‘Yes,’ they answered in unison.
‘Good. It’s time for Phase Epsilon.’
Paris, 9.10 a.m., ten days later, Saturday 10 June
Karen hadn’t heard from Dulac since his drunken phone call ten days earlier. He hadn’t returned her many phone messages, and she’d given up repeating the obvious. Although he wasn’t the most punctual of message returners, it was uncharacteristic of the man not to give any sign of life whatsoever. Her annoyance had eventually given way to concern, then worry. She decided to drop by his apartment.
Karen hailed a taxi and made her way to the 16 arrondissement, and to the entrance of Dulac’s third story flat. The well-worn stone staircase reminded her of their many late evening dashes toward a night of intense lovemaking. She went up, rang and waited. No answer. She rang again. Nothing. She looked down at the bottom of the door and through the space between it and the floor, thought she saw a shadow cross the light. ‘Thierry, are you there? It’s me Karen.’
The shadow crossed the light again, in the opposite direction. She pounded on the door. ‘Thierry, I know you’re in there.’
‘Go away.’
‘What’s the matter? Why won’t you let me in?’ Worry was rapidly changing to resentment.
‘Nothing to do with you.’ Dulac’s voice was hoarse, almost unrecognizable.
‘Thierry, I’m not going to stand here talking to you outside your damn door. Either you let me in and we discuss this like grown adults, or I’ll leave you to enjoy your childish tantrum. Your choice.’
Karen heard the latch unlock and the door opened. ‘My God!’ she gasped.
Dressed in an old nightgown, long oily strands of hair hanging limply over his ears, a ten day scraggly beard covering his face, Dulac stood at the door, glass in hand.
‘Not quite. Come in.’ He shuffled over to the living room amidst the newspapers littering the floor, cleared some of the books strewn on the sofa and offered Karen a small space. ‘Been catching up on my Dostoyevsky,’ he said as he went over to the bar. ‘Drink?’
‘No thanks.’ Still trying to absorb the shock, she sat down amid the books while he poured himself a drink. ‘Why haven’t you returned my calls?’
‘I’ve been busy,’ he said, not bothering to look at her.
‘Doing what? Drinking yourself into oblivion?’
‘That too,’ he said, seating himself in the recliner across from her.
‘Thierry, I know this thing with Harris has been hard on you, but this is not going to solve the problem.’
‘What problem?’ He took another swig of the scotch.
She got up and walked over, standing and glaring down at him. ‘Do you realize what you’re doing? You’re becoming another Harris. Is that what you want?’
Dulac shot up, standing a few inches from her face. ‘That’s going too far.’
‘Not at all.’ She crossed her arms, returning his hate-filled stare.
Dulac backed away. ‘I thought I’d get some support. Not criticism.’
‘Listen, if you want to drown yourself in alcohol and self-pity, that’s your business, but don’t look at me for help.’ She looked around. ‘Just look at this mess. How can you live like this?’
Dulac glanced about at the stacked dishes overflowing in the sink, his shirts and jacket hanging from various kitchen chairs, an old t-shirt strewn onto the dining room table. ‘Pretty bad, I must admit.’
‘Thierry, you’ve got to pull yourself together. If you go down this road, you’ll go it alone. I had an alcoholic father and I won’t—’
‘Whoa! I’m not a bloody alky.’
‘I’m sure that’s what Harris says also.’
‘You’re pushing your luck, lady.’
‘Thierry, you’ve got some serious decisions to take.’
‘Like what? Getting ready for my asshole boss to summon me back? So I can lick his boots again while he cracks the whip?’
‘Maybe you should think outside of the box. Look elsewhere. Surely Interpol isn’t the only place for a damn good criminal investigator.’
‘I suppose.’ Dulac looked at her with a vague air of interest. ‘Maybe I could sell my story to the press, write a book even.’
‘Good idea. In the meantime why don’t you shave, take a shower and put some clean clothes on. I’ll buy breakfast.’
Chapter 26
Papal Library, The Vatican, 9.30 a.m.
The previous evening, Cardinal Signorelli had received word from Castel Gandolfo: the Pope had finished resting and would be returning the following morning to the Vatican to resume his papal duties. Signorelli had convened the members of the inner Curia for a meeting with His Holiness in the papal library, and while they waited for the pope to enter, the cardinals talked excitedly.
‘Must be difficult for His Holiness to come back to the Vatican after only a two week rest,’ said Brentano.
‘Shouldn’t he still be recuperating?’ said Sforza to Fouquet.
‘He’s always been very resilient,’ said Brentano.
Legnano spoke. ‘He can’t be feeling all that—’
‘I’m feeling quite well, thank you, Cardinal Legnano,’ said the voice in the doorway of the library.
Legnano spun around. ‘Your Holiness. I didn’t mean—’
‘It’s quite all right, Cardinal.’ Dressed in a white cassock, he walked slowly towards the assembled cardinals and proffered to each of them the papal ring.
‘It is good to see you, your Holiness,’ said Sforza, kneeling and kissing the ring.
‘You are looking well, your Holiness,’ said Brentano.
‘Enough compliments, Eminences. Please be seated,’ he said, as he walked behind the desk and sat down. ‘First, as tradition demands, Cardinal Fouquet, you are relieved of your duties as Camerlengo. As of now, I am resuming my functions as Head of State of the Vatican.’
‘Yes, of course, your Holiness,’ said Fouquet.
‘There is apparently a diplomatic issue with Libya?’ he eyed Legnano. ‘Cardinal?’
‘Your Holiness, after the world press found out last week about your rescue from Libya, the Vatican received a diplomatic note protesting a violation and invasion of Libyan airspace. The note mentions that the Vatican planned the whole operation and is responsible for the death of Libyans and destruction of property while Libyan planes tried to extract the intruder from its territory. Gaddaffi wants reparations of $100 million US dollars.’
‘Ha! The gall of the man. And what is your opinion?’
‘Your Holiness, we believe there was no violation of Libya’s territory by the Vatican.’
‘How is that, Cardinal?’
‘We have legal opinions to the effect that the rescue of a man kept by kidnappers against his will is not an act of aggression against the Libyan state. Furthermore, the helicopter was American, the pilot German.’
‘I see. We are treading on rather thin ice, wouldn’t you say Cardinal?’ he said, smiling wryly.
‘That’s a matter of interpretation, your Holiness,’ said Legnano. ‘Obviously the Vatican wants to avoid any diplomatic incident with Libya, if possible.’
‘But the helicopter His Holiness was in was attacked by Libyan jets,’ Sforza began.
‘Cardinal Sforza, we have no proof that they acted under Kargali’s orders,’ said Brentano. ‘They could simply have been defending Libyan airspace, not knowing that His Holiness was aboard.’ Turning to the pontiff. ‘Of course your Holiness, you were there, you—’
‘Enough of your speculations. I will take the matter under consideration. In the meantime, Cardinal Signorelli, schedule my next public appearance in the Hall of Audiences for tomorrow, at 4 p.m. Cardinal Brentano, Cardinal Sforza, I will see you here this afternoon. Monsignor Signorelli will schedule you. Your Eminences, this meeting is over.’
Sitting next to Cardinal Sforza, Cardinal Brentano fidgeted nervously with his red fascia in the antechamber of the papal library. ‘Do you have any idea why we’ve been conven
ed?’ he asked Sforza.
‘No.’
‘Do you think it has to do with—’
At that moment, the door to the papal library opened and Cardinal Signorelli, the Pope’s secretary, appeared: ‘The Holy Father will see you now, Cardinal Brentano.’
Brentano rose, trying to detect the mood in Signorelli’s face as he walked past him. He was inscrutable. Brentano entered and the stern look of the man standing in front of him confirmed his apprehension. This was not a social call.
‘Your Holiness,’ said Brentano, bending to kiss the proffered papal ring.
‘Good day, Cardinal Brentano. Please be seated.’ He offered Brentano one of the skinny chairs, went to the other side of the desk and sat down. ‘I will go straight to the heart of the matter.’
Brentano felt his pulse quicken.
‘After due consideration, I have decided that because of the upcoming changes I will be introducing shortly, Cardinal Gonzalez will be better suited to occupy the position of head of the Congregation For The Doctrine Of The Faith. Gonzalez’s nomination will take effect immediately.’
Brentano sat unbelieving, speechless, unable to move, trying to absorb the shock. The implacable look of the man before him did not waver. Finally Brentano spoke. ‘But your Holiness, I have served you well up until now.’ Brentano heard his voice crack and tried clearing his throat. ‘And I will continue to do so in the future, whatever the changes, I assure you.’
‘I know this is not easy for you, Cardinal, but try and think of the matter not in personal terms, but in relation of the overall good. You see during these past two weeks, I‘ve had time to further concentrate my thoughts on changes, the essence of which I’ve been thinking about for a long time. Changes that, as the head of the Congregation, I assure you Brentano, you will disagree with.’
‘Your Holiness, could I…? Could you tell me the nature of these changes?’
‘In due course, Brentano.’
Brentano couldn’t believe what he was hearing. Cardinal Gonzales, a recent arrival from Colombia, knew nothing of the workings of the Vatican. Gonzales was what was commonly referred to in Vatican circles as a ‘yes cardinal’. In order to get ahead and through the wall excluding non-Italians, these cardinals tried to please everybody, resulting in pleasing no one. To be replaced by a ‘yes cardinal’ would add insult to injury. Within hours of the announcement, Brentano would be the laughing stock of the establishment’s power brokers.
Brentano’s carefully constructed political edifice, skillfully built over the years with the bricks and mortar of his endless maneuvering: all of it was coming crashing down. For a brief moment, while he reeled with the blow, his mind raced, trying to call upon and muster his survival instincts, instincts that had never let him down. He had to fight.
‘Perhaps you are prejudging me, your Holiness. I have always been able to conciliate my views with yours. I don’t doubt Cardinal Gonzales has many qualities, but he is totally inexperienced in the inner workings of the Vatican. Surely it would be very difficult for him to implement any of your changes.’
‘Gonzales will learn, as you did when you first took on the responsibility. I am not judging you, Brentano. I know your character, perhaps even better than you know it yourself. My decision is final. You will be assigned temporarily to the post of legate for the Conciliation of Interdenominational Faiths.’
Brentano felt desperation settling in and taking over, numbing his brain. He was a drowning man. He clutched for straws. ‘But won’t that be seen as a demotion, your Holiness?’ Brentano regretted the words as soon as they’d passed his lips.
‘Brentano, Brentano, always appearances. The days of artifice are over, Brentano. If I have my way, substance will replace form, essence will replace pretense. We have a long, challenging road ahead of us, Cardinal, a road which I invite you to take with me. Now as far as you are concerned, I don’t see this as a demotion. I need someone of your experience for this challenging new role. Consider this an opportunity, Cardinal, not a penance.’
Brentano sat stunned. The Pope had made up his mind and there was no higher authority to appeal to. All these years of careful promoting behind the scenes, the trading of favors, the mentoring, the constant networking for support, the sacrifices, the cajoling, all for nothing? No it couldn’t be. He had to bide his time. After a moment, Brentano said, ‘I suppose I must.’
‘Please see to it that the transition goes smoothly.’
‘Yes, your Holiness.’
‘That will be all, Cardinal.’
Brentano, numb with disbelief, rose slowly and walked out past Signorelli and Sforza without uttering a word.
‘Shall I send in Cardinal Sforza, your Holiness?’ asked Signorelli.
‘Yes, please send him in.’
‘Your Holiness,’ said Sforza, bowing to kiss the papal ring.
‘Please sit down, Cardinal.’
‘Thank you.’ Sforza looked uneasily at the pontiff, whose intense eyes seemed to bore right through him. ‘And how is your health?’ ventured Sforza, wishing to break the silence.
‘Quite well, considering.’
‘I can’t begin to imagine the trauma.’
‘Cardinal, I survived.’
‘Yes, yes, thank the Lord. How about…? I mean, is there any chance they will reattach your ear?’
