Eric Lustbader - The Testament

"Did they like each other-your parents?" he said.

"Who can say? My father was in his own world, and my mother-I'll tell you a story about my mother. When I was sixteen I fell in love with this guy. We were living in San Diego then. He was a freshman in college, two years older than I was, sweet and kind, and Hispanic. My mother found out about the relationship and stopped it cold."

"How did she do that?"

"She shipped me across country to a boarding school in New Hampshire, where I stayed for two years. I learned to ski and hate boys. I came home after that, but it was too late, he was gone."

"You didn't write to him or-?"

She gave him a wry, bitter smile. "You don't know my mother."

With a soft chime the seat belt light came on, and the same flight attendant came around and asked Jenny to buckle up.

"You trust this man you called?" Jenny said when they were alone again.

"Jordan? With my life. He and I are as close as brothers-closer, even, since we don't have all that sibling-rivalry baggage."

Jenny nodded. "I know what you mean. My sister Rebecca and I were always at it with each other. We're fraternal twins but look very much alike. I can't tell you how many times we stole each other's boyfriends, but when it came to standing up for each other against our parents-especially my mother, who was always trying to play one of us against the other-there was never any question of where our loyalty lay." She sighed. "I miss her. I missed her when I was in New Hampshire. Separating us was another side of my mother's cruelty. She hated us ganging up on her." She sighed. "Becca lives in Seattle now with her partner and two kids. We don't get to see each other as much as we'd like." She turned to him. "How is Emma? She was hurt in the explosion that killed your father, wasn't she?"

"Emma is blind," Bravo said shortly. "She seems fine, but who really knows?"

"Dead? Both of them?" Jordan grunted. "Surprised isn't the right word. I already suspected as much." Phone to his ear, he stared at a small medieval painting of the Madonna and Child. It was wrought with an obvious fervor, which in his opinion lent it an unearthly power. "What I can't fathom is why you waited so long to inform me."

A discreet electronic beep accompanied a light that had begun flashing on Jordan's console. He turned back immediately, saw that the call was coming in on the encrypted line. Only one person was authorized to call him on that line, and right now it was the last person he wanted to speak with. Nevertheless, he knew he had no choice.

"The cleanup?" he said, acutely aware that he had to cut the current conversation short. "Yes, yes, of course. As always, it's understood that police involvement is to be avoided at all costs. But I want you out of Washington immediately. Back here, yes." He was staring at the blinking light. Mustn't keep the caller waiting, he thought. "There will be more work for you, I suspect. I have another call, contact me when you arrive."

He hung up without another word, changed to the encrypted-line receiver. "Cardinal Canesi, forgive me." Felix Canesi was the pope's right-hand man. "A business call from Beijing. You know the Chinese, their formalities are endless."

"I'm a man of the world, Jordan, I understand the intricacies of diplomacy," Cardinal Canesi said in his deep, stentorian tones. "Though I despise being kept waiting, let us speak no more of the matter."

Jordan absorbed this back-handed rebuke with his usual stoicism. "I haven't heard from you in three days. How is his holiness's condition?"

"We come now to the purpose of this interview." Whether it was because he had spent too many decades inside the cloistered walls of the Vatican or because he had a pompous streak, Cardinal Canesi's speech was unnaturally formal, as if he were channeling a religious lord of the nineteenth century. "As you have been informed, his eminence has been in guarded status over the last ten days, but that is about to change."

"Good news, I pray."

"Hardly," Cardinal Canesi said in funereal tones. "His health has deteriorated alarmingly. Frankly-and I must stress that this information is between the two of us-the pontiff is dying. Neither prayer nor medical knowledge seems of any use." With the canny stagecraft of a veteran actor, he paused, the better to give his next words added significance. "Without the-"

"Please," Jordan said sharply.

"Yes, yes, quite," Cardinal Canesi said with a hint of huffiness. He did not care to be reminded of security considerations. "In any event, without what you have promised us there is no hope for him. We simply must have it within the week."

"Don't worry, Felix," Jordan replied serenely. "You'll have it; the pope will not die."

"You have given your word, Jordan. This is a matter of the gravest import. Over the centuries, the Vatican has been anxious to have this most precious of artifacts returned to the bosom of the Church from whence it sprang. Over the centuries, many popes have made it their life's work to retrieve it from the apostate Gnostics who stole it, to no avail. And so it has passed from fact into legend. I must caution you that there are those on the pontiff's council who doubt the… the substance exists."

"It exists, your excellency, of this you may have no fear."

"It is not I who will experience fear should you fail us," Cardinal Canesi said ominously. "We are at a perilous crossroads, nothing could be more clear. This is why we have exercised all our might and influence to help you in your sacred mission. But hear me: we have put ourselves at risk for you.

"His eminence has never declared his wishes for his successor. The college of Cardinals is contentious, filled with over-eager and overambitious individuals, each with his own idea of which direction to lead the Church.

"Again I tell you this in the strictest confidence: either his holiness recovers, or the Church hierarchy will be plunged into an anarchy from which even I cannot say with any degree of certainty it will emerge unchanged."

Jordan knew what that meant: the probability of no more Canesi, no more cabal, no more backing for him.

"Do not fail us, Jordan. Remember: a week, not one moment more."

As he replaced the receiver, Jordan's mind was working furiously, parsing every word, every intonation he had used. He knew the cardinal better than Canesi suspected. His grace was the head of a clandestine cabal of high Vatican officials who attended the pope and depended on his favor in order to put through their policies. Canesi had as much to fear from this pope's passing as did Jordan, possibly more. The cabal needed this pope to continue to support them because over the decades they had gathered to them a veil of secret power the pope knew nothing about; backing Jordan had been only one of their activities. Jordan's plan, years in the making, had been triggered by Canesi's panic.

Jordan rubbed his chin, his face grave. He picked up his cell phone, dialed a number, spoke softly into it. "His grace called. I'm afraid we've run out of time far sooner than we anticipated. A week, not a moment more, he told me. Luckily, Bravo holds the key, which is just how we planned it. But now we will be forced to take further risks."

"Risk is part of the game, my love," the voice said on the other end of the line.

"Risk is what Ivo and Donatella took," he said gloomily, "and look where they ended up."

"But I have a plan. Herd Braverman Shaw and his Guardian angel like cattle, separate them, make them desperate."

Jordan sat up straight, his throat tight. "And then?"

"She is of no consequence," the voice said, "but when he has led us to the secret, he will die."

Jordan faced the window, but his gaze had turned inward. "Just as we planned," he said, "from the beginning."