Eric Lustbader - The Testament

He sat on a pile of Tabriz carpets, accepted the coffee with-out sugar. After they had both partaken of the coffee, he put aside his cup. The son lounged in the background, text-messaging on his cell phone.

"You know me."

Kartli nodded. "Damon Cornadoro. Knight of St. Clement."

"Not so, I never took the formal vows."

Kartli cocked his head. "Am I wrong, are you not working for the Knights?"

"On occasion I do," Cornadoro acknowledged. "I am, however, an independent operator."

"Then we are the same, you and I. As of today, I have severed my affiliation with the Order."

This comment piqued Cornadoro's interest. Had he not observed the Georgian's falling out with Braverman Shaw with his own eyes, he would have been suspicious of such a radical change.

"One avenue closes," he said, "others open to take its place. It is said that Cherry Bateman trained you."

Cornadoro inclined his head. "Bateman is the avenue I chose-or perhaps it is more accurate to say that he chose me."

"Bateman is an American."

"I am Venetian and you are Georgian. What of it?"

"All across the globe," Mikhail Kartli said, "nationalism is on the march. It is a source of strength nothing else can match." He eyed Cornadoro shrewdly. "I think you know this."

"Cherry Bateman is an American by birth only. He is a citizen of Italy, he has renounced America. He has renounced his son Donovan, who remains in America."

"This would make a difference."

"Of course. It is important to see things as they are, rather than as they seem to be." Cornadoro spread his hands. "You and Bateman. I could be mistaken, of course." He allowed himself a smile. "It wouldn't be the first time. But in the event I'm not wrong I would be prepared to arrange an introduction. You might find your time in the Veneto extremely constructive-as well as potentially helpful to the Georgian cause."

"And in return, you would want… what?"

"Information." Cornadoro smiled outwardly, even as he relaxed inwardly. He felt the unmistakable tug of the hook going in. "Information on Braverman Shaw."

When an Islamic said "Geometry is God manifest," he meant it literally. The first-century mathematician al-Biruni codified geometry, called it geodesy and classified it as a philosophy both natural and religious, dealing with matter and form as they combined with time and space.

The interior of the Zigana Mosque, a beehivelike geodesic dome composed of pointed arches of honey-colored stone, was based on al-Birani's sacred geometry. There was, indeed, a spiral staircase to one side that led up to the minbar, the sacred pulpit. It was constructed of a black wood, perhaps ebony, and was highly polished, shiny as glass.

Bravo stood looking at it for some time. The peculiar geodesy of the interior made the slightest whisper audible from clear across the mosque. He held everyone in his view. There appeared to be no threat, and gradually, as if he were swimming through clear azure water, a profound calm settled over him.

There were few people about. From somewhere, the melodic ululation of a prayer came to him, muffled by the space, further blurred by its own echoes. The door opened at his back and he felt himself stiffen slightly. Too late he realized that he should have immediately moved so as to keep an eye on who entered and exited. Two solemn men, thin and brown and bearded, passed near him. He could smell the spice of their passage. Shoulders touching, they walked down the aisle, away from him. No threat.

Taking a deep breath, he crossed the dusky mosque, through three identical pointed arches. At the elegant ebony corkscrew of the staircase, Bravo stood still as a statue, his head bowed as if he were preparing for the salat. In fact, he was thinking of the second word his father had written on the strip of velvet.

Purpure was medieval English, the heraldic term for purple. However, it was not always possible to use color, so on black and white drawings it was indicated by lines drawn from upper left to lower right or, in heraldic terms, from sinister chief to dexter base. The next cipher was at the base of the spiral.

Jordan had his mother in his sights. Spying on her was an interesting experience; it caused him to wonder if she had ever spied on him. At this moment, he was willing to bet that she had. Through powerful field glasses, he watched her as she crossed the street in front of her hotel. As always, she was impeccably dressed-pin-striped tailored shirt, yellow linen skirt that showed off her long, beautiful legs. She slid into a battered landscaper's truck. Behind the wheel sat Damon Cornadoro, her lover, her coconspirator.

Jordan felt the murderous urge to take a gun from one of his men. He imagined himself getting out of this van with its blacked-out windows, striding down the street. He'd tap on the window of the truck and when Cornadoro wound it down, Jordan would shoot him dead. Blood and brains all over her fashionable blouse and skirt, her makeup ruined. He wondered if she'd have any other reaction…

His cell phone rang.

"The American wants to see you," Spagna's voice buzzed in his ear.

"I imagine he does."

"He's extremely upset."

"I don't blame him." Jordan hadn't taken his eyes off the couple. Next to him, one of his Knights sat in front of a tape recorder, earphones clamped to his head. "Tell him I'll see him in due course. In the meantime, tell him I want a token of his fealty."

"Something of significance to the American," Spagna said, all ears.

"His daughter." Jordan made a gesture to the Knight sitting beside him. "Tell the American I'll take care of her rehabilitation, the best of everything, all expenses paid."

"He's sure to ask for how long."

"Tell him she will be with me for as long as I wish it."

Spagna chuckled. "He'll scream bloody murder."

"I am quite certain it will make him even more miserable than he is now."

He closed out the connection. In response to his signal, the Knight had passed him a set of earphones. Donning them, he heard every incriminating word his mother and Cornadoro said. Plus, they unknowingly brought his field intelligence up to date. The parabolic microphone aimed through the window by one of his Knights was working to perfection.

Bravo kept one eye on the door as, occasionally, someone entered the mosque or left. Each time, he could feel his heart racing. He was not only worried about the Knights, but those who were loyal to Mikhail Kartli. He had offended the Georgian, and though Kartli had allowed him to walk away unharmed, there was no telling if or when he'd change his mind, give the order to have Bravo found and terminated. Bravo had no doubt that Kartli possessed both the power and the will to carry out the directive, and it wouldn't be only his sons who would jump at pleasing him-to anyone in his employ it would be a matter of honor.

As he knelt in front of the ebony spiral, he was never more aware of being alone in a hostile environment. He thought he had developed a kind of sixth sense when it came to the Knights, but as to Kartli's men, anyone and everyone who passed him a bit too slowly, looked at him a bit too long, moved when he did or glanced away when he tried to meet their eye was suspect. Under the heavy burden of these circumstances the only thing to do was to keep moving. If he stayed too long in one place he was surely a dead man.

He could feel the Roman ruins beneath his feet, as if they were tree roots running down into the living rock. He could hear the chanting of the priests in Trapazuntine Greek, see the entrance of the emperor in white silk and golden imperial eagles, crowned in his bejeweled imperial mitra, flanked by his Kabasitai, his imperial warriors, ceremonial golden swords lifted to honor him.