The door through which they had entered opened, casting a rectangle of light floating on the water, illumination that did not reach them. Lang could hear voices. From the tone, he guessed there was an argument about who would volunteer to wade into the cistern to search it.

There were a couple of splashes as at least two men entered the water.

Lang leaned over and whispered into Gurt's ear.

Both slipped under the surface and began to swim, her hand holding on to his shirt. She still had the bag with the counterfeit purses in the other. He made sure each stroke stayed beneath the surface where it would not make a sound.

When he had to come up for breath, he stood, listening. The splashes of pursuit seemed no farther nor nearer. Sound would be unreliable here. The water, the multiarched ceiling would echo each shout, each splatter so that it would be impossible to be certain either of its direction or proximity. Lang could only retreat back below the surface and hope he didn't run into them by mistake.

The good news was that the men behind him were just as disoriented as he.

When he surfaced for his next gulp of air, all was silent. Lang checked the luminous dial of his watch and counted off five full minutes. Beside the occasional piscine splash, he could hear his own teeth chatter. The chill factor of the water was becoming uncomfortable.

Gurt's sneeze echoed from the stone walls.

The sound brought shouts and more splashing although it was impossible to be sure of the direction.

Lang thought the sounds and resulting echoes might be getting more distant. Then, only silence punctuated with an occasional ripple pressed on Lang's eardrums, a quiet so heavy it had a sound of its own.

They, too, were listening.

After another sneeze had potentially betrayed his and Gurt's position, Lang whispered, "We can't stay here."

"OK, you plan to go where?"

Lang's foot touched something on the otherwise smooth bottom. He stooped and picked up something of stone. About the size of a softball. There was no light to determine exactly what it was or whether it had fallen from the centuries-old roof or was part of something else.

It really didn't matter.

He waited until a voice, then another bounced off the walls of the cavernous lake. Making the best guess he could as to direction, he hurled the stone the opposite way. He was rewarded with yells and sounds of men trudging through the water. He was certain now they were going away from him and Gurt.

He wanted to wait a few minutes, let them put even more distance between them.

"It is not safe to stay," Gurt grumbled. "If we remain longer, we'll have pneumonia."

"Better pneumonia than lynched. Come on."

Instead of risking returning the way they had entered, Lang searched the inky dark until he thought he saw a tiny blur of light. Hands outstretched to prevent colliding with columns, they slowly waded toward it. From ten or fifteen feet away, Lang recognized light around the edges of a door. They climbed out of the water shaking like spaniels with the chill.

Lang tried the door. "It's locked."

He could feel Gurt's hand over his as she checked out the lock by touch. "Is an old one. Do you have a knife?"

"Will a credit card do?"

"Try it."

After several minutes of sliding the card up and down the frame without finding the locking mechanism, Lang said, "I can't find the damn bolt."

"Perhaps it is simply swollen shut from the moisture, not locked."

"No, I can see light around the edge."

"Try a hard kick."

Lang gave the door a blow with his foot and it moved slightly. With a second, it swung open, its rusted locking mechanism dangling. Climbing a few stairs put the pair in the lobby of a another small hotel. Lang could hear each step squish water from his shoes. In his imagination, a fish leaped from a pants pocket. The clerk and two guests stared bug-eyed at two people, fully clothed, dripping wet and calmly walking through to the street.

Lang stopped at the door, unable to resist turning to the guests. "Lovely swimming pool but not very well lit."

Once back in their own hotel room, Gurt held up one of her two new purses, wrinkled as prune. "Ach! It has become ruined!"

Lang looked at the box with his carpet slippers in it. It was hemorrhaging red dye. Destroyed, no doubt.

He wouldn't have to wear the damn things.

"Ah, well, it's an ill wind…"

Gurt's glare told him he had been speaking out loud.

He hoped she hadn't understood what he meant. But when he climbed into bed, instead of the noisy and joyous sex that usually followed a close call, an expressionless back was turned to him.

X.

Church of St. Saviour in Chora

The Next Morning

The taxi had careened along the road paralleling the Theodosian. Walk, four miles of fortified gates, towers and moats that had sealed off the city from the landmass from the Sea of Marmara to the Golden Horn. For a thousand years, their red tiles and yellowish limestone had resisted sieges by Attila the Hun, Russians, Bulgars, Arabs and even the armies of the Fourth Crusade.

The twin-domed Church of St. Saviour was unimposing compared to the massive mosques that dotted the city. It did, however, contain one of the finest displays of Byzantine mosaics.

Lang was glad they had come early enough to give them time to see the genealogy and life of Christ in the north and south domes, the chronology of the life of the Virgin, Christ's infancy and ministry, all done in tiles no bigger than the nail of his little finger. Like many artists, the fourteenth-century remodeler of the church, Theodore Metocites, had an ego. He had included a scene of himself presenting the finished building to Christ.

Styles change; human nature does not.

Outside in the small walled garden, guests were arriving for the baptism. There were none in obvious Muslim dress. The chatter of multiple conversations slowed, then ceased as a tall man with a flowing white beard appeared among a number of younger priests. From his black vestments, tall hat and Greek cross, Lang surmised he was seeing the patriarch, an assumption fortified by each guest bowing their head for the holy man's touch and blessing.

Lang was unsure exactly how to approach the churchman with his request. He need not have worried. The patriarch stopped in front of him and smiled.

"You must be the American, Lang Reilly," he said in slightly accented English. "You were the friend of Father Strentenoplis?"

Lang nodded. "Yes, Your Holiness."

The old man shook his head sadly. "May his soul be with God. One of our American friends in the Roman Church was kind enough to contact someone at the Vatican who called my office here about your visit. Has it been a pleasant one?"

Other than nearly going over a cliff and being chased by a mob from a mosque.

"Yes, sir."

"I understand you have a document in ancient Greek you wish translated."

"Actually in Egyptian Greek. It's supposed to be one of the Nag Hammadi books."

The patriarch held out a hand, age spotted and ridged with blue veins. "May I see it?"

Lang reached into his shirt, thankful he had wrapped the pages in a waterproof bag to protect it against sweat, Last night's excursion would have ruined it otherwise. "It is a copy"

The old man smiled again. "So I see. Or its authors chose to use bond paper available at any copy store."

Lang was always relieved to know he was dealing with someone with a sense of humor. "I have reason to believe some people don't want its contents known."

A chuckle like the sound of dry logs burning. "Some people would suppress all knowledge. Our brothers in Rome once had that reputation. On the other hand, our church, the church of Constantine, preserved the wisdom and science of the ancients, tolerated their religions, when the Western church had declared science and the old gods heresies. Be assured you will get an accurate translation in that tradition."