near the floor, saw that it had attracted, by way of static electricity, a fine coating of dust.
The test served to prove his suspicion that this was not another mosaic tile, but rather a small piece of jet-more specifically oltu tasi, a stone used for jewelry and the like, which had been worked by the monks of the Sumela Monastery in the mountains just above Trabzon. From the cavity into which the stone had been set he plucked out a folded slip of paper.
It was at this moment that he became aware of movement off to his right. The priest had left the bearded men and was walking in deliberate fashion toward him. As he did so, he lifted one hand, cupping the fingers of his right hand to draw back the hood of his robe. Bravo was aware that the inside of the mosque had been overcome by a kind of unnatural hush; save for himself and the three other men it was, improbably, deserted.
The priest passed through a diagonal shaft of light and Bravo recognized Adem Khalif. Why had he been talking to the two bearded men? Whose side was he on-Mikhail Kartli's? It seemed that Trabzon belonged to Kartli, even though it was Khalif who was the native.
As if in confirmation of this hypothesis, Bravo saw the two bearded men rolling up their prayer rugs. Again, the light played off the rugs' nap, revealing all its sheen and rich colorations. And now, with a single indrawn breath, Bravo understood what had been disturbing him, what was hiding in plain sight: the rugs were silk-they were far too valuable to be used as daily prayer rugs. The bearded men hadn't come into the mosque for prayer, they were emissaries of Mikhail Kartli, the carpet dealer. Adem Khalif, making the only practical choice he could make, had allied himself with the Georgian. It was as he had feared: ally and enemy alike were after him.
Bravo turned and ran. He heard Khalif's voice raised behind him, but the sound was cut short as he sped around a cluster of columns, sprinted toward the door. The two bearded men were also on the run, trying to cut him off before he reached the front of the mosque.
He veered one way, then another, in an attempt to throw them off, but they came on. Risking a glance over his shoulder, he discovered why: Khalif in the imam's robes was closing in from the opposite direction. Again, he called out, but Bravo refused to listen, he would not be distracted. He had to concentrate on survival, and right now that meant making a clean escape from the trap.
A wooden bench was coming up too fast and he leapt over it, banging the trailing toe of his left shoe just as he went over the top. He twisted in midair, stumbled badly as he came down, lost several vital steps. One of the bearded men, taking advantage of his falter, launched himself into the air like a human missile. He struck Bravo in the small of his back, driving Bravo to his knees. The man reached out, seeking to end the encounter quickly, and Bravo slammed his cocked elbow into the bridge of the man's nose. Blood exploded, the man's grip on him vanished and Bravo gained his feet.
Adem Khalif was upon him by this time. As Khalif began to shout, Bravo plunged a fist into his solar plexus. Khalif groaned and doubled over. Leaping over him, Bravo was up and running again, between the twin columns flanking the entrance, out the door, down the steps and away.
Whirling out into the slate and gunmetal-gray evening, Bravo plunged into the crowds and almost at once lost all sense of direction. He allowed the flow to move him like a piece of jetsam thrown off a ship. At the moment, it did not matter to him where he went, as long as it was away from his enemies. Borne along on this human tide, he absorbed flashes of color, the scents of spice, strong coffee, anxiety and foreboding. The day was ending and, with it, all the mixed blessings and tiny setbacks that accompanied the preoccupations of each person he passed. The rhythms of languages and street argot fell on his ears like the beat of prayer drums.
The precious few moments of blissful anonymity passed through his fingers like sand. It wasn't long before he spotted one of the bearded men and, not far behind him, the other one, trying to stanch the flow of blood from his broken nose on the stained sleeve of his shirt.
Had they spotted him yet? He didn't know, he only knew they were heading in his direction. At once, he veered off to his right, out of the crowd flow. Yes, he was exposing himself for a moment, but he felt the risk was worth his gaining a safe haven.
