Thrillers in Paradise

by Rob Swigart

  Even after the Inquisition burned Giordano Bruno, his successor did not retaliate. The Pythos existed because the Delphi agenda still offered impartial advice. People trusted it. Violence, even in the name of justice, would destroy that trust.

  Everything depended on point of view. The members of the Order felt justice was on their side and acted in good faith. A supplicant might well agree. If the Oracle retaliated, it wouldn’t just look like revenge – it would be revenge, pure and simple. Her predecessors certainly understood this through the millennia.

  Yet she had to react. She couldn’t stay on the run until they managed to kill her and everyone around her. The Order thought she was the key to a secret. They wanted it.

  It had to be something simple, profound and effective, but she had no idea what it was or where to find it. It certainly wasn’t inside her, despite Raimond’s admonition to know herself.

  It must lie elsewhere, perhaps in Raimond’s apartment? Had she overlooked something simple? It was possible.

  Foix had certainly chosen her for this task. He’d been preparing her for fifteen years, knowing he couldn’t live forever. He had, in fact, lasted longer than one would expect. In spite of that, he had never told her what he expected of her, but he believed she could handle it. Otherwise he would never have left all those clues for her to follow.

  His clues were, in fact, her final test.

  How was she doing?

  She wasn’t sure. True, she had solved some of his little puzzles; others were still pending, yet others seemed out of reach.

  For instance, there must be some pattern to the books he had placed on the floor, something that had to do with their titles, authors, colors, positions in the bookcase, number of pages, trim size, binding material, type of paper, publication dates … Yes, she was certain there was something about the books.

  She shook her head to dispel the cobwebs that seemed to obstruct her vision. A woman passing in the other direction stopped for a moment, then hurried on.

  The woman’s hesitation reminded Lisa she hadn’t been paying attention to her surroundings. Something told her she should. Not fear, but a sudden sense of caution.

  Was someone following her? She hunched down inside the windbreaker, pulled the hat lower over her eyes, and let her steps slow. She would wander a bit, stopping often to look around as though trying to find her bearings in a strange place.

  So she made her way into the Cimetière du Montparnasse along the rue Emile Richard. Scattered clouds fractured the faultless blue of the sky, and swift shadows passed over the tombs. She spent several minutes wandering among them, as though seeking a loved one. The back of the safe house presented only blank and indifferent stone. There was nothing to be seen. No one looked at her. As she made her way back to the road she thought her hands were far too clean; they would be a dead giveaway if the enemy spotted her. She stopped to rub some of the soil beside Baudelaire’s tomb on her hands and face.

  Traffic on the boulevard Edgar Quinet was thick, and the sidewalks were crowded. A space opened around her, as if she radiated a bad smell. She stumbled several times, muttering. The space around her grew larger. There was an open-air art market. She walked slowly along the central aisle looking at paintings of clowns and street scenes and huge rectangular abstracts. The tables were covered with small sculpture, figures of blown glass or carved wood.

  Near the metro station something made her turn her head. Opposite the entrance where the rue Delambre merged onto the boulevard a gray van was parked at the curb.

  Where had she seen one like it?

  She paused beside one of the clear plastic trash bags that had replaced the opaque ones so convenient for Algerian bombs in the ’80s and ’90s. After a moment she started rummaging through its contents, just another homeless person looking for the next meal, or the one after that.

  No one was visible in the van. She pulled her hat down and trudged toward Delambre, clutching her bag of scavenged food under her arm, dodging cars. Heat still radiated from the engine. She glanced at the dark gray AGON painted on the side.

  AGON meant struggle. Was it an acronym? She had no idea what the initials meant. She continued around the block, returning down the rue du Montparnasse. The van was still there.

  She remembered the same model and color van parked near Ted and Marianne’s house in Mirepoix. She closed her eyes and pictured it. Yes, on the side were words: La Lutte Contre La Pauvreté, muted orange on gray.

  Meaning bound them together. La Lutte Contre La Pauvreté, the Struggle Against Poverty. It was the kind of charity an Order of the Church might sponsor. AGON probably stood for some charity, but it really meant that the nun and monk were nearby!

