Julia Navarro - The Brotherhood Of The Holy Shroud

THE ODOR OF INCENSE FILLED THE CHURCH.

The Mass had ended just moments earlier. A dark-haired priest, tall and powerfully built, walked quickly toward the confessional farthest from the altar, set in an alcove far from curious eyes. The prayer book he carried looked small in his big-boned hands.

No one knew that Addaio was in Milan, not even Guner. He was there unknown to anyone in the community, to put in motion his own plan to shadow Bakkalbasi's operation to end Mendib's life. The meeting had been set for seven; it was only half past six, but he preferred to be early. He had wandered the neighborhood in his clerical disguise for more than two hours, trying to determine whether he was being followed.

The man he was waiting for was an assassin, a professional who worked alone and had never failed-at least so far.

Addaio had learned about him through a man in Urfa, a member of the community who some years earlier had come to the pastor to ask forgiveness of his sins. The man had emigrated to Germany and then to the United States, but things hadn't worked out for him, he said, and he had taken a dark road, becoming wealthy as a drug dealer, flooding the streets of Europe with heroin. He had sinned, sinned terribly, but he had never betrayed the community He had returned to Urfa, the home of his youth, when he was diagnosed with terminal cancer, seeking expiation and offering to make a large donation to the community in order to help ensure its survival. The wealthy always think they can buy salvation.

He begged to help with the community's sacred mission, but Addaio rejected his aid. An impious man, even though he was a member of the community, could never be a part of that mission, although Addaio's obligation as a pastor was to counsel him in the last days of his life. And in the course of those conversations-cum-confessions, the penitent had given Addaio contact information for a man he said the pastor should call if he ever needed someone to do a piece of difficult work.

Now Addaio sat in the confessional, lost in thought, awaiting the arrival of the killer.

"Mi benedica, padre, perche ho peccato."

The voice startled him. He hadn't noticed that someone had entered the other side of the confessional and knelt as though to pray. After Addaio hurriedly muttered their prearranged greeting, the man continued. "You need to be more careful. You weren't paying attention."

"That's not your concern. But you can be sure it won't happen again," the pastor snapped, then paused. ''I want you to kill a man," he finally said.

"That's what I do. You bring a file on him?"

"No, there are no files, no photos. You'll have to find him for yourself."

"That'll cost you more."

For the next fifteen minutes, Addaio explained what the assassin was to do. When he had finished, the killer left the confessional and disappeared into the shadows of the church.

Addaio made his way to one of the pews before the altar. There, covering his face with his hands, he broke into tears.

Bakkalbasi sat on the edge of the couch awaiting the others. The house in Berlin was safe; the community had never used it.

He had known these men since his childhood. Three of them were originally from Urfa, members of the community who worked in Germany. The other two, also members of the community, had come directly from Urfa via different routes. All of them were ready to give their lives if necessary, as their brothers and other relatives had done in the past.

When they were assembled, Bakkalbasi explained what they were to do. They received their orders grimly, stricken with sorrow as they contemplated the murder of one of their own. But as Bakkalbasi talked on, it was clear that there was no other way to ensure the ongoing security of the community.

Mendib's great-uncle would be given the opportunity for which he had volunteered-the plan was a mortal wound with a knife-but the five men in the group were to make certain that Mendib died. They were to organize a team to follow the young brother from the moment he stepped outside the prison and to find out what they could about those who were almost definitely using him as a way to the community. Above all, they were not to take any risks or expose themselves to arrest.

They would be aided by two members of the community in Turin. Each man was to travel immediately to the city by his own means, preferably by car. The absence of borders in the European Union would allow them to drive from one country to another without leaving any traces. Then they were to go to the Monumental Cemetery and find tomb 117. A small key hidden in a planter next to the mausoleum door would allow them inside the structure. Once inside, they were to find and trip a hidden lever that would open a door to a secret stairway under the sarcophagi; the stairs led to a tunnel, which led, in turn, to the cathedral-to the house in which Francesco Turgut lived. The community had used the tunnel for centuries and had taken measures to ensure that it remained unknown, unmarked on any map. No one would find them.

They would shelter in a chamber in the tunnel until they accomplished their mission. The cemetery was relatively deserted, although a few curious tourists went there from time to time to see the baroque tombs. The guard was a member of the community- he was an old man, the son of an immigrant from Urfa and an Italian woman, and he was a Christian, as they were, and their best ally in this mission.

Turgut and Ismet had prepared the underground room. If they were able, they were to bring Mendib's body back to the tunnel, to be entombed within the wall for all eternity.

WHEN ANA ARRIVED IN PARIS, SHE WENT directly to the editorial offices of Enigmas, which were located on the second floor of a nineteenth-century building.

Paul Bisol was the exact opposite of Jean. Dressed nattily in a well-cut suit and stylish tie, he looked like an executive with a multinational corporation rather than a journalist. Jean had been as good as his word and had phoned him to enlist his help.

Bisol listened patiendy to Ana's story. Not once did he interrupt her, which surprised her.

"Do you know what you're getting into?" he asked when she had finished.

"What do you mean?"

"Mademoiselle Jimenez-"

"Please, call me Ana."

'All right, then, Ana, first you should know that the Templars do still exist. But they are not just those elegant historians that you say you met in London, or other pleasant gentlemen in so-called 'secret societies' who style themselves the heirs of the spirit of the Temple. Before he died, Jacques de Molay made certain that the order would continue on. Many knights disappeared without a trace; they slipped into what we might call an underground existence. But all were in contact with the new center, the mother chapter, the Scottish Temple, which is where de Molay had decided that the true and legitimate center of the order would reside. The Templars learned to live out of sight, clandestinely; they infiltrated the courts of Europe, even the papal curia, and they have continued to live that way right down until today. They never 'died out.' "

Ana was shocked to feel a wave of mistrust and distaste. This man sounded more like one of the illumi-nati than a historian or serious journalist. She had been chasing around Europe in pursuit of her crazy theories, and she had become inured to the disdain of the "experts" who urged her not to let herself be carried away by fantasy. Now she found herself with someone who agreed with her, and she didn't like it.

Bisol picked up the telephone and spoke to his secretary, then asked Ana to follow him. He led her to a nearby office, where a woman with dark brown hair and immense green eyes was sitting behind a computer, typing. She smiled as they entered, and Paul introduced her as his wife, Elisabeth.