Colonel Ramon Acoca had the instincts of a hunter. He loved the chase, but it was the kill that gave him a deep, visceral satisfaction. He had once confided to a friend, "I have an orgasm when I kill. It doesn't matter whether it's a deer or a rabbit or a man - there's something about taking a life that makes you feel like God."

Acoca had been in military intelligence, and he had quickly achieved a reputation for being brilliant. He was fearless, ruthless, and intelligent, and the combination brought him to the attention of one of General Franco's aides.

Acoca had joined Franco's staff as a lieutenant, and in less than three years had risen to the rank of colonel, an almost unheard-of feat. He was put in charge of the Falangists, the special group used to terrorize those who opposed Franco.

It was during the war that Acoca had been sent for by a member of the OPUS MUNDO.

"I want you to understand that we're speaking to you with the permission of General Franco."

"Yes, sir."

"We've been watching you, Colonel. We are pleased with what we see."

"Thank you, sir."

"From time to time we have certain assignments that are - shall we say - very confidential. And very dangerous."

"I understand, sir."

"We have many enemies. People who don't understand the importance of the work we're doing."

"Yes, sir."

"Sometimes they interfere with us. We can't permit that to happen."

"No, sir."

"I believe we could use a man like you, Colonel. I think we understand each other."

"Yes, sir. I'd be honored to be of service."

"We would like you to remain in the army. That will be valuable to us. But from time to time, we will have you assigned to these special projects."

"Thank you, sir."

"You are never to speak of this."

"No, sir."

The man behind the desk had made Acoca nervous. There was something overpoweringly frightening about him.

In time, Colonel Acoca was called upon to handle half a dozen assignments for the OPUS MUNDO. As he had been told, they were all dangerous. And very confidential.

On one of the missions Acoca had met a lovely young girl from a fine family. Until then, all of his women had been whores or camp followers, and Acoca had treated them with savage contempt. Some of them had genuinely fallen in love with him, attracted by his strength, and he had reserved the worst treatment for them.

But Susana Cerredilla had belonged to a different world. Her father was a professor at Madrid University, and her mother was a lawyer. When Susana was seventeen years old, she had the body of a woman and the angelic face of a Madonna. Ramon Acoca had never met anyone like this woman-child. Her gentle vulnerability inspired in him a tenderness of which he had not known he was capable. He fell madly in love with her, and, for reasons which neither her parents nor Acoca understood, she fell in love with him.

On their honeymoon, it was as though Acoca had never known another woman. He had known lust, but the combination of love and passion was something he had never previously experienced.

Three months after they were married, Susana informed him that she was pregnant. Acoca was wildly excited. To add to their joy, he was assigned to the beautiful little village of Castilblanco, in Basque country. It was in the fall of 1936, when the fighting between the Republicans and Nationalists was at its fiercest.

On a peaceful Sunday morning, Ramon Acoca and his bride were having coffee in the village plaza when the square suddenly filled with Basque demonstrators.

"I want you to go home," Acoca said. "There's going to be trouble."

"But you - ?"

"Please. I'll be all right."

The demonstrators were beginning to get out of hand.

With relief, Ramon Acoca watched his bride walk away from the crowd toward a convent at the far end of the square. But as she reached it, the door suddenly swung open and armed Basques who had been hiding inside swarmed out with blazing guns. Acoca watched helplessly as his wife went down in a hail of bullets. It was on that day that he had sworn vengeance on the Basques and the Church.

And now he was in avila, outside another convent. This time they'll die.

Inside the convent, in the dark before dawn, Sister Teresa held the Discipline tightly in her right hand and whipped it hard across her body, feeling the knotted tails slashing into her as she silently recited the miserere. She almost screamed aloud, but noise was not permitted, so she kept the screams inside her. Forgive me, Jesus, for my sins. Bear witness that I punish myself, as You were punished, and I inflict wounds upon myself, as wounds were inflicted upon You. Let me suffer, as You suffered.

She was nearly fainting from the pain. Three more times she flagellated herself, and then sank, agonized, upon her cot. She had not drawn blood. That was forbidden. Wincing against the agony that each movement brought, Sister Teresa returned the whip to its black case and rested it in a corner. It was always there, a constant reminder that the slightest sin had to be paid for with pain.

Sister Teresa's transgression had happened that morning as she rounded the corner of a corridor, eyes down, and bumped into Sister Graciela. Startled, Sister Teresa had looked into Sister Graciela's face. She then immediately reported her own infraction, to which the Reverend Mother Betina frowned disapprovingly and made the sign of discipline, moving her right hand three times from shoulder to shoulder, her hand closed as though holding a whip, the tip of her thumb held against the inside of her forefinger.

