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  At first no interrogator credited their story. As time passed, however, each new fact tended to corroborate the Americans’ account. At that point the character witnesses began their campaign. On behalf of the Church, the indefatigable bishop Garagallo championed the couple’s cause with vigor. Professor Clarkson organized a candlelight vigil, while Gabe and DURMDVL flooded every congressional office with texts, tweets, and e-mails. Nick pulled strings, utilizing his network of wealthy business connections. Ava’s father called in favors, as did Paul’s many influential relatives. Jess, eyes blazing with indignation, made a particularly forceful appearance on MSNBC. But it was the discovery of the missing warhead, hidden in the basement of a luxury hotel, that finally turned the tide. Paul and Ava were perfunctorily thanked, released, and reminded in the most severe terms of their binding legal and moral obligations to keep silent about the matter.

  BUENOS AIRES, MARCH 13, 2013

  On a late-summer afternoon in the Argentine capital, the sun was just setting when the news broke: Catholic leaders had astounded the world by selecting Jorge Mario Bergoglio, former archbishop of Buenos Aires, to be the next pope. In the city’s many bars and cafés, joyful crowds gathered to toast and cheer. A happy chaos filled the streets, as the overwhelmingly Catholic population celebrated—some praying, some pointing at screens showing live broadcasts from Rome.

  The new pope wasted no time in breaking with tradition, taking the name Francis. According to Church spokesman Thomas Rosica, the pontiff selected this name to reflect the “special place in his heart for the poor, for the disenfranchised, for those living on the fringes and facing injustice.” The new pope’s choice also represented his opposition to violence because “Francis loved peace.”

  Later, Pope Francis delivered an inspiring message: “When we don’t walk, we are stuck. All of us must find the courage to walk in the presence of God. Only in this way can the Church move forward.” He extended his blessing to everyone, including non-Catholics, saying, “You are of different religions, but you are all children of God.”

  ROME, MARCH 19, 2013

  Ava ran hard, and as she ran she wept. She’d left the hotel in the morning, jogged out into the Piazza della Rotunda, and circled the ageless Pantheon. Passing Bernini’s Elephant and Obelisk in the Piazza della Minerva, she took the Via del Piè di Marmo east to the Collegio Romano. She kept up a spirited pace, hoping strenuous exercise would dispel the tempest roiling within her. Instead, Ava’s mind replayed an endless loop of frightful images: a man chasing her in Yemen; a policeman smiling as he shot Sefu; the throng of anti-immigrant rioters intoxicated by rage; and Sheik Ahmed’s madness. She relived the terror she experienced when La Belva’s helicopter exploded and the dizzying blend of guilt and gratitude she felt on learning of Simon’s final sacrifice. With a cringe, Ava recalled her litany of petty insults. By what right had she judged him? Who was she to judge anyone?

  Cutting north, she ran toward the Piazza di Sant’ Ignazio. There, in the shadow of the baroque Jesuit church, Ava paused, winded. Reaching for her feet, she stretched. Rays of sunshine reflected off the rooftops. Dappled Italian light began to warm the street. A dog barked as the first wave of shopkeepers emerged, readying their quaint stores and cafés for a busy day, the Feast of St. Joseph. Ava smiled. Her sadness finally ebbed and was replaced by a sense of purpose.

  She resumed her course, pushing to complete another circuit. What’s done is done, she realized, and can’t be undone. Mistakes cannot be erased, but perhaps they can be redeemed. Rather than hiding in academe, Ava vowed to embrace life, utilizing her gifts and abilities to make a better world. Inspired, she felt better—good enough to attempt one more lap.

  A sweaty, exhausted Ava flashed her room key to the hotel doorman. She crossed the lobby, smiling again at its graceful arched ceiling, red tile floor, and clean, whitewashed walls. In the room she found Paul stuck on the phone, just as she’d left him. With his free hand, he waved a greeting, then pantomimed a mouth yammering endlessly. Simon’s death had generated a host of complications. His will named Paul as the executor, tasking him with distributing DeMaj assets to a select group of charities. In addition, by a quirk of Italian law, Paul had become Mellania’s guardian. A nonresident alien, she’d been paroled into Simon’s custody after her previous arrest, and upon his death she’d become a ward of his estate. Thus, despite Paul’s duty to testify for the prosecution at Mellania’s trial, he’d begun the arduous process of finding her a good criminal lawyer. Ava recommended hiring the cheapest attorney in the phone book.

