People Rave About Heights and
Woodhouse’s THE DIE IS CAST

“Heights and Woodhouse had the audacity to cut scenes from my novels and paste them into their book. That’s copyright infringement. Those two will be hearing from my lawyers soon.” — Steve Finder, author of the bestselling Bucky Browne adventure series

“A pack of convoluted Disher lies from first page to last. Obviously, Heights and Woodhouse were students in one of Professor Adam Burke’s crazy alternative history classes.” — Michael Mistral, reporter for Unearthed

“I loved it! Really exciting! One of my favorite novels. That Lady Xenia is something else—wait, what? I thought you were asking me about Steve Finder’s Bucky Browne and the Cave of All Fears . . . no, I’ve never heard of this Lady Jane character.” — Pope Boniface X

“Whitaker Corporation, America’s premier retailer, denies any involvement with the incidents portrayed in this novel. We have no further comment.” — Patricia Whitaker, founder and CEO of Whitaker Corporation

“Another silly novel about the search for the Last Supper Dish? No, of course I didn’t read it. I already know where the Dish is—Vatican City.” — Rupert Winters, professor of archaeology, Oxford University

“Just more of the Pope’s propaganda promoting his fake bowl! One day, the real Last Supper Dish will be found, and Dishers worldwide will have the last laugh!” — Jimi Bowler, blogger for TrueDishers.net

Lady Jane and the Last Supper Dish, Book One

The Die Is Cast

Heights & Woodhouse

H & W Books

USA

The Die Is Cast Copyright © 2021 by Heights & Woodhouse Books

Copyright notice: All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying and recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior written permission from the publisher.

Published in the United States of America by Heights & Woodhouse Books, https://heightsandwoodhouse.com.

Authors’ Disclaimer: The world of this novel is fictional. Names, characters, locales, historical events, business entities, government agencies, and religious institutions and offices are either imaginative creations or used in a fictitious manner.

Cover Design by Design for Writers

The Die Is Cast/Heights & Woodhouse, 2nd ed.

ISBN 978-1-954864-03-0 (eBook)

SCENE LIST

The Fall of Constantinople

8 Ball Productions

Dishing with Lady Jane

Promising Strike

Game Between Churches

Learning Opportunity

Outlook Not So Good

Truths Hidden and Revealed

A Stone Hand

Tactics

Family Business

Signs Align

Full Arsenal

The Secret Order of Andronicus

Searching for Answers

The Prodokleis

Irresistible Mirror

Plea for a Hero

Thwarted Seeker

Change of Fate

Whitaker One View

Jolt of Energy

Adventure Is My Destiny

Scrum!

Intrigues

Confessions

Whitakerware Crusade

Persian Sword

Not a Toy

Dream of Istanbul

The Game Changes

A Fool’s Errand

Prologue

Scene A

The Fall of Constantinople

May 29, 1453

Giustiniani was slain. Constantinople’s heroic Genoan commander—struck down by the great Ottoman cannon while defending the northwest wall. The wall was all but smoking rubble. Like a dark wind, the rumor of the commander’s death swept from regiment to regiment and chilled the heart of every man who heard it.

At the southwestern wall, Sultan Mehmet’s janissaries began a fresh assault. Jakab gripped his spear, trembling. He was no warrior. He was a monk, conscripted along with children and old men to defend the city’s walls. “Slain, slain! Giustiniani slain!” shouted a frantic youth racing past.

Upon hearing of the commander’s death, the archers dropped their bows and fled from the ramparts back into the city. Commands to hold the wall went unheeded. Jakab dropped his spear and fled.

But where was he to flee? The city was surrounded. The city’s main street was churning with people, all uncertain which direction to run. Many stood huddled together weeping, clinging to their last possessions. Some rushed south to the harbors to try to escape the city by boat. A scant hope, Jakab surmised. He had seen the masts of the Turkish fleet. The Sea of Marmara was no longer a sea but a floating forest.

In the tumult Jakab was pushed north. At the aqueduct that spanned the city’s third and fourth hills, Jakab broke free from the crowd. The Church of the Holy Apostles towered above him. There some of the nobility had taken refuge, and many priests had gathered to pray. Jakab turned east. There was only one place he wanted to be when the Sultan’s army took the city.

He slowed as he neared his destination to take in everything one last time: the brick walls, the central dome, the tympanum that crowned the wooden doors, and the words carved into the lintel. He pushed the doors open. The shrine was empty save for an aged monk kneeling before the altar.

“It is finished,” Jakab announced. “Giustiniani—” his knees buckled as he spoke, and he slumped to the floor.

The aged monk rose and went to him. “Then . . . they come?”

Jakab wept. “I am sorry, Laomendon.”

With determined strength, Laomendon gripped Jakab’s arms and pulled him toward the altar. “Come,” he commanded and began to chant.

Jakab tried to obey. Often in the dark days of the Sultan’s siege, he had taken comfort in Laomendon’s uncommon serenity. But now as his voice united with the aged monk’s chant, with the din of war echoing all around, Jakab despised his need for comfort. “What good is it?” he shouted. “God will not save us. Soon we will be nothing. Our city, our people—lost forever!”

“Not lost. Only . . . hidden. When our Lord was crucified, the apostles also feared they had lost all. But they endured. The truth of God will endure. We must believe.”

“Endure?” Jakab shouted. “Do you not understand? So few have come to our aid. Not even the Latins. May God judge them for their betrayal.” Jakab shook his fists in the air. “Once they came to rule us, to steal our sacred treasures. Now, what does Pope Nicholas do? Merely watches as these sons of Muhammad do the same. The janissaries will plunder our sacred relics for their hoard. Plucking fruit from every tree. Everything they see.”

“We must place our faith in the Lord.”

“Where is he now? I cannot see him.”

Laomendon turned his eyes upon Jakab. They were not serene eyes now, but fierce. “Enough! My son, you must cleanse your heart of doubt. It is only the pure in heart who shall see God.”

Laomendon’s rebuke made Jakab weep afresh. How could it be that this was the end? Jakab stood, and as his elder’s chanting filled the shrine, he walked about it, taking in once more its sumptuous beauty. He wanted its images to remain before his eyes to the very last: the frescoes of the apostles in the north aisle, and of the Christ in the central dome, and finally, the mosaics of the Four Keepers in the west chamber—as beautiful as any mosaic in Hagia Sophia, Emperor Justinian’s matchless church.

The Four Keepers stood proud and defiant, as Jakab himself wished to stand. Kostas, Zoticus, Panikos, and Nil each held an identical treasure—a golden dish. Jakab stepped toward Saint Kostas, whose fiery halo and cold, ebony eyes could of themselves inspire many seekers to become penitent. He kissed the golden dish in Kostas’s hand. “Until the wages of sin are paid,” he murmured.

Shouts beyond the shrine’s walls made him gasp. Hastily, he returned to Laomendon. “Father! Have we done enough? Have we sufficiently protected the Legacy?”

The old monk ceased his chant and lifted his eyes. “Tell me, Jakab, what do you see?” He pointed past the altar to the bare wall of the apse.

“Nothing,” Jakab said. “Nothing at all.”

“Thus it will be for the Turks. We made certain of that.”

“Do you not think, in time, they will discover the chest?”

“No.”

“How can you be sure?” Jakab knelt beside Laomendon once more, his anger spent.

“Because as you have just said, they will take only what they see.”

“But how will the Legacy of Andronicus be passed on? What if Alexander and Demetrius do not reach Athos? They carry our Order’s secret texts. What if the shrine is destroyed? What if—”

Laomendon placed one hand on his arm. “No more questions for this poor, old monk. All of us have suffered long nights of labor, and we have done all we could with the time God gave us. The fate of the Legacy, like the fate of our Order, we must leave in the hands of God and his saints. But rest your mind in this knowledge. The Latin betrayers will be shown their shame.” The old monk spread wide his arms, threw back his head, and laughed wildly. “Andronicus assured us that our people shall enjoy the humiliation of the Latins. We, my son . . . we shall have the last laugh!”

The clashing roar grew near, now punctuated with shrieks and curses. It hammered the walls. The shrine’s doors burst open. One door swung wildly, broken from its hinges. The soldiers of Sultan Mehmet had come.

Scene B

8 Ball Productions

Office of Reggie Lovett

Midtown Manhattan

January 2, 20—

“. . . the kind of serious film you always wanted to make. The Last Supper Dish has divided the world’s two largest churches for centuries. The Pope’s tryin’ to bring Catholics and Orthodox together, but the Dish is always the fly in the soup. I’m sure you know ‘bout Steve Finder’s novels—all bestsellers. Dishers go nuts over ‘em. You can’t get more culturally relevant.” Reggie laid it on thick. He needed to pique Natalie’s interest. The two were video chatting. Reggie was sweating. So far, Natalie hadn’t taken the bait.

Natalie shrugged. “I don’t read genre. But I know about Finder. You’d have to be living under a rock not to.”

Reggie rubbed his hands together. “You and Ray once saw the potential for a film ‘bout the Dish.” He paused to gauge Natalie’s reaction. Two years previously, 8 Ball Productions had broken up. A brainstorming session after the release of their documentary Basket Case had resulted in the dissolution of the partnership. Natalie had worked without Ray on her next film. It flopped.

“I remember, but Ray wasn’t interested in the cultural angle back then. All he wanted to do was interview travel-blogging Disher girls.” Natalie smirked. “Probably imagined joining them on their adventures. Anyway, I doubt Ray would be interested in resurrecting 8 Ball Productions.”

Reggie smiled. “Well, you’re wrong. I’ve already talked to him. He’s interested in the Dish film. He’s matured, believe me, he’s—”

Natalie’s face hardened. “I’ll never forget what he did.”

Reggie held up his hands. “You told me all ‘bout it. Listen, he regrets that fight. Deeply regrets it. He wishes he had that toy 8 Ball back—”

“Really?” Natalie appeared unconvinced.

Reggie sighed. This is tougher than I thought. He searched for words. “He—he misses you. And he wants to apologize. He wants the Mystic 8 Ball, says he never should’ve let it go. After all, it was a gift you gave him. He thinks if he had it back, you two could start fresh.”

“Really?” This time, Natalie sounded hopeful.

“You still have it don’t ya?” Reggie asked.

“Yeah, in a vault,” Natalie said sarcastically. “Look, Regg, I dunno. All this sounds—I mean, did Ray really say that?”

“I swear on my Mama’s grave. But you can’t come right out an’ attack him with it—he’ll jus’ run away. Guy like him needs to smooth his way into apologizing. The Dish movie gives him the chance. And together, we can all do somethin’ that’ll impact the world.”

Natalie agreed that Ray was too immature to deal with his flaws if confronted and saw the wisdom of letting him muster the courage to apologize on his own.

“Think you can give Ray a chance?” Reggie asked.

“Only on the condition that he apologizes. If he does, it’ll be water under the bridge.” Natalie signed off.

Reggie heaved a sigh of relief. Stretching the truth was a standard skill in the film industry, but distasteful to do to a friend. One down. One to go. He sipped some whiskey to bolster himself. Time for video chat number two.

Ray was happy to see him. “What’s up, Regg? Must’ve been over a year since we talked. How you been?”

“Jus’ hangin’. Say, I got a movie deal perfect for you. I know you ain’t got nothin’ right now.”

Ray laughed wryly. “Understatement of the year.”

Reggie grimaced. He’d produced Babe Game, Ray’s film made without Natalie. It was so bad neither he nor Ray had yet recovered financially. Best not dwell on his career failure. Get to the point. “What say we get 8 Ball Productions back together? Me as producer, Clark on camera . . .”

Ray’s eyes narrowed. “Who’s doing sound?”

“Natalie, of course,” Reggie said matter-of-factly.

Ray spun once in his office chair. “Not gonna happen! Not after what she did to ruin everything.”

“Man, listen to me. Would it make a difference if she knew she screwed it all to hell and she’s sorry—real sorry?” Reggie’s eyes were pleading.

Ray snorted. “Like that would ever happen!”

“But if it was true, would it make a difference?”

Ray shrugged. “Well . . . yeah.”

Reggie grinned. “Yeah? Well, guess what? I jus’ got done talkin’ with her. She wants to give you back that 8 Ball—”

“The Mystic 8 Ball!” Ray broke into a wistful smile. “She gave it to me during film school. Best gift ever—it helped make our films rock!” His frown quickly returned. “But whatever, I mean, I’m glad I gave it back to her. ‘Cause she walked out, thought she knew better. You sure she wants to give it back? She’s too stuck up to admit she’s wrong.”

“I swear on my Mama’s grave, fool! Why would I call you if I didn’t just hear her tell me how much she misses you? Listen, she wants to do the Dish movie like you talked about before y’all blew up. Dishing is a big, hot topic. Remember all the stories about that heiress Jane Whitaker? Got arrested in Moscow sniffin’ around for the Dish—”

“I remember she’s hot.”

“Fool, keep a lid on it. If you and Clark act like horndogs, Natalie will bolt. You need her skills to pay the bills.”

“Okay, but Nat has got to apologize or no dice,” Ray insisted. “On day one, I’m gonna demand it from her.”

“Fool, listen to me. Natalie’s got pride. If you run at her, she’ll come back at you even worse. Best to play it cool. Jus’ work with her on the film. Treat her with respect. Eventually she’ll let down her guard, and there you’ll have it.”

Ray liked Reggie’s plan.

After Ray signed off, Reggie drained the rest of his whiskey. Never had he told such a pack of calculated lies. It’s for their own good. They need each other.

He leaned back in his chair, imagining ticket lines and box office receipts. And after we make a killing on this Dish movie, they’ll both thank me.

Scene C

Dishing with Lady Jane

Göreme, Turkey

February 10, 20—

As dusk settled in, souvenir vendors at the central market were closing after another busy day. Jane Whitaker stood in a shop at the far end of a dead-end alley. She was on a secret mission and had dressed accordingly. Her face was hidden by the brim of her white Barmah hat and by the fox fur collar of her vintage Versace gray-silk bomber jacket. Her hands trembled with excitement as she received a package from the proprietor.

“Only you would have been able to choose such a rare treasure,” he said to her. “It must be, as you say, destiny.” He grinned broadly through his beard.

“Oh, I’m sure of it.” Jane tucked the package into her jacket. “I almost didn’t come in ‘cause I wasn’t sure this was a shop. Like, the sign isn’t in English and stuff, ha-ha. But then, I saw that tailless cat in the window, and I just had to see it, ‘cause I’ve never seen a cat without a tail. Destiny works in mysterious ways, y’know what I mean?” Before the proprietor could reply, Jane added, “Cats give Baby Girl the shivers, don’t they Pookums?”

Grudgingly shifting to share space with the package was Baby Girl, Jane’s long-haired teacup Chihuahua. The little dog had one blue eye and one brown and was dressed in a baby-blue monogrammed sweater. Jane lifted the dog and kissed her ear. “You’re so brave,” she cooed encouragingly.

The proprietor chuckled. “Kübra, that old stray, cannot even kill a mouse. He is so fat and lazy.”

“Ha-ha. Kübra, huh? What’s your name?”

The proprietor paused as if searching his memory. “Er, you may call me Babu.”

Jane giggled. “I’m Lady Jane. I’ll always remember you. I can’t believe the secret to the Dish was here all along.” She touched the brim of her Barmah hat in a parting salute.

Babu meekly inclined his head. “I am richly blessed by our meeting. May you find the reward you seek. Farewell!”

Exiting the shop, Jane surveyed for spies. Seeing none, she ducked into an alcove and unzipped her jacket. “Wait here for Mama,” she instructed Baby Girl, setting the little dog down. She secured the package in one hand and reached into her jacket pocket for her phone.

It took her a minute to pose herself. She shook her head twice to get into character, pushing her long blonde hair back behind one ear, lowering her chin and parting her lips in a half kiss. She snapped several pictures with this facial arrangement, making sure both the package and the shop were visible in the frame. It was a frustrating procedure because she wanted Baby Girl in the picture too, but it was hard to manage everything at once, and the package was the most important thing, besides herself.

Eight tries later, she finally got The One, and it was super cute. But choosing the best filter before posting her picture to Dishpix.com would make it even cuter. The choice came down to Electra or Xanadu. She chose Xanadu.

Where was Baby Girl?

Peeing in a lonely patch of grass.

Jane swept Baby Girl up with kisses and re-tucked the little dog and the package into her jacket. Then she turned onto the street without looking and collided with an old man riding a donkey. He shouted at her in Turkish. Giggling mightily, Jane scurried up a steep incline and pushed her way through the gated arbor to her hotel just as the last brushstrokes of day faded away.

Guests had gathered for happy hour in the hotel café. Entering the lobby, Jane lowered the brim of her hat and hastened to the stairs, hoping Baby Girl wouldn’t betray their presence with a yip. She didn’t want another Moscow incident, after all. Once in her room with the door locked, she’d be safe. Wouldn’t Pope Boniface be furious! But what could he do? Justice was on her side, as in all her favorite stories. She was one step closer to fulfilling her dream. Soon, the world would know.

As Jane climbed the stairs to the second floor, she imagined walking on red carpet through a sea of cameras, their flashbulbs shimmering in wave upon wave.

Scene D

Promising Strike

University of Pittsburgh

Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania

February 15, 20—

“This dig sounds promising, Dr. Ayhan—may I call you Zainab?” Professor Adam Burke scribbled names and dates on a notepad as he spoke on his phone. “Sounds like you’ve found a Byzantine shrine in the middle of Istanbul. We’ll need to gather an archaeological dream team!” Burke suggested some colleagues, and Zainab agreed.

Burke snapped his fingers. “Hey, there’s a guy near you—Dr. Pa-poopy-lus? You know him?” Burke heard Zainab correct his pronunciation. “Papadopoulos, sorry. Bad hip, you say? I can suggest some other names.” The smile on Burke’s freckled face grew wide. He wanted to mention a woman’s name, a woman he’d never seen but wanted to meet.

“I’d also recommend Dr. Elena Hromadova at Moscow State. She’s new to the field. She quotes me extensively in her research.” Burke lived with the hope that a woman who loved his intellect would love him in other ways. It went without saying that such a woman would be a great beauty.

He shifted from the subject of Hromadova quickly: “Say, I’m sorry you had trouble getting in touch with me. When I became Chair of Byzantine Studies, I immediately went on sabbatical. Didn’t my assistant give you my cell?”

He laughed. “Yes, that’s right. Hard to get good help these days. What have I been doing on sabbatical? I’m preparing for the big conference at the National Archaeological Museum in Bulgaria. They’re the first to exhibit the Saint Nil icon I found in Sofia. A big event for sure.”

As Burke spoke, he reached behind him and lifted an object from his bookcase. It was a wooden panel the size of a book and bore the likeness of a thin monk with a scraggly beard and golden halo. Only half the monk’s face appeared, as the entire upper left corner of the icon was missing. Near his heart, the monk clutched a dish in both hands. The icon was a facsimile. Burke had paid quite a bit to have it made. Small differences between it and the original would only be clear to an expert—such as himself. Saint Nil’s irises, for instance, were too white. No replica could approximate the natural aging process that over the centuries inevitably turned white paint yellow.

“The anticipation for the Nil is at a fevered pitch,” Burke said. “After all, it’s still the only one in existence.”

Carefully, Burke replaced the facsimile on its display stand. He decided to cap off the conversation with one of his favorite lines: “Well, Zainab, if giving my life to history enables me to make history, I guess I’ll just have to suffer the fame and fortune.” A nice way to wrap up a conversation with a fellow archaeologist, especially one lesser known in the field. Then he dialed his secretary: “Clear out my appointments for the next ten weeks. I’m leaving the country. Reschedule what you can. Nothing before May.”

From the top drawer of his filing cabinet, Burke took a small dartboard and three steel-tipped darts. He hung the dartboard from a hook on the back of his office door, stepped off five paces, and faced his target.

“Ah, Winters,” he said a bit too cheerily. He flicked the first dart and struck a glossy photograph thumb-tacked to the board. The photograph—already full of holes—was of an old man in a gray suit standing at a podium accepting an award. The dart hit Winters, puncturing tufts of thick, white hair. Burke rarely missed.

“For so long you’ve eluded me,” Burke said, flinging his second dart. “Even though you haven’t published one thesis worth a damn in over a decade.” The dart hit the podium where Winters stood. “And without your sycophants, you’d have sunk into scholarly oblivion long ago.” With his fingertip Burke plucked at the tip of his third and last dart.

“You’ve harped on the same question for years, why would the Orthodox Church hide the Last Supper Dish? And you’ve repeated the same tired answer—if they can’t produce it after centuries, then the Vatican must have it.”

Squinting as he took aim, Burke readied the third dart for a finishing strike. “Once I get to Istanbul, I gotta feeling I’m gonna find that Dish.” The dart stabbed the old professor’s heart with a satisfying thunk.

Scene 1

Game Between Churches

Hall of Pontifical Audiences

Vatican City

Thursday, February 18

“. . . thus, considering our desire for greater Christian unity with our Orthodox brothers and sisters, I propose that on my trip to Istanbul in March to celebrate the Feast of Forgiveness with Patriarch Philotheos, I will return to him the Last Supper Dish.”

As Pope Boniface X ended his speech, murmurings arose from about the table. Before him in the conference room sat thirty men who held various positions in the Catholic hierarchy. Boniface had hand-selected them to hear this announcement. He’d invited two additional guests to this special, closed-door meeting. They were not Catholics but Orthodox archbishops.

Hearing Boniface’s proposal, Cardinal Marek Klimek, the Prefect of the Causes of Saints, called out, “But Your Holiness, the Dish is ours!” A man seated next to him, Bishop Henri Fortier, Vicariate of Istanbul, agreed, “Yes, it’s been safely held by the Papacy for eight hundred years. There’s no reason to change that!” Across the room, Cardinal Eduardo Donizetti, President of the Christian Unity Council, dissented, “Ours? There was a time, you recall, when our two churches weren’t divided.”

And so, the debate began, a debate centuries in the making. Catholicism. Orthodoxy. Christianity’s two largest churches, born in the first century during the height of the Roman Empire. Cardinal Eduardo was right—there had only been one united Church back then. But differences in culture and language had slowly divided the western Christians loyal to Rome from their eastern brothers and sisters loyal to Constantinople.

Cardinal Marek addressed Boniface. “Your Holiness, it’s my responsibility to protect our Church’s relics. What you propose would endanger the Last Supper Dish. I voiced the same concern three years ago when you first suggested giving Patriarch Philotheos the Dish and the relics of Saint Kosmo the Dignified. The future of Orthodoxy in Istanbul is tenuous. They’re under pressure from the Turkish government. Most Greeks have left the city. The Church of Saint George can’t arrange the necessary security.”

“But three years ago when Philotheos visited Rome, he left with Saint Kosmo’s relics. You agreed to their return,” Boniface said.

“But the Dish is different,” Marek countered. “It’s the only object we have that Jesus himself touched. Our Lord performed a miracle with it when he revealed Judas Iscariot to be his betrayer. It should be guarded by the strongest Church on earth. Giving it away would be a scandal.”

“I wouldn’t be giving it away. I would be giving it back,” Boniface said. All the men knew what he meant. According to Church tradition, the Last Supper Dish had been given by the Apostle John to his disciple Polycarp. Eventually, the Dish came to Constantine the Great when he established his empire and made Constantinople his capital. Later, Emperor Justinian placed the Dish in his great church, Hagia Sophia. For nearly a thousand years, the Dish was the jewel of the Byzantine Empire. Until the Catholics plundered it.

“But Your Holiness,” Marek hastened to reply, “if not for the Fourth Crusade of 1204, the Dish may have been lost. When our crusaders took Constantinople, they saved the Dish, which no doubt would’ve been destroyed when the Ottomans conquered Constantinople in 1453. That basilica where the Dish was kept—Hagia Sophia—it’s now a mosque. God used the crusade to transfer the Dish to our care. We returned the relics of Saint Kosmo three years ago. A great offer of peace since he’s one of their saints. What has Patriarch Philotheos done in return?”

“He’s invited me to Istanbul,” Boniface replied. “It’s a step forward in our Dialogues of Love. That’s my hope.”

Henri, a quintessential French snob, spoke. “Your Holiness, your American naïveté is touching. I agree with Marek. You’d only put the Dish at risk. As a resident of Istanbul, I can confirm the pitiful state of the Orthodox Church there. Philotheos will have difficulty finding his successor. What will happen to the Dish when the ancient bishopric of Constantinople is no more?” He nodded toward the two Orthodox archbishops who sat to the side of the room. “Of course, we’d never wish for such a profound loss,” he added, barely disguising his insincerity.

Boniface heard rustling from the seats along the wall. The Orthodox archbishops, Chrysanthus and Leronymos, whispered between themselves. The younger Leronymos appeared ready to stand. Chrysanthus held him back. Their flowing beards failed to hide their fuming countenances.

Marek held up a folder. “Your Holiness, I started a petition. Here are thousands of signatures from members of the Curia and the priesthood. The laity won’t like seeing Mother Church stripped of her most precious jewel. The Dish draws five million visitors to Vatican City annually—five million. Many affirm that beholding it is a profound experience.”

The folder was passed from hand to hand up to Boniface. When he received the petition, he thrust it at his secretary.

“I told you, Your Holiness,” his secretary muttered, “but you wouldn’t listen.”

Across the table from Marek, Cardinal Eduardo spoke. “I must apologize to our two revered guests—if you won’t do so.” Eduardo looked sharply at Boniface and gestured toward the Orthodox archbishops. “Marek and Henri describe so eloquently the degraded state of Orthodoxy in Turkey as a reason not to return the Dish. Why let them go on this way, Your Holiness? You’re too steeped in American democracy and are pushed around at your own meeting.”

“They do call me the Yankee Pope,” Boniface said.

Several men chuckled. Boniface was from New York. Ten years prior, upon his election as the first American pontiff, he’d been called the Yankee Pope by a journalist. It’d been meant as an insult, but Boniface embraced it.

Eduardo went on: “Let’s not pretend the vulnerability of Orthodoxy in Istanbul is a vagary of history. We are the cause. Who made the Byzantine Empire ripe for Sultan Mehmet to pluck? We did. We occupied Constantinople for fifty years. Two centuries later, when Mehmet besieged the city, did we seriously try to help them defend it? No! The fact that we possess the Last Supper Dish is a legacy of our betrayal. We should give back the Dish.”

“You think giving the Dish back will atone for our many sins? Will the Dish be sufficient payment, do you think?” Marek asked sarcastically. “Who will calculate the reparations, and how shall they be distributed? We can sell Saint Peter’s Basilica. Surely, that would be enough. Would Patriarch Philotheos even accept the Dish as payment? Shall we ask our Orthodox guests for their opinion?”

Boniface invited Archbishops Chrysanthus and Leronymos to address the room.

The elder Chrysanthus stood proudly in his flowing black cassock. “No.” He sat back down.

“No, you won’t speak?” Boniface asked.

Chrysanthus stood again. “No, Patriarch Philotheos wouldn’t accept your bowl as payment since it’s worthless. A bowl used to feed the emperor’s dog. The Four Keepers preserved the true Dish for us.”

The room erupted in laughter. Some exclaimed, “Ridiculous!” and “Outrageous!”

Above the clamor could be heard Henri: “You’re steeped in delusion, believing children’s fables!” With a wry smile, Marek relaxed in his seat. The words of Chrysanthus had been sweet music to him. After all, if the Orthodox didn’t want the Dish, Boniface couldn’t give it back.

With difficulty, Boniface restored order. “Your Eminence,” he said to Chrysanthus, “you know that the story of the Four Keepers of the Dish isn’t true.”

“Do I?” Chrysanthus smirked. “Then why do we Orthodox venerate them as saints? Why do archaeologists search for their memorial shrine? Why are novels written and films made? Why do Dishers the world over still search for the Dish?” He glared at Boniface.

Boniface made no reply. “The story” to which he’d referred was known to everyone in the room. It was the story of Kostas, Zoticus, Panikos, and Nil—the Keepers. They claimed to have hidden the real Last Supper Dish from the crusaders. To silence them, the Latins murdered them.

Their martyrdom inspired a revolt against the Latins who occupied Constantinople. When Emperor Andronicus drove the Latins out and restored the Byzantine Empire, he built the Shrine of the Four Keepers to proclaim that the Dish was still in Constantinople, not Rome. The shrine drew pilgrims curious to see the true Dish; they were given icons of the Keepers with riddles revealing the Dish’s location. But in 1453 when Mehmet conquered Constantinople, the shrine was destroyed, and the true Dish—if it were the true Dish—lost. All that remained of this history were some ancient manuscripts and a few icons dug up by archaeologists.

Over time, the story of the Four Keepers of the true Dish had gained traction in the medieval world. People who believed it came to be called “Dishers.” Various popes throughout the centuries had tried to stamp Dishers out, but every assault upon the movement made it grow.

Henri’s voice filled the void created by Boniface’s silence. “Mere accusations aren’t evidence,” he said to Chrysanthus. “The Last Supper Dish—a dog bowl! Preposterous! You can’t produce evidence for your story. You haven’t even a scrap. If you Orthodox have had the Dish all this time, why not show it to the world?”

Eduardo nodded in agreement. “You cite novelists and filmmakers,” he said to Chrysanthus, “proof that you chase your own imagination, and that’s all.”

Henri and Eduardo, on opposite sides when it came to the fate of the Last Supper Dish, were in firm agreement on one thing—the bowl on display in the Pius-Clementine Vatican Museum was genuine.

“May I speak, Holy Father?” It was Father Frederico, the young priest who acted as Director of the Press Office for the Holy See. He was a man in touch with public opinion.

Boniface gestured for him speak.

“In my role for the Holy See, I’m very much a storyteller,” Frederico said. “So, let me tell you a story. Supposing you were to take the Dish with you to Istanbul next month and offer to return it to Philotheos? And supposing he rejects your offer? What would be the result?”

Boniface leaned forward in his chair, intrigued. “Go on.”

“Well, as a result, Philotheos would be proclaimed by the public as a hero. He’ll have thwarted the Evil Empire. Us! The Four Keepers are featured in bestselling novels and blockbuster films for a reason. Haven’t you all heard of Steve Finder? Or of Bucky Browne, the great adventurer?” Frederico looked about at ignorant faces. Except for Boniface’s face. “I see the Holy Father knows what I mean.”

“What?” Boniface said defensively as all eyes turned to him. He kept Finder’s novels on a bottom shelf in his study. “Finder writes exciting stuff.”

“The story of the Four Keepers excites the imagination because they’re freedom fighters,” Frederico said to the group. “In Finder’s novels, Bucky Browne searches for the Dish to right history’s wrongs and to protect it from greedy cardinals and popes—”

“Surely people can discern fact from fiction,” Henri scoffed.

Frederico went on. “Searching for the lost Dish—or Dishing as it’s called—has been taken up by many youths as a social justice cause. It’s a global phenomenon. There are Disher websites that report archaeological progress in search of the lost shrine. Dishers flock to famous religious sites, not for their spiritual value—rather, they hunt the Dish. One social media site alone—Dishpix.com—has eighty million subscribers. Surely, you’re all aware that Disher protests have been on the rise the last ten years?”

Several of the cardinals reluctantly nodded.

“Believe me, Holy Father, if you make Patriarch Philotheos a hero by enabling him to publicly reject you, Dishpix.com will grow to one hundred million subscribers by the year’s end. Dishers will stage a grand protest in Saint Peter’s Square demanding you admit the real Dish is still out there, and that our Dish is a fake. And next year’s summer blockbuster in America will be yet another Bucky Browne adventure in search of the lost Dish.”

“And . . . what if I do nothing?” Boniface asked Frederico.

Frederico shrugged. “Look around you.” He gestured at the assembly to indicate the status quo. “The game between our churches will go on.”

Archbishops Chrysanthus and Leronymos leered at Boniface as if in triumph. They stood. “We will make our report to His All Holiness Philotheos,” Chrysanthus said.

“This absurd game has to stop,” Boniface said.

“You laugh and belittle us. You try to pawn a fake relic on to us,” Chrysanthus said. “But I assure you, Yankee Pope, the last laugh belongs to us.”

“Ha!” Leronymos added with a smirk.

The two archbishops left behind a silent room.

Scene 2

Learning Opportunity

Istanbul Museum of Ancient History

Monday, February 22

“I was so delighted to get your call, Zainab. I fear my hip is too far gone for any field work,” Professor Papadopoulos said, tapping his cane. “But here’s the student I recommended to you.” He placed a hand on the shoulder of the young man standing next to him. “I’m honored you agreed to let Giulio take part in this excavation. I’ll make sure my protégé does well for you.”

“This dig is a golden opportunity,” Ayhan said to Papadopoulos. “A good word from any of the archaeologists in this room will make his career. Excuse me, but I think Dr. Burke is ready to begin the meeting.”

Zainab Ayhan was the curator of the Istanbul Museum of Ancient History, the first woman to hold the position. She drew stares as she mingled with the thirty or so professors and students gathered in the Processing Lab. For she was beautiful, tall with raven hair. She wore a tailored suit accented with a red scarf.

Papadopoulos’s student Giulio Makarios was among those who stared. An amused smile creased the old professor’s face as he steered Giulio to seats at the back of the lab. “Dr. Ayhan is well-connected in the antiquities trade,” he explained to his student, “but it’s Adam Burke I really want you to meet. Perhaps you should stay focussed?”

Giulio sheepishly ran his hand through his shaggy black hair. “Right. Got it, Professor Papi.”

Burke and a pudgy, pasty young man were fussing over a laptop at the front of the lab.

“What’s your impression of Burke?” Papi asked Giulio.

“Honestly? He doesn’t look like the guy who found the only Nil icon in existence,” Giulio said in a low voice. The Disher scholar who posed with his artifacts in magazine like National Geographic and Unearthed was more dashing than this real-life, paunchy, freckled, balding Burke who gazed at people over his glasses. The sleeves of Burke’s dress shirt were rolled up, exposing his hairless forearms, and his khakis were out of style. “But thanks again for this chance,” Giulio added quickly as if afraid he’d said something wrong.

Papi chortled and scanned the room. Zainab wasn’t kidding. This is rare company. With keen interest he noticed that among those taking seats were Dr. Foo of the Beijing Institute and Dr. Calvino from the University of Rome. Both were heavy hitters in Dishing scholarship. Dr. Hromadova, a rising star, was also present. Only Adam Burke, the acclaimed Ultimate Dish Seeker, could have gathered such a Disher dream team. All of them had devoted their careers to proving the Last Supper Dish at the Vatican to be a forgery. Papi suddenly felt an anxious twinge in his stomach. What do Burke and Ayhan think they will find?

“Hey everyone, thanks for coming,” Burke yelled out. “It’s my charisma, right?” He waved at Foo and Calvino, who were guffawing, but he smiled weakly at Hromadova who’d stood to clap. Turning quickly away from her back to the group, Burke said, “Seriously, we’re all here to dig up something big. Let me show you.” He began a slide presentation and barked to his assistant, “Duffy, the lights!”

A square field of bright blue appeared on the wall behind Burke’s head. The blue field was crossed by gray lines that broke and blurred in places. “Here we have a digital image from ground-penetrating radar. This is on the northern shore, under what used to be the Sirkeci Rail Station. It’s recently been demolished to make way for a passenger station for a new subway. The city would be building that station if they hadn’t bumped into this.”

Burke flipped to another slide that highlighted some of the gray lines in bright red. “I believe these lines represent the walls of a Byzantine shrine. The outer walls suggest a Greek cross, each arm being of equal length. The southern walls don’t appear to be intact. These red patches in the center must be portions of the collapsed central dome. It’s just a guess, of course. But given its size,” Burke paused dramatically, “it could be . . . the one.”

Everyone grasped the significance of his words. Among all the shrines in the world, only one mattered to Dishers.

“Omigod, Professor, does he mean the Shrine of the Four Keepers?” Giulio gushed to Papi.

“Let’s hope not,” Papi muttered. He leaned forward in his chair and rubbed his wrinkled brow. He was tense.

Giulio was confused. “But this sounds exciting!”

“Oh, uh, I only meant that you shouldn’t get your hopes up,” Papi said. “So often these excavations disappoint. You think you’ll find a palace filled with gold. You end up with a commoner’s hut filled with potsherds. A good learning opportunity for you nevertheless.”

He failed to deter Giulio’s enthusiasm. “Maybe we’ll find the Dish, Professor. Just think of that!”

That was the last thing Papi wanted to think about. With both hands he gripped the top of his cane. It was a carving that depicted a basilica with its dome painted gold. But curiously, the basilica was upside down.

It appeared to Giulio that Papi was trying to grind the strange, intricate carving down to a knob.

“Something wrong, Professor?”

“Hmm? Oh, I’m fine. Hip hurting me a bit.” It must not be! The shrine?

Burke resumed his presentation. “The ruins are fifteen or so meters below ground. We can move the dirt quickly with scrapers and backhoes, but once we get close, we’ll have to dig manually. We’ll break into two teams. Foo will lead the morning shift. Calvino’s team will take over in the afternoon. Ayhan and I will be on site overseeing. I think it’s best if Hromadova work here in the lab to clean and document any artifacts we find. Questions?”

“Scwapas? Backhoes?” Foo asked. “From where?”

“Adam, may I?” Ayhan interjected.

Burke yielded the floor; Duffy flipped on the lights.

Ayhan addressed the group with a prim smile. “The prospects before us are immense. The monetary value of what we uncover may be considerable, but the historical implications are incalculable. I must speak to you now, not as a museum curator but as a representative of the excavation’s proponents—the investors of the Marmara Metro Project as well as Turkey’s Ministry of Transportation and Ministry of Culture and Tourism. These entities are providing us with the machinery and material support.”

She paused to adjust her scarf. “For those who are unaware, the metro project is an underground, high-speed rail that will join the European and Asian peninsulas of Istanbul. It will be vital to our economy. Unfortunately, the project is four years behind schedule and three billion dollars over budget. Marmara investors cannot brook further delay.”

“What are you saying?” Calvino asked.

Ayhan cleared her throat and glanced at Burke. “I’m saying we have . . . only six weeks to complete the dig.”

Calvino leaped to his feet. “Impossible!” Others supported his sentiment.

Burke stepped in front of the assembly again. “Listen, people, I think we can do this—”

“Not the way you’ve organized it,” Calvino said. “We may be sitting on the most important find in years, we have a miniscule time frame, and you have Elena in the lab, doing nothing. I say we need three work teams on site at least.”

Burke tried to answer. “Well, er, I don’t know if—”

“She needs to be in the field,” Calvino said, “with you.”

“Da! Wit’ you!” Hromadova winked flirtatiously.

Burke gazed at Ayhan. When his gaze shifted to Hromadova, he winced a bit.

Listening to this dialogue, Papi shifted in his seat agitatedly, trying to form a plan. He felt he had to keep tabs on Burke just in case it was the Shrine of the Four Keepers they were about to dig up. Nothing of this magnitude has ever troubled the Order in my lifetime. What should I do? I’m no spy.

Burke and Calvino reorganized the dig to create three work teams, led by Foo, Calvino, and Hromadova. They were to rotate in eight hour shifts each day, digging through the night. Giulio was assigned to Team Calvino. Duffy, Burke’s assistant, distributed the schedule and instructions.

The meeting broke up. Papi stared straight ahead, deep in thought, but Giulio jumped up excitedly.

“This is awesome! You think they’ll let me operate the backhoe?” he asked Papi. “Finding the Shrine of the Four Keepers would be a dream come true.”

Papi studied the top of his cane. More like a nightmare. I can’t stop this excavation, but I can at least keep the Order informed. We must be prepared. An idea formed itself in his mind; slowly, he pushed himself up and led Giulio to the front of the lab to introduce him to Burke and Calvino. Follow your own advice—stay focused. It’s a learning opportunity.

Burke was complaining to Ayhan. “But who will run the Processing Lab?”

“I know someone at Istanbul University,” Ayhan said. “Perhaps you’ve heard of him—Dr. Sahin—”

“What? No, no, no,” Burke waved away her suggestion. “That man takes dictation for Rupert Winters. A total sycophant, Dish-denier, and—”

“Could an old, one-legged professor offer a suggestion?” Papi interrupted. He smiled serenely but his heart pounded. “I would be willing to lead the work in the lab.”

“How kind,” Ayhan said to him. “But your weak hip. I fear some injury lifting heavy objects. Who knows what architectural fragments we may have to—”

“I can enlist the aid of some more of my students. It’ll be no trouble,” Papi assured her.

“Yes, yes, Professor Pa-poopy-lus, that’s an excellent idea,” Burke said. He shook Papi’s hand warmly. “I’ve read some of your articles on TrueDishers.net. Very insightful.”

Papi inclined his head humbly. He looked down at Burke’s hand and felt a flutter of anxiety. If Burke finds the shrine, the clues to the Dish, he’ll be at great risk. As will the Order of Andronicus, even Patriarch Philotheos!

At that thought, Papi’s eyes widened, and he had an involuntary intake of breath. He covered over his anxiety by introducing Burke to his student Giulio.

Afterwards, as he and Giulio prepared to leave the lab for the day, Papi laid a hand on Giulio’s arm and said, “I’ll put a further good word in for you with Burke, but do you think you can do something for me?”

Giulio nodded eagerly. “Of course, anything.”

Papi lowered his voice. “If Burke does discover something, er, significant—”

“You mean the Dish?” Giulio asked wide-eyed.

“Er, well, yes, but anything really. The moment he does, I want you to call me.”

“But won’t the artifacts be brought here to the lab?”

“Yes, that’s exactly the point. I want to be prepared for their arrival, that’s all.”

Giulio seemed satisfied by this lie.

Yes, I’ll learn to spy. And I’ll turn my student into a spy. To protect the truth of the Dish. Papi felt the sharp corners of his cane’s upside-down church bite into his palm. I’ll do anything to keep hidden the Legacy of Andronicus.

Scene 3

Outlook Not So Good

Office of Reggie Lovett

Midtown Manhattan

Tuesday, March 2

“. . . and Miramax made us an offer for distribution. It’s just like old times!” Reggie’s eyes shone. For a producer, money was always the best news.

Natalie leaned forward to ask an important question, but Reggie rushed on: “Your shooting schedule is shaping up. Finder is on board, plus Archbishop Anthimos, and the curator Ayhan. But Professor Burke is out. And I couldn’t get you an interview wit’ the Pope, but I got you inside the ropes. You gotta pick up your press passes when you get to Istanbul.” Reggie handed Natalie some papers and pushed himself up from his desk as if to call it a day. “I just knew when you and Ray got back together, it’d all work out—”

“Wait a sec,” Natalie interrupted. She’d hardly heard anything he’d said. Something was on her mind.

“—everything is going so well. Tell Ray when you see him not to worry about Burke. We’ll get some other Disher. What you think of the heiress Jane Whitaker? She was arrested Dishing in Moscow. I may have mentioned it.”

Natalie squinted at Reggie’s bald, brown head. “Do we have to? Not a fan of Whitaker’s big-box stores.”

“Jane’s young. Pretty. An influencer, given the size of her Dishpix following.”

Just the kind of contributor Ray would like. Natalie rolled her eyes. “I hate dumbing films down. But, um, I’ll mention the Whitaker angle to Ray, okay?” she lied. “In fact, there’s something I wanted to ask you—something about Ray.”

Reggie’s face sobered. “Oh, boy. I know that look.”

“What look?” Natalie huffed and crossed to the windows. From two stories up, she could see snow swirling. March had come in like a lion. “You told me Ray was gonna apologize, but I’m still waiting. It’s been over a month. He hasn’t even mentioned the Mystic 8 Ball. You know I’m willing to give it back to him—if he asks.”

Reggie puffed out his cheeks in a long exhale.

Natalie’s tone was petulant. “I wouldn’t be here if you hadn’t convinced me. Even if it hadn’t been for Setting Out—” she paused, reluctant to discuss the documentary she’d made with Geoffrey Peagram for the BBC. They’d explored the evolution of lawn furniture as a symbol of class status. “A landmark work,” one critic had panned it.

“—er, well, what I mean is, I had other options,” Natalie went on. “I could’ve gone to L.A., shopped around my screenplay Almost a Loneliness. Ray never wanted to do fiction—or anything serious, for that matter.”

“What about Basket Case?” Reggie said. “Was serious enough to get you an Honorable Mention at Sundance.”

Natalie gave him a look. “Regg, a film about a company that bankrupts itself by building headquarters in the shape of a giant basket doesn’t tackle the big cultural issues.” She turned back to the window. “Maybe if we’d emphasized the town’s disintegration after the Bric-A-Brac Basket Company closed . . . but Ray didn’t wanna get into the politics. Wanted to keep it light.”

Reggie rubbed a hand over his head. “That’s why I suggested you two do the Dish movie—‘cause there’s somethin’ for both of y’all in the story. Got a quirky mix of tragedy and absurdity. Got ancient history, pop culture, popes and bishops all upset at each other, but also social media influencers. Have you been on Dishpix? Some of these Disher girls are cosplaying like Lara Croft—”

Natalie snorted. “I’m sure Ray likes that.”

Reggie pushed through the interruption: “—the point is, this Dishing documentary is exactly what 8 Ball Productions is all about. You two can mix it all together.”

Natalie kept her face to the window. She saw a woman across the street at the Sheraton Hotel lugging a big suitcase.

“Maybe,” she sighed, “but I’m not convinced Ray wants to challenge himself as a filmmaker. His immaturity is what broke us up to begin with. You know his infatuation with Staci—wanted us to make a film about his girlfriend. I wasn’t about to tag along with a blonde ditz model who dots the i in her name with a heart. But Ray thought her life story would have popular appeal. I told him I thought his feelings for her were clouding his professional judgment, and that Staci was just using him to launch a film career—like, that part was so obvious, but Ray denied it. Accused me of wanting to leave 8 Ball Productions for the BBC and make films with Pea Gram. He always mispronounced Geoffrey’s name on purpose. Peagram. It’s one word! So maybe I’d thought of filming with Geoffrey—I mean, we were dating—but I was fully committed to topping the success of Basket Case.”

During this speech, Reggie sat back down at his desk. He rested his chin in his hands and closed his eyes.

“And then what did Ray do but bring the Mystic 8 Ball into it,” Natalie went on. “I mean, that was my gift to him from our days at NYU. We had strict rules for how the toy could be used—for starters, only to solve creative problems for a film, not personal problems. But what did Ray do? He asked it if I was in love with Geoffrey and if making a film with him for the BBC would work. How could he? That’s not right. The Mystic 8 Ball said—I remember distinctly—Outlook Not So Good. So, Ray thought that meant he’d won the argument, but he totally broke the rules. And then he had the audacity to blame me when I wanted out. So, I mean—you know the rest—I decided to make the film with Geoffrey, and then Ray told me he didn’t want the Mystic 8 Ball anymore, tried to give it back to me. It was a gift! You can’t give a gift back. So, he was gonna throw it in the trash can at the studio and leave it there. How humiliating! So, I grabbed it and I still have it. Anytime he wants it back, he can have it. All he has to do is say he’s sorry. I insist on that.”

By the time Natalie had finished her speech, twilight had settled in. She could see her reflection in the window: long brunette hair, turtleneck sweater, and boots with chunky heels because she liked to appear taller than she was. Her green eyes shown with intensity. Except for its sullenness, her face would’ve been very pretty.

She faced Reggie: “Did Ray really tell you he missed me?” There was a hint of accusation in her voice.

Reggie was tapping his computer keyboard and was unprepared. “Say what?”

“Regg, the Mystic 8 Ball! Why won’t Ray say he’s sorry? Did he really tell you he was?”

Reggie threw up his hands. “Why would I lie to you?”

Natalie couldn’t think of a reason. Reggie had produced the two documentaries she’d made with Ray, Burger Goblin and Basket Case, and he was their friend.

“Oh, never mind. Forget I asked,” she said, feeling a bit guilty for her doubts. “I’m impatient to get it over with, that’s all. I’m ready to let it go—the Mystic 8 Ball, I mean.”

“Don’t press the issue,” Reggie advised. “Let it develop. Focus on the Dish movie. Get your careers back on track.” He got up and stood by her at the window. “I’ll let you in on a little secret—the male mind.”

“I already know it’s little,” Natalie said.

Reggie ignored her irony. “See, before any decision, a dude’s gotta test the waters.”

“What does that mean?”

“Means before a dude can say he sorry, he gotta trust he ain’t gonna face criticism.”

Natalie plucked some imaginary fuzz from her sweater. “What are you implying? I’m not critical. You said he knows he was the one at fault. What’s there to criticize?”

Reggie scratched the back of his head.

Natalie frowned. “You don’t think it was my fault?”

“All I’m sayin’ is that Ray needs encouragement. Maybe you could loosen up a bit. Smile. Pretend like the fight never happened. Maybe . . .” he waved at her turtleneck sweater.

“What’s wrong with the way I dress?”

“Nothin’, nothin’—you a poster for chic. But you look a bit uptight. Standoffish. Try a V-neck or a tight dress—”

“That’s outrageous.”

Reggie shrugged. “Word is that Ray likes it when you put your hair up in a ponytail.”

“Who told you that?”

“None other than your videographer.”

Natalie shook her head. “This can’t be serious advice.”

“You want your apology or not?”

“Should I wave pom-poms too?” Natalie grabbed her coat and purse and headed toward the door.

Reggie followed her. “Don’t go to the studio mad. I’m tryin’ to help. Nothin’ wrong with tactics. You and Ray are good business—when you together. I got a lot invested in y’all. A lot. You won’t let me down, right?”

Natalie arched her eyebrows.

“Just be sweet to him, that’s all,” Reggie implored her.

“Don’t worry.” Natalie pulled open the door. “Sweet is my middle name.”

Once she settled into a taxi on the way to the Sound Lounge in the Flatiron District, Natalie permitted herself a wry smile. So, he likes my hair up does he? Hmm. She thought she had Ray figured out from their film school days. They’d been thrown together for a class project, and despite their creative differences had become fast friends. For a time, Natalie had even considered Ray her best friend.

She fished around in her purse and extracted the toy she hoped to give back to him: the Mystic 8 Ball. It looked like a plastic billiard ball. Within it, a twenty-sided die floated in inky liquid. Ask the 8 Ball any yes-or-no question, and it would give an answer. She turned the toy over so that its clear, plastic window faced up. The inner white die pressed one of its faces against the glass. She put her thumb over it.

The taxi arrived at the Flatiron Building. She dropped the toy back into her purse, feeling smug. In the elevator up to the Sound Lounge, she wondered if she should take Reggie’s advice about tactics. What would the 8 Ball say?

She knew the answer. She didn’t have to ask. The idea of extracting Ray’s apology through her own powers appealed to her pride. How much sweetness would it take? She was about to find out.

Game on.

“Clark, play cut five again.” Ray sat on a sofa in the Sound Lounge Studio. He and videographer Clark Cannon were editing footage of an interview with Archbishop Elias of Boston, the highest-ranking cleric of the Orthodox Church in the United States.

Clark pressed a few keys and a red-bearded man in a black robe appeared on a large computer monitor:

“Here’s the rub, Mr. Cozart. Sure, the Vatican can apologize and even offer us their Dish, but what good is it to us?” (The scene cut from Elias’s face to his hands. He fidgeted with an ornate panagia of the Virgin Mary that hung about his neck.) “In the centuries since the Fourth Crusade, their church has grown in wealth and stature. Ours has suffered. Their betrayal set our churches on different destinies. How could a mere apology be enough now?”

