Her voice lost its cold dispassion and warmed considerably. “Early? You just caught me arriving home from the hospital.”

“You worked all night?”

“Well, I was reviewing the scans of your mummy, and… well…”—a small embarrassed pause—“I sort of lost track of time.”

Henry glanced down at his own wrinkled clothing and smiled. “I know what you mean.”

“So have you learned anything new?”

“I’ve put together a few things.” He quickly related his discovery of the friar’s name and his call to the archbishop. “How about yourself? Anything new on your front?”

“Not much. But I’d like to sit down and go over some of my findings. The material in the skull is proving most unusual.”

Before Henry could stop himself or weigh such a decision, he pushed forth. “How about lunch today?” He cringed as the words came out. He had not meant to sound so desperate. His cheeks grew heated with his awkwardness.

A long pause. “I’m afraid I can’t do lunch.”

Henry kicked himself for being so unprofessional. Surely she saw through his words. Ever since Elizabeth had died, he had forgotten the knack of approaching a woman romantically—not that he’d ever had much of a desire to do so before now.

Joan continued, “But how about dinner? I know a nice Italian place on the river.”

Henry swallowed hard, struggling to speak. Dare he hope that she was suggesting more than just a meeting of colleagues? Perhaps a renewal of old feelings? But it had been so long. So much life had passed between their college years and now. Surely whatever tiny spark that had once flared between them had long gone to ash. Hadn’t it?

“Henry?”

“Yes… yes, that would be great.”

“You’re staying at the Sheraton, yes? I can pick you up around eight o’clock. That is, if a late dinner is okay with you?”

“Sure, that would be fine. I often eat late, so that’s no problem. And… and as a matter of fact, um…” Henry’s nervous blathering was thankfully interrupted by the beep of an incoming call. He awkwardly coughed. “I’m sorry, Joan. I’ve got another call. I’ll be right back.”

Henry lowered the receiver, took a long calming breath, then clicked over to the other line. “Yes?”

“Professor Conklin?”

Henry recognized the voice. His brow crinkled. “Archbishop Kearney?”

“Yes, I just wanted to let you know that I received your fax and took a look at it. What I saw came as quite a surprise.”

“What do you mean?”

“The emblem of the crossed swords over the crucifix. As a former European historian, it’s one I’m quite familiar with.”

Henry picked up the friar’s silver ring and held it to the light. “I thought it looked familiar myself, but I couldn’t place it.”

“I’m not surprised. It’s a fairly archaic design.”

“What is it?”

“It is the mark of the Spanish Inquisition.”

Henry’s breath caught in his throat. “What?” Images of torture chambers and flesh seared by red-hot irons flashed before his eyes. The black sect of Catholicism had long been disbanded and vilified for the centuries of deaths and tortures it had inflicted in the name of religion.

“Yes, from the ring, it seems our mummified friar was an Inquisitor.”

“My God,” Henry swore, forgetting for a moment to whom he was speaking.

An amused chuckle arose from the Archbishop. “I thought you should know, but I must be going now. I’ll forward your information to the Vatican and to Abbot Ruiz in Peru. Hopefully we’ll learn more soon.”

The archbishop hung up. Henry sat stunned, until the phone rang in his hand, startling him. “Oh, God… Joan.” Henry clicked back to the pathologist he had left on hold. “I’m sorry that took so long,” he said in a rush, “but it was Archbishop Kearney again.”

“What did he want?”

Henry related what he had learned, still shaken by the revelation.

Joan was silent for a moment. “An Inquisitor?”

“It would appear so,” Henry said, collecting himself. “One more piece to an expanding puzzle.”

She replied, “Amazing. It seems we’ll have even more to ponder over dinner tonight.”

Henry had momentarily forgotten their supper arrangements. “Yes, of course. I’ll see you tonight,” he said with genuine enthusiasm.

“It’s a date.” Joan quickly added her good-byes, then hung up.

Henry slowly returned the receiver to its cradle. He did not know what surprised him more—that the mummy was a member of the Spanish Inquisition or that he had a date.

Gil climbed the stairs of the only hotel in the jungle village of Villacuacha. The wooden planks creaked under his weight. Even in the shadowed interior of the inn, the late-morning heat could not be so easily escaped. Already a sweltering warmth wrapped itself around Gil like a heavy blanket. He swiped the dampness from his neck with the cuff of his torn sleeve and swore under his breath. The night-long flight through the jungle had left him scratched and foul-tempered. He had managed only a short nap after arranging this meeting.

“He had better not be late,” Gil grumbled as he climbed to the third landing. After fleeing the campsite of the Americans, Gil had reached a dirt track in the jungle just as the sun finally rose. Luckily, he stumbled upon a local Indian with a mule and a crooked-wheeled wagon. A handful of coins had bought him passage to the village. Once there, Gil had telephoned his contact—the man who had arranged for Gil’s infiltration onto the Americans’ team. They had agreed to a noon meeting at this hotel.

Gil patted the golden cup secured in his pocket. His contact, a dealer in antiquities, should pay a tidy sum for such a rare find. And this broker in stolen goods had better not balk at Gil’s price. If Gil had any hopes of hiring a crew to return to the dig and commandeer the site, he would need quick funding—all in cash.

Gil ran a hand over the long knife at his belt. If it came down to it, he would persuade the fellow to meet his price. He would let nothing stand between him and his treasure, not after how much it had cost him already.

Atop the stairs, Gil pushed the taped bandage covering his burned cheek more firmly in place. He would be rewarded for his scarring. That he swore. Teeth gritted with determination, Gil walked down the narrow corridor. He found the right door and rapped his knuckles on it.

A man’s firm voice answered. “Come in.”

Gil tried the door. It was unlocked. He pushed his way into the room and was instantly struck by two things. First, the refreshing coolness of the room. Overhead, a ceiling fan turned languidly creating a gentle stir to the air that seemed to wash away the humidity. A double set of French doors were swung wide open upon a small balcony overlooking the hotel’s shaded garden courtyard. From somewhere beyond the steamy warmth of the jungle, a cool breeze flowed through those open doors into the room. White-lace curtains drifted in the gentle breezes, while thin mosquito netting around the single bed billowed softly like the sails of a ship.

But more than the breezes, the room’s occupant struck Gil as the source of the room’s coolness. It was the first time Gil had ever met his contact in person. The tall man sat in a cushioned rattan chair, facing Gil, his back to the open double doors. Dressed all in black, from shoes to buttoned shirt, the fellow sat with his legs casually crossed, a drink clinking with ice in one hand. From his burnished complexion, he was clearly of Spanish descent. Dark eyes stared at Gil, appraising him from under clipped black hair. A thin mustache also traced the man’s upper lip. He did not smile. The only movement was a flick of the man’s eyes toward the other chair in the room, indicating Gil should sit.

Still wearing his ripped and sweat-stained clothes, Gil felt like a peasant before royalty. He could not even manage to roil up a bit of righteous anger at the man’s attitude. He sensed a vein of hardness in the man that Gil could never match, nor dare challenge. Gil forced his tongue to move. “I… I have what we talked about.”