The Alchemist's Gift

by Martin Rua

  I told the Sicilian everything else, and the expression on his face grew more and more serious. When I got to the part where Asar had kicked us out after taking the codex, ruby and the Peregrin Neapolitano, Riccardo slumped back in his chair despairingly.

  “Sons of bitches!” he exclaimed, lighting a small Cuban cigar. “Did you at least save a bit of that substance in the tube? We could manufacture another ruby.”

  I shook my head. “There was barely enough to make one.”

  “And didn’t you analyse it?”

  “I didn’t have time, Riccardo. And anyway, at this point, who cares? What would you do with another ruby? We don’t know how to use it and we don’t know what Mozart’s melody is for. Maybe all the instructions are contained in the correspondence, but we didn’t have time to study it in depth – it’s a miracle we got anything. For the last few days, all we’ve thought about has been saving our skin and even though I did my best, there was still a victim. Enough is enough, though, I’m sick of this story, we all are. There are too many people involved, too much pain over the death of Professor Ricciardi, too much of everything. The only thing to do now is alert the French authorities, who in a couple of days, on the basis of the investigations of their Czech and Italian colleagues, will be able to arrest the criminals in the cathedral at Chartres. But that’s something that the police will have to deal with.”

  Riccardo exhaled a puff of smoke, then nodded with conviction. “Of course Lorenzo, you’re right, you’re right, what can I say?”

  He paused, glanced toward the vast sweep of Piazza del Plebiscito, crowded with tourists, and after a while spoke again, this time in a very serious tone. “But my master was killed over this story… I cannot let those responsible have the last word.”

  Carlo, in his priestly way, raised his eyes to the heavens and closed them. He wanted me to understand that he had thought the same thing. Our master too had died while chasing that final puzzle. In a way we shared Riccardo’s frustration.

  “Lorenzo, I need your help! Hašek can’t die in vain,” the Sicilian insisted, nervously putting out the little cigar he was smoking.

  I sighed heavily. “He’s already died in vain, because he trusted me with his secret almost without knowing me and I gave it to evil people. You know, Riccardo, I have come to the conclusion that the mystery must remain a mystery. If the authorities arrest Asar and his men, that will put an end to all this.”

  Riccardo stared at me for a while, then looked away thoughtfully. I knew I hadn’t convinced him and that I had hurt him, but I decided not to give in. I was going to get up from the poker table with my bones intact. For once.

  After a few moments of tension, Riccardo smiled and clapped a hand on my and Carlo’s shoulders.

  “Well anyway, let’s not think about it for the moment shall we, brethren?” he said, before crying, in Sicilian dialect, “So are you going to take me for this pizza or not? I’m bloody starving!”

  Chapter 41

  Naples, 19th of June, 14:20

  Two days before the summer solstice

  The pizza we ate on the promenade helped defuse the tension created earlier. Riccardo was good company and had plenty of stories to tell. He spoke of his move to Prague in the early nineties when, after the fall of the Berlin Wall, the city had still been virgin territory. Enterprising Italians had done a roaring trade back then, and they were still reaping the benefits today. Riccardo was one of them. With his homeopathic medicines business Montechiaro, he was one of the main suppliers of pharmacies in Prague and the surrounding area.

  Carlo and I listened with interest and in turn told him a little about ourselves. Naturally, I spoke at length of my wife, not hiding how proud I was of her.

  “You’re lucky, Lorenzo,” said Riccardo, as he sipped his coffee after lunch, “I go from one woman to the next without ever finding peace.”

  I gave a little smile. “You should meet my brother – you two have a lot in common.”

  Riccardo laughed and nodded. “It would be a pleasure. And it would be a pleasure to meet your wife too.”

  “Maybe tonight at dinner,” I said, looking at my watch. “She’s busy seeing students at the university at the moment, and will be for the next hour. She wouldn’t listen to me and she decided to go back to work, despite the fact that I don’t think she’s really got over the death of Professor Ricciardi. In fact, you know what? I’ll surprise her – I’ll pick her up. I’ve got plenty of time to walk there.”

  We parted after agreeing to meet for dinner. Riccardo went to his hotel and Carlo went home. The day was still pleasantly warm, and a stroll along Via Partenope, through the Saint Lucia district and then on to the city centre proved to be a great way of soothing my nerves. As I walked, my phone rang – it was Oscar, who I had already filled in on everything that had happened that morning.

  “I’ve contacted our French colleagues and we’ve agreed that Andrea Kominkova will leave tomorrow for Paris. As a member of Interpol, she has full authority to support the gendarmerie and put an end to this story.”

  “Hmm… My brother won’t be pleased.”

  Before arriving at the university I called the faculty where Àrtemis worked to make sure she was still there.

  “Yes, dottore, she hasn’t left her room yet – do you want me to give her a message?”

  “No, don’t tell her that I called, I want to surprise her.”

  I got there twenty minutes before the end of her tutorials with the students and waited outside her room. Ten minutes passed, then fifteen, but still no one came out. Evidently there were no more students to see so perhaps she was tidying up her papers. I knocked, but no one answered. It would be a surprise anyway, so I decided to open the door.

  Inside the small book-lined room were folders neatly arranged on the right side of the desk, some reproductions of tablets written in Linear A, maps of Greece and a computer – all things that I had seen dozens of times before – and nothing else. Above all, there was no Àrtemis. There was, however, her work bag. Perhaps she had gone to the bathroom before leaving the university. I sat down and hoped she wouldn’t be alarmed to see me there when she came back.

  I waited another ten minutes, but there was no sign of her. I was beginning to worry and the first thing I did was to call her mobile. I heard it ringing in her bag. I took it out and, obviously, the incoming call was mine. It was then that I noticed a small piece of paper stuck under the bag.

  For Mr Aragona. Sorry, change of plans. Serpentis hic iacet caput, Àrtemis iacebit in saecula saeculorum.

  I nearly fainted. My legs felt weak and I collapsed heavily onto the chair. I read and re-read the note, thinking I must have misunderstood, but there was no doubt. “Here lies the serpent’s head, here will lie Àrtemis for eternity.” Signed IPSI. They had kidnapped her right under the noses of dozens of people. And they would take her to Chartres.

  Serpentis hic iacet caput.

  There they would kill her. Àrtemis iacebit in saecula saeculorum. Why did they continue to persecute me? What else did they want? And what had Àrtemis to do with any of it? They could have carried on bluffing with those green and red shapes if they’d wanted to force me to help them.

  My blood slowly began to circulate again, and I managed to get up. Once I had regained a minimum of lucidity, I grabbed Àrtemis’s bag and quickly left her room.

  “Mr Aragona, I haven’t seen the professoressa—” cried the secretary of the department.

  “Don’t worry,” I said as I walked away. “I know where she is.”

  Chapter 42

  Paris, Charles de Gaulle Airport, 20th of June, 11:45

  The eve of the summer solstice

  The two and a quarter hours it took for the Naples-Paris flight to get me to my destination seemed just as endless as the fifteen hours before them had.

  I’d had no contact with Asar and his men – no phone call, no message. Nothing. Àrtemis had been kidnapped for some reason which eluded me, and they had
disappeared. Their destination was Chartres, of that I had no doubt. Just in time for the twenty-first of June – the summer solstice.

  Riccardo had been very supportive when he had heard the news and had even offered to accompany me, but I had been adamant. I did not want anyone underfoot. It was a free country, though: let him go to Chartres if he wanted to – but my priority was certainly not the Cathedral of the Nine Mirrors.

  With me were Andrea and Oscar. My friend and fellow mason was the only person I wanted with me at that moment. I had rushed straight to him the day before when I had realised what had happened, and he had offered to do whatever he could. For a few seconds he had tried to dissuade me from going to France, assuring me that the gendarmerie would handle the situation and that Andrea would do whatever it took to make sure that nothing happened to Àrtemis. I hadn’t needed to say anything to make him realise that it would be pointless to try and stop me.

