"It already is open to accredited scholars."

"Accredited scholars" being defined as those whose loyalty to the church is unquestioned.

But Lang felt this wasn't a time for argument. Instead he said, half joking, "You could always just give it an acceptable twist."

Francis looked at him blankly.

"You know, like how the church defaced or tried to destroy nearly every Roman monument in this town. The marble and steel support rods were stripped from the Colosseum to build the 'new' St. Peter's and I doubt Trajan was the one who put a statue of St. Peter on the top of his column."

"I doubt we'd have the Colosseum today if it hadn't been preserved for use as a church at one time. And as for Trajan… One of the early popes, Gregory I, I think, was so taken with the depiction of the emperor comforting the widow of one of his fallen soldiers, he ordered not only the column be preserved but prayed Trajan's soul be released from hell where all pagan souls went."

Lang had never heard this before. "And?"

"And we still have Trajan's column and Gregory had a dream in which God told him he had released the emperor's soul but please not pray any more heathens out of hell."

Lang sensed the dark mood the fresco had inspired in his friend was lifting. "Just for the sake of argument, what if there really were some truth to the painting?"

"Peter is the founder of the church. It would change more than I can imagine. Christianity's premier saint exposed as a murderer. It could tear the church apart, something the more conservative members would never permit" Francis carefully placed his collar and studs on the top of one of the dressers. "Word of that fresco gets out, there'll be a brief stir among the usual skeptics. The faithful will continue. It would take more than a fanciful painting to convince anyone Peter killed James. Did you have anyplace in particular in mind for dinner?"

Even if his curiosity was far from satisfied, Lang was glad to drop the subject that had so bothered his friend. "I understand there's a really good seafood restaurant near the Pantheon, La Rossetta. Do you get priest discounts in this town?"

His BlackBerry buzzed.

He felt uneasy when he saw it was Gurt calling. She wouldn't be phoning after speaking with him only a few hours ago unless something had come up.

"Yes?" he said curtly.

Then he listened for the next two minutes before saying, "I agree."

He ended the call.

Francis was studying his face. "Trouble?"

"Yeah, sort of."

Had it been any woman but Gurt, Lang would have been overcome with anxiety. Gurt was not exactly your typical damsel in distress. The description fit her worse than a double-A bra. A deadly shot, she had run out of fellow agency partners with whom to practice martial arts, men and women. She had caused too many injuries.

And, as she was quick to point out, she had saved Lang's ass more than once.

She certainly hadn't called to worry him, to distract him from what he was doing. That wasn't the way they both had been trained.

But the training hadn't included a small child, his child.

"What sort of trouble?" Francis asked.

"Er, a car accident, nothing serious."

"Then why do you look worried?"

Because I am, Lang said only to himself.

Real worried.

"You need to leave Rome?"

"As soon as I finish some business."

IX.

Piazza dei Calvalleri di Malta

Aventine Hill

Three Hours Later

Late every afternoon, a phenomenon takes place in Rome: As the sun edges westward, it tints otherwise ordinary buildings a color somewhere between sienna and ochre. There is no hue exactly like it elsewhere, a fact disputed by Sienna, Florence and several Tuscan and Umbrian hill towns. Their afternoons are dismissed as either too red or containing not enough yellow by any native of Rome whose opinion is sought on the subject.

Dispute notwithstanding, the two men who had one of the city's best views from the window next to them paid no attention. Instead, they listened closely to the hissing of a recording device, interrupted by voices.

"The fresco has been found," the younger man said. "I had come to believe it existed only in rumor."

The older man shook his head. "An unfortunate time. It will only encourage the American to get whatever copy he has translated if he has not already done so."

"Why else would he have gone to see the Greek priest, Strentenoplis, other than seek a translation?"

The older man thought for a moment. "See to it. See to the Greek, also. But do so without leaving a trail for the police."

"And what of the Jew, the forger?"

"See to him also. We want no path for the authorities to follow. The American no doubt wanted papers of some sort. Watch the place against the possibility the American returns there. He must be eliminated quickly by any means other than violence in the Holy City. We cannot risk the gospel's message becoming known."

"We have located the German woman and the American's bastard child. I should know shortly. If we can take them captive, we may have this Reilly come to us."

The old man stood. "You are doing God's work. In his name, bless you."

"Thank you, Grand Master," the man said, trying to suppress the resentment bubbling in his chest.

Today he had lost two good knights, one with burns that might cost him an eye, the other with a fractured skull. It had been bad enough to lose the hired help in Prague and the men in the United States who had mysteriously disappeared after finding Reilly's place south of Atlanta. But he had only a limited number of soldiers, knights, who were even remotely competent to deal with the American. Or who, for that matter, had even fired a gun.

It was easy enough to give orders; not always so simple to carry them out.

God's work or not.

X.

The Vatican The Next Morning

Notwithstanding taking the middle of the day off, offices in Rome generally open between 9:00 and 9:30 a.m. As far as Lang could tell, the Vatican was no exception.

After showing his pass to the Swiss guard still dressed in the uniform designed by Michelangelo, he was admitted to the scavi and walked a short way down the hall to Father Strentenoplis's office. The door was closed. Lang knocked briskly, waited a moment or two and knocked again without result.

He pushed gently. Like most of the doors here, it had no lock. It swung open. The space looked the same as it had the day before. Smelled the same, too. Whatever the good father smoked, it clung to the walls like paint.

Lang considered looking through the papers on the desk and decided against it. He had the remaining copy of the gospel, so there was no need to try to retrieve the one given to the priest and the priest hadn't expected to have a translation until now.

The problem, of course, was, where was the priest?

Lang shut the door behind him, went down the hall and stopped in front of an open office where a very short nun sat on a very tall swivel chair. Her feet barely touched the floor as she pecked at a keyboard with the hesitancy of someone not entirely comfortable with the machine.

Lang stepped across the threshold. "Mi scusi, parlal' inglese?"

She spun around in the chair, bathing him in the most radiant smile he had ever gotten from a seventy-year-old. "Of course I speak English, but thank you for asking! Most of your countrymen take it for granted that everything and everybody speaks English, and, if not, the problem can be cured by progressively raising the voice. How may I be of service?"

"Father Strentenoplis, I had an appointment with him…"

She sniffed disdainfully. "You are early. He rarely is in his office before ten thirty."