Lisa Emmer Historical Thrillers Vol. 1-2 (Lisa Emmer Historical Thriller Series)

by Rob Swigart

  Kemal and his two partners, dressed in blue smocks, had been coming and going for months. The contents of their toolboxes would have alarmed some of the pedestrians that passed by outside, but not all.

  For Lex, that apartment building down the rue du Dragon introduced a new element. The Teacher told him he had only reached the Third Mystery, and wasn’t yet ready, but Lex would understand in time. For now all he needed to know was that an… obstacle had appeared, an organization that more than once in the past three millennia had neutralized great potentials, frustrated the true Opening to the Light, and sent the Wisdom Serpent back into Darkness.

  This could not be allowed to happen this time. There was too much at stake.

  The Jesuit had found the tablet. He had informed Frédéric Daviau, and now Daviau was coming to an apartment on the rue du Dragon that belonged to this pagan organization. He would launch the operation from Khadija. That was all he needed to know.

  The device on the table beeped, a blue LED blinked. They watched a door open down the block. A man leaned out, turned his head to look up and down the street. For a moment he seemed to look at them straight through the camera before turning and hurrying out of sight.

  Lex stood, and in one decisive downward gesture smoothed his blond beard and the front of his dark robes. “That was Daviau. I will go now,” he said. “Wait one more hour to be sure. Report to me when it’s done.”

  Just inside the front door he removed his robes, folded them carefully, and stuffed them into a backpack. He wore gray slacks and a white shirt. He set a cap from the backpack on his head and stepped outside to join the throngs of passersby, an ordinary tourist with a beard and a backpack.

  It would take a couple of hours for Kemal and the others to complete the operation, so he crossed Saint-Germain and settled at a small table on the terrace of the Café de Flore. He ordered a café Crème and fixed his earpiece in his ear. They would call.

  After all these years, the American in him still longed for milk in his coffee. He didn’t care; he was sick of tea.

  Ophis Sophia

  On the small screen by the door Lisa watched Frédo step out the front door, look up and down the street, and scurry south toward the intersection at the Carrefour de la Croix-rouge, his foreshortened shadow gradually lengthening as he dwindled in size. When he was gone, she clasped her hands on her head and scratched her scalp, removing the pins holding her hair in place.

  Alain cleared away the last of the dinner things and withdrew. It was nine-thirty in the evening.

  “Frédo’s not the target,” she said, picking her words. “Usem’s fear was contagious and Frédo’s caught it, that’s all. He’ll be fine.”

  Steve grunted. “He didn’t seem so fine to me.”

  She shook her head and her blond hair shimmered. “We’ll need him again, but first we have to find this Usem Izri. The Agenda’s been identifying and defusing potentially disruptive events since before Theodosius closed the Oracle in the fourth century. The world has never known of it. This is one of them, and I sense we don’t have much time.”

  “Right!” Steve swung his chair around to face the Elizabethan Court Cupboard against the end wall of the dining area. Behind the recessed cabinet in its upper tier was a computer hardwired to a secure server in the sub-basement. “First, find Usem Izri,” he suggested. “It would help if we knew who was so interested in a minor scholar who mucks around with ancient documents.”

  “Ancient documents can cause trouble, Steve.”

  He leaned his forearms on the table. “Sure, they’ve caused trouble before. There’s the Bible, for instance, that’s ancient, and it’s certainly been troublesome. But this isn’t the Bible, Lisa, it’s just another prophecy about a child; there have been plenty of those.”

  She gave his shoulder a squeeze. She recognized the gesture was unexpected and surprisingly intimate, but did not withdraw her hand. Instead she leaned forward and spoke softly. “This particular document is attracting too much attention. That’s not a coincidence, Steve. Someone was waiting for it.”

  He rubbed his hand over the stubble on his chin with a grunt. “Oh, boy.”

  “Oh, boy?” she said, leaning back in mock surprise. “Oh, boy? How very American.”

  He had called up a videoconferencing window. “Oh, boy, because Messiahs are usually boys. And I said, Oh, boy, because people waiting means true believers, and I really hope this isn’t going to be a cult that believes in miracles, or demons, or any other supernatural entities. I’m not prepared for a fight with Satan.”

