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THE NOSTRADAMUS PROPHECIES

Page 39

by Mario Reading


  The­re was a crash from ups­ta­irs. Then si­len­ce.

  Sa­bir sprang to his fe­et. The ha­irs on the back of his neck sto­od erect, li­ke the spi­ne fur of a dog. Holy heck, what had that be­en? He sto­od lis­te­ning but the­re was only si­len­ce. Then, in the dis­tan­ce, he he­ard the ap­pro­ac­hing dro­ne of a car.

  With a fi­nal, fur­ti­ve glan­ce over his sho­ul­der, Sa­bir hur­ri­ed out­si­de. It had pro­bably only be­en a cup­bo­ard do­or fal­ling open. Or may­be the po­li­ce had mo­ved so­met­hing - a mos­qu­ito scre­en, per­haps? - and the wretc­hed thing had sto­od the­re, te­ete­ring, un­til a gust of wind had fi­nal­ly fi­nis­hed off the job and blown it over. Per­haps the no­ise had even co­me from out­si­de? From the ro­of, may­be?

  He glan­ced up at the ho­use as he sto­od wa­iting for the Audi to ma­ke its way up the track to­wards him. Hell. And now he­re was anot­her thing - he’d ha­ve to co­me to a rec­ko­ning so­oner or la­ter with his fri­end John To­ne abo­ut the theft of his car.

  Sa­bir squ­in­ted in­to the he­ad­lights. Yes, the­re was Yo­la’s out­li­ne in the pas­sen­ger se­at. And that of Bo­ubo­ul’s nep­hew in the dri­ving se­at be­si­de her. Ale­xi was sa­fely tuc­ked up in his bed back in Les Sa­in­tes-Ma­ri­es, with Sa­bir next do­or, in the gu­est bunk. Or at le­ast that was what Ser­ge­ant Spo­la had be­en per­su­aded to think.

  Sa­bir wal­ked to­wards the car. He co­uld fe­el the night wind pick at his ha­ir. He mo­ti­oned down­wards with his hands, in­di­ca­ting that Res­zo sho­uld do­use the lights. As far as he knew, the­re we­re still po­li­ce­men dot­ted all aro­und the mars­hes and he didn’t want to draw an­yo­ne’s at­ten­ti­on back to the Ma­set.

  ‘Do you ha­ve them?’

  Yo­la felt in­si­de her co­at. Her fa­ce lo­oked small and vul­ne­rab­le in the light of Sa­bir’s torch. She han­ded Sa­bir the bam­boo tu­be. Then she glan­ced to­wards the ho­use and shi­ve­red.

  ‘Did you ha­ve any tro­ub­le?’

  ‘Two po­li­ce­men. They we­re using the ca­ba­ne for shel­ter. They ne­arly fo­und me. But they we­re cal­led away at the last mo­ment.’

  ‘Cal­led away?’

  ‘I over­he­ard one of them tal­king on his cel­lpho­ne. Cap­ta­in Cal­que knows whe­re the eye-man has es­ca­ped to. It is so­mew­he­re over to­wards St-Tro­pez. All the po­li­ce are go­ing the­re now. They aren’t in­te­res­ted in he­re any lon­ger.’

  ‘Thank God for that.’

  ‘Do you want me to co­me in with you?’

  ‘No. I ha­ve the fi­re go­ing. And so­me cand­les. I’ll be all right.’

  ‘Bo­ubo­ul will col­lect you just be­fo­re dawn. Are you su­re you don’t want to co­me back with us now?’

  ‘Too dan­ge­ro­us. Ser­ge­ant Spo­la might smell a rat. He’s not as stu­pid as he lo­oks.’

  ‘Yes he is.’

  Sa­bir la­ug­hed.

  Yo­la glan­ced on­ce mo­re to­wards the ho­use. Then she clim­bed back in­si­de the car. ‘I don’t li­ke this pla­ce. It was wrong of me to sug­gest it as a ren­dez­vo­us.’

  ‘Whe­re el­se co­uld we ha­ve used? This is by far the most con­ve­ni­ent.’

  ‘I sup­po­se so.’ She ra­ised her hand un­cer­ta­inly. ‘Are you su­re you won’t chan­ge yo­ur mind?’

  Sa­bir sho­ok his he­ad.

  Res­zo eased the car back down the track. When he was ne­ar the ro­ad he switc­hed the lights back on.

