by Rob Swigart
Father Colmillo purred, “Don’t be afraid, my daughter.”
The bolt of terror that shot through her satisfied him. Surely, a demon possessed her. A demon in which he had never quite believed until this moment was nakedly itself in that look of fear. That fetus swelling to eruption in there was the Evil One, the one who wagered with God over the righteousness of Job.
The priest realized he could, perhaps in the next few moments, kill two birds with one stone, so to speak.
Sister cleared her throat.
“Yes, Sister?” he said mildly.
“Somewhere inside there is an innocent child.”
“Hardly. She has sinned.”
“You yourself have said she is possessed, but does not the innocent within deserve our compassion?”
“As you say, Sister,” he murmured, following the letter of the Rite. “More than our compassion though, she deserves the Rite to rid her of the demon. With the demon gone, we can cleanse her soul.”
“She’s an innocent,” the nun repeated, breaking the pattern. The crucifix hovered near her lips.
Father Colmillo sighed. Sister had spoken thus to provoke him. Very well, he would adopt the exchange if Sister Mary Lamiana so desired. “She harbors demon seed,” he replied. “It must be driven out; it must be banished to the place of eternal flame.”
A smile congealed on the nun’s lips. She dipped her head in false submission. “As you say, Father.”
The exchange returned to its tracks. “You have dedicated yourself to assisting at this Exorcism?”
“Yes, Father,” she responded.
“You are prepared to repel the demon?”
“Yes, Father.”
She was now subservient, but his satisfaction was muted by the increasing tension seizing his body. Exorcism was a draining, terrifying ordeal, not something to be taken lightly. But it had to be done.
The formalities now complete, he turned his attention to the girl.
“You will lie down on this table, Celia. You will fix your eyes upward and ask God for forgiveness, for you have sinned. You know this, don’t you, that you have sinned?”
Her answer was an empty stare.
Father Colmillo helped her onto the table, holding her hand carefully, guiding her elbow, straightening her legs, and arranging the flimsy gown over her swollen belly and around her hips. She continued to stare at him, her eyes wide. He read in them only the patience of the beast, and the stupidity. As so many times with this child, he failed to notice the flicker of intelligence deep in those dark brown eyes.
He sprinkled holy water over Celia, Sister Mary, and in the four directions. “Pax vobiscum,” he said.
Sister Mary responded, “Et cum spiritum tuo.”
He picked up the bottle of oil. His hand was shaking.
Celia’s eyes widened; her heels began to drum on the table, slowly at first, but soon picking up speed. She threw her head back and forth and a moan burst from somewhere deep inside her, a moan so hoarse and prolonged Father Colmillo shivered violently, sending a drop of oil onto the floor. It fell in slow motion, resounded against the wooden planks, spread, curled up, and fell back again, leaving fading echoes.
“Are you all right, Father?” Sister Mary asked, one hand on his upper arm. The other hand clutched her cross to her bosom, knuckles white.
The concern in her voice was steel wool on his neck, but he managed to nod. He didn’t move, clutching the open bottle of oil.
Sister Mary took her hand away. When he still didn’t move, she leaned down to Celia’s head and whispered, “Who put this child in you, girl?”
Father Colmillo jerked, pressed his lips together, and finally said softly, “We know she’s possessed, and that’s enough.”
The nun shrugged. “True, it’s a question I have asked her often. She’s never answered.”
“And she never will.” He clenched the oil to his chest. After a collective moment he poured some onto his palm, and said more quietly, “Please, Sister, let me get on with it.”
She nodded and straightened. “Of course. It doesn’t matter who the father is. She’s like all the rest in that way, steeped in sin. Rotten with it.” She stepped back.
He touched a spot of oil on Celia’s forehead. “Adjuro te, serpens antique…” He plowed on through the beginnings of the Rite when Celia abruptly sat upright, knocking his hand aside with her forehead. She stared wildly into his eyes, her mouth opened two or three times, her eyes narrowed, and she hissed at him.
