers.
    
  They must be paying over five hundred dollars a day for broadband, not to mention calls, Albert thought. I suppose that's nothing when you're worth millions. Especially when you can keep people like us in fear with such a simple trick.
    
  "I think I've got it," the priest said as the screen changed from black to a bright blue, indicating the system was starting up. "Any luck finding that disk?"
    
  Orville rummaged through the drawers and single cabinet in Russell's neat and elegant office, pulling out files and tossing them onto the carpet. Now he was frantically tearing pictures from the wall, searching for the safe, and slicing open the bottoms of chairs with a silver letter opener.
    
  "There doesn't seem to be anything to find here," Orville said, pushing one of Russell's chairs over with his foot so he could sit next to Albert. The bandages on his hands were again covered in blood, and his round face was pale.
    
  'Paranoid son of a bitch. They communicated only with each other. No outside emails. Russell should use a different computer for business.'
    
  'He must have taken it to Jordan.'
    
  'I need your help. What are we looking for?'
    
  A minute later, after entering every password he could think of, Orville gave up.
    
  'It's no use. There's nothing there. And if there was, he's already erased it.'
    
  "That gives me an idea. Wait," Albert said, pulling a flash drive no bigger than a stick of gum from his pocket and plugging it into the computer's CPU so it could communicate with the hard drive. "The little program in this little thing will allow you to retrieve information from deleted partitions on the hard drive. We can start from there."
    
  'Amazing. Look for Netcatch.'
    
  'Right!'
    
  With a slight murmur, a list of fourteen files appeared in the program's search window. Albert opened them all at once.
    
  'These are HTML files. Saved websites.'
    
  'Do you recognize anything?'
    
  'Yes, I saved them myself. It's what I call server chatter. Terrorists never send each other emails when they're planning an attack. Any idiot knows that email can pass through twenty or thirty servers before it reaches its destination, so you never know who's listening to your message. What they do is give everyone in the cell the same password to a free account, and they write whatever they need to pass on as a draft of the email. It's like you're writing to yourself, except it's an entire cell of terrorists communicating with each other. The email is never sent. It goes nowhere because every single terrorist is using the same account and...
    
  Orville stood paralyzed in front of the screen, so stunned that for a moment he forgot to breathe. The unthinkable, something he had never imagined, suddenly became clear before his eyes.
    
  "This is wrong," he said.
    
  'What's the matter, Orville?'
    
  'I... hack thousands and thousands of accounts every week. When we copy files from a web server, we only save the text. If we didn't, the images would quickly fill up our hard drives. The result is ugly, but you can still read it.'
    
  Orville pointed a bandaged finger at the computer screen where the conversation between the terrorists was taking place via email at Maktoob.com, and you could see colored buttons and images that wouldn't have been there if it had been one of the files he had hacked and saved.
    
  'Someone accessed Maktoob.com from a browser on this computer, Albert. Even though they deleted it afterward, the images remained in the memory cache. And to get into Maktoob...'
    
  Albert understood before Orville could finish.
    
  'Whoever was here must have known the password.'
    
  Orville agreed.
    
  'This is Russell, Albert. Russell is the hakan.'
    
  At that moment, shots rang out, breaking a large window.
    
    
  77
    
    
    
  EXCAVATIONS
    
  AL-MUDAWWARA DESERT, JORDAN
    
    
  Thursday, July 20, 2006. 6:49 AM.
    
    
  Fowler glanced at his watch. Nine seconds before the appointed time, something unexpected happened.
    
  Albert called.
    
  The priest went to the canyon entrance to make a phone call. There was a blind spot there, invisible to the soldier watching from the southern end of the cliff. The moment he turned on the phone, the phone rang. Fowler immediately realized something was wrong.
    
  'Albert, what happened?'
    
  On the other end of the line, he heard several shouting voices. Fowler tried to figure out what was going on.
    
  'Hang up!'
    
  "Officer, I have to make a call!" Albert's voice sounded distant, as if he didn't have a phone next to his ear. "This is really important. It's a matter of national security."
    
  'I told you to put down that fucking phone.'
    
  'I'm going to slowly lower my hand and talk. If you see me doing anything suspicious, then shoot me.'
    
  'This is my last warning. Drop it!'
    
  "Anthony," Albert's voice was even and clear. He finally inserted the earpiece. "Can you hear me?"
    
  'Yes, Albert.'
    
  'Russell is a hakan. Confirmed. Be careful-'
    
  The connection was cut off. Fowler felt a wave of shock wash over him. He turned to run back to the camp, then everything went dark.
    
    
  78
    
    
    
  INSIDE THE DINING TENT, FIFTY-THREE SECONDS BEFORE
    
  Andrea and Harel stopped at the entrance to the dining tent when they saw David Pappas running toward them. Pappas was wearing a bloody T-shirt and appeared disoriented.
    
  'Doctor, doctor!'
    
  "What the hell is going on, David?" Harel replied. She had been in the same bad mood since the water incident made "proper coffee" a thing of the past.
    
  'This is the professor. He's in bad shape.'
    
  David volunteered to stay with Forrester while Andrea and Doc went to breakfast. The only thing holding up the demolition of the wall to reach the Ark was Forrester's condition, though Russell had wanted to continue the work the previous night. David refused to open the cavity until the professor had a chance to recover and join them. Andrea, whose opinion of Pappas had been steadily deteriorating over the past few hours, suspected he was simply waiting for Forrester to get out of the way.
    
  "Okay." Doc sighed. "You go ahead, Andrea. There's no point in either of us skipping breakfast." She ran back to the infirmary.
    
  The reporter quickly peeked inside the mess tent. Zayit and Peterke waved back. Andrea liked the mute cook and his assistant, but the only people sitting at the tables at that moment were two soldiers, Alois Gottlieb and Louis Maloney, eating from their trays. Andrea was surprised there were only two of them, as the soldiers usually ate breakfast together, leaving only one lookout on the south ridge for half an hour. In fact, breakfast was the only time she saw the soldiers together in one place.
    
  Since Andrea didn't care about their company, she decided that she would go back and see if she could help Harel.
    
  Even though my medical knowledge is so limited, I would probably wear a hospital gown backwards.
    
  Then Doc turned around and shouted, 'Do me a favor and get me a large coffee, will you?'
    
  Andrea had one foot poked into the mess tent, trying to find the best route to avoid the sweating soldiers hunched over their food like monkeys, when she nearly crashed into Nuri Zayit. The cook must have seen the doctor running back to the infirmary, because he handed Andrea a tray with two cups of instant coffee and a plate of toast.
    
  'Instant coffee dissolved in milk, is that right, Nuri?'
    
  The mute smiled and shrugged, saying it wasn't his fault.
    
  'I know. Maybe tonight we'll see water coming out of a rock and all that biblical stuff. Anyway, thank you.'
    
  Slowly, making sure she didn't spill her coffee-she knew she wasn't the most coordinated person in the world, though she'd never admit it-she headed for the infirmary. Nuri waved at her from the entrance to the dining hall, still smiling.
    
  And then it happened.
    
  Andrea felt as if a giant hand had lifted her from the ground and thrown her six and a half feet into the air before hurling her back. She felt a sharp pain in her left arm and a terrible burning sensation in her chest and back. She turned around just in time to see thousands of tiny pieces of burning fabric falling from the sky. A column of black smoke was all that remained of what had been a mess tent two seconds ago. High above, the smoke seemed to be mingling with another, much blacker smoke. Andrea couldn't figure out where it was coming from. She gingerly touched her chest and realized her shirt was covered in a hot, sticky liquid.
    
  Doc came running.
    
  "Are you okay?" Oh God, are you okay, darling?'
    
  Andrea knew Harel was screaming, though her voice sounded distant over the whistling in Andrea's ears. She felt the doctor examining her neck and arms.
    
  'My chest'.
    
  'You're okay. It's just coffee.'
    
  Andrea stood up carefully and realized she'd spilled coffee all over herself. Her right hand was still clutching the tray, while her left had hit the stone. She wiggled her fingers, afraid she'd sustained more injuries. Luckily, nothing was broken, but her entire left side felt paralyzed.
    
  While several expedition members tried to extinguish the fire with buckets of sand, Harel focused on tending to Andrea's wounds. The reporter had cuts and scratches on the left side of her body. Her hair and the skin on her back were slightly burned, and her ears were constantly ringing.
    
  "The buzzing will go away in three or four hours," Harel said, putting the stethoscope back in her pants pocket.
    
  'I'm sorry...' Andrea said, almost screaming, without realizing it. She was crying.
    
  'You have nothing to apologize for.'
    
  'He... Nuri... brought me coffee. If I'd gone inside to get it, I'd be dead right now. I could have asked him to come out and have a cigarette with me. I could have saved his life in return.'
    
  Harel pointed around. Both the mess tent and the fuel tanker had been blown up-two separate explosions simultaneously. Four people were reduced to nothing but ashes.
    
  'The only one who should feel anything is the son of a bitch who did it.'
    
  "Don't worry about it, lady, we've got him," Torres said.
    
  He and Jackson dragged the man, handcuffed by the legs, and laid him down in the middle of the square near the tents, while the other expedition members watched in shock, unable to believe what they were seeing.
    
    
  79
    
    
    
  EXCAVATIONS
    
  AL-MUDAWWARA DESERT, JORDAN
    
    
  Thursday, July 20, 2006. 6:49 AM.
    
    
  Fowler raised his hand to his forehead. It was bleeding. The truck's explosion had thrown him to the ground, and he'd hit his head on something. He tried to get up and head back toward the camp, still holding the satellite phone. Amidst his hazy vision and thick cloud of smoke, he saw two soldiers approaching, pistols pointed at him.
    
  'It was you, you son of a bitch!'
    
  'Look, he's still holding the phone in his hand.'
    
  'That's what you used to set off the explosions, wasn't it, you bastard?'
    
  The rifle butt struck him on the head. He fell to the ground, but felt no kicks or other blows to his body. He had lost consciousness long before that.
    
    
  "This is ridiculous," Russell shouted, joining the group crowding around Father Fowler: Decker, Torres, Jackson, and Alrik Gottlieb on the soldiers' side; Eichberg, Hanley, and Pappas on what remained of the civilians.
    
  With Harel's help, Andrea tried to get up and approach the group of menacing faces that were black with soot.
    
  "That's not funny, sir," Decker said, tossing Fowler's satellite phone. "He had it when we found him near the fuel tanker. Thanks to the scanner, we know he made a quick phone call this morning, so we were already suspicious. Instead of going to breakfast, we took up our positions and watched him. Luckily."
    
  'It's just...' Andrea began, but Harel tugged at her arm.
    
  'Quiet. This won't help him,' she whispered.
    
  Exactly. What I meant was, is this a secret phone he uses to contact the CIA? That's not the best way to protect your innocence, you idiot.
    
