THE NOSTRADAMUS PROPHECIES

by Mario Reading

  ‘Well, Cal­que and so­me of his Spa­nish cro­ni­es ha­ve just had a run-in with the ma­ni­ac who kic­ked Ale­xi in the balls. Only gu­ess whe­re it hap­pe­ned? Mont­ser­rat. The bas­tard went back to Ro­ca­ma­do­ur af­ter we’d left and wor­ked the rid­dle out for him­self. He’s be­en on our ta­il ever sin­ce Sa­mo­is, ap­pa­rently. Trac­king our car.’

  ‘Trac­king our car? That is im­pos­sib­le. I’ve be­en watc­hing.’

  ‘No, Ale­xi. Not by sight. With an elect­ro­nic bug. Which me­ans he can fol­low us at a dis­tan­ce of, say, a ki­lo­met­re and ne­ver be se­en. That’s how he got to Yo­la so fast.’

  ‘Pu­ta­in. We’d bet­ter ta­ke it out of the­re.’

  ‘Cal­que wants us to ke­ep it in.’

  Ale­xi scre­wed his fa­ce up in con­cent­ra­ti­on as he tri­ed to di­sen­tang­le the dif­fe­rent ele­ments Sa­bir was gi­ving him. He lo­oked down at Yo­la. She was fil­te­ring the cof­fee and chi­cory thro­ugh a si­eve as tho­ugh not­hing had hap­pe­ned. ‘What do you think, lu­lu­dji?’

  Yo­la smi­led. ‘I think we sho­uld lis­ten to Da­mo. I think he has so­met­hing mo­re to tell us.’

  Sa­bir to­ok the cup Yo­la of­fe­red him. He sat down be­si­de her on the log. ‘Cal­que wants us to act as ba­it.’

  ‘What is ba­it?’

  ‘As a lu­re. For the man who kil­led Ba­bel. So that the po­li­ce can trap him. I ha­ve told him that I am wil­ling to do this, in or­der to cle­ar my na­me. But that you must both be al­lo­wed to de­ci­de for yo­ur­sel­ves.’

  Ale­xi drew his hand ac­ross his thro­at. ‘I am not wor­king with the po­li­ce. This I will not do.’

  Yo­la sho­ok her he­ad. ‘If we are not with you, the man will know so­met­hing is wrong. He will be sus­pi­ci­o­us. Then the po­li­ce will lo­se him. Is this not so?’

  Sa­bir glan­ced at Ale­xi. ‘He ne­arly crip­pled Cal­que’s as­sis­tant back at Mont­ser­rat. He al­so cold-coc­ked one of the Spa­nish pa­ra­mi­li­ta­ri­es out on the Si­er­ra. And he kil­led a se­cu­rity gu­ard back at Ro­ca­ma­do­ur two days ago. Which ser­ves us dam­ned well right for not chec­king out the news­pa­pers or the ra­dio du­ring the wed­ding. Back on the ro­ad, be­fo­re he at­tac­ked Yo­la, he ran over and inj­ured an in­no­cent bystan­der and half throt­tled his wi­fe, me­rely in or­der to cre­ate a di­ver­si­on. The French po­li­ce want him and they want him bad. This is a big ope­ra­ti­on now. And we’re to be a ma­j­or part of it.’

  ‘What do­es he want, Da­mo?’ Yo­la had for­got­ten her­self for long eno­ugh to be se­en drin­king cof­fee with the two men in pub­lic. One of the ol­der mar­ri­ed wo­men wal­ked by and frow­ned at her, but she to­ok no no­ti­ce.

  ‘The ver­ses. No­body knows why.’

  ‘And whe­re are they? Do we know?’

  Sa­bir to­ok a she­et of pa­per out of his poc­ket. ‘Lo­ok. Cal­que just ga­ve me this. He got it off the ba­se of La Mo­re­ni­ta at Mont­ser­rat:

  ‘L’antec­h­rist, ter­ti­us Le re­ve­nant, se­cun­dus Pri­mus, la foi Si li bo­umi­an si­an ca­to­uli’

  Pri­mus, se­cun­dus, ter­ti­us qu­ar­tus, qu­in­tus, sex­tus, sep­ti­mus, oc­ta­vus, no­nus, de­ci­mus.

  Tho­se are the or­di­nal num­bers in La­tin, cor­res­pon­ding to first, se­cond, third, fo­urth, fifth and so on. So the an­tich­rist is the third one. The ghost, or the one who co­mes back, is the se­cond one. Fa­ith, is the first one. And the last bit I don’t un­ders­tand at all.’

