Рыбаченко Олег Павлович : другие произведения.

Gulliver And Chamberlain'S Knight

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  • Аннотация:
    Here again, what was supposed to happen happened, Chamberlain did not resign and went to a separate peace with Hitler. As a result, the Third Reich, with its satellites, both Japan and Turkey, attacked the USSR. The Red Army is getting very tight. But barefoot beautiful Komsomol members and brave pioneers go into battle.
  GULLIVER AND CHAMBERLAIN'S KNIGHT
  ANNOTATION
  Here again, what was supposed to happen happened, Chamberlain did not resign and went to a separate peace with Hitler. As a result, the Third Reich, with its satellites, both Japan and Turkey, attacked the USSR. The Red Army is getting very tight. But barefoot beautiful Komsomol members and brave pioneers go into battle.
  . CHAPTER #1
  Gulliver has to do something that is not very pleasant: turn the millstones and grind the grain into flour. And she herself in the body of a boy of about twelve, muscular, strong and tanned.
  But the boy-slave is constantly moving into various kinds of parallel worlds. And one of them turned out to be special.
  Chamberlain did not voluntarily resign on May 10, 1940, and managed to conclude an honorable peace with the Third Reich on July 3, 1940. Hitler guaranteed the integrity of the British colonial empire. In response, the British recognized as German everything that had already been conquered. Including the colonies of France, Belgium, Holland and Italian control over Ethiopia.
  On this war, which was not called the Second World War, ended. For the time being, of course. The Germans began to digest the conquered. At the same time, new laws were passed in the Third Reich, taxes were imposed on families that had fewer than four children, in addition, SS men and war heroes were allowed to have a second wife from foreigners.
  The settlement of the colonies also proceeded. And incentives for women giving birth to Germans increased.
  Hitler was also eyeing the USSR at the same time. At the parade on May 1, 1941, KV-2 tanks with a 152-millimeter cannon and T-34 tanks passed through Red Square, which made an impression on the Germans. The Fuhrer ordered the development of a whole series of heavy tanks. And work began on the "Panthers", "Tigers" -2, "Lions" and "Mouses". All these tanks had a common layout scheme with armor slopes and armament and armor that were growing in power. But the development of tanks took time, as did the rearmament of the panzvale. And the Fuhrer could only be ready by May 1944. And by this time, the USSR was quite ready.
  Stalin did not fight again after the Finnish war. Another trip to Finland was forbidden by Hitler, who concluded an agreement with the country of Suomi. The Germans themselves fought only with Greece and Yugoslavia. Which lasted two weeks and was victorious. Greece was attacked by the first Mussolini, but was beaten. And in Yugoslavia there was an anti-German coup. So the Germans had to intervene. But it was such a blitzkrieg-style episode.
  Having defeated the Fuhrer, he continued to prepare a campaign to the east. The Germans launched a series of new aircraft - ME-309 screw, and Yu-288. The Nazis also got jet ME-262s in the series, and the first Arado aircraft, but not yet in large numbers.
  But Stalin did not stand still. The USSR did not succeed with jet aircraft, but on the other hand they did a screw one massively and apparently-invisibly. Yak-9, and MIG-9, and LAGG-7, and IL-18 appeared. And some types of bomber, in particular the PE-18. In qualitative terms, perhaps, German aviation was stronger, but there were much more Soviet ones. And the German ME-309 entered the series recently, although it had very powerful weapons: three 30-millimeter air guns and four machine guns. And the ME-262, in general, had just begun to enter the troops, and was not very distinguished by the reliability of the engines.
  The Focke-Wulf was a mass machine with powerful weapons and a workhorse. Its speed surpassed Soviet aircraft, as well as armor and armament power. In terms of maneuverability, the aircraft was weaker than the Soviet ones, but the high speed during a dive made it possible to escape in the event of Soviet aircraft entering the tail, and powerful weapons - I could fight six air guns, made it possible to shoot down aircraft from the first approach.
  You can, of course, compare these or those forces of opponents for a long time.
  The USSR had tanks KV-3, KV-5, KV-4. And the series was the T-34-76 tank, and the later wheeled-tracked T-29. And also the T-30, and the BT-18. The KV-6 also appeared, heavier than the previous models.
  But the Germans launched the Panther series, which significantly exceeded the thirty-four guns in combat armor-piercing power and in frontal armor too. True, the USSR got the T-34-85 tank, but its production in the series began only in March 1944. And "Panther" from the end of the forty-second year went into the series, like the "Tiger". Well, "Tiger" -2 and "Lion" with "Mouse" later.
  In terms of the number of tanks, the USSR seems to have an advantage, but the quality of the Germans seems to be better. Although the T-4 and T-3 are also somewhat outdated vehicles. And yet they do not give a decisive advantage. But that is not all. Hitler has a whole coalition of allied states, including Japan. And the USSR has only Mongolia. But Japan is a population of one hundred million people, not counting the colonies. And she deployed almost ten million soldiers. And in China, they were also able to conclude a truce with Chiang Kashi, who attacked Mao's army.
  Well, Hitler deployed his army and satellites against the USSR. This time, the Molotov line was already completed, and there was a powerful defense. But the Third Reich managed to win over Turkey, which could strike from the Transcaucasus, and Japan. Stalin mobilized, and the size of the Red Army was brought to twelve million people. Hitler brought the Wehrmacht to ten million. Plus allies. And this is Finland, Hungary, Croatia, Slovakia, Romania, Italy, Bulgaria, Turkey. Well, especially Japan with Thailand, and Manchuria.
  Italy this time allocated a whole million soldiers, so she did not fight in Africa and could throw all her forces into battle. In general, Stalin had seven and a half million troops in the West, against seven million Germans and two and a half million satellites, and foreign divisions in the first echelon. The Germans had troops from France, Belgium, Holland and others.
  There was an advantage in the infantry, but the army was motley. In tanks and aviation, the USSR has an advantage in quantity, but perhaps worse in quality. In the east, the Japanese also have more samurai infantry there. There is equality in tanks, but the Soviet ones are heavier and more powerful. In aviation, however, there are already more Japanese in the Far East. And in the fleet they have an even more overwhelming advantage.
  In short, on May 15 the war began. The roads dried up and the Germans with their satellites flooded.
  The war from the very beginning acquired a protracted and fierce character. The Germans managed in the very first days only to cut off the Belostotsky ledge, and break through in the south of the place by wedging into positions. Soviet troops tried to counterattack. The fighting dragged on... After a few weeks, the front line finally stabilized a little to the east of the USSR border. The Germans advanced from twenty to one hundred kilometers and were not successful. Also, the Turks in Transcaucasia did not particularly succeed, only slightly pushing through the Soviet defense. Of the major cities, the Ottomans captured only Batumi. The Japanese, however, only in Mongolia were able to seriously advance, and on the territory of the USSR only minor wedging. True, a strong blow was dealt to Vladivostok and Magadan. The fighting went on all summer ...
  In the fall, the Red Army already tried to advance, but also to no avail. However, she made some progress, only to the south of Lvov, but even there the Germans pressed them. In the air, it turned out that the jet ME-262 was not effective enough and did not live up to expectations.
  True, the Panther is good in defense, but not in the offensive. So the fighting went on until winter. And there again the attempts of the Red Army to advance. There was such a system. But the Germans still managed to fight back.
  The Panther-2 appeared with more powerful weapons and armor. The spring of 1945 brought new combat triads. But again the front line remained inactive.
  The Germans, however, launched an offensive around Lvov in order to create a cauldron there. And the fighting turned out to be very serious.
  Here the girls-Komsomol met the Nazis. And the barefoot beauties fight with great fury. And at the same time, they also sing, throwing grenades under the tanks with their bare toes.
  This is really what girls need. And Natasha, the main character, of course, in only one bikini.
  And so she sings beautifully and with feeling;
  Anthem of the motherland of the exalted saint,
  Barefoot girls sing in our hearts...
  Comrade Stalin is the dearest,
  And the voice of beauties is very ringing!
  
  We were born to win fascists
  The Wehrmacht will not be brought to its knees...
  The girls passed the exam with all fives,
  May the radiant Lenin be in the heart!
  
  And I love Ilyich enthusiastically,
  He is in thoughts with the good Jesus...
  We will kill the Nazis in the bud,
  And let's do it all so skillfully!
  
  To the glory of our Motherland, saint,
  We will fight bravely for the Motherland...
  Fight you barefoot Komsomol member,
  Saints have such faces!
  
  We girls are brave fighters,
  Believe me, we always know how to fight bravely ...
  Fathers are proud of the Komsomol members,
  I wear the badge in my military satchel!
  
  Barefoot in the cold I run
  A Komsomol member fights on a snowdrift...
  I will break the backbone, I am the enemy,
  And I will bravely sing an ode to the rose!
  
  I will make the Fatherland hello,
  The girl in the universe of women is the most beautiful ...
  Many more years will pass,
  But our faith will be interuniversal!
  
  For the Motherland there are no more words,
  Serve the Fatherland, you barefoot girl ...
  In the name of communism and sons,
  We will enter the cover of the universe of light!
  
  What I just couldn't do in battle
  Chased "Tigers", burned, jokingly "Panthers" ...
  My fate is like a sharp needle
  There will be changes in the universe!
  
  So I threw a bunch of those grenades,
  What the hungry boys forged ...
  Formidable Stalingrad will be behind us,
  We'll see communism soon given!
  
  We all will be able to truly overcome,
  "Tigers" and "Panthers" will not break us...
  Raise the roar of the Russian god-bear-
  And we gouge - without even knowing the measure!
  
  It's funny in the cold barefoot,
  The beautiful girl runs very briskly ...
  No need to drag to the front by force,
  Have a lot of fun in the undead field!
  
  The fascist fighter is very unfortunately strong,
  He can even move a rocket ...
  Fully know the names of the communists,
  After all, heroic deeds are sung!
  
  Got a girl, it was a terrible captivity,
  They drove her barefoot through a snowdrift ...
  But decay will not touch the Komsomol member,
  And not such a cold, we have seen!
  
  The monsters began to torture the girl,
  Iron, red-hot to bare heels ...
  And torture with a whip on the rack,
  The Nazis do not feel sorry for the Komsomol member!
  
  From the heat red furious metal,
  Touched, to the sole of the girl barefoot ...
  The executioner tortured the naked beauty,
  He hung the battered woman by her braids!
  
  They twisted my arms, my legs are terrifying to me,
  They put fire under the armpits of a girl ...
  I was carried away in my thoughts, know to the moon,
  I dived into communism, gave light!
  
  In the end, the executioner ran out,
  The Fritz are chasing me naked to the chopping block...
  And I hear a child cry,
  The women also roar with pity for the girl!
  
  The bastards threw a noose around the neck,
  The fiends squeezed her tighter...
  I love Jesus and Stalin
  Although the bastards trampled their homeland!
  
  Here is a box knocked out from under bare feet,
  In the loop, the naked girl spun ...
  May Almighty God receive the soul,
  In paradise, there will be joy forever, youth!
  That's how she sang Natasha with great aplomb and love. And it looked beautiful and rich. But that the war is going on ... The Germans could not break through.
  But then the Red Army advanced, and again a tough defense. The front line, as in the First World War, took and froze. Although the losses on both sides were great, but where is the progress?
  Hitler, using the resources of the African colonies, tried to bet on the advice of Goering on an air offensive and jet aircraft. But the hopes associated with XE-162 did not come true. The fighter, despite its cheapness and ease of production, was too difficult to manage, and was not suitable for serial use. The ME-262X turned out to be somewhat better, which, with two more advanced engines and swept wings, turned out to be more reliable in use and production. The first such machines appeared at the end of the forty-fifth year. And in the forty-sixth year, the Germans also had more advanced tailless jet bombers.
  In jet aviation, the Third Reich overtook the USSR, especially in terms of technology. And then an air offensive began, and they began to beat the Soviet pilots in the sky.
  Powerful German TA-400s, and then TA-500s and TA-600s, began to bomb enemy factories beyond the Urals and in the Urals. As well as tailless cars.
  And now the Germans began to have more initiative. In addition, the Nazis had a more successful E-50 tank, better protected, and at the same time well-armed and fast. And the development of the T-54, more advanced and powerful, was greatly delayed.
  And so, in 1947, the new German tanks of the E series achieved their first significant successes, breaking through the Soviet defenses and capturing Western Ukraine along with Lev. After that, the Germans were able, together with the Romanians, to break through in Moldova, cutting off Odessa by land from the rest of the USSR. The Soviet troops were forced to retreat in the center as well. They retreated to the so-called Stalin Line. In addition, Riga fell. I had to withdraw from the Baltic.
  The pioneers also fought courageously against the Nazis. The boy Vasily even sang, throwing explosive packages at the Nazis with his bare feet;
  I'm a modern boy like a computer,
  And it"s easier to give out a young child prodigy ...
  And it turned out really cool -
  What will Hitler be a demoniac bit!
  
  The boy is barefoot in the snowdrifts,
  Under the muzzles of the fascist is ...
  His legs became scarlet like a goose,
  And expects a woeful calculation!
  
  But the pioneer squared his shoulders boldly,
  And with a smile he walks to the execution ...
  The Fuhrer sends someone to the furnace,
  Someone was hit by a fascist with arrows!
  
  A child prodigy from our era,
  He took a blaster and rushed boldly into battle ...
  Fascist chimeras will dispel,
  And God Almighty is with you forever!
  
  A smart boy hit the Fritz with a beam,
  And a number of monsters mowed ...
  Here they became closer to communism,
  He thrashed the Nazis with all his might!
  
  The boy prodigy shoots with a beam,
  After all, he has a very powerful blaster ...
  "Panther" melts in one gulp,
  After all, it's just you know schmuck!
  
  We will kill the fascists without any,
  And we will simply exterminate the adversaries ...
  Here our blaster blasted with all its might,
  Here is a cherub rubbing its wings!
  
  I crush them, without a gleam of metal,
  This powerful "Tiger" caught fire ...
  That the Nazis know little of the land?
  You want more with blood games!
  
  Russia is a big empire
  Stretched from the sea to the desert...
  I see a girl running barefoot
  And the boy is barefoot - the devil is gone!
  
  The damned fascist briskly moved the tank,
  With a steel ram, it"s cool to cross Rus' ...
  But we will supply Hitler with cans of blood,
  Let's break the Nazis into small turf!
  
  Fatherland, you are dearest to me,
  Boundless from the mountains and the darkness of the taiga ...
  No need to rest the soldiers on the bed -
  Boots sparkle in a brave march!
  
  I became a great pioneer at the front,
  The star of the hero - immediately won ...
  For others without borders, I will come by example,
  Comrade Stalin is just an ideal!
  
  We can win, I know for sure
  Though the storyline is different...
  There is an attack, evil feces fighters,
  And the Fuhrer has become some kind of cool!
  
  Little hope for the US
  They swim without any mischief ...
  Able to overthrow the Fuhrer from the pedestal,
  Terrible capitalists, just dregs!
  
  What to do if the boy turned out to be
  In captivity, undressed, driven out into the cold ...
  Desperately, a teenager fought with Fritz,
  But Christ Himself suffered for us!
  
  Then he will have to endure torture,
  When they burn you with red iron...
  When you break the bottles on your head,
  They pressed a red-hot rod to the heels!
  
  You better be silent, clench your teeth boy
  And endure torture like a titan of Rus' ...
  Let your lips burn with a lighter
  But Jesus can save the fighter!
  
  You will pass any boy in torture of flour,
  But you will endure, not bowing under the whip ...
  Let the rack of the hand greedily pull out,
  The executioner is now both the king and the black prince!
  
  Someday the suffering will end
  You will enter God's wonderful paradise...
  And there will be time for new adventures,
  We will enter Berlin when May sparkles!
  
  Well, what about the fact that they pulled up a child,
  The fascist will be thrown into hell for this...
  In Eden a sonorous voice is heard,
  The boy is resurrected - the joy is the result!
  
  So you don't have to be afraid of death
  Let there be heroism for the Motherland...
  After all, the Russians have always been able to fight,
  Know that evil fascism will be destroyed!
  
  We will pass with an arrow through the paradise,
  With a girl who is barefoot in the snow ...
  Below us is a garden, seething and blooming,
  On the grass, I'm a pioneer running!
  
  In paradise, we will be forever in happiness, children,
  We are fine there, very good ...
  And there is no place more beautiful on the planet,
  Know that it will never get hard!
  So the boy took it and sang witty with feeling. And it looked great and with feeling.
  Soviet troops retreated to the Stalin line, and left part of the territory of the USSR. And this was a definite plus for the Wehrmacht.
  But still, it was still possible to keep the defense on the Stalin line. The Japanese also stepped up, breaking through the front, were able to cut off Vladivostok from land. And almost completely capturing Primorye. There they cut off the oxygen of the Red Army. Yes, the Soviet troops had a very difficult time.
  But the fighting in Vladivostok itself was very stubborn. And beautiful young Komsomol girls fought there. They were only in one bikini and barefoot. And they threw bare toes the legs of the deadly power of a grenade. Here are the girls - whose full breasts are barely covered by thin strips of fabric.
  Which, however, does not prevent them from fighting and singing;
  Komsomol girls are the coolest of all,
  They fight fascism like eagles...
  May our Motherland be a success,
  Warriors as if with the heat of a bird!
  
  They burn with boundless beauty,
  In them, the whole planet warms the flame brighter ...
  May the result be limitless
  The motherland will even grind mountains!
  
  To the glory of our Motherland, saint,
  We will fight with the fanatics ...
  A girl runs barefoot in the snow,
  She carries grenades in a tight knapsack!
  
  Will throw a gift into a very powerful tank,
  Shatter it in the name of glory...
  The girl shoots a machine gun,
  But there is a knight of a valiant state!
  
  Everything can be a girl, you believe
  He can even fight in space ...
  And the chains of fascism will be a beast,
  After all, Hitler is only a shadow of a miserable clown!
  
  We will achieve, there will be paradise in the universe,
  And the girl will move the mountains with her heel ...
  That's why you fight and dare
  To the glory of our Motherland Russia!
  
  The Fuhrer will wait for a loop for himself,
  And he has a machine gun with a grenade ...
  You do not foolishly grind,
  We will bury the Wehrmacht with a shovel!
  
  And it will be in the universe so Eden,
  Big as space and very blooming ...
  You surrendered to the Germans just stupid Sam,
  And Jesus always lives in the soul!
  
  Komsomol member under the red flag!
  Being a Komsomol member is very good,
  Worn under a beautiful red flag ...
  Even though sometimes it's hard for me
  But the exploits of beauty are not in vain!
  
  Barefoot, I ran into the cold,
  Snowdrifts tickle the bare heel ...
  The girlish ardor has truly increased,
  We will build a new world of communism!
  
  After all, the Motherland is our own mother,
  We are dealing with bright communism ...
  Trust us not to trample the homeland,
  Let's put an end to the vile monster-fascism!
  
  I am always a beautiful girl
  Although I got used to the snowdrift barefoot ...
  Big dream come true
  What golden braids I have!
  
  Fascism broke through right to Moscow,
  It"s almost like they"re shooting at the Kremlin...
  And we girls are barefoot in the snow ...
  January is standing, but it seems to us in May!
  
  We will do, for the Motherland, know everything
  There is no country in the universe more dear to us ...
  Let there be a very garish life,
  No need to just rest on the bed!
  
  Let's build a radiant communism,
  Where is a palace with a branched garden for everyone ...
  And fascism will perish in the underworld,
  It is necessary to fight hard for Mother Rus'!
  
  So it will be good in the universe,
  When we quickly destroy the enemies ...
  But now the battle is very hard,
  The girls are walking barefoot!
  
  We are girls, fighters-heroes,
  Let's throw wild fascism into hell...
  And you look barefoot beauty
  So that the banner of communism can do it!
  
  Let's build, in the universe I believe paradise,
  And above the stars we will raise the flag from the red bag ...
  For the glory of our Motherland, dare,
  Sublime, mighty light of Russia!
  
  We will achieve that everything is Eden,
  Rye and orange blossom on Mars...
  We will win on perekory all,
  When the people and the army are united!
  
  A city will arise, I believe on the moon,
  Venus will become a new testing ground...
  And there is no more beautiful place on earth
  Moscow the capital was built with a groan!
  
  When we fly into space again,
  And we will very boldly enter Jupiter ...
  The golden-winged cherub will spread,
  And we will not yield anything to the Nazis!
  
  Let the flag shine over the universe,
  There is no holy country in the universe above ...
  The Komsomol member will pass the exam for five,
  We will conquer all spaces and roofs!
  
  For the Motherland there will be no problems, know
  She will raise her eye above the quasar...
  And if the evil Sir comes to us,
  We will sweep him away, count it with one blow!
  
  Walking barefoot in Berlin
  Dashing girls, know Komsomol members ...
  And the power of the dragon will be scrapped,
  And the pioneer horn screaming, sonorous!
  . CHAPTER #2
  This is how the battles developed ... The Germans advanced a little towards Minsk and surrounded the city on the floor. The fighting unfolded in the capital of Belarus itself. The Germans and their satellites advanced slowly. The German E-series tanks were more advanced, with thicker armor and powerful engines and powerful weapons, as well as significant armor slopes. A denser layout made it possible to raise the level of protection without a significant increase in the weight of the tank.
  The Nazis pressed Minsk.
  In the north, the Nazis surrounded, and then nevertheless took Tallinn. Odessa fell after long battles. By winter, the Germans still took Minsk. Soviet troops retreated to the Berezina. The winter passed in fierce skirmishes, but the Germans did not advance. So, in fact, the Soviets, rested.
  In the spring of forty-eight, the German offensive resumed. The Panther-4 tanks, heavier and better protected, took part in the battles.
  From the USSR, the first IS-7 and T-54 in somewhat larger quantities. The battles went on with varying success. The first jet MIG-15s also entered the series, but they were inferior to German vehicles, especially the more advanced and latest ME-362. And also TA-283, which also showed itself strongly. And the TA-600 was unmatched in long-range jet-powered bombing.
  But the Germans have advanced even further. And the Soviet troops retreated beyond the Dnieper.
  Tough battles were going on for Kyiv. And the Komsomol girls fought like heroines and sang;
  I am the daughter of the Fatherland of light and love,
  The most beautiful Komsomol girl ...
  Although the Fuhrer builds a rating on blood,
  Sometimes I feel awkward!
  
  Here is a very glorious century of Stalinism,
  When all around sparkle and sparkle ...
  A proud man spread his wings -
  And Abel triumphs, Cain is gone!
  
  Russia is my motherland
  Even though sometimes I feel awkward...
  And the Komsomol is a single family,
  Though barefoot to go along the path sharply!
  
  Fascism steep attacked the Motherland,
  The fangs of this boar, furious bared his teeth ...
  A furious napalm poured from the sky,
  But God and the brilliant Stalin are with us!
  
  Russia is the Red USSR,
  Mighty Great Fatherland...
  In vain spreads his claws Sir,
  We will definitely live under communism!
  
  Although the great war has begun,
  And a lot of blood was shed...
  Here is a great country writhing,
  From tears, conflagrations and great pain!
  
  But I believe we will revive the Fatherland,
  And we will raise the Soviet flag above the stars ...
  Above us is a golden-winged cherub,
  Great, radiant Russia!
  
  This is my homeland
  There is no one in the whole universe, it is more beautiful ...
  Though Satan's penny has come running,
  Our faith will grow stronger in these sufferings!
  
  As the self-proclaimed Hitler did,
  Managed to take Africa all at once ...
  Where does fascism have so much strength
  An infection has spread across the Earth!
  
  That's how much the Fuhrer captured a lot,
  And it doesn't even measure...
  What a bandit swarm has created,
  Above them, a scarlet flag flies a nightmarish!
  
  Such fritzes are strong now,
  They don"t have "Tigers", but tanks are scarier ...
  And hit Adolf with a sniper in the eye -
  Give the Nazis stronger banks!
  
  What we cannot do, we will do jokingly,
  Although barefoot girls in the cold ...
  We are raising a very strong child,
  And a scarlet, beautiful rose!
  
  Though the enemy strive, rush to Moscow,
  But the bare chest of the girl stood up ...
  Let's hit with a machine gun from a scythe,
  Soldiers are firing relatives!
  
  We will make Russia above all,
  A country that in the universe of the Sun is more beautiful ...
  And there will be a convincing success,
  Our faith will grow stronger in Orthodoxy!
  
  And believe the dead, we will resurrect the girls,
  Either by the power of God, or the flower of science...
  We will conquer the expanses of the universe,
  Without all the delays, vile boredom!
  
  We will be able to make the Motherland cool,
  Let us raise the throne of Russia above the stars...
  You are the mustachioed Fuhrer,
  What imagines himself without the facets of evil as the messiah!
  
  We will make the Fatherland like a giant,
  What will happen, like a single monolith ...
  The girl stood up together on the twine,
  After all, knights are invincible in battles!
  
  Save the great Fatherland
  Then you will receive a reward from Christ ...
  The Almighty better break the war,
  Although sometimes you have to fight bravely!
  
  In short, the battles will soon die down,
  The battles and losses will end ...
  And the knights are great eagles,
  Since from birth all soldiers!
  But Kyiv still fell, and the Germans forced the Soviet troops to retreat to the left bank of the Dnieper. But there it was possible to establish a defense. Pskov and Narva were also taken. Leningrad is just a stone's throw away.
  The Germans were already hanging capitally. Here they are trying to cross the Dnieper and in the center of the Soviet positions.
  But still, the Red Army held out until the winter. And then came the next forty-ninth year. And then things could have gone differently. Since the T-54 finally went more massively like the MiG-15. But there were problems with the IS-7, because this tank is too complicated to manufacture and expensive and heavy.
  "Panther" -4 went to replace the "Panther" -3. It had a more powerful gun of 105 mm and a barrel length of 100 EL comparable in combat power to the IS-7 gun with a 130 mm caliber gun and a barrel length of 60 EL. And the frontal armor of the Panther-4 was even thicker at 250 mm when tilted.
  So they fought each other.
  The Germans again began to advance in the center and surrounded Smolensk. Then they broke through to Rzhev. The Komsomol girls fought desperately.
  And they sang at the same time;
  I am a Stalinist Komsomol daughter,
  I had to fight fascism, however ...
  We were flooded with colossal power,
  Retribution came for the atheism of systems!
  
  I fought Nazism in a hurry,
  She was barefoot in the bitter cold ...
  And I got five for the exam,
  Dealt with the frantic Judas!
  
  Fascism is very insidious and cruel,
  And he broke through to Moscow with a steel horde ...
  Oh, be merciful, glorious God,
  I wear the PKK in a free knapsack!
  
  I am a girl of great beauty,
  It's nice in a snowdrift barefoot ...
  Big dream come true
  About do not judge you, beauty strictly!
  
  I crushed the Nazis like peas,
  From the city of Moscow to Stalingrad...
  And the Fuhrer turned out to be bad in battle,
  Couldn't live to see the proud parade!
  
  Oh this boundless Stalingrad,
  You have become a great turning point for us...
  There was a waterfall of cool awards,
  And Hitler got just a crowbar!
  Let's go for the great Motherland,
  We are at the end of the world or the universe ...
  I'll stay with the Komsomol member, I'm alone,
  And there will be a boundless vocation!
  
  I ran barefoot over the coals,
  Those that are burning near Stalingrad...
  And my heels burned with napalm,
  We will exterminate - the Nazis will be a reptile!
  
  The arc has come Kursk with fire,
  And the whole planet seems to be on fire...
  But we will erase the Fuhrer's regiments into shit,
  Let there be a place in a radiant paradise!
  
  Although the "Tiger" is a very strong tank,
  And his trunk is so powerful...
  But let us turn its influence to dust,
  And the sun will not disappear - the clouds will perish!
  
  "Panther" is also powerful, believe me,
  The projectile flies like a solid meteorite...
  As if it bares fangs of a beast,
  Germany and the hordes of satellites!
  
  We firmly believe in our victory,
  We are knights and Komsomol girls ...
  We will be able to crush the pressure of the horde,
  And we will not leave the battle AWOL!
  
  We love to fight - boldly win,
  We will make any business beautiful ...
  You write down our pioneer in a notebook,
  When you're with Marx, it's fair!
  
  We can also love with dignity,
  For the glory of the heavenly Jesus...
  Though the legions of Satan climb,
  We will win and we are not sad!
  
  And Berlin will be taken by the power of the Reds,
  We'll be on Mars soon...
  A cool son of a Komsomol member will be born,
  Who will say the first word - hello!
  
  Let the universal spaces be with us,
  Spread out, there will be no barriers for them ...
  We will receive top-class accomplishments,
  And the Lord Himself will give the Holy reward!
  
  Science will resurrect everyone - I believe
  There is no need to mourn for those who have fallen ...
  We are a faithful family of communism,
  Let's see between the stars of the universe gave!
  This is how the girls sing and fight. Komsomol girls are desperate and vociferous. And if they fight, then with courage. Stalin, of course, is also trying to find a way out.
  But samurai are climbing from the east, and Vladivostok has already fallen. And Kharkov was taken. And Leningrad was under blockade. And from the north it is pressed by the Finns and from the south by the Germans.
  So until the winter and the new 1950 ... The Germans are trying to advance in the spring. But the Mozhaisk line of defense is held by the heroic efforts of the Red Army. But the Germans were able to take Orel and advanced south in the summer. And by the end of autumn, they completed the almost complete capture of Ukraine and Donbass. Soviet troops withdrew beyond the Don and organized defense there. Leningrad is still under blockade.
  The new year 1951 has come ... The Germans are trying to develop their advantage in the sky. Disks have become more advanced. Bombers TA-700 and TA-800 are even more powerful and fast. Tailless fighters and bombers are pressing in the sky. And the MiG-15 completely fails against them. Well, all sorts of combat vehicles of all calibers. The development of the "Panther"-5 machine is still in the project. Well, and other combat counterparts and bells and whistles. This is where it gets really cool.
  The Germans tried to advance in the south and took the same city - Rostov-on-Don. Also in the north, Tikhvin and Volkhov finally fell. And as a result, Leningrad was completely cut off from supplies by land.
  Here comes the winter again and the year 1952 comes... In the spring, the Germans again advance on Moscow. The Panther-5 appeared in the battles with an engine of 1800 horsepower, from 128-millimeter cannons with a 100 EL barrel length, and much thicker and better armor.
  But the Soviet troops are fighting fiercely against the Nazis. And then not only adults, but also children fight.
  Pioneer boys in shorts, barefoot and in ties put up such stubborn and furious resistance to the Fritz that you simply stagger in surprise. How they fight for a brighter tomorrow.
  And at the same time the hero boys sing;
  I am a warrior of the Motherland - a pioneer,
  A tough fighter, although still a boy ...
  And we'll do a lot of different things
  It will seem to the enemy not too much!
  
  I can break a tree with my foot
  And climb the ropes to the moon ...
  Here I run barefoot through the snowdrifts -
  And I'll even hit the Fuhrer in the balls!
  
  I'm a boy and of course superman,
  Able to invent any business ...
  And we'll make a lot of changes
  Here we crush the greatness of the cool!
  
  The forty-first terrible year has come,
  In which the Nazis have a lot of strength ...
  We are in danger of death
  But we will be able to escape from the grave!
  
  We have such a thing, kids
  But pioneers know you are not children ...
  We will grind the fascists from the heart,
  And bring order to the planet!
  
  Let's build filigree communism,
  And make the whole world a great paradise...
  Let evil fascism bare its claws,
  We will immediately tear all tyrants to pieces!
  
  For a pioneer there is no word coward,
  And there is no word - it does not happen anymore ...
  Wise Jesus is with me in my heart,
  Though the dog from hell to deafening, barks!
  
  Fascism is powerful and simply strong,
  His grin is like the faces of the underworld...
  He popped on very powerful tanks,
  But we will overcome by the power of the Lord!
  
  Let man fly to Mars
  We know this very firmly brothers ...
  Any business to argue with us,
  And we boys have fun!
  
  We will be able to protect peace, order,
  And no matter how the enemy was - cruel, insidious ...
  We will beat the enemy hard,
  And the Russian sword will be glorified in battles!
  
  I am a pioneer - a Soviet man,
  The boy is like a relative of the big titans ...
  And never blossom
  If we do not give a thrashing - evil tyrants!
  
  But I believe we will defeat the Nazis,
  Although it was hard for us near Moscow ...
  Above us is a radiant cherub,
  And I'm running through the snow with a barefoot girl!
  
  No, I will never surrender to the Fritz,
  Let the courage of the titans be better ...
  After all, Lenin is with us in our hearts forever,
  He is the crusher of rabid tyrants!
  
  I will achieve that there will be communism,
  Comrade Stalin will raise the red flag...
  And crush the damned revanchism
  And the name of Jesus will be in the heart!
  
  What can a pioneer not understand for you
  But he is capable of a lot guys ...
  Hand over the items, boy, you're at five,
  Line on the Fritz, dared from the machine!
  
  I solemnly swear to the Motherland,
  To give the whole body in battle without a trace ...
  Rus' will be invincible in the fight,
  Though a glove is thrown in the face of the country!
  
  And we will enter the defeated Berlin,
  Passing boldly there under the red flag ...
  We will conquer the expanses of the universe -
  And let's make the Fatherland beautiful!
  Barefoot boys, as they say, fight, like Komsomol members too. The last warriors are almost without clothes. And everyone has bare feet.
  Here comes March 1953. Stalin is dying. The people, of course, are in great grief. And the Germans with swift, flank attacks surround the capital of the USSR. Further, the Nazis, building on their success, rush to Ryazan. From the USSR, the first IS-10 tanks go into battle. In this case, it is something similar to the IS-3, only with a longer gun barrel. Not EL 48, but EL 60. Which gives better and more lethal ballistics. Well, the appearance of the IS-11. The latter was more powerful than the IS-7, with a 152 mm gun and a 70 EL barrel. The new tank itself weighed one hundred tons. Of course, he also had disadvantages, like the IS-7, heavy weight, high cost and complexity in production and transportation. Although the new gun could penetrate all German tanks, not only the swollen Panther-5, but the Tiger family, even heavier, but not very fashionable vehicles.
  Indeed, if the "Panther"-5 itself, the devil knows what a monster of eighty tons in weight, then what is the point of releasing heavier vehicles? Nevertheless, all the same, the "Tiger" -5 appeared - a rare monster with a caliber gun of 210 mm, and weighing one hundred and sixty tons. Well, there is nothing to say about "Mouses" and "Lions". But cars heavier than two hundred tons are trivially almost impossible to transport by rail. So "Lion" -5 turned out to be such a monster that it was not launched into the series.
  Be that as it may, after the death of Stalin and the encirclement of Moscow, the war went on a different track. And now the Germans seemed to be unstoppable. So they took the city of Gorky, and are already approaching Kazan.
  But the Komsomol girls fight with wild and redeemed fury, like barefoot pioneers in shorts. At the same time, they sing with the scope of their sonorous throats:
  In the vastness of the wonderful homeland,
  Tempered in battles and labor...
  We composed a joyful song
  O great friend and leader!
  
  Stalin is the glory of battle,
  Stalin is the flight of youth ....
  Fighting and winning with songs,
  Our people are following Stalin!
  
  CIA SPECIAL OPERATIONS - LATIN AMERICA
  ANNOTATION
  Spies of all stripes operate around the world. They penetrate into different spheres of power. And special operations are visible. And in Latin America and Africa, there are scouts, and other people. And of course the FSB and the CIA compete not for life, but for death.
  . CHAPTER #1
  Palace of Apostolico
  
  Sabado, April 2, 2005, 9:37 pm.
  
  
  
  The man in bed stopped breathing. His personal secretary, Monsignor Stanislav Dvisic, who had held the right hand of the dying man for thirty-six hours, burst into tears. The men on duty had to forcefully push him away and spent more than an hour trying to get the old man back. They were much larger than all sentient beings. As they began the resuscitation process again and again, they all knew that they had to do everything possible and impossible to assuage their consciences.
  
  The private quarters of the Sumo Pontifices would surprise me to the uninformed observer. The ruler, before whom the leaders of the peoples bowed with respect, lived in conditions of complete poverty. His room was unbelievably austere, with bare walls except for a crucifix, and furniture of lacquered wood: a table, a chair, and a modest bed. The centimo hub has been replaced in the last ú months with a hospital bed. Nurses scurried around her, trying to resuscitate her, while thick drops of sweat trickled down the spotless white tubs. Four Polish nuns changed them to día three times.
  
  In the end, Dr. Silvio Renato, my personal secretary to the Pope, stopped this attempt. He gestures for the nurses to cover their old face with a white veil. I asked everyone to leave, staying close to Dvišić. Draw up a death certificate, all the same. The cause of death was more than obvious - cardiovascular collapse, aggravated by inflammation of the larynx. He hesitated when it came to spelling the old man's name, although in the end I chose his civilian name to avoid problems.
  
  Having unfolded and signed the document, the doctor handed it to Cardinal Samalo, who had just entered the room. Purple has the daunting task of officially confirming the death.
  
  -Thank you Doctor. With your permission, I will continue.
  
  "It's all yours, Your Eminence.
  
  - No, doctor. Now it's from God.
  
  Samalo slowly approached the deathbed. At 78 years old, you lived in the house at the request of your Husband many times so as not to see this moment. He was a calm and balanced person and was aware of the heavy burden and many duties and tasks that now fell on his shoulders.
  
  Look ató cadáver. This man lived to the age of 84 and survived a gunshot wound to the chest, a colon tumor, and complicated appendicitis. But Parkinson's disease weakened him, and he indulged himself so much that his heart eventually gave out and died.#243; mas.
  
  From a window on the third floor of the palace, Cardinal Podí watched as almost two hundred thousand people gathered in St. Peter's Square. The rooftops of the surrounding buildings were littered with antennas and television stations. "Dentro de poco serán aún más-pensó Samalo-. The one that's coming towards us. People worshiped him, admired his sacrifice and his iron will. To beá a heavy blow, even if everyone had been expecting it since January... and few wanted it. And then another thing."
  
  I heard a noise at the door, and the head of the Vatican's security, Camilo Sirin, entered, ahead of the three cardinals who were supposed to certify the death. Their faces showed concern and hope. The Purples approached the box. Nobody but La Vista.
  
  "Let's start," said Samalo.
  
  Dvišić handed him the open suitcase. The maid lifted the white veil covering the face of the deceased and opened the vial containing the holy Lions. Start ó millennial ritual on Latin in:
  
  - Si vives, ego te absolvo a peccatis tuis, in nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti, amén 1.
  
   Samalo draw a cross on the forehead of the deceased and attach it to the cross.;:
  
   - Per istam sanctam Unctionem, indulgeat tibi Dominus a quidquid... Amen 2.
  
  With a solemn gesture, he calls her to the blessing and the apostle.:
  
  "By the authority given to me by the Apostolic See, I grant you complete indulgence and absolution of all sins... and bless you. In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and especially of St. Ritu... Amén.
  
  Tomó the silver hammer from the suitcase, which he hands to the bishop. Carefully strike ól three times on the forehead of the dead man, saying after each blow:
  
  - Karol Wojtyla, ¿ dead?
  
  There was no answer. The Camerlengo looked at the three cardinals standing by the bed, who nodded.
  
  Indeed, the Pope is dead.
  
  With his right hand, Samalo removed the Rybak ring, the symbol of his power in the world, from the deceased. With my right hand, I again covered the face of John Paul II with a veil. Take a deep breath and look at your three eros comrades.
  
  - We have a lot of work.
  
  
  SOME OBJECTIVE FACTS ABOUT THE VATICAN
  
   (extraídos del CIA World Factbook)
  
  
   Area: 0.44 sq.m (the smallest in the world)
  
  Borders: 3.2 km. (with Italy)
  
  Low point más: St. Peter's Square, 19 meters above sea level.
  
  Highest point: Vatican Gardens, 75 meters above sea level.
  
  Temperature: Moderate rainy winter from September to mid-May, hot dry summer from May to September.
  
  Land use: 100% á urban areas. Cultivated land, 0%.
  
  Natural resources: None.
  
  
  Population: 911 citizens with passports. 3000 workers during día.
  
  System of government: ecclesiastical, monarchical, absolute.
  
  Fertility rate: 0%. Ninún birth throughout its history.
  
  Economy: based on giving alms and selling postage stamps, postcards, stamps and managing their own banks and finances.
  
  Communications: 2200 telephone stations, 7 radio stations, 1 TV channel.
  
  Annual income: $242 million.
  
  Annual costs: $272 million.
  
  Legal system: Based on the rules established by the Canónico Law. Although the death penalty has not been officially used since 1868, it remains in place.
  
  
  Special considerations: The Holy Father has a great influence on the lives of more than 1,086,000,000 believers.
  
  
  
  
   Iglesia de Santa Maria in Traspontina
  
  Via della Conciliazione, 14
  
   Tuesday , April 5 , 2005 10:41 am .
  
  
  
   Inspector Dicanti squints as he enters, trying to adjust to the darkness of the room. It took him almost half an hour to get to the crime scene. If Rome is always a chaos of blood circulation, then after the death of the Holy Father it turned into hell. Thousands of people came every day to the capital of Christendom to give the last adióal kaduásm. Exhibition at St. Peter's Basilica. That pope died with the glory of a saint, and volunteers were already walking the streets, collecting signatures to start the cause of beatification. Every hour, 18,000 people passed in front of the body. "A real success for forensic science," Paola says ironically.
  
  His mother warned him before leaving the apartment they shared on Via della Croce.
  
  Don't go after Cavour, it will take a long time. Go up to Regina Margherita and go down to Rienzo," he said, stirring the porridge she made for him, like every mother from thirty-three to thirty-three.
  
  Of course, she went for Cavour, and it took a long time.
  
  She carried the taste of porridge in her mouth, the taste of his moms. During my undergraduate years at FBI headquarters in Quantico, Virginia, I missed the sensation almost to the point of nausea. He came and asked his mother to send him a jar, which they heated up in the microwave in the break room of the Behavioral Research Unit. I know no equal, but I will help him to be so far from home during this difficult and at the same time such a fruitful test. Paola grew up a stone's throw from Via Condotti, one of the most prestigious streets in the world, and yet her family was poor. She didn't know what the word meant until she went to America, a country with its own measure for everything. She was overjoyed to be back in the city she'd hated so much when she was growing up.
  
  In 1995, Italy created a violent crime unit specializing in serial killers. It seems incredible that the 5th president of the world in the psicópatas ranking did not have a unit that could fight them so late. UACV has a dedicated department called the Behavioral Analysis Lab founded by Giovanni Balta, Dicanti's teacher and mentor. Unfortunately, Balta died at the beginning of 2004 as a result of an accident with a tráfico and the dottora Dicanti pasó is to become the apprentice of the Dicanti, standing by the Roman lake. His FBI training and Balta's excellent reports were his endorsement. After the death of her boss, the LAC staff was quite small: herself. But, as a department integrated into UACV, they enjoyed the technical support of one of the most advanced forensic units in Europe.
  
  So far, however, everything has been unsuccessful. There are 30 serial killers in Italy who have not been identified. Of these, 9 correspond to "hot" cases associated with recent deaths. There hasn't been a single new hire since she was in charge of the LAC, and the lack of expert opinion has increased the pressure on Dikanti, as psychological profiles have sometimes turned psychological. the only thing I can do is bring in a suspect. "Castles in the air," Dr. Boy, a fanatic of his craft, called them. a mathematician and nuclear scientist who spent more time on the phone than in the lab. Alas, Boy was the CEO of UACV and Paola's direct superior, and every time he ran into her in the hallway, he gave her a derisive look. "My beautiful writer" was the phrase he used when they were alone in his office, playfully alluding to the sinister imagination that Dicanti wasted on profiles. Dikanti was looking forward to when his work would begin to bear fruit, to give these goats in the nose. She made the mistake of sleeping with him on a night of weakness. Working long hours late, caught off guard, indefinite absences from el corazon... and the usual laments about mamuñana. Especially when you consider that Boy was married and almost twice his age. É he was a gentleman and did not delve into this topic (and was careful to keep his distance), but he never let Paola forget about it, not a single phrase. between macho and charming. He gave away how I hated him.
  
  And finally, since your ascension, you have a real case that needs to be considered from the very beginning, and not on the basis of trifling evidence gathered by clumsy agents. He received a phone call during breakfast and returned to his room to change. She pulled her long black hair into a tight bun and dropped the trouser skirt and jumper she was wearing to the office and chose a smart business suit. The jacket is also black. She was intrigued: the caller had not provided any data, unless he actually committed a crime that was within his competence, and she quoted him in Santa Mar in Transpontina "with the greatest urgency".
  
  And everyone was at the door of the church. Unlike Paola, a crowd of people gathered on the almost five-kilometer "col", which reached the bridge of Vittorio Emanuele II. Look at the scene with concern. These people were there all night, but those who may have seen something were already far away. Some pilgrims glanced in passing at an inconspicuous pair of carabinieri who blocked the entrance to the temple to a random group of believers. They very diplomatically assured that work was underway in the building.
  
  Paola breathed in the fortress and cross the threshold of the church in the semi-darkness. The house is in one nave with five chapels on the sides. The smell of old, rusty incense hung in the air. All the lights were off, probably because they were there when the body was found. One of Boy's rules was "Let's see what he saw."
  
  Look around with narrowed eyes. Two people were talking quietly at the back of the church, with their backs to her. Near the font with holy water, a nervous Carmelite, fingering the rosary, noticed the attention with which he looked at the scene.
  
  "She's beautiful, isn't she, signorina?" Dated 1566. It was built by Peruzzi and his chapels...
  
  Dikanti interrupted him with a hard smile.
  
  "Unfortunately, brother, I am not at all interested in art at the present time. I'm Inspector Paola Dicanti. ¿ Are you that psycho?
  
  - Indeed, inspector. I was also the one who discovered the body. This will surely interest the masses. Blessed be God, on days like é stos... ¡ the saint is gone from us, and only demons remain!
  
  It was an elderly man with thick glasses, dressed in the costume of Bito Marr of the Carmelites. A large spatula tied around his waist, and a thick gray beard covered his face. He walked in circles around the pile, slightly hunched over, slightly limping. Her hands fluttered over the beads with a strong and uncontrollable period of trembling.
  
  - Calm down, brother. What's his name?
  
  -Francesco Toma, inspector.
  
  "All right, brother, tell me in your own words how it all happened. I know I've already counted it six or seven times, but it's necessary, my love.
  
  The monk sighed.
  
  - Nothing much to say. Also, Roco, I'm in charge of taking care of the church. I live in a small cell behind the sacristy. I get up like every day, at six in the morning. I washed my face, put on a bandage. I cross the sacristy, exit the church through a disguised door at the back of the high altar, and head to the Nuestra Señora del Carmen chapel, where I pray my prayers every day. I noticed that candles were lit in front of St. Tom's chapel, for when I went to bed there was no one there, and then I saw this. I rushed to the sacristy, scared to death because the killer was supposed to be in the church, and called 113.
  
  -¿ Do not touch anything at the crime scene?
  
  - No, inspector. Nothing. I was very scared, God forgive me.
  
  -¿And you also didn't try to help víctima?
  
  - Ispettora... it was obvious that he was completely deprived of any earthly help.
  
  A figure was approaching them down the central aisle of the church. It was Sub Inspector Maurizio Pontiero of UACV.
  
  "Dikanti, hurry up, they're going to turn on the lights."
  
  -Just a second. Hold on, brother. Here is my business card. My phone number is listed below. I'll be a meme anytime if I remember something I like.
  
  "I will do it, inspector. Here, a gift.
  
  The Carmelite handed him a brightly colored print.
  
  - Santa Maria del Carmen. He will always be with you. Show him the way in these dark times.
  
  "Thank you, brother," Dicanti said, absently removing the seal.
  
  The inspector followed Pontiero through the church to the third chapel on the left, cordoned off with red UACV tape.
  
  "You're late," the sub-inspector chided him.
  
  Trafico was terminally ill. There is a nice circus outside.
  
  "You should have come for Rienzo.
  
  Despite having a higher position than Pontiero in the Italian Police Service, he was in charge of the UACV field research and thus any laboratory researcher was under the command of the police. even a man like Paola, who holds the position of department head. Pontiero was a man between 51 and 241 years old, very thin and sullen. His face, like a raisin, was adorned with years of wrinkles. Paola noticed that the junior inspector adored her, although she tried very hard not to show it.
  
  Dicanti wanted to cross the street, but Pontiero grabbed his arm.
  
  "Wait a minute, Paola. Nothing you saw prepared you for this. This is absolutely insane, I promise you." Her voice trembled.
  
  "I think I can work things out, Pontiero. But thanks.
  
  Enter the chapel. Inside lived a UACV photography expert. At the back of the chapel, a small altar is attached to the wall with a painting dedicated to St. Tom's, the moment when the saint put his fingers to the wounds of Jesus.
  
  There was a body underneath.
  
  - Holy Madonna.
  
  "I told you, Dicanti.
  
  It was a dentist look at the ass. The dead man was leaning against the altar. I tore out his eyes, leaving two terrible blackish wounds in their place. From the mouth, open in a horrifying and grotesque grimace, hung some kind of brownish object. In the bright light of the flash, Dicanti discovered what seemed terrible to me. The hands were cut off and lay next to the body, cleansed of blood, on a white sheet. One of the hands was wearing a thick ring.
  
  The dead man was dressed in a black talar suit with a red border, characteristic of the cardinals.
  
  Paola opened her eyes wide.
  
  "Pontiero, tell me he's not a cardinal.
  
  "We don't know, Dicanti. We investigate him, though little remains of his face. We're waiting for you to see what this place looks like as the killer saw it.
  
  -¿Dóndeá the rest of the crime scene investigation team?
  
  The Análysis team formed the bulk of UACV. They were all forensic experts, specializing in collecting footprints, fingerprints, hairs, and anything else a criminal might have left on a body. They acted according to the rule that in every crime there is a transfer: the killer takes something and leaves something.
  
  "He's already on his way. The van is stuck in Cavour.
  
  "I should have come for Rienzo," my uncle interrupted.
  
  "No one ever asked his opinionón -espetó Dicanti.
  
  The man left the room, mumbling something not very pleasant to the inspector.
  
  "You have to start controlling yourself, Paola.
  
  -My God, Pontiero, ¿why didn't you call me earlier? said Dicanti, ignoring the junior inspector's recommendation. This is a very serious matter. Whoever did this has a very bad head.
  
  -¿Is this your professional analysis, dottor?
  
  Carlo Boy entered the chapel and dedicated one of his somber glances to her. He loved é such unexpected tickets. Paola realized that él was one of the two people who were talking with their backs to the holy water font when she entered the church, and she reproached herself for allowing him to take her by surprise. The other was next to the director, but did not say a word and did not enter the chapel.
  
  - No, Director Boy. My professional analysis will put it on your table as soon as it's ready. Therefore, I immediately warn you that the one who committed this crime is very sick.
  
  Boy was about to say something, but at that moment, the lights in the church came on. And they all saw what the había had overlooked: on the ground, next to the deceased había, it was written in not very large letters
  
  
  EGO I JUSTIFY YOU
  
  
  "It looks like blood," Pontiero said, putting into words what everyone was thinking.
  
  This is a vile tele'233; phono mo with chords of Handel's Hallelujah. All three looked at Comrade de Boy, who very seriously took the phone out of his coat pocket and answered the call. He didn't say much, just a dozen "ajá" and "mmm."
  
  After hanging up, I looked at Boy and nodded.
  
  "That's what we're afraid of, amos," the UACV director said. Inspector Dicanti, Vice Inspector Pontiero, it is needless to tell you that this is a very delicate matter. The one with the ahí is the Argentine Cardinal Emilio Robaira. If the assassination of a cardinal in Rome is in itself an indescribable tragedy, then even more so at this stage. The vice-president was one of 115 people who, over the course of several months, participated in the Cí225;n key to electing a new sumo wrestler. Therefore, the situation is delicate and difficult. This crime should not fall into the hands of the press, according to the concept of ningún. Imagine the headlines: "Serial killer terrorizes Pope's constituency." I don't even want to think...
  
  - Wait a minute, director. ¿ Did you say serial killer? ¿Is there something here that we don't know?
  
  Fight Karraspeó and look at the mysterious character that you came with éL.
  
  -Paola Dicanti, Maurizio Pontiero, Permí, let me introduce to you Camilo Sirin, Inspector General of the Vatican State Surveillance Corps.
  
  É Saint nodded and took a step forward. When he spoke, he did so with an effort, as if he didn't want to utter a word.
  
  - We believe that é hundred is the second vístima.
  
  
  
  
   Instituto Saint Matthew
  
  Silver Spring, Maryland
  
   August 1994
  
  
  
  "Come in, Father Karoski, come in. Please strip naked behind a screen, if that's your kindness.
  
  The priest begins to take off the priest. The captain's voice came to him from the other side of the white bulkhead.
  
  "You don't have to worry about trials, father. It's okay, right? Unlike ordinary people, hehe. Maybe there are other prisoners who talk about her, but she is not as proud as she is portrayed, like my grandmother. ¿ Kuá who is with us?
  
  - Two weeks.
  
  "Enough time to find out if youñ or... ¿went to play tennis?"
  
  - I don't like tennis. I am already leaving?
  
  - No, father, put on a green T-shirt, don't go fishing, hehe.
  
  Karoski came out from behind a screen in a green T-shirt.
  
  - Go to the stretcher and pick it up. That's all. Wait, I'll fix the back of the seat. He should be able to see the image on the TV well. Everything is fine?
  
  - Very good.
  
  - Great. Wait, I have to make some adjustments to the Medición tools and we'll get started right away. By the way, this one from ahí is a good TV, isn't it? He is 32 inches tall, if my house was the same as his, surely a relative would show me respect, right? Hehehehe.
  
  - I'm not sure.
  
  "Of course not, Father, of course not. This woman will not have any respect for him and at the same time will not love him if he jumps out of a pack of Golden Grahams and kicks his greasy ass, hehehehe.
  
  "You should not take the name of God in vain, my child.
  
  "He has a reason, father. Well, it's already. ¿ You've never done a penile plethysmography before, right?
  
  - No.
  
  "Of course not, that"s stupid, hehe. ¿Have you already been told what the test is?
  
  -In outline.
  
  "Well, now I'm going to put my hands under his shirt and attach these two electrodes to his penis, right? This will help us to measure your level of sexual response to certain conditions.í men. Okay, now I'm going to start posting it. It's already.
  
  - He has cold hands.
  
  "Yes, it"s cold in here, hehe." ¿ Is itá isómode?
  
  - I'm fine.
  
  - So, we begin.
  
  My genes began to change each other on the screen. Eiffel Tower. Dawn. Fog in the mountains.tuz. Chocolate ice cream. Heterosexual intercourse. Forest. trees. Heterosexual fellatio. Tulips in Holland. Homosexual intercourse. Las Meninas de Velasquez. Sunset on Kilimanjaro. Homosexual blowjob. Snow lies high on the rooftops of a village in Switzerland. Felachi ped ped ped ped ped ped ped ped ped ped ped ped ped ped ped ped ped ped ped ped ped ped ped ped ped ped ped Niío looks directly at Samara while she sucks on the adult's cock. Sadness in his eyes.
  
  Karoski gets up. There is rage in his eyes.
  
  - Father, he can't get up, ¡ we haven't finished yet!
  
  The priest grabs him by the neck, slams the psi-logos' head against the dashboard again and again as the blood soaks through the buttons, the football player's white coat, Karoski's green jersey and the world.
  
   - No cometerás actos impuros nunca más, ¿correcto? ¿ Right, dirty piece of shit, right?
  
  
  
  
   Iglesia de Santa Maria in Traspontina
  
  Via della Conciliazione, 14
  
   Tuesday , April 5 , 2005 11:59 am .
  
  
  
   The silence that followed Sirin's words was broken by the bells announcing Christmas in nearby St. Peter's Square.
  
  -¿Second fifth and#237; Part? ¿They tore apart another cardinal and we find out about it now? Pontiero's expression made it clear that he deserved the opinion he deserved in the current situation.
  
  Sirin, impassive, stares at them intently. He was, without a doubt, a man beyond what he knew. Medium height, chaste eyes, indeterminate age, discreet suit, gray coat. None of his traits overlapped the other, and there was something unusual about that: it was a paradigm of normality. He spoke so quietly, as if he also wanted to fade into the background in this way. But this didn't move Enga or anyone present: they were all talking about Camilo Sirin, one of the most powerful people in the Vatican. He controlled the body of the smallest cop in the world: the Vatican Vigilante. A corps of 48 agents (officially), less than half of the Swiss Guard, but infinitely more powerful. Nothing could happen in his little house without Sirin knowing. In 1997, one person tried to cast a shadow on him: the rector elected Alois Siltermann as commander of the Swiss Guard. Two people after his appointment, Siltermann, his wife and a corporal with an impeccable reputation, were found dead. I shot them 3. The blame lies with the corporal, who allegedly went insane, fired at a couple, and then stuck "his service weapon" into his mouth and pulled the trigger. All explanations would be correct, if not for two small details: the corporals of the Swiss Guard are not armed, and the corporal in question has his front teeth knocked out. Everyone thinks that the gun was brutally shoved into their mouths.
  
  This story was told by a colleague from Inspectorate 4 to Dikanti. Upon learning of what had happened, él and his comrades ñeros were supposed to provide all possible assistance to the security officers, but as soon as they stepped on the scene of the crime, they were cordially invited to return to the inspectorate and lock the door from the inside, not even knocking. even thank them. The black legend of Sirin was passed from mouth to mouth by commissariats throughout Rome, and UACV was no exception.
  
  And all three, leaving the chapel, were stunned by the declaration of Sirin.
  
  "With all due respect, Ispettore Generale, I think that if you become aware that a murderer capable of committing a crime like éste is at large in Rome, it is your duty to report it to the UACV," Dicanti said.
  
  "That is exactly what my esteemed colleague did," Boy replied. I reported this to me personally. We both agree that this matter must remain a closely guarded secret for the greater good. And we both agree on something else. There is no one in the Vatican who would be able to deal with such a ... typical criminal as íste.
  
  Surprisingly, Sirin intervened.
  
  -Sere franco, signorina. Our job is disputes, defense and counterintelligence. In é these areas we are very good, I guarantee you that. But if you called it ¿somo ó you? a guy with such a bad head is out of our purview. We will consider asking them for help until word of the second crime reaches us.
  
  "We thought this case would require a lot more creativity, Inspector Dicanti. That's why we don't want you to be limited to profiling as you have been until now. We want you to lead the investigation," Director Boy said.
  
  Paola remains mute. It was the job of a field agent, not a forensic psychiatrist. Of course, she could have handled it as well as any field agent, since Quantico had given her the proper training for it, but it was clear that such a request had come from Boy and not from me. at that moment I left it with Nita.
  
  Sirin turned to the man in the leather jacket who was approaching them.
  
  -Oh, aquí está. Let me introduce you to Superintendent Dante of the Vigilance Service. Be his link to the Vatican, Dikanti. Report the previous crime to him and work on both cases as this is an isolated incident. Whatever I ask from él is the same as what I ask from me. And to the reverend, whatever he denies, I don't care if I deny it to him. We have our own rules in the Vatican, I hope you understand. And I also hope they catch this monster. The murder of two priests of the Holy Mother of the Church cannot go unpunished.
  
  And without saying a word, he left.
  
  The fight became very close to Paola until it made her feel incomoded. More recently, their love quarrel surfaced in his memory.
  
  "He already did it, Dicanti. You have just made contact with one of the powerful people in the Vatican and he has asked you for something very specific. I don't know why he drew attention to you, but mention his name directly. Take whatever you need. Hágame clear, concise and simple daily reports. And, above all, re-examination. I hope that his "castles in the air" will serve something a hundred times over. Try to tell me something, and quickly.
  
  Turning around, he headed for the exit after Sirin.
  
  "What bastards," Dikanti finally exploded when she was sure the others couldn't nían, nírla.
  
  "Wow, if he spoke," laughed Dante, who had arrived.
  
  Paola blushes and I offer her my hand.
  
  - Paola Dicanti.
  
  - Fabio Dante.
  
  - Maurizio Pontiero.
  
  Dicanti took advantage of Pontiero and Dante's handshake to study the latter closely. Contaría apenas 41 anos. He was short, swarthy and strong, with a head attached to his shoulders for a little over five centimeters of thick neck. Despite his height of only 1.70, the superintendent was an attractive man, though not at all graceful. Keep in mind that olive green eyes are so characteristic of the southern Pen Club that they give them a special look. face.
  
  -¿ I'm supposed to understand that by "bastards" you mean my boss, the inspector?
  
  - To tell the truth, yes. I think it did me an undeserved honor.
  
  "We both know this is not an honor, but a terrible mistake, Dicanti. And this is not undeserved, his track record speaks of the wonders of his preparation. He regrets that this will not help him achieve results, but this will surely change soon, right?
  
  -¿ Do you have my story? Holy Madonna, is there really nothing confidential here?
  
  - Not for el.
  
  "Listen, presumptuous..." Pontiero was indignant.
  
  -Basta, Maurizio. It is not necessary. We're at a crime scene and I'm responsible. Let's get to work, monkeys, we'll talk later. Leave Mosl a field to them.
  
  "Well, now you are in command, Paola. That's what the boss said.
  
  Waiting at a good distance outside the red door were two men and a woman in navy blue overalls. It was a crime scene analysis unit, specialized in collecting evidence. The inspector and two others left the chapel and walked towards the central nave.
  
  "Okay, Dante. Its all is pidió Dicanti.
  
  - Well... the first víctima was the Italian Cardinal Enrico Portini.
  
  -¡This can't be! - Dicanti and Pontiero were surprised at the time.
  
  "Please, friends, I saw it with my own eyes.
  
  "Great candidate for the reform-liberal wing of the church. If this news gets into the media, it will be terrible.
  
  -No, Pontiero, sera una catastrofe. George W. Bush arrived in Rome yesterday morning with his entire family. Two hundred other international leaders and heads of state are staying at their homes but are due for funerals on Friday. The situation worries me a lot, but you guys already know what the city is like. This is a very difficult situation and the last thing we want is for niko to fail. Please come out with me. I need a cigarette.
  
  Dante escorted them to the street, where more and more people became, and he became more and more crowded. La masa humana cubría por completo la Via della Conciliazione. There are French, Spanish, Polish, Italian flags. Jay and#243;you come with your guitars, religious figures with lit candles, even a blind old man with his guide dog. Two million people will attend the Pope's funeral, which has changed the map of Europe. Of course Penso Dicanti, écent is the worst environment in the world to work. Any possible trace would be lost much sooner during the pilgrimage storm.
  
  "Portini stayed at Madri Pie's residence on Via de Gasperi," Dante said. He arrived on Thursday morning, aware of the Pope's grave health condition. The nuns say that he dined on Friday quite normally, and that he was in the chapel for quite some time praying for the Holy Father. They didn't see him lay down. There was no sign of a struggle in his room. No one slept in his bed, otherwise the one who kidnapped him remade it perfectly. The Pope did not go to breakfast, but they assumed that he had stayed in the Vatican to pray. We don't know it's the end of the world, but there's been a lot of confusion in the city. Do you understand? I disappeared a block from the Vatican.
  
  He got up, lit one cigar, and offered another to Pontiero, who rejected it in disgust and took out his own. Go on.
  
  "Yesterday morning, Anna appeared in the residence chapel, but, as here, the lack of blood on the floor indicated that this was a staged scene. Luckily, the one who discovered it was the respected priest who called us in the first place. We took pictures of the place, but when I offered to call you, Sirin told me that I would take care of it. And he orders us to purify absolutely everything. Cardinal Portini's body was moved to a very specific location within the Vatican grounds and all cremated.
  
  -¡Somo! ¡ They destroyed evidence of a serious crime on Italian soil! I can't believe it, really.
  
  Dante looks at them defiantly.
  
  - My boss made a decision, and it may have been the wrong one. But he called his boss and laid out the situation. And here you are guys. Do they know what we have on hand? We are not prepared to deal with a situation like a hundred.
  
  "That's why I had to leave it in the hands of professionals," Pontiero interjected with a serious face.
  
  He still doesn't understand it. We can't trust anyone. That is why Sirin did what he did, blessed soldier of our Mother Church. Don't look at me with that face, Dicanti. I blame him for the motives that moved him. If it all ended with Portini's death, Amos could find any excuse and hush it up. But it wasn't an ace. It's nothing personal, endiéndalo.
  
  "What I understand is that we are here in our second year. And with half the evidence. Fantastic story. Is there anything we should be aware of? Dikanti was really furious.
  
  "Not now, Inspector," Dante said, hiding his mocking smile again.
  
  -Damn it. Damn it, damn it. We have a terrible lío in our hands, Dante. I want you to tell me absolutely everything from now on. And one thing is absolutely clear: I am in command here. You have been assigned to help me in everything, but I want you to understand that, despite the fact that the courts are cardinal, both cases were under my jurisdiction, is that clear?
  
  -Crystal Clean.
  
  - It's better to let it be asi. ¿Was the manner of action the same?
  
  "As far as my detective skills extend, yes. Cadiver lay at the foot of the altar. He was missing his eyes. The hands, like hereí, were separated and placed on the canvas on the side of the CAD. Below. It was disgusting. I myself put the body in a sack and took it to the crematorium oven. I spent the whole night in the shower, you can trust me.
  
  "A small mass-a male-Pontiero would suit him.
  
  
  Four long hours after the trial of the cadéver de Robayre had been completed, filming could begin. At the direct request of the director of the Boy, it was the guys from Analisis who put the body in a plastic bag and took it to the morgue so that the medical staff would not see the cardinal's suit. It was clear that this was a special case and the identity of the victim must be kept secret.
  
  On good all .
  
  
  
  
  Instituto Saint Matthew
  
  Silver Spring, Maryland
  
   September 1994 _ _
  
  
  
   TRAFFIC OF INTERVIEW #5 BETWEEN PATIENT #3643 AND DR. CANIS CONROY.
  
  
   D.R. CONROY : Buenas tardes, Viktor. Welcome to my office. Are you better? do you feel better?
  
  #3643 : Yes, thank you doctor.
  
  DR. CONROY: ¿ Would you like something to drink?
  
  #3643 : No thanks.
  
  DR. CONROY: Wow, a priest who doesn't drink... a whole new thing. He doesn't care that I...
  
  #3643 : Go ahead doctor.
  
  DR. CONROY: I think you spent some time in the infirmary.
  
  #3643 : I got a few bruises last week.
  
  DR. CONROY: ¿ Remember who got those bruises?
  
  #3643 : Sure, doctor. It was during a quarrel in the examination room.
  
   D.R. CONROY : Hábleme de ello, Viktor.
  
   #3643 : I went to great lengths to get a plethysmography as you recommended.
  
   D.R. CONROY : ¿Recuerda cuál era el propósito de la prueba, Viktor?
  
   #3643 : Determine the causes of my problem.
  
  D.R. CONROY : Efectivamente, Viktor. Admit that you have a problem and that is definitely progress.
  
  #3643 : Doctor, I always knew you had a problem. I remind you that I am in St. Centro voluntarily.
  
  DR. CONROY: This is a topic I would like to meet you face to face in a próxima interview, no doubt about it. But now let's continue talking about another día.
  
  #3643 : I went in and undressed.
  
   D.R. CONROY: ¿Eso le incomodo?
  
   #3643 : Yes.
  
  DR. CONROY: This is a serious test. Required to be naked.
  
  #3643 : I don't see the need for this.
  
  DR. CONROY: The psychó logo should be placing Medición instruments in an area of your body that is normally inaccessible. That's why you had to be naked, Victor.
  
  #3643 : I don't see the need for this.
  
  DR. CONROY: Well, suppose for a moment that it was necessary.
  
  #3643 : If you say so doctor.
  
   D.R. CONROY : ¿Qué sucedio después?
  
  #3643 : Lay some ahí cables .
  
  D.R. CONROY: ¿En donde, Viktor?
  
   #3643 : You already know.
  
  DR. CONROY: No Victor, I don't know and I want you to tell me.
  
  #3643 : In my case.
  
  D.R. CONROY : ¿Puede ser más explícito, Viktor?
  
  #3643 : On my ... cock.
  
  DR. CONROY: Okay, Victor, that's right. This is the male member, the male organ that serves for copulation and urination.
  
  #3643 : In my case it refers to the second one, doctor.
  
   D.R. CONROY : ¿Está seguro, Viktor?
  
   #3643 : Si.
  
  DR. CONROY: You weren't always like this in the past, Victor.
  
  #3643 : The past, the past isá. I want this to change.
  
  D.R. CONROY: ¿Por que?
  
  #3643 : Because it's the will of God.
  
  DR. CONROY: ¿ Do you really believe God's will has anything to do with this, Victor? ¿With your problem?
  
  #3643 : God's will applies to everything.
  
  DR. CONROY: I'm a priest too, Victor, and I think sometimes God lets nature take its course.
  
  #3643 : Nature is an enlightened invention that has no place in our religion, doctor.
  
  DR. CONROY: Let's get back to the examining room, Victor. Kuentemé cué syntió when a wire was attached to it.
  
  #3643 : The psychedelic logo of ten in the hands of freaks.
  
  D.R. CONROY : Sólo frío, ¿nada más?
  
  #3643 : Nada wt.
  
  DR. CONROY: And when did my genes start appearing on the screen?
  
  #3643 : I didn't feel anything either.
  
  DR. CONROY: You know, Victor, I've got these plethysmograph results, and they're noting certain reactions here and here. ¿See the peaks?
  
  #3643 : Disgusted by certain names.
  
  D.R. CONROY: ¿Asco, Viktor?
  
  (pause here for one minute)
  
  DR. CONROY: I have as much time as you need to answer, Victor.
  
  #3643 : I was disgusted by my sexual genes.
  
   D.R. CONROY: ¿Alguna en concrete, Viktor?
  
  #3643 : All they .
  
  D.R. CONROY : ¿Sabe porque le molestaron?
  
   #3643 : Because they offend God.
  
  DR. CONROY: And yet, with the genes he determined, the machine registers swelling in your male organ.
  
  #3643 : It's impossible.
  
  DR. CONROY: With vulgar words, he got aroused when he saw you.
  
  #3643 : This language offends God and his dignity as a priest. Long...
  
  D.R. CONROY : ¿Que deberia, Viktor?
  
  #3643 : Nothing.
  
  DR. CONROY: ¿Did you just feel a big flash, Victor?
  
  #3643 : No doctor.
  
  DR. CONROY: ¿ Another from Cynthia before the violent outbreak?
  
  #3643 : ¿What else from God?
  
  DR. CONROY: Right, sorry for my inaccuracy. Would you say that another día, when I hit my psicólogo head on the dashboard, tenía violent flash?
  
  #3643 : This person was seduced by me. "If your right eye makes you fall, please," says the Priest.
  
   D.R. CONROY : Mateo, capítulo 5, versículo 19.
  
   #3643 : Indeed.
  
  DR. CONROY: ¿What about the eye? From the pain in your eyes?
  
  #3643 : I don't understand him.
  
  DR. CONROY: This man's name is Robert, he has a wife and a daughter. You send him to the hospital. I broke his nose, seven teeth and gave him a severe shock, although, thank God, the jailers managed to save you in time.
  
  #3643 : I think I got a little violent.
  
  DR. CONROY: ¿ Do you think I could be violent now if my arms weren't strapped to the arms of the chair?
  
  #3643 : If you want us to be able to find out, doctor.
  
  DR. CONROY: We'd better finish the interview, Victor.
  
  
  
  
   Morgue Municipal
  
   Tuesday 5 April 2005 8:32 pm
  
  
  
   The autopsy room was a gloomy room, painted a mismatched lilac-gray that didn't decorate the place at all. On the autopsy table was a lamp with six spotlights, which gave the cadet the opportunity to see his last moments of glory in front of four spectators who had to determine who pulled him out. from the stage.
  
  Pontiero made a gesture of disgust as the coroner placed the statuette of Cardinal Robaira on the tray. A foul odor spread throughout the autopsy room as I proceeded to cut him open with a scalpel. The plague was so strong that it even covered the smell of formaldehyde and alcohol, which everyone used to disinfect tools. Dikanti absurdly wonders what is the point of cleaning so much instrumentation before making cuts. In general, it doesn't look like the dead one is going to get infected with bacteria or anything.
  
  "Hey, Pontiero, do you know why crusó el bebe is dead on the road?
  
  - Yes, dottore, because I was tied to a chicken. He told me about it six, no, seven times since last. ¿Do you know another joke?
  
  The coroner hummed very softly as he cut. He sang very well, with a husky and sweet voice that reminded Paola of Louis Armstrong. Sobre todo porque la canción era "What a wonderful world". Solo interrumpía el canto para atormentar a Pontiero.
  
  "The only joke is watching you try your best not to burst into tears, Vice President." Je je je. Don't think that this doesn't amuse me. He é ste gave his ...
  
  Paola and Dante locked eyes over the cardinal's body. The coroner, a staunch old communist, was a great professional, but sometimes his respect for the dead let him down. Obviously, she was terribly worried about the death of Robaira, which Dicanti did not do with mís más imaginary grace.
  
  "Dottore, I have to ask you to do a body analysis and do nothing. Both our guest, Superintendent Dante, and I find his alleged attempts at entertainment to be offensive and inappropriate.
  
  The coroner glared at Dicanti and continued to study the contents of the magician Robaira's box, but refrained from any more rude comments, although through his teeth he cursed everyone present and his ancestors. Paola didn't listen to him because I was worried about Pontiero's face, which was white to greenish in color.
  
  "Maurizio, I don"t know why you are in such pain. You never tolerated blood.
  
  "Damn it, if that bastard can stand up to me, I can too."
  
  "You will be surprised how many autopsies I have been to, my delicate colleague.
  
  -Oh yes? Well, I remind you that at least you still have one left, although I think I like it more than you ...
  
  Oh God, they're starting again, Paola thought, trying to mediate between the two of them. They were dressed like all dia. Dante and Pontiero had a mutual dislike from the very beginning, but, to be honest, the junior inspector had a bad attitude towards anyone who was in pants and approached her closer than three meters. I knew he saw her as a daughter, but sometimes he exaggerated. Dante was a bit rough and certainly not the smartest of men, but at the moment he didn't live up to the love his girlfriend gave him. What I don't understand is that a man like Superintendent has taken the place he held in Oversight. His constant jokes and caustic language contrasted too strongly with the gray and silent car of Inspector General Sirin.
  
  "Perhaps my esteemed visitors will be able to pluck up the courage to pay enough attention to the autopsy you came to see.
  
  The hoarse voice of the coroner brought Dicanti back to reality.
  
  "Go on, please." I cast an icy glance at the two policemen to stop arguing.
  
  - Okay, I haven't eaten much since breakfast, and everything points to the fact that I drank it very early, because I barely found the leftovers.
  
  "So you either miss out on the food or fall into the killer's hands sooner.
  
  "I doubt he skipped meals... he seems to be used to eating well. I live, I weigh about 92 kg, and the weight is 1.83.
  
  "Which tells us the killer is a tough guy. Robaira wasn't a little girl," Dante interjected.
  
  "And forty meters from the back door of the church to the chapel," Paola said. Someone should have seen how the killer introduces Gaddafi in the church. Pontiero, do me a favor. Send four trusted agents to the area. Let them be in civilian clothes, but with their own insignia. Don't tell them it happened. Tell them there was a robbery at the church, let them find out if anyone saw anything at night.
  
  -Look among the pilgrims for a creature that is wasting time.
  
  "Well, don't do it. Let them ask the neighbors, especially the elderly. They usually wear light clothing.
  
  Pontiero nodded and left the autopsy room, obviously grateful that he didn't have to go through with it. Paola followed him with her eyes, and as the doors closed behind him, he turned to Dante.
  
  -¿Is it possible to know what's going on with you if you're from the Vatican? Pontiero is a brave man who can't stand blood, that's all. I beg you to refrain from continuing this absurd verbal argument.
  
  "Wow, so many talkers in the morgue," the coroner chuckled with a voice.
  
  "You are minding your own business, dottore, which we are now following. Are you clear, Dante?
  
  "Calm down, calm down, Inspector," the superintendent defended himself, raising his hands. I don't think you understand what's going on here. If Masana herself had to enter the room with a flaming pistol in her hand and shoulder to shoulder with Pontiero, there is no doubt that she would have done it.
  
  - ¿Then you can find out why he is associated with él? Paola said, completely bewildered.
  
  -Because it's funny. I am convinced that he, too, takes pleasure in being angry with me. Pregintele.
  
  Paola shakes her head, mumbling something not very pleasant about men.
  
  - In general, we will continue. Dottore, do you already know the time and cause of death?
  
  The coroner is reviewing his records.
  
  "I remind you that this is a preliminary report, but I'm pretty sure. The cardinal died about nine o'clock Monday evening yesterday. The error is one hour. I died with my throat cut. The cut was made, I think, by a man of the same height as him. I can't say anything about the weapon, except that it was at least fifteen centimeters away, had a smooth edge, and was very sharp. It could be a barber's razor, I don't know.
  
  -¿What's with the wounds? Dante said.
  
  -Evisceration of the eyes occurred posthumously 5, as did the mutilation of the tongue.
  
  -¿To rip out his tongue? My God, - Dante was horrified.
  
  - I think it was with tongs, ispettora. When you're done, fill the void with toilet paper to stop the bleeding. Then I removed it, but there was a residue of cellulose. Hello Dicanti, you amaze me. It didn't seem to make much of an impression on him.
  
  Well, I've seen worse.
  
  "Well, let me show you something you've probably never seen before. I have not seen anything like it, and there are already many of them. He inserted his tongue into her rectum with amazing skill. After that, I wiped the blood from all sides. I wouldn't have noticed if I hadn't looked inside.
  
  The coroner will show them some pictures of the cut off tongue.
  
  "I immersed her in ice and sent her to the lab. Please make a copy of the inspector's report when it arrives. I don't understand why I succeeded.
  
  "Don't mind me, I'll take care of it personally," Dicanti assured him. ¿What's with the hands?
  
  - These were post-mortem injuries. The cuts are not very clean. Here and there there are traces of oscillations. It probably cost him... or he was in an inco-fashion pose.
  
  -¿Something under your feet?
  
  -Air. Hands are impeccably clean. I suspect they flush them with the jab. I think I smell a certain smell of lavender.
  
  Paola remains thoughtful.
  
  - Dottore, in your opinion, how long did it take for the killer to inflict the víctima wounds on éstas?
  
  Well, you didn't think about it. Let's see, let me count.
  
  The old man clasps his hands, thoughtful, forearms at the level of the hips, eyes, mutilated mouth. I keep humming to myself and #233;it's Moody Blues again. Paola didn't remember the key of song #243.
  
  "Well, he's praying... at least it took him half an hour to separate his hands and dry them, and about an hour to clean his whole body and dress him." It is impossible to calculate how much time he tortured the girl, but it seems that it took him a lot of time. I assure you that he was with the girl for at least three hours and it was probably más.
  
  Quiet and secret place. Secluded place away from prying eyes. And isolated, because Robaire must have had to scream. What kind of noise does a person make when their eyes and tongue are torn out? Of course, a lot. It was necessary to reduce the time, establish how many hours the cardinal was in the hands of the murderer, and subtract the time needed to do to him what he did to him. As soon as you reduce the radius of the bíkvadrat, if, hopefully, the killer is not camped on the loose.
  
  - Yes, the guys did not find any traces. ¿ Did you find something abnormal before flushing it, something that needs to be sent for analysis?
  
  -It's OK. A few fibers of fabric and a few stains from what could have been makeup on the collar of his shirt.
  
  -Makeup? Curious. ¿To be a killer?
  
  "Well, Dicanti, maybe our cardinal is a secret from everyone," said Dante.
  
  Paola le miro, shocked. The coroner of rio gritted his teeth, thinking badly.
  
  - Eh, I'm not going for ai - Dante hastened to say-. I mean, he probably cared a lot about his image. After all, you'll be ten years old at a certain age...
  
  "It's still a remarkable detail. ¿Does algíalgún have traces of cosmetics on her face?
  
  "No, but the killer also had to wash her off, or at least wipe the blood from her eye sockets. I'm looking at it carefully.
  
  "Dottore, just in case, send a sample of cosmetics to the laboratory. I want to know the brand and exact shade.
  
  "It may take some time if they don't have a pre-prepared database to compare with the sample we send them.
  
  - Write in the work order that, if necessary, fill in the vacuum; safe and sound. This is the order that the director of the Boy really likes. What does he tell me about blood or semen? Was it luck?
  
  -In no case. The victim's clothes were very clean, and traces of the same type of blood were found on them. Of course, she is his own.
  
  -¿And anything on the skin or hair? ¿Controversy, anything?
  
  "I found glue residue on what was left of the clothes, as I suspect the assassin stripped the cardinal naked and bandaged him with duct tape before torturing him, and then dressed him again. Wash the body, but not by immersion in water, you see it?
  
  The coroner found on the side of de Robaira's boot a thin white scratch from a blow and a dry wound.ver de Robaira.
  
  -Give him a sponge with water and wipe it off, but don't worry about him having a lot of water or not paying much attention to this part, as he leaves too much water. many blows to the body.
  
  -¿And the type of strikeón?
  
  - Being more recognizable than makeup is easier, but also less noticeable than makeup. It's like a lavender jab from regular masks.
  
  Paola sighed. It was true.
  
  -This is all?
  
  - There are also glue residues on the face, but in a very small amount. That's all. By the way, the dead man was rather short-sighted.
  
  "And what does that have to do with the case?"
  
  "Dante, damn it, I'm fine. Glasses were missing.
  
  - Of course, there were not enough points. I'm going to rip out his goddamn eyes and keep his glasses?
  
  The coroner meets with the superintendent.
  
  "Well, look, I'm not trying to tell you to do your job, I'm just telling you what I see.
  
  "It's all right, doctor. At least when I have a full report.
  
  - Of course, inspector.
  
  Dante and Paola left the coroner to deal with the cadávier and his versions of jazz clichés and went out into the corridor, where Pontiero barked short and concise móville commands. When she hung up, the inspector turned to both of them.
  
  "Okay, here's what we're going to do. Dante, you will return to your office and file a report with everything you can remember from the first crime scene. I would have preferred him to be alone since he was alone. mas facile. Take all the photographs and testimonies that your wise and enlightened father allowed you to keep. And come to UACV headquarters as soon as you're done. I'm afraid this night will be very long.
  
  
  
  
  
  Question from Nick: Describe in less than 100 words the importance of time in the preparation of a criminal case (segun Rosper). Draw a personal conclusion by relating the variables to the killer's experience level. You have two minutes, which you are already counting from the moment you turned the sheet over.
  
  
  Answer: The time required for:
  
  
  a) eliminate victima
  
  b) interaction with CAD.
  
  c) erase his evidence from the body and dispose of him
  
  
  Commentary: As I understand it, variable a) is determined by the fantasies of the killer, variable b) helps to reveal his hidden motives, and c) determines his ability to analyze and improvise. In conclusion, if the killer spends more time on
  
  
  a) has an average level (3 crímenes)
  
  b) he is an expert (4 crímenes or más)
  
  c) he is a rookie (first or second offence).
  
  
  
  
  UACV Headquarters
  
  Via Lamarmora, 3
  
  Tuesday, April 5, 2005 at 10:32 pm.
  
  
  
  Let's see what we have?
  
  "We have two cardinals killed in a terrible way, Dicanti.
  
  Dicanti and Pontiero have lunch at a cafe and drink coffee in the laboratory's conference room. This place, despite its modernity, was gray and dull. A colorful painting of the entire room puts her in front of a hundred crime scene photos that have been spread out in front of them. On one side of the huge table in the living room were four plastic bags of forensic evidence. Everything you have at the moment, except for what Dante told you about the first crime.
  
  - Okay, Pontiero, let's start with Robayra. ¿What do we know about él?
  
  - I lived and worked in Buenos Aires. We will be arriving on an Aerolíneas Argentinas flight on Sunday morning. Take the open ticket you bought a few weeks ago and wait for it to close at 1pm on Saturday. Given the time difference, I'm guessing this was the time the Holy Father died.
  
  - Roundtrip?
  
  Only Ida.
  
  "What's curious is... either the cardinal was very short-sighted, or he came to power with great hopes. Maurizio, you know me: I'm not particularly religious. ¿ Do you know anything about the possibilities of Robayra as a dad?
  
  -It's OK. I read him something about íl a week ago, I think it was in La Stampa. They considered him in a good position, but not one of the main favorites. In any case, you know that this is the Italian media. They bring this to the attention of our cardinals. About Portini sí habíleído and much more.
  
  Pontiero was a family man of impeccable integrity. As far as I can tell from Paola's records, he was a good husband and a good father. I went to Mass every Sunday like clockwork. How punctual was his invitation to accompany Arles, which Dicanti refused under many pretexts. Some of them were good, some were bad, but none of them fit. Pontiero knows that there was not much faith in the inspector's mind. He went to heaven with his father ten years ago.
  
  "Something is troubling me, Maurizio. It is important to know that a kind of frustration unites the killer with the cardinals. Does he hate red, is he a crazy seminarian, or just hates little round hats.
  
  - Cardinal Capello.
  
  -Thank you for the clarification. I suspect that there is some connection between the two, mávseá del capelo. In short, we won't get very far along this path without consulting an authoritative authority. Mama Ana Dante will have to pave the way for us to talk to someone upstairs in the Curia. And when I say up, I mean up.
  
  - Don't be a fácil.
  
  -We'll see. For now, focus on testing the monkeys. To begin with, we know that Robaira did not die in the church.
  
  Indeed, there was very little blood. He should have died elsewhere.
  
  "Definitely, the killer had to keep the cardinal in his power for a certain time in a secluded and secret place where he could use the ía to interact with the body. We know that he had to win her trust somehow in order for the víctima to voluntarily enter this place. From ahí, movió el Caddiáver to Santa María in Transpontina, obviously for a reason.
  
  -¿What about the church?
  
  - Talk to the priest. It was closed to talking and singing when he went to bed. He remembers that he had to reveal himself to the police when he arrived. But there is a second door, a very small one, that opens onto Via dei Corridori. It was probably the fifth entry. Have you checked it?
  
  The castle was intact, but Moderna and strong. But even if the door were wide open, I don't understand where the killer could have entered.
  
  -¿Why?
  
  -¿ Did you pay attention to the number of people who were standing at the front door on Via della Consciliazione? Well, atre street is damn full of people. It's full of pilgrims. Yes, they even cut it to tráfico. Don't tell me that the killer came in with sappra in his hands in full view of the whole world.
  
  Paola thought for a few seconds. Maybe that influx of people was the best cover for the killer, but did he or she get in without breaking the door?
  
  -Pontiero, figuring out what's in our priorities is one of our priorities. I feel this is very important. Mañanna we'll go to my brother, what was his name?
  
  -Francesco Toma, Carmelite friar.
  
  The junior inspector nodded slowly as he made notes in his notebook.
  
  - To that. On the other hand, we have creepy details: a message on the wall, severed hands on canvas... and those aqua bags. Continue.
  
  Pontiero began to read while Inspector Dicanti filled out the Bolu Graf test report. An ultra-modern office and ten 20th-century relics like these outdated prints.
  
  -Expertise núsimply 1. Steal. An embroidered cloth rectangle used by Catholic priests in the sacrament of confession. It was found hanging from the mouth of a sappre, completely covered in blood. The Sangu íneo group coincides with the víctima group. DNA testing is ongoing.
  
  It was a brownish object that I could not make out in the semi-darkness of the church. The DNA analysis took at least two months, and this is due to the fact that UACV had one of the most advanced laboratories in the world. Many times Dicanti laughed while watching CSI 6 on TV. I hope that the tests will be processed as quickly as in the American series.
  
  -Expertise núsimply 2. White canvas. Origin unknown. Material, algodon. The presence of blood, but very little. The severed hands of víctima were found on the él. The Sangu íneo group coincides with the víctima group. DNA testing is ongoing.
  
  - Firstly, ¿Robaira - is it with Greek or with Latin? -dudo Dicanti.
  
  - With Greek, I think.
  
  - Okay, go on, Maurizio, please.
  
  - Examination No. 3. Crumpled paper about three by three cents. It is located in the left eye socket on the fifth century. The type of paper, its composition, fat content and percentage of chlorine are studied. Letters are written on paper by hand and with the help of a graphic bowl.
  
  
  
  
  "M T 16," said Dicanti. ¿Una direction?
  
  - The paper was found covered in blood and rolled into a ball. Obviously, this is a message from the killer. The absence of eyes on víctima may not be so much a punishment for él as a hint... as if he were telling us where to look.
  
  Or that we are blind.
  
  "The brutal killer... is the first one to appear in Italy. I think that's why I wanted you to take care of yourself, Paola. Not an ordinary detective, but a person capable of thinking creatively.
  
  Dicantió's reflection on the words of the junior inspector. If true, the stakes were doubled. The killer's profile allows him to respond to very smart people and I'm usually very hard to catch unless I make a mistake. Sooner or later everyone will do it, but for now they filled the cells of the morgue.
  
  "Okay, let's think for a minute. ¿What kind of streets do we have with such initials?
  
  -Viale del Muro Torto...
  
  "It's okay, he's walking through the park and he doesn't have a pomeros, Maurizio.
  
  - Then Monte Tarpeo, which passes through the gardens of the Palazzo dei Conservatori, is not worth it either.
  
  -¿Y Monte Testaccio?
  
  -Via Testaccio Park... it might be worth it.
  
  -Wait a minute -Dicanti cogio el telefono and Marco en nú just an intern- ¿Documentation? Oh, hello, Silvio. Check out what's on at 16 Monte Testaccio. And please guide us down Roma Street to the meeting room.
  
  As they waited, Pontiero continued to list evidence.
  
  -For the last (at the moment): Examination núsimply 4. Crumpled paper about three by three centimeters. It is located in the lower right corner of the sheet, under ideal conditions in which the test was carried out simply 3. The type of paper, its composition, fat and chlorine content are indicated in the table below.;n are being studied. The word is written on paper by hand and with the help of a graphic bowl
  
  
  
  
  - Undeviginti.
  
  "Damn it, it's like a poñetero hieroglyphíco-se desesperó Dicanti. I just hope this is not a continuation of the message I left in the first part because the first part went up in smoke.
  
  "I think we'll have to be content with what we have at the moment.
  
  "Excellent, Pontiero. Why don't you tell me what undeviginti is so I can deal with it?
  
  "Your latitude and longitude are a little rusty, Dicanti. It means nineteen.
  
  "Damn it, it's true. I have always withdrawn from school. ¿And the arrow?
  
  At that moment, one of the documentary's assistants from the Rue Roma entered.
  
  "That's all, Inspector. I was looking for what I asked for: Monte Testaccio 16 does not exist. There are fourteen portals on this street.
  
  Thanks, Silvio. Do me a favor, meet Pontiero and me here and make sure that the streets of Rome start from the mountain. It's a blind shot, but I had a hunch.
  
  "Let's hope you're a better lunatic than you know, dottora Dicanti." Hari better go get the Bible.
  
  All three turned their heads towards the meeting room door. On the threshold stood a priest dressed as a clergyman. He was tall and thin, wiry, with a pronounced bald head. He appeared to be fifty very well preserved bones, and had the hard and strong features of one who has seen many sunrises in the open. Dikanti thinks he looks more like a soldier than a priest.
  
  -¿ Who are you and what do you want? This is a restricted area. Do me a favor and leave immediately," Pontiero said.
  
  "I'm Father Anthony Fowler, and I've come to help you," he spoke in correct Italian, but somewhat haltingly and uncertainly.
  
  "These are police stations, and you broke into them without permission. If you want to help us, go to church and pray for our souls.
  
  Pontiero walked over to the priest who had arrived, intending to invite him to leave in a bad mood. Dicanti had already turned to continue studying the photographs when Fowler spoke:;:
  
  - It's from the Bible. From the New Testament, in particular, from me.
  
  -¿Somo? Pontiero was surprised.
  
  Dicanti alzo la cabeza y miro a Fowler.
  
  - Okay, explain what.
  
  -Matthew 16. The Gospel of Matthew, section 16, chapter 237, Toul. ¿Leave any more notes?
  
  Pontiero seems upset.
  
  "Listen, Paola, I'm really not going to listen to you...
  
  Dicanti stopped him with a gesture.
  
  "Listen, Mosle.
  
  Fowler entered the meeting room. He had a black coat in his hand and left it on a chair.
  
  - As you well know, the Christian New Testament is divided into four books: Matthew, Mark, Luke and John. In Christian bibliography, the book of Matthew is represented by the letters Mt. The prime number below nún refers to tulo chapter 237. And with two núsimple más one should point to the same quotation between two verses and #237;ass.
  
  The killer left this.
  
  Paola will show you Test #4, packed in a plastic bag. He gazed into her eyes. The priest showed no sign of recognizing the note, nor did he feel disgusted in the face of blood. She looked at him carefully and said:
  
  -Nineteen. Which is appropriate.
  
  Pontiero was furious.
  
  -¿ Are you going to tell us everything you know at once, or will you make us wait a long time, father?
  
   - Et tibi dabo claves regni coelorum, -recitó Fowler - et quodcumque ligaveris super terram, erit legatum et in coelis; et quodcumque solveris super terram, erit solutum et in coelis. I give you the keys to the Kingdom of Heaven; whatever you bind on earth will be bound in heaven, and whatever you loose on earth will be loosed in heaven. From Matthew 16, verse 19. That is, the words by which I confirm St. Peter as the head of the apostles and endow him and his successors with authority over the entire Christian world.
  
  -Santa Madonna -exclamó Dicanti.
  
  "Considering what is about to happen in this city, if you are praying, I think you should be worried. And much more.
  
  "Goddammit, some madman, damn it, just slit the priest's throat and you turn on the sirens. I see nothing wrong with that, Father Fowler," said Pontiero.
  
  - No, my friend. The killer is not a crazy maniac. He is a cruel, reserved and intelligent person, and he is terribly insane, you can believe me.
  
  -Oh yes? He seems to know a great deal about your motives, father," the junior inspector chuckled.
  
  The priest stares at Dicanti intently while I answer.
  
  Yes, much more than that, I pray. Who is he.
  
  
  
  
   (ARTÍCULO EXTRAÍDO DEL DIARIO MARYLAND GAZETTE,
  
  
  
   JULY 29, 1999 PAGE 7)
  
  
  US PRIEST ACCUSED OF SEXUAL ABUSE COMMITS SUICIDE
  
  
   SILVER SPRING, Maryland (NEWS AGENCIES). As allegations of sexual abuse continue to shake Catholic clergy in Am Rick, a Connecticut priest accused of sexually abusing minors hanged himself in his room at a nursing home. an institution that treats people with problems told American-Press last Friday about the local police.
  
  Peter Selznick, 64, retired from his position as a minister in St. Andrew's Parish in Bridgeport, Connecticut, on April 27 last year, just one day before his birth. after Catholic Church officials interviewed two men who claimed Selznick abused them between the late seventies and early eighties, a spokesman for the Catholic Church claimed that Selznick abused them between the late seventies and early eighties years. from Bridgeport.
  
  The priest was treated at St. Matthew's Institute in Maryland, a psychiatric facility that houses inmates accused of sexual assault or "sexual confusion," at that facility.
  
  "Hospital staff rang your door several times and tried to enter your room, but something blocked the door," Diane Richardson, a spokeswoman for the Police and Border Protection Department from Prince George's County, told a news conference. "When they entered the room, they found the cadávier hanging from one of the exposed ceiling beams."
  
  Selznick hanged himself from one of the pillows in his bed, confirming to Richardson that his body had been taken to the mortuary for an autopsy. Similarly, he vehemently denies rumors that CAD was naked and mutilated, rumors he called "completely unfounded." During the press conference, several journalists quoted "witnesses" who said they had seen such mutilations. The spokesperson claims that "the county medical corps nurse has connections to drugs such as marijuana and other drugs, under the influence of which she made these statements.; said municipal employee was suspended from work and wages prior to dismissal of his attitude," concludedó the press secretary of the Police Departmentía. Saint Periou Dicko was able to contact the rumored nurse who refused to make another statement; this is a short "I was wrong (I was wrong)".
  
  Bridgeport Bishop William Lopez confirmed that he is "deeply saddened" by Selznick's "tragic" death, adding that esc "feels it worries the North American branch of the Cat Church".#243 Leakey now has "múltiples víctimas".
  
  Father Selznick was born in New York in 1938 and was ordained in Bridgeport in 1965. I served in several wards in Connecticut and for a short time in the San Juan Vianni Ward in Chiclayo, Perú.
  
  "Every person, without exception, has dignity and worth in the eyes of God, and every person needs and deserves our compassion," says Lopez. "The disturbing circumstances surrounding his death cannot destroy all the good that he did," concludes the bishop.
  
  The director of St. Matthew's Institute, Father Canice Conroy, declined to make any statements in éSaint-PerióDico. Father Anthony Fowler, director of the New Software Institute, says Father Conroy was "in shock."
  
  
  
  UACV Headquarters
  
  Via Lamarmora, 3
  
  Tuesday, April 5, 2005 at 11:14 pm.
  
  
  
  Fowler's statement was like being hit with a mace. Dicanti and Pontiero remained standing, gazing intently at the bald-headed priest.
  
  - ¿ Can I sit down?
  
  "There are plenty of empty chairs," saidías -se'sñaló Paola-. Choose yourself.
  
  He gestured towards the documentation assistant, who left.
  
  Fowler left a small black travel bag with frayed edges and two sockets on the table. It was a bag that had seen a lot of the world, which spoke loudly about the kilograms that her double was carrying in tow. He opened it and took out a bulky briefcase made of dark cardboard with curled edges and coffee stains. He placed it on the table and sat opposite the inspector. Dikanti watched him carefully, registering his economy of movement, the energy that his black eyes conveyed. She was very intrigued as to where this extra priest came from, but she was determined not to let herself be cornered, especially on her own turf.
  
  Pontiero took a chair, placed it opposite the reverend, and sat down to the left, placing his hands on the back. Dicanti Tomó mentally reminded him to stop imitating Humphrey Bogart's butts. The Vice President has watched "The halcón maltés" about three hundred times. He would always sit to the left of someone he thought was suspicious and compulsively smoke next to him, one unfiltered Pall Mall after another.
  
  - All right, father. Provide us with proof of your identity.
  
  Fowler takes his passport out of his inside jacket pocket and hands it to Pontiero. He made a disgruntled gesture towards the cloud of smoke coming out of the sub-inspector's cigar.
  
  -Wow Wow. Diploma passport. ¿ He has immunity, huh? ¿ What the hell is this, some kind of espía? ask Pontiero.
  
  "I am an officer of the Aérea United States Forces.
  
  -¿Con que rango? Paola said.
  
  -Major. ¿Do you mind telling Sub-Inspector Pontiero to stop smoking near me, please? I have already left you many times, and I do not want to repeat myself.
  
  "He's a drug addict, Major Fowler.
  
  -Padre Fowler, dottora Dicanti. I'm on retirement.
  
  - Hey, wait a minute, ¿ s ó do you know my name, father? Or from an examiner?
  
  The CSI smiled between curiosity and amusement.
  
  "Well, Maurizio, I suspect Father Fowler isn't as reserved as he says.
  
  Fowler gave her a somewhat sad smile.
  
  "It is true that I was recently reinstated to active duty. And interestingly, the reason for this was my studies throughout my civilian life - he stops and waves his hand, driving away the smoke.
  
  -So what? Where is and where is this son of a bitch who did this to the cardinal of Holy Mother Church so we can all go home to sleep, baby.
  
  The priest continued to remain silent, as impassive as his client. Paola suspected that this man was too hard to impress little Pontiero. The furrows on their skin clearly indicated that life had instilled in them very bad impressions, and these eyes saw things worse than a policeman, often his stinking tobacco.
  
  -Basta, Maurizio. And put out your cigar.
  
  Pontiero dropped the cigarette to the floor, pouting.
  
  "All right, Father Fowler," Paola said, turning over the photographs on the table with her hands, but gazing intently at the priest, "you have made it clear to me that you are in charge at the moment. He knows what I don't know and what I need to know. But you are on my field, on my land. You tell me how we solve it.
  
  -¿What would you say if you start by creating a profile?
  
  -¿ Can you tell me what for?
  
  "Because in that case you won't have to fill out a questionnaire to find out the name of the killer. I would say so. In this case, you will need a profile to find out where you are. And it's not the same.
  
  -¿ Is this an exam, father? Want to see how good the person in front of you is? ¿ Is he going to question my deductive powers like Boy does?
  
  "I think, dottor, that the person here who judges herself is you.
  
  Paola took a deep breath and mustered all her composure not to scream as Fowler placed his finger on her wound. Just as I believed that I would fail, her boss appeared at the door. He stood carefully studying the priest, and I returned the exam to him. In the end, they both greeted each other with their heads bowed.
  
  -Padre Fowler.
  
  -Director Boy.
  
  "I was warned of your arrival through, shall we say, an unusual channel. Needless to say, his presence here is impossible, but I admit that he can be useful to us if my sources are not lying at all.
  
  - They don't.
  
  "Then continue, please.
  
  He always had the unpleasant feeling that he was late for the world he had begun, and this feeling was repeated at that time. Paola is tired of the fact that the whole world knows everything that she does not know. I would ask Boi to explain as soon as he had time. In the meantime, I decided to take the opportunity.
  
  "Director, Father Fowler, who's here, told Pontiero and me that he knows the killer's identity, but seems to want a free psychological profile of the perpetrator before revealing his name to us. I personally think that we are wasting valuable time, but I decided to play his game.
  
  She knelt down, impressing the three men who were staring at her. He walked over to a blackboard that occupied most of the back wall and began to write on it.
  
  The killer is a white male between the ages of 38 and 46. He is a man of average height, strong and intelligent. He has a higher education and knowledge of languages. He is left-handed, received a strict religious education, and suffered frustration or abuse as a child. He is immature, his work puts pressure on him beyond his psychological and emotional stability, and he suffers from severe sexual repression. He probably has a history of serious abuse. He kills not for the first and not for the second time, and certainly not for the last time. He deeply despises us, both politicians and people close to him. Now, father, tell me the name of his killer," Dikanti said, turning and throwing the chalk into the hands of the priest.
  
  Watch your listeners. Fowler looked at her with surprise, Pontiero with admiration, and Boy Scout with surprise. Finally the priest spoke.
  
  - Congratulations, dottor. Ten. Despite the fact that I am a psycho and a logos, I cannot understand what all your conclusions are drawn from. Could you explain a little to me?
  
  - This is a preliminary report, but the conclusions should be close to reality to a large extent. That he is white is noted in the profile of his victims, as it is very unusual for a serial killer to kill someone of a different race. He is of medium height, as Robaira was a tall man, and the length and direction of the cut on his neck indicate that he was killed by surprise by someone about 1.80 meters tall. It is obvious that he is strong, otherwise it would be impossible to place the cardinal inside the church, because even if he used a car to transport the body to the atrá gate, the chapel is about forty meters away. Immaturity is directly proportional to the type of killer who deeply despises the victim, whom he considers an object, and the policeman, whom he considers an inferior being.
  
  Fowler interrupted her by raising his hand politely.
  
  "There are two details that particularly caught my attention, dottor. First, you said that this is not the first time you have killed. ¿ Did he subtract it from the elaborate murder scheme?
  
  "Indeed, father. This man has some deep knowledge of policing and has done so from time to time. My experience tells me that the first time is usually very messy and impromptu.
  
  "Secondly, it is that "his work puts pressure on him that exceeds his psychological and emotional stability." I can't figure out where he got it from.
  
  Dikanti blushed and crossed her arms over her chest. I didn't answer. Boy took the opportunity to intervene.
  
  "Ah, good Paola. Her high intelligence always leaves a loophole for penetration into her female intuition, doesn't it? The father, the guardian of Dikanti, sometimes comes to purely emotional conclusions. I do not know why. Of course, I will have a great future as a writer.
  
  "I have more than you think. Because he hit the bull's-eye," Fowler said, finally getting up and walking over to the board. Inspector, ¿ cuál is the correct name of your profession? ¿ Profiler, right?
  
  "Yes," Paola said, embarrassed.
  
  -¿Cuá degree of profiling achieved ?
  
  "After completing a forensics course and after intensive training in the FBI"s Behavioral Science Division. Very few manage to complete the full course.
  
  -¿ Could you tell us how many qualified profilers there are in the world?
  
  "Currently twenty. Twelve in the United States, four in Canada, two in Germany, one in Italy and one in Austria.
  
  -Thank you. Are you clear, gentlemen? Twenty people in the world are able to draw a psychological profile of a serial killer with full guarantee, and one of them is in this room. And trust me, I'll find that person...
  
  I turned and wrote... and wrote... on the board, in very large, thick and hard letters, one name.
  
  
  VIKTOR KAROSKI
  
  
  "...we'll need someone who can get inside his head. Here they have the name they asked me for. But before you run to the phone to issue an arrest warrant, let me tell you your whole story.
  
  
  
  From the correspondence of Edward Dressler,
  
  psychiatrist and Cardinal Francis Shaw
  
  
  
  Boston, May 14, 1991
  
  
  (...) Your Eminence, we are undoubtedly dealing with a born recidivist. Segí was told that this was the fifth time he was being transferred to another parish. Tests carried out over a period of two weeks confirm to us that we cannot risk making it coexist with children again without endangering them. (...) I have no doubts about his will to repent, for he is firm. I doubt his ability to control himself. (...) You don't have the luxury of having him in the parish. I should clip its wings before it explodes. Otherwise, I am not responsible. I recommend doing an internship of at least six months at St. Matthew's Institute.
  
  
  Boston, August 4, 1993
  
  
  (...) This is the third time I have dealt with él (Karoski) (...) I must tell you that the "change of scenery", as you call it, did not help him at all, quite the contrary. He increasingly begins to lose control, and I notice signs of schizophrenia in his behavior. It is possible that at any moment he will completely cross the line and become someone else. Your Eminence, you know my devotion to the Church and I understand the huge shortage of priests, but ¡leave both lists out! (...) 35 people have already passed through my hands, Your Eminence, and I have seen some of them with chances of recovery on their own (...) Karoski is clearly not one of them. Cardinal, on rare occasions His Eminence followed my advice. I implore you now, if you do this: convince Karoski to join St. Matthew's Church.
  
  
  
  UACV Headquarters
  
  Via Lamarmora, 3
  
  Moyércoles, April 6, 2005, 00:03 am
  
  
  
  Paola Tom, have a seat, get ready to hear Father Fowler's story.
  
  It all started, at least for me, in 1995. In that short time after I left the Royal Army, I became available to my bishop. Éste quiso aprovechar mi título de Psicología enviándome al Instituto Saint Matthew. ¿Is orí should we talk about él?
  
  Everyone shook their heads.
  
  - Don't deprive me. The very nature of the institution is the secret of the greatest public opinion in North America. Officially, this is a hospital facility designed to care for "problem" priests and nuns, located in Silver Spring, Maryland. The reality is that 95% of his patients have experienced minor sexual abuse or drug use in the past. Facilities on site are very luxurious: thirty-five rooms for patients, nine rooms for attendants (almost all internal), tennis court, two tennis courts, swimming pool, recreation room. "leisure" with billiards...
  
  "It's almost more like a vacation spot than a mental institution," Pontiero interjected.
  
  "Ah, this place is a mystery, but on many levels. It's a secret from the outside, and it's a secret for the prisoners, who at first see it as a place to retire for a few months, where they can rest, although gradually they discover something very different. You guys are aware of the huge problem that has come up in my life with some Catholic priests over the past 250-241 years. From the point of view of ón publica non beí, it is very well known that people accused of sexual abuse of minors spend paid holidays in a luxury hotel.
  
  -¿And that was a year ago? ask Pontiero, who seems to be very affected by this topic. Paola understands him, as the junior inspector has two children ranging in age from thirteen to fourteen.
  
  -No. I am trying to summarize my entire experience as concisely as possible. When I arrive, I will find a place deeply mundane. It doesn't look like a religious institution. There were no crucifixes on the walls, none of the believers was dressed in a robe or cassock. I have spent many nights outdoors, in camp or on the front lines, and I have never put my spyglasses aside. But all and#237; everyone dispersed in all directions, went in and out. The lack of faith and control was evident.
  
  "And don't tell anyone about this?" -pregunto Dicanti.
  
  -Certainly! The first thing I did was write a letter to the bishop of the diocese. I am accused of being too much affected by my time in prison because of the "hardness of the castrated environment". I was advised to be more "permeable". These were challenging times for me as I went through some ups and downs during my career in the Armed Forces. I don't want to go into details because it has nothing to do with the case. Suffice to say, they didn't convince me to add to my reputation for being uncompromising.
  
  He doesn't need to make excuses.
  
  "I know, but my bad conscience haunts me. In this place, the mind and soul were not healed, but simply "a little" pushed in the direction in which the intern interfered least of all. The exact opposite of what the diocese expected would happen.
  
  "I don't understand," Pontiero said.
  
  "Me too," Boy said.
  
  -It's complicated. To begin with, the unique psychiatrist with a degree who was on the staff of the center was Father Conroy, director of the institute at that time. The rest do not have higher degrees than nursing or graduates. ¡ And he allowed himself the luxury of conducting rich psychiatric examinations!
  
  "Madness," said Dicanti in surprise.
  
  -Fully. The best confirmation of joining the staff of the Institute was membership in Dignity, an association that promotes the priesthood for women and sexual freedom for male priests. Although I personally do not agree with the postulates of this association, I am not at all obliged to judge them. What I can say is to judge the professional abilities of the staff, and there were very, very few of them.
  
  "I don't understand where all this is leading us," said Pontiero, lighting a cigar.
  
  Give me five minutes and I'll take a look. As you know, Father Conroy, a great friend of Dignity and a supporter of Doors for Inside, completely misdirected St. Matthew's. Honest priests came, faced with some unfounded accusations (which they were), and thanks to Conroy, ended up giving up the priesthood that had been the light of their lives. Many others have been told not to fight their nature and live their lives. It was considered a success for a religious person to secularize and enter into homosexual relationships.
  
  - Is that a problem? -pregunto Dicanti.
  
  - No, it is not, if this is what a person really wants or needs. But the needs of the patient did not concern Dr. Conroy at all. First, he set a goal, and then applied it to a person without knowing him in advance. He played God with the souls and minds of those men and women, some of whom had serious problems. And washed it all down with a good single malt whisky. Well watered.
  
  "My God," Pontiero said in shock.
  
  "Trust me, I was wrong, Junior Inspector. But that's not the worst. Due to serious selection errors during the 70's and 80's my father's cat workshops received many students who were unsuited to lead souls. They were not even fit to act like themselves. It is a fact. Over time, many of these boys began to wear cassocks. They have done so much for the good name of the Catholic Church and even worse for many. Many priests accused of sexual abuse, perpetrators of sexual abuse, did not attend cárcel. They were out of sight; they were changed from parish to parish. And some ended up in Matthew's Seventh Heaven. One day, everyone and hopefully they were sent to civilian life. But, unfortunately , many of them were returned to the ministry when they should have been behind bars. Dígame, dottora Dikanti, ¿is there any chance of rehabilitating a serial killer?
  
  - Absolutely none. Once you have crossed the border, there is nothing for you to do.
  
  Well, it's the same with a pedophile prone to compulsive disorders. Unfortunately, this area does not have the blessed confidence that you have. They know they have a beast in their hands that needs to be hunted down and locked away. But it is much more difficult for a therapist treating a pedophile to understand whether he has finally crossed the line of what is permitted or not. There was a case when James had doubts about the minima. And that was the case when there was something under the knife that I didn't like.#243;edge, there was something más.
  
  -Dejeme divinar: Viktor Karoski. Our killer.
  
  -The same.
  
  I laugh before intervening. An annoying custom that you often repeat.
  
  "Father Fowler, would you be so kind as to explain to us why you are so sure that it was he who tore Robaira and Portini to pieces?"
  
  -As it were. Karoski entered the institute in August 1994. Habi was transferred from several parishes, and his rector passed problems from one to another. All of them had complaints, some more serious than others, but none of them were accompanied by extreme violence. Based on the complaints collected, we believe that a total of 89 children were abused, although they may have been children.
  
  - Damn it.
  
  "You said it, Pontiero. See áraíz for Karoski's childhood problems. I was born in Katowice, Poland, in 1961, allí...
  
  "Wait a minute, father. ¿ So he is now 44 years old?
  
  - Indeed, dottor. He is 1.78 cm tall and weighs about 85 kg. He has a strong physique, and his intelligence tests gave a ratio of 110 to 125, sec. per cube. 225 knots. In total at school he made seven. It distracts him.
  
  - He has a raised beak.
  
  "Dottora, you are a psychiatrist, while I studied psychology and was not a particularly brilliant student. Fowler's acute psychopathic abilities manifested themselves too late for him to read literature on the subject, as in what dígame: ¿is it true that serial killers are very smart?
  
  Paola allowed herself... a half smile to go... to Nika and look... at Pontiero, who grimaced in response.
  
  - I think the junior inspector will answer the question directly.
  
  - The doctor always says: Lecter doesn't exist, and Jodie Foster has to íceñ to participate in élittle dramas.
  
  Everyone laughed, not because of the joke, but to ease the tension a little.
  
  Thanks, Pontiero. The father, the figure of the superpsychic opath, is a myth created by the pelicules and the novels of Thomas Harris. In real life, there can be no one who would be like that. There were repeat killers with high odds and others with low odds. The big difference between them is that those with high odds usually act for more than 225 seconds because they are more than careful. What means they are recognized as the best at the academic level of the miko is their great ability to execute death.
  
   -¿Y a nivel no academico, dottora ?
  
   "On a non-academic level, holy father, I admit that any of these bastards are smarter than me than the devil. Not smart, but smart. And there are some, the least gifted, who have a high coefficient, an innate ability to do their despicable job and disguise themselves. And in one case, only in one case to date, these three characteristics coincided with the fact that the perpetrator was a man of high culture. I'm talking about Ted Bundy.
  
  "Your case is very famous in my state. He strangled and raped about 30 women with his car jack.
  
  -36, father. Let it be known," corrected Paola, who remembered Bundy's case very well, as it was a required subject at Quantico.
  
  Fowler, asintió, triste.
  
  - As you know, dottor, Wiktor Karoski was born in 1961 in Katowice, just a few kilometers from the birthplace of Pope Wojtyla. In 1969, the Karosky family, consisting of él, her parents, and two siblings, moved to the United States. My father got a job at the General Motors fóbrica in Detroit, and the second of all Records was a good worker, although very short-tempered. In 1972, there was a restructuring caused by the crisis of Piotr and Leo, and Karoski's father was the first to take to the streets. At that time, the father received American citizenship, and also settled in a cramped apartment where the whole family lived in order to drink his compensation and unemployment benefits. unemployment. He does the job carefully, very carefully. He became someone else and started hitting on Victor and his little brother. The eldest, from the age of 14 to 241, leaves home for a day, without mass.
  
  -¿Karoski told you all this? Paola said, intrigued and very pleased at the same time.
  
  "It happens after intensive regression therapy. When I arrived at the center, his version was that he was born into a fashionable cat family.
  
  Paola, who was writing everything down in her small bureaucratic handwriting, ran her hand over her eyes, trying to shake off her tiredness before speaking.
  
  "What you are describing, Father Fowler, fits perfectly with the characteristics of a primary psychopath: personal charm, lack of irrational thinking, insecurity, lying, and lack of remorse. Paternal abuse and widespread parental drinking have also been observed in more than 74% of known mentally ill people 8.
  
  -¿ Is it a likely cause? -pregunto Fowler.
  
  -Más is a good condition más. I can give you thousands of cases where people grew up in unstructured families that were much worse than the one you describe and reached quite normal maturity.
  
  - Wait, inspector. He barely touched the surface of the anus. Karoski told us about his little brother who died of meningitis in 1974 and no one seemed to care much. I was very surprised at the coldness with which he related this episode in particular. Two months after the death of the young man, the father mysteriously disappeared. Victor did not say if he had anything to do with the disappearance, although we think not, since he counted from 13 to 241 people. If we know that at this moment they start torturing small animals. But the worst thing for him was to be left at the mercy of an overbearing, religion-obsessed mother who even went so far as to dress him up in pajamas to "play along." Apparently, he was playing under her skirt, and I would say that he cut off the "bulges" so that the costume was finished. Result: Karoski wet the bed at 15 o'clock. He was wearing ordinary clothes, old-fashioned or rough, because they were poor. At the institute, he suffered from ridicule and was very lonely. A man passing by made an unfortunate remark to his friend about his attire, and é l and é ste, in rage, hit him several times in the face with a thick book. The other nío was wearing glasses, and the glasses were stuck in his eyes. Stay blind for the rest of your life.
  
  "Eyes... as in cadeaveres. This was his first violent crime.
  
  "At least as far as we know, sir. Victor was sent to a penal colony in Boston, and the last thing his mother said to him before saying goodbye to him was: "I would like her to give you an abortion." A few months later, he committed suicide.
  
  Everyone kept a shocked silence. I do nothing to say nothing.
  
  Karoski was in a penal colony until the end of 1979. We don't have anything from this año, but in 1980 I entered the seminary in Baltimore. His seminary entrance examination indicated that his service record was clean and that he came from a family of ón católica traditions. He was 19 at the time and looked like he had straightened up. We know next to nothing about his time at the seminary, but we do know that he studied until he passed out and that he deeply resented the open homosexual atmosphere at Institute 9. Conroy insists that Karoski was a repressed homosexual who denied his true nature, but this is not true. Karoski is neither gay nor straight, he has no particular orientation. Sex is not built into his personality, which, from my point of view, has caused serious damage to his psyche.
  
  "Explain, father," asked Pontiero.
  
  - No Somo. I am a priest and have chosen to be celibate. That doesn't stop me from being attracted to Dr. Dicanti here," Fowler said to Paola, who couldn't help but blush. Thus, I know that I am heterosexual, but I freely choose to be celibate. Thus, I integrated sexuality into my personality, albeit in an impractical way. In the case of Karoski, things are different. The deep traumas of his childhood and youth led to a split in his psyche. What Karoski strongly rejects is his sexual and violent nature. a person deeply hate and love themselves, and all at the same time. This escalated into violent outbursts, schizophrenia, and finally juvenile abuse, replicating the abuse of their father. In 1986, during his pastoral ministry,10 Karoski had his first incident with a minor. I was 14 years old, and there were kisses and touches, nothing special. We believe that they were not agreed to by minors. In any case, there is no official evidence that this episode came to ítwo from the bishop, so Karoski is ultimately ordained a priest. Since then, he has had an insane obsession with his hands. She washes them thirty to forty times a day and takes exceptional care of them.
  
  Pontiero searched the hundred gruesome photographs on the table until he found the one he was looking for and tossed it to Fowler. É Stela Kazo in flight with two fingers, with almost no effort. Paola secretly admired the elegance of this movement.
  
  -Two hands, cut off and washed, put on a white canvas. The white canvas is a symbol of respect and reverence in the Church. There are over 250 references to it in the New Testament. As you know, Jesus was covered in a white linen in his tomb.
  
  -Now he's not so white anymore -bromó Boy 11.
  
  -Director, I am convinced that you like to put your instruments on the canvas in question-confirmation-of Pontiero.
  
  - Do not doubt. Continue, Fowler.
  
  - The priest's hands are sacred. With their help, he performs the sacraments. It was still very much stuck in Karoski's head, as it turned out later. In 1987, I worked at a school in Pittsburgh where his first abuse took place. His opponents were boys between the ages of 8 and 11. He is not known in any type of consensual adult relationship, homosexual or heterosexual. When complaints began to come in to their superiors, at first they did nothing. After that, he was transferred from parish to parish. Soon a complaint was received about an attack on a parishioner, whom he hit in the face without serious consequences ... And in the end he entered the institute.
  
  - Do you think that if they had started helping you earlier, things would have been different?
  
  Fowler arched into a gesture, his hands clenched, his body tense.
  
  - Dear Deputy Inspector, we do not help you and we do not help you. The only thing we managed to do was get the killer outside. And finally, let him slip away from us.
  
  -¿ How serious was it?
  
  - Worse. When I arrived, he was overwhelmed by both his uncontrollable desires and his violent outbursts. Have a remorse for his actions, even if he repeatedly denied them. He just couldn't control himself. But over time, with the wrong treatment, with contact with the dregs of the priesthood gathered at St. Matthew's, Karoski got much worse. He turned and walked towards Niko. I lost my remorse. The visionán, él blocked the painful memories of his childhood. As a result, he became a pederast. But after catastrophic regression therapy,...
  
  -¿Why disastrous?
  
  - It would be somewhat better if the goal were to bring the patient some peace. But I very much fear that Dr. Conroy has taken a morbid curiosity about the Karoski case, to the point of immoral excesses. In such cases, the hypnotist is trying to artificially plant positive memories in the patient's memory, I recommend that he forget the worst facts. Conroy banned this action. It didn't make him remember Karoski, but made him listen to tapes of him asking his mother to leave him alone in falsetto.
  
  -¿ Who is Mengele at the head of this place? Paola was horrified.
  
  Conroy was convinced that Karoski should accept himself. Según él era la única solución. Debí has to admit that he had a tough childhood and that he was gay. As I told you earlier, I did a preliminary diagnosis and then tried to put the patient in shoes. To top it all off, the Karoskis are injecting cóctel hormones, some of which are experimental, as a variant of the Depo-Covetán contraceptive. With abnormal doses of é ste fármaco, Conroy reduced Karoski's sexual response but increased her aggressiveness. The therapy went on longer and longer, and there were no positive changes. There were several times when I was calm, simple, but Conroy interpreted this as the success of his therapy. In the end, there was a castration of mica. Karoski is unable to get an erection and this frustration destroys him.
  
  -¿Cuándo entró is this your first contact with él?
  
  - When I entered the institute in 1995. Talk to email a lot. A certain trusting relationship was established between them, which was interrupted, as I will tell you now. But I don't want to get ahead of myself. Cm.án, fifteen days after Karoski entered the institute, he was recommended a plethysmograph for the penis. This is a test in which a device is attached to the penis using electrodes. Such a device measures sexual response to certain conditions. men.
  
  "I know him," Paola said, like someone who says she was talking about the boll virus.
  
  "Okay... He takes it... very badly. During the session, she was shown terrible, extreme genes.
  
  -¿Some of extremes?
  
  - Associated with pedophilia.
  
  - Damn it.
  
  -Karoski reacted with violence and seriously injured the specialist who controlled the machine. The guards managed to detain him, otherwise he would have been killed. In connection with this episode, Conroy had to admit that he was unable to treat him and send him to a psychiatric hospital. But he didn't. Hire two strong overseers with orders to keep an eye on him and begin subjecting him to regression therapy. This coincided with my admission to the institute. After a few months, Karoski retired. His fits of anger pass. Conroy attributed this to significant improvements in his personality. They increased their vigilance around them. And one night, Karoski broke open the lock in his room (which, for reasons of safety, had to be closed from the outside at a certain time) and cut off the hands of the sleeping priestín in his own wing. He told everyone that the priest was an unclean person and that he was seen touching another priest "inappropriately". While the guards ran into the room from which the priest's screams could be heard, Karoski was washing his hands under the shower tap.
  
  - The same course of action. I think, Father Fowler, that then there will be no doubt," said Paola.
  
  "To my amazement and despair, Conroy did not report this fact to the police. The crippled priest was compensated and several doctors in California were able to re-implant both of his arms, albeit with very limited mobility. In the meantime, Conroy orders to increase security and build a three-meter-by-three-meter detention facility. This was Karoski's housing until he ran away from the Institute. Interview after interview, group therapy after group therapy, Conroy failed and Karoski grew into the monster he is now. I wrote several letters to the cardinal in which I explained the problem to him. I didn't get an answer. In 1999, Karoski escaped his cell and committed his first known murder: Father Peter Selznick.
  
  Or we can talk about it here. It was said that he committed suicide.
  
  - Well, that wasn't true. Karoski escapes the cell by breaking the lock with a cup and a piece of metal he sharpened in his cell to rip out Selznick's tongue and lips. I also tore off his penis and forced him to bite it. It took him three-quarters of an hour to die, and no one knew until the next morning.
  
  -¿What did Conroy say?
  
  - I officially defined this episode as "failure". I managed to cover it up and get the judge and county sheriff to order suicide.
  
  - ¿And they agreed to it? ¿Sinmas? Pontiero said.
  
  They were both cats. I think that Conroy manipulated both of you by appealing to his duty as such to protect the Church. But even if I didn't want to admit it, my former boss was really, really scared. He sees Karoski's mind slipping away from him, as if absorbing his will. día to día. Despite this, he repeatedly refused to report what had happened to a higher authority, no doubt for fear of losing custody of the prisoner. I write letters to the archbishop cesis, but they don't hear me. I spoke to Karoski, but found no trace of remorse in him, and I realized that in the end they would all belong to someone else. Ahí was severed-all contact between the two of them. That was the last time I spoke to L. Honestly, this animal locked in the cell scared me. And Karoski was still in high school. Camaras were installed. Se contrato a mas personal. Until one June night in 2000, he disappeared. Without wt.
  
  -¿Y Conroy? ¿Como reaction?
  
  - I was injured. He gave the mass a drink. In the third week it was blown up by the hógado and the murió. A shame.
  
  "Don't exaggerate," said Pontiero.
  
  - Leave the moslo, the better. I was assigned to temporarily run the facility while a suitable replacement was sought. The archdeacon of Cesis did not trust me, I believe, because of my constant complaints about my superior. I was in this position for only a month, but I used it to the best of my ability. We hastily restructured the staff with professional staff and developed new trainee programs. Many of these changes were never implemented, but others did because they were worth the effort. Send a brief report to a former contact at the 12th Police Department named Kelly Sanders. He was concerned about the identity of the suspect and the unpunished crime of Selznick's father, and organized an operation to capture Karoski. Nothing.
  
  -¿What, without Me? ¿Disappearing? Paola was amazed.
  
  - Disappear without me. In 2001, the habí was believed to have resurfaced as a partial mutilation crime was committed in Albany. But it was not él. Many thought he was dead, but fortunately, his profile was entered into the computer. In the meantime, I found myself in New York's Hispanic Harlem charity canteen. Work through everything for several months, until yesterday. The former boss demanded me for the service, as I believe that I will again become a chaplain and castrate. I have been informed that there are indications that Karoski is back to act after all this time. And here I am. I'm bringing you a portfolio with the relevant papers you'll collect about Karoski over the five years you'll be dealing with," Fowler said, handing him a thick folder. dossier, fourteen centimeters thick, fourteen centimeters thick. There are e-mails related to the hormone that I told you about, transcripts of his interviews, alga art and ass perió in which he is mentioned, letters from psychiatrists, reports ... It's all yours, Doctor Dicanti. Warn me if you have any doubts.
  
  Paola reaches across the table for a thick pack and I can't help it, feeling very uneasy. Clip the first photo of Gina Hubbard to the photo of Karoski. She has whitish complexion, chaste or straight hair, and brown eyes. Over the years that we have devoted ourselves to researching those empty scars that serial killers had, we have learned to recognize this empty look in the depths of their eyes. from predators, from those who kill as naturally as they eat. In nature, there is something remotely resembling this look, and these are the eyes of white sharks. They look without seeing, in a strange and frightening way.
  
  And everything was fully reflected in the pupils of Father Karoski.
  
  -¿Impressive, isn't it? Fowler said, looking at Paola with a searching look. This man has something in his posture, in his gestures. Something indefinable. At first glance, this goes unnoticed, but when, let's say, his whole personality is on fire ... it's terrible.
  
  "And charming, isn't it, father?"
  
  -Yes.
  
  Dicanti handed over the photo to Pontiero and Boy, who simultaneously bent over it to examine the killer's face.
  
  - What were you afraid of, father, such a danger or look this man straight in the eye and feel staring, naked? ¿As if é I was a member of a superior race that broke all our conventions?
  
  Fowler looked at her with his mouth open.
  
  "I suppose, dottora, you already know the answer.
  
  "Throughout my career, I have had the opportunity to interview three serial killers. All three of them produced in me the feeling I have just described to you, and others, much better than you and I, felt it. But this is a false sensation. One thing must not be forgotten, father. These people are failures, not prophets. Human trash. They don't deserve an ounce of compassion.
  
  
  
  Progesterone hormone report
  
  sintética 1789 (depot-gestageno inyectable).
  
  Trade name: DEPO-Covetan.
  
  Report classification: Confidential - Encrypted
  
  
  
  For: [email protected]
  
  FROM: [email protected]
  
  COPY: [email protected]
  
  Subject: CONFIDENTIAL - HPP Report #45 1789
  
  Date: March 17, 1997, 11:43 am.
  
  Attachments: Inf#45_HPS1789.pdf
  
  
  Dear Marcus:
  
  I am enclosing the preliminary report that you requested from us.
  
  Analyzes conducted during field studies in ALPHA 13 zones recorded severe menstrual irregularities, menstrual irregularities, vomiting and possible internal bleeding. Severe cases of hypertension, thrombosis, cardio and acas diseases have been described. A small problem arose: 1.3% of patients developed fibromyalgia 14, a side effect not described in the previous version.
  
  When this report is compared with the versión 1786 report we currently sell in the United States and Europe, side effects have decreased by 3.9%. If the risk analysts are correct, we can calculate that over $53 million in insurance and loss costs. Therefore, we adhere to the norm, that is, less than 7% profit. No, don't thank me... give me a bonus!
  
  By the way, the laboratory received data on the use of LA 1789 in male patients in order to suppress or eliminate their sexual response. In medicine, sufficient doses began to act as a myco-castrator. From the reports and analyzes examined by the laboratory, it can be concluded that the subject's aggressiveness increased in specific cases, as well as certain abnormalities of brain activity. We recommend expanding the scope of the study to find out the percentage at which this side effect may occur. It would be interesting to start testing with omega-15 subjects, such as psychiatric patients who were evicted three times, or prisoners on death row.
  
  I would be happy to personally supervise such trials.
  
  ¿We eat on Friday? I found a great place near the village. They really have divine fish for a couple.
  
  
  Sincerely,
  
  Dra. Lorna Berr
  
  Research Director
  
  
  CONFIDENTIAL - CONTAINS INFORMATION AVAILABLE ONLY TO STAFF RATING A1. IF YOU. YOU HAD ACCESS TO THIS REPORT AND IT IS NOT CLASSIFIED TO THE SAME KNOWLEDGE THAT YOU ARE OBLIGATED TO REPORT SUCH SECURITY BREACH TO YOUR IMMEDIATE SUPERIOR WITHOUT DISCLOSURE IN THIS CASE. INFORMATION CONTAINED IN PREVIOUS SECTIONS. FAILURE TO DO THIS REQUIREMENT MAY RESULTS IN SERIOUS LEGAL ACTION AND PRISON TIME OF UP TO 35 YEARS OR MORE THAN THE EQUIVALENT PERMITTED BY APPLICABLE US LAW.
  
  
  
  UACV Headquarters
  
  Via Lamarmora, 3
  
  Moyércoles, April 6, 2005, 01:25 am
  
  
  
  The hall falls silent because of Paola's harsh words. However, no one said anything. It was noticeable what weight Día lay on the bodies, and the morning light on the eyes and minds. Director Boy finally spoke up.
  
  "You will tell us what we are doing, Dicanti.
  
  Paola hesitated for half a minute before answering.
  
  - I think it was a very difficult test. Let's all go home and sleep for a few hours. See you here at half past seven in the morning. We will start with the furnishing of the rooms. We'll go through the scripts again and wait for the agents Pontiero has mobilized to come up with some hint to hope for. Oh, and Pontiero, call Dante and let him know the time of the meeting.
  
  -To be a pleasure - answeró éste, zumbón.
  
  Pretending that nothing was happening, Dikanti walked over to Boy and grabbed his arm.
  
  "Headmaster, I would like to talk to you alone for a minute.
  
  Let's go out into the corridor.
  
  Paola preceded the mature scholar Fiko, who, as always, gallantly opened the door for her and closed it behind him as she passed. Dikanti hated such reverence for his boss.
  
  -Digame.
  
  "Headmaster, what exactly is Fowler's role in this case?" I just didn't get it. And I don't care about his vague explanations or anything like that.
  
  -Dikanti, were you ever called John Negroponte?
  
  - It sounds very similar to me. ¿Es italoamericano?
  
  "My God, Paola, someday get your nose out of the criminologist's books. Yes, he is American, but of Greek origin. In particular, he was recently appointed Director of National Intelligence for the United States. All American agencies are in his charge: NSA, CIA, DEA 16.., and long, etc. and so on. and so on. and so on. and so on. and so on. and so on. and so on. and so on. This means that this señor, who, by the way, is a Catholic, is the second most powerful person in the world, unlike President Bush. Well, well, Señor Negroponte personally called me Saint Mariana while we were visiting Robaira, and we had a long, long conversation. You warned me that Fowler was on a direct flight from Washington to join the investigation. He didn't give me a choice. It's not just that President Bush himself is in Rome and, of course, informed about everything. It was he who asked Negroponte to look into this issue before this topic gets into the media. to you one of my employees, we are lucky that he knows this topic thoroughly."
  
  -¿Sómo did you know what I'm asking? Paola said, staring at the floor, stunned by the magnitude of what she was hearing.
  
  "Ah, dear Paola... don't underestimate Camilo Sirin for a moment. When I showed up in the afternoon, I personally called Negroponte. Shogun told me é ste, Jemas, before I spoke, and I have no idea what I can get from him. It's just that he's been around for a couple of weeks.
  
   -¿Y cómo supo Negroponte tan rapido a quién enviar?
  
   "It's not a ninun's secret. Fowler's friend at VICAP interprets ó250;Karoski's last recorded words before fleeing St. Matthew's as an undisguised threat, citing church leaders and how the Vatican wrote about it five years ago.#241;os. When Robaira was discovered by 100 masanna, Sirin broke her rules about washing dirty rags at home. He made several calls and pulled some strings. He is a son of a bitch with very good connections and contacts at the maximum level. But I think you already understand that, my dear.
  
  "I have a little idea," Dicanti says ironically.
  
  "Shogun told me Negroponte, George W. Bush took a personal interest in the case. The President believes that the aúna owes John Paul II, who makes you look him in the eye and ask him not to invade Iraq. Bush told Negroponte that he owed at least this to the memory of Wojtyla.
  
  -My God. There won't be a team this time, right?
  
  - Answer the question yourself.
  
  Dicanti said nothing. If the priority was to keep this matter a secret, I'll have to work with what I have. Without wt.
  
  -¿Director, don't you think that all this makes me a little tired? Dikanti was very tired and depressed by the circumstances of the case. He had never said such a thing in his life, and for a long time afterwards he regretted having said those words.
  
  Boy lifted her chin with his fingers and forced her to look straight ahead.
  
  "That surpasses all of us, bambina. But Olví desire everything. Just think there is a monster killing people. And you are hunting monsters.
  
  Paola smiled gratefully. I wish you... once again, for the last time, all the same, even if I knew that it was a mistake and that I would breakíel corazón. Luckily, it was a fleeting moment and he immediately tried to regain his composure. I was sure he didn't notice.
  
  "Director, I'm worried that Fowler will be hanging around us during the investigation. I can be a nuisance.
  
  -Podia. And it can also be very helpful. This person has worked in the Armed Forces and is an experienced marksman. Among... other abilities. Not to mention that he knows our prime suspect intimately and is a priest. You will need to navigate in a world you are not very used to, just like Superintendent Dante. Think that our colleague from the Vatican opened your doors and Fowler opened your minds.
  
  Dante is an insufferable jerk.
  
  - I know. And also a necessary evil. All potential victims of our suspect are in his hands. Even if we are separated by only a few meters, this is their territory.
  
  And Italy is ours. In the Portini case, they acted illegally, with no regard for us. This is an obstruction of justice.
  
  The headmaster shrugged, as did Niko.
  
  -¿ What will happen to the owners of livestock if they condemn them? To create enmity between us is useless. Olví wants everything to be in order and that they can mess everything up at that moment. Now we need Dante. As you already know, éste is his team.
  
  - You are the boss.
  
  "And you are my favorite teacher. In short, Dikanti, I'm going to take some rest and I'm going to stay in the laboratory, analyzing to the last grain what they bring me. I leave it to you to build my "castle in the air".
  
  Boy was already walking down the corridor, but he suddenly stopped on the threshold and turned around, looking at her from step to step.
  
  - Only one, mass. Negroponte asked me to take him in cabrese cabron. He asked me for this as a personal favor. Is he following me? And you can be sure that we will be happy that you owe us a favor.
  
  
  
  Saint Thomas Parish
  
  Augusta, Massachusetts
  
  July 1992
  
  
  
  Harry Bloom placed the collection basket on the table at the bottom of the sacristy. Take a last look at the church. There was no one left... Not many people gathered during the first hour of the Sabbath. Know that if you had hurried you would have arrived just in time to see the 100m freestyle final. You just need to leave the servant altar in the closet, change your shiny shoes for sports shoes and fly home. Orita Mona, a fourth grade teacher, repeats to him every time he runs through the school corridors. His mother repeats to him every time he breaks into the house. But there was freedom in the half-mile that separated the church from his house... he could run as long as he wanted, provided he looked both ways before crossing the street. When I get older, I will become an athlete.
  
  Carefully fold the case and put it in the closet. Inside was his backpack, from which he took out his sneakers. She was carefully removing her shoes when she felt Father Karoski's hand on her shoulder.
  
  "Harry, Harry... I'm very disappointed in you."
  
  Nío was about to turn around, but Karoski's father's hand wouldn't let him.
  
  - Have I done something wrong?
  
  There was a change in tone in my father's voice. It's like I'm breathing faster.
  
  "Oh, and upstairs you are playing the part of a little boy. Even worse.
  
  "Father, I really don"t know what I did..."
  
  - What audacity. ¿ Aren't you late for the Holy Rosary before Mass?
  
  "Father, the thing is, my brother Leopold wouldn't let me use the baño, and, well, you know... It's not my fault.
  
  - ¡ Shut up, shameless! Do not make excuses. Now you recognize the sin of lying as the sin of your self-denial.
  
  Harry was surprised to learn that I had caught him. The truth is, it was his fault. Turn on the door when you see what time it is.
  
  "I'm sorry, father...
  
  "It"s too bad that children lie to you.
  
  Djemas habí heard Father Karoski speak in this way, so angry. Now she was beginning to be very afraid. He tried to turn once, but my hand pressed him against the wall, very hard. Only it was no longer a hand. It was a Talon, like the Werewolf in the NBC series. And the Talon dug into his chest, pressed his face against the wall, as if he wanted to force him through it.
  
  "Now, Harry, accept your punishment." Pull up your pants and don't turn around, otherwise it will be much worse.
  
  Nío heard the sound of something metallic falling to the ground. He pulls Niko's pants down, convinced that he's in for a spanking. The previous servant, Steven, quietly told him that Karoski's father once punished him and that he was in great pain.
  
  "Now accept your punishment," Karoski repeated in a hoarse voice, pressing his mouth very close to the back of her head. I feel chills. You will be served fresh mint flavor mixed with aftershave cream. In an incredible mental pirouette, she realized that Karoski's father used the same loci as her father.
  
  - ¡Arrepietete!
  
  Harry felt a jolt and a sharp pain between his buttocks and believed he was dying. He was very sorry for being late, very sorry, very sorry. But even if he said that to Talon, it wouldn't do him any good. The pain continues, it intensifies with every breath Harry, pressing his face against the wall, managed to see his sneakers on the floor in the sacristy and wished they were on, and ran with them, free and far away.
  
  Free and far, far away.
  
  
  
  Dicanti family apartment
  
  Via Della Croce, 12
  
  Moyércoles, April 6, 2005, 1:59 am
  
  
  
  - Desire change.
  
  "Very generous, grazie tante.
  
  Paola ignored the taxi driver's suggestion. What city crap that even the taxi driver complained about because the tip was sixty cents. That would be in lira... uff. A lot of. Certainly. And to top it off, he very impolitely stepped on the gas before leaving. If I were a gentleman, I would wait for him to enter the portal. It was two in the morning and, my God, the street was deserted.
  
  Make it warm for her little año, but still Paola Cynthio shuddered as she opened the portal. ¿Did you see the shadow at the end of the street? I'm sure it was his imagination.
  
  Close behind her very quietly, I ask you to forgive me for being so afraid of a blow. I walked all three floors on the run. The wooden stairs made a terrible noise, but Paola did not hear it, because the blood was beating from her ears. We approached the apartment door almost out of breath. But when she got to her landing, she got stuck.
  
  The door was ajar.
  
  She slowly, carefully unbuttoned her jacket and put her hand to her purse. He drew his service weapon and got into a fighting position, placing his elbow on the straight line of his torso. I pushed the door open with one hand, entering the apartment very slowly. The light in the hallway was on. He took a cautious step inside, and then very sharply jerked the door, pointing to the opening.
  
  Nothing.
  
  -¿Paola?
  
  -¿Mamaa?
  
  - Come on, daughter, I'm in the kitchen.
  
  I breathed a sigh of relief and put the gun back in its place. Jem only learned to draw a gun in a real situation in his life, at the FBI academy. This incident clearly made her too nervous.
  
  Lucrezia Dicanti was in the kitchen buttering cookies. It's the chime of the microwave oven and the prayer pulling out two steaming cups of milk from the inside. We put them on a small formica table. Paola looks around, her chest heaving. Everything was in its place: a little pig with wooden spoons on its back, shiny paint applied by themselves, the remnants of the smell of gold hovering in the air. He knew that his mother was an echo of Canolis. She also knew that she had eaten them all and that was why I offered her cookies.
  
  -¿I will get to you with éStas? If you want to anoint me.
  
  "Mom, for God's sake, you scared me to death." May I know why you left the door open?
  
  I almost screamed. Her mother looked at her worriedly. Dust the paper towel off the bathrobe and rub it with your fingertips to remove any remaining oil.
  
  - Daughter, I got up and listened to the news on the terrace. The whole of Rome is in revolution with the Pope's chapel on fire, the radio says nothing else... decide that I'll wait until you wake up and I saw you get out of the taxi. I regret.
  
  Paola immediately felt bad and asked for a fart.
  
  "Calm down, woman. Take a cookie.
  
  -Thank you mom.
  
  The young woman sat next to her mother, who kept her eyes on her. Ever since Paola was little, Lucrezia has learned to immediately catch the problem that arises and give her the right advice. Only the problem that littered his head was too serious, too complex, . I don't even know if this expression exists
  
  -¿Is it because of some work?
  
  "You know I can't talk about it.
  
  "I know, and if you have a face like someone stepped on your toes, you spend the night tossing and turning in bed. Are you sure you don't want to tell me anything?
  
  Paola stared at her glass of milk and added spoonful after spoonful of azúcar as she spoke.
  
  "It's just... a different case, Mom. Case for crazy people. I feel like a goddamn glass of milk that someone keeps pouring azúkar and azúkar into. The nitrogen no longer dissolves and only serves to fill the bowl.
  
  Lucrezia, dear, boldly puts her open hand on the glass, and Paola pours a spoonful of azúcar into her palm.
  
  "Sometimes it helps to share it.
  
  "I can't, mom. I regret.
  
  "It's all right, my dear, it's all right. Do you want cookies from me? I'm sure you didn't have anything to eat," Ora said, wisely changing the subject.
  
  - No, mom, with Stas I have enough. I have a tambourine, like at the Roma stadium.
  
  "My daughter, you have a beautiful ass.
  
  Yes, that's why I'm still single.
  
  - No, my daughter. You are still single because you have a very bad car. You're pretty, you take care of yourself, you go to the gym... It's a matter of time before you find a man who won't be touched by your cries and your bad manners.
  
  "I don't think it will ever happen, Mom.
  
  -¿Why not? ¿ What can you tell me about your boss, this charming man?
  
  - He's married, mama. And he could be my father.
  
  - How exaggerated you are. Pass it on to me, please see how I don't offend him. Besides, in today's world, the question of marriage is irrelevant.
  
  If you knew, think of Paola.
  
  - What do you think, mom?
  
  - I'm convinced. ¡Madonna, what beautiful hands she has! With this I danced a slang dance and#243;n...
  
  -¡Mamaa! He might shock me!
  
  "Since your father left us ten years ago, daughter, I have not spent a single day without thinking about él. But I don't think I'll be like those Sicilian widows in black who throw shells next to their husbands' balls. Come on, have another drink and let's go to sleep.
  
  Paola smeared another cookie in milk, mentally counting how hot it was and feeling very guilty about herself. Fortunately, it didn't last very long.
  
  
  
  From the correspondence of the cardinal
  
  Francis Shaw y la señora Edwina Bloom
  
  
  
  Boston, 23-02-1999
  
  Darling, be and #241; pray:
  
  In response to your letter dated 17.02.1999, I want to tell you (...) that I respect and regret your grief and the grief of your son Harry. I am aware of the great suffering he went through, great suffering. I agree with you that the fact that a man from God makes the mistakes that Father Karoski did, could shake the foundations of his faith (...) I admit my mistake. I should never have reappointed Father Karoski (...) perhaps the third time that concerned believers like you came to me with their complaints, I should have gone the other way (...). After receiving bad advice from the psychiatrists who handled his case, such as Dr. Dressler, who compromised his professional prestige by claiming he was fit to serve, he relented (...)
  
  I hope that the generous compensation agreed with his lawyer has resolved this matter to everyone's satisfaction (...) as this is more than we can offer (...) to amos, if we can, of course. certainly wanting to alleviate his pain with money, if I take the liberty of advising him to remain silent, for the good of all (...) our Holy Mother Church has already suffered enough from the slander of the wicked, from the Satán mediático (...) for the good of us all. our little community, for his son's sake and for his own sake, let's pretend it never happened.
  
  Take all my blessings
  
  
  Francis Augustus Shaw
  
  Cardinal Prelate of the Archdiocese of Boston and#243;Cesis
  
  
  
   Instituto Saint Matthew
  
  Silver Spring, Maryland
  
   November 1995
  
  
  
  TRAFFIC OF INTERVIEW #45 BETWEEN PATIENT #3643 AND DR. CANIS CONROY. DR. FOWLER AND SALER FANABARZRA PRESENT
  
  
  D.R. CONROY : Hola Viktor, ¿podemos pasar?
  
  #3643: Please, doctor. This is his wife Nika.
  
  #3643: Come in, please, come in.
  
  DR. CONROY ¿Is she all right?
  
  #3643: Great.
  
  DR. CONROY You're taking your medication regularly, attending group classes regularly... You're making progress, Victor.
  
  #3643 : Thank you doctor. I do my best.
  
  DR. CONROY: Well, since we've been talking today, that's the first thing we're going to start regression therapy with. É is the beginning of Fanabarzra. He is Dr. Hindú who specializes in hypnosis.
  
  #3643 : Doctor, I don't know if I felt like I had just come across the idea of being subjected to such an experiment.
  
  DR. CONROY: This is important, Victor. We talked about this last week, remember?
  
  #3643 : Si, I remember.
  
  If you are a Fanabarzra, if you prefer the patient to sit?
  
  Mr FANABARZRA: Being a más có routine in bed. It is important that you are as relaxed as possible.
  
  DR. CONROY Túmbate, Viktor.
  
  #3643 : As you wish.
  
   Sr. FANABARZRA : Bien, Viktor, voy a mostrarle este pendulo. ¿Do you mind lowering the blinds a little, doctor? That's enough, thanks. Victor, look at the guy, if you're so kind.
  
  (IN THIS TRADITION, MR. FANABARZRA'S HYPNOSIS PROCEDURE IS OMITTED BY REQUEST EXPRESSED BY MR. FANABARZRA. PAUSES HAVE ALSO BEEN REMOVED FOR READING EASIER)
  
  
  Mr. FANABARZRA: Okay... it's 1972 now. ¿What do you remember about his smallness?
  
  #3643: My father... was never at home. Sometimes the whole family waits for him at the fábrica on Fridays. Mom, on December 225, I found out that he was a drug addict and that we tried to avoid his money being spent in bars. Make it so that the friili get out. We are waiting and hoping. We kick the ground to keep warm. Emil (Karoski's little brother) asked me for his scarf because he has a dad. I didn't give it to her. My mother hit me on the head and told me to give it to her. Eventually we got tired of waiting and left.
  
  Mr. FANABARZRA: Do you know where your father was?
  
  : He was fired. I returned home two days after I became ill. Mom said that había drank and walked with whores. They wrote him a check, but it didn't last long. Let's go to Social Security for Dad's check. But sometimes papa came forward and drank it. Emil doesn't understand why anyone can drink paper.
  
  Mr FANABARZRA: ¿Did you ask for help?
  
  #3643: Sometimes we were given clothes in the parish. The other boys went to the Rescue Center for clothes, which was always better. But my mother said that they were heretics and pagans and that it was better to wear honest Christian clothes. Beria (the elder found out that his worthy Christian clothes were in holes. I hate him for this.
  
  Mr FANABARZRA: Were you happy when Beria left?
  
  #3643 : I was in bed. I saw him cross the room in the dark. He held boots in his hand. He gave me his keychain. Take the silver bear. He told me to put the appropriate keys in él. I swear by my mother Anna Emil Llor, because she was not fired from él. I gave him a bunch of keys. Emil continued to cry and toss the bunch of keys. Cry all dia. I break the storybook I have for him to shut up. I tore it apart with scissors. My father locked me in his room.
  
  Mr. FANABARZRA: ¿ Where was your mother?
  
  #3643: Playing bingo in the parish. It was Tuesday. On Tuesdays they played bingo. Each cart cost a penny.
  
  Mr FANABARZRA: ¿What é happenedó in that roomón?
  
   #3643 : Nothing . Esper e.
  
  Sr. FANABARZRA : Viktor, tienes que contarmelo.
  
   #3643: ¡Don't pass NOTHING, understand, señor, NOTHING!
  
   Sr. FANABARZRA : Viktor, tienes que contarmelo. Your father locked you in his room and did something to you, didn't he?
  
  #3643: You don't understand this. ¡ I deserve it!
  
  Mr FANABARZRA: ¿What is it that you deserve?
  
  #3643: Punishment. Punishment. I needed a lot of punishment to repent of my bad deeds.
  
  Mr FANABARZRA: ¿ What's wrong?
  
  #3643: Everything bad. How bad it was. About cats. He met a cat in a trash can full of crumpled periodicals and set it on fire. ¡Y chillo! Cold in a human voice. And about the fairy tale.
  
  Mister: ¿ Was that a punishment, Victor?
  
  #3643 : Pain. I'm in pain. And she liked him, I know. I thought it hurt too, but that was a lie. It's in Polish. I don't know how to lie in English, - he faltered. He always spoke Polish when he punished me.
  
  Mr. FANABARZRA: ¿ Did he touch you?
  
  #3643: He kicked my ass. He didn't let me turn around. And I got into something inside. Something hot that hurts.
  
  Mr. FANABARZRA: ¿Were there such punishments often?
  
  #3643 : Every Tuesday. When mom was gone. Sometimes, when he was done, he would fall asleep on top of me. Like he's dead. Sometimes he could not punish me and beat me.
  
  Mr. FANABARZRA: ¿ Did he beat you?
  
  #3643 : He held my hand until he got tired of it. Sometimes after you hit me you can punish me and sometimes you can't.
  
   Sr. FANABARZRA : ¿Y a tus hermanos, Viktor? Did your father punish them?
  
  : I think he punished Beria. Emil never, Emil was fine, so he died.
  
  : ¿ good guys die, Victor?
  
  : I know good guys. Bad boys never.
  
  
  
  Governor's Palace
  
  Vatican
  
  Moyércoles, April 6, 2005, 10:34 am.
  
  
  
  Paola waited for Dante, mopping the carpet in the hallway with short, nervous walks. Life started badly. He hardly rested at night, and upon arrival at the office, he was faced with a mass of unbearable paperwork and obligations. Responsible for the protection of the civilian population of Italy, Guido Bertolano was very concerned about the growing flow of pilgrims who began to flood the city. Sports centers, schools and all kinds of municipal institutions with a roof and a large number of sites were already completely filled there. Now they sleep on the streets, at the portals, in the squares, in automatic cash registers. Dicanti contacted him to ask for help in finding and capturing the suspect, and Bertolano laughed politely in his ear.
  
  , even if that suspect was the same Shimo Osama, there's not much we could do. Of course, he can wait until everything is over Saint Barullo.
  
  "I don't know if you realize it...
  
  "Ispettora... Dicanty said your name, didn't she?" En Fiumicino está aparcado el Air Force One17. There is not a single five-star hotel that does not have a crowned test in the presidential suite. Do you understand what a nightmare it is to protect these people? Every fifteen minutes there are hints of possible terrorist attacks and false bomb threats. I call for carabinieri from villages two hundred meters around. Cre love me, your case can wait. Now stop blocking my línea, please," he said, hung up abruptly.
  
  Damn it! Why didn't anyone take her seriously? That case was a major shock, and the lack of clarity in the ruling as to the nature of the case meant that any claims on his part met with indifference on the part of the Democrats.;c. I spent quite a lot of time on the phone, but I didn't get much. Between calls, I asked Pontiero to come and talk to the old Carmelite woman from Santa Mar in Transpontina while she was about to talk to Cardinal Samalo. And everyone stood at the door of the duty officer's office, circling like a tiger satiated with coffee balance.
  
  Father Fowler, seated modestly on a sumptuous rosewood bench, reads his breviary.
  
  "It's moments like é cent that I regret quitting smoking, dottora.
  
  -¿Tambié is nervous, father?
  
  -No. But you are trying very hard to achieve this.
  
  Paola takes the priest's hint and lets him circle. He sits next to the el. I pretended to read Dante's report on the first crime, reflecting on the extra look the Vatican Superintendent gave Father Fowler when he presented them at UACV headquarters by DOJ.anna. Dante, don't be like him." The inspector was alarmed and intrigued. I decided that at the first opportunity I would ask Dante to explain this phrase.
  
  I returned your attention to the report. It was absolute nonsense. It was obvious that Dante did not carry out these duties diligently, which, on the other hand, was good luck for él. I will have to carefully examine the place where Cardinal Portini died, in the hope of finding something more interesting. I will do it on the same day. At least the photos were good. Close the folder with a bang. He cannot concentrate.
  
  It was hard for her to admit that she was scared. He was in the same korazov in the Vatican, in a building isolated from the rest in the center of Chitta. This structure contains more than 1,500 dispatches, including that of the High Pontus. Paola was simply disturbed and distracted by the abundance of statues and paintings that filled the halls. A result that the statesmen of the Vatican have been striving for for centuries, which they knew had an impact on their city on visitors. But Paola can't afford to be distracted by her work.
  
  -Padre Fowler.
  
  -¿Si?
  
  - Can I ask you a question?
  
  -Certainly.
  
  "I see the cardinal for the first time.
  
  - It is not true.
  
  Paula thought for a moment.
  
  "I mean alive.
  
  - And ¿cuá is your question?
  
  -¿Somo addresses the cardinal alone?
  
  - Usually with respect, yours - Fowler closed his magazine and looked into her eyes, - Calm, caring. He is the same person as you and me. And you are the inspector in charge of the investigation, and an excellent professional. Behave yourself.
  
  Dikanti smiled gratefully. Finally Dante opened the front door.
  
  -Come in here, please.
  
  There were two tables in the former office, at which two priests sat, attached to the phone and e-mail. Both greeted the visitors with a courteous nod of the head, who passed without further ado into the valet's office. It was a simple room, without paintings or carpets, with a bookcase on one side and a sofa with tables on the other. The crucifix on a stick was the decoration of the walls.
  
  In contrast to the empty space on the walls, the desk of Eduardo Gonza lez Samalo, the man who had taken over the reins of the church prior to the election of the new Sumo Pon fis, was completely filled. filled with papers. Samalo, dressed in a clean cassock, got up from the table and came out to greet them. Fowler leans down and kisses the cardinal's ring in respect and obedience, as all cats do when greeting a cardinal. Paola remained reserved. She tilted her head slightly-and somewhat embarrassedly. She did not consider herself a cat since childhood.
  
  Samalo takes the inspector's fall naturally, but with weariness and regret clearly visible on her face and back. She was the biggest authority in the Vatican for several decades, but apparently she didn't like it.
  
  "Sorry to keep you waiting. In these ten minutes, I am on the phone to the delegate of the German Commission, who is very nervous. There are not enough places in hotels everywhere, complete chaos reigns in the city. And everyone wants to be in the front row at the funeral of the last mother and#241;anna.
  
  Paola nodded politely.
  
  "I suppose all this, damn it, must be extremely unwieldy.
  
  Samalo, I dedicate their ragged breath to each answer.
  
  -¿ Are you aware of what happened, Your Eminence?
  
  -Certainly. Camilo Sirin informed me of the events in a timely manner. All this is a terrible misfortune. I suppose that under other circumstances I would have reacted much worse to these heinous criminals, but, frankly, I did not have time to be horrified.
  
  "As you know, we must think about the safety of the other cardinals, Your Eminence.
  
  Samalo gestured towards Dante.
  
  "Vigilance has made special efforts to gather everyone at Domus Sanctae Marthae earlier than planned, as well as to protect the integrity of this place.
  
  -¿La Domus Sanctae Marthae?
  
  "This building was renovated at the request of John Paul II to serve as the residence of the cardinals during the Cónclave," Dante interjected.
  
  "Very unusual use for an entire building, isn"t it?"
  
  -The rest of the año is used to accommodate distinguished guests. I even think that you all stopped once, didn't you, Father Fowler? Samalo said.
  
   Fowler pareció un tanto incomodo. For a few moments it seemed to them that between them there was a short confrontation without enmity, a struggle of wills. It was Fowler who bowed his head.
  
  "Indeed, Your Eminence. For some time I was a guest of the Holy See.
  
  - I think you had problems with Uffizio 18.
  
  - I was called for a consultation about events in which I really took part. Nothing but me.
  
  The cardinal seemed satisfied with the priest's apparent unease.
  
  "Ah, but of course, Father Fowler... you don't need to give me any explanation." His reputation preceded him. As you know, Inspector Dicanti, I have good vigilance for the safety of my brother cardinals. Almost all of them are safe here, deep inside the Vatican. There are those who have not yet arrived. In principle, accommodation at the Domus was optional until 15 April. Many cardinals were assigned to communities or priestly residences. But now we have informed you that you must all stay together.
  
  -¿Who is in Domus Sanctae Marthae now?
  
  -Eighty four. The rest, up to a hundred and fifteen, will arrive within the first two hours. We tried to contact everyone to tell them to send us their itinerary to improve safety. These are the ones I care about. But, as I told you, Inspector General Sirin is in charge of everything. You have nothing to worry about, my dear niña.
  
  -¿In these one hundred and fifteen states á including Robaira and Portini? -inquirió Dicanti, irritated by the condescension of the Camerlengo.
  
  "Well, I guess I really mean one hundred and thirteen cardinals," I replied sharply. Samalo. He was a proud man and did not like it when a woman corrected him.
  
  "I'm sure his Eminence has already thought of a plan to that effect," Fowler interjected conciliatoryly.
  
  "Indeed... We will spread the rumor that Portini is ill at his family's country house in Córcega. The disease, unfortunately, ended tragically. As for Robaira, some business related to his pastoral activities does not allow him to visit the Cónclave, although he goes to Rome to submit to the new Sumo Pontífice. Unfortunately, to die in a car accident, as I may well issue a policy policy. This news will be released to the press after it is published in the Cé#243;nclave, not before.
  
  Paola does not lose his temper with amazement.
  
  "I see that everything is tied up and well tied up with His Eminence.
  
  The Camerlengo clears his throat before answering.
  
  - This is the same version as any other. And this is the one that does not give to anyone and does not give.
  
  - Other than the truth.
  
  "This is the Cat Church, Inspector. Inspiration and light to show the way to billions of people. We cannot afford más escándalos. In terms of ¿what é is true?
  
  Dicanti twisted his gesture, although he recognized lógica as an implicit quote from the old man's words. She came up with many ways to object to him, but I realized that I would not deduce anything clear. I prefer to continue the interview.
  
  "I suppose you will not tell the Cardinals the reason for your premature concentration.
  
  -Not at all. They were directly asked not to, or to the Swiss guard, on the pretext that there is a radical group in the city that threatened the church hierarchy.;cat. I think everyone understood this.
  
  -¿ personally meet the girls?
  
  The Cardinal's face darkened for a moment.
  
  Yes, go and give me heaven. With Cardinal Portini I agree to a lesser extent, despite the fact that he was Italian, but my affairs have always been very focused on the internal organization of the Vatican, and I have devoted my life to doctrine. He wrote a lot, traveled a lot... he was a great man. I personally did not agree with his policy, so open, so revolutionary.
  
  -¿ Revolutionary? -se intereso Fowler.
  
  "Very, father, very much. He advocated the use of condoms, the ordination of women to the priesthood... he would be the pope of the 21st century. Adem was relatively young, barely 59 years old. If he had sat in the chair of Peter, he would have presided over the Third Vatican Council, which many consider so necessary for the Church. His death was an absurd and senseless misfortune.
  
  -¿ Did he count on his vote? Fowler said.
  
  The Camerlengo laughs through his teeth.
  
  -Don't ask me seriously to reveal who I'm going to vote for, right, father?
  
  Paola is back to take the reins of the interview into her own hands.
  
  "Your Eminence, you said that I was least of all in agreement with Portini, but what about Robaira?
  
  -Great person. He devoted himself completely to the cause of the poor. Of course you have flaws. It was very easy for him to imagine himself dressed in white on the balcony of St. Peter's Square. It's not that I did something nice that I wanted, of course. We are very friendly. We wrote to each other many times. His íniko sin was pride. He always demonstrates his poverty. He signed his letters with the blessed pauper. To infuriate him, I always ended my letters with beati pauperes spirito 19, although he never wanted to take this allusion for granted. But besides his shortcomings, he was a statesman and a church leader. He did a lot of good things throughout his life. I could never imagine him in the Rybak 20 sandals, I guess due to my large size they cover him up. with e-mail
  
  As he talked about his friend, the old cardinal grew smaller and greyer, his voice became sad, and his face expressed the fatigue that had accumulated in his body for seventy-eight years.;os. Although I do not share his ideas, Paola Sinti sympathizes with him. He knew that when he heard these words, which are an honest epitaph, the old Spaniard regretted that he could not find a place to cry for his friend alone. Damned dignity. Thinking about this, she realized that she was beginning to look at all the cardinal robes and cassocks and see the person who wore them. She must learn to stop viewing churchmen as one-dimensional beings, as the cassock's prejudices could jeopardize her job.
  
  In short, I believe that no one is a prophet in their own land. As I told you before, we coincided many times. Good Emilio came here seven months ago, never leaving my side. One of my assistants took a picture of us in the office. I think I have it on the algún site.
  
  The criminal approached the table and took out an envelope with a photograph from the drawer. Take a look inside and offer visitors one of the instant offers.
  
  Paola held the photo without much interest. But suddenly he glared at her with eyes wide open like saucers. I grab Dante's hand tightly.
  
  - Oh, damn it. Damn it!
  
  
  
  Iglesia de Santa Maria in Traspontina
  
   Via della Conciliazione, 14
  
   My ércoles April 6 , 2005 10:41 am .
  
  
  
   Pontiero knocked insistently on the back door of the church, the one that led to the sacristy. Following instructions from the police, Brother Francesco hung a sign on the door, written in uncertain letters, stating that the church was closed for renovations. But, in addition to obedience, the monk must have gone a little deaf, as the junior inspector had been knocking on the doorbell for 5 minutes. After él, thousands of people crowded Via dei Corridori, nú simply nú larger and more disordered than Via della Conciliazione.
  
  Finally I hear a noise on the other side of the door. The bolts were drawn, and Brother Francesco stuck his face out through the crack, squinting in the bright sunlight.
  
  -¿Si?
  
  "Brother, I am Sub-Inspector Pontiero. You remind me of yesterday.
  
  The religious man nods again and again.
  
  - What did he want? He came to tell me that I can open my church now, God bless. With pilgrims on the street... Go and see for yourself... - he said, addressing thousands of people on the street.
  
  - No, brother. I need to ask him a few questions. ¿Do you mind if I pass?
  
  -¿It should be now? I prayed my prayers...
  
  "Don't take up too much of his time. Just be for a moment, really.
  
  Francesco Meno shakes his head from one side to the other.
  
  - What kind of times are these, what kind of times. There is death, death and haste everywhere. Even my prayers won't let me pray.
  
  The door slowly opened and closed behind Pontiero with a loud thud.
  
  "Father, this is a very heavy door.
  
  - Yes, my son. Sometimes I find it difficult to open it, especially when I come from the supermarket loaded. No one helps old people carry bags anymore. What times, what times.
  
  "Obligation to use the cart, bro.
  
  The junior inspector stroked the inside of the door, looked at the pin carefully, and fastened it to the wall with thick fingers.
  
  "I mean, the lock doesn't have any marks on it, and it doesn't look hacked at all.
  
  No, son, or, thank God, no. It's a good lock and the door was painted last time. Pinto parishioner, my friend, good Giuseppe. You know, he has asthma, and paint fumes don't work on him...
  
  "Brother, I'm sure Giuseppe is a good Christian.
  
  "It is so, my child, it is so.
  
  "But that's not why I'm here. I need to know how the killer got into the church, if there are any other entrances. Ispettora Dicanti.
  
  He could have entered one of the windows if he had a ladder. But I don't think so because I'm broken. My mother, what a disaster if she breaks one of the stained glass windows.
  
  -¿ Do you mind if I take a look at these windows?
  
  - No Somo. Sígame.
  
  The monk walks through the vestry into the church, brightly lit by candles at the foot of the statues of saints and saints. Pontiero was shocked that there were so few of them that they were lit.
  
  "Your offerings, brother Francesco.
  
  "Ah, my child, it was I who lit all the candles that were in the Church, asking the saints to accept the soul of our Holy Father John Paul II into the bosom of God.
  
  Pontiero smiled at the simple innocence of a religious man. They were located in the central aisle, from which one can see both the door of the sacristy, and the front door and windows of the facade, the niches that were in the church. Run your finger along the back of one of the benches in your involuntary gesture, repeated by thousands of Masses on thousands of Sundays. It was the house of God, and it was desecrated and insulted. That morning, by the flickering candlelight, the church looked very different from the previous one. The Junior Inspector couldn't suppress a shudder. Inside the temple it was warm and cool, in contrast to the heat outside. Look towards the windows. The low más was about five meters above the ground. It was covered with exquisite colored stained glass, which did not have a single scratch on it.
  
  "It is impossible for the killer to enter through the windows, loaded with a load of 92 kilograms. I would have to use grúa. And thousands of pilgrims outside would have seen it. No, It is Immpossible.
  
  Songs about those who stand in line to say goodbye to Papa Wojtyła reached two of them. They all spoke of peace and love.
  
  "Oh, you fools. They are our hope for the future, aren't they, Chief Inspector?
  
  "Quanta has no time, brother.
  
  Pontiero scratched his head thoughtfully. No entry point other than doors or windows could come to mind. They took a few steps that echoed through the vatzía church.
  
  "Listen, brother, will anyone have a key to the church for me?" Maybe someone doing the cleaning.
  
  "Oh no, not at all. Some very devout parishioners come to help me with the cleaning of the temple during the morning prayer very early and in the afternoon, but they always come when I am at home. In fact, I have a set of keys that I always carry with me, you know? -he kept his left hand in the inside pocket of his habito Marron, in which the keys jingled.
  
  "Well, father, I give up... I don"t understand who could have entered unnoticed."
  
  "Nothing, son, I"m sorry I couldn"t help ...
  
  - Thank you, father.
  
  Pontiero turned and headed for the sacristy.
  
  "Unless..." The Carmelite thought for a moment, then shook his head. No, It is Immpossible. It can not be
  
  -¿What, brother? Digame. Any little thing can be úas long as.
  
  - No, dejelo.
  
  "I insist, brother, I insist. Play what you think.
  
  The monk tugged thoughtfully at his beard.
  
  "Well...there is an underground access to neo. This is an old secret passage dating from the second building of the church.
  
  -¿Segunda construcción?
  
  -Sí the original church was destroyed during the sack of Rome in 1527. He was on the fiery mountain of those who defend the castle of the Holy Angel. And this church, in turn...
  
  "Brother, please leave a history lesson sometimes so that it"s better." Aim for the aisle, ¡quickly!
  
  -¿ Are you sure? He's wearing a very nice suit...
  
  - Yes, father. I'm sure enséñamelo.
  
  "As you wish, Junior Inspector, as you wish," the monk said humbly.
  
  Go on foot to the nearest entrance, where there was a font with holy water. Onallo patches up a gap in one of the floor tiles.
  
  Do you see this gap? Insert your fingers into it and pull hard.
  
  Pontiero knelt down and followed the monk's instructions. Nothing happened.
  
  -Do this again, applying force to the left.
  
  The junior inspector did as Brother Francesco had been ordered, but to no avail. But no matter how thin and short he was, he nevertheless possessed great strength and greater determination. I tried it a third time and noticed how the stone broke loose and easily left. Actually it was a hatch. I opened it with one hand, revealing a small narrow staircase leading down only a few feet. Take out your flashlight and point it into the darkness. The steps were stone and seemed solid.
  
  "Okay, let"s see how we can use all of this.
  
  "Junior Inspector, don"t go downstairs, oh, alone, please.
  
  - Calm down, brother. No problem. Everything's under control.
  
  Pontiero could imagine the face he would see in front of Dante and Dicanti when he told them what he had discovered. He got up and started down the stairs.
  
  "Wait, Junior Inspector, wait. Go get a candle.
  
  "Don't worry, brother. Enough with a flashlight - grito Pontiero.
  
  The stairs led to a short corridor with semicircular walls and to a room of about six square meters. Pontiero raises the lantern to his eyes. It felt like the road had just ended. In the center of the room are two separated columns. They seem to be very ancient. He didn't know how to define style, of course he never got too much attention in history class. However, on what was left of one of the pillars, he saw what looked like the remains of something that shouldn't be everywhere. Looks like it was the era...
  
  Insulating tape.
  
  It was not a secret passage, but a place of execution.
  
  Oh no.
  
  Pontiero turned just in time to prevent the blow that was supposed to break his cráneo só, which hit him in the right shoulder. Kei fell to the ground, shaking in pain. The lantern flew off to the side, illuminating the base of one of the pillars. Intuition - the second blow on the arc from the right, which he delivered to the left hand. I felt for the holstered pistol and, despite the pain, managed to draw it out with my left hand. The gun pressed down on him like it was made of lead. He did not notice the other hand.
  
  Iron rod. He must have an iron rod or something like that.
  
  Try to aim, but don't strain. He tries to retreat to the column, but a third blow, this time to the back, sends him to the ground. He held the gun tightly, like one who clings to his life.
  
  Putting his foot on her arm, he forced her to let go. The foot continued to clench and unclench. A vaguely familiar voice joins the crunch of breaking bones, but with a very, very distinct timbre.
  
  - Pontiero, Pontiero. While the previous church was under fire from Castel Sant'Angelo, it was under the protection of Castel Sant'Angelo. And this church, in turn, will replace the pagan temple that Pope Alexander VI ordered to overthrow. In the Middle Ages, it was believed that this was the grave of the same Simoran Mule.
  
  The iron bar passed and came down again, hitting the back of the junior inspector, who was stunned.
  
  "Ah, but his exciting story doesn"t end there, ahí. These two pillars you see here are where Saints Peter and Paul were bound before they were martyred by the Romans. You Romans are always so attentive to our saints.
  
  Again the iron rod struck, this time on the left leg. Pontiero howled in pain.
  
  "I could have heard all of this above if you hadn't interrupted me. But don't worry, you will get to know Estas Stolbov very well. You will get to know them very, but very well.
  
  Pontiero tried to move, but was horrified to find that he could not move. He did not know the extent of his wounds, but did not notice his limbs. I feel very strong hands moving me in the dark and a sharp pain. Issue an alarm.
  
  "I don't recommend you try to scream. Nobody hears him. And no one has heard of the other two either. I take a lot of precautions, you know? I don't like being interrupted.
  
  Pontiero felt his consciousness sinking into a black hole, similar to the one into which he gradually sinks into the suño. As in suño, or in the distance, you can hear the voices of people walking from the street, a few meters above the el. Trust that you will recognize the song they sang together, a memory from their childhood, a mile away from you in the past. It was "I have a friend who loves me, his name is Jess
  
  "Actually, I hate being interrupted," Karoski said.
  
  
  
  Governor's Palace
  
  Vatican
  
  Moyércoles, April 6, 2005, 1:31 pm.
  
  
  
  Paola showed Dante and Fowler a photo of Robaira. A perfect close-up of the cardinal smiling affectionately, his eyes shining behind thick shell-shaped glasses. Dante first looked at the photo, not understanding.
  
  Glasses, Dante. Missing glasses.
  
  Paola was looking for a vile man, dialed the number like crazy, went to the door, hurried out of the office of the astonished Camerlengo.
  
  - Glasses! ¡ Carmelite glasses! Paola shouted from the corridor.
  
  And then the superintendent understood me.
  
  -¡Come on, father!
  
  I hastily apologized to the waitress and followed Fowler out to fetch Paola.
  
  The inspector hung up the phone angrily. Pontiero didn't catch him. Debí should keep it quiet. Run down the stairs to the street. Ten steps to be taken complete the Via del Governatorato. At that time, a utility with an SCV 21 matrix drove by. Inside it were three nuns. Paola gestured frantically for them to stop and stood in front of the car. The bumper stopped just a hundred meters from his knees.
  
  -¡Holy Madonna! Are you crazy, are you orita?
  
  The CSI comes to the driver's door and shows me her license plate.
  
  Please, I don't have time to explain. I need to get to St. Anne's Gate.
  
  The nuns looked at her as if she had lost her mind. Paola drove the car to one of the doors atrás.
  
  "It's impossible from here, I'll have to walk through the Cortille del Belvedere," the one who was driving told her. If you want, I can drive you to Piazza del Sant'Uffizio, this is the más rá exit, order from Città in estos días. The Swiss Guard puts up barriers on the occasion of the Cóljuch.
  