  "It's a phone. It's certainly something that's not allowed on this expedition, but it's not enough to charge this person with causing the bombings," Russell said.
    
  'Maybe not just a phone, sir. But look what we found in his briefcase.'
    
  Jackson dropped the ruined briefcase in front of them. It was empty, and the bottom lid was torn off. Glued to the base was a secret compartment containing small, marzipan-like blocks.
    
  'This is C4, Mr. Russell,' Decker continued.
    
  The information left them all breathless. Then Alric pulled out his pistol.
    
  "That pig killed my brother. Let me put a bullet in his fucking skull," he yelled, beside himself with rage.
    
  'I have heard enough,' said a soft but confident voice.
    
  The circle opened, and Raymond Cain approached the priest's unconscious body. He bent over him, one figure in black, the other in white.
    
  "I can understand what drove this man to do what he did. But this mission has been delayed for too long, and it can't be delayed any longer. Pappas, please get back to work and tear down that wall."
    
  "Mr. Kain, I can't do that without knowing what's going on here," Pappas replied.
    
  Brian Hanley and Tommy Eichberg, arms crossed, walked over and stood next to Pappas. Kain didn't even glance at them twice.
    
  'Mr. Decker?'
    
  "Sir?" asked the large South African.
    
  'Please show your authority. The time for niceties is over.'
    
  "Jackson," Decker said, signaling.
    
  The soldier raised her M4 and aimed it at the three rebels.
    
  "You've got to be kidding me," complained Eichberg, whose big red nose was inches from the barrel of Jackson's gun.
    
  'This is no joke, sweetheart. Get going, or I'll shoot your new ass.' Jackson cocked her gun with an ominous metallic click.
    
  Ignoring the others, Cain walked up to Harel and Andrea.
    
  'As for you young ladies, it has been a pleasure to be able to count on your services. Mr. Decker guarantees your return to Behemoth.'
    
  "What are you talking about?" Andrea howled, catching some of what Cain had said despite her hearing problems. "You damn son of a bitch! They're going to retrieve the Ark in a few hours. Let me stay until tomorrow. You owe me."
    
  'You mean the fisherman owes the worm? Take them. Oh, and make sure they leave with only what they're wearing. Ask the reporter to hand over the disc with her photos.'
    
  Decker pulled Alric aside and spoke to him quietly.
    
  'You take them.'
    
  "That's bullshit. I want to stay here and deal with the priest. He killed my brother," the German said, his eyes bloodshot.
    
  'He'll still be alive when you get back. Now do as you're told. Torres will make sure he's nice and warm for you.'
    
  'Damn it, Colonel. It's at least three hours from here to Aqaba and back, even driving at top speed in a Humvee. If Torres gets to the priest, there'll be nothing left of him by the time I get back.'
    
  'Trust me, Gottlieb. You'll be back in an hour.'
    
  'What do you mean, sir?'
    
  Decker looked at him seriously, irritated by his subordinate's slowness. He hated explaining things word for word.
    
  Sarsaparilla, Gottlieb. And do it fast.'
    
    
  80
    
    
    
  EXCAVATIONS
    
  AL-MUDAWWARA DESERT, JORDAN
    
    
  Thursday, July 20, 2006. 7:14 AM.
    
    
  Sitting in the backseat of the H3, Andrea half-closed her eyes in a futile attempt to fight off the dust rushing in through the windows. The explosion of the fuel tanker had blown out the car's windows and shattered the windshield, and although Alrik had patched some of the holes with duct tape and a few shirts, he had worked so quickly that sand still got in in some places. Harel complained, but the soldier didn't respond. He gripped the steering wheel with both hands, his knuckles white, his mouth tense. He'd cleared the large dune at the mouth of the canyon in just three minutes and was now pressing the accelerator as if his life depended on it.
    
  "It won't be the most comfortable trip in the world, but at least we're going home," Doc said, placing her hand on Andrea's thigh. Andrea squeezed her hand tightly.
    
  'Why did he do it, Doc? Why did he have explosives in his briefcase? Tell me they planted them on him,' the young reporter said almost pleadingly.
    
  The Doctor leaned closer so Alric couldn't hear her, though she doubted he could hear anything over the noise of the engine and the wind slamming the temporary window covers.
    
  'I don't know, Andrea, but the explosives belonged to him.'
    
  "How do you know?" Andrea asked, her eyes suddenly serious.
    
  'Because he told me. After you overheard the soldiers talking while you were under their tent, he came to me for help with a crazy plan to blow up the water supply.'
    
  'Doc, what are you talking about? Did you know about this?'
    
  "He came here because of you. He'd already saved your life once, and by the code of honor that his kind live by, he feels obligated to help you whenever you need help. Anyway, for reasons I don't quite understand, it was his boss who dragged you into this in the first place. He wanted to make sure Fowler was on the expedition."
    
  'So that's why Kain mentioned the worm?'
    
  'Yes. For Kaine and his men, you were simply a means to control Fowler. It was all a lie from the start.'
    
  'And what will happen to him now?'
    
  'Forget about him. They'll interrogate him, and then... he'll disappear. And before you say anything, don't even think about going back there.'
    
  The reality of the situation stunned the reporter.
    
  'Why, Doc?' Andrea pulled away from her in disgust. 'Why didn't you tell me, after everything we've been through?' You swore you'd never lie to me again. You swore it when we were making love. I don't know how I could have been so stupid...'
    
  "I say many things." A tear rolled down Harel's cheek, but when she continued, her voice was steely. "His mission is different from mine. To me, it was just another one of those silly expeditions that happen from time to time. But Fowler knew it could be real. And if it was, he knew he had to do something about it."
    
  'And what was that? Blow us all up?'
    
  'I don't know who did the explosion this morning, but believe me, it wasn't Anthony Fowler.'
    
  'But you didn't say anything.'
    
  "I couldn't say anything without giving myself away," Harel said, looking away. "I knew they'd get us out of there... I... wanted to be with you. Away from the dig. Away from my life, I suppose."
    
  "What about Forrester? He was your patient, and you left him there."
    
  'He died this morning, Andrea. Just before the explosion, in fact. He'd been ill for years, you know.'
    
  Andrea shook her head.
    
  If I were an American, I would win the Pulitzer Prize, but at what cost?
    
  'I can't believe it. So much death, so much violence, all for the sake of a ridiculous museum exhibit.'
    
  'Fowler didn't explain this to you? There's much more at stake...' Harel trailed off as the Hammer slowed.
    
  "This isn't right," she said, peering through the cracks in the window. "There's nothing here."
    
  The vehicle stopped abruptly.
    
  'Hey, Alric, what are you doing?' Andrea said. 'Why are we stopping?'
    
  The big German said nothing. Very slowly, he removed the keys from the ignition, slammed the handbrake, and stepped out of the Hummer, slamming the door.
    
  "Damn. They wouldn't dare," Harel said.
    
  Andrea saw fear in the doctor's eyes. She could hear Alrik's footsteps on the sand. He was crossing to Harel's side.
    
  'What's going on, Doc?'
    
  The door opened.
    
  "Get out," Alric said coldly, his face impassive.
    
  "You can't do that," Harel said, not moving an inch. "Your commander doesn't want to make an enemy in the Mossad. We're very bad enemies to have."
    
  An order is an order. Get out.'
    
  'Not her. At least let her go, please.'
    
  The German raised his hand to his belt and pulled an automatic pistol from its holster.
    
  'For the last time. Get out of the car.'
    
  Harel looked at Andrea, resigned to her fate. She shrugged and grabbed the passenger handle above the side window with both hands to exit the car. But suddenly, she tensed her arm muscles and, still clutching the handle, kicked out, striking Alrik in the chest with her heavy boots. The German dropped his pistol, which fell to the ground. Harel lunged headfirst at the soldier, knocking him down. The doctor immediately jumped up and kicked the German in the face, cutting his eyebrow and damaging his eye. Doc raised her leg above his face, ready to finish the job, but the soldier recovered, grabbed her leg with his huge hand, and spun her sharply to the left. There was a loud crack of bone breaking as Doc fell.
    
  The mercenary stood and turned. Andrea was approaching him, ready to strike, but the soldier disposed of her with a backhand, leaving an ugly red welt on her cheek. Andrea fell backward. As she hit the sand, she felt something hard beneath her.
    
  Now Alrik leaned over Harel. He grabbed a large mane of curly black hair and tugged, lifting it as if it were a rag doll, until his face was next to hers. Harel was still reeling from the shock, but he managed to look the soldier in the eye and spat at him.
    
  'Fuck you, piece of shit.'
    
  The German spat back, then raised his right hand, holding a combat knife. He sank it into Harel's stomach, enjoying the sight of his victim's eyes rolling back and her mouth hanging open as she struggled to breathe. Alrik twisted the knife in the wound, then roughly pulled it out. Blood gushed, splattering the soldier's uniform and boots. He released the doctor with a look of disgust on his face.
    
  'Nooo!'
    
  Now the mercenary turned to Andrea, who had landed on the pistol and was trying to find the safety catch. She screamed at the top of her lungs and pulled the trigger.
    
  The automatic pistol jumped in her hands, making her fingers go numb. She'd never fired a pistol before, and it showed. The bullet whistled past the German and slammed into the Hummer's door. Alrik shouted something in German and lunged at her. Almost without looking, Andrea fired three more times.
    
  One bullet missed.
    
  Another one punctured a tire on a Humvee.
    
  The third shot hit the German in the open mouth. The momentum of his 200-pound body kept him moving toward Andrea, though his hands were no longer intent on taking the gun from her and strangling her. He fell faceup, struggling to speak, blood spurting from his mouth. Horrified, Andrea saw that the shot had knocked out several of the German's teeth. She stepped aside and waited, still aiming the pistol at him-though if she hadn't hit him by pure chance, it would have been pointless, as her hand was shaking too much and her fingers were weak. Her hand ached from the impact of the gun.
    
  It took the German almost a minute to die. The bullet passed through his neck, severing his spinal cord and leaving him paralyzed. He choked on his own blood as it filled his throat.
    
  When she was sure Alrik was no longer a threat, Andrea ran to Harel, who was bleeding on the sand. She sat up and cradled Doc's head, avoiding the wound, while Harel helplessly tried to hold her insides in place with her hands.
    
  'Wait, Doc. Tell me what I should do. I'm going to get you out of here, even if it's just to kick your ass for lying to me.'
    
  "Don't worry," Harel replied weakly. "I've had enough. Trust me. I'm a doctor."
    
  Andrea sobbed and leaned her forehead against Harel's. Harel removed his hand from the wound and grabbed one of the reporters.
    
  'Don't say that. Please don't.'
    
  'I've told you enough lies. I want you to do something for me.'
    
  'Name it.'
    
  'In a minute, I want you to get in the Hummer and drive west along this goat trail. We're about ninety-five miles from Aqaba, but you should be able to reach the road in a couple of hours.' She paused and gritted her teeth against the pain. 'The car is equipped with a GPS tracker. If you see anyone, get out of the Hummer and call for help. What I want you to do is get out of here. Swear to me you'll do that?'
    