  ‘It me­ans “if the gypsi­es are still Cat­ho­lic.’’ ’

  Sa­bir tur­ned to­wards Yo­la. ‘How the Hell do you know that?’

  ‘Be­ca­use it’s in Ro­ma­ni.’

  Sa­bir sat back and we­ig­hed up the pa­ir sit­ting in front of him. He al­re­ady felt a po­wer­ful sen­se of kins­hip with them, and he was gra­du­al­ly be­co­ming awa­re of what a wrench he wo­uld fe­el at lo­sing them, or at ha­ving his re­la­ti­ons­hip with them cur­ta­iled in any way. They had be­co­me stran­gely fa­mi­li­ar to him, li­ke re­al, rat­her than simply no­ti­onal, mem­bers of his fa­mily. With a bur­ge­oning sen­se of ama­ze­ment at his own hu­ma­nity, Sa­bir re­ali­sed that he ne­eded them - pro­bably mo­re than they ne­eded him. ‘I kept so­met­hing back from Cal­que. So­me in­for­ma­ti­on. I’m still not su­re I did the right thing, tho­ugh. But I wan­ted us to re­ta­in an ed­ge. So­met­hing ne­it­her si­de knew abo­ut.’

  ‘What in­for­ma­ti­on was that?’

  ‘I kept the first qu­at­ra­in from him. The one that was car­ved on the ba­se of yo­ur cof­fer. The one that re­ads:

  “Hébergé par les tro­is ma­riés Cel­le d’Egypte la der­ni­ère fit La vi­er­ge no­ire au ca­ma­ro du­ro Ti­ent le sec­ret de mes vers à ses pi­eds”

  I’ve be­en thin­king abo­ut it a lot, re­cently and I think it holds the key.’

  ‘But you al­re­ady trans­la­ted it. It ga­ve us the clue to Ro­ca­ma­do­ur.’

  ‘But I trans­la­ted it wrongly. I mis­sed so­me of the clu­es. Spe­ci­fi­cal­ly in the first - and tra­di­ti­onal­ly most im­por­tant - li­ne. I had it down as ‘Shel­te­red by the three mar­ri­ed pe­op­le’, and stu­pidly, be­ca­use it se­emed to ma­ke no sen­se, I pa­id no re­al at­ten­ti­on to it af­ter that. If I’m bru­tal­ly ho­nest, I al­lo­wed myself to be dis­tac­ted by the ne­at lit­tle anag­ram in li­ne three and my own cle­ver­ness in te­asing it out and in­terp­re­ting it. In­tel­lec­tu­al va­nity has do­ne for far wi­ser pe­op­le than me and Nost­ra­da­mus knew this. He may even ha­ve rig­ged the who­le thing to send idi­ots li­ke me off half-coc­ked - as a sort of rid­dle, or so­met­hing, to see if we we­re bright eno­ugh to war­rant ta­king se­ri­o­usly. Fi­ve hund­red ye­ars ago such a mis­ta­ke wo­uld ha­ve cost me we­eks of use­less tra­vel­ling. Luck and mo­dern prog­ress ha­ve cut that down to a few days. It was so­met­hing that Gav­ril sa­id to me last night that ma­de me chan­ge my mind abo­ut it.’

  ‘Gav­ril. That pan­t­ril­lon. What can he ha­ve sa­id that wo­uld en­ligh­ten any­body?’

  ‘He sa­id that you and he wo­uld sort out yo­ur di­sag­re­ement at the fe­et of Sa­in­te Sa­ra, Ale­xi. At the fes­ti­val of Les Tro­is Ma­ri­es. At Sa­in­tes-Ma­ri­es-de-la-Mer, in the Ca­mar­gu­es.’

  ‘So what? I’m lo­oking for­ward to it. It’ll gi­ve me an op­por­tu­nity to free him up a lit­tle spa­ce for a few ext­ra gold te­eth him­self.’

  ‘No. It’s not that.’ Sa­bir sho­ok his he­ad im­pa­ti­ently. ‘Les Tro­is Ma­ri­es. The Three Marys. Don’t you see it? That acu­te ac­cent I wro­te down in the qu­at­ra­in - the one over ma­ri­es, which tur­ned it in­to ma­riés - that was simply Nost­ra­da­mus’s way of co­ve­ring the me­aning with so­ot. We didn’t re­ad it right. And it ske­wed the re­al me­aning of the qu­at­ra­in. The only thing I still don’t un­ders­tand is who the myste­ri­o­us Egyp­ti­an wo­man is.’