“Stop it there,” Ray said. “That’s dramatic. You can feel his personal pain. But why’d you splice in that shot of his hands? It’d be better to keep the focus on his face.”

“Natsy’s idea,” Clark replied. “Said his fancy medallion undercuts his grievance about his church being poor. Said we should focus on the political game between churches, the ‘big social and cultural implications’ of the Dish.” Clark used air quotes as he spoke.

Ray grunted. “Figures. She wants this film to be some grand statement. I knew she’d be tempted in this direction when Reggie first suggested a documentary about the Dish. Everything’s gotta be so weighty with her. But tragic stuff doesn’t have broad appeal. We should make this film like our first one, Burger Goblin. That’s what people want.”

Clark grinned. “Remember that game the dude played? I still got it on my phone.”

“Dungeon Cook?”

“Yeah, man. Can’t beat it. So freaking hard.”

“See! My point exactly. Fun stuff stays with you. A story of a chef giving up his career to compete in video game tournaments—lots of people identified with that.”

“You want me to resume the footage?” Clark asked.

Ray gazed at Elias’s hands holding the golden medallion. “Imagine waiting hundreds of years for an apology,” he mumbled. “I’ve been waiting for Natalie’s apology for a few weeks, and I’m almost at my limit.”

Clark spun in his chair and faced Ray. “Dude, you guys gotta work it out. You’ll drive me crazy.”

Ray ran a hand through his chestnut hair. “What can I do? Reggie told me she regrets going off with Pea Gram, that she wants to apologize for taking the Mystic 8 Ball.”

“Oh, she took it, did she? I thought you didn’t want it.”

“No, no, that’s not the story!” Ray pushed himself up off the sofa. He eyed the perch chair at the bar table where Natalie always sat. That was her spot. His spot was the sofa. Their first day at the studio, they’d made their choices and hadn’t deviated since. “Whatever she told you is wrong,” he said. “I remember it distinctly. Did I ever tell you?”

Clark reached for a candy bar in a pocket on his camouflage pants. “The Affair of the Mystic 8 Ball? No never.”

Ray ignored Clark’s irony. “So, we were deciding what to film after Basket Case, batting around ideas and stuff. And I remember the Dish movie came up, and some other ideas, but we couldn’t really agree. And I suggested—innocently enough—Staci and a film about the fashion industry. And Nat just totally lost it, said that I was letting my personal desires cloud my judgment—”

“Which you’d neber do,” Clark said with his mouth full.

“Absolutely not! I mean, okay, so I was dating Staci off and on, but so what? So, there I am thinking only of what’s best for 8 Ball Productions, when Nat snatches the Mystic 8 Ball from the desk and asks it if Staci would be good film material. And the 8 Ball said—Outlook Not So Good.” Ray gestured dramatically and waited for Clark’s reaction.

Clark shrugged and licked his fingers. “So, the 8 Ball was right. We made Babe Game with Staci. It was a disaster. Then she left you for some Italian actor.”

“Dude, that is not the point!” Ray said. “Don’t you see? Precedent and tradition! Nat and I had established the 8 Ball’s proper scope. You remember for Burger Goblin we had that huge fight about including our footage of the chef losing the championship? We asked the 8 Ball if we should, and it said, Most Likely. Turned out to be the film’s best scene.” He waggled his finger at Clark. “That’s proper 8 Ball usage. She broke the rules! Questions gotta be about a film we’re working on, not about whether we choose this or that topic for an upcoming project. That answer didn’t count.”

“I’ve never heard that rule before,” Clark said.

“Dude, I’m not finished. See, her question was about Staci. She was trying to get at me personally, which isn’t allowed. So, she suggests a film about social justice, and I know that idea’s comin’ right outta the mouth of Pea Gram.” Ray jutted his chin smugly. “British dude she thinks is so smart. Believes he’s discovered the secret to social inequality. Guess what the secret is? Lawn furniture! Gotta tell everyone about it. I mean, who the hell cares about lawn furniture? But no, Nat wants to make a movie with him.”

“Lemme guess—you used the 8 Ball,” Clark grinned.

“An act of self-defence! Forced retaliation,” Ray said. “I asked it if Pea Gram’s movie would succeed. Outlook Not So Good, it said. Back-to-back identical answers—never happened before. So, she gets mad, accuses me of breaking the rules, says she doesn’t care what the 8 Ball says, her next film’s gonna be with Pea Gram, not with me. Who’d want her 8 Ball after that? I sure didn’t. She totally tainted it.”

Ray slumped back down on the sofa. The loss of Natalie’s friendship had affected him deeply. She’d been the only woman who had ever taken his ideas seriously.

Clark crumpled the candy bar wrapper and shot it toward a trash can. “Three-pointer from downtown!”

The wrapper glanced off the edge of the can.

“Need more arch,” Ray said.

Clark bent to retrieve the wrapper. “Can’t you just bring up the subject with her?”

“Well, I would, but she’s supposed to apologize and return the 8 Ball. That’s what Reggie said. We could wipe the slate clean and go back to the way it used to be. She’s the one who started the mess. I mean, anyone can see that. Reggie warned me to give her time, that confronting her would make it worse. So, I’m waiting.”

Clark shot the wrapper into the can—this time successfully. “Got an idea. What you think of this—you draw her out, make her want to apologize.”

“But how?”

“It’s just like when you interview someone. You don’t ask the tough question first, you use tactics. You act nice or goofy to get ‘em to let down their guard. You share a personal story, ease the person into telling the truth. You plant seeds in their mind, you act sensitive, you empathize, know what I mean? Maybe you can apply some tactics to Natalie?”

Ray’s eyes widened. “Clark, that’s brilliant!” For the first time in weeks, he felt hope.

Clark resumed the footage of the interview with the archbishop. But as Ray watched, he wasn’t thinking of edits. He was devising a different set of plans. He believed he’d be enjoying Natalie’s heartfelt apology in no time.

I’m an expert with tactics. This’ll be easy. Get ready, Nat. Game on.

Scene 4

Truths Hidden and Revealed

Atlanta, Georgia

Monday, March 8

The Summit Art Museum had just opened for the day when Jane Whitaker zipped her Range Rover into a parking space. In one motion, she collected a sleepy Baby Girl and the souvenir she’d bought in Göreme. She burst through the museum’s glass doors (or tried to—they were revolving) and dashed to the front desk. In her haste, she didn’t notice the silver sedan that had pulled into the lot behind her. Nor did she see the man in dark glasses who’d gotten out of the sedan and stood next to it, watching her.

“Is Dr. Carlisle in? I’m here to see Dr. Carlisle.” A tuft of fox fur from her jacket collar stuck to her lip gloss as she spoke, and she brushed it away impatiently.

A droopy woman with two chins occupied the front desk. She peered at Jane vacantly over her glasses.

“I called him this morning and left a message,” Jane gushed. “Just tell him it’s Jane. Dr. Carlisle knows me.”

The woman’s eyes fell on Baby Girl’s head peeking from Jane’s jacket. “We don’t allow pets.”

“She’s not a pet. She’s an E-S-A. Here, see?” Jane rolled down the neck of Baby Girl’s sweater and pulled out a pink collar with a little silver heart dangling from it. “Which means E-mo-tion-al Sup-port Animal. I have her official certificate and everything.”

The woman looked Jane up and down. “Whatcha need emotional support for? It’s just a museum.”

“Oh, ha-ha. No, she goes with me everywhere.”

“For heaven’s sake.” The woman’s chins jiggled. Without the slightest seriousness, she dialed Carlisle’s extension.

Dr. Carlisle was finishing up a conference call. Would Jane mind waiting?

Grudgingly, Jane made way for the people in line behind her and sat on a bench with a squirmy Baby Girl in her lap.

She busied herself picturing Dr. Carlisle’s face when she showed him what she’d found in Göreme. After years of skepticism, he’d finally be convinced, for to Jane there were two kinds of people in the world—Dishers (such as herself) and Dish-deniers (such as Dr. Carlisle)—and it was the duty of Dishers not only to find the lost Last Supper Dish but also to convert Dish-deniers to the belief that it was possible to find it. Jane had been working on Dr. Carlisle for several years. He was an expert in Middle Eastern antiquities. She knew this time she’d brought him irrefutable evidence.

How long could a conference call be?

A group of schoolchildren dressed identically marched into the museum. Their presence triggered a memory. Everywhere Jane had gone in Göreme she’d met a fellow Disher from the States. There was still something vaguely disappointing to her about that.

Clearly, she wasn’t the only reader of TrueDishers.net, a website held by Dishers to be the definitive source for all things Dishing. Jane read the weekly news feed which reported on excavations and discoveries relevant to the recovery of the Last Supper Dish. “The persistent press of truth overthrows even the foulest of lies.” So wrote Jimi Bowler, Jane’s favorite Disher blogger. Readers of the website called him the Disher with the Golden Tongue.

“Ms. Whitaker,” a voice said behind her. “I’m sure I know what this is about, but I’m very busy today.”

Carlisle was a short and jittery man who always wore a tweed jacket and bow tie.

“You’ve heard about the Dark Church?” Jane exclaimed.

Carlisle spied the package in her hand. “Brought me another souvenir, I see. What is it this time?”

“Something you must see,” Jane squealed, flexing at the knees. Carlisle flinched and braced himself as Jane hopped forward. He glanced past Jane to the museum entrance. There he saw that a man wearing dark glasses had just entered. Over the man’s shoulder hung a camera bag.

“. . . and the Dark Church—no one’s been able to excavate it for thirty years because of the Turkish government, but now they can. They say on TrueDishers that if the Dark Church is a monastery, then it might be the lost monastery of Saint Nil the monk, one of the Four Keepers, and if that’s the case, then it’s possible the Dish is there too, because where else could he have hidden it before he was killed?”

“Indeed,” Carlisle said, momentarily tuning in to Jane’s speech. The man in dark glasses spoke to the woman at the front desk; she glanced uncertainly at Carlisle, who nodded back at her with the slightest tilt of his head.

“Can you believe it? It’s one of the key theories. Steve Finder just wrote a novel about it,” Jane said breathlessly.

“A Steve Finder novel, eh?” Carlisle said. “What more proof do we need?”

Jane didn’t detect Carlisle’s irony. “Finder does all this research, and his stories are so a-maa-zing. This one is called Bucky Browne and the Templars of Doom. Princess Calixta and Bucky have to find the Map of Fortunatus or else—”

“Or else the world as we know it ceases to be? Amazing how often that happens, isn’t it?” Carlisle motioned her toward his office. The door was already half open, and he chose not to close it. He offered Jane a chair.

“So, you’ve come to tell me they’ve found the Last Supper Dish in this church or what have you.” Carlisle waved his hand over his desk as if shooing away a fly.

Jane sighed, all at once deflated. She began to stroke Baby Girl’s head. Once she’d arrived in Göreme, reports had begun to circulate that the Dark Church wasn’t a church after all; nor was it a monastery. The excavations had revealed something quite different, something so unexpected that Jane still had difficulty taking in the facts. She’d been so sure and had traveled so far—hundreds of Dishers had. The facts, she felt, had an obligation not to disappoint.

“No. Not yet, anyway,” Jane said, looking at Baby Girl. “The Dark Church might actually be an inn, or—” she stopped herself, confused. Dishers hadn’t been permitted to enter the excavation site, but an American she’d met had sneaked past security and taken pictures of the frescoes. The women in them had been naked. “—or, y’know, something like an inn,” she concluded lamely.

“But Finder’s novel? You were sure it held the answer.”

“Well, I wasn’t wrong. I mean, in his story they do find the lost monastery. So, I mean, if the monastery were eventually found . . .” her voice trailed off.

Carlisle tapped his fingers on his desk. “Ms. Whitaker, could I make an observation? You’re obviously a young woman of means and, er, intelligence—”

“Thank you.”

“—but, well, to put it bluntly, maybe you should divert your means and intelligence toward better ends.”

Jane stared at him blankly.

“Surely it’s occurred to you that you might be chasing something that doesn’t really exist?”

“But it has to. Why are so many people looking for it?”

Carlisle sighed. “Oh, for the same reason you are, I suppose. Because they want it to be true. It’s a shame—a shame to see people waste their time on a lost cause.”

“Just because I didn’t find the Dish this time doesn’t mean I won’t. It’s out there. You just gotta believe.”

“Your desire for something to be true doesn’t mean it is.”

“I know you don’t believe in the Dish.”

“But I do. I believe it’s in the Vatican Museum. Most scholars do. There are those on the fringes, academics without any ideas trying to get tenure by publishing something. So, they make extraordinary claims.”

“Like, just because you all believe it’s at the Vatican, doesn’t mean it’s true,” Jane mimed. She began to unwrap the package in her hands.

A shadow in the shape of a man fell across the entrance to Carlisle’s office.

Baby Girl yelped and sniffed the air.

“What’s the matter, Pookums?”

Carlisle nervously fiddled with his bow tie. “Er, Ms. Whitaker, the difference between you and me is that I believe what I believe because of the evidence, and you believe what you believe despite the evidence.”

“Nuh-uh,” Jane countered. “There’s evidence—plenty.” She tried to think of something she’d read on TrueDishers.net, but her mind got lost in a blur of assertions.

“How many times have we had a conversation just like this?” Carlisle went on. “You come to me with some trinket you’ve found, hoping I’ll validate your belief that it’s a link to the Dish. First there was the Grecian pottery. Then there was that horrible faux Roman glassware—a Victorian reproduction. Then the medieval French manuscript about bouillie—a suggestive word, I grant you, to someone with no knowledge of French.” Carlisle chuckled. “Of course, I need not mention your regrettable adventure in Moscow—”

“That wasn’t my fault,” Jane interjected without looking up. “They said I was trespassing, but the sign wasn’t clear.”

“At any rate, you’ve been so wide of the mark in every case. I’ve tried to be patient, and I don’t mean to be disparaging, really I don’t, and I’m grateful to your family for their financial contributions to—”

“Is that why you’ve been nice to me? Not that I care.”

“—no, you misunderstand. I appreciate your sincere interest in antiquities, but I must be frank—I think you’re wasting your time. I doubt you could show me convincing evidence that the real Dish is still out there.”

“Oh, is that so? How ‘bout this for convincing evidence.” Carefully, Jane lifted a small rectangular piece of wood from the folds of paper and turned the face of it toward Carlisle.

“Who’s that supposed to be?”

“Saint Nil! A gen-u-ine Nil,” Jane enunciated proudly. “With the whole riddle and everything!”

As every Disher knew, the icons of the Four Keepers—Kostas, Zoticus, Panikos, and Nil—were the key to the mystery. All anyone had to do was solve their riddles, and the icons would reveal the hidden location of the true Dish.

“Impossible,” Carlisle said. “There are several Kostas and Panikos icons in the British Museum, but no one has ever found a complete Zoticus or Nil.”

“I know! Adam Burke, the great Dish seeker, found a Nil a couple years ago, but it was broken off here.” Jane tapped the left corner of her icon. “So, the riddle was half missing. Here, hold this.” She handed the icon to Carlisle and picked up her phone. “I read about Burke’s discovery on TrueDishers. It’s like I’m following in his footsteps. Ha-ha.” She tapped her phone’s screen and thrust it at Carlisle to show him the incomplete riddle on the Nil icon Burke had found:

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Nil:
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . [ac]ross the sea
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . the Queen of Cities
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . sail again
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . the rocks
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . the port
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . ready.

“I just know the icon I got will fill in the gaps,” Jane said excitedly. “It’ll tell us the location of the Dish!”

Carlisle inspected the icon in his hands. It was painted golden all around, and a somber bearded man with bright wide eyes stared out from the center. A halo was about his head, and on his white robe were three gold crosses. In his left hand he held a book, and in the other, a bowl. There were words in Greek on the reverse side.

“Did they find this icon in the excavation of the Dark Church?” Carlisle’s voice sounded doubtful. “Because it’s unethical for artifacts to be sold like souvenirs.”

“Oh. To be honest, it was a bit confusing. The man who sold it to me didn’t speak English well. His name was Babu. He had such a cute shop in town. I went in only because there was this cat in the window, and it didn’t have a tail.”

Carlisle sat silently for a moment.

“It was destiny,” Jane giggled. “Isn’t it beautiful?”

Carlisle laid the icon on his desk and lifted a digital camera and a magnifying glass from a drawer. He snapped several pictures and then inspected the icon with the glass. “Ah, encaustic on panel. Very good. Encaustic is a painting method—beeswax. Quite common in the East.”

Jane held her breath. Her disappointment about the Dark Church had been profound indeed, but on her flight home from Göreme, she’d been unable to shake the notion that some Great Guiding Power had intervened.

Carlisle read the icon’s inscription. “Hmm, interesting.”

Jane leaned forward. “What’s interesting?”

“Speak Memory of the cunning hero, the wanderer . . .”

Jane jumped to her feet. “What’s that mean?”

“Uh—wanderer—yes—blown off course time and again.”

Jane’s heart leaped. “Who’s the wanderer? Who?”

Carlisle set down the magnifying glass. “Odysseus, I believe. Greek fellow trying to get home after the Trojan War. These lines are lifted out of Homer’s Odyssey.”

Jane remembered somewhat hazily Homer mentioned in a college textbook she’d never bothered to read. “But why are lines from the Odyssey on an icon of Saint Nil?”

“Because this isn’t an icon of Nil. It’s what we in the business call an artifake.”

“You mean—”

“There are artifacts, and then there are artifakes. An artifact is the real thing. An artifake is made to look like the real thing, but it isn’t.” Carlisle took the icon in his hands and pointed at the bearded man’s robes. “Look here—this can’t be Saint Nil because Nil was a monk. But this man is an archbishop. See the three crosses on his vestments? And look at the left-hand corner. Icons indicate the saint’s name with initials—a monogram. You can see the original monogram has been painted over—erased.”

“But he’s holding a bowl,” Jane cried forlornly.

“Yes, the cleverest deception. In an icon the saint’s right hand is raised in blessing. This man’s hand has been altered and the bowl added in. Someone went to a lot of trouble. I’d say this was originally an icon of John Chrysostom, an Orthodox saint. A late example—early nineteenth century.”

Jane slumped back into her chair. Her eyes started to sting, and she clutched Baby Girl hard to keep from crying.

“Interesting that whoever did this wrote in Greek,” Carlisle said. “They must not have known that the riddles on the existing icons of the Keepers are all written in Latin. Just another sign this is a forgery. I’m sorry, Ms. Whitaker. I hope you didn’t have much invested in it. Not that money would be a concern for you, I suppose.”

Carlisle handed the icon back to Jane. Babu had sold it to her for the bargain price of only five thousand dollars. Naturally, she’d charged the purchase to her father.

Jane stood with Baby Girl to leave. Carlisle cleared his throat loudly. The shadow in the hallway retreated.

As Jane re-crossed the museum’s lobby and pushed through the revolving door, she felt free to let the stinging in her eyes take its course.

She thought about dropping the icon in a trash receptacle along the walkway, but she couldn’t let go of it—not yet. Because she was invested in it, but it was an investment of the heart. She thought she’d changed the world.

But now her hopes were deferred. She’d failed again. It was the same old world after all. And Dr. Carlisle would probably be a Dish-denier to the end.

Moments after Jane had departed the museum in tears, a man wearing dark glasses and holding a camera with a long-range lens stepped into Dr. Carlisle’s office.

“Get what you needed?” Carlisle asked, still seated.

“Too easily,” the man said. “Do you mind?”

“Please.” Carlisle motioned to his desk. With a handkerchief he dabbed beads of sweat from his hairline.

The man set down his camera and opened his camera bag. He pulled out a digital recorder, tapped a few buttons, and Jane’s voice sounded clear and distinct: “How ‘bout this for convincing evidence.”

“Such a silly girl.” Carlisle shook his head sadly.

“Sure you don’t mind being quoted?”

“Not at all. That was the deal.”

“We’ll publish the story as an exclusive as was agreed, but it’ll reach the broader market for sure. I’ll alert my friend at the Times. It’s Jane Whitaker, after all.”

Carlisle frowned. “I don’t know how anyone’s brain could be filled with so much nothing. Tailless cat, indeed!”

The reporter smirked. “Maybe this’ll give her something to think about.”

Scene 5

A Stone Hand

Istanbul, excavation site

Monday, March 8

Giulio walked north along the central dirt path of the Sirkeci excavation site. All about him, spotlights pushed against the evening. To his left were the tall buildings of Istanbul, their tops towering above the site’s artificial halo. To Giulio’s right sat two bulldozers and a backhoe. Beyond them, people carried poles and rolls of canvas to set up a tent to sort artifacts—once some were found. The path sloped downward into an expanding pit. Slave pit, Giulio called it.

“What took you so long, Makarios?” Duffy stood at the pit’s edge.

“Why are the portable bathrooms at the front gate when we’re way back here?”

“Quit complaining and get back to work.”

Two weeks into his first excavation, the only thing Giulio had learned was that digging was like slave labor. None of the students had been allowed to use the machinery. That was reserved for the “experts,” namely Slave Master Burke and his buddies. By contrast the student-workers had to dig by hand. As Giulio descended the wooden ramp into the pit, he sidestepped students pushing wheelbarrows of dirt up. He saw others chiseling away at the west, north, and east walls. Giulio took his place in the west chamber to resume digging toward the inner west wall.

Two hours later, Giulio’s mind felt slow and his tongue, thick. When did his shift end? He dropped his spade, his sweaty arms feeling weighted with chains. Then he took off his gloves and sat down on a bucket.

“You there—McKenzie—what’s going on?”

It was the voice of Slave Master Burke.

“Nothing!” Giulio shouted up. “And it’s Makarios.”

“Well, keep at it!” Burke shouted down. “If the radar images are accurate, we’re less than a meter away.”

Giulio stooped to pick up his spade. Just then Calvino tramped down the ramp with an empty wheelbarrow.

“A gift for you,” he grinned, “courtesy of Burke.”

“Thanks,” Giulio said seething inwardly. When Calvino turned away, Giulio angrily jabbed the dirt with his spade.

Thunk.

Just his luck. Another rock. With the side of his spade, he scraped at the rock to gauge its size. When he did so, a large clump of dirt at the height of his eyes fell to his feet.

“Hey!” he called out. Before him, four shiny flat stones glinted like copper in the spotlight. He brushed away more dirt. More small copper stones appeared, all neatly arranged in curving lines. Inside the copper lines were peach stones, like the color of his own flesh. He traced the copper lines with his finger and a shape emerged. It was . . . a hand.

Giulio leaped from the bucket. Maybe it was his fatigue, but he could’ve sworn the stone hand had reached for him. “I got something!”

Instantly, Burke appeared above. “That you, McKenzie?” He flicked on a flashlight. “My God! What’s that?”

“It’s—a hand. A stone hand,” Giulio said. He omitted saying the word “just,” though he wanted to say it to assure himself that the hand couldn’t have moved.

“A hand!” Burke shouted, as though Giulio hadn’t just said so. “Duffy, I need a camera.” Burke trotted down the ramp, followed by Calvino.

With a flourish of his hand, Giulio gestured at the stones.

Burke grabbed Giulio’s spade and thrust the flashlight into his chest. “Hold this.”

Quickly, Burke squatted and scraped away more dirt, enlarging the opening Giulio had made. Golden stones appeared above the hand. “The light, McKenzie. Step to it!”

Giulio shone the light over Burke’s shoulder.

“Where’s Duffy? I need the camera.”

“A mosaic,” Calvino declared. “Those are tesserae.”

“Yes, gold-leaf,” Burke murmured to himself.

“I thought that too when I uncovered them,” Giulio said.

Burke leaned in close to the tesserae and blew dirt away. The image above the hand almost took shape. “McKenzie, hold the light steady,” he commanded. “Is Duffy here yet?”

“Yes, sir,” a voice called behind Giulio. Duffy had been running. His wheezing breaths were hot on Giulio’s neck. He was no athlete—squishy and round—just like Burke. “I brought the camera.”

“Ah, excellent.” Burke swept a brush over the mosaic. “We have a hand . . . a hand holding something.” After several more dramatic sweeps with the brush, he whispered, “A hand holding . . .?”

Suddenly, Calvino and Duffy gasped.

Burke raised both arms in victory and shouted at the sky, “A DISSHHHH!”

Giulio sucked in his breath, imagining himself on the cover of National Geographic. Just then, Burke swung his elbow hard, knocking him out of the way. Giulio stumbled backwards and tripped over the bucket.

Burke knelt beside the mosaic and rested one hand on his hip. In the other hand he held Giulio’s spade. Duffy readied the camera. Giulio raised himself from the dirt just in time to see the flash. “Now, Duffy, take some close-ups of the stones,” Burke commanded. He tossed the spade down near Giulio’s feet and took back his flashlight. “You really oughta wear a hardhat,” Burke said to him before jogging up the ramp. Calvino followed closely after.

Giulio sat rubbing the back of his head. He’d narrowly missed hitting the wheelbarrow.

Once at ground level, Burke shouted, “Listen, people!” He waved his arms theatrically. “I need your attention.”

All the crews stopped; a crowd formed around Burke.

“We’ve made first contact.” Burke pointed his flashlight down at Giulio and Duffy. Everyone cheered.

“We’ve exposed part of a mosaic. My guess was right,” Burke declared. “They’re always right. We’re on the verge of unearthing the one—” he lowered his voice “—the Shrine of the Four Keepers.” He pronounced the name reverently.

“Madre di Dio,” Calvino murmured.

“Now listen up, people,” Burke yelled. “Given the nature of our discovery, we must push forward.” He twirled his flashlight once more and swung it up over his head like a sword. “So tonight . . . we double shift!”

Many hours later, well after midnight, Burke stood at the pit’s edge, surveying his workers as they pulled away the curtain of rubble. Throughout the night, the mosaic hand had grown, becoming an arm, a torso, a neck. And then, the hot, white spotlights shown upon a face. It was the face of a man—a youth—with ringlets of hair and bright, wide eyes. He lifted a golden bowl towards heaven.

Burke recognized the face: Panikos the Youth. He didn’t need to verify the accuracy of his memory, but he did so anyway because the sight of the face thrilled him. He pulled out his phone; there was a link to an ancient manuscript on TrueDishers.net that he always kept bookmarked:

. . . yet did Emperor Andronicus learn the tale of noble Kostas, wizened Zoticus, fair Panikos, and grave Nil, and this didst serve to cheer him, for so these monks kept unto themselves knowledge of the Dish, so that the Latins findeth it not, nor would they tell forth its secret but cast it into the teeth of the Latins until the four were treacherously slain, for shame. And straightaway upon learning the martyrdom of the four, the Emperor didst build a sacred shrine—

Winters, you old Dish-denier, Burke thought. You’ll wish you’d taken the Annals of Andronicus seriously now. Mere Byzantine imperial propaganda you always call it. You think you’re so important sitting in your fancy corner office at Oxford!

“No sitting down, people! No breaks!” Burke ordered the students in the pit. “This is the Shrine of the Four Keepers. Make that dirt fly!”

The pit had grown eight, nine, ten meters deeper. Five, six, seven meters wider. How much more before they uncovered the rest of the shrine? How much more until they reached the Dish? Burke shuddered with delight. At any moment, the shrine might surrender its secrets, powerless to resist its dissection.

I am a conqueror. Soon this entire domain will be mine.

Burke relished the opportunity to tell Zainab of his discovery. Unfortunately, his guess that Hromadova might be the one for him had been a mistake. He regretted inviting her to join the dig. Zainab, however, had both superior brains and beauty. Her custom-tailored clothes disclosed her body’s every curve. Her skin was like satin, her fingers delicately slender. After years of loneliness, perhaps his search was over. Wouldn’t Winters seethe to see Burke with a woman like Zainab on his arm.

A vision flashed in Burke’s mind of himself on a throne surrounded by knights and maidens, all chanting, “Hail to Burke, the Scholar King!” Before him stood Winters bound in chains. Next to him, Queen Zainab asked, “What should his sentence be? Banishment? Or the dungeon?”

Burke’s lips twisted in a sardonic grin. He muttered, “I’m gonna banish you into scholarly oblivion, Winters.”

At his apartment, Giulio was still awake. He lay on his bed, staring at the ceiling. Hours before, when he’d arrived home after the end of his double shift, he’d thrown the pillows about the room in anger, accidentally knocking over a lamp.

Burke.

How he hated this name, but he couldn’t stop thinking it. He imagined hurling the pompous professor headfirst over the edge of the excavation pit. Splat. Maybe Duffy—that idiot—had gone over first, bouncing once or twice on his big, fat belly. The stupid pair could lie there together in the dirt, consoling each other over their broken necks.

The light of dawn penetrated the closed curtains at the foot of his bed. Impatient for lack of sleep, he got up and threw the curtains open. But all he saw beyond the window was the image of Burke posing in triumph next to the mosaic, holding a spade that he’d never once used. Damn the Slave Master for taking credit for his discovery.

An hour later after a shower, he remembered Professor Papadopoulos’s instructions to inform him as soon as any artifacts were discovered. Maybe Papi can help me.

Students were forbidden to take pictures at the site, but he’d taken one of the stone hand holding the golden bowl. It was the only proof he had that he was involved in the discovery. He emailed the picture to Papi. His message said:

“Dear Professor Papadopoulos, here is a picture of an artifact as you requested. I’m the one who found it. It’s a mosaic of Panikos the Youth. Professor Burke thinks we’ve found the Shrine of the Four Keepers. But I have a problem. Professor Burke made it look like he’s the one who found it. He pushed me aside, took photos of himself with the mosaic, and I wasn’t in any of them. What should I do? I think I should get some credit since I did most of the digging.”

Minutes after sending his message, Giulio’s phone buzzed. Papi had responded:

“Thank you for sending this to me. Very remarkable. Yes, you should be credited. I will mention the matter to Dr. Ayhan first. Burke is too busy to talk to an old, lame man. Take pictures of the entire mosaic today and send them to me. I must prepare for its preservation. That is what you should say if anyone asks what you are doing. I trust you to be discreet. Best not create a fuss. No one needs to know.”

Scene 6

Tactics

The Sound Lounge

Flatiron District, Manhattan

Monday, March 8

“How much further, Bucky?” Calixta asked.

“If I remember the Map of Fortunatus, the Chamber of the Patriarchs lies just ahead.” Abruptly, Bucky stopped, his feet on the precipice of a chasm. A stone bridge spanned it, but what lay beyond? Mist rose from the deeps, impeding their sight.

“The gateway!” Argus pointed.

“How can you be sure?” Peter asked.

“No time for doubts.” Calixta clutched one of her throwing knives. “Grimani can’t be far behind.”

“Stay behind us,” Bucky said to the two monks. He adjusted his holster. “The Dish of Christ awaits us.”

Slowly, they crossed the narrow bridge and passed through a gate. Painted angels appeared.

“Seraphim assembled to protect the Dish,” Bucky explained, longing to study the ancient frescoes.

Peter strode to the Chamber’s center. “A stone table!” he gasped. At the head of it sat a chair—a throne. On the table before the throne was an unadorned clay bowl, small enough to be held in one hand.

“The Last Supper Dish,” Calixta murmured in awe.

Reverently, Bucky approached the Dish.

“Not so fast, Professor Browne,” called a voice all too familiar. “Turn around—with your hands raised.”

When Bucky obeyed, he saw the arrogant face of Cardinal Grimani and two cloaked Templars, each with a rifle aimed at his heart. A third Templar placed a gun to Argus’s head while a fourth restrained a disarmed Calixta, her knife belt fallen to her feet.

“We have silenced the sharp-witted Princess,” Grimani sneered. “Back away from the Dish, Professor.”

Bucky looked for Peter. Did he escape?

“Here is your friend,” Grimani said.

Bucky felt his Colt pistol pulled from its holster.

“Grimani promises to spare your lives—if you don’t resist,” Peter said, tucking the gun into his cassock.

“Betrayer!” Argus cried in anguish.

“Oh, I got more than thirty pieces of silver, I assure you,” Peter winked.

“And now I grant the first of your rewards,” Grimani announced. He gestured toward the throne.

Peter sat down on it and lifted the Dish in triumph.

“Don’t, Peter!” Bucky yelled. “You read the warning on the map!”

“Fortunatus was a mad, blind fool,” Peter jeered. “Look who has the Dish now!” All at once, his eyes widened in terror. He dropped the Dish with a clatter and clutched his right hand. His fingertips burst into flame, each finger a hideous candle. “Help me!” he screamed.

“The curse of Judas!” Grimani cried. He retreated from the table in horror. “It is the true Dish.”

As fire consumed him, Peter fled from the Chamber and plunged into the chasm. Distracted by the spectacle, Grimani and his Templars failed to observe Bucky and Calixta exchange glances. Calixta dropped to one knee and threw her captor over her shoulder. Bucky dove for his pistol. It had dropped from Peter’s smoldering robe. I must get the Dish. The Colt singed his hand, but he fought against the pain.

“Get down, Argus!” he shouted and—

Natalie heard steps coming to the Sound Lounge’s door. Ray and Clark were back with pizzas. She quickly checked her ponytail and smoothed the front of her V-neck sweater. She adjusted the position of Ray’s copy of Bucky Browne and the Templars of Doom on her lap. Her opening tactic was to have Ray enter and see her seated in her perch chair in rapt enjoyment of the book.

“You finish it?” Ray asked eagerly.

Natalie’s smile projected sincerity. “Almost. Um, I can hardly put it down. They’ve reached the Chamber of the Patriarchs.” She closed the book to help clear the bar table for the pizza boxes.

“That’s a great scene. How far are you? Has Peter—”

“Don’t spoil it for me.”

“You like it, don’t you? Finder’s a great writer.”

Natalie opened her mouth to dispute this, then remembered she was trying to be sweet. Compared to her usual literary fare, Finder’s style was cliché, hackneyed, and without imagination, like a can of chicken noodle soup. But she couldn’t say that. Remember what Reggie said. Tactics!

Instead, she said, “Thanks sooo much for lending the book to me. I find the story, um, quite insightful.”

“Didya hear that, Clark?” Ray asked. “She likes it!” Ray and Clark slapped a high five.

Natalie was pleased to notice Ray hanging on her words. She went on: “I can’t wait to see the movie.”

“Remember Cave of All Fears,” Clark said to Ray with a wink, “when Lady Xenia fights the samurai assassin?”

“Food fight!” Ray grabbed a slice of pizza. “Just like we did when we made Burger Goblin. Natalie’s referee. On guard, Clark!”

Clark grabbed his own slice and assumed a karate stance.

Ray thrust his pizza at him as if it were a sword.

The two simulated the movie’s famous fight sequence.

Bucky Browne, Lady Xenia, and Princess Calixta were the inventions of Steve Finder. Two novels in his adventure series, Bucky Browne and the Midnight Crusade and Bucky Browne and the Cave of All Fears had been adapted into films. Templars of Doom, which Natalie was reading, was in pre-production. Finder had agreed to an interview for Ray and Natalie’s Dish movie. This was a strategy session.

“Who you supposed to be?” Natalie asked Clark. “The assassin or Lady Xenia?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” Ray said. “With his long girly hair?”

“C’mon, man.” Clark swung his foot at Ray’s head.

Natalie let out a genuine laugh. “Look out, Ray!”

“He could’ve been Kimber Grant’s stunt double,” Ray said, jabbing his elbow at Clark’s ear.

“Point for Ray!” Natalie played along. Encouraging Ray, point for me. “Who’s Kimber Grant?”

“She played Lady Xenia. Girl Fighter was her debut.”

Clark whistled. “Her slick, leather bodysuit—so hot.”

“That scene with her in the plane,” Ray said to Clark.

“Like, top-five crash sequences of all time.”

“Wish I’d seen Girl Fighter,” Natalie managed to choke out. In truth, Clark’s reference to Kimber’s hotness had irritated her. She’d dressed as Reggie had advised and had intuited an immediate positive response from Ray. She didn’t want thoughts of leather bodysuits to distract him.

“Guys,” she said, “time to get to work.”

Clark commandeered one of the pizzas for himself and sat down at the soundboard.

Ray pushed up the sleeves of his Henley shirt and plopped onto the sofa. “Here’s what I’m seeing—Bucky Browne! Lady Xenia! She’s trapped in the dungeon beneath the Papal Palace of Castel Gandolfo. Awaiting torture at the hands of Cardinal Scevola. Can Bucky save her? Then we cut the scene. Transition to a Finder book signing—”

“Ask him if he knows Kimber Grant,” Clark said.

“He must’ve met her at the movie premiere.”

“I mean, like, personally. Do they hang out and stuff?”

“Maybe he knows who’s gonna be cast as Calixta.”

“Yeah, man. Like, ask him if he has certain actors in mind when he writes. I’d like his autograph. Think I could get it?”

“Guys,” Natalie cut in, “we can’t ask him fanboy questions.”

Ray puckered his lips in an apparent show of impatience. “Yeah, c’mon, Clark. Get serious.” He leaned toward Natalie. “Isn’t that right, Nat?”

Natalie smiled back in appreciation. She noted Ray using his nickname for her. Signs of friendliness, good. “Now, look, Reggie said Professor Burke left the country and can’t contribute. That’s a big hole.” She consulted her iPad and continued in a teacherly tone. “We should ask Finder questions we were gonna ask Burke. To fill in the gaps. We wanted to have Burke explain the theories about where the Four Keepers hid the Dish. Finder could—”

“Hey, what about that Disher girl—Jane Whitaker?” Ray interrupted. “Reggie mentioned her. Maybe she could take Burke’s place. She sounds highly entertaining.”

“Doob, I seen her Dishpix page,” Clark said with his mouth full. “Todally hot!”

“Oh yea—” Ray started to say but glanced at Natalie. “I only mention her because she comes off as an airhead. I think her answers would make great entertainment.”

Natalie’s mind worked feverishly. She had to nip this idea in the bud. Given her designs on Ray, the last thing she needed was some rival sweetness. But she couldn’t discourage his ideas. She had to keep him focussed. “But don’t you think we need an expert? Finder is more qualified to address stuff the audience needs to know. This interview is tomorrow. We gotta think of questions.”

Ray appeared ready to argue for Jane, then changed his mind. Natalie exhaled in relief. For the next half hour, they brainstormed questions for Finder. She complimented Ray’s ideas several times and made notes on her iPad. She delighted in charts and graphs. This does feel like good old times. She had to admit Ray’s boyish charm and twinkling brown eyes were attractive.

“Okay—we’re gonna ask Finder how he uses the history of the Four Keepers in his books, how he interprets the riddles on the Keeper icons, and why he thinks his books are so popular. Any other ideas?” Natalie asked.

“Ask him if he’s a Disher,” Clark suggested.

“Why would he write about it if he’s not?” Natalie said.

“I don’t think he’s ever said he is,” Clark said.

“Dishers definitely think he’s one of them,” Ray said.

Natalie picked up Ray’s copy of Templars and turned it over. On the back cover was a big photo of Finder. He leaned with chin in one hand, a pose suggesting sensitivity and introspection. Natalie read aloud the endorsement from Business Weekly: “Steve Finder is a modern prophet in the wilderness sounding the clarion call for justice.”

“Makes him sound like an activist,” Ray said.

“I bet he’s not a Disher,” Clark said. “Bet he writes about it just to meet women like Kimber.”

Ray guffawed. “Dude, now you’re thinking.”

The two of them fist bumped.

For a moment Natalie forgot herself. “Does everything have to be about hot women?” she complained. Her ponytail swayed. She caught Ray’s gaze and shifted course. “Um, I mean, he’s such a great writer for the Disher movement.” She felt herself blush. “What I mean is, would Finder lie to his fan base?”

“Well, if his books are just tactics for money and fame, he’d never own up to it. He’d be a total phony,” Ray said.

“You got your own tactics. I bet you could make him confess,” Clark said to Ray.

“I wouldn’t push it,” Natalie said. She studied her iPad to avoid looking at Ray. “Finder’s too experienced. He’s been interviewed a hundred times. He’d dodge a question about his personal beliefs and motives.”

“How ‘bout this,” Ray said, “we ask him what he thinks would happen if the true Dish were ever found. How does he think the world would change? That sorta gets at the issue of what he believes in without asking him directly.”

Natalie had to admit that was clever.

“Tactics,” Clark said. The men exchanged a thumbs up.

After they went through final reminders of the equipment they needed to bring to the interview, Clark got his coat and left. Natalie expected Ray to follow Clark out, but he stayed to help her clean up the pizza boxes and napkins. Then he sat back down on the sofa.

It’s working! Maybe he’s ready to apologize!

She employed her greatest tactic yet and sat down on the sofa next to him.

Ray sat on the sofa in a contrived posture of contemplation. He felt a flush of pleasure when Natalie sat down next to him, but he controlled it tightly. Success! Surely, she must be ready to apologize. How could she resist? He’d been brilliant the whole evening, in his opinion.

Certainly, Templars of Doom had paved the way to her heart. Clark had suggested giving Natalie one of Finder’s books to read to “break the ice” between them. “Books are great conversation starters,” Clark had said. Ray had chosen Templars because the story featured several characters who had secrets. Those who confessed their misdeeds were redeemed, but those who didn’t—like Peter the betrayer— were doomed. He hoped Natalie would take the hint. To see her enjoying the story when he and Clark had returned with pizzas had been encouraging indeed.

The choreography between him and Clark the whole evening had been flawless. Instead of being sullen, Ray had projected his old fun-loving nature. Natalie enjoyed participating in the food fight. No doubt, she was reminded of the good times they’d shared filming Burger Goblin. Clark’s hot women comments had allowed Ray to support Natalie’s ever-present policing. Hadn’t she giggled at his antics and complimented his ideas? What a risk he’d taken calling her Nat—his old familiar nickname for her. She’d accepted it with a genuine smile, the first he’d seen from her in who knows how long. Helping her clean up the pizza boxes had been a crowning tactic.

He glanced at her seated next to him and wondered if he should speak. Natalie was looking at her iPad, but she didn’t really seem to be reading it. No, don’t ruin it. She looks vulnerable. She might apologize right now! He held his breath.

Natalie cleared her throat. “Ray, um, there’s a problem.”

“Oh, really?” Get ready, she’s gonna do it!

“Yeah, there’s a glitch in the schedule,” Natalie said. “After our interview with Finder tomorrow, we’re headed to Turkey. Gonna film Pope Boniface celebrating the Feast of Forgiveness with Patriarch Philotheos. Reggie said we need to pick up our press passes the day before the Feast at the Church of Saint George. But that’s the same day we return to Istanbul from Cappadocia, from our cave tour. What if we’re delayed? We need to get the passes before we go to Cappadocia. I don’t want anything to upset our itinerary.”

“Um, I’ll call Reggie tomorrow,” Ray said, a bit confused. He searched for some secret meaning. Was Natalie making a hidden reference to their fight and the 8 Ball? Maybe her concern about their itinerary being disrupted was connected to the disruption in their working relationship? That’s the kind of weird, esoteric symbolism Nat likes.

He tried to smile sympathetically, to hide his annoyance at being thrown off kilter. Natalie shifted positions and crossed her legs. He had to admit, she looked adorable with her ponytail and expectant eyes. Stay focussed on that apology! Create a segue. Time to unleash The Personal Story.

Ray flashed Natalie a wry grin. “I can’t believe I’m filming the Pope. I almost feel guilty.”

“Why guilty?” Natalie moved closer, interested.

“I was raised Catholic. But I haven’t been to confession in, oh, twenty years at least.”

“What’s it like? Confessing? I wouldn’t know.”

“The first time is the worst. Because the priest—at my parish it was Father Stanley. He was a meek and cheery guy. Smoked like a chimney. Went to our little-league games.”

“That doesn’t sound so bad.”

Ray leaned back into the sofa. Pause and ponder. Don’t rifle through the story. Tactics. “No, but in the confessional, he sat behind the lattice. You couldn’t see him—like a phantom. Kinda scary for a kid. You know what you need to say. There’s a formula to it. Sign of the cross, say a prayer. But you fumble and forget everything. You try to remember your sins. One time, I completely blanked on what I was supposed to confess. I—I made up something.”

“You lied to the priest?”

“Yeah. But Father Stanley was no dummy. He said, Ray, I know you messed this one up. Whatever it is, God forgives you. He knows it’s easy to mess up, but He appreciates you trying to make it right. Now, say a full rosary for lying to the priest in confession. Get outta here.” He chuckled.

Natalie laughed. “You made that up.”

Ray raised his right hand. “I totally did not.” He waited for a minute, watching her closely for signs The Personal Story had taken effect. Surely, a boyhood tale of confession would inspire her to open her heart. She must intuit from his experience that he understood and would forgive.

Natalie glanced at her watch. “Wow, it’s late. We got an early morning. I had a good time tonight, Ray. I forgot how much fun working with you can be.” She put on her coat.

Ray suppressed a grimace. How did The Story not work? “Fun, yeah. Our interview with Finder will rock. Don’t forget Templars.” He lifted the novel from the bar table and handed it to her.

“Oh, thanks. I only have one more chapter.”

“I look forward to hearing what you think.” He followed her to the studio door. That book will do the trick. Only a matter of time, Nat. I’ll crack your armor.

Scene 7

Family Business

Grandeur, Georgia

Tuesday, March 9

Max Whitaker wanted to be at Augusta National practicing his swing. The day was sunny but moderate with little to no breeze. Given such optimal golfing conditions, naturally his mother would summon him to Whiningham, the family estate, to lecture him about his daughter Jane.

“Max, I asked you a question.”

Reluctantly, Max shifted his gaze from a window to his mother. They sat in the home office that had once belonged to Max’s late father Everett Maximilian Whitaker. Patricia sat behind a claw-footed desk.

“Max?” Patricia said again. Her eyes were icy blue just like his. And just like him, Patricia was tall and broad shouldered, her face attractively angular. Her sleek, silver hair was immobile in any weather.

Max sat in a leather armchair. Though he was past fifty, his golden hair was free of gray and fell in lazy layers to his shirt collar in a strategic display of youthfulness. His teeth were unnaturally white, his nails manicured. He was, after all, the face of Whitaker Corporation and had to maintain an image. “What can I say?”

“Say you’ll put a stop to this Dishing of Jane’s!” Patricia spat out the word Dishing as if she’d swallowed a bug.

“I can’t stop her. She’s an adult.”

“An adult? Please. With that little rat dog of hers?”

“She wouldn’t listen to me. She’s never listened to me.”

“That’s just an excuse not to intervene.”

Max frowned. “It isn’t an excuse. It’s a statement of fact.”

“You only think so,” Patricia countered, narrowing her icy eyes. “When have you ever seriously tried, hmm? Your daughter goes gallivanting around the world—”

“Hmph. You think it’s so easy to help someone.”

“—making a mess and putting herself in who knows what kind of danger. Max, she went to the middle of Turkey.”

Max glanced out the window and said nothing.

“Are you listening to me?” Patricia asked irritably.

“I heard you,” Max answered crossly. “You want her grounded? I can tell Flint not to fly her anywhere, but she’ll just go to the airport or ask one of her friends.”

“Friends. Ha! Is that what you call them?”

“Meena’s the one who flew her to Moscow—”

“Dilettantes—all of them. It’s shameful.”

“—and she has her own money. Well, not technically.”

“No. Technically it’s our money. Hard-earned. Technically she has nothing.”

Max studied the ceiling. “So, shall we disinherit her?”

Patricia narrowed her eyes. “Don’t tempt me.”

“What did she cost me this time? What’s my tab?”

“This isn’t funny at all.”

“Did she buy an island and set up a Disher kingdom?”

“Dammit, Max!” Patricia slapped one hand on the desk.

Max smirked. Few things in his life amused him, but one thing that always did was pushing his mother to the brink.

“It’s a circus with reporters,” Patricia said. “Is that what you want? Another Moscow? The paparazzi chasing you around the golf course?”

“Fine.” Max sat upright. “What happened now?”

Patricia folded a newspaper in her hands, walked around her desk, and thrust the paper in Max’s face. “Front page.”

With a sigh, Max propped the paper on one knee; it was the Atlanta Journal-Constitution. WHITAKER HEIRESS FRAUD EXPOSED BY EXPERT read the headline. Max scanned the story:

Officials at the Summit Art Museum announced Friday that they have uncovered a potential forgery scheme involving Ms. Jane Whitaker, granddaughter of the late Mr. Everett Maximilian Whitaker, cofounder of Whitaker Corporation.

Dr. Frank Carlisle, curator of the museum, said he received information from Whitaker regarding a Byzantine icon purported to depict Saint Nil, a thirteenth-century Orthodox monk. “She made claims about the icon’s authenticity. But Saint Nils are rare. Only one has ever been found, and it was a partial one,” said Carlisle.

Saint Nil, one of the legendary Four Keepers of the Last Supper Dish, is a person of interest to Dish enthusiasts. “His icon is believed to hold a clue to recovering the lost Dish—if you believe it’s lost,” said Carlisle.

Photos Carlisle obtained from Whitaker provide strong evidence that the Saint Nil icon in question is a sophisticated forgery. “Upon inspection, I could see the bowl was superimposed,” said Carlisle.

Carlisle denied that the Summit Museum would ever profit from the display of inauthentic artifacts, but he confessed that he knew of other institutions that were not so scrupulous. “Dishing is big business, and the antiquities trade is one of the least policed.”

Whitaker, whose arrest in Moscow last November drew international attention to—

“That’s your daughter out there making a fool of herself.” Patricia stood over Max with her arms crossed. “Making a fool of us,” she added, returning to her desk. “That man Carlisle makes Jane sound like she’s the head of a global antiquities cartel. Did you know this story has been picked up by the Times and the Tribune? It’s like a conspiracy. Jane should’ve outgrown all this years ago.”

“Maybe she still will. Let her be.”

“I don’t understand it. Do you know what she said to me this morning when I showed her these stories? She said—People talk about me. So what? It just proves I’m special.” Patricia shook her head, experiencing afresh the consternation of her granddaughter’s reply. “I mean, really! She doesn’t care what people say, so long as they’re talking.” She let out an exasperated snort.

Max raised his eyebrows. In one instant, he saw everything clearly. Ever since he could remember, his mother had used the threat of negative press against him, to keep him obedient. He strove to hide a smile as the irony of the situation sank in: Jane is immune to negative press. He tossed the paper on Patricia’s desk.

“I don’t understand it.” Patricia opened her MacBook. “Look at this. Kathleen showed it to me. I’d no idea.”

Kathleen was Max’s older sister. She’d been close to their father Everett, though since his death, she’d latched on to Patricia.

Patricia pushed her Mac toward Max. “Jane has a Dishpix account.”

Unwillingly, Max took the Mac in his hands. On the screen was a thumbnail image of Jane looking like an elfin princess. Her eyes, wistful and languid, were shadowed in blue, and she wore a shimmery, silver kimono with a matching diamond headband that fell like fringe over her forehead. Next to this image was a heading and a tagline:

Adventures with Lady Jane
‘Cause adventure is my destiny!

Max scrolled down the screen. There were more images of Jane, an endless inventory. “What is this, a blog?”

“A social media site,” Patricia said scornfully, “for people as ridiculous as her.”

“You mean for Dishers.”

“Yes!”

Max scrolled back up to the top. In Jane’s latest post, she was posing in a street, wearing a white Barmah hat, and holding a package. There were scores of comments posted beneath it. The first one said: “totally dope hat! where can i get one?” The second one said: “looking good girl! nobody dishes like u!”