  We had no luggage to pick up so we set off quickly towards the exit. Behind the crush of people awaiting relatives or friends, we saw a man with a sign saying ‘Kominkova’. It was one of the French Interpol agents who had been sent directly from the Lyon headquarters to meet Andrea. Evidently the transalpine authorities had been informed of the dramatic turn of events in the last few hours and had offered their full co-operation.

  “Sergeant Major Philippe Blanchard, welcome to Paris – please, this way,” said the young man as we approached, and, indicating that we should follow him, he walked over to a handsome, athletic-looking man in his fifties with grey hair and a beard who was waiting just beyond the barriers. “Let me introduce you to Lieutenant Edmond Thomas of Interpol.”

  Unlike his Czech colleague, Thomas greeted us with a coolness that bordered on hostility.

  “You lot have made a bit of a mess of things, haven’t you?” he said listlessly in English as we headed for the exit.

  “We did our best,” said Andrea coldly. “We are aware that we made some mistakes.”

  Thomas stopped and turned round in the middle of the busy airport entrance a few metres from the exit. “Some mistakes?” he said, with a sarcastic smile on his face. “So far it’s three deaths, a robbery and a kidnapping. More than a few mistakes, I’d say.”

  Oscar felt compelled to defend Andrea. “Look, let’s get one thing straight, Thomas – we’re here to work together and help Lorenzo Aragona, not to be fucked about.”

  Oscar’s French was good enough to allow him to express himself using colourful metaphors and his pas pour être foutu de la gueule had the desired effect.

  Thomas hesitated, then, looking slightly embarrassed, muttered, “Yes, Lorenzo Aragona… you brought a civilian with you. Okay, let’s work together and try to keep our heads.”

  “Especially because to do otherwise would mean risking the head of my wife, Lieutenant. That’s why this civilian is here,” I said, to underline to this arrogant policeman that I wouldn’t be spending my time in a bistro drinking wine.

  Thomas sighed and said no more. We had reached the car that would take us to the city centre, a nondescript Renault minivan.

  On the way, Thomas brought us up to date on the investigation which had begun the day before, when Oscar and Andrea had contacted French Interpol for support.

  “We are monitoring ports and airports,” said the Frenchman, “and of course we immediately deployed checkpoints between Ile-de-France and the department of Eure-et-Loir, of which Chartres is the capital. To be honest, I am very skeptical that the kidnappers have brought your wife to France, Monsieur Aragona. I fear you may have been hasty in coming here.”

  “I understand your skepticism, Lieutenant, but I’m sure that they have found a way to bring her. For them it is not only important to get to Chartres, but it is crucial that they are there by twelve o’clock tomorrow.”

  Thomas, sitting next to Sergeant Major Blanchard, who was driving, shook his head visibly. “People who kill and kidnap over a legend… It’s the first time I’ve encountered such a thing.”

  “Some people take these things very seriously, Lieutenant,” I concluded.

  “Perhaps… In any case we already have men in Chartres. Even if they did manage to get from Naples to Paris or Chartres with a hostage, it’s unlikely that they’ll manage to go unnoticed in the cathedral tomorrow.”

  “We thought the same thing – Chartres cathedral is a very popular tourist attraction,” observed Andrea, who had been silent since Thomas’s initial sarcasm.

  “And that's not all,” said Thomas. “Have you ever been at this time of year? It’s chaos there on the day of the solstice – it’s no secret that the sundial indicates the height of summer through the Sant’Apollinare window. I’ve been looking into it and in about an hour a retired professor of art history who acts as a tour guide there will be joining us in my office. He’s an Englishman who has lived in Chartres for decades, and he knows the cathedral like the back of his hand. I’ve already spoken to him on the phone and he tells me that, in addition to the usual tourists, on the twenty-first of June there are always some fanatics like your friends… Masons, nostalgic druids and what not, who believe that there is some esoteric secret hidden in that window. Believe me, there will be a lot of people there tomorrow and we won’t be able to evacuate the church while the phenomenon occurs, otherwise I’ll have the Curia and all the shopkeepers and restaurateurs of Chartres on my back. Half the city makes its living off the cathedral.”