  Yo­la roc­ked for­wards. ‘But that’s simp­le. She is Sa­in­te Sa­ra. She, too, is a Black Vir­gin. To the Rom she is the most fa­mo­us Black Vir­gin of all.’

  ‘What are you tal­king abo­ut, Yo­la?’

  ‘Sa­in­te Sa­ra is our pat­ron sa­int. The pat­ron sa­int of all the gypsi­es. The Cat­ho­lic Church do­es not re­cog­ni­se her as a true sa­int, of co­ur­se, but to gypsi­es she mat­ters far mo­re than the ot­her two re­al sa­ints - Ma­rie Jacobé, the sis­ter of the Vir­gin Mary and Ma­rie Sa­lomé, the mot­her of the apost­le James the Gre­ater and al­so of John.’

  ‘So what’s the Egyp­ti­an con­nec­ti­on, then?’

  ‘Sa­in­te Sa­ra is cal­led by us Sa­ra l’Egypti­en­ne. Pe­op­le who think they know things say that all gypsi­es ori­gi­nal­ly co­me from In­dia. But we know bet­ter. So­me of us
ca­me from Egypt. When the Egyp­ti­ans tri­ed to cross the Red Sea, af­ter the flight of Mo­ses, only two es­ca­ped. The­se two we­re the fo­un­ders of the gypsy ra­ce. One of the­ir des­cen­dants was Sa­ra-e-ka­li - Sa­ra-the-black. She was an Egyp­ti­an Qu­e­en. She ca­me to Sa­in­tes-Ma­ri­es-de-la-Mer when it was a cent­re for wors­hip of the Egyp­ti­an sun god - it was cal­led Op­pi­dum-Râ in tho­se days. Sa­ra be­ca­me its Qu­e­en. When the three Ma­ri­es - Ma­rie Jacobé, Ma­rie Sa­lomé and Ma­rie Mag­da­le­ne, to­get­her with Mart­ha, Ma­xi­mi­ni­us, Si­do­ni­us and La­za­rus the Re­sur­rec­ted - we­re cast ad­rift from Pa­les­ti­ne in a bo­at wit­ho­ut oars, sa­ils, or fo­od, they lan­ded at Op­pi­dum-Râ, dri­ven the­re by the wind of God. Qu­e­en Sa­ra went down to the sho­re to see who they we­re and to de­ci­de on the­ir fa­te.’

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me this be­fo­re, Yo­la?’

  ‘You mis­led me. You sa­id they we­re three mar­ri­ed pe­op­le. But Sa­ra was a vir­gin. Her lac­ha was un­tar­nis­hed. She was un­mar­ri­ed.’

  Sa­bir ra­ised his eyes he­aven­wards. ‘So what hap­pe­ned when Sa­ra went down to check them out?’

  ‘At first she ta­un­ted them.’ Yo­la ma­de a he­si­tant fa­ce. ‘This must ha­ve be­en me­ant as a test, I think. Then one of the Ma­ri­es clim­bed out of the bo­at and sto­od on the wa­ter, li­ke Jesus did at Beth­sa­ida. She as­ked Sa­ra to do the sa­me. Sa­ra wal­ked in­to the sea and was swal­lo­wed up by the wa­ves. But the se­cond Ma­rie cast her clo­ak upon the wa­ters and Sa­ra clim­bed up on it and was sa­ved. Then Sa­ra wel­co­med them to her town. Hel­ped them to bu­ild a Chris­ti­an com­mu­nity the­re, af­ter they had con­ver­ted her. Ma­rie Jacobé and Ma­rie Sa­lomé sta­yed on at Les Sa­in­tes-Ma­ri­es un­til they di­ed. The­ir bo­nes are still the­re.’

  Sa­bir sat back. ‘So everyt­hing was al­re­ady con­ta­ined in that first ver­se. The rest was simply waf­fle. Just as I sa­id.’

  ‘No. I don’t think so.’ Yo­la sho­ok her he­ad. ‘I think it was al­so a test. To check that the gypsi­es we­re still Cat­ho­lic - si li bo­umi­an si­an ca­to­uli. That we we­re still worthy to re­ce­ive the ver­ses. Li­ke a sort of pilg­ri­ma­ge you ha­ve to ma­ke be­fo­re you can le­arn an im­por­tant sec­ret.’

  ‘A ri­te of pas­sa­ge, you me­an? Li­ke the se­arch for the Holy Gra­il?’

  ‘I don’t un­ders­tand what you are sa­ying. But yes. If, by that, you me­an a test to ma­ke su­re one is worthy to le­arn so­met­hing, it wo­uld su­rely add up to the sa­me thing, wo­uldn’t it?’

