Promethea

by M. M. Abougabal

  Adam, however, was completely unaware of the psychological battle that raged within the Austrian Bigfoot. He was, instead, fully versed taking a discerning glance to his fresher, newer surroundings, until a blissful confident smile prolonged his lips and stretched them all the way to the extreme right side of his dimpled face; Mother Nature has done it again. If his experience had taught him anything, it was that no matter how careful wrongdoers have always tried to be, their environments seemed to have always fancied giving them away. A few looks around confirmed the Interpol agent’s suspicions; the one single feature that has been helping the intruders in their raid and eventual escape yesterday, had just given them away: Snow.

  “Here’s a question.” The Frenchman asked. “How frequent are high-profile solo, one-man heists?” Adam probed but his questions fell flat on the blunt confused faces of his partners who provided no hint of an answer. “Never mind.” He continued. “They constitute around ten to fifteen per cent of all art robberies.”

  Adam did not blame the Austrians much for their lack of insight; after all they most probably solely handled domestic cases while he was more versed in regional and global affairs. What sparked the agent’s interest in the beginning of this particular case was the way this heist was conducted. It immensely resembled another that had occurred almost exactly seventeen years ago in the Netherlands. In 2002, media had gleefully dubbed thirty-one year-old Dutch citizen, Octave Durham, ‘The Monkey’ for his ability to acrobatically evade police officers during the chase. He broke into the Van Gogh Museum in Amsterdam by sliding from a window, used ropes and ladders to get in, seized two invaluable works of art and got out. All this, however, was conducted with the help of an accomplice. Yet unlike this theft, the duo was very sloppy that they left all kinds of evidence and DNA traces behind and eventually got arrested a year later. Adam was clearly on to something now and Schuster knew that he was not trying to link the same, now forty-eight year old, man to the incident. Yet, there were some undeniably uncanny patterns that started to emerge.

  “Have you heard about the children’s tale of the Tortoise and the Hare?” Adam had a thing for answering questions with ones of his own. It allowed him to engage listeners who would be willing to actively participate and reflect on the discussion. Both Schuster and Brunner nodded in agreement.

  There are many variations of the story but this one was actually Adam’s favourite. It showed how much cunningness was a celebrated virtue in the modern world. The story begins when both creatures decide to settle their grievances with a public race but since the hare possessed a clear biological advantage over its heavier slower foe, the tortoise simply had no option but to resort to cheating. It relied on identically looking tortoises that hid at different milestones along the racecourse, so that every time the hare gets a lead, a new tortoise would appear upfront, giving the illusion of always being ahead. Adam then pointed at the snow carpeting the rooftops beneath their feet. It showed a bit more than mere skid marks. There was an irregular imprint large enough where a small man could lay down. “There! It is where the second man was hiding. You will find a comparable imprint behind the chimney where you first lost track of the first intruder.”

  It became evident that the intruders used a decoy. They led the guards on a wild-goose chase while the original thief slipped right past them. More importantly, they seem to have gone the extra mile to leave an impression, one that could only be bolstered by the myths surrounding the holy relic. They really wanted people to believe that they were now in possession of an item of vast unlimited power.

  Schuster looked down to validate Adam’s assumptions and by the time he gazed back up he found himself at an impasse, torn between two conflicting feelings. From one end he was impressed with the tenacity and resolve of the Frenchman he just met, even if he skilfully muffled down his emotions up to the point of full suppression. Yet from another, he felt betrayed and infuriated by Brunner’s avid incompetence. This is why he was quick to call his trademark decision-making tunnel vision into play. He expertly silenced all the loud static from the flurry of all the possible outcomes out of this situation. Then, he quickly funnelled them down into one single verbal outlet as he inspected his ultra-expensive IWC Schaffhausen Top Gun Swiss watch that was wrapped tightly around his feisty right fist.

  “Brunner, you still have time to go back to the station. Collect your things and leave your badge there. You’re suspended.”