“Who’s taking these pictures?”

“She is.”

“What for?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” Patricia said sarcastically. “To document her travels.”

“Her travels. Right.” Max chuckled. “But all the pictures are of her. Oh, wait, here’s one of Baby Girl.” Max set the Mac back on the desk.

“Who does she think she is?” Patricia hissed. “Lady Jane—what the hell is that? Is she European royalty? Is she living in a Steve Finder novel? I regret encouraging her to read. Just look at this—she’s got eighteen hundred posts and over a hundred thousand followers. Why they’re following her and where she’s leading them is beyond me.”

“Probably it shouldn’t be taken literally.”

“You know what her problem is?” Patricia snapped her Mac shut. “She assumes everyone loves her. Even worse, she thinks everyone should. It doesn’t occur to her to think that some trinket salesman in a shop with a tailless cat in the middle of Turkey might be lying when he says he has a Saint Nil for sale. Everybody lies. Lying is the easiest thing—”

“Tailless cat?” Max didn’t recall any cat in the news story.

“Yes, er, um, Kathleen mentioned it.”

Patricia kept talking, but more to herself than to Max. As she spoke, she fiddled with the 6.5-carat diamond in her wedding ring. “I don’t know when this got so out of hand. I should’ve kept her close. I should’ve never let her move with you to Manhattan. I should’ve insisted she go to the University of Pennsylvania and study business. She could be such an asset at Corporate. What’s she doing at NYU? Studying fashion design, then criminal justice. Oh, what would Everett say? I thought when Gloria left . . . but maybe some things are irrevocably in the blood.”

Here Patricia’s drifting discourse ceased, as if at the mention of the name Gloria, it had found its designated port. Max could’ve predicted the ship’s bearing, as his mother often anchored on the subject of his first wife.

Gloria was Jane’s mother. And as anyone in the family could plainly see, Jane was just like her.

Max rolled his eyes. “Are you worried that Jane will squander the Whitaker fortune? Bankrupt our 8,500 retail stores by spending our 500 billion in annual sales?” He laughed. “She’d need to go on many more Dishing expeditions to cut into that.”

“How can you joke about such a thing?” Patricia asked with a glare. “Gloria left you, left Jane—and stole my jewels on her way out.” Patricia launched into the history of the family’s futile search for Gloria’s whereabouts.

“You want me to talk to Jane? Fine!” Max blurted, more to head off Patricia’s harping than out of any real desire to help her with his daughter.

“Would you?” Patricia looked pleadingly at her son; the corners of her mouth twitched in an expression that seemed almost kind. “I pray desperately that you would. After all, you’re her father.” Patricia picked up the newspaper. “And she has just suffered a betrayal from Dr. Carlisle.”

Max imagined Jane up in her room, a tearful mass of grief, and was struck by the futility of his task. Talking Jane out of Dishing would be like asking her to give up Baby Girl. The two simply went together. He put his hands on his hips and looked out the window, searching for inspiration. “Adventures with Lady Jane . . .”

“Yes, perhaps you might begin by proposing that she and her followers should disband,” Patricia suggested helpfully.

“Mm, yes.” Max’s tone was noncommittal. Inspiration had struck him, but it was inspiration of a different sort. “Saint Nil. Was that the name? The icon in the article?”

“What difference does it make?”

“It’s interesting. Saint Nil. Saint Nothing.” Max’s gaze remained fixed on the window. “Say, speaking of prayer, how do you pray to a Saint of Nothing?”

Patricia glanced at her watch. “Don’t go on with your quip, you know I don’t like irony. And don’t go far. I may need you at Corporate soon.”

Max smirked and turned toward the door. “Could a Saint of Nothing give you something? I mean, if you prayed for it—for something? Or would he just give you nothing?” He kept a straight face as he spoke, unable to resist a parting provocation.

Patricia stared furiously at her son. “Someday you’ll wish you had done something. But it’ll be too late. Jane will be gone. Just like her mother.”

Max firmly shut the door to Patricia’s office, angry that his parting shot had boomeranged. He hated to admit that his mother was good at getting to him. When she reminded him of Jane’s mother, she always hit the bull’s-eye.

Patricia expected him to jump to her every command. He’d intended to hike up the Grand East Staircase and have it out with Jane in her room. But delaying his talk with Jane would irritate his mother. He always felt some pleasure from disappointing her.

As Max headed toward his car, he thought about how Jane was so like Gloria. Both women also disappointed his mother. Gloria had fled from the Whitaker Empire. Jane has found her way out too.

And maybe, after all, he didn’t want that to change.

Patricia leaned back in her chair and grinned. Her son’s childish efforts to rile her up amused her. She never tired of the game they played because she usually won.

She was stronger than Max. And he knew it. He might whine and moan, and even fail at times, but he always obeyed. That’s what mattered.

Her granddaughter, however, resisted.

That will change soon.

Patricia walked about her office. She ran her fingers along the surfaces of the massive desk, the leather chairs, the bookcases. These were once her late husband’s things, but she claimed them. She wandered to the far wall on which were mounted Everett’s hunting trophies. She especially liked to look at the face of the lion frozen in mid-roar with its great teeth bared.

Patricia had long been preparing for the hunt. Max would no doubt fail to convince Jane of anything. But he was one tool of many that she was employing to soften Jane’s obstinacy. Soon Kathleen would procure the greatest tool—an irresistible lure that would ensnare her prey.

Jane will be mine.

Scene 8

Signs Align

Istanbul, excavation site

Tuesday, March 9

“Adam, how impressive,” Ayhan gasped. She’d just descended the ramp and entered the pit facing the west wall of the shrine. She wore a red-leather jacket and held a thermos and two paper cups. Her eyes widened as she beheld the bright image of a monk. His beardless face was framed by ringlets of hair. His eyes twinkled mischievously, or perhaps it was the effect of the morning light. The crisp, white rays of dawn played upon the mosaic, causing the tesserae to sparkle like diamonds.

“Yes, isn’t it?” Burke grinned. He swept a brush over the image like an artist finishing a portrait.

Ayhan poured them cups of coffee and set down the thermos. “You work alone? Where are the others?”

“Asleep. We spent all night digging out Panikos here. Quite the undertaking, but with my supervision—”

“Adam, you worked all night? You need to rest.”

Burke waved away Ayhan’s concern. “I’ve waited my whole life for this, Zainab. And I wanted to be the one to introduce you to our new friend—Panikos the Youth, one of the Four Keepers.” Burke addressed the mosaic: “Panikos, meet Dr. Zainab Ayhan, curator of the Museum of Ancient History. Here’s to the beginning of a beautiful friendship.” Burke raised his cup in the gesture of a toast.

Ayhan smiled and tapped her cup to his. And a profitable one, I hope. “How can you be sure it’s Panikos?” she asked, though she could see from the halo that it was. Every known icon of Panikos depicted him with a halo that resembled the petals of a sunflower. She took Burke’s brush from his hand and swept the bristles along the youth’s neck and down his waist. The folds of his robe accentuated his slim hip.

“I didn’t expect it to be so very large,” she murmured, as with unhurried strokes, she caressed the line of his leg. “The proportions are excellent. Magnificent.”

Her eyes lingered on the golden bowl Panikos held aloft. Where did you hide it, young saint?

Burke was noticeably silent.

When Ayhan looked at him, she caught him peering at her breasts. His face flushed.

“An extraordinary find,” she went on as if she hadn’t noticed Burke’s gaze. She was used to such attention and sometimes encouraged it. But she could see no value in encouraging Burke. At least, not yet. She handed his brush back to him. “You’ve outdone yourself, Professor.”

Burke lifted the brush from her hand and quickly slid it into his back pocket. “Er, uh, it’s Panikos for sure.” He scratched out some debris in a crevice on Panikos’s hip. “Our young monk here—the Annals of Andronicus describe his complexion as fair. I checked the reference last night.”

“The Annals were written by the emperor’s historian.”

“Right. Theodore Metochites. There can be no doubt this is the Shrine of the Four Keepers,” Burke said. “I felt it from the first. Weeks ago, when you called me—I just had a hunch. My guess was right. They always are. I’ve felt for a long time that I have a certain destiny. I can’t explain it.”

“There should be mosaics of the other three Keepers if it’s the fabled shrine.”

“Yes, I expect to find Kostas or Zoticus here,” Burke pointed to the left of Panikos. “And maybe Nil would be to the right.” He gestured to the rough wall at the edge of the chamber. “We need to form a trench in that direction,” he pointed east. “If this is the west chamber, then—”

“Then that way is the apse,” Ayhan interjected.

“Right. And the altar if it survived.”

Ayhan shuddered with tingling pleasure. Never had she dared to imagine such an investment opportunity. Could the Dish be here? Her partner would expect a report. She’d already seen enough to be able to give him good news. To compose herself, she sipped her coffee, then turned over a bucket and set her cup down.

Burke set his cup next to hers.

“To me Putney is the real clincher,” he said, “not the Annals. Putney’s travelogue is remarkable—the earliest text we have that locates the Shrine of the Four Keepers in Constantinople. He visited the shrine in, oh, 1350, I believe.”

“Ah, Putney, the famed English pilgrim. Does he describe this mosaic?”

“I’ll read it to you. I have Putney on speed-dial,” Burke joked, holding up his phone:

And when I entered the hall, lo, the Four Keepers encircled me and filled mine Soul with awe. Kostas standeth tall and stern, his black eyes see the black secrets of mine Heart. He poureth out Judgment with the Dish. Panikos the Youth dances with Joy, for the Dish is his blessing from God. The wise and aged Zoticus peereth into the Dish and seeth there its Divine Mysteries. And grave Nil holdeth the Dish close unto his breast, for he and his brothers are charged to keep the Secrets of Man. These are the words of them that serve the Shrine to teach pilgrims the true Mysteries of the Dish. I record them so all may know.

Ayhan’s attention wandered as Burke read. But near the end, her mind zeroed in. “Mysteries of the Dish? That means the pilgrims saw the Dish at the shrine.”

“I agree, but it’s a matter of scholarly controversy,” Burke said. “But consider his description of Panikos. He says the monk is dancing. As you can see on the wall, Panikos lifts his left leg from the ground with the toes pointed down, as if he’s a ballerina.” Burke touched the glassy surface of the mosaic with his fingertips. “This is the very same wall Putney described seven hundred years ago. I’ve always thought Putney was being poetic. But he describes what he saw literally. Amazing.”

Ayhan stepped forward and placed her hand on the mosaic next to Burke’s. “Adam, do you think,” her voice dropped dramatically, “you will find the Dish?”

“I think it very likely,” Burke said softly.

“Is that your guess?” Ayhan said, batting her lashes. She decided a little flirtation would do no harm. If Burke did find the Dish, then it would be to her advantage to keep him close. “Maybe finding it is your destiny?”

Burke gazed up at the golden bowl in Panikos’s hand. “I can feel it. Can you?” Burke asked.

“Feel it?”

“The truth of history, Zainab. All the signs are aligning.”

Burke removed his hand from the mosaic and eagerly tapped on his phone.

“What more sign do you need?” Ayhan asked with a little laugh. She instantly regretted encouraging Burke’s desire. He’d probably read Putney to her for hours, and she’d never escape. She already had all the information she needed to make a full report. To plan her exit, she removed the coffee cups from the bucket and sat down. She sipped from hers. Burke’s cup she set in the dirt.

“Foo uncovered this gem yesterday,” Burke said, handing her his phone. There was a photo of a thick, triangular block of limestone with writing on it.

Ayhan gave the photo a cursory glance. “What does Foo think of the inscription?” She handed the phone back to Burke and looked up at Panikos and his golden bowl.

Burke swiped the screen to show her a close-up. “This is part of the lintel over the shrine’s entrance. You can really see the inscription in this photo.” Burke pinched it to zoom in on the words. “Can you read it? It’s sorta fuzzy.”

“You can read it, I’m sure.” Ayhan cast her eyes about, looking for her thermos.

“Yes, but I want to see if you recognize it.”

“Should I?” Ayhan reluctantly took the phone. “Stipendia—what is that in English? Stipend or—”

“Wages,” Burke said.

She read again: “Peccati . . . this word is unfamiliar to me.” Shaking her head impatiently, she handed the phone back to Burke. “I—I cannot read further.”

“Peccati means sin,” Burke explained. “Wages of sin. In English this fragment says—keep until the wages of sin are paid. Now that should ring a bell.” Burke searched Ayhan’s face for signs the bell had rung. “PUTNEY!”

Ayhan shook her head, nonplussed.

“You don’t recognize the passage?” Disappointed, Burke held the phone toward her. “Putney records these exact words as he enters the shrine. Isn’t that tremendous? Give me a second, and I’ll show you.”

“No, please, no need to look it up for me.” Ayhan glanced at her watch. She picked up her thermos and stood to leave.

“Here it is. I have it, I have it.” Burke motioned her to wait, while reading:

I passed beneath the gate and, lo, there above me was written: The Dish of Christ revealeth he that is true and he that betrays. And this Legacy we keep, until the Wages of Sin are paid. And, lo, upon reading such words, mine own Heart quailed within me, till my steps faltered, lest I wouldst approach the Most Holy altar with mine own Soul stained with Sin and—

That reference to betrayal irritated Ayhan. She patted Burke’s arm to signal she was done listening. “A great moment. I’m happy for you. But I must go. I have work to do—the museum’s new Byzantine art exhibition opens in a few days.” She made her way to the ramp that led out, annoyed to see that Burke followed her.

The sun was fully up, but the air had become chilly.

“Be happy for us, Zainab,” Burke blurted. “Just think—this find changes the entire field of medieval archaeology.”

Halfway up the ramp, Ayhan looked back. Burke was several paces behind. “Please take a rest, Adam. You look—how do you Americans say it?—strung out.”

She quickened her pace to further the distance between them and was gratified when Burke chose not to close it.

She navigated the site without another look back. Her thoughts, however, remained behind. As she neared the security fence and the entrance gate, she saw before her eyes only a golden bowl floating in empty space. The bowl was detached, disconnected from person or place. Like a circle, it was perfectly complete. Independent.

This find will change many things. For me.

The security guard opened the gate for her; she ignored him as she stepped past, her mind whirling with possibilities. She had a phone call to make.

I am happy for us, she thought, briefly recalling Burke’s last words to her. She strode with purpose towards her car.

Very happy.

Holding his phone in one hand, Burke trudged back down the ramp. Watching Ayhan leave had filled him with a vague sense of futility. His queen wasn’t supposed to walk away like that. All at once he felt the full weight of his fatigue. He bent his knees and slowly lowered himself onto the bucket. As he did so, he kicked over his coffee cup. He regretted this, but the coffee had long grown cold anyway. He bent and picked up the cup, looked at it for a moment, then crumpled it in his hand.

I’m on the verge. But only when I have the Dish, will my life change.

All the while, the dancing Panikos with the sunflower halo and the golden bowl smiled down at him.

Scene 9

Full Arsenal

Upper West Side, Manhattan

Tuesday, March 9

Ray hummed the music to the Bucky Browne films as he turned the SUV onto Amsterdam Avenue. The day was frosty. Snow clung to bare tree branches. He glanced at Natalie who sat in the passenger seat finishing Finder’s novel. Tactics still progressing. Soon he’d interview Finder himself, and he loved the uncertainties of interviews. What secret, unexpected nugget of information would he discover?

Suddenly, Natalie snapped shut Templars of Doom.

“Where are you in the story now?” Ray asked eagerly.

She adjusted her sunglasses. “Um, they just figured out the dish they found was a booby trap, not the real one, after all. The Chamber collapsed on Grimani.”

“Then there’s just the epilogue,” Ray gushed. “They solve the riddle of Zoticus to start another quest. Finder sets up the next novel. Oops, sorry for the spoiler.”

“So, we never learn why the Dish is hidden to begin with?” Natalie dropped the book into her purse.

Ray was confused. “Well, Argus the monk gives that big speech, doesn’t he? About how the Dish’s spiritual powers have to be protected from the greedy Catholics.”

Natalie smoothed a fold in her skirt. “I got that part. But there’s a problem with that explanation.”

Ray tried to read Natalie’s face, but he couldn’t see her eyes through her sunglasses. Should he debate the novel’s merits with her? What was the proper tactic? He decided to show some interest in her opinion. She loves literary analysis. I’ll bite. “So, what’s the problem?”

Natalie clutched her hands in her lap; she seemed to be in some battle with herself. “Oh, it’s nothing—just, well, if the Orthodox Church has the Dish, and the Dish has power like Argus says, then why don’t they just use the Dish to stop the Catholics? That’s easier than devising riddles and quests.” She smirked. “It’s a massive plot hole.”

Ray pressed his lips in a tight line. Plot hole? It’s the basis for the entire series. Natalie had to be missing something. It couldn’t be that easy to undercut a story millions of people—including himself—liked. Don’t argue. He sidestepped the issue. “So, what did you think about all the characters having to confess dark secrets from their past? Even Calixta had a secret.” He held his breath in anticipation. Nat’s just like Calixta. She must see the connection.

“The secrets were thematic, I guess. I didn’t think Calixta’s secret was that bad. All the characters are totally forgettable—er, I mean, unforgettable! I’m sooo wrapped up in the story.” She flashed Ray a quick smile, then peered out the passenger window. “I know you like these kinds of books. If you wanna share others, I’d be really interested. Like, I’m being seriously honest.”

Ray furrowed his brow. Was Natalie just humoring him? Or was the interest she expressed genuine?

Clark chimed in from the back seat. “They hide the Dish so Finder can keep writing all his novels and movie scripts. Without ‘em, he can’t live on the Upper West Side.”

Natalie laughed nervously. “Probably not a plot hole. A great writer like Finder will deal with it in the next book.”

Ray didn’t speak again until he parked at Finder’s townhouse. Natalie got out and retrieved her audio bag from the back seat. Clark gently lifted out his camera. As Ray raised the gate to get the lighting equipment, he felt his mood sour. His key tactic had failed. Natalie’s supposed to be inspired to confess her regret and to give me back the 8 Ball, not get caught up in a stupid plot point. Equipment bags in hand, he joined Natalie on the snow-covered sidewalk.

“Did I say something wrong?” she wanted to know.

“Maybe Finder would think so,” Ray laughed. “I’m just mentally preparing for the big interview.” He followed her up the walk; her boots left deep footprints. The swish of her ponytail was hypnotic. He had no more thoughts of tactics.

They climbed the stoop to Finder’s brownstone. Natalie rang the doorbell, and Finder appeared at once. He was immaculately dressed, his hair meticulously arranged. With piercing violet eyes, he examined Natalie from head to toe. Ray reached to shake his hand, but Finder bowed to Natalie.

“Ms. Ashbrook! These men make you shoulder not one but two burdens?” Finder gestured toward her purse and audio bag.

“Oh, Mr. Finder, it’s just my sound gear—”

“Call me Steve. May I call you Natalie? You’re a damsel in distress! Allow me.” Finder lifted the audio bag from Natalie’s shoulder and escorted her in. Ray and Clark followed.

Finder gave them a tour of rooms filled with natural hardwoods, antiques, and leather furniture.

“These paintings are beautiful. Byzantine, aren’t they?” Natalie asked when they were in Finder’s office.

“You’ve a discerning eye,” Finder said. “This is a triptych from the collection of Patriarch Maximus, from 1470. I was told that the saints depicted were alive to him. He had it hanging in his private chapel.” Finder winked. “Pretty trinkets I’ve gathered during my research trips.”

Finder led them to the fifth floor, to a sun-flooded sitting room with a skylight. He opened the terrace door and motioned them outside. When Natalie hesitated for fear of heights, Finder gallantly took her hand.

“This,” he said, pirouetting, “is my urban oasis.”

“Wonderful.” Natalie put her hand to her throat.

“You can see where you parked if you forget,” Ray said.

Natalie elbowed Ray sharply. “You’re not noticing what matters—the winter sky, the snow, the trees.”

“Bare ruined choirs where late the sweet birds sang,” Finder murmured pensively.

“Man, that’s beautiful,” Clark said. “Did you write that?”

“Shakespeare.” Finder and Natalie answered in unison. The two of them laughed at the coincidence, then began swapping favorite lines from English poets.

Ray stood by watching them with growing irritation. Dude is using tactics. On Natalie! And they’re working! He had a momentary vision of her with that uptight egghead Geoffrey Peagram. Suddenly, Ray’s thoughts were engulfed by a great ocean of feeling for Natalie. He was shocked to discover his jealousy. I don’t want to lose her again.

Finder had maneuvered close enough to Natalie to peer into her purse. From it, he lifted Ray’s copy of Templars of Doom. “Why, look at this,” Finder said, pleased.

Natalie blushed. “Oh, yes. I—I was reading it.”

He opened the cover. “No autograph. That won’t do. How ‘bout after our interview? Say, are you chilly?” Finder put his arm about her shoulders to guide her back inside.

Ray signalled Clark to stay. “Dude, you were right! See how smarmy Finder is with Natalie? He doesn’t give a damn about Disher justice. He writes his novels to pick up chicks, just like you said last night! And Natalie—she’s—she’s—”

“Finder’s smooth as butter. We’re watching a true talent,” Clark said, casually aiming his camera through the terrace doors at Finder and Natalie. He’d been secretly recording since entering Finder’s home. After all, he named all his cameras Sneak Peek.

Ray tried to hide his jealousy. “I—I don’t want Finder to distract Nat. I gotta separate ‘em.” He felt a surprising surge of anger, and with it, a need to prove to Natalie that Finder was as phony as he suspected him of being. He had one chance—the interview.

He nudged Clark. “Listen, I’m gonna try . . . well, if I stop the interview suddenly, or whatever happens, you keep the camera rolling, okay? Let Sneak Peek do his thing. I’m gonna give this guy my full arsenal of tactics. Stupid questions, abrupt shifts, reversals, flattery. It’s time for war!”

Ray convinced Finder that they should rearrange his office to capture him “in the best natural light.” Under Finder’s direction, Ray and Clark moved pictures and repositioned his Louis XVI desk by a window. Finder and Natalie chatted.

“Of course, I’ve seen Setting Out,” Finder told her. “A powerful work that reveals great truth. It can’t be appreciated until years into the future.”

“The fate of many artists,” Natalie sighed regretfully.

Finder shared her sadness. “I fear my success is temporary. Bucky Browne will fade away when the public moves on. Nothing I do will have the lasting impact of Setting Out.”

“Have I mentioned I wrote a screenplay?” Natalie asked. “Almost a Loneliness, about a poet’s search for love. The title is a line from Emily Dickinson.”

“I want to hear more—” Finder said to her eagerly, then with a turn to Ray: “oh, wait, let me move that myself.” He lifted from Ray’s hands a Roman architectural fragment depicting a crouching lion in relief. “According to my dealer, it’s one of a kind.” Finder placed it in a far corner.

Clark held a framed movie poster featuring the actors Ramsey King as Bucky Browne and Kimber Grant as Lady Xenia. “Hey, Steve, think you could get us an interview with Xenia—and Bucky too?”

“Unlikely,” Finder said. “Maybe I could get you Kimber and Ramsey—not the characters they play. To get Xenia and Bucky, you’d have to pay Disney and me licensing fees. Doubt you could afford it.” He smirked smugly.

Natalie tried to clip a lavaliere microphone to Finder’s lapel, but it slipped out of her hand and fell on the floor.

“Here, let me get that.” Finder reached for it at the same time as Natalie did, and their hands touched.

Giggling, Natalie clipped the mike again. “How clumsy. You’d think I’ve never done this before.”

“You haven’t done it to me,” Finder said to her softly.

Ray heard all of this. His eyes drilled holes into the back of Finder’s head. He felt for sure that proving Finder a phony would result in Natalie gladly returning the Mystic 8 Ball. How that was supposed to work, he couldn’t have explained. But that wasn’t the point. Game on, jackass.

“Guys, let’s do a quick warmup.” He motioned Finder to sit at his desk. Clark readied his camera, and Natalie put on her headset. Ray explained to Finder, “I’ll ask some softballs to get you comfortable. After Clark and Natalie adjust the visual and audio, we’ll start filming then.”

Ray scratched his ear, which was the secret signal to Clark and Natalie to start recording right away. From long experience, they knew what to do.

“Steve, you’ve conquered the literary world, and with the success of the first two Bucky Browne films, you’re a jet setter in Hollywood.”

Finder smiled. “I’ve been fortunate.”

“You’ve attended galas with top women actors—Kimber Grant, Pepper Richards, Kitty Lightly. Can you share any crazy stories?”

Finder lit up, ready to speak, but then he glanced at Natalie. “Ah, er, all that is arranged by our agents. Contrary to her public image, Pepper has a smart, dry sense of humor—almost wicked. And many don’t know Kitty’s devotion to animal rights is fanatical.”

“And Kimber?” Ray gave a knowing smile. “She’s picky about the roles she plays. Did you ask her to play Xenia?”

Finder laughed uneasily. “An exotic beauty. Perfect for Xenia. She was excellent in both films. But she’s a very private person. Strictly business. Talks about acting all—”

“Oh, is that why you gave Bucky a new sidekick, Calixta, in book three?” Ray asked with a wink. Opening jab. I know you’re only writing so you can meet new actresses.

Finder sat up. “What? No. What do you mean? That was a plot choice. Xenia couldn’t be in book three because—”

Ray held up a hand. Dodged like a pro. “Just kidding, Steve. I think we’re ready.” Ray took his seat beside the camera and flipped open his notebook.

“I’ve never been in a serious documentary,” Finder said with a glance at Natalie. “Let’s do it.”

“Before Bucky Browne, the Last Supper Dish was mainly a debate topic among religious figures and archaeologists. What enticed you to turn it into a pop culture adventure?”

“The icons of Kostas and Panikos did,” Finder answered. “I saw them at the Smithsonian. Didn’t know anything about them, but the placard said the riddles puzzled theologians. One riddle says—Latin invaders, remember the words of Kostas. God still guards the Queen of Cities and her most precious treasure. If you dare desire the Dish of Christ, go and find my brothers.” Finder became lively and gestured with both hands. “The riddle intrigued me. What’s it mean? Scholars say the Byzantine iconographers sought to reveal the Dish’s location. Must be the case, or else the icon is a lie. Kostas invites us on a treasure hunt for all four icons. That idea became my first book, The Midnight Crusade.”

“And the Panikos icon?” Ray asked.

“Oh, right!” Finder recited again: “Latin supplicants, study the message of Panikos. Present yourselves at the gathering of the Twelve. Kneel before Andrew and pray for your souls, for you will soon enter the earth. Well, that riddle lists three locations. Likely the Twelve refers to Christ’s apostles. They gathered in Jerusalem. Then kneel to Andrew. According to church history, the Apostle Andrew’s ministry took him to Kiev. He died—entered the earth—in Constantinople. So, my second novel Cave of All Fears became a whirlwind tour of Israel and Russia, ending at Hagia Sophia in Istanbul.”

“What about the other Keepers, Zoticus and Nil?”

Finder spread his hands in mock supplication. “You’ve earned your reputation for ferreting out weird secrets, Mr. Cozart. You caught me! My first two books had a lot of research. But the Nil riddle? All we have is a mention of a port. So, the plot of Templars of Doom ends in a boat trip down a river in Cappadocia. I admit, I faked it all! Since no icon of Zoticus has ever been found, maybe I’ll send Bucky to the moon in book four, who knows?”

Ray shared Finder’s laugh. He’s smooth. Makes a big deal of sharing a secret that’s harmless. “Maybe someone will help you out and find a Zoticus soon.”

An instant of worry showed on Finder’s face. “I hope not! I’d have to re-plot my outline.” He laughed. “Anyway, it’s very unlikely. Records show the icons were created by the Order of Andronicus. I believe Professor Burke’s theory that the monks gave out Kostas and Panikos icons freely to attract pilgrims to the Shrine of the Four Keepers. Standard business practice of medieval churches. But they held onto the Zoticus and Nil icons, maybe only gave out those to big donors. Like my stone lion, some things are for exclusive clientele. But the Shrine, the Order, and their stash of icons were wiped out when the city became Istanbul.”

“Even the Dish?” Ray looked innocently at his notes.

“Even the—” Finder paused. “Er, I mean, even the possibility the Dish remains hidden encourages all Dishers.”

I almost got you to admit you don’t believe in any hidden Dish. Let’s try a reversal. “Would it bother you if the true Dish were found?”

Finder frowned for a moment as he worked out an answer. “Yes. I’d be concerned about becoming a conceited braggart since I would be proven right. Ha-ha.”

Let’s try an abrupt shift. “I wanna discuss your massive fan base. Dishers buy multiple copies of your books and pass them on to their friends like religious tracts. Millions of Dishpix users host online read-a-thons for their followers. Can you explain this devotion?”

Finder shrugged his shoulders. “I’ve tapped into something common to people, especially the young. Many see themselves as rebels against powerful social systems, as possessors of a unique truth. In my books, the Catholic Church is that powerful system. Bucky pursues a truth—that the Dish is still out there—which resists that system. The truth might even topple the system for the sake of justice. Millions of readers support that worldview.”

Let’s give you two bad choices. “You just give readers what they want. You’re not anti-Catholic on principle.”

Finder hesitated. “Yes, I give readers . . . a more accurate way of putting it is that I’m an artist in tune with my audience. But I’m not for or against any church.”

“But your biggest villains are Catholic cardinals. Scevola. Grimani. What’s next, Pope Darth Vader?” Ray grinned. “What happens if you get some Catholic backlash?”

“There really hasn’t been any. Actually, I think the Pope is a fan.” Finder smirked. “He sent me a nice letter.”

“A rare honor!” Ray leaned forward with interest.

“Sure is. His Holiness requested an autographed copy of Cave of All Fears,” Finder bragged.

“Did you send one to him?”

“With my warmest regards. Maybe you’d like one too.”

Ray returned Finder’s grin. Knockout! Now Nat sees you’re a phony. “You and Pope Boniface are best buds. So much for toppling the system. All your Disher fans will love knowing your clarion call for justice is fake.” As soon as Ray said this, he realized he shouldn’t have. Time to retreat.

“Wait, what?” Finder said.

“Okay, that’s it.” Ray stood. “Clark, Natalie, cut it there.”

Finder jumped up. “I didn’t say I was best friends with the Pope. You gotta give me a chance to explain.”

“But we’re out of time. Clark, how’re we doin’ on time?”

Clark’s look was noncommittal.

“See?” Ray said to Finder with a shrug of his shoulders.

Swiftly, Finder stepped to Ray’s side of the desk. “Look, I know what you’re up to. You’ve been tryin’ to ambush me in this interview--get me to say things to embarrass myself!” Finder jabbed his finger into Ray’s chest. “But you’re so incompetent, I caught you!”

“Don’t point at me!” Ray slapped Finder’s hand away. He didn’t know what to say next because Finder was right.

“Guys, stop,” Natalie pleaded, removing her headset.

Ray noticed Natalie and inspiration struck. “You’re the one who’s incompetent!” he said to Finder. “We just read Templars of Doom, and it’s filled with plot holes. There’s no point to Bucky’s adventure. It’s stupid for the Orthodox monks to have hidden their own Dish.”

“It isn’t stupid,” Finder snapped. “They hid the Dish to protect it from the Catholics.”

“That’s what I said, but Natalie explained that if the Dish has spiritual powers, then the Orthodox should just use it to defeat the Catholics straight up. The whole thing’s dumb.”

Finder scratched his head as if opening a tiny fissure for the truth to sink in.

“Isn’t that what you said, Nat?” Ray asked her eagerly.

Natalie subtly signaled Ray with her hand to cut it.

Finder glared at her.

Natalie reddened. “I didn’t say it . . . quite like that.”

Finder ripped off the lapel microphone. “I’m STEVE FINDER! You got that? One of the greatest writers in the world! You make documentaries! Ha! Let’s face it, a Bucky Browne film makes more money in one opening day than you all could hope to make in your lifetimes.”

He strode to his office door and jerked it open. “I’m done! Have fun making your worthless film without me. Now get out!”

Scene 10

The Secret Order of Andronicus

Office of the Patriarchate, annex to the

Church of Saint George, Istanbul

Wednesday, March 10

“All rise for the Head of the Secret Order.” Around a conference table, seven bearded men in black clerical robes pushed back their chairs. Gabriel waited until everyone was silent, and anyway, Papadopoulos always needed extra time to stand because of his hip. However, as Gabriel scanned the assembly, he saw that Papi’s chair was empty. Where was the old professor?

It was past time to begin. Gabriel pulled open the set of mahogany doors, and His Most Divine All Holiness, the Archbishop of Constantinople and Patriarch of the Eastern Orthodox Church entered his Throne Room.

The Patriarch’s black robe and the long veil hanging from his kamilavka rustled as he strode toward the dais which held his throne. He had a long, white beard and sunken eyes.

The men before him bowed in reverence.

Gabriel closed the doors and took his usual place at the table to the right of the throne. “His All Holiness Philotheos will now lead us in the opening ritual,” he intoned.

Philotheos lifted his right hand above his head as if he were holding an object. “Behold, the Dish of Christ.”

“Gone! The heretics claim it,” the men replied in unison.

“Truth has become lies.”

“And with lies, we expose the truth.”

“The betrayers laugh, but the last one is ours.”

“This is the Legacy of Emperor Andronicus.”

“And this we keep until the wages of sin are paid.”

For a moment all were silent. Philotheos slowly lowered his hand and sat down on his throne. “The annual meeting of the Secret Order of Andronicus now begins.”

The men about the table took their seats.

Secret Order meetings were always held in the Throne Room on the first floor of the Patriarchate, the three-story office building behind the Church of Saint George. The Throne Room wasn’t a secret room at all; much church business was conducted there. The Church of Saint George had been the seat of Orthodox Christianity for hundreds of years, ever since the fall of Constantinople to the Ottomans.

Pleasant banter filled the room. Most of the men about the table were long-time members of the Order and knew each other well, even though they only met once a year—more if there was an emergency. Only one emergency meeting had ever been called during Philotheos’s tenure.

“Let’s take attendance,” Philotheos said, breaking into the chatter. “Brother Gabriel will distribute the sign-in sheet. Don’t insert silly nicknames, Lerry.”

Leronymos, the young Archbishop of Italy, adamantly denied responsibility.

Gabriel, the Patriarch’s secretary, opened his portfolio planner. A dog-eared document threatened to fall from it as he rummaged for the attendance sheet.

Philotheos noted Papi’s empty chair. “Where’s Papadopoulos? Anyone know? It’s unlike him to miss a meeting—and what’s happened to Brother Elias?” Philotheos pointed to the table opposite him. There a computer sat on a mobile workstation wheeled in for the occasion.

Three monks in black cassocks fussed over a router, a set of speakers, and a 30-inch monitor. The monitor should’ve been displaying the red-bearded face of Elias, the Archbishop of Boston. It didn’t.

“We apologize for the delay, Your All Holiness,” said Leo, one of the monks. He drew near the throne and bowed. “The computer is new. We had to rewire everything and reinstall some software. We would’ve been finished an hour ago if Brother Theo hadn’t lost the wiring diagrams.”

“I heard that,” Theo called out from behind the computer. “I didn’t lose them. They weren’t in the box.”

Leo smiled meekly and inclined his head toward Philotheos, satisfied that he’d insulated himself from blame. He was the eldest of the three monks and had a wiry, fan-shaped gray beard. When he rejoined his brother monks at the computer, he found Theo still hunched behind it, perplexed by a Medusa’s head of wires. “You’re testing the Patriarch’s patience,” he muttered over Theo’s shoulder.

“Hmm, where does this go?” Theo held up a speaker wire. His square, reddish beard was immaculately groomed; he stroked it contemplatively.

“It goes above the router,” a nasally voice instructed. A face appeared from behind the computer. Winnipeg Joe was the youngest of the monks, and his face was plump and framed by a bushy, blond beard and a wavy mane of hair that threatened to depose his brimless, black skufia cap.

“Which wire is the router?” Theo asked.

“He means here.” Leo pointed to a USB port.

“No, how could it?” Theo showed Leo the speaker wire. “Look, my plug is round—it can’t fit.”

“Well, try the red one—it’s round.”

“Hey, guys,” Winnipeg’s voice squeaked in exasperation. He pressed the bridge of his thick glasses to the top of his nose, but the lenses drooped again immediately. “It’s the green one. The inputs are all grouped above the router. You weren’t listening.” He jabbed the mouse with his stubby fingers. “Finally! Okay, guys, the software has updated. I’m sending the call to Boston.”

Leo went to report to the Patriarch, and the face of Archbishop Elias soon appeared.

In the interim, Gabriel had passed out the minutes of the previous meeting and collected the attendance sheet.

Philotheos addressed the men. “Has no one been in touch with Papi? Diogenes, you’re his close friend.”

Diogenes, the diminutive abbot of the Monastery of Megisti Lavra on Mount Athos in Greece, adjusted his small, round spectacles. “The last I heard, he said he was keeping tabs on something. Was very mysterious. Gave no details. This was weeks ago. I assumed he’d be here to report.”

“Oh!” Gabriel exclaimed. “Yes, I remember now. Papi left me a message. Said he was taking part in some excavation in the city.” His cherub cheeks glowed bright red. He hated to be caught forgetting details.

There was a complaint from the table.

“What’s that, Chrys? Your copy of the minutes has a smudge? Will it truly bother you?” asked the Patriarch. “Very well. Brother Gabriel, give Chrys another copy.”

The old and crotchety Archbishop Chrysanthus of Athens was appeased.

“Any emendations to the minutes?” Philotheos asked.

A hand shot up. Philotheos could’ve predicted this. “Yes, Anthimos, you have the floor.”

Anthimos, the influential Archbishop of Chalcedon, had thick cheeks and a silver beard with a streak of black down the middle. Due to his status, he was the only member of the Order whose skufia was red rather than black. He adjusted the cap briefly before he spoke. With his other hand he fiddled with a gold pendant that hung about his neck. The pendant bore an ancient image, one that had adorned the crowns of the Byzantine emperors. It depicted a double-headed eagle with outstretched wings. The eagle had rubies for eyes and held a cross and a globe in its claws.

“The minutes say I was absent at the last meeting.” Anthimos eyed Gabriel accusingly. “But I was merely late.”

“I remember his presence,” Lerry declared.

Philotheos regarded Anthimos coolly, unmoved by the mild challenge in the archbishop’s voice. “We all remember your presence. You’re many things, Anthimos, and one of them is memorable. The minutes will be amended.”

Anthimos smiled at Philotheos, but his smile curled quickly into a sneer. Chrys whispered something to him, and Anthimos laughed. Philotheos suppressed the urge to frown and decided it was best he didn’t know what was said.

“I move that the minutes be accepted—with revisions,” Diogenes said.

There was a murmuring of assent from the voting members. The secretary Gabriel and the monks Leo, Theo, and Winnipeg were mere initiates of the Order and enjoyed no voting rights. “The minutes are accepted. Does the Order need to consider any old business? Yes, Diogenes.”

The diminutive abbot distributed some papers.

“This is the projected budget for the coming year. Note that while our expenditures for subsidizing our gatekeepers and for contracting our field agents to commit our nefarious deeds remain unchanged (Diogenes used air quotes for the word nefarious), our website outlays have increased. I’m happy to report that our new design has increased traffic significantly. Users like the new search function. Our archived articles and blogs are getting a fresh read, plus—”

“Especially Jimi Bowler, the Disher with the Golden Tongue,” Winnipeg interrupted, winking at Diogenes.

“Jimi, Jimi, Jimi!” Theo chanted. A few others joined in.

“Please. Please. I’ve had great material to work with this year,” Diogenes said, deflecting the praise. “The excavations at the Dark Church, for instance, and Steve Finder’s new Bucky Browne novel. Events this year have caused a buzz among Dishers, and we’ve capitalized on that. I’m confident we’ll see dividends in the coming years. Thank you, thank you all, for your contributions to the website. Elias and Chrys, especially. Your series of blogs on the Cappadocian monasteries and on the symbolic significance of the Dish have been extremely popular. There may be many imitators, but there’s only one TrueDishers.net.”

Lerry clapped, trying to start general applause. Philotheos stared him into silence.

“But as I said,” Diogenes continued, “these site upgrades have increased our outlays to the tune of $18,000. See page two. Most of this is maintenance for the site.”

“That’s troublesome,” Philotheos said.

“We had to invest in back-up services and enhanced security. The site’s improved functionality increases our credibility. If we continue to generate compelling creative content, then I predict both a substantial growth in readership and in donations. The increased profitability should be enough to offset our outlays. More than enough.”

The men expressed satisfaction with their profits.

“I consider this expense a worthwhile investment, Your All Holiness,” Elias said. “The Secret Order must continue the work of Andronicus into the twenty-first century.”

“I move to accept the budget,” Anthimos said.

“Second,” Chrys said.

The operating budget was approved.

“Is there any other old business?” Philotheos asked.

The men eyed each other, waiting to see who would venture to bring up the one subject they didn’t want to discuss. By a consensus of eyes, the duty fell to Elias.

“Er, Your All Holiness, there’s the matter of the overtures made by the Vatican.”

Philotheos looked up at the ceiling and frowned. This was old business indeed. Very old business.

“He doesn’t really want to give the Dish back . . . does he?” Winnipeg asked.

Philotheos drummed his fingers on the arm of his throne. “I don’t know, my son. I don’t know.”

“If he does want to give it back,” Anthimos said, leaning forward so all could see him, “we reject his offer. You must reject his offer, Your All Holiness.”

Debate ensued.

They’d been debating this question for three years. The trouble had started one winter day when Pope Boniface X had publicly apologized for the Fourth Crusade and had invited Philotheos to Rome. As a result, the Order’s meeting that year had been particularly animated. Several members, Anthimos among them, had objected to Philotheos accepting the Pope’s invitation. “We’re Orthodox!” he’d shouted. “They’re Catholic! We don’t like them. That’s what makes us Orthodox!” A compromise had been reached: Philotheos would accept Boniface’s invitation, but the Order, through TrueDishers.net, would accuse the Vatican of scheming to garner more power at the expense of the Orthodox Church. “It’s very convenient to beg forgiveness from a position of strength,” Diogenes (as Jimi Bowler) had written.

Upon the Patriarch’s arrival in Rome, he’d been astonished to discover that Boniface wished to return to him the relics of Saint Kosmo the Dignified, which had been swiped by the crusaders. Later, after a photo op for the press, Boniface had drawn Philotheos aside and said, “There’s been conversation among the cardinals concerning the Dish. Significant conversation.”

So as not to be outdone, Philotheos had invited Boniface to Istanbul. He was to arrive in two weeks to celebrate the Feast of Forgiveness. Would Boniface bring the Last Supper Dish with him? That was the question.

Chrys gestured toward Philotheos. “Your All Holiness, shall Lerry and I now give our report from our attendance at Boniface’s secret meeting?”

The men about the table buzzed with surprise. Anthimos nearly leapt from his seat. “Secret meeting? You attended a secret meeting?” He eyed Lerry with astonishment.

“I did. A very exclusive affair. The Pope’s invitation to me was hand-delivered. Such rich, buff stationary. Personally signed,” Lerry said beaming. After glancing around the table, he added in a gruff voice, “But it was distasteful to sit so near him, surrounded by his closest advisors.”

Chrys guffawed. “So conceited a gang of betrayers I have never seen. But we couldn’t pass up a chance to learn the Yankee Pope’s current stratagem.”

As the men listened raptly, Chrys went on to relay what had transpired among Boniface and the bishops. “. . . and you should’ve seen his face when we spurned his proposal. Ha! My eloquent speech inspired resistance from his own Latin ranks as well. His hands are tied.”

The men congratulated Chrys and Lerry for their work on behalf of the Order. But Philotheos wasn’t satisfied.

“Your Eminences,” he said, “we must remain cautious with Boniface. He courts my friendship. Why? What’s his game? For nearly a decade now, he’s patiently maneuvered his church into rapprochement with ours despite resistance from all quarters. Chrys and Lerry’s rejection of his offer means little to him. I’m convinced they were merely messengers to convey his intention to me to return the Dish.” Philotheos gripped the arms of his throne. “I sense he’ll make me an offer at the Feast. Such a move would—oh, it would ruin us! Destroy what our Order has protected for centuries. I need not tell you.”

“Maybe we should prepare for the worst,” Elias said.

“The Latin game is always the same—domination,” Anthimos said. “Fling that worthless dog bowl back in his face, Your All Holiness. We’ve challenged the authenticity of their cherished prize for hundreds of years. We can’t now accept it as the real Dish of Christ. The Dish is out there,” he pointed at one of the curtained windows, “not with them. What would the laity in our Church think if you suddenly changed your mind on the issue?”

“But rejecting Boniface’s offer would violate the spirit of the Dialogues of Love,” Diogenes said to Philotheos.

“Good,” Anthimos snorted.

“That would not be good,” Philotheos said sternly. “We must face certain realities. Have you walked the streets of Istanbul? Have you asked yourselves—where are all the Greeks? We face onerous taxes, churches in disrepair. We don’t even have enough numbers in this city to merit being called a minority. Extinction would be the final disgrace. We must prevent that.” As he looked from man to man, each looked away. “No, we can’t jeopardize the Dialogues of Love. Politically, we need an alliance with the Catholics.”

“I agree with His All Holiness,” Leo said.

“What can we do?” Gabriel asked. “We have only two weeks until the Feast.” He double-checked his planner.

“We must discourage Boniface from making the offer at all,” Elias said.

Philotheos raised his eyebrows. “But how?”

Elias smirked. “By doing what the Order does best.”

It took them an hour to flesh out the particulars: Diogenes (as Jimi Bowler) would start a rumor via TrueDishers.net that Boniface had sent an envoy to a town in Russia to investigate reports that the real Dish of Christ had been found. Of course, the exact town couldn’t clearly be identified, and reports varied as to whether the Dish had been discovered in a crypt beneath a church or in a hermit’s cave in the Caucasus Mountains . . . but what mattered was that the Vatican intended to suppress knowledge of the discovery. Elias would, as usual, alert the local news station in Boston which would call the Vatican for a statement, thus making Boniface aware of the accusation. Assuming the story gained traction among Dishers and even better, with international press outlets, they could likely count on Boniface delaying his offer until the rumors were laid to rest. He wouldn’t wish his visit to be marred by controversy.

“It would at least buy us some time,” Elias said.

“Just the kind of compelling creative content our site and our readers demand,” Diogenes said, chuckling.

“But will that ridiculous story offend Boniface?” Philotheos asked. “We can’t ruin my fragile rapport with him.”

“Put out a statement questioning the rumor,” Diogenes suggested. “It would align you with Boniface while at the same time giving our story additional media attention.”

“There’s the upcoming art exhibition in a few days,” Gabriel eagerly reminded Philotheos, happy to have remembered something. “A Catholic delegation will be present. It might be an opportunity for you to express confidence in the goodwill of our Western friends—”

“Bah! Friends!” Anthimos scoffed, glaring at Gabriel.

“At the same time, Your All Holiness, you should naturally still express grief over past betrayals,” Elias added. “The Orthodox laity will seek some sign that you aren’t softening your stance toward the Western heretics.”

“Our public face speaks friendship to the Latins, while we secretly laugh behind their backs,” Anthimos cheered.

Philotheos stroked his beard, considering the matter. Months previously, he’d been asked by Zainab Ayhan, curator of the Museum of Ancient History, to open a new exhibition dedicated to Byzantine art. “Fine, fine,” he replied resignedly. Crafting equivocal speeches was tedious work, but the equanimity it brought to the Order made it worth the trouble.

The motion to initiate Operation Russian Rumor passed unanimously.

“Any new business?” Philotheos asked, relieved the men had surmounted the awkward problem created by Boniface.

At once, Chrys said, “Anthimos is to appear in a film.”

Anthimos nodded smugly as Lerry applauded.

“I shall be interviewed for a documentary,” Anthimos said, “a film about the search for the Last Supper Dish, in fact. The filmmakers are evidently well-known in America. Cozart and Ashbrook are their names, I believe.”

“They’ve made a wise choice,” the monk Leo said.

Elias smiled. “They interviewed me already. Beware, Anthimos, that Cozart acts like he’s conversing causally with you, but the cameraman is secretly recording. I’ve been on camera enough to tell. Also remember you represent the Orthodox Church in the film, not the Order. We, in the Order, know exactly where the Dish is. However, the official stance of the Church is that the Dish is still lost, and we urgently search for it—”

“I know the official talking points,” Anthimos snapped.

“Irritated that you weren’t asked to be interviewed first?” Diogenes quipped.

Just then, the doors to the Throne Room swung open.

All eyes turned. It was Professor Papadopoulos.

“Papi!” several voices cheered. “That hip slow you up, Papi?” one of them teased. But Papi’s face was grim. The men noticed it and grew quiet.

Papi limped toward the throne, his cane tapping the floor. He handed Philotheos a large manila envelope.

With a troubled countenance, Philotheos undid the clasp and pulled out several photographs. “What are these?”

“Look closely,” Papi said.

Philotheos’s eyes widened in recognition. His hand shook. “What does this mean?”

“It means the Shrine of the Four Keepers . . . has been found.”

Scene 11

Searching for Answers

Grandeur, Georgia

Wednesday, March 10

Max stood on the porch of Whiningham about to open the front door and fulfil his mother’s request to have it out with Jane when he heard the limousine.

The long driveway up to Whiningham was lined with live oaks, their twisting branches creating an arched canopy. The chauffeur circled the fountain and parked next to Max’s Maserati. Max crossed his arms, awaiting the imminent appearance of his sister Kathleen.

To Max’s surprise, it wasn’t Kathleen who stepped out of the limousine—not at first. It was a woman in a blue pencil skirt and white blouse. Following her out was Toby Milto. Max rolled his eyes. Milto was Patricia’s assistant and had been for twenty years. He was Max’s age but half as tall, a thin little man with a mewing voice. Max hated him.

At last Kathleen emerged, her face plump and fleshy, her arms puffy and creased like an infant’s.

The woman in the pencil skirt reached the front steps; she carried a canvas bag. Whatever had brought them all to Whiningham, Max was glad that it involved a pretty, thirty-something woman with full-bodied hair and nice breasts.

“I’m Max.” He flashed his uber-white teeth. “Welcome to Whiningham.” He shook her hand.

“Nicole Dziedzic. Thank you sooo much for having me.”

“Dziedzic?”

“It’s Polish. Whiningham is an interesting name.”

“My father considered himself a winner who deserved his own Buckingham,” Max said wryly.

Both Max and Milto averted their eyes as Kathleen lumbered up the porch steps. Each knew better than to offer her assistance; they’d be severely rebuffed. Milto carried Kathleen’s laptop bag and her briefcase. It went without saying that this was purely professional courtesy and had nothing to do with Kathleen’s size.

“Why . . . are you . . . here?” Kathleen said to Max, pausing at the top step to catch her breath. Her patchy, round face appeared childlike except for her eyes that drilled into Max like two tiny blenders.

“Good to see you too, Leenie,” Max said with irony. Leenie was a nickname he knew she detested, as it was a name he’d given her.

“Not golfing, Mr. Whitaker?” Milto asked brightly, squinting into the sun. His pea-sized eyes shrunk even more.

“Mother know you’re here?” Kathleen eyed Max suspiciously.

“No, but I talked to her yesterday.”

“Wha’d she say?”

“Nothing much.”

“Hmph. A subject you know so much about.”

