He walked toward Porta Palazzo, the open-air market, to buy something to eat and try to lose himself among the stalls. The people following him would have a hard time camouflaging themselves in the narrow corridors of the market, and if he could manage to see their faces, it would be easier for him to lose them later.
They had come for him. The old man took the knife from Bakkalbasi without hesitation. His nephew's son had to be killed, and he preferred to do it himself rather than allowing other men to profane themselves. In the car, Bakkalbasi's cell phone chimed; Mendib was moving toward the Piazza della Repubblica, probably to Porta Palazzo, the marketplace. Bakkalbasi ordered the driver to head in that direction and stop near the place Mendib had been seen. As they pulled up, he embraced the old man and said good-bye. He prayed that he might complete his mission.
Within minutes, Mendib saw his father's uncle and felt his heart fill with relief. The community, his family, had not forsaken him. He began to make his way carefully toward the old man. Then he saw his great-uncle's anguished expression. It was the look of a desperate man.
Their eyes met. Mendib did not know what to do- flee or approach the old man casually to give him an opportunity to pass a note or whisper instructions.
He decided to trust his great-uncle. The desperation in his eyes no doubt reflected fear, nothing else. Fear of Addaio, fear of the carabinieri.
As their bodies brushed against each other, Mendib felt a deep pain in his side. Then the old man fell to his knees and crumpled facedown on the ground. A knife protruded from his back. People around him began to scream and push away, and Mendib did the same-panicked, he ran. Someone had murdered his father's uncle, but who?
The killer ran along with the crowd, acting as terrified as the rest. He'd stabbed an old man instead of the mute. An old man who was carrying a knife too. That did it; he was not going to make another attempt. The man who'd hired him hadn't told him the whole story by a long shot, and he couldn't work in the dark, not knowing what he'd be facing. The contract was over, and he was keeping the up-front money.
On the edge of the market, Bakkalbasi watched Mendib run away as the old man lay dying on the pavement. Who had killed him? It had not been the carabinieri. Might it have been them? But why kill the old man? Distraught, he called Addaio. He didn't know what to do. Everything was coming apart. The pastor listened and gave a brief order. Bakkalbasi nodded, calming himself.
With his men right behind him, Marco ran over to the old man lying on the pavement. They were all burned, for anyone who was looking.
"Is he dead?" Pietro asked.
The old man's pulse was fading. He opened his eyes, looked up at Marco as though he wanted to say something, and died.
Sofia and Minerva had followed everything on the police radio; they'd heard Marco's footsteps, running, the orders he was issuing rapid-fire, Pietro's question.
"Marco! Marco! What happened?" Minerva shouted into the mike. "For God's sake, tell us something!"
"Somebody tried to kill the mute-we don't know who, we didn't see him-but he killed an old man who stepped in front of him. We don't know who he is, he's got no papers. The ambulance is coming. Jesus! Shit, shit, shit!"
"You want us over there?" Sofia asked.
"No, just stay there. Where the hell is the mute?!" they heard him yell.
"We lost him," said a voice over the walkie-talkies.
"We lost him," it repeated. "He got away in the confusion."
"Son of a bitch! How the hell could you people let him get away? Goddammit!"
"Calm down, Marco, calm down…" Giuseppe was saying.
Minerva and Sofia listened in silence. After so many months of preparation for Trojan Horse, the horse had galloped away.
"Find him! All of you! Find him!"
Well out of the neighborhood by now, Mendib was having trouble breathing. He pressed his hand over the stab wound at his side. The pain was becoming unbearable. The worst thing was that he was leaving a trail of blood. He stopped and looked for a doorway to step into and rest for a moment. He thought he had managed to throw off his pursuers, but he was not sure. His only chance lay in reaching the cemetery, but it was still far, and he should wait until nightfall. But where?
Willing himself to move onward, he pressed service doors all along the way until one finally gave. It was a little janitor's closet, holding mops and buckets and a large trash container. He sat on the floor behind the trash can, trying not to lose consciousness. He was losing a great deal of blood, and he needed to stanch the wound. He took off the jacket he was wearing and pulled out the lining to make a bandage, which he held tight against the wound. He was exhausted; he did not know how long he would be able to hide there-perhaps until nightfall, if he was lucky
His old uncle, a man who had loved him since he was a baby, had stabbed him. What was going on? Then Mendib felt himself growing light-headed and lost consciousness.
Ana was sitting on a terrace at the Porta Palatina, waiting to return to Padre Yves's office, when people began to run past, shouting. They were screaming that a man had been killed-the killer was still on the loose. She scanned the crowd and noticed a young man on its fringes running, stumbling. As if he was hurt. He ducked into a doorway and disappeared. She walked in the direction the people had come from, trying to find out what was happening. But except that somebody had been murdered, no one could tell her anything coherent.
She saw two young men, similar in appearance to the one who'd looked hurt, heading in that same direction, and instinctively she followed them.
The two men from Urfa saw the woman lingering behind them, so they began to slow, and then to backtrack. She was probably a cop. They could watch for Mendib to emerge from a distance and keep an eye on her as well. If necessary, they would kill her too.
Yves de Charny had been back in his office for a while. His handsome features were shadowed with worry.
His secretary entered the office. "Padre, those two friends of yours, the priests Padre Joseph and Padre David, are here. I told them you had just come in and I wasn't sure you could see them."
"Yes, yes, have them come in. His Eminence doesn't need me anymore, he's going to Rome, and the work for today is almost done. If you want, take the rest of the afternoon off."
"Have you heard that there was a murder just around the corner, at the Porta Palazzo?"
"Yes, I heard it on the radio. My God, such violence!"
"Heavens, yes, padre… Well, if you don't mind my leaving, I can use the time-I've been wanting to have my hair done; tomorrow I'm having dinner at my daughter's house."