"Unless she's out in the field."

The priest said nothing, there was no need.

"Did my father talk to Paolo Zorzi about her? Zorzi trained her, after all."

"Remember that Zorzi is also on the list," Father Mosto said.

Bravo glanced back over his shoulder at the closed door. "Do you believe she's the traitor?"

"I…" the priest began, but immediately faltered. "I am afraid of her, because she was able to get to Dexter in a way no one else could-not even, I believe, your mother."

Something screamed in Bravo's head. "I can't believe it. My father was having an affair with Jenny?"

"I knew your father longer than anyone. It's a fact." Father Mosto's eyes brimmed with empathy. "You must find forgiveness in your heart, my son. Your father was an extraordinary man, he accomplished extraordinary things."

"But he never told us."

"Why should he? Dexter led two lives, Braverman, you know that better than anyone now."

"But Jenny's half his age." Bravo's head came up. "Are you-a priest-condoning what he did?"

"Do you expect me to condemn him?" He sat down opposite Bravo, so close their knees touched. "I was Dexter's friend, first and foremost. I counseled him as best I could but… I needn't tell you that he was a man of secrets. He could compartmentalize his two lives-one didn't intrude on the other, For reasons I can't even begin to imagine, he lived deep inside himself."

He stood, put a hand on Bravo's shoulder. "One thing I know for certain: he loved your mother, deeply and completely. Nothing he did could change that."

Bravo nodded, silent, lost in his own muddled feelings.

"When we are children, we see our parents through a child's eyes. If they fight, we think they must hate each other. But when we become adults ourselves we discover that people-including our parents-are complex. It's possible to fight and still be in love. What you need to keep in mind is that your father never left your mother, never left you and your sister. When your mother fell ill, he was by her side the entire time. And when she died… my God, he grieved for her. A part of him died, I can tell you that."

Father Mosto sighed. "Difficult knowledge, Braverman, but it's better to know the truth, isn't it? All your decisions must stem from the truth."

Bravo looked up. "But Jenny and I…" He couldn't finish his thought. Had she seduced his father as she had seduced him in the hotel room in Venice? Of course, there had been their frenzied coupling at Mont St. Michel, but even then hadn't she reached for him? Yes, he had felt tenderness toward her, but she had reached for him, he'd felt her heat, seen the desire in her eyes…

There was a world-weariness in the priest's eyes, and a certain sadness. "I beg you not to give her your trust as your father did. I beg you to be on your guard."

Too late, Bravo thought bitterly. Too damn late.

Father Mosto was silent, giving Bravo the time he needed as he struggled to clear his mind.

At length, Bravo rose. "It's time we discussed the reason my father sent me here."

The priest nodded, a look of concern on his face. "Of course."

"The alms cabinet."

"Ah, I suspected it was an object here in my rectory. Dexter spent many hours alone here in study and research." Taking out a key, Father Mosto unlocked the enormous wooden armoire, drew the chain off.

At that moment, a bell rang on his desk. For a moment, he ignored it, putting aside both lock and chain. Then, when it kept ringing, he said, "You must excuse me for a moment, I'm needed in the church proper."

As Father Mosto turned the corner of the corridor, he saw that several of the lamps had been extinguished, and he made a mental note to relight them on his way back. He hastened on, his mind on Braverman and Dexter Shaw, which is no doubt why he heard nothing. The assault was so silent, so swift that he felt nothing, until the knife blade sliced across his throat. There was a great pulse inside him, and he started violently, as a gout of blood poured from him. He began to call out, but almost at once a blackness was lapping at his consciousness and he felt a curious lassitude, so that he wanted to sleep even as he attempted to struggle. But struggle against what? His life was rushing out of him with every beat of his heart.

His last thought-he had no last thought. He was dead before he hit the bloody stone floor.

Without waiting for Father Mosto to return, Bravo opened the heavy doors of the cabinet. The inside smelled of age and cedar; the walls of the cabinet were lined with panels of the fragrant wood. There were three widely spaced wooden shelves. He opened the alms box, rifled through the accounting ledger and other miscellaneous papers and files, all without finding what he was looking for. He stood there for a moment, puzzled, breathing in the spicy scent of the cedar. He was certain that he hadn't misread his father's cipher. Where was the purse?

Then something occurred to him. Though they appeared to be old, the richly scented cedar panels were relatively new-the scent of the wood faded over a matter of years, and this armoire looked to be more than two centuries old. Curious, he began a series of sharp raps on the panels.

His ear, attuned to tiny sounds, heard what he was hoping for-a particular hollowness. He dug his fingernails into the gap between the panels and pulled. Peeling back one of the panels, he discovered a small niche from which he pulled out a curious object. It was cool to the touch and shone in the lamplight. Further investigation revealed that it was made of steel-possibly sword steel-beautifully formed into the shape of a small beggar's purse. The domed top was without a handle. Instead he noticed a tiny square cutout. He'd seen that lock shape before.

Taking out the cuff links, he inserted the one that wouldn't open the lock in St. Malo. Sure enough, it fit. Just as he was about to open the beggar's purse, he heard a noise, the sharp bang as of a casement window flying open, followed by what sounded like a groan wrenched from a strangled throat.

In two swift strides he reached the door and flung it open. "Jenny? Father Mosto?"

An empty corridor stretched in either direction. It was eerily silent. Bravo could hear his heart beating, the rush of blood in his ears. A slow drip of water from someplace close at hand. Where the hell was Jenny?

Quickly pocketing the beggar's purse, he hurried down the corridor. At the first turn, he saw a large shape lying on the stone floor.

His heart skipped a beat. "Jenny?"

He ran, and skidded. The flagging wept with the damp of the canal and something more, something sticky and slightly viscous. Blood. A body in priest's robes sprawled grotesquely at his feet. Father Mosto's face, pale and almost greenish, stared up at him, his eyes fixed and glazed. His neck was slit and blood, having at first gouted out, still seeped. Next to him, in the widening pool of blood, was the murder weapon-a knife.

Kneeling down, Bravo examined it closely without touching it. It was a slender switchblade with pearl scales-the one Jenny had used to open the bottle of wine.

Jenny killed Father Mosto? He could hardly believe it. But if she was innocent, where was she?

Hearing a soft scrape, he rose and hurried after what sounded to him like the furtive patter of footfalls. The lamps in this section of the corridor had gone out, and the farther he got from the body, the more steeped in gloom it became until he could barely see a foot ahead of him.

Still, he continued-what else could he do? All at once, he became aware of something behind him and whirled just in time to have his head snapped back by a blow to his forehead. Staggering back, he slammed against a slimy wall and was struck again.

He allowed another blow to strike, but this time grabbed the wrist of the extended arm and was startled to discover how slender it was, how smooth the skin. He was being attacked by a woman.