  'I swear'.
    
  Harel winced in pain. Her grip on Andrea's hand was weakening with each passing second.
    
  'You see, I shouldn't have told you my real name. I want you to do something else for me. I want you to say it out loud. No one has ever done that.'
    
  'Chedva'.
    
  'Shout louder.'
    
  "CHEDVA!" Andrea screamed, her anguish and pain breaking the silence of the desert.
    
  A quarter of an hour later, Chedva Harel's life ended forever.
    
    
  Digging a grave in the sand with her bare hands was the hardest thing Andrea had ever done. Not because of the effort it required, but because of what it meant. Because it was a meaningless gesture, and because Chedva died, in part, because of the events she had set in motion. She dug a shallow grave and marked it with a Hummer antenna and a circle of stones.
    
  Once finished, Andrea searched the Hummer for water, but without much success. The only water she could find was in the soldier's canteen hanging from his belt. It was three-quarters full. She also took his cap, though to keep it on, she had to adjust it with a safety pin she found in his pocket. She also pulled out one of the shirts stuffed in the broken windows and grabbed a steel pipe from the Hummer's trunk. She ripped out the windshield wipers and stuffed them into the pipe, wrapping them in a shirt to create a makeshift umbrella.
    
  Then she returned to the road Hummer had left. Unfortunately, when Harel asked her to promise to return to Aqaba, she was unaware of the stray bullet that had punctured her front tire because she was standing with her back to the car. Even if Andrea had wanted to keep her promise, which she didn't, it would have been impossible for her to change the tire herself. No matter how hard she searched, she couldn't find a jack. On such a rocky road, the car wouldn't have been able to travel even a hundred feet without a working front tire.
    
  Andrea looked west, where she could see the faint line of the main road winding between the dunes.
    
  Ninety-five miles to Aqaba in the midday sun, almost sixty to the main road. That's at least several days of walking in 100-degree heat, hoping to find someone, and I don't even have enough water for six hours. And that's assuming I don't get lost trying to find a nearly invisible road, or that those sons of bitches haven't already taken the Ark and bumped into me on the way out.
    
  She looked to the east, where the Hummer's tracks were still fresh.
    
  Eight miles in that direction there were vehicles, water, and the ladle of the century, she thought as she began to walk. Not to mention a whole crowd of people who wanted me dead. The upside? I still had a chance to get my disk back and help the priest. I had no idea how, but I'd try.
    
    
  81
    
    
    
  CRYPT WITH RELICS
    
  VATICAN
    
    
  Thirteen days earlier
    
    
  "Want some ice for that hand?" Sirin asked. Fowler pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and bandaged his knuckles, which were bleeding from several cuts. Avoiding Brother Cecilio, who was still trying to repair the niche he'd destroyed with his fists, Fowler approached the head of the Holy Alliance.
    
  'What do you want from me, Camilo?'
    
  "I want you to return it, Anthony. If it truly exists, the Ark's place is here, in a fortified chamber 150 feet beneath the Vatican. Now is not the time for it to be spread around the world in the wrong hands. Let alone for the world to learn of its existence."
    
  Fowler gnashed his teeth at the arrogance of Sirin and the one above him, perhaps even the Pope himself, who believed they could decide the fate of the Ark. What Sirin was asking of him was far more than a simple mission; it weighed like a tombstone on his entire life. The risks were incalculable.
    
  "We will keep him," Sirin insisted. "We know how to wait."
    
  Fowler nodded.
    
  He would go to Jordan.
    
  But he, too, was capable of making his own decisions.
    
    
  82
    
    
    
  EXCAVATIONS
    
  AL-MUDAWWARA DESERT, JORDAN
    
    
  Thursday, July 20, 2006. 9:23 AM.
    
    
  'Wake up, padre.'
    
  Fowler slowly came to, unsure of where he was. He only knew that his entire body ached. He couldn't move his hands because they were cuffed above his head. The cuffs were somehow attached to the canyon wall.
    
  When he opened his eyes, he confirmed this, as well as the identity of the man who had tried to wake him. Torres was standing before him.
    
  A wide smile.
    
  "I know you understand me," the soldier said in Spanish. "I prefer to speak my native language. I can handle fine details much better that way."
    
  'There is nothing refined about you,' the priest said in Spanish.
    
  'You're mistaken, Padre. On the contrary, one of the things that made me famous in Colombia was how I always used nature to help me. I have little friends who do my work for me.'
    
  "So you were the one who put the scorpions in Miss Otero's sleeping bag," Fowler said, trying to remove the handcuffs without Torres noticing. It was no use. They were secured to the canyon wall by a steel nail driven into the rock.
    
  'I appreciate your efforts, Padre. But no matter how hard you pull, these handcuffs won't budge,' Torres said. 'But you're right. I wanted to have your little Spanish bitch. It didn't work. So now I have to wait for our friend Alric. I think he's abandoned us. He must be having fun with your two whore friends. I hope he fucks them both before he blows their heads off. Blood is so hard to get out of your uniform.'
    
  Fowler yanked at the handcuffs, blinded by anger and unable to control himself.
    
  'Come here, Torres. You come here!'
    
  "Hey, hey! What happened?" Torres said, enjoying the fury on Fowler's face. "I like seeing you pissed off. My little friends will love it."
    
  The priest looked in the direction Torres was pointing. Not far from Fowler's feet, there was a mound of sand with several red figures moving across it.
    
  'Solenopsis catusianis. I don't really know Latin, but I know these ants are dead serious, Padre. I'm very lucky to have found one of their mounds so close. I love watching them at work, and I haven't seen them do their thing in a long time...'
    
  Torres squatted down and picked up the stone. He stood up, played with it for a few moments, then retreated a few steps.
    
  'But today, it looks like they'll be working especially hard, Padre. My little friends have teeth you wouldn't believe. But that's not all. The best part is when they stick their stinger into you and inject the venom. Here, let me show you.'
    
  He pulled his arm back and raised his knee like a baseball pitcher, then hurled the stone. It hit the mound, shattering its top.
    
  It was as if a red fury had come to life on the sand. Hundreds of ants flew out of the nest. Torres stepped back a bit and threw another stone, this time in an arc, landing halfway between Fowler and the nest. The red mass paused for a moment, then hurled itself at the rock, causing it to vanish under its wrath.
    
  Torres backed up even more slowly and threw another rock, which landed about a foot and a half from Fowler. The ants moved across the rock again, until the mass was no more than eight inches from the priest. Fowler could hear the insects crackling. It was a sickening, frightening sound, like someone shaking a paper bag full of bottle caps.
    
  They use movement to guide themselves. Now he'll throw another rock closer to me, to get me moving. If I do that, I'm done for, Fowler thought.
    
  And that's exactly what happened. The fourth stone fell at Fowler's feet, and the ants immediately pounced on it. Gradually, Fowler's boots became covered in a sea of ants, growing with each passing second as new ones emerged from the nest. Torres threw more stones at the ants, who grew even more vicious, as if the smell of their crushed brethren had intensified their thirst for revenge.
    
  'Admit it, Padre. You're screwed,' Torres said.
    
  The soldier threw another stone, this time aiming not at the ground but at Fowler's head. He missed by two inches and fell into a red wave that moved like an angry whirlwind.
    
  Torres bent down again and selected a smaller stone, one that was easier to throw. He took careful aim and launched it. The stone hit the priest in the forehead. Fowler fought the pain and the urge to move.
    
  'You'll give in sooner or later, Padre. I plan to spend the morning like this.'
    
  He bent down again, searching for ammunition, but was forced to stop when his radio crackled to life.
    
  'Torres, this is Decker. Where the fuck are you?'
    
  'I'm taking care of the priest, sir.'
    
  'Leave this to Alrik, he'll be back soon. I promised him, and as Schopenhauer said, a great man treats his promises as divine laws.'
    
  'Understood, sir.'
    
  'Report to Nest One.'
    
  'With all due respect, sir, it's not my turn now.'
    
  'With all due respect, if you don't show up at Nest One in thirty seconds, I will find you and skin you alive. Do you hear me?'
    
  'I understand, Colonel.'
    
  'I'm glad to hear it. It's finished.'
    
  Torres returned the radio to his belt and walked slowly back. 'You heard him, Padre. After the explosion, there are only five of us left, so we'll have to postpone our game for a couple of hours. When I get back, you'll be in worse shape. No one can sit still for that long.'
    
  Fowler watched as Torres rounded a bend in the canyon near the entrance. His relief was short-lived.
    
  Several ants on his boots began to slowly make their way up his trousers.
    
    
  83
    
    
    
  AL-QAHIR METEOROLOGICAL INSTITUTE
    
  CAIRO, EGYPT
    
    
  Thursday, July 20, 2006. 9:56 AM.
    
    
  It wasn't even ten o'clock in the morning, and the junior meteorologist's shirt was already soaking wet. He'd been on the phone all morning, doing someone else's job. It was the height of summer, and everyone who was anyone had left and were on the shores of Sharm el-Sheikh, pretending to be experienced divers.
    
  But this was one task that couldn't be postponed. The beast approaching was too dangerous.
    
  For what seemed like the thousandth time since he had confirmed his instruments, the official picked up the phone and called another area that was expected to be affected by the forecast.
    
  Port of Aqaba.
    
  "Salam alaykum, this is Jawar Ibn Dawood from the Al-Qahira Meteorological Institute."
    
  "Alaykum salam, Jawar, this is Najar." Although the two men had never met, they spoke on the phone a dozen times. "Could you call me back in a few minutes? I'm really busy this morning."
    
  'Listen to me, this is important. We noticed a huge air mass early this morning. It's very hot, and it's heading your way.'
    
  'Simun? You're going this way? Damn, I'll have to call my wife and tell her to get the laundry.'
    
  'You better stop joking. This is one of the biggest I've ever seen. It's off the charts. Extremely dangerous.'
    
  The meteorologist in Cairo could almost hear the harbormaster swallowing hard on the other end of the line. Like all Jordanians, he had learned to respect and fear the simun, a swirling sandstorm that moved like a tornado, reaching speeds of up to 100 miles per hour and temperatures of 120 degrees Fahrenheit. Anyone unlucky enough to witness a simun in full force outdoors died instantly of cardiac arrest due to the intense heat, and the body was stripped of all moisture, leaving a hollow, desiccated husk where a human being had stood just minutes before. Fortunately, modern weather forecasts gave civilians ample time to take precautions.
    
  'I understand. Do you have a vector?' asked the harbormaster, now clearly concerned.
    
  'It left the Sinai Desert a few hours ago. I think it'll just pass Aqaba, but it'll feed on the currents there and explode over your central desert. You'll have to call everyone so they can get the message across.'
    
  'I know how the network works, Javar. Thank you.'
    
