Jacques de Molay could at last rest in peace.
56
IT HAD BEEN ALMOST SEVEN MONTHS SINCE the accident. She limped. They had operated on her four times, and one leg had been left shorter than the other. Her face no longer glowed as it once had; it was crisscrossed with scars and wrinkles. She'd left the hospital just four days ago. The injuries to her body didn't hurt her, but the grief, as tight about her chest as an iron band, was worse than the pain she'd felt in the accident and its aftermath all those months ago.
Sofia Galloni had just left a meeting in the Minister of the Interior's office. Before that, she'd gone to the cemetery to leave flowers on the graves of Minerva and Pietro. Marco and she had been luckier; they'd survived. Of course Marco would never work again; he was in a wheelchair, and he suffered from periodic panic attacks. He cursed himself for living when so many of his men had died in the rubble of the tunnel, that tunnel he'd always known existed. Well, he'd finally found it.
The Minister of Culture had attended Sofia's meeting with the Minister of the Interior; they continued to share oversight over the Art Crimes Department. They had both asked Sofia to take the director's position, and she had politely refused. She knew she had planted the seed of doubt in the two politicians and that once again her life might be in danger, but she didn't care.
She had sent them a report on the shroud case. It provided a detailed account of everything she knew, including the conversation between Ana Jimenez and Padre Yves. The case had been closed, classified as a state secret never to be disclosed to the public, and Ana was lying dead in a tunnel below Turin next to the last Templar of the House of de Charney.
The ministers told her, very amiably, that the story was unbelievable, that there were no witnesses, nothing-not a single document that corroborated her report. Naturally, they believed her, they said, but wasn't it possible that she was mistaken? They had made inquiries in Paris, but neither Elisabeth McKenny nor her husband, Paul Bisol, were anywhere to be found. They could hardly accuse men like Lord McCall, Umberto D'Alaqua, Dr. Bolard of criminal association without incontrovertible evidence. These men were pillars of international finance, and their fortunes were essential to the development of their respective nations. How could the minister present himself in the Vatican and tell the pope that Cardinal Visier was a Templar? How could he accuse them of anything-they hadn't done anything, even if everything Sofia told them was true.
These men had not conspired against the state, against any state; they weren't trying to subvert democratic governance; they weren't connected to the Mafia or any other criminal organization; they'd done nothing even to be censured for, let alone accused of. And as for being Templars, well, that was no crime-assuming they were Templars.
They tried to convince Sofia to take the job Marco Valoni had left. If she didn't, it would go to Antonino or Giuseppe. What did she think?
But she didn't think-she knew that one of them, either the cop or the historian, was the traitor. One of them had been reporting to the Templars on everything that happened in the Art Crimes Department. Padre Yves had implied as much: They knew everything because they had informers everywhere.
She didn't know what she was going to do with the rest of her life, but she did know she had to face one man, a man with whom she was in love, despite everything. In love with or obsessed by? She had tried to sort that out during her long convalescence and still wasn't sure.
Her leg hurt when she stepped on the accelerator. She hadn't driven in months, not since the crash. She knew it had been no accident, that they had tried to kill her, and that D'Alaqua was trying to save her when he called to beg her to go with him to Syria. Strong measures, Padre Yves had said,… only when necessary.
She arrived at the imposing iron gates that led to the mansion, and she waited. A few seconds later they opened. She drove up to the door and got out of the car.
Umberto D'Alaqua was waiting for her.
"Sofia…"
He led her into his office. He sat behind the desk, maintaining his distance, or perhaps protecting himself from this woman with a limp and a face crisscrossed with scars, a woman whose blue eyes were harder than the last time he'd seen them. Even so, she was still beautiful; now, though, it was a tragic beauty.
"I guess you know that I sent the administration a report on the shroud case," she said, staring at him. 'A report in which I state that there exists a secret organization made up of powerful men who believe they stand above other men, governments, society itself, and I ask that their identities be revealed and that they be investigated. But you already know that none of that will ever happen, that no one will investigate you, that you will be able to keep doing what you do from the shadows."
D'Alaqua didn't answer, although he seemed to nod, ever so slightly.
"I know that you are a master of the Temple, that you see your mission as spiritual, and that you have made vows of chastity. Of poverty? No, from what I can see, not poverty. As for the Commandments, I know that you keep the ones that are convenient for you, and those that aren't… It's strange-I've always been impressed by certain men of the Church, and you in some way are one of them. Some of them think they can lie, steal, kill, but that those are all venial sins in comparison with the great mortal sin of… fornicating? If I use that word, it doesn't wound your sensibilities, right?"
"I would have come to you in the hospital, but I didn't think you would want to see me," he broke in. "I'm sorry for what has happened to you and Signor Valoni and for the loss of your friend Minerva and of your… of Pietro…"
'And what about the death of Ana Jimenez, buried alive? Are you sorry about that? Oh, God, I hope those deaths plague your conscience, that you never have another moment of rest. I know I can't do anything about you or your organization. I've just been told that, and they tried to buy me off by offering me the directorship of the Art Crimes Department. How little you people know human beings!"
"What do you want me to do? Tell me…"
"What can you do? Nothing-there's absolutely nothing you can do, because you can't raise the dead, can you? So maybe you can tell me whether I'm still on the list of the people to be disappeared by your organization, whether I'm going to have another of these lamentable traffic accidents, or maybe the elevator in my apartment building will fall. I'd like to know, so I can be sure no one will die with me next time, like Minerva did."
"Nothing will happen to you, I give my word."
'And you, what will you do? Go on as though what happened was just an accident, a 'necessary' accident?"
"If you must know, I am retiring. I am transferring power of attorney over my corporations to others, arranging my affairs so that the businesses can go on functioning without me."