'It's also bad manners not to respond when summoned,' said the Chief of the Holy Alliance, staring at Fowler.

'I thought we were done. We agreed on a mission - only one.'

'And you've carried out the first part: recovering the candle. Now you have to make sure that what it contains is used correctly.'

Annoyed, Fowler didn't answer.

'Maybe Anthony would appreciate his a.s.signment more if he understood its importance,' Cirin continued. 'As you now know what we're dealing with, Brother Cesareo, would you be so kind as to tell Anthony what that photo you've never seen depicts?'

The Dominican cleared his throat.

'Before I do so, I need to know if it's authentic, Cirin.'

'It is.'

The friar's eyes lit up. He turned to Fowler.

'This, my friend, is a treasure map. Or to be precise, half of one. That is, if my memory doesn't fail me, because it has been many years since I held the other half in my hands. This is the piece that was missing from the Copper Scroll of Qumran.'

The priest's expression darkened considerably.

'You're telling me-'

'Yes, my friend. The most powerful object in History can be found through the meaning of these symbols. And all the problems that come with it.'

'Good Lord. And it has to show up at this precise moment.'

'I'm glad you finally understand, Anthony,' Cirin broke in. 'Compared with this, all the relics that our good friend keeps in this room are nothing more than dust.'

'Who put you on the trail, Camilo? Why now, after all this time, did you try to find Dr Graus?' asked Brother Cesareo.

'The information came from one of the Church's benefactors, a Mr Kayn. A benefactor from another faith and a great philanthropist. He needed us to find Graus, and personally offered to finance an archaeological expedition should we could recover the candle.'

'Where to?'

'He hasn't revealed the exact location. But we know the area. Al Mudawwara, Jordan.'

'Great, then there's nothing to worry about,' Fowler interrupted. 'Do you know what's going to happen if anyone gets even a sniff of this? n.o.body on that expedition will live long enough to lift a shovel.'

'Let's hope you're wrong. We're going to send an observer with the expedition: you.'

Fowler shook his head. 'No.'

'You're aware of the consequences, the ramifications.'

'My answer is still no.'

'You can't refuse.'

'Try stopping me,' said the priest, heading for the door.

'Anthony, my boy.' The words followed him as he walked towards the exit. 'I'm not saying I'm going to try to stop you. You must be the one who decides to go. Luckily, over the years, I've learned how to deal with you. I had to recall the only thing you value more than your freedom, and I found the perfect solution.'

Fowler stopped, still with his back to them.

'What have you done, Camilo?'

Cirin took a few steps towards him. If there was anything he disliked more than talking, it was raising his voice.

'In speaking to Mr Kayn, I suggested the best reporter for his expedition. Actually, as a reporter she's fairly average. And not too pretty, or sharp, or even overly honest. In fact, the only thing that makes her interesting is that once you saved her skin. How do you say it - she owes you her life? So now you won't be making a dash to hide yourself in the nearest soup kitchen, because you know the risk she's running.'

Still Fowler didn't turn around. With each of Cirin's words, his hand had begun closing a little more until it was clenched in a fist, his fingernails digging into his palm. But the pain wasn't enough. He slammed his fist into one of the niches. The impact made the crypt shake. The wooden door of the ancient resting place splintered and a bone from the desecrated vault rolled out onto the floor.

'St Soutino's kneecap. Poor man, he limped his entire life,' said Brother Cesareo, bending down to pick up the relic.

Fowler, by now resigned, finally turned to face them.

10.

EXCERPT FROM RAYMOND KAYN: THE UNAUTHORISED BIOGRAPHY RAYMOND KAYN: THE UNAUTHORISED BIOGRAPHY.

BY ROBERT DRISCOLL.

Many readers might ask how a Jew without much of a background, who lived off charity during his childhood, managed to create such a vast financial empire. It is clear from the previous pages that prior to December 1943, Raymond Kayn did not exist. There is no record of his birth certificate, no doc.u.ment that confirms he's an American citizen.

The period of his life about which most is known began when he enrolled in MIT and ama.s.sed a sizable list of patents. While the United States was embracing the glorious 1960s, Kayn was reinventing the integrated circuit. Within five years he owned his own company; within ten, half of Silicon Valley.

This period was well doc.u.mented in Time Time magazine, along with the misfortunes that destroyed his life as a father and husband . . . magazine, along with the misfortunes that destroyed his life as a father and husband . . .

Perhaps what most troubles the average American is his invisibility, this lack of transparency that transforms someone so powerful into a disturbing enigma. Sooner or later, someone must lift the aura of mystery that surrounds the figure of Raymond Kayn . . .

11.

ON BOARD THE BEHEMOTH.

THE RED SEA.

Tuesday, 11 July 2006. 4:29 p.m.

. . . someone must lift the aura of mystery surrounding the figure of Raymond Kayn . . .

Andrea smiled broadly and set aside the biography of Raymond Kayn. It was a lurid, biased piece of s.h.i.t and she'd been completely bored by it as she flew over the Sahara desert on her way to Djibouti.

During the flight Andrea had had time to do something she rarely did: take a good long look at herself. And she decided that she didn't like what she saw.

As the youngest of five siblings - all male except for her - Andrea had grown up in an environment in which she felt entirely protected. And which was utterly ba.n.a.l. Her father was a police sergeant, her mother a housewife. They lived in a working-cla.s.s area and ate macaroni most nights, chicken on Sundays. Madrid is a beautiful city, but for Andrea it served only to highlight her family's mediocrity. At fourteen she swore that the minute she turned eighteen she'd be out the door and would never come back.

Of course the arguments with Dad about your s.e.xual orientation sped up your departure, didn't they, honey?

