The Empress Holds the Key

by Gabriel Farago

  ‘I have seen it. There is more,’ added Newman excitedly.

  ‘What?’

  ‘A letter written by Blanquefort was found with the dagger ...’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Egypt. There is a signature and a date! October 1305.’

  ‘Where in Egypt?’

  ‘I don’t know yet ...’

  ‘How extraordinary! After all these years, who would have believed it?’

  ‘There are some complications ... I will need assistance.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘I only have a few lines of the manuscript at this stage – that was free – no doubt to whet my appetite and loosen the purse strings. The rest I have to buy. You know how these things work.’

  ‘You need assistance, you said.’

  ‘Yes, with authentication, translation and so on. I do not want to involve outsiders.’

  ‘Understood.’

  ‘Something else has come up unexpectedly, something out of the past I have to deal with as well – urgently and discreetly.’

  ‘Can you be more specific?’

  ‘Diderot ...’

  ‘Are you serious?

  ‘Absolutely.’

  ‘That is strange. Only yesterday the BBC contacted the Vatican with a request for certain information ...’

  ‘Information about what?’

  ‘The German excavations in Montsegur during the war, and ... Diderot and the Templars ...’

  ‘Surely not another documentary?’

  ‘We weren’t told.’

  ‘Coincidence?’

  ‘Hardly. Destiny, I would say. Wouldn’t you?’

  ‘What are you going to do about it?’ asked Newman.

  ‘I put a lid on it of course. No information will be released.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘I will send Father Habakkuk,’ the Cardinal said. ‘He’s an expert on the subject; resourceful and totally reliable.’

  ‘Excellent.’

  ‘Please keep me informed and be careful. We cannot afford to ...’

  ‘I know. Thank you Sebastian.’

  The Cardinal returned to his pew – a present from his mountain village in Bavaria – and ran the tips of his fingers over the smooth, three-hundred-year-old wood. Looking out the window, he digested the astonishing news. Should he tell the Pontiff about the unexpected discovery or should he wait? What if Eric was mistaken? Better to wait until Habakkuk evaluates the situation, the cautious diplomat in him counselled.

  The Cardinal unlocked the bottom drawer of his desk, took out a bundle of old manuscripts and began to arrange them carefully on the tooled leather top. Some of the documents reached back several centuries to the bloody days of the Inquisition. The old threat had surfaced again.

  Blanquefort in Egypt, he thought, could it really be? After all this time –– a step closer perhaps? As he leafed through one of the manuscripts, the Cardinal found some of his old notes written many years ago. He held up the crumpled pages and began to read aloud:

  ‘In 1119, nine French knights, the founding fathers of the Poor Knights of Christ and the Temple of Solomon –– the Templars –– travelled to Jerusalem. They were welcomed by King Baldwin who used the Al-Aqsa Mosque as his own palace, and invited them to establish their headquarters on the Temple Mount. The knights asked the king for permission to occupy part of the mosque for their own use. Curiously, this extraordinary request was granted. For the next seven years, the knights remained in Jerusalem and rarely left the mosque.’

  The Cardinal put down the page, looked out the window and watched a flock of birds circle the dome of St Peters. What were the Templars doing there during all this time? he asked himself, playing with his pencil. There’s a clue, he thought. The recent archaeological excavations! A tunnel found under the mosque. The Templars were digging! They were looking for something! But what? And did they find what they were looking for?

  The Cardinal began to search through the pile of manuscripts on his desk. He was looking for one of the first documents the Vatican had obtained from Diderot; he’d not looked at it for several years, but his hands began to shake just thinking about it. He found it pinned to one of the manuscripts at the bottom of the pile. ‘There is only one ...’ he read.

  Crushing the piece of paper into a tight ball, the Cardinal threw it on his desk without reading the rest. There was only one plausible explanation for the Templars’ baffling activities on the Temple Mount, he thought: a search. A search that lasted seven long years and failed. Why? Because the monks were looking for something that was no longer there, something that had disappeared long before their arrival in Jerusalem.