  "Whatever, but please hurry up.
  
  When the nun was already sitting down first and pulling out the nails, the car fell to the ground again.
  
  "But has everyone gone mad? the nun screamed.
  
  Fowler and Dante positioned themselves in front of the car, their hands on the hood. When Nun Fren and#243; squeezed into the front of the utility room. Religious rites were consecrated.
  
  -¡ Begin, sister, for God's sake! Paola said.
  
  It didn't take the stroller twenty seconds to cover the half-kilometer or subway that separated them from their destination. It seems that the nun is in a hurry to get rid of her unnecessary, untimely and embarrassing burden. I didn't have time to stop the car at the Plaza del Santo Agricio when Paola was already running towards the black iron fence that protected the entrance to the city, with a nasty one in her hand. Marko contact your supervisor immediately and answer the operator.
  
  - Inspector Paola Dicanti, Security 13897. Agent in danger, repeat, agent in danger. Deputy Inspector Pontiero is located at Via Della Consiliazione, 14. Church of Santa Maria in Traspontina. Repito: Via Della Conciliazione, 14. Iglesia de Santa Maria in Traspontina. Send them to as many squads as possible. Possible suspect in indoor murder. Proceed with extreme caution.
  
  Paola ran, her jacket fluttering in the wind, her holster exposed, and she screamed like a man possessed because of this vile person. The two Swiss Guards guarding the entrance were startled and tried to stop her. Paola tried to stop them by putting her arm around her waist, but one of them finally grabbed her jacket. The young woman holds out her hands to him. Phone phone keyo on the ground, and the jacket remains in the hands of the guard. He was going to give chase when Dante arrived, at full speed. He was wearing his Vigilance Corps ID card.
  
   -¡ Pull ! _ _ ¡ This ours !
  
  Fowler les seguía, aferrado a su maletin. Paola decided to take the shorter route. In order to get through the Plaza de San Pedro, since all the crowds were more than small: the police formed a very narrow queue in the opposite direction. with a terrible roar of the streets leading to it. As they ran, the inspector held the sign up high to avoid trouble with her teammates. Passing the esplanade and Bernini's colonnade without much trouble, they reached the Via dei Corridori with bated breath. The whole mass of pilgrims was dangerously compact. Paola presses his left arm against his body to disguise his holster as much as possible, approaches buildings and tries to advance as quickly as possible. The superintendent stood in front of her and delivered an impromptu but effective battering ram using all his elbows and forearms. Fowler cerraba la formacion.
  
  It took them ten agonizing minutes to reach the sacristy door. All of them were waiting for two constables, who insistently rang the doorbell. Dickanti, sweat-drenched in a T-shirt, holster at the ready and her hair loose, was a real revelation to the two police officers, who nonetheless greeted her respectfully as soon as she showed them breathlessly.#243;n intermittent, his UACV accreditation.
  
  We have received your notice. No one answers inside. In another entrance there are four compañeros.
  
  - ¿ Is it possible to find out why the colleagues or they haven't entered yet? ¿ Don't they know that there might be a comradeñero ahí inside?
  
  The officers bowed their heads.
  
  Director Boy called. He told us to be careful. Many people look
  
  The inspector leans against the wall and thinks for five seconds.
  
  Damn it, I hope it's not too late.
  
  -¿ Did they bring "master key 22"?
  
  One of the policemen showed him a steel lever with a double end. She was tied to her leg, hiding her from the many eyes of the pilgrims on the street, who had already begun to return to endanger the position of the group. Paola addresses the agent who pointed the steel bar at her.
  
  Give me his radio.
  
  The policeman handed him a telephone receiver, which he wore attached to a device on his belt with a cord. Paola dictates brief, precise instructions to the other entrance's team. No one is to lift a finger until he arrives, and of course no one is to go in or out.
  
  -¿ Could someone explain to me where all this is going? Fowler said between coughs.
  
  "We believe the suspect is inside, Father. Now I slowly tell her about it. Soon I want him to stay here and wait outside," Paola said. He gestured towards the stream of people that surrounded them. "Do your best to distract them while we break down the door. Hope we make it on time.
  
  Fowler asintió. Look around for a place to sit. There were no cars there, as the street was cut off from the intersection. Keep in mind you need to hurry up. There are only people who use it to rise. Not far from him he saw a tall and strong pilgrim. Height Deb meter ninety. He approached him and said:
  
  - ¿ Do you think I can get up on my shoulders?
  
  The young man gestured that he did not speak Italian, and Fowler gestured for him to understand what he wanted. The other finally understood. Get down on one knee and stand in front of the priest, smiling. Ésteó begins to sound in Latin like the singing of the sacrament and #243;n Mass for the dead.
  
  
   In paradisum deducant te angeli,
  
  In tuo advente
  
  Suscipiant te martyres... 23
  
  
  Many people turned to look at him. Fowler motioned his long-suffering porter to the middle of the street, diverting the attention of Paola and the police. Some of the faithful, mostly nuns and priests, joined him in prayer for the dead Pope, for which they had been waiting for many hours.
  
  Taking advantage of the distraction, the two agents creaked open the sacristy door. They could sneak in without drawing attention.
  
  Guys, there's a guy inside. Be very careful.
  
  They entered one by one, Dikanti first, exhaling, drawing a pistol. I left the vestry search for two policemen and left the church. Miró hurried to the chapel of Saint Thomas. It was empty, but sealed with a red UACV seal. I walked around the chapels on the left side with weapons in my hands. He spoke to Dante, who crossed the church, peering into each of the chapels. The faces of the saints move restlessly along the walls in the wavering, painful light of hundreds of candles lit everywhere. They both met in the center aisle.
  
  -Nothing?
  
  Dante has a bad head.
  
  Then they saw it written on the ground, not far from the entrance, at the foot of a pile of holy water. In big red, clumsy letters was written
  
  
  VEXILLA REGIS PRODEUNT INFERNI
  
  
  "The banners of the king of hell are moving," one of them said in a displeased voice.
  
  Dante and the Inspector turned around, startled. It was Fowler who managed to finish the job and slip inside.
  
  "Believe me, I told him to stay away.
  
  "It doesn't matter now," Dante said, walking over to the open hatch in the floor and pointing at Paola. Calling on others.
  
  Paola Ten made a disappointed gesture. His heart ordered him to go down immediately, but he did not dare to do so in the dark. Dante went to the front door and pulled the bolts. Two agents entered, leaving two others at the door. Dante asked one of them to lend him a Maglite, which he wore on his belt. Dikanti snatched it from his hands and lowered it in front of him, my hands clenched into fists, gun pointing forward. Fowler se quedó arriba, musitando una pequeña oracion.
  
  After a while, Paola's head appeared and hurried out into the street. Dante salio slowly. Look at Fowler and shake your head.
  
  Paola runs outside, sobbing. I tore the breakfast out and carried it as far away from the door as possible. Several foreign-looking men waiting in line approached to take an interest in her.
  
  -Help is needed?
  
  Paola waved them away. Fowler appeared beside her and handed her a napkin. I took it and wiped it with bile and grimaces. The ones on the outside because the ones on the inside can't be taken out that quickly. His head was spinning. I cannot be, I cannot be the Pontifex of the mass of blood you found tied to this pillar. Maurizio Pontiero, the superintendent, was a good man, lean and full of constant, harsh, ingenuous bad temper. He was a family man, he was a friend, a teammate. On rainy evenings, he bustled inside the suit, was a colleague, always paid for coffee, was always there. I have been with you many times. I couldn't have done it if I hadn't stopped breathing, turning into this shapeless lump. Try to erase this image from his pupils by waving your hand in front of his eyes.
  
  And at that moment, they're his nasty husband. He took it out of his pocket with a gesture of disgust, and she was left paralyzed. On the screen, the incoming call was with
  
  M. PONTIERO
  
  
  Paola de colgo is scared to death. Fowler la miro intrigada.
  
  -¿Si?
  
   - Good afternoon, Inspector. What kind of place is it?
  
  - Who is this?
  
  - Inspector, please. You yourself asked me to call you at any time if you remember something. I just remembered that I had to end his ero comrade. I'm really sorry. It crosses my path.
  
  "Let's take him, Francesco. ¿O deberia decir Viktor? Paola said, spitting out the words angrily, her eyes sunken into grimaces, but trying to remain calm, strike anywhere. To let him know that his scar is almost healed.
  
  There was a short pause. Very briefly. I didn't take him by surprise at all.
  
  - Oh, yes, of course. They already know who I am. Personally, I remind Father Fowler. She's lost her hair since we haven't seen each other. And I see you, we are a palida.
  
  Paola opened her eyes wide in surprise.
  
  -¿Dónde está, are you a goddamn son of a bitch?
  
  - Isn't it obvious? From you.
  
  Paola looked at the thousands of people who crowded the street, wearing hats, caps, waving flags, drinking water, praying, singing.
  
  "Why doesn't he come closer, father?" We can chat a little.
  
  "No, Paola, unfortunately, I'm afraid I'll have to stay away from you a little. Don't think for a second that you've taken a step forward by finding the good brother Francesco. His life was already over. In short, I must leave her. I'll have news for you soon, don't mind. And don't worry, I've already forgiven your earlier petty advances. You are important for me.
  
  And hang up.
  
  Dikanti throws his head into the crowd. I walked around people without clothes, looked for men of a certain height, held their hands, turned around to those who looked the other way, took off their hats, caps. People turned away from her. She was frustrated, absent-minded, ready to examine all the pilgrims one by one if needed.
  
  Fowler pushed his way through the crowd and held on to her hand.
  
  -Es inútil, ispettora.
  
  -¡Sueltem!
  
  -Paola. Dejalo. He is no more.
  
  Dikanti burst into tears and wept. Fowler la abrazo. Around him, a gigantic human serpent was slowly approaching the inseparable body of John Paul II. AND V German was killer .
  
  
  
  Instituto Saint Matthew
  
  Silver Spring, Maryland
  
   January 1996
  
  
  
  TRAFFIC OF INTERVIEW #72 BETWEEN PATIENT #3643 AND DR. CANIS CONROY. DR. FOWLER AND SALER FANABARZRA PRESENT
  
  
  D.R. CONROY : Buenas tardes Viktor.
  
   #3643: More once hello .
  
  D.R. CONROY : Día de terapia regresiva, Viktor.
  
  
   (WE ARE SKIPTING THE HYPNOSIS PROCEDURE AGAIN AS IN PREVIOUS REPORTS)
  
  
  Mr FANABARZRA: It's 1973, Victor. From now on, you will listen to him, my voice and no one else, okay?
  
  #3643: Yes.
  
  Mr. FANABARZRA: You can't talk to you anymore, gentlemen.
  
  DOCTOR Victor participated in the test as usual, collecting ordinary flowers and vases. Solo in two told me he couldn't see anything. Notice, Father Fowler, when Victor doesn't seem to be interested in something, it means that something is deeply affecting him. I'm aiming to call this response during a regression state to find out its origin.
  
  FOWLER In the regressed state, the patient does not have as many protective resources as in the normal state. The risk of injury is too high.
  
  DR. CONROY You know that this patient has a deep dislike for certain episodes in his life. We must break down the barriers, uncover the source of his evil.
  
  DR. FOWLER: ¿At any cost?
  
  Mr FANABARZRA: Gentlemen, don't argue. In any case, it is impossible to show him the imágenes, since the patient cannot open his eyes.
  
  DR. CONROY Go on, Fanabarzra.
  
  Mr. FANABARSRA: By your order. Viktor, estás en 1973. I want us to go somewhere you like. Who do we choose?
  
  #3643: Fire escape.
  
  Mr FANABARZRA: ¿ Do you spend a lot of time on the stairs?
  
   #3643: Yes .
  
  Sr. FANABARZRA : Explicame por que.
  
   #3643 : There's a lot of air in there. It doesn't smell bad. The house smells of rot.
  
  Mr. FANABARZRA: ¿ Rotten?
  
  #3643 : Same as last fruit. The smell comes from Emil's bed.
  
  Mr. FANABARZRA: ¿ Is your brother sick?
  
  #3643 : He is sick. We don't know from whom. Nobody cares about him. My mom says it's a pose. He can't stand the light and is shaking. His neck hurts.
  
  DOCTOR Photophobia, neck cramps, convulsions.
  
  Mr. FANABARZRA: ¿No one cares about your brother?
  
  #3643: My mother, when she remembers. He gives him crushed apples. He has diarrhea and my father doesn't want to know anything. I hate him. He looks at me and tells me to clean it. I don't want, I'm disgusted. My mom tells me to do something. I don't want to, and he presses me against the radiator.
  
  DR. CONROY Let's find out what the imágenes of the Rorschach test make him feel. I am particularly concerned about ésta.
  
  Mr. FANABARZRA: Let's go back to the fire escape. Sientate alli. Tell me how you feel
  
  #3643 : Air. Metal underfoot. I smell Jewish stew from the building opposite.
  
  Mr FANABARZRA: And now I want you to introduce something. Big black spot, very big. Take everything in front of you. At the bottom of the spot is a small white oval spot. ¿Does he offer you something?
  
  #3643: Dark. One is in the closet.
  
  DR CONROY
  
  Mr. FANABARZRA: ¿ What are you doing in the closet?
  
  #3643: They locked me up. I am alone.
  
  FOWLER She's suffering.
  
  D.R. CONROY: Callese Fowler. We will get where we need to go. Fanabarzra, I will write you my questions on this board. I am literally wings, ¿okay?
  
  Mr FANABARZRA: Victor, do you remember what happened before you were locked in the closet?
  
  #3643: A lot of things. Emil Murio.
  
  Sr. FANABARZRA : ¿Cómo murió Emil?
  
  #3643: They locked me up. I am alone.
  
  Sr. FANABARZRA : Lo se, Viktor. Tell me, Mo Muri, Emil.
  
  A: He was in our room. Papaá go to the TV, mom was not there. I was on the stairs. Or from noise.
  
  Mr. FANABARZRA: ¿ What's the noise?
  
  #3643: Like a balloon from which air escapes. He stuck his head into the room. Emil was very white. I went to the salon. I talked to my father and drank a can of beer.
  
  Mr. FANABARZRA: ¿ He gave you?
  
  #3643 : To the head. He bleeds. I'm crying. My father stands up, raises one hand. I tell him about Emil. He is very angry. He tells me it's my fault. That Emil was in my care. That I deserve to be punished. And start over.
  
  Mr. FANABARZRA: ¿Is this a normal punishment? Your turn, huh?
  
  #3643 : It hurts. I'm bleeding from my head and my ass. But it is interrupted.
  
  Mr FANABARZRA: ¿ Why is it interrupted?
  
  : I hear my mother's voice. He yells terrible things at dad. Things I don't understand. My father tells her that she already knows about it. My mother squeals and screams at Emil. I know that Emil can't, and I'm very happy. Then she grabs me by the hair and throws me into the closet. I scream and get scared. I knock on the door for a long time. She opens it and points a knife at me. He tells me as soon as I open my mouth, I will nail it.
  
  Mr FANABARZRA: ¿What are you doing?
  
  #3643: I am silent. I am alone. I hear voices outside. Unfamiliar voices. It's several hours. I'm still inside.
  
  DR CONROY
  
  : How long are you in the closet?
  
  #3643 : For a long time. I am alone. My mother opens the door. He tells me that I was very bad. That God doesn't want bad guys who provoke their dads. That I'm going to find out the punishment that God has in store for those who misbehave. He gives me an old can. He tells me to do ahí my business. In the morning she gives me a glass of water, bread and cheese.
  
  Mr. FANABARZRA: ¿But how long were you there?
  
  #3643: That was a lot of mañan.
  
  Mr FANABARZRA: ¿ You don't have a watch? You don't know how to count time?
  
  #3643: I'm trying to count but it's too much. If I press it very hard against the wall, I will hear the sound of an ora Berger transistor. She is a little deaf. Sometimes they play béisbol.
  
  Mr FANABARZRA: ¿Cuá what matches did you hear?
  
  #3643 : Eleven.
  
  DR. FOWLER: ¡My God, í oh, é this boy has been locked up for almost two months!
  
   Sr. FANABARZRA : ¿No salías nunca?
  
  #3643: One day .
  
  Sr. FANABARZRA: ¿Por qué saliste?
  
   #3643: I'm making a mistake. I kick the can with my foot and knock it over. The closet smells terrible. I'm vomiting. When mom comes, she gets angry. I sink my face into the dirt. Then he pulls me out of the closet to clean it.
  
  Mr. FANABARZRA: ¿ Are you trying to escape?
  
  #3643: I have nowhere to go. Mom does it for my good.
  
  Mr. FANABARZRA: ¿And when will I let you out?
  
  #3643: Dia. This brings me to baño. It cleanses me. He tells me he hopes I've learned my lesson. He says that the closet is hell and that this is the place where I will go if I am not good, only that I will never go out. He puts his clothes on me. He tells me that I have to be a child and that we have time to fix it. This is for my cones. He tells me that everything is good. That we're going to hell anyway. That there is no cure for me.
  
   Sr. FANABARZRA: ¿Y tu padre?
  
   #3643: Papa is not. He left.
  
  FOWLER Notice his face. The patient is very ill.
  
  #3643 : He's gone, gone, gone...
  
   D.R. FOWLER: ¡Conroy!
  
  D.R. CONROY : Esta bien. Fanabarzra, stop recording and get out of your trance.
  
  
  
   Iglesia de Santa Maria in Traspontina
  
  Via della Conciliazione, 14
  
   My ércoles April 6 , 2005 3:21 pm .
  
  
  
   For the second time this week, they crossed the checkpoint at the Las Puertas de Santa Mar in Transpontina crime scene. They did so discreetly, dressed in street clothes so as not to alert the pilgrims. The internal female inspector shouted orders over the speakerphone and walkie-talkie in equal parts. Father Fowler addresses one of the UACV employees.
  
  -¿ Have you already taken the stage?
  
  - Yes, father. Let's remove the CADaver and examine the sacristy.
  
   Fowler interrogó con la mirada a Dicanti.
  
   - I'm going down with you.
  
  -¿ Are you safe?
  
  "I don't want anything to be overlooked. What it is?
  
  In his right hand the priest held a small black case.
  
  -Contains the names and#225;ntos Óleo. This is to give him an extreme chance.
  
  -¿Do you think it will serve something now?
  
  - Not for our investigation. But if a el. Era un católico devoto, ¿verdad?
  
   - Was. And I didn't serve him very well either.
  
  "Well, dottora, with all due respect... you don't know that."
  
  Both descended the stairs, being careful not to step on the inscription that was at the entrance to the crypt. They walked down a short corridor to the cámara. UACV specialists installed two powerful generator sets, which now illuminated the place.
  
  Pontiero hung motionless between two columns that rose in a truncated form in the center of the hall. He was naked to the waist. Karoski tied his hands to a stone with duct tape, apparently from the same roll that the había had used with Robaira. God of sight has neither eyes nor tongue. His face was horribly mutilated, and wisps of bloodied skin hung from his chest like hideous ornaments.
  
  Paola bowed her head as her father took his last communion. The priest's shoes, black and spotless, tread on a pool of gore. The inspector swallowed her saliva and closed her eyes.
  
  -Dicanti.
  
  I reopened them. Dante was next to them. Fowler had already finished and politely turned to leave.
  
  -¿Dówhere are you going, father?
  
  -Outside. I don't want to be a nuisance.
  
  "It's not like that, father. If half of what they say about you is true, you are a very intelligent person. You were sent to help, weren't you? Well, woe to us.
  
  With great pleasure, Inspector.
  
  Paola swallowed her saliva and began to speak.
  
  "Apparently, Pontiero entered the atrós door. Of course they rang the doorbell and the fake monk opened it normally. Talk to Karoski and attack him.
  
  - But ¿donde?
  
  "It should have been down here. Otherwise, there will be blood at the top.
  
  -¿Why did he do it? ¿Maybe Pontiero smelled something?
  
  "I doubt it," Fowler said. I think it was right that Karoski saw an opportunity and took it. I am inclined to think that I will show him the way to the crypt and that Pontiero will go down alone, leaving the other behind him.
  
  - It makes sense. I will probably give up Brother Francesco right away. I don't apologize to him for looking like a frail old man...
  
  "...but because he was a monk. Pontiero wasn't afraid of the monks, was he? Poor illusionist, Dante complains.
  
  - Do me a favor, Superintendent.
  
  Fowler drew her attention with an accusing gesture. Dante looked away.
  
  -I'm really sorry. Continue, Dicanti.
  
  - Once here, Karoski hit him with a blunt object. We think it was a bronze candlestick. The UACV guys have already taken her away for prosecution. He lay next to the cadaver. After he attacked her and did... this to her. He had to suffer terribly.
  
  His voice broke. The other two ignored the forensic scientist's moment of weakness. É sta tosió to hide it and restore the tone before speaking again.
  
  - Dark place, very dark. ¿ Do you repeat the trauma of your childhood? ¿The time I spend¿ locked up in the closet?
  
  -May be. Did they find any deliberate evidence?
  
  "We believe that there was no other message than a message from outside. "Vexilla regis prodeunt inferni".
  
  "The banners of the king of hell are moving forward," the priest translated again.
  
  -¿Qué significa, Fowler? ask Dante.
  
  "You must know this.
  
  "If he intends to leave me in Ridizadnitsa, he will not get it, father.
  
  Fowler smiled sadly.
  
  "Nothing takes me away from my intentions. This is a quote from his ancestor, Dante Alighieri.
  
  "He is not my ancestor. My name is a surname, and his is a given name. We have nothing to do with this.
  
  -Ah, disculpeme. Like all Italians, they claim to be descended from Dante or Julio Cesar...
  
  "At least we know who we are descended from.
  
  They stood and looked at each other from milestone to milestone. Paola interrupted them.
  
  - If you are done with xenóPhobos comments, we can continue.
  
   Fowler carraspeó antes de continuar.
  
   - As you know, "inferni" is a quote from the Divine Comedy. About when Dante and Virgil go to hell. These are a couple of phrases from a Christian prayer, only dedicated to the devil, and not to God. Many wanted to see this sentence as a heretic, but in fact the only thing Dante did was pretend to frighten his readers.
  
  -Do you want that? Scare us?
  
  "It warns us that hell is near. I don't think Karoski's interpretation goes to hell. He's not that cultured, even if he likes to show it. There are no messages from me?
  
  "Not in the body," Paola replied. He knew that they were seeing the owners, and he was frightened. And he found out about it because of me, because I persistently called Mr. Ville de Pontiero.
  
  -¿ Did we manage to find the vile person? ask Dante.
  
  - They called the company on Nick's phone. The cell location system indicates that the phone is turned off or out of network coverage. ú the last post I will attach the fence to is above the Atlante hotel, less than three hundred meters from this place.í - Dicanti answers.
  
  "That's exactly where I'm staying," Fowler reported.
  
  "Wow, I imagined him as a priest. You know, I'm modest.
  
  Fowler didn't take it for granted.
  
  "Friend Dante, at my age one learns to enjoy the things in life. Especially when Tíili Sam pays for them. I've been to pretty bad places before.
  
  "I understand, father. I know.
  
  -¿Is it possible to say that you are hinting?
  
  "I don't mean nothing or nothing. I'm just convinced that you slept in the worst places because of your... ministry.
  
  Dante was much more hostile than usual, and Father Fowler seemed to be the reason for his hostility. The CSI doesn't understand the motive, but she understood that it was something the two of them would have to deal with alone, face to face.
  
  -Enough. Let's go outside for some fresh air.
  
  They both followed Dicanti back to the church. The doctor informs the nurses that they can already pick up Pontiero's body. One of the UACV leaders approached her and told her about some of the findings she had made. Paola nodded her head. And he turned to Fowler.
  
  -¿ Can we concentrate a little, father?
  
  "Of course, dottor.
  
  -¿Dante?
  
  -Faltaria mas.
  
  "Okay, here's what we found out: there is a professional dressing room in the rector's office and the ashes are on a table that we believe matches the passport. We burned it with a fair amount of alcohol, so there was nothing much left. The UACV staff took the ashes away, let's see if they can clear anything up. The only prints they found on the rector's house were not Karoski's, as they would have to look for his debtor. Dante, you have work to do today. Find out who Father Francesco was and how long he's been here. Search among the ordinary parishioners of the church.
  
  - Okay, examiner. I'm going to dive into the older life.
  
  -Dejez from jokes. Karoski played along with us, but he was nervous. He ran away to hide, and for a certain time we will not learn anything about él. If we can figure out where he's been in the last few hours, we might be able to figure out where he's been.
  
  Paola secretly crossed her fingers in her jacket pocket, trying to believe what he was saying to herself. The demons stood up to their deaths and also pretended that the possibility was more than a distant sue.
  
  Dante returned two hours later. They are accompanied by a middle-aged senator who repeated Dikanti's story. When the previous pope died, brother Darío, brother Francesco, appeared. This was about three years ago. Since I have been praying, I have helped clean up the church and the rector. Seguin la señora el brother Tom was an example of humility and Christian faith. He firmly led the parish, and no one had anything to say about el.
  
  All in all, it was a pretty nasty statement, but at least keep in mind that it's a clear fact. Brother Basano habí died in November 2001, which allowed at least entry into Karoski's país.
  
  "Dante, do me a favor." Find out what the Carmelites know Francesco Toma, Pidió Dicanti.
  
  - Hare a few calls. But I suspect that we will get very little.
  
  Dante left through the front door, heading for his office in Vatican vigilance. Fowler said goodbye to the inspector.
  
  - I'll go to the hotel and change and see her later.
  
  - Be in the morgue.
  
  "There is no reason for you to do this, Inspector.
  
  -Yes, I have.
  
  Silence fell between them, accentuated by a religious song which the pilgrim began to sing, and which was sung by several hundred people. The sun was hidden behind the hills, and Rome was plunged into darkness, although traffic was incessant in its streets.
  
  "Surely one of those questions was the last one the sub-inspector heard.
  
  Paola Siguio is silent. Fowler had seen too many times the process the forensic woman was going through right now, the process after the death of a fellow Poñero. First, euphoria and a desire for revenge. She gradually fell into exhaustion and sadness as she realized what had happened, and the shock took its toll on her body. And, finally, to plunge into a dull feeling, a mixture of anger, guilt and resentment, which will end only when Karoski is behind bars or dies. And maybe not even then.
  
  The priest wanted to put his hand on Dicanti's shoulder, but restrained himself at the last moment. Despite the fact that the inspector could not see him, since he was standing with his back, something must have prompted intuition. Se giró y miró a Fowler con preocupacion.
  
  "Be very careful, father. Now he knows you're here and that could change everything. Also, we're not entirely sure what it looks like. He proved to be very good at disguise.
  
  -¿So much will change in five years?
  
  "Father, I saw the photograph of Karoska that you showed me, and I saw Brother Francesco. Have absolutely nothing to do with it.
  
  "It was very dark in the church, and you didn't pay much attention to the old Carmelite.
  
  "Father, forgive me and love me. I am a good specialist in physiognomy. He may have worn hairpieces and a beard that covered half of his face, but he looked like an elderly man. He is very good at hiding, and now he can become someone else.
  
  "Well, I looked into her eyes, dottor. If he gets in my way, I will know he is. And I'm not worth his tricks.
  
  "It's not just tricks, Father. Now he also has a 9mm cartridge and thirty bullets. Pontiero's pistol and its spare magazine were missing.
  
  
  
  Morgue Municipal
  
  Thursday, April 7, 2005 01:32 am
  
  
  
  He gestured for the treo to attend the autopsy. The rush of adrenaline from the first moments has passed, and I increasingly begin to feel overwhelmed. To see a coroner's scalpel cleave his colleagueñ was almost beyond his strength, but I succeeded. The coroner determined that Pontiero had been stabbed forty-three times with a blunt object, probably a blood-stained candlestick, which was found after being found at the crime scene. The cause of the cuts on his body, including the slitting of his throat, has been put on hold until the lab can provide casts of the cuts.
  
  Paola will listen to this opinion through a sensual haze that will in no way lessen her suffering. He will stand and look at everything for all hours, voluntarily inflicting inhuman punishment on himself. Dante allowed himself to run into the autopsy room, asked a few questions, and immediately left. The fight was also present, but it was just evidence. He soon left, stunned and stunned, mentioning that he had spoken to íL just a few hours earlier.
  
  When the coroner finished, he left the CAD on the metal table. He was about to cover his face with his hands when Paola said:
  
  -No.
  
  And the coroner understood and left without saying a word.
  
  The body was washed, but there was a slight smell of blood coming from it. In direct, white and cold light, the little junior inspector looks at least 250 degrees. Blows will cover his body like signs of pain, and huge wounds, like obscene mouths, will exude the coppery smell of blood.
  
  Paola found an envelope containing the contents of Pontiero's pockets. Rosary, keys, wallet. An earl's bowl, a lighter, an unopened pack of tobacco. Seeing this last object, realizing that no one was going to smoke those cigarettes, she felt very sad and lonely. And he began to truly understand that his comrade, his friend, was dead. In a gesture of denial, I grab one of the cigarette cases. The lighter heats up the heavy silence of the opening room with a living flame.
  
  Paola left the hospital immediately after her father's death. I suppressed the urge to cough and drank my makhonda in one gulp. Throw the smoke directly towards the prohibited smoking area, as Pontiero liked to do.
  
  And start to say goodbye to él.
  
  
  Damn it, Pontiero. Damn it. Shit, shit and shit. how could you be so clumsy? It's all because of you. I lack speed. We didn't even let your wife see your cadásee. He gave you good, damn if he gave you good. She wouldn't resist it, she wouldn't resist seeing you like this. Oh my God, Enza. ¿ Does it seem normal to you that I am ú the last person in é this world who sees you naked? I promise you this is not the kind of intimacy I would like to have with you. No, of all the cops in the world, you were the worst candidate for a closed prison, and you deserve it. Everything for you. Clumsy, clumsy, patán, couldn't you see you? What the hell are you doing in this shit? I can not believe this. You were always on the run from the Pulma police like my goddamn father. God, you can't even imagine what I imagined every time you smoked shit from éstace. I'll come back and see my father in a hospital bed, spitting up lungs in bathtubs. And I study everything in the evenings. For maíana, to the faculty. In the evenings, I fill my head with questions based on coughing. I always believed that he would come to the foot of your bed too, hold your hand as you walk across the block between the avemar and our parents, and watch the nurses fuck him in the ass. This, this should have been, not this. Pat, could you call me? Hell, if I think you're smiling at me, it's like an apology. Or do you think it's my fault? Your wife and your parents are not thinking about it now, but they are already thinking about it. When someone tells them the whole story. But no, Pontiero, it's not my fault. It's yours and only your fault, damn it, you, me and you, fool. Why the hell are you in this mess? Alas, cursed be your eternal trust in all who wear the cassock. Goat Karoski, somo us la jagó. Well, I got it from you and you paid for it tí. This beard, this nose. He put on his glasses just to fuck us, to make fun of us. Very pig. He looked straight into my face, but I couldn't see his eyes from the two glass cigarette butts he held up to my face. That beard, that nose. ¿ Do you want to believe that I don't know if I would recognize him if I saw him again? I already know what you're thinking. Have him look at Robaira's crime scene photos in case she appears in them, at least in the background. And I'm going to do it, for God's sake. I'm going to do that. But stop pretending. And don't smile, goat, don't smile. This is for God's sake. Before you die, you want to shift the blame onto me. I don't trust anyone, I don't care. Be careful, I'm dying. ¿ Is it possible to know why there are so many other tips if you don't follow them later?ías tú? God, Pontiero. How often do you leave me. Because of your eternal awkwardness, I am left alone in front of this monster. Damn it, if we follow the priest, the cassocks automatically become suspicious, Pontiero. Don't come to me with this. Don't justify yourself by saying that Father Francesco looks like a helpless and lame old man. What the hell did he give you for your hair. Damn it, damn it. How I hate you, Pontiero. ¿ Do you know what your wife said when she found out you were dead? He said, "She cannot die. He loves jazz." He didn't say, "He has two sons" or "He is my husband and I love him." No, he said you like jazz. Like Duke Ellington or Diana Krall is fucking body armor. Damn it, she feels you, she feels how you live, she feels your husky voice and the meow that you hear. You smell like the cigars you smoke. What did you smoke. How I hate you. Blessed devil... What is now worth to you everything that you prayed for? Those you trusted turned their backs on you. Yes, I remember the day we ate pastrami in Piazza Colonna. You told me that priests are not just people in charge, not people. That the Church does not realize this. And I swear to you to say it to the face of the priest who is looking at the balcony of St. Peter, I swear to you. I'm writing this on a banner so big I can see it even when I'm blind. Pontiero, you fucking idiot. This was not our fight. Oh my gosh, I'm scared, really scared. I don't want to end up like you. This table looks very nice. What if Karoski follows me to my house? Pontiero, idiot, this is not our fight. This is a struggle between the priests and their Church. And don't tell me it's my Mom too. I no longer believe in God. Rather, I believe. But I don't think they are very good people. My love for I will leave you at the feet of a dead man who was to live thirty years to the day. He's gone, I'm asking you for cheap deodorant, Pontiero. And now the smell of the dead remains, from all the dead that we have seen these days. Bodies that rot sooner or later because God failed to do good to some of his creatures. And your sapráver is the stinkiest of them all. Do not look at me so. Just don't tell me that God believes in me. The good God does not allow anything to happen, he does not allow one of his own to become a wolf among the sheep. You're just like me, just like Father Fowler. This mom was left downstairs with all the shit they put her in, and now she's looking for more intense emotions than child rape. ¿What can you tell me about yourself? ¿What sort of God allows blissful bastards like you to stuff him in a fucking refrigerator while his company was rotten and put your whole hand in his wounds? Hell, this wasn't my fight before, I'm all about aiming a little at Boy, finally catching one of those degenerates. But, apparently, I'm not from here. No Please. Do not say anything. Stop protecting me! ¡ I am not a woman and no! God, I was so obsessive. What's wrong with admitting this? I didn't think clearly. All this clearly surpassed me, but it is alreadyá. It's all over. Hell, it wasn't my fight, but now I know it is. It's private now, Pontiero. Now I don't care about the pressure of the Vatican, Sirin, Boyars and the whore who put them all on the line. Now I'm going to go all out and I don't care if they turn heads along the way. I'm going to grab him, Pontiero. For you and for me. For your woman who waits ahhi outside, and for your two brats. But mostly because of you, because you're cold and your face is no longer your face. God, what the hell has left you. What a bastard left you and that I feel alone. I hate you Pontiero. I miss you very much.
  
  
  Paola went out into the corridor. Fowler was waiting for her, staring at the wall, sitting on a wooden bench. He stood up when he saw her.
  
  "Dottora, I...
  
  "It's all right, father.
  
  -It is not normal. I know what you're going through. You're not okay.
  
  "Of course I'm not okay. Damn it, Fowler, I'm not going to fall into his arms again, writhing in pain. This only happens in skins.
  
  He was already leaving when I showed up with both of them.
  
  "Dikanti, we need to talk. I am very worried about you.
  
  -¿Usted tambien? What's new. I'm sorry, but I don't have time to chat.
  
  Doctor Boy got in his way. Her head came up to his chest at chest level.
  
  "He doesn't understand, Dicanti. I'm going to take her off the case. Now the stakes are too high.
  
  Paola alzo la Vista. He will remain... stare at her and speak... slowly, very slowly, in an icy voice, in a tone.
  
  "Be healthy, Carlo, because I will only say this once. I'll catch whoever did this to Pontiero. Neither you nor anyone else has anything to say about this. ¿Did I make myself clear?
  
  "Looks like he doesn't quite understand who's in charge here, Dicanti.
  
  -May be. But it's clear to me that this is what I have to do. Step aside, please.
  
  Boy opened his mouth to answer, but turned away instead. Paola directing his furious steps towards the exit.
  
  Fowler sonrea.
  
  -¿What's so funny, father?
  
  -You, of course. Do not hurt me. You're not thinking about getting her off the case anytime soon, are you?
  
  The UACV director feigned awe.
  
  Paola is a very strong and independent woman, but she needs to focus. All this anger that you are now experiencing can be focused, directed.
  
  "Headmaster... I hear the words, but I don"t hear the truth.
  
  -Fine. I acknowledge it. I feel fear for her. He needed to know that he had the strength inside him to carry on. Any other answer than the one he gave me would have me getting him out of the way. We don't run into someone normal.
  
  Now be sincere.
  
  Fowler saw that there was a man living behind the nico policeman and the administrator. She saw Him as he was at that moment in the early morning, in tattered clothes and with a torn soul after the death of one of her subordinates. The fight could spend a lot of time on self-promotion, but he almost always had Paola's back. Ain felt a strong attraction to her, it was obvious.
  
  "Father Fowler, I must ask you a favor.
  
  -Not really.
  
  -¿Somo says? Boy was surprised.
  
  He shouldn't have to ask me about it. I'll take care of it, to her chagrin. For better or for worse, there are only three of us left. Fabio Dante, Dicanti and myself. We will have to deal with comm.
  
  
  
  UACV Headquarters
  
  Via Lamarmora, 3
  
  Thursday, April 7, 2005 at 08:15 am.
  
  
  
  "You can't trust Fowler, Dicanti. He is a killer.
  
  Paola raised her gloomy eyes to Karoski's file. He slept only a few hours and returned to his desk as dawn broke. Something unusual: Paola was one of those who liked to have a long breakfast and calmly get to work, and then leave far into the night. Pontiero insisted that he thus miss the Roman dawn. The inspector did not appreciate this mother, because she honored her friend in a completely different way, but from her office the dawn was especially beautiful. Light crawled lazily across the hills of Rome as the sun's rays lingered on every building, on every ledge, welcoming the art and beauty of the Eternal City. The shapes and colors of the body appeared so delicately, as if someone were knocking on the door and asking for permission. But the one who entered without knocking and with an unexpected accusation was Fabio Dante. The superintendent arrived half an hour earlier than scheduled. He had an envelope in his hand and snakes in his mouth.
  
  - Dante, have you been drinking?
  
  -Nothing like this. I tell him that he is a killer. Remember I told you not to trust él? His name triggered an alarm in my brain. You know, a memory in the back of my mind. Because I've done a little research on his supposed military.
  
  Paola sorbio cafeé every time I am frío. I was intrigued.
  
  - Isn't he a soldier?
  
  - Oh, of course it is. Military Chapel. But it is not vá in the orders of the Power of Aérea. He's from the CIA.
  
  -¿CIA? Are you joking.
  
  - No, Dicanti. Fowler is not one to joke. Listen: I was born in 1951 into a wealthy family. My father has a pharmaceutical industry or something like that. I studied psychology at Princeton. I ended my career with twenty points and an honors degree.
  
  Magna cum laude. My ximaón qualification. Then you lied to me. He said that he was not a particularly brilliant student.
  
  "He lied to her about this and many other things. He did not go to pick up his high school diploma. He apparently fell out with his father and enlisted in 1971. Volunteer at the height of the Vietnam War. He studied for five months in Virginia and ten months in Vietnam as a lieutenant.
  
  -¿ Wasn't he a bit young for a lieutenant?
  
  -¿ Is this a joke? ¿ Voluntary college graduate? I'm sure he'll consider making him a general. It is not known what happened to his head in those days, but I did not return to the United States after the war. He studied at a seminary in West Germany and was ordained a priest in 1977. Afterés there are traces of his footprint in many places: Cambodia, Afghanistan, Romania. We know that he was in China on a visit and had to leave in a hurry.
  
  "None of this justifies the fact that he is a CIA agent.
  
  "Dicanti, that's all here." As he spoke, he showed Paola the photographs, the largest of which were in black and white. In them you see a strangely young Fowler who gradually lost his hair over time as my genes moved closer to the present. He saw Fowler on a pile of earthen bags in the jungle, surrounded by soldiers. It had lieutenant's stripes on it. She saw him in the infirmary next to a smiling soldier. He saw in it the day of his ordination, having received the same communion in Rome from the same Simo Paul VI. She saw him in a large square with planes in the background, already dressed as he was, surrounded by soldiers más jóvenes...
  
  -¿Since when is this ésta?
  
  Dante consult his notes.
  
   - This is 1977 . Tras su ordenación Fowler volvió a Alemania, a la Base Aérea de Spangdahlem. Like a military chapel.
  
  "Then his story matches.
  
  "Almost... but not quite. In the file that John Abernathy Fowler, son of Marcus and Daphne Fowler, a lieutenant in the US Air Force, receives a promotion and salary after successfully completing his training in "field and counterintelligence". In West Germany. At the height of the war, fría.
  
  Paola made an ambiguous gesture. He just didn't see it clearly.
  
  "Wait, Dicanti, this is not the end. As I told you earlier, I have been to many places. In 1983, he disappears for several months. ú The last person who knows anything about él. is a priest from Virginia.
  
  Ah, Paola is starting to give up. A soldier missing for several months in Virginia sends him to one place: the CIA headquarters in Langley.
  
  -Continue, Dante.
  
  In 1984, Fowler briefly reappears in Boston. His parents died in a car accident in July. Chl goes to the notary's office and asks him to divide all his money and property among the poor. Sign the necessary papers and leave. According to the notary, the sum of all the property of his parents and the company was eighty and a half million dollars.
  
  Dicanti let out an inarticulate, frustrated whistle of pure astonishment.
  
  "It's a lot of money, and I got it in 1984.
  
  "Well, he got away from everything. Wish I had met him sooner, eh, Dicanti?
  
  -¿Qué insinúa, Dante?
  
  - Nothing, nothing. Well, to top off all the madness, Fowler is leaving for France and all over the world for Honduras. He is assigned to the chapel of the El Avocado military base, already with the rank of major. And here he becomes a killer.
  
  The next block of photos leaves Paola frozen. Rows of corpses lie in dusty mass graves. Workers with shovels and masks that can barely hide the horror on their faces. Bodies dug up, rotting in the sun. Men, women and children.
  
  -¿God, Iío, what is this?
  
  -¿How about your knowledge of history? I feel sorry for you. I had to search on the Internet what all this is going on and all that. Apparently, a Sandinista revolution took place in Nicaragua. The counter-revolution, called the Nicaraguan counter-revolution, sought to restore a right-wing government to power. The Ronald Reagan government supports guerrilla insurgents, who in many cases would be better described as terrorists, ropes and ropes. And why don't you guess who was the Ambassador of Honduras in that short time?
  
  Paola began to make ends meet at high speed.
  
  - John Negroponte.
  
  -¡Prize for the black-haired beauty! Founder of the Aérea del Avocado base, on the same border with Nicaragua, a base for training thousands of Contra guerrillas. detention and torture, more like a concentration camp than a military base in a democratic country."225;tiko." Those very beautiful and rich photographs that I showed you were taken ten years ago. 185 men lived in these pits , women and children, and it is believed that there are simply an indefinite number of bodies, which may be up to 300, buried in the mountains.
  
  "Oh my God, how terrible it all is-the horror at seeing those photographs, however, didn't stop Paola from making an effort to give Fowler the benefit of the doubt. But that doesn't prove anything either.
  
  - I was all. ¡ It was a torture camp chapel, by God! ¿ To whom do you think to turn to the condemned before death? ¿Sómo podía éya don't know?
  
  Dikanti looked at him silently.
  
  - Okay, do you want anything from me? There is plenty of material. Dossier Uffizio. In 1993, he was called to Rome to testify in the murder of 32 nuns seven years earlier. The nuns fled from Nicaragua to and ended up in El Avocado. They were raped, they were taken for a ride on a gelika and, #243; ptero and, finally, a plaf, a nun's cake. Incidentally, I also announce 12 missing Catholic missionaries. The basis for the accusation was that he was aware of everything that had happened and that he did not condemn these egregious cases of human rights violations. For all intents and purposes, to be as guilty as if I had piloted the él helicóptero myself.
  
  -¿And what does Holy Fast dictate?
  
  Well, we didn't have enough evidence to convict him. He fights for his hair. Thisí, keió brought disgrace on both sides. I think I left the CIA by my own decision. He staggered for a while, and Ahab entered St. Matthew's Institute.
  
  Paola stared at the photographs for quite some time.
  
  "Dante, I'm going to ask you a very, very serious question. ¿ Do you, as a citizen of the Vatican, say that the Holy Office is an institution that is neglected?
  
  - No, Inspector.
  
  -¿ Dare I say that she is not marrying anyone?
  
  Dante asintió, a regañadientes. Now go wherever you want, Paola.
  
  "So, Superintendent, the strict establishment of your Vatican State has been unable to find any evidence of Fowler's guilt, and you burst into my office, claiming that he is the murderer, and suggest that I not find him guilty. #237;e in él?
  
  The said one got up, became furious and bent over the Dikanti table.
  
  "Cheme, honey... don"t think that I don"t know what eyes you are looking at this pseudo-priest with." By an unfortunate twist of fate, we have to hunt down the fucking monster on his orders, and I don't want him thinking about skirts. He's already lost his teammate and I don't want this American to have my back when we face Karoski. May you know how to react to this. He seems to be a very devoted man to his father... he is also on the side of his compatriot.
  
  Paola stood up and, with complete calmness, crossed his face twice. Plas plas. Two of the slaps were championship slaps, the kind you do well with doubles. Dante was so surprised and humiliated that he didn't even know how to react. He will remain nailed, with his mouth open and his cheeks red.
  
  "Now let me introduce you to me, Superintendent Dante. If we're stuck with a "damn investigation" of three people, it's because their Church doesn't want it to be known that a monster who raped children and who was castrated in one of their slums is killing the cardinals he killed.and# 243;Some of them have to choose mandama and#225;s. This, and nothing else, is the cause of Pontiero's death. I remind him that it was you who came to ask us for help. Apparently, his organization is doing a great job when it comes to gathering information about the activities of a third world jungle priest, but he's not so good at controlling a sex offender who has relapsed dozens of times over a decade.#241;os, in front of his superiors and in a democratic spirit. So let him get his pat out of here before he thinks his problem is that he's jealous of Fowler. And don't come back until you're ready to work as a team. Do you understand me?
  
  Dante regained enough composure to take a deep breath and turn around. At that moment Fowler entered the office, and the superintendent expressed his disappointment that I had thrown the photographs he was holding in his face in his face. Dante slips away without even remembering to slam the door, as furious as he was.
  
  The Inspector was greatly relieved by two things: first, by the fact that she had the opportunity to do what, you guessed it, she was going to do several times. And, secondly, for the fact that I was able to do it alone. If such a situation happened to someone who was present at this or was on the street, Dante would not forget Jem and his slaps in response. Ninun a person forgets something, like. There are ways to analyze the situation and calm down a bit. Miro de reojo a Fowler. É stand still by the door, keeping your eyes on the photographs that now cover the office floor.
  
  Paola sat down, took a sip of her coffee, and, without looking up from Karoska's file, said:
  
  "I think you have something to tell me, holy father.
  
  
  
   Instituto Saint Matthew
  
  Silver Spring, Maryland
  
   April 1997
  
  
  
  TRADITION OF INTERVIEW #11 BETWEEN PATIENT #3643 AND DR. FOWLER
  
  
   D.R. FOWLER : Buenas tardes, padre Karoski.
  
   #3643 : Come in, come in.
  
  DR FOWLER
  
  #3643: His attitude was abusive and I actually asked him to come out.
  
  FOWLER: ¿ What exactly do you find é offensive about him?
  
  #3643: Father Conroy questions the immutable truths of our Faith.
  
   D.R. FOWLER: Póngame un ejemplo.
  
   #3643: ¡Affirms that the devil is an overrated concept! Finding it very interesting to see how this concept plunges a trident into his buttocks.
  
  DR. FOWLER: ¿ Do you think you're there to see this?
  
  #3643: It was a way to speak.
  
  FOWLER: You believe in hell, don't you?
  
  #3643: With all my might.
  
  D.R. FOWLER: ¿Cree merecerselo?
  
  #3643: I am a soldier of Christ.
  
  DR FOWLER
  
  #3643: ¿Since when?
  
  DR FOWLER
  
  #3643: If he's a good soldier, yes.
  
  FOWLER: Father, I must leave you a book that I think you will find very useful. I wrote this to Saint Augustine. This is a book about humility and inner struggle.
  
  #3643: I'd be happy to read this.
  
  FOWLER: ¿ Do you believe you're going to heaven when you die?
  
   #3643 : I sure .
  
   DOCTOR
  
  #3643 :...
  
  D.R. FOWLER : Quiero plantearle una hipótesis. Suppose you are standing at the gates of heaven. God weighs his good deeds and his evil deeds, and the faithful one is balanced in the balance. Therefore, he suggests that you call anyone to get rid of doubts. ¿A quien llamaria?
  
  #3643: I Not sure .
  
  D.R. FOWLER : Permítame que le sugiera unos nombres: Leopold, Jamie, Lewis, Arthur...
  
   #3643: These names mean nothing to me.
  
   D.R. FOWLER:...Harry, Michael, Johnnie, Grant...
  
  #3643: Fill in with á .
  
  D.R. FOWLER:...Paul, Sammy, Patrick...
  
  #3643: ¡ I I say to him shut up !
  
  D.R. FOWLER:...Jonathan, Aaron, Samuel...
  
   #3643: ¡¡¡ ENOUGH!!!.
  
  
  (In the background, an indistinct and short noise of a struggle is heard)
  
  
  FOWLER: What I'm squeezing between my fingers, thumb and forefinger, is your cane, Father Karoski. Needless to say, being aún is painful if you don't calm down. Make a gesture with your left hand if you understand me. Fine. Now tell me if you're calm. We can wait as long as it takes. Already? Fine. Here, some water.
  
  #3643 : Thank you.
  
  D.R. FOWLER : Sientese, por favor.
  
  #3643: I feel better already. I don't know what happened to me.
  
  FOWLER Just like we both know that the kids on the list I gave you shouldn't speak for him specifically when he comes before God, Father.
  
  #3643 :...
  
  DR. FOWLER: ¿ You won't say anything?
  
  #3643 : You don't know anything about hell.
  
  D.R. FOWLER: ¿Eso piensa? You are mistaken: I saw it with my own eyes. Now I will turn off the recorder and tell you something that will surely interest you.
  
  
  
  UACV Headquarters
  
  Via Lamarmora, 3
  
  Thursday, April 7, 2005, 08:32 am.
  
  
  
  Fowler looks away from the photographs strewn across the floor. He did not pick them up, but simply stepped elegantly over them. Paola wondered if what in itself meant a simple answer to Dante's accusations. Over the years, Paola often suffered from the feeling that she was standing in front of a man who was as incomprehensible as he was educated, as eloquent as he was intelligent. Fowler himself was a controversial creature and an indecipherable hieroglyph. But that time, this feeling was accompanied by Lera's muffled moan, which trembled on her lips.
  
  The priest sits across from Paola, his worn black briefcase aside. In his left hand he carried a paper bag containing three coffee pots. I suggested one of them to Dicanti.
  
  -¿Cappuccino?
  
  - I hate cappuccino. It reminds me of the myth about the dog I had," Paola said. But I'll still take it.
  
  Fowler was silent for a couple of minutes. Finally, Paola allowed herself to pretend to read Karoska's file and decided to face the priest. Keep in mind.
  
  -So what? Is not it...?
  
  And he stays dry. I haven't looked at his face since Fowler walked into his office. But in doing so, I discovered that I was thousands of meters away from allí. Hands brought the coffee to their mouths hesitantly, hesitantly. There were small drops of sweat on the priest's bald head, despite the fact that it was cool. And his green eyes proclaimed that it was his duty to behold indelible horrors, and that he would return to behold them.
  
  Paola didn't say anything, realizing that the apparent elegance with which Fowler walked around the photographs was only a front. Espero. It took the priest a few minutes to recover, and when he did, his voice sounded distant and muffled.
  
  -It's hard. You think you've overcome it, but then it reappears like a cork that you try in vain to put into the bayera. It flows down, floats to the surface. And all the time you run into him again...
  
  "Talking will help you, father.
  
  "You can trust me, dottora... it's not like that." He never did this. Not all problems are solved by talking.
  
  - Curious expression for a priest. Zoom in for the psicó logo. Appropriate though for a CIA agent trained to kill.
  
  Fowler suppressed a sad grimace.
  
  "I wasn't trained to kill like any other soldier. I've been trained in counterintelligence techniques. God has given me the gift of unerring guidance, it is true, but I do not ask for this gift. And, anticipating your question, I haven't killed anyone since 1972. Killed 11 Viet Cong soldiers, at least to my knowledge. But all these deaths were in combat.
  
  You were the one who volunteered.
  
  "Dottora, before judging me, let me tell you my story. I have never told anyone what I am going to tell you, so please accept my words. It's not like he trusts me or trusts me, because that's too much to ask. Just take my words.
  
  Paola nodded slowly.
  
  "I believe that all of this information will be brought to the attention of the Superintendent. If this is the Sant'Uffizio dossier, you'd have a very rough idea of my record. I signed up as a volunteer in 1971 due to certain... disagreements with my father. I don't want to tell him a horror story about what war means to me, because words can't describe it. ¿Ha visto usted "Apocalipsis Now" , dottora ?
  
  - Yes, for a long time. I was surprised by his rudeness.
  
  -Pá lida farce. That's what it is. Shadow on the wall compared to what it means. I've seen enough pain and cruelty to fill several lifetimes. También allí apareció ante mi la vocación. It wasn't in the trenches in the middle of the night when the enemy fire came down on the oídos. He did not look into the faces of children from ten to twenty years old wearing necklaces of human ears. It was a quiet evening in the rear, next to the chapel of my regiment. All I knew was that I needed to dedicate my life to God and His creatures. And so I did.
  
  -¿And the CIA?
  
  "Don't get ahead of yourself... I didn't want to go back to America. Everyone follows my parents. Because I went as far as I could to the edge of the steel pipe. Everyone learns many things, but some of them do not fit in their head. You have 34 años. To understand what communism meant to a person living in Germany in the 70s, I had to experience it. We breathe the threat of nuclear war every day. Hatred among my countrymen was a religion. Each of us seems to be in close proximity to someone, them or us, jumping over the Wall. And then it will all be over, I assure you. Before or after someone clicks on the bot button, someone clicks on it.
  
  Fowler paused briefly to take a sip of coffee. Paola lit one of Pontiero's cigarettes. Fowler held out his hand for the package, but Paola shook her head.
  
  "These are my friends, father. I have to smoke them myself.
  
  - Oh, don't worry. I don't pretend I'm going to catch him. I was wondering why you suddenly returned.
  
  "Father, if you don"t mind, I would prefer that you continue. I do not want to talk about it.
  
  The priest sensed great grief in his words and continued his story.
  
  "Of course... I would like to stay connected with military life. I love companionship, discipline and the meaning of castrated life. If you think about it, it's not much different from the concept of the priesthood: it's about giving your life for other people. Events in themselves are not bad, only wars are bad. I am asking to be assigned as a chaplain to an American base, and since I am a diocesan priest, my bishop is sedio.
  
  - What does diocesan, ¿ father mean?
  
  "I'm either less or less, I'm a free agent. I don't obey the congregation. If I want, I can ask my bishop to appoint me to a ward. But if I consider it expedient, I can begin my pastoral work where I see fit, always with the blessing of the bishop, understood as a formal consent.
  
  -I understand.
  
  "All at the base, I lived with several Agency employees who were running a special counterintelligence training program for non-CIA active duty military personnel. They invited me to join them, four hours a day, five times a week, twice a week. It was not incompatible with my pastoral duties if I were distracted by them for hours from Sue. Asi que accepte. And as it turned out, I was a good student. One evening, after class was over, one of the instructors approached me and asked me to join the kñía. The agency is called through internal channels. I told him that I was a priest and that it was impossible to be a priest. There is a lot of work ahead of you with hundreds of jóvenes católicos at the base. His superiors devoted many hours to the enseñarl of hatred for the communists. I have dedicated an hour a week to reminding you that we are all children of God.
  
  - Lost battle.
  
  -Almost always. But the priesthood, dottora, is a career in the background.
  
  - I think I told you these words in one of your interviews with Karoski.
  
  - It's possible. We limit ourselves to scoring small points. Small victories. From time to time it is possible to achieve something of the great, but the cases are numbered. We sow small seeds in the hope that some of the seeds will bear fruit. Often it is not you who reaps the rewards, and this is demoralizing.
  
  "It must be spoiled, of course, father.
  
  One day the king was walking in the woods and saw a poor little old man bustling about in a ditch. She went up to him and saw that he was planting walnut trees. I asked him why he was doing this, and the old man replied: ". The king said to him: "Old man, do not bend your hunched back to this pit. Don't you see that when the nut grows, you won't live to harvest its fruit? " And the old man I answered him: "If my ancestors thought the same way as you, your majesty, I would never have tasted walnuts."
  
  Paola smiled, struck by the absolute truth of those words.
  
   -¿Sabe qué nos enseña esa anécdota, dottora ? -continuo Fowler-. That you can always move forward with the will, the love of God, and a little push from Johnny Walker.
  
  Paola blinks slightly. He could not imagine a righteous and polite priest with a bottle of whiskey, but it was obvious that he had been very lonely all his life.
  
  "When the instructor told me that those who came from the base could be helped by another priest, but the thousands of those who came for the steel telephone could not be helped, understandí let you have an important part of the mind. Thousands of Christians are languishing under communism, praying in the toilet and listening to mass in the monastery. They will be able to serve the interests of both my Pope and my Church in those points where they coincide. To be honest, I then thought that there were many coincidences.
  
  - ¿And what do you think now? Because he returned to active duty.
  
  - I'll answer your question right away. I was offered to become a free agent, agreeing to those missions that I considered fair. I travel to many places. To some I was a priest. Others as a normal citizen. Once I put my life in danger, although it was almost always worth it. I helped people who somehow needed me. Sometimes this help took the form of a timely notice, an envelope, a letter. In other cases, it was necessary to organize an information network. Or get a person out of a predicament. I learned languages and even felt well enough to return to America. Until it happened to Honduras...
  
  - Father, wait. He missed an important part. Funeral of his parents.
  
  Fowler made a gesture of disgust.
  
  - I'm not going to leave. Just fasten the legal fringe that will hang down.
  
  "Father Fowler, you surprise me. Eighty million dollars is not the legal limit.
  
  "Wow, how do you know that too. Well, yes. Give up money. But I do not give it away, as many people think. I intended them to be a non-profit, non-profit foundation that is actively involved in various areas of social activity both in the United States and outside of it. It's named after Howard Eisner, the chapel that inspired me in Vietnam.
  
   -¿Usted creó la Eisner Foundation? Paola was surprised . _ Wow, he's old then.
  
  "I don't believe her. I gave it a boost and invested in it economically. It was actually created by my parents' lawyers. Against his will, I owe ñadir.
  
  "All right, father, tell me about Honduras. And you have as much time as you need.
  
  The priest looked curiously at Dicanti. His attitude to life suddenly changed, in a subtle but important way. Now she was ready to believe him. He wonders what could have caused this change in him.
  
  "I don't want to bore you with details, dottor. The story of Avocado makes it possible to fill an entire book, but get down to the basics. The purpose of the CIA was to promote the revolution. My goal is to help cats who are suffering from the oppression of the Sandinista government. Form and enter a detachment of volunteers, which must start a guerrilla war in order to destabilize the government. The soldiers were recruited from among the poor of Nicaragua. The weapons were sold by a former government ally few knew existed: Osama bin Laden. And command of Contra goes to a high school teacher named Bernie Salazar, a fanatic like the saber Amos despu. During the months of training, I escort ñé Salazar across the border on ever more adventurous forays. I assisted in the extradition of devoted religious people, but my disagreements with Salazar became more and more serious. I began to see communists everywhere. Under every stone lives a communist, según él.
  
  "The old manual for psychiatrists says that acute paranoia develops very quickly in fanatical drug addicts.
  
  -É this case confirms the impeccability of your book, Dicanti. I had an accident that I didn't know about until I found out it was intentional. I broke my leg and couldn't go on tours. And the partisans began to return every time with a delay. They slept not in camp barracks, but in clearings in the jungle, in tents. At night, they staged alleged arson, which, as it turned out later, was accompanied by executions and executions.#237;sims. I was bedridden, but the night Salazar captured the nuns and accused them of communism, someone warned me. He was a good boy, as were many of those who were with Salazar, although I feared him a little less than the others. If a little less, because you told me about it under the secret of confession. Know that I will not reveal this to anyone, but I will do my best to help the nuns. We did our best...
  
  Fowler's face was deathly pale. The time needed to swallow saliva was interrupted. He was not looking at Paola, but at the dot más allá in the window.
  
  "...but that wasn't enough. Today, both Salazar and El Chico are dead, and everyone knows that the guerrillas stole the helicopter and dropped the nuns on one of the Sandinista villages. This took me three trips.
  
  -¿Why did he do it?
  
  The message left little room for error. We will kill anyone suspected of having links with the Sandinistas. Whoever he is.
  
  Paola was silent for a few moments, considering what she had heard.
  
  "And you blame yourself, don"t you, Father?"
  
  - Be different if you don't. I can't save these women. And don't care about those guys who ended up killing their own people. I would crawl to anything related to doing good, but that wasn't what I got. I was just a minor figure in the crew of the monster factory. My dad is so used to it that he is no longer surprised when one of those we have taught, helped and protected turns against us.
  
  Even though the sunlight began to hit him in the face, Fowler didn't blink. He limited himself to squinting his eyes until they turned into two thin green leaves, and continued to look over the rooftops.
  
  "When I first saw photographs of mass graves," the priest continued, "I was reminded of submachine gun fire on a tropical night. "Shooting Tactics" I'm used to this noise. So much so that one night, half asleep, I heard several cries of pain between shots and did not pay much attention to it. He Suñili will defeat me. The next night I told myself that it was a figment of my imagination. If at that time I had spoken to the camp commandant and Ramos had studied me and Salazar closely, I would have saved many lives. This is why I am responsible for all these deaths, this is why I left the CIA and this is why I was called to testify by the Holy Office.
  
  "Father... I no longer believe in God. Now I know that when we die, it's all over. I think we are all returning to earth after a short trip through the guts of a worm. But if you really need absolute freedom, I offer it to you. You saved the priests you could before they set you up.
  
  Fowler allowed himself a half smile.
  
  -Thank you, dottor. She does not know how important her words are to me, although she regrets the deep tears that lie behind such a harsh statement in ancient Latin.
  
  "But the aun did not tell me what caused his return.
  
  - It's very simple. I asked a friend about it. And I never let my friends down.
  
  -Because it is you now... espía from God.
  
  Fowler sonrio.
  
  "I could call him an ace, I suppose.
  
  Dikanti got up and walked to the nearest bookshelf.
  
  "Father, this is against my principles, but like my mother, this is a one-time experience.
  
  I picked up a thick forensic book and handed it to Fowler. É holy abrio. The gin bottles were emptied into three gaps in the paper, conveniently filled with an indirect Dewar bottle and two small glasses.
  
  - It's only nine o'clock in the morning,
  
  -¿ Will you honor or wait until dark, father? I'm proud to drink with the man who created the Eisner Foundation. By the way, father, because this fund gives me a scholarship to study at Quantico.
  
  Then it was Fowler's turn to be surprised, though he didn't say anything. Pour me two equal shots of whiskey and pour me a glass of it.
  
  -¿For whom do we drink?
  
  For those who left.
  
  For those who left, that is.
  
  And they both drained their glasses in one gulp. The lollipop was stuck in her throat, and for Paola, who never drank, it was like swallowing cloves soaked in ammonia. She knew she would have heartburn all day, but she felt proud that she had raised her glass with this man. Certain things just need to be done.
  
  "Now we should be worried about getting the superintendent back for the team. As you intuitively understand, you owe this unexpected gift to Dante," Paola said, holding out the photos. I wonder why he did it? ¿Does he have any resentment towards you?
  
  Fowler rompio a reír. His laughter surprised Paola, who had never heard such a joyful sound that would sound so heartbreaking and sad on stage.
  
  Don't tell me you didn't notice.
  
  "I'm sorry father, but I don't understand you.
  
  - Dottora, for being the kind of person who is so well versed in applying engineering in reverse to human actions, you á demonstrate a radical lack of judgment in ésta ocasión. It's obvious that Dante has a romantic interest in you. And for some absurd reason, he thinks I'm competing with him.
  
  Paola stood absolutely stone, with her mouth open. He noticed a suspicious heat rising to his cheeks, and it wasn't from the whiskey. This was the second time that man had made her blush. I wasn't entirely sure that I was making him feel this way, but I wanted him to feel it more often, in the same way that an estómagico débil kid insists on riding a horse again. on the Russian mountain.
  
  At this moment, they are the telephone, a providential means of rescuing an awkward situation. Dicanti contestó immediately. His eyes lit up with excitement.
  
  - I'm going down now.
  
  Fowler la miro intrigado.
  
  "Hurry up, father. Among the photographs taken by the UACV at the crime scene in Robayra is one showing Francesco's brother. We might have something.
  
  
  
  UACV Headquarters
  
  Via Lamarmora, 3
  
  Thursday, April 7, 2005 at 09:15.
  
  
  
  The image on the screen became blurry. Habí's photographer shows a general view from the inside of the chapel, and in the background is Karoski as Brother Francesco. The computer enlarged this area of the image by 1600 percent, and the result was not very good.
  
  "Not that it looks bad," Fowler said.
  
  "Calm down, father," said Boy, entering the room with a pile of papers in his hands. Angelo is our forensic sculptor. He's an expert on gene optimization and I'm sure he can give us a different perspective, isn't he, Angelo?
  
  Angelo Biffi, one of the leaders of UACV, rarely got up from his computer. Luke wore thick glasses, greasy hair, and looked to be in his thirties. He lived in a large but dimly lit office, reeking of pizza, cheap cologne, and burnt crockery. A dozen monitors of the latest generation are used instead of windows. Looking around, Fowler concluded that they would probably rather sleep with their computers than go home. Angelo looked like he'd been a bookworm all his life, but his features were sweet and he always had a very sweet smile.
  
  "See, father, we, that is, the department, that is, I ...
  
  "Don't choke, Angelo. Drink the coffee, Alarg said, the one Fowler brought for Dante.
  
  -Thank you, dottor. ¡Hey, it's ice cream!
  
  Don't complain, it'll be hot soon. Indeed, when you grow up, say: "It's hot April now, but not as hot as when Wojtyla's father died." I already see it.
  
  Fowler looked in surprise at Dicanti, who laid a reassuring hand on Angelo's shoulder. The Inspector tried to make a joke, despite the storm she knew was raging inside her. I hardly slept, I had dark circles under my eyes, like a raccoon, and his face was confused, painful, full of rage. You don't have to be a psychologist or a priest to see this. And in spite of everything, he tried to help this boy feel safe with that unknown priest who scared him a little. At the moment, I love her, so even though I'm aloof, I ask her to think. He did not forget the vergüenze that the habí had made him go through a minute ago in his own office.
  
   -Explícale tu método al padre Fowler -pidió Paola-. I'm sure you'll find this interesting.
  
  The boy is excited by this.
  
  -Pay attention to the screen. We have, I have, well, I have developed special software for gene interpolation. As you know, each image is made up of colored dots called píxels. If a normal image, for example, is 2500 x 1750 pixels, but we want it to be in a small corner of the photo, we have a few small blobs of color at the end of little value. By zooming in, you end up with a blurry image that you are looking at. Seeá normally, when a regular program tries to enlarge an image, it does so by mébikúbik, that is, by taking into account the color of the eight píx adjacent to the one it is trying to multiply. So in the end we have the same small spot, but a big one. But with my program...
  
  Paola squinted at Fowler, who was leaning over the screen with interest. The priest tried to pay attention to Angelo's explanation, despite the pain he had experienced just a few minutes ago. The contemplation of the photographs taken there was a very difficult test, which touched him very much. You don't have to be a psychiatrist or a forensic scientist to understand this. And, no matter what, she tried her best to please the guy she would never see again in her life. At that time, I loved him for it, although against his will, I ask the thoughts of his mind. He did not forget the vergüenza he had just spent in his office.
  
  -...and by viewing the variable points of light, you enter a three-dimensional information program that you can view. It is based on a complex logarithm that takes several hours to render.
  
  "Damn it, Angelo, is that why you made us come down?"
  
  "This is what you need to see...
  
  "It's all right, Angelo. Dottora, I suspect that é this smart boy wants to tell us that the program has been running for several hours and is about to give us a result.
  
  "That's right, father. Actually, it comes out because of that printer.
  
  The buzzing of the printer while I was near Dicanti resulted in a tome that shows somewhat aged features and a few shadowed eyes, but is much more focused than the original image.
  
  "Great job, Angelo. It's not that it's useless for identification, but it's a starting point. Look, father.
  
  The priest carefully studied the facial features in the photograph. Boy, Dicanti, and Angelo looked at him expectantly.
  
  - Swear it's el. But it's difficult without seeing his eyes. The shape of the eye sockets and something indefinable tells me that it is él. But if I had met him on the street, I would not have looked at him a second time.
  
  -¿So this is a new dead-end alley?
  
  "Not necessarily," said Angelo. I have a program that can get a 3D image based on certain data. I think we can draw quite a few conclusions from what we have. I worked with a photograph of an engineer.
  
  - Engineer? Paola was surprised.
  
  "Yes, from engineer Karoski, who wants to pass for a Carmelite. What's your head, Dicanti...
  
  Dr. Boy opened his eyes wide, making demonstrative, anxious gestures over Angelo's shoulder. Finally, Paola realized that Angelo had not been informed of the details of the case. Paola knew that the director had forbidden the four UACV employees who were working on collecting evidence on the Robaira and Pontiero stages to go home. They were allowed to call their families to explain the situation and were placed on . The fight could be very tough when he wanted to, but he was also a fair man: he paid them triple the overtime.
  
  "Oh, yes, what am I thinking about, what am I thinking about. Go on, Angelo.
  
  Of course, I had to collect information at all levels so that no one had all the pieces of the puzzle. No one must know that they were investigating the death of two cardinals. Something that obviously made Paola's job more difficult and made her seriously doubt that maybe she herself wasn't ready either.
  
  - As you understand, I was working on a photograph of an engineer. I think in about thirty minutes we'll have a 3D image of his 1995 photo that we can compare to the 3D image we've been getting since 2005. If they come back here after a while, I can give them something tasty.
  
  -Wonderful. If that's what you think, padre, proctor... I'd like you to repeat the áramos in the boardroom. Now we go, Angelo.
  
  "Okay, Director Boy.
  
  The three of them made their way to the conference room, two floors up. Nothing could force me to enter Paola, and she had a terrible feeling that the last time I was visiting her, everything was all right.#237;from Pontiero.
  
  -¿ May I know what you two did to Superintendent Dante?
  
  Paola and Fowler looked at each other briefly and shook their heads in Sono's direction.
  
  -Absolutely nothing.
  
  - Better. I hope I didn't see him get pissed off because you guys were in trouble. Be better than you on the 24th match, because I don't want Sirin Ronda to communicate with me or the Minister of the Interior.
  
  "I don't think you need to worry. Danteá is perfectly integrated into the Mintió Paola team.
  
  -¿And why don't I believe it? Last night I saved you boy for a very short time Dicanti. ¿ You want to tell me who Dante is?
  
  Paola is silent. I can't talk to Boy about the internal issues they've had in the group. I opened my mouth to speak, but a familiar voice made me eat.
  
  "I went out to buy some tobacco, Director.
  
  Dante's leather jacket and grim smile stood on the threshold of the conference room. I studied it slowly, very carefully.
  
  "It is the vice of the worst, Dante.
  
  "We have to die from something, Headmaster.
  
  Paola stood and looked at Dante while Ste sat next to Fowler as if nothing had happened. But one look from both of them was enough for Paola to understand that everything was not going as well as she would like to assume. As long as they behaved in a civilized manner for a few days, everything could be settled. What I don't understand is that I'm asking you to convey anger to your colleague from the Vatican. Something happened.
  
  "Good," Boy said. This damn thing gets complicated at times. Yesterday we lost in the line of duty and in full force one of the best policemen I have met in years, and no one knows that he is in the refrigerator. We can't even give him a formal funeral until we can give a reasonable explanation for his death. That's why I want us to think together. Play what you know, Paola.
  
  -Since when?
  
  -From the very beginning. Brief summary of the case.
  
  Paola got up and went to the blackboard to write. I thought much better standing up and holding something.
  
  -Let's see: Victor Karoski, a priest with a history of sexual abuse, escaped from a low-security private facility where he was exposed to excessive amounts of a drug that gave him a death sentence.237; increase your aggressiveness level significantly. From June 2000 until the end of 2001 there is no record of his activities. In 2001, he replaced with an ilícited and fictitious name a barefoot Carmelite at the entrance to the church of Santa Marív in Traspontina, a few meters from Saint Peter's Square.
  
  Paola draws some stripes on the board and starts to draw up a calendar:
  
  -Friday, April 1, twenty-four hours before the death of John Paul II: Karoski kidnaps the Italian Cardinal Enrico Portini at the residence of Madri Pi. ¿We have confirmed the blood of two cardinals in the crypt? - The boy made an affirmative gesture - Karoski takes Portini to Santa María, tortures him and finally returns him to the last place where he was seen alive: the chapel of the residence. Sábado, April 2: Cadaver de Portini discovered the same night the pope died, although the Vatican Vigilant decides to "clean up" the evidence, believing it to be an isolated act of a lunatic. Fortunately, the case does not go beyond this, thanks in large part to those in charge of the residence. Sunday, April 3: Argentine Cardinal Emilio Robaira arrives in Rome on a one-way ticket. We think that someone is meeting him at the airport or on his way to the priesthood of Santi Ambrogio, where he was expected on Sunday evening. We know we will never come. ¿ Did we clear something up from the conversations at the airport?
  
  - Nobody checked it. We don"t have enough staff," Boy apologized.
  
  - We have it.
  
  "I can't involve detectives in this. It is important to me that it be closed, fulfilling the wishes of the Holy See. We'll play from or to, Paola. Order your cassettes in person.
  
  Dicanti made a gesture of disgust, but that was the answer I was expecting.
  
  We continue on Sunday, April 3rd. Karoski kidnaps Robaira and takes her to the crypt. Everyone tortures him during interrogation and includes messages on his body and at the crime scene. The message on the body reads: MF 16, Deviginti. Thanks to Father Fowler, we know that the message refers to a phrase from the Gospel: ", which refers to the time of the election of the first High Priest of the Church of the Cat. This, and the message written in blood on the floor, combined with serious damage to the CAD system, makes us think that the killer Tuesday, April 5. The suspect takes the body to one of the church chapels and after that calmly calls the police, pretending to be Brother Francesco Tom. For more mockery, he always wears the glasses of the second víctima, Cardinal Robaira. Agents call UACV, and the director Boy calls Camilo Sirin.
  
  Paola paused briefly and then looked directly at Boy.
  
  - The moment you call him, Sirin already knows the name of the perpetrator, although in a ningún case you would expect him to be a serial killer. I've been thinking about this a lot and I think that Sirin has known the name of Portini's killer since Sunday evening. He probably had access to the VICAP database, and the "severed hands" entry resulted in a few cases. His network of influence activates the name of Major Fowler, who arrives here on the night of April 5th. Probably the original plan wasn't to count on us, Director Boy. It was Karoski who intentionally dragged us into the game. Why é is one of the main questions in this case.
  
  Paola Trazo one ú last strip.
  
  -My letter dated April 6: While Dante, Fowler and I are trying to find out something about the crimes in the vícrime office, Deputy Inspector Maurizio Pontiero is beaten to death by Victor Karoski in the crypt of Santa Mar de Las Vegas.237; Transpontine.
  
  -¿ Do we have the murder weapon? ask Dante.
  
  "There are no fingerprints, but we have them," I replied. The battle. Karoski stabbed him several times with what may have been a very sharp kitchen knife and hit him several times with a chandelier that was found at the scene. But I do not place too high hopes on the continuation of the investigation ín.
  
  -¿Why, Director?
  
  "That's a far cry from all of our usual friends, Dante. We are trying to figure out who. Usually, with the definition of a name, our work ends. But we must apply our knowledge to recognize The definiteness of the name was our starting point. That's why work is more important than ever.
  
  "I want to take this opportunity to congratulate the donor. It seemed like a brilliant chronology to me," Fowler said.
  
  "Extremely," Dante chuckled.
  
  Paola felt hurt by his words, but I decided it was best to ignore the subject for the time being.
  
  - Good summary, Dicanti - happy birthday to you. ¿Cuál - the next step? ¿ Has this already entered Karoski's mind? ¿ Have you studied similarity?
  
  The CSI thought for a few moments before answering.
  
  "All reasonable people are alike, but each of these crazy bastards is different in their own way.
  
  - besides that you read Tolstoy 25? -pregunto Boi.
  
  "Well, we're making a mistake if we think one serial killer is equal to another. You can try to find landmarks, find equivalents, draw conclusions from similarities, but in the hour of truth, each of this shit is a lonely mind living millions of light years away from the rest of humanity. There's nothing there, ahhi. They are not people. They don't feel empathy. His emotions are dormant. What makes him kill, what makes him believe that his selfishness is more important than people, the reasons why he justifies his sin are not what is important to me. I'm not trying to understand him any more than is absolutely necessary to stop him.
  
  "For that, we need to know what your next step will be.
  
  "Obviously killing again. You are probably looking for a new personality or already have a predefined one. But she cannot be as industrious as the work of Brother Francesco, since he dedicated several books to her. Quizá Father Fowler can help us in é St. Pointe.
  
  The priest shakes his head in concern.
  
  "Everything is in the dossier I left you, but there is something I want in Arles.
  
  On the bedside table stood a jug of water and several glasses. Fowler fills one glass halfway and then puts a pencil inside.
  
  "It is very difficult for me to think the way él. Notice the glass. It's clear as daylight, but when I type in the seemingly straight letter lápiz, it looks like a coincidence to my eyes. Similarly, its monolithic attitude changes at fundamental points, such as a straight line that breaks and ends at the opposite point.
  
  -This point of bankruptcy is key.
  
  -May be. I don't envy your work, dottor. Karoski is a person who one minute turns away from iniquity, and the next minute commits even greater iniquities. What is clear to me is that we should look for him next to the cardinals. Again try to kill and I will do it soon. The key to the lock is getting closer and closer.
  
  
  They returned to Angelo's lab in some confusion. The young man meets Dante, who almost pays no attention to him. Paola couldn't help but notice the crash. This attractive man was a bad person at heart. His jokes didn't hide anything, in fact they were among the best the Superintendent had ever had.
  
  Angelo was waiting for them with the promised results. I press a few keys and show them three-dimensional images of genes on two screens, consisting of thin green threads on a black background.
  
  -¿ Can you add texture to them?
  
  -Yes. Here they have skin, rudimentary, but skin.
  
  The screen on the left shows a 3D model of Karoski's head as it appeared in 1995. The upper half of the head is visible on the screen on the right, just as it was seen in Santa Mar in Transpontina.
  
  - I didn't model the lower half because it's impossible with a beard. The eyes also do not see anything clear. In the photo they left me, I was walking with hunched shoulders.
  
  -¿ Can you copy the handle of the first model and paste it on top of the current model?
  
  Angelo responded with quick keystrokes and mouse clicks on the keyboard. In less than two minutes, Fowler's request was granted.
  
  -¿Dígame, Angelo, to what extent do you rate how reliable your second model is? -inquirió priest.
  
  The young guy immediately gets into trouble.
  
  "Well, to see... Without the game, suitable lighting conditions are in place..."
  
  "It's out of the question, Angelo. We have already talked about this -terció Boi.
  
  Paola spoke slowly and soothingly.
  
  "Come on, Angelo, no one judges if you made a good model. If we want him to know to what extent we can trust him.
  
  "Well... 75 to 85%. No, not from me.
  
  Fowler looked at the screen carefully. These two faces were very different. Too different. My nose is wide, beaks are strong. But ¿ was it the subject's natural facial features or just simple makeup?
  
  -Angelo, please turn both imágenes horizontally and make a medicióp out of pómuls. Like i. That's all. That's what I'm afraid of.
  
  The other four looked at him expectantly.
  
  -¿What, father? Let's win, for God's sake.
  
  "This is not the face of Viktor Karoski. These differences in size cannot be reproduced with amateur makeup. Perhaps a Hollywood pro could achieve this with látex molds, but it would be too visible for anyone to look closely at. I wouldn't be in a long term relationship.
  
  -Then?
  
  "There is an explanation for this. Karoski completed a Fano course and underwent a full facial reconstruction. It is now known that we are looking for a ghost.
  
  
  
  Instituto Saint Matthew
  
  Silver Spring, Maryland
  
  May 1998
  
  
  
  TRADITION OF INTERVIEW #14 BETWEEN PATIENT #3643 AND DR. FOWLER
  
  
   D.R. FOWLER : Hola, padre Karoski. Will you let me?
  
  #3643: Go ahead, Father Fowler.
  
   D.R. FOWLER: ¿Le gustó el libro que le preste?
  
   #3643: Oh sure. Saint August is already finished. I found this to be the most interesting. Human optimism can rise as far as it can.
  
  D.R. FOWLER: No le comprendo, padre Karoski.
  
  : Well, it is you and only you in this place who can understand me, Father Fowler. Niko, who does not call me by my first name, aiming for an unnecessary vulgar familiarity that degrades the dignity of both interlocutors.
  
   D.R. FOWLER : Está hablando del padre Conroy.
  
   #3643 : Ah, this man. He's just trying to claim over and over again that I'm just a normal patient in need of treatment. I am a priest like him, and he constantly forgets this dignity, insisting that I call him a doctor.
  
  It's good that the relationship with Conroy is purely psychological and patient. You need help to overcome some of the shortcomings of your shattered psyche.
  
  #3643: ¿ Mistreated? ¿ Offended by kemen? Do you also want to test the love of my holy mother? I pray he doesn't go down the same path as Father Conroy. He even claimed that he would make me listen to some cassettes that would clear my doubts.
  
  D.R. FOWLER: Unas cintas.
  
  #3643: So he said.
  
  DOCTOR Don't be healthy for yourself. Talk to Father Conroy about it.
  
  #3643: As you please. But I don't have the slightest fear.
  
  FOWLER: Look, Father, I'd like to take advantage of the míximo ésta sesión, and there's something I'm very interested in from what you said earlier. On the optimism of St. Augustus in confession. ¿A qué se refería?
  
  And although I look ridiculous in your eyes, I will treat me with mercy."
  
  FOWLER Doesn't he í trust you in God's infinite goodness and mercy?
  
  #3643: Merciful God is a twentieth century invention, Father Fowler.
  
   D.R. FOWLER : San Agustin vivió en el siglo IV.
  
   : Saint August was horrified by his sinful past and began to write optimistic lies.
  
  FOWLER God forgive us.
  
  #3643 : Not always. Those who go to confession are like those who wash the car... ahh, I'm sick.
  
  FOWLER: ¿ How do you feel when you go to confession? Disgust?
  
  #3643 : Disgust. Many times I vomited in the confessional from the disgust that the person on the other side of the bars aroused. Lie. Bludon. Adultery. Pornography. Violence. Theft. All of them, entering into this cramped habit, stuff their asses with pork. ¡ Release it all, turn it all over on me...!
  
  FOWLER They tell God about it. We are just a transmitter. When we put on the stole, we become Christ.
  
  #3643: They drop everything. They come in dirty and think they come out clean. "Go down, play, father, because I have sinned. I stole ten thousand dollars from my partner's father because I sinned. I raped my little sister. I took pictures of my son and posted them on the Internet." "Bend the game father because I have sinned. I bring food to my husband to stop using marriage because I'm tired of his smell of onions and sweat.
  
  DR. FOWLER: But, Father Karoski, confession is a wonderful thing if there is remorse and there is room to make amends.
  
  #3643: That which never happens. They always, always dump their sins on me. They leave me standing before the impassive face of God. I am the one who stands between his iniquities and Alt-simo's revenge.
  
  FOWLER: Do you really see God as a being of revenge?
  
  #3643 : "His heart is as hard as flint
  
  hard as the bottom stone in a millstone.
  
  From his majesty they are afraid of the waves,
  
  sea waves recede.
  
  The sword that touches him does not pierce,
  
  no spear, no arrow, no deer.
  
  He looks at everyone with pride
  
  "for he is the king of the cruel!"
  
  FOWLER: I must admit, Father, that I am surprised at your knowledge of the Bible in general and the Old Testament in particular. But the book of Job is outdated in the face of the truth of the gospel of Jesus Christ.
  
  : Jesus Christ is the Son, but the Father judges. And the Father has a stone face.
  
  FOWLER Since ahí yes is a mortal by necessity, Karoski's father. And if you listen to Conroy's records, rest assured they will happen.
  
  
  
  Hotel Rafael
  
  Long February, 2
  
  Thursday, April 7, 2005 at 2:25 pm.
  
  
  
  -Residence of Saint Ambrogio.
  
  - Good afternoon. I want to speak to Cardinal Robaira," the young journalist said in poor Italian.
  
  The voice on the other end of the telephone phono becomes random.
  
  -¿ May I ask on behalf of quién?
  
  It wasn't that much, the pitch barely varied by an octave. But that was enough to alert the journalist.
  
  Andrea Otero worked for the El Globo newspaper for four years. Four añ os where you visited third newsrooms, interviewed third characters, and wrote third stories. From ten in the evening until 25 in the morning when I entered the office and I got a job on the outlet. Start in a culture where your editor-in-chief Jemá takes you seriously. I remain in the Society, where her editor-in-chief never trusted her. And now he was at The Internationale, where his editor-in-chief didn't believe he could do the job. But she was. It wasn't all notes. Neither kurr nor kulum. Also had a sense of humor, intuition, sense of smell and period, and 237 years. And if Andrea Otero really had those qualities and ten percent of what she thought she should have, become a Pulitzer Prize-winning journalist. She had no lack of self-confidence, in her height of meter seventy, in her angelic features, in her chaste hair and blue eyes. A smart and determined woman is hiding from them. That's why, when the company "was supposed to cover the death of the Pope, it was in a car accident on the way to the airport and broke both legs, Andrea did not miss the opportunity" to accept her boss's offer from his replacement. Get to the plane by the hair and with your luggage for all the luggage.
  
  Luckily, we lived in a few small shops from lo má ;s mono not far from Piazza Navona, which was thirty meters from the hotel. And Andrea Otero acquired (of course at the expense of the period wildly) a luxurious wardrobe, underwear and a nasty phone that she used to call the Santo Ambrogio residence to get an interview with papal cardinal Robaira. But...
  
  - I'm Andrea Otero, from the Globo newspaper. The cardinal promised me an interview for this Thursday. Unfortunately, you don't answer his nasty question. ¿Would you be so kind as to show me to his room, please?
  
  "Señorita Otero, unfortunately we cannot show you to your room, because the cardinal will not come.
  
  -¿When will you arrive?
  
  Well, he just won't come.
  
  -Let's see, ¿he won't come...or won't he come?
  
  I won't come because he won't come.
  
  -¿Are you going to stay somewhere else?
  
  - I don't think so. I mean, I think so.
  
  -¿Who am I talking to?
  
  - I should hang up the phone.
  
  The intermittent tone foreshadowed two things: the cessation of communication and a very nervous interlocutor. And that he is lying. Andrea was sure of that. She was too good a liar not to recognize anyone of her kind.
  
  There is no time to waste. It would not have taken him ten minutes to get through to the cardinal's office in Buenos Aires. It was almost a quarter to ten in the morning, a reasonable hour to call. He rejoiced at my vile account, which was to fall to his lot. Since they were paying him a meager amount, at least they screwed up the expenses.
  
  The telephone phono buzzed for a minute, and then the connection was interrupted.
  
  It was strange that no one was there. I will try it again.
  
  Nothing.
  
  Try with nó just a switch. A female voice answered immediately.
  
  - Archbishopric, good afternoon.
  
  "With Cardinal Robaira," he said in Spanish.
  
   -Ay señorita, marcho.
  
  -¿Marcho donde?
  
   "After all, she is an Orita. IN Rome .
  
  -¿Sabe donde se hospeda?
  
   "I don't know, Orita. I take him to Father Seraphim, his secretary.
  
  -Thank you.
  
  I love the Beatles as long as they keep you on your toes. Which is appropriate. Andrea decided to lie a little for a change. The cardinal has family in Spain. Let's see if it sours.
  
  -¿Alio?
  
  Hello, I would like to speak to the cardinal. I am his niece, Asunsi. Españwave.
  
  "Asunsi, I am so pleased. I am Father Seraphim, the cardinal's secretary. His Eminence never spoke to me about you. ¿ Is she the daughter of Angustias or Remedios?
  
  It sounded like cheating. Andrea Cruzó fingers. She has a 50% chance of being wrong. Andrea was also an expert on the little things. His list of missteps was longer than his own (and slender) legs.
  
  -From drugs.
  
  "Of course it's stupid. Now I remember that Angustias has no children. Unfortunately, the cardinal is not here.
  
  -¿Kuá can I talk to él?
  
  There was a pause. The priest's voice became wary. Andrea could almost see him on the other end of the wire, squeezing the handset and twisting the phone wire with the phone.
  
  - What is it about?
  
  "You see, I have been living in Rome for a long time, and you promised me that you would come to visit me for the first time.
  
  The voice became wary. He spoke slowly, as if afraid of making a mistake.
  
  "I went to Soroba to settle some business in this dióses. I will not be able to attend Cánclave.
  
  "But if they told me at the switchboard that the cardinal had gone to Rome.
  
  Father Seraphim gave a confused and obviously false answer.
  
  "Ah, well, the girl on the switchboard is new and doesn't know much about the work of the archbishopric. I beg you to excuse me.
  
  -My apologies. ¿ Should I tell my uncle to call him?
  
  -Certainly. ¿ Could you tell me your phone number, Asuncy? This must be stated on the cardinal's agenda. I could/if I had/ramos to contact you...
  
  Oh, he already has it. Excuse me, my husband's name is Adios.
  
  I leave the secretary with a word on his lips. Now she was sure that something was wrong. But you have to confirm it. Luckily the hotel has an internet connection. It takes six minutes to find the phone numbers of the three major companies in Argentina. The first one got lucky.
  
  - Aerolineas Argentinas.
  
  He played in a way that mimicked his Madrid accentñ or even turned it into a passable Argentinian accent. He didn't feel bad. It was much worse for him to speak Italian.
  
  - Buenos Dias. I'm calling him from the archbishopric. Who do I enjoy talking to?
  
  - I'm Verona.
  
  Verona, my name is Asunción. He called to confirm Cardinal Robaira's return to Buenos Aires.
  
  - On what date?
  
  - Returná on the 19th of the next month.
  
  -¿And the full name?
  
  -Emilio Robira.
  
  "Please wait while we check everything.
  
  Andrea nervously nibbles at the cup she is holding, checks the condition of her hair in the bedroom mirror, lies down on the bed, shakes her head and says:243; nervous toes.
  
  -¿Alio? Look, my friends informed me that you guys bought an open one way ticket. The cardinal has already traveled, so you are eligible to buy the tour at a ten percent discount after the promotion that is running now in April. ¿ Do you have a regular frequent flyer ticket on hand?
  
  - For a moment, I understand it in Czech.
  
  He hung up, holding back his laughter. But the fun was immediately replaced by a joyful feeling of triumph. Cardinal Robaira boarded a plane bound for Rome. But he didn't show up anywhere. Perhaps he decided to stay somewhere else. But in that case, why is he lying in the residence and in the cardinal's office?
  
  "Either I'm crazy, or there's a good story here. Stupid story, she told her reflection in the mirror.
  
  There were not enough das to choose who would sit in Peter's chair. And the great candidate of the Church of the Poor, the third world supporter, the man who shamelessly flirted with Liberation Theology No. 26, has gone missing.
  
  
  
   Domus Sancta Marthae
  
  Piazza Santa Marta, 1
  
   Thursday, April 7, 2005 at 4:14 pm.
  
  
  
  Paola was surprised, before entering the building, by the large number of cars waiting in line at the gas station opposite. Dante explained to him that the prices of all goods were thirty percent cheaper than in Italy, since the Vatican did not levy taxes. You had to have a special card to fill up at any of the city's seven gas stations, and how long the queues were endless. They had to wait outside for a few minutes while the Swiss Guards guarding the door of the Domus Sancta Marthae informed someone inside of the presence of the three. Paola had time to think about the events that had happened to her mother and#241;anna. Just two hours earlier, still at UACV HQ, Paola pulled Dante aside as soon as he was able to get rid of Boy.
  
  "Superintendent, I want to talk to you.
  
  Dante avoided Paola's gaze, but followed the forensic scientist into her office.
  
  "What are you going to tell me, Dicanti. Yaí i á, we're in this together, ¿okay?
  
  "I already understood that. I also noticed that, like Boy, he calls me a guardian, not a non-guardian. Because the rank is below superintendent. I am not at all bothered by his feeling of inferiority, if it does not intersect with my competence. Like your previous issue with photos.
  
  Dante blushed.
  
  "If I-what I want-to tell you. There is nothing personal in this.
  
  -¿ Could you tell me about Fowler? He already did it. Is my position clear to you, or should I be extremely specific?
  
  "I've had enough of your clarity, Inspector," he said guiltily, running his hand over his cheeks. I had those damn fillings removed. What I don't know is that you didn't break your arm.
  
  "Me too, because you have a very stern face, Dante.
  
  "I am a tough guy in every way.
  
  "I'm not interested in knowing any of them. I hope this is clear too.
  
  -¿Is this a rejection of a woman, an inspector?
  
  Paola was very nervous again.
  
  -¿Somo is not a woman?
  
  - Of those that are written as S - I.
  
  - That "no" is spelled "N-O", fucking macho.
  
  "Calm down, you don't have to worry, Rika.
  
  The criminal mentally cursed herself. I was falling into Dante's trap of letting him play with my emotions. But I was already fine. Take a formal tone so that the other person notices your contempt. I decided to emulate Boy, who was very good at such confrontations.
  
  "Okay, now that we've cleared everything up, I should tell you that I spoke to our North American contact, Father Fowler. I expressed my concerns to him about his track record. Fowler gave me some very convincing arguments, which, in my opinion, are enough to trust él. I want to thank you for taking the trouble to gather information about Father Fowler. It was petty on his part.
  
  Dante is left shocked by Paola's harsh tone. He didn't say anything. Know that you have lost the game.
  
  "As head of the investigation, I must formally ask you if you are ready to give us your full support in the capture of Victor Karosky.
  
  "Of course, inspector." Dante stuck the words in like hot nails.
  
  "Finally, all I have to do is ask him the reason for his request to return.
  
  "I called to complain to my superiors, but they didn't give me a choice. I was ordered to overcome personal differences.
  
  Paola was wary in the face of this ú last sentence. Fowler denied that Dante had anything against it, but the superintendent's words convinced him otherwise. The forensic scientist had already remarked once that they both seemed to have known each other before, despite having acted in opposite ways until now. I decided to ask Dante directly about this.
  
  -¿Conocía usted al padre Anthony Fowler?
  
  "No, inspector," Dante said in a firm and confident voice.
  
  "Your dossier came to me very kindly of you.
  
  "We're very organized in the Vigilance Corps.
  
  Paola decided to leave him, ahí. When she was about to leave, Dante said three phrases to her, which she was very flattered.
  
  "Only one thing, Inspector. If he feels the need to call me to order again, I prefer anything to do with slaps. I'm not good at formalism.
  
  Paola asked Dante to find out personally where the cardinals would live. And they all were. At Domus Sancta Marthae, House of Saint Martha. Located to the west of St. Peter's Basilica, although within the walls of the Vatican.
  
  From the outside, it was an austere building. The house is straight and elegant, without stucco, ornaments or statues. Compared to the marvels surrounding it, Domus stood out as little as a golf ball in a bucket of snow. It would be different if a random tourist (and there were none in that part of the Vatican that was limited) would take two glances at this structure.
  
  But when I received permission and the Swiss Guards let them in without hindrance, Paola found that the inside was very different from her inside. It looks like a modern simo hotel with marble floors and jatoba finishes. There was a slight scent of lavender in the air. While they waited in their vests, the forensic scientist watched them go. Paintings hung on the walls, in which Paola Crió recognized the style of the great Italian and Dutch masters of the 16th century. And none of them looked like reproductions.
  
  "Oh my God," said Paola, who was trying to limit her rich emishi tacos. I got it from him when I was calm.
  
  "I know what effect it has," Fowler said thoughtfully.
  
  The CSI notes that when Fowler was a guest at the House, his personal circumstances were not pleasant.
  
  "It's a real shock compared to the rest of the buildings in the Vatican, at least the ones I know of. New and old.
  
  - ¿ Do you know the history á of this house, dottor? As you know, in 1978 there were two cónkeys in a row, separated by only two months.
  
  "I was very young, but I have the loose genes of those children in my memory," Paola said, plunging into the past for a moment.
  
  
  Gelatti of St. Peter's Square. Mom and dad from Lemon and Paola with chocolate and strawberries. Pilgrims sing, joy reigns in the atmosphere. Dad's hand, strong and rough. I like to hold his fingers and take walks when the evening comes. We look into the fireplace and see white smoke. Dad lifts me over his head and laughs, and his laugh is the best thing in the world. My ice cream falls and I cry, but papaá ríe másún promises to buy me another one. We will eat it for the health of the Bishop of Rome," he says.
  
  
  -Two popes will soon be elected, as Paul VI's successor, John Paul I, died suddenly at the age of thirty-three after his election. There was a second key in which I was elected John Paul II. In that short time, the cardinals stayed in the minuscule cells around the Sistine Chapel. With no amenities and no air conditioning, and since the Roman summer was stony, some of the elderly cardinals were put to the test. One of them had to urgently seek medical help. After Wojtyła donned the Sandals of the Fisherman, he vowed to himself that he would leave everything as it was, paving the way for nothing like this to happen again after his death. And the result is é this building. Dottora, are you listening to me?
  
  Paola returns from his enso with a guilty gesture.
  
  Sorry, I got lost in my memories. This will not happen again.
  
  At that moment, Dante returns, having gone ahead to find the one responsible for the Domus. Paola isn't since she's avoiding the priest, let's assume that to avoid a confrontation she did. They both spoke to each other with feigned normality, but now I have serious doubts that Fowler would have told her the truth when he suggested that the rivalry was limited to Dante's jealousy. For now, and even if the team stuck together, the best thing Podí could do was join the farce and ignore the problem. That Paola never did too well.
  
  The Superintendent arrives accompanied by a short, smiling, sweaty religious woman dressed in a black suit. Introduce yourself as Sister Helena Tobina from Poland. She was the director of the center and told them in detail about the renovation work that had already taken place. They took place in several stages, the last of which ended in 2003. They climbed a wide staircase with glittering steps. The building was spread over floors with long corridors and thick carpeting. There were rooms on the sides.
  
  "It's a hundred and six suites and twenty-four single rooms," suggested the sister, going up to the first floor. All furniture dates back several centuries and consists of valuable pieces of furniture donated by Italian or German families.
  
  The nun opened the door to one of the rooms. It was a spacious room of about twenty square meters with parquet floors and a beautiful carpet. The bed was also wooden, with a beautiful embossed headboard. A built-in wardrobe, a desk and a fully equipped bathroom completed the room.
  
  "This is the seat of one of the six cardinals who did not arrive in the CE. The other one hundred and nine are already occupying their rooms," the sister clarified.
  
  The inspector believes that at least two of the missing persons should not have appeared to Jem and#225;s.
  
  -¿ Is it safe for the cardinals here, Sister Helena? ask Paola with caution. I didn't know until the nun found out about the dangers of the purples.
  
  "Very safe, my child, very safe. The só building has access and is constantly guarded by two Swiss guards. We ordered the soundproofing of the rooms, as well as the TVs, to be removed.
  
  Paola is out of line.
  
  - Cardinals are held incommunicado during the Cónclave. No phone, no phone, no TV, no TV, no computers, no Internet. Prohibition of contact with the outside world under pain of excommunication, Fowler told him. Orders of John Paul II before his death.
  
  "But not be a thing to completely isolate them, right, Dante?
  
  Superintendent Sako chest. He liked to brag about the accomplishments of his organization as if he were doing them personally.
  
  - See, researcher, we have the latest technology in señal inhibitors.
  
  "I'm not familiar with the espías jargon. Explain what.
  
  "We have electrical equipment that created two electromagnetic fields. One is here and the other is in the Sistine Chapel. In practice, they look like two invisible umbrellas. Not a single device that requires contact with the outside world works under them. Neither a directional microphone, nor a sound apparatus, nor even an espía apparatus can pass through them. Check his phone and phone.
  
  Paola did just that and saw that you really didn't have a cover. They went out into the corridor. Nada, no había señal.
  
  -¿What about food?
  
  "They cook it right here in the kitchen," Sister Helena said proudly. The staff consists of ten nuns, who in turn serve the various services of the Domus Sancta Marthae. Reception staff stay overnight just in case there is any emergency. No one is allowed inside the House if the Cardinals do so.
  
  Paola opened her mouth to ask a question, but it stuck halfway through. I interrupted him with a terrible scream coming from the top floor.
  
  
  
  Domus Sancta Marthae
  
  Piazza Santa Marta, 1
  
  Thursday, April 7, 2005 at 4:31 pm.
  
  
  
  Earning his trust to enter the room he lived in was hard as hell. Now the cardinal has time to regret this mistake, and his regret will be written in mournful letters. Karoski made another cut with a knife on his bare chest.
  
  "Calm down, Your Eminence. Less is missing.
  
  The fifth part is discussed with each step of the mís débiles. The blood that soaked the bedspread and dripped pasty on the Persian carpet robbed him of his strength. But at one point I lost consciousness. Cintió all the punches and all the cuts.
  
  Karoski finished his work on the chest. With the pride of an artisan, we look at what you have written. I keep my finger on the pulse and seize the moment. It was necessary to have a memory. Unfortunately, everyone can't use a digital video camera, but this purely mechanical disposable video camera works great. Running his thumb over the roll to take another photo, he taunted Cardinal Cardoso.
  
  "Greetings, Your Eminence. Oh, of course you can't. Remove the gag from him, as I need his "gift of tongues".
  
  Karoski laughed alone at his terrible joke. I left the knife and showed the cardinal the knife, sticking out my tongue in a mocking gesture. And he made his first mistake. Start untying the gag. Purple was horrified, but not as scared as the other vampires. He gathered what few strength he had left and let out a terrible scream that echoed through the halls of the Domus Sancta Marthae.
  
  
  
   Domus Sancta Marthae
  
  Piazza Santa Marta, 1
  
   Thursday, April 7, 2005 at 4:31 pm.
  
  
  
  When she heard the scream, Paola reacted immediately. I motioned for the nun to stay where I was, and I passed-he shoots you in threes, drawing his gun. Fowler and Dante followed him down the stairs, and the three of them nearly collided as they tried to climb the stairs at full speed. When they reached the top, they stopped, confused. They stood in the center of a long corridor full of doors.
  
  -¿Where was it? Fowler said.
  
  "Damn it, I like it, I mean. Don't disperse, gentlemen, Paola said. He may be il, and he is a very dangerous goat.
  
  Paola chose the left side, opposite the elevator side. Believe me, there was a noise in room number 56. He put the knife against the tree, but Dante motioned him away with a gesture of his hand. The burly superintendent signaled to Fowler, and they both rammed the door, which swung open without difficulty. Two policemen rushed in, Dante aiming from the front and Paola from the side. Fowler stands in the doorway, arms folded across his chest.
  
  The cardinal lay on the bed. He was very scared and scared to death, but he wasn't hurt. I stare at them in horror, arms raised.
  
  "Don"t make me give." Or please.
  
  Dante looks everywhere and lowers his gun.
  
  -¿Dówhere was it?
  
  "I think in the next room," he said, pointing with his finger, but not lowering his hand.
  
  They went out into the corridor again. Paola stood to one side of the 57th door while Dante and Fowler repeated the number of the human battering ram. For the first time, both shoulders received a good blow, but the lock did not give way. On the second lunge salto with a huge crunch.
  
  The cardinal lay on the bed. It was very stuffy and very dead, but the room was empty. Dante cross in two steps and look into the baño room. Meneó head. At that moment, another scream is heard.
  
  -¡ Help! ¡ Help!
  
  All three hurried out of the room. At the end of the corridor, on the elevator side, the cardinal lay on the floor, his clothes rolled into a ball. They went to él at full speed. Paola came up first and knelt beside him, but the cardinal was already up.
  
  -¡Cardenal Shaw! said Fowler, recognizing his compatriot.
  
  - I'm fine, I'm fine. He pushed me to it. He left because of aí, he said, opening a door that was familiar to the face, different from the one in the rooms.
  
  "Whatever you wish me, father.
  
  - Calm down, I'm fine. Catch this impostor monk, said Cardinal Shaw.
  
  -¡Go back to your room and close the door! -le grito Fowler.
  
  All three went through the door at the end of the corridor and out onto the service stairs. The smell of dampness and decay from under the paint on the walls. The stairwell was poorly lit.
  
  Perfect for an ambush, Paola thought. Karoski aun has a Pontiero pistol. He could be waiting for us at any turn and cut off the heads of at least two of us before we had a chance to come to our senses.
  
  And despite this, they hurried down the stairs, not without tripping over something. They followed the stairs to the sótano, below the street level, but the allí door was locked with a thick padlock.
  
  "He didn"t come out here.
  
  They followed in his footsteps. They heard a noise on the previous floor. They went through the door and went straight to the kitchen. Dante passed the CSI and went in first, finger on the trigger, cañón pointing forward. The three nuns stopped fiddling with the pans and stared at them with plate-like eyes.
  
  -¿Did anyone pass here? cried Paola.
  
  They didn't answer. They continued to stare ahead with bullish eyes. One of them even continued to swear over his pout, ignoring her.
  
  -¡What if someone passed through hereí! ¡ Monk! repeated the criminologist.
  
  The nuns shrugged. Fowler put a hand on her shoulder.
  
  -Dejelas. They don't speak Italian.
  
  Dante walked all the way to the end of the kitchen and came across a glass door about two meters wide. Have a very pleasant appearance. Try to open it without success. He opened the door of one of the nuns while showing his Vatican ID. The nun walked over to the superintendent and inserted the key into a box hidden in the wall. The door opened with a noise. It overlooked a side street of the Plaza de Santa Marta. In front of them was the San Carlos Palace.
  
  -Damn it! Didn't the nun say Domuso had access to him?
  
  - Well, you see, inspector. There are two of them," Dante said.
  
  Let's get back to our steps.
  
  They ran up the stairs, starting with the vest, and went up to the top floor. Everyone found several steps leading to the roof. But when they got to the door, they found that it was closed to Cal and the singing.
  
  "No one was able to get out here either.
  
  Submitting, they sat down together on the dirty narrow stairs leading to the roof. They breathed like bellows.
  
  -¿He hid in one of the rooms? Fowler said.
  
  - I don't think so. He must have slipped away," Dante said.
  
  But why from God?
  
  "Of course, because of the kitchen, due to an oversight of the nuns. There is no other explanation for this. All doors are locked or secured, as is the main entrance. Jumping out of windows is impossible, it's too big a risk. Agents of the Vigilance are patrolling the area every few minutes¡and we are in the spotlight dí a, for heaven's sake!
  
  Paola was furious. If I hadn't been so tired after running up and down the stairs, I would have made her kick her feet against the walls.
  
  Dante, ask for help. Have them cordon off the area.
  
  The superintendent shakes his head in despair. Put your hand to your forehead, which is wet with sweat, which falls in muddy drops on his eternal leather windbreaker. Her hair, always neatly combed, was dirty and frizzy.
  
  -¿Sómo wants me to call, beautiful? Nothing works in this damn building. There are no CCTV cameras in the corridors, telephones, microphones, walkie-talkies do not work. Nothing is more complicated than a damn light bulb, nothing that requires waves or ones and zeros to work. Like I'm not sending a carrier pigeon...
  
  "By the time I get down, I will be far away. In the Vatican, a monk doesn't draw attention to himself, Dicanti," Fowler said.
  
  -¿ Can someone explain to me why you ran away from this room? This is the third floor, the windows were closed, and we had to kick the damn door. All entrances to the building were guarded or closed," he said, slamming his open hand on the door to the roof several times, causing a thud and a cloud of dust.
  
  "We're so close," Dante said.
  
  - Damn it. Damn, damn, damn. ¡Le teníhosts!
  
  It was Fowler, who was stating the terrible truth, and his words echoed in Paola's ears like a shovel scratching the letter l. request.
  
  "Now we have another dead man, dottora.
  
  
  
   Domus Sancta Marthae
  
  Piazza Santa Marta, 1
  
   Thursday, April 7, 2005 at 4:31 pm.
  
  
  
  "You have to be careful," Dante said.
  
  Paola was beside herself with rage. If Sirin had been in front of her at that moment, she would not have been able to restrain herself. I think this was the third time I wanted to pull out the teeth of a very goat poñetasasos to see if he should keep that calm attitude and his monotonous voice.
  
  After I bumped into the stubborn ass on the roof, I went down the stairs, crouching low. Dante had to cross to the other side of the square to get the vile man to act on him and speak with Sirin to call for backup and ask him to inspect the crime scene. The general's response was that you can access the UACV document and that you must do so in civilian clothes. The tools you need should be carried with you in a normal travel case.
  
  "We cannot allow all this to go beyond más doún. Entiendalo, Dicanti.
  
  "I don't understand a damn thing. ¡We must catch the killer! We need to clear the building, find out who's in, gather evidence...
  
  Dante looked at her as if she had lost her mind. Fowler shook his head, not wanting to interfere. Paola knew that she had let this case seep into her soul, poisoning her peace of mind. He always tried to be overly rational because he knew the sensitivity of his being. When something entered her, her initiation turned into an obsession. At that moment, I noticed that the fury emanating from the espiritu was like a drop of ásido periodically falling on a piece of raw meat.
  
  They were in the corridor of the third floor, where everything happened. Room no. 55 was already empty. Their occupant, the man who told them to search Room 56, was the Belgian Cardinal Petfried Hanils, aged between 73 and 241. I was very upset by what happened. The dormitory apartment was on the top floor, where he was given accommodation for a while.
  
  "Fortunately, the eldest of the cardinals was in the chapel and attended the afternoon meditation. Only five heard the screams, and they were already told that one madman had entered and started howling down the corridors," Dante said.
  
  -¿Y ya está? ¿ Is it control daños? Paola was indignant. ¿ Make it so that even the cardinals themselves do not know that they killed one of their own?
  
  -This is a far eyelash. We will say that he became ill and that he was transferred to the Gemelli hospital with gastroenteritis.
  
  - And with that, everything has already been decided - a replica, an icon.
  
  "Well, there is something, mas. You may not speak to any of the cardinals without my permission, and the crime scene must be confined to a room.
  
  He can't speak seriously. We have to look for fingerprints on doors, at access points, in hallways... He can't be serious.
  
  -¿ What do you want, bambina? Collection of patrol cars at the gate? ¿Thousands of flashes from photo graphs? Of course, shouting about it on all four sides is the best way to catch your degenerate," Dante said with an air of authority. ¿ Or does he just want to wave his bachelor's degree from Quantico in front of the cameras? If you're so good at being better show it.
  
  Paola won't let herself be provoked. Dante fully supported the thesis of the priority of the occult. You have a choice: either lose in time, or crash into this great and centuries-old wall, or give in and try to hurry up to take advantage of as many sims as I have the means at my disposal.
  
  Call Sirin. Please pass this on to your best friend. And that his people are on guard in case a Carmelite shows up in the Vatican.
  
  Fowler coughed to get Paola's attention. I took her aside and spoke to her quietly, pressing her mouth very close to mine. Paola couldn't help but feel his breath give her goosebumps and was glad to put on her jacket without anyone noticing. I remembered their strong touch as she threw herself like crazy into the crowd and he grabbed her and held her close and held her tight.#237;and is bound to sanity. She really wanted to hug him again, but in this situation, her desire was completely inappropriate. Everything was quite difficult.
  
  "Surely those orders have already been issued and will be carried out right now, dothtor. And Olví wants the police operation to be carried out, because in the Vatican he will not receive djemaás. We will have to come to terms with the fact that we play the cards that fate has dealt, no matter how poor the éstas may be. In this situation, the old saying about my land is very appropriate: king 27.
  
  Paola immediately understood what he was getting at.
  
  We also say this phrase in Rome. You have a reason, father... for the first time in this case, we have a witness. It's already something.
  
  Fowler bajó aún más el tono.
  
  - Talk to Dante. Be cum, this time. May he leave us free until the show. Quiz let's come up with a viable description.
  
  - But without a criminalist ...
  
  "That will come later, dottor. If Cardinal Shaw saw him, we'll get a robotic portrait. But it is important for me to have access to his testimony.
  
  - His last name is familiar to me. ¿ Is Shaw featured in Karoski's reports?
  
  -The same. He is tough and smart. I hope you can help us with the description. Don't mention our suspect's name: let's see if you recognize him.
  
  Paola nods and returns with Dante.
  
  -¿Whaté, are you two done with secrets, lovebirds?
  
  The criminal specialist decided to ignore this remark.
  
  "Father Fowler has advised me to calm down, and I think I will follow his advice.
  
  Dante looked at him suspiciously, surprised by his attitude. Definitely, this woman was very attractive in his eyes.
  
  "That is very wise of you, examiner.
  
   - Noi abbiamo dato nella croce 28, ¿verdad, Dante?
  
   "That's one way to look at it. It is quite another to realize that you are a guest in a foreign country. This mom was her way. Now it's up to us. There is nothing personal in this.
  
  Paola took a deep breath.
  
  "It's all right, Dante. I need to speak to Cardinal Shaw.
  
  He is in his room to recover from the shock he has experienced. Denied.
  
  - Superintendent. Do it right this time. Quiz how we will catch him.
  
  The cop turns his bull neck with a crunch. First left, then right. It was clear that he was thinking about it.
  
  - Okay, examiner. With one condition.
  
  -¿Cuáis it?
  
  Have him use simpler words.
  
  - Go and go to bed.
  
  Paola turned and met the accusing gaze of Fowler, who had been watching the conversation from a distance. He turned back to Dante.
  
  -Please.
  
  -¿Por favor qué, ispettora?
  
  This same pig enjoyed its humiliation. Well, nothing, aí tenía.
  
  "Please, Superintendent Dante, I would like your permission to speak to Cardinal Shaw.
  
  Dante smiled openly. You had a great time. But suddenly he became very serious.
  
  Five minutes, five questions. Nothing but me. I play that too, Dicanti.
  
  Two members of the Vigilance, both in black suits and ties, stepped out of the elevator and stood on either side of door 56, which I was inside . Guard the entrance until the arrival of the UACV inspector. Dicanti decidió take advantage of the waiting time by questioning the witness.
  
  -¿ Where is Shaw's room?
  
  I was on the same floor. Dante led them to room 42, the last room, in front of the door leading to the service stairs. The Superintendent rang delicately using only two fingers.
  
  I opened them to Sister Helena, who had lost her smile. Relief appeared on his face at the sight of them.
  
  "Fortunately, you are all right. If they chased the sleepwalker up the stairs. ¿ They were able to catch him?
  
  "Unfortunately not, sister," Paola replied. We think she escaped through the kitchen.
  
  - Oh God, Iíor, ¿ because of the entrance to the mercancías? Holy Virgin of the Olive, what a disaster.
  
  -¿Sister, didn't you tell us that you have access to it?
  
  - So there is one, the front door. It's not a driveway, it's a carport. It is thick and has a special key.
  
  Paola was beginning to realize that she and her sister Helena did not speak the same Italian. He took nouns very personally.
  
  -¿ Ace... that is, the attacker could enter through ahí sister?
  
  The nun shook her head.
  
  "We have the key with the eknoma"s sister and with me. And she speaks it in Polish, as do many of the sisters who work here.
  
  The forensic scientist concluded that the esonom's sister must be the one who opened Dante's door. These are two copies of the keys. The mystery got more complicated.
  
  -¿Can we go to the cardinal?
  
  Sister Helena shakes her head in a harsh tone.
  
  "Impossible, dothora. This is... as they say... deenergized. In a nervous state.
  
  "So be it," Dante said, "one minute.
  
  The nun became serious.
  
  - Zaden. No and no.
  
  It looks like he would have preferred to take refuge in his own language in order to give a negative answer. I was already closing the door when Fowler stepped on the frame, preventing it from fully closing. And he told her in a hesitant voice, chewing on the words
  
  - Sprawia przyjemno, potrzebujemy eby widzie kardynalny Shaw, siostra Helena.
  
  The nun opened her eyes like plates.
  
   Wasz jzyk polski nie jest dobry 29.
  
   - I know. I have to visit her lovely dad often. But I haven't been there at all since I was born - Solidarity 30.
  
  The religious woman bowed her head, but it was obvious that the priest had earned her trust. Then the regañadientes opens the whole door, moving aside.
  
  -¿Since when do you know Polish? Paola whispered to her as they entered.
  
  "I only have light ideas, dottor. You know, travel broadens one's horizons.
  
  Dikanti allowed herself to stare at him for a moment before focusing her full attention on the man in bed. The room was dim, as the blinds were almost down. Cardinal Shaw ran the test across the floor with a wet towel on his forehead, in such low light it was hard to see. As they approached the foot of the bed, the purple rose up one elbow, snorted, and the towel slid off his face. He was a hard-featured man with a very heavy build. Her hair, completely white, stuck to her forehead where the towel had gotten wet.
  
  "Excuse me, I...
  
  Dante leaned over to kiss the cardinal's ring, but the cardinal stopped him.
  
  -No Please. Not now.
  
  The inspector took an unexpected step, something superfluous. He had to resent before he took the floor.
  
  - Cardinal Shaw, we regret the intrusion, but we need to ask you a few questions, do you feel able to answer us?
  
  "Of course, my children, of course. I distracted him for a moment. It was a terrible experience to see me robbed in a holy place. I do have an appointment to sort out some business in a few minutes. Please be brief.
  
  Dante looked at his sister Helena and then at Shaw. Este comprendió. No witnesses.
  
  "Sister Helena, please warn Cardinal Paulich that I will be a little late, if you will be so kind.
  
  The nun went out of the room, repeating "sando" curses, no doubt not characteristic of a religious woman.
  
  -¿What happened during all this time? ask Dante.
  
  I went up to my room to retrieve my diary when I heard a terrible scream. I remain paralyzed for a few seconds, probably trying to figure out if this was just a figment of my imagination. I heard the noise of people hurrying up the stairs, and then a creak. Get out into the hallway, please. At the elevator door lived a Carmelite monk who hid in a small recess that formed the wall. I looked at him and he turned around and looked at me too. There was a lot of hatred in his eyes, Holy Mother of God. At that moment, there is... another crunch, and the Carmelite rammed me. I fall to the ground and scream. The rest you guys already know.
  
  Could you see his face well? Paola intervened.
  
  He was almost completely covered in a thick beard. I don't remember much.
  
  -¿ Could you describe his face and build for us?
  
  "I don"t think so, just for a second I saw him, and my vision is not what it used to be. However, I remember that he had gray white hair and a CEO. But I immediately realized that he was not a monk.
  
  -¿ What made you think so, Your Eminence? -inquirio Fowler.
  
  "His demeanor, of course. All glued to the elevator door don't look like a servant of God at all.
  
  At that moment Sister Helena returned, giggling nervously.
  
  - Cardinal Shaw, Cardinal Paulich says that as soon as possible, the Commission is waiting for him to begin preparations for the novendial masses. I have prepared a conference room for you on the ground floor.
  
  -Thanks, Sister. Adele, you should be with Antun because you need something. Wales, who will be with you in five minutes.
  
  Dante realized that Shaw was ending the reunion.
  
  "Thank you for everything, Your Eminence. It's time for us to leave.
  
  "You have no idea how sorry I am. Novendiales masses are held in all the churches of Rome and by thousands around the world, praying for the soul of our Holy Father. This is a proven work and I'm not going to put it off because of a simple push.
  
  Paola was about to say something, but Fowler subtly squeezed her elbow, and the CSI swallowed the question. With a gesture, he also said goodbye to purple. As they were about to leave the room, the cardinal asked them a question which was of great interest to me.
  
  -¿ Does this person have anything to do with the disappearances?
  
  Dante turned very slowly, and I answered with words in which the almíbar stood out with all its vowels and consonants.
  
  "From ninú modo, Your Eminence, this is just a provocateur. Probably one of those involved in anti-globalization. They usually dress up to get attention, you know that.
  
  Cardinal recovers a little until he sits down on the bed. He turned to the nun.
  
  "There are rumors among some of my brother cardinals that two of the prominent figures of the Curia are not going to attend the Cónclave. I hope you are both well.
  
  -¿Dónde ha orído it, Your Eminence? Paola was shocked. In his life he had heard a voice as soft and sweet and humble as the one with which Dante asked his last question.
  
  "Alas, my children, at my age much is forgotten. I eat qui and I whisper qui between coffee and dessert. But I can assure you that I am not the Unico who knows this.
  
  "Your Eminence, this is, of course, just a baseless rumor. If you'll excuse us, we should be looking for the troublemaker.
  
  I hope you find him soon. There are too many riots in the Vatican, and it may be time to change course in our security policy.
  
  Shaw's evening threat, as glazed in azúkar as Dante's question, did not go unnoticed by any of the three. Even Paola's tone made his blood run cold, and it disgusted every member I met.
  
  Sister Helena left the room with them and walked down the corridor. A somewhat stocky cardinal, no doubt Pavlich, was waiting for him on the stairs, with whom Sister Helena went down the stairs.
  
  As soon as Paola saw Sister Elena's back disappear down the stairs, Paola turned to Dante with a bitter grimace on her face.
  
  "Looks like your house control isn't working as well as you think, Superintendent.
  
  "I swear I don't understand this." Dante's face was filled with regret. At least let's hope they don't know the real reason. Of course, this seems impossible. And be that as it may, even Shaw may be the PR man who wears red sandals.
  
  "Like all of us criminals, we know something strange is going on," the forensic scientist said. To be honest, I like to see this damn thing explode under their noses, so that the pudiéramos works the way it needs to.
  
  Dante was about to protest angrily when someone appeared on the landing of the mármol. Carlo Boy habí decided to send what he considered to be a better and more reserved member of the UACV.
  
  - Good afternoon everyone.
  
  "Good afternoon, Director Boi," Paola replied.
  
  It's time to face the new Karoski scene.
  
  
  
  FBI Academy
  
  Quantico, Virginia
  
  August 22, 1999
  
  
  
  - Come on, come on. I assume you know who I am, don't you?
  
  For Paola, meeting Robert Weber was tantamount to how she would feel as an Egyptian ologos if Ramses II invited her to coffee. We entered the conference room where the famous criminal logo was giving out grades to four students who had passed the course. He had been retired for ten years, but his confident steps commanded awe in the hallways of the FBI. This man revolutionized forensic science by creating a new tool for finding criminals: a psychological profile. In the elite course that the FBI ran to train new talent around the world, he was always in charge of providing grades. The guys loved it because they could come face to face with someone they admired a lot.
  
  - Of course, I know him, he-or. I have to tell him...
  
  - Yes, I know, it's a great honor for me to meet you and blah blah blah. If I got a D every time I was told this phrase, I would now be a rich person.
  
  The criminalist buried his nose in a thick folder. Paola reaches into his trouser pocket and pulls out a crumpled piece of paper, which I hand to Weber.
  
  "I am honored to meet you, sir.
  
  Weber looked at the paper and looked at it again. It was a one dollar bill. I reached out my hand and took it. I smoothed it out and put it in my jacket pocket.
  
  - Don't crumple banknotes, Dicanti. They belong to the Treasury of the United States of America from Améric, but smiled, pleased with the young woman's timely response.
  
  "Keep that in mind, sir.
  
  Weber hardened his face. It was a moment of truth, and every word that followed was like a blow to the young woman.
  
  - You are a moron, Dikanti. Touch m ínimos in físicas tests and in puntería tests. And he doesn't have a car. It collapses immediately. He closes himself too easily in the face of adversity.
  
  Paula was very sad. The fact that a living legend at some point will deprive you of colors is a very difficult task. It's even worse when his husky voice doesn't leave the slightest hint of sympathy in his voice.
  
  - You don't argue. She's good, but she has to reveal what's inside her. And for this he must invent. Think Dicanti. Don't follow instructions literally. Improvise y vera. And let this be my diploma. Here are his latest notes. put her bra on when she leaves the office.
  
  With trembling hands, Paola took Weber's envelope and opened the door, grateful that she was able to escape from everyone.
  
  "I know one thing, Dicanti. Is ¿Cuál the serial killer's true motive?
  
  - His intent to kill. Who can't contain her.
  
  denies it in disgust.
  
  "He is not far from where he should be, but aun is not aá ahí. He thinks like books again, onñorita. ¿Can you understand the desire to kill?
  
  - No, it's or.
  
  "Sometimes you have to forget about psychiatric treatises. The real motive is the body. Analyze his work and get to know the artist. Let it be the first thing his head thinks about when he gets to the crime scene.
  
  
  Dikanti ran to his room and locked himself in the bathroom. When I was serene enough, I opened the envelope. It takes a long time to understand what he sees.
  
  He received the highest marks in all subjects and valuable lessons. Nothing is what it seems.
  
  
  
  Domus Sancta Marthae
  
  Piazza Santa Marta, 1
  
  Thursday, April 7, 2005 at 5:10 pm.
  
  
  
  Less than an hour later, the killer escaped from this room. Paola could feel his presence in the room, like a man breathing in invisible steel smoke. With a lively voice, he always treated serial killers rationally. He should have done this when he expressed his opinion (in most cases) in the mailing mode.
  
  It wasn't right at all to enter the room in this way, careful not to step on the blood. I'm not doing this so as not to desecrate the crime scene. The main reason I didn't advance was because the cursed blood had ruined good shoes forever.
  
  And about the soul too.
  
  
  Nearly three years ago, it was revealed that Director Boy didn't personally handle the crime scene. Paola suspected that Boy was going to this level of compromise in order to earn points with the Vatican authorities. Of course, he will not be able to make political progress with his Italian superiors, because the whole damn thing must be kept secret.
  
  he entered first, along with Paola detrás. The demiás were waiting in the corridor, looking straight ahead, and syntiéndose incó modes. The CSI overheard Dante and Fowler exchanging a few words-even swore that some of them were spoken in a very rude tone-but she tried to focus her attention on what was inside the room, not what was left behind. outside.
  
  Paola stayed at the door, leaving Boy to mind his own business. First, take forensic photographs, one from each corner of the room, one vertical to the ceiling, one from each of the possible sides, and one from each of the objects that the investigator may consider important. In short, a más of sixty flashes, illuminating the scene in unreal, whitish, intermittent hues. Paola also prevailed over the noise and excess of light.
  
  Take a deep breath, trying to ignore the smell of blood and the unpleasant aftertaste it left in your throat. Close your eyes and very slowly mentally count from one hundred to zero, trying to coordinate your heartbeat with the rhythm of the decreasing count. The audacious canter of a hundred was nothing more than a smooth trot at fiftieth and a dull, precise drumming at zero.
  
  Open your eyes.
  
  On the bed lay Cardinal Geraldo Cardoso, aged 71 to 241. Cardoso was tied to an ornate headboard with two tightly knotted towels. He wore the cardinal's chaplain, completely starched, with a maliciously mocking air.
  
  Paola slowly repeats Weber's mantra. "If you want to meet an artist, look at his work." I repeated it over and over again, silently moving my lips until the meaning of the words was wiped out of his mouth, but I imprinted it in his brain, like one who wets a stamp with ink and leaves it dry after stamping on paper.
  
  
  "Let's start," Paola said loudly, and took a tape recorder out of her pocket.
  
  Boy didn't even look at her. At the time, I was busy collecting footprints and studying the shape of the blood splatter.
  
  The CSI began dictating into her tape recorder, just as she had done last time at Quantico. Perform observation and immediate inference. The result of these findings looks pretty much like a reconstruction of what happened.
  
  
  Observation
  
  Conclusion: Karoski was introduced into the roomón with the algún trick and quickly and silently reduced to víctima.
  
  Observation: There is a bloody towel on the floor. She looks rumpled.
  
  Conclusion: In all likelihood, Karoski put in a laítime the gag and took it out to continue his dreadful course of action: cutting off the tongue.
  
  Observe: We hear an alarm.
  
  Most likely, after pulling out the gag, Cardoso found a way to scream. Then the tongue is the last thing it cuts off before it hits the eyes.
  
  Observación:víctima saved both eyes and slit the throat. The cut looks torn and covered in blood. The hands remain in place.
  
  The ritual of Karoski in this case begins with the torture of the body, in order to continue the ritual butchering afterwards. Remove your tongue, remove your eyes, remove your hands.
  
  
  Paola opened the bedroom door and asked Fowler to come in for a minute. Fowler grimaced at the creepy ass but didn't look away. The forensic expert rewound the cassette tape, and they both listened to the last paragraph.
  
  -¿Do you think there is something special about the order in which you perform the ritual?
  
  "I don't know, dotor. Speech is the most important thing in a priest: the sacraments are performed with his voice. The eyes do not in any way define the priestly ministry, since they do not directly participate in any of its functions. But, nevertheless, this is done by hands that are sacred, since they touch the body of Christ during the Eucharist. The priest's hands are always sacred, no matter what he does.
  
  -What do you have in mind?
  
  "Even a monster like Karoski still has holy hands. Their ability to perform the sacraments is the same as that of holy and pure priests. It defies common sense, but it's true.
  
  Paola shuddered. The idea that such a pitiful creature could have direct contact with God seemed to him disgusting and terrible. Try to remind yourself that this was one of the motives that made her deny God, to think that she was an unbearable tyrant in her heavenly firmament. But sinking into the horror, into the depravity of people like the Karoski who supposedly had to do Their work, had a very different effect on her. Cynthio betrayed her, which she É should have felt, and for a few moments put herself in Her place. Remind me, Maurizio, that I will never do this, and wish I was there to try and figure out all this damn madness.
  
  -My God.
  
  Fowler shrugged, not quite sure what to say. I'm back and#243; left the room. Paola turned on the recorder again.
  
  
  Observación:víctimaá is wearing a talar costume, fully exposed. Under the él on him is something like a T-shirt and. The shirt was torn, probably by a sharp object. There are several cuts on the chest, forming the words "EGO, I JUSTIFY YOU".
  
  The ritual of Karoski in this case begins with the torture of the body, in order to continue the ritual butchering afterwards. Remove your tongue, remove your eyes, remove your hands. The words "EGO I JUSTIFY YOU" were also found on the Portini-shogi scenes in the photographs presented by Dante-i-Robaira. The variation in this case is optional.
  
  Observation: There are many spatter and spatter stains on the walls. Also a partial footprint on the floor by the bed. It looks like blood.
  
  Conclusion: Everything at this crime scene is superfluous. We cannot conclude that his style evolved or that he adapted to the environment. His mode is strange, and...
  
  
  The criminalist presses the "" button of the bot. Everyone was used to something that didn't fit, something that was terribly wrong.
  
  -¿ How are you, director?
  
  -Badly. Very bad. I took fingerprints from the door, nightstand, and headboard, but found little. There are several sets of prints, but I think one matches Karoski's prints.
  
  At the time, I was holding a plastic mine that had a fairly clear fingerprint that I had just removed from the head of the bed. He compared it in the light to the print provided by Fowler from Karoski's card (obtained by Fowler himself in his cell after Este's escape, since it was not common practice at St. Matthew's Hospital to fingerprint patients).
  
  - This is a preliminary impression, but I think there is a coincidence in several points. This ascending fork is quite characteristic of ística and ésta cola déltica... -decíBoi, más for sí is the same as for Paola.
  
  Paola knew that when Boy recognized the fingerprint as good, then it was so. Boy gained fame as a specialist in fingerprinting and graphics. I've seen it all é lament the slow decay that turned a fine coroner into a tomb.
  
  -¿Is nothing for me, doctor?
  
  - Nada mass. No hairs, no fibers, nothing. This person is really a ghost. If he started to wear gloves, I would think that Cardoso killed him with a ritual expander.
  
  "There is nothing spiritual in this broken pipe, doctor.
  
  The director looked at the CAD with undisguised admiration and #241;s, perhaps considering the words of his subordinate or drawing his own conclusions. Finally I answered him:;:
  
  "No, not really, really.
  
  
  Paola left the room, leaving Boy to do his work. But know that I will find almost nothing. Karoski was deadly smart and, despite his haste, left nothing behind. A restless suspicion continues to hover over his head. Look around. Camilo Sirin arrived, accompanied by another person. He was a small man, thin and frail in appearance, but with the same sharp eyes as his nose. Sirin approached him and introduced him as magistrate Gianluigi Varone, chief judge of the Vatican. Paola does not like this man: he looks like a gray and massive figure of a vulture in a jacket.
  
  The judge draws up a protocol on the removal of cadásm., which is carried out in absolute secrecy. The two Enforcement Corps agents who had previously been assigned to guard the door changed their clothes. Both were wearing black overalls and latex gloves. They will be responsible for cleaning and sealing the room after the departure of Boy and his team. Fowler was sitting on a small bench at the end of the corridor, quietly reading his diary. When Paola saw that Sirin and the magistrate were free, she went to the priest and sat down next to him. Fowler couldn't help but feel
  
  - Well, dotor. Now you know several cardinals más.
  
  Paola laughed sadly. Everything had changed in just thirty-six hours, since the two of them had been waiting together at the door of the flight attendant's office. Only they were nowhere close to catching Karoski.
  
  "I believed dark jokes were Superintendent Dante's prerogative.
  
  "Oh, and it is, dottora. So I'm visiting him.
  
  Paola opened her mouth and closed it again. She wanted to tell Fowler what was going on in her head about the Karoski ritual, but she didn't know it was what she was so worried about. I decided to wait until I thought about it enough.
  
  Since Paola will bitterly check on me late from time to time, this decision will be a huge mistake.
  
  
  
   Domus Sancta Marthae
  
  Piazza Santa Marta, 1
  
   Thursday, April 7, 2005 at 4:31 pm.
  
  
  
  Dante and Paola got into the car, which was going to Tra-Boy. The director leaves them at the morgue before going to UACV to try to determine what was the murder weapon in each of the scenarios. Fowler, too, was about to go upstairs to his room when a voice called him from the door of the Domus Sancta Marthae.
  
  -¡Padre Fowler!
  
  The priest turned around. It was Cardinal Shaw. He gestured with his hand, and Fowler stepped closer.
  
  - Eminence. Hope he's better now.
  
  The cardinal smiled kindly at her.
  
  We humbly accept the trials that the Lord sends us. Dear Fowler, I would like to have the opportunity to personally thank you for your timely rescue.
  
  "Your Eminence, when we arrived, you were already safe.
  
  -¿ Who knows, who knows what I could have done that Monday if I had returned? I'm really grateful to you. I will personally see to it that the Curia knows what a good soldier you are.
  
  "There really is no need for that, Your Eminence.
  
  "My child, you never know what favor you may need. Someone is going to ruin everything. It's important to score points, you know that.
  
   Fowler le miro, inescrutable.
  
  " Of course , son , I ... " continued Shaw. The gratitude of the Curia can be complete. We could even announce our presence here in the Vatican. Camilo Sirin seems to be losing his reflexes. Perhaps someone will take his place and make sure that the escándalo is completely removed. For him to disappear.
  
  Fowler was beginning to understand.
  
  -¿His Eminence asks me to skip the algún dossier?
  
  The cardinal made a rather childish and rather inappropriate gesture of complicity, especially considering the subject they were talking about. Trust that you are getting what you want.
  
  "That's right, my child, that's right. Believers should not insult each other.
  
  The priest smiled wickedly.
  
  -Wow, quote from Blake 31. Jemas había orí makes the cardinal read the Parables of Hell.
  
  Show zavaro and starch voice. He didn't like the priest's tone.
  
  "The ways of the Lord are mysterious.
  
  "The ways of the Lord are opposed to the ways of the Enemy, Your Eminence. I learned about it at school, from my parents. And it has not lost its relevance.
  
  - The surgeon's instruments are sometimes dirty. And you're like a well-honed scalpel, son. Let's say sé is más from one interés in the éste case.
  
  "I'm a lowly priest," Fowler said, pretending to be very pleased.
  
  - I have no doubt. But in certain circles they talk about his ... abilities.
  
  - ¿And these articles also do not talk about my problem with power, Your Eminence?
  
  "There is some of that too. But I have no doubt that when the time comes, you will do the right thing. Don't let the good name of your Church be washed off the covers of the papers, son.
  
  The priest answered with a cold and contemptuous silence. The cardinal patted him patronizingly on the pauldron of his cleric's spotless cassock, and lowered his voice to a whisper.
  
  "In our time, when everything is over, who has a secret but another?" Perhaps if his name appeared in other articles. For example, in quotes from Sant'Uffizio. Once wt.
  
  And without saying a word, he turned and entered the Domus Sancta Marthae again. Fowler got into the car, where his fellow eros were waiting for him with the engine running.
  
  -¿ Are you all right, father? This does not bring a good mood - he is interested in Dicanti.
  
  "Exactly right, dotor.
  
  Paola studied him carefully. The lie was obvious: Fowler was as pale as a piece of flour. At that time I was not even ten people, apparently more than I was ten.
  
   -¿Qué quería el cardenal Shaw?
  
   Fowler dedicates an attempt at a carefree smile to Paol, which only makes matters worse.
  
  -¿Your Eminence? Ah, nothing. So just gift the memories to a friend you know.
  
  
  
  Morgue Municipal
  
  Friday, April 8, 2005 01:25 am
  
  
  
  "It has become our custom to take them early in the morning, dottoraDikanti.
  
  Paola repeats something between reduction and absence. Fowler, Dante, and the coroner stood on one side of the autopsy table. She stood opposite. All four were wearing the blue robes and látex gloves typical of the place. Meeting the tuzi for the third time in such a short time made him remember the young woman in what he had done to her. Something about repeating hell. Of this mo consists in repetition. They may not have had hell in front of their eyes in those days, but they certainly looked at the evidence for its existence.
  
  The sight of Cardoso inspired fear in me as he lay on the table. Washed away by the blood that had covered it for hours, it was a white wound with terrible, dried wounds. The cardinal was a lean man, and after the bloodshed, his face was grim and accusing.
  
  -¿What do we know about el, Dante? Dicanti said.
  
  The superintendent brought a small notebook which he always kept in his jacket pocket.
  
  -Geraldo Claudio Cardoso, born 1934, cardinal since 2001. A well-known defender of the interests of working people, he has always been on the side of the poor and homeless. Before becoming a cardinal, he gained a wide reputation in the diocese of St. Joseph. Everyone has important car factories in SurameéRica - here are Dante City, two world-famous car brands. I have always acted as an intermediary between the worker and the company. The workers loved him, called him "the trade union bishop." He was a member of several congregations of the Roman Curia.
  
  Once again, even the coroner's guard is silent. Seeing Robaira naked with a smile on his lips, he ridiculed Pontiero's lack of restraint. A few hours later, a man who had been bullied lay on his desk. And the next second, another one of the purples. A man who, at least on paper, did a lot of good. He wondered if there would be consistency between the official biography and the unofficial one, but it was Fowler who ultimately turned the question over to Dante.
  
  "Superintendent, ¿ is there anything other than a press release?"
  
  "Father Fowler, don't be fooled into thinking that all the people of our Holy Mother Church lead double lives.
  
   -Procuraré recordarlo -Fowler tenia el rostro rigido-. Now please answer me.
  
  Dante pretended to think as I squeezed his neck left and right, his signature gesture. Paola had the feeling that she either knew the answer or was preparing for the question.
  
  - I made several calls. Almost everyone confirms the official version. He had several unimportant slips, apparently meaningless. I became addicted to marijuana at a young age, even before I became a priest. Slightly questionable college political affiliation, but nothing special. Already as a cardinal, he often met with some of his colleagues in the curia, as he was a supporter of a group not very famous in the curia: the charismatics 32. In general, he was a good guy.
  
  "So did the other two," Fowler said.
  
  - Looks like it.
  
  -¿What can you tell us about the murder weapon, doctor? Paola intervened.
  
  The coroner placed it on the victim's neck and then cut her on the chest.
  
  -It is a sharp object with smooth edges, probably not a very large kitchen knife, but sí is very sharp. In previous cases, I stuck to my opinion, but after I saw the impressions of the cuts, I think that we used the same tool all three times.
  
  Paola Tomó pay attention to this.
  
  -Dottora -dijo Fowler-. Do you think there is a chance that Karoski will do something during Wojtyla's funeral?
  
  "Damn it, I don't know. Security around Domus Sancta Marthae will no doubt be strengthened...
  
  "Of course," Dante boasts, ". They're so locked up I won't even know what house they're from without looking at the time.
  
  "...although security was high before and served little. Karoski showed remarkable ability and incredible courage. To be honest, I have no idea. I don't know if it's worth trying, although I doubt it. On a hundred occasions, he could not complete his ritual or leave us a bloody message, as on two other occasions.
  
  "Which means we've lost track," Fowler complained.
  
  "Yes, but at the same time, this circumstance should make him nervous and vulnerable. But with este cabró you never know.
  
  "We will have to be very vigilant to protect the cardinals," Dante said.
  
  "Not only to protect them, but also to seek Him. Even if I don't try anything, beá everyone, look at us and laugh. He can play with my neck.
  
  
  
  St. Peter's Square
  
  Friday, April 8, 2005 at 10:15 am.
  
  
  
  The funeral of John Paul II went tediously normally. All that can be normal is the funeral of a religious leader of over a billion people, attended by some of the more important heads of state and crowned heads on earth. But not only they were all. Hundreds of thousands of people crowded St. Peter's Square, and each of these faces was dedicated to a story that raged in the eyes of his duel like a fire behind a grate in a fireplace. Some of these faces, however, will be of great importance in our history.
  
  
  One of them was Andrea Otero. He didn't see Robayra anywhere. The journalist found three things on the roof, on which she was sitting, along with other teammates from the televisión alemán film crew. First, if you look through a prism, then in half an hour you will have a terrible headache. Secondly, that the backs of the heads of all cardinals look the same. And three, let it be one hundred and twelve purples sitting on these chairs. I have checked this several times. And the list of voters that you have, printed on your knees, declared that there should be one hundred and fifteen.
  
  
  Camilo Sirin would not have felt anything if he knew what Andrea Otero was thinking, but he had his own (and serious) problems. Victor Karoski, the serial killer of the Cardinals, was one of them. But while Karoski did not cause Sirin any problems during the funeral, he was shot dead by an unknown assailant who broke into the Vatican office in the midst of Valentine's Day celebrations.243;p. Sirin's momentary grief at the memory of the 9/11 attacks was no less than that of the pilots of the three fighter jets that followed him. Fortunately, after a few minutes, relief came when it turned out that the pilot of the unidentified plane was a Macedonian who had made a mistake. The episode will transfer Sirin's nerves to pincers. One of his closest subordinates commented afterwards that he heard Sirin raise his voice for the first time after his fifteen orders.
  
  
  Sirin's other subordinate, Fabio Dante, was among the first. Curse your luck, because people were frightenedñaba at the passage of the féretro with Pope Wojtyła on él, and many shouted "Holy subito! 33" in their ears. I desperately tried to look over the posters and heads for a Carmelite friar with a full beard. Not that I was glad the funeral was over, but almost.
  
  
  Father Fowler was one of many priests who shared communion among the congregation, and on one occasion I believed when I saw Karoski's face on the face of the person he was about to receive. the body of Christ from his hands. While hundreds of people marched before him to receive God, Fowler prayed for two reasons: one was the reason he was brought to Rome, and the other was to ask for enlightenment and strength from the Most High in the face of what he saw.; found in the Eternal City.
  
  
  Unaware that Fowler was asking the Maker for much of her help, Paola gazed into the faces of the crowd from the steps of St. Peter's Basilica. They put him in a corner, but he didn't pray. He never does. He also did not look at people with much attention, because after a while all the faces seemed to him the same. What I had to do was think about the monster's motives.
  
  
  Dr. Boy sits in front of several television monitors with Angelo, the UACV medical examiner. Get a direct view of the sky hills that towered over the square before they passed through the reality show. They all had their own hunt, which gave them a headache, like Andrea Otero. From the "engineer", as I followed him nicknamed Angelo in his happy ignorance, there was no trace left.
  
  
  On the esplanade, agents of George W. Bush's secret service engaged in a skirmish with agents of the Vigilance when éstos prevented those on the square from passing. For those who know, even if this is true, once, about the work of the Secret Service, I would like them to stay away during this time. No one in Ninun place had ever refused them so categorically. Permission was denied from Vigilance. And no matter how they insisted, they remained outside.
  
  
  Viktor Karoski attended the funeral of John Paul II with devoted devotion, praying aloud. He sings with a beautiful and deep voice at the right time. Vertió is a very sincere grimace. He made plans for the future.
  
  Nobody paid attention to Ol.
  
  
  
  Vatican Press Center
  
  Friday, April 8, 2005 at 6:25 pm.
  
  
  
  Andrea Otero came to the press conference with her tongue hanging out. Not only because of the heat, but also because he left the press car at the hotel and had to ask the astonished taxi driver to turn back to pick him up. The oversight was not critical, because I went outside an hour before lunch. I would like to arrive early so that I can speak with Vatican Representative Joaquín Balcells about Cardinal Robaira's "perspiration". All attempts to find him, which he made, were unsuccessful.
  
  The press center was located in an annex to the large auditorium built during the reign of John Paul II. A modern building, designed for more than six thousand seats, which was always filled to capacity, the hall for the audience of the Holy Father. The front door went straight to the street and was not far from the palace of Sant'Uffizio.
  
  The room in sí was a room for one hundred and eighty-five people. Andrea thinks that if she arrives fifteen minutes before the appointed time, she will have a good place to sit, but it was obvious that I, out of three hundred journalists, had the same idea. Nor was it surprising that the room remained small. There were 3,042 registered media outlets from ninety countries accredited to cover the funeral that took place that day and the funeral home. Over two billion human beings, half of which are cats, were laid off in the comfort of their living rooms by the late Pope that same night. And I'm here. I, Andrea Otero Ha, if you could only see her now, her classmates from the journalism department.
  
  Well, I was at a press conference where they were supposed to be told what was going on in the Cínclave, but there was no place to sit down. He leaned against the door as best he could. This was the only entrance, because when Balcells comes, I can go to him.
  
  Calmly retell your notes about the press secretary. He was a mister converted into a journalist. Numerarius Opus Dei, was born in Cartagena and, judging by all the data, a serious and very decent guy. He was about to turn seventy years old, and unofficial sources (which Andrea hardly trusts) praise him as one of the most influential people in the Vatican. He had to accept information from you from the same lips of the Pope and present it to the great Pope. If you decide that something was secret, what you want will be secret. With the Bulkells, no information leaks. His resume was impressive. Andrea Leio awards and medals that she was presented with. The commandant of this, the commandant of another, the Grand Cross of that ... The insignia occupied two sheets, and the award for the first. It's not like I'm going to be a biting bone.
  
  But I have strong teeth, damn it.
  
  She was busy trying to hear her thoughts through the rising rumble of voices as the room erupted into a terrible cacophony.
  
  At first he was alone, like a solitary drop that portends a drizzle. Then three or four. After that, loud music of different sounds and tones will be heard.
  
  It seemed that dozens of vile sounds sounded at the same time. Member lasts a total of forty seconds. All the journalists looked up from their terminals and shook their heads. Several loud complaints were heard.
  
  Guys, I'm a quarter of an hour late. This time won't give us time to edit.
  
  Andrea heard a voice in Spanish a few meters away. She nudged him with her elbow and saw that it was a girl with tanned skin and delicate features. He knew from her accent that she was Mexican.
  
  - Hi, ¿what is it? I'm Andrea Otero from El Globo. ¿ Hey, can you tell me why all those nasty words came out at once?
  
  The Mexican woman smiles and points her phone.
  
  -See the Vatican press release. He sends all of us SMS every time there is important news. This is the Moderna pr they told us about and it is one of the most popular articles in the World. The only grief is that it's annoying when we're all together. This is the final warning that Seor Balcells will be delayed.
  
  Andrea admired the reasonableness of the measure. Information management for thousands of journalists cannot be easy.
  
  "Don't tell me you haven't signed up for a cell phone service-it's an extra... Mexican.
  
  "Well... no, not from God. Nobody warned me about anything.
  
  "Well, don't worry. ¿Do you see that girl from ahí?
  
  -¿ Blonde?
  
  - No, the one in the gray jacket, with a folder in his hand. Go up to her and tell her to put you on her cell phone. In less than half an hour, I'll be adding you to their database.
  
  Andrea did just that. I go up to the girl and give her all her data. The girl asked him for his credit card and entered the number of his car into an electronic diary.
  
  "It's connected to the power plant," he said, pointing at the technologist with a weary smile. In what language do you prefer to receive messages from the Vatican?
  
  - In Spain, eg.
  
  -¿Spanishñ traditional language or Hispanic varieties of English?
  
  "For life," he said in Spanish.
  
  - Skuzi? is an additional ññ other, in perfect (and bearish) Italian.
  
  -Sorry. In old traditional Spanish, please.
  
  "I'll be out of duty in about fifty minutes. If you ó require me to sign é this printout, if you would be so kind as to allow us to send you the information.
  
  The journalist scrawled her name at the end of the sheet, which the girl took out of her folder, almost without looking at her, and said goodbye to her, thanking her.
  
  I went back to his site and tried to read up on Bulkell, but word got out that a representative had arrived. Andrea turned his attention back to the front door, but the savior entered through a small door hidden behind the decking he now climbed onto. With a calm gesture, he pretended to sort his notes, giving cá Mara cameramen time to frame him and the journalists to sit down.
  
  Andrea cursed her failure and tiptoed to the podium, where the press secretary was waiting at the podium. With some difficulty, I managed to get to her. As the rest of her poñerosu comrades sat down, Andrea approached Bulkell.
  
  - This isor Balsells, I'm Andrea Otero from the Globo newspaper. I've been trying to track him down all week, but to no avail...
  
  -After.
  
  The press secretary didn't even look at her.
  
  "But if you don"t understand, Balkells, I need to put together one piece of information..."
  
  "I told her that after that she would die. Let's start.
  
  Andrea was in Nita. The moment she looked up at him and it made her furious. She was too accustomed to subduing men with the glare of her two blue headlights.
  
  "But beñor Balcells, I remind you that I belong to a major Spanish daily..." The journalist tried to earn points by pulling out a colleague who represented the Spanish media, but I did not serve her. Nothing. The other looked at her for the first time, and there was ice in his eyes.
  
  -¿Since when did you tell me your name?
  
  - Andrea Otero.
  
  - How?
  
  - From the globe.
  
  -¿Y donde está Paloma?
  
  Paloma, official correspondent for the Vatican. The one who coincidentally traveled a couple of kilometers from Spain and got into a non-fatal car accident to give up her seat to Andrea. Too bad Bulkells asked about her, too bad.
  
  "Well...he didn"t come, he had a problem..."
  
  Bulkells frowned, because only the Elder of the Opus Dei numerary could physically frown. Andrea stepped back a little, surprised.
  
  "Young lady, take note of those people you dislike, please," Bulkells said, moving toward the crowded rows of seats. These are his colleagues from CNN, BBC, Reuters and hundreds of other media.#243;n más. Some of them were already accredited journalists in the Vatican even before you were born. And they are all waiting for the press conference to begin. Do me a favor, take his place right now.
  
  Andrea turned away, embarrassed and ingrown cheeks. Reporters in the front row only smile back. Some of them seem as old as this Bernini colonnade. As he tried to get back to the back of the room, where he had left the suitcase containing his computer, he heard Bulkells joking in Italian with someone in the front row. Behind him came a muffled, almost inhuman laugh. She didn't have the slightest doubt that the joke was about her. The faces of the people turned to her, and Andrea blushed to her ears. With my head down and my arms outstretched to make my way through the narrow corridor to the door, I felt like I was floating in a sea of bodies. When I finally get to his seat, he won't content himself with picking up his port and turning around, but slipping out the door. The girl who took the data held her hand for a moment and warned:;
  
  -Remember that if you exit, you won't be able to re-enter until the press conference is over. The door closes. You know the rules.
  
  Like a theatre, Andrea thought. Precisely like a theatre.
  
  He freed himself from the girl's grip and walked out without a word. The door closed behind her with a sound that couldn't drive the fear out of Andrea's soul, but at least partially relieved her. She desperately needed a cigarette and fumbled like a madwoman in the pockets of her elegant windbreaker until her fingers stumbled upon a box of mints that served as a comfort to her in the absence of her nicotine friend. Write down that you left him last week.
  
  It's a damn bad time to leave.
  
  She takes out a box of mints and drinks three. Know that this is a fresh myth, but at least keep your mouth shut. However, it won't do much good for the monkey.
  
  Many times in the future, Andrea Otero will remember that moment. Remember standing at that door, leaning against the frame, trying to calm down and cursing yourself for being so stubborn, for allowing yourself to be embarrassed like a teenager.
  
  But I don't remember him because of this detail. I'm doing this because the terrible discovery that came within a hair's breadth of killing her and that would eventually lead her into contact with the man who would change her life was because she decided to wait until the peppermints worked. . they dissolved in his mouth before he ran away. Just to calm myself down a bit. ¿How long does it take for a mint tablet to dissolve? Not so much. However, it was an eternity for Andrea as her entire body was begging her to go back to the hotel room and crawl under the bed. But she forced herself to do it, although she did it so as not to see her run away, beaten between her legs by her tail.
  
  But those three mints changed his life (and most likely the history of the western world, but that was never to know ¿ right?) for the simple desire to be in the right place.
  
  Barely a trace of mint left, a fine wrinkle tasting as the messenger turned the corner of the street. He was wearing orange overalls, a matching cap, sake in hand, and he was in a hurry. He walked straight towards her.
  
  -¿Excuse me, is this the press room?
  
  -Si, aquí es.
  
  I have express delivery for the following people: Michael Williams of CNN, Bertie Hegrend of RTL...
  
  Andrea interrupted him with Gast's voice: "oh."
  
  - Don't worry, buddy. The press conference has already begun. I'll have to wait an hour.
  
  The messenger looked at her with an incomprehensibly stunned face.
  
  "But that cannot be. I was told that...
  
  The journalist finds a kind of evil satisfaction in putting her problems on someone else.
  
  -You know. Those are the rules.
  
  The messenger passed his hand over his face with a feeling of desperation.
  
  - She doesn't understand, she's an orita. I already had several delays é this month. Express delivery must be made within an hour immediately after receipt, otherwise it will not be charged. These are ten envelopes at thirty euros per envelope. If I lose your order to my agency, I could lose my itinerary to the Vatican and get fired for sure.
  
  Andrea immediately softens. He was a good person. Impulsive, thoughtless and capricious, you will agree. Sometimes I win their support with lies (and lots of luck), okay. But he was a good person. He noticed the courier's name written on the ID card that was attached to the overalls. This was another feature of Andrea. He always called people by their first names.
  
  "Listen, Giuseppe, I'm sorry, but even with all my desire, I won't be able to open up to you. The door only opens from the inside. If it is fixed, then there is no door handle or lock.
  
  The other let out a cry of despair. He placed his hands in jars, one on each side of his protruding gut, visible even under his overalls. I tried to think. Look at Andrea from the bottom up. Andrea thought he was looking at her breasts-like a woman who had had this unpleasant experience almost daily since she hit puberty-but then she noticed that he was looking at the ID she wore around her neck.
  
  - Hey, I get it. I'll leave you the envelopes and you're done.
  
  The badge had the coat of arms of the Vatican on it, and the envoy must have thought she had been working all this time.
  
  -Mire, Giuseppe...
  
  "Nothing about Giuseppe, Mr. Beppo," said another, rummaging through his bag.
  
  "Beppo, I really can"t..."
  
  "Listen, you must do me this favor. Don't worry about signing, I'm already signing deliveries. I'll make a separate sketch for each and you're done. You promise to tame him to deliver envelopes to you as soon as the doors open.
  
  -This is what...
  
  But Beppo had already put ten envelopes of Marras into his hand.
  
  - Each has the name of the journalist for whom it is intended. The client was sure that we would all be here, don't worry. Well, I'm leaving because I have one delivery left to Corpus and another to Via Lamarmora. Adi and#243;s, and thank you, beautiful.
  
  And before Andrea could say anything, the curious guy turned around and left.
  
  Andrea stood looking at the ten envelopes, a little embarrassed. They were addressed to correspondents of the ten largest world media. Andrea was familiar with the reputations of four of them and recognized at least two in the newsroom.
  
  The envelopes were half a sheet in size, identical in every way except for the name. What awakened in him the instinct of a journalist and caused all his anxieties was a phrase that is repeated in everyone. It was handwritten in the top left corner.
  
  
  EXCLUSIVE - WATCH IMMEDIATELY
  
  
  This was a moral dilemma for Andrea for at least five seconds. I solved it with a mint tablet. Look left and right. The street was deserted, there were no witnesses to a possible postal crime. I chose one of the envelopes at random and carefully opened it.
  
  Simple curiosity.
  
  Inside the envelope are two objects. One of them was a Blusens branded DVD, on the cover of which the same phrase was written on the sleeve with indelible felt-tip pen. The other was a note written in English.
  
  
  "The content é of this disc is of paramount importance. This is probably the most important Friday news and quiz of the century. There will be someone who will try to silence him. Please review the disc as soon as possible and distribute the contents as soon as possible. Padre Viktor Karoski
  
  
  Andrea doubts the possibility that this was a joke. If only you had a way to find out. Taking the port out of the suitcase, I turned it on and inserted the drive into the drive. He cursed the operating system in every language I knew-Spanish, English, and crappy Italian with instructions-and when it finally booted up, he was convinced the DVD was worthless.237;kula.
  
  He only saw the first forty seconds before he felt the urge to vomit.
  
  
  
  UACV Headquarters
  
  Via Lamarmora, 3
  
  Sabado, April 9, 2005, 01:05 am.
  
  
  
  Paola looked everywhere for Fowler. There was nothing surprising when I found him - all downstairs, with a pistol in his hand, the priest's jacket neatly folded on a chair, a rack on the conning tower shelf, the sleeves rolled up behind the collar. I was wearing ear protectors as Paola was waiting for me to empty my charger before coming over. He was fascinated by the gesture of focus, the perfect shooting position. His arms were very strong despite being half a century old. The barrel of the pistol was pointed forward, not deviating a thousand meters after each shot, as if it were embedded in living stone.
  
  CSU saw him empty not one, but three stores. He pulled slowly, unhurriedly, squinting, tilting his head slightly to one side. He eventually realized that she was in the training room. É it consists of five cabins, separated by thick logs, some of which are entangled with steel cables. Targets hang from the cables, which, with the help of a system of pulleys, can be raised to a height of no more than forty meters.
  
  - Good night, dottor.
  
  - A little extra hour for PR, right?
  
  - I don't want to go to the hotel. Know that I won't be able to sleep tonight.
  
  Paola Asinthio. He understands this very well. Standing at a funeral doing nothing was awful. This creature is a guaranteed sleepless night. He's dying to do something, bye.
  
  -¿Dónde está my dear friend the superintendent?
  
  "Oh, I got an urgent call. We comment on Cardoso's autopsy report as he fled, leaving me with a word on my lips.
  
  -Very characteristic of el.
  
  -Yes. But let's not talk about it ... Let's see what kind of exercise was given to you, father.
  
  The criminalist clicked on the bot, which was zooming in on a paper target with a silhouette of a man drawn in black. The monkey has ten white curls in the center of the chest. He arrived late because Fowler hit a bull's-eye half a mile away. I was not at all surprised to see that almost all of the holes were made inside the hole. What surprised him was that one of them failed. I was disappointed that he didn't hit all the targets like the protagonists of the boícul de accion.
  
  But él is not héroe de accion. He is a creature of flesh and blood. Smart, educated and a very good shooter. In alternateún mode, a failed shot makes him human.
  
  Fowler followed her gaze and laughed merrily at his own blunder.
  
  - I lost a little in PR, but I really like to shoot. This is an exceptional sport.
  
  As long as it's a sport.
  
   -Aún no confía en mí, ¿verdad dottora?
  
   Paola didn't answer. She liked to see Fowler in everything, no bra, just a rolled-up shirt and black pants. But the pictures of the "Avocado" that Dante showed him kept hitting him over the head with boats from time to time, like drunken monkeys in a drunken era.
  
  - No, father. Not really. But I want to trust you. ¿Is this enough for you?
  
  - That should be enough.
  
  -¿ Where did you get such weapons from? The armory is closed for éstas horas.
  
  "Ah, Director Boy lent it to me. It is his. He told me that he had not used it for a long time.
  
  - Unfortunately it's true. I should have met this man three years ago. He was a great professional, a great scientist and physicist. He's still like that, but there used to be a sparkle of curiosity in his eyes, but now that gleam has faded. It was replaced by the anxiety of an office worker.
  
  -¿ Is there bitterness or nostalgia in your voice, dottor?
  
  - A bit of both.
  
  -¿ How long will I forget him?
  
  Paola pretended to be surprised.
  
  -¿Somo says?
  
  "Oh, okay, don"t be offended. I've seen him create air spaces between the two of you. The fight keeps the distance in perfect condition.
  
  "Unfortunately, this is what he does very well.
  
  The CSI hesitates for a moment before continuing. I felt again that sense of emptiness in a fairy land that sometimes comes when I look at Fowler. Sensation of Montana and Russia. ¿ Debítrust él? Penso with a sad and faded iron who, after all, was a priest and was very used to seeing the mean side in people. As is she, by the way.
  
  "Boy and I had an affair. Briefly. I don't know if he stopped liking me or if I was just getting in the way of his quest for a promotion.
  
  - But you prefer the second optionón.
  
  -I like enga and #241;arma. In this and much more. I always tell myself that I live with my mother to protect her, but really I am the one who needs protection. This is probably why I fall in love with strong, but inadequate people. People I can't be with.
  
  Fowler no response. She was very clear. They both stood very close to each other. Minutes passed in silence.
  
  Paola was absorbed in Father Fowler's green eyes, knowing exactly what he was thinking. I thought I heard an insistent sound in the background, but I ignored it. It must have been the priest who reminded him of this.
  
  "Better if you answer the phone, dottor.
  
  And then Paola Caio realized that this annoying noise was her own vile mó, which was already beginning to sound furious. I answered the call, and for a moment he became enraged. Hung up the phone without saying goodbye.
  
  - Come on, father. It was a laboratory. Someone sent a package by courier this afternoon. The address contained the name Maurizio Pontiero.
  
  
  
  UACV Headquarters
  
  Via Lamarmora, 3
  
  Sabado, April 9, 2005, 01:25 am
  
  
  
  -É The package arrived almost four hours ago. ¿Is it possible to know this because no one has previously realized what they contain?
  
  Boy looked at her patiently, but exhausted. It was too late to put up with the stupidity of a subordinate. However, he held back until the gun that Fowler had just returned to him.
  
  - The envelope came in your name, Paola, and when I arrived, you were in the morgue. The girl at the reception left it with her mail, and I was in no hurry to look through it. When I figured out who sent it, I set people in motion, and it took time. The first step was to call the sappers. They did not find anything suspicious in the envelope. When I find out what's wrong, I'll call you and Dante, but the superintendent doesn't show up anywhere. And Sirin does not call on the phone.
  
  -Be asleep. God, it's too early.
  
  They were in the fingerprinting room, a cramped room filled with light bulbs and bulbs. The smell of fingerprint powder was everywhere. There were people who liked the scent - one even swore he smelled it before being with his girlfriend because she was Aphrodite woke up, señol - but Paola liked it. it was unpleasant. The smell made her want to sneeze, the stains stuck to her dark clothes, and it took several washes for them to disappear.
  
  "Well, do we ¿ know for sure that é this message was sent by manomó Karoski?"
  
  Fowler was examining the letter in which the sender wrote address #243. Hold the envelope with your arms slightly outstretched. Paola suspects that she may not be able to see well up close. I'll probably have to wear reading glasses soon. He wonders who he can stay for this year.
  
  - This is, of course, your count. And the dark joke about the junior inspector's name also seems to be characteristic of Karoski.
  
  Paola took the envelope from Fowler's hands. I put it on the big table set in the living room. The surface of the ésta was all glass and backlit. On the table lay the contents of the envelope in simple transparent plastic bags. Fight ceñallo first bag.
  
  This note has his fingerprints on it. It is addressed to you, Dicanti.
  
  The inspector raised a package with a note written in Italian to her eyes. Law, its content is stated aloud, through plastiko.
  
  
  Dear Paola:
  
  I miss you very much! I'm at MC 9, 48. It's very warm and laid-back here. I hope you can come and greet us as soon as possible. In the meantime, I'll send you congratulations on my vacation. Kisses, Maurizio.
  
  
  Paola couldn't help trembling, a mixture of anger and horror. Try to hold back the grimaces, force yourself, if you like, to leave them inside. I didn't mean to cry before the fight. Maybe before Fowler, but not before The Boy. Never from Boy.
  
  -¿Padre Fowler?
  
  -Mark chapter 9, verse 48. "Where the worm does not die and the fire does not go out."
  
  -Hell.
  
  - Exactly.
  
  "Damn son of a bitch."
  
  "There is no hint of him being pursued a few hours ago. It is possible that the note was written earlier. The record was recorded yesterday mañana, secún the date indicated in the archives inside.
  
  -¿Do we know the cámara model or the computer on which it was recorded?
  
  - With the program you are using, this data is not saved to disk. This is the time, program and version of the operating system. No simple serial nú, I mean, nothing that could help identify the transmitting equipment.
  
  - Footprints?
  
  -Two parts. Both are from Karoski. But I didn't need to know. One view of the content would be enough.
  
  - Well, what are you waiting for? Put on the DVD, Boy.
  
  "Father Fowler, will you excuse us for a moment?"
  
  The priest immediately understood the situation. Look Paola in the eyes. She lightly waved at him, telling him that everything was fine.
  
  - No Somo. ¿Cafeé for three, dottoraDikanti?
  
  - Myo with two lumps, please.
  
  Boy waited for Fowler to leave the room before grabbing Paola's arm. Paola did not like this touch, too fleshy and tender. He sighed many times because he felt those hands on his body again, he hated his father or because of his contempt and indifference, but at that moment there was no ember left from this fire. It went out within one year ........... year ........... Only her pride remained, from which the inspector was completely delighted. And, of course, she was not going to succumb to his emotional blackmail. I shake his hand, and the director removes his hand.
  
  "Paola, I want to warn you. What you see will be very difficult for you.
  
  The CSI gave him a hard, humorless smile and crossed her arms over her chest. I want to keep my hands as far away from his touch as possible. Just in case.
  
  - ¿ Are you kidding me again? I'm very used to seeing Gaddafi, Carlo.
  
  "Not from your friends.
  
  The smile trembles on Paola's face like a rag in the wind, but her animo doesn't hesitate for a second.
  
  - Put on a video, Director Boi.
  
  -¿How do you want it to be? He could be completely different.
  
  "I am not a muse for you to treat me the way you want. You rejected me because I was dangerous to your career. You chose to return to the fashion for your wife's misfortune. Now I prefer my own misfortune.
  
  -¿Why now, Paola? Why now, after all this time?
  
  "Because I didn"t have the strength before. But now I have them.
  
  he runs a hand through his hair. I began to understand.
  
  "I can never have it, Paola. Although this is what I would like.
  
  "Maybe you have a reason. But this is my decision. You took yours a long time ago. Preferring to yield to Dante's obscene gazes.
  
  Boy grimaced in disgust at the comparison. Paola was delighted to see him, for the director's ego hissed with rage. She was a little mean to him, but her boss deserved it for treating her like crap all these months.
  
  "As you wish, dottoraDicanti. I'll be the boss of iróNico again, and you'll be the pretty writer.
  
  Thanks, Carlo. That's better.
  
  Boy smiled, sad and disappointed.
  
  -Good, then. Let's look at the plate.
  
  As if I had a sixth sense (and by then Paola was sure I had one), Father Fowler arrived with a tray of something I could pass to the cafeé só if I could. a jam consumer in his life would have tasted this infusion.
  
  - They have it here. Poison from coffee with quinoa and coffee on. ¿ Am I supposed to assume we can resume the meeting already?
  
  "Of course, father," I replied. The battle. Fowler les estudio disimuladamente. The fight seems sad to me, but I also don't see the relief in his voice? And Paola saw that she was very strong. Less insecure.
  
  The director put on lótex gloves and removed the disc from the bag. The lab staff brought him a rolling table from the break room. There is a 27-inch TV and a cheap DVD on the bedside table. and it was as if I were showing it to everyone who passed along the corridor.By that time, rumors about the business that Boy and Dikanti were conducting had spread throughout the building, but not one of them came close to the truth. What.
  
  The disc will start playing. The game launches directly without any pop-ups or anything like that. The style was casual, the interior was saturated, and the lighting was miserable. Boy had already adjusted the brightness of the TV almost to maximum.
  
  - Good night, souls of the world.
  
  Paola sighed as she heard Karoski's voice, the voice that had tormented her with that call since Pontiero's death. However, nothing is visible on the aún screen.
  
  "This is a record of how I am going to wipe out the holy people of the Church from the face of the earth, doing the work of Darkness. My name is Victor Karoski, an apostate priest of the Roman cult. Duringñ child abuse, protected by the cunning and connivance of my former bosses. By these rites, I have been personally chosen by Lucifer to carry out this task in those moments when our enemy the Carpenter chooses his franchisee in the ésta Mud Ball.
  
  The screen changes from completely black to half-shadow. The picture shows a bloody, bare-headed man tied to what appears to be columns from the crypt of Santa Mar in Transpontina. Dicanti hardly recognized him as Cardinal Portini, First Viceroy . The one you saw didn't even see because Vigilance burned him to the ground. The Portini Jewel trembles slightly, and all Karoski can see is the point of a knife stabbed into the flesh of the Cardinal's left hand.
  
  "This is Cardinal Portini, too tired to scream. Portini has done much good to the world, and my Master abhors his disgusting flesh. Now let's see how he ended his miserable existence.
  
  The knife is put to her throat and cuts it with one blow. The shirt turned black again and was then attached to a new shirt tied in the same place. It was Robaira and I was very scared.
  
  "This is Cardinal Robaira, full of fear. Have great light within you. The time has come to return his light to his Creator.
  
  this time Paola had to look away. Mara's look showed that the knife had emptied Robaira's eye sockets. A lone drop of blood splattered on the visor. It was a terrifying aspect that the CSI saw in the jam, and Cynthy turned to face it. He was a wizard. The image changed when she saw me and showed what she was afraid to see.
  
  - É ste - junior inspector Pontiero, a follower of Rybak. They placed it in my búskveda, but nothing can resist the power of the Father of Darkness. The sub-inspector is now bleeding slowly.
  
  Pontiero looked straight at Ciamaru, and his face was not his face. He gritted his teeth, but the power of his eyes did not fade. The knife cut her throat very slowly, and Paola looked away again.
  
  - Ste-cardinal Cardoso, friend of the disinherited, lice and fleas. His love was as disgusting to me as the rotten insides of a sheep. He also died
  
  Wait a minute, everyone lived in inconsistency. Instead of looking at genes, they looked at several photographs of Cardinal Cardoso in his bed of mourning. There were three photographs in total, a greenish one and two photographs of a virgin. The blood was unnaturally dark in color. All three photographs were shown on the screen for about fifteen seconds, five seconds each.
  
  "Now I'm going to kill another holy man, the most holy of them all. There will be someone who will try to interfere with me, but his end will be the same as that of those whom you saw dying before your eyes. The church, the coward, hid it from you. I won't be able to do this anymore. Good night, souls of the world.
  
  The DVD stops with a hum and Boy turns off the TV. Paula was white. Fowler clenched his teeth very hard in rage. All three were silent for several minutes. It was necessary to come to his senses after he saw this bloody cruelty. Paola, who was the only one affected by the recording, but it was Paola who spoke first.
  
  - Photos. ¿Por que photographias? ¿Por que no video?
  
   -Porque no podía -dijo Fowler-. Because there is nothing more complicated than a light bulb." That's what Dante said.
  
  "And Karoski knows it.
  
  -¿What do they tell me about the little game of poseón diabólica?
  
  The criminalist felt that something was wrong again. This god was throwing him in completely different directions. I needed a good night at Sue's, rest and a quiet place to sit and think. Karoski's words, the hints left in the cadáveres, all have a common thread. If I found it, I could pull out the ball. But until then, I didn't have time.
  
  And, of course, to hell with my night with Sue
  
  "Karoski's historical intrigue with the devil is not something I'm worried about," Boy points out, anticipating Paola's thoughts. The worst part is that we're trying to stop him before he kills another cardinal. And time is running.
  
  -¿But what can we do? -pregunto Fowler-. At the funeral of John Paul II, he did not say goodbye to his life. Now the cardinals are protected like never before, the House of Sancta Marthae is closed to the public, as is the Vatican.
  
  Dikanti bit his lip. I'm tired of playing by the rules of this psychopath. But now Karoski made a new mistake: he left a trail they could follow.
  
  - ¿ Who did it, Director?
  
  "I've already assigned two guys to look after it. Arrived through a messenger. The agency was Tevere Express, a local delivery company in the Vatican. We didn't get to talk to the route manager, but the security cameras outside the building captured the matrix of the courier's motorcycle. The plaque is registered in the name of Giuseppe Bastina from 43 to 241. He lives in the Castro Pretorio area, on Via Palestra.
  
  -¿ You don't have a telephone?phono?
  
  -The phone number is not listed in the Tréfico report and there are no phone numbers in Información Telefónica in his name.
  
   -Quizás figure a nombre de su mujer-apuntó Fowler.
  
   - Quiz. But for now, this is our best lead, as the walk is a must. ¿Are you going, father?
  
  -After you,
  
  
  
  Bastina family apartment
  
  Via Palestra, 31
  
  02:12
  
  
  
  -¿Giuseppe Bastina?
  
  "Yes, it's me," said the messenger. Propose to a curious girl in panties with a baby barely nine or ten months old in her arms. At this early hour, it was not unusual for them to be awakened by the knock on the door.
  
