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invisible
 … 
and in one Lord, Jesus Christ
 … 
only begotten of the Father
.…
    He pulled the trigger.
    The explosion filled the cabin. Blood and flesh and things most terrible flew through the air and matted onto glass and metal.
     … 
substance of the Father
 … 
God of God
 … 
light of light
 … 
very God of very God
.…
    The priest of Xenope closed his eyes and shouted in exaltation as he held the weapon against his own temple.
    “… 
begotten, not made! I will look into the eyes of the Lord and I shall not waver!”
    He fired.

PART
ONE

1
DECEMBER 29, 1939
MILAN, ITALY
    Savarone walked past his son’s secretary into his son’s office and across the heavily carpeted floor to the window overlooking the vast factory complex that was the Fontini-Cristi Industries. His son, of course, was nowhere to be seen. His son, his
eldest
son, was rarely in his office; he was rarely in Milan, for that matter. The first son, the heir-apparent to all of Fontini-Cristi, was incorrigible. And arrogant, and far too concerned with his own creature comforts.
    Vittorio was also brilliant. A far more brilliant man than the father who had trained him. And that fact only served to further infuriate Savarone; a man possessing such gifts had greater responsibilities than other men.
He
did not settle for the daily accomplishments that came naturally. He did not carouse and whore and gamble at roulette and baccarat. Or waste sleepless nights with the naked children of the Mediterranean. Neither did he turn his back on the events that were crippling his country, veering it into chaos.
    Savarone heard a slight cough behind him and turned. Vittorio’s secretary had come into the office.
    “I’ve left word for your son at the Borsa Valori. I believe he was to see his broker this afternoon.”
    “You may believe it, but I doubt you’ll find it on his calendar.” Savarone saw the girl flush. “I apologize. You’re not accountable for my son. Although you’ve probably done so, I suggest you try whatever private numbers he’s given you. This is a familiar office to me. I’ll wait.” He removed his overcoat of light camel’s hair and his hat, aTyrolean of green felt. He threw them on the armchair at the side of the desk.
    “Yes, sir.” The girl left quickly, closing the door behind her.
    It
was
a familiar office, thought Fontini-Cristi, although it had been necessary to call it to the girl’s attention. Until two years ago, it had been his. Very little remained of his presence, now; only the dark wood paneling. All the furniture had been changed. Vittorio had accepted the four walls. Nothing else.
    Savarone sat in the large swivel chair behind the desk. He did not like such chairs; he was too old to let his body be suddenly turned and sprung back by unseen springs and hidden ball bearings. He reached into his pocket and took out the telegram that had brought him to Milan from Campo di Fiori, the telegram from Rome that said the Fontini-Cristis were marked.
    But marked for what? By whom? On whose orders?
    Questions that could not be asked on the telephone, for the telephone was an instrument of the state. The state. Always the state. Seen and unseen. Observing, following, listening, prying. No telephone could be used and no answer given by the informer in Rome who employed the simple codes.
    We have received no reply from Milan, therefore we take the liberty of wiring you personally. Five shipments of aircraft piston hammers defective. Rome insists on immediate replacement. Repeat: immediate. Please confirm by telephone before the end of the day
.
    The number “five” referred to the Fontini-Cristis, because there were five men in the family—a father and four sons. Anything to do with the word “hammer” meant sudden, extreme danger. The repetition of the word “immediate” was self-explanatory: not a moment could be lost, confirmation of receipt was to be made by telephone to Rome within minutes of the