'A couple of years ago, one Saturday night, the brothers were at a discotheque with their girlfriends. A couple of drunks started hitting on the girls-apparently one of them pinched one of the girls' ass. The police report says the brothers pulled out knives and they all went at it. They killed one guy and wounded the other one so bad he can't use his arm anymore. They got twenty years-tantamount to life. Their girlfriends married other people."

"What do you know about their family in Turkey?"

"Just regular people-poor, struggling. They come from Urfa, near the Iraq border. Through Interpol, the Turkish police e-mailed what they've got on the family there, which is very little-absolutely nothing of interest. The father has a younger brother in Urfa, although younger is relative-he's about to retire. He works in the oil fields. There's also a sister, married to a schoolteacher; they have eight children. They're good, decent people, never gotten into any trouble. The Turks were surprised we were looking at them. The truth is, we may have caused these people some problems-you know how their minds work over there."

'Anything else?"

"Yeah. Here in Turin, there's a cousin of the mother's-guy named Amin, apparently exemplary citizen. He's an accountant, been working for years for an advertising agency. He's married to an Italian woman; she works in a high-end clothing store. They have two daughters. The older one is at the university; the younger one is about to graduate from high school. They all go to Mass on Sundays."

"Mass?"

"Yeah, Mass. Shouldn't be a big surprise-this is Italy."

"Yeah, but this cousin-he's not Muslim?"

"I don't know-I guess he is, or was, but he's married to an Italian woman, in the Church. He must have converted-although there's nothing in his file about a conversion."

"Look into him. And try to find out whether the Bajerais belong to a mosque here."

"Mosque?" Minerva asked skeptically.

"Okay-this is Italy. But somebody must know whether they are-or were-Muslims. And if there are others they associate with. Did you get into their bank records?"

"Yeah-nothing out of the ordinary there. The cousin earns a pretty good salary; so does his wife. They live pretty well, although they've got a mortgage on their apartment. No suspicious deposits. They're a tight-knit family; at least some of them go every visiting day to see the brothers, take them food, sweets, tobacco, books, clothes-they're trying their best for them."

"Yeah, I know. I've got a copy of the visitors' log. This Amin has visited them twice this month-when he normally visits them once."

"I wouldn't think visiting them one extra day was anything to get suspicious about."

"We have to look at everything," Marco reminded her.

"Yeah, sure-but we shouldn't lose perspective either."

"You know what strikes me? The fact that this cousin of theirs goes to Mass and was married by the Church. Muslims don't go apostate just like that."

"And you're also going to investigate all the Italians who never set foot in a church? Listen, I've got a girlfriend who converted to Judaism because she fell in love with an Israeli one summer when she was in a kibbutz. The guy's mother was an Orthodox Jew who would never have allowed her darling boy to marry a shiksa, so my friend converted and every Saturday she goes to synagogue. She doesn't believe in anything, but she goes."

"That's your girlfriend. Here we have two Turks who want to kill somebody."

"Uh-huh, but they're the killers, not their cousin, and you can't turn him into a suspect because he goes to Mass."

Pietro came into the dining room and headed over. A minute later, Antonino and Giuseppe joined them. Sofia was the last to arrive.

Minerva brought them up to speed on what had been happening overnight and at Marco's behest handed out copies of the report she'd produced.

"So? What do you think?" Marco asked when they'd all finished reading through the file.

"They aren't pros-if they've been hired for the job it's either because they've got some relationship to our guy or because somebody who does trusts the hell out of them," Pietro observed.

Giuseppe chimed in. "There are men in that prison who'd cut his throat without thinking twice, but die person who's contracted the hit either doesn't know how to get to those types, which means he doesn't have underworld ties, or, as Pietro says, he trusts these two, who seem to be nothing special. They've never been tied to dirty money, never so much as stolen their neighbor's Vespa for a joyride. A stupid bar fight doesn't put them in the big leagues."

"Fine, Giuseppe, but tell me something we don't know," Marco insisted.

"Hold on, Marco, I think Giuseppe and Pietro are saying a lot," Antonino argued. "Now we know for sure that our guy is a link to something-somebody wants him dead because they know he can lead us to them. That means there's a leak-they're on to our plans; otherwise they'd have gotten rid of him a long time ago. But no, they want to kill him now, all of a sudden, just as he's about to go free." <

"Who exactly knows about this part the operation?" Sofia asked.

"Too many people," Marco replied. 'And Antonino is right on target. They know where we're going before we get there. Minerva, Antonino, see what else you can get on the Bajerai family-they're one link. They have to be connected to someone who wants our man dead. Go over everything again, look into even the smallest details. I'm going back to the prison."

"Why don't we talk to the parents and cousin?" Pietro asked.

"Because we don't want to raise any flags. We can't afford to be more visible than we already are. And we can't pull the mute out of prison, because then it'll be him that gets suspicious. We have to keep him alive, out of range of these brothers," Marco answered.

"How?" asked Sofia.

"A capo in the drug mafia, a guy named Frasquello. I made a deal with him. All right, everybody, let's go," he said abruptly, brushing aside their questions.

They ran into Ana Jimenez in the lobby. She was leaving the reception desk, carry-on in tow.

"You guys look like you're on to something big," she joked.

"You're leaving?" Sofia asked.

"I'm on my way to London, and then to France."

"Work?" Sofia pressed.

"Work. I may call you, dottoressa. I may need your advice."

The doorman told Ana her taxi was waiting, and she blew them a kiss as she headed out the door.

"That girl makes me nervous," Marco confessed.

Sofia nodded. "Yeah, you never much liked her."

"No, you're wrong, I like her, but I don't like her sticking her nose into our case. What's she going to London for? And France? She either sees something we don't, or she's going to stir things up, chasing after one of her batty theories."

"I've been impressed by her," Sofia answered, "and her theories may not be so batty. Everyone thought Schliemann was a crackpot, and he found Troy."

"All she needs is you for a defense lawyer! I'd still like to know what she's up to. I'll call Santiago. You and I both know it has something to do with the shroud."

The prison was silent. The inmates had been locked down for the night two hours earlier. The corridors and passageways were illuminated only by the wan, yellowish light of ten-watt bulbs, and the guards on the night shift were dozing.

The Bajerais pushed at the door to their cell, checking to make sure it was open. Yes, the guard had kept his part of the deal… Keeping close to the wall and crouching until they were almost crawling, the two brothers began to make their way to the other end of the corridor, where the mute's cell was. If everything went as they planned, in less than five minutes they'd be back in their own cell as though they had never left. They had traveled halfway down the corridor when the smaller one, in back, felt someone's hand grip his neck half a second before a hard blow to the head knocked him unconscious. The older brother turned around just in time to catch a massive fist full in the nose. Blood streaming, he fell to his knees without a sound as a hand of iron fastened on his throat. Struggling for air, finding none, he felt his life slipping away from him.