The Thirteenth Apostle

by Michel Benoît

  “But if he goes back to his monastery, who’s going to stop him divulging his conclusions?”

  “Pazienza, Your Eminence. There are other ways, less spectacular than a train accident, of silencing those who stray from the Church’s teaching.”

  The day before, he had been obliged to calm Mukhtar, who was furious to hear Nil questioning the revealed nature of the Koran and the person of the founder of Islam: the Palestinian wanted to take action immediately.

  In just a few days, Nil had girded himself with a belt of explosives. Calfo didn’t intend him to blow himself up before he had made himself really useful to the Catholic Church. With a mechanical gesture, he twisted his Episcopal ring on his finger and concluded with a reassuring smile:

  “Father Nil is behaving in Rome as if he had never left his cloister: he leaves San Girolamo only to go to the Vatican stacks, communicates with nobody apart from his friend Leeland, has no contact with the press or dissident circles, and in fact seems to know nothing about them.”

  Calfo jutted his chin towards St Peter’s Square.

  “He doesn’t represent any danger for those crowds, who will never hear of him and whom he has deliberately chosen to ignore by shutting himself away in a monastery. Let’s allow him to carry on peacefully with his research. I have every confidence in the training he was given from his time as a novice at St Martin’s onwards: that’s a mould which shapes men for life. He’ll fall into step; if he ever took it into his head to follow his own bent again, then we’d intervene. But that almost certainly won’t be necessary.”

  As they separated, the two prelates felt equally satisfied: the first because he thought he had given His Eminence enough to worry about while preserving room for manoeuvre; and the second because he was meeting Antonio that very same evening, and would soon know nearly as much as the Rector of the Society of St Pius V.

  61

  “This morning, there’s a ceremony of beatification: we won’t be able to get across St Peter’s Square. Let’s take a detour.”

  Each of the two men was absorbed in his own thoughts as they turned into the Borgo Santo Spirito and headed back to the Vatican City via Castel Sant’Angelo, which had originally been the mausoleum of the Emperor Hadrian before becoming a fortress and a papal prison. Nil found it difficult to accept those heavy silences that had been so common between them ever since his arrival in Rome.

  Finally, Leeland started to speak.

  “I don’t understand you: you haven’t left your monastery for years, and yet here you live like a recluse. You loved Rome so much when we were students – you ought to make the most of it. Go and visit a few museums, meet up with the folks you used to know… You’re behaving as if you’d transplanted your cloister into the heart of the city!”

  Nil looked up at his companion.

  “When I entered the monastery, I chose solitude in the midst of a universal community, the Catholic Church. Look at this crowd, they seem so happy at a new canonization! For a long time I thought they were my family, replacing the one that had rejected me. Now I know that my research into Jesus’s identity excludes me from my adoptive family. You don’t question the foundations of a religion with impunity – not when a whole civilization is based on that religion! I imagine that the thirteenth apostle must have experienced a similar solitude when he opposed the Twelve. I have only one friend left: the Jesus whose mystery I am seeking to penetrate.”

  He added, in a murmur:

  “And you, of course.”

  By now they were walking along the high walls of the Vatican City. The American plunged his hand into one of his pockets, and took out two little cardboard boxes.

  “I’ve got a surprise for you. I’ve been given two invitations to a concert by Lev Barjona at the Academy of Santa Cecilia – just before Christmas. I’m not giving you any choice in the matter: you’re coming with me!”

  “Who’s this Lev Barjona?”

  “A famous Israeli pianist. I got to know him back there when he was a pupil of Arthur Rubinstein. We became friends at the feet of the maestro. An amazing man, who’s had a very unusual life. He’s very kindly added a few personal words to his invitation, specifying that the second ticket is for you. He’s playing Rachmaninov’s Third Concerto – he’s the best current interpreter of the piece.”

  They were now entering Vatican City.

  “I’d be delighted,” said Nil. “I like Rachmaninov and I haven’t been to a concert for a very long time. It’ll be a real change for me.”