  ‘Yo­la.’ Sa­bir to­ok her he­ad in both his hands and squ­e­ezed. ‘You ne­ver ce­ase to ama­ze me.’

  67

  Mac­ron was angry. De­ep, se­at-of-the-pants, mo­uth-fo­amingly, sla­ve­ringly, angry. The si­de of his he­ad had swel­led up, gi­ving him an un­sightly black eye and his jaw felt as tho­ugh so­me­one had run a pi­le-dri­ver ac­ross it. He had a blin­ding he­adac­he and his fe­et, whe­re the eye-man had ten­de­ri­sed them with his sap, ma­de him fe­el as if every step he to­ok was ta­ken ba­re­fo­ot, over a bed of oval peb­bles, in a sand­box.

  He watc­hed Cal­que ap­pro­ac­hing via the café tab­les, twis­ting and tur­ning his hips just as if he’d he­ard so­mew­he­re - and be­li­eved - that all fat men must, by de­fa­ult, be ex­cel­lent dan­cers. ‘Whe­re ha­ve you be­en?’

  ‘Whe­re ha­ve I be­en?’ Cal­que ra­ised an eyeb­row at Mac­ron’s to­ne.

  Mac­ron backt­rac­ked swiftly, with as much dig­nity as he was ab­le to mus­ter. ‘I’m sorry, Sir. My he­ad is hur­ting. I’m fe­eling a lit­tle grumpy. That didn’t co­me out right.’

  ‘I ag­ree with you. In fact I ag­ree with you so much that I think you sho­uld be in a hos­pi­tal, not sit­ting he­re in a café dro­oling cof­fee out of a gro­tes­qu­ely swol­len mo­uth. Lo­ok at you. Yo­ur own mot­her wo­uldn’t re­cog­ni­se you.’

  Mac­ron gri­ma­ced. ‘I’m all right, I tell you. The Spa­nish me­di­co told me I don’t ha­ve con­cus­si­on. And my fe­et are just bru­ised. The­se crutc­hes ta­ke so­me of the pres­su­re off when I walk.’

  ‘And you want to be in for the kill? Is that it? To get yo­ur re­ven­ge. Stum­ping along be­hind the eye-man on a pa­ir of crutc­hes?’

  ‘Of co­ur­se not. I’m de­tac­hed. A pro­fes­si­onal. You know that.’

  ‘Do I?’

  ‘Are you go­ing to throw me off the ca­se? Send me ho­me? Is that what you’re trying to say to me?’

  ‘No. I’m not go­ing to do that. And shall I tell you why?’

  Mac­ron nod­ded. He wasn’t su­re what he was abo­ut to he­ar, but he sen­sed that it might be unp­le­asant.

  ‘It was my fa­ult the eye-man got you. I sho­uldn’t ha­ve left you alo­ne on the hill. Sho­uldn’t ha­ve aban­do­ned my po­si­ti­on. You might ha­ve be­en kil­led. In my bo­ok, that al­lows you one fa­vo­ur and one fa­vo­ur only. Do you want to stay on the ca­se?’

  ‘Yes, Sir.’

  ‘Then I’ll tell you whe­re I’ve just be­en.’

  68

  Sa­bir rub­bed his fa­ce with his hands, just as tho­ugh he we­re smo­ot­hing in a squ­irt or two of sun­tan lo­ti­on. ‘The­re’s just one snag to all this.’

  ‘And what’s that?’

  ‘Not only will the French po­li­ce not know exactly whe­re we are go­ing, thanks to my par­ti­al­ly hol­ding out on Cal­que, but they will still be out to get me - with everyt­hing they ha­ve in the­ir ar­se­nal - for Ba­bel and the night­watch­man’s mur­der. With you both along as ac­ces­so­ri­es af­ter the fact.’

  ‘You can’t be se­ri­o­us?’

  ‘Oh yes I can. De­adly se­ri­o­us. Cap­ta­in Cal­que told me that he is do­ing this en­ti­rely off his own ini­ti­ati­ve.’

  ‘And you be­li­eve him?’

  ‘Yes I do. He co­uld ha­ve ta­ken me in­to cus­tody this mor­ning and thrown away the key. Cla­imed all the ku­dos for him­self. I was per­fectly pre­pa­red to sur­ren­der to him wit­ho­ut a strug­gle. I’m no cop kil­ler. I told him so myself. He even held the Re­ming­ton in his hand and then ga­ve it back to me.’

  Ale­xi whist­led.

