by J. G. Sandom
“I’ve got it,” Koster said excitedly. “Give me some room.”
The golden chalice was still half buried in the mortar but Koster could clearly see the exquisite workmanship. It appeared to be a perfect dodecahedron, at least twenty inches in diameter. The gold was covered with impressions, shapes like half moons, and stars and planets, too. The precious stones were primitively carved, coated with dust. There was a hinge. There, to one side. There was a latch.
“I’ll take that, if you don’t mind,” a voice said from behind him.
Koster shifted around in the opening. He glimpsed a pair of legs in the doorway at the head of the steps. He slithered out of the hole. Koster had never seen the old man in the ivory raincoat before, but he recognized the balding head, the jolly round features. There was a bloody line across the fat man’s face; he’d been wounded. And he had a pistol in one hand. It was Scarcella.
“What are you doing here?” Grabowski said, moving to cut him off. “I told you I’d handle this.”
Scarcella appraised the archbishop. “I found myself another invitation,” he replied. Then he turned toward Mariane, made a slight bow.
Mariane stepped back.
“I was planning to call you,” the archbishop told Scarcella. “I was just making sure.”
“Lying is a sin,” the old man said, pursing his lips. “Your Excellency.” He laughed a little laugh. It was the laugh of a girl, almost a giggle.
“What’s going on?” asked Koster. “What’s he saying, Mariane? What invitation?”
“I’m sorry, Joseph,” Mariane said. She would not look at him.
“You told him?” said Koster.
“I had to. He’s got Guy,” she said. “Please don’t hate me, Joseph. He threatened to kill my brother. I had to.”
Koster felt as though someone had just kicked him in the stomach. “What about last night?” he began. Then he stopped.
“Joseph Koster,” said Scarcella. “At long last. I’ve been looking forward to meeting you. The man who unraveled the labyrinth. Tell me, have you recovered from Zane’s death yet?”
Koster felt cold fingers clutch his heart. “What did you say?”
“Your son,” said Scarcella. “The one you still believe died of crib death.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Of course, that’s what Priscilla wanted you to think.”
“Don’t listen to him,” Grabowski intervened. “That’s how the bastard gets into your head.”
Scarcella laughed his little laugh again. “And what you still think, it appears. Poor Joseph Koster. The man everybody’s using. And for what? The Gospel of Thomas! Not even the Gospel of Judas, or some insight, some clue to the God machine.” He took another step closer. “The chalice, please, Mr. Koster. Give it to me. Give it to me now.”
“Why should I?” said Koster. “What are you going to do, kill us all? Have us all commit suicide?”
Scarcella laughed. “Whatever do you mean?” he replied. He moved down the steps with the grace of a dancer in his ivory raincoat, despite his generous form.
“You know damned well what I mean. I’m talking about that guy in London—Pontevecchio. That banker you murdered.”
“Are you really so fond of your cousin?” Scarcella circled about, drawing closer and closer. “You amaze me. After everything that’s happened, you’re still willing to pull up the rear. Such devotion deserves something, some reward, some…I know. I’ll give you a choice. You see. No one can ever say that Scarcella’s an unreasonable man. You can live if I lie to you. But if I tell you the truth, well, then, I’ll just have to kill you.”
“Sounds like a confession to me,” Koster said.
“Does it? In that case…” Scarcella took another step. He swung in behind Mariane.
For a moment Koster thought he might grab her, put the gun to her head. Then he reappeared at her side.
“Mariane,” Scarcella cooed. He pointed his weapon right at her.
“Leave her alone,” Koster said.
“Don’t worry. I’ve no intention of harming my hostess. Here, my dear, take it. Take it,” he repeated, turning the weapon. “And kill him. That’s the price of the truth.”
Mariane stepped away but Scarcella moved closer. He pressed the ivory and malachite butt of the pistol in her hand. “I said kill him. Kill Koster. Or your brother will die.”
“I can’t—”
“Yes, you can.”
“But I love him.”
“I know,” said Scarcella. Then he laughed once again. “That’s the point.”
“You’re a madman,” the archbishop cut in.