  Suddenly he stopped dead and frowned.

  “But… how come your friend sent a second ticket especially for me?”

  Leeland seemed surprised at this remark, and was just about to reply when they had to separate: a luxurious official limousine was just passing in front of them. Inside, they spotted the scarlet robes of a cardinal. The car slowed down to pass through the gate of the Belvedere, and Nil suddenly seized the American by the arm.

  “Rembert, look at that car’s number plate!”

  “What about it? SCV, Sacra Civitas Vaticani, it’s a Vatican number plate. We see them going by every day in these parts, you know.”

  Nil stood rooted to the spot in the middle of the Belvedere courtyard.

  “SCV! But those are the three letters that Andrei noted in his diary, just before the word ‘Templars’! I was racking my brains for days trying to work out what they meant: since they were followed by an incomplete Dewey classification, I was convinced that they must designate a library somewhere in the world. Rembert, I think I’ve got it! SCV followed by four digits is the place where you can find a series of books in one of the libraries of the Sacra Civitas Vaticani, the Vatican. I should have realized: Andrei was always sticking his nose into odd corners. In the San Girolamo Library he found a rare text by Origen, but it’s right here that the second work he mentioned in his notebook is to be found.”

  Nil looked up at the imposing edifice.

  “Right in there, hidden away somewhere, there’s a book that will perhaps enable me to find out a little more about the letter of the thirteenth apostle. But there’s one thing I don’t understand, Rembert: what have the Templars got to do with all this?”

  Leeland was no longer listening. Why indeed had Lev Barjona sent him two complimentary tickets?

  Mechanically, he typed in the code at the entrance to the Vatican stacks.

  * * *

  Just as the bell rang, Breczinsky nervously seized the elbow of the man he was talking to.

  “It must be them, I’m not expecting anyone else this morning. If you go out the front way, they are bound to see you. The stacks have stairs that lead directly to the Vatican Library: I’ll take you there. Quick, they’ll be here any minute!”

  Dressed in an impeccable cassock, Antonio glanced at the Polish librarian, whose face betrayed complete consternation. It had all been easy: after a few moments’ conversation in his office, Breczinsky had practically melted away before his eyes. The Cardinal knew the human heart intimately: you merely had to know where its hidden wound lay, and then prod it.

  62

  Sonia pulled her hair down over her breasts and gazed at the little man as he got dressed. He wasn’t a bad chap after all. Just a bit off, with his mania for talking all the time while she did to him what he expected from her. When she had come to Saudi Arabia, drawn by the alluring offer of a job, she had found herself locked away in the harem of a dignitary of the regime. The Arab didn’t utter a single word while making love, which he did with quick efficiency. But Calfo never stopped muttering incomprehensibly, and it was always something about religion.

  Sonia was an Orthodox Christian, and shared the respect that all Romanians felt for religious dignitaries. But this one must be a bit cracked: he always made her move slowly, and sometimes he scared her with his eyes that stared intently at her. His unctuous voice intimated things to her that filled her with deep revulsion, coming from a bishop.

  She couldn’t mention this to Muk
htar, who had brought her to Rome. “You’ll see,” he had told her, “he’s a client who pays well”. This was true, the bishop was generous. But Sonia was now finding that the money was hardly worth it.

  As he buttoned up the collar of his cassock, Calfo turned to her.

  “You should go, I have a meeting tomorrow evening. An important meeting. Okay?”

  She nodded. The bishop had explained to her that, in order to climb up the rungs of the Ladder of Divine Ascent, a dialectical tension had to be maintained between its two uprights, the carnal and the spiritual. She hadn’t understood the least thing in this farrago of nonsense, but knew that she should not return for two days.

  It was like this whenever there was an “important meeting”. And tomorrow was a Friday 13th.

  The twelve apostles were particularly solemn. Dressed in his white alb, Antonio slipped silently behind the long table and took his seat. His strange dark gaze, visible only behind the veil masking his face, was innocent and peaceful.

