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its right foot worn smooth after generations of caresses by the faithful, had glistened with the faintest of auras though it wasn’t known to be anything more than an ordinary sculpture.
    The greatest concentration of power had clearly been beneath the Dome. Three of the four statues that he’d examined had blazed with it, a result of the True Relics each of them contained, relics that were easily discernible to a man of his particular talents.
    But the statue of Saint Longinus, the one supposedly containing the remnant of the Holy Lance, had not. It was barren, bereft of the same spark of Divinity that so encased the other statutes and their contents.
    “That’s a fake, too,” he said.
    “You’re certain?”
    “Yes. I’d stake my reputation on it.”
    “Very well. Return to us, and we will begin the next phase of the operation.”
    “As you wish.”
    O’Connor closed his satellite phone, put it back in his pocket, and stepped out of the phone booth. Night had come, the Vienna air grown cold and still. He pulled the collar of his greatcoat closer about his neck, glancing around again as he did so. When he was satisfied that he was still alone, he walked to the end of the street, gazing in contempt at the closed iron gates of the Hofberg palace as he passed. Reaching the intersection, he paused for a moment to light a cigarette, waiting for the traffic signal to change. When it had, he stepped out into the street, confident in the performance of his mission and already dreaming of the ways in which he would spend his exorbitant fee.
    The smile of expectation still on his face, he didn’t see the city bus surge through the intersection against the light, didn’t see the wide front grill bearing down on him until it was far too late.
    O’Connor’s body bounced off the unyielding surface of the speeding vehicle, flipped high into the air and came crashing back down several yards away. From where he lay broken and twisted in the gutter, his dead eyes stared through the windshield of the vehicle at the empty driver’s seat.
    Across the Atlantic, in a darkened room, a grey hand reached out in the half-light and finally replaced the phone, severing the connection.

CHAPTER ONE
    As the SUV turned in through the torn and twisted wrought-iron gates that had once guarded the entrance to the estate, Knight Sergeant Sean Duncan looked out the window at the destruction around him and knew the rumors were true.
    The devil had indeed come to Connecticut.
    The damaged gates were only the first indication.
    The marble statue of the angel that had stood watch over the entrance to the commandery now rested on its back in the middle of the drive, one wing still stretched wide, the other crumbled into fragments a short distance away. Its stone eyes gazed unflinchingly at the sky above as if searching for repentance. In the grass just beyond, a group of knights were laying out the bodies of those who had fallen in defense of the gate, the long rows designed to make it easier for the mortuary team as they sought to identify each corpse. Duncan crossed himself and said a quick prayer for the dead men’s souls. Farther on, past the lawn, the still-smoking remains of a Mercedes sat in the cul-de-sac before the manor house, the once-fine leather seats cooked to a crisp and melted across the steel springs beneath.
    He’d seen his share of combat; it came with the job, but he’d never heard of a Templar commandery being attacked directly. The Holy Order of the Poor Knights of Christ of the Temple of Solomon, or the Knights Templar as they were once commonly known, existed in secret, away from men’s prying eyes. The days when the Order guarded the route to the Holy City had long since passed, the general public was no longer even aware of their existence. Finding the base should have been difficult, assaulting and overwhelming its defenses nearly impossible.
    But someone had done both.
    According to popular belief, the Templars had been