  Of course they would know she and Steve were in the area. The parade trucks had all returned to the Avenue du Maine. Their adversaries would be patrolling. How many could they put on the street? Could they recognize her in this disguise?

  She had little gift for intrigue and suddenly felt exposed and vulnerable. There was nothing she could do, though. She had to believe she was just another homeless person limping slowly toward the square named after the day General De Gaulle started the French Resistance with a radio broadcast from the BBC. She shuffled across the rue du Départ and circled the Galeries Lafayette and black monolith of the Tour Montparnasse, stopping frequently to look behind her, muttering and shifting her heavy sack.

  She saw them, the nun and the monk, beside the carrousel kiosk in front of the train station, lit by a momentary shaft of sunlight. The monk was speaking close to the nun’s ear, invisible under the coif and veil of her habit. The carrousel started up with a jaunty melody that urged on the bobbing horses and fanciful Jules Verne submarine. The plaza was filled with tourists looking up to catch some sun or standing in small groups consulting maps.

  She hesitated. She’d have to walk past them to regain the safe house. She could retreat to the square and come back down the street, but it seemed better to keep going.

  The nun touched her companion’s arm with a gloved finger, looking up. Sunlight flashed off the lenses of her yellow-tinted glasses. He straightened, tugged a cell phone from his pocket and flipped it open.

  The nun’s eyes caught Lisa’s, pinning her in place like an insect. Certainly they had spotted her and the monk was calling for help.

  To cover her confusion Lisa pulled a head of lettuce from her plastic bag and examined it carefully. She replaced it and glanced sideways at the pair.

  The nun’s eyes had already slid away, empty of curiosity. Lisa limped past them, muttering the lyrics to a Charles Aznavour song. The monk was frowning. Someone seemed to be yelling at him on the phone. This close Lisa noted an ancient scar that tugged at his lower eyelid before disappearing into the clipped gray beard.

  She let Aznavour fade away. During a break between songs from the carrousel the man said very distinctly, “Oui, Eminence.” He snapped the phone shut angrily as the music started again. The man (the monk – she now remembered seeing him yesterday wearing worker’s overalls in place of the ill-fitting dark suit he wore now) said something to the nun and they began moving east, toward Edgar-Quinet. No doubt they were returning to the van.

  She crossed the rue du Départ again, and two blocks later gained the safe house.

  It was late and she was still anxious and uneasy. The Order might have other people on watch. After loitering until she began to attract the attention of a gendarme she walked purposefully to the door and slipped inside. There was no one around. She entered the garage and took the elevator.

  Steve met her at the door. “I was getting worried. You look awful.”

  She put the groceries on the counter and grinned. “The dirt? Disguise. I saw them, the monk and nun, by the carrousel. They didn’t recognize me, but they’re watching.”

  He nodded. “When it gets dark we’ll leave.”

  “Do you think the police have left Raimond’s apartment?”

  He was surprised. “Why?”
r />   “They won’t think of looking for us there, and I think Raimond hid something there, something important.”

  “What?”

  “I know where to find the rest of the Alberti disk.”

  34.

  The thick-necked driver was waiting impassively behind the wheel. When his passengers appeared he started the van and waited for instructions without acknowledging them. “Convent of St. Cyril,” Defago said when they were on board. The driver swung them smoothly back to boulevard Montparnasse and headed east.

  “The girl?” Defago barked.

  The driver responded in the negative with such a slight movement of his head that the roll of fat on his neck barely twitched.

  Defago settled back with a bitter grunt.

  Sister Teresa, rosary flying between her fingers, rasped, “Well?”

  The corners of his mouth turned down sardonically. “The Prior General has the Alberti disk. Forget the girl, he said. She and her friend are no longer important, he said.”

  “You do not forget, my priest.”

  “No, I do not forget. It seems we must clean up again.”

  “I am ready,” she said simply.

  “Yes.” He thought for a few moments. The Val de Grâce hospital loomed up and fell behind.

