Eric Lustbader - The Testament

He took a side street, trying not to break out into a run, to keep his pace more or less equal to that of the people around him. But the hard beating of his heart, the spurts of adrenaline rushing through his system made this difficult. And then, with an anxious glance behind him, he saw the two men shoot like sharks out of the surf on the main street, heading down the side street he had taken.

He plunged into the shadows of a narrow alley, stinking of garbage, creosote and offal. Dogs barked, heralding his presence, and the triangular head of one of them peered at him briefly before vanishing in a second explosion of barking.

He moved on, forcing himself to continue, even while he wondered whether he had made a mistake. No shops presented themselves, no doorways in which he could seek sanctuary. His smoldering fear burst into flame when he glanced back to see other shapes entering the alley. The bearded men? He heard the quickened pace of their footsteps. Who else but the bearded men?

He stumbled on, picking up his pace, hurrying around another corner, where the alley bent like an old woman's back. But scarcely a few meters on, he was brought up short. There, standing in front of him was Adem Khalif.

"You understand that this could backfire," Jenny said as they approached the entrance to Mikhail Kartli's house. "It's likely that Kartli has already heard the rumor that I murdered Father Mosto."

"In that case, you will implicate the priest," Camille said evenly, "absolving yourself."

"You want me to vilify Father Mosto?"

"I want you to help us find Bravo," Camille said quietly. "If that means lying to your contact about someone else's integrity I don't see that you have a choice."

Her manner was both forthright and steadfast. There was an iron will, a certain determination in her that reminded Jenny of Arcangela.

"What does it matter to Father Mosto, anyway?" Camille added. "He's dead."

"Kartli may not believe me."

"He will because you'll sell it to him." Camille lifted a hand, ran her fingers through Jenny's hair. "I have faith in you, Jenny." She smiled. "Don't worry, I'll back up whatever story you tell."

Jenny turned, knocked on the front door in a singular pattern not unlike Morse code. Camille took note with one part of her brain, but another part was thinking how amusing it was to fabricate feelings for someone you were manipulating. Artificial, slippery as oil, they could not sink their curved barbs into your flesh, could not hurt you in any way.

The door opened, revealing the lined, sober face of Mikhail Kartli. He ushered them into a small, rather dark sitting room, enrobed in heavy curtains. Lamps burned, illuminating a low ceiling, muscularly beamed. A series of small, exquisitely hand-knotted silk rugs hung on the wall, arranged as if they were paintings in a high-end art gallery. Camille glanced around as she sat on a heavy upholstered chair. He served them tea, dark and fragrant and steaming, from an old and well-used service on a magnificently hand-tooled copper tray. There was a selection of European biscuits from which they selected one each, more out of courtesy than hunger.

Camille had deliberately seated herself perpendicular to Mikhail Kartli so that she could watch him without seeming to do so. The Georgian was of great interest to her, since he had been the Order's mainstay in Trabzon, a city that had for many years gone unnoticed by the Knights of St. Clement. He had told Cornadoro that he was newly freelance, a soldier for hire. She sipped her tea, settling back to gain his measure while Jenny did the talking.

Kartli was speaking of mundane matters: the humidity, historical sites, the food-he recommended several restaurants. He would not, of course, ask them why they had come or how he could help them. That was not, Camille knew, how these people operated. They were cagey, you had to coax them out of their lairs. They needed to get the measure of you, as they might examine the glimmer of a creature plucked from beneath the ocean's waves.

With mounting interest she saw that, despite Jenny's stated fears, the younger woman was adept at speaking to Asians. Camille had discovered that as a rule Americans did not know how to treat either Europeans or Asians. To them, everyone in the world either shared America's values and customs or was of no import to them. Jenny's attitude was neither usual nor automatic. Camille adjusted upward her opinion of Jenny's abilities.

Kartli peered at Jenny from beneath hooded eyes. He had not moved during the introductions. Indeed, it was difficult to see the rise and fall of his abdomen, to ascertain whether he was still breathing.

"I'm going to tell you the truth," Jenny said now. "In Venice, I was set up as the fall guy for Father Mosto's death. My sin was not being alert enough to stop the attack on me, just before Father Mosto was murdered."

Kartli lifted the hand that until this moment had been propping up his chin. "You say you're telling me the truth." The hand waggled back and forth in equivocation. "You do not know me. What have I done to deserve this signal honor?"

"You're the Order's man in Trabzon," Jenny said.

"Therefore, I am trustworthy. But it seems these days no one, inside the Order or out, is to be trusted."

Jenny said, "I have nowhere else to go, nothing left to lose."

There was as slight pause.

"And this Father Mosto… ?"

"I don't pretend to know much about him. He's not important."

"A man's death-"

"What is vital for you to understand," Jenny pressed, "is that Anthony Rule was the Knight of St. Clement mole inside the Order-not me, not Paolo Zorzi."

Kartli's gimlet eyes never strayed from her face. "Paolo Zorzi was your mentor." It was not a question. "Difficult to believe he had turned against you, was it?"

"Actually, it wouldn't have been hard to believe at all," Jenny said. "He was perfectly placed."

"Yes, he was."

"But Rule would have been the smarter choice," she went on. "He was Dexter Shaw's closest confidant."

Kartli made no further comment, and nothing in his expression gave Jenny the slightest clue as to his thinking. Lacking such a guidepost, she had no choice but to plunge onward. "The bottom line is that we have to find Bravo before the agents of the Knights do, and keep him safe."

"I don't see how I can help you."

"You must have met him, that much we have surmised," Jenny said. "Like me, he had nowhere else to go in Trabzon."

"And I say again, I don't see how I can help you. I no longer work for the Order."

Jenny took a breath, as if she were about to move out into deeper water. She sat forward, her upper body angled toward Kartli, and Camille at once took note because a new, uncataloged tension had come into the muscles of her body, an expression of the deepest concentration flooded her face. She appeared undaunted by what Kartli had said.

"I want to tell you about Braverman Shaw," she began, and oddly enough, Kartli, though he might have wanted to, resisted the urge to stay her.

Jenny talked about Bravo in the most impassioned way, and Camille noticed something. Like a fly in a web, the Georgian's attention had been caught. Kartli, like Camille, had fastened onto the upwelling of genuine emotion as she conjured up Braverman Shaw for him.

This was of the most intense interest for Camille. Jenny was the vulnerable spot, the pivot point that would tip the scales and bring Bravo rushing to her, and now, for the first time, she began to understand the depth of Jenny's feelings for Bravo. Whereas before she had assumed a schoolgirl crush, a romantic infatuation brought about by intimate contact that could bond those in battle-she herself had had her share of fiery but short-lived affairs-now she heard the truth from Jenny's own mouth. Much to her surprise and consternation, Cornadoro had been right, after all. Jenny was committed to Bravo, truly, deeply, unshakably.