"Oh, don't worry. She's alive and well. Catching up with family at the moment."

Gray didn't understand.

"Don't forget about his teammate at the hospital," Seichan said. "We don't want to leave any loose ends."

Raoul nodded. "That's already being taken care of."

3:07 A A.M.

GENEVA, SWITZERLAND.

UNABLE TO sleep, Monk watched television. It was in French. He didn't speak French, so he was not really paying attention. It was white noise as he thought. The morphine fogged the edges of his mind. sleep, Monk watched television. It was in French. He didn't speak French, so he was not really paying attention. It was white noise as he thought. The morphine fogged the edges of his mind.

He kept his eyes off his bandaged stump.

Fury kept the pain reliever's sedation at bay. Not only for his mutilation, but for being the fall guy in this operation. Pulled out of the fight. Used as a G.o.dd.a.m.n bargaining chip. The others were in danger, and he was locked down in a private room, guarded by hospital security.

Still, he couldn't deny a hollow pain deep inside him, one that morphine could not touch. He had no right to feel sorry for himself. He lived. He was a soldier. He had seen buddies pulled off the field in far worse condition than him. But the ache persisted. He felt violated, abused, less a man, certainly less a soldier.

Logic would not soothe his heart.

The television droned on.

A commotion outside his door drew his eye. Arguing. Raised voices. He shifted higher in his bed. What was going on?

Then the door burst open.

He stared in shock as a figure strode past the security guards.

A familiar figure.

Monk could not keep the shock from his voice. "Cardinal Spera?"

3:08 A A.M.

LAUSANNE, SWITZERLAND.

RACHEL HAD been returned to her cell, but she was not alone. been returned to her cell, but she was not alone.

A guard stood outside the bulletproof gla.s.s.

Inside, her grandmother sank to the cot with a sigh. "You may not understand now, but you will."

Rachel shook her head. She stood against the far wall, confused, dazed. "How...how could you?"

Her grandmother stared up at her with those sharp eyes of hers. "I was once like you. Only sixteen when I first came to this castle from Austria, escaping as the war ended."

Rachel remembered her grandmother's tales of her family's flight to Switzerland, then eventually Italy. She and her father were the only members of her family to survive. "You were escaping from the n.a.z.is."

"No, child, we were were n.a.z.is," her n.a.z.is," her nonna nonna corrected her. corrected her.

Rachel closed her eyes. Oh G.o.d Oh G.o.d...

Her grandmother continued, "Papa was a party leader in Salzburg, but he also had ties to the Imperial Dragon Court of Austria. A very powerful man. It was through that fraternity that we made our escape, underground through Switzerland, through the generosity of the Baron of Sauvage, Raoul's grandfather."

Rachel listened with growing horror, though she wanted to cover her ears and deny it.

"But such safe pa.s.sage required a payment. My father granted it. My virginity...to the baron. Like you, I resisted, not understanding. My father held me down the first time, for my own good. But it would not be the last. We were hidden here at the castle for four months. The baron bedded me many nights, until I was heavy with his b.a.s.t.a.r.d child."

Rachel found herself sinking down the wall, settling to the cold stone floor.

"But b.a.s.t.a.r.d or not, it was a good crossing, mixing a n.o.ble Austrian line of Hapsburgs with a Swiss Bernese line. I grew to understand as the child grew in my belly. It was the way of the Court, strengthening pure lines. My father pressed it upon me. I grew to understand that I carried a n.o.ble bloodline back to emperors and kings."

Sitting on the floor, Rachel tried to comprehend the brutality done to the young girl who would become her grandmother. Had her grandmother validated that cruelty and abuse by couching it in a grander scheme? Brainwashed at that fragile age by her father. Rachel sought to find sympathy for the old woman but failed.

"My father took me to Italy, to Castel Gondolfo, the home of the pope's summer palace. I gave birth to your mother there. A shame. I was beaten for it. A male child had been hoped for."

Her grandmother shook her head sadly. She continued, relating an alternate history of their family. How she was married off to another member of the Dragon Court, one with ties to the Church in Castel Gondolfo. It was a marriage of convenience and deceit. Their family had been a.s.signed to seed their children and grandchildren into the Church, as unwitting spies for the Court, blind moles. To maintain their secrecy, Rachel's mother and Uncle Vigor were kept unaware of their blasted heritage.