‘I’m told it’s too late. Meanwhile I’ve become accustomed to not being able to hear from the left side. Believe me, Cardinal, that’s not always an impediment.’
‘Selective hearing. My mother does it all the time.’ Sforza laughed, trying to lighten the mood. He thought he saw the beginning of a smile on the otherwise dead serious face. The eyes bored even deeper.
‘The reason I have convened you, Cardinal, is to inform you that I have decided to keep you in your present post as head of Investments and Information. I also want to inform you of certain upcoming changes. Because of the nature of these changes, I have decided to replace Cardinal Brentano. He and I wouldn’t see eye to eye on many of these. Cardinal Gonzalez will take his place, effective immediately. Some will question my decision, and I am fully aware that Brentano has powerful allies. I’m certain they will ask me to reconsider. I won’t. During this process, I require your entire support. Do I have it?’
Sforza, off balance for a moment, quickly regained his composure. ‘Yes, yes, of course, your Holiness.’
Chapter 27
Belize, somewhere in the Mayan Mountain Range jungle, 3 p.m., Sunday, 11 June
Under de Ségur’s planning, the Cathars had left Belize discreetly and returned to their parishes in Southern France. Before their departure, de Ségur had informed them that the nominations of their fallen brethren’s replacements would be forthcoming. For the moment, de Ségur could enjoy luxuriating in one of his more personal, intimate passions: listening to classical music.
De Ségur entered the acoustically inert room, went over to his compact disc player and inserted Nicolas Harnoncourt’s rendition of J. S. Bach’s Mass in B minor. Having turned the volume up to near-maximum intensity, de Ségur took the baton resting on the mahogany pulpit and stood before the loudspeakers. At the stroke of his baton, the electronic eye switched on the CD player and the Staatskapelle choir burst into the gripping first bars of the ‘Kyrie’. De Ségur, every nerve in his body tingling with ecstasy, engulfed himself into the ineffable.
Then it happened.
He was waving the entry of the invisible continuo into the Aria with the baton, when his right hand started to shake uncontrollably and flung the baton away. He stood immobile while the music continued, staring for a moment into space. Soon, tears flooded his eyes. Already? This time there is no mistaking. It’s here.
Moments later, the large loudspeakers went silent. He replaced the baton on the pulpit, turned and fell exhausted into the sofa. I don’t have much time, he thought. They said six months at the most from the first signs. He picked up the red velvet covered book on the small walnut side table. He sti
ll remembered the day when his father had handed him the book titled Pierre de Combel: a Cathar knight’s journey.
‘It’s the story of our famous ancestor,’ his father had said in a quivering but solemn voice.
Hugues de Ségur knew Pierre de Combel almost better than he knew himself. His heart would fill with sorrow and pride at the recounting of the trials and tribulations that de Combel had endured, to become one of the mythical figures of southern France. In the besieged town of Minerve, at the head of only five hundred faithful, he’d successfully repulsed the four attacks of Simon de Montfort and his six thousand Catholic knights during some of the fiercest fighting of the Albigensian crusades. After many such bloody defeats at the hands of de Combel, the Inquisition had put a king’s ransom on his head. Eventually, through the treachery of de Combel’s mistress, five of the Inquisition’s monk-knights had caught him, asleep in a small inn near Castelnaudary.
De Ségur read how de Combel had suffered the torture of the rack, in the Inquisiton’s belief that, as did most of its victims, the knight would eventually renounce his heretic faith. De Combel hadn’t. The Inquisition had tortured him for four days, before death had finally delivered him from his tormentors.
Moments later, de Ségur, his eyes watery with anger, put down the book. The ritual was always the same: the ecstasy of the music followed by the agony of history.
De Ségur rose and summoned Gaspard. ‘Bring me the list,’ he said.
‘It’s not up to date, sir. Those missing are still on it.’
‘Bring it anyway. We can’t wait any longer.’
De Ségur looked at the list and sat in silence, lost in thought: eleven Cathars, mostly bishops and deacons, had drowned on the Bellerophon.
‘We’ll have to contact the bishops in Lombardy, Piedmont, Béziers and Albi,’ said Gaspard.
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