"Your friend is delightful." Mary Stuart's cheery voice brought Marco back to reality as he watched his dazzling colleague across the terrace. Or was it Paola's surreptitious nudge in his ribs?

"Yes, she is," Paola replied. "Intelligent, accomplished, and charming."

'And lovely," Mary added. "I've never seen Umberto so interested in a woman. She must be exceptional if Umberto is so taken with her. He looks so happy, so relaxed with her."

"He's single, isn't he?" Paola asked.

"Yes, but we've never understood why. He's got it all-intelligence, looks, education, culture, money- and he's a wonderful person in the bargain. I don't know why you don't see more of him, John, and you, too, Lisa."

"Mary, dear, we don't actually travel in Umberto's circles. Nor yours-even if you are my favorite sister."

"Oh, Lisa, don't be silly."

"I'm not being silly, sweetheart. In my daily life, I don't run across ministers or bankers or multinational businessmen. There's no reason for me to. Or for John to."

"Well, you should see more of Umberto. He loves archaeology. He's financed several digs, and I'm sure you two have a great deal in common," Mary insisted.

It was almost one o'clock when Paola reminded Marco that she had to get up early the next day. Her first class was at eight. Marco asked her to tell Sofia they needed to go.

"Sofia, we're leaving," Paola said, leaning over the dottoressa's chair. "Do you want us to drop you off?"

"Thanks, Paola, I'd appreciate it."

D'Alaqua rose as Sofia did, kissed her hand in farewell, and promptly extended the same courtesy to Paola. He smiled, but his eyes had turned distant again. From time to time, as they had talked, Sofia thought she glimpsed something else there. But she read him perfectly now.

As Lisa and John accompanied them to the door, Sofia glanced a last time at the terrace. Umberto D'Alaqua was conversing animatedly with a group of guests.

They were barely in the car before Marco's curiosity got the better of him.

"So spill it, dottoressa; tell me what the great man said."

"Nothing."

"Nothing?"

"Well, Marco, he did say it was more than obvious that we'd come to the party to see him. He made me feel like an absolute fool, caught flat out in a lie. And he asked straight out-dripping with sarcasm, of course- whether we thought that he was the one after the shroud."

"That's it?"

"The rest of the night we talked about Asian flu, oil prices, art, and literature."

"Well, you two certainly seem to have hit it off," Paola said.

"I suppose we did, in a way, but that's it."

"He might not think so," Paola insisted.

"You two planning on seeing more of each other?" Marco asked.

"No, I don't think that's going to happen. He was charming, as I said, but that's it."

"And that hurts."

"I guess if I was to be perfectly honest about my emotions I'd say it does, but I'm a big girl. I'll get over it."

"Which means it hurts," said Marco, grinning.

"You make a nice couple." Paola wouldn't give up.

"It's nice of you to say so, Paola, but I'm not kidding myself. A man like Umberto D'Alaqua isn't interested in a woman like me. We have nothing in common."

"You have a lot in common," Marco insisted. "Mary told us he loves art and archaeology, even finances excavations, sometimes goes on digs himself. And you, in case you didn't know, are also intelligent, educated, cultured, and gorgeous-right, Paola?"

"Well, of course. Mary even made a point of telling me that she'd never seen D'Alaqua as interested in a woman as he was in you tonight."

'All right, you two, let's drop it. The bottom line is that he told me in no uncertain terms that we'd crashed the party. Let's hope he doesn't lodge a protest with some government minister or president somewhere."

It was raining steadily, but a crackling fire enhanced the comfortable masculine luxury of the room, a library. Several paintings by Dutch masters revealed the sober taste of its owner. Settled on rich leather couches, the six men were deep in conversation.

They stood as the door opened and their elderly chief entered. One by one they stepped forward to embrace him. He motioned to them to resume their seats. "I'm sorry to be late, but it's hard to get anywhere in London at this hour. I couldn't get out of my bridge game with the duke and his friends and our brothers."

A soft tinkling sound at the door announced the butler, who entered to remove the tea service and offer the men drinks. When they were once again alone, the elderly man was the first to speak

'All right, then, let's have a review."

"Addaio has confined Zafarin, Rasit, and Dermisat to his estate outside Urfa. The penitence he's imposed on them is to last forty days, but my contact assures me that Addaio will not let it go at that, that he's preparing something further for them. As for sending a new team, he hasn't decided about that yet, but sooner or later he will send one. He's concerned about Mendib, the prisoner in jail in Turin. Apparently he's had a dream, one he can't shake, that Mendib will bring ruin to the community. Since then, he hardly eats, and he's not himself. My contact fears for his health and for what he might decide to do."

The man who had spoken was middle-aged, with a thick beard and skin tanned dark brown. He was well dressed, straight-backed, and spoke in an impeccable upper-crust accent. His bearing and presence were those of a retired military officer, accustomed to discipline and order.

The elderly man gestured to another of the men to speak.

"The Art Crimes Department knows a lot, but it doesn't know what it knows."

They all looked at him with concern and curiosity as he went on.

"They're pursuing their theory that all these 'accidents' that have happened in the Turin Cathedral over the years aren't accidents at all." He paused and looked around the room at his fellows. "They're convinced the events are tied to the shroud, that someone wants to steal or destroy it. But they can't figure out the motive. And they're still investigating COCSA, thinking they'll find their link there. As I reported earlier, their Trojan horse operation is under way, and Mendib will be set free from the Turin jail in a couple of months."

"The time has come to act," said the elderly man, a slight accent surfacing to reveal that English was not his native language.

"Mendib has to be taken care of," he went on. 'And as for the Art Crimes Department, it's time to pressure our friends to stop this Valoni. He and his people are moving in dangerous directions."

'Addaio may have reached the same conclusion, that the safety of the community requires Mendib's elimination," said the military gentleman. "Maybe we should wait to see what Addaio decides before we do anything ourselves. I'd prefer not to have his death on our conscience if we can avoid it."

"There's no reason for Mendib to die. All we have to do is make sure he reaches Urfa," said one of the other men.

"That's dicey," said another. "Once he's on the street, the Art Crimes Department will put a tail on him. They're not amateurs; they'll have a first-rate operation, and we could wind up in the position that to save his life we'll have to sacrifice many others-we're talking about dead cops and carabinieri. It looks like this last episode is going to burden our conscience however it plays out."

"Ah, yes. Our conscience!" exclaimed the elderly man. 'All too often we put it aside, telling ourselves there's no other way. Ours is a history in which death has always played a part. As has sacrifice, faith, mercy. We are human, only human, and we act in accordance with what we believe to be best. We make mistakes, we sin, we act correctly. May God have mercy on all of us."