The First Face of Janus

by Valentine, Phil

  “Wish we knew who was calling.”

  “Somebody named Otto,” Crow said casually.

  “How do you know?”

  “Because while he was ogling you, I was looking at his caller ID. He didn’t notice with his bad eye. We need to find out who this Otto is.”

  “I have a friend in Paris at Bouchard’s Auction House,” Rosenfeld said. “If Babineaux is the high roller in the antiquities world he claims to be, my friend will know him. Maybe it’ll lead us to Otto.”

  Babineaux looked back over his shoulder at the table where Crow and Rosenfeld sat then spoke softly into the phone. “We just sat down to lunch.”

  “And?” the baritone voice with the German accent on the other end asked. “Does he know where it is?”

  “I think he does.”

  “I do not pay you for conjecture,” Otto said. “I pay you to know. Does he or does he not?”

  “I will have a more definitive answer this afternoon. He has the quatrains. I will text those lines to you when we are finished here. They are from the Unriddled Manuscript.”

  “And what about the girl?”

  “That is what lets me know he is here for the manuscript. She is an expert in ancient books from some auction house in Boston. He has brought her along to authenticate the Unriddled Manuscript.”

  “Interesting.”

  “Indeed it is,” Babineaux said. “The only question that remains is if they already have the book in their possession.”

  “Time is dwindling. I will give it until morning. If he does not lead you to it, then you will have to become more persuasive.”

  “Understood,” Babineaux said. “One more thing.”

  “What is it?” Otto said.

  “If we are correct that he has brought along an expert to authenticate the Unriddled Manuscript, it would indicate that he is not one of them. If he were, why would he need an outside expert to authenticate it?”

  “Interesting. Go on.”

  “I am convinced he is actually trying to stop the prophecy,” Babineaux said.

  “You are sure?”

  “As you say, you do not pay me for conjecture.”

  “Does he know what the prophecy is?”

  “Not yet,” Babineaux said, “but he is getting closer. I am helping him put the pieces together.”

  “Excellent. I want that book, but do not let that keep him from his mission. If he can stop the prophecy, he saves us a great deal of trouble.”

  “Yes, Your Excellency.”

  Babineaux hung up then pulled the quatrains from his coat pocket. He took a quick photo with his phone and attached it to a text to Otto.

  “You know he’s trying to play you, right?” Crow said.

  “Of course I know that,” Rosenfeld said, “but we can play him to our advantage. Apparently, he knows a lot more about all this than he’s letting on. Certainly a lot more than we know. We need him if you’re serious about solving this quatrain. He’s trying to divide us so he can pick my brain and see what we know.”

  “But you just said he knows more than we do,” Crow said.

  “He does, but he doesn’t know that. If he came all the way from France, he thinks we’re closer than we are. We have to find out why.”

  “Then let him divide us. I really need to check out that cathedral anyway. I’ll find a way to excuse myself. Whatever I come up with, play along. I need to leave you here with—”

  Rosenfeld cleared her throat. Crow looked up as Babineaux returned to the table.

  “Office politics,” Babineaux said with a smile. “Even here I cannot escape it. My apologies. Where were we? Oh, yes. The quatrains. Where did you get them?”

  “The man in Montreal gave them to me?”

  “Did you know this man?”

  “I’d never seen him before.”

  Babineaux chuckled. “A complete stranger walks up to you and just gives you quatrains from the Unriddled Manuscript?”

  Now Crow was perturbed. “What are you saying?”

  Babineaux twirled the ice around in his glass and took a drink of whisky. “Probably what you are inferring.”

  “You’re saying I’m lying?”

  “I am saying you are not telling us everything.” Babineaux looked at Rosenfeld then back at Crow. “We are both getting this story from you. We are having to take your word for it. Can you truly tell Mademoiselle Rosenfeld right now that you have told her everything?”

  Crow looked at Rosenfeld who met his eyes with skepticism. “Now, wait a minute,” he turned to Babineaux. “I don’t know what you’re up to, but I don’t like it.”

