“Don’t touch anything,” Simon Templar warned.

Sarah got back up thinking about a simple bottle of wine, as old as she, gone from the surviving wooden box. She looked at Simon Templar, to whom she’d decided to say nothing, and realized he hadn’t taken his eyes off her, was watching her closely.

She was. Sarah was a woman full of mystery.

The last pitiful look had always had such a devastating effect on him that he’d turned it into a bad habit. Most of those in his vast experience were pleading but the reactions were different in every case, depending on what came to mind for each victim in the final moments. Don Clemente fell into the category he most disliked. He had confronted the gun with a calm, peaceful smile, and so it had remained, even after…

Normally when one killed, one took from the victim what he most prized, but there were people like Don Clemente from whom one took absolutely nothing. He deferred his need to feel guilty after squeezing the trigger that summoned Death. He hadn’t let himself look at Don Clemente when he’d fallen back and knocked over a row of pews with his robust body. The priest hadn’t felt a thing, he was certain, as he’d placed the shot perfectly so Don Clemente would be dead before he hit the floor.

But this ordinary-looking man, a notable advantage for someone in his profession, wasn’t given to introspection. Don Clemente was gone, born and dead, his body lying more than a thousand miles away in Galicia, perhaps in some morgue trying to tell the coroner the story of his death. To hell with Don Clemente, Galicia, and Santiago de Compostela, city, cathedral, and saint, all of them.

He had time to catch the last flight to the English capital, where the plan for this phase was playing out. The days had been long but pleasant with countless trips, Rome, Amsterdam, Compostela, and now London. The boss pursued another agenda, as foreseen. Two more days and they’d have the final resolution.

He rode through the city in one of its famous London taxis. There were still targets the Beretta must erase from the map. Once he was the faithful owner of a Glock of the same caliber, nine millimeters, but this Beretta 90two had a different feel. It was like a projection of his hand, the bullets spitting from his fingers. The Glock was more brutal, made for war, and, despite causing the same destruction, it kicked back on each shot, too much for a perfectionist professional like him. He’d opted for the less temperamental Beretta. Guns don’t have a conscience, only the person who uses them. They serve their owner blindly.

The vibration of his cell phone could be felt over that of the car going over the irregular surface of the street. He took a wireless hearing device out of his jacket, placed it in his ear, and pressed a button to take the call. He listened wordlessly to the demand.

“I’m on my way,” he said in French, then he frowned slightly.

“That’s not good.”

The lights of the city shone in the backseat while the cab went farther into the city. They came and went, invading the compartment, dispossessing him, making another presence in an unending play of yellow light.

“I’ll take care of that. Everything will go according to plan. I have people on site. I’m certain they’ll act appropriately.” He disconnected.

He took the phone and pressed four numbers. Two rings later, someone picked up.

“Where are you?” he asked brusquely. “Perfect. I’m coming. Don’t leave.”

He turned the cell phone off and permitted himself a slight smile. Things were going well, after all. The team was good. He pressed the button that let him speak to the driver.

“Change of plans. Take me to the Chelsea and Westminster Hospital.”

Certainly Abu Rashid’s face had seen better days. Cut lips, a swollen eye, some internal and external bruises, especially on the body hidden under the white tunic. In spite of everything, he didn’t flinch and kept the same calm expression of knowing a greater truth.

The foreigner went to the lavatory, and then sat toward the back, in one of the luxurious, cream-colored seats of the private jet flying over Bulgarian territory. The plan had been to return by commercial flight from Ben-Gurion airport with a stop in Frankfurt, before the final destination, Rome. Abu Rashid’s words so disturbed the foreigner’s superior that he immediately ordered a private jet prepared and a change of route. They left from Kefar Gallim in order not to raise suspicions, and Abu Rashid cooperated at every step. Perhaps that was why his face was in the condition we witness. The blood on his lip had dried, but his swollen left eye seemed to get worse with each passing moment. All this because he wouldn’t recant the words he allegedly heard from the mouth of Our Lady in a vision. Because he was Muslim, this greatly aggravated his situation. There was no mention in religious history of a Catholic saint appearing to a believer of another religion, let alone the Mother of God in person. The situation was far worse when the Virgin’s words, communicated to the world by an Arab, could cause a split in the Catholic world.

The foreigner thought through the various possibilities as he looked out the tiny window. There was nothing to see, since it was dark; night had set in for the rest of the flight, which wouldn’t be long. As God was his witness, he didn’t want to hurt the old man, but if he opened his mouth in public, everyone would suffer. He needed to be silenced, discredited, which was not difficult. A Muslim who sees Mary should be seen as a joke, cause only for laughter in the Catholic and Muslim worlds. The problem was what he was saying. If someone more intelligent were to think deeply about his words, he might easily find the truth behind them. And that couldn’t happen. They had to force the man to recant. Even if he actually saw Mary. She had to understand. There were Catholics and others, no mixture, and there never had been. The day this happened religions would come to an end. This was serious, very serious.

He got up again and went over to Abu Rashid’s seat. He rested with his eyes closed, smiling slightly.

“I know it perfectly,” the old man said without opening his eyes.

“What do you know?”

“I know where we are going. You were going to ask me that.”

The foreigner sat down on the seat beside him and sighed. He looked at the black briefcase strapped to the seat. Besides Abu Rashid, another of his responsibilities was that black case. These premonitions were unreal. Not for a moment did he think it was really the Virgin helping the old man. He’d lose all power and control if he let this idea take over. It would be her way of saying she couldn’t count on him or any other Christian. Or that in reality everyone was equal. Shit, shit, shit.

“It might not seem so, but I’m here to help you,” the foreigner claimed. “If you cooperate, it’ll be good for you and for us.”

“I haven’t done anything but cooperate,” Abu Rashid declared with his eyes still closed.

“I need more on your part, Abu Rashid,” he observed. “Give me what I need to intercede with my superior, and you can go free.”

A smile stretched the Muslim’s lips.

“What you want is for me to lie.”

“I want you to cooperate.”

“I’m cooperating,” Abu Rashid insisted. “It’s not my fault you’ve chosen the wrong side. But that’s your right. There are always two sides.”

“Are you saying you are defending those who want to harm the Church?”

“I am Muslim. I couldn’t be less interested in your Church.” He opened his eyes wide. “I am on her side.”

“I am, too,” the foreigner claimed.

“You are on the side of the Church.”

“The Church that represents Her. That has made her image, made her what she is.”