Kathleen swung her hips to propel herself past Max. Milto followed. With quick chivalry, Max strode forward to hold open the front door—for Ms. Dziedzic.

“I’m so happy to be working with you,” Nicole said to him as she stepped past. “What you’re doing is wonderful.”

Max pinched his brows in confusion. “Er, it’s nothing.”

“Hardly!” Nicole said. “Millions will thank you.”

“Jane here?” Kathleen broke in as they entered the foyer. “We’ll meet with Mrs. Whitaker first,” she explained to Nicole. Then, eying Max. “Coming to the meeting?”

Max glanced at Nicole and decided it’d be best to pretend to know what was going on. “No, I’ve already been briefed. I’m here for Jane. She’s had an incident,” he explained to Nicole. “Nothing serious. Not like Moscow. Maybe you heard about that.”

“I did. Your daughter is so interesting. I follow her on Dishpix. What happened to her?”

“It’s silly.” Max crossed his arms. “She wandered into a shop in Turkey because she saw a tailless cat, and the owner conned her into buying a rare icon that turned out to be fake. I dunno how you call that a scandal but—”

“Tailless cat?” Kathleen scoffed. “Where’d you hear that?”

“From mom.”

“What happened to the tail? Was it chopped off?”

“Probably it was one of several species of the breed,” Nicole offered. “My grandmother had a Manx named Stubs.”

“Why so surprised?” Max asked Kathleen. “Mom said you told her about the cat.”

“No, I never heard anything about a cat.”

“Why would mom say you did if you didn’t?” Max asked.

“I dunno. She’s misremembering. Jane must’ve told her.”

“Jane wouldn’t—” Max stopped himself, again confused.

“Figures Jane would be attracted by something weird,” Kathleen said to end the discussion.

As the four of them entered the Great Room, Max’s eyes followed the line of the Grand East Staircase up to Jane’s room. The strange turns in the conversation with Kathleen, Nicole, and Milto suddenly made Max want to see Jane.

Kathleen guided Nicole and Milto toward Patricia’s office in the west wing, but Max headed (after one last survey of Ms. Dziedzic) in the opposite direction. I never heard anything about a cat. How odd, thought Max as he climbed the stairs. Was his sister lying? Patricia had definitely said that Kathleen had told her about the cat. Jane would never have told Patricia. As a rule, Jane told Patricia nothing.

What are these people up to?

It was time to intervene.

Baby Girl lay curled up on a blanket on Jane’s canopy bed near a pile of pillows and Jane’s Barmah hat. She lay with her nose tucked under her tail, a posture suggesting hope of long-term peace. Kneeling at the foot of the bed, Jane rifled through an old, turquoise steamer trunk, tossing its treasures onto the mattress. As a rule, Baby Girl’s nerves were ever-alert. Every time something landed, she lifted her head to assess the danger. When Jane tossed Steve Finder’s novel Bucky Browne and the Cave of All Fears and struck Baby Girl, the dog jumped off the bed and barked.

“You’re upset, aren’t you? You wanna help Mama!”

Baby Girl wandered over to inspect Jane’s desk on which were several boxes of Grammy’s Teeny Treats, her preferred snack. She sniffed the air, then like a cat jumped up on a nearby windowsill to resume her nap.

Jane’s room had lightly textured walls and exposed wooden beams. Motley Turkish rugs covered a hardwood floor, and a zebra striped curtain hung from the canopy bed. The room’s centerpiece was the trunk. Technically, the trunk wasn’t Jane’s, it was Gloria’s, left behind of necessity during the jewelry heist. When Jane had inherited the trunk from her mother, it’d contained hats, costume jewelry, pairs of high heels, and a pink, spiral-bound notebook. Over time, Jane had discarded all the relics but Gloria’s notebook.

Jane had repurposed the trunk to hold her Dishing things: maps of Istanbul and Moscow; an artistic rendering of the lost Shrine of the Four Keepers; facsimiles of the Kostas and Panikos icons; all of Finder’s novels (well-worn) plus the film adaptations on DVD; a set of Bucky Browne action figures; movie posters; and a Lady Xenia backpack.

Besides Finder’s novels, there were other books in the trunk: An Introduction to Iconography; Conspiracy of Relics; and Mysteries of the Late Byzantine Empire. All these had been well-meaning gifts from friends, and Jane had received each book eagerly. But all their pages were white and crisp. She’d never read them.

Yet given recent events, Mysteries of the Late Byzantine Empire had acquired fresh significance. When Jane found it at the bottom of the trunk, she carried it to her bed and placed it on her Lady Xenia princess pillow. On the title page was inscribed a message:

“Dear Jane, you’ve brought me so many souvenirs, I wanted to give you one with sincere regard for your enrichment. Rupert Winters is highly respected. This book represents the scholarly consensus about the fate of the Last Supper Dish. Beliefs should be rooted in firmer ground than one’s desires. Sincerely, Dr. Frank Carlisle.”

Jane slapped the book’s cover closed. She picked up Bucky Browne and the Cave of All Fears, resettled into her mound of pillows, and flipped with purpose to the end:

“You vill tell us ze location of ze codex of Saint Jerome.” Scevola thrust forward the fiery torch.

“Never!” Lady Xenia struggled against the ropes binding her to the chair, but it was no use. I must give Bucky more time to discover the clues I left him.

“Then you vill die!” Scevola’s eyes narrowed.

“Kill me and hope of getting the codex dies with me.”

Scevola jerked away the torch and turned toward the stone stairwell, leaving her in darkness. “It iz time for my evening prayers. But never fear, I vill return.”

“I’m not afraid!” Lady Xenia called after him. He did not reply. Anger surged in her. “How can you do this? We trusted you. Bucky is your friend.”

Suddenly, she heard Scevola’s sneering laughter. His foul voice whispered in her ear, “Ah, but one haz many friends, no? Some more powerful than others.”

“You’ll regret this! The Pope’s not your friend. He’s just using you.”

“You speak with passion. Perhaps it iz you, Lady Xenia, who need a friend?” His eyes lingered over her.

“No, thank you. I have Bucky.”

“Ah, my dear, another time, perhaps. You have heard ze tales about ze Pope’s . . . pet?” Scevola began to stroke her luscious blonde hair.

Lady Xenia shuddered at his touch.

“Some people say he iz a beast, but he iz just mizunderstood. Perhaps you vill meet him? Yez, I think he iz in need of a new friend.”

“Of course!” Jane shouted. She read to the end of the chapter to confirm her new insight. Then she grabbed her phone. A few seconds later, she was face to face with her best friend, Meena Kim.

“Meena, I’ve got it—Carlisle was paid off.”

Hey, bitch, you missed my soiree last night. Out saving the world, and what about little ol’ me?”

“The Pope got to him. You know what this means? It means I’m getting closer. I’m a threat.”

“Oh, I don’t doubt it. You’re the best Disher there is.”

“It’s just like in Cave of All Fears. The part where Scevola betrays Lady Xenia. She’s trapped in the Pope’s dungeon because she has the codex. And the Pope has power. Scevola doesn’t. That’s why he can be bought off. I bet Carlisle knows people in Turkey. He even said—can you believe this?—that he was interested in my en-rich-ment. Literally his exact words. He’s always been in it for the money. When I got too close to the truth, you see what happened.”

“Wow.” Meena appeared impressed. “Y’know what? Someday people are gonna realize you’re the one they’ve been waiting for, and then you’re gonna solve this Dish thing just like that.” She snapped her fingers for emphasis. “I mean, seriously, a news crew should follow you around.”

“I should probably go back there—to Babu’s shop.”

“Okay, but be careful, I mean, if they’re on to you . . .”

Meena’s face disappeared from camera view. Jane saw someone’s shoe, then a glass door. “Whatcha doin’?”

“You should know, bitch. Didn’t Roxy tell you? We’re at the airport on our way to Cartagena.”

Jane heard her friend Roxy Boscana in the background shout, “Jane, come with us!”

“You’re not doing the internship?” Jane asked Meena.

“Oh, that. Sorta. I mean, I love my dad, but D.C. is just so serious. And you know what I found? I can’t do office work. Like, not at all. I mean, ‘cause I dress too well and stuff.”

Jane nodded in empathy.

“You know how it is,” Meena said. “Like, do you wanna work at Corporate?”

Jane groaned and put her head in her hands. “That’s my Nana’s dream, but I’m devoted to justice.”

Meena’s eyes shown with confidence. “The fact is—you and me—we’re leaders. And, yeah, it’s hard to be so smart and stand apart, but you gotta embrace who you are. You only get one life, and you oughta love it because it’s one of the most beautiful gifts you’re ever given.”

“That’s so true!” Jane’s eyes welled up.

“Jane, Dominick’s coming,” Roxy said. “He misses you.”

“He didn’t post on my Dishpix page when I was away.”

“Look, we gotta go,” Meena said. “We’ll be at the Hotel Casa San Agustin. Super exclusive. Cute shirt by the way, but your roots are showing. Bye!”

Before Meena disappeared, Jane heard Roxy chant: “RATS forever, RATS forever, RATS forever!”

Jane had met Meena—and all the other RATS—at Harold More High School in Manhattan. The acronym had been Meena’s invention. It stood for “Rich And Totally Sexy.”

“Baby Girl,” Jane called, getting off her bed. She spied the open window. “There you are.” She lifted Baby Girl out, sat down on her chaise and stood the sleepy dog on her bare thighs. “Wanna go to Colombia with Mama?” She clapped the dog’s paws together, squealing, “Yeaahhh!” Baby Girl drowsily submitted to this puppetry. Carrying her dog out to the balcony, Jane posed herself against the setting sun, took a selfie, and posted it to Dishpix. When she applied the Xanadu filter, her pink shirt popped. “Me and my best girl off to—who knows???” she wrote as a caption.

Afterwards, she settled back into her bed with her iPad and scrolled through the latest posts on TrueDishers.net. Jimi Bowler detailed the Vatican’s refusal to subject the Last Supper Dish to new methods of carbon dating. He finished with a flourish: “Dishers everywhere! We will rise up and bring the Yankee Pope and his deniers to heel! Support the cause now.” Remembering Carlisle’s betrayal, Jane defiantly donated another five grand of her father’s money.

There was a knock on her door.

“I’m busy.”

“C’mon, Jane, it’s me. I wanna talk to you.”

Jane looked about her room to search for an escape. She returned to her bed and folded herself among the pillows, but not before putting on her Barmah hat.

“Okay, whatever. You can come in,” she called.

Max opened the door. He couldn’t locate Jane at first.

Baby Girl eagerly sniffed Max’s shoe.

“How you doin’?” Max studied Jane for signs of grief.

“Fi-ine,” Jane closed her eyes in a pose of sleep.

Something golden lay half-concealed underneath Mysteries of the Late Byzantine Empire. Max pulled it free. It was the faux icon of Saint Nil. “I can see why you bought it. It’s beautiful and fragile.”

“That’s not why I bought it,” Jane replied.

Max chose not to dispute this; he laid the icon down. “In any case, you’ve provoked your Nana again. She dislikes the bad press. She showed me the stories about Carlisle.”

“He’s nothing. A mere operative of the enemy.”

“How do you know?”

“I just do. There are signs.”

Max hesitated, ascertaining whether to explore these depths. “Let me ask you something,” he began, “when you saw Carlisle, did you happen to mention anything to him about a tailless cat? I know this sounds stupid.”

Jane blinked several times. “Tailless cat?”

“Yeah. You went into the shop because of it.”

Jane sat up and tilted her hat at a jaunty angle. “So what?”

“So, you told him about the cat?”

“May-be . . . I mi-ight have.”

“Did you tell Nana or Leenie . . . or Milto?”

Jane rolled her eyes. She began to gather all the Disher items on her bed. “You want something? I’m making plans.”

“Like finishing your semester? Is that on the list?”

“Did Nana tell you to ask?”

“No. But if she had, I’d agree with her.”

Silently, Jane stacked all her Disher books and DVDs.

“Look,” Max said, “I try to be on your side, but you don’t make it easy. I get all the blame, like I’m responsible for your every move or every picture you post, or—”

Jane gasped excitedly. “You’ve seen my Dishpix page! You like it? The headband in the profile is cute don’tcha think? It’s vintage YSL.”

Max smiled. “But why call yourself Lady Jane?”

“Ha-ha. Why not? We can be whatever we want.”

Max pointed at her hat. “Same one you had in Turkey?”

“Yep. That picture got, like, a thousand comments. Maybe I’ll go viral. Wouldn’t that be sooo amazing?”

“Well, take it off, will ya? I can’t see your face.”

Jane started to obey, then stopped. “Like, why are you here? Did you fly all the way from New York just for little ol’ me?” As Jane said this, she patted the sides of her Disher assemblage to even the edges. Gently, she laid Gloria’s notebook atop the totem.

“No, I was already in Augusta.” Max spied the notebook. “What is that? You still have that? Give it to me.” He grabbed it from the pile.

“Give it back,” Jane whined. She got up off the bed.

Max turned away from Jane and opened it. “Gloria Kilday. Anthropology 492: Summer Field Study.”

“I said—give it back.” Jane tried to grab the notebook out of her father’s hands.

He brushed her aside. “Today we arrived in Karaman, Turkey. Tomorrow—” Max scanned the rest of the page, then thumbed through the notebook. Suddenly, he snapped it closed and pointed it at Jane. “Look,” he said firmly, “your mother wasn’t a Disher. I’ve told you before. It was a college class, Jane. A fun summer study abroad. That’s why she signed up for it—for the adventure. We did a little digging, a little exploring . . . your mother brought back a souvenir. But it was all a whim. Six weeks in Turkey, and then it was over. We came back, she said she loved me, we went to Vegas, and you know the rest.”

Jane silently plucked the notebook from his hand.

“Your mother was an intriguing, beautiful woman, but she never knew what she wanted—Jane, look at me.”

Jane obeyed, but her hat hid her eyes.

“I can tell you, searching for some ancient treasure isn’t going to bring her back. She doesn’t want to be found.”

“But I’m not looking for her.” Jane gestured theatrically with the notebook. “That’s so stupid. Like, I don’t even remember her, I was so young when she left. I don’t feel anything. I haven’t read this,” she waved the notebook at Max, “since literally forever. It’s not sacred. It doesn’t mean anything to me.” She tossed the notebook toward the bed. It hit the floor and slid underneath. “There. See?”

“That really the truth? For your own good, Jane, you must choose something in life besides Dishing. It’ll disappoint you eventually.”

Jane searched the floor for Baby Girl. “You all think I’m some sort of mental case, like totally batshit, which I’m not. I mean, I’ve studied psychology too, and I think what you say about me is pure projection. You all talk like Dishing is a disease, and I just don’t understand that because it’s always attracted the brightest minds. To me it’s about finding the truth, and y’know what? I’m gonna find it. I won’t stop. Like, I can think for myself too no matter what anybody else says!” She finished with surprising heat in her voice.

During this disagreement, Baby Girl had retreated to the ajar bedroom door.

“Baby Girl, you need to pee?” Jane asked urgently. She collected the dog and pulled open the door. “Sorry! Nature calls!” Jane flashed Max a smile and disappeared.

When Jane had gone, Max stood with his hands on his hips trying to figure out what had just happened. He squatted, reached under the bed, and pulled out the notebook.

Mark my words. You’ll wish you’d done more to intervene.

Max remembered Patricia’s warning. She’d said that if he didn’t act to save Jane from Dishing, then it’d soon be too late, that Jane would be far beyond his reach. Maybe I’m okay with that. At least Jane’s beyond Patricia’s reach too.

He wasn’t certain of what was going on with Patricia, Leenie, and this Dziedzic woman, but he was certain of this: Patricia wanted Jane to be like himself, completely under her thumb. And she’d do anything to make it so.

The image of a tailless cat leapt back into his mind. While he’d failed to separate Jane from Dishing, he recalled the other purpose for his inquiries.

Had Jane talked about a tailless cat with Patricia or Leenie? No.

Had Leenie mentioned such a cat to Patricia? Unlikely.

Was Patricia lying? Probably. But why lie about a cat?

He wanted the truth.

He believed he’d find it at the Summit Art Museum.

Scene 12

The Prodokleis

Office of the Patriarchate, annex to the

Church of Saint George, Istanbul

Wednesday, March 10, moments after Papi’s entrance

“The Shrine of the Four Keepers has been found!” Professor Papadopoulos held up a photograph before the ten men gathered about the table in the Patriarch’s Throne Room. He limped toward the lone empty chair at the table. The circle of the Secret Order of Andronicus was now complete.

All eyes turned from Papi to the Patriarch who held another photograph. “Zoticus!” Philotheos pronounced with all the strength of an oath.

“What’s the meaning of this? What’s going on?” Anthimos demanded to know.

“An excavation has been underway in the city,” Papi said. “Two days ago, they unearthed the fabled shrine.”

“Not possible,” Elias exclaimed through the computer speakers. “After all these centuries?”

“You might’ve said this is what you were keeping tabs on,” Diogenes declared.

“Forgive me. I didn’t know for sure until yesterday. The discovery isn’t yet public knowledge. My student Giulio alerted me. He took these pictures. This one here I can confirm myself.” Papi held up a picture of a rounded stone. “It’s a section of an archway. One of the archaeologists—Adam Burke is his name—brought it to the Museum of Ancient History this morning. I oversee the Processing Lab. The inscription is clear—Stipendia Autem Peccati—” Papi paused and looked pointedly at each man.

“I can’t believe it,” Gabriel said.

“Believe it, my son.” Philotheos handed Gabriel a photo.

When Gabriel took it, he gasped. Two faces stared back at him: one youthful, the other aged. “P-P-Panikos,” he stuttered in awe. He bowed his head in reverence.

“Yes, they found him first.” Papi pointed to the photo in Gabriel’s hands. “And Zoticus yesterday. They’re working on Nil as we speak.”

Leo, Theo, and Winnipeg Joe jumped out of their seats and peered at the photo over Gabriel’s shoulders.

“I think you look like Zoticus,” Winnipeg said to Leo.

“That’s as it should be. He’s Zoticus the Wise, after all,” Leo said smugly, resuming his seat.

Philotheos drummed his fingers on the arm of his throne, his mind troubled. He didn’t dare imagine the implications of such a discovery, yet he couldn’t help but imagine them. “Is there no possibility they’ve unearthed a church?” he asked Papi. There was a hint of hope in his voice.

“There can be no doubt, Your All Holiness,” Diogenes interrupted. He looked up from examining the photograph of the archway. “Papi is right. There it is—keep, until the wages of sin are paid—the inscription reads exactly as Putney the Pilgrim describes.” Diogenes appeared as if he might crumple the photograph in his hands. “I’ve written enough about the famed Putney on our website to know. There’s no record of any other shrine with a like inscription.”

“This is the Legacy of Emperor Andronicus,” Philotheos said, softly repeating the words from the Order’s opening ritual. “And this we keep until . . . the wages of sin are paid.”

Anthimos clutched the double-headed eagle pendant about his neck. The eagle’s ruby eyes winked. He let out a harsh laugh. “Mosaics. A broken piece of stone. An inscription. Is that all that’s found? Nothing more?”

“What are you getting at?” Diogenes asked suspiciously.

Anthimos chuckled. “I know the ancient sources as well as you. Let’s see if you recall this description—Thus was the prodokleis fashioned and carried unto the shrine, according to the will of the Emperor.”

“Metochites!” Chrys called out. “Only he ever wrote of the betrayer’s key.”

Just then, at the head of the table, Philotheos stood and paced in turmoil. Never did he imagine that the secrets entrusted to the Order would be exposed or that he’d hear uttered that terrible word: prodokleis. The word appeared in only one document, the Coda, an appendix to the Annals of Andronicus. In the Coda, Metochites, the author of the Annals, had supplemented his history with explanatory notes, evidently intending to revise the Annals to include them. But those revisions had never been completed, and the Coda was lost to history. It wasn’t lost, however, to the Order of Andronicus. The only copy—incomplete and damaged—resided in their Secret Archives.

“Is the prodokleis found or no?” Anthimos looked from man to man. “It’s the only question that matters. And no one asks it.”

“We don’t ask because we don’t wish it to be found,” Diogenes responded sharply.

“Why? Why shouldn’t we wish it?”

“Because if the truth of the Legacy of Andronicus were ever discovered,” Philotheos shook his head mournfully, “I dare not think what would become of us.”

“Bah! The Legacy isn’t to be feared. You instructed us earlier to face certain realities, and yet you don’t want to face this?” Anthimos responded.

“Don’t insult His All Holiness,” Winnipeg cried, pushing his thick glasses up his nose.

“I’m with Anthimos,” Chrys said. “The Legacy is our life. Why fear it? Why fear that which gives us strength?”

“Here, here!” Lerry knocked his knuckles on the table.

The Throne Room erupted.

Philotheos sank down on his throne and held up his hands. “Please, my brothers. Let’s not deceive ourselves. Anthimos is right. It’s possible the prodokleis will be found.”

“But still unlikely,” Diogenes said. “Or if it’s found, it would be in pieces.”

“What makes you think so?” Anthimos challenged him.

“I assume the shrine was pillaged when the Turks—”

“Pillaged and scorched,” Papi confirmed. “The stonework brought to the museum thus far shows traces of it. The Sultan’s soldiers set the shrine on fire.”

“Well, then.” Diogenes leaned back in his chair, took off his spectacles and cleaned them. “It’s likely that what is to be found in the shrine has been found already—mosaics.”

“You’re wrong,” Anthimos growled.

“Weren’t there also icons of the Four Keepers at the shrine?” Elias asked. “If I remember Metochites—”

“He reports the presence of a complete set,” Diogenes confirmed. “The fact is well-known. It’s in the Annals.”

“Have the icons been discovered?” Elias asked.

“No, no,” Papi assured him, “my student Giulio would’ve mentioned it.”

“Nor will they be found. The shrine was set ablaze,” Diogenes said. “What could’ve survived? Nothing.”

“You’re wrong, my dear abbot,” Anthimos said again, his growl louder this time. “You exhibit all the courage of a church mouse.” He made a show of flicking lint from the sleeve of his black robe.

Diogenes’s tight-lipped face grew red. “And you’re as pretentious as a king’s pet cat.”

This time it was Anthimos who stood.

“Listen to me, all of you! Do we seriously fail to consider the character of those who once belonged to the Order? When Emperor Andronicus came to the throne, he drove the Latin dogs out. He sought to restore the wealth and power they stole from our Empire. Kostas, Zoticus, Panikos, and Nil weren’t simple monks to him. They were God’s prophets, sent ahead of the Emperor to prepare the way. And Andronicus took the path set before him. He rebuilt the kingdom and peopled it with others just like the Four Keepers—men zealous for justice. Men whose devotion to the Legacy would’ve been absolute. You really believe those men, confronting the utter end, would’ve suddenly abandoned their charge? The Sultan’s siege of the city lasted for months. The Order would’ve had time to preserve the Legacy. They would’ve devised a means of protecting the icons and the prodokleis. Why not at the shrine?”

“Pure supposition,” Diogenes snapped.

“You’d say that. Because you don’t share their passion for the Legacy. But imagine the possibilities if it were restored.” Anthimos’s eyes widened. For a moment he stood unblinking as if beholding a vision. Rousing himself, he added, “Sadly, the Andronicus Order has become little more than a supper club for chattering old women.” With exaggerated ease, he gently reset himself in his seat.

“You go too far, Anthimos.” Papi gripped the upside-down church at the top of his cane.

“I’m not a chattering old woman,” Winnipeg squeaked. “I’ve hardly said a word.”

“Here, here.” Theo slapped Winnipeg on the back.

“Enough!” Philotheos commanded.

Diogenes opened his mouth in protest, but Philotheos held up his hand to forestall him.

“You object to Anthimos, not because he’s wrong, but because you fear he may be right. And it’s preposterous to think that the Legacy could be found after so many centuries. We’ve existed for so long assuming those clues are buried or destroyed, never to trouble us. And that may still be, but—” Philotheos addressed the entire room, “Anthimos is correct about the men of those days. They would’ve done everything in their power to preserve the Legacy. Therefore, we should proceed assuming they succeeded.”

Anthimos grinned. “Now we’re getting somewhere.”

Philotheos thought for a moment, then looked at Papi.

“Professor, you mentioned someone, an archaeologist.”

“Yes. Adam Burke is his name.”

“What do you know of him?”

Papi frowned and tapped his cane on the floor. “He’s an egoist, a man of narrow interests but excessive passion. He’d stop at nothing to discover the Dish. Of course, he doesn’t know about the prodokleis, as that is our secret only. Should he discover it, he wouldn’t know how to use it. Naturally, he believes the riddles on the icons would lead him to the Dish. He doesn’t know how to create the map with the icons, since that’s explained only in the Coda.”

“And nothing would stop him, you say?”

Papi shook his head.

“Then it seems we must stop him.”

“What! Why?” Anthimos pounded his fists on the table.

“The truth of the Dish can’t be discovered,” Philotheos said. “Not now. Not ever. The public outrage—”

Anthimos’s voice momentarily overpowered the Patriarch’s. “Why should we hide the Legacy? Why should we be ashamed of it as if we were the ones who committed the crime? The crime was against us. And it needs to be righted. Do we no longer have the courage to fulfill the will of Andronicus? The last laugh must be ours!”

Philotheos raised his voice to meet Anthimos’s challenge. “It’s not a matter of courage. It’s a matter of survival. Don’t you understand? What made the Order powerful in a bygone age makes us vulnerable in the present one. In this country, we’re especially open to attack. This city was once the seat of Orthodoxy. Now it’s the seat of Islam. We need the Catholics, Anthimos. If Burke pursues the Dish, what he finds will destroy the delicate peace that Boniface and I are fashioning. We can’t have the Dish’s secret revealed. In today’s world, Andronicus’s Legacy is an embarrassment that the Orthodox Church can’t bear.”

Anthimos’s face was hard, but he made no reply.

After a long minute of silence, Philotheos said, “We need a plan in case Burke discovers the icons and the prodokleis.”

“But Your All Holiness,” Elias said, “even if all four icons are at the shrine, Burke still must solve the riddles. Even we don’t know the riddles of Zoticus or Nil—the Coda doesn’t contain them.”

“And he must use the icons to reconstruct the map that leads to the Red Gate,” Diogenes added.

“Yes, and I have no doubt he’d do both. The Legacy was designed to ensure that seekers could solve the puzzles and enter. And Burke is the ultimate seeker. We don’t want such a man reaching the gate with the betrayer’s key in hand.”

“It’s odd to plan to prevent something that may not ever happen.” Gabriel scribbled in his planner. “How shall I describe this in the minutes?”

“We could initiate a smear campaign on TrueDishers,” Elias suggested, “by challenging Burke’s credentials.”

Philotheos shook his head. “No, no, I believe this time our course of action must be more—tangible.” He looked at Papi. “Professor, is there any way for someone to enter the excavation site unnoticed?”

“I think not. The site is enclosed by a fence. There are security guards at the gate. Plus, according to my student, digging occurs around the clock. Someone is always there.”

Philotheos looked to the side and stroked his beard.

“Are you suggesting . . .?” Papi lifted a bushy eyebrow.

“What? So maybe I am,” Philotheos said defensively.

“You can’t be serious. With these men?” Papi chuckled.

“I reject that!” Winnipeg slapped the table and his glasses slid down his nose.

“Quiet, you.” Leo elbowed him. “What’re you rejecting? You don’t even know.”

“I do so. We are men, Your All Holiness. Ready and willing!” Winnipeg saluted the Patriarch.

“Must you volunteer us so quickly?” Theo hissed.

Philotheos looked at Papi. “Do you agree then with our brother here?” He indicated Anthimos. “You too believe we’re smaller men than those of Andronicus’s time?”

Papi inclined his head apologetically. “I didn’t mean to suggest so, Your All Holiness. Please, forgive me.”

“I don’t need to because you’re both right. We are much smaller.” Philotheos sat tall in throne. “Nevertheless, prepare yourselves. It is time for us to plan . . . a heist.”

Scene 13

Irresistible Mirror

Grandeur, Georgia

Wednesday, March 10, moments before the arrival of Kathleen, Milto, and Nicole

Patricia’s quest for Jane to join the family business had originated at a shareholder’s meeting nine months previously. Kathleen, as Whitaker’s CFO, had announced that their prime competitor, All Sales, had increased its market share for the sixth consecutive quarter—at Whitaker’s expense. The first problem was Max. “Young people see our spokesperson as a relic from twenty years ago,” Kathleen said. The second problem was that All Sales had come out against cyberbullying and had publicized their charitable donations to raise awareness. “Shoppers support businesses that acquire a sheen of justice and morality,” Kathleen explained. “It’s called the halo effect in the marketing literature. Unfortunately, Whitaker’s has no such sheen.”

Patricia knew the solution to both problems before the meeting had adjourned.

Jane must become the new face of Whitaker’s.

But how to convince her? She’d never give up Dishing.

Patricia’s plan to convince Jane hadn’t taken shape until she’d met Kathleen for lunch several days later. The meal passed uneventfully until the desserts were served. Kathleen took a bite of her savarin, slammed her fork down, and waved over the waiter. “This—this thing is dry! I demand to see the pastry chef!” In protest, the waiter pointed to the rum syrup drizzled over the small cake. Kathleen’s face jiggled with fury. “If I don’t see the chef now, I will have every food critic in Georgia run this place down!” The waiter scurried away.

Patricia had turned from the scene in disgust. Why couldn’t she have had a child with Max’s looks and Kathleen’s brains? Maybe then she would’ve gotten a proper granddaughter.

The pastry chef—rotund, with a crop of brown hair like Kathleen’s—waddled to their table. Patricia did a double take; it was like looking at a mirror of her daughter. He promised to return with meringue shells that would taste like rainbow clouds. In a few minutes, the chef and Kathleen were giggling like old friends.

Meditating on this scene, Patricia grabbed her daughter’s arm. “Kathleen, I have it! I know how to reach Jane.” It took a few minutes for her to explain the scheme.

“Fantastic,” Kathleen said to Patricia as she finished her last shell. “Both the meringue and your plan.”

Now, seated at her desk in her home office, Patricia awaited the arrival of her secret weapon. Had Kathleen and Milto found the proper mirror? Briefly, she reviewed the résumé of the young woman—Ms. Dziedzic. Kathleen had scrawled, “Underpaid. Promising!” at the top. Patricia set it aside and smoothed the collar of her blouse. She fiddled with her wedding ring and checked her hair in a mirror. Was she nervous? No, she decided. She was preparing herself for the hunt. If this Ms. Dziedzic proved to be the one, Patricia would snap her up. Then Jane would be next.

Suddenly, Kathleen’s girth appeared in the doorway. When enough space opened, Milto swept past her into the office and greeted Patricia warmly. Kathleen claimed the armchair Max had been sitting in the previous day. She wore a fussy pink blouse and billowy skirt. As she settled in, its waistline crept north toward her two enormous breasts.

“Ms. Dziedzic.” Patricia stood and greeted Nicole, immediately approving of the woman’s appearance, which she deemed sleek, chic, and efficient.

Milto recited Nicole’s pedigree: a BS in management from USC, an MBA from Johns Hopkins, internship at PBS, three years as proposal development coordinator for CARE, four years as a procurement assistant for UNICEF, currently assistant director of BOMOF, headquartered in D.C.

“BOMOF?” Patricia asked. She’d followed all the acronyms until the last.

“It stands for Back On My Own Feet,” Nicole said breathlessly. “We’re a homeless advocacy organization. It’s such an opportunity to be associated with you. Thank you, Mrs. Whitaker for contacting us. We’re sooo honored.” She placed a hand on her heart in a show of humility.

Patricia glanced at Kathleen. “It was my daughter who found you.” She resumed her seat at her desk.

“Oops! How silly of me! You just asked what our name meant, ha-ha.” Nicole slapped her own cheek playfully. “Forgive me, it’s nerves. Anyway, our organization has developed a personal shower kit that can be used by any homeless person, including those with physical disabilities and alternative mentalities. We believe in distributing the wealth of good personal hygiene to the less advantaged.”

“Distributing hygiene?” Patricia asked skeptically.

“We want to get the homeless back on their own feet. To improve their self-worth,” Nicole said. “Being shelter-challenged is such a sweaty, grimy lifestyle. We give them a chance to scrub away the social stigmas of dirt and odor. Those of us who are soap-advantaged can hardly imagine how we’ve sanitation-shamed these victims into the shadows. It’s heartless.” Nicole gave Patricia a perky smile. “I know you feel the need that is out there, Mrs. Whitaker. They say cleanliness is next to godliness. And if the homeless need Whitaker’s to get clean, that makes your stores the next best thing to heaven. Ha-ha.”

“Indeed.” Patricia raised an eyebrow. She had to admit, Nicole’s last rhetorical flourish, aligning Whitaker’s with heaven, was clever.

“But how does your shower thingy work?” Milto asked.

“What an a-maa-zing question,” Nicole said with gusto. She extracted a few steel rods and other parts from her canvas bag. “May I use this chair, thanks!” She quickly arranged the items around the empty chair next to Kathleen.

“You pull the end of the collapsible pole—like this,” Nicole demonstrated. “Then you clamp it to a shopping cart.” Nicole attached the shower to the chair’s back. “The showerhead at the top is spring-loaded and snaps into place automatically. Then you screw the water bottle into the slot—we recommend a minimum of two liters—and roll down the curtain. It’s, like, super easy and super cute. And many of the homeless already have shopping carts.”

“Yes, stolen from their local Whitaker’s,” Patricia said.

“Ha-ha, we-ell, you do have a lot of stores.”

Patricia had heard enough. “Kathleen, Toby, do you think she has a chance with Jane?”

Kathleen snorted. “Sounds kinda like her.”

“I see why you recommended her,” Patricia said.

Milto squeaked with mirth.

“Take that thing off my chair, Ms. Dziedzic,” Patricia said. “Sit down. I want to know more about you. I found your presentation intriguing.” She scanned Nicole’s résumé. “Impressive. You’ve just gotten a two-million-dollar grant from the Department of Housing and Urban Development.”

“Thank you. You see we’re serious about—”

“So you’re already substantially funded,” Patricia said, seeming to sour. No need to sound eager. After all, if Nicole was to be absorbed into the Whitaker empire, then she had first to pass a test.

“It may seem so, Mrs. Whitaker,” Nicole began, “but our organization supports offices in forty-seven states, plus agencies in Canada and Latin America—”

“That’s good to hear, Ms. Dziedzic. You see, Whitaker Corporation is a vast enterprise, with subsidiaries—”

“All over the world, I know.” Nicole’s eyes widened. “In Latin America, South America, Europe, and the South Pacific. You’ve just opened your first stores in Turkey and are listed the fifth most valuable company by the Fortune 500.” She looked up as if beholding a heavenly vision.

Patricia couldn’t help nodding approvingly at a woman who’d done her homework.

“BOMOF would be very honored to partner with Whitaker’s,” Nicole continued eagerly. “We haven’t benefited directly from the recent trend in corporate beneficence—”

“Is that what you call it?” Patricia asked.

“Er, charity, philanthropy—those are the official terms.” Nicole laughed tensely. “Or doing good.” With a flick of her fingers, she put “doing good” in quotes and rolled her eyes.

Patricia saw Nicole’s self-conscious gesture. The woman gushed Jane’s vapid idealism, but maybe she wasn’t an idealist. Time to find out. “What’s your salary, Ms. Dziedzic?”

“Excuse me?”

Patricia inspected her diamond ring, making sure Nicole could see it. “Your salary.”

“Mrs. Whitaker, we’re a non-profit organization. I assure you, ninety percent of all our resources are put to work in the field to maximize our charitable footprint.”

“Mm, yes. What about your personal aspirations? Surely you don’t wish always to be a—what is it?—an assistant director of a homeless organization?”

Nicole rubbed her hands nervously. “I—I—”

“A trusted source told me that you are undercompensated for someone with such a record. It’s obvious that BOMOF would benefit from an alliance with Whitaker’s. I want to know if such an alliance would benefit you.”

“I don’t understand.” Nicole dropped her eyes.

“Be honest with me, and I will explain my curiosity. Because it’s you that we’re interested in, not BOMOF—”

“Me? Why?”

“—so, I want to know, if you acquire our contract, would it improve your salary?”

Nicole looked squarely at Patricia. “Not one penny.”

“Oh, how unfair. And after all your hard work securing such a big benefactor.” Patricia smiled in simulated pity. “But surely you think you deserve better.”

Nicole smirked. “BOMOF constantly demands that all its employees sacrifice for the cause.”

Patricia placed her elbows on her desk and lightly pressed her fingertips together as if to capture a fly. Her diamond flashed in the light. “My dear, what do you want?”

Nicole gazed at Patricia’s ring as if hypnotized. “I—I’d hoped that landing the support of Whitaker’s would be a way out for me.” After a pause, she added, “I wanted to network with Whitaker’s management team and . . . and latch on. I’m so tired of groveling for donations. Omigod, I can’t believe I said that.” Nicole hid her face in her hands.

Patricia’s lips twitched in delight. “Kathleen, well done.”

“Good gosh, Mrs. Whitaker, what a relief,” Milto exhaled. He danced a little two-step.

“Let’s get to it then.” Patricia shuffled some papers.

Nicole held up her hand. “Wait, I don’t understand—”

“Look, I dislike pretense. If you’re interested in earning my money, a lot of it, you can do something for me.”

“Anything!”

“Very well.” Briefly, Patricia explained her conundrum in getting her granddaughter Jane to take an interest in the family business. If Nicole could interest Jane in Whitaker’s charitable cause, then Jane might fully dedicate herself to the business—like the rest of the family. “If you can connect with Jane, then I’ll initiate a nationwide ad campaign touting Whitaker’s support of BOMOF. We’ll produce the commercials through our own studio. Toby, if you please.”

Milto opened a file on his iPad; it was a rough draft of the script for the promotional video starring Nicole, Max, and Jane. “We’re still tweaking it, but here’s the gist.” He handed the iPad to Nicole. “The slogan Shower the Homeless is being market tested, with promising results.”

“Marketing recommends ending with a close-up of Jane to solidify her in the viewer’s mind as the face of the cause,” Kathleen explained to Nicole.

“We’ll be your biggest account.” Patricia picked up Nicole’s résumé. “And if you’re successful with Jane, I’ll forward this to our division of Human Resources—with my personal recommendation. I must admit, Jane’s mind is a mystery to me. She’s making a mess of her life and inviting ridicule of our family. But she’s the future of Whitaker’s. So, this is important to me.”

“I can’t wait to meet her.” Nicole flashed Patricia a winning smile. “I’m positive she’ll jump at the chance to shower the homeless, ha-ha. Trust me.”

And with that, the meeting adjourned. Patricia’s confidence surged. As Milto helped Nicole pack up her portable shower, Patricia whispered to Kathleen, "Time for Jane to help us put a halo on Whitaker’s.”

“But Nana, Baby Girl needs to pee.” Jane stood on the last step of the Grand East Staircase, protectively cuddling her dog in her arms.

Patricia summoned all her powers of forbearance at the sight of the little rat. She only managed a grimace, the corners of her mouth curling inward like two shriveled leaves.

“Very well,” she said, “but don’t dawdle. There’s someone I want you to meet.”

Jane giggled as if dawdle were an amusing word. She hopped off the step and lightly pattered her way barefoot toward the kitchen. Before she reached the South Hall, Patricia stopped her.

“Oh, Jane, did you see your father?”

Jane glanced over her shoulder. “Ye-ess.”

“He’s concerned about you. I hope you listened.”

“I did.” Jane paused. “He didn’t like my hat.” She flicked the brim of her Barmah hat, grinned at her grandmother, and disappeared down the hall.

Patricia was unsure if she should be encouraged by this remark. Milto, Kathleen, and Nicole waited in the Great Room by the fireplace. The four of them took their seats around it. There was no fire, however, and they all stared mutely at the barren grate. Two giant stone lions flanked the fireplace, their massive manes supporting the mantel. The stone creatures inspired silence, and for that reason Patricia often sat people there.

Patricia glanced at the woman who’d just become the linchpin of her vast scheme. Nicole stared ahead, absently twirling a lock of her hair. Observing this, suddenly Patricia shuddered. Good Lord, what have I done? This woman is too much like Jane. She felt her palms get clammy. Nicole had Jane’s mannerisms, Jane’s way of speaking. Did she also have Jane’s vacant mind? To prepare her to meet Jane, Patricia had divulged to her Jane’s obsession with Dishing. And Nicole had said: “How a-maa-zing that you picked me! I know all about Dishing. I’ve watched all the Bucky Browne movies twice. Maybe this is destiny or something? Ha-ha.” That comment had siphoned some of Patricia’s confidence.

Patricia shifted uneasily in her chair as she waited for Jane’s return. No time for doubts. I must trust my instincts. The die is cast.

Suddenly, Baby Girl raced into the room. A quick sniff of everyone’s feet easily identified the newcomer.

“Why, you’re no bigger than my grandmother’s cat,” Nicole said, reaching forward to pet Baby Girl’s head. Baby Girl pulled back from Nicole’s hand and barked.

“Most cats are bigger. Baby Girl doesn’t like them.” It was Jane. She’d raided the cookie jar. “Cats give her the shivers.” She plopped down sideways into the empty chair next to Nicole and dangled her legs over the arm. “Sorry to keep you. Like, Baby Girl had to poo.”

Everyone stared at the dog. Baby Girl wagged her tail vigorously and continued to bark at Nicole.

“Thank you for that announcement,” Patricia said to Jane with a forced smile. “Toby, take care of that.” She pointed at Baby Girl.

“Baby Girl probably wants a Teeny Treat,” Jane said. “She expects a reward for pooing.”

Patricia snapped her fingers at Milto, who scrambled to the kitchen to fetch a box.

Patricia quickly tried to get the conversation on track. “Nicole . . . my granddaughter, Jane. Nicole is—”

“Omigod, that’s such a cute hat—very European,” Nicole said to Jane. “Like, my grandmother brought some hats over with her from Poland. But, like, she stopped wearing them ‘cause she was into American fashion and stuff.”

“So, like, what happened to the hats?” Jane asked.

“She kept the best. We found them in boxes in her closet after she passed. I guess they were, like, fashion relics from the old country, y’know what I mean? I—I have them now.” Nicole’s voice waivered, and her eyes grew misty. She swiped at her cheek. “Omigod, am I crying?”

“My dear,” Patricia said, almost genuinely touched, “there’s no need to be embarrassed.” The tender display was a beautiful segue. “Nicole has such a good heart,” Patricia said to Jane. “We could all learn from her.”

Kathleen handed Nicole a tissue as Milto returned with the Treats.

Patricia cleared her throat. “Yes, Nicole has answered the call to give back, to make a difference in the world.” She pronounced this aphorism to the group, but as she ended, her eyes fell on Jane. “If only we could set aside our differences, just think of what could be accomplished.”

“So, like, what do you do?” Jane asked Nicole.

Nicole set aside Kathleen’s tissue unused. “I’m a homeless advocate. It’s sooo rewarding.”

“Omigod, the homeless,” Jane exclaimed. She resituated herself in her chair with her feet on the floor. “Y’know what? They even take shopping carts from our stores in Moscow. I know. I saw one when I was there.”

“A homeless person, you mean?” Nicole asked.

“Like, yeah. He looked at me. When I was arrested, and they took me in, he was sitting right by the police—”

“What a mess that was,” Patricia interrupted quickly. “Moscow! You’d think Jane led some espionage ring the way it was reported. We’re a bit cautious of the press here at Whitaker’s, you understand,” she said to Nicole.

Nicole nodded. She turned to Jane. “So, like, did Moscow, like, totally change you? I mean, seeing a homeless man, that must’ve been so difficult. It’s so weird, but sometimes you learn what’s true in your heart. Is that what made you want to make a difference in the world?”

Jane licked the crumbs from her lips. “We-ell, I was Dishing, like, way before Moscow.”

Patricia held her breath.

“Omigod, I love Dishing,” Nicole gasped in delight. “Your hat is so totally Bucky Browne. You know who you remind me of? Lady Xenia!”

Jane giggled and tipped her hat to Nicole. The two of them started exchanging famous lines from the movies.

“Omigod, I could go on for hours about Lady Xenia,” Nicole said with a laugh, “but, I mean, seriously, with your looks, I know you totally changed that homeless man’s life in Moscow. It’s literally destiny that he saw you by hanging out at a police station. Plus, he needs safety and stuff. And, like, kids too! Like, 1.5 million are homeless each year in the U.S.—that’s like every year in a roo-ow. I dunno what the figures are in Russia. Our agency—Back On My Own Feet—isn’t there. Which totally sucks.” Nicole gestured toward the group. “But, like, Whitaker’s is gonna change that. Which is just so a-maa-zing.” She turned back to Jane. “And with your help, especially, Ms. Whitaker—can I call you Jane?—like, so many people will be saved. Y’know, ‘cause we can’t rest until every person has a home—and a shower and stuff. ‘Cause every person is so deserving. That’s one thing I believe in my heart. And it just does my heart good to see that you care, Jane. The fact that you’re willing to donate your time—being on camera will be, like, totally natural for you. Oh, and, like, there ma-ay be some guest appearances here and there, like when the showers are delivered to the agencies—we’ll work around your schedule. But, y’know, to me, it’s just the fact that you’re so aware. You’ll inspire so many people. The responsibility you’re taking on,” Nicole seemed overcome, “you’re just sooo strong. You’re different, Jane. Like, everyone can see that.”

At the end of this speech, Nicole blinked her eyes rapidly as if to defer another scene of tears.

Patricia observed Jane. Her granddaughter had leaned forward and propped her chin on one hand. “My dear,” she said to Nicole, “you’ve expressed . . . what I think is on all our hearts to say.”

“We-ell,” Jane shifted in her seat, “so there’ll be, like, cameras and stuff?”

Nicole smiled. “Totally. ‘Cause it’s TV and stuff.”

“Like commercials, you mean?” Jane’s eyes widened.

“Yep,” Nicole said.

“When will we shoot them?”

“We could be ready the day after tomorrow, Mrs. Whitaker,” Milto said.

Patricia shrugged indifferently and looked at Jane.

Jane adjusted her hat. “So, like, if I do your homeless commercials, I wanna do commercials for Dishing too,” she said to Patricia, “because that’s my true cause.”

There was a collective hush. All eyes turned to Patricia.

“Of course, my dear!” Patricia grinned widely. Jane had nibbled the bait. “I’d have it no other way. Whitaker’s should lead the way in—in helping this relic be found.”

Jane cocked her head. “Really?”

“Well, of course. What did you think? That we intended you to give up Dishing?” Patricia put a hand over her heart. “Oh, I’m mortified if you thought so.”

Jane grinned. “Well, if that’s how it is . . . okay, I’ll do it.”

“Hot dog!” Milto exclaimed. “I’ll call marketing.”

Baby Girl, who had nestled into the rug near his feet, jumped up and yelped.

And just like that, everything was settled.

Patricia glanced with approval at Nicole who smiled back demurely. She’d been right to trust her instincts. Nicole lured Jane in masterfully. Perhaps she wouldn’t send Nicole’s résumé to Human Resources, after all. Perhaps she’d hire Nicole herself.

But it had been Patricia who finished the hunt. And with the rush of new commitments (and Patricia would make sure there were many), Jane’s ridiculous Dishing would be washed into the gutter. Whitaker Corporation would reap the financial rewards for years to come.

Patricia gazed at the twin lions at the fireplace. In her imagination, she’d already transformed Nicole and Jane into the perfect twins that she’d always deserved.

Scene 14

Plea for a Hero

JFK International Airport

New York City

Wednesday, March 10

“Dear Steve, I’m so embarrassed! There was no intent to trap you, certainly not on my part. I finished Templars as we arrived at your beautiful home. I read too quickly, and Ray and I didn’t have time to discuss the story fully. He misunderstood my reaction, which no doubt influenced how he conducted the interview. We still want you to be in our film. I was happy to meet you, and I hope we can re-establish a working relationship. Sincerely, Natalie Ashbrook”

Natalie was in scramble mode when she’d composed—after several revisions—that text. With a prayer to God and all the other gods and goddesses she could recall, she sent her message to Finder before meeting Ray and Clark at JFK International. All thoughts about getting Ray to apologize to her for their old fight she tossed on the back burner. Still, she packed the Mystic 8 Ball in her suitcase. She’d often imagined the scenario of Ray’s confession. The scene involved tears (his), usually elicited at the sight of her dropping the 8 Ball into his hands. Best be prepared.

Her phone didn’t buzz until she was at the terminal waiting for their flight to Istanbul. Had the universe answered her prayer? Please, oh, please.

“Dear Natalie, I can’t tell you how distressed I am by my behavior—especially to you. I don’t doubt there’s been a misunderstanding. I regret the role I played in worsening it. Dare I ask if you’ll still accept the autographed copy of my book? It was left behind in my office. I was happy to meet you as well. I’m willing to reconsider my role in your film. Here are my conditions: 1) Cozart must apologize to me. 2) The part about the Pope’s letter gets deleted. —Steve”

“Yesss!” Natalie raised her phone over her head as if it were a prize. “Woohoo! I did it!”

She startled Ray and Clark out of their silence. The three were sitting in a row, Clark in the middle.

“Wha’d you do?” Clark asked.

“Saved our film,” Natalie announced grandly. “Just got a text from Steve. He’s agreed to be a contributor again.”

“No way,” Clark said. “How’d you do it?”

Natalie handed Clark her phone. “Powers of persuasion, I guess. Knowing the right words.”

Clark read the messages and handed her phone to Ray.

Ray scanned them with a scowl. “Thanks for throwing me under the bus.” He leaned forward and half-tossed, half-handed Natalie’s phone back to her.

“It’s called diplomacy, Ray. You should be ecstatic that Steve’s willing to stay in the film. Wait ‘til I tell Reggie.”

Ray crossed his arms over his chest. “We don’t need him. And he didn’t agree. He made conditions.”

Natalie was dumbfounded. “But—but the conditions are nothing! I don’t get it. You raved about him, were so excited to share his novel with me. I mean, he’s the one who pushed the Last Supper Dish into pop culture. Without him, we aren’t even making a movie about the Dish. We’ve never lost such an important contributor.”

“Lots of people can talk about Bucky Browne,” Ray said. “We’ll just go to Dishpix, pick some people. They’ve all read Finder.” Ray elbowed Clark, seeking agreement.

“Like, how ‘bout Lady Jane Whitaker,” Clark suggested. “She’s kinda famous.”

“Yeah, Reggie even mentioned her. She’d be way funnier than Finder,” Ray said. “Aren’t we gonna interview some Dish expert in Istanbul?” he asked Natalie. “I’m sure whoever it is knows way more than Little Stevie.”

Natalie shook her head. “You guys can’t be serious.” She leaned forward to look at Ray. “I still can’t believe what you did! We drive to the interview, have a good discussion of his book. He gives us a tour, which was generous. The interview starts, he gives great answers, then out of the blue you provoke him. What’s goin’ on?” She’d already asked Ray this question several times, but she didn’t like his answer.

Ray wouldn’t meet her eye. “I told you before—after I met him, I thought he was a slimy fake. And I proved it. You shouldn’t want someone like that in our film.”

“What difference does that make?” Natalie asked. “Even if I think he’s fake—which I don’t—we’ve featured appalling people in our films before. Hell, we interviewed the Bric-A-Brac president in an asylum! He was insane! Why do you dislike Steve? All you gotta do is apologize. You don’t even have to mean it. And the Pope’s letter is irrelevant to Steve’s comments about the icons, which is what we really need.”