  “Up to, Monsieur Crow? Are we sure it is me who is up to something?”

  Crow stood up and threw his napkin on his plate. “I don’t have to sit here and listen to this crap. Let’s go,” he said to Rosenfeld, pushing his chair back into place under the table.

  Rosenfeld sat there in defiance.

  “I said let’s go,” Crow said.

  “Well, you know what?” Rosenfeld said. “I don’t give a damn what you said. Take your machismo and cram it up your ass.” She turned to Babineaux. “If you’ll pardon my French.”

  Babineaux let out a hearty laugh. “I do not think that is French, but I certainly understand the translation.”

  Rosenfeld turned back to Crow. “I’m having lunch with Monsieur Babineaux.”

  “Philippe, s’il vous plaît,” Babineaux said slyly then looked up at Crow.

  “Philippe,” Rosenfeld repeated with a smile.

  Crow stood there holding out his hand.

  “What?” Babineaux asked.

  “You know damn well what,” Crow shot back. “The quatrains.”

  Babineaux looked at Crow for a brief moment then reached in his coat pocket, pulled out the sheet of paper, and plopped it in his hand. Crow put the quatrains back in his own coat pocket and stormed off.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Benson Crow parked his car a few blocks from Plaça de la Reina, Queen Square in the native Catalan. He weaved among the tourists toward Valencia Cathedral. Double-decker open-air buses collected sightseers at the curb for tours of the old city. Shops invited patrons in off the sidewalks with everything from chocolates to souvenirs. He cut through the pedestrian promenade with its benches and grassy areas and beautiful flower gardens dedicated to Queen Mercedes of Orleans. She became queen in 1878 after a scandalous marriage to her cousin, King Alfonso XII. She contracted tuberculosis after her honeymoon and lived to be queen only six months. She died at the tender age of 18, a fleeting opportunity, much like Crow’s chances at solving the mystery of the prophecy.

  He reached the main entrance of Valencia Cathedral built in the thirteenth century on the site of a Moorish mosque. He paid the admission fee and was handed an audio player with headphones. He grabbed a map of the cathedral and located the Holy Chalice Chapel.

  The back wall of the chapel reached over 50 feet. The fifteenth-century canopies, openwork, and pinnacles framed two reliefs. The lower section depicted scenes from the Old Testament. At the top were scenes from the New Testament. Three staggered ogive arches framed the alabaster altarpiece that held the focal point of the room, in fact, of the entire cathedral. Crow could see it from far across the room. The Holy Chalice. A light that shone from above it gave it a heavenly appearance. The room was surprisingly low key. A few tourists reverently observed the relic from the wooden pews, some taking pictures, but not the hordes one would see gathered around the Mona Lisa or Venus de Milo at the Louvre. He blended among the other tourists who came to catch a glimpse of either an incredibly holy relic and the only tangible link to Christ, or one of the biggest hoaxes of all time. Crow lingered while people came and went. He was sure he must be in the right place, but he was unsure what to do next.

  Behold the cup and follow the choir, Crow remembered. The straight path ends for the non-believer. There were pews on either side of the altar. Crow assumed they were for the choir. That much he got, but follo
w them? Follow them where?

  He stepped just outside the room and stopped an employee. “Habla Inglés?”

  “Yes,” the lady answered.

  “Is this room used for anything now?” Crow asked.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, do they have regular services here?”

  “Oh, no,” she said. “This is a very special room. It holds the Holy Chalice.”

  “Yes, I know,” Crow said, “but they don’t use it for church services or anything like that?”

  “No. It houses the chalice only. OK?”

  “But—”

  “Use your audio,” she said.

  “My audio?”

  She pointed to the headphones Crow forgot he had hanging around his neck. He fumbled for the headphones and pulled them up on his ears.

  “Number two,” she said. “Press number two for the history of the room.”

  “Gracias.”

