Julia Navarro - The Brotherhood Of The Holy Shroud

Despite the heaviness that had settled into his heart, the presence of a few Templar knights who, like him, were returning to France made the voyage easier, although they were careful to give him his privacy. The crossing was calm, though the Mediterranean was a treacherous sea, as Ulysses himself had learned. But the ship traversed the waves without incident. Guillaume de Beaujeu's orders were clear: De Charney was to deposit the Holy Shroud in the Temple fortress in Marseilles and await new orders there. The master had made him swear that he would never relinquish the relic to those outside the order and that he would defend it with his life.

The port of Marseilles was impressive, with its dozens of boats and countless people milling about, shouting and talking incessandy. When they disembarked, they found waiting for them an escort of knights, who conducted them to the Temple's chapter house in the city. None knew of the relic that de Charney was carrying. De Beaujeu had given him a letter for the precept of the Temple chapter in Marseilles and for the superior. "They," he had said, "will decide what is best."

Jacques Vazelay, the superior, was a nobleman of curt gestures and few words. But his eyes were kind as he listened to de Charney's story. Then he asked the old knight to show him the holy shroud.

For many years the Templars had known the true face of Christ, for Renaud de Vichiers, the first master to hold the shroud, had had its astounding image copied and sent to every Templar house and chapter. Still, Vichiers had counseled supreme discretion. Each chapter kept its copy of the image in a secret chapel to which only knights went to pray. No others were to see it or even know of its existence.

Thus had the secret of the Temple's possession of the only true relic of Jesus Christ been kept through the years.

De Charney opened his pack and took out the linen-wrapped bundle he had carried so carefully. He unrolled it, and… the two men fell to their knees in wonder, such was the miracle that had occurred.

Still on their knees, Jacques Vazelay, superior of the chapter, and Francois de Charney gave thanks to God for what He had wrought.

THE GUARD ENTERED THE CELL AND BEGAN to go through Mendib's locker, collecting the few clothes he found. The mute watched, unmoving.

"Time to look pretty for the outside world, my friend. Looks like they're going to let you go, and we can't have prisoners leaving with dirty clothes. I don't know whether you understand me, but whether you do or not, I'm taking this stuff to wash it and I'll bring it back clean. Oh! And those stinking sneakers of yours too-they smell like shit!"

He went to the bed, bent over, and picked up the shoes. Mendib began to stand up, alarmed, but the guard put a finger on his chest.

"Now, now, take it easy. I'm just following orders. We'll bring everything back tomorrow."

When Mendib was alone again, he closed his eyes. He didn't want the security cameras to see the turmoil he felt. He couldn't suppress his excitement at the prospect of freedom. But something was wrong. He was sure of it.

Marco had been at the prison for hours. He had interrogated the Bajerais, despite the doctor's protests, but he'd gotten nowhere. He had started with routine questions, those they would expect him to ask. The brothers refused to say where they were going when they were attacked, or who, if anyone, they suspected of beating them. As best Marco could tell, they weren't aware of Frasquello's involvement.

Then he went on to probe their outside connections, the rumors circulating in the prison about all the money they'd boasted of having. He was trying to walk the tightrope between pushing them to give up the details of the plot and alerting them-and whoever was behind them-that he already knew their target.

But the Bajerais had nothing to say. All they did was moan about their pounding heads and the fact that this cop was torturing them with his questions. They weren't going anywhere, they'd just noticed that the cell door was open, they stuck their heads out, and somebody jumped them. Not a word more. That was their story, and nobody was going to make them change it.

Back in the warden's office, Marco picked up the mute's shoes, freshly laundered, so that the tracking chip could be installed. The warden urged Marco to press the Bajerais explicitly about why they were going after the mute and who had hired them, but Marco continued to resist taking that step. In any prison, hundreds of eyes were watching. Who knew who the link to the outside was? As Marco gathered his papers to return to the hotel, the two agreed to revisit the question in a few days.

Neither of them noticed the cleaning lady leaving the office. She'd been in the warden's private washroom changing the towels, an innocuous part of the prison landscape.

Marco dropped off the shoes at carabinieri headquarters. When he reached the hotel, Antonino, Pietro, and Giuseppe were waiting for him in the bar. Sofia had gone up to bed, and Minerva had promised to come down after she'd called home.

"So-five days to go, and the mute will be on the street. Anything new?" Marco asked.

"Nothing definite," Antonino replied, "but it looks like the beautiful city of Turin has special charm for immigrants from Urfa."

Marco frowned. "What does that mean?"

"Minerva and I have been working like dogs on this. We put the Bajerai family and everything else we could think of through the computer and did some old-fashioned shoe-leather work, too, and some interesting things came up. You know the old guy in the cathedral, the porter? The one named Turgut? He's from Urfa-I mean he's not, but his father is. His story pretty much matches the Bajerai brothers'. His father came to Turin looking for work, found a job with Fiat, married an Italian woman, and Turgut was born here. Other than the similar backgrounds, though, there's no apparent relationship between the families. But you remember Tariq?"

"Tariq?" Marco asked.

"One of the electricians who were working in the cathedral when the fire broke out," Giuseppe reminded him. "He's from Urfa too."

Minerva came into the bar. She was tired, and looked it. Marco felt a twinge of guilt; he'd been piling the work on her and Antonino over the last few days, but she was far and away the best computer person he had, and Antonino's data-gathering and analytical skills were superb. Marco trusted both of them to do the best work it was possible to do.

"Well, Marco!" Minerva exclaimed as she sat down. "You can't say we don't earn our salary."

"So I've been hearing," he replied. "This Urfa connection is definitely worth pursuing. What else have you turned up?"

"That they're not practicing Muslims-they may not be Muslims at all. They all go to Mass," Minerva said.

"Let's not forget that Turkey is secular, thanks to Ataturk. The fact that these people aren't practicing Muslims is no big deal. That they go to Mass and by all appearances are devout Christians, though, is interesting," Antonino pointed out.

'Are there many Christians in Urfa?" Marco asked.

"Only a small minority," replied Minerva.

Antonino jumped back in. "But in ancient times Urfa was a Christian city-its name then was Edessa, as a matter of fact. And you'll recall that the Byzantines besieged Edessa in 944 in order to capture the Holy Shroud, which was in the hands of a small Christian community there, despite the fact that at the time the city was ruled by Muslims."

"Get Sofia," Marco said.

"Why?" Pietro asked.

"Because we're going to brainstorm. We're on to something here. Sofia told me not long ago that the past might be the key to all this. Ana Jimenez thought the same thing."

Pietro slapped his hand on the bar. "For God's sake, Marco, let's not go crazy here."