  He rubbed his eyes and gave her a thin smile. “We’re to meet him at the convent to collect the message. This is it, what we’ve been waiting for, he said. The message will take us to the Founding Document and the Founding Document will go into the archives of the Order of Theodosius where it will disappear. He said.” His mouth turned down. “He’s destroying our work, everything we’ve done. We might as well have left the Pythos alive.”

  “Don’t be bitter, my priest. We… have each other.”

  His expression softened as he put his hand on her shoulder. “Yes, my fierce angel, we have each other.” He squeezed briefly and though the corners of her eyes tightened she smiled.

  Later the van pulled up to a gate beside the dark brick façade of the Convent of St. Cyril, tucked away on a small side street behind the Gobelins tapestry museum. The gate creaked open and the vehicle passed between a high wall and the semicircular end of a domed wing. It parked in the rear among a number of panel trucks and utility vehicles.

  Defago opened the door for Teresa. “Clever, hiding the document in our own library, don’t you think?” he murmured.

  She stepped onto the pavement. Her artificial foot made a dead sound. “How do you suppose they managed?” she asked, her expression as grim as his.

  “Someone on the inside.” His shrug was fatalistic. “It could have been done years, even centuries, ago, when the library was first assembled. Who reads Bruno any more?”

  The Prior General’s self-satisfaction was evident in the way he was bouncing eagerly on the balls of his feet when they entered the newly modernized foyer. A smile creased his cheeks and compressed his eyes into narrow slits. Inside those tiny pockets the irises glittered under the ceiling lights, carefully chosen to simulate sunlight. “Welcome, Brother Defago, welcome,” he boomed, clapping the monk on the back. With a nod at the nun he said, “Follow me.” Rubbing his hands together he set off down a corridor paneled with dark, unadorned wood. The lighting was indirect and muted, as in a museum. Thick carpet and the faint hum of air-conditioning muffled their footsteps.

  An elderly man in dark slacks and long-sleeved jersey stood by the door at the end.

  Lacatuchi nodded once.

  The man looked back uncomprehendingly. “I’m sorry, sir. The library is open only to authorized people.”

  “Do you know who I am?”

  “No, sir.”

  “I’m the Prior General of an Order of the church.”

  The old man shook his head. “I’m sorry, sir, even if you come from the Vatican I can’t let you enter without a letter.”

  “I do not come from the Vatican.” Lacatuchi leaned close. “A fronte praecipitium a tergo lupi,” he said. Between a precipice and a pack of wolves.

  The old man blanched and replied, “Absit invidia.” No offence intended.

  “Adversus solem ne loquitor.” Don’t argue against the sun. The Prior General straightened and smiled. He was the wolf. “Open the door. Now.”

  The old man unlocked it and stepped aside. “I’m sorry, Eminence.” His voice shook. “I understand now you are to be accorded all courtesy.”

  Lacatuchi waved his hand negligently and swept through the door.

  “What did that mean?” Sister Teresa wanted to know once they were inside.

  “It meant I had the authority of the Holy Inquisition. Even though that office is long abolished, the name continues to inspire obedience.”

  “He does appear to have understood.”

  Defago’s voice was so dry the Prior General, giving him a hard look, started to say something but thought better of it.

  The library of the Convent of St. Cyril was an eclectic blend of modern and traditional. The domed celestial blue of the Baroque ceiling was set off by gilt plaster ornamentation. Four plump cherubs approaching the center from the cardinal directions trailed swags of golden drapery over three levels of modern bookcases under a soaring atrium.

  The spiral staircase and balconies in maroon wrought iron were modeled on the famous Handelingenkamer Tweede at The Hague, but it reminded some people of the old round reading room at the British museum. The staircase was built to suggest a Ptolemaic epicycle on the planetary orbit of the room itself. The Dominicans, some at least, still adhered to the old view that in God’s good universe man is the center and Earth is his unmoving pivot.