  He pulled the player up and pressed two on the keypad. He walked around the room and followed the British announcer’s narration of the history of the chalice. The Holy Chalice was believed to have been left in a house belonging to the family of St. Mark the Evangelist where the Last Supper took place. This was the same Mark who was one of the “Seventy Disciples” Jesus sent out to spread the word. When Jesus claimed that his flesh was real food and his blood was real drink, many of the seventy left him including Mark. He later regained his faith and became Peter’s interpreter and wrote the Gospel of Mark from first-hand accounts of Peter. While serving as Peter’s interpreter, Mark is said to have brought the cup to Rome. It was used as a papal chalice until the third century when it was removed from Rome over fears of persecution. Spanish soldiers took it to Spain. During the Muslim occupation, the Church secretly passed it from place to place until the King of Spain took charge of it. The chalice was turned over to Valencia Cathedral in the fifteenth century where it has remained ever since except for briefly being removed for safekeeping during the Spanish Civil War of the 1930s.

  The cup was made of agate stone and positively identified as originating in Palestine some time just before or just after the birth of Christ. The stones and pearls, as well as the gold work, were added somewhere between the tenth and fourteenth centuries. Then the narrator said something that made Crow’s ears perk up. “The choir used to enter and exit the chapel from behind the altar. When the room was reconfigured, the choir door was moved. It’s the door you now see on your right.”

  Behold the cup and follow the choir.

  Crow looked around. There were maybe ten other people in the room. If he breached the velvet ropes and opened the door, someone would surely report him. He fretted for a moment then returned to the main counter by the entrance to the chapel. He turned in his headphones and player. He approached the chalice room again and just stared inside from the doorway.

  You’ve got to act like you’re supposed to be here, he told himself.

  He clenched his teeth, took a deep breath, and strode back into the chalice room with purpose. He marched up to the velvet rope on the right, unhooked it from its brass stanchion, stepped through, and re-hooked it behind him. He didn’t dare look back out at those assembled in the room. He walked smartly to the dark wooden door, opened it, and let himself inside. Getting through the door was the easy part. Now what?

  The straight path ends for the non-believer.

  The path wasn’t straight at all. In fact, after about two steps into the alcove was a doorway to the left. There was a stone wall to the right and a stone wall straight ahead. Did Father Simonin mean take a left and then go straight? That’s not what he said.

  The straight path ends for the non-believer.

  Crow studied on it. A crazy thought occurred to him. It was too crazy. He’d feel silly doing that. But then why not? You must have faith, Simonin had said. What if he was wrong? There was no one else around to make him feel embarrassed if he was. Just go for it. He closed his eyes and concentrated. OK, what the hell. Here goes. He took a slow step forward and stood for a moment. Then another step. He was even with the only way out, the stone archway to his left, but he didn’t take it. He didn’t even look in that direction. He took another step forward and then another until his chest bumped into the cold wall. Now he felt silly. He stood there for a couple of seconds thinking what an idiotic idea it was to think he could just walk through a wall. Even when he had mustered up all the faith he could, it was impossible. Then he thought his knees were buckling. The large stones below his feet began to lower. As they did, the wall in front of him parted ever so slightly. Crow smiled as a passageway opened up before him. He stepped inside and the stone wall closed behind him.

  On the far side of the room were what looked like tombstones, solid slabs of sandstone with mid-reliefs of odd ornate designs. One was etched with what first appeared to be bows and arrows, but on closer examination were flowers capping an eight-sided design inside a circle inside a square. Another depicted men carrying crosses. The third seemed almost like a mason’s square and compass design, but extending from what would have been the mason’s square were what Crow interpreted as, perhaps, round palm leaves. The veins inside the palms formed what looked like scorpions with too many legs. This design was repeated at the bottom. All extended outside of a square which was positioned on one of its points. There was a clawed X at the top of the carving, the top right portion of it looking similar to the claw of a hammer. The fourth relief depicted warriors with swords and shields and a lead soldier with a horn as if trumpeting the others into war. Was this the defender of the rock?