"But you were meant for so much more," her grandmother said with hard pride. "You proved your Dragon blood. You were noticed and chosen to be drawn back into the full fold of the Court. Your blood was too valuable to waste. The Imperator chose you personally to cross our family line back upon the ancient Sauvage line. Your children will be kings among kings."

Her nonna nonna's eyes shone with the wonder of it. "Molti bellissimo bambini. All kings of the Court."

Rachel had no strength now to even raise her head. She covered her face with her hands. Every moment of her life flashed past her. What was real? Who was she? She thought back on the number of times she had taken her grandmother's side over her mother, even her nonna nonna's advice on her love life. She had revered and emulated the old woman, respecting her hard, no-nonsense edge. But did such solidity come from toughness or psychosis? What did that imply about herself? She shared this blood-line...with the grandmother...dear G.o.d, with that b.a.s.t.a.r.d Raoul.

Who was she?

Another concern arose. Fear pushed her to speak. "What...what about Uncle Vigor...your son?"

Her grandmother sighed. "He has served his role in the Church. Celibacy ended his bloodline. Now he is no longer needed. Our family's legacy will carry forth through you, gloriously into the future."

Rachel heard a trace of pain behind these last words and glanced up. She knew her grandmother loved Vigor...in fact, more than Rachel's own mother. She wondered if her grandmother had resented that daughter she had given birth to, a child of rape. And was that same trauma carried down to the next generation? Rachel and her own mother had always had a strained relationship, an unspoken pain that neither could surmount, neither understood.

And where would it stop?

A shout drew her attention to the door. Men were coming. Rachel climbed to her feet, as did her grandmother. So alike...

Down the hall, a troop of guards marched past. Rachel stared in despair at the second in line. Gray, hands bound behind his back, trudged past. He glanced into her cell. Spotting her, his eyes widened in surprise. He tripped a step.

"Rachel..."

Gray was shoved forward by Raoul, who leered into the cell and held up something on a chain as he pa.s.sed.

A gold key.

Despair settled completely over Rachel.

Nothing now stood between the Court and the treasure at Avignon. After centuries of manipulation and machination, the Dragon Court had won.

It was over.

3:12 A A.M.

AVIGNON, FRANCE.

KAT DID not like any of this. There were too many civilians around. She marched up the steps toward the main entrance to the Pope's Palace. There was a flow of people into and out of the gateway. not like any of this. There were too many civilians around. She marched up the steps toward the main entrance to the Pope's Palace. There was a flow of people into and out of the gateway.

"It's a tradition to hold the play inside the palace," Vigor said. "Last year, they did Shakespeare's The Life and Death of King John The Life and Death of King John. This year it's a four-hour production of Hamlet Hamlet. The play and party lasts well into the morning. They hold it in the Courtyard of Honor." He pointed ahead.

They fought their way through a group of German tourists exiting the palace and crossed through the arched entry. Coming from ahead, voices echoed off the stone wall in a mix of languages.

"It will be hard to conduct a thorough search with all these people," Kat said with a frown.

Vigor nodded as a snare-beat of thunder rumbled across the sky.

Laughter and clapping echoed.

"The play should be nearly over," Vigor said.

The long gateway ended at an open-air courtyard. It was dark, except for the large stage on the far side, framed by curtains and decorated like the throne room to a great castle. The backdrop was in fact the very wall of the far courtyard. To either side rose lighting towers, casting spots upon the actors, and towering speakers.

A crowd gathered below the stage in seats or sprawled on blankets on the stone floor. From the stage, a few figures stood amid a pile of bodies. An actor spoke in French, but Kat was fluent.

"I am dead, Horatio. Wretched queen, adieu!"

Kat recognized one of the last lines of Hamlet. The play was indeed rounding toward the end.

Vigor drew her to the side. "The courtyard here divides two different sections of the palace-the new and the old. The back wall and the one to the left are a part of the Palais Vieux, the old palace. Where we stand and to the right is the Palais Neuf, the section built later."

Kat leaned closer to Vigor. "Where do we begin?"

Vigor pointed to the older section. "There is a mysterious story connected to the Pope's Palace. Many historians of the time report that at dawn on September 20, 1348, a great column of fire was seen above the old section of the palace. It was noted by the entire town. Many of the superst.i.tious believed the flame heralded the Great Plague, the Black Death, which started about the same time. But what if it wasn't? What if it was some manifestation of the Meissner field, a flux of energy being released when whatever secret was sealed here? The appearance of the flame might mark the exact date the treasure was buried."

Kat nodded. It was something to follow.