  “As on every Friday 13th, my brothers, our meeting is a statutory obligation. But before we venerate the precious relic in our possession, I need to update you on the latest developments in the current mission.”

  For a moment, the Rector gazed at the crucifix opposite him, then continued, amid a total silence:

  “Thanks to my Palestinian agent, we now have recordings of everything that gets said in the studio on the Via Aurelia. The Frenchman is showing himself to be a worthy imitator of Father Andrei. He has managed to break the code of the Germigny inscription, and to understand its meaning thanks to the first sentence in the Coptic manuscript. He has found the Origen quotation, and thanks to the second sentence in the manuscript he is on the trail of the letter of the thirteenth apostle – whose existence Andrei had merely suspected before coming here to Rome.”

  A frisson ran through the gathering, and one of the apostles raised his forearms.

  “Brother Rector, aren’t we playing with fire? Nobody, ever since the Templars, has come so close to the secret that it is our mission to protect.”

  “This gathering has already weighed up the pros and cons and come to a decision. Letting Father Nil carry on with his research is a risk – but a calculated risk. In spite of the efforts of our predecessors, not every trace of the epistle has completely disappeared. We know that its contents are of a nature to destroy the Catholic Church, and with it the civilization of which she is the soul and inspiration. And yet there may still be one copy that has escaped our vigilance. Let us not make the same mistake we did with Father Andrei: we’ve unleashed the ferret, this time let’s not stop it running after its prey. If he manages to locate it, we’ll act – and quickly. Father Nil is working for us…”

  He was interrupted by an apostle whose white alb barely disguised his obesity.

  “They are spending the majority of their time in the stacks of the Vatican: what means of surveillance do we have over what gets said in that strategic place?”

  The Rector was the only person to know that this apostle was a highly placed member of the Congregation for the Propagation of the Faith, one of the most efficient secret services in the world. He answered with a nuance of respect: this man was au fait with all the information collected across the five continents, reaching down to the smallest country parish.

  “One of us paid a visit to Father Breczinsky yesterday, and reminded him of a few things. He seems to have understood. I think that we will soon be in a position to know whether Father Nil is going to find the epistle. Now let’s move on to the statutory meeting.”

  Helped by two apostles, he slid away the wooden panel and respectfully took hold of the casket on the middle shelf. In front of the eleven immobile men, he placed it on the table and bowed deeply.

  “On Friday 13th October 1307, the Chancellor Guillaume de Nogaret arrested the Grand Master of the Temple, Jacques de Molay, and a hundred and thirty-eight of his brothers in the Templars’ house in Paris. They were thrown into dungeons and relentlessly interrogated under torture. Throughout France, on that same day, almost all members of the Order were seized and rendered harmless. Christianity was saved. It is that Friday 13th, a date that has become unlucky throughout the world, which we are today commemorating as laid down by our statutes.”

  Then he bent forwards and opened the casket. Nil had found almost all the traces left in history by the letter of the thirteenth apostle: but this was one he had missed. The Rector took a step backwards.

  “My brothers, please, it is time for veneration.”

  The apostles rose, and each of them drew near to kiss first the Rector’s ring, then the contents of the casket.

  When his turn came, Antonio paused for a moment over the table: placed there simply on a small cushion of red velvet, a gold nugget was gleaming. It was very smooth and shaped like a tear.

  “All that rests of the treasure of the Templars!”

  He bent down, his face dipping into the casket, and placed his lips on the golden tear. It struck him that it was still burning, and at that point a dreadful scene appeared behind his closed eyes.

  63

  Father Breczinsky had greeted them with a wan smile, and led them without a word to their work table. After a nod, he went into his office, leaving the door ajar.

  Nil, still absorbed in his recent discovery, had not noticed the librarian’s reserve. “SCV, a classification number in the Vatican library. It’s one of the biggest libraries in the world! Finding a book there is going to be mission impossible.”

  He worked mechanically for a while, then heaved a deep sigh and turned to Leeland.

