Gospel Truths

by J. G. Sandom

  Lyman paused for a moment and scanned the faces of the three before him. They were his tribunal, he thought glumly. Koster had moved a trifle closer to Mariane. His arm was about her shoulders but she hardly seemed to notice him. Her attention was focused on Lyman.

  Guy sat on Koster’s other side. He also looked enraptured by the tale, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, his stubby fingers playing with his beard. He could have been watching television, Lyman thought. Perhaps this was a good sign.

  “As he drove home,” Lyman continued, “Tellier realized that no one would look for Maurice Duval in Amiens if he had already left the country, the gendarmerie on his heels. So he went to Duval’s office, opened the safe with the keys he had found on Maurice’s body, and stole the money and passport. It would have been easy for someone familiar with forgery and smuggling, as Tellier was, to doctor the passport and then slip across the border. He probably knew the friendliest checkpoints, the softest guards.”

  “You’re running out of time,” Koster said abruptly.

  Lyman planted his feet. “Give me half a chance, for Christ’s sake. You said ten minutes.”

  “This is absurd. Even if you’re telling the truth about Maurice, that doesn’t explain what you’re doing here. A British detective. A local French crime.”

  “I didn’t come here because of Maurice. I knew nothing about him when I arrived.” He shook his head. “I was assigned to the Pontevecchio case, in London.”

  “Pontevecchio? You mean the banker?”

  “That’s exactly what I mean. When Pontevecchio left Italy last year, just before the collapse of his bank, he was assisted by a fellow named Balducci who was milking him for protection money. Somehow or other Balducci heard about Jacques Tellier and the things he’d unearthed here in Amiens. Both of them were Masons, and both had been involved in smuggling.”

  “What do you mean unearthed? The abraxas? The Contender?”

  “Yes, both. But even more important, Tellier had found the missal with its reference to the Gospel of Thomas at Chartres.”

  A hush swept over them. Lyman took a step away. First there would be duty, he thought, and then the mystery of numbers. And if that failed there would always be something else, some show of human weakness to recline on.

  “You mean the one my cousin gave me,” Koster said. “You mean the Gnostic missal?”

  “The Masonic missal.”

  “But why? What does Grabowski have to do with this?”

  Lyman paused. “I’m not sure, at least not yet. But I know the Book of Thomas the Contender isn’t important. The real prize is the Gospel of Thomas at Chartres. At first I didn’t understand. After all,” he said to Guy, “you had told us there were several other copies of the gospel already in existence. But then I realized that it’s the age of this particular version that makes it so important, the fact that the sayings could be Christ’s own words, and Gnostic words at that. Heresy, Joseph.”

  Lyman nodded. “Yes, Jacques Tellier realized that. I’m sure he was desperate to go to Chartres. To actually have the Gospel of Thomas in his hands would have given him more power; the treasure is better than the map. But the journey was impossible. He had killed Maurice, you see. The only place where he could go was out of France.

  “So he searched for another way to sell the information and the missal. I doubt that Balducci himself really believed Tellier’s story about the gospels. If he had, he probably would have bought the information himself. But he knew Pontevecchio would. He knew Pontevecchio was desperate enough to believe anything that would save his bank. His life was in ruins. His Banco Fabiano was on the verge of collapse. Warrants had been issued for his arrest. Archbishop Grabowski and the IOR would no longer cover his debts. They had disowned him. But here,” he said, snatching the air with his fingers, “here, at last, was the wonderful thing he needed to make your cousin—and the powerful machinery of the Vatican—come to his rescue.”

  Lyman clasped his hands together. A stillness had settled on the room. Mariane and Guy continued to stare at him raptly. Even Koster had uncrossed his legs. He was leaning closer, listening.

  “But Jacques Tellier was a timid man. He knew that there was nothing to prevent Pontevecchio and Balducci from killing him once they knew the secret of the labyrinth at Amiens. So he devised an insurance policy. He went to the meeting in Austria armed with only enough information to persuade Pontevecchio that his story was legitimate. The rest he placed in a locker at the Amiens coach terminal. All Pontevecchio had to do was give him a down payment on the final price, and Tellier would hand over the key to the locker in Amiens. Armed with that information, and after one final phone call for the last phrase in the equation, Pontevecchio could then go to Chartres and unearth the Gospel of Thomas.

