by Martin Rua
There was a long, tense pause, then he carried on sadly.
“We don’t even have a place to take flowers, just a tombstone behind which there is nothing but an empty coffin. All that’s left of him are a few memories, some letters and a few small objects.”
I looked at him quizzically. “And where is this stuff?”
Navarro returned my gaze and then pointed inside the house.
“I keep it all here, in a safe.”
“Then maybe it’s time to open it.”
25
Bastian
Police reconstruction on the basis of the statement of Anna Nikitovna Glyz
Rome, January 2013
“Listen, why don’t we get to know each other a bit better first?”
Anna watched the threatening giant approaching with increasing fear.
“I know that you are a tough nut to crack,” said the old man with the masked face quietly, “but I have no time to lose. Either you tell me what I want to know, or Bastian will get it out of you by force.”
The giant didn’t speak, just watched his prey with his thin, icy eyes. Anna felt panic rising inside her, and, her hands still tied, began to crawl backwards along the floor, rummaging around in her mind in search of a solution.
She had already realised that, being tied up, her martial arts skills would be severely hampered, and that if she missed, that beast wouldn’t give her a second chance.
She reached the back wall of the room and found herself cornered. She looked up, and saw Bastian’s grin flickering in the dark for a moment before, with unexpected rapidity, he tore off her blouse. Just as the giant was about to begin beating her, Anna responded by kicking him in the face, but it was as though Bastian hadn’t felt the blow.
“Don’t try to resist, darling,” the old man said with a voice betraying a hint of satisfaction, as though he were enjoying the show. “You’ll only get him more excited.”
Anna ignored him and tried to slip between the monster’s legs, but he was blindingly fast and grabbed her by the belt, slamming her down on her back. The girl let out a howl of pain as Bastian threw himself at her once more.
In that instant, a third man materialized beside the old one and whispered something in his ear. “What? That’s impossible! I’ve always said that German is an idiot.”
Bastian stopped dead. He raised his head and looked at his master.
“Hang on, Bastian!” the old man ordered.
The giant’s hand remained suspended in mid-air while his boss got up and walked toward the girl. Anna could better see the mask he was wearing. It looked like some kind of monstrous gargoyle.
“Baphomet—” she thought.
“Your friend has managed to escape again. He seems to have been helped by some local criminals who have shaken off my men. We didn’t know he had friends in organized crime. He’s quite a character,” the old man said with disappointment, then, with a grin, continued, “any way, my men tell me they lost sight of him at the airport. He was probably bound for Zurich. He’s going back to his wife, Miss Glyz. He doesn’t seem at all interested in your fate.”
Anna merely breathed loudly and looked at him with hatred, while Bastian held her pinned to the ground.
“So, are you still unwilling to talk?”
Anna spat on his shoes.
He shook his head slowly.
“Go ahead, Bastian.”
The last thing he heard before leaving the room were Anna’s stifled screams.
26
Navarro’s Safe
Events reconstructed by Lorenzo Aragona
Naples, January 2013
Navarro had carefully kept all my grandfather’s correspondence and many other objects belonging to him, including postcards, photographs and books that he had sent him. Everything was filed by year and origin.
“You see? He always used mail boxes. So you could tell more or less where he was, but never the exact address,” he remarked, browsing the letters. Many were from European cities, but others were also from the United States and Argentina.
Navarro’s expression grew melancholic as he looked at the old photos. “It was thanks to the books that we started meeting regularly. I had attended some of his university lectures and I invited him to visit my bookshop. He was immediately interested in my private collection of esoteric books, especially those about the Templars. We had long chats about rare books, mysterious authors and flea markets where you could pick up bargains. He was an amateur antiquarian, but he was good at it. We shared similar views on the difficult political situation in Spain. Francoism had reduced the country to poverty and some day it would be better to move away, and breathe fresh air elsewhere.
Our political ideas and our shared passion for esoteric books and antiques strengthened our friendship. One summer’s day in 1958 your grandfather invited me to his house. After a delicious Italian lunch, he invited me into his study and told me in no uncertain terms that he was thinking of going back to Italy, which was at the height of an economic boom at the time, and, if I wanted to, I could come away too, at least for a while. He had important connections, he told me, and he could certainly help a bright young bookseller like me to start a new life. I didn’t really want to leave Barcelona, but your grandfather’s idea was tempting, so I accepted.
Before I left, I told him that whatever he asked me in the future I would do, and that I would be a fraternal friend to him forever. He said, cryptically, that maybe one day I could return the favour, although he hoped with all his heart that there would be no need.
That day did come, however, twelve years later, in 1970, when you were three years old. I’d found a job in Rome, first as an interpreter, then as the owner of my first Italian antiquarian bookshop. Your grandfather had returned to Italy with his family a few months after I left and had settled in Naples, his home town. He’d sold a couple of properties he had inherited there from his mother and bought a chemist’s, so your father would have a secure future when he had finished college, and then he took up studying psychology again.
After he and his family came back to Italy, we often saw each other, until, at some point in the summer of 1970, something happened. He just disappeared for a few weeks, then, one day, showed up at my shop. I was very surprised, but nonetheless overjoyed to see him. He looked gloomy, though, and seemed tormented. ’Do you remember what you promised me, Antonio?’ he asked. ’Unfortunately, the time has come to help me. I can only trust a few people now and you’re one of them’. He told me the whole story, and my life changed again.”
Navarro paused for a moment and sat down at his desk, which was spread with postcards and letters, as though he were burdened by the weight of those memories.
He picked up a photograph of my grandparents and looked at it nostalgically. “So, I came to know about the Baphomet, the murders that had just been committed and your grandfather’s plan. I tried to dissuade him, but I knew it was useless. I had come to know him and, although he was a difficult person to read, there was no confusion about certain traits of his character. His determination, above all. ’I have to protect my family, Antonio, and I have to die to do it’. That was his answer. So we organized the fake accident and the funeral, so that it would create a stir and reach the ears of those it was meant for.”
“It’s incredible,” I said, shaking my head as I read through letters where my grandfather asked after his children, informing them when and where he would turn up and little else. Some of these he signed ‘… Anastasio Elpìda.’
“That’s the last fictitious name he used,” Navarro said.
“Anastasio… Elpìda. ’Hope rises anew’,” I muttered.
Navarro looked at me curiously.
“Every serious alchemist or esotericist must know the language of birds, the coded language that conceals enigmas and formulas. The fictitious name my grandfather chose means ’hope rises anew’ in Greek.”
I leafed through the last postcards and letters sent by my grandfather.
Those apparently insignificant messages said a lot about the loneliness he must have suffered after his wife’s death, so I looked back at Navarro. “When did you hear from him for the last time?”
“Five years ago. A phone call. Your grandfather called both your father and me. On that occasion, we begged him to tell us where he was and said that we would take all precautions so as not to run unnecessary risks to meet him. He was adamant, the stubborn old goat. He told us he was being taken care of and he didn’t need anything. We gave up, and that was the last time we heard from him.”
I was thoughtful for a moment. “Five years ago… Grandpa was tough… He said he was being looked after?”
“Yes, but of course we never got to know by whom.”
I took a last look at the letters and postcards on the table, then stood up exhausted from the whole thing. I was still feeling the effect of the sedatives they had given me. I looked at my reflection in a mirror and felt compassion for my hollow face, unshaven beard and unkempt hair among which a white tuft had appeared.
I ran a hand over my face, as if to brush away the fatigue, then turned round.
“All right, Antonio. I’ve listened to this whole story with interest, because it’s about my life, my family and the people I love and loved. But now you must tell me the truth about this Baphomet, because I’m chasing this chimera for one reason and one reason only, which is that I’m desperate and have reached the point where I’ll believe in anything, even in miracles. I know I’m deluding myself, but I want to save Àrtemis and if this object can help me then I have to find it. What’s the real power of the Baphomet or the Guardian of the Threshold? And above all, where could it be?”
Navarro shook his head sadly. “Only the members of the Lodge of the Nine know the truth, Lorenzo.”
“You’ve just told me that my grandfather gave me the sequence to evoke the Guardian, so, strictly speaking, I’m an unwitting member of the Lodge of the Nine, am I not?”
“You are, but the sequence implanted in your subconscious can’t be evoked at will and, as far as I know, not without the object that evokes it, in your case, your old toy.”
I shook my head. “I don’t have it any more, I had it in my pocket in Kiev, but they took it, along with everything else.”
Navarro frowned. “In any case, no one knows where the Baphomet is, so for now, my job is to protect you and the sequence in your brain.”
“I don’t give a damn about your job, Antonio! Things have changed. The goal now is to find the Baphomet, if it exists, and do it quickly.”
Navarro came over to me and put his hand on my shoulder. “Lorenzo, calm down. The last person who knew where the Baphomet was hidden was your grandfather and he died, probably five years ago.”
I pushed his hand away and went back to staring at the letters and postcards on the table.
At one point, my attention was drawn to something I hadn’t noticed before. A very strange postcard that was now peeping through the papers scattered on the desk. My attitude surprised Navarro. “What is it?”
I grabbed it and read what was written.
You must come IMMEDIATELY, this is a beautiful place, where time has STOPPED
I started to examine it against the light.
Navarro shrugged, obviously not giving it too much importance. “Ah, yes – it’s a postcard from Anguillara, a town on Bracciano Lake. I must have put it in with the others by mistake. A Roman friend of mine, Adriano de Notariis, the owner of a tavern in Trastevere where I went with your grandfather from time to time, sent it to me about six months ago. Adriano comes from Anguillara. I’ve never even thanked him for it.”
“Antonio, I don’t know any Adriano de Notariis from Anguillara, but I received the very same postcard last summer, signed by the same person,” I said while analyzing it.
Antonio looked at me quizzically. “How is that possible?”
After a few seconds I realized why, besides the fact that I had already seen it, that postcard had caught my attention. The photo showing the view of Anguillara seemed almost super-imposed, glued with extreme precision on top of another image. I tried to lift it gently with my nail and after a few attempts managed to remove it, bringing to light the true picture of the postcard.
