“Oh, and one final thing, Alex.” Simon had the phone back. “Cast your mind back to Will’s unsent e-mail to you. Our alchemist verger tells me that initiates of alchemy and masonry, and the Rosicrucians—following Bruno and Dee—focus on light as the Divine Source. They attend so-called light meetings, when adepts of the past and present link together, across time, to share ‘the light and wisdom of the rose.’ Can you see the significance of light pouring through a rose window in a great church like Chartres? That’s where Will’s head was at. I wonder whether he ever managed to make that link with others—across time and space? Anyway, what’s happening on your end?”

Alex was mesmerized by this flow of extraordinary information, and paused before answering Simon’s penultimate question. “Simon, I rather think he did. But I can’t quite explain why I feel this.” He recalled Lucy’s words about the light, the rose scent in Chartres, and knew she had experienced something very unusual—that she possibly shared with his brother. It made him feel very privileged to be close to her, and also much less afraid for her. “They took the bait.” He now resumed his report of the day’s events. “Lucy’s with them. I almost couldn’t let her go, when it came to it. She’s been in their company for hours now.”

“Don’t worry about her, Alex. Lucy’s unique. She’s one of Shakespeare’s creatures—a true cross-dressed heroine, like Viola or Rosalind. She’ll outwit them.”

Alex reflected that Simon was more right than he knew; but he was comforted by the objective appraisal. “I know. I’ve got to go. I’ll see you here later. Check if you’re still being followed. Those dark eyes belong to an intolerant Israeli whom I ran across in France—Ben Dovid is his name. He’s with Temple and Walters because he wants his own Temple in Jerusalem. Calvin got up close and personal with him over Easter. He’s very keen on the idea of blowing up the mosques at the Temple Mount. Don’t provoke him.”

Alex knew Simon would be wondering why Calvin might have relayed that information, but he made no reply about it, and Alex hung up, dialing a second number instantly.

FLANKED BY THE YELLOW-EYED ANGELO AND THE TALLER, GRAY Frenchman who had driven Lucy in France—both standing at a short distance—the immaculately attired figure of Professor Fitzalan Walters presided over the private dining table in his hotel suite. He poured the wine for his guest with exaggerated politeness, and stopped at half a glass. “I know you’re not allowed to drink; alcohol inhibits your medication. But a little won’t do any harm. This white burgundy is the perfect partner to the monkfish.”