Masaracchia looked between them quickly. “I don’t see your point.”

“Well, brother monk,” said Cannon, “we know you’re no monk. Right?”

“Right,” said Burr.

“Nae monk carries hi’self like tha’.”

“Pietro?” Masaracchia’s voice held a pleading note.

di Giacomo shook his head. “Sorry, cousin. I won’t push, but I think the capitano is right.”

“Thanks,” Cannon said. “So what are you?”

Iseabail, Burr, and Cannon watched him. di Giacomo shrugged helplessly.

Seconds passed. “It’s not mine to tell,” Masaracchia protested.

“Ask your boss when we get back,” Cannon suggested. “I’m not too keen on being in the dark about the people I work for.”

“Men of God,” said Masaracchia. “That much is true.”

“I don’t know if I trust them, either.”

Masaracchia shrugged. One of his fellow monks—or whatever they were—deposited a backpack with an antenna sticking up from it next to him. “Where will your plane be landing?”

“South of the city, probably. I don’t know if I want to risk a landing at the airfield.” Cannon shrugged back. “Give it five or ten minutes for the plane to get into radio range, and we’ll give them a call and figure it out.”

One of Masaracchia’s men stood a few steps back from a boarded-up window on the other side of the floor. Masaracchia called out a question.

The man answered, “Britannicum militem sunt.”