At nine the mute was to be released from the Turin jail.
Marco had planned for the operation to tail him meticulously. They would be backed up by a group of carabinieri and by Interpol.
Sofia was nervous, and she thought Minerva looked uneasy too. Even Antonino showed the tension in the way he tightened his lips. Marco, Pietro, and Giuseppe, however, seemed fine-loose and easy. All three were cops, and for them a tail was routine. They had reviewed their respective roles and responsibilities until they could practically recite them in their sleep. There was nothing to do now but wait.
To fill the time, Sofia began to update Marco and the team about some of the more intriguing leads-or hints, really-that she'd come across on her most recent forays into the shadowy history of the shroud, paging through biblical Apocrypha and books on Edessa and its role as an ancient center of trade. The more she delved into the connection they'd unearthed to Urfa, Edessa's modern incarnation, the more convinced she became that there was indeed a thread stretching from there through the centuries-cryptic allusions to inquiries emanating from powerful forces within the city seeking the whereabouts of a mysterious lost treasure. The probes seemed to reach into every kingdom on the continent and beyond, even as far as England, Scotland, and Ireland. She was certain that the treasure was Edessa's stolen shroud-and that perhaps the effort to recover it hadn't stopped when the historical accounts broke off.
"Jesus, I never heard anything so stupid!" Pietro interrupted her. "It's too early in the morning for this bullshit, Sofia."
"This is not bullshit! I mean, it's speculation, I know that, and it's a little 'out there,' and I'm not saying that it's true, but you can't call everything that doesn't agree with what you think 'bullshit.' "
"Cool it!" Marco barked. "Sofia, I don't know… it seems a bit fantastic that this could have been going on all these years. But with a little luck, and close attention to the job at hand," he looked pointedly around the table at them all, "we'll have some hard answers soon. Now let's run through everything one more time."
Far from Turin, the animated atmosphere within the opulent penthouse of one of the world's most powerful shipping magnates was in stark contrast to the storm outside now lashing New York City. Guests milled about, chatting happily, laughing, and although it was after midnight, the party seemed to be just beginning. The group of men ensconced comfortably in a discreet corner with champagne and Havana cigars seemed to perfectly reflect the festive mood of the night.
Their conversation, however, belied their relaxed postures.
"Mendib will be leaving the prison about now," the oldest murmured discreetly to the others. "Everything is ready."
"I'm concerned about this situation. Bakkalbasi has seven men in all, Addaio has hired a professional killer, and Marco Valoni has put a whole team of men and equipment in place. Won't we be terribly exposed? Wouldn't it be better to let them resolve this themselves?" the Frenchman asked.
"We have been briefed on all the details of both operations-we can monitor them with little danger of exposure of our people. As for Addaio's man, there is no problem there. He can be easily controlled," replied the older man.
"Even so, I, too, am inclined to believe that there are too many people in this," said a gentleman with an indeterminate accent.
"Mendib is a problem for Addaio and for us because Valoni will not let go of this as long as he has a lead," the older man insisted. "But I am much more concerned about the reporter, the sister of the Europol representative, and that Dottoressa Galloni. The conclusions those two are reaching bring them perilously close to us. Ana Jimenez has met with Lady Elisabeth McKenny, who gave her a file, or the summary of a file, on the Templars. You know the one. I'm sorry, very sorry, to come to this point, but Lady Elisabeth, Ms. Jimenez, and Dottoressa Galloni are becoming a problem. A threat to our existence, in fact."
A heavy silence fell over the others, who exchanged surreptitious glances.
"What do you propose to do?" The Italian's tone carried a touch of defiance as he asked the direct question.
"What has to be done. I'm sorry."
"We mustn't rush into this."
'And we haven't, which is why they're much further along in their speculations than is comfortable for us. We must act before it is too late. I want your advice, but I also want your consent."
"Can we not wait awhile longer?" asked the ex-military man.
"No, we can't, not without endangering everything. It would be madness to go on taking risks. I'm sorry, sincerely sorry. The decision is as repugnant to me as it is to you, but I can find no other solution. If you think there is one, tell me."
The other six men were silent. They all knew deep down that he was right. The enormous amount of money Paul Bisol had spent on security had been for nothing. For years they had intercepted the couple's mail. They had inserted spyware on their computers, a keystroke logger program, and they had tapped Enigmas' telephones; they had installed sophisticated bugs in the editorial offices and in their home.
They knew everything about them-as for months they had been learning everything about Sofia Galloni and Ana Jimenez, from the perfume they wore to what they read at night, who they spoke to, their love life… everything, absolutely everything.
The other members of the Art Crimes Department had all been under relentless surveillance as well-all their telephone calls, both landline and cellular, had been intercepted, and each of them had been followed around the clock.
"So?" the older man insisted.
"I hesitate to-"
"I understand," the older man interrupted the Italian, "I understand. Say no more. You need not take part in the decision."
"Do you think that lightens my conscience?"
"No, I know it doesn't. But it can help. I think you need that help, spiritual help. We have all passed through moments like this in our lives. It has not been easy, but we have not chosen the easy road-we have chosen the impossible. It is in circumstances such as these that the nobility of our mission becomes the measure of ourselves."
'After dedicating my entire life… do you think that I still have to prove that I am worthy of our mission?"
"Of course not. You need not prove anything," his master replied. "But you are suffering. We can all see that. You must look within yourself, and to God, for the strength you have always had. For now, please, trust in our judgment and let us act as we must."
"No, I cannot agree to that."
"I can suspend you temporarily, until you are yourself again."
"You can do that. What else will you do?"
As other guests began to glance toward them, the military man interrupted.' "That's enough. They're looking at us. Let's leave this for another moment."
"There is no time," the older man replied. "I must ask for your consent now."
"So be it," said all the men but one, who, lips tight with anger and frustration, turned on his heel and strode away.