  ***

  Never have I been utterly impressed by man’s fascination with the supernatural. We had willingly abandoned the charted waters of reason in a failed attempt to explain our very own existence, alongside the many other unusual events throughout our relatively brief history here on Earth. The story of the Holy Lance had such a captivating allure that spawned at least five different unlikely versions of the spear, all claiming their authenticity, yet all but one must be forged and untrue. Both Father Bauer and I were already aware of this fact.

  When it came to the lance on display here in Vienna, only few people knew the truth. This spear, while still of great historical significance, was hardly even present at the time of the crucifixion. Its distinct shape was one of many giveaways that refuted the Austrians claims. It simply did not match first century Roman weapons. Yet, what drove the final nail in its metaphorical coffin were the tests conducted by Dr. Robert Feather, an English metallurgist, more than a decade ago. He had conclusively disproved any assertion of its authenticity when he was given exceptional access to the spear in a contained laboratory environment as a part of a documentary that was later aired on TV.

  The first historical record of this lance dates back to the 10th century, a full 940 years after the traumatic and laboured birth of the Christian faith and well into its troublesome adolescence. It came into the possession of Emperor Otto I, who carried it into battle claiming it gave him unparalleled divine authority over his Christian kingdom. He flaunted it as a godly omen when he marched in full resolve and confronted those who did not share his beliefs. Emperors Charlemagne and Barbarossa shared his enthusiasm and as such they summoned the same relic during times of conflict and credited it for most of their military successes. According to legend, both of their lives came to an abrupt end incredibly shortly after they accidentally dropped the lance in battle.

  It was from henceforth that the fables strung around the Vienna Spear grew even more intricate, up to the point that even the once mighty Napoleon had no other ordeal in mind but to wrap his fingers around the artefact. He purposefully moved his troops in a failed attempt to obtain the relic shortly after his great victory in the battle of Austerlitz. Yet, the residents of Nuremberg, fearing what they considered a dreadful fate, smuggled the spear outside their city before he could ever lay his hands on it.

  The lance then exchanged numerous frenzied hands, until it finally wound up with the House of the Hapsburgs in Austria and eventually, was showcased as part of the treasury collection here, at the Hofburg Museum. Until in 1912, when Adolf Hitler, then a young Austrian painter, paid a visit to the Museum premises.

  It was said that he stood here, pinned and awestruck, almost mesmerised in front of where the lance was once displayed as he let the demons of personal glory defile and possess him. Time screeched to a complete halt, and a silent film reel rolled in the back of his head, projecting lucid visions and glimpses of the false greatness that awaits him. And as so, he nurtured this seed of madness devoutly for what some may call a lifetime, until twenty-six years later in 1938, he, after annexing Austria to Germany, ordered the spear transferred back in a specially armoured truck to the city of Nuremberg where it was once kept throughout numerous glorious past German empires.

  It was the tip of a cloak of darkness that stretched for nearly half a decade over and above the face of the Earth. Nations trembled, and continents faltered under the punitive rule of the Nazi Swastika and its rabid warmongering ambitions. It was not until the latter part of World War II, when the Allied forces were fina
lly able to tip the scales in their favour, that he was finally compelled to relocate the spear to an underground bunker protecting it from their heavy artillery. Yet the relic was not quite finished yet, it still had a principal role to play in the grand finale. It was rumoured that out of illogical panic and severe fright, Hitler committed suicide only a meagre 8 minutes after the advancement of the American troops led them to storm the underground vault in 1945, putting a conclusive end to an unlikely parallel storyline.

  To say that I carry nothing but pure dread and disdain towards the absurdities committed in the spear’s name would be a terrible understatement. It served in nothing but feeding a horrific torrent of bloodshed that spanned over a millennium, forcing bizarre bends on the course of human history, based solely on an inaccurate recount of historical events.