  'Just make sure no one leaves before evening, okay? If not, you'll be collecting the mummies in the morning.'
    
    
  84
    
    
    
  EXCAVATIONS
    
  AL-MUDAWWARA DESERT, JORDAN
    
    
  Thursday, July 20, 2006. 11:07 AM.
    
    
  David Pappas inserted the drill head into the hole for the last time. They had just finished drilling a hole in the wall about six feet wide and three and a half inches high, and thanks to Eternity, the ceiling of the chamber on the other side of the wall hadn't collapsed, although there was a slight tremor caused by the vibrations. Now they could remove the stones by hand without dismantling them. Lifting them and setting them aside was another matter, as there were quite a few of them.
    
  'It will take another two hours, Mr. Cain.'
    
  The billionaire descended into the cave half an hour earlier. He stood in the corner, both hands clasped behind his back, as he often did, simply observing and seemingly relaxed. Raymond Kain was terrified of the descent into the pit, but only in a rational sense. He had spent the entire night mentally preparing for it and didn't feel the usual dread clenching his chest. His pulse quickened, but no more than usual for a sixty-eight-year-old man being strapped into a harness and lowered into a cave for the first time.
    
  I don't understand why I feel so good. Is it because of my proximity to the Ark that I feel this way? Or is it this tight womb, this hot well that soothes me and suits me?
    
  Russell approached him and whispered that he needed to go get something from his tent. Kain nodded, distracted by his own thoughts, but proud to be free of his dependence on Jacob. He loved him like a son and was grateful for his sacrifice, but he could hardly remember a moment when Jacob wasn't across the room, ready to lend a helping hand or offer advice. How patient the young man had been with him.
    
  If it weren't for Jacob, none of this would have ever happened.
    
    
  85
    
    
    
  Transcript of communication between the Behemoth crew and Jacob Russell
    
  July 20, 2006
    
    
  MOSES 1: Behemoth, Moses 1 is here. Can you hear me?
    
    
  HIPPOPOTAMUS: Hippopotamus. Good morning, Mr. Russell.
    
    
  MOSES 1: Hello, Thomas. How are you?
    
    
  BEHEMOTH: You know, sir. It's a lot of warmth, but I think those of us born in Copenhagen can never get enough of it. How can I help?
    
    
  MOSES 1: Thomas, Mr. Cain needs BA-609 in half an hour. We need to organize an emergency muster. Tell the pilot to take maximum fuel.
    
    
  BEHEMOTH: Sir, I'm afraid that won't be possible. We just received a message from the Aqaba Port Authority stating that a gigantic sandstorm is moving through the area between the port and your location. They have suspended all air traffic until 6:00 PM.
    
    
  MOSES 1: Thomas, I'd like you to clarify something for me. Is there an insignia of the Port of Aqaba or Cain Industries on board your ship?
    
    
  BEHEMOTH: Kine Industries, sir.
    
    
  MOSES 1: I thought so. One more thing. Did you happen to hear me when I told you the name of the person who needs BA-609?
    
    
  BEHEMOTH: Hm, yes, sir. Mr. Kine, sir.
    
    
  MOSES 1: Very well, Thomas. Then please be so kind as to follow the orders I have given you, or you and the entire crew of this vessel will be out of work for a month. Do I make myself clear?
    
    
  BEHEMOTH: Absolutely clear, sir. The plane will head in your direction immediately.
    
    
  MOSES 1: Always a pleasure, Thomas. Finished.
    
    
  86
    
    
    
  X UKAN
    
  He began by praising the name of Allah, the Wise, the Holy, the Compassionate, the One who had enabled him to achieve victory over his enemies. He did so kneeling on the floor, wearing a white robe that covered his entire body. A basin of water was before him.
    
  To ensure the water reached the skin beneath the metal, he removed the ring inscribed with his graduation date. It was a gift from his fraternity. Then he washed both hands up to the wrists, concentrating on the areas between his fingers.
    
  He cupped his right hand, the one he never used to touch his private parts, and scooped up some water, then rinsed his mouth vigorously three times.
    
  He scooped up more water, brought it to his nose, and inhaled forcefully to clear his nostrils. He repeated the ritual three times. With his left hand, he cleared away the remaining water, sand, and mucus.
    
  Using his left hand again, he wet his fingertips and cleaned the tip of his nose.
    
  He raised his right hand and brought it to his face, then lowered it to dip it into the basin and washed his face three times from his right ear to his left.
    
  Then from his forehead to his throat three times.
    
  He took off his watch and vigorously washed both forearms, first the right and then the left, from the wrist to the elbow.
    
  Wetting his palms, he rubbed his head from his forehead to the back of his neck.
    
  He inserted his wet index fingers into his ears, cleaning behind them, and then his lobes with his thumbs.
    
  Finally, he washed both feet up to the ankles, starting with the right foot and making sure to wash between the toes.
    
  "Ash hadu an la ilaha illa Allah wahdahu la sharika lahu wa anna Muhammadan 'abduhu wa rasuluh,' he recited passionately, emphasizing the central tenet of his faith that there is no God but Allah, who has no equal, and that Muhammad is his servant and Messenger.
    
    
  This completed the ritual of ablution, which would mark the beginning of his life as a declared warrior of jihad. Now he was ready to kill and die for the glory of Allah.
    
  He grabbed the pistol, allowing himself a brief smile. He could hear the plane's engines. It was time to give the signal.
    
  With a solemn gesture, Russell left the tent.
    
    
  87
    
    
    
  EXCAVATIONS
    
  AL-MUDAWWARA DESERT, JORDAN
    
    
  Thursday, July 20, 2006. 1:24 PM.
    
    
  The pilot of BA-609 was Howell Duke. In twenty-three years of flying, he had logged 18,000 hours in various types of aircraft in every conceivable weather condition. He had survived a snowstorm in Alaska and an electrical storm in Madagascar. But he had never experienced true fear, that feeling of cold that makes your balls shrink and your throat go dry.
    
  Until today.
    
  He flew in a cloudless sky with optimal visibility, squeezing every last drop of horsepower from his engines. The plane wasn't the fastest or best he'd ever flown, but it was certainly the most fun. It could reach 315 mph and then hover majestically in place, like a cloud. Everything was going perfectly.
    
  He looked down to check his altitude, fuel gauge, and distance to his destination. When he looked up again, his jaw dropped. Something had appeared on the horizon that hadn't been there before.
    
  At first, it looked like a wall of sand a hundred feet high and a couple of miles wide. Given the few landmarks in the desert, Duke initially thought what he saw was stationary. Gradually, he realized it was moving, and it was happening so fast.
    
  I see a canyon ahead. Damn. Thank God that didn't happen ten minutes ago. This must be the simun they warned me about.
    
  He'd need at least three minutes to land the plane, and the wall was less than twenty-five miles away. He made a quick calculation. It would take Simun another twenty minutes to reach the canyon. He pressed the helicopter's conversion mode and felt the engines immediately slow down.
    
  At least it works. I'll have time to land this bird and squeeze into the smallest space I can find. If even half of what they say about this is true...
    
  Three and a half minutes later, the BA-609's landing gear touched down on a flat area between the camp and the excavation site. Duke shut off the engine and, for the first time in his life, didn't bother to go through the final safety check, exiting the plane as if his pants were on fire. He looked around but saw no one.
    
  I need to tell everyone. Inside this canyon, they won't see this thing until it's within thirty seconds.
    
  He ran toward the tents, though he wasn't sure if being inside was the safest place. Suddenly, a figure dressed in white approached him. He soon recognized who it was.
    
  'Hello, Mr. Russell. I see you've gone native,' said Duke, feeling nervous. 'I haven't seen you...'
    
  Russell was twenty feet away from me. At that moment, the pilot noticed that Russell had a pistol in his hand and stopped dead in his tracks.
    
  'Mr. Russell, what's going on?'
    
  The commander said nothing. He simply aimed at the pilot's chest and fired three quick shots. He stood over the fallen body and fired three more shots into the pilot's head.
    
  In a nearby cave, O heard gunshots and warned the group.
    
  'Brothers, this is the signal. Let's go.'
    
    
  88
    
    
    
  EXCAVATIONS
    
  AL-MUDAWWARA DESERT, JORDAN
    
    
  Thursday, July 20, 2006. 1:39 PM.
    
    
  'Are you drunk, Nest Three?'
    
  'Colonel, I repeat, Mr. Russell just blew the pilot's head off and then ran to the dig site. What are your orders?'
    
  'Damn. Does anyone have a picture of Russell?'
    
  'Sir, this is Nest Two. He's coming up onto the platform. He's dressed strangely. Should I fire a warning shot?'
    
  'Negative, Nest Two. Do nothing until we know more. Nest One, can you read me?'
    
  '...'
    
  'Nest One, can you hear me?'
    
  'Nest number one. Torres, pick up that damn radio.'
    
  '...'
    
  'Nest two, do you have a picture of nest one?'
    
  'Affirmative, sir. I have an image, but Torres is not on it, sir.'
    
  'Damn! You two, keep your eyes on the entrance to the excavation. I'm on my way.'
    
    
  89
    
    
    
  AT THE ENTRANCE TO THE CANYON, TEN MINUTES BEFORE
    
  The first bite was on his calf twenty minutes ago.
    
  Fowler felt a sharp pain, but fortunately it didn't last long, giving way to a dull ache, more like a hard slap than the first lightning strike.
    
  The priest had planned to suppress any screams by gritting his teeth, but he forced himself not to do so just yet. He would try that with the next bite.
    
  The ants had climbed no higher than his knees, and Fowler had no idea whether they knew who he was. He was trying his best to appear either inedible or dangerous, and for both reasons, he couldn't do one thing: move.
    
  The next injection hurt a lot more, perhaps because he knew what was coming next: the swelling in the area, the inevitability of it all, the feeling of helplessness.
    
  After the sixth sting, he lost count. Perhaps he'd been stung twelve times, perhaps twenty. It wasn't much longer, but he couldn't take it anymore. He'd exhausted all his resources-gritting his teeth, biting his lips, flaring his nostrils wide enough to drive a truck through them. At one point, in desperation, he even risked twisting his wrists in the handcuffs.
    
  The worst part was not knowing when the next attack would come. Up until now, he'd been lucky, as most of the ants had retreated half a dozen feet to his left, and only a couple hundred covered the ground beneath him. But he knew that at the slightest movement, they would attack.
    
  He needed to focus on something other than the pain, or he'd act against his better judgment and start trying to crush the insects with his boots. He might even manage to kill a few, but it was clear they had the advantage in numbers, and he'd eventually lose.
    
  Another blow was the last straw. Pain ran down his legs and exploded in his genitals. He was on the verge of losing his mind.
    
  Ironically, it was Torres who saved him.
    
  'Padre, your sins are attacking you. One after another, just as they devour the soul.'
    
  Fowler looked up. The Colombian was standing almost thirty feet away, watching him with an amused expression on his face.
    