  "I'm Inspector Paola Dicanti, and é ste is Father Fowler. Don't worry, you don't have any problems and nothing happened to any of yours. We want to ask you some very pressing questions.
  
  They were on the landing of a modest but very well-maintained house. At the door, visitors were greeted by a rug depicting a smiling frog. Paola decided that this did not concern them either, and rightly so. Bastina was very upset by his presence.
  
  -¿Can't wait for mañanna? The team has to hit the road, you know, they have a schedule.
  
  Paola and Fowler shook their heads.
  
   -Sólo será un momento, señor. You see, you delivered é late tonight. Envelope on Via Lamarmora. ¿Remember this?
  
  "Of course I remember, listen. What do you think about it? I have an excellent memory," the man said, lightly tapping his temple with the index finger of his right hand. The left was still full of children, though fortunately she didn't cry.
  
  -¿ Could you tell us where I got the envelope? This is very important, this is a murder investigation.
  
  - As always, we called the agency. I was asked to come to the Vatican Post Office to have some envelopes on the bedel's table.
  
  Paola was shocked.
  
  -¿Más from the envelope?
  
  Yes, it was twelve envelopes. The client asked me to first deliver ten envelopes to the Vatican press office. Then another one at the Vigilance Corps offices and one for you.
  
  -¿ Nobody delivered envelopes to you? ¿ I'll just pick them up? Fowler asked angrily.
  
  Yes, there is no one at the post office at this hour, but they leave the outer door open until nine. Just in case someone wants to drop something into international mailboxes.
  
  - When will the payment be made?
  
  - They left a small másño envelope on top of the demás. This envelope contained three hundred and seventy euros, 360 for military service and 10 tips.
  
  Paola looked up at the sky in despair. Karoski thought of everything. Another eternal dead end street.
  
  -¿Did you see anyone?
  
  - Nobody.
  
  - And what did he do then?
  
  -¿What do you think I did? Walk all the way to the press center and then return the envelope back to the duty officer.
  
  - ¿ To whom were the envelopes from the news department addressed?
  
  - They were addressed to several journalists. All foreigners.
  
  And I divided them among myself.
  
  -¿Hey, why so many questions? I am a serious worker. I hope that's not all, because today I will make a mistake. I really need a job please. My son needs to eat and my wife has a bun in the oven. I mean, she's pregnant," he explained under the blank stares of his visitors.
  
  "Look, this has nothing to do with you, but it's not a joke either. We will win what happened, period. Or if I don't promise you that until the last policeman in the tráfico she will know her mother kula by heart, she or Bastina.
  
  Bastina is very frightened and the baby starts crying at Paola's tone.
  
  -Good good. Do not scare or scare the child. ¿ Doesn't he have a heart? on?
  
  Paola was tired and very irritable. I was sorry to talk to this man in his own home, but I did not find anyone who was so persistent in this investigation.
  
  - Excuse me, it's or Bastina. Please grief andúgive us. It's a matter of life and death, my love.
  
  The messenger relaxes his tone. With his free hand, he scratched at his overgrown beard and gently stroked it to stop her crying. The baby gradually relaxes, and so does the father.
  
  - I gave the envelopes to the news officer, okay? The doors to the hall were already locked, and I would have had to wait an hour to hand them over. And special deliveries must be made within an hour of receipt, otherwise they will not be paid. I'm really having problems at work, do you guys know about that? If anyone finds out that I did this, they might lose their job.
  
  "Because of us, no one will know," said Bastina. Cre love me.
  
  Bastina looked at her and nodded.
  
  "I believe her, inspector.
  
  -¿ Does she know the name of the guardian?
  
  -No I dont know. Take a card with the coat of arms of the Vatican and a blue stripe on top. Aí turn on the press.
  
  Fowler walked a few meters down the hallway with Paola and returned to whispering odo, in that particular way she liked. Try to focus on his words, and not on the sensations that you experience from his proximity. It wasn't fácil.
  
  "Dottora, the card that shows é this man does not belong to the staff of the Vatican. It's press accreditation. The plates never reached the addressees. ¿Sabe por que?
  
  Paola tried to think like a journalist for a second. Imagine that you received an envelope, being in a press center surrounded by all the competing media.
  
  "They did not reach their recipients, because if they had received their content, they would now be broadcast on all TV channels in the world. If all the envelopes arrived at once, you wouldn't go home to check the information. Probably the representative of the Vatican was himself cornered.
  
  - Exactly. Karoski tried to issue his own press release, but was hit in the gut by the good man's haste and my perceived dishonesty on the part of the man who took the envelopes. Either I'm wrong, or I open one of the envelopes and take them all. ¿Why share the good luck you brought from heaven?
  
  "Right now, in Alguacil, in Rome, this woman is writing the news of the century.
  
  "And it's very important that we know who she is. As soon as possible.
  
  Paola understood what the urgency meant in the priest's words. They both returned with Bastina.
  
  - Please, be Bastina, describe to us the person who took the envelope.
  
  Well, she was very pretty. Chaste... shoulder-length blond hair, about twenty-five years old or so... blue eyes, light-coloured jacket and beige trousers.
  
  - Wow, if you have a good memory.
  
  -¿ For pretty girls? -I smile-between the scathing-and the offended, as if they doubt his dignity-. I'm from Marseille, inspector. Anyway, it's good that my wife is in bed now, because if she could hear me say how... She has less than a month before the baby is due, and the doctor has sent her absolute rest.
  
  -¿ Do you remember anything that could help identify the girl?
  
  - Well, it was Española, that's for sure. My sister's husband is Español and he sounds like me, trying to imitate an Italian accent. You already have an idea.
  
  Paola comes to think about it and that it's time to leave.
  
  - We're sorry to disturb you.
  
  -Don't worry. The only thing I like is that I don't have to answer the same questions twice.
  
  Paola turned around, slightly alarmed. I raised my voice almost to a scream.
  
  -¿ Have you been asked this before? ¿Who? What was it?
  
  Níor did I cry again. His father encouraged him and tried to calm him down, but without much success.
  
  -¡Vá and you guys all at once, look how you got my ragazzo to !
  
  "Please let us know and we'll leave," Fowler said, trying to defuse the situation.
  
  - He was his friend. You show me the badge of the Guard Corps. At the very least, it calls into question the identification. He was a short, broad-shouldered man. In a leather jacket. He left here an hour ago. Now go away and don't come back.
  
  Paola and Fowler stared at each other with twisted faces. They both rushed to the elevator. They kept a preoccupied look as they walked down the street.
  
  -¿ Do you think the same as me, dottor?
  
  -Similar. Dante disappeared around 8:00 p.m., apologizing.
  
  -After receiving a call.
  
  -Because you will already open the package. And you will be amazed by its content. haven't we linked these two facts before? Damn it, in the Vatican they slaughter the asses of those who are the asses that enter. This is the básica measure. And if Tevere Express works with them regularly, it was obvious that I would have to track down all their employees, including Bastina.
  
  - They followed the packages.
  
  - If the journalists opened the envelopes all at once, in the press center one of them would use their port. And the news would have exploded. There will be no human way to stop it. Ten famous journalists...
  
  - But in any case, there is a journalist who knows about it.
  
  - Exactly.
  
  - One of them is very difficult to control.
  
  Many stories came to Paola's mind. The kind that Rome's policemen and other law enforcement officers whisper to their comrades, usually before the third cup. Black legends about disappearances and accidents.
  
  -¿Do you think it is possible that they...?
  
  -I don't know. Maybe. Rely on the flexibility of a journalist.
  
  -¿Father, will you also come to me with euphemisms? You mean, and it's quite clear that you can extort money from her to hand over the record.
  
  Fowler said nothing. It was one of his eloquent silences.
  
  "Well, for her own sake, it would be best if we find her as soon as possible. Get in the car, father. We must go to UACV as soon as possible. Start searching in hotels, in companies and in our country and territories...
  
  - No, doctor. We need to go somewhere else," and he gave her the address.
  
  - It's on the other side of town. ¿ What kind of ahé is ahí?
  
  -Friend. He can help us.
  
  
  
  Somewhere in Rome
  
  02:48
  
  
  
  Paola drove to the address Fowler had given without taking them all with her. It was an apartment building. They had to wait quite a long time at the gate with their finger pressed against the automatic goalkeeper. As they waited, Paola asked Fowler:
  
  "That friend... ¿ did Soya know him?"
  
  "May I say, Amos, that this was my last mission before leaving my old job. I was between ten and fourteen then, and I was pretty naughty. Since then, I've been... how shall I put it? A kind of spiritual mentor for él. We never lost touch.
  
  "And now he belongs to your company, Father Fowler?"
  
  "Dottora, if you don't ask me compromising questions, I won't have to give you a plausible lie.
  
  Five minutes later, the priest's friend decided to open up to them. As a result, you will become a different priest. Very young. He led them into a small studio, furnished cheaply but very clean. The house had two windows, both with their blinds fully drawn. At one end of the room was a table about two meters wide, covered with five flat screen computer monitors. A hundred lights burn under the bull's table like an unruly forest of Christmas trees. At the other end was an unmade bed, from which its occupant must have jumped up for a brief moment.
  
   -Albert, te presento a la dottora Paola Dicanti. I cooperate with her.
  
  Father Albert.
  
  "Oh, please, solo Albert." The young priest smiled pleasantly, though his smile was almost a yawn. Sorry for the mess. Damn it, Anthony, what brings you here at this time? I don't feel like playing chess now. And by the way, I could warn you that you came to Rome. I learned that last week you will return to the police. I would like to hear it from you.
  
  -Albert is ordained a priest in the past. He is an impulsive young man, but at the same time a computer genius. And now he's going to do us a favor, dottora.
  
  -¿ What are you getting yourself into now, crazy old man?
  
  Albert, please. The respect giver is here," Fowler said, pretending to be offended. We want you to make a list for us.
  
  - Which?
  
  - List of accredited Vatican press representatives.
  
  Albert remains very serious.
  
  "What you are asking me for is not fácil.
  
  Albert, for God's sake. You go in and out of Gono's Penthouse computers the same way others go into his bedroom.
  
  "Founded rumors," said Albert, though his smile told a different story. But even if it were true, one has nothing to do with the other. The information system of the Vatican is similar to the land of Mordor. He is unapproachable.
  
  - Come on, Frodo. I am convinced that you have been to allí before.
  
  "Chissst, don't ever say my hacker name out loud, psycho.
  
  "I'm sorry, Albert.
  
  The young man became very serious. He scratched his cheek, which showed signs of puberty in the form of empty red marks. Volvió su atención a Fowler.
  
  -¿Is it really necessary? You know I'm not authorized to do this, Anthony. This is against all the rules.
  
  Paola didn't want to ask who should give permission for something like this.
  
  "A person's life could be in danger, Albert. And we were never men of rules." Fowler looked at Paola and asked her to give him a helping hand.
  
  -¿ Could you help us, Albert? ¿Did I really manage to get inside earlier?
  
  -Si, dottora Dicanti. I was everything before. One time and I didn't go too far. And I can swear to you that I have never experienced fear in my life. Sorry for my language.
  
  -Calm down. I have heard this word before. ¿ What é happened?
  
  - I've been busted. The very moment it happened, a program kicked in that put two watchdogs on my heels.
  
  -What does it mean? Remember that you are talking to a woman who does not understand this issue.
  
  Albert was inspired. He liked to talk about his work.
  
  "That there were two hidden servants waiting to see if anyone broke through their defenses. As soon as I realized this, they used all their resources to find me. One of the servers was desperately trying to find my address. Another started putting push pins on me.
  
  -¿ What are push pins?
  
  Imagine that you are walking along a path that crosses a stream. The road consists of flat stones protruding above the current. What I did with the computer was to remove the rock I was supposed to jump from and replace it with malicious information. Multifaceted Trojan.
  
  The young man sat down in front of the computer and brought them a chair and a bench. It was obvious that I would not get many visitors.
  
  -¿ Virus?
  
  -Very powerful. If I took even one step, his assistants would destroy my hard drive and I would be completely given into his hands. This is ú the only time in my life I have ever used Niko's boat," said the priest, pointing to a harmless-looking red boat that stood on the side of the central monitor. From the boat, go to the cable that gets lost in the sea below.
  
  -What it is?
  
  -It's a botón that cuts power all over the floor. He drops it after ten minutes.
  
  Paola asked him why he cut off the electricity all over the floor instead of just unplugging the computer from the wall. But the guy wasn't listening to him anymore, never taking his eyes off the screen as his fingers flew across the keyboard. It was Fowler to whom I replied.
  
  - Information is transmitted in milliseconds. The time it takes for Albert to bend down and pull the cord can be crucial, you know?
  
  Paola understood only half, but all this interested her little. At the time, it was important to me to find a blonde Spanish journalist, and if they find her that way, so much the better. It was obvious that both priests had seen each other in similar situations before.
  
  - What is he going to do now?
  
  - Raise the screen. It's not very good, but he connects his computer through hundreds of computers in a sequence that ends up in the Vatican's network. The more complex and longer the camouflage, the longer it takes them to detect it, but there is a margin of safety that cannot be violated. Each computer knows sólo the name of the previous computer that asked it to connect, and sólo at the time of the connection. Just like you, if the connection breaks before they get to you, you will have nothing.
  
  A long press on the tablet keyboard lasts almost a quarter of an hour. From time to time, a red dot would light up on the world map displayed on one of the screens. There are hundreds of them, covering almost most of Europe, northern Frika, North Africa, Japan and Japan .... Paola noticed that they inhabit most of Europe, North Africa, Japan and Japan ........... ......higher density of points in more economical and wealthy countries, only one or two in the Horn de Fric and a dozen in Suram Rica.
  
  "Each of these dots that you see on this monitor correspond to the computer that Albert is going to use to access the Vatican system using a sequence. It could be a guy's computer from a college, a bank, or a law firm. It could be in Beijing, Austria, or Manhattan. The further apart geographically, the more efficient the sequence is.
  
  -¿Who knows that one of these computers didn't shut down by accident, interrupting the whole process?
  
  "I'm using connection history," Albert said in a distant voice as he continued typing. I usually use computers that are always on. Today, when file sharing software is used, many people leave their computer on 24/7 while downloading música or pornografía. These are ideal systems for use as bridges. One of my favorites is the computer - and it's a very famous character in European politics -. Tío has lovers of photographs of young girls with horses. From time to time I replace these photos for him with images of a golfer. He or forbids such perversions.
  
  -¿ Aren't you afraid to replace one pervert with another, Albert?
  
  The young man recoiled from the priest's iron face, but kept his eyes on the commands and instructions his fingers materialized on the monitor. Finally I raised one hand.
  
  - We're almost there. But I warn you, we can't copy anything. I use a system where one of your computers does the work for me but erases the information copied to your computer the moment they exceed a certain number of kilobytes. Like everything I have, it's a good memory. From the moment we are discovered, we have sixty seconds.
  
  Fowler and Paola nodded. He was the first to take on the role of director Albert in his búsqueda.
  
  - Has already. We are inside.
  
  - Contact the press office, Albert.
  
  - Has already.
  
  - Look for confirmation.
  
  
  Less than four kilometers away, in the offices of the Vatican, one of the security computers, dubbed "Archangel" (Arcángel), was running. One of its routines has detected the presence of an external agent in the system. The localization program was immediately activated. The first computer activated another, named "(Saint Michael 34). These were two Cray supercomputers capable of performing 1 million operations per second and costing more than 200,000 euros each. Both of them began to use until the last of their cálculo cycles to hunt down the intruder.
  
  
  A warning window will appear on the main screen. Albert pursed his lips.
  
  "Damn it, here they are. We have less than a minute. There is nothing with accreditations.
  
  Paola became very tense when she saw that the red dots on the world map began to decrease. At first there were several hundred, but they disappeared at an alarming rate.
  
  - Press passes.
  
  "Nothing, damn it. Forty seconds.
  
  -Mass media? - Aim at Paola.
  
  -Now. Here is the folder. Thirty seconds.
  
  A list appeared on the screen. It was a database.
  
  "Damn it, it has over three thousand tickets.
  
  -Sort by nationality and look for España.
  
  - Has already. Twenty seconds.
  
  "Damn it, this is without pictures. ¿How many names are there?
  
  - I'm over fifty. Fifteen seconds.
  
  There are only thirty red dots left on the world map. Everyone leaned forward in the saddle.
  
  He eliminates men and distributes women according to age.
  
  - Has already. Ten seconds.
  
  - You, we, me and #243; you come first.
  
  Paola squeezed his hands tightly. Albert removed one hand from the keyboard and placed a message on Nico's botópá. Large beads of sweat trickle down his forehead as he writes with his other hand.
  
  -¡Here! ¡Here isá, finally! ¡Cinco segundos, Anthony!
  
  Fowler and Dicanti hurriedly read and memorized the names, and they appeared on the screen. It wasn't all over yet when Albert pressed the bot's button and the screen and the whole house went black as coal.
  
  "Albert," Fowler said in total darkness.
  
  -¿Si, Anthony?
  
  "Do you happen to have sails?"
  
  "You should know that I don't use anal systems, Anthony.
  
  
  
  Hotel Rafael
  
  Long February, 2
  
  Thursday, April 7, 2005, 03:17 AM.
  
  
  
  Andrea Otero was very, very scared.
  
   Scared? I don't know, sorry, I'm excited.
  
  The first thing I did when I got to the hotel room was buy three packs of tobacco. The nicotine in the first pack was a real blessing. Now that the second has begun, the contours of reality have begun to align. I felt a slight soothing dizziness, similar to light cooing.
  
  She was sitting on the floor in the room, leaning her back against the wall, with one arm clasped around her legs and the other smoking compulsively. At the far end of the room was the port computer, completely turned off.
  
  Given the circumstances, había acted correctly. After I saw the first forty seconds of Victor Karoski's film - if that was his real name at all - I felt the urge to vomit. Andrea was never one to hold back, as she searched the nearest trash can (at full speed and with her hand over her mouth, yes) and threw it in the trash can. noodles for lunch, croissants for breakfast, and something I didn't remember eating but must have been the previous day's dinner. He wondered if it would be a sacrilege to spew vomit into the Vatican trash can, and concluded that he was not.
  
  When the world again... stopped spinning, I again... went to the door of the NEWS office, thinking that I had put together a terrible damn thing and that someone must have taken it or something. before. You must have already been there when a couple of Swiss Guards rushed to arrest her for attacking the mail, or whatever the hell it was called, for opening an envelope that was obviously not meant for you because none of those envelopes were meant for you.
  
  Well, you see, I was an agent, believed that I could be a bomb, and acted as bravely as I could. Calm down, wait hereí while they go after my medal...
  
  That which is notívery believingíble. Absolutely nothing to believe. But the savior didn't need any version to tell her kidnappers, because none of them showed up. So Andreaó calmly gathered her things, left with all the frugality of the Vatican, smiling flirtatiously at the Swiss guards at the arch of bells through which the journalists enter, and crossed St. Peter's Square, empty of people after many years. Let yourself feel the gaze of the Swiss Guards as you exit your taxi outside your hotel. And I stopped believing that I followed her half an hour after that.
  
  But no, no one was following her, and she did not suspect anything. I threw nine envelopes into the rubbish bin in Piazza Navona that had not been opened before. He didn't want to be caught with all that on him. And he sat down to her right in his room, without first stopping at the nicotine parking lot.
  
  When she felt confident enough, about the third time I examined the vase of dried flowers in the room, and found no hidden microphones, I put the record back in place. until we start watching the movie again.
  
  For the first time, I managed to get to the first minute. The second time, he almost saw her in her entirety. The third time he saw her all, he had to run to the bathroom to vomit the glass of water he drank upon arrival and any bile that might have been left inside. For the fourth time, he managed to serenade enough to convince himself that it was for real, and not a tape like The Blair Witch Project 35. But, as we said, Andrea was a very smart journalist, which was usually both her biggest advantage and her biggest problem. His great intuition had already told him that everything had been taken for granted since the first visualization. Maybe another journalist since then would have been too overbearing to ask for the DVD, thinking it was fake. But Andrea searched for Cardinal Robairo for several days and was suspicious of the missing Algún Cardinal Más. Hearing Robaira's name on the tape will get you out of your doubts like a drunk fart, get rid of five hours at Buckingham Palace. Cruel, dirty and efficient.
  
  He watched the tape for the fifth time to get used to my genes. And a sixth, to take a few notes, just a few scattered scribbles in a notebook. After you turn off the computer, sit as far away from it as possible - in a place that is between the desk and the air conditioner - and you will leave it.#243; to smoking.
  
  Definitely not the right time to quit smoking.
  
  Those genes of mine were a nightmare. At first, the disgust that seized her, the filth I made her feel, was so deep that she could not react for several hours. When sleep leaves your brain, start to really analyze what you have on your hands. Get out your notebook and write down three points that will serve as the key to the report:
  
  
  1º The murderer satánico está cracks down on the cardinals of the Church of Católica.
  
  2º The Catholic Church, probably in cooperation with the Italian police, hides this from us.
  
  3º Coincidentally, the main hall, where these cardinals were to be of paramount importance, was within nine rooms.
  
  
  Cross out the nine and replace it with an eight. I was already a sabado.
  
  You need to write a great story. A complete report in three parts, with a summary, explanations, props and title on the first page. You can't pre-send any image to disk because that would make it impossible for you to quickly locate it. Of course, the director will pull Paloma out of the hospital bed so that art's butt has the proper weight. Maybe she'll be allowed to sign one of the props. But if I sent the entire report to a voice recorder, modeled and ready to be sent to other countries, then not a single director would have enough nose to remove his signature. No, because in this case Andrea would have limited herself to sending a fax to the newspaper "La Nasi" and another to the newspaper "Alfavit" with the full text and photographs of the works of art.í back before they were published. And to hell with a big exclusive (and his work, by the way).
  
  Like my brother Michelangelo says, we're all either fucked up or fucked up.
  
  It wasn't that he was such a nice guy who was very suitable for a young lady like Andrea Otero, but he made no secret of the fact that she was a young lady. It wasn't natural for seoritas to steal mail like she did, but damn if she cared. You have already seen him write the bestselling book I Know the Killer of the Cardinals. Hundreds of thousands of books with his name on the covers, interviews around the world, lectures. Of course, brazen theft deserves punishment.
  
  Although, of course, sometimes you have to be careful who you steal.
  
  Because this note was not sent to the press office. This message was sent to him by a ruthless killer. You are probably counting on the fact that during these hours your message will be distributed throughout the world.
  
  Consider your options. Era sabado. Of course, someone who ordered this record would not find that you did not reach your destination until the morning. If the courier agency worked for the bado, who doubted it, I could be on his trail in a few hours, maybe by ten or eleven. But she doubted that the messenger had written her name on the card. It seems that those who care about me care about what is around the inscription, more than what is written on it. At best, if the agency doesn't open by Monday, set aside two days. In the worst case, you will have several hours.
  
  Of course, Andrea learned that the smartest thing to do is always to act according to the worst possible scenario. Since you must immediately write a report. While art was seeping through the editor and director's printers in Madrid, he had to comb his hair, put on his sunglasses and leave the hotel honking.
  
  Standing up, he gathers courage. I enabled the port and ran the disk layout program. Write directly on the layout. He felt much better when he saw how his words were superimposed on the text.
  
  It takes three-quarters of an hour to prepare a mock-up with three servings of gin. I'm almost done when they're their nasty mó.
  
  ¿ Who didn't think to call a sta number at three o'clock in the morning?
  
  This nú just has it in the period disk. I didn't give it to anyone, not even my family. Because I have to be someone on the editorial board on urgent business. He gets up and rummages through his bag until he finds él. He glanced at the screen, expecting to see the revealing nén of numeros trick that popped up in the viewfinder every time a call was made from Spain, but instead saw that the place where the caller's identity should have been was empty. Don't even show up. ".I just don't know."
  
  Descolgo.
  
  -Tell?
  
  The only thing I heard was the tone of the communication.
  
  He will make a mistake in p áp úsimply.
  
  But something inside her told her that this call was important and that she had better hurry. I went back to the keyboard, typing más rá I ask never. She ran into ó algún a gráfico typo-never had a spelling mistake, she hadn't had that since eight beforeños-but I didn't even go back ó atrás to correct it. I will already do it in the daytime. Suddenly experience a huge rush to finish.
  
  It took him four hours to complete the rest of the report, several hours to collect biographical data and photographs of dead cardinals, news, images and death. The ass art contains some screenshots from Karoski's own video. One of those genes was so strong that it made her blush. What devils. Let them be censored by the editors if they dare.
  
  He was writing his last words when there was a knock at the door.
  
  
  
  Hotel Rafael
  
  Long February, 2
  
  Thursday, April 7, 2005 at 07:58.
  
  
  
  Andrea looked towards the door as if she had never seen it in her life. I removed the disk from the computer, put it in a plastic case, and threw it in the trash can in the bathroom. I returned to the room with El Coraz in a down jacket, wishing he, whoever he was, would leave. The knock on the door was repeated, polite but very insistent. I'm not going to be a cleaner. It was only eight o'clock in the morning.
  
  - Who are you?
  
  -¿Señorita Otero? Welcome breakfast at the hotel.
  
  Andrea opened the door, extrañada.
  
  "I didn"t ask the ninun...
  
  He was abruptly interrupted because it was not one of the elegant bellboys and waiters of the hotel. He was a short, but broad-shouldered and stocky man, dressed in a leather windbreaker and black trousers. He was unshaven and had an open smile.
  
  -¿Señorita Otero? I'm Fabio Dante, superintendent of the Vatican Vigilance Corps. I would like to ask you a few questions.
  
  In your left hand you hold a badge with your highly visible photograph. Andrea studied her closely. Parecia autentica.
  
  "You see, Superintendent, I am very tired at the moment and need to sleep. Come back some other time.
  
  I closed the door reluctantly, but another kicked me with the dexterity of an encyclopedia salesman with a large family. Andrea was forced to stay at the door, looking at him.
  
  - You did not understand me? I need to sleep.
  
  It looks like you didn't understand me. I need to speak to you urgently because I'm investigating a burglary.
  
  Damn it, were they able to find me as quickly as I asked?
  
  Andrea did not take her eyes off her face, but inside her nervous system went from a state of "alarm" to a state of "total crisis". You need to experience this temporary state, whatever it may be, as you stick your palms, squeeze your toes, and ask the superintendent to pass.
  
  - I don't have much time. I have to send the arty ass to my penis.
  
  - It's a little early to send art ass, ¿ right? Newspapers will not start printing until many hours later.
  
  "Well, I like doing things with Antelachi.
  
  -¿ Is this some kind of special news, a quiz? Dante said, taking a step towards the port átil de Andrea. É sta stood in front of él, blocking her path.
  
  -Oh no. Nothing special. The usual speculation about who will not beá the new Sumo Pontífice.
  
  -Certainly. A matter of paramount importance, isn't it?
  
  "Indeed, it is of paramount importance. But it doesn't do much in terms of news. You know, the usual reporting about people here and all over the World. Not much news, you know?
  
  "And as much as we wish it were, Orita Otero.
  
  "Except, of course, for the theft he told me about. ¿What é was stolen from them?
  
  - Nothing otherworldly. Several envelopes.
  
  -¿What does a year contain? It must be something very valuable. ¿ La no Cardinals Mine?
  
  -¿ What makes you think the content is valuable?
  
  "It must be so, otherwise he would not have sent his best tracker on the trail. ¿Maybe some collection of Vatican postage stamps? He orí that the philatelicos kill for them.
  
  "Actually, they weren"t stamps. Do you mind if I smoke?
  
  - Long time to switch to mints.
  
  The junior inspector sniffs the environment.
  
  "Well, I understand you don't follow your own advice.
  
  - It was a hard night. Smoke if you find a free ashtray at all...
  
  Dante lit a cigar and blew out the smoke.
  
  - As I said, this is Otero's orita, the envelopes do not contain stamps. It was extremely confidential information that should not fall into the wrong hands.
  
  -For example?
  
  -I don't understand. ¿ For example, what?
  
  "What wrong hands, Superintendent.
  
  -Those whose duty does not know what suits him.
  
  Dante looked around and, of course, did not see a single ashtray. Zanjo asks a question, throwing the ashes on the ground. Andrea took the opportunity to swallow her saliva: if that wasn't a threat, she was a reclusive nun.
  
  -¿And what is this information?
  
  - Confidential type.
  
  - Valuable?
  
  - I could be. I hope that when I find the person who took the envelopes, it will be someone they know how to bargain with.
  
  -¿Are you willing to offer a lot of money?
  
  -No. I am ready to offer you to save your teeth.
  
  It wasn't Dante's proposal that frightened Andrea, but the tone. Say these words with a smile and in the same tone you would when asking for decaffeinated coffee. And it was really dangerous. She suddenly regretted letting him in. The last letter will be drawn.
  
  "Well, Superintendent, this was very interesting to me for a while, but now I must ask you to leave. My friendñero photo Grafo is about to come back and he is a little jealous...
  
   Dante se echo a reir. Andrea didn't laugh at all. The other man pulled out a gun and pointed it between his breasts.
  
  "Stop pretending, beautiful. There is not a single girlfriend, not a single girlfriend. Give me the tapes, or we'll see the color of his lungs live.
  
  Andrea frowned, pointing her gun to the side.
  
  He's not going to shoot me. We are at the hotel. The police will be here in less than half a minute and they won't find the Jem they're looking for, whatever it is.
  
  The Superintendent hesitates for a few moments.
  
  -¿Sabe que? He has a reason. I'm not going to shoot him.
  
  And I gave him a terrible blow with my left hand. Andrea saw colored lights and a blank wall in front of her, until she realized that the impact had knocked her to the floor, and the wall was the bedroom floor.
  
  "It won't take long, onaéorita. Enough to take with me what I need.
  
  Dante went to the computer. I pressed the keys until the splash screen disappeared and was replaced by a report Andrea was working on.
  
  -Prize!
  
  The journalist enters half-delirious, raises her left eyebrow. This goat threw a party. Blood was flowing from it, and I could not see anything with that eye.
  
  -I don't understand. Did he find me?
  
  "Señorita, you yourself gave us permission to do this by giving us your simple written consent and signing the act of acceptance. "While you were talking, Superintendent Sakópópópópópópópópópópópópópópópópóp243; from the jacket pocket two items: a screwdriver and a shiny metal cylinder, not very large. Turn off the port, turn it over and use a screwdriver to open the hard drive. Flip the cylinder over a few times and Andrea knew what it was: a powerful impulse. Take note of the report and all the information from the hard drive. If I had carefully read the fine print on the form I am signing, I would have seen that in one of them you are giving us permission to find your nasty address at satélite "in case you do not agree; its security is in danger" Kluá uses herself in case a press terrorist sneaks in, but that led to meás ú in his case.Thank God I found her and not Karoski.
  
  -Ah, si. I jump for joy.
  
  Andrea managed to kneel. With his right hand, he fumbles for the Murano glass ashtray you planned to take as a souvenir from the room. He lay on the floor against the wall where she smoked like a man possessed. Dante walked over to her and sat on the bed.
  
  "I must admit that we have to thank him. If not for the vile hooliganism that I committed, óa é stas horas, the fainting spells of this psychopath would have become the property of the whole world. You wanted to take personal advantage of the current situation and failed to do so. It is a fact. Now be smart and we'll leave it at that. I won't have his exclusivity, but I'll save his face. ¿What does he say to me?
  
  -Records... -and muzitó some incomprehensible words.
  
  Dante leans down until his nose touches the reporter's.
  
  -¿Somo, you say, charm?
  
  "I say fuck you, you bastard," Andrea said.
  
  And I hit him on the head with an ashtray. There was an explosion of ash as the simo's hard glass hit the superintendent, who clutched his head with his hand, screaming. Andrea got up, staggered and tried to give him a second time, but the other was más ráya ask. I held his hand when the ashtray was a few hundred meters from his face.
  
  -Wow Wow. Because the little slut has claws.
  
  Dante squeezed her wrist and twisted her arm until she let go of the ashtray. Then he punched the magician in the mouth. Andrea Queió fell to the ground again, gasping for breath, feeling the steel ball pressing against her chest. The superintendent felt his ear, which was dripping blood. Look at yourself in the mirror. He has a half closed left eye, full of ashes and cigarette butts in his hair. Go back to the young woman and take a step towards her with the intention of kicking her rax. If I hit him, the hit would break some of his ribs. But Andrea was ready. When the other raised his foot to strike, he kicked him in the ankle of the leg on which he was leaning. Dante Kay, sprawled on the carpet, gives the journalist time to run to the toilet. I slam the door.
  
  Dante gets up, limping.
  
  - Open it, bitch.
  
  "Fuck you, you son of a bitch," Andrea said, more to herself than her attacker. She realized that she was crying. I thought about prayer, but I remembered who Dante was working for and decided that maybe it wasn't a good idea. He tried to lean against the door, but it didn't do him much good. The door swung open completely, pinning Andrea against the wall. The superintendent entered in a rage, his face red and swollen with rage. She tried to defend herself, but I grabbed her by the hair and gave her a cruel blow, which ripped out her good fur. Unfortunately, he held her with ever-increasing strength, and there was little she could do but wrap her arms and face around him, trying to free her cruel prey. I managed to make two bloody furrows on the face of Dante, who went into a rage.ó aún mas.
  
  -¿Donde estan?
  
  -What you...
  
  -¡¡¡ DÓNDE...
  
  -...to hell
  
  -... EAT!!!
  
  He pressed her head firmly against the baño mirror before resting his forehead against the él. The web stretched all over the mirror, leaving a round trickle of blood in its center, which gradually trickled down into the shell.
  
  Dante made her look at her own reflection in the broken mirror.
  
  -¿ Do you want me to continue?
  
  Suddenly Andrea felt that she had had enough.
  
  - In the trash bin baso - murmur.
  
  -Very good. Grab and hold with your left hand. And stop pretending or I'll cut off your nipples and make you swallow them.
  
  Andrea followed the instructions and handed the disk to Dante. É I'll check it out. Looks like someone you met on
  
  -Very good. ¿And the other nine?
  
  The journalist swallows saliva.
  
  - Dash.
  
  - And shit.
  
  Andrea sinti, who flew back into the room, and in fact she flew almost a meter and a half, dropped by Dante. I landed on the carpet with my face in my hands.
  
  I don't have any, damn it. I do not have them! Check out the damn trash cans in Piazza Navona, Colorado!
  
  The superintendent approached, smiling. She continued to lie on the floor, breathing very quickly and excitedly.
  
  "You don"t understand, do you, bitch? All you had to do was give me those damn records and you would come home with a bruise on your face. But no, you think I'm ready to believe that the son of God prays to Dante, and this cannot be. Because we are going to move on to more serious words. Your chance to get out of this predicament has passed.
  
  Place one foot on either side of the journalist's body. Get your gun and point it at his head. Andrea looked into his eyes again, although she was very scared. This goat was capable of anything.
  
  - You're not going to shoot. There will be a lot of noise," he said, much less convinced than before.
  
  -¿You know what, bitch? Once I die, you will have a reason.
  
  And he takes out a silencer from his pocket, which he begins to screw into the breech of the pistol. Andrea faced the promise of death again, this time less loudly.
  
  -Tirala, Fabio.
  
  Dante turned around, surprise written on his face. Dicanti and Fowler were standing at the bedroom door. The inspector is holding a pistol in his hands, and the priest is holding the electric key with which you entered. The Dicanti badge and Fowler's badge were instrumental in obtaining it. We arrived late because before going to allí habí I checked one more name out of the four we got at Albert's house. They sorted them by age, starting with the youngest of the Spanish journalists, Olas, who turned out to be an assistant in a televisión crew and had chaste hair, or, as I told them, she was very beautiful.; talkative receptionist at his hotel. Equally eloquent was the one at Andrea's hotel.
  
  Dante stared at Dicanti's pistol, his body turned towards them as his pistol followed Enka, aiming at Andrea.
  
  , you won't.
  
  "You are attacking a citizen of a community on Italian soil, Dante. I am a law enforcement officer. He cannot tell me what I can and cannot do. Put the gun down or you'll see me forced to shoot.
  
  "Dikanti, you don"t understand. this woman is a criminal. He stole confidential information belonging to the Vatican. He is not afraid of reasons and can ruin everything. There is nothing personal in this.
  
  He has said this phrase to me before. And I have already noticed that you are personally involved in a lot of completely personal matters.
  
  Dante was visibly angry, but chose to change tactics.
  
  -Fine. Let me escort her to the Vatican just to find out what she did with the envelopes she stole. I vouch personally for your safety.
  
  Andrea caught her breath when she heard those words. I don't want to spend another minute with that bastard. Start turning your legs very slowly to bring your body into a certain position.
  
  "No," said Paola.
  
  The superintendent's voice grew harsher. Se dirigio a Fowler.
  
  -Anthony. You can't let this happen. We can't let him reveal everything. Cross and Sword.
  
  The priest looked at him very seriously.
  
  "These are no longer my symbols, Dante. And even more so if they enter the battle to shed innocent blood.
  
  But she's not innocent. ¡Steal envelopes!
  
  Before Dante had finished speaking, Andrea had reached the position she had been seeking for a long time. Calculate a moment and throw your foot up. He didn"t do it with all his might-and not because he didn"t want to-but because he prioritized the goal. I want him to hit that goat right in the balls. And that was exactly where I ended up.
  
  Three things happened at once.
  
  Dante let go of the disk Aun was holding and grabbed the test butts with his left hand, cocked the pistol with his right hand and began to pull the trigger. The superintendent came up like a trout out of water because he was breathing in pain.
  
  Dicanti covered the distance separating him from Dante in three steps and threw himself headlong at his magician.
  
  Fowler reacted half a second after speaking - we don't know if it was because he was losing reflexes due to age, or because he was assessing the situation - and rushed to the pistol, which, despite the blow, continued to fire. Pointing at Andrea. I managed to grab Dante's right arm almost at the same moment that Dicanti's shoulder slammed into Dante's chest. The gun fired at the ceiling.
  
  All three fell in disarray, covered in a hail of plaster. Fowler, without letting go of the superintendent's hand, pressed both thumbs down where the hand joins the hand. Dante released his pistol, but I managed to knee the inspector in the face, and he senselessly jumped to the side.
  
  Fowler and Dante joined. Fowler holds the pistol by the forearm with his left hand. With his right hand, he pressed the mechanism that released the magazine, and it fell heavily to the ground. With his other hand, he knocked the bullet out of RekáMara's hands. Two movements rá pidos más and hold the drummer in the palm of your hand. I toss it across the room and drop the gun on the floor, at Dante's feet.
  
  "Now it's useless.
  
  Dante smiled, pulling his head into his shoulders.
  
  "You don"t serve much either, old man.
  
  -Demuestralo.
  
  The superintendent lashes out at the priest. Fowler stepped aside, throwing out his hand. Almost falling face-first into Dante's face, hitting his shoulder. Dante lands a left, and Fowler dodges the other way, only to meet Dante's hollow right between the ribs. Keio to the ground, teeth clenched, panting.
  
  - He's rusty, old man.
  
  Dante took the pistol and the magazine. Do not have time to find and install the firing pin in time, but you will not be able to leave the weapon in place. In her haste, she didn't realize that Dicanti also had a weapon she could use, but luckily it remained under the inspector's body as she fell unconscious.
  
  The superintendent looked around, looked at the ba and in the closet. Andrea Otero was gone, and the puck that Habi dropped during the fight was also gone. A drop of blood in the window made her look out, and for a moment I believed that the journalist had the ability to walk on air like Christ on water. Or rather, crawling.
  
  He soon realized that the room they were in was at the height of the roof of a neighboring building that protected the beautiful monastery of Santa Mar de la Paz built by Bramante.
  
  Andrea has no idea who built the monastery (and, of course, Bramante was the first architect of St. Peter's in the Vatican). But the gates are just the same on those brown tiles that gleamed in the morning sun, trying not to attract the attention of earlier tourists who strolled around the monastery. He would like to get to the other end of the roof, where an open window promises salvation. I was already halfway there. The monastery is located on two high levels, so that the roof hung dangerously over the stones of the courtyard at a height of almost nine meters.
  
  Ignoring the torture to which his genitals were subjected, Dante went to the window and followed the journalist out. she turned her head and saw him put his feet on the tiles. She tried to move forward, but Dante's voice stopped her.
  
  -Quiet.
  
  Andrea turned around. Dante was aiming an unused pistol at her, but she doesn't know it. I wonder if this guy was-or was he crazy enough to fire his gun in broad daylight in front of witnesses? Because tourists saw them and contemplated in delight the scene that took place above their heads. The number of spectators gradually increased. One of the reasons Dicanti was lying mindlessly on the floor in his room was that he lacked a book example of what is known in forensic psychiatry as the "effect", a theory he thought could be used as a evidence.what is proven) that ensures that as the number of bystanders who see a person in distress increases, the likelihood that someone will help the victim decreases (and the likelihood that someone will help the victim increases). wave your finger and tell your friends so they can see it.)
  
  Ignoring the looks, Dante, crouching, slowly walked towards the journalist. Stepping closer, he saw with satisfaction that he had one of the records in his hand. Debí tell the truth: I was such an idiot that I threw away the rest of the envelopes. Thus, this record has gained much more importance.
  
  "Give me the disk and I'll go." I swear. I don't want to make you daño -mintió Dante.
  
  Andrea was scared to death, but she showed courage and courage that would have put a Legion sergeant to shame.
  
  -¡And shit! Get out or I'll shoot him.
  
  Dante stopped halfway. Andrea held out her arm, her hip slightly bent. With one simple gesture, the disc flies like a Frisbee. It can shatter when touching the ground. Or check the disk gliding in the light breeze of the mañana, and I can catch it in the air by one of the peeps so that it evaporates before the monastery of the monastery has time to reach it. And then, Adios.
  
  Too big a risk.
  
  These were the tablets. ¿What to do in this case? Distract the enemy until the scales tip in your favor.
  
  "Beñorita," he said, raising his voice greatly, "don't jump." I do not know what pushed him into this position, but life is very beautiful. If you think about it, you will see that you have many reasons to live.
  
  Yes, it makes sense. Get close enough to help the bloody-faced lunatic who climbed onto the roof threatening to commit suicide try to hold her down so no one notices when I draw the disc and after she fails to save her in a fight, I rush on her.. Tragedy. De Dicanti and Fowler have already taken care of it from above. They know how to push.
  
  -Do not jump! Think about your family.
  
  -¿But what the hell are you talking about? Andrea wondered- ¡I don't even think about jumping!
  
  From below, the peepers used their finger to raise the wing, instead of pressing the keys on the phone and #233;telephone and calling the police. ". It did not seem strange to anyone that the rescuer had a pistol in his hand (or, perhaps, he did not distinguish what he was wearing).233; I ask the rescuer in my right hand.) Dante rejoices at his inner state. Each time I found myself next to a young female reporter.
  
  - Don't be afraid! ¡ I am a police officer!
  
  Andrea realized too late what I meant by the other. He was already less than two meters away.
  
  "Don't come close, goat. ¡Drop it!
  
  From below, it seemed to the audience that they heard that it was she who was throwing herself, as they barely paid attention to the record she held in her hand. There were shouts of "no, no", and some of the tourists even declared their eternal love to Andrea if she safely descended from the roof.
  
  At the same time, the outstretched fingers of the superintendent almost touched the bare feet of the journalist, who turned to él. Ésta retreated a little and slipped a few hundred meters. The crowd (for there were already almost fifty people in the monastery, and even some of the guests looked out of the windows of the hotel) held their breath. But then someone shouted:;
  
  "Look, priest!
  
  Dante has become. Fowler stood on the roof, holding a tile in each hand.
  
  -¡Aquí no, Anthony! shouted the superintendent.
  
  Fowler no pareció escucharle. I throw one of the tiles at him with the Devil Pointer. Dante was lucky that he covered his face with his hand. If he hadn't, then perhaps the crunch I hear when the tile hits his forearm hard would have been his broken bone, not his forearm. He falls... on the roof and rolls... to the edge. By some miracle, he was able to grab onto the ledge, hitting his feet on one of the precious columns carved by the wise sculptor under the direction of Bramante, five hundred per ños atrás. Only those spectators who did not help the spectators did the same to Dante, and three people managed to lift this broken T-shirt from the floor. I thanked him for losing consciousness.
  
  On the roof, Fowler heads towards Andrea.
  
  "Please, Orita Otero, please return to the room before everything is done.
  
  
  
  Hotel Rafael
  
  Long February, 2
  
  Thursday, April 7, 2005 at 09:14.
  
  
  
  Paola returned to the world of the living and discovered a miracle: the caring hands of Father Fowler placed a wet towel on her forehead. She immediately stopped feeling so good and began to regret that her body was not on her shoulders, because her head hurt a lot. She woke up just in time to meet the two policemen who had finally entered the hotel room and tell them to clean up in the fresh breeze so she was careful.237;everything was under control. Dikanti swore to them and gave false evidence that they were not all suicidal and that it was all a mistake. The officers looked around, a little taken aback by the confusion in this place, but complied.
  
  Meanwhile, in the bathroom, Fowler was trying to repair Andrea's forehead, bruised from the mirror encounter. At the moment when Dikanti got rid of the guards and looked at the apologetic, the priest told the journalist that glasses would be required for this.
  
  "At least four on the forehead and two on the eyebrow. But now she can't waste time going to the hospital. I'll tell you what we're going to do: you're about to get into a taxi bound for Bologna. This took about four hours. Everyone is waiting for my best friend who will give me or who will give me some points. É I will take you to the airport and you will board the airline's plane bound for Madrid, Vía Milan. Everyone be safe. And try not to come back through Italy in a couple of years.
  
  -¿Wouldn't it be better to catch an avión at the Nápoles? Dicanti intervened.
  
  Fowler looked at her very seriously.
  
  "Dottora, if you ever need to escape from... from these people, please don't run towards the Nápoles. They have too many contacts with everyone.
  
  - I would say that they have contacts everywhere.
  
  "Unfortunately, you are right. Vigilance will not be pleasant for you or for me.
  
  We will go to battle. He will take our side.
  
  Fowler Gardo, shut up for a minute.
  
  -May be. Now, however, the first priority is to get Señorita Otero out of Rome.
  
  Andrea, whose face did not leave a grimace of pain (because the wound on the Scottish forehead bled heavily, although thanks to Fowler it bled much less), Andrea did not like this conversation at all, and she decided that she would not mind. the one you silently help. Ten minutes later, when she saw Dante disappear from the edge of the roof, she felt a surge of relief. I ran up to Fowler and wrapped both arms around his neck, risking them both rolling off the roof. Fowler briefly explained to him that there was a very specific sector of the Vatican's organizational structure that did not want the matter to be revealed, and that because of this his life was in danger. The priest made no comment on the unfortunate theft of the envelopes, which was quite detailed. But now she was imposing her opinion, which the journalist did not like. She thanked the priest and the criminologist for the timely rescue, but did not want to succumb to blackmail.
  
  "I don"t think of going anywhere, I pray. I am an accredited journalist and my friend works in mí to bring you news from Cónclave. And I want you to know that I uncovered a top-level conspiracy to cover up the death of several cardinals and a member of the Italian police at the hands of a psychopath. The Globe will publish some amazing ésta información covers, all of which will be named after me.
  
  The priest will listen with patience and respond firmly.
  
  "Siñ orita Otero, I admire your courage. You have more courage than many soldiers I have known. But in this game you will need much more than you are worth.
  
  The journalist clamped the bandage covering her forehead with one hand and clenched her teeth.
  
  "Don"t you dare do anything to me when I publish the report.
  
  "Maybe yes, maybe not. But I don't want him to publish a report either, onorita. It is not comfortable.
  
  Andrea gave him an uncomprehending look.
  
  -¿Somo says?
  
  "Simplifying: give me the disk," Fowler said.
  
  Andrea gets up, staggering. She was indignant and pressed the disk very tightly to her chest.
  
  "I didn't know you were one of those fanatics willing to kill to keep your secrets. I'm leaving right now.
  
  Fowler pushed her until she sat back down on the toilet.
  
  - Personally, I think that the instructive phrase from the Gospel sounds like this: "The truth will set you free 37", and if I were in your place, I could run up to you and say that the priest, who in the past was engaged in pederasty, got off crazy and beats around the bush. ah, cardinals with knives. Perhaps the Church will understand once and for all that priests are always and above all people. But it's all up to you and me. I don't want this to be known because Karoski knows he wants it to be known. When some time has passed and you see that all your efforts have failed, make another move. Then maybe we can take it and save lives.
  
  At this point, Andrea collapses. It was a mixture of fatigue, pain, exhaustion and a feeling that cannot be expressed in one word. This feeling, halfway between fragility and self-pity, that occurs when a person realizes that he is very small compared to the universe. I hand the record to Fowler, put my head between his hands and cry.
  
  - Lose your job.
  
  The priest will take pity on her.
  
  -No, I will not. I will take care of it personally.
  
  
  Three hours later, the US Ambassador to Italy telephones Niko to the director of Globo. I asked for an apology for hitting the paper's special envoy in Rome with my company car. Secondly, according to your version, the incident occurred the previous day when the car was driving at full speed from the airport. Fortunately, the driver braked in time to avoid the stanza and, apart from a minor head injury, there were no consequences. The journalist apparently insisted again and again that she should continue her work, but the embassy staff who examined her recommended that the journalist rest for a couple of weeks, for example, so that she could rest. whatever was done to send her to Madrid at the embassy's expense. Of course, and given the enormous professional damage you've done to her, they were willing to make up for it. Another person in the car became interested in her and wanted to give her an interview. He will contact you again in two weeks to clarify the details.
  
  After hanging up the phone, the director of The Globe was puzzled. I don't understand how this naughty and troubled girl managed to get off the planet in the time that was probably spent on the interview. I attribute this to great luck. Feel... a pang of envy and wish... to be in his shoes.
  
  I have always wanted to visit the Oval Office.
  
  
  
  UACV Headquarters
  
  Via Lamarmora, 3
  
  Moyércoles, April 6, 2005, 1:25 pm.
  
  
  
  Paola entered Boy's office without knocking, but she didn't like what she saw. Or rather, the one he saw all. Sirin was sitting across from the director, and I chose that moment to get up and leave without looking at the CSI. This is the intention to stop him at the door.
  
  Hey Sirin...
  
  The Inspector General ignored him and disappeared.
  
  "Dikanti, if you don't mind," Boy said from the other side of the table in the office.
  
  "But Headmaster, I want to report the criminal behavior of one of this man's subordinates...
  
  "Enough, Inspector. The Inspector General has already briefed me properly on the developments at the Rafael Hotel.
  
  Paola was amazed. As soon as he and Fowler put the Española journalist into a taxi bound for Bologna, they immediately went to UACV headquarters to present Boy's case. The situation was undoubtedly difficult, but Paola was confident that her boss would support the journalist's rescue. I decided to go alone and talk to él, although, of course, the last thing I hoped for was that her boss wouldn't even want to listen to her poetry.
  
  "He would have been considered Dante to have attacked a defenseless journalist.
  
  "He told me that there had been a disagreement which had been settled to everyone's satisfaction. Apparently Inspector Dante was trying to calm down a potential witness who was a little nervous, and the two of you attacked her. Right now, Dante is in the hospital.
  
  -¡But this is absurd! What really happened...
  
  "You have also informed me that you are relinquishing your trust in us in this matter," Boy said, raising his voice considerably. I am very disappointed with his attitude, always irreconcilable and aggressive towards Superintendent Dante and towards the brother of our neighbor dad, which, by the way, I could observe myself. You will return to your normal duties and Fowler will return to Washington. From now on to beá sós the Vigilant Body that will protect the cardinals. For our part, we will immediately hand over to the Vatican both the DVD that Karoski sent us and the one that was received from the Española journalist and forget about its existence.
  
  -¿What about Pontiero? I remember the face you drew at his autopsy. ¿ Also é was she feigned? ¿Quién hará justice for his death?
  
  "It's none of our business anymore.
  
  The CSI was so disappointed, so upset, that she felt terribly upset. I was unable to recognize the person in front of me, I could no longer remember any of the bits of attraction that I felt for him. He asked himself sadly if that might be part of the reason why she was so quick to withdraw his support. Maybe the bitter outcome of last night's confrontation.
  
  -¿Is it because of me, Carlo?
  
  -¿Perdon?
  
  -¿Is it because of last night? I don't believe you are capable of this.
  
  "Ispettora, please don"t think this is so important. It is in my unico interédel to cooperate effectively with the needs of the Vatican, which you obviously have not been able to achieve.
  
  In her thirty-four years of life, Paola Gem had seen such a huge discrepancy between a man's words and what was reflected on his face. He couldn't help it.
  
  "You are a pig to the core, Carlo. Seriously. I don't like it when everyone laughs at you behind your back. ¿So you were able to finish how?
  
  Director Boy blushed to his ears, but I managed to suppress the flash of rage that quivered on his lips. Instead of succumbing to anger, he turned his outburst into a rough and measured verbal slap.
  
  "At least I made it to Alguacil, the Inspector. Please put your badge and gun on my desk. She has been suspended from work and pay for a month until she has time to take a closer look at her case. Go and lie down at home.
  
  Paola opened her mouth to answer, but found nothing to say. In conversations, the kind always found a tolerable phrase, anticipating his triumphant return, whenever a despotic boss deprived him of power. But in real life, she was speechless. I threw the badge and pistol on the table and left the office without looking at the mattress.
  
  Fowler was waiting for her in the corridor, accompanied by two police agents. Paola intuitively realized that the priest had already received a fat phone call.
  
  "Because this is the end," said the forensic scientist.
  
  The priest smiled.
  
  "It was nice to meet you, dottor. Unfortunately these gentlemen are going to escort me to the hotel to collect my things and then to the airport.
  
  The forensic woman grabbed his arm, her fingers tightening on his sleeve.
  
  "Father, can you call someone? ¿ How to delay it?
  
  "I'm afraid not," he said, shaking his head. I hope that algun día can treat me to a good cup of coffee.
  
  Without a word, he let go and walked down the hallway, followed by the guards.
  
  Paola hoped she would be at home to cry.
  
  
  
   Instituto Saint Matthew
  
  Silver Spring, Maryland
  
   December 1999
  
  
  
  TRAFFIC OF INTERVIEW #115 BETWEEN PATIENT #3643 AND DR. CANIS CONROY
  
  
  (...)
  
  DR. CONROY: I see you're reading something... Riddles and curiosities. Are there any good ones?
  
  #3643 : They are very cute.
  
  DR. CONROY: Come on, offer me one.
  
  #3643 : They are really very cute. I don't think he liked them.
  
  DR. CONROY: I like riddles.
  
  #3643 : Good. If one man makes a hole in an hour, and two men make two holes in two hours, how much does one person need to make half a hole?
  
  DR. CONROY: It's a hell of a... half an hour.
  
  #3643 : (Laughs)
  
  DR. CONROY: ¿What makes you so cute? It's half an hour. Hour, hole. Half an hour, half a minute.
  
  #3643 : Doctor, there are no half-empty holes... A hole is always a hole (Laughs)
  
  DR. CONROY: ¿ Are you trying to tell me something with this, Victor?
  
  #3643: Of course doctor, of course.
  
  DOCTOR You're not hopelessly doomed to be who you are.
  
  #3643: Yes, Dr. Conroy. And I have to thank you for showing me the right path.
  
  DR. CONROY: ¿Way?
  
  #3643: I've struggled for so long to twist my nature, to try to be something I'm not. But thanks to you, I realized who I am. Isn't that what you wanted?
  
  DR. CONROY I couldn't be so wrong about you.
  
  #3643: Doctor, you were right, you made me see the light. It made me realize that it takes the right hands to open the right doors.
  
   D.R. CONROY: ¿Eso eres tú? Hand?
  
  #3643 : (Laughs) No, doctor. I am the key.
  
  
  
  Dicanti family apartment
  
  Via Della Croce, 12
  
  Sabado, April 9, 2005, 11:46 p.m.
  
  
  
  Paola wept for quite some time with the door closed and the wounds on her chest wide open. Fortunately, his mother was not there, she went to Ostia for the weekend, to her friends. It was a real relief for the forensic scientist: it was a really bad time, and she couldn't hide it from Seíor Dicanti. In a way, if he saw her concern and if she tried her best to cheer him up, it would be even worse. She needed to be alone in order to calmly plunge into failure and despair.
  
  She throws herself on the bed fully clothed. Through the window, the hustle and bustle of neighboring streets and the sunbeams of an April evening penetrated into the room. With this cooing, and after running through a thousand conversations about the Battle and the events of the last days, I managed to fall asleep. Nearly nine hours after she fell asleep, the wonderful smell of coffee entered her mind, causing her consciousness to wake up.
  
  Mom, you came back too soon...
  
  "Of course I'll be right back, but you're wrong about people," he said in a hard, polite voice with rhythmic and hesitant Italian: Father Fowler's voice.
  
  Paola opened her eyes wide and, not realizing what she was doing, threw both hands around his neck.
  
  "Careful, careful, you spilled your coffee...
  
  The criminologist releases the reguñadientes. Fowler sat on the edge of her bed and looked at her cheerfully. In her hand she carried a cup that she had taken from the kitchen at home.
  
  -¿Somo came in here? And with ímo managed to escape from the police? I'll take you on the road to Washington...
  
  "Take it easy, one question at a time," Fowler laughed. As for how I managed to escape from two fat and poorly trained officials, I ask that you please don't insult my intellect. As for the cómo that I introduced here, the answer is fícil: with ganzúa.
  
  -It's clear. Training vá SIKO in the CIA, ¿ right?
  
  - Mass or less. Sorry for the intrusion, but I called several times and no one opened up to me. Believe that you may have problems. When I saw that she was sleeping so peacefully, I decided to keep my promise to invite her to the café.
  
  Paola stood up, taking the cup from the hands of the priest. He took a long soothing sip. The room was brightly lit by streetlights that cast long shadows on the high ceiling. Fowler looked at the low room in that dim light. On one wall hung the diplomas of the school, the university, the FBI Academy. In addition, on Natasha's medals and even on some drawings, I read that she must already be at least thirteen years old. I again feel the vulnerability of that smart and strong woman who is still suffering from her past. Part of her never left her early youth. Try to guess which side of the wall should be visible to me from the bed, and believe me, then you will understand. At the moment when she mentally draws her imaginary face from the pillow to the wall, she sees a picture of Paola next to her father in the hospital room.
  
  - This cafe is very good. My mother does it terribly.
  
  - A question of fire regulation, dottor.
  
  -¿Why did he come back, father?
  
  -For different reasons. Because I don't want to leave you in trouble. To keep this lunatic from getting away with it. And because I suspect that there is much more that is hidden from prying eyes. I feel like we've all been used, you and me. Also, I believe you will have a very personal reason to move on.
  
  Paola fruncio ecño.
  
  - You have a reason. Pontiero was a friend and colleague of Ero. Right now my concern is how to get justice with his killer. But I doubt we can do anything now, father. Without my badge and without his support, we are just two small puffs of air. At the slightest breath of wind we will disperse. And besides, it is quite possible that you are looking for it.
  
  "Maybe you really are looking for me. I gave two cops a corner at Fiumicino 38. But I doubt Boy will go as far as issuing a search warrant against me. With what the city has, it won't get you anywhere (and won't be very justifiable). I'll probably let him run.
  
  -¿ And your bosses, father?
  
  "I'm officially in Langley. Unofficially, they have no doubt that I will stay here for a while.
  
  "Finally some good news.
  
  "What is more difficult for us is getting into the Vatican, because Sirin will be warned.
  
  "Well, I don't see how we can protect the cardinals if they're inside and we're outside.
  
  "I think we should start from the beginning, dottora. Revisit this whole damn mess from the start, because it's obvious we missed something.
  
  - But ¿somo? I don't have the right materials, the entire file on Karoski is in the UACV.
  
   Fowler le dedicó una media sonrisa picara.
  
   Well, sometimes God gives us little miracles.
  
  He gestured towards Paola's desk at one end of the room. Paola turned on the flexo on her desk, which illuminated the thick stack of brown covers that made up Karoski's file.
  
  "I'm offering you a deal, dottor. You're doing what you do best: psychological profile of the killer. The final one, with all the data we have now. I'll give him coffee for now.
  
  Paola drank the rest of her cup in one gulp. He tried to peer into the priest's face, but his face remained outside the cone of light illuminating Karoski's file. Again, Paola Sinti had a presentiment that she had been attacked in the corridor of the Domus Sancta Marthae, and that she was silent until better times. Now, after a long list of events following Cardoso's death, I was more convinced than ever that this intuition was correct. I turned on the computer on his desk. Selectó an empty application form among your documents and start force filling it out, checking the dossier sheets from time to time.
  
  "Get another coffee maker ready, father." I have to confirm the theory.
  
  
  
  PSYCHOLOGICAL PROFILE OF A MURDERER TYPICAL FOR ME.
  
  
  Paciente: KAROSKI, Viktor.
  
  Profile made by Dr. Paola Dicanti.
  
  Patient situation:
  
  Date of writing:
  
  Age: 44 to 241 years old.
  
  Height:178 cm.
  
  Weight: 85 kg.
  
  Description: eyes, intelligent (IQ 125).
  
  
  Marital Status: Viktor Karoski was born into a middle-class immigrant family under the dominion of his mother and with deep problems connecting with reality due to the influence of religion. The family emigrates from Poland, and from the very beginning, roots are obvious in all its members. The father presents a picture of peak job inefficiency, alcoholism, and abuse, exacerbated by repeated and intermittent sexual abuse (understood as punishment) as the subject reaches adolescence. The mother was always aware of the situation of abuse and incest committed by her nuge husband, although she apparently pretended not to notice it. The older brother runs away from his parents' house under the threat of sexual violence. A younger brother dies unattended after a long recovery from meningitis. The subject is locked in a closet, incommunicado isolation for a long time after the mother "discovers" abuse by the subject's father. When he is released, the father leaves the family hearth and it is the mother who imposes her personality, in this case emphasizing the subject depicting a cat suffering from fear of hell, to which sexual excesses undoubtedly lead (always with the mother of the subject). To do this, he dresses him in his clothes and even goes so far as to threaten him with castration. The subject develops a severe distortion of reality, as a severe disorder of unintegrated sexuality. The first features of anger and an antisocial personality with a strong system of nervous reactions begin to appear. He attacks a classmate from high school, which results in him being placed in a reformatory. At the exit, his dossier is cleared, and he decides to enter the seminary from 19 to 241. He does not pass a preliminary psychiatric examination and receives his help.
  
  
  Case history in adulthood: Signs of a disorder of unintegrated sexuality are confirmed in a subject between the ages of nineteen and 241, shortly after the death of his mother, with touching of the minor gradually becoming more frequent and severe. There is no punitive response from his church authorities to his sexual assaults, which take on a delicate nature when the subject is responsible for his own parishes. His file records at least 89 assaults on minors, of which 37 were total acts of sodomy and the rest were touching or forced masturbation or fellatio.#243;n. His interview history suggests that, no matter how extra or #241; it seemed, he was a priest who was completely convinced of his priestly ministry. In other cases of pederasty among priests, it was possible to use one's sexual urges as an excuse to enter the priesthood, like a fox entering a chicken coop. But in Karoski's case, the reasons for taking the oath were very different. His mother pushed him in that direction, even going as far as coacción. After an incident with a parishioner I attacked, Aesculapius Ndalo Karoski cannot hide even for a minute, and the subject eventually arrives at St. Matthew's Institute, a rehabilitation center for priests. cat and#243;faces in trouble. Allí we find Karoski identifying very much with the Old Testament, especially the Bible. An episode of spontaneous aggression takes place against an employee of the institute within a few days after his admission. From this case we infer a strong cognitive dissonance that exists between the subject's sexual attraction and his religious beliefs. When both sides come into conflict, there are crises of violence, such as an episode of aggression from the Man.
  
  
  Recent Medical History: Subject displays anger reflected in his repressed aggression. She committed several crimes in which she displayed high levels of sexual sadism, including symbolic rituals and insertional necrophilia.
  
  
  Characteristic profileí noteworthy features that appear in his actions:
  
  - Pleasant personality, medium to high intelligence
  
  - Frequent lies
  
  -Total lack of remorse or feelings towards their offenders
  
  - absolute selfish
  
  -Personal and emotional detachment
  
  - Impersonal and impulsive sexuality, aimed at satisfying needs, for example, in sex.
  
  - Antisocial personality
  
  -High level of obedience
  
  
  INCONSISTENCY!!
  
  
  -Irrational thinking embedded in his actions
  
  -Multiple neurosis
  
  - Criminal behavior is understood as a means, not as an end
  
  - Suicidal tendencies
  
  - mission oriented
  
  
  
  Dicanti family apartment
  
  Via Della Croce, 12
  
  Sunday, April 10, 2005 1:45 AM
  
  
  
  Fowler finished reading the report he handed to Dicanti. I was very surprised.
  
  - I hope you don't mind, but this profile is incomplete. He only wrote a summary of what you already know, Amos. To be honest, it doesn't do much for us.
  
  The criminalist got up.
  
  "Quite the opposite, Father. Karoski presents a very complex psychological picture, from which we concluded that his increased aggressiveness turned a purely castrated sexual predator into a mere killer.
  
  "That is the basis of our theory, indeed.
  
  "Well, it's not worth a damn thing. Pay attention to the characteristics of the profile at the end of the report. The first eight identify the serial killer.
  
  Fowler las consultó y asintió.
  
  There are two types of serial killers: unorganized and organized. This is not a perfect classification, but it is quite consistent. The first refers to criminals who commit rash and impulsive actions, with a high risk of leaving evidence behind. They often meet their loved ones, who are usually in their geographic surroundings. Their weapons are handy: a chair, a belt... whatever they can find at hand. Sexual sadism manifests itself posthumously.
  
  The priest rubbed his eyes. I was very tired as I had only slept a few hours.
  
  -Disculpeme, dottora. Please continue.
  
  "The other guy, organized, is a highly mobile killer who captures his victims before using force. A victim is an extra person who meets certain criteria. The weapons and baldrics used follow a preconceived plan and never cause harm. The Sapríver is left in a neutral area, always with careful preparation. So, ¿ which of these two groups do you think Karoski belongs to?
  
  "Obviously the second one.
  
  "That's something any observer can do. But we can do anything. We have his dossier. We know who he is, where he came from, what he thinks. Forget everything that has happened in these last days. It was in Karoski that I entered the institute. What was it?
  
  - An impulsive person who, in certain situations, explodes like a charge of dynamite.
  
  - ¿And after five sessions of therapy?
  
  - It was a different person.
  
  -¿ Tell me, did this change happen gradually or was it sudden?
  
  - It was pretty rough. I sensed a change the moment Dr. Conroy made him listen to his regression therapy tapes.
  
  Paola took a deep breath before continuing.
  
  -Father Fowler, don't be offended, but after reading the dozens of interviews I gave you between Karoski, Conroy and you, I think you're wrong. And this mistake made us look in the right direction.
  
  Fowler shrugged.
  
  "Dottora, I can"t be offended by this. As you already know, despite the fact that I have a psychology department, I studied at the rebound institute, because my professional self-esteem is completely different. You're a criminal expert, and I'm lucky to have your opinion. But I don't understand what he's getting at.
  
  "Review the report," Paola said to Ndolo. In the "Inconsistency" section, I have identified five characteristics that make it impossible to consider our subject as an organized serial killer. With a criminologist's book in hand, any expert will tell you that Karoski is an organized and evil person, developed as a result of trauma when confronted with his past. Are you familiar with the problem of cognitive dissonance?
  
  "It is a state of mind in which the subject's actions and beliefs are highly divergent. Karoski suffered from acute cognitive dissonance: he considered himself a model priest, while his 89 parishioners claimed that he was a pederast.
  
  -Wonderful. So, if you, the subject, are a convinced, nervous person, invulnerable to any intrusions from the outside, in a few months you will become an ordinary, traceless killer. from neurosis, frivolity and prudence after listening to several tapes in which he understands that he was abused in no way?
  
  "From this point of view... it seems like something complicated," Fowler said shyly.
  
  "That's impossible, father. This irresponsible act by Dr. Conroy had undoubtedly hurt him, but it certainly could not have caused such excessive changes in him. The fanatical priest who turns a blind eye to his sins and becomes enraged when you read aloud to him a list of your victims cannot become an organized murderer just a few months after that. And let's remember that his first two ritual murders take place in the Institute itself: the mutilation of one priest and the murder of another.
  
  "But, dottora... the murders of cardinals are the work of Karoski. he himself admitted this, there are traces of him on three stages.
  
  "Of course, Father Fowler. I do not dispute that Karoski committed these murders. This is more than obvious. I'm trying to tell you that the reason he did them is not because of what you think is amos. The most important feature of his character, the fact that I brought him to the priesthood despite his tormented soul, is the same thing that motivated him to do such terrible things.
  
  Fowler comprendió. In shock, he had to sit on Paola's bed to avoid falling to the floor.
  
  -Obedience.
  
  "That's right, father. Karoski is not a serial killer. He hired killer .
  
  
  
  Instituto Saint Matthew
  
  Silver Spring, Maryland
  
   August 1999 _ _
  
  
  
   There is no sound or noise in the isolator. That is why the whisper that called to him, insistent, demanding, invaded the two Karoski like a tide.
  
  - Victor.
  
  Karoski hurriedly gets out of bed as if nothing had happened. Allí were él, again. One day you came to me to help you, to guide you, to enlighten you. To give him a feeling and support for his strength, his needs. He had already resigned himself to the cruel intervention of Dr. Conroy, who examined him as one examines a butterfly impaled on a pin under his microscope. He was on the other side of the steel door, but I could almost feel his presence in the room, next to him. A el podia respetarle, podia seguirle. I can understand Him, guide Him. We talked for hours about what we should do. From now on I have to do it. From the fact that she has to behave, from the fact that she has to answer Conroy's repeated annoying questions. In the evenings I rehearsed his role and waited for his arrival. They see him once a week, but I was looking forward to him, counting back hours, minutes. Mentally rehearsing, I sharpened the knife very slowly, trying not to make any noise. I order himÉ I order himÉ. I could give him a sharp knife, even a gun. But he would like to moderate his courage and his strength. And había did what habí asked. I gave him evidence of his loyalty, his loyalty. First, he crippled a sodomite priest. A few weeks after the habé killed the pederast priest. She must mow the weeds, as I asked, and finally get the prize. The prize I wanted more than anything in the world. I will give it to you because no one will give it to me. Nobody can give me this.
  
  - Victor.
  
  he demanded her presence. He hurried across the room and knelt by the door, listening to the voice telling him of the future. From one mission, away from everyone. In the koraz of the Christian world.
  
  
  
  Dicanti family apartment
  
  Via Della Croce, 12
  
  Sábado, April 9, 2005, 02:14 am.
  
  
  
  Silence followed Dicanti's words like a dark shadow. Fowler raised his hands to his face, torn between astonishment and despair.
  
  Could I have been so blind? He kills because he is ordered to. God meío... but what about messages and ritual?
  
  "If you think about it, it doesn't make any sense, Father. "Ego I justify you," written first on the ground and then on the chest of the altars. Washed hands, cut off tongue... all this was the Sicilian equivalent of putting a coin in the víctima's mouth.
  
  "It's a mafia ritual indicating that the dead man talked too much, isn't it?
  
  - Exactly. At first I thought that Karoski thought the cardinals were guilty of something, perhaps a crime against themselves or against their own dignity as priests. But the clues left on the paper balls don't make any sense. Now I think it was personal preference, their own reworking of a scheme dictated by someone else.
  
  "¿But what"s the point of killing them like that, dottor?" Why not delete them without més?
  
  "The mutilation is nothing more than a ridiculous fabrication in relation to the fundamental fact that someone wants to see them dead. Pay attention to flexography, father.
  
  Paola walked over to the table where Karoski's file lay. Since the room was dark, everything that did not hit the spotlight remained in the dark.
  
  -I understand. They make us look at what they want us to see. But ¿who é could want something like that?
  
  -Question básica to find out who én committed the crime, who ¿ benefits from it? The serial killer, in one fell swoop, obliterates the need for this question, because he benefits himself. His motive is the body. But in this case, his motive is the mission. If he wanted to vent his hatred and frustration on the cardinals, provided he had them, he could do it at another time when everyone would be in sight. Much less protected. Why now? ¿What has changed now?
  
  -Because someone wants to influence the Cókey.
  
  "Now I ask you, father, let me wish to influence the key. But for this it is important to know who they killed.
  
  "These cardinals were prominent figures in the church. Quality people.
  
  "But with a common bond between them. And our task is to find it.
  
  The priest stood up and walked around the room several times, his hands behind his back.
  
  "Dottora, it occurs to me that I am ready to eliminate the cardinals, and I am for everything. There is one clue on which we did not go quite right. The Karoski did a full face reconstruction, as we can see from model Angelo Biffi. This operation is very expensive and requires a difficult recovery. Well executed and with proper guarantees of confidentiality and anonymity, it can cost over 100,000 French francs, which is about 80,000 of your euros. This is not an amount that a poor priest like Karoski could easily dispose of. He also did not have to enter or cover Italy from the moment he arrived. All this time, these were questions that I pushed into the background, but suddenly they become decisive.
  
  "And they support the theory that the black hand is actually involved in the murders of the cardinals.
  
  -Really.
  
  "Father, I do not have the knowledge that you have about the Catholic Church and the functioning of the Curia. ¿Cuál do you think this is the denominator that unites the three supposed dead?
  
  The priest thought for a few moments.
  
  "Perhaps there is a nexus of unity. One that would be much more obvious if they just disappeared or were executed. All of them were from an ideologist to a liberal. They were part of...how should I put it? Left wing of the Espíritual Santo. If she had asked me about the names of the five cardinals who supported the Second Vatican Council, those three would have been listed.
  
  "Explain to me, father, please.
  
  -See. With the accession to the papacy of John XXIII in 1958, the need for a change of course in the Church became apparent. John XXIII convened the Second Vatican Council, calling on all the bishops of the world to come to Rome to discuss with the Pope the status of the church in the world. Two thousand bishops responded to the call. John XXIII died before the completion of the Council, but Paul VI, his successor, completed his task. Unfortunately, the aperture reforms considered by the Council did not go as far as John XXIII intended.
  
  - What do you have in mind?
  
  "There have been big changes in the Church. It was probably one of the greatest milestones of the twentieth century. You don't remember it anymore because you're so young, but until the late sixties a woman can't smoke or wear pants because it's a sin. And these are just a few anecdotal examples. Suffice it to say that the changes were big, though not enough. John XXIII strove for the Church to open wide the doors to the life-giving air of the Holy Temple. And they opened it up a little. Paul VI showed himself to be a rather conservative pope. John Paul I, his successor, stayed in office for only a month. And John Paul II was the sole pope of Rome, strong and mediocre, who, surely, did a great good to mankind. But in his policy of renewing the Church he was an extreme conservative.
  
  -¿How and what is the great ecclesiastical reform to be carried out?
  
  - Indeed, there is a lot of work to be done. When the results of the Second Vatican Council were published, conservative Catholic circles were almost armed. And the Council has enemies. People who believe that whoever is not a cat can go to hell, that women do not have the right to vote, and the ideas are even worse. The clergy are expected to demand from us a strong and idealistic pope, a pope who dares to bring the Church closer to the world. Undoubtedly, the ideal person for this task would be Cardinal Portini, a staunch liberal. But él jam ás would have received the votes of the ultra-conservative sector. Another singer would be Robaira, a man of the people, but of great intellect. Cardoso was slaughtered by a fellow patriot. They were both protectors of the poor.
  
  "And now he's dead.
  
  Fowler's face darkened.
  
  "Dottora, what I am about to tell you now is an absolute secret. I risk my life and yours, and please love me, I'm scared. It's what makes me think in a direction I don't like to look, let alone walk." He paused briefly to catch his breath. Do you know what the Holy Testament is?
  
  Again, as at home at Bastina, stories of spies and murders returned to the forensic scientist's head. I had always considered them drunken tales, but in that hour and with that extra company, the possibility that they were real took on another dimension.
  
  "They say it's the secret service of the Vatican. A network of spies and secret agents who don't hesitate to kill when chance strikes. These are old wives' tales to scare aspiring cops. Almost no one believes in this.
  
  - DottoraDikanti, can you believe the stories about the Holy Testament, because it exists. It has existed for four hundred years and is the left hand of the Vatican in matters that even the Pope himself should not know about.
  
  - It's very hard for me to believe.
  
  - The motto of the Holy Alliance, dottora, is "Cross and Sword".
  
  Paola is recording Dante at the Rafael Hotel, pointing a gun at the journalist. It was his words when he asked Fowler for help, and then I understood what the priest wanted to say.
  
  - Oh my God. Then you...
  
  "I was, a long time ago. Serve two banners, my father and my religion. After that, I had to quit one of two jobs.
  
  -¿What happened?
  
  "I can't tell you that, dottor. Don't ask me about it.
  
  Paola didn't want to point it out. It was part of the dark side of the priest, his mental pain, which squeezed his soul in an icy vice. He suspected that there was much more than what I told him.
  
  "Now I understand Dante's hostility towards you. It has something to do with that past, doesn't it, father?
  
  Fowler permaneció mudo. Paola had to make a decision because there was no more time or opportunity to allow herself to doubt. Let me talk to his sweetheart, who, as you know, is in love with the priest. From every part of him, from the dry warmth of his hands and from the ailments of his soul. I want to be able to absorb them, to rid him of them, of all of them, to give him back the frank laughter of a child. He knows about the impossible in his desire: years of bitterness have lived in this man, which have dragged on since ancient times. It was not just an insurmountable wall, which for él meant priesthood. Anyone who would like to get to it would have to wade through the mountains, and most likely would drown in them. I knew in that moment that I would never be near her, but I also knew that this person would allow himself to be killed before he allowed her to suffer.
  
  "It's all right, father, I rely on you. Please continue," he said with a sigh.
  
  Fowler sat down again and told the amazing story.
  
  "They have been in existence since 1566. In those dark times, the pope was concerned about the growing number of Anglicans and heretics. As head of the Inquisition, he was tough, demanding and pragmatic. Then the significance of the Vatican State itself was much more territorial than it is now, although it now enjoys more power. The Holy Alliance was created by recruiting priests from Venice and uomos, trusted laymen of the proven Catholic faith. His mission was to protect the Vatican as Pope and the Church in a spiritual sense, and his mission grew over time. In the nineteenth century there were thousands of them. Some of them were just informants, ghosts sleeping... Others, only fifty, were the elite: The Hand of Saint Michael. A group of special agents scattered around the world is able to quickly and accurately execute the order. Injecting money into a revolutionary group at will, trading in influence, obtaining important data that can change the course of wars. Silence, silence and, in extreme cases, kill. All members of the Hand of Saint Michael were trained in weapons and tactics. Previously, digos, camouflage, and hand-to-hand combat were used in population control. One hand was capable of cutting grapes in half with a knife thrown from a distance of fifteen paces, and spoke four languages perfectly. He can decapitate a cow, throw her tainted body into a clean water well, and place the blame on a rival group with absolute dominance. They studied during the ños in a monastery on the island of Mediterranean, whose name is not disclosed. With the advent of the twentieth century, learning evolved, but during the Second World War, St. Michael's hand was cut off almost completely. It was é small bloody battle in which many fell. Some advocated very noble goals, while others, alas, not very good ones.
  
  Fowler paused to take a sip of coffee. The shadows in the room became dark and gloomy, and Paola Sinti was frightened to the core. He sat down on a chair and leaned back while the priest continued.
  
  In 1958, John XXIII, himself Pope II of the Vatican, decided that the time for the Holy Union had passed. That his services were not needed. And in the midst of the French War, dismantleó communication networksón with informants and categorically forbid members of the Holy Alliance from taking any action without their consent.;n preliminary version. And that was the case for four years. Only twelve hands remain, out of fifty-two that were in 1939, and some were much older. They are ordered to return to Rome. The secret place where the ardio was mysteriously trained in 1960. And the head of Saint Michael, the leader of the Holy Alliance, died in a car accident.
  
  -Who was he?
  
  "I can"t forgive this, but not because I don"t want to, but because I don"t know. The identity of the Head is always a mystery. It can be anyone: a bishop, a cardinal, a trustee, or a simple priest. It must be varón, older than forty-five doños. That's all. From 1566 to the present day, he is known by the name of the Head: the priest Sogredo, an Italian of Spanish origin, who fought fiercely against Naples. And this is only in very limited circles.
  
  "No wonder the Vatican doesn't recognize the existence of a spy service if they use it all.
  
  -That was one of the motives that prompted John XXIII to break the Holy Alliance. He said it's unfair to kill even in the name of God, and I agree with él. I know that some performances of the "Hand of St. Michael" had a very strong influence on the Nazis. One blow saved hundreds of thousands of lives. But there was a very small group whose contact with the Vatican was cut off, and they made egregious mistakes. Don't talk about it here í, especially in é this dark hour.
  
  Fowler waves his hand as if to dispel the ghosts. In a man like él, whose economy of movement was almost supernatural, such a gesture could only indicate great nervousness. Paola realized that she couldn't wait to finish the story.
  
  "You don"t need to say anything, father. If you think it's necessary for me to know.
  
  I thanked him with a smile and continued.
  
  "But that, as I suppose you could imagine, was not the end of the Holy Alliance. The accession of Paul VI to the throne of Peter in 1963 was surrounded by the most appalling international situation of all time. Just a year before, the world was a hundred meters from the war on mica 39. Just a few months after that, Kennedy, the first president of the United States of America, California, was shot dead. When Paul VI found out about this, he demanded that the Holy Testament be restored. The espías networks, although weakened over time, have been rebuilt. It was difficult to recreate the Hand of St. Michael. Of the twelve Hands called to Rome in 1958, seven were restored to service in 1963. One of them was instructed to rebuild the base for the retraining of field agents. The task took him almost fifteen minutes, but he managed to form a group of thirty agents. Some were chosen from scratch, while others could be found in other secret services.
  
  -Like you: a double agent.
  
  "Actually, my case is called a potential agent. This is someone who usually works in two allied organizations, but in which the director is not aware that the subsidiary organization is making changes or changing the guidelines in its task in each mission. I agree to use my knowledge to save lives, not to destroy others. Nearly every mission I've been assigned has involved restoration: rescuing dedicated priests in difficult places.
  
  -Almost all.
  
  Fowler bowed his face.
  
  - We had a difficult mission, in which everything went awry. One who must cease to be a hand. I didn't get what I wanted, but I'm here. I believe I will be a psychologist for the rest of my life and look how one of my patients brought me to you.
  
  Dante is one of the hands, isn't it, Father?
  
  - At the beginning of 241, after my departure, there was a crisis. Now there are few of them again, so I'm off. All of them are busy far away, on missions from which it is not easy to extract them. Niko that was available was l and he is a person with very little knowledge. Actually, I'm going to work, if my suspicions are correct.
  
   - So ¿ Sirin is _ Head ?
  
  Fowler miro al frente, impasible. After a minute, Paola decided that I was not going to answer her, as I would like to ask one more question.
  
  -Father, please explain why the Holy Alliance would like to do a montage like éste.
  
  "The world is changing, dottora. Democratic ideas resonate in many hearts, including those of the ardent members of the Curia. The Holy Covenant needs a Pope who will firmly support it, otherwise it will disappeará. But the Holy Testament is a preliminary idea. What the three cardinals mean is that they were staunch liberals - all a cardinal can be, after all. Any one of them could destroy the Secret Service again, perhaps forever.
  
  By eliminating them, the threat disappears.
  
  "And along the way, the need for security is growing. If the Cardinals disappeared without me, many questions would arise. I also can't see it as a coincidence: the papacy is paranoid by nature. But, if you're right...
  
  - A disguise for murder. God, I'm disgusted. I'm glad I left the Church.
  
  Fowler walked over to her and squatted down next to the chair, Tom grabbed both of her hands.
  
  "Dottora, make no mistake. In contrast to this Church, made of blood and mud, which you see before you, there is another Church, infinite and invisible, whose banners are raised high to the sky. This Church lives in the souls of millions of believers who love Christ and His message. Rise from the ashes, fill the world and the gates of hell will not prevail against her.
  
  Paola looks at him on the forehead.
  
  "Do you really think so, father?"
  
  "I believe in it, Paola.
  
  They both got up. He kissed her softly and hard, and she accepted him for who he was, with all his scars. Her suffering was diluted with grief, and within a few hours they knew happiness together.
  
  
  
  Dicanti family apartment
  
  Via Della Croce, 12
  
  Sabado, April 9, 2005, 08:41 am.
  
  
  
  This time Fowler awoke to the smell of coffee being made.
  
  "Here it is, father.
  
  I looked at her and really wanted her to speak to you again. I gave her a hard look, and she understood me. Hope gave way to the mother's light, which was already filling the room. She didn't say anything because she didn't expect anything and had nothing to offer but pain. However, they felt comforted in the knowledge that both had learned from the experience, found strength in each other's weaknesses. I'll be damned if I think Fowler's determination in his calling has shaken that belief. Seria fácil, pero seria erroneo. On the contrary, I would be grateful to him for having silenced his demons, at least for the time being.
  
  She was glad he understood. He sat on the edge of the bed and smiled. And it wasn't a sad smile, because that night she broke through the barrier of despair. This fresh mother did not bring confidence, but at least it dispelled confusion. Budík fá he thought that she pushed him away so that he would no longer feel pain. Seria fácil, pero seria erroneo. On the contrary, she understands him and knows that this man owes his promise and his own crusade.
  
  "Dottora, I have something to tell you, and not beá fácil to assume.
  
  "You will say, father," she said.
  
  "If you ever leave your career as a forensic psychiatrist, please don't run a cafe," Ál said, grimacing in the direction of her cafe.
  
  They both laughed and for a moment everything was perfect.
  
  
  After half an hour, after taking a shower and freshening up, discuss all the details of the case. A priest standing at Paola's bedroom window. Forensic woman sitting at a desk.
  
  -¿ Does the father know? In light of the theory that Karoski might be an assassin led by the Holy Alliance, this becomes unrealistic.
  
  - It's possible. However, in light of díhis injury is still very real. And if we have a mind, then the only ones who can stop it will be you and me.
  
  Only with these words mañana lost her brilliance. Paola Cintió strains her soul like a string. Now, more than ever, I realized that it was his responsibility to catch the monster. For Pontiero, for Fowler, and for herself. And when I held him in my arms, I would like to ask him if anyone is holding him by the leash. If he was like that, he wouldn't think to hold back.
  
  "Vigilance is heightened, I understand that. But what about the Swiss Guard?
  
  "Beautiful form, but very little real use. You probably don't even know that three cardinals have already died. I do not count on them: They are simple gendarmes.
  
  Paola scratched the back of her head in concern.
  
  -¿What should we do now, father?
  
  -I don't know. We don't have the slightest hint that the dónde might attack Karoski, and since yesterday the murder has been blamed on más fácil.
  
  - What do you have in mind?
  
  "The cardinals began with a mass of novendiales. This is a novenary for the soul of the late Pope.
  
  - Don't tell me...
  
  -Exactly. Masses will be held throughout Rome. San Juan de Letrán, Santa Maríla Mayor, San Pedro, San Pablo Abroad... Cardinals celebrate mass in pairs in the fifty most important churches in Rome. It's a tradition and I don't think they would trade it for anything in the world. If the Holy Covenant is committed to it, be'sometimes'ideal'not to kill. Aúne's case went as far as the cardinals would also have rebelled if Sirin had tried to prevent them from praying on novenary. No, there will be no Mass no matter what. I'll be damned if even one more cardinal might already be dead and we, the hosts, won't know.
  
  "Damn it, I need a cigarette.
  
  Paola felt Pontiero's package on the table, felt for the suit. I reached into the inside pocket of my jacket and found a small, hard cardboard box.
  
   What it is?
  
  It was an engraving depicting the Madonna del Carmen. The one that Francesco Toma's brother had given her as a farewell gift in Santa Mar in Transpontina. False Carmelite, Karoski's killer. He was wearing the same black suit that was on that mana de Mardi; and he had the seal of aún séguíalleí on it.
  
  -¿Could I have forgotten about it? This test .
  
  Fowler se acerco, intrigado.
  
   -An engraving depicting the Madonna del Carmen. It says something about Detroit.
  
  The priest pronounces the law aloud in English
  
  
   "If your very own brother, or your son or daughter, or the wife you love, or your closest friend secretly entices you, do not yield to him or listen to him. Show him no pity. Do not spare him or shield him. You must certainly put him to death. Then all Israel will hear and be afraid, and no one among you will do such an evil thing again."
  
  
   Paola translated The Life of Rage and Fury.
  
  "If your brother, your father"s son or your mother"s son, your son or your daughter, the wife residing in your womb, or a friend who is your second self, tries to secretly seduce you, do not forgive him or hide from him" ... but I will kill him and all Israel when I know about it, I will be afraid and stop doing this evil among you."
  
  - I think it's from Deuteronomy. Capitulo 13, versiculos 7 al 12.
  
  -Damn it! the forensic scientist spat-. It was always in my pocket! Damn it, Debía realized it was in Englishés.
  
  -No se torture, dottora. One monk gave him a stamp. Considering his disbelief, it is not surprising that he did not pay the slightest attention to this.
  
  "Perhaps, but since we found out who this monk was. I have to remember that you gave me something. I was worried, trying to remember how little I saw of his face in that darkness. If before...
  
  I intended to preach the word to you, remember?
  
  Paola stopped. The priest turned, seal in hand.
  
  "Listen, dottor, this is a common brand. On the part of the atrás él attachó adhesive paper for printing...
  
  Santa Maria del Carmen.
  
  -... with great skill to be able to place the text. Deuteronomy is...
  
  He
  
  -...the source of the unusual in engraving, you know? I think...
  
  Show him the way in these dark times.
  
  "...if I shoot around the corner a little, I can tear it off..."
  
  Paola grabbed his arm, her voice rising to a high-pitched screech.
  
  -¡ DO NOT TOUCH HER!
  
  Fowler parpadeo, sobresaltado. I don't move a single step. The criminologist removed the seal from her hand.
  
  "I'm sorry I yelled at you, father," Dikanti told him, trying to calm herself. I just remembered that Karoski told me that the seal will show me the way in these dark times. And I think it has a message meant to mock us.
  
  - Quiz. Or it could be a clever maneuver to confuse us.
  
  The only certainty in this case is that we are far from counting all the pieces of the puzzle. Hope we can find something here.
  
  He turned the stamp over, looked at it through the glass, saw the cart.
  
  Nothing.
  
  -A passage from the Bible can be a message. But what does he mean?
  
  "I don't know, but I think there's something special about it. Something that is not visible to the naked eye. And I think I have a special tool here for é such cases.
  
  Forensic Trestó in a nearby closet. Finally, from the bottom, he pulled out a dust-covered box. Place it carefully on the table.
  
  "I haven't used it since I was in high school. It was a gift from my father.
  
  Open the box slowly, reverently. To forever engrave in your memory a warning about this device, how expensive it is and how much you should take care of it. I take it out and put it on the table. It was an ordinary microscope. Paola worked at the university with equipment a thousand times more expensive, but she didn't treat any of them with the respect she had for ste. She was glad that she kept this feeling: it was a wonderful date with her father, which was rare for her, that she lived with her father, regretting the day she fell into. I lost. She briefly wondered if she should cherish the fond memories instead of clinging to the thought that they had been snatched from her too soon.
  
  "Give me the printout, father," he said, sitting down in front of the microscope.
  
  Adhesive paper and plastic protect the device from dust. Place the print under the lens and focus. With his left hand, he slides over the colored basket, slowly studying the image of the Virgin. I can't find anything. He turned the stamp over so that the reverse side could be examined.
  
  "Wait a minute... there is something here.
  
  Paola handed the viewfinder to the priest. The letters on the stamp, magnified fifteen times, were large black stripes. One of them, however, had a small whitish square.
  
  - It looks like a perforation.
  
  The inspector returned to the stock of the microscope.
  
  "Swear it was done with a pin." Of course, this was done on purpose. She is too perfect.
  
  -¿ In what letter does the first mark appear?
  
  -On the letter F from If.
  
  "Dottora, please check if there is a hole punch in the other letters.
  
  Paola Barrió is the first word in the text.
  
  "There is another one here.
  
  -Go on, go on.
  
  Eight minutes later, the forensic scientist managed to find a total of eleven perforated letters.
  
  
   "IF youR very own brother, or your son or dA ughter, or the wife you love, or your closest frieN d secretly entiC es you, do not yield to hI m or listen to him.S how him no pity. Do not spare him or shield him. You muS t certainly putH im to death. ThenA I Israel Will hear and be afraid, and no one among you will do such an evil thing again."
  
  
   When I made sure that none of my perforated hieroglyphs was one or the other, the criminologist wrote on commission the ones that were on it. After reading what he wrote, they both shuddered, and Paola wrote it down.
  
  If your brother tries to secretly seduce you,
  
  Write down psychiatric reports.
  
  Do not forgive him and do not hide from him.
  
  Letters to relatives of victims of Karoski's sexual abuse.
  
  But I will kill him.
  
  Write down the name that was on them.
  
  Francis Shaw.
  
  
  
  (REUTERS TTY, APRIL 10, 2005 08:12 GMT)
  
  
  CARDINAL SHOW SERVED NOVENDIAL MASS TODAY IN ST. PETER'S CATHEDRAL
  
  
  ROMA, (Associated Press). Cardinal Francis Shaw will officiate today at twelve o'clock in the afternoon at Mass Novendiales in La Basilica of Saint Peter. The Right Reverend American today enjoys the honor of presiding over a ceremony in Saint Segundo día Novenario for the soul of John Paul II.
  
  Shaw's participation in the ceremony was not well received by certain groups in the United States. In particular, the SNAP (Surviving Network of Abuse by Priests) association sent two of its members to Rome to formally protest against Shaw being allowed to serve in the main church of Christendom. "We are two people, but we will file a formal, strong and organized protest in front of the cámaras," said Barbara Payne, president of SNAP.
  
  This organization is the main association for the fight against sexual abuse by Catholic priests and has more than 4,500 members. His main activity is teaching and supporting children, as well as conducting group therapy aimed at confronting the facts. Many of its members first turn to SNAP in adulthood after an awkward silence.
  
  Cardinal Shaw, currently prefect of the Congregation for the Clergy, was implicated in the investigation of sexual abuse by priests that took place in the United States in the late 1990s. Shaw, a cardinal of the Archdiocese of Boston, was the most important figure in the Catholic Church in the United States and, in many cases, the strongest candidate to succeed Carol. Wojtyla.
  
  His career was put to the test after it was revealed that he had kept more than 300 sexual assault cases from the public in his jurisdiction over the course of a decade.#243;n. Frequently transfer priests accused of state crimes from one parish to another, hoping that this can be avoided.íin escándalo. In almost all cases, he limited himself to advising the accused to "change the scene". Only when the cases have been very serious, put the priests in the hands of a specialized algún center for their treatment.
  
  When the first serious complaints began to come in, Shaw made economic agreements with the last ví families in order to silence them. In the end, the revelations of Ndalosa became known throughout the world, and Shaw was forced to resign by "the highest authorities of the Vatican." He moves to Rome, where he is appointed prefect of the Congregation for the Clergy, a position of some importance, but by all appearances, she is the colossus of his career.
  
  However, there are some who continue to regard Shaw as a saint who defended the Church with all his might. "He was persecuted and slandered for defending the Faith," says Father Miller, his personal secretary. But in the ever-changing media of who the Pope should be, Shaw stands little chance. The Roman Curia is usually a cautious group, not prone to extravagance. While Shaw has a lot of support, we can't rule out that he will garner a lot of votes unless a miracle happens.
  
  2005-08-04-10:12 (AP)
  
  
  
  Sacristy of the Vatican
  
  Sunday, April 10, 2005 at 11:08 am.
  
  
  
  Priests who will officiate with Cardinal Shaw dress in an auxiliary sacristy near the entrance to St. Peter's, where they, along with acolytes, await the officiant five minutes before the start of the ceremony.
  
  Up to this point the museum had been empty except for the two nuns who assisted Shaw and another co-servant, Cardinal Paulich, and a Swiss guard guarding them at the very door of the sacristy.
  
  Karoski stroked his knife hidden among his clothes. Think carefully about your chances.
  
  Finally, he was going to win his prize.
  
  It was almost time.
  
  
  
  St. Peter's Square
  
  Sunday, April 10, 2005 at 11:16 am.
  
  
  
  "You can't get through St. Anne's Gate, Father. She is also under heavy surveillance and won't let anyone in. This applies to those who have permission from the Vatican.
  
  Both travelers surveyed the approaches to the Vatican from some distance. Separately, to be more discreet. It was less than fifty minutes before Mass Novendiales began in San Pedro.
  
  In just thirty minutes, the revelation of Francis Shaw's name on the engraving "Madonna del Carmen" was replaced by an insane advertisement on the Internet. News agencies indicated the place and time where the Show should be, in full view of everyone who wanted to read it.
  
  And they were all in St. Peter's Square.
  
  - We will need to enter through the front door to Basilika.
  
  -No. Security has been tightened at all points, except for this one, which is open to visitors, because it is because of it that we are expected. And although we managed to enter, we could not force us to come to the altar. Shaw and the one who serves with Him depart from St. Peter's sacristy. From allí the road is straight to basílica. Do not use the altar of Peter, which is intended for the Pope. Use one of the secondary altars and there will be about eight hundred people at the ceremony.
  
  -¿ Will Karoskiá dare to speak in front of so many people?
  
  "Our problem is that we don"t know who plays what role in this drama. If the Holy Alliance wants to see Shaw dead, they won't let us stop him from celebrating mass. If they want to hunt down Karoski, then don't let us warn the cardinal as well, because that's a great bait. I am convinced that no matter what happens, this is ú the last act of the comedy.
  
  "Well, at this stage, there will be no role for us in él. It's already eleven to a quarter.
  
  -No. We'll enter the Vatican, surround the Sirin's agents, and get to the sacristy. The show must be prevented from celebrating Mass.
  
  -¿Somo, father?
  
  "We will use the path Sirin Jam can imagine.
  
  
  Four minutes after that, the doorbell of a modest five-story building rang. Paola le dio la razón a Fowler. Sirin could not have imagined that Fowler would knock on the door of the Palace of the Holy Office of her own free will, even at the mill.
  
  One of the entrances to the Vatican is located between Bernini's palace and the colonnade. It consists of a black fence and a gatehouse. It is usually guarded by two Swiss Guards. That Sunday there were five of them, and a plainclothes policeman came to us. Écentimo held a folder in his hand, and inside (though neither Fowler nor Paola knew about it) were his photographs. This person, a member of the Vigilance Corps, saw a couple who seemed to match the description walking along the sidewalk opposite. He only saw them for a moment when they disappeared from his field of vision, and he wasn't sure it was them. He had no right to leave his post since he did not try to follow them to check it out. í The orders were to report whether these men tried to enter the Vatican and to hold them for some time, by force if necessary. But it seemed obvious that these people were important. Press the call bot button on the walkie-talkie and report what you saw.
  
  Almost at the corner of Porta Cavalleggeri, less than twenty meters from the entrance where the policeman received his radio instructions, was the palace gate. Closed door, but with a doorbell. Fowler left his finger sticking out all over the place until he heard the sound of bolts being pulled back from the other side. The face of a mature priest peeks out from the crack.
  
  -¿What did they want? he said in an angry tone.
  
  "We came to visit Bishop Khan.
  
  -¿On behalf of whom?
  
  "From Father Fowler."
  
  - It doesn't look like it to me.
  
  - I'm an old friend.
  
  -Bishop Khanog is resting. Today is Sunday and the Palazzo is closed. Good afternoon," he said, making tired gestures with his hand, as if chasing away flies.
  
  "Please tell me which hospital or cemetery the bishop is in, father.
  
  The priest looked at him in surprise.
  
  -¿Somo says?
  
  "Bishop Khan told me that I would not rest until he made me pay for my many sins, as he must be sick or dead. I have no other explanation.
  
  The priest's gaze changed slightly from hostile aloofness to mild annoyance.
  
  "Looks like you know Bishop Khan. Wait hereí outside," he said, closing the door again in their faces.
  
  -¿Cómo sabía que ese Hanër estaría aquí? ask Paola.
  
  "Bishop Khan never rested a single Sunday in his life, dottor. It would be an unfortunate accident if I did this today.
  
  -Your friend?
  
  Fowler carraspeó.
  
  "Well, actually this is the person who hates me all over the world. Gontas Haner is the current delegate of the Curia. He is an old Jesuit seeking to end the unrest on the outside of the Holy Alliance. The ecclesiastical version of his internal affairs. He was the person who brought the case against me. He hates me for not saying a single word about the missions entrusted to me.
  
  -¿ What is his absolutism?
  
  - Pretty bad. He told me to anathematize my name in él, and that before or after he signed it with the Pope.
  
  -¿ What is an anathema?
  
  - Solemn decree on excommunication. Khan knows what I'm afraid of in this world: that the Church I fought for won't let me go to heaven when I die.
  
  The CSI looked at him with concern.
  
  "Father, ¿ may I know what we are doing here?"
  
  I have come to confess everything.
  
  
  
  Sacristy of the Vatican
  
  Sunday, April 10, 2005 at 11:31 am.
  
  
  
  The Swiss Guardsman collapsed as if he had been knocked down, without a sound, without the sound that his halberd made as it bounced off the floor from the mármol. The cut on his throat completely cut his throat.
  
  One of the nuns came out of the sacristy at the noise. He didn't have time to scream. Karoski slapped him hard in the face. Religious Kay fell face down on the floor, completely stunned. The killer is in no hurry to get his right foot under the black scarf of his flattened sister. I was looking for the back. Pick a precise point and put all your weight on the sole of your foot. The neck is cracking dry.
  
  Another nun pokes her head through the sacristy door with a confident air. He needed the help of his comrade in the era.
  
  Karoski plunged a knife into his right eye. When I pulled her out and placed her in the short corridor leading to the sacristy, she was already dragging the corpse.
  
  Look at three bodies. Look at the sacristy door. Look at the clock.
  
  Aín has five minutes to sign his entries.
  
  
  
  Exterior view of the Palace of the Holy Office
  
  Sunday, April 10, 2005 at 11:31 am.
  
  
  
  Paola froze open-mouthed at Fowler's words, but before she could reply, the door banged open. Instead of the mature priest who had courted them before, there was a handsome bishop with neatly trimmed blond hair and beard. He appeared to be about fifty years old. He speaks to Fowler in a German accent filled with contempt and repeated mistakes.
  
  "Wow, as soon as after all these events, you show up at my door. To whom do I owe this unexpected honor?
  
  "Bishop Khan, I have come to ask you a favor.
  
  "I'm afraid you're not in a position to ask me anything, Father Fowler. Twelve years ago I asked you for something, and you remained silent for two hours. ¡Días! The commission considers him innocent, but I do not. Now go and calm down.
  
  His extended word praises Porta Cavallegheri. Paola thought his finger was so hard and straight that he could have hung Fowler in the el.
  
  The priest helped him tie his own noose.
  
  Aun didn't hear what I could offer in return.
  
  The Bishop crossed his arms over his chest.
  
  -Hable, Fowler.
  
  "It is possible that no later than half an hour later, a murder will occur in the Face of St. Peter. come to stop it. Unfortunately we cannot access the Vatican. Camilo Sirin denied us entry. I ask your permission to pass through the Palazzo to the car park so that I can enter La Cittá unnoticed.
  
  -And what in return?
  
  - Answer all your questions about avocados. Mananna.
  
  He turned to Paola.
  
  - I need your ID.
  
  Paola was not wearing a police badge. Boi se había took her away. Luckily, he had a magnetic UACV access card. He held her firmly before the bishop, hoping that this would be enough for him to believe them.
  
  The Bishop takes the card from the forensic scientist's hand. I studied his face and the photo on the card, the UACV badge, and even the ID tape.
  
  - Oh, how true that is. Believe me, Fowler, I will add lust to your many sins.
  
  Here Paola looked away to prevent Him from seeing the smile that had appeared on her lips. It was a relief that Fowler took the bishop's cause very seriously. He clicked his tongue in a gesture of disgust.
  
  "Fowler, wherever he goes he is surrounded by blood and death. My beliefs about you are very firm. I don't want to let him in.
  
  The priest was about to retort to the Khan, but he gestured for him.
  
  "Nevertheless, father, I know that you are a man of honor. I accept your deal. Today I am going to the Vatican, but Mother Anna must come to me and tell me the truth.
  
  Having said this, he stepped aside. Fowler and Paola entered. The foyer was elegant, cream-coloured and without any ornaments or decorations. Silence reigned throughout the building, which corresponded to Sunday. Paola suspected that Niko, who remained everything, was that fit and slender figure, like foil. This person sees the righteousness of God in himself. He was afraid to even think about what such an obsessed consciousness could have done in the four hundred years before the satras.
  
   -Le veré mañana, padre Fowler. Because I will have the pleasure of giving you the document that I am keeping for you.
  
  The priest led Paola down the corridor of the first floor of the Palazzo, never looking back, perhaps afraid to make sure that he was at the door, waiting for his return from the next day.
  
  "That's interesting, father. Usually people leave the church for the Holy Office, they don"t enter through it," Paola said.
  
  Fowler grimaced between sadness and anger. Nika.
  
  "I hope Karoski's capture doesn't help save the life of a potential victim who ends up signing my excommunication as a reward.
  
  They approached the emergency door. The next window overlooked the parking lot. Fowler presses down on the center bar of the door and pokes his head out unnoticed. The Swiss Guards, thirty yards away, watch the street with their fixed eyes. Close the door again.
  
  - The de-monkeys are in a hurry. We need to talk to Shaw and explain the situation to him before Karoski ends L.
  
  - Burn the road.
  
  - We will exit the parking lot and continue driving as close as possible to the wall of the building in the Indian lane. We'll be in the courtroom soon. We will keep holding on to the wall until we reach the corner. We will have to cross the rápedro diagonally and turn our head to the right, because we will not know if there is anyone watching in the area. I'll go first, ¿ok?
  
  Paola nodded and they moved on, walking quickly. They managed to reach St. Peter's sacristy without incident. It was an imposing building adjacent to St. Peter's Basilica. Throughout the summer it was open to tourists and pilgrims, as in its afternoons it was a museum that housed some of the greatest treasures of Christendom.
  
  The priest puts his hand on the door.
  
  She was open.
  
  
  
  Sacristy of the Vatican
  
  Sunday, April 10, 2005 at 11:42 am.
  
  
  
   -Mala señal, dottora -susurró Fowler.
  
   The inspector puts his hand on his waist and pulls out a .38 revolver.
  
  -Let's go in.
  
  "I believed Boy took the gun from him.
  
  "He took the machine gun from me, which is the weapon of the rules. This toy is just in case.
  
  They both crossed the threshold. The territory of the museum was deserted, the windows were closed. The paint that covered the floors and walls brought back the meager light that filtered through the sparse windows. Despite the afternoon, the rooms were almost dark. Fowler silently led Paola, inwardly cursing the creak of her shoes. They passed four museum halls. On the sixth, Fowler came to an abrupt halt. Less than half a meter away, partly hidden by the wall that formed the corridor along which they were to turn, I stumbled upon something highly unusual. A hand in a white glove and a hand covered in fabric in bright yellow, blue and red tones.
  
  Turning a corner, they made sure that the arm was attached to a Swiss guard. Aín held the halberd in his left hand, and what had been his eyes were now two oozing holes. After a while, all ás allá, Paola saw two nuns in black robes, lying prone, joined in a last embrace.
  
  They also don't have eyes.
  
  The criminalist cocked the trigger. Crossover look with Fowler.
  
  -Esta aqui.
  
  They were in a short corridor leading to the central sacristy of the Vatican, usually guarded by a contact network, but with a double-leaf door open for visitors to view from the entrance the place in which the Holy Father puts on before the celebration of Mass.
  
  At that time it was closed.
  
  "For God's sake, don't let it be too late," Paola said, glaring at the bodies.
  
  By then, there had already been at least eight Karoski meetings. She swears to herself the same as she has been in recent years. Don't think twice about it. I ran the two meters of the corridor to the door, avoiding the SAPRáveres. I drew the blade with my left hand, while my right hand was raised, revolver at the ready, and stepped over the threshold.
  
  I was in a very high octagonal hall, about twelve meters long, filled with golden light. In front of her is an altar, surrounded by columns, with the image of an lion: the descent from the Cross. Walls covered with bells and treated with gray marble, ten cupboards of teak and lemongrass, in which the sacred vestments were stored. If Paola had looked up to the ceiling, she could have seen a pool decorated with beautiful frescoes, from whose windows the light came flooding the place. But the CSI keeps it in full view of the two people who were in the room.
  
  One of them was Cardinal Shaw. The other one was purebred too. He sounded vague to Paola, until eventually she was able to recognize him. It was Cardinal Paulich.
  
  They both stood at the altar. Paulich, Shaw's assistant, was just finishing handcuffing her when a forensic scientist burst in with a gun pointed directly at them.
  
  -¿Donde está? Paola screams, and her scream echoes through the scull. ¿Did you see him?
  
  The American spoke very slowly, his eyes fixed on the pistol.
  
  -¿Dónde está quién, señorita?
  
  -Karoski. The one who killed the Swiss guard and the nuns.
  
  I hadn't finished speaking when Fowler entered the room. He hates Paola. He looked at Shaw and for the first time met Cardinal Paulic's eyes.
  
  There was fire and recognition in that look.
  
  "Hi, Victor," the priest said in a low, hoarse voice.
  
  Cardinal Paulich, known as Viktor Karoski, held Cardinal Shaw by the neck with his left hand, and with an additional right hand he held Pontiero's pistol and put it to the purple's temple.
  
  -¡Stay where you are! shouted Dicanti, and the echo repeated his words.
  
  - Don't move your finger, and fear, from the pulsating adrenaline she felt in her temples. Remember the rage that seized her when, after seeing the image of Pontiero, this animal called her on the phone. by phone.
  
  Aim carefully.
  
  Karoski was more than ten meters away, and only part of his head and forearm were visible behind the human shield that Cardinal Shaw had formed.
  
  With his agility and marksmanship, it was an impossible shot.
  
  or I will kill you here.
  
  Paola bit her bottom lip to keep from crying out in rage. Keep everyone in front of the killer and do nothing.
  
  "Pay no attention to him, dothor. He would never harm either yes or the cardinal, would he, Victor?
  
  Karoski presses tightly against Shaw's neck.
  
  - Of course yes. Drop the gun on the ground, Dicanti. ¡ Tyrela!
  
  "Please do as he tells you," Shaw's gimió in a trembling voice.
  
  "Excellent interpretation, Victor," Fowler's voice trembled with excitement, "Lera. Remember, it seemed impossible to us that the killer could get out of Cardoso's room, which was closed to outsiders? Damn it was fucking awesome. I never left her.
  
  -¿Somo? Paola was surprised.
  
  - We broke down the door. We didn't see anyone. And then a timely request for help sent us on a frantic chase down the stairs. Victor surelyía ¿ under the bed? In the closet?
  
  "Very clever, father. Now drop the gun, Inspector.
  
  "But, of course, this request for help and the description of the criminal is confirmed by a man of faith, a man of complete trust. Cardinal. Assassin's accomplice.
  
  -¡Fill out!
  
  -¿What did he promise you to get rid of his rivals in pursuit of fame he no longer deserved?
  
  -Enough! Karoski was like crazy, his face was wet with sweat. One of the artificial eyebrows she wore was peeling off, almost above one of her eyes.
  
   -¿Te buscó en el Instituto Saint Matthew, Viktor? É he was the one who recommended you to go into everything, ¿ right?
  
  "Stop these absurd insinuations, Fowler. Order the woman to drop the gun, or this lunatic will kill me - orders Shaw in desperation.
  
  -¿Cuá was this the plan of His Eminence Victor? Fowler said, ignoring this, "Ten, are we supposed to pretend to attack him in the very center of St. Peter's?" ¿And é will I dissuade you from your attempt at everything in front of all God's people and TV viewers?
  
  -¡ Don't follow him or I'll kill him! ¡Kill him!
  
  "I would be the one to die. Y el seria un heroe.
  
   -¿What did I promise you in exchange for the keys to the Kingdom, Victor?
  
  -¡Heavens, damn goat! on! Immortal life!
  
  Karoski, except for the gun pointed at Shaw's head. Aim at Dikanty and shoot.
  
  Fowler pushed Dicanty forward, who dropped his gun. Karoski's bullet missed too close to the inspector's head and pierced the priest's left shoulder.
  
  Karoski pushed C Shaw away, who ran for cover between two cabinets. Paola, having no time to look for a revolver, crashes into Karoski with his head down, fists closed. Hitting the wizard with my right shoulder in his chest, I smashed him against the wall, but I was unable to knock the air out of him: the layers of padding he wore to pretend to be a fat man protected him. Despite this, Pontiero's gun fell to the floor with a loud and a loud thud.
  
  The assassin stabs Dikanti in the back, who howls in pain, but gets up and manages to stab Karoski in the face, who staggers and almost loses his balance.
  
  Paola made her unico mistake.
  
  Look around for a pistol. And then Karoski hit her in the face, in her status as a magician, in reason. And finally, I grabbed her with one arm, as I did with Shaw. Only that this time she carried a sharp object in her hand, with which she stroked Paola's face. It was an ordinary knife for cutting fish, but very sharp.
  
  "Oh, Paola, you have no idea how much fun this will give me," I whisper oo do oido.
  
  -¡VIKTOR!
  
  Karoski turned. Fowler fell to his left knee, pressed to the ground, his left shoulder was crushed, and blood ran down his arm, which hung limply to the ground.
  
  Paola's right hand took hold of the revolver and aimed straight at Karoska's forehead.
  
  "He's not going to shoot, Father Fowler," the killer gasped. We are not so different. We both live in the same private hell. And you swear by your priesthood that you will never kill again.
  
  With a terrible effort, flushed with pain, Fowler managed to raise his left arm into a stance. I yank him out of his shirt in one motion and toss him into the air, between the killer and él. The hoist spun in the air, its fabric turning white except for a reddish mark, all where Fowler's thumb rested on the table. Karoski followed him with hypnotized eyes, but did not see him fall.
  
  Fowler fired one perfect shot that hit Karoski in the eye.
  
  The killer faints. In the distance, he heard the voices of his parents calling him, and went to meet them.
  
  
  Paola ran up to Fowler, who was sitting motionless and absent-minded. While running, he took off his jacket to cover the wound on the priest's shoulder.
  
  - Accept, father, path.
  
  "It is good that you have come, my friends," said Cardinal Shaw, suddenly plucking up the courage to stand up. This monster kidnapped me.
  
  "Don't stand still, cardinal. Go and warn someone..." Paola began to say as she helped Fowler to the floor. Suddenly I realized that he was heading for El Purpurado. Heading towards Pontiero's gun, he is next to Karoski's body. And I realized that now they were very dangerous witnesses. I extend my hand to Reverend Leo.
  
  "Good afternoon," said Inspector Sirin, entering the room, followed by three Security constables, and startling the cardinal, who was already stooping to pick up a pistol from the floor. I'll be right back and put on the Guido.
  
  "I was beginning to believe he wouldn't introduce himself to you, Inspector General. You must arrest éStas immediately," he said to Fowler and Paola.
  
  "Excuse me, Your Eminence. I am with you now.
  
  Camilo Sirin glances around. He approached Karoski, picking up Pontiero's pistol along the way. Touch the tip of your shoe to the killer's face.
  
  -¿Is it el?
  
  "Yes," Fowler said without moving.
  
  "Damn it, Sirin," Paola said. Fake cardinal. Could this have happened?
  
  - Have good references.
  
  Sirin on the capes at the speed of vértigo. Disgust for this stone face instilled in the brain, which worked to its fullest. We note right away that Paulich was the last cardinal appointed by Wojtyla. Six months ago, when Wojtyla could barely get out of bed. Record that he announced to the Somali and to Ratzinger that he appointed a cardinal in pectore, whose name he revealed to the Show, to be announced to the people. death. He finds nothing special in imagining that the lips, inspired by the exhausted Most, pronounce the name of Paulich, and that he will never accompany him. to the "cardinal" at Domus Sancta Marthae for the first time to introduce him to his curious poñerosu comrades.
  
  "Cardinal Shaw, you have much to explain.
  
  - I don't know what you mean...
  
  - Cardinal, please.
  
  Shaw volvió a envararse una vez más. He began to restore his pride, his pride of many years, the very one that he had lost.
  
  - John Paul II prepared me for many years to continue your work, Inspector General. You tell me that no one knows what might happen when control of the Church passes into the hands of the faint of heart. Rest assured that you are now acting in the way that best suits your Church, my friend.
  
  Sirin's eyes made a correct judgment about the simo in half a second.
  
  "Of course I will, Your Eminence. ¿Domenico?
  
  "Inspector," said one of the constables, who came in wearing a black suit and tie.
  
  - Cardinal Shaw is coming out now to say mass novendiales in La Basílica.
  
  The cardinal smiled.
  
  "After that, you and another agent will escort you to your new destination: the Albergradz Monastery in the Alps, where the Cardinal can contemplate his actions in solitude. I will also go mountain climbing from time to time.
  
  "A dangerous sport, now it's one," Fowler said.
  
  -Certainly. fraught with accidents -corroboró Paola.
  
  Shaw was silent, and in the silence you could almost see him falling. His head was lowered, his chin pressed to his chest. Do not say goodbye to anyone when you leave the sacristy accompanied by Domenico.
  
  The Inspector General kneels beside Fowler. Paola held his head, covering the wound with her jacket.
  
  - Tame Perm.
  
  Away- the hand of a forensic scientist. Her makeshift blindfold was already soaked, and she replaced it with her wrinkled jacket.
  
  "Calm down, the ambulance is on its way. ¿Tell me, please, án cómo I got a ticket to é this circus?
  
  "We're avoiding your lockers, Inspector Sirin. We prefer to use the words of the Holy Scriptures.
  
  The unflappable man arched an eyebrow slightly. Paola realized that this was her way of expressing surprise.
  
  -O, sure. Old Gontas Haner, unrepentant worker. I see that your criteria for admission to the Vatican are more than weak.
  
  "And their prices are very high," Fowler said, thinking of the terrible interview that lay ahead of him next month.
  
  Sirin nodded in understanding and pressed his jacket against the priest's wound.
  
  - I think it can be fixed.
  
  At that moment, two nurses arrived with a folding stretcher.
  
  While the orderlies attended to the wounded, inside the altar, at the door leading to the sacristy, eight servants and two priests with two censers waited, lined up in two rows to help the wounded. Cardinals Shaw and Paulich. The clock showed four past twelve. Mass must have already begun. The eldest of the priests was tempted to send one of the servants to see what would happen. Perhaps the oblate sisters, who were assigned to look after the sacristy, had problems finding suitable clothes. But protocol required everyone to remain still while waiting for the celebrants.
  
  In the end, only Cardinal Shaw appeared at the door leading to the church. The acolytes escorted her to the altar of Saint Joseph, where she was to celebrate mass. The faithful, who were near the cardinal during the ceremony, commented among themselves that the cardinal must have loved Papa Wojtyla very much: Shaw spent the entire mass in tears.
  
  
  "Calm down, you're safe," one of the orderlies said. We will immediately go to the hospital to fully cure him, but the bleeding has stopped.
  
  The porters lifted Fowler, and at that moment Paola suddenly understood him. Alienation from parents, renunciation of inheritance, a terrible insult. He stopped the porters with a gesture.
  
  - I understand now. The personal hell they shared. You were in Vietnam to kill your father, weren't you?
  
  Fowler looked at him in surprise. I was so surprised that I forgot to speak Italian and I answered in Englishés.
  
  - Sorry?
  
  "It was anger and resentment that led him to everything," Paola answered, also in a whisper in English so that the porters would not hear the conversation. deep hatred for his father, fathers or rejection of his mother. Refusal to receive an inheritance. I want to end everything to do with family. And her interview with Victor about hell. It's in the dossier you left me. He was right in front of me all the time...
  
  -¿Does the donde want to stop?
  
  "Now I understand," Paola said, leaning over the stretcher and placing a friendly hand on the priest's shoulder, who stifled a groan in pain. I understand that he has accepted a job at St. Matthew's Institute, and I understand that I am helping him become what he is today. Your father abused you all the time, didn't he? And his mother knew it all along. It's the same with Karoski. That's why Karoski respected him. Because they were both on different sides of the same world. You chose to be a man and I chose to be a monster.
  
  Fowler didn't answer, but he didn't need to. The porters resumed their movement, but Fowler found the strength to look at her and smile.
  
  - Kui wish, .
  
  
  In the ambulance, Fowler struggles with unconsciousness. He closed his eyes for a moment, but a familiar voice brought him back to reality.
  
  - Hello, Anthony.
  
  Fowler sonrio.
  
  - Hello, Fabio. ¿ How about your hand?
  
  -Pretty fucked up.
  
  "You were very lucky on that rooftop.
  
  Dante didn't answer. Él and Sirin were sitting together on a bench adjoining the ambulance. The superintendent grimaced in displeasure, despite the fact that his left arm was in a cast and his face was covered with wounds; the other wore his usual poker face.
  
  -So what? are you going to kill me? ¿ Cyanide in a sachet of serum, will you let me bleed or will you be a killer if you shoot me in the back of the head? I would prefer this to be the last one.
  
  Dante laughed, not happy.
  
  - Don't tempt me. Maybe algun día, but not this time, Anthony. This is a round trip. There will be a more appropriate occasion.
  
  Sirin looked the priest straight in the eyes with a straight face.
  
  "I want to thank you. You were very helpful.
  
  "I didn't do this for you. And not because of your flag.
  
  - I know.
  
  "Actually, I believed that you were the one who was against it.
  
  "I know that too, and I don"t blame you.
  
  All three were silent for several minutes. Finally Sirin spoke again.
  
  -¿Is there any chance that you will come back to us?
  
  No, Camilo. He already pissed me off once. This will not happen again.
  
  -Last time. For the good old days.
  
  Fowler meditó unos segundos.
  
  - With one condition. You know what it is.
  
  Sirin nodded.
  
  - I give you my word. Nobody should come near her.
  
  - And from the other too. In española.
  
  "I cannot guarantee you this. We're not sure he doesn't have a copy of the disk.
  
  - I spoke to her. He doesn't have it and he doesn't talk.
  
  -Everything is fine. Without the disc, you can't prove anything.
  
  There was another silence, a long one, interrupted by the intermittent beep of the electrocardiogram, which the priest pressed to his chest. Fowler gradually relaxed. Amidst the mists, ó250 reached him; Sirin's last phrase.
  
  -¿Sabes, Anthony? For a moment I believed I would tell her the truth. All the truth.
  
  Fowler didn't hear his own answer, though he didn't. Not all truths become free. Know that I can't even live with my truth. Not to mention putting this burden on someone else.
  
  
  
  (El Globo, p. 8 Gina, April 20, 2005, April 20, 2003)
  
  
  RATZINGER APPOINTED BY THE POPE WITHOUT ANY OBJECTION
  
  ANDREA OTERO.
  
  (Special Envoy)
  
  
  ROME. The ceremony for the election of a successor to John Paul II ended yesterday with the election of the former prefect of the Congregation for the Doctrine of the Faith, Joseph Ratzinger. Despite the fact that he swore on the Bible to keep information about his chosenness secret under pain of excommunication, the first leaks have already begun to flow to the media. Apparently, the Reverend Aleman was elected by 105 votes out of 115 possible, which is much more than the required 77. The Vaticans assure that the huge number of supporters that Ratzinger has achieved is an absolute fact, and given that the key issue was resolved in just two years, the Vaticanist has no doubt that Ratzinger will not withdraw his support.íhow.
  
  Experts attribute this to the lack of opposition to a candidate who, in principle, was very popular in the pentathlon. Sources very close to the Vatican have indicated that Ratzinger's main rivals, Portini, Robair and Cardoso, have not yet received enough votes. The same source went so far as to comment that he saw these cardinals "a bit absent" during the election of Benedict XVI (...)
  
  
  
  YERI LOGO
  
  
  
  
  Despatches from Pope Benedict XVI
  
   Palazzo del Governoratto
  
   My ércoles April 20 , 2005 11:23 am .
  
  
  
   The man in white got it in sixth place. A week later, stopping and going down the floor, Paola, who was waiting in a similar corridor, was nervous, not suspecting that her friend had died at that time. A week later, his fear of not knowing how to behave was forgotten, and his friend was avenged. Many things happened in those seven years, and some of the most important things happened in Paola's soul.
  
  The criminalist noticed that red ribbons with wax seals hung on the front door, which guarded the office between the death of John Paul II and the election of his successor. The Supreme Pontíris followed the direction of his gaze.
  
  "I asked them to leave them alone for a while. A servant to remind me that é this position is temporary," he said in a weary voice as Paola kissed his ring.
  
  -Holiness.
  
  "IspettoraDicanti, welcome. I called her to personally thank her for her brave performance.
  
  "Thank you, Your Holiness. If I did my duty.
  
  - No, you have fully fulfilled your duty. If you stay, please," he said, pointing to a few chairs in a corner of the office under the beautiful Tintoretto.
  
  "I was really hoping to find Father Fowler here, Your Holiness," Paola said, unable to hide the anguish in her voice. I haven't seen him for ten years.
  
  Dad took his hand and smiled reassuringly.
  
  "Father Fowler is resting safely in a safe place. I had the opportunity to visit him that night. I asked to say goodbye to you, and you gave me a message: The time has come for both of us, you and me, to let go of the pain for those left behind.
  
  Hearing this phrase, Paola felt an inner tremor and grimaced. I spend half an hour in this office, although what I talked about with the Holy Father will remain between the two of them.
  
  At noon, Paola went out into the light in St. Peter's Square. The sun was shining, it was past noon. I take out a pack of Pontiero tobacco and light up the last cigar. Raise your face to the sky, blowing smoke.
  
  "We caught him, Maurizio. Tenias razon. Now go to the eternal light and give me peace. Oh, and give dad some memories.
  
  
  Madrid, January 2003 - Santiago de Compostela, August 2005
  
  
  
  ABOUT THE AUTHOR
  
  
  
  Juan Gómez-Jurado (Madrid, 1977) - journalist. He has worked on the editorial boards of Radio Spain, Channel +, ABC, Channel CEP and Channel Cope. He has received various literary awards for his stories and novels, the most important of which is the VII International Prize of the City of Torrevieja for the 2008 novel for Emblem of the Traitor, published by Plaza Janés (already on sale in paperback), with which Juan celebrates that in 2010 its number reached three million readers worldwide.
  
  Trajectory after the international success of his first novel, Especially from God (published in 42 países a día today) Juan became an international author of español más along with Javier Sierra and Carlos Ruiz Zaf and#243;n. In addition to seeing your life's dream come true, you must dedicate yourself fully to storytelling. The publication in A Contract with God was his confirmation (so far published in a collection of 35 pages and counting). In order not to shelve his passion for journalism, he continued to write reports and write a weekly information column in the newspaper Voice of Galicia. The fruit of one such reportage during a trip to the United States that resulted from The Massacre at Virginia Tech, his is so far the only non-fiction book that has also been translated into multiple languages and won multiple awards.
  
  As a person... Juan loves books, movies and the company of his family the most. He is an apollo (which él explains is that he is interested in politics but is suspicious of politicians), his favorite color is blue - his daughter's eyes - and he loves her. his favorite food is scrambled eggs and potatoes. Like a good archer, he talks non-stop. Jemas leaves the house without a novel under his arm.
  
  
  www.juangomezjurado.com
  
  On Twitter: Arrobajuangomezzurado
  
  
  
  
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  1 [1] If you live, I will forgive you your sins in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit. Yaen.
  
  
  2 [2] I swear by Holy Jesus that God will forgive you for all the sins you may have committed. Yaen.
  
  
  3 [3] This case is real (although the names have been changed out of respect for the ví articles), and its consequences deeply undermine its position in the power struggle between Freemasons and Opus Dei in the Vatican.
  
  
  4 [4] A small detachment of Italian police in the hinterland of the Vatican. There are three men in it, whose presence is just a testament, and they do ancillary work. Formally, they have no jurisdiction in the Vatican, since it is another country.
  
  
  5 [5] Before death.
  
  
  6 [6] CSI: Crime Scene Investigation is the plot of a thrilling (albeit unrealistic) North American fantasy series in which DNA tests are completed in minutes.
  
  
  7 [7] Actual numbers: Between 1993 and 2003, St. Matthew's Institute served 500 religious figures, of which 44 were diagnosed with pedophilia, 185 with phoebe, 142 with compulsive disorder and 165 with mental disorders. unintegrated sexuality (difficulty integrating the same into one's own personality.)
  
  
  8 [8] There are currently 191 known male serial killers and 39 female serial killers.
  
  
  9 [9] St. Mary's Seminary in Baltimore was named in the early 1980s. Pink Palace for the generosity with which homosexual relations were accepted among the seminarians. Secondly, Father John Despard "In my St. Mary's Day days, there were two guys in the shower and everyone knows it, nothing happened. Doors were constantly opened and closed in the corridors at night...".
  
  
  10 [10] The seminary usually consists of six courses, the sixth of which, or pastoral, is preaching in various places where the seminarian can help, whether in the parish, hospital or school. or about an institution based on Christian ideology.
  
  
  11 [11] Director Boy refers to the Holy of Holies of Turábán Santa de Turín. Christian tradition claims that this is the canvas in which Jesus Christ was wrapped and on which His image was miraculously imprinted. Numerous studies have failed to find conclusive evidence either positively or negatively. The church has not officially clarified its position on the Tour painting, but unofficially emphasized that "this is a matter that is left to the discretion of the faith and interpretation of every Christian."
  
  
  12 [12] VICAP is an acronym for the Violent Criminal Capture Program, the FBI's division of the most extreme criminals.
  
  
  13 [13] Some multinational pharmaceutical corporations uticas donated their surplus contraceptives to international organizations operating in Third World countries such as Kenya and Tanzania. In many cases, the men she sees as impotent as patients die in her arms due to lack of chloroquine, on the contrary, their medicine cabinets are overflowing with contraceptives. Thus, companies face thousands of involuntary testers of their products without being able to sue. And Dr. Burr calls ésta práctica the Alpha program.
  
  
  14 [14] An incurable disease in which the patient experiences severe pain in the soft tissues. It is caused by sleep disorders or biological disorders caused by external agents.
  
  
  15 [15] Dr. Burr refers to people who have nothing to lose, with a violent past if possible. The letter Omega, the last letter of the Greek alphabet, has always been associated with nouns such as "death" or "the end."
  
  
  16 [16] The NSA (National Security Agency) or the National Security Agency is the world's largest intelligence agency, far outnumbering the infamous CIA (Central Intelligence Agency). The Drug Enforcement Administration is the drug control agency in the United States. In connection with the September 11 attacks on the Twin Towers, American public opinion insisted that all intelligence agencies be coordinated by one thinking head. The Bush administration faced this challenge, and John Negroponte became the first director of national intelligence since February 2005. This novel features a literary version of Saint Paul's miko and a controversial real-life character.
  
  
  17 [17] Name of Assistant to the President of the United States.
  
  
  18 [18] The Holy Office, whose official nomenclature is the Congregation for the Doctrine of the Faith, is the modern (and politically correct) name of the Holy Inquisition.
  
  
  19 [19] Robaira hakíso referring to the quote "Blessed are the poor, for your kingdom is God's" (Luke VI, 6). Samalo answered him with the words: "Blessed are the poor, especially from ritu, for from them is the Kingdom of Heaven (Matthew V, 20).
  
  
  20 [20] Red sandals, as well as a tiara, a ring and a white cassock are the three most important symbols that symbolize victory in pon sumo. They are referenced several times throughout the book.
  
  
  21 [21] Stato Cittá del Vaticano.
  
  
  22 [22] So the Italian police call the lever, which is used to break locks and break doors in suspicious places.
  
  
  23 [23] In the name of all that is holy, may the angels guide you, upon your arrival the Lord will meet you...
  
  
  24 [24] Futbol italiano.
  
  
  25 [25] Director Boy remarks that Dicanti paraphrases the beginning of Tolstoy's Anna Karenina: "All happy families are alike, but unhappy families are different."
  
  
  26 [26] A line of thought stating that Jesus Christ was the symbol of humanity in class struggle and liberation from "oppressors". Although this idea is attractive as an idea because it protects the interests of the Jews, since the eighties the Church has condemned it as a Marxist interpretation of the Holy Scriptures.
  
  
  27 [27] Father Fowler refers to the saying "One-eyed Pete is the marshall of Blindville", in Spanish "One-eyed Pete is sheriff of Villasego". For a better understanding, Spanishñol is used.
  
  
  28 [28] Dicanti quotes Don Quixote in his Italian poetry. The original phrase, well known in Spain, is: "With the help of the church we have given." By the way, the word "caught" is a popular expression.
  
  
  29 [29] Father Fowler asks, please, to see Cardinal Shaw, and the nun tells him that his Polish is a little rusty.
  
  
  30 [30] Solidarity is the name of a Polish trade union founded in 1980 by Nobel Peace Prize laureate electrician Lech Walesa. Relations between Walesa and John Paul II have always been very close, and there is evidence that the money to set up the solidarity organization came in part from the Vatican.
  
  
  31 [31] William Blake was an eighteenth-century English Protestant poet. "The Marriage of Heaven and Hell" is a work that spans many genres and categories, although we might call it a rich satirical poem. Much of its length corresponds to Parables from Hell, aphorisms supposedly given to Blake by a demon.
  
  
  32 [32] The Charismatics are a funny group whose rites are usually quite extreme: during their rites, they sing and dance to the sound of tambourines, do somersaults (and even brave máy go as far as somersaults), throw themselves on the ground and throw themselves at people. church pews or people sit on them, speak in tongues... All this is supposedly saturated with sacred ritual and great euphoria. The Church of the Cats of Olik has never looked favorably on this group.
  
  
  33 [33] "Soon the saint." With this cry, many demanded the immediate canonization of John Paul II.
  
  
  34 [34] According to the doctrine of the cat, Saint Michael is the head of the heavenly host, the angel who drives Satan out of the heavenly kingdom. #225;angel, casting out Satan from the kingdom of heaven. heaven and protector of the Church.
  
  
  35 [35] The Blair Witch Project was a supposed documentary about some residents who got lost in the woods to report on the phenominus extraños in the area, and eventually they all disappeared. Some time after the cassette was found, presumably, too. It was actually a montage by two directors jóvenes and hábiles who achieved great success on a very limited budget.
  
  
  36 [36] Road effect.
  
  
  37 [37] John 8:32.
  
  
  38 [38] One of the two airports in Rome, located 32 km from the city.
  
  
  39 [39] Father Fowler must certainly be referring to the missile crisis. In 1962, Soviet Prime Minister Khrushchev sent several ships to Cuba with nuclear warheads, which, once installed in the Caribbean, could hit targets in the United States. Kennedy imposed a blockade of the island and promised to sink cargo ships if they did not return to the USSR. Half a mile from the American destroyers, Khrushchev ordered to return to his ships. For five years the world lived with bated breath.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Juan Gomez Jurado
  
  
  Emblem of the Traitor
  
  
  
  Prologue
  
  
  
  DISTINCTIVE FEATURES OF GIBRALTAR
  
  March 12, 1940
  
  As the wave tossed him against the gunwale, sheer instinct made Captain Gonzalez grab onto the tree, ripping the skin all over his palm. Decades later - by then he had become the most prominent bookseller in Vigo - he shuddered as he remembered that night, the most terrible and unusual of his life. As he sat in his chair as an old, grey-haired man, his mouth recalled the taste of blood, saltpeter, and fear. His ears would have remembered the roar of what they called the "fool tipper," a treacherous wave that takes less than twenty minutes to rise and that sailors in the straits - and their widows - have learned to fear; and his astonished eyes would again see something that simply could not be there.
  
  When he saw this, Captain Gonzalez completely forgot that the engine was already malfunctioning, that there were no more than seven people on his team when there should have been at least eleven, that among them he was the only one who was not only six months ago swayed in the soul. He completely forgot that he was going to nail them to the deck for not waking him up when all this rocking started.
  
  He held on tightly to the porthole to turn around and drag himself onto the bridge, bursting onto it in a gust of rain and wind that washed over the navigator through and through.
  
  "Get off my helm, Roca!" - he shouted, strongly pushing the navigator. "No one needs you in the world."
  
  "Captain, I... You told us not to disturb you until we were about to sink, sir." His voice trembled.
  
  That's what's going to happen now, the captain thought, shaking his head. Most of his team consisted of the miserable remnants of the war that had devastated the country. He couldn't blame them for not sensing the big wave coming, just as no one could blame him now for focusing his attention on turning the boat around and getting it to safety. The smartest thing to do would be to ignore what he had just seen, because the alternative was suicide. Something that only a fool would do.
  
  And I'm that fool, thought Gonzalez.
  
  The navigator watched him with his mouth wide open as he steered, holding the boat firmly and cutting through the waves. The Esperanza gunboat was built at the end of the last century, and the wood and steel of its hull creaked violently.
  
  "Captain!" yelled the navigator. "What the hell are you doing? We'll roll over!"
  
  "Look to port, Roca," replied the captain. He, too, was frightened, though he could not allow the slightest trace of that fear to show.
  
  The navigator obeyed, thinking that the captain had completely lost his mind.
  
  A few seconds later, the captain began to doubt his own judgment.
  
  Not more than thirty swimming strokes away from us, the little raft rocked between two crests, its keel at a dangerous angle. It seemed that he was on the verge of capsizing; in fact, it was a miracle that it hadn't rolled over yet. Lightning flashed, and suddenly the navigator understood why the captain had bet eight lives on such an unfortunate combination.
  
  "Sir, there are people over there!"
  
  "I know Roca. Tell Castillo and Pascual. They have to leave the pumps, go on deck with two ropes and hold on to those gunwales like a whore clings to her money."
  
  "Yes, yes, captain."
  
  "No... Wait..." the captain said, grabbing Roku's hand before he could leave the bridge.
  
  The captain hesitated for a moment. He couldn't lead the rescue and steer the boat at the same time. If the nose could just be kept perpendicular to the waves, they could do it. But if it had not been removed in time, one of his guys would have ended up at the bottom of the sea.
  
  To hell with all this.
  
  "Leave it, Roca, I'll do it myself. You grab the steering wheel and keep it straight, like this."
  
  "We can't hold out for long, captain."
  
  "Once we get these poor fellows out of there, head straight for the first wave you see; but a moment before we reach the climax, turn the helm to starboard as hard as you can. And pray!"
  
  Castillo and Pascual appeared on deck, their jaws clenched and their bodies tense, their expressions trying to hide their two fear-filled bodies. The captain stood between them, ready to lead the dangerous dance.
  
  "At my signal, drop the gaffes. Now!"
  
  Steel teeth dug into the edge of the raft; the ropes are taut.
  
  "Pull!"
  
  As they pulled the raft closer, it seemed to the captain that he heard screams, saw waving hands.
  
  "Hold her tight, but don't get too close!" He bent down and raised the hook twice his height. "If they hit us, it will destroy them!"
  
  And, quite possibly, this will make a hole in our boat, too, the captain thought. Beneath the slippery deck, he could feel the hull creaking harder and harder as they were tossed about with each new wave.
  
  He maneuvered with a hook and managed to catch on one end of the raft. The pole was long and helped him keep a small vessel at a fixed distance. He gave the order to tie the ropes to the whips and throw down the rope ladder, while he clung with all his might to the hook, which twitched in his hands, threatening to crack his skull.
  
  Another flash of lightning lit up the inside of the ship, and Captain Gonzalez could now see that there were four people on board. He was also able to finally understand how they managed to stay on the floating soup bowl as it hopped between the waves.
  
  Damned crazy - they tied themselves to the boat.
  
  A dark-cloaked figure leaned over the other passengers, brandishing a knife and frantically cutting the ropes that tied them to the raft, severing the ropes trailing from his own wrists.
  
  "Continue! Get up before that thing sinks!"
  
  The figures approached the side of the boat, their outstretched arms reaching for the gangplank. The man with the knife managed to grab him and urged the others to go ahead of him. Gonzalez's team helped them up. Finally, no one was left but the man with the knife. He grabbed the ladder, but as he leaned against the side of the boat to pull himself up, the hook suddenly slipped off. The captain tried to hook it again, but then the wave that was higher than the rest lifted the keel of the raft, throwing it against the side of the Esperanza.
  
  There was a crunch, then a scream.
  
  Terrified, the captain let go of the hook. The side of the raft hit the man on the leg, and he hung on the ladder with one hand, pressing his back against the hull. The raft was moving away, but it was only a matter of seconds before the waves tossed it back towards the Esperanza.
  
  "Ranks!" the captain shouted to his men. "For God's sake, cut them!"
  
  The sailor closest to the gunwale groped for a knife in his belt, and then began to cut the ropes. Another tried to lead the rescued people to the hatch leading to the hold, before a wave hit them head-on and carried them out to sea.
  
  With a sinking heart, the captain looked under the gunwale for an axe, which, as he knew, had been rusting there for many years.
  
  "Get out of my way, Pascual!"
  
  Blue sparks flew from the steel, but the blows of the ax were barely audible over the rising noise of the storm. Nothing happened at first.
  
  Then there was a crash.
  
  The deck shook as the raft, freed from its moorings, rose up and shattered against the prow of the Esperanza. The captain leaned over the gunwale, certain that all he could see was the dancing end of the stairs. But he was wrong.
  
  The shipwrecked man was still there, his left arm flailing as he tried to grab onto the ladder rungs again. The captain leaned towards him, but the desperate man was still more than two meters away from him.
  
  There was only one thing left to do.
  
  He swung one leg over the side and grabbed the ladder with his injured hand, both praying and cursing the God who was so determined to drown them. For a moment he almost fell, but the sailor Pascual caught him in time. He went down three steps, just enough to be able to reach Pascual's arms if he loosened his grip. He dared not go further.
  
  "Take my hand!"
  
  The man tried to turn around to reach Gonzalez, but he couldn't. One of the fingers with which he was clinging to the ladder slipped off.
  
  The captain completely forgot about his prayers and focused on his curses, albeit quietly. After all, he wasn't so upset as to mock God even more at that moment. However, he was mad enough to take another step down and grab the poor man by the front of his cloak.
  
  For what seemed like an eternity, all that kept the two men on the swinging rope ladder were nine fingers, a worn boot sole, and sheer willpower.
  
  The castaway then managed to turn around enough to grab onto the captain. He hooked his feet on the rungs and the two men began their ascent.
  
  Six minutes later, bent over his own vomit in the hold, the captain could hardly believe their luck. He tried his best to calm down. He still wasn't quite sure how the useless Roque had survived the storm, but the waves weren't so hard against the hull anymore, and it seemed obvious that the Esperanza would do well this time.
  
  The sailors stared at him, a semicircle of faces full of exhaustion and tension. One of them held out a towel. Gonzalez waved her off.
  
  "Clean up this mess," he said, straightening up, pointing to the floor.
  
  Wet castaways huddled in the darkest corner of the hold. It was barely possible to see their faces in the flickering light of the cabin's only lamp.
  
  Gonzalez took three steps towards them.
  
  One of them stepped forward and extended his hand.
  
  "Danke schon."
  
  Like his comrades, he was wrapped from head to toe in a black hooded cloak. Only one thing distinguished him from the others: a belt around his waist. A red-handled knife gleamed at his belt, with which he cut the ropes with which his friends were tied to the raft.
  
  The captain couldn't help it.
  
  "Damn son of a bitch! We could all be dead!"
  
  Gonzalez pulled his hand back and hit the man in the head, knocking him to the ground. His hood fell back, revealing a mop of blond hair and an angular face. One cold blue eye. Where there should have been another, there was only a patch of wrinkled skin.
  
  The shipwrecked man stood up and replaced the plaster, which must have been dislodged from the impact above the eye socket. Then he put his hand on his knife. Two sailors stepped forward, fearing that he would immediately tear the captain apart, but he just carefully pulled him out and threw him to the floor. He held out his hand again.
  
  "Danke schon."
  
  The captain smiled involuntarily. That damn Fritz had balls of steel. Shaking his head, Gonzalez held out his hand.
  
  "Where the hell did you come from?"
  
  The other man shrugged. It was clear that he did not understand a word of Spanish. Gonzalez studied him slowly. The German must have been thirty-five or forty years old, and under his black cloak he wore dark clothes and heavy boots.
  
  The captain took a step toward the man's comrades, wanting to know for whom he staked his boat and crew, but another man held out his arms and stepped aside, blocking his path. He stood firm on his feet, or at least tried to, as he found it difficult to stay on his feet, and his expression was pleading.
  
  He doesn't want to challenge my authority in front of my people, but he's not ready to let me get too close to his mysterious friends. Then it's very good: be your way, be damned. Headquarters will deal with you, Gonzalez thought.
  
  "Pascual".
  
  "Sir?"
  
  "Tell the navigator to head for Cadiz."
  
  "Yes, yes, captain," said the sailor, disappearing into the hatch. The captain was about to follow him, heading back to his cabin, when the German's voice stopped him.
  
  "Nein. bitte. Nothing Cadiz."
  
  The German's face completely changed when he heard the name of the city.
  
  What are you so afraid of, Fritz?
  
  "Comm. Komm. Bitte," said the German, gesturing that he should approach. The captain leaned over and the other man began to plead in his ear. "Nothing Cadiz. Portugal. Bitte, Kapitan."
  
  Gonzalez moved away from the German, examining him for more than a minute. He was sure that he could get nothing more out of this man, since his own understanding of German was limited to "Yes", "No", "Please" and "Thank you". Again he was faced with a dilemma where the simplest solution was least of all, he decided he had done enough by saving their lives.
  
  What are you hiding, Fritz? who are your friends? What do four citizens of the most powerful nation in the world, with the largest army, cross the strait on a small old raft? You were hoping to get to Gibraltar on this thing? No, I do not think so. Gibraltar is full of English, your enemies. And why not come to Spain? Judging by the tone of our glorious Generalísimo, we will all soon cross the Pyrenees to help you kill frogs, most likely by throwing stones at them. If we are really friendly with your Fuhrer, like thieves ... Unless, of course, you yourself are not enthusiastic about him.
  
  Damn it.
  
  "Watch these people," he said, turning to the team. "Otero, give them some blankets and cover them with something hot."
  
  The captain returned to the bridge, where Roca was plotting a course for Cadiz, avoiding the storm that was now blowing into the Mediterranean.
  
  "Captain," said the navigator, standing at attention, "I can just say how delighted I am that..."
  
  "Yes, yes, Roca. Thank you very much. Is there coffee here?"
  
  Roca poured him a cup and the captain sat down to enjoy the drink. He took off his waterproof cape and the sweater he had on underneath, which was soaking wet. Fortunately, it was not cold in the cabin.
  
  "There's been a change in plan, Roca. One of the Boches we rescued gave me a tip. It seems that a gang of smugglers is operating at the mouth of the Guadiana. Instead, we will go to Ayamonte, see if we can stay away from them."
  
  "As you say, captain," said the navigator, a little frustrated at having to chart a new course. Gonzalez stared at the back of the young man's head, slightly worried. There were certain people who could not be spoken to on certain matters, and he wondered if Roca could be an informant. What the captain suggested was illegal. That would be enough to send him to jail, or worse. But he couldn't have done it without his second in command.
  
  Between sips of coffee, he decided he could trust Roca. His father killed the nationales after the fall of Barcelona a couple of years ago.
  
  "Have you ever been to Ayamonte, Roca?"
  
  "No, sir," the young man replied without turning around.
  
  "It's a charming place, three miles up the Guadiana. The wine is good, and in April it smells like orange blossoms. And on the other side of the river begins Portugal."
  
  He took another sip.
  
  "Two steps away, as they say."
  
  Rock turned around in surprise. The captain smiled tiredly at him.
  
  Fifteen hours later, the deck of the Esperanza was empty. Laughter came from the dining room, where the sailors were enjoying an early supper. The captain promised that after they had eaten they would drop anchor in the port of Ayamonte, and many of them could already feel the sawdust of taverns under their feet. Presumably, the captain himself looked after the bridge, while Roca guarded the four shipwrecked passengers.
  
  "Are you sure it's necessary, sir?" the navigator asked uncertainly.
  
  "It will just be a tiny bruise. Don't be so cowardly, dude. It should look like the castaways attacked you to escape. Lie down on the floor for a bit."
  
  There was a dry thud, and then a head appeared in the hatch, quickly followed by the castaways. Night began to fall.
  
  The captain and the German launched the lifeboat on the port side, on the farthest side from the dining area. His comrades climbed inside and waited for their one-eyed leader, who again covered his head with a hood.
  
  "Two hundred meters in a straight line," the captain told him, pointing in the direction of Portugal. "Leave the lifeboat on the beach: I'll need it. I will return it later."
  
  The German shrugged.
  
  "Look, I know you don't understand a word. Here..." Gonzalez said, returning the knife to him. The man tucked it into his belt with one hand while he rummaged through his cloak with the other. He took out a small object and placed it in the captain's hand.
  
  "Verrat," he said, touching his index finger to his chest. "Rettung," he then said, touching the Spaniard's chest.
  
  Gonzalez studied the gift carefully. It was something like a medal, very heavy. He brought it closer to the lamp that hung in the cabin; the object radiated an unmistakable glow.
  
  It was made of pure gold.
  
  "Listen, I can't accept..."
  
  But he was talking to himself. The boat was already moving away, and none of its passengers looked back.
  
  Until the end of his days, Manuel González Pereira, a former captain in the Spanish navy, devoted every minute he could find outside his bookstore to the study of this golden emblem. It was a double-headed eagle mounted on an iron cross. The eagle held a sword, above his head was the number 32, and on his chest was a huge diamond inlaid.
  
  He discovered that it was a Masonic symbol of the highest rank, but every expert he spoke to told him that it must have been a fake, especially since it was made of gold. The German Freemasons never used noble metals for the emblems of their Grand Masters. The size of the diamond - as far as the jeweler was able to determine without disassembling the piece - made it possible to date the stone to approximately the beginning of the century.
  
  Often, sitting up late, the bookseller would reminisce about his conversation with the "One-Eyed Mystery Man," as his young son Juan Carlos liked to call him.
  
  The boy never got tired of listening to the story and came up with far-fetched theories about the identity of the castaways. But most of all he was moved by these parting words. He transcribed them using a German dictionary and repeated them slowly, as if he could understand better that way.
  
  "Verrat is a betrayal. Rettung-salvation."
  
  The bookseller died without unraveling the mystery hidden in his emblem. His son Juan Carlos inherited the work and in turn became a bookseller. On a September afternoon in 2002, an unknown elderly writer walked into a bookstore to give a talk on his new work on Freemasonry. No one showed up, so Juan Carlos decided to kill time and lessen his guest's obvious discomfort by showing him a photograph of the emblem. At the sight of this, the face of the writer changed.
  
  "Where did you get this photo?"
  
  "This is an old medal that belonged to my father."
  
  "Do you still have it?"
  
  "Yes. Because of the triangle containing the number 32, we thought it was...
  
  "Masonic symbol. Obviously a fake, due to the shape of the cross and diamond. Did you rate her?
  
  "Yes. Materials cost about 3,000 euros. I don't know if it has any additional historical value."
  
  The author stared at the article for a few seconds before replying. His lower lip trembled.
  
  "No. Definitely not. Possibly out of curiosity... but I doubt it. Still, I would like to buy it. You know... for my research. I will give you 4,000 euros for it."
  
  Juan Carlos politely declined the offer, and the writer left offended. He began to visit the bookstore every day, even though he did not live in the city. He pretended to rummage through books, when in fact most of the time he was watching Juan Carlos over thick plastic-rimmed glasses. The bookseller began to feel hounded. One winter night, on his way home, he thought he heard footsteps behind him. Juan Carlos hid in the doorway and waited. A moment later, the writer appeared, an elusive shadow, shivering in a worn cloak. Juan Carlos emerged from the doorway and cornered the man, pinning him against the wall.
  
  "This has to stop, you understand?"
  
  The old man began to cry and, muttering something, fell to the ground, clasping his knees with his hands.
  
  "Don't you understand, I have to get this..."
  
  Juan Carlos relented. He escorted the old man to the bar and placed a glass of brandy in front of him.
  
  "Right. Now tell me the truth. It's very valuable, isn't it?"
  
  The writer took his time studying the bookseller, who was thirty years his junior and six inches taller. Finally he gave up.
  
  "Its value is incalculable. Though that's not the reason I want it," he said with a dismissive gesture.
  
  "So why?"
  
  "For the glory. glory of discovery. It would form the basis of my next book."
  
  "On a figurine?"
  
  "On her owner. I was able to reconstruct his life after years of research, digging through fragments of diaries, newspaper archives, private libraries... the sewers of history. Only ten very uncommunicative people in the world know his story. They are all great masters and I am the only one who has all the parts. Although no one would believe me if I told them."
  
  "Test me."
  
  "Only if you promise me one thing. That you let me see it. Touch her. Just one time."
  
  Juan Carlos sighed.
  
  "Fine. Provided you have a good story to tell."
  
  The old man leaned over the table and began whispering a story that up to this point had been passed from mouth to mouth by people sworn never to repeat it. A story about lies, about impossible love, about a forgotten hero, about the murder of thousands of innocent people by the hands of one person. The history of the emblem of the traitor...
  
  
  UNHOLY
  
  1919-21
  
  
  Where understanding never goes beyond itself
  
  The symbol of the layman is an outstretched hand, open, lonely, but able to grasp knowledge.
  
  
  
  
  1
  
  
  There was blood on the steps of the Shredder mansion.
  
  Seeing this, Paul Reiner shuddered. Of course, this wasn't the first time he'd seen blood. Between the beginning of April and May 1919, the inhabitants of Munich experienced in thirty days all the horror that they managed to avoid during the four years of the war. In the uncertain months between the end of the empire and the proclamation of the Weimar Republic, countless groups attempted to impose their programs. The communists captured the city and proclaimed Bavaria a Soviet republic. Looting and murder became widespread as the Freikorps closed the gap between Berlin and Munich. The rebels, knowing that their days were numbered, tried to get rid of as many political enemies as possible. Mostly civilians executed late at night.
  
  This meant that Paul had already seen traces of blood, but never at the entrance to the house where he lived. And although there were few of them, they came from under a large oak door.
  
  With any luck, Jurgen will fall face down and knock out all his teeth, Paul thought. Maybe in this way he will give me a few days of peace. He shook his head sadly. He didn't have that kind of luck.
  
  He was only fifteen, but a bitter shadow had already fallen over his heart, like clouds covering the languid mid-May sun. Half an hour ago, Paul was lounging in the bushes of the English garden, happy to be back at school after the revolution, though not so much because of the lessons. Paul was always ahead of his classmates, as well as Professor Wirth, who bored him terribly. Paul read everything he could get his hands on, gulping it down like a drunk on payday. He only pretended to be attentive in class, but he always turned out to be the best in class.
  
  Paul had no friends, no matter how hard he tried to communicate with his classmates. But in spite of everything, he really liked the school, because the hours of the lessons were hours spent away from Jurgen, who attended the academy, where the floors were not covered with linoleum and the edges of the desks were not chipped.
  
  On the way home, Paul always turned into the Garden, the largest park in Europe. It seemed almost deserted that day, even with the ubiquitous red-jacketed guards who reprimanded him whenever he lost his way. Paul made the most of this opportunity and removed his well-worn boots. He liked to walk barefoot on the grass and leaned absently as he walked, picking up a few of the thousands of yellow pamphlets that Freikorps planes dropped over Munich last week demanding the Communists' unconditional surrender. He threw them in the trash can. He would have gladly stayed to tidy up the entire park, but it was Thursday and he needed to scrub the floor on the fourth floor of the mansion, a task that would keep him busy until lunchtime.
  
  If only he wasn't there... thought Paul. Last time he locked me in a broom closet and poured a bucket of dirty water over the marble. It's good that my mother heard my screams and opened the closet before Brunnhilde knew.
  
  Paul wanted to remember a time when his cousin didn't act like this. Many years ago, when they were both very young and Eduard took them by the hand and led them into the garden, Jurgen smiled at him. It was a fleeting memory, almost the only pleasant memory of his cousin that remained. Then the Great War began with its bands and parades. And Edward walked away, waving and smiling as the truck that was taking him picked up speed, and Paul ran beside him, wanting to march with his older cousin, wanting him to sit next to him in that impressive uniform.
  
  For Paul, the war consisted of the news he read every morning, posted on the wall of the police station on his way to school. Often he had to wade through thickets of legs - which was never difficult for him, since he was thin as a chip. There he read with delight about the achievements of the Kaiser's army, which daily took thousands of prisoners, occupied cities and expanded the borders of the Empire. Then in class he drew a map of Europe and entertained himself by imagining where the next great battle would take place and wondering if Edward would be there. Suddenly, and completely without warning, "victories" began to happen closer to home, and war dispatches almost always announced a "return to the position of security that was originally envisaged." Until one day a huge poster announced that Germany had lost the war. Beneath it was the list of prices to be paid, and it was indeed a very long list.
  
  Reading this list and poster, Paul felt as if he had been cheated, conned. There was suddenly no pillow of fantasy left to soothe the pain of the growing number of beatings he was receiving from Jurgen. The Glorious War would not wait for Paul to grow up and join Edward at the front.
  
  And, of course, there was nothing glorious about it at all.
  
  Paul stood there for a while, looking at the blood at the entrance. Mentally, he rejected the possibility that the revolution had begun again. Freikorps detachments patrolled all of Munich. However, this puddle seemed fresh, a slight anomaly on a large stone, the steps of which were large enough to accommodate two men lying back to back.
  
  I'd better hurry up. If I'm late again, Aunt Brunnhilde will kill me.
  
  He pondered a little more between the fear of the unknown and the fear of his aunt, and the latter prevailed. He took a small key from the service entrance from his pocket and entered the mansion. Inside, everything seemed quiet enough. He was approaching the stairs when he heard voices from the main living areas of the house.
  
  "He slipped while we were going up the steps, madam. It is not easy to keep him, and we are all very weak. Months have passed and his wounds continue to open."
  
  "Incompetent fools. No wonder we lost the war."
  
  Paul crept through the main lobby, trying to make as little noise as possible. The long bloodstain that ran under the door narrowed into a series of streaks that led to the largest room in the mansion. Inside, his aunt Brunnhilde and two soldiers were bent over a sofa. She kept rubbing her hands until she realized what she was doing, then hid them in the folds of her dress. Despite being hidden behind the door, Paul couldn't help but tremble in fear when he saw his aunt in this state. Her eyes were like two thin gray stripes, her mouth twisted into a question mark, and her commanding voice trembled with rage.
  
  "Look at the condition of the upholstery. Marlis!"
  
  "Baroness," the servant said as he approached.
  
  "Go and get a blanket, quick. Call the gardener. His clothes will have to be burned, they are full of lice. And someone, tell the baron."
  
  "And Master Jurgen, Madame Baroness?"
  
  "No! Especially not him, you understand? Has he returned from school?
  
  "Today he has swordsmanship, Madame Baroness."
  
  "He will be here any minute. I want this disaster to be dealt with before he returns," Brunnhilde ordered. "Forward!"
  
  The maid rushed past Paul, flapping her skirts, but he still didn't move because he saw Edward's face behind the feet of the soldiers. His heart beat faster. So who did the soldiers bring in and put on the sofa?
  
  Dear God, it was his blood.
  
  "Who is responsible for this?"
  
  "Mortar projectile, madam."
  
  "I already know it. I ask why you brought my son to me just now, and in this condition. It's been seven months since the end of the war and not a word of news. Do you know who his father is?"
  
  "Yes, he is a baron. But Ludwig is a bricklayer, and I'm a grocer's assistant. But shrapnel has no respect for titles, madam. And the road from Turkey was long. You're lucky he came back at all; my brother will not return."
  
  Brunnhilde's face turned deathly pale.
  
  "Get out!" she hissed.
  
  "That's nice, ma'am. We return your son to you, and you throw us out into the street without even a glass of beer."
  
  Perhaps there was a look of remorse on Brunnhilde's face, but it was darkened by rage. Speechless, she raised a trembling finger and pointed to the door.
  
  "Aristo piece of shit," one of the soldiers said, spitting on the carpet.
  
  They reluctantly turned to leave, their heads bowed. Their sunken eyes filled with weariness and disgust, but not surprise. There is nothing now, Paul thought, that could shock these people. And when two men in loose gray coats stepped aside, Paul finally understood what was happening.
  
  Eduard, Baron von Schroeder's firstborn, was lying unconscious on a sofa at a strange angle. His left hand rested on some kind of pillows. Where his right arm should have been, there was only a poorly stitched fold in his jacket. Where his legs should have been were two stumps covered in dirty bandages, one of which was bleeding. The surgeon did not cut them in the same place: the left one was torn above the knee, the right one just below.
  
  Asymmetrical mutilation, Paul thought, remembering his morning art history class and his teacher discussing the Venus de Milo. He realized that he was crying.
  
  Hearing sobs, Brunnhilde lifted her head and rushed to Paul. The look of contempt she usually reserved for him was replaced by an expression of hatred and shame. For a moment Paul thought she was going to hit him and he recoiled, falling backwards and covering his face with his hands. There was a terrible roar.
  
  The doors to the hall were slammed shut.
  
  
  2
  
  
  Eduard von Schroeder was not the only child to return home that day, a week after the government declared the city of Munich safe and began burying more than 1200 dead communists.
  
  But unlike the emblem of Eduard von Schroeder, this homecoming was prepared in great detail. For Alice and Manfred Tannenbaum, the return journey began on the Macedonia, from New Jersey to Hamburg. This continued in a luxurious first-class compartment on a train to Berlin, where they found a telegram from their father ordering them to take up residence on the Esplanade until further instructions. For Manfred, this was the happiest coincidence in ten years of his life, because Charlie Chaplin accidentally stopped in the room next door. The actor gave the boy one of his famous bamboo canes and even walked him and his sister to a taxi the day they finally received a telegram saying that it was now safe to make the last leg of their journey.
  
  So, on May 13, 1919, more than five years after their father sent them to the United States to escape the impending war, the children of Germany's largest Jewish industrialist stepped onto platform 3 of the Hauptbahnhof station.
  
  Even then, Alice knew that things would not end well.
  
  "Hurry up with this, okay, Doris? Oh, just leave it, I'll take it myself," she said, snatching the hatbox from the hands of the servant her father had sent to meet them and placing it on the cart. It was she who commandeered from one of the young assistants at the station, who buzzed around her like flies, trying to take charge of the luggage. Alice chased them all away. She couldn't stand it when people tried to control her, or worse, treated her like she was incapable.
  
  "I will compete with you, Alice!" said Manfred, starting to run. The boy did not share his sister's concern and was only worried about losing his precious cane.
  
  "Just wait, you little brat!" Alice called out, putting the cart in front of her. "Keep up, Doris."
  
  "Miss, your father would not approve of you carrying your own luggage. Please..." the servant pleaded, unsuccessfully trying to keep up with the girl, while looking at the young people who nudged each other mischievously and pointed at Alice.
  
  This was exactly the problem Alice had with her father: he programmed every aspect of her life. Although Joseph Tannenbaum was a man of flesh and bones, Alice's mother always claimed that he had gears and springs instead of organs.
  
  "You could wind your watch after your father, my dear," she whispered in her daughter's ear, and the two of them laughed softly, because Mr. Tannenbaum didn't like jokes.
  
  Then, in December 1913, the flu took her mother. Alice could not recover from the shock and sadness until four months later she and her brother were on their way to Columbus, Ohio. They settled with the Bushes, an upper-middle-class Episcopal family. The patriarch, Samuel, was the CEO of Buckeye Steel Castings, an enterprise with which Joseph Tannenbaum had many lucrative contracts. In 1914, Samuel Bush became a government official in charge of arms and ammunition, and the products he had purchased from Alice's father began to take on a different form. To be precise, they took the form of millions of bullets that flew across the Atlantic. They traveled west in crates when the United States was still supposedly neutral, then in the bandoliers of soldiers heading east in 1917 when President Wilson decided to spread democracy throughout Europe.
  
  In 1918, Bush and Tannenbaum exchanged friendly letters lamenting that "due to political inconvenience" their business relationship would have to be temporarily suspended. Trade resumed fifteen months later, coinciding with the return of the young Tannenbaums to Germany.
  
  On the day when the letter arrived in which Joseph took his children, Alice thought she was going to die. Only a fifteen-year-old girl who is secretly in love with one of her host family's sons and who discovers that she will have to leave forever can be so completely convinced that her life is coming to an end.
  
  Prescott, she was crying in her cabin on her way home. If only I'd talked to him more... If only I'd made more of a fuss about him when he got back from Yale for his birthday instead of showing off like all the other girls at the party...
  
  Despite her own prognosis, Alice did survive, and she vowed on the soaked pillows in her cabin that she would never let a man make her suffer again. From now on, she will make all the decisions in her life, no matter what anyone says. Least of all her father.
  
  I will find a job. No, dad would never let that happen. It would have been better if I had asked him to give me a job in one of his factories until I had saved enough for a return ticket to the United States. And when I set foot in Ohio again, I will grab Prescott by the throat and squeeze him until he asks me to marry him. This is what I will do and no one can stop me.
  
  However, by the time the Mercedes stopped at Prinzregentenplatz, Alice's resolve had deflated like a cheap balloon. She was having difficulty breathing, and her brother was bouncing nervously in his seat. It seemed incredible that she had carried her solution with her over four thousand kilometers - half the Atlantic - only to see it fall apart during the four thousand-ton journey from the station to this luxurious building. A uniformed porter opened the car door for her, and before Alice could remember, they were already on the elevator.
  
  "What do you think, Alice, is dad throwing a party?" I"m starving!"
  
  "Your father has been very busy, young master Manfred. But I took the liberty of buying cream buns for tea."
  
  "Thanks, Doris," Alice muttered as the elevator stopped with a metallic crunch.
  
  "It will be strange to live in an apartment after a big house in Columbus. I hope no one touched my things," said Manfred.
  
  "Well, if there were, you probably won't remember, shrimp," his sister replied, momentarily forgetting her fear of meeting her father and ruffling Manfred's hair.
  
  "Do not call me that. I remember everything!"
  
  "All?"
  
  "That's what I said. Blue boats were painted on the wall. And at the foot of the bed was a picture of a chimpanzee playing cymbals. Dad wouldn't let me take her with me because he said it would drive Mr. Bush crazy. I'll go and get it!" he called, slipping between the butler's legs as he opened the door.
  
  "Wait, Master Manfred!" Doris called out, but to no avail. The boy was already running down the corridor.
  
  The Tannenbaum residence occupied the top floor of the building, a nine-room apartment of more than three hundred and twenty square meters, which was tiny compared to the house in which the brother and sister lived in America. For Alice, the dimensions seemed to have completely changed. She was not much older than Manfred was now when she left in 1914, and somehow she looked at it all from that point of view, as if she had shrunk by thirty centimeters.
  
  "... Fraulein?"
  
  "Sorry, Doris. What were you talking about?
  
  "The master will receive you in his office. He did have a visitor with him, but I think he is leaving."
  
  Someone was walking towards them down the corridor. A tall, burly man dressed in an elegant black frock coat. Alice didn't recognize him, but behind him stood Herr Tannenbaum. When they reached the entrance, the man in the frock coat stopped-so abruptly that Alice's father nearly ran into him-and stood staring at her through a gold-chained monocle.
  
  "Ah, here is my daughter! What a perfect time!" - said Tannenbaum, throwing a confused look at his interlocutor. "Herr Baron, let me introduce you to my daughter Alice, who has just arrived with her brother from America. Alice, this is Baron von Schroeder."
  
  "Very nice," said Alice coldly. She neglected the polite curtsy that was almost mandatory when meeting members of the nobility. She did not like the haughty posture of the baron.
  
  "Very beautiful girl. Although I'm afraid she may have adopted some American mannerisms."
  
  Tannenbaum threw an indignant look at his daughter. The girl was sad to see that her father had not changed much in five years. Physically, he was still stocky and short-legged, with noticeable thinning of his hair. And in his manner he remained as obliging to those in power as he was firm to those under him.
  
  "You can't imagine how much I regret this. Her mother died very young and she did not have a great social life. I'm sure you understand. If only she could spend a little time in the company of people her own age, well-mannered people..."
  
  The Baron sighed resignedly.
  
  "Why don't you and your daughter join us at our house on Tuesday around six? We will be celebrating the birthday of my son Jurgen."
  
  From the understanding look exchanged between the men, Alice knew that it had all been set up in advance.
  
  "Certainly, Your Excellency. It's such a sweet gesture of you to invite us. Let me walk you to the door."
  
  "But how could you be so careless?"
  
  "I'm sorry, dad."
  
  They were sitting in his office. One wall was lined with bookcases, which Tannenbaum filled with books bought by the yard, based on the color of their bindings.
  
  "Are you sorry? 'I'm sorry' doesn't fix anything, Alice. You must understand that I have a very important business with Baron Schroeder."
  
  "Steel and metals?" she asked, using her mother's old trick of taking an interest in Josef's business whenever he fell into another rage. If he started talking about money, he could go on for hours, and by the time he was done, he would have forgotten why he was angry in the first place. But this time it didn't work.
  
  "No, earth. Earth... and other things. You will know when the time is right. Anyway, I hope you have a nice party dress."
  
  "I just arrived, dad. I really don't feel like going to a party where I don't know anyone."
  
  "Do not want? For heaven's sake, it's a party at Baron von Schroeder's house!"
  
  Hearing him say that, Alice shuddered slightly. It was not normal for a Jew to take the name of God in vain. Then she remembered a small detail she hadn't noticed when she entered. There was no mezuzah on the door. She looked around in surprise and saw a crucifix hanging on the wall next to a portrait of her mother. She became numb. She wasn't particularly religious - she was going through that stage of adolescence when she sometimes doubted the existence of a deity - but her mother was. Alice took this cross next to her photograph as an intolerable insult to her memory.
  
  Joseph followed the direction of her gaze and for a moment had the decency to look embarrassed.
  
  "This is the time we live in, Alice. It's hard to do business with Christians if you're not one of them."
  
  "You've done enough business before, Dad. And I think you were doing well," she said, pointing to the room.
  
  "While you were gone, everything turned out terribly for our people. And they'll get worse, you'll see."
  
  "So bad that you're willing to give up everything, father? Remade for... for money?"
  
  "It's not about the money, you impudent child!" Tannenbaum said, no more shame in his voice, and he slammed his fist on the table. "A person in my position has responsibilities. Do you know how many employees I am responsible for? These idiotic scoundrels who join ridiculous communist unions and think that Moscow is heaven on earth! Every day I have to tie myself up to pay their wages, and all they can do is complain. So don't even think about throwing all the things I do in my face to keep a roof over your head."
  
  Alice took a deep breath and again made her favorite mistake: saying exactly what she thought at the most inopportune moment.
  
  "You don't have to worry about it, dad. I'm going to leave very soon. I want to go back to America and make my life there."
  
  When he heard this, Tannenbaum's face turned purple. He waved a plump finger in front of Alice's nose.
  
  "Don"t you dare say that, can you hear me? You go to this party and act like a polite young lady, okay? I have plans for you, and I will not let them be ruined by the whims of a badly brought up girl. Can you hear me?"
  
  "I hate you," Alice said, looking straight at him.
  
  Her father's expression did not change.
  
  "It doesn't bother me as long as you do what I say."
  
  Alice ran out of the office with tears in her eyes.
  
  Let's look at this account. Oh yes, let's see.
  
  
  3
  
  
  "Are you sleeping?"
  
  Ilse Rainer rolled over on her mattress.
  
  "No more. What's the matter, Paul?"
  
  "I was wondering what we were going to do."
  
  "It's already half past twelve. How about getting some sleep?"
  
  "I was talking about the future."
  
  "Future," his mother repeated, almost spitting out the word.
  
  "I mean, that doesn"t mean you really have to work here for Aunt Brunnhilde, does it, Mom?"
  
  "In the future, I see you go to university, which turns out to be very close, and return home to eat the delicious food that I prepared for you. And now good night."
  
  "This is not our house."
  
  "We live here, we work here, and we thank heaven for that."
  
  "Like we should..." Paul whispered.
  
  "I heard it, young man."
  
  "Sorry mom".
  
  "What happened to you? Did you have another fight with Jurgen? So that"s why you came back all wet today?"
  
  "It wasn't a fight. He and two of his friends followed me to the English Garden."
  
  "They were just playing."
  
  "They threw my trousers into the lake, Mom."
  
  "And you didn"t do anything to upset them?"
  
  Paul snorted loudly, but said nothing. This was typical of his mother. Whenever he got in trouble, she tried to find a way to make it his fault.
  
  "You better go to bed, Paul. Tomorrow is an important day for us."
  
  "Oh yes, Jurgen's birthday..."
  
  "There will be cakes."
  
  "Which other people will eat."
  
  "I don't know why you always react like that."
  
  Paul thought it outrageous that a hundred people were having a party on the first floor, while Edward, whom he had not yet been allowed to see, was languishing on the fourth, but he kept it to himself.
  
  "Tomorrow there will be a lot of work," concluded Ilze, turning over.
  
  The boy looked at his mother's back for a while. The bedrooms in the service wing were at the back of the house, in what looked like a basement. Life there, and not in the family quarters, did not bother Paul so much, because he had never known another home. From his very birth, he had taken it as a normal strange sight to watch Ilse washing her sister Brunnhilde's dishes.
  
  A thin rectangle of light filtered in through a small window just under the ceiling, the yellow echo of a street lamp that merged with the flicker of the candle that Paul always kept by his bed, because he was terribly afraid of the dark. The Reiners shared one of the smaller bedrooms, which had only two beds, a closet, and a desk on which Paul's homework was scattered.
  
  Paul was oppressed by the lack of space. Not that there was a shortage of available rooms. Even before the war, the Baron's fortune had begun to decline, and Paul watched it melt away with the inevitability of a tin can rusting in the middle of a field. It was a process that went on for many years, but it was impossible to stop.
  
