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Inside the pouch there is a scroll, which they told me is vellum. A very fine skin, probably of a young goat. A letter is written, in ancient Greek, on this scroll, and it is a letter from the Apostle Paul to the church in Jerusalem. It is… highly controversial. It has not been authenticated by any scholars, but my ancestor into whose hands it fell believed it to be real for a number of reasons. Not the least was that the man who gave it to him was murdered for it, and my ancestor was chased halfway around the world himself.” He went over to a built-in bar and poured himself a tumbler of mineral water. He looked out at St. Stephens, his anchor in the storm, then turned back to Gideon.
    “There is a translation of the letter in the pouch, but the pages on which that was written are crumbling. I do not handle those pages now, and only with special gloves. The translation is in Portuguese. Also there is a journal, an old leather bound volume written by my ancestor. That has been kept out of sentimental value, and I am worried that the thieves might destroy it. But the letter… Deus nos ajude. God help us.”

CHAPTER FIVE
     
    Lisbon
     
    Present Day
     
    G ideon left the police station, discouraged. Detective Azenha was right—the thief wasn’t talking. He hadn’t talked in two days, and showed no signs of weakening resolve. He sat in his cell, still, and to all observers appeared to be in a trance. When moved to an interrogation room, he folded his hands on the table and muttered prayers in Latin. When given a tray of food, in any location, he ignored it completely. He sipped water from time to time, and performed basic bodily ablutions. That was the extent of his cooperation.
    Azenha had emailed a photograph of the tattoo the man bore on his forearm, and it was, indeed, unusual. Gideon hadn’t found anything online that was similar to it, and seeing it in person hadn’t shed any light.
    It could mean anything. His mother’s initials. A gang or other society name. It wasn’t in any known criminal database, and with no further information—even a nationality—they were unlikely to solve the case with it.
    Additionally, de Castro had found nothing in the investigation of his employees. No one had quit coming to work. No one was acting suspiciously. They had so far covertly visited the homes of over half the staff that had access to even a small part of the security system information for the Xavier International office building, and had found nothing unusual. In short, they were no further today than they were yesterday, and Luis Xavier was, by turns, sinking in despair and rattling the windows in rage.
    Gideon’s cell phone rang. “Hello?”
    “Hi, it’s me,” Rei said. “Listen, Mr. Xavier just called me to his office. I don’t know what’s up, but since he pulled me out of the preservation room, it’s got to be about whatever was stolen, right? The letters and stuff are old—maybe he’s worried about the thieves exposing it, or handling it? I don’t know—what should I do? What do I say? I hardly know the guy, Gid… He runs the company, but he doesn’t actually handle the art.”
    “See what he has to say. Try to get him to tell you what was so important about the letter, for one thing. All he said was it was supposedly written by Saint Paul. Maybe you can reassure him that the parchment and book are probably ok.”
    “Yeah, ok. He kinda scares me, especially now… I’ll call ya back.”
    Gideon strolled down the street, looking at the GPS on his phone to figure out the route to get him to the Cathedral. He was lost in frustrated thought, pondering once again the implications of such a targeted attack on a particular vault. Was it the vault or the letter? That knowledge was key to recovering the stolen property—if he could ever find out what significance the stolen property actually had. Right now, there was just no way to know.

    He had taken an informal tour of the Cathedral, admiring the