“No!” barked Belardinelli at last. “It is not possible. Every single member of the Brotherhood is completely loyal to the cause!”
“You don’t have a cause anymore! Atlantis has been discovered, the Frosts and their followers are dead, the Brotherhood’s been exposed—and it’s now got the UN and several governments watching over it. Maybe someone decided it was time to get out, and thought that selling secrets would be the best way to set up a retirement fund.”
“It is … hard to believe,” said Popadopoulos slowly. “Agostino is right—loyalty to the Brotherhood is very important.”
“And besides,” said Belardinelli, “there are only three people who know the full contents of the archives: myself, Nicholas, and Paolo.” He crossed his arms as if that settled the argument.
“Well, that narrows the list of suspects, doesn’t it?” Nina said. As the three men exchanged glances, she looked up at the shelf from which the preserved parchment had been taken. “Huh.”
“What is it?” asked Popadopoulos.
She pointed to the left of the empty spot. “That’s Mr. Belardinelli’s handprint there in the dust.”
“Yes? So?” Belardinelli snapped. “I made it when I took down the book. You saw me do it.”
“So whose is that on the other side?” She indicated another mark in the gray layer.
“You never touched that part of the shelf, Agostino,” said Popadopoulos, moving for a better look. “But someone has—and recently. There is hardly any new dust.”
Nina turned to Belardinelli. “Are you right-handed?”
“Yes,” he said, puzzled and angry. “What has that to do with anything?”
“When you climbed up, you used your left hand for support while you pulled the book out with your right hand—your stronger hand. But that mark was made by someone’s right hand … meaning they moved the book with their left.”
“I am right-handed,” Popadopoulos told her.
“Yeah, I thought you would be.” Now she faced Agnelli. “The computer was set up for someone left-handed. And Mr. Belardinelli here said he never uses it, so that only leaves you.” Prickles of sweat blossomed across his broad face even in the climate-controlled cool of the catacomb. “You’re left-handed, Mr. Agnelli. And you knew where the parchment was without having to check—and the ladder was even right here.” She looked back at the other men. “How does that sound?”
Their faces betrayed shock—which, she quickly realized, was far greater than her deduction deserved. She turned to Agnelli once more.
And froze. “Oh, crap.”
The young Italian was pointing a gun at her.
TWELVE
Agnelli was shaking, the small silver automatic trembling in his hand, but his index finger was tight around the trigger. “D-don’t move,” he stammered.
A chilling fear coursed through Nina. In his frightened, agitated state, Agnelli might shoot her by accident. “Okay, let’s, ah, let’s all stay calm, huh? Nobody wants to get shot. I have been before, and I didn’t like it.”
“Paolo!” exclaimed Belardinelli. “What is this?”
“I—I am sorry,” said the sweating Agnelli. “I needed the money, and they gave me fifty thousand euros for a picture of the parchment. Only that one page! I didn’t give them anything else. I didn’t betray the Brotherhood.”
“And yet you are pointing a gun at us,” Popadopoulos said in an acid tone.
“Why were you even carrying a gun?” Nina asked. “Expecting to get caught, were you?”
Nina willingly retreated a couple of steps, as did Popadopoulos, but Belardinelli stood his ground. “What are you going to do, Paolo? Kill us? Is that how you repay the Brotherhood for everything it has given you? Is that how you repay me?”
“No, no, I—I don’t want to hurt anyone, I just want to get out of here,” said Agnelli, wide-eyed. “Please, Agostino, move back!”
Instead, Belardinelli held out his hand. “Give me the gun, Paolo.” He stepped forward. “We can—”
The gunshot was almost deafening in the confined space.
Belardinelli staggered, clutching feebly at his chest. He looked up at the younger man, face shocked and hurt … then slowly crumpled to the floor. Agnelli’s own features conveyed equal disbelief.
Silence and stillness for a moment. Then Popadopoulos fled down the tunnel.
The gun roared again. The Greek crashed against a wall, knocking items from a loculus.
Agnelli brought the gun back around to Nina—
She too was moving—but not running. Instead, she swept up the little stepladder and flung it at him. He reeled, pulling the trigger, but the bullet went well wide of its target.
Now Nina ran, leaping over the moaning Popadopoulos and sprinting down the tunnel. Behind her, Agnelli’s shout warned her that his fear had turned to