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from the Catholic Church to translate books and manuscripts. As a researcher, I had free reign to explore the nooks and crannies of the monastery, and, believe me, there were places I wish I had not gone.”
    “Are you saying that these documents were in the catacombs?”
    “Precisely, signore . I found them by accident. But along with the documents was a little chest. And I fear we should have left it undisturbed.”
    “Brother Martucci, please speak more plainly.”
    “The strangest part is that the inscription I found in the catacombs was engraved in ancient Armenian, which at first made me think that it all had to do with the remains of a cleric,” he continued, heedless of my request.
    “And then there’s the coincidence that you just happen to be an expert in that language,” I threw in, a bit worn out by his display of knowledge.
    “Exactly, Don Dante. Precisely. It was a very strange inscription that did not belong there, given that it did not mention the name of any dead person. It was just a few words: ‘Here it is. Whoever does not understand its meaning will die.’ There was a Latin cross, and underneath, it said, ‘May divine wrath fall upon the desecrator.’ There were little symbols that looked like lightning bolts carved into the four corners. At first I couldn’t figure out what they were, since in Armenia you can find early swastikas and crosses dating from over nine thousand years before Christ. Later, after I had seen the contents, I understood they were Nazi swastikas. On that occasion I left the place without touching anything, and the first thing that occurred to me was to call my good friend, your Uncle Claudio. He was extremely interested in what I had to report, and he came to see me in Armenia.”
     
    I could not stop smiling. My uncle was playing an extremely elaborate joke on me. Well played. It also occurred to me that the monk was perhaps seeking to relieve me of some money in exchange for a marvelous hidden secret somewhere deep in Armenia.
    “Look, Brother Martucci, I don’t think I’m the one you’re looking for. You and my uncle were barking up the wrong tree. I don’t see what any of this has to do with me, and I’m not even sure he wrote this letter. How do I know it’s not just some cheap scheme to rob me blind? I should tell you from the get-go that I’m completely broke.”
    He responded, “I know that, and your uncle did, too, before he died. But don’t worry, the two million he gave you for America have been recovered.”
    That hammerblow knocked me out completely. Who was this man?
    He must have seen my shock, because he hastened to add, “Your stockbroker was a swindler. If you read the news you’d know he’s behind bars now. We’ve followed you, Don Dante. It was your uncle’s idea. He was a good man but hated losing money. Remember your little friend, the flower shop owner? She introduced you to this Jorge Rodríguez, whom you trusted blindly. Ms. Irene is a dangerous woman. Her Colombian flower business is a cover for something much less benign.”
    With that, he knocked the wind out of me again. I staggered to the closest tomb and sat on the gravestone. A cat jumped from somewhere nearby, hissed at me, and then scampered off. Brother Martucci stayed where he was for a moment and then moved toward me.
    I was digging my hands into my forehead, trying to make sure I really did exist. I heard the monk’s approach and stared at the worn tips of his shoes.
    “Believe me, signore Dante, I don’t need your money. I have plenty, but, even so, I live practically as an ascetic. Books are my life. What I’m doing now is at the request of my friend Claudio. He was the only one of the Contini-Masseras to treat me like family. Did you know he wanted to leave part of his fortune to me? But what would I do with all that money? So instead he made a generous donation to the church I belong to, the Order of the Holy Sepulchre. Thanks to that, I am now an abbot; and