The Alchemist’s Code

by Martin Rua

Anna looked at me with a smile and nodded.

  “Apparently, there’s something in our minds which is activated by these special items which are linked to our childhoods.”

  As we spoke, the bus was heading down Via Orazio, one of Naples’ most scenic spots, and the tension in Anna’s face and voice jarred with the beauty of the city parading past.

  “Anyway, to cut a long story short, I closed the little casket and the visions disappeared, but they left me with this feeling of… of unbearable anguish. I continued on my way to Anatoli’s house and that’s when my nightmare began. He behaved as politely as usual, but my mind was still reeling from the visions I kept seeing of another person, as though Anatoli wasn’t really himself, or as though his actions were false. My head was spinning and I had no appetite. Anatoli noticed and, very thoughtfully, offered to accompany me to the doctor. I said that it was nothing, that maybe I was just tired, but he insisted, to the point of actually getting aggressive.

  I started to get frightened, and so I decided that the best thing to do was to go along with him. We went to the doctor together, but he barely examined me. All he did was take a syringe and try and give me an injection. I refused, and said I didn’t want it. It seemed incredible at the time, but Anatoli and the doctor tried to force me to have it against my will. I don’t know how but I managed to escape, and they came after me like a couple of hunting dogs. I ran like crazy in search of help until I reached the main road. Unfortunately there was no one about at that time of day, and Anatoli and the doctor were catching up. They were almost on me when suddenly an old truck – the kind that the farmers in the villages round there use to transport goods – appeared on the road. I ran towards it and begged the driver to let me get inside

  to escape from the bad men who were trying to catch me. He was alarmed, especially because there didn’t actually seem to be anyone following me. I didn’t know how to explain, but I begged him to give me a lift, and in the end the old man finally let me get in.

  I didn’t even go home, I just went straight to the station, and took a train from there to Kiev.

  I rented a hotel room in town for the night and hid there for fear that I’d been followed. I was very ill, I vomited and trembled as though I had a high fever. My head was bursting because of the pain and the visions that kept coming.

  The next morning I was certain that I’d been drugged and that my perception of reality had been altered. I remembered my life up to about two months before, but when I thought about what I’d done during those two months, all that passed before my eyes were a succession of days which were always exactly the same.”

  Anna became silent again, visibly agitated. It seemed that in remembering everything that had happened, she’d lost some of the self-possession of a few minutes before.

  I took advantage of the break in her story to ask some of the questions that had been crowding my head for the last twenty-four hours.

  “How did you find me?”

  Anna reached into the backpack she was carrying, pulled out a small wooden object and handed it to me. It was the box that she had spoken of.

  I opened it and saw the symbol carved inside, the wheel with spokes.

  “Look at the bottom,” she said.

  I turned it over to examine the base. Engraved into the wood was a sentence in English.

  To my brother Vova, with eternal gratitude. L. Aragona 1945.

  I read and re-read that sentence without understanding it. Then I looked up and stared at Anna, who in the meantime had pulled out a scrap of paper.

  “Actually, there was something inside. This package. With an address,” she said, handing me a piece of folded paper.

  Via Chiatamone, 6 – Napoli

  “But… this is the address of the Églantine, my antiques shop. And what does the dedication mean? What is this, a joke? I’ve no idea who your grandfather was and I’ve never seen this box before. And look at the date – 1945—”

  I broke off abruptly and re-read the sentence. “Wait a moment.”

  “What is, or was, your grandfather’s name?”

  I looked out of the window for a second, and my eyes caught the unmistakable profile of Capri. Still staring into space, I replied.

  “Lorenzo. Lorenzo Alexander Aragona.”

  8

  The Mission – Part Two

  Reconstruction based on the secret files of Group 9 and the memoirs of Sean Bruce

  Berlin, the night between the 24th and 25th of March, 1945

  When Henri Theodore von Tschoudy regained consciousness, his ears roared and strange shadows danced before his eyes.

