Julia Navarro - The Brotherhood Of The Holy Shroud

"What exactly makes you think I'm going crazy?"

"I've seen it coming. These women are running wild with this crap. Give me a break. How many cities are standing on top of older ones? Here in Italy there's a story under every rock, and we don't go chasing through history every time there's a murder or a fire. I know this case is special for you, Marco, but I'm sorry-I think you've gone overboard, bringing us all here, spending all this time, when we've got plenty to do in Rome. There are people here with Turkish backgrounds who can be traced back to a city named Urfa-so what? How many Italians from a single town went off to Frankfurt during the hard times to work in the factories there? I doubt that every time an Italian commits a crime in Germany the German police start digging into the life of Julius Caesar and his legions. All I'm saying is that we can't get carried away by these random coincidences. There's a lot of esoteric shit floating around about the shroud-we need to stick to good police work and not go running after bogeymen, with half-assed historians playing at being cops."

Minerva and Antonino both began to bluster outraged replies. Marco held up his hand to forestall further debate. He weighed his words carefully. Putting aside the cheap shot at Sofia-for she was the target of that, he had no doubt-there was logic in what Pietro said, a lot of logic, so much that Marco realized he might be right. But the Art Crimes chief was an old dog; he'd spent his life sniffing out obscure trails, and his instinct told him that he should stay on this one, however "esoteric" it might appear to be.

'All right, Pietro. You've said what you have to say. And you may be right. But since we've got nothing to lose, we're going to explore every possibility. Minerva, call Sofia, please. I expect she's still awake. What else do we know about Urfa?"

Antonino gave him a complete file on Urfa, or Edessa. He'd figured his boss would ask for it.

"Pietro, I want you and Giuseppe to go talk to this porter tomorrow. Tell him that the investigation is still open and that you want to talk to him in case he might have remembered some detail since you last talked." Marco stared hard at the still-simmering cop.

"He'll get nervous. He was practically in tears when we questioned him the first time," Giuseppe recalled.

"Right. He's a weak link. That's good. We'll also ask for warrants to tap the phones of any of these nice people from Urfa who have any relation at all to the Bajerais. Those are the only warrants we have a chance of getting. And let's start looking into any churches we can find in Urfa itself."

Minerva returned with Sofia. The two women glared at Pietro and sat down. When the bar closed at around three, Marco and his team were still talking.

Sofia had ranged widely through the history of the shroud, stopping at a number of intriguing intersections. She, Antonino, and Minerva agreed that they had to follow the trail to Urfa, and Giuseppe kept his skepticism in check. Pietro, for his part, made it clear that he thought they were all wasting their time.

But by whatever means they got there, they all went up to bed convinced they were close to a solution.

The old man's eyes fluttered open. His private phone was ringing, rousing him from a deep sleep; he'd gone to bed barely two hours earlier. The duke had been in excellent humor and hadn't let them leave until past midnight. The dinner was splendid and the conversation amusing, as befit gentlemen of their age and position when they found themselves without the company of women.

He got up and, pulling on a soft cashmere robe, went into his study. He locked the door and sat down at his desk, where he pushed a hidden button, activating the scrambler.

The information he received disturbed him: The Art Crimes Department was getting close to the community, to Addaio.

Addaio had failed in his plan to eliminate Mendib, who would soon be free to lead Valoni straight to the pastor and his secrets-and too many of their own secrets.

But it wasn't just that. Now Valoni's team had given free rein to their imaginations, and Dr. Galloni was constructing a hypothesis that was very close to the truth, though she herself couldn't yet suspect that. As for the Spanish reporter, she had a speculative sort of mind and the imagination of a novelist, which in this case were dangerous weapons. Dangerous for them.

The sun was coming up by the time he left his study. He returned to his bedroom and began to prepare to leave for the meeting he had just called together in Paris. It was going to be a long day. Everyone would be there, although he was concerned about the suddenness with which they would all be moving. It could draw attention.

A.D. 1314

Dusk was fast becoming night as Jacques de Molay, Grand Master of the Order of Knights Templar, sat and read by candlelight the report sent from Vienne by Pierre Berard, informing him of the details of the council meeting.

De Molay's eyes were bloodshot, his noble face creased with lines and shadowed by fatigue. Long sleepless nights had left their mark.

These were evil times for the Temple.

Before Villeneuve du Temple, the immense fortified site of the Templar city, rose the majestic royal palace from which King Philippe IV of France was preparing his great coup against the order. The kingdom's treasury was depleted, and Philippe le Beau owed the Temple a great deal of money-so much money that people said he would have to live ten lives to repay it all.

But Philippe had no intention of paying his debts. His plan, in fact, was quite different: He wished to inherit the order's assets, even if he had to share part of the treasure with the Church. He had approached the Order of Hospitallers for aid, promising them lands and villas if they would support him in his sordid campaign against the Templars. And around Pope Clement were influential clerics whom Philippe paid to conspire against the Temple.

Since he had bought the false testimony of Esquieu de Floryan, Philippe had been inexorably tightening the noose about the Templars' necks, and each day that passed, the moment approached when he would be able to deliver the coup de grace.

The king secretly envied Jacques de Molay for his courage and integrity, for possessing in full measure the nobility and virtues that he himself lacked. His discomfort in the Grand Master's presence was evident, and he could not bear to stand before the unwavering mirror of the Templar's eyes. He would not stop until he saw him burned at the stake.

Earlier that evening, as on so many others, Jacques de Molay had gone into the chapel to pray for the knights already immolated by order of the king. More were dying each day, denounced as heretics by their sovereign and by their Church. He prayed, too, to be delivered from the tyranny of King Philippe.

For a long while, since Clement had appointed Philippe custodian of the Templars' assets, in Poitiers, he had maintained a tight rein on the order. Now the Grand Master tensely awaited the decision of the Council of Vienne. Philippe had gone in person in order to exert pressure on Clement and the ecclesiastical tribunal. He was not content to administer a treasure that did not belong to him; he wanted it for himself, and the Council of Vienne presented itself as the perfect vehicle by which to deliver the mortal blow to the Temple.

When he had finished reading the report, Jacques de Molay rubbed his eyes and then reached for a sheet of parchment. For the better part of an hour his pen scratched across the paper. The moment he finished he sent for two of his most loyal knights, Beltran de Santillana and Geofrroy de Charney.

Beltran de Santillana, born in a sunny house in the mountains of Cantabria in Spain, was a man of silence and meditation. He had entered the order not long after turning eighteen, but even before being initiated as a brother he had already fought in the Holy Land. There he met de Molay and saved his life, covering the Templar with his body as the blade of a Saracen warrior was about to find de Molay's throat. A long scar on Santillana's chest, near his heart, bore witness to that long-ago act of bravery and self-sacrifice.