He paled and fell back.
Sister Mary seized the girl’s shoulders and pushed them back down onto the table.
Celia’s eyes darted back and forth, as if looking for an exit, a way out of her pain. Her heels drummed impossibly fast, shaking the table. She kept hissing, hissing, like steam from a kettle.
Father Colmillo grabbed the pincers. “Stop,” he shouted, squeezing the flesh of her upper arm. The hissing, the drumming continued. He struck her forehead with the hammer. A red spot appeared and started to swell, and still she hissed, staring up at him. Never had he felt such naked hatred directed toward him.
He clenched his hands together and brought them down on her swollen belly. “Come out!” he shouted, pounding on her stomach over and over. “Come forth, accursed thing! Adjuro ergo te, draco nequissime, in nomine Agni immaculate, come forth, get thee hence!”
He brought his clenched hands down over and over, until Sister Mary Lamiana restrained him. His hair was wild, saliva flowed from the corner of his mouth and down his chin, and when he turned to the nun his eyes were blind.
Sister Mary saw he was on the edge of defeat. “This isn’t part of the ritual, Father! If you kill the baby, you’ll never save her.” Her voice was thick with bile. She added under her breath, “It might be better if you do kill the child, though. The girl, too.”
Father Colmillo sagged, breathing hard.
The girl, spread legs still kicking, shrieked. At first the sound was low and undulating, but quickly, rapidly grew louder and ever more shrill until the sound suddenly stopped. Celia fell back, eyes closed. Her face clenched tight in pain and relaxed. She was unconscious.
High above the dais, a clerestory window shattered with a bang. Glass exploded into the room. Fragments sliced Father Colmillo’s face and hands and shredded the nun’s coif and wimple. Swirling gusts swept curtains of rain into the room.
Celia was untouched.
The candles flickered and went out.
Rescue
Lisa crouched close to the gap under the door where the air was still clear and heard the metallic scrape of the key. Behind her, the bed curtains flared and dimmed to a flickering orange blur. Clean air from the hallway sent eddies of smoke dancing toward the shattered window, invisible on the other side of the room.
The door banged open and bounced against the wall. Two figures rushed in. Once they disappeared into the smoke, Lisa, brass lamp clutched under her arm, duck-walked through the door and pulled it shut behind her.
The landing was empty, and better yet, the key was still in the lock. She turned it, though she had no illusions it would hold for long.
She crept to the corner for a look down the spiral staircase. Halfway down, a woman with an assault rifle at the ready was talking to someone out of sight on the floor below. She’s probably the woman at the Cluny who asked about the painting, she thought. So Ophis Sophia’s peculiar army was equal opportunity, though this was the only female she’d seen.
Indistinct shouts drifted up from below. It was too soon for Steve and the others, but they would arrive soon and when they did all hell was going to break loose.
She tiptoed quickly to a door to her left and found a staircase. She headed up to the garret. If Usem was not there, he would be in the basement, but there were many obstacles between here and there and she fervently hoped he was up rather than down.
She climbed cautiously, still carrying the lamp. At the landing, she looked back and saw the woman soldier p
ound on the bedroom door. “What’s going on in there?” she shouted. Smoke curled up from the gap below the door.
Muffled voices and coughs inside answered. She hurled herself at the door; the wood groaned but did not give way.
Lisa continued up to a large carpeted central room with several doors, all closed. She listened at each door before trying it. The first room contained nothing but three plain chairs against a wall. The second and third were empty, dusty, and cobwebbed. The dormer windows were filled with black night that reflected her silhouette, framed and backlit.
The fourth room contained a dozen naked mannequins, male and female, paired and composed, waiting for an orchestra to strike up a waltz. She closed the door, shaking her head.
Someone moaned inside the fifth room, and she wondered what the hell she thought she was doing. Despite Steve’s self-defense training, she was no match for the brutal men she had encountered downstairs, Nizam, Ibrahim, Tall, Lean, Wide, the silent guard at the front door, the three in the bedroom, and no doubt others she hadn’t seen. She was a scholar, not a warrior. She had glimpses of the future, but her gift of eagle sight, as Nizam called it, was not serving her now.