  The cards, the servants whispered, shaking their heads as if they were talking about some contagious disease, it's because of the cards. As a child, these comments horrified Paul so much that when the boy came to school with a French deck he had found at home, Paul ran out of the classroom and locked himself in the bathroom. It took some time before he finally understood the extent of his uncle's problem: a problem that wasn't contagious but still deadly.
  
  When the unpaid wages of the servants began to rise, they began to quit. Now, of the ten bedrooms in the servants' quarters, only three were occupied: the maid's room, the cook's room, and the one Paul shared with his mother. The boy sometimes had trouble sleeping because Ilse always got up an hour before dawn. Before the other servants left, she was just a housekeeper tasked with making sure everything was in its place. Now she, too, had to take on their work.
  
  That life, the exhausting duties of his mother and the tasks that he performed on his own, for as long as he could remember himself, at first seemed normal to Paul. But at school, he discussed his situation with his classmates, and he soon began to make comparisons, noticing what was going on around him and realizing how strange it was that a baroness's sister should sleep in the staff quarters.
  
  Over and over he heard the same three words used to identify his family slip past him as he passed between desks at school, or slam shut behind him like a secret door.
  
  Orphan.
  
  Servant.
  
  Deserter. It was the worst of all, because it was directed against his father. A man he never knew, about whom his mother never spoke, and about whom Paul knew little more than his name. Hans Reiner.
  
  And so, putting together fragments of overheard conversations, Paul learned that his father did something terrible (... they say, in the African colonies ...), that he lost everything (... lost his shirt, went bankrupt ...), and that his mother lived at the mercy of his aunt Brunnhilde (... a maid in her own brother-in-law's house - nothing less than a baron! - can you believe it?).
  
  Which didn't seem to be more honorable due to the fact that Ilse didn't take a single stamp from her for her work. Or that during the war she should have been forced to work in a munitions factory "to contribute to the maintenance of the household." The factory was at Dachau, sixteen kilometers from Munich, and his mother had to get up two hours before sunrise, do her share of household chores, and then take the train to her ten o'clock shift.
  
  One day, right after she returned from the factory, her hair and fingers green with dust and her eyes hazy from a day of inhaling chemicals, Paul asked his mother for the first time why they hadn't found another place to stay. A place where they were both not subjected to constant humiliation.
  
  "You don't understand, Paul."
  
  She gave him the same answer over and over again, always looking away, or leaving the room, or rolling over to sleep, just like she had done a few minutes before.
  
  Paul looked at his mother's back for a few moments. She seemed to be breathing deeply and evenly, but the boy knew she was only pretending to be asleep and wondered what kind of ghosts might be attacking her in the middle of the night.
  
  He averted his gaze and stared up at the ceiling. If his eyes could drill through the plaster, the square of the ceiling directly above Paul's pillow would have collapsed long ago. It was on this that he concentrated all his fantasies about his father at night, when it was difficult for him to force himself to sleep. All Paul knew was that he was a captain in the Kaiser's fleet and that he commanded a frigate in South West Africa. He died when Paul was two years old, and the only thing he had left of him was a faded photograph of his father in military uniform, with a big mustache, his dark eyes staring proudly straight into the camera.
  
  Ilse put the photograph under her pillow every night, and the greatest suffering Paul caused his mother was not on the day Jurgen pushed him down the stairs and broke his arm; it was the day he stole the photograph, took it to school and showed it to everyone who called him an orphan behind his back. By the time he got home, Ilze had turned the whole room upside down looking for it. When he carefully took it out from under the pages of his math textbook, Ilze slapped him and then started to cry.
  
  "This is the only thing I have. The only one."
  
  She hugged him, of course. But first she took the photo back.
  
  Paul tried to imagine what this impressive man must have been like. Beneath the scruffy whiteness of the ceiling, by the light of a street lamp, his mind's eye conjured up the outline of the Keel, the frigate on which Hans Reiner "sank in the Atlantic with all his crew." He came up with hundreds of possible scenarios to explain those nine words, the only information about his death that Ilse passed on to her son. Pirates, reefs, mutiny... However it began, Paul's fantasy always ended the same way: Hans, clutching the steering wheel, waves goodbye as the waters close over his head.
  
  When he got to this point, Paul always fell asleep.
  
  
  4
  
  
  "Honestly, Otto, I can't stand a Jew for a moment anymore. Just look at him stuffing himself with Dumpfnudelny. He has custard on the front of his shirt."
  
  "Please, Brunnhilde, speak more quietly and try to remain calm. You know as well as I do how much we need Tannenbaum. We spent our last pfennig on this party. By the way, it was your idea..."
  
  "Jurgen deserves better. You know how confused he's been since his brother returned..."
  
  "Then don't complain about the Jew."
  
  "You have no idea what it's like to play hostess with him, with his endless chatter, these ridiculous compliments, as if he does not know that he has all the cards in his hands. Some time ago, he even had the audacity to suggest that his daughter and Jürgen get married," Brunnhilde said, expecting a contemptuous response from Otto.
  
  "It could put an end to all our problems."
  
  Brunnhilde's granite smile showed a tiny crack as she looked at the baron in shock.
  
  They stood at the entrance to the hall, their intense conversation muffled through clenched teeth and interrupted only when they stopped to receive guests. Brunnhilde was about to answer, but instead she was forced to once again draw a grimace of greeting on her face:
  
  "Good evening, Frau Gerngross, Frau Sagebel! It's good that you came."
  
  "Sorry we're late, Brunnhilde dear."
  
  "Bridges, oh bridges."
  
  "Yeah, the traffic is just awful. Truly monstrous."
  
  "When are you going to leave this cold old mansion and move to the east coast, my dear?"
  
  The baroness smiled with pleasure at their pricks of envy. Any one of the many nouveau riche at the party would have killed for the class and power that her husband's coat of arms radiated.
  
  "Please pour yourself a glass of punch. It's delicious," Brunnhilde said, pointing to the center of the room, where a huge table surrounded by people was littered with food and drink. A meter-long ice horse towered over the punch bowl, and at the back of the hall, a string quartet added popular Bavarian songs to the general hubbub.
  
  When she was sure the new arrivals were out of earshot, the Countess turned to Otto and said in a steely tone that very few ladies of Munich's high society would find acceptable:
  
  "You arranged our daughter's wedding without even telling me, Otto? Only over my dead body".
  
  The baron didn't blink. A quarter of a century of marriage had taught him how his wife would react when she felt slighted. But in that case, she would have to give in, because there was much more at stake than her foolish pride.
  
  "Brünnhilde, dear, don't tell me that you didn't foresee this Jew from the very beginning. In his supposedly smart suits, goes to the same church as us every Sunday, pretends not to hear when he's called a "new convert", sidles towards our seats..."
  
  "Of course I noticed. I'm not stupid."
  
  "Of course not, Baroness. You're quite capable of putting two and two together. And we don't have a penny to our name. Bank accounts are completely empty."
  
  The color drained from Brunnhilde's cheeks. She had to hold on to the alabaster molding on the wall to keep from falling.
  
  "Damn you, Otto."
  
  "That red dress you're wearing... The dressmaker insisted on being paid for it in cash. The word has spread, and once rumors start, they can't be stopped until you're in the gutter."
  
  "You think I don't know? Do you think I didn't notice the way they look at us, the way they take little bites out of their brownies and smirk at each other when they realize they're not from Casa Popp? I can hear what those old ladies are mumbling about as clearly as if they were shouting in my ear, Otto. But to move from that to allowing my son, my Jürgen, to marry a dirty Jewess..."
  
  "There is no other solution. All we have left is the house and our land, which I registered in Edward's name on his birthday. If I can't get Tannenbaum to lend me the capital to set up a factory on this land, we might as well give up. One morning the police will come for me, and then I'll have to act like a good Christian gentleman and blow my brains out. And you'll end up like your sister sewing for someone else. Is this what you want?"
  
  Brunnhilde removed her hand from the wall. She took advantage of the pause caused by the arrival of new guests to gather her strength and then hurl her at Otto like a stone.
  
  "You and your gambling is what got us into this mess, what ruined the family fortune. Deal with it, Otto, just as you dealt with Hans fourteen years ago."
  
  The Baron took a step back, shocked.
  
  "Don"t you dare mention that name again!"
  
  "You were the one who dared to do something back then. And what good did it give us? I had to put up with the fact that my sister lived in this house for fourteen years."
  
  "I still haven't found the letter. And the boy is growing. Maybe now..."
  
  Brunnhilde leaned towards him. Otto was almost a head taller, but he still looked small next to his wife.
  
  "My patience has a limit."
  
  With an elegant wave of her hand, Brunnhilde dived into the crowd of guests, leaving the baron with a frozen smile on his face, trying his best not to scream.***
  
  At the other end of the room, Jurgen von Schroeder set aside his third glass of champagne to open a present one of his friends was holding out to him.
  
  "I didn't want to put it with the others," the boy said, pointing behind him at a table littered with brightly colored packages. "This one is special."
  
  "What do you say guys? Should I open Kron's gift first?"
  
  Half a dozen teenagers huddled around him, all dressed in stylish blue blazers emblazoned with the emblem of the Metzingen Academy. They all came from good German families and were all uglier than Jürgen and shorter than Jurgen and laughed at Jurgen's every joke. The baron's young son had a gift for surrounding himself with people who did not outshine him and in front of whom he could show off.
  
  "Open this, but only if you then open mine too!"
  
  "And mine!" - in chorus picked up the rest.
  
  They're fighting for me to open their presents, Jurgen thought. They worship me.
  
  "Now don't worry," he said, raising his hands in what he thought was a gesture of impartiality. "We'll break with tradition, and first I'll open your gifts, then the gifts from the rest of the guests after the toasts."
  
  "Great idea Jürgen!"
  
  "Well, then, what could it be, Kron?" he continued by opening the small box and lifting its contents to eye level.
  
  In his fingers Jurgen held a golden chain with a strange cross, the curved arms of which formed a pattern that was almost square. He stared at her, mesmerized.
  
  "It's a swastika. Antisemitic symbol. My father says they are in fashion."
  
  "You are mistaken, my friend," said Jurgen, slipping it around his neck. "Now they are. I hope we see a lot of these."
  
  "Definitely!"
  
  "Here, Jurgen, open mine. Though it's best not to display it in public..."
  
  Jurgen unrolled a package the size of a pack of tobacco and found himself staring at a small leather box. He opened it wide open. His chorus of fans laughed nervously when they saw what was inside: what appeared to be a cylindrical cap made of vulcanized rubber.
  
  "Hey hey... that looks great!"
  
  "I have never seen this before!"
  
  "A gift of the most personal nature, eh Jurgen?"
  
  "Is this some kind of proposal?"
  
  For a few moments it seemed to Jurgen that he was losing control of them, that they suddenly began to laugh at him. It's not fair. It's not fair at all, and I won't allow it. He felt anger build up inside him and turned to the one who had made the last remark. He placed the sole of his right foot on top of the left foot of the other and leaned on it with all his weight. His victim turned pale, but clenched her teeth.
  
  "I'm sure you'd like to apologize for that bad joke?"
  
  "Of course Jurgen... I'm sorry... I wouldn't even think of questioning your manhood."
  
  "That's what I thought," said Jurgen, slowly lifting his leg. A bunch of boys fell silent, the silence accentuated by the noise of the party. "Well, I don't want you to think I don't have a sense of humor. Actually, this...thing will be extremely useful to me," he said with a wink. "With her, for example."
  
  He was pointing to a tall, dreamy-eyed, dark-haired girl holding a glass of punch in the center of the crowd.
  
  "Great boobs," one of his assistants whispered.
  
  "Any of you want to bet that I can premiere this piece and be back in time for toasts?"
  
  "I'll bet fifty marks on Jurgen," the one whose leg was trampled felt obliged to say.
  
  "I accept the bet," said another behind him.
  
  "Well, gentlemen, just wait here and watch; maybe you'll learn something."
  
  Jurgen swallowed softly, hoping the others wouldn't notice. He hated talking to girls as they always made him feel awkward and inferior. Although he was handsome, his only contact with the opposite sex was in a brothel in Schwabing, where he experienced more shame than excitement. His father took him there a few months ago, dressed in a discreet black coat and hat. While he went about his business, his father waited downstairs, drinking cognac. When it was all over, he patted his son on the back and told him that he was now a man. This was the beginning and end of Jürgen von Schröder's education on women and love.
  
  I'll show them how a real man behaves, the boy thought, feeling the gaze of his comrades on the back of his head.
  
  "Hello Fraulein. Are you enjoying yourself?"
  
  She turned her head, but did not smile.
  
  "Not really. We know each other?"
  
  "I can understand why you don't like it. My name's Jurgen von Schroeder."
  
   "Alice Tannenbaum," she said, holding out her hand without much enthusiasm.
  
  "Do you want to dance, Alice?"
  
  "No".
  
  The girl's sharp response startled Jurgen.
  
  "You know I'm throwing this party? Today is my birthday."
  
  "Congratulations," she said sarcastically. "No doubt this room is full of girls who desperately want you to ask them to dance. I would not want to take up too much of your time."
  
  "But you have to dance with me at least once."
  
  "Oh really? And why is that so?
  
  "That"s what a good upbringing dictates. When a gentleman asks a lady..."
  
  "You know what annoys me the most about arrogant people, Jürgen? The number of things you take for granted. Well, you should know this: the world is not the way you see it. By the way, your friends are giggling and can"t seem to take their eyes off you."
  
  Jurgen looked around. He couldn't fail, couldn't let that ill-mannered girl humiliate him.
  
  She pretends to be touchy because she really likes me. She must be one of those girls who think the best way to turn a man on is to push him away until he goes crazy. Well, I know how to deal with people like her, he thought.
  
  Jurgen stepped forward, taking the girl by the waist and pulling her towards him.
  
  "What the hell do you think you're doing?" she gasped.
  
  "I'm teaching you how to dance."
  
  "If you don't let me go right now, I'll scream."
  
  "You wouldn"t want to make a scene right now, would you, Alice?"
  
  The young woman tried to slip her arms between her body and Jurgen's, but she couldn't match his strength. The baron's son pressed her even closer to him, feeling her breasts through her dress. He began to move to the rhythm of the music with a smile on his lips, knowing that Alice wouldn't scream. Making a fuss at a party like this will only damage her reputation and that of her family. He saw the young woman's eyes fill with cold hatred, and suddenly he found it very amusing to play with her, much more satisfying than if she had simply agreed to dance with him.
  
  "Would you like something to drink, miss?"
  
  Jurgen stopped abruptly. Paul was next to him, holding a tray of several glasses of champagne, his lips firmly pursed.
  
  "Hi, this is my cousin, the waiter. Get out, you cretin!" Jurgen snapped.
  
  "First I would like to know if the young lady is thirsty," Paul said, handing him the tray.
  
  "Yes," Alice said hastily, "that champagne looks amazing."
  
  Jurgen half closed his eyes, trying to figure out what to do. If he let go of her right hand to let her take the glass from the tray, she could pull away completely. He eased the pressure on her back a little, allowing her to release her left hand, but tightened his grip on her right. The girl's fingertips turned purple.
  
  "Then come on, Alice, have a glass. They say it brings happiness," he added, feigning a good mood.
  
  Alice leaned over the tray, trying to free herself, but it was useless. She had no choice but to take the champagne with her left hand.
  
  "Thank you," she said weakly.
  
  "Perhaps the young lady would like a napkin," Paul said, raising his other hand, in which he held a saucer with small squares of cloth. He moved so that he was now on the other side of the couple.
  
  "That would be wonderful," said Alice, looking intently at the baron's son.
  
  For a few seconds no one moved. Jürgen examined the situation. Holding the glass in her left hand, she could only take a napkin with her right. Finally, seething with rage, he had to give up the fight. He let go of Alice's hand and she stepped back, taking the napkin.
  
  "I think I'll go out for some fresh air," she said with remarkable composure.
  
  Jurgen, as if rejecting her, turned his back to return to his friends. As he passed Paul, he squeezed his shoulder and whispered:
  
  "You will pay for this."
  
  Somehow, Paul managed to balance the champagne glasses on the tray: they clinked but didn't tip over. His inner balance was a completely different matter, and at that very moment he felt like a cat trapped in a barrel of nails.
  
  How could I be so stupid?
  
  There was only one rule in life: stay as far away from Jurgen as possible. This was not easy to do, since they both lived under the same roof; but at least it was easy. There wasn't much he could do if his cousin decided to make his life miserable, but he certainly could not cross his path, much less humiliate him in public. It would cost him dearly.
  
  "Thank you".
  
  Paul looked up and for a few moments he forgot everything: his fear of Jurgen, the heavy tray, the pain in the soles of his feet from working twelve hours straight in preparation for the party. Everything disappeared because she smiled at him.
  
  Alice was not the kind of woman that takes a man's breath away at first sight. But if you were to take a second look at her, it would probably be a long one. The sound of her voice was attractive. And if she smiled at you the way she smiled at Paul at that moment...
  
  There was no way Paul wouldn't fall in love with her.
  
  "Ah... that was nothing."
  
  For the rest of his life, Paul will curse that moment, that conversation and that smile that caused him so much trouble. But then he did not pay attention, and neither did she. She was sincerely grateful to the little thin boy with intelligent blue eyes. Then, of course, Alice became Alice again.
  
  "Don't think I couldn't get rid of it on my own."
  
  "Of course," Paul said, still reeling.
  
  Alice blinked; she wasn't used to such an easy win, so she changed the subject.
  
  "We can't talk here. Wait a minute, then meet me in the locker room."
  
  "With great pleasure, Fraulein."
  
  Paul walked around the room, trying to empty the tray as quickly as possible so he could have an excuse to disappear. Early in the party, he eavesdropped on conversations and was surprised to find how little attention people paid to him. He really seemed to be invisible, which is why it seemed strange to him when the last guest, who took a glass, smiled and said: "Well done, son."
  
  "I'm sorry?"
  
  He was an elderly man with gray hair, a goatee and protruding ears. He gave Paul a strange, meaningful look.
  
  "Never before had a gentleman rescued a lady with such gallantry and discretion." This is Chrétien de Troyes. I apologize. My name is Sebastian Keller, bookseller."
  
  "It's nice to meet you".
  
  The man pointed his thumb in the direction of the door.
  
  "You'd better hurry up. She will be waiting."
  
  Surprised, Paul slipped the tray under his arm and left the room. The wardrobe was arranged at the entrance and consisted of a high table and two huge hanging shelves on wheels, on which hung hundreds of coats belonging to the guests. The girl took hers from one of the servants whom the Baroness had hired for the party and was waiting for him at the door. She didn't extend her hand when she introduced herself.
  
  Alys Tannenbaum.
  
  "Paul Reiner"
  
  "Is he really your cousin?"
  
  "Unfortunately, that's the way it is."
  
  "You just don't look like..."
  
  "The baron's nephew?" Paul asked, pointing to his apron. "This is the latest Parisian fashion."
  
  "I mean, you don't look like him."
  
  "That's because I'm not like him."
  
  "I am glad to hear it. I just wanted to thank you again. Take care, Paul Reiner."
  
  "Certainly".
  
  She put her hand on the door, but before opening it, she turned quickly and kissed Paul on the cheek. She then ran down the stairs and disappeared. For a few moments he scanned the street anxiously, as if she might return, repeat her steps. Then, finally, he closed the door, leaned his forehead against the jamb, and sighed.
  
  His heart and stomach were heavy and strange. He could not give this feeling a name, so, for want of anything better, he decided - and rightly so - that it was love, and he felt happy.
  
  "So the Knight in Shining Armor got his reward, didn"t he guys?"
  
  Hearing the voice he knew so well, Paul turned as quickly as he could.
  
  The feeling instantly changed from happiness to fear.
  
  
  5
  
  
  There they were, there were seven of them.
  
  They stood in a wide semicircle at the entrance, blocking the way to the main hall. Jurgen was in the center of the group, slightly ahead, as if he was itching to get to Paul.
  
  "You've gone too far this time, cousin. I don't like people who don't know their place in life."
  
  Paul didn't answer, knowing that whatever he said wouldn't make a difference. If there was one thing Jurgen couldn't bear, it was humiliation. That this had to happen in public, in front of all his friends - and at the hands of his poor mute cousin, the servant, the black sheep of the family - was incomprehensible. Jurgen decided to hurt Paul a lot. The more - and the more noticeable - the better.
  
  "After this, you will never want to play knight again, you piece of shit."
  
  Paul looked around desperately. The woman in charge of the wardrobe disappeared, no doubt on the orders of the birthday boy. Jurgen's friends spread out across the middle of the lobby, blocking any escape route, and slowly approached him. If he had turned and tried to open the door to the street, they would have grabbed him from behind and thrown him to the ground.
  
  "You're trembling," Jurgen chanted.
  
  Paul ruled out the hallway that led to the servants' quarters, which was practically a dead end, and the only route they left open for him. Although he had never gone hunting in his life, Paul had heard too often the story of how his uncle packed all the copies that hung on his office wall. Jurgen wanted to make him move in that direction, because down there no one could hear his cries.
  
  There was only one option.
  
  Without a second's hesitation, he ran straight at them.
  
  Jurgen was so surprised to see Paul rushing towards them that he simply turned his head as he passed. Kron, who was two meters behind, had a little more time to react. He planted both feet firmly on the floor and prepared to hit the boy who was running towards him, but before Kron could hit him in the face, Paul threw himself on the floor. He fell on his left thigh, bruising him for two weeks, but momentum allowed him to glide across the polished marble tiles like hot oil on a mirror, finally coming to a stop at the foot of the stairs.
  
  "What are you waiting for, idiots? Take him!" Jurgen yelled irritably.
  
  Without stopping to look back, Paul got to his feet and raced up the stairs. He ran out of ideas and only the survival instinct kept his legs moving. His legs, which had been bothering him all day, began to hurt terribly. Halfway up the stairs to the second floor, he almost stumbled and rolled down, but managed to regain his balance just in time when the hands of one of Jurgen's friends brushed his heels. Grabbing the bronze railing, he continued to climb higher and higher until, on the last flight between the third and fourth floors, he suddenly slipped on one of the steps and fell, arms outstretched in front of him, almost knocking his teeth on the edge of the stairs.
  
  The first of the pursuers caught up with him, but he, in turn, stumbled at the crucial moment and barely managed to grab onto the edge of Paul's apron.
  
  "I got him! Faster!" said his captor, grasping the railing with his other hand.
  
  Paul tried to get to his feet, but another boy pulled on the apron and Paul slid off the step, hitting his head. He kicked the boy blindly, but he couldn't free himself. Paul struggled with the knot on his apron for what seemed like an eternity, hearing the others approach him.
  
  Damn it, why did I have to do it so forcefully? he thought as he struggled.
  
  Suddenly, his fingers found the exact spot to pull, and the apron came undone. Paul escaped and made his way to the fourth and last floor of the house. Since there was nowhere else to go, he ran through the first door he came across and closed it with a bolt.
  
  "Where did he go?" Jurgen screamed as he reached the landing. The boy who had grabbed Paul's apron was now clutching his injured knee. He pointed to the left of the corridor.
  
  "Forward!" Jurgen said to the others, who had stopped a few steps down.
  
  They didn't move.
  
  "What the hell are you..."
  
  He stopped abruptly. His mother was watching him from the bottom floor.
  
  "I'm disappointed in you, Jurgen," she said in an icy tone. "We got the best Munich people together to celebrate your birthday, and then you disappear in the middle of the party to play pranks on the stairs with your friends."
  
  "But..."
  
  "Enough. I want you all to come downstairs immediately and join the guests. We will talk later ".
  
  "Yes, mother," Jurgen said, humiliated in front of his friends for the second time that day. Gritting his teeth, he headed down the stairs.
  
  This is not the only thing that will happen later. You'll pay for that too, Paul.
  
  
  6
  
  
  "It's good to see you again."
  
  Paul was focused on calming down and getting his breath back. It took him a few moments to realize where the voice was coming from. He sat on the floor with his back against the door, afraid that at any moment Jurgen might force his way in. But when he heard those words, Paul jumped to his feet.
  
  "Edward!"
  
  Without realizing it, he walked into his older cousin's room, a place he hadn't visited in months. It all looked the same as before Edward left: an organized, calm space, but one that reflected the personality of its owner. There were posters on the wall, a collection of Edward's stones and, above all, books - books everywhere. Paul has already read most of them. Spy novels, westerns, fantasy, books on philosophy and history... They occupied bookcases, a desk, and even the floor next to the bed. Edward had to put the volume he was reading on the mattress so he could turn the pages with his single hand. Several pillows were folded under his body for him to sit on, and a sad smile flitted across his pale face.
  
  "Don't feel sorry for me, Paul. I couldn't take it."
  
  Paul looked into his eyes and realized that Edward was watching his reaction carefully, and it seemed strange to him that Paul was not surprised to see him like that.
  
  "I've seen you before, Edward. The day you came back."
  
  "So why didn"t you ever visit me? I haven't seen much of anyone but your mother since the day I got back. Your mother and my friends May, Salgari, Verne and Dumas," he said, holding up the book he was reading so that Paul could see the title. It was the Count of Monte Cristo.
  
  "They forbade me to come."
  
  Paul bowed his head in shame. Of course, Brunnhilde and his mother forbade him to see Edward, but he could at least try. In truth, he was afraid to see Edward again in such a state after the terrible event of the day when he returned from the war. Edward looked at him bitterly, no doubt understanding what Paul was thinking.
  
  "I know how embarrassing my mother is. Haven't you noticed? he said, pointing to a tray of cakes from the party that had been left untouched. "I shouldn't have let my stumps ruin Jurgen's birthday, which is why I wasn't invited. By the way, how is the party going?"
  
  "There is a group; people drink, talk about politics and criticize the military for losing the war we were winning."
  
  Edward snorted.
  
  "It's easy to criticize from where they stand. What else do they say?
  
  "Everyone is talking about the Versailles negotiations. They are happy that we are rejecting the terms."
  
  "Damned fools," Edward said bitterly. "Since no one fired a single shot on German soil, they cannot believe that we lost the war. However, I believe it is always the same. Are you going to tell me who you were running from?"
  
  "Birthday boy".
  
  "Your mother told me that you didn't get along very well."
  
  Paul nodded.
  
  "You haven't touched the cakes."
  
  "I don't need much food these days. There is much less left of me. Take them; keep going, you look hungry. And come closer, I want to get a better look at you. God, how you've grown."
  
  Paul sat on the edge of the bed and began to devour his food greedily. He had not eaten anything since breakfast; he even skipped school to get ready for the party. He knew his mother would be looking for him, but he didn't care. Now that he had overcome his fear, he couldn't miss this chance to be with Edward, the cousin he missed so much.
  
  "Edward, I want... I'm sorry I didn't visit you. I could sneak in here in the afternoon when Aunt Brunnhilde goes out for a walk..."
  
  "It's all right, Paul. You are here and that's what matters. You are the one who should forgive me for not writing. I promised I would."
  
  "What stopped you?"
  
  "I could tell you that I was too busy shooting the English, but I would be lying. A wise man once said that war is seven parts boredom and one part horror. We had a lot of time in the trenches until we started killing each other."
  
  "And what?"
  
  "I couldn't do it, just like that. Not even at the beginning of this absurd war. The only people who came back after that were a handful of cowards."
  
  "What are you talking about, Edward? You are hero! You volunteered to go to the front, one of the first!"
  
  Edward let out an inhuman laugh that made Paul's hair stand on end.
  
  "Hero... Do you know who decides for you whether you will volunteer? Your school teacher when he talks to you about the glory of the Fatherland, the Empire and the Kaiser. Your father who tells you to be a man. Your friends are the same friends who were arguing with you in gym class not so long ago about who is the biggest among them. They all throw the word 'coward' in your face if you show the slightest doubt and blame you for your defeat. No, cousin, there are no volunteers in the war, only those who are stupid and cruel. The latter stay at home."
  
  Paul was dumbfounded. Suddenly his fantasies about the war, the maps he drew in his notebooks, the newspaper reports he liked to read, all seemed ridiculous and childish. He thought about telling his cousin about this, but was afraid that Edward would laugh at him and throw him out of the room. For at that moment, Paul could see the war, right in front of him. The war was not a continuous list of advances behind enemy lines or terrible stumps hidden under the sheets. The war was in Edward's empty, devastated eyes.
  
  "You could... resisted. Stayed at home".
  
  "No, I couldn't," he said, turning his face away. "I lied to you, Paul; at least it's partly false. I also went to escape them. So that I don't become like them."
  
  "Like who?"
  
  "Do you know who did this to me? It was about five weeks before the end of the war, and we already knew we had lost. We knew that at any moment they would call us back home. And we were more confident than ever. We didn't worry about people falling near us because we knew it wouldn't be long before we got back. And then one day, during the retreat, the shell fell too close."
  
  Edward's voice was quiet - so quiet that Paul had to bend over to hear what he was saying.
  
  "I have asked myself a thousand times what would happen if I ran two meters to the right. Or if I stopped to tap my helmet twice like we always did before leaving the trench." He tapped Paul's forehead with his knuckles. "It made us feel invincible. I didn"t do it that day, you know?"
  
  "I wish you never left."
  
  "No, cousin, trust me. I left because I didn't want to be a Schroeder and if I came back it was only to make sure I was right to leave."
  
  "I don't understand, Edward."
  
  "My dear Paul, you should understand this better than anyone else. After what they did to you. What did they do to your father."
  
  That last sentence cut into Paul's heart like a rusty hook.
  
  "What are you talking about, Edward?"
  
  His cousin looked at him silently, biting his lower lip. Finally he shook his head and closed his eyes.
  
  "Forget what I said. Sorry."
  
  "I can't forget this! I never knew him, no one ever talks to me about him, although they whisper behind my back. All I know is what my mother told me: that he sank along with his ship on the way back from Africa. So, tell me, please, what did they do to my father?"
  
  There was another silence, this time much longer. So long that Paul wondered if Edward had fallen asleep. Suddenly, his eyes opened again.
  
  "I will burn in hell for this, but I have no choice. First, I want you to do me a favor."
  
  "Whatever you say."
  
  "Go to my father's office and open the second drawer on the right. If it was locked, the key was usually kept in the middle drawer. You will find a black leather bag; it is rectangular, with a folded valve. Bring it to me."
  
  Paul did as he was told. He tiptoed down to the office, afraid he might meet someone along the way, but the party was still in full swing. The box was locked and it took him a few moments to find the key. She was not where Edward said, but he eventually found her in a small wooden box. The box was filled with papers. Paul found a piece of black felt on the back, with a strange symbol engraved in gold. Square and compass, with the letter G inside. Underneath was a leather bag.
  
  The boy hid it under his shirt and returned to Edward's room. He felt the weight of the bag on his stomach and trembled, just imagining what would happen if someone found him with this item that did not belong to him hidden under his clothes. He felt great relief when he entered the room.
  
  "Do you have it?"
  
  Paul took out a leather bag and started towards the bed, but on the way he tripped over one of the stacks of books scattered around the room. The books shattered and the bag fell to the floor.
  
  "No!" Edward and Paul exclaimed at the same time.
  
  The bag fell between copies of Mei's Blood Vengeance and Hoffman's Devil's Elixirs, revealing its contents: a mother-of-pearl handle.
  
  It was a pistol.
  
  "Why do you need a gun, cousin?" Paul asked in a trembling voice.
  
  "You know what I want this for." He held up the stump of his arm in case Paul had any doubts.
  
  "Well, I won't give it to you."
  
  "Listen carefully, Paul. Sooner or later I'll make it, because the only thing I want to do in this world is to leave it. You can turn your back on me tonight, put it back where you took it from, and make me go through the terrible humiliation of having to drag myself on this crippled arm in the dead of night to my father's office. But then you will never know what I have to tell you."
  
  "No!"
  
  "Or you can leave it on the bed, listen to what I have to say, and then give me the opportunity to choose with dignity how I leave. It's up to you, Paul, but whatever happens, I'll get what I want. That's what I need ".
  
  Paul sat down on the floor, or rather collapsed onto it, clutching the leather bag. For a long time, the only sound in the room was the metallic ticking of Edward's alarm clock. Edward closed his eyes until he felt movement on his bed.
  
  His cousin dropped a leather bag within reach of his arm.
  
  "God, forgive me," Paul said. He stood by Edward's bedside, weeping, but he did not dare to look directly at him.
  
  "Oh, he doesn't care what we do," Edward said, stroking the soft skin with his fingers. "Thank you, cousin."
  
  "Tell me, Edward. Tell me what you know."
  
  The wounded man cleared his throat before starting. He spoke slowly, as if each word needed to be sucked out of his lungs rather than spoken.
  
  "It happened in 1905, as they told you, and up to this point, what you know is not too far from the truth. I distinctly remember that Uncle Hans was on a mission in South West Africa because I liked the sound of the word and kept repeating it over and over trying to find the right place on the map. One night when I was ten years old, I heard screaming in the library and went downstairs to see what was going on. I was very surprised that your father came to us at such a late hour. He discussed it with my father, the two of them sat at a round table. There were two other people in the room. I could see one of them, a short man with delicate features like a girl's, who didn't say anything. I couldn't see the other one from behind the door, but I could hear him. I was going to stop by and greet your father - he always brought me gifts from his travels - but just before I entered, my mother grabbed my ear and dragged me into my room. 'Did they see you?' she asked. And I said no, over and over again. 'Well, you don't have to say a word about it, ever, do you hear me?' And I
  
  ...I swore I would never tell..."
  
  Edward's voice trailed off. Paul grabbed his hand. He wanted him to continue the story, no matter what the cost, even though he knew the pain it caused his cousin.
  
  "You and your mother moved in with us two weeks later. You weren't much bigger than a child, and I was content because that meant I had my own platoon of brave soldiers to play with. I didn't even think about the obvious lie my parents told me: that Uncle Hans' frigate had sunk. People said other things, spreading rumors that your father was a deserter who lost everything and disappeared into Africa. These rumors were just as untrue, but I didn't think about them either and eventually forgot about them. Just like I forgot what I heard shortly after my mother left my bedroom. Or rather, I pretended to have made a mistake, despite the fact that no mistake was possible given the superb acoustics in this house. Watching you grow up was easy, watching you smile happily as we played hide and seek and I lied to myself. Then you started to grow up - old enough to understand. Soon you were the same age as I was that night. And I went to war."
  
  "So tell me what you heard," Paul whispered.
  
  "That night, cousin, I heard a gunshot."
  
  
  7
  
  
  Paul's understanding of himself and his place in the world teetered on the edge for some time, like a china vase at the top of a staircase. The last phrase was the final blow, and the imaginary vase fell, breaking into pieces. Paul heard the crack as it broke, and Edward saw it in his face too.
  
  "Forgive me, Paul. God help me. You'd better leave now."
  
  Paul stood up and leaned over the bed. His cousin's skin was cold, and when Paul kissed him on the forehead, it was like kissing a mirror. He walked to the door, not entirely in control of his legs, only vaguely aware that he had left the bedroom door open and that he had fallen to the floor outside.
  
  When the shot rang out, he barely heard it.
  
  But, as Edward said, the acoustics of the mansion were excellent. The first guests to leave the party, busy with farewells and empty promises as they packed their coats, heard a pop that was muffled but unmistakable. They had heard too much in previous weeks not to recognize the sound. All their conversations had ceased by the time the second and third echoes of the gunshot echoed through the stairwell.
  
  In her role as the ideal hostess, Brunnhilde said goodbye to the doctor and his wife, whom she could not stand. She recognized the sound, but automatically activated her defense mechanism.
  
  "The boys must be playing with firecrackers."
  
  Distrustful faces appeared around her like mushrooms after rain. At first there were only a dozen people, but soon more appeared in the hallway. It won't be long before all the guests know that something has happened in her house.
  
  In my house!
  
  All of Munich would have been talking about it for two hours if she hadn't done something about it.
  
  "Stay here. I'm sure it's nonsense."
  
  Brunnhilde quickened her pace when she smelled gunpowder halfway up the stairs. Some of the boldest guests looked up, perhaps hoping she would confirm they were wrong, but none of them stepped onto the stairs: the social taboo against entering the bedroom during the party was too strong. However, the murmuring grew, and the baroness hoped that Otto would not be so stupid as to follow her, since someone would inevitably want to accompany him.
  
  When she got to the top and saw Paul sobbing in the hallway, she knew what had happened without even sticking her head in Edward's door.
  
  But she did it anyway.
  
  A spasm of bile rose up in her throat. Horror seized her, and another misplaced feeling, in which she only later, with self-disgust, admitted relief. Or, at least, the disappearance of the oppressive feeling that she had carried in her chest since her son returned crippled from the war.
  
  "What have you done?" she exclaimed, looking at Paul. "I ask you: what did you do?"
  
  The boy did not raise his head from his hands.
  
  "What have you done to my father, witch?"
  
  Brunnhilde took a step back. For the second time that night, someone recoiled at the mention of Hans Reiner, but ironically, the person doing it now was the same one who had previously used his name as a threat.
  
  How much do you know, child? How much did he tell you before...?
  
  She wanted to scream, but she could not: she did not dare.
  
  Instead, she clenched her hands into fists so that her nails dug into her palms, trying to calm down and decide what to do, just like she had done that night fourteen years ago. And when she managed to regain a minimum of self-control, she went back down. On the second floor, she poked her head over the railing and smiled down into the lobby. She didn't dare to go any further, because she didn't think she could pretend for long in front of this sea of tense faces.
  
  "You will have to excuse us. My son's friends were playing with firecrackers, as I thought. If you don't mind, I'll deal with the chaos they've made there," she pointed to Paul's mother, "Ilse, my dear."
  
  Their faces softened when they heard this, and the guests relaxed when they saw the housekeeper following her hostess up the stairs as if nothing had happened. They already had a lot of gossip about the party, and they could hardly wait to get home to annoy those families of theirs.
  
  "Don't even think about screaming," was the only thing Brunnhilde said.
  
  Ilse was expecting some kind of childish prank, but when she saw Paul in the corridor, she was frightened. Then, when she opened Edward's door, she had to bite her fist to keep from screaming. Her reaction was not that much different from that of the Baroness, except that Ilse had tears as well as horror.
  
  "Poor boy," she said, wringing her hands.
  
  Brunnhilde watched her sister, her own hands on her hips.
  
  "Your son was the one who gave Edward the gun."
  
  "Oh, Holy God, tell me it's not true, Paul."
  
  It sounded like a pleading, but there was no hope in her words. Her son did not answer. Brunnhilde approached him, irritated, waving her index finger.
  
  "I'm going to call the magistrate. You will rot in jail for giving a weapon to a disabled person."
  
  "What have you done to my father, witch?" Paul repeated, rising slowly to face his aunt. This time she did not back down, although she was frightened.
  
  "Hans died in the colonies," she replied without much conviction.
  
  "It is not true. My father was in this house before he disappeared. Your own son told me."
  
  "Eduard was sick and confused; he made up all sorts of stories because of the wounds he received at the front. And despite the fact that the doctor forbade him to visit, you were here, drove him to a nervous breakdown, and then went and gave him a gun!"
  
  "You are lying!"
  
  "You killed him."
  
  "That's a lie," said the boy. However, he felt a chill of doubt.
  
  "Paul, that's enough!"
  
  "Get out of my house."
  
  "We're not going anywhere," Paul said.
  
  "It's up to you," Brunnhilde said, turning to Ilse. "Judge Stromeyer is still downstairs. In two minutes I'll come down and tell him what happened. If you do not want your son to spend tonight in Stadelheim, you will leave immediately."
  
  Ilse turned pale with horror at the mention of prison. Strohmeier was a good friend of the Baron and it wouldn't take much effort to convince him to frame Paul for the murder. She grabbed her son's hand.
  
  "Paul, let's go!"
  
  "Not yet..."
  
  She slapped him so hard that her fingers hurt. Paul's lip began to bleed, but he stood watching his mother, refusing to move.
  
  Then, finally, he followed her.
  
  Ilse did not let her son pack her suitcase; they didn't even go into his room. They climbed down the stairwell and left the mansion through the back door, sneaking up the alleys to avoid being seen.
  
  Like criminals.
  
  
  8
  
  
  "And may I ask where the hell have you been?"
  
  The baron appeared, furious and tired, the skirts of his coat wrinkled, his mustache disheveled, his monocle dangling on the bridge of his nose. An hour has passed since Ilse and Paul left, and the party has just ended.
  
  Only when the very last guest left did the baron go in search of his wife. He found her sitting on a chair, which she carried out into the corridor on the fourth floor. The door to Edward's room was closed. Even with her enormous will, Brunnhilde couldn't bring herself to return to the party. When her husband appeared, she explained to him that she was inside the room, and Otto felt his share of pain and remorse.
  
  "In the morning you will call the judge," Brunnhilde said in an impassive voice. "We will say that we found him in this condition when we came to feed him breakfast. That way we can keep the scandal to a minimum. It might not even pop up."
  
  Otto nodded. He removed his hand from the doorknob. He dared not enter and never would. Even after the traces of the tragedy had been wiped off the walls and floor.
  
  "The judge is in my debt. I think he can deal with it. But I wonder how Edward got the gun. He couldn't get it himself."
  
  When Brunnhilde told him about Paul's role and that she kicked the Reiners out of the house, the Baron was furious.
  
  "Do you understand what you've done?"
  
  "They were a threat, Otto."
  
  "Have you by any chance forgotten what is at stake here?" Why have we had them in this house all these years?"
  
  "To humiliate me and ease my conscience," Brunnhilde said with a bitterness she had held back for years.
  
  Otto didn't bother to reply as he knew that what she said was true.
  
  "Eduard was talking to your nephew."
  
  "Oh my God. Do you have any idea what he might have said to him?"
  
  "It does not matter. After leaving tonight, they've become suspects, even if we don't extradite them tomorrow. They won't dare to speak out and they don't have any proof. Unless the boy finds something."
  
  "Do you think I'm worried about them finding out the truth?" To do this, they would have to find Clovis Nagel. And Nagel hasn't been in Germany for a long time. But that doesn't solve our problem. Your sister is the only one who knows where the letter is. Hans Reiner".
  
  "Then keep your eyes on them. From afar."
  
  Otto thought for a few moments.
  
  "I have just the right person for the job."
  
  Someone else was present during this conversation, although he was hidden in the corner of the hallway. He listened without understanding. Much later, when Baron von Schroeder had retired to their bedroom, he went into Edward's room.
  
  When he saw what was inside, he fell to his knees. By the time he was resurrected, what was left of the innocence that his mother could not burn - those parts of his soul that she could not sow with hatred and envy for his cousin for many years - were dead, turned into ashes.
  
  I will kill Paul Reiner for this.
  
  Now I am the heir. But I will be a baron.
  
  He couldn't make out which of the two competing thoughts excited him more.
  
  
  9
  
  
  Paul Reiner shivered in the fine May rain. His mother had stopped dragging him along and now walked beside him through Schwabing, the bohemian district in central Munich, where thieves and poets sat side by side with artists and whores in taverns until the early hours of the morning. However, only a few taverns were now open, and they did not go into any of them, since they did not have a pfennig.
  
  "Let's take shelter in this doorway," Paul said.
  
  "The night watchman will kick us out; this has happened three times already."
  
  "You can't keep going like this, Mom. You'll catch pneumonia."
  
  They squeezed through the narrow doorway of a building that had seen better days. At least the canopy protected them from the rain that flooded the deserted sidewalks and uneven flagstones. The faint light of the street lamps cast strange reflections on the wet surfaces; it was unlike anything Paul had ever seen.
  
  He was frightened and clung even closer to his mother.
  
  "You still wear your father's wristwatch, don't you?"
  
  "Yes," Paul said anxiously.
  
  She had asked him that question three times in the last hour. His mother was exhausted and devastated, as if slapping her son and dragging him through the alleyways away from the Schroeder mansion had used up a store of energy that even she didn't know existed and was now lost forever. Her eyes were sunken and her hands were trembling.
  
  "Tomorrow we'll lay it down and everything will be all right."
  
  There was nothing special about the wristwatch; they weren't even made of gold. Paul wondered if it would pay for more than one night in a boarding house and a hot dinner, if they were lucky.
  
  "That's a great plan," he forced himself to say.
  
  "We need somewhere to stay, and then I will ask you to return to my old job at the gunpowder factory."
  
  "But, mother... the gunpowder factory no longer exists. They took it down when the war was over."
  
  And you were the one who told me that, Paul thought, now extremely worried.
  
  "The sun will rise soon," his mother said.
  
  Paul didn't answer. He craned his neck, listening to the rhythmic clatter of the night watchman's boots. Paul wanted him to stay away long enough to let him close his eyes for a moment.
  
  I'm so tired... And I don't understand anything of what happened tonight. She's acting so strange... Maybe now she'll tell me the truth.
  
  "Mom, what do you know about what happened to dad?"
  
  For a few moments, Ilse seemed to wake up from her lethargy. A spark of light burned deep in her eyes like the last embers of a fire. She took Paul's chin and gently stroked his face.
  
  "Paul, please. Forget it; forget everything you heard tonight. Your father was a good man who tragically died in a shipwreck. Promise me that you will cling to this - that you will not seek the truth that does not exist - because I could not lose you. You are all I have left. My boy Paul."
  
  The first glimpses of dawn cast long shadows across the streets of Munich, taking the rain with them.
  
  "Promise me," she insisted, her voice trailing off.
  
  Paul hesitated before answering.
  
  "I promise".
  
  
  10
  
  
  "Wooow!"
  
  The coal merchant's cart screeched to a halt in the Rhinestrasse. The two horses shifted restlessly, their eyes covered with blinders, their hind limbs black with sweat and soot. The coal merchant jumped to the ground and absently ran his hand along the side of the cart, which had his name, Klaus Graf, written on it, though only the first two letters were still legible.
  
  "Put it away, Halbert! I want my customers to know who is delivering their raw materials," he said almost friendly.
  
  The man in the driver's seat took off his hat, pulled out a rag that still retained a distant memory of the original color of the fabric, and, whistling, set to work on the wood. It was his only way to express himself, since he was mute. The melody was gentle and fast: he, too, seemed happy.
  
  It was the perfect moment.
  
  Paul had followed them all morning since they left the stables the Earl kept at Lehel. He had also watched them the day before and realized that the best time to ask for work was just before one in the afternoon, after the collier's afternoon rest. Both he and the mute dealt with large sandwiches and a couple of liters of beer. Behind them was the irritable drowsiness of the early morning when dew had accumulated on the cart while they waited for the coal depot to open. Gone was the irritable fatigue at the end of the day as they drank their last beer in silence, feeling the dust clog their throats.
  
  If I can't do it, God help us, Paul thought desperately.***
  
  Paul and his mother spent two days trying to find work and didn't eat anything during that time. After pawning their watch, they got enough money to spend two nights in a boarding house and have a breakfast of bread and beer. His mother searched hard for a job, but they soon realized that in those days, work was a pipe dream. Women were expelled from the positions they held during the war when the men returned from the front. Naturally, not because employers wanted it.
  
  "Damn this government and its directives," the baker told them when they asked him for the impossible. "They made us hire war veterans when women do the job just as well and charge much less."
  
  "Did the women really do the job as well as the men?" Paul asked him defiantly. He was in a bad mood. His stomach was growling, and the smell of oven baked bread made matters worse.
  
  "Sometimes it's better. I had one woman who knew how to make money better than anyone else."
  
  "So why did you pay them less?"
  
  "Well, that's obvious," the baker said with a shrug. "They are women."
  
  If there was any logic to this, Paul couldn't understand it, although his mother and the workshop staff nodded in agreement.
  
  "You'll understand when you're older," one of them said as Paul and his mother left. Then they all burst out laughing.
  
  Paul was no more fortunate. The first thing they always asked him about before a potential employer found out if he could do anything was whether he was a war veteran. He had experienced many disappointments in a few hours, so he decided to approach the problem as rationally as he could. Trusting in luck, he decided to follow the collier, study him, and approach him in the best possible way. He and his mother managed to stay at the boarding house for the third night after they promised to pay the next day and because the landlady took pity on them. She even gave them a bowl of thick soup with chunks of potatoes floating in it, and a piece of brown bread.
  
  So there was Paul crossing the Rhinestrasse. A noisy and happy place filled with peddlers, newspaper vendors and knife sharpeners who sold their boxes of matches, the latest news, or the benefits of well-sharpened knives. The smell of bakeries mingled with horse dung, which was far more common in Schwabing than cars.
  
  Paul took advantage of the moment the coal miner's assistant left to call the janitor of the building they were about to furnish to force him to open the cellar door. In the meantime, the collier had prepared huge birch-wood baskets in which they carried their goods.
  
  Maybe if he's alone, he'll be friendlier. People react differently to strangers in the presence of their younger ones, Paul thought as he approached.
  
  "Good afternoon, sir."
  
  "What the hell do you want, boy?"
  
  "I need a job".
  
  "Get out. I do not need anybody".
  
  "I am strong, sir, and I could help you unload this cart very quickly."
  
  The coalman deigned to look at Paul for the first time, looking him up and down. Paul was dressed in his black trousers, white shirt and sweater and still looked like a waiter. Compared to the corpulence of the big man in front of him, Paul felt like a weakling.
  
  "How old are you boy?"
  
  "Seventeen, sir," Paul lied.
  
  "Even my Aunt Bertha, who was terrible at guessing people's ages, poor thing, wouldn't give you more than fifteen. Besides, you're too skinny. Get out."
  
  "May 22nd marks my sixteenth birthday," Paul said in an offended tone.
  
  "Anyway, you're useless to me."
  
  "I can haul a basket of coal just fine, sir."
  
  With great dexterity he climbed onto the cart, took a shovel and filled one of the baskets. Then, trying not to show his efforts, he threw the straps over his shoulder. He could tell that fifty kilos were destroying his shoulders and lower back, but he managed to smile.
  
  "See?" he said, using all his willpower to keep his legs from buckling.
  
  "Baby, it's more than just lifting a basket," said the collier, pulling a pack of tobacco from his pocket and lighting a crumpled pipe. "My old Aunt Lotta could lift that basket with less fuss than you. You should be able to carry it up stairs that are as wet and slippery as a dancer's crotch. The basements we go down to are almost never lit because the building management doesn't care if we bash our heads in. And maybe you could put away one basket, maybe two, but by the third...
  
  Paul's knees and shoulders could no longer support the weight, and the boy fell face down on a pile of coal.
  
  "You will fall like you just did. And if that happened to you on that narrow staircase, your skull wouldn't be the only one to have their head crushed."
  
  The boy stood up on wobbly legs.
  
  "But..."
  
  "There are no 'buts' to make me change my mind, baby. Get off my cart."
  
  "I...could tell you how to make your business better."
  
  "Just what I need... And what could that mean? asked the collier with a mocking laugh.
  
  "You lose a lot of time between the completion of one delivery and the start of the next because you have to go to the warehouse to get more coal. If you bought a second cart..."
  
  "This is your brilliant idea, right? A good cart with steel axles, capable of bearing all the weight we carry, costs at least seven thousand marks, not counting the harness and horses. Do you have seven thousand marks in those torn pants? I would guess not."
  
  "Notes..."
  
  "I earn enough to pay for coal and support my family. You think I haven't thought about buying another cart? I'm sorry, kid," he said, his tone softening as he noticed the dejection in Paul's eyes, "but I can't help you."
  
  Paul bowed his head, defeated. He would have to find a job somewhere else, and quickly, because the landlady's patience would not last long. He was climbing down from the cart when a group of people approached them.
  
  "Then what is it, Klaus? Rookie?"
  
  Klaus' assistant was returning with the porter. But the collier was approached by another man, older, short and bald, wearing round glasses and carrying a leather briefcase.
  
  "No, Herr Fincken, it's just a guy who came looking for work, but now he's on his way."
  
  "Well, he has the mark of your trade on his face."
  
  "He seemed determined to prove himself, sir. What can I do for you?"
  
  "Listen, Klaus, I have another meeting to make, and I've been thinking about paying my coal bill this month. Is this the whole party?
  
  "Yes sir, the two tons you ordered, every ounce."
  
  "I absolutely trust you, Klaus."
  
  Paul turned around at those words. He had just figured out where the coal miner's real capital was.
  
  Confidence. And he'll be damned if he can't turn it into money. If only they would listen to me, he thought as he returned to the group.
  
  "Well, if you don't mind..." Klaus was saying.
  
  "Wait a minute!"
  
  "May I ask what exactly you are doing here, boy? I already told you that I don't need you."
  
  "You would need me if you had another cart, sir."
  
  "Are you dumb? I don't have another cart! Excuse me, Herr Fincken, I can't get rid of this crazy one."
  
  The collier's assistant, who had been giving Paul suspicious looks for a while, moved towards him, but his boss motioned him to stay where he was. He didn't want to make a scene in front of the buyer.
  
  "If I could provide you with the funds to buy another cart," Paul said, stepping away from the assistant, trying to maintain his dignity, "would you hire me?"
  
  Klaus scratched the back of his head.
  
  "Well, yes, I suppose I would," he admitted.
  
  "Fine. Would you be so kind as to tell me how much margin you get for shipping coal?"
  
  "Same as everyone else. A respectable eight percent."
  
  Paul did some quick calculations.
  
  "Herr Fincken, would you agree to pay Herr Graf a thousand marks as a down payment in exchange for a four percent discount on coal for a year?"
  
  "That's an awful lot of money, man," Finken said.
  
  "But what do you want to say? I would not take money up front from my clients."
  
  "The truth is that this is a very tempting offer, Klaus. This would mean big savings for the estate," the administrator said.
  
  "You see?" Paul was delighted. "All you have to do is offer the same to six other clients. They will accept everything, sir. I noticed that people trust you."
  
  "It's true, Klaus."
  
  For a moment, the coalman's chest swelled like a turkey's, but complaints soon followed.
  
  "But if we reduce the margin," said the collier, not yet seeing all this clearly, "what will I live on?"
  
  "With the second cart, you will work twice as fast. You will get your money back as soon as possible. And two wagons will pass through Munich with your name painted on them."
  
  "Two carts with my name..."
  
  "Of course, it will be a little tight at first. In the end, you will have to pay another salary."
  
  The collier looked at the administrator, who smiled.
  
  "For God's sake hire this guy or I'll hire him myself. He has a very businesslike mind."
  
  For the rest of the day, Paul walked around with Klaus talking to the estate's administrators. Of the first ten, seven were accepted, and only four insisted on a written guarantee.
  
  "Looks like you got your cart, Herr Graf."
  
  "Now we have a hell of a lot of work to do. And you will need to find new clients."
  
  "I thought you..."
  
  "No way, kid. You get along with people, although a little shy, like my dear old aunt Irmuska. I think you will do well."
  
  The guy was silent for a few moments, reflecting on the success of the day, then turned back to the coal miner.
  
  "Before I agree, sir, I would like to ask you a question."
  
  "What the hell do you need?" Klaus asked impatiently.
  
  "Do you really have that many aunts?"
  
  The coal miner burst into deafening laughter.
  
  "My mother had fourteen sisters, baby. Believe it or not."
  
  
  eleven
  
  
  With Paul in charge of collecting coal and finding new customers, the business began to flourish. He drove a full cart from the shops on the banks of the Isar to the house where Klaus and Halbert - that was the name of the silent helper - were finishing unloading. First, he dried the horses and fed them water from a bucket. Then he changed teams and harnessed the animals to help in the wagon he had just brought.
  
  He then helped his comrades so that they could dispatch the empty cart as quickly as possible. It was hard to get started, but once he got used to it and his shoulders widened, Paul was able to carry huge baskets everywhere. As soon as he finished delivering coal around the estate, he would start the horses and head back to the warehouses, humming gleefully as the others made their way to another house.
  
  In the meantime, Ilze had found work doing housework at the boarding house where they lived, and in return the landlady gave them a small discount on the rent - which was even better, since Paul's salary was barely enough for the two of them.
  
  "I wish I could make it quieter, Herr Reiner," the landlady said, "but it doesn't look like I really need much help."
  
  Paul usually nodded. He knew his mother wasn't helping much. The other residents of the boarding house whispered that sometimes Ilse stopped, lost in her thoughts, halfway to sweeping the corridor or peeling potatoes, holding onto a broom or a knife and staring into space.
  
  Concerned, Paul spoke to his mother, who denied it. When he insisted, Ilse eventually admitted that this was partly true.
  
  "Maybe I've been a little distracted lately. Too much going on in my head," she said, stroking his face.
  
  In the end, all this will pass, Paul thought. We've been through a lot.
  
  However, he suspected there was more to it, something his mother was hiding. He was still determined to find out the truth about his father's death, but didn't know where to start. It would be impossible to get close to the Schroeders, at least as long as they could count on the referee's support. They could send Paul to prison at any moment, and it was a risk he couldn't take, especially not with his mother in the state she was in.
  
  This question tormented him at night. At least he could let his mind wander without worrying about waking up his mother. Now they slept in separate rooms, for the first time in his life. Paul moved to one of them on the second floor, at the back of the building. It was smaller than Ilze's, but at least he could enjoy solitude.
  
  "No girls in the room, Herr Reiner," the hostess would say at least once a week. And Paul, who had the same imagination and needs as any healthy sixteen year old, took the time to let his thoughts wander in that direction.
  
  In the months that followed, Germany reinvented itself, just as the Reiners did. The new government signed the Treaty of Versailles at the end of June 1919 , signaling Germany's acceptance of sole responsibility for the war and colossal economic reparations. In the streets, the humiliation to which the Allies subjected the country caused a murmur of peaceful indignation, but on the whole the people breathed a sigh of relief for a while. In mid-August, a new constitution was ratified.
  
  Paul began to feel that his life was returning to some sort of order. Unreliable order, but order nonetheless. Gradually, he began to forget the mystery surrounding his father's death, either because of the difficulty of the task, or because of the fear of facing her, or because of the growing responsibility to take care of Ilse.
  
  However, one day, in the middle of the morning's rest - at the very time of the day when he went to ask for a job - Klaus pushed back his empty beer mug, crumpled up the sandwich wrapper, and brought the young man back to earth.
  
  "You seem like a smart kid, Paul. Why don't you study?"
  
  "Just because of...life, war, people," he said with a shrug.
  
  "There's nothing to be done about life or war, but people... You can always hit people back, Paul." The collier blew a cloud of bluish smoke from his pipe. "Are you the type to strike back?"
  
  Suddenly, Paul felt frustrated and powerless. "What if you know someone hit you, but you don't know who it is or what they did?" he asked.
  
  "Well, then you don't leave a stone unturned until you find out."
  
  
  12
  
  
  Everything was quiet in Munich.
  
  However, in a luxurious building on the east bank of the Isar, a low murmur could be heard. Not loud enough to wake the occupants of the house; just a muffled sound coming from a room overlooking the square.
  
  The room was old-fashioned, childish, inappropriate for the owner's age. She left it five years ago and hasn't had time to change the wallpaper yet; the bookcases were filled with dolls and the bed had a pink canopy. But on a night like this, her vulnerable heart was grateful for the items that had brought her back to the safety of a long-lost world. Her nature cursed herself for pushing her independence and determination so far.
  
  The muffled sound was a cry, smothered by a pillow.
  
  There was a letter on the bed, only the first paragraphs visible among the crumpled sheets: Columbus, Ohio, April 7, 1920 Dear Alice, I hope you're all right. You can't imagine how much we miss you as dance season starts in just two weeks! This year, we girls will be able to go together, without our fathers, but with an escort. At least we can attend more than one dance per month! However, the big news of the year is that my brother Prescott is engaged to a girl from the East, Dottie Walker. Everyone talks about the fortune of her father, George Herbert Walker, and what a good pair they make. Mom couldn't be happier about the wedding. If only you could be here, because this will be the first wedding in the family, and you are one of us.
  
  Tears slowly rolled down Alice's face. With her right hand she clung to the doll. She was suddenly about to throw it across the room when she realized what she was doing and stopped herself.
  
  I am a woman. Woman.
  
  Slowly she let go of the doll and began to think about Prescott, or at least what she remembered of him: they were together under an oak bed in a house in Columbus, and he whispered something, hugging her. But when she looked up, she discovered that the boy was not tanned and strong like Prescott, but fair and thin. Immersed in her dreams, she could not recognize his face.
  
  
  13
  
  
  It happened so quickly that even fate could not prepare him for it.
  
  "Damn you Paul, where the hell have you been?"
  
  Paul arrived at Prinzregentenplatz with a full cart. Klaus was in a nasty mood, as he always was when they worked in wealthy areas. The traffic was terrible. Cars and carts waged an endless war against beer vendors' vans, handcarts driven by nimble delivery men, and even workers' bicycles. Policemen crossed the square every ten minutes, trying to bring order to the chaos, their faces impenetrable under their leather helmets. They have already twice warned the coal miners that they should hurry up with unloading if they do not want to receive a huge fine.
  
  The coal miners, of course, could not afford it. Although that month, December 1920, brought them many orders, just two weeks earlier encephalomyelitis had claimed two horses and they had to replace them. Halbert shed many tears because these animals were his life, and since he had no family, he even slept with them in the stable. Klaus had spent the last pfennig of his savings on new horses, and any unexpected expense could now bankrupt him.
  
  No wonder, then, that the coalman started yelling at Paul that day as soon as the cart came around the corner.
  
  "There was a huge mess on the bridge."
  
  "I do not care! Get down here and help us with the cargo before those vultures come back."
  
  Paul jumped out of the driver's seat and started carrying baskets. Now it required much less effort, although at sixteen, almost seventeen, his development was still far from complete. He was rather thin, but his arms and legs were solid tendons.
  
  When only five or six baskets remained to be unloaded, the colliers quickened their pace, hearing the rhythmic, impatient clatter of the police horses' hooves.
  
  "They're coming!" Klaus yelled.
  
  Paul came down with his last load almost at a run, threw it into the coal cellar, sweat streaming down his forehead, then ran back up the stairs to the street. As soon as he got out, some object hit him right in the face.
  
  For a moment, the world around him froze. Paul noticed only that his body spun in the air for half a second, and his feet tried to find footing on the slippery steps. He waved his arms and then fell back. He didn't have time to feel the pain, because the darkness had already closed over him.
  
  Ten seconds earlier, Alice and Manfred Tannenbaum had entered the square after walking through a nearby park. The girl wanted to take her brother for a walk before the ground got too frozen. The first snow had fallen last night, and although it had not settled yet, the boy was soon to spend three or four weeks when he could not stretch his legs as he would have liked.
  
  Manfred enjoyed these last moments of freedom as best he could. The day before, he had taken his old soccer ball out of the closet and now kicked it, bouncing off the walls, under the reproachful glances of passers-by. Under other circumstances Alice would have scowled at them - she hated people who considered children a nuisance - but that day she felt sad and insecure. Lost in thought, her gaze fixed on the little clouds her breath made in the frosty air, she paid little attention to Manfred, except to make sure he picked up the ball as he crossed the road.
  
  Just a few meters from the door to their house, the boy noticed the gaping basement doors and, imagining that they were in front of the gates at the Grunwalder stadium, kicked with all his might. The ball, which was made of extremely durable leather, made a perfect arc before hitting the man in the face. The man disappeared down the stairs.
  
  "Manfred, be careful!"
  
  Alice's angry scream turned into a scream when she realized that the ball had hit someone. Her brother was frozen on the pavement, terrified. She ran to the door to the basement, but one of the victim's colleagues, a short man in a shapeless hat, had already run to his aid.
  
  "Damn it! I always knew that stupid idiot would fall," said another of the coal miners, a larger man. He was still standing by the wagon, wringing his hands and looking anxiously towards the corner of Possartstrasse.
  
  Alice stopped at the top step of the stairs leading to the basement, but did not dare to go down. For a few terrible seconds she stared down into the rectangle of darkness, but then a figure appeared, as if the black had suddenly taken on a human form. It was the colleague's colleague, the one who ran past Alice, and he was carrying the fallen man.
  
  "Holy God, he's just a child..."
  
  The injured man's left arm was hanging at an odd angle, and his trousers and jacket were torn. There were wounds on his head and forearms, and the blood on his face mixed with the coal dust in thick brown streaks. His eyes were closed and he didn't react when the other man laid him on the ground and tried to wipe the blood away with a dirty piece of cloth.
  
  I hope he's just unconscious, Alice thought as she squatted down and took his hand.
  
  "What's his name?" Alice asked the man in the hat.
  
  The man shrugged, pointed to his throat, and shook his head. Alice understood.
  
  "Can you hear me?" she asked, fearing that he might not only be mute, but also deaf. "We must help him!"
  
  The man in the hat ignored her and turned to the coal carts, his saucer-like eyes wide. Another collier, the older one, climbed into the place of the driver of the first cart, the one that was full, and desperately tried to find the reins. He snapped his whip, drawing a clumsy figure eight in the air. The two horses reared up, snorting.
  
  "Go ahead, Halbert!"
  
  The man in the hat hesitated for a moment. He took a step towards another cart, but seemed to change his mind and turned around. He placed the bloodied cloth into Alice's hands, then left, following the old man's lead.
  
  "Wait! You can't leave him here!" she screamed, shocked by the behavior of the men.
  
  She kicked the ground. Enraged, furious and helpless.
  
  
  14
  
  
  The hardest part for Alice was not convincing the cops to let her care for the sick man in her home, but overcoming Doris's resistance to letting him in. She had to yell at her almost as loudly as she had to yell at Manfred to get him, for God's sake, to move and get help. Finally her brother complied, and two servants cleared a path through the circle of spectators and loaded the young man into the lift.
  
  "Miss Alice, you know Sir doesn't like strangers in the house, especially when he's not here. I am strongly against it."
  
  The young coal bearer hung limply, unconscious, among the servants, who were too old to bear his weight any longer. They were on the landing, and the housekeeper was blocking the door.
  
  "We can't leave him here, Doris. We'll have to send for a doctor."
  
  "It's not our responsibility."
  
  "This is true. The accident was Manfred's fault," she said, pointing to the boy who stood with a pale face next to her, holding the ball very far from his body, as if he was afraid that it might hurt someone else.
  
  "I said "No". There are hospitals for ... for people like him."
  
  "He'll be better taken care of here."
  
  Doris stared at her as if she couldn't believe what she was hearing. Then she twisted her mouth into a condescending smile. She knew exactly what to say to piss off Alice, and she chose her words carefully.
  
  "Fräulein Alice, you are too young to..."
  
  So it's all coming back to this, Alice thought, feeling her face redden with rage and shame. Well, it won't work this time.
  
  "Doris, with all due respect, get out of the way."
  
  She went to the door and pushed it open with both hands. The housekeeper tried to close it, but it was too late and a tree hit her on the shoulder as the door swung open. She fell back on the carpet in the hallway, watching helplessly as the Tannenbaum children led the two servants into the house. The latter avoided her gaze, and Doris was sure they were trying not to laugh.
  
  "That's not how things are done. I will tell your father," she said furiously.
  
  "You don't have to worry about that, Doris. When he comes back from Dachau tomorrow, I'll tell him myself," Alice answered without turning around.
  
  Deep down, she wasn't as sure as her words seemed to suggest. She knew that she would have problems with her father, but at that moment she was determined not to let the housekeeper have her own way.
  
  "Close eyes. I don't want to stain them with iodine."
  
  Alice tiptoed into the guest room, trying not to disturb the doctor who was washing the wounded man's forehead. Doris stood angrily in the corner of the room, constantly clearing her throat or stamping her feet to show her impatience. When Alice entered, she redoubled her efforts. Alice ignored her and looked at the young collier sprawled out on the bed.
  
  The mattress is completely ruined, she thought. At that moment, her eyes met the man's, and she recognized him.
  
  Party waiter! No, it can't be him!
  
  But it was true, because she saw him open his eyes wide and raise his eyebrows. More than a year had passed, but she still remembered him. And suddenly she realized who the blond boy was that slipped into her fantasy when she tried to picture Prescott. She noticed that Doris was staring at her, so she faked a yawn and opened the bedroom door. Using him as a screen between herself and the housekeeper, she looked at Paul and raised her finger to her lips.***
  
  "How is he?" Alice asked when the doctor finally stepped out into the corridor.
  
  He was a scrawny, bulging-eyed man who had been in charge of looking after the Tannenbaums before Alice was born. When her mother died of the flu, the girl spent many sleepless nights hating him for not saving her, though now his strange appearance only made her shudder like a stethoscope touching her skin.
  
  "His left arm is broken, although it appears to be a clean fracture. I put a splint and bandages on him. He'll be all right in about six weeks. Try to stop him from moving her."
  
  "What's wrong with his head?"
  
  "The rest of the damage is superficial, although he has a lot of blood. He must have scratched himself on the edge of the steps. I have disinfected the wound on his forehead, although he should take a good bath as soon as possible."
  
  "Can he leave right away, doctor?"
  
  The Doctor nodded in greeting to Doris, who had just closed the door behind her.
  
  "I would recommend him to stay here for the night. Well, goodbye," said the doctor, pulling on his hat resolutely.
  
  "We'll take care of it, doctor. Thank you very much," Alice said as she said goodbye to him and gave Doris a defiant look.
  
  Paul turned awkwardly in the tub. He had to keep his left hand out of the water so as not to wet the bandages. With his body covered in bruises, there was no posture that didn't hurt some part of him. He looked around the room, stunned by the luxury that surrounded him. Baron von Schroeder's mansion, although located in one of the most prestigious areas of Munich, did not have the amenities that this apartment had, starting with hot water that flowed directly from the tap. Usually it was Paul who carried hot water from the kitchen every time a member of the family wanted to take a bath, which was a daily occurrence. And there was simply no comparison between the bathroom he was in now and the closet with washbasin and sink in the boarding house.
  
  So this is her home. I thought I would never see her again. Too bad she's ashamed of me, he thought.
  
  "This water is very black."
  
  Paul looked up, startled. Alice stood in the bathroom door with a cheerful expression on her face. Although the tub reached almost to his shoulders and the water was covered with grayish foam, the young man could not help but blush.
  
  "What are you doing here?"
  
  "Rebalancing," she said, smiling at Paul's feeble attempts to cover himself with one arm. "I am indebted to you for saving me."
  
  "Given that your brother's ball knocked me down the stairs, I'd say you still owe me."
  
  Alice didn't answer. She looked at him carefully, focusing on his shoulders and the prominent muscles of his sinewy arms. Without the coal dust, his skin was very fair.
  
  "Anyway, thanks, Alice," Paul said, mistaking her silence for a silent rebuke.
  
  "You remember my name."
  
  Now it was Paul's turn to be silent. The gleam in Alice's eyes was startling, and he had to look away.
  
  "You've gained quite a bit," she continued after a pause.
  
  "Those are the baskets. They weigh a ton, but wearing them makes you stronger."
  
  "How did you end up selling coal?"
  
  "It's a long story".
  
  She took a stool from the corner of the bathroom and sat next to him.
  
  "Tell me. We have time".
  
  "Are you not afraid that they will catch you here?"
  
  "I went to bed half an hour ago. The housekeeper checked, as I did. But it was not difficult to slip past her."
  
  Paul took the bar of soap and began to turn it over in his hand.
  
  "After the party, I had a nasty argument with my aunt."
  
  "Because of your cousin?"
  
  "It was because of something that happened many years ago, something to do with my father. My mother told me that he died in a shipwreck, but on the day of the party, I found out that she had been lying to me for years."
  
  "That's what grown-ups do," Alice said with a sigh.
  
  "They threw us out, me and my mother. This job was the best I could get."
  
  "I guess you're lucky."
  
  "You call it luck?" Paul said wincing. "Working from dawn to dusk with nothing to look forward to but a few pfennigs in my pocket. A bit of luck!"
  
  "You have a job; you have your independence, your self-respect. It's already something," she answered frustratedly.
  
  "I'd trade it for one of these," he said, waving his hand around him.
  
  "You have no idea what I mean, Paul, do you?"
  
  "More than you think," he spat, unable to contain himself. "You have beauty and intelligence, and you spoil it all by pretending to be unhappy, rebellious, spending more time complaining about your luxurious position and worrying about what other people think of you than taking risks and fighting for what you really are. Want".
  
  He trailed off, suddenly realizing everything he'd said and seeing emotion dancing in her eyes. He opened his mouth to apologize, but thought that would only make things worse.
  
  Alice rose slowly from her chair. For a moment, Paul thought she was about to leave, but this was just the first of many times he had failed to correctly interpret her feelings over the years. She walked over to the tub, knelt beside it, and leaning over the water, kissed him on the lips. At first Paul froze, but soon he began to react.
  
  Alice pulled away and stared at him. Paul knew what her beauty was: it was the gleam of defiance that burned in her eyes. He leaned forward with his whole body and kissed her, but this time he opened his mouth slightly. After a while, she broke away.
  
  Then she heard the sound of the door opening.
  
  
  15
  
  
  Alice immediately jumped to her feet and backed away from Paul, but it was too late. Her father entered the bathroom. He barely looked at her; there was no need for it. The sleeve of her dress was completely wet, and even the limited imagination of Joseph Tannenbaum could get some idea of what happened just a moment ago.
  
  "Go to your room".
  
  "But, dad..." she stammered.
  
  "Now!"
  
  Alice burst into tears and ran out of the room. On the way, she almost tripped over Doris, who gave her a triumphant smile.
  
  "As you can see Fraulein, your father returned home earlier than expected. Isn't that wonderful?
  
  Paul felt completely defenseless as he sat naked in the rapidly cooling water. As Tannenbaum approached, he tried to get to his feet, but the businessman grabbed him violently by the shoulder. Although he was shorter than Paul, he was stronger than his chubby appearance suggested, and Paul found the slippery bathtub impossible to get a hold of.
  
  Tannenbaum sat down on the stool where Alice had sat just a few minutes before. He didn't loosen his grip on Paul's shoulder for a moment, and Paul feared that he would suddenly decide to push him down and hold his head underwater.
  
  "What's your name, coal miner?"
  
  "Paul Reiner"
  
  "You're not a Jew, Reiner, are you?"
  
  "No, sir."
  
  "Now pay attention," Tannenbaum said, his tone softening like that of a trainer talking to the last dog in the litter, the slowest to learn his tricks. "My daughter is the heiress of a great fortune; she's in a class far above yours. You're just a piece of shit stuck to her shoe. Understand?"
  
  Paul didn't answer. He managed to overcome his shame and glared back, teeth clenched in rage. At that moment, there was no one in the world whom he hated more than this man.
  
  "Of course you don't understand," Tannenbaum said, letting go of his shoulder. "Well, at least I got back before she did something stupid."
  
  His hand reached for his wallet and he pulled out a huge handful of bills. He folded them neatly and placed them on the marble washstand.
  
  "This is for the trouble caused by Manfred's ball. Now you can go."
  
  Tannenbaum started for the door, but before he left, he took one last look at Paul.
  
  "Of course, Reiner, although you probably wouldn't care, I spent the day with my daughter's future father-in-law, working out the details of her wedding. In the spring she will marry an aristocrat."
  
  I guess you're lucky... you have your independence, she told him.
  
  "Alice knows?" - he asked.
  
  Tannenbaum snorted derisively.
  
  "Never say her name again."
  
  Paul got out of the tub and dressed, barely bothering to dry off. He didn't care even if he caught pneumonia. He took a wad of bills from the sink and went into the bedroom, where Doris watched him from the other side of the room.
  
  "Let me walk you to the door."
  
  "Don't bother yourself," the young man replied, turning into the corridor. The front door was clearly visible at the far end.
  
  "Oh, we wouldn't want you to accidentally pocket anything," said the housekeeper with a mocking grin.
  
  "Give it back to its owner, ma'am. Tell him I don't need it," Paul replied, his voice cracking as he held out the banknotes.
  
  He almost ran for the exit, though Doris was no longer looking at him. She looked at the money, and a sly smile flickered across her face.
  
  
  16
  
  
  The next weeks were a struggle for Paul. When he showed up at the stable, he had to listen to a forced apology from Klaus, who got away with a fine but still felt remorse for leaving a young man in trouble. At least it assuaged his anger at Paul's broken arm.
  
  "It's the middle of winter and it's just me and poor Halbert unloading with all the orders we have. It's a tragedy."
  
  Paul refrained from mentioning that they had so many orders just because of his scheme and the second cart. He didn't feel like talking much, and he fell into a silence as deep as Halbert's, freezing his ass off for long hours in the driver's seat, his thoughts hovering somewhere far away.
  
  Once he tried to return to Prinzregentenplatz when he thought that Herr Tannenbaum would not be there, but the servant slammed the door in his face. He slipped Alice some notes through the mailbox, asking her to meet him at a nearby cafe, but she never showed up. Sometimes he passed the gate of her house, but she never showed up. This was done by a policeman, no doubt instructed by Joseph Tannenbaum; he advised Paul not to return to the area unless he wanted to end up picking his teeth in the pavement.
  
  Paul became increasingly withdrawn into himself, and the few times his paths crossed with his mother at the boarding house, they barely exchanged a few words. He ate little, hardly slept and did not pay attention to his surroundings. One day, the back wheel of the trolley nearly hit the trolley. Enduring the cursing of the passengers who screamed that he could have killed them all, Paul told himself he had to do something to avoid the thick thunderclouds of melancholy that hovered in his head.
  
  No wonder he did not notice the figure watching him one afternoon on the Frauenstraße. The stranger at first slowly approached the cart to get a closer look, trying to stay out of Paul's line of sight. The man took notes in a booklet he carried in his pocket, carefully writing out the name Klaus Graf. Now that Paul had more time and a good hand, the sides of the trolley were always clean and the letters visible, which somewhat assuaged the collier's anger. Finally, the observer sat down in a nearby beer hall until the carts left. Only then did he approach the estate they provided to make some discreet inquiries.
  
  Jürgen was in an extremely bad mood. He had just received his grades for the first four months of the year, and they were not in the least encouraging.
  
  I have to get that cretin Kurt to give me private lessons, he thought. Maybe he will do a couple of jobs for me. I'll ask him to come to my house and use my typewriter so they don't find out.
  
  It was his last year of high school, and a place at university, with all that it entailed, was at stake. He had little interest in pursuing a degree, but he liked the idea of parading around the campus, flaunting his baronial title. Even if he didn't really have one yet.
  
  It will be full of pretty girls. I will fight them off.
  
  He was in his bedroom fantasizing about college girls when the maid-the new maid hired by his mother after she kicked the Reiners out-called out to him from behind the door.
  
  "Young Master Cron is here to see you, Master Jurgen."
  
  "Let him in."
  
  Jurgen greeted his friend with grunts.
  
  "Just the person I wanted to see. I need you to sign my report card; if my father sees this, he will lose his temper. I spent all morning trying to forge his signature, but it doesn't look like her at all," he said, pointing to the floor, which was covered in crumpled pieces of paper.
  
  Kron glanced at the report lying open on the table and whistled in surprise.
  
  "Well, we had fun, didn't we?"
  
  "You know Waburg hates me."
  
  "From what I can tell, half the teachers share his dislike. But let's not worry about your school performance now, Jürgen, because I brought you news. You must prepare for the hunt."
  
  "What are you talking about? Who are we after?"
  
  Kron smiled, already enjoying the recognition he would earn with his discovery.
  
  "The bird that flew out of the nest, my friend. A bird with a broken wing."
  
  
  17
  
  
  Paul had absolutely no idea that anything was wrong until it was too late.
  
  His day began as usual, with a trolley ride from the boarding house to Klaus Graf's stables on the banks of the Isar. Every day he came it was still dark and he sometimes had to wake Halbert. He and the mute got along after the initial mistrust, and Paul really appreciated those moments before dawn as they harnessed their horses to the wagons and headed for the coal yards. There they put the cart in the loading bay, where a wide metal pipe filled the cart in less than ten minutes. The clerk recorded how many times the Graf people came in to download each day so that the total could be calculated on a weekly basis. Then Paul and Halbert went to their first meeting. Klaus would be there, waiting for them, puffing impatiently on his pipe. A simple, exhausting routine.
  
  Paul got to the stable that day and pushed open the door, as he did every morning. It was never locked because there was nothing inside that was worth stealing except for the seat belts. Halbert slept only two feet from the horses, in a room with a rickety old bed to the right of the animal stalls.
  
  "Wake up, Halbert! Today there is more snow than usual. We will have to leave a little earlier if we want to get to Musakh on time."
  
  There was no sign of his silent companion, but that was normal. It always took him a while to show up.
  
  Suddenly, Paul heard the horses stomping nervously in their stalls and something turned inside him, a feeling he hadn't felt in a long time. His lungs filled with lead, and a sour taste appeared in his mouth.
  
  Jurgen.
  
  He took a step towards the door, but then stopped. They were there, emerging from every crack, and he cursed himself for not noticing them sooner. From the closet where the shovels were stored, from the stalls for the horses and from under the wagons. There were seven of them - the same seven that had followed him to Jurgen's birthday party. It seemed like an eternity ago. Their faces became wider, harder, and they no longer wore school jackets, but thick sweaters and boots. Clothes are better suited for this task.
  
  "You won't slide on marble this time, cousin," Jurgen said, pointing disdainfully at the dirt floor.
  
  "Hulbert!" Paul wept desperately.
  
  "Your retarded friend is tied up in his bed. We certainly didn't need to gag him..." one of the thugs said. Others seemed to find it very amusing.
  
  Paul jumped onto one of the carts as the boys approached him. One of them tried to grab his ankle, but Paul lifted his foot in time and placed it on the boy's fingers. There was a crackling sound.
  
  "He broke them! An absolute son of a bitch!"
  
  "Shut up! In half an hour this little piece of shit will regret not being in your place," Jurgen said.
  
  Several boys walked around the back of the wagon. Out of the corner of his eye, Paul saw another grab the driver's seat, intent on climbing into it. He felt the glint of the penknife blade.
  
  He was suddenly reminded of one of the many scenarios he had come up with around the sinking of his father's boat: his father surrounded by enemies on all sides who were trying to get on board. He told himself that this cart was his boat.
  
  I won't let them come on board.
  
  He looked around, desperately looking for something he could use as a weapon, but the only things on hand were the remains of coal scattered around the cart. The shards were so small that he would have to throw forty or fifty before he did any harm. With a broken arm, Paul's only advantage was the height of the cart, which put him at just the right level to punch any attacker in the face.
  
  Another boy tried to sneak to the back of the cart, but Paul sensed a catch. The one next to the driver's seat took advantage of the momentary distraction and pulled himself up, no doubt preparing to jump on Paul's back. With a quick movement, Paul unscrewed the lid of his thermos and splashed the hot coffee in the boy's face. The dish wasn't simmering like it had been an hour ago when he cooked it on the stove in his bedroom, but it was hot enough for the guy to press his hands to his face like he was scalded. Paul lunged at him and pushed him off the cart. The boy fell back with a groan.
  
  "Damn, what are we waiting for? Everyone, grab him!" Jurgen shouted.
  
  Paul saw the gleam of the penknife again. He spun around, raising his fists in the air, wanting to show them he wasn't afraid, but everyone in the dirty stables knew that was a lie.
  
  Ten hands grabbed the cart in ten places. Paul stamped his foot left and right, but after a few seconds they surrounded him from all sides. One of the thugs grabbed his left arm, and Paul, trying to free himself, felt the other's fist hit him in the face. There was a crunch and an explosion of pain as his nose was broken.
  
  For a moment, all he saw was a pulsing red light. He took off, missing his cousin Jurgen by several miles.
  
  "Hold on to him, Kron!"
  
  Paul felt them grab him from behind. He tried to wriggle out of their grip, but it was useless. In a matter of seconds, they twisted his arms behind his back, leaving his face and chest at the mercy of his cousin. One of his captors had an iron grip on his neck, forcing Paul to look directly at Jurgen.
  
  "You're not running anymore, are you?"
  
  Jurgen carefully shifted his weight onto his right foot, then pulled his arm back. The blow hit Paul right in the stomach. He felt the air leaving his body as if it were a punctured tire.
  
  "Hit me all you want, Jurgen," Paul wheezed as he managed to catch his breath. "That won't stop you from being a useless pig."
  
  Another blow, this time to the face, cut his eyebrow in two. His cousin shook hands with him and massaged his injured knuckles.
  
  "You see? There are seven like you for every one of me, someone is holding me back and you are still acting worse than me," Paul said.
  
  Jurgen rushed forward and grabbed his cousin's hair so hard that Paul thought he was going to yank it out.
  
  "You killed Edward, you son of a bitch."
  
  "All I did was help him. The same cannot be said for the rest of you."
  
  "So, cousin, are you suddenly claiming some sort of kinship with the Shredders? I thought you gave it all up. Isn't that what you said to the little Jewish slut?"
  
  "Don't call her that."
  
  Jurgen moved even closer until Paul could feel his breath on his face. His eyes were fixed on Paul, savoring the pain he was about to inflict with his words.
  
  "Relax, she's not going to be a whore for long. Now she's going to be a respectable lady. Future Baroness von Schroeder.
  
  Paul knew immediately that this was the truth and not just his cousin's usual bluster. A sharp pain rose in his stomach, causing a formless, desperate scream. Jurgen laughed out loud, his eyes bulging. Finally he let go of Paul's hair and Paul's head fell on his chest.
  
  "Well, then, guys, let's give him what he deserves."
  
  At that moment, Paul threw his head back as hard as he could. The guy behind him loosened his grip on Jurgen's punches, no doubt believing that victory was theirs. The top of Paul's skull hit the bandit in the face, and he let go of Paul, falling to his knees. The others rushed at Paul, but they all landed on the floor in a ball.
  
  Paul waved his arms, throwing blind blows. In the midst of the commotion, he felt something hard under his fingers and grabbed it. He tried to get to his feet, and he almost succeeded when Jurgen noticed and lunged at his cousin. Paul covered his face reflexively, unaware that he was still holding the object he had just picked up in his hand.
  
  There was a terrible scream, then silence.
  
  Paul pulled himself up to the edge of the wagon. His cousin was on his knees, writhing on the floor. The wooden handle of a penknife protruded from the socket of his right eye. The boy was lucky: if his friends had a brilliant idea to create something more, Jurgen would be dead.
  
  "Put it away! Take it away!" he shouted.
  
  The others watched him, paralyzed. They didn't want to be there anymore. For them, it was no longer a game.
  
  "It hurts! Help me, for heaven's sake!"
  
  Finally, one of the thugs managed to get to his feet and approach Jurgen.
  
  "Don't do it," Paul said in horror. "Take him to the hospital and ask them to remove it."
  
  The other boy looked at Paul, his face expressionless. It was almost as if he wasn't there or had no control over his actions. He walked over to Jurgen and put his hand on the hilt of his penknife. However, as he squeezed it, Jurgen suddenly twitched in the opposite direction, and the blade of the penknife blew out most of his eyeball.
  
  Jurgen stopped abruptly and raised his hand to where the penknife had been a moment ago.
  
  "I can not see. Why can't I see?"
  
  Then he lost consciousness.
  
  The boy who had pulled out the penknife stood staring blankly at him as the pinkish mass that was the right eye of the future baron slid down the blade to the ground.
  
  "You have to take him to the hospital!" Paul shouted.
  
  The rest of the gang slowly rose to their feet, still not quite understanding what had happened to their leader. They went to the stables to win a simple, crushing victory; instead, the unthinkable happened.
  
  Two of them took Jurgen by the arms and legs and carried him to the door. The rest joined them. Neither of them said a word.
  
  Only the boy with the penknife remained where he was, looking questioningly at Paul.
  
  "Then go ahead if you dare," Paul said, praying to heaven he didn't.
  
  The boy opened his hand, dropped his penknife to the ground, and ran out into the street. Paul watched him leave; then, alone at last, he began to weep.
  
  
  18
  
  
  "I have no intention of doing this."
  
  "You are my daughter, you will do what I say."
  
  "I am not an item that you can buy or sell."
  
  "This is the greatest opportunity of your life."
  
  "In your life, you mean."
  
  "You are the one who will become a baroness."
  
  "You don't know him, father. He is a pig, rude, arrogant..."
  
  "Your mother described me in very similar terms when we first met."
  
  "Keep her out of this. She would never..."
  
  "Wanted the best for you? Tried to secure your happiness?"
  
  "... forced her daughter to marry a man she hates. And a non-Jew, more than that."
  
  "Would you prefer someone better? A starving beggar, how is your collier friend? He's not Jewish either, Alice."
  
  "At least he's a good person."
  
  "It's what you think."
  
  "I mean something to him."
  
  "You mean exactly three thousand marks to him."
  
  "What?"
  
  "The day your friend came to visit, I left a stack of banknotes on the washbasin. Three thousand marks for his troubles, on condition that he never appears here again."
  
  Alice was speechless.
  
  "I know, my child. I know it's hard..."
  
  "You are lying".
  
  "I swear to you, Alice, on your mother's grave, that your collier friend took the money from the sink. You know, I wouldn't joke about something like that."
  
  "I..."
  
  "People will always disappoint you, Alice. Come here hug me
  
  ..."
  
  "Do not touch me!"
  
  "You will get through this. And you will learn to love the son of Baron von Schroeder the way your mother ended up loving me."
  
  "I hate you!"
  
  "Alice! Alice, come back!"
  
  She left the house two days later, in the dim morning light, amid a snowstorm that had already covered the streets with snow.
  
  She took with her a large suitcase full of clothes and all the money she could muster. It wasn't much, but it would be enough to last a few months until she could find a decent job. Her absurd, childish plan to return to Prescott, conceived at a time when it seemed normal to travel in a first-class compartment and gorge on lobsters, was a thing of the past. Now she felt that she was another Alice, one who had to forge her own path.
  
  She also took a locket that belonged to her mother. It contained a photograph of Alice and another of Manfred. Her mother wore it around her neck until the day she died.
  
  Before leaving, Alice paused for a moment at her brother's door. She put her hand on the doorknob but didn't open it. She feared that the sight of Manfred's round, innocent face would weaken her resolve. Her willpower was already much weaker than she expected.
  
  Now it's time to change all that, she thought as she stepped out into the street.
  
  Her leather boots left muddy footprints in the snow, but the blizzard took care of that, washing them away as it swept past.
  
  
  19
  
  
  The day he was attacked, Paul and Hulbert arrived an hour late for the first delivery. Klaus Graf turned white with rage. When he saw Paul's battered face and heard his story - confirmed by the constant nodding of Halbert, whom Paul found tied to his bed with a look of humiliation on his face - he sent him home.
  
  The next morning, Paul was surprised to find the Earl in the stables, a place he hardly ever visited for the rest of the day. Still bewildered by recent events, he didn't notice the strange look the collier gave him.
  
  "Hello, Herr Count. What are you doing here?" he asked carefully.
  
  "Well, I just wanted to make sure there weren't any more problems. Can you assure me that these guys are not coming back, Paul?"
  
  The young man hesitated for a moment before answering.
  
  "No, sir. I can't."
  
  "That's what I thought."
  
  Klaus rummaged through his coat and pulled out a couple of wrinkled, dirty bills. He handed them guiltily to Paul.
  
  Paul took them, counting them in his mind.
  
  "Part of my monthly salary, including today. Sir, are you firing me?"
  
  "I was thinking about what happened yesterday... I don"t want any problems, you understand?"
  
  "Of course, sir."
  
  "You don't seem surprised," said Klaus, who had deep bags under his eyes, no doubt from a sleepless night trying to decide whether he should fire the guy or not.
  
  Paul looked at him, wondering if he should explain the depth of the abyss into which the bills in his hand had plunged him. He decided not to, because the collier was already aware of his plight. Instead, he chose irony, which increasingly became his currency.
  
  "This is the second time you have betrayed me, Herr Graf. Betrayal loses its charm for the second time."
  
  
  20
  
  
  "You can't do this to me!"
  
  The Baron smiled and took a sip of his herbal tea. He enjoyed the situation, and what was worse, he made no attempt to pretend otherwise. For the first time he saw an opportunity to get his hands on Jewish money without marrying off Jurgen.
  
  "My dear Tannenbaum, I don't understand how I do anything at all."
  
  "Exactly!"
  
  "There is no bride, is there?"
  
  "Well, no," Tannenbaum admitted reluctantly.
  
  "So there can be no wedding. And since the absence of the bride," he said, clearing his throat, "is your responsibility, it is reasonable that you should take care of the expenses.
  
  Tannenbaum shifted uneasily in his chair, looking for an answer. He poured himself more tea and half a sugar bowl.
  
  "I see you like it," said the Baron, arching an eyebrow. The revulsion that Joseph evoked in him gradually transformed into a strange fascination as the balance of power shifted.
  
  "Well, after all, I'm the one who paid for that sugar."
  
  The Baron replied with a grimace.
  
  "You don't have to be rude."
  
  "Do you think me an idiot, baron? You told me that you would use the money to set up a rubber factory like the one you lost five years ago. I believed you and transferred the huge amount that you asked me. And what do I find two years later? Not only did you not create a factory, but the money ended up in a portfolio of stocks that only you have access to."
  
  "These are secure supplies, Tannenbaum."
  
  "It could be. But I don't trust their keeper. It wouldn't be the first time you've bet your family's future on a winning hand."
  
  Baron Otto von Schroeder had an expression of resentment on his face that he could not bring himself to feel. Recently, he had relapsed into a gambling fever and spent long nights staring at the leather folder containing the investments he had made with Tannenbaum's money. Each had an instant liquidity clause, which meant they could convert them into bundles of notes in just over an hour with only their signature and a hefty fine. He didn't try to fool himself: he knew why the item was included. He knew the risk he was taking. He began to drink more and more before bed, and returned to the gambling table last week.
  
  Not in a Munich casino; he wasn't that stupid. He changed into the most modest clothes he could find and visited an establishment in Altstadt. A cellar with sawdust on the floor and whores with more paint on them than you would find in the Alte Pinakothek. He asked for a glass of Korn and sat down at a table where the starting rate was only two marks. He had five hundred dollars in his pocket, the most he could afford to spend.
  
  The worst thing that could happen happened: he won.
  
  Even with those dirty cards stuck together like newlyweds on their honeymoon, even with the intoxication caused by homemade drink and the smoke that stinged his eyes, even with the bad smell that hung in the air of that basement, he won. Not much, just enough for him to leave this place without a knife in his guts. But he won, and now he wanted to play more and more often. "I'm afraid you'll just have to trust my judgment in the matter of money, Tannenbaum."
  
  The industrialist chuckled skeptically.
  
  "I see that I will be left without money and without a wedding. Though I could always redeem that letter of credit you signed for me, Baron."
  
  Schroeder swallowed. He wouldn't let anyone take the folder from the drawer in his office. And not for the simple reason that dividends gradually covered his debts.
  
  No.
  
  That folder - as he stroked it, imagining what he could do with the money - was the only thing that kept him through the long nights.
  
  "Like I said before, there is no need to be rude. I promised you a wedding between our families, and this is what you get. Bring me a bride and my son will be waiting for her.
  
  Jürgen did not speak to his mother for three days.
  
  When the Baron went to the hospital for his son a week ago, he listened to the young man's deeply biased account. He was hurt by what had happened - even more than when Edward returned so badly mutilated, Jurgen thought stupidly - but he refused to involve the police in the case.
  
  "We must not forget that it was the boys who brought the penknife," said the baron, justifying his position.
  
  But Jürgen knew that his father was lying, and that he was hiding a more important reason. He tried to talk to Brunnhilde, but she digressed again and again, confirming his suspicions that they were only telling him part of the truth. Enraged, Jürgen shut himself in complete silence, believing that this would soften his mother.
  
  Brunnhilde suffered, but did not give up.
  
  Instead, she counterattacked by giving her son attention, bringing him endless gifts, sweets, and his favorite foods. It had reached a stage where even a spoiled, ill-mannered and self-absorbed man like Jurgen began to feel suffocated as he tried to get out of the house.
  
  So, when Kron came to Jurgen with one of his usual suggestions - that he should come to a political meeting - Jurgen answered differently than usual.
  
  "Come on," he said, grabbing his coat.
  
  Krohn, who had spent years trying to get Jurgen involved in politics and who was a member of various nationalist parties, was delighted with his friend's decision.
  
  "I'm sure it'll help you take your mind off it," he said, still ashamed of what happened in the stables a week ago when seven lost to one.
  
  Jürgen didn't have high expectations. He was still taking sedatives for the pain his wound was causing him, and as they rode the trolley towards the city center, he nervously touched the bulky bandage that he would have to wear for several more days.
  
  And then a badge for the rest of his life, all because of that poor pig Paul, he thought, feeling incredibly sorry for himself.
  
  To top it off, his cousin vanished into thin air. Two of his friends went to spy on the stables and found that he no longer worked there. Jurgen suspected that there would be no way to track Paul down in the short term, and this set his insides on fire.
  
  Lost in his self-loathing and self-pity, the baron's son barely heard what Kron was saying on the way to the Hofbrauhaus.
  
  "He is an outstanding speaker. Great person. You'll see, Jürgen."
  
  He also paid no attention to the magnificent setting, the old beer factory built for the kings of Bavaria over three centuries ago, or the frescoes on the walls. He sat next to Kron on one of the benches in the great hall and sipped his beer in grim silence.
  
  When the speaker whom Krohn spoke of so enthusiastically came on the stage, Jürgen thought his friend had gone mad. The man walked as if he had been stung in the ass by a bee, and did not at all look like a person who has something to say. He radiated everything that Jurgen despised, from his hair and mustache to his cheap wrinkled suit.
  
  Five minutes later, Jurgen looked around in awe. The crowd that had gathered in the hall, at least a thousand people, stood in complete silence. Lips barely parted, except to whisper "Well said" or "He's right." The hands of the crowd spoke, marking each pause of the man with loud clapping.
  
  Almost against his will, Jurgen began to listen. He could hardly understand the topic of the speech, because he lived on the periphery of the world around him, concerned only with his own entertainment. He recognized fragments, snippets of phrases his father had dropped during breakfast while hiding behind his newspaper. Damn the French, the British, the Russians. Complete nonsense, all of this.
  
  From this confusion, however, Jurgen began to extract a simple meaning. Not from the words he barely understood, but from the emotion in the little man's voice, from his exaggerated gestures, from the clenched fists at the end of each line.
  
  There has been a terrible injustice.
  
  Germany was stabbed in the back.
  
  Jews and Freemasons kept this dagger at Versailles.
  
  Germany was lost.
  
  The blame for poverty, for unemployment, for the bare feet of German children, fell on the Jews, who controlled the government in Berlin as if it were a huge brainless puppet.
  
  Jurgen, who did not care in the least for the bare feet of German children, who did not give a damn about Versailles - who never cared about anyone but Jürgen von Schroeder - was on his feet in fifteen minutes, applauding the speaker with a storm of applause. Before the speech ended, he told himself that he would follow this man wherever he went.
  
  After the meeting, Kron apologized, saying that he would be back soon. Jurgen lapsed into silence until his friend patted him on the back. He brought in a speaker who again looked poor and disheveled, his eyes shifty and incredulous. But the baron's heir could no longer see him in that light, and stepped forward to greet him. Kron said with a smile:
  
  "My dear Jürgen, let me introduce you to Adolf Hitler."
  
  
  ACCEPTED STUDENT
  
  1923
  
  
  In which the initiate discovers a new reality with new rules
  
  This is the secret handshake of the student who has entered, used so that brother Masons can identify each other as such. This involves pressing the thumb against the top of the index finger knuckle of the person being greeted, who will respond with the same action. Its secret name is BOOS, after the name of the column that represents the moon in Solomon's temple. If a Mason has any doubts about another person who calls himself a Brother Mason, he will ask him to spell that name. Imposters start with the letter B, while true initiates start with the third letter, thus: ABOZ.
  
  
  21
  
  
  "Good afternoon, Frau Schmidt," said Paul. "What can I offer you?"
  
  The woman looked around quickly, trying to give the impression that she was considering her purchase, but the truth was that she had her eye on the sack of potatoes, hoping to find the price tag. It was useless. Tired of having to change their prices daily, Paul began to memorize them every morning.
  
  "Two kilos of potatoes, please," she said, not daring to ask how much.
  
  Paul began to put the tubers on the scales. Behind the lady, a couple of boys were examining the sweets on display, their hands stuffed tightly into their empty pockets.
  
  "They cost sixty thousand marks a kilo!" boomed a rough voice from behind the counter.
  
  The woman barely glanced at Herr Ziegler, the grocery owner, but her face flushed at the high price.
  
  "I'm sorry, ma'am... I don't have many potatoes left," Paul lied to spare her the embarrassment of having to cut back on the order. He exhausted himself that morning stacking their sacks in the back yard. "Many of our regular customers are still ahead. Do you mind if I give you just one kilo?"
  
  The relief on her face was so obvious that Paul had to turn away to hide his smile.
  
  "Wonderful. Guess I'll have to make do."
  
  Paul took a few potatoes from the bag until the scales stopped at 1,000 grams. He didn't completely remove the last, especially the large one, from the bag, but held it in his hand while he checked the weight, and then returned it to its place, passing the potatoes.
  
  The action did not escape the woman, whose hand trembled slightly as she paid and took her bag from the counter. As they were about to leave, Herr Ziegler called her back.
  
  "Just one moment!"
  
  The woman turned, pale.
  
  "Yes?"
  
  "Your son dropped it, madam," the shop owner said, holding out the smallest boy's cap.
  
  The woman muttered her thanks and practically ran out.
  
  Herr Ziegler headed back behind the counter. He adjusted his small round glasses and continued to wipe the pea jars with a soft piece of cloth. The place was spotlessly clean, as Paul kept it extremely clean, and in those days, nothing was left in the store long enough to collect dust.
  
  "I saw you," the shop owner said without looking up.
  
  Paul took a newspaper from under the counter and began leafing through it. They won't have any more customers that day, as it was a Thursday and most people's pay had dried up a few days earlier. But the next day would be hell.
  
  "I know, sir."
  
  "So why were you pretending?"
  
  "It was supposed to look like you didn't notice that I was giving her a potato, sir. Otherwise, we would have to give away a free emblem to everyone."
  
  "These potatoes will be deducted from your paycheck," Ziegler said, trying to sound threatening.
  
  Paul nodded and went back to reading. He had long since ceased to be afraid of the shopkeeper, not only because he never followed through on his threats, but also because his rugged appearance was just a front. Paul smiled to himself, remembering that just a minute earlier he had noticed Ziegler stuffing a handful of sweets into the boy's cap.
  
  "I don't know what the hell you found so interesting in those papers," the shopkeeper said, shaking his head.
  
  What Paul had been frantically looking for in the papers for some time now was a way to save Herr Ziegler's business. If he doesn't find it, the store will go bankrupt within two weeks.
  
  Suddenly he stopped between two pages of the Allgemeine Zeitung. His heart jumped. It was right there: an idea outlined in a small two-column article, almost ridiculous next to big headlines announcing endless disasters and the possible collapse of the government. He might have missed it if he hadn't been looking for that particular thing.
  
  It was crazy.
  
  It was impossible.
  
  But if it works...we'll be rich.
  
  It would work. Paul was sure of it. The hardest thing would be to convince Herr Ziegler. An old conservative Prussian like him would never agree to such a plan, even in Paul's wildest dreams. Paul couldn't even imagine how to suggest it.
  
  So I'd better think quickly, he told himself, biting his lip.
  
  
  22
  
  
  It all started with the assassination of Minister Walter Rathenau, a well-known Jewish industrialist. The despair that plunged Germany between 1922 and 1923, when two generations saw their values completely upended, began one morning when three students drove up to Rathenau's car, showered him with machine gun fire and threw a grenade at him. On June 24, 1922, a terrible seed was sown; more than two decades later, it resulted in the deaths of over fifty million people.
  
  Until that day, the Germans thought things were going badly anyway. But since the day when the whole country turned into a lunatic asylum, all they wanted was to go back to the way things were before. Rathenau headed the Ministry of Foreign Affairs. In that turbulent time, when Germany was in the hands of her creditors, this was a job that was even more important than the Presidency of the Republic.
  
  On the day that Rathenau was assassinated, Paul wondered if the students did it because he was Jewish, because he was a politician, or to try to help Germany come to terms with the catastrophe of Versailles. Impossible compensation that the country would have to pay - before 1984! - plunged the population into poverty, and Rathenau was the last bastion of common sense.
  
  After his death, the country began printing money simply to pay its debts. Did those responsible for this understand that each sign they printed depreciated the rest? They probably did, but what else could they do?
  
  In June 1922, one mark could buy two cigarettes; two hundred and seventy-two marks equaled one US dollar. By March 1923, the very day Paul carelessly put an extra potato in Frau Schmidt's bag, it took five thousand marks to buy cigarettes, and twenty thousand to go to the bank and walk out with a crisp dollar bill.
  
  Families struggled to keep up as the madness spiraled. Every Friday, payday, women waited for their husbands at the factory door. Then, all at once, they besieged shops and grocers, they flooded the Viktualienmarkt on Marienplatz, they spent the last pfennig of their salary on necessities. They returned home loaded with food and tried to hold out until the end of the week. On the other days of the week, not much business was done in Germany. The pockets were empty. And on Thursday night, BMW's production manager had as much purchasing power as an old tramp dragging his stumps through the mud under the Isar bridges.
  
  There were many who could not bear it.
  
  Those who were old, who lacked imagination, who took too much for granted, were the ones who suffered the most. Their minds couldn't handle all these changes, this world going back and forth. Many committed suicide. Others are mired in their poverty.
  
  Others have changed.
  
  Paul was one of those who changed.
  
  After the Herr Graf fired him, Paul had a terrible month. He barely had time to overcome his anger at Jurgen's attack and the revelation of Alice's fate, or devote more than a fleeting thought to the mystery of his father's death. Once again, the need to survive was so acute that he had to suppress his own emotions. But the burning pain often flared up at night, filling his dreams with ghosts. He often could not sleep, and often in the morning, walking through the streets of Munich in worn, snow-covered boots, he thought about death.
  
  Sometimes, when he returned to the boarding house without work, he caught himself looking at Isar from Ludwigsbrucke with empty eyes. He wanted to throw himself into the icy waters, let the current carry his body down to the Danube, and from there out to sea. It is a fantastic expanse of water that he has never seen, but where he always thought his father met his end.
  
  In such cases, he had to find a reason not to climb the wall and jump. The image of his mother waiting for him every night at the boarding house, and the certainty that she would not survive without him, prevented him from extinguishing the fire in his stomach once and for all. In other cases, the fire itself and the causes of its occurrence held him back.
  
  Until finally there was a glimmer of hope. Although it resulted in death.
  
  One morning, the delivery man fell at Paul's feet in the middle of the road. The empty cart he was pushing overturned on its side. The wheels were still turning when Paul crouched down and tried to help the man up, but he couldn't move. He gasped desperately for air, and his eyes glazed over. Another passer-by approached. He was dressed in dark clothes and carried a leather case.
  
  "Way! I am a doctor!"
  
  For some time the doctor tried to revive the fallen man, but to no avail. Finally he stood up, shaking his head.
  
  "Heart attack or embolism. It's hard to believe in someone so young."
  
  Paul looked at the dead man's face. He must have been only nineteen, maybe less.
  
  So am I, Paul thought.
  
  "Doctor, will you take care of the body?"
  
  "I can't, we have to wait for the police."
  
  When the officers arrived, Paul patiently described what had happened. The doctor confirmed his report.
  
  "Do you mind if I return the car to its owner?"
  
  The officer glanced at the empty wheelbarrow, then looked long and hard at Paul. He didn't like the idea of dragging the cart back to the police station.
  
  "What's your name, buddy?"
  
  "Paul Reiner"
  
  "And why should I trust you, Paul Reiner?"
  
  "Because I'll get more out of it if I take it to the shop owner than if I try to sell these pieces of badly nailed wood on the black market," Paul said with absolute honesty.
  
  "Very good. Tell him to contact the police station. We need to know the next of kin. If he does not call us within three hours, you will answer to me."
  
  The officer gave him the invoice he had found, writing in neat handwriting the address of a grocery store - on a street not far from Isartor - with a list of the last things the dead boy had moved:? a kilo of coffee, 3 kilos of potatoes, 1 bag of lemons, 1 can of Krunz soup? kilogram of salt 2 bottles of corn alcohol
  
  When Paul arrived at the shop with the wheelbarrow and asked for the dead boy's job, Herr Ziegler gave him an incredulous look similar to the one he gave Paul six months later when the young man explained his plan to save them from ruin.
  
  "We have to turn the store into a bank."
  
  The store owner dropped a jam jar he was cleaning, and it would have shattered on the floor if Paul hadn't been able to pick it up in mid-air.
  
  "What are you talking about? Were you drunk?" he said, looking at the huge circles under the boy's eyes.
  
  "No, sir," said Paul, who had been up all night, running the plan over and over in his mind. He left his room at dawn and took up position at the doors of the town hall half an hour before it opened. He then ran from window to window, collecting information about permits, taxes, and conditions. He returned with a thick cardboard folder. "I know it may sound crazy, but it's not. Right now money has no value. Wages go up daily and we have to count our prices every morning."
  
  "Yeah, and it reminded me: this morning I had to do all this myself," the store owner said irritably. "You can't imagine how hard it was. And it's Friday! In two hours the store will be uplifting."
  
  "I know, sir. And we must do our best to get rid of all stocks today. I'm going to talk to a few of our clients this afternoon, offering them merchandise in exchange for work because the work is due on Monday. On Tuesday morning we will pass the municipal inspection, and on Wednesday we will open."
  
  Ziegler looked as if Paul had asked him to jam his body and walk naked down the Marienplatz.
  
  "Absolutely not. This store has been here for seventy-three years. It was started by my great-grandfather and then passed on to my grandfather, who passed it on to my father, who eventually passed it on to me."
  
  Paul saw the concern in the store owner's eyes. He knew he was on the verge of being fired for insubordination and insanity. So he decided to go for broke.
  
  "It's a wonderful story, sir. But, unfortunately, in two weeks, when someone whose last name is not Ziegler takes over the store at a meeting of creditors, this whole tradition will be considered crap."
  
  The store owner held up a finger accusingly, ready to scold Paul for his remarks, but then remembered the situation he was in and collapsed into a chair. Its debts have been piling up since the crisis began - debts that, unlike many others, didn't just go up in smoke. The positive side of all this madness - for some people - was that those who had mortgages with interest rates calculated annually were able to pay them off quickly, given the wild fluctuations in the mark. Unfortunately, those like Ziegler who donated a portion of their income rather than a fixed amount of cash could only end up losing.
  
  "I don't understand, Paul. How will this save my business?"
  
  The young man brought him a glass of water, then showed him an article he had torn out of yesterday's newspaper. Paul had read it so many times that the ink had smudged in places. "This is an article by a university professor. He says that in a time like this, when people cannot rely on money, we must look to the past. At a time when there was no money. For an exchange."
  
  "But..."
  
  "Please, sir, give me a moment. Unfortunately, no one can exchange a bedside table or three bottles of liquor for other things, and the pawnshops are full. Therefore, we must take refuge in promises. in the form of dividends.
  
  "I don't understand," said the store owner, who was beginning to feel dizzy.
  
  "Shares, Herr Ziegler. The stock market will rise from this. Stocks will replace money. And we will sell them."
  
  Ziegler gave up.
  
  For the next five nights, Paul hardly slept. Convincing merchants - carpenters, plasterers, cabinetmakers - to pick up food for free this Friday in exchange for work on the weekend was not at all difficult. In fact, some were so grateful that Paul had to offer his handkerchief multiple times.
  
  We must be in a real mess when the burly plumber bursts into tears when you offer him a sausage in exchange for an hour of work, he thought. The main difficulty was bureaucracy, but even in this respect, Paul was lucky. He studied the guidelines and instructions that the government officials brought to his attention until the points appeared in his ears. His biggest fear was that he would stumble upon some phrase that would crush all his hopes to the ground. After he filled pages of notes in a little book that outlined the steps he needed to take, the requirements for setting up Ziegler Bank came down to two:
  
  1) The director had to be a German citizen over twenty-one years of age.
  
  2) A guarantee of half a million German marks had to be paid at the town hall offices.
  
  The first was simple: Herr Ziegler would be director, although it was already quite clear to Paul that he should remain closed in the office as much as possible. As for the second... a year earlier, half a million marks would have been an astronomical sum, a way to ensure that only solvent people could start a business based on trust. Today half a million marks were a joke.
  
  "No one updated the drawing!" Paul yelled as he hopped around the workshop, startling the carpenters who were already ripping the shelves off the walls.
  
  I wonder if civil servants would prefer a couple of chicken legs, Paul thought, amused. At least they could find some use for them.
  
  
  23
  
  
  The truck was open and the people riding in the back had no protection from the night air.
  
  Almost all of them were silent, concentrating on what was about to happen. Their brown shirts barely insulated them from the cold, but that didn't matter, since they were soon to be on their way.
  
  Jurgen squatted down and began pounding on the metal floor of the truck with his club. He picked up this habit on his first sortie, when his comrades still treated him with some skepticism. The Sturmabteilung, or SA - the "stormtroopers" of the Nazi Party - consisted of hardened ex-soldiers, people from the lower classes who could barely read a paragraph aloud without stuttering. Their first reaction to the appearance of this elegant young man - the son of a baron, no less! - was refusal. And when Jürgen first used the floor of a truck as a drum, one of his comrades gave him the middle finger.
  
  "Sending a telegram to the baroness, eh lad?"
  
  The others laughed wickedly.
  
  That night he was ashamed. However, tonight, when he started to fall to the floor, everyone else quickly followed him. At first, the rhythm was slow, measured, distinct, the beats were perfectly synchronized. But as the truck neared its destination, a hotel near the central train station, the roar intensified until it was deafening, the roar filling them all with adrenaline.
  
  Jurgen smiled. It hadn't been easy to win their trust, but now he felt they were all in the palm of his hand. When, nearly a year earlier, he had first heard Adolf Hitler speak and insisted that the secretary of the party committee immediately register him as a member of the National Socialist German Workers' Party, Krohn was delighted. But when, a few days later, Jurgen applied to join the SA, this enthusiasm turned into disappointment.
  
  "What the hell do you have in common with these brown gorillas?" You are smart; you could have a career in politics. And this eye patch is on your eye ... If you spread the appropriate rumors, this can become your calling card. We can say that you lost an eye defending the Ruhr."
  
  The baron's son took no notice of him. He entered SA on impulse, but there was a certain subconscious logic to what he did. He was drawn to the brutality inherent in the paramilitary wing of the Nazis, their pride as a group, and the impunity for violence that this gave him. A group he didn't fit in from the start, and where he was the target of insults and ridicule, such as "Baron Cyclops" and "One-Eyed Pansy".
  
  Intimidated, Jürgen threw off the gangster attitude he took towards his school friends. They were real tough guys, and they would immediately close ranks if he tried to force anything. Instead, he gradually won their respect by showing no remorse every time they or their enemy met.
  
  The screech of brakes drowned out the furious sound of clubs. The truck came to an abrupt stop.
  
  "Get out! Get out!"
  
  The stormtroopers crowded into the back of the truck. Then twenty pairs of black boots trotted across the wet paving stones. One of the stormtroopers slipped in a puddle of muddy water, and Jurgen hurried to offer his hand to help him up. He learned that such gestures would earn him points.
  
  The building opposite them had no name, just the word T AVERN painted over the door, with a red Bavarian hat painted next to it. This place was often used as a meeting place by a branch of the Communist Party, and at that very moment one of these meetings was coming to an end. More than thirty people were inside, listening to the speech. Hearing the screech of the truck's brakes, some of them raised their heads, but it was too late. The tavern had no back door.
  
  The stormtroopers entered in orderly ranks, making as much noise as possible. The waiter hid behind the counter, terrified, while the first comers grabbed beer glasses and plates from the tables and threw them into the counter, the mirror above it, and the shelves of bottles.
  
  "What are you doing?" asked a short man, presumably the owner of the tavern.
  
  "We've come to break up an illegal assembly," said the SA platoon leader, stepping forward with an inappropriate smile.
  
  "You have no authority!"
  
  The platoon leader raised his club and hit the man in the stomach. He fell to the ground with a groan. The ringleader gave him a couple more kicks before turning to his men.
  
  "Fall together!"
  
  Jürgen immediately moved forward. He always did this, only to take a careful step back to let someone else lead the attack - or take a bullet or a blade. Firearms were now banned in Germany-that Germany whose teeth had been removed by the Allies-but many war veterans still had their own pistols or weapons they had taken from the enemy.
  
  Lined up shoulder to shoulder, the stormtroopers moved towards the back of the tavern. Frightened half to death, the communists began to throw at their enemy everything that came to hand. The man walking next to Jurgen was hit in the face with a glass jar. He staggered, but those behind him picked him up, and another stepped forward to take his place in the front rank.
  
  "Children of bitches! Go suck your Fuhrer's dick!" shouted a young man in a leather cap, lifting a bench.
  
  The stormtroopers were less than three meters away, within easy reach of any furniture thrown at them, so Jurgen chose this moment to fake a stumble. The man stepped forward and stood in front.
  
  Just in time. Benches scattered across the room, there was a groan, and the man who had just taken Jurgen's place fell forward, his head split open.
  
  "Ready?" the platoon leader shouted. "For Hitler and Germany!"
  
  "Hitler and Germany!" the others shouted in unison.
  
  The two groups pounced on each other like children playing some kind of game. Jurgen dodged a giant in a mechanic's overalls heading towards him, hitting his knees as he passed. The mechanic fell, and those who stood behind Jurgen began to beat him mercilessly.
  
  Jurgen continued his advance. He jumped over an overturned chair and kicked the table, which slammed into the thigh of an older man with glasses. He fell to the floor, dragging the table with him. There were still some scribbled scraps of paper in his hand, so the baron's son concluded that this must be the speaker they had come to interrupt. He didn't care. He didn't even know the old man's name.
  
  Jurgen headed straight for him, trying to step on him with both feet as he made his way to his true goal.
  
  A young man in a leather cap fought off two stormtroopers using one of the benches. The first of the men tried to flank him, but the young man tilted the bench in his direction and managed to hit him in the neck, knocking him down. Another man swung his baton in an attempt to surprise the man, but the young communist dodged and managed to elbow the stormtrooper in the kidney. As he doubled over, writhing in pain, the man broke the bench against his back.
  
  So this one knows how to fight, thought the baron's son.
  
  Normally he would have left his toughest opponents to deal with someone else, but something about this thin, sunken-eyed young man offended Jurgen.
  
  He looked defiantly at Jurgen.
  
  "Then come on, Nazi whore. Afraid of breaking a nail?
  
  Jurgen sucked in a breath, but he was too cunning to let the insult affect him. He counterattacked.
  
  "I'm not surprised you're so into the reds, you skinny little bastard. That Karl Marx beard looks exactly like your mother's ass."
  
  The young man's face lit up with fury and, lifting the remains of the bench, he rushed at Jurgen.
  
  Jurgen stood sideways to the attacker and waited for the attack. As the man lunged at him, Jürgen moved aside and the communist fell to the floor, losing his cap. Jurgen hit him three times in succession with his club on the back - not very hard, but enough to make him lose his breath, but in doing so, he brought him to his knees. The young man tried to crawl away, which Jurgen wanted. He took his right leg back and kicked hard. The toe of the boot hit the man in the stomach, lifting him more than half a meter off the ground. He fell on his back, trying to breathe.
  
  With a smile, Jürgen attacked the Communist viciously. His ribs crunched under the blows, and when Jurgen stepped on his arm, it crunched like a dry branch.
  
  Grabbing the young man by the hair, Jürgen forced him to his feet.
  
  "Try now to say what you said about the Fuhrer, communist scum!"
  
  "Go to hell!" the boy murmured.
  
  "Do you still want to say such nonsense?" Jurgen yelled incredulously.
  
  Gripping the boy's hair even tighter, he raised his club and aimed it at his victim's mouth.
  
  One day.
  
  Twice.
  
  Thrice.
  
  The boy's teeth were nothing but a handful of bloody remains on the wooden floor of the tavern, and his face was swollen. In an instant, the aggression that fed Jurgen's muscles stopped. Finally, he understood why he chose this particular person.
  
  There was something of his cousin in him.
  
  He let go of the communist's hair and watched him fall limp to the floor.
  
  He doesn't look like anyone else, Jurgen thought.
  
  He looked up and saw that all around him the fighting had ceased. The only ones left standing were the stormtroopers, who watched him with a mixture of approval and fear.
  
  "Let's get out of here!" the platoon leader shouted.
  
  Back in the truck, a stormtrooper, whom Jurgen had never seen before and who had not traveled with them, sat down next to him. The baron's son barely glanced at his companion. After such a violent episode, he usually sank into a state of melancholic withdrawal, and he did not like being disturbed by anyone. That's why he growled in displeasure when the other man spoke to him in a low voice.
  
  "What is your name?"
  
  "Jürgen von Schroeder," he replied reluctantly.
  
  "So it's you. They told me about you. I came here today specifically to meet you. My name is Julius Shrek."
  
  Jurgen noticed subtle differences in the man's uniform. He wore a skull and crossbones emblem and a black tie.
  
  "To meet me? Why?"
  
  "I am creating a special group ... people with courage, skills, intelligence. Without any bourgeois remorse."
  
  "How do you know I have these things?"
  
  "I saw you there in action. You acted smart, not like all the rest of the cannon fodder. And, of course, there is the question of your family. Your presence on our team would give us prestige. This would distinguish us from the rabble."
  
  "What do you want?"
  
  "I want you to join my support group. The elite of the SA, which answers only to the Führer."
  
  
  24
  
  
  Ever since Alice spotted Paul at the other end of the cabaret club, she's had a terrible night. It was the last place she expected to find him. She looked again, just to be sure, since the lights and smoke might have been a bit confusing, but her eyes weren't deceiving her.
  
  What the hell is he doing here?
  
  Her first impulse was to hide the Kodak behind her back in shame, but she couldn't stay in that position for long because the camera and flash were too heavy.
  
  Besides, I work. Damn it, this is something I should be proud of.
  
  "Hey beautiful body! Take a picture of me, pretty girl!"
  
  Alice smiled, raised her flash - on a long stick - and pulled the trigger so that it fired without using up a single film. The two drunkards blocking her view of Paul's tables fell sideways. Although she had to recharge the flash with magnesium powder from time to time, it was still the most effective way to get rid of those who bothered her.
  
  A lot of people fussed around her on evenings like this, when she had to take two or three hundred photos of BeldaKlub visitors. Once they were designed, the owner chose half a dozen to hang on the entrance wall, shots showing customers having fun with the club's dancing girls. According to the owner, the best photos were taken in the early morning, when you could often watch the most notorious spenders drink champagne from women's shoes. Alice hated the whole place: the noisy music, the sequined costumes, the provocative songs, the alcohol, and the people who drank it in huge quantities. But that was her job.
  
  She hesitated before approaching Paul. She felt she didn't look particularly attractive in her navy second-hand suit and little hat that didn't quite fit her, and yet she continued to attract losers like a magnet. She had long ago come to the conclusion that men like to be in the center of her attention, and she decided to use this fact to break the ice in a relationship with Paul. She still felt ashamed of how her father kicked him out of the house, and a little uneasy about the lies she had been told about him keeping the money for himself.
  
  I'll play a joke on him. I will approach him with a camera covering my face, I will take a picture and then I will reveal to him who I am. I am sure he will be pleased.
  
  She set off with a smile.
  
  Eight months earlier, Alice had been on the street looking for work.
  
  Unlike Paul, her search was not desperate, as she had enough money to last a few months. However, it was hard. The only jobs for women - hailed on street corners or whispered in back rooms - were prostitutes or mistresses, and that was a path that Alice was not prepared to take under any circumstances.
  
  Not that, and I won't be coming home either, she swore.
  
  She thought about going to another city. Hamburg, Dusseldorf, Berlin. However, the news that came from those places was as bad as what happened in Munich, or even worse. And there was something-perhaps the hope of meeting a certain person again-that held her back. But as her reserves dwindled, Alice became more and more desperate. And then one afternoon, walking along the Agnesstrasse in search of a sewing workshop, which she was told about, Alice saw an ad in a shop window. Assistant required
  
  Women do not need to apply
  
  She didn't even check what kind of business it was. She flung open the door indignantly and approached the only person behind the counter: a thin, elderly man with dramatically thinning gray hair.
  
  "Good afternoon, Fraulein."
  
  "Good afternoon. I came about work."
  
  The little man looked at her intently.
  
  "May I hazard a guess that you really can read, Fraulein?"
  
  "Yes, although I always have trouble with any nonsense."
  
  At these words, the man's face changed. His mouth twitched into an amused fold, showing a pleasant smile followed by laughter. "You're hired!"
  
  Alice looked at him, completely bewildered. She entered the establishment, ready to poke her nose into his ridiculous sign, thinking that all she would achieve was to make a fool of herself.
  
  "Surprised?"
  
  "Yes, quite surprised."
  
  "You see Fraulein..."
  
  Alys Tannenbaum.
  
  "August Muntz," said the man with an elegant bow. "You see, Fraulein Tannenbaum, I put up this sign so that a woman like you would respond. The job I offer requires technical skills, presence of mind and, above all, a fair amount of audacity. It looks like you have the last two qualities, and the first one can be learned, especially given my own experience..."
  
  "And do you mind that I..."
  
  "Jew? You will soon realize that I am not very traditional, dear."
  
  "What exactly do you want me to do?" Alice asked suspiciously.
  
  "Isn't it obvious?" the man said, pointing around him. Alice looked at the store for the first time and saw that it was a photography studio. "Take pictures."
  
  Although Paul changed with every job he took on, Alice was completely transformed by hers. The young woman instantly fell in love with photography. She had never been behind a camera before, but once she learned the basics, she knew she didn't want to do anything else in her life. She was particularly fond of the darkroom, where the chemicals were mixed in trays. She couldn't take her eyes off the image as it began to appear on the paper, as features and faces became distinct.
  
  She also immediately hit it off with the photographer. Although the sign on the door read MUNZ AND SONS, Alice soon discovered that they had no sons and never would. August shared an apartment above a shop with a frail, pale young man whom he called "my nephew Ernst." Alice spent long evenings playing backgammon with the two of them, and in time her smile returned.
  
  There was only one aspect of the job that she didn't like, and that was exactly what August had hired her to do. The owner of a nearby cabaret club - August confessed to Alice that the man was his former lover - offered a good sum of money to have a photographer at the establishment three nights a week.
  
  "He would like it to be me, of course. But I think it's better if a pretty girl shows up... someone who won't let themselves be bullied," Augusta said with a wink.
  
  The owner of the club was happy. The photos at the entrance of his establishment helped spread the word about the BeldaKlub until it became one of the highlights of Munich's nightlife. Of course, it cannot compare with the likes of Berlin, but in dark times, any business based on alcohol and sex is doomed to success. It was widely rumored that many clients would spend their entire paycheck on five insane hours before resorting to a trigger, a string, or a bottle of pills.
  
  As she approached Paul, Alice believed that he wouldn't be one of those clients who went out for one last fling.
  
  No doubt he came with a friend. Or out of curiosity, she thought. After all, everyone came to the BeldaKlub these days, even if it was just to spend hours sipping one beer. The bartenders were understanding people and were known to accept wedding rings in exchange for a couple of pints.
  
  Stepping closer, she brought the camera up to her face. There were five people at the table, two men and three women. On the tablecloth were several half-empty or upside-down bottles of champagne and a pile of food that was almost untouched.
  
  "Hi Paul! You must pose for posterity!" said the man next to Alice.
  
  Paul looked up. He wore a black tuxedo that didn't fit well on his shoulders, and a bow tie that was unbuttoned and hung over his shirt. When he spoke, his voice was hoarse and his words slurred.
  
  "Did you hear that, girls? Put a smile on those faces."
  
  The two women on either side of Paul wore silvery evening gowns and matching hats. One of them grabbed his chin, forced him to look at her, and planted a sloppy French kiss just as the shutter came down. The surprised recipient returned the kiss and then burst into laughter.
  
  "See? They really put a smile on your face!" - said his friend, bursting into laughter.
  
  Alice was startled to see this, and Kodak almost slipped out of her hands. She felt sick. This drunkard, just another one she'd despised night after night for weeks, was so far removed from her shy coal-burner image that Alice couldn't believe it was really Paul.
  
  And yet it was.
  
  Through the alcohol haze, the young man suddenly recognized her and hesitantly got to his feet.
  
  "Alice!"
  
  The man who was with him turned to her and raised his glass.
  
  "You know each other?"
  
  "I thought I knew him," Alice said coldly.
  
  "Perfect! Then you should know that your friend is the most successful banker in Isartor... We sell more shares than any of the other banks that have popped up in recent times! I am his proud accountant
  
  ... Come on, have a toast with us."
  
  Alice felt a wave of contempt run through her body. She heard all about the new banks. Nearly all the establishments set up in recent months were run by young people, and scores of students came into the club every night to spend their earnings on champagne and whores before the money was completely worthless.
  
  "When my father told me that you took the money, I didn't believe him. How wrong I was. Now I see that's the only thing you're interested in," she said, turning away.
  
  "Alice, wait..." the young man muttered in embarrassment. He stumbled around the table and tried to grab her arm.
  
  Alice turned and gave him a slap that sounded like a bell. Although Paul tried to save himself by clinging to the tablecloth, he fell over and ended up on the floor under a hail of broken bottles and the laughter of three chorus girls.
  
  "By the way," Alice said as she walked away, "you still look like a waiter in that tuxedo."
  
  Paul used the chair to get up just in time to see Alice's back disappear into the crowd. His accountant friend was now leading the girls to the dance floor. Suddenly, a hand grabbed Paul tightly and forced him into a chair.
  
  "Looks like you patted her in the wrong direction, huh?"
  
  The person who helped him seemed vaguely familiar.
  
  "Who the hell are you?"
  
  "I'm a friend of your father, Paul. The one who right now is wondering if you are worthy to bear his name."
  
  "What do you know about my father?"
  
  The man took out a business card and put it in the inside pocket of Paul's tuxedo.
  
  "Come see me when you're sober."
  
  
  25
  
  
  Paul tore his eyes away from the postcard and stared up at the sign above the bookstore, still unsure what he was doing there.
  
  The store was just a few steps from Marienplatz, in the tiny center of Munich. It was here that the butchers and hawkers of Schwabing gave way to watchmakers, milliners and cane shops. There was even a small cinema next to Keller's establishment, which showed "Nosferatu" by F.W. Murnau, more than a year after it first hit the screens. It was noon and they must have been halfway through the second show. Paul imagined a projectionist in his booth changing out worn-out rolls of film one by one. He felt sorry for him. He slipped in to see this film - the first and only film he had ever seen - at the cinema next to the boarding house when the whole town was talking about it. He didn't like Bram Stoker's thinly veiled adaptation of Dracula. For him, the true emotion of a story was in its words and silence, in the white that surrounded the black letters on the page. The cinematic version seemed too simple, like a two-piece puzzle.
  
  Paul cautiously entered the bookstore, but soon forgot his fears as he studied the volumes neatly arranged on floor-to-ceiling bookcases and large tables by the window. There was no counter in sight.
  
  He was leafing through the first edition of Death in Venice when he heard a voice behind him.
  
  "Thomas Mann is a good choice, but I'm sure you've already read it."
  
  Paul turned around. Keller was there, smiling at him. His hair was completely white, he wore an old-fashioned goatee, and from time to time he scratched his large ears, drawing even more attention to them. Paul felt he knew the man, though he couldn't tell from where.
  
  "Yes, I read it, but in a hurry. It was lent to me by one of the guests of the boarding house where I live. Books don't usually stay in my hands for long, no matter how much I want to reread them."
  
  "Oh. But don't re-read, Paul, you're too young, and people who re-read tend to fill up with inadequate wisdom too quickly. For now, you should read everything you can, as varied as you can. Only when you reach my age will you realize that rereading is not a waste of time."
  
  Paul looked at him again. Keller was well into his fifties, though his back was straight as a stick and his body toned in an old-fashioned three-piece suit. His white hair gave him a respectable air, though Paul suspected it might have been dyed. Suddenly he realized where he had seen this man before.
  
  "You were at Jurgen's birthday party, four years ago."
  
  "You have a good memory, Paul."
  
  "You told me to leave as soon as I could... that she was waiting outside," Paul said sadly.
  
  "I remember how you saved the girl with absolute clarity, right in the middle of the ballroom. I've had my moments too...and my flaws, though I've never made a mistake as big as the one I saw you make yesterday, Paul."
  
  "Don't remind me. How the hell was I supposed to know she was there? It's been two years since I last saw her!"
  
  "Well then, I guess the right question here is what the hell were you doing getting drunk like a sailor?"
  
  Paul shifted awkwardly from foot to foot. It was embarrassing for him to discuss these things with a complete stranger, but at the same time he felt a strange calmness in the company of a bookseller.
  
  "Anyway," Keller continued, "I don't want to torture you, because the bags under your eyes and your pale face tell me you've tortured yourself enough."
  
  "You said you wanted to talk to me about my father," Paul said anxiously.
  
  "No, that was not what I said. I said you should come and see me."
  
  "So why?"
  
  This time it was Keller's turn to remain silent. He led Paul to the window and pointed to St. Michael's Church, directly across from the bookstore. A bronze plaque depicting the genealogical tree of the Wittelsbach dynasty towered above the statue of the archangel who gave his name to the building. In the afternoon sun, the statue's shadows were long and menacing.
  
  "Look... three and a half centuries of splendor. And this is just a short prologue. In 1825, Ludwig the First decided to turn our city into a new Athens. Alleys and boulevards full of light, space and harmony. Now look a little lower, Paul."
  
  Beggars gathered at the door of the church, lining up to receive the soup that the parish was handing out at sunset. The line had just begun to form, and it was already stretching further than Paul could see from the shop window. He wasn't surprised to see war veterans still in their scruffy uniforms that had been banned nearly five years earlier. He was not shocked by the appearance of the tramps, whose faces were imprinted with poverty and drunkenness. What really surprised him was that he saw dozens of grown men dressed in well-worn suits, but with perfectly pressed shirts, all of which showed no sign of a coat, despite the strong wind that June evening.
  
  The coat of a family man who has to go out every day to find bread for his children is always one of the last things to pawn, Paul thought, shoving his hands nervously into the pockets of his own coat. He bought the coat second-hand, surprised to find such good quality fabric for the price of medium-sized cheese.
  
  Just like a tuxedo.
  
  "Five years after the fall of the monarchy: terror, killings in the streets, hunger, poverty. Which version of Munich do you prefer, boy?"
  
  "Real, I guess."
  
  Keller looked at him, obviously pleased with his answer. Paul noticed that his attitude changed slightly, as if the question was a test for something much bigger that was yet to come.
  
  "I met Hans Reiner many years ago. I don't remember the exact date, but I think it was around 1895 because he went into a bookstore and bought a copy of Verne's Carpathian Castle, which had just come out."
  
  "Did he like to read too?" Paul asked, unable to hide his emotions. He knew so little about the man who had given him life that any glimmer of resemblance filled him with a mixture of pride and confusion, like an echo from another time. He felt a blind need to trust the bookseller, to get out of his head any trace of a father he could never meet.
  
  "He was a real bookworm! Your father and I talked for a couple of hours that first day. In those days, it took a long time, because my bookstore was full from opening to closing, and not abandoned, as it is now. We found common interests such as poetry. Although he was very intelligent, he was rather slow in choosing his words and admired what people like Holderlin and Rilke were capable of. Once he even asked me to help him with a little poem he wrote for your mother."
  
  "I remember her telling me about that poem," Paul said sullenly, "even though she never let me read it."
  
  "Perhaps it is still in your father's papers?" suggested the bookseller.
  
  "Unfortunately, what little we had was left in the house where we used to live. We had to leave in a hurry."
  
  "It's a pity. In any case... every time he came to Munich, we spent interesting evenings together. This is how I first heard about the Grand Lodge of the Rising Sun."
  
  "What is this?"
  
  The bookseller lowered his voice.
  
  "Do you know what Freemasons are, Paul?"
  
  The young man looked at him in surprise.
  
  "The papers say they are a powerful secret sect."
  
  "Ruled by the Jews who control the fate of the world?" Keller said, his voice full of irony. "I've heard the story many times too, Paul. Especially these days when people are looking for someone to blame for all the bad things that happen."
  
  "So what is the truth?"
  
  "Masons are a secret society, not a sect, consisting of selected people who strive for enlightenment and the triumph of morality in the world."
  
  "By 'chosen' do you mean 'powerful'?"
  
  "No. These people choose themselves. No Mason is allowed to ask a layman to become a Mason. This layman must ask, just as I asked your father to grant me admission to the lodge."
  
  "Was my father a Freemason?" Paul asked in surprise.
  
  "Wait a minute," Keller said. He locked the shop door, flipped the sign over to CLOSED, and then went into the back room. Upon his return, he showed Paul an old studio photograph. It showed a young Hans Reiner, Keller, and three other people Paul didn't know, all staring into the camera. Their frozen pose was common in early-century photography, when models had to remain still for at least a minute to keep the photo from blurring. One of the men was holding a strange symbol that Paul remembered seeing years ago in his uncle's office: a square and a compass facing each other, with a large "G" in the middle.
  
  "Your father was the Guardian of the Temple of the Grand Lodge of the Rising Sun. The guardian makes sure that the door to the temple is closed before the work begins... In the language of the profane, before the start of the ritual."
  
  "I thought you said it had nothing to do with religion."
  
  "As Freemasons, we believe in a supernatural being whom we call the Great Architect of the Universe. That's all there is to dogma. Every Freemason reveres the Great Architect as he sees fit. There are Jews, Catholics, and Protestants in my lodge, although they don't talk about it openly. Two topics are forbidden in the lodge: religion and politics."
  
  "Did the lodge have anything to do with my father"s death?"
  
  The bookseller paused for a moment before answering.
  
  "I don't know much about his death, except that what you've been told is a lie. The day I last saw him, he texted me and we met near the bookstore. We talked hurriedly, in the middle of the street. He told me that he was in danger and that he feared for your life and your mother's life. Two weeks later, I heard a rumor that his ship had sunk in the colonies."
  
  Paul considered whether he should tell Keller about his cousin Edward's last words, the night his father visited the Schroeder mansion, and the gunshot Edward had heard, but he decided not to. He thought a lot about the evidence, but could not find anything conclusive to prove that his uncle was responsible for his father's disappearance. Deep in his heart, he believed that there was something in this idea, but until he was completely sure, he did not want to share this burden with anyone.
  
  "He also asked me to give you something when you are old enough. I've been looking for you for months," Keller continued.
  
  Paul felt his heart turn over.
  
  "What is this?"
  
  "I don't know, Paul."
  
  "Well, what are you waiting for? Give it to me!" Paul said, almost screaming.
  
  The bookseller gave Paul a cold look, indicating that he didn't like it when people gave him orders in his own house.
  
  "Do you think you are worthy of your father's legacy, Paul? The man I saw the other day at the BeldaKlub seemed no better than a drunk dork."
  
  Paul opened his mouth to answer, to tell this man about the hunger and cold he endured when they were kicked out of the Shredder mansion. Of the exhaustion of carrying coal up and down damp stairs. About despair, when you had nothing and knew that despite all the obstacles, you still had to continue your search. About the temptation by the cold waters of the Isar. But in the end he repented, because what he had endured did not give him the right to behave the way he had behaved in previous weeks.
  
  For that matter, it made him even more guilty.
  
  "Herr Keller... if I belonged to a lodge, would that make me more worthy?"
  
  "If you asked for it from the bottom of your heart, that would be the start. But I assure you, it won't be easy, even for someone like you."
  
  Paul swallowed before answering.
  
  "In that case, I humbly ask for your help. I want to be a Freemason like my father."
  
  
  26
  
  
  Alice finished moving the paper in the developer tray, then placed it in the fixative solution. Looking at the image, she felt strange. On the one hand, I am proud of the technical excellence of photography. The whore's gesture when she held on to Paul. The gleam in her eyes, his half-closed eyes... The details made it feel like you could almost touch the stage, but despite her professional pride, the image ate at Alice from the inside.
  
  Immersed in her thoughts in a dark room, she barely caught the sound of a bell announcing a new store visitor. However, she looked up when she heard a familiar voice. She peered into the red glass peephole that gave her a clear view of the shop, and her eyes confirmed what her ears and heart were telling her.
  
  "Good afternoon," Paul called again as he walked over to the bar.
  
  Realizing that the stock trading business could be extremely short-lived, Paul still lived in a boarding house with his mother, so he made a big detour to stop by Münz & Sons. He got the address of the photo studio from one of the club's employees, having loosened his tongue with several banknotes.
  
  Under his arm he carried a carefully wrapped package. It contained a thick black book embossed with gold. Sebastian told him that it contained the basics that any layman should know before becoming a Freemason. First Hans Reiner and then Sebastian were initiated with her. Paul's hands itched with the urge to run his eyes over the lines his father had also read, but first he needed to do something more urgent.
  
  "We are closed," photographer Paul said.
  
  "Really? I thought it was ten minutes before closing," Paul said, glancing suspiciously at the clock on the wall.
  
  "For you we are closed."
  
  "For me?"
  
  "So you're not Paul Reiner?"
  
  "How do you know my name?"
  
  "You fit the description. Tall, thin, glassy-eyed, handsome as hell. There were other adjectives, but it"s better if I don"t repeat them."
  
  There was a crash from the back room. Hearing this, Paul tried to look over the photographer's shoulder.
  
  "Alice is there?"
  
  "Must be a cat."
  
  "It didn't look like a cat."
  
  "No, it sounded like an empty developer tray that had been dropped on the floor. But Alice is not here, so it must be a cat."
  
  There was another crash, louder this time.
  
  "And here's another one. It's good that they are made of metal," said August Münz, lighting a cigarette with an elegant gesture.
  
  "You better go feed that cat. He seems to be hungry."
  
  "More like furious."
  
  "I can understand why," Paul said, lowering his head.
  
  "Listen, my friend, she did leave something for you."
  
  The photographer handed him the photograph face down. Paul flipped it over and saw a slightly blurry photo taken in the park.
  
  "This is a woman sleeping on a bench in an English garden."
  
  August took a deep drag on his cigarette.
  
  "The day she took this photo... it was her first solo walk. I lent her a camera to go around the city looking for an image that would move me. She spent her time walking in the park, like all newcomers. Suddenly she noticed this woman sitting on the bench, and Alice liked the calmness of the woman. She took a photo and then went to thank her. The woman did not answer, and when Alice touched her shoulder, she fell to the ground."
  
  "She was dead," Paul said in horror, suddenly realizing the truth of what he was looking at.
  
  "Starved to death," August replied, taking a last puff, then stubbed out his cigarette in an ashtray.
  
  Paul clutched the counter for a few moments, his eyes fixed on the photograph. He eventually brought her back.
  
  "Thank you for showing me this. Please tell Alice that if she comes to this address the day after tomorrow," he said, taking a sheet of paper and pencil from the counter and making a note, "she will see how well I understand."
  
  A minute after Paul left, Alice emerged from the darkroom.
  
  "I hope you haven't crushed those trays. Otherwise, you will be the one to bring them back into shape."
  
  "You said too much, August. And that photo thing... I didn"t ask you to give him anything."
  
  "He's in love with you."
  
  "How do you know?"
  
  "I know a lot about men in love. Especially how hard they are to find."
  
  "It didn't start well between us," Alice said, shaking her head.
  
  "And what? The day begins at midnight, in the midst of darkness. From that moment on, everything becomes light."
  
  
  27
  
  
  There was a huge line at the entrance to Ziegler Bank.
  
  Last night, when she went to bed in the room she rented near the studio, Alice decided she wasn't going to date Paul. She repeated this to herself as she got ready, trying on her collection of hats, which consisted of only two, and getting into the cart she usually didn't use. She was completely surprised to find herself in line at the bank.
  
  As she got closer, she noticed that there were actually two queues. One led to the bank, the other to the entrance next door. People came out the second door with smiles on their faces, carrying bags stuffed with sausages, bread and huge celery stalks.
  
  Paul was in the neighborhood shop with another man who weighed vegetables and ham and served his customers. Seeing Alice, Paul pushed his way through the crowd of people waiting to get into the store.
  
  "The tobacco shop next to us had to be closed when the business went under. We reopened it and turned it into another grocery store for Herr Ziegler. He is a happy man."
  
  "People are happy too, as far as I can see."
  
  "We sell goods at cost, and we sell on credit to all bank customers. We eat every last pfennig of our profits, but workers and pensioners - anyone who can't keep up with ridiculous rates of inflation - are all very grateful to us. Today a dollar is worth more than three million marks."
  
  "You're losing a fortune."
  
  Paul shrugged.
  
  "We will be distributing soup to those who need it in the evenings starting next week. It won"t be like the Jesuits because we only have enough for five hundred servings, but we already have a group of volunteers."
  
  Alice looked at him, her eyes narrowed.
  
  "Are you doing all this for me?"
  
  "I do it because I can. Because it's the right thing to do. Because I was struck by a picture of a woman in a park. Because this city is going to hell. And yes, because I acted like an idiot and I want you to forgive me."
  
  "I already forgave you," she replied as she walked away.
  
  "Then why are you going?" he asked, spreading his arms incredulously.
  
  "Because I'm still mad at you!"
  
  Paul was about to run after her when Alice turned and smiled at him.
  
  "But you can come and pick me up tomorrow night and see if it's gone."
  
  
  28
  
  
  "Therefore, I believe that you are ready to begin this journey in which your worth will be tested. Bend over."
  
  Paul obeyed, and the man in the suit pulled a thick black hood over his head. With a sharp tug, he adjusted the two leather straps around Paul's neck.
  
  "Do you see anything?"
  
  "No".
  
  Paul's own voice sounded strange inside the hood, and the sounds around him seemed to come from another world.
  
  "There are two openings on the back. If you are short of breath, move it slightly away from your neck."
  
  "Thank you".
  
  "Now hold my left arm tightly with your right. We will cover a long distance together. It is very important that you move forward when I tell you, without hesitation. There is no need to rush, but you must listen carefully to your instructions. At certain times I will tell you to walk with one foot in front of the other. Other times I will tell you to lift your knees to go up or down stairs. Are you ready?"
  
  Paul nodded.
  
  "Answer questions loudly and clearly."
  
  "I'm ready".
  
  "Let's start".
  
  Paul moved slowly forward, grateful to be able to move at last. He had spent the previous half hour answering questions the man in the suit had asked him, even though he had never seen the man in his life. He knew the answers he should have given in advance, because they were all in the book Keller had given him three weeks ago.
  
  "Should I memorize them?" he asked the bookseller.
  
  "These formulas are part of a ritual that we must preserve and respect. You will soon discover that initiation ceremonies and how they change you are an important aspect of Freemasonry."
  
  "Are there more than one?"
  
  "There is one for each of the three grades: Accepted Apprentice, Fellow Craft, and Master Mason. There are thirty more after the third degree, but these are honorary degrees that you will learn about when the time comes."
  
  "What is your degree, Herr Keller?"
  
  The bookseller ignored his question.
  
  "I want you to read the book and study its contents carefully."
  
  Paul did just that. The book explores the origins of Freemasonry: the builders' guilds in the Middle Ages, and before them, the mythical builders of Ancient Egypt, all of whom discovered the wisdom inherent in the symbols of building and geometry. You should always capitalize this word G because G is the symbol of the Great Architect of the Universe. How you choose to worship him is up to you. In a lodge, the only stone you will work on will be your conscience and whatever you carry in it. Your brothers will give you the tools to do so after your initiation...if you pass the four trials.
  
  "It will be difficult?"
  
  "You are afraid?"
  
  "No. Well, just a little."
  
  "It will be difficult," the bookseller admitted after a moment. "But you are brave and you will be well prepared."
  
  Paul's bravery has yet to be addressed, although the testing has yet to begin. He was called to an alley in Altstadt, the city's old town, at nine o'clock on Friday evening. From the outside, the meeting place looked like an ordinary house, although it may have been rather rundown. A rusty mailbox with an illegible name hung next to the doorbell, but the lock looked new and well oiled. A man in a suit came to the door alone and led Paul into a hallway lined with various pieces of wooden furniture. It was there that Paul underwent his first ritual interrogation.
  
  Under the black hood, Paul wondered where Keller might be. He assumed that the bookseller, the only connection he had with the lodge, would be the person to introduce him. Instead, he was met by a complete stranger, and he couldn't help feeling somewhat vulnerable as he walked blindly, leaning on the arm of the man he had first met half an hour earlier.
  
  After walking what seemed to be a great distance - he went up and down various flights of stairs and several long corridors - his guide finally stopped.
  
  Paul heard three loud knocks, then an unfamiliar voice asked, "Who is ringing at the door of the temple?"
  
  "Brother bringing in the wicked who desires to be initiated into our mysteries."
  
  "Was he properly prepared?"
  
  "He has".
  
  "What's his name?"
  
  "Paul, son of Hans Reiner".
  
  They set off again. Paul noticed that the ground under his feet was harder and slipperier, perhaps stone or marble. They walked for a long time, although inside the hood time seemed to have a different sequence. At certain points, Paul felt - more by intuition than with any real certainty - that they were going through what they had gone through before, as if they were going in circles and then they were forced to return in their tracks.
  
  His guide stopped again and began to unfasten Paul's hood straps.
  
  Paul blinked as the black cloth was pulled back and he realized he was standing in a small, cold, low-ceilinged room. The walls were completely covered with limestone, on which one could read random phrases written in different hands and at different heights. Paul recognized various versions of the Masonic commandments.
  
  Meanwhile, a man in a suit removed metal objects from him, including a belt and buckles from his boots, which he ripped off without thinking. Paul wished he had forgotten to bring other shoes with him.
  
  "Do you have anything gold on? To enter a box with any precious metal is a serious affront."
  
  "No sir," Paul replied.
  
  "There you will find a pen, paper and ink," the man said. Then, without another word, he disappeared through the door, closing it behind him.
  
  A small candle illuminated the table on which the writing instruments lay. There was a skull next to them, and Paul realized with a shudder that it was real. There were also several flasks containing elements signifying change and initiation: bread and water, salt and sulfur, ashes.
  
  He was in the Reflection Room. The place where he was supposed to write his testimony like a layman. He took a pen and began to write an ancient formula that he did not quite understand.
  
  All this is bad. All this symbolism, repetition... I have a feeling that these are nothing more than empty words; there's no spirit in it, he thought.
  
  He suddenly had a desperate desire to walk down the Ludwigstrasse by the light of the street lamps, his face exposed to the wind. His fear of the dark, which did not pass even into adulthood, crept up to him under the hood. They'd be back in half an hour to pick him up, and he could just ask them to let him go.
  
  There was still time to turn back.
  
  But in that case, I would never have known the truth about my father.
  
  
  29
  
  
  The man in the suit is back.
  
  "I'm ready," Paul said.
  
  He knew nothing of the actual ceremony that was to follow. All he knew was the answers to the questions they asked him, nothing more. And it's time for testing.
  
  His guide put the rope around his neck, then closed his eyes again. This time he did not use a black hood, but a blindfold made of the same material, which he tied with three tight knots. Paul was grateful that he was able to breathe easier and his sense of vulnerability lessened, but only for a moment. Suddenly, the man pulled off Paul's jacket and tore off the left sleeve of his shirt. He then unbuttoned the front of his shirt, exposing Paul's torso. Finally, he rolled up the left leg of Paul's trousers and removed the boot and sock from that leg.
  
  "Let's go to".
  
  They were walking again. Paul had a strange feeling as his bare sole touched the cold floor, which he now knew was marble.
  
  "Stop!"
  
  He felt a sharp object against his chest and felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end.
  
  "Did the applicant bring his testimony?"
  
  "He has".
  
  "Let him place her on the edge of the sword."
  
  Paul raised his left hand, in which he held a sheet of paper on which he wrote something in the Chamber. He carefully attached it to a sharp object.
  
  "Paul Reiner, did you come here of your own free will?"
  
  That voice... it's Sebastian Keller! Paul thought.
  
  "Yes".
  
  "Are you ready to meet the challenges?"
  
  "Me," Paul said, unable to suppress a shudder.
  
  From that moment on, Paul began to regain consciousness and come out of it. He understood the questions and answered them, but his fear and inability to see sharpened his other senses so much that they took over. He began to breathe faster.
  
  He climbed the stairs. He tried to control his anxiety by counting his steps, but he quickly lost count.
  
  "Here begins the test by air. Breathing is the first thing we get at birth!" Keller's voice boomed.
  
  The man in the suit whispered in his ear, "You're in a narrow passage. Stop. Then take one more step, but make it decisive, or you will break your neck!"
  
  Paul obeyed. Beneath him, the surface of the floor seemed to change from marble to rough wood. Before taking the last step, he wiggled his bare toes and felt that they were on the edge of the passage. He wondered how high he could be, and in his mind the number of steps he had climbed seemed to multiply. He imagined himself at the top of the towers of the Frauenkirche, hearing the cooing of pigeons next to him, and down below, in eternity, the hustle and bustle of the Marienplatz reigned.
  
  Do it.
  
  Do it now.
  
  He took a step and lost his balance, falling head first, which lasted no more than a second. His face hit the thick mesh, and the impact made his teeth chatter. He bit the inside of his cheeks, and his mouth filled with the taste of his own blood.
  
  When he came to, he realized that he was clinging to a net. He wanted to take off his blindfold to make sure it was so that the net had actually cushioned his fall. He needed to escape from the darkness.
  
  Paul barely had time to notice his panic, because at once several pairs of hands pulled him out of the net and straightened him up. He was back on his feet and walking when Keller's voice announced the next test.
  
  "The second test is the water test. This is what we are, what we came from."
  
  Paul complied when told to raise his legs, first his left, then his right. He began to tremble. He stepped into a huge bowl of cold water, and the liquid reached his knees.
  
  He heard his guide whisper again in his ear.
  
  "Get down. Fill your lungs. Then allow yourself to step back and stay underwater. Don't move or try to get out or you won't pass the test."
  
  The young man bent his knees, curling up as the water covered his scrotum and stomach. Waves of pain ran down his spine. He took a deep breath, then leaned back.
  
  The water closed over him like a blanket.
  
  At first, the dominant sensation was cold. He had never felt anything like it. His body seemed to harden into ice or stone.
  
  Then his lungs began to complain.
  
  It began with a hoarse groan, then a dry croak, and then an urgent, desperate plea. He inadvertently moved his hand, and he had to muster all his willpower not to put his hands on the bottom of the container and push off to the surface, which he knew was as close as an open door through which he could escape. Just when he thought he couldn't take another second, there was a sharp tug and he was on the surface, gasping, filling his chest.
  
  They were walking again. He was still soaked through and dripping from his hair and clothes. His right foot made a ridiculous sound as the boot pressed to the floor.
  
  Keller's voice:
  
  "The third test is the test by fire. It is the spark of the Creator, and what drives us."
  
  Then there were hands twisting his body and pushing him forward. The one holding him moved very close, as if he wanted to hug him.
  
  "There is a circle of fire in front of you. Take three steps back to gain momentum. Stretch your arms out in front of you, then run up and jump forward as far as you can."
  
  Paul could feel the hot air on his face, drying out his skin and hair. He heard an ominous crack, and in his imagination the burning circle assumed enormous dimensions until it turned into the mouth of a huge dragon.
  
  As he took three steps back, he wondered how he could jump over the flames without being burned alive and relied on his clothes to keep him dry. It would have been even worse if he mistimed his jump and fell head first into the flames.
  
  I just have to mark an imaginary line on the floor and jump from there.
  
  He tried to visualize the jump, to imagine it hurtling through the air as if nothing could harm it. He flexed his calves, flexed and extended his arms. Then he took three running steps forward.
  
  ...
  
  ...and jumped.
  
  
  thirty
  
  
  He felt heat on his arms and face while he was in the air, even the hiss of his shirt as the fire evaporated some of the water. He fell to the floor and began patting his face and chest, looking for signs of any burns. Other than his bruised elbows and knees, no damage was done.
  
  This time they didn't even let him get to his feet. He was already being lifted like a shaking bag and dragged into a confined space.
  
  "The last test is the test of the earth, to which we must return."
  
  There was not a word of advice from his guide. He just heard the sound of a stone blocking the entrance.
  
  He felt everything around him. He was in a tiny room, not big enough even to stand up. From his squatting position, he could touch three walls and, with his arm outstretched slightly, touch the fourth and the ceiling.
  
  Relax, he told himself. This is the last test. In a few minutes it will all be over.
  
  He was trying to steady his breathing when he suddenly heard the ceiling begin to descend.
  
  "No!"
  
  Before he could say the word, Paul bit his lip. He was not allowed to speak at any of the trials - that was the rule. He wondered briefly if they had heard him.
  
  He tried to push himself off the ceiling to stop his fall, but in his position, he couldn't resist the enormous weight bearing down on him. He pressed with all his being, but to no avail. The ceiling continued to drop, and soon he had to press his back against the floor.
  
  I must scream. Tell them to STOP!
  
  Suddenly, as if time itself had stopped, a memory flashed through his head: a fleeting image from his childhood, when he'd come home from school with the absolute certainty that he was going to be thrashed. Every step he took brought him closer to what he feared most. He never turned around. There are options that are simply not options at all.
  
  No.
  
  He stopped touching the ceiling.
  
  At that moment, she began to rise.
  
  "Let the voting begin."
  
  Paul was on his feet again, clinging to the guide. The tests were over, but he didn't know if he had passed them. He collapsed like a stone in the test of air, without taking a decisive step, as they told him. He moved during the test by water, although this was forbidden. And he spoke during the judgment of the Earth, which was the most serious mistake of all.
  
  He could hear a noise similar to shaking a jar of stone.
  
  He knew from the book that all current members of the lodge would fight their way to the center of the temple, where there was a wooden box. Into it they threw a small ball of ivory: white if they gave their consent, black if they wanted to reject it. The verdict was to be unanimous. Just one black orb would have been enough to lead him to the exit, his eyes still blindfolded.
  
  The sound of voting stopped and was replaced by a loud thud that stopped almost immediately. Paul assumed that someone had dumped the voices on a plate or tray. The results were in front of everyone except him. Perhaps there would be a lone black orb that would make all the trials he went through meaningless.
  
  "Paul Reiner, the result of the vote is final and not subject to appeal," Keller's voice boomed.
  
  There was a moment of silence.
  
  "You have been admitted to the mysteries of Freemasonry. Remove the blindfold from his eyes!"
  
  Paul blinked as his eyes returned to the light. He was overwhelmed by a wave of emotions, a wild euphoria. He tried to cover the entire scene at once:
  
  The huge room in which he stood, with a checkerboard marble floor, an altar and two rows of benches along the walls.
  
  The members of the lodge, almost a hundred formally dressed men in frilly aprons and medals, all standing up to applaud him with their white-gloved hands.
  
  Testing equipment, ridiculously harmless after his sight was restored: a wooden ladder over a grid, a bathtub, two men with torches in their hands, a large box with a lid.
  
  Sebastian Keller, standing in the center next to an altar decorated with a square and a compass, holds a closed book on which he can swear.
  
  Paul Reiner then placed his left hand on the book, raised his right, and vowed never to reveal the secrets of Freemasonry.
  
  "... in fear of having my tongue torn out, my throat cut, and my body buried in sea sand," Paul finished.
  
  He looked around at the hundred anonymous faces around him and wondered how many of them knew his father.
  
  And if somewhere among them there was a person who betrayed him.
  
  
  31
  
  
  After the initiation, Paul's life returned to normal. That night he returned home at dawn. After the ceremony, the Masonic brothers enjoyed a banquet in the next room, which continued until the early hours of the morning. Sebastian Keller presided over the banquet because, as Paul learned to his great surprise, he was the Grand Master, holding the highest position in the lodge.
  
  Despite his best efforts, Paul was unable to find out anything about his father, so he decided to wait a while to earn the trust of his fellow Masons before he started asking questions. Instead, he dedicated his time to Alice.
  
  She spoke to him again, and they even went somewhere together. They found that they had little in common, but surprisingly, this difference seemed to bring them closer. Paul listened carefully to her story of how she ran away from her home to avoid her planned marriage to his cousin. He couldn't help but admire Alice's bravery.
  
  "What are you going to do next? You're not going to be photographed in a club all your life."
  
  "I like photography. I think I'll try to get a job at an international press agency... They pay good money for photos, although it's very competitive."
  
  In return, he shared with Alice a story about his previous four years and how his search for the truth about what happened to Hans Reiner had become an obsession.
  
  "We made a good couple," said Alice, "you are trying to restore the memory of your father, and I pray that I will never see mine again."
  
  Paul grinned from ear to ear, but not out of comparison. She said couple, he thought.
  
  Unfortunately for Paul, Alice was still upset about that scene with the girl at the club. When he tried to kiss her one night after walking home, she gave him a slap in the face that made his back teeth tremble.
  
  "Damn it," Paul said, holding his jaw. "What the hell is wrong with you?"
  
  "Do not even try".
  
  "No, if you're going to give me another one like this, I won't. You obviously don't hit like a girl," he said.
  
  Alice smiled and, grabbing him by the lapels of his jacket, kissed him. An intense kiss, passionate and fleeting. Then she suddenly pushed him away and disappeared at the top of the stairs, leaving Paul confused, his lips parted as he tried to comprehend what had just happened.
  
  Paul had to fight for every small step towards reconciliation, even in matters that seemed simple and straightforward, like letting her go through the door first - which Alice hated - or offering to carry a heavy package or pay the bill after they had a beer. and have a little snack.
  
  Two weeks after his initiation, Paul picked her up at the club around three in the morning. Returning to Alice's boarding house, which was not far away, he asked her why she objected to his gentlemanly behaviour.
  
  "Because I'm quite capable of doing these things for myself. I don"t need someone to let me go first or walk me home."
  
  "But last Wednesday, when I fell asleep and didn't come for you, you got furious."
  
  "You're so smart in some ways, Paul, and so dumb in others," she said, waving her arms. "You're getting on my nerves!"
  
  "That makes us two."
  
  "So why don"t you stop chasing me?"
  
  "Because I'm afraid of what you'll do if I really stop."
  
  Alice looked at him silently. The brim of her hat cast a shadow over her face, and Paul couldn't tell how she reacted to his last remark. He feared the worst. When something pissed Alice off, they could not talk for days.
  
  They reached the door of her boarding house on Stahlstraße without another word being exchanged. The absence of conversation was accentuated by the tense, hot silence that engulfed the city. Munich was saying goodbye to the hottest September in decades, a short respite in a year of misfortune. The silence of the streets, the late hour, and Alice's mood filled Paul's heart with a strange melancholy. He felt that she was about to leave him.
  
  "You are very quiet," she said, looking for her keys in her purse.
  
  "I was the last one to speak."
  
  "Do you think you can stay as quiet as you walk up the stairs? My landlady has very strict rules about men, and the old cow has extremely good hearing."
  
  "Are you inviting me to come up?" Paul asked in surprise.
  
  "You can stay here if you want."
  
  Paul nearly lost his hat running through the doorway.
  
  There was no elevator in the building, and they had to climb three flights of wooden stairs that creaked with every step. Alice stayed close to the wall as she went up, which was less noisy, but still, as they passed the second floor, they heard footsteps inside one of the apartments.
  
  "That's her! Forward, quickly!"
  
  Paul ran past Alice and reached the landing just before a rectangle of light appeared, outlining Alice's slender form against the peeling paint of the stairs.
  
  "Who's there?" asked a hoarse voice.
  
  "Hello, Frau Kasin."
  
  Fraulein Tannenbaum. What a bad time to go home!"
  
  "That's my job, Frau Kasin, as you know."
  
  "I can"t say that I approve of this kind of behavior."
  
  "I don't really approve of leaks in my bathroom either, Frau Kasin, but the world is not a perfect place."
  
  At that moment, Paul stirred slightly, and the tree groaned under his feet.
  
  "Is there someone up there?" - indignantly asked the hostess of the apartment.
  
  "Let me check!" Alice replied, running up the stairs that separated her from Paul and leading him to her apartment. She inserted the key into the lock and barely had time to open the door and push Paul inside when the elderly woman who had been hobbling after her poked her head out from behind the stairs.
  
  "I'm sure I heard someone. Do you have a man there?"
  
  "Oh, you have nothing to worry about, Frau Kasin. It's just a cat," said Alice, closing the door in her face.
  
  "Your cat trick works every time, doesn"t it?" Paul whispered, hugging her and kissing her long neck. His breath burned. She shuddered and felt goosebumps running down her left side.
  
  "I thought we were going to be interrupted again, like that day in the bath."
  
  "Stop talking and kiss me," he said, holding her by the shoulders and turning her towards him.
  
  Alice kissed him and moved closer. Then they fell onto the mattress, her body under it.
  
  "Stop."
  
  Paul stopped abruptly and looked at her with a hint of disappointment and surprise on his face. But Alice slipped between his arms and moved on top of him, taking on the tedious task of freeing both of them from the rest of their clothes.
  
  "What is this?"
  
  "Nothing," she replied.
  
  "You are crying".
  
  Alice hesitated for a moment. To tell him the reason for her tears would be to bare her soul, and she didn't think she could do that, even at a moment like this.
  
  "It's just... I'm so happy."
  
  
  32
  
  
  When he received the envelope from Sebastian Keller, Paul couldn't help but shudder.
  
  The months since his admission to the Masonic lodge have been disappointing. At first, there was something almost romantic about joining a secret society almost blindly, the thrill of an adventure. But once the initial euphoria wore off, Paul began to wonder about the meaning of it all. For starters, he was banned from speaking at lodge meetings until he had completed three years as an apprentice. But that wasn't the worst: the worst was performing extremely long rituals that seemed like a waste of time.
  
  Stripped of their rituals, the gatherings were little more than a series of conferences and debates about Masonic symbolism and its practical application to enhance the virtue of fellow Masons. The only part that seemed to Paul of any interest was when the participants decided which charities they would donate to from the money raised at the end of each meeting.
  
  For Paul, the meetings became a burdensome duty, which he performed every two weeks in order to get to know the members of the lodge better. Even this goal was not easy to achieve, as the older Freemasons, those who no doubt knew his father, were seated at different tables in the large dining room. Sometimes he tried to get close to Keller, wanting to pressure the bookseller to keep his promise to give him everything his father had left him. In the box, Keller kept his distance from him, and in the bookstore, he dismissed Paul with vague excuses.
  
  Keller had never written to him before, and Paul knew immediately that whatever was in the brown envelope the boarding house owner had given him was what he had been waiting for.
  
  Paul sat on the edge of his bed, his breathing labored. He was sure that the envelope would contain a letter from his father. He couldn't hold back his tears as he imagined what must have prompted Hans Reiner to write a message to his son, then only a few months old, trying to freeze his voice in time until his son was ready to understand him.
  
  He tried to imagine what his father would like to say to him. Perhaps he would have given wise advice. Perhaps he would have accepted it after a while.
  
  Maybe he'll give me clues about the person or people who were going to kill him, Paul thought through gritted teeth.
  
  With extreme caution, he tore open the envelope and thrust his hand inside. It contained another envelope, a smaller white one, along with a handwritten note on the back of one of the bookseller's calling cards. Dear Paul, congratulations. Hans would be proud. This is what your father left for you. I don't know what it contains, but I hope it helps you. SK
  
  Paul opened the second envelope and a small sheet of white paper, printed in blue type, fell to the ground. He was paralyzed with disappointment when he picked it up and saw what it was.
  
  
  33
  
  
  Metzger's pawnshop was a cold place, colder even than the air in early November. Paul wiped his feet on the rug in front of the entrance, as it was raining outside. He left his umbrella on the counter and looked around curiously. He vaguely remembered that morning, four years ago, when he and his mother went to the shop in Schwabing to pawn his father's watch. It was a sterile place with glass shelves and employees in ties.
  
  Metzger's shop looked more like a big sewing box and smelled of mothballs. From the outside, the store looked small and insignificant, but as soon as you crossed the threshold, you discovered its great depth, a room filled to capacity with pieces of furniture, galenic crystal radios, porcelain figurines, and even a golden birdcage. Rust and dust covered the various objects that had anchored there for the last time. Startled, Paul looked at the stuffed cat he had caught stealing a sparrow in flight. A web formed between the outstretched leg of the cat and the wing of the bird.
  
  "It's not a museum, man."
  
  Paul turned around, startled. A thin, sunken-faced old man materialized beside him, dressed in a blue jumpsuit that was too big for his figure and that accentuated his thinness.
  
  "Are you Metzger?" I asked.
  
  "I am. And if what you brought me isn't gold, I don't need it."
  
  "The truth is, I didn't come here to pawn anything. I came to pick up something," Paul replied. He already disliked this man and his suspicious behavior.
  
  A flash of greed flashed through the old man's tiny eyes. It was obvious that things weren't going too well.
  
  "I'm sorry, lad... There are twenty people who come here every day who think their great-grandmother's old brass cameo is worth a thousand marks. But let's see... let's see what you're here for."
  
  Paul held out a blue-and-white piece of paper that he had found in an envelope sent to him by the bookseller. In the upper left corner were Metzger's name and address. Paul rushed there as fast as he could, still recovering from surprise at not finding the letter inside. Instead, there were four handwritten words: Article 91231
  
  21 signs
  
  The old man pointed to the paper. "There is a little lack here. We do not accept damaged forms."
  
  The top right corner, which should have included the name of the person who made the deposit, was torn off.
  
  "The part number is great to read," Paul said.
  
  "But we can't hand over items left by our customers to the first person who walks through the door."
  
  "Whatever it was, it belonged to my father."
  
  The old man scratched his chin, pretending to study the paper with interest.
  
  "In any case, the number is very small: the item must have been pawned many years ago. I am sure it will be put up for auction."
  
  "I understand. And how can we be sure?"
  
  "I believe that if the customer were willing to return the product, taking inflation into account..."
  
  Paul winced when the pawnbroker finally showed his cards: it was clear that he wanted to get the most out of the deal. But Paul was determined to return the item, no matter what the cost.
  
  "Very good".
  
  "Wait here," the other man said with a triumphant smile.
  
  The old man disappeared and returned half a minute later with a moth-eaten cardboard box marked with a yellowed ticket.
  
  "Hold it, boy."
  
  Paul reached out to take it, but the old man grabbed his wrist tightly. The touch on his cold, wrinkled skin was repulsive.
  
  "What the hell are you doing?"
  
  "Money first."
  
  "First you show me what's inside."
  
  "I will not tolerate any of this," said the old man, slowly shaking his head. "I believe that you are the rightful owner of this box, and you believe that what is inside is worth the effort. So to speak, a double act of faith."
  
  Paul struggled with himself for a few moments, but he knew he had no choice.
  
  "Let me go".
  
  Metzger opened his fingers, and Paul reached into the inside pocket of his coat. He took out his wallet.
  
  "How many?"
  
  "Forty million marks".
  
  At the then exchange rate, this was equivalent to ten dollars - enough to feed a family for many weeks.
  
  "That's a lot of money," Paul said, pursing his lips.
  
  "Take it or leave it."
  
  Paul sighed. The money was with him, as he had to go to make some payments for the bank the next day. He would have to deduct that from his salary for the next six months, the little he earned after he transferred all the profits from the business to Herr Ziegler's thrift store. To top it all off, stock prices have been stagnating or falling lately, with fewer investors, causing queues at social security canteens to lengthen by the day and no end to the crisis in sight.
  
  Paul pulled out a huge wad of newly printed banknotes. In those days, paper money was never obsolete. In fact, the banknotes for the previous quarter were already worthless and filled the chimneys of Munich, since they were cheaper than firewood.
  
  The pawnbroker snatched the banknotes from Paul's hands and began slowly counting them, examining them one at a time against the light. Finally he looked at the young man and smiled, showing his missing teeth.
  
  "Satisfied?" Paul asked sarcastically.
  
  Metzger withdrew his hand.
  
  Paul carefully opened the box, kicking up a cloud of dust that floated around him in the light of the lightbulb. He took out a flat square box made of smooth, dark mahogany. It had no jewelry or lacquer, just a clasp that popped open when Paul pressed it. The lid of the box lifted slowly and noiselessly, as if nineteen years had not passed since it had last been opened.
  
  Paul felt an icy fear in his heart as he looked at the contents.
  
  "You'd better be careful, boy," said the pawnbroker, from whose hands the banknotes disappeared as if by magic. "You could be in huge trouble if they find you on the streets with this toy."
  
  What were you trying to tell me with that, father?
  
  On a red velvet-studded stand lay a gleaming pistol and a ten-round magazine.
  
  
  34
  
  
  "It better be important, Metzger. I am extremely busy. When it comes to fees, you better go some other time."
  
  Otto von Schroeder was sitting by the fireplace in his office, and he did not offer the pawnbroker a seat or something to drink. Metzger, forced to remain on his feet with his hat in his hand, controlled his fury and feigned an obsequious tilt of his head and a false smile.
  
  "The truth is, Herr Baron, I came for a different reason. The money you have invested all these years is about to pay off."
  
  "He returned to Munich? Nagel is back? asked the Baron, tensing up.
  
  "It's much more complicated, Your Grace."
  
  "Well, then don"t make me guess. Tell me what you want."
  
  "The truth is, Your Grace, before giving this important information, I would like to remind you that the items that I have suspended the sale of for all this time, which has cost my business dearly..."
  
  "Keep up the good work, Metzger."
  
  "- Significantly increased in price. Your Grace promised me an annual sum, and in return I was to tell you if Clovis Nagel would buy any of them. And with all due respect, Your Grace has not been paid this year or last."
  
  The Baron lowered his voice.
  
  "Don't you dare blackmail me, Metzger. What I paid you for two decades more than makes up for the junk you kept in your junkyard."
  
  "What can I say? Your Grace gave your word, and Your Grace did not keep it. Well, then let's consider our agreement concluded. Good afternoon," said the old man, putting on his hat.
  
  "Wait!" said the baron, raising his hand.
  
  The pawnbroker turned around, suppressing a smile.
  
  "Yes, Herr Baron?"
  
  "I have no money, Metzger. I'm broke."
  
  "You surprise me, your grace!"
  
  "I have treasury bonds that could do something if the government pays dividends or restabilizes the economy. Until then, they are worth as much as the paper they are written on."
  
  The old man looked around, his eyes narrowed.
  
  "In that case, Your Grace... I suppose I could accept that little bronze and marble table you have next to your chair as payment."
  
  "It's worth a lot more than your annual fee, Metzger."
  
  The old man shrugged his shoulders but said nothing.
  
