“We haven’t really discussed what happened in the square,” Serrin said.

“Just a bunch of assassins fried alive and we had to run our lives,” Geraint said Sarcastically.

“I didn’t mean that. I meant the point of it,” Serrin replied quietly.

“The point of what?”

“Not them, not the idiots and fanatics with the guns and the spirits and the death wishes. I meant the demonstration.”

Geraint looked incredulously at him.

“The figure that appeared,” the elf said impatiently. “The woman.”

“I thought the severed head was pretty gross,” Michael said with some disgust.

“A very potent image. Outside the church of St. Mark, our man creates an image of real blasphemy. The Magdalene with the head of John the Baptist, that’s who she was. No wonder the Jesuits were so stunned.”

“I don’t get it,” Michael said.

“That figure was the Magdalene. I’m certain. I saw her in the painting outside, the Last Supper. It’s her, and there’s something very, very strange about that painting.”

“That’s for sure,” Michael said.

“And the painting of John is so odd. So androgynous. It’s the same thing as the icon he left: the Shroud with the black woman’s face. These images are highly powerful,” Serrin said deliberately, as if admitting something to himself and being surprised in the process. “I just don’t understand what they’re actually saying. They’re obvious I blasphemy. But it’s not being done just for shock value, There wouldn’t be any point in that, and I don’t think our man is up for pointless demonstrations. I just wish I could fathom exactly what it is he’s saying.”

“So he maybe has a thing about the Magdalene,” Michael pondered. “I certainly agree that she’s the central figure in the Last Supper painting.”

“And unless I’m much mistaken, there are references in the Bible to the disciples being jealous of her and disliking her,” Serrin said, reaching for the bedside table, “And for the first time in the history of this planet, someone somewhere is about to find the Gideon Bible in here of some actual bloody use.”

He leafed through the pages for a moment, found the relevant passages, and nodded a couple of times.

“They protest to Christ that she’s a whore and a bad woman, and they clearly don’t like his consorting with her. Read,” he told Michael, tossing over the flimsy book.

“It’s a long time since I did this,” Michael admitted as he scanned the New Testament references.

“All right, so they do, and the painting shows that. But why have her show up with the head in the square?”

“That’s what I can’t figure,” Serrin said. “It was Salome who brandished the head, as I recall. But our man has something about heads. The head on the original Shroud was separate from the rest of the body. And our man replaced it with another severed head, if you will.”

“The Priory,” Michael said slowly, clenching and unclenching his fist in an effort to reclaim a memory hidden deep inside his subconscious. “I remember something from my research on them. The Priory of Sion, our chummers back in Rennes. They claimed some descent from the Knights Templar, and the Templars were accused of worshiping a severed head that talked to them. At least, that’s one of the things they were accused of.”

“Along with sodomy and tax evasion, insider dealing and breathing in and out in a heretical fashion,” Serrin said with a grin. “I rather think the Pope drummed up every charge he could-possibly think of apart from lesbianism.”

“They were men!” Michael protested.

“That’s what I mean,” Serrin said dryly.

“So what’s our man doing playing with these images, and why is he so fixated on Leonardo?”

“That’s the million-nuyen question,” Serrin concluded. “And we don’t know the answer.” He paused while another thought slotted into place. “We also don’t know where he is.”

“Blondie was in Venice yesterday morning.” Geraint reminded him. “If he was, then so was whoever he refers to as his master.”

“That’s logical.”

“And I bet they aren’t there now,” Geraint reasoned.

“That also seems pretty likely.”

“So where have they gone, and have we any clue as to where and how they’re going?”

“Nope.”

“So we have to stay passive and wait for another move in the game, dammit!” Geraint growled. “I really don’t like this. We’re back where we were again.”

Michael flipped open his laptop. “Now that they’ve made a move, I wonder if there might be some information for us. Ah, right. Good one.” His face broke into a smile. Then he looked puzzled, even a little angry.

“Consider the Hejira,” he read from the email drop. “That’s it. Drek.”

“The flight of the Prophet,” Serrin said. “Mohammed fled from Mecca to Medina, wasn’t it?”

“Yeah, you got it, but what’s that got to do with all this? Don’t tell me he’s convened to Islam all of a sudden.”

“Think metaphorically, Michael,” Serrin said exasperatedly. “Mohammed left one city of divinity. Our man has left Venice.”

“So he’s saying he’s some kind of prophet?” Michael sounded as if he disapproved.

“Maybe he is.”

“And maybe he’s suffering serious delusions.”

“Maybe,” Serrin smiled. “But we know he can sure as hell move mountains.”

“All right. So he takes a flight and-” Michael looked astounded at the idea that had just leapt unbidden into his brain. “No, it can’t be as simple as-”

He was already reaching for his traveling cyberdeck.

“As simple as what?” Geraint asked, puzzled.

“As simple as taking a flight,” Michael muttered, stabbing keys.

“Well, of course not, you wouldn’t mention the Hejira just to tell us that,” Serrin said.

“Maybe not, but maybe it actually is something as simple as that and then something more, so Let’s find out. And maybe we can get a proper look at our man. God bless them, the Italian states routinely keep photodata on all arrivals and departures at their airports for a year after the flights. Originally for security reasons.”

“Would that have included us?” Geraint fretted, implications tumbling into place.

“Sure would,” Michael said. “So let’s have a look.”

“Its going to take forever to scan every passenger into and out of Venice today,” Serrin lamented.

“Not necessarily,” Michael said. “He’d have been with Blondie, right? I feed a description of Blondie into Smithers and he rattles through, checking for anyone similar, and presto, all done in a couple of minutes. Smithers is very good at this sort of thing.”

Juan and Xavier, who’d been quiet up until now though clearly engrossed in a discourse they didn’t fully understand but whose logic they could appreciate, gave each other mystified glances.

Serrin threw them a grin. “Don’t ask.”

Just then, Streak came through the door, a pair of huge paper bags stuffed with snacks cradled in his arms.

“You greedy pig,” Kristen said happily, snatching one of the bags as he passed her. “You had a huge dinner.”

“So why are you stealing my food?”

“I stole some of your dope,” she explained with a giggle.

“Oh, well then, help yourself,” the elf said cheerfully, depositing himself on a bed and wrenching open a large bag of chips.

Michael sat back and drummed his fingers on the table as he waited. Then the image began to form on the screen, increasing its resolution with every split-second pass.

“Actually we may not even get him. Remember how he fragged the Doge’s scanners?” Serrin said.

Michael shook his head. “Not this time.” He watched the screen carefully. “Oh, very clever. Very amusing. You bastard.”

The ID was on the screen now, the unmistakable pony tail and cheerfully smiling young face of the man they knew as Salai, accompanying an older, equally slender but taller figure.

It was a serious face: a furrowed brow beneath a rather incongruous beret, an aquiline nose, and a chin neither weak nor exceptionally strong. The gray eyes were gentle and academic in appearance He had that ageless look some middle-aged men acquire when their heads turn to silver or the gray of his long, flowing, slightly wavy hair. Around his lips a slight smile seemed to be playing. For all the world that smile reminded them at once of the Mona Lisa, the smile that had intrigued and bemused scholars of the ages.