He took a side street, trying not to break out into a run, to keep his pace more or less equal to that of the people around him. But the hard beating of his heart, the spurts of adrenaline rushing through his system made this difficult. And then, with an anxious glance behind him, he saw the two men shoot like sharks out of the surf on the main street, heading down the side street he had taken.
He plunged into the shadows of a narrow alley, stinking of garbage, creosote and offal. Dogs barked, heralding his presence, and the triangular head of one of them peered at him briefly before vanishing in a second explosion of barking.
He moved on, forcing himself to continue, even while he wondered whether he had made a mistake. No shops presented themselves, no doorways in which he could seek sanctuary. His smoldering fear burst into flame when he glanced back to see other shapes entering the alley. The bearded men? He heard the quickened pace of their footsteps. Who else but the bearded men?
He stumbled on, picking up his pace, hurrying around another corner, where the alley bent like an old woman's back. But scarcely a few meters on, he was brought up short. There, standing in front of him was Adem Khalif.
'You understand that this could backfire,' Jenny said as they approached the entrance to Mikhail Kartli's house. 'It's likely that Kartli has already heard the rumor that I murdered Father Mosto.'
'In that case, you will implicate the priest,' Camille said evenly, 'absolving yourself.'
'You want me to vilify Father Mosto?'
'I want you to help us find Bravo,' Camille said quietly. 'If that means lying to your contact about someone else's integrity I don't see that you have a choice.'
Her manner was both forthright and steadfast. There was an iron will, a certain determination in her that reminded Jenny of Arcangela.
'What does it matter to Father Mosto, anyway?' Camille added. 'He's dead.'
'Kartli may not believe me.'
'He will because you'll sell it to him.' Camille lifted a hand, ran her fingers through Jenny's hair. 'I have faith in you, Jenny.' She smiled. 'Don't worry, I'll back up whatever story you tell.'
Jenny turned, knocked on the front door in a singular pattern not unlike Morse code. Camille took note with one part of her brain, but another part was thinking how amusing it was to fabricate feelings for someone you were manipulating. Artificial, slippery as oil, they could not sink their curved barbs into your flesh, could not hurt you in any way.
The door opened, revealing the lined, sober face of Mikhail Kartli. He ushered them into a small, rather dark sitting room, enrobed in heavy curtains. Lamps burned, illuminating a low ceiling, muscularly beamed. A series of small, exquisitely hand-knotted silk rugs hung on the wall, arranged as if they were paintings in a high- end art gallery. Camille glanced around as she sat on a heavy upholstered chair. He served them tea, dark and fragrant and steaming, from an old and well-used service on a magnificently hand-tooled copper tray. There was a selection of European biscuits from which they selected one each, more out of courtesy than hunger.
Camille had deliberately seated herself perpendicular to Mikhail Kartli so that she could watch him without seeming to do so. The Georgian was of great interest to her, since he had been the Order's mainstay in Trabzon, a city that had for many years gone unnoticed by the Knights of St. Clement. He had told Cornadoro that he was newly freelance, a soldier for hire. She sipped her tea, settling back to gain his measure while Jenny did the talking.
Kartli was speaking of mundane matters: the humidity, historical sites, the food-he recommended several restaurants. He would not, of course, ask them why they had come or how he could help them. That was not, Camille knew, how these people operated. They were cagey, you had to coax them out of their lairs. They needed to get the measure of you, as they might examine the glimmer of a creature plucked from beneath the ocean's waves.
With mounting interest she saw that, despite Jenny's stated fears, the younger woman was adept at speaking to Asians. Camille had discovered that as a rule Americans did not know how to treat either Europeans or Asians. To them, everyone in the world either shared America's values and customs or was of no import to them. Jenny's attitude was neither usual nor automatic. Camille adjusted upward her opinion of Jenny's abilities.
Kartli peered at Jenny from beneath hooded eyes. He had not moved during the introductions. Indeed, it was difficult to see the rise and fall of his abdomen, to ascertain whether he was still breathing.
'I'm going to tell you the truth,' Jenny said now. 'In Venice, I was set up as the fall guy for Father Mosto's