After another groan from inside, a man started speaking French in short, sharp sentences: “He’s awake… Yes, sir… I understand… At once.”
Whoever he was, he was coming out, and she was pretty sure he would be bringing Usem. She waited.
The door opened. She briefly saw pale blue wallpaper, a bed, etchings of hunting scenes, an antique wooden dresser before an old man stumbled out. Who else could this be but the old Jesuit scholar of ancient languages, feet dragging on the thick carpeting like a sleepwalker? He lurched past her.
He was closely followed by one of Nizam’s feda’in. Though he held an automatic pistol in his hand, he wasn’t prepared for a slender blond woman swinging a large brass lamp at his head. It struck with a dull clunk. He dropped his gun and collapsed on the floor without a sound.
His weapon felt oddly familiar when she picked it up; it was the same Springfield XD 9 she used on the man invading her apartment. Remembered horror passed through her: the kick of it against her wrist, the small black hole blooming on the man’s face, the way he disappeared behind her bed.
She considered shooting Usem’s guard, but he was unconscious and Usem continued staggering ahead. She left the gunman and guided the old man toward the stairs. He mumbled something indistinct.
“Never mind,” she told him. “We’re leaving now.”
The effects of whatever they had put in him were still apparent, but he gained enough control of himself to nod.
“Stay close.”
They crept to the floor below.
The woman waited at the shattered bedroom door. A man ran up with a fire extinguisher and the two of them rushed in. She realized they must think she was still inside. When they discovered she had escaped they would come looking, so she dragged Usem by the arm down the stairs, fortunately deserted, but there was angry shouting and the trilling of a fire alarm below.
This was the servants’ back staircase. She pulled Usem down. On the ground floor she found a utilitarian corridor. At the far end was another door. She calculated it led to the room in which Ibrahim and Nizam had interviewed her. This house had a gate to the park, so there would be another door at the back. She had dragged him two steps when a loud bang and a flash of light illuminated the walls. The light was followed by gunfire and running footsteps headed in their direction.
She turned, pushing Usem back to the door. She shrugged and opened it, and they entered the sitting room.
Ibrahim stood in the doorway to the main foyer wearing a deep frown and holding a .45 automatic pointed at them. His lips twitched. “Ah, Dr. Emmer.” His calm murmur was barely audible over the warbling of the alarm.
Beside her Usem groaned.
The Tablet of Destinies
“Mr. Ibrahim,” Lisa acknowledged with a tip of her head.
His expression conveyed a complex mixture of good will and menace. “You’ve caused us a bit of trouble, I’m afraid.”
“I’m not sorry. You were threatening to kill me.”
He raised his eyebrows. “Kill? Certainly not! Although you evaded us at the Sorbonne this morning, I found that really quite clever, even admirable. You took the catacombs?” He shook his head. “I should have thought of that, but of course they’re large and complex and it would have taken much time to find you down there.” He dismissed the catacombs with a wave of his gun. “I should have insisted more vigorously you give me the location of the tablet. We don’t have much time left, and now I’m afraid the Teacher is displeased with me.”
“Too bad about that. But more vigorously? Torture?”
“Not my style, Dr. Emmer.”
“Others in this house may differ.”
He dismissed torture as he had the catacombs. “As an interrogation technique torture’s not particularly effective, but events are unfolding faster than expected. We would like the tablet sooner rather than later.”
“And why would I give it to you, Mr. Ibrahim?”
“Mm…. Because I’m holding a gun?”
She shrugged. “You can’t shoot me if you want the tablet, and you can’t shoot Dr. Izri because you need him to decipher it.”
Ibrahim sighed. “So, torture, then.”
Lisa shook her head. “Not possible. I also have a gun.” She lifted it. “We’ll be leaving now.”