  “Where are they?!” he thought, still half stunned. “I remember the bombs… Yes, that’s it – a bomb must have hit the synagogue and buried us all.”

  Slowly he managed to focus on his surroundings. The room in which he found himself was dark and damp, and only an oil lamp illuminated the room. In the dim light he could make out figures watching him carefully. Then one of them walked over to him, and in the lantern light his face seemed familiar.

  “Good evening, brother Henri,” said the man.

  Henri Theodore von Tschoudy realized what had happened, and his lips twisted into a bitter grin. “Well done Nathan, and well done the rest of you. It took a lot of courage to risk your lives under your own bombs. And well done Wolff – you even sold out your own country.”

  Now his eyes were entirely focused upon the eight people in that room, faces which were extremely familiar to him.

  “Well, isn’t it nice to be back together again?” he commented sarcastically, shifting his gaze from one to another.

  “You’re lucky that our Master is a magnanimous man, otherwise you’d already be rotting somewhere in this shitty town of yours,” said François David harshly, with his unmistakable French accent.

  “If it has become so, that is thanks to you,” spat von Tschoudy with contempt.

  “No, Henri, it’s your Führer’s fault – the Führer for whom you betrayed us,” said Nathan bitterly.

  “That’s your opinion, Nathan. You’re serving the Stars and Stripes, I serve the Reich. Until the end.”

  “Right now I’m serving the brotherhood, Henri, just like all the rest of us. We were called upon to execute a task far more important than this absurd war. But you broke your oath.”

  “Don’t you think you’re exaggerating a bit, Naalnish? I simply lost my way after Cassino.”

  “Of course, and by chance you found it again in the heart of the Black Forest, right? It took us a year to find you, but in the end, as you see, we succeeded.”

  “Bravo! You all have my admiration. And now? What are you going to do?”

  Nathan and his men gathered around the casket that contained the idol and fixed their eyes on von Tschoudy.

  “Your key, Henri. Where do you keep it? We’ve searched you but we couldn’t find it,” said Nathan.

  The German watched them in amusement, then smiled and shook his head.

  “I consider it offensive that you think I will decide to help you simply because I’m tied up and you have me at gunpoint. I have made my choice, and I am ready to die for the Reich. Fuck you.”

  Nathan remained impassive, then nodded his head at Lev, who immediately left the room. “Let’s see if you are ready to sacrifice your men too, brother Henri,” said Nathan, while Lev dragged someone into the room.

  It was Sergeant Müller.

  9

  A Friendly Face

  Events reconstructed by Lorenzo Aragona

  Naples, January, 2013

  I stood staring at the box, trying to interpret that enigmatic dedication.

  “Looks like our grandparents were friends, and were together somewhere in 1945”.

  “So it would seem,” confirmed Anna.

  “Maybe they met before the war. What did your grandfather do?”

  “He was an interpreter at the University of Sverdlovsk – what is now called Ekaterinburg, my hometown. I couldn’t even
begin to tell you how many languages he studied, ancient and modern.”

  “Well, maybe that’s how they knew each other. My grandfather was a psychoanalyst, specialising in encryption codes and Jungian symbolism. He knew a lot of languages too. He was an official of the Ministry of War, one of the youngest. He was sent to the front because he was an expert in codes, but he had no great sympathy for the fascist regime. From what I know, he never participated in any hostilities. Maybe they met at some conference.”

  “A fascist official and a Soviet professor? Together?”

  “Well, relations, especially commercial ones, between the two countries were actually quite good. Mussolini himself encouraged Italian industrialists to continue their business with the Soviet Union. ’The Soviets always pay’ he said. So apart from the war, there’s not really anything preventing our grandfathers from having met several times. On one of these occasions, your grandfather must have done mine a favour, and to thank him, he gave him this box.”

  “And why call him brother?”

