by Rob Swigart
What was worse, and more frightening, disruptive, even evil in Lacatuchi’s eyes, the Pythoi had always been scrupulously honest. Never did a Pythos lie or distort, and because of this others believed. Therein lay its power. Sometimes the Church had to guard its secrets, dissemble, distort, even lie if necessary, to protect itself.
The Pythos seemed to have the ability to see the future, to delineate the shape of events and anticipate the Church, always one step ahead. Underneath, Lacatuchi feared, was a secret that really did allow the Pythos to transcend time and truly see the future. This was not a gift, he believed, but a technology of vision.
Such power could not be allowed to remain in the hands of anyone but the Holy Mother Church. The Struggle had gone on far too long; it must end now, before the Church was completely destroyed.
But the Pythos had never operated in the open. Indeed, it had demonstrated a supernatural patience and cunning. Its influence had always been nearly invisible behind a shield of other motives, other actions, other conspiracies: a usurper here, an assassination there, a court intrigue, a business funded. Only through careful attention to subtle events in the world had the Order been able to detect and counter the Pythos’ influence. No one else could be trusted.
A diffident knock interrupted these ruminations. He straightened and clasped his hands behind his back. His fingers touched the rings, amethyst on left, Papal insignia on right. The cool stone and metal steadied him. “Come,” he said.
Defago entered, smiling. “We have what we need.”
The Prior General pressed his lips together in disapproval. “There’s blood on your jacket.”
Defago brushed his lapel. “Oh, yes, that. Never mind, Prior General, Rossignol sang.” He let out a little laugh and held up the disk. “This was on its way to Istanbul.”
“Istanbul?” Lacatuchi managed to keep his voice steady, even indifferent, but his heart had fallen. So the Pythos had people even in Istanbul, the cradle of the Order itself! What alchemy was this? Since the Church had split in half and the heretical Eastern Church took over, Istanbul had become dangerous territory for the Order. Was the Pythos in truth a hydra monster? Every time you cut off a head, two more grew in its place? Well, the Order had its resources as well.
“Istanbul, yes. To join the other half.” Defago was pleased with himself, but he hesitated.
“I’ll take it myself. And the message?”
Defago handed over the disk and a sheaf of paper. “This is the transcript. It’s all there,” he said smugly. He turned to go but the Prior General called him back. “There’s something else you aren’t telling me, Defago. What is it?”
Defago looked at his shoes. He cleared his throat. “I think we have an informer in our community.” He looked Lacatuchi directly in the eye. “Don’t worry, now we know about him we’ll find him.”
“Really?” The Prior General’s pitiless stare did not waver.
Defago lowered his eyes. “We’ll find him,” he repeated.
Lacatuchi’s eyes were dark pits. “Our Order is unknown to the world, Defago. It must remain that way. We have survived since the time of Augustine by being small, alert, nimble and above all secret. If there is a traitor in our ranks, he must be found now. Do you understand?”
Brother Defago swallowed. “Yes, Prior General.”
“Very well.” Lacatuchi turned to the window and stared through the bars at the dark river, as if in a trance. Finally he stirred. “What of the girl?”
Defago made a dismissive gesture. “She was a student of Foix’s. He had no heirs and left her his apartment, his books and harpsichord, that’s all.”
The Prior General lifted his thick eyebrows and once again Defago felt fear. As soon as it arose, rage followed. With some difficulty he swallowed both the rage and the fear and said quietly, “The girl isn’t important, Prior General. We can deal with her if necessary.”
“Can you?” the Prior General said, deliberately shifting the pronoun.
Defago took the hint. “Of course. She can go on a trip and not return. She has an insignificant job as a scholar. The Institute may wonder where she went, why she failed to come back, but in the end they’ll forget about her.”
“All right, first the girl,” Lacatuchi decided. “Even if she has nothing to do with this, we don’t want loose ends, not at this stage. We should expect some, what do they call it these days? Collateral damage? I’ll take care of Istanbul. We must move swiftly.”
