It was several minutes before the cleric returned. He stood just inside the archway leading to the quad and said in a high, piping voice, “Please to come this way.”
Lerenard followed the monk across the sun-patched quadrangle, along a paved corridor and up two flights of stone steps to a half-open landing. He stopped in front of an old timber door, knocked, paused and knocked again. Then he opened it without audible invitation. He stood aside to allow Jean-Luc to enter and closed the door quietly behind the big man.
Across the room in a sunny bay window sat a man dressed in a plain charcoal grey suit. The cardinal had his back to him and was bent over a desk, apparently reading some book or document which couldn’t be seen from the other side of the room. It wasn’t a usual side of Lerenard’s character to remain quiet and let others dictate to him, but on this occasion he held his peace and waited for the cardinal to speak.
After a long two minutes the man raised his head from what he was studying and swivelled in his chair to face the room. Galbaccino had a round, pink visage topped by thinning white hair. Jean-Luc knew him to be well over seventy years of age yet the man looked no more than fifty - presumably that was the benefit of a lifetime of self denial.
“You are Jean-Luc Lerenard.”
“Yes.”
“We were pleased with the way you handled the release of Father Juan and the ten members of his flock in Medellin.”
“It was only eight.” Jean-Luc straightened his back and looked straight at the old man. “I regret that the five terroristas died in the fight.”
“Only the evil ones died,” said the cardinal, “and that could not be avoided.”
Lerenard kept silent. He knew he did not need to comment further.
“We have another task for you.” Galbaccino paused a moment. “It is a far more delicate task.”
The old man stared deep into Jean-Luc’s eyes. It was surprising how his look could penetrate - seemingly to the centre of the big man’s soul.
“And no-one is to die this time.” The cardinal sighed. “Unless it is unavoidable.”
Galbaccino pointed a finger at him. “If that should happen it is essential that the death must appear to be an accident. Do you understand?”
“Yes.”
Lerenard waited for the rest of the instructions.
The nasty part of business concluded, the cardinal seemed more at ease. “Informers at the Department of Ancient Monuments tell us that a licence has recently been issued to the famous woman archaeologist, Jacqueline Blontard, to excavate in the ruins of a castle called Bezu which is somewhere south of Carcassonne. They advise us that they had little choice. She has very powerful people supporting her application, including the president, and there seemed no good reason why they could dare to refuse.” He smiled mirthlessly at Lerenard. “Nevertheless we are concerned that this Blontard woman may know more than she has divulged to the authorities about Bezu castle. She had already indicated sympathy for the heretic Cathar cause and her late uncle was a well-known adherent. You will not understand the threat the Cathars used to pose to the true Church. However that threat is by no means as dead as most people would like to believe.”
Galbaccino breathed deeply several times. Then he again looked straight at Lerenard.
“We wish to find out what Mademoiselle Blontard is doing at le Bezu. Is there some new information which she knows? We want you to contrive to get close to her. If she, shall we say, unearths anything, we wish to know about it before she is able to release the information to the general public.” He sat back in his chair. “We think that may not be difficult, because she will want to keep any she finds under wraps, as they say, until it can be released as part of the television series which she will inevitably produce after the excavation is completed. Do you understand me?”
Lerenard’s mind was already focussing on how he could begin to perform this most complex task. The first problem was solved for him by the cardinal’s next remark.
“We think we could find a way to introduce you into her team as an archaeologist. You would need a quick training course in archaeology.”
“I certainly would.”
“That can be arranged. The Abbe Dugard is himself a famed excavator of ancient remains. He can train you in the techniques of excavation and in classification of the type of finds you are likely to encounter at Bezu.”
“That sounds suitable.”
“He is currently excavating at Prouille monastery which is about fifty kilometres from Bezu. We will place you there as his personal assistant for a few weeks until the time is suitable to introduce you to Mademoiselle Blontard. You will start on Monday.”
“As you wish.”
“It only remains for me to inform you of the terms of payment.” Galbaccino paused for effect. “When you report to Abbe Dugard we will immediately put half a million euros into your account at the Bank of Zurich. Your expenses during training will be paid by us.”
Lerenard was impressed. That was twice what he had been paid for the job in Medellin. And this time there was to be no killing and the messy disposal of bodies.
The prelate was still speaking. “Providing that all the instructions you are given during the digging season are carried out satisfactorily you will be paid a similar amount when the excavating licence ends in September. Furthermore, providing nothing is revealed which might embarrass the Church in the television series which will follow in the autumn, an additional four million euros will be paid to you.”
Jean-Luc suddenly found it difficult to breathe. This was real personal wealth. This meant the end of travelling the world as a mercenary.
Galbaccino raised a finger. “That might require you to secretly remove and pass to us - or even destroy - certain evidence which may be turned up by the Blontard excavations. Do you understand?”
