Now he and Ayla met up with Elias at the entrance to the wine cellar. It was, in fact, a cave, as the French knew all wine cellars ought to be. There was a temperature gauge to their left, which was now of course useless, given the electricity had been off for more than a year.
The interior was composed of seven freestanding walls of shelves, each separated by spaces wide enough for an adult to walk down. Bravo went down the rows, here and there pulling a bottle halfway out, randomly taking stock of the crus and the years of bottling. Pretty impressive stuff, he determined. No surprise there.
But what was a surprise was that he found something different in the fourth—the center—row. For one thing, the wines were from vineyards he’d never heard of. For another, unlike the other rows of shelves, there seemed to be no order to how the bottles here were stored. It was as if no one cared about the wine in this row.
And then he discovered something else: a bottle that would not be pulled out more than halfway. Eight more bottles surrounding it were similarly fake. He looked at all nine, pulled out halfway. He pushed them in, using different configurations, all to no avail. Then he took a step back, trying to survey them in a different light. Interesting. They reminded him of the stops on a church organ. That’s when he made a musical chord of thirds by pushing certain bottles back in.
With a grinding of stone against wood, the left side of the shelf-wall slid backward, revealing another stairway, narrower and far steeper than the one Elias had led them down to this level.
“Where does this lead, d’you think?” Ayla said.
Bravo turned to her. “Ready to find out?”
She nodded, and began to follow him down into the darkling depths below the cellar. But partway down, she stopped. “Wait. Where’s Elias?”
“Elias won’t be coming with us.” Bravo said.
“Why not? He’s come this far. He deserves—”
She stopped as Bravo showed her the bronze rood in the palm of his hand.
Ayla shook her head. “Did he give that to you?”
“In a sense.” He looked her squarely in the eye. “Elias never existed.”
“What?”
“At least not in the way you think.”
“Have you lost your mind? That boy saved your life.”
“Yes. In ways a human—child or adult—could not.”
She shook her head. “I don’t understand.”
“Elias had served his purpose. He saved me, healed me, brought us to the brink of the revelation waiting for us below.”
“Wait a minute. You know what’s down there?”
“I’ve known from the moment it became clear to me what Elias was.”
Ayla looked at him askance. “And what was he?”
“Elias told me he was brought here by a voice, that the voice told him where to find this crucifix. He said he dreamed of the apple tree where we buried Conrad, that Conrad plucked an apple from the tree and bade him eat it.”
“Conrad’s spirit was somehow guiding him.”
“That’s true,” Bravo said. “But you haven’t taken the idea far enough. Elias was Conrad.”
“What?”
“Or, more accurately, I suspect, a manifestation of Conrad.”
“But how?”
“Again I suspect this.” He tapped the rood with the forefinger of his other hand. “This bronze rood is special. He’s channeled himself through it. Because it has kept him alive.”
“But he died; he was buried.”
“We buried his body, Ayla. My grandfather—your father—had already left that dead husk.”
“And you know this because of this rood?”
“We’re here now, aren’t we? You’ll agree we wouldn’t be if it wasn’t for this.”
“Yes, but—”
“I wouldn’t be alive now, either.”
He recommenced their descent, but Ayla stopped him.
“I have to be sure,” she said, turning and sprinting up the staircase.
Bravo waited patiently, feeling the warmth of the bronze rood in his hand. Was he imagining the faint whiff of apples? Ten minutes later, Ayla came back down to where he stood.
“Well,” he said, “did you find Elias?”
“There’s no sign of him.” Her eyes were half-glazed in awe and wonder. “It’s as if he never was there.”
Bravo waited a beat, knowing how disoriented she must be. Then he said, “Are you ready now?”
Her eyes cleared. “You’re still not telling me everything, are you?”
“When we get to the bottom of this staircase, you’ll know what I know,” he said. “I promise.”
“I don’t believe you,” she said as they began again to descend, “but that’s all right. I know you’ll tell me what I need to know.”
