one was forced to take a winding path to the rear of the store.
Khalif grinned, flashing his gleaming gold teeth. 'His name is Mikhail Kartli. You'll like him, once you get used to him.' He put a warning hand on Bravo's arm. 'This is a man, no matter his manner, who deserves your respect. He still fights the Azerbaijani and the Chechen terrorists. The Azerbaijan government wants whole areas to be renamed from the Georgian toponyms to the Azerbaijani-same with people's surnames. As for the terrorists, they continue to try moving their bases into Georgia. He spent six years defusing Chechen bombs. You'll see when you shake hands.'
It wasn't easy getting within spitting distance of Mikhail Kartli. Cell phone to one ear, he was surrounded by a clutch of merchants, gesticulating like bond traders while calling out softly but urgently under the music, which served to mask their business from outsiders and passersby. As they approached, Bravo recognized not only Georgian but Russian, Turkish, Italian, Arabic being spoken. It didn't take long to realize that these weren't carpet merchants but traders in oil, natural gas, currencies, precious metals, diamonds, as well as arms and all manner of war materiel.
The heady stench of money was in the air, the confluence of sweat and greed, grime and blood, power and deceit. Here beat the heart of modern-day Trabzon, which, despite appearances to the contrary, was still a potent nexus point between East and West, currency and commodities snaking like veins and arteries into the four corners of the world, the flow of capital pumped with the speed of sound irrespective of race, religion or political affiliation.
While they waited, Bravo took a long look at the Georgian. He was as stubby as a pencil end, as tough- looking as a bale of razor wire. He had the wide-apart stance of a street fighter and carried his football-shaped head low in the bulwark of his shoulders, as if from long years of defending himself, his family, his country. His hair was thick, black and wild, fiercely growing low on his forehead. As a consequence, the paleness of his eyes, rimmed by long lashes, were startling.
In the middle of his personal chaos, he saw Adem Khalif and briefly inclined his head. Then his eyes slid toward Bravo, and they opened so minutely anyone else but Bravo himself might have missed the reaction.
Eventually, the music changed and the crowd thinned sufficiently for Khalif to lead Bravo to the Georgian's side, where he introduced them. Kartli held out his right hand, which consisted of thumb and forefinger only. Bravo gripped it, felt the pressure of the healed-over nubs that used to be fingers and thought of this man defusing Chechen bombs, thought of one detonating, taking part of the hand with it.
'Your father was a good man,' Mikhail Kartli said laconically in perfect Turkish and, snapping his fingers, called for liquor. He took possession of the bottle, pouring the clear liquid into three water glasses. Bravo did not ask what it was. It was like liquid fire going down, and the afterburn tasted not unpleasantly of anise and caraway.
Kartli excused himself, finishing up the last pieces of his business. Then he turned the cell phone over to a younger version of himself-doubtless his eldest son-and they retired through a shadowed door in the rear.
A narrow, cramped corridor suddenly led out onto a bare poured-concrete terrace. An awning flapped above their heads. Rain pattered down on the crumbling city. Kartli stood spread-legged, a bantam fighter gazing down on the site of many victories. The small merchants with their painted dolls and their charcoal-braised cuttlefish, their burgeoning libraries of pirated DVDs of popular American movies looked up to him much as a small-arms dealer will genuflect before the trader in nuclear weapons.
He unfolded his arms, lit a thin black cigarette with a gold lighter. 'This is not a civilized place,' he said, seemingly to no one in particular. 'To believe so has been the fatal mistake of many over the centuries, especially the Greeks, who came here first to tame Trebizond. The Venetians, as well, though they were more clever than the Greeks, because they were less trusting. But, in the end, Trebizond belonged to the Ottomans, and the Ottomans were not civilized, not at all. Look what they became. Turks! And then, more recently, there were the greedy Russians, speeding across the Black Sea as fast as their boats could ferry them.' He shook his head sadly, throwing off the peculiar electricity of currency, as if even now he was manufacturing it somewhere inside his own body.
'Thank you for taking the time to see me,' Bravo began.
'The pope is dying,' Mikhail Kartli said over Bravo's last several words, 'there is scarcely any time left.'
'That's why I've come to you. My situation has become increasingly desperate.'
Kartli turned to Bravo, the ugly black cigarette between his brilliant red lips. 'You see, this is just the kind of situation the Order decided long ago to guard against. Do you think Canesi wants to save the pope's life for humanitarian reasons? Of course not. It's power, and power only. He wants to save his own skin. A new pope, clever and in his prime, surely would not tolerate their power, he'd sweep them aside like so much kindling.'
A certain grit lay underfoot, like sand from the desert, like gold dust ready to be swept up and transshipped.
'How up-to-date is your news of the pope's health?'
'What do you take me for? An hour old, not a moment more.' Mikhail Kartli's pale eyes bored into Bravo's. 'You are in more danger than you can imagine, my friend. Elements have been awakened-new informers, the Vatican's eyes and ears-that I can neither identify nor control.'
Kartli suddenly caught sight of the chased scabbard and the hilt of the dagger tucked into Bravo's waistband and his eyes narrowed. 'What is this? Surely it cannot be Lorenzo Fornarini's dagger.'
'It is.' Bravo removed it to show him. 'I've been to his sarcophagus in Venice.'
'My God, Fornarini's dagger!' Kartli took another deep drag of his cigarette. 'Through the priests at Trebizond, Lorenzo Fornarini was introduced to the Order, was converted to their cause, and swore allegiance to protect them, which he did with both courage and discipline, which as you can imagine impressed the fathers no end.
'Some years later, when they were attacked by the Knights of St. Clement, he was present outside the Sumela Monastery, at the last moment intervening to save Fra Leoni from Fra Kent, a traitor from within the Haute Cour. This was when Fra Leoni was the Keeper, before he became Magister Regens.
'Fra Leoni was wounded during his fight with Fra Kent. By the time he reached the cache of secrets his wound was festering, there was no doubt that he was dying. By prior arrangement, he was met by Fra Prospero, the Order's Magister Regens-in those days, both the Keeper and the Magister Regens held keys to the cache. Together, they made a monumental decision: they availed themselves of the secret of Christ's Testament. Following the directions set out by Jesus, the Magister Regens anointed Fra Leoni with the Quintessence, the sacred oil that Christ used to resurrect Lazarus and, according to the Testament, others.
'Fra Leoni was not only healed, but he lived another 350 years, eventually ascending to become Magister Regens and guiding the Order through dark and difficult times. Some believe that he died, finally, in 1918, during the worldwide influenza epidemic, but of course there are no records and so no way to know for certain.'
At that moment, a bit of raucous electronic melody sounded and the Georgian pulled out another cell phone, flipped it open. He listened for a moment, then he said, 'Do it. Do it now.'
Closing the phone, he said to Bravo, 'Someone known to you is approaching. One of my people has spotted Jennifer Logan, the traitor-oh, yes, word spread quickly within the Order. I have ordered her executed. I have someone standing by who will shoot her dead.'
Chapter 24
'No,' Bravo said.
Mikhail Kartli smiled thinly. 'You are in my house now.'
'But if you kill her you'll never find out if she and Paolo Zorzi are the only ones to have infiltrated the Order. What if there are more? She's our best chance to find out.'
The Georgian knew a good argument when he heard it. Flipping open his cell phone, he pressed a speed dial and said into the mouthpiece, 'Stand down and deliver her instead.'
His grin grew fierce. 'I only hope that you have the courage of your convictions. I hope you have the stomach for articulated interrogation. Your father certainly didn't.'