  “So what do you plan to do?” asked Andrea.

  “My men will all be in plain clothes and they will be stationed very discreetly around the Sant’Apollinare window. If they notice anything, they will move everyone away. I don’t want any shooting – nothing that looks like it’s out of some American action movie.”

  “None of us do, Thomas, believe me,” said Oscar, already bored of being treated like a rookie.

  Chapter 43

  Paris, rue Saint Didier, 20th of June, 13:00

  The eve of the summer solstice

  The sky in Paris was heavy and rain was forecast for the evening. In Sabrina, Audrey Hepburn says that the French capital gives the best of itself with a bit of rain, but I had always liked Paris in the sunshine, as had Àrtemis.

  I thought about her, and prayed that masked lunatic hadn’t hurt her. I reflected on the fact that once again a whirlwind of events had sucked in my wonderful Àrtemis. And to think that it had all begun with a simple exhibition in Prague…

  At the Gendarmerie headquarters in Rue Saint Didier a meeting room had been made available to us, where we found sandwiches and water. We ate in silence, and a few minutes later we were joined by the professor Thomas had mentioned.

  “This is Angus Carpenter,” said the lieutenant, ushering in the lanky English man.

  Carpenter showed all his seventy-nine years and more. He was tall and spare, with a typically British face – pale, sunken, with thinning white hair combed to one side and two thin lips surmounted by an aquiline nose. His eyes, though, were extremely bright.

  When I introduced myself, his expression changed abruptly and grew compassionate. “I’m very sorry about your wife, Mr Aragona,” he said in perfect French, pronouncing the letter ‘s’ with a funny hiss, “I do hope that the police will manage to sort everything out for the best.”

  “I hope so too, Professor Carpenter, and I thank you for your help.”

  “Please, please, don’t mention it… I’m happy to be of assistance.”

  “Professor, why don’t you tell our Italian friends and Inspector Kominkova what you told me about the event tomorrow?” asked Thomas, settling into one of the chairs set around the big table.

  “Certainly, certainly,” said Carpenter, taking a seat himself. “As I told the lieutenant when he contacted me, the summer solstice at Chartres is a high point of the year. I do guided tours for English speaking tourists, and I assure you, despite the increasingly strict rules put in place to try and control the crowds in the cathedral, my job always becomes a bit mor
e complicated on the twenty-first of June: so many people – often not particularly well behaved – come for the event of the year, sometimes disturbing the other visitors. It’s total chaos!”

  “Professor,” I asked, “what can you tell us about this phenomenon of the ray of sunlight which passes through the glass window of St Apollinaris?”

  Carpenter waved a hand as though swatting away something annoying. “Nonsense!” was his succinct response.

  “We looked at each other in amazement. That was a reaction we hadn’t expected.

  “Yes, yes,” continued the professor, repeating the same word twice as he seemed to do every time he began to say something. “A ray of sunlight coming through a stained glass window passes for a few minutes over a marble slab – so what? What’s mysterious about that? It marks the height of summer, it’s like a sundial, nothing more.”

  “Have you ever heard of the Cathedral of the Nine Mirrors? Two eighteenth century alchemists mentioned it as a legendary place where an Egyptian secret was kept – the source of eternal youth. That is what the criminals who have kidnapped my wife are after.”

  Carpenter actually seemed amused. “No, Mr Aragona, this is all stuff and nonsense! I’ve never heard of any such place. Notre-Dame de Chartres certainly hides many secrets, but nothing esoteric or mysterious, in my opinion. Some argue that the cathedral was built on an old place of worship – pagan, Roman, and even Gallic, or Celtic if you prefer.”

  “Yes, I had heard that.”

  “Well, I think that has a certain plausibility. Some have even gone so far as to speculate that in the foundations of the cathedral there is a dolmen chamber, a Celtic place of worship and burial. A dolmen built there, on the hill of Chartres, because according to the ancients, the telluric forces at that point are very strong.”