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pipes and concrete abutments. On the west abutment some kid has sprayed his tag with black paint. If it’s safe there’ll be a bright red strip sprayed under the tag. What you need will be rolled up in the middle pipe closest to the spray-painted abutment.”
    “You’re a peach, Potsy.”
    “You know where you can put your peach, Holliday. Consider my debt repaid.” He turned on his heel and went back into the McDonald’s. A minute or so later he reappeared, biting savagely into an apple turnover.
    “One more thing,” said Potsy, his mouth full.
    “Shoot.”
    “Bad choice of words,” said the pudgy intelligence officer.
    “Sorry.”
    “Our people found the kill site in Rome.”
    “Before the Italian cops?”
    “Uh-huh,” said Potsy. “It wasn’t all that hard.”
    “And?”
    “We found something,” said Potsy. He finished off the turnover and brushed the crumbs from his hands.
    “Don’t be coy.”
    “It was a solid gold coin from the time of the Crusades. A dinar, I think it’s called. It had Saladin’s name on it in Arabic.”
    “And?”
    “NSA has been hearing from all sorts of Al-Qaeda cell phone and e-mail chatter about a group calling itself Jihad al-Salibiyya. They’ve secretly been taking responsibility for whacking the man in the big hat.”
    “And you’ve been keeping it quiet?”
    “We don’t want to start up another shit storm like bin Laden and his pals. At least until we know more about them.” He looked at Holliday carefully. “The name ring a bell?”
    “No,” lied Holliday. “Not even a faint one.”
    “Well, that’s it, then,” said Potsy. “Rock Creek Park.”
    “I’ll be there.”
    Potsy got back into his car and drove off.
    Half an hour later, Holliday was back at the house on Prospect Street, the faint chemical scent of the hamburgers clinging to him like a fog. Brennan and Peggy were in the kitchen, drinking more coffee and reading the Washington Post .
    The picture above the fold on the front page was probably the last photograph of the living Pope taken by Dario Bondi, the official Vatican photographer and Peggy’s friend. Brennan and Peggy both put down their sections of the newspaper as Holliday appeared in the kitchen doorway.
    “So, how did that go?” Peggy asked. “Pick up any juicy rumors?”
    “It was a setup,” answered Holliday. “We’re being played like a violin.”
    “Why do you say that?” Brennan asked.
    “A group calling itself Jihad al-Salibiyya is taking responsibility for the Pope’s assassination.”
    “Fundamentalists?”
    “Yeah, but not the Muslim kind. Al-Salibiyya was the name for the Templar Knights who defected to the infidel side. The sworn enemies of the true Templars. It literally means ‘Enemies of the Cross.’”
    “Crusaders,” said Peggy.
    “Kate Sinclair,” said Brennan.

5
    “Philpot’s a lot of things but he’s no actor,” said Holliday tensely, passing on yet another cup of coffee and sitting down at the kitchen table. “He just tried too damned hard. He was looking around like one of the villains in a Pink Panther movie. What he didn’t try very hard to do was to keep back information. I barely put any pressure on him. He confirmed William Tritt as the most likely suspect and had his most recent travel itinerary memorized. Five will get you ten he was wearing a wire or we were being watched from the parking lot.” Holliday sighed and shook his head. “The whole thing was far too easy. I asked him for some background files and he even had a dead drop organized and ready to go.”
    “Sounds like the lads are trying to distance themselves from this Tritt fellow,” commented Brennan.
    “And awfully eager to put it on the Muslims,” said Holliday.
    “We Americans always think of our enemies storming the gates,” said Peggy thoughtfully. “It’s easy to worry about someone named Ali Sayyid Muhamed Mustafa al-Bakri, but worrying about someone named Bill Tritt, who sounds like a guy who works