He moved behind his table and, with effort, sat down; the light from his table lamp revealed a complexion so pallid that it was almost transparent, the veins seen clearly beneath his temples and balding skull. His face was taut, and it was bitter, as though he had no taste for what had to be done.

"What is this place?" asked Thorn.

"City of Jezreel, town of Meggido," he replied without expression. "My fortress, my prison. The place where Christanity began."

"Your prison. . . ?" asked Thorn.

"Geographically, this is the heart of Christianity. So long as I remain within, nothing can harm me."

He paused, regarding their reaction. They were apprehensive, even dubious, and it showed on their faces.

"Can you pay my runner, please?" he asked.

Thorn dipped into his pocket and sorted out some bills; the Arab took them and immediately disappeared from where he came, leaving the three confronting

each other in silence. The room was chilled and damp, Thorn and Jennings shivering as they gazed at their surroundings.

"In this village square," Bugenhagen said, "Roman armies once marched, and old men sat on stone benches whispering rumors of the birth of Christ. The stories they told were recorded here," he said, pointing, "in this building, painstakingly written down and compiled into books we know as the Bible."

Jennings' eyes settled upon a darkened cavern behind them, and Bugenhagen followed his gaze.

"The whole city's here," he said. "Thirty-five kilometers north to south. Most of it passable except for recent cave-ins. They keep digging up there, creating cave-ins down here. By the time they get here, it will all be rubble." He paused, pondering it sadly. "But that's the way of man, isn't it?" he asked. "Assume that everything to be seen is visible on top?"

Thorn and Jennings stood silent, attempting to digest all they were seeing and hearing.

"The little priest," said Bugenhagen. "Is he dead yet?"

Thorn turned to him, jarred by the memory of Tassone.

"Yes," he replied.

"Then sit down, Mr. Thorn. We'd better get to work."

Thorn was reluctant and held his place; the old man's eyes moved to Jennings.

"You'll excuse us. This is for Mr. Thorn alone."

"I'm in this with him," replied Jennings.

"I fear not."

"I brought him here."

"I'm sure he's grateful."

"Thorn . . . ?"

"Do as he says," replied Thorn.

Jennings stiffened with insult.

"Where the hell am I supposed to go?"

"Take one of the lamps," said Bugenhagen.

Jennings reluctantly did as told. Glancing angrily at Thorn, he lifted a lamp from its ledge on the wall and moved off into the darkness.

An uncomfortable silence passed, the old man rising from behind his desk and waiting until the shuffling sounds of Jennings' footsteps had faded.

"Do you trust him?" Bugenhagen asked.

"Yes."

"Trust no one."

He turned and rummaged through a cupboard cut into the rock, withdrawing a package wrapped in cloth.

"Should I trust you?" Thorn asked.