  The Cardinal took a sip of water to calm himself. But they did find it later on, he reminded himself, in Africa ... or did they? Shaking his head, he pressed the bell knob on the side of his desk. His secretary appeared almost instantly. ‘Please get Father Habakkuk,’ said the Cardinal, ‘now.’

  ‘You wanted to see me, Eminence,’ said the black priest, standing in the doorway of the Cardinal’s study. The Cardinal pointed to the leather chair facing his desk.

  ‘I have some news you’ll find interesting ...’ The Cardinal paused and reached for the document he had earlier crushed into a ball. ‘A letter written by Armand de Blanquefort has been found,’ he added, watching the black priest carefully. Habakkuk sat up, his eyes fixed on the Cardinal like a snake about to strike, but said nothing. Slowly, the Cardinal smoothed out the creases of the crumpled page. ‘You have to go to Sydney immediately to talk to Sir Eric.’

  ‘Did he ...?’

  The Cardinal held up his hand. ‘Later,’ he said. ‘Brother Frumentius arrived from Addis Ababa yesterday.’

  Habakkuk looked shocked. ‘Frumentius ... is ... here?’

  ‘Yes. He had a message for me ... from ...’ The Cardinal stopped in mid-sentence.

  ‘Another petition? He doesn’t give up, does he?’

  ‘Frumentius wants to see you,’ said the Cardinal, ignoring the question. ‘He will be waiting in the gardens at sunrise. Apparently you will know exactly where. It’s almost light; better hurry.’

  The Cardinal put his hand on the familiar pew and knelt. By the time the first rays of the morning sun illuminated the top of Michelangelo’s architectural masterpiece, he knew exactly what he had to do.

  11

  ‘Is that all you’ve been able to come up with?’ George Cunningham, the Director of Public Prosecutions, leafed through Jana’s report, obviously unimpressed. ‘I’m sorry, but it’s not much, is it? You say you’re convinced Newman was lying about the photograph, yet you offer no proof, no evidence. Then there’s Mrs Abramowitz? Her story is certainly intriguing but, again, nothing tangible; it doesn’t link the man in the photo to Newman. The attack on the journalist is of course regrettable, but most likely has nothing whatsoever to do with this matter. Burglaries happen all the time. In short, your conclusions are not convincing. I’m sorry ... I just can’t let you continue an investigation based on gut feeling and speculation.’

  Jana knew Cunningham was right. She also knew what her instincts told her. She sensed that all she needed was a little more time and an opportunity to speak to Newman’s daughter.

  ‘You’re asking me to back a hunch,’ continued Cunningham. ‘Why? Convince me.’

  ‘Surely we can’t solve everything through reason alone,’ Jana argued. ‘Not everything in life is logical or rational. I mean ... sometimes, Sir, a feeling, or a hunch, can provide that missing link that reason alone ... Occasionally, we must trust our instincts if we want to reach that little bit further ...’

  Cunningham put down the report and took off his glasses. ‘You’ve said you want to speak to Newman’s daughter,’ he said and peered at Jana. ‘Tell me about her.’

  ‘She’s a famous ophthalmic surgeon. Her late husband, Professor David Rosen, established the Rosen Foundation – surely you’ve heard of it, Sir? They used to work together, treating eye disease in Third World cou
ntries. Two years ago she was named Australian of The Year and last year she received an Order of Australia for her work.’

  ‘So ... I’ll be ... that’s Newman’s daughter. How extraordinary,’ said Cunningham.

  ‘She’s the daughter of his first marriage; it’s all in the report,’ Jana pointed out. ‘She doesn’t fit into the Newman family picture at all. Apparently, she married a Jewish doctor – one of her university lecturers – against her father’s wishes. Her parents divorced when she was still a teenager; I had a look at the court file. Newman has cut her off completely. He behaves as if she doesn’t exist.’

  ‘What’s she doing now?’

  ‘Her husband died in a plane crash in Ethiopia a few years ago. Since then, she’s carried on his work on her own,’ Jana said. ‘The Foundation relies entirely on donations and bequests. She’s either operating in poor countries or campaigning for the Foundation. I understand she’s in great demand as a guest speaker.’

  Cunningham was slowly turning the pages of the report. Jana was, he thought, one of his best agents; she had had spectacular results in the past.