  Sa­bir watc­hed the­ir glow as it di­sap­pe­ared over the ho­ri­zon. Then he tur­ned back to­wards the ho­use.

  76

  Cap­ta­in Cal­que le­aned back in his cha­ir. The do­cu­ment la­id out be­fo­re him ma­de no earthly sen­se. It pur­por­ted to ha­ve be­en writ­ten on the exp­ress inst­ruc­ti­ons of King Lo­u­is IX of Fran­ce - and it was, in­de­ed, da­ted 1228, two ye­ars af­ter Lo­u­is had as­cen­ded to the thro­ne, aged ele­ven. Which ma­de him just thir­te­en or fo­ur­te­en ye­ars old at the ti­me he was cre­di­ted with its con­cep­ti­on. The se­als, ho­we­ver, we­re de­fi­ni­tely tho­se of Sa­int Lo­u­is him­self and of his mot­her, Blanc­he of Cas­ti­le; in tho­se days, trying to fa­ke such a thing as a ro­yal se­al wo­uld ha­ve se­en you hung, drawn and qu­ar­te­red, with yo­ur as­hes used for so­ap.

  Three ot­her sig­na­tu­res we­re ap­pen­ded be­ne­ath tho­se of the King and his mot­her: Je­an de Jo­in­vil­le, the King’s co­un­sel­lor (and, along­si­de Vil­le­har­do­u­in and Fro­is­sart, one of Fran­ce’s gre­atest early his­to­ri­ans); Ge­of­frey of Be­a­uli­eu, the King’s con­fes­sor; and Wil­li­am of Chart­res, the King’s chap­la­in. Cal­que sho­ok his he­ad. He had stu­di­ed de Jo­in­vil­le’s His­to­ire de Sa­int Lo­u­is at uni­ver­sity and he knew for a fact that de Jo­in­vil­le wo­uld ha­ve be­en no mo­re than fo­ur ye­ars old in 1228 - the ot­hers, well, it wo­uldn’t ta­ke him long to find out the­ir ages. But it sug­ges­ted that the do­cu­ment - which ap­pe­ared to grant a char­ter and cog­ni­san­ce to an as­so­ci­ati­on cal­led the Cor­pus Ma­le­fi­cus - had be­en, in so­me sen­se at le­ast, post-da­ted.

  It was at that po­int that Cal­que re­mem­be­red the cha­li­ce loc­ked in­si­de the tan­ta­lus, with its ini­ti­als of CM. The co­in­ci­den­ce, par­ti­cu­larly in this hid­den ro­om, with its re­vo­ca­ti­ons of sec­rets, plots and ca­bals, struck him as an un­li­kely one. He glan­ced aga­in at the do­cu­ment in front of him.

  Grun­ting with con­cent­ra­ti­on, he tur­ned the do­cu­ment over and scru­ti­ni­sed its re­ver­se si­de thro­ugh the mag­nif­ying glass. Yes. Just as he’d sus­pec­ted. The­re was the fa­int imp­rint of wri­ting on the back. Back­wards wri­ting. The sort a left-han­der might en­gi­ne­er if cal­led upon to wri­te in the man­ner of an Arab - that is to say from right to left. Cal­que knew that in me­di­eval ti­mes the left si­de was con­si­de­red the si­de of the De­vil. Si­nis­ter in con­no­ta­ti­on as well as in La­tin no­menc­la­tu­re, the con­cept had be­en car­ri­ed ac­ross from the early Gre­ek augurs, who be­li­eved that signs se­en over the left sho­ul­der fo­re­told evil to co­me.

  Cal­que drew the do­cu­ment ne­arer to the light. Fi­nal­ly, frust­ra­ted, he held it up in front of him. No di­ce. The wri­ting was in­de­cip­he­rab­le - it wo­uld ta­ke an elect­ron mic­ros­co­pe to ma­ke any sen­se of it.

  He cast his mind back to the Co­un­tess’s words du­ring the­ir first me­eting. Cal­que had as­ked her what the thir­te­enth Pa­ir de Fran­ce wo­uld ha­ve car­ri­ed du­ring the Co­ro­na­ti­on and she had ans­we­red: ‘He wo­uldn’t ha­ve car­ri­ed anyt­hing, Cap­ta­in. He wo­uld ha­ve pro­tec­ted.’

  ‘Pro­tec­ted? Pro­tec­ted from whom?’

  The Co­un­tess had gi­ven him an el­lip­ti­cal smi­le. ‘From the De­vil, of co­ur­se.’