  "Very good. Speak."
  
  "You would certainly have to guarantee your payments for years to come, Your Grace. I suppose a silver tea set embossed on that little table would do."
  
  "You bastard, Metzger," said the baron, giving him a look of undisguised hatred.
  
  "Business is business, Herr Baron."
  
  Otto was silent for a few moments. He saw no other way but to succumb to the old man's blackmail.
  
  "You won. For your sake, I hope it's worth it," he said at last.
  
  "Today, someone came to buy back one of the items your friend pawned."
  
  "Was that Nagel?"
  
  "Not unless he found some way to turn back time thirty years. It was a boy."
  
  "Did he give his name?"
  
  "He was thin, with blue eyes, dark blond hair."
  
  "Floor..."
  
  "I already told you, he didn't give his name."
  
  "And what was it that he collected?"
  
  "Jack of black mahogany with a gun".
  
  The Baron jumped up from his seat so quickly that it tipped backwards and crashed into the low beam that surrounded the fireplace.
  
  "What you said?" he asked, grabbing the pawnbroker by the throat.
  
  "You hurt me!"
  
  "Speak, for God's sake, or I'll wring your neck right now."
  
  "A simple black mahogany box," the old man replied in a whisper.
  
  "Gun! Describe it!"
  
  "Mauser C96 with a broom handle. The wood on the handle was not the oak of the original model, but black mahogany to match the body. Great weapon."
  
  "How can it be?" asked the baron.
  
  Suddenly weak, he released the pawnbroker and leaned back in his chair.
  
  Old Metzger straightened up, rubbing his neck.
  
  "Crazy. He's gone crazy," Metzger said, rushing to the door.
  
  The Baron didn't notice him leaving. He remained seated with his head in his hands, absorbed in gloomy thoughts.
  
  
  35
  
  
  Ilse was sweeping the corridor when she noticed the visitor's shadow cast by the light of the wall lamps on the floor. She knew who it was before she raised her head and froze.
  
  Holy God, how did you find us?
  
  When she and her son first moved into the boarding house, Ilse had to work to pay part of the rent, because what Paul earned from hauling coal was not enough. Later, when Paul turned Ziegler's grocery store into a bank, the young man insisted that they find better lodging. Ilse refused. There were too many changes in her life, and she clung to everything that gave her security.
  
  One of those things was a broom handle. Paul - and the owner of the boarding house, whom Ilse did not help much - insisted that she stop working, but she did not pay attention. She needed to feel useful somehow. The silence she fell into after they were kicked out of the mansion was initially the result of anxiety, but later became a self-imposed display of her love for Paul. She avoided talking to him because she was afraid of his questions. When she spoke, it was about unimportant things that she tried to put in with all the tenderness she was capable of. The rest of the time she just silently looked at him from afar and grieved for what she was deprived of.
  
  That's why her suffering was so intense when she found herself face to face with one of the people responsible for her loss.
  
  "Hello, Ilse."
  
  She took a cautious step back.
  
  "What do you want, Otto?"
  
  The baron tapped the ground with the end of his cane. He was not comfortable here, it was clear, as was the fact that his visit signaled some sinister intentions.
  
  "Can we talk in a more private place?"
  
  "I don't want to go anywhere with you. Say what you have to say and leave."
  
  The Baron snorted in annoyance. Then he pointed disdainfully at the moldy wallpaper on the walls, the uneven floor, and the dying lamps that gave more shadow than light.
  
  "Look at you, Ilse. Sweeping a corridor in a third-class boarding house. You should be ashamed of yourself."
  
  "Sweeping the floors is sweeping the floors, it doesn't matter if it's a mansion or a boarding house. And there are linoleum floors that are more respectable than marble."
  
  "Ilse, dear, you know that when we took you, you were in a bad state. I wouldn't want to..."
  
  "Stop right here, Otto. I know whose idea it was. But don't think that I'll fall for the routine, that you're just a puppet. You are the one who controlled my sister from the very beginning, making her pay dearly for the mistake she made. And for what you have done hiding behind this mistake."
  
  Otto took a step back, shocked by the anger that escaped Ilse's lips. The monocle fell out of his eye and dangled from the chest of his coat like a condemned man hanging from a gallows.
  
  "You surprise me, Ilse. They told me that you..."
  
  Ilse laughed mirthlessly.
  
  "Lost it? Gone crazy? No, Otto. I'm quite sane. I have chosen to remain silent all this time because I am afraid of what my son might do if he finds out the truth."
  
  "So stop him. Because he goes too far."
  
  "So that's why you came," she said, unable to contain her contempt. "You're afraid that the past will finally catch up with you."
  
  The Baron took a step towards Ilse. Paul's mother moved back against the wall as Otto brought his face close to hers.
  
  "Now listen carefully, Ilse. You are the only thing that connects us to that night. If you don't stop him before it's too late, I'll have to sever this bond."
  
  "Then go ahead, Otto, kill me," Ilse said, feigning courage she didn't feel. "But you should know that I wrote a letter revealing the whole case. All this. If anything happens to me, Paul will have it."
  
  "But... you can"t be serious! You can't write it down! What if it falls into the wrong hands?"
  
  Ilse didn't answer. All she did was look at him. Otto tried to hold her gaze, a tall, burly, well-dressed man looking down at a frail woman in tattered clothes, who was clinging to her broom to keep from falling.
  
  Finally the baron gave in.
  
  "It doesn't end there," Otto said, turning and running out.
  
  
  36
  
  
  "Did you call me, father?"
  
  Otto looked doubtfully at Jürgen. Several weeks had passed since he had last seen him, and it was still hard for him to recognize the uniformed figure standing in his dining room as his son. He was suddenly aware of Jurgen's brown shirt hugging his shoulders, the red cruciform armband framing his powerful biceps, the young man's black boots heightening the young man to such an extent that he had to stoop slightly to get under the door frame. He felt a hint of pride, but at the same time a wave of self-pity washed over him. He could not resist making comparisons to himself: Otto was fifty-two and felt old and tired.
  
  "You haven't been home for a long time, Jürgen."
  
  "I had important things to do."
  
  The Baron did not answer. Although he understood the ideals of the Nazis, he never truly believed in them. Like the vast majority of Munich high society, he saw them as a party with little prospect, doomed to extinction. If they went this far, it was only because they profited from a social situation that was so dramatic that the dispossessed would believe any extremist who made wild promises to them. But at that moment, he didn't have time for subtleties.
  
  "So much so that you neglect your mother? She was worried about you. Can we find out where you slept?"
  
  "In the premises of the SA."
  
  "You were supposed to start university this year, two years late!" said Otto, shaking his head. "It"s already November, and you still haven"t come to one class."
  
  "I am in a position of responsibility."
  
  Otto watched as the fragments of the image he had retained of this ill-mannered teenager who not so long ago would have thrown a cup on the floor because the tea was too sweet for him finally disintegrated. He wondered what would be the best way to approach him. Much depended on whether Jurgen would do as he was told.
  
  He lay awake for several nights tossing and turning on his mattress before deciding to visit his son.
  
  "Responsible post, you say?"
  
  "I'm protecting the most important person in Germany."
  
  "The most important man in Germany," his father teased. "You, the future Baron von Schroeder, have hired a thug for an obscure megalomaniac Austrian corporal. You should be proud."
  
  Jurgen flinched as if he'd just been hit.
  
  "You do not understand..."
  
  "Enough! I want you to do something important. You are the only person I can trust with this."
  
  Jurgen was bewildered by the change in course. The answer died on his lips as curiosity got the better of him.
  
  "What is this?"
  
  "I found your aunt and your cousin."
  
  Jurgen did not answer. He sat down beside his father and removed the blindfold from his eye, revealing an unnatural void beneath the wrinkled skin of his eyelid. He slowly stroked the skin.
  
  "Where?" he asked, his voice cold and distant.
  
  "At a boarding house in Schwabing. But I forbid you even to think about revenge. We have something far more important to deal with. I want you to go to your aunt's room, search her from top to bottom and bring me all the papers you can find. Especially those that are written by hand. Letters, notes, whatever."
  
  "Why?"
  
  "I can't tell you that."
  
  "Can't you tell me? You brought me here, you're asking for my help after you ruined my chance to find the person who did this to me - the same person who gave my sick brother a gun so he could blow his brains out. You forbid me all this and then expect me to submit to you without any explanation?" Now Jurgen was screaming.
  
  "You will do what I tell you if you don't want me to cut you off!"
  
  "Go on, father. I've never been particularly interested in debt. There's only one valuable thing left, and you can't take it from me. I will inherit your title whether you like it or not." Jurgen left the dining room, slamming the door behind him. He was about to go outside when a voice stopped him.
  
  "Son, wait."
  
  He turned. Brunnhilde descended the stairs.
  
  "Mother".
  
  She walked over to him and kissed him on the cheek. She had to stand on her tiptoes to do it. She adjusted his black tie and stroked the spot where his right eye had once been with her fingertips. Jurgen stepped back and pulled off the patch.
  
  "You must do as your father asks."
  
  "I..."
  
  "You must do as you are told, Jurgen. He will be proud of you if you do this. And me too".
  
  Brunnhilde continued speaking for some time. Her voice was gentle, and for Jurgen it conjured up images and feelings he hadn't felt in a long time. He has always been her favorite. She always treated him differently, never denied him anything. He wanted to curl up in her lap like he did when he was a kid, and the summer seemed endless.
  
  "When?"
  
  "Tomorrow".
  
  "Tomorrow is the eighth of November, mother. I can't..."
  
  "It should happen tomorrow afternoon. Your father watched over the boarding house, and Paul is never there at this time."
  
  "But I already have plans!"
  
  "Are they more important than your own family, Jürgen?"
  
  Brunnhilde once more raised her hand to his face. This time Jurgen did not recoil.
  
  "I guess I could do it if I act fast."
  
  "Good boy. And when you get the documents," she said, lowering her voice to a whisper, "bring them to me first. Don't say a word to your father."
  
  
  37
  
  
  Alice watched from around the corner as Manfred got off the tram. She took up a position outside her old house, as she had done every week for the past two years, to see her brother for a few minutes. Never before had she felt so strongly the need to approach him, talk to him, give up once and for all, and return home. She wondered what her father would do if she showed up.
  
  I can't do it, especially like... like this. It would be like definitively admitting he was right. It would be like death.
  
  Her gaze followed Manfred, who was turning into a handsome young man. His unruly hair was sticking out from under his cap, his hands were in his pockets, and under his arm he held notes.
  
  I bet he's still a terrible piano player, Alice thought with a mixture of annoyance and regret.
  
  Manfred walked along the sidewalk and, before reaching the gate of his house, stopped at a candy store. Alice smiled. She first saw him do it two years ago, when she accidentally discovered that on Thursdays her brother returned from piano lessons on public transport, and not in her father's chauffeured Mercedes. Half an hour later, Alice went into the candy store and bribed the shop assistant to give Manfred a bag of toffees with a note inside when he arrived the following week. She hurriedly scrawled "It's me." Come every Thursday, I'll leave you a note. Ask Ingrid, give her your answer. I love you-A.
  
  She waited impatiently for the next seven days, fearing that her brother would not respond or that he would be angry that she left without saying goodbye. His answer, however, was typical of Manfred. As if he had only seen her ten minutes ago, his note began with a funny story about the Swiss and Italians, and ended with a story about the school and what had happened since he had last heard from her. The news from her brother filled Alice with happiness again, but there was one line, the last, that confirmed her worst fears. Dad is still looking for you.
  
  She ran out of the candy store, afraid someone might recognize her. But despite the danger, she returned every week, always pulling her hat over her brows and wearing a coat or scarf that hid her features. She never raised her face to her father's window, in case he looked and recognized her. And every week, no matter how terrible her own situation, she took comfort in the daily successes, small victories and defeats in Manfred's life. When he won the track and field medal at the age of twelve, she wept with happiness. When he received a thrashing in the schoolyard for confronting several kids who called him a "dirty Jew," she howled in rage. Insubstantial as they were, these letters connected her with memories of a happy past.
  
  On that particular Thursday, November 8, Alice waited a little less time than usual, fearing that if she stayed at Prinzregentenplatz for too long, she would be overcome by doubts and choose the easiest - and worst possible - option. She went into the store, asked for a pack of mint toffees, and paid, as usual, three times the standard price. She waited until she got into the cart, but that day she immediately looked at the piece of paper inside the package. There were only five words, but they were enough to make her hands tremble. They bit me. Run.
  
  She had to restrain herself from screaming.
  
  Keep your head down, walk slowly, don't look away. Maybe they don't follow the store.
  
  She opened the door and went outside. She couldn't help but look back as she left.
  
  Two cloaked men followed her at a distance of less than sixty yards. One of them, realizing that she saw them, made a sign to the other, and both quickened their pace.
  
  Crap!
  
  Alice tried to walk as fast as she could without breaking into a run. She did not want to risk drawing the attention of a policeman, because if he stopped her, two men would catch up with her, and then she would be finished. No doubt it was the detectives hired by her father who would come up with a story to apprehend her or bring her back to the family home. Legally, she was not yet of legal age - there were still eleven months before she turned twenty-one - so she would be completely at the mercy of her father.
  
  She crossed the street without stopping to look. A bicycle sped past her, and the boy riding it lost control and fell to the ground, interfering with Alice's pursuers.
  
  "Are you crazy or what?" - the guy shouted, holding on to his injured knees.
  
  Alice looked back again and saw that the two men had managed to cross the road, taking advantage of a break in traffic. They were less than ten meters away from us and were rapidly gaining altitude.
  
  Now it's not far from the trolleybus.
  
  She cursed her shoes, which had wooden soles and made her skid a little on the wet pavement. The bag in which she kept the camera hit her thighs, and she clung to the strap she wore diagonally across her chest.
  
  It was obvious that she wouldn't succeed if she couldn't think of something quickly. She felt her pursuers right behind her.
  
  This cannot happen. Not when I'm this close.
  
  At that moment, a group of schoolchildren in uniform, led by a teacher, came out from around the corner in front of her, who accompanied them to the trolley bus stop. Guys, there were about twenty of them, lined up, cut her off from the road.
  
  Alice managed to push through and get to the other side of the group, just in time. The cart rolled along the rails, chiming as it approached.
  
  Reaching out, Alice grabbed the bar and stepped onto the front of the cart. The driver slowed down slightly when she did so. Once safely aboard the crowded car, Alice turned to look outside.
  
  Her pursuers were nowhere to be seen.
  
  With a sigh of relief, Alice paid and clung to the bar with trembling hands, completely ignoring the two figures in hats and raincoats, who at that moment were getting into the back of the trolleybus.
  
  Paul was waiting for her at Rosenheimerstrasse, not far from Ludwigsbruck. When he saw her getting off the trolley, he went over to kiss her, but stopped when he saw the worry on her face.
  
  "What's happened?"
  
  Alice closed her eyes and sank into Paul's strong embrace. Being safe in his arms, she did not notice how her two pursuers got off the trolley bus and went into a nearby cafe.
  
  "I went to pick up my brother's letter, as I do every Thursday, but I was followed. I will no longer be able to use this contact method."
  
  "It's horrible! Are you all right?"
  
  Alice hesitated before answering. Should she tell him everything?
  
  It would be so easy to tell him. Just open my mouth and say those two words. So simple... and so impossible.
  
  "Yes, I suppose so. I lost them before I got on the tram."
  
  "Okay then... But I think you should cancel tonight," Paul said.
  
  "I can't, this is my first assignment."
  
  After several months of persistence, she finally caught the attention of the head of photography at the Munich-based Allgemeine newspaper. He told her to go that evening to the Burgerbraukeller, a pub less than thirty paces from where they were now. The State Commissioner of Bavaria, Gustav Ritter von Kahr, will make a speech in half an hour. For Alice, the chance to stop spending her nights enslaved in a club and start making a living doing what she loved most, photography, was a dream come true.
  
  "But after what happened... don"t you want to just go to your apartment?" Paul asked.
  
  "Do you realize how important tonight is to me? I have been waiting for this opportunity for months!"
  
  "Calm down, Alice. You're making a scene."
  
  "Don't tell me to calm down! You need to calm down!"
  
  "Please, Alice. You're exaggerating," Paul said.
  
  "You're exaggerating! That's just what I needed to hear," she snorted, turning and walking towards the pub.
  
  "Wait! Weren"t we going to have coffee first?"
  
  "Get one for yourself!"
  
  "Do you at least want me to come with you? These political gatherings can be dangerous: people get drunk and arguments sometimes break out."
  
  The moment those words left his lips, Paul knew he had done his job. He wished he could catch them in mid-flight and swallow them back, but it was too late.
  
  "I don't need your protection, Paul," Alice replied in an icy tone.
  
  "I'm sorry Alice, I didn't mean..."
  
  "Good evening, Paul," she said, joining the crowd of laughing people coming inside.
  
  Paul was left alone in the middle of a crowded street, wanting to strangle someone, scream, kick his feet on the ground and sob.
  
  It was seven o'clock in the evening.
  
  
  38
  
  
  The hardest part was slipping into the boarding house unnoticed.
  
  The landlady hung around the entrance like a bloodhound in her overalls and broomstick. Jurgen had to wait a couple of hours, wandering around the area and secretly watching the entrance to the building. He couldn't risk doing it so brazenly, as he had to be sure he wouldn't be recognized later. On a busy street, hardly anyone would pay much attention to a man in a black coat and hat walking with a newspaper under his arm.
  
  He hid his club in the folded paper and, fearing that it might fall out, pressed it against his armpit with such force that he would have had a significant bruise the next day. Beneath his civilian clothes, he wore a brown SA uniform, which would no doubt have attracted too much attention in an area with as many Jews as this one. His cap was in his pocket, and he had left his boots in the barracks, opting instead for a pair of sturdy boots.
  
  Finally, after passing by many times, he managed to find a gap in the line of defense. The hostess left her broom leaning against the wall and disappeared through a small inner door, perhaps to prepare supper. Jurgen made the most of this gap to slip into the house and run up the stairs to the top floor. After passing several landings and corridors, he found himself in front of the door of Ilse Rainer.
  
  He knocked.
  
  If she wasn't here, things would be easier, Jürgen thought, eager to get the job done as soon as possible and cross to the east bank of the Isar, where the Stosstrupps had been ordered to rendezvous two hours earlier. It was a historic day, and here he was, wasting his time on some intrigue that he didn't care about the least.
  
  If I could at least fight Paul... things would be different.
  
  A smile lit up his face. At the same moment, his aunt opened the door and looked directly into his eyes. Perhaps she read betrayal and murder in them; perhaps she was simply afraid of Jurgen's presence. But whatever the reason, she reacted by trying to slam the door.
  
  Jürgen was fast. He managed to get there with his left hand just in time. The door jamb hit him hard on the knuckles and he suppressed a cry of pain, but he succeeded. No matter how hard Ilse tried, her frail body was powerless against Jurgen's brutal strength. He leaned with all his weight on the door, and his aunt, along with the chain that protected her, fell to the floor.
  
  "If you scream, I'll kill you, old woman," Jurgen said, his voice low and serious as he closed the door behind him.
  
  "Have some respect: I'm younger than your mother," Ilze said from the floor.
  
  Jurgen did not answer. His knuckles bled; the blow was harder than it seemed. He laid the newspaper and club on the floor and walked over to the neatly made bed. He tore off a piece of the sheet and tied it around his hand when Ilze, thinking that he was distracted, opened the door. Just as she was about to run away, Jurgen tugged hard on her dress, pulling her back down.
  
  "Nice try. So, can we talk now?"
  
  "You didn't come here to talk."
  
  "This is true".
  
  Grabbing her by the hair, he forced her to stand up again and look into his eyes.
  
  "So, auntie, where are the documents?"
  
  "How typical of a baron to send you to do what he dares not do himself," Ilze snorted. "Do you know what exactly he sent you for?"
  
  "You people and your secrets. No, my father didn't tell me anything, he just asked me to get your documents. Fortunately, my mother told me more details. She said that I should find your letter full of lies and another one from your husband."
  
  "I have no intention of giving you anything."
  
  "You don't seem to understand what I'm ready to do, auntie."
  
  He took off his coat and laid it on a chair. Then he pulled out a red-handled hunting knife. The sharp edge shone silver in the light of the oil lamp reflected in his aunt's quivering eyes.
  
  "You wouldn't dare."
  
  "Oh, I think you'll find that I would."
  
  For all his bravado, the situation was more complicated than Jurgen had imagined. It wasn't like a tavern fight where he'd let his instincts and adrenaline take over and his body turned into a wild, brutal machine.
  
  When he took the woman's right hand and placed it on the bedside table, he felt almost no emotion. But then the sadness sank into him like the sharp teeth of a saw, scratching his lower abdomen and showing as little mercy as he did when he put the knife to his aunt's fingers and made two dirty cuts on her index finger.
  
  Ilse screamed in pain, but Jürgen was ready and covered her mouth with his hand. He wondered where the excitement was that usually caused violence, and that was what first attracted him to the SA.
  
  Could this be due to the lack of a call? Because that scared old crow wasn't a challenge at all.
  
  The screams, suppressed by Jurgen's palm, dissolved into inaudible sobs. He stared into the woman's tear-stained eyes, trying to enjoy the situation as much as he'd gotten the young communist's teeth knocked out a few weeks earlier. But no. He sighed resignedly.
  
  "Now will you cooperate? It's not too much fun for either of us."
  
  Ilse nodded vigorously.
  
  "I am glad to hear it. Give me what I asked you for," he said, releasing her.
  
  She moved away from Jurgen and staggered towards the wardrobe. The mangled hand she held to her chest left a growing stain on her cream dress. With her other hand, she rummaged through her clothes until she found a small white envelope.
  
  "This is my letter," she said, handing it to Jurgen.
  
  The young man took the envelope, on the surface of which there was a blood stain. On the other side was his cousin's name. He ripped open one end of the envelope and pulled out five sheets of paper covered in clear, rounded handwriting.
  
  Jürgen skimmed through the first few lines, but then was carried away by what he had read. In the middle of the text, his eye bulged and his breathing became ragged. He gave Ilse a suspicious look, unable to believe what he saw.
  
  "It's a lie! Dirty lie!" he shouted, taking a step towards his aunt and putting a knife to her throat.
  
  "It's not like that, Jürgen. I'm sorry you had to find out like this," she said.
  
  "Are you sorry? You feel sorry for me, don't you? I just cut off your finger, old hag! What's to stop me from slitting your throat, huh? Tell me it's a lie," Jürgen hissed in a cold whisper that made Ilse's hair stand on end.
  
  "I have been a victim of this particular truth for many years. This is part of what has turned you into the monster that you are."
  
  "He knows?"
  
  This last question was too heavy for Ilse. She staggered, dizzy with emotion and loss of blood, and Jurgen had to catch her.
  
  "Don"t you dare faint now, useless old woman!"
  
  There was a washbasin nearby. Jurgen pushed his aunt onto the bed and splashed some water in her face.
  
  "Enough," she said weakly.
  
  "Answer me. Does Paul know?
  
  "No".
  
  Jurgen gave her a few moments to recover. A wave of conflicting feelings raced through his mind as he reread the letter, this time to the end.
  
  When he finished, he folded the pages carefully and put them in his pocket. Now he understood why his father had been so insistent on getting these papers, and why his mother had asked him to bring them to her first.
  
  They wanted to use me. They think I'm an idiot. This letter will not get to anyone but me ... And I will use it at the right moment. Yes, that's her. When they least expect it...
  
  But there was something else he needed. He slowly walked over to the bed and leaned over the mattress.
  
  "I need a letter from Hans."
  
  "I have not it. I swear to God. Your father was always looking for her, but I don't have her. I'm not even sure it exists," Ilze muttered, stuttering as she clung to her mangled hand.
  
  "I don't believe you," Jurgen lied. At that moment, Ilse seemed incapable of hiding anything, but he still wanted to see what kind of reaction his disbelief would elicit. He brought the knife up to her face again.
  
  Ilze tried to push his hand away, but her strength was almost gone, and it was like a child pushing a ton of granite.
  
  "Leave me alone. For God's sake, haven't you done enough to me?"
  
  Jurgen looked around. Stepping away from the bed, he grabbed an oil lamp from a nearby table and threw it into the closet. The glass shattered, spilling burning kerosene everywhere.
  
  He returned to the bed and, looking Ilse straight in the eyes, put the tip of the knife to her stomach. He breathed.
  
  Then he drove the blade all the way to the hilt.
  
  "Now I have".
  
  
  39
  
  
  After a fight with Alice, Paul was in a bad mood. He decided to ignore the cold and walked home, a decision that would be the biggest regret of his life.
  
  It took Paul almost an hour to walk the seven kilometers that separated the pub from the boarding house. He barely paid attention to his surroundings, his head drifting back to his conversation with Alice, imagining things he could say that would change the outcome. One moment he wished he had been conciliatory, and the next he wished he had responded in a way that hurt her so she knew how he felt. Lost in an endless spiral of love, he did not notice what was happening until he was just a few steps from the gate.
  
  Then he smelled smoke and saw people running. A fire engine was parked in front of the building.
  
  Paul looked up. There was a fire on the third floor.
  
  "Oh, Holy Mother God!"
  
  A crowd formed on the other side of the road, consisting of curious passers-by and people from the boarding house. Paul ran towards them, looking for familiar faces and calling out Ilse's name. Finally he found the landlady sitting on the curb, her face smeared with soot and lines of tears. Paul shook her.
  
  "My mother! Where is she?"
  
  The landlady began to cry again, unable to look him in the eye.
  
  "No one escaped from the third floor. Oh, that my father, may he rest in peace, could see what became of his building!"
  
  "And the firemen?"
  
  "They haven't entered yet, but there's nothing they can do. The fire blocked the stairs."
  
  "And from the other roof? The one at number twenty-two?"
  
  "Perhaps," said the hostess, wringing her callused hands in despair. "You can jump from there..."
  
  Paul didn't hear the end of her sentence because he was already running to the neighbors door. There was an unfriendly policeman who was interrogating one of the residents of the boarding house. He frowned as he saw Paul rushing towards him.
  
  "Where do you think you're going? We are clearing - Hey!"
  
  Paul pushed the policeman aside, knocking him to the ground.
  
  The building had five floors, one more than the boarding house. Each of them was a private dwelling, although at that time they must have all been empty. The floor was groping its way up the stairs, as the power to the building was clearly out.
  
  On the top floor, he had to stop because he could not find his way to the roof. Then he realized that he would have to reach for a hatch in the middle of the ceiling. He jumped up, trying to grab the handle, but he was still a couple of feet short. In desperation, he looked around for something that could help him, but there was nothing he could use.
  
  I have no choice but to break open the door of one of the apartments.
  
  He rushed to the nearest door, ramming his shoulder into it, but achieved nothing but a sharp pain that ran down his arm. So he started kicking at lock level and succeeded in opening the door after half a dozen kicks. He grabbed the first thing he could find in the dark lobby, which turned out to be a chair. Standing on it, he was able to reach the hatch and lower the wooden ladder that led to the flat roof.
  
  Outside, the air was unbreathable. The wind carried the smoke in his direction, and Paul had to cover his mouth with a handkerchief. He almost fell into the space between the two buildings, the gap was a little more than a meter. He could barely see the neighboring rooftop.
  
  Where the hell am I supposed to jump?
  
  He took the keys out of his pocket and threw them in front of him. There was a sound that Paul identified as being hit by a stone or wood, and he jumped in that direction.
  
  For a brief moment, he felt his body floating in smoke. Then he fell to all fours, skinning his palms. Finally, he reached the boarding house.
  
  Hold on mom. Now I am here.
  
  He had to walk with his arms outstretched in front of him until he left the smoky area that was at the front of the building closest to the street. Even through his boots, he could feel the intense heat of the roof. In the back was a canopy, a rocking chair with no legs, and what Paul was desperately looking for.
  
  Access to the next floor below!
  
  He ran to the door, afraid it would be locked. His strength began to leave, and his legs became heavy.
  
  Please, God, don't let the fire get to her room. Please. Mom, tell me you were smart enough to turn on the faucet and pour something wet into the cracks around the door.
  
  The door to the stairs was open. There was smoke in the stairwell, but it was tolerable. Paul rushed down as fast as he could, but on the penultimate step he tripped over something. He quickly got up and realized that he only had to go to the end of the corridor and turn right, and then he would be at the entrance to his mother's room.
  
  He tried to move forward, but it was impossible. The smoke was a dirty orange color, there was not enough air, and the heat from the fire was so strong that he could not take another step.
  
  "Mother!" he said, wanting to scream, but the only thing that escaped his lips was a dry, painful wheeze.
  
  The patterned wallpaper began to burn next to him, and Paul realized that he would soon be surrounded by flames if he didn't get out quickly. He backed away as the flames illuminated the stairwell. Now Paul could see what he had tripped over, what the dark stains were on the carpet.
  
  There, on the floor, by the bottom step, lay his mother. And she was in pain.
  
  "Mother! No!"
  
  He squatted down next to her, looking for a pulse. Ilse seemed to react.
  
  "Paul," she whispered.
  
  "You have to hold on, mom! I'll get you out of here!"
  
  The young man picked up her small body and ran up the stairs. When he went outside, he moved as far as possible from the stairs, but the smoke spread everywhere.
  
  Paul stopped. He couldn't break through the curtain of smoke with his mother in that state, let alone jump blindly between two buildings with her in his arms. They also couldn't stay where they were. Entire sections of the roof were now caved in, and sharp red spears licked at the cracks. The roof would collapse in minutes.
  
  "You have to hold on, mom. I'll get you out of here. I'll take you to the hospital and you'll be better soon. I swear. So you have to hold on."
  
  "Earth..." Ilze said with a slight cough. "Let me go".
  
  Paul knelt down and placed her feet on the ground. It was the first time he was able to see what condition his mother was in. Her dress is covered in blood. The finger on her right hand was cut off.
  
  "Who did this to you?" he asked with a grimace.
  
  The woman could hardly speak. Her face was pale and her lips were trembling. She climbed out of the bedroom to escape the fire, leaving a red streak behind her. The injury that forced her to crawl on all fours paradoxically extended her life longer, as her lungs absorbed less smoke in that position. But by this point, Ilse Rainer hardly had the breath of life left.
  
  "Who, mother?" Paul repeated. "Was that Jurgen?"
  
  Ilse opened her eyes. They were red and swollen.
  
  "No..."
  
  "Then who? Did you recognize them?"
  
  Ilse raised a trembling hand to her son's face, stroking him gently. Her fingertips were cold. Filled with pain, Paul knew that this was the last time his mother would touch him, and he was afraid.
  
  "It was not..."
  
  "Who?"
  
  "It wasn't Jürgen."
  
  "Tell me, mom. Tell me who. I will kill them."
  
  "You do not have to..."
  
  Another bout of coughing interrupted her. Ilse's hands limply fell at her sides.
  
  "You mustn't hurt Jurgen, Paul."
  
  "Why, mom?"
  
  Now his mother was fighting for every breath, but she was also fighting inside. Paul could see the struggle in her eyes. She had to make an enormous effort to get air into her lungs. But it took even more effort to wrest those last three words from her heart.
  
  "He is your brother."
  
  
  40
  
  
  Brother.
  
  Sitting on the curb next to where the landlady had sat an hour earlier, Paul tried to digest the word. In less than thirty minutes, his life has been turned upside down twice - first by the death of his mother, and then by the revelation she made with her last breath.
  
  When Ilse died, Paul hugged her and was tempted to let himself die too. Stay where he was until the flames consumed the ground beneath him.
  
  That is life. Running on a roof that was doomed to collapse, Paul thought, drowning in pain that was bitter and dark and thick as butter.
  
  Was it the fear that kept him on the roof in the moments after his mother's death? Perhaps he was afraid to face the world alone. Perhaps if her last words had been "I love you so much", Paul would have let himself die. But Ilse's words gave a completely different meaning to the questions that tormented Paul all his life.
  
  Was it hatred, revenge, or the need to know what finally made him act? Perhaps a combination of all three. What is certain is that Paul kissed his mother one last time on the forehead and then ran to the opposite end of the roof.
  
  He nearly fell off the edge, but managed to stop in time. The kids in the neighborhood sometimes played on the building and Paul wondered how they managed to get back. He concluded that they must have left a wooden board somewhere. Paul didn't have time to look for her in the smoke, so he took off his coat and jacket, reducing his weight for the jump. If he misses, or if the opposite part of the roof collapses under his weight, he will fall five stories. Without thinking twice, he made a running jump, blindly confident that he would succeed.
  
  Now that he's back at ground level, Paul has tried to put together the puzzle that Jurgen - my brother! - has become the hardest part of all. Could Jurgen really be Ilse's son? Paul didn't think it was possible since their birth dates were only eight months apart. It was physically possible, but Paul was more inclined to believe that Jurgen was the son of Hans and Brunnhilde. Edward, with his darker, rounder complexion, did not resemble Jurgen at all, and they were not similar in temperament. However, Jürgen did look like Paul. They both had blue eyes and pronounced cheekbones, although Jurgen's hair was darker.
  
  How could my father sleep with Brunnhilde? And why did my mother hide it from me all this time? I always knew that she wanted to protect me, but why not tell me about it? And how am I supposed to know the truth without going to the Shredders?
  
  The landlady interrupted Paul's thoughts. She was still sobbing.
  
  "Herr Reiner, firefighters say the fire is under control, but the building needs to be demolished as it is no longer safe. They asked me to tell the tenants that they can take it in turns to get their clothes, as you will all have to spend the night elsewhere."
  
  Like a robot, Paul joined a dozen people who were about to return some of their belongings. He stepped over the hoses that were still pumping water, walked through the sodden corridors and stairs, followed by a fireman, and finally reached his room, where he selected clothes at random and put them in a small bag.
  
  "That's enough," insisted the fireman, who was waiting anxiously in the doorway. "We have to go".
  
  Still stunned, Paul followed him. But after a few meters, a faint idea flickered in his brain like the face of a gold coin in a bucket of sand. He turned and ran.
  
  "Hey, listen! We have to get out!"
  
  Paul ignored the man. He ran into his room and dived under the bed. In the narrow space, he pushed aside the stack of books he had placed there to hide what was behind them.
  
  "I told you to get out! Look, it's not safe here," the fireman said, pulling Paul's legs up until his body appeared.
  
  Paul didn't mind. He had what he came for.
  
  Black mahogany jewelry box, smooth and simple.
  
  It was nine thirty in the evening.
  
  Paul took his small bag and ran across the city.
  
  Had he not been in such a state, he would no doubt have noticed that something more was going on in Munich than his own tragedy. There were more people around than usual for this time of night. Bars and taverns were shaking, and angry voices could be heard from inside. Anxious people clustered in groups on street corners, and not a single policeman was in sight.
  
  But Paul paid no attention to what was going on around him; he simply wanted to overcome the distance that separated him from the goal in the shortest possible time. Right now, that was the only lead he had. He cursed himself bitterly for not seeing this, for not realizing it sooner.
  
  Metzger's pawnshop was closed. The doors were thick and strong, so Paul didn't waste time knocking. And not in screaming, although he guessed - rightly - that such a greedy old man as a pawnbroker would live in this room, perhaps on a rickety old bed at the back of the store.
  
  Paul put his bag by the door and looked around for something solid. There were no scattered stones on the pavement, but he found a trash can lid the size of a small tray. He picked it up and threw it into a shop window, which shattered into a thousand pieces. Paul's heart was beating out of his chest and pounding in his ears, but he ignored that too. If anyone calls the police, they may arrive before he gets what he came for; but then again, they may not come.
  
  I hope not, Paul thought. Otherwise, I'll run away, and the next place I'll go for answers will be the Shredder's mansion. Even if my uncle's friends send me to jail for the rest of my life.
  
  Paul jumped in. His boots crunched on a bed of glass shards, a mixture of broken window shards, and a Bohemian crystal dinner service that had also been shattered by his projectile.
  
  The store was completely dark inside. The only light came from the back room, where loud screams came from.
  
  "Who's there? I'm calling the police!"
  
  "Forward!" Paul yelled back.
  
  A rectangle of light appeared on the floor, highlighting the ghostly outlines of the pawnshop's merchandise. Paul stood among them, waiting for Metzger to appear.
  
  "Get out of here you damn Nazis!" the pawnbroker called, appearing at the door, his eyes still half closed from sleep.
  
  "I'm not a Nazi, Herr Metzger."
  
  "Who the hell are you?" Metzger entered the store and turned on the lights, checking that the intruder was alone. "There is nothing of value here!"
  
  "Maybe not, but there is something I need."
  
  At that moment, the old man's eyes focused and he recognized Paul.
  
  "Who are you... Oh."
  
  "I see you remember me."
  
  "You were here recently," Metzger said.
  
  "Do you always remember all your customers?"
  
  "What the hell do you want? You will have to pay me for this window!"
  
  "Don't try to change the subject. I want to know who pawned that gun I took."
  
  "I don't remember".
  
  Paul didn't answer. He simply pulled a weapon from his trouser pocket and pointed it at the old man. Metzger stepped back, holding his hands out in front of him like a shield.
  
  "Do not shoot! I swear to you, I don't remember! Almost two decades have passed!"
  
  "Let's assume I believe you. What about your notes?
  
  "Put the gun down, please... I can't show you my notes: this information is confidential. Please, son, be reasonable..."
  
  Paul took six steps towards him and raised the pistol to shoulder height. Now the trunk was only two centimeters from the pawnbroker's forehead, which was covered in sweat.
  
  "Herr Metzger, let me explain. Either you show me the tapes, or I'll shoot you. It's an easy choice."
  
  "Very good! Very good!"
  
  Still holding his hands up, the old man made his way to the back room. They crossed a large storage room that was filled with cobwebs and even dustier than the store itself. Cardboard boxes were stacked floor to ceiling on rusty metal shelves, and the stench of mold and dampness was unbearable. But there was something else in that smell, something indefinable and putrid.
  
  "How can you stand this smell, Metzger?"
  
  "Smell? I don't feel anything," the old man said without turning around.
  
  Paul surmised that the pawnbroker had gotten used to the stink after spending countless years among other people's belongings. The man clearly never enjoyed his own life, and Paul couldn't help but feel some pity for him. He had to put such thoughts out of his head in order to continue purposefully clutching his father's gun.
  
  There was a metal door at the back of the pantry. Metzger took some keys from his pocket and opened it. He gestured for Paul to pass.
  
  "You're first," Paul replied.
  
  The old man looked at him curiously, his pupils hard. In his imagination, Paul pictured him as a dragon protecting his treasure cave, and he told himself to be more vigilant than ever. The miser was as dangerous as a cornered rat, and at any moment he could turn and bite.
  
  "Swear you won't steal anything from me."
  
  "What would be the point? Remember, this is a weapon in my hands."
  
  "Swear it," the man insisted.
  
  "I swear I won't steal anything from you, Metzger. Tell me what I need to know and I will leave you alone."
  
  To the right was a wooden bookcase filled with black-bound books; on the left is a huge safe. The pawnbroker immediately stood in front of her, protecting her with his body.
  
  "Here you are," he said, pointing to the bookcase for Paul.
  
  "You will find it for me."
  
  "No," the old man replied in a strained voice. He wasn't ready to come out of his corner.
  
  He becomes bolder. If I push him too hard, he might lash out at me. Damn it, why didn't I load the gun? I would use this to take him down.
  
  "At least tell me which volume to look for."
  
  "It's on the shelf, at the level of your head, fourth from the left."
  
  Without taking his eyes off Metzger, Paul found the book. He carefully removed it and handed it to the pawnbroker.
  
  "Find the link."
  
  "I don't remember the number."
  
  "Nine one two three one. Hurry up".
  
  The old man reluctantly took the book and carefully turned the pages. Paul looked around the warehouse, fearing that at any moment a group of policemen might appear to arrest him. He's been here way too long.
  
  "Here it is," said the old man, returning the book, open to one of the first pages.
  
  There was no date entry, just a brief 1905 / Week 16. Paul found the number at the bottom of the page.
  
  "It's just a name. Clovis Nagel. There is no address there.
  
  "The customer chose not to provide any more details."
  
  "Is this legal, Metzger?"
  
  "The law on this issue is confusing."
  
  This was not the only entry on which Nagel's name appeared. He was listed in the "Depositing Client" column for ten more items.
  
  "I want to see the other things he has laid."
  
  Pleased that the burglar had gotten away from his safe, the pawnbroker led Paul to one of the bookshelves in the outer pantry. He pulled out a cardboard box and showed the contents to Paul.
  
  "Here they are".
  
  A cheap pair of watches, a gold ring, a silver bracelet... Paul examined the trinkets but couldn't figure out what connected Nagel's items. He began to despair; after all the effort he had put in, he now had even more questions than before.
  
  Why would one person pawn so many items on the same day? He must have been running from someone - maybe my father. But if I want to know anything else, I will have to find this person, and the name alone will not help much.
  
  "I want to know where to find Nagel."
  
  "You already saw, son. I don't have an address..."
  
  Paul raised his right hand and hit the old man. Metzger fell to the floor and covered his face with his hands. A trickle of blood appeared between his fingers.
  
  "No, please no - don't hit me again!"
  
  Paul had to restrain himself from hitting the man again. His entire body was filled with vile energy, a vague hatred that had built up over the years and suddenly found a target in the pitiful bleeding figure at his feet.
  
  What am I doing?
  
  Suddenly, he felt nauseous at what he had done. This needed to end as soon as possible.
  
  "Speak, Metzger. I know you are hiding something from me."
  
  "I don't remember him very well. He was a soldier, I could tell by the way he spoke. Possibly a sailor. He said he was going back to South West Africa and that he wouldn't need any of those things there."
  
  "What was he like?"
  
  "Quite short stature, fine features. I don"t remember much... Please don"t hit me again!"
  
  Short, with fine features... Edward described the man who was in the room with my father and my uncle as short, with delicate features, like a girl. It could be Clovis Nagel. What if my dad found out he was stealing things on the boat? Perhaps he was a spy. Or did my father ask him to pawn the gun in his name? He knew, of course, that he was in danger.
  
  Feeling his head about to explode, Paul walked out of the pantry, leaving Metzger whimpering on the floor. He jumped onto the front window sill, but suddenly remembered that he had left his bag by the door. Luckily she was still there.
  
  But everything else around him has changed.
  
  Dozens of people filled the streets, despite the late hour. They huddled on the pavement, some moving from one group to another, relaying information about how bees pollinate flowers. Paul walked over to the nearest group.
  
  "They say the Nazis set fire to a building in Schwabing..."
  
  "No, they were communists..."
  
  "They set up checkpoints..."
  
  Worried, Paul took one of the men by the arm and pulled him aside.
  
  "What's happening?"
  
  The man took the cigarette out of his mouth and smiled wryly at him. He was happy to find someone willing to hear the bad news he wanted to convey.
  
  "Didn't you hear? Hitler and his Nazis stage a coup d'état. It's time for a revolution. Finally, there will be some changes."
  
  "You say this is a coup d'état?"
  
  "They broke into the Burgerbraukeller with hundreds of men and are keeping everyone locked up inside, starting with the Bavarian State Commissioner."
  
  Paul's heart did a somersault.
  
  "Alice!"
  
  
  41
  
  
  Until the shooting started, Alice thought the night was hers.
  
  The argument with Paul left a bitter taste in her mouth. She realized that she was madly in love with him, now she could see it clearly. That's why she was more scared than ever.
  
  So she decided to focus on the current task. She entered the main beer hall, which was more than three-quarters full. Over a thousand people crowded around the tables, and soon there were to be at least five hundred more. German flags hung from the wall, barely visible through the tobacco smoke. The room was humid and stuffy, which is why patrons kept pestering the waitresses, who pushed through the crowd, carrying trays of half a dozen beer glasses over their heads without spilling a drop.
  
  This is hard work, Alice thought, grateful again for everything the opportunity had given her today.
  
  Pushing through with her elbows, she managed to find a seat at the foot of the speaker's podium. Three or four other photographers have already taken their positions. One of them looked at Alice in surprise and nudged his comrades with his elbow.
  
  "Be careful, beauty. Remember to remove your finger from the lens."
  
  "And don't forget to get yours out of your ass. Your nails are dirty."
  
  The photographer examined his fingertips and blushed. The rest cheered.
  
  "That's right for you, Fritz!"
  
  Smiling to herself, Alice found a position where she would have a good view. She checked the lighting and did some quick calculations. With a little luck, she might get a good shot. She began to worry. By putting this idiot in his place, she did her good. Besides, everything should have changed for the better from that day on. She will talk to Paul; they will face their problems together. And with a new stable job, she would really feel fulfilled.
  
  She was still lost in her dreams when Gustav Ritter von Kahr, the Bavarian State Commissioner, took the stage. She took several photos, including one that she thought might have been quite interesting, in which Kar was gesticulating widely.
  
  Suddenly, there was a commotion in the back of the hall. Alice craned her neck to see what was happening, but between the bright lights surrounding the podium and the wall of people behind her, she couldn't see anything. The roar of the crowd, along with the roar of falling tables and chairs and the clinking of dozens of broken glasses, was deafening.
  
  Someone stepped out of the crowd next to Alice, a sweaty little man in a wrinkled raincoat. He pushed aside the man who was sitting at the table closest to the podium, then climbed into his chair, and from there onto the table.
  
  Alice turned the camera on him, capturing in an instant a wild look, a slight tremor in his left hand, cheap clothes, a pimp haircut sticking to his forehead, a cruel little mustache, a raised hand and a gun pointed at the ceiling.
  
  She was not afraid, and she did not hesitate. All that flashed through her head were the words of August Muntz, spoken to her many years ago:
  
  There are moments in the life of a photographer when a photograph passes in front of you, just one photograph that can change your life and the lives of those around you. This is a defining moment, Alice. You will see it before it happens. And when it does, shoot. Don't think, shoot.
  
  She pressed the button just as the man pulled the trigger.
  
  "The national revolution has begun!" shouted the little man in a powerful, raspy voice. "This place is surrounded by six hundred armed men! Nobody leaves. And if there is no silence immediately, I will order my men to set up a machine gun on the gallery."
  
  The crowd fell silent, but Alice didn't notice it, and she wasn't alarmed by the stormtroopers that appeared from all directions.
  
  "I declare the government of Bavaria deposed! The police and the army have joined our flag, the swastika: let them hang in every barracks and police station!"
  
  Another feverish cry echoed through the room. There was applause, interspersed with whistles and shouts of "Mexico! Mexico!" and "South America!" Alice paid no attention. The shot still rang in her ears, the image of the little man shooting was still imprinted on her retina, and her mind was stuck on three words.
  
  Decisive moment.
  
  I did it, she thought.
  
  Holding the camera to her chest, Alice dove into the crowd. Right now, her only priority was to get out of there and get to the darkroom. She couldn't remember exactly the name of the man who fired the gun, although his face was very familiar; he was one of the many fanatical anti-Semites who shouted their opinions in the city's taverns.
  
  Ziegler. No... Hitler. That's all - Hitler. Crazy Austrian.
  
  Alice didn't believe this coup had any chance at all. Who will follow the madman who declared that he would wipe the Jews off the face of the earth? In the synagogues, people joked about idiots like Hitler. And the image she captured with sweat on his forehead and a wild look in his eyes would put this man in his place.
  
  By that she meant the lunatic asylum.
  
  Alice could barely move through the sea of bodies. People started screaming again and some of them fought. One man broke a beer glass on the head of another, and the dregs soaked Alice's jacket. It took her nearly twenty minutes to get to the other end of the hall, but there she found a wall of brownshirts armed with rifles and pistols blocking the exit. She tried to talk to them, but the stormtroopers refused to let her through.
  
  Hitler and the dignitaries he thwarted disappeared through a side door. A new speaker took his place, and the temperature in the hall continued to rise.
  
  With a grim expression, Alice found a place where she would be as protected as possible and tried to think of a way to escape.
  
  Three hours later, her mood bordered on despair. Hitler and his henchmen made several speeches, and the gallery orchestra played the Deutschlandlied over a dozen times. Alice attempted to sneak back into the main hall in search of a window through which she could climb out, but the stormtroopers blocked her way there as well. They didn't even let people go to the restroom, which in such a crowded place with waitresses still pouring beer after beer would soon become a problem. She had already seen more than one person defecating against the back wall.
  
  But wait a minute: the waitresses...
  
  Struck by a sudden burst of inspiration, Alice walked over to the serving table. She took the empty tray, took off her jacket, wrapped the camera in it and placed it under the tray. Then she gathered up a couple of empty beer glasses and headed to the kitchen.
  
  Perhaps they won't see. I'm wearing a white blouse and a black skirt, just like the waitresses. Perhaps they won't notice that I don't have an apron on. Until they spot the jacket under the tray...
  
  Alice walked through the crowd holding her tray high and had to bite her tongue when a couple of patrons touched her buttocks. She didn't want to draw attention to herself. As she approached the revolving doors, she stood behind another waitress and passed the SA guards, fortunately none of them gave her a second glance.
  
  The kitchen was long and very large. The same tense atmosphere reigned there, although without tobacco smoke and flags. A couple of waiters filled glasses with beer while the kitchen boys and cooks talked to each other around the stoves under the stern gaze of a pair of stormtroopers who again blocked the exit. Both had rifles and pistols.
  
  Crap.
  
  Not quite sure what to do, Alice realized she couldn't just stand in the middle of the kitchen. Someone would have figured out she wasn't on staff and kicked her out. She left the glasses in the huge metal sink and took a dirty rag she found nearby. She ran it under the faucet, wet it, wringed it out, and pretended to wash while she tried to come up with a plan. Looking around carefully, an idea popped into her head.
  
  She sidled over to one of the trash cans next to the sink. It was almost filled to overflowing with remnants. She put her jacket in it, closed the lid and took the jar. She then began to boldly walk towards the door.
  
  "You can't get past, Fraulein," one of the stormtroopers said.
  
  "I need to take out the trash."
  
  "Leave it here."
  
  "But the banks are full. There shouldn't be trash cans full in the kitchen: it's against the law."
  
  Don't worry about it Fraulein, we are the law now. Put the jar back where it was."
  
  Alice, determined to bet everything on one deal, set the jar on the floor and crossed her arms.
  
  "If you want to move it, move it yourself."
  
  "I'm telling you to get that thing out of here."
  
  The young man did not take his eyes off Alice. The kitchen staff noticed the scene and glared at him. Since Alice had her back to them, they couldn't tell she wasn't one of them.
  
  "Come on, man, let her pass," another stormtrooper cut in. "It's bad enough hanging around here in the kitchen. We will have to wear these clothes all night and the smell will stay on my shirt."
  
  The one who spoke first shrugged and stepped aside.
  
  "Then you go. Escort her to the trash can outside and then get back here as fast as you can."
  
  Quietly cursing, Alice went ahead. A narrow door led into an even narrower lane. The only light came from a single bulb at the opposite end, closer to the street. The trash can was there, surrounded by skinny cats.
  
  "So... How long have you been working here, Fraulein?" the stormtrooper asked in a slightly embarrassed tone.
  
  I can't believe it: we're walking down an alley, I'm carrying a trash can, he's holding a machine gun, and this idiot is flirting with me.
  
  "You could say I'm new," Alice replied, pretending to be friendly. "What about you: have you been carrying out coups for a long time?"
  
  "No, this is my first," the man replied seriously, not catching her irony.
  
  They got to the trash can.
  
  "Okay, okay, now you can come back. I'll stay and empty the can."
  
  "Oh no, Fraulein. You empty the can, then I have to escort you back."
  
  "I wouldn't want you to have to wait for me."
  
  "I would wait for you anytime you want. You are beautiful..."
  
  He came over to kiss her. Alice tried to back away, but was caught between a trash can and a stormtrooper.
  
  "No, please," Alice said.
  
  "Come on, Fraulein..."
  
  "Please no".
  
  The stormtrooper hesitated, full of remorse.
  
  "Sorry if I offended you. I just thought..."
  
  "Do not worry about it. It's just that I'm already engaged."
  
  "I'm sorry. He is a happy man."
  
  "Don't worry about it," Alice repeated in shock.
  
  "Let me help you with the trash can."
  
  "No!"
  
  Alice tried to yank the Brownshirt's arm, who let go of the can in confusion. She fell and rolled on the ground.
  
  Some of the remains are scattered in a semicircle, revealing Alice's jacket and her precious cargo.
  
  "What the hell is this?"
  
  The parcel was ajar, and the camera lens was clearly visible. The soldier looked at Alice, who had a guilty expression on her face. She didn't need to confess.
  
  "Damn whore! You are a communist spy!" said the stormtrooper, fumbling for his club.
  
  Before he could grab her, Alice lifted the metal lid of the trash can and tried to hit the stormtrooper in the head. Seeing the approach of the attack, he raised his right hand. The lid hit his wrist with a deafening sound.
  
  "Aaaah!"
  
  He grabbed the lid with his left hand, throwing it far to the side. Alice tried to dodge him and run away, but the alley was too narrow. The Nazi grabbed her by the blouse and pulled hard. Alice's body twisted and her shirt ripped off one side, revealing her bra. The Nazi, who raised his hand to strike her, froze for a moment, torn between excitement and rage. That look filled her heart with fear.
  
  "Alice!"
  
  She looked towards the entrance to the alley.
  
  Paul was there, in a terrible state, but he was there anyway. Despite the cold, he only wore a sweater. His breathing was ragged and he had cramps from running through the city. Half an hour earlier, he planned to enter the Burgerbraukeller from the back door, but he couldn't even cross the Ludwigsbrucke because the Nazis had set up a roadblock.
  
  So he took the long detour. He looked for policemen, soldiers, anyone who could answer his questions about what was going on in the pub, but all he found were citizens cheering or booing those who took part in the coup - from a reasonable distance.
  
  Having crossed to the opposite bank through the Maximiliansbrücke, he began to question the people he met on the street. Finally, someone mentioned an alley that led to the kitchen, and Paul ran down there, praying that he would arrive before it was too late.
  
  He was so surprised to see Alice outside fighting a stormtrooper that instead of launching a surprise attack, he announced his arrival like an idiot. When the other man drew his gun, Paul had no choice but to rush forward. His shoulder hit the Nazi in the stomach, knocking him to the ground.
  
  The two of them rolled on the ground, fighting for their weapons. The other man was stronger than Paul, who was also completely exhausted by the events of the previous hours. The fight lasted less than five seconds, at the end of which the other man pushed Paul aside, knelt, and pointed his gun.
  
  Alice, who had now lifted the metal lid of the trash can, intervened, striking the soldier furiously with it. The blows reverberated through the alley like cymbals. The Nazi's eyes went out, but he didn't fall. Alice hit him again, and finally he fell forward and fell flat on his face.
  
  Paul stood up and ran to hug her, but she pushed him away and sat down on the ground.
  
  "What is wrong with you? Are you all right?"
  
  Alice stood up, furious. In her hands she held the remains of a camera, which was completely destroyed. During Paul's fight against the Nazis, she was crushed.
  
  "Look".
  
  "It's broken. Don't worry, we'll buy something better."
  
  "You do not understand! There were pictures!"
  
  "Alice, there is no time for this now. We must leave before his friends come looking for him."
  
  He tried to take her hand, but she pulled away and ran ahead of him.
  
  
  42
  
  
  They didn't look back until they were far from the Burgerbraukeller. Finally, they stopped at the church of St. Johann Nepomuk, whose impressive spire pointed to the night sky like an accusing finger. Paul led Alice to the arch above the main entrance to shelter from the cold.
  
  "God, Alice, you have no idea how scared I was," he said, kissing her on the lips. She returned the kiss without much conviction.
  
  "What's happening?"
  
  "Nothing".
  
  "I don't think that's what it looks like," Paul said irritably.
  
  "I said it's nonsense."
  
  Paul decided not to develop this question. When Alice was in that mood, trying to get her out of it was like trying to get out of quicksand: the more you struggled, the deeper you went.
  
  "Are you all right? Did they hurt you or... anything else?"
  
  She shook her head. Only then did she fully realize Paul's appearance. His shirt is stained with blood, his face is covered in soot, his eyes are bloodshot.
  
  "What happened to you, Paul?"
  
  "My mother is dead," he replied, lowering his head.
  
  As Paul recounted the events of that night, Alice felt sad for him and ashamed of the way she had treated him. More than once she opened her mouth to ask for his forgiveness, but she never believed in the meaning of the word. It was disbelief fueled by pride.
  
  When he told her his mother's last words, Alice was amazed. She couldn't understand how cruel, vicious Jurgen could be Paul's brother, and yet, deep down, it didn't surprise her. Paul had a dark side that came out at certain moments, like a sudden autumn wind blowing curtains in a cozy house.
  
  When Paul described how he broke into the pawnshop and how he had to hit Metzger to get him to talk, Alice became very afraid for him. Everything that had to do with this secret seemed unbearable, and she wanted to distance him from it as quickly as possible, before it completely consumed him.
  
  Paul concluded his story by talking about his dash to the pub.
  
  "And it's all".
  
  "I think that's more than enough."
  
  "What do you mean?"
  
  "You're not seriously planning to keep digging around the bush, are you? Obviously, there is someone who is willing to do anything to hide the truth."
  
  "This is exactly the reason why you need to keep digging. This proves that someone is responsible for my father's murder..."
  
  There was a short pause.
  
  "... my parents".
  
  Paul didn't cry. After what had just happened, his body was begging him to cry, his soul needed it, and his heart was filled with tears. But Paul kept it all inside, forming a small shell around his heart. Perhaps some ridiculous sense of masculinity would have prevented him from showing his feelings in front of the woman he loved. Perhaps this was the impetus for what happened moments later.
  
  "Paul, you have to give up," said Alice, increasingly alarmed.
  
  "I have no intention of doing this."
  
  "But you have no proof. No leads."
  
  "I have a name: Clovis Nagel. I have a place: South West Africa."
  
  "South West Africa is a very big place."
  
  "I'll start with Windhoek. A white man shouldn't be hard to spot over there."
  
  "South West Africa is very big... and very far away," Alice repeated, emphasizing every word.
  
  "I must do it. I'll leave on the first boat."
  
  "So is that all?"
  
  "Yes, Alice. Have you not heard a word of what I have said since we met? Don't you understand how important it is for me to find out what happened nineteen years ago? And now... now this."
  
  For a moment, Alice considered stopping him. Explaining how much she would miss him, how much she needed him. How much she fell in love with him. But pride bit her tongue. Just as it prevented her from telling Paul the truth about her own behavior over the past few days.
  
  "Then go, Paul. Do whatever you have to do."
  
  Paul looked at her, completely bewildered. The icy tone of her voice made him feel like his heart had been torn out and buried in the snow.
  
  "Alice..."
  
  "Go immediately. Leave now."
  
  "Alice, please!"
  
  "Go away, I tell you."
  
  Paul seemed to be on the verge of tears, and she prayed that he would cry, that he would change his mind and tell her that he loved her and that his love for her was more important than the quest that brought him nothing but pain and death. Maybe Paul was waiting for something like this, or maybe he was just trying to get Alice's face in his memory. For long, bitter years, she cursed herself for her arrogance, just as Paul cursed himself for not taking the tram back to the boarding house before his mother was stabbed to death ...
  
  ...and for turning around and leaving.
  
  "You know? I'm glad. That way you won't break into my dreams and trample on them," said Alice, throwing at her feet the fragments of the camera she had been clinging to until that moment. "Since I met you, only bad things have happened to me. I want you out of my life, Paul."
  
  Paul hesitated for a moment, and then, without turning around, said, "So be it."
  
  Alice remained at the door of the church for several minutes, waging a silent battle with her tears. Suddenly, out of the darkness, from the same direction Paul had disappeared, a figure appeared. Alice tried to pull herself together and put on a smile on her face.
  
  He is coming back. He was understood, and he is returning, she thought, taking a step towards the figure.
  
  But the street lights showed that the approaching man was a man in a gray cloak and hat. Too late, Alice realized that it was one of the men who had followed her that day.
  
  She turned to run away, but at that moment she saw his companion, who came around the corner and was less than three meters away from her. She tried to run away, but two men rushed at her and grabbed her by the waist.
  
  "Your father is looking for you, Fraulein Tannenbaum."
  
  Alice struggled in vain. She couldn't help it.
  
  A car pulled out from a nearby street, and one of her father's gorillas opened the door. The other pushed her towards him and tried to bend her head down.
  
  "You better be careful with me, you idiots," Alice said with a scornful look. "I am pregnant".
  
  
  43
  
  
  Elizabeth Bay, August 28, 1933
  
  Dear Alice,
  
  I've lost count of how many times I've written to you. There must be over a hundred letters a month, and they are all unanswered.
  
  I don't know if they got through to you and you decided to forget me. Or perhaps you've moved and haven't left a forwarding address. This one will go to your father's house. I write to you there from time to time, although I know that it is useless. I still hope that one of them somehow gets past your father. In any case, I will continue to write to you. These letters became my only contact with my past life.
  
  I want to start, as always, by asking you to forgive me for the way I left. I've looked back on that night ten years ago so many times, and I know I shouldn't have behaved the way I did. I'm sorry I ruined your dreams. Every day I have prayed that you will be able to fulfill your dream of becoming a photographer, and I hope that you have succeeded over the years.
  
  Life in the colonies is not easy. Since Germany lost these lands, South Africa has held a mandate over the former German territory. We are not welcome here, although they tolerate us.
  
  There are not many vacancies. I work on farms and in diamond mines for several weeks at a time. When I save some money, I travel the country looking for Clovis Nagel. This is not an easy task. I found traces of it in the villages of the Orange River Basin. One day I visited the mine he had just left. I only missed him by a few minutes.
  
  I also followed a lead that led me north to the Waterberg Plateau. There I met a strange, proud tribe, the Herero. I spent several months with them and they taught me how to hunt and gather in the wilderness. I got a fever and was very weak for a long time, but they took care of me. I learned a lot from these people, in addition to physical skills. They are exceptional. They live in the shadow of death, in a constant struggle every day to find water and adjust their lives to pressure from white people.
  
  I'm out of paper; this is the last piece of a batch I bought from a peddler on the way to Swakopmund. I'm heading back there tomorrow looking for new leads. I will go on foot as I have run out of money, so my search must be brief. The hardest part about being here, besides not having news of you, is the time it takes me to earn my living. I was often on the verge of giving it all up. However, I'm not going to give up. Sooner or later I will find it.
  
  I think of you, of what has happened in these last ten years. I hope you are healthy and happy. If you decide to write to me, write to the Windhoek post office. The address is on the envelope.
  
  Once again, forgive me.
  
  I love you,
  
  Floor
  
  
  FRIEND IN CRAFTS
  
  1934
  
  
  In which the initiate learns that the path cannot be traversed alone
  
  The secret handshake of the degree of a fellow craft involves a strong pressure on the knuckle of the middle finger and ends when Brother Mason responds with the same greeting. The secret name for this handshake is IAHIN, after the name of the pillar representing the sun in Solomon's temple. And again there is a trick to writing that should be given this way: AJCHIN.
  
  
  44
  
  
  Jürgen admired himself in the mirror.
  
  He tugged lightly on his lapels, adorned with a skull and the SS emblem. He never tired of looking at himself in his new form. Highly praised in the society press, Walter Heck's designs and the superior workmanship of Hugo Boss were awe-inspiring to anyone who saw him. As Jurgen walked down the street, the children stood at attention and raised their hands in greeting. Last week a couple of older ladies stopped him and said it was good to see strong, healthy young people getting Germany back on track. They asked if he had lost an eye fighting the communists. Satisfied with this, Jürgen helped them carry their shopping bags to the nearest entrance.
  
  At that moment there was a knock on the door.
  
  "Enter".
  
  "You look good," his mother said as she entered the large bedroom.
  
  "I know".
  
  "Will you have dinner with us tonight?"
  
  "I don't think so, Mom. I was called to a meeting at the Security Service."
  
  "No doubt they want to recommend you for a promotion. You have been an Untersturmführer for too long."
  
  Jurgen nodded cheerfully and took his cap.
  
  "The car is waiting for you at the door. I'll tell the chef to cook something for you in case you come back early."
  
  "Thank you, mother," said Jurgen, kissing Brunnhilde on the forehead. He stepped out into the corridor, his black boots clattering loudly on the marble steps. The maid was waiting for him with a coat in the hallway.
  
  Since Otto and his maps disappeared from their lives eleven years ago, their economic situation has gradually improved. An army of servants again took care of the day-to-day running of the mansion, although Jurgen was now the head of the family.
  
  "Will you be back for dinner, sir?"
  
  Jurgen inhaled sharply as he heard her use that mode of address. It always happened when he was nervous and unsettled, like that morning. The smallest details broke his icy exterior and exposed the storm of conflict that raged inside him.
  
  "The Baroness will give you instructions."
  
  Soon they'll start addressing me by my real title, he thought as he stepped out into the street. His hands were trembling slightly. Luckily, he slung his coat over his arm so the driver didn't notice when he opened the door for him.
  
  In the past, Jürgen could channel his impulses through violence; but since the Nazi party's election victory last year, unwanted factions have become more wary. Every day Jurgen found it harder to control himself. On the way, he tried to breathe slowly. He didn't want to arrive flustered and nervous.
  
  Especially if I'm going to be promoted like my mom says.
  
  "Frankly speaking, my dear Schroeder, I have serious doubts about you."
  
  "Doubts, sir?"
  
  "Doubts about your loyalty."
  
  Jurgen noticed that his hand was trembling again, and he had to tighten his knuckles hard to get it under control.
  
  The meeting room was completely empty except for Reinhard Heydrich and himself. The head of the Reich Security Main Office, the Nazi Party's intelligence agency, was a tall man with a sharp forehead, only a couple of months older than Jürgen. Despite his youth, he became one of the most influential people in Germany. His organization was tasked with identifying threats - real or perceived - to the party. Jurgen heard it the day they were interviewing him for a job,
  
  Heinrich Himmler asked Heydrich how he would organize the Nazi intelligence agency, and Heydrich replied with a retelling of every spy novel he had ever read. The Reich Main Security Office was already feared throughout Germany, although it was not clear what owed more to it - cheap fiction or innate talent.
  
  "Why do you say that, sir?"
  
  Heydrich put his hand on the folder in front of him, on which was Jürgen's name.
  
  "You started out in SA in the early days of the movement. It's great, it's interesting. It is surprising, however, that one of your... lineage should specifically ask for a place in the SA battalion. And then there are the recurring episodes of abuse reported by your superiors. I consulted a psychologist about you. ... and he suggests that you may have a serious personality disorder. However, this in itself is not a crime, although it could, "he emphasized the word" could "with a half smile and a raised eyebrow," become an obstacle. But now we come to what worries me the most. You were invited - like the rest of your staff - to attend a special event at the Burgerbraukeller on November 8, 1923. However, you never showed up."
  
  Heydrich paused, letting his last words hang in the air. Jurgen began to sweat. After winning the election, the Nazis began, slowly and systematically, to take revenge on all those who prevented the 1923 uprising, thereby delaying Hitler's rise to power by a year. For years, Jurgen lived in fear of someone pointing the finger at him, and it finally happened.
  
  Heydrich continued, his tone now threatening.
  
  "According to your boss, you didn't show up to the meeting place as requested. However, it seems that - and I quote - 'Stormtrooper Jürgen von Schroeder was in the squadron of the 10th company on the night of the twenty-third of November. His shirt was soaked with blood and he claimed that he had been attacked by several communists and that the blood belonged to one of them, the man he had stabbed. He asked to join a squadron commanded by a police commissioner from the Schwabing area until the coup was over.' It's right?"
  
  "Down to the last comma, sir."
  
  "Right. The commission of inquiry must have thought so, since they have awarded you the gold insignia of the party and the medal of the Order of the Blood," said Heydrich, pointing to Jurgen's chest.
  
  The party's golden emblem was one of the most sought-after decorations in Germany. It consisted of a Nazi flag in the shape of a circle surrounded by a golden laurel wreath. It distinguished those party members who joined the party before Hitler's victory in 1933. Until that day, the Nazis had to recruit people to join their ranks. From that day on, endless queues formed at the party headquarters. Not everyone was given this privilege.
  
  As for the Order of the Blood, it was the most valuable medal in the Reich. It was worn only by those who took part in the 1923 coup d'état, which tragically ended in the death of sixteen Nazis at the hands of the police. It was an award not even worn by Heydrich.
  
  "I really wonder," continued the head of the Reich Main Security Office, tapping his lips with the edge of the folder, "whether we should set up a commission of inquiry into you, my friend."
  
  "That wouldn't be necessary, sir," Jurgen said in a whisper, knowing how brief and forceful commissions of inquiry were these days.
  
  "No? The most recent reports from when the SA was taken over by the SS said that you were somewhat "cold-blooded in doing your duty", that there was a "lack of involvement'... Should I continue?"
  
  "That's because I was kept off the streets, sir!"
  
  "Then is it possible that other people are worried about you?"
  
  "I assure you, sir, my commitment is absolute."
  
  "Well, then there is one way to regain the trust of this office."
  
  Finally the penny was ready to fall. Heydrich summoned Jürgen with a proposal in mind. He wanted something from him and that was why he put such pressure from the beginning. He probably had no idea what Jurgen was doing that night in 1923, but what Heydrich knew or didn't know didn't matter: his word was law.
  
  "I'll do anything, sir," Jurgen said, a little calmer now.
  
  "Well, then, Jurgen. I can call you Jurgen, can't I?"
  
  "Of course, sir," he said, suppressing his anger at the other person's failure to return the courtesy.
  
  "Have you heard of Freemasonry, Jurgen?"
  
  "Certainly. My father was a member of a lodge when he was young. I think he soon got tired of it."
  
  Heydrich nodded. This came as no surprise to him, and Jurgen concluded that he already knew.
  
  "Ever since we came into power, the Freemasons have been ... actively discouraged."
  
  "I know, sir," Jurgen said, smiling at the euphemism. In Mein Kampf, a book that every German read - and which was displayed at home if they knew what was good for them - Hitler expressed his inner hatred of Freemasonry.
  
  "A significant number of lodges voluntarily broke up or reorganized. These particular lodges were of little importance to us, as they were all Prussian, with Aryan members and nationalist tendencies. Since they voluntarily disbanded and handed over their member lists, no action has been taken against them... for now."
  
  "I take it some of the lodges are still bothering you, sir?"
  
  "It is quite clear to us that many lodges have remained active, the so-called humanitarian lodges. Most of their members are liberal, Jews, something like that..."
  
  "Why don't you just ban them, sir?"
  
  "Jurgen, Jurgen," said Heydrich in a patronizing tone, "this would only interfere with their activities at best. As long as they have a grain of hope, they will continue to meet and talk about their compasses, squares and other Jewish nonsense. What I want is each of their names on a small fourteen by seven card."
  
  Heydrich's little postcards were known to the entire party. In a huge room next to his office in Berlin, information was stored on those whom the party considered "undesirable": communists, homosexuals, Jews, masons, and generally anyone who is inclined to comment that the Fuhrer seemed a little tired in his today's speech. Every time someone was denounced, a new card was added to the other tens of thousands. The fate of those who appeared on the cards was still unknown.
  
  "If Freemasonry was banned, they would just go underground like rats."
  
  "Absolutely!" - Heydrich said, slamming his palm on the table. He leaned over to Jurgen and said in a confidential tone, "Tell me, do you know why we need the names of this rabble?"
  
  "Because Freemasonry is a puppet of an international Jewish conspiracy. It is well known that bankers like the Rothschilds and...
  
  Loud laughter interrupted Jurgen's impassioned speech. Seeing how the face of the baron's son stretched out, the head of state security restrained himself.
  
  "Don't repeat the editorials of the Volkischer Beobachter to me, Jurgen. I helped write them myself."
  
  "But sir, the Fuhrer says..."
  
  "I have to wonder how far the dagger that gouged out your eye went, my friend," Heydrich said, studying his features.
  
  "Sir, there's no need to be offensive," Jurgen said, furious and confused.
  
  Heydrich flashed a sinister smile.
  
  "You are full of spirit, Jurgen. But this passion must be controlled by reason. Do me a favor, don't be one of those sheep that bleat at demonstrations. Let me give you a little lesson from our history." Heydrich got up and began to walk around the large table. "In 1917 the Bolsheviks dissolved all the lodges in Russia. In 1919 Bela Kun got rid of all the Freemasons in Hungary. In 1925, Primo de Rivera banned lodges in Spain. Mussolini did the same in Italy that year. His Blackshirts dragged Masons out of their beds in the middle of the night and beat them to death in the streets. An instructive example, don't you think?
  
  Jurgen nodded, surprised. He didn't know anything about it.
  
  "As you can see," Heydrich continued, "the first act of any strong government that intends to remain in power is to get rid of-among others-Masons. And not because they are following orders about some hypothetical Jewish conspiracy: they are doing it because people who think for themselves create a lot of problems."
  
  "What exactly do you want from me, sir?"
  
  "I want you to infiltrate the Freemasons. I will give you enough good contacts. You are an aristocrat, and your father belonged to a lodge a few years ago, so they will accept you without too much fuss. Your goal will be to get a list of participants. I want to know the name of every Freemason in Bavaria."
  
  "Will I have carte blanche, sir?"
  
  "If you don't hear anything to the contrary, yes. Wait here a minute."
  
  Heydrich went to the door, opened it and barked a couple of instructions to the adjutant, who was sitting on a bench in the corridor. The subordinate clicked his heels and returned moments later with another young man dressed in outerwear.
  
  "Come in, Adolf, come in. My dear Jürgen, let me introduce you to Adolf Eichmann. He is a very promising young man who works in our Dachau camp. He specializes in, let's say... extrajudicial cases."
  
  "Nice to meet you," Jurgen said, holding out his hand. "So you"re the kind of person who knows how to get around the law, right?"
  
  "Likewise. And yes, sometimes we have to break the rules a bit if we want to ever return Germany to its rightful owners," Eichmann said, smiling.
  
  "Adolf has asked to be accepted into my office and I am inclined to make the transition easier for him, but first I would like him to work with you for a few months. All the information that you receive, you will pass on to him, and he will be responsible for making it meaningful. And when you complete this assignment, I believe that I can send you to Berlin on a larger mission."
  
  
  45
  
  
  I saw him. I'm sure of it, Clovis thought, elbowing his way out of the tavern.
  
  It was a July night and his shirt was already soaked with sweat. But the heat didn't bother him too much. He learned to overcome it in the desert when he first discovered that Reiner was following him. He had to abandon a promising diamond mine in the Orange River Basin to throw Reiner off the trail. He left the last materials for excavation, taking with him only the most necessary. At the top of a low ridge, rifle in hand, he saw Paul's face for the first time and put his finger on the trigger. Fearing a miss, he slithered to the other side of the hill like a snake through tall grass.
  
  He then lost Paul for several months until he was forced to flee again, this time from a brothel in Johannesburg. That time, Reiner spotted him first, but from a distance. When their eyes met, Clovis was stupid enough to show his fear. He knew at once that the cold, hard gleam in Reiner's eyes was that of a hunter memorizing the shape of his prey. He managed to escape through a secret back door, and there was even time to go back to the junkyard of the hotel where he was put up and throw his clothes into a suitcase.
  
  Three years passed before Clovis Nagel got tired of feeling Reiner's breath on the back of his head. He couldn't sleep without a weapon under his pillow. He couldn't walk without turning around to check if he was being followed. And he did not stay in any place for more than a few weeks, for fear that one night he might wake up from the steely glare of those blue eyes watching him from the muzzle of a revolver.
  
  Finally he gave up. Without funds, he could not run forever, and the money that the baron gave him had long since ended. He began to write to the baron, but none of his letters were answered, so Clovis boarded a ship bound for Hamburg. Back in Germany, on the way to Munich, he was momentarily relieved. For the first three days, he was convinced that he had lost Reiner...until one night he walked into a tavern near the train station and recognized Paul's face in the crowd.
  
  A knot formed in Clovis' stomach and he escaped.
  
  As he ran as fast as his short legs would allow, he realized what a terrible mistake he had made. He went to Germany without any firearms because he was afraid he would be stopped at customs. He still didn't have time to do anything, and now all he had to defend himself with was his jackknife.
  
  He took it out of his pocket as he ran down the street. He weaved through the cones of light cast off by the streetlights, running from one to the other as if they were islands of escape, until it occurred to him that if Reiner was after him, Clovis was making it too easy for him. He turned right down a dark lane that ran parallel to the railroad tracks. The train was approaching, rumbling on its way to the station. Clovis did not see her, but he could smell the smoke from the chimney and the vibration of the earth.
  
  A sound came from the other end of the side street. The former Marine was startled and bit his tongue. He ran again, his heart nearly jumping out of his mouth. He could taste blood, an ill omen of what he knew would happen if the other man caught up with him.
  
  Clovis is at a dead end. Unable to go any further, he hid behind a pile of wooden crates that smelled of rotting fish. Flies buzzed around him, landing on his face and arms. He tried to brush them off, but another noise and a shadow at the entrance to the alley made him freeze. He tried to slow his breathing.
  
  The shadow turned into the silhouette of a man. Clovis couldn't see his face, but he didn't need to. He knew very well who it was.
  
  Unable to take the situation any longer, he rushed to the end of the alley, knocking over a pile of wooden boxes. A pair of rats ran between his legs in horror. Clovis blindly followed them and saw them disappear through a half-open door, past which he involuntarily passed in the darkness. He found himself in a dark corridor and took out a lighter to orient himself. He allowed himself a couple of seconds of light before taking off again, but at the end of the corridor he stumbled and fell, scratching his hands on the damp cement steps. Not daring to use the lighter again, he got up and began to rise, constantly listening for the slightest sound behind him.
  
  He climbed for what seemed like an eternity. Finally his feet landed on a flat piece of ground, and he dared to flick his lighter. A flickering yellow light showed that he was in another corridor, at the end of which was a door. He pushed it and it was not locked.
  
  Finally, I knocked him off the trail. It looks like an abandoned warehouse. I'll spend a couple of hours here until I'm sure he's not following me, Clovis thought, his breathing returning to normal.
  
  "Good evening, Clovis," said a voice behind him.
  
  Clovis turned, pressing the button on his switchblade. The blade popped out with a barely audible click, and Clovis lunged, arm outstretched, towards the figure waiting at the door. It was like trying to touch a moonbeam. The figure stepped aside, and the steel blade missed nearly half a meter, piercing the wall. Clovis tried to yank it free, but he barely had time to remove the dirty plaster before the blow knocked him off his feet.
  
  "Make yourself comfortable. We are going to be here for a while."
  
  The voice came from the darkness. Clovis tried to get up, but a hand pushed him back to the floor. Suddenly a white beam split the darkness in two. His pursuer turned on his flashlight. He directed it to his own face.
  
  "Does this face look familiar to you?"
  
  Clovis studied Paul Reiner for a long time.
  
  "You don't look like him," Clovis said. His voice was hard and tired.
  
  Reiner aimed his flashlight at Clovis, who shielded his eyes with his left hand to protect himself from the glare.
  
  "Get that thing somewhere else!"
  
  "I will do whatever I want. Now we play by my rules."
  
  A beam of light moved from Clovis's face to Paul's right hand. In his hands he held his father's C96 Mauser.
  
  "Very well, Reiner. You are in charge."
  
  "I'm glad we came to an agreement."
  
  Clovis put his hand in his pocket. Paul took a menacing step towards him, but the ex-Marine pulled out a pack of cigarettes and held it up to the light. He also took some matches, which he carried with him in case he ran out of fuel for his lighter. There are only two of them left.
  
  "You have made my life unbearable, Reiner," he said, lighting an unfiltered cigarette.
  
  "I myself know little about ruined lives. You destroyed mine."
  
  Clovis laughed, a deranged sound.
  
  "Are you amused by your imminent death, Clovis?" Paul asked.
  
  Laughter stuck in Clovis's throat. If Paul's voice had been angry, Clovis wouldn't have been so scared. But his tone was casual, calm. Clovis was sure Paul was smiling in the dark.
  
  "Easy, that's it. Let's just see..."
  
  "We won't see anything. I want you to tell me how you killed my father and why."
  
  "I didn't kill him."
  
  "No, of course you didn't. That's why you've been on the run for twenty-nine years."
  
  "It wasn't me, I swear it!"
  
  "So who then?"
  
  Clovis paused for a few moments. He was afraid that if he answered, the young man would simply shoot him. The name was the only card he had and he had to play it.
  
  "I'll tell you if you promise to let me go."
  
  The only answer was the sound of a cocked hammer in the dark.
  
  "No, Reiner!" cried Clovis. "Look, it's not just about who killed your father. What good would it do you if you knew that? What matters is what happened before. Why."
  
  There was silence for a few moments.
  
  "Then go on. I'm listening to."
  
  
  46
  
  
  "It all started on August 11, 1904. Until that day, we had spent a couple of wonderful weeks in Swakopsmund. The beer was good by African standards, the weather wasn't too hot and the girls were very helpful. We have just returned from Hamburg, and Captain Reiner has appointed me his first lieutenant. Our boat was to spend several months patrolling the coast of the colonies, hoping to instill fear in the English."
  
  "But the problem wasn"t with the English?"
  
  "No... The locals rebelled a few months earlier. A new general arrived to take command, and he was the biggest son of a bitch, the most sadistic bastard I've ever seen. His name was Lothar von Trotha. He began to put pressure on the locals. He had received orders from Berlin to come to some sort of political agreement with them, but he didn't care one bit. He said that the natives were subhuman, apes who descended from the trees and only learned to use rifles by imitation. He pursued them until the rest appeared at Waterberg, and there we were all, those of us from Swakopmund and Windhoek, with weapons in our hands, cursing our vile luck."
  
  "You won."
  
  "They outnumbered us three to one, but they didn't know how to fight as an army. Over three thousand fell, and we took all their livestock and weapons. Then..."
  
  The ex-Marine lit another cigarette from the stub of the previous one. By the light of the flashlight, his face lost all expression.
  
  "Trota ordered you to advance," Paul said, encouraging him to continue.
  
  "I'm sure you've been told this story, but no one who was not there knows how it really was. We pushed them into the desert. No water, no food. We told them not to come back. We poisoned every well within a hundred miles and didn't warn them. Those who hid or turned around to fetch water were the first warning they received. The rest... more than twenty-five thousand, mostly women, children and old people, made their way into Omaheka. I don't want to imagine what happened to them."
  
  "They are dead, Clovis. No one crosses the Omaheke without water. The only people who survived were a few Herero tribes in the north."
  
  "We were given leave. Your father and I wanted to get as far away from Windhoek as possible. We stole horses and headed south. I don't remember the exact route we took, because the first few days we were so drunk that we could hardly remember our own names. I remember that we were passing through Kolmanskop and that a telegram from Trota was waiting for your father there, saying that his vacation was over and ordering him to return to Windhoek. Your father tore up the telegram and said he would never return. It all affected him too deeply."
  
  "Did it really affect him?" Paul asked. Clovis could hear the concern in his voice and knew he had found a chink in his opponent's armor.
  
  "It did, for both of us. We continued to get drunk and ride, trying to escape from all this horror. We had no idea where we were going. One morning we reached a secluded farm in the Orange River basin. A family of German colonists lived there, and damn me if my father wasn't the dumbest bastard I've ever met. There was a stream in their territory, and the girls kept complaining that it was full of small stones and that when they went swimming their legs hurt. Father took out these little pebbles one by one and piled them around the back of the house, 'to make a pebbly path,' he said. Except they weren't pebbles."
  
  "These were diamonds," said Paul, who, after years of working in the mines, knew that such a mistake had happened more than once. Some types of diamonds look so rough before being cut and polished that people often confuse them with translucent stones.
  
  "Some were as fat as pigeon eggs, son. Others were small and white, and there was even a pink one, like this big one," he said, raising his fist to the beam of light. "In those days, you could find them fairly easily in orange, although you risked being shot by government inspectors if you were caught sneaking too close to a dig site, and there was never a shortage of dead bodies drying in the sun on intersections under the sign "DIAMOND THIEF". Well, there were a lot of diamonds in the orange, but I've never seen so many in one place like on that farm. Never."
  
  "What did this man say when he found out?"
  
  "Like I said, he was stupid. All he cared about was his Bible and his harvest, and he never allowed any of his family to come down to the city. They also had no visitors, since they lived in the middle of nowhere. Which was even better, because anyone who had even a shred of brains would immediately understand what kind of stones they were. Your father saw a pile of diamonds when they were showing us the property and he elbowed me in the ribs - just in time because I was about to say something stupid, hang me if it's not true. The family accepted us without asking any questions. Your father was in a disgusting mood at dinner. He said he wanted to sleep, that he was tired; but when the farmer and his wife offered us their room, your father insisted on sleeping in the living room under a few blankets."
  
  "So you can get up in the middle of the night."
  
  "That's exactly what we did. Next to the fireplace was a chest of family trinkets. We dumped them on the floor, trying not to make a sound. Then he walked around the back of the house and put the stones in the trunk. Believe me, although the chest was large, the stones still filled it three-quarters. We covered them with a blanket and then lifted the chest onto the little covered wagon that my father used to bring supplies. Everything would have gone perfectly if not for the damned dog that was sleeping outside. As we harnessed our own horses to the wagon and started off, we ran over its tail. How howled that damned animal! The farmer was on his feet with a shotgun in his hand. Though he may have been stupid, he was not entirely insane, and our surprisingly ingenious explanations did not lead to anything good, because he guessed what we were up to. Your father had to draw a gun, the one you are aiming at me with, and shoot him in the head."
  
  "You're lying," Paul said. The beam of light trembled slightly.
  
  "No, son, let me be struck by lightning this minute if I am not telling you the truth. He killed a man, he killed him well, and I had to whip up the horses because the mother and two daughters came out on the porch and started screaming. We had not gone ten miles when your father told me to stop and ordered me to get out of the wagon. I told him he was crazy and I don't think I was wrong. All this violence and alcohol made him a shadow of his former self. The farmer's murder was the last straw. It didn't matter: he had a gun, and I lost mine one drunken night, so to hell with it, I said, and left."
  
  "What would you do if you had a gun, Clovis?"
  
  "I would have shot him," the former Marine replied without a moment's hesitation. Clovis had an idea about how he could turn the situation to his advantage.
  
  I just need to bring it to the right place.
  
  "So what happened?" Paul asked. Now his voice sounded less confident.
  
  "I had no idea what to do, so I continued down the path that led back to the city. Your father left early in the morning, and when he returned it was past noon, only now he had no wagon, only our horses. He told me that he had buried the chest in a place known only to him, and that we would return to retrieve it when things calmed down."
  
  "He didn't trust you."
  
  "Of course he didn't. And he was right. We left the road because we were afraid that the wife and children of the dead colonist might raise the alarm. We headed north, camping out, which wasn't very convenient, especially since your father talked a lot in his sleep and yelled. He couldn't get that farmer out of his mind. And so it continued until we returned to Swakopmund and learned that we were both wanted for desertion and because your father had lost control of his boat. If it wasn't for the diamond story, your father would no doubt have given up, but we were afraid they would link us to what happened in the Orange Pool, so we continued to hide. We narrowly escaped the military police by hiding on a ship bound for Germany. One way or another, we managed to return safe and sound."
  
  "Was that when you approached the baron?"
  
  "Hans was obsessed with the idea of returning to Orange for the chest, as was I. We spent several days in the baron's mansion, hiding. Your father told him everything and the baron went mad... Like your father, like everyone else. He wanted to know the exact location, but Hans refused to say. The baron was bankrupt and didn't have the money needed to finance the trip back to find the chest, so Hans signed some of the paperwork to hand over the house you and your mother lived in, along with the small business they owned together. Your father suggested that the baron sell them to raise funds for the return of the chest. None of us could have done that, as by that time we too were wanted in Germany."
  
  "And what happened on the night of his death?"
  
  "There was a fierce argument. Lots of money, four people shout. Your father ended up with a bullet in his stomach."
  
  "How did it happen?"
  
  Clovis carefully took out a pack of cigarettes and a box of matches. He took the last cigarette and lit it. Then he lit a cigarette and blew the smoke towards the flashlight beam.
  
  "Why are you so interested, Paul? Why do you care so much about the life of a killer?"
  
  "Don't call my father that!"
  
  Come on... a little closer.
  
  "No? What would you call what we did at Waterburg? What did he do to the farmer? He cut off his head; he let him get it right here," he said, touching his forehead.
  
  "I'm telling you to shut up!"
  
  With a cry of rage, Paul stepped forward and raised his right hand to strike Clovis. With a skillful move, Clovis tossed a lit cigarette into his eyes. Paul jerked back, reflexively protecting his face, and that gave Clovis just enough time to jump up and run out, playing his last card, a desperate last try.
  
  He won't shoot me in the back.
  
  "Wait, you bastard!"
  
  Especially if he doesn't know who shot him.
  
  Paul chased after him. Dodging the flashlight beam, Clovis ran to the back of the warehouse, trying to escape the way his pursuer had entered. He could make out a small door next to a tinted window. He quickened his pace and almost reached the door when his legs got tangled up in something.
  
  He fell on his face and tried to get to his feet when Paul caught up with him and grabbed his jacket. Clovis tried to hit Paul, but missed and staggered dangerously towards the window.
  
  "No!" Paul screamed, lunging at Clovis again.
  
  Trying to regain his balance, the ex-Marine held out his hands to Paul. His fingers touched the young man's for a moment before he fell and hit the window. The old glass gave way, and Clovis's body fell out through the hole and disappeared into the darkness.
  
  There was a short scream, and then a dry thud.
  
  Paul leaned out of the window and pointed his flashlight at the ground. Ten meters below him, in the middle of a growing pool of blood, lay the body of Clovis.
  
  
  47
  
  
  Jurgen wrinkled his nose as he entered the asylum. It stank of urine and excrement, poorly masked by the smell of disinfectant.
  
  He had to ask the nurse for directions, as this was the first time he had visited Otto since he had been placed there eleven years earlier. The woman sitting at the table was reading a magazine with a bored expression on her face, her legs dangling freely in white clogs. Seeing the new Obersturmführer appear in front of her, the nurse stood up and raised her right hand so quickly that the cigarette she was smoking fell out of her mouth. She insisted on accompanying him personally.
  
  "Aren't you afraid that one of them will run away?" Jurgen asked as they walked down the corridors, pointing to the old men wandering aimlessly near the entrance.
  
  "Sometimes it happens, mostly when I go to the bathroom. It doesn't matter, though, because the man from the corner kiosk usually brings them back."
  
  The nurse left him at the door to the baron's chamber.
  
  "He's here, sir, all arranged and comfortable. It even has a window. Heil Hitler!" she added just before leaving.
  
  Jurgen saluted back reluctantly, pleased that she was leaving. He wanted to enjoy this moment alone.
  
  The door to the room was open, and Otto was sleeping, lounging in his wheelchair next to the window. A trickle of saliva trickled down his chest, running down his dressing gown and an old monocle on a gold chain, the glass of which was now cracked. Jurgen remembered how different his father looked the day after the coup attempt - how he was furious that the attempt failed, although he himself did nothing to this.
  
  Jurgen was briefly detained and interrogated, although long before it was over he had the good sense to change his blood-soaked brown shirt for a clean one, and he carried no firearms. There were no consequences for him or anyone else. Even Hitler spent only nine months in prison.
  
  Jurgen returned home as the SA barracks were closed and the organization disbanded. He spent several days locked in his room, ignoring his mother's attempts to find out what happened to Ilse Rainer and contemplating how best to use the letter he stole from Paul's mother.
  
  My brother's mother, he repeated to himself, bewildered.
  
  Finally, he ordered photocopies of the letter, and one morning after breakfast he gave one to his mother and one to his father.
  
  "What the hell is this?" asked the baron, accepting the sheets of paper.
  
  "You know very well, Otto."
  
  "Jurgen! Show more respect!" his mother said in horror.
  
  "After what I've read here, there's no reason why I should."
  
  "Where is the original?" asked Otto in a hoarse voice.
  
  "Somewhere safe."
  
  "Bring it here!"
  
  "I have no intention of doing this. These are just a few copies. I sent the rest to the newspapers and to the police headquarters."
  
  "What did you do?" shouted Otto, walking around the table. He tried to raise his fist to hit Jurgen, but his body didn't seem to react. Jurgen and his mother watched in shock as the baron lowered his hand and tried to raise it again, but to no avail.
  
  "I can not see. Why can't I see?" asked Otto.
  
  He staggered forward, dragging the breakfast tablecloth behind him as he fell. Cutlery, plates and cups toppled over, scattering their contents, but the Baron did not seem to notice this as he lay motionless on the floor. All that could be heard in the dining room was the screams of the maid, who had just entered, holding a tray of freshly made toast.***
  
  Standing at the door to the room, Jurgen couldn't suppress a bitter grin as he remembered the ingenuity he had shown back then. The doctor explained that the baron had suffered a stroke that left him speechless and unable to move on his feet.
  
  "Considering the excesses this man indulged in throughout his life, I'm not surprised. I don't think he'll last more than six months," said the doctor, putting the instruments back into a leather bag. Which was lucky, because Otto didn't see the cruel smile that flickered across his son's face when he heard the diagnosis.
  
  And here you are, eleven years later.
  
  Now he entered without making a sound, brought a chair and sat down opposite the invalid. The light from the window may have looked like an idyllic sunbeam, but it was nothing more than a reflection of the sun on the bare white wall of the building opposite, the only view from the baron's room.
  
  Tired of waiting for him to wake up, Jurgen cleared his throat several times. The Baron blinked and finally raised his head. He stared at Jurgen, but if he sensed any surprise or fear, his eyes didn't show it. Jürgen contained his disappointment.
  
  "Do you know Otto? For a long time I tried very hard to earn your approval. Of course, it didn't matter to you in the slightest. You only cared about Edward."
  
  He paused for a moment, waiting for some reaction, some movement, whatever. All he got was the same stare as before, wary but frozen.
  
  "It was a huge relief to know that you were not my father. Suddenly, I felt free to hate the disgusting cuckold pig that had ignored me all my life."
  
  Insults also did not produce the slightest effect.
  
  "Then you had a stroke and you finally left me and my mother alone. But of course, like everything you've done in your life, you didn't see it through to the end. I gave you too much leeway while waiting for you to correct this mistake, and I thought for a while about how to get rid of you. And now, how convenient...someone appears who could save me the trouble."
  
  He took the newspaper he carried under his arm and held it up to the old man's face, close enough for him to read. In the meantime, he quoted the contents of the article from memory. He had read it over and over again last night, looking forward to the moment when the old man would see it.
  
  
  MYSTERIOUS BODY IDENTIFIED
  
  
  Munich (Editorial). Police have finally been able to identify a body found last week in an alley near the main train station. This is the body of former Marine Lieutenant Clovis Nagel, who has not been court-martialed since 1904 for leaving his post on a mission to South West Africa. Although he returned to the country under an assumed name, authorities were able to identify him from the large number of tattoos covering his torso. There are no further details as to the circumstances of his death, which, as our readers will remember, was the result of a fall from a great height, possibly as a result of an impact. Police are reminding the public that anyone who had contact with Nagel is under suspicion and are asking those with information to report themselves to authorities immediately.
  
  "Paul is back. Isn't that excellent news?"
  
  A flicker of fear flickered in the Baron's eyes. It only lasted a few seconds, but Jurgen relished the moment, as if it were the great humiliation that his twisted mind represented.
  
  He got up and went to the bathroom. He took a glass and filled it halfway from the tap. Then he sat down next to the baron again.
  
  "You know that now he will come for you. And I don't think you want to see your name in the headlines, do you, Otto?"
  
  Jurgen produced a metal box no larger than a postage stamp from his pocket. He opened it and took out a small green pill that he had left on the table.
  
  "There is a new SS unit that is experimenting with these wonderful things. We have agents all over the world, people who at any moment may have to disappear quietly and painlessly," said the young man, forgetting to mention that painlessness has not yet been achieved. "Spare us shame, Otto."
  
  He took his cap and pulled it firmly on the back of his head, then walked towards the door. When he reached it, he turned and saw Otto fumbling for the sign. His father held the pill between his fingers, his face as blank as it had been during Jurgen's visit. Then his hand moved up to his mouth so slowly that the movement was almost imperceptible.
  
  Jurgen is gone. For a moment he was tempted to stay and watch, but it was better to stick to the plan and avoid potential problems.
  
  From tomorrow, the staff will refer to me as Baron von Schroeder. And when my brother comes for answers, he'll have to ask me.
  
  
  48
  
  
  Two weeks after Nagel's death, Paul finally dared to go outside again.
  
  The sound of the ex-Marine's body falling to the ground echoed in his head during the time he spent locked up in the room he rented at the Schwabing boarding house. He tried to return to the old building he lived in with his mother, but now it was a private residence.
  
  This was not the only thing that changed in Munich during his absence. The streets were cleaner, and there were no longer groups of unemployed loitering on street corners. Queues at churches and employment offices disappeared, and people didn't have to lug around two suitcases full of small bills every time they wanted to buy bread. There were no bloody fights in taverns. Huge columns of announcements that could be found on the main roads announced other things. Previously they were filled with news of political gatherings, fiery manifestos and dozens of Wanted for Theft posters. Now they were showing off peaceful things like horticultural society meetings.
  
  Instead of all these portents of doom, Paul found that the prophecy had been fulfilled. Wherever he went, he saw groups of boys with red swastika armbands on their sleeves. Passers-by had to raise their hand and shout "Heil Hitler!" if they didn't want to risk being patted on the back by a couple of plainclothes agents with orders to follow them. A few people, a minority, hastened to hide in the doorways to avoid being greeted, but such a solution was not always possible, and sooner or later everyone had to raise their hand.
  
  Everywhere you looked, people were displaying the flag with the swastika, that mischievous black spider, whether on barrettes, armbands, or scarves tied around the neck. They were sold at trolleybus stops and kiosks along with tickets and newspapers. This surge of patriotism began at the end of June, when dozens of SA leaders were killed in the middle of the night for "treason to the fatherland." By this action, Hitler sent two messages: that no one was safe and that in Germany he was the only person in charge. Fear was etched into every face, no matter how hard people tried to hide it.
  
  Germany became a death trap for the Jews. Every month the laws against them became more and more strict, the injustice around them silently tightened. First, the Germans attacked Jewish doctors, lawyers and teachers, depriving them of the jobs they dreamed of and, in the process, depriving these professionals of the opportunity to earn a living. The new laws meant that hundreds of intermarriages were now annulled. A wave of suicides unlike anything Germany has ever seen swept across the country. And yet there were Jews who looked the other way or denied it, insisting that it really wasn't all that bad, partly because few knew how far the problem had gone - the German press barely covered it - and partly because that the alternative, emigration, became more and more difficult every day. Due to the global economic crisis and the oversaturation of the labor market with qualified specialists, leaving seemed like madness. Whether they realized it or not, the Jews were held hostage by the Nazis.
  
  Walking around the city brought some relief to Paul, albeit at the cost of his unease about which direction Germany was heading.
  
  "Do you need a tie-pin, sir?" - asked the young guy, examining him from head to toe. The boy wore a long leather sash showing several patterns, from a simple twisted cross to an eagle holding the Nazi coat of arms.
  
  Paul shook his head and moved on.
  
  "You would do well to wear it, sir. A great sign of your support for our glorious Fuhrer," insisted the boy running after him.
  
  Seeing that Paul did not give up, he stuck out his tongue and went in search of new prey.
  
  I'd rather die than wear that symbol, Paul thought.
  
  His mind drifted back into the feverish, nervous state it had been in since Nagel's death. The story of the man who had been his father's first lieutenant left him questioning not only how to proceed with the investigation, but also the nature of this search. According to Nagel, Hans Reiner lived a complicated and twisted life, and he committed a crime for money.
  
  Of course, Nagel was not the most reliable source. But, despite this, the song he sang was not at odds with the note that always sounded in Paul's heart when he thought about the father he never knew.
  
  Looking at the calm, clear nightmare into which Germany was sinking with such enthusiasm, Paul wondered if he was finally waking up.
  
  I turned thirty last week, he thought bitterly, as I strolled along the banks of the Isar, where couples gathered on benches, and I spent more than a third of my life looking for a father who might not have been worth the effort. I left the person I loved and found nothing but sorrow and sacrifice in return.
  
  Perhaps that is why he idealized Hans in his daydreams - because he needed to compensate for the grim reality that he guessed from Ilse's silence.
  
  He suddenly realized that once again he was saying goodbye to Munich. The only thought in his head was the desire to leave, escape Germany and return to Africa, a place where, although he was not happy, he could at least find a part of his soul.
  
  But I've come this far... How can I afford to give up now?
  
  The problem was twofold. He also had no idea how to continue. Nagel's death destroyed not only his hopes, but also the last concrete lead he had. He would like his mother to trust him more, as then she might still be alive.
  
  I could go and find Jürgen, talk to him about what my mother told me before she died. Maybe he knows something.
  
  After a while, he rejected this idea. He was fed up with the Shredders, and in all probability Jurgen still hated him for what had happened in the coal-burner's stables. He doubted that time had done anything to appease his anger. And if he had approached Jurgen with no evidence at all and told him that he had reason to believe that they might be brothers, his reaction would surely have been terrible. He also couldn't imagine trying to talk to the Baron or Brunnhilde. No, this alley was a dead end.
  
  Everything is over. I'm leaving.
  
  His erratic journey took him to Marienplatz. He decided to pay a last visit to Sebastian Keller before leaving town for good. Along the way, he wondered if the bookstore was still open, or if its owner had fallen victim to the crisis of the twenties, like so many other businesses.
  
  His fears turned out to be unfounded. The place looked the same as ever, tidy, with its lavish display cases offering a carefully curated selection of classical German poetry. Paul barely hesitated before entering, and Keller immediately poked his head through the door of the back room, just as he had done that first day in 1923.
  
  "Floor! Dear God, what a surprise!"
  
  The bookseller held out his hand with a warm smile on his face. It seemed like time had barely passed. He still dyed his hair white and wore his new gold-rimmed glasses, but aside from that and the odd lines around his eyes, he still radiated the same aura of wisdom and serenity.
  
  "Good afternoon, Herr Keller."
  
  "But it's such a pleasure, Paul! Where have you been hiding all this time? We considered you lost... I read in the newspapers about the fire in the boarding house and was afraid that you died there too. You could write!"
  
  Somewhat ashamed, Paul apologized for his silence all these years. Contrary to his custom, Keller closed the bookstore and took the young man to a back room, where they spent a couple of hours drinking tea and talking about old times. Paul talked about his travels in Africa, the various jobs he has done and his experiences with different cultures.
  
  "You've had real adventures... Carl May, whom you admire so much, would like to be in your place."
  
  "I suppose so... Although novels are a completely different matter," Paul said with a bitter smile, thinking of Nagel's tragic end.
  
  "What about Freemasonry, Paul? Did you keep in touch with any lodge during this time?"
  
  "No, sir."
  
  "Well, then, when all is said and done, the essence of our Brotherhood is order. It just so happens that there will be a meeting tonight. You must come with me, I won't accept no. You can pick up where you left off," Keller said, patting him on the shoulder.
  
  Paul reluctantly agreed.
  
  
  49
  
  
  Back at the Temple that night, Paul felt the familiar sense of artificiality and boredom that had come over him years ago when he started attending Masonic meetings. The place was filled to capacity, with over a hundred people in attendance.
  
  At the right moment, Keller, who was still Grand Master of the Rising Sun Lodge, stood up and introduced Paul to his fellow Masons. Many of them already knew him, but at least ten members greeted him for the first time.
  
  Except when Keller addressed him directly, Paul spent most of the meeting deep in thought... towards the end, when one of the older brothers - someone named Furst - stood up to introduce a topic that wasn't on the agenda. that day.
  
  "Venerable Grand Master, a group of brothers and I discussed the current situation."
  
  "What do you mean, Brother Furst?"
  
  "For the disturbing shadow that Nazism casts on Freemasonry."
  
  "Brother, you know the rules. No politics in the temple."
  
  "But the Grand Master will agree with me that the news from Berlin and Hamburg is disturbing. Many lodges there dissolved of their own accord. Here in Bavaria, not one of the Prussian lodges remains."
  
  "So you are proposing the dissolution of this lodge, Brother First?"
  
  "Of course not. But I believe it may be time to take the steps that others have taken to ensure their permanence."
  
  "And what are those measures?"
  
  "The first would be to cut off our ties with brotherhoods outside of Germany."
  
  Much murmuring followed this statement. Freemasonry has traditionally been an international movement, and the more connections a lodge had, the more it was respected.
  
  "Please be quiet. When the brother is finished, everyone will be able to express their own thoughts on this matter."
  
  "The second would be to rename our society. Other lodges in Berlin have changed their name to the Order of the Teutonic Knights."
  
  This caused a new wave of discontent. Changing the name of the order was simply unacceptable.
  
  "And finally, I think we should dismiss from the lodge - with honor - those brothers who put our survival at risk."
  
  "And what kind of brothers would they be?"
  
  Furst cleared his throat before continuing, clearly uncomfortable.
  
  "Jewish brothers, of course."
  
  Paul jumped up from his seat. He tried to take the floor to speak, but the temple turned into a pandemonium of screams and curses. The commotion lasted for several minutes, everyone trying to speak at the same time. Keller struck his pulpit several times with a mace he rarely used.
  
  "Order, order! We will take turns speaking, or I will have to dismiss the meeting!"
  
  Passions cooled down a little, and the speakers took the floor to support the proposal or reject it. Paul counted the number of people who voted and was surprised to find an even split between the two positions. He tried to come up with something to contribute that sounded coherent. He strongly wanted to convey how unfair he felt the whole discussion.
  
  Finally, Keller pointed his mace at him. Paul got up.
  
  "Brethren, this is the first time I have spoken in this lodge. It may well be the last one. I was astounded by the discussion sparked by Brother Furst's suggestion, and what strikes me most is not your opinion on the matter, but the fact that we had to discuss it at all."
  
  There was a murmur of approval.
  
  "I'm not a Jew. I have Aryan blood in my veins, or at least I think so. The truth is, I'm not entirely sure who I am. I arrived at this noble institution following in my father's footsteps with no other purpose than to learn more about myself. Certain circumstances in my life kept me away from you for a long time, but when I returned, I could not imagine that everything would be so different. Within these walls we are supposedly striving for enlightenment. So, can you explain to me, brethren, why this institution discriminates against people for anything other than their actions, fair or unjust?"
  
  There were even more cheers. Paul saw First get up from his seat.
  
  "Brother, you've been away for a long time and you don't know what's going on in Germany!"
  
  "You are right. We are living in dark times. But in times like these, we must cling tightly to what we believe in."
  
  "The survival of the lodge is at stake!"
  
  "Yes, but at what cost?"
  
  "If we have to..."
  
  "Brother First, if you were crossing the desert and you saw the sun getting hotter and your flask getting empty, would you urinate in it to stop it from leaking?"
  
  The roof of the temple shook with an explosion of laughter. Furst was losing the match and he was seething with rage.
  
  "And to think that these are the words of the outcast son of a deserter," he exclaimed in rage.
  
  Paul took the hit as best he could. He gripped the back of the chair in front of him hard until his knuckles turned white.
  
  I must control myself or he will win.
  
  "Venerable Grand Master, are you going to allow Brother Furst to cross-fire my application?"
  
  "Brother Rainer is right. Stick to the rules of debate."
  
  Furst nodded with a wide smile that put Paul on his guard.
  
  "Amazing. In that case, I ask you to take the floor from Brother Rainer."
  
  "What? On what basis? Paul asked, trying not to scream.
  
  "Do you deny attending lodge meetings just a few months before you disappeared?"
  
  Paul got excited.
  
  "No, I don't deny it, but..."
  
  "So, you have not reached the degree of Fellow of Craft, and you are not eligible to contribute to meetings," Furst interrupted.
  
  "I have been a student for over eleven years. The Fellow of Craft degree is awarded automatically after three years."
  
  "Yes, but only if you visit the works regularly. Otherwise, you must be approved by the majority of the brethren. So you have no right to speak in this debate," Furst said, unable to hide his satisfaction.
  
  Paul looked around for support. All faces silently looked at him in response. Even Keller, who seemed to want to help him a few moments ago, was calm.
  
  "Very good. If such is the prevailing spirit, I renounce my membership in the lodge."
  
  Paul got up and left the pew, heading for the podium occupied by Keller. He took off his apron and gloves and threw them at the feet of the Grand Master.
  
  "I am no longer proud of these symbols."
  
  "And me too!"
  
  One of those present, a man named Joachim Hirsch, stood up. Hirsch was Jewish, Paul remembered. He, too, threw the symbols at the foot of the pulpit.
  
  "I'm not going to wait for a vote on whether I should be expelled from the lodge to which I belonged for twenty years. I'd rather leave," he said, standing next to Paul.
  
  Hearing this, many others stood up. Most of them were Jews, although, as Paul noted with satisfaction, there were a few non-Jews who were clearly as outraged as he was. Within a minute, more than thirty aprons accumulated on the checkered marble. The scene was chaotic.
  
  "It's enough!" Keller shouted, striking with his mace in a vain attempt to be heard. "If my position allowed, I would also throw off this apron. Let's respect those who made this decision."
  
  A group of dissidents began to leave the temple. Paul was one of the last to leave, and he left with his head held high, although that made him sad. Being a member of a lodge had never been much to his liking, but it pained him to see how such a group of intelligent, cultured people could be divided by fear and intolerance.
  
  He walked silently towards the lobby. Some dissidents gathered in groups, although most gathered their hats and went out into the street in groups of two or three so as not to attract attention. Paul was about to do the same when he felt someone touch his back.
  
  "Please let me shake your hand." It was Hirsch, the man who threw his apron after Paul. "Thank you so much for being an example. If you hadn't done what you did, I wouldn't have dared to do it myself."
  
  "You don't need to thank me. It was just unbearable for me to see the injustice of it all."
  
  "If only more people were like you, Reiner, Germany would not be in the mess it is in today. Let"s just hope it"s just a tailwind of bad wind."
  
  "People are scared," Paul said with a shrug.
  
  "I am not surprised. Three or four weeks ago, the Gestapo got the authority to act out of court."
  
  "What do you mean?"
  
  "They can arrest anyone, even for something as simple as 'suspicious walking'.
  
  "But this is ridiculous!" Paul exclaimed in surprise.
  
  "That's not all," said another of the men, who was about to leave. "After a few days, the family receives a notification."
  
  "Or they're called in to identify the body," added a third grimly. "This has already happened to a friend of mine and the list is growing. Krickstein, Cohen, Tannenbaum..."
  
  When he heard that name, Paul's heart jumped.
  
  "Wait, did you say Tannenbaum? Which Tannenbaum?
  
  "Joseph Tannenbaum, industrialist. Do you know him?"
  
  "Something like that. You could say that I am... a family friend."
  
  "Then I am sorry to inform you that Joseph Tannenbaum is dead. The funeral will take place tomorrow morning."
  
  
  50
  
  
  "Rain should be mandatory at funerals," Manfred said.
  
  Alice didn't answer. She just took his hand and squeezed it.
  
  He's right, she thought, looking around. The white tombstones shone in the morning sun, creating an atmosphere of serenity that was completely out of proportion to her state of mind.
  
  Alice, who knew so little about her own emotions and who so often fell victim to this emotional blindness, didn't quite understand how she felt that day. Ever since he called them back from Ohio fifteen years ago, she'd hated her father to the core. Over time, her hatred took on many shades. At first she was tinged with the indignation of an angry teenager who was always contradicted. From there, it turned into contempt when she saw her father in all his selfishness and greed, a businessman willing to do anything to prosper. The last was the evasive, fearful hatred of a woman afraid of becoming dependent.
  
  Ever since her father's henchmen captured her that fateful night in 1923, Alice's hatred for her father had turned into cold hostility of the purest kind. Emotionally drained after her breakup with Paul, Alice stripped her relationship with her father of all passion, focusing on it rationally. He - it was best to call this man "he"; it caused less pain - was sick. He didn't understand that she had to be free to live her own life. He wanted to marry her off to someone she despised.
  
  He wanted to kill the child she was carrying in her belly.
  
  Alice had to fight tooth and nail to prevent this. Her father slapped her, called her a dirty whore and worse.
  
  "You won't get it. The baron will never accept a pregnant whore as a bride for his son."
  
  So much the better, Alice thought. She withdrew into herself, flatly refusing to have an abortion, and told the shocked servants that she was pregnant.
  
  "I have witnesses. If you make me snap, I'll turn you in, you bastard," she told him with a composure and confidence she'd never felt before.
  
  "Thank heavens your mother didn't live to see her daughter in this condition."
  
  "Like what? Her father sold at the highest price?"
  
  Josef found himself obliged to go to the Schroeder mansion and confess the whole truth to the baron. With an expression of badly feigned sadness, the baron informed him that, obviously, under such conditions, the agreement should be annulled.
  
  Alice never spoke to Joseph again after that fateful day when he returned, seething with rage and humiliation, from meeting the mother-in-law he was not destined to be. An hour after his return, Doris, the housekeeper, came to inform her that she must leave immediately.
  
  "The owner will let you take a suitcase full of clothes if you need them." The harsh tone of her voice left no doubt about her feelings on this matter.
  
  "Tell the owner a big thank you, but I don't want anything from him," Alice said.
  
  She started towards the door, but turned around before leaving.
  
  "By the way, Doris... Try not to steal the suitcase and tell me I took it with me like you did with the money my father left on the sink."
  
  Her words made a hole in the housekeeper's arrogant attitude. She blushed and began to choke.
  
  "Now, listen to me, I can assure you that I..."
  
  The young woman left, ending the sentence with a slam of the door.***
  
  Despite being on her own, despite everything that had happened to her, despite the great responsibility that was growing inside her, the look of indignation on Doris's face made Alice smile. First smile since Paul left her.
  
  Or did I make him leave me?
  
  She spent the next eleven years trying to find the answer to this question.
  
  When Paul appeared on the tree-lined path in the cemetery, the question answered itself. Alice saw him approach and step aside, waiting for the priest to say a prayer for the dead.
  
  Alice completely forgot about the twenty people surrounding the coffin, a wooden box empty except for the urn containing Joseph's ashes. She forgot that she had received the ashes in the mail along with a note from the Gestapo stating that her father had been arrested for sedition and died "trying to escape." She forgot that he was buried under a cross, not a star, because he died a Catholic in a country of Catholics who voted for Hitler. She forgot her own confusion and fear, for in the midst of it all, one certainty now appeared before her eyes like a beacon in a storm.
  
  It was my fault. I was the one who pushed you away, Paul. Who hid our son from you and didn't let you make your own choice. And damn you, I'm still as in love with you as I was the first time I saw you fifteen years ago, when you were wearing that ridiculous waiter's apron.
  
  She wanted to run up to him, but she thought that if she did, she might lose him forever. And although she had matured a lot since she became a mother, her legs were still bound with pride.
  
  I must approach him slowly. Find out where he was, what he did. If he still feels something...
  
  The funeral is over. She and Manfred accepted the condolences of the guests. Paul was last in line and approached them warily.
  
  "Good morning. Thank you for coming," Manfred said, holding out his hand without recognizing him.
  
  "I share your sadness," Paul replied.
  
  "Did you know my father?"
  
  "A little. My name is Paul Reiner."
  
  Manfred let go of Paul's hand as if it had burned him.
  
  "What are you doing here? Do you think you can just walk back into her life like that? After eleven years of silence?"
  
  "I wrote dozens of letters and none of them received a response," Paul said excitedly.
  
  "It doesn't change what you did."
  
  "It's all right, Manfred," Alice said, putting her hand on his shoulder. "You're going home."
  
  "You are sure?" he asked, looking at Paul.
  
  "Yes".
  
  "Fine. I'll go home and see if..."
  
  "Fine," she interrupted him before he could say the name. "I'll be there soon."
  
  With one last nasty look at Paul, Manfred put on his hat and left. Alice turned down the center path of the cemetery, walking silently beside Paul. Their eye contact was brief but intense and painful, so she chose not to look at him just yet.
  
  "So you're back."
  
  "I came back last week chasing a thread, but things didn't turn out well. Yesterday I met an acquaintance of your father who told me about his death. I hope you have been able to bond over the years."
  
  "Sometimes distance is the best thing."
  
  "I understand".
  
  Why should I say such things? He might think that I was talking about him.
  
  "What about your travels, Paul? Did you find what you were looking for?
  
  "No".
  
  Say you were wrong leaving. Tell me you were wrong and I will admit my mistake and you will admit yours and then I will fall into your arms again. Say it!
  
  "Actually, I decided to give up," Paul continued. "I have reached a dead end. I don"t have a family, I don"t have money, I don"t have a profession, I don"t even have a country that I could return to, because it"s not Germany."
  
  She stopped and turned to look at him closely for the first time. She was surprised to see that his face hadn't changed much. His features had hardened, there were deep circles under his eyes, and he had put on a little weight, but he was still Paul. Her gender.
  
  "Did you really text me?"
  
  "Many times. I have sent letters to your address at the boarding house and also to your father's house."
  
  "So... what are you going to do?" she asked. Her lips and voice trembled, but she couldn't stop them. Perhaps her body was sending a message she didn't dare to articulate. When Paul answered, there was also emotion in his voice.
  
  "I've been thinking about going back to Africa, Alice. But when I heard about what happened to your father, I thought..."
  
  "What?"
  
  "Don't misunderstand, but I would like to speak to you in a different setting, with more time... To tell you about what has happened over the years."
  
  This is a bad idea, she forced herself to say.
  
  "Alice, I know I have no right to come back into your life whenever I want. I... Leaving at that time was a big mistake - it was a huge mistake - and I'm ashamed of it. It took me a while to realize this, and all I ask is that we can sit down and have coffee together one day."
  
  What if I told you that you have a son, Paul? A gorgeous boy with sky blue eyes like yours, blond and stubborn like his father? What would you do, Paul? What if I let you into our lives and then we didn't succeed? As much as I want you, as much as my body and my soul want to be with you, I can't let you hurt him.
  
  "I need some time to think about it."
  
  He smiled, and small lines that Alice had never seen before gathered around his eyes.
  
  "I'll be waiting," Paul said, holding out a small piece of paper with his address on it. "As long as you need me."
  
  Alice took the note and their fingers touched.
  
  "Okay, Paul. But I can't promise anything. Leave now."
  
  Slightly offended by the unceremonious dismissal, Paul left without another word.
  
  As he disappeared down the path, Alice prayed that he wouldn't turn around and see how badly she was trembling.
  
  
  51
  
  
  "So-so. Looks like a rat took the bait," said Jürgen, gripping his binoculars tightly. From his vantage point on a hill eighty meters from Josef's grave, he could see Paul making his way up the line to offer his condolences to the Tannenbaums. He recognized him instantly. "Was I right, Adolf?"
  
  "You were right, sir," said Eichmann, a little embarrassed by this departure from the program. In the six months that he worked with Jurgen, the newly minted baron managed to infiltrate many lodges, thanks to his title, his external charm and a number of fake credentials provided by the Prussian Sword Lodge. The great master of this lodge, a defiant nationalist and acquaintance of Heydrich, supported the Nazis with every fiber of his being. He shamelessly awarded Jurgen a master's degree and gave him a crash course on how to pass as an accomplished Freemason. He then wrote letters of recommendation to the Grand Masters of the humanitarian lodges, urging them to cooperate "to weather the current political storm."
  
  Visiting a different lodge every week, Jurgen managed to find out the names of more than three thousand members. Heydrich was delighted with the progress, and so was Eichmann, as he saw his dream of avoiding the grim work at Dachau getting closer to reality. He was not averse to printing postcards for Heydrich in his spare time, or even occasionally traveling with Jurgen on weekends to nearby cities such as Augsburg, Ingolstadt and Stuttgart. But the obsession that had awakened in Jurgen over the past few days worried him greatly. The man thought of almost nothing but this Paul Reiner. He did not even explain what role Reiner played in the mission that Heydrich assigned them; he only said that he wanted to find him.
  
  "I was right," Jurgen repeated, more to himself than to his nervous companion. "She's the key."
  
  He adjusted the lenses of his binoculars. Using them was not easy for Jurgen, who had only one eye, and he had to lower them from time to time. He shifted slightly, and an image of Alice came into his field of vision. She was very beautiful, more mature than when he had last seen her. He looked at the way her black choli emphasized her breasts and adjusted his binoculars to get a better look.
  
  If only my father hadn't rejected her. What a terrible humiliation it would be for this little whore to marry me and do whatever I want, Jürgen fantasized. He had an erection and had to reach into his pocket to position himself discreetly without Eichmann noticing.
  
  If you think about it, it's better. Marrying a Jewish woman would have been fatal to my career in the SS. And that way I can kill two birds with one stone: lure Paul and get her. The whore will find out soon enough.
  
  "Will we continue as planned, sir?" Eichmann asked.
  
  "Yes, Adolf. Follow him. I want to know where he is staying."
  
  "And then? Will we hand him over to the Gestapo?"
  
  With Alice's father, everything was so simple. One phone call to a familiar obersturmführer, a ten-minute conversation, and four men took the arrogant Jew out of his apartment on Prinzregentenplatz without giving any explanation. The plan worked perfectly. Now Paul had come to the funeral, just as Jürgen was certain.
  
  It would be so easy to do it all over again: find out where he slept, send out a patrol, then go to the cellars of the Wittelsbach Palace, the Gestapo headquarters in Munich. Step into a padded cell - padded not to keep people from harming themselves, but to muffle their screams - sit in front of him and watch him die. Perhaps he could even bring in a Jewish woman and rape her right in front of Paul, enjoying her while Paul struggled desperately to free himself from his bonds.
  
  But he had to think about his career. He did not want people to talk about his cruelty, especially now that he was becoming more and more famous.
  
  On the back of his title and his accomplishments, he was so close to promotion and a trip to Berlin to work side by side with Heydrich.
  
  And then there was his desire to meet Paul face to face. Repay the little asshole for all the pain he's caused without hiding behind government machinery.
  
  There must be a better way.
  
  Suddenly he realized what he wanted to do, and his lips twisted into a cruel smile.
  
  "Excuse me, sir," Eichmann insisted, thinking he hadn't heard. "I asked if we would hand over Reiner?"
  
  "No, Adolf. This will require a more personal approach."
  
  
  52
  
  
  "I'm home!"
  
  After returning from the cemetery, Alice entered the small apartment and prepared for the usual wild attack from Julian. But this time he didn't show up.
  
  "Hello?" she called, puzzled.
  
  "We are in the studio, mom!"
  
  Alice walked down a narrow corridor. There were only three bedrooms. She, the smallest, was naked as a wardrobe. Manfred's office was almost exactly the same size, except that her brother's office was always littered with technical manuals, strange books in English, and a stack of notes from an engineering course he had completed the previous year. Manfred had lived with them since he entered university, when the arguments with his father intensified. It was supposedly a temporary arrangement, but they had been together for so long that Alice couldn't imagine balancing her photography career and looking after Julian without the help he gave her. He also didn't get much promotion because, despite his excellent degree, job interviews always ended with the same phrase: "What a pity you're Jewish." The only money that came into the family was the money that Alice earned from selling photographs, and paying the rent was becoming increasingly difficult.
  
  The "studio" was what a living room would be in ordinary homes. Alice's development equipment has completely replaced her. The window was covered with black sheets, and the only light was red.
  
  Alice knocked on the door.
  
  "Come in, mom! We're just finishing up!"
  
  The table was lined with developing trays. Half a dozen rows of pegs ran from wall to wall, holding together photographs left to dry. Alice ran up to kiss Julian and Manfred.
  
  "Are you all right?" asked her brother.
  
  She made a gesture to say that they would talk later. She didn't tell Julian where they were going when they left him with a neighbor. The boy was never allowed to know his grandfather while alive, and his death would not have secured the boy's inheritance. In fact, all of Josef's property, severely depleted in recent years, as his business lost momentum, was transferred to the cultural fund.
  
  The last wishes of a man who once said he was doing all this for his family, Alice thought as she listened to her father's lawyer. Well, I have no intention of telling Julian about his grandfather's death. At least we'll get him out of this trouble.
  
  "What is this? I don't remember taking these photos."
  
  "Looks like Julian used your old Kodak, sis."
  
  "Really? The last thing I remember, the bolt jammed."
  
  "Uncle Manfred fixed it for me," Julian replied with a guilty smile.
  
  "Gossip!" said Manfred, giving him a playful shove. "Well, that's the way it was, or let him loose in your Leica."
  
  "I'd skin you alive, Manfred," said Alice, feigning annoyance. No photographer would like to have a child's little clammy fingers next to his or her camera, but neither she nor her brother could say no to Julian. Since he learned to speak, he always got his way, but he was still the most sensitive and gentle of the three.
  
  Alice walked over to the photos and checked to see if the earliest ones were ready for processing. She took one and picked it up. It was a close-up of Manfred's table lamp, with a stack of books next to it. The photograph was of exceptional quality, with the cone of light half-illuminating the headlines and providing excellent contrast. The image was slightly out of focus, no doubt the result of Julian's hands pulling the trigger. Rookie mistake.
  
  And he's only ten. He will be a great photographer when he grows up, she thought proudly.
  
  She glanced at her son, who was watching her intently, desperate to hear her opinion. Alice pretended not to notice.
  
  "What do you think, mom?"
  
  "About what?"
  
  "About photography."
  
  "It's a little wobbly. But you chose aperture and depth very well. The next time you want to take a still life without much light, use a tripod."
  
  "Yes Mom," said Julian, smiling from ear to ear.
  
  Since the birth of Julian, her character has softened considerably. She ruffled his blond hair, which always made him laugh.
  
  "So, Julian, what would you say about a picnic in the park with Uncle Manfred?"
  
  "Today? Will you let me take the Kodak?"
  
  "If you promise to be careful," Alice said resignedly.
  
  "Of course I will! Park, park!"
  
  "But first go to your room and change."
  
  Julian ran out; Manfred remained silently watching his sister. Under the red light that hid her expression, he couldn't tell what she was thinking. Alice, meanwhile, took out a piece of Paul's paper from her pocket and stared at it as if half a dozen words could turn into the man himself.
  
  "Did he give you his address?" Manfred asked, reading over her shoulder. "To top it off, it's a boarding house. Please..."
  
  "He may wish well, Manfred," she said defensively.
  
  "I don't understand you, little sister. You didn't hear a word from him for years, even though you knew he was dead or worse. And now suddenly he appears..."
  
  "You know how I feel about him."
  
  "You should have thought about this before."
  
  Her face contorted.
  
  Thanks for that, Manfred. Like I didn't regret it enough.
  
  "I'm sorry," said Manfred, seeing that he had upset her. He gently stroked her shoulder. "I didn't mean it. You are free to do whatever you want. I just don't want to get hurt."
  
  "I have to try."
  
  For a few moments they were both silent. They could hear the sounds of things being thrown on the floor in the boy's room.
  
  "Have you thought about how you are going to tell Julian?"
  
  "I have no idea. I think a little."
  
  "How come, a little, Alice? Could you first show him the leg and say, 'This is your father's leg'? What about the hand the next day? Look, you have to do it all at once; you have to admit that you lied to him all his life. Nobody says it won't be difficult."
  
  "I know," she said thoughtfully.
  
  Another sound boomed from behind the wall, louder than the last.
  
  "I'm ready!" Julian called from the other side of the door.
  
  "You two better go ahead," Alice said. "I'll make some sandwiches and we'll meet at the fountain in half an hour."
  
  As they left, Alice tried to bring her thoughts and the battlefield in Julian's bedroom into some semblance of order. She gave up when she realized she was picking up socks of different colors.
  
  She went into the small kitchen and put fruit, cheese, jam sandwiches, and a bottle of juice into a basket. She was trying to decide whether to take one beer or two when she heard the doorbell ring.
  
  They must have forgotten something, she thought. It's better that way, we can all leave together.
  
  She opened the front door.
  
  "You really are so forgetful..."
  
  The last word came out like a sigh. Anyone would react the same way to the look of the SS uniform.
  
  But there was another dimension to Alice's anxiety: she recognized the person wearing it.
  
  "So, did you miss me, my Jewish whore?" Jürgen said with a smile.
  
  Alice opened her eyes just in time to see Jurgen raise his fist, ready to strike her. She didn't have time to duck or rush out the door. The blow hit her right in the temple, and she fell to the ground. She tried to get up and kick Jurgen in the knee, but she couldn't hold him for long. He pulled her head back by her hair and growled, "It would be so easy to kill you."
  
  "So do it, you son of a bitch!" Alice sobbed, trying to free herself and leaving a strand of her hair in his hand. Jurgen punched her in the mouth and stomach, and Alice fell to the ground, gasping.
  
  "All in good time, dear," he said, unbuttoning her skirt.
  
  
  53
  
  
  When he heard a knock on his door, Paul had a half-eaten apple in one hand and a newspaper in the other. He didn't touch the food his landlady brought him because the emotions of meeting Alice upset his stomach. He forced himself to chew on the fruit to calm his nerves.
  
  Hearing the sound, Paul stood up, tossed the newspaper aside, and took the gun from under his pillow. Holding her behind him, he opened the door. It was his landlady again.
  
  "Herr Reiner, there are two people here who want to see you," she said with a worried look on her face.
  
  She stepped aside. Manfred Tannenbaum stood in the middle of the corridor, holding the hand of a frightened boy who clung to a worn soccer ball like a lifeline. Paul stared at the child and his heart jumped. Dark blond hair, expressive features, a dimple in his chin and blue eyes... The way he looked at Paul, frightened, but not avoiding his gaze...
  
  "This ...?" he stuttered, looking for confirmation he didn't need, for his heart told him everything.
  
  The other man nodded, and for the third time in Paul's life, everything he thought he knew exploded in an instant.
  
  "Oh God, what have I done?"
  
  He quickly led them inside.
  
  Manfred, wanting to be alone with Paul, told Julian, "Go and wash your face and hands - keep going."
  
  "What's happened?" Paul asked. "Where is Alice?"
  
  "We were going for a picnic. Julian and I went ahead to wait for his mother, but she didn't show up, so we went back home. As soon as we rounded the corner, a neighbor told us that a man in an SS uniform had taken Alice. We didn't dare to go back, just in case they were waiting for us and I thought this was the best place for us to go."
  
  Trying to remain calm in Julian's presence, Paul walked over to the cupboard and took a small bottle with a gold neck from the bottom of his suitcase. With a twist of his wrist, he broke the seal and handed it to Manfred, who took a long gulp and began to cough.
  
  "Not so fast or you'll sing too long..."
  
  "Damn, this sucks. What the hell is this?"
  
  "It's called Krugsle. It is distilled by German colonists in Windhoek. The bottle was a gift from a friend. I was saving her for a special occasion."
  
  "Thank you," said Manfred, handing him back. "I'm sorry you had to find out about it this way, but..."
  
  Julian returned from the bathroom and sat down on a chair.
  
  "Are you my father?" the boy asked Paul.
  
  Paul and Manfred were horrified.
  
  "Why do you say that, Julian?"
  
  Without answering his uncle, the boy grabbed Paul's arm, forcing him to crouch so that they were face to face. He ran his fingertips over his father's features, studying them as if a mere glance wasn't enough. Paul closed his eyes, trying to hold back the tears.
  
  "I look like you," Julian finally said.
  
  "Yes, son. You know. It looks very much like that."
  
  "Can I have something to eat?" I'm hungry," the boy said, pointing to the tray.
  
  "Of course," Paul said, resisting the urge to hug him. He didn't dare get too close because he knew the boy must be shocked too.
  
  "I need to speak to Herr Reiner alone outside. You stay here and eat," said Manfred.
  
  The boy folded his arms across his chest. "Do not go anywhere. The Nazis took my mom and I want to know what you're talking about."
  
  "Julian..."
  
  Paul put his hand on Manfred's shoulder and looked at him questioningly. Manfred shrugged.
  
  "Very well then."
  
  Paul turned to the boy and tried to force a smile. Sitting and staring at a smaller version of his own face was a painful reminder of his last night in Munich, back in 1923. About the terrible, selfish decision he'd made in leaving Alice without even trying to understand why she'd told him to leave her by leaving without putting up a fight. Now all the pieces fell into place, and Paul realized what a serious mistake he had made.
  
  I have lived my whole life without a father. Blaming him and those who killed him for his absence. I swore a thousand times that if I had a child, I would never, never let him grow up without me.
  
  "Julian, my name is Paul Reiner," he said, holding out his hand.
  
  The boy responded to the handshake.
  
  "I know. Uncle Manfred told me."
  
  "And he also told you that I didn't know I had a son?"
  
  Julian shook his head silently.
  
  "Alice and I always told him his father was dead," Manfred said, avoiding his gaze.
  
  It was too much for Paul. He felt the pain of all those nights when he lay awake, imagining his father as a hero, now projected onto Julian. Fantasies built on lies. He wondered what kind of dreams this boy must have had in those moments before he fell asleep. He couldn't take it anymore. He ran up, lifted his son from the chair and hugged him tightly. Manfred stood up to defend Julian, but stopped when he saw Julian, with clenched fists and tears in his eyes, hug his father back.
  
  "Where have you been?"
  
  "Forgive me, Julian. I'm sorry".
  
  
  54
  
  
  When their emotions calmed down a bit, Manfred told them that when Julian was old enough to ask about his father, Alice decided to tell him that he was dead. After all, no one heard anything about Paul for a long time.
  
  "I don't know if it was the right decision. I was just a teenager at the time, but your mother thought long and hard about it."
  
  Julian sat listening to his explanation, his expression serious. When Manfred finished, he turned to Paul, who tried to explain his long absence, though the story was as hard to tell as it was to believe. Yet Julian, despite his sadness, seemed to understand the situation and interrupted his father only to ask the occasional question.
  
  He's a smart guy with nerves of steel. His world has just been turned upside down, and he doesn't cry, stomp his feet, or call for his mother, as many other children would.
  
  "So you spent all these years trying to find the person who hurt your father?" the boy asked.
  
  Paul nodded. "Yes, but it was a mistake. I should never have left Alice because I love her so much."
  
  "I understand. I would look everywhere for the one who hurt my family as well," Julian replied in a low voice that seemed strange for a man of his age.
  
  Which brought them back to Alice. Manfred told Paul what little he knew about his sister's disappearance.
  
  "This is happening more and more often," he said, looking at his nephew out of the corner of his eye. He didn't want to blurt out what happened to Joseph Tannenbaum; the boy had suffered enough. "No one is doing anything to stop it."
  
  "Is there anyone we can turn to?"
  
  "Who?" asked Manfred, throwing up his hands in despair. "They left no report, no search warrant, no list of charges. Nothing! Just an empty space. And if we show up at Gestapo headquarters... well, you can guess. We would have to be accompanied by an army of lawyers and journalists, and I am afraid that even that would not be enough. The whole country is in the hands of these people, and the worst thing is that no one noticed until it was too late."
  
  They continued talking for a long time. Outside, dusk hung over the streets of Munich like a gray blanket, and the streetlights began to flicker. Tired of so many emotions, Julian randomly kicked the leather ball. In the end, he put it aside and fell asleep on top of the bedspread. The ball rolled to the feet of his uncle, who picked it up and showed it to Paul.
  
  "Familiar?"
  
  "No".
  
  "This is the ball I hit you over the head with years ago."
  
  Paul smiled at the memory of his descent down the stairs and the chain of events that led him to fall in love with Alice.
  
  "Julian exists because of this ball."
  
  "That's what my sister said. When I was old enough to confront my father and reconnect with Alice, she asked for a ball. I had to get it from the warehouse and we gave it to Julian for his fifth birthday. I think that was the last time I saw my father," he recalled bitterly. "Paul, I..."
  
  He was interrupted by a knock on the door. Alarmed, Paul motioned for him to be quiet and stood up to fetch the gun, which he put away in the closet. It was the landlady again.
  
  "Herr Reiner, you have a phone call."
  
  Paul and Manfred exchanged curious glances. No one knew that Paul was staying there, except for Alice.
  
  "Did they say who they are?"
  
  The woman shrugged.
  
  "They said something about Fraulein Tannenbaum. I didn't ask anything else."
  
  "Thank you, Frau Frink. Just give me a minute, I'll get my jacket," Paul said, leaving the door ajar.
  
  "This could be a trick," Manfred said, holding onto his hand.
  
  "I know".
  
  Paul put the gun in his hand.
  
  "I don't know how to use it," Manfred said fearfully.
  
  "You must save this for me. If I don't come back, look in the suitcase. Under the zipper there is a false bottom where you will find some money. It's not much, but it's all I have. Take Julian and get out of the country."
  
  Paul followed his mistress down the stairs. The woman was bursting with curiosity. The mysterious tenant, who had spent two weeks cooped up in his room, was now causing a stir, receiving strange visitors and even stranger phone calls.
  
  "Here he is, Herr Reiner," she told him, pointing to a telephone in the middle of the corridor. "Perhaps after this, you all would like something to eat in the kitchen. On the house."
  
  "Thank you, Frau Frink," said Paul, picking up the receiver. "Paul Reiner is listening."
  
  "Good evening, little brother."
  
  When he heard who it was, Paul winced. A voice deep inside told him that Jurgen might have had something to do with Alice's disappearance, but he suppressed his fears. Now the clock had turned back fifteen years, to the night of the party, when he stood surrounded by Jurgen's friends, alone and defenseless. He wanted to scream, but he had to squeeze out the words.
  
  "Where is she, Jurgen?" he said, clenching his hand into a fist.
  
  "I raped her, Paul. I hurt her. I hit her very hard, several times. Now she is where she can never escape again."
  
  Despite his rage and pain, Paul clung to a tiny hope: Alice was alive.
  
  "Are you still there, little brother?"
  
  "I'm going to kill you, you son of a bitch."
  
  "Maybe. The truth is, this is the only way out for you and me, isn't it? Our destinies have been hanging on the same thread for years, but this thread is very thin - and in the end one of us must fall."
  
  "What do you want?"
  
  "I want us to meet."
  
  It was a trap. This was supposed to be a trap.
  
  "First, I want you to let Alice go."
  
  "Sorry, Paul. I can't promise you this. I want us to meet, just you and me, somewhere quiet where we can settle this once and for all, without anyone interfering."
  
  "Why don't you just send your gorillas and be done with it?"
  
  "Don't think it didn't cross my mind. But that would be too easy."
  
  "And what will happen to me if I leave?"
  
  "Nothing, because I'm going to kill you. And if by some chance you're the only one left alive, Alice will die. If you die, Alice will die too. Whatever happens, she will die."
  
  "Then you can rot in hell, you son of a bitch."
  
  "Now, now, not so fast. Listen to this: 'My dear son: There is no right beginning for this letter. The truth is that this is just one of several attempts I made..."
  
  "What the hell is this, Jurgen?"
  
  "Letter, five sheets of tracing paper. Your mother had a very neat handwriting for a kitchen maid, do you know that? Terrible style, but the content is extremely instructive. Come and find me and I will give it to you."
  
  Paul hit his forehead on the black face of the phone in desperation. He had no choice but to give up.
  
  "Little brother... You didn"t hang up the phone, did you?"
  
  "No, Jurgen. I am still here."
  
  "Well then?"
  
  "You won."
  
  Jurgen let out a triumphant chuckle.
  
  "You will see a black Mercedes parked outside your guesthouse. Tell the driver I sent for you. He has instructions to give you the keys and tell you where I am. Come alone, without weapons."
  
  "OK. And Jurgen..."
  
  "Yes, little brother?"
  
  "Perhaps you will find that I am not so easy to kill."
  
  The line is broken. Paul rushed to the door, nearly knocking his landlady off her feet. A limousine was waiting outside, completely out of place in the area. As he approached, a driver in livery got out of the car.
  
  "I'm Paul Reiner. Jürgen von Schroeder sent for me."
  
  The man opened the door.
  
  "Go on, sir. Keys in the ignition."
  
  "Where should I go?"
  
  "Herr Baron didn't give me a real address, sir. He only said that you should go to the place where, thanks to you, he had to start wearing an eye patch. He said you would understand."
  
  
  MASTER MASON
  
  1934
  
  
  Where the hero triumphs as he accepts his own death
  
  The secret handshake of a master mason is the most difficult of the three degrees. Commonly known as the "lion's claw", the thumb and little fingers are used as a grip while the other three are pressed against the inside of Brother Mason's wrist. Historically, this was done with the body in a specific position known as the five points of friendship - leg to leg, knee to knee, chest to chest, hand on the other's back, and cheeks touching. This practice was abandoned in the twentieth century. The secret name for this handshake is MAHABONE, and a special way of writing it is to divide it into three syllables: MA-HA-BOUN.
  
  
  55
  
  
  The wheels screeched slightly as the car came to a stop. Paul studied the alley through the windshield. A little rain began to fall. In the darkness, it could hardly be seen, if not for the yellow cone of light cast by a lone street lamp.
  
  After a couple of minutes, Paul finally got out of the car. Fourteen years have passed since he set foot in that lane on the banks of the Isar. The smell was as bad as ever, of wet peat, rotting fish, and dampness. At this time of night, the only sound was his own footsteps echoing on the pavement.
  
  He reached the stable door. Nothing seemed to have changed. The peeling, dark green patches that covered the tree were perhaps a little bigger than on the days Paul walked through the door every morning. The hinges still made the same shrill screech when they opened, and the door was still stuck half way and it took a push to open it all the way.
  
  Paul entered. A bare light bulb hung from the ceiling. Stalls, earthen floor and collier's cart...
  
  ... and on it Jurgen with a gun in his hand.
  
  "Hi little brother. Close the door and put your hands up."
  
  Jurgen wore only the black trousers and boots of his uniform. He was naked above the waist, except for an eye patch.
  
  "We said no firearms," Paul replied, carefully raising his hands.
  
  "Pick up your shirt," Jurgen said, pointing with his gun as Paul followed his orders. "Slowly. That's all - very good. Now turn around. Fine. Looks like you played by the rules, Paul. So I will play them too."
  
  He removed the magazine from the pistol and placed it on the wooden partition separating the horses' stalls. However, there must have been a bullet left in the chamber, and the muzzle was still pointing at Paul.
  
  "Is this place the way you remember it? I really hope so. Your collier friend's business went bankrupt five years ago, so I was able to get my hands on those stables for pennies. I hoped that one day you would come back."
  
  "Where's Alice, Jurgen?"
  
  His brother licked his lips before answering.
  
  "Ah, Jewish whore. Have you heard of Dachau, brother?"
  
  Paul nodded slowly. People didn't talk much about the Dachau camp, but everything they said was bad.
  
  "I'm sure she'll be very comfortable there. At least she seemed happy enough when my friend Eichmann took her there this afternoon."
  
  "You disgusting pig, Jurgen."
  
  "What can I say? You don't know how to protect your women, brother."
  
  The floor staggered as if it had been hit. Now he understood the truth.
  
  "You killed her, didn't you? You killed my mother."
  
  "Damn it, it took you a long time to figure that out," Jurgen chuckled.
  
  "I was with her before she died. She... she told me it wasn't you."
  
  "What did you expect? She lied to protect you to her last breath. But there are no lies here, Paul," said Jürgen, holding up the letter to Ilse Reiner. "Here you have the whole story, from start to finish."
  
  "Are you going to give it to me?" Paul asked, looking anxiously at the sheets of paper.
  
  "No. I have already told you that there is absolutely no way for you to win. I'm going to kill you myself, little brother. But if somehow lightning from heaven strikes me... Well, here it is."
  
  Jurgen bent down and stabbed the letter on a nail protruding from the wall.
  
  "Take off your jacket and shirt, Paul."
  
  Paul obeyed, throwing the pieces of clothing on the floor. His naked torso was no longer than that of a skinny teenager. Powerful muscles bulged under his dark skin, which was crossed by small scars.
  
  "Satisfied?"
  
  "So, so... Looks like someone was taking vitamins," Jurgen said. "I wonder if I shouldn"t just shoot you and save myself the trouble."
  
  "So do it, Jurgen. You have always been a coward."
  
  "Don"t even think about calling me that, little brother."
  
  "Six against one? Knives against bare hands? What would you call it, Big Brother?"
  
  With a gesture of fury, Jurgen threw the pistol to the ground and grabbed a hunting knife from the driver's seat of the wagon.
  
  "Yours over there, Paul," he said, pointing to the other end. "Let's get this over with."
  
  Paul walked over to the cart. Fourteen years earlier, it was he who stood there, defending himself from a gang of thugs.
  
  This was my boat. My father's boat attacked by pirates. Now the roles have changed so much that I don't know who is the good guy and who is the bad guy.
  
  He walked to the back of the wagon. There he found another red-handled knife identical to the one his brother was holding. He took it in his right hand, pointing the blade up, exactly as Guerrero had taught him. Jurgen's emblem was pointing downwards, making it difficult for him to move his arms.
  
  I may be stronger now, but he is much stronger than me: I will have to tire him, not let him knock me to the ground or pin me back against the sides of the wagon. Use his blind right side.
  
  "Who's the chicken now, brother?" asked Jurgen, calling him over.
  
  Paul rested his free hand on the side of the cart, then pulled himself up. Now they were face to face for the first time since Jurgen had gone blind in one eye.
  
  "We don't need to do this, Jurgen. We could..."
  
  His brother did not hear him. Raising the knife, Jurgen tried to slash Paul across the face, missing by millimeters as Paul dodged to the right. He nearly fell off the cart and had to break his fall by grabbing one of the sides. He kicked, hitting his brother in the ankle. Jurgen staggered back, giving Paul time to straighten up.
  
  The two men were now facing each other, two paces apart. Paul shifted his weight to his left foot, a gesture that Jurgen took to mean that he was about to strike the other way. Trying to forestall this, Jürgen attacked from the left, just as Paul had hoped. As Jurgen's arm darted forward, Paul crouched down and slashed upward, not with too much force, but just enough to cut him with the edge of the blade. Jurgen screamed, but instead of retreating as Paul expected, he punched Paul twice in the side.
  
  They both stepped back for a moment.
  
  "First blood is mine. Let's see whose blood will be shed last," Jurgen said.
  
  Paul didn't answer. The blows took his breath away and he didn't want his brother to notice. It took him a few seconds to recover, but he wasn't going to get them. Jurgen rushed towards him, holding the knife at shoulder height in a deadly version of the ridiculous Nazi salute. At the last moment, he turned to the left and delivered a short, straight punch to Paul's chest. Since there was nowhere to retreat, Paul had to jump off the cart, but he couldn't dodge another cut that marked him from his left nipple to his sternum.
  
  As his feet touched the ground, he forced himself to ignore the pain and rolled under the cart to avoid an attack from Jurgen, who had already jumped down after him. He appeared from the other side and immediately tried to climb back onto the cart, but Jurgen had anticipated his movement and returned there himself. Now he was running towards Paul, ready to stab him the moment he stepped on the logs, so Paul had to back off.
  
  Jurgen made the most of the situation by using the driver's seat to lunge at Paul, knife out in front of him. Trying to dodge the attack, Paul stumbled. He fell, and that would have been his end if not for the fact that the shafts of the wagons were in the way, and his brother had to duck under thick wooden slabs. Paul made the most of the opportunity by kicking Jurgen in the face, landing him right in the mouth.
  
  Paul turned and tried to wriggle out of Jurgen's grip. Furious, blood foaming at his lips, Jurgen managed to grab his ankle, but loosened his grip as his brother threw it away and slammed his arm.
  
  Breathing heavily, Paul managed to get to his feet, almost at the same time as Jürgen. Jurgen bent down, picked up a bucket of wood chips, and hurled it at Paul. The bucket hit him right in the chest.
  
  With a cry of triumph, Jurgen lunged at Paul. Still stunned by the impact of the bucket, Paul was knocked to the ground and the two of them fell to the floor. Jurgen attempted to cut Paul's throat with the point of his blade, but Paul used his own hands in defense. However, he knew that he would not last long. His brother was over forty pounds heavier than him, and besides, he was on top. Sooner or later, Paul's arms would buckle and the steel would sever his jugular vein.
  
  "You're done, little brother," Jurgen shouted, spattering Paul's face with blood.
  
  "Damn it, I'm like that."
  
  Gathering all his strength, Paul kicked Jurgen hard in the side with his knee, knocking Jurgen over. He immediately rushed back to Paul. His left hand grabbed Paul's neck and his right tried to free himself from Paul's grip as he tried to keep the knife away from his throat.
  
  Too late, he noticed that he had lost sight of the hand in which Paul held his own knife. He looked down and saw the tip of Paul's blade grazed his stomach. He looked up again, fear written on his face.
  
  "You cannot kill me. If you kill me, Alice will die."
  
  "That's where you're wrong, Big Brother. If you die, Alice will live."
  
  Hearing this, Jürgen desperately tried to free his right hand. He succeeded and raised his knife to plunge it into Paul's throat, but the movement seemed to be in slow motion, and by the time Jurgen's hand dropped down, there was no strength left in it.
  
  Paul's knife was plunged up to the hilt into his stomach.
  
  
  56
  
  
  Jurgen collapsed. Completely exhausted, Paul lay sprawled on his back beside him. The labored breathing of the two young men mingled, then subsided. After a minute, Paul felt better; Jurgen was dead.
  
  With great difficulty, Paul managed to get to his feet. He had several broken ribs, superficial cuts all over his body, and a much uglier chest. He had to find help as soon as possible.
  
  He climbed over Jurgen's body to get to his clothes. He tore the sleeves of his shirt and made improvised bandages to bandage the wounds on his forearms. They were immediately soaked with blood, but that was the least of his worries. Luckily, his jacket was dark to help hide the damage.
  
  Paul went out into the alley. When he opened the door, he didn't notice the figure slipping into the shadows on the right. Paul walked straight past, ignoring the presence of the man watching him, so close that he could have touched him if he had reached out his hand.
  
  He got to the car. When he got behind the wheel, he felt a severe pain in his chest, as if a giant hand was squeezing it.
  
  I hope my lung isn't punctured.
  
  He started the engine, trying to forget the pain. He didn't have to go far. On the way, he noticed a cheap hotel, probably the place where his brother called from. It was a little over six hundred yards from the stables.
  
  The clerk behind the counter turned pale when Paul entered.
  
  I can't look too good if someone is afraid of me in a hole like this.
  
  "Do you have a phone?"
  
  "On that wall over there, sir."
  
  The phone was old, but it worked. The hostess answered after the sixth ring, and seemed to be completely awake, despite the late hour. She usually stayed up late, listening to music and TV shows on her radio.
  
  "Yes?"
  
  "Frau Frink, this is Herr Reiner. I would like to speak to Herr Tannenbaum."
  
  "Herr Reiner! I was very worried about you: I was wondering what you were doing on the street at that time. And with those people who are still in your room..."
  
  "I'm fine, Frau Frink. Can I..."
  
  "Yes of course. Herr Tannenbaum. Immediately".
  
  The wait seemed to last forever. Paul turned to the counter and noticed that the secretary was studying him carefully over the top of the Volkischer Beobachter.
  
  Just what I need: a Nazi sympathizer.
  
  Paul looked down and realized that blood was still dripping from his right arm, trickling down his palms and forming an odd pattern on the hardwood floor. He raised his hand to stop the dripping and tried to rub the stain off with the soles of his boots.
  
  He turned around. The manager didn't take his eyes off him. If he noticed anything suspicious, he would most likely have alerted the Gestapo the moment Paul left the hotel. And then it would all be over. Paul could not explain his injuries, nor the fact that he was driving a car owned by the Baron. The body would have been found within days if Paul hadn't disposed of it immediately, as some vagrant would no doubt have noticed the stench.
  
  Pick up the phone, Manfred. Pick up the phone, for God's sake.
  
  At last he heard Brother Alice's voice full of alarm.
  
  "Paul, is that you?"
  
  "It's me".
  
  "Where the hell have you been? I-"
  
  "Listen carefully, Manfred. If you ever want to see your sister again, you must listen. I need your help ".
  
  "Where are you?" asked Manfred in a serious voice.
  
  Paul gave him the address of the warehouse.
  
  "Get a taxi to take you here. But don't come straight. First, go to the pharmacy and buy gauze, bandages, alcohol and threads for stitching wounds. And anti-inflammatory drugs are very important. And bring my suitcase with all my things. Don't worry about Frau Frink: I already..."
  
  Here he had to pause. He was dizzy from fatigue and blood loss. He had to lean on the phone to keep from falling.
  
  "Floor?"
  
  "I paid her two months in advance."
  
  "Okay, Paul."
  
  "Hurry up, Manfred."
  
  He hung up the phone and walked towards the door. As he passed the receptionist, he made a quick, jerky version of the Nazi salute. The receptionist responded with an enthusiastic "Heil Hitler!" that made the paintings on the walls tremble. Walking up to Paul, he opened the front door for him and was surprised to see a luxurious Mercedes parked outside.
  
  "Good car".
  
  "It's not bad".
  
  "It was a long time ago?"
  
  "A couple of months. It's secondhand."
  
  For God's sake, don't call the police... You didn't see anything but a respectable worker who stopped to make a phone call.
  
  He felt the employee's suspicious gaze on the back of his head as he got into the car. He had to grit his teeth to keep from crying out in pain as he sat up.
  
  It's all right, he thought, focusing all his senses on starting the engine without losing consciousness. Go back to your newspaper. Go back to your goodnight. You don't want to mess with the police.
  
  The administrator kept his eyes on the Mercedes until it rounded the corner, but Paul couldn't be sure if he was just admiring the body or mentally marking the license plate.
  
  When he arrived at the stable, Paul allowed himself to fall forward onto the handlebars, his strength exhausted.
  
  He was awakened by a knock on the window. Manfred's face looked down at him with concern. Next to him was another smaller face.
  
  Julian.
  
  My son.
  
  In his mind, the next few minutes were a hodgepodge of scattered scenes. Manfred drags him from the car to the stables. I wash his wounds and sew them up. Burning pain. Julian offers him a bottle of water. He drank for what seemed like an eternity, unable to quench his thirst. And then silence again.
  
  When he finally opened his eyes, Manfred and Julian were sitting on the cart, watching him.
  
  "What is he doing here?" Paul asked hoarsely.
  
  "What should I have done with him? I couldn't leave him alone at the boarding house!"
  
  "What we have to do tonight is not a job for children."
  
  Julian got off the wagon and ran to hug him.
  
  "We were worried."
  
  "Thank you for coming to rescue me," Paul said, ruffling his hair.
  
  "Mom does the same with me," the boy said.
  
  "We're going to go and pick her up, Julian. I promise".
  
  He got up and went to tidy himself up in the little latrine in the backyard. It was little more than a bucket, now covered in cobwebs, under a faucet, and an old mirror covered in scratches.
  
  Paul studied his reflection carefully. Both of his forearms and his entire torso were bandaged. There was blood on the white cloth on his left side.
  
  "Your wounds are terrible. You have no idea how much you screamed when I applied the antiseptic," said Manfred, who walked to the door.
  
  "I do not remember anything".
  
  "Who is this dead man?"
  
  "This is the man who kidnapped Alice."
  
  "Julian, put the knife back!" shouted Manfred, who glanced over his shoulder every few seconds.
  
  "I'm sorry he had to see the body."
  
  "He is a brave boy. He held your hand the entire time I worked, and I can assure you it was not pretty. I am an engineer, not a doctor."
  
  Paul shook his head, trying to clear it. "You'll have to go out and buy some sulfanilamide. What time is it now?"
  
  "Seven in the morning".
  
  "Let's get some rest. Tonight we will go and get your sister."
  
  "Where is she?"
  
  "Camp Dachau".
  
  Manfred opened his eyes wide and swallowed.
  
  "Do you know what Dachau is, Paul?"
  
  "This is one of those camps that the Nazis built to house their political enemies. Basically, an open-air prison."
  
  "You've just returned to these shores, and it shows," said Manfred, shaking his head. "Officially, these places are great summer camps for rebellious or unruly kids. But if the few decent journalists who are still around are to be believed, places like Dachau are a living hell." Manfred went on to describe the horrors happening just a few miles from the city limits. A few months earlier, he had come across a couple of magazines that described Dachau as a low-level correctional facility, where the inmates were well fed, dressed in starched white uniforms, and smiling at the cameras. The photographs were prepared for the international press. The reality was quite different. Dachau was a quick justice prison for those who opposed the Nazis - a parody of real-life trials that rarely lasted more than an hour. It was a hard labor camp where watchdogs prowled the perimeter of the electric fences, poking out at night under constant floodlights from above.
  
  "It is impossible to get any information about the prisoners held there. And no one ever escapes, you can be sure of that," said Manfred.
  
  "Alice doesn't have to run away."
  
  Paul laid out a rough plan. Just a dozen sentences, but enough to make Manfred even more worried by the end of the explanation than before.
  
  "There are a million things that can go wrong."
  
  "But it can also work."
  
  "And the moon might be green when it rises tonight."
  
  "Listen, are you going to help me save your sister or not?"
  
  Manfred looked at Julian, who was back on the cart and kicking his ball up the sides.
  
  "I guess so," he said with a sigh.
  
  "Then go and get some rest. When you wake up, you will help me kill Paul Reiner."
  
  When he saw Manfred and Julian stretched out on the ground, trying to rest, Paul realized how exhausted he was. However, he had one more thing to do before he could get some sleep.
  
  At the other end of the stable, his mother's letter was still attached to the nail.
  
  Again, Paul had to step over Jurgen's body, but this time it was a much more difficult ordeal. He spent several minutes looking at his brother: his missing eye, the growing pallor of his skin as blood pooled in his lower parts, the symmetry of his body, disfigured by the knife that had stabbed him in the stomach. Despite the fact that this man had caused him nothing but suffering, he could not help feeling deep sadness.
  
  It should have been different, he thought, finally daring to step through the wall of air that seemed to solidify above his body.
  
  With the utmost care, he removed the letter from the nail.
  
  He was tired, but nevertheless, the emotions he experienced when he opened the letter were almost overwhelming.
  
  
  57
  
  
  My dear son:
  
  There is no correct beginning of this letter. The truth is that this is just one of several attempts I have made over the past four or five months. After a while - an interval that gets shorter every time - I have to pick up a pencil and try to write it all over again. I always hope you won't be at the boarding house when I burn the previous version and throw the ashes out the window. I then proceed to the task, this pathetic substitute for what I need to do, which is to tell you the truth.
  
  Your father. When you were little, you often asked me about him. I would have gotten rid of you with vague answers or kept my mouth shut because I was afraid. In those days, our lives depended on the Schroeders' charity, and I was too weak to look for an alternative. If only I
  
  ...But no, ignore me. My life is full of "only" and I got tired of feeling regret a long time ago.
  
  It has also been a long time since you stopped asking me about your father. In a way, that bothered me even more than your relentless interest in him when you were little, because I know how obsessed you still are with him. I know how hard it is for you to sleep at night, and I know that what you want most of all is to know what happened.
  
  That's why I must remain silent. My mind doesn't work that well, and sometimes I lose track of time or sense of where I am, and I just hope that in those moments of confusion I don't give away the location of this letter. The rest of the time, when I'm awake, all I feel is fear - fear that the day you know the truth, you'll rush to confront those responsible for Hans' death.
  
  Yes, Paul, your father didn't die in a shipwreck, as we told you, which you guessed shortly before we were kicked out of the baron's house. It would have been a fitting death for him anyway.
  
  Hans Reiner was born in Hamburg in 1876, although his family moved to Munich when he was still a boy. He ended up loving both cities, but the sea was his only true passion.
  
  He was an ambitious man. He wanted to be a captain, and he succeeded. He was already a captain when we met at a dance at the turn of this century. I don't remember the exact date, I think it was the end of 1902, but I can't be sure. He asked me to dance and I agreed. It was a waltz. By the time the music ended, I was hopelessly in love with him.
  
  He courted me between sea voyages and ended up making Munich his permanent home, just to please me, no matter how inconvenient it was for him professionally. The day he entered my parents' house to ask your grandfather for my hand in marriage was the happiest day of my life. My father was a big, good-natured man, but that day he was very serious and even shed tears. It's sad that you never got the chance to meet him; you would really like him.
  
  My father said we'd have an engagement party, a big party in the traditional style. A whole weekend with dozens of guests and a wonderful banquet.
  
  Our small house was not suitable for this, so my father asked my sister's permission to hold the event at the baron's country house in Herrsching an der Ammersee. In those days, your uncle's gambling was still under control and he had several properties scattered all over Bavaria. Brunnhilda agreed, more to stay on good terms with my mother than for any other reason.
  
  When we were little, my sister and I were never so close. She was more interested in boys, dancing and fashion than me. I preferred to stay at home with my parents. I was still playing with dolls when Brunnhilde went on her first date.
  
  She's not a bad person, Paul. She had never been like this: only selfish and spoiled. When she married the baron, a couple of years before I met your father, she was the happiest woman in the world. What made her change? I don't know. Perhaps out of boredom or your uncle's infidelity. He was a self-proclaimed womanizer, something she had never noticed before, being blinded by his money and title. Later, however, it became too obvious for her not to notice. She had a son by him, which I never expected. Edward was a good-natured, lonely child who grew up in the care of maids and nurses. His mother never gave him much attention because the boy was not fulfilling his purpose of keeping the baron on a short leash and away from his whores.
  
  Let's get back to the weekend party. At noon on Friday the guests began to arrive. I was delighted walking with my sister under the sun and waiting for your father to arrive to introduce them to each other. Finally he appeared in his military jacket, white gloves and captain's cap, with a parade sword in his hands. He was dressed like he would for a Saturday night engagement, and he said he did it to impress me. This made me laugh.
  
  But when I introduced him to Brunnhilde, something strange happened. Your father took her hand and held it for a little longer than was necessary. And she seemed bewildered, as if struck by lightning. At that time I thought - what a fool I was - that this was just embarrassment, but Brunnhilde never showed even a hint of these emotions in her life.
  
  Your father has just returned from a mission in Africa. He brought me an exotic perfume used by the natives in the colonies, made, I think, of sandalwood and molasses. It had a strong and very characteristic aroma, but at the same time it was gentle and pleasant. I clapped like a fool. I liked it, and I promised him that I would wear it to the engagement party.
  
  That night, while we were all sleeping, Brunnhilde entered your father's bedroom. The room was completely dark, and Brunnhilde was naked under her dressing gown, wearing only the perfume your father had given me. Without a sound, she got into bed and made love to him. It's still hard for me to write these words, Paul, even now that twenty years have passed.
  
  Your father, believing that I wanted to give him an advance on our wedding night, did not resist. At least that was what he told me the next day when I looked into his eyes.
  
  He swore to me, and swore again that he didn't notice anything until it was over and Brunnhilde spoke for the first time. She told him that she loved him and asked him to run away with her. Your father threw her out of the room, and the next morning he took me aside and told me what had happened.
  
  "We can cancel the wedding if you want," he said.
  
  "No," I replied. "I love you and I will marry you if you swear to me that you really had no idea it was my sister."
  
  Your father swore again, and I believed him. After all these years, I'm not sure what to think, but there is too much bitterness in my heart right now.
  
  The engagement took place, as did the wedding in Munich three months later. By then it was easy to see your aunt's swollen belly under the red lace dress she wore, and everyone was happy except me, because I knew too well whose baby it was.
  
  Finally, the Baron found out too. Not from me. I never stood up to my sister or reproached her for what she did because I am a coward. I also didn't tell anyone what I knew. But sooner or later it was bound to come out: Brunnhilde had probably thrown it in the Baron's face during an argument about one of his novels. I don't know for sure, but the fact is that he did, and that was part of the reason for what happened later.
  
  Shortly thereafter, I also became pregnant, and you were born while your father was on what was to be his last mission to Africa. The letters he wrote to me became more and more gloomy, and for some reason - I don't know exactly why - he took less and less pride in the work he was doing.
  
  One day he stopped writing altogether. The next letter I received was from the Imperial Navy informing me that my husband had deserted and that I was obliged to inform the authorities if I heard from him.
  
  I wept bitterly. I still don't know what prompted him to desert, and I don't want to know. I've learned too many things about Hans Reiner since his death, things that don't quite fit the portrait I've drawn of him. That's why I never talked to you about your father because he wasn't a role model or someone to be proud of.
  
  At the end of 1904 your father returned to Munich without my knowledge. He secretly returned with his first lieutenant, a man named Nagel, who accompanied him everywhere. Instead of returning home, he went to seek refuge in the baron's mansion. From there, he sent me a short note, and that's exactly what it said:
  
  "Dear Ilse: I made a terrible mistake and I am trying to correct it. I asked your brother-in-law for help and another good friend. Perhaps they can save me. Sometimes the greatest treasure is hidden where the greatest destruction is, or at least that's what I always thought. With love, Hans."
  
  I never understood what your father meant by those words. I read the note over and over again, although I burned it hours after receiving it, fearing it might fall into the wrong hands.
  
  As for your father's death, all I know is that he stayed at the Schroeder mansion, and there was a violent fight one night, after which he was dead. His body was thrown off the bridge at Isar under the cover of darkness.
  
  I don't know who killed your father. Your aunt told me what I am telling you here almost verbatim, although she was not present when it happened. She told me about it with tears in her eyes, and I knew she still loved him.
  
  The boy that Brunnhilde gave birth to, Jürgen, was the exact copy of your father. The love and unhealthy devotion his mother had always shown him was hardly surprising. His life wasn't the only one thrown off course on that terrible night.
  
  Defenseless and frightened, I accepted Otto's offer that I should leave and live with them. For him, it was both atonement for what had been done to Hans and a way to punish Brunnhilde by reminding her who Hans preferred. For Brunnhilde, this became her own way of punishing me for stealing a man she liked, even though the man had never belonged to her.
  
  And for me it was a way to survive. Your father left me nothing but his debts when the government deigned to declare him dead a few years later, although his body was never found. So you and I lived in that mansion where there was nothing but hatred.
  
  There is one more thing. To me, Jurgen was never anything but your brother, because although he was conceived in Brunnhilde's womb, I considered him my son. I could never show affection for him, but he is part of your father, a man whom I loved with all my heart. Seeing him every day, even for a few moments, was like seeing my Hans with me again.
  
  My cowardice and selfishness have shaped your life, Paul. I never wanted your father's death to affect you. I tried to lie to you and hide the facts so that when you get older you don't go looking for some ridiculous revenge. Don't do this, please.
  
  If this letter ends up in your hands, which I doubt, I want you to know that I love you very much, and all I tried to do with my actions was to protect you. I'm sorry.
  
  Your mother who loves you
  
  Ilse Reiner
  
  
  58
  
  
  When he finished reading his mother's words, Paul wept for a long time.
  
  He shed tears for Ilse, who suffered all her life because of love and who made mistakes because of love. He shed tears for Jurgen, who was born into the worst possible situation. He shed tears for himself, for a boy who wept for a father who didn't deserve it.
  
  As he fell asleep, a strange sense of peace came over him, a feeling he did not remember having ever felt before. Whatever the outcome of the madness they were about to undertake in a few hours, he achieved his goal.
  
  Manfred woke him up with a gentle pat on the back. Julian was a few meters away, eating a sausage sandwich.
  
  "It's seven o'clock now."
  
  "Why did you let me sleep for so long?"
  
  "You needed rest. In the meantime, I went shopping. I brought everything you said. Towels, steel spoon, spatula, everything."
  
  "So let's get started."
  
  Manfred had Paul take a sulfanilamide to stop his wounds from getting infected, then the two of them sent Julian to the car.
  
  "Can I start?" the boy asked.
  
  "Do not even think about it!" shouted Manfred.
  
  She and Paul then removed the dead man's trousers and boots and dressed him in Paul's clothes. They put Paul's papers in their jacket pocket. Then they dug a deep hole in the floor and buried him.
  
  "I hope this will confuse them for a while. I don't think they'll find him for a few weeks and by then there won't be much left of him," Paul said.
  
  Jürgen's uniform hung on a nail in the stalls. Paul was more or less the same height as his brother, although Jurgen was stockier. Thanks to the bulky bandages that Paul wore on his arms and chest, the uniform fit quite well. The boots were tight, but the rest fit.
  
  "This uniform fits you like a glove. That"s what will never go away is this."
  
  Manfred showed him Jurgen's ID. It was in a small leather wallet, along with his Nazi Party card and SS ID. The resemblance between Jurgen and Paul has increased over the years. Both had strong jaws, blue eyes, and similar facial features. Jürgen's hair was darker, but they could fix that with the hair lubricant Manfred had bought. Paul could easily pass for Jurgen, except for one small detail that Manfred pointed out on the card. In the "distinguishing features" section, the words "Missing right eye" were clearly written.
  
  "One patch won't be enough, Paul. If they ask you to pick it up..."
  
  "I know, Manfred. That's why I need your help."
  
  Manfred looked at him in complete astonishment.
  
  "You don"t think about..."
  
  "I must do it".
  
  "But this is crazy!"
  
  "Just like the rest of the plan. And that's his weakest point."
  
  Finally Manfred agreed. Paul sat in the driver's seat of the wagon, towels covering his chest as if he were in a barbershop.
  
  "Ready?"
  
  "Wait," said Manfred, who seemed frightened. "Let's repeat this one more time to make sure there are no errors."
  
  "I'm going to put a spoon to the edge of my right eyelid and rip out my eye by the root. While I'm taking this out, you must apply antiseptics to me, and then gauze. Everything is fine?"
  
  Manfred nodded. He was so scared that he could hardly speak.
  
  "Ready?" he asked again.
  
  "Ready".
  
  Ten seconds later there was nothing but screams.
  
  By 11:00 p.m., Paul had taken almost a whole pack of aspirins, leaving himself two more. The wound stopped bleeding, and Manfred disinfected it every fifteen minutes, applying fresh gauze each time.
  
  Julian, who had returned a few hours earlier, alarmed by the screams, found his father with his head in his hands and howling at the top of his lungs, while his uncle was yelling hysterically for him to get out. He returned and locked himself in the Mercedes and then burst into tears.
  
  When things calmed down, Manfred went to fetch his nephew and explained the plan. Upon seeing Paul, Julian asked, "Are you doing all this just for my mother?" There was reverence in his voice.
  
  "And for you, Julian. Because I want us to be together."
  
  The boy didn't answer, but he held onto Paul's arm tightly and still didn't let go when Paul decided it was time for them to leave. He climbed into the back seat of the car with Julian, and Manfred rode the sixteen kilometers that separated them from the camp, a tense expression on his face. It took them almost an hour to get to their destination, as Manfred could barely drive and the car was constantly skidding.
  
  "When we get there, the car must not stall under any circumstances, Manfred," Paul said worriedly.
  
  "I'll do my best."
  
  As they approached the city of Dachau, Paul noticed a striking change from Munich. Even in the dark, the poverty in this city was evident. The pavement was in poor condition and dirty, the road signs were pockmarked, the facades of the buildings were old and peeling.
  
  "What a sad place," Paul said.
  
  "Of all the places they could take Alice to, this is definitely the worst."
  
  "Why do you say that?"
  
  "Our father owned a gunpowder factory, which used to be located in this city."
  
  Paul was about to tell Manfred that his own mother worked at that munitions factory and that she had been fired, but found himself too tired to start a conversation.
  
  "The really ironic thing is that my father sold the land to the Nazis. And they built a camp on it."
  
  Finally, they saw a yellow sign with black letters telling them that the camp was 1.2 miles away.
  
  "Stop, Manfred. Slowly turn around and step back a little."
  
  Manfred did as he was told and they returned to a small building that looked like an empty barn, although it appeared to have been abandoned for some time.
  
  "Julian, listen very carefully," Paul said, holding the boy by the shoulders and forcing him to look into his eyes. "Your uncle and I are going to a concentration camp to try and rescue your mother. But you can't come with us. I want you to get out of the car right away with my suitcase and wait at the back of this building. Hide as best you can, don't talk to anyone, and don't come out until you hear me or your uncle calling you, got it?"
  
  Julian nodded, his lips quivering.
  
  "Brave boy," Paul said, hugging him.
  
  "What if you don't come back?"
  
  "Don't even think about it, Julian. We will do it".
  
  After placing Julian in his hiding place, Paul and Manfred returned to the car.
  
  "Why didn't you tell him what to do if we don't come back?" asked Manfred.
  
  "Because he is a smart kid. He will look into the suitcase; he will take the money and leave the rest. In any case, I have no one to send it to. What does a wound look like? he asked, turning on the reading lamp and removing the bandage from his eye.
  
  "She is swollen, but not too much. The lid is not too red. It hurts?"
  
  "Like hell."
  
  Paul looked at himself in the rearview mirror. Where there used to be an eyeball, there was now a patch of wrinkled skin. A small trickle of blood oozed from the corner of his eye like a scarlet tear.
  
  "It must look old, damn it."
  
  "Perhaps they won't ask you to remove the patch."
  
  "Thank you".
  
  He took the patch from his pocket and put it on, throwing the pieces of gauze out the window into the ditch. When he looked at himself in the mirror again, a shiver ran down his spine.
  
  The person who looked back at him was Jurgen.
  
  He glanced at the Nazi armband on his left arm.
  
  I once thought I'd rather die than carry that symbol, Paul thought. Today Floor Reiner dead . I am now Jurgen von Schroeder.
  
   He climbed out of the passenger seat and into the back, trying to remember what his brother was like, his contemptuous air, his arrogant manner. The way he projected his voice like it was an extension of himself, trying to make everyone else feel inferior.
  
  I can do it, Paul told himself. We'll see...
  
  "Turn her on, Manfred. We must not waste any more time."
  
  
  59
  
  
  Arbeit Macht Frei
  
  These were the words written in iron letters over the gates of the camp. The words, however, were nothing more than strokes in a different form. None of the people there would have earned their freedom by working.
  
  As the Mercedes pulled up at the entrance, a sleepy guard in a black uniform stepped out of the sentry's booth, shone his flashlight briefly inside the car, and motioned for them to pass. The gates opened immediately.
  
  "It was easy," whispered Manfred.
  
  "Have you ever known a prison that was hard to get into? The hard part is usually getting out," Paul replied.
  
  The gate was fully open, but the car did not move.
  
  "What the hell is wrong with you? Don't stop there."
  
  "I don't know where to go, Paul," Manfred replied, his hands clenched on the steering wheel.
  
  "Crap".
  
  Paul opened the window and motioned for the guard to come over. He ran to the car.
  
  "Yes, sir?"
  
  "Corporal, my head is hurting. Please explain to my idiot driver how to get to whoever is in charge here. I bring orders from Munich."
  