  Modern recessed lighting illuminated the room. Just beyond the grouping of four reliefs was a stone altar or pulpit. Between the four markers was a rectangular subterranean entrance with steps leading into the darkness. Someone had been there recently or was planning to return unless the lighting was left on permanently. He hesitated a moment then turned on the flashlight on his phone and began to sneak down the steps. The hallway was carved out of the stone. He touched the bottom step and stood for a moment shining his light 360 degrees. The mouth of the hallway where he stood was like the bulb of a plant with the corridor leading away like the stem. The walls narrowed as he moved forward. The ceiling became lower above him and he bent his neck to keep from scraping his head. From the slight burn in his calves, he could tell the tunnel elevation was dropping. The cave closed in around him and he became claustrophobic. Just as he was at his most uncomfortable a sound pierced his ears. The screech frightened him enough, but it was the claws on his shoulder and back that nearly scared him to death. He screamed an unmanly cry and banged the back of his head on the stone ceiling. He didn’t even have to train his light. His senses pieced together what had just happened. A rat was spooked by his passing and leapt from a crack in the wall to his shoulder then down his back. He stopped for a moment to allow his heart to steady then proceeded.

  After a few meters, the passageway began to widen a tad, yet the ceiling remained low. He could hear water dripping up in the distance. He shown his light further ahead but could make out nothing other than a widening in the rock. Were it not for his light, he wouldn’t have been able to see his hand in front of his face. He plodded forward along the damp floor of the cave until he reached a rather sizable chamber which spanned about thirty feet wide. The ceiling opened up above him to roughly twenty feet. It looked more like a normal rock formation rather than anything cut by man. He surveyed the ceiling in front of him with his light. All he could see was rock. The cold, wet cave was completely silent except for the dripping of the water in the distance. Crow thought how if he had to endure that pure silence for a prolonged period of time, he would go insane. He felt extremely uncomfortable and vulnerable. His light showed him no way out. After following the passageway far from the entrance, he had hit a dead end. No telling how far below the church he was. Far enough where no one could hear him scream. Now he was starting to feel real uneasy. He was just before turning to leav
e when he was suddenly and violently grabbed by his head out of the darkness. He felt the weight on his neck of whatever had just jumped on him. It covered his eyes. He dropped his phone trying to free up another hand to fight it. The weight on his neck and shoulders felt like a bowling ball. He thought he sensed burlap draping down to his neck. Whatever had him tried desperately to wrench his head sideways as if attempting to snap his neck. Crow staggered. He tried to pry the creature from his face. Its grip was unusually strong. He threw himself backwards and smashed it against the stone wall of the cave. It wouldn’t let go. He stumbled back out a few steps. It still clung to his head. He tried again, crushing it against the rock wall. This time the creature turned loose. For a brief second, he thought he heard the faint sigh of a man.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Crow dived to the floor for the light. He grabbed it and swept it up in one single movement and shown it toward where he thought he heard the creature fall, fearing it might already be upon him again. What caught his light was a little wisp of a man not barely three feet tall garbed in a brown monk’s robe with hood, rubbing an aching back. One diminutive hand shot up to shield his eyes from the light. He spit out what almost certainly were Spanish obscenities.

  “Stop!” Crow shouted.

  The little man was moving toward a red lever on the wall.

  “Alto,” he repeated in Spanish.

  The dwarf continued to reach for the lever.

  “Father Simonin!”

  The man stopped, his hand just reaching up and touching the red lever. “What about him?” he said in English.

  “He sent me.”

  “Why would he send you here?”

  “Then you knew him?”

  “Knew him?” the little monk asked.

  “You didn’t know?” Crow said delicately. “He was murdered.”

  The dwarf hung his head. “Murdered? Like Jean-Claude.”

  “You heard about Delacroix?”

  He reflected for a moment, then his sorrow turned to anger. “Who killed them?”