  A paneled cabinet by the door opened to reveal an array of touch screens to monitor and control temperature and humidity, set the alarms, search the library, or surf the Internet. The residents often commanded delivery of a vegetarian pizza in under half an hour from the Speed Rabbit franchise on the Avenue des Gobelins, a fact Lacatuchi relished.

  The Prior General called up the catalog on the computer. The library contained over sixty thousand volumes in a number of subjects, from astronomy to zoology, theology to occult magic. Many were rare, bound in leather or vellum. “This library holds one of the approximately two hundred known books bound in human skin,” he said, glancing at the nun. Her eyes glittered.

  Lacatuchi consulted the transcript of Rossignol’s confession and entered the title, Spaccio della bestia trionfante by Giordano Bruno. He simulated spitting. “The Great Heretic!” He noted the location and led them across the foyer to the spiral staircase. “The triumphant beast! By ignorance and pedantry, he meant the teachings of the Church. Very clever, that man. Good thing we burned him.”

  He climbed ahead, huffing with effort. At the top he waited impatiently. The nun, hand on the railing, followed. Defago wound upward behind her. Once he looked up and smiled, showing his incisors, as if the more this delay annoyed the Prior General the more it pleased him.

  By the time they arrived Lacatuchi had fully recovered his good humor. He led them around the balcony, passing bay after bay of bookshelves of dark, fine-grained cherry. Sister Teresa suddenly stopped and stared, enraptured, at the spine of a large folio. Lacatuchi was some distance around the curve of the balcony before he noticed. He came back.

  She had taken down a copy of De civitate dei by Saint Augustine, Bishop of Hippo. “This copy,” she breathed, “with commentaries by Nicolaus Trevet and Thomas Waleys, was printed at Mainz by Peter Schoeffer in 1473. The only edition earlier than this was made at Subiaco in 1467.”

  She did not mention that this copy in her hands was only two years older than the one she had taken from Foix’s apartment and now had carefully packed in her luggage back at the Dominican guesthouse.

  “Come on, let’s get on with it,” Lacatuchi said eagerly.

  They reached the shelves devoted to Giordano Bruno of Nola, which included bound copies of the proceedings of the Venetian and Roman Inquisitions, Vatican documents relating to the philosopher’s trial fo
r heresy titled in gold on a calfskin spine, and a more recent volume of the Processo di Giordano Bruno, whose work had spent centuries on the Index of Forbidden Books. There were many copies of his own books, including De Umbris Idearum, the keywords Rossignol had confessed would unlock the secret message.

  Lacatuchi pointed at the spine of an octavo edition. “This is it. Prohibited and anathema! It should still be so. We can only regret that the Index is no more.” Lacatuchi wiped his wet lips with the back of his hand and carefully removed the book. “A work of the devil; also extremely rare.”

  He placed the precious object on a table and with the tip of his finger opened it. “Yes,” he breathed, pointing at the bottom of the title page and its dedication “al molto illustre et eccellente cavalliero signor Filippo Sidneo.” At the bottom was printed:

  Stampado in Parigi

  M. D. LXXXIIII

  “Paris, 1584.” He grinned wolfishly. “The Great Heretic thought he could fool the Inquisition by pretending this blasphemy was printed in Catholic France and not Protestant England, but the Inquisitors caught him in his lies and deceptions! The Rossignol said the message is between Dialogs One and Two, yes?” He turned the pages one at a time, past the Epistola Esplicatoria. “Some speculate Sir Philip Sydney paid for the printing so this is the usual hypocritical flattery of a patron!”

  He stopped between the first two dialogs at a page, blank except for three lines of small, somewhat crooked letters printed near the bottom.

  “This is it!” the Prior General shouted. “You see how everything Rossignol confessed is true! I always said so. Putting heretics to the test yields good information, the best.”

  Defago squeezed the nun’s shoulder but said nothing about this obvious lie: the Prior General had said nothing of the kind. They both merely looked on impassively.

  The Prior General rubbed his hands together gleefully. “Those letters were put there by Giordano Bruno himself in the very book that condemned him to the flames. The fool!”