Lying on her cot, Sister Teresa was unable to get out of her mind the extraordinarily beautiful face of the young girl she had gazed at. She knew that as long as she lived she would never speak to her and would never even look at her again, for the slightest sign of intimacy between nuns was severely punished. In an atmosphere of rigid moral and physical austerity, no relationships of any kind were allowed to develop. If two sisters worked side by side and seemed to enjoy each other's silent company, the Reverend Mother would immediately have them separated. Nor were the sisters permitted to sit next to the same person at the table twice in a row. The Church delicately called the attraction of one nun to another "a particular friendship," and the penalty was swift and severe. Sister Teresa had served her punishment for breaking the rule.

Now the tolling bell came to Sister Teresa as though from a great distance. It was the voice of God, reproving her.

In the next cell, the sound of the bell rang through the corridors of Sister Graciela's dreams, and the pealing was mingled with the lubricious creak of bedsprings. The Moor was moving toward her, naked, his manhood tumescent, his hands reaching out to grab her. Sister Graciela opened her eyes, instantly awake, her heart pounding frantically. She looked around, terrified, but she was alone in her tiny cell and the only sound was the reassuring tolling of the bell.

Sister Graciela knelt at the side of her cot. Jesus, thank You for delivering me from the past. Thank You for the joy I have in being here in Your light. Let me glory only in the happiness of Your being. Help me, my Beloved, to be true to the call You have given me. Help me to ease the sorrow of Your sacred heart.

She rose and carefully made her bed, then joined the procession of her sisters as they moved silently toward the chapel for Matins. She could smell the familiar scent of burning candles and feel the worn stones beneath her sandled feet.

In the beginning, when Sister Graciela had first entered the convent, she had not understood it when the Mother Prioress had told her that a nun was a woman who gave up everything in order to possess everything. Sister Graciela had been fourteen years old then. Now, seventeen years later, it was clear to her. In contemplation she possessed everything, for contemplation was the mind replying to the soul. Her days were filled with a wonderful peace.

Thank You for letting me forget, Father. Thank You for standing beside me. I couldn't face my terrible past without You...Thank You...Thank You...

When the Matins were over, the nuns returned to their cells to sleep until Lauds, the rising of the sun.

Outside, Colonel Ramon Acoca and his men moved swiftly in the darkness. When they reached the convent, Acoca said, "Jaime Miro and his men will be armed. Take no chances."

He looked at the front of the convent, and for an instant he saw that other convent with Basque partisans rushing out of it, and Susana going down in a hail of bullets.

"Don't bother taking Miro alive," he said.

Sister Megan was awakened by the silence. It was a different silence, a moving silence, a hurried rush of air, a whisper of bodies. There were sounds she had never heard in her fifteen years in the convent. She was suddenly filled with a premonition that something was terribly wrong.

She rose quietly in the darkness and opened the door to her cell. Unbelievably, the long stone corridor was filled with men. A giant with a scarred face was coming out of the Reverend Mother's cell, pulling her by the arm. Megan stared in shock. I'm having a nightmare, she thought. These men can't be here.

"Where are you hiding him?" Colonel Acoca demanded.

The Reverend Mother Betina had a look of stunned horror on her face. "Shh! This is God's temple. You are desecrating it.' Her voice was trembling. "You must leave at once."

The colonel's grip tightened on her arm and he shook her. "I want Miro, Sister."

The nightmare was real.

Other cell doors were beginning to open, and nuns were appearing, with looks of total confusion on their faces. There had never been anything in their experience to prepare them for this extraordinary happening.

Colonel Acoca pushed the Reverend Mother away and turned to Patricio Arrieta, one of his key aides. "Search the place. Top to bottom."

Acoca's men began to spread out, invading the chapel, the refectory, and the cells, waking those nuns who were still asleep and forcing them roughly to their feet through the corridors and into the chapel. The nuns obeyed wordlessly, keeping even now their vows of silence. The scene was like a motion picture with the sound turned off.

Acoca's men were filled with a sense of vengeance. They were all Falangists, and they remembered only too well how the Church had turned against them during the Civil War and supported the Loyalists against their beloved leader, Generalissimo Franco. This was their chance to get back some of their own. The nuns' strength and silence made the men more furious than ever.

As Acoca passed one of the cells, a scream echoed from it. He looked in and saw one of his men ripping the habit from a nun. He moved on.

