by Martin Rua
“I wish I could have strangled her right there, on the carpet. That stupid little whore—”
Woland stopped in front of a mirror and started examining his face.
“Luckily the rapid re-programming of the HB was providential, doctor. How I detest this shrunken skin and these old bones.”
He touched his face with his skeletal fingers and it was like touching papier-mâché. He was disgusted by the decline of his body. Pulling himself together, he stared at the doctor with his typical intensity.
“Quickly, Doctor! Give me my vigour back, it’s time to set our last plan in motion.”
Doctor Höffnunger nodded and stared at him for a moment. In his face, the torment that had been afflicting him for a long time was visible. He tried to hide it by showing concern for his patient’s health.
“I very much hope so, Doctor Woland. I noticed that the treatments you have undertaken lately have made you particularly exhausted. I am worried about your health.”
Woland lifted a skeletal hand as though to shoo his silly words away.
“That is just one more reason why we need to hurry up and find the Baphomet. Let’s get a move on, Camille will be back soon with the final clue.”
*
While Woland was being injected with another dose of HB, Camille was making her way back up the Aventino with the precious items Lorenzo Aragona had given her. Just like years before, she had once again found that annoying man in her way: it seemed that he was particularly skilled at sabotaging her plans. But it was different now. Woland was a powerful man, with powerful means and powerful friends, and she would succeed this time, even if Lorenzo Aragona was there to annoy her. In fact, she would use the old man for her own ends. The revived Thule Society would find no more obstacles in its way and she would obtain what she, in her lucid madness, desired the most: immortality. She felt herself growing more and more excited.
They were about a hundred metres away from Villa delle Chimere when she saw the police cars.
“Don’t stop, Reiner. There are cops around. Drive past and let me out in a little further on.”
“Ok.”
It seