by Rob Swigart
Dupond considered smoking a cigarette, something he hadn’t done in months, but decided against it for several reasons. For one thing, since his sister had become ill he no longer enjoyed them. For another, he thought it showed the kind of weakness he feared most in himself. Finally, he would have to get out of the car and stand in the intolerable heat or put up with the smell in his upholstery.
Instead he turned up the air-conditioning. True it meant leaving the engine running, and that was contributing to global warming, but the warming was already real; so was the air-conditioning. He preferred the latter.
Le Monde had offered only desperation. The situation in Central Asia, for example, continued to deteriorate. Well, it had been deteriorating for years, what was new about that? People were blowing up themselves and others with depressing regularity. In fact it was so regular it wasn’t even really news any longer. Le Monde put bombings with a death toll of fewer than 100 on page seven.
Hugo and Mathieu pulled into the lot and parked four cars away. They seemed reluctant to get out. Come on, he muttered. It’s only 40 meters.
But he was as reluctant as they. Still…
He ran for the door and got inside, covered with sweat even after such a short run. “Putain,” he said to the sergeant at the desk, a man he did not know. “It’s hot.”
“Yes, sir,” the sergeant said flatly. Dupond was only a Guardian of the Peace and didn’t really deserve even that level of respect, but the sergeant was taking no chances. Dupond was in civilian clothes. He might be important. Probably not, but maybe: you never knew.
Dupond snorted and passed through the turnstile. It was not as frigid as he had kept his car, but it felt good. He stopped when he heard the door open and close. He turned, but Hugo and Mathieu were already on him, so he said hello.
Hugo nodded and walked past him.
“What happened?” Dupond asked, jogging to keep up.
Hugo didn’t answer until his office door closed behind them. Then all he would say was the French equivalent of Shitstorm.
“Really?” Dupond looked at his superior curiously. “It was the nun, right?”
That did surprise Hugo. “What makes you think that?”
The Guardian of the Peace shrugged. “I’ve been developing sources.”
“What do these sources say?”
Dupond really had no idea since he had just invented them. But he had followed the monk and nun into Paris, and did know they wanted to lure Lisa and Steve to the abbey. Though he wasn’t quite ready to let Hugo know everything, he said only, “They say she’s been very busy; she’s obsessed with Emmer.”
The captain let out a long breath. “They’re right. There was some kind of confrontation at St. Denis that involved shooting. Fatalities and injuries.”
Dupond whistled.
“It was a real bordel. They all escaped, the Emmer woman, the Canadian, the nun and her priest or whatever he is.” He looked up. “Ballistics says the gun is the one that killed Foix. So tell me, Dupond, what the hell’s going on?”
Dupond was relieved. He wasn’t going to be chastised for not bringing in Lisa Emmer. Clearly St. Denis had trumped Hugo’s impatience with him. He wanted to say I told you so, that the nun was more important than the Emmer woman, but Hugo was preoccupied. Maybe this would change his mind.
“The nun, she’s a Dominican.”
“I know that, Dupond.”
“In the thirteenth century the Pope charged the Dominicans with the Inquisitio Haereticae.”
“Yes, yes.”
“I believe the nun and her monk work for an organization that grew out of the inquisition.”
“The Church doesn’t question heretics any longer, Dupond. Nor does it kill them. This is the twenty-first century. The Inquisition no longer exists.”
Dupond shrugged. “True, in 1965 it was renamed the Congregation for the Doctrine of the Faith, and it no longer burns heretics. But it left behind something called the Order of Theodosius.”
“What the hell is that?”
Dupond spread his hands. “A secret organization. I’m trying to find out more, but I can say for sure that the nun did kill Foix and probably Rossignol.”
“Perhaps, but that official investigation is closed. Everyone now wants Emmer.”
“And that’s the question, Captain, isn’t it? Does Quai d’Orsay want her for the same reason as the Order of Theodosius? Or for something else?”
Hugo sat down. “Precisely the question, Dupond. Why don’t you ask your sources?”
Dupond’s lips thinned into something that might have been a smile. “Yes, Captain, I’ll do that.”
51.
A scattering of other scholars in the reading room had their heads bent over the tables, absorbed in their work. The librarian at the front desk was working at her computer. Heat shimmered outside the glass wall. Steve whispered, “It’s going to close soon.”
Ted glanced around. Everyone else was busy, head down. Some were packing up. He quickly popped open the keyboard of his laptop and slid the sheet of vellum inside.
The keyboard was back before Lisa finished smoothing the lining. She made a few more notes, returned the documents to the case, retied it and handed it to Marianne.
They watched the librarian check the pages against the catalog. At one point she gave Marianne a hard look. Finally she replaced all the papers, tied up the case, nodded grimly, and carried it away.
Marianne waved as they left. “Goodbye to Guyton de Morveau.”
They trudged in silence down the rue des Archives through waves of heat distortion. At the Hôtel de Ville they regrouped. Though the temperature was nearly intolerable, it helped preserve their anonymity. “We can’t go back to the safe house,” Steve said. “Nor our apartments. What about Foix’s? We should be safe there. Lisa?”