He laughed. “And not a word more?”
“That’s my thought. Yes.”
He nodded, keeping an eye out as his beam of light swept back and forth in front of them. “Well, you’re learning.”
22
Vatican City: Present Day
ST. PETER’S BASILICA WAS AS CROWDED AS THE ROMAN FORUM. Bursting with visitors from the four corners of the world, it was an ocean of jostling tourists, guides, and hucksters all doing what they did best. Selfies abounded but, thank God, no selfie sticks allowed, thought Obarton as his corpulent frame was tossed about like a boat in choppy seas. Faces blurred in and out of his vision field as he craned his neck, searching for the man he was meant to meet at this appointed hour.
At last, he saw him. Felix Duchamp, tall, lean, saturnine, slipped through the throng as easily as an eel around coral arms. But then he was a cardinal, and those not too busy looking at themselves with the basilica as background gave way to him as if they were vassals paying deference to their liege lord.
“Monsieur Obarton,” Duchamp said, “alors bon de vous revoir, mon cher ami.” Good to see you again, my dear friend.
There was, of course, no need for him to speak in French, other than to assume the dominant position. For an instant, Obarton was of two minds as to what language to use in reply.
“Et tu, comme toujours.” And you, as always. He employed the familiar form tu, as opposed to the formal vous the cardinal had used. Épées had been engaged.
Duchamp lifted one hand, and they set off together, winding their way to the rear of the basilica. Using a key hung around his neck beside his pectoral cross, the cardinal opened a door flush with the wall.
As he pushed it open, Obarton heard his name being called, or thought he heard it, and turned back. A group of young students was passing by, led by their teacher who, pointing upward, was discussing something about the history of the basilica. The students’ gazes followed their teacher’s pointing finger—all apart from one. This particular boy was staring directly at Obarton. A small smile appeared to lift the corners of his mouth as Obarton’s eyes engaged with his, as if he knew Obarton. But Obarton was quite certain that he had never seen the boy before.
Or had he? Into his mind popped an image of the vitrine in which the baby floated. The eyes looked identical, didn’t they? And the cheeks, the particular bow of the mouth? And then in the blink of an eye, the boy vanished. In his place stood the huge creature that had been projected for Lilith’s benefit. Was it real? How could it be? No one else was reacting to it.
Obarton closed his eyes and, as if in a dream, slowly opened them again. There was the Archangel Dagon. As Obarton stared, mesmerized, the horn popped out of the center of its forehead, curved like a scimitar. And then its jaws gaped open revealing multi-tiered teeth. Talons gleamed dully as it lunged forward to engulf Obarton in its hideous embrace.
Obarton cried out and, as Duchamp asked him what the matter was, he stumbled backward into the cardinal, sending them both across the lintel, into the private holy spaces behind. But wasn’t all of St. Peter’s, all of Vatican City, a holy space? How could one of Lucifer’s legion set foot here?
“What is it? What’s happened
?” Cardinal Duchamp dragged Obarton into the warm circle of lamplight in the small anteroom. “God in Heaven, all the blood has drained from your face!” Propping the big man against a wall, Duchamp brought a wooden chair with a brocaded seat and back, pushed his guest down onto it.
“Monsieur, are you ill? Shall I call a doctor?”
Obarton shook his head emphatically enough that Duchamp abandoned that idea and moved on to plan B. He jerked on a bellpull and when a priest appeared, the cardinal called for a bottle of mineral water and a carafe of strong coffee.
“Now what on earth... ?”
Obarton shook his head. For the moment, mute, he leaned back against the chair, which creaked in protest.
Duchamp took Obarton’s hands in his. “Like ice.” He shook his head. “Like ice, monsieur.”
The priest returned with the requested items on an oval tray. He poured two glasses full of mineral water, sloshed coffee into a pair of porcelain cups, then withdrew, a worried look on his face.
