“Wait,” JC ordered as he gestured toward the cripple. The car continued to drive on with only the Turkish driver.

“What’s going on?” Raul asked.

JC didn’t answer, completely oblivious to the historical, cultural dimension that surrounded him, the cries of sellers of carpets and simit. His expression was serious.

Seconds later the cripple signaled for a taksi, among the many passing along the central street, and one stopped quickly. They got into a bright yellow vehicle.

The cripple gave the taxi driver instructions, and they took off.

For several minutes, no one disturbed the silence inside the taxi.

Raul was the first to do so.

“Why so much secrecy? Why did we change cars?” he whispered.

“Have you never heard that the careful man dies an old man, Captain?”

“The danger’s that great?”

“They killed Natalie, Raul,” Elizabeth mentioned. For her that was enough.

“It’s not a question of danger, Captain, but of principles,” JC clarified. “A man in my line of work can never drop his guard. Do it once, it may be all right, maybe nothing happens. Risk another time, one becomes negligent, and it’s over. That won’t happen to me. I accepted that many years ago. It’s the secret of my success. Never, never leave a clue or loose ends.”

Elizabeth trembled.

“You mean you have plans for us in the end?” Raul asked.

“Of course.”

“We’re loose ends, aren’t we?”

“No, my dear captain. You’re not loose ends. Nor am I going to explain the definition of loose ends. What I said about your daughter, I’ll say to you, and you.” He looked at Raul and Elizabeth. “If I wanted you dead, we wouldn’t be having this conversation, or bringing you to see a friend.” His expression was peremptory.

“Who is this friend?” Raul asked again.

“You’ll soon find out,” JC replied. “Enjoy the sights.”

They didn’t exchange another word until the end of the ride. Six minutes later, the cripple paid the fare with new Turkish lira and opened the door for the master and the couple.

The final destination wasn’t far, nor could it be, since JC no longer had the stamina of former times and couldn’t walk far. He limited himself to a few steps, at his own pace, always on flat terrain. Uphill was deadly.

They entered a secular building, rose-colored, with a group of black placards inscribed with gold letters at the entrance.

“What’s this place?” Elizabeth asked.

“A hamam,” JC answered, continuing ahead.

The cripple came last with his hand inside his jacket on his gun, alert as a falcon.

“What’s a haman?” Elizabeth asked.

JC pointed at the plaques.

“It’s in your language right here.”

And in fact it was, a plaque, recently written with tourists in mind: REAL TURKISH BATH. 300 YEARS OLD.

“We are in the baths of Cagalogl u, ordered built by Mehmet the First in the eighteenth century,” JC explained.

They stopped at the entrance.

“In these baths the sections for men and women are separated. The entrance for women is on another street,” JC said. “My assistant will stay here with you, and the captain and I will go in. Is that all right with you?”

The married couple agreed in part because there was nothing they could do. Of course Elizabeth wanted to go in, but she had to respect the cultural tradition different from her own. She couldn’t help thinking that JC did this so that she would find out what was going on secondhand through her husband. In any case, someone would have to tell her everything.

The cripple approached JC and whispered something in his ear.

“I imagined so,” the old man said in response. “Are you ready, Captain?”

Raul said nothing, but yes was understood.

The two men walked to the entrance, where JC let Raul go forward. The Portuguese sighed and continued walking into the unknown.

In the camekan they found the dressing rooms, small cubicles where several men changed their clothes, conversed, read newspapers, sipped tea. They were all Westerners, no Turks.

Raul stopped, expecting directions.

“Keep going,” JC ordered.

They passed the next antechamber, the sogukluk, without stopping and stayed in the hararet. The steam was dense, and the heat immediately made them sweat.

“This isn’t good for you,” Raul warned with sweat running down his face. “Nor for me,” he muttered.

“I imagined so,” JC commented. “If it’s not good for me, imagine for him.”

Who? Raul thought.

Though the hararet was usually the most crowded part of the bath, there were few men that day. They made one out, stretched out on a table, being massaged expertly, but he didn’t seem the least interested in secret conversation.

“That’s enough for me,” JC grumbled with his clothes soaked and breath panting. It was too much. “Sebastiani,” he shouted.

He needed to wait only five seconds before the latter entered, an old man with a huge head of white hair dressed in a black suit, sitting in a wheelchair, pushed by a young cleric, his aide.

“JC.”

“Sebastiani,” he greeted him, suffocating, sweating, and tired. “What are we doing here?”

As incredible as it seemed, Sebastiani didn’t seem affected by the temperature or the steam; his assistant, a young man about twenty years old, was dripping water from his face, stumbling as he walked, his vision clouded, and feeling as if he might faint at any moment.

“Ah, I’m getting used to it.”

“What?”

“To hell,” the other answered without thinking about it. “Isn’t that where we’re all going? That’s what I think.” He smiled sarcastically.

“I can’t stand being here longer,” JC said, holding on to Raul. “Let’s get out of here.”

The group passed into the sogukluk. JC and Raul needed a few minutes to recuperate. Sebastiani waited serenely without wiping the light sweat away that had broken out on his face. He won’t have a problem surviving hell. The assistant thanked God that they had left the steam room, where they’d entered completely clothed, and sat down on the first bench he found, completely exhausted.

“Without question one should never go beyond the camekan in a Turkish bath. There’s something to eat and drink there, and the steam doesn’t kill you,” JC declared.

“In hell you’re not going to have to eat and drink,” Sebastiani explained.

“Do you know someone who’s been there and returned to tell about it?” JC asked.

“Don’t question my beliefs,” Sebastiani returned. “I don’t impose my faith on anyone, but I don’t allow it to be insulted, either.”

JC respected his friend’s warning. You have to divide in order to conquer sometimes.

“This is Captain Raul Brandão Monteiro. Portuguese military.” JC made the introductions. “This is Sebastiano Corrado, cardinal of the Roman Catholic Church.”

Raul inclined his head courteously. He had never met a cardinal.

“Cardinal without right of election. I’m ninety-four years old, you know. I’m a second-class cardinal. And you, Raul, a soldier without an army?”

“In fact, yes. I’m in the reserve.” He smiled.

“You see? Our situations are similar,” he observed.

“In the conclave of 1978, I was still a bishop. In the one of 2005, I was too old.”

“It’s because you didn’t need to vote,” JC declared.

“That’s what I tell myself. There is room for only one pope at a time. But I congratulate myself that the Pole lasted so many years, although it was bad for me.”

“How are things in Fátima?” JC wanted to know.

“As always. It’s strange to see people much younger than me, and all with atrophied minds.”

“Look to your faith,” JC admonished. “Don’t offend that of others.” He couldn’t resist a gibe.

“Don’t confuse faith with psychopathology,” he answered with a guttural laugh no one else took up.

“What do you have for me?” JC pressured him.