Istanbul, it seemed, had again become a parasite in the heart of the Order, a previously unnoticed center of corruption or disease. The Pythos had used the city at the time of Theodosius, but Lacatuchi had thought all that was long over. It was worrisome to discover it was still used. He must cut out the cancer, but every time he excised a tumor, he found more tainted cells, and had to keep cutting. Sometimes it seemed it would never end. He sighed. Yes, Istanbul required his personal attention.
He felt his attention was like a cold blade, finding he preferred the surgical metaphor to the mythological one. Being the surgeon put him in control. This wasn’t a hydra-headed monster he was fighting, after all, but people, flesh and blood, dark and perverse and heretical, perhaps, but ultimately human. He could deal with flesh and blood. He nodded. “You may go.”
“Yes, Prior General.” Defago bowed and backed away.
“No loose ends,” Lacatuchi called. “You understand, Brother Defago, there must be nothing remaining where the Pythos had been?”
Defago nodded and backed from the room.
The door closed, leaving the Prior General alone. He would take care of Istanbul personally. That suited him: he had personal interests in the former capital of the Eastern Roman Empire. Besides, he wasn’t sure he really trusted his Inquisitor.
Defago hurried through the antechamber without a glance at Xavier, the Prior General’s misshapen guard, assistant, and barber. He was busy turning over his Tarot cards and did not look up.
Defago scurried up the steps and into the ruined abbey, slamming the door behind him.
Rage had overcome his fear and he fumed at the injustice of it. Upstart! he thought. Lacatuchi was an officious incompetent. He, Defago, had more experience in the struggle, had done more, was more dedicated, more efficient. He, Defago, had cultivated Sister Teresa, had brought her to the Church, sponsored her entry into the convent and ordination as an inclusa, a Dominican nun. He had recruited and trained her. He was responsible for the death of the Pythos, not that fat bogeyman, for all his influence in the Order. He, Defago, should be Prior General!
17.
Lisa and Steve descended a curving path in the Parc Montsouris toward the rue Gazan and its line of stately apartment buildings. A rain shower had just passed, leaving the lawns a rich green that sparkled in the intermittent sun striking through the cloud. Flowerbeds were bands of red, yellow and blue, colors seemingly heightened by the rain, but already women in small groups were pushing strollers along the damp pathways, chatting animatedly. From time to time they glanced up, readying their umbrellas to bloom at the slightest sign of more rain. For now, though, the air was fresh and bracing.
Steve broke the silence. “What’s your address?”
“Rue de l’Esperance. Isn’t that poetic, the Street of Hope?”
“You speak with irony?”
He wore no hat and she found herself admiring the way his short gold hair clung to his skull after the rain. They might have been related, their hair was so close in color. She had sheltered her own with her shoulder bag and only the ends were damp. She thought it must look awful. “Only a little irony,” she admitted. “In spite of what’s happened, whoever’s after me, and whether I’m going to be arrested for Raimond’s murder or not, it’s a beautiful day; gray, but beautiful. I love Paris after a rain, or even during one. I guess I really do believe in hope, after all.”
He smiled but said nothing.
They were walking up Auguste Lançon toward his neighborhood when a crow in the garden
of an apartment building screeched. Another across the street answered. The first, a large, dark shadow flapped across in front of them with a violence that sent a small shiver of premonition through Lisa, like a reminder of what had happened.
The Cité Florale was a tiny triangular pocket of two and three-storey houses shrouded in flowering vines, a rich green this time of year. The short cobbled streets were named after flowers like Wysteria, Mimosa, Morning Glory.
Only last night she had come to herself sitting against the wall of the house he was opening for her on rue des Iris. Something had brought her here earlier this day, but what? She was an ordinary person, a scholar. Except for her lapses into fugue she had no special gifts. Yet she was here the moment Raimond was murdered, under the window of this very apartment. Her foreboding increased. Too many coincidences.