"I pulled down a detailed map from the Internet," Vigor said. "There's an entrance into the old palace near the Gate of Our Lady. One seldom used."

Vigor led the way to the left. An archway opened. They ducked inside as a great peal of lightning split the sky overhead. Thunder boomed. The actor on the stage stopped in mid-soliloquy. Nervous laughter tinkled through the audience. The storm might end the play early.

Vigor motioned to a stout door off to the side.

Kat dropped and set to work with her lockpicks, while Vigor shielded her work with his body. It did not take long to free the latch. Kat clicked it open.

Another flash of lightning drew Kat's eye back to the courtyard. Thunder cracked and the skies opened. Rain fell heavily from the low clouds. Cries and cheers erupted from the audience. A ma.s.s exodus began.

Kat shouldered open the door, held it for Vigor, then closed it behind them.

It b.u.mped closed with a solid snap of the latch. Kat relocked it.

"Do we have to be worried about security?" she asked.

"Sadly, no. As you'll see, there's nothing really to steal. Vandalism is the greater concern. There might be a night watchman. So we should be cautious."

Nodding, Kat kept her flashlight off. Enough light filtered through the high windows to illuminate a ramp leading up toward the next level of the castle.

Vigor led the way up. "The private apartments of the pope lie in the Tower of Angels. The rooms were always the most secured area of the palace. If something was hidden, we should probably wind our way there."

Kat pulled out a compa.s.s and kept it fixed in front of her. A magnetic marker had led them to Alexander's tomb. It might here, too.

They traversed several rooms and halls. Their footsteps echoed hollowly through the vaulted s.p.a.ces. Kat now understood the lack of real security. The place was a stone tomb. Denuded of almost any decoration or furniture. There was no evidence of the opulence that must have once frilled the palace. She tried to picture the flow of velvet and fur, the rich tapestries, the lavish banquets, the gilt and the silver. Nothing remained but stone and timbered rafters.

"After the popes left," Vigor whispered, "the place fell into disrepair. It was ransacked during the French Revolution, serving eventually as a garrison and barracks for Napoleon's troops. Much of the place was whitewashed and destroyed. Only a few areas still retain some of the original frescoes, such as the papal apartments."

As Kat walked, she also sensed a strange conformation to the place: halls that ended too abruptly, rooms that seemed oddly small, staircases that dropped to levels without doors. The thickness of walls varied from a few feet to some eighteen feet thick. The palace was a true fortress, but Kat sensed hidden s.p.a.ces, pa.s.sages, rooms-features common among medieval castles.

This was confirmed when they entered a room Vigor designated as the treasury. He pointed to four places. "They buried their gold under the floor. In subterranean rooms. It was always rumored that other such vaults were yet to be discovered."

They crossed other rooms: a large wardrobe, a former library, an empty kitchen whose square walls narrowed down to an octagonal chimney over a central firepit.

Vigor finally led them into the Tower of Angels.

Kat's compa.s.s had not twitched a beat, but she concentrated more fully now. Worry mounted. What if they didn't find the entrance? What if she failed? Again. The hand holding the compa.s.s began to shake. First her failure with Monk and Rachel...

And now this.

She gripped her compa.s.s tighter and willed her hand steady. She and Vigor would solve this. They must. Or all the sacrifice by the others would be for nothing.

Determined, she climbed from one level to the next of the papal apartments. With no sign of any caretaker, Kat risked switching on a small penlight to help illuminate their search.

"The pope's living room," Vigor said at the entrance to one room.

Kat crisscrossed the length of it, studying her compa.s.s. The walls here were decorated with swirls of peeling paint, and a large corner fireplace dominated the room. Thunder echoed through the thick walls.

Once finished with her pa.s.s, she shook her head.

Nothing.

They moved on. One of the most spectacular rooms came next: the Room of the Stag. Its frescoes depicted elaborate hunting scenes, from falconry, to bird nesters, to frolicking dogs, to even a rectangular fish-breeding pond.

"A piscarium piscarium," Vigor said. "Fish again."

Kat nodded, remembering the significance of fish to their own hunt. She searched this room with an even tighter pattern of surveillance. Her compa.s.s refused to budge. With no clue, she waved Vigor onward.

They climbed another level.

"The pope's bedroom," Vigor said, sounding disappointed and worried now, too. "This is the last of the rooms in the apartments."

Kat entered the chamber. No furniture. Its walls were painted a brilliant blue.