“I understand completely.”
“Good.” A pause. “I presume the terms are acceptable to you.”
“Yes.”
The cardinal nodded. “It will be essential that you keep us fully informed of Blontard’s progress. We shall require a report from you twice a week. These should be made to an individual who will contact you and give you the password “Cathar”. Instructions to you will be channelled through him. A mobile telephone with a barred number will be provided to you which you should carry with you at all times and should only be used for this one purpose.” A brief pause. “Is everything clear to you?”
Lerenard bowed slightly. “It is, your eminence.” He could now contemplate a comfortable retirement. There would be no more dirty jobs after this one.
Galbaccino lifted an unsealed envelope from the desk beside him and held it out. “These are your directions for contacting Dugard. There is also a sum to cover expenses until you meet him, which I hope will be in the next few days.”
The big man took the envelope, raised the flap and looked inside. There was a plain sheet of paper with a few typed instructions on it and five five-hundred euro notes. He slipped the envelope into his inside pocket. As he looked up he saw that the cardinal had already turned back to the document he was reading in the window.
“Thank you, monsignor.”
There was no reply. He turned to leave and saw that the door was already open and the little bald-headed monk was standing there, waiting to escort him from the august presence.
- 4 -
Charles Robert briskly walked the short distance from the Ministry of Culture to the elegant old apartment building in the Rue Cambriet. He nodded to Bernard, the concierge, as he passed the ground floor office with its little glass window.
“Bonsoir monsieur.” The man knew him well enough to be familiar.
Nevertheless Charles decided he should check again with the President whether the man could be trusted. It was important that no word of his visit should get back to the Ministry. However, for now that wasn’t important. He was late responding to the summons.
He ignored the ancient, wheezing lift and mou
nted the stairs two at a time to the fourth floor. Charles had always kept himself fit and was hardly puffing as he paused outside the door to the Council Chamber covered with its maroon padded fabric. He smiled briefly to himself as he regarded the slightly absurd bravado in the choice of colour. Then he took the cane from its holder, tapped sharply four times on the push-plate, then once more to activate the release. He pushed the door half open and went inside, pausing to look around the room before he advanced to the table.
The walls were covered from the floor to a metre below the high ceiling with rich mahogany panelling, with the exception of the four three-quarter height double windows whose shutters were folded back to allow the last of the evening sun to filter in. The large, almost square table with the white recessed baize top which stood in the middle of the deep-pile ruby carpet was also of mahogany. Two long red runners were laid at right angles across it. They crossed in the centre and the ends fell smoothly over the specially designed recesses in the middle of each side. The concealed lighting below the carved and dentillated cornice which ran around the perimeter of the ceiling cast a warm glow to augment the sunset.
However the atmosphere in the room was far from cordial. There were only three other people present. The matter which had arisen was too urgent to allow time to summon the whole council of fourteen, more than half of whom would have had to fly in to Paris from around Europe and the Middle East.
Monsieur le President sat in his usual place in the centre seat at the far end of the table. He was now a very old man, probably in his early nineties, but still in possession of all his mental faculties. He was much diminished in stature from the hundred and ninety centimetre, eighty-five kilo giant he had once been and his back was badly bent. But between the hollow cheeks and beneath the nearly-bald scalp with its ridiculous single wisp of silver hair, the dark eyes still glinted ferociously.
To his left sat Marcus Heilburg, the Grand Treasurer. Heilburg was a man whom it was easy to overlook and even easier to forget when the eyes had passed on to the president. However, with the advancing years of the man in charge, the main reins of power now rested in his hands. He was the only full-time member of the Council of Preceptories and all information passed through his small office on the floor above. He was on first-name terms with most of the rulers of Europe. His seldom-stated views were listened to with care by most of those with real power. The great wealth of the council which he was able to instantly wield gave him immense influence with Europe’s decision makers.
Charles did not personally know the third man, seated opposite the president at the foot of the table. He was young and slight of build. From this he guessed the fellow to be the agent who had been referred to by Marcus as Armand - one of the facilitators used by the council when it was necessary for their presence to take a physical form, underlining their influence with action. He was rumoured to be the son of one of the council members, fanatically loyal and trained to be deadly when required. However his withdrawn yet pleasant personality made it possible for him to melt into the background when necessary. Nevertheless Robert was surprised that such a man had been admitted to the council chamber. It underlined the urgency of the meeting.
“Sit down, Charles.” The president’s voice was barely above a whisper.
Robert sat in his usual place, three down on the side facing the window. He looked at the old man and prepared for his condemnation.
“We are here to discuss the Blontard situation,” said the president unnecessarily. “We are disappointed that it took nearly three weeks to become aware of what is happening.”
