The Baklava Club: A Novel (Investigator Yashim) by Jason Goodwin

the priest declared. “The ambassador is a very good man, himself, a gentleman and a scholar. Am I right, young Rafael? He gives his friends fine hospitality, in a dry country.”
    “Well, would you care for a drink?” Giancarlo’s politeness was instinctive.
    “I won’t lie to you, a little splash might have a splendid medicinal effect. Lay the dust, so to speak. I work with dust, sir.”
    Fabrizio fetched the bottle, and poured Father Doherty a glass.
    He talked, and had another.
    “I’m afraid it’s all gone,” Rafael butted in, when Doherty waved the empty glass again in Giancarlo’s direction. “We must go back to the Belgian wine merchant tomorrow.”
    But Father Doherty’s face was a little flushed; it had been a hard day at the library, as he had observed, several times. He wagged his finger amiably at Rafael: “Would it be that you’ve gone solemn on me now?” His blue eyes flashed. “Could it be that”—he lunged forward—“you’re hiding something from me?”
    His eyes narrowed: they were watery and slightly red, and he held up his empty glass.
    Giancarlo actually groaned. “Come, Father. We’d planned to go to the ambassador’s tomorrow, but this fellow Yashim has invited us out instead. No doubt the ambassador will be there—why don’t you join us? I’ll send a note to let him know. In the meantime,” he added rather desperately, “we all need an early night.”
    “Early night.” Father Doherty grumbled. “Early night. Well, I daresay you’re right. It doesn’t do to be abroad late in this city.”
    Everyone got to their feet. It was as if, after pushing for ages against a heavy stone, it had suddenly rolled away. Fabrizio almost staggered.
    “Good night! Good night!” They thumped the priest on the back in their eagerness to see him off. “ A domani! À demain! Goodbye!”
    He was out the door, and Giancarlo had begun to close it behind him, when he stuck his bleary head around it again: “The lady! I should give my respects to the lady!”
    “Don’t worry,” Giancarlo said smoothly. “I’ll see she gets them. She’s fast asleep ,” he whispered, as if speaking to a child.
    “Heh-heh! The sleep of the just. Then I’ll be away!”
    “That’s right! Good night!”
    They listened to the priest’s heavy footsteps descending the stairs, and eyed one another.
    “My God!” Fabrizio breathed. “I could have killed him.”
    Giancarlo closed the door. “For once, Fabrizio, I couldn’t agree with you more.”
    “You didn’t have to carry his books!”
    “When he asked for the second bottle?”
    “My God, let’s have it at last!”
    Even Rafael broke into a smile.
    There was a thump on the door and Giancarlo leaped away as if it were red hot.
    “I’m afraid I left my books,” said Father Doherty, blinking. He crossed the room and gathered them up from a chair. Nobody spoke.
    Father Doherty nodded. “I’ll be off, then.”
    Giancarlo offered to see him down, but Father Doherty waved him off.
    “He was there,” Rafael said, finally, when they had held their breath for what seemed like minutes, and heard a door slam far away. “He heard us.”
    Giancarlo looked worried. “I don’t know. It doesn’t matter. We were only complaining how he drank too much.”
    “He must have heard we had another bottle.”
    “Where is Birgit?” Fabrizio glanced at the bedroom door.
    “She’s asleep.”
    “Very well.” Fabrizio pulled the cork from the bottle. Rafael fetched glasses.
    Giancarlo felt that a rite had to be observed and waited until the wine was poured.
    “The Rubicon is crossed,” he said meaningfully, pulling the note from his pocket and smoothing it on his knee.
    “Go on.”
    Giancarlo’s voice trembled slightly as he read.
    “It—it’s in Latin. The Rubicon is crossed. The time is coming. Be prepared. There will be shocks but you will know your duty, to the people and to the sacred cause of freedom! Be forewarned—and be forearmed. Vale, La