“Yes. The police still won’t expect us there.” She signaled a taxi. “It’s not far, but we can’t walk in this heat.”
The shutters were closed and the air inside was still and cool. There was a slight musty smell but the impression of recent death had faded.
Lisa placed the Founding Document on the gray leather of Foix’s desk. The pewter lamp cast a warm glow over the ancient vellum. The others gathered around.
She began to read aloud. “What we have foreseen now comes to pass.”
“The Oracle looked into its own future,” Marianne observed.
Ted nodded. “Of course.”
“My name is not important,” Lisa continued translating. “What is important is that I am the last priest of Apollo from his great Temple at Delphi in Phokis, on the Gulf of Corinth, in the lands of Hellas. I have come with the Pythia and our closest colleagues to Alexandria to assure the survival of our tradition, our art and our understanding. Because this was long foreseen, we have carefully prepared, following all our crafts and ways. Since we have come, the Philosopher has helped us, and for that she deserves our respect, our gratitude, and our praise. In return, we revealed her fate. She replied that even she, without our powers of divination, could foresee it and is prepared, and that she has yet some years to teach and think. Let this be known, she is the greatest of our age. Together we determined that the Oracle must continue, for the organization forming around the legends of a Savior tortured on a cross is spreading through our world. Already it is a great power. We foresee enormous harm, for it is known that with great power comes great corruption. And this new belief in the world will be a great power, which will last for centuries. We, and our successors must be the opposing force. Though we must remain in the shadows, we will from time to time subtly reveal what is necessary to hold its power. All this we foresee. In this document I shall say how, and what will come to pass with what we shall now call the Delphi…”
Lisa paused. “The Greek word here is hypothesis. In those days the word meant proposal or plan.”
“Could you translate it as agenda?” Ted asked. “The Delphi Agenda?”
Lisa looked up. “P
ardon.”
“M. Rossignol called it Le Projet Delphe. We translated the word as agenda, as in ‘what must be done.’ It sounds right, I think.”
Lisa touched her place in the document with a fingertip. “Yes, the Delphi Agenda is fine.” She was about to tackle the next sentence when the phone rang and everyone froze. After the second ring she picked it up. “Lisa Emmer.”
“The events this afternoon were… regrettable,” the monk said. “But you now have something of value. We expect a return.”
“Return?” she said. “I believe this book is now mine. You stole it. I have no intention of giving it back to you.”
“Oh, I don’t mean that. I speak of quid pro quo.”
“Or?”
“Or from this day on you will look over your shoulder, Mademoiselle Emmer. This will continue until one day you will die. Rossignol’s man Alain has found out what happens to those who stubbornly adhere to heresy.”
Steve had picked up the extension in the bedroom.
“Heresy?” Lisa said. “A quaint notion.”
“I know you’re not a Catholic, Mademoiselle Emmer, but heresy is something the church takes very seriously. It leads to chaos, as it has many times in history, and cannot be tolerated.”
“It is no longer the second century, Brother Defago, or even the sixteenth.”
He sucked in his breath. “You know my name?” Then he laughed, a short, bitter crack. “It does not matter, you’re pursuing something very dangerous, to you and to the world.”
“What exactly is this danger?”
The monk allowed himself to show his irritation. “Do not play games. You know perfectly well! You saw what happened at St. Denis.”
“Yes, you killed people. The authorities…”
“Don’t concern yourself with the authorities; over us there is no authority but God,” he said implacably.
“Very well. What do you want in return for leaving me alone, then?”
“You will give us the Founding Document of the Pythos, what you call the Delphi Agenda, or, if you prefer, Le Projet Delphe.”
Lisa scribbled on a piece of paper and showed it to the librarians: The apartment’s bugged! Aloud she said, “You can’t be serious.”
“I assure you, Mademoiselle Emmer, I am very much so. That Document has caused untold trouble. It must come under the protection of the Church.”
“Protection?”
“What do you think our Order has been struggling to achieve all these centuries? The Church takes in everything that affects her, the heresies and the heretics, false doctrines, temptations, all that the devil puts forward to seduce mankind from the path of righteousness. The Church takes them in, and studies them, and in this way learns how to defeat them.”
“I see.” She recognized the futility of asking what the Order had against the Delphi Agenda. It was enough that it thought about the future and made forecasts. The Church reserved that right for itself and would suffer no competitors.
“Do you?” His voice had fallen to just above a whisper. “If you truly see, you will give us the Document.”
“You threaten, but why should I believe you?”
His laugh sounded hollow, as if he was in a large, empty place. “History,” he said. “Hypatia. Giordano Bruno, the Great Heretic. Raimond Foix.”
“Threats? That’s all you have?”
“Enough! Bring us the document, tonight.”
“What do I get in return?”
“Besides your life? How about a man named Alain?”
Lisa frowned. “He’s in the hospital.”
“Not any longer. Listen.”
The scream was long and chilling.
“His wounds are bad,” the monk said with evident satisfaction. “Mostly you see, it’s his shoulder. I’m afraid it can only get worse.”
“How do I know that’s Alain?”
She could almost hear the shrug. “Call the hospital. You will find he is gone.”
