“I’m going to take you to the sacristy, where you can wait for John Cody,” the porter informed them, who in spite of his frown seemed friendlier.

“I appreciate it,” Rafael said with the same respectful tone of someone who didn’t want to hurt feelings or create unnecessary confusion.

The brother opened a heavy door into the immense transept, a place for visiting and prayer.

“Magnificent,” Phelps whispered. “It never ceases to appear magnificent to me, and I’ve come here many times.” He was speaking to Sarah in a low murmur in order not to disturb a holy place.

They stopped in the chancel, the center of the majestic cathedral. At the back to the west the immense nave spanned the history of centuries, witness of royal weddings and state funerals. Resting place of many of the great personalities of the kingdom, among them the Duke of Wellington; Arthur Wellesley, the great architect of Napoleon’s downfall; Lord Nelson, the lamented admiral, victor of Trafalgar; Thomas Edward Lawrence, better known as Lawrence of Arabia; Florence Nightingale, to name just a few, and, ah, of course, Christopher Wren, on whose tomb could be read: Lector, si monumentum requiris, circumspice. Above, the magisterial dome with its lantern of 850 tons below the gigantic cupola, where one could admire Thornhill’s frescoes and whose exterior was featured on the obligatory postcards of the city and in television correspondents’ reports. It was unmistakable. Its height of 110 feet was surpassed only by Michelangelo’s cupola in Saint Peter’s Basilica.

“Stay here,” Rafael ordered Sarah and Phelps.

“Why?” Sarah asked indignantly.

“Because I say so,” Rafael replied with a certain arrogance. “Look around. There’s a lot to see,” he added, his back turned to them following the steps of the brother porter.

Sarah and Phelps obeyed the order, although clearly they weren’t happy being forced to the side of whatever was going on. Sarah couldn’t rest until Rafael answered everything.

“And now?” Phelps asked, visibly uncomfortable.

“We have the cathedral all to ourselves. Why don’t you give me a guided tour?”

“With pleasure, but let me find a restroom first.”

“That’s fine. I’ll wait for you.”

Phelps left the chancel, the vast open space below the cupola, but at the third step his right thigh cramped up, and he bent down with sharp cries. Sarah ran to help him.

“What’s the matter, James?” she asked anxiously.

“Don’t worry. It’ll go away in a second.”

“Come and sit down,” she suggested, taking him by the arm and helping him to the nearest pew on the north side of the transept.

He followed her advice and let himself be helped.

“This happens to me sometimes.”

“Do you know what it is?”

“Not really.” He smiled like a mischievous child.

“You should have it checked as soon as possible. You can’t play around with your health,” a concerned, maternal Sarah advised him.

They sat in the large, varnished wooden pew. Phelps stretched out his painful leg, still holding his thigh.

“It’s already going away,” he repeated, more to reassure her than anything else. He’d learned to live with this pain before.

They waited several minutes in silence, Sarah at Phelps’s side, attentive, forgetting their future tasks and the secrets of Rafael, someplace in the sacristy with Brother John Cody, discussing private matters, which concerned her, Phelps, and Simon. May God protect them… if He can.

“I’m better now,” Phelps declared, getting up with difficulty. Sarah helped him.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes. This goes away as fast as it comes.” He put some weight on his leg to see how it went.

“See? It’s gone.”

“Good, but promise me you’re going to have this looked at when you have the opportunity.”

“Will do. Thanks for your concern.” A smile sealed the promise. “I’m going to look for a bathroom.”

“I’ll be here.”

Let us take advantage of this voluntary separation between them to follow Rafael, who has now left the sacristy alone. Brother Cody hadn’t appeared, but the brother porter’s unpleasant frown had changed as soon as he found himself alone with Rafael. He remembered, suddenly, that they should look for Brother Cody in the Whispering Gallery, at the base of the cupola, not a very appropriate place for secret encounters. In any case this was the place chosen, and Rafael climbed the spiral staircase leading to the gallery. There were hundreds of steps, but he was in shape, prepared for anything and, preferably, two or three steps ahead of his enemies.

Once he reached the dais and balustrade that make up the famous Whispering Gallery and run around the entire base of the cupola, Rafael looked around. It wasn’t difficult to find Cody a few feet away leaning on the rail, watching the chancel below in the center, not worried he could be seen. Rafael crossed the distance separating them until he was a foot or so away.

“This isn’t really the best place,” he protested. The gallery owes its name to the unusual acoustics that let a whisper be heard all over the cupola.

“Don’t worry. There is nobody up here at this hour. I’ve made sure of that.”

The two men embraced.

“Rafael,” the other greeted him with pats on the shoulder.

“John Cody,” Rafael responded.

“What a name you’ve found for me,” Cody complained with a smile, loosening the hug. “I’ve been investigating. John Cody was the archbishop of Chicago in the seventies.”

“I know.”

“A real bastard.”

“I know.”

“A thief, corrupt.”

“I know,” Rafael repeated. “What do you have for me?”

“Very little. Everything is more or less under surveillance.”

“More or less?”

John Cody shrugged his shoulders.

“We always have to take the unknowns into account. Things appear without warning, and we never know what they might be.”

“Excuses.”

“The only thing I have is a name. They are especially interested in one man.”

“Who?”

“A certain Abu Rashid.”

“Why is he special?”

“It seems he knows more than he should.”

“And who’s given you this information?”

“No idea. They don’t let many people have knowledge of this affair.”

Rafael rubbed his eyes meditatively.

“Where does he usually stay?”

“The last and only known residence is in the Muslim quarter in Jerusalem. But no one’s seen him there for a few days.”

“Which means they have him under wraps.”

“I can’t say that. If that’s the case, it’s not us,” John Cody excused himself. “Do you think it’s worth going to Jerusalem?”

Rafael shook his head no.

“It’d be a waste of time.”

“What do we do then?”

“We go on. I already know where I’m going,” Rafael declared decisively.

“And Abu Rashid?”

“Find out as much as possible about him. Who’s giving him information. And what it is. Now.”

With a handshake and a slap on the shoulder the two said farewell. Rafael turned his back. He’d leave first. John Cody would wait five minutes and go down later.

“Do what you have to do,” Rafael ordered him before leaving through the opening onto the spiral staircase.

“Are you sure?”

The lack of response confirmed it.

Five minutes.

They could seem an eternity, especially with the immensity of the cupola above one’s head in its intricate magnificence. Time for night to fall completely, letting the shadow fill the space, countered by strategically placed lamps that give everything a dreamlike air.

Five minutes.

Let us not remain with John Cody the entire time, as good a person as he seems. Let us move on for a look at what will finally take place.

Five minutes passed, and thirty seconds, for professional accuracy, essential for every agent who calls himself competent. Cody lifted his radio and pressed a button.

“Attention all units. The group has been located. I repeat, the group has been located. Number two, New Change. Saint Paul’s Cathedral. I repeat, Saint Paul’s Cathedral.”