“Madre de Dios—” muttered Navarro.
It showed a period photograph from the early twentieth century of a luxurious Roman residence. There was a caption.
’Villa Gondemar, Via Aurelia Antica’.
“Look, there’s something written behind the photo of Anguillara: ’It’s time to go back. Giovanni’.”
Does it ring a bell? Who’s this Giovanni?”
I looked at Navarro and saw him turn pale.
“Well, what’s the matter? Does it mean anything?”
“N-no, no,” the Spaniard stammered, “it’s just that I didn’t expect it. I had set aside this postcard without attaching any importance to it but—”
Navarro’s nervousness made me suspicious, but I ignored it.
“I see. Well, it seems that this Giovanni knows you and invites you to go back somewhere, maybe to this villa Gondemar, if it still exists.”
Navarro tried to regain control and then confirmed. “I don’t know what to say… I know neither the place, nor anyone called Giovanni who might have anything to do with that villa.”
“So who is this Giovanni? How is it possible that your friend Adriano sent it by mistake? Have you ever thanked him for the postcard?”
“No, never.”
“So, at a guess, this Giovanni has used the name of Adriano de Notariis to send a hidden message.”
Navarro was silent, tense.
“Do you have a computer?”
He nodded, still disorientated, then walked over to a desk upon which sat a notebook, turned it on and gestured to me to use it.
I searched for villa Gondemar online and immediately found an official website.
“Home of the Missionaries of the Temple of Jerusalem in Rome. Quite a name for a group of Catholic missionaries, don’t you think?”
“Y-yes, it is quite unique.”
I gave him a quick look, then went back to the screen. “It’s more than unique, Antonio. Let’s try and call them.”
I called the number on the homepage and after several rings, a young voice with a clear foreign accent said. “Missionaries of the Temple of Jerusalem, good evening.”
“Good evening. My name is Lorenzo Aragona. I’m calling from Naples and I am seeking information about someone who perhaps could have been your guest. His name is Giovanni, but you might know him as Anastasio Elpìda.”
There was a moment of silence, then the young man replied, “Hold on a second, please.”
I turned to Antonio and gave him a doubtful look. After a few seconds, another, distinctly more mature voice with a strong Roman accent, spoke.
“Good Evening, Mr Aragona, this is Luigi Palminteri, Father General of the Roman mission of our order. José, the young seminarian who answered before, tells me you’re looking for news about Anastasio Elpìda.”
“That’s right, Father… Anastasio is a close family friend and—”
“I have some information that may be of interest, but I’m afraid I can’t tell you anything over the phone. Will you be able to come to Rome tomorrow morning?”
I was speechless, but I seized the opportunity right away. “Of course… I’ll see you tomorrow morning.”
“Very well. Goodbye, Mr Aragona.”
I hung up and, more amazed than ever, looked back at Antonio.
“If I understand it correctly, the priest who has just replied knows something about my grandfather.”
Navarro first turned white, then gaped.
“…I can’t believe it.”
I nodded and smiled slightly.
“If I know anything about the Aragonas and their style, I’d say that son of a bitch might just still be alive. Hope rises anew.”
27
Woland
; Reconstruction based on the interrogation of Dr Brad Höffnunger
Terminal for private flights, Ciampino Airport – Rome, January 2013
The Gulfstream G550 obtained permission to land and the pilot invited the few people on board to fasten their seatbelts. Despite the comfort of the private jet, its most important passenger felt exhausted. Nowadays, intercontinental flights wore him out and he travelled only out of necessity. And the news he had received certainly necessitated his presence.
“The girl has spoken,” the voice on the phone had said twelve hours earlier, before continuing, “we are going to recover him.”
“No!” he had snapped. “I want to see him first! All of you wait until I arrive.”
“What do you mean? Be reasonable!”
“I’ll set off immediately. Do as I say.”
The other sighed. “Very well, as you wish.”
As soon as the plane landed, a big black limousine with tinted windows pulled up, followed by two Mercedes. The passenger climbed down slowly, as though counting the few steps to the ground. No one, however, moved to assist him.
He lifted his head, his hairless scalp looked like ancient parchment, and gave an icy look in the direction of the limousine through his dark pince-nez.
Despite his old age, there was an indomitable pride and vigour in his bearing that inspired awe, if not actual fear. A well dressed, fifty year old man appeared just behind him on the plane ladder, with grey, backcombed hair and a handsome, clean-shaven face.
“Doctor, to the villa, now,” the old man said, before climbing into the limo.
“I’ll drive ahead with the other car, Doctor Woland. You’ll find everything ready on your arrival,” the other replied.
One of the two Mercedes sped away quickly with the doctor on board, while the other two cars followed at a slower pace.
“I’ve landed,” said Woland on his mobile as his limousine proceeded along the motorway. Besides the driver and a bodyguard sitting in front, there was a young woman who had come to the airport to welcome him. Her eyes were dark and penetrating, like two black pearls set in a porcelain-white face, long, wavy brown hair and a lean physique.