  "At the moment the only people are in the brig, sir."
  
  "Well then, come on, corporal, tell him."
  
  The guard gave instructions to Manfred, who did not have to feign displeasure. "You didn"t overdo it a little?" asked Manfred.
  
  "If you ever saw my brother talking to the staff... that would be him on one of his best days."
  
  Manfred drove the car around a fenced area, where a strange and pungent smell seeped into the car, despite the fact that the windows were closed. On the other side, they could see the dark outlines of countless barracks. The only movement came from a group of prisoners running alongside a lit street lamp. They were dressed in striped jumpsuits with a single yellow star embroidered on the chest. The right leg of each of the men was tied to the ankle of the one behind him. When one fell, at least four or five fell with him.
  
  "Move, you dogs! You'll keep going until you've completed ten laps in a row without tripping once! the guard shouted, waving a stick with which he beat the fallen prisoners. Those who had done so quickly jumped to their feet, their faces smeared with mud and frightened.
  
  "Oh my God, I can't believe Alice is in this hell," Paul muttered. "We better not fail, otherwise we will end up next to her as guests of honor. That is, unless they shoot us to death."
  
  The car stopped in front of a low white building, the illuminated door of which was guarded by two soldiers. Paul had already reached for the doorknob when Manfred stopped him.
  
  "What are you doing?" he whispered. "I have to open the door for you!"
  
  Paul caught himself in time. His headache and sense of disorientation had increased in the last few minutes, and he struggled to get his thoughts in order. He felt a pang of fear at what he was about to do. For a moment he was tempted to tell Manfred to turn around and get out of this place as quickly as possible.
  
  I can't do this to Alice. Or for Julian, or for himself. I have to get in... whatever happens.
  
  The car door was open. Paul put one foot on the cement and stuck his head out, and the two soldiers instantly stood to attention and raised their hands. Paul got out of the Mercedes and saluted back.
  
  "At ease," he said as he walked through the door.
  
  The guardroom consisted of a small office-like room with three or four neat tables, each with a tiny Nazi flag next to a pencil holder, and a portrait of the Fuhrer as the only decoration on the walls. Next to the door stood a long table that looked like a counter, behind which sat a sour-faced official. He straightened up when he saw Paul enter.
  
  Heil Hitler!
  
  "Heil Hitler!" - answered Paul, carefully examining the room. There was a window in the back that looked out onto what appeared to be some kind of common room. Through the glass, he could see about ten soldiers playing cards in a cloud of smoke.
  
  "Good evening, Herr Obersturmführer," the official said. "What can I do for you at this time of the night?"
  
  "I'm here on urgent business. I have to take the imprisoned woman with me to Munich for ... for interrogation."
  
  "Of course, sir. And the name?
  
  Alys Tannenbaum.
  
  "Ah, the one they brought yesterday. We don't have many women here - no more than fifty, you know. Too bad she's being taken away. She is one of the few who is... quite good," he said with a lustful smile.
  
  "You mean for a Jew?"
  
  The man behind the counter swallowed at the threat in Paul's voice.
  
  "Of course, sir, not bad for a Jew."
  
  "Certainly. Well, then what are you waiting for? Bring her in!"
  
  "Immediately, sir. May I have a look at the transfer order, sir?"
  
  Paul, whose arms were crossed behind his back, clenched his fists tightly. He prepared his answer to this question. If his little speech had worked, they'd have dragged Alice out, jumped in the car, and left the place, free as the wind. Otherwise, there would have been a phone call, perhaps more than one. In less than half an hour, he and Manfred will be honored guests of the camp.
  
  "Now listen carefully, Herr..."
  
  Faber, sir. Gustav Faber ."
  
  Listen, Herr Faber. Two hours ago I was in bed with this delightful girl from Frankfurt that I had been chasing for days. Days! Suddenly the phone rang, and do you know who it was?"
  
  "No, sir."
  
  Paul leaned over the bar and carefully lowered his voice.
  
  "It was Reinhard Heydrich, a great man himself. He said to me: 'Jurgen, my good man, bring me that Jewish girl that we sent to Dachau yesterday, because it turns out we didn't get enough out of her'. And I said to him: 'Can't somebody else go?' And he said to me: 'No, because I want you to work on it on the way. Scare her with this special method of yours.' So I got into my car and here I am. Anything to do a favor for a friend. But that doesn't mean I'm not in a bad mood. So get the Jewish whore out of here once and for all so I can get back to my little friend before she falls asleep."
  
  "Sir, I'm sorry, but..."
  
  "Herr Faber, do you know who I am?"
  
   " No , sir ."
  
  "I'm Baron von Schroeder."
  
   At these words, the face of the little man changed.
  
  "Why didn't you say this before, sir? I am a good friend of Adolf Eichmann. He told me a lot about you, - he lowered his voice, "and I know that you two are on a special assignment for Herr Heydrich. Anyway, don't worry, I'll deal with it."
  
  He got up, went into the common room and called out to one of the soldiers, who was clearly annoyed that his card game had been interrupted. Moments later, the man disappeared through a door that was out of Paul's line of sight.
  
  Meanwhile, Faber returned. He took a purple form from under the counter and began to fill it out.
  
  "Can I get your ID? I need to write down your CC number."
  
  Paul held out a leather wallet.
  
  "It's all here. Do it quickly."
  
  Faber took out his ID card and stared at the photo for a few moments. Paul watched him carefully. He saw a shadow of doubt cross the official's face as he looked at him, and then looked down at the photograph again. He had to do something. Distract him, deal him a death blow to remove all doubt.
  
  "What's the matter, you can't find her? Do I need to take a look at her?"
  
  When the clerk looked at him in confusion, Paul lifted the patch for a moment and smiled unpleasantly.
  
  "N-no, sir. I'm just celebrating it now."
  
  He returned the leather wallet to Paul.
  
  "Sir, I hope you don't mind my mentioning this, but... there's blood in your eye socket."
  
  "Oh, thank you, Herr Faber. The doctor dries up tissues that have been formed over the years. He says he can insert a glass eye. In the meantime, I'm at the mercy of his tools. Anyway..."
  
  "Everything is ready, sir. Look, they will bring her here now."
  
  A door opened behind Paul and he heard footsteps. Paul didn't turn to look at Alice yet, afraid that his face would betray even the slightest emotion, or worse, that she would recognize him. It was only when she was standing next to him that he dared to give her a quick, sidelong glance.
  
  Alice, dressed in what looked like a rough gray robe, tilted her head, staring at the floor. She was barefoot and had handcuffs on her hands.
  
  Don't think about what she is, Paul thought. Just think of a way to get her out of here alive.
  
  "Well, if that's all..."
  
  "Yes, sir. Sign here and below, please."
  
  The false baron took up his pen and tried to make his scrawl illegible. Then he took Alice's hand and turned, pulling her along with him.
  
  "Just one last thing, sir?"
  
  Paul turned again.
  
  "What the hell is this?" he shouted irritably.
  
  "I will have to call Herr Eichmann to authorize the prisoner's departure, since he was the one who signed her."
  
  Terrified, Paul struggled to find something to say.
  
  "Do you think it is necessary to wake up our friend Adolf on such a trivial matter?"
  
  "It won't take a minute, sir," the official said. He was already on the phone.
  
  
  60
  
  
  We're done, Paul thought.
  
  A drop of sweat stood out on his forehead, ran down his eyebrows, and rolled into the socket of his good eye. Paul blinked warily, but more drops were already forming. It was very hot in the security room, especially where Paul stood, right under the light bulb that illuminated the entrance. Jurgen's cap, which was too tight for him, did not help.
  
  They shouldn't see that I'm nervous.
  
  "Herr Eichmann?"
  
  Faber's harsh voice echoed through the room. He was one of those people who spoke louder when on the phone so that his voice would be easier to carry over the cables.
  
  "Sorry to disturb you at this time. I have Baron von Schroeder here; he came to pick up a prisoner who..."
  
  The pauses in conversation were a relief to Paul's ears, but a torture to his nerves, and he'd give anything to hear the other side. "Right. Yes indeed. Yes, I understand."
  
  At that moment, the official looked up at Paul, his face very serious. Paul held his gaze as a new drop of sweat traced the path of the first.
  
  "Yes, sir. It's clear. I will do it".
  
  He hung up slowly.
  
  "Herr Baron?"
  
  "What's happening?"
  
  "Could you wait here a minute?" I"ll be right back."
  
  "Very good, but do it quickly!"
  
  Faber went back through the door that led to the common room. Through the glass, Paul saw him approach one of the soldiers, who in turn approached his colleagues.
  
  They bit us. They found Jurgen's body and now they're going to arrest us. The only reason they haven't attacked yet is because they want to take us alive. Well, that won't happen.
  
  Paul was utterly horrified. Paradoxically, the pain in his head had lessened, no doubt due to the rivers of adrenaline coursing through his veins. More than anything, he felt the touch of his hand on Alice's skin. She hasn't looked up since she entered. At the far end of the room, the soldier who had brought her in was waiting, tapping impatiently on the floor.
  
  If they come for us, the last thing I'll do is kiss her.
  
  The official returned, now accompanied by two other soldiers. Paul turned to face them, forcing Alice to do the same.
  
  "Herr Baron?"
  
  "Yes?"
  
  "I spoke to Herr Eichmann and he gave me some amazing news. I had to share it with other soldiers. These people want to talk to you."
  
  Two people from the common room stepped forward.
  
  "Please allow me to shake hands with you, sir, on behalf of the entire company."
  
  "Permission granted, Corporal," an astonished Paul managed to say.
  
  "I'm honored to meet a real old fighter, sir," the soldier said, pointing to the small medal on Paul's chest. An eagle in flight, spreading its wings, holding a laurel wreath. Order of the Blood.
  
  Paul, who had no idea what the medal meant, simply nodded and shook hands with the soldiers and official.
  
  "Was that when you lost your eye, sir?" Faber asked him with a smile.
  
  A warning bell rang in Paul's head. This could be a trap. But he had no idea what the soldier was getting at and how to respond.
  
  What the hell would Jurgen say to people? Would he say it was an accident during a stupid fight in his youth, or would he pretend that his injury was something it wasn't?
  
  Soldiers and an official watched him, listening to his words.
  
  "My whole life has been devoted to the Fuhrer, gentlemen. And my body too."
  
  "So you were injured during the coup on the 23rd?" Faber pressed him.
  
  He knew Jurgen had lost an eye before, and he wouldn't have dared to tell such an obvious lie. So the answer was no. But what explanation would he give?
  
  "I'm afraid not, gentlemen. It was a hunting accident."
  
  The soldiers seemed a little disappointed, but the officer was still smiling.
  
  So maybe it wasn't a trap after all, Paul thought with relief.
  
  "So, are we done with social niceties, Herr Faber?"
  
  "Not really, sir. Herr Eichmann told me to give you this," he said, holding out a small box. "This is the news I was talking about."
  
  Paul took the box from the officer's hands and opened it. Inside was a typewritten sheet and something wrapped in brown paper. My dear friend, congratulations on your excellent performance. I feel that you have more than completed the task I gave you. Very soon, we will begin to act on the evidence you have collected. I also have the honor to convey to you the personal thanks of the Führer. He asked me about you, and when I told him that you were already wearing the Order of the Blood and the gold emblem of the party on your chest, he asked what special honor we could give you. We talked for a few minutes and then the Führer came up with this brilliant joke. He is a man with a subtle sense of humor, so much so that he ordered it from his personal jeweler. Come to Berlin as soon as you can. I have big plans for you. Yours cordially, Reinhard Heydrich
  
  Understanding nothing of what he had just read, Paul unfolded the object. It was a gold emblem of a double-headed eagle on a rhombus of a Teutonic cross. The proportions were wrong and the materials a deliberate and offensive parody, but still Paul immediately recognized the symbol.
  
  It was the emblem of a thirty-second degree Freemason.
  
  Jurgen, what have you done?
  
  "Gentlemen," said Faber, pointing to him, "applause for Baron von Schroeder, a man who, according to Herr Eichmann, completed a task so important to the Reich that the Führer himself ordered a unique award created especially for him."
  
  The soldiers applauded as a bewildered Paul walked outside with the prisoner. Faber accompanied them, opening the door for him. He put something into Paul's hand.
  
  "Keys to the handcuffs, sir."
  
  "Thank you, Faber."
  
  "It was an honor for me, sir."
  
  As the car approached the exit, Manfred turned slightly, his face wet with sweat.
  
  "Why the hell are you taking so long?"
  
  "Later, Manfred. Not before we get out of here," Paul whispered.
  
  His hand searched for Alice's, and she silently squeezed it back. They stayed that way until they passed through the gate.
  
  "Alice," he finally said, taking her chin, "you can relax. It's just us."
  
  Finally she looked up. She was covered in bruises.
  
  "I knew it was you the moment you grabbed my hand. Oh, Paul, I was so afraid," she said, resting her head on his chest.
  
  "Are you all right?" asked Manfred.
  
  "Yes," she answered weakly.
  
  "Did that bastard do something to you?" her brother asked. Paul didn't tell him that Jurgen had bragged about having brutally raped Alice.
  
  She hesitated for a few moments before answering, and when she did, she avoided Paul's gaze.
  
  "No".
  
  No one will ever know, Alice, Paul thought. And I will never let you know what I know.
  
  "It's just as good. Either way, you'll be pleased to know that Paul killed the son of a bitch. You have no idea how far this person went to get you out of there."
  
  Alice looked at Paul, and suddenly she realized what the plan meant and how much he sacrificed. She raised her hands, still in handcuffs, and removed the patch.
  
  "Floor!" she exclaimed, holding back her sobs. She hugged him.
  
  "Hush... don't say anything."
  
  Alice was silent. And then the sirens wailed.
  
  
  61
  
  
  "What the hell is going on here?" Manfred asked.
  
  He had fifty feet to go before he reached the exit of the camp when a siren began to wail. Paul looked out the rear window of the car and saw several soldiers fleeing from the guardhouse they had just left. Somehow, they figured out that he was an impostor and hurried to close the heavy metal exit door.
  
  "Step on her! Get in there before he closes it!" Paul yelled at Manfred, who instantly bit his teeth hard and tightened his grip on the steering wheel while pressing the gas pedal. The car shot forward like a bullet, and the guard jumped aside just as the car slammed into the metal door with a mighty roar. Manfred's forehead bounced off the steering wheel, but he managed to keep the car under control.
  
  The guard at the gate drew his pistol and opened fire. The rear window shattered into a million pieces.
  
  "Whatever you do, don't head towards Munich, Manfred! Stay off the main road!" Paul screamed, shielding Alice from the flying glass. "Take the detour we saw on the way up."
  
  "Are you crazy?" Manfred said. He crouched low in his seat and could barely see where he was going. "We have no idea where this road leads! And how about..."
  
  "We can't risk them catching us," Paul said, interrupting him.
  
  Manfred nodded and took a sharp detour, heading down a dirt road that faded into darkness. Paul pulled his brother's Luger from its holster. It seemed like a lifetime had passed since he had taken her from the stable. He checked the magazine: there were only eight rounds in it. If they had been followed, it wouldn't have taken them far.
  
  Just then, a pair of headlights ripped through the darkness behind them, and they heard the click of a pistol and the clatter of a machine gun. They were followed by two cars, and although neither was as fast as the Mercedes, their drivers knew the area. Paul knew it wouldn't be long before they caught up. And the last sound they hear will be deafening
  
  "Damn it! Manfred, we must get them off our tail!"
  
  "How are we supposed to do this? I don't even know where we're going."
  
  Paul had to think fast. He turned to Alice, who was still cowering in her seat.
  
  "Alice, listen to me."
  
  She glanced at him nervously, and Paul saw fear in her eyes, but also determination. She tried to smile, and Paul felt a pang of love and pain for everything she'd been through.
  
  "Do you know how to use one of these?" he asked, raising the Luger.
  
  Alice shook her head. "I need you to take it and pull the trigger when I tell you. The fuse has been removed. Be careful".
  
  "So what now?" Manfred screamed.
  
  "Now you step on the gas and we're trying to get away from them. If you see a path, a road, a horse trail, whatever, follow it. I have an idea ".
  
  Manfred nodded and stepped on the pedal as the car growled, devouring potholes as it flew over the bumpy road. The shooting began again, and the rear-view mirror shattered as more bullets hit the trunk. Finally, up ahead, they found what they were looking for.
  
  "Look there! The road goes uphill, then there is a fork to the left. When I say turn off the lights and dive down this path."
  
  Manfred nodded and straightened up in the driver's seat, ready to swerve as Paul turned to the back seat.
  
  "So, Alice! Shoot twice!"
  
  Alice sat up and the wind threw her hair into her face, making it hard for her to see. She held the pistol in both hands and pointed at the fires pursuing them. She pulled the trigger twice and experienced a strange feeling of power and satisfaction: retribution. Surprised by the gunfire, their pursuers recoiled to the side of the road, momentarily distracted.
  
  "Come on, Manfred!"
  
  He turned off the headlights and jerked the steering wheel, steering the car toward the dark abyss. Then he shifted into neutral and headed down the new road, which was little more than a path into the woods.
  
  All three held their breath and crouched in their seats as their pursuers swept past at full speed, unaware that their fugitives had fled.
  
  "I think we got away from them!" said Manfred, stretching his arms, which ached from gripping the steering wheel so tightly on the rutted road. Blood was dripping from his nose, although he didn't look broken.
  
  "Okay, let's get back to the main road before they realize what happened."
  
  After it became clear that they had successfully broken away from their pursuers, Manfred made his way to the barn where Julian was waiting. Approaching his destination, he turned off the road and parked next to it. Paul took the opportunity to remove the handcuffs from Alice.
  
  "Let's go and pick it up together. He's in for a surprise."
  
  "Bring who?" she asked.
  
  "Our son, Alice. He hides behind a hut."
  
  "Julian? Did you bring Julian here? Are you both crazy?" she screamed.
  
  "We didn't have a choice," protested Paul. "The last few hours have been terrible."
  
  She didn't hear him because she was already getting out of the car and running towards the hut.
  
  "Julian! Julian, honey, it's mom! Where are you?"
  
  Paul and Manfred rushed after her, afraid that she would fall and hurt herself. They ran into Alice in the corner of the hut. She stopped dead in her tracks, horrified, her eyes wide.
  
  "What's going on, Alice?" Paul said.
  
  "What is happening, my friend," said a voice from the darkness, "is that you three will really have to behave yourself if you know what is good for this little man."
  
  Paul suppressed a cry of rage as the figure took a few steps towards the headlights, getting close enough that they could recognize him and see what he was doing.
  
  It was Sebastian Keller. And he aimed the gun at Julian's head.
  
  
  62
  
  
  "Mother!" shouted Julian, completely frightened. The old bookseller had his left arm around the boy's neck; the other hand was pointed at the pistol. Paul searched in vain for his brother's gun. The holster was empty; Alice left it in the car. "Sorry, he took me by surprise. Then he saw the suitcase and took out a gun..."
  
  "Julian dear," Alice said calmly. "Don't worry about it now.
  
  I-"
  
  "Everyone be quiet!" Keller shouted. "This is a private matter between me and Paul."
  
  "You heard what he said," Paul said.
  
  He tried to get Alice and Manfred out of Keller's line of fire, but the bookseller stopped him, tightening his grip on Julian's neck.
  
  "Stay where you are, Paul. It would be better for the boy if you stood behind Fraulein Tannenbaum."
  
  "You are a rat, Keller. Only a cowardly rat would hide behind a defenseless child."
  
  The bookseller began to back away, hiding in the shadows again until they could only hear his voice.
  
  "I'm sorry, Paul. Trust me, I'm sorry. But I don't want to end up like Clovis and your brother."
  
  "But how..."
  
  "How did I know? I've been following you since you walked into my bookstore three days ago. And the last twenty-four hours have been very informative. But right now I'm tired and would like to get some sleep, so just give me what I'm asking for and I'll set your son free."
  
  "Who the hell is this crazy guy, Paul?" asked Manfred.
  
  "The man who killed my father."
  
  There was obvious surprise in Keller's voice.
  
  "Well, now... then you are not as naive as you seem."
  
  Paul stepped forward, placing himself between Alice and Manfred.
  
  "When I read the note from my mother, she said he was with her brother-in-law Nagel and a third party, 'friend'. It was then that I realized that you had been manipulating me from the very beginning."
  
  "That night, your father called me to intercede on his behalf with some powerful people. He wanted the murder he committed in the colonies and his desertion to disappear. It was difficult, although your uncle and I might have been able to pull it off. In exchange, he offered us ten percent of the stones. Ten percent!"
  
  "So you killed him."
  
  "It was an accident. We had an argument. He pulled out a gun, I rushed at him... What does it matter?"
  
  "Except that it mattered, didn't it, Keller?"
  
  "We expected to find a treasure map in his papers, but there was no map. We knew he sent the envelope to your mother, and we thought she saved it one day... But years passed and it never surfaced."
  
  "Because he never sent her any card, Keller."
  
  Then Paul understood. The last piece of the puzzle fell into place.
  
  "Did you find it, Paul? Do not lie to me; I can read you like a book."
  
  Paul looked around before answering. The situation couldn't be worse. Julian was with Keller and the three of them were unarmed. When car headlights are pointed at them, they will be an ideal target for a person hiding in the shadows. And even if Paul decided to attack, and Keller took the gun away from the boy's head, he would have a perfect shot into Paul's body.
  
  I have to distract him. But how?
  
  The only thing that came to his mind was to tell Keller the truth.
  
  "My father didn"t give you an envelope for me, did he?"
  
  Keller laughed contemptuously.
  
  "Paul, your father was one of the biggest bastards I have ever seen. He was a Don Juan and a coward, although it was also fun with him. We were good together, but the only person Hans ever cared about was himself. I made up the story about the envelope, just to spur you on, to see if you can stir things up a bit after all these years. When you took the Mauser, Paul, you took the gun that killed your father. This, in case you haven't noticed, is the same gun I point at Julian's head."
  
  "And all this time..."
  
  "Yes, all this time I was waiting for the opportunity to get the prize. I'm fifty-nine, Paul. I have ten more good years ahead of me, if I'm lucky. And I'm sure a chest full of diamonds will liven up my retirement. So tell me where the map is, 'cause I know you know."
  
  "It's in my suitcase."
  
  "No, it's not. I scanned it from top to bottom."
  
  "I'm telling you, that's where it is."
  
  There was silence for a few seconds.
  
  "Very good," Keller finally said. "This is what we are going to do. Fraulein Tannenbaum will take a few steps towards me and follow my instructions. She'll pull the suitcase out into the light, and then you'll squat down and show me where the map is. It's clear?"
  
  Paul nodded.
  
  "I repeat, is that clear?" Keller insisted, raising his voice.
  
  "Alice," Paul said.
  
  "Yes, that's clear," she said in a firm voice, taking a step forward.
  
  Concerned about her tone, Paul grabbed her arm.
  
  "Alice, don't be stupid."
  
  "She won't, Paul. Don't worry," Keller said.
  
  Alice freed her hand. There was something about the way she walked, her seeming passivity - the way she stepped into the shadows without showing the slightest hint of emotion - that made Paul's heart ache. Suddenly he felt a desperate certainty that it was all useless. That in a few minutes four loud claps would be heard, four bodies would be laid out on a bed of pine needles, seven dead, cold eyes would contemplate the dark silhouettes of trees.
  
  Alice was too frightened by Julian's predicament to do anything about it. She followed Keller's short, dry instructions to the letter and immediately appeared in the lighted area, backing away, dragging an open suitcase full of clothes behind her.
  
  Paul squatted down and started rummaging through his pile of things.
  
  "Be very careful what you do," Keller said.
  
  Paul didn't answer. He found what he was looking for, the key to which his father's words led him.
  
  Sometimes the greatest treasure is hidden in the same place as the greatest destruction.
  
  The mahogany box in which his father kept his gun.
  
  Slowly, keeping his hands out, Paul opened it. He slipped his fingers into the thin lining of red felt and yanked hard. The cloth ripped open with a crack, revealing a small square of paper. It had various drawings and figures handwritten in Indian ink.
  
  "Well, Keller? How does it feel to know that the card has been under your nose all these years?" he said, holding up a piece of paper.
  
  Another pause followed. Paul enjoyed seeing the disappointment on the old bookseller's face.
  
  "Very good," Keller said hoarsely. "Now give the paper to Alice and let her very slowly approach me."
  
  Paul calmly put the map in his trouser pocket.
  
  "No".
  
  "Didn't you hear what I said?"
  
  "I said "No".
  
  "Paul, do what he tells you!" Alice said.
  
  "This man killed my father."
  
  "And he's going to kill our son!"
  
  "You have to do as he says, Paul," Manfred urged.
  
  "Very good," Paul said, reaching back into his pocket and pulling out the note. "In this case..."
  
  With a quick movement, he crumpled it, put it in his mouth and began to chew.
  
  "Nooo!"
  
  Keller's scream of rage echoed through the forest. The old bookseller stepped out of the shadows, dragging Julian behind him, the gun still pointed at his skull. But as he approached Paul, he pointed it at Paul's chest.
  
  "Damn son of a bitch!"
  
  Come a little closer, Paul thought, getting ready to jump.
  
  "You had no right!"
  
  Keller stopped, still out of Paul's reach.
  
  Closer!
  
  He started pulling the trigger. Paul tensed his leg muscles.
  
  "Those diamonds were mine!"
  
  The last word turned into a piercing, shapeless scream. The bullet flew out of the pistol, but Keller's hand jerked up. He released Julian and turned around strangely, as if he was trying to reach for something behind him. When he turned, the light revealed a strange red-handled sprout on his back.
  
  The hunting knife that fell out of Jürgen von Schroeder's hand twenty-four hours ago.
  
  Julian kept the knife in his belt the whole time, waiting for the moment when the gun was no longer pointed at his head. He thrust the blade in with all the force he could muster, but at a strange angle, so it did nothing more than give Keller a superficial wound. Howling in pain, Keller took aim at the boy's head.
  
  Paul chose this moment to jump, and his shoulder hit Keller in the small of the back. The bookseller collapsed to the ground and tried to roll over, but Paul was already on top of him, pinning his hands with his knees and punching him in the face again and again.
  
  He attacked the bookseller more than two dozen times, not noticing the pain in his hands, which were completely swollen the next day, and the abrasions on his knuckles. His conscience was gone and the only thing that mattered to Paul was the pain he caused. He didn't stop until he could do more damage.
  
  "Floor. That's enough," said Manfred, placing a hand on his shoulder. "He is dead".
  
  Paul turned around. Julian was in his mother's arms, his head buried in her chest. He prayed to God that his son would not see what he had just done. He took off Jurgen's jacket, which was soaked in Keller's blood, and went over to hug Julian.
  
  "Are you all right?"
  
  "I'm sorry I disobeyed what you said about the knife," the boy said, starting to cry.
  
  "You were very brave, Julian. And you saved our lives."
  
  "Really?"
  
  "Really. Now we have to go," he said, walking towards the car. "Someone might have heard the shot."
  
  Alice and Julian sat in the back while Paul settled into the passenger seat. Manfred started the engine and they got back on the road.
  
  They continued to glance nervously in the rearview mirror, but no one was watching them. No doubt someone was chasing the fugitives from Dachau. But it turned out that moving in the opposite direction from Munich was the right strategy. However, it was a small victory. They will never be able to return to their old life.
  
  "There's one thing I want to know, Paul," whispered Manfred, breaking the silence half an hour later.
  
  "What is this?"
  
  "Did this little piece of paper really lead to a chest full of diamonds?"
  
  "I believe that it was. Buried somewhere in South West Africa."
  
  "Understood," Manfred said disappointedly.
  
  "Would you like to see her?"
  
  "We must leave Germany. Going on a treasure hunt wouldn't be such a bad idea. Too bad you swallowed it."
  
  "The truth is," Paul said, pulling a map from his pocket, "I swallowed the note about my brother's medal. Although, given the circumstances, I"m not sure he would mind."
  
  
  Epilogue
  
  
  
  STRAIT OF GIBRALTAR
  
  March 12, 1940
  
  When the waves hit the makeshift boat, Paul began to worry. The crossing was supposed to be easy, just a few miles on calm seas, under the cover of night.
  
  Then things got more complicated.
  
  Not that anything has been easy in the past few years, of course. They escaped Germany across the Austrian border without much setback and reached South Africa in early 1935.
  
  It was a time of new beginnings. The smile returned to Alice's face and she was back to being the strong, stubborn woman she had always been. Julian's terrible fear of the dark began to subside. And Manfred developed a strong friendship with his brother-in-law, especially since Paul let him win at chess.
  
  The search for the treasures of Hans Reiner turned out to be more difficult than it might seem at first glance. Paul returned to work in the diamond mine for a few months, now accompanied by Manfred, who, thanks to his qualifications as an engineer, became Paul's boss. Alice, in turn, wasted no time in becoming the unofficial photographer at every social event under the Mandate.
  
  Together they managed to save up enough money to buy a small farm in the Orange River basin, the same farm from which Hans and Nagel had stolen the diamonds thirty-two years earlier. The property had changed hands several times over the previous three decades, and many said it was cursed. Several people warned Paul that he would be throwing his money away if he bought this place.
  
  "I'm not superstitious," he said. "And I have a hunch that luck may change for me."
  
  They were careful about it. They missed several months before they started looking for diamonds. And then one night in the summer of 1936, the four of them set off on a journey under the light of a full moon. They knew the surrounding countryside well, walking Sunday after Sunday with picnic baskets, pretending to go for a walk.
  
  Hans's map was remarkably accurate, as one would expect from a man who had spent half his life hunched over navigational charts. He drew a ravine and a stream bed, and an arrowhead-shaped stone where they met. Thirty paces north of the rock they began to dig. The ground was soft and it didn't take long for them to find the chest. Manfred whistled in disbelief as they opened it and saw the rough stones by the light of their torches. Julian began to play with them, and Alice danced a live foxtrot with Paul, and there was no music but the chirping of crickets in the gorge.
  
  Three months later they celebrated their wedding at the city church. Six months after that, Paul came to the gemological evaluation office and said he had found a couple of stones in a stream on his land. He picked up a few of the smaller ones and watched with bated breath as the evaluator held them against the light, rubbed them against a piece of felt, and smoothed his mustache, all those unnecessary elements of sorcery that experts use to appear important.
  
  "They are pretty good quality. If I were you, I'd buy a sieve and start draining this place, boy. I will buy whatever you bring me."
  
  They continued to "extract" diamonds from the stream for two years. In the spring of 1939, Alice learned that the situation in Europe was getting very bad.
  
  "The South Africans are on the side of the British. Soon we won't be welcome in the colonies."
  
  Paul knew it was time to leave. They sold more stones than usual - so much that the appraiser had to call the mine administrator to send him cash - and one night they left without saying goodbye to anyone, taking with them only a few personal belongings and five horses.
  
  They made an important decision about what to do with the money. They headed north towards the Waterberg Plateau. It was there that the survivors of the Herero lived, the people his father tried to eradicate and with whom Paul lived for a long time during his first stay in Africa. When Paul returned to the village, the medicine man greeted him with a welcome song.
  
  "Paul Mahaleba is back, Paul the white hunter," he said, waving his feathered wand.
  
  Paul immediately went to talk to the boss and handed him a huge bag containing three-quarters of what they had earned from selling diamonds.
  
  "This is for Guerrero. Return dignity to your people."
  
  "You are the one who restores his dignity by this act, Paul Mahaleba," declared the shaman. "But your gift will be desired among our people."
  
  Paul humbly nodded at the wisdom of those words.
  
  They spent several wonderful months in the village, helping in any way they could to restore it to what it once was. Until the day when Alice heard the terrible news from one of the merchants who passed through Windhoek from time to time.
  
  "War has broken out in Europe."
  
  "We've done enough here," Paul said thoughtfully, looking at his son. "Now it's time to think about Julian. He is fifteen and needs a normal life, somewhere with a future."
  
  So they began their long pilgrimage across the Atlantic. First to Mauritania by boat, then to French Morocco, from where they were forced to flee when the borders were closed to anyone without a visa. It was a difficult formality for an undocumented Jewish woman, or a man who was officially dead and who had no other identification than an old card belonging to a disappeared SS officer.
  
  After talking to several refugees, Paul decided to try and cross over to Portugal from a place on the outskirts of Tangier.
  
  "It won't be difficult. The conditions are good and it's not too far."
  
  The sea loves to contradict the foolish words of self-confident people, and that night a storm broke out. They struggled with this for a long time, and Paul even tied his family to a raft so that the waves could not tear them away from the miserable little boat that they had bought hand and foot from a swindler in Tangier.
  
  If the Spanish patrol had not arrived just in time, four of them would have undoubtedly drowned.
  
  Ironically, in the hold, Paul was more frightened than during his spectacular attempt to climb aboard, when he hung at the side of the patrol boat for what seemed like endless seconds. Once on board, they were all afraid that they would be taken to Cadiz, from where they could easily be sent back to Germany. Paul cursed himself for not trying to learn at least a few words of Spanish.
  
  His plan was to get to the beach east of Tarifa, where apparently someone would be waiting for them - the contact of the scammer who sold the boat to them. This man was supposed to transport them to Portugal by truck. But they never had a chance to know if he showed up.
  
  Paul spent many hours in the hold trying to come up with a solution. His fingers touched the secret shirt pocket where he had hidden a dozen diamonds, Hans Reiner's last treasure. Alice, Manfred and Julian had a similar load in their clothes. Perhaps if they bribed the team with a handful...
  
  Paul was extremely surprised when the Spanish captain pulled them out of the hold in the middle of the night, gave them a rowboat and sent them to the Portuguese coast.
  
  By the light of the lantern on deck, Paul saw the face of this man who must have been his age. The same age was his father when he died, and the same profession. Paul wondered how things would have turned out if his father hadn't been a killer, if he himself hadn't spent the better part of his youth trying to figure out who killed him.
  
  He rummaged through his clothes and took out the only thing he had left to remember that time: the fruit of Hans' villainy, the emblem of his brother's betrayal.
  
  Perhaps things would have been different for Jurgen if his father had been a noble man, he thought.
  
  Paul wondered how he could make this Spaniard understand. He placed the emblem in his hand and repeated two simple words.
  
  "Betrayal," he said, touching his chest with his forefinger. "Salvation," he said, touching the Spaniard's chest.
  
  Perhaps someday the captain will meet someone who can explain to him what these two words mean.
  
  He jumped into a small boat and the four of them began rowing. A few minutes later they heard the splash of water against the shore, and the boat creaked slightly on the gravel of the riverbed.
  
  They were in Portugal.
  
  Before getting out of the boat, he looked around, just to make sure there was no danger, but he didn't see anything.
  
  This is strange, Paul thought. Since I plucked out my eye, I see everything much clearer.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Gomez Jurado Juan
  
  
  
  
  Contract with God, aka the expedition of Moses
  
  
  The second book in the Father Anthony Fowler series, 2009
  
  
  Dedicated to Matthew Thomas, a greater hero than Father Fowler
  
  
  
  
  How to create an enemy
  
  
  
  Start with a blank canvas
  
  Outline the shapes
  
  men, women and children
  
  
  Dive into the well of your own unconscious
  
  renounced by darkness
  
  wide brush and
  
  strain strangers with an ominous shade
  
  from the shadow
  
  
  Follow the face of the enemy - greed
  
  Hatred, carelessness that you dare not name
  
  your own
  
  
  Hide the cute personality of each face
  
  
  Erase all hints of a myriad of loves, hopes,
  
  fears that are reproduced in a kaleidoscope
  
  every endless heart
  
  
  Rotate the smile until it forms a downward
  
  brutality arc
  
  
  Separate the flesh from the bones until only
  
  abstract skeleton remains of death
  
  
  Exaggerate every feature until the person becomes
  
  turned into a beast, parasite, insect
  
  
  Fill the background with malignant
  
  figures from ancient nightmares - devils,
  
  demons, myrmidons of evil
  
  
  When your enemy icon is complete
  
  you can kill without guilt,
  
  slaughter without shame
  
  
  What you destroy will become
  
  just an enemy of God, an obstacle
  
  to the secret dialectic of history
  
  
  on behalf of the enemy
  
  Sam Keen
  
  
  Ten Commandments
  
  
  
  I am the Lord your God.
  
  May you have no other gods before me
  
  You must not make yourself any idol
  
  You must not take the name of the Lord your God in vain
  
  Remember the Sabbath to keep it holy
  
  Honor your father and mother
  
  You must not kill
  
  You must not commit adultery
  
  You must not steal
  
  You must not bear false witness against your neighbor
  
  You don't have to covet your neighbor's house
  
  
  
  Prologue
  
  
  
  I AM AT SPIEGELGRUNDA CHILDREN'S HOSPITAL
  
  VEIN
  
  
  February 1943
  
  
  As she approached the building, over which a large flag with a swastika was flying, the woman could not suppress a shudder. Her companion misinterpreted this and pulled her closer to him to warm her. Her thin coat provided little protection from the harsh afternoon wind that warned of an approaching blizzard.
  
  'Put it on, Odile,' said the man, his fingers trembling as he unbuttoned his coat.
  
  She pulled herself out of his grip and held the bag tighter to her chest. The six-mile walk in the snow left her exhausted and numb from the cold. Three years ago, they would have gone on a trip in their Daimler with a driver, and she would have been in her fur. But their car now belonged to the brigadier commissar, and her fur coat was probably displayed somewhere in the theater box by some Nazi wife with painted eyelids. Odile pulled herself together and pressed the bell three times hard before answering it.
  
  'It's not because of the cold, Joseph. We don't have much time before curfew. If we don't get back in time...'
  
  Before her husband could answer, the nurse suddenly opened the door. As soon as she glanced at the visitors, her smile disappeared. Several years under the Nazi regime taught her to recognize a Jew immediately.
  
  'What do you want?' she asked.
  
  The woman forced herself to smile, though her lips were painfully chapped.
  
  'We want to see Dr. Graus.'
  
  'Do you have an appointment?'
  
  'The doctor said he would see us'.
  
  'Name?'
  
  'Joseph and Odile Cohen, Father Ulane'.
  
  The nurse took a step back as their last name confirmed her suspicions.
  
  'You are lying. You don't have an appointment. Leave. Go back to the hole you came from. You know you can't come here.'
  
  'Please. My son is inside. Please!'
  
  Her words were wasted as the door slammed shut.
  
  Joseph and his wife stared helplessly at the huge building. As they turned away, Odile suddenly felt weak and stumbled, but Joseph managed to catch her before she fell.
  
  'Come on, we'll find another way to get in.'
  
  They headed towards one side of the hospital. As they rounded the corner, Joseph pulled his wife back. The door has just opened. A man in a thick overcoat was pushing a cart full of garbage with all his might towards the back of the building. Keeping close to the wall, Joseph and Odile slipped to the open doorway.
  
  Once inside, they found themselves in a service hall leading to a maze of stairs and other corridors. As they walked down the corridor, they could hear distant, muffled screams that seemed to come from another world. The woman concentrated, listening to her son's voice, but it was useless. They passed through several corridors without bumping into anyone. Joseph had to hurry to keep up with his wife, who, out of pure instinct, moved quickly forward, stopping only for a second at each doorway.
  
  They soon found themselves peering into a dark, L-shaped chamber. It was full of children, many of them tied to their beds and whining like wet dogs. The pungent room was stuffy, and the woman began to perspire, tingling in her limbs as her body warmed up. However, she ignored it as her eyes darted from bed to bed, from one young face to the next, searching desperately for her son.
  
  'Here's the report, Dr. Grouse.'
  
  Joseph and his wife exchanged glances as they heard the name of the doctor they needed to see, the man who had their son's life in his hands. They turned to the far corner of the ward and saw a small group of people gathered around one of the beds. An attractive young doctor sat by the bedside of a girl who appeared to be about nine years old. Beside him, an elderly nurse held a tray of surgical instruments while a bored middle-aged doctor took notes.
  
  "Doctor Graus..." Odile said hesitantly, gathering her courage as she approached the group.
  
  The young man waved dismissively at the nurse, not taking his eyes off what he was doing.
  
  'Not now, please'.
  
  The nurse and the other doctor stared at Odile in surprise, but said nothing.
  
  When she saw what was happening, Odile had to grit her teeth to keep from screaming. The young girl was deathly pale and appeared to be in a semiconscious state. Graus held her hand over a metal basin, making small incisions with a scalpel. There was hardly a single spot on the girl's arm that hadn't been touched by the blade, and the blood slowly trickled down into the basin, which was nearly full. Finally, the girl's head tilted to one side. Graus put two thin fingers to the girl's neck.
  
  'Well, she has no pulse. Time, Dr. Strobel?'
  
  'Six thirty seven'.
  
  Almost ninety-three minutes. Exceptional! The subject remained conscious, although her level of consciousness was comparatively low and she showed no signs of pain. The combination of opium tincture and Datura is undoubtedly the best we have tried so far. Congratulations, Strobel. Prepare sample for autopsy.'
  
  'Thank you, Herr Doctor. Immediately.'
  
  Only then did the young doctor turn to Joseph and Odile. There was a mixture of annoyance and contempt in his eyes.
  
  'And who could you be?'
  
  Odile stepped forward and stood next to the bed, trying not to look at the dead girl.
  
  'My name is Odile Cohen, Dr. Graus. I am Elan Cohen's mother.'
  
  The doctor looked coldly at Odile, and then turned to the nurse.
  
  'Get those Jews out of here, Father Ulein Ulrike.'
  
  The nurse grabbed Odile by the elbow and with a rude push stood between the woman and the doctor. Joseph rushed to his wife's aid and fought the burly nurse. For a moment, they formed a bizarre trio, moving in different directions, but none were successful. Ulrike's father's face reddened from the effort.
  
  'Doctor, I'm sure there's been a mistake,' said Odile, trying to stick her head out from behind the nurse's broad shoulders. 'My son is not mentally ill.'
  
  Odile managed to free herself from the nurse's grip and turned to the doctor.
  
  'It's true that he hasn't spoken much since we lost our house, but he's not crazy. He's here because of a mistake. If you let him go... Please let me give you the only thing we have left.'
  
  She placed the package on the bed, making sure not to touch the dead girl's body, and carefully removed the newspaper wrapper. Despite the twilight of the chamber, the golden object cast its glow onto the surrounding walls.
  
  'It's been in my husband's family for generations, Dr. Graus. I'd rather die than give it up. But my son, doctor, my son...'
  
  Odile wept and fell to her knees. The young doctor barely noticed as his eyes were glued to the object on the bed. However, he managed to open his mouth long enough to shatter any hope the couple had left.
  
  'Your son is dead. Leave.'
  
  
  As soon as the cold air from outside touched her face, Odile regained some strength. Holding on to her husband as they hurried out of the hospital, she was more than ever afraid of the curfew. Her thoughts were solely focused on returning to the back of the city, where another son was waiting for them.
  
  'Hurry, Joseph. Hurry up.'
  
  They quickened their pace under the constantly falling snow.
  
  
  In his hospital office, Dr. Grouse absentmindedly hung up and stroked the strange golden object on his desk. A few minutes later, when he heard the sirens of the SS cars, he didn't even look out the window. His assistant said something about the flight of the Jews, but Graus paid no attention to it.
  
  He was busy planning the young Cohen's operation.
  
  Main characters
  
  Clergy
  
  FATHER ANTHONY FOWLER, an agent working with both the CIA and the Holy Alliance.
  
  FATHER ALBERT, former hacker. Systems analyst for the CIA and Vatican intelligence liaison.
  
  BROTHER CESÁREO, Dominican. Curator of Antiquities in the Vatican.
  
  
  Vatican Security Corps
  
  CAMILO SIRIN, Inspector General. Also head of the Holy Alliance, the Vatican's secret intelligence service.
  
  
  civilians
  
  ANDREA OTERO, reporter for El Globo newspaper.
  
  RAYMOND Kane, multi-millionaire industrialist.
  
  JACOB RUSSELL, Kine's executive assistant.
  
  ORVILL WATSON, terrorism consultant and owner of Netcatch.
  
  DR. HEINRICH GRAUS, Nazi genocide.
  
  
  Moses Expedition Staff
  
  CECIL FORRESTER, biblical archaeologist.
  
  DAVID PAPPAS, GORDON DARWIN, KIRA LARSEN, STOWE EARLING and EZRA LEVIN, assistants Cecil Forrester
  
  MOGENS DEKKER, head of the security service of the expedition.
  
  ALOIS GOTLIB, ALRICK GOTLIB, TEVI WAAKA, PACO TORRES, LUIS MALONY and MARLA JACKSON, Dekker's soldiers.
  
  DOCTOR HAREL, doctor at the excavations.
  
  TOMMY EICHBERG, head driver.
  
  ROBERT FRICK, BRIAN HANLEY, administration / technical staff
  
  NURI ZAYIT, RANI PETERKE, chefs
  
  
  terrorists
  
  NAZIM and HARUF, members of the Washington cell.
  
  O, D and W, members of the Syrian and Jordanian cells.
  
  HUKAN, head of three cells.
  
  
  1
  
  
  
  RESIDENCE OF BALTHASAR HANDWURZ
  
  STEINFELDSTR ßE, 6
  
  KRIEGLACH, AUSTRIA
  
  
  Thursday, December 15, 2005 11:42 am.
  
  
  The priest carefully wiped his feet on the welcome mat before knocking on the door. After tracking the man for the past four months, he finally found his hiding place two weeks ago. Now he was sure of Handwurtz's true identity. The time has come to meet him face to face.
  
  He waited patiently for several minutes. It was noon, and Graus, as usual, was napping on the sofa in the afternoon. At that hour there was almost no one in the narrow street. His neighbors in Steinfeldstrasse were at work, unaware that at number 6, in a small house with blue curtains on the windows, the genocidal monster was peacefully dozing in front of the TV.
  
  Finally, the sound of a key in the lock warned the priest that the door was about to open. The head of an elderly man with the venerable air of a health insurance ad came out from behind the door.
  
  'Yes?'
  
  'Good morning, Herr Doktor'.
  
  The old man looked the man who was addressing him from head to toe. The latter was tall, thin, and bald, about fifty years old, with a priest's collar showing through his black coat. He stood in the doorway in the rigid pose of a military guard, his green eyes fixed on the old man.
  
  'I think you're wrong, father. I used to be a plumber, but now I'm retired. I've already contributed to the parish fund, so if you'll excuse me...'
  
  'Are you by any chance Dr. Heinrich Graus, the famous German neurosurgeon?'
  
  The old man held his breath for a second. Other than that, he did nothing to give him away. However, this small detail was enough for the priest: the proof is positive.
  
  'My name is Handwurtz, father.'
  
  'It's not true and we both know it. Now, if you'll let me in, I'll show you what I brought with me.' The priest raised his left hand, in which he held a black briefcase.
  
  In response, the door swung open and the old man limped quickly toward the kitchen, the ancient floorboards protesting with every step. The priest followed him, but paid little attention to his surroundings. He looked through the windows three times and already knew the location of every piece of cheap furniture. He preferred to keep his eyes on the old Nazi's back. Although the doctor walked with some difficulty, the priest saw him lift sacks of coal from the barn with an ease that would be the envy of a man decades younger. Heinrich Graus was still a dangerous man.
  
  The small kitchen was dark and smelled rancid. There was a gas stove, a rack on which lay a dried onion, a round table and two matchless chairs. Graus gestured for the priest to sit down. The old man then rummaged through the cupboard, got out two glasses, filled them with water and placed them on the table before sitting down himself. The glasses remained untouched as the two men sat there, impassive, staring at each other for more than a minute.
  
  The old man was dressed in a red flannel robe, cotton shirt, and worn trousers. He had gone bald twenty years earlier, and what little hair he had left was completely white. His large round glasses fell out of fashion before the fall of communism. The relaxed expression around his mouth gave him a good-natured air.
  
  None of this fooled the priest.
  
  Dust particles floated in a beam of light from the faint rays of the December sun. One of them landed on the priest's sleeve. He tossed it away without taking his eyes off the old man.
  
  The fluid confidence of this gesture did not go unnoticed by the Nazi, but he had time to regain his composure.
  
  'Aren't you going to drink some water, father?'
  
  'I'm not thirsty, Dr. Graus.'
  
  'So you're going to insist on calling me by that name. My name is Handwurtz. Balthasar Handwurz.'
  
  The priest paid no attention.
  
  'I must admit that you are quite perceptive. When you received your passport to leave for Argentina, no one expected that you would return to Vienna in a few months. Naturally, that was the last place I looked for you. Only forty-five miles from Spiegelgrund Hospital. Nazi hunter Wiesenthal has been looking for you in Argentina for years, unaware that you were just a short drive from his office. Ironic, don't you think?'
  
  'I think it's ridiculous. You are an American, right? You speak good German, but your accent betrays you.'
  
  The priest put his briefcase on the table and pulled out a worn folder. The first document he showed was a photograph of a young Graus taken in a hospital in Spiegelgrund during the war. The second was a variation of the same photo, but with the doctor's features aged by software.
  
  'Isn't technology great, Herr Doctor?'
  
  'That doesn't prove anything. Anyone could do it. I watch TV too,' he said, but his voice betrayed something else.
  
  'You are right. It doesn't prove anything, but it does.'
  
  The priest took out a yellowed sheet, to which someone had attached a black-and-white photograph with a paperclip, over which was written in sepia: THE WITNESS FORNITA, next to the seal of the Vatican.
  
  "'Balthasar Handwurz. Blond hair, brown eyes, strong-willed features. Identification marks: tattoo on his left arm with the number 256441, inflicted by the Nazis during his stay in the Mauthausen concentration camp." A place you've never set foot in, Graus. Your number is false. The person who made you a tattoo came up with it on the spot, but this is the least. So far it has worked.'
  
  The old man touched his arm through the flannel robe. He was pale with anger and fear.
  
  'Who the hell are you, you bastard?'
  
  'My name is Anthony Fowler. I want to make a deal with you.'
  
  'Get out of my house. Right now.'
  
  'I don't think I'm being clear. You were Deputy Head of the Children's Hospital Am Spiegelgrund for six years. It was a very interesting place. Almost all of the patients were Jewish and suffered from mental illness. 'Lives not worth living', isn't that what you called them?'
  
  'I have no idea what you're talking about!'
  
  'No one knew what you were doing there. Experiments. Slaughter children while they were still alive. Seven hundred and fourteenth, Dr. Graus. You killed seven hundred and fourteen of them with your own hands.'
  
  'I told you...
  
  'You kept their brains in jars!'
  
  Fowler slammed his fist on the table with such force that both glasses toppled over, and for a moment the only sound was water dripping onto the tiled floor. Fowler took several deep breaths, trying to calm himself.
  
  The Doctor avoided looking into the green eyes that seemed to be about to cut him in half.
  
  'Are you with the Jews?'
  
  'No, Graus. You know it's not. If I were one of them, you would be hanging out in a noose in Tel Aviv. I am ... connected with the people who facilitated your escape in 1946.'
  
  The doctor suppressed a shudder.
  
  'Holy alliance,' he muttered.
  
  Fowler didn't answer.
  
  'And what does the Alliance want from me after all these years?'
  
  'Something at your disposal'.
  
  The Nazi pointed to his surroundings.
  
  'As you can see, I'm not exactly a rich man. I have no money left.'
  
  'If I needed money, I could easily sell you to the Attorney General in Stuttgart. They're still offering 130,000 euros for your capture. I want a candle.'
  
  The Nazi stared at him blankly, pretending not to understand.
  
  'What candle?'
  
  'Now it's you who are being ridiculous, Dr. Grouse. I'm talking about the candle you stole from the Coen family sixty-two years ago. A heavy candle without a wick, covered with gold filigree. This is what I want and I want it now.'
  
  'Put your bloody lies elsewhere. I don't have any candle.'
  
  Fowler sighed, leaned back in his chair, and pointed to the overturned glasses on the table.
  
  'Do you have anything stronger?'
  
  'Behind you,' Grouse said, nodding towards the closet.
  
  The priest turned and reached for the bottle, which was half full. He took the glasses and poured two fingers into each of the bright yellow liquid. Both men drank without making a toast.
  
  Fowler grabbed the bottle again and poured another glass. He took a sip, then said, 'Weizenkorn. Wheat schnapps. It's been a long time since I've had this.'
  
  'I'm sure you didn't miss it.'
  
  'Right. But it's cheap, isn't it?'
  
  Grouse shrugged.
  
  'A man like you, Graus. Brilliantly. In vain. I can't believe you're drinking this. You slowly poison yourself in a dirty hole that stinks of urine. And you want to know something? I understand...'
  
  'You do not understand anything'.
  
  'Pretty good. You still remember the methods of the Reich. Rules for officers. Section three. "In case of capture by the enemy, deny everything and give only short answers that will not compromise you." Well, Graus, get used to it. You are compromised up to the very neck.'
  
  The old man grimaced and poured himself the last of the schnapps. Fowler watched his opponent's body language as the monster's resolve slowly crumbled. He was like an artist stepping back after a few brush strokes to study a canvas before deciding which colors to use next.
  
  The priest decided to try to use the truth.
  
  'Look at my hands, doctor,' said Fowler, laying them on the table. They were wrinkled, with long, thin fingers. There was nothing strange about them, except for one small detail. At the top of each finger, next to the knuckles, there was a thin whitish line that continued straight across each arm.
  
  'These are ugly scars. How old were you when you received them? Ten? Eleven?'
  
  Twelve. I practiced the piano: Chopin Preludes, op. 28. My father went to the piano and, without any warning, slammed the lid of the Steinway shut with all his might. It was a miracle that I didn't lose my fingers, but I never got to play again.'
  
  The priest grabbed his glass and seemed to plunge into its contents before continuing. He was never able to recognize what had happened by looking into the eyes of another human being.
  
  'Ever since I was nine years old, my father ... imposed himself on me. I told him that day that I would tell someone if he did it again. He didn't threaten me. He just destroyed my hands. Then he cried, asked me to forgive him and called the best doctors that money can buy. No, Graus. Do not even think about it.'
  
  Grouse reached under the table, groping for the cutlery drawer. He quickly called it back.
  
  'That's why I understand you, doctor. My father was a monster whose guilt was beyond his own ability to forgive. But he had more courage than you. Instead of slowing down in the middle of a sharp turn, he stepped on the gas and took my mom with him.'
  
  'Very touching story, father,' Graus said in a mocking tone.
  
  'If you say so. You hid so as not to face your crimes, but you were exposed. And I'm going to give you what my father didn't have: a second chance.'
  
  'I'm listening to'.
  
  'Give me a candle. In return, you will receive this file containing all the documents that will serve as your death warrant. You can hide here for the rest of your life.'
  
  'And it's all?' the old man asked incredulously.
  
  'How concerned I am'.
  
  The old man shook his head and stood up with a forced smile. He opened a small cabinet and took out a large glass jar filled with rice.
  
  'I never eat grains. I have an allergy.'
  
  He spilled the rice on the table. There was a small cloud of starch and a dry knock. A bag half buried in rice.
  
  Fowler leaned forward and reached for him, but Grouse's bony paw grabbed his wrist. The priest looked at him.
  
  'I have your word, right?' the old man asked anxiously.
  
  'Is it worth anything to you?'
  
  'Yes, as far as I can tell.'
  
  'Then you have it.'
  
  The Doctor let go of Fowler's wrist, his own hands trembling. The priest gently shook off the rice and took out a bag of dark cloth. It was tied with twine. With great care, he untied the knots and unrolled the cloth. The faint rays of an early Austrian winter filled the dingy kitchen with a golden light that didn't seem to match the surroundings and the dirty gray wax of the thick candle on the table. Once the entire surface of the candle was covered with a thin gold sheet with an intricate pattern. Now the precious metal has almost disappeared, leaving only traces of filigree on the wax.
  
  Grouse smiled sadly.
  
  'The rest was taken by the pawnshop, father.'
  
  Fowler didn't answer. He pulled a lighter from his trouser pocket and flicked it on. Then he placed the candle upright on the table and brought the flame to its top. Although there was no wick, the heat of the flame began to melt the wax, which gave off a sickening odor as it dripped gray onto the table. Graus looked at this with bitter irony, as if he enjoyed speaking for himself after so many years.
  
  'I find it amusing. A Jew at a pawnshop has been buying Jewish gold for years, thereby supporting a proud member of the Reich. And what you are now witnessing proves that your search was completely pointless.'
  
  'Appearances can be deceiving, Graus. The gold on this candle is not the treasure I'm after. It's just entertainment for idiots.'
  
  As a warning, the flames suddenly flared up. A puddle of wax has accumulated on the fabric below. At the top of what was left of the candle, the green edge of the metal object was almost visible.
  
  'Well, it's here,' said the priest. 'Now I can leave'.
  
  Fowler stood up and wrapped the cloth around the candle again, being careful not to burn himself.
  
  The Nazis looked on in amazement. He didn't smile anymore.
  
  'Wait! What is this? What is inside?'
  
  'Nothing about you.'
  
  The old man got up, opened the cutlery drawer and took out a kitchen knife. With trembling steps, he walked around the table and towards the priest. Fowler watched him motionless. The Nazi's eyes burned with the insane fire of a man who spent whole nights contemplating this object.
  
  'I need to know'.
  
  'No, Graus. We made a deal. Candle for file. That's all you get.'
  
  The old man raised the knife, but the visitor's expression made him lower it again. Fowler nodded and dropped the folder on the table. Slowly, with a bundle of cloth in one hand and his briefcase in the other, the priest backed toward the kitchen door. The old man took the folder.
  
  'There are no other copies, right?'
  
  'Only one. He's with two Jews waiting outside.'
  
  Grouse's eyes nearly popped out of their sockets. He raised the knife again and moved towards the priest.
  
  'You lied to me! You said you'd give me a chance!'
  
  Fowler gave him one last impassive look.
  
  'God will forgive me. Do you think you'll be as lucky?'
  
  Then, without saying another word, he disappeared into the corridor.
  
  The priest left the building, clutching the precious bundle to his chest. Two men in gray coats stood guard a few feet from the door. Fowler warned them as he passed: 'He's got a knife.'
  
  The taller one cracked his knuckles, and a slight smile played on his lips.
  
  'That's even better,' he said.
  
  
  2
  
  
  
  ARTICLE PUBLISHED IN EL GLOBO
  
  December 17, 2005, page 12
  
  
  AUSTRIAN HEROD FOUND DEAD
  
  Vienna (Associated Press)
  
  After more than fifty years of dodging justice, Dr. Heinrich Graus, the 'butcher of Spiegelgrund', was finally discovered by the Austrian police. The notorious Nazi war criminal has been found dead, apparently of a heart attack, in a small house in the town of Krieglach, just 35 miles from Vienna, according to authorities.
  
  Graus was born in 1915 and became a member of the Nazi Party in 1931. By the start of World War II, he was already second in command at the children's hospital Am Spiegelgrund. Graus used his position to conduct inhumane experiments on Jewish children with so-called behavioral problems or mental deficiencies. The Doctor has stated several times that this behavior is inherited and his experiments were justified because the subjects had "lives not worth living".
  
  Graus vaccinated healthy children against infectious diseases, performed vivisections, and injected his victims with various mixtures of anesthesia he developed to measure their response to pain. It is believed that about a thousand murders took place within the walls of Spiegelgrund during the war.
  
  After the war, the Nazis fled leaving no trace, except for 300 children's brains preserved in formaldehyde. Despite the efforts of the German authorities, no one was able to track him down. Famed Nazi hunter Simon Wiesenthal, who prosecuted more than 1,100 criminals, remained intent on finding Graus, whom he called 'his pending assignment', until his death, relentlessly hunting for the doctor throughout South America. Wiesenthal died in Vienna three months ago, unaware that his target was a retired plumber near his own office.
  
  Unofficial sources at the Israeli embassy in Vienna lamented that Graus died without answering for his crimes, but nonetheless celebrated his sudden death, given that his advanced age would complicate the extradition and trial process, as in the case of Chilean dictator Augusto Pinochet.
  
  "We can't help but see the Creator's hand in his death," the source said.
  
  
  3
  
  
  
  KAINE
  
  'He's downstairs, sir.'
  
  The man in the chair recoiled slightly. His hand was trembling, though the movement would not have been noticeable to anyone who didn't know him as well as his assistant.
  
  'What is he like? Have you carefully examined it?'
  
  'You know what I have, sir.'
  
  There was a deep breath.
  
  'Yes, Jacob. My apologies.'
  
  The man stood up as he said this and reached for the remote control that adjusted his surroundings. He pressed hard on one of the buttons, his knuckles turning white. He had already broken several remotes, and his assistant finally gave in and ordered a special one made from reinforced acrylic that matched the shape of the old man's hand.
  
  'My behavior must be exhausting,' said the old man. 'I'm sorry.'
  
  His assistant didn't answer; he realized his boss needed to let off steam. He was a modest man, but he was well aware of his position in life, if these traits can be called compatible.
  
  'It hurts me to sit here all day, you know? Every day I find less and less pleasure in ordinary things. I became a worthless old idiot. Every night, when I go to bed, I tell myself "tomorrow". Tomorrow will be that day. And the next morning I get up and my resolve is gone, just like my teeth.'
  
  'We'd better start, sir,' said the assistant, who had heard countless variations on the theme.
  
  'Is it absolutely necessary?'
  
  'You are the one who asked for this, sir. As a way to control any loose ends.'
  
  'I could just read the report.'
  
  'It's not just that. We are already in the fourth phase. If you want to be part of this expedition, you will have to get used to talking to strangers. Dr. Houcher was very clear on this point.'
  
  The old man pressed several buttons on his remote control. The blinds in the room were lowered and the lights went out as he sat down again.
  
  'Is there no other way?'
  
  His assistant shook his head.
  
  'Very well then.'
  
  The assistant moved towards the door, the only remaining source of light.
  
  'Jacob'.
  
  'Yes, sir?'
  
  'Before you leave... Do you mind if I hold your hand for a minute? I'm scared.'
  
  The assistant did as requested. Cain's hand was still trembling.
  
  
  4
  
  
  
  KAYN INDUSTRIES HEADQUARTERS
  
  NEW YORK
  
  
  Wednesday 5 July 2006 11:10 am.
  
  
  Orville Watson drummed his fingers nervously on the plump leather folder in his lap. For the past two hours, he's been sitting in his padded back seat in the reception area on the 38th floor of the Kayn Tower. For $3,000 an hour, anyone else would be happy to wait until Doomsday. But not Orville. The young Californian was getting bored. In fact, fighting boredom was what made his career.
  
  College bored him. Against his family's wishes, he dropped out in his second year. He found a good job at CNET, one of the companies at the forefront of new technologies, but once again he was overcome by boredom. Orville was constantly looking for new challenges, and his real passion was answering questions. At the turn of the millennium, his entrepreneurial spirit prompted him to leave his job at CNET and start his own company.
  
  His mother, who read every day in the newspapers about the collapse of the next dot-com, objected. Her concerns didn't stop Orville. He packed his 300-pound body, blond hair in a ponytail, and a suitcase full of clothes into a decrepit van and drove across the country, ending up in a basement apartment in Manhattan. Thus, Netcatch was born. Its slogan was 'You ask, we answer'. The whole project could have been nothing more than a crazy dream for a young man with an eating disorder, too many worries, and a special understanding of the Internet. But then 9/11 happened, and Orville immediately realized three things that had taken the Washington bureaucrats too long to figure out.
  
  First, that their information processing methods are thirty years out of date. Secondly, the political correctness introduced by the eight-year Clinton administration made it even more difficult to find information because you could only rely on 'reliable sources' that were useless when dealing with terrorists. And third, that the Arabs were the new Russians when it came to espionage.
  
  Orville's mother, Yasmina, was born and lived in Beirut for many years before marrying a handsome engineer from Sausalito, California whom she met while he was working on a project in Lebanon. Soon the couple moved to the United States, where the beautiful Yasmina taught her only son Arabic and English.
  
  Assuming different identities online, the young man discovered that the Internet is a haven for extremists. Physically, it didn't matter how far apart the ten radicals could be; online distance was measured in milliseconds. Their identity might be secret and their ideas crazy, but they could find people online who thought exactly like them. Within weeks, Orville accomplished what no one in Western intelligence could have achieved by conventional means: he infiltrated one of the most radical networks of Islamic terrorism.
  
  One morning in early 2002, Orville drove south to Washington with four boxes of folders in the trunk of his van. Arriving at the CIA headquarters, he asked to call the person responsible for Islamic terrorism, saying that he had important information to disclose. In his hand was a ten-page summary of his findings. The humble official who met him made him wait two hours before even bothering to read his report. After finishing reading, the official was so alarmed that he called his supervisor. A few minutes later, four men appeared, threw Orville to the floor, undressed him, and dragged him into the interrogation room. Orville smiled inwardly throughout the humiliating procedure; he knew he had hit the nail on the head.
  
  When the big shots at the CIA realized the extent of Orville's talent, they offered him a job. Orville told them that what was in the four boxes (which eventually led to twenty-three arrests in the United States and Europe) was just a free sample. If they wanted more, they should have signed a contract with his new company, Netcatch.
  
  "I must add that our prices are very reasonable," he said. 'Now, can I please get my underwear back?'
  
  Four and a half years later, Orville put on another twelve pounds. His bank account also gained some weight. Netcatch currently employs seventeen full-time employees who prepare detailed reports and search for information for major governments in the Western world, mostly on security-related matters. Orville Watson, now a millionaire, started to get bored again.
  
  Until this new challenge came along.
  
  Netcatch had its own way of doing things. All requests for his services were to be made in the form of a question. And attached to this last question were the words 'the budget is unlimited'. The fact that this was done by a private company and not the government also aroused Orville's curiosity.
  
  
  Who is Anthony Fowler's father?
  
  
  Orville got up from the plush couch in the waiting room, trying to ease the numbness in his muscles. He put his hands together and extended them behind his head as far as he could. A request for information from a private company, especially one such as Kayn Industries, which was a top five Fortune 500, was unusual. Especially such a strange and precise request for an ordinary priest from Boston.
  
  ...about a seemingly ordinary Boston priest, Orville corrected himself.
  
  Orville was just stretching his upper limbs when a dark-haired, well-built executive dressed in an expensive suit entered the waiting room. He was barely thirty and was seriously considering Orville because of his rimless glasses. It was clear from the orange tint of his skin that he was no stranger to using a tanning bed. He spoke with a harsh British accent.
  
  'Mr Watson. I'm Jacob Russell, Raymond Kane's executive assistant. We talked on the phone.'
  
  Orville tried to regain his composure, without much success, and held out his hand.
  
  'Mr Russell, I am very pleased to meet you. I'm sorry, I...'
  
  'Don't worry. Please follow me and I will take you to your meeting.'
  
  They crossed the carpeted waiting room and came to the mahogany doors at the far end.
  
  'Meeting? I thought I should have explained my findings to you.'
  
  'Well, not really, Mr Watson. Today Raymond Kane will hear what you have to say.'
  
  Orville couldn't answer.
  
  "Is there a problem, Mr. Watson?" Are you not feeling well?'
  
  'Yes. No. I mean there is no problem, Mr. Russell. You just took me by surprise. Mr. Kine...'
  
  Russell pulled a small handle on the mahogany frame of the door and the panel slid aside to reveal a simple square of dark glass. The leader put his right hand on the glass and an orange light lit up, followed by a short chime, and then the door opened.
  
  'I can understand your surprise given what the media has said about Mr Cain. As you probably know, my employer is a man who values his privacy...'
  
  He's a fucking hermit, that's what he is, Orville thought.
  
  '...but you don't have to worry. He usually doesn't want to date strangers, but if you follow certain procedures...'
  
  They walked down a narrow corridor, at the end of which loomed the shiny metal elevator doors.
  
  'What do you mean by 'usually', Mr. Russell?'
  
  The leader cleared his throat.
  
  'I must tell you that you will be only the fourth person, not counting the top executives of this firm, who has met with Mr. Cain in the five years that I have worked for him.'
  
  Orville gave a long whistle.
  
  'It is something".
  
  They reached the elevator. There was no up or down button, just a small number pad on the wall.
  
  'Would you be so kind as to look the other way, Mr Watson?' Russell said.
  
  The young Californian did as he was told. A series of beeps rang out as the executive dialed in the code.
  
  'Now you can turn around. Thank you.'
  
  Orville turned to face him again. The elevator doors opened and two men entered. Again there were no buttons, only a magnetic card reader. Russell took out his plastic card and quickly inserted it into the slot. The doors closed and the elevator slowly moved up.
  
  "Your boss certainly takes his safety seriously," Orville said.
  
  'Mr. Cain has received quite a few death threats. In fact, there was a rather serious assassination attempt on him a few years ago, and he was lucky that he escaped unscathed. Please don't be afraid of the fog. It's absolutely safe.'
  
  Orville wondered what the hell Russell was talking about as a thin mist began to fall from the ceiling. Looking up, Orville noticed several devices that were throwing out a fresh cloud of spray.
  
  'What's happening?'
  
  'It's a mild antibiotic compound that's completely safe. Do you like the smell?'
  
  Heck, he even sprays his visitors before he sees them to make sure they don't pass on their germs to him. I changed my mind. This guy is not a hermit, he's a paranoid freak.
  
  'Mmmm, yes, that's good. Minty, right?'
  
  'Essence of wild mint. Very refreshing.'
  
  Orville bit his lip to keep from answering, and instead focused on the seven-figure bill he'd give Kine the moment he stepped out of that gilded cage. This thought revived him somewhat.
  
  The elevator doors opened into a magnificent space filled with natural light. Half of the thirty-ninth floor was a giant glass-walled terrace with panoramic views of the Hudson River. Straight ahead was Hoboken, and further south was Ellis Island.
  
  'Impressive'.
  
  'Mr Kine likes to remember his roots. Please follow me'. The simple decor contrasted with the majestic view. The floor and furniture were completely white. The other half of the floor overlooking Manhattan was separated from the glazed terrace by a wall, also white, with several doors. Russell stopped in front of one of them.
  
  'Very well, Mr. Watson, Mr. Kine will receive you now. But before you enter, I would like to lay down a few simple rules for you. First of all, don't look directly at him. Second, don't ask him questions. And thirdly, do not try to touch him or come close to him. When you enter, you will see a small table with a copy of your report and a remote control for your Power Point presentation that your office gave us this morning. Stay at the table, give a presentation, and leave as soon as you're done. I will be here waiting for you. It's clear?'
  
  Orville nodded nervously.
  
  'I will do my best.'
  
  'Very well then, come in,' said Russell, opening the door.
  
  The Californian hesitated before entering the room.
  
  'Oh, one more thing. Netcatch found something interesting during a routine investigation we did for the FBI. There is reason to believe that Kine Industries could become a target for Islamic terrorists. It's all in this report,' said Orville, handing the DVD to the assistant. Russell took it with a worried look. 'Consider it a courtesy on our part.'
  
  'Indeed, thank you very much, Mr Watson. And good luck.'
  
  
  5
  
  
  
  HOTEL LE MERIDIEN
  
  AMMAN, Jordan
  
  
  Wednesday 5 July 2006 18:11 p.m.
  
  
  On the other side of the world, Tahir Ibn Faris, a minor official in the Ministry of Industry, left his office a little later than usual. The reason was not his dedication to his work, which was in fact exemplary, but his desire not to be seen. It took him less than two minutes to reach his destination, which was no ordinary bus stop, but the luxurious Meridien, the finest five-star hotel in Jordan, which was currently occupied by two gentlemen who had requested this meeting through a well-known industrialist. Unfortunately, this particular intermediary earned its reputation through channels that were neither respectable nor clean. So Tahir suspected that the coffee invitation might have dubious implications. And though he was proud of his twenty-three years of honest work in the Ministry, he needed less pride and more and more cash; the reason is that his eldest daughter was about to get married, and it would cost him dearly.
  
  Heading to one of the executive suites, Tahir stared at his reflection in the mirror, wishing he had a more greedy air. He was barely five foot six, and his belly, graying beard, and growing baldness made him look more like an affable drunkard than a corrupt civil servant. He wanted to erase the slightest trace of honesty from his features.
  
  What more than two decades of honesty failed to give him was the right mindset for what he did. When he knocked on the door, his knees pounded on their own. He managed to calm down a moment before he entered the room, where he was greeted by a well-dressed American, who looked to be in his fifties. Another man, much younger, was sitting in the spacious living room smoking while talking on his cell phone. When he spotted Tahir, he ended the conversation and stood up to greet him.
  
  "Ahlan wa sahlan," he greeted him in flawless Arabic.
  
  Tahir was stunned. When, on various occasions, he refused bribes to reclassify land for industrial and commercial use in Amman - a veritable goldmine for his less scrupulous colleagues - he did so not out of a sense of duty, but out of the offensive arrogance of Westerners who, in a few minutes after meeting with him, stacks of dollar bills were thrown on the table.
  
  The conversation with these two Americans could not have been more different. In front of Tahir's astonished eyes, the older one sat down at a low table, on which he prepared four dellas, Bedouin coffee pots, and a small coal fire. With a steady hand, he toasted fresh coffee beans in an iron pan and let them cool. He then ground the roasted beans with the older ones in a mahbash, a small mortar. The whole process was accompanied by a continuous stream of conversation, except when the pestle rhythmically hit the mahbash, since this sound is considered by the Arabs as a kind of music, the artistry of which should be appreciated by the guest.
  
  The American added cardamom seeds and a pinch of saffron, carefully brewing the mixture in accordance with a tradition dating back centuries. As was customary, the guest - Tahir - held the cup, which had no handle, while the American filled it halfway, since it was the host's privilege to be the first to serve the most important person in the room. Tahir drank his coffee, still a little skeptical about the results. He thought that he would not drink more than one cup, since it was already late, but after tasting the drink, he was so delighted that he drank four more. He would have ended up drinking the sixth bowl if not for the fact that it was considered impolite to drink an even amount.
  
  "Mr. Fallon, I never imagined that someone born in Starbucks country could perform the Bedouin gahwa ritual so well," Tahir said. By this time he was quite comfortable and wanted them to know so he could figure out what the hell those Americans wanted.
  
  The youngest of the presenters handed him a golden cigarette case for the hundredth time.
  
  'Tahir, my friend, please stop calling us by our last names. I'm Peter and this is Frank," he said as he lit another Dunhill.
  
  'Thank you, Peter.'
  
  'Fine. Now that we're relaxed, Tahir, wouldn't it be in bad taste if we discussed business?'
  
  The elderly civil servant was again pleasantly surprised. Two hours have passed. The Arab does not like to discuss matters before half an hour or so has passed, but this American even asked his permission. At that moment, Tahir felt ready to remake any building they were after, even King Abdullah's palace.
  
  'Absolutely, my friend.'
  
  'Okay, this is what we need: a license for Kayn Mining Company to mine phosphate for one year, starting today.'
  
  'It won't be easy, my friend. Almost the entire coast of the Dead Sea is already occupied by local industry. As you know, phosphates and tourism are practically our only national resources.'
  
  'No problem, Tahir. We are not interested in the Dead Sea, only a small area of about ten square miles centered on these coordinates.'
  
  He handed Tahir a piece of paper.
  
  '29ў 34' 44" N, 36 ў 21' 24" E? You cannot be serious, my friends. It's northeast of Al-Mudawwara.'
  
  'Yes, not far from the border with Saudi Arabia. We know Tahir.'
  
  The Jordanian looked at them in confusion.
  
  'There are no phosphates. This is a desert. Minerals are useless there.'
  
  'Well, Tahir, we have a lot of confidence in our engineers and they think they can extract a significant amount of phosphate in this area. Of course, as a gesture of our goodwill, a small commission will be paid to you.'
  
  Tahir's eyes widened as his new friend opened his briefcase.
  
  'But it must be...'
  
  'Enough for little Miyoshi's wedding, right?'
  
  And a little beach house with a two-car garage, Tahir thought. Those damn Americans probably think they're the smartest and can find oil in the area. As if we hadn't searched there countless times. In any case, I'm not going to be the one to destroy their dreams.
  
  'My friends, there is no doubt that you are both men of great value and knowledge. I am sure that your business will be welcome in the Hashemite Kingdom of Jordan.'
  
  Despite Peter and Frank's sugary smiles, Tahir continued to puzzle over what it all meant. What the hell were those Americans looking for in the desert?
  
  No matter how much he wrestled with this question, he did not even come close to suggesting that in a few days this meeting would cost him his life.
  
  
  6
  
  
  
  KAYN INDUSTRIES HEADQUARTERS
  
  NEW YORK
  
  
  Wednesday 5 July 2006 11:29 am.
  
  
  Orville found himself in a darkened room. The only source of light was a small lamp on the lectern ten feet away, on which stood his report, along with the remote control, just as the supervisor had told him. He walked over and took the remote. As he looked at it, contemplating how to start his presentation, he was suddenly struck by a bright glow. Less than six feet from where he stood was a large screen twenty feet wide. It showed the front page of his presentation with a red Netcatch logo.
  
  'Thank you very much, Mr Kine, and good morning. Let me start by saying it's an honor for me...'
  
  There was a slight hum and the screen image changed to show the title of his presentation and the first of two questions:
  
  
  WHO IS Father Anthony Fowler?
  
  
  Obviously, Mr. Kine appreciated brevity and control, and he had a second remote handy to speed things up.
  
  Okay, old man. I understood the message. Let's get down to business.
  
  Orville pressed the remote to open the next page. It depicted a priest with a thin, wrinkled face. He was balding, and what he had left was cut very short. Orville began to speak to the darkness in front of him.
  
  'John Anthony Fowler, aka Anthony Fowler's father, aka Tony Brent. Born December 16, 1951 in Boston, Massachusetts. Green eyes, approximately 175 pounds. A freelance CIA agent and a complete mystery. Solving this mystery took two months of research by ten of my best investigators who worked exclusively on this work, as well as a significant amount of cash to grease the palms of some well-placed sources. That largely explains the three million dollars it took to prepare this report, Mr. Kane.'
  
  The screen changed again, this time showing a family photo: a well-dressed couple in the garden of what looked like an expensive house. Next to them is an attractive dark-haired boy of about eleven. The father's hand seemed to be squeezing the boy's shoulder, and all three of them had tight smiles.
  
  'Only son of Marcus Abernathy Fowler, business magnate and owner of Infinity Pharmaceuticals. Today it is a biotechnology company with a multi-million dollar turnover. After his parents died in a suspicious car accident in 1984, Anthony Fowler sold the company along with the rest of their assets and donated everything to charity. He kept his parents' mansion in Beacon Hill, renting it out to a couple with children. But he left the top floor behind and converted it into an apartment with some furniture and a whole bunch of books on philosophy. He stops there from time to time when he's in Boston.'
  
  The next shot showed a younger version of the same woman, this time on a college campus, wearing a prom gown.
  
  Daphne Brent was an experienced chemist who worked for Infinity Pharmaceuticals until the owner liked her and they got married. When she became pregnant, Marcus turned her into a housewife overnight. That's all we know about the Fowler family, except that young Anthony went to Stanford instead of Boston College like his father did.'
  
  Next slide: young Anthony, looking not much older than a teenager, with a serious expression, stands under a poster that says '1971'.
  
  At the age of twenty, he graduated with honors from the university with a degree in Psychology. The youngest in its class. This photo was taken a month before graduation. On the last day of the semester, he packed his bags and went to the university recruiting office. He wanted to go to Vietnam.'
  
  An image of a worn, yellowed form appeared on the screen, which was filled out by hand.
  
  'This is a photo of his AFQT, the military qualification exam. Fowler scored ninety-eight out of a hundred. The sergeant was so impressed that he immediately sent him to Lackland Air Force Base in Texas, where he received basic training followed by an advanced parachute regiment briefing for a special operations unit that resurrected downed pilots behind enemy lines. While in Lackland, he learned guerrilla tactics and became a helicopter pilot. After a year and a half of fighting, he returned home as a lieutenant. Among his medals are the Purple Heart and the Air Force Cross. In the report you will find detailed information about the actions that brought him these medals.'
  
  Shot of several men in uniform at the airfield. In the center stood Fowler, dressed as a priest.
  
  'After Vietnam, Fowler entered a Catholic seminary and was ordained in 1977. He was assigned as a military chaplain at the Spangdal Air Force Base in Germany, where he was recruited by the CIA. With his language skills, it's easy to see why they wanted him: Fowler is fluent in eleven languages and can get along in fifteen others. But the Company isn't the only division that recruited him.'
  
  Another photo of Fowler in Rome with two other young priests.
  
  'In the late seventies, Fowler became a staff agent for the company. He maintains his status as a military chaplain and travels to a number of Armed Forces bases around the world. The information I have given you so far may have come from any number of agencies, but what I am about to tell you next is top secret and very difficult to obtain.'
  
  The screen is off. In the light of the projector, Orville could almost make out an easy chair in which someone was sitting. He made an effort not to look directly at the figure.
  
  Fowler is an agent for the Holy Alliance, the Vatican's secret service. It is a small organization, usually unknown to the public, but active. One of her accomplishments is saving the life of former Israeli President Golda Meir when Islamic terrorists came close to blowing up her plane during a visit to Rome. The medals were given to the Mossad, but the Holy Alliance didn't care. They take the phrase 'secret service' literally. Only the Pope and a handful of cardinals are officially informed of their work. In the international intelligence community, the Alliance is respected and feared. Unfortunately, I have little to add about Fowler's history with this institution. Regarding his work with the CIA, my professional ethics and my contract with the Company prevent me from disclosing anything else, Mr. Kine.'
  
  Orville cleared his throat. Although he didn't expect a response from the figure at the end of the room, he paused.
  
  Not a word.
  
  'As for your second question, Mr. Kine...'
  
  Orville considered for a moment whether he should disclose that Netcatch was not responsible for finding this particular information. That it came to his office in a sealed envelope from an anonymous source. And that there were other interests involved that clearly wanted Kayn Industries to get it. But then he remembered the humiliating spray of menthol mist and just kept talking.
  
  A young woman with blue eyes and copper hair appeared on the screen.
  
  'This is a young journalist named...'
  
  
  7
  
  
  
  EL GLOBO EDITIONS
  
  MADRID, SPAIN
  
  
  Thursday, July 6, 2006. 8:29 p.m.
  
  
  'Andrea! Andrea Otero! Where the hell are you?'
  
  To say that silence reigned in the editorial office at the sound of the shouts of the editor-in-chief would not be entirely accurate, since the editorial office of a daily newspaper is never quiet an hour before publication. But there were no voices, making the background noise of telephones, radios, televisions, fax machines, and printers seem like awkward silence. The Chief carried a suitcase in each hand and had a newspaper tucked under his arm. He dropped his suitcases at the entrance to the newsroom and headed straight for the International Office, to the only empty table. He angrily slammed his fist on it.
  
  'Now you can go out. I saw you dive in there.'
  
  Slowly, a mane of copper-blond hair and the face of a young blue-eyed woman emerged from under the table. She tried to act nonchalant, but her face was tense.
  
  'Hi boss. I just dropped the pen.'
  
  The veteran reporter reached out and adjusted his wig. The editor-in-chief's baldness was a taboo issue, so it certainly wouldn't help Andrea Otero that she had just witnessed this maneuver.
  
  'I'm not happy, Otero. Not at all satisfied. Can you tell me what the hell is going on?'
  
  'What do you mean, chief?'
  
  'Do you have fourteen million euros in the bank, Otero?'
  
  'Not the last time I looked.'
  
  In fact, when she last checked, there was a serious overdraft on her five credit cards, thanks to her obsession with Hermes bags and Manolo Blahnik shoes. She considered asking the accounting department for an advance on her Christmas bonus. For the next three years.
  
  'You'd better have a rich aunt who's about to take off her clogs, because that's what you're going to cost me, Otero.'
  
  'Don't be mad at me, boss. What happened in Holland will not happen again.'
  
  'I'm not talking about your room service bills, Otero. I'm talking about François Dupré,' said the editor, tossing yesterday's paper on the table.
  
  Damn, that's the point, Andrea thought.
  
  'One day! I took one lousy day off in the last five months and you all screwed up.'
  
  In an instant, the entire newsroom, down to the last reporter, stopped gaping and turned back to their desks, suddenly able to focus on their work again.
  
  'Come on, chief. A waste is a waste.'
  
  'Embezzlement? Is that what you call it?'
  
  'Certainly! Transferring a huge amount of money from your clients' accounts to your personal account is definitely a waste.'
  
  'And using the front page of the international section to trumpet a simple mistake made by a major shareholder of one of our largest advertisers is a total failure, Otero.'
  
  Andrea swallowed, feigning innocence.
  
  'Major shareholder?'
  
  'Interbank, Otero. Who, in case you didn't know, spent twelve million euros last year on this newspaper and was going to spend another fourteen next year. Was in thought. Past tense.'
  
  'Main... truth has no price.'
  
  'Yes, it is: fourteen million euros. And the heads of those responsible for it. You and Moreno get out of here. Gone.'
  
  The other guilty party came in, dragging their feet. Fernando Moreno was the overnight editor who canceled a harmless oil company profit story and replaced it with Andrea's sensation. It was a brief moment of courage that he now regretted. Andrea looked at her colleague, a middle-aged man, and thought of his wife and three children. She swallowed again.
  
  'Chief... Moreno had nothing to do with it. I'm the one who posted the article just before going to press.'
  
  Moreno's face brightened for a second, then returned to its former expression of remorse.
  
  'Don't play the fool, Otero,' said the editor-in-chief. 'This is impossible. You do not have permission to go blue.'
  
  Hermes, the computer system at the newspaper, worked on the color system. The newspaper's pages were highlighted in red while the reporter was working on them, green when they were going to the editor-in-chief for approval, and then blue when the night editor was handing them over to the printer for printing.
  
  'I logged into the blue system using Moreno's password, chief,' Andrea lied. 'He had nothing to do with it.'
  
  'Oh yes? And where did you get the password from? Can you explain it?'
  
  'He keeps it in the top drawer of his desk. It was easy.'
  
  'Is it true, Moreno?'
  
  'Well...yeah, chief,' said the night editor, doing his best not to show his relief. 'I'm sorry'.
  
  El Globo's editor-in-chief was still not satisfied. He turned to Andrea so quickly that his wig slipped slightly over his bald head.
  
  'Damn, Otero. I was wrong about you. I thought you were just an idiot. Now I understand that you are an idiot and a troublemaker. I will personally make sure no one ever hires a mean bitch like you again.'
  
  'But, chief...' Andrea's voice sounded desperate.
  
  'Save your breath, Otero. You're fired.'
  
  ' I do not think...
  
  'You're so fired that I don't see you anymore. I can't even hear you.'
  
  The boss moved away from Andrea's desk.
  
  Looking around the room, Andrea saw nothing but the backs of the heads of her fellow reporters. Moreno walked over and stood next to her.
  
  'Thank you, Andrea.'
  
  'Everything is fine. It would be crazy for both of us to be fired.'
  
  Moreno shook his head. 'I'm sorry you had to tell him you hacked into the system. Now he is so angry that he will really make life difficult for you there. You know what happens when he goes on one of his crusades...'
  
  'Looks like it's already started,' Andrea said, pointing to the newsroom. 'Suddenly I'm becoming a leper. Well, it's not like I was anyone's favorite before.'
  
  'You're not a bad person, Andrea. Actually, you're a pretty fearless reporter. But you're a loner and never worry about the consequences. Anyway, good luck.'
  
  Andrea swore to herself that she would not cry, that she was a strong and independent woman. She gritted her teeth as the guards packed her things into the box, and with great difficulty managed to keep her promise.
  
  
  8
  
  
  
  APARTMENT ANDREA OTERO
  
  MADRID, SPAIN
  
  
  Thursday 6 July 2006 11:15 p.m.
  
  
  What Andrea hated the most since Eve was gone for good was the sound of her own keys when she came home and placed them on the little table next to the door. They echoed hollowly in the hallway, which Andrea felt summed up her life.
  
  When Eva was there, things were different. She would run to the door like a little girl, kiss Andrea, and start babbling about what she had done or people she had met. Andrea, overwhelmed by this whirlwind that prevented her from reaching the sofa, prayed for peace and quiet.
  
  Her prayers were answered. Eva left one morning, three months ago, just as she had appeared: suddenly. There were no sobs, no tears, no regrets. Andrea said almost nothing, even felt some relief. She would have plenty of time for regrets later, when the faint echo of the jingle of keys breaks the silence of her apartment.
  
  She tried different ways to deal with the emptiness: leaving the radio on when she left the house, putting her keys back in her jeans pocket as soon as she entered, talking to herself. None of her tricks could mask the silence, for it came from within.
  
  Now, as she stepped into the apartment, her foot kicked aside her last attempt at not being alone: an orange tabby cat. At the pet store, the cat seemed sweet and loving. It took Andrea nearly forty-eight hours to begin to hate it. It suited her. You could handle the hate. It was active: you just hated someone or something. What she couldn't handle was disappointment. You just had to deal with it.
  
  'Hi LB. They fired Mom. What do you think of it?'
  
  Andrea gave him the name LB, short for "Little Bastard", after the monster infiltrated the bathroom and managed to track down and tear open an expensive tube of shampoo. LB didn't seem to be impressed by the news that his mistress had been fired.
  
  'You don't care, do you? Though you should,' said Andrea, taking a can of whiskey out of the fridge and spooning the contents onto a platter in front of L.B. 'When you have nothing to eat, I'll sell you to Mr. Wong's Chinese restaurant on the corner. Then I'll go and order chicken with almonds.'
  
  The thought of it being part of the menu at a Chinese restaurant didn't curb LB's appetite. The cat didn't respect anything or anyone. He lived in his own world, short-tempered, apathetic, undisciplined and proud. Andrea hated him.
  
  Because he reminds me so much of myself, she thought.
  
  She looked around, irritated by what she saw. The bookcases were covered in dust. There were food leftovers on the floor, the sink was buried under a mountain of dirty dishes, and the manuscript of the unfinished novel she had started three years ago was scattered across the bathroom floor.
  
  Crap. If only I could pay for the cleaning lady with a credit card...
  
  The only place in the apartment where order reigned was a huge - thank God - closet in her bedroom. Andrea was very careful with her clothes. The rest of the apartment looked like a war zone. She believed that her mess was one of the main reasons for breaking up with Eve. They were together for two years. The young engineer was a cleaning machine, and Andrea affectionately dubbed her the Romantic Vacuum Cleaner, because she liked to clean up the apartment to the accompaniment of Barry White.
  
  At that moment, as she surveyed the disaster her apartment had become, Andrea had a revelation. She'll clean up the pigsty, sell her clothes on eBay, get a well-paying job, pay off her debts, and make up with Eva. Now she had a purpose, a mission. Everything would be perfect.
  
  She felt a surge of energy through her body. It went on for exactly four minutes and twenty-seven seconds, which is exactly how long it took her to open a garbage bag, throw a quarter of the leftovers on the table along with a few dirty dishes that could not be salvaged, move randomly from one place to another, then knock over a book, which she had read the night before, so that the photograph inside fell to the floor.
  
  They are together. The last one they took.
  
  It's useless.
  
  She collapsed onto the couch, sobbing as the trash bag spilled some of its contents onto the living room carpet. L.B. walked over and took a bite of pizza. The cheese started to turn green.
  
  'It's obvious, isn't it, LB? I can't run away from who I am, at least not with a mop and broom.'
  
  The cat did not pay the slightest attention to this, but ran up to the entrance to the apartment and began to rub against the door frame. Andrea stood up automatically, realizing that someone was about to ring the bell.
  
  What kind of madman could come at such a time of the night?
  
  She flung open the door, surprising her visitor before he could ring.
  
  'Hi beauty'.
  
  'I think news travels fast.'
  
  'There is bad news. If you start crying, I'll leave here.'
  
  Andrea stepped aside, her expression of disgust still on her face, but she was secretly relieved. She should have guessed. Enrique Pascual was her best friend and shoulder to cry on for years. He worked at one of the major Madrid radio stations, and every time Andrea stumbled, Enrique showed up at her door with a bottle of whiskey and a smile. This time he must have thought she was in particular need, because the whiskey was twelve years old, and to the right of his smile was a bouquet of flowers.
  
  'You had to do it, didn't you? The superreporter had to fuck one of the paper's top advertisers,' Enrique said as he walked down the hallway to the living room without tripping over LB. 'Is there a clean vase in this dump?'
  
  'Let them die and give me the bottle. Who cares! Nothing lasts forever.'
  
  'Now you've lost me,' Enrique said, ignoring the flower issue for the moment. 'Are we talking about Eve or getting fired?'
  
  'I don't think I know,' Andrea muttered, emerging from the kitchen with a glass in each hand.
  
  'If you had slept with me, perhaps everything would be clearer'.
  
  Andrea tried not to laugh. Enrique Pascual was tall, attractive and perfect for any woman in the first ten days of a relationship, and then turned into a nightmare for the next three months.
  
  'If I liked men, you would be in my top 20. Probably.'
  
  Now it was Enrique's turn to laugh. He poured two fingers of pure whiskey. He barely had time to take a sip when Andrea drained her glass and reached for the bottle.
  
  'Calm down, Andrea. It's not a good idea to end up in an accident. Again.'
  
  'I think that would be a damn good idea. At least I would have someone who would take care of me.'
  
  'Thank you for not appreciating my efforts. And don't be so dramatic.'
  
  'Do you think it's not dramatic to lose a loved one and a job within two months? My life is shit.'
  
  'I'm not going to argue with you. At least you're surrounded by what's left of her,' said Enrique, pointing in disgust at the mess in the room.
  
  'Maybe you could be my cleaning lady. I'm sure it would be more useful than this crappy sports program you pretend to be working on.'
  
  Enrique's expression did not change. He knew what was coming next, and Andrea too. She buried her head in the pillow and screamed with all her might. After a few seconds, her scream turned into sobs.
  
  'I should have grabbed two bottles.'
  
  Just at that moment, the cell phone rang.
  
  'I think it's yours,' said Enrique.
  
  'Tell whoever it is to fuck off,' Andrea said, still burying her face in the pillow.
  
  Enrique opened the phone with an elegant gesture.
  
  'A stream of tears. Hello...? Wait a minute...'
  
  He handed Andrea the phone.
  
  'I think you'd better deal with this. I don't speak foreign languages.'
  
  Andrea picked up the phone, wiped her tears with the back of her hand, and tried to speak normally.
  
  'Do you know what time it is, idiot?' Andrea said through clenched teeth.
  
  'I'm sorry. Andrea Otero, please? ' said the voice in English.
  
  "Who is it?" she replied in the same language.
  
  'My name is Jacob Russell, Miss Otero. I'm calling from New York on behalf of my boss, Raymond Kane.'
  
  'Raymond Kane? From Kine Industries?'
  
  'Yes, it is true. And you're the same Andrea Otero who gave that controversial interview to President Bush last year?'
  
  Of course, the interview. This interview had a big impact in Spain and even in the rest of Europe. She was the first Spanish reporter to enter the Oval Office. Some of her more direct questions-a few that hadn't been agreed upon in advance and that she managed to slip in discreetly-made the Texan more than a little nervous. This exclusive interview launched her El Globo career. At least not for long. And it seemed to shake some cells on the other side of the Atlantic.
  
  'The same thing, sir,' Andrea replied. 'So tell me, why does Raymond Kine need a great reporter?' she added, sniffing softly, pleased that the person on the phone couldn't see what state she was in.
  
  Russell cleared his throat. 'Can I count on you not to tell anyone about this in your paper, Miss Otero?'
  
  'Absolutely,' said Andrea, surprised at the irony.
  
  'Mr Kine would like to give you the greatest exclusive of your life'.
  
  'I? Why me?' Andrea said, making a written appeal to Enrique.
  
  Her friend pulled out a notepad and pen from his pocket and handed them to her with a questioning look. Andrea ignored him.
  
  'Let's just say he likes your style,' Russell said.
  
  'Mr Russell, at this stage of my life I find it hard to believe that someone I have never met is calling me with such a vague and probably unbelievable offer.'
  
  'Well, let me convince you.'
  
  Russell spoke for a quarter of an hour, during which an astonished Andrea made continuous notes. Enrique tried to read over her shoulder, but Andrea's spidery handwriting made it useless.
  
  '...that's why we're counting on you to be at the dig site, Ms. Otero.'
  
  'Will there be an exclusive interview with Mr Cain?'
  
  'As a rule, Mr. Kine does not give interviews. Never.'
  
  "Maybe Mr. Kine should find a reporter who cares about the rules."
  
  There was an awkward silence. Andrea crossed her fingers, praying that her shot in the dark would hit.
  
  'I suppose there can always be a first time. Do we have a deal?'
  
  Andrea thought about it for a few seconds. If what Russell promised were really true, she could have signed a contract with any media company in the world. And she would send that son of a bitch to the editor of El Globo a copy of the check.
  
  Even if Russell isn't telling the truth, we have nothing to lose.
  
  She didn't think about it anymore.
  
  'You can book a ticket for me on the next flight to Djibouti. First grade.'
  
  Andrea hung up.
  
  'I didn't understand a single word other than 'first class', Enrique said. 'Can you tell me where you're going?' He was surprised at the apparent change in Andrea's mood.
  
  'If I said "to the Bahamas", you wouldn't believe me, right?"
  
  'Very nice,' said Enrique, half annoyed, half jealous. 'I bring you flowers, whiskey, I scrape you off the floor, and that's how you treat me...'
  
  Pretending not to listen, Andrea went into the bedroom to collect her things.
  
  
  9
  
  
  
  crypt with relics
  
  VATICAN
  
  
  Friday, July 7, 2006 20:29 p.m.
  
  A knock on the door made Brother Cesareo flinch. No one went down into the crypt, not only because access was limited to very few people, but also because it was damp and unhealthy, despite the four dehumidifiers that were constantly humming in every corner of the huge room. Pleased to have company, the old Dominican friar smiled as he opened the armored door, standing on his tiptoes to embrace his visitor.
  
  'Anthony!'
  
  The priest smiled and hugged the smaller man.
  
  'I was next door...'
  
  "I swear to God, Anthony, how did you manage to get this far?" This place has been monitored by cameras and burglar alarms for some time now.'
  
  'There is always more than one entrance if you take your time and know the way. You taught me, remember?'
  
  The old Dominican massaged his goatee with one hand and patted his big belly with the other, laughing heartily. Beneath the streets of Rome lay a system of more than three hundred miles of tunnels and catacombs, some of which were more than two hundred feet below the city. It was a veritable museum, a maze of winding, unexplored passages that connected almost every part of the city, including the Vatican. Twenty years earlier, Fowler and Brother CesáReo had devoted their free time to exploring these dangerous and intricate tunnels.
  
  'Looks like Sirin will have to rethink his impeccable security system. If an old dog like you can sneak in here... But why not use the front door, Anthony? I heard that you are no longer persona non grata in the Holy Office. And I would like to know why.'
  
  "Actually, right now I'm probably too grata for some people's taste."
  
  'Sirin wants you back, doesn't she? Once that little Machiavelli gets his teeth into you, he won't let go easily.'
  
  'And old relic keepers can be stubborn too. Especially when it comes to things they shouldn't know about.'
  
  'Anthony, Anthony. This crypt is the best kept secret in our tiny country, but its walls echo with rumors.' Cesareo gestured around.
  
  Fowler looked up. The ceiling of the crypt, supported by stone arches, was black from the smoke of millions of candles that had lit the room for nearly two thousand years. Recently, however, candles have been replaced by a modern electrical system. The rectangular space was about two hundred and fifty square feet, part of which had been hewn into the living rock with a pickaxe. On the walls, from ceiling to floor, there were doors that hid niches with the remains of various saints.
  
  "You've spent too much time breathing this awful air, and that certainly doesn't help your clients either," Fowler said. 'Why are you still down here?'
  
  It was a little-known fact that for the past seventeen centuries, every Catholic church, no matter how modest, had a relic of a saint hidden in the altar. And this site hosted the largest collection of such relics in the world. Some niches were almost empty, containing only small fragments of bone, while in others the entire skeleton was intact. Every time a church was built anywhere in the world, a young priest would take the steel suitcase from Brother Cecilio and go to the new church to place the relic on the altar.
  
  The old historian took off his glasses and wiped them with the edge of his white cassock.
  
  'Safety. Tradition. Stubbornness,' said Ces áreo in response to Fowler's question. 'Words that define our Holy Mother Church'.
  
  'Great. Aside from being damp, this place reeks of cynicism.'
  
  Brother CesáReo tapped the screen of his powerful Macbook Pro he was writing on when his friend arrived.
  
  'Here are my truths, Anthony. Forty years of cataloging bone fragments. Have you ever sucked on an ancient bone, my friend? This is a great method for determining if a bone is fake, but it leaves a bitter taste in the mouth. Four decades later, I'm no closer to the truth than when I started.' He sighed.
  
  "Well, maybe you can get on that hard drive and help me out, old chap," Fowler said, holding out a photo to Cesáreo.
  
  'There's always something at hand, always...'
  
  The Dominican stopped mid-sentence. He stared at the photograph myopically for a moment, and then walked over to the table at which he worked. From a pile of books, he pulled out an old volume in classical Hebrew, which was covered in pencil marks. He flipped through it, checking the various symbols against the book. Startled, he looked up.
  
  'Where did you get that, Anthony?'
  
  'From an ancient candle. He was with a retired Nazi.'
  
  'Camilo Sirin sent you to bring him back, didn't he? You must tell me everything. Don't miss a single detail. I need to know!'
  
  'Let's say I owe Camilo a favor and agree to do one last mission for the Holy Alliance. He asked me to find an Austrian war criminal who stole a candle from a Jewish family in 1943. The candle was covered with layers of gold, and the man had had it since the war. A few months ago I caught up with him and took the candle. After melting the wax, I found the copper sheet you see in the photo.'
  
  "Don't you have a better one with a higher resolution?" I can barely make out the writing on the outside.'
  
  'It was folded too tight. If I unfolded it fully, I might damage it.'
  
  'It's good you didn't. What you could destroy is priceless. Where is it now?'
  
  'I relayed this to Chirin and didn't really attach much importance to it. I figured someone in the Curia wanted it. Then I returned to Boston convinced that I had repaid my debt - '
  
  'That's not quite right, Anthony,' interjected a calm, impassive voice. The owner of the voice managed to slip into the crypt like an experienced spy, which was exactly that squat man with a simple face, dressed in gray. Sparing in words and gestures, he hid behind a wall of chameleon-like insignificance.
  
  'Entering a room without knocking is bad manners, Sirin,' said Cecilio.
  
  "It's also bad manners not to answer when you're called," said the head of the Holy Alliance, staring at Fowler.
  
  'I thought we were done. We agreed on a mission - just one.'
  
  'And you have completed the first part: returned the candle. Now you must make sure that what it contains is used correctly.'
  
  Annoyed, Fowler did not answer.
  
  'Perhaps Anthony would appreciate his task more if he understood its importance,' Sirin continued. 'Since you now know what we are dealing with, Brother Cecilio, would you be so kind as to tell Anthony what is shown in this photo? that you've never seen?'
  
  The Dominican cleared his throat.
  
  'Before I do that, I need to know if he is genuine, Sirin.'
  
  'This is true'.
  
  The monk's eyes lit up. He turned to Fowler.
  
  'This, my friend, is a treasure map. Or, to be precise, half of one. That is, if my memory serves me right, because many years have passed since I held the other half in my hands. This is the part that was missing from the Qumran Copper Scroll.'
  
  The priest's expression darkened significantly.
  
  'Do you mean to tell me...
  
  'Yes my friend. The most powerful object in history can be found thanks to the meaning of these symbols. And all the problems that come with it.'
  
  'Good God. And it should manifest itself at this very moment.'
  
  'I'm glad you finally understood, Anthony,' Sirin interjected. 'Compared to that, all the relics our good friend keeps in this room are nothing more than dust.'
  
  'Who set you on the trail, Camilo? Why are you trying to find Dr. Grouse now, after all this time?' asked Brother Cesareo.
  
  'The information came from one of the benefactors of the Church, a certain Mr. Kane. A benefactor from another faith and a great philanthropist. He needed us to find Graus, and he personally offered to fund an archaeological expedition if we could get the candle back.'
  
  'Where?'
  
  'He did not reveal the exact location. But we know the area. Al-Mudawwara, Jordan.'
  
  'Great, then there's nothing to worry about,' Fowler interrupted. "Do you know what happens if anyone even sniffs out about it?" No one on this expedition will live long enough to pick up a shovel.'
  
  'Let's hope you're wrong. We're going to send an observer on an expedition: you.'
  
  Fowler shook his head. 'No'.
  
  'You realize the consequences, the ramifications'.
  
  'My answer is still no'.
  
  'You can't refuse'.
  
  'Try to stop me,' said the priest, heading for the door.
  
  'Anthony, my boy'. The words accompanied him as he walked towards the exit. 'I'm not saying I'm going to try and stop you. You must be the one who decides to go. Luckily, over the years, I've learned how to deal with you. I had to remember the only thing you value more than your freedom, and I found the perfect solution.'
  
  Fowler stopped, his back still to them.
  
  'What have you done, Camilo?'
  
  Sirin took a few steps towards him. If there was one thing he disliked more than talking, it was raising his voice.
  
  'In a conversation with Mr. Cain, I suggested the best reporter for his expedition. In fact, as a reporter, she is rather mediocre. And not too cute, or edgy, or even overly honest. In fact, the only thing that makes her interesting is that you once saved her hide. How should I put it - she owes you her life? So now you won't rush to hide in the nearest soup kitchen because you know the risk it's at.'
  
  Fowler still didn't look back. With each word of Sirin, his hand tightened more and more, until it clenched into a fist, nails dug into his palm. But the pain wasn't enough. He banged his fist on one of the niches. The crypt shook from the impact. The wooden door of the ancient resting place shattered, and the bone from the desecrated vault rolled onto the floor.
  
  Patella of the Holy Essence. Poor fellow, he's been limping all his life,' said Brother CesáReo, bending down to pick up the relic.
  
  Fowler, by now resigned, finally turned to face them.
  
  
  10
  
  
  
  EXTRACT FROM RAYMOND KEN: UNAUTHORIZED BIOGRAPHY
  
  ROBERT DRISCOLL
  
  
  Many readers may ask how an uneducated Jew who lived off charity as a child managed to create such a huge financial empire. From the previous pages it is clear that prior to December 1943, Raymond Kine did not exist. There is no entry on his birth certificate, no document proving that he is an American citizen.
  
  The period of his life that is best known about began when he entered MIT and amassed a sizable list of patents. While the United States was in the glorious 1960s, Kine was inventing the integrated circuit. For five years he owned his own company; within ten - half of Silicon Valley.
  
  This period was well documented in Time magazine, along with the misfortunes that ruined his life as a father and husband...
  
  Perhaps what worries the average American most is his invisibility, this lack of transparency that turns someone so powerful into a disturbing mystery. Sooner or later, someone has to dispel the aura of mystery that surrounds the figure of Raymond Kane...
  
  
  eleven
  
  
  
  ON BOARD "BEHEMOTH"
  
  RED SEA
  
  
  Tuesday, July 11, 2006 at 4:29 pm.
  
  
  ... someone needs to dispel the halo of mystery surrounding the figure of Raymond Ken...
  
  Andrea smiled broadly and put aside the biography of Raymond Kane. It was a dark, biased piece of shit, and she got completely bored with it as she flew over the Sahara Desert on her way to Djibouti.
  
  During the flight, Andrea had time to do what she rarely did: take a good look at herself. And she decided that she didn't like what she saw.
  
  As the youngest of five siblings - all men except her - Andrea grew up in an environment in which she felt completely secure. And it was completely banal. Her father was a police sergeant and her mother was a housewife. They lived in a working-class neighborhood and ate pasta almost every evening and chicken on Sundays. Madrid is a beautiful city, but for Andrea, it only served to highlight the mediocrity of her family. At fourteen, she swore that the minute she turned eighteen, she would walk out the door and never come back.
  
  Of course, arguing with your dad about your sexual orientation hastened your departure, didn't it, honey?
  
  It's been a long journey from the moment she left home - you got kicked out - to her first real job, except for the ones she had to take to pay her journalism tuition. The day she started working at El Globo, she felt like she'd won the lottery, but that euphoria didn't last long. She moved from one section of the article to the next, each time feeling like she was falling into the air, losing both perspective and control over her personal life. Before leaving, she ended up in the International Department ...
  
  They kicked you out.
  
  And now it's an impossible adventure.
  
  My last chance. Considering how things are with journalists in the labor market, my next job will be a cashier in a supermarket. There's just something about me that doesn't work. I can't do anything right. Even Eva, who was the most patient person in the world, couldn't stay with me. The day she left... What did she call me? "Recklessly out of control", 'emotionally cold'... I think 'immature' was the nicest thing she said. And she must have meant it because she didn't even raise her voice. Damn! It's always the same. This time I better not screw up.
  
  Andrea switched mental gears and turned up the volume on her iPod. Alanis Morissette's warm voice calmed her mood. She leaned back in her seat, wishing she was already at her destination.
  
  
  Fortunately, first class had its advantages. The most important of these was the ability to get off the plane before everyone else. A young, well-dressed black driver was waiting for her next to a beat-up jeep at the edge of the runway.
  
  So-so. No customs, right? Mr. Russell has arranged everything, Andrea thought as she climbed down the stairs from the plane.
  
  'This is all?' The driver spoke English, pointing to Andrea's handbag and backpack.
  
  "We're heading for the fucking desert, aren't we?" Drive on.'
  
  She recognized the way the driver looked at her. She used to be stereotypical: young, blonde, and therefore stupid. Andrea wasn't sure if her carefree attitude toward clothes and money was a way to further bury herself in that stereotype, or if it was just her own concession to banality. Perhaps a combination of both. But for this trip, as a sign that she has left her old life behind, she has kept her luggage to a minimum.
  
  As the jeep made the five miles to the ship, Andrea took pictures with her Canon 5D. (It wasn't really her Canon 5D, but the one that belonged to the paper, which she forgot to return. They deserve it, pigs.) She was shocked by the extreme poverty of this land. Dry, brown, covered with stones. You could probably cross the entire capital on foot in two hours. There seemed to be no industry, no agriculture, no infrastructure. The dust from the wheels of their jeep covered the faces of the people who looked at them as they passed. Faces without hope.
  
  "The world is in a bad position if people like Bill Gates and Raymond Kane make more in a month than this country's gross national product in a year."
  
  The driver shrugged in response. They were already in the port, the most modern and well-maintained part of the capital, and in fact its only source of income. Djibouti has benefited from its advantageous location within the Horn of Africa.
  
  The Jeep braked hard. As Andrea regained her balance, what she saw made her jaw drop. The Behemoth wasn't quite as ugly as she'd expected. She was an elegant, modern vessel, with a huge hull painted red and a superstructure painted dazzlingly white, the color of Kayn Industries. Without waiting for the driver to help her, she grabbed her things and ran up the gangplank, eager to start her adventure as soon as possible.
  
  Half an hour later, the ship weighed anchor and set off. An hour later, Andrea locked herself in her cabin, intending to puke alone.
  
  
  After two days of fluids being the only thing she could handle, her inner ear called a truce and she finally felt brave enough to go outside for some fresh air and get to know the ship. But first she decided to throw Raymond Kayn: The Unauthorized Biography overboard with all her might.
  
  'You shouldn't have done this.'
  
  Andrea turned away from the railing. Walking towards her on the main deck was an attractive dark-haired woman in her forties. She was dressed as Andrea, in jeans and a T-shirt, but she wore a white jacket over them.
  
  'I know. Environmental pollution is bad. But try being locked up for three days with that shitty book and you'll understand.'
  
  'It would be less traumatic if you opened the door for something other than getting water from the team. I understand that you have been offered my services...'
  
  Andrea stared at the book, which was already floating far behind the moving ship. She felt ashamed. She didn't like it when people saw her sick and she hated feeling vulnerable.
  
  'I was fine,' Andrea said.
  
  'I understand, but I'm sure you'd feel better if you took some dramamin.'
  
  'Only if you wanted me dead, doctor...'
  
  'Harel. Are you allergic to dimenhydrinates, Miss Otero?'
  
  'Among other things. Please call me Andrea.'
  
  Dr. Harel smiled, and a series of wrinkles softened her features. She had beautiful eyes, the shape and color of an almond, and her hair was dark and curly. She was two inches taller than Andrea.
  
  'And you can call me Dr. Harel,' she said, holding out her hand.
  
  Andrea looked down at her hand without offering hers.
  
  'I don't like snobs'.
  
  'Me too. I don't tell you my name because I don't have one. My friends usually call me Doc.'
  
  The reporter finally extended her hand. The doctor's handshake was warm and pleasant.
  
  'This should break the ice at parties, doc.'
  
  'You can't imagine. It's usually the first thing people notice when I meet them. Let's take a little walk and I'll tell you more.'
  
  They moved towards the bow of the ship. A hot wind blew in their direction, causing the American flag on the ship to flutter.
  
  "I was born in Tel Aviv shortly after the end of the Six Day War," Harel continued. "Four members of my family died during the conflict. The rabbi interpreted this as a bad omen, so my parents did not give me a name to deceive the Angel of Death. They are alone knew my name.'
  
  'And it worked?'
  
  'For the Jews, the name is very important. It defines a person and has power over that person. My father whispered my name in my ear during my Bat Mitzvah when the congregation sang. I can never tell anyone else about this.'
  
  "Or will the Angel of Death find you?" No offense, Doc, but that doesn't make much sense. The Grim Reaper isn't looking for you in the phone book.'
  
  Harel laughed heartily.
  
  'I often encounter this attitude. I have to tell you that I find it refreshing. But my name will remain secret.'
  
  Andrea smiled. She liked the woman's casual style, and looked into her eyes, perhaps a little longer than was necessary or appropriate. Harel looked away, slightly taken aback by her directness.
  
  'What's the doctor with no name doing aboard the Behemoth?'
  
  'I'm a replacement, at the last minute. They needed a doctor for the expedition. So you're all in my hands.'
  
  Nice hands, Andrea thought.
  
  They reached the bow. The sea receded beneath them, and the day shone majestically and brightly. Andrea looked around.
  
  'When I don't feel like my insides are in a blender, I have to admit it's a beautiful ship.'
  
  His strength is in his loins and his strength is in the navel of his belly. His bones are like solid pieces of copper; his legs are like iron bars," the doctor recited in a cheerful voice.
  
  'Among the crew are there poets?' Andrea laughed.
  
  'No, darling. It's from the Book of Job. It refers to a huge beast named Behemoth, brother of Leviathan.'
  
  'Not a bad name for a ship'.
  
  "At one point it was a Danish Hvidbjørnen-class naval frigate. The Doctor pointed to a metal plate about ten feet square that was welded to the deck. 'There used to be a single gun. Kine Industries bought this ship for ten million dollars at an auction four years ago. Good deal.'
  
  'I wouldn't pay more than nine and a half.'
  
  'Laugh if you will, Andrea, but this beauty's deck is two hundred and sixty feet long; she has her own heliport and can sail eight thousand miles at fifteen knots. He could travel from Cadiz to New York and back without refueling.'
  
  At that moment, the ship overcame a huge wave, and the ship tilted slightly. Andrea slipped and nearly fell over the railing, which was only a foot and a half high at the bow. The doctor grabbed her by the T-shirt.
  
  'Watch out! If you fell at that speed, you would either be blown to pieces by the propellers or drown before we had a chance to save you.'
  
  Andrea was about to thank Harel, but then she noticed something in the distance.
  
  'What is it?' she asked.
  
  Harel narrowed her eyes, raising her hand to shield her eyes from the glare. At first she couldn't see anything, but five seconds later she could make out shapes.
  
  'At last we are all here. It's the boss.'
  
  'Who?'
  
  'Didn't they tell you? Mr. Cain will personally supervise the entire operation.'
  
  Andrea turned around with her mouth open. 'Are you kidding?'
  
  Harel shook her head. "This will be the first time I meet him," she replied.
  
  'They promised me an interview with him, but I thought it would be at the end of this ridiculous charade.'
  
  'You don't believe the expedition will succeed?'
  
  'Let's say I have doubts about her real purpose. When Mr. Russell hired me, he said we were after a very important relic that was lost thousands of years ago. He didn't go into details.'
  
  'We are all in the dark. Look, it's getting closer.'
  
  Now Andrea could see what looked like some kind of aircraft about two miles to port. It was fast approaching.
  
  'You're right, doc, it's a plane!'
  
  The reporter had to raise his voice over the roar of the aircraft and the cheers of the sailors as he made a semi-circle around the ship.
  
  'No, it's not a plane - look.'
  
  They turned to follow him. The plane, or at least what Andrea thought was a plane, was a small aircraft, painted in colors and with the Kayn Industries logo, but its two propellers were three times the usual size. Andrea watched in amazement as the propellers began to turn on the wing and the aircraft ceased its overflight of the Behemoth. Suddenly it hung in the air. The propellers had made a ninety-degree turn and, like a helicopter, now held the aircraft still as concentric waves fanned out across the sea below.
  
  'This is a BA-609 tiltrotor. Best in class. This is her first trip. They say it was one of Mr. Kine's own ideas.'
  
  'Everything this man does seems impressive. I would like to meet him.'
  
  'No, Andrea, wait!'
  
  The Doctor tried to restrain Andrea, but she slipped away into a group of sailors who leaned over the starboard railing.
  
  Andrea climbed to the main deck and descended one of the ladders under the ship's superstructure that connected to the aft deck, where the aircraft now hovered. At the end of the corridor, a six-foot-two blond sailor blocked her path.
  
  'That's all you can do, miss.'
  
  'I'm sorry?'
  
  'You can take a look at the plane as soon as Mr. Kine is in his cabin.'
  
  'It's clear. What if I want to take a look at Mr. Kine?'
  
  'My orders are not to let anyone go astern. Sorry.'
  
  Andrea turned away without saying a word. She didn't like being refused, so now she had a double incentive to deceive the guards.
  
  Slipping through one of the hatches to her right, she entered the ship's main chamber. She needed to hurry before they took Cain downstairs. She could try to go down to the lower deck, but there would probably be another guard there. She tried the handles on several doors until she found one that wasn't locked. It was like a lounge with a sofa and a shabby ping-pong table. At the end was a large open porthole overlooking the stern.
  
  Et voilà.
  
  Andrea placed one of her little feet on the corner of the table and the other on the sofa. She pushed her hands through the porthole, then her head, and pushed her body through the other side. Less than ten feet away, a sailor in an orange vest and ear protectors was signaling to the pilot of BA-609 as the plane's wheels screeched to the deck. Andrea's hair fluttered in the wind from the propeller blades. She ducked instinctively, even though she swore countless times that if she ever got under a helicopter, she wouldn't imitate movie characters who duck their heads even though the blades are almost five feet above them.
  
  Of course, it was one thing to represent the situation, and another to be in it ...
  
  The door of BA-609 began to open.
  
  Andrea felt movement behind her. She was about to turn around when she was thrown to the ground and pinned to the deck. She felt the heat of metal on her cheek as someone sat on her back. She writhed with all her might, but could not free herself. Although she was having difficulty breathing, she managed to look at the plane and saw a tanned, handsome young man in sunglasses and a blazer getting off the plane. Behind him was a male bull weighing about 220 pounds, or so it seemed to Andrea from the deck. When this brute looked at her, she did not notice any expression in his brown eyes. An ugly scar ran from his left eyebrow to his cheek. Finally, he was followed by a thin, short man dressed entirely in white. The pressure on her head increased, and she could barely make out this last passenger as he crossed her limited field of vision-all she could see were the shadows of the slowing propeller blades on the deck.
  
  'Let me go, okay? The fucking crazy paranoid is already in his quarters, so get the hell out of my way.'
  
  'Mr Kine is neither crazy nor paranoid. I'm afraid he suffers from agoraphobia,' her captor replied in Spanish.
  
  His voice was not that of a sailor. Andrea remembered well that educated, serious tone, so measured and aloof, that always reminded her of Ed Harris. As the pressure on her back eased, she jumped to her feet.
  
  'You?'
  
  Before her stood Father Anthony Fowler.
  
  
  12
  
  
  
  OUTSIDE NETCATCH
  
  225 SOMERSET AVENUE,
  
  WASHINGTON, DC
  
  
  Tuesday 11 July 2006 11:29 am.
  
  
  The taller of the two men was also the younger, so he was always the one who brought coffee and food as a sign of respect. His name was Nazim, and he was nineteen years old. He was in Haruf's group for fifteen months and was happy because at last his life had found meaning, a path.
  
  Nazim idolized Haruf. They met at a mosque in Clive Cove, New Jersey. It was a place full of 'westernized' as Haruf called them. Nazim liked to play basketball near the mosque, where he met his new friend, who was twenty years older than him. Nazim was flattered that someone so mature, and also a college graduate, spoke to him.
  
  Now he opened the car door and scrambled into the passenger seat, which isn't easy when you're six foot two.
  
  'I only found a burger bar. I ordered salads and hamburgers.' He gave the bag to Haruf, who smiled.
  
  'Thank you Nazim. But I have something to tell you, and I don't want you to get angry.'
  
  'What?'
  
  Haruf took the hamburgers out of the boxes and threw them out the window.
  
  'These burgers put lecithin in their burgers and there's a chance they might contain pork. It's not halal,' he said, referring to the Islamic restriction on pork. 'I'm sorry. But the salads are excellent.'
  
  Nazim was disappointed, but at the same time he felt more confident. Haruf was his mentor. Whenever Nazim made a mistake, Haruf corrected him respectfully and with a smile, which was the exact opposite of how Nazim's parents treated him in the past few months, constantly yelling at him since he met Haruf and started visiting another mosque , which was smaller and more 'devoted'.
  
  In the new mosque, the imam not only read the Holy Quran in Arabic, but also preached in this language. Despite the fact that Nazim was born in New Jersey, he perfectly read and wrote in the language of the prophet. His family was from Egypt. Thanks to Imam's hypnotic preaching, Nazim began to see the light. He broke with the life he led. He was getting good grades and could have started studying engineering that same year, but instead Haruf got him a job at an accounting firm run by a believer.
  
  His parents disagreed with his decision. They also didn't understand why he locked himself in the bathroom to pray. But as painful as these changes were, they slowly accepted them. Before the incident with Hana.
  
  Nazim's remarks became more and more aggressive. One evening, his sister Hana, who was two years older than him, came in at two in the morning after drinking with her friends. Nazim was waiting for her and scolded her for the way she was dressed and for the fact that she was a little drunk. Insults went back and forth. Finally, their father intervened, and Nazim pointed his finger at him.
  
  'You are weak. You don't know how to control your women. You let your daughter work. You let her drive and don't insist she wear a veil. Her place is in the house until she has a husband.'
  
  Hana started to protest and Nazim slapped her. This was the last straw.
  
  'I may be weak, but at least I am the owner of this house. Get out! I do not know you. Go away!'
  
  Nazim went to Haruf in the same clothes that he had on. He cried a little that night, but the tears did not last long. Now he had a new family. Haruf was both his father and his older brother. Nazim greatly admired him, because the thirty-nine-year-old Haruf was a true jihadist and had been in training camps in Afghanistan and Pakistan. He shared his knowledge with only a handful of young men who, like Nazim, had endured countless insults. At school, even on the street, people didn't trust him as soon as they saw his olive skin and hooked nose and knew he was an Arab. Haruf told him that it was because they were afraid of him, because the Christians knew that the Islamic believers were stronger and more numerous. Nazim liked it. The time has come when he commanded due respect.
  
  
  Haruf raised the window on the driver's side.
  
  'Six minutes and then we're off'.
  
  Nazim gave him a worried look. His friend noticed that something was wrong.
  
  'What's the matter, Nazim?'
  
  'Nothing'.
  
  'It never means anything. Come on, you can tell me.'
  
  'It's nothing'.
  
  'Is it fear? You are afraid?'
  
  'No. I am a soldier of Allah!'
  
  'Allah's soldiers are allowed to be afraid Nazim'.
  
  'Well, I'm not like that.'
  
  'Is that a gun firing?'
  
  'No!'
  
  'Come on, you had forty hours of practice at my cousin's slaughterhouse. You must have shot over a thousand cows.'
  
  Haruf was also one of Nazim's shooting instructors, and one of the exercises was live cattle shooting. In other cases, the cows were already dead, but he wanted Nazim to get used to firearms and see what bullets do to flesh.
  
  'No, the practice sessions were good. I'm not afraid to shoot people. I mean they are not really human.'
  
  Haruf did not answer. He leaned on the steering wheel, looking straight ahead and waiting. He knew that the best way to get Nazim to speak up was to allow a few minutes of awkward silence. The guy always ended up blurting out everything that bothered him.
  
  'It's just...well, I'm sorry I didn't say goodbye to my parents,' he said at last.
  
  'It's clear. Do you still blame yourself for what happened?'
  
  'A little. Am I wrong?'
  
  Haruf smiled and put his hand on Nazim's shoulder.
  
  'No. You are a sensitive and loving young man. Allah has endowed you with these qualities, may his name be blessed.'
  
  'Blessed be his name,' Nazim repeated.
  
  'He also gave you the strength to overcome them when you need it. Now take the sword of Allah and do his will. Rejoice Nazim.'
  
  The young man tried to smile, but the result was more of a grimace. Haruf put more pressure on Nazim's shoulder. His voice sounded warm, loving.
  
  'Relax, Nazim. Today Allah does not ask for our blood. He asks others about it. But even if something happened, you videotaped a message to your family, didn't you?'
  
  Nazim nodded.
  
  'Then there's nothing to worry about. Your parents may have moved a bit to Western countries, but deep down they are good Muslims. They know the reward for a martyr. And when you reach the Next Life, Allah will allow you to intercede for them. Just think how they feel.'
  
  Nazim imagined his parents and sister kneeling before him, thanking him for their salvation, begging him to forgive them for being wrong. In the clear fog of his fantasy, this was the most beautiful aspect of the next life. He finally managed to smile.
  
  'That's right, Nazim. Bassamat al-farah is on your face, the smile of a martyr. This is part of our promise. Part of our reward.'
  
  Nazim reached under his jacket and squeezed the butt of the pistol.
  
  She and Haruf calmly got out of the car.
  
  
  13
  
  
  
  ON BOARD "BEHEMOTH"
  
  ON THE WAY TO THE BAY OF AQABA, THE RED SEA
  
  
  Tuesday, July 11, 2006 at 5:11 pm
  
  
  'You!' Andrea said again, more in anger than surprise.
  
  The last time they saw each other, Andrea was teetering precariously thirty feet off the ground, pursued by an unlikely enemy. Then Father Fowler saved her life, but he also prevented her from getting the great story about her career that most reporters only dream of. Woodward and Bernstein did it with Water-gate, and Lowell Bergman did it with the tobacco industry. Andrea Otero could have done the same, but this priest got in the way. At least he got her - I'll be damned if I know how, Andrea thought - the exclusive interview with President Bush that got her aboard this ship now, or so she assumed. But that wasn't all, and right now she was more concerned with the present. Andrea was not going to miss this opportunity.
  
  'I'm glad to see you too, Miss Otero. I see that the scar is hardly a memory.'
  
  Andrea instinctively touched her forehead, the spot where Fowler had given her four stitches sixteen months earlier. All that's left is a thin, pale line.
  
  'You're a good pair of hands, but that's not what you're here for. Are you spying on me? Are you trying to ruin my work again?'
  
  'I am participating in this expedition as an observer from the Vatican, nothing more.'
  
  The young reporter looked at him suspiciously. Because of the intense heat, the priest was dressed in a shirt with short sleeves and a collar, like a clergyman, and well-pressed trousers, all of the usual black. Andrea looked at his tanned hands for the first time. His forearms were huge, with veins as thick as a ballpoint pen.
  
  This is not a biblical weapon.
  
  'And why does the Vatican need an observer on an archaeological expedition?'
  
  The priest was about to answer when a cheerful voice interrupted them.
  
  'Great! Have you two already been introduced?'
  
  Dr. Harel appeared at the stern of the ship, flashing her charming smile. Andrea did not return the courtesy.
  
  'Something like that. Father Fowler was about to explain to me why he played Brett Favre to me a couple of minutes ago.'
  
  "Miss Otero, Brett Favre is a quarterback, he's not a very good tackler," Fowler explained.
  
  'What happened, father?' Harel asked.
  
  'Miss Otero got back here just as Mr. Kine was getting off the plane. I'm afraid I had to restrain her. I was a little rough. I'm sorry.'
  
  Harel nodded. 'I understand. You should know that Andrea didn't attend the security session. Don't worry, father.'
  
  'What do you mean don't worry?'
  
  'Relax, Andrea,' said the doctor. 'Unfortunately, you have been ill for the past forty-eight hours and have not been kept up to date. Let me fill you in. Raymond Kane suffers from agoraphobia.'
  
  'That's what Father Tackler just told me.'
  
  'In addition to being a priest, Father Fowler is also a psychologist. Please interrupt me if I'm missing something, father. Andrea, what do you know about agoraphobia?'
  
  'It's the fear of open spaces'.
  
  'That's what most people think. In fact, people suffering from this affliction show symptoms that are much more complex.'
  
  Fowler cleared his throat.
  
  'Most of all, agoraphobics are afraid of losing control,' said the priest. 'They are afraid to be alone, to be in places where there is no way out, or to meet new people. That's why they stay at home for a long time.'
  
  'What happens when they can't control the situation?' Andrea asked.
  
  'It depends on situation. Mr. Kine's case is particularly difficult. If he finds himself in a difficult situation, he may well panic, lose touch with reality, begin to experience dizziness, trembling and heart palpitations.'
  
  "In other words, he couldn't be a stockbroker," Andrea said.
  
  'Or a neurosurgeon,' Harel joked. 'But sufferers can lead normal lives. There are well-known agoraphobics like Kim Basinger or Woody Allen who have battled the disease for years and come out victorious. Mr. Kine himself created an empire out of nothing. Unfortunately, over the past five years, his condition has worsened.'
  
  'I wonder what the hell provoked such a sick person to risk coming out of his shell?'
  
  'You hit the spot, Andrea,' said Harel.
  
  Andrea noticed that the doctor was looking at her strangely.
  
  They were all silent for a few moments, and then Fowler resumed the conversation.
  
  'I hope you will be able to forgive my excessive insistence earlier.'
  
  "Perhaps, but you nearly blew my head off," Andrea said, rubbing her neck.
  
  Fowler looked at Harel, who nodded.
  
  'In time you will understand, Miss Otero... Did you see the people getting off the plane?' Harel asked.
  
  'There was a young man with olive skin,' Andrea replied. 'Then a man in his fifties, dressed in black, who had a huge scar. And finally, a thin man with white hair, who I believe must be Mr. .'
  
  'The young man is Jacob Russell, Mr Kane's executive assistant,' Fowler said. 'The scarred man is Mogens Dekker, head of security at Kine Industries. Trust me, if you could come a little closer to Kine given your usual style, Dekker would be a little nervous, and you don't want that to happen.'
  
  A warning signal sounded from bow to stern.
  
  'Well, it's time for the introductory session,' said Harel. 'Finally, the great mystery will be revealed. Follow me.'
  
  'Where are we going?' Andrea asked as they returned to the main deck via the gangway the reporter had slid down a few minutes earlier.
  
  'The entire expedition team will meet for the first time. They will explain the role each of us is going to play, and most importantly... what we are really looking for in Jordan.'
  
  'By the way, doc, what's your specialty?' Andrea asked as they entered the conference room.
  
  'Combat medicine,' Harel said casually.
  
  
  14
  
  
  
  THE COHEN FAMILY RESORT
  
  VEIN
  
  
  February 1943
  
  
  Jora Mayer was beside himself with worry. There was an acid sensation in the back of her throat that made her feel sick. She hasn't felt this way since she was fourteen and escaped the 1906 pogroms in Odessa, Ukraine, when her grandfather held her hand. She was lucky at such a young age to find a job as a servant in the Cohen family, who owned a factory in Vienna. Joseph was the eldest of the children. When Shadchan, a marriage broker, eventually found him a nice Jewish wife, Jora went with him to look after their children. Their first child, Elan, spent his early years in a pampered and privileged environment. The younger one, Yudel, was a different story.
  
  Now the child lay curled up on his makeshift bed, which consisted of two folded blankets on the floor. Until yesterday, he shared a bed with his brother. Lying there, Yudel seemed small and sad, and without his parents, the stuffy space seemed huge.
  
  Poor Yudel. Those twelve square feet had been his entire world almost from birth. On the day he was born, the whole family, including Jora, was in the hospital. None of them returned to the luxurious apartment on the Rinstraße. It was November 9, 1938, the date the world would later recognize as Kristallnacht, the Night of Broken Glass. Yudel's grandparents were the first to die. The entire building on Rienstraße burned to the ground, along with the synagogue next door, as the firefighters drank and laughed. The only things the Coens took with them were some clothes and a mysterious package that Father Yudel used in the ceremony when the baby was born. Jora didn't know what it was because during the ceremony, Mr. Cohen asked everyone to leave the room, including Odile, who was barely on her feet.
  
  With virtually no money, Josef was unable to leave the country, but like many others, he believed the problems would eventually subside, so he sought refuge with some of his Catholic friends. He also did not forget about Jor, which Miss Mayer would never forget in later life. Few friendships could withstand the terrible obstacles faced in occupied Austria; however, there was one that survived. The aging Judge Rath decided to help the Kohanim at great risk to his own life. Inside his house, he built a shelter in one of the rooms. He laid the brick partition with his own hands, leaving a narrow opening at the base through which the family could enter and exit. Judge Rath then placed a low bookcase in front of the entrance to hide it.
  
  The Coen family entered their living grave on a December night in 1938, believing that the war would only last a few weeks. There was not enough room for all of them to lie down at the same time, and their only comforts were a kerosene lamp and a bucket. Food and fresh air arrived at one in the morning, two hours after the judge's maid had gone home. At about half past one in the morning, the old judge slowly began to move the bookcase away from the hole. Because of its age, it could take almost half an hour, with frequent breaks, before the hole was wide enough to let the kohanim through.
  
  Along with the Coen family, the judge was also a prisoner of that life. He knew that the maid's husband was a member of the Nazi Party, so while he was building the shelter, he sent her on holiday to Salzburg for a few days. When she returned, he told her that they had to replace the gas pipes. He didn't dare to find another maid because that would make people suspicious and he had to be careful about the amount of food he bought. With rationing, it became even more difficult to feed the extra five people. Jora felt sorry for him, as he sold most of his valuable possessions to buy black market meat and potatoes, which he hid in the attic. At night, when Jora and the Cohens came out of their hiding place, barefoot, like strange whispering ghosts, the old man brought them food from the attic.
  
  The Cohens did not dare to stay outside their hiding place for more than a few hours. While Zhora made sure that the children washed and moved a little, Joseph and Odile spoke quietly with the judge. During the day, they could not make the slightest noise and mostly spent their time in a dream or in a semi-conscious state, which for Zhora was like torture, until she began to hear about the concentration camps at Treblinka, Dachau and Auschwitz. The smallest details of everyday life have become more complicated. Basic needs, drinking or even swaddling baby Yudel, were tedious routines in such a confined space. Jora was constantly amazed at Odile Cohen's ability to communicate. She developed a complex system of signs that allowed her to have long and sometimes bitter conversations with her husband without uttering a single word.
  
  More than three years passed in silence. Yudel learned no more than four or five words. Luckily, he had a calm disposition and almost never cried. He seemed to prefer to be held by Jora rather than his mother, but that didn't bother Odile. Odile seemed to care only about Elan, who suffered the most from imprisonment. He was an unruly, spoiled five-year-old when the pogroms broke out in November 1938, and after more than a thousand days on the run, there was something lost, almost crazy, in his eyes. When it was time to head back to the hideout, he was always the last one in. Often he refused or remained to cling to the entrance. When this happened, Yudel would come and take his hand, encouraging Elan to make another sacrifice and return to the long hours of darkness.
  
  But six nights ago, Elan couldn't take it anymore. He waited for everyone else to return to the hole, then slipped away and left the house. The judge's arthritic fingers barely touched the boy's shirt before he disappeared. Joseph tried to follow him, but by the time he got outside, there was no sign of Elan.
  
  The news appeared three days later in the Kronen Zeitung. A young Jewish boy with mental disabilities, apparently without a family, was placed in the Children's Center in Spiegelgrund. The judge was horrified. When he explained, the words stuck in his throat, which would probably happen to their son, Odile fell into hysterics and refused to listen to the voice of reason. Jora felt weak the moment she saw Odile walk out the door, carrying the same package they brought to their hideout, the same one they took to the hospital years ago when Yudel was born. Odile's husband accompanied her despite her protests, but as he left he handed Jora an envelope.
  
  'For Yudel', he said. "He shouldn't open it until his bar mitzvah."
  
  Two terrible nights have passed since then. Jora was eager to hear the news, but the judge was more silent than usual. The day before, the house was filled with strange sounds. And then, for the first time in three years, the bookcase began to move in the middle of the day, and the judge's face appeared in the entrance.
  
  'Quick, get out. We don't have a second to lose!'
  
  Jorah blinked. It was difficult to recognize the brightness outside of the shelter as sunlight. Yudel never saw the sun. Frightened, he dived back.
  
  'Jora, I'm sorry. Yesterday I learned that Josef and Odil had been arrested. I didn't say anything because I didn't want to upset you any more. But you can't stay here. They're going to interrogate them, and no matter how hard the Kohanim fight back, the Nazis will eventually find out where Yudel is.'
  
  'Frau Cohen won't say anything. She is strong.'
  
  The judge shook his head.
  
  'They'll promise to save Elan's life in exchange for her telling her where the baby is, or worse. They can always get people to talk.'
  
  Jora began to cry.
  
  'There's no time for this, Jora. When Josef and Odil did not return, I went to visit a friend at the Bulgarian embassy. I have two exit visas in the names of Bilyana Bogomil, a mentor, and Mikhail Zhivkov, the son of a Bulgarian diplomat. The story is that you return to school with a boy after spending the Christmas holidays with his parents.' He showed her the rectangular tickets. 'These are train tickets to Stara Zagora. But you won't go there.'
  
  'I don't understand,' said Jora.
  
  'Your official destination is Stara Zagora, but you will get off at Chernavoda. The train stops there for a short time. You'll come out so the boy can stretch his legs. You will leave the train with a smile on your face. You will not have any luggage or anything in your hands. As soon as you can, disappear. Constanta is thirty-seven miles to the east. You'll either have to walk or find someone to take you there in a cart.'
  
  'Constanza,' Jorah repeated, trying to remember everything in her confusion.
  
  'It used to be Romania. Now it's Bulgaria. Who knows what will happen tomorrow? The important thing is that this is a port and the Nazis don't watch it too closely. From there you can take a ship to Istanbul. And from Istanbul you can go anywhere.'
  
  'But we don't have money for a ticket'.
  
  'Here are some trip notes. And there's enough money in that envelope to book a ride for the two of you to safety.'
  
  Jora looked around. There was almost no furniture left in the house. Suddenly she realized what those strange sounds had been the day before. The old man took almost everything he had to give them a chance to escape.
  
  'How can we thank you, Judge Rath?'
  
  'No need. Your trip will be very dangerous and I am not sure that exit visas will protect you. God, forgive me, but I hope I'm not sending you to certain death.'
  
  
  Two hours later, Jora managed to drag Yudel up the stairs of the building. She was about to go outside when she heard a truck stop on the sidewalk. Everyone who lived under the Nazis knew exactly what that meant. It all sounded like a bad tune, starting with a screech of brakes followed by someone shouting orders and a dull staccato of boots on the snow that became clearer as the boots hit the hardwood floors. At that moment you were praying for the sounds to stop; instead, there was an ominous crescendo, culminating in banging on the door. After a pause, there was a chorus of sobs, punctuated by machine-gun solos. And when the music ended, the lights came on again, people returned to their tables, and the mothers smiled and pretended that nothing had happened in the neighborhood.
  
  Jora, who knew the tune well, hid under the stairs as soon as she heard the first notes. As his colleagues broke down Rath's door, a flashlight-wielding soldier paced nervously up and down the main entrance. The beam of the flashlight cut through the darkness, narrowly missing Jora's well-worn gray boot. Yudel grabbed her with such animal fear that Zhora had to bite his lip so as not to scream in pain. The soldier came so close to them that they could smell his leather jacket, cold metal, and gun oil.
  
  A loud shot rang out on the stairs. The soldier interrupted his search and rushed upstairs to his comrades, who were screaming. Zhora lifted Yudel in her arms and slowly walked out into the street.
  
  
  15
  
  
  
  ON BOARD THE BEHEMO
  
  ON THE WAY TO THE BAY OF AQABA, THE RED SEA
  
  
  Tuesday, July 11, 2006 at 6:03 pm.
  
  
  The room was dominated by a large rectangular table, lined with twenty neatly arranged folders, in front of which sat a man. Harel, Fowler and Andrea were the last to enter and were to take the remaining seats. Andrea found herself between a young African-American woman dressed in what appeared to be a paramilitary uniform and an older man, balding, with a thick moustache. The young woman ignored her and continued talking to the comrades to her left, who were dressed more or less like her, while the man to Andrea's right held out his hand with thick, hardened fingers.
  
  'Tommy Eichberg, driver. You must be Miss Otero.'
  
  'Another person who knows me! Nice to meet you.'
  
  Eichberg smiled. He had a round, pleasant face.
  
  'I hope you are feeling better'.
  
  Andrea was about to answer, but was interrupted by a loud, unpleasant sound as someone cleared his throat. An old man who was in his late seventies had just entered the room. His eyes were almost hidden in a nest of wrinkles, an impression that was emphasized by the tiny lenses of his glasses. His head was shaved and he had a huge graying beard that seemed to float around his mouth like a cloud of ash. He wore a short-sleeved shirt, khaki trousers, and thick black boots. He began to speak, his voice harsh and obnoxious, like a knife grinding against teeth, before he reached the head of the table where a portable electronic screen was set up. Next to him sat Cain's assistant.
  
  'Ladies and gentlemen, my name is Cecil Forrester and I am a professor of biblical archeology at the University of Massachusetts. It's not the Sorbonne, but at least it's a home.'
  
  There was polite laughter among the professor's assistants, who had heard this joke a thousand times.
  
  'No doubt you have been trying to figure out the reason for this journey ever since you stepped aboard this ship. I hope you have not been tempted to do so in advance, given that your, or rather our, contracts with Kayn Enterprises require absolute secrecy from the moment they are signed until our heirs rejoice in our death. Unfortunately, the terms of my contract also require me to let you in on a secret, which I plan to do within the next hour and a half. Don't interrupt me unless you have a reasonable question. Since Mr. Russell gave me your details, I'm familiar with every detail, from your IQ to your favorite condom brand. As for Mr. Dekker's team, don't even bother opening your mouths.'
  
  Andrea, who was partly turned towards the professor, heard menacing whispers from the men in uniform.
  
  'That son of a bitch thinks he's smarter than everyone else. Maybe I'll make him swallow his teeth one by one.'
  
  'Silence'.
  
  The voice was soft, but there was such rage in it that Andrea flinched. She turned her head enough to see that the voice belonged to Mogens Dekker, the scarred man who leaned his chair against the bulkhead. The soldiers immediately fell silent.
  
  'Fine. Well, now that we're all in the same place," continued Cecil Forrester, "I'd better introduce you to each other. Twenty-three of us have come together for what will be the greatest discovery of all time, and each of you will play your part. You already know Mr. Russell to my right. He is the one who chose you.'
  
  Cain's assistant nodded his head in greeting.
  
  To his right is Father Anthony Fowler, who will act as the Vatican's observer on the expedition. Next to him are Nuri Zayit and Rani Peterke, the cook and assistant cook. Then Robert Frick and Brian Hanley, administration. '
  
  The two cooks were older men. Zayit was thin, around the age of sixty, with a downturned mouth, while his assistant was stocky and a few years younger. Andrea couldn't accurately determine his age. On the other hand, both administrators were young and almost as obscure as Peterke.
  
  'In addition to these highly paid workers, we have my idle and flattering assistants. They all have degrees from expensive colleges and think they know more than me: David Pappas, Gordon Darwin, Kira Larsen, Stowe Erling and Ezra Levin.
  
  The young archaeologists shifted uncomfortably in their chairs and tried to look professional. Andrea felt sorry for them. They must have been in their early thirties, but Forrester had kept them on a short leash, which made them look even younger and more insecure than they really were - the exact opposite of the uniformed men sitting next to the reporter.
  
  'At the other end of the table we have Mr. Dekker and his bulldogs: the Gottlieb twins, Alois and Alrik; Tevy Waaka, Paco Torres, Marla Jackson and Louis Maloney. They will be in charge of security, adding a high-end component to our expedition. The irony of the phrase is devastating, don't you think?'
  
  The soldiers didn't react, but Dekker straightened his chair and leaned across the table.
  
  'We are going to the border zone of an Islamic country. Given the nature of our ... mission, the locals may become violent. I'm sure Professor Forrester will appreciate the level of our protection if it comes to that.' He spoke with a strong South African accent.
  
  Forrester opened his mouth to reply, but something on Dekker's face must have convinced him that now was not the time for sour remarks.
  
  'To your right is Andrea Otero, our official reporter. I ask that you cooperate with her if and when she requests any information or interviews so that she can tell our story to the world.'
  
  Andrea gave those at the table a smile, to which some people responded in kind.
  
  'The man with the mustache is Tommy Eichberg, our main driver. And finally, on the right, Doc Harel, our official charlatan.'
  
  'Don't worry if you can't remember everyone's names,' the doctor said, raising her hand. 'We're going to be spending quite a bit of time together in a place that isn't famous for its entertainment, so we'll get to know each other pretty well. Don't forget to bring identification badge that the crew left in your quarters...'
  
  'As far as I'm concerned, it doesn't matter if you know everyone's names as long as you're doing your job,' interrupted the old professor. 'Now if you all turn your attention to the screen, I'm going to tell you a story.'
  
  The screen lit up with computer-generated images of the ancient city. A red-walled, tiled-roofed settlement rose above the valley, surrounded by a triple outer wall. The streets were full of people going about their daily business. Andrea was amazed at the quality of the images, worthy of a Hollywood production, but the voice narrating the documentary belonged to a professor. This guy has such a huge ego that he can't even hear how bad his voice sounds, she thought. It gives me a headache. The voice-over began:
  
  Welcome to Jerusalem. It is now April 70 AD. The city has been occupied for the fourth year by the rebellious Zealots, who have expelled the original inhabitants. The Romans, officially the rulers of Israel, can no longer put up with the situation, and Rome instructs Titus to apply drastic punishment.
  
  The peaceful scene of women filling their vessels with water and children playing against the outer walls near the wells was interrupted when distant banners topped with eagles appeared on the horizon. Trumpets sounded, and the children, suddenly frightened, ran back behind the walls.
  
  Within hours, the city is surrounded by four Roman legions. This is the fourth attack on the city. Its citizens repelled the previous three. This time, Titus uses a clever trick. It allows pilgrims entering Jerusalem for the Passover celebration to cross the front lines. After the festivities, the circle closes and Titus does not allow the pilgrims to leave. The city is now home to twice as many people, and its food and water supplies are rapidly depleting. The Roman legions launch their attack from the north side of the city and destroy the third wall. It is now the middle of May, and the fall of the city is only a matter of time.
  
  The screen showed a battering ram destroying the outer wall. With tears in their eyes, the priests of the temple on the highest hill in the city watched what was happening.
  
  The city eventually falls in September, and Titus fulfills a promise he made to his father, Vespasian. Most of the city's inhabitants are executed or dispersed. Their houses have been plundered and their temple destroyed.
  
  Surrounded by corpses, a group of Roman soldiers carried a giant menorah out of the burning temple while their general watched from his horse, smiling.
  
  Solomon's second temple was burned to the ground and remains so to this day. Many temple treasures were stolen. Many, but not all. After the fall of the third wall in May, a priest named Yirm əy áhu developed a plan to save at least some of the treasure. He chose a group of twenty brave men, distributing parcels to the first twelve with precise instructions on where to take the items and what to do with them. These parcels contained more 'traditional' temple treasures: large amounts of gold and silver.
  
  An old priest with a white beard, dressed in a black cassock, was talking to two young men while others were waiting for their turn in a large stone cave lit by torches.
  
  Yirmey áhu entrusted the last eight people with a very special mission, ten times more dangerous than the rest.
  
  Holding a torch, the priest led eight men, who were carrying a large object on a stretcher, through a network of tunnels.
  
  Using secret passages under the temple, Yirməy ákhu led them out of the walls and away from the Roman army. Although this area, in the rear of the 10th Legion Fretensis, was occasionally patrolled by Roman guards, the priest's men managed to elude them, reaching Richo, modern Jericho, with their heavy load the next day. And there the trace disappears forever.
  
  The professor pressed a button and the screen went blank. He turned to the audience, who were waiting impatiently.
  
  'What these people did was absolutely incredible. They traveled fourteen miles carrying a huge load in about nine hours. And that was only the beginning of their journey.'
  
  'What were they carrying, professor?' Andrea asked.
  
  'I believe it was the most valuable treasure,' said Harel.
  
  'All in good time, my dears. Yirm əy áhu returned to the city and spent the next two days writing a very special manuscript on an even more unusual scroll. It was a detailed map with instructions on how to retrieve the various pieces of treasure that had been rescued from the temple... but he couldn't handle the job alone. It was a word map engraved on the surface of a copper scroll almost ten feet long.'
  
  'Why copper?' someone asked from behind.
  
  'Unlike papyrus or parchment, copper is extremely durable. It is also very difficult to write on. It took five people to complete the inscription in one session, sometimes taking turns. When they were finished, Yirm əy áhu divided the document into two parts, giving the first envoy with instructions for its preservation to the Issei community who lived near Jericho. The other part he gave to his own son, one of the koanim, a priest like himself. We know this much of the story firsthand because Yirm əthá hu wrote it down in full in copper manuscript. After that, all traces of it were lost by 1882.'
  
  The old man paused to take a sip of water. For a moment, he no longer looked like a wrinkled, pompous puppet, but seemed more human.
  
  'Ladies and gentlemen, you now know more about this story than most experts in the world. No one has figured out exactly how the manuscript was written. However, it became quite famous when one of its parts surfaced in 1952 in a cave in Palestine. This was among some 85,000 pieces of text that were found at Qumran.'
  
  'Is this the famous Qumran copper scroll?' - Asked Dr. Harel.
  
  The archaeologist switched on the screen again, which now displayed the image of the famous scroll: a curved plate of dark green metal, covered in barely legible writing.
  
  'That's what it's called. Researchers were immediately struck by the unusual nature of the discovery, both by the strange choice of writing material and by the inscriptions themselves - none of which could be properly deciphered. It was clear from the start that it was a treasure list containing sixty-four items. The records gave an idea of what would be found and where. For example, "At the bottom of the cave that is forty paces east of Achor Tower, dig three feet. There you will find six gold ingots." But the indications were vague, and the quantities described seemed so unreal - something like two hundred tons of gold and silver - that 'serious' researchers thought it must be some sort of myth, hoax or joke.'
  
  'It seems like too much effort for a joke,' said Tommy Eichberg.
  
  'Exactly! Excellent, Mr. Eichberg, excellent, especially for a driver,' said Forrester, who seemed incapable of making the slightest compliment without an accompanying insult. 'There were no hardware stores in 70 AD. A huge plate of ninety-nine percent pure copper must have been very expensive. No one would write a work of art on such a precious surface. There was a ray of hope. According to the Qumran scroll, item number sixty-four was 'a text like this, with instructions and a code for finding the objects described'.'
  
  One of the soldiers raised his hand.
  
  'So this old man, this Ermiyatsko...'
  
  'Yirm əyahu'.
  
  'Doesn't matter. The old man cut this thing in two, and in each piece was the key to finding the other?'
  
  'And both had to be together to find the treasure. Without the second scroll, there was no hope of sorting things out. But eight months ago, something happened...'
  
  'I'm sure your audience would have preferred the abridged version, Doctor,' Father Fowler said with a smile.
  
  The old archaeologist stared at Fowler for a few seconds. Andrea noticed that the professor seemed to be having a hard time continuing and asked herself what the hell had happened between the two men.
  
  'Yes, sure. Well, suffice it to say that the second half of the scroll finally appeared thanks to the efforts of the Vatican. It was passed down from father to son as a sacred item. It was the duty of the family to keep it safe until the right time. What they did was hide it in a candle, but in the end even they lost the idea of what was inside.'
  
  'That doesn't surprise me. There were - how many? - seventy, eighty generations? It's a miracle they've continued the tradition of protecting the candle all this time," someone sitting in front of Andrea said. It was the receptionist, Brian Hanley, she thought.
  
  'We Jews are a patient people,' said chef Nuri Zayit. 'We have been waiting for the Messiah for three thousand years.'
  
  'And you'll have to wait another three thousand,' said one of Dekker's soldiers. Loud bursts of laughter and clapping accompanied the nasty joke. But no one else laughed. the members of the expedition were Jewish." She could feel the tension building in the room.
  
  'Let's get on with it,' said Forrester, ignoring the taunts of the soldiers. 'Yes, it was a miracle. Look at that.'
  
  One of the assistants brought a wooden box about three feet long. Inside it, under a protective glass, was a copper plate covered with Jewish symbols. Everyone, including the soldiers, stared at the object and began to comment on it in low voices.
  
  'He looks almost new.'
  
  'Yes, the Copper Scroll of Qumran must be older. It is not shiny and cut into small strips.'
  
  'The Qumran scroll seems to be older because it was exposed to the air,' the professor explained, 'and it was cut into strips because researchers couldn't find another way to open it to read the contents. The second scroll was protected from oxidation by wax covering it. That is why the text is as clear as the day it was written. Our own treasure map.'
  
  'So you managed to decipher it?'
  
  'Once we had the second scroll, figuring out what the first one said was child's play. What was not easy was keeping the discovery a secret. Please don't ask me about the details of the actual process, because I'm not authorized to reveal more, and besides, you wouldn't understand it.'
  
  'So we're off to find a pile of gold? Isn't it too banal for such a pretentious expedition? Or for someone with money coming out of their ears like Mr. Kine? ' asked Andrea.
  
  'Miss Otero, we're not looking for a pile of gold. In fact, we have already discovered something.'
  
  The old archaeologist signaled to one of his assistants, who spread a piece of black felt on the table and, with some effort, placed a shiny object on it. It was the largest bar of gold Andrea had ever seen: about the size of a man's forearm, but roughly shaped, probably cast in some thousand-year-old foundry. Although its surface was littered with small craters, bumps and bumps, it was very beautiful. All eyes in the room were riveted on the object, and admiring whistles rang out.
  
  'Using clues from the second scroll, we discovered one of the hiding places described in the Copper Scroll of Qumran. It was in March of this year, somewhere in the West Bank. There were six gold bars like this one.'
  
  'How much does it cost?'
  
  'About three hundred thousand dollars...'
  
  The whistling turned into exclamations.
  
  '... but trust me, it's nothing compared to the value of what we're looking for: the most powerful object in human history.'
  
  Forrester made a gesture, and one of the assistants took the bar, but left the black felt. The archaeologist took out a sheet of graph paper from the folder and placed it where the gold bar lay. Everyone leaned forward, intent on seeing what it was. They all immediately recognized the object drawn on it.
  
  'Ladies and gentlemen, you are the twenty-three people who have been chosen to return the Ark of the Covenant.'
  
  
  16
  
  
  
  ON BOARD "BEHEMOTH"
  
  RED SEA
  
  
  Tuesday, July 11, 2007 at 7:17 pm.
  
  
  A wave of amazement swept through the room. Everyone began to talk excitedly, and then bombarded the archaeologist with questions.
  
  'Where is the Ark?'
  
  'What's inside...?'
  
  'How can we help...?'
  
  Andrea was shocked by the reaction of the assistants, as well as her own. These words "Ark of the Covenant" had a magical sound that reinforced the archaeological importance of finding an object more than two thousand years old.
  
  Even an interview with Cain couldn't top it. Russell was right. If we find the Ark, it will be the sensation of the century. Proof of the existence of God...
  
  Her breathing quickened. She suddenly had hundreds of questions for Forrester, but she knew at once that there was no point in asking them. The old man had brought them to this place, and now he was going to leave them there, begging for more.
  
  A great way to get us to cooperate.
  
  As if confirming Andrea's theory, Forrester looked at the group like a cat that has swallowed a canary. He gestured for them to be quiet.
  
  'It's enough for today. I don't want to give you more than your brains can handle. We'll let you know the rest when the time comes. For now, I'm going to hand over the cases...'
  
  'And lastly, Professor,' Andrea interrupted him. You said there were twenty-three of us, but I only counted twenty-two. Who is missing?'
  
  Forrester turned and consulted Russell, who nodded that he could continue.
  
  'Number twenty-three on the expedition is Mr. Raymond Kane.'
  
  All conversations have ceased.
  
  'What the hell does that mean?' one of the hired soldiers asked.
  
  'That means the boss is going on an expedition. As you all know, he boarded a few hours ago and will be traveling with us. Don't you find that strange, Mr. Torres?'
  
  'Jesus Christ, everyone says the old man is crazy,' Torres replied. 'It's hard enough to defend those who are sane but crazy...'
  
  Torres appears to have been from South America. He was short, thin, dark-skinned, and spoke English with a thick Hispanic accent.
  
  'Torres,' said a voice behind him.
  
  The soldier leaned back in his chair, but did not turn around. Dekker was obviously going to make sure his man didn't stick his nose into other people's business anymore.
  
  Meanwhile Forrester sat down and Jacob Russell took the floor. Andrea noticed that there was not a single wrinkle on his white jacket.
  
  'Good afternoon everyone. I want to thank Professor Cecil Forrester for his touching presentation. And on behalf of myself and Kayn Industries, I want to express my gratitude to all of you for being here. I have nothing to add, except for two very important points. First, from now on, all communication with the outside world is strictly prohibited. This includes mobile phones, email and word of mouth. Until we complete our mission, this is your universe. In time you will understand why this measure is necessary both for the success of such a delicate mission and for our own safety.'
  
  There were a few whispered complaints, but they were half-hearted. Everyone already knew what Russell had told them, because it was stipulated in the long contract that each of them had signed.
  
  'The second point is much more unpleasant. A security consultant has provided us with a report, not yet confirmed, that an Islamic terrorist group is aware of our mission and is planning an attack.'
  
  'What...?'
  
  '...must be a hoax...'
  
  '... dangerous...'
  
  Cain's assistant raised his hands to calm everyone. He was obviously ready for an avalanche of questions.
  
  'Don't be scared. I just want you to be vigilant and not take any unnecessary risk, much less tell anyone outside of this group about our final destination. I don't know how the leak could have happened, but trust me, we'll investigate it and take appropriate action.'
  
  'Could it have come from within the Jordanian government?' Andrea asked. 'A group like ours is sure to attract attention'.
  
  'As far as the Jordanian government is concerned, we are a commercial expedition conducting preparatory studies for a phosphate mine in the Al Mudawwara region of Jordan, close to the border with Saudi Arabia. None of you will get through customs, so don't worry about your cover.'
  
  "I'm not worried about my cover, I'm worried about the terrorists," said Kira Larsen, one of Professor Forrester's assistants.
  
  "You don't have to worry about them as long as we're here to protect you," one of the soldiers flirted.
  
  'The report has not been confirmed, it's just a rumor. And rumors can't hurt you,' Russell said with a big smile.
  
  But confirmation might, Andrea thought.
  
  
  The meeting ended after a few minutes. Russell, Dekker, Forrester and a few others went to their quarters. At the door of the conference room were two carts with sandwiches and drinks, which one of the crew members had the foresight to leave there. Obviously, the expedition members were already isolated from the crew.
  
  Those who remained in the room were animatedly discussing the new information, pouncing on the food. Andrea had a long conversation with Dr. Harel and Tommy Eichberg while she ate roast beef sandwiches and a couple of beers.
  
  'I'm glad you got your appetite back, Andrea.'
  
  'Thanks, doc. Unfortunately, after every meal, my lungs crave nicotine.'
  
  'You will have to smoke on deck,' said Tommy Eichberg. 'Smoking is not allowed inside the Behemoth. As you know...'
  
  'Mr. Kine's order,' the three of them chorused, laughing.
  
  'Yes, yes, I know. Don't worry. I'll be back in five minutes. I want to see if there's anything stronger than beer in this cart.'
  
  
  17
  
  
  
  ON BOARD THE BEHEMO
  
  RED SEA
  
  
  Tuesday, July 11, 2006 at 9:41 pm.
  
  
  It was already dark on deck. Andrea stepped out of the passage and walked slowly towards the front of the ship. She could have kicked herself for not wearing a sweater. The temperature dropped quite a bit, and a cold wind blew through her hair and made her shiver.
  
  She pulled a wrinkled pack of Camel cigarettes from one pocket of her jeans and a red lighter from another. It wasn't anything special, just reusable, with flowers stamped on it, and it probably didn't cost more than seven euros in some department store, but it was her first gift from Eve.
  
  Because of the wind, it took her ten attempts before she lit a cigarette. But once she succeeded, it was divine. Ever since she boarded the Behemoth, she's found it almost impossible to smoke due to seasickness, not lack of trying.
  
  Enjoying the sound of a bow cutting through the water, the young reporter searched her memory for anything she could remember about the Dead Sea Scrolls and the Copper Scroll of Qumran. There were few of them. Fortunately, Professor Forrester's assistants promised to give her a crash course so that she could more clearly describe the significance of the discovery.
  
  Andrea couldn't believe her luck. The expedition was much better than she imagined. Even if they failed to find the Ark, which Andrea was sure they never would, her report of the second copper scroll and the discovery of a piece of the treasure would be enough to sell the article to any newspaper in the world.
  
  The smartest thing would be to find an agent who would sell the whole story. I wonder if it would be better to sell it as an exclusive to one of the giants like National Geographic or the New York Times, or do a lot of sales in smaller outlets. I'm sure this kind of money would free me from all my credit card debt, Andrea thought.
  
  She took one last drag on her cigarette and went to the railing to toss it overboard. She stepped carefully, remembering the incident that day with the low railing. As she raised her hand to throw away her cigarette butt, she caught a glimpse of Dr. Harel's face, reminding her that polluting the environment is bad.
  
  Wow Andrea. There is hope, even for someone like you. Imagine doing the right thing when no one is looking, she thought as she put out her cigarette against the wall and tucked the cigarette butt into the back pocket of her jeans.
  
  At that moment, she felt someone grab her ankles and the world turned upside down. Her hands fumbled in the air, trying to grab something, but to no avail.
  
  As she fell, she thought she saw a dark figure watching her from the railing.
  
  A second later, her body fell into the water.
  
  
  18
  
  
  
  RED SEA
  
  Tuesday, July 11, 2006 at 9:43 pm.
  
  
  The first thing Andrea felt was cold water piercing her limbs. She flailed her arms, trying to get back to the surface. It took her two seconds to realize that she didn't know which path led up. The air she had in her lungs was running out. She exhaled slowly to see which direction the bubbles were moving, but in complete darkness it was useless. She was losing strength, and her lungs were desperate for air. She knew that if she breathed water, she would die. She gritted her teeth, swore not to open her mouth, and tried to think.
  
  Crap. It can't be, it just isn't. It can't end like this.
  
  She moved her arms again, believing she was swimming towards the surface, when she felt something powerful pulling her.
  
  Suddenly, her face was up in the air again, and she gasped. Someone was holding her by the shoulder. Andrea tried to address.
  
  'It's simple! Breathe slowly!' Father Fowler was yelling in her ear over the roar of the ship's propellers. Andrea was shocked to see the force of the water pulling them closer to the back of the ship. 'Listen to me! Don't turn around yet, or we'll both die. Relax. Take off your shoes. Move your feet slowly. In fifteen seconds we will be in dead water from the wake of the ship. Then I will let you go. Swim with all your might!'
  
  Andrea used her feet to take off her shoes, all the while staring at the seething gray foam that could suck them to death. They were only forty feet from the propellers. She fought the impulse to break free of Fowler's arms and move in the opposite direction. Her ears were ringing, and fifteen seconds felt like an eternity.
  
  'Now!' Fowler screamed.
  
  Andrea felt the suction stop. She swam in the opposite direction of the propellers, away from their infernal roar. Nearly two minutes had passed when the priest, who had been watching her carefully, grabbed her arm.
  
  'We did it'.
  
  The young reporter turned her gaze to the ship. It was quite far away now, and she could only see one of its sides, which was illuminated by several searchlights pointed at the water. They started hunting for them.
  
  'Damn,' Andrea said, struggling to stay afloat. Fowler grabbed her before she was completely submerged.
  
  'Relax. Let me support you like I did before.'
  
  'Damn,' Andrea repeated, spitting out salt water as the priest supported her from behind in a standard rescue position.
  
  Suddenly, a bright light blinded her. Powerful searchlights from Behemoth found them. The frigate approached them, then held its position close by while the sailors shouted directions and pointed from the railing. Two of them threw a pair of life belts in their direction. Andrea was exhausted and chilled to the bone now that her adrenaline and fear had subsided. The sailors threw a rope at them, and Fowler wrapped it around his armpits, then tied it in a knot.
  
  'How the hell did you manage to fall overboard?' the priest asked as they were dragged upstairs.
  
  'I didn't fall, father. I was pushed.'
  
  
  19
  
  
  
  ANDREA AND FOWLER
  
  'Thank you. I didn't think I could make it.'
  
  Wrapped up in a blanket and back on board, Andrea was still shivering. Fowler sat next to her, watching her with a worried expression. The sailors left the deck, mindful of the ban on talking to members of the expedition.
  
  'You have no idea how lucky we are. The propellers rotated very slowly. Anderson's turn, if I'm not mistaken.'
  
  'What are you talking about?'
  
  "I came out of my cabin for some fresh air and heard you doing your evening dive, so I grabbed the nearest ship's telephone, yelled 'man overboard' to port" and dived after you. The ship was supposed to make a full circle called Anderson's turn, but it was supposed to be to port, not starboard.'
  
  'Because...?'
  
  'Because if the turn is made in the direction opposite to where the man fell, the propellers will chop him into mincemeat. This is what almost happened to us.'
  
  'Somehow turning it into fish food wasn't my plan.'
  
  'Are you sure what you told me before?'
  
  'As sure as I know my mother's name.'
  
  'Did you see who pushed you?'
  
  'I saw only a dark shadow.'
  
  'Then, if what you say is true, turning the ship to starboard instead of port was not an accident either...'
  
  'Perhaps they misheard you, father.'
  
  Fowler was silent for a minute before answering.
  
  'Miss Otero, please don't tell anyone about your suspicions. When asked, just say you fell. If it's true that someone on board is trying to kill you, reveal it now...'
  
  '... would have warned the bastard'.
  
  'That's right,' said Fowler.
  
  'Don't worry, father. These Armani shoes cost me two hundred euros," Andrea said, her lips still trembling slightly. 'I want to catch the son of a bitch who sent them to the bottom of the Red Sea.'
  
  
  20
  
  
  
  APARTMENT OF TAHIR IBN FARIS
  
  AMMAN, Jordan
  
  
  Wednesday 12 July 2006 1:32 am.
  
  
  Tahir entered his house in the dark, trembling with fear. An unfamiliar voice called out to him from the living room.
  
  'Come in, Tahir'.
  
  It took the official all his courage to cross the corridor and head into the small living room. He looked for the light switch, but it didn't work. Then he felt a hand grab his arm and twist it, causing him to fall to his knees. The voice came from a shadow somewhere in front of him.
  
  'You have sinned, Tahir'.
  
  'No. No please sir. I've always lived by it, honestly. Western people tempted me many times and I never gave up. That was my only mistake, sir.'
  
  'So you say you're honest?'
  
  'Yes, sir. I swear by Allah.'
  
  "And yet you allowed the Kafiruns, the infidels, to own part of our land."
  
  The one twisting his arm increased the pressure, and Tahir let out a muffled scream.
  
  'Don't shout, Tahir. If you love your family, don't cry.'
  
  Tahir brought his other hand to his mouth and bit hard on the sleeve of his jacket. The pressure continued to rise.
  
  There was a terrible dry crack.
  
  Tahir fell silently crying. His right arm dangled from his body like a stuffed sock.
  
  'Bravo, Tahir. Congratulations.'
  
  'Please, sir. I followed your instructions. No one will approach the excavation area for the next few weeks.'
  
  'Are you sure about that?'
  
  'Yes, sir. Anyway, no one ever goes there.'
  
  'And the desert police?'
  
  'The nearest road is just a highway about four miles from here. The police visit the area only two or three times a year. When the Americans set up camp, they'll be yours, I swear.'
  
  'Okay, Tahir. You did a good job.'
  
  At that moment, someone turned the electricity back on and the lights came on in the living room. Tahir looked up from the floor, and what he saw made his blood run cold.
  
  His daughter Miescha and wife Zaina were bound and gagged on the couch. But that wasn't what shocked Tahir. His family was in the same condition when he left five hours ago to fulfill the demands of the hooded men.
  
  What filled him with horror was that men no longer wore hoods.
  
  'Please, sir,' Tahir said.
  
  The official returned hoping that everything would be all right. That the bribe from his American friends would not be exposed, and that the hooded men would leave him and his family alone. Now that hope has evaporated like a drop of water on a hot pan.
  
  Tahir avoided the gaze of the man sitting between his wife and daughter, their eyes red with tears.
  
  'Please, sir,' he repeated.
  
  The man had something in his hand. Gun. At the end of it was an empty plastic Coke bottle. Tahir knew exactly what it was: a primitive but effective silencer.
  
  The bureaucrat couldn't control his trembling.
  
  'You have nothing to worry about, Tahir,' said the man, bending down to whisper in his ear. 'Hasn't Allah prepared a place in paradise for honest people?'
  
  There was a light report, like a whiplash. Two other shots followed at intervals of several minutes. Installing a new bottle and securing it with adhesive tape takes a little time.
  
  
  21
  
  
  
  ON BOARD THE BEHEMO
  
  GULF OF AQABA, RED SEA
  
  
  Wednesday 12 July 2006 21:47 p.m.
  
  
  Andrea woke up in the ship's sickbay, a large room with a couple of beds, several glass cabinets and a desk. A worried Dr. Harel forced Andrea to spend the night there. She probably didn't sleep much, because when Andrea opened her eyes, she was already sitting at the table, reading a book and sipping coffee. Andrea yawned loudly.
  
  'Good morning, Andrea. You miss my beautiful country.'
  
  Andrea got out of bed, rubbing her eyes. The only thing she could clearly see was the coffee maker on the table. The doctor watched her, amused as the caffeine began to work its magic on the reporter.
  
  'Your beautiful country?' Andrea said when she could speak. 'Are we in Israel?'
  
  'Technically we are in Jordanian waters. Let's go on deck and I'll show you.'
  
  As they left the infirmary, Andrea turned her face to the morning sun. The day promised to be hot. She took a deep breath and stretched in her pajamas. The Doctor leaned on the railing of the ship.
  
  'Be careful not to fall overboard again,' she teased.
  
  Andrea shuddered as she realized how lucky she was to be alive. Last night, with all the excitement of being rescued and the shame of having to lie and say she fell overboard, she really didn't have a chance to be scared. But now, in broad daylight, the noise of the propellers and the memory of the cold, dark water flashed through her mind like a waking nightmare. She tried to focus on how beautiful everything looked from the ship.
  
  The Behemoth was slowly heading towards some piers, pulled by a tugboat from the port of Aqaba. Harel pointed to the prow of the ship.
  
  'This is Aqaba, Jordan. And this is Eilat, Israel. See how the two cities face each other like mirror images.
  
  'That's fine. But that's not the only thing...'
  
  Harel blushed slightly and looked away.
  
  'You can't really appreciate it from the water,' she continued, 'but if we came by plane, you could see how the bay delineates the coastline. Aqaba occupies the eastern corner and Eilat the western.
  
  'Now that you mentioned it, why didn't we come by plane?'
  
  'Because it's not officially an archaeological site. Mr. Kine wants to return the Ark and bring it back to the United States. Jordan would never agree to this under any circumstances. Our cover is that we are looking for phosphates, so we arrived by sea, like other companies. Hundreds of tons of phosphate are shipped daily from Aqaba to locations around the world. We are a modest team of scouts. And we carry our own vehicles in the hold of the ship.'
  
  Andrea nodded thoughtfully. She enjoyed the tranquility of the coast. She looked towards Eilat. Pleasure boats floated on the water near the city, like white doves around a green nest.
  
  'I have never been to Israel'.
  
  'You should go sometime,' said Harel, smiling sadly. 'It's a beautiful land. Like a garden of fruits and flowers plucked from the blood and sand of the desert.'
  
  The reporter observed the doctor in detail. Her curly hair and tanned complexion were even more beautiful in this light, as if any slight flaws she might have had were softened by the sight of her homeland.
  
  'I think I understand what you mean, doc.'
  
  Andrea took a crumpled pack of Camels from her pajama pocket and lit a cigarette.
  
  'You shouldn't have gone to sleep with them in your pocket.'
  
  'And I must not smoke, drink or sign up for expeditions threatened by terrorists.'
  
  'Obviously we have more in common than you think.'
  
  Andrea stared at Harel, trying to figure out what she meant. The doctor reached out and took a cigarette from the pack.
  
  'Wow, Doc. You have no idea how happy this makes me.'
  
  'Why?'
  
  'I like to see doctors who smoke. It's like a hole in their smug armor.'
  
  Harel laughed.
  
  'I like you. That's why it bothers me to see you in this damn situation.'
  
  'What situation?' Andrea asked with a raised eyebrow.
  
  'I'm talking about yesterday's attempt on your life.'
  
  The reporter's cigarette stopped halfway to his mouth.
  
  'Who told you?'
  
  'Fowler'.
  
  'Does anyone else know?'
  
  'No, but I'm glad he told me.'
  
  'I'm going to kill him,' Andrea said, crushing her cigarette against the railing. 'You have no idea how embarrassed I was when everyone was looking at me...'
  
  'I know he told you not to tell anyone. But trust me, my case is a little different.'
  
  'Look at that idiot. She can't even keep her balance!'
  
  'Well, that's not entirely true. Remember?'
  
  Andrea was embarrassed by the reminder of the previous day when Harel had to grab her shirt just before the BA-160 showed up.
  
