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Vienna.’
    This information brought a sober silence to the room. They had been speculating and theorising and now, abruptly, they were faced with the reality of having at hand the possible tool.
    Mennini broke the silence.
    ‘What about the other questions? How to get him into the Kremlin? How does he perform his task? How does he get out?’
    The Dutchman spoke firmly.
    ‘Your Eminence, you must, for the time being, leave those questions to me. It is possible that we shall need the help of your Society but that will come later. First, if this man Mirek Scibor proves suitable, he must be trained. My organisation obviously does not have the facilities to train an assassin . . .’ He drank the last of his wine and, with a glance at both of them, said quietly, ‘But we are in touch with organisations that do have such facilities. During his journey to Moscow we cannot use any of our existing pipelines. For such a mission it is too dangerous. If caught he will talk. Either physical torture or drugs, or a combination. We shall have to create a new and very temporary pipeline.’ He gazed down at the empty wine glass in his hand and mused. ‘Of course, he cannot travel alone. He must have a companion - a “wife”.’
    ‘A wife!’ Versano’s face expressed his astonishment. ‘On such a mission he takes a wife?’
    Van Burgh smiled and nodded. ‘Certainly, Mario. Usually when I travel in the East I am accompanied by my “wife”. Sometimes she is a middle-aged nun from Delft. A woman of great courage and fortitude. At other times a member of the lay religious from Nuremberg. In all I have four such “wives”. All virtually saints. They risk much for their faith. You see, a man and wife travelling together excite little suspicion. An assassin would hardly take his wife along.’
    Mennini was intrigued.
    ‘And where would you find such a woman?’
    Van Burgh smiled. ‘Well, I cannot lend him one of mine. They are old enough to be his mother and no one travels with his mother if it can be avoided.’ He gestured confidently. ‘It is not a problem. I know where to look for such a woman and exactly what qualities she will need. Perhaps you can help, Your Eminence.’
    Mennini asked, ‘And her motive? Will that too be hatred?’
    The Dutchman shook his head.
    ‘On the contrary. Her motive will be love. Her love for the Holy Father . . . and also obedience to his will.’ He looked into their eyes and saw the disquiet. ‘Don’t worry. Her mission will be to travel with him as far as Moscow. The real danger comes when the “envoy” enters the Kremlin. Long before that she will be whisked away to safety.’
    There was a moment of cogitation, then Mennini expressed the thoughts that were in all their minds. In a voice as though talking to his conscience he mused, ‘We involve others. Inevitably there will be many.’ He raised his head and looked at the priest and the Archbishop. ‘We are three clerics . . . men of God . . . How quickly and easily we decide on murder.’
    The Archbishop straightened in his seat. His face showed the earnest expression of a mind bent on persuasion, but before he could speak the Bacon Priest said laconically, ‘Your Eminence, if you want semantics, change the word “murder” to “defence”. Change the word “decided” to “impelled”; change the word “clerics” to “instruments” . . . We are three instruments impelled to the defence of our Holy Father and through him our faith.’
    The Cardinal nodded thoughtfully. Then he smiled and said, ‘Unlike the Holy Father, we do not have the balm of infallibility. We are left with the palliative of action; with the knowledge that if what we do is a sin, it is a sin shared . . . and a sin condoned by the excuse of unselfishness.’
    The door opened and coffee was brought in, carried by Sister Maria herself. She fussed about, enquiring if everything had been satisfactory. Assured so in triplicate, she then said to Mennini, ‘Your