There were two apartments in the building. The ground floor was occupied by someone named DuBellecque. She was hardly surprised to find there was no name on his apartment, which occupied the upper floor of the house. Hardly surprised at all.
“I always loved this little neighborhood,” she said, sinking into a leather chair in his salon to conceal her disquiet.
The hardwood floors were dark and worn and creaked underfoot. Bookcases lined the walls. Many of the books were technical – economics, mathematics, or cryptography – but there was a fair amount of French, Canadian, American, and British literature, as well as a long shelf of books on cinema. The furniture was modern and utilitarian but surprisingly comfortable: a sofa, three chairs, a low coffee table of glass and brushed aluminum. The broad windows along the street side framed the lush greenery surrounding the shuttered windows of the house opposite.
He closed the curtains. “We need a plan of action, but first you might consider buying some clothes and toiletries; we can walk up to the Monoprix at Daviel.”
She arched an eyebrow and thought how disingenuous she was being, affecting this calm. “This is a one-bedroom, isn’t it?”
He dipped his head in agreement.
“Won’t your fiancée object?” She indicated a photograph on the end table of an athletic brunette wearing full bicycling gear. Her head was tilted and she was smiling at the camera, but the dark glasses that curved around her temples concealed her eyes.
He shook his head. “No fiancée, not any longer.” He picked up the photo and looked at it fondly.
“I’m sorry.”
“No need.” He put the picture down gently. “It didn’t work out. Lasted four years, but in the end she married a stockbroker and moved to New York. Nothing here any longer but this photograph and some pleasant memories.”
“I see.” Her tone was dry.
“Don’t worry, if it comes to that, I’ll sleep on the couch.”
She stood briskly. “All right, let’s shop.”
An hour later Steve dropped a plastic sack full of clothing and toiletries by the front door. “That’s it,” he said. “Now for the plan. It’s nearly four. I don’t know how long this apartment will remain secure. The police at least know you’re with me. It’s possible the killers know it as well. I don’t think they tracked us here, but we can’t be sure how long that will last since we don’t know the extent of their resources. I think we should move tomorrow at the latest, just to be safe.” He picked up their shopping. “We’ll take these with us.” He packed their purchases in a duffel bag and threw the plastic Monoprix sack into a wastebasket.
“Are you always this well organized?”
“Yes. I suggest we get going.”
Twenty minutes later he parked his Renault on the rue de la Sorbonne and placed a special police placard on the dash. “Banking privileges,” he said, leading her to the entrance at number 17. “Useful for quick getaways for important clients.”
“You do know your way around.”
“I studied economics here,” he said.
Just inside the entrance to the sprawling complex they passed through security. Steve started to lead her away down a long corridor when she stopped him, “I work here, you know.”
People flowed around them. “Of course you do.” He gave a courtly bow. “Lead on.”
With a comic flip of her hair she took him up a series of stairways to the fifth floor on the inner side of the Court of Honor.
She was about to open the door to the Institut de Papyrologie when she stopped. “I’ll be damned,” she said softly. “The door opens the drawer! It’s the door code! The door opens the drawer! How could I be so slow? Come on!”
She pulled him inside.
The thin blond boy seated at the computer by the door looked up as the two hurried past. “Dr. Emmer!” he called, suspending his game of Solitaire.
Lisa waved. She and Steve rushed toward the computer on a desk at the back of the room next to the Director’s office.
The boy continued, “There was a man looking for you.” Behind him the windows looking down on the Court of Honor of the Sorbonne glowed with gray light. The glass was beaded with rain.
She stopped. “A man? What man?”
The boy shrugged. “A religious, a monk or something, said he was interested in papyrus and wanted to talk to you.”
“Why not the Director? He’s in, isn’t he?”
Again the thin-shouldered shrug. “He went home early. Anyway, this guy asked for you. Said he didn’t want to bother the Director. Seemed really disappointed you weren’t here. He was quite insistent you must be here, but you’re not due in today, that’s what I told him. He wanted to know if he could call you, but I know you don’t have a portable phone. I told him you were at the Fondation Roullot, though, maybe he could catch you there. Did I make a mistake?”
