Julia Navarro - The Brotherhood Of The Holy Shroud

"What do we know about this priest Yves?"

"He is French, he has influence in the Vatican, and soon he will be made auxiliary bishop of Turin."

"Might he be one of them?"

"He might be. He has all the characteristics. He is not a typical priest. He belongs to a family of aristocrats, he speaks several languages, has an excellent education, excels at sports… and he is celibate, totally celibate. You know that they never break that rule. He is a protege of Cardinal Visier and Monsignor Aubry."

"Who we are sure belong to their order," Addaio said flatly.

"Yes, there is no doubt of that. They have been very skillful in infiltrating the Vatican and reaching the highest ranks of the Curia. I would not be surprised if someday one of them became pope. That, truly, would be a mockery of fate."

"Turgut has a nephew in Urfa-Ismet, a good boy. I'll have him go live with his uncle," the pastor mused.

"The cardinal is kind; I imagine he will allow Francesco to take in his nephew."

"Ismet is quick-witted; his father has asked me to look after him. I will give him the mission of establishing himself in Turin and preparing to relieve Turgut when the time comes. To do that, he will have to marry an Italian girl, so he can remain in the cathedral as porter in place of his uncle. In addition, he will keep an eye on this Padre Yves and try to find out more about him."

"Is our tunnel still undiscovered?"

"It is. Two days ago the head of the Art Crimes Department inspected the underground tunnels; there were soldiers with him. When he came out, the frustration on his face told it all. They found nothing."

The men continued to talk and drink raki until late that night, when the bride and groom took leave of their families. Addaio, who did not drink, had not even tasted the liquor. Accompanied by Bakkalbasi and three men, he left the hotel where the wedding party had taken place and made his way to a safe house that belonged to one of the members of the community.

The next day he would return to Urfa. He had planned to go to Turin himself, but that would put the community at ultimate risk. He had given very precise instructions; everyone knew what they were to do.

He spent the rest of the night praying, seeking God in repeated exhortations, but he knew, as he always knew, that God was not listening-God had never been near to him, or given him any sign. Yet he, Addaio, miserable Addaio, had destroyed his life and the lives of so many others in His name. What if God didn't exist? What if it was all a lie? Sometimes he had let himself be tempted by the devil and allowed himself to think that his community was kept alive by a myth, by dusty dreams, and that none of what they had told the children was true.

But diere was no turning back. His life had been chosen for him: to serve the community and lead it and, above all, to secure for it the shroud of Jesus Christ. He knew that they would try once again to prevent that-they had been doing so for centuries. The community had fought back as it could, tracking its adversaries and their plunder through the centuries, tracing their activities in pursuit of a common goal. The knowledge they had gathered led down tantalizing avenues, to mysteries and answers Addaio sensed lay just beyond his grasp. But there was no mystery about his overarching purpose on this earth. Someday the community would recover the sacred cloth that had been bequeathed to it, and it would be he, Addaio, who at long last achieved that impossible goal.

UMBERTO D'ALAQUA HAD SENT A CAR TO pick Sofia up at the hotel, and at the door of the opera house the assistant manager of the theater had been waiting to escort her to her host.

That touch was impressive, but she felt the full impact of D'Alaqua's stature when she entered his box. The other guests were members of the city's-and the country's-rich and powerful elite: Cardinal Visier, Dr. Bolard, two eminent bankers, a member of the Agnelli family and his wife, and Mayor Torriani and his wife.

D'Alaqua stood up and welcomed her warmly, with a squeeze of her hands. He seated her next to the mayor and his wife and Dr. Bolard. He himself was seated next to Cardinal Visier, who had greeted her with a cool smile.

She felt the men looking at her out of the corners of their eyes-all except the cardinal, Bolard, and D'Alaqua. She'd taken pains to look not just good but stunning. That afternoon she had gone to the hairdresser's and returned to Armani, this time to buy an elegant red tunic-and-pants outfit. It was a color the designer didn't often use, but it was spectacular, Marco and Giuseppe had assured her. The tunic had a low neckline, and the mayor couldn't seem to keep his eyes off it.

Marco was surprised that D'Alaqua had sent a car to pick Sofia up rather than coming personally, but Sofia understood the message. D'Alaqua had no personal interest in her; she was simply his guest to the opera. The man put unbreachable barriers between them, and though he did so subtly, he left no room for doubt.

At the intermission, they repaired to D'Alaqua's private salon for champagne and canapes.

'Are you enjoying the opera, dottoressa?"

Cardinal Visier was looking her over as he asked her the clichéd question.

"Yes, Your Eminence. Pavarotti has been wonderful tonight."

"He has indeed, although La Boheme is not his best opera."

Guido Bonomi entered the salon and effusively greeted D'Alaqua's guests.

"Sofia! You look absolutely gorgeous! I have a whole list of friends dying to meet you, and not a few wives jealous because their husbands' opera glasses have been on you more than on Pavarotti! You're one of those women who make other women very nervous, my dear!"

Sofia blushed. She was losing patience with Bonomi's inappropriate effusions and looked at him furiously.

The professor read the message in her blue eyes and changed course abruptly.

"Well, then, I'll be expecting you all for dinner. Your Eminence, dottoressa, mayor…"

D'Alaqua had seen Sofia's discomfort and stepped to her side.

"Guido's like that; he always has been. An excellent man, an eminent medievalist, but personally a bit… shall we say… exuberant? Don't be upset."

"I'm not upset with him, I'm upset with myself. I have to ask what I'm doing here; I don't belong. If you don't mind, when the performance is over I'll go back to the hotel."

"No, don't go, dottoressa. Stay, and forgive your old professor, who can't seem to find the proper way to express his admiration for you. But he is sincere in that."

"I'm sorry, but I really should go. There's no reason at all for me to go to dinner at Bonomi's house; I was a student of his, that's all. I shouldn't even have let myself be invited to the opera on account of him. To take a place in your box, among your guests, your friends… really, I apologize for the trouble I've caused you."

"You've caused me no trouble at all, 1 assure you."

The bell announced the end of the intermission, and Sofia reluctantly allowed D'Alaqua to guide her back to his box.

As the next act unfolded Sofia noticed that D'Alaqua was discreetly watching her. She felt like fleeing on the spot, but she was damned if she'd behave like a silly girl. She'd stick it out to the end, then she'd say her good-byes and never cross his path again. He had nothing to do with the shroud-it was absurd, and she intended to tell Marco that once and for all.

When the performance was over, the audience gave Pavarotti his usual standing ovation. Sofia took advantage of the moment to say good evening to the mayor, his wife, the Agnellis, and the bankers. Finally, she approached Cardinal Visier.

"Good night, Your Eminence."

"You're leaving?"

"Yes."

Visier, surprised, tried to catch D'Alaqua's eye, but he was conversing animatedly with Bolard.