  Covering the mouthpiece with his palm, Paul stage-whispered, “I’m sorry. It shouldn’t be much longer.” Ava shrugged, removed her new pink Reeboks, and retreated into the marble bathroom. She stripped away her sweat-soaked clothes and stepped into a relaxing shower.

  An hour later she reappeared looking clean and pretty. Paul sat slumped behind the desk, still holding the phone to his ear. He’d ordered brunch: A platter of salame di Aant’Olcese (coarse-ground, aged Genoa salami mixed with salt, black pepper, garlic, and white wine), a brioche, butter, fresh fruit, and sliced tomato sat untouched on the marble-topped table. Ava lifted a bottle of fruit juice from a silver bucket and poured herself a glass. After waiting a suitable interval, she crossed the room, took the phone from Paul’s hand, and hung it up.

  “Time to eat,” she announced. He smiled at her.

  Halfway through the meal, Paul said, “I spoke to Nick last night. Sinan’s recovering. He’ll be okay. Nick will stay with him until he’s out of the hospital.

  “What a relief!”

  Paul gestured toward a nicely wrapped parcel resting on the nightstand. “That’s for you.”

  Her eyes widened. “Why, Mr. Grant! How generous! Thank you. I don’t—”

  He raised a hand for silence. “It’s something he wanted you to have.”

  Hands shaking, Ava opened the package. Inside was the priceless blue porcelain tea service. A handwritten card read: IN CASE YOU NEVER LEARN TO ENJOY COFFEE —S.D.

  To celebrate the new pontiff’s official inauguration, more than one million visitors from around the world had gathered in Rome, infusing the city with optimism. As the flags of numerous nations waved in the bright sunshine, Pope Francis addressed the crowd. He urged his listeners to become protectors: “The vocation of being a ‘protector’ . . . is not just something involving us Christians alone; it also has a prior dimension which is simply human, involving everyone. It means protecting all creation, the beauty of the created world. . . . Whenever human beings fail to live up to this responsibility, whenever we fail to care for creation and for our brothers and sisters, the way is opened to destruction and hearts are hardened. Tragically, in every period of history, there are ‘Herods’ who plot death, wreak havoc, and mar the countenance of men and women. Please, I would like to ask all those . . . of goodwill: let us be protectors of creation, protectors of God’s plan inscribed in nature, ‘protectors’ of one another and of the environment. Let us not allow omens of destruction and death to accompany the advance of this world!”

  Hours later the Americans were strolling along Via Condotti. Hoping to arrive on time at the historic Caffé Greco, Paul took Ava’s hand and helped her cut through the crowd.

  Open since 1760, the establishment had hosted Stendhal, Goethe, Keats, and Baudelaire. Casanova sipped drinks there, as did Mark Twain and Lord Byron. Gogol wrote Dead Souls in the same room in which Wagner and Liszt met for pastries. Rossini composed on the rear parlor piano. The painter de Chirico called it “the place to sit and await the end.”

  Paul and Ava waited in the foyer for a table. Eventually a tailcoated cameriere escorted them beyond a carved wooden bar, past tourists resting on red velvet sofas, and into a labyrinth of private salons. Mendelssohn’s “Violin Concerto in E Minor” played in the background. Rooms were adorned with gilt antique mirrors, faded photos of the café’s illustrious habitués, and romantic paintings set against a backdrop of gold and red dama
sk. The cameriere seated them on richly upholstered chairs before a table of Napoleonic design. Paul ordered granita di caffè; Ava asked for a cioccolata calda with extra whipped cream.

  After the waiter left, Ava excused herself to visit the rest room. As she stood, Paul’s eyes involuntarily tracked her thigh-high stockings, right up to the point where they disappeared beneath a pleated miniskirt. Feeling his eyes on her, she suppressed a grin. Paul began stammering an apology but then the world phone rang. Ava scanned the caller ID and answered. Waving adieu to Paul, she walked off engrossed in conversation.

