Bravo and Jenny lay in bed, side by side, naked, but not touching. They breathed out the fumes of wine and memories.

All at once, Jenny giggled.

"What?"

"I liked that you were jealous."

"I wasn't jealous," he said shortly.

"No, of course not." She couldn't help herself and another giddy sound escaped her lips.

There ensued a small silence, the nighttime sounds of Venice stealing in again, somehow making them feel safe and protected, as if they were a long way from the rest of the world.

"Why did you like it?" he asked, then.

"Guess."

"I feel like I'm fifteen years old," he said.

Her hand moved, fingers curling around his wrist. "I'm frightened," she said into the darkness.

"Of what?" Her changes of mood were mercurial.

"Of what I feel when I'm near you." She bit her lip; it was unthinkable that she should tell him the origin of that fear.

"It's all right," he said. "I understand."

The problem, Jenny thought, was that he understood only what she had arranged for him to understand. Not that her being sent away by her mother-and why-was a lie. Not at all. It was simply that by telling him that story, she had deliberately led him astray-her fear stemmed from another quarter entirely.

Bravo was comforted, taking her silence as agreement, and this led him to let down his guard. "That photo you saw," he said at length.

"The one of you that your father kept with him. I wondered why-"

"It's not of me." He reached over, plucked the Zippo off the night table, opened it. He held the photo up; the child's face was barely discernable in the night-glimmer, as if the image was not really there or had already become indistinct. But perhaps that was because it was a black and white snap that had been hand colored. "It's of my brother, Junior."

"I didn't know."

"You wouldn't," he said. "Junior's dead."

"Bravo, I'm so sorry."

"It happened a long time ago, when I was fifteen, in fact." He put the case back on the Zippo, returned it to the night table. "One winter we were out ice skating. Junior was only twelve then. A group of older boys and girls skated onto the ice and I spotted a girl I had seen a couple of times before. I liked her, but had never had the courage to go up to her. You know how that is."

"Yes," she whispered. "I do."

"I saw her glance over at me and at once I started to go into a couple of double axels. Of course, I was showing off, but I thought I might never get the chance again, and ice skating was one of the things I did really well. While I was performing for her, Junior must have gotten bored-anyway, he skated off. He went farther than he should have and fell through a thin patch of ice." There had been an eerie, evil report, the flat sound of a rifle shot or the sky cracked open. It pierced the clear dry air, pierced, too, his eardrums, a terrible noise he could neither forget nor speak about. At that moment he had realized that life was as thin as an eggshell. "He never surfaced. I pulled my skates off and plunged in. Honestly, I don't know what happened next-the water was so cold I was in shock. But the boys had come over and they pulled me out. I fought them until I was black and blue, two of them held my arms while a third sat on my chest and said, 'Don't be stupid, kid' over and over like it was a nursery rhyme. Still…"

Beside him, she stirred, as if the tragedy had made her heart beat so fast she couldn't stay still.

"I relive that moment over and over," he said, "and I can't help thinking that if they hadn't pulled me out I could have saved him."

"You know that's not true." She rose on one elbow, stared down at him, her eyes spangled. "Bravo, you know it's not. You said yourself that you were in shock. And your brother had his skates on-the weight must have pulled him straight down. There was no chance."

"No chance, right…" His voice died away into the lapping of the water against the side of the hotel.

"Oh, Bravo," she whispered, "this is how you lost your faith, isn't it?"

"He was my younger brother. I was supposed to take care of him."

She shook her head. "You were only fifteen."

"Old enough."

"Old enough for what?"

"It all seems so stupid and self-centered now. I was never going to win over a girl older than I was by three years."

"How could you know that then? Your hormones were running wild."

He stared up at her. "Do you believe that? Really?"

"Yes." She put her hand on his chest, then she drew back, abruptly breathless at the fierceness of his racing heart. "Really."

Gradually the night enfolded them, and though the spangles continued their mysterious journey across the walls and ceiling, they slept, entwined.

The pale morning light woke them, or perhaps it was the musical sounds of the boatmen's raised voices, ringing like church bells over the water. Looking out the window, Bravo could see that the canal was full of activity-boats, ferries and the like, the daily traffic of the medieval city. Sky and lagoon knitted into one seamless whole, the water everywhere, moving, endless.

Jenny joined him, and they stood for a moment gazing out at the vaporous morning through which the palazzi's rich colors-ocher, umber, burnt sienna and rose-pulsed like an earthbound sun.

Showered and dressed, they went downstairs. They were grateful to see that Berio hadn't yet made his appearance, and they went quickly out of the hotel, into the picturesque piazetta lined with shops still shuttered. He took her to a small cafe on a tiny side street. It was dark and gloomy inside, as if time had collected in the low rafters. He chose a table near one of the small wood-framed windows that looked out onto a canal.

While they waited for their breakfast to arrive, he opened the newspaper he'd bought and, as was his habit, scanned it.

All at once he looked up. "It's official. The pope has the flu."

"If they've gone public, his illness has grown near-terminal," Jenny said. "The Vatican cabal will be putting ever more pressure on the Knights."

"Not to mention global resources and influence." He folded the paper and looked at her. "We're running out of time, Jenny."

She nodded grimly. "We've got to get you to the cache before the Knights can find it."

Pushing the paper away, he handed her the Michelin guide to Venice and told her to turn to a certain page. Venice was divided into seven sestieri, or districts, each one with its own character. She opened the guide book to I Mendicoli, an outer section of the Dorsoduro district, a working-class section little frequented by tourists. I Mendicoli meant "the beggars": its original inhabitants-fishermen and artisans-were extremely poor.

As she read, Bravo took out the coin he'd found in the underwater safe in St. Malo. He looked at it front and back, held it on edge, ran his thumb along the ridged edge, smiling. Again, he thought of the system of cryptography his father had taught him and was immensely grateful both for the lessons and his studiousness.

Jenny looked at him inquiringly. "What should I be looking for?"

"Turn the page," he instructed.

At once, she came upon a photo of the Church of l'Angelo Nicolo`. Just below was a detail of a painting: San Nicolo` dei Mendicoli by Giambattista Tiepolo.

"This is the centerpiece of the church," he said. "Now look at the face on the coin."

She did. It was a copy of the centerpiece, the face of San Nicolo`.

Bravo turned the coin over, showed her the letters on its obverse: Mh Euah Poqchaq Ntceo.

His sly smile turned into a grin. "At first, I thought this coin was old, but then I saw these."

Their breakfast came and they ate ravenously, clearing the dishes away as quickly as they could.