The Genesis Code [antikvár]

Father Azetti was tempted.Standing on the steps of the parish church, fingering a rosary, he gazed across the empty piazza in the direction of his favorite trattoria - and looked at his watch. It was 1:39 in the afternoon. And he was starving.Technically, the church was to remain open from eight until two, and then again from five until eight. That's what the plaque on the door said, and Father Azetti had to admit that the plaque had a certain authority. It had been in place for nearly a hundred years. Still. . .The trattoria was in the Via della Felice - a grandiose name for what amounted to a medieval alley, a cobbled lane that twisted away from the central square to deadend at the stone wall that defined the town's outer limits.One of Italy's most remote and beautiful hill towns, Montecastello di Peglia rested on a dome of rock, a thousand feet above the Umbrian plain. Its crown and glory was the Piazza di San Fortunato, where a small fountain bubbled in the cool shadow of the village's only church. Quiet and pine-scented, the little square was a favorite place for lovers and art students, who came to its ramparts for a panoramic view of the countryside. High above the quilted landscape, they gazed out at Italy's 'green heart,' and swooned to see the sunflower fields, trembling in the heat.But not now, not at the moment. At the moment they were eating.And Father Azetti was not. A soft breeze turned the corner and took him prisoner with the smell of baking bread. Grilled meat, and lemon. Hot olive oil.