Sister Lucia was awakened by the sounds of men's voices yelling. She sat up in a panic. The police have found me, was her first thought. I've got to get the hell out of here. There was no way out of the convent except through the front door.

She hurriedly rose and peered out into the corridor. The sight that met her eyes was astonishing. The corridor was filled not with policemen but with men in civilian clothes carrying weapons, smashing lamps and tables. There was confusion everywhere as they raced around.

The Reverend Mother Betina was standing in the center of the chaos, praying silently, watching them desecrate her beloved convent. Sister Megan moved to her side, and Lucia joined them.

"What the h - what's happening? Who are they?" Lucia asked. They were the first words she had spoken aloud since entering the convent.

The Reverend Mother put her right hand under her left armpit three times, the sign for hide.

Lucia stared at her unbelievingly. "You can talk now. Let's get out of here, for Christ's sake. And I mean for Christ's sake."

Patricio Arrieta hurried up to Acoca. "We've searched everywhere, Colonel. There's no sign of Jaime Miro or his men."

"Search again," Acoca said stubbornly.

It was then that the Reverend Mother remembered the one treasure the convent had. She hurried over to Sister Teresa and whispered, "I have a task for you. Get the gold cross from the refectory and take it to the convent at Mendavia. You must get it away from here. Hurry!"

Sister Teresa was shaking so hard that her wimple fluttered in waves. She stared at the Reverend Mother, paralyzed. Sister Teresa had spent the last thirty years of her life in the convent. The thought of leaving it was beyond her imagination. She raised her hand and signed, I can't.

The Reverend Mother was frantic. "The cross must not fall into the hands of these men of Satan. Now, do this for Jesus."

A light came into Sister Teresa's eyes. She stood very tall. She signed, For Jesus, then turned and hurried toward the refectory.

Sister Graciela approached the group, staring in wonder at the wild confusion around her.

The men were getting more and more violent, smashing everything in sight. Colonel Acoca watched them approvingly.

Lucia turned to Megan and Graciela. "I don't know about you two, but I'm getting the hell out of here. Are you coming?"

They stared at her, too dazed to respond.

Sister Teresa was hurrying toward them, carrying something wrapped in a piece of canvas. Some of the men were herding more nuns into the refectory.

"Come on," Lucia said.

Sisters Teresa, Megan, and Graciela hesitated for a moment, then followed Lucia toward the huge front door. As they turned at the end of the long corridor, they could see that it had been smashed in.

A man suddenly appeared in front of them. "Going somewhere, ladies? Get back. My friends have plans for you."

Lucia said, "We have a gift for you." She picked up one of the heavy metal candlesticks that lined the hallway tables and smiled.

The man was looking at it, puzzled. "What can you do with that?"

"This." Lucia swung the candelabrum against his head, and he fell to the ground, unconscious.

The three nuns stared in horror.

"Move!" Lucia said.

A moment later Lucia, Megan, Graciela, and Teresa were outside in the front courtyard, hurrying through the gate into the starry night.

Lucia stopped. "I'm leaving you now. They're going to be searching for you, so you'd better get away from here."

She turned and started toward the mountains that rose in the distance, high above the convent. I'll hide out up there until the search cools off and then I'll head for Switzerland. Of all the rotten luck. Those bastards blew a perfect cover.

As Lucia made her way toward higher ground, she glanced down. From her vantage point she could see the three sisters. Incredibly, they were still standing in front of the convent gate, like three black-clad statues. For God's sake, she thought. Get the hell out of there before they catch you. Move!

They could not move. It was as though all their senses had been paralyzed for so long that they were unable to take in what was happening to them. The nuns stared down at their feet. They were so dazed they could not think. They had been cloistered for so long behind the gates of God, secluded from the world, that now that they were outside the protective walls, they were filled with feelings of confusion and panic. They had no idea where to go or what to do. Inside, their lives had been organized for them. They had been fed, clothed, told what to do and when to do it. They had lived by the Rule. Suddenly there was no Rule. What did God want from them? What was His plan? They stood huddled together, afraid to speak, afraid to look at one another.

Hesitantly, Sister Teresa pointed to the lights of avila in the distance and signed, That way. Uncertainly, they began to move toward the town.

Watching them from the hills above, Lucia thought: No, you idiots! That's the first place they'll look for you. Well, that's your problem. I have my own problems. She stood there a moment, watching them walk toward their doom, going to their slaughter. Shit

Lucia scrambled down the hill, stumbling over the loose scree, and ran after them, her cumbersome habit slowing her down.