  ‘How much time do you think you need?’

  ‘A few more days should do it,’ Jana replied casually, hoping not to be questioned about the length of time.

  ‘Why a few days? Can’t you contact her straight away?’

  ‘Well, she’s a little difficult to reach right now.’

  ‘Why?’ Cunningham asked apprehensively.

  ‘She’s somewhere in the jungle.’

  ‘Jungle? Where?’

  ‘New Guinea.’

  Settling into the flight to Port Moresby, Jana unbuckled her seatbelt, turned on the reading light and opened her backpack. She was itching to find out what her research assistant, Melanie, had come up with. Jana pulled out the sheaf of papers Melanie had hurriedly thrust into her hand in the taxi and settled back in her seat. She was intrigued to learn how an apparently impecunious refugee from war-torn Europe had managed to establish a successful merchant bank with assets worth many millions scattered across three continents.

  Newman met his first wife, Ingrid, reported Melanie, the daughter of a Lutheran pastor, during his stay in Hahndorf soon after his arrival in South Australia. They married in December 1947 and moved to Adelaide. Newman went to work for a stockbroker. Melanie had obtained most of this information from Newman’s divorce file.

  A daughter, Bettany, was born in 1949. There were no other children. In 1962, the family moved to Sydney and a year later Ingrid Newman sued for divorce. So far, so good. However, the period between his arrival in December 1946 and his marriage the following year is still a blank. Until we get our hands on his immigration file – the classified section – we’ll just have to be patient. I’ve made the Freedom of Information application and told them it was urgent.

  Breathing heavily, the quiet young man with the striking halo of fuzzy hair had his eyes closed. There were beads of perspiration glistening like tears on his cheeks. He hadn’t touched his food.

  ‘You should really try the dinner,’ said Jana, turning to her dark-skinned neighbour, ‘it’s quite good.’

  ‘I’m not hungry, thank you,’ replied the young man politely, keeping his eyes closed and increasing his grip on the armrests.

  ‘Are you returning home?’ asked Jana, trying to keep the conversation going.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘This is my first trip to New Guinea.’ There was no reply. ‘I’m going to Bundi; it’s somewhere in the Highlands I believe, do you know it?’

  ‘To Bundi?’ repeated the young man. He opened his eyes and looked at Jana for the first time. ‘So am I.’ He introduced himself as Daniel Kunduna, a medical student returning to New Guinea for the holidays. His parents still lived in a small village near Bundi, he explained. When Jana mentioned Dr Rosen’s name, Daniel became quite excited. Dr Rosen was revered in the Highlands as a great healer, he told her. She had encouraged him to study medicine and had helped him win a scholarship.

  The remaining hours of the long flight passed quickly. Daniel entertained her with fascinating stories of wana perena porois – ancestral spirits – and sorcerers called wei kumos. He spoke of ancient rituals and traditional sing sings. Her suddenly chatty neighbour appeared to have lost his fear of flying altogether. Not only did he devour his next meal, but was happy to accept part of hers as well.

  Jana spent the night at the Australian embassy in Port Moresby. There were only two flights a week to Bundi. Weather permitting, the next one was due to leave in the morning.

  The small plane was filled to capacity. Jana’s seat was at the back. How everyone – including Daniel – had managed to board before her was a mystery. To get to her seat, she had to push past noisy natives prattling excitedly in Pidgin English and step over children playing on the floor. Nonplussed, Jana stared at her seat. It was already occupied – by a small pig in a crate.

  ‘Don’t worry about it,’ said Daniel, waving from the back. ‘Just push it into the aisle and sit down; this is New Guinea.’

  Father Schaffer, the missionary in charge of the Bundi outpost, met every flight. He was waiting at the end of the runway, holding a big umbrella. He had bad news for Jana. Dr Rosen had gone to a remote mountain village, he explained, and wasn’t due to return for several days. Jana’s spirits sank.

  ‘Dr Rosen is still up in the mountains?’ asked Daniel, butting in. ‘I can take you to her if you like. My village is on the way. I’m leaving in the morning.’