  When she returned, Paul asked, “Who was that?”

  “DURMDVL.”

  He tensed. “What’s wrong?”

  “Not a thing. We’re getting together when I’m back in the States.”

  “Okay,” he said, eyes clouding.

  She looked at him. “Is that a problem?”

  “No, of course not. That guy saved our bacon. I owe him big time.”

  Ava giggled. “DURMDVL’s not a guy. She’s a sophomore at Duke.”

  He brightened. “Seriously?”

  Before Ava could explain the illogic of his sexist assumptions, Barakah arrived. Paul stood to greet him, and Ava invited the officer to sit. He presented the couple with notarized confirmation that Egypt had dropped its extradition demands and dismissed the criminal charges against them. Ava was relieved.

  “And may I add that the Order of the Shepherd sends its compliments. You’ve earned our eternal gratitude.”

  “Awesome,” said Paul. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  A smiling Barakah said, “We’re a secret brotherhood, sworn to protect humanity. Garagallo’s amulet bears our crest. Some claim the order was founded by Joachim of Flora in the twelfth century, others say it’s much older.”

  “Joachim the what?”

  “Joachim of Flora was an influential mystic theologian, a contemporary of Richard the Lionheart,” Ava explained. “Joachim visited Jerusalem during the Crusades and foretold the dawning of a new age in which rigid Church hierarchy would be obsolete and Christians could unite with non-Christians. He was too radical to be canonized, but the Franciscan monks considered him a prophet.”

  Barakah nodded. “Brother Joachim understood the true message. He taught that Antichrists threaten all humanity, not just Christians. Accordingly, our brotherhood welcomes any who oppose hatred and evil. Regardless of faith, we are all children of God. Catholic Bishop Garagallo and Coptic Father Bessarion are my brothers, as were the seven brave Egyptians who fell defending the jars.”

  Recalling that moment, Paul’s face darkened. “I’m not sure I deserve any gratitude. ”

  “You played a critical role. But for you, Ava would have perished.”

  “But for me, she would never have been in danger.”

  “Perhaps, but who else could have unlocked the prophecy? If she’d remained in Boston—”

  “I’m not exactly sold on my contribution either,” Ava said. “A helicopter crash stopped La Belva. Simon DeMaj sacrificed his life. All I did was shout into a microphone. Anyone could have done that.”

  Barakah shrugged. “The fact remains that you read the prophecy aloud and the devil was vanquished. Whether this was coincidence or predestination is unclear. I don’t believe in coincidences, but then I’m just a policeman, not a philosopher.”

  Paul smiled. Barakah stood. “I respect Simon’s decision. He died a hero, but we each played a role. Both of you faced destiny with valor. You put others’ lives before your own, and when darkness threatened, you found the courage to fight. For that, we’re forever in your debt.”

  He replaced his chair, bowed formally to Ava, and took Paul’s outstretched hand.

  “Gardez bien.”

  Ava and Paul left the café. Hand in hand, they walked to the Spanish Steps, where artists, students, and backpackers had gathered to drink wine and socialize. An olive-skinned lad strummed a familiar melody and sang, “Each day I pray for evening, just to be with you.”

  While Paul went looking for a good place to sit, Ava dropped a coin in the musician’s guitar case.

  Resting on the ancient masonry, she crossed her ankles and leaned back against Paul. Together they watched the Roman sun disappear behind Michelangelo’s dome. Daylight dimmed. Then, for an instant, Ava beheld a bright emerald gleam. “Paul, have you ever seen anything so beautiful?” she marveled.

  He didn’t respond. Curious, she turned to find him looking at her. Their eyes locked and he whispered: “Yes.”

  Ava couldn’t breathe. Her pulse thundered. He pulled her toward him. Her lips parted. She shut her eyes, opened her heart, and surrendered herself to his kiss.

  Epilogue

  EPILOGUE

  PARIS, 1555

  Catherine de Médicis knows secret paths through the palace. Though born in Florence, she’d lived in Paris all her adult life. It has been twenty-two years since her uncle Pope Clement VII had arranged her marriage to King Francis’s second son, Henry of Orleans. She pauses a moment, remembering the innocent child she’d once been.

