by Chad Brecher
The professor stopped. “My father died when I was very small, dropped dead in his bedroom. My mother never went into that bedroom again and so it was left intact just like it was on the day he died. I remember sneaking into the room one day and looking around. It was exactly as I remembered it, but there was something big missing — my father.”
He waved his hand dramatically. “Thus leading to the hair standing on the back of one’s neck.” He looked at Alex with a grimace, frustrated by his ambiguity. “Alex, when I read Marco Polo’s work I wasn’t struck by what was present but by the feeling of omission. It seemed like such an incomplete work. When I came upon the rumors of a fourth book, it just made sense.”
Dr. Foucault, satisfied with his explanation, began to move on, followed closely by Alex.
“One day, I got a knock at my office door and in walked Redmund Clay. Now I had my head too far up the bindings of books to know who the heck THE Redmund Clay was at the time. He said he was intrigued by my views on Marco Polo and was embarking on a grand endeavor to find the original manuscript. He needed an assistant to advise him on purchases of texts and he was willing to compensate quite generously for my services. For a poor academic, this was like Christmas and my birthday colliding. I accepted the position and worked for five years for Redmund.”
“What ended your relationship?” Alex wondered.
“You must understand that Redmund Clay is a true believer.”
“And you?”
“I want to believe. It’s not the same. His head is in the clouds and in the end, mine is a bit closer to earth. I desired a new direction in life.”
Alex was about to dissect the professor’s ambiguous answer when Dr. Foucault stopped at a computer monitor resting on a thin platform jutting out from the wall. “Here we are. We’ll just access the library’s computer cataloguing network and see if we can locate this work.”
Alex watched as the professor typed on the keyboard with a single finger, slowly navigating through the library’s system. Dr. Foucault was able to locate a book by Sergio Palma entitled Gnosis and the Nestorians. He removed a piece of paper from a holder and a tiny pencil, wrote down the call number, and handed it to Alex. “Here’s the number. That aisle is down at the far end of the corridor on the left. Why don’t you look for it? I’ll continue to look through the library catalogue for anything else on this ‘Illuminated Path.’ The professor smiled at Alex and gave him another fatherly pat on the back.
Alex strolled down the corridor, the leather satchel loosely bumping against his side. He sighed and adjusted the strap slightly. He glanced down at the call number — DL354.20. Scanning the ends of the aisles, he was able to locate a range of call-numbers designating the collections confined to the two long sets of bookcases in each aisle. As he neared the end of the corridor, Alex finally located the aisle containing the volume. As he stepped into the aisle, small lights hanging from the ceiling turned on. He peered back down the corridor but could not see the professor.
Alex examined the bindings of the books. He could hear the professor’s voice in the distance. “You know, we are not too different, Alex — you and me. At least a younger me.” Alex smiled and kneeled down — DL353.80…DL353.90…DL354.10. He stared down at DL354.20 — Gnosis and the Nestorians. Alex laid the leather satchel upon the floor and slipped the brown covered volume from the rack. The book was thick and heavy. Alex flipped open the book and found the binding tight.
Somewhere he could hear the professor’s voice again. “Yes, we’re very much alike and different. You wouldn’t find me digging through crypts. Not with my claustrophobia.”
Alex looked down at the book and froze. Suddenly the lights went off, plunging the floor into darkness.
“Goodness, the lights just went off. Leave it to the French to screw up the electricity. Stay where you are, Alex. I’ll come to you.”
Alex’s hands ran across the floor in the blackness, seizing the strap of the leather satchel in one hand and the book in the other. He flipped open the satchel and his fingers probed the inside until they found the leather bound manuscript inside. He felt along the bookcase for a space.
Alex pulled himself to a standing position and slipped the leather satchel over his shoulder. Running his hands across the bookcase, he made his way blindly back towards the corridor.
“Dr. Foucault, we never told you where we found the manuscript.” Alex listened for a response, but found none. He poked his head out from the aisle and tried to look down the darkened corridor.
He was greeted by the intense beam of light.
“Alex, I talk too much.”
Blinded, Alex attempted to stagger back but bumped up against a bookcase. He tried to duck but was too late. The crack of the pole hit just above his left ear, dropping him to his knees. He knelt upright for a moment, mechanically grasping for the leather satchel, before teetering forward and collapsing in a heap.
51
Dr. Foucault swung his Peugeot into the parking space and bolted from his car. Soon he would have an Alfa Romeo, he thought. He took the steps to his apartment building two at a time, pausing by the landing to take a final look at the street below. The buzz of delivery vans was becoming more numerous as Paris began to awaken. He surveyed the area suspiciously. Satisfied that he had not been followed, he opened the front door and stepped inside.
The professor walked past the mailboxes and pressed the button for the antiquated elevator. The elevator descended to a score of squeals and creeks. He slid aside the metal grate, entered the elevator, and pressed three. He waited impatiently for the door to slowly close. The elevator began its slow ascent to the third floor. He could feel his heart race. A bead of sweat slid down the side of his temple.