“The letter proves Little Stevie’s a slimy faker. That’s why he wants us to edit it out. But I’m not slimy like him. No apology.” Ray lifted his chin defiantly.

During this debate, Clark had put in his earbuds.

This irritated Natalie. She yanked one out. “Hey, you!” she barked right in his ear.

“Ow! What was that for?” he complained.

“You’re gonna tell me why Ray is being so stupid.”

Clark grimaced and seemed to shrink in his seat.

She glared at him. “C’mon. Spill it.”

Clark glanced at Ray, who gave Clark a hard look.

Natalie gripped Clark’s wrist. “The only way you’ll ever have a chance to film a Kimber Grant interview is us getting back on Steve’s good side. Think about it.”

Clark gulped. “Ray didn’t like how Steve was giving you the moves,” he said in a rush. “He wanted to prove that Finder’s not into Disher justice, that he’s just a player.”

“What?” Natalie was shocked.

“Ray was afraid you’d get distracted.”

Ray whacked Clark on the shoulder. “I told you that under the veil of secrecy!”

“Ow! I didn’t swear secrecy,” Clark protested.

“We huddled, didn’t we?” Ray said. “Huddling assumes secrecy. Every guy knows that!”

Ray and Clark kept squabbling.

Natalie huffed and slumped back into her seat to assess the situation. Clearly, Clark had told the truth. She never would’ve guessed Ray’s jealousy. She had to admit, she liked knowing that he felt some. Finder’s flirtation had caught her off guard. She was flattered. This was a guy who dated actresses. She’d formed a negative impression of him from his writing. But he was witty and cultured. He had great hair. Further contact would tell her if the spark she’d felt between them was real.

Interesting as Ray’s jealousy was, she saw that it created an obstacle to her grand plan. How will he apologize to me if he won’t apologize to Steve? Ray’s jealousy made him childishly obstinate, which was unfortunate. So far, she’d judged her tactics on him to be a success. She’d radiated sweetness. Showing an interest in Templars had even produced too strong an effect. Ray had agreed with her so much, he’d blurted her opinions to Steve.

She mulled the problem of Ray’s apology while they boarded the plane. Even a fake apology to Steve would put him in a better frame of mind to apologize to her and beg for the 8 Ball. Ray was like a puppy who needed training.

“I’m not sittin’ in the middle,” Clark said to Ray after Natalie took the window seat.

“Dude, help me out,” Ray pleaded.

“No way, it’s a ten-hour flight.”

Sullenly, Ray took the seat next to Natalie.

She didn’t mind this. In fact, she mustered all her charm and smiled graciously, because she’d just decided to use her ultimate tactic on him—The Plea for a Hero. She’d hope to keep it in reserve to break down his last defenses. But these were desperate times.

She lightly touched his arm. “Ray, you know how I feel about flying, especially these long international flights.” Her tone was low, confiding.

“Yeah. You hate ‘em. Scared a wing will fall off and we’ll crash into the ocean.”

Natalie shivered. “Oh, I’m having a premonition now. We could die and it will all be over. Always a chance.”

Ray was silent.

Good. He’s listening. She sighed. “In moments like these, I think about life’s regrets, don’t you? There’s always been one that’s bothered me. A real burden I carry.”

Ray perked up. “Oh? If you, er, want to share, I’m here for you.” He patted her hand.

“Really? How sweet.” She lowered her eyes. “What happened was . . . see, I lost my best friend.”

“How hard that must’ve been,” he said soothingly. “Tell me. I really want to hear.” He squeezed her fingers.

“See, it was Becky Riggle’s tenth birthday party—”

“Becky Riggle?” Ray’s tone abruptly changed.

“—yeah, and it was a costume party, and Becky was gonna dress up as Sleeping Beauty, and I was gonna be Princess Jasmine. We planned it all out—we were gonna be best friend princesses and take our pictures together. Everyone was invited, even my brother, Kevin. You’ve met Kevin.”

“What was he going as?” Ray asked glibly.

Natalie became flustered. Ray wasn’t supposed to have gotten caught up in the details. “Um, he was a pirate—or a robot. It doesn’t matter. A robot. We got dressed an hour before the party. I had a beautiful gown just like in the Aladdin movie. So, Kevin and I were in the living room. He stupidly swung his sword and knocked over the urn that held the ashes of our pet dog. In fact, he knocked the ashes all over my dress.”

“So, he was a pirate,” Ray said, “not a robot.”

“He was a robot pirate—Ra-ay, listen, that’s not the point. The thing is, he tattled on me! Said I took the urn from the mantel so I could have a genie lamp. My parents believed him. I mean, Bubby’s ashes—that was our dog—were all over me. I demanded Kevin own up to what he’d done and apologize. But he didn’t. He got to go to the party, and I was grounded. But that wasn’t the worst part.”

“What was?”

“Weren’t you listening? I lost my friendship with Becky! Another girl came dressed as Jasmine, and Becky became best friends with her.” Natalie sighed dramatically. “If only my brother would’ve done the right thing, don’t you see?”

Ray leaned back in his seat. “Feel better now?”

“Yeah. It helps to tell a friend. I still feel the pain sometimes. True friendship is—so rare.” Natalie risked a glance at Ray to deduce the effect of her words. But she couldn’t read the signs. He’d closed his eyes.

The plane taxied to the runway.

“You know what I think?” Ray said suddenly.

Natalie caught her breath. “What? Please, tell me.”

“A robot pirate isn’t a good costume. He should’ve gone as Batman.”

Scene 15

Thwarted Seeker

Istanbul, excavation site

Thursday, March 11

“What do you mean—wrap it up?” Burke spluttered in outrage. “You can’t be serious!”

From their first meeting three weeks previously, Burke had decided that he intensely disliked Feredun Pasa, Istanbul’s Rail Bureau Chief. Why this was so, he didn’t know. Perhaps it was Pasa’s jade and silver cuff links or his burgundy leather shoes. Perhaps it was that his teeth were very white, or that he prolonged the final s at the end of words.

“You understand me, I’m sure.” Pasa looked down his long, thin nose at Burke. “I’m ending all thisss.” He gestured dismissively at the walls of the shrine around them. “I want the excavation finished. Over. Done.” He smiled insincerely and pivoted to walk up the ramp.

“But this is the Shrine of the Four Keepers!” Burke cried. “You can’t just stop everything now. Just like that!”

Pasa glanced over his shoulder. “I can. I have.”

“But you said we had six weeks.”

“And now you have three.”

“But the three weeks are almost over. That’s just three more days.” Burke crossed before Pasa to impede his exit.

“Step aside, Professor.”

“No! Wait!”

Burke’s khakis were coated with mud. He wanted to grab Pasa’s shoulders, but he knew his soiled hands would leave marks. It aggravated him that Pasa seemed immune to dirt.

“But I have been waiting,” Pasa said curtly. “You have no idea—all the bureaucratic wrangling.” Pasa touched his brow lightly. “The metro project can no longer be delayed.”

“But we’re making so much progress,” Burke fired back. He explained that his crew had just recovered all the larger pieces of the shrine’s collapsed dome.

Much to Burke’s annoyance, Pasa merely shrugged.

Exasperated, Burke directed Pasa’s eyes toward the shrine’s east chamber, insisting that Pasa should at least have the courage to see everything he’d be shutting down if he carried out his ultimatum. Pasa rolled his eyes but let Burke lead him toward the apse. It was noticeably featureless, merely rough walls of yellow brick or gray, cut stone.

“Just look at this incredible altar.” Burke pointed to a rectangular stone that looked like a primitive table rising from the floor. An inscription was visible on its front edge. Burke translated the Latin for Pasa: Ask and it shall be given thee. Seek and ye shall find. The stone symbolized, in Burke’s expert opinion, the table of the Last Supper, and it must’ve been used by the Order of Andronicus—

“Yes, yesss.” Pasa waved off the rest of Burke’s disquisition. “I must be frank. I don’t care.”

Burke stared open-mouthed at Pasa.

“My crews do nothing, the machinery sits idle, yet the expenses for the Ministry of Transportation and our private investors grow by the minute,” Pasa complained. “We never imagined all thisss would be here to create further delay. While my investors appreciate the limited historical value of what you’re doing—”

“Limited historical value?” Burke repeated shrilly. “We’re standing in the most significant archaeological find of the past fifty—no, the past one hundred years.”

Pasa calmly pushed through Burke’s interruption. “We have become apprehensive of our high-cost overruns.”

“High-cost overruns?” Burke repeated Pasa’s words again. It was the only way he knew to emphasize their absurdity. “Don’t you understand? I’m on the verge of finding the Last Supper Dish. It’s priceless.”

“Priceless?” Pasa chuckled. “Priceless to whom? Historians and a few religious fanatics? Nothing you rummage up could be worth the millions of dollars I’m losing every day. Perhaps you’d like to reimburse me?”

Burke had no comeback for that.

“You have three days to finish. Three daysss.” Pasa held up three fingers before Burke’s face. “After that, my crews will wipe out what remains.” Pasa slithered away.

“Damn him! Damn!” Burke pounded his fist on the altar. He slumped to the ground with his back against it.

“Adam, what’s happened?” It was the voice of Zainab Ayhan. “I saw Feredun Pasa exit the site. Why was he here?”

“To shut down the dig. In three days!” Burke wailed.

“Three days? Are you sure you heard correctly?” Ayhan was dismayed.

“Yes, I’m sure,” Burke spat. “He was happy about it too!”

“But how will I get the Dish—er, I mean, I’m still sure you can get it, right? You’ve made progress, yes?”

Since uncovering the mosaics, Burke had pushed the excavation east toward the shrine’s inner sanctum in hopes of finding the Dish. Adrenaline, coffee, and the vision of defeating Winters had driven him. But now, he didn’t feel anything but aching fatigue and a rising uncertainty.

“None, Zainab.” Despite all his talk of progress with Pasa, he could now admit the truth. “Maybe my search is over.”

“How can that be?" Ayhan sidled up to him and leaned with her elbows on the altar. “Am I to understand that the world’s foremost seeker of the Dish has stopped seeking?”

Burke frowned and looked up at her.

She batted her eyes playfully.

Burke felt the full force of Ayhan’s beauty, and at the same time, the force of his own physical inadequacies. Did she notice his bald spot? The answer to this question made him nervous. “If you put it like that,” he tried to smile, “then, no, I haven’t stopped.”

“Perhaps I can help.” Ayhan traced an image of a bowl on the altar with her finger. “If you talk it out, you may find a way forward. Tell me what the crew did this morning.”

Reluctantly, Burke stood. “Oh, we canvassed this area with ground-penetrating radar. We sank exploratory holes at regular intervals. I thought for sure we’d find a subterranean vault. But there was nothing.”

“Then the Dish couldn’t be hidden under the floor.”

“I don’t see how. I thought it might be because of the riddle on the Panikos icons—Present yourselves at the gathering of the Twelve. Kneel before Andrew and pray for your souls, for you will soon enter the earth. So, I thought the gathering of the Twelve might refer to this altar, and that maybe a fresco of Saint Andrew was originally on the wall.”

“The Dish surely would’ve been kept near the altar.”

“Right. I thought it might even be under the altar. The inscription is suggestive. We had to send for a member of the Metro crew to operate the crane. When we lifted it, we searched for a vault, a trap door—but we saw nothing. The inscription is worthless.” Burke kicked the side of the altar.

After a moment’s silence, Ayhan said, “Does the Nil icon shed any light at all?”

Burke shook his head. “Nil gives us nothing. What we can read of the riddle refers to a port and sailing around rocks. That’d be great if there were water nearby, but as you can see . . .” He spun in a circle, gesturing at the dirt all around.

Ayhan began to pace. “What about the ancient histories? Putney or the Annals? You told me the other day that Putney records the shrine’s interior with great care.”

“Yes,” Burke said glumly, “but he only says that the relics were kept in a golden reliquary adorned with jewels.”

“That’s something.” Ayhan’s voice sounded hopeful.

“Not really,” Burke said. “The reliquary was likely stolen. It’s well-known that thieves targeted reliquaries and discarded their contents.” He jammed his hands into his pockets. “This is another challenge set up for me by Emperor Andronicus, but I have no map, no instructions.”

“But the Dish has to be here.” Ayhan threw up her hands exasperatedly. “You must be given more time. I’ll speak to Ahmet Ozturk. As the director of the Ministry of Tourism, he negotiated with Pasa to grant six weeks for our excavation. He won’t be pleased that Pasa wants to renege on their arrangement. Ahmet will intervene for you.”

“Does Ozturk outrank Pasa?” Burke asked. “Can he prevent the dig from shutting down?”

Ayhan gave Burke a sly grin. “Turkish politics can be rather nasty.”

Burke glanced at her. In the sunlight, Ayhan’s red-leather jacket glistened like fine silk. The top buttons of her blouse were undone, revealing the skin above her breasts. She was beautiful. Yet Burke detected another quality mixed with that beauty. Sometimes her smile seemed more like a bite. She lacked the bow and arrows, but Burke could imagine her as the formidable Diana, goddess of the hunt.

“Ahmet is curious about your quest. With his assistance, I arranged the press conference for you this afternoon. Please tell me you haven’t forgotten.”

“Oh, right. That.” Burke scratched his chin. For two days he’d been capering about like a puppy at the prospect of being on television. But Pasa had depressed him. “Great. I get to go on air and say the Dish is slipping away from me because of a stupid subway tunnel.”

“Don’t let Pasa bother you. You have my support, and Ahmet is a strong ally. We’ll see to it that you have the chance to overcome the greatest challenge of your career.”

Just then Ayhan’s phone buzzed. She answered it and stepped aside. “No, I can confirm nothing,” she said in English. “Yes, I’m there now, so I’ll call you soon and we can discuss the situation in greater detail.” She hung up.

Burke was leaning against the front of the altar, his back to Ayhan. She touched his arm lightly. He could smell her perfume. He recalled how lovely she’d been standing before Panikos the Youth.

“Look at me,” Ayhan said, and he did. “Adam, you’re the world’s foremost expert in Byzantine history, the greatest seeker of the Last Supper Dish. A real-life Bucky Browne. You’re standing in the middle of a shrine long thought to be lost. This is the most significant discovery of the last fifty years, perhaps the past century.”

“That’s just what I said to Pasa.”

“Then tell other people about it too.”

Just as Burke was about to grasp Ayhan’s hand, a voice behind them called out, “Da press, dey are here!”

“Adam, I need to go. I’ll leave you with Hromadova.” Ayhan strode away before Burke could object.

Hromadova grinned. “So exciting! TV cameras!” She clutched his arm and hauled him toward the west chamber.

Thwarted by Pasa yet buoyed by Ayhan, Burke’s mind felt muddled. He fixated on his only clear thought: I don’t want to be on camera with Elena! “You don’t have to lead me, I know the way,” he said to Hromadova irritably.

“Let me look at you,” she said abruptly.

Burke suddenly felt something wet. Hromadova had licked her thumb and was rubbing his cheek.

Burke cringed. “My God! What are you doing?”

“Dere is smear of dirt. I help you look best,” she said.

Reporters had gathered in the chamber of mosaics. Burke blinked at all the cameras. Thanks to Pasa, this press gaggle was no longer Burke’s coming-out party but a waste of the precious time he had to find the Dish. He ground his teeth and cursed Pasa. This obstacle is arranged too neatly to be a coincidence. Such a tactic by Winters! How did he do it?

Distracted and agitated, Burke struggled with the first reporter’s question about the mosaics of the Keepers. “Er, right. Yep, here they are. This one’s Panikos. And over there is Kostas, Zoticus, and Nil’s in the corner.” He knew he should say something more, but what else was there?

A reporter asked about the shrine’s purpose. Irritation shot through Burke. I don’t have time for this. Briefly, he described medieval pilgrimages. “Putney says monks at the shrine performed a sin-cleansing ritual for pilgrims. What? Did the monks use the Last Supper Dish for the ritual? Lots of scholarly debate, no clear answer. Putney mentions a bowl, says the monks gave him a choice, either place his hands in it like Judas the betrayer, or refuse and be cleansed of sin. Putney refused, confessed his sins, and was given an icon as a souvenir. What do I think?” Burke shrugged his shoulders. “Probably the monks used the true Dish. I’d like to get back to digging, so I can find out.”

A reporter asked whether Burke had found icons of the Four Keepers. “Metochites, the historian of that time, writes that only some of the icons were sent throughout the lands,” Burke said. “I think pilgrims got a Kostas or Panikos icon as souvenirs, and only Zoticus and Nil were kept at the shrine.” He gulped. “But, no, I can’t confirm my theory because we haven’t found any yet—but when we do, we’ll solve those riddles, I’m sure.” I’ve yapped enough with you people.

A young, suave reporter shouldered his way to the front.

Burke’s eyes widened. He recognized the face.

“Michael Mistral from Unearthed. I have a question for you, Professor.”

Burke gave Mistral a frosty glare. Mistral was an infamous Winters attack dog. First Pasa, now Mistral! A scheme to keep me from the Dish. I should’ve predicted this.

“You say you haven’t found the icons,” Mistral said, “but have you found the Dish?”

Through gritted teeth, Burke said, “No. Next question.”

“Wait just a minute,” Mistral smirked. “If the Dish isn’t at the famous shrine, then could it be anywhere else?”

Burke seethed silently.

“What do you say, Professor? If the Orthodox have had the Dish for all these centuries, then they can prove to the world that the Catholics are lying. Why not just produce the relic? Why should it be so hard to find?”

Burke couldn’t take anymore. He’d had enough of the presser—and Mistral’s smirking face. “Learn your history!” he bellowed. “Weren’t you listening when I described the ritual? Maybe the Dish was at the shrine. But there’s a reason the shrine is buried under Istanbul. The Ottomans took over the city. Crazy stuff happens during wars! Those monks would’ve found a way to hide the Dish. And once I get back in there—” Burke pointed toward the altar “—I’ll find it!”

Mistral sneered. “Will you? I hear Feredun Pasa, the city’s Rail Bureau Chief, is shutting down this excavation in three days. And when this place gets leveled, you’ll be just another academic crank with an unprovable theory. You’ll be all alone with no one listening.”

Burke stood slack-jawed. How does Mistral know? Of course, it must be Winters!

Murmurings rose from the press corps, but Burke kept his eyes on Mistral.

“There are forces that want to derail my quest for the Dish! But I’m not alone,” Burke hollered over a volley of questions. He thought of Ayhan and the saviour she’d promised, Ahmet Ozturk. “I have powerful allies, and they are coming to my aid! Together we will not fail!”

Scene 16

Change of Fate

Istanbul Museum of Ancient History

Thursday, March 11

“Murat,” Ayhan called to the young man trailing behind her in the hall, “I’ll be in my office for the next hour. I shall not be disturbed, understand?” She didn’t wait for her assistant’s reply, opening and closing her door in one motion.

Once inside, she slipped off her shoes and inspected her leather jacket. The feeling of being coated in dust from the dig site vexed her. Adding to her displeasure was the recollection of Burke’s defeatism. To detect weakness in a man to whom she owed some duty was provoking. It gave credence to her long-cherished belief that she was a woman fit to rule a kingdom far greater than a museum.

Ayhan reclined in her armchair and closed her eyes. If Burke embarrassed her at his press conference, then he would have to answer for it. She regretted phoning her big-money patrons. She should’ve waited until Burke had found the Dish.

Ahmet Ozturk would be ill-pleased if Burke’s presser reflected poorly on the museum. She shuddered, recalling prior episodes of Ozturk’s anger. Rousing his ire was to be avoided at all costs. Regrettably, she’d have to tell him about Pasa. Probably that would best be handled over the phone.

She opened her eyes. Her cell phone was ringing. She sat up, aware that she couldn’t recall the last ten minutes. Her mind had retreated from its own agitated thoughts. She’d been asleep.

Patience, she thought, as she answered the call.

“But I’m not bothered,” she lied, speaking in English. “I did say I’d call later. Perhaps you didn’t hear?” It was difficult for Ayhan to feign pleasantness she didn’t feel, and she stepped around her desk and turned on her iPad to distract herself. “Ah, no, my apologies if that is what you thought, Ambassador. I was just in the middle of discussing the progress of the dig with Dr. Burke. That’s why I hung up so quickly.” The Ambassador went on for a minute or more. On her iPad were images she’d taken of the shrine. As she listened, she flipped through the pictures one by one.

“I think it’s unlikely today,” she interrupted. “Er, no, there are no snags. Burke just had to stop for the press conference. Before I left, he told me that—that the altar will have to be lifted. Yes, a massive undertaking. He believes there is an underground vault.” She almost regretted this lie but was sure the Ambassador could never discover it. “I have complete confidence in him. If the Dish—or, rather—when the Dish is discovered, you’ll be the first to know. I’ve never failed you in the past.”

Once the Ambassador said goodbye, Ayhan twirled in her desk chair. When the Dish is discovered. Would it be? If Ozturk couldn’t intervene to give Burke more time, then her entire plan would be ruined. And besides Pasa’s deadline, Burke’s fruitless search created another potential problem for her—a serious one.

An object on one of her shelves caught her eye. She went to inspect it more closely. It was a copper bowl used for divination. It was engraved with the signs of the zodiac. The bowl wasn’t large; she spun it in her palm.

When the Dish is discovered.

Would it be?

Slowly, she traced her finger around each zodiac sign, pausing over Leo the Lion. The beast clenched a sword in his teeth, and the sun rose like a crown over his head.

She replaced the bowl on her shelf, frustrated by Burke’s failure to find the Dish. Need she be implicated in his defeat? She snatched up her iPad and tapped on her calendar, thinking of Pasa’s looming deadline.

March 12, 9 am: 8 Ball Productions—interview about the Disher tourist industry in Istanbul and tour of Hagia Sophia.

I must cancel, Ayhan thought. There was too much to be done. Burke needed her help. She had to solve the Pasa problem. There was the opening of the new exhibition. The American film company would have to make their movie about the Last Supper Dish without her. She found Ms. Ashbrook’s phone number.

Ayhan tapped her chin with her phone. A fresh yet only half-envisioned idea had entered her mind, and as she pondered its dimensions, a grin slowly blossomed. Burke need not find the real Dish. Any common clay pot will do. Her eyes looked from her phone to the copper divination bowl sitting on her shelf—and back again.

I can supply the bowl myself, and then—and then—

The key obstacle to pulling off her scheme wouldn’t be in supplying an artifake. She’d done so before, though on a smaller scale. Her cut of the profit in that sale had been worth the risk. What she’d make this time . . . calculating the sum made her giddy.

No, the difficulty in a high-profile case like the Dish would be to forge the provenance, the official record of a genuine artifact’s discovery. Perhaps she could ask Burke’s slow-witted assistant Duffy to take a picture of her with the artifake before the altar. Or even better, if she could somehow place her artifake in Burke’s hands . . . no, that would never work. He was besotted with her, and she could easily charm him into performing a favor, but a photograph would never satisfy her rabid clientele. She needed Burke to testify that he’d found her bowl at the shrine, and she couldn’t manipulate that from him.

How could she forge Burke’s testimony? She squeezed her phone, feeling the solution just at her fingertips.

Of course. 8 Ball Productions.

So simple. So perfect. The plan couldn’t fail. At last, she could set her fate free from Burke’s. She could set it entirely in her own hands.

Ayhan didn’t dial Ms. Ashbrook to cancel. She’d make a movie after all. Just not Ms. Ashbrook’s.

Her phone rang. Glancing at the number on the screen irritated her, for it dispelled the dream that her fate rested entirely in her own hands. It didn’t. Not yet.

“Ahmet, I was just about to call,” she said in Turkish. But Ozturk was in full form and didn’t hear her. “No, I’m not at the site. I left before the presser. You watched it? Please—there’s no need to shout. The dig being shut down in three days? Yes, I know already. How did you—ah, I see—a reporter asked Burke about it. Yes, it’s Pasa making trouble. Burke told me minutes before the presser. What? Of course, I was going to tell you. We are partners. How can you suggest—? Well, I’ve been talking with the Krayzels. You know we must keep our buyers feeling special.”

A crash from Ozturk’s office made Ayhan wince.

“Hello? Ahmet?” she asked tentatively. She heard curses and mutterings. Footsteps. A filing cabinet drawer open and close. More mutterings. She pressed the phone against her ear. That was a mistake. Ozturk’s roar made her ears ring.

“Er, yes, Ahmet, I’m still here,” she said, holding the phone at a distance. “Absolutely, the excavation must not fail. I assured Burke that you’re a fearsome ally. Pasa is a monkey compared to you,” she added flatteringly. “Hmm? Information? About Pasa? I know you’ve disliked him for years. What has he been up to? This must be a juicy secret.”

Ozturk’s chuckle was guttural, a very good sign. If his humor had improved, then it meant he had a plan—and a good one. Ayhan’s confidence grew; she pressed Ozturk for details on how he would get Pasa to extend Burke’s deadline.

“You won’t tell me? No, of—of course I trust you, Ahmet. It’s just that, well, I don’t like surprises.” A needle of panic suddenly deflated her. Ozturk’s surprises, as she knew from experience, could backfire—and spectacularly. “Yes, I understand. You need time to pull your plan together. Very well. I’ll wait, but you must let me know. I—I have a plan of my own,” she added, hoping to tempt him. “A contingency plan if Burke doesn’t find the Dish. We must anticipate every outcome, otherwise—oh, you want to know, do you? So, you’re the only one permitted to play coy?”

She instantly regretted this remark, as Ozturk pounced on it. After years of partnership with the squat man, she’d heard every conceivable innuendo. Such dreadful flirtations with him made her sick. Quickly, she distracted him by divulging the high points of her plan.

“. . . so, as you can see, with the footage from these American filmmakers, we could easily piece together what we need Burke to say. I think it’d be quite convincing.”

She smiled at Ozturk’s appreciative chuckle. The man wasn’t all bad. He did greatly admire her mind. And he’d made her rich. He could make her richer still.

“Gaining access to their footage? Hmm. A fair objection,” she said, thinking through the problem. “Perhaps a permission form from your office, one with very fine print.”

They both laughed.

“It’ll be nothing to persuade them to follow my itinerary,” she said breathlessly. “Think about what I’m giving them, Ahmet—a chance to make history! They’d be fools to refuse. I’ll give them exclusive access to Burke, the shrine, the museum. It’ll be exactly what they want.” She paused, her eyes seeing dollar signs. “That’s what you taught me. To give people what they want. So that we can get what we want.”

Scene 17

Whitaker One View

Grandeur, Georgia

Friday, March 12

As Max entered the Summit Museum, he felt tired and foolish. Tired of his mother’s whims. Tired of how she kept Whitaker’s under her thumb. Foolish for what had brought him to this place—his obsession over a tailless cat.

“Oh, it’s Mr. Whitaker.” Frank Carlisle’s face betrayed surprise and confusion.

“You’re expecting me, I hope? I know it was short notice,” Max said.

Carlisle visibly gulped. He fiddled with his bow tie. “A slight miscommunication with my assistant. You see, I’m used to meeting with Ms. Whitaker. And about that, Mr. Whitaker—I mean, I can guess why you’re here, and all I can say is, that story about your daughter and the Saint Nil, getting the reporter—it wasn’t my idea. Not my idea!” Carlisle wrung his hands anxiously.

Max pursed his lips, puzzled by this display.

“Oh, this is difficult. What a pickle!” Carlisle’s voice squeaked fearfully. “I don’t wanna cause trouble. Please, Mr. Whitaker, we here at the Summit are grateful for your family’s financial support.”

“Dr. Carlisle, please—what’s this about?”

“So very, very grateful. We couldn’t survive otherwise. Please, you must understand.”

“Understand what?” Max’s phone buzzed with an incoming call. He pulled it from his blazer to silence it.

“Are you recording me?” Carlisle pointed a shaky finger at Max’s phone. “You’re recording me. Oh, oh!” His voice reached an unprecedented pitch. “I wouldn’t have done it—oh, I mean, without strong encouragement.”

“What’s going on? Done what? No one is accusing you.”

“And I was sworn to secrecy. What could I do? I’m nobody. It wasn’t my idea.”

Max stepped toward the little man. “Stop it, will ya? Listen to me!”

Carlisle nodded vigorously. “I’m listening, I’m listening. Anything you say, Mr. Whitaker. Anything you say.” He dabbed his forehead with a hanky.

“If the story on Jane wasn’t your idea . . . then whose idea was it?” Max pronounced these last words deliberately.

“I can’t possibly, no, I’ve sworn—”

“Start from the beginning. Tell me everything. Now.”

At Whiningham, Jane stood in her palatial walk-in closet deciding what to pack for her trip to Cartagena, Colombia. She was still dressed in her pajamas, and she held a Dolce & Gabbana gown in one hand and her phone in the other. Via video chat, Meena was directing her choices. She and Roxy sat in a cabana on the roof of their hotel getting pedicures.

“No, not that one,” Meena said about the gown. “You wore that to Dominick’s birthday party.”

Jane put the gown back and pulled out a vintage Chanel cocktail dress. “What about this?”

“Ooo, love, love,” Meena cooed. “Blue’s your best color.”

Jane walked to her bed and laid the dress next to her suitcase. She’d already packed several bikinis, wraps, and hats, plus matching collars and leashes for Baby Girl. There were a couple Finder novels for beach reading. Jane looked about her—Baby Girl was sunning herself in a window. Jane tip-toed back into her closet to retrieve the Comfy-Go Pet Tote stashed way in the back. As a rule, Baby Girl resisted confinement and ran howling from the sight of the thing.

“I think I’m gonna bring the Saint Nil,” Jane mused, opening her trunk at the foot of her bed.

“Hey, Jane,” Roxy said, “Meena says you need to look more available.”

“I did not,” Meena protested. “I only said you always look, like, so confident, y’know? Guys will just assume you already have a boyfriend.”

Jane closed the trunk lid and returned to her closet. “I don’t need a boyfriend. I’m only twenty-two.”

“Okay, but Dominick is, like, totally hot. You guys look awesome together. What happened?”

Jane rummaged among her shoes, looking for a pair of heels to match her cocktail dress. “I dunno, I just stopped liking him. I wanted something different. I can’t really explain.” She picked up sandals in pink iguana print.

“Omigod, the ankle straps. Love, love!”

“I mean, I feel like right now,” Jane gestured with the sandals, “I wanna go wherever the wind takes me.”

“You’ll love the beach breezes here!” Roxy shouted. With that the pair signed off.

The pink sandals made Jane’s suitcase overstuffed. In mid-zip, she decided that zipping her suitcase was of public interest and picked up her phone. She sat on the suitcase, pretending she was about to fall off: “What happens when you can’t leave behind vintage Chanel!” she wrote as a caption, tagging Meena and Roxy so they’d see the photo. She studied her own Dishpix profile, admiring herself in her silver kimono and diamond headband. Adventure is my destiny.

Humming the theme to Cave of All Fears, Jane returned to her closet. The kimono was hanging on the back of the door. Reverently, she lifted it from its hook. Nothing else she wore made her feel more enchanted, and she giggled while practicing dramatic poses before her mirror.

She unlocked a dresser drawer and extracted her diamond headband. Technically, it was a necklace—vintage Yves Saint Laurent—but she wore it as a headband. There was a row of half-carats set in platinum, and from each of these diamonds hung a vertical row of smaller ones. As a necklace it was very heavy. As a headband it was even heavier. Jane felt the weight was worth it because the fringe of diamonds sparkled beautifully like magical strands of hair. She laid the necklace and the kimono on her bed.

Admiring her own costume, she thought about Nicole’s speech. You’re different, Jane. Everyone can see that. Jane was quite gratified to have discovered Nicole’s name among her Dishpix followers. Here was a woman who understood her. No doubt, Nicole had helped Patricia see Jane’s potential to change the world. Appearing as Lady Jane in a Whitaker’s commercial would be her big break. All she had to do was talk about showering homeless people for thirty seconds.

Jane imagined herself becoming famous enough to host her own primetime show—Dishing Now! She’d interview all the big Dishers: Steve Finder, Ramsey King, Adam Burke. Maybe Jimi Bowler would invite her to guest post on TrueDishers. For so long, she’d been a lone crusader for justice. Now she had not only Nicole but also her Nana as followers. Whitaker’s Studios was on her side. Amazing. Clearly, the Great Guiding Power had again intervened to reveal her destiny. In no time at all, she’d have not a mere 100 thousand followers, but 100 million . . .

She sat down on her bed and drew her Finder novels to her, opening Cave of All Fears near the middle:

“Wait, Bucky! I’m coming with you.”

“No, Lady Xenia, I can’t let you. It’s too dangerous.”

“But Scevola has alerted the authorities. I can get you across the border.”

“But your life here. Your family. I can’t ask you to make such a sacrifice.”

“You don’t have to ask. I’ve already decided.”

“But why?”

“For the same reason you have—for the truth.”

Bucky nodded. He understood.

Shouts echoed in the corridor. “They’ve come!”

Lady Xenia gasped. “Bucky, we’re wasting time.”

There was no other way, and Bucky knew it. “What do you propose?”

“Come with me.”

They ran to the end of the corridor. Lady Xenia led him down a winding stairwell. At the bottom she removed a stone from the wall and pulled a hidden lever. A portion of the wall gave way before them.

“Hurry!”

Together they raced down the secret passage.

“Wow,” Bucky said as he entered a high-tech control room. “You’d never know by the look of the place—”

“Yes, this underground inlet has existed for centuries. It’s why the castle was built. But these—” she waved at the wall of computers “—are new additions.”

“I’ll say.” Bucky followed Lady Xenia to the water’s edge. A helicopter fitted with floats rocked in the current. “I thought we were going by boat.”

“We are. Sort of. This can do both. In my experience, I’ve found that sometimes the best runway is a lake.”

“What do you call this thing?” Bucky asked.

“A gyroplane. A Calidus 300X Turbo to be exact. It’s a prototype. Only three in existence.”

“That’s reassuring.”

“I thought I was with Bucky Browne, the international man of adventure.”

Bucky grinned. “But I’m used to adventuring alone.”

“You’ll have to get over that.” She winked and tossed her blonde hair. “I’m Lady Xenia. Adventure is my destiny.”

Jane let the book fall closed and rolled onto her back. She lay there for a minute with her hands under her head and her feet in the air, wriggling her bare toes. She pretended she was dancing upside down, her toes touching the zebra-striped canopy above her bed. She began to hum again, relishing a feeling of power, a feeling that Lady Jane’s next adventure was going to be HUGE.

Patricia walked with Toby Milto in the hall outside the master control room at Corporate Headquarters.

She took her time, stopping to inspect the make-up and changing rooms, and chatting briefly with various employees. Max was the face of Whitaker’s, so this wing of Corporate—the Commercial Production Center—was primarily his domain. But if all went according to Patricia’s plan, it would soon be Jane’s.

Approaching the studio, Patricia’s anticipation increased. She’d been desirous of seeing Nicole all morning. Impulsively she’d chosen to wear a pencil sheath dress in black, a departure from her power suits. The dress was feminine yet simple and subdued. It made her look younger.

When she opened the studio door, Patricia immediately caught Nicole’s eye. Kathleen was busy settling the bolts of fabric that had ballooned about her as she sat. Patricia frowned with disapproval at Kathleen’s dress. It was a large-print floral one that made her look like a moving hillock.

“A pleasure to see you again,” Nicole said to Patricia. And then, with a subtle, sideways glance at Kathleen, she added with exaggerated innocence, “I never expected this to be so—so big.”

Patricia blinked several times at the indiscreet reference to size in such a context, and with an involuntary glance at Kathleen hastily replied, “Ah, well, this was many years in the making. Our first headquarters was barely a closet at the back of our five-and-dime.”

“It’s like its very own world in here,” Nicole marveled.

Patricia agreed. “Our Merchandise Design Center generally makes such an impression. You must’ve seen it on your way up.” She said this because she was eager to show Nicole the Design Center herself and knew that Kathleen wouldn’t have bothered.

“No, I don’t think so.”

“Really? Well, then . . .”

Patricia motioned for Nicole to follow her, at the same time indicating with her eyes to Kathleen that she need not trouble herself to get up. Nevertheless, Kathleen began the work. Patricia made no pretense of waiting for her. Leaving the studio with Nicole and Milto, she made a right turn, stopping before a set of glass doors etched with Whitaker’s iconic cursive W.

“This,” Patricia opened the doors grandly, “is Whitaker One View.” They stepped onto a balcony that ran adjacent to a conference room with walls made entirely of glass.

Nicole sucked in her breath and peered about.

Far below them were aisles and aisles stretching for indeterminable lengths.

“It’s . . . a store,” Nicole said, clearly nonplussed.

“What you’re seeing below is our Merchandise Design Center. It’s a store simulation only. A theater of products.”

“Theater?” A question formed itself in Nicole’s eyes.

“Yes. Look closely.” Patricia gestured below.

At that moment, the balcony doors opened, and Kathleen waddled in. They all took two steps over to make room. Nicole was pushed further to the right. She scanned the nearest aisles below, her eyes locking on the fresh produce displays. Three employees in red polo shirts (company dress) were stacking apples and oranges. One of the oranges fell. It bounced three times like a ping-pong ball.

“It’s . . . not real,” Nicole said in disbelief.

“Plastic,” Patricia said.

“But how—?” Nicole examined everything again with fresh eyes. “Nothing here is real,” she murmured in wonder.

“The cereal boxes are full of confetti, and the candy bars are Styrofoam. Ha!” Milto practically shouted.

“The lamps,” Nicole pointed. “They’re cardboard.”

“Yes,” Patricia said. “We cut a piece to a product’s size and shape, then paste on the product image. Simulated clothing is clipped to hangers. Most product images are stood up like paper dolls by being slid into plastic supports along the shelving.”

“You create cardboard images of everything you sell?”

“Yes, in the Product Simulation Department. There are exceptions. It’s impossible to simulate every nut and bolt.”

“The Lawn and Garden Center has real artificial plants,” Kathleen interjected.

“Um, yes, that’s true.” Patricia replied to her daughter, then quickly turned to Nicole. “Flowers create the unique problem of—of spacing—and, er—” she paused, feeling a sudden hot flash at the sight in her periphery of Kathleen’s floral dress, “and we’ve found that, uh, two-dimensional displays can’t adequately simulate their—their girth.”

Milto coughed. Nicole observed the discomfort from the pair with a knowing half-smile.

Just then they heard the echo of a yelp. They all looked down. To the left, Baby Girl had scampered in. There were many feet to sniff, and she eagerly ran from shoe to shoe. Several employees knelt to lure in the little dog, but none of them had a Teeny Treat. When Baby Girl stopped to sniff a simulated store greeter, the cardboard man fell over. Baby Girl’s nerves reacted, and she raced off howling.

Patricia signaled with her eyes to Milto that he ought to go fix this.

“I’m on it, Mrs. Whitaker.”

“Oh, Toby—when you find Jane, bring her directly to the studio, will you?” Patricia said.

After his departure, Nicole said to Patricia, “I’m not sure I understand.” She gestured to the scene below. “This Design Center—why simulate products at all?”

Baby Girl’s disturbance had permitted Patricia’s temperature to return to normal, and she answered Nicole coolly. “Because the purpose of the Design Center isn’t to sell products but to practice selling them. There’s an art to it, you see. Should gold and silver items be shelved together or separately? Should plastics be on the top or bottom? Once we approve product displays here, we implement that design in all our Whitaker’s stores uniformly.”

As Patricia said this, Milto appeared below. Several employees pointed him in the direction of Baby Girl, and he vanished among the cardboard toys. Moments later, in the distance, a row of simulated bicycles collapsed.

“Like, I’m totally amazed.” Nicole blinked her eyes at Patricia, who thought she detected admiration in them.

“We’ve worked hard to perfect it,” Patricia beamed confidently. “Everything contributes to the bottom line.”

“Yes,” Nicole said with a glance at Kathleen, “I imagine it trims the fat from your operating expenses—or, rather—” she stopped and placed her fingertips to her lips. “Oops, I to-tally didn’t mean that. Ha-ha.”

Kathleen glared at her stonily.

Patricia quickly opened the doors to Whitaker One View to usher Nicole out. “Nicole and I must review the script and ready the shower,” she said to Kathleen. “No, don’t come with us. Help Toby with Jane,” Patricia ordered.

The doors closed upon Kathleen. It was then she saw below—was it an angel? Near the door of the faux pharmacy, a young woman stood in a shimmery, silver kimono. It was as if a sunbeam had settled on her. A distinct aura circled her head, like radiant transparent glass, or a heavenly halo glowing luminously.

Max strode away from the Summit Museum having learned more than who told whom about a tailless cat, though that small mystery had been solved as well. Jane had mentioned the cat to Carlisle, who in turn had mentioned it to Patricia in one of their (as it turned out) numerous consultations.

He reinterpreted all his mother’s recent actions: her summoning him to Whiningham, her expressed perplexity at Jane, her desire for his intervention. Carlisle’s revelations gave Max an unprecedented view of things. He now held the entire script and was sitting in the director’s chair.

He entered his car and checked his voice mail. He heard Patricia’s voice summoning him to Whitaker One View. A big meeting with Kathleen, Ms. Dziedzic, and Jane. I’m gonna end her schemes. His daughter did need to be saved. Not from Dishing, but from his mother. He shifted his Maserati into drive and pressed down on the accelerator.

Baby Girl had been recaptured and properly leashed. Jane stood in an elevator, the dog sitting at her feet, panting. Milto propped himself against the handrail and fanned his face fiercely with his iPad.

“Thanks,” Jane said when the elevator doors opened. “I don’t like going into the Design Center. It’s so creepy.”

Jane strode toward the studio, Baby Girl pattering next to her. Milto crept after at a distance. Onlookers gathered to peer at Jane in her kimono, among them Kathleen who met them at the intersection to Whitaker One View.

“Hi, Aunt Leenie!”

“Why are you wearing that?” Kathleen asked.

“You like it?” Jane twirled once. But the weight of her diamond headband shifted her center of gravity and she teetered into Milto. He dropped his iPad trying to catch her. Baby Girl jumped out of the way as the device hit the floor.

“Oops,” Jane giggled. “Baby Girl, go fetch!”

“Best take it off,” Kathleen said.

“Oh, I couldn’t. It’s vintage YSL.” Jane fiddled with it in her hair. “And it’s just so—so me. Cute, huh?”

Kathleen laughed, but her eyes held tears. “Yes. So beautiful. I’m surrounded by beautiful people.” She swayed on her feet as if she were a child testing her legs for the first time. “Jane, do you ever feel regrets about your life? How it might’ve turned out different if—” her tears fell, and she swiped her cheek. “Because believe me, I understand. I have so many regrets. But I can’t help who I am. It’s so unfair. I’m sorry, so sorry for everything.” She turned to Milto. “Hurry and get Jane’s wardrobe. I—I can’t stay!” Her tears fell faster, and she stepped toward the elevator.

“Wait! Where are you going?” Milto called after Kathleen. But she rounded a corner and disappeared.

“Like, what’s wrong with her?” Jane asked.

Milto groaned and glanced at Jane. “Stay here, Ms. Whitaker, I’ll be right back.” He didn’t follow Kathleen but raced down the hall in the opposite direction.

Jane picked up Baby Girl and glided through the studio doors. “Like, hi, everybody,” she called out as if a large studio audience had been waiting for her. “Wave to the nice people, Baby Girl.” A couple lighting technicians looked up, and the director turned around.

A young man in a coordinated Whitaker’s polo shirt and trousers sauntered up to Jane. “You’re new. Are you here for today’s commercial?”

Jane smiled. “As a matter of fact—I am.”

“I’m the cameraman. Er—the assistant.”

“Make sure you get all of me because I’m the star! It’s my first role. When I go viral, I’ll shine so bright.” Jane struck a pose with her face upturned.

The man grinned. “I sure will. What’s your name?”

Jane giggled. “Lady Jane. Are you ready for adventure? Ha-ha!” She dropped her fingers before him.

He hesitated, unsure if he was supposed to kiss them. “Lady Jane, huh? Are you European?”

Jane giggled again, not noticing he had backed away.

“Jane, my dear, what in the world are you wearing? Where’s your aunt and Toby?”

Jane turned to see Patricia striding toward her. Nicole was a step behind, lugging her bagged shower parts.

“Aren’t I dreamy?” Jane said with a flutter of her eyes.

“Omigod. Lady Jane?” Nicole said, promptly averting her eyes from Patricia as if she’d uttered something shameful.

“For my television debut, I wanted to inspire all my Dishpix followers,” Jane said to Nicole.

Patricia peered at Jane with an indulgent grin smoothing her face. “What—what an interesting idea. Perhaps you’re a bit too dazzling.” She slid her arm about Jane’s waist. “You’ll be saying important things about the homeless. We want our viewers to listen, and your luminousness may distract.”

Jane tried to think, but Patricia’s proximity fogged her mind. “Well, may-be. But I’m talking about Dishing. I have to shine the light of justice all over the world.”

“So true. But you should discuss showers first—just for a minute. We’ll flash a script while you face the camera.”

“A script?” Jane felt Baby Girl squirm in her arms. Its blue eye appeared anxious.

“Yes, so you don’t have to think. It’s your first time in the spotlight. We wouldn’t want you to get nervous,” Patricia said. “You’ll be wonderful, but we want to help. Reading the script will be a warmup, merely. Once you’re comfortable, then you can talk about Dishing as much as you like.”

“Here I am, Mrs. Whitaker,” Milto announced. He held up a hanger to exhibit the matching red polo and slacks with the Whitaker’s W.

“The stylist is waiting to do Jane’s hair,” Nicole added. “Don’t worry, Jane. You’ll look lovely in red.”

“Ewww.” Jane recoiled from the polo and slacks.

“Now, dear,” Patricia said, stroking Jane’s arm. “These are tailored just for you. I know it’s all new and strange. After your opening bit with the showers, we’ll take a break. You can put your lovely kimono back on and talk about Dishing. Jim, our director, will make it all look seamless. Right, Jim?” Patricia turned to a man off to the side.

Jim winked. “Sure thing, Mrs. Whitaker.”

“Reach out and take the clothes,” Patricia whispered in Jane’s ear. “Embrace your future as our new star.”

Milto dangled the outfit like a bag of candy.

Jane cocked her head. Her diamonds slid askew. Doesn’t sound so bad. A small compromise is no biggie. She reached out and fingered the polo’s sleeve. “I guess I can change.”

A voice behind Jane yelled out. “What’s going on here?”

“Max, you’re late,” Patricia said, startled.

“I think I’ve arrived just in time, mother.” Max spoke to Jane, “Step away from your grandmother.”

“Why?” Jane said. “They want me in a commercial.”

“Oh, really?” Max asked. “So that’s the game.”

“Yeah, I’m gonna become a Dishing star!”

“Is that what she promised you?” Max turned to Patricia. “You’ve suddenly become a Disher?”

“Of course, I’m all for—for justice.”

“So, what’s the catch?” Max stepped toward Jane. “What are you doing for your Nana for all this airtime?”

“We-ell, she wants me to read a script,” Jane said. “Whitaker’s is selling portable showers or something.”

Max laughed. “What?”

“Whitaker’s is promoting our Shower the Homeless campaign,” Nicole interjected. “I represent the—”

“Save it, Ms. Dziedzic.” Max held up his phone. “Jane, I just spoke with Dr. Carlisle. In fact, he allowed me to record him. He had a lot to say about your Nana.”

“Carlisle?” Patricia’s face went white.

Max tapped the play button: “Patricia Whitaker was behind the story about Jane and her fake Nil icon. She has a reporter tailing Jane all the time. She also arranged for Jane’s arrest in Moscow. Unbelievable but true! Mrs. Whitaker wants to humiliate Jane with bad press to make her give up Dishing. She’s been at it for months, and—”

Max pocketed the phone. “Carlisle let the tailless cat out of the bag, wouldn’t you say, mother?”

“Oh—oh stop, you know I hate irony,” Patricia hissed.

Jane gasped and pulled away from Patricia’s grip.

“To get you under her thumb, she’d promise you as much time as you want for Dishing commercials,” Max said to Jane. “Those will never be aired. Trust me.” He took hold of Jane’s elbow. “Let’s get out of here. We need to talk.”

But Jane jerked away her elbow. “No! Why should I listen to you? You’re all alike!” She cradled a panting Baby Girl to her cheek and looked at everyone with wild eyes. “Better listen, people! You all think you can just, like, tell me what to do and what to think. But I’m my own person. You don’t even try to understand me. I mean, I may be Jane Whitaker, but I’m also myself. And—and if I can’t be myself, then I don’t wanna be Jane Whitaker. Like, look around you. Life is not a cardboard store display. It’s about embracing who you are. Because you only get one life, y’know? And you just, like, oughta embrace who you are. Omigod, I just said that! What I mean is—you oughta love your life because it’s one of the most beautiful gifts you’re ever given.”

“That’s enough!” Patricia exclaimed. “It’s time to face reality. You want to grow up? Then you must make adult choices. Either join us at Whitaker’s and secure your future or chase after your ridiculous Dish. But I guarantee that if you choose Dishing, you’ll be all alone!”

Jane’s lips quivered, and she looked from face to face as though unsure if anybody could see her.

Fine.

She backed away toward the door.

Max reached for her. “Jane. Wait. Please.”

She motioned him to stop. They stood face to face.

“I gotta go. Baby Girl . . . needs a drink.”

With a stifled sob, Jane fled.

Scene 18

Jolt of Energy

Hotel Amir, Istanbul

Friday, March 12

Although disgruntled with the failure of her Plea for a Hero, Natalie comforted herself with several text exchanges with Steve Finder the night of her arrival in Istanbul.

“Natalie, good to hear from you. I appreciate your professionalism. Believe me, I know the value of being in an 8 Ball Production. Basket Case was complex and inventive. Have been putting thought into the note for your book. I want it to be memorable. Can’t wait to give it to you. —Steve”

“Steve, I’m honored. I’ll display Templars next to antique editions I own of Hamlet and Macbeth. Getting to know you makes me even more eager to read your next book. Am still working on Ray. He’s stubborn for no reason, but we’re filming in Istanbul for two weeks, so there’s time. —Natalie”

Finder’s conciliatory attitude fueled Natalie’s pride. At least he was cooperative. Clearly, she wielded influence. She kept up their conversation by taking her phone with her to an evening’s planning session with Ray and Clark. They were to interview the curator Zainab Ayhan the next day.

Ray was sullen; Clark had jet lag. Natalie tried to energize them: “Time to brainstorm questions! Dr. Ayhan told me Istanbul is a dream destination for treasure hunters. We should ask her where the Dish might be hidden in the city. When she gives us a tour of Hagia Sophia, we can ask about the tunnels beneath the church—maybe convince her to show us one. What do you guys think of that?”

Ray and Clark grunted in acquiescence.

“C’mon, where’s your sense of urgency?” Natalie complained. “You need to focus. This is an important interview. We can’t afford to mess this one up.”

“I can’t think with so much pressure,” Clark whined.

“Oh, yeah? Well, you know who to blame. If Ray would just apologize to Steve, maybe we could all relax.”

Ray reacted defensively. “You’re not focusing either,” he accused Natalie. “Who are you texting?”

“No one. Just Steve. Turns out he knows Zainab.”

Ray sniffed in disdain. “We hardly need to plan for her. What is she, some scraggly-haired woman who runs a museum? Piece of cake. Those types are as dull as dirt anyway. We’ll probably end up editing her out.”

The meeting broke up. Ray and Clark went to dinner. Natalie got another text from Finder.

“You mentioned you’re interviewing Zainab Ayhan. Perfect choice. She helped me research for Templars, knows everything about the Turkish antiquities trade and the Disher tourist industry. Here’s a tip: ask her about Istanbul’s manholes. She’s got some funny stories about stuck Dishers.”

Natalie found herself smiling. Cooperative and helpful. Way better than Ray. She decided to take a tour of Hotel Amir’s amenities, omitting the rooftop view of the Sea of Marmara. As she didn’t like heights, she’d have no reason to go up there. After dinner in her room, she unpacked her suitcase—except for the Mystic 8 Ball. The sight of it irritated her. C’mon, Ray, why is it so hard to say you’re sorry?

From the window in her room, she glimpsed below a small garden with a rusted bench. The garden wasn’t in bloom. Tangled bushes and bare-limbed trees strained against an iron fence. Meditating on this scene, she sought inspiration for some new tactic with Ray. Nothing came to her. His obstinacy about Finder had drained her reservoir of sweetness. She felt bone dry.

Even worse, she felt her sweetness souring.

She needed a jolt of energy herself.

The next morning, Natalie awoke feeling all business. She dressed her professional best in a chic chevron skirt and decided at the last minute to wear her hair down. Focus. Today is not about Ray. She was at the hotel café for breakfast an hour before Ray and Clark arrived. They found her consulting her notes for the interview on her iPad.

Natalie slid the iPad across the table to Ray. “This is the website promoting the museum’s new Byzantine art exhibition. It starts tomorrow.”

“So? Why I gotta look at this?” Ray asked sleepily.

Natalie regarded him and Clark with detachment. “No doubt both of you forgot, but we’re filming the opening ceremony. You need to study up should Zainab mention it.”

“No wonder I forgot,” Ray said. “Sounds boring.” He dumped two bags of sugar in his coffee.

“And I added a few more questions to our list. They’re Steve’s suggestions actually, some tips for how to approach Zainab. Said she’s very career-minded, proud of her accomplishments, quite receptive to being asked for advice. If we show some respect, she’ll go out of her way to be helpful.” See, Steve’s a man of good intentions. You’re wrong about him.

Ray slurped his coffee. “Not much of an insight. You could say those things about anyone.”

Natalie arched her brows. “Steve suggested we ask her about the city’s manholes. Says she’s got funny stories about Dishers slogging through the sewer for the Dish. Is that specific enough for you?” Here’s a tactic, Ray. Direct challenge!

Clark was inspecting the iPad. “Sailing to Byzan-ti-oom?”

“That’s the name of the art exhibition. Byzantium is Constantinople’s old name,” Natalie explained. “Some of the artifacts to be displayed were stolen during the Fourth Crusade. They’re being returned for the first time.”

“Stolen treasure! Now I’m interested.” Ray joined Clark in perusing the website. “Ha! Hey, Clark, look at this. Nazis! Remember that crime show on the ManCave Network? Perfect example.” Ray tapped the screen.

Natalie was curious. “I didn’t read anything about Nazis.”

Ray handed her the iPad. “Check out this description.” He pointed to an icon of the Virgin Mary holding the Christ child. It was damaged. Scratches scarred the Virgin’s cheek.

“The lost Theotokos of Sergiyev,” Natalie read aloud. “The work of fifteenth-century Russian icon painter Andrei Rublev is as beautiful and haunting as it is rare. This recovered icon was taken from Kiev during the Nazi occupation.”

Ray chuckled. “What a story!”

“Why is that funny?” Natalie asked.

“Because it’s so cliché. Everybody knows Nazis stole art. Some stuff’s still missing. Counterfeiters will forge a Picasso or Rembrandt and say they found the painting, like, stashed in their grandmother’s attic by Nazis. It’s one of the oldest tricks in the art business. Clark can tell you. We saw a show about it. Museums do it a lot.”

Natalie was incredulous. “Are you accusing Zainab of placing a forgery in her museum?”

“It’s good money if you can get away with it. Maybe I’ll ask her about it.”

“That’s absurd! Don’t you dare!” Natalie’s voice became shrill. “She’s a consummate professional, the first woman to be curator of the Ancient History Museum. You better show her some respect. This exhibition is a rare event sponsored by the Catholic and Orthodox churches. Cardinals and bishops will attend. Patriarch Philotheos will give a speech. In fact—” Natalie saw that Ray was attentive, and her mind veered “—it may be that tomorrow night the ancient rivalry between these churches will be healed. The Catholics are returning artifacts they took. They’re saying they’re sorry. What an amazing example for all to follow, don’t you think?” Brilliant maneuver! Take that, Ray! If I don’t get an apology today, it won’t be my fault.

Ray drained the rest of his coffee. “What’ll be amazing is getting three minutes of usable footage from people milling about in a museum.” He looked past Natalie. “Looks like our ride is here.”

Minutes later, Ray, Natalie, and Clark entered the hotel lobby; Ayhan had sent her young assistant Murat to drive them to the museum. Speaking heavily accented English, he welcomed them to Istanbul. Natalie took the front seat of the van. Ray slid onto the seat behind her.

As he pulled away from the curb, Murat said to Natalie, “You come with news, yes?”

“What? Er, uh, no, I don’t have any news.”

“But . . . you camera. You with news?”

“He wants to know if we’re a news crew,” Ray said leaning forward. Then to Murat: “No, man, we make films.”

“Ah. You film discovery, yes? For news?”

“No, we’re Hollywood. You know Hollywood, right?”

Murat’s eyes bugged. “You like Spielberg? Come to see discovery and film? Make big-time movie?”

“Spielberg, right. Something like that. Close enough.”

Murat turned the van north toward the grounds of the Topkapi Palace, the ancient home of the sultans. He drove through an arched gate into a courtyard. A portico supported by four columns marked the museum entrance.

He led them into a spacious vestibule with a dramatically arched ceiling. At the far end of it were rows of niches displaying marble busts. One of them depicted Constantine the Great. Clark paused to ready Sneak Peek. Ray slipped his hand behind the bust to give Constantine bunny ears. “Say, cheese,” he said, posing for Clark.

“You’re such a dope,” Natalie said to Ray. She suddenly had a hot flash of anxiety that he was going to ask Ayhan about the Nazis, after all. He better not embarrass me.

Murat waved them down a paneled hallway and knocked softly on Ayhan’s door. He was about to knock again when the door swung open. Ayhan stood before them, tall, regal, light crowning her raven hair. Her red blouse was unbuttoned at the throat. She looked Ray up and down, her eyes smoky and alluring, tinged with a hint of violet.

“I must apologize,” she said breathlessly, “I was on the phone. I seem to be much sought after these days.”

Natalie reached to shake Ayhan’s hand, but Ayhan had already grasped Ray’s. She held it longer than necessary and was so tall in her high heels, she could look him in the eyes. Her desk phone rang. “Ah. You see how it is.” She smiled demurely. “Excuse me.” She released Ray’s hand and glided to her desk. Ray stared at her in wonder. Natalie, Clark, and Murat pushed into the office.

Natalie set down her audio bag and scanned Ayhan’s office. It was a little museum all on its own. Shelves lining two walls were jammed with pottery, porcelain, sculptures, and architectural fragments, all labeled with tags. On the wall nearest to her hung a picture of a man in a turban.

“The Conqueror,” Murat said, “Fatih Sultan Mehmet.”

“I think I’ve seen this before,” Natalie said.

“Is copy. Real one in London National Gallery.”

Ayhan hung up her phone. “Ah, Ms. Ashbrook, I see my assistant is giving you a tour.”

“Yes. I saw this picture in London when I lived—”

“I have such plans for you!” Ayhan interrupted, speaking to Ray. “How exciting it will be. You shall see.” She bent over her desk to retrieve a piece of paper and an iPad. Her blouse, open at the neck, briefly exposed her cleavage.

“Dude,” Clark whispered to Ray, “she could be Kimber Grant’s sister.”

Natalie heard this. She’d only seen a headshot of Ayhan on the museum website. The black and white image hadn’t done her justice. Ayhan was stunning. Natalie studied her critically and detected that her eyelashes were false.

“What do you mean by plans?” Natalie asked her. “We already have an itinerary.”

Ayhan thrust a paper at her. “Oh, the interview, the tour of Hagia Sophia—that’s all quite irrelevant now. Something astounding has happened. Believe me, this new itinerary will work out to my—er, I mean, to your advantage. You see, there’s been a discovery. Surely, my assistant told you?”

“Discovery?” Ray practically shouted.

Ayhan handed him the iPad. “Yes. I didn’t lie when I told you that Istanbul is a treasure hunter’s dream.”

“You told me that,” Natalie muttered from behind them.

“This treasure is of immense worth,” Ayhan said to Ray. “It’s the fulfilment of—” her voice broke and her eyes flashed with passion “—many dreams!”

Ray could only stare at her.

“What is it?” Clark asked. He peered over Ray’s shoulder to see the iPad.

“A shrine. The shrine,” Ayhan answered eagerly. “You must’ve heard of it given the nature of your film.”

“The Shrine of the Four Keepers?” Natalie said incredulously, reading from Ayhan’s itinerary. “How can this be? When did this happen? How long have you known?”

“My God,” Ray exclaimed, flipping through photographs of the excavation site. “I can’t believe what I’m seeing. This is freaking awesome!” He lingered over an image depicting the mosaic of Panikos the Youth. “Is he holding . . . what I think he is?” Eyes wide, he looked at Ayhan.

She beamed at him.

Speechless, Ray blinked back at her.

Clark clapped Ray’s shoulder. “Dude, the Dish!”

“The Dish?” Natalie spoke up. “It’s at the shrine?”

Ayhan briefly cast her eyes down. “We—we are quite sure it is. Burke is sure—Professor Burke. He leads the excavation. He expects to find it. At any moment—”

“Burke?” Natalie interrupted. “Adam Burke? He’s here?”

Ayhan cocked her head. “You know him?”

“Not personally. We were gonna interview him for our film, but he canceled unexpectedly,” Natalie said.

Ayhan laughed lightly. “Then you’ll enjoy your new itinerary, Ms. Ashbrook. I have an interview scheduled for you with him.” Ayhan inhaled deeply as if gathering strength. “Adam Burke is the world’s foremost Disher scholar. But, of course, you know this already.” She paced and gestured grandly as she continued: “And now, he’s unearthed the most important archaeological find of the last century. This must be recorded for posterity. You must record it. What a documentary you shall have! When the Dish is lifted from the pit, you shall be there. Only you. To make history with Burke. I’m granting you exclusive access—to the excavation site, to the artifacts tent, the museum’s Processing Lab, and of course, to me. In fact, I insist on accompanying you. At the shrine, you’ll need my expertise to know what is important to film and how to interpret what you see.” She cleared her throat. “The altar in the apse, for instance. We might begin there. See page two of the itinerary. I’ve prepared questions for your interview with Burke. I assure you, these will elicit the most pertinent facts—for posterity. What do you say? Are you prepared for such an adventure?” Ayhan held out her hands. Her smile showed her teeth.

Natalie narrowed her eyes. “What’s the catch?”

Ray elbowed Natalie sharply.

“Ow! What? Doesn’t it sound too good to be true?”

“Weren’t you listening? Look!” Ray shoved the iPad under Natalie’s nose so she could see the image of Panikos the Youth. Then to Ayhan he said: “When do we start?”

Ayhan laughed warmly. “You’re all enthusiasm, Mr. Cozart. That’s good. So am I. We can start as soon as you like.”

Ray grinned. “Please, call me Ray.”

Natalie peered but briefly at Panikos. The golden bowl he held aloft glittered and winked. She pushed the iPad aside to scan page two of Ayhan’s itinerary. Her eyes fell on the questions Ayhan had prepared for them to ask Professor Burke: 1) Describe the importance of the altar. 2) Describe your plan for lifting the altar. 3) Describe your theory about the Dish being found under the altar . . .

“Burke believes the Dish is under the altar?” she asked.

Ayhan blinked rapidly. “It’s a mere supposition. But a strong one, nonetheless. The shrine is entirely exposed. It’s the likeliest place for the Dish to have been buried.”

“So, he may find nothing,” Natalie said. “Is there a timeframe for his search? We can’t film here forever.”

Ayhan brusquely instructed Murat to retrieve an artifact from one of her shelves. Turning to Natalie, she said, “Such skepticism! But I don’t blame you. It’s only human to suspect a snake lurking in paradise.”

Murat handed Ayhan a small copper bowl.

“If you seek a guarantee that Burke will find the Dish, I can’t give it,” Ayhan said to Natalie. “I can only give you hope. Surely, you’ve experienced a hope fulfilled, Ms. Ashbrook? Imagine the scene.” She lifted the bowl near her head, posing like Panikos the Youth. “Burke triumphant, the Dish in hand at last!”

“I can imagine it,” Ray said with a broad grin.

“So can my camera,” Clark said.

Natalie frowned. So dramatic. This woman is using tactics, and they’re working!

Ayhan smiled coyly at Ray; she pressed the bowl into his palm. Her fingers caressed his. “Hold onto that. What we can imagine, the heart makes true,” she murmured. “The Dish is the truth of history. That’s what Professor Burke told me. I believe it. Do you?” She looked from Ray to Natalie.

Ray didn’t answer. He was mesmerized.

Natalie’s cheeks felt warm. Watching Ayhan caress Ray’s hand, she suddenly felt an inexplicable jolt of energy. She hadn’t felt such energy for a long time, not since Ray had suggested making a film about his ex-girlfriend Staci. Ayhan’s exuberance, her false lashes, her touchy-feely familiarity—Staci had been like that. Natalie resented Ayhan’s change of plans. It was just like Staci, slithering in to steal the show. What’s going on? What’s she after? Whatever Ayhan wanted, she was working hard to get it. Ray’s gonna fall for her act. I can’t let her have him.

“Ms. Ashbrook, what do you say?” Ayhan asked.

Natalie was aflame with jealousy. She’d prove to Ray that this woman was a total tease. She just needed to figure out how. But once she did, Ray would thank her. In her mind flashed an image of a grateful Ray apologizing for Steve, for their fight, for abusing the Mystic 8 Ball, for everything he’d ever done. “Um, may I see the bowl?” she asked him with all the sweetness she could muster.

Ray handed it to her though his face betrayed misgiving.

“How interesting,” Natalie said crisply, rotating it in her hands. “What are these engravings?” she asked Ayhan.

“Signs of the zodiac. It’s a bowl used for divination.”

“Ah. What’s this label?” Natalie lifted a loose white tag from the bowl’s interior. It was written in Turkish.

“That’s a summary of its provenance—a record of where and when it was found. All genuine artifacts have one.”

Natalie smirked. Gotcha! She dropped the tag back into the bowl and thrust it at Ayhan. “Very pretty. I guess this one’s real then?”

Ayhan furrowed her brows. “Yes, of course.” She passed the bowl to Murat to return it to the shelf.

“I’m surprised Ray didn’t ask you if it was,” Natalie went on. “This morning he told me he thinks museums, um, make up stories about their artifacts. Pretend that some, oh, icon or something was stolen by Nazis and only just found.”

“Now wait just a minute.” Ray’s eyes bored into Natalie.

“What? You said that’s how museums pass fake stuff off as real. Like, oh, like that facsimile of the Sultan over there.”

“But I didn’t mean—I didn’t say—”

“Oh, what? You didn’t say you wanted to ask her—”

“No, I didn’t,” Ray said forcibly to cut Natalie off.

“—about the Andrei Rublev icon?”

Ray glanced at Ayhan guiltily.

Ayhan crossed her arms over her breasts. “Is this what you think of our museum, Mr. Cozart?”

Ray tried to laugh. “I was merely describing some show I’d seen—a late night show.” He elbowed Clark, inviting him to corroborate this story. “You don’t think I really—”

“I don’t know what to think,” Ayhan interrupted. Her eyes were darkly fierce. “Have you come here to make accusations? To use your camera to entrap me?” She eyed Sneak Peek suspiciously.

“Not at all! I—I love museums. They’re awesome. Especially this one. Really!” Ray pleaded, trying to appease.

His attempt outraged Ayhan even more. “You scoff at this institution? At the work I do? You disparage my reputation? I haven’t gotten where I am by playing games.”

“Of course not. No one thinks that. Natalie’s just being—I mean, this is all just a misunderstanding.”

The cell phone on Ayhan’s desk vibrated. She motioned for Murat, who was slinking out of the office. “Over here!”

Murat stepped forward nervously.

“Get these fools out of my sight. Let them make their film without me. Without Professor Burke.” She picked up her phone and turned her back to them.

In silence, the three picked up their equipment bags and filed out. Murat ushered them into the hall as Ayhan’s office door shut with a firm click.

Scene 19

Adventure Is My Destiny

Hartsfield-Jackson International Airport

Atlanta, Georgia

Friday, March 12, moments after fleeing Corporate

Upon fleeing Whitaker Corporate Headquarters, Jane drove straight to the airport even though her flight to Colombia wasn’t until that evening. After the revelation of her Nana’s betrayal, she just couldn’t—wouldn’t—go back to Whiningham. Ever.

At an airport restaurant, the Echo Mediterranean, Jane plopped herself at the bar, ordered an array of cured meats and cheeses, and requested the bartender’s choice. “Something tart,” she told him, “and a little boozy.”

Baby Girl sat whimpering in Jane’s lap, having fruitlessly attempted to nuzzle up a nest for herself among the folds of Jane’s kimono. Napping was out of the question. Her paws couldn’t gain any traction; the shimmery fabric was too slippery. The little dog’s brown eye appeared agitated. In the airport parking lot, Jane had dropped her into the Comfy-Go Pet Tote like a grapefruit into a sack.

From her carry-on, Jane retrieved a box of Teeny Treats. She calmed Baby Girl with a constant stream of them as she talked on her phone.

“I can’t go back, Meena. I can’t.”

“Like, I just can’t believe this. I mean, like, Jane!”

“I know, I know!”

“Wait ‘til I tell Dominick. He’ll be like, wow. I mean, who knew your Nana was secretly working for the Pope?”

“They must know all about me, like where I’m gonna be and stuff. I bet my bedroom is bugged, my Rover—everything. I threw the keys away. So they can’t trace me.”

Since last checking in with Jane, Meena and Roxy had left their hotel for a location neither would disclose. Jane could hear ominous drumbeats. A beaded curtain swung in the background behind Meena’s head. Roxy was sipping a cocktail. Her lips appeared on the screen now and then.

“Omigod, your graduation gift,” Meena exclaimed.

“What could I do? If I have to make the sacrifice—”

“You’re so strong!” Roxy shouted.

“—then I have to make it. ‘Cause the key’s where they put tracers. It’s literally the easiest thing. Like what happened to Bucky. That’s how they found Lady Xenia’s castle. I’ve read enough books to know.”

“What about your little ragdoll?” Meena asked. “I mean, if they’re listening . . .”

“Omigod!” Quickly, Jane frisked Baby Girl. “I don’t see a bug, unless it’s somehow embedded in the collar.”

“Just be safe, Jane, and throw it away,” Roxy yelled.

“But I need the ESA tag, or she can’t go places with me.”

The bartender set before Jane her drink and appetizer.

After the bartender had stepped away, Jane groaned, “Like, this is literally so unreal. My Nana pretending to be a Disher. If she had me arrested in Moscow, think how close I must’ve been to finding the Dish. It’s like this intricately woven web of lies.” She tried to lower her voice, glancing furtively at the bartender. “The Catholic Church is, like, everywhere. Anybody could be a spy.”

“You’ll be safe here with us, Jane. We’re nowhere near a church!” Roxy shouted.

“Bitch! Quit shouting in my ear,” Meena barked at Roxy.

Jane sipped her drink. “Y’know what? If there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that when you stand up for the truth, you’re gonna suffer. Maybe the Rover is just the beginning. Look what they did to Leonardo da Vinci. Or Steve Finder! You become a target for powerful forces. Like, Nana tried to shut me up. But I don’t care. I’m gonna keep Dishing. It’s my cause, and I’m not changing it, even if that means I gotta, y’know, lay low for a while, or maybe—” she hesitated, about to say, stop being Jane Whitaker. But she didn’t say it.

“Look, Jane, I hear you,” Meena said. “But think about what you’re saying.”

“Like, what?”

“Well, like you said, if you’ve literally become so important to be targeted for what you believe in, then what are they gonna come after next?”

Jane thought for a moment. “Baby Girl?”

“No, bitch. Your money! Who holds your purse strings?”

Jane’s eyes widened. “Omigod! Nana!”

“Totally. See? You gotta play this cool, ‘cause, like, what about RATS? Think about it. If suddenly you don’t have money . . .”

“Oh. I’m not RATS.”

“Exactly.”

Jane took another sip of her drink, longer this time. She recalled her Nana’s final words to her: If you choose Dishing, you’ll be all alone! Did Jane really want to be totally sexy—but poor? This was a deep question.

“Face it, Jane,” Meena said, “RATS is your brand. And it totally kicks ass to live off the success of others. It’s not worth the sacrifice. See ya!”

A CNN report on the TV above Jane caught her eye. A pudgy man with glasses and a dusty face stood at a microphone answering questions. Behind him was a mosaic of a young saint with a flower-shaped halo. Hey, isn’t that Panikos? Jane read the chyron scrolling across the screen: Dr. Adam Burke discovers fabled shrine in Istanbul. Shrine may provide clues to the Last Supper Dish. Catholic Church claims to possess the Dish, but their claim is disputed.

Omigod, that’s Professor Burke!

The camera turned from a frowning Burke to a reporter holding an audio recorder: If the Dish isn’t at the famous shrine, then could it be anywhere else? What do you say, Professor?”

Jane urgently motioned for the bartender to turn up the volume. “. . . Why not just produce the relic? Why should it be so hard to find?”

Jane’s mouth fell open as she listened to Burke’s answer:

“There’s a reason the shrine is buried under Istanbul . . . crazy stuff happens during wars! Those monks would’ve found a way to hide the Dish. And once I get back in there—I’ll find it!”

Mesmerized, Jane failed to notice Baby Girl slipping off her thighs. “. . . shutting down this excavation in three days. And when this place gets leveled, you’ll be just another academic crank with an unprovable theory. You’ll be all alone with no one listening.”

The camera spun back to Burke: “There are forces that want to derail my quest for the Dish! But I’m not alone! I have powerful allies, and they are coming to my aid! Together we will not fail!”

The CNN report cut to the anchor desk. Jane jumped up from the stool, just catching Baby Girl in her arms. “Did you hear, Pookums? That’s Professor Burke! Omigod, he’s found the Shrine of the Four Keepers!” Baby Girl hung in the air awkwardly, her hind legs dangling. The over-fed dog appeared ready to barf. Hurriedly, Jane collected her carry-on bag and Baby Girl’s tote. But after rushing toward the door, she stopped and returned to her seat at the bar.

The bartender stared at her, mystified.

Jane unzipped her carry-on. Slowly, she lifted out something cold and weighty. It was a bit tangled. When she’d left Corporate with it in her hand, she’d tossed it onto the passenger seat of her Rover to hasten her escape. But now, she smoothed the rows of dangling diamonds and set the band on her head. You’re wrong, Nana. I’m not alone. And neither is Professor Burke. We’re not gonna fail.

The bartender stood by, studying her curiously. “What’s your final destination?”

Jane beamed, forgetting her former caution about Catholic spies. “Istanbul!”

“Ah. Have you ever been?”

“No, it’s my first time.”

“It’ll be a great adventure, I’m sure. A city of dreams. You’ll fit right in.”

Jane giggled and tossed her hair over her shoulder. “Oh, I know I will. I’m Lady Jane. Adventure is my destiny.”

Scene 20

Scrum!

Hotel Amir, Istanbul

Saturday, March 13

“Dear Dr. Ayhan, please don’t be upset I got your private cell number. I can’t rest until I clear up this misunderstanding. I don’t know what happened. I did tell Natalie about a show where a reporter exposed a fraud at some museum in South America. Something to do with the Incas. Not icons! Natalie must’ve misheard me. You’re a consummate professional and a true pioneer for women. I feel privileged that you shared the news of Burke’s discovery with us. Your trust in us to film an incredible historical event is humbling. I hope I can earn your trust again. Sincerely, Ray Cozart”

Ray was in scramble mode when he’d composed—huddling with Clark—that text. He’d gotten Ayhan’s number from Murat by promising him a role in their “big Hollywood movie.” Clark had come up with that bit about the Incas. Would Ayhan buy it? For a day, she kept him in suspense.

Finally, during a late lunch with Clark in the hotel café, Ray’s phone buzzed:

“Mr. Cozart, thank you for reaching out to me. Perhaps I was hasty in my judgment. It’s possible to earn my trust. Follow my itinerary. If you can do so, I invite you to attend the exhibition’s opening ceremony tonight. I shall introduce you to Burke. Oh, and I have a favor to ask. A very small one.”

Ray slapped Clark on the back in celebration. “Dude! We’re back in the game!”

He left the café to find Natalie. He’d been thwarted in his efforts to elicit an apology from her. But now the score was in his favor. He believed this strange turn of events with Ayhan had given him the ultimate tactic. I’ll not only get my apology, but she’ll have to thank me too.

He’d often imagined the scene. There’d be tears (hers), and he almost wouldn’t take back the Mystic 8 Ball, but Natalie would say, “You were right about Pea Gram. And you’re right about Ayhan. You’re right about everything!”

He knocked on the door of her room.

When she opened it, he casually handed her his phone.

“Powers of persuasion,” he said.

Natalie scowled as she read the text messages. “So, I get to take the fall, huh?” She carelessly tossed his phone back to him so that he had to act quickly to catch it.

“Diplomacy! That was a masterful piece of work I had to fix. You should be glad she even let us back in the museum.”

“You’re willing to sacrifice our creative control? That woman has an agenda. I don’t trust her. And what’s this favor? That could be anything.”

Ray smirked. “Probably she wants you to apologize.”

Natalie crossed her arms. “No way!”

“But it’s for the film! You don’t even have to mean it.” Ray shook his head. “I still can’t believe what happened. You say the interview is so important, plan all the questions yourself, and then we get in there, and you go off about Nazis.” He stared at her wide-eyed. “Why’d you provoke her?”

Natalie rolled her eyes. “I told you, I sensed she was up to something. I see things about people. And they were fair questions. How was I to know she’d take ‘em personally? She overreacted. The woman’s a total diva. Trust me.”

Ray didn’t quite accept this answer. He eyed Natalie’s face intently. It seemed to him that she was the one with an agenda. He’d been feeling it for days. What’s her game?

“Shouldn’t we consult Reggie about changing our plans?” she asked. “We’re supposed to interview an archbishop in Chalcedon, then go film in Cappadocia.”

“I’m sure Regg will tell us to go for it. We have material for a blockbuster! Burke’s in Istanbul—it fixes everything. I assume you see the potential.” Ray smiled. Because of Burke’s presence, Natalie would have to give up harping on Finder. Filming Burke was way better than filming Little Stevie. He was off the hook for an apology.

“I’m not subjecting myself to that woman’s itinerary,” Natalie said sharply. “We don’t need her to film Burke.”

“Yes, we do. How are we gonna get access to the excavation site? Zainab is the only way. Don’t you realize she handed us the filmmaking chance of a lifetime?”

An hour later, it was settled. Murat arrived to take them to the museum. He greeted Ray with a fist bump like they were best buds. “You mess up, but I score big,” he said to Natalie. Ray had to sit in the front seat of the van. Murat wanted to take “a little tour” through his neighborhood so his friends could see him with a “big Hollywood director.”

Natalie was glum. Ray could’ve predicted this. She always clammed up when she lost an argument. He almost regretted their dispute because in her tight dress with her hair up, she looked lovely. She’s wrong about Zainab. She’ll see. Zainab has the best intentions. At least she can admit when she made a mistake.

Murat’s “little tour” turned into an hour delay. By the time he parked the van at the museum, guests for the opening ceremony were already arriving. The vestibule was crowded. Two hundred chairs were set up, a hundred to a side with an aisle in the middle. Orthodox clergymen filled the left front rows. Catholics sat to the right. Clark stationed himself center stage next to a crew from CNN.

Ayhan emerged from the hall that led to her office. She wore a gray dress with a red scarf strategically draped to obscure a plunging neckline. She greeted Ray and Natalie coldly. Ray had no chance to speak. They were interrupted.

“Zainab! Tell me I’ll get more time! Where’s Ozturk? Has he crushed that snake Pasa?” Burke’s eyes were wild. His sport coat was wrinkled and his tie askew.

“Ah, Adam,” Ayhan said, “let me introduce you to—”

“Who are you?” Burke demanded of Ray. “Have I seen you before? I know you. You were at my presser, right next to that despicable minion Mistral.” He pointed his finger accusingly. “Well, you can tell that flatterer of Rupert Winters that his scheme to keep me from the Dish will fail!”

“I wasn’t at your presser,” Ray said. “Who’s Mistral—”

“A likely story! Oh, I don’t have time for this.” Burke turned to Ayhan. “Look, three things are eminently clear to me—one, Winters and Pasa are conspiring to stop the excavation! Two, Mistral is their informant.” Burke jabbed his forefinger into his palm as he spoke. “And—and three—”

Ayhan was flustered. “Adam, please, calm down.”

“—the apse in the shrine isn’t the proper size! It’s out of proportion. By my calculations, the dimensions are off by at least six meters. That far stone wall shouldn’t be square. And it’s totally blank! Where are all the frescoes? It’s the holy place! There should be extravagant ornamentation—”

“Adam, we’ll discuss this after the ceremony,” Ayhan said. “Gather yourself. You’re about to give a speech.”

“To hell with speeches! We’re wasting time. I need to find the Dish, and nothing makes sense!” Burke spat.

“Have you looked behind the wall?” Natalie piped up. “Maybe the Dish was walled up for some reason.”

The three of them looked at her quizzically.

“Y’know, like in The Cask of Amontillado. The story by Edgar Allan Poe. I mean, it just occurred to me. The man in the story buries his rival Fortunato alive behind a wall.” As she said this, Natalie glanced at Ayhan and smirked.

“Oh, yeah?” Burke eyed Natalie suspiciously. “Buries his rival, does he? Is that a message from Winters?”

Natalie looked confused. “Excuse me? Who?”

Burke grunted and stormed off.

Ayhan exhaled sharply. “Excuse me, the ceremony is about to begin.”

“No, wait,” Ray said to her. “We have something to say first. Er, I mean, Natalie does.” He nudged her.

“What?” Natalie said to him crossly.

“You have something to say to Zainab.” He nudged her again, harder.

“No, I don’t.”

“Yes, you do.”

“Stop poking me.”

Ayhan cleared her throat. “My apologies,” she said sarcastically. She strode off.

“See! See!” Ray said in a superior tone. “She can do it.”

“Do what? That woman is a total actress.”

“What’s with you? Why are you suddenly against her?”

Natalie set her jaw and averted her eyes.

Studying her face, Ray had the same intuition he’d felt earlier in the day. What game is she playing?

“Look, I wanna know what’s goin’ on. You’ve been acting funny lately.” He tried to piece together his impressions. “It’s like you’re goin’ out of your way to be nice to me. And what was with that story about Becky Riggle? And—and at breakfast yesterday you went on about the Catholics apologizing, and you gave me this look—”

“Well, what about you?” Natalie interrupted. “I could say the same thing. I feel you and Clark are always whispering behind my back. Why were you so intent that I read Steve’s novel? You don’t share books with me. And what was up with that story about your confession to Father What’s-His-Name?” She put her hands on her hips.

Ray became flustered. His mind was all jumbled. “Don’t play tit-for-tat. We were talking about you.”

“Oh, yeah? Well, I think you have something you need to say to me,” she huffed. “So, go ahead. I’m listening.”

Just then several dignitaries accompanied Ayhan down the center aisle. Ray scrambled for his camera to film the procession. Natalie put on her headset.

Ayhan stood at the podium. “Distinguished guests,” she began. Her voice made Ray’s ears throb, as if he’d picked up the tune to a familiar song. Natalie’s so complicated. I’ll make a film with Zainab.

Anthimos sat scowling between Lerry and Gabriel. In the row in front of them, Papi leaned forward with both hands on his cane. All during Ayhan’s opening remarks, Anthimos fiddled with his eagle pendant.

Earlier with unconcealed disdain, he’d watched Catholic priests file into the row across the aisle. Among them he recognized the Director of the Holy See Press Office, the young Frederico D’Angelo, as well as Bishop Henri Fortier, Vicariate of Istanbul. Another man, quite elderly and a cardinal given the scarlet piping on his robes, Anthimos didn’t know. Nor did he wish to. But Lerry whispered, “That’s Eduardo Donizetti. He was at Boniface’s secret meeting. So was Fortier and D’Angelo. What are they all doing here?”

Anthimos pondered the answer to this question. “This exhibition ought to be called Stealing From Byzantium,” he said to Gabriel, loud enough for Lerry and Papi to hear.

Ayhan finished introducing Philotheos, who stepped to the podium. Anthimos looked for Adam Burke.

“Which one is our man?” he asked Gabriel.

“The one on the far right—that’s the Professor.”

Anthimos nudged Lerry and gestured at Burke.

None of the members of the Secret Order had planned to attend the opening ceremony. Public gestures of unity between East and West could be sabotaged from afar as they always were. But the discovery of the Shrine of the Four Keepers had upset their usual strategies. Philotheos had urged the Order to select members to attend, insisting that relying on Papi’s student Giulio for information was too risky given what was at stake. They needed to know if Burke had found the prodokleis—from Burke himself.

“It’s a foolhardy plan,” Anthimos said to Gabriel. “A heist? Bah! The three monks could hardly get a computer to work, and yet we expect—”

“It’s the will of the Order.”

“The vote wasn’t convincing.”

“Nevertheless, the measure passed.”

“I know you can’t openly oppose Philotheos. But tell me, privately—”

“Let’s look to our own work and let the monks do theirs. We’re here to make artful inquiries as Philotheos has instructed.”

Philotheos began his speech: “What a joy it is to open this exhibition celebrating the influence of Byzantine culture. I welcome from Venice Cardinal Eduardo Donizetti. Dr. Ayhan informed me that this exhibition would not have been possible without your help.” Philotheos gestured toward Eduardo. “Your presence reminds us that the spiritual unity we seek has already been achieved through our art and our sacred objects.”

At these words, Anthimos almost leaped out of his seat. “Outrageous,” he hissed to Gabriel. “He prostrates himself before a mere cardinal from Venice. The very city that plundered our great Empire.” He could hardly endure to hear Philotheos continue.

“. . . and the exhibition’s title is quite apt. Sailing to Byzantium is a poem by W.B. Yeats, and it illustrates the legacy that the exhibition celebrates. Yeats is inspired by an idea of spiritual renewal—And therefore I have sailed the seas and come to the holy city of Byzantium. Indeed, all Europe came. Why did they come?”

“They were jealous,” Anthimos declared to Lerry.

“Did they come because of our learning or our government? Or did they come because of our religion? Hear this description of Hagia Sophia, Church of the Holy Wisdom—Although the sun shines upon her, the radiant glow within her is her own. Yes, they came from the West because in an age of darkness, Constantinople was a city of Light.”

“Only darkness arises from the West. It was true then and is still true.” Anthimos pronounced this aphorism to no one in particular. “Doesn’t the Order have veto power over these speeches? It’s embarrassing—all this conciliatory rhetoric and whitewashing of the past.”

“Perhaps next meeting we ought to bring the matter to a vote,” Lerry said.

They were hushed by Papi. “Quiet, you two. His All Holiness quotes from Procopius, the great historian.”

Anthimos leaned forward and spoke in Papi’s ear. “I know you want to restore the Legacy as much as I do. You can’t pretend to be grateful to these Latin hypocrites.”

“Restore the Legacy?” Papi smiled wryly. “I have sworn to protect it—as have you.”

“And what about him?” Anthimos pointed at Philotheos. “Hasn’t he also sworn? And yet he talks more and more as if he’d betray the Legacy.”

Papi weighed his words. As an academic, he believed the safest course was to recognize the merits of all opinions. “We must allow that each man has his own means of oath-keeping.”

“Bah!” Anthimos, fuming, leaned back in his seat and ran his hand over his silver and black beard to calm himself.

Philotheos was wrapping up his speech: “Tonight we rejoice that the Light still shines. It has drawn us to the shores of Byzantium once more, and we behold its glory. It gives me great pleasure to declare the Istanbul Museum of Ancient History’s exhibition Sailing to Byzantium now open.”

During the applause, Anthimos hissed in Papi’s ear, “Listen, old man, do you want to make history with me, or do you merely want to study history?”

Papi frowned thoughtfully and spun his cane in his fingers, studying its sculpted top.

Burke hadn’t heard the Patriarch’s speech. He sat with fists clenched, muttering to himself about the machinations of Pasa and Winter. Only one more day to find the Dish! Where is it? His mind searched the contours of the shrine, the wall of mosaics and the altar. But the Four Keepers refused to surrender to him their greatest secret. Their faces were as expressionless as the bare stone wall of the apse.

Stone wall. Burke pursed his lips. How could he have overlooked that the wall he’d been ranting about to Ayhan was made of stone, not yellow brick like all the other walls in the shrine? Why would there be one wall in the shrine unlike all the others? This thought propelled him out of his seat.

Ayhan hadn’t yet introduced him.

All at once, someone—a man seated stage left—shouted, “Professor Burke, where’s the Dish? We’ve seen the report that you’ve found the Shrine of the Four Keepers.”

There were murmurings in the audience.

Burke’s mind froze. He could only think of the bare stone wall and of a petite, pretty woman who’d lately suggested he dig behind it. “Er, Ladies and Gentlemen, there will be time for questions at the end of my remarks.”

In the front row, the aged Cardinal Eduardo stood. “How do you know it’s the so-called Shrine of the Keepers?”

Burke tried in vain to remember his speech. “A most important question,” he began pedantically. “I addressed this in my press conference. We’ve uncovered four mosaics unquestionably depicting Kostas, Zoticus, Panikos, and Nil. My assistant Duffy prepared slides of Panikos for your—”

“Professor, this is an extraordinary claim,” the young Frederico interjected. He stood by Eduardo, gently holding the elderly man’s elbow to support him. “You must forgive my incredulity, but you know, as do most people here, that such a discovery would have tremendous ramifications.”

There was a shout from the other side of the aisle. “The Dish belongs to us!”

“Excuse me, I must explain,” Burke said, trying to assert authority. “The shrine has been discovered, but—”

Another Orthodox priest leaped to his feet. “Give us the Dish. Where’s the Dish?” Other insistent voices echoed his.

“Please,” Burke said plaintively, trying to keep order. He could feel sweat in his armpits. “The shrine’s apse remains to be explored. There’s a wall, you see, and I’m, uh, confident that—”

“He won’t find the Dish, you jealous fools,” Bishop Henri declared. He lifted his chin haughtily and leered at the Orthodox seated across the aisle. “Nobody could find the Dish since it already has been found. We have it.”

Hearing these words, some shouted, “Liar!” and others, “Judas!” The Orthodox jumped up as one and pushed into the center aisle. The Catholics met them there.

“Scrum!” someone in the audience shouted.

There was much finger pointing and chest bumping. Before it ended, two robes were ripped, three noses tweaked, and several beards pulled.

Papi’s cane was knocked from his hand.

Eduardo collapsed in his chair.

Scene 21

Intrigues

Istanbul Museum of Ancient History

Saturday, March 13, moments after the scrum

Philotheos recited an adage whenever Gabriel couldn’t get the printer to work or when the copy machine jammed. The adage was, “An angry man abandons his dignity.”

As the fight broke out between the Orthodox and Catholics, this adage popped into Philotheos’s head. There could be no doubt who’d incited the hostility. Anthimos. That agitator! He chided himself for trusting the Order to choose the best men to attend the ceremony. He never should’ve put the matter to a vote.

“Stop this I say!” He pushed his way into the maelstrom. An elbow to his jaw knocked his kamilavka askew. “Stop!” No one heeded him. To his right, Frederico cried for medical attention for the collapsed Eduardo. To his left, through a cloud of robes and beards, he glimpsed Anthimos standing apart from the mob. Someone pushed Philotheos into Gabriel. “There!” Gabriel pointed. Lerry and Henri were wrestling, tangled in several folding chairs.

Philotheos grabbed fistfuls of Lerry’s robe and yanked hard. His foot, however, fell on something round and hard, and as it rolled out from under his heel, he lost his balance and toppled backwards, pulling Lerry down on top of him. Lerry squawked and kicked his legs in the air; Henri squirmed away. The commotion of the fall ended the battle. Then museum security came and restored order. But not peace. An ambulance arrived for Eduardo, and Philotheos was, with a great deal of embarrassment, helped to his feet.

“Your hat, sir.” Murat tapped his arm. Philotheos exhaled crossly and grabbed his kamilavka, resisting the urge to explain that it wasn’t a “hat” but an emblem of honor dating back to the Byzantine emperors.

Papi limped forward to retrieve his cane. Given its role in the affair, the inverted top was remarkably undamaged.

“What a kerfuffle!” Philotheos lamented. “Couldn’t you control those nimrods?” He gestured toward Anthimos. After escaping the Patriarch’s grip, Lerry had rejoined his co-agitator; the two stood at a distance whispering.

Papi’s shoulders slumped, and Philotheos knew he’d been unfairly harsh. “Forgive me, but what happened?”

“Anthimos encouraged Lerry to interrupt Burke. To ask about the Dish. Gabriel can tell you.”

Gabriel’s cherub cheeks were glowing from the excitement. “Anthimos said if Burke acknowledged the discovery of a unique-looking bowl, we’d know that he’s found the prodokleis.” Gabriel only mouthed this last word.

“That’s not what I meant by making an artful inquiry,” Philotheos said.

“Nonetheless, Burke confirmed finding only mosaics,” Gabriel said. “He mentioned no objects. Not even icons.”

“Indeed.” Philotheos smoothed his beard. Anthimos had gotten the information the Order needed to initiate its scheme. But he’d incited a fight over the Dish, ruining the evening and perhaps more. Philotheos grew worried. He didn’t wish to think of Anthimos as his enemy. But would he dare reveal the Order’s secrets to Burke?

“Find Anthimos,” he instructed Gabriel and Papi. “He must not come near the professor.”

Anthimos was giddy. Inciting the fight felt like a foretaste of the having the last laugh long promised by Andronicus. How he enjoyed seeing those haughty Latins brawling with the Orthodox like schoolboys. He sought to exact further justice and calculated the obstacles. Philotheos would issue a statement condemning the animosity and minimizing the controversy of the Dish. Such a course of action opposed Anthimos’s own wishes. He conceived a new scheme.

“Did you see me take down Fortier?” Lerry boasted.

“The world applauds,” Anthimos said, eyeing the news cameras. He pulled Lerry closer. “Listen, it’s within our power to act. We must while Professor Burke is here.”

The pair stepped through the crowd, avoiding medics attending to Eduardo.

“He did this!” Frederico pointed angrily at Lerry.

Anthimos took Lerry’s arm and swiftly escorted him from the vestibule.

“He’s just mad they lost,” Lerry said when they were out of earshot. He didn’t like Anthimos pulling at his arm. “Let go of me. What’s this about?”

“For the moment, young man, keeping you out of jail.”

“Cowards. If they dare press charges. Fortier started it.”

They entered a gallery of reliquaries and icons taken from Constantinople during the Fourth Crusade. Lerry was impressed and inspected the display cases.

Anthimos stood at his shoulder. “I think we can force Philotheos to restore the Legacy.”

“Restore it? How? We’re charged to protect it.”

Anthimos lowered his voice. “By making sure Burke knows what he’s found when he finds the prodokleis.”

Lerry’s eyes widened, then narrowed. “He may not find it. Philotheos has already set a plan in motion if he does. The three monks are preparing at this very moment.”

“Plan! A desperate scheme of men without imagination.”

Lerry eyed Anthimos. “What do you propose? What if Burke does find the prodokleis? Will you say to him—Professor, you have the key that opens the final secret of—”

“Exactly.”

Lerry sucked in his breath. “No, no, you can’t do it. Philotheos wouldn’t approve. Remember he said we don’t want a man like Burke opening the Red Gate.”

“After all these centuries, the Shrine of the Four Keepers has been found.” Anthimos countered. “It’s a sign that the spirit of Andronicus lives! This is our moment to act.”

As he spoke, Burke entered the gallery in evident search for someone. Anthimos ducked behind a marble bust. There he waited to make his move. Lerry stood by biting his nails.

“We’ll be thrown out of the Order,” he whimpered.

“We won’t be thrown out,” Anthimos said.

“But what if the Legacy were restored, what if we did have the last laugh, and it was proven we knew the risks from the first, and yet—” Lerry glanced unhappily at Burke.

“Yes? So?”

“Wouldn’t we be culpable for the tragedy?”

Anthimos cleared his throat. “Remember what Saint Symeon once said—The one who fears God does not fear evil men, even when assailed from all sides. They take flight before him, like monkeys fleeing a roaring lion.” Anthimos gave Lerry a significant look. “Are you a lion or a monkey?”

Lerry squinted sulkily but said nothing.

“Look—Burke nears. Come.” Anthimos emerged from behind the bust.

Lerry trailed behind. All at once, something blocked their way. It was Papi’s cane.

“Step aside, old man,” Anthimos growled.

“Culpability is a dangerous thing,” Papi said sternly. “You should listen to your brother.”

“The same way you listen to that fool Philotheos?” Anthimos spat. “I assume you have your orders.”

“That fool,” Papi said, “has protected the Legacy. He has not abandoned his post. Not like you’re about to do.”

“I do no such thing. The Order has abandoned itself. We have lost our way, and you know why? We have abandoned our true leader,” Anthimos said.

Papi smirked. “And I suppose you mean yourself?”

“No. I mean Andronicus!”

Papi swayed and clutched his cane with both hands.

Anthimos gripped the old professor by the arm. “Listen, Papi—join me! Andronicus wanted seekers of the Dish. He wanted us to laugh at them! Let’s assist Burke in his search by telling him about the prodokleis. It’s the Order’s ancient mandate. You can’t deny it.”

“Perhaps it’s the proper course,” Papi said. “For so long, a true search hasn’t been possible. I—I will corroborate your story to Burke, but that’s all. Don’t ask more of me.”

Anthimos clasped Papi’s shoulders. “My friend, you won’t regret your choice.”

The three lurked at the gallery entrance that joined the vestibule. They watched Burke gesticulate to a few guests. Behind Anthimos Lerry chewed his nails, and Papi tapped his cane. At last, Burke was left standing alone.

“Now is the time,” Anthimos urged Lerry and Papi. “Follow my lead.” Without a look back, he glided toward Burke.

Burke eyed Anthimos apprehensively, but then his face relaxed in recognition. “Ah, Professor Pa-poopy-lus.”

Lerry crept up to Anthimos, his face visible to Burke.

Burke jabbed a finger at him. “You! I know you. You interrupted my speech. You started the fight!”

Lerry was offended. “Me? How dare you. It was that rat Fortier.”

Anthimos took charge. “Professor, my friends here,” he gestured at Papi and Lerry, “we’ve long sought the Dish of Christ ourselves. Surely, you can understand our amazement at your discovery. You must forgive our exuberance.”

Burke stiffened as if facing competitors. “Yes, well, I get it. Having the Dish—it would change the world. I’m getting closer,” he bragged. “Have a new lead, in fact.” He looked at Papi. “You’re an expert on Byzantine culture. Do you know why builders constructing a shrine of yellow brick would suddenly erect a wall of cut stone?”

Papi furrowed his bushy white brows. “I—I couldn’t say. Because they ran out of brick?” He grinned sheepishly.

Burke frowned at the joke. “It’s in the apse behind the altar. It should be decorated with frescoes, but it isn’t. Don’t know why. Byzantines took great care adorning interiors.”

Anthimos licked his lips, savoring these juicy bits about the shrine. He imagined it in its former glory and pictured the monks who’d been the last to minister at its altar. Such thoughts made his heart race, and he blurted, “Byzantine artwork tells a story. We’ve studied the legend of the Four Keepers. If you’ve found their mosaics, you’ll uncover their icons. Byzantine architecture follows the rule of correlation. A structure’s form must be identical to its function and furnishings.”

Burke seemed intrigued by this idea, but Papi said, “Isn’t there already correlation? Pilgrims participated in a cleansing ritual. The altar’s austerity attests to the need for the soul’s purification. Perhaps that’s the explanation.”

Burke spoke to Anthimos. “The mosaics show the Keepers all holding a Dish. If we follow the Byzantine rule, then the Dish has to be at the shrine too.”

“A blank wall may mean that’s where the story came to an unexpected end. With the Sultan besieging the city, the monks would’ve preserved their relics just as the Keepers once did. Have you dug beneath the wall?” Anthimos asked.

Burke rubbed his chin. “No. Just this evening a young woman suggested—”

Papi cut in. “Such a fanciful exploration! It will waste the little time we have before the excavation is shut down.”

Anthimos leaned to whisper, his beard near Burke’s cheek. “If you desire the truth, you will find it. Do not stray from the path. The shrine is a storehouse of secrets.” His tone was passionless but threatening beneath the surface, like a frozen sea.

Burke’s face became intent. “What do you mean?”

“We believe,” Anthimos whispered, “you will find along with icons of the Keepers . . . a key.”

“A key to the Dish?”

“A key to something . . . far greater.”

Papi chuckled. He nudged Lerry as if to share in the joke.

“What’s so funny?” Burke asked. “What’s going on? What could possibly be greater than the Dish?”

Papi eyed Anthimos. “Greater? Do you truly believe so?”

Anthimos scowled. “Far greater. Yes. So I said.”

“That’s a bit dramatic. Melodramatic, I should say.”

Anthimos’s eyes narrowed upon Papi.

Lerry shifted nervously. “What’s the difference?”

Papi looked to Burke for help with an answer. But Burke had put his hands in his pockets and was looking at his feet.

“It doesn’t matter,” Anthimos said to Lerry.

“Melodrama is added, extra drama,” Papi said. “Over and above. Like metaphysics.”

“Then why not call it metadrama instead?” Lerry asked.

“No, metadrama is a play within a play,” Papi said. “The classic case is the mousetrap play in Shakespeare’s Hamlet.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Anthimos insisted petulantly.

“It does,” Papi said to Anthimos, “because with your mysterious talk of keys, you’d turn us into heroes in some third-rate adventure story. You speak nonsense.”

“You know very well of what I speak,” Anthimos said.

“Adam Burke is a professional archaeologist. He can’t chase down hunches from melodramatic archbishops. Isn’t that correct, Dr. Burke?” Papi looked about. “Oh dear, where is he?”

Anthimos spun around, but Burke had slinked away. He waggled a finger at Papi. “You deceitful old man!”

“Is the Legacy greater than the Dish?” Lerry asked sincerely. “What’s the stance of the Order?”

Anthimos clutched the eagle pendent about his neck. As with eagle eyes, he saw everything clearly. “You’ll regret this, Papi,” he raged. “You planned to undermine me all along. But Burke will know the truth, and I’ll tell him. I shouldn’t have trusted you. You chose your side long ago. You made a mockery of me, but I’ll have the last laugh!”