  “Maybe because they were very good friends, Anna. I really don’t know,” I said, without conviction. “Look… I’m sorry, but in all this, the mystery which is closest to my heart, the one which is at the forefront of my thoughts, is, do you know where my wife is? I tried to call her earlier, but her phone is off. Do you know anything? The caretaker of the garage near my gallery spoke of… hospital, of a disease.”

  Anna smiled at me, sweetly and sadly, and shook her head.

  “I only know that the woman I saw in recent weeks is not your wife. I looked you up on the internet and there are photos of you alongside your real wife. In light of what I’ve been through myself, I realised that they had built a fictitious life around you and put someone claiming to be your wife in it.”

  I took off my cap abruptly and rubbed my forehead as though searching for an answer. “But how is it possible that nobody noticed what was happening? That no one has tried to help me in this month and a half? Relatives, friends, brothers – how is it possible?”

  The expression on Anna’s face grew dark and the corners of her mouth twisted into a grimace of disgust.

  “Whoever is behind all this possesses great resources, Lorenzo, as I know to my cost.”

  I turned to look at her and felt a wave of determination flood through me.

  “Well, then it’s time they met the real Lorenzo Aragona. Let’s get off this bus, I’ve had enough of hiding.”

  “Where are we going?”

  “To see an old friend.”

  We got off the tour bus at Piazza Vittoria and began walking towards the San Fernando police station, but a few hundred metres from the building Anna stopped.

  “I’m not going in there. There’s no point. The police can’t help us.”

  “What the hell do you mean? If not them then who?”

  “Only ourselves Lorenzo. No one will believe you.”

  “Oscar will. You do what you want.”

  Past caring, I turned away, walked into the police station and asked the officer on the desk for Oscar.

  “Commissioner Franchi is not here at the moment, sir. Can I help you?”

  “I’m a friend of his, my name is Lorenzo Aragona.”

  “Ah—” he said, looking suddenly astonished. “Lorenzo Aragona, did you say?”

  “Yes. Why?”

  “Wait a moment please,” the man replied, then picked up a phone, dialled an extension and said, “Sir, there’s a gentleman here who says he’s Lorenzo Aragona – Shall I send him up?”

  He looked at me.

  “Yes, sir, Lorenzo Aragona… Excuse me,” the stunned policeman asked me, “are you sure you are Lorenzo Aragona?”

  “Yes, I think so,” I answered sarcastically.

  “He says he is, sir. Okay, I’ll send him up. Mr Aragona, that way, please – deputy commissioner Amato is expecting you.”

  I arrived at Amato’s door and knocked.

  The door was opened by a man in his fifties, of solid build, with short hair, a beard and a surprised expression, as though there were a ghost standing before him, who beckoned me to enter. “Please, please – sit down.”

  I knew and respected Vincenzo Amato, one of Oscar’s most trusted associates, but at that moment he seemed terribly confused.

  “Glad to have you here. Would you like a coffee?” he asked, unable to take his eyes off me.

  “No thanks, I’m fine. I’m looking for Oscar.”

  “I know – or rather, I imagined that you’d come to talk to him. The commissioner isn’t here at the moment but he’s on his way. I’ve informed him that you’re here. While we are waiting, maybe I could ask you a couple of questions, if you don’t mind.”

  “… of course, and maybe I can ask you something too.”

  “Whatever you want!” he exclaimed with great kindness, then paused for a moment to stare at me, looking vaguely uncomfortable.

  “What is it?” I asked, trying to break the embarrassing silence.

  “Excuse me,” he said, smiling again, “I was just trying to figure out if— How are you? Do you feel ok?”

  I nodded in disbelief. “Yes, yes, I’m fine – but what’s that got to do with anything?”

  “Nothing, nothing, please excuse me.”

  “Look, I’m in a bit of a hurry so if you don’t mind—”

  Amato suddenly became serious. “You’re right, but we’d better wait for Oscar, ok? Right… Ok, Let me just ask you a few questions.”