  Her arrival in France had caused quite a stir. To enter grandly, the diminutive Catherine employed a Florentine artisan who, on her behalf, created Europe’s first pair of high-heeled shoes. After the wedding Catherine toured the country. The king found his new daughter-in-law a wonderful traveling companion, but King Francis aside, Catherine had few allies at court. She was generally disliked by the French. Jealous nobles referred to her as “the Italian woman.” Many suspected foul play when Francis’s eldest son died, making Henry heir to the throne. When Francis died, in 1547, Catherine became queen.

  Despite producing seven children (three of whom became kings of France), Queen Catherine has retained her youthful figure. She is an attractive, regal woman with fair hair and the enchanting eyes of a Medici. Nevertheless, her marriage is a loveless farce. Catherine’s husband is openly besotted with his domineering mistress, Diane de Poitiers, who controls the weak-minded king.

  Francis had been an enlightened monarch. Under his rule, in 1534 seven gifted university students formed the Jesuit order. Now de Poitiers is pressuring Henry to reverse his father’s humanist policies; to stifle the dissemination of knowledge by banning the sale or import of all unapproved texts; and to persecute the Huguenots, many of whom Henry now orders burned at the stake. These radical decisions infuriates Catherine. She thinks it unwise to punish men who worship in private and never take up arms against France. The queen conceals her political opinions, however, and focuses her considerable energy and attention on maternal duties.

  To serve as tutors, she’d beckoned a variety of intellectual luminaries to Paris, eminent scientists, authors, and doctors. One provincial healer, who had protected her family from the plague, made a particularly strong impression. Catherine had him designated royal counselor and physician. It is this man whom she seeks now.

  Catherine passes through the majestic library that King Francis had so greatly expanded. In 1537, his Ordonnance de Montpellier required that the royal collection receive one copy of every book sold in France. Francis appointed the noted humanist Guillaume Budé his chief librarian and summoned the Italian master Leonardo da Vinci from Rome to serve as Paintre du Roi. At Francis’s request, French agents had scoured the monasteries of Europe and amassed a wealth of rare books and manuscripts. Later, Francis shocked Parisian society by opening his library to scholars of all nationalities, facilitating the general diffusion of knowledge.

  Catherine exits the main gallery via a concealed doorway. She enters a musty, forgotten chamber that has once housed the king’s personal library. As a younger woman she’d often escaped here. In this hidden room she was free to explore, read forbidden books, and avoid the disagreeable courtiers’ incessant barbs. Peeking around a bookshelf, the queen observes Michel at his labors. The doctor is seated at a writing desk, not far from a mechanical lion Leonardo gave King Francis in 1515. Classical volumes by Livy, Suet
onius, and Plutarch as well as the medieval chroniclers Villehardouin and Froissart were arrayed around him. Scribbling diligently by candlelight, the doctor appears to be translating the ancient writings into French.

  “What wicked secrets have you unveiled?” she whispers to him.

  The physician, startled, jumps to his feet, bumping a candlestick and almost scorching an irreplaceable manuscript.

  “Oh, your Highness! My manners are unforgivable. I sincerely apologize. I did not hear you enter, I was so immersed in my research.”

  She smiles. “You are forgiven. What are you reading? Galen again? Hippocrates?”

  “No, my lady. Today I’m translating prophetic works of great antiquity.”

  “What manner of prophecy?”

  “Just . . . arcane eschatological matters, nothing of practical significance,” he says.

  Intrigued, by his obvious embarrassment, the queen commands, “Doctor, read aloud what you have translated.”

  Michel gulps.

  “‘At that time the prince of iniquity, who will be called Antichrist, shall arise from the tribe of Dan. He will be the son of perdition, the head of pride, the master of error, the fullness of malice who will overturn the world through dissimulation. He will delude many by magic art, and fire will seem to come down from heaven. When the Roman city is attacked, the Antichrist is revealed.’”

  “The Antichrist?”

  “Yes, Highness. He is an evil force or being who threatens humanity’s future. This volume describes the invasion of Gog and Magog and the tribulations that precede the end of days.”