The First Face of Janus

by Valentine, Phil

  Crow didn’t answer.

  Babineaux took another drink of coffee and continued. “Father Simonin gave you the name Sánchez Muñoz for a reason. It was to lead you here to Valencia, but you do not yet know why. Are you not the least bit curious?”

  Crow was dubious. “I’m listening.”

  “Did you know that most Christian historians from around the world agree that the chalice at Valencia Cathedral is the Holy Chalice, the authentic cup used at the Last Supper?”

  The ‘cup,’ Crow thought, trying to conceal his excitement. Behold the cup and follow the choir, Simonin had said. “Wait a minute. Are you talking about the Holy Grail?”

  “Bite your tongue, monsieur. The so-called Holy Grail is the product of fiction writers, most notably Robert de Boron who first dreamed up this mystical grail, and Chrétien de Troyes who forever linked the Holy Grail with King Arthur. The Chalice is, indeed, holy, but it is not magical. It does not bring its possessor special powers. It is simply the cup from which Jesus and his disciples drank during the Last Supper.”

  “And how does that fit in with the Custos Verbi?” Crow asked.

  “Only that having the Chalice here attracts the most pious in the Christian faith. If it is, in fact, the cup from which Christ drank the night before his death, it is the only surviving holy artifact from the origins of the Christian religion. You can imagine that the most devout Christians have longed to be close to it for centuries. Perfect place to find volunteers to be the Keepers of the Word, no?”

  “And you think they’re still here,” Crow said.

  “I do. Whether you are likely to find any is another matter. Like the First Face of Janus, they are a highly secretive group. Very selective, very disciplined. Every move is calculated to accomplish the mission but not get caught in the process. Legend has it that the ceremony inducting them into the Custos Verbi is a communion using the Holy Chalice. If that is true, they are here.”

  “And what’s your angle?”

  Babineaux leaned away from the table as the server set his breakfast and his Bloody Mary before him. He waited until she was out of earshot before leaning forward again. “I am like Delacroix and Simonin. I am a historian. I want to continue their work so it will not be in vain. Like those gentlemen, I believe these two groups exist. However, it is only faith without proof. You are a rare gem, something we have been searching for for years. One of those groups has actually been in contact with you. You can help provide that proof.”

  “Which side are you on?” Crow asked.

  “Me?” Babineaux smiled and cut into his eggs. “Neither. I am as impartial as a historian studying the Crimean War.” He took a hefty bite.

  “Since when do historians afford five-star hotels?”

  Babineaux smiled a modest smile and dabbed the corner of his mouth with his napkin. “I also do some consulting work. France is full of museums that need advice. Plus, this is a business expense. It gets me next to you.” He took another bite of his breakfast.

  Crow seemed satisfied with the answer. “Why do you suppose the Custos Verbi has never really been able to stop the First Facers?”

  Babineaux finished chewing and swallowed. “Because they are at a distinct disadvantage. They do not possess the Unriddled Manuscript.” He pointed with his fork. “That is the key. Imagine being able to foretell the future. It holds immense power and wealth, a distinct advantage for the First Face of Janus.”

  “Tell me about this Unriddled Manuscript. Who gets to see it?”

  “Only a select group is privy to the Unriddled Manuscript. The Premier Gnostique—The Prime Gnostic—and the Elite Council.”

  “The Prime Gnostic?” Crow asked.

  “Yes. That’s the top of the food chain in the First Face of Janus.”

  “So this Prime Gnostic and his council—”

  “Or her.”

  “Or her council determine what predictions are taking shape and they dispatch their minions to make sure it happens,” Crow said.

  “Crudely put, but that is pretty much it.”

  Crow chewed on his breakfast as well as the information just laid before him.

  Babineaux added between bites, “Oh, and in case you have not noticed, the First Face of Janus will kill you to keep you from interfering.”

  “You seem quite sure.”

  “That they will kill you?”

  “About who’s trying to kill me.”

