The chancellor listened with concern, sensing that Balduino was concealing something, but he said nothing.

"Then what will you do with the Mandylion?" "Nothing. I will keep it in a secret place and wait for Louis to be freed. Then I will decide what to do. This may have been a sign from our Lord to prevent us from sinning by selling his holy image. Call the ambassadors and tell them that we will deliver over to them the gold we owe their cities. And call in the Comte de Dijon-I will tell him of the fate of his king."

4" Before the assembled knights of the chapter, Andre de Saint-Remy carefully unfolded the shroud, watching the image of the full body of Christ appear. The Templars fell to their knees and, led by their superior, began to pray.

They had never seen the shroud in its entirety. In the casket in which the Mandylion was laid in St. Mary de Blachernae, all that could be seen was the face of Jesus, as though it were a painted portrait. But there before them now was the figure of Christ with the stigmata from the torments he had suffered. Lost in prayer and meditation, the knights were unaware of the hours that passed, but night was falling by the time Saint-Remy rose and carefully folded the shroud and went with it toward his room. A few minutes later he sent for his brother Robert and the young knight Francois de Charney.

"Make ready for your departure as soon as possible." "If you allow us, sir, we could depart within a few hours, when the shadows of night will protect us," suggested Robert.

"Will that not be dangerous?" asked the superior.

"No, it is better that we leave the house when no one can see us and the eyes of those who may be watching us are overtaken by sleep. We will tell no one that we are leaving," de Charney put in.

"I will prepare the Mandylion against the rigors of the journey. Come for it, no matter the hour. You shall also take a letter from me, and other documents, and deliver them to Grand Master Renaud de Vichiers. You must not deviate from the road to Acre for any reason. I suggest that several brothers accompany you-perhaps Guy de Beaujeu, Bartolome dos Capelos-"

"Brother," interrupted Robert, "I beg you allow us to go alone. It will be safer. We can lose ourselves in the woods and fields, and we will have our squires with us. If we go alone we will arouse no suspicions, but if we go with a group of brothers, then the spies will know that we are carrying something."

"You will be carrying the most precious relic of Christianity-"

"-which we will defend with our lives," interrupted de Charney.

"Then let it be as you say. Now leave me, I must prepare the letter. And pray, pray that God may guide you to your destination. Only He may warrant the success of your journey and your mission."

There was no moon. Not a single star illuminated the vault of the sky. Robert de Saint-Remy and Francois de Charney crept stealthily from their chambers and made their way to the apartment of Andre de Saint-Remy. Silence filled the night, and inside the fortress the other knights were sleeping. On the battlements, a few Templars, with the soldiers in their service, stood guard.

Robert de Saint-Remy gently pushed open the door of his brother and superior's chamber. They found him on his knees praying before a crucifix on the wall.

When he became aware of the presence of the two knights, he rose and, without a word, handed Robert a cloth sack of no more than middling size.

"Inside, in a wooden coffer, is the Mandylion. And here are the documents you are to take to the Grand Master and gold for the journey. May God be with you."

The two brothers embraced. They did not know if they would ever see each other again.

Young de Charney and Robert de Saint-Remy pulled on their Saracen robes and, melting into the blackness of the night, hurried to the stables, where their squires awaited them, calming the impatient horses. They gave the password to the soldiers at the gate and, abandoning the safety of the chapter's fortress, set out on the road to Acre.

SLOWLY, MENDIB PACED BACK AND FORTH across the jail's narrow courtyard, enjoying the sunshine that warmed the morning. He had heard enough to know that he had to remain alert, and the psychologist's and social worker's nervousness had aroused his suspicions further.

He had passed the medical examination, he had been observed at length by the psychologist, and the warden had even sat in on one of those exhausting sessions in which the doctor made him react to those stupid stimuli they baited him with. At last, the parole board had signed the papers for his release, and all that was lacking was the final approval by the judge-ten days at most, and he would be free.

He knew what he was to do. He was to wander through the city until he was certain he wasn't being followed, and then he was to go to the Parco Carrara. He was to go there for several days, observe the community's contact Arslan from a distance, and not drop the note to set a meeting until he was sure that no one was watching.

He feared for his life. That policeman who'd visited him had not seemed to be bluffing-he'd threatened to do everything in his power to see that Mendib spent the rest of his life in prison. Then suddenly, the way was cleared for his release. The carabinieri, he thought, were preparing some trap.

They may think that if I'm released I'll lead them to my contacts. That's it, that's what they want, and I'm just the bait. I have to be carefid.

He continued to pace back and forth, back and forth, without realizing that he was being observed. Tall, dark-skinned, their faces blank and stupid from their time in jail, the two Bajerai brothers studied him surreptitiously through one of the windows that opened onto the courtyard as they talked quiedy about the murder they would soon commit.

In the warden's office, Marco Valoni was in the midst of an argument.

"I know it's unlikely that anything will happen, but we can't leave that to chance. We have to ensure his safety for the rest of the time he's here," he insisted to the warden and the head guard.

"Signor Valoni, the mute barely exists for the other inmates-he's of no interest to anyone. He doesn't speak, he has no friends, he communicates with none of them. No one will do him any harm, I assure you," the guard replied.

"We can't run that risk. Think about it-we don't know who we're dealing with. He may be some poor jerk, or he may not be. We haven't made much noise about releasing him, but it's enough to be heard by those who may be listening. Someone has to answer to me for his safety here."

"But Marco," the warden argued, "we haven't had any paybacks in this jail or killings among the prisoners-nothing like that-in years. I just don't share your concern here."

"I don't care. I am concerned. I want to talk to the capos here. Signor Genari, as head guard, I'm sure you know who they are."

Genari shrugged his shoulders. There was no way to convince this guy not to go sticking his nose into jail politics. The cop actually thought that he was going to tell him which prisoners gave the orders inside, as though Genari could do that without risking his own neck.

Marco picked up on Genari's reservations and rephrased his request.

"Look, Genari, there has to be one prisoner inside that the others respect, defer to, you know. Let's talk to him."

The warden shifted uncomfortably in his chair while Genari maintained a stubborn silence. Finally, he intervened. "Genari, you know this prison better than anyone -which one of the men fits the bill? Get him in here."

Genari stood up and walked out of the office. He knew he couldn't stonewall longer without arousing the suspicions of both the warden and this son of a bitch from Rome. His jail ran like a Swiss watch-there were unwritten laws that everyone followed, and now Valoni wanted to know who pulled the strings.