  ‘The aut­ho­ri­ti­es co­uld ha­ve spent months pin­ning that ma­ni­ac’s ac­ti­ons on to me, by which ti­me the man they call the eye-man wo­uld ha­ve be­en long go­ne - pro­bably with the ver­ses in tow and re­ady for sa­le on the open mar­ket. And who co­uld pro­ve whe­re he fo­und them? No­body. Be­ca­use they’ve got no DNA evi­den­ce - the de­ath of an unk­nown gypsy do­esn’t ra­te a full po­li­ce pro­ce­du­ral over he­re, ap­pa­rently. And any­way, they wo­uld al­re­ady ha­ve had me in cus­tody, so why bot­her with the rest? The ide­al sus­pect. Who­se blo­od is con­ve­ni­ently splat­te­red all over the cri­me sce­ne. Open and shut, no?’

  ‘Then why is Cal­que do­ing this? They will send him to the gu­il­lo­ti­ne, su­rely - or exi­le him to El­ba, li­ke Na­po­le­on - if things go wrong.’

  ‘Hardly that. He’s simply do­ing it be­ca­use he wants the eye-man and he wants him badly. It was his fa­ult his as­sis­tant got na­iled. And he holds him­self res­pon­sib­le for the night­watch­man’s de­ath, too. He rec­kons he sho­uld ha­ve fi­gu­red that the eye-man wo­uld co­me back to sort over un­fi­nis­hed bu­si­ness. But he says he got so car­ri­ed away with his own and his as­sis­tant’s bril­li­an­ce in wor­king out the Mont­ser­rat co­de, that he co­uldn’t see the light for the tre­es. A bit li­ke me, re­al­ly.’

  ‘Are you su­re it’s not a trap? So they can get both of you? I me­an, per­haps they think you are wor­king to­get­her?’

  Sa­bir gro­aned. ‘What the Hell. I don’t know. All I know is that he co­uld ha­ve ta­ken me in this mor­ning and he didn’t. That’s one heck of a bo­na
­fi­de in my bo­ok.’

  ‘So what do we do?’

  Sa­bir lurc­hed back­wards in mock surp­ri­se. ‘What do we do? We he­ad for the Ca­mar­gu­es, that’s what we do. Via Mil­lau. That much I ha­ve ag­re­ed with Cal­que. Then we lo­se our­sel­ves for a few days amongst ten tho­usand of yo­ur clo­sest re­la­ti­ves. Al­ways be­aring in mind, of co­ur­se, that the eye-man can track our car whe­re­ver and whe­ne­ver he wants to - and that we are still mur­der sus­pects, with the French po­li­ce hot on our tra­il, hand­cuf­fs and mac­hi­ne guns at the re­ady.’

  ‘Jesu Cris­tu! And then?’

  ‘And then, in six days’ ti­me, at the ab­so­lu­te he­ight of the fes­ti­val of the Three Ma­ri­es, we ste­al out of hi­ding and fi lch the sta­tue of Sa­in­te Sa­ra from in front of a church cram­med to the raf­ters with fran­ti­cal­ly wors­hip­ping acoly­tes. Wit­ho­ut tang­ling with the eye-man. And wit­ho­ut get­ting our­sel­ves strung up, or hac­ked to pi­eces, by a cra­zed mob of ven­ge­ful ze­alots in the pro­cess.’ Sa­bir grin­ned. ‘How do you li­ke them ap­ples, Ale­xi?’

  PART TWO

  1

  Achor Ba­le felt a de­ep calm des­cend on him as he watc­hed the trac­ker pick out the lo­ca­ti­on of Sa­bir’s car and fol­low it, pul­sing gently.

  And yes. The­re was the ghost of the po­li­ce trac­ker too. So they we­re still on the job. Too much to ho­pe that they had mar­ked Sa­bir down for the at­tack in Mont­ser­rat. But the­re was a fa­ir-to-mid­dling chan­ce that they had him tag­ged for the night­watch­man kil­ling. Stran­ge, tho­ugh, that they still re­fu­sed to pick him up - they must be af­ter the ver­ses as well. Both he and the po­li­ce, it se­emed, we­re pla­ying a wa­iting ga­me.

  Ba­le smi­led and fumb­led aro­und on the pas­sen­ger se­at for Mac­ron’s iden­tity card. He held it up in front of him and spo­ke di­rectly to the pho­tog­raph. ‘How are yo­ur fe­et, Pa­ul? A lit­tle ten­der?’ He wo­uld me­et Mac­ron aga­in - he was con­vin­ced of that. The­re was un­fi­nis­hed bu­si­ness the­re. How da­re the French po­li­ce pur­sue him in­to Spa­in? He wo­uld ha­ve to te­ach them a les­son.