"Wait a minute," she called. "Stop!"

The sisters stopped and turned.

Lucia hurried up to them, out of breath. "You're going the wrong way. The first place they'll search for you is in town. You've got to hide out somewhere."

The three sisters stared at her in silence.

Lucia said impatiently, "The mountains. Get up to the mountains. Follow me."

She turned and started back toward the mountains. The others watched, and after a moment they began to trail after her, one by one.

From time to time Lucia looked back to make sure they were following. Why can't I mind my own business? she thought. They're not my responsibility. It's more dangerous if we're all together. She kept climbing, making sure they stayed in sight.

The others were having a hard time of it, and every time they slowed down, Lucia stopped to let them catch up with her. I'll get rid of them in the morning.

"Let's move faster," Lucia called.

At the convent, the raid had come to an end. The dazed nuns, their habits torn and blood-stained, were being rounded up and put into unmarked, closed trucks.

"Take them back to my headquarters in Madrid," Colonel Acoca ordered. "Keep them in isolation."

"What charge - ?"

"Harboring terrorists."

"Yes, Colonel," Patricio Arrieta said. He hesitated. "Four of the nuns are missing."

Colonel Acoca's eyes turned cold. "Find them."

Colonel Acoca flew back to Madrid to report to the prime minister.

"Jaime Miro escaped before we reached the convent."

Prime Minister Martinez nodded. "Yes, I heard." And he wondered whether Jaime Miro had ever been there to begin with. There was no doubt about it. Colonel Acoca was getting dangerously out of control. There had been angry protests about the brutal attack on the convent. The prime minister chose his words carefully. "The newspapers have been hounding me about what happened."

"The newspapers are making a hero of this terrorist," Acoca said, stone-faced. "We must not let them pressure us."

"He's causing the government a great deal of embarrassment, Colonel. And those four nuns - if they talk - "

"Don't worry. They can't get far. I'll catch them and I'll find Miro."

The prime minister had already decided that he could not afford to take any more chances. "Colonel, I want you to be sure the thirty-six nuns you have are well treated, and I'm ordering the army to join the search for Miro and the others. You'll work with Colonel Sostelo."

There was a long, dangerous pause. "Which one of us will be in charge of the operation?" Acoca's eyes were icy.

The prime minister swallowed. "You will be, of course."

Lucia and the three sisters traveled through the early dawn, moving northeast into the mountains, heading away from avila and the convent. The nuns, used to moving in silence, made little noise. The only sounds were the rustle of their robes, the clicking of their rosaries, an occasional snapping twig, and their gasps for breath as they climbed higher and higher.

They reached a plateau of the Guadarrama mountains and walked along a rutted road bordered by stone walls. They passed fields with sheep and goats. By sunrise they had covered several miles and found themselves in a wooded area outside the small village of Villacastin.

I'll leave them here, Lucia decided. Their God can take care of them now. He sure took great care of me, she thought bitterly. Switzerland is farther away than ever. I have no money and no passport, and I'm dressed like an undertaker. By now those men know we've escaped. They'll keep looking until they find us. The sooner I get away by myself, the better.

But at that instant, something happened that made her change her plans.

Sister Teresa was moving through the trees when she stumbled and the package she had been so carefully guarding fell to the ground. It spilled out of its canvas wrapping and Lucia found herself staring at a large, exquisitely carved gold cross glowing in the rays of the rising sun.

That's real gold, Lucia thought. Someone up there is looking after me. That cross is manna. Sheer manna. It's my ticket to Switzerland

Lucia watched as Sister Teresa picked up the cross and carefully put it back in its wrapping. She smiled to herself. It was going to be easy to take it. These nuns would do anything she told them.

The town of avila was in an uproar. News of the attack on the convent had spread quickly, and Father Berrendo was elected to confront Colonel Acoca. The priest was in his seventies, with an outward frailty that belied his inner strength. He was a warm and understanding shepherd to his parishioners. But at the moment he was filled with a cold fury.

Colonel Acoca kept him waiting for an hour, then allowed the priest to be shown into his office.

Father Berrendo said without preamble, "You and your men attacked a convent without provocation. It was an act of madness."

"We were simply doing our duty," the colonel said curtly. "The convent was sheltering Jaime Miro and his band of murderers, so the sisters brought this on themselves. We're holding them for questioning."

"Did you find Jaime Miro in the convent?" the priest demanded angrily.

Colonel Acoca said smoothly, "No. He and his men escaped before we got there. But we'll find them, and justice will be done."

My justice, Colonel Acoca thought savagely.

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