  'You know, I got tired of being up there, so I came back to see you in your own personal Hell. Look, this way no one will bother us,' he said, turning off the radio with his left hand. In his right hand, he held a rock the size of a tennis ball. 'So, where were we?'
    
  The priest was grateful that Torres was there. It gave him someone to focus his hatred on. Which, in turn, would buy him a few more minutes of stillness, a few more minutes of life.
    
  "Oh, yeah," Torres continued. "We were trying to figure out if you were going to make the first move or if I was going to make it for you."
    
  He threw a rock and hit Fowler in the shoulder. The rock landed where most of the ants had gathered, once again a pulsating, deadly swarm, ready to attack anything that threatened their home.
    
  Fowler closed his eyes and tried to cope with the pain. The rock had hit him in the same spot where the psychopathic killer had shot him sixteen months earlier. The entire area still ached at night, and now he felt like he was reliving the entire ordeal. He tried to focus on the pain in his shoulder to numb the ache in his legs, using a trick his instructor had taught him seemingly a million years ago: the brain can only handle one sharp pain at a time.
    
    
  When Fowler opened his eyes again and saw what was happening behind Torres, he had to exert even more effort to control his emotions. If he gave himself away even for a moment, he would be finished. Andrea Otero's head emerged from behind the dune that lay just beyond the entrance to the canyon where Torres held him captive. The reporter was very close, and no doubt she would see them in a few moments, if she hadn't already.
    
  Fowler knew he had to be absolutely certain Torres wouldn't turn around and look for another stone. He decided to give the Colombian what the soldier least expected.
    
  'Please, Torres. Please, I beg you.'
    
  The Colombian's expression completely changed. Like all killers, few things aroused him more than the control he believed he had over his victims when they began to beg.
    
  'What are you begging for, Padre?'
    
  The priest had to force himself to concentrate and choose the right words. Everything depended on Torres not turning around. Andrea had seen them, and Fowler was sure she was close, though he'd lost sight of her because Torres's body blocked the way.
    
  'I beg you to spare my life. My pathetic life. You are a soldier, a real man. Compared to you, I am nothing.'
    
  The mercenary grinned broadly, revealing his yellowed teeth. 'Well said, Padre. And now...'
    
  Torres never got a chance to finish his sentence. He didn't even feel the blow.
    
    
  Andrea, who had a chance to see the scene as she approached, decided against using her gun. Remembering how poor a shot she'd been with Alric, the best she could hope for was that a stray bullet wouldn't hit Fowler in the head, just as it had earlier hit the Hummer's tire. Instead, she pulled the windshield wipers from her makeshift umbrella. Holding the steel pipe like a baseball bat, she slowly crawled forward.
    
  The pipe wasn't particularly heavy, so she had to choose her line of attack carefully. Just a few steps behind him, she decided to aim for his head. She felt her palms sweat and prayed she wouldn't screw up. If Torres turned around, she was done for.
    
  He didn't. Andrea planted her feet firmly on the ground, swung her weapon, and struck Torres with all her might on the side of the head, near the temple.
    
  'Take this, you bastard!'
    
  The Colombian fell like a stone into the sand. The mass of red ants must have sensed the vibrations, because they immediately turned and headed toward his fallen body. Unaware of what had happened, he began to rise. Still half-conscious from the blow to his temple, he staggered and fell again as the first ants reached his body. When he felt the first bites, Torres raised his hands to his eyes in absolute terror. He tried to kneel, but this only further provoked the ants, and they pounced on him in even greater numbers. It was as if they were communicating with each other through their pheromones.
    
  Enemy.
    
  Kill.
    
  'Run, Andrea!' Fowler yelled. 'Get away from them.'
    
  The young reporter took a few steps back, but very few of the ants turned to follow the vibrations. They were more concerned about the Colombian, who was covered from head to toe, howling in agony, every cell of his body assaulted by sharp jaws and needle-like bites. Torres managed to stand again and take a few steps, the ants covering him like a strange skin.
    
  He took another step, then fell and never got up.
    
    
  Meanwhile, Andrea retreated to the spot where she'd discarded the windshield wipers and shirt. She wrapped the windshield wipers in a rag. Then, making a wide detour around the ants, she approached Fowler and ignited the shirt with her lighter. While the shirt was burning, she drew a circle on the ground around the priest. The few ants that hadn't joined in the attack on Torres scattered in the heat.
    
  Using a steel pipe, she pulled back Fowler's handcuffs and the spike that held them to the stone.
    
  "Thank you," said the priest, his legs shaking.
    
    
  When they were about a hundred feet away from the ants and Fowler thought they were safe, they collapsed to the ground, exhausted. The priest rolled up his trousers to check his legs. Other than small reddish bite marks, swelling, and a persistent but dull ache, the twenty-odd bites hadn't caused much damage.
    
  'Now that I've saved your life, I suppose your debt to me is repaid?' Andrea said sarcastically.
    
  'Doc told you about this?'
    
  'I want to ask you about this and much more.'
    
  "Where is she?" asked the priest, but he already knew the answer.
    
  The young woman shook her head and began to sob. Fowler hugged her tenderly.
    
  'I'm so sorry, Miss Otero.'
    
  "I loved her," she said, burying her face in the priest's chest. As she sobbed, Andrea realized that Fowler had suddenly tensed and was holding his breath.
    
  'What happened?' she asked.
    
  In answer to her question, Fowler pointed to the horizon, where Andrea saw a deadly wall of sand approaching them as inexorably as the night.
    
    
  90
    
    
    
  EXCAVATIONS
    
  AL-MUDAWWARA DESERT, JORDAN
    
    
  Thursday, July 20, 2006, 1:48 PM.
    
    
  You two, keep your eyes on the entrance to the excavation site. I'm on my way.
    
  It was these words that led, albeit indirectly, to the death of the remaining Decker crew. When the attack occurred, the eyes of the two soldiers were looking anywhere but where the danger was coming from.
    
  Tewi Waaka, a huge Sudanese, caught only a glimpse of the intruders, dressed in brown, when they were already in the camp. There were seven of them, armed with Kalashnikov assault rifles. He warned Jackson over the radio, and the two opened fire. One of the intruders fell in a hail of bullets. The rest hid behind the tents.
    
  Vaaka was surprised they didn't return fire. In fact, that was his last thought, because a few seconds later, two terrorists who had climbed the cliff ambushed him from behind. Two bursts from a Kalashnikov, and Tevi Vaaka joined his ancestors.
    
    
  Across the canyon at Nest 2, Marla Jackson saw Waka shot through the scope of her M4 and knew the same fate awaited her. Marla knew the cliffs well. She'd spent so many hours there, with nothing to do but look around and touch herself through her pants when no one was looking, counting down the hours until Decker arrived and took her on a private reconnaissance mission.
    
  During her hours of guard duty, she'd imagined hundreds of times how hypothetical enemies might climb up and surround her. Now, peering over the cliff edge, she saw two very real enemies just a foot and a half away. She immediately pumped fourteen bullets into them.
    
  They didn't make a sound as they died.
    
    
  Now there were four enemies left that she knew about, but she couldn't do anything from her position without cover. The only thing she could think of was joining Decker at the dig site so they could devise a plan together. It was a terrible option, as she'd lose her height advantage and an easier escape route. But she had no choice, because now she heard three words over her radio:
    
  'Marla... help me.'
    
  'Decker, where are you?'
    
  'Down below. At the base of the platform.'
    
  Without regard for her own safety, Marla climbed down the rope ladder and ran toward the excavation site. Decker lay next to the platform with a very ugly wound on his right chest and his left leg twisted under him. He must have fallen from the top of the scaffolding. Marla examined the wound. The South African had managed to stop the bleeding, but his breathing was...
    
  Fucking whistle.
    
  ...worries. He had a punctured lung, and it was bad news if they didn't get to the doctor right away.
    
  'What happened to you?'
    
  'It was Russell. That son of a bitch... he caught me off guard when I walked in.'
    
  "Russell?" Marla said, surprised. She tried to think. "You'll be okay. I'll get you out of here, Colonel. I swear."
    
  'No way. You have to get out of here yourself. I'm done. The Master said it best: "Life for the vast majority is a constant struggle for simple existence with the certainty that it will eventually be overcome."'
    
  'Could you please leave fucking Schopenhauer alone for once, Decker?'
    
  The South African smiled sadly at his lover's outburst and made a slight head gesture.
    
  'Follow you, soldier. Don't forget what I told you.'
    
  Marla turned to see four terrorists approaching her. They were fanned out, using the rocks for cover, while her only protection would be the heavy tarpaulin covering the platform's hydraulic system and steel bearings.
    
  'Colonel, I think we're both done for.'
    
  She slung the M4 over her shoulder and tried to drag Decker under the scaffolding, but was only able to move him a few inches. The South African's weight was too much for even a woman as strong as she.
    
  'Listen to me, Marla.'
    
  "What the hell do you want?" Marla said, trying to think as she crouched next to the steel scaffolding supports. While she wasn't sure if she should open fire before she had a clear shot, she was confident they would have one much sooner than she did.
    
  'Surrender. I don't want them to kill you,' Decker said, his voice growing weaker.
    
  Marla was about to curse her commander again when a quick glance towards the canyon entrance told her that surrender might be the only way out of this absurd situation.
    
  "I give up!" she screamed. "Are you listening, you idiots? I give up. Yankee, she's going home."
    
  She tossed her rifle a few feet in front of her, then her automatic pistol. Then she stood up and raised her hands.
    
  I'm counting on you, bastards. This is your chance to thoroughly interrogate a female prisoner. Don't shoot me, fucking thing.
    
  The terrorists were slowly approaching, their rifles aimed at her head, each barrel of the Kalashnikov ready to spit out lead and end her precious life.
    
  "I surrender," Marla repeated, watching them advance. They formed a semicircle, their knees bent, their faces covered with black scarves, about twenty feet apart so they wouldn't be easy targets.
    
  Damn it, I give up, you sons of bitches. Enjoy your seventy-two virgins.
    
  "I surrender," she shouted one last time, hoping to drown out the growing noise of the wind, which turned into an explosion as a wall of sand rushed over the tents, engulfing the plane and then rushing towards the terrorists.
    
  Two of them turned around in shock. The rest never knew what had befallen them.
    
  They all died instantly.
    
  Marla rushed next to Decker and pulled the tarp over them like a makeshift tent.
    
  You have to go down. Cover yourself with something. Don't fight the heat and wind, otherwise you'll dry out like a raisin.
    
  These were the words of Torres, always the boaster, as he told his comrades about the Simun myth while they were playing poker. Maybe it would work. Marla grabbed Decker, and he tried to do the same, though his grip was weak.
    
  'Hold on there, Colonel. We'll be away from here in half an hour.'
    
    
  91
    
    
    
  EXCAVATIONS
    
  AL-MUDAWWARA DESERT, JORDAN
    
    
  Thursday, July 20, 2006. 1:52 PM.
    