  He took a deep breath and then began. “Where… Where have you been for the past few weeks? I mean, were you away, did you go somewhere?”

  His question brought me crashing back down to earth.

  “I’m sorry, but why do you ask?”

  “Well, because… because you disappeared for quite a long time, and none of your friends or relatives has been able to tell us where you were. You know, after the murder of your partner, you had a nervous breakdown and—”

  I was beginning to lose my patience, but I tried to stay calm.

  “Listen, Amato, I don’t remember a damn thing about what’s happened. I don’t remember the death of my friend, the closure of my store, or where my wife is. I don’t remember anything about the last three months. And if it weren’t for that girl, I wouldn’t be here now.”

  Amato raised an eyebrow.

  “A girl, you said?”

  “Yes, a young Russian woman who— Look, it’s a long story, let’s wait till Oscar gets here, if you don’t mind.”

  “Well can you at least tell me who this woman is?”

  “I told you, a Russian girl – her name is Anna Nikisomething Glyz and she says she’s been through the same thing as me. That is to say, some strange form of amnesia.”

  “I understand,” said Amato, nodding, “so you don’t know what you’ve been doing for the last month and a half, or where you’ve been?”

  “Actually, I do.”

  “Oh – so where was it?”

  “Right here in the city, a few blocks from my house. I was held prisoner in a dilapidated building in an alley in the San Martino district.”

  “What! You were held there?” asked Amato, staring at me. “Who were they?”

  “No idea.”

  “And could you take us to the building?”

  “Of course! It’s close to my house, I told you.”

  Just then the door opened and Oscar flew in, putting an end to our surreal conversation. Even though he was a stern man, as soon as he saw me waves of emotion crossed his face.

  “I didn’t believe it when they called me,” he said, embracing me warmly. “Welcome back.”

  Slightly embarrassed, I returned his embrace, then pulled away and, staring into his piercing green eyes, asked the first of a long series of questions.

  “What’s going on, Oscar? Where’s Àrtemis?”

  My friend put his hands on my shoulders as though I were a kite ready to fly away.

  “Come into my office, we won�
��t be disturbed there. Vincenzo, please call Viola and ask her to join us.”

  *

  Oscar was more or less my age, a little over forty, but, unlike me, his hair was completely white, with only the odd tuft of black between his neck and sideburns. In his case, however, the cause was not natural but much more dramatic: one night twenty years ago in Rome while he was in his car with his girlfriend, they had been approached by a gang of thugs and, powerless to stop them, he had seen his girlfriend killed right before his very eyes. His hair went prematurely white, and from that day on his eyes assumed a grim expression that would never leave them. It was at that moment that he decided that he would become a policeman. And he succeeded. After his first few years as an ordinary constable in Rome, he had rapidly climbed the career ladder and was transferred to Naples. He had fallen in love with the city, had become commissioner and now he no longer wanted to leave, having earned himself a reputation as a tough cop along the way. Several times he’d ended up in the sights of the Camorra, but he had never been intimidated. At first he had fought crime with his fists, until the esoteric studies, a passion for which I had kindled in him, had restored his equilibrium.

  “Have they given you something to drink?” said Oscar once we were seated.

  “I’m fine, thanks.”

  Oscar looked down, then, as though making a great effort, looked back at me. “You’ve lost so much weight… So what happened to you? Where did you disappear to? My men were keeping an eye out, but you always found a way to slip through the net. You don’t answer your phone and when someone sees you, it’s as though you’re on another planet. Even our consultant psychiatrists advised me to wait and see the development of this… this condition of yours, before intervening, but I’m worried. And all this time I’ve been trying to defend you to everybody.”

  “Defend me? Why?”

  “You’re still nominally a suspect in Bruno’s murder.”

  “I don’t remember a damn thing, Oscar. My whole life has fallen to pieces in the last twenty-four hours.”

  Oscar nodded. “All right, tell me what happened.”