  She laughed. “This is most certainly about humans with personal interests and ethically challenged intentions.”

  “OK, I’m calling the Librarians.”

  Lisa let her eyes go soft until the gray face danced at the very edges of her vision.

  She barely registered Steve saying, “Yes, Ted, I know it’s night, but Lisa wants to talk.”

  “She’s the Pythia!” Ted Maintenon boomed. “So, what’s the sitrep?”

  Lisa pulled herself back into the present with a wan smile and leaned toward the screen. “Hello, Ted, Marianne. Sitrep? You’ve been watching too many war movies.”

  Ted filled most of the screen, his bushy gray beard wreathing the kind of smile one could only call “jolly.” His laugh, too, was hearty. “Can’t resist a good war movie. But seriously, we’re at your service!”

  Marianne, standing behind his shoulder in an identical blue smock, was a beardless echo of her husband. She peered out from under salt and pepper bangs cut straight just above her eyebrows. “At your service,” she repeated with an emphatic nod.

  “You’re well, dear?” Ted’s clipped British accent softened with concern.

  “Both fine, thanks. You two look the same. Haven’t seen you since Mirepoix.”

  Marianne said, “Quite so, no need for us to meet in person, it’s been a quiet year. We found a place here in Dijon, perfect for research. Dijon has some real advantages. Good food, for one thing, and it’s much easier to get to Paris for the shopping.”

  “Books shopping, I presume.”

  Ted answered, “Books, yes. There are still bookstores in Paris, many more than in Toulouse. We take the train, very calm and quite anonymous. We’re practically invisible.”

  Lisa laughed. “You, invisible? Hardly. You two stand out, especially side by side like this.”

  Ted’s teeth gleamed in his unruly beard. “When we take the same train, we sit in different cars. But no one’s after us at the moment, so it’s perfectly safe. Only one of us goes into a shop at a time, so we’re never seen together.”

  “Good. You have everything you need? Money? Resources?”

  Ted panned the camera around the room. Though different in layout from the house in Mirepoix, this room held the same unruly piles of books, journals, and popular magazines.

  Lisa could not tell if they lived in a house or an apartment. “You have been shopping,” she laughed.

  “Yes, indeed.” Ted’s grin reflected genuine pleasure. “Your budget is quite generous, even more so than under your predecessor, so we are quite well fixed, thank you for asking. We’ve managed to rebuild most of the library in less than six months. Of course, there are still things missing, aren’t there, Mrs. Maintenon?”

  Marianne nodded vigorously.

  “But, Lisa, I’m sure you’ll be glad to hear we’ve made some startling new discoveries as well. And we have these computers, now, too. The Internet is full of nonsense, of course, but really, when you know how to search, it can be quite wonderful, especially in some of the hidden places…”

  “Yes, Ted, I’m familiar with the Internet.”

  “So,” Marianne interrupted. “You didn’t call just to chat, Lisa.”

  “Usem Izri, S. J.” She spelled it, and followed with a quick summary of Frédo’s testimony at dinner.

  Marianne disappeared and returned a moment later with a couple of large-format books. Ted watched, bemused, as she leafed thr
ough one, put it aside, and started on the other. After flipping through several pages, she exclaimed, “Aha!” with a triumphant look. “Usem Izri, no middle name, has published six articles in Études Sumeriennes. Small output, but he’s quite respected in the field. A very tiny field, perhaps, but still.”

  “You remembered his name?” Steve was impressed.

  “Of course, I remember everything I read.”

  “We both do,” Ted added. “But of course, we read different things, no duplications for us, not at all. We don’t want to waste time.”

  “I just looked it up to confirm. Always confirm, that’s my motto,” Marianne added. “Izri, Usem, seventy six years old, born in Bechar Djedid, Algeria. Became a Jesuit at age thirty-eight, shortly after earning a doctorate in Assyriology from the Sorbonne. Among modern languages he speaks French, English, Hebrew, and German. Specializes in Sumerian and Akkadian cuneiform, but also knows Hittite, Old Persian, Ugaritic, and probably Elamite. Elamite was… well, never mind. His special interest, not the one for which he is best known, is prophetic texts. That may be why he became a Jesuit, to understand prophecy scientifically? He has few known friends. For the past half-year he’s been working at the Collège de France. He lives alone in Belleville, in a one-bedroom rented by the Society of Jesus. A solitary scholar, and you don’t see many of them these days. Isn’t that right, Mr. Maintenon?”