    
  The opening was no more than a crack at the base of the canyon, but it was large enough for two people pressed together. They barely managed to squeeze inside before the simun crashed down on the canyon. A small outcrop of rock protected them from the first wave of heat. They had to shout to be heard over the roar of the sandstorm.
    
  'Relax, Miss Otero. We'll be here for at least twenty minutes. This wind is deadly, but fortunately it doesn't last too long.'
    
  'You've been in a sandstorm before, haven't you, Father?'
    
  'A few times. But I've never seen a simun. I've only read about it in Rand McNally's atlas.'
    
  Andrea fell silent for a moment, trying to catch her breath. Fortunately, the sand blowing down the canyon barely penetrated their shelter, even though the temperature had risen sharply, making it difficult for Andrea to breathe.
    
  'Talk to me, Father. I feel like I'm going to faint.'
    
  Fowler tried to adjust his position so he could rub the pain in his legs. The bites needed disinfectant and antibiotics as soon as possible, though that wasn't a priority. Getting Andrea out of there was.
    
  'As soon as the wind dies down, we'll run to the H3s and create a diversion so you can get out of here and head to Aqaba before anyone starts shooting. You can drive, can't you?'
    
  "I'd be in Aqaba by now if I could find the plug in that damn Hummer," Andrea lied. "Someone took it."
    
  'It's under the spare tire in a vehicle like this.'
    
  Where, of course, I didn"t look.
    
  'Don't change the subject. You used the singular. Aren't you coming with me?'
    
  'I must complete my mission, Andrea.'
    
  'You came here because of me, didn't you? Well, now you can leave with me.'
    
  The priest took a few seconds before answering. He finally decided the young reporter needed to know the truth.
    
  'No, Andrea. I was sent here to recover the Ark, no matter what, but that was an order I never planned to carry out. There's a reason I had explosives in my briefcase. And that reason is inside that cave. I never truly believed it existed, and I never would have accepted the mission if you weren't involved. My superior used us both.'
    
  'Why, father?'
    
  "It's very complicated, but I'll try to explain it as briefly as possible. The Vatican considered the possibilities of what might happen if the Ark of the Covenant were returned to Jerusalem. People would take this as a sign. In other words, a sign that Solomon's Temple should be rebuilt in its original location."
    
  'Where are the Dome of the Rock and Al-Aqsa Mosque located?'
    
  'Exactly. Religious tensions in the region would increase a hundredfold. It would provoke the Palestinians. The Al-Aqsa Mosque would eventually be destroyed so that the original temple could be rebuilt. This isn't just an assumption, Andrea. It's a fundamental idea. If one group has the power to crush another, and they believe they have the justification, they will eventually do so.'
    
  Andrea recalled a story she'd worked on early in her professional career, seven years earlier. It was September 2000, and she was working on the newspaper's international section. News arrived that Ariel Sharon was planning a walk, surrounded by hundreds of riot police, on the Temple Mount-the boundary between the Jewish and Arab sectors, in the heart of Jerusalem, one of the holiest and most contested sites in history, the site of the Temple of the Rock, the third-most sacred site in the Islamic world.
    
  This simple stroll led to the Second Intifada, which is still ongoing. To thousands of dead and wounded; to suicide bombings on one side and military attacks on the other. To an endless spiral of hatred that offered little hope for reconciliation. If the discovery of the Ark of the Covenant meant the rebuilding of Solomon's Temple on the site where the Al-Aqsa Mosque now stands, every Islamic country in the world would rise up against Israel, unleashing a conflict with unimaginable consequences. With Iran on the brink of realizing its nuclear potential, there was no limit to what could happen.
    
  'Is that an excuse?' Andrea said, her voice shaking with emotion. 'The holy commandments of the God of Love?'
    
  'No, Andrea. This is the title to the Promised Land.'
    
  The reporter shifted uncomfortably.
    
  'Now I remember what Forrester called it... a human contract with God. And what Kira Larsen said about the Ark's original meaning and power. But what I don't understand is what Cain has to do with all this.'
    
  Mr. Cain clearly has a restless mind, but he is also deeply religious. I understand his father left him a letter asking him to fulfill his family's mission. That's all I know.
    
  Andrea, who knew the whole story in more detail from her interview with Cain, did not interrupt.
    
  If Fowler wants to know the rest, he can buy the book I plan to write as soon as I get out of here, she thought.
    
  'From the moment his son was born, Cain made it clear,' Fowler continued, 'that he would put all his resources into finding the Ark so that his son...'
    
  'Isaac'.
    
  '...so that Isaac could fulfill his family's destiny.'
    
  'To return the Ark to the Temple?'
    
  'Not quite, Andrea. According to a certain interpretation of the Torah, the one who can recover the Ark and rebuild the Temple-the latter relatively easy, given Cain's condition-will be the Promised One: the Messiah.'
    
  'Oh, God!'
    
  Andrea's face completely transformed as the final piece of the puzzle fell into place. It explained everything. The hallucinations. The obsessive behavior. The terrible trauma of growing up confined in that cramped space. Religion as an absolute fact.
    
  "Exactly," Fowler said. "Furthermore, he viewed the death of his own son Isaac as a sacrifice required by God so that he himself could achieve that destiny."
    
  'But, Father... if Cain knew who you were, why the hell did he let you go on the expedition?'
    
  'You know, it's ironic. Cain couldn't have carried out this mission without Rome's blessing, the seal of approval that the Ark was real. That's how they were able to recruit me into the expedition. But someone else infiltrated the expedition, too. Someone with great power, who decided to work for Cain after Isaac told him about his father's obsession with the Ark. I'm just guessing, but at first, he probably simply took the job to gain access to sensitive information. Later, when Cain's obsession developed into something more concrete, he developed his own plans.'
    
  'Russell!' Andrea gasped.
    
  'That's right. The man who threw you into the sea and killed Stow Erling in a clumsy attempt to cover up his discovery. Perhaps he planned to later dig up the Ark himself. And either he or Kain-or both-are responsible for Protocol Upsilon.'
    
  "And he put scorpions in my sleeping bag, the bastard."
    
  'No, it was Torres. You have a very select fan club.'
    
  'Only since we met, Father. But I still don't understand why Russell needs the Ark.'
    
  "Perhaps to destroy it. If so, although I doubt it, I'm not going to stop him. I think he might want to take it out of here to use in some crazy scheme to blackmail the Israeli government. I still haven't figured that part out, but one thing is clear: nothing will stop me from carrying out my decision."
    
  Andrea tried to peer closely into the priest's face. What she saw made her freeze.
    
  'Are you really going to blow up the Ark, Father? Such a sacred object?'
    
  "I thought you didn't believe in God," Fowler said with an ironic smile.
    
  'My life has taken a lot of strange turns lately,' Andrea replied sadly.
    
  "The Law of God is engraved here and there," the priest said, touching his forehead and then his chest. "The Ark is just a box of wood and metal that, if it floats, will lead to the deaths of millions of people and a hundred years of war. What we saw in Afghanistan and Iraq is only a pale shadow of what could happen next. That's why he doesn't leave that cave."
    
  Andrea didn't answer. Suddenly, there was silence. The howling of the wind through the rocks in the canyon finally ceased.
    
  Simun is over.
    
    
  92
    
    
    
  EXCAVATIONS
    
  AL-MUDAWWARA DESERT, JORDAN
    
    
  Thursday, July 20, 2006. 2:16 PM.
    
    
  They cautiously emerged from their shelter and entered the canyon. The landscape before them was a scene of devastation. Tents had been torn from their platforms, and whatever had been inside was now scattered across the surrounding area. The windshields of the Hummers were shattered by small rocks that had broken off the canyon cliffs. Fowler and Andrea were walking toward their vehicles when they suddenly heard the engine of one of the Hummers roar to life.
    
  Without warning, an H3 was heading towards them at full speed.
    
  Fowler pushed Andrea out of the way and jumped to the side. For a split second, he saw Marla Jackson behind the wheel, her teeth clenched in anger. The Hummer's massive rear tire passed inches in front of Andrea's face, spraying her with sand.
    
  Before the two of them could get up, H3 rounded a bend in the canyon and disappeared.
    
  "I think it's just us," the priest said, helping Andrea to her feet. "That was Jackson and Decker, walking away as if the devil himself was after them. I don't think many of their companions remained."
    
  "Father, I don't think these are the only things that are missing. It looks like your plan to get me out of here has gone to waste," the reporter said, pointing to the three remaining utility vehicles.
    
  All twelve tires were slashed.
    
  They wandered around the remains of the tents for a couple of minutes, searching for water. They found three half-full canteens and a surprise: Andrea's backpack with her hard drive, almost buried in the sand.
    
  "Everything has changed," Fowler said, looking around suspiciously. He seemed unsure of himself and stalked as if the killer on the cliffs might finish them off at any moment.
    
  Andrea followed him, crouching in fear.
    
  'I can't get you out of here, so stay close until we figure something out.'
    
  BA-609 was flipped onto its left side, like a bird with a broken wing. Fowler entered the cabin and emerged thirty seconds later, holding several cables.
    
  "Russell won't be able to use the plane to transport the Ark," he said, tossing the cables aside and then jumping back down. He winced as his feet hit the sand.
    
  He's still in pain. This is crazy, Andrea thought.
    
  "Do you have any idea where he might be?"
    
  Fowler was about to reply, but instead stopped and walked to the back of the plane. Near the wheels was a dull black object. The priest picked it up.
    
  It was his briefcase.
    
  The top lid looked like it had been cut open, revealing the location of the plastic explosive Fowler used to blow up the water tank. He touched the briefcase in two places, and a secret compartment opened.
    
  "It's a shame they ruined the leather. I've had this briefcase with me for a long time," the priest said, gathering up the four remaining packages of explosives and another item, about the size of a watch face, with two metal clasps.
    
  Fowler wrapped the explosives in a nearby piece of clothing that had blown out of the tents during a sandstorm.
    
  'Put this in your backpack, okay?'
    
  "No way," Andrea said, taking a step back. "These things scare the crap out of me."
    
  'Without a detonator attached, it is harmless.'
    
  Andrea reluctantly gave in.
    
  As they headed toward the platform, they saw the bodies of the terrorists who had surrounded Marla Jackson and Decker before the Simun struck. Andrea's first reaction was panic, until she realized they were dead. When they reached the corpses, Andrea couldn't help but gasp. The bodies were arranged in strange positions. One of them seemed to be trying to stand-one of his arms was raised, and his eyes were wide, as if he were staring into Hell, Andrea thought with an expression of disbelief.
    
  Except he had no eyes.
    
  The corpses' eye sockets were all empty, their open mouths were nothing more than black holes, and their skin was as gray as cardboard. Andrea pulled her camera out of her backpack and snapped a few photos of the mummies.
    