  “Even the choice of lockers was designed to thwart some attempt by Balducci or Pontevecchio to dispense with Tellier. Any package left over a week at the coach terminal is brought directly to the Amiens police. That’s where it stays for sixty days until it’s finally opened. In theory at least. As it turned out, the police were a little lax this time. Tellier’s picnic basket arrived on May 28th, but it wasn’t opened until September 20th. By then, Pontevecchio had flown to London to try to sell his knowledge of the Gospel of Thomas to the Opus Dei, a wealthy right-wing Catholic group. But his guide, Balducci, betrayed him. Despite all of his schemes, despite the millions of pounds he had squirreled away in Switzerland and the Caribbean, Pontevecchio ended up being hanged under Blackfriars Bridge.”

  “I thought they said he committed suicide,” Koster cut in. “That’s what I read. That’s what they said in the papers.”

  “You’re right. That’s what the inquest ruled the first time. A trifle too quickly, it turned out. You see, the Amiens police saw Pontevecchio’s name in a letter which Jacques Tellier had left in the locker as a final safeguard, to protect himself against betrayal. They alerted the City of London Police. The case was reopened,” Lyman said, trying to sound convincing. What was the point of telling him the truth? What would he gain if Koster knew that he himself had only been assigned to fail?

  “Somewhere along the way Marco Scarcella got involved. He was the head of the I Four, a secret Masonic Lodge to which Pontevecchio also belonged.”

  “Are you saying Scarcella killed Pontevecchio?”

  Lyman smiled, cherishing the question. It was the first. The words wound to the heart of Koster’s curiosity. “Perhaps,” he said. “Only, if he did, and if Scarcella first found out about the Gospel of Thomas in London, why did he wait to investigate? Of course he might not have had enough information. Or perhaps, like Pontevecchio’s guide—Balducci—he didn’t really believe the story. It is fantastic, even for a Freemason, I imagine. But in September, when the Amiens police opened the picnic basket, it was already too late for Scarcella. He was in jail at Champ Dollon, in Switzerland, caught while trying to transfer millions from a Geneva bank account.”

  Lyman laughed. “You can imagine his mood when he first heard about the picnic basket. I’m sure he sent word out immediately that he wanted Jacques Tellier found. The antique dealer had gone underground, you see, after his meeting with Pontevecchio. Somehow, probably through the telephone number in the picnic basket, Scarcella’s men tracked Tellier to a tourist town in Austria. There they tried to make him talk. But, fortunately for us, they bungled the job, and drugged and beaten though he was, he managed to escape, only to be struck by a car in the chase.”

  “Maurice,” said Mariane. “After all these months of grieving…and it was a stranger.” She shook her head. Tears began to well up in her eyes. Koster reached out to comfort her again.

  “I’m afraid so,” Lyman said. “They sent back ‘what was left of him,’ you told us. But the real Maurice remained here, buried underneath the cathedral.”

  Mariane wiped her face with her hand. “All this time,” she said, trying to catch her breath. “All this time, and he was only a few hundred yards away.”


  Lyman pulled up a folding chair and sat down facing them. It was a time for greater intimacy, he thought. He had to bring them in.

  “Thus, Scarcella was left with the drawing, the letter and the missal,” he said. “But with Tellier dead, he had no way to interpret them, no access to the temple here at Amiens, and no numerical key to unravel the labyrinth at Chartres and unearth the Gospel of Thomas. He must have been mad with frustration.” He smiled grimly, relishing the thought.

  “Here was this treasure of historic proportions, capable of toppling the Church, a lever of unspeakable power, a document for which countless men had already killed and died, and it was just beyond his reach, just out of sight…until you arrived.” Lyman looked pointedly at Koster.

  The American was sitting with his legs crossed, his arms akimbo. He was waiting too, and then the words began to settle, one after another, and with them his expression. He brought a hand up to his neck. His eyes widened. He straightened in his chair. “The thief at the hotel,” he said.

  Lyman nodded. “The thief was Scarcella’s man. And he wasn’t alone that night. I might as well tell you now. You should know it all before you commit yourself anyway. There was another man on my balcony that night, only he didn’t fall. He made it to the roof. I was about to follow him when I heard you calling out next door.” Lyman looked down at his hands. They were filthy but oddly still. “Who else knew about your book besides Nick Robinson, your publisher, and Archbishop Grabowski?”

  “You can’t be serious. Look, I’m not exactly fond of him, but you don’t really think my cousin had anything to do with that guy in my room.”

  Lyman shrugged. “Perhaps not. But he had two powerful motives to silence Pontevecchio: one, in case Pontevecchio revealed what he knew about Banco Fabiano and the IOR; and two, because of the Gospel of Thomas. And he also had the time. Pontevecchio was last seen alive at eleven o’clock on the evening of June 17th, but he wasn’t found until half past ten the following day. That’s eleven and a half hours, more than enough time to fly from London to Rome to receive the shocking news.”

  “Now you think Grabowski got the missal from Pontevecchio,” Koster said. “Before you told us it was in that locker.”

  “A copy was sent to the City of London Police, and the original to the Countess de Rochambaud in Paris.”

  “She never mentioned that.”

  “Of course she didn’t. It was she who bought the original abraxas from Jacques Tellier for fifteen thousand francs. They were the ones you saw in her collection. She’s a member of the G.L.F., another Masonic group. But she didn’t kill Pontevecchio. The missal didn’t reach her until after his death. No. It was Scarcella who gave the missal to Grabowski.”

  “But why would he do that? Why would he even tell him?”

  “In order to reach you.”

  “Me? I don’t know anything. I didn’t even know you were a cop.”

  “Don’t you see? It’s obvious. Scarcella was warned that I was coming to investigate. So he sent his men to Amiens to meet me. They were the ones we saw at the cathedral on the first day that we met, the day you were measuring out the labyrinth. They followed us both back to the hotel. But they failed to frighten us away. And when Scarcella learned that you were now involved, he naturally assumed Grabowski was behind it.”

  “But I came here because of the book. My cousin had nothing to do with it.”

  Lyman nodded. “You and I know that. But Scarcella didn’t. Tellier was dead, and Scarcella needed someone else. You were the logical choice. You know mathematics and architecture. You’re familiar with the cathedrals, with their history and legends. Scarcella’s hoodlum tactics have failed him, so he’s decided to have you find the answer for him, at a distance, in safety.” Lyman smiled ironically. “Like a missile.”

  “Well, he can forget it,” Koster said. “I’m getting out of here. Why didn’t you tell me, Nigel?” He shook his head. “And to think I trusted you. I thought you saved my life. I thought you were my fucking friend.”

  Koster stood up. He began to walk back toward the door, slowing with each step, his momentum gradually receding. And, suddenly, the chairs filled up with children, and Lyman saw himself, a striped cap on his head and ink stains on his elbows, the maths don droning far away: If you travel half the distance in between two points, then half again, and half again forever, you’ll never reach the other side.

  “If I had told you,” Lyman said, “would you have stayed?”

  “Sure I would,” said Koster, turning. “Probably.” He slipped his hands into his pockets. “That’s irrelevant anyway. The point is that you didn’t tell me.”

  “And what about now?” Lyman looked at each of their faces in turn. Guy was stroking his beard meditatively. Mariane had stopped crying. She was staring at the window facing the courtyard. Koster simply glowered at him openly.

  “What about it?” Koster said. “You’re the one with all the answers, Nigel. You’re the one manipulating everybody. Congratulations. You found the temple. You found Maurice. Great fucking job.”

  Lyman stood slowly. “But it isn’t over,” he said. “You’re the only one who can understand the labyrinth. You know that.”

  “Why should I do anything? Why should I help you?” Koster laughed bitterly. “You’ve got a lot of nerve. You set me up and then you ask me to help you. What about this?” he said, pulling at his collar. The blue line wriggled round his neck. “Do you think I enjoyed being strangled by a total stranger?”