With a swish of his robe, Anthimos stormed off. After a second’s hesitation, Lerry followed. Watching Lerry, Papi said sadly, “So, you too have chosen sides, young man.”

Suddenly, Gabriel rushed in. “What was that about?” he hissed to Papi. “Did Anthimos reveal any secrets to Burke?”

Papi looked down at his cane. “Oh, how has this happened, my brother?”

“What’s happened?”

“A schism in the Order!”

“Wow! What a fight!” Ray said to Clark.

“You see that dude crash through the chairs?” Clark said.

“Did I? Guy took out the bishop. I got it all on film.”

“You guys! Fighting isn’t right,” Natalie said. She stood winding up a power cord. The three had been warned by museum security that there was to be no more filming.

Ray patted his camera. “Imagine that as our opening sequence,” he said to Clark.

“That’d be so awesome. Men in capes mixin’ it up—just like ninja assassins. Or the Justice League.”

“Ha! But where’s our Wonder Woman? We gotta have a babe if it’s to be the total entertainment package,” Ray said.

Clark grinned and gestured for Ray to turn around.

Ayhan had been attending to Cardinal Eduardo—and to a host of other upset guests—but at last she stood alone. She stared unblinking at Ray as if she possessed telepathic powers. Her look was a summons.

“You read my mind,” Ray whispered to Clark. “Here, keep this safe.” He handed Clark his camera and strode off.

Ayhan was flustered, her manner brusque. “Mr. Cozart, my apologies for such an unpleasant spectacle.”

“You mean that wasn’t on your itinerary?” Ray said, risking a joke. “I think we’re gonna have one helluva film.”

Ayhan didn’t share his humor. “Fools. The ceremony ruined. Wasted months of preparation—and money!” She put a hand to her forehead. “I shouldn’t have let Burke speak. Just one word—Dish—turned the evening upside down.” She looked past Ray. “Was your cameraman given any trouble? CNN was uncooperative with our request to suspend filming. The negative press for our institution—” she shook her head bitterly. “You won’t use your footage, will you?”

For a second Ray couldn’t think. Ayhan’s violet-tinged eyes had lost their ire and become pleading.

“Er, well, I can’t promise—”

“But you already have.” Ayhan’s voice was low and warm. “You’re here. That means you’ve agreed to follow my itinerary. I know it’s a great favor to ask, and, oh, about that—the favor I mentioned—you see, when any work undertaken for our institution bears on its public image, we reserve the right to render our approval of the final product, which means that to make the necessary adjudications, I require access to your footage.” Her smile showed her teeth. “It’s a formality. Merely bureaucratic protocol.”

Ayhan’s change of mood and manner had muddled Ray’s mind. By mysterious means, she’d made the word “bureaucratic” sound sexy. Some part of him registered this to be a danger. He shook his head. “No, you can’t have our footage. No way. Natalie wouldn’t—”

“Oh, it entails but a cursory review.”

“I couldn’t get Natalie to agree,” Ray said. “We’ll look carefully at any contract you have, but—”

“Look—here’s someone who can explain to you.” Ayhan beckoned toward a short, fat man. “This is Ahmet Ozturk, director of the Ministry of Culture and Tourism. He oversees this museum.”

Just then Ray felt a jab. It was Natalie.

“What’s going on?” she whispered.

“Ahmet, this is Mr. Cozart, our filmmaker,” Ayhan said to Ozturk. “I said I’d procured the services of an American. Perhaps you can confirm to him the, er, requisite records for your office?” Suddenly, Ayhan saw Natalie. “Oh, and here’s Ms. Ashbrook,” she added perfunctorily.

Ozturk squinted at Ray and Natalie. “Government regulations. To film any of the city’s historical sites for commercial purposes, you must sign—”

Ozturk was cut off by a woman’s screech.

At once Ray felt his hand clasped by a woman with unnaturally yellow hair. She wore a leopard-printed shawl pinned with a diamond brooch. There was a man with her.

“What a thrill and a delight,” the woman squealed. “I said to my husband—That has got to be Ray Cozart and Natalie Ashbrook. And here you are. Imagine! Gordon and I adored your film Basket Case.” She laid a hand on her heart.

Her husband nodded. He was tall and pale, his black hair combed forward. “Gordon Krayzel,” he said solemnly, extending his hand. Ray felt the weight of a large gold ring.

“Ambassador Krayzel,” Ayhan said. “Ahmet told me that you and Sylvia purchased a villa in Greece. Does this mean we’ll no longer enjoy your presence in Istanbul?”

“I’m retired,” Gordon said to Ray and Natalie. “I was the American ambassador to Turkey back when Ahmet was still staffing the mayor of Istanbul’s mailroom.” He chuckled.

“We haven’t lived in the States for years,” Sylvia declared. “We love the Mediterranean. Our villa faces the sea. Gordon has fine taste. But what brings you two to Istanbul?”

“Making a film about the search for the Dish,” Ray said.

A strange look passed between the Krayzels and Ayhan.

“Imagine that,” Sylvia said, her eyes shining.

“The Krayzels are long-time patrons of this institution,” Ayhan said hastily to Ray and Natalie.

“Antiquities are our passion,” Gordon said.

“Remarkable opportunity for you, Ambassador,” Ozturk said with a sneer. “But villas fetch exorbitant sums. Perhaps you have little left to decorate it?”

Gordon answered Ozturk curtly, “We’ve been fortunate. It’s best to seize rewarding opportunities when they arise. I’m sure you can agree. That reminds me, have you read the latest report of the Turkish Antiquities Trade Commission? About the crackdown on illegal traffickers? Some significant arrests have been made. I hope they make an example of these people. It’d be a valuable deterrent.”

Ozturk became angry. “It’s true many circle the excavation site like vultures. Their hope may be in vain. Burke has searched everywhere, even lifting the altar several days ago. He found nothing. Zainab informs me Pasa the Rail Bureau Chief demands the dig be shut down. If I can’t—”

Sylvia gasped, “What? Shut down the dig?” She looked in shock at Ayhan. “But you said there were no snags. That Burke had yet to lift the altar. That any moment he—”

Gordon took hold of his wife’s arm and escorted her out of earshot of Ray and Natalie. With a glare at Ozturk, Ayhan followed the Ambassador, and the group broke up.

Natalie faced Ray. “Wow! I told you that woman’s up to something!” She put her hands on her hips.

Ray mimicked Natalie’s posture. “How you figure that?”

“Didn’t you hear? She had to know yesterday that the dig is in jeopardy. Why didn’t she tell us Burke’s up against the clock? I even asked her about timetables.”

“She was eager for us to start filming,” Ray said.

“And Burke already lifted the altar and found nothing. But yesterday, she made it sound like Burke hadn’t. Why does she want us to interview him about his plans to lift it?”

“Maybe to help visualize the story. Lifting the altar must’ve been a big deal. But we missed it, so maybe she wants the story recreated. Nothing wrong with that. We’ve done re-enactments.” He crossed his arms over his chest.

“Don’t be deliberately obtuse. All signs say that woman’s keeping secrets.” Natalie mimed Ray’s posture. “What did you two talk about? Did she tell you her great favor?”

At that moment, Ray didn’t recall the detail about Ayhan claiming their film footage. In fact, he was sure he’d misheard her. Zainab’s not the one playing a game. But I’m tired of Natalie’s game. “You’re wrong about Zainab. And—and if I had the Mystic 8 Ball back, I’m sure I could prove it!”

Natalie inhaled sharply.

“I dunno why you won’t say you’re sorry about blowing up 8 Ball Productions,” Ray went on. “Reggie told me everything. That you said you knew you were wrong about going off to film with Pea Gram. I mean, it isn’t a secret.”

Natalie’s face contorted. She put a hand over her lips. “Oh. My. God. Reggie! He couldn’t have!”

Ray was confused by her reaction. “Well, maybe those weren’t his exact words. I’m sure he didn’t mean to break a confidence. He was only trying to help.”

“Who knew Reggie was such a storyteller?” she said ironically. “He should write a screenplay.”

“What do you—”

“Oh, I said no such thing to him. He lied to you!”

Eduardo was wheeled on a gurney through the vestibule to an awaiting ambulance. Frederico and Henri walked along beside. Henri pressed an ice pack against a swollen welt under his eye. Philotheos walked along on the opposite side, his head bowed prayerfully. But he wasn’t in prayer.

I must discover Boniface’s scheme. Why did he send these men to Istanbul? As reported by Chrys and Lerry, all three men had attended Boniface’s secret meeting. Had Boniface sent them as spies? Or to deliver a message? Whatever the case, it was certain the evening’s commotion had upset Boniface’s plan. Philotheos wavered between hope and fear—hope that Boniface might give up his game for good and fear of what might be Boniface’s next move.

Eduardo gestured weakly for Philotheos to lean in close. “Can there ever be peace?”

“God knows. Don’t trouble yourself,” Philotheos said.

Eduardo shook his head sadly. “I’ve failed. We’ve—all of us have failed. We shall all be ashamed before Him.”

The medics opened the doors and wheeled Eduardo out.

Frederico spoke pointedly to Philotheos. “All this rancor over the Dish. Is it worth the lives of men?”

“In all things, we seek the truth, and that’s of immeasurable worth,” Philotheos said.

Frederico smirked cynically. “Truth! Would you know it if you found it? I don’t think so. You prefer the endless search. The truth is Eduardo is a good man. He isn’t your enemy. Nor is Boniface. The Holy Father seeks peace. He desires to give you the Dish. Some of your party who claim to speak for you say you won’t receive it. Is this true?”

Philotheos stroked his beard. So, these men were sent to convey a message. Mentally, he crafted a politic answer, recalling the scheme the Order had just devised to discourage the Pope’s offer. “Well, er, wouldn’t such an offer be precipitous? Jimi Bowler reports on TrueDishers.net that Boniface has sent an envoy to a town in Russia. A hermit has claimed to have found the true Dish of Christ. I’m surprised you didn’t mention it. Is this newly discovered Dish the one Boniface wishes to offer me? Or does he offer the so-called Dish on display at the Vatican?” Philotheos blinked innocently. “Many suspect it’s a dog bowl. I don’t say so myself. Truly, I wish we could know for certain one way or the other.”

Henri scoffed. “The Holy Father sent us on a fool’s errand.” He pointed at the bruise on his cheek. “I shall be happy to frustrate his hope in humanity when I make my report about the gross inhospitality we’ve suffered.”

Frederico rubbed his forehead. “No envoy has been sent to Russia,” he said to Philotheos.

“Perhaps Boniface doesn’t share all his secrets with the director of his press office,” Philotheos said.

Frederico rolled his eyes. “The rumor is absurd.”

Philotheos went on. “Much as I covet Boniface’s friendship, I’m afraid the story fills me with doubts about his intentions. And then, what do I hear tonight but that the Shrine of the Four Keepers has been found? Some thought the shrine only legendary, yet here it is. What other legends about it will prove to be true . . . who can say? Surely, His Holiness will understand that the situation is explosive.”

“It’s a new factor,” Frederico admitted. “Perhaps this discovery will finally break the centuries of stalemate.”

“It’s my daily prayer,” Philotheos said almost sincerely. “As our Lord said—There is nothing hidden that will not be revealed, and nothing secret that will not be made known.”

Henri snorted at this speech. “You fool Dishers. I’m glad of this discovery. You’ll finally see for yourselves that there’s no secret.” He laughed deprecatingly. “The Dish of Christ is at the Vatican.” With these words he pushed through the glass doors.

Frederico exhaled resignedly and followed Henri out.

Philotheos returned to the vestibule, his thin lips pursed in the firm arrogance of one who’s just savored his rival’s disgrace. No secret. Ha! How wrong you are. The secret is everything. It might’ve pleased Philotheos to say this to Henri’s face, except he would’ve had to sacrifice his pleasure in the secret itself. And this he would never do.

He took his time retracing his steps to the vestibule. The guests had all but departed. In the air was the usual tinge of loss and regret when a show has ended. He lifted his eyes to the ceiling, imagining a curtain being drawn. What a Legacy you’ve left, Andronicus, a Legacy in word and in deed and in spirit. He prayed the Emperor’s spirit wouldn’t rouse itself further. It must never take center stage.

But if Burke were to succeed in poking the sleeping beast, then the Order would sweep in, thieves in the night. The heist couldn’t fail. Papi was planted under Burke’s nose. The three monks would know when to strike. They’d gather all traces of the ancient puzzle. There would be no clues left for Burke to solve. He’d get nowhere near the Red Gate. Thus, the Legacy would be protected and left hidden exactly where it was. The Order would go on enjoying it as their own private joke.

So high were Philotheos’s hopes for the future that he almost shook free of his one mooring doubt. But then he caught sight of Papi and Gabriel walking toward him, and he wondered what news they brought him . . . of Anthimos.

Burke marched through the museum’s parking lot with his head bowed, pondering the choice that lay before him: should he break down the stone wall or not?

Winters shouldn’t be underestimated. Perhaps the two people who’d suggested the idea to him were his rival’s secret agents, trying to send him on one last wild goose chase.

The archbishop was clearly some crazed fanatic. His strange talk of keys was like the plot of a Steve Finder novel. The pretty, petite woman had spoken whimsically of Edgar Allan Poe. Surely, not a serious suggestion. She didn’t seem to know Winters. Or was she lying? Why would Winters employ such strange saboteurs? Perhaps to confuse him, to make him doubt that he should dig under the wall, when that’s exactly what he should do . . .

The only thing Burke knew for sure was that Pa-poopy-lus was right—digging through that wall would eat up the time he had left. The old, lame professor was a sensible, respectable expert. If he thought the wall was worth tearing down, then he would’ve said so.

Burke had pursued every theory about where the Dish could be hidden. Now his mind went in circles, always returning to that solid, stone wall. No mosaics, murals, or markings. It gave him no clues. It told him no stories. Or did it? Perhaps appearances are deceiving.

Burke gazed up at the night sky. A cloud bank obscured the moon. But the light of the hidden moon made the contours of its shroud visible against the dark sky. The cloud was revealed by what lay hidden behind it.

Burke grinned.

What the hell, let’s go for it.

Scene 22

Confessions

Hotel Amir, Istanbul

Saturday, March 13, hours after the scrum

All lights were blazing in the Hotel Amir conference room. Ray sat at the head of a long table. Natalie stood next to him, hands on her hips. On the way back from the museum, they’d compared the stories Reggie had told each of them and had pieced together the truth. Eyes wide with fury, they were staring at a computer screen. Reggie was on trial.

“Admit it, admit it!” Ray pounded the table. “You tricked me into this Dish movie! You’ll pay for it, Regg, I swear!”

“Just look at me!” Natalie yelled at Reggie. She gestured dramatically at her tight dress. “I’m a freaking mannequin. Put me in a store window. You know how much this is gonna cost me in therapy? I’m sending you the bill!” She yanked at her ponytail vehemently. “Here’s what I think of your tactics!” Wildly, she messed up her hair. “There!”

“Tactics! Regg!” Ray whined, hurt. “You were helping her and not me? You left me to rely on Clark?”

“Ah-ha!” Natalie jabbed Ray’s shoulder. “That’s why you two were always whispering! What were you after, huh?”

“Your apology, duh!” Ray cried. “Which I’ll never get!”

“But Regg was helping me get an apology from you!” She swept her hair from her face to glare at Reggie.

“You told me Natalie was sorry!” Ray raved at Reggie. “You swore to me on your Mama’s grave. Guess what? I had Clark look it up. Your mother ain’t dead. She lives in a beach condo in Boca Raton!”

Reggie’s bald brown head was glistening. His lips were pressed in a tight line. Finally, he broke: “Damn the internet! I bought her that place myself.”

“You lied! You admit it!” Natalie pointed triumphantly.

“Course I did! And I’d do it again,” Reggie said.

Ray groaned and lay his head on the table.

Natalie threw up her hands. She couldn’t believe how easily Reggie had manipulated her. She’d given him the benefit of the doubt. But never again.

“I can’t work like this! I—I quit!”

Ray lifted his head. “Yeah! Me too!”

Natalie and Ray looked at each other with a new but grim solidarity.

“Now wait just a minute!” Reggie pressed his face closer to the webcam. “Don’t be hasty. Hear me out, first.”

“Why should we listen to you?” Ray snapped.

“Because, fool! Can’t you see what you’d be walkin’ away from? Consider the facts. Pretend it ain’t me talkin’ if that will help. Now, listen, while you been in Istanbul, I’ve been in contact with Miramax. Guess what? Disney is building a Bucky Browne theme park. Gonna break ground this year. I mean, Dishing ain’t goin’ away any time soon. Miramax wants in on some Disher action. I told ‘em you right on the doorstep of the Shrine of the Keepers, ready to film Burke lift the Dish outta the ground.” Reggie whistled. “Now, you ready for this?”

“What . . . did they say?” Ray asked hesitantly.

Reggie grinned. “With a real excavation of the real Dish, they anticipate a gross of a hundred million, maybe more. Dishers are worldwide. You’ll have international appeal for sure. And what’s more, they think they can negotiate with cinema operators, maybe get a sixty percent revenue cut. So, our cut will be proportionally higher too.” Reggie’s grin got wider. “Folks, that’s called winning. Think about it.”

Ray mouthed the word “wow.”

“Not sure you know this, but Burke gave a presser couple days ago at the shrine,” Reggie said. “You should watch it. Aired on CNN. Man, oh, man! His shouting match with the media practically advertises the Dish movie for us.” Reggie started to jam to imaginary music. “Now, if you two don’t mess it up again, we be rollin’ to the bank. You hear me? I hope so. ‘Cause this could be so much bigger than just another film. It could be the next phenomenon.”

Ray sat up straight and let out a long exhale.

Watching him, Natalie felt a fracture in their solidarity. She couldn’t deny she and Ray were at the right place at the right time. History was about to be made. But did the end justify Reggie’s means?

“Look, Regg, you broke faith with us,” she said. “How are we supposed to trust you? We’re not your cash cows. I resent the implication that money forgives all sins. I, at least, am a person of integrity.” She began to smooth her tousled hair. “I mean, I do have some pride—”

Reggie burst out laughing. “No joke! Why you think I had to lie? ‘Cause you won’t admit what a mess you made.”

Natalie couldn’t believe her ears. “What! You think what happened was my fault?”

“Well, when you was with Ray, 8 Ball Productions was catching on. You was on your way up. You just scored an award at Sundance. Why you go off to film birdbaths with Peagram? Even I knew you goin’ nowhere wit’ him.”

Natalie bristled. “That’s not the whole story.”

Ray smirked and nodded. “You tell her, Regg.”

Reggie turned on Ray. “Fool. Don’t get me started on Babe Game. You let Natalie walk out the door, while you waste your time chasin’ Staci. We all know she usin’ you. I lost my wallet producing that film. Can’t afford another big bust. No pun intended.”

Ray slumped sulkily.

“Setting Out and Babe Game both rotten tomatoes,” Reggie said. “Bad reviews and empty seats don’t pay the bills. And they don’t make careers. And yours are goin’ south. That’s why I had to get you back together—by any means.”

Natalie felt the need to defend her artistic choices. “But see, Regg, that’s why we broke up in the first place. Ray wants to film fluff, but I—”

“Here we go!” Ray pushed himself back from the table.

“—have standards. I can’t partner with someone long term who’d love to make another Babe Game if a pretty girl came along. Artistic partnerships are about trust.”

Ray stood and pointed at her. “Trust, huh? Who was already planning an exit with Pea Gram behind my back?” He shook his head in exasperation. “Look, I get it. It’s hard to say you’re sorry. I mean, we had rules for the Mystic 8 Ball. You grabbed it from me, used it to prove I was wrong about filming Staci. Like, a total personal attack, and when Pea Gram was the one who’d clouded your mind, and—”

Natalie became indignant. “What? That’s not what happened that night! I never used the 8 Ball like that. You were the one who asked it if I was in love with Geoffrey. I got mad ‘cause that wasn’t a fair question, and then you wanted to throw the ball away like it was trash!”

“I didn’t ask it that. I asked it if you should make a film with him. But only ‘cause you broke the rules first.”

“I did not!”

“You did! I remember it distinctly. You asked it about Staci, and the 8 Ball said—Outlook Not So Good.”

“But—but—that’s what the die said when you asked it about Geoffrey.” Natalie was flummoxed. She didn’t remember their fight the way Ray described it.

“Kids, kids,” Reggie broke in. “Does it really matter?”

“Yes!” Ray and Natalie responded in unison.

Reggie shook his finger at them. “Now you listen to me. I ain’t gonna sit here and let you mess this up over who said or did what to who. History is history. What matters is what you do right now. This minute is the only one you got, not tomorrow and not yesterday.”

Ray and Natalie were silent.

“Clearly, you wanna patch things up,” Reggie said. “Why do you think my lie worked so well? I know you! You miss each other! You need each other too. Maybe you just had to be apart for a while, so you’d realize it.”

Natalie bit her lip. Reggie’s words had broken through. She remembered something Geoffrey had told her days before her argument with Ray. He’d been trying to convince her for weeks to join him at the BBC. “You won’t miss him,” he promised. “He holds you back professionally. You’re made for bigger things. You could really make your mark on the industry if given the chance.”

She’d made her mark all right. A big, fat three-hour saga linking lawn ornaments and the rise of the English middle class. Twice she’d fallen asleep in the studio editing it. That had never happened with Ray.

Reggie grinned at Natalie. “You know I’m right.”

“Well, maybe I missed, y’know, the whole experience of 8 Ball Productions. You, Clark—and Ray.” She glanced up at Ray and felt an unexpected surge of feeling. “I admit, Burger Goblin had its moments.” She looked away quickly.

“What about you?” Reggie said to Ray.

Ray crossed his arms over his chest. “What?”

“Fool, I’m tryin’ to bring ya together. Can’t you be nice?”

“Well, I don’t remember asking the 8 Ball if she was in love with Geoffrey. I mean, what do I care?” Ray shrugged as with indifference. “But I’m sure she used it to break me and Staci up.”

“Back to this again!” Natalie rolled her eyes. “See, Regg, it isn’t gonna work. Ray won’t even agree about what happened. The Dish movie is a great opportunity, but I just don’t see how we’re gonna be able to pull it off, not with circumstances as they are.”

Reggie cursed under this breath. “So, that’s it then? You two gonna walk? Over a toy?” Suddenly, his eyes widened. “Kids! That’s it! This fight is over a toy, ain’t it? We should let the toy decide.”

Natalie half-laughed. “What an idea. Maybe we should.”

Ray cocked his head. “You really kept it? You have it?”

“It’s in my suitcase. Ready for just such an emergency.”

Ray looked at Reggie. “Well, at least one thing you told me was true.”

“I’ll go get it. Is that okay?” Natalie asked Ray.

“Yeah,” Ray said, “I wanna see it.”

Briefly, their eyes met. Natalie felt a hint of solidarity, this time a bit less grim.

On her way back to the conference room with the Mystic 8 Ball, Natalie felt the most hope she’d experienced in weeks. Maybe she and Ray really could work it out. In fact, that was the question she most wanted to ask it.

“Here.” She handed Ray the toy.

He reached for it, then pulled his hand back. “This is really the same one, isn’t it? You didn’t buy a new one?”

“Ra-ay.” She gave him a look.

“Are you officially giving it back to me?” he asked.

“Do you want it back—officially?”

He grinned, a lop-sided boyish one. “Well, okay.” He took the toy, held it for a moment, then tossed it in the air. “You remember that time in Professor Travers’s class, we couldn’t decide on a title for our short film?”

“Do I?” she smiled. “We argued about it for days. The assignment was due. It was two in the morning.”

“The Mystic 8 Ball chose my title, The Full Chester.”

“I remember. I thought the title sounded like porn. But we got an A on the project. That’s what mattered.”

“The Mystic 8 Ball knows all things,” Ray said. His eyes gleamed. “What should we ask it now?”

Natalie hesitated. I wanna know if you missed me. She didn’t say this, however. “Um, well, ask it if we should stay together to work it out—I mean, finish the Dish movie.”

“C’mon, Mystic 8 Ball!” Reggie hollered. “Say yes, magic die! Show me the honey!”

“We could ask it if we should get a new producer,” Ray said with a sidelong glare at Reggie.

“Hey now!” Reggie protested.

“Dish movie first,” Natalie said.

Ray shook the 8 Ball and spoke the incantation: “Oh, Mystic 8 Ball! Seer of the present, future, and the past! Give us your answer when the die is cast!”

As Natalie looked on, she suddenly felt a flutter of anxiety. Reggie had been right. She had missed Ray. More than she even knew. What if the die said no? She didn’t want to keep missing him. She knew what she wanted. She didn’t need a toy to decide for her. No, not this way.

“Ray. Wait.” She reached and held his arm to stop him from turning the Mystic 8 Ball over to see its answer.

Ray gazed at her hand resting on his arm.

She lowered her eyes. “I—I just wanna say. . . I’m sorry.”

“Nat . . . really?” Ray said softly.

“Yeah. Maybe I asked the 8 Ball about you and Staci. I—I don’t really remember. I was mad. But in any case, we shouldn’t have broken up, and I’m sorry about it.”

Ray rubbed the side of his face. “Well . . . I’m sorry too. I didn’t want you goin’ off with Peagram. I just should’ve said so. I didn’t need to do Babe Game. We could’ve worked out another idea.”

“Like the Dish movie,” Natalie said with a grin.

Ray smiled and set the Mystic 8 Ball on the table. “Guess we don’t need this.”

Suddenly, they heard a whoop. Reggie was dancing. “Oh, man, oh man! We’re in the mo-ney!”

Scene 23

Whitakerware Crusade

Vatican City

Sunday, March 14

Father Victor Santorini, the secretary to Pope Boniface X, rushed into the papal apartments overlooking Saint Peter’s Square. Boniface, seated at his small, austere desk, looked up from a memo he was reading.

“Your Holiness,” Victor began, struggling between breaths, “thank goodness I caught you before Holy Mass.”

Boniface put aside the memo. “What’s happened? Sit down and gather yourself.” He gestured toward a simple chair that matched his desk and the volume-lined shelves that surrounded him.

Victor sank into the chair, feeling a twinge of distress at the evidence of his poor physical conditioning. “Your Holiness, I’ve just come from the church. There’s another protest forming.”

“But that’s not new,” Boniface replied. “You worried me. Why so distressed? Those Dishers make a spectacle of themselves far too often.”

“Yes, I know. They’ve been quiet for months, but it was just the calm before the storm, as they say. What they’re doing now—they’re taking their protest to new heights.”

“Really?” Boniface leaned forward, his blue eyes focused on Victor. “In what way?”

Victor studied the Pope’s warm, smooth face. Over the years, he’d learned that Boniface gave the impression to the media of being impetuous. His rapid-fire flashes of feeling would burst from his lips, burning hot with indignation in one moment and with joy in the next. However, Victor knew that much of Boniface’s candor was a performance. Behind it existed a mind constantly strategizing. It seemed likely to Victor that Boniface already knew about the Disher protest and that the concern on his face (perhaps a bit too concerned) was but the evidence of a pre-conceived plan. Nevertheless, Victor plunged on. “Your Holiness, the protesters have gone beyond carrying signs and yelling about the crusades. Now they’re attacking the laypeople.”

“Attacking them? How so?”

Victor felt absurd at what he was about to say. “They’re throwing plastic bowls at them.”

Boniface raised an eyebrow. “Hurling Whitakerware . . . my, my.” He opened a desk drawer and lifted out a clear, plastic storage bowl. It was dirty and scratched. On the sides in red marker, someone had scrawled the words, FAKER! LIAR! “Do they look like this?” He handed it to Victor.

The secretary examined the container. “So, you knew.”

Boniface smiled wryly. “Useless without the lid.”

Victor exhaled and set the bowl on the desk.

“Come.” Boniface stood and waved Victor toward a curtained window.

When they drew back the curtains and cracked open the window, the feeble light of morning touched their faces, and the length of Saint Peter’s Square lay before them. The pink granite of Saint Peter’s Obelisk appeared brown. To the right stood the magnificent Basilica. And in the middle, a group of Dishers, about a hundred strong, jumped about chanting. Some were dressed as medieval warriors. Several others were wearing dog ears and tails. Instead of swords, however, the legion waved ladles and spatulas and plastic dog bones in the air. A few heaved crockpots and Dutch ovens at a police barricade. Several of the officers’ uniforms were soiled with tomato soup. At least, Victor hoped it was just soup.

“Like some Renaissance Festival gone wrong,” Boniface mused.

“What is it they’re chanting?”

“I asked about that.” Boniface retrieved a note from his desk. “Hey hey, ho ho, your bowl was used to feed Fi-do.”

“My goodness.”

“Catchy, isn’t it?”

“What is that?” Victor pointing out the window.

Boniface rejoined him and peered over his shoulder.

The Dishers had marched toward Saint Peter’s Obelisk and formed a circle. They set into place a machine which looked odd, like a large camera tripod but fitted with a motor. Above the motor, two white tires were mounted at an upward angle. Several Dishers adjusted the mounting to widen the space between the tires. Then they tilted the motor back and started it; the tires spun rapidly.

“That,” Boniface said, “is an ATM. Automatic Throwing Machine.”

“Never heard of such a thing.”

“They’re popular in America. Sports teams use them to throw soccer balls, footballs, volleyballs . . .”

Victor frowned, unimpressed. He’d spent most of his youth in libraries.

As they watched, a Disher manning the machine held a large, dented stockpot just behind the two spinning tires.

“There’s no way that’s going to work,” Boniface said.

“Fire the catapult!” the Dishers shouted. The stockpot was thrust between the spinning tires. Instantly, the tires shot it fifteen feet into the air. The police ducked as the pot landed with a dull clatter on the cobblestones behind them.

“Hmm. It did work,” Boniface said, tapping his chin.

The Dishers cheered in triumph. The police pushed forward to reach the ATM before another missile could be launched. At the open end of the square, more Vatican City police, over thirty, rushed into the fray.

“The cavalry,” Boniface remarked drolly. He shut the window and returned to his desk.

Victor sat down heavily in the seat he’d occupied earlier. “The whole thing’s outrageous. Imagine! Shopping in the kitchen aisle of the nearest Whitaker’s for weaponry. What if some misguided soul hides a steak knife amid the soup spoons? Someone will be seriously injured or worse. The media would make meat out of that, er, I mean . . .” Victor grimaced, not intending the pun.

“You’re right. No matter what someone else does, it’s our fault. Because we don’t capitulate to their demands.”

“Their demands,” Victor spat in disgust. “Accusing us of deliberately displaying a fake bowl for our own profit. What do they expect us to do? Throw up our hands and say—okay, you’re right, we’re frauds. Who does that? No one. The media is all too happy to give Dishers a voice, fomenting the controversy, and for what? For their profit. Always referring to it as the ‘alleged’ Last Supper Dish.” Victor made scare quotes as he spoke. “Such hypocrisy. They only encourage Dishers into more extreme protests. Which in turn gives the media an excuse to criticize us and generate sensational news. If there ever is a steak knife amid the spoons, I’ll certainly know who is to blame for it.”

Boniface eyed the memo he’d been reading when Victor interrupted. “I’ve found it interesting being thrust into a controversy that predates me by eight hundred years. I often wonder, what does this have to do with me?” He shifted two hardbound books aside and laid the memo on a third book which lay open. The book was spiral bound; it appeared to be a collection of photocopies. Victor didn’t recognize it but supposed it to be a reproduction of a manuscript from the Vatican Library’s collection. The two hardbound books, however, Victor knew, as he himself had retrieved them from the library at Boniface’s request three years previously—just before Philotheos had been invited to Rome. They were The Annals of Andronicus and The Travels of Putney the Pilgrim. Boniface consulted them often.

Victor observed again the battered Whitakerware bowl on Boniface’s desk. It was turned so that the word LIAR displayed prominently. “You know what riled up these Dishers this time?” he asked. “It isn’t peak season. Hasn’t Steve Finder’s new novel been out for some time?”

“This did.” Boniface handed Victor an article. “It’s the lead story on their website.”

“TrueDishers again? What are they insinuating now?” Victor casually scanned the pages in his hands. What he read startled him, however. “The Shrine of the Four Keepers has been found?” He laughed incredulously. “These agitators. They can’t be serious. Why make up such a story? One so easily discredited?”

Boniface pressed his lips together and said nothing.

“It has been discredited, hasn’t it?” Victor asked.

Boniface handed Victor the memo he’d been reading when Victor had burst in. It was from Frederico D’Angelo. “The discovery was announced at the opening of the Byzantine art exhibition.”

Victor read quickly. “So, Frederico agrees with Henri’s assessment that the Istanbul Museum of Ancient History wouldn’t be suitable to house the Dish.” He looked up. “Didn’t Eduardo offer an opinion?”

Boniface pointed to the memo’s second page. “Keep reading.”

Victor read from the memo. “A number of the Orthodox guests shouted for the Dish, and with no provocation, attacked Bishop Henri. His Most Reverend Eminence was taken by ambulance to—” Victor stopped and addressed Boniface: “Good heavens, is Eduardo in danger?”

“It appears it was a case of mere fatigue. Possibly a plate of bad oysters.”

Victor sighed in relief. “If even the mention of the shrine is enough to start a fight over the Dish, then this museum can’t be a consideration. Displaying the Dish requires optimal security, which this institution lacks. This confirms my opinion that moving the Dish to Istanbul is unwise.”

“Maybe,” Boniface grunted, “maybe.”

Victor’s eyes wandered back to the memo, and he read the final paragraph. “Ah, I see the real reason you sent those three to the exhibition. Because Patriarch Philotheos was there to give a speech. Frederico confirms that Philotheos has no interest in your returning the Dish.” He handed the memo back to Boniface.

“I wanted to know if the two guests at my meeting last month were accurately representing him.”

“It seems they were.”

“Perhaps.” Boniface stared glumly at the memo.

“Perhaps? What is there to doubt? They said no to your face, and Philotheos said no to Frederico.”

“It’s about attitude, Vic. Chrysanthus and Leronymos were defiant, they were eager to say no. Philotheos is a different man. We had a great rapport when he was here. When I told him that I was having significant conversations with the College of Cardinals about the Dish, he seemed . . . contemplative. As if he were envisioning the possibilities of what it would mean to Christianity if he accepted my offer.”

“Did you add that most of the significant conversations involved the cardinals yelling?”

Boniface grimaced sheepishly.

“Honestly, how else could Philotheos have responded to you when he was here?” Victor went on. “The press was panting for signs of conflict so they could transform the event into a circus. Even if he did seem to consider it then, that was three years ago. A man can change his mind.”

“I think the change was the shrine’s discovery. Frederico said it was among Philotheos’s reasons. Maybe he was interested in my offer up to that moment.” Boniface tossed the memo; it fluttered to the floor. “From nowhere that shrine steps between us. How could he accept our Dish now?”

Victor shook his head sympathetically. “He can’t. The shrine Emperor Andronicus built has long been held to be the key to finding the true Dish. Most Orthodox faithful believe this. Philotheos must think their dreams are coming true at last. The shrine will be unearthed, its clues deciphered, and they’ll finally find the lost Dish.”

“Exactly. Emperor Andronicus bequeathed hope to the world that the true Dish can still be found—anywhere but here.” Boniface gestured toward the window to indicate the Vatican Museums. “It’d be an insult to even offer it to them now. They’d throw it right back in our face.”

Victor eyed the plastic Whitakerware bowl. “It’d be like offering that to them.”

Boniface exhaled in exasperation. He pushed himself out of his chair and paced, his hands clasped behind his back. “This shrine!” he exclaimed in characteristic emotive fashion. “Why now? What a most inconvenient resurrection. I thought returning Kosmo’s relics helped me establish a foundation with Philotheos. Something to be built up.”

Victor looked down at his empty hands resting in his lap. “Perhaps this reconciliation is simply not meant to be. Jesus himself said that he came to divide, father against son, mother against daughter. Why should it not be so between Catholics and Orthodox?”

“You can’t seriously mean that,” Boniface muttered.

“Sometimes you puzzle me,” Victor said. “Weren’t you pondering a moment ago why you’ve been dropped into this ancient game between our churches? So many previous popes have simply permitted the pettiness to go on. Why can’t you? We’ve been good custodians of the Dish—and it’s clear the Orthodox don’t want it back. They deny the bowl we have is even the true Dish of Christ. Why do you care so much about ending the game?”

Boniface resumed his seat and gazed at the books and manuscripts piled on his desk. “A still, small voice.” He smiled wryly and tapped his ear.

Victor snorted. “So, you’re now the prophet Elijah, hearing the voice of God?”

Boniface laughed. “God showed Elijah tornados, earthquakes, and fire. But they were only petty distractions. I think we’re getting some of that now.” He shook the Whitakerware bowl in front of Victor. “Elijah paid attention to none of the inconsequential but listened to the still, small voice. I pray that Philotheos is listening as well.”

The two men lapsed into a long silence.

“What happens now?” Victor prompted. He assumed Boniface’s silence meant that he’d conceived a new stratagem to overcome the debacle at the museum and was only waiting for the right moment to reveal it. Victor had come to rely on Boniface’s unwavering determination.

Boniface sighed pensively. “For now, more of this.” He gestured toward the curtained window, indicating the mock crusade occurring in the square. “And more of that.” He nodded at the article on his desk from TrueDishers.net. His face sobered, and he added: “Somewhere in between, there’s a narrow path, but only a few find it. We must pray that we can amid the coming storm.”

Victor, expecting to hear a strategy from a resolute Boniface, was troubled by these words. “Of course, that’s fine on the spiritual side of things, but surely we must release an official statement—about the protests, the discovery—to the effect that we have the true Dish, have had it for centuries. We believe there’s nothing to be found at the shrine. Of course, I’d word it more artfully than that.”

Boniface glanced at the open, spiral-bound book on his desk and frowned bitterly. With dispirited eyes, he faced his secretary and said, “There will be no official statement.”

Victor’s mouth gaped.

“You see, Vic, I think there is something to be found at this shrine. I think this discovery will lead to the resurrection of . . . many truths. Truths that, much as we might wish otherwise, can no longer remain buried.”

Scene 24

Persian Sword

Istanbul, excavation site

Sunday, March 14

Burke readied his crack hammer to land a blow to the chisel he held against the apse’s stone wall.

“Dr. Burke!” his assistant Duffy called out.

“Don’t tell me you can’t find two-by-fours and a saw,” Burke chided him without turning around. “I don’t have time to draw you a map to the supply tent.”

“But, sir, Dr. Ayhan is here—with a camera crew!”

This got Burke’s attention. “CNN? The BBC? Reuters?”

Duffy pointed toward the ramp. Ayhan led down Ray, Natalie, and Clark. “No, sir. Bigger than all of ‘em combined. It’s Hol-ly-wood. We’re gonna be in a movie!”

“Adam, still at work. Good.” Ayhan stepped to the altar and brushed it with her fingers. “This is the piece I mentioned,” she said to Ray, Natalie, and Clark. “You should set up your cameras to get Burke standing in front of it.”

Burke recognized Natalie. “What’s goin’ on?”

“I’ve procured professional filmmakers to record your discoveries.” Ayhan sidled up to Burke. “You met Mr. Cozart and Ms. Ashbrook last night at the museum.”

“I’m Professor Burke’s assistant,” Duffy boasted to Ray. “His right-hand man. You want the inside scoop, I got it.”

Burke scowled at Duffy. “Two-by-fours. Saw. Go!”

Duffy shrugged. “I would, but we don’t have any.”

“How can that be? Get me Dr. Foo!” Burke pointed to the ramp with his chisel, and Duffy scampered off.

Ray and Clark readied their cameras. Natalie put on her headset and held her boom mike.

Ayhan gently grasped Burke’s elbow. “Please, put down your tools. Now, stand over here.” She maneuvered him to the front of the altar. “Just a little interview, that’s all. I’ll ask you some questions. It’ll take but a moment.”

“But I don’t have time for this,” Burke complained.

Natalie swung her mike above Burke’s head.

Ayhan stepped away from Burke and faced him. “Now, about the altar. Adam, look at Mr. Cozart’s camera. We must record the highlights of your excavation. The altar’s discovery is the most important.”

Burke scratched his bald spot, feeling out of sorts. Hollywood cameras were tempting indeed. But he had to get through that wall.

Ayhan smiled, a bite-smile. “Please, Adam. For me.” Her voice was a low purr.

Burke relented. “Er, okay, if it’s only a few minutes. For all of you watching this at home, we’re standing in the inner sanctum of the Shrine of the Four Keepers. Right here is the altar. Cut granite. Hand-carved. The Latin inscription here says—Seek and ye shall find. No doubt refers to the cleansing ritual that pilgrims undertook when they—”

Ayhan broke in. “No need to discuss the ritual. That, uh, can be done later. What I need from you—oh, er, what I think the filmmakers would love hear is the story of how you searched the altar for the Dish.”

“The Dish wasn’t under there. Why must I talk about it?”

Ayhan gestured with animation. “Oh, because you’re on an adventure of a lifetime—a real Bucky Browne. The exploration of the altar was like a twist in the plot. You could have found the Dish under it. Describe your hopes for it being there. The story is so dramatic! Viewers should know what the real Bucky had to overcome on his quest.”

Burke grunted impatiently. “Bucky Browne! That Finder guy doesn’t know anything about real archaeology. Listen, Zainab, the altar doesn’t matter now.” He spun to pick up his chisel and hammer. “This wall is what matters.”

Clark and Natalie moved with Burke to keep recording.

“Burke! What’s going on? Burke!” Down the ramp came Calvino, Foo, and Hromadova, followed by Duffy. They pushed their way around the cameras.

“Duffy told us you’re demanding boards and a saw,” Calvino said. “We already shipped back our extra supplies.”

“We pack up,” Foo said. “Dig ovah soon.”

“Da, today is last,” Hromadova said sadly.

Burke turned to Ayhan. “What about Ozturk?”

Ayhan shrugged. “He has yet to speak to Pasa. He’ll do what he can. But the situation is uncertain.” She gestured to the film crew. “That’s why I want to record as much as possible. In case Pasa can’t be persuaded.”

Calvino spied Burke’s chisel and hammer. “What are you planning? To go through that wall? To tunnel—where? The shrine’s back yard?” He laughed cynically. “We’ve looked everywhere for the Dish. We’ve reached a dead end.”

“Face it, Borke,” Foo said, “no Dish at shrine.”

“Dere’s nothing.” Hromadova hung her head.

Burke fought back. “Listen to me, people! You can’t just quit. I got a tip—er, a hunch this wall is fake. That the real wall of the apse is behind it.” He jabbed at the wall with the chisel. Loose bits of stone fell away.

“Preposterous,” Calvino muttered.

“Is it? Why is this wall stone while all the others in the shrine are brick? It makes the apse’s shape irregular.” Burke gestured dramatically. “Mehmet besieged Constantinople for months. Everybody knew the attack was coming. Citizens fortified the city’s walls in preparation. I think the Order of Andronicus fortified a wall of their own. Their only option to protect the Dish was to hide it. This wall gives the impression that there’s nothing here to plunder.”

Calvino, Foo, and Hromadova gazed up at the wall.

“Have you . . . used ground-penetrating radar?” Calvino asked, a bit less skeptically. He pointed eight meters up to where the wall met the ground’s surface.

“Too much limestone to get a reading. If the monks did bury the Dish, we need to bust this wall, tunnel in, and set the radar in it. This is our last chance, people. It’s time to take a stand for history! Who’s with me?”

No one moved. Calvino scratched his chin pensively.

Ayhan broke the silence. “Adam, you think the Dish is buried behind this wall?” Her eyes shone with hope.

“YESSS!” Burke pointed with his hammer. “Foo, you were with me in Sofia. You remember we couldn’t find the crypt. Who insisted we dig up the pig farm? Who?”

“You did, Borke.”

“Damn right! I burrowed down into the mud and slop. Yanked that Saint Nil icon from the tomb with my own bare hands. We can do it again!”

Foo grinned. “Okay, Weel do it a-gain!”

Hromadova beamed. “I dig in mud wit’ you, Adam!”

Calvino placed a hand on his forehead. “Santa Madre, help us, before we all go crazy like Burke.”

Burke sent Hromadova with Duffy to get wood for joists to brace the tunnel. Calvino and Foo went off for hammers, chisels, and rock picks. “And find that McKenzie fellow. We’re gonna need muscle. No one in the crew will sleep tonight. Pasa will have to drag me away before I leave.”

Ayhan looked about furtively. “I must inform Ahmet of your theory about the wall. This news will infuse his efforts to negotiate. Pasa can’t refuse.” She marched from the pit.

Burke poised himself for demolition. The clang of hammer striking chisel soon filled the pit.

Once Burke’s team returned with supplies, work on the wall began in earnest. An hour into it, with only a few stones removed, Ray signaled to Natalie and Clark to stop filming.

“That’s enough for now. My ears are ringing,” he said.

Ayhan had returned to check on Burke’s progress. “I can show you other interesting things,” she said to Ray.

“She’s the one who’s interesting,” Clark whispered to Ray as they gathered their equipment.

Ayhan was wearing tight gray slacks and a red-leather jacket. Her lustrous black hair was twisted and clipped at the back of her head. Ray and Clark gazed with appreciation as they followed her up the ramp toward the artifacts tent.

“Dude,” Clark whispered to Ray, “you want me to get her on camera?” He patted Sneak Peek. “Perfect angle.”

Both men snickered.

“You know, I can hear you,” Natalie said crossly.

“Just a joke, Nat,” Ray said. “We do need to consider our filming options.” Zainab’s a very nice option.

Ayhan opened the flap to the tent. “Perhaps you’d like to film the artifacts we’ve found?” She disappeared inside.

Ray was about to follow her, but Clark tugged at his sleeve. “Hey, 8 Ball Productions needs a conference.”

“What for?”

“Because, dude, you need to get her on camera. See if she wants to be interviewed. Doesn’t matter what she talks about, in my opinion. She’s eye-candy.”

Natalie scowled. “Clark, she isn’t Kimber Grant. We’d need to handle it professionally, ask her serious questions. Like about the significance of the discovery. But I don’t trust her. She has total control over what we do.” She turned to Ray. “What was this favor you promised her?”

“What difference does it make?” Ray replied irritably. “It wasn’t important.” At that moment, he couldn’t quite recall the favor. He hoped it was nothing. “The only action we got so far is people pounding rocks. I agree with Clark. We need to diversify. I’ll ask her about the Dish controversy, some things about the shrine, how ‘bout that?”

Natalie reluctantly agreed but urged caution. “Just don’t let her manipulate you into something stupid, okay?”

Ayhan readily accepted Ray’s offer to interview her.

In the tent were rows of tables, some crammed with architectural fragments, but others held remnants of Ottoman conquest: broken swords, spear heads, and battered helmets shaped like miniature domes.

“Pretty cool. Let’s discuss the weapons to start,” Ray suggested to Ayhan.

To position her, Ray tapped her elbows to turn her left and right as Clark considered camera angles. She submitted to Ray’s direction freely, becoming very chatty, even jokey. “Oh, I’m all nerves suddenly,” she lamented to him, with a flutter of her eyes. “How do I look?”

“Fantastic,” Ray and Clark answered together. Ray observed Natalie’s sour face. Sorry, Nat, but this is my chance to inject some wow-factor into the Dish movie.

Natalie dutifully lifted her boom mike for a sound check. All the while, Ayhan chatted with Ray. She wanted to know if he’d been to Istanbul before. Perhaps she could suggest some venues for dinner.

They were set to begin. Ray stood next to Clark.

“Sounds like she’s into you,” Clark whispered.

Ray felt Clark’s envy and swelled with pride. “This is like Babe Game—Mediterranean style!”

Clark laughed appreciatively.

Ray breathed in deeply. Everything was right with the world. He hadn’t felt so proud since dating Staci. He’d been living the dream with her. And he’d loved to gloat about it to Clark. He didn’t necessarily miss Staci. But he did miss the dream of her. This is winning, man! Feeling Clark’s gratitude for getting Ayhan on film only sweetened the victory.

“Roll camera, roll sound,” he said with gusto.

“Ah, there’s no turning back now,” Ayhan said to him with another flutter of her eyes.

After some warm-up questions, Ray said, “Tell us a little about these helmets.”

“The conically shaped ones date from the fifteenth century.” Ayhan eyed Ray as she picked up a helmet and held it level with her breasts. “They were fashioned out of two steel pieces joined together. See these rivets?” She tilted the helmet so that its cone faced Ray. “They secured the cheek guards—here and here.” Slowly, she slid her finger around the helmet, pausing at each rivet. Then she leaned toward Ray and offered the helmet to him. He had a full view of her cleavage. Her finger traced gentle circles around the helmet’s tip. “Touch it if you like. It’s smooth—and firm.”

With a chuckle, Ray reached out and stroked the helmet. This is great! You’re right, Clark. She’s into me.

With a sigh, Ayhan returned the helmet to the table. “Most of these swords date from the sixteenth century. This kilij is exquisitely crafted.” She held up a broken scimitar.

“Excuse me? What did you say? The kilij—?”

“Ah, my apologies. I forget my English. I must give you a Turkish lesson.” Ayhan laughed lightly. “Kilij comes from a word meaning to kill. This type of curved, single-edged sword is regarded as a symbol of Turkish power. Of course, an unbroken kilij would’ve been much longer.”

“Oh?” Ray cocked one eyebrow. “How much?”

“A full blade—at least eighty centimeters.” Ayhan indicated the length with her arm. She gazed at Ray. “An impressive size.” Her fingertips caressed the blade’s broad side. “Especially when held erect.”

Ray arched his eyebrows. “I’m sure you’re the expert on erect blades.” Beside him, he heard Clark snicker. With a glance, he saw Natalie grimace. Over the top, maybe, but these are just tactics. Nat will understand it’s for the film. His adrenaline was pumping. “Would you say these swords are museum worthy pieces?” he asked Ayhan.

“Yes. Very fine. Turkish sword makers were gifted, well-endowed artisans. Exquisite examples of their craft are highly sought after today. Authentic blades such as these—full ones especially—fetch respectable sums. Quality craftsmanship,” she held up an unbroken short sword, “is so rare anymore and difficult to replicate.”

“Replicate how? You replicate this stuff?” Ray asked.

With a flick of her hand, Ayhan brushed an imaginary hair from her face. “No. I mean it’s easy to distinguish a modern reproduction from an authentic piece. I come across forgeries from time to time.”

Ray laughed. “So, I was right. Nazis and counterfeiters.”

Ayhan smiled. “Yes, you’re right—and wrong. The Nazi story is one way to fabricate an artifact’s provenance. But experienced counterfeiters I know are more creative than that. Anything else arouse your curiosity, Mr. Cozart?”

Ray liked how Ayhan said arouse. He scanned the tables. “That black ball—hey, is that a miniature cannonball?”

Ayhan held the ball in her palm. “Among Mehmet’s forces were bombardiers who supported the infantry. They were employed only in large-scale assaults where the men had time and space to load their cannons. The balls were made of iron or smoothed stone. Do you want to hold it?” She offered the ball to Ray.

He took it and held it for Clark to see. “Like my Mystic 8 Ball,” he said, “except not a toy.”

“You have a toy cannonball?” Ayhan asked. “You should have a real one. Please, keep it. I insist.”

“Ray, that’s a valuable artifact,” Natalie interrupted. “We can’t just take things like that. Maybe you shouldn’t.”