A puzzled frown crowned his eyes. “Leaving? Don’t be absurd. This house is full of armed men, some of them, as you say, eager to apply physical pressure.”
“And as you well know, the house also contains other armed men. In fact…”
“Drop your weapon, please,” Steve said. He was leaning against the jamb of the doorway behind Ibrahim, hands behind his back, completely at ease.
Ibrahim turned slowly. “Excuse me?”
Steve shrugged. “I said please.” His hand darted from behind his back and tossed a suddenly twisting, hissing viper into Ibrahim’s face.
The dapper man threw his hands up and stumbled back, dropping the pistol.
“I was being polite,” Steve muttered, kicking it toward Lisa.
She picked it up with her free hand and handed it to Usem, who stared at it in horror. “Just hold onto it,” she said. “Won’t bite.” She glanced at the snake with a grimace. “Safety’s on.”
A quick series of flash-bangs exploded in the foyer. The commotion angered the reptile, which slithered toward Ibrahim, the nearest warm body, scales hissing loudly. Ibrahim pushed himself away with hands and heels until his back hit the sea-green chair. He tucked his feet under, stared into the reptile’s eyes, and began crooning a soft, soothing melody.
The snake lifted its head. Ibrahim moved his hands slowly. The viper stopped and its head followed his hands back and forth, back and forth.
Steve nodded at Lisa and Usem and the three of them moved through the smoke-filled foyer and out the front door. Shots from inside the house spattered on the gravel courtyard and whined against the perimeter wall.
A moment later Alain appeared. Frédo followed, walking slowly and staring at his revolver as if it had just spoken in tongues. “I think I shot someone,” he said unsteadily.
Alain grinned. “You shot at someone; that was enough. Good work.” He punched Frédo on the arm. “We should move along, though. They’re going to figure out the gate’s open. Best we’re no longer here when that happens.”
Back in the car, they watched the three men come out to the sidewalk. They were looking down the street when a taxi pulled up. A large bearded man in his early thirties got out. One of the guards paid the driver and sent him away.
The group went back inside. “That’d be Lex Treadwell,” Steve said. “Constantine sent his picture. He’s very close to the Teacher.”
“Nizam al-Muriq,” Lisa said. “Not someone to underestimate. He has a powerful and very focused mind; he’s a persuasive spe
aker and a true fanatic. And,” she added, “he’s amazingly ugly. I say that with all due respect.”
Steve put the binoculars back in their case and replaced them in the glove compartment. “Not Lex there, or Ibrahim. Both quite presentable right-hand men.”
“One right, one left,” Lisa suggested. “This man here is the person we’ve been looking for, Usem Izri.”
The old man, shivering in the back seat between Frédo and Lisa, managed a shallow nod.
Frédo reached up to comfort him and realized he was still holding the revolver. He put it away with an embarrassed grin.
Steve reached back to shake Usem’s hand. “Glad you’re safe.”
“Where to?” Alain asked.
“The Bookbinder’s.” Lisa gave him the address.
A text arrived from Constantine as they were crossing Denfert-Rochereau: “Lisa Emmer; come at once. I have something to tell you, and there’s something you must see.”
Lisa frowned and shook her head. “I thought women weren’t allowed on Mt. Athos.”
Steve sent back a question mark.
They waited for a reply but by the time they reached the Bookbinder’s none had arrived. Steve said, “He’ll answer when he can.”
Jacques was chain smoking in front of a small flat screen television, a green field of tiny running figures. “Football, Jacques?” Lisa said.
He grunted.
“Your favorite team?”
“How would I know?” Jacques answered amid a coughing fit. “Foot puts me to sleep. Not this time, alas. It’s on the table.”
She opened the copy of Lettres Philosophiques. Light winked off the glassine envelope. Inside it, the soft golden clay glowed with an inner light. She closed it and tucked it under her arm.
Usem sighed. “That’s it?”
“That’s it. You can examine it when we get somewhere safe,” Lisa said.
Usem looked unhappy.