  But how co­uld a me­re mor­tal be ex­pec­ted to pro­tect the French Crown from the De­vil?

  Cal­que co­uld fe­el the gra­du­al daw­ning of so­me sort of un­ders­tan­ding. The Cor­pus Ma­le­fi­cus. What did it me­an? He sum­mo­ned up his scho­ol­boy La­tin. Cor­pus me­ant body. It co­uld al­so me­an an as­so­ci­ati­on of pe­op­le de­di­ca­ted to ac­hi­eving one end. And Ma­le­fi­cus? Misc­hi­ef. Evil­do­ing.

  A body de­vo­ted to misc­hi­ef and evil­do­ing, then? Im­pos­sib­le, su­rely. And cer­ta­inly not un­der the aegis of the sa­intly Lo­u­is, a man so pi­o­us that he felt that he had was­ted his day if he hadn’t at­ten­ded two full Mas­ses (plus all the of­fi­ces) and who wo­uld then drag him­self out of bed on­ce aga­in at mid­night to dress for ma­tins.

  Then it must me­an a body de­vo­ted to the era­di­ca­ti­on of such things. A body de­vo­ted to un­der­mi­ning the De­vil.

  But how wo­uld o
ne go abo­ut such a thing? Su­rely not ho­me­opat­hi­cal­ly?

  Cal­que sto­od up. It was ti­me to talk to the Co­un­tess aga­in.

  77

  Achor Ba­le lay whe­re he had fal­len. His wo­und had ope­ned aga­in and he co­uld fe­el the blo­od pul­sing we­akly down his neck. In a mo­ment he wo­uld mo­ve. The­re might be so­met­hing in the kitc­hen with which to sta­unch the ble­eding. Fa­iling that, he co­uld go out to the mars­hes and col­lect so­me sphag­num moss. In the me­an­ti­me he wo­uld lie he­re on the flo­or and re­cu­pe­ra­te. Whe­re was the hurry? No one knew he was he­re. No one was wa­iting for him.

  Out­si­de the ho­use the­re was the crunch and hiss of a car.

  The po­li­ce. They’d sent a watch­man af­ter all. He and his part­ner wo­uld be al­most cer­ta­in to check thro­ugh all the ro­oms be­fo­re set­tling down for the night. Men did that sort of thing. It was a kind of su­pers­ti­ti­on. A marc­hing of the bo­unds. So­met­hing in­he­ri­ted from the­ir ca­ve­man an­ces­tors.

  Ba­le drag­ged him­self ang­rily to­wards the bed. He wo­uld lie un­der­ne­ath it. Who­ever drew the short straw for ups­ta­irs wo­uld pro­bably con­tent him­self with flas­hing his torch abo­ut in­si­de the ro­om. He’d be un­li­kely to bot­her with mo­re. Why sho­uld he? It was only a cri­me sce­ne.

  Ba­le eased the Red­hawk out of its hols­ter. May­be the­re wo­uld only be one of them? In that ca­se he wo­uld over­po­wer him and ta­ke the car. The Ma­set was so iso­la­ted that no one co­uld pos­sibly he­ar the shot.

  His hand brus­hed aga­inst the cel­lpho­ne con­ce­aled in his in­si­de poc­ket. It might still ha­ve so­me ju­ice left in it, if it hadn’t be­en da­ma­ged in the fall. Per­haps he sho­uld call Ma­da­me, his mot­her, af­ter all? Tell her he was co­ming ho­me.

  Or wo­uld the flics be mo­ni­to­ring the fre­qu­en­ci­es? Co­uld they do that? He tho­ught not. And they had no re­ason to sus­pect Ma­da­me, his mot­her, any­way.

  No so­unds from downs­ta­irs. The cop­pers we­re still out­si­de. Pro­bably chec­king the pe­rip­hery.

  Ba­le ke­yed in the num­ber. He wa­ited for the to­ne. The num­ber to­ok.

  ‘Who is this?’

  ‘It’s the Co­unt, Mi­lo­u­ins. I ne­ed to spe­ak to the Co­un­tess. Ur­gently.’

  ‘The po­li­ce, Sir. They know who you are. They are he­re.’

  Ba­le clo­sed his eyes. Had he ex­pec­ted this? So­me fa­ta­lis­tic dj­inn whis­pe­red in­to his ear that he had. ‘Did she gi­ve you a mes­sa­ge for me? In ca­se I cal­led?’

  ‘One word, Sir. Fer­tig­mac­hen.’