“For the Church,” Scarcella told him. “‘It was always for the Church!’”
“Shut up!” Grabowski said.
“Kill your lover,” Scarcella repeated. “Cut him down or your brother will die. And you’ll be responsible. Do it now!”
Mariane turned and faced Koster. She lifted the gun.
Koster stared at the pistol.
“Good girl,” said Scarcella. “Pull the trigger.”
Mariane spun about. She aimed the gun at Scarcella. A terrible smile creased her face. “I can’t do it!”
“Yes, you can,” said Scarcella. “It’s so easy to do.”
“You’re going to kill us all anyway. We’re all dead already.”
“Perhaps.”
“I should kill you, you bastard,” she said. “I should shoot you right there, where you stand.”
“But you won’t, will you? If you do, Guy will die. This you know with a certainty. First they’ll skin him and cut off his balls. Then they’ll set him on fire while he’s calling your name. Mariane. Mariane,” he said mockingly.
Mariane stared at the gun in her hand. That terrible smile still played on her lips. She turned and looked up at Koster. “I’m sorry,” she said. “Oh, my love, I’m so sorry.” She lifted the pistol. Then she pointed the gun at her temple and fired.
“No!” Koster cried.
The gun clicked in her hand. She pulled at the trigger again to the sound of another cold click. She stared at Scarcella. Then she raised both her hands to her face and opened her mouth, but nothing came out. She screamed silently, or was it a laugh? Tears streamed down her cheeks.
Scarcella raised his right hand, revealing the clip in his fingers. “Did you really think I would trust you?” he asked. “Silly child.” He twisted the gun from her fingers. Then he struck her. Mariane fell to her knees. “This is how it’s done.” He slipped the clip into place. He grabbed Mariane by the hair. He yanked her head close and pressed the gun to her temple.
The gunshot resounded like the clapping of thunder. For a moment, Mariane seemed to climb to her feet. Then she toppled forward.
Koster screamed. He ripped the cup out of the wall. He lifted it high, and threw it with all of his might at Scarcella.
Scarcella simply shimmied away and the chalice crashed harmlessly to the floor. Scarcella turned. He aimed his Beretta at Koster, but Koster was no longer in sight. He was already hurtling through the air. He came down on Scarcella, deflecting the gun. Koster tore at his hand. They wrestled, they heaved, and the gun spun away out of sight.
Scarcella punched Koster two times in the face. Koster stumbled as Scarcella kept punching him, again and again. Then Koster went down on his back, his arms pinned to his sides as Scarcella straddled his chest. The large man kept punching his face. Then he stopped and leaned off to the side. He reached for the chalice. He raised it aloft.
For a moment, the world seemed to stop. Koster watched as the cup reached its zenith. The carvings looked unreasonably clear. Stones glimmered. Gold shone. Koster screamed. He tried to pivot away but he couldn’t. He couldn’t do anything but wait for the impact. He closed his eyes tight. He waited and waited for what seemed like an eternity when the universe exploded around him. He opened his eyes. Scarcella was looking right at him. He giggled once more, and then slid to the side. Like a sackful of bones. Th
ere was a neat black hole in his head, by the temple.
As he rolled, the chalice came down. It tumbled from Scarcella’s embrace. It spun through the air, struck the ground.
Koster followed it with his eyes. The cup rolled and then settled by Grabowski’s brown shoes.
The archbishop lowered the smoking Beretta. He bent over and scooped up the cup in his hands. “I’m sorry,” he said. “But the gospel is just too important. It has to be studied and analyzed, Joseph. It must be kept safe.”
Koster rolled to his feet. “Safe? What are you talking about? Safe from what? From inquiring minds?”
“Don’t make me kill you, Joseph. Please. Stay away.”
“Like you killed Scarcella?”
“He was about to crush your skull. I saved your life!”
“Tell me, Kazimierz, while committing mortal sins, are there degrees of eternal damnation?”
“To slay in a just cause is not sinful.”
“Already it’s gone from killing to slaying. No matter what you call it, Kazimierz, Scarcella’s still dead. And Mariane, too. Mariane,” he repeated. “My poor Mariane.” He stepped closer until he hovered above her still form. “And for what? For what, Kazimierz? For the sayings of Christ?” He choked off a laugh.