  'Don't worry,' Harel continued. 'Fowler told me for a reason.'
  
  'Only he knows. I don't trust him, doc. We've run into each other before...'
  
  "And then he saved your life too."
  
  'I see you have been informed of this too. Since we're on the subject, how the hell did he manage to get me out of the water?'
  
  'Fowler's father was an officer in the US Air Force. Part of an elite special forces unit specializing in pararescue.'
  
  'I heard about them: they go looking for downed pilots, don't they?'
  
  Harel nodded.
  
  'I think he liked you, Andrea. Maybe you remind him of someone.'
  
  Andrea looked thoughtfully at Harel. There was some connection she didn't catch, and she was determined to find out what it was. More than ever, Andrea was convinced that her report on a lost relic or interview with one of the strangest and hardest-to-reach multimillionaires was only part of the equation. On top of that, she was thrown into the sea from a moving ship.
  
  I'll be damned if I can figure this out, the reporter thought. I have no idea what's going on, but the key must be Fowler and Harel... and how much they're willing to tell me.
  
  "Looks like you know a lot about him."
  
  'Well, Father Fowler loves to travel.'
  
  'Let's be a little more specific, doc. The world is a big place.'
  
  'Not the one in which he moves. Are you aware that he knew my father?'
  
  'He was an extraordinary man,' Father Fowler said.
  
  Both women turned and saw the priest standing a few paces behind them.
  
  'Have you been here for a long time?' Andrea asked. Stupid question that only shows that you told someone something you don't want them to know. Father Fowler ignored this. He had a serious expression on his face.
  
  'We have urgent work,' he said.
  
  
  22
  
  
  
  NETCATCH OFFICES
  
  SOMERSET AVENUE, WASHINGTON, DC
  
  
  Wednesday 12 July 2006 1:59 am.
  
  
  A CIA agent led a shocked Orville Watson through the reception area of his burned-out office. There was still smoke in the air, but even worse was the smell of soot, dirt, and burnt bodies. The carpeting from wall to wall was covered with at least an inch of dirty water.
  
  'Be careful, Mr Watson. We turned off the power supply to avoid short circuits. We'll have to find a way with flashlights.'
  
  Using the powerful beams of their flashlights, Orville and the agent walked between the rows of tables. The young man could not believe his eyes. Every time a beam of light hit an overturned table, a sooty face, or a smoldering wastebasket, he wanted to cry. These people were his employees. This was his life. Meanwhile, the agent - Orville thought it was the same one who called him on his cell as soon as he got off the plane, but he wasn't sure - explained every gruesome detail of the attack. Orville clenched his teeth silently.
  
  'Armed men entered through the main entrance, shot the administrator, cut off the telephone wires, and then opened fire on everyone else. Unfortunately, all your employees were at their desks. There were seventeen of them, is that right?'
  
  Orville nodded. His horrified gaze fell on Olga's amber necklace. She worked in accounting. He gave her the necklace for her birthday two weeks ago. The light of the torch gave him an unearthly glow. In the darkness, he could not even recognize her burned hands, which were now curved like claws.
  
  'They killed them in cold blood one by one. There was no way for your people to get out. The only way out was through the front door, and the office is... what? One hundred and fifty square meters? There was nowhere to hide.'
  
  Certainly. Orville loved open spaces. The entire office was one transparent space made of glass, steel and wenge, a dark African wood. There were no doors or cubicles, only light.
  
  'After they were done, they placed a bomb in the closet at the far end and another at the entrance. Homemade explosives; nothing particularly powerful, but enough to set everything on fire.'
  
  Computer terminals. Million dollar equipment and millions of extremely valuable pieces of information collected over the years are all lost. Last month, he changed his backup storage to Blu-ray discs. They had used nearly two hundred disks, over 10 terabytes of information, which they had stored in a fireproof cabinet... which was now open and empty. How the hell did they know where to look?
  
  'They set off bombs using cell phones. We think the whole operation took no more than three minutes, four at the most. By the time someone called the police, they were long gone.'
  
  Office in a one-story building, in an area away from the city center, surrounded by small businesses and Starbucks. It was the perfect place for the operation - no fuss, no suspicion, no witnesses.
  
  'The first agents that arrived here cordoned off the area and called the fire department. They kept the spies away until our damage control team arrived. We told everyone that there was a gas explosion and one person died. We don't want anyone to know what happened here today.'
  
  It could be one of a thousand different groups. Al-Qaeda, Al-Aqsa Martyrs' Brigade, IBDA-C... any of them, learning about the true purpose of Netcatch, would make it a priority to destroy it. Because Netcatch exposed their weak spot: their communications. But Orville suspected the attack had deeper, more mysterious roots: his latest project for Kayn Industries. And a name. A very, very dangerous name.
  
  Hakan.
  
  'You are very lucky to have traveled, Mr Watson. Either way, you don't have to worry. You will be placed under full CIA protection.'
  
  Hearing this, Orville spoke for the first time since he entered the office.
  
  'Your fucking defense is like a first class ticket to the morgue. Don't even think about following me. I'm going to disappear for a couple of months.'
  
  'I can't let this happen, sir,' the agent said, stepping back and placing his hand on his holster. With the other hand, he aimed the flashlight at Orville's chest. The colorful shirt Orville wore contrasted with the burnt office, like a clown at a Viking funeral. .
  
  'What are you talking about?'
  
  'Sir, the people from Langley want to talk to you.'
  
  'I should have known. They are willing to pay me huge sums of money; ready to insult the memory of the men and women who died here by passing it off as some fucking accident, not murder at the hands of the enemies of our country. What they don't want to do is shut down the communication channel, do they, agent?' Orville insisted. 'Even if it means risking my life.'
  
  'I don't know anything about it, sir. I'm under orders to get you to Langley safe and sound. Please cooperate.'
  
  Orville lowered his head and took a deep breath.
  
  'Great. I will go with you. What else can I do?'
  
  The agent smiled with visible relief and moved his flashlight away from Orville.
  
  'You have no idea how glad I am to hear that, sir. I wouldn't want to take you away in handcuffs. Anyway -'
  
  The agent realized what was happening too late. Orville leaned on him with all his weight. Unlike the agent, the young Californian had no training in hand-to-hand combat. He didn't have a triple black belt and didn't know five different ways to kill a man with his bare hands. The most cruel thing that Orville did in his life was that he spent time on his PlayStation.
  
  But there's little you can do about 240 pounds of pure desperation and rage as they slam you against an overturned table. The agent collapsed onto the table, breaking it in two. He turned, trying to reach his pistol, but Orville was faster. Leaning over him, Orville hit him in the face with his flashlight. The agent's hands went limp and he froze.
  
  Suddenly frightened, Orville raised his hands to his face. This has gone too far. Not more than a couple of hours ago, he stepped out of a private jet, master of his fate. Now he's attacked a CIA agent, possibly even killed him.
  
  A quick pulse check of the agent at his neck told him he didn't do it. Thank heavens for small favors.
  
  Okay, now think about it. You must get out of here. Find a safe place. And above all, stay calm. Don't let them catch you.
  
  With his huge body, ponytail and Hawaiian shirt, Orville wouldn't have gotten far. He went to the window and began to make a plan. Several firefighters drank water and sank their teeth into orange slices near the door. Just what he needed. He calmly walked out the door and made his way to the nearest fence, where the firefighters had left their jackets and helmets, which were too heavy in this heat. The men were busy joking and stood with their backs to their clothes. Praying the firemen wouldn't see him, Orville grabbed one of his coats and a helmet, followed his tracks, and headed back to the office.
  
  'Hi buddy!'
  
  Orville turned around anxiously.
  
  'Are you talking to me?'
  
  'Of course I'm talking to you,' one of the firefighters said. 'Where do you think you're going with my coat?'
  
  Answer him dude. Think of something. Something convincing.
  
  'We should look at the server and the agent said we should take precautions.'
  
  'Didn't your mother ever teach you to ask for things before you borrow them?'
  
  'I'm really sorry. Could you lend me your coat?'
  
  The fireman relaxed and smiled.
  
  'Of course, dude. Let's see if it's your size,' he said, opening his coat. Orville shoved his hands into his sleeves. The fireman buttoned it up and put on his helmet. Orville wrinkled his nose for a moment at the mixed smell of sweat and soot.
  
  'Perfect fit. Right, guys?'
  
  'He would have looked like a real fireman if it wasn't for the sandals,' said another member of the team, pointing at Orville's feet. They all laughed.
  
  'Thank you. Thank you very much. But let me buy you a glass of juice to make up for my bad manners. What do you say?'
  
  They gave him a thumbs up and nodded as Orville left. Beyond the barrier they had set up about five hundred feet away, Orville saw a couple dozen spectators and several TV cameras-a few in all-trying to film the scene. From this distance, the fire must have looked like nothing more than a dull explosion of gas, so he assumed they would soon leave. He doubted the incident would take more than a minute on the evening news; even half a column in tomorrow's Washington Post. Right now, he had a more pressing problem: getting out of there.
  
  Everything will be fine until you run into another CIA agent. So just smile. Smile.
  
  'Hi, Bill,' he said, nodding to the policeman guarding the cordoned off area as if he'd known him all his life.
  
  'I'm going to get some juice for the guys.'
  
  'I'm Mac'.
  
  'OK, sorry. I confused you with someone else.'
  
  'You're from fifty-four, right?
  
  'No, Eight. I'm Stuart,' Orville said, pointing to the Velcro name badge on his chest and praying the cop wouldn't see his shoes.
  
  'Go ahead,' the man said, pushing back the Do Not Cross barrier a little so Orville could pass. 'Bring me something to eat, okay, buddy?'
  
  'No problem!' Orville answered. He left behind the smoking ruins of his office and vanished into the crowd.
  
  
  23
  
  
  
  ON BOARD THE BEHEMO
  
  PORT IN AQABA, JORDAN
  
  
  Wednesday 12 July 2006 10:21 am.
  
  
  'I won't do it,' Andrea said. 'It's crazy.'
  
  Fowler shook his head and looked to Harel for support. This was the third time he tried to convince a reporter.
  
  'Listen to me, dear,' said the doctor, squatting down next to Andrea, who was sitting on the floor against the wall, her legs pressed to her body with her left hand and smoking nervously with her right. 'As Father Fowler told you last night, your accident is proof that someone infiltrated the expedition. Why they attacked you in particular eludes me...'
  
  "This may elude you, but it's extremely important to me," Andrea muttered.
  
  '... but what's important to us right now is getting our hands on the same information that Russell had. He's not going to share it with us, that's for sure. And that's why we need you to take a look at these files.'
  
  'Why can't I just steal them from Russell?'
  
  'Two reasons. First, because Russell and Kine sleep in the same cabin, which is under constant surveillance. And second, because even if you could get in, their premises are huge, and Russell probably has papers all over the place. He brought quite a lot of work with him to continue running Cain's empire.'
  
  'Okay, but this monster... I saw him looking at me. I don't want to get close to him.'
  
  'Mr Dekker can quote all of Schopenhauer's works from memory. Maybe it'll give you something to talk about,' Fowler said in one of his rare attempts at humor.
  
  'Father, you are not helping,' Harel scolded him.
  
  'What is he talking about, doc?' Andrea asked.
  
  'Dekker quotes Schopenhauer whenever he winds up. He's famous for it.'
  
  'I thought he was famous for eating barbed wire for breakfast. Can you imagine what he would do to me if he caught me snooping around his cabin? I'm leaving here.'
  
  'Andrea,' said Harel, grabbing her by the arm. 'From the very beginning, Father Fowler and I were concerned that you were on this expedition. We were hoping to persuade you to come up with some excuse to quit as soon as we docked. Unfortunately, now that they have told us the purpose of the expedition, no one will be allowed to leave.'
  
  Damn it! Locked up with the exclusive of my life. A life, I hope, that will not be too short.
  
  'You're in this whether you like it or not, Miss Otero,' said Fowler. 'Neither the doctor nor I can get close to Dekker's hut. "He won't have a lot of stuff in it. We're pretty sure the only files in his quarters are from the mission briefing. They should be black with a gold logo on the cover. Dekker works for a security team called DX5."
  
  Andrea thought for a moment. As much as she fears Mogens Dekker, the fact that there was a killer on board won't go away if she just looks the other way and continues to write her story, hoping for the best. She had to be pragmatic, and teaming up with Harel and Father Fowler wasn't a bad idea.
  
  As long as it suits my purpose and they don't get between my cell and the Ark.
  
  'Fine. But I hope that Cro-Magnon doesn't cut me into little pieces, otherwise I'll come back as a ghost and haunt you both, damn it.'
  
  
  Andrea headed for the middle of aisle 7. The plan was quite simple: Harel found Dekker near the bridge and kept him busy with questions about vaccinations for his soldiers. Fowler was to keep watch on the stairs between the first and second decks - Dekker's cabin was on the second level. Incredibly, his door was not locked.
  
  Self-assured bastard, Andrea thought.
  
  The small, bare cabin was almost identical to her own. Narrow bunk, covered tightly, in army style.
  
  Like my father. Fucking militaristic assholes.
  
  Metal closet, small bathroom and desk. It has a stack of black folders on it.
  
  Bingo. It was easy.
  
  She held out her hand to them when a silky voice almost made her spit out her heart.
  
  'So-so. To what do I owe this honor?'
  
  
  24
  
  
  
  ON BOARD THE BEHEMO
  
  BERTHS OF PORT OF AQABA, JORDAN
  
  
  Wednesday 12 July 2006 11:32 am.
  
  
  Andrea tried her best not to scream. Instead, she turned around with a smile on her face.
  
  'Hello Mr Dekker. Or is it Colonel Dekker? I've been looking for you.'
  
  The hired hand was so big and stood so close to Andrea that she had to tilt her head back to avoid talking to his neck.
  
  'Mr Dekker is fine. Did you need something... Andrea?'
  
  Come up with an excuse, and make it a good one, Andrea thought, smiling broadly.
  
  "I came to apologize for showing up yesterday afternoon when you were escorting Mr. Kine off his plane."
  
  Dekker limited himself to grumbling. This brute was blocking the door of the small cabin and was so close that Andrea could see more distinctly than she wanted to see the reddish scar on his face, his brown hair, blue eyes, and two-day-old stubble. The smell of his cologne was unbearable.
  
  I can't believe it, he uses Armani. Liters.
  
  'So say something".
  
  'You're saying something, Andrea. Or did you not come to apologize?'
  
  Andrea suddenly thought of a National Geographic cover that showed a cobra looking at a guinea pig she saw.
  
  'I'm sorry'.
  
  'No problem. Luckily, your friend Fowler saved the day. But you must be careful. Almost all of our sorrows stem from our relationships with other people.'
  
  Decker stepped forward. Andrea stepped back.
  
  'It's very deep. Schopenhauer?'
  
  'Ah, you know the classics. Or are you taking lessons on the ship?'
  
  'I've always been self-taught.'
  
  'Well, a great teacher said, 'A man's face usually says more and more interesting things than his mouth.' And your face looks guilty.'
  
  Andrea glanced sideways at the files, though she immediately regretted it. She had to avoid suspicion, even if it was too late.
  
  'The great teacher also said: 'Every man takes the limits of his own field of vision beyond the limits of the world'. '
  
  Dekker showed his teeth and smiled with satisfaction.
  
  'Quite right. I think you'd better go and get ready - we're heading ashore in about an hour.'
  
  'Yes, sure. Excuse me,' Andrea said, trying to move past him.
  
  Dekker didn't budge at first, but he eventually moved the brick wall of his body, allowing the reporter to slip through the space between the table and himself.
  
  Andrea will always remember what happened next as a ruse on her part, a brilliant trick to get the information she needed right from under the South African's nose. The reality was more prosaic.
  
  She stumbled.
  
  The young woman's left foot caught on Dekker's left foot, which did not budge an inch. Andrea lost her balance and fell forward, bracing her hands on the table to avoid hitting her face on the edge. The contents of the folders fell out onto the floor.
  
  Andrea looked at the ground in shock, and then at Dekker, who was staring at her, smoke billowing from his nose.
  
  'Oops'.
  
  
  '...so I stuttered my excuses and ran out. You should have seen the way he looked at me. I will never forget this.'
  
  'I'm sorry I couldn't stop him,' said Father Fowler, shaking his head. 'He must have come down through some service hatch from the bridge.'
  
  The three of them were in the infirmary, Andrea sat on the bed, Fowler and Harel looked at her worriedly.
  
  'I didn't even hear him come in. It seems incredible that someone of his size could move so quietly. And all these efforts are in vain. In any case, thank you for the Schopenhauer quote, father. For a moment he was speechless.'
  
  'My pleasure. He is a rather boring philosopher. It was difficult to recall a worthy aphorism.'
  
  'Andrea, do you remember anything you saw when the folders fell to the floor?' Harel interrupted.
  
  Andrea closed her eyes, concentrating.
  
  'There were pictures of the desert, plans of what looked like home... I don't know. Everything was in disarray and there were inscriptions everywhere. The only folder that was different was yellow with a red logo.'
  
  'What did the logo look like?'
  
  'What difference would that make?'
  
  'You would be surprised how many wars are won over minor details.'
  
  Andrea focused again. She had an excellent memory, but she looked at the scattered sheets for only a couple of seconds and was in a state of shock. She pressed her fingers to the bridge of her nose, narrowed her eyes, and made strange little noises. Just when she thought she couldn't remember, an image popped into her head.
  
  'It was a red bird. Owl, from behind the eyes. Her wings were open.'
  
  Fowler smiled.
  
  'It's unusual. It might help.'
  
  The priest opened his briefcase and took out his mobile phone. He pulled out his thick antenna and proceeded to turn it on while the two women watched in amazement.
  
  'I thought all contact with the outside world was banned,' Andrea said.
  
  'That's right,' Harel said. 'He's going to be in real trouble if he gets caught.'
  
  Fowler peered at the screen, waiting for the report. It was a Globalstar satellite phone; it did not use conventional signals, but instead connected directly to a network of communications satellites whose range covered approximately 99 percent of the Earth's surface.
  
  'That's why it's important that we check something today, Miss Otero,' the priest said, dialing a number from memory. Once we get to the dig site, using any phone will be extremely risky.'
  
  ' But what...
  
  Fowler interrupted Andrea by holding up a finger. The challenge was accepted.
  
  "Albert, I need a favor."
  
  
  25
  
  
  
  SOMEWHERE IN FAIRFAX COUNTY, VA
  
  Wednesday 12 July 2006 5:16 am.
  
  
  The young priest jumped out of bed, half awake. He immediately knew who it was. This cell phone only called in emergencies. He had a different ringtone than the others he used and only one person had a number. A man for whom Father Albert would have given his life without hesitation.
  
  Of course, Father Albert was not always Father Albert. Twelve years ago, when he was fourteen, his name was FrodoPoison, and he was the most notorious cybercriminal in America.
  
  Young Al was a lonely boy. Mom and dad both worked and were too busy with their careers to pay much attention to their skinny, blond son, despite the fact that he was so fragile that they had to keep the windows closed in case he was blown away by a draft. But Albert didn't need any draft to soar in cyberspace.
  
  'It's impossible to explain his talent,' said the FBI agent who handled the case after his arrest. 'Nobody taught him. When a child looks at a computer, he doesn't see a device made of copper, silicon and plastic. He just sees doors. '
  
  To begin with, Albert has opened quite a few of these doors just to entertain himself. Among them were secure virtual vaults of Chase Manhattan Bank, Mitsubishi Tokyo Financial Group and BNP, the national bank of Paris. In the three weeks that spanned his brief criminal career, he stole $893 million by hacking into banking software, diverting it into loan fees for a defunct intermediary bank called Albert M. Bank, in the Cayman Islands. It was a bank with a single client. Of course, naming a bank by its name was not the most brilliant act, but Albert was barely a teenager. He noticed his mistake when two SWAT teams broke into his parents' house during dinner, ruining the carpet in the living room and stepping on the cat's tail.
  
  Albert would never know what was going on in a prison cell, confirming the saying that the more you steal, the better you are treated. But while he was handcuffed in the FBI interrogation room, the meager knowledge of the American prison system that he had acquired from watching television continued to swirl in his head. Albert had a vague idea that prison is a place where you can rot, where you can be somonized. And while he wasn't sure what the second thing meant, he guessed it would hurt.
  
  The FBI agents looked at this vulnerable broken child and sweated uncomfortably. This boy shocked many people. It was incredibly difficult to track him down, and if not for his childish mistake, he would have continued to rob megabanks. The corporate bankers, of course, were not interested in the matter going to court and the public knowing what had happened. Incidents like this have always made investors nervous.
  
  "What are you doing with a fourteen-year-old nuclear bomb?" one of the agents asked.
  
  'Teach him not to explode,' replied another.
  
  And that's why they turned the case over to the CIA, which used such unbridled talent as his. To talk to the boy, they woke up the agent who fell out of favor within the Company in 1994, a mature Air Force chaplain with a background in psychology.
  
  When a sleepy Fowler entered the interrogation room early in the morning and told Albert that he had a choice: spend time behind bars or work six hours a week for the government, the boy was so happy that he broke down and cried.
  
  Being the babysitter of this genius boy was forced on Fowler as a punishment, but for him it was a gift. Over time, an unbreakable friendship began between them, based on mutual admiration, which in the case of Albert led to the adoption of the Catholic faith and, ultimately, admission to the seminary. After his ordination to the priesthood, Albert continued to occasionally collaborate with the CIA, but like Fowler, he did so on behalf of the Holy Alliance, the Vatican's intelligence agency. From the very beginning, Albert was accustomed to receiving calls from Fowler in the middle of the night, which was, in part, payback for the night in 1994 when they first met.
  
  
  'Hi Anthony'.
  
  "Albert, I need a favor."
  
  'Do you ever call at the usual time?'
  
  'Watch therefore, for you do not know what time it is...'
  
  'Don't piss me off, Anthony,' said the young priest, walking over to the refrigerator. 'I'm tired, so speak quickly. Are you in Jordan yet?'
  
  'Do you know about the security service whose logo is a red owl with outstretched wings?'
  
  Albert poured himself a glass of cold milk and returned to the bedroom.
  
  'Are you kidding? This is the Netcatch logo. These guys were the new gurus for the Company. They won a significant portion of the CIA's intelligence contracts for the Department of Islamic Terrorism. They also advised several private US firms.'
  
  'Why are you talking about them in the past tense, Albert?'
  
  'The company issued an internal bulletin a few hours ago. Yesterday, a terrorist group blew up Netcatch's Washington DC offices and massacred all staff. The media don't know anything about it. All this is passed off as a gas explosion. The company was getting a lot of flak for all the anti-terrorist work they did under contract to private units. Such work will make them vulnerable.'
  
  'Any survivors?'
  
  'Only one, someone named Orville Watson, CEO and owner. After the attack, Watson told the agents that he did not need protection from the CIA and then fled. The bosses at Langley are really mad at the jerk who let him go. Finding Watson and placing him under guard is a priority.'
  
  Fowler was silent for a moment. Albert was used to his friend's long pauses and waited.
  
  'Look, Albert,' Fowler continued, 'we're in a quandary and Watson knows something. You must find him before the CIA does. His life is in danger. And what's worse is ours.'
  
  
  26
  
  
  
  ON THE ROAD TO THE EXcavations
  
  AL-MUDAWWARA DESERT, JORDAN
  
  
  Wednesday, July 12, 2006 at 4:15 pm.
  
  
  It would be an exaggeration to call the ribbon of solid ground along which the expedition convoy moved a road. Viewed from one of the rocks that dominated the desert landscape, the eight vehicles must have seemed nothing more than dusty anomalies. The journey from Aqaba to the excavation site was a little over a hundred miles, but the motorcade took five hours due to uneven terrain, combined with dust and sand kicking up in the wake of each successive vehicle, resulting in zero visibility for the drivers who followed them.
  
  At the head of the column were two universal Hummer H3, each of which had four passengers. Painted white, with an exposed red Kayn Industries hand on the doors, these vehicles were part of a limited series built specifically to operate in some of the harshest environments on earth.
  
  'It's a hell of a truck,' said Tommy Eichberg, driving the second H3 to a bored Andrea. 'I wouldn't call it a truck. It's a tank. It can climb a fifteen-inch wall or climb a sixty-degree slope.'
  
  'I'm sure it's worth more than my apartment,' the reporter said. Because of the dust, she couldn't take any landscape photos, so she limited herself to a few candid shots of Stow Erling and David Pappas, who were sitting behind her.
  
  'Almost three hundred thousand euros. As long as this car has enough fuel, it can handle anything.'
  
  "That's why we brought fuel trucks, right?" David said.
  
  He was a young man with olive skin, a slightly flattened nose and a narrow forehead. Whenever he opened his eyes wide in surprise-which he did quite often-his brows nearly touched his hairline. Andrea liked him, unlike Stowe, who, despite being tall and attractive with a neat ponytail, acted like something out of a self-help manual.
  
  'Of course, David,' Stowe replied. 'You shouldn't ask questions to which you already know the answer. Assertiveness, remember? This is the key.'
  
  'You're very confident when the professor isn't around, Stowe,' David said, sounding slightly offended. 'You didn't seem so pushy this morning when he corrected your grades.'
  
  Stowe lifted his chin in a 'can you believe it?' gesture. towards Andrea, who ignored him and busied herself changing the memory card in her cell. Each 4GB card had enough space for 600 high resolution photos. Once each card was filled, Andrea transferred the shots to a special portable hard drive that could hold 12,000 photos and had a seven-inch LCD preview screen. She would have preferred to bring her laptop with her, but only Forrester's team was allowed to take them on the expedition.
  
  'How much fuel do we have, Tommy?' Andrea asked, turning to the driver.
  
  Eichberg stroked his mustache thoughtfully. Andrea was amused by how slowly he spoke, and how he began every second sentence with a long 'Sh-l-l-l-l-l-l-l'.
  
  'Two trucks behind us are carrying supplies. Russian KAMAZ, military. Toughie. The Russians have tried them in Afghanistan. Well... after that, we have tankers. The one with water, 10,500 gallons. The one with gasoline is slightly smaller and holds just over 9,000 gallons.'
  
  'That's a lot of fuel.'
  
  'Well, we're going to be here for a few weeks and we need electricity.'
  
  'We can always go back to the ship. You know... to send more supplies.'
  
  'Well, that won't happen. The order is this: once we get to the camp, we are forbidden to communicate with the outside world. No contact with the outside world, period.'
  
  'What if there's an emergency?' Andrea said nervously.
  
  'We are pretty self-sufficient. We could have survived for months on what we brought with us, but every aspect was taken into account in the planning. I know because as official driver and mechanic, I was responsible for supervising the loading of all vehicles. Dr. Harel has a real hospital there. And, well, if there's anything more than a sprained ankle, we're only forty-five miles from the nearest city, Al Mudawwara.'
  
  'It's a relief. How many people live there? Twelve?'
  
  'Did they teach you that attitude in journalism class?' Stowe stepped in from the back seat.
  
  'Yes, it's called Sarcasm 101'.
  
  'I bet it was your best theme'.
  
  Smart ass. I hope you have a stroke while you're digging. Then let's see what you think of getting sick in the middle of the Jordanian desert, thought Andrea, who never got high marks in anything in school. Insulted, she kept a dignified silence for some time.
  
  
  'Welcome to South Jordan, my friends,' said Tommy gleefully. 'House of the Simun. Population: zero.'
  
  'What is simun, Tommy?' Andrea said.
  
  'Giant sandstorm. You have to see it to believe it. That's right, we're almost there.'
  
  The H3 slowed down and the trucks began to line up at the side of the road.
  
  'I think it's a turnaround,' said Tommy, pointing to the GPS on the dashboard. We have only about two miles to go, but it will take us some time to cover this distance. Trucks will have a hard time in these dunes.'
  
  As the dust began to settle, Andrea noticed a huge dune of pink sand. Beyond it was Talon Canyon, the place, according to Forrester, where the Ark of the Covenant had been hidden for over two thousand years. Little whirlwinds chased each other down the slope of the dune, calling for Andrea to join them.
  
  "Do you think I could walk the rest of the way?" I would like to take some photographs of the expedition as it arrives. By the looks of it, I'll get there before the trucks.'
  
  Tommy looked at her with concern. 'Well, I don't think it's a good idea. Climbing this hill will not be easy. The inside of the truck is cool. It's 104 degrees out there.'
  
  'I'll be careful. In any case, we will maintain eye contact at all times. Nothing will happen to me.'
  
  "I don't think you should either, Ms. Otero," said David Pappas.
  
  'Come on, Eichberg. Let her go. She's a big girl,' Stowe said, more for the fun of going up against Pappas than supporting Andrea.
  
  "I'll have to consult Mr. Russell."
  
  'Then act.'
  
  Against common sense, Tommy grabbed the radio.
  
  
  Twenty minutes later, Andrea regretted her decision. Before beginning her ascent to the top of the dune, she first had to descend about eighty feet from the road and then slowly climb another 2,500 feet, the last fifty of which were on a 25-degree slope. The top of the dune seemed deceptively close; the sand is deceptively smooth.
  
  Andrea took a backpack with her, which contained a large bottle of water. Before she reached the top of the dune, she had drunk every last drop. She had a headache despite the fact that she was wearing a hat, and her nose and throat hurt. She was wearing only a short-sleeved shirt, shorts and boots, and despite putting on a high SPF sunscreen before stepping out of the Hummer, the skin on her arms began to burn.
  
  Less than half an hour and I'm ready to receive burns. Let's hope nothing happens to the trucks or we'll have to walk back, she thought.
  
  It seemed unlikely. Tommy personally drove each truck to the top of the dune, a task that required experience to avoid the risk of the vehicle tipping over. First he took care of the two resupply trucks, leaving them parked on the hill just below the steepest part of the climb. He then dealt with two water carriers while the rest of his team watched from the shadows of the H3s.
  
  Meanwhile, Andrea watched the entire operation through her telephoto lens. Every time Tommy got out of the car, he waved to the reporter at the top of the dune, and Andrea waved back. Tommy then drove the H3s to the edge of the last climb as he was going to use them to tow heavier vehicles that, despite their big wheels, lacked traction for such a steep, sandy climb.
  
  Andrea took some photos of the first truck as it climbed to the top. One of Dekker's soldiers was now driving the all-terrain vehicle, which was connected to the KAMAZ via cable. She watched the enormous effort required to lift the truck to the top of the dune, but after it passed her, Andrea lost interest in the procedure. Instead, she turned her attention to Claw Canyon.
  
  At first, the huge rocky gorge was no different from any other in the desert. Andrea could see two walls about 150 feet apart, extending into the distance and then parting. On the way there, Eichberg showed her an aerial photograph of their destination. The canyon looked like the triple claw of a giant hawk.
  
  Both walls were 100 to 130 feet high. Andrea aimed her telephoto lens at the top of the rocky wall, looking for a better vantage point from which to shoot.
  
  That's when she saw him.
  
  It only lasted a second. A man dressed in khaki watches her.
  
  Surprised, she looked up from the lens, but the blur was too far away. She aimed the camera again at the edge of the canyon.
  
  Nothing.
  
  Changing her posture, she scanned the wall again, but it was useless. Whoever saw her quickly hid, which was not a good sign. She tried to decide what to do.
  
  The smartest thing to do would be to wait and discuss it with Fowler and Harel...
  
  She walked over and stood in the shadow of the first truck, which was soon joined by a second. An hour later, the entire expedition arrived at the top of the dune and were ready to enter Talon Canyon.
  
  
  27
  
  
  
  MP3 file retrieved by the Jordanian Desert Police from Andrea Otero's digital recorder after the disaster of the Moses Expedition
  
  Title, all in capital letters. The ark has been restored. No, wait, delete it. Title... Treasure in the Desert. No, it's no good. I should refer to the Ark in the title - it will help sell the papers. Okay, let's keep the title until I finish writing the article. Leading sentence: To mention its name is to refer to one of the most widespread myths of all mankind. It began the history of Western civilization, and today it is the object most coveted by archaeologists around the world. We accompany Moses' expedition on its secret journey through the southern Jordanian desert to Talon Canyon, the place where almost two thousand years ago a group of believers hid the Ark during the destruction of Solomon's second temple... .
  
  It's all too dry. I'd rather write this first. Let's start with Forrester's interview... Damn, this old man gets goosebumps from his husky voice. They say it's because of his illness. Note: Look online for the spelling of pneumoconiosis.
  
  
  QUESTION: Professor Forrester, the Ark of the Covenant has captured the human imagination since time immemorial. What do you attribute this interest to?
  
  
  ANSWER: Look, if you want me to fill you in, you don't have to go around and tell me what I already know. Just tell me what you want and I'll talk.
  
  
  Q: Do you give a lot of interviews?
  
  
  A : Tens. So, you're not going to ask me about something original, something that I haven't heard or answered before. If we had an Internet connection at the dig, I would suggest that you look at some of them and copy the answers.
  
  
  Question: What is the problem? Are you worried about repeating yourself?
  
  
  A: I'm worried about wasting time. I am seventy seven years old. Forty-three of those years I spent searching for the Ark. Now or never.
  
  
  Q: Well, I'm sure you've never answered like that before.
  
  
  A: What is it? An originality contest?
  
  
  Question: Professor, please. You are a smart and passionate person. Why don't you try to reach out to the public and convey some of your passion to them?
  
  
  A: (short pause) Do you need a master of ceremonies? I'll do my best.
  
  
  Question: Thank you. The ark ...?
  
  
  A : The most powerful object in history. This is no mere coincidence, especially considering that this was the beginning of Western civilization.
  
  
  Q: Wouldn't historians say that civilization began in Ancient Greece?
  
  
  A: Nonsense. People have spent thousands of years worshiping soot stains in dark caves. The spots they called gods. Time passed and the spots changed in size, shape and color, but they continued to be spots. We did not know about the existence of a single deity until it was revealed to Abraham only four thousand years ago. What do you know about Abraham, young lady?
  
  
  Q: He is the father of the Israelites.
  
  
  A: Right. And the Arabs. Two apples that fell from the same tree, right next to each other. And immediately two little apples learned to hate each other.
  
  
  Question: What does this have to do with the Ark?
  
  
  A: Five hundred years after God revealed himself to Abraham, the Almighty got fed up with people continuing to turn their backs on Him. When Moses led the Jews out of Egypt, God once again revealed Himself to His people. Just one hundred and forty-five miles from here. And that's where they signed the contract. On the one hand, humanity agrees to observe ten simple points.
  
  
  Question: The Ten Commandments.
  
  
  A: On the other hand, God agrees to give man eternal life. This is the most important moment in history - the moment when life acquired its meaning. Three thousand five hundred years later, every human being carries this contract somewhere in their consciousness. Some call it natural law, others dispute its existence or meaning, and they will kill and die to defend their interpretation. But the moment Moses received the Tablets of the Law from the hands of God: that's when our civilization began.
  
  Q: And then Moses puts the tablets in the Ark of the Covenant.
  
  
  A: Together with other objects. The Ark is the safe that holds the contract with God.
  
  
  Q: Some say that the Ark has supernatural powers.
  
  
  A: Nonsense. I will explain it to everyone tomorrow when we start work.
  
  
  Q: So you don't believe in the supernatural nature of the Ark?
  
  
  A : From the bottom of my heart. My mother read to me from the Bible even before I was born. My life has been devoted to the Word of God, but this does not mean that I am not ready to disprove any myths or superstitions.
  
  
  Q: Speaking of superstitions, for years your research has been controversial in academic circles, which are critical of the use of ancient texts for treasure hunting. Insults poured in from both sides.
  
  
  A: Academics... they couldn't find their ass with two hands and a flashlight. Would Schliemann have found the treasures of Troy without Homer's Iliad? Would Carter have found Tutankhamun's tomb without the little-known Ute papyrus? Both were heavily criticized in their time for using the same methods as I do now. Nobody remembers their critics, but Carter and Schliemann are immortal. I intend to live forever.
  
  [violent cough]
  
  
  Question: What is your illness?
  
  
  A : You can't spend so many years in damp tunnels breathing mud without paying a price. I have chronic pneumoconiosis. I never stray too far from an oxygen tank. Please continue.
  
  
  Question: Where did we stop? Oh yeah. Have you always been convinced of the historical existence of the Ark of the Covenant, or does your belief go back to the time you started translating the Copper Scroll?
  
  A: I was raised a Christian but converted to Judaism when I was relatively young. By the 1960s, I could read Hebrew as well as English. When I began to study the Qumran Copper Scroll, I did not discover that the Ark was real - I already knew that. With over two hundred references to it in the Bible, it is the most frequently described object in the scriptures. What I realized when I held the Second Scroll in my hands was that I would be the one to finally rediscover the Ark.
  
  
  Question: Understood. How exactly did the second scroll help you decipher the Qumran copper scroll?
  
  
  A: Well, there was a lot of confusion with consonants like he, het, mem, kaf, wav, zayin, and yod...
  
  
  Question: In layman's terms, Professor.
  
  
  A: Some consonants were not very clear, making it difficult to decipher the text. And the strangest thing was that a series of Greek letters were inserted all over the scroll. Once we had the key to understanding the text, we realized that these letters were section titles that changed the order and therefore the context. It was the most exciting period in my professional career.
  
  
  Q: It must have been frustrating to dedicate forty-three years of your life to translating the Copper Scroll and then solve the whole issue within three months of the Second Scroll appearing.
  
  
  A: Absolutely not. The Dead Sea Scrolls, including the Copper Scroll, were discovered by accident when a shepherd threw a rock into a cave in Palestine and heard something shatter. So the first of the manuscripts was found. This is not archeology: this is luck. But without all these decades of in-depth study, we would never have come to Mr. Kine ...
  
  
  Question: Mr. Cain? What are you talking about? Don't tell me the Copper Scroll mentions a billionaire!
  
  
  A: I can't talk about it anymore. I have already said too much.
  
  
  28
  
  
  
  EXCAVATIONS
  
  AL-MUDAWWARA DESERT, JORDAN
  
  
  Wednesday, July 12, 2006 at 7:33 pm.
  
  
  The next hours were hectic comings and goings. Professor Forrester decided to camp at the mouth of the canyon. The site would have been protected from the wind by two stone walls that first narrowed, then widened, and finally connected once more at a distance of 800 feet, forming what Forrester called the index finger. Two branches of the canyon to the east and southeast formed the middle and ring fingers of the claw.
  
  The group will live in special tents designed by an Israeli company to withstand the desert heat and took a good part of a day to set up. The job of unloading the trucks fell to Robert Frick and Tommy Eichberg, who used hydraulic winches on KamAZ trucks to unload large metal crates of numbered equipment for the expedition.
  
  'Four thousand five hundred pounds of food, two hundred and fifty pounds of medical supplies, four thousand pounds of archaeological equipment and electrical equipment, two thousand pounds of steel rails, a drill and a mini-excavator. What do you think of it?'
  
  Andrea was amazed and made a mental note for her article, checking the items on the list Tommy had given her. Due to her limited experience in setting up tents, she volunteered to help with the unloading, and Eichberg put her in charge of directing where each crate should go. She didn't do it out of a desire to help, but because she figured the sooner she was done, the sooner she could talk to Fowler and Harel alone. The doctor was busy helping set up the tent for the infirmary.
  
  'That's number thirty-four, Tommy,' shouted Freak from the back of the second truck. The chain on the winch was attached to two metal hooks on either side of the crate and made a loud clanging sound as it lowered the load onto the sandy soil.
  
  'Be careful, this one weighs a ton.'
  
  The young journalist looked anxiously at the list, fearing she had missed something.
  
  'This list is incorrect, Tommy. There are only thirty-three boxes in it.'
  
  'Don't worry. This particular box is special... and here come the people in charge of it," Eichberg said as he unfastened his chains.
  
  Andrea looked up from her list and saw Marla Jackson and Tewi Waak, two of Dekker's soldiers. They both knelt beside the box and opened the locks. The lid came off with a slight hiss, as if it had been sealed in a vacuum. Andrea glanced discreetly at its contents. The two mercenaries didn't seem to mind.
  
  As if they were expecting me to watch.
  
  The contents of the suitcase could not have been more mundane: packets of rice, coffee, and grains, arranged in rows of twenty. Andrea did not understand; especially when Marla Jackson grabbed a pack in each hand and suddenly threw them into Andrea's chest, the muscles in her arms rolling under the black skin.
  
  'That's right, Snow White.'
  
  Andrea had to drop the tablet to catch the parcels. Waaka stifled a chuckle while Jackson, ignoring the surprised reporter, reached into the space left and pulled hard. The layer of packages shifted, revealing a much less prosaic cargo.
  
  Rifles, machine guns, and small arms lay layer upon layer on trays. While Jackson and Waaka removed the trays-six in all-and placed them neatly on top of other boxes, Dekker's remaining soldiers, as well as the South African himself, approached and began to arm themselves.
  
  'Excellent, gentlemen,' Dekker said. 'As a wise man once said, great men are like eagles... they build their nests on lonely heights. The first watch belongs to Jackson and the Gottliebs. Find cover positions here and there and there.' He pointed to three spots on top of the canyon walls, the second of which was not too far from where Andrea thought she had seen the mysterious figure a few hours earlier. 'Break radio silence only to report every ten minutes. That goes for you too, Torres.' If you exchange recipes with Maloney, as you did in Laos, you will have to deal with me. March.'
  
  The Gottlieb and Marla Jackson twins set off in three different directions, looking for accessible ascents to sentry posts from which Dekker's soldiers would continuously guard the expedition during its stay at the facility. Once they had established their positions, they attached rope and aluminum ladders to the rock every ten feet to make it easier to climb vertically.
  
  
  Andrea, meanwhile, marveled at the ingenuity of modern technology. Even in her wildest dreams, she did not imagine that her body would be in close proximity to the soul within the next week. But, to her surprise, among the last items that were dropped from the trucks were two ready-made showers and two portable toilets made of plastic and fiberglass.
  
  "What's the matter, beauty?" Aren't you glad you don't have to shit in the sand?' Robert Frick said.
  
  The bony young man consisted of only elbows and knees, and he moved nervously. Andrea reacted to his vulgar remark with a loud burst of laughter and began to help him fix the toilets.
  
  'That's right, Robert. And as far as I can see, we'll even have his and her bathrooms...'
  
  'It's a bit unfair considering there are only four of you and twenty of us. Well, at least you'll have to dig your own outhouse,' said Frick.
  
  Andrea turned pale. Tired as she was, even the thought of picking up a shovel caused her hands to blister. Frick was gaining momentum.
  
  'I don't understand what's so funny about it.'
  
  'You're whiter than my Aunt Bonnie's ass. That's the funniest thing.'
  
  'Don't mind him, honey,' Tommy chimed in. 'We'll use the mini excavator. It'll take us ten minutes.'
  
  'You always ruin the fun, Tommy. You should have let her sweat a little more.' Frick shook his head and left to find someone else to disturb.
  
  
  29
  
  
  
  HAKAN
  
  He was fourteen when he began to study.
  
  Of course, at first he had to forget a lot.
  
  For starters, everything he learned at school, from his friends, at home. Nothing was real. Everything was a lie invented by the enemy, the oppressors of Islam. They had a plan, the imam told him, whispering it in his ear. 'They start by giving women freedom. They put them on the same level as men to weaken us. They know that we are stronger, more capable. They know that we are more serious in our obligations to God. Then they brainwash us, they take over the minds of the holy imams. They try to cloud our judgment with impure images of lust and depravity. They promote homosexuality. They lie, lie, lie. They even lie about the dates. They say it's the twenty-second of May. But you know what day it is.'
  
  "Sixteenth day of Shawwal, master."
  
  'They talk about integration, about how to get along with others. But you know what God wants.'
  
  'No, I don't know, teacher,' said the frightened boy. How could he be in God's mind?
  
  'God wants to avenge the Crusades; crusades that took place a thousand years ago and today. God wants us to restore the caliphate they destroyed in 1924. Since that day, the Muslim community has been divided into sections of territory controlled by our enemies. You only need to read the newspaper to see how our Muslim brothers live in a state of oppression, humiliation and genocide. And the greatest insult is the stake driven into the heart of Dar al-Islam: Israel.'
  
  'I hate Jews, teacher.'
  
  'No. You only think what you are doing. Listen carefully to my words. This hatred that you think you feel now, in a few years will seem like nothing more than a tiny spark compared to the fire of an entire forest. Only true believers are capable of such a transformation. And you will become one of them. You are special. I only need to look into your eyes to see that you have the power to change the world. To unite the Muslim community. Bring Sharia to Amman, Cairo, Beirut. And then to Berlin. To Madrid. To Washington.'
  
  'How do we do it, teacher? How can we extend Islamic law to the whole world?'
  
  'You're not ready for the answer'.
  
  'Yes, it's me, teacher'.
  
  'Do you want to learn with all your heart, soul and mind?'
  
  'There is nothing I want more than to keep the word of God.'
  
  'No, not yet. But soon...'
  
  
  thirty
  
  
  
  EXCAVATIONS
  
  AL-MUDAWWARA DESERT, JORDAN
  
  
  Wednesday, July 12, 2006 at 8:27 pm.
  
  
  The tents were finally set up, toilets and showers were set up, pipes were connected to the water tank, and the expedition's civilian personnel rested inside the small square formed by the surrounding tents. Andrea, sitting on the ground with a bottle of Gatorade in her hand, gave up trying to find Fowler's father. It seemed that neither he nor Dr. Harel were around, so she devoted herself to contemplating fabric and aluminum structures that looked like nothing she had ever seen. Each tent was an elongated cube with a door and plastic windows. There was a wooden platform that rose about a foot and a half above the ground on a dozen concrete blocks to protect the inhabitants from the searing heat of the sand. The roof was made from a large piece of cloth that was attached to the ground on one side to improve the refraction of the sun's rays. Each tent had its own electric cable that led to a central generator next to the fuel truck.
  
  Of the six tents, three were slightly different. One of these was the infirmary, which had a cruder design but was hermetically sealed. Another formed a combined kitchen and dining tent. It had air conditioning so that the expedition members could rest there during the hottest hours of the day. The last tent belonged to Kain and was a little removed from the others. It had no visible windows and was cordoned off, a silent warning that the billionaire didn't want to be disturbed. Kine stayed in his H3, which Dekker was driving, until they finished setting up his tent, and he never showed up.
  
  I doubt that he will appear before the end of the expedition. I wonder if his tent has a built-in toilet, Andrea thought, absently taking a sip from her bottle. Here comes the one who probably knows the answer.
  
  'Hello Mr Russell'.
  
  'How are you?' said the assistant, smiling politely.
  
  'Very good thanks. Listen, about this interview with Mr. Cain...'
  
  'I'm afraid that's not yet possible,' Russell interjected.
  
  'I hope you brought me here for more than just sightseeing. I want you to know that...'
  
  'Welcome, ladies and gentlemen,' Professor Forrester's unpleasant voice interrupted the reporter's complaints. Contrary to our predictions, you managed to set up all the tents on time. Congratulations. Have a hand in this.'
  
  His tone was as insincere as the faint applause that followed. The professor always made his listeners feel a little uncomfortable, if not humiliated, but the members of the expedition managed to stay in their places around him when the sun began to set behind the rocks.
  
  'Before we proceed to dinner and the distribution of tents, I want to finish the story', - continued the archaeologist. 'Remember I told you that a few chosen ones took the treasure out of the city of Jerusalem? Well, this group of brave men...'
  
  'One question keeps running through my head,' Andrea interjected, ignoring the old man's piercing gaze. 'You said that Yirm Əy áhu was the author of the Second Scroll. That he wrote this before the Romans destroyed Solomon's temple. Am I wrong?'
  
  'No, you're not wrong.'
  
  'Did he leave any other notes?'
  
  'No, he didn't.'
  
  'Did the people who brought the Ark out of Jerusalem leave anything?'
  
  'No'.
  
  'Then how do you know what happened? These people carried a very heavy object covered with gold, what, almost two hundred miles? All I did was climb that dune with a camera and a bottle of water and it was...'
  
  The old man blushed more with every word Andrea said, until the contrast between his bald head and beard made his face look like a cherry on a ball of cotton.
  
  "How did the Egyptians manage to build the pyramids?" How did the natives of Easter Island erect their statues weighing ten thousand tons? How did the Nabateans carve the city of Petra out of these same rocks?'
  
  He spat every word at Andrea, leaning into her as they spoke until his face was next to hers. The reporter turned away to avoid his rancid breath.
  
  'With faith. You need faith to travel one hundred and eighty-five miles in the scorching sun and over rough terrain. You need faith to believe that you can do it.'
  
  "So, apart from the second scroll, you have no proof," Andrea said, unable to stop herself.
  
  'No, I don't. But I have a theory, and let's hope I'm right, Miss Otero, or we'll go home empty-handed.'
  
  The reporter was about to reply when she felt a light nudge in her ribs with her elbow. She turned and saw Father Fowler looking at her with a warning.
  
  'Where have you been, father?' she whispered. 'I looked everywhere. We need to talk.'
  
  Fowler motioned her to silence.
  
  'The eight men who left Jerusalem with the ark reached Jericho the next morning'. Forrester stepped back and was now addressing fourteen people who were listening with growing interest. 'Now we're entering the realm of conjecture, but it just so happens to be the conjecture of a man who's been pondering this very question for decades. In Jericho, they would pick up supplies and water. They crossed the Jordan River near Bethany and reached the King's Road near Mount Nebo. The highway is the oldest unbroken line of communication in history, the route that took Abraham from Chaldea to Canaan. These eight Jews traveled south along this route until they reached Petra, where they left the highway and headed in the direction of a mythical place that would have seemed to the Jerusalemites the end of the world. This place.'
  
  "Professor, do you have any idea where in the canyon we should look?" Because this place is huge,' said Dr. Harel.
  
  'That's where you all step in, starting tomorrow. David, Gordon... show them the equipment.'
  
  Two assistants appeared, each wearing a strange piece of equipment. They had a sling across their chest, to which was attached a metal device in the form of a small backpack. The harness had four straps, from which hung a square metal structure that framed the body at the level of the hips. At the front corners of this structure were two lamp-like objects resembling the headlights of a car, which were directed towards the ground.
  
  'This, good people, will be your summer wear for the next few days. The device is called a proton precession magnetometer.
  
  There were whistles of admiration.
  
  'Screaming name, isn't it?' said David Pappas.
  
  'Shut up, David. We are working on a theory that the people selected by Yirm &# 601; at &# 225; huh, hid the Ark somewhere in this canyon. The magnetometer will give us the exact location.'
  
  'How it works?' Andrea asked.
  
  'The instrument sends out a signal that registers the Earth's magnetic field. Once it tunes in to this, it will detect any anomaly in the magnetic field, such as the presence of metal. You don't need to understand exactly how it works because the hardware is wirelessly transmitting directly to my computer. If you find something, I'll know before you do.'
  
  'Is it hard to manage?' Andrea asked.
  
  'Not if you know how to walk. Each of you will be assigned a series of sectors in the canyon approximately fifty feet apart. All you have to do is press the "Start" button on the seat belt and take a step every five seconds. Like this.'
  
  Gordon took a step forward and stopped. Five seconds later, the instrument emitted a low whistle. Gordon took another step and the whistling stopped. Five seconds later the whistle blew again.
  
  'You'll be doing this for ten hours a day in one-and-a-half-hour shifts, with fifteen-minute rest breaks,' Forrester said.
  
  Everyone started complaining.
  
  'What about people who have other responsibilities?'
  
  'Take care of them when you're not working in the canyon, Mr. Freak.'
  
  'Do you expect us to walk ten hours a day under this sun?'
  
  'I advise you to drink plenty of water - at least a liter every hour. At a temperature of 111 degrees, the body quickly dehydrates.'
  
  'What if we don't work our ten hours by the end of the day?' squeaked another voice.
  
  'Then you'll finish them at night, Mr. Hanley.'
  
  "Isn't democracy fucking great," Andrea muttered.
  
  Obviously not quiet enough, because Forrester heard her.
  
  'Does our plan seem unfair to you, Miss Otero?' asked the archaeologist in an ingratiating voice.
  
  "Now that you mentioned it, yes," Andrea replied defiantly. She leaned to the side, fearful of another elbow from Fowler, but it didn't come.
  
  'The Jordanian government gave us a fake license for one month to mine phosphate. Imagine if I slowed down the pace? Perhaps we will finish gathering data from the canyon in the third week, and in the fourth we will not have enough time to dig up the Ark. Does that seem fair?'
  
  Andrea shook her head in embarrassment. She really hated this man, there's no doubt about that.
  
  'Anyone else would like to join Miss Otero's union?' Forrester added, peering intently at the faces of those present. 'No? Fine. From now on, you are not doctors, priests, rig operators, or cooks. You are my pack animals. Enjoy.'
  
  
  31
  
  
  
  EXCAVATIONS
  
  AL-MUDAWWARA DESERT, JORDAN
  
  
  Thursday, July 13, 2006. 12:27 pm.
  
  
  Step, wait, whistle, step.
  
  Andrea Otero never made a list of the three worst events in her life. First, because Andrea hated lists; secondly, because, despite her intelligence, she had little capacity for introspection, and thirdly, because whenever problems came face to face with her, her invariable reaction was to rush away and do something others. If she had spent five minutes the night before thinking about her worst experiences, the bean incident would surely be at the top of the list.
  
  It was the last day of school, and she walked through her teenage years with a firm and determined step. She left the class with only one idea in her head: to attend the opening of a new swimming pool in the apartment complex where her family lived. That's why she finished her meal, eager to put on her bathing suit before everyone else. Still chewing her last bite, she got up from the table. That's when her mother dropped the bomb.
  
  'Whose turn is it to wash the dishes?'
  
  Andrea didn't even hesitate because it was her older brother Miguel Angel's turn. But her other three brothers weren't ready to wait for their leader on such a special day, so they answered in unison, 'Andrea's!'
  
  'Damn it looks like it. Are you out of your mind? The day before yesterday it was my turn.'
  
  "Honey, please don't make me wash your mouth with soap."
  
  'Come on, mom. She deserves it,' said one of her brothers.
  
  "But Mom, it's not my turn now," Andrea whimpered, stamping her foot on the floor.
  
  'Well, you'll do them anyway and offer it to God as penance for your sins. You are going through a very difficult age,' her mother said.
  
  Miguel Angel suppressed a smile, and his brothers nudged each other triumphantly.
  
  An hour later, Andrea, who never knew how to hold back, came up with five good answers to this injustice. But at that moment, she could only think of one thing.
  
  'Mamaaaaaaa!'
  
  'Mom, nothing! Wash the dishes and let your brothers go ahead to the pool.'
  
  Suddenly Andrea understood everything: her mother knew that it was not her turn.
  
  It would be difficult to understand what she did next if you were not the youngest of five children and the only girl who grew up in a traditional Catholic family where you are guilty before you sin; the daughter of an old school military who made it clear that his sons came first. Andrea was stepped on, spat on, mistreated, and shooed aside just for being a woman, even though she had many of the qualities of a boy and certainly had the same feelings.
  
  That day, she said she had had enough.
  
  Andrea returned to the table and removed the lid from the pot of bean and tomato stew they had just finished eating. It was half full and still warm. Without thinking twice, she poured the remainder over Miguel Angel's head and left the pot standing there like a hat.
  
  "You're washing dishes, you bastard."
  
  The consequences were dire. Not only did Andrea have to do the dishes, but her father came up with a more interesting punishment. He did not forbid her to swim all summer. It would be too easy. He ordered her to sit at the kitchen table, which had a beautiful view of the pool, and laid out seven pounds of dried beans on it.
  
  'Count them. When you tell me how many there are, you can go down to the pool.'
  
  Andrea spread the beans on the table and began to count them one by one, putting them into the pot. When she reached 1283, she got up to go to the bathroom.
  
  When she returned, the pot was empty. Someone put the beans back on the table.
  
  Papa, your hair will be gray before you hear me cry, she thought.
  
  Of course she cried. For the next five days, regardless of the reason for leaving the table, every time she returned, she had to start counting the beans again, forty-three different times.
  
  
  Last night, Andrea would have considered the bean incident one of the worst experiences of her life, even worse than the brutal beating she had suffered in Rome the year before. Now, however, the magnetometer experience has climbed to the top of the list.
  
  The day began promptly at five, three-quarters of an hour before sunrise, with a series of beeps. Andrea had to sleep in the infirmary with Dr. Harel and Kira Larsen, the two sexes separated due to Forrester's sanctimonious rules. Dekker's bodyguards were in another tent, the attendants in another, and Forrester's four assistants and Father Fowler in the rest. The professor preferred to sleep alone in a small tent that cost eighty dollars and went with him on all his expeditions. But he didn't sleep much. By five in the morning he was there, among the tents, blowing his horn, until he received a couple of death threats from a crowd of people who were already exhausted.
  
  Andrea got up, cursing in the dark, looking for her towel and toiletries bag she had left next to the air mattress and sleeping bag that served as her bed. She was heading for the door when Harel called her. Despite the early hour, she was already dressed.
  
  'You don't think about taking a shower, do you?'
  
  'Certainly'.
  
  'You might learn this the hard way, but I must remind you that the showers are individually coded and each of us is only allowed to use water for no more than thirty seconds a day. If you spend your share now, you'll be begging us to just spit on you tonight. '
  
  Andrea leaned back against the mattress, defeated.
  
  "Thanks for ruining my day."
  
  'True, but I saved your night.'
  
  'I look terrible,' Andrea said, pulling her hair back into a ponytail, something she hasn't done since college.
  
  'Worse than terrible'.
  
  'Dammit, doc, you should have said, 'Not as bad as me' or 'No, you look great.' You know, female solidarity.'
  
  'Well, I've never been an ordinary woman,' said Harel, looking directly into Andrea's eyes.
  
  What the hell did you mean by that, Doc? Andrea asked herself as she pulled on her shorts and laced up her boots. Are you who I take you for? And more importantly... should I take the first step?
  
  
  Step, wait, whistle, step.
  
  Stowe Erling escorted Andrea to her seat and helped her put on her harness. So here she is, in the middle of a fifty-square-foot patch of land marked with twine attached at each corner to eight-inch spikes.
  
  Suffering.
  
  First there was the weight. Thirty-five pounds didn't seem like much at first, especially when it was hanging from the harness. But by the second hour, Andrea's shoulders were killing her.
  
  Then there was the heat. By noon, the ground wasn't sandy-it was a grill. And she ran out of water half an hour after her shift started. The rest periods between each shift lasted a quarter of an hour, but eight of those minutes were taken up by leaving and returning to the sectors and getting bottles of cold water, and two more by reapplying sunscreen. There were about three minutes left, which consisted of Forrester continuously clearing his throat and looking at his watch.
  
  On top of that, it was the same routine over and over again. This stupid step, wait, whistle, step.
  
  Hell, I'd be better off in Guantanamo. Even though the sun is beating down on them, at least they don't have to carry that stupid weight.
  
  'Good morning. It's hot, isn't it? ' said a voice.
  
  'Go to hell, father.'
  
  'Drink some water,' Fowler said, offering her a bottle.
  
  He was dressed in twill trousers and his usual black short-sleeved shirt with a priest's collar. He stepped back from her quadrant and sat down on the ground, enjoying watching her.
  
  'Can you explain who you bribed so you wouldn't have to wear that thing?' Andrea asked, emptying the bottle greedily.
  
  'Professor Forrester has great respect for my religious duties. He's also a man of God, in his own way.'
  
  'More like a selfish maniac'.
  
  'It is too. What about you?'
  
  "Well, at least promoting slavery isn't one of my mistakes."
  
  'I'm talking about religion'.
  
  'Are you trying to save my soul with half a bottle of water?'
  
  'It would be enough?'
  
  "I need at least a full contract."
  
  Fowler smiled and handed her another bottle.
  
  'If you take small sips, it will quench your thirst better.'
  
  'Thank you'.
  
  'You're not going to answer my question?'
  
  'Religion is too deep for me. I prefer to ride a bike.'
  
  The priest laughed and took a sip from his bottle. He seemed tired.
  
  'C'mon, Miss Otero; don't get mad at me for not having to do a donkey's job right now. You don't think all these squares came about by magic, do you?'
  
  The quadrants started two hundred feet from the tents. The rest of the expedition were spread out over the surface of the canyon, each with their own step, waiting, whistling, stepping. Andrea reached the end of her section and took a step to the right, turned 180 degrees, and then walked again with her back to the priest.
  
  'So I was out there trying to find you two... So that's what you and Doc have been up to all night.'
  
  'There were other people there too, so you don't have to worry.'
  
  'What do you mean by that, father?'
  
  Fowler said nothing. For a long time there was only the rhythm of stepping, waiting, whistling, stepping over.
  
  'How do you know?' Andrea asked anxiously.
  
  'I suspected it. Now I know.'
  
  'Crap'.
  
  'I'm sorry to invade your privacy, Miss Otero.'
  
  'Damn you,' said Andrea and bit her fist. 'I would kill for a cigarette.'
  
  'What is stopping you?'
  
  'Professor Forrester told me it interfered with the instruments.'
  
  'You know what, Miss Otero? For someone who acts like she's on top of everything, you're pretty naive. Tobacco smoke does not affect the Earth's magnetic field. At least not according to my sources.'
  
  'Old bastard'.
  
  Andrea dug into her pockets, then lit a cigarette.
  
  'Are you going to tell Doc, father?'
  
  'Harel is smart, a lot more than me. And she's Jewish. She doesn't need the old priest's advice.'
  
  'Should I?'
  
  'Well, you're a Catholic, right?'
  
  'I lost confidence in your equipment fourteen years ago, father.'
  
  'Which of them? Military or clerical?'
  
  'Both. My parents really fucked me up.'
  
  'All parents do this. Isn't that how life begins?'
  
  Andrea turned her head and managed to see him out of the corner of her eye.
  
  "So we have something in common."
  
  'You can't imagine. Why were you looking for us last night, Andrea?'
  
  The reporter looked around before answering. The closest person was David Pappas, strapped into his seat belt a hundred feet away. A gust of hot wind blew in from the entrance to the canyon, forming beautiful whirlpools of sand at Andrea's feet.
  
  'Yesterday, when we were at the entrance to the canyon, I walked up that huge dune. Upstairs I started filming with my telephoto lens and saw a man.'
  
  'Where?' Fowler fired.
  
  'At the top of the cliff behind you. I only saw him for a second. He was wearing light brown clothes. I didn't tell anyone because I didn't know if it had anything to do with the person who tried to kill me on the Behemoth.'
  
  Fowler narrowed his eyes and ran a hand over his bald head, taking a deep breath. His face looked worried.
  
  'Miss Otero, this expedition is extremely dangerous and depends on secrecy for its success. If anyone knew the truth about why we are here....'
  
  'They will kick us out?'
  
  'They would have killed us all.'
  
  'ABOUT'.
  
  Andrea looked up, acutely aware of how isolated the place was and how trapped they would be if anyone broke through Dekker's thin line of sentries.
  
  'I need to speak to Albert immediately,' Fowler said.
  
  'I thought you said you couldn't use your satellite phone here? Did Dekker have a frequency scanner?'
  
  The priest just looked at her.
  
  'Oh shit. Not again,' said Andrea.
  
  'We'll do it tonight'.
  
  
  32
  
  
  
  2700 FEET WEST OF THE DIG
  
  AL-MUDAWWARA DESERT, JORDAN
  
  
  Friday, July 14, 2006 1:18 am.
  
  
  The tall man's name was Oh, and he wept. He had to leave other people. He didn't want them to see him show his feelings, let alone talk about it. And it would be very dangerous to reveal why he was crying.
  
  Actually it was because of the girl. She reminded him too much of his own daughter. He hated having to kill her. Tahir's killing was simple, actually a relief. He had to admit that he even liked to play with him - to show him hell, but here on earth.
  
  The girl was a different story. She was only sixteen years old.
  
  Yet D and W agreed with him: the mission was too important. Not only were the lives of the other brothers gathered in the cave at stake, but the whole of Dar al-Islam. Mother and daughter knew too much. There could be no exceptions.
  
  "Senseless shitty war," he said.
  
  'So you're talking to yourself right now?'
  
  It was W who crawled towards me. He didn't like taking risks and always spoke in whispers, even inside the cave.
  
  'I prayed'.
  
  'We must return to the hole. They can see us.'
  
  'There's only one sentry on the west wall, and he doesn't have a line of sight from here. Don't worry.'
  
  'What if he changes position? They have night vision goggles.'
  
  'I said don't worry. Big black on duty. He smokes all the time, and the light from the cigarette makes it hard for him to see anything," Oh said, annoyed that he had to speak when he wanted to enjoy the silence.
  
  'Let's go back to the cave. We'll play chess.'
  
  It didn't fool him for a moment. We knew that he felt depressed. Afghanistan, Pakistan, Yemen. They've been through a lot together. He was a good friend. Clumsy as his efforts were, he tried to cheer him up.
  
  O stretched out to the full length of his body on the sand. They were in the void at the foot of the rock formation. The cave that was at its base was only about a hundred feet square. Oh was the one who found this three months earlier when he was planning the operation. There would hardly be room for them all, but even if the cave was a hundred times bigger, O would rather be outside. He felt trapped in this noisy hole, attacked by the snores and farts of his brothers.
  
  'I think I'll stay here a little longer. I love the cold.'
  
  'Are you waiting for Hukan's signal?'
  
  'It will be some time before that happens. The infidels haven't found anything yet.'
  
  'I hope they hurry up. I'm tired of sitting back, eating out of tins and pissing in a tin.'
  
  Oh didn't answer. He closed his eyes and focused on the breath of the breeze on his skin. The wait suited him just fine.
  
  "Why do we sit here and do nothing?" We are well armed. I say we'll go there and kill them all,' insisted W.
  
  'We will follow Hukan's orders.'
  
  'Hookan is taking too many risks'.
  
  'I know. But he is smart. He told me a story. Do you know how a bushman finds water in the Kalahari when he is far from home? He finds a monkey and watches her all day. He can't let the monkey see him or it's game over. If the Bushman is patient, the monkey will eventually show him where to find water. A crack in the rock, a small pool...places a bushman would never find.'
  
  'And what does he do then?'
  
  'He drinks water and eats monkey'.
  
  
  33
  
  
  
  EXCAVATIONS
  
  AL-MUDAWWARA DESERT, JORDAN
  
  
  Friday, July 14, 2006 01:18
  
  
  Stowe Erling nibbled nervously on his ballpoint pen and cursed Professor Forrester with all his might. It's not his fault that the data from one of the sectors did not go where they were supposed to . He'd been busy dealing with the complaints of their hired miners, helping them put on and take off their seat belts, change the batteries in their gear, and make sure no one crossed the same sector twice.
  
  Of course, no one was around to help him put on his harness now. And it wasn't as if the operation was easy in the middle of the night, by the light of only a camping gas lantern. Forrester didn't care about anyone-anyone but himself, that is. The moment he discovered the anomaly in the data, after dinner, he ordered Stowe to reanalyze Quadrant 22K.
  
  In vain Stowe begged-almost begged-Forrester to let him do it the next day. If data from all sectors were not linked, the program would not function.
  
  Fucking Pappas. Isn't he considered the world's leading topographical archaeologist? Skilled software developer, right? Shit is what it is. He never had to leave Greece. Damn! I catch myself kissing the old man's ass to let me prepare the headers for the magnetometer codes, and he ends up giving them to Pappas. Two years, two whole years, studying Forrester's recommendations, correcting his childhood mistakes, buying him medicine, taking out his trash can full of infected, bloody tissue. Two years and he treats me like that.
  
  Luckily, Stowe had completed the complicated series of moves, and the magnetometer was now on his shoulders and working. He picked up the lantern and set it up halfway up the slope. Sector 22K covered part of the sandy slope near the knuckle of the canyon's index finger.
  
  The soil here was different, unlike the spongy pink surface at the base of the canyon or the burnt rock that covered the rest of the area. The sand was darker, and the slope itself had a slope of about 14 percent. As he walked, the sand shifted, as if the animal were moving under his boots. As Stowe climbed the slope, he had to hold on tightly to the magnetometer straps to keep the instrument balanced.
  
  As he bent down to place the lantern on the ground, his right hand brushed against an iron shard protruding from the frame. It shed blood.
  
  'Ah-damn!'
  
  Sucking on a piece, he began to move with the instrument around the area in that slow, annoying rhythm.
  
  He's not even American. Not even a Jew, damn it. He's a lousy fucking Greek immigrant. An Orthodox Greek before he started working for a professor. He converted to Judaism only after three months with us. Quick conversion is very convenient. I'm so tired. Why am I doing this? I hope we find the Ark. Then the history departments will fight for me, and I can find a permanent position. The old man will not last long - probably just long enough to take all the credit for himself. But in three or four years they will be talking about his team. About me. I wish his rotten lungs would just burst open in the next few hours. I wonder who Kine would then put at the head of the expedition? It wouldn't be Pappas. If he shits in his pants every time the professor even looks at him, imagine what he'll do if he sees Kine. No, they need someone stronger, someone with charisma. I wonder what Kine really is. They say he is very sick. But then why did he come all the way here?
  
  Stowe stopped in his tracks, halfway up the slope and facing the canyon wall. He thought he heard footsteps, but it was impossible. He looked back at the camp. Everything was still.
  
  Certainly. The only one not in bed is me. Well, except for the guards, but they're bundled up and probably snoring. Who are they going to protect us from? It would be better if-
  
  The young man stopped again. He heard something, and this time he knew he hadn't imagined it. He cocked his head to one side, trying to hear better, but the annoying whistle came again. Stowe fumbled for the switch on the appliance and quickly pressed it once. That way he could turn off the whistle without turning off the instrument (which would set off an alarm in Forrester's computer) that a dozen people would give hands and feet to find out yesterday.
  
  It must be a couple of soldiers changing shifts. Come on, you're too old to be afraid of the dark.
  
  He turned off the tool and started down the hill. Now that he thought about it, it would be better if he went back to bed. If Forrester wanted to be pissed off, that was his business. He started first thing in the morning, skipping breakfast.
  
  That's all. I'll get up before the old man when there's more light.
  
  He smiled, chiding himself for worrying over trifles. Now he could finally go to bed, and that was all he needed. If he had hurried, he could have slept for three hours.
  
  Suddenly, something pulled on the harness. Stowe leaned back, swinging his arms in the air to keep his balance. But just when he thought he was going to fall, he felt someone grab him.
  
  The young man did not feel the knife's edge pierce the lower part of his spine. The hand that had grabbed him by the harness pulled harder. Stowe suddenly remembered his childhood when he and his father went to Lake Chebacco to fish for black crappie. His father held the fish in his hand and then gutted it in one swift motion. The movement made a wet, hissing sound, much like the last thing Stowe had heard.
  
  The hand released the young man, who fell to the ground like a rag doll.
  
  Stowe made a broken sound as he died, a short, dry groan, and then there was silence.
  
  
  34
  
  
  
  EXCAVATIONS
  
  AL-MUDAWWARA DESERT, JORDAN
  
  
  Friday, July 14, 2006 14:33
  
  
  The first part of the plan was to wake up on time. So far so good. From that moment on, everything became a disaster.
  
  Andrea placed her wristwatch between her alarm clock and her head, with the alarm set for 2:30 am. She was supposed to meet Fowler in Quadrant 14B, where she worked, when she told the priest about seeing the man on the cliff. All the reporter knew was that the priest needed her help to neutralize Dekker's frequency scanner. Fowler didn't tell her how he planned to do it.
  
  To make sure she showed up on time, Fowler gave her his wristwatch, as her own didn't have an alarm clock. It was a rough black MTM Special Ops with a velcro strap that looked almost as old as Andrea herself. On the back of the watch was the inscription: So that others may live.
  
  'So that others may live.' What kind of person wears such a watch? Not a priest, of course. Priests wear watches for twenty euros, at best a cheap Lotus with an artificial leather strap. Nothing has such character as this, Andrea thought before how to fall asleep.When the alarm went off, she prudently turned it off immediately and took the watch with her.Fowler made it clear what would happen to her if she lost it.In addition, there was a small LED light on her face that would make it easier to navigate through canyon without tripping over one of the quadrant's ropes and smashing your head against a rock.
  
  While she was looking for her clothes, Andrea listened to see if anyone had been awakened by the alarm clock. Kira Larsen's snoring calmed the reporter, but she decided to wait until she went outside to put on her boots. Creeping to the door, she showed her usual clumsiness and dropped her watch.
  
  The young reporter tried to control her nerves and remember the layout of the infirmary. At the far end were two stretchers, a table, and a cabinet of medical instruments. The three roommates slept at the entrance on their mattresses and sleeping bags. Andrea in the middle, Larsen to her left, Harel to her right.
  
  Using Kira's snoring to get her bearings, she began to search the floor. She felt the edge of her own mattress. A little further on, she touched one of Larsen's discarded socks. She grimaced and wiped her hand on the back of her trousers. She continued on her own mattress. A little further. It must be a Harel mattress.
  
  It was empty.
  
  Surprised, Andrea pulled a lighter from her pocket and flicked it, shielding the flame from Larsen with her body. Harel was nowhere in the infirmary. Fowler told her not to tell Harel what they were planning to do.
  
  The reporter didn't have time to think about it any further, so she took the watch she found lying between the mattresses and left the tent. The camp was quiet as the grave. Andrea was glad that the infirmary was near the northwest canyon wall, so she wouldn't run into anyone on her way to or from the bathroom.
  
  I'm sure Harel is right there. I can't understand why we can't tell her what we're doing when she already knows about the priest's satellite phone. These two are up to something strange.
  
  A moment later, the professor's beep sounded. Andrea froze, fear tormenting her like a hunted animal. At first she thought that Forrester had discovered what she was doing, until she realized that the sound was coming from somewhere far away. The sound of the horn was muffled, but echoed faintly through the canyon.
  
  There were two explosions, and then everything stopped.
  
  Then it started again and didn't stop.
  
  This is a distress signal. I would bet my life on it.
  
  Andrea wasn't sure who to turn to. Since Harel was nowhere to be seen and Fowler was waiting for her at 14B, her best bet was Tommy Eichberg. The maintenance tent was closest to her now, and with the help of the watch's light, Andrea found the tent's zipper and rushed inside.
  
  'Tommy, Tommy, are you there?'
  
  Half a dozen heads lifted their heads from their sleeping bags.
  
  'For God's sake, it's two in the morning,' said a disheveled Brian Hanley, rubbing his eyes.
  
  'Get up, Tommy. I think the professor is in trouble.'
  
  Tommy was already getting out of his sleeping bag.
  
  'What's happening?'
  
  'This is the professor's horn. It didn't stop.'
  
  'I hear nothing'.
  
  'Come with me. I think he's in the canyon.'
  
  'One minute'.
  
  'What are you waiting for, Hanukkah?'
  
  'No, I'm waiting for you to turn around. I'm naked.'
  
  Andrea stepped out of the tent muttering an apology. Outside, the horn was still sounding, but each subsequent sound was weaker. Compressed air was running out.
  
  Tommy joined her, followed by the rest of the men in the tent.
  
  'Go and check the professor's tent, Robert,' said Tommy, pointing at the skinny rig operator. 'And you, Brian, go and warn the soldiers.'
  
  This last order was not necessary. Dekker, Maloney, Torres, and Jackson were already approaching, not fully dressed but with machine guns at the ready.
  
  'What the hell is going on?' Decker said. In his huge hand was a walkie-talkie. 'My guys say someone is making hell at the end of the canyon.'
  
  'Miss Otero thinks the professor is in trouble,' said Tommy. 'Where are your monitors?'
  
  'This sector is at a blind angle. Vaaka is looking for a better position.'
  
  'Good evening. What's happening? Mr. Kine is trying to sleep," Jacob Russell said as he approached the group. He was wearing cinnamon-colored silk pajamas, and his hair was slightly tousled. 'I thought that...'
  
  Dekker interrupted him with a gesture. The radio crackled, and Vaaka's even voice came from the speaker.
  
  'Colonel, I see Forrester and a body on the ground. Finished.'
  
  'What's Professor Nest Number One doing?'
  
  'He bent over the body. Finished.'
  
  'Accepted, Nest number one. Stay in your position and cover us. Nests two and three, maximum readiness. If the mouse farts, I want to know about it.'
  
  Dekker broke the link and continued to issue further orders. For those few moments that he talked with Vaaka, the whole camp started up. Tommy Eichberg lit one of the powerful halogen spotlights that cast huge shadows on the canyon walls.
  
  Meanwhile, Andrea was standing a little apart from the circle of people around Dekker. Over his shoulder, she could see Fowler walking behind the infirmary, fully dressed. He looked around and then walked over and stood behind the reporter.
  
  'Do not say anything. We will talk later.'
  
  'Where is Harel?'
  
  Fowler looked at Andrea and arched his eyebrows.
  
  He has no idea.
  
  Suddenly Andrea became suspicious and turned to Dekker, but Fowler grabbed her arm and held her. After exchanging a few words with Russell, the huge South African made his decision. He left Maloney in charge of the camp and headed to Sector 22K with Torres and Jackson.
  
  'Let me go, father! He said there was a body.' Andrea said, trying to free herself.
  
  'Wait'.
  
  'It could be her.'
  
  'Hold on'.
  
  Meanwhile, Russell raised his hands and addressed the group.
  
  'Please please. We are all very excited, but running from one place to another will not help anyone. Look around and tell me if anyone is missing. Mr Eichberg? And Brian?'
  
  'He's dealing with a generator. He's low on fuel.'
  
  'Mr Pappas?'
  
  'Everyone here except Stowe Erling, sir,' Pappas said nervously, his voice cracking with tension. 'He was about to cross sector 22K again. The headings in the data were wrong.'
  
  'Dr. Harel?'
  
  'Dr. Harel is not here,' said Kira Larsen.
  
  'She's not like that? Does anyone have an idea where she might be? ' said Russell, surprised.
  
  'Where can anyone be?' said a voice behind Andrea. The reporter turned, a look of relief on her face. Behind her stood Harel, eyes bloodshot, dressed only in boots and a long red shirt. 'You have to excuse me, but I took a sleeping pill and I'm still a little out of my mind. What happened?'
  
  As Russell briefed the doctor on the matter, Andrea had mixed feelings. Although she was glad that Harel was all right, she couldn't figure out where the doctor could have been all this time or why she was lying.
  
  And I'm not the only one, Andrea thought as she watched her other tentmate. Kira Larsen kept her eyes on Harel. She suspects Dr. I'm sure she noticed that she wasn't in her bed a few minutes ago. If the looks were laser beams, Doc would have a hole in his back the size of a small pizza.
  
  
  35
  
  
  
  KAINE
  
  The old man stood up on a chair and untied one of the knots that supported the walls of the tent. He tied it, untied it, and tied it again.
  
  'Sir, you're doing it again.'
  
  'Someone's dead, Jacob. Dead.'
  
  'Sir, the knot is fine. Please get down. You must accept it.' Russell held out a small paper cup with some pills.
  
  'I'm not going to take them. I need to be alert. I could be next. Do you like this knot?'
  
  'Yes, Mr Kine.'
  
  'It's called the double eight. This is a very good knot. My father showed me how to do it.'
  
  'It's a perfect knot, sir. Please get off your chair.'
  
  'I just want to make sure...'
  
  "Sir, you're falling into obsessive-compulsive behavior again."
  
  'Don't use that term for me.'
  
  The old man turned so abruptly that he lost his balance. Jacob moved to catch Kaine, but he wasn't fast enough and the old man fell.
  
  "Are you all right?" I'll call Dr. Harel!'
  
  The old man was crying on the floor, but only a small part of his tears were caused by the fall.
  
  'Someone's dead, Jacob. Someone is dead.'
  
  
  36
  
  
  
  EXCAVATIONS
  
  AL-MUDAWWARA DESERT, JORDAN
  
  
  Friday, July 14, 2006 3:13 am.
  
  
  'Murder'.
  
  'Are you sure, doctor?'
  
  Stowe Erling's body lay in the center of the circle of gas lamps. They radiated a pale light, and the shadows on the surrounding rocks dissolved into a night that suddenly seemed filled with danger. Andrea suppressed a shudder as she looked down at the body in the sand.
  
  When Dekker and his entourage arrived on the scene just a few minutes ago, he found the old professor holding the dead man's hand and continuously turning on the now useless horn. Dekker pushed the professor aside and called in Dr. Harel. The doctor asked Andrea to come with her.
  
  'I'd rather not do it,' Andrea said. She felt dizzy and confused when Dekker said on the radio that they had found Stowe Erling dead. She couldn't help but remember how she wished the desert would just swallow his.
  
  'Please. I'm very worried, Andrea. Help me.'
  
  The Doctor seemed genuinely alarmed, so without another word, Andrea walked beside her. The reporter tried to figure out how she could ask Harel where the hell she was when this mess started, but she couldn't do it without revealing that she, too, was where she shouldn't have been. When they reached Quadrant 22K, they discovered that Dekker had managed to illuminate the body so that Harel could determine the cause of death.
  
  'Tell me that, Colonel. If it wasn't murder, it was a very determined suicide. He has a stab wound at the base of his spine, which is fatal by definition.'
  
  'And it's very difficult to do,' Dekker said.
  
  'What do you have in mind?' Russell intervened, standing next to Dekker.
  
  A little further on, Kira Larsen was squatting next to the professor, trying to comfort him. She threw the blanket over his shoulders.
  
  'He means it was a perfectly placed wound. A very sharp knife. Stowe didn't have much blood at all,' Harel said as she removed the latex gloves she was wearing to inspect the body.
  
  'Professional, Mr Russell,' Dekker added.
  
  'Who found him?'
  
  "Professor Forrester's computer has an alarm that goes off if one of the magnetometers stops transmitting," Dekker said, nodding his head at the old man. 'He came here to share with Stowe. When he saw him on the ground, he thought he was asleep and started blowing in his ear until he realized what had happened. Then he continued to blow his horn to warn us.'
  
  'I don't even want to imagine how Mr. Kane will react when he finds out that Stowe was killed, where the hell were your people, Dekker? How could this happen?'
  
  'They must have been watching beyond the canyon as I ordered. There are only three of them, they overcome a very large area on a moonless night. They did their best.'
  
  'It's not that much,' Russell said, pointing to the body.
  
  'Russell, I told you. It's crazy to come to this place with just six men. As a matter of urgency, we have three men on guard for four hours. But to cover a hostile zone like this, we really need at least twenty. So don't blame me.'
  
  'It's out of the question. You know what will happen if the Jordanian government -'
  
  'Maybe you two stop arguing!' The professor stood up, the blanket hanging from his shoulders. His voice trembled with anger. 'One of my assistants is dead. I sent it here. Could you please stop blaming each other?'
  
  Russell was silent. To Andrea's surprise, Dekker did the same, although he saved face by turning to Dr. Harel.
  
  'Can you tell us anything else?'
  
  'I'm guessing he was killed there and then he slid down the slope, considering the rocks that fell with him.'
  
  'You imagine?' Russell said, raising an eyebrow.
  
  'Sorry, but I'm not a forensic pathologist, but an ordinary doctor specializing in combat medicine. I'm definitely not qualified to analyze a crime scene. In any case, I don't think you'll find footprints or any other clues in the mix of sand and rock we have here.'
  
  "Do you know if Erling had any enemies, Professor?" Dekker asked.
  
  'He didn't get along with David Pappas. I was responsible for the rivalry between them.'
  
  'Have you ever seen them fight?'
  
  'Many times, but it never came to a fight.' Forrester paused, then shook his finger in Dekker's face. 'Wait a minute. You're not suggesting that one of my assistants did this, are you?'
  
  Meanwhile, Andrea watched Stowe Erling's body with a mixture of shock and disbelief. She wanted to go to the circle of lamps and tug on his ponytail to show that he wasn't dead, that it was just the professor's stupid joke. She only realized the seriousness of the situation when she saw the frail old man shaking his finger in the face of the giant Dekker. At that moment, the secret she'd been hiding for two days cracked like a pressure dam.
  
  'Mr Dekker'.
  
  The South African turned to her, his expression clearly not friendly.
  
  'Miss Otero, Schopenhauer said that the first meeting with a face makes a lasting impression on us. I've had enough of your face for now - got it?'
  
  'I don't even know why you're here, no one asked you to come,' Russell added. 'This story is not for publication. Return to camp.'
  
  The reporter took a step back, but held the gaze of both the mercenary and the young leader. Ignoring Fowler's advice, Andrea decided to come clean.
  
  'I'm not leaving. It is possible that this person's death is my fault.'
  
  Dekker moved so close to her that Andrea could feel the dry heat of his skin.
  
  'Speak louder'.
  
  'When we arrived at the canyon, I thought I saw someone on top of that cliff.'
  
  'What? And didn't it occur to you to say something?'
  
  'At that time I did not attach much importance to this. I'm sorry.'
  
  'Amazing, you're sorry. Then it's all right. Damn!'
  
  Russell shook his head in amazement. Dekker scratched at the scar on his face, trying to process what he had just heard. Harel and the professor looked at Andrea with disbelief. The only one who reacted was Kira Larson, who pushed Forrester aside, rushed to Andrea and slapped her.
  
  'Bitch!'
  
  Andrea was so stunned that she didn't know what to do. Then, seeing the anguish on Kira's face, she understood and lowered her hands.
  
  I'm sorry. I'm sorry.
  
  'Bitch,' repeated the archaeologist, lunging at Andrea and striking her face and chest. 'You could tell everyone we were being watched. Don't you know what we're looking for? all of us?'
  
  Harel and Dekker grabbed Larsen by the arms and pulled her back.
  
  'He was my friend,' she muttered, pulling back slightly.
  
  At that moment, David Pappas arrived on the scene. He ran and sweat poured from him. It was obvious that he had fallen at least once because there was sand on his face and glasses.
  
  'Professor! Professor Forrester!'
  
  'What's the matter, David?'
  
  'Data. Stowe data,' Pappas said, bending over and leaning on his knees to catch his breath.
  
  The professor made a dismissive gesture.
  
  'Now is not the time, David. Your colleague is dead.'
  
  'But Professor, you must listen. Headings. I fixed them.'
  
  'Very well, David. We will talk tomorrow.'
  
  Then David Pappas did something he never would have done if not for the tension of that night. Grabbing Forrester's blanket, he jerked the old man around to face him.
  
  'You do not understand. We have a peak. 7911!'
  
  Professor Forrester didn't react at first, but then he spoke very slowly and deliberately, in a voice so low that David could hardly hear him.
  
  'How big?'
  
  'Huge, sir.'
  
  The professor fell to his knees. Unable to speak, he leaned back and forth in silent supplication.
  
  'What is 7911, David?' Andrea asked.
  
  The atomic weight is 79. Position 11 on the periodic table,' said the young man in a broken voice. It was as if, in delivering his message, he had emptied himself. His eyes were glued to the corpse.
  
  'And this ...?'
  
  'Gold, Miss Otero. Stowe Erling found the Ark of the Covenant.'
  
  
  37
  
  
  
  Some facts about the Ark of the Covenant transcribed from Professor Cecil Forrester's notebook "Moleskine"
  
  The Bible says, 'They will make an ark of shittim wood, two and a half cubits long, a cubit and a half wide, and a cubit and a half high. And you must cover it with pure gold, inside and outside you must cover it, and you must make a golden crown around it. And for this you must cast four golden rings and put them into its four corners; and two rings shall be on one side of it, and two rings on the other side of it. And you must make poles of shittim wood and overlay them with gold. And you must put the poles into the rings on the sides of the Ark, so that the Ark can be carried with them.'
  
  I'll take measurements at a regular elbow. I know that I will be criticized because few scientists do it; they rely on the Egyptian cubit and the 'sacred' cubit, which are much more glamorous. But I'm right.
  
  This is what we know for sure about the Ark:
  
  • Year of construction: 1453 BC. at the foot of Mount Sinai.
  
  • length 44 inches
  
  • width 25 inches
  
  • height 25 inches
  
  • 84 gallon capacity
  
  • 600 pounds in weight
  
  There are people who would suggest that the weight of the Ark was more, around 1100 pounds. Besides, there is an idiot who dared to insist that the Ark weighed more than a ton. This is madness. And they call themselves experts. They like to increase the weight of the Ark itself. Poor idiots. They do not understand that gold, even if it is heavy, is too soft. The rings would not have been able to support such a weight, and the wooden poles would not have been long enough for more than four men to comfortably carry it.
  
  Gold is a very soft metal. Last year I saw an entire room covered with thin sheets of gold made from a single coin of good size, using methods dating back to the Bronze Age. The Jews were skilled craftsmen and did not have much gold in the desert and would not burden themselves with so much weight to make themselves vulnerable to their enemies. No, they would use a small amount of gold and create thin sheets of it to cover the wood. Shittim wood, or acacia, is a durable wood that can last for centuries without damage, especially if it has been covered with a thin layer of metal that does not rust and is indifferent to the effects of time. It was a facility built for eternity. How could it be otherwise, since it was the Timeless One who gave the instructions?
  
  
  38
  
  
  
  EXCAVATIONS
  
  AL-MUDAWWARA DESERT, JORDAN
  
  
  Friday, July 14, 2006. 2:21 pm.
  
  
  "So the data has been manipulated."
  
  'Someone else got the information, father.'
  
  'That's why they killed him.'
  
  'I understand what, where and when. If you just tell me how and who, I'll be the happiest woman in the world.'
  
  'I'm working on it'.
  
  "Do you think it was an outsider?" Maybe the man I saw at the top of the canyon?'
  
  'I don't think you are that stupid, young lady.'
  
  'I still feel guilty'.
  
  'Well, you should stop. I was the one who asked you not to tell anyone. But trust me, someone on this expedition is a killer. That's why it's more important than ever that we talk to Albert.'
  
  'Fine. But I think you know more than you're telling me - much more. Yesterday, unusual activity for this time of day was observed in the canyon. The doctor was not in her bed.'
  
  'I told you... I'm working on it.'
  
  'Damn, father. You are the only person I know who speaks so many languages but doesn't like to talk.'
  
  Father Fowler and Andrea Otero sat in the shade of the canyon's western wall. Since no one had slept much last night, after the shock of Stow Erling's murder, the day had begun slowly and heavily. However, little by little, the news that Stowe's magnetometer had found gold began to overshadow the tragedy, changing the mood in the camp. Around quadrant 22K there was a lot of activity, with Professor Forrester at the center: analysis of the composition of the rocks, further tests with a magnetometer, and, above all, measurements of the hardness of the soil for digging.
  
  The procedure was to run an electrical wire through the ground to find out how much current it could handle. For example, a hole filled with earth has less electrical resistance than the untouched earth around it.
  
  The test results were convincing: the ground at that moment was very unstable. This infuriated Forrester. Andrea watched him gesticulate wildly, tossing papers in the air and insulting his employees.
  
  "Why is the professor so angry?" Fowler asked.
  
  The priest sat on a flat rock about a foot and a half above Andrea. He played with a small screwdriver and some cables he had taken from Brian Hanley's toolbox, paying little attention to what was going on around him.
  
  'They were doing tests. They can't just dig up the Ark,' Andrea replied. She had spoken to David Pappas a few minutes before. 'They believe it's in an artificial hole. If they use a mini excavator, there's a good chance the pit will collapse.'
  
  'Maybe they'll have to work around it. It may take weeks.'
  
  Andrea took another series of shots with her digital camera and then looked at them on the monitor. She had some great photos of Forrester, in which he is literally foaming at the mouth. A frightened Kira Larsen throws her head back in shock at the news of Erling's death.
  
  'Forrester yells at them again. I don't know how his assistants put up with it.'
  
  'Maybe that's what they all need this morning, don't you think?'
  
  Andrea was about to tell Fowler to stop talking nonsense when she realized that she had always been a strong advocate of using self-punishment as a way to avoid grief.
  
  LB is proof of this. If I had practiced what I preached, I would have thrown him out the window a long time ago. Damn cat. I hope he doesn't eat the neighbor's shampoo. And if he does, I hope she doesn't make me pay for it.
  
  Forrester's screams caused people to scatter like cockroaches when the lights turned on.
  
  'Perhaps he's right, father. But I don't think the continuation of the work shows much respect for their deceased colleague.'
  
  Fowler looked up from his work.
  
  'I don't blame him. He must hurry. Tomorrow is Saturday.'
  
  'Oh yeah. Saturday . Jews cannot even turn on the lights after sunset on Friday. This is nonsense.'
  
  'At least they believe in something. What do you believe in?'
  
  'I've always been a practical person.'
  
  'I assume you mean non-believer.'
  
  'I guess I mean practical. Spending two hours a week on a place full of incense would take exactly 343 days of my life. No offense, but I don't think it's worth it. Not even for supposed eternity.'
  
  The priest chuckled.
  
  'Did you ever believe in anything?'
  
  'I believed in relationships'.
  
  'What's happened?'
  
  'I screwed up. Let's just say she believed it more than I did.'
  
  Fowler remained silent. Andrea's voice sounded slightly forced. She realized that the priest wanted her to unburden herself.
  
  'On top of that, father... I don't think faith is the only motivating factor for this expedition. The Ark will cost a lot of money.'
  
  'There are approximately 125,000 tons of gold in the world. Do you believe Mr. Kine needs to go get thirteen or fourteen inside the Ark?'
  
  'I'm talking about Forrester and his busy bees,' Andrea replied. She loved to argue but hated it when her arguments were so easily refuted.
  
  'Fine. Do you need a practical reason? They deny everything. Their work helps them move forward.'
  
  'What the hell are you talking about?'
  
  'The Stages of Mourning of Dr. K' 252; Blair-Ross'.
  
  'Oh yeah. Denial, anger, depression and all that stuff.'
  
  'Exactly. All of them are in the first stage.'
  
  'Judging by the way the professor is screaming, you'd think he was in the second one.'
  
  'Tonight they will feel better. Professor Forrester will give the gespede, the eulogy. I believe it will be interesting to hear him say something nice about someone other than himself.'
  
  'What will happen to the body, father?'
  
  'They will put the body in a hermetically sealed body bag and bury it for now.'
  
  Andrea looked at Fowler incredulously.
  
  'Are you kidding!'
  
  'It's Jewish law. Anyone who dies must be buried within twenty-four hours.'
  
  'You know what I mean. Aren't they going to give him back to his family?'
  
  'No one and nothing can leave the camp, Miss Otero. Remember?'
  
  Andrea put the camera in her backpack and lit a cigarette.
  
  'These people are crazy. I hope this stupid exclusive doesn't end up destroying us all.'
  
  'Always talk about your exclusive, Miss Otero. I can't understand what you are so desperate for.'
  
  'Fame and wealth. What about you?'
  
  Fowler stood up and held out his hands. He leaned back and his spine cracked loudly.
  
  'I'm just following orders. If the Ark is real, the Vatican wants to know so they can recognize it as an object containing God's commandments.'
  
  Very simple answer, quite original. And that's absolutely not true, Father. You are a very bad liar. But let's pretend that I believe you.
  
  'Perhaps,' Andrea said after a moment. 'But in that case, why didn't your bosses send a historian?'
  
  Fowler showed her what he was working on.
  
  'Because a historian couldn't do it.'
  
  'What is this?' Andrea said curiously. It looked like a simple electrical switch with a couple of wires coming out of it.
  
  'We'll have to forget about yesterday's plan to contact Albert. After killing Erling, they will be even more alert. So, this is what we'll do instead...'
  
  
  39
  
  
  
  EXCAVATIONS
  
  AL-MUDAWWARA DESERT, JORDAN
  
  
  Friday, July 14, 2006 at 3:42 pm.
  
  
  Father, tell me again why I'm doing this.
  
  Because you want to know the truth. The truth about what's going on here. Why they bothered to contact you in Spain when Kine could have found a thousand reporters, more experienced and famous than you, right there in New York.
  
  The conversation continued to ring in Andrea's ears. The question was the same one that the faint voice in her head had been asking for quite some time. It was drowned out by the Pride Philharmonic Orchestra, accompanied by Mr. Wise Debt, baritone, and Miss Glory at Any Cost, soprano. But Fowler's words brought the weak voice into focus.
  
  Andrea shook her head, trying to focus on what she was doing. The plan was to take advantage of the period when the soldiers would try to rest, take a nap or play cards in their off-duty time.
  
  'That's where you come into play,' said Fowler. 'At my signal, you slip under the tent.'
  
  'Between wood floor and sand? Are you crazy?'
  
  'There's plenty of room. You will have to crawl about a foot and a half until you reach the electrical panel. The cable connecting the generator and the tent is orange. Pull it out quickly; connect it to the end of my cable and the other end of my cable back to the electrical panel. Then press this button every fifteen seconds for three minutes. After that, quickly get out of there.'
  
  'What will it give?'
  
  'Nothing too complicated from a technological point of view. This will cause a slight drop in electrical current without cutting it off completely. The frequency scanner will only turn off twice: once when the cable is plugged in, the second time when it is disconnected.'
  
  'And the rest of the time?'
  
  'It will be in startup mode, like a computer when it boots up its operating system. As long as they don't look under the tent, there won't be any problem.'
  
  Except for what it was: the heat.
  
  Crawling under the tent when Fowler gave the signal was easy. Andrea squatted down, pretending to tie her shoelace, looked around, and then rolled under the wooden platform. It was like diving into a vat of hot oil. The air was thick with the heat of the day, and the generator next to the tent produced a searing blast of heat that wafted into the space where Andrea was crawling.
  
  Now she was under the electrical panel and her face and hands were on fire. She took out Fowler's switch and held it ready in her right hand while she pulled sharply on the orange wire with her left. She connected it to Fowler's device, then connected the other end to the panel and waited.
  
  Those useless lying clocks. It is said that only twelve seconds have passed, but it seems more like two minutes. God, I can't stand this heat!
  
  Thirteen, fourteen, fifteen.
  
  She pressed the break button.
  
  The voices of the soldiers above her changed.
  
  It looks like they noticed something. I hope they don't take it too seriously.
  
  She listened more closely to the conversation. It began as a way to distract her from the heat and keep her from fainting. She had not drunk enough water that morning and was now paying the price. Her throat and lips were dry, and her head was slightly dizzy. But thirty seconds later, what she heard made Andrea panic. So much so that after three minutes she was still there, pressing the button every fifteen seconds, fighting the feeling that she was about to faint.
  
  
  40
  
  
  SOMEWHERE IN FAIRFAX COUNTY, VA
  
  
  Friday, July 14, 2006 8:42 am.
  
  
  'Do you have it?'
  
  'I think I have something. That was not easy. This guy is very good at covering his tracks.'
  
  'I need more than a hunch, Albert. People started dying here.'
  
  'People always die, don't they?'
  
  'This time it's different. It frightens me.'
  
  'You? I do not believe in this. You weren't even afraid of the Koreans. And that time...'
  
  'Albert...'
  
  'Sorry. I asked for several favors. CIA experts recovered some data from Netcatch computers. Orville Watson is on the trail of a terrorist named Hakan.'
  
  'Syringe'.
  
  'If you say so. I don't know any Arabic. Looks like the guy was after Kain.'
  
  'Anything else? Nationality? Ethnic group?'
  
  'Nothing. Just vague information, a couple of intercepted e-mails. None of the files escaped the fire. Hard drives are very fragile.'
  
  'You must find Watson. He is the key to everything. This is urgent.'
  
  'I'm in it.'
  
  
  41
  
  
  
  IN THE SOLDIER'S TENT, FIVE MINUTES BEFORE
  
  Marla Jackson was not used to reading newspapers, which is why she ended up in jail. Of course, Marla saw it differently. She thought she went to jail for being a good mother.
  
  The truth about Marla's life lay somewhere between those two extremes. She had a poor but relatively normal childhood-as normal as can be for a man in Lorton, Virginia, whose own citizens called him America's armpit. Marla was born into a lower-class black family. She played with dolls and jump rope, went to school and became pregnant at the age of fifteen and a half.
  
  Marla was essentially trying to prevent the pregnancy. But there was no way she could have known that Curtis had put a hole in the condom. She didn't have a choice. She had heard of a crazy practice among some teenage boys who tried to make themselves look handsome by getting girls pregnant before they had finished high school. But that was what happened to other girls. Curtis loved her.
  
  Curtis is gone.
  
  Marla graduated from high school and joined the not-so-chosen teen mothers club. Little Mei has become the center of her mother's life, for better or worse. Marla's dreams of saving up enough money to study weather photography are behind her. Marla took a job at a local factory, which, in addition to her motherly duties, gave her little time to read the papers. Which, in turn, caused her to make a regrettable decision.
  
  One afternoon, her boss announced that he wanted to increase her working hours. The young mother had already seen women leaving the factory exhausted, heads down, carrying their uniforms in supermarket bags; women whose sons were left alone and ended up either in a reform school or shot in a gang fight.
  
  To prevent this, Marla signed up for the Army Reserve. Thus, the factory could not increase its working hours because it would be contrary to its instructions at the military base. This would allow her to spend more time with baby May.
  
  Marla made the decision to join the day after the Military Police Company was notified of their next destination: Iraq. The news appeared on page 6 of the Lorton Chronicle. In September 2003, Marla waved goodbye to May and boarded a truck at the base. The girl, hugging her grandmother, cried at the top of her lungs with all the grief that a six-year-old child is capable of. Both died four weeks later, when Mrs. Jackson, who was not such a good mother as Marla, tried her luck by smoking one last time in bed.
  
  When she was told the news, Marla found herself unable to return home and begged her astonished sister to make all arrangements for the wake and funeral. She then asked for an extension of her term in Iraq and devoted herself wholeheartedly to her next assignment, as a member of parliament in a prison called Abu Ghraib.
  
  A year later, several unsuccessful photographs appeared on a national television program. They demonstrated that something inside Marla had finally cracked. A kind mother from Lorton, Virginia, became a torturer of Iraqi prisoners.
  
  Of course, Marla wasn't the only one. In her opinion, the loss of her daughter and her mother was somehow the fault of "Saddam's dirty dogs." Marla was fired in disgrace and sentenced to four years in prison. She served for six months. After she got out of prison, she went straight to the security company DX5 and asked for a job. She wanted to return to Iraq.
  
  They gave her a job, but she didn't immediately return to Iraq. Instead, she fell into the hands of Mogens Dekker. Literally.
  
  Eighteen months have passed and Marla has learned a lot. She could shoot much better, knew more philosophy, and had experience making love to a white man. Colonel Dekker was turned on almost instantly by a woman with big, strong legs and an angelic face. Marla found it somewhat comforting, and the rest of the comfort came from the smell of gunpowder. It was her first time killing, and she loved it.
  
  Much.
  
  She also liked her crew...sometimes. Dekker had chosen them well: a handful of killers with no conscience who liked to kill with impunity for government contracts. As long as they were on the battlefield, they were blood brothers. But on a hot, sticky day like this, when they ignored Dekker's orders to get some sleep and instead played cards, things took a different turn. They became as angry and dangerous as a gorilla at a cocktail party. The worst of them was Torres.
  
  'You lead me by the nose, Jackson. And you didn't even kiss me,' said the little Colombian. Marla was especially uncomfortable playing with his little rusty razor. Like him, it was outwardly harmless, but it was capable of cutting a person's throat as if it were butter. The Colombian cut small white strips from the edge of the plastic table they were sitting at. There was a smile on his lips.
  
  'Du schei β t' mich an, Torres. Jackson has a full house and you're full of shit," said Alrik Gottlieb, who constantly struggled with English pretexts. The taller of the twins has hated Torres with a vengeance ever since they watched the World Cup match between their two countries. They talked each other nasty friend, fists were used. Despite his height of six foot two, Alric slept badly at night. If he was still alive, it could only be because Torres was not sure he could defeat both twins.
  
  'All I'm saying is that her cards are a little too good,' Torres retorted, smiling even wider.
  
  "So, are you going to make a deal or what?" asked Marla, who was cheating but wanted to keep her cool. She had already won almost two hundred dollars from him.
  
  This streak cannot last much longer. I have to start letting him win, or one night I'll end up with this blade in my neck, she thought.
  
  Gradually, Torres began to distribute, making all sorts of faces to distract them.
  
  The truth is, this bastard is cute. If he wasn't such a psycho and didn't smell weird, he would have turned me on in a big way.
  
  At that moment, the frequency scanner that was on the table six feet from where they were playing began to beep.
  
  'What the hell?' Marla said.
  
  "This is a verdammt scanner, Jackson."
  
  'Torres, come look at this.'
  
  'Shit, I'll do it. I'll bet you five bucks.'
  
  Marla stood up and looked at the scanner screen, a device the size of a small VCR that no one else used, except that it had an LCD screen and cost a hundred times as much.
  
  'Everything seems to be in order; it's resuming," Marla said as she walked back to the table. "I'll see your five and raise five."
  
  'I'm leaving,' said Alric, leaning back in his chair.
  
  'Bullshit. He doesn't even have a mate,' Marla said.
  
  'You think you're running the show, Mrs Dekker?' Torres said.
  
  Marla was less concerned with the words than with his tone. She suddenly forgot that she had let him win.
  
  'No way, Torres. I live in a colored country, bro.'
  
  'What colour? Shit brown?'
  
  'Any color but yellow. Ridiculous... the color of the underpants is the same as on the top of your flag.'
  
  Marla regretted it as soon as she said it. Torres might be a dirty, degenerate rat from Medellin, but to a Colombian, his country and his flag were as sacred as Jesus. Her opponent pressed his lips together so tightly that they almost disappeared, and his cheeks turned slightly pink. Marla felt both frightened and agitated at the same time; she enjoyed humiliating Torres and reveling in his fury.
  
  Now I have to lose the two hundred dollars I won from him and another two hundred of mine. This pig is so angry that he will most likely hit me, even though he knows that Dekker will kill him.
  
  Alric looked at them, more than a little worried. Marla knew how to take care of herself, but in that moment she felt like she was crossing a minefield.
  
  'Come on, Torres, get Jackson up. She's bluffing.'
  
  'Leave him alone. I don't think he plans to shave new clients today, right bastard?'
  
  'What are you talking about, Jackson?'
  
  'Don't tell me you weren't the white pro last night?'
  
  Torres looked very serious.
  
  'It wasn't me.'
  
  'It had your signature all over it: a small, sharp instrument set low in the back.'
  
  'I'm telling you, it wasn't me.'
  
  'And I'm saying that I saw you arguing with a white dude with a ponytail on the ship.'
  
  'Give it up, I argue with many people. Nobody understands me.'
  
  'Then who was it? Simun? Or maybe a priest?'
  
  'Of course it could have been an old raven.'
  
  'You're not serious, Torres,' Alric chimed in. 'That priest is just a warmer brooder.'
  
  'Didn't he tell you? This big hitman is scared to death of the priest.'
  
  'I am not afraid of anything. I'm just telling you he's dangerous,' Torres said, grimacing.
  
  'I think you swallowed the story that he was in the CIA. For Christ's sake, he's an old man.'
  
  'Only three or four years older than your senile boyfriend. And as far as I know, the boss can break a donkey's neck with his bare hands.'
  
  'Damn right, you bastard,' said Marla, who liked to brag about her man.
  
  'He's a lot more dangerous than you think, Jackson. If you took your head off your ass for a moment, you would read the report. This guy is from pararescue. There is no one better. A few months before the boss chose you as the group's mascot, we had an operation in Tikrit. There was a couple of special forces in our unit. You won't believe what I've seen this guy do... they're crazy. There's death all over these dudes.'
  
  'Parasites are bad news. Hard as hammers," said Alric.
  
  'Go to hell, you two fucking Catholic babies,' said Marla. 'What do you think he's carrying in that black briefcase?' "What's he going to do, hit you with his Bible? Maybe he'll ask the doctor for a scalpel to cut off your balls."
  
  'I'm not worried about the dock,' said Torres with a dismissive wave of his hand. 'She's just some Mossad lesbian. I can handle her. But Fowler...'
  
  'Forget the old crow. Hey, if this is all an excuse for not admitting you took care of the white professor...'
  
  'Jackson, I'm telling you, it wasn't me. But trust me, no one here is who they say they are.'
  
  "Then, thank God, we have Upsilon protocol for this mission," Jackson said, showing off her perfectly white teeth that cost her mother eighty double shifts at the diner where she worked.
  
  'As soon as your boyfriend says 'sarsaparilla', heads will roll. The first person I'm after is the priest.'
  
  'Don't mention the code, bastard. Keep up and up.'
  
  'Nobody's going to raise the stakes,' Alric said, pointing at Torres. The Colombian held his chips. 'The frequency scanner isn't working. She keeps trying to start.'
  
  'Crap. Something is wrong with the electricity. Leave it alone.'
  
  'Halt die klappe Affe. We can't turn this thing off or Dekker will kick our asses. I'm going to check the electrical panel. You two keep playing.'
  
  Torres looked like he was about to continue playing, but then he looked coldly at Jackson and stood up.
  
  'Wait, white man. I want to stretch my legs.'
  
  Marla realized that she had gone too far in mocking Torres' masculinity, and the Colombian placed her high on his list of potential hits. She was only a little sorry. Torres hated everyone, so why not give him a good reason?
  
  'I'm leaving too,' she said.
  
  All three went out into the boiling heat. Alrik squatted down beside the platform.
  
  'Everything looks fine here. I'm going to check the generator.'
  
  Shaking her head, Marla returned to the tent, wanting to lie down for a bit. But before she went inside, she noticed a Colombian kneeling at the end of the platform, digging in the sand. He picked up the item and looked at it with a strange smile on his lips.
  
  Marla didn't understand the meaning of a red lighter adorned with flowers.
  
  
  42
  
  
  
  EXCAVATIONS
  
  AL-MUDAWWARA DESERT, JORDAN
  
  
  Friday, July 14, 2006 at 8:31 pm.
  
  
  Andrea's day was on the verge of death.
  
  She barely managed to get out from under the platform when she heard the soldiers rise from the table. And not a minute earlier. A few more seconds of hot air from the generator and she would have passed out forever. She crawled out the opposite side of the tent from the door, got up and walked very slowly towards the infirmary, doing her best not to fall. What she really needed was a shower, but that was out of the question since she didn't want to go in that direction and run into Fowler. She grabbed two bottles of water and her camera and left the infirmary tent again, looking for a quiet spot on the rocks near her index finger.
  
  She found shelter on a slight slope above the canyon floor and sat there, watching the archaeologists in action. She did not know what stage their grief had now reached. At some point, Fowler and Dr. Harel passed by, probably looking for her. Andrea hid her head behind the rocks and tried to piece together what she had heard.
  
  The first conclusion she came to was that she couldn't trust Fowler - that was something she already knew - and she couldn't trust Doc - which made her feel even more uncomfortable. Her thoughts on Harel didn't go far beyond a huge physical attraction.
  
  All I have to do is look at her and I get turned on.
  
  But the idea that she was a Mossad spy was more than Andrea could bear.
  
  The second conclusion she came to was that she had no choice but to trust the priest and the doctor if she wanted to get out of this alive. These words about the Upsilon protocol completely undermined her idea of who was really in charge of the operation.
  
  On the one hand, there is Forrester and his henchmen, all too meek to take a knife and kill one of their own. Or maybe not. Then there are the attendants, tied to their thankless jobs - no one pays much attention to them. Kine and Russell, the brains behind this madness. A group of hired soldiers and a secret code word to start killing people. But to kill who, or who else? What is clear, for better or worse, is that our fate was sealed the moment we joined this expedition. And it seems quite obvious that this is for the worse.
  
  Andrea must have fallen asleep at some point, because when she woke up the sun was setting and a heavy gray light replaced the usual high contrast between sand and shadow in the canyon. Andrea regretted missing the sunset. Every day she tried to make sure that at this time she went to the open area beyond the canyon. The sun was sinking into the sand, revealing layers of heat that looked like waves on the horizon. His last flash of light was like a giant orange explosion that remained in the sky for several minutes after he disappeared.
  
  Here, in the "index finger" of the canyon, the only twilight scenery was a large bare sandy rock. With a sigh, she reached into her trouser pocket and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. Her lighter was nowhere to be found. Surprised, she began to search other pockets until a voice in Spanish made her heart leap into her throat.
  
  'Looking for this, my little bitch?'
  
  Andrea looked up. Five feet above her, Torres lay on the slope, his hand outstretched and offering her a red lighter. She guessed that the Colombian must have been there for a while - stalking her - and it sent chills down her spine. Trying not to show her fear, she stood up and reached for her lighter.
  
  'Didn't your mother teach you how to talk to a lady, Torres?' Andrea said, controlling her nerves enough to light a cigarette and exhale the smoke towards the mercenary.
  
  'Of course, but I don't see any lady here.'
  
  Torres stared at Andrea's smooth thighs. She wore a pair of trousers, which she unbuttoned above her knees to turn into shorts. Because of the heat, she rolled them up even more, and the white skin over her tan seemed sensual and inviting to him. When Andrea noticed the direction of the Colombian's gaze, her fear increased. She turned towards the end of the canyon. One loud scream would be enough to get everyone's attention. The team had begun digging a few test holes a couple of hours earlier, almost at the same time as their little trip under the soldiers' tent.
  
  But when she turned around, she saw no one. The mini-excavator stood there by itself, off to the side.
  
  'Everybody's gone to the funeral, baby. We're all alone.'
  
  'Shouldn't you be at your post, Torres?' Andrea said, pointing to one of the cliffs, trying to appear nonchalant.
  
  'I'm not the only one who's been where they shouldn't have been, right? This is something we need to fix, no questions asked.'
  
  The soldier jumped down to where Andrea was standing. They were on a rocky platform no larger than a ping-pong table, about fifteen feet above the canyon floor. Heaped to the edge of the platform was an irregular pile of rocks that had previously been Andrea's hiding place but now blocked her escape.
  
  'I don't understand what you're talking about, Torres,' Andrea said, trying to buy time.
  
  The Colombian took a step forward. Now he was so close to Andrea that she could see the beads of sweat covering his forehead.
  
  'Of course you know. And now you'll do something for me if you know what's good for you. It's a shame that such a beautiful girl has to be a lesbian. But I think it's because you never had a good puff.'
  
  Andrea took a step back towards the rocks, but the Colombian stepped between her and where she had climbed onto the platform.
  
  'You wouldn't dare, Torres. Other guards can watch us right now.'
  
  'Only Vaaka can see us... and he's not going to do anything. He will be a little jealous, he won't be able to do it anymore. Too many steroids. But don't worry, mine works fine. You will see.'
  
  Andrea realized that it was impossible to escape, so she made her decision out of sheer desperation. She dropped the cigarette to the ground, planted both feet firmly on the rock, and leaned forward slightly. She wasn't going to make it easy for him.
  
  'Then come on, you son of a whore. If you want it, come and get it.'
  
  A sudden gleam flashed across Torres' eyes, a mixture of excitement at the challenge and anger at the insult to his mother. He lunged forward and grabbed Andrea's arm, pulling her roughly towards him with a force that seemed impossible for someone so small.
  
  'I love that you're asking for it, bitch.'
  
  Andrea twisted her whole body and hit him hard with her elbow in the mouth. Blood spilled onto the stones, and Torres let out a snarl of rage. Pulling furiously on Andrea's T-shirt, he ripped open her sleeve, revealing her black bra. Seeing this, the soldier became even more aroused. He grabbed both of Andrea's hands, intending to bite her breasts, but at the last minute the reporter stepped back and Torres' teeth closed on nothing.
  
  'Come on, you'll like it. You know what you want.'
  
  Andrea tried to knee him between his legs or in the stomach, but, anticipating her movements, Torres turned away and crossed his legs.
  
  Don't let him bring you to the ground, Andrea told herself. She remembered a story she had followed two years ago about a group of rape victims. She went with several other young women to an anti-rape seminar taught by an instructor who was nearly raped when she was a teenager. The woman lost an eye, but not her virginity. The rapist lost everything. If he throws you to the ground, you are in his hands.
  
  Another strong grip from Torres tore off her bra strap. Torres decided that was enough and put more pressure on Andrea's wrists. She could barely move her fingers. He violently twisted her right arm, leaving her left free. Andrea now had her back to him, but she couldn't move because of the Colombian's pressure on her arm. He made her bend over and kicked her ankles to spread her legs.
  
  The rapist is weakest at two points, the instructor's words echoed in her head. The words were so strong, the woman was so sure of herself, so in control of herself, that Andrea felt a surge of new strength. When he takes off your clothes and when he takes off his. If you're lucky and he shoots his work first, take advantage of this.
  
  Torres undid his belt with one hand, and his camouflage trousers fell to his ankles. Andrea could see his erection, hard and menacing.
  
  Wait until he bends over you.
  
  The mercenary bent over Andrea, looking for the zipper on her trousers. His stiff beard scratched the back of her head, and that was the signal she needed. She suddenly raised her left hand, shifting all her weight to her right side. Taken by surprise, Torres let go of Andrea's right hand, and it fell to the right. The Colombian tripped over his trousers and fell forward, hitting the ground hard. He tried to get up, but Andrea was on her feet first. She kicked him three quick times in the stomach, making sure the soldier didn't grab her by the ankle and make her fall. The shots landed, and when Torres tried to roll into the ball to defend himself, he left a much more sensitive spot open to attack.
  
  Thank you God. I never get tired of doing this," the youngest and only female of the five siblings admitted quietly, kicking her leg back before blowing Torres' testicles. His scream reverberated off the canyon walls.
  
  'Let it stay between us,' said Andrea. 'Now we're even.'
  
  'I'll get to you, you bitch. I'm going to hurt you so bad you'll choke on my cock," Torres whined, almost crying.
  
  'When you think about it...' began Andrea. She reached the edge of the terrace and was about to descend, but quickly turned around and ran a few steps, aiming her foot once more between Torres's legs. It was useless for him to try to cover himself with his hands. strong, and Torres was left choking, his face reddened, and two large tears flowed down his cheeks.
  
  'Now we are really doing well and we are equal.'
  
  
  43
  
  
  
  EXCAVATIONS
  
  AL-MUDAWWARA DESERT, JORDAN
  
  
  Friday, July 14, 2006 at 9:43 pm.
  
  
  Andrea returned to the camp as quickly as she could, without resorting to running. She didn't look back or worry about her torn clothes until she reached the row of tents. She felt a strange sense of shame at what had happened, mingled with a fear that someone would find out about her tampering with the frequency scanner. She tried to look as normal as possible despite her T-shirt dangling around her and headed towards the infirmary. Luckily, she didn't run into anyone. As she was about to enter the tent, she ran into Kira Larsen, who was carrying her things out.
  
  'What's going on, Kira?'
  
  The archaeologist looked at her coldly.
  
  'You didn't even have the decency to show up on the Hespede for Stowe. I guess it doesn't matter. You didn't know him. He was just a nobody to you, right? That's why you didn't even care that he died because of you.'
  
  Andrea was about to reply that other things were keeping her at a distance, but she doubted Kira would understand, so she didn't say anything.
  
  'I don't know what you're up to,' Kira continued, pushing past her. 'You know very well that the doctor wasn't in her bed that night. She may have fooled everyone else, but not me. I'm going to sleep with the others team members. Thanks to you, there's an empty bed.'
  
  Andrea was happy to see her go - she was in no mood for further confrontations, and deep down she agreed with every word of Kira. Guilt played an important part in her Catholic education, and the sins of omission were as constant and painful as any.
  
  She entered the tent and saw Dr. Harel, who turned away. It was obvious that she had quarreled with Larsen.
  
  'I'm glad you're all right. We were worried about you.'
  
  'Turn around, Doc. I know you cried.'
  
  Harel turned to her, rubbing her reddened eyes.
  
  'This is really stupid. A simple secretion from the lacrimal glands, and yet we all feel embarrassed about it.'
  
  'The lie is even more shameful'.
  
  The doctor then noticed Andrea's torn clothes, something that Larsen, in her anger, seemed to have overlooked or not bothered to comment on.
  
  'What happened to you?'
  
  'I fell down the stairs. Don't change the subject. I know who you are.'
  
  Harel chose her every word carefully.
  
  'What do you know?'
  
  'I know that combat medicine is highly regarded by the Mossad, or so it seems. And that your emergency replacement was not as much of a coincidence as you told me.'
  
  The doctor frowned, then walked over to Andrea, who was rummaging through her backpack for something clean to put on.
  
  'I'm sorry you had to find out about it this way, Andrea. I'm just a low-ranking analyst, not a field agent. My government wants to have eyes and ears on every archaeological expedition looking for the Ark of the Covenant. This is the third expedition I've been on in seven years.'
  
  "Are you really a doctor?" Or is that also a lie?' Andrea said as she put on another T-shirt.
  
  'I am a doctor'.
  
  "And how is it that you and Fowler get along so well?" Because I also found out that he is a CIA agent, in case you didn't know.'
  
  'She already knew, and you have to explain it to me,' said Fowler.
  
  He stood by the door, frowning but relieved from having spent the entire day looking for Andrea.
  
  'Bullshit,' Andrea said, pointing her finger at the priest, who stepped back in surprise. 'I almost died from the heat under that platform, and on top of that, one of Dekker's dogs just tried to rape me. I'm not in the mood to talk with the two of you. At least for now.'
  
  Fowler touched Andrea's arm, noticing the bruises on her wrists.
  
  "Are you all right?'
  
  'Better than ever,' she said, pushing her hand away. The last thing she wanted was contact with a man.
  
  'Miss Otero, did you hear the soldiers talking when you were under the platform?'
  
  'What the hell were you doing there?' - interrupted the shocked Harel.
  
  'I sent her. She helped me turn off the frequency scanner so I could call my contact in Washington.'
  
  'I would like to be informed, father,' said Harel.
  
  Fowler lowered his voice to almost a whisper.
  
  'We need information, and we're not going to lock it up in this bubble. Or do you think I don't know that you sneak out every night to send text messages to Tel Aviv?'
  
  "Touch," said Harel, grimacing.
  
  Was that what you were doing, Doc? Andrea thought, biting her bottom lip and trying to figure out what to do. Maybe I was wrong and I should have trusted you after all. I hope so, because there is no other choice.
  
  'Fine, father. I'll tell you both what I heard...'
  
  
  44
  
  
  
  FOWLER AND HAREL
  
  'We have to get her out of here,' whispered the priest.
  
  The shadows of the canyon surrounded them, and the only sounds came from the dining tent where the members of the expedition had begun their supper.
  
  'I don't see how, father. I thought about stealing one of the Hummers, but we had to get it across that dune. And I don't think we'd get very far. What if we tell everyone in the group what's really going on here?'
  
  'Suppose we could do it and they believed us... what good would that do?'
  
  In the darkness, Harel suppressed a groan of rage and powerlessness.
  
  'The only thing I can think of is the same answer you gave me yesterday about the mole: wait and see.'
  
  'There is one way,' said Fowler. 'But it will be dangerous and I will need your help.'
  
  'You can count on me, father. But first, explain to me what the Upsilon Protocol is.'
  
  'This is the procedure by which the security service kills all members of the group they are supposed to protect if a code word comes on the radio. They kill everyone except the person who hired them and anyone they say should be left alone.'
  
  'I don't understand how something like that can exist.'
  
  'Officially, it's not. But a few soldiers dressed as mercenaries who served in the special forces, for example, imported the concept from Asian countries.'
  
  Harel froze for a moment.
  
  'Is there any way to know who is on?'
  
  'No,' said the priest weakly. 'And the worst part is that the man who hires the military guard is always different from the one who should be in charge.'
  
  'Then Kain...' Harel said, opening her eyes.
  
  'Quite right, doctor. Kain is not the one who wants us dead. It's someone else.'
  
  
  45
  
  
  
  EXCAVATIONS
  
  AL-MUDAWWARA DESERT, JORDAN
  
  
  Saturday, July 15, 2006 2:34 am.
  
  
  At first, there was absolute silence in the infirmary tent. Since Kira Larsen was sleeping with the other assistants, the breathing of the two remaining women was the only thing that could be heard.
  
  After a while, a slight scratching sound was heard. It was a Hawnv ëiler zipper, the most hermetic and reliable in the world. Not even dust could get inside, but nothing could stop an intruder's access once it was unzipped twenty inches or so.
  
  This was followed by a series of faint sounds: socked footsteps on wood; the click of a small plastic box being opened; then an even fainter but more menacing sound: twenty-four nervous keratin legs scurry about inside a small box.
  
  Then there was a restrained silence, for the movements were almost inaudible to the human ear: the half-open end of the sleeping bag rises, twenty-four small legs land on the fabric inside, the end of the fabric returns to its original position, covering the owners of these twenty-four small legs.
  
  For the next seven seconds, breathing again dominated the silence. The slip of feet in socks leaving the tent was even quieter than before, and the tramp did not zip up when he left. The movement Andrea made inside the sleeping bag was so brief that it made almost no sound. However, it was enough to provoke the visitors to her sleeping bag to show their anger and confusion after the vagrant had shaken him so hard before he entered the tent.
  
  The first sting pierced her, and Andrea broke the silence with her cries.
  
  
  46
  
  
  
  Al-Qaeda training manual found by Scotland Yard in a hideout, pages 131 et seq. Translated by WM and SA 1.
  
  
  Military research for jihad against tyranny
  
  
  In the name of Allah, the Merciful and Compassionate [...]
  
  Chapter 14: Kidnappings and Murders with Rifles and Pistols
  
  It is better to choose a revolver, because although it has fewer cartridges than an automatic pistol, it does not jam, and empty shells remain in the cylinder, making it more difficult for investigators.
  
  [...]
  
  
  The most important parts of the body
  
  The shooter must be familiar with important parts of the body or [where] to inflict a critical wound in order to aim at these areas of the person to be killed. They:
  
  1. The circle including the two eyes, nose and mouth is the death zone and the shooter must not aim lower, left or right or risk the bullet failing to kill
  
  2. Part of the neck where arteries and veins converge
  
  3. Heart
  
  4. Stomach
  
  5. Liver
  
  6. Kidneys
  
  7. Vertebral column
  
  Principles and rules of firing
  
  The biggest mistakes in aiming come from physical tension or nerves that can cause the hand to twitch. This can be caused by too much trigger pressure or pulling the trigger instead of pulling it. This causes the muzzle of the gun to deviate from the target.
  
  For this reason, brothers must follow these rules when aiming and shooting:
  
  1. Control yourself when pulling the trigger to keep the gun from moving
  
  2. Squeeze the trigger without too much force or pressure
  
  3. Don't let the sound of the shot affect you and don't focus on how it will sound because it will make your hands tremble.
  
  4. Your body should be normal, not tense, and your limbs should be relaxed; but not too much
  
  5. When you shoot, aim your right eye at the center of the target
  
  6. Close your left eye if you shoot with your right hand, and vice versa
  
  7. Don't take too long aiming or your nerves might let you down.
  
  8. Don't feel sorry when pulling the trigger. You kill the enemy of your God
  
  
  47
  
  
  
  WASHINGTON SUBURB
  
  Friday, July 14, 2006 20:34 p.m.
  
  
  Nazim took a sip of his Coca-Cola, but immediately put it aside. It had way too much sugar in it, like all drinks in restaurants where you could refill your cup as many times as you wanted. The kebab house "Mayur", where he bought dinner, was one of those places.
  
  'You know, the other day I was watching a documentary about a guy who ate only McDonald's hamburgers for a month.'
  
  'It's disgusting'.
  
  Haruf's eyes were half closed. For a while he tried to sleep, but could not. Ten minutes ago, he gave up and lifted the car seat upright again. This Ford was too uncomfortable.
  
  'They said his liver had turned into pâté.'
  
  'This could only happen in the United States. The country with the fattest people in the world. You know that it consumes up to 87 percent of the world's resources.'
  
  Nazim said nothing. He was born an American, but a different type of American. He never learned to hate his country, even though his lips said otherwise. To him, Haruf's hatred for the United States seemed too all-encompassing. He would rather see the president kneeling facing Mecca in the Oval Office than seeing the White House destroyed by fire. One day he said something like that to Haruf, and Haruf showed him a CD with pictures of a little girl. They were crime scene photos.
  
  'Israeli soldiers raped and killed her in Nablus. There isn't enough hate in the world for such a thing.'
  
  At the memory of these images, Nazim's blood also boiled, but he tried to put such thoughts out of his head. Unlike Haruf, hatred was not the source of his energy. His motives were selfish and perverted; they were aimed at getting something for themselves. His prize.
  
  A few days before, when they walked into the Netcatch office, Nazim was almost unconscious. In a certain way, he felt bad, because the two minutes they had spent destroying Kafirun 2 had almost faded from his mind. He tried to remember what had happened, but it was as if it were someone else's memories, like crazy dreams in the posh movies that his sister liked, in which the main character sees herself from the outside. No one has dreams in which they see themselves from the outside.
  
  'Haruf'.
  
  'Talk to me'.
  
  'Remember what happened last Tuesday?'
  
  'Are you talking about surgery?'
  
  'Right'.
  
  Haruf looked at him, shrugged his shoulders and smiled sadly.
  
  'Every detail'.
  
  Nazim looked away because he was ashamed of what he was about to say.
  
  'I... I don't remember much, you know?'
  
  'You should give thanks to Allah, may his name be blessed. The first time I killed someone, I couldn't sleep for a week.'
  
  'You?'
  
  Nazim opened his eyes wide.
  
  Haruf playfully ruffled the young man's hair.
  
  'That's right, Nazim. Now you are a jihadist and we are equal. Don't be so surprised that I, too, have gone through hard times. Sometimes it's hard to act like God's sword. But you have been blessed with the ability to forget unpleasant details. The only thing left for you is pride in what you have done.'
  
  The young man felt much better than in the past few days. He was silent for a while, saying a prayer of thanksgiving. He felt sweat trickling down his back , but he didn't dare start the car's engine to turn on the air conditioner. The wait began to seem endless.
  
  "Are you sure he's there?" I'm starting to wonder,' Nazim said, pointing to the wall that surrounded the manor. 'Don't you think we should look elsewhere?'
  
  2 unbelievers, according to the Quran.
  
  Haruf thought for a moment and then shook his head.
  
  'I wouldn't have the slightest idea where to look. How long have we been following him? Month? He only came here once, and he was loaded with packages. He left with nothing. This house is empty. As far as we know, it could have belonged to a friend, and he was doing him a favor. But it's the only link we have, and we should thank you for finding it.'
  
  It was true. One day, when Nazim was supposed to follow Watson on his own, the guy began to behave strangely, changing lanes on the highway and returning home on a route that was completely different from the one he usually used. Nazim turned up the volume on the radio and introduced himself as a character in Grand Theft Auto, a popular video game in which the protagonist is a criminal who must complete missions such as kidnapping, murder, drug dealing, and picking off prostitutes. There was a part of the game where you had to follow a car that was trying to drive away. It was one of his favorite parts and what he learned helped him follow Watson.
  
  'Do you think he knows about us?'
  
  'I don't think he knows anything about Hukan at all, but I'm sure our leader has good reason to want him dead. Pass me the bottle. I need to pee.'
  
  Nazim handed him a two-liter bottle. Haruf unzipped his trousers and peed inside. They had a few empty bottles so they could pee in the car discreetly. It was better to put up with the hassle and throw away the bottles later than to let anyone see them pissing on the street or going into one of the local bars.
  
  'You know? To hell with all this, - said Haruf, grimacing. 'I'll throw this bottle in the alley, and then we'll go look for him in California, at his mother's house. To hell with all of it.'
  
  'Wait, Haruf.'
  
  Nazim pointed to the gates of the estate. The bell was rung by a courier on a motorcycle. A second later, someone appeared.
  
  'He is there! You see, Nazim, I told you. Congratulations!'
  
  Haruf was excited. He slapped Nazim on the back. The boy felt happy and nervous at the same time, as if a hot wave and a cold wave collided deep inside him.
  
  'Great, kid. We are finally going to finish what we started.'
  
  
  48
  
  
  
  EXCAVATIONS
  
  AL-MUDAWWARA DESERT, JORDAN
  
  
  Saturday, July 15, 2006 2:34 am.
  
  
  Harel woke up, frightened by Andrea's screams. The young reporter sat on her sleeping bag, clutching her leg as she screamed.
  
  'God, this hurts!'
  
  The first thing Harel thought was that Andrea had been having convulsions while she was sleeping. She jumped up, turned on the light in the infirmary and grabbed Andrea's leg to massage her.
  
  It was then that she saw the scorpions.
  
  There were three of them, at least three of them, who had crawled out of their sleeping bag and were running wildly around, their tails up, ready to sting. They were sickly yellow. Horrified, Dr. Harel jumped onto one of the examination tables. She was barefoot and therefore easy prey.
  
  'Doc, help me. Oh God, my foot is on fire... Doc! Oh my God!'
  
  Andrea's cries helped the doctor channel her fear into the right direction and think. She could not leave her young friend helpless and suffering.
  
  Let me think. What the hell do I remember about these bastards? They are yellow scorpions. A girl has a maximum of twenty minutes before things get bad. If only one of them had stung her, that is. If more than one...
  
  A terrible thought crossed the doctor's mind. If Andrea was allergic to scorpion venom, she was finished.
  
  'Andrea, listen to me very carefully.'
  
  Andrea opened her eyes and looked at her. Lying on her bed, clutching her leg and staring blankly in front of her, the girl was clearly in agony. Harel made superhuman efforts to overcome her own paralyzing fear of scorpions. It was a natural fear that any Israeli woman, such as she was, born in Beer-sheba on the edge of the desert, would have learned as a young girl. She tried to put her foot on the floor, but couldn't.
  
  'Andrea. Andrea, did the list of allergies you gave me include cardiotoxins?'
  
  Andrea howled again in pain.
  
  'How do I know? I carry a list because I can't remember more than ten names at once. Fuuuuuuuk! Doc, get down from there, for God's sake, or Jehovah, or whatever. The pain is even stronger...'
  
  Harel again tried to cope with her fear, putting her foot on the floor, and in two jumps she was on her mattress.
  
  I hope they are not here. Please God don't let them be in my sleeping bag...
  
  She dropped her sleeping bag to the floor, took a boot in each hand, and returned to Andrea.
  
  'I should put on my boots and go to the first aid kit. You'll be all right in a minute,' she said, pulling on her boots. "The poison is very dangerous, but it takes almost half an hour to kill a person. Hold on.'
  
  Andrea didn't answer. Harel raised her eyes. Andrea put her hand to her neck, and her face began to turn blue.
  
  Oh Holy God! She has allergies. She goes into anaphylactic shock.
  
  Forgetting to put on her other shoe, Harel knelt beside Andrea, her bare feet touching the floor. She had never been so aware of every square inch of her flesh. She looked for the spot where the scorpions had stung Andrea and found two spots on the reporter's left calf, two small holes, each surrounded by an inflamed area about the size of a tennis ball.
  
  Crap. They really got her.
  
  The flap of the tent opened and Father Fowler entered. He was also barefoot.
  
  'What's happening?'
  
  Harel leaned over Andrea, trying to give her mouth-to-mouth resuscitation.
  
  'Father, please hurry. She is in shock. I need adrenaline.'
  
  'Where is it?'
  
  'In the closet at the end, on the second shelf from the top. There are several green vials. Bring me one and a syringe.'
  
  She leaned over and breathed more air into Andrea's mouth, but the swelling in her throat prevented air from reaching her lungs. If Harel had not recovered from the shock immediately, her friend would have been dead.
  
  And it will be your fault for being such a coward and climbing on the table.
  
  'What the hell happened?' - said the priest, running to the closet. 'Is she in shock?'
  
  'Get out,' Doc yelled at half a dozen sleepy heads peering into the infirmary. Harel didn't want one of the scorpions to run off and find some other prey. 'She got stung by a scorpion, father. There are three here right now. Be careful.'
  
  Father Fowler winced slightly at the news and moved cautiously towards the doctor with adrenaline and a syringe. Harel immediately injected five CCS into Andrea's exposed thigh.
  
  Fowler grabbed a five-gallon can of water by the handle.
  
  'You will take care of Andrea,' he told the doctor. 'I will find them'.
  
  Harel now turned her full attention to the young reporter, though by now all she could do was watch her condition. It would be adrenaline, which should have had its miraculous effect. As soon as the hormone entered Andrea's bloodstream, the nerve endings in her cells began to fire. The fat cells in her body would begin to break down lipids, releasing more energy, her heart rate would increase, there would be more glucose in her blood, her brain would start producing dopamine, and, most importantly, her bronchi would dilate and the swelling in her throat would disappear.
  
  Sighing loudly, Andrea took her first breath of air on her own. To Dr. Harel, the sound was almost as beautiful as the three dry bangs on Father Fowler's gallon jar she heard in the background as the medicine continued to work. As Father Fowler sat down on the floor beside her, Doc had no doubt that the three scorpions were now three spots on the floor.
  
  'And the antidote? Anything to deal with the poison? ' asked the priest.
  
  'Yes, but I don't want to inject her yet. It is made from the blood of horses that have been exposed to hundreds of scorpion stings so that they eventually become immune. The vaccine always contains traces of the toxin, and I don't want to be subjected to another shock.'
  
  Fowler watched the young Spaniard. Her face was slowly starting to look normal again.
  
  'Thank you for everything you've done, doctor,' he said. 'I won't forget this.'
  
  'No problem,' replied Harel, who by this time was all too aware of the danger they had gone through and began to tremble.
  
  'Will there be any consequences?'
  
  'No. Now her body can fight the poison.' She held up the green vial. 'It's pure adrenaline, it's like giving her body a weapon. All the organs in her body would double their capacity and prevent her from suffocating. She'll be all right in a couple of hours, although she'll feel like shit.'
  
  Fowler's face relaxed slightly. He pointed to the door.
  
  'Are you thinking the same thing as me?'
  
  'I'm not an idiot, father. I have been to the desert hundreds of times in my country. The last thing I do at night is make sure all the doors are closed. Actually, I'm double-checking. This tent is safer than a Swiss bank account.'
  
  'Three scorpions. All at the same time. Middle of the night...'
  
  'Yes, father. This is the second time someone has tried to kill Andrea.'
  
  
  49
  
  
  
  ORVILL WATSON'S SAFE HOUSE
  
  OUTSIDE OF WASHINGTON, D.C.
  
  
  Friday, July 14, 2006 11:36 p.m.
  
  
  Ever since Orville Watson began hunting terrorists, he has taken a number of basic precautions: made sure he had phone numbers, addresses, and zip codes under various names, then bought a house through an unnamed foreign association that only a genius could figure out. on him. An emergency shelter in case things go wrong.
  
  Of course, having a safe house that only you know about has its problems. For starters, if you want to supply him with supplies, you'll have to do it yourself. Orville took care of it. Once every three weeks, he brought home canned food, meat for the freezer, and a stack of DVDs with the latest movies. Then he got rid of everything that was outdated, locked the establishment and left.
  
  It was paranoid behavior... no questions about it. The only mistake Orville ever made, besides letting Nazim stalk him, was that the last time he was there, he forgot a bag of Hershey bars. It was an unreasonable addiction, not only because of the 330 calories per bar, but also because an Amazon rush order could let the terrorists know you were in a house they were watching.
  
  But Orville couldn't help himself. He could do without food, water, Internet access, his collection of sexy photos, his books, or his music. But when he walked into the house early on Wednesday morning, threw the fireman's jacket in the trash can, looked in the closet where he kept the chocolate, and saw that it was empty, his heart sank. He couldn't live three or four months without chocolate, having been completely addicted ever since his parents divorced.
  
  I could be addicted and worse, he thought, trying to calm himself. Heroin, crack, Republican voting.
  
  Orville had never tried heroin in his life, but even the mind-boggling insanity of the drug was no match for the uncontrollable rush he felt when he heard the crackling sound of foil as he unwrapped the chocolate.
  
  If Orville had gone completely Freudian, he might have thought it was because the last thing the Watson family did together before the divorce was to spend Christmas 1993 at his uncle's house in Harrisburg, Pennsylvania. As a special gift, his parents took Orville to the Hershey factory, which was only fourteen miles from Harrisburg. Orville's knees buckled as they entered the building for the first time and inhaled the scent of chocolate. He was even given several Hershey bars with his name on them.
  
  But now Orville was even more disturbed by another sound: the sound of breaking glass, unless his ears played a trick on it.
  
  He carefully pushed aside a small pile of chocolate wrappers and got out of bed. He resisted not touching chocolate for three hours, a personal best, but now that he had finally succumbed to his addiction, he planned to go all out. And again, if he were to think Freudianly, he would find out that he ate seventeen chocolates, one for each member of his company who died in the attack on Monday.
  
  But Orville did not believe in Sigmund Freud and his vertigo. In the broken glass case, he believed in Smith & Wesson. That's why he kept a special .38 pistol next to his bed.
  
  This cannot be. Alarm enabled.
  
  He took the gun and the object that lay next to him on the nightstand. It looked like a key fob, but it was a simple two-button remote control. The first set off a silent alarm at the police station. The second turned on the siren throughout the estate.
  
  "It's so loud it could wake up Nixon and make him tap dance," said the man who set the alarm.
  
  'Nixon is buried in California'.
  
  'Now you know how powerful it is'.
  
  Orville pressed both buttons, not wanting to risk it. Without hearing the sirens, he wanted to kick the crap out of the cretin who installed the system and swore it couldn't be turned off.
  
  Shit, shit, shit, Orville cursed to himself, clutching his gun. What the hell am I supposed to do now? The plan was to get here and be safe. What about mobile...?
  
  It was on the nightstand on top of an old copy of Vanity Fair.
  
  His breathing became shallow and he began to sweat. When he heard glass breaking-probably in the kitchen-he was sitting in his bed, in the dark, playing The Sims on his laptop and sucking on the chocolate still stuck to the wrapper. He didn't even realize that the air conditioner had turned off a few minutes earlier.
  
  They probably cut off the power at the same time as the supposedly reliable alarm system. Fourteen thousand bucks. Son of a bitch!
  
  Now that his fear and sticky Washington summer had soaked him with sweat, his grip on the pistol was slippery, and every step he took seemed precarious. There was no doubt that Orville had to get out of there as quickly as possible.
  
  He crossed the dressing room and peered out into the corridor upstairs. There's no one there. There was no way to get down to the first floor other than stairs, but Orville had a plan. At the end of the corridor, on the opposite side of the stairs, there was a small window, and outside grew a rather frail cherry tree that refused to bloom. Doesn't matter. The branches were thick and close enough to the window to allow an untrained man like Orville to try to get down that way.
  
  He got down on all fours and tucked the gun into the tight elastic of his shorts, then forced his large body to crawl ten feet across the carpet to the window. Another noise on the floor below confirmed that someone had indeed broken into the house.
  
  Opening the window, he gritted his teeth, the way thousands of people do every day when they try not to make noise. Fortunately, their lives don't depend on it; unfortunately, his life certainly depended. He could already hear footsteps coming up the stairs.
  
  Abandoning all caution, Orville stood up, opened the window, and leaned out. The branches were about five feet apart, and Orville had to stretch out even for his fingers to brush one of the thickest ones.
  
  It won't work.
  
  Without thinking twice, he put one foot on the windowsill, pushed off and made a jump that even the kindest observer could not call graceful. His fingers managed to grab onto the branch, but in his haste the gun slipped into his shorts, and after a brief cold contact with what he called "Baby Timmy", the branch slipped down his leg and fell into the garden.
  
  Damn! What else could go wrong?
  
  At this point, the branch broke.
  
  Orville's entire weight was on his backside, making a lot of noise. More than thirty percent of the fabric in his shorts had failed to withstand the fall, he later realized when he saw the bleeding cuts on his back. But at that particular moment he didn't notice them, because his only concern was to move the same thing as far away from the house as possible, so he headed for the gate of his property, about sixty-five feet down the hill. He didn't have the keys to the gates, but he would break through them if necessary. Halfway down the slope, the fear that had attacked him from the inside gave way to a sense of accomplishment.
  
  Two impossible escapes in one week. Deal with it, Batman.
  
  He couldn't believe it, but the gate was open. Arms outstretched in the darkness, Orville headed for the exit.
  
  Suddenly, a dark figure appeared from the shadow of the wall surrounding the property and crashed into his face. Orville felt the full force of the blow and heard a terrible crunch as his nose broke. Whimpering and clutching at his face, Orville fell to the ground.
  
  A figure ran down the path from the house and put a gun to the back of his head. The move was unnecessary as Orville had already passed out. Nazim was standing next to his body, nervously holding a shovel, which he used to hit Orville in the classic batter's stance in front of the pitcher. It was the perfect move. Nazim was a good hitter when he played baseball in high school, and in some absurd way, he thought his coach would be proud to see him make such a fantastic shot in the dark.
  
  'Didn't I tell you?' asked Haruf, out of breath. 'Broken glass works every time. They run like frightened little rabbits wherever you send them. Come on, put it down and help me carry it into the house.'
  
  
  50
  
  
  
  EXCAVATIONS
  
  AL-MUDAWWARA DESERT, JORDAN
  
  
  Saturday, July 15, 2006 6:34 am.
  
  
  Andrea woke up feeling like she was chewing on cardboard. She lay on the examining table, where Father Fowler and Dr. Harel, both in pajamas, napped in chairs.
  
  She was about to get up to head to the bathroom when the zipper on the door opened and Jacob Russell appeared. Assistant Kine had a walkie-talkie hanging from his belt, and his face was pensive. Seeing that the priest and the doctor were asleep, he tiptoed over to the table and whispered to Andrea.
  
  'How are you doing?'
  
  'Remember the morning after the day you left school?'
  
  Russell smiled and nodded.
  
  'Well, it's the same, but it's like they replaced the booze with brake fluid,' Andrea said, holding her head.
  
  'We were very worried about you. What happened to Erling, and now this... We're having a lot of bad luck.'
  
  At that moment, Andrea's guardian angels woke up at the same time.
  
  'Bad luck? That's bullshit,' Harel said, stretching in her chair. 'What happened here was an assassination attempt.'
  
  'What are you talking about?'
  
  'I'd like to know too,' said Andrea, shocked.
  
  "Mr. Russell," Fowler said, standing up and walking over to the aide, "I formally request that Miss Otero be evacuated to Behemoth."
  
  'Father Fowler, I appreciate your concern for Miss Otero's welfare, and normally I would be the first to agree with you. But that would mean violating the safety rules of the operation, which is a huge step...'
  
  ' Look, Andrea interrupted.
  
  'Her health is not in immediate danger, is it, Dr. Harel?'
  
  'Well... technically not,' said Harel, forced to relent.
  
  'A couple of days and she'll be as good as new'.
  
  'Listen to me...' Andrea insisted.
  
  'You see, father, it wouldn't make sense to evacuate Miss Otero before she had a chance to complete her task.'
  
  'Even when someone tries to kill her?' Fowler said tensely.
  
  'There is no evidence for this. It was an unfortunate coincidence that the scorpions got into her sleeping bag, but...
  
  'STOP!' Andrea screamed.
  
  Startled, all three turned to her.
  
  "Could you please stop talking about me like I'm not here and listen to me for one fucking moment?" Or am I not allowed to speak my mind before you kick me out of this expedition?'
  
  'Certainly. Go on, Andrea,' said Harel.
  
  'First, I want to know how the scorpions got into my sleeping bag.'
  
  'An unfortunate accident,' commented Russell.
  
  'It couldn't have been an accident,' said Father Fowler. 'The infirmary is an airtight tent'.
  
  'You don't understand,' said Cain's aide, shaking his head in disappointment. 'Everyone is nervous about what happened to Stowe Erling. Rumors are flying everywhere. Some people say it was one of the soldiers, others that it was Pappas when he found out that Erling discovered the Ark. If I evacuate Miss Otero now, many other people will want to leave too. Every time they see me, Hanley, Larsen and a few others say they want me to send them back to the ship. I told them that for their own safety, they should stay here because we simply cannot guarantee that they will get to the Behemoth safely. That argument wouldn't matter much if I evacuated you, Miss Otero.'
  
  Andrea was silent for a few moments.
  
  'Mr Russell, am I to understand that I'm not free to leave when I want to?'
  
  "Well, I've come to offer you an offer from my boss."
  
  'I'm all attention'.
  
  'I don't think you quite understand. Mr. Cain himself will propose to you.' Russell removed the radio from his belt and pressed the call button. 'Here she is, sir,' he said, handing it to Andrea.
  
  'Hello and good morning, Miss Otero.'
  
  The old man's voice was pleasant, though he had a slight Bavarian accent.
  
  Like that governor of California. The one who was an actor.
  
  'Miss Otero, are you here?'
  
  Andrea was so surprised to hear the old man's voice that it took her a while to recover her parched throat.
  
  'Yes, I'm here, Mr. Kine.'
  
  'Miss Otero, I'd like to invite you for a drink with me later around lunchtime. We can chat and I can answer your questions if you like.'
  
  'Yes, of course, Mr. Cain. I would like it very much.'
  
  'Do you feel well enough to come to my tent?'
  
  'Yes, sir. It's only forty feet from here.'
  
  'Well, see you then.'
  
  Andrea returned the radio to Russell, who politely said goodbye and left. Fowler and Harel didn't say a word; they just stared disapprovingly at Andrea.
  
  'Stop looking at me like that,' Andrea said, allowing herself to lean back on the examination table and close her eyes. 'I can't let this chance slip through my fingers.'
  
  "Don't you think it's a surprising coincidence that he offered you an interview at the moment when we asked if you could leave," Harel said ironically.
  
  'Well, I can't refuse it,' Andrea insisted. 'The public has a right to know more about this man.'
  
  The priest waved his hand dismissively.
  
  'Millionaires and reporters. They are all the same, they think they have the truth.'
  
  'Just like the Church, Father Fowler?'
  
  
  51
  
  
  
  ORVILL WATSON'S SAFE HOUSE
  
  OUTSIDE OF WASHINGTON, D.C.
  
  
  Saturday, July 15, 2006 12:41
  
  
  The slaps woke Orville up.
  
  They weren't too heavy, or there were too many of them, just enough to bring him back to the land of the living and make him cough up one of his front teeth, which had been damaged by the impact of the shovel. As young Orville spat it out, the pain of a broken nose shot through his skull like a herd of wild horses. The almond-eyed man's slaps were rhythmic.
  
  'Look. He's awake,' the older man said to his partner, who was tall and thin. The older man hit Orville a couple more times until he groaned. 'You're not at your best, are you, kunde 3?'
  
  Orville found himself lying on the kitchen table, wearing nothing but his wristwatch. Even though he never cooked at home-in fact, he didn't cook anywhere at all-he had a fully equipped kitchen. Orville cursed his need for perfection as he looked at all the dishes lined up next to the sink, wishing he'd bought this set of sharp kitchen knives, corkscrews, barbecue skewers...
  
  'Listen...'
  
  'Shut up!'
  
  The young man was aiming a pistol at him. The older one, who must have been in his thirties, picked up one of the skewers and showed it to Orville. The sharp point gleamed momentarily in the light of the halogen lights on the ceiling.
  
  'Do you know what it is?'
  
  'This is barbecue. At Wal-Mart, they cost $5.99 a set. Look...' Orville said as he tried to sit up. Another man put his hand between Orville's thick chests and forced him to lie down again.
  
  'I told you to shut up'.
  
  He raised the skewer and, leaning heavily, plunged the point straight into Orville's left arm. The man's expression didn't change even when the sharp metal nailed his hand to the wooden table.
  
  At first, Orville was too stunned to realize what had happened. Then, suddenly, pain shot through his arm like an electric shock. He screeched.
  
  'Do you know who invented skewers?' the shorter man asked, grabbing Orville's face to force him to look at himself. 'These were our people. In fact, in Spain they were called Moorish kebabs. They invented them when it was considered bad manners to eat at the table with a knife.'
  
  That's it, motherfuckers. I have to say something.
  
  Orville wasn't a coward, but he wasn't stupid either. He knew how much pain he could take, and he knew when he was being beaten. He took three noisy breaths through his mouth. He didn't dare breathe through his nose and cause more pain.
  
  'Okay, that's enough. I will tell you what you want to know. I will sing, I will blurt out, I will draw an approximate scheme, plans. No need for violence.'
  
  The last word almost turned into a scream when he saw the man grab another skewer.
  
  'Of course you will. But we are not a torture committee. We are the executive committee. The thing is, we want to do it very slowly. Nazim, put a gun to his head.'
  
  The one called Nazim, with a completely absent expression, sat down on a chair and put the muzzle of a pistol to Orville's skull. Orville froze as he felt cold metal.
  
  'While you're in the mood to talk... tell me what you know about Hakan.'
  
  Orville closed his eyes. He was scared. So here's the thing.
  
  'Nothing. I just heard something here and there.'
  
  'Bullshit,' said the little man, slapping him three times. 'Who told you to follow him? Who knows what happened in Jordan?'
  
  'I don't know anything about Jordan'.
  
  'You are lying'.
  
  'This is true. By Allah!'
  
  These words seemed to awaken something in his aggressors. Nazim pressed the muzzle of the gun closer to Orville's head. Another put a second skewer to his naked body.
  
  'You make me sick kunde. Look how you used your talent to bring down your religion and betray your Muslim brothers. All for a handful of beans.'
  
  He ran the tip of the skewer over Orville's chest, pausing for a moment on his left chest. He gently lifted the fold of flesh, then suddenly let it fall, causing the fat to ripple in his belly. The metal left a scratch on the flesh, drops of blood mixed with the nervous sweat on Orville's naked body.
  
  'Except it wasn't quite a handful of beans,' the man continued, plunging the sharp steel a little deeper into the flesh. 'You've got multiple houses, a nice car, employees... And look at that watch, blessed be the name Allah'.
  
  You can have it if you let it go, Orville thought, but didn't say a word because he didn't want another steel rod to pierce him. Hell, I don't know how I'm going to get out of this.
  
  He tried to think of something, anything he could say to get the two men to leave him alone. But the terrible pain in his nose and arm screamed to him that such words did not exist.
  
  With his free hand Nazim removed the watch from Orville's wrist and gave it to another man.
  
  'Hello... Gamekeeper Lecoultre. Only the best, right? How much is the government paying you for being a rat? I'm sure it's a lot. Enough to buy a twenty thousand dollar watch.'
  
  The man threw the clock on the kitchen floor and began to stamp his feet as if his life depended on it, but all he managed to do was scratch the dial, which made his theatrical gesture lose all its effectiveness.
  
  'I only pursue criminals,' Orville said. 'You don't have a monopoly on the message of Allah.'
  
  'Don't you dare say His name again,' said the little man, spitting in Orville's face.
  
  Orville's upper lip began to tremble, but he wasn't a coward. He suddenly realized that he was about to die, so he spoke with all possible dignity. "Omak zanya fih erd 4," he said, looking straight into the man's face and trying not to stutter. Anger flashed in the man's eyes. It was clear that the two men thought they could break Orville and watch him plead for his life. They didn't expect him to be brave.
  
  'You will cry like a girl,' said the older man.
  
  His hand rose and fell hard, plunging a second skewer into Orville's right hand. Orville couldn't help but let out a scream that belied his courage moments earlier. Blood splattered into his open mouth and he began to choke, coughing in spasms that shook his body in pain as his hands jerked away from the skewers they were attached to the wooden table.
  
  Gradually the cough subsided, and the man's words came true as two large tears rolled down Orville's cheeks onto the table. That seemed to be all the man needed to free Orville from his torture. He has grown a new kitchen utensil: a long knife.
  
  "It's over, kunde-'
  
  A shot rang out, echoing off the metal pans that hung on the wall, and the man fell to the floor. His partner didn't even turn around to see where the shot had come from. He jumped over the kitchen counter, scratching the expensive trim with his belt buckle, and landed on his hands. A second shot shattered part of the doorframe a foot and a half above his head as Nazim disappeared.
  
  Orville, his face smashed, his palms shot and bleeding like some strange parody of a crucifix, he could barely turn to see who had saved him from certain death. He was a thin, fair-haired man in his thirties, wearing jeans and what looked like a priest's dog collar.
  
  'Nice pose, Orville,' the priest said as he ran past him in pursuit of the second terrorist. He hid behind the doorframe and then suddenly leaned out, holding the gun in both hands. The only thing in front of him was an empty room with an open window.
  
  The priest returned to the kitchen. Orville would have rubbed his eyes in amazement if his hands had not been pressed to the table.
  
  'I don't know who you are, but thank you. See what you can do to let me go, please. '
  
  With his damaged nose, it sounded like 'ice white, blaze'.
  
  'Git your teeth. It will hurt,' said the priest, grasping the skewer with his right hand. Although he tried to draw it straight out, Orville was still screaming in pain. 'You know, you're not easy to find.'
  
  Orville interrupted him by raising his hand. The wound on him was clearly visible. Gritting his teeth again, Orville rolled to the left and pulled out the second skewer himself. This time he didn't scream.
  
  'You can go?' asked the priest, helping him to his feet.
  
  'Pole Pope?'
  
  'No more. My car is nearby. Any idea where your guest went?'
  
  'How the hell should I know?' Orville said, grabbing a roll of kitchen towels near the window and wrapping his hands in thick layers of paper that looked like giant wads of cotton candy that were slowly turning pink with blood.
  
  'Leave it and get away from the window. I'll bandage you in the car. I thought you were an expert on terrorists.'
  
  "And I assume you're from the CIA?" I thought I was lucky.'
  
  'Well, more or less. My name is Albert and I'm from ISL 5.'
  
  'Link? With whom? Vatican?'
  
  Albert didn't answer. The agents of the Holy Alliance have never acknowledged their affiliation with the group.
  
  'Then forget about it,' Orville said, fighting back the pain. 'Look, there's no one here to help us. I doubt anyone even heard the shots. The nearest neighbors are half a mile away. Do you have a cell phone?'
  
  'Not a very good idea. If the police show up, they will take you to the hospital and then want to interrogate you. The CIA will be in your room in half an hour with a bunch of flowers.'
  
  'So you know how to handle this thing?' Orville said, pointing to the gun.
  
  'Not really. I hate weapons. You're lucky I stabbed the guy and not you.'
  
  'Well, you'd better start loving them,' Orville said, raising his cotton candy hands and pointing his gun. 'What kind of agent are you?'
  
  'I've only done basic training,' said Albert grimly. 'Computers are my thing.'
  
  'Well, that's just great! I'm starting to get dizzy,' Orville said, on the verge of fainting. The only thing that kept him from falling to the floor was Albert's hand.
  
  'Do you think you can get to the car, Orville?'
  
  Orville nodded, but wasn't too sure.
  
  'How many are there?' Albert asked.
  
  'Only the one you scared away remained. But he will be waiting for us in the garden.'
  
  Albert glanced briefly out the window, but could see nothing in the darkness.
  
  'Then let's go. Down the slope, closer to the wall... he could be anywhere.'
  
  
  52
  
  
  
  ORVILL WATSON'S SAFE HOUSE
  
  OUTSIDE OF WASHINGTON, D.C.
  
  
  Saturday, July 15, 2006 13:03.
  
  
  Nazim was very scared.
  
  He imagined the scene of his martyrdom many times. Abstract nightmares in which he will die in a huge fireball, something huge that will be televised around the world. Haruf's death proved to be an absurd disappointment, leaving Nazim confused and fearful.
  
  He ran into the garden, afraid that the police might show up at any moment. For a moment he was seduced by the main gate, which was still half open. The sounds of crickets and cicadas filled the night with promise and life, and for a moment Nazim hesitated.
  
  No. I dedicated my life to the glory of Allah and the salvation of my loved ones. What will happen to my family if I run away now, if I go soft?
  
  So, Nazim did not go out of the gate. He remained in the shade, behind a row of badly neglected snapdragons that still had a few yellowish buds. Trying to ease the tension in his body, he shifted the gun from hand to hand.
  
  I'm in good shape. I jumped over the kitchen counter. The bullet that followed me missed by a mile. One of them is a priest, and the other is wounded. I am more than a match for them. All I have to do is follow the path to the gate. If I hear police cars, I will climb over the wall. It's expensive, but I can do it. On the right there is a place that looks a little lower. Too bad Haruf isn't here. He was a genius at opening doors. The gate to the estate took him only fifteen seconds. I wonder if he is already with Allah? I will miss him. He would like me to stay and finish off Watson. He would have been dead if Haruf hadn't waited so long, but nothing angered him more than the one who betrayed his own brothers. I don't know how it would help jihad if I died tonight without removing the kunda first. No. I can't think like that. I have to focus on what's important. The empire I was born into is destined to fall. And I will help him do it with my blood. Although I wish it wasn't today.
  
  There was noise from the path. Nazim listened more attentively. They were getting closer. He had to act quickly. He should have been-
  
  'Fine. Drop your weapon. Go on.'
  
  Nazim did not even think. He didn't say the last prayer. He just turned around with a gun in his hand.
  
  
  Albert, who had left the back of the house and kept close to the wall to reach the gate safely, found fluorescent stripes on Nazim Nike's sneakers in the dark. It wasn't the same as when he instinctively shot at Haruf to save Orville's life and hit him by pure chance. This time, he caught the guy by surprise just a few feet away. Albert planted both feet on the ground, aimed at the center of Nazim's chest and pulled the trigger halfway, urging him to drop the gun. As Nazim turned, Albert pulled the trigger all the way, tearing open the young man's chest.
  
  
  Nazim was only vaguely aware of the shot. He did not feel any pain, although he was aware that he had been knocked down. He tried to move his arms and legs, but it was pointless and he couldn't speak. He saw the shooter leaning over him, checking the pulse in his neck, then shook his head. Watson appeared a moment later. Nazim saw a drop of Watson's blood fall as he leaned over. He never knew if the drop had mixed with his own blood flowing from the wound in his chest. His vision blurred every second, but still he could hear Watson's voice praying.
  
  'Blessed be Allah, who gave us life and the opportunity to glorify him righteously and honestly. Blessed be Allah who has taught us the Holy Qur'an, which says that even if someone can raise a hand against us to kill us, we should not raise a hand against him. Forgive him, Lord of the Universe, for his sins are the sins of the deceived innocent. Protect him from the torments of hell and draw him close to you, O Lord of the Throne.'
  
  Nazim felt much better after that. It was like a weight had been lifted from him. He gave everything for the sake of Allah. He allowed himself to sink into a state of such peace that, hearing police sirens in the distance, he mistook them for the sound of crickets. One of them was singing next to his ear, and that was the last thing he heard.
  
  
  A few minutes later, two uniformed cops bent over a young man wearing a Washington Redskins T-shirt. His eyes were open, he was looking at the heavens.
  
  'Central, this is Division twenty-three. We have ten fifty-four. Send an ambulance -'
  
  'Forget it. He failed.'
  
  'Central, cancel this ambulance for the time being. We'll go ahead and cordon off the crime scene with rope.'
  
  One of the officers looked at the young man's face, thinking it was a shame that he died from his wounds. He was young enough to be my son. But a person would not lose sleep because of this. He'd seen enough dead kids on the streets of Washington to carpet the Oval Office. And yet, none of them had a face like this one.
  
  For a moment, he thought about calling his partner and asking him why the hell this guy has such a peaceful smile. Of course he didn't.
  
  He was afraid to look like a fool.
  
  
  53
  
  
  
  SOMEWHERE IN FAIRFAX COUNTY, VA
  
  Saturday, July 15, 2006 14:06.
  
  
  Orville Watson and Albert's safe house was nearly twenty-five miles apart. Orville covered the distance in the back seat of Albert's Toyota, half asleep and half conscious, but at least his hands were properly bandaged, thanks to the first aid kit the priest carried in his car.
  
  An hour later, dressed in a terry bathrobe, Albert's only thing that suited him, Orville swallowed several Tylenol tablets, washing them down with the orange juice the priest had brought him.
  
  'You've lost a lot of blood. This will help you stabilize the situation.'
  
  The only thing Orville wanted was to stabilize his body in a hospital bed, but given his limited capacity, he decided he might as well stay with Albert.
  
  'Do you happen to have a Hershey's bar?'
  
  'No, sorry. I can't eat chocolate - it gives me acne. But after a while, I'll stop by Seven Eleven to buy something to eat, a few extra-large t-shirts, and maybe some candy if you want.'
  
  'Forget it. After what happened tonight, I think I'm going to hate Hershey for the rest of my life.'
  
  Albert shrugged. 'It depends on you'.
  
  Orville pointed to the many computers that cluttered Albert's living room. Ten monitors stood on a table about twelve feet long, connected to a mass of cables as thick as an athlete's thigh that ran along the floor next to the wall. "Your equipment is excellent, Mr. International Communications," Orville said to relieve tension. Watching the priest, he realized that they were both in the same boat. His hands were trembling slightly and he seemed a little lost. HarperEdwards system with motherboards TINCom... So you tracked me down, right?'
  
  'Your offshore company in Nassau, the one you used to buy the safe house. It took me forty-eight hours to track down the server where the original transaction was stored. Two thousand one hundred and forty three steps. Well done.'
  
  'You too,' said Orville, impressed.
  
  The two men looked at each other and nodded, recognizing their fellow hackers. For Albert, this brief moment of relaxation meant that the shock he had been holding in had suddenly invaded his body like a group of bullies. Albert didn't make it to the toilet. He vomited into a bowl of popcorn he had left on the table the night before.
  
  'I've never killed anyone before. This guy... I didn't even notice the other one, because I needed to act, I fired without thinking. But the child... he was just a child. And he looked into my eyes.'
  
  Orville didn't say anything because he had nothing to say.
  
  They stood like that for ten minutes.
  
  'Now I understand him,' the young priest finally said.
  
  'Who?'
  
  'My friend. Someone who had to kill and who suffered because of it.'
  
  'Are you talking about Fowler?'
  
  Albert looked at him suspiciously.
  
  'How do you know this name?'
  
  'Because this whole mess started when Kine Industries contracted me for my services. They wanted to know about Father Anthony Fowler. And I can't help but notice that you're also a priest.'
  
  This made Albert even more nervous. He grabbed Orville by the robe.
  
  'What did you tell them?' he shouted. 'I need to know!'
  
  'I told them everything,' Orville said emphatically. 'His training, that he was involved with the CIA, with the Holy Alliance...'
  
  'Oh my God! Do they know his true mission?'
  
  'I don't know. They asked me two questions. The first was, who is he? Second: who would be important to him?'
  
  'What did you find out? And How?'
  
  'I didn't find out anything. I would have given up if I hadn't received an anonymous envelope with a photo and the reporter's name: Andrea Otero. The note in the envelope said that Fowler would do everything to ensure that she was not harmed.'
  
  Albert let go of Orville's cloak and began pacing the room, trying to piece everything together.
  
  'Things are starting to make sense... When Kine went to the Vatican and told them that he had the key to finding the Ark, that it might be in the hands of an old Nazi war criminal, Sirin promised to get his best man involved. In exchange, Kine was to take an observer from the Vatican with him on the expedition. By giving you Otero's name, Chirin made sure that Kine would allow Fowler to participate in the expedition because Chirin would then be able to control him through Otero, and that Fowler would accept the mission to protect her. Manipulative son of a bitch," Albert said, holding back a smile that was half disgust, half admiration.
  
  Orville looked at him with his mouth open.
  
  'I don't understand a word of what you're saying.'
  
  'You're lucky: if you did, I would have to kill you. Just kidding. Look, Orville, I didn't run to save your life because I'm a CIA agent. I'm not like that. I am just a simple link in the chain doing a favor for a friend. And this friend is in serious danger, in part because of the report you gave about him to Kain. Fowler in Jordan, on a wild expedition to recover the Ark of the Covenant. And, oddly enough, the expedition may be successful.'
  
  'Hakan,' Orville said in a barely audible voice. 'I accidentally learned something about Jordan and Huqan. I relayed the information to Kain.'
  
  'The guys at the company pulled it off your hard drives, but nothing else.'
  
  'I was able to find a mention of Kaine on one of the email servers used by the terrorists. How much do you know about Islamic terrorism?'
  
  "Just what I read in the New York Times' .
  
  'Then we're not even at the initial stage. Here's a crash course. The media's high profile of Osama bin Laden, the villain in this movie, makes no sense. Al-Qaeda as a super evil organization does not exist. There is no head here to cut off. Jihad has no head. Jihad is a commandment from God. There are thousands of cells at different levels. They manage and inspire each other, having nothing to do with each other.'
  
  'It's impossible to fight this.'
  
  'Exactly. It's like trying to cure a disease. There is no miracle cure like invading Iraq, Lebanon or Iran. We can only produce white blood cells to kill microbes one by one.'
  
  'This is your job'.
  
  'The problem is that it's impossible to infiltrate Islamic terrorist cells. They cannot be bribed. What drives them is religion, or at least their twisted idea of it. I guess you can understand that.'
  
  Albert's expression was shy.
  
  'They use a different vocabulary,' Orville continued. 'It's too difficult a language for this country. They may have dozens of different aliases, they use a different calendar... Westerners need dozens of checks and mental codes for every piece of information. This is where I come into play. With one click, I'm right there between one of these fanatics and another three thousand miles away.'
  
  'Internet'.
  
  looks much prettier on a computer screen,' Orville said, stroking his flattened nose, which was now orange from Betadine. Orville to the hospital, in a month they will have to break his nose again to straighten it.
  
  Albert thought for a moment.
  
  'So this Haqan, he was going to go after Cain.'
  
  'I don't remember much, except that the guy seemed pretty serious. The truth is that what I gave Kain was raw information. I didn't have a chance to analyze anything in detail.'
  
  'Then...'
  
  'You know, it was like a free sample. You give them some and then sit back and wait. Over time, they will ask for more. Do not look at me so. People have to earn a living.'
  
  'We have to get that information back,' Albert said, drumming his fingers on his chair. 'Firstly, because the people who attacked you were concerned about what you knew. And secondly, because if Hukan is part of the expedition...'
  
  'All my files have disappeared or been burned'.
  
  'Not all of them. There is a copy.'
  
  Orville did not immediately understand what Albert meant.
  
  'Never. Don't even joke about it. This place is impregnable.'
  
  'Nothing is impossible, except for one thing - I have to live another minute without food,' said Albert, taking the car keys. 'Try to relax. I'll be back in half an hour.'
  
  The priest was about to go out the door when Orville called out to him. Just the thought of breaking into the fortress that was the Kain Tower made Orville feel uneasy. There was only one way to deal with his nerves.
  
  'Albert...?'
  
  'Yes?'
  
  'I changed my mind about chocolate'.
  
  
  54
  
  
  
  HAKAN
  
  The imam was right.
  
  He told him that jihad would enter his soul and heart. He warned him about what he called weak Muslims because they called the true believers radicals.
  
  You cannot be afraid of how other Muslims will react to what we are doing. God did not prepare them for this task. He did not temper their hearts and souls with the fire that is within us. Let them think that Islam is the religion of peace. It helps us. This weakens the defenses of our enemies; this creates holes through which we can penetrate. It's bursting at the seams.'
  
  He felt it. He could hear screams in his heart that were just mutterings on the lips of others.
  
  He first felt this when he was asked to become a leader in jihad. He was invited because he had a special talent. Winning the respect of his brothers was not easy. He has never been to the fields of Afghanistan or Lebanon. He did not follow the orthodox path, and yet the Word clung to the deepest part of his being, like a vine to a young tree.
  
  It happened outside the city, in a warehouse. Several brothers held back another who allowed the temptations of the outside world to interfere with God's commandments.
  
  The Imam told him that he must remain firm, prove himself worthy. All eyes would be on him.
  
  On the way to the warehouse, he bought a hypodermic needle and lightly pressed its end against the car door. He had to go and talk to a traitor, someone who wanted to take advantage of the amenities they were meant to wipe out. His task was to convince him of his mistake. Completely naked, with his hands and feet tied, the man was sure that he would obey.
  
  Instead of talking, he went into the warehouse, went straight to the traitor and plunged a curved syringe into the man's eye. Ignoring the screams, he pulled out the syringe, injuring his eye. Without waiting, he pierced the other eye and pulled it out.
  
  Less than five minutes later, the traitor begged them to kill him. Hakan smiled. The message was clear. His job was to hurt and make those who went against God want to die.
  
  Hakan. Syringe.
  
  That day he earned his name.
  
  
  55
  
  
  
  EXCAVATIONS
  
  AL-MUDAWWARA DESERT, JORDAN
  
  
  Saturday, July 15, 2006 at 12:34 pm.
  
  
  'White Russian, please'.
  
  
  'You surprise me, Miss Otero. I imagined that you would drink Manhattan, something more fashionable and post-modern," Raymond Kane said with a smile. 'Let me mix it myself. Thank you, Jacob.'
  
  "Are you sure, sir?" asked Russell, who didn't seem too happy to leave the old man alone with Andrea.
  
  'Relax, Jacob. I'm not going to lash out at Miss Otero. That is, if she doesn't want it herself.'
  
  Andrea realized she was blushing like a schoolgirl. While the billionaire was preparing a drink, she surveyed her surroundings. Three minutes earlier, when Jacob Russell came to pick her up at the infirmary, she was so nervous her hands were shaking. After spending a couple of hours correcting, polishing, and then rewriting her questions, she tore five pages out of her notebook, crumpled them into a ball, and slipped them into her pocket. This man wasn't normal, and she wasn't about to ask him normal questions.
  
  When she entered Kain's tent, she began to doubt her decision. The tent was divided into two rooms. One was a kind of foyer where Jacob Russell apparently worked. It contained a desk, a laptop, and, as Andrea suspected, a shortwave radio.
  
  So that's how you keep in touch with the ship... I thought you wouldn't be disconnected like the rest of us.
  
  To the right, a thin curtain separated the foyer from Kine's room, proof of the symbiosis between the young assistant and the old man.
  
  I wonder how far these two go in their relationship? There's something I don't trust about our friend Russell, with his metrosexual attitude and his self-importance. I wonder if I should hint at something like that in an interview.
  
  As she passed through the curtain, she caught a faint scent of sandalwood. A simple bed-but definitely more comfortable than the air mattresses we sleep on-occupied one side of the room. A smaller version of the toilet/shower used by the rest of the expedition, a small desk with no papers - and no visible computer - a small bar and two chairs completed the decor. Everything was white. A stack of books as high as Andrea threatened to topple over if anyone got too close. She was trying to read the titles when Cain appeared and walked right up to her to greet her.
  
  Up close, he seemed taller than when Andrea had caught a glimpse of him on the rear deck of the Behemoth. Five foot seven of shriveled flesh, white hair, white clothes, bare feet. However, the overall effect was oddly youthful until you take a closer look at his eyes, two blue holes surrounded by bags and wrinkles that bring his age back into perspective.
  