  “Rembert, can you manage without me, just for a few minutes? Breczinsky is the only person who can help me find what the SCV classification corresponds to, the one Andrei left in his diary. I’m going to ask him.”

  A shadow passed across the face of the American, who whispered:

  “Please, do remember what I told you: here you should trust nobody.”

  Nil did not reply. “I know things that you don’t.” And he took off his gloves and knocked on the library door.

  Breczinsky was sitting at the screen of his computer. It was switched off, and his hands were lying flat on his desk.

  “Father, you told me the other day that you were ready to help me. Can I call on your aid now?”

  The Pole was staring at him in silence, his face haggard. Then he lowered his eyes to his hands and spoke in a low voice, as if talking to himself, as if Nil were not there.

  “My father was killed at the end of 1940 – I never knew him. My mother told me how it happened: one morning, a senior Wehrmacht officer came to round up all the men in the village, ostensibly to do some work in the forest. My father never returned, and my mother died when I was six. A cousin from Cracow took me into his home, I was a war orphan and I had stopped being able to speak. The young priest from the parish next to ours took pity on that mute boy: he took care of me and made me feel life was worth living again. Then, one day, he made the sign of the cross on my forehead, my lips and my heart. The next day, for the first time in years, I talked. Then he made it possible for me to enter the diocesan seminary of Cracow, where he had become the bishop. I owe him everything; he’s the very father of my soul.”

  “What was his name?”

  “Karol Wojtyla. The present Pope. The Pope whom I serve with all my strength.”

  He finally lifted his eyes and fixed them on those of Nil.

  “You are a true monk, Father Nil, just as Andrei was: you live in another world. In the Vatican, a web is woven around the Pope by men in whose interest it is that he should not know all that they do in his name. Never did Karol Wojtyla experience anything of the kind: in Poland, the clergy showed total solidarity, united against the common Soviet enemy. Everyone trusted everyone else blindly, and the Polish Church would never have survived any internal manoeuvrings. It was in this spirit that the Pope delegated his responsibilities onto men like Cardinal Catzinger. And here am I – t
he silent witness of many things.”

  He rose with an effort.

  “I will help you, just as I helped Father Andrei. But I’m taking a considerable risk: swear that you’re not trying to harm the Pope.”

  Nil replied gently:

  “I am merely a monk, Father, nothing interests me other than the face and the identity of Jesus. The politics and the whole way of life of the Vatican are foreign to me, and I have nothing to do with Cardinal Catzinger, who knows nothing of my research. Like Andrei, I am a man of truth.”

  “I trust you – the Pope is also a man of truth. What can I do for you?”

  Nil handed Andrei’s diary to him.

  “When he was in Rome, Father Andrei consulted a book. He noted its classification number here. Does it mean anything to you?”

  Breczinsky examined the diary page attentively, then looked up.

  “Of course. It’s a classification from these stacks. It indicates all the shelves on which are stored the minutes of the Inquisition’s trial of the Templars. When he came by, Father Andrei asked if he could consult them, even though he had no authorization to do so. Follow me.”

  In silence they walked past the table where Leeland, bent over a manuscript, did not look up. When they reached the third room, Breczinsky suddenly turned left and led Nil to a book stack in a recess.

  “Here” – he showed him the shelves lining the wall – “you have records of the Inquisition’s investigation into the affair of the Templars – the original records. I can tell you that Father Andrei spent most time looking at the minutes of the interrogation of the Templar Esquieu de Floyran by Guillaume de Nogaret, and the correspondence of Philippe le Bel. I put them back in their place after he had left. I hope you can work as quickly as he did: I’ll give you two hours. And remember: you have never been in this part of the stacks.”

  He slipped away like a shadow. In this deserted nook, the only sound was the low hum of the air conditioning. A dozen or so cardboard boxes were lined up and numbered. In one of them, on a page written by the notary of the Inquisition in the presence of the prisoner exhausted by torture, could perhaps be found a trace of the thirteenth apostle that Andrei had discovered.