that it was Camille he was looking at, Camille to whom he had directed his command. He hadn't looked at her, hadn't acknowledged her presence, as if she were a ghost occupying a place in another world.
Camille rose and said, 'Of course, my love,' leaving her without a backward glance.
Bravo stood with Camille at the edge of the terrace. Low clouds obscured the northern horizon. High above, there was a palely glowing ring around the moon. Down the length of the light-strung terrace he was aware of Adem Khalif slowly sipping a glass of raki, watching them, exuding worry like musk.
As for the Glimmer Twins, his image swam in their dark, avid eyes; they were itching to be needed.
'What the hell are you doing here?' he asked Camille in a ragged voice.
'What do you think? Keeping an eye on you, trying to keep you safe.'
'It's you I'm worried about,' he said angrily. 'You shouldn't be anywhere near here. And certainly not with her.'
'Who? Jenny?'
'Yes, Jenny. She's murdered three people: two priests and Uncle Tony. Are you out of your mind?'
'Listen to me, my love, you have to stop thinking of me as a helpless female.' She shook out a cigarette, lit it, regarded him through the veil of aromatic smoke. 'I wouldn't be here if I wasn't more than capable of taking care of myself.' She blew out a spiral of smoke. 'As for Jenny, you know what Sun Tzu wrote: 'Keep your friends close, your enemies closer.'' She looked at Jenny, smiled reassuringly into her face, before turning back.
'Sun Tzu had something else to say about the art of war,' Bravo said. 'Every battle is lost or won before it begins.'
'Meaning?'
'If you don't know, you surely don't belong here.'
'Ah, Bravo,' she chuckled, 'always testing me.'
A breeze rose up from the coolness of the water, stirring her hair against her cheek. Music, trafficking in high spirits and a lover's touch, insinuated itself onto the terrace, reminding them how far removed they were from the rest of the world.
'I was prepared for this the moment I left Paris.' She eyed him speculatively. 'You think not?'
'I think it's damn odd you being here.'
'Do you suspect me now? Of what?' She dropped her cigarette, ground it beneath her heel. 'Dammit, Bravo, if I didn't love you so much I'd slap you. You're like a son to me. I mean to protect you, something Jenny only pretended to do.'
Bravo rubbed the side of his head. He was exhausted, both physically and emotionally. His head pounded with a million different strands, possible paths he might take, he ought to take. The specters of what lay at the end of those paths haunted him day and night.
'Listen, we're friends now, Jenny and I,' Camille said in a softer tone. 'We're close, and getting closer. I know how to gain her trust, woman to woman. She tells me things.'
'No doubt. Like she's innocent.'
'Of course, but who's listening?'
'She's guilty as sin-and she's dangerous.'
'I allow her to think I believe her, she lets down her guard. Perhaps tomorrow I'll know part of her plan.'
'She'll never tell you what she's planning, Camille. She knows how close we are.'
'She's been cut off from all her traditional sources, so she's slowly coming to rely on my advice. Why shouldn't she? I'll stay with her, I'll be your mole in the enemy camp.' She put a hand on his arm, squeezed. 'Let me do this for you, Bravo.' She smiled and kissed his cheek. 'Alors, don't worry so. She won't hurt me.'
'She isn't the only one you have look out for,' he said, lowering his voice. 'That man Jordan hired, Michael Berio-his real name is Damon Cornadoro. He's a professional assassin.'
'Mon dieu, non!' What a delicious thrill ran through her when she lied to him now; it was almost as deep a charge as lying to Dexter had been. 'Are you sure?'
'Absolutely. He's been sent by enemies of my father to shadow me until I find what my father sent me to find. Then he means to kill me and take it.'
'But what is it, my love? What could be so terribly valuable?'
'It doesn't matter. What matters is that you keep as far away from Cornadoro as you possibly can.'
'I promise.'
'Camille, for the love of God don't be flip. I have enough on my mind. I don't want to worry about you.'
'Then don't,' she said firmly. 'I told you. I can take care of myself.' She laughed softly, put her hand against his cheek. 'I assure you, I will not become your damsel in distress.'
He stared into her eyes and knew that she had made her decision; nothing he could say would sway her. He nodded, acquiescing, and pulled out his cell phone. 'Then promise me you'll stay in touch, all right?'
She took out her own cell phone, nodded. 'I promise.' As he was about to turn away, she said with great concern in her voice, 'Bravo, have you any idea yet where you're going next?'
'No,' he lied. He didn't care what she said, he wasn't going to allow her to put herself any further in harm's way.
Midnight. Irema was home, safely tucked in bed, lips and breasts nicely bruised, drugged on sex and love, dreaming deeply of Michael. But Irema's father was far from home, far from the bed warmed by the lush body of his wife. Instead, he passed through the streets of Trabzon like a wraith. Music, reaching his cocked ears, failed to move him, drunken couples staggered by without seeing him. A solitary bicyclist crossed his path like a black cat. Smoking fiercely, he strode past two churches that had long ago been turned into mosques. Their magnificent Byzantine facades were dark as soot, faded now, as was almost everything in Trabzon. Cracks and crumbles showed everywhere. If he listened hard enough he could hear the buildings groan like the crippled veterans of long-ago wars.
His cell phone buzzed and he answered it. Adem Khalif's voice appeared in his ear like a djinn, talking of a plan to trap Damon Cornadoro. He was impressed by Braverman Shaw's plan, which, viewed objectively, had a certain merit. His mind spinning in several directions at once, he listened to the end, then agreed. 'What route are you planning to use? All right, my people will be deployed before dawn.'
He disconnected, called his eldest son and told him what was required. Then, because he was approaching his destination, he put away his cell phone.
Midway down a small, disordered side street stood an old but structurally sound building he had purchased many years ago. It looked no different than its slope-shouldered neighbors; it bore no sign on its peeling front, was surely mistaken by almost everyone for a private residence. Inside, however, it housed the Church of the Nine Martyred Children.
Kartli had named this tiny outpost of his Georgian Orthodox religion for the young pagan children of Kola who, of their own free will, had embraced Jesus Christ. They were baptized by the local priest and left their families to be brought up by Christian families, according to the ways of the Savior. Their parents came after them and dragged them back home, but when their children would not eat pagan food or drink pagan drink, when they instead spoke the words of Jesus Christ, their parents were so enraged that they mercilessly beat the village priest, drove him from Kola. One last time they asked their sons and daughters, many not more than seven years of age, to return to their pagan ways. When the children refused, the parents took up stones and beat their own children to death, as a lesson to the other children of Kola.
Mikhail Kartli paused to take in the holy surroundings. He was immensely proud of this church, glad of the name he had chosen for it, because it was a reminder of how the world really worked, of the terrible prejudices that ran like poison through the bedrock of mankind. Not that he needed such a reminder even here in Trabzon so far from home, but everyone else-including his children, especially wild Irema-did.
Nothing looked as it did in daylight. Shadows distorted all the shapes. Illumination came from two sources: a Byzantine oil lamp and a naked lightbulb. Like everything in the city the light was an uncomfortable juxtaposition of old and new-elements that should have been allies seemed to be enemies. The interior was sparsely furnished, appropriately bare save for the large portrait of the Virgin Mary, the iconostasis, the pulpit, a scattering of scarred wooden benches and, of course, the confessional. It was to this dark wooden structure that Mikhail Kartli came twice a week like clockwork to give his confession. Since the priests of the Church of the Nine Martyred Children
