"Eventually, as I told you, the cache became a litany of the evil in the world. The important thing to keep in mind now is that with the power of these secrets we were often able, as I said, to influence kings, merchant-princes, generals-at times, if we were very clever and very lucky the course of history was altered by our intervention. We protected those with knowledge, scientists and writers, independent thinkers born ahead of their time who otherwise would have been persecuted, burned at the stake, publicly flogged or hanged. We hid firebrands, muckrakers and whistleblowers so that they could continue exposing the workings of dirty politics, revealing difficult truths. Of course, we didn't always succeed, but we always did our best to work for the greater good of mankind. Still, our work made us anathema to the Vatican, which is a storehouse of secrets, lies and repression."

Jenny's face was half in shadow. Her gray eyes were very large and in them floated motes the same color as the freckles that dusted the bridge of her nose.

"And then, there came into our possession an artifact so valuable that the Haute Cour was compelled to move the entire cache, to protect it with multiple measures. By tradition, two men possessed the key to the cache and the knowledge of where the cache was buried: the Magister Regens and one from among the Haute Cour whom they called the Keeper."

Several strands of hair, glowing like live copper, had come loose from her ponytail, riding against the surge of her cheek, and she pushed them behind her ear. "The Keeper is special, Bravo, never more so than now. There has been no Magister Regens for decades. The Haute Cour governs the Order now. The Keeper is the official key-bearer, but there was one other from the Haute Cour used as a backup, should anything happen to the Keeper."

"You said was."

"The backup was a man named Jon Molko. He was the first taken and tortured by the Knights. When they discovered he wouldn't talk, they killed him, just moments before your father found him."

"What happened to Molko's key?"

"We don't know."

Bravo put his hand in his pocket, fingered the strange key his father had given him six months ago in Paris. His father's key. But what about Molko's key? Did the Knights of St. Clement have it?

"Our cache of secrets," Jenny was saying. "All that keeps us strong, all that will keep us strong is in the Keeper's hands. This awesome responsibility, this terrible burden was handed down from one Keeper to the next through a process of meticulous and painstaking selection." She moved her head back and forth in an intimation of wariness, and the ruddy lights glimmered on her skin, burnished her in a glow that seemed centuries old. Her lips, bright crimson, were half-parted, and her voice, when she continued, was breathless. "Bravo, your father was the Keeper of all the Order's secrets."

It was a curious thing, but the only time Donatella felt at peace was when she was in a graveyard. For this reason she had made herself familiar with the cemeteries in every city to which she had traveled. DC was no exception, and though the area had an inordinate number of cemeteries, at one time or another she had explored them all, in sunlight and moonlight, in rain, snow and fog. And, in truth, there was none she knew better than Miamonides. It had been a long-held belief of hers that an important secret held by the Gnostic Observatines resided in the Marcus mausoleum-the tomb of the sainted Fra Leoni, a personal touchstone for every member of the Order-but not even the last two members of the Order's Haute Cour she and Rossi had dispatched had been able to provide confirmation. A pity, because raiding that tomb would be a psychological blow from which, she was certain, the Order would not recover.

Now, as she realized where the Guardian was taking Braverman Shaw, she felt a slight tremor ripple down her spine, making her tingle. She and Rossi were moving between the mausoleums, on a line more or less parallel with the path down which their quarry walked. They had to be extremely careful, for the Guardian was being exceptionally watchful and, though Rossi might unconsciously underestimate her, Donatella was determined that she would not.

Rossi had no tolerance for anything he perceived as weakness. His faith in Donatella was absolute-a curious anomaly in his feelings about women-and she had no intention of giving him the slightest cause to doubt that faith.

When she saw the Guardian take Braverman Shaw into the Marcus mausoleum she could hardly contain herself. As if sensing her extreme excitement, Rossi approached her and, curling his fingers around her forearm, said softly in Italian, "You won't forget yourself, will you?" His eyes sought hers, engaged them. In his gaze were all the terrible incidents of their shared past, all the pain and despair, all the blood taken and spilled. To him, her vulpine eyes were like a looking glass in which he saw the best of himself and at the same time recognized the worst. "We have our orders, we cannot deviate from them, yes?"

She nodded, but her mouth was dry and her pulse was heavy in the side of her neck. His fingertips on her carotid picked up the throb as if it were a seismic shift. "This is how you are when we're about to have sex," he said softly. "Your eyes change color, your pores exude an intimate odor, and I know that you're ready." He leaned toward her, his nostrils dilating as he inhaled. "You see? But still I must wonder what complex changes take place inside you."

Mutely, she dug in her pocket, produced a small matte-black canister, which she held like a conjurer between thumb and forefinger. Rossi smiled, releasing her.

Weapon drawn, ready, she headed toward her heart's desire.

"Faith is a tree, growing new branches even in the face of a storm," Emma had said. "There is a plan for us." Was she right, Bravo asked himself now, or was this nothing more than a mirage?

But no. At long last, it seemed that he was beginning to understand his father-why Dexter had encouraged the study of medieval religions, why he was bitterly disappointed when Bravo abandoned those studies, his antipathy toward Jordan Muhlmann, who, Bravo could see now, he blamed for leading his son astray. In the case of Jordan, it was a monumental misunderstanding, and Bravo wished more than anything that his father were standing beside him so that he could explain the nature of his deep and abiding friendship with Jordan.

"You said there was one secret greater than all the rest," he said now. "What is it?"

"I don't know," Jenny said in that perfectly sincere voice of hers.

He did not believe her, but perhaps there was a good reason for her lie. The wariness between them likely flowed both ways.

"You still haven't told me why you brought me here." His carefully neutral tone was an attempt to draw her out. "You could have told me the history of the Order anywhere."

"True enough." Her fingertips moved over the veining of the faux marble walls with the questing delicacy of a safe-cracker's. The rest of her, however, was utterly still. "But there is the question of initiation."

"Initiation?"

"Congratulations. You've just become the most important human being on earth."

He stared at her, for the moment unable to speak or even to think clearly.

Jenny turned toward him, her pale, slightly upturned eyes glimmering through the semidarkness of the antique masonry. He recognized in her glance, in the way she stood, a certain complicity. Entombed together in the intimate blood-temperature warmth, they seemed to be moving in concert, returning in ritual fashion not only to the Order's storied history but to Dexter Shaw's lifelong conspiracy. And all at once tears sprang into his eyes because in a sense gloriously real to him, his father was being resurrected before his very eyes.