It had been a long journey from the time she left home - they threw you out they threw you out - until her first real job, with the exception of the ones she had had to take in order to pay for her Journalism studies. The day she started at - until her first real job, with the exception of the ones she had had to take in order to pay for her Journalism studies. The day she started at El Globo El Globo she felt as if she had won the lottery, but that euphoria didn't last long. She bounced from one section of the paper to another, each time feeling as if she was falling upwards, losing her sense of perspective as well as control of her personal life. She had ended up in the International section before leaving . . . she felt as if she had won the lottery, but that euphoria didn't last long. She bounced from one section of the paper to another, each time feeling as if she was falling upwards, losing her sense of perspective as well as control of her personal life. She had ended up in the International section before leaving . . .

They threw you out.

And now this impossible adventure.

My last chance. The way things are going for reporters in the labour market, my next job will be as a supermarket check-out girl. There's just something about me that doesn't function. I can't do anything right. Not even Eva, who was the most patient person in the world, could stand being with me. The day she left . . . What did she call me? 'Recklessly out of control', 'emotionally frigid' . . . I think 'immature' was the nicest thing she said. And she must have meant it, because she didn't even raise her voice. f.u.c.k! It's always the same. I'd better not screw up this time.

Andrea shifted mental gears and turned up the volume on her iPod. The warm voice of Alanis Morissette calmed her spirits. She leaned her seat back, wishing she was already at her destination.

Luckily, First Cla.s.s had its advantages. The most important one was being able to get off the plane ahead of everyone else. A young, well-dressed black driver was waiting for her next to a clapped-out jeep at the edge of the runway.

Well, well. No Customs, right? Mr Russell has arranged everything, Andrea thought as she descended the staircase from the plane.

'Is that it?' The driver spoke English, pointing to Andrea's carry-on bag and backpack.

'We're heading out to the f.u.c.king desert, aren't we? Drive on.'

She recognised the way the driver was looking at her. She was used to being stereotyped: young, fair, and therefore stupid. Andrea wasn't sure if her carefree att.i.tude to clothes and money were her way of burying herself still further in this stereotype, or were simply her own concession to ba.n.a.lity. Maybe a mixture of both. But for this trip, as a sign that she'd left her old life behind, she'd kept her baggage to a minimum.

While the jeep travelled the five miles to the ship, Andrea took photos with her Canon 5D. (It wasn't really her her Canon 5D but the one that belonged to the paper, which she had forgotten to return. Canon 5D but the one that belonged to the paper, which she had forgotten to return. They deserved it, the pigs They deserved it, the pigs.) She was shocked at the extreme poverty of the land. Dry, brown, covered in stones. You could probably cross the entire capital on foot in two hours. There seemed to be no industry, no agriculture, no infrastructure. The dust from the wheels of their jeep coated the faces of the people who stared at them as they sped by. Faces without hope.

'The world's in a bad way if people like Bill Gates and Raymond Kayn earn more in a month than this country's Gross National Product in a year.'

The driver shrugged in response. They were already at the port, the most modern and well-maintained part of the capital, and virtually its only source of income. Djibouti profited from its favourable location within the Horn of Africa.

The jeep swerved to a sudden stop. When Andrea regained her balance, what she saw made her jaw drop. The Behemoth Behemoth was nothing like the ugly freighter she had expected. It was a sleek modern vessel whose enormous hull was painted red and its superstructure a blinding white, the colours of Kayn Industries. Without waiting for the driver to help her, she grabbed her things and ran up the gangplank, wanting to start her adventure as soon as possible. was nothing like the ugly freighter she had expected. It was a sleek modern vessel whose enormous hull was painted red and its superstructure a blinding white, the colours of Kayn Industries. Without waiting for the driver to help her, she grabbed her things and ran up the gangplank, wanting to start her adventure as soon as possible.

Half an hour later the ship had raised anchor and was underway. One hour later Andrea confined herself to her cabin, intent on vomiting in private.

After two days, during which the only thing that she could handle was liquids, her inner ear called a truce and she finally felt brave enough to step outside for a little fresh air and to get to know the ship. But first, she decided to toss Raymond Kayn: The Unauthorised Biography Raymond Kayn: The Unauthorised Biography overboard with all her might. overboard with all her might.

'You shouldn't have done that.'

Andrea turned from the railing. Walking towards her on the main deck was an attractive, dark-haired woman of about forty. She was dressed like Andrea, in jeans and a T-shirt, but over them she wore a white jacket.

'I know. Pollution is a bad thing. But try being locked up for three days with that c.r.a.ppy book and you'll understand.'

'It would have been less traumatic if you had opened the door for something other than getting water from the crew. I understand that you were offered my services . . .'

Andrea fixed her eyes on the book that was already floating far behind the moving ship. She felt ashamed. She didn't like people seeing her when she was sick, and hated feeling vulnerable.

'I was fine,' Andrea said.

'I understand, but I'm sure you would have felt better if you'd taken some Dramamine.'

'Only if you wanted me dead, Dr . . .'

'Harel. You're allergic to dimenhydrinates, Ms Otero?'

'Among other things. Please call me Andrea.'

Dr Harel smiled and a series of wrinkles softened her features. She had beautiful eyes, the shape and colour of almonds, and her hair was dark and curly. She was two inches taller than Andrea.

'And you can call me Dr Harel,' she said, offering her hand.

Andrea looked at the hand without extending hers.

'I don't like sn.o.bs.'

'Me neither. I'm not telling you my name because I don't have one. My friends usually call me Doc.'

The reporter finally reached out her hand. The doctor's handshake was warm and pleasant.

'That must break the ice at parties, Doc.'

'You can't imagine. It tends to be the first thing people remark on when I meet them. Let's walk around for a bit and I'll tell you more.'