She let out a slow breath, looking at Steve standing beside Raimond’s bed. He had already cradled the receiver and dialed his cell phone. While he was speaking, the silence stretched. Finally he nodded at Lisa. “What do you propose?” she asked.
In the silence that followed she thought she could hear water dripping.
The monk said, “There’s an abbey some way from Mantes-La-Jolie…”
Steve said, “It’s a trap.”
“Of course,” she agreed.
“They want to kill you. Us.”
“We have to go.”
“We could notify the police.”
“The police are after us. They don’t care about the nun.”
He shifted uneasily. “How do you know?”
She waved the sheet of vellum. “We have to go,” she repeated.
“Don’t forget Bruno.”
She continued skimming the dense lines of Greek. “I don’t forget,” she said absently.
“We have to get going,” Ted said. “Alain…”
“I know, I know. Just a moment.” Finally she looked up and said, “All right, I understand.”
“What do you understand?” Steve wanted to know.
“What to do. We have to go, for Alain, for this,” she lifted the sheet of fine vellum.
“What does it say?”
“It says, ‘If you bring forth what is within you, what you bring forth will save you. If you do not bring forth what is within you, what you do not bring forth will kill you.’ ”
“Does it really say that?”
“No, that’s from the Gospel of Thomas. There’s a lot in here and we don’t have time right now, but it says much the same as gnothi seauton, know thyself, what Raimond put in the skytale message, what was carved at Delphi, what he’s been training me to do all these years.” For a moment, looking at him, her eyes were stricken, large and dark and unfathomable. Then she shook it off and managed a smile. “I have to, Steve, and you have to trust me. I know it’s a trap. I know they want to kill us, and won’t hesitate when they have a chance, but they want the Founding Document, and we have it.”
She handed the stiff sheet to Marianne. “Keep this with you.”
“We need a plan, ” Steve insisted.
“We have one.”
“And what is that, exactly?”
“I’m the Pythia.”
“That’s your plan? You’re the Pythia?”
“Of course.”
“Have you seen something, the future? You know we’re going to succeed?”
“Of course not. The future is more… variable than that, but there are things we can do to change the odds. This is a gamble, but the time has come. The Document says so.”
“It does?”
“Yes.”
“She’s armed. We’re not.”
“I know that, Steve.” She smiled, but her face was set and determined. “Please trust me. There is something I need to do. Please, all of you go downstairs. It won’t take long and then we’ll go. If we succeed, this, now, tonight, will see the end.”
“That’s what they want, the end!”
“I’m not talking about the end they want, I’m talking about the one that must come to pass, the one written on that sheet of vellum.”
She added under her breath so no one else could hear, “I hope.”
Lisa took the chair behind the ornate cylinder desk. She knew about the hidden compartment, but now she also knew the desk held one final secret.
It lay on the copy of Le Monde Diplomatique from 2011 in the main drawer, which was unlocked and unprotected. The cover story in the magazine was about the controversy of human-caused climate change and the case for denying it.
She and Steve had paid no attention to the photograph before when they were looking for the disk. Now she took it out and held it up to the light from the window.
There was something so innocent, even unimposing about the picture, something so familiar. She hadn’t paid attention to it before, not even when Raimond s
howed it to her. He had taken it four years ago when she had really long hair. He had shown it to her the next day, holding it up in the light from the window, just as she did now. “Do you see who you are?” he had asked.
Her hair was flaring in a furious spiral or cosmic wheel behind her head. Or, she thought, a kind of halo. She looked carefully for a long time, but she had to hand it back to him. “No,” she had said.
He just nodded and slipped the photograph casually into the drawer. “You will,” he had said. She hadn’t thought about the picture since.
Now she looked again and the afternoon came back to her, first in brief flashes, moments of intense joy, fear, wonder.
She was seated cross-legged on a thick layer of fallen leaves in a wooded glade facing the camera. Dense green in a thousand subtle shades filled the frame behind her. The light struck down from the upper right to the lower center, obscuring her knees. She must have shaken her head because her hair was caught in this wild swirl, catching some of the light in overexposed highlights.
It was difficult to tell that she was naked.
They were in the famous Tronçais oak forest. Louis XIV’s finance minister Jean-Baptiste Colbert had planted it in the seventeenth century to provide ship’s timbers in the nineteenth. Raimond suggested it was an example of long-range thinking about the future.
She wondered if Colbert could have been a Pythos? Of course not. One wit had observed, “Colbert had thought of everything except the steamship.” He did not see the future though he planned for it.
On the other hand, the oak was now highly prized for wine barrels, so perhaps he could see the future after all.
It was a deeply solemn place that afternoon in late spring.
“I’m going to give you something,” Raimond said. “It may remind you of your fugue states, but you will remember who you are. Not everyone remembers, but you will. In your fugues you go places, and when you recover you are in a different place, a location important to you. When you were young it was the creek near your home. Once it was the Jardin des Plantes. This time it will be somewhere important to you, but it will be unfamiliar.”
“Where?”
“You will tell me.” He handed her a small vial of dark brown liquid. “Drink.”