Ayhan waved a hand dismissively at Natalie. “But if Mr. Cozart wants it, I can make the arrangement. And, Mr. Cozart, I have so much more to offer.”

“I accept,” Ray answered quickly. He shook the cannonball as if it were the Mystic 8 Ball. “Nope. Too bad. It doesn’t answer. I’d love to ask it a question.”

“You can ask me your questions,” Ayhan said.

“Keep going,” Clark urged Ray. “This is great stuff.”

“Certainly getting what you want,” Natalie muttered.

Ray heard the snark in Natalie’s voice. I better bring this back to the Dish—the historical, cultural stuff Nat likes. “Professor Burke thinks the Dish is hidden behind a wall in the shrine. He just needs to break down the wall—”

“After witnessing his first attempt, I’d say the wall refuses to yield.” Ayhan puckered her lips in a faux kiss.

Damn, she won’t let the sexy stuff go. Ray rubbed the back of his neck, trying to think of how not to goad her on. “Er, right, but what do you think? Is the Dish behind it?”

Ayhan smiled coyly. “He’ll have to overwhelm the wall to find out. I think he will.”

“But he may be wrong about the Dish’s location.”

“He bases his belief on the ancient witnesses,” Ayhan said smoothly. “On Putney, for one. Putney described a bowl used for cleansing. The monks tested him to see if he would be found worthy of the Dish. He was given a choice—either take the Dish or confess his sins. It wouldn’t be a temptation if the bowl the monks set on the altar wasn’t the real Dish.” Ayhan looked at the cannonball in Ray’s hand. “Everyone wants the real one.”

Just then, Hromadova interrupted the interview to report to Ayhan that the preservation specialists had arrived from Rome to consult about moving the Keeper mosaics.

“Take them to the chamber at once,” Ayhan instructed her. “I’ll join you shortly.” She addressed Ray. “I trust that our interview satisfied you.”

“Ah, right. Yes, very much,” Ray said awkwardly.

“We can continue later if you like. Bring your camera down to the chamber to film the mosaics.” Ayhan placed her hand on Ray’s arm and dropped her voice. “Remember my favor. A mere formality, as I said. But without my consent, your footage will be a waste.”

“Sure, whatever you want,” Ray said thoughtlessly.

Ayhan left the tent.

Natalie swiftly collapsed her boom pole and jammed it into her audio bag. Watching her pack up, Ray’s mind felt jumbled. The thrill of his flirtation with Ayhan was waning. Maybe he’d gone too far. Natalie had warned him not to do anything stupid.

“Hey, Nat,” he said with forced levity, “what I was doing with Zainab—that was just tactics. Just for the film, I mean.”

“You were using tactics on her?” Natalie put on a face of wonderment. “Oh, Mr. Cozart, wanna feel my dish?” she said, mimicking Ayhan’s breathy voice.

Ray got defensive. “C’mon, we’ve got plenty of serious stuff for the film. I wanted to—to explore a different direction in that interview, that’s all. Make it entertaining.”

In her bag, Natalie’s phone rang. “Oh, I see what direction you want to go. Excuse me, I’m expecting this call.” She turned away so quickly her ponytail whipped. “Why hello, Steve, so good to hear from you,” she said loudly. “Yes, it’s a perfect time to talk. You won’t believe where I am and what’s happened. Can you handle it?” She grabbed her bag and marched out of the tent.

Ray picked up the cannonball Ayhan had given him and followed Clark out. Natalie was standing near the entrance. She burst into a bubbly laugh when she saw him, though her eyes were cold. “That’s a good guess, Steve, but wrong. I’m standing in the Shrine of the Four Keepers. That’s right! Your friend, Dr. Ayhan oversees the excavation. Oh, she’s, um, quite the character.” Natalie glared at Ray as she spoke.

Ray followed Clark down the slope.

“Should we wait for Natsy?” Clark asked.

Ray pretended not to hear his question. “Some gift, huh?” he said, showing Clark the cannonball.

“I’ll say. You gonna keep it?”

Ray spun it on his palm a few times. Why do I feel so guilty over this stupid thing? He thought of Natalie giving him back the Mystic 8 Ball. He’d been so happy to get it, to patch things up with her. They’d apologized, so everything was just like before, like nothing had changed—or needed to. And yet, something had changed. When she’d touched his arm to keep him from looking at the 8 Ball’s answer, he’d felt a powerful jolt of energy, a desire. That was new.

“Here, man, you want it? I got it for you.” Ray passed the cannonball off to Clark as if it’d suddenly become hot.

Clark was ecstatic.

“After all, it’s your name—Clark Cannon,” Ray said, trying to laugh. He sobered quickly. Between Natalie and Ayhan, he couldn’t sort the tangle of emotions he felt.

Stay on task. That’s the best thing. Ayhan wants to have fun with the story. Just go for it. No big deal.

“Ready for more entertainment?” he asked Clark. “We don’t wanna keep Zainab waiting.”

Ayhan smiled to herself as she exited the artifacts tent. She sent Murat to supervise students loading boxes into vans. She had a phone call to make—in private. She strode toward her parked car.

“Yes, Zainab. News?” Ozturk asked.

“Burke has discovered a false wall in the shrine.”

“Oh? Does he have the Dish?”

“He believes the Dish is behind the wall. I think it won’t be long now.”

“Excellent. We may not need to use an artifake after all.”

“No. But if we do, the American filmmakers did capture useful footage of Burke today. Creating a provenance with it will be easy.”

“Very good. Did you receive the permission form I sent to your office?” Ozturk asked.

“Yes, with the fine print in Turkish. One signature will suffice. Ms. Ashbrook is suspicious, but Mr. Cozart will do what I ask. I made sure of that. I only need to get him alone.”

“How can you be sure he’ll sign the form? He must relinquish his footage to you.”

Ayhan traced the steering wheel with her fingers and smirked, thinking of her flirtation with Ray. “Because I’ve separated him from Ms. Ashbrook by giving him what he wanted. He trusts me. You know what you taught me.”

Ozturk chuckled. “My dear, you’re a Persian sword.”

“There’s still the matter of Pasa,” Ayhan reminded him. “Digging behind the wall will be quite a task. Burke needs to have more time.”

“Very well. We’ll proceed as planned.”

“Tonight then?”

“Yes. At The Padishah. I’ll take care of Pasa.”

“Oh, Ahmet,” Ayhan said hurriedly before he could hang up. A doubt about their scheme had crept through her brain all day. Ozturk didn’t like her to express doubt. He thought it was a sign of weakness.

“Yes?”

“Well, I wanted to ask you about Ambassador Krayzel. You recall his conversation with us last night. He made a point of mentioning the report of the Turkish Antiquities Trade Commission—the recent arrest of illegal traffickers. He was threatening you. He and Sylvia do know a great deal about us. We could sell the Dish to them outright.”

Ozturk scoffed. “An idle threat. He wouldn’t report me to the Commission because I could report him. What evidence does he truly have? Only items from Sylvia’s grand collection, but he wouldn’t risk losing them. Imagine!”

Ayhan tried to laugh at Ozturk’s imitation of the American woman. But the creeping doubt remained.

Moments later, exiting her car, she spied Murat helping four students lift a fragment of the shrine’s dome into a van.

Ayhan inspected the fragment more closely. There was an image painted on it—the shoulders of a man—the Christ. Where his head should’ve been, the stone was broken off. She reached to swipe at some dirt but jerked her hand back.

“A spider!” Anxiously, she examined the sleeve of her jacket. “Big and black! Oh, how I hate them!”

“We disturbed its habitat,” Murat said.

“Yes. It’s said the frailest house is the house of a spider.” Ayhan simulated a laugh and swiped the front of her jacket.

“It has a new home now.” Murat grinned.

Ayhan didn’t care for his remark, imagining that she felt something tickle the back of her neck.

Murat opened the driver-side door.

“Wait,” she said. Her mind raced ahead, imagining scenarios, calculating the steps. Her scheme with Ozturk must not fail. He’d take care of Pasa. That meant she’d have to take care of Burke. She must separate him from the Dish. Poor man. She felt sorry that their fortunes couldn’t align. It was just the way of the world. Someone had to lose. And it must not be her.

“Don’t take the stone to the Processing Lab,” she instructed Murat. “Take it to the Preservation Room.”

“But you closed it for the new tile to be laid.”

“Never mind that. If anyone asks, tell them I’ve said we’re distinguishing exceptional pieces. Anything else that Burke finds should be taken there too. Even if I’m not here to give instructions. You don’t need to inform Burke. You have the code to unlock the room?”

Murat nodded and climbed into the van.

Ayhan started to walk away, then stopped. A black blob near her boot caught her eye. The spider crept cautiously atop the loose pebbles.

Ayhan’s shadow fell upon it. To save itself, it darted toward a crevice. But its cruel huntress was quicker.

Scene 25

Not a Toy

Istanbul, excavation site

Sunday, March 14, moments after Steve Finder’s phone call

“Yes, Steve, the shrine has been discovered. I’m staring at it right now.” As Natalie spoke, she glared at Ray and gripped her phone as if about to hurl a grenade. You weren’t sorry, Ray! You haven’t changed! But to Finder, she oozed sweetness: “The past couple days, it’s like I’ve been living in one of your adventures. All that’s been missing is you.”

She spun away from Ray, spied an overturned bucket, and sat down. Ray shuffled off with Clark down to the pit. The pair were laughing. She thought Ray looked back for her once, but she might’ve only imagined it.

“The shrine? This is incredible. Are you sure?” It was the third time Finder had asked this.

“You don’t believe me? Come to Istanbul and see for yourself. I mean, what great book material! Burke is digging through a wall. Thinks the Dish might be hidden behind it. He could find it any second.”

“But—but that’s insane!” Finder’s voice climbed several pitches. “He can’t find the Dish. Not yet! Er, I mean—of course, I want the real Dish to be found. It’s my dearest wish. But—oh, this is all just the craziest coincidence. Bucky is supposed to find the shrine in my next book. How can I write that now? And if Burke finds the Dish—” he laughed cynically and broke off. “But—but what good luck for you, huh? This discovery is perfect for your documentary.” His tone shifted abruptly. “Say, speaking of—I was wondering about that footage you have of me talking about the Pope’s letter. I’d really love the chance to set the record straight. Or even better—I’ve been meaning to ask—Disney wants to do a film about my life. It’ll be released in tandem with Templars of Doom. Sort of a Making of Bucky Browne, behind the scenes kind of thing. I was wondering—would you like to be involved in that? I could definitely pull some strings.”

Natalie nearly dropped her phone. “Me? Disney?” She gazed down the slope in the direction Ray had gone. Why not? All Ray wants to do is film Babe Game Part Two with Zainab. It’s her film now. Where does that leave me? She’d been trying to get Finder back in the Dish movie. Maybe this was better—Finder getting her out of it. “Wow. I dunno what to say. I’m flattered you—”

“Think it over. It’d be a huge career advancement. You were made for great things.” His tone became intimate and inviting. “And—well, I hope you say yes, because, the truth is, you’ve been on my mind so much. When we met, I just felt some spark, like we really clicked, y’know?”

Natalie blushed. Finder’s flirtation thrilled yet troubled her. In a flash, she imagined life without Ray. She saw herself as the muse of a famous novelist who could quote Shakespeare, had great hair, and lived on the Upper West Side. “I—I thought so too,” she said slowly.

Finder laughed warmly. “That’s a relief to hear. Thought after that awful interview, I’d ruined my chances. Please let me know about Disney soon. I’d love to make that happen—er, with you. Make it happen with you.”

After promising to decide about Disney and to update him about Burke, Natalie hung up. Briefly, she brooded over her phone, trying to sort out her feelings. She’d been focussed on patching things up with Ray. But after enduring his stupid interview with Ayhan, she didn’t know why she’d been trying so hard. Maybe she’d been right to leave 8 Ball Productions for the BBC. Maybe she’d be right to leave again. Ray doesn’t deserve the Mystic 8 Ball. Not now. Let him keep Ayhan’s cannonball. That’s what he really wants.

She got an idea and searched the artifacts tent for Clark’s camera bag. She extracted his hotel key from a pocket. The sight of the helmets and swords outraged her afresh. In her mind mingled two faces—Ayhan’s and Staci’s. I knew Ray would fall for her act. It’s always the same game with him.

She needed an excuse to leave the excavation site. She found one perusing their old itinerary on her iPad. Ray had crossed out most of their shooting schedule and added in Ayhan’s name. But he’d left a marginal note: “Rescheduled press pass pick-up. Church of St. George. Sunday, March 14.” That’s today. They needed the passes to get within the security barrier to film Pope Boniface. Reggie had rescheduled the appointment to pick them up around their (now canceled) Cappadocian cave tour.

A van pulled through the entrance gate. Natalie glanced up in time to see that the driver was Ayhan’s assistant Murat. He parked by the other vans and got out.

She called to him. “Can you drive me on an errand?”

“Err-and. I do not know this word.”

“Oh, um, an errand is like a little trip. Or it’s a task, a job, like the kind you do for Dr. Ayhan.”

Murat nodded. “You go to museum? I take you. I ask Dr. Ayhan.” He turned to walk down the dirt slope toward the pit. After two steps, he motioned for Natalie to follow him.

Reluctantly, Natalie fell in beside him. At the bottom of the ramp, Murat led her to the west chamber. Standing before the mosaics of the Keepers were the two preservation specialists, Ayhan, Hromadova, Ray, and Clark. Ayhan was pointing up at Panikos. The smirking youth held a golden bowl, but it appeared ready to fall as if he were tossing it like a ball between his hands. Ray stared up at him. Gazing at the scene, Natalie felt as if she were watching a strange stage rehearsal. Ray seemed unreal, merely an actor waiting his cue. You called Steve a slimy fake. But you’re the phony!

Murat conferred with Ayhan. “Of course,” Ayhan said with artificial pleasantness. “Do take Ms. Ashbrook wherever she would like to go.”

“Where are you going?” Ray asked her.

Natalie simulated a smile. “To pick up our press passes.”

“Oh. Right. I totally forgot. Let me go with you.”

“No. I can handle it.”

“Take Clark with you.”

“No.”

“But—you’re gonna come right back, aren’t you?”

Natalie detected Ray’s apprehension. A sly smirk cut across her face. “Sounds like a question for the Mystic 8 Ball.” She puckered her lips in scornful imitation of Ayhan. With a final glance at Panikos, she spun and headed toward the exit ramp. The mosaics were vivid and shiny but disappointedly one dimensional. Nothing here is real.

Murat strode alongside her. He didn’t understand what he’d heard. “What is Mystic 8 Ball?”

Natalie considered an answer as they climbed the ramp. How could she explain? Was it a toy? A game? Something Ray and I once shared. “Oh, it’s a device shaped like a ball. It’s hollow inside. There’s a die in it. You ask it questions, and it gives you a yes-or-no answer. Um, sorta like that bowl in Dr. Ayhan’s office. She said it was used for divination.”

Murat nodded. “It gives fortune.”

“That’s right.” They ascended the dirt slope. Once seated in the van, Natalie was silent. When they reached the Church of Saint George, a bearded man in a black robe handed over the press passes. She must’ve signed a form for them. She couldn’t quite recall. She was thinking of Ray, of the Mystic 8 Ball. Seer of the present, future, and the past! Give us your answer when the die is cast!

She asked Murat to drive her to Hotel Amir. It didn’t take her long to find the 8 Ball on the nightstand in Ray and Clark’s room. Her plan was simple—destroy it. Guess we don’t need this. That’s what Ray had said the previous night after she’d apologized to him. Prophetic words. His apology had been a joke. But she would have the last laugh.

She carried the 8 Ball back to her room. How to break the stupid thing? It couldn’t be that hard. It was just plastic.

She had a small tool kit in her audio bag. She selected her instrument of destruction—a screwdriver. The 8 Ball was constructed of two halves. There was a groove all around where the halves were joined. All she had to do was wedge the screwdriver in it and pop the halves apart. She braced it between her knees. No sweat.

Ten minutes later, she hadn’t even made a dent. She shifted the ball to the table, but when she applied pressure, the screwdriver just slipped off the plastic. The ball fell, bounced twice, and rolled under the bed.

“Damn.”

It’d rolled too far for her to reach. And the bed was too low to crawl under. She tried whacking the ball closer to her with the screwdriver. But she only pushed it further away.

“Damn.”

She got her collapsible boom mike pole from her audio bag. Unfolding the pole, it was just the proper length. She poked the ball, and it rolled out the other side of the bed.

This time, she decided to smash the clear plastic window where the die floated up to give an answer. Much easier. She held the 8 Ball on the table and rained blows upon the window with her screwdriver. But she only made a scratch.

She turned the screwdriver upside down and smacked the handle like a hammer against the window to see if that would do the trick. When it didn’t, she decided that a hammer was what she really needed.

She called the front desk.

“Um, yes, I’d like to request. . . er, you wouldn’t happen to have a hammer I could use, would you? I’m having some, um, equipment issues.”

The concierge was sorry, but the maintenance crew was on the roof fixing one of the hot tubs. Perhaps he could schedule her repair for another day?

Natalie hung up.

“Damn!”

She flung herself into a chair, feeling persecuted. Some snippets of English poetry fluttered about in her brain—Oh, lift me as a wave, a leaf, a cloud! I fall upon the thorns of life, I bleed! She shook the Mystic 8 Ball in anger. Why couldn’t she get rid of the thing? It was like an albatross around her neck. And she was the ancient mariner of poetic lore, doomed to sail alone on a desolate ship. She flung the toy from her. It hit the far wall and ricocheted into her open suitcase, landing snuggly among her sweaters.

“That’s it! I’ve had it with you!”

She jumped up and swiped the 8 Ball from its pillow. With determination, she fled her room and marched down the hall to the elevator. Once inside, she punched the button that said ROOF. Normally, she avoided heights. But these were desperate times.

When the elevator doors opened, she saw a spectacular view of the Sea of Marmara. There were patio tables and chairs and two hot tubs. There didn’t seem to be anyone on the roof but her. Where was maintenance?

She rounded the corner of a locker that held towels. Two men were leaning against it smoking.

“Er, um, excuse me . . .” she tried to hide the 8 Ball behind her back. “Do either of you have a hammer?”

The men were nonplussed. Did they speak English?

“Ham-mer,” she said, swinging her arm, hatchet-like.

One of the men wore a utility belt. He nudged the other. The two of them said something in Turkish and laughed.

Natalie was infuriated. “Look, I’m a guest in this hotel, and I need a hammer! Are you gonna help me or not?”

One of them said in perfect English, “Okay, okay, how ‘bout a rubber mallet?”

“No, that won’t work,” Natalie griped. “I need a sharp object to, er, break something open.”

“Would a screwdriver work?”

“No! I already tried that!”

“What you need to bust? Like a suitcase?”

“No, not that.” She didn’t wanna play twenty questions. Why couldn’t he just give her a hammer?

“Tell us what it is, maybe we can help.”

She scratched her forehead, feeling foolish. With great reluctance, she produced the Mystic 8 Ball.

One of the men stepped forward to inspect it.

She handed it to him.

He chuckled. “A hammer won’t work. This is reinforced plastic. You’ll need a power tool. A drill maybe. Sorry.”

“I used to have one of those,” the other man said. “It’s just a fun toy. What you wanna smash it for?”

Natalie lifted her eyes at the clouds. “Oh, because—because—” she couldn’t think of how to explain. Spite wasn’t a word you could really say. “Oh . . . forget it!” She swiped the 8 Ball from the man’s hand and stalked off. She could hear them laughing.

On the other side of the roof, she threw herself onto a chaise that faced the sea. “Stupid!” With one last gasp of anger, she slammed the 8 Ball down beside the chair, hoping the force of it hitting the roof would at least crack it.

It didn’t.

She settled into a deep sulk and lay there with her eyes closed. The sun was warm overhead; she could hear the sea. Twenty minutes later, she awoke hearing the voices of children. A family had come up onto the roof.

She sat up and looked about. Her shoulder was sore from pounding the 8 Ball with the screwdriver. She thought maybe she shouldn’t break it after all. It was dumb. What was she, five years old? She was bigger than that. She’d overreacted. She should just take it back to Ray’s room and pretend his stupid flirtation hadn’t bothered her a bit. What did she care? She was going to work at Disney with Steve.

She reached down to where she’d left the 8 Ball.

Gone.

She jumped up in a panic and searched all about the chaise. It was gone. Really gone.

Feverishly, she retraced her steps. Had the maintenance men taken it and gone off to find a drill? She hoped not. She’d changed her mind. She didn’t want it broken.

On the other side of the roof, a young couple was taking selfies near the balustrade. Two boys and a little girl were running about. One of the boys had the Mystic 8 Ball.

“Thank God!” Natalie tried to corral the boy, but he ran off. When she neared him again, he tossed the 8 Ball over her head to his curly-haired brother in a game of keep away.

“Give that to me,” she demanded. “It’s—it’s not a toy!”

The boy snickered and said something in a language she didn’t understand.

She flagged down the children’s parents. Everything became confused. They didn’t speak English. Natalie couldn’t make them understand. The little girl was crying. The curly-haired boy ran about tossing the Mystic 8 Ball up in the air. Finally, the father got hold of him by the arm and demanded he hand over the toy.

Natalie stepped closer and held out her hands. She kept her eyes on the Mystic 8 Ball. It suddenly seemed to her to be the most important thing in the world. It contained all her memories of her work with Ray. But it also contained all her hopes. Seeing Ray again, she’d felt it from time to time—a surprising energy, a desire.

No, she’d never been in love with Geoffrey.

She took one more step toward the boy.

Without warning, he hurled the Mystic 8 Ball right at her head. She couldn’t react in time. It deflected off her fingers, hit the balustrade behind her—and fell.

She rushed to the edge of the roof to watch in horror as it crashed through bare-limbed trees far, far below.

Scene 26

Dream of Istanbul

The Raffles Istanbul

Sunday, March 14

The room was the hotel’s best. Floor to ceiling windows granted stunning views of the Bosporus as well as access to a private terrace. Turkish carpets covered the hardwood floor, and an elegant chaise and spacious walk-in closet gave the room the feel of almost-home. Above the king size bed hung a mural—a cityscape—painted in bold, sweeping strokes of blue. The mural was called The Dream of Istanbul.

On the chaise, free at last from the Comfy-Go Pet Tote, Baby Girl lay curled into a ball, her eyelids twitching in rapid-eye sleep. What visions might be passing before her little-dog mind, none could know. Possibly, the visions were harrowing, given that Jane’s incessant traveling exposed the dog to sudden and inescapable olfactory assaults, among other things.

For instance, during their layover in Amsterdam the previous evening, Baby Girl had suffered the scent of cat dander for several hours due to the aggressive petting of an unidentified airport attendant in the VIP lounge. Jane kept an open-door policy regarding the little dog and surrendered her to anyone who asked. “Baby Girl loves everyone!” Jane always said.

A limousine had conveyed Jane and Baby Girl from the lounge to their plane. Upon being secured under a plane seat, Baby Girl had detected a mutant fungus, which combined with Jane’s perfume (Daisy Dream) and a trace of methamphetamine, had proven to be for the full three-hour flight a quite dizzying potpourri.

In a bathrobe, Jane entered the room, toweling off her hair. At the sound of the bathroom door opening, Baby Girl lifted her head, stood, and re-curled herself so that she lay with her back to Jane. “You silly little thing,” Jane whined. An hour previously, when Jane had tipped Baby Girl out of the Comfy-Go Pet Tote onto the bed, the little dog had snapped at her. And Baby Girl never snapped at her.

Jane dragged her suitcase over to the bed. She almost regretted her last-minute change of destination, but such was the price of being a Disher—disappointing others for the sake of the cause. Meena had divulged that Dominick had flown from L.A. to Cartagena just for her. Still, Jane had stayed strong, refusing to be swayed from her quest:

“Bitch, you’re, like, not listening to me at all. Istanbul?” Meena had scolded her. “If your family finds out—”

“They won’t find out.”

“But like, why take the risk?”

“Because it’s the Shrine of the Four Keepers! Don’t you understand? It’s my destiny. I can feel it.”

“But like, you could end up with nothing. Your Nana can do anything she wants just like that.” Meena snapped her fingers. “You’re up against, like, the whole freaking world. I mean, think of RATS, Jane. Think of us.”

“I am. I do. But it’s the Dish, Meena. The DISH!”

“Look, send a text to your father, at least. Tell him you’re here. You’ll be back in a week. Don’t make them suspicious. It’s the best thing, believe me.”

Recollecting Meena’s counsel, Jane picked up her phone on the bedside stand. Since fleeing Corporate Headquarters in Grandeur two days previously, she’d gotten and ignored several phone calls and a text message from her father. “Why did you run out?” Max had written. “You should’ve just left with me when I asked. Where are you?”

Jane opened a text window to concoct her lie. “I’m in Cartagena.” She paused before sending it. Her family had been telling fake stories to her for who knows how long. I’ll be true to myself—not fake like them. Jane was uncertain how she would achieve her dreams, but the first step was deleting that message. She felt a renewed resolve.

She emptied her suitcase and threw all her bikinis into a dresser drawer. Given her new circumstances, she didn’t foresee any use for her vintage Chanel cocktail dress, and as she hung it in the closet, she lamented the absence of her Barmah hat and her Versace bomber jacket with the fox fur collar. Her kimono, she was shocked to discover, had suffered some violence in transit—a spot of red nail polish, like a pinprick of blood. She called the hotel’s cleaning service.

From her carry-on, she extracted a couple Steve Finder novels and the Saint Nil (or Saint Chrysostom) icon she’d bought in Göreme. The saint’s face was aloof yet beseeching. Jane almost felt he might share a secret with her if she leaned in close. Why she’d brought it with her, she couldn’t say. She wanted it to be real, that’s all. But it wasn’t.

Something about the little haloed figure in her hands made her feel a pang of longing. Jane didn’t know why she felt this way. The image just seemed familiar to her somehow, like a first memory. She sighed and dropped the icon back into her bag. It was only an illusion. Her icon didn’t have a secret. No secret she didn’t already know.

On the chaise, Baby Girl uncurled and stretched.

“Are you through being silly?” Jane asked her playfully. She reached into her bag again and pulled out the box of Grammy’s Teeny Treats.

Baby Girl sniffed the air.

Jane patted the mattress invitingly and squealed in delight when the little dog leaped onto the bed.

“Look at you, you’re so brave!” Jane searched the box for a treat. But it was empty. “Ooh no, we ran out.” She shook the box in front of Baby Girl theatrically.

The dog stared at Jane almost with an expression of betrayal. She blinked her blue eye and jumped off the bed to return to her curled-up position on the chaise.

“You fussy little thing.” Jane scooped up Baby Girl and carried her back to the bed. She reached for Templars of Doom and cuddled with the little dog under the bedsheets to read aloud. When she’d last left off, Bucky Browne and Princess Calixta had just entered the Monastery of the Bitter Mount:

“Are you ready for what awaits?” Cyril the blind seer asked.

“What awaits?” Bucky replied. “The Map of Fortunatus is inside, isn’t it?”

“No.”

“No?” Calixta gasped. “What do you mean? It has to be.”

“Cyril, we’ve got to get that map,” Bucky said.

“My friends, you think you seek only a piece of parchment, but I tell you it is so much more.”

“How could a map be more than a map?” Calixta asked.

“In the same way that the heart is more than its four chambers.

“Cyril, the Templars will be here any minute. We don’t have time for riddles,” Bucky said impatiently.

“There is always time for the truth, my friend.” Cyril turned toward Princess Calixta. Though he was sightless, he seemed to study her face, his eyes boring into hers. “That is what lies beyond these doors.”

“The truth?” Calixta asked.

“Yes, the truth. And with the truth comes much danger, much hardship. Do you understand?”

“I think so.”

“Because there are many enemies of the truth. The path you are choosing will not be easy. And so, I ask again—are you ready for what awaits?”

Princess Calixta hesitated. She looked at Bucky, then back at the seer.

“I don’t think anyone is ever really ready to save the world,” she said.

Cyril smiled. “Ah, dear Princess, you have answered well. I can see your heart is true. For all that is true is seen by the heart. Therefore, be assured—you will save the world.”

“Great,” Bucky said, “now can we open this vault before the Templars come and someone has to save us?”

Baby Girl hadn’t paid attention to the questions posed to Bucky and Calixta. Instead, her face was turned toward the windows, where she watched the veil of evening fall.

“Isn’t it exciting?” Jane squealed, bouncing the little dog on her knees. “Are you ready for your life to change with Mama’s? No more Whitakers. No more mean Nana and weird, fat Leenie. No more Whiningham and, oh, and everything with it. ‘Cause tomorrow, my little Baby Girl, we’re gonna find Professor Burke and the Last Supper Dish!”

Scene 27

The Game Changes

Church of Saint Euphemia

District of Chalcedon, Istanbul

Sunday, March 14

You will regret this. Anthimos sat in his office at the Church of Saint Euphemia and gazed out the window at the darkening clouds that swept across the late afternoon sky. You’ve forsaken your oath to the Emperor, Papi. Not only you, but also Diogenes and Elias—even Philotheos. I will make all of you regret it. Anthimos clutched the golden eagle that hung about his neck. Though he treasured this symbol of Byzantine greatness, of late he had grown more and more discontent wearing it as an ornament. Burke’s discovery of the Shrine of the Four Keepers had stirred his deepest longing, the longing for Byzantine power restored—and unleashed.

You’re all unworthy servants. You only do your duty. But you don’t love the Legacy. Anthimos turned his eyes to his desk. Before him lay a legal pad and a pen. He’d been sitting contemplatively for hours, finding himself suddenly free from prior commitments. The American film company 8 Ball Productions had canceled their scheduled interview, citing “an extraordinary opportunity to film Adam Burke’s excavation.” Anthimos had quickly discerned their cancellation to be a blessing. He now had time and the privacy to devote himself to a far greater venture—betraying the Patriarch’s plan to steal the prodokleis from Burke.

He picked up his pen and tapped it on the legal pad. The lines before him were bare. Although he would never admit it to Philotheos, he admired the Patriarch’s desperate audacity to undertake a heist. The Order’s plan even had a chance to succeed. Papi, the perfect spy, had reported that no cameras were in the hall outside the lab where Burke would take the prodokleis. He’d given the Order the security code. The museum guards, so he said, were lax, and he would distract them as the initiates Leo, Theo, and Winnipeg Joe slunk away with the prize.

Once Leo, Theo, and Winnipeg Joe had seized the prodokleis, they weren’t to return to the Church of Saint George directly. They were to use the Order’s tunnel system as their getaway. Gabriel had retrieved from the Secret Archives the Order’s master map. With it, the Order had charted the monks’ underground trek to Saint George. An Order agent would drive them far south from the museum to the Gate House beneath the Saint Helen Church. There, assisted by Deacon Dorian, a young Gatekeeper, the monks would enter the tunnels.

Anthimos scratched at his beard. At the Order’s meeting, he’d objected to the heist, arguing that the Order should be rejoicing to see seekers on the cusp of discovering the truth of the Dish’s disappearance. “Burke is about to uncover Andronicus’s Legacy. We should be helping him find and use the clues left at the shrine. Guiding seekers to the Dish is our ancient charge—not peddling stories on a website!” But Patriarch Philotheos had overruled his objections.

There must be a way. Perhaps, after all, the way was easy. One phone call to Burke would thwart Philotheos. All Anthimos had to do was tell Burke about the prodokleis, instruct him what it looked like and how to use it. Anthimos almost reached for his cell phone, but then he shook his head. No, that wasn’t the way. Papi had already ruined his credibility with Burke.

Anthimos cringed, recalling his humiliation. Papi’s betrayal angered him afresh. And yet, the old professor had saved him from revealing too much to Burke. They all knew what Andronicus’s Legacy would do to Dish seekers. All those horrid jokes they would suffer. Even the man-child Lerry had warned Anthimos about culpability, discerning that if Burke knew who had told him about the prodokleis, then that person would be held responsible when the Legacy unveiled its final punchline . . .

Culpability is a dangerous thing. You should listen to your brother. Much as Anthimos loathed to admit it, Papi had been right. Why be part of a Secret Order if he were to play show-and-tell with its secrets? Even he needed a reminder of the important things. Meekly, Anthimos crossed himself and thanked the Emperor for giving him a second chance to prove himself to be his worthy heir. He vowed to do it right this time. If he simply tried to warn Burke about the heist, then the initiates would be caught, and the Order would be exposed. And I’d be the obvious culprit. That wouldn’t do.

Anthimos tapped his pen on the legal pad. I will not rush forward. Let me walk backwards. What’s my desired outcome? The question was easy to answer. If the heist must happen, then he, not Philotheos, must receive the prodokleis from the three monks. How do I convince the initiates to give it to me? The strategy formulating in his mind was intricate, and yet its basis was quite simple. At the top of the legal pad, the archbishop wrote one word:

FEAR.

Who would help me create this fear? He scrawled several names of allies in the Order and of other useful people.

His cell phone rang. Ah, an ally indeed. “Brother Chrys, what news?” Anthimos said. “Philotheos call off the heist?”

“Ha! I’m afraid not,” Chrys said. “It goes forward—and with haste. Papi’s student Giulio reports that Burke is breaking through a stone wall in the apse.”

Anthimos sat up. “Burke listened to me. I urged him to dig under it. Has he found anything?”

“Not yet. But Papi confirms that the apse extends beyond the wall. That wall was a false face. Papi says they must tunnel behind it before a search can be done. Likely, it will take the rest of the day, tomorrow as well.”

“I knew it!” Anthimos smacked his open palm on his desk. “I guessed the ancient Order had secured the Legacy before the Ottomans conquered the city. Ah, Chrys, think of what this means. Imagine the possibilities.”

Chrys chuckled. “So, you still intend to sabotage the heist? What’s your plan? You must move quickly. Philotheos has already told the initiates to prepare themselves. All the pieces are in place.”

Anthimos grinned. “Yes, but the game board is about to change. You and Lerry come to my office this evening and I’ll explain the new rules.”

After saying goodbye to Chrys, Anthimos scanned the names he’d scrawled on his legal pad. There was only one way to change the game in his favor—he had to change the gate by which the monks would enter the Order’s secret tunnels. Gatekeeper Dorian is the Patriarch’s tool, but Sander Minolas is mine. He picked up his phone and considered for a moment how best to word his question.

“Yes, Sander, this is Anthimos. Yes, I’m well, thank you. Say, have you been following the progress of the American archaeologist, Burke? Ah, yes, I thought you would be. Yes, quite amazing, the shrine’s discovery. In fact, I’ve just gotten word that Burke is breaking through a fake wall—naturally, you know what must be hidden behind it.” Anthimos relished Sander’s exultant reaction to this news. The Gatekeeper’s desire for Burke to discover the prodokleis was as great as Anthimos’s own. That desire must be stoked.

“What does Philotheos think? Bah!” Anthimos scoffed. “Of course, he should be pleased. But no. He wants to steal the prodokleis from Burke once he finds it. Yes, I’m serious. Why? To lock it away so no one will come near the Red Gate. The Patriarch’s cowardice has infected the Order. He would have us all betray Andronicus.”

Sander was outraged, as Anthimos knew he would be. He’d encouraged the Gatekeeper’s complaints about Philotheos for many years.

“I agree, it’s shameful,” Anthimos said. “That’s why I plan to stop Philotheos and help Burke. If I were to call on you to support me in this cause, would you lend me aid?”

Sander’s reply was immediate.

“Oh, that’s good to hear,” Anthimos said quickly. “We made no oath to Philotheos, after all. If aiding me forces you to resist him, I think you could do so with a clear conscience, don’t you agree?”

Sander hesitated, but his answer was affirmative.

“Excellent. I knew you were a man of wisdom. We live in extraordinary times. We’ve no choice,” Anthimos declared. Confidence would gain him the prize, he believed, and so he went on smoothly to say, “Although you and I—many of us—have longed for a seeker to reopen the Legacy, none of us dared hope it could happen. But now, an incredible opportunity is set before us. For the first time in over seven hundred years, a seeker might enter in. Just think of it, Sander. It’s a miracle! Miracles expand our vision of what is possible. I’m sure you feel the significance of what I’m saying. Oh, indeed? You feel the Emperor’s spirit has roused itself?” Anthimos licked his lips, tasting victory. He’d come to his significant question and chose his words carefully. “We must let the Emperor’s spirit guide us, even if we’re guided beyond the oaths that join us within the Order. So, if aiding me necessitated that you set aside the normal rules, would you? We’ll act in secret, of course.”

Anthimos held his breath, but he need not have been anxious. Years of stoking Sander’s discontent had done its work. “You’re a bold man, Sander. You’ll be rewarded by your answer. The last laugh is ours to keep—until the wages of sin are paid.”

Jubilant from his victory, Anthimos leaped from his chair and threw open the window. His office overlooked a courtyard where stood the shell of the former Church of Saint Euphemia bound in brown, leafless vines. The old church had been built in the thirteenth century by Emperor Andronicus. The vines stabilized the ancient wall and thus were never cut. Anthimos examined the wall often as a private act of communion with the Emperor.

Now for my first move. The game board had been altered thanks to Gatekeeper Sander’s loyalty. It was time for Anthimos to roll the dice. He retrieved a map from his filing cabinet and traced the route that the Order had planned for the getaway driver to take from the museum to the Saint Helen Gate. Time for another call.

“Mr. Pasa, thank you for answering. Yes, this is really The Archbishop. I know it’s been some time. You’re Rail Bureau Chief now—congratulations on your promotion—but I hope you still have some clout at the Department of Traffic where you once were? You do? Oh, excellent. What do I need? Street barriers placed at some choice locations. You know I make it worth your while. I need the barriers set up as soon as possible—tomorrow night even.”

Pasa demurred at the timing. He was sure he could broker a deal, but the department had grown inefficient since his departure, a sad fact that would cause a delay. If The Archbishop’s errand were urgent, then barriers owned by the Rail Bureau could be used instead, but that would entail factoring in the cost of transportation and union labor . . .

Twenty minutes later, Anthimos winced at the sum Pasa had weaseled from him. He knew his personal account couldn’t cover the expenditure—he must dip into the Order’s general fund. With his computer, he logged into the income account of TrueDishers.net and saw Ms. Jane Whitaker’s recent donation. May the Keepers bless you, my child.

Having blocked Leo, Theo, and Winnipeg’s escape route from the museum, Anthimos considered his next move. With the path to Gatekeeper Dorian blocked, the monks must go to Sander’s gate. That would bring them within the vicinity of the police. Then the labyrinth must be navigated. More obstacles to overcome . . . but the solutions were at his fingertips.

Anthimos threw his head back and laughed. He was hatching an elaborate scheme that would make Andronicus proud. Even the Keepers themselves would rejoice. Fervent Kostas, Youthful Panikos, Wise Zoticus, and Secretive Nil, look with favor upon me. May your spirits be roused!

Scene 28

A Fool’s Errand

Istanbul, excavation site

Sunday, March 14

The spotlights above the dig site flashed on with a loud electric buzz.

“People, there’s only hours to go before the deadline,” Burke called out to everyone hard at work in the apse. He hunched before the growing grotto at the base of the stone wall and peered into its depths. “Calvino, report!”

“We’re maybe three meters in,” Calvino called back.

Burke had been right—the wall was a false front. As soon as the team had removed some of its stones and dug into the dirt behind it, they’d uncovered flagstones. The floor of the apse continued behind the wall, but for how far, they didn’t yet know. Calvino and Foo were tunnelling, jabbing at the dirt with trowels. They’d cleared a path from the center of the wall two meters high and three meters wide.

“Whoa!” Foo ducked as falling dirt struck his hardhat.

“We need to put up another joist to prevent a cave-in. Um, Elena, you have a couple ready?” Burke asked.

“Da!” Hromadova and Duffy were sawing two-by-fours into segments at a makeshift worktable. Hromadova picked up a few pieces to carry them to Burke.

“Er, let Duffy handle ‘em,” Burke said to her. “Where’s McKenzie? We need him now.” He waved Hromadova off to go find Giulio.

“He went to the restroom,” Duffy reported.

“Again? It takes him a half hour.”

Just then, Giulio strolled into the chamber. “My name is Makarios—not McKenzie,” he grumbled.

Duffy shoved a wood support beam into Giulio’s arms.

“Calvino, Foo, clear out while Duffy and McKenzie shore up that part of the cavern,” Burke hollered. “And hang a lamp in there.” He clapped his hands. “Let’s go!”

Duffy and Giulio hammered the beams into place. Then came another round of burrowing, followed by more joists. Afterwards, Burke ordered a short break to prepare the radar equipment. While the tunnel was vacant, Ray requested permission to film inside it. Clark stooped down with Sneak Peek and entered. Burke stood guard at the entrance.

Suddenly, Clark shouted, “Hey!”

Burke quickly ducked inside. Clark was on his haunches at the back of the cavern, his camera balanced on one knee.

“You find something?” Burke asked excitedly.

“Yeah, man. Is that, like, gold?” Clark pointed at an outcropping where several pebbles glinted in the lamplight.

Burke let out a tremendous snort. “No! Likely pyrite—fool’s gold.” He backed out, carefully ducking under a joist. “Worthless in any case. We’re resuming, so give us room.”

Calvino pushed to the cave entrance a device resembling a lawn mower. Foo detached the control tablet and tapped a few buttons. “It’s calibwated.”

Despite their weariness, everyone stirred with anticipation. This was the moment of truth. Either Burke was right that the Dish was buried behind the wall, or their efforts at the shrine were in vain.

Burke wheeled the radar into the cavern. He set it in an open area among the support beams to the left. Everyone gathered around Foo to stare at the readings.

“Nope. Nuttin!” Foo shook his head.

Burke maneuvered the radar around a support to take a reading in an adjacent area.

“Nope. Try a-gain!”

Burke canvassed the cave from left to right, pausing at every area where the radar could fit between supports. Each time Foo announced, “Nope!” the group grew more restless.

Burke was sweating. He felt a growing panic. Pasa and Winters can’t win! I won’t let them beat me! He backtracked to the middle of the cavern. The Dish has got to be here!

As Burke stepped backward, he saw something move near his leg. Clark was lying on his side, aiming his camera like some sniper. Burke jumped in surprise and whacked his head against a joist. His hardhat fell over his eyes. “Dammit!” He gripped the radar’s handle to keep his balance. His glasses were knocked askew, and his vision blurred.

“Clark, get out of there,” Ray yelled.

Clark wriggled away. “It was, like, a big moment, man.”

Burke blinked rapidly to regain focus. Pinpricks of white light framed his periphery like a halo. He saw the outcropping Clark had pointed to earlier, and as he stared with his blurry vision, the projection took on the shape of a face. The glinting pebbles were like golden curls of hair.

Kneel . . . and you will soon enter the earth.

“What? Who—who said that?” Burke murmured. The voice seemed to come from deeper within the cave, but that wasn’t possible. Perhaps it was an echo, but Burke didn’t recognize the voice.

“Adam, you hurt?” Hromadova laid a solid hand on his shoulder. “You have concussion! I carry you to hospital.”

Burke, with surprising gentleness, patted Hromadova’s hand and removed it. “Elena, thank you—you’ve been a great help—but I’m fine. The helmet took the impact.” He rapped his hardhat with a knuckle. “Give me a second, people, I heard—er, I got another hunch.”

Burke squinted through his glasses. Straight ahead, the shimmering pyrite looked like the eyes and lips of a youth. Panikos? No, I’m seeing things. And yet, Burke couldn’t look away. Now that he’d seen the face, he couldn’t unsee it.

Beneath the glowing pyrite was a bare spot on the flagstones large enough to accommodate the radar. But the support beams in front of it were spaced too narrowly for Burke to weave the machine through. There had to be a way to get a reading from the deepest part of the cavern.

Burke considered his options but could come up with no solution. It seemed to be a fool’s errand, but then, he had an idea. He let out a little laugh as he knelt, picked up the machine, and tilted it at an angle to get it through the narrow gap. He couldn’t carry it past the beams, so with a grunt, he thrust the radar forward where it landed with a clatter in front of the glittering face of Panikos.

“Burke, what are you doing?” Calvino called to him.

Burke pointed back at Foo. “Get a reading.”

Foo tapped the tablet. “Nothing . . . wait! Got some-ting!” He laughed. “One meeta down!”

Around Foo, the group gathered, even Ray and Clark.

“Is cube! What kind of stone is dat?” Hromadova asked.

Calvino jabbed at the tablet. “The material density is too low for a stone. It’s wooden. It’s a box!” He slapped his hands to his cheeks. “Mamma mia! Non ci credo!”

Burke staggered out of the cave. He snatched the tablet from Foo. “That’s a chest, people! I was right! The monks buried it behind the wall!” He raised the tablet triumphantly above his head as Foo embraced him. They started to chant, “We did it again! We did it again!”

Calvino and Giulio high-fived, while Duffy and Hromadova danced. Everyone joined in Foo and Burke’s chant.

Plans had to be made to lift out the chest, but first they had to celebrate. Duffy and Hromadova went for drinks and snacks. Giulio played music on his phone.

The party spilled into the chamber of mosaics.

Burke stood alone before the mosaic of Panikos. What a strange night it’d been. He sipped wine from a paper cup and thought back to the image he’d seen in the cave. Had it been real? He didn’t know, but somehow, he thought he ought to thank the youth. “You and your brothers led me on a merry chase,” he murmured. “But that’s in the past. Here’s to the future.” He lifted his cup in a toast to Panikos.

Somewhere behind Burke, a chant of “We got the Dish!” was starting. Burke wanted to lead it. With a final nod to Panikos, he turned away.

As Burke walked toward the chanting, a cold, night wind swept through the shrine. In the chamber of the mosaics, the blue eyes of Panikos suddenly appeared black—hollow. It was as if the bits of glass that made up his irises had fallen away, revealing the darkness behind.

8 Ball Productions

Director ~ Ray Cozart

Producer ~ Reggie Lovett

Sound ~ Natalie Ashbrook

Camera ~ Clark Cannon

Featuring

Anthimos ~ Orthodox archbishop of Chalcedon

Zainab Ayhan ~ curator, Museum of Ancient History

Babu ~ shopkeeper

Baby Girl ~ Jane’s dog

Boniface X ~ Pontiff

Roxy Boscana and Meena Kim ~ Jane’s friends

Adam Burke ~ professor and archaeologist

Calvino, Foo, and Hromadova ~ archaeologists

Frank Carlisle ~ curator, Summit Art Museum

Chrysanthus ~ Orthodox archbishop of Greece

Frederico D’Angelo ~ director, Holy See Press Office

Diogenes ~ Orthodox abbot

Eduardo Donizetti ~ Roman Catholic cardinal

Duffy ~ Burke’s graduate student

Nicole Dziedzic ~ homeless advocate

Elias ~ Orthodox archbishop of Boston

Steve Finder ~ novelist

Henri Fortier ~ Roman Catholic bishop

Gabriel ~ the Patriarch’s secretary

Marek Klimek ~ Roman Catholic cardinal

Gordon and Sylvia Krayzel ~ retired ambassador and wife

Laomendon and Jakab ~ medieval monks

Leo, Theo, and Winnipeg Joe ~ Orthodox monks

Leronymos ~ Orthodox archbishop of Italy

Giulio Makarios ~ Papadopoulos’s graduate student

Toby Milto ~ Patricia’s assistant

Michael Mistral ~ magazine reporter

Murat ~ Ayhan’s assistant

Ahmet Ozturk ~ director, Ministry of Culture and Tourism

Papadopoulos ~ professor and archaeologist

Feredun Pasa ~ Istanbul Rail Bureau Chief

Philotheos ~ Patriarch of the Greek Orthodox Church

Victor Santorini ~ Papal secretary

Jane Whitaker ~ heiress and Disher

Kathleen Whitaker ~ Jane’s aunt

Max Whitaker ~ Jane’s father

Patricia Whitaker ~ Jane’s grandmother

Acknowledgements

We thank our families for their love and support. We thank those who gave us feedback on drafts of this story. We’re grateful to all the readers who have joined the quest with our characters. If you were entertained, then we invite you to leave a review at Amazon or your preferred social media site.

Burke has solved the mystery of the shrine, but what has he found exactly? Will Ayhan succeed in her scheme to sell the Dish? Will Ray and Natalie mend their relationship and discover Ayhan’s manipulation? Will the monks pull off their heist? What role will Jane play? Find out in book two, A Bold Move. Check out the trailer scene for it on the next page. Don’t forget to snag your free copy of When the Pirate Met the Princess, the story of when Ray and Natalie first met, available at heightsandwoodhouse.com:

http://heightsandwoodhouse.com/get-pirate/

Preview for A BOLD MOVE, Book Two of Lady Jane and the Last Supper Dish:

Along the service road behind the museum, in a parked black sedan, three monks slouched down in the back seat as a van drove past.

“Is that it? Is that the one?” Leo asked Gene, the driver. His tone suggested he hoped the answer would be no. He raised his head up just in time to see taillights disappearing around the corner of the building.

“It’s white. Papi said it would be,” Gene answered.

Leo tried breathing deeply. Beside him, Winnipeg Joe was chanting a prayer. Theo’s head was bowed. “Brothers,” Leo murmured, “it is time.”

The three of them made the sign of the cross.

Just then twin beams of headlights lit up the back window, silhouetting their heads. They ducked too late as a second van sped by.

“What was that?” Winnipeg gasped.

“They saw us!” Theo moaned.

Leo felt dizzy. His stomach heaved. Papi hadn’t mentioned a second van, as Winnipeg and Theo instantly pointed out. How many people were there? Were there more security guards than they’d accounted for? Were they armed? Did they have guns? Which van had the prodokleis?

Gene had no answers.

Nor did Leo, though his brothers turned to him with their panicked questions.

“Quiet! I need to think,” he commanded. He shut his eyes, for the reality of the second van upset all their battle plans. Their scheme only accounted for Burke and maybe two or three others. But now? His own question needed an answer. “You know the way, Brother Leo,” he heard a voice whisper to him. It was the voice of Zoticus the Wise. The Four Keepers had come to him.

No, I don’t know, Leo replied to the voice.

“Will you run away?” Panikos asked.

Winnipeg, Theo, they’re too frightened.

“You scold them, but you do not lead them,” Nil admonished. “Go first, and they will follow.”

But how can I be sure?

“For over seven hundred years the Order has withstood every calamity, even the fall of Constantinople itself,” Kostas uttered. “And here you sit quivering because there are two vans instead of one. Bah! Use the element of surprise. Strike quickly. Their numbers do not matter.”

“The Order will fail without you, Brother Leo,” Zoticus said. “Move boldly, and you will gain your place among us.”

Leo opened his eyes. His dizziness had vanished.

“Brothers, it is time,” he repeated calmly.

Winnipeg and Theo shrank from him.

Leo observed this. “Come, brothers, will we be forever shamed? Will we return to His All Holiness with nothing?”

They stared wide-eyed at Leo.

“Let us at least scout the situation, see what we’re dealing with,” Leo insisted.

Winnipeg fidgeted and bit his lip.

Theo, however, lifted his chin. For a moment, the two monks regarded one another.

“The Dish of Christ reveals he who is true,” Leo said.

He opened his door and stepped out into the night.

About the authors

Heights and Woodhouse met during their doctoral studies in literature. Much to their surprise, they got married. Their decision to write stories together was another surprise. The Die Is Cast is their first novel.