Three nuns, hands lost within their black robes, passed slowly in procession, walking in perfect unison, as if to a tempo God had provided for them.
'Do you think that was wise?' Jenny said. 'Giving him the coin.'
'To be honest, I don't know,' Bravo told her. 'But it's done now.'
Two priests, one taller and slender, the other shorter and stout as a wine cask, appeared, walking down the north transept toward them, their faces bent, shrouded in shadow, deep in discussion.
'I'm going after him.' Jenny made a sudden move, which startled the priests, for they paused, whispering to each other. By this time, Bravo had stopped her. The priests resumed their stroll, but in a different direction now, away from them.
'Listen, Bravo-'
He made a curt gesture, silencing her. 'When it comes to protecting me, you call the shots, otherwise this is my show, got it?'
She bridled, her faced flushed with anger. He could see that she was uncomfortable ceding control to him, and he realized that she still harbored questions about his instincts, his motivations and, even worse, his mental fortitude. No matter that they were intimate in bed, there was still a chasm of distrust between them, which caused him to wonder whether their physical relationship was anything more than a passing illusion. He had been so happy when he'd arrived in Venice last night-he'd been sure that he'd been nearing something he'd been longing for all his life, something so important and vital that at last he might be absolved of the guilt he had felt over Junior's death. And now he was possessed by the sudden sensation of looking down at himself from outside his body, as if he had entered a dream without knowing when or how. Nothing seemed certain anymore; thin ice was beneath his feet, and he felt on the verge of losing his balance and tearing through into the chill water beneath.
Much to his consternation, he found that he and Jenny were glaring at each other.
'You wouldn't be talking to Uncle Tony like this,' she said.
'I would, whether you choose to believe it or not. Two people can make decisions, but only if one of them is dead.'
His paraphrasing of the famous Ben Franklin saying broke the tension, as he meant it to, and she visibly relaxed.
'Just remember who's taking care of you,' she whispered.
Another priest had appeared in the shadows below the triple-bayed gemel window and was beckoning to them.
'I'm Father Mosto.' The priest held the gold coin in his hand. He was of medium height, with flat black hair that covered his scalp like a cap. His skin was dark as cocoa mixed with cream, so it was possible that his forebears were originally from Campania, in the south of Italy around Mt. Vesuvius. Perhaps there was even some North African or Turkish blood in him. Though he wasn't big, he gave that impression because he was broad- stoop-shouldered and barrel-chested-with a heavy, brooding face that looked out at the world with an innate suspicion from behind the forest of a beard.
'You're Braverman.' He held the coin between his thumb and forefinger. 'Dexter's son.'
'That's right.' Bravo accepted the coin back.
'I recognized you from a photo your father gave me.' Father Mosto nodded. 'You will come with me now and we shall talk.'
When Jenny moved to accompany Bravo, the priest held up his hand. 'This is between the Keeper and myself. You may stand outside the door to my rectory if you wish.'
Jenny's eyes flashed. 'I was assigned to Bravo by Dexter Shaw himself; I accompany him wherever he goes.'
A storm of emotion appeared to gather in Father Mosto's face. 'That simply is not possible,' he said curtly. 'You will follow orders. Any other Guardian would not need to be reminded of his duties.'
'She's right, Father Mosto,' Bravo said. 'What I hear, she hears.'
'No, it is not allowed.' The priest folded his arms over his chest. 'Never.'
'It was my father's wish and my choice.' Bravo shrugged. 'But if you persist, we will walk out of here-'
'No, you must not.' A small muscle had begun to twitch in the priest's cheek. 'You understand why you must not.'
'I do,' Bravo said. 'And yet I will, trust me.'
Father Mosto stared at him with a certain degree of belligerence.
Bravo turned and, together with Jenny, began to walk away.
'Braverman Shaw,' Father Mosto called from behind them. 'You are perhaps not so familiar with the traditions of the Order. Females have no place in-'
He watched them continue moving away from him, and when he spoke again, there was a plaintive note to his voice. 'Don't do this, I beg of you. It is against our ancient traditions.'
Bravo turned. 'Then perhaps it's time you reconsidered what is tradition and what is rote, what is useful and what never should have been.'
The priest's face was dark as soot and he rocked a little on his feet, which were as tiny as a girl's. 'This is monstrous. I won't stand for it. You are extorting-'
'I'm extorting nothing,' Bravo said calmly. 'I'm merely suggesting another way of approaching a situation, just as my father would have done if he was standing here in my place.'
Father Mosto scrubbed his beard with his curled fingers, his venomous eyes on Jenny.
'Where is your vaunted Christian compassion, Father Mosto?' she said.
Bravo started, certain that she'd upset the delicate balance he'd so carefully created. But then he looked into the priest's face and noticed a subtle softening. Like anyone else, he was not immune to flattery. Too, she had judged the right psychological moment to speak up. Father Mosto saw that she wasn't as compliant or as foolish as he had supposed. Bravo understood, then, just how clever Jenny was. She had been following every nuance of the conversation and knew precisely when the priest was on the cusp of acquiescing. All that had been remaining was an affirmation from her, proving Bravo's position.
An expression, perhaps of resignation, settled on Father Mosto's face. 'Come with me, both of you,' he said gruffly, and he led them through a thickly painted doorway at the back of the church that was, in fact, part of a panel painting. It was so small that Bravo had to duck his head.
They found themselves in a downward sloping corridor that must have been running alongside a canal because the farther they went, the damper it became. Here and there, water was seeping through the immense stone blocks. A door appeared to their left, just before the corridor reached its lowest ebb. Here there was a metal drain set into the stone from which a sewer reek now and again wafted.
Father Mosto unlocked the door to the rectory and, opening the thick iron-clad wood door, made to step over the threshold. Jenny, however, was looking down the corridor.
'What's beyond there?' she said.
When it became clear he wasn't going to acknowledge the question, Bravo repeated it.
'Santa Marina Maggiore.' The priest addressed Bravo through pursed lips.
'The nunnery,' Jenny said.
'No one is allowed in there,' Father Mosto said.
When Jenny entered he was already behind his desk, a rather ornate wooden affair for a priest. One wall was taken up by a massive oak cabinet, its carved doors chained and padlocked. The only other pieces of furniture were a pair of uncomfortable-looking spindle-back chairs of a wood that was almost black. Above his head hung a carving of Jesus on the Cross. Owing to its lack of windows, the room, which smelled of resin and incense, was claustrophobic.
'I'm afraid I have bad news to impart,' he said. 'The pope's health has declined precipitously.'
'Then I have less time than I had thought,' Bravo said.
'Indeed. With the full backing of the Vatican cabal behind them, the Knights have the upper hand now, of that there can be no doubt.' He clawed at his beard again. 'You see why I was so distraught when you decided to walk away. You're the Order's only hope. Safeguarding our secrets is what will save us. The secrets are our power, our future-they are the Order itself. Without them, we will cease to exist, our contacts will vanish, and the