“Stay away,” warned Grabowski. He took a step back. He aimed and as he pointed the gun, the cup slithered out of his grasp. He tried to retrieve it, with his one hand still bearing the pistol. The dodecahedron bobbled and fell, struck the floor with a clang. The golden clasp parted. Two sides opened up, like two halves of a melon. Like a luminous flower. The chalice was empty.
Koster groaned as he dropped to the floor. He knelt beside Mariane. He could see—through that hole in her skull—the pink petals of her freshly hewn brain. “Oh, Mariane,” he murmured. “Look what they’ve done to you.” He patted what was left of her face. “And for nothing.”
It was still raining. Lyman could feel the water running down his neck. His hat was missing. He had lost it somewhere during the exchange with Scarcella. Lyman closed his eyes, turned his face to the sky.
He had never felt such a rain. It was raw. It was cold and alive.
“That’s far enough.”
The man in the olive-colored raincoat stood with his knife out before him, wiggling and wagging the blade as if he were charming a snake.
Lyman reached for his buckle and slipped off his belt. The young man with the dagger drew near.
Lyman steadied himself. He whirled the belt round his head. There was a thrust. Lyman stepped back, whipping the belt out before him, but the man pulled away at the very last moment. There was another thrust, then a parry, and Lyman found himself pressed up against the stone wall of the cathedral. Nowhere to run. Nowhere to hide. This is it, he thought.
The young man smiled. He feinted once, to the left, and then thrust. Lyman felt the naked blade crease his ribs as he brought up his knee in response. He felt the knee connect. The young man groaned. Lyman grabbed him by the arm and swung him round so that the young man struck the wall with a sickening thud. The wind rushed from his lungs. Lyman shot a palm thrust to his face, punched him once in the Adam’s apple, and the young man collapsed in a heap on the ground. It was over.
Lyman pulled the knife from his assailant’s hand. He turned to face McCoy.
McCoy stood motionless, quietly appraising the scene. “Wait,” he said. His eyes widened as he stared at the knife.
Lyman laughed. The knife felt good in his hands. The rain washed his face, but he could still taste blood in his mouth.
“Wait,” said McCoy once again. “I’m not who you think I am.”
“I know you,” said Lyman. “McCoy or McKenzie. Which is it today? No wonder the countess knew everything.” He took another step, flipped the blade, and handed the knife to McCoy.
McCoy looked down at the blade with surprise. “You knew?” he said tightly. “But how?”
Lyman knelt down by the young man in the olive-colored raincoat. He patted his pockets. “There had to be an inside man, a mole in Grabowski’s camp. Who else would have turned that sign around on that hotel door in Lech?” He retrieved his .38, looked up and said, “You’re the only one left.”
With that, the sharp report of a revolver echoed down the corridor. They stared at one another for an instant, frozen by the sound. Then Lyman snarled, “Run!”
Lyman pounded down the corridor. Even before he turned the corner and looked down into the crypt, he could smell the bitter scent of cordite.
The archbishop stood in one corner, Scarcella’s pistol in his hand. His eyes appeared dead. The chalice lay open and empty nearby.
On the other side of the crypt, Mariane lay on the floor. Koster was kneeling beside her. He was stroking her face. A great circle of blood had pooled by her head. She was dead, Lyman realized, and the grim revelation tore a piece from his heart. He had liked Mariane. And she had been so young. Just like Peter.
Lyman inched his way forward. It was only when he had reached the bottom of the steps that he noticed Scarcella. He was lying perfectly still, a funnel-shaped hole where the side of his face had once been. He looked bored, staring off into space in that manner. He looked tired and ready to leave. And someone—other than Lyman—had obliged him.
Lyman hesitated at the foot of the steps. Where could he put his fury now? he thought. Where would it go? His quarry was a casing of organs and bones. Not even worth kicking.
Koster glanced up as Lyman drew near. “I thought you were dead,” the American said.
Lyman ignored him. He turned toward Grabowski. “The gun,” he said, stretching a hand out. In the other, he held his .38. “Give it to me, Your Excellency.”