  “Well, child, it seems like my initial intrigue in your character was well placed. You do possess a knowledge, which in great part surpasses that of your colleague’s. Are you a qualified historian? An enthusiast perhaps?” Exclaimed Bauer as he firmly knitted his eyebrows.

  “Neither.” I replied. “My obsession with theology and history was self-motivated. I only pursued it to derail my more devout sister off her self-consuming path.”

  My handpicked choice of words rattled his eardrums, as tension thickened the air between us. My eccentric approach to debates never appealed to anyone. Yet, bishop Bauer knew that this was not the time for yet another Sunday sermon; he sidestepped my verbal jab to focus on the case in hand.

  “Considering the guards’ account of yesterday’s events, do you believe the thief knew about any if not all of this?” He exclaimed in an attempt to get back on topic, as I nodded in agreement.

  “It would seem that he was exclusively determined on obtaining the spear, as I have mentioned… But then again if they really were after the one and true Holy Spear, shouldn’t they really be looking somewhere else?” I asked Bauer who looked hesitant. He may have been either hiding something or simply entertaining the idea. “If that is to be the case, it would leave us with four more spears they may still be after.” I resumed.

  I did not think much of the lances of Echmiadzin in Armenia or the one in Poland. The former was never really a weapon; it simply does not resemble those spears used by Christ’s Roman executioners, while the latter, likewise, is a mere replica of the Vienna lance. Bauer marvelled at my objective analysis as he listened more carefully now.

  The circumstances leading to the discovery of the third lance, the one in Antioch, were strictly bizarre. It was unearthed in a time of frantic need and despair during the first Crusade by a mystic French soldier that went by the name Peter Bartholomew. He claimed that the spear’s exact location was whispered to him in a long-forgotten vision, and as so, he credited the overwhelming subsequent victory over the advancing Muslim armies to his significant find. Yet, it was only a matter of time before crusaders started doubting his claims and the once vehement, gathered masses abandoned his propagandist side, which drove the Frenchman to the very edge of madness. He foolishly saw no harm in challenging whomever that opposed him to an Ordeal of Fire, where his flesh thawed to death, as he marched through the flames, believing that the mystical powers of the spear would protect him.

  This left us with one last lance, if one would believe in such tales, one that has been suspiciously too concealed from public. Bauer knew exactly what I was talking about and his words rolled only to confirm my suspicions.

  “The lance of Rome.” He countered.

  The lance of Rome was never on display and is currently located beneath the dome of Saint Peter’s Basilica. Only the base of the original spear remains. The tip was broken off after the Persians’ capture of Jerusalem, and was sent off to Constantinople then to France, where it suspiciously disappeared, or should I say stolen, alongside Christ’s crown of thorns during the French Revolution.

  “If the thief was actually willing to wrap his hands around the true Holy Lance, I believe that there would have been his best shot. There, was where he should have struck. Do you think someone this dedicated would make such a rookie mistake?” I asked bishop Bauer, who finally looked set to disclose whatever information he was withholding, but was interrupted by a discreet phone ding. He had just received a personal message that appeared to have relieved some of the anxiety that was building up on his face.

  “Hélène, care to join me at St. Stephen’s Cathedral? I would like you to meet a man who might be able to answer some of our queries.”

  Chapter six

  Adam had just got off the phone with Hélène. She seemed to be in pursuit of a minor lead with Father Bauer. She should have waited for me, he thought. Always a stubborn, unpredictable woman she was.

  Even if he dared not expressing it in public, Adam had terribly missed her irresistible charm. He was always fascinated by her intoxicating personality; She never compromised. In a way, she always possessed what he thought was her own field of gravity. It either pushed people so remotely away or pulled them in like a black hole so inescapably and rather intensely.

