The Testament

"She's been cut off from all her traditional sources, so she's slowly coming to rely on my advice. Why shouldn't she? I'll stay with her, I'll be your mole in the enemy camp." She put a hand on his arm, squeezed. "Let me do this for you, Bravo." She smiled and kissed his cheek. "Alors, don't worry so. She won't hurt me."

"She isn't the only one you have look out for," he said, lowering his voice. "That man Jordan hired, Michael Berio-his real name is Damon Cornadoro. He's a professional assassin."

"Mon dieu, non!" What a delicious thrill ran through her when she lied to him now; it was almost as deep a charge as lying to Dexter had been. "Are you sure?"

"Absolutely. He's been sent by enemies of my father to shadow me until I find what my father sent me to find. Then he means to kill me and take it."

"But what is it, my love? What could be so terribly valuable?"

"It doesn't matter. What matters is that you keep as far away from Cornadoro as you possibly can."

"I promise."

"Camille, for the love of God don't be flip. I have enough on my mind. I don't want to worry about you."

"Then don't," she said firmly. "I told you. I can take care of myself." She laughed softly, put her hand against his cheek. "I assure you, I will not become your damsel in distress."

He stared into her eyes and knew that she had made her decision; nothing he could say would sway her. He nodded, acquiescing, and pulled out his cell phone. "Then promise me you'll stay in touch, all right?"

She took out her own cell phone, nodded. "I promise." As he was about to turn away, she said with great concern in her voice, "Bravo, have you any idea yet where you're going next?"

"No," he lied. He didn't care what she said, he wasn't going to allow her to put herself any further in harm's way.

Midnight. Irema was home, safely tucked in bed, lips and breasts nicely bruised, drugged on sex and love, dreaming deeply of Michael. But Irema's father was far from home, far from the bed warmed by the lush body of his wife. Instead, he passed through the streets of Trabzon like a wraith. Music, reaching his cocked ears, failed to move him, drunken couples staggered by without seeing him. A solitary bicyclist crossed his path like a black cat. Smoking fiercely, he strode past two churches that had long ago been turned into mosques. Their magnificent Byzantine facades were dark as soot, faded now, as was almost everything in Trabzon. Cracks and crumbles showed everywhere. If he listened hard enough he could hear the buildings groan like the crippled veterans of long-ago wars.

His cell phone buzzed and he answered it. Adem Khalif's voice appeared in his ear like a dji

He disco

Midway down a small, disordered side street stood an old but structurally sound building he had purchased many years ago. It looked no different than its slope-shouldered neighbors; it bore no sign on its peeling front, was surely mistaken by almost everyone for a private residence. Inside, however, it housed the Church of the Nine Martyred Children.

Kartli had named this tiny outpost of his Georgian Orthodox religion for the young pagan children of Kola who, of their own free will, had embraced Jesus Christ. They were baptized by the local priest and left their families to be brought up by Christian families, according to the ways of the Savior. Their parents came after them and dragged them back home, but when their children would not eat pagan food or drink pagan drink, when they instead spoke the words of Jesus Christ, their parents were so enraged that they mercilessly beat the village priest, drove him from Kola. One last time they asked their sons and daughters, many not more than seven years of age, to return to their pagan ways. When the children refused, the parents took up stones and beat their own children to death, as a lesson to the other children of Kola.

Mikhail Kartli paused to take in the holy surroundings. He was immensely proud of this church, glad of the name he had chosen for it, because it was a reminder of how the world really worked, of the terrible prejudices that ran like poison through the bedrock of mankind. Not that he needed such a reminder even here in Trabzon so far from home, but everyone else-including his children, especially wild Irema-did.

Nothing looked as it did in daylight. Shadows distorted all the shapes. Illumination came from two sources: a Byzantine oil lamp and a naked lightbulb. Like everything in the city the light was an uncomfortable juxtaposition of old and new-elements that should have been allies seemed to be enemies. The interior was sparsely furnished, appropriately bare save for the large portrait of the Virgin Mary, the iconostasis, the pulpit, a scattering of scarred wooden benches and, of course, the confessional. It was to this dark wooden structure that Mikhail Kartli came twice a week like clockwork to give his confession. Since the priests of the Church of the Nine Martyred Children were housed by Kartli at his expense, they were only too happy to oblige his habit, especially since the habit so eloquently expressed his devoutness.

At seven minutes after midnight, he opened the door to the confessional, settled himself on the narrow seat.s Through the latticework of the carved wooden screen the profile of the priest was visible. He recognized Father Shota, one of his favorites. This pleased him. He and Father Shota had spent many hours talking of the history of their religion.

The Apostle Andrew, the brother of St. Peter, had come to Georgia to preach the Gospel, bringing with him the Holy Mother's Uncreated Icon-not created by the hand of man, an icon of divine origins. From that time forward, Mary became Georgia's protector. Over the intervening centuries the Georgian Orthodox religion had been heavily influenced by the Christians of the Byzantine Empire, so it was fitting to Mikhail Kartli, an ardent student of history, that he had brought the religion back home, completing the circle, the end returned to the begi

"Forgive me, Father, for I have si

And Father Shota replied, "Behold, my child, Christ stands here invisibly receiving your confession. Do not be ashamed and do not fear, and do not withhold anything from me; but without doubt tell all you have done and receive forgiveness from the Lord Jesus Christ. Lo, His holy image is before us-"

Without warning, the latticework screen shattered inward. Kartli, struck in the face by shards of wood, raised his arms defensively, and so received the priest into his hands as the man crashed through the aperture.

"Father Shota!" he cried.

Eyelids fluttering spastically, the priest tried to answer, but pink bubbles foamed in his open mouth. Kartli felt the slow creep of blood, warm and viscid, smelled the nauseating sweet-coppery odor. Cradling the priest's head and shoulders, searching desperately for the strength of vital signs, he was unprepared as the door to his side of the confessional flew open.

With barely a chance to turn his head, Kartli had a momentary impression, blurred and imprecise, of a gri