  I can't believe it. It's as if the life was ripped right out of them without any warning. Or as if it's still happening. God, how horrible!
    
  Andrea turned around, and her backpack hit one of the men's heads. Before her eyes, the man's body suddenly disintegrated, leaving only a mess of gray dust, clothes, and bones.
    
  Feeling sick, Andrea turned to the priest. She saw that he didn't suffer the same remorse when it came to the dead. Fowler noticed that at least one of the bodies had served a more utilitarian purpose and pulled a clean Kalashnikov assault rifle from underneath it. He checked the weapon and found it still in good working order. He removed several spare magazines from the terrorist's clothing and stuffed them into his pockets.
    
  He pointed the barrel of his rifle at the platform leading to the entrance of the cave.
    
  'Russell is up there.'
    
  'How do you know?'
    
  "When he decided to reveal himself, he clearly called his friends," Fowler said, nodding toward the bodies. "Those are the people you spotted when we first arrived. I don't know if there are others or how many there might be, but it's clear Russell is still around somewhere, because there are no tracks in the sand leading away from the platform. Simun planned everything. If they had come out, we would have been able to see the tracks. He's there, just like the Ark."
    
  'What are we going to do?'
    
  Fowler thought for a few seconds, bowing his head.
    
  'If I were smart, I'd blow up the cave entrance and let them starve. But I'm afraid there might be others out there. Eichberg, Kain, David Pappas...'
    
  'So you're going there?'
    
  Fowler nodded. 'Give me the explosives, please.'
    
  'Let me come with you,' Andrea said, handing him the package.
    
  'Miss Otero, you stay here and wait until I come out. If you see them come out instead, don't say anything. Just hide. Take a few photos if you can, and then get out of here and tell the world.'
    
    
  93
    
    
    
  INSIDE THE CAVE, FOURTEEN MINUTES EARLIER
    
  Getting rid of Decker turned out to be easier than he could have imagined. The South African was stunned by the fact that he had shot the pilot and was so eager to talk to him that he took no precautions when entering the tunnel. What he found was the bullet that had sent him rolling off the platform.
    
  Signing the Upsilon Protocol behind the old man's back was a brilliant move, Russell thought, congratulating himself.
    
  It cost nearly ten million dollars. Decker was initially suspicious until Russell agreed to pay him a seven-figure sum upfront and another seven if he was forced to use the protocol.
    
  Cain's assistant smiled with satisfaction. Next week, the accountants at Cain Industries would notice money missing from the pension fund, and questions would arise. By then, he would be far away, and the Ark would be safely in Egypt. It would be very easy to get lost there. And then damned Israel, which he hated, would have to pay the price for the humiliation they had inflicted on the House of Islam.
    
  Russell walked the entire length of the tunnel and peered into the cave. Kain was there, watching with interest as Eichberg and Pappas removed the last of the stones blocking access to the chamber, alternating between using a power drill and their own hands. They didn't hear the shot he fired at Decker. The moment he knew the path to the Ark was clear and he no longer needed them, they would be dispatched.
    
  As for Kane...
    
  No words could describe the torrent of hatred Russell felt for the old man. It boiled in the depths of his soul, fueled by the humiliations Cain had forced him to endure. Being around the old man for the last six years had been excruciating, torture.
    
  Hiding in the bathroom to pray, spitting out the alcohol he was forced to pretend to drink so people wouldn't suspect him. Caring for the old man's sick and fear-ridden mind at any time of day or night. Feigned care and affection.
    
  It was all a lie.
    
  Your best weapon will be taqiyya, the warrior's deception. A jihadist can lie about his faith, he can pretend, conceal, and distort the truth. He can do this to an infidel without sinning, said the imam fifteen years ago. And don't believe it will be easy. You will cry every night because of the pain in your heart, to the point where you won't even know who you are.
    
  Now he was himself again.
    
    
  With all the agility of his young and well-trained body, Russell descended the rope without the aid of a harness, the same way he had ascended it a couple of hours earlier. His white robe fluttered as he descended, catching Cain's eye as he stared in shock at his assistant.
    
  'What's the point of disguise, Jacob?'
    
  Russell didn't answer. He headed toward the depression. The space they'd opened was about five feet high and six and a half feet wide.
    
  "It's there, Mr. Russell. We all saw it," Eichberg said, so excited that he didn't notice at first what Russell was wearing. "Hey, what's all that gear?" he finally asked.
    
  'Keep calm and call Pappas.'
    
  'Mr Russell, you should be a little more...'
    
  "Don't make me repeat it again," the deputy said, pulling a pistol from under his clothes.
    
  "David!" Eichberg squealed like a child.
    
  "Jacob!" Kaine yelled.
    
  'Shut up, you old bastard.'
    
  The insult drained the blood from Kaine's face. No one had ever spoken to him like that, especially not the man who had been his right-hand man until now. He didn't have time to respond, because David Pappas emerged from the cave, blinking as his eyes adjusted to the light.
    
  'What the hell...?'
    
  When he saw the gun in Russell's hand, he immediately understood. He was the first of the three to understand, though not the one most disappointed and shocked. That role belonged to Cain.
    
  "You!" Pappas exclaimed. "Now I understand. You had access to the magnetometer program. You're the one who altered the data. You killed Stowe."
    
  "A small mistake that nearly cost me dearly. I thought I had more control over the expedition than I actually did," Russell admitted with a shrug. "Now, a quick question. Are you ready to carry the Ark?"
    
  'Fuck you, Russell.'
    
  Without thinking, Russell aimed at Pappas's leg and fired. Pappas's right knee turned into a bloody mess, and he fell to the ground. His screams echoed off the tunnel walls.
    
  'The next bullet will be in your head. Now answer me, Pappas.'
    
  "Yes, it's ready for publication, sir. The coast is clear," Eichberg said, raising his hands in the air.
    
  "That's all I wanted to know," Russell replied.
    
  Two shots were fired in quick succession. His hand dropped, and two more shots followed. Eichberg fell on top of Pappas, both wounded in the head, their blood now mingling on the rocky ground.
    
  'You killed them, Jacob. You killed them both.'
    
  Kain cowered in the corner, his face a mask of fear and confusion.
    
  'Well, well, old man. For such a crazy old bastard, you're pretty good at stating the obvious,' Russell said. He peered into the cave, still aiming his pistol at Kaine. When he turned around, there was a look of satisfaction on his face. 'So we finally found it, Ray? The work of a lifetime. Too bad your contract will be interrupted.'
    
  The assistant walked toward his boss with slow, measured steps. Kain retreated even further into his corner, completely trapped. His face was covered in sweat.
    
  "Why, Jacob?" the old man cried. "I loved you as my own son."
    
  "You call this love?" Russell yelled, approaching Kaine and hitting him repeatedly with the pistol, first in the face, then in the arms and head. "I was your slave, old man. Every time you cried like a girl in the middle of the night, I ran to you, reminding myself why I was doing this. I had to think of the moment when I would finally defeat you, and you would be at my mercy."
    
  Cain fell to the ground. His face was swollen, almost unrecognizable from the blows. Blood oozed from his mouth and broken cheekbones.
    
  "Look at me, old man," Russell continued, lifting Kane by the collar of his shirt until they were face to face.
    
  'Face your own failure. In a few minutes, my men will descend into this cave and retrieve your precious ark. We will give the world its due. Everything will be as it was always meant to be.'
    
  'I'm sorry, Mr. Russell. I'm afraid I have to disappoint you.'
    
  The assistant turned around abruptly. At the other end of the tunnel, Fowler had just descended the rope and was aiming a Kalashnikov at him.
    
    
  94
    
    
    
  EXCAVATIONS
    
  AL-MUDAWWARA DESERT, JORDAN
    
    
  Thursday, July 20, 2006. 2:27 PM.
    
    
  Father Fowler.
    
  'Hakan'.
    
  Russell positioned Cain's limp body between himself and the priest, who was still aiming his rifle at Russell's head.
    
  'It looks like you got rid of my people.'
    
  'It wasn't me, Mr. Russell. God saw to that. He turned them to dust.'
    
  Russell looked at him in shock, trying to figure out if the priest was bluffing. His assistants' help was essential to his plan. He couldn't understand why they hadn't shown up yet, and was trying to stall for time.
    
  "So you've got the upper hand, Father," he said, returning to his usual ironic tone. "I know what a good shot you are. At this range, you can't miss. Or are you afraid of hitting the undeclared Messiah?"
    
  'Mr. Cain is just a sick old man who believes he's doing God's will. As far as I'm concerned, the only difference between the two of you is your age. Drop your gun.'
    
  Russell was clearly outraged by the insult, but powerless to do anything about the situation. He was holding his own pistol by the barrel after beating Cain with it, and the old man's body offered him little protection. Russell knew one wrong move would blow a hole in his head.
    
  He unclenched his right fist and released the pistol, then unclenched his left and released Kaine.
    
  The old man collapsed in slow motion, twisted as if his joints were not connected to each other.
    
  'Excellent, Mr. Russell,' said Fowler. 'Now, if you don't mind, please step back ten paces...'
    
  Mechanically, Russell did as he was told, hatred burning in his eyes.
    
  For every step Russell took back, Fowler took a step forward, until the former had his back to the wall and the priest stood next to Cain.
    
  'Very good. Now put your hands on your head, and you will come out of this safe and sound.'
    
  Fowler crouched next to Cain, feeling his pulse. The old man was shaking, and one of his legs seemed to be in a cramp. The priest frowned. Cain's condition worried him-he showed all the signs of a stroke, and his vitality seemed to be evaporating with each passing moment.
    
  Meanwhile, Russell was looking around, trying to find something he could use as a weapon against the priest. Suddenly, he felt something on the ground beneath him. He looked down and noticed he was standing on some cables that terminated a foot and a half to his right and were connected to the generator that supplied the cave's power.
    
  He smiled.
    
  Fowler took Kane's arm, ready to pull him away from Russell if necessary. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Russell jump. Without a moment's hesitation, he fired.
    
  Then the lights went out.
    
  What was meant to be a warning shot ended with the generator being destroyed. The equipment began sputtering sparks every few seconds, illuminating the tunnel with a sporadic blue light that grew weaker and weaker, like a camera flash gradually losing power.
    
  Fowler immediately crouched-a position he'd adopted hundreds of times while parachuting into enemy territory on moonless nights. When you didn't know your enemy's position, the best thing to do was sit quietly and wait.
    
  Blue spark.
    
  Fowler thought he saw a shadow run along the wall to his left and fired. It missed. Cursing his luck, he zigzagged a few feet to ensure the other man wouldn't recognize his position after the shot.
    
  Blue spark.
    
  Another shadow, this time to his right, though longer and right next to the wall. He fired in the opposite direction. He missed again, and there was more movement.
    
  Blue spark.
    
