The Testament

"My best friend is an actor. I've seen those kits before, Camille said, coming up on Je

Camille had been right, Bravo realized, though in a way she couldn't possibly know. Jordan had, indeed, made a deal with the devil. He hadn't been scammed by Damon Cornadoro-he'd asked for Damon Cornadoro. Jordan, his best friend was a Knight of St. Clement-not simply a Knight but the leader, because he was the architect, he was behind everything-Dexter's murder, the concerted attack on the Haute Cour the pursuit of the Order's cache of secrets.

Bravo groaned. To top it all off, he'd been working at Lusignan et Cie, for Jordan, toiling away for years in the enemy's shell corporation. What if Jordan had given him tasks that destroyed businesses secretly owned by members of the Order? Oh, God, had he himself been doing the devil's work?

He didn't want to believe it, couldn't believe it wholly, not yet-it was too huge, too terrible, it was unthinkable. And yet, the evidence was irrefutable. This couldn't be happening, not to him. But, in this instance, denial was lethal. Bravo knew that, and he shook himself, urging himself to come to terms with a truth he never could have imagined he'd one day be forced to face.

How to understand the nature of a human being who could be so false, so two-faced: your best friend, your most implacable enemy. It was as if the sun had suddenly begun to rise in the west or the oceans had turned to stone. But when he took a mental step back, like it or not, he was struck by Jordan Muhlma

And with this realization came the begi

He lifted his head, a sudden terrible thought bubbling up to the surface: what if Camille knew everything, what if she was part of Jordan's scheme? Why not? They were close, she worked at Lusignan et Cie, she would do anything for her son, she had told him so herself. Even the devil's business? He didn't know. Her shocked reaction to learning of Cornadoro's identity seemed genuine enough, but how could he know with any certainty?

He felt the swift, bitter flood of paranoia. He heard his father's voice, as if from far away, coming nearer with each beat of his heart. "Paranoia is a skill to be developed in certain professions," Dexter Shaw had told his son. "The most useful thing about being a paranoiac is that you won't be shaken by failure."

What profession had his father been talking about? the young Bravo had wondered. Now he knew. He'd have to be wary of Camille, gauge her reactions in a different light until one way or another she proved her loyalties.

A tremendous percussion shook the walls and rattled the electronics on their steel shelves. It sounded as if a bomb had gone off in the part of the apartment beyond the hidden door. He jumped and Khalif leapt to his feet. Ominously, three reports followed one upon the other-shots from a handgun, there was no mistaking the sounds, no doubt at all. A moment later, something hard slammed into the front side of the refrigerator.

Khalif hurried to the bank of electronics and, as the pounding started up rhythmically, quickly and methodically pressed a series of buttons.

"I'm wiping all the hard drives," he said, as much to himself as to Bravo. "I have all the critical data backed up elsewhere." Then he drew back one of the blackout curtains. Pushing two raw metal levers up freed the plywood panel he had attached over the window. Together, he and Bravo took the panel down.

Khalif threw open the window to a blast of noise and a mini-tornado of concrete dust from the sandblasting. Below was a sloping concrete ledge, no more than a decorative stripe on the milk-carton facade. It was so narrow there would be no room for error. One misstep would send him hurtling to his death below.

The crashing on the other side of the refrigerator was louder, more immediately threatening.

Bravo hesitated only a moment before he followed Khalif out onto the ledge. Khalif had already begun to edge to his right, toward the corner of the building. To Bravo, it seemed like a long way away, though it couldn't be more than a hundred meters. Where was Khalif headed? To a window in another apartment on the floor? That would only postpone the inevitable.

Bravo watched Khalif and, like him, refused to look down. Instead, he concentrated on keeping one hand against the concrete block of the building facade, putting one foot in front of the other in the straightest line possible. A sudden gust of wind swirled up the sheer building face, rippling against his left flank, causing him to stop and steady himself until it died back.

Khalif reached the corner and vanished around it. Screwing up his courage, Bravo followed, his hands gripping the corners, and he slid around it.

Beyond, he could see the workers' bamboo scaffold. His view was distorted by the shroud of plastic sheeting the workers had erected in a futile effort to keep the concrete dust at least marginally controlled. Bravo could make out two figures in overalls, faces goggle-eyed behind masks that kept their lungs clear. One of them was hunched over, wielding the heavy sandblaster, working slowly and deliberately. The other, just beyond him, was bent over the rope railing of the scaffold, presumably calling to the workers below down. They looked like old men; their hair was white with dust.

Khalif had reached the edge of the scaffold. He swung the plastic sheeting out of the way. As he stepped over the rope barrier, the worker nearest him turned, awkwardly waved one arm, warning him away. Khalif ignored him and the worker put down the sandblaster.

Khalif was trying to explain the situation, but the generator that powered the sandblaster was still pumping out noise at deafening decibels, and it was clear the worker couldn't hear him. By this time Bravo, too, had swung onto the scaffold. The two men were now so close that Bravo lost sight of the worker behind Khalif's broad back. It was natural then for Bravo's gaze to fall on the second worker. He was still bent over the railing, but now, without the interference of the plastic sheeting, Bravo could see his bloody hands, his bloody mouth, his bloody neck, ripped from one side to the other.

Bravo leapt forward. The first worker was removing his mask, a natural gesture as far as Khalif was concerned. Obviously, the man wanted to hear what Khalif was saying. But Bravo knew the movement was a ruse-a misdirection-for while Khalif's gaze was drawn to his face, the worker had produced a push-dagger from a pocket of his overalls.

"The worker," Bravo shouted, "it's Cornadoro!"

Khalif stepped back, but Cornadoro was already swinging the push-dagger, the arc of the blade sweeping in on the Turk's chest. Khalif swiveled, leaning heavily into the rope barrier as the blade ripped through the light linen of his shirt, baring his flesh. But the blade kept going, its arc continuing, until its target became clear.

The honed steel sliced through the rope barrier against which Khalif had tumbled. His arms shot out as he lost balance. Bravo threw himself forward, reaching out for Khalif's hand. Too late, he snatched at dead air. Looking over the side, he saw Khalif, clutching the end of the cut rope, swinging back and forth under the scaffold. Eleven floors below, he caught a glimpse of Je

Bravo took one lunge at the rope in hopes of hauling Khalif up, but Cornadoro swung the push-dagger, forcing Bravo to roll away from the edge, away from the only position from which he could save Khalif from falling to his death.