Without asking, the cardinal spooned two heaping teaspoons of sugar into his guest’s cup, stirred, then held it out to Obarton. “Two hands,” he murmured helpfully.
Obarton felt as if every organ in his body had had the life squeezed out of it. He was quite out of breath and found it difficult to reoxygenate himself. But the strong coffee, and especially the sugar, helped restore some human warmth and, therefore, a semblance of normality to him. Still, he was aghast at his trembling hands. He gulped more coffee, burning his tongue and mouth, then set the cup down as fast as he could, and folded one shaking hand over the other.
Duchamp offered him a glass of water, but Obarton shook his head in refusal. He was trying to ignore the galloping of his heart. The blood pulsing behind his eyes dizzied him badly, as if he were at the railing of a storm-tossed ship.
“Now,” Duchamp said at last. “Are you feeling better, monsieur? No need for a doctor, I take it.”
“None...” His voice sounded so weak that Obarton was obliged to clear his throat, start again. “You’re very kind.”
“Not at all.” Duchamp waved away his words. “So what was it, did you see a ghost?” He chuckled at his little joke.
Obarton smiled weakly, tried out a chuckle himself. It sounded like the crack of dead twigs. “I’m here, Felix, to discuss Lilith Swan.”
“Ah, la belle Lilith.” Duchamp took up his coffee and sipped it. He affected the annoying habit of lifting his pinkie on the hand holding the cup. “What shall we say about her?”
“For one thing, she never should have come to see you.”
Cardinal Duchamp’s eyebrow rose as high as his pinkie. “And the other thing?”
“The other thing rests upon what punishment is meted out for her flouting the rules of the Knights of St.—”
“Spare me.” Duchamp returned his cup to its saucer. “With all due respect, monsieur, I am pleased to interview any member of your Order.”
“As long as she has long legs and a nice pair of tits.”
The cardinal regarded Obarton for some time from beneath suddenly heavy lids. “I will excuse your crassness on the grounds of your sudden deathly pallor and its aftermath. It would disappoint me greatly if I needed to remind you that you are in a house of God, that the Holy See is only steps away.”
“My most sincere apologies, Cardinal,” Obarton murmured, though nothing could be further from the truth. This hypocrite nauseated him as if he were a creature emerging out of an outhouse. “As you have noted, I am not myself at the moment.” You could say that again, he thought. But there was no way he was going to tell Duchamp what had happened—or what he had thought happened. Frankly, he didn’t understand it himself; he was still shaken to his core by the sight of a Fallen Archangel seeking him. It was a nightmare any way you sliced or diced it.
Cardinal Duchamp leaned forward, the tips of his fingers pressing against one another. “But my dear fellow, you must tell me what happened. Think of me as your confessor.”
Obarton looked at him; then something erupted inside him. “I need a moment,” he said, rising.
“Of course. The W.C. is—”
Obarton waved away his words. “I know where it is, Cardinal.” Exiting the anteroom, he lumbered down the hallway to the second door on his left, marked “Signori.” Hauling open the door, he hurried to one of the stalls, made it just in time to empty his rebellious guts into the bowl. Even after he was emptied out he continued retching until all he brought up was bile, black and bitter.
He moaned like a cow giving birth. He hadn’t vomited since he was eleven, when the parish priest broke off teaching him the catechism to touch him most inappropriately. He had borne it stoically, then had run off to the loo, where he puked up his breakfast and, it seemed to him, the least digestible bits of dinner from the night before. Sweating then, sweating now. Splashing water on his face then, splashing water on his face now. Rinsing out his mouth again and again then and now. However, now he almost gagged on the water; then he had returned to the priest for more.
“Ah, feeling better, by the looks of you,” Duchamp said. He had never left his seat, it seemed. He was drinking a second cup of coffee. Apparently, in Obarton’s absence he had ordered a plate of digestive biscuits. He bit into one now, offered what was left on the plate to Obarton as he reseated himself.