  He didn't extend his hand, leaving Andrea hanging in the air as he looked at her with a smile that was more of an apology. Jacob Russell had already warned her that under no circumstances should she try to touch Kaine, but she wouldn't be true to herself if she didn't try. In any case, it gave her a certain advantage. The billionaire obviously felt a little awkward when he offered Andrea a cocktail. The reporter, true to her profession, was not going to give up drinking, no matter the time of day.
  
  'You can tell a lot about a person by what they drink,' Cain said now, handing her the glass. He kept his fingers close to the top, leaving enough room for Andrea to take it without touching it.
  
  'Really? And what does the white Russian say about me?' Andrea asked as she sat down and took her first sip.
  
  'Let's see... Sweet mix, lots of vodka, coffee liqueur, cream. It tells me that you like to drink, that you know how to handle liquor, that you have spent some time finding what you like, that you are considerate of your surroundings, and that you are demanding.'
  
  'Excellent,' Andrea said with some irony, her best defense when she was insecure. 'You know what? fresh cream in no portable bar, let alone one owned by an agoraphobic billionaire who rarely has customers, especially in the middle of the Jordanian desert, and who, as far as I can see, drinks scotch water.'
  
  "Well, now I'm the one who's surprised," Kine said, standing with his back to the reporter and pouring himself a drink.
  
  'That's as close to the truth as the difference in our bank balances, Mr Kane.'
  
  The billionaire turned to her, frowning, but said nothing.
  
  'I would say it was more of a test and I gave you the answer you were expecting,' Andrea continued. 'Now please tell me why you are giving me this interview.'
  
  Kine took another chair, but avoided Andrea's gaze.
  
  'That was part of our agreement.'
  
  'I think I asked the wrong question. Why me?'
  
  'Ah, the curse of the g'vir, the rich man. Everyone wants to know his ulterior motives. Everyone assumes he has a plan, especially when he's Jewish.'
  
  'You did not answer my question'.
  
  "Young lady, I'm afraid you'll have to decide what answer you want - the answer to this question or to all the others."
  
  Andrea bit her lower lip, angry at herself. The old bastard was smarter than he looked.
  
  He challenged me without even ruffling his feathers. All right, old man, I'll follow your example. I'm going to open my heart completely, swallow your story, and when you least expect it, I'll find out exactly what I want to know, even if I have to rip out your tongue with tweezers.
  
  'Why are you drinking if you're on medication?' Andrea said, her voice deliberately aggressive.
  
  'I guess you've come to the conclusion that I'm on medication because of my agoraphobia,' Kine replied. 'Yes, I'm on medication for anxiety and no, I shouldn't drink. I do it anyway. yo, my grandfather hated to see him chic. It's drunk. Please interrupt me if there's a Yiddish word you don't understand, Miss Otero.'
  
  'Then I'll have to interrupt you often because I don't know anything.'
  
  'As you wish. My great-grandfather drank and didn't drink, and my grandfather used to say, "You should calm down, tate." He always said, "Fuck off, I'm eighty years old and I'll drink if I want to." He died at the age of ninety-eight when a mule kicked him in the stomach.'
  
  Andrea laughed. Cain's voice changed as he spoke of his ancestor, bringing his anecdote to life like a born storyteller and using other voices.
  
  'You know a lot about your family. Were you close to your elders?'
  
  'No, my parents died during World War II. Even though they told me stories, I don't remember much because of how we spent my early years. Almost everything I know about my family has been gathered from various outside sources. Let's just say that when I was finally able to do this, I combed all over Europe looking for my roots.'
  
  'Tell me about those roots. Do you mind if I record our interview?' Andrea asked as she took her digital voice recorder out of her pocket. It could record thirty-five hours of voice of the highest quality.
  
  'Continue. This story begins one harsh winter in Vienna, with a Jewish couple walking towards a Nazi hospital...'
  
  
  56
  
  
  
  ELLIS ISLAND, New York
  
  December 1943
  
  
  Yudel wept quietly in the darkness of the hold. The ship pulled up to the pier, and the sailors gestured for the refugees who filled every inch of the Turkish freighter to get out. They all hurried forward in search of fresh air. But Yudel did not budge. He grabbed Jora Mayer's cold fingers, refusing to believe she was dead.
  
  This was not his first contact with death. He'd seen a lot of that since leaving the secret place in Judge Rath's house. Escape from this small hole, which was suffocating but safe, was a huge shock. His first exposure to sunlight had taught him that monsters lived out there. His first experience in the city had taught him that any little corner was a cover from which he could survey the street before quickly running to the next. His first experience with trains horrified him at their noise and the monsters walking up and down the aisles looking for someone to grab. Luckily, if you showed them yellow cards, they didn't bother you. His first experience in the open field made him hate the snow, and the bitter cold made his feet freeze when he walked. His first acquaintance with the sea was an acquaintance with frightening and impossible expanses, with the prison wall seen from the inside.
  
  On the ship that took him to Istanbul, Yudel felt better when he huddled in a dark corner. It took them only a day and a half to reach the Turkish port, but it took seven months before they were able to leave it.
  
  Jorah Mayer fought tirelessly to get an exit visa. At the time, Turkey was a neutral country and many refugees crowded the docks, forming long lines in front of consulates or humanitarian organizations such as the Red Crescent. With each new day, Great Britain limited the number of Jews entering Palestine. The United States refused to allow more Jews to enter. The world turned a deaf ear to the disturbing news of the massacres in the concentration camps. Even such a famous newspaper as London's The Times called the Nazi genocide just 'horror stories'.
  
  Despite all the obstacles, Jora did her best. She begged on the street and covered tiny Yudel with her coat at night. She tried to avoid using the money Dr. Rath gave her. They slept where they could. Sometimes it was a stinking hotel or a crowded Red Crescent lobby, where at night refugees covered every inch of the gray-tiled floor, and getting up to urinate was a luxury.
  
  All Jora could do was hope and pray. She had no contacts and could only speak Yiddish and German, refusing to use her first language as it brought back bad memories. Her health did not improve. The morning she coughed up blood for the first time, she decided she couldn't wait any longer. She gathered her courage and decided to give all their remaining money to a Jamaican sailor who worked aboard an American-flagged cargo ship. The ship left in a few days. A crew member managed to smuggle them into the hold. There they mingled with hundreds of people who were fortunate enough to have Jewish relatives in the United States, who supported their visa requests.
  
  Jora died of tuberculosis thirty-six hours before arriving in the United States. Yudel did not leave her for a minute, despite his own illness. He developed a severe ear infection and his hearing was blocked for several days. His head was like a barrel filled with jam, and any loud noises sounded like horses galloping over its lid. That is why he could not hear the sailor who was yelling at him to leave. Tired of threatening the boy, the sailor began to kick him.
  
  Move, you bastard. They're waiting for you at customs.'
  
  Yudel again tried to restrain Jora. The sailor, a short, pimply-faced man, grabbed him by the neck and violently tore him away from it.
  
  Someone will come and take her away. You, get out!'
  
  The boy broke free. He searched Jora's coat and managed to find the letter from his father that Jora had told him about so many times. He took it and hid it in his shirt before the sailor grabbed it again and pushed it out into the frightening daylight.
  
  Yudel descended the gangway into the building, where customs officers dressed in blue uniforms were waiting at long tables to receive queues of immigrants. Trembling with fever, Yudel waited in line. His feet burned in the shabby boots, longing to run away and hide from the light.
  
  Finally, it was his turn. A customs official with small eyes and thin lips looked at him over his gold spectacles.
  
  - Name and visa?
  
  Yudel stared at the floor. He didn't understand.
  
  I don't have a whole day. Your name and your visa. Are you mentally handicapped?'
  
  Another younger customs officer with a lush mustache tried to reassure his colleague.
  
  Take it easy, Creighton. He travels alone and does not understand.'
  
  These Jewish rats understand more than you think. Damn it! Today this is my last ship and my last rat. Murphy has a cold beer waiting for me. If it makes you happy, take care of him, Gunther.
  
  An official with a large mustache walked around the table and squatted down in front of Yudel. He began talking to Yudel, first in French, then in German, and then in Polish. The boy continued to stare at the floor.
  
  He doesn't have a visa, and he's imbecile. We'll send him back to Europe on the next damned ship,' the bespectacled official interjected. 'Say something, idiot.' He leaned across the table and punched Yudel in the ear.
  
  For a second, Yudel felt nothing. But then pain suddenly filled his head, as if he had been stabbed, and a stream of hot pus erupted from his infected ear.
  
  He shouted the word "compassion" in Yiddish.
  
  "Rahmones!"
  
  The mustachioed official turned angrily to his colleague.
  
  "Enough, Creighton!"
  
  'Unidentified child, does not understand the language, no visa. Deportation.'
  
  The man with the mustache quickly searched the boy's pockets. There was no visa. In fact, there was nothing in his pockets but a few bread crumbs and an envelope with Hebrew writing on it. He checked for money, but there was only a letter, which he put back in Yudel's pocket.
  
  'He got you, damn it! Haven't you heard his name? He probably lost his visa. You don't want to deport him, Creighton. If you do that, we'll be here for another fifteen minutes.
  
  The bespectacled official took a deep breath and gave up.
  
  Tell him to say his last name out loud so I can hear him, and then we'll go have a beer. If he fails, he will face direct deportation.'
  
  "Help me, baby," the mustachioed man whispered. 'Trust me, you don't want to go back to Europe or end up in an orphanage. You have to convince this guy that there are people waiting for you outside.' He tried again, using the only Yiddish word he knew. 'Mishpohe?' means family.
  
  With trembling lips, barely audible, Yudel uttered his second word. 'Cohen,' he said.
  
  With relief, the barbel looked at the bespectacled man.
  
  'You heard him. His name is Raymond. His name is Raymond Kane.'
  
  
  57
  
  
  
  KAINE
  
  Kneeling in front of the plastic toilet inside the tent, he fought the urge to vomit while his assistant tried in vain to get him to drink some water. The old man finally managed to contain his nausea. He hated vomiting, the relaxing yet exhausting feeling of banishing everything that was eating away at him from the inside. It was a true reflection of his soul.
  
  'You have no idea how much it cost me, Jacob. You have no idea what is in the speech forest 6... Talking to her, I see myself so defenseless. I couldn't take it anymore. She wants another session.'
  
  'I'm afraid you'll have to put up with it a little longer, sir.'
  
  The old man looked at the bar at the other end of the room. His assistant, noticing the direction of his gaze, looked at him disapprovingly, and the old man looked away and sighed.
  
  'Human beings are full of contradictions, Jacob. We end up enjoying what we hate the most. Telling a stranger about my life took a weight off my shoulders. For a moment, I felt connected to the world. I planned to deceive her, perhaps mixing lies with truth. Instead, I told her everything.'
  
  'You did it because you know it's not a real interview. She won't be able to post it.'
  
  'Maybe. Or maybe I just needed to talk. Do you think she suspects something?'
  
  'I don't think so, sir. In any case, we have almost reached the finish line.'
  
  'She's very smart, Jacob. Watch her carefully. She may be more than a minor player in this whole affair.'
  
  
  58
  
  
  
  ANDREA AND DOCK
  
  The only thing she remembered from the nightmare was cold sweat, she was overcome with fear, and she gasped in the dark, trying to remember where she was. It was a recurring dream, but Andrea never knew what it was about. Everything was erased the moment she woke up, leaving her with only traces of fear and loneliness.
  
  But now Doc was immediately at her side, crawling over to her mattress, sitting next to her and putting his hand on her shoulder. One was afraid to go further, the other - that she would not go. Andrea sobbed. Doc hugged her.
  
  Their foreheads touched, and then their lips.
  
  Like a car that struggled uphill for hours and finally reached the top, the next moment was to be decisive, the moment of balance.
  
  Andrea's tongue frantically searched for Doc's and she returned the kiss. Doc pulled off Andrea's T-shirt and ran her tongue over the wet, salty skin of her breasts. Andrea leaned back on the mattress. She was no longer afraid.
  
  The car was speeding downhill, without any brakes.
  
  
  59
  
  
  
  EXCAVATIONS
  
  AL-MUDAWWARA DESERT, JORDAN
  
  
  Sunday 16 July 2006 1:28 am.
  
  
  They remained close to each other for a long time, talking; kissing every few words, as if they couldn't believe they'd found each other and that the other person was still there.
  
  'Wow, Doc. You really know how to take care of your patients,' Andrea said, stroking Doc's neck and playing with the curls in her hair.
  
  "It's part of my hypocritical oath."
  
  'I thought it was the Hippocratic Oath'.
  
  'I took another oath'.
  
  "No matter how much you joke, you won't make me forget that I'm still mad at you."
  
  'I'm sorry I didn't tell you the truth about myself, Andrea. I guess lying is part of my job.'
  
  'What else is included in your work?'
  
  'My government wants to know what's going on here. And don't ask me any more about it, because I'm not going to tell you.'
  
  'We have ways to get you to talk,' Andrea said, shifting her caresses elsewhere on Doc's body.
  
  'I'm sure I can fight off the interrogation,' Doc whispered.
  
  Neither woman spoke for several minutes, until Doc let out a long, almost soundless moan. Then she pulled Andrea close to her and whispered into her ear.
  
  'Chedva'.
  
  'What does it mean?' Andrea whispered back.
  
  'This is my name'.
  
  Andrea gasped in surprise. Doc felt joy in her and hugged her tightly.
  
  'Your secret name?'
  
  'Never say it out loud. Now you're the only one who knows.'
  
  'And your parents?'
  
  'They are no longer alive.'
  
  'I'm sorry'.
  
  'My mother died when I was a girl and my father died in prison in the Negev.'
  
  'Why was he there?'
  
  'Are you sure you want to know? It's a shitty, disappointing story.'
  
  'My life is full of shitty disappointments, doc. It would be nice to listen to someone else for a change.'
  
  There was a short silence.
  
  "My father was a katsa, a special agent of the Mossad. There are only thirty of them at a time, and hardly anyone in the Institute reaches this rank. I've been in it for seven years, and I'm just a bat leweiha, the lower class. I'm thirty-six years old, so "I don't think I'll get a promotion. But my father was a katsa at the age of twenty-nine. He did a lot of work outside of Israel and did one of his last surgeries in 1983. He lived in Beirut for a few months.'
  
  'You didn't go with him?'
  
  'I only traveled with him when he went to Europe or the United States. Then Beirut was not the right place for a young girl. In fact, it was not the right place for anyone. There he met Father Fowler. Fowler was on his way to the Bekaa Valley to rescue some missionaries. My father respected him very much. He said that saving these people was the most courageous act he had ever seen in his life, and there was not a word about it in the press. The missionaries simply said they were released.'
  
  'I believe that this kind of work does not welcome publicity'.
  
  'No, it's not. During the mission, my father discovered something unexpected: information suggesting that a group of Islamic terrorists with a truck full of explosives were about to attack an American installation. My father reported this to his superior, who replied that if the Americans stick their nose into Lebanon, they deserved everything they got.'
  
  'What did your father do?'
  
  'He sent an anonymous note to the American embassy to warn them; but without a reliable source to confirm this, the note was ignored. The next day, a truck loaded with explosives crashed into the gates of a Marine base, killing 241 Marines.'
  
  'My God'.
  
  'My father returned to Israel, but the story didn't end there. The CIA demanded an explanation from the Mossad, and someone mentioned my father's name. A few months later, as he was returning home from a trip to Germany, he was stopped at the airport. The police searched his bags and found two hundred grams of plutonium and evidence that he was trying to sell it to the Iranian government. With this amount of material, Iran could build a medium sized nuclear bomb. My father went to prison, with little to no trial.'
  
  'Someone planted evidence against him?'
  
  'The CIA got revenge. They used my father to send a message to agents around the world: if you find out about something like this again, be sure to let us know or we'll make sure you're fucked.'
  
  'Oh doc, that must have destroyed you. At least your father knew you believed in him.'
  
  There was another silence, this time a long one.
  
  'I'm ashamed to say this, but... for quite a few years I didn't believe in my father's innocence. I thought he was tired, that he wanted to earn some money. He was completely alone. Everyone forgot about him, including me.'
  
  'Were you able to make up with him before he died?'
  
  'No'.
  
  Suddenly Andrea hugged the doctor, who began to cry.
  
  'Two months after his death, a highly confidential report by Sodi Bayother was declassified. It stated that my father was innocent, and this was supported by concrete evidence, including the fact that the plutonium belonged to the United States.'
  
  'Wait... Are you saying the Mossad knew all about this from the start?'
  
  'They sold him, Andrea. To hide their duplicity, they turned over my father's head to the CIA. The CIA was satisfied and life went on - except for 241 soldiers and my father in his maximum security prison cell.'
  
  'Bastards...'
  
  'My father is buried in Gilot, north of Tel Aviv, in a place reserved for those who fell in battle against the Arabs. He was the seventy-first Mossad officer to be buried there with full honors and hailed as a war hero. None of this erases the misfortune they have caused me.'
  
  'I don't get it, doc. I really do not know. Why the hell are you working for them?'
  
  "For the same reason my father put up with prison for ten years: because Israel comes first."
  
  'Another crazy one, just like Fowler'.
  
  "You still haven't told me how you two know each other."
  
  Andrea's voice darkened. This memory was not entirely pleasant.
  
  'In April 2005 I traveled to Rome to cover the death of the Pope. By chance, I came across a tape in which a serial killer says that he killed a couple of cardinals who were supposed to participate in the conclave choosing the successor to John Paul II. The Vatican tried to cover up this story, and I ended up on the roof of the building, fighting for my life. Let's say Fowler made sure I didn't get smeared on the pavement. But in the process, he escaped with my exclusive.'
  
  'I understand. It must have been unpleasant.'
  
  Andrea didn't get a chance to answer. Outside, there was a terrible explosion that shook the walls of the tent.
  
  'What was it?'
  
  'For a moment I thought it was... No, it couldn't be...' Doc stopped mid-sentence.
  
  There was a cry.
  
  And further.
  
  And then much more.
  
  
  60
  
  
  
  EXCAVATIONS
  
  AL-MUDAWWARA DESERT, JORDAN
  
  
  Sunday 16 July 2006 1:41 am.
  
  
  Outside, chaos reigned.
  
  'Bring buckets'.
  
  'Take them there.'
  
  Jacob Russell and Mogens Dekker were shouting conflicting orders in the middle of a river of mud that was flowing from one of the water trucks. The giant hole at the back of the tank spewed out precious water, turning the ground around it into a thick, reddish goo.
  
  Several archaeologists, Brian Hanley and even Father Fowler were running from one place to another in their underwear, trying to line up with buckets to collect as much water as possible. Little by little, the rest of the sleepy members of the expedition joined them.
  
  Someone - Andrea wasn't sure who it was, because the man was covered in mud from head to toe - was trying to build a wall of sand near Cain's tent to block the river of mud that was heading towards her. He plunged the shovel into the sand again and again, but soon he had to shovel the mud, so he stopped. Fortunately, the billionaire's tent was a little higher, and Kine did not have to leave his hiding place.
  
  Meanwhile, Andrea and Doc quickly got dressed and joined the line of other latecomers. As they returned the empty buckets and sent the full ones ahead, the reporter realized that what she and Doc had been doing before the explosion was the reason they were the only ones who had bothered to put on all their clothes before going out.
  
  'Bring me a welding torch,' shouted Brian Hanley from the front of the chain next to the tanker. The chain transmitted the command, repeating his words like a litany.
  
  'No such thing,' the chain beeped back.
  
  Robert Frick was on the other end of the line, knowing full well that with a torch and a large sheet of steel they could solder the hole, but he didn't remember unpacking it and didn't have time to look. He had to find some way to store the water they could save, but he couldn't find anything big enough.
  
  It suddenly occurred to Frick that the large metal containers they were using to transport the equipment might contain water. And if they'd taken it closer to the river of water, they might have collected more. The Gottlieb twins, Marla Jackson and Tommy Eichberg lifted one of the boxes and tried to carry it towards the leak, but the last few feet were impossible as their feet lost traction on the slippery ground. Despite this, they managed to fill two containers before the water pressure began to wane.
  
  'Now it's empty. Let's try to close the hole.'
  
  As the water approached the level of the hole, they were able to improvise a cork using several feet of waterproof canvas. Three people pressed down on the canvas, but the hole was so big and irregular that all it did was slow the leak.
  
  After half an hour the result was disappointing.
  
  'I think we saved about 475 gallons out of the 8700 that was left in the tank,' said Robert Frick, despondent, his hands trembling with exhaustion.
  
  Most of the expedition members crowded in front of the tents. Frick, Russell, Dekker and Harel were next to the tanker.
  
  'I'm afraid there won't be showers for anyone else,' Russell said. 'We'll have enough water for ten days if we allocate a little over twelve pints per person. Will that be enough, doctor?'
  
  'It's getting hotter every day. By noon the temperature will reach 110 degrees. This is tantamount to suicide for anyone who works in the sun. Not to mention that you need to at least maintain a little personal hygiene.'
  
  'And don't forget we have to cook,' said Frick, clearly worried. He loved soup and could imagine eating only sausages for the next few days.
  
  'We'll have to manage,' Russell said.
  
  'What if it takes more than ten days to complete the job, Mr Russell? We must bring more water from Aqaba. I doubt this will jeopardize the success of the mission.'
  
  "Dr. Harel, I'm sorry to inform you, but I learned from the ship's radio that Israel has been at war with Lebanon for the past four days."
  
  'Really? I had no idea,' Harel lied.
  
  'Every radical group in the region supports the war. Can you imagine what would happen if a local merchant accidentally told the wrong person that he had sold water to several Americans running in the desert? Being broke and dealing with the intruders who killed Erling would be the least of our problems.'
  
  'I understand,' Harel said, realizing that her ability to get Andrea out of there was gone. 'But don't complain when everyone gets heatstroke.'
  
  "Damn!" Russell said, expressing his frustration as he kicked one of the truck's tires. Harel barely recognized Cain's assistant. Kamp 7, as Andrea said, always calm and unflappable.This was the first time she heard him swear.
  
  'I was just warning you,' Doc replied.
  
  'How are you, Dekker? Do you have any idea what happened here?' Kine's assistant turned his attention to the South African commander.
  
  Dekker, who hadn't spoken since the pathetic attempt to salvage some of their water supplies, was kneeling in the back of the water truck, examining the huge hole in the metal.
  
  'Mr Dekker?' Russell repeated impatiently.
  
  The South African stood up.
  
  'Look: a round hole in the middle of the truck. It's easy to do. If that was our only problem, we could cover it up with something.' He pointed to an irregular line that crossed the hole. 'But this line complicates things.'
  
  'What do you have in mind?' Harel asked.
  
  'Whoever did this placed a thin line of explosives on the tank, which, together with the pressure of the water inside, caused the metal to buckle outward instead of buckling inward. Even if we had a welding torch, we couldn't close the hole. This is the work of an artist.'
  
  'Awesome! We're dealing with fucking Leonardo da Vinci,' Russell said, shaking his head.
  
  
  61
  
  
  
  MP3 file retrieved by the Jordanian Desert Police from Andrea Otero's digital recorder after the disaster of the Moses Expedition
  
  QUESTION: Professor Forrester, there is something that I am very interested in, and it is supposed supernatural phenomena that have been associated with the Ark of the Covenant.
  
  
  ANSWER: We have returned to this.
  
  
  Question: Professor, the Bible mentions a number of inexplicable phenomena, such as this light-
  
  
  A: This is not 'the other world'. This is the Shekinah, God's presence. You must speak with respect. And yes, the Jews believed that a glow appeared between the cherubim from time to time, a clear sign that God was within.
  
  
  Question: Or the Israelite who fell dead after touching the Ark. Do you really believe that God's power is in the relic?
  
  
  A: Miss Otero, you must understand that 3500 years ago people had a different concept of the world and a completely different way of relating to it. If Aristotle, who is more than a thousand years closer to us, saw Heaven as many concentric spheres, imagine what the Jews thought of the Ark.
  
  
  Q: I'm afraid you've confused me, Professor.
  
  
  A: It's just a matter of scientific method. In other words, a rational explanation-or rather, the lack of one. The Jews could not explain how a golden chest could glow with its own independent light, so they limited themselves to giving a name and a religious explanation to a phenomenon that was beyond the understanding of antiquity.
  
  
  Question: And what is the explanation, Professor?
  
  
  A: Have you heard of the Baghdad Battery? No, of course not. It's not something you would hear about on TV.
  
  
  Q: Professor...
  
  
  A: The Baghdad Battery is a series of artifacts found in the city's museum in 1938. It consisted of earthenware vessels containing copper cylinders held in place by asphalt, each containing an iron rod. In other words, the whole thing was a primitive but effective electrochemical tool that was used to coat various objects with copper through electrolysis.
  
  
  Q: It's not that surprising. In 1938, this technology was almost ninety years old.
  
  
  A: Miss Otero, if you'd let me continue, you wouldn't look like such an idiot. Researchers who analyzed the Baghdad Battery found that it originated in ancient Sumer and were able to date it to 2500 BC. This is a thousand years before the Ark of the Covenant and forty-three centuries before Faraday, the man who allegedly invented electricity.
  
  
  Question: And the Ark was similar?
  
  
  A: The Ark was an electrical capacitor. The design was very clever, allowing for the accumulation of static electricity: two gold plates separated by an insulating layer of wood, but connected by two gold cherubs that acted as positive and negative terminals.
  
  
  Question: But if it was a capacitor, how did it store electricity?
  
  
  A: The answer is rather prosaic. The items at the Tabernacle and Temple were made from leather, linen, and goat hair, three of the five materials that can generate the most static electricity. Under the right conditions, the Ark could emit about two thousand volts. It makes sense that the only ones who could touch him were the 'chosen few'. You can bet that a select few had very thick gloves.
  
  Question: So you insist that the Ark did not come from God?
  
  
  A: Miss Otero, nothing could be further from my intention. My point is that God asked Moses to keep the commandments in a safe place so that they could be honored throughout the centuries to come and become a central aspect of the Jewish faith. And that people have invented artificial ways to keep the legend of the Ark alive.
  
  
  Question: What about other disasters, such as the collapse of the walls of Jericho, sand and firestorms that destroyed entire cities?
  
  
  A: Made up stories and myths.
  
  
  Question: So you reject the idea that the Ark can bring disaster?
  
  
  A: Certainly.
  
  
  62
  
  
  
  EXCAVATIONS
  
  AL-MUDAWWARA DESERT, JORDAN
  
  
  Tuesday 18 July 2006 13:02.
  
  
  Eighteen minutes before her death, Kira Larsen thought about baby wipes. It was a kind of mental reflex. Shortly after giving birth to little Bente two years ago, she discovered the benefits of small towels that were always damp and left a nice scent.
  
  Another advantage was that her husband hated them.
  
  It wasn't that Kira was a bad person. But for her, one of the added benefits of marriage was that she would notice small cracks in her husband's defenses and put a few quips in them to see what would happen. Right now, Alex would have to make do with a few baby wipes because he had to take care of Bent until the expedition was over. Kira was returning in triumph, with the satisfaction of scoring real points against Mr. "They-made-me-a-partner-in-the-law-firm."
  
  Am I a bad mother, since I want to share with him the responsibility for our child? Is it so? Hell no!
  
  Two days ago, when an exhausted Kira heard Jacob Russell say that they would have to step up work and that there would be no more showers, she thought she could deal with anything. Nothing will stop her from making a name for herself as an archaeologist. Unfortunately, reality and what a person imagines do not always coincide.
  
  She stoically endured the humiliation of being searched after the water truck was attacked. She stood there, covered in mud from head to toe, and watched as the soldiers rummaged through her papers and underwear. Many members of the expedition protested, but they all breathed a sigh of relief when the search ended and nothing was found. The group's morale has changed a lot as a result of recent events.
  
  'At least it's not one of us,' David Pappas said as the lights went out and fear permeated every shadow. 'That can console us.'
  
  'Whoever it is probably doesn't know what we're doing here. It could be the Bedouin, angry at us for invading their territory. They won't do anything else with all those machine guns on the cliffs. '
  
  'It's not like machine guns did Stowe much good.'
  
  'I still say that Dr. Harel knows something about his death,' Kira insisted.
  
  She told everyone that, despite pretending, the doctor was not in her bed when Kira woke up that night, but no one paid much attention to her.
  
  'Calm down all of you. The best thing you can do for Erling and for yourself is decide how we are going to dig this tunnel. I want you to think about it even when you sleep," said Forrester, who, at Dekker's urging, left his personal tent on the opposite side of the camp and joined the others.
  
  Kira was frightened, but she was inspired by the furious indignation of the professor.
  
  Nobody is going to kick us out of here. We have a mission to fulfill and we will fulfill it no matter the cost. Things will be better after this, she thought, not realizing that she had zipped her sleeping bag up in a ridiculous attempt to protect herself.
  
  
  Forty-eight grueling hours later, a team of archaeologists mapped out the route they would follow, digging at an angle to reach the site. Kira didn't allow herself to call it anything other than 'object' until they were sure it was what they expected and not...not just something else.
  
  By dawn on Tuesday, breakfast had already become a memory. All members of the expedition helped build a steel platform that would allow the mini-excavator to find an attack point on the side of the mountain. Otherwise, the uneven ground and steep angle of inclination would mean that there was a risk of the small but powerful machine tipping over when it started work. David Pappas designed the facility so that they could start digging a tunnel about twenty feet above the canyon floor. Tunneling fifty feet deep, then diagonally in the opposite direction to the object.
  
  That was the plan. Kira's death would be one of the unintended consequences.
  
  
  Eighteen minutes before the accident, Kira Larsen's skin was so sticky it looked like she was wearing a stinky rubber suit. The rest used part of their water ration to get themselves as fit as possible. Not Kira. She was incredibly thirsty - she always sweated a lot, especially after pregnancy - and even took small sips from other people's bottles when they weren't looking.
  
  She closed her eyes for a moment and mentally imagined Bente's room: on the chest of drawers was a box of baby wipes, which at that moment would have been divine on her skin. She fantasized about rubbing them over her body, removing the dirt and dust that had accumulated in her hair, on the inside of her elbows and around the edges of her bra. And then she hugged her baby, played with her on the bed, as she did every morning, and explained to her that her mother had found a buried treasure.
  
  The best treasure of all.
  
  Kira was carrying some wooden planks that Gordon Darwin and Ezra Levin used to reinforce the walls of the tunnel to prevent collapse. It was to be ten feet wide and eight feet high. The professor and David Pappas argued for hours about sizes.
  
  'It'll take us twice as long! You think this is archeology, Pappas? It's a bloody rescue operation and we only have a limited amount of time in case you haven't noticed!'
  
  'If we don't make it wide enough, we won't be able to easily get the earth out of the tunnel, the excavator will hit the walls and it will all come crashing down on us. That's assuming we don't crash into the rock base of the cliff, in which case the end result of all this effort will be to lose another two days.'
  
  'To hell with you, Pappas, and your master's from Harvard.'
  
  In the end David won and the tunnel was ten feet by eight.
  
  
  Kira brushed the beetle absently from her hair as she made her way to the far end of the tunnel, where Robert Frick was battling the earthen wall in front of him. Meanwhile, Tommy Eichberg was loading a conveyor belt that ran across the tunnel floor and ended a foot and a half from the platform, raising a steady cloud of dust above the canyon floor. The mountain of earth that had been dug out from the side of the hill was now almost as high as the opening of the tunnel.
  
  'Hi, Kira,' Eichberg greeted her. His voice sounded tired. 'Have you seen Hanley? He should have replaced me.'
  
  'He's downstairs trying to install some electric lights. Soon we won't be able to see anything here.'
  
  They had sunk nearly twenty-five feet into the side of the mountain, and by two o'clock in the afternoon daylight no longer reached the back of the tunnel, making work almost impossible. Eichberg swore loudly.
  
  "Am I going to have to keep raking the ground like this for another hour?" Bullshit," he said, throwing the shovel on the ground.
  
  'Don't go, Tommy. If you leave, Frick won't be able to continue either.'
  
  'Well, you take control, Kira. I need to take a piss.'
  
  Without another word, he left.
  
  Kira looked at the ground. Raking the earth onto the conveyor was a terrible job. You were constantly leaning over, you had to do everything quickly and watch the excavator's lever to make sure it didn't hit you. But she didn't want to imagine what the professor would say if they took an hour off. He would have blamed her, as usual. Kira was secretly convinced that Forester hated her.
  
  Perhaps he resented my participation in Stow Erling. Perhaps he would like to be in Stowe's shoes. Dirty old man. I wish you were in his place right now, she thought, bending down to pick up the shovel.
  
  'Look back there!'
  
  Frick turned the excavator around a little, and the cab almost crashed into Kira's head.
  
  'Be careful!'
  
  'I warned you, beauty. I'm sorry.'
  
  Kira made a face at the car because it was impossible to be angry with Frick. The wide-boned operator was distinguished by a disgusting character, constantly cursing and letting out gases during work. He was a man in every sense of the word, a real person. Kira valued that most of all, especially when she compared him to the pale imitations of life that were Forrester's assistants.
  
  The Butt Kissing Club, as Stowe called them. He didn't want to have anything to do with them.
  
  She began to shovel the garbage onto the conveyor belt. After a while they would have to add another section to the belt as the tunnel went deeper into the mountain.
  
  'Hey Gordon, Ezra! Stop strengthening and bring another section for the conveyor, please. '
  
  Gordon Darwin and Ezra Levin mechanically obeyed her orders. Like everyone else, they felt that they had already reached the limit of their endurance.
  
  Useless as a frog's boobs, as my grandfather would say. But we're so close; i can try appetizers at the welcome reception at the jerusalem museum. One more puff and I'll keep all the journalists at bay. One more drink and Mr. "I-work-late-with-my-secretary" will have to look up to me for once. I swear to God.
  
  Darwin and Levin carried another section for the conveyor. The equipment consisted of a dozen flat sausages, about a foot and a half long, connected by an electric cable. They were little more than rollers wrapped in strong plastic tape, but they moved a large amount of material per hour.
  
  Kira picked up the shovel again, just so the two men would have to hold the heavy section of the conveyor a little longer. The shovel made a loud, metallic, clanging sound.
  
  For a second, the image of a freshly opened tomb flashed through Kira's mind.
  
  After that, the earth tilted. Kira lost her balance and Darwin and Levin stumbled, losing control of the section that fell on Kira's head. The young woman screamed, but it was not a cry of terror. It was a cry of surprise and fear.
  
  The earth has moved again. The two men disappeared from Kira's side like two children sledding down a hill. Perhaps they were screaming, but she did not hear them, just as she did not hear the huge pieces of earth that broke off the walls and fell to the ground with a dull thud. She also did not feel the sharp stone that fell from the ceiling and turned her temple into a bloody mess; and she didn't hear the screech of metal as the mini-excavator rumbled off the platform and crashed into the rocks thirty feet below.
  
  Kira was unaware of anything because all her five senses were focused on her fingertips, or more accurately, on the four and a half inches of cable she was using to hold on to the transporter module, which had fallen almost parallel to the edge of the abyss.
  
  She tried to kick her legs to find support, but it was useless. Her hands were on the edge of the abyss, and the ground began to sag under her weight. The sweat on her hands meant that Kira couldn't hold on, and the four and a half inches of cable turned into three and a half. Another slide, another pull, and now there were barely two inches of cable left.
  
  In one of these strange tricks of the human mind, Kira cursed for making Darwin and Lewin wait a little longer than necessary. If they had left a section lying against the wall of the tunnel, the cable would not have fallen under the steel rollers of the conveyor.
  
  Finally, the cable disappeared, and Kira fell into darkness.
  
  
  63
  
  
  
  EXCAVATIONS
  
  AL-MUDAWWARA DESERT, JORDAN
  
  
  Tuesday, July 18, 2006. 2:07 pm.
  
  
  'Several people are dead'.
  
  'Who?'
  
  'Larsen, Darwin, Levine and Frick'.
  
  'Hell no, not Levine. They got him out alive.'
  
  'The doctor's up there.'
  
  'You are sure?'
  
  'I'm fucking telling you.'
  
  'What's happened? Another bomb?'
  
  'It was a collapse. Nothing mysterious.'
  
  'It was sabotage, I swear. Sabotage.'
  
  
  A circle of pained faces gathered around the platform. An anxious whisper was heard as Pappas emerged from the tunnel entrance, followed by Professor Forrester. Behind them stood the Gottlieb brothers, who, due to their skill in descending, were assigned by Dekker to rescue any possible survivors.
  
  The German twins carried out the first body on a stretcher, covered with a blanket.
  
  'This is Darwin; I recognize his boots'.
  
  The professor approached the group.
  
  'There was a collapse due to a natural cavity in the ground that we didn't think about. The speed with which we were digging the tunnel did not allow us...' He stopped, unable to continue.
  
  I think this is the closest he can come to admitting a mistake, Andrea thought as she stood in the middle of the group. She had a camera in her hand, ready to take pictures, but when she found out what had happened, she put the lens cap back on.
  
  The twins carefully laid the body on the ground, then pulled the stretcher out from under it and returned to the tunnel.
  
  An hour later, the bodies of the three archaeologists and the operator lay at the edge of the platform. Levin was the last to leave. It took twenty minutes longer to get him out of the tunnel. Although he was the only one to survive the initial fall, there was nothing Dr. Harel could do for him.
  
  'He suffered too much internal damage,' she whispered to Andrea as soon as she got out. The doctor's face and hands were covered in mud. 'I'd rather...'
  
  'Don't say anything else,' Andrea said, stealthily squeezing her hand. She released him to cover her head with her cap, as did the rest of the group. The only ones who didn't follow the Jewish custom were the soldiers, perhaps out of ignorance.
  
  The silence was absolute. A warm breeze blew from the rocks. Suddenly, the silence was broken by a voice that sounded deeply agitated. Andrea turned her head and couldn't believe her eyes.
  
  The voice belonged to Russell. He was walking behind Raymond Ken, and they were no more than a hundred feet from the platform.
  
  The billionaire approached them barefoot, hunched his shoulders and crossed his arms over his chest. His assistant followed him, his face like a bolt from the blue. He calmed down when he realized that others could hear him. It was obvious that seeing Kine there, outside of his tent, made Russell extremely nervous.
  
  Slowly, everyone turned to look at the two figures approaching. Besides Andrea and Dekker, Forrester was the only spectator who saw Raymond Ken in person. And that happened only once, during a long tense meeting at the Kine Tower, when Forrester, without thinking twice, agreed to the strange demands of his new boss. Of course, the reward for agreeing was huge.
  
  As is the cost. He lay there on the ground, covered with blankets.
  
  Kine stopped a dozen feet away, a trembling, indecisive old man, wearing a yarmulke as white as the rest of his robes. In appearance, his thinness and short stature made him even more fragile, but despite this, Andrea found herself fighting the urge to kneel. She felt the attitudes of the people around him change, as if they were affected by some invisible magnetic field. Brian Hanley, who was less than three feet from her, began shifting his weight from one foot to the other. David Pappas bowed his head, and even Fowler's eyes seemed to sparkle strangely. The priest stood apart from the group, a little apart from the others.
  
  'My dear friends, I didn't have a chance to introduce myself. My name is Raymond Kine," the old man said, his clear voice belying his frail appearance.
  
  Some of those present nodded, but the old man did not notice and continued to speak.
  
  'I regret that we had to meet for the first time under such dire circumstances, and I would like to ask us to join in prayer.' He lowered his eyes, bowed his head and recited: "El malei rahamim shochen bamromim hamtzi menuuha nehonah al kanfey hashechina bema alot kedoshim utechorim kezohar harakiya meirim umazhirim lenishmat. 8 Amen."
  
  Everyone repeated "Amen".
  
  Oddly enough, Andrea felt better, although she did not understand what she heard, and this was not part of her childhood faith. For a few moments, an empty, lonely silence hung over the group, until Dr. Harel spoke.
  
  'Shall we return home, sir?' She held out her hands in a gesture of silent supplication.
  
  "Now we must observe halak & # 225; 9 and bury our brothers," Cain replied. His tone was calm and reasonable, in contrast to Doc's hoarse exhaustion. 'After that we will rest for a few hours and then continue our work. We cannot let these heroes' sacrifice be in vain.'
  
  Having said this, Kine returned to his tent, followed by Russell.
  
  Andrea looked around and saw nothing but agreement on the faces of the others.
  
  'I can't believe these people are buying into this shit,' she whispered to Harel. 'He didn't even get close to us. He was standing a few yards away from us, as if we were suffering from a plague or were about to do something to him. .'
  
  'We are not the ones he feared.'
  
  'What the hell are you talking about?'
  
  Harel didn't answer.
  
  But the direction of her gaze did not escape Andrea, nor did the look of complicity exchanged between the doctor and Fowler. The priest nodded.
  
  If it wasn't us, then who was it?
  
  
  64
  
  
  
  Document extracted from Harouf Waadi's email account used as a mailbox for communications between terrorists belonging to a Syrian cell
  
  Brothers, the chosen moment has come. Hakan asked you to prepare for tomorrow. A local source will provide you with the necessary equipment. Your trip will take you by car from Syria to Amman, where Ahmed will give you further instructions. K.
  
  
  Salaam Alaikum . I just wanted to remind you before leaving the words of Al-Tabrizi, which have always served as a source of inspiration for me. I hope you will find the same comfort in them as you begin your mission. W
  
  'The Messenger of God said: A martyr has six privileges before God. He forgives your sins after shedding the first drop of your blood; He delivers you to paradise, delivering you from the pain of the grave; He offers you salvation from the horrors of hell and places on your head a crown of glory, each ruby of which is worth more than the whole world and everything that exists in it; He will marry you to seventy-two houris with the blackest eyes; and He will accept your intercession on behalf of your seventy-two relatives.'
  
  Thank you W. Today my wife blessed me and said goodbye to me with a smile on her lips. She told me: 'From the day I met you, I knew you were made for martyrdom. Today is the happiest day of my life.' God bless you for bequeathing to me someone like her. D
  
  
  Blessings to you D.O
  
  Isn't your soul overflowing? If we could share this with anyone, shout it to all four sides. D
  
  
  I would like to share this too, but I don't feel your euphoria. I find myself oddly peaceful. This is my last message as I am leaving in a few hours with my two brothers for our meeting in Amman. W
  
  
  I share W's sense of calm. The euphoria is understandable, but dangerous. In a moral sense, because it is the daughter of pride. In a tactical sense, because it can make you make mistakes. You should clear your thoughts, D. When you find yourself in the desert, you will have to wait many hours for Hakan's signal under the scorching sun. Your euphoria can quickly turn into despair. Look for what will fill you with peace. O
  
  
  What would you recommend? D
  
  
  Think of the martyrs who came before us. Our struggle, the struggle of the ummah, consists of small steps. The brothers who massacred the infidels in Madrid took one small step. The brothers who destroyed the twin towers reached ten such steps. Our mission consists of a thousand steps. Her goal is to bring the invaders to their knees forever. You understand? Your life, your blood will lead to an end that no other brother can even aspire to. Imagine an ancient king who led a virtuous life, multiplying his seed in a vast harem, defeating his enemies, expanding his kingdom in the name of God. He can look around him with the satisfaction of a man who has done his duty. This is how you should feel. Take refuge in this thought and pass it on to the warriors you will take with you to Jordan. P
  
  
  I've been thinking for hours about what you said to me, Oh, and I'm grateful. My spirit is different, my state of mind is closer to God. The only thing that still saddens me is that these will be our last messages to each other, and that although we will be victorious, our next meeting will be in another life. I have learned a lot from you and passed this knowledge on to others.
  
  Until eternity, brother. Salaam Alaikum.
  
  
  65
  
  
  
  EXCAVATIONS
  
  AL-MUDAWWARA DESERT, JORDAN
  
  
  Wednesday 19 July 2006 11:34
  
  
  Suspended from the ceiling by a harness twenty-five feet above the ground in the same place where four people had died the day before, Andrea couldn't help but feel more alive than she had ever felt in her life. She couldn't deny that the imminent possibility of death had thrilled her and, in a strange way, it had awakened her from the sleep she'd been in for the last ten years.
  
  Suddenly questions about who you hate more, your father for being a homophobic bigot or your mother for being the meanest person in the world, begin to give way to questions like 'Will this rope hold my weight?'
  
  Andrea, who never learned to ski down, asked to be slowly lowered to the bottom of the cave, partly out of fear and partly because she wanted to try different angles for her shots.
  
  Come on guys. Slow down. I've got a good contract,' she shouted, throwing her head back and looking at Brian Hanley and Tommy Eichberg, who lowered her with a lift.
  
  The rope stopped moving.
  
  Beneath it lay the wreckage of an excavator, like a toy smashed by an angry child. Part of the arm stuck out at an odd angle, and there was still dried blood on the shattered windshield. Andrea pulled the camera away from the scene.
  
  I hate blood, I hate it.
  
  Even her lack of professional ethics had limits. She focused on the bottom of the cave, but just as she was about to press the shutter, she began to spin on the rope.
  
  'Can you stop it? I can not concentrate.'
  
  'Miss, you're not made of feathers, you know?' Brian Hanley yelled down at her.
  
  'I think it's better if we keep dropping you,' Tommy added.
  
  'What's the matter? I only weigh eight and a half stone - can't you put up with that? You seem so much stronger,' Andrea said, always knowing how to manipulate men.
  
  'She weighs a lot more than eight stone,' Hanley complained quietly.
  
  'I heard that,' said Andrea, pretending to be offended.
  
  She was so moved by the experience that it was impossible for her to be angry with Hanley. The electrician did such a great job lighting the cave that she didn't even need to use the flash on her camera. The larger lens opening allowed her to get excellent shots of the final stage of the excavation.
  
  I can not believe this. We are one step away from the greatest discovery of all time, and the photo that appears on every front page will be mine!
  
  The reporter took a close look at the inside of the cave for the first time. David Pappas calculated that they needed to build a diagonal tunnel down to the supposed location of the Ark, but the route - in the most abrupt way possible - stumbled upon a natural chasm in the ground that bordered the canyon wall.
  
  
  'Imagine canyon walls thirty million years ago,' Pappas explained the day before, making a small sketch in his notebook. Back then, there was water in the area, which created the canyon. stone that surrounds the walls of the canyon like a gigantic cover that seals off the type of caves we stumbled upon. Unfortunately, my mistake cost several lives. If I had checked to make sure the ground was solid on the tunnel floor...'
  
  'I wish I could say I understand how you feel, David, but I have no idea. I can only offer you my help, and to hell with everything else.'
  
  'Thank you, Miss Otero. It means a lot to me. Especially since some members of the expedition still blame me for Stowe's death just because we argued all along.'
  
  'Call me Andrea, okay?'
  
  'Certainly'. The archaeologist shyly adjusted his glasses.
  
  Andrea noticed that David was almost exploding from the stress of it all. She thought about hugging him, but there was something about him that made her feel more and more uncomfortable. It was like the picture you were looking at suddenly lit up, revealing a completely different picture.
  
  'Tell me, David, do you think the people who buried the Ark knew about these caves?'
  
  'I don't know. Maybe there's an entrance in the canyon that we haven't found yet, because it's covered in rocks or mud, something they used when they first put the Ark in there. We'd probably have found it by now if this damn expedition hadn't been led in such a crazy way, making things up as we go. Instead, we did something that no archaeologist should ever do. Maybe a treasure hunter, yes, but that's definitely not what I was taught.'
  
  
  Andrea was taught to take pictures, and that's exactly what she did. Still battling the spinning rope, she reached over her head with her left hand and grabbed a jutting piece of rock while her right hand aimed the camera at the back of the cave: a high but narrow space with an even smaller opening at the far end. Brian Hanley installed a generator and powerful lanterns, which now cast large shadows of Professor Forrester and David Pappas on the rough stone wall. Every time one of them moved, small grains of sand fell off the rock and floated down through the air. The cave smelled dry and acrid, like a clay ashtray left too long in the oven. The professor continued to cough, although he was wearing a respirator.
  
  Andrea took a few more shots before Hanley and Tommy got tired of waiting.
  
  'Let go of the stone. We're going to take you to the bottom.'
  
  Andrea did as she was told, and a minute later she was on solid ground. She unfastened her harness and the rope went back up. Now it's Brian Hanley's turn.
  
  Andrea walked over to David Pappas, who was trying to help the professor sit up. The old man was shaking and his forehead was covered with sweat.
  
  'Drink some of my water, professor,' David said, offering him his flask.
  
  'Idiot! You drink it. You are the one who should go to the cave," said the professor. These words caused another bout of coughing. He tore off his mask and spat out a huge ball of blood on the ground. Even though his voice was damaged by the disease, the professor could still throw a sharp insult.
  
  David hung the flask back on his belt and walked over to Andrea.
  
  'Thank you for coming to help us. After the accident, only the professor and I were left ... And in his condition, he is of little use, ' he added, lowering his voice.
  
  'My cat's shit looks better.'
  
  'He's going to... well, you know. The only way he could delay the inevitable was to take the first plane to Switzerland for treatment.'
  
  'That's what I meant.'
  
  'With the dust inside that cave...'
  
  'I may not be able to breathe, but my hearing is perfect,' said the professor, though every word ended in a wheeze. 'Stop talking about me and get to work. I'm not going to die until you get the Ark out of there, you useless idiot.'
  
  David looked furious. For a moment Andrea thought he was going to answer, but the words seemed to freeze on his lips.
  
  You're in a complete ass, aren't you? You hate him to the core, but you can't resist him... He didn't just cut your nuts, he made you toast them for breakfast, Andrea thought, feeling some pity for the assistant.
  
  'Well, David, tell me what I should do.'
  
  'Follow me'.
  
  About ten feet into the cave, the surface of the wall changed slightly. If it wasn't for the thousands of watts illuminating the space, Andrea probably wouldn't have noticed. Instead of bare solid rock, there was an area that seemed to be formed from pieces of stone piled on top of each other.
  
  Whatever it was, it was man made.
  
  'My God, David'.
  
  'What I don't understand is how they managed to build such a solid wall without using any mortar and not being able to work on the other side.'
  
  'Maybe there's an exit on the other side of the cell. You said she was meant to be.'
  
  'Perhaps you're right, but I don't think so. I took new magnetometer readings. Behind this boulder is an unstable area, which we determined from our initial readings. In fact, the Copper Scroll was found in exactly the same pit as this one.'
  
  'Coincidence?'
  
  'I doubt it'.
  
  David knelt down and gently touched the wall with his fingertips. When he found the slightest crack between the stones, he tried to pull with all his might.
  
  'There is no way,' he continued. 'This hole in the cave was intentionally sealed up; and for some reason the stones became even more tightly packed than when they were first put there. Maybe over the course of two thousand years the wall has come under downward pressure. Almost as if...'
  
  'Like what?'
  
  'It's as if God himself had sealed the entrance. Do not laugh.'
  
  I'm not laughing, Andrea thought. None of this is funny.
  
  'Can't we pull out the stones one at a time?'
  
  'Not knowing how thick the wall is and what's behind it.'
  
  'And how are you going to do it?'
  
  'Looking inside'.
  
  Four hours later, with the help of Brian Hanley and Tommy Eichberg, David Pappas managed to drill a small hole in the wall. They had to dismantle the engine of a large drilling machine - which they had not yet used, since they had only to dig earth and sand - and lower it piece by piece into the tunnel. Hanley assembled a strange-looking contraption from the wreckage of a wrecked mini-excavator at the mouth of a cave.
  
  'This is recycling!' Hanley said, pleased with his creation.
  
  The result, besides being ugly, was not very practical. It took all four of them to hold him in place, pushing with all their might. To make matters worse, only the smallest drill bits could be used to avoid excessive wall vibration. 'Seven feet,' shouted Hanley over the clanging sound of the engine.
  
  David slipped a fiber optic camera connected to a small viewfinder through the hole, but the cable attached to the camera was too short and stiff, and the ground on the other side was full of obstructions.
  
  'Crap! I won't be able to see anything like that.'
  
  Feeling something hit her, Andrea put her hand to the back of her neck. Someone threw small stones at her. She turned around.
  
  Forrester tried to get her attention, unable to be heard over the noise of the engine. Pappas walked over and bent his ear to the old man.
  
  'That's it,' yelled David, excited and overjoyed at the same time. 'That's what we'll do, professor. Brian, do you think you can make the hole a little bigger? Say, about three-quarters of an inch and a quarter?'
  
  'Don't even joke about it,' said Hanley, scratching the back of his head. "We don't have one small drill left."
  
  Wearing thick gloves, he pulled out the last smoking drills that had lost their shape. Andrea remembered how she tried to hang a picture of the Manhattan skyline in a beautiful frame on a load-bearing wall in her apartment. Her drill was about as useful as a pretzel stick.
  
  'Frick would probably know what to do,' Brian said sadly, looking at the corner where his friend had died. 'He had a lot more experience with this sort of thing than I did.'
  
  Pappas didn't say anything for a couple of minutes. The others could almost hear his thoughts.
  
  'What if I let you use medium sized drills?' finally he said.
  
  'Then there would be no problem. I could do it in two hours. But the vibration will be much greater. The area is clearly unstable... it's a big risk. Are you aware of this?'
  
  David laughed, not humorously.
  
  "Are you asking me if I realize that four thousand tons of rocks could come crashing down, turning the greatest object in the history of the world into dust?" That it will destroy years of work and millions of dollars of investment? What would make it pointless to sacrifice five people?'
  
  Crap! Today he is completely different. He's just as...infected by all this as the professor, Andrea thought.
  
  'Yes, I know, Brian,' David added. 'And I'm going to take that risk.'
  
  
  66
  
  
  
  EXCAVATIONS
  
  AL-MUDAWWARA DESERT, JORDAN
  
  
  Wednesday 19 July 2006 19:01 p.m.
  
  
  Andrea took another photo of Pappas kneeling in front of a stone wall. His face was in shadow, but the device he used to look through the hole was clearly visible.
  
  Much better, David... It's not like you're particularly handsome, Andrea wryly remarked to herself. In a few hours, she would regret the thought, but at that moment, nothing was closer to the truth. This car was amazing.
  
  'Stowe used to call it an attack. Annoying robotic terrain explorer, but we call him Freddy.'
  
  'Is there any special reason?'
  
  'Just to fuck Stowe. He was an arrogant jerk,' David replied. Andrea was surprised by the anger displayed by the usually timid archaeologist.
  
  Freddie was a mobile remote controlled camera system that could be used in places where human access would be dangerous. It was designed by Stowe Erling, who unfortunately won't be there to witness his robot's debut. In order to overcome obstacles such as rocks, Freddie was fitted with treads similar to those used on tanks. The robot was also under water for up to ten minutes. Erling copied an idea from a group of archaeologists working in Boston and recreated it with the help of several MIT engineers who sued him for going on that mission with the first prototype, although that was something that no longer bothered Erling.
  
  'We'll put it through the hole to get an idea of the inside of the grotto,' David said. 'That way we can figure out if it's safe to destroy the wall without damaging what's on the other side.'
  
  'How can a robot see there?'
  
  'Freddy is equipped with night vision lenses. The central mechanism emits an infrared beam that only the lens can detect. The images are not of very good quality, but they are good enough. The only thing we have to watch out for is that it doesn't get stuck or roll over. If that happens, we're finished.'
  
  
  The first few steps were pretty easy. The opening stage, although narrow, gave Freddy enough room to sneak into the cave. Crossing the uneven area between the wall and the ground was a little more difficult as it was uneven and full of loose rocks. Luckily, the robot's tracks can be controlled independently, allowing it to turn and navigate smaller obstacles.
  
  'Sixty degrees to the left,' David said, focusing on the screen, where he could see little more than a field of rocks in black and white. Tommy Eichberg operated the instruments at David's request, as he had a steady hand despite his chubby fingers. Each track was controlled by a small wheel on a remote control connected to the Freddie via two thick cables that provided power and could also be used to manually pull the machine up if something went wrong.
  
  'We are almost there. Oh no!'
  
  The screen jumped as the robot almost toppled over.
  
  'Crap! Be careful, Tommy,' shouted David.
  
  'Calm down, boy. These wheels are more sensitive than a nun's clitoris. Excuse the expression, miss,' said Tommy, turning to Andrea. 'My mouth is straight from the Bronx'.
  
  'Do not worry about it. My ears are from Harlem,' Andrea said, agreeing with the joke.
  
  'You need to stabilize the situation a little more,' David said.
  
  'I'm trying to!'
  
  Eichberg carefully turned the steering wheel, and the robot began to cross the uneven surface.
  
  'Any idea how far Freddy covered?' Andrea asked.
  
  'About eight feet from the wall,' David replied, wiping sweat off his forehead. The temperature was rising by the minute from the generator and intense lighting.
  
  'And he has - Wait!'
  
  'What?'
  
  'I think I saw something,' said Andrea.
  
  'You are sure? It is not easy to reverse this matter.'
  
  'Tommy, please go left.'
  
  Eichberg looked at Pappas, who nodded. The image on the screen began to move slowly, showing a dark rounded outline.
  
  'Go back a little.'
  
  Two triangles with thin protrusions appeared, one next to the other.
  
  A series of squares grouped together.
  
  'A little further back. You are too close.'
  
  Finally, the geometry has been transformed into something recognizable.
  
  'Oh my God. It's a skull.'
  
  Andrea looked at Pappas with satisfaction.
  
  'Here's your answer: that's how they managed to seal the chamber from the inside, David.'
  
  The archaeologist didn't listen. He was focused on the screen, muttering, his hands clasping him like a mad soothsayer staring into a crystal ball. A drop of sweat rolled off his greasy nose and fell on the skull where the dead man's cheek should have been.
  
  Just like a tear, Andrea thought.
  
  'Hurry, Tommy! Go around it and then move forward a little more," Pappas said. His voice sounded even more tense. 'To the left, Tommy!'
  
  'Easy, kid. Let's do it calmly. I think there is...'
  
  'Let me do it,' said David, grabbing at the controls.
  
  'What are you doing?' Eichberg said angrily. 'Crap! Let go.'
  
  Pappas and Eichberg struggled for a few seconds, knocking out the steering wheel in the process. David's face was bright red and Eichberg was breathing heavily.
  
  'Be careful!' Andrea screamed as she stared at the screen. The image moved wildly.
  
  Suddenly he stopped moving. Eichberg let go of the controls and David fell backwards, cutting himself on the temple as he hit the corner of the monitor. But at that moment, he was more worried about what he had just seen than the cut on his head.
  
  'That's what I was trying to tell you, kid,' Eichberg said. 'The ground is uneven.'
  
  'Crap. Why didn't you let go?' David screamed. 'The car overturned'.
  
  "Just shut up," Eichberg shouted back. 'You're rushing things.'
  
  Andrea yelled at them both to be quiet.
  
  'Stop arguing! It didn't fail completely. Take a look.' She pointed to the screen.
  
  Still angry, the two men approached the monitor. Brian Hanley, who had gone outside to get some tools and had been rappelling down the rope during the brief fight, also moved closer.
  
  'I think we can fix it,' he said, studying the situation. 'If we all pull on the cable at the same time, we can probably get the robot back on its tracks. If we pull on it too gently, all we'll do , we'll drag him and he'll get stuck.'
  
  'It won't work,' Pappas said. 'We'll pull the cable.'
  
  'We have nothing to lose if we try, right?'
  
  They lined up, each holding the cable with both hands, as close to the hole as possible. Hanley pulled the cable tight.
  
  'By my reckoning, pull as hard as you can. One two Three!'
  
  The four of them pulled the cable at the same time. Suddenly it seemed to them too loose in their hands.
  
  'Crap. We turned it off.'
  
  Hanley kept pulling on the rope until the end came.
  
  'You are right. Crap! I'm sorry, Pappas...'
  
  The young archaeologist turned away in annoyance, ready to beat anyone or anything in front of him. He raised the wrench and was about to hit the monitor, perhaps in retaliation for the cut he'd gotten two minutes earlier.
  
  But Andrea came closer, and then she understood.
  
  No.
  
  I can not believe this.
  
  Because I never really believed in it, did I? I never thought that you could exist.
  
  The transmission from the robot remained on the screen. When they pulled on the cable, Freddie straightened up before the cable came loose. In another position, with no skull blocking the way, the image on the screen showed a flash of something that Andrea couldn't understand at first. She then realized that it was an infrared beam reflecting off a metal surface. The reporter thought she was seeing the jagged edge of what appeared to be a huge box. At the top, she thought she saw a figure, but she wasn't sure.
  
  The person who was sure was Pappas, who looked at it, mesmerized.
  
  'It's there, professor. I found this. I found it for you...'
  
  Andrea turned to the professor and took the picture without thinking. She was trying to get his first reaction, whatever it was-surprise, joy, the culmination of his long search, dedication, and emotional isolation. She took three shots before actually looking at the old man.
  
  There was no expression in his eyes, and only a trickle of blood flowed from his mouth, running down his beard.
  
  Brian ran up to him.
  
  'Crap! We have to get him out of here. He's not breathing.'
  
  
  67
  
  
  
  LOWER EAST SIDE
  
  NEW YORK
  
  
  December 1943
  
  
  Yudel was so hungry that he could barely feel the rest of his body. All he was aware of was that he was trudging through the streets of Manhattan, seeking shelter in the back alleys and alleys, never staying long in one place. There was always a sound, a light, or a voice that frightened him, and he would run away clutching a tattered change of clothes, which was the only thing he had. With the exception of his stay in Istanbul, the only houses he knew were the hideout where he lived with his family and the hold of a ship. For the boy, the chaos, noise, and bright lights of New York were part of an intimidating jungle that was full of danger. He drank from public fountains. At one point, a drunken beggar grabbed the boy by the leg as he passed by. Later, a policeman called out to him from around the corner. Its shape reminded Yudel of the flashlight-wielding monster that had been looking for them while they were hiding under the stairs in Judge Rath's house. He ran to hide.
  
  The sun was setting on the afternoon of his third day in New York, when the exhausted boy collapsed into a pile of rubbish in a dirty alley off Broome Street. Above him, the living quarters were filled with the clatter of pots and pans, arguments, sexual encounters, life. Yudel must have lost consciousness for a few moments. When he came to, something was crawling across his face. He knew what it was even before he opened his eyes. The rat paid no attention to him. He made his way to an overturned trash can, where he smelled dry bread. It was a big piece, too big to carry, so the rat ate it greedily.
  
  Yudel crawled over to the trash can and grabbed the can, his fingers trembling with hunger. He threw it at the rat and missed. The rat glanced at him briefly, then returned to chewing on the bread. The boy grabbed a broken umbrella handle and threatened the rat with it, which eventually ran off in search of an easier way to satisfy his hunger.
  
  The boy grabbed a piece of stale bread. He opened his mouth greedily, but then closed it and placed the bread in his lap. He pulled a dirty rag from his bundle, covered his head, and blessed the Lord for the gift of bread.
  
  "Baruch Atah Adonai, Eloheinu Melech ha-olam, ha motzi lehem min ha-aretz". 10
  
  A moment before, a door opened in the alley. The old rabbi, unnoticed by Yudel, witnessed the boy fighting a rat. When he heard the blessing of bread from the mouth of a starving child, a tear rolled down his cheek. He had never seen anything like it. There was no despair or doubt in this faith.
  
  The rabbi continued to look at the child for a long time. His synagogue was very poor and he could hardly find enough money to keep it open. For this reason, even he did not understand his decision.
  
  After eating the bread, Yudel instantly fell asleep among the rotting garbage. He did not wake up until he felt the rabbi carefully lift him up and carry him to the synagogue.
  
  The old stove will keep the cold for a few more nights. Let's see then, the rabbi thought.
  
  While removing the boy's dirty clothes and covering him with his only blanket, the rabbi found a blue-green card that the officers had given to Yudel on Ellis Island. On the card, the boy was identified as Raymond Kane, with family in Manhattan. He also found an envelope on which was written in Hebrew:
  
  For my son, Yudel Cohen
  
  Will not be read until your bar mitzvah in November 1951
  
  
  The rabbi opened the envelope, hoping that this would give him a clue to the boy's identity. What he read left him shocked and confused, but it confirmed his conviction that the Almighty had sent the boy to his door.
  
  Outside, snow began to fall heavily.
  
  
  68
  
  
  
  Letter from Joseph Cohen to his son Yudel
  
  Vein,
  
  Tuesday 9 February 1943
  
  Dear Yudel,
  
  I write these hurried lines in the hope that the affection we have for you will fill some of the void left by your correspondent's urgency and inexperience. I've never been one to show a lot of emotion, your mother knows that very well. Ever since you were born, the forced closeness of the space in which we were imprisoned has gnawed at my heart. It saddens me that I have never seen you play in the sun, and never will. The Eternal has forged us in a furnace of trial that has proved too difficult for us to endure. It's up to you to do what we couldn't do.
  
  In a few minutes we'll go looking for your brother and we won't be coming back. Your mother doesn't listen to reason, and I can't let her go there alone. I realize that I am walking towards certain death. By the time you read this letter, you will be thirteen years old. You will ask yourself what kind of madness led your parents to go straight into the arms of the enemy. Part of the purpose of this letter is for me to understand the answer to this question myself. As you grow up, you will know that there are some things we must do, even though we know the results may be against us.
  
  Time is running out, but I have something very important to tell you. For centuries, members of our family have been the guardians of the sacred object. This is the candle that was present at your birth. By an unfortunate coincidence, this is now the only thing we own that is of any value, which is why your mother is forcing me to risk it to save your brother. It will be as senseless a sacrifice as our own lives. But I don't mind. I wouldn't have done this if you hadn't been left behind. I believe in you. I would like to explain to you why this candle is so important, but the truth is, I don't know. I only know that it was my mission to keep him safe, a mission that was passed down from father to son for generations, and a mission that I failed in, as I failed in so many aspects of my life.
  
  Find a candle, Yudel. We're going to take this to the doctor who's keeping your brother at the Children's Hospital Am Spiegelgrund. If it will at least help buy your brother's freedom, then you can search for it together. If not, I pray to the Almighty to keep you safe and that by the time you read this, the war is finally over.
  
  There is something else. Very little remains of the large inheritance that was meant for you and Elan. The factories that belonged to our family are in the hands of the Nazis. The bank accounts we had in Austria were also confiscated. Our apartments were burned down during Kristallnacht. But, fortunately, we can leave you something. We have always kept a family emergency fund in a bank in Switzerland. We supplemented it little by little, making trips every two or three months, even if what we carried with us was only a few hundred Swiss francs. Your mom and I enjoyed our little trips and often stayed there for the weekend. It's not a fortune, about fifty thousand marks, but it will help with your education and start a job, wherever you are. The money is credited to a numbered account in Credit Suisse, number 336923348927R, in my name. The bank manager will ask for a password. This is 'Perpignan'.
  
  That's all. Say your prayers every day and do not refuse the light of the Torah. Always honor your home and your people.
  
  Blessed be the Eternal One who is our only God, the Universal Presence, the True Judge. He orders me and I order you. May He keep you safe!
  
  Your father,
  
  Joseph Cohen
  
  
  69
  
  
  
  HAKAN
  
  He held back for so long that when they finally found him, the only thing he felt was fear. Then the fear turned to relief, relief that he was finally able to get rid of this terrible mask.
  
  It was supposed to happen the next day, in the morning. They will all have breakfast in the dining tent. Nobody would suspect anything.
  
  Ten minutes ago he had crawled under the platform of the dining tent and pitched it. It was a simple device, but very powerful, perfectly disguised. They would be above it without suspecting. A minute later they had to explain themselves to Allah.
  
  He wasn't sure if he should signal after the explosion. The brothers will come and crush the arrogant little soldiers. Those who survived, of course.
  
  He decided to wait a few more hours. He would give them time to finish their work. No options, no way out.
  
  Remember the Bushmen, he thought. The monkey has found water, but hasn't brought it back yet...
  
  
  70
  
  
  
  KAIN TOWER
  
  NEW YORK
  
  
  Wednesday 19 July 2006 23:22.
  
  
  'You too, mate,' said the skinny, blond plumber. 'I don't care. I get paid whether I work or not.'
  
  'Amen to that,' agreed the plump plumber with the ponytail. The orange uniform sat so tightly on him that it looked like it was about to burst from behind.
  
  'Maybe it's better this way,' the guard said, agreeing with them. 'You come tomorrow and that's it. Don't complicate my fucking life. Two of my men are sick and I can't appoint anyone to look after you two . : without a babysitter no outside staff after eight in the evening.'
  
  'You have no idea how grateful we are,' said the blond. 'With any luck, the next shift should take care of this problem. I don't feel like fixing burst pipes.'
  
  'What? Wait, wait,' said the guard. 'What are you talking about, burst pipes?'
  
  'Just this. They failed. The same thing happened in Saatchi and Saatchi. Who handled this case, Benny?'
  
  'I think it was Louis Pigtails,' said the fat one.
  
  'Great guy Louis. God bless him.'
  
  'Amen to this. Well, see you later, sergeant. Good night.'
  
  'Shouldn't we go to Spinato, buddy?'
  
  'Do bears shit in the forest?'
  
  The two plumbers gathered their gear and headed out the door.
  
  'Wait,' said the guard, getting more and more worried by the minute. 'What happened to Louie Pigtails?'
  
  'You know, he had an emergency like this. One night, he couldn't get into the building because of an alarm or something. So the drain pipes got pressurized and started bursting, and, you know, there was shit everywhere fucking everywhere.'
  
  'Yes... like fucking Vietnam.'
  
  'Dude, you've never set foot in Vietnam, right? My father was there.'
  
  "Your father spent the seventies stoned."
  
  'The thing is, Louie with pigtails is now Bald Louie. Think about how shitty that scene was. I hope there's nothing too valuable up there, because by tomorrow everything will be shitty brown.'
  
  The guard looked back at the central monitor in the lobby. The emergency lighting in room 328E flashed yellow continuously, indicating that there was a problem with the water or gas pipes. The building was so smart that it could tell you when your shoelaces came undone.
  
  He checked the directory to check the location of 328E. When he realized where it was, he turned pale.
  
  'Damn it, this is the boardroom on the thirty-eighth floor.'
  
  'Bad deal, huh buddy?' said the fat plumber. 'I'm sure it's full of leather furniture and Van Gongs.'
  
  'Wang Gong? What the hell! You have no culture at all. This is Van Gogh. God. You know.'
  
  'I know who he is. Italian artist.'
  
  'Van Gogh was a German, and you're a moron. Let's split up and go to the Spinato before they close. I'm starving here.'
  
  The guard, who was an art lover, did not bother to claim that Van Gogh was actually Dutch, because at that moment he remembered that there really was a painting by Zann hanging in the meeting room.
  
  'Guys, wait a minute,' he said as he stepped out from behind the reception desk and ran after the plumbers. 'Let's talk about this...'
  
  
  Orville flopped into the boardroom presidential chair, a chair the owner almost never used. He thought he might take a nap there, surrounded by all those mahogany panels. As soon as he recovered from the adrenaline rush caused by performing in front of the building's security guard, fatigue and pain in his arms washed over him again.
  
  'Damn it, I thought he would never leave'.
  
  'You did a great job convincing the guy, Orville. Congratulations,' said Albert, pulling out the top level of his toolbox, from which he removed the notebook.
  
  'It's an easy enough procedure to get in here,' Orville said, pulling on the huge gloves that covered his bandaged hands. 'It's good that you were able to enter the code for me.'
  
  'Let's start. I think we have about half an hour before they decide to send someone to check on us. At this point, if we don't manage to get inside, we'll have about five more minutes before they get to us. Show me the way, Orville.'
  
  The first panel was simple. The system was programmed to only recognize the handprints of Raymond Kane and Jacob Russell. But it had a bug that is common to all systems that rely on an electronic code that uses a lot of information. And the whole palm print is, of course, a whole bunch of information. In the expert's opinion, the code was easy to detect in the system's memory.
  
  'Bim-bam, here's the first one,' Albert said as he closed his laptop as an orange light lit up on the black screen and the heavy door hummed open.
  
  'Albert... They're going to realize there's something wrong,' Orville said, pointing to the area around the plate where the priest had used a screwdriver to open the lid to get to the system's circuits. The wood was now cracked and splintered.
  
  'I'm counting on it.'
  
  'Are you kidding'.
  
  'Trust me, okay?' said the priest, reaching into his pocket.
  
  The mobile phone rang.
  
  'Do you think it's a good idea to answer the phone right now?' Orville asked.
  
  'I agree,' said the priest. 'Hello, Anthony. We're inside. Call me in twenty minutes.' He hung up.
  
  Orville pushed open the door and they entered a narrow, carpeted hallway that led to Kine's private elevator.
  
  "I wonder what kind of trauma a person has to go through to lock themselves behind so many walls," Albert said.
  
  
  71
  
  
  
  MP3 file retrieved by the Jordanian Desert Police from Andrea Otero's digital recorder after the disaster of the Moses Expedition
  
  QUESTION: I want to thank you for your time and your patience, Mr. Kane. This turns out to be a very difficult task. I really appreciate how you shared the most painful details of your life, such as your flight from the Nazis and your arrival in the United States. These incidents add real human depth to your public persona.
  
  
  ANSWER: My dear young lady, it's not like you beat around the bush before asking me what you want to know.
  
  
  Q: Great, everyone seems to be giving me advice on how to do my job.
  
  
  A: I'm sorry. Please continue.
  
  
  Question: Mr. Kane, I understand that your illness, your agoraphobia, was caused by painful events in your childhood.
  
  
  A: This is what doctors believe.
  
  
  Question: Let's continue in chronological order, although we may have to make some adjustments when the interview is broadcast on the radio. You lived with Rabbi Menachem Ben Shlomo until you came of age.
  
  
  A: That's right. The rabbi was like a father to me. He fed me even if he had to starve. He gave a purpose to my life so that I could find the strength within myself to overcome my fears. It took more than four years before I was able to go outside and interact with other people.
  
  
  Question: It was a real achievement. A child who couldn't even look another person in the eye without having a panic attack became one of the greatest engineers in the world...
  
  
  A: It only happened because of the love and faith of Rabbi Ben Shlomo. I thank the All-Merciful for giving me into the hands of such a great man.
  
  
  Q: Then you became a multimillionaire and finally a philanthropist.
  
  
  A: I prefer not to discuss the last point. I am not very comfortable talking about my charitable work. I always feel like it's never enough.
  
  
  Q: Let's go back to the last question. When did you realize that you could lead a normal life?
  
  
  A: Never. I have struggled with this disease all my life, my dear. There are good days and bad days.
  
  
  Question: You run your business with an iron fist, and it is one of the top 50 of Fortune's 500 companies. I think you can say that there were more good days than bad ones. You also got married and had a son.
  
  
  A : That's right, but I'd rather not talk about my private life.
  
  
  Question: Your wife left and went to live in Israel. She is an artist.
  
  
  A: She painted some very beautiful paintings, I can assure you.
  
  Question: What about Isaac?
  
  
  A: He... was great. Something special.
  
  
  Question: Mr. Kane, I can imagine how difficult it is for you to talk about your son, but this is an important point, and I want to continue it. Especially seeing the look on your face. It is clear that you loved him very much.
  
  
  A: Do you know how he died?
  
  
  Question: I know that he was one of the victims of the attack on the Twin Towers. And as a result of... fourteen, almost fifteen hours of interviews, I understand that his death triggered the return of your illness.
  
  
  A: I'm going to ask Jacob to come in now. I want you to leave.
  
  
  Question: Mr. Kane, I think deep down you really want to talk about this; you need. I'm not going to bombard you with cheap psychology. But do what you think is best.
  
  
  A: Turn off your tape recorder, young lady. I want to think.
  
  
  Question: Mr. Kane, thank you for continuing the interview. When you're ready...
  
  
  A: Isaac was everything to me. He was tall, slim and very handsome. Look at his photo.
  
  
  Q: He has a nice smile.
  
  
  A: I think you would like it. In fact, he was very similar to you. He would rather ask for forgiveness than permission. He had the power and energy of a nuclear reactor. And everything he achieved, he did himself.
  
  
  Q: With all due respect, it is difficult to accept such a statement about a person who was born to inherit such a fortune.
  
  
  A: What should the father say? The Almighty told the prophet David that he 'will be His son forever'. After such a display of love, my words... But I see that you are just trying to provoke me.
  
  
  B: Forgive me.
  
  
  A: Isaac had many faults, but taking the easy path was not one of them. He never worried about going against my wishes. He went to study at Oxford, a university to which I made no contribution.
  
  
  Question: And there he met Mr. Russell, is that correct?
  
  
  A: They studied macroeconomics together, and after Jacob finished his studies, Isaac recommended him to me. Over time, Jacob became my right hand.
  
  
  Question: The position that you would like to see Isaac.
  
  
  A: And which he would never accept. When he was very young... [restrained sob]
  
  
  Question: Now we continue the interview.
  
  A: Thanks. Forgive me for being emotional at this memory. He was only a child, no older than eleven. One day he came home with a dog he found on the street. I got very angry. I don't like animals. Do you like dogs, my dear?
  
  
  Q: Great deal.
  
  
  A: Well, then you should have seen it. It was an ugly mongrel, dirty, and she had only three legs. It looked like it had been on the streets for years. The only sensible thing to do with such an animal is to take it to the vet and put an end to its suffering. I said this to Isaac. He looked at me and said, 'You were picked up on the street too, father. Do you think the rabbi should have put an end to your suffering?'
  
  Question: Oh!
  
  
  A : I felt an internal shock caused by both fear and pride. This child was my son! I gave him permission to keep the dog if he took responsibility for it. And he did. The creature lived for another four years.
  
  
  Q: I think I understand what you said earlier.
  
  
  A: Even when he was a boy, my son knew he didn't want to live in my shadow. On his... last day he went to a job interview at Cantor Fitzgerald. He was on the 104th floor of the North Tower.
  
  
  Question: Do you want to stay for a while?
  
  
  A: Nichtgedeiget. I'm all right, dear. Isaac called me that Tuesday morning. I watched what was happening on CNN. I didn't talk to him all weekend, so it didn't occur to me that he might be there.
  
  
  Question: Drink some water, please.
  
  
  A: I picked up the phone. He said, 'Dad, I'm at the World Trade Center. There was an explosion. I'm very scared.' I wake up. I was shocked. I think I yelled at him. I don't remember what I said. He told me, 'I've been trying to get through to you for ten minutes. The network must be overloaded. Dad I love you'. I told him to remain calm, that I would call the authorities. We'll get him out of there. 'We can't go down the stairs, dad. The floor below us has collapsed, and the fire is spreading through the building. It is very hot. I want...' And that was it. He was twenty-four years old. [Long pause.] I stare at the phone, stroking it with my fingertips. I didn't understand. The connection was interrupted. I think there was a short circuit in my brain at that moment. The rest of the day was completely erased from my memory.
  
  
  Question: Have you learned anything else?
  
  
  A: I wish it were that way. The next day I opened the papers for news of the survivors. Then I saw his photo. He was there, in the air, free. He jumped.
  
  
  Question: Oh my God. I'm sorry, Mr. Kane.
  
  A: I'm not like that. The flames and heat must have been unbearable. He found the strength to break the windows and choose his fate. Perhaps he was destined to die that day, but no one was going to tell him how. He accepted his fate as a man. He died strong, flying, master of the ten seconds he was in the air. The plans I had made for him all these years had come to an end.
  
  
  B: My God, this is terrible.
  
  
  A: All this would be for him. All this.
  
  
  72
  
  
  
  KAIN TOWER
  
  NEW YORK
  
  
  Wednesday 19 July 2006 11:39 p.m.
  
  
  'Are you sure you don't remember anything?'
  
  'I am telling you. He made me turn around and then punched in a few numbers.'
  
  'It can't go on like this. There are still about sixty percent of the combinations to be completed. You have to give me something. Anything.'
  
  They were next to the elevator doors. This discussion group was certainly more complex than the previous one. Unlike the palm print-driven panel, it was a simple ATM-like numeric keypad and it was nearly impossible to extract a short numeric sequence from any large amount of memory. To open the elevator doors, Albert connected a long, thick cable to the entrance panel, intending to crack the code using a simple but brutal method. In the broadest sense, this consisted of forcing the computer to try every possible combination, from all zeros to all nines, which could take quite a long time.
  
  'We have three minutes to enter this elevator. It will take at least another six minutes for the computer to scan the twenty digit sequence. That is, as long as it doesn't crash in the meantime because I switched all the CPU power to the decryption program.'
  
  The fan in the laptop was making a hell of a noise, like a hundred bees trapped in a shoe box.
  
  Orville tried to remember. He turned to face the wall and looked at his watch. No more than three seconds passed.
  
  'I'm going to limit it to ten digits,' Albert said.
  
  'You are sure?' Orville said, turning around.
  
  'Absolutely. I don't think we have any other option.'
  
  'How long will it take?'
  
  'Four minutes,' said Albert, scratching his chin nervously. 'Let's hope this isn't the last combination he tries, because I can hear them coming.'
  
  At the other end of the corridor, someone was banging on the door.
  
  
  73
  
  
  
  EXCAVATIONS
  
  AL-MUDAWWARA DESERT, JORDAN
  
  
  Thursday, July 20 6:39 am.
  
  
  For the first time since they'd reached Talon Canyon eight days earlier, dawn had caught most of the expedition's members asleep. Five of them, under six feet of sand and rocks, would never wake up again.
  
  Others shivered in the morning chill under their camouflage blankets. They stared at where the horizon should have been and waited for the sun to rise, turning the cold air into hell for the hottest day in a Jordanian summer in forty-five years. From time to time they nodded in concern, and that in itself frightened them. For every soldier, the night watch is the heaviest; and for one with blood on his hands, this is the time when the ghosts of those he has killed may come to whisper in his ear.
  
  Halfway between the five resting underground and the three guarding the cliff, fifteen people rolled over in their sleeping bags; perhaps they missed the sound of the horn that Professor Forrester used to get them out of bed before dawn. The sun rose at 5:33 am and was greeted with silence.
  
  Around 6:15 a.m., about the same time that Orville Watson and Father Albert entered the lobby of the Kine Tower, the first member of the expedition to come to his senses was chef Nuri Zayit. He kicked his assistant Rani and went outside. As soon as he got to the dining tent, he started making instant coffee using condensed milk instead of water. There weren't many cases of milk or juice left as people were drinking them to make up for the lack of water and there was no fruit, so the only thing the chef could do was make omelettes and scrambled eggs. The old mute poured all his energy and a handful of leftover parsley into the meal, communicating, as he always did, with his culinary skills.
  
  In the infirmary tent, Harel freed herself from Andrea's embrace and went to see Professor Forester. The old man was connected to an oxygen tank, but his condition only worsened. The doctor doubted he would last much longer than that night. Shaking her head to dispel the thought, she returned to wake Andrea with a kiss. While they caressed each other and had small talk, they both began to realize that they were falling in love. Finally they got dressed and went to the dining room to have breakfast.
  
  Fowler, who now only shared a tent with Pappas, started his day against his better judgment and made a mistake. Thinking that everyone in the soldiers' tent was asleep, he slipped out and called Albert on the satellite phone. The young priest answered and impatiently asked him to call back in twenty minutes. Fowler hung up, relieved that the call had been so short, but worried that he would have to try his luck again so soon.
  
  As for David Pappas, he woke up shortly before half past six and went to visit Professor Forrester, hoping he would be better, but also hoping to get rid of the guilt he felt from last night's dream in which he was the only archaeologist left alive. when the Ark finally saw daylight.
  
  In the soldier's tent, Marla Jackson, from her mattress, covered the back of her commander and lover - they never slept together when they were on a mission, but from time to time secretly went together on 'intelligence'. She wondered what the South African was thinking.
  
  Dekker was one of those for whom dawn brought the breath of the dead, which made the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. In the brief moment of wakefulness between two successive nightmares, he thought he saw a signal on the frequency scanner screen, but it was too fast to locate. Suddenly he jumped up and started giving orders.
  
  In Raymond Kane's tent, Russell laid out his boss' clothes and urged him to at least take his red pill. Reluctantly, Cain agreed and then spat it out when Russell wasn't looking. He felt strangely calm. At last the whole purpose of his sixty-eight years will be achieved.
  
  In a more modest tent, Tommy Eichberg discreetly put his finger up his nose, scratched his bottom, and went to the bathroom in search of Brian Hanley. He needed his help to fix a part needed for a drill. They had to climb eight feet of wall, but if they drilled from above, they could reduce the vertical pressure a little and then remove the stones by hand. If they worked quickly, they could be completed in six hours. Of course, it didn't help that Hanley was nowhere to be seen.
  
  As for Hukan, he looked at his watch. During the last week he had worked out the best place from which to get a good view of the entire site. Now he was waiting for the soldiers to change. The wait suited him just fine. He's been waiting all his life.
  
  
  74
  
  
  
  KAIN TOWER
  
  NEW YORK
  
  
  Wednesday, July 19, 2006 at 11:41 am.
  
  
  7456898123
  
  The computer found the code in exactly two minutes and forty-three seconds. This was fortunate because Albert miscalculated how long it would take for the guards to show up. The door at the end of the corridor opened almost at the same time as the elevator door.
  
  'Hold it!'
  
  Two guards and a policeman entered the corridor, frowning, their pistols at the ready. They were not too pleased with all this excitement. Albert and Orville rushed to the elevator. They could hear the sound of running feet across the carpet and saw a hand outstretched to try and stop the elevator. Missed by a few inches.
  
  The door creaked closed. Outside, they could hear the muffled voices of the guards.
  
  'How do you open this thing?' the policeman asked.
  
  'They won't go far. To operate this elevator, you need a special key. Nobody can make it pass without it.'
  
  'Activate the emergency system you told me about.'
  
  'Yes, sir. Immediately. It will be like shooting a fish in a barrel.'
  
  Orville felt his heart pounding as he turned to Albert.
  
  'Damn it, they're going to get to us!'
  
  The priest smiled.
  
  'What the hell is going on with you? Come up with something, - hissed Orville.
  
  "I already have. When we entered the Kayn Tower computer system this morning, it was impossible to get to the electronic key in their system that opens the elevator doors.'
  
  'Damned impossible,' agreed Orville, who didn't like to be beaten by something, but in this case ran into the mother of all firewalls.
  
  'You can be a great spy and you certainly know a few tricks... but you're missing one thing that a great hacker needs: thinking outside the box,' said Albert. He folded his arms behind his head as if he were resting in his living room. 'When the doors are locked, you use the windows. Or in this case, you change the sequence that determines the position of the elevator, and the order of the floors. A simple move that hasn't been blocked. Now Kayn's computer thinks the elevator is on the thirty-ninth floor instead of the thirty-eighth.'
  
  'So what?' asked Orville, slightly annoyed by the priest's boasting, but also curious.
  
  "Well, my friend, in this kind of situation, all the emergency systems in this city cause the elevators to go down to the last available floor and then open the doors."
  
  At that very moment, after a brief shudder, the elevator began to rise. They could hear the screams of the shocked guards outside.
  
  'Up is down and down is up,' Orville said, clapping his hands in the middle of a cloud of peppermint disinfectant. 'You're a genius.'
  
  
  75
  
  
  
  EXCAVATIONS
  
  AL-MUDAWWARA DESERT, JORDAN
  
  
  Thursday 20 July 2006 6:43 am.
  
  
  Fowler was not prepared to risk Andrea's life again. Using a satellite phone without any precautions was insane.
  
  It didn't make sense for someone with his experience to make the same mistake twice. This will be the third time.
  
  The first was the previous night. The priest looked up from his prayer book as the excavation team emerged from the cave, carrying the half-dead body of Professor Forrester. Andrea ran up to him and told him what had happened. The reporter said that they were sure that the golden box was hidden in the cave, and Fowler had no more doubts. Taking advantage of the general excitement caused by the news, he called Albert, who explained that he was going to try one last time to get information about the terrorist group and Haqan around midnight in New York, a couple of hours after dawn in Jordan. The call lasted exactly thirteen seconds.
  
  The second happened earlier that morning when Fowler hurried up and called. This call lasted six seconds. He doubted the scanner had time to determine where the signal came from.
  
  The third call was due in six and a half minutes.
  
  Albert, for God's sake, don't let me down.
  
  
  76
  
  
  
  KAIN TOWER
  
  NEW YORK
  
  
  Wednesday 19 July 2006 11:45 p.m.
  
  
  'How do you think they'll get there?' Orville asked.
  
  'I think they'll bring in a SWAT team and rappel down from the roof, maybe shoot at the glass windows and all that shit.'
  
  'SWAT team for a couple of unarmed robbers? Don't you think it's like using a tank to hunt a couple of mice.'
  
  'Look at it the other way, Orville: two strangers broke into the private office of a paranoid multimillionaire. You should be happy they're not going to drop a bomb on us. Now let me focus. To be the only one with access to this floor, Russell must have a very secure computer.'
  
  'Don't tell me that after everything we've been through to get here, you can't get into his computer!'
  
  'I did not say that. I'm just saying it'll take me at least another ten seconds.'
  
  Albert wiped sweat from his forehead, then let his hands flutter over the keyboard. Even the best hacker in the world will not be able to break into a computer if it is not connected to a server. This was their problem from the very beginning. They tried everything to find Russell's computer on Kayn's network. This was not possible because from a systems point of view, the computers on this floor did not belong to Kayn Tower. To his surprise, Albert learned that not only Russell but also Kine used computers that were connected to the Internet and to each other via 3G cards, two of the hundreds of thousands that were in operation in New York at the time. Without this vital information, Albert could have spent decades searching the Internet for two invisible computers.
  
  They must be paying more than five hundred dollars a day for broadband usage, not to mention calls, Albert thought. I guess it's nothing when you're worth millions. Especially when you can keep people like us at bay with such a simple trick.
  
  'I think I've succeeded,' the priest said as the screen changed from black to bright blue, indicating system startup. 'Any progress finding this disk?'
  
  Orville rummaged through the drawers and the only filing cabinet in Russell's neat and elegant office, pulling out folders and dumping them on the carpet. Now, in a frenzy, he tore pictures off the wall, searched for a safe, and ripped open the bottoms of chairs with a silver letter opener.
  
  'Looks like there's nothing to look for here,' said Orville, pushing one of Russell's chairs with his foot so he could sit next to Albert. The bandages on his hands were covered in blood again, and his round face was pale.
  
  'Paranoid son of a bitch. They only talked to each other. No external emails. Russell must use a different computer to run his business.'
  
  'He must have taken him to Jordan.'
  
  'I need your help. What are we looking for?'
  
  A minute later, after entering every password he could think of, Orville gave up.
  
  'It's useless. There is nothing there. And if there was, he'd already erased it.'
  
  'This makes me think. Wait," Albert said, pulling a gum-sized flash drive from his pocket and plugging it into the computer's CPU so that it interacts with the hard drive. 'A small program in this crumb will allow you to extract information from deleted partitions on your hard drive. We can start from there.'
  
  'Fabulous. Look for Netcatch.'
  
  'Right!'
  
  With a little noise, a list of fourteen files appeared in the program's search window. Albert opened them all at once.
  
  'These are HTML files. Saved websites.'
  
  'Do you recognize anything?'
  
  'Yes, I saved them myself. This is what I call server conversations. Terrorists never email each other when they are planning an attack. Any idiot knows that email can go through twenty or thirty servers before reaching its destination, so you never know who is watching your message. What they do is give everyone in the cell the same free account password and they write whatever they need to send as a draft email message. It's like writing to yourself, except it's a whole cell of terrorists talking to each other. The email was never sent. This will get you nowhere because each of the terrorists uses the same account and...
  
  Orville stood paralyzed in front of the screen, so dazed that he momentarily forgot to breathe. The unthinkable, something he had never imagined, suddenly became apparent right before his eyes.
  
  'This is wrong,' he said.
  
  'What's the matter, Orville?'
  
  'I... hack thousands and thousands of accounts every week. When we copy files from a web server, we save only the text. If we didn't, the images would quickly fill up our hard drives. The result is ugly, but you can still read it.'
  
  Orville pointed with a bandaged finger at the computer screen where the Maktoob.com e-mail conversation between the terrorists was taking place, showing colored buttons and images that wouldn't be there if it were one of the files he hacked and saved.
  
  'Someone logged into Maktoob.com from a browser on this computer, Albert. Even though they erased it after completion, the images remained in the memory cache. And to get to Maktub...'
  
  Albert understood before Orville could even finish.
  
  'Whoever was here must have known the password.'
  
  Orville agreed.
  
  'This is Russell, Albert. Russell is a hakan.'
  
  At that moment shots rang out, breaking a large window.
  
  
  77
  
  
  
  EXCAVATIONS
  
  AL-MUDAWWARA DESERT, JORDAN
  
  
  Thursday 20 July 2006 6:49 am.
  
  
  Fowler looked carefully at his watch. Nine seconds before the agreed time, the unexpected happened.
  
  Albert called.
  
  The priest went to the entrance to the canyon to make a phone call. There was a blind spot that the soldier, watching from the south end of the cliff, could not see. The moment he turned on the phone, the phone rang. Fowler knew immediately that something was wrong.
  
  'Albert, what happened?'
  
  On the other end of the line, he heard several screaming voices. Fowler tried to figure out what was going on.
  
  'Hang up!'
  
  'Officer, I have to call!' Albert's voice sounded distant, as if he didn't have a phone to his ear, 'This is really important. It's a matter of national security.'
  
  'I told you to drop that fucking phone'.
  
  'I'm going to slowly put my hand down and talk. If you see me doing something suspicious, then shoot me.'
  
  'This is my last warning. Drop it!'
  
  'Anthony,' Albert's voice was even and clear. He finally put the earpiece in. 'Can you hear me?'
  
  'Yes, Albert'.
  
  'Russell is a hakan. Confirmed. Be careful-'
  
  The connection was interrupted. Fowler felt a wave of shock wash over his body. He turned to run towards the camp, then everything went dark.
  
  
  78
  
  
  
  INSIDE THE DINING TENT, FIFTY-THREE SECONDS BEFORE
  
  Andrea and Harel stopped at the entrance to the dining tent when they saw David Pappas running towards them. Pappas was wearing a bloody T-shirt and appeared to be disoriented.
  
  'Doctor, doctor!'
  
  'What the hell is going on, David?' Harel replied. She had been in the same bad mood ever since the water incident made 'proper coffee' a thing of the past.
  
  'This is a professor. He's in bad shape.'
  
  David volunteered to stay with Forrester while Andrea and Doc went to breakfast. The only thing that delayed the demolition of the wall to get to the Ark was Forrester's condition, although Russell wanted to continue the previous night's work. David refused to open the cavity until the professor had a chance to recover and join them. Andrea, whose opinion of Pappas had been getting worse and worse over the past few hours, suspected that he was just waiting for Forrester to finally get out of the way.
  
  'Fine'. Doc sighed. 'You go ahead, Andrea. It makes no sense for both of us to skip breakfast.' She ran back to the infirmary.
  
  The reporter quickly looked inside the dining tent. Zayit and Peterke waved back at her. Andrea liked the mute cook and his assistant, but the only people sitting at the tables at that moment were two soldiers, Alois Gottlieb and Louis Maloney, who were eating from their trays. Andrea was surprised that there were only two of them, because the soldiers usually had breakfast together, leaving only one lookout on the south ridge for half an hour. In fact, breakfast was the only time she saw soldiers together in the same place.
  
  Since Andrea didn't care about their company, she decided she would come back and see if she could help Harel.
  
  Even though my medical knowledge is so limited, I would probably wear a hospital gown backwards.
  
  Then Doc turned around and yelled, 'Do me a favor, get me a big coffee, okay?'
  
  Andrea stuck one foot into the canteen tent, trying to figure out the best route to avoid the sweaty soldiers who were hunched over their food like monkeys when she nearly crashed into Nuri Zayit. The cook must have seen the doctor running back to the infirmary because he handed Andrea a tray with two cups of instant coffee and a plate of toast.
  
  'Instant coffee dissolved in milk, is that right, Nuri?'
  
  The mute smiled and shrugged, saying it wasn't his fault.
  
  'I know. Maybe tonight we'll see water gushing out of the stone and all these biblical things. In any case, thank you.'
  
  Slowly, making sure she didn't spill the coffee because she knew she wasn't the most coordinated person in the world, though she would never admit it out loud, she made her way to the infirmary. Nuri waved at her from the entrance to the dining room, still smiling.
  
  And then it happened.
  
  Andrea felt as if a giant hand lifted her from the ground and threw her six and a half feet into the air before throwing her back. She felt a sharp pain in her left arm and a terrible burning sensation in her chest and back. She turned around just in time to see thousands of small pieces of burning cloth falling from the sky. The plume of black smoke was all that was left of what had been a dining tent two seconds earlier. High above, the smoke seemed to mix with other, much blacker smoke. Andrea couldn't figure out where it came from. She gently touched her chest and realized that her shirt was covered in a hot, sticky liquid.
  
  Doc came running.
  
  "Are you all right?" Oh God, are you okay, dear?'
  
  Andrea knew Harel was screaming, though her voice sounded far away from the whistling in Andrea's ears. She felt the doctor examining her neck and arms.
  
  'My chest'.
  
  'Are you okay. It's just coffee.'
  
  Andrea stood up cautiously and saw that she had spilled the coffee all over herself. Her right hand was still gripping the tray while her left hand hit the stone. She wiggled her fingers, fearful that she was hurt more. Luckily, nothing was broken, but her entire left side seemed to be paralyzed.
  
  While several members of the expedition tried to put out the fire using sand buckets, Harel focused on caring for Andrea's wounds. The reporter had cuts and scrapes on the left side of his body. Her hair and skin on her back were slightly burned, and her ears were constantly ringing.
  
  'The buzzing will go away in three to four hours,' Harel said, putting the stethoscope back in her trouser pocket.
  
  'I'm sorry...' Andrea said, almost screaming without realizing it. She cried.
  
  'You have nothing to apologize for'.
  
  'He... Nuri... brought me coffee. If I went inside to pick it up, I'd be dead right now. I could ask him to come out and smoke a cigarette with me. I could save his life in return.'
  
  Harel pointed to the surroundings. Both the canteen tent and the fuel truck were blown up - two separate explosions at the same time. Four people were reduced to nothing but ashes.
  
  'The only one who should feel something is the son of a bitch who did it'.
  
  'Don't worry about it lady, we have it,' Torres said.
  
  He and Jackson were dragging a handcuffed man by the legs. They placed it in the middle of the square near the tents, while the other members of the expedition looked on in shock, unable to believe what they were seeing.
  
  
  79
  
  
  
  EXCAVATIONS
  
  AL-MUDAWWARA DESERT, JORDAN
  
  
  Thursday 20 July 2006 6:49 am.
  
  
  Fowler raised a hand to his forehead. She was bleeding. The explosion of the truck sent him to the ground and he hit his head on something. He tried to get up and head back to the camp, still holding the satellite phone in his hand. In the middle of his hazy vision and thick cloud of smoke, he saw two soldiers approaching with pistols pointed at him.
  
  'It was you, you son of a bitch!'
  
  'Look, he's still holding the phone in his hand.'
  
  'That's what you used to set off the explosions, wasn't it, bastard?'
  
  The rifle butt hit him on the head. He fell to the ground, but felt no kicks or other blows to his body. He lost consciousness long before that.
  
  
  'This is ridiculous,' Russell shouted, joining the group crowding around Father Fowler: Dekker, Torres, Jackson, and Alric Gottlieb on the soldier side; Eichberg, Hanley, and Pappas on what was left of the civilians.
  
  With Harel's help, Andrea tried to get up and approach the group of menacing faces that were black with soot.
  
  'That's not funny, sir,' Dekker said, tossing Fowler's satellite phone. 'He had it when we found him near the fuel truck. Thanks to the scanner, we know he made a short phone call this morning, so we already suspected him. Instead of going to breakfast, we took our positions and watched him.Fortunately.'
  
  'It's just...' Andrea began, but Harel tugged at her arm.
  
  'Quiet. It won't help him,' she whispered.
  
  Exactly. What I meant to say is that this is the secret phone he uses to contact the CIA? It's not the best way to defend your innocence, idiot.
  
  'This is a phone. Certainly something that is not allowed on this expedition, but it is not enough to accuse this person of organizing the bombings," Russell said.
  
  'Maybe not just the phone, sir. But look what we found in his briefcase. '
  
  Jackson tossed the ruined briefcase in front of them. It was emptied and the bottom cover was torn off. Glued to the base was a secret compartment with small bars that looked like marzipan.
  
  'This is C4, Mr Russell,' Dekker continued.
  
  The information made them all hold their breath. Alric then drew his pistol.
  
  'That pig killed my brother. Let me put a bullet in his fucking skull,' he yelled, beside himself with rage.
  
  'I've heard enough,' said a soft but confident voice.
  
  The circle opened, and Raymond Kine approached the unconscious body of the priest. He leaned over him, one figure in black and the other in white.
  
  'I can understand what made this man do what he did. But this mission has been delayed too long, and it can no longer be postponed. Pappas, please get back to work and tear down the wall.'
  
  "Mr. Cain, I can't do this without knowing what's going on here," Pappas replied.
  
  Brian Hanley and Tommy Eichberg crossed their arms and walked over to stand next to Pappas. Kine didn't even look at them twice.
  
  'Mr Dekker?'
  
  'Sir?' asked the big South African.
  
  'Please show your authority. The time for subtleties has passed.'
  
  'Jackson,' Dekker said, signaling.
  
  The soldier raised her M4 and aimed it at the three insurgents.
  
  'You must be joking,' complained Eichberg, whose big red nose was a couple of inches from the muzzle of Jackson's gun.
  
  'This is not a joke, honey. Start walking or I'll shoot your new ass.' Jackson cocked her weapon with an ominous metallic click.
  
  Ignoring the others, Cain approached Harel and Andrea.
  
  'As for you, young ladies, it was a pleasure to be able to count on your services. Mr. Dekker guarantees your return to the Behemoth.'
  
  'What are you talking about?' howled Andrea, who, despite her hearing problems, picked up some of what Cain had said. 'Damn son of a bitch! They're going to extract the Ark in a few hours. Let me stay until tomorrow. You owe me.'
  
  'Are you saying that the fisherman owes the worm? Take them. Oh, and make sure they leave with just what they're wearing. Ask the reporter to pass the disc with her photos.'
  
  Dekker took Alric aside and spoke to him quietly.
  
  'You take them.'
  
  'Bullshit. I want to stay here and deal with the priest. He killed my brother,' said the German, his eyes bloodshot.
  
  'He will still be alive when you get back. Now do as you're told. Torres will make sure he's nice and warm for you.'
  
  'Damn it, Colonel. The journey from here to Aqaba and back takes at least three hours, even if we drive at top speed in a Humvee. If Torres gets to the priest, there won't be anything left of him by the time I get back.'
  
  'Trust me, Gottlieb. You'll be back in an hour.'
  
  'What do you mean, sir?'
  
  Dekker looked at him seriously, annoyed at his subordinate's slowness. He hated spelling things out.
  
  Sarsaparilla, Gottlieb. And do it quickly.'
  
  
  80
  
  
  
  EXCAVATIONS
  
  AL-MUDAWWARA DESERT, JORDAN
  
  
  Thursday 20 July 2006 7:14 am.
  
  
  Sitting in the back seat of the H3, Andrea half closed her eyes in a vain attempt to control the dust that rushed in through the windows. The fuel truck explosion blew out the windows of the car and shattered the windshield, and although Alric patched up some of the holes with duct tape and a few shirts, he worked so fast that sand still got in in some places. Harel complained, but the soldier did not answer. He held the steering wheel with both hands, his knuckles white and his mouth tense. He had crossed the large dune at the mouth of the canyon in just three minutes, and now he was stepping on the accelerator as if his life depended on it.
  
  "It won't be the most comfortable trip in the world, but at least we're getting home," Doc said, placing her hand on Andrea's hip. Andrea squeezed her hand tightly.
  
  'Why did he do it, doc? Why did he have explosives in his briefcase? Tell me they planted them on him,' said the young reporter almost pleadingly.
  
  The doctor leaned closer so that Alric couldn't hear her, though she doubted he could hear anything over the noise of the engine and the wind slamming the temporary covers on the windows.
  
  'I don't know, Andrea, but the explosives belonged to him.'
  
  'How do you know?' Andrea asked, her eyes suddenly serious.
  
  'Cause he told me. After you heard the soldiers talking when you were under their tent, he came to me for help with a crazy plan to blow up the water supply.'
  
  'Doc, what are you talking about? Did you know about it?'
  
  'He came here because of you. He already saved your life once, and according to the code of honor that people like him live by, he believes that he should help you any time you need help. In any case, for reasons I don't quite understand, it was his boss who got you into this in the first place. He wanted to make sure Fowler was on the expedition.'
  
  'So that's why Cain mentioned the worm?'
  
  'Yes. For Kaine and his people, you were just a way to control Fowler. Everything was a lie from the start.'
  
  'And what will happen to him now?'
  
  'Forget about him. They'll interrogate him, and then... he'll disappear. And before you say anything, don't even think about going back there.'
  
  The reality of the situation stunned the reporter.
  
  'Why, doc?' Andrea pulled away from her in disgust. "Why didn't you tell me, after everything we've been through?" You swore that you would never lie to me again. You swore when we made love. I don't know how I could be so stupid...'
  
  'I talk a lot.' A tear rolled down Harel's cheek, but when she continued, her voice was steely. 'His mission is different from mine. To me, it was just another one of those stupid expeditions that happen from time to time. But Fowler knew it could be real. And if that was the case, he knew he had to do something about it.'
  
  'And what was that? Blow us all up?'
  
  'I don't know who set off the explosion this morning, but trust me, it wasn't Anthony Fowler.'
  
  'But you didn't say anything.'
  
  'I couldn't say anything without giving myself away,' Harel said, looking away. 'I knew they'd get us out of there... I... wanted to be with you. Away from the dig. Away from my life, I guess. '
  
  'What about Forrester? He was your patient and you left him there.'
  
  'He died this morning, Andrea. In fact, just before the explosion. He's been sick for years, you know that.'
  
  Andrea shook her head.
  
  If I were an American, I would win a Pulitzer Prize, but at what cost?
  
  'I can not believe this. So much death, so much violence, all for the sake of a ridiculous museum piece.'
  
  'Fowler didn't explain that to you? Much more is at stake...' Harel trailed off as the Hammer slowed.
  
  'This is wrong,' she said, peering through the cracks in the window. 'There's nothing here'.
  
  The vehicle came to an abrupt stop.
  
  'Hey Alric, what are you doing?' Andrea said. Why are we stopping?'
  
  The big German said nothing. Very slowly, he took the keys out of the ignition, applied the handbrake, and got out of the Hummer, slamming the door.
  
  'Crap. They wouldn't dare,' said Harel.
  
  Andrea saw the fear in the doctor's eyes. She could hear Alric's footsteps on the sand. He went over to Harel's side.
  
  'What's going on, doc?'
  
  Door opened.
  
  'Get out,' Alrik said coldly, his face impassive.
  
  'You can't do that,' Harel said without moving an inch. 'Your commander doesn't want to make enemies with the Mossad. We are very bad enemies to have.'
  
  An order is an order. Get out.'
  
  'Not she. At least let her go, please.'
  
  The German put his hand to his belt and pulled out an automatic pistol from his holster.
  
  'Last time. Get out of the car.'
  
  Harel looked at Andrea, resigned to her fate. She shrugged and grabbed the passenger handle above the side window with both hands to get out of the car. But suddenly she tensed her arm muscles and, still clutching the hilt, kicked out her legs, hitting Alric in the chest with her heavy boots. The German fired a pistol, which fell to the ground. Harel lunged head first at the soldier, knocking him to the ground. The doctor immediately jumped up and kicked the German in the face, cutting his eyebrow and injuring his eye. Doc lifted her leg over his face, ready to finish the job, but the soldier came to his senses, grabbed her leg with his huge hand and spun her sharply to the left. There was a loud sound of bone breaking as Doc fell.
  
  The mercenary stood up and turned around. Andrea was approaching him, ready to strike, but the soldier got rid of her with a backhanded blow, leaving an ugly red welt on her cheek. Andrea fell back. As she fell to the sand, she felt something solid under her.
  
  Now Alrik bent over Harel. He grabbed a large mane of curly black hair and pulled, lifting it up as if she were a rag doll, until his face was next to hers. Harel still reeled from the shock, but managed to look the soldier in the eyes and spat at him.
  
  'Fuck you, piece of shit'.
  
  The German spat at her in response, and then raised his right hand, in which he held a combat knife. He plunged it into Harel's stomach, enjoying the sight of his victim's eyes rolling back and mouth opening as she struggled to breathe. Alric twisted the knife in the wound, then roughly pulled it out. Blood gushed, spattering the soldier's uniform and boots. He dismissed the doctor with an expression of disgust on his face.
  
  'Nooo!'
  
  Now the mercenary turned to Andrea, who had landed on the pistol and was trying to find the safety catch. She screamed with all her might and pulled the trigger.
  
  The automatic pistol jumped in her hands, numbing her fingers. She had never fired a pistol before, and it showed. The bullet whistled past the German and crashed into the door of the Hummer. Alric shouted something in German and rushed at her. Almost without looking, Andrea fired three more shots.
  
  One bullet missed.
  
  Another punctured a tire on a Humvee.
  
  The third hit the German's open mouth. Due to the momentum of his 200-pound body, he continued to approach Andrea, although his hands were no longer intent on taking the gun away from her and strangling her. He fell face up, trying to speak, blood gushing from his mouth. In horror, Andrea saw that the shot knocked out several of the German's teeth. She stepped aside and waited, still aiming her gun at him-although if she hadn't managed to wound him by pure chance, it would have been pointless, since her hand was trembling too much and there was no strength left in her fingers. Her hand hurt from the impact of the gun.
  
  It took the German almost a minute to die. The bullet went through his neck, destroying his spinal cord and leaving him paralyzed. He choked on his own blood as it flooded his throat.
  
  When she was sure that Alric was no longer a threat, Andrea ran to Harel, who was bleeding on the sand. She sat up and hugged Doc's head, avoiding looking at the wound as Harel tried helplessly to hold onto her insides with her hands.
  
  'Wait, doc. Tell me what should I do. I'll get you out of here, even if it's just to kick your ass for lying to me.'
  
  'Don't worry,' Harel replied in a weak voice. 'I'm over it. Believe me. I am a doctor.'
  
  Andrea sobbed and leaned her forehead against Harel. Harel removed his hand from the wound and grabbed one of the reporters.
  
  'Do not say that. Please do not.'
  
  'I've told you enough lies. I want you to do something for me.'
  
  'Name it'.
  
  'In a minute, I want you to get in the Hammer and drive west on this goat trail. We're about ninety-five miles from Aqaba, but you should be able to get to the road in a couple of hours.' She paused and gritted her teeth against the pain. 'The car has a GPS direction finder. If you see anyone, get out of the Hammer and ask for help. What I want you to do is get out of here. Swear to me that you will do it?'
  
  'I swear'.
  
  Harel grimaced in pain. Her grip on Andrea's arm loosened with every passing second.
  
  'See, I shouldn't have told you my real name. I want you to do something else for me. I want you to say it out loud. Nobody has ever done that.'
  
  'Chedva'.
  
  'Shout louder'.
  
  'CHEDVA!' Andrea screamed, her anguish and pain breaking the silence of the desert.
  
  A quarter of an hour later, the life of Chadva Harel was cut short forever.
  
  
  Digging a grave in the sand with your bare hands was the hardest thing Andrea had ever done. Not because of the effort it took, but because of what it meant. Because it was a pointless gesture, and because, in part, Chedva died because of the events she set in motion. She dug a shallow grave and marked it with a Hammer antenna and a circle of stones.
  
  When she finished, Andrea searched the Hammer for water, but without much success. The only water she could find was in the soldier's flask hanging from his belt. It was three-quarters full. She also took his cap, although to keep it on she had to adjust it with a safety pin she found in her pocket. She also pulled out one of the shirts tucked into the broken windows and grabbed a steel tube from the trunk of the Hummer. She ripped out the wipers and stuffed them into the pipe, wrapping her shirt around them to make a makeshift umbrella.
  
  She then returned to the track that Hammer had left. Unfortunately, when Harel asked her to swear to return to Aqaba, she was unaware of the stray bullet that went through her front tire because her back was to the car. Even if Andrea wanted to keep her promise, which she didn't, it would be impossible for her to change the tire herself. No matter how much she searched, she could not find a jack. On such a rocky road, the car could not have traveled a hundred feet without a working front wheel.
  
  Andrea looked to the west, where she could see the faint line of the main road meandering between the dunes.
  
  Ninety-five miles to Aqaba in the midday sun, almost sixty to the main road. It's at least a few days of walking in 100-degree heat in the hope that I will find someone, and I don't even have enough water for six hours. And that's assuming I don't get lost trying to find an almost invisible path, or that those sons of bitches haven't yet taken the Ark and bumped into me on their way out of here.
  
  She looked to the east, where Hammer's tracks were still fresh.
  
  Eight miles in that direction were vehicles, water, and a ladle of the century, she thought as she started walking. Not to mention a whole bunch of people who want me dead. Pros? I still have a chance to get my disk back and help the priest. I have no idea how, but I'll try.
  
  
  81
  
  
  
  crypt with relics
  
  VATICAN
  
  
  thirteen days earlier
  
  
  'Do you want some ice for this hand?' Sirin asked. Fowler took a handkerchief from his pocket and tied it around his knuckles, which were bleeding from several cuts. Avoiding Brother Cecilio, who was still trying to repair the niche he had destroyed with his fists, Fowler approached the head of the Holy Alliance.
  
  'What do you want from me, Camilo?'
  
  'I want you to return it, Anthony. If it really exists, the place for the Ark is here, in a fortified room one hundred and fifty feet below the Vatican. Now is not the time for this to spread around the world in the wrong hands. Not to mention let the world know of her existence.'
  
  Fowler gnashed his teeth at the arrogance of Sirin and whoever was above him, perhaps even the Pope himself, who thought they could decide the fate of the Ark. What Sirin asked him to do was much more than a simple mission; it pressed like a tombstone on his whole life. The risks were incalculable.
  
  'We will keep it,' insisted Sirin. 'We know how to wait'.
  
  Fowler nodded.
  
  He would go to Jordan.
  
  But he was also capable of making his own decisions.
  
  
  82
  
  
  
  EXCAVATIONS
  
  AL-MUDAWWARA DESERT, JORDAN
  
  
  Thursday 20 July 2006 9:23 am.
  
  
  'Wake up, padre'.
  
  Fowler was slowly recovering, not knowing exactly where he was. He only knew that his whole body ached. He could not move his hands because they were handcuffed over his head. The handcuffs were somehow attached to the canyon wall.
  
  When he opened his eyes, he confirmed this, as well as the identity of the person who tried to wake him up. Torres stood before him.
  
  Broad smile.
  
  'I know you understand me,' said the soldier in Spanish. 'I prefer to speak in my own language. That way I can deal with finer details much better.'
  
  'There is nothing refined about you,' the priest said in Spanish.
  
  'You are mistaken, padre. On the contrary, one of the things that made me famous in Colombia was how I always used nature to help me. I have little friends who do my work for me.'
  
  "So you put the scorpions in Miss Otero's sleeping bag," Fowler said, trying to remove the handcuffs without Torres noticing. It was useless. They were attached to the canyon wall with a steel nail that had been driven into the rock.
  
  'I appreciate your efforts, padre. But no matter how hard you pull, these handcuffs won't budge,' Torres said. 'But you're right. I wanted to get your little spanish bitch. It didn't work. So now I have to wait for our friend Alrik. I think he left us. He must be having fun with your two whore girlfriends. I hope he fucks both of them before he blows their heads off. Blood is so hard to get off your uniform.'
  
  Fowler tugged at the cuffs, blinded by anger and unable to control himself.
  
  'Come here, Torres. You come here!'
  
  'Hey Hey! What's happened?' Torres said, enjoying the fury on Fowler's face. 'I love seeing you pissed off. My little friends will love it.'
  
  The priest looked in the direction Torres was pointing. Not far from Fowler's feet, there was a mound in the sand with several red figures moving across it.
  
  'Solenopsis catusianis. I don't really know Latin, but I know those ants are serious as hell, padre. I am very lucky to have found one of their hills so close. I love watching them work and I haven't seen them do their thing in a long time...'
  
  Torres squatted down and picked up the stone. He stood up, played with the stone for a few moments, then stepped back a few steps.
  
  'But they seem to be working extra hard today, padre. My little friends have such teeth that you won't believe it. But that is not all. The best part is when they stick their stinger in you and inject poison. Here, let me show you.'
  
  He pulled his arm back and raised his knee like a baseball pitcher, then threw a rock. He hit the mound, destroying its top.
  
  It was as if the red fury had come to life in the sand. Hundreds of ants flew out of the nest. Torres stepped back a little and threw another stone, this time in an arc, so that it landed halfway between Fowler and the nest. The red mass froze for a moment and then rushed at the rock, causing it to disappear under its wrath.
  
  Torres stepped back even more slowly and threw another rock that landed about a foot and a half from Fowler. The ants moved across the stone again until the mass was no more than eight inches from the priest. Fowler could hear insects crackling. It was a disgusting, frightening sound, like someone shaking a paper bag full of bottle caps.
  
  They use movement to guide themselves. Now he will throw another stone closer to me to make me move. If I do that, I'm done for, Fowler thought.
  
  And that's exactly what happened. The fourth stone fell at Fowler's feet, and the ants immediately attacked him. Gradually, Fowler's boots became covered in a sea of ants that grew larger every second as more ants emerged from the nest. Torres threw more stones at the ants, which became even more vicious, as if the smell of their crushed brethren increased their thirst for revenge.
  
  'Admit it, padre. You're screwed,' Torres said.
  
  The soldier threw another stone, this time not at the ground, but at Fowler's head. He missed by two inches and fell into a red wave that moved like an angry whirlwind.
  
  Torres leaned over again and chose a smaller stone that was easier for him to throw. He took careful aim and fired it. The stone hit the priest in the forehead. Fowler struggled with pain and the urge to move.
  
  'Sooner or later you will give up, padre. I plan to spend the morning like this.'
  
  He bent down again, looking for ammunition, but was forced to stop as his walkie-talkie crackled to life.
  
  'Torres, Dekker is listening. Where the fuck are you?'
  
  'I'm taking care of the priest, sir.'
  
  'Leave it to Alric, he'll be back soon. I promised him, and, as Schopenhauer said, a great man treats his promises as divine laws.'
  
  'Understood, sir.'
  
  'Report to Nest One'.
  
  'With all due respect, sir, it's not my turn now.'
  
  'With all due respect, if you don't show up at Nest One in thirty seconds, I will find you and skin you alive. You hear?'
  
  'I understand, Colonel.'
  
  'I am glad to hear it. Finished.'
  
  Torres put the radio back on his belt and walked slowly back. 'You heard him, padre. After the explosion, there are only five of us left, so we will have to postpone our game for a couple of hours. When I get back, you'll be at your worst. No one can sit still for that long.'
  
  Fowler watched as Torres rounded a bend in the canyon near the entrance. His relief did not last long.
  
  Several ants on his boots began to slowly make their way up the leg.
  
  
  83
  
  
  
  AL QAHIR METEOROLOGICAL INSTITUTE
  
  CAIRO, EGYPT
  
  
  Thursday 20 July 2006 9:56 am.
  
  
  It was not yet ten in the morning, and the junior meteorologist's shirt was already soaked through. He's been on the phone all morning, doing someone else's work. It was the height of the summer season, and everyone who was anyone had left and were on the shore of Sharm el-Sheikh, pretending to be experienced divers.
  
  But it was one of the tasks that could not be put off. The beast that was approaching was too dangerous.
  
  For what seemed like the thousandth time since he confirmed his readings, the official picked up the phone and called another area that was supposed to be hit by the forecast.
  
  'Port of Aqaba'.
  
  "Salaam alaikum, this is Jawar Ibn Daoud from Al Qahira Meteorological Institute."
  
  'Alaikum salaam Jawar, this is Najjar'. Although the two men have never met, they have spoken on the phone a dozen times. 'Could you call me back in a few minutes?' I'm really busy this morning.'
  
  'Listen to me, this is important. Early this morning we noticed a huge air mass. It's very hot and it's heading your way.'
  
  'Simun? Are you going this way? Hell, I'll have to call my wife and tell her to bring laundry from the laundry.'
  
  'You'd better stop joking around. This is one of the largest I have ever seen. It's over the top. Extremely dangerous.'
  
  The meteorologist in Cairo could almost hear the harbormaster swallowing hard on the other end of the line. Like all Jordanians, he learned to respect and fear the simun, a sandstorm that moved in circles like a tornado, at speeds of up to 100 miles per hour and temperatures of 120 degrees Fahrenheit. Anyone unfortunate enough to witness a simun in full force outdoors would instantly die of cardiac arrest due to the intense heat, and the body would be stripped of all moisture, leaving an empty, desiccated frame where a human being had been just a few minutes before. Fortunately, modern weather forecasts have given civilians enough time to take precautions.
  
  'I understand. Do you have a vector? ' asked the harbormaster, now clearly worried.
  
  'He left the Sinai desert a few hours ago. I think it will just pass Aqaba, but it will feed on the currents there and explode over your central desert. You'll have to call everyone so they can relay a message.'
  
  'I know how the network works, Javar. Thank you.'
  
  'Just make sure no one leaves before tonight, okay? If not, you will collect mummies in the morning.'
  
  
  84
  
  
  
  EXCAVATIONS
  
  AL-MUDAWWARA DESERT, JORDAN
  
  
  Thursday 20 July 2006 11:07 am.
  
  
  David Pappas pushed the drill head into the hole for the last time. They had just finished drilling a gap in the wall about six feet wide and three and a half inches high, and thanks to Eternity, the ceiling of the cell on the other side of the wall did not collapse, although there was a slight tremor caused by vibrations. Now they could remove the stones by hand without taking them apart. Picking them up and putting them aside was another matter, since there were quite a few of them.
  
  'This will take another two hours, Mr. Kine.'
  
  The billionaire went down to the cave half an hour earlier. He stood in the corner with both hands behind his back, as he often did, just watching and seemed to relax. Raymond Cain was afraid of going down the hole, but only in a rational way. He spent the entire night mentally preparing for this, and didn't feel the usual fear squeezing his chest. His pulse quickened, but no more than usual for a sixty-eight-year-old man strapped into his seat belt for the first time and lowered into a cave.
  
  I don't understand why I feel so good. Is it because I'm close to the Ark that makes me feel this way? Or is it the narrow womb, that hot well that soothes and comforts me?
  
  Russell walked up to him and whispered that he needed to go and fetch something from his tent. Kaine nodded, distracted by his own thoughts, but proud to have freed himself from his addiction to Jacob. He loved him like a son and was grateful for his sacrifice, but he could hardly remember a moment when Jacob was not on the other side of the room, ready to lend a helping hand or offer advice. How patient the young man was with him.
  
  If not for Jacob, none of this would have ever happened.
  
  
  85
  
  
  
  Transcript of communication between the crew of the Behemoth and Jacob Russell
  
  July 20, 2006
  
  
  MOSES 1: Behemoth, Moses 1 is here. Can you hear me?
  
  
  BEHEMOTH: Behemoth. Good morning Mr Russell.
  
  
  MOSES 1: Hello Thomas. How are you?
  
  
  HIPPO: You know, sir. Lots of warmth, but I think those of us who were born in Copenhagen can never get enough of it. How can I help?
  
  
  MOSES 1: Thomas, Mr. Kine needs BA-609 in half an hour. We have to organize an emergency collection. Tell the pilot to take as much fuel as possible with him.
  
  
  BEHEMOTH: Sir, I'm afraid that won't be possible. We have just received a message from the Port Authority of Aqaba informing us that a giant sandstorm is moving across the area between the port and your location. They suspended all air traffic until 18:00.
  
  
  MOSES 1: Thomas, I would like you to clarify something for me. Is there an emblem of the port of Aqaba or Kine Industries on board your ship?
  
  
  HIPPO: Kine Industries, sir.
  
  
  MOSES 1: I thought so. Something else. Did you happen to hear me when I told you the name of the person who needs the BA-609?
  
  
  BEHEMOTH: Hmm, yes sir. Mr Cain, sir.
  
  
  MOSES 1: Very well, Thomas. Then please be so kind as to follow the orders I have given you, or you and the entire crew of this ship will be out of work for a month. Am I clear?
  
  
  BEHEMOTH: Very clear, sir. The plane will immediately head towards you.
  
  
  MOSES 1: Always a pleasure, Thomas. Finished.
  
  
  86
  
  
  
  X UKAN
  
  He began by praising the name of Allah, the Wise, the Holy, the Compassionate, the one who allowed him to triumph over his enemies. He did this while kneeling on the floor, wearing a white robe that covered his entire body. In front of him was a bowl of water.
  
  To make sure the water reached the skin under the metal, he removed the ring with his graduation date inscribed on it. It was a gift from the brotherhood. He then washed both hands up to the wrists, concentrating on the areas between the fingers.
  
  He cupped his right hand, the one he never touched his private parts under any circumstances, and scooped up some water, then rinsed his mouth vigorously three times.
  
  He filled his palm with water again, brought it to his nose, and inhaled forcefully to clear his nostrils. He repeated the ritual three times. With his left hand, he cleaned out the remaining water, sand, and slime.
  
  Using his left hand again, he moistened his fingertips and brushed the tip of his nose.
  
  He raised his right hand and brought it to his face, then lowered it to dip into the basin, and washed his face three times from the right ear to the left.
  
  Then from his forehead to his throat three times.
  
  He took off his watch and vigorously washed both forearms, first the right and then the left, from the wrist to the elbow.
  
  Wetting his palms, he rubbed his head from his forehead to the back of his neck.
  
  He stuck his wet index fingers into his ears, rinsing them behind his ears, and then the earlobes with his thumbs.
  
  Finally, he washed both feet down to the ankles, starting with the right foot and making sure to wash between the toes.
  
  "Ash hadu an la ilaha illa Allah wahdahu la shara lahu wa anna Muhammadan 'abduhu wa rasuluh," he fervently recited, emphasizing the central principle of his faith that there is no God but Allah, who has no equal, and that Muhammad is his servant and Messenger.
  
  
  This completed the ablution ritual that would have marked the beginning of his life as a declared jihadi warrior. Now he was ready to kill and die for the glory of Allah.
  
  He grabbed the gun, allowing himself a short smile. He could hear the plane's engines. It's time to signal.
  
  With a solemn gesture, Russell left the tent.
  
  
  87
  
  
  
  EXCAVATIONS
  
  AL-MUDAWWARA DESERT, JORDAN
  
  
  Thursday, July 20, 2006. 13:24.
  
  
  The BA-609 pilot was Howell Duke. During twenty-three years of flying, he flew 18,000 hours on various types of aircraft in all possible weather conditions. He survived a snowstorm in Alaska and an electrical storm in Madagascar. But he never felt real fear, that feeling of coldness that makes your balls shrivel and your throat dries up.
  
  Up to this day.
  
  It flew in cloudless skies with optimal visibility, squeezing every last drop of horsepower out of its engines. The plane wasn't the fastest or the best he flew, but it certainly was the most fun. It could hit 315 mph and then hover majestically in place like a cloud. Everything was going perfect.
  
  He lowered his eyes to check the altitude, the fuel gauge, and the distance to his destination. When he looked up again, his jaw dropped. Something appeared on the horizon that had not been there before.
  
  At first it looked like a wall of sand a hundred feet high and a couple of miles wide. Given several landmarks in the desert, Duke at first thought that what he saw was still. Gradually he realized that things were moving, and it was happening so fast.
  
  I see a canyon ahead. Crap. Thank God it didn't happen ten minutes ago. This must be the simun they warned me about.
  
  It would take him at least three minutes to land the plane, and the wall was less than twenty-five miles away. He made a quick calculation. It would take Simun another twenty minutes to get to the canyon. He pressed the helicopter conversion mode and felt the engines slow down immediately.
  
  At least it works. I'll have time to plant this bird and squeeze into the smallest space I can find. If even half of what they say about it is true...
  
  Three and a half minutes later, the BA-609 chassis landed on the level ground between the camp and the excavation site. Duke turned off the engine and, for the first time in his life, didn't bother going through the last security check, but stepped off the plane as if his pants were on fire. He looked around, but saw no one.
  
  I must inform everyone. Inside this canyon, they won't see this thing until it's thirty seconds away.
  
  He ran to the tents, though he wasn't sure if being inside the tent was the safest place. Suddenly, a figure dressed in white walked towards him. He soon found out who it was.
  
  'Hi Mr Russell. I see you've become a native,' Duke said, feeling nervous. 'I did not see you...'
  
  Russell was twenty feet away from me. At that moment, the pilot noticed that Russell had a pistol in his hand, and stopped dead in his tracks.
  
  'Mr Russell, what's going on?'
  
  The leader didn't say anything. He simply aimed at the pilot's chest and fired three quick shots. He stood over the fallen body and fired three more times at the pilot's head.
  
  In a nearby cave, Oh heard gunshots and alerted the group.
  
  'Brothers, this is the signal. Go.'
  
  
  88
  
  
  
  EXCAVATIONS
  
  AL-MUDAWWARA DESERT, JORDAN
  
  
  Thursday, July 20, 2006. 13:39.
  
  
  'Are you drunk, Nest Three?'
  
  'Colonel, I repeat that Mr Russell just blew off the pilot's head and then ran to the dig. What are your orders?'
  
  'Crap. Does anyone have a picture of Russell?'
  
  'Sir, this is Nest two. He climbs onto the platform. He is dressed in a strange way. Should I fire a warning shot?'
  
  'Negative, jack two. Do nothing until we know more. Nest One, can you hear me?'
  
  '...'
  
  'Nest One, can you hear me?'
  
  'Nest number one. Torres, pick up that fucking radio.'
  
  '...'
  
  'Nest two, do you have a picture of nest one?'
  
  'I confirm, sir. I have a picture, but Torres is not there, sir.'
  
  'Crap! You two, keep your eyes on the entrance to the excavation. On my way.'
  
  
  89
  
  
  
  AT THE CANYON ENTRANCE, TEN MINUTES BEFORE
  
  The first bite was in his calf twenty minutes ago.
  
  Fowler felt a sharp pain, but thankfully it didn't last long, giving way to a dull ache that felt more like a hard slap than the first lightning strike.
  
  The priest planned to stifle any screams by gritting his teeth, but forced himself not to do so just yet. He would try it with the next bite.
  
  The ants were no higher than his knees, and Fowler had no idea if they knew who he was. He tried his best to appear inedible or dangerous, and for both reasons he couldn't do one thing: move.
  
  The next shot hurt a lot more, perhaps because he knew what was coming next: swelling in the area, the inevitability of it all, a sense of helplessness.
  
  After the sixth bite, he lost count. He may have been stung twelve times, perhaps twenty. There wasn't much left, but he couldn't take it anymore. Had he used up all his resources-clenched his teeth, bit his lips, flared his nostrils wide enough for a truck to drive into? At some point, feeling desperate, he even risked twisting his handcuffed wrists.
  
  The worst part was not knowing when the next blow would come. Up to this point, he had been lucky, as most of the ants had moved half a dozen feet to his left, with only a couple hundred covering the ground below him. But he knew that at the slightest movement they would attack.
  
  He needed to focus on something other than the pain, or he would go against his better judgment and start trying to crush the insects with his boots. He might even have managed to kill a few, but it was clear that they were outnumbered and he would eventually lose.
  
  A new blow was the last straw. Pain ran through his legs and exploded in his genitals. He was on the verge of losing his mind.
  
  Ironically, it was Torres who saved him.
  
  'Padre, your sins attack you. One by one, just like they devour the soul.'
  
  Fowler looked up. The Colombian stood nearly thirty feet away, watching him with a cheerful expression.
  
  'You know, I'm tired of being up there, so I came back to see you in your own private Hell. Look, we won't be disturbed this way,' he said, turning off the radio with his left hand. In his right hand he held a stone the size of a tennis ball. 'So where did we stop?'
  
  The priest was grateful that Torres was there. It gave him someone he could focus his hatred on. Which, in turn, would give him a few more minutes of stillness, a few more minutes of life.
  
  'Oh yes,' Torres continued. 'We were trying to figure out if you were going to make the first move or if I was going to do it for you.'
  
  He threw a rock and hit Fowler in the shoulder. The stone fell where most of the ants had gathered, once again a throbbing deadly swarm, ready to attack whatever threatened their home.
  
  Fowler closed his eyes and tried to control the pain. The stone had hit him in the same place that the psychopathic killer had shot him sixteen months earlier. At night, the whole area was still sick, and now he felt like he was re-living the whole ordeal. He tried to focus on the pain in his shoulder to numb the pain in his legs, using a trick the instructor had taught him from what seemed like a million years ago: the brain can only handle one sharp pain at a time.
  
  
  When Fowler opened his eyes again and saw what was going on behind Torres, he had to make even more efforts to control his emotions. If he betrayed himself even for a moment, he would be finished. Andrea Otero's head appeared from behind a dune that lay just beyond the exit to the canyon where Torres had held him captive. The reporter was very close, and no doubt she would see them in a few moments, if she hadn't already.
  
  Fowler knew he had to be absolutely sure that Torres would not turn around in search of another stone. He decided to give the Colombian what the soldier least expected.
  
  'Please, Torres. Please, I'm begging you.'
  
  The Colombian's expression changed completely. Like all killers, few things turned him on more than the control he thought he had over his victims when they begged.
  
  'What are you begging for, padre?'
  
  The priest had to force himself to concentrate and find the right words. It all depended on Torres not turning around. Andrea saw them, and Fowler was sure she was close, though he lost sight of her because Torres' body was blocking his way.
  
  'I beg you to spare my life. My pathetic life. You are a soldier, a real man. Compared to you, I am nothing.'
  
  The mercenary smiled broadly, showing his yellowish teeth. 'Well said, padre. And now...'
  
  Torres never got a chance to finish his sentence. He didn't even feel the impact.
  
  
  Andrea, who had a chance to see the scene as she approached, chose not to use her gun. Remembering what a bad shot she'd been with Alric, the most she could hope for was that the stray bullet wouldn't hit Fowler in the head the same way it hit Hammer's tire earlier. Instead, she pulled the wipers out of her makeshift umbrella. Holding the steel pipe like a baseball bat, she slowly crawled forward.
  
  The pipe was not too heavy, so she had to carefully choose the line of attack. Just a few steps behind him, she decided to take aim at his head. She felt her palms sweat and prayed she didn't screw up. If Torres turns around, she's dead.
  
  He didn't. Andrea planted her feet firmly on the ground, swung her weapon around and hit Torres with all her strength on the side of the head, near the temple.
  
  'Get it, motherfucker!'
  
  The Colombian collapsed into the sand like a stone. The mass of red ants must have felt the vibration because it immediately turned around and headed towards his fallen body. Unaware of what had happened, he began to stand up. Still half-conscious from the blow to his temple, he staggered and fell again as the first ants reached his body. When he felt the first bites, Torres raised his hands to his eyes in absolute horror. He tried to kneel, but that irritated the ants even more, and they attacked him in even more numbers. It was as if they were passing a message to each other through their pheromones.
  
  Enemy.
  
  Kill.
  
  'Run, Andrea!' Fowler yelled. 'Get away from them.'
  
  The young reporter took a few steps back, but very few of the ants turned to follow the vibrations. They were more concerned about the Colombian, who was covered in them from head to toe, howling in agony, every cell of his body being attacked by sharp jaws and needle-like bites. Torres managed to get up again and take a few steps, the ants covering him like strange skin.
  
  He took another step, then fell down and didn't get up again.
  
  
  Andrea, meanwhile, retreated to the spot where she had dropped her wipers and shirt. She wrapped the wipers in a rag. Then, making a big detour around the ants, she walked over to Fowler and lit his shirt on fire with her lighter. As the shirt burned, she drew a circle with it on the ground around the priest. Several ants that had not joined in the attack on Torres fled in the heat.
  
  Using a steel pipe, she pushed back Fowler's handcuffs and the spike that kept them from the stone.
  
  'Thank you,' said the priest, his legs trembling.
  
  
  When they were about a hundred feet away from the ants and Fowler thought they were safe, they collapsed to the ground, exhausted. The priest rolled up his trousers to check his legs. Other than small reddish bite marks, swelling, and continuous but dull pain, the twenty-odd bites hadn't done too much damage.
  
  'Now that I saved your life, I assume your debt to me is paid off?' Andrea said sarcastically.
  
  'Doc told you about this?'
  
  'I want to ask you about this and many other things.'
  
  'Where is she?' the priest asked, but he already knew the answer.
  
  The young woman shook her head and began to sob. Fowler hugged her tenderly.
  
  'I'm so sorry, Miss Otero.'
  
  'I loved her,' she said, burying her face in the priest's chest. Sobbing, Andrea realized that Fowler suddenly stiffened and held his breath.
  
  'What's happened?' she asked.
  
  In answer to her question, Fowler pointed to the horizon, where Andrea saw a deadly wall of sand approaching them as inescapably as night.
  
  
  90
  
  
  
  EXCAVATIONS
  
  AL-MUDAWWARA DESERT, JORDAN
  
  
  Thursday, July 20, 2006 at 1:48 pm.
  
  
  You two, keep your eyes on the dig site entrance. On my way.
  
  It was these words that led, albeit indirectly, to the death of the remaining team of Dekker. When the attack took place, the eyes of the two soldiers looked anywhere but where the danger came from.
  
  Tewi Waaka, a huge Sudanese, only caught a glimpse of the intruders dressed in brown when they were already at the camp. There were seven of them, armed with Kalashnikovs. He alerted Jackson over the radio and the two opened fire. One of the attackers fell under a hail of bullets. The rest hid behind tents.
  
  Vaaka was surprised that they did not return fire. In fact, that was his last thought, because a few seconds later, two terrorists who had climbed the cliff ambushed him from behind. Two bursts of Kalashnikovs, and Tevi Vaaka joined his ancestors.
  
  
  On the other side of the canyon in Nest 2, Marla Jackson saw Vaaka being shot through the scope of her M4 and knew she would suffer the same fate. Marla knew the rocks well. She had spent so many hours there when she had nothing to do but look around and touch herself through her pants when no one was looking, counting the hours until Dekker would come and take her on a private reconnaissance mission.
  
  During her hours of sentry duty, she imagined hundreds of times how hypothetical enemies could climb up and surround her. Now, looking over the edge of the cliff, she saw two very real enemies only a foot and a half away from her. She immediately put fourteen bullets into them.
  
  They didn't make a sound as they died.
  
  
  Now there were four enemies left that she knew about, but she couldn't do anything from her position without cover. The only thing she could think of was joining Dekker on the dig so they could come up with a plan together. It was a crappy option because she would lose her height advantage and an easier escape route. But she had no choice, because now she heard three words on her walkie-talkie:
  
  'Marla... help me.'
  
  'Dekker, where are you?'
  
  'At the bottom. At the bottom of the platform.'
  
  Not caring about her own safety, Marla climbed down the rope ladder and ran towards the excavation site. Dekker was lying next to the platform with a very ugly wound on the right side of his chest and with his left leg tucked under him. He must have fallen from the top of the scaffolding. Marla examined the wound. The South African managed to stop the bleeding, but his breath was...
  
  Fucking whistle.
  
  ... worries. He had a punctured lung, which was bad news if they didn't see a doctor right away.
  
  'What happened to you?'
  
  'It was Russell. That son of a bitch... he took me by surprise when I walked in.'
  
  'Russell?' Marla said in surprise. She tried to think. 'You'll be all right. I'll get you out of here, Colonel. I swear.'
  
  'Never. You have to get out of here on your own. I finished. The Master said it best: "Life for the vast majority is a constant struggle for mere existence, with the certainty that it will eventually be overcome." '
  
  'Could you please leave fucking Schopenhauer alone for once, Dekker?'
  
  The South African smiled sadly at his lover's outburst and made a slight gesture with his head.
  
  'Follow you, soldier. Don't forget what I told you.'
  
  Marla turned around and saw four terrorists approaching her. They fanned out and used the rocks for cover, while her only protection would be a heavy tarpaulin protecting the hydraulic system and steel platform bearings.
  
  'Colonel, I think we're both finished.'
  
  Hanging the M4 over her shoulder, she tried to drag Dekker under the scaffolding, but could only move him a few inches. The weight of the South African was too great even for such a strong woman like her.
  
  'Listen to me, Marla.'
  
  'What the hell do you want?' Marla said, trying to think as she squatted down next to the scaffolding's steel supports. Although she wasn't sure if she should open fire before she had an accurate shot, she was sure they would have it much sooner than she did.
  
  'Surrender. I don't want them to kill you,' Dekker said, his voice getting weaker.
  
  Marla was about to scold her commander again when a quick glance towards the entrance to the canyon told her that surrender might be the only way out of this absurd situation.
  
  'I give up!' she screamed. 'Are you listening, assholes? I give up. Yankee, she's going home.'
  
  She tossed her rifle a few feet in front of her, and then her automatic pistol. Then she stood up and raised her hands.
  
  I'm counting on you motherfuckers. This is your chance to interrogate the female prisoner in detail. Don't shoot me, motherfucker.
  
  The terrorists approached slowly, their rifles aimed at her head, each muzzle of the Kalashnikov ready to spit out lead and end her precious life.
  
  'I give up,' Marla repeated as she watched them advance. They formed a semi-circle, their knees bent, their faces covered in black scarves, about twenty feet apart so they wouldn't be easy targets.
  
  Damn it, I give up, you sons of bitches. Enjoy your seventy-two virgins.
  
  'I give up,' she called out one last time, hoping to drown out the rising wind noise that turned into an explosion as the wall of sand swept over the tents, swallowing the plane and then rushing towards the terrorists.
  
  Two of them turned around in shock. The rest never knew what hit them.
  
  They all died instantly.
  
  Marla rushed over to Dekker and pulled the tarpaulin over them like a makeshift tent.
  
  You must come down. Cover yourself with something. Don't fight the heat and wind or you'll dry out like a raisin.
  
  These were the words of Torres, who was always a braggart, as he told his comrades about the simun myth while they were playing poker. Maybe it would work. Marla grabbed Dekker and he tried to do the same, though his grip was weak.
  
  'Hold in there, Colonel. In half an hour we will be far from here.'
  
  
  91
  
  
  
  EXCAVATIONS
  
  AL-MUDAWWARA DESERT, JORDAN
  
  
  Thursday, July 20, 2006. 13:52.
  
  
  The hole was nothing more than a crack at the base of the canyon, but it was large enough for two people to huddle together. They barely managed to squeeze in before the simoon crashed into the canyon. A small ledge of rock protected them from the first wave of heat. They had to shout to be heard over the roar of the sandstorm.
  
  'Relax, Miss Otero. We'll be here for at least twenty minutes. This wind is deadly, but luckily it doesn't last too long.'
  
  'You've been in a sandstorm before, haven't you, father?'
  
  'Repeatedly. But I've never seen a Simun. I just read about it in Rand McNally's atlas.'
  
  Andrea was silent for a while, trying to catch her breath. Luckily, the sand that blew through the canyon barely penetrated their hideout, even though the temperature soared and Andrea found it difficult to breathe.
  
  'Talk to me, father. I feel like I'm about to faint.'
  
  Fowler tried to change his position so he could rub his sore legs. The bites needed disinfectants and antibiotics as soon as possible, although this was not a priority. Getting Andrea out of there was.
  
  'As soon as the wind stops, we'll run to the H3s and set up a diversion so you can get out of here and head to Aqaba before anyone starts shooting. You know how to drive, don't you?'
  
  'I'd be in Aqaba by now if I could find the plug in that damn Hummer,' Andrea lied. 'Someone took it.'
  
  'It's under the spare tire in such a vehicle.'
  
  Where, of course, I did not look.
  
  'Don't change the subject. You have used the singular. Aren't you coming with me?'
  
  'I must complete my mission, Andrea.'
  
  'You came here because of me, didn't you? Well, now you can leave with me.'
  
  The priest took a few seconds before answering. In the end, he decided that the young reporter should know the truth.
  
  'No, Andrea. I was sent here to retrieve the Ark no matter what, but it was an order I never planned to follow. There's a reason I had explosives in my briefcase. And that reason is inside that cave. I never really believed it existed, and I would never have accepted the mission if you weren't involved. My boss used both of us.'
  
  'Why, father?'
  
  'It's very complicated, but I'll try to explain as briefly as possible. The Vatican considered the possibilities of what could happen if the Ark of the Covenant were returned to Jerusalem. People would take it as a sign. In other words, as a sign that Solomon's Temple should be restored to its original location.'
  
  'Where are the Dome of the Rock and Al-Aqsa Mosque located'.
  
  'Exactly. Religious tension in the region will increase a hundredfold. This would provoke the Palestinians. Al-Aqsa Mosque would eventually be destroyed so that the original temple could be rebuilt. It's not just a guess, Andrea. This is the fundamental idea. If one group has the power to crush another and they believe they have an excuse, they end up doing it.'
  
  Andrea remembered one of the stories she worked on at the beginning of her professional career, seven years earlier. It was September 2000 and she was working on the international section of the paper. Word came that Ariel Sharon was about to walk, surrounded by hundreds of riot police, on the Temple Mount - on the border between the Jewish and Arab sectors, in the heart of Jerusalem, one of the most sacred and disputed territories in history, on the site of the Temple of the Rock, the third the importance of the place in the Islamic world.
  
  This simple walk led to the Second Intifada, which was still going on. To thousands of dead and wounded; to suicide bombings on the one hand and military attacks on the other. To an endless spiral of hatred that promised little chance of reconciliation. If the discovery of the Ark of the Covenant meant the rebuilding of Solomon's Temple where the Al-Aqsa Mosque now stands, every Islamic country in the world would rise up against Israel, unleashing a conflict with unimaginable consequences. Since Iran is on the verge of realizing its nuclear potential, there will be no limit to what can happen.
  
  'Is this an excuse?' Andrea said, her voice cracked with emotion. 'Holy commandments of the God of Love?'
  
  'No, Andrea. This is the ownership of the Promised Land.'
  
  The reporter shifted uncomfortably.
  
  'Now I remember what Forrester called it... people's contract with God. And what Kira Larsen had to say about the original meaning and power of the Ark. But what I don't understand is what Kain has to do with all this.'
  
  'Mr Kine clearly has a restless mind, but at the same time he is deeply religious. It is my understanding that his father left him a letter asking him to carry out his family's mission. That's all what I know.'
  
  Andrea, who knew the whole story in more detail from her interview with Cain, did not interrupt.
  
  If Fowler wants to know the rest, let him buy the book I plan to write as soon as I get out of here, she thought.
  
  'Ever since his son was born, Cain has made it clear,' Fowler continued, 'that he will put all his resources into finding the Ark so that his son...'
  
  'Isaac'.
  
  '...so that Isaac can fulfill his family's purpose'.
  
  'To return the ark to the Temple?'
  
  'Not really, Andrea. According to a certain interpretation of the Torah, whoever is able to retrieve the Ark and rebuild the Temple - the latter relatively easily given Kain's condition - will be the Promised: the Messiah.'
  
  'Oh my God!'
  
  Andrea's face completely changed as the last piece of the puzzle fell into place. It explained everything. hallucinations. Obsessive behavior. Terrible trauma from growing up cooped up in this narrow space. Religion as an absolute fact.
  
  'That's it,' said Fowler. 'Furthermore, he viewed the death of his own son Isaac as a sacrifice required by God so that he himself could achieve that destiny.'
  
  'But, father... if Cain knew who you were, why the hell did he let you go on an expedition?'
  
  'You know, it's ironic. Cain could not have completed this mission without the blessing of Rome, the seal of approval that the Ark was real. That's how they were able to get me on the expedition. But someone else also infiltrated the expedition. Someone with a lot of power who decided to work for Kain after Isaac told him about his father's obsession with the Ark. I'm only guessing, but at first he probably just went to work to gain access to confidential information. Later, when Kain's obsession grew into something more concrete, he developed plans of his own.'
  
  'Russell!' Andrea gasped.
  
  'It's right. The man who threw you into the sea and killed Stowe Erling in a clumsy attempt to cover up his discovery. Perhaps later he planned to dig the Ark himself. And either he or Kaine - or both - are responsible for the Upsilon Protocol.'
  
  "And he put scorpions in my sleeping bag, bastard."
  
  'No, it was Torres. You have a very select fan club.'
  
  'Only since you and I got to know each other, father. But I still don't understand why Russell needs the Ark.'
  
  'Perhaps to destroy it. If so, although I doubt it, I'm not going to stop him. I think he might want to take it out of here to use in some crazy Israeli government blackmail scheme. I still haven't figured out this part, but one thing is clear: nothing will stop me from carrying out my decision.'
  
  Andrea tried to look closely at the priest's face. What she saw made her freeze.
  
  'Are you really going to blow up the Ark, father? Such a sacred item?'
  
  'I thought you didn't believe in God,' said Fowler with an ironic smile.
  
  'There have been many strange turns in my life lately,' Andrea replied sadly.
  
  'The law of God is engraved here and there,' said the priest, touching his forehead and then his chest. 'The Ark is just a box of wood and metal, which, if floated, will lead to the death of millions of people and a hundred years of war. What we have seen in Afghanistan and Iraq is only a pale shadow of what could happen next. That's why he doesn't leave that cave.'
  
  Andrea didn't answer. There was a sudden silence. The howling of the wind among the rocks in the canyon finally stopped.
  
  Simun is over.
  
  
  92
  
  
  
  EXCAVATIONS
  
  AL-MUDAWWARA DESERT, JORDAN
  
  
  Thursday, July 20, 2006. 2:16 pm.
  
  
  They cautiously stepped out of their hiding place and entered the canyon. The landscape before them was a scene of desolation. The tents had been torn off their platforms, and what was inside was now scattered all over the surrounding area. The windshields on the Hummers were shattered by small stones that had come loose from the canyon rocks. Fowler and Andrea were walking towards the cars when they suddenly heard the engine of one of the Hummers come to life.
  
  H3 was heading towards them at full speed without warning.
  
  Fowler pushed Andrea out of the way and jumped aside. For a split second, he saw Marla Jackson driving, her teeth clenched in anger. The huge rear tire of the Hummer passed within inches of Andrea's face, splattering it with sand.
  
  Before the two of them could get up, H3 rounded a bend in the canyon and disappeared.
  
  'I think we're the only ones here,' said the priest, helping Andrea to his feet. 'It was Jackson and Dekker, walking away as if the devil himself was chasing them. I don't think many of their companions were left.'
  
  'Father, I don't think those are the only things that have disappeared. Looks like your plan to get me out of here has gone awry," the reporter said, pointing at the three remaining EVs.
  
  All twelve tires were cut.
  
  They walked around the ruins of the tents for a couple of minutes in search of water. They found three half-full canteens and a surprise: Andrea's backpack with her hard drive almost buried in the sand.
  
  'Things have changed,' said Fowler, looking around suspiciously. He seemed unsure of himself and stalked as if a killer on the cliffs could finish them off at any moment.
  
  Andrea followed him, ducking in fear.
  
  "I can't get you out of here, so stay by my side until we figure something out."
  
  BA-609 was rolled onto its left side like a bird with a broken wing. Fowler entered the cabin and reappeared thirty seconds later, holding several cables.
  
  'Russell can't use the plane to transport the Ark,' he said as he tossed the cables away and then jumped back down. He winced as his feet touched the sand.
  
  He still hurts. This is crazy, Andrea thought.
  
  'Do you have any idea where he might be?'
  
  Fowler was about to answer, but instead he stopped and headed to the back of the plane. Near the wheels was a dull black object. The priest picked it up.
  
  It was his briefcase.
  
  The top cover looked like it had been cut open so you could see where the plastic explosive that Fowler used to blow up the water tank was. He touched the briefcase in two places, and the secret compartment opened.
  
  'It's a pity they ruined the skin. This briefcase has been with me for a long time," said the priest, gathering up the four remaining bags of explosives and another object, the size of a watch dial, with two metal clasps.
  
  Fowler wrapped explosives in a nearby piece of clothing, which was blown away from the tents during a sandstorm.
  
  'Put this in your backpack, okay?'
  
  'No way,' said Andrea, taking a step back. 'These things scare the hell out of me.'
  
  'It's harmless without a detonator connected.'
  
  Andrea reluctantly relented.
  
  As they made their way to the platform, they saw the bodies of the terrorists surrounding Marla Jackson and Dekker before the simoon hit. Andrea's first reaction was to panic until she realized they were dead. When they got to the corpses, Andrea couldn't help but sigh. The bodies were laid out in strange positions. One of them seemed to be trying to get up - one of his arms was raised up and his eyes were wide open, as if he was looking into Hell, Andrea thought with an expression of disbelief.
  
  Except he didn't have eyes.
  
  The corpses' eye sockets were all empty, their open mouths were nothing but black holes, and their skin was as gray as cardboard. Andrea took her camera out of her backpack and took some pictures of the mummies.
  
  I can not believe this. It's as if the life has been ripped right out of them without any warning. Or like it's still happening. God, what a horror!
  
  Andrea turned around and her backpack brushed against the head of one of the men. Before her eyes, the man's body suddenly disintegrated, leaving only a mixture of gray dust, clothes and bones.
  
  Feeling sick, Andrea turned to the priest. She saw that he did not suffer from the same remorse when it came to the dead. Fowler noticed that at least one of the bodies served a more utilitarian purpose, and pulled a clean Kalashnikov from under it. He checked the weapon and saw that it was still in good working order. He took out several spare clips from the terrorist's clothes and stuffed them into his pockets.
  
  With the muzzle of his rifle, he pointed to the platform leading to the entrance to the cave.
  
  'Russell is up there'.
  
  'How do you know?'
  
  'When he decided to come out, he obviously called his friends,' Fowler said, nodding his head towards the bodies. 'These are the people you noticed when we first arrived. I don't know if there are others or how many there might be, but it's pretty clear that Russell is still around somewhere because there are no footprints in the sand leading away from the platform. Simun foresaw everything. If they had come out, we could have seen the footprints. He's there, as is the Ark.'
  
  'What are we going to do?'
  
  Fowler thought for a few seconds, bowing his head.
  
  'If I were smart, I would blow up the entrance to the cave and let them starve to death. But I'm afraid there may be others. Eichberg, Kine, David Pappas...'
  
  'So you're going there?'
  
  Fowler nodded. 'Give me explosives, please.'
  
  'Let me come with you,' said Andrea, handing him the package.
  
  'Miss Otero, you stay here and wait until I come out. If you see them coming out instead, don't say anything. Just hide. Take some pictures if you can, then get out of here and tell the world about it.'
  
  
  93
  
  
  
  INSIDE THE CAVE, FOURTEEN MINUTES EARLY
  
  Getting rid of Dekker was easier than he could have imagined. The South African was stunned by the fact that he had shot the pilot and was so eager to talk to him that he did not take the slightest precaution when he entered the tunnel. What he found was a bullet that caused him to roll off the platform.
  
  Signing the Upsilon Protocol behind the old man's back was a brilliant move, Russell thought, congratulating himself.
  
  It cost almost ten million dollars. Dekker was initially suspicious until Russell agreed to pay him a seven-figure sum up front and another seven if he was forced to use protocol.
  
  Kaine's assistant smiled in satisfaction. Kine Industries' accountants will notice next week that money is missing from the pension fund, and questions will arise. By that time he would be far away and the Ark would be in a safe place in Egypt. It would be very easy to get lost there. And then the accursed Israel, which he hated, would have to pay the price for the humiliation they had inflicted on the house of Islam.
  
  Russell walked the entire length of the tunnel and peered into the cave. Kine was there, watching with interest as Eichberg and Pappas removed the last of the stones that were blocking access to the cell, alternating between using the electric drill and using their hands. They didn't hear the shot when he shot at Dekker. The moment he knew that the way to the Ark was clear and he no longer needed them, they would have been sent.
  
  As for Kain...
  
  No words could describe the flow of hatred that Russell felt for the old man. It seethed in the depths of his soul, fueled by the humiliations Cain had forced him to endure. Being near the old man for the past six years was excruciating, torture.
  
  Hiding in the bathroom to pray, spitting out the alcohol he was forced to pretend to drink so people wouldn't suspect him. Caring for the sick and fearful mind of an old man at any time of the day or night. Feigned care and affection.
  
  All this was a lie.
  
  Your best weapon will be taqiyya, the deception of the warrior. A jihadist can lie about his faith, he can pretend, hide and distort the truth. He can do this to an infidel without sinning, the imam said fifteen years ago. And don't believe it will be easy. You will cry every night because of the pain in your heart to the point where you don't know who you are.
  
  Now he was himself again.
  
  
  With all the agility of his young and well-trained body, Russell descended the rope without the aid of harnesses in the same way that he had climbed it a couple of hours earlier. His white robe fluttered as he descended, drawing Kain's attention as he stared at his assistant in shock.
  
  'What's the point of the disguise, Jacob?'
  
  Russell didn't answer. He headed towards the hollow. The space they opened up was about five feet high and six and a half feet wide.
  
  'It's there, Mr Russell. We've all seen it," Eichberg said, so flustered he didn't notice at first how Russell was wearing. 'Hey, what's that gear?' he finally asked.
  
  'Be calm and call Pappas'.
  
  'Mr Russell, you should be a little more...'
  
  'Don't make me say it again,' the assistant said, pulling a gun from under his clothes.
  
  'David!' Eichberg squealed like a child.
  
  "Jacob!" yelled Kine.
  
  'Shut up, you old bastard.'
  
  The blood drained from Kaine's face at the insult. No one had ever spoken to him like that, much less to the man who was still his right hand. He didn't have time to answer because David Pappas stepped out of the cave, blinking as his eyes adjusted to the light.
  
  'What the heck...?'
  
  When he saw the gun in Russell's hand, he immediately understood everything. He was the first of the three to understand, though not the one who was the most disappointed and shocked. This role belonged to Caine.
  
  'You!' Pappas exclaimed. 'I understand now. You had access to the magnetometer program. You are the one who changed the data. You killed Stowe.'
  
  'A small mistake that almost cost me dearly. I thought I was in better control of the expedition than I really am," Russell admitted with a shrug. 'And now a little question. Are you ready to take out the Ark?'
  
  'Fuck off, Russell'.
  
  Without thinking, Russell took aim at Pappas' leg and fired. Pappas' right knee turned into a bloody mess and he fell to the ground. His screams echoed off the tunnel walls.
  
  'The next bullet will be in your head. Now answer me, Pappas.'
  
  'Yes, it's ready for publication, sir. The path is clear,' Eichberg said, raising his hands in the air.
  
  'That's all I wanted to know,' Russell replied.
  
  Two shots were fired in quick succession. His hand dropped and two more shots followed. Eichberg fell on Pappas, both hit in the head, their blood now mixing on the rocky ground.
  
  'You killed them, Jacob. You killed them both.'
  
  Kine huddled in a corner, his face a mask of fear and incomprehension.
  
  'Well, well, old man. For such a crazy old bastard, you're pretty good at stating the obvious," Russell said. He peered into the cave, still aiming his pistol at Kain. When he turned around, he had an expression of satisfaction on his face. 'So we finally found it, Ray? The work of a lifetime. It's a pity that your contract will be terminated.'
  
  The assistant walked towards his boss with slow measured steps. Kine huddled further into his corner, completely trapped. His face was covered in sweat.
  
  'Why, Jacob?' exclaimed the old man. 'I loved you like my own son'.
  
  'You call it love?' Russell yelled as he approached Kine and stabbed him several times with his pistol, first in the face, then in the arms and head. 'I was your slave, old man. Every time you cried like a girl in the middle of the night, I ran to you, reminding myself why I'm doing this. I should have thought about the moment when I would finally defeat you and you would be at my mercy.'
  
  Cain fell to the ground. His face was swollen, almost unrecognizable from the blows. Blood oozed from his mouth and cracked cheekbones.
  
  'Look at me, old man,' Russell continued, lifting Kine by the collar of his shirt so that they were face to face.
  
  'Face your own failure. In a few minutes, my men will descend into this cave and retrieve your precious ark. We will give the world what it deserves. Everything will be as it should have always been.'
  
  'Sorry, Mr Russell. I'm afraid I'll have to disappoint you.'
  
  The assistant turned sharply. At the other end of the tunnel, Fowler had just rappelled and was aiming a Kalashnikov at him.
  
  
  94
  
  
  
  EXCAVATIONS
  
  AL-MUDAWWARA DESERT, JORDAN
  
  
  Thursday, July 20, 2006. 2:27 pm.
  
  
  'Father Fowler'.
  
  'Hakan'.
  
  Russell positioned Cain's limp body between himself and the priest, who was still aiming his rifle at Russell's head.
  
  "Looks like you got rid of my people."
  
  'It wasn't me, Mr Russell. God took care of it. He turned them to dust.'
  
  Russell looked at him in shock, trying to figure out if the priest was bluffing. The help of his assistants was necessary to carry out his plan. He could not understand why they had not yet appeared, and tried to play for time.
  
  'So you've got the upper hand, father,' he said, returning to his usual ironic tone. 'I know what a good shooter you are. At this distance you can't miss. Or are you afraid to hit the unannounced Messiah?'
  
  'Mr Kine is just a sick old man who believes he is doing the will of God. From my point of view, the only difference between the two of you is your age. Drop your weapons.'
  
  Russell was clearly outraged by the insult, but powerless to do anything about the situation. He had held his own pistol by the barrel after he had beaten Cain with it, and the old man's body did not provide him with sufficient protection. Russell knew that one wrong move would result in a hole in his head.
  
  He opened his right fist and released his pistol, then opened his left and released Kine.
  
  The old man collapsed in slow motion, hunched over as if his joints weren't connected to each other.
  
  'Excellent, Mr Russell,' said Fowler. 'Now, if you don't mind, please step back ten steps...'
  
  Mechanically, Russell did as he was told, hatred burning in his eyes.
  
  For every step Russell took back, Fowler took a step forward until the first one was with his back to the wall and the priest stood next to Cain.
  
  'Very good. Now put your hands on your head and you'll come out of this safe and sound.'
  
  Fowler squatted down beside Cain, feeling his pulse. The old man was shaking, and one of his legs seemed to be cramping. The priest frowned. Kine's condition worried him - he had all the signs of a stroke, and his vitality seemed to evaporate with every moment.
  
  Meanwhile, Russell was looking around, trying to find something that could be used as a weapon against the priest. Suddenly he felt something under him on the ground. He looked down and noticed that he was standing on some cables that ended a foot and a half to his right and were connected to a generator that provided power to the cave.
  
  He smiled.
  
  Fowler took Kane's hand, ready to pull him away from Russell if necessary. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Russell jump. Without the slightest hesitation, he fired.
  
  Then the lights went out.
  
  What should have been a warning shot ended up destroying the generator. The equipment began firing sparks every few seconds, illuminating the tunnel with a sporadic blue light that grew fainter, like a camera flash slowly losing power.
  
  Fowler immediately crouched down, a position he had assumed hundreds of times as he parachuted into enemy territory on moonless nights. When you didn't know your enemy's position, the best thing to do was to sit still and wait.
  
  Blue spark.
  
  Fowler thought he saw a shadow run along the wall to his left and fired. It missed. Cursing his luck, he moved a few feet in a zigzag to make sure the other wouldn't recognize his position after the shot.
  
  Blue spark.
  
  Another shadow, this time to his right, though longer and straight against the wall. He fired in the opposite direction. He missed again and there was more movement.
  
  Blue spark.
  
  He was pinned to the wall. He couldn't see Russell anywhere. This may mean that he
  
  With a yell, Russell lunged at Fowler, punching him several times in the face and neck. The priest felt the other's teeth sink into his hand like an animal's. Unable to do otherwise, he fired a Kalashnikov assault rifle. For a second, he felt someone else's hands. They fought and the rifle was lost in the dark.
  
  Blue spark.
  
  Fowler lay on the ground as Russell tried his best to choke him. The priest, finally able to see his enemy, clenched his fist and punched Russell in the solar plexus. Russell groaned and rolled onto his side.
  
  The last, faint blue flash.
  
  Fowler managed to see Russell disappear into the cell. A sudden dim glint told him that Russell had found his gun.
  
  There was a voice to his right.
  
  'Father'.
  
  Fowler crept up on the dying Kine. He didn't want to offer Russell an easy target in case he decided to try his luck and aim randomly in the dark. The priest finally felt the old man's body in front of him and put his mouth to his ear.
  
  'Mr. Cain, hold on,' he whispered. 'I can get you out of here'.
  
  'No, father, you can't,' Cain replied, and although his voice was weak, he spoke in the firm tone of a small child. 'It will be better this way. I'm going to see my parents, my son and my brother. .It is logical that everything will end the same way.'
  
  'Then commit yourself to God,' said the priest.
  
  'I have. Could you give me a hand while I'm leaving?'
  
  Fowler said nothing, but felt for the dying man's hand, holding it between his own. Less than a minute later, in the middle of a whispered Hebrew prayer, there was a death rattle, and Raymond Cain froze.
  
  By this point, the priest knew what he had to do.
  
  In the darkness, he put his fingers to the buttons of his shirt and unbuttoned them, then pulled out a bag of explosives. He fumbled for the detonator, inserted it into the bars of C4, and pressed the buttons. In his mind, he counted the number of beeps.
  
  After installation, I have two minutes, he thought.
  
  But he couldn't leave the bomb outside the cavity where the Ark rested. Perhaps it wouldn't be powerful enough to seal the cave once again. He wasn't sure how deep the depression was, and if the Ark was behind a rocky outcropping, it might have survived without a scratch. If he was going to prevent this madness from happening again, he should have placed a bomb next to the Ark. He couldn't throw it like a grenade because the detonator could come off. And he should have had enough time to escape.
  
  The only option was to overpower Russell, get C4 into position and then run with all his might.
  
  He crawled around, hoping not to make too much noise, but it was impossible. The ground was covered with small stones that moved as he moved.
  
  'I hear you coming, priest.'
  
  There was a red flash and a shot rang out. The bullet missed Fowler quite a distance, but the priest remained cautious and quickly rolled to the left. The second bullet hit where he had been just a few seconds before.
  
  He uses the flash from his gun to get his bearings. But he can't do it too often or he'll run out of ammo, Fowler thought, mentally counting the wounds he'd seen on Pappas and Eichberg's bodies.
  
  He probably shot Dekker once, Pappas maybe three times, Eichberg twice, and he shot me twice. That's eight bullets. There are fourteen bullets in the pistol, fifteen if there is one in the chamber. That means he's got six, maybe seven bullets left. He'll have to recharge soon. When he does, I will hear the magazine click. Then...
  
  He was still counting as two more shots lit up the entrance to the cave. This time, Fowler pulled back from his original position just in time. The shot missed him by about four inches.
  
  There are four or five left.
  
  'I'm going to get to you, Crusader. I'm going to get you because Allah is with me.' Russell's voice sounded ghostly in the cave. 'Get out of here while you still can'.
  
  Fowler grabbed a rock and threw it into the hole. Russell took the bait and fired in the direction of the noise.
  
  Three or four.
  
  'Very clever, Crusader. But it won't do you any good.'
  
  He hadn't finished speaking when he fired again. This time there were not two, but three shots. Fowler rolled to the left and then to the right, hitting his knees on sharp rocks.
  
  One bullet or empty magazine.
  
  Just before he made the second throw, the priest raised his head for a moment. It lasted perhaps only half a second, but what he saw in the brief light of the shots would remain in his memory forever.
  
  Russell stood behind a gigantic gold box. At the top, two crudely sculpted figures shone brightly. With a flash from a pistol, the gold looked uneven, crumpled.
  
  Fowler took a deep breath.
  
  He was almost inside the chamber itself, but he did not have enough room to maneuver. If Russell fired again, even if it was just a shot to see where he was, he would almost certainly hit him.
  
  Fowler decided to do what Russell least expected.
  
  With one quick movement, he jumped up and ran into the hole. Russell tried to fire, but the trigger made a loud click. Fowler jumped, and before the other man could react, the priest leaned with the full weight of his body on the top of the ark, which fell on Russell, the lid opened and the contents spilled out. Russell jumped back and narrowly avoided being crushed.
  
  What followed was a blind fight. Fowler was able to hit Russell in the arms and chest several times, but Russell somehow managed to fit a full magazine into his pistol. Fowler heard the gun reloading. With his right hand he groped in the darkness, with his left he held Russell's hand.
  
  He found a flat stone.
  
  With all his might, he hit Russell on the head with it, and the young man fell to the ground unconscious.
  
  The force of the impact blew the rock to pieces.
  
  Fowler tried to regain his balance. His whole body ached and his head was bleeding. Using the light from his watch, he tried to orient himself in the darkness. He directed a thin but intense beam of light at the upturned Ark, creating a soft shimmer that filled the room.
  
  He had very little time to admire it. At that moment, Fowler heard a sound that he had not noticed in the struggle ...
  
  Sound signal .
  
  ... and realized that while he was rolling, dodging shots ...
  
  Sound signal .
  
  ..not meaning...
  
  Sound signal .
  
  ...he activated the detonator...
  
  ... it sounded only in the last ten seconds before the explosion ...
  
  Beeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep.
  
  Driven by instinct rather than reason, Fowler jumped into the darkness beyond the cell, beyond the faint light of the Ark.
  
  At the foot of the platform, a nervous Andrea Otero bit her nails. Then suddenly the ground shook. The scaffold lurched and groaned as the steel absorbed the impact of the explosion, but did not collapse. A cloud of smoke and dust erupted from the tunnel opening, covering Andrea with a thin layer of sand. She ran a few feet from the scaffold and waited. For half an hour her eyes remained riveted on the mouth of the smoking cavern, though she knew it was useless to wait.
  
  Nobody came out.
  
  
  95
  
  
  
  ON THE ROAD TO AQABA
  
  AL-MUDAWWARA DESERT, JORDAN
  
  
  Thursday, July 20, 2006 9:34 pm
  
  
  Andrea made it to H3 with a blown tire where she left it, more exhausted than ever in her life. She found the jack exactly where Fowler had said, and mentally recited a prayer for the dead priest.
  
  He will certainly be in Heaven, if such a place exists. If you exist, God. If you're up there, why don't you send a couple of angels to help me?
  
  No one showed up, so Andrea had to do the work herself. When she had finished, she went to say goodbye to Doc, who was buried no more than ten feet from her. The farewell lasted for some time, and Andrea realized that she had howled and cried loudly several times. She felt like she was on the verge - in the middle - of a nervous breakdown after what had happened in the last few hours.
  
  
  The moon was beginning to rise, illuminating the dunes with its silvery blue light, as Andrea finally mustered the strength to say goodbye to Chadwa and climb into H3. Feeling weak, she closed the door and turned on the air conditioner. The cold air touching her sweaty skin was delicious, but she couldn't afford to enjoy it for more than a few minutes. The fuel tank was only a quarter full, and she would need everything she had to get to the road.
  
  If I had paid attention to this detail when we got into the car this morning, I would have understood the real purpose of the trip. Perhaps Chedwa would still be alive.
  
  She shook her head. She had to concentrate on driving. With a bit of luck, she'll make it to the road and find a city with a gas station before midnight. If not, she will have to walk. It was important to find a computer with an Internet connection as soon as possible.
  
  She had something to say.
  
  
  96
  
  EPILOGUE
  
  
  The dark figure slowly returned home. He had very little water, but it was enough for a man like him, who was taught to survive in the worst conditions and help others to survive.
  
  He managed to find the route by which the chosen Yirma əi áhu entered the caves more than two thousand years ago. It was the darkness he had thrown himself into just before the explosion. Some of the stones that covered it were blown away by the explosion. It took him a beam of sunlight and several hours of overwhelming effort to get out into the open again.
  
  He slept during the day where he found shade. He breathed only through his nose, through a makeshift scarf he made from discarded clothes.
  
  He walked at night, resting for ten minutes every hour. His face was completely covered in dust, and now that he saw the outline of a road a few hours away, he became increasingly aware of the fact that his 'death' might finally provide the release he had been searching for all these years. He would no longer need to be a soldier of God.
  
  His freedom would have been one of two rewards he received for this venture, even though he could never share either of them with anyone.
  
  He reached into his pocket for a piece of rock no larger than his palm. It was all that was left of the flat rock he'd hit Russell with in the dark. All over its surface were deep but perfect symbols that were not engraved by a human hand.
  
  Two tears rolled down his cheeks, leaving trails in the dust that covered his face. His fingertips traced the symbols on the stone, and his lips turned them into words.
  
  Loh Tirtzach.
  
  You must not kill.
  
  At that moment, he asked for forgiveness.
  
  And he was forgiven.
  
  
  Gratitude
  
  
  I want to thank the following people:
  
  To my parents, to whom this book is dedicated, for escaping the bombings of the Civil War and for giving me a childhood so unlike their own.
  
  Antonia Kerrigan for being the best literary agent on the planet with the best team: Lola Gulias, Bernat Fiol and Victor Hurtado.
  
  To you, reader, for the success of my first novel, God's Spy, in thirty-nine countries. I sincerely thank you.
  
  To New York, to James Graham, my 'brother'. Dedicated to Rory Hightower, Alice Nakagawa and Michael Dillman.
  
  In Barcelona, Enrique Murillo, the editor of this book, is tireless and tiring at the same time, because he has one unusual virtue: he always told me the truth.
  
  In Santiago de Compostela, Manuel Soutino, who put his considerable understanding of engineering into descriptions of Moses' expedition.
  
  In Rome, Giorgio Celano for his knowledge of the catacombs.
  
  In Milan, Patricia Spinato, tamer of words.
  
  In Jordan Mufti Samir, Bahjat al-Rimawi and Abdul Suheyman, who know the desert like no one else and who taught me the gahwa ritual.
  
  Nothing in Vienna would have been possible without Kurt Fischer, who provided me with information about a real butcher from Spiegelgrund who died on December 15 of a heart attack.
  
  And to my wife Katuxa and my children Andrea and Javier for understanding my travels and my schedule.
  
  Dear reader, I don't want to end the book without asking for a favor. Go back to the beginning of these pages and reread Samuel Keane's poem. Do this until you remember every word. Teach this to your children; send it to your friends. Please.
  
  
  Blessed are you, O God, the Eternal, Universal Presence who makes bread grow from the earth.
  
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