  “That’s right, Mrs. Maintenon, not many. It was more fashionable to be a solitary scholar in the nineteenth century, I believe. Today it’s all about collaboration. Like us, like the Agenda.”

  Marianne excused herself. “I’ll do a spot of work while you talk to Ted.”

  Lisa asked him, “Why would a solitary scholar suddenly disappear? He sounds steady, dependable, even a bit boring.”

  Ted patted his beard against his chest. “It may have something to do with what happened at the Collège this afternoon.” His expression was a bit smug. He had produced fresh intelligence for his employer. “A fire alarm.”

  Lisa closed her eyes and murmured. “I see.” Her eyes snapped open. “Someone’s taken him.”

  Ted’s face fell, his surprise ruined. “Yes, it was on the news.”

  “That’s one reason we value you, Ted; you monitor the media for us.”

  “Yes, of course. Well, the pompiers evacuated the building. One of them saw an elderly man get pushed into the back of an ambulance. He thought nothing of it since another fireman was helping. I’d guess that was your man.”

  “Did the media identify him?” Steve asked.

  “No, no, not at all. That part was not in the popular media. We have access to other information, more detail. The lobby guard recognized Mr. Izri. I’m sending an image of the license.”

  A startlingly clear image of the plate appeared. Ted continued, “This plate isn’t official, not at all, an ordinary license with Paris numbers, except that no such number exists. The ambulance was, in fact, a bakery truck. Your scholar is in the hands of a third party, so far unknown, but probably not bakers.”

  “Right,” Lisa murmured. She looked at Ted, her mouth set. “A well-funded group is after that tablet, which foretells an important event involving a child. Was that event in the past or does it still lie in the future? Assume the future. When and where will this child appear, and what kind of disruption will it be?” She brushed back a strand of hair and scratched her scalp.

  Ted tugged on his beard. “The tablet was discovered yesterday, yet these people already knew about it. It already has a history, yet we have no idea what it really contains.”

  Lisa looked up, brisk now. “We need to find out who they are. The tablet’s influence grows every hour and sweeps up more people. How dangerous is it? We need to talk to the Jesuit.”

  Steve, standing behind Lisa, hands on the back of her chair, straightened with a growl. “So, Ted, who would care about Usem Izri?”

  Ted patted his beard. “Marianne’s looking at groups focused on ancient prophecies.”

  She came into the frame and said without preamble, “There are several, but most are fringe: new agers, conspiracy theorists, mystics, cults. One fit the criteria, a group called Ophis Sophia, or Serpent Wisdom. A bookseller named Otto Meinholz purchased a volume of that name in 1726 from a shop in Alexandria, but…”

  Ted put his hand on Marianne’s shoulder. “No need for details of the book, Mrs. Maintenon. They’re interested in the organization.”

  “Of course,” she said cheerfully. “Ophis Sophia popped up and disappeared many times in the past two thousand years, sometimes confused with the Ophites or Ophians, a Gnostic sect. In the tenth century, Ophis Sophia was a community affiliated with the Syrian Church, the Maronites. Provocative, don’t you think?”

  “Connection with Jesuits?”

  “Not much. In the nineteenth century a priest named La Grande gave a fiery sermon at the Toulouse cathedral about the Second Coming. Ophis Sophia was mentioned in passing.”

  Lisa’s face brightened. “Not much, you say? I disagree. Focus on them.”

  Ted raised a finger. “By way of background, Lisa, the goddess Sophia was associated with Selene, the moon, and later with the Holy Spirit. At the same time, also a fallen angel. Usem described Dimme-Lamaštu as a fallen goddess, did he not?”

  “Yes, he did,” Lisa said.

  “Well, there you are!” An image appeared on the screen. “As you can see in this amulet of Lamaštu, she’s holding two snakes.”

