Light was just beginning to brighten the corridors of the Turin jail when the guard on morning rounds stopped dead in front of the Bajerais' cell. Then he ran to sound the alarm, as the two bloody heaps tangled together on the floor began to stir and moan.

In the infirmary, the doctor ordered the brothers sedated and pumped them full of pain medication. Their faces had been beaten to pulp, their eyes narrow slits within the massive swelling.

When Marco arrived at the warden's office in response to his call, the agitated official relayed what had happened. He had to inform the judicial authorities and the carabinieri.

Marco calmed him down, then asked to see Frasquello.

"I did my part," the capo spat at him the second he walked into the warden's office.

"Yes, and I'll do mine. What happened?"

"Don't ask questions. It went like you wanted. Your mute is alive and the Turks are too-what more could you ask for, eh? Nobody's been hurt. Those two brothers just got a little bruised, is all."

"I want you to continue to keep an eye out. They may try again."

"Who, those two? You're kidding."

"Them or somebody else, I don't know. Just keep watching."

"When do you talk to the parole board?"

"When this is over."

"Which is when?"

"No more than four or five days, I hope."

"Okay. But you want to do what you said you would, cop, or you'll wish you had."

'And what you want is not to threaten me."

"Just do it."

Frasquello slammed the door behind him as he left the office.

ADDAIO WAS WORKING IN HIS OFFICE WHEN his cell phone rang. The conversation was brief, but by the time he hung up, he was red with rage. He shouted for Guner, who came running.

"What is it, pastor?"

"Find Bakkalbasi at once. I don't care where he is, I have to see him. And I want all the elders here within half an hour."

"What has happened?"

"A catastrophe. Now get them."

When he was alone, he put his hands to his temples and pressed hard. His head hurt all the time. For days he had been experiencing terrible, almost unbearable headaches. He was sleeping badly, and he had no appetite. More and more, he felt it would be a blessing just to die now. He was tired of the lifelong trap he was in-the trap of being Addaio.

The news could not have been worse. The Bajerai brothers had been found out. Someone within the prison had learned of their plans and blocked them. Perhaps the two had talked too much, or someone may simply have been protecting Mendib. It could even be them, them again, or that cop, sticking his nose in everywhere. Apparently in the last few days he had been in and out of the warden's office constantly. He was planning something, but what? It had been reported that he met a couple of times with a drug capo, a man named Frasquello. Yes, yes, the pieces fit-no doubt this Valoni had put the mafioso in charge of protecting Mendib. He was their only lead-a lead that could bring them here, to Urfa-and they had to protect him. That was it, yes, that was it.

Pain was eating up his brain. He searched a moment for a key and opened a drawer, took out a botde of pills, gulped down two, and then sat with his eyes closed to wait for it to pass. With a litde luck, by the time the elders arrived it would be better.

Guner knocked softly at the office door. The elders were waiting for Addaio in the large meeting room. When there was no response, Guner entered and found Addaio with his head on the desk, his eyes closed, motionless. Guner approached with trepidation and shook his master gendy until he awoke. The servant breathed a soft sigh of relief.

"You were asleep."

"Yes… my head hurt."

"You should go back to the doctor; this pain is killing you. You need to have a brain scan."

"I'm fine." Addaio brushed aside further discussion.

A few minutes later he strode into the meeting room. The eight members of the council made an imposing picture, arrayed around the heavy mahogany table in their black chasubles.

Concern filled their faces as Addaio informed them of the events in the Turin prison.

"Mendib will be released in four or five days and will attempt to contact us," Addaio went on. "We must prevent that; our people cannot fail again. That is why it is imperative that you be there, Bakkalbasi, coordinating | the operation, in constant contact with me. We are on the verge of disaster."

"I have news of Turgut."

All eyes turned to Talat, their main conduit to the porter in the Turin Cathedral. His piercing blue eyes were fixed on Addaio.

"We should get him out of there. He's becoming more unhinged by the day. He swears he is being followed, that they no longer trust him in the bishop's offices, and that Rome police officers have remained in Turin to arrest him."

"That is the last thing we can do in the middle of all this, Talat," Bakkalbasi replied.

"Is Ismet ready to travel?" Addaio asked. "He was to prepare himself to take his uncle's place at the cathedral. That is our best course for now."

"His parents have agreed, but the young man seems reluctant. He has a girlfriend here," Talat explained.

"Girlfriend! And because he has a girlfriend he would endanger the entire community? Call them. He will leave today, with our brother Bakkalbasi. Tell Ismet's parents to call Turgut and tell him they are sending their son to reside with him while he looks for a future in Italy. And do it now."

Addaio's peremptory tone left no room for hesitation or disagreement. A short while later, the eight left the mansion, each with precise orders to carry out.

ANA JIMENEZ RANG THE DOORBELL OF A lovely Victorian house in one of London's most elegant neighborhoods. An elderly butler opened the door and greeted her politely. The home could have been the residence of a lord. If this was indeed the bastion of the present-day Knights Templar, it was a far cry from the medieval fortresses they had once defended.

Ana introduced herself and asked to see the director of the organization, Anthony McGilles. It had not been easy to secure an appointment with the well-known scholar, but Ana had called friends of friends, trading on connections in diplomatic circles, and the meeting had eventually been arranged.

The butler asked her to wait in a large, handsomely furnished vestibule, its wood parquet floor covered with thick Persian carpet, its walls hung with paintings of religious scenes. A silver-haired gentleman promptly emerged from a nearby office and greeted her cordially.

McGilles directed Ana to the sofa in his office while he took a seat in a leather armchair. They had barely settled themselves when the butler entered with a tea tray.

For several minutes Ana answered McGilles's questions-he was interested in her work as a reporter and in the political situation in Spain. Finally, the professor got to the point of her visit.

"You're interested in the Templars?"

"Yes. I have to say I was surprised to learn that they still exist and even have an Internet address. That's what led me here."

"This is a center for research and study, that's all. What is it exactly that you want to know?"

"Well, if the Templars really do exist in this day and age, then I'd like to know more about the nature and scope of the organization today, and what it does. And if possible I'd like to ask you about some historical events that the Templars took part in-a very prominent part."

"Well, miss, the Templars as you seem to be imagining them, as they once were, no longer exist."

"Then the Internet listing isn't authentic?"

"No, it's authentic. You're here speaking with me, aren't you? But don't let your imagination run wild picturing knights in shining armor. This is the twenty-first century."