Grabowski didn’t move. He stood there, immobile, staring down at Scarcella.
“It was self-defense,” Koster said as he climbed to his feet. “Scarcella tried to kill me. Kazimierz saved my life.”
“Give me the gun,” Lyman said once again.
The archbishop remained perfectly still as Lyman retrieved the Beretta. Then Grabowski looked up, eyes wide open, like a bull at the end of a picador’s lance. The archbishop said nothing as he moved through the crypt, as he dropped to his knees and started to pray—quietly, and without fanfare—as if he were alone with the girl.
The pool of blood around Mariane’s head had grown wider. “Scarcella?” said Lyman as he holstered his .38. It was more of a statement than a question. He slipped the Beretta into his coat.
“He didn’t have to kill her,” said Koster, “to shoot her like that. As if she were nothing. We would have cooperated. It didn’t make any sense.”
“That’s why he did it, Joseph. Where’s the fun if there’s a reason for killing?”
“And she called him. Scarcella, I mean. Just as he asked her to do. She called him. It wasn’t her fault, Nigel. It’s her brother. They took him. They took Guy away.”
“They’re holding him in a warehouse on the road to the hippodrome.”
Everyone looked up at the pale man who stood at the head of the steps. “Twenty-seven rue Lucien,” he continued.
“Oh, Mr. McCoy. Please, forgive me,” said Lyman. “This is Koster and Archbishop Grabowski. But you’re a little too late. By about six centuries, I’m afraid.” He pointed at the cup on the floor. “Of course, the chalice itself—even without the gospel—must be worth a small fortune.”
McCoy raised an eyebrow. “The money means nothing to us,” he replied. “Why don’t you keep it?”
“Some might consider that a questionable offer. Under the circumstances.” Lyman picked up the chalice. It was far heavier than it looked. The stones glimmered. Diamonds, he thought. Rubies and emeralds too. There was a piece of mortar caught in the hinge. He pulled it out and it crumbled between his fingertips. Then he looked up, sensing someone staring at him. It was Koster.
“You’re right,” said the American. “It looks brand new. Like somebody set it this morning.”
Topology, Lyman thou
ght, trying to remember. Topology. That was all that Koster had said before Mariane had disappeared downstairs…and placed her call to Scarcella. But who, besides Koster, knew enough about numerology and mathematics to take advantage of the clue?
McCoy met his gaze, and Lyman suddenly remembered what Scarcella had said by the door to the ambulatory. That’s the second time today, Mr. McCoy. You’re making a habit of being late. The second time today, Lyman thought. After all this time, he considered, glancing down at the mortar. Brand new. He laughed. Then he handed the chalice to Koster.
The American stared at the cup in his hands. “No,” he said, handing it back. “It’s a relic. It belongs to the Church.”
“In that case, perhaps we should give it to Marchelidon. I’d wager that school of his in Brazil could use some divine intervention. What do you think, Your Excellency? Archbishop Grabowski?”
The archbishop did not even look up.
“You didn’t hear,” Koster said, finally breaking the silence. “You were still down the corridor.”
“Hear what?”
“Scarcella admitted it. He killed Pontevecchio. He hanged him from Blackfriars Bridge. I told you, didn’t I? You can finally go home. I told you Kazimierz couldn’t have done it.”
Lyman looked down at the floor at Scarcella, at Mariane’s shattered face, and at Archbishop Grabowski beside her, mouthing his words. “I suppose so,” he said. “I suppose you were right all along.”
Half an hour later, as they walked across the square toward the police station, Lyman stopped and stared back up at the cathedral. The rain had tapered off. An ambulance was parked beside the entrance to the crypt. They were loading Scarcella’s corpse through the back. Mariane was already inside. The red light of the ambulance reflected off the wet cathedral walls. It glittered in the thousand puddles littering the square.
“Did you hear?” Koster said, drawing near.
It was cold, despite the fog. Or because of it, thought Lyman. “Hear what?” he asked.
“Guy’s okay. They found him. He was right where McCoy said he would be. Scarcella’s men gave up without a fight.”