He nearly ruined it. That Alex had bought the story up until the very end. He was particularly impressed by the story he had told to Alex about his father. Wouldn’t he be surprised to know that his father was very much alive — a drunk living in Marseilles who beat his wife and left his only son to a life of poverty. He did tell the truth about at least one thing — his head was a bit closer to earth than Redmund’s.
The elevator halted its ascent. Dr. Foucault waited as the door slid open. He pulled aside the metal grate with a screech. He carefully peered down the hallway and found it empty. Clutching the leather satchel, he silently crept towards his door at the end of the hallway. The clang of a door’s lock being undone caused him to jump back.
An elderly woman wearing a hairnet and curlers opened a door across from his and poked her head out. She was holding a black and white cat against the front of her pink robe.
The professor brought his right hand against his heart with relief. He could feel the sputter of his heart dissipate.
“Good morning, professor.”
“Good morning, Ms. Pelican.”
“I found your cat wandering the halls.”
The professor looked at the cat with confusion. He impatiently slid the key into the keyhole of his door. “Thank you, Ms. Pelican. Hugo must have slipped out…probably when the cleaners came.”
The old lady lifted the cat in the air. The feline’s hind legs spread out with uncertainty.
Dr. Foucault wiped his forehead with his sleeve and turned back to the lady. “Ms. Pelican, would you be so kind as to watch Hugo for me.”
“Are you going on a trip? A conference?”
“Oui, oui, a conference. I will be gone for a short period of time. I would be very grateful.”
The old lady held aloft the cat and wrinkled her nose. “I would be delighted, professor. I have been so lonely and Hugo is such a wonderful companion.”
“Thank you, Ms. Pelican.”
The woman retreated to her apartment and shut the door. He could hear the click-clack of the locking of her many locks. He turned the key and pushed his door open.
The apartment was as he had left it. He paced around the apartment nervously, popping his head into his small kitchenette and finding the plates posi
tioned as they had been left yesterday morning. The professor slid the leather satchel from his shoulder and placed it on his desk by the window. He scurried to his bed, bent down, and looked under it. He found it empty. I am being paranoid, he thought. Hugo’s escape from his apartment had unnerved him. The cleaners usually came on Wednesday and it was Tuesday. Had she followed him out the door when he had left for work?
He darted over to the closet and removed a small suitcase and plopped it on the edge of his mattress. He scurried over to his dresser and removed socks and underwear. He tossed the items into the empty suitcase and removed several shirts and pants from his closet. Returning to the suitcase, he quickly squeezed in the clothing. No time to fold, he thought as he tried to focus his thinking. Passport. He ran to his desk and removed the passport from a drawer and shook out a piece of paper. He then slid the passport into the inner pocket of his jacket and stood by his desk, overlooking the satchel.
Dr. Foucault lifted the receiver of his phone and dialed the number on the paper. He waited as a distant sounding ring echoed through the receiver. He looked out of the window at the empty street below. The sun was peeking out over the buildings in the distance.
“Hello, Dr. Foucault.” The voice was ghostly.
The professor’s hands found the fastener on the satchel. He snapped it open and slid his hand slightly in. His fingers brushed up against the text.
“I have the manuscript.”
“Where are you?”
“My apartment.”
“Stay where you are, I am sending a team to collect you.” The line grew silent for a moment. “Have you found the fourth book?”
“It’s in my hands…” The professor gripped the edge of the text and pulled away with alarm. The receiver nearly slipped from his shoulder as he turned the satchel over and shook the text out onto his desk.
“Merde.”
“What is it?”
A beeping noise was transmitted over the phone line and threatened to interrupt his thoughts. He stared down at the book in a daze. The beeps continued. “One moment…” muttered the professor as he looked down upon the street below. He pressed the call waiting button.
“Oui.”
“Dr. Foucault?”
“Oui”
“Dr. Bertrand Foucault?”
The explosion shook the apartment building, sending glass showering down upon the parked Peugeot. Smoke billowed out of the window into the springtime Parisian air, followed by pieces of paper floating serenely down to the street below.
52
Solomon Haasbroek leaned against a black streetlight and inconspicuously looked over the hood of a parked car at the commotion across the street. The wail of the green and white ambulance had finally ceased, but the flashing lights continued to pulsate. A fire-truck was positioned at an angle, blocking traffic along the street while police milled about, casting glances at the apartment building’s façade while they shielded their eyes. The third floor window overlooking the street was little more than a giant chasm with black soot staining the margins of the irregular hole. Gray smoke continued to waft into the air.
A tap on his back caused Haasbroek to turn. Ox nodded and handed him his phone.
“It’s for you, chief.”
Haasbroek spat on the ground and brought the phone to his ear.
“Howzit?”
“What happened?”
“It appears that someone got to your professor before we could secure him — blew him and his apartment to smithereens. It’s still smoldering.” Haasbroek paused and watched as police wearing white space-age jumpsuits carefully navigated down the front stairs of the apartment building, carrying a black body-bag on a stretcher towards the waiting ambulance. Haasbroek turned away and brought the phone angrily back to his ear. “Look, I’ve about had it with this mission. The money’s good but I don’t like being in the dark. Just what the hell is going on here, after all? I’ve felt played from the beginning and I don’t like it.”
