"The Brotherhood Of The Holy Shroud" - читать интересную книгу автора (Navarro Julia)

5

THE THREE MEN WERE LYING ON COTS. REST-ing, each lost in his own thoughts. They had failed, and they had to leave Turin in the next few days. The city had become dangerous for them.

Their brother had died in the fire, and the autopsy would surely reveal that he had no tongue. None of them did. Trying to go back into the cathedral at this point would be suicide; their contact had told them that the carabinieri were everywhere, interrogating everyone, and that he wouldn't rest easy until they were out of the city.

They would go, but for at least a couple of days, until the carabinieri loosened the noose and the media rushed off to some new catastrophe, they would stay hidden in their underground retreat.

The basement was humid, musty; it smelled of mold and mildew, and there was barely room to walk. Their contact had left them food and water for three or four days. He'd told them that he wouldn't be back until he could be sure the danger had passed. Two days had gone by, and it seemed an eternity.

Thousands of miles from that basement, in New York, in a glass and steel tower, in an office completely soundproofed and equipped with state-of-the-art security measures, seven elegantly dressed men were celebrating the failure of the group in Turin with a glass of the finest burgundy.

More than triumph, they felt relief. They had reviewed in detail the information they received. Events had veered perilously close to disaster and they had resolved to take different measures if-when-the need arose again.

The men ranged in age from fifty to seventy. The oldest raised his hand slightly and the others fell silent, expectant.

"My sole remaining concern is what we're being told about this detective, the director of the Art Crimes Department. It appears he's not going to let go of the matter very readily this time and may be looking beyond the immediate incident."

"We'll double our security measures and be sure that our men continue to blend flawlessly into the background. I've spoken with Paul. He'll try to keep abreast of what this Valoni is doing, but it won't be easy. Anything untoward could expose him to scrutiny. In my opinion, master, we should stay back, keep low, do nothing-just watch." The speaker was tall, athletic, in his mid-fifties, with graying hair and sculpted features that might have belonged to a Roman emperor.

The man whom he had addressed surveyed the others.

"Anyone else?"

Everyone concurred; for the moment they would simply observe from a distance as Valoni went about his work, and their contact, Paul, would be instructed not to press too hard for information. They went on to set a date for their next meeting and to change the code keys they would use until then.

They were preparing to leave when one of them, his accent French-inflected, asked the question on all their minds:

"Will they try again?"

The master shook his head. "No, not immediately. There's too much risk. This group will try to get out of Italy, then contact Addaio. Even if they're lucky and make it back to him, it will take time. Addaio will be in no hurry to send a new team."

"The last time it was two years," recalled the man with the Roman face.

"And we will still be there waiting for them, as we've always been," his master replied.