“No, no mistake. Thanks, Olivier. If he comes around again, I’d appreciate it if you’d tell him the same thing. I don’t want to meet him.”
Olivier gave her a strange look. “He didn’t seem dangerous.”
“You never can tell,” she said, and with an anxious glance at Steve sat at the computer and entered “Procroft” in the query line of the Institute database.
“Why not just go through the Procroft collection?” Steve said.
“First, it takes up several drawers full of papyrus and papyrus fragments, and second, we don’t know what to look for.”
Steve indicated the screen. She was scrolling through seemingly endless lists. “You seem to know.”
“Here it is,” she said. The scrolling text stopped.
“Here’s what?”
“The door code to Raimond’s building: 2214. The door opens the drawer. It’s the number of the drawer. That’s where we’ll find what he wanted me to find. Come on, it’s upstairs.”
They climbed the spiral staircase to the top floor. Here the ceilings sloped inward under the roofline. The windows looked onto the university rooftops and the troubled sky.
The suite of rooms contained library stacks, a separate windowless chamber lined with bookcases, a small electronics lab and an extensive series of wooden cabinets with wide, shallow drawers.
Number 2214 was on the east side three drawers up from the floor.
Lisa pulled it open.
“Now what are we looking for?” Steve asked.
He was looking at a pile of sheets in glassine sleeves, each with a small label pasted in the upper corner. Other than that, there was no particular order. It looked as if someone had just tossed the entire collection into the drawer and forgotten about it.
Lisa cupped her chin on her palm, supporting her elbow with the other hand. “A document of some kind, I should think.”
“I see,” he said dryly. The drawer contained nothing but documents.
His irony was so palpable she glared. “Sorry. The tape had another number; I think the one we need.”
“I don’t recall any other numbers.”
“A Delta and a Digamma. Letters represented numbers in ancient Greece. Raimond said, ‘Delta Digamma.’
“Delta could mean infinitesimal change
,” Steve suggested.
“Really? I didn’t know that. But digamma could be the symbol for six.”
Steve nodded. “So we’re looking for number six, plus or minus infinitesimal change? Unless, and I doubt this somehow, Raimond was thinking of theoretical physicist Paul Dirac's Delta, the unit impulse function with the value of infinity for x = 0, and zero elsewhere.” He started to remove envelopes, examine the labels and set them aside on the floor. After a while he added, “These numbers are all over the place. There’s no order at all.”
She examined one of the envelopes in the light from the window. The sheet of papyrus inside was covered with Greek lettering in an elegant hand. “This is a complaint supposedly written by a bride to the local magistrate. Her husband failed to plant the fields she brought to the marriage in her dowry and she’s divorcing him.”
“I guess she was what you would call empowered? Why supposedly written?”
“It’s a forgery, and not a very good one, clumsy hand, anachronistic vocabulary. For tourists.” She tossed it aside. “Do you think Raimond wanted me to multiply the numbers? I just don’t see how. Add or subtract an infinitesimal quantity, maybe seven or five?”
He spread out a handful of the envelopes. “Here I have number two, then 2409, 156B, 9600….” He trailed off and sat back on his heels. “There must be hundreds of these things in here.”
“This is the right drawer, I’m sure of it, so we’d better get to work. We’re looking for Delta six, so let’s look for five, six, or seven.”
All the envelopes were on the floor and they had found none of the numbers. “I don’t understand,” Lisa said. “He wrote Delta-Digamma. He must have meant something else.”
“Maybe the number wasn’t in the tape. Maybe the other number is somewhere else. He sent you to the Procroft, so the door code makes sense. But Delta-Digamma doesn’t match anything. What about Delta?”
She hugged him hard. “You’re a genius,” she whispered in his ear.
He hesitated before letting his arms close loosely around her. “I’ll take your word for it, but why?”