  Lisa grinned. “A myriad threads make up a tapestry. All right, keep digging.”

  “We will search the darker sides of the net, magic and mystical libraries, for instance,” Ted agreed. “And I’ll contact our web watcher in Greece. He may be able to find things we can’t. For now, I can tell you Ophis Sophia believes snakes are the source of wisdom. Of course, we find much the same thing in the Old Testament. The snake in the garden, for instance, offered knowledge, which some might see as a gift and not a curse.”

  “Good. If they still exist and operate in the shadow of the Church, they’ll have power. They took Usem and we have to find out why.”

  She signed off and turned to Steve. “Tomorrow we’ll look into what Usem was doing…” She clapped her hands to her temples and bent forward, almost touching the table with her forehead. “No!” She dug her fingers into Steve’s arm. “Something’s about to happen, Steve. Soon. Now. We have to….”

  The penetrating warble of the perimeter alarm cut off the rest of her sentence.

  Assault

  Steve touched his thumb to the corner of a portrait of the great English Renaissance composer William Byrd, one of Raimond Foix’s favorites. Though attributed to the Flemish engraver Michael van der Gucht, the etching was in fact a clever forgery. Lisa kept it for its sentimental value. Byrd’s long face, flowing hair, and pointed goatee moved smoothly sideways, revealing a screen with a dozen video images of the apartment and its surroundings. A column of icons down the right side accessed sound monitors, multimodal communications, infrastructure, self-diagnostics, defensive measures.

  Steve killed the alarm and scanned the video feeds. “Roof,” he muttered, tapping an icon. Spotlights caught a hooded figure reaching toward the camera. The view went dark. “Well, that camera was sure easy to find.” The other views of the roof were empty.

  A soft whirring filled the apartment and the windows went opaque.

  A second alarm kicked in, lower pitched. “Basement. Now that’s curious, attacking from above and below. I could get truly pissed.”

  Lisa was examining the contents of the entry closet. She was more intrigued than afraid. To the world she may be an obscure scholar at the Sorbonne, but she was also the Pythia of the Delphi Agenda, head of a vast, if shadowy organization. She told herself she was the most important person in the world no one knew about, or, at least, that no one had known about until now. But it was Steve’s task to protect her. Since he was the most competent person she knew, she asked without haste, “Which is it, pisse
d, or curious?”

  “Both. But these people are also beginning to intrigue me.”

  Views of the garage displayed two smeared figures delineated in very bright reds, greens, and yellows jittering against the outline of the car. The other windows were black. “It’s dark,” Steve added. “These are thermal. See their night vision gear? They were ready for this. Getting into the basement should have been impossible. People would hear them breaching the walls between buildings and complain. I’ve messaged Alain. He’ll be back in ten minutes. I sent him after those two.”

  Lisa took a wooden box from the top shelf of the closet and removed a Springfield XD 9 mm. handgun. She looked at it wistfully. Then, in answer to Steve’s look, she shrugged. “Just in case.”

  “You’re not a very good shot.”

  “I might consider giving it to you.”

  “Ah.” Before he could say more, a speaker crackled. One of the basement figures was talking. “You don’t speak Arabic, by any chance, do you?” he asked.

  She shook her head. “A few words. I know Ancient and Modern Greek, Latin, some Coptic.”

  “I know. Also French, English, Italian, decent German. I’m patching in one of our Arabic specialists in Amman.”

  The second figure had a higher voice and a different accent. “Both men, anyway,” Steve said.

  The translator said in English, “Language Syriac, an Aramaic dialect and the liturgical language of the Maronite Church. Number One, on the left, I’d guess he’s Iraqi, is saying he was surprised they got through the wall so quickly considering how slowly they had to drill. Number Two, Syrian or possibly Cypriot, is saying the people upstairs didn’t react so they probably hadn’t heard. One: bourgeois French don’t want to be bothered: people drill through their basement storage boxes and they say nothing! Typical. Two: Yeah, but the asshole (rough translation, sorry) who filled his storage box with manikins dressed in feathers will be angry.” He pantomimed spitting.