  ‘Fer­tig­mac­hen?’

  ‘She sa­id you wo­uld un­ders­tand, Sir. I must put the pho­ne down now. They are co­ming.’

  78

  Ba­le slept for a lit­tle af­ter that. He se­emed to drift in and out of cons­ci­o­us­ness li­ke a man gi­ven too lit­tle et­her be­fo­re an ope­ra­ti­on.

  At one po­int he tho­ught he he­ard fo­ots­teps co­ming up the sta­irs and he pul­led him­self up on the si­de of the bed and wa­ited, for fi ve end­less mi­nu­tes, with his pis­tol at the re­ady. Then he slip­ped back in­to un­cons­ci­o­us­ness.

  He awo­ke to a no­ise in the kitc­hen. This ti­me it was cer­ta­in. The rat­tling of pots. So­me­one was ma­king them­sel­ves cof­fee. Ba­le co­uld al­most he­ar the pop of the bu­ta­ne gas. Smell the gro­unds.

  He had to eat. To drink. The no­ise in the kitc­hen wo­uld dis­gu­ise his fo­ots­teps. If the­re we­re two of them, tant pis. He wo­uld kill them both. He had the ele­ment of surp­ri­se on his si­de. The flics ap­pa­rently tho­ught he was on his way to Cap Ca­ma­rat. That was a go­od thing. They must fi­gu­re he had es­ca­ped the­ir cor­don sa­ni­ta­ire. They wo­uld be stan­ding down in the­ir dro­ves.

  If he dro­ve out in a po­li­ce car, they wo­uld be flum­mo­xed. He co­uld dress up in one of the­ir uni­forms. We­ar sung­las­ses.

  In the mid­dle of the night?

  Ba­le sho­ok his he­ad slowly. Why did he ha­ve no energy any­mo­re? Why did he do­ze so much?

  Wa­ter. He ne­eded wa­ter. He wo­uld die wit­ho­ut wa­ter. The blo­od loss had me­rely com­po­un­ded the is­sue.

  He for­ced him­self to his fe­et. Then, hol­ding the Red­hawk down by his si­de, he stumb­led to­wards the sta­irs.

  79

  Sa­bir held the bam­boo tu­be out in front of him and crac­ked the wax se­al. A stran­ge odo­ur as­sa­iled his nost­rils. He al­lo­wed his mind to wan­der for a mo­ment. The scent was swe­et and warm and earthy at the sa­me ti­me. Fran­kin­cen­se? Yes, that was it. He held the tu­be to his no­se and in­ha­led. Inc­re­dib­le. How had the scent sta­yed se­aled in­si­de the tu­be so long?

  Sa­bir tap­ped the tu­be on the tab­le. So­me re­sin fell out. He felt the first pinp­ricks of an­xi­ety. Co­uld the fran­kin­cen­se ha­ve be­en used as a con­ser­va­ti­on agent? Or was the tu­be me­rely an in­cen­se con­ta­iner? Sa­bir tap­ped the tu­be aga­in, this ti­me a lit­tle har­der and a lit­tle mo­re fret­ful­ly. A thin roll of parch­ment tumb­led on to his lap.

  Sa­bir un­rol­led the parch­ment and spre­ad it has­tily out on to the tab­le. It co­ve­red an area ap­pro­xi­ma­tely six inc­hes by eight. The­re was wri­ting on both si­des. In gro­ups of fo­ur li­nes. It was the qu­at­ra­ins.

  Sa­bir be­gan the co­unt. Twenty-six qu­at­ra­ins on one si­de. A furt­her twenty-six on the ot­her. He co­uld fe­el the ten­si­on bu­il­ding in­si­de his chest.

  He pul­led a she­et of pa­per to­wards him. Ad­he­ring scru­pu­lo­usly to the text, he co­pi­ed down the first qu­at­ra­in. Then he be­gan his first ten­ta­ti­ve trans­la­ti­on.

  80

  Cal­que lo­oked ac­ross at the Co­un­tess. They we­re alo­ne in the ro­om, just as the Co­un­tess had in­sis­ted when Cal­que had re­qu­es­ted the in­ter­vi­ew. ‘So yo­ur son wants to co­me ho­me?’

  The Co­un­tess wa­ved her hand in ir­ri­ta­ti­on, li­ke so­me­one trying to dis­per­se a bad smell. ‘I don’t know what you’re tal­king abo­ut.’

