Eric Lustbader - The Testament

The corridor loomed, silent and deserted. Rule showed him the way and they retraced his steps back to the side door. By the time they passed through it, he had regained much of his strength and all his animal cunning.

"However many Guardians are remaining will be combing the island for us," he said. And he was right, for as they approached the shingle where he had beached the topo they saw two Guardians keeping watch on it.

"How are we going to get off the island?" Bravo whispered.

"I have a plan," Rule said.

Uncle Tony always had a plan. As far back as Bravo could remember, Uncle Tony had a plan for every contingency. If you needed to get from point A to point B, he knew the fastest route, the most circuitous, the most devious, as well as the most sensible.

They moved off, Rule leading the way. The long summer twilight had ended and it had grown dark, but out on the lagoon strings of pale yellow lights marked the perimeters of the deep water channel. A gull passed by overhead, calling in its plaintive voice, and then it swooped down, skimming the water, which picked up tiny phosphorescent lights like glimmering bangles on the double bracelet of the channel.

As they passed the pitch-black outlines of pine trees, Bravo could see more lights, pouring from a section of the Franciscan monastery. The air smelled resiny, and then a whiff of the lagoon reached them-bleached stone and clams, salty weeds that twined in the depths.

As they approached, they could make out the cluttered sound of many voices.

"The Franciscans have turned the island into a tourist destination," Rule said. "Once a week, they have an evening tour. We can mingle with the crowd and hitch a ride on the ferry."

But when they arrived in the shadows cloaking the outskirts of the dock, they saw that passage on the ferry would be impossible. Three Guardians were patrolling the area, no doubt having given the Franciscans a plausible cover story as to why they needed to be there.

They crept around to their left in a rough semicircle and saw a motoscafo tied up on the other side of the large ferry. Moving from shadow to shadow, they circled toward it. A Franciscan monk was unloading the last of a pile of small barrels from the rear deck of the motoscafo. People continued to stream onto the ferry, which sounded its horn twice, as warning of its imminent departure.

As they watched, another monk appeared to help the other carry the barrels into the monastery. When they were both out of sight, Bravo and Rule ran to the motoscafo and jumped aboard. The two monks reappeared and picked up two more barrels. The last of the tourists had boarded the ferry, and now it gave another long hoot of its horn as its engines began to churn.

Rule climbed behind the wheel and fired the ignition. Bravo let go the lines holding the motoscafo at the dock. The monks had just disappeared into the monastery, and Rule took advantage of the moment to ease the boat forward. Their window of opportunity was short, the monks would reappear at any moment, but he resisted the urge to surge forward and instead matched his speed with that of the ferry. They moved out in tandem, the motoscafo hidden from the Guardians by the bulk of the ferry. A night heron crossed their path, silent as death, and as the land slipped away through the black, purling water they got one last bracing whiff of the pines on San Francesco del Deserto.

Then the yellow lights were upon them and they were in the channel, free.

After many hours the celebration of the new Knights-the Knights of Muhlmann, as Jordan privately thought of them-was still in full swing. A twelve-course dinner catered by Ostaria dell'Orso, one of Rome's finest restaurants, along with five cases of vintage Brunello di Montalcino had been consumed. The assembled had settled in for Cuban Montecristo Coronas, snifters of cognac and dark chocolate truffles, each one imprinted with a miniature of the Muhlmann shield, flown in that day from Belgium.

Jordan, his belly full, his head alight with his victory, was just finishing his second glass of the luscious Hine 1960 when Osman Spagna tapped him discreetly on the shoulder. One look at his expression caused Jordan to rise and follow the short man into the room where he had signed the contract on the villa. Behind him Spagna closed the double doors. Jordan saw before him four of the most influential and wealthy Knights: a Netherlands diamond cartel merchant, an English MP, an American money manager and the president of a South African-Australian metals conglomerate.

"Gentlemen," Jordan said, approaching them. "What have we here?" He laughed. "A meeting of the minds?"

"We fervently hope so, Grand Master."

They left it to the English MP, which was a bit of a surprise. Jordan had expected the American to be the mouthpiece. But they had opted to take the smooth path, the gentlemanly action.

"We'd like a bit of a word," the English MP said in his mildest and plummiest tone. "In theory, we have no problem with the action you've taken-"

"The coup," the American said, arching forward on the balls of his feet.

"Something stinks in here." Jordan stared hard at the American. "Is it a mutiny I smell?"

The MP moved at once to smooth the feathers ruffled by the American's injudicious remark. "Nothing of the sort, I assure you. We all recognize you as Grand Master, we all believe you're the man for the job."

Jordan, waiting for the shoe to drop, said nothing. He was good at waiting, better than the four of them put together, he'd wager.

The MP, rail-thin and pasty faced, cleared his throat. "We do, however, envision a potential problem."

"A large one," the American interjected. He was a big, beefy man with a Midwestern accent and the overly aggressive stance of a football thug.

No one was willing to restrain the American, Jordan noticed, which meant he was the designated attack dog. Smart move on their part.

"And that would be?" Jordan said.

"Your mother," the MP said silkily. "It's no secret that she's wanted to take control of the Knights. We've tolerated her machinations out of respect for you, Grand Master, but now… now she's inserted herself into the field with Damon Cornadoro, and we wonder… well, we wonder whether she would be playing so active a role in this most crucial venture if she wasn't your mother."

A stifling silence now descended on the six men. The MP cleared his throat again, someone-the Netherlander perhaps-coughed nervously.

"It was my plan," Jordan said evenly. "You're questioning it now?"

"Not at all," the MP said at once. "However, reports have come to us of her activities and we think something needs to be done to rein her in."

"You don't know my mother," Jordan said.

"On the contrary, I think we know her quite well." The South African stepped forward, placing a thick dossier on the table. He watched Jordan as he opened its cover. Inside were a series of surveillance photos of Camille and Cornadoro locked in amorous embrace.

After a moment, the MP said, "This is a dangerous cocktail, Grand Master. Surely you can understand our concern."

Indeed he could, better by far than any of them. Damn her to hell! With a hand he scarcely felt he pawed through the mess of photos, one more explicit than the next. Careful to keep his expression neutral, he said, "I appreciate your diligence, gentlemen, but I already know about my mother's indiscretion." This was a lie, but a necessary one. These men must never know they knew more about his family than he did.

"Surely you can see it's more than an indiscretion," the MP said.

The American stepped forward. "I think what you smelled, Grand Master, is a conspiracy between the two of them."

"I have the situation well in hand," Jordan said, "I assure you."

"Excellent," the MP said. He was beaming now. "That's all we needed to know, Grand Master. We'll leave the rest to you." He pointed to the dossier. "Rest assured all copies have been destroyed."