  He was backed against the wall. He couldn't see Russell anywhere. This could mean that he-
    
  With a scream, Russell lunged at Fowler, hitting him repeatedly in the face and neck. The priest felt the other man's teeth sink into his arm, like an animal's. Unable to act otherwise, he let go of the Kalashnikov. For a second, he felt the other man's hands. They struggled, and the rifle was lost in the darkness.
    
  Blue spark.
    
  Fowler lay on the ground, and Russell struggled to strangle him. The priest, finally able to see his enemy, clenched his fist and punched Russell in the solar plexus. Russell groaned and rolled onto his side.
    
  A last, faint blue flash.
    
  Fowler managed to see Russell disappear into the cell. A sudden dim glimmer told him that Russell had found his pistol.
    
  A voice came from his right.
    
  'Father'.
    
  Fowler crept up to the dying Kain. He didn't want to offer Russell an easy target in case he decided to try his luck and take aim in the dark. The priest finally felt the old man's body before him and put his mouth to his ear.
    
  "Mr. Cain, hold on," he whispered. "I can get you out of here."
    
  "No, Father, you can't," Cain replied, and though his voice was weak, he spoke with the firm tone of a small child. "It's for the best. I'm going to see my parents, my son, and my brother. My life started in a hole. It's only logical that it will end the same way."
    
  'Then entrust yourself to God,' said the priest.
    
  "I have one. Could you give me a hand while I go?"
    
  Fowler said nothing, but he felt for the dying man's hand, holding it between his own. Less than a minute later, in the middle of a whispered Hebrew prayer, a death rattle was heard, and Raymond Cain froze.
    
  By this point the priest knew what he had to do.
    
  In the darkness, he reached his fingers to the buttons of his shirt and undid them, then pulled out the packet of explosives. He felt the detonator, inserted it into the C4 bars, and pressed the buttons. He mentally counted the number of beeps.
    
  After installation I have two minutes, he thought.
    
  But he couldn't leave the bomb outside the cavity where the Ark rested. It might not be powerful enough to seal the cavern again. He wasn't sure how deep the trench was, and if the Ark was behind a rocky outcrop, it might survive unscathed. If he was going to prevent this madness from happening again, he had to place the bomb next to the Ark. He couldn't throw it like a grenade, because the detonator might come loose. And he had to have enough time to escape.
    
  The only option was to take Russell down, get C4 into position and then go for broke.
    
  He crawled around, hoping not to make too much noise, but it was impossible. The ground was covered with small rocks that shifted as he moved.
    
  'I hear you coming, priest.'
    
  There was a red flash and a shot rang out. The bullet missed Fowler by quite a distance, but the priest remained cautious and quickly rolled to the left. The second bullet hit him where he had been just seconds earlier.
    
  He'll use the gun's flash to get his bearings. But he can't do that too often, or he'll run out of ammunition, Fowler thought, mentally counting the wounds he'd seen on Pappas and Eichberg's bodies.
    
  He probably shot Decker once, Pappas maybe three times, Eichberg twice, and he shot me twice. That's eight bullets. A gun holds fourteen bullets, fifteen if there's one in the chamber. That means he has six, maybe seven bullets left. He'll have to reload soon. When he does, I'll hear the magazine click. Then...
    
  He was still counting when two more shots lit up the cave entrance. This time, Fowler rolled from his original position just in time. The shot missed him by about four inches.
    
  There are four or five left.
    
  'I'm going to get you, Crusader. I'm going to have you because Allah is with me.' Russell's voice was ghostly in the cave. 'Get out of here while you still can.'
    
  Fowler grabbed a rock and tossed it into the hole. Russell took the bait and fired in the direction of the noise.
    
  Three or four.
    
  'Very clever, Crusader. But it won't do you any good.'
    
  He hadn't finished speaking when he fired again. This time there were not two, but three shots. Fowler rolled left, then right, his knees hitting the sharp rocks.
    
  One bullet or an empty magazine.
    
  Just before he took his second shot, the priest looked up for a moment. It may have lasted only half a second, but what he saw in the brief light from the gunshots will remain etched in his memory forever.
    
  Russell stood behind a gigantic golden box. Two crudely sculpted figures shone brightly at the top. The pistol's flash made the gold appear uneven and dented.
    
  Fowler took a deep breath.
    
  He was almost inside the chamber itself, but he didn't have much room to maneuver. If Russell fired again, even just to see where he was, he would almost certainly hit him.
    
  Fowler decided to do what Russell least expected.
    
  In one swift movement, he leaped to his feet and ran into the hole. Russell tried to fire, but the trigger clicked loudly. Fowler leaped, and before the other man could react, the priest threw his full body weight onto the top of the ark, which fell on Russell, the lid opening and spilling its contents. Russell jumped back and barely avoided being crushed.
    
  What followed was a blind struggle. Fowler managed to land several blows to Russell's arms and chest, but Russell somehow managed to insert a full magazine into his pistol. Fowler heard the weapon reload. He fumbled in the darkness with his right hand, holding Russell's arm with his left.
    
  He found a flat stone.
    
  He hit Russell on the head with all his might, and the young man fell to the ground unconscious.
    
  The force of the impact shattered the rock into pieces.
    
  Fowler tried to regain his balance. His entire body ached, and his head was bleeding. Using the light from his watch, he tried to orient himself in the darkness. He directed a thin but intense beam of light at the upturned Ark, creating a soft glow that filled the room.
    
  He had very little time to admire it. At that moment, Fowler heard a sound he hadn't noticed during the struggle...
    
  Sound signal.
    
  ...and realized that while he was rolling around, dodging the shots...
    
  Sound signal.
    
  ..not meaning...
    
  Sound signal.
    
  ... he activated the detonator...
    
  ...it only sounded in the last ten seconds before the explosion...
    
  Beeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep.
    
  Driven by instinct rather than reason, Fowler leaped into the darkness beyond the chamber, beyond the dim light of the Ark.
    
  At the foot of the platform, Andrea Otero nervously chewed her nails. Then, suddenly, the ground shook. The scaffold swayed and groaned as the steel absorbed the blast but did not collapse. A cloud of smoke and dust billowed from the tunnel opening, covering Andrea in a thin layer of sand. She ran a few feet away from the scaffold and waited. For half an hour, her eyes remained glued to the entrance to the smoking cave, though she knew waiting was futile.
    
  Nobody came out.
    
    
  95
    
    
    
  On the road to Aqaba
    
  AL-MUDAWWARA DESERT, JORDAN
    
    
  Thursday, July 20, 2006. 9:34 PM.
    
    
  Andrea reached the H3 with a punctured tire where she'd left it, more exhausted than she'd ever been in her life. She found the jack exactly where Fowler had said and silently said a prayer for the fallen priest.
    
  He'll probably be in Heaven, if such a place exists. If you exist, God. If you're up there, why don't you send a couple of angels to help me?
    
  No one showed up, so Andrea had to do the work herself. When she finished, she went to say goodbye to Doc, who was buried no more than ten feet away. The farewell lasted for some time, and Andrea realized she had howled and cried loudly several times. She felt like she was on the verge-in the middle-of a nervous breakdown after everything that had happened in the last few hours.
    
    
  The moon was just beginning to rise, illuminating the dunes with its silvery-blue light, when Andrea finally mustered the strength to say goodbye to Chedva and climb into the H3. Feeling weak, she closed the door and turned on the air conditioning. The cool air touching her sweaty skin was delicious, but she couldn't afford to savor it for more than a few minutes. The fuel tank was only a quarter full, and she'd need everything she had to get back to the road.
    
  If I'd noticed this detail when we got into the car that morning, I would have understood the real purpose of the trip. Perhaps Chedva would still be alive.
    
  She shook her head. She had to concentrate on driving. With a little luck, she'd reach a road and find a town with a gas station before midnight. If not, she'd have to walk. Finding a computer with an internet connection was crucial.
    
  She had a lot to tell.
    
    
  96
    
  EPILOGUE
    
    
  The dark figure slowly made his way home. He had very little water, but it was enough for a man like him, trained to survive in the worst conditions and help others survive.
    
  He managed to find the route by which the chosen ones of Yirma əi áhu had entered the caves more than two thousand years ago. It was the darkness into which he had plunged just before the explosion. Some of the stones that had covered him had been blown away by the blast. It took him a ray of sunlight and several hours of backbreaking effort to emerge into the open again.
    
  He slept during the day wherever he found shade, breathing only through his nose, through a makeshift scarf he fashioned from discarded clothing.
    
  He walked through the night, resting ten minutes every hour. His face was completely covered in dust, and now, as he saw the outline of the road several hours away, he became increasingly aware of the fact that his 'death' might finally provide the liberation he had sought all these years. He would no longer need to be God's soldier.
    
  His freedom would be one of two rewards he received for this undertaking, even though he could never share either of them with anyone.
    
  He reached into his pocket for a fragment of rock no bigger than his palm. It was all that remained of the flat stone he'd used to strike Russell in the darkness. All over its surface were deep, yet perfect, symbols that couldn't have been carved by human hands.
    
  Two tears rolled down his cheeks, leaving traces in the dust that covered his face. His fingertips traced the symbols on the stone, and his lips turned them into words.
    
  Loh Tirtzach.
    
  You must not kill.
    
  At that moment he asked for forgiveness.
    
  And was forgiven.
    
    
  Gratitude
    
    
  I would like to thank the following people:
    
  To my parents, to whom this book is dedicated, for escaping the bombings of the civil war and giving me a childhood so different from their own.
    
  To Antonia Kerrigan for being the best literary agent on the planet with the best team: Lola Gulias, Bernat Fiol and Victor Hurtado.
    
  To you, reader, for the success of my first novel, God's Spy, in thirty-nine countries. I sincerely thank you.
    
  To New York, to James Graham, my 'brother.' Dedicated to Rory Hightower, Alice Nakagawa, and Michael Dillman.
    
  In Barcelona, Enrique Murillo, the editor of this book, is both tireless and tiring, because he has one unusual virtue: he always told me the truth.
    
  In Santiago de Compostela, Manuel Sutino, who contributed his considerable understanding of engineering to the descriptions of Moses' expedition.
    
  In Rome, Giorgio Celano for his knowledge of the catacombs.
    
  In Milan, Patrizia Spinato, tamer of words.
    
  In Jordan, Mufti Samir, Bahjat al-Rimawi and Abdul Suhayman, who know the desert like no one else and who taught me the ritual of gahwa.
    
  Nothing would have been possible in Vienna without Kurt Fischer, who provided me with information about the real butcher from Spiegelgrund, who died on December 15th of a heart attack.
    
  And to my wife Katuksa and my children Andrea and Javier for understanding my travels and my schedule.
    
  Dear reader, I don't want to end this book without asking a favor. Go back to the beginning of these pages and reread Samuel Keene's poem. Do this until you've memorized every word. Teach it to your children; forward it to your friends. Please.
    
    
  Blessed are You, O God, the Eternal, Universal Presence, who makes bread to grow from the earth.
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