  She did not favour emotional attachments, as she once told him, and that is how everything simply just fell apart. Since then, he did not find peace unless in her presence, he would only be soothed within feet of her vicinity, and that is why he was always prepared to pull some strings, without her knowledge, in order to let her join him in assignments such as these. He felt like he could never get enough of her and that made him wonder if she had ever manipulated him and used his avid insatiable craving against him. Adam had lost himself in that idea for long enough that for a moment there he felt startled by the emotional mess Brunner had just put on display.

  Brunner looked crushed. This moment was a culmination of failures of an unusually low point of his life. “I need this.” He pleaded. It was not clear if he meant his job or the investigation with his appeals. Yet Schuster was unyielding. He had already called three other officers through his radio to escort them both for the rest of their investigation. Once they arrived, they all descended back to the Swiss Court where they have first started their journey.

  “Any more brilliant interpretations Monsieur Dubois? Ideas worth pursuing perhaps?” Schuster gave Adam his full attention now, who was still shaken by the Brunner scene. He somewhat felt concerned, as if he was the real reason for the Austrian officer’s dismissal. “Well… I’m sure you already covered going through the security cameras.” He stated cautiously.

  “We have also run through the fingerprints, obviously.” Schuster added before elaborating, “Needless to say: it is a museum and no matter how many times you ask visitors not to touch anything; they do. We’ve got hundreds if not thousands of full and partial fingerprints scattered all around the place.”

  Adam sighed and crossed his elbows. He closed his eyes for a moment, shutting away all the distractions as he tried to recall any analogies he may find with previous cases. “Well we were able to know how they got out, yet breaking in remains somewhat of a mystery.”

  Schuster sensed that the young agent was on a blazing hot streak of monumental revelations and he certainly enjoyed the ride. “There were no signs of breaking and entering.” He added. “The alarm was only set off after they acquired the lance.”

  “If that is so, what would your instincts tell you? What would your first guess be?” Adam’s tone turned more determined now. He was slowly gaining confidence, as he led the cognitive abilities of his Austrian liaison in a well-designed closed circuit.

  “Someone had let them in!” Schuster expectedly deduced. There was an evident thrilled tone in his voice. He felt a spark that had been extinguished by the accumulative years of bureaucratic banalities and the blunt failures of his assistants. In a way, this adamant Frenchman has just reminded him of his young former self.

  “We should start talking to those in charge of the CCTV. They must be aware of all the security blind spots. If I had any assistance from the inside, they would be the first people I w
ould turn to for help.” Adam explained, and his point made perfect sense to the Senior Councillor who guided him hastily to the security room of the Hofburg’s Swiss Wing.

  The glow of eighteen security monitors bounced off the hipster prescription glasses of an anxious young CCTV professional, as she sat there, alone, in the windowless dim Swiss wing security room hammering her wireless grey metal keyboard frantically. One could tell from the way she had collected her hair into a golden bun, fixed only with a used unsharpened pencil, and her loose grey hoodie covering a dark blue torn-out pair of jeans, that she had spent countless hours in this room with minimal human contact. It was also obvious from her bloodshot red eyes and her three empty coffee mugs that she had barely rested in days. The security console opposing her formed a wide U letter, and with all those bright flickering rectangular screens, it looked as if the eyes of a mechanical giant housefly were menacingly staring back at her worn-out face.

  Schuster broke into the room without even a courtesy knock. He was still high on the earlier small advances they had jointly made in the case. Not to mention lacking the caution of the common man: his official high rank permitted him an all-access clearance to everywhere he needed to be, and he did push his authority to the limit. The young woman hopped off her chair when she saw them coming in. She was completely fixated on her tasks that the sudden noise seemed to have stunned her.

  “Isn’t this just one disappointment after another?” Asked Schuster rhetorically. “Do we expect to finish all the video surveillance review in time with only you around? I thought we had more men on this.” When Schuster was in charge, he spared no punches. The inferred tone of sexism in his voice made Adam realize why the Austrian had not objected much when leaving Hélène behind. He probably only considered her as a liability. The mere thought of this bothered Adam to quite an extent.