"What was in the account?" Jenny asked.

"One hundred thousand dollars," Bravo said.

She gave a low whistle. "Wow."

"And this." After a quick check of the immediate environment, he pulled out the SIG Sauer P220. "It's fully loaded with .38s ammo."

Her eyes opened wide. "Damn, that semiautomatic could win a war."

"I guess that's what my father had in mind," he said, pocketing the weapon.

"Do you know how to use that? Maybe you ought to give the gun to me."

"I can shoot an apple off your head at a hundred paces." He laughed. "Don't worry, my father made sure I had plenty of practice with handguns."

For a city that prided itself in architectural marvels, the Church of l'Angelo Nicolo` was remarkably plain. Founded in the sixth century by a group of displaced Genoese, it reflected to this day their essential poverty. Apart from a much needed renovation in the fourteenth century, including what became its signature triple-bay gemel window and the installation of a beautiful portico in the fifteenth century, it remained essentially as it had at its founding.

"Stuck away in this backwater sestiere, it was so far out of the mainstream of Venice's religious life that it had been systematically denied donations from wealthy parishioners and patrons," Bravo said. "Instead, L'Angelo Nicolo` became the de facto sanctuary for the pinzocchere-religious zealots-who sought to do penance within its walls."

"How did it survive?" Jenny asked.

"Good question. One answer is Santa Marina Maggiore, the nunnery built just behind. Apparently, it was money from the nuns that paid for the renovation."

"That must have cost a fortune," Jenny said. "I'd love to ask the nuns how they managed such an amazing feat."

The interior was cool and gray and beautiful, the Tiepolo painting of San Nicolo` awe-inspiring. They stood beneath the central apse surmounted by a Byzantine cornice from the seventh century. At this hour, they were virtually the only people in the church, but now and again they could hear small echoes of hushed voices like the lapping of canal water, a door opening or closing, shoe soles padding along the stone flagging.

Bravo saw a small figure coming through the apse, a priest, who he stopped.

"Excuse me, father, does this coin have any significance for you?"

The priest was an ancient man with a deeply creased face, his skin burnished by the elements to the texture of fine leather. His long white hair and beard were in need of barbering-in fact, he looked more like a mendicant for whom the area was named than a member of the Church. Despite his extreme age, his blue eyes-as electric as Bravo's own-were so clear and penetrating that they seemed to pierce straight through to Bravo's core. After a long, contemplative look, the priest smiled and took the coin. His fingers, too, belied his years, for they were as straight as those of any man one third his age-in fact, save for the skin of his face, he exhibited none of the telltale signs of time's ravages.

The unknown priest gave the front of the coin only a cursory glance, then his fingers, still as deft as a conjuror's, flipped it onto its reverse. He nodded to himself, then looked up, his eyes, bright with secret knowledge, might have contained a touch of humor or satisfaction.

"Wait here, please, signore," he said, bobbing his head.

He went off with the coin and soon disappeared behind a column. Silence, and the dust floating down from on high. Light splayed across the floor, colored by the marble, conjuring up the bouquets of flowers in the Erberia. Three nuns, hands lost within their black robes, passed slowly in procession, walking in perfect unison, as if to a tempo God had provided for them.

"Do you think that was wise?" Jenny said. "Giving him the coin."

"To be honest, I don't know," Bravo told her. "But it's done now."

Two priests, one taller and slender, the other shorter and stout as a wine cask, appeared, walking down the north transept toward them, their faces bent, shrouded in shadow, deep in discussion.

"I'm going after him." Jenny made a sudden move, which startled the priests, for they paused, whispering to each other. By this time, Bravo had stopped her. The priests resumed their stroll, but in a different direction now, away from them.

"Listen, Bravo-"

He made a curt gesture, silencing her. "When it comes to protecting me, you call the shots, otherwise this is my show, got it?"

She bridled, her faced flushed with anger. He could see that she was uncomfortable ceding control to him, and he realized that she still harbored questions about his instincts, his motivations and, even worse, his mental fortitude. No matter that they were intimate in bed, there was still a chasm of distrust between them, which caused him to wonder whether their physical relationship was anything more than a passing illusion. He had been so happy when he'd arrived in Venice last night-he'd been sure that he'd been nearing something he'd been longing for all his life, something so important and vital that at last he might be absolved of the guilt he had felt over Junior's death. And now he was possessed by the sudden sensation of looking down at himself from outside his body, as if he had entered a dream without knowing when or how. Nothing seemed certain anymore; thin ice was beneath his feet, and he felt on the verge of losing his balance and tearing through into the chill water beneath.

Much to his consternation, he found that he and Jenny were glaring at each other.

"You wouldn't be talking to Uncle Tony like this," she said.

"I would, whether you choose to believe it or not. Two people can make decisions, but only if one of them is dead."

His paraphrasing of the famous Ben Franklin saying broke the tension, as he meant it to, and she visibly relaxed.

"Just remember who's taking care of you," she whispered.

Another priest had appeared in the shadows below the triple-bayed gemel window and was beckoning to them.

"I'm Father Mosto." The priest held the gold coin in his hand. He was of medium height, with flat black hair that covered his scalp like a cap. His skin was dark as cocoa mixed with cream, so it was possible that his forebears were originally from Campania, in the south of Italy around Mt. Vesuvius. Perhaps there was even some North African or Turkish blood in him. Though he wasn't big, he gave that impression because he was broad-stoop-shouldered and barrel-chested-with a heavy, brooding face that looked out at the world with an innate suspicion from behind the forest of a beard.

"You're Braverman." He held the coin between his thumb and forefinger. "Dexter's son."

"That's right." Bravo accepted the coin back.

"I recognized you from a photo your father gave me." Father Mosto nodded. "You will come with me now and we shall talk."

When Jenny moved to accompany Bravo, the priest held up his hand. "This is between the Keeper and myself. You may stand outside the door to my rectory if you wish."

Jenny's eyes flashed. "I was assigned to Bravo by Dexter Shaw himself; I accompany him wherever he goes."

A storm of emotion appeared to gather in Father Mosto's face. "That simply is not possible," he said curtly. "You will follow orders. Any other Guardian would not need to be reminded of his duties."

"She's right, Father Mosto," Bravo said. "What I hear, she hears."

"No, it is not allowed." The priest folded his arms over his chest. "Never."

"It was my father's wish and my choice." Bravo shrugged. "But if you persist, we will walk out of here-"

"No, you must not." A small muscle had begun to twitch in the priest's cheek. "You understand why you must not."

"I do," Bravo said. "And yet I will, trust me."

Father Mosto stared at him with a certain degree of belligerence.