“Mr. Haasbroek, we have been in search for an ancient text that I am afraid is now lost forever. Your disappointment cannot rival mine on this matter.”
“Who keeps screwing with us?”
“A group whose purpose is to ensure that it is never found. I’m afraid they have finally succeeded.” It became very hard to hear the man.
“I’m having trouble hearing you,” Hassbroek barked into the phone as he pushed the phone against his right ear and covered the left ear with the palm of his hand.
“I…have…go…find Redmund…Cl…Clay.” The phone went dead.
The man stared down at the crashing waves against the stone walls of Cape Sagres. The wind blew ferociously across the promontory. Behind him he could hear the blades of a helicopter and turned to see it land a short distance away. He began to walk towards the simple white chapel of Nossa Senhora da Graca. They had a lot to discuss after the events of this morning. All was lost unless… He hated to have to rely on the competition. He would know soon enough.
53
“Alex! Alex!”
Alex stirred. He sensed the flicker of lights turning on as his eyelids slowly parted. His cheek rested on the cool tile floor of the library
“He’s here!”
Alex was helped to a sitting position. His head wobbled slightly on his neck as he inched his body back until it rested up against a bookcase. Ellie leaned over and tilted his neck to get a better view of the bloodied gash across his left temple. She sighed.
“Good thing I have such a hard skull.” Alex tried to laugh but found his jaw stiff and painful. He could hear the pitter-pat of feet running down the corridor. He turned to see Clay and Jonas gathered at the end of the aisle. Jonas had his gun by his side.
“Where is Foucault?” Jonas asked.
“He’s not who we think he is. He clocked me with a pole or something and took off.” Alex rubbed his hand against his temple and winced.
“Where’s the manuscript? Is it safe? Is it secure? Where’s your bag?” Clay sputtered with alarm. He bent down to peered down the aisle.
Alex looked around him. “My bag’s gone.”
Clay drew Jonas close to him. “You need to track down the professor before it’s too late.” Jonas looked in Clay’s eyes, nodded, and made to leave.
“Wait. DL354.20.” Alex muttered under his breath.
“What?” Clay responded.
“Check the shelves. Check the call number.” Alex motioned to the bookcase in front of him.
Clay squatted and began to examine the spines of the volumes within the bookcase. When he reached the call number, he paused. The number was skipped but in its place was the leather-bound manuscript. He smiled and withdrew it from its hiding place.
“How did you…what made you…?” Clay could not finish.
“I had just enough time to make a switch.”
“What does Foucault have?” Ellie asked.
“Some book Gnosis and the Nestorians. He’s in for a big surprise.”
“We need to get out of here before this library opens,” Jonas suggested.
Clay and Ellie helped Alex up to a standing position. He balanced unsteadily, supported by the two. Alex looked first at Clay and then Ellie. “Foucault saw something in the text that made him try to steal it. The good news is that I think I know what it was.”
54
Ellie pulled the door to the bathroom shut and locked it behind her. Alex glanced at the scratched mirror over the sink. I look like hell, Alex thought. The hair on the left side of his head was matted down by dry blood while the rest of his hair was wildly messy. Dark circles had formed under his eyes and his skin seemed drained of any color.
“You look like crap,” Ellie announced while she ran a paper-towel under the faucet of the sink.
“You think?”
“You have to stop hitting your head against hard objects,” she smiled and brought the wet towel up against Alex’s left forehead. He winced at the touch of the cool pressure.
He looked Ellie in her eyes and feigned machismo. “How do I look?”
“Like you lost a fight…” she laughed. “…really, really badly but you’re still my hero.” Ellie leaned in and kissed Alex. The small of his back contacted the edge of the sink and he let his hands run down her back and settle on her hips.
An impatient knock at the door caused them to suddenly stop kissing.
Jonas’s voice boomed from beyond the door. “We have to go, kids.”
Ellie sighed in Alex’s arms and nuzzled her head into his chest. “I really hate that guy.”
Alex leaned down and kissed her again before opening the door. Jonas stood by the door wearing sunglasses. Behind him they could see the bustle of activity in the café.
Jonas wordlessly handed his cellphone to Alex. Alex and Ellie peered down at the LCD. The mobile internet was connected to the English version of Le Monde. There was a photo of a burning apartment building surrounded by emergency vehicles. The headline read:
***Breaking News: Explosion in Paris. Police are at the scene of a suspicious explosion at a residential apartment complex on Rue de Dame. There have been reports of a single fatality. As a result, there has been a precautionary evacuation of the surrounding buildings. There have been unconfirmed reports that Dr. Bertrand Foucault, lecturer and researcher at the Bibliothèque Nationale de Paris, was pronounced dead at the scene. The anti-terror services have been dispatched to the location. Stay tuned***Breaking News.