  ‘I must warn you, Ms Gonski, the terrain here is very rough and almost completely isolated. Everything will have to be carried, you understand,’ explained Father Schaffer. ‘Uphill, for most of the way.’ He pointed to the mountains covered in seemingly impenetrable rainforest behind the mission. ‘A journey like this is not without danger. There are no paths; you will have to climb into deep gorges and cross many streams. I’m told some of the old suspension bridges have been washed away by the heavy rains we’ve had recently. It happens every year.’

  ‘I can see you’re trying to frighten me, Father,’ Jana said. ‘You’re forgetting I’m a police officer. You should see some of the training we have to do. For once, it may actually come in useful.’

  Father Schaffer had not exaggerated. It had rained heavily for weeks, making the ground muddy and treacherous. Slippery tree roots hidden under a thick carpet of rotting leaves criss-crossed the forest floor like giant spider webs waiting to ensnare the unwary. Within minutes of leaving the mission, Jana was soaked to the skin. The humidity was intense. Without the porters and Daniel’s resourcefulness, the journey would have been impossible.

  Jana lost count of the frightening bridges and icy streams they had to cross because the bridges were no more. Daniel set a gruelling pace, anxious to reach the village before nightfall.

  ‘Can you smell it?’ he asked, grinning at Jana.

  ‘What?’ Jana was near breaking point and could hardly speak.

  ‘Smoke, and as they say, where there’s smoke, there’s fire. Cooking fire,’ he said, smacking his lips. When they entered the silent village it was almost dark. ‘Up there.’ Daniel pointed to a small clearing above the village. ‘That’s Dr Rosen’s tent.’

  Clambering up to the tent, Jana thought she could hear music. At first, she didn’t trust her ears. However, as she came closer, the music became louder and clearer; unmistakably Mozart. Ignoring her aching back and burning feet, she stood in front of the tent and listened. When she tried to lift her stiff arms to take off her backpack, she heard footsteps approaching from behind.

  ‘Let me help you with that,’ someone said. Jana turned around. A tall, middle-aged woman holding a lantern came walking towards her out of the shadows. ‘Tea?’ she asked.

  ‘Oh yes, please,’ Jana replied gratefully.

  12

  Habakkuk knew exactly where to find Brother Frumentius. They had met in the Vatican gardens many times as young men, always at the Fontana Della Galera, the Galleon
Fountain. Frumentius sat on a stone bench facing the fountain and watched the water cascade out of the gun ports of the ornate galleon in the centre. The galleon, covered with wet moss, reminded him of a ghost ship rising out of the deep.

  ‘I was trying to remember. I think it’s been fifteen years,’ Habakkuk said, walking up to Frumentius from behind. The grey-haired man stood up, turned around and embraced Habakkuk.

  ‘They called us the black twins, remember?’

  ‘Always together, always laughing, impossible to tell apart.’

  ‘Look at you, you haven’t changed at all,’ said Frumentius, shaking his head.

  ‘Neither have you.’ They both knew it wasn’t so. They linked arms and began to stroll through the gardens. ‘What brings you here?’ Habakkuk asked. ‘After all these years?’

  ‘I came to deliver a message to the Cardinal – from the Guardian.’

  ‘In person? It must be important.’

  ‘It is.’

  ‘Another petition?’ asked Habakkuk, raising an eyebrow.

  ‘Yes, and a message. I have a message for you as well ...’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘I suppose it’s more of a reminder than a message,’ Frumentius continued quietly.

  ‘A reminder, how curious. You are to remind me – of what?’ bristled Habakkuk.

  ‘Of who you are, where you belong.’

  ‘Isn’t that a little presumptuous? I know who I am.’

  ‘I’m only the messenger ...’

  ‘If I remember correctly, we had a similar discussion about this very topic, in this very garden, many years ago. Just before you went back,’ said Habakkuk.

  ‘Quite.’

  ‘And the petition?’

  ‘Access to the archives.’

  ‘Again?’

  ‘Yes. You know we should be given permission ...’

  ‘I disagree,’ Habakkuk interrupted. ‘The interests of Mother Church are paramount; you know that.’

  ‘Here we go again! Suppressing the truth is not the way!’