  Cal­que sig­hed. ‘My pe­op­le in­ter­cep­ted a te­lep­ho­ne call, Ma­da­me. Bet­we­en yo­ur son and yo­ur fo­ot­man, Mi­lo­u­ins. The sa­me fo­ot­man fo­und at­temp­ting to lock yo­ur sec­ret me­eting cham­ber. Yo­ur son used Mi­lo­u­ins na­me, so we are cer­ta­in of our facts.’

  ‘How do you know it was my son? Mi­lo­u­ins may re­ce­ive calls from who­me­ver he li­kes. I am ext­re­mely to­le­rant with my ser­vants. Un­li­ke so­me pe­op­le I know.’

  ‘Yo­ur son int­ro­du­ced him­self as the Co­unt.’

  The Co­un­tess’s eyes went de­ad. ‘I’ve ne­ver he­ard anyt­hing so ab­surd. My son has not cal­led he­re for ye­ars. I told you. He left to jo­in the Le­gi­on. Aga­inst my exp­ress inst­ruc­ti­ons, I sho­uld add. I can’t un­ders­tand why you are ha­ras­sing us in this man­ner.’

  ‘Mi­lo­u­ins pas­sed yo­ur son a mes­sa­ge.’

  ‘Don’t be so silly.’

  ‘The mes­sa­ge con­sis­ted of one word. A Ger­man word. Fer­tig­mac­hen.’

  ‘I don’t spe­ak Ger­man. Ne­it­her, I be­li­eve, do­es Mi­lo­u­ins.’

  ‘Fer­tig­mac­hen me­ans to end so­met­hing. Or so­me­one.’

  ‘Re­al­ly?’

  ‘Yes. It can al­so me­an to kill one­self.’

  ‘Are you ac­cu­sing me of as­king my son to kill him­self? Ple­ase, Cap­ta­in. Gi­ve me cre­dit for a mo­di­cum of ma­ter­nal so­li­ci­tu­de.’

  ‘No. I be­li­eve you we­re as­king yo­ur son to kill so­me­one el­se. A man na­med Sa­bir. To kill Sa­bir and to ma­ke an end of the mat­ter. I sho­uld tell you now that Sa­bir is in our pro­tec­ti­ve cus­tody. If yo­ur son at­t
empts to mur­der him, he will be ca­ught.’

  ‘You sa­id “to kill Sa­bir and ma­ke an end of the mat­ter”. What mat­ter can you pos­sibly be re­fer­ring to?’

  ‘I know abo­ut the Cor­pus Ma­le­fi­cus, Ma­da­me. I’ve re­ad the do­cu­ment you ke­ep in the hid­den ro­om.’

  ‘You know not­hing abo­ut the Cor­pus Ma­le­fi­cus, Cap­ta­in. And you did not re­ad the do­cu­ment you ci­te. It is in cip­her. You are trying to bluff me and I won’t ha­ve it.’

  ‘Aren’t you con­cer­ned abo­ut yo­ur son’s ac­ti­ons?’

  ‘De­eply con­cer­ned, Cap­ta­in. Is that what you want me to say? De­eply con­cer­ned.’

  ‘Cip­her ex­perts will so­on decrypt the parch­ment.’

  ‘I think not.’

  ‘But you know what it says?’

  ‘Of co­ur­se. My hus­band ta­ught it to me ver­ba­tim when we first mar­ri­ed. It is writ­ten in a lan­gu­age known only to an in­ner circ­le of cho­sen adepts. But I am an old wo­man now. I ha­ve en­ti­rely for­got­ten both the con­tents and the lan­gu­age. Just as I ha­ve for­got­ten the con­tent of this con­ver­sa­ti­on.’

  ‘I think you are an evil wo­man, Ma­da­me. I think you are be­hind wha­te­ver yo­ur son is do­ing and that you are happy to con­sign him to the De­vil, if that ac­cords with yo­ur and yo­ur so­ci­ety’s, in­te­rests.’

  ‘You are tal­king non­sen­se, Cap­ta­in. And you are en­ti­rely out of yo­ur depth. What you say is pu­re spe­cu­la­ti­on. Any jury wo­uld la­ugh you out of co­urt.’

  Cal­que sto­od up.

  A stran­ge lo­ok pas­sed over the Co­un­tess’s fa­ce. ‘And you are wrong in anot­her thing as well. I wo­uld ne­ver con­sign my son to the De­vil, Cap­ta­in. Ne­ver to the De­vil. I can as­su­re you of that.’

 

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