bright crimson, were half-parted, and her voice, when she continued, was breathless. 'Bravo, your father was the Keeper of all the Order's secrets.'
It was a curious thing, but the only time Donatella felt at peace was when she was in a graveyard. For this reason she had made herself familiar with the cemeteries in every city to which she had traveled. DC was no exception, and though the area had an inordinate number of cemeteries, at one time or another she had explored them all, in sunlight and moonlight, in rain, snow and fog. And, in truth, there was none she knew better than Miamonides. It had been a long-held belief of hers that an important secret held by the Gnostic Observatines resided in the Marcus mausoleum-the tomb of the sainted Fra Leoni, a personal touchstone for every member of the Order-but not even the last two members of the Order's Haute Cour she and Rossi had dispatched had been able to provide confirmation. A pity, because raiding that tomb would be a psychological blow from which, she was certain, the Order would not recover.
Now, as she realized where the Guardian was taking Braverman Shaw, she felt a slight tremor ripple down her spine, making her tingle. She and Rossi were moving between the mausoleums, on a line more or less parallel with the path down which their quarry walked. They had to be extremely careful, for the Guardian was being exceptionally watchful and, though Rossi might unconsciously underestimate her, Donatella was determined that she would not.
Rossi had no tolerance for anything he perceived as weakness. His faith in Donatella was absolute-a curious anomaly in his feelings about women-and she had no intention of giving him the slightest cause to doubt that faith.
When she saw the Guardian take Braverman Shaw into the Marcus mausoleum she could hardly contain herself. As if sensing her extreme excitement, Rossi approached her and, curling his fingers around her forearm, said softly in Italian, 'You won't forget yourself, will you?' His eyes sought hers, engaged them. In his gaze were all the terrible incidents of their shared past, all the pain and despair, all the blood taken and spilled. To him, her vulpine eyes were like a looking glass in which he saw the best of himself and at the same time recognized the worst. 'We have our orders, we cannot deviate from them, yes?'
She nodded, but her mouth was dry and her pulse was heavy in the side of her neck. His fingertips on her carotid picked up the throb as if it were a seismic shift. 'This is how you are when we're about to have sex,' he said softly. 'Your eyes change color, your pores exude an intimate odor, and I know that you're ready.' He leaned toward her, his nostrils dilating as he inhaled. 'You see? But still I must wonder what complex changes take place inside you.'
Mutely, she dug in her pocket, produced a small matte-black canister, which she held like a conjurer between thumb and forefinger. Rossi smiled, releasing her.
Weapon drawn, ready, she headed toward her heart's desire.
'Faith is a tree, growing new branches even in the face of a storm,' Emma had said. 'There is a plan for us.' Was she right, Bravo asked himself now, or was this nothing more than a mirage?
But no. At long last, it seemed that he was beginning to understand his father-why Dexter had encouraged the study of medieval religions, why he was bitterly disappointed when Bravo abandoned those studies, his antipathy toward Jordan Muhlmann, who, Bravo could see now, he blamed for leading his son astray. In the case of Jordan, it was a monumental misunderstanding, and Bravo wished more than anything that his father were standing beside him so that he could explain the nature of his deep and abiding friendship with Jordan.
'You said there was one secret greater than all the rest,' he said now. 'What is it?'
'I don't know,' Jenny said in that perfectly sincere voice of hers.
He did not believe her, but perhaps there was a good reason for her lie. The wariness between them likely flowed both ways.
'You still haven't told me why you brought me here.' His carefully neutral tone was an attempt to draw her out. 'You could have told me the history of the Order anywhere.'
'True enough.' Her fingertips moved over the veining of the faux marble walls with the questing delicacy of a safe-cracker's. The rest of her, however, was utterly still. 'But there is the question of initiation.'
'Initiation?'
'Congratulations. You've just become the most important human being on earth.'
He stared at her, for the moment unable to speak or even to think clearly.
Jenny turned toward him, her pale, slightly upturned eyes glimmering through the semidarkness of the antique masonry. He recognized in her glance, in the way she stood, a certain complicity. Entombed together in the intimate blood-temperature warmth, they seemed to be moving in concert, returning in ritual fashion not only to the Order's storied history but to Dexter Shaw's lifelong conspiracy. And all at once tears sprang into his eyes because in a sense gloriously real to him, his father was being resurrected before his very eyes.
Her head dipped and the strands of hair came free again, fiery in the lamplight, curled against the ripe duskiness of her cheek. She took his hand to transmit to him, he assumed, her utter stillness. But instead he felt a vibration of intensity so extreme it quickened his blood; he became aware of her intent, as if, like the young woman in the portrait in her house, she was an arrow in a tautly drawn bow, about to be released.
'There is much to do and I doubt that we have much time.' As if to underscore her words, there came a hollow sound, ugly and thoroughly unmusical, as a small, matte-black canister hit the stone floor and began rolling toward them. Then the door to the mausoleum slammed shut.
Bravo ran to the door, but it was shut tight; they were trapped. A soft hiss made him turn, and he saw the tear gas foaming out of the canister, a venomous wave that surged toward them.
Chapter 5
Donatella and Rossi, their faces made bestial by black and silver snouts, burst through the bronze mausoleum door. They had waited for precisely three minutes before they had donned the gas masks. Then they had heaved open the heavy door. Weapons at the ready, they rushed inside, taking up first positions, Rossi just inside the door, Donatella into the western corner.
The atmosphere was that of a building after a fire. The gas, having dispersed, now hung in gauzy tiers like industrial smog, obscuring the ceiling. Nevertheless, there was no doubt that they were the only two living people occupying the mausoleum. They glanced at each other. Even through the lenses of the eye pieces, they could read the consternation and anger in each other's eyes.
'They're here,' Rossi said, his voice slightly muffled.
Donatella walked along the western wall, eyeing the plaster with its constellations of faux striations. 'The Order is fond of secret escape routes.' Her head swung around. 'You know what to do now.'
Rossi, near the doorway, stood in the last of the afternoon's ruddy light. 'Now that the time has come, I find I don't want to leave you.'
She lifted the gun into his line of vision, deliberately tapped the butt against the rear wall. 'You're wasting time.'
He grunted and disappeared through the open doorway.
'Now,' Donatella said softly, as she returned to the problem at hand, 'where are you, my little cockroaches?'
When the canister hit the floor, Jenny and Bravo had at once held their breath. Nevertheless, their eyes had begun to sting and tear, and the delicate flesh of their nostrils swelled painfully. Jenny had turned to the lower of the two crypt doors and with arms spread wide, depressed a pair of hidden studs, all but invisible in the complex pattern of faux veining.
The bronze door had opened, revealing not the mahogany side of a coffin but a swath of mysterious darkness. Already an ache had begun deep in his lungs as his body called out for oxygen. He did not think that they could hold their breath much longer. Apparently, Jenny had come to the same conclusion because she gestured toward the opening. He climbed in, making sure not to hit his head. He was reaching his hand up to feel the surface of the low ceiling-and fighting claustrophobia-when he felt her climb in beside him, and he inched himself further into the recess. In a brief aureole of light, he saw her fingers work something, then the heavy crypt door swung shut. This was accompanied by a peculiar sound, as of air hissing from a damaged tire, and with a
