'You believe that-and so did the Plumber. It was he who stood up for us, he who, when shouted down by the others, came to our aid and helped us without anyone else knowing.'
That was just like Dex, Jenny thought, tears standing in her eyes.
'We have nothing of our own, else why would we have needed the Plumber's help?' Arcangela said. 'We have never wavered from the tenets of poverty laid down by St. Francis for the Observatines. Of course, wealth in many different forms did, on occasion, come our way. But always it was used to help others, for the furtherance of the Order. Our loyalty is unquestionable.'
The forefinger was raised again. 'And the work for which we are vilified is highly dangerous. When, in 1301, the first of our charges was killed in Trebizond on a mission of grave importance, Santa Marina Maggiore underwent a sea change. The day our sister in Jesus Christ was brought back here from Trebizond, the then abbess, Suor Paula Grimani, swore to become an Anchorite in penance. Within three days, the bishop of Torcello arrived to administer the last rites and the first of our abbesses was bricked in. The penance has become perpetual.'
Jenny shook her head. 'But to consign yourself to a living hell.'
'Do you not understand the purpose of penance?' the Anchorite asked. 'Perhaps I should have quit smoking or given up raisins. Do you think such deprivation adequate for the loss of a life?'
'Of course not, but you could have stopped. You could have ordered your charges to return here and never leave again.'
'Yes, I could have done that,' Arcangela said, 'but then I wouldn't have been fit to be abbess. Then our trove of secrets would have been depleted centuries ago, and that would have been the end of the Order.'
'So you did most of the work, and the monks took the credit.'
'It wasn't as simple as that, the monks were always quite active. But they don't think as we do, do they?' Arcangela said. 'And they don't have access to our resources. You see, for centuries Venice's prostitutes came here to pray, to seek penance and have the Virgin Mary absolve them of their sins.' She shook her head. 'You know, many of them are closer to God than the so-called legitimate citizens of the city.'
Arcangela moved a little more into the light, which only underscored the ravines etched into her face. 'It was the whores who had access, you see, to everyone from the doge on down, and it is we who had access to the whores. At night, they lie next to politicians, merchant-princes, even Holy Fathers, and the whispered confidences passed in the aftermath of their work came straight to us. It was the masks, you see. It was easy in a city of masks, where identities were hidden, for anyone, married or clergy-even the doge-to move unrecognized through Venice, to visit anyone he wished without fear of being found out. This is why it is often said that what the whores of Venice don't know isn't worth knowing.'
'The monks must have hated that you had sources not available to them.'
'Of course they did, and they made our lives miserable because of it. They knew the nature of our transgressions. They knew we could not complain or go around them-we could not bring that kind of attention to ourselves. We're females, after all, we cannot give confession or communion or sermons, so even we-who ventured beyond the cloistered walls to further our Order-are in a way all prisoners.'
'Nothing has changed,' Suor Maffia di Albori said. 'It is as I told you.'
'I remember,' Jenny said. 'I won't be defeated by Venice.'
'Good, good.' Arcangela moved until her clawlike fingers touched Jenny's. Her skin was as smooth as silk. 'So, now I will answer your question.'
Jenny frowned. 'But I haven't asked you yet.'
'No need,' the abbess said. 'An emissary of the man you wish to see has just arrived. Suor Maffia di Albori will take you to him.'
'The man? Who-?'
'Why, Zorzi, of course. Paolo Zorzi,' Arcangela said shortly. 'Now go.' She waved a hand vaguely. 'I am unused to all this talk and my head hurts.'
Jordan passed out of Vatican City into the sprawl and clutter of Rome proper. It was well that his hired car was air-conditioned, Rome was sweltering. At the Piazza Venetia, he turned, inching past the Forum, which was so choked with tourists it was impossible to make out the lower stories. He rose toward the Campidoglio and passed over it and out of the centro storico-the heart of Rome-arriving at the Bocca della Verita` and then on into the Aventino, a calm, leafy district of large old villas, studded with embassies and a scattering of upscale apartment buildings.
Jordan observed everything through the tinted windows, at a remove from the overheated chaos of the Roman afternoon.
He pulled out his cell phone and dialed Camille. When she answered, he asked her for an update on the situation in Venice.
'Have no worries. Everything is on schedule, my love,' she said.
'Good, because Canesi's been flexing his muscles again.' He barked a short laugh. 'Unfortunately for him, his muscles have begun to wither away.'
'What a pity.'
'How is Signore Cornadoro behaving himself?'
'Perfectly, my love. And now I must ask the same of Signore Spagna.'
'Osman is no concern of yours, Mother. Your focus should be on Bravo.'
'When have you ever had cause to doubt my focus?'
Jordan felt an unpleasant quickening of his heartbeat, a response to the whiplike flick of his mother's displeasure. His anger at himself flared. 'Results, Camille, are what matter now. Results. All other issues fade to insignificance. Your world is Bravo, and only Bravo. Everything now rests on your shoulders.'
He ended the call with a mixture of anxiety and elation, before she could come back at him. Pulling up in front of a stately embassy building flanked by pencil cypress trees and coral bougainvillea, he deliberately turned off his cell phone. Emerging from the car, he was hit with a wave of heat that fairly staggered him. As he walked up the Istrian stone steps, the front door opened and Osman Spagna, bowing slightly, ushered him into the cool, air-conditioned interior.
'It is a pleasure to see you again, Grand Master.'
Jordan nodded as he followed Spagna through the facade of the Cypriot embassy offices. In reality, there was no Cypriot embassy in Rome. Those duties were handled for Cyprus by the New Zealand embassy. This building, in fact, housed the headquarters of the Knights of St. Clement of the Holy Blood.
Spagna used a special key to unlock a door set flush in the wood paneling and, moments later, he and Jordan were seated at a polished tulipwood table in a high-ceilinged room, with double doors at one end and at the other windows that looked out over manicured lawns and trees. The magnificent view, however, was not visible, as the heavy velvet drapes were drawn across the expanse of glass. The walls were devoid of any decoration; there was nothing in the room to indicate its use.
'The documents are complete, Grand Master,' Spagna said, pushing across a folder for Jordan's perusal. 'Everything is as you specified.'
Jordan avidly read through the signed contract selling off the building they were in, the one that had housed the Knights for decades. 'No one knows about this, you're certain?'
'Quite certain,' Spagna said. He was a short, stocky man, with dark skin, a large nose and a ferret's cunning eyes. With his calculating, mathematical mind he was the natural counterpart to Jordan, the engineer essential to the empire builder. 'As you can see on page five, paragraph seven, the language is quite specific. The buyer cannot reveal the transaction for three months after he takes possession. Since it will be his residence, this presented no problem for him.'
Jordan sighed as he looked up. 'At last we are leaving here, at last we will be free of Rome, the Vatican, and Cardinal Canesi.'
Spagna nodded. 'It is, indeed, the last step toward our freedom,' he said. 'You and I have spent the last decade using Lusignan et Cie's resources and contacts to secretly replace the power and capital that had been provided for us by the cardinal and his cabal of Vatican insiders.'
This was why Jordan had come to Rome, not to kowtow to Cardinal Canesi or to pay his respects to the pope, but to gather in the last piece of his plan. 'It's done then-my dream has become a reality. From this moment forward, the Knights are no longer tied to Canesi or the whims of the pope. We are free to forge our own