Obarton’s stomach turned over, and he stifled a groan. “Thank you, no.” He managed to curl the edges of his mouth up in a paper-thin mockery of a smile. “I’m watching my weight.”
“There’s your problem right there,” the cardinal observed coolly. “Blood sugar drop will make anyone woozy.” He set down the plate. “My advice, five small meals a day, no sugar. You’ll be right as rain in no time.” He finished off his coffee, set down the cup. “In fact, I think you should get yourself a meal as soon as possible. I know a wonderful little trattoria not far from—”
“Lilith Swan.” Obarton interrupted Duchamp’s attempt to bury the topic. “I came to speak with you about her.”
“So you did.” Duchamp regarded him for a moment. “But may I say that I cannot for the life of me understand why this required a visit.”
No, you may not, you maggot, Obarton projected silently through his smile. “Consider this a courtesy call. I wanted to tell you personally that so far as the Circle Council is concerned she’s skating on very thin ice.”
The cardinal’s shoulders lifted and fell. “Why should that concern me?”
“Hmm. Let me give this a thorough think.” Obarton poured himself another cup of coffee, sans sugar this time. He drank half of it before he plunged in the knife. “I imagine it could be due to your rather, uh, intimate relationship with Ms. Swan.”
Duchamp’s eyes opened wide, his mouth turned down in distaste. “Mon cher Monsieur—”
“Don’t ‘My dear sir’ me, Felix. How long has the whore been giving you blow jobs?”
“How dare you!” Cardinal Duchamp’s eyes glittered coldly.
“Did I get it wrong?” A malevolent smile. “Is it boys you crave?”
“I must insist that you leave my presence this instant.”
“As you wish.”
“It is more than a wish, I assure you.” Cold as ice.
Obarton finished his coffee, clattered the cup into its saucer, then rose. He had taken two or three steps toward the door before turning on his heel. “Oh, by the way, I’ve seen the photos.”
Naturally, Duchamp called him back before he reached the doorway. Obarton, turning again, said, “Yes, Cardinal?”
“What photos? There can be no photos of an event that never occurred.”
Obarton extracted his mobile, scrolled through his downloaded pictures, and showed the cardinal the three choice photos Highstreet had agreed to send him.
For some time, Duchamp said nothing. A vein was pulsing in the center of his forehead; it looked like at any moment it would detonate. Then he began to laugh. Obarton had never seen him laugh before, it wasn’t a plea
sant sight for him.
“You find these damning photos amusing, do you? Suppose I show them to your peers in the College of Cardinals?”
“Please.” Duchamp’s hand swept outward toward the door. “Be my guest. Assuming, that is, you want to be made a fool.” Stepping forward, he pointed at the first photo. “The lighting’s all wrong, do you see? Two photos put together—what do they call it, photoshopping, I believe. The others, the same, more or less. No one studying these under a magnifier would credit them.” He nodded. “I don’t know where you got these fakes, Monsieur Obarton, but be so good as to take them with you. They are offensive enough, but what you have attempted is a cardinal sin.”
He waved a hand dismissively. “Out with you now.”
And as he left, Obarton thought savagely, That fucking Lilith, born before Eve, a reflection of Satan.
23
Halicarnassus, Turkey: Present Day
“YOU KILLED THAT JACKAL, DIDN’T YOU?” LILITH SAID. “YOU eviscerated it.”
Emma regarded her from the lip of the cave they had come upon after they’d passed the spot where the cataract spilled over the stone bridge. “Would it matter if I did?”
“Only if you lied to me.”
When Emma failed to respond, Lilith took her hand, turned it so the bit of shattered bloody bone under her nail was clearly visible. “Why did you do it?”
“Because it was there.”
“That’s it? That’s the reason?”
“What other reason could there be?”
“I don’t know. Self-defense.”
Emma laughed softly.
Lilith’s brows knit together. That laugh alerted her again that she might have gotten herself into a situation far, far beyond her understanding. “Why did you bring me here?”
Four Dominions Page 17