Robert cleared his throat. “The decision to grant the licence was taken with some haste by the Chief Secretary. Unusually he did it alone without consulting me. I had been seconded to Brussels for a month. My assistant, who would normally have alerted me to any new developments, was accompanying me. I regret that I took a weekend’s holiday before I returned to the office. Of course I alerted you to the problem this morning as soon as the relevance of this decision became clear.”
“Hmm.” No further condemnation was necessary. It would be a black mark on Robert’s record, possibly barring his elevation to the highest positions on the council in the years to come. “Meanwhile the lady in question is already on location.”
Robert bowed his head in acquiescence.
“This Blontard woman - is she related to the late Albert Blontard?”
“She is his niece.”
“What is her attitude to his suicide?”
“That is unknown. She has said nothing about it in public. However it is notable that, now she has gained some influence with her successful television series, she should decide to stray on to the same territory in which he used to be so interested.” Robert dared to expand his thoughts. “She probably has access to the information her uncle built up during his life of investigating our organisation. She will almost certainly be motivated to expose anything related to his death. All our careful repairs to our reputation over the last five years may be at risk.”
There was a long silence while those round the table digested the import of his comments. Robert wondered whether he had gone too far in mentioning his fears in front of young Armand, who was not a council member. However a glance at the other faces reassured him that his imprudence was not seen as a problem by his superiors.
Marcus Heilburg spoke for the first time. “It is important that we understand her motivation.”
“That is why young Sejour is here,” said the president. “You have already briefed him?”
Heilburg nodded.
The old man looked down the table to the fellow. “Do you have a proposed course of action?”
Armand looked up and Robert noticed that his previously soft blue-grey eyes had hardened to the colour of steel. “Yes, Monsieur le President. I have access to a young woman who I can absolutely trust. I propose that she and I should act as a recently married couple on a touring holiday. We will book in at the hotel in Quillan where the archaeologists are staying. We will appear to be fascinated by the activities of Blontard’s group. We may even volunteer to join them as amateur assistants. I believe that archaeologists never have enough assistants. We will report to the grand treasurer on our progress and receive his instructions on what action is necessary.”
The president turned to his left. “Are you happy with this?”
“With respect, Claude.” Heilburg’s lack of formality betrayed his anxiety. “I think we should have a council member on station locally.”
The old man nodded. “I agree.” His gaze swivelled to Robert. “It will have to be you, Charles.”
“I am not sure I can take the time, President. You know I have only just returned from Brussels. The Chief Secretary wants to see me on Wednesday to receive my report and he will require me to take early action on it. This is a matter of importance to France.”
“But this is more important,” said Heilburg.
“I am sure that France can wait.” The president turned to his left. “We can arrange this, can we not, Marcus?”
The grand treasurer nodded.
“Very well. It will be your opportunity to redeem yourself, Charles.”
Robert observed his career prospects in government receding. However he knew where his personal priorities lay. He looked down at the table, the square cross reminding him of his duty. “As you say, Monsieur le President.”
The grand treasurer slid a slim file across the table towards him and Charles Robert reached out and picked it up. He opened the file which contained a brochure for a hotel in Foix. Pinned to the cover was confirmation of his booking of a room for one month starting from the following evening. Charles noted that it was a single room. This was clearly a duty without any pleasure. There was also a further sheet of paper with the mobile phone number of Armand and an instruction to ring the young man at a specific time. Marcus Heilburg was always thorough.
Charles realised that this was his dismissal. He rose, bowed slow
ly to the president and went out through the heavy panelled door, faced with the maroon baize on the outside. He knew he was not required to listen to the briefing given to Armand. In any case, he would need to make his peace with his long-suffering wife before he set off south only a few days after his return from Brussels.
- 5 -
It was a wet night in Marseilles. The back streets off the Quai de la Joliette were almost deserted - just the odd rat picking through the refuse in the gutters, the occasional cat tiptoeing round the puddles, irritably twitching raindrops from its ears. In the alley, grandly named the Rue de Printemps, there were two exceptions. A small, weasel-faced crook, hunch-backed against the rain, had a firm hold on the sleeve of a tall middle-aged individual who was sheltering beneath a large black umbrella as he was led up the alley.
The tall man picked his way through the soggy garbage with almost as much care as the cat. He had a look of extreme distaste on his aquiline features, and the way in which he held back from his guide suggested that he would have his slightly worn suit dry-cleaned as soon as he returned to decent society.
The weasel stopped beside an old oak door which was in better condition than most of the others in the alley and tapped twice. The two men stood in the steady downpour, waiting for a response, unaware that they were being carefully examined through a night-light peephole in the door.
After a couple of minutes the door was opened by a great, violent-looking beast of a man with a clean-shaven scalp. He stood slightly aside to give them a narrow corridor of entry. The umbrella was collapsed and the two entered. The door was immediately closed and bolted behind them and they were led down a passage into a rear room which was warm and well lit.
The Secret Of The Cathars (2011) Page 3