  Babineaux laid down his fork. “It is obvious, no? You are trying to stop the prophecy and somebody is trying to stop you.”

  “There’s more to it that that,” Crow said.

  “Like?”

  “I’ve said too much already.”

  “Do not fool yourself, my friend. I already know everything. The man in Montreal. The killing of Dr. Grumbling and his housekeeper. Everything.”

  “How do you know so much?”

  “I told you. Delacroix and I worked together.”

  “And you think it’s the First Face of Janus,” Crow said.

  “Who else would it be?”

  “Custos Verbi?”

  Babineaux turned his head aside and cut the air with a sweep of his hand. “Please.”

  “What’s so fantastic about that?”

  “It makes no sense.”

  “They’ve been known to kill,” Crow said.

  “Sure, but why would they kill you if you are trying to stop the prophecy?”

  “Maybe they think I’m an agent of Janus.”

  Babineaux laughed. “Unlikely.”

  “Why is that unlikely?”

  “Because they have been doing this for nearly 500 years, my friend. They do not make mistakes like that. They kill when they need to, but they do not arbitrarily murder people they think may be agents of Janus.”

  “So you think it’s the First Face of Janus.”

  “I do not think, my friend, I am sure of it. And you say you have no knowledge of the Prime Gnostic?” Babineaux asked.

  “No. None. This is the first I’ve heard of all that.”

  “Interesting. Then you are flying blind.” He cut into his breakfast then stopped. “And you actually intend to stop them? No one stops the First Face of Janus, monsieur. In their minds, their cause is noble and they must not fail.”

  “Look, if your theory is right, the First Facers killed Jean-Claude Delacroix. They killed Father Simonin. They killed my first contact in Montreal and my contact in America. And they tried to kill me. I don’t give a damn how noble they think their cause is. I don’t give a damn about some Prime Gnostic. They’re common killers as far as I’m concerned. Do I intend to stop them? Hell, yeah, I’m going to stop them.”

  “How?”

  “I’ll worry about that.”

  “I see. Big-talking American. You are going to need my help.”

  Crow looked at him suspiciously.

  “You do not trust me,” Babineaux said.

  “Should I?”

  “I suppose you have no reason to at this point. I will have to earn that trust.” Babineaux raised his Bloody Mary. “To stopping the next prophecy.”

  Crow reluctantly raised his coffee cup. Babineaux clinked the two together and took a healthy gulp.

  Chapter Thirty

  “Yes, that bald guy with the eye patch,” Crow said as if Rosenfeld had several to choose from. “His name is Philippe Babineaux.”

  “What the hell is he doing here?” she asked.

  “He’s following us.”

  “And you’re good with that?”

  “No, I’m not good with that. What was I supposed to do? Call the police? He made no bones about the fact that he was following us. He says he wants to help us. In fact, he already has.”

  “Helped us?” Rosenfeld asked. “How?”

  “Did you know the Holy Chalice is at Valencia Cathedral?”

  “No. So?”

  “So Babineaux says it attracts the most pious in
the Christian faith. He says they actually use the chalice in the initiation ceremony for the Custos Verbi.”

  “And you believe him?”

  “It’s more than we had to go on this morning. And it fits. If the Custos Verbi is based at Valencia Cathedral then that’s why Simonin sent us here.”

  “And what’s in it for this Babineaux guy?”

  “I don’t quite know. He says he’s interested from a historical standpoint, but he’s not showing all his cards.”

  “You’re not seriously thinking about hooking up with this character, are you?”

  “We only have a little more than twenty-four hours to figure this out. He does know a lot about the First Face of Janus.”

  “Like what?” Rosenfeld asked.

  “Like the Prime Gnostic.”

  “The what?”

  “Exactly. I hadn’t heard of it either. It’s apparently the head honcho with the First Face of Janus. He or she is who deciphers the Unriddled Manuscript and decides how to aid in the prophecy.”

  “One person?”

  “And the Elite Council,” Crow added.