  First duty, then the mystery of numbers, Lyman thought. “You can’t give up now,” he said. “You know who Scarcella is. You know what he’s done. He’s here, right now, in Amiens. I’ve seen him.”

  “Good for you.”

  “Look, Joseph. Without you I don’t have the labyrinth. And without that I have nothing. We have to keep feeding them. We have to draw them in. Then, when we’re good and ready, when we have the Gospel of Thomas ourselves, we can tell Grabowski everything. Don’t worry. He’ll pass it on to Scarcella. That’s when I’ll set the hook.”

  “You’re crazy, Nigel. I don’t care who he is, or what he’s done. It’s not worth dying just to see him busted.”

  “You won’t be safe in New York now, Joseph. You know too much.”

  “I’ll take my chances.”

  “So that’s it, is it? You just give up and run back to America, to your safe little job, is that it?”

  “That’s a pretty fair description.”

  “And what about the labyrinth? After all these centuries the answer is in your hands, and you’re just going to throw it away. You’re just going to forget it. Do you really believe that? Or at night, Joseph, when you’re lying in bed and you can’t sleep; won’t the image keep you wondering, the numbers swimming about, looking for a pattern? And what about the Gospel of Thomas? If it’s as old as it appears, it could topple the Church.”

  “I got over my work on the Goldbach Conjecture. I’ll get over this too.” He shook his head. “You don’t get over death, Nigel. If you want to be a hero, you go ahead. You lure Scarcella in. You trap Grabowski.”

  “I don’t want to be a hero, Joseph. Don’t you understand? I don’t give a damn about Pontevecchio.” Lyman took another step. “You don’t see it, do you? You’ve made a symbol of your life and now you’ve forgotten what it means. I’ve already been a hero. Once, yes. Long ago. I didn’t tell you that, did I? It wasn’t part of the disguise.” He laughed privately, a soft dry sound. “Well, I can tell you now. It was sheer heaven for a year and hell forever since. You remember, don’t you? You know exactly what I’m talking about. All those prizes at the start and then what, Joseph? Then where do you go?”

  “Listen, if you want to prove something to yourself, don’t do it at my expense, or Mariane’s.”

  “I’m not talking about me,” Lyman shouted back. He had not meant to raise his voice. “I’m not holding myself up against Scarcella as some sort of moral beacon. It’s not a question of pride. My Go
d, look at me. Do I look proud? You think everyone is as innocent as you are, Joseph. I’m not innocent. There are no innocents. We caused that silly little war as much as they did.”

  “What war?”

  “The Falklands war. The war with bloody Argentina. The war Scarcella helped supply with missiles.”

  “He’s talking about his son.” Guy’s voice was like the wind, the sound of snow falling.

  “The one who died in the Falklands,” Mariane said from the other side.

  “And Scarcella supplied the missiles,” Lyman added flatly, in the simplest show of human weakness.

  He had won.

  Part III

  Jesus said to them, “When you make the two

  one, and when you make the inside like the

  outside and the outside like the inside, and the

  above like the below… then you will enter the

  kingdom.”

  The Secret Sayings of Christ

  The Gospel of Thomas

  Chapter XIX

  CHARTRES

  September 25th, 1991

  THE CLOUD HOVERED OVER THE HORIZON LIKE A smoke ring, pearl gray and ominous. The flat land rippled as the train screamed by, sheep scattering in fields, hedges running. Lyman thought he heard the train wheels clicking but it was only the knitting needles of a woman across the aisle. She was fashioning what appeared to be the sleeve of a sweater, bright blue with cherry-colored anchors. It looked so strange without the rest—disjointed, the last part of a body found. He shifted uncomfortably. The seat was new. The whole train was new, decompartmentalized. Only the people were old. “Look here, Joseph,” he said, leaning forward suddenly. “Can’t you go over it once more?”

  Koster sat across from him, rolling his eyes. “Just forget about it, okay? It’s something you either have the knack for, or you don’t. Like police work.”