  “Oh, come on, now.” Rosenfeld held up her hands and shook her head. “This has hogwash written all over it. I’ve been studying these people for years and I’ve never heard of any of this.”

  “Let me get this straight,” Crow said. “You’re willing to believe there’s a First Face of Janus. You’re willing to buy into this secret police force from the Church called the Custos Verbi, but you can’t swallow that there’s a leader and some advisors who call the shots?”

  “I’m along as your historical advisor,” Rosenfeld said. “I’m saying I’ve never heard of such a thing. I’m also your bullshit detector, and it’s going off right now.”

  “Look, I get the same feeling about Babineaux that you do, but he’s all we’ve got right now. We’re running out of options. Get dressed. We’re meeting him for lunch at noon.”

  “We’re having lunch with cyclops?” Rosenfeld protested.

  “At the hotel restaurant. Afterwards, I want to poke around Valencia Cathedral.”

  Crow was a bit miffed that Rosenfeld insisted on dropping by the hotel’s clothing shop before lunch. He waited impatiently while she disappeared interminably into the changing room. Then his heart almost stopped when she finally emerged. Dressed in a yellow sundress with white polka dots, Rosenfeld’s dazzling white put-on smile glowed against her olive skin.

  “Very nice, Rosenfeld,” Crow smiled.

  “Nothing like a shiny lure to catch a fish,” she said.

  They followed the maître d’ through the restaurant. A few more steps and they were out on the portico with a sprinkling of four-top tables dressed in white linen and accented with small boxed clusters of pink geraniums. The palm trees gently swayed in the breeze. Water danced in the large rectangular fountain just a few yards away. Rosenfeld approached the lunch table first. Babineaux jumped to his feet.

  “Mr. Babineaux, I’d like you to meet Dr. Sidney Rosenfeld,” Crow introduced from behind. “Dr. Rosenfeld, this is Philippe Babineaux.”

  “Nice to meet you, Monsieur Babineaux,” she said.

  “The pleasure is mine, mademoiselle.” He reached for her dangling hand and kissed it. “And I do hope it is mademoiselle.”

  Rosenfeld shuddered slightly but maintained her radiant smile. “Yes. Benson tells me you know quite a lot about the First Face of Janus.”

  Babineaux held her seat until she was settled in then took his own opposite her. “Apparently more than your friend here,” he said lightheartedly to Crow who took a seat to his left. “And what is your interest, Dr. Rosenfeld?”

  “I’m an antiquarian.”

  “Ah, as am I,” Babineaux said.

  “Really? Where did you study?”

  “At Pantheon-Sorbonne University. I am a member of the Société des Antiquaires, the Society of Antiquaries of France.”

  Rosenfeld exchanged a glance with Crow. “At the Louvre?”

  “Oui, mademoiselle.”

  “I’m impressed. Very prestigious.”

  “Well, thank you, but—“

  “May I offer you something from the bar?” the waiter interrupted.

  Babineaux deferred to Rosenfeld.

  “Just water for me, thank you.”

  He looked to Crow. “Water.”

  “Señor?” he asked.

  “I will have a whisky,” Babineaux said. “Two ice cubes, gracias.”

  Once the server was gone, Babineaux continued. “I am afraid we are a dying breed, you and me,” he said to Rosenfeld. “This new generation is more interested in technology. They would rather read a book on a tablet about history than actually hold history in their hands. To me, it is not really reading unless you can smell the scent of the paper, hear the crackling of the spine when you open the book.”

  “Benson tells me you do consulting work,” Rosenfeld queried.

  “Yes. Various museums across France hire me to authenticate manuscripts. That is my specialty.”

  “Mine too,” Rosenfeld said.

  “Is that your interest in this?” Babineaux asked.

  “Well, my interest is two-fold. Manuscripts, yes, but I’m a bit of a Nostradamus nut.”

  “As in, you believe the prophecies, or you are fascinated with the man?”

  “As in I’m fascinated with the man. It’s intriguing, don’t you think, that after close to 500 years an obscure physician from the south of France is one of the most studied and read authors of all time?”

  “I am not sure who that says more about, us or him,” Babineaux said.

  Rosenfeld found his observation insightful. “Yes. I suppose that’s true. One must wonder if all this fascination is over a brilliant writer or a gullible population.”

  “Gullible? Interesting choice of words.”

  “Maybe that wasn’t the right choice of words,” Rosenfeld admitted. “Maybe people are looking for answers. Maybe they find some comfort in Nostradamus.”

  “Is that why you study him?” Babineaux asked.

  Rosenfeld hesitated. “I’m not sure. We see things in the quatrains that we want to see, I think.”

  “Like clouds,” Babineaux said. “We see faces and shapes and animals in that odd assortment of water vapor. Or, at least, we think we do. And somehow we derive some pleasure from it.”

  “Yes,” Rosenfeld said. “I suppose we do.”

  “Like a Rorschach test,” Babineaux added.

  “So, you’re saying that what one sees in the quatrains is more a reflection of our deep-seated hopes and dreams than anything Nostradamus was trying to tell us.”

  “Or fears,” Babineaux added.

  “Or fears. Yes. You have an interesting way of looking at Nostradamus, Monsieur Babineaux.”

  “Philippe, please,” he insisted. He turned to Crow. “Monsieur Crow, may I see the quatrains, please?”

  Crow looked at Rosenfeld then back at Babineaux. “What quatrains?”

  “You know very well what quatrains.” Babineaux held out his hand.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Crow said.

  “Please, Monsieur Crow, if I am to help you we must not play games.”

  Crow hesitated then pulled the paper from his coat pocket. Babineaux placed his reading glasses on his nose and looked over the verses. After a moment he grunted.

  “Well?” Crow asked.

  “I do not think there is any doubt,” he said.

  “Any doubt about what?” Rosenfeld asked.

  He turned to her. “They are from the Unriddled Manuscript.”

  “But we were told that was doubtful,” Crow said.

  Babineaux looked at him quizzically. “By whom?”

  “By someone—”

  “By someone who has studied the subject more than I have?” Babineaux asked rhetorically.

  “I withdraw the statement,” Crow said.

  Babineaux smiled.

  “But what abo
ut the fact that the quatrains are still riddled?” Rosenfeld asked.

  “Are they?” Babineaux asked. “To the untrained eye perhaps, but that is taking them out of context. We are only afforded these verses. Were we to see the others around them we would know exactly what they mean.”

  “Why do you think these are from the Unriddled Manuscript?” Crow asked.

  “Because they are written in the unmistakable voice of Nostradamus.”

  “How do you know?”

  Babineaux acted a bit irritated by the question. “How does a maestro know the difference between a Stradivarius and a fiddle? He just knows. I have studied Nostradamus my entire adult life, my friend. I know.”

  Babineaux’s phone rang. He lingered on Rosenfeld’s gaze longer than was comfortable then looked down at the phone and quickly scooped it off the table. “Please excuse me. I will just be a moment.” He left the table.

  “What in the hell are you doing?” Crow said firmly but quietly.

  “What are you talking about?” she whispered.

  “You’re acting like a teenybopper at a rock concert.”

  “Oh, come on.”

  “What was that about your bullshit detector earlier?”

  “I’m not blind. This guy’s as slick as grease off a barbecue biscuit. What did you want me to do? Act like a bitch?”

  “No. I just think you’re coming on a little too strong. That’s all. Did you just say grease off a barbecue biscuit?”

  “You’re jealous, aren’t you?”

  The waiter returned with their waters and Babineaux’s whisky. Crow waited for him to leave.

  “Don’t flatter yourself, Rosenfeld. Besides, he’s not the man he pretends to be.”

  “What do you mean?” she asked.

  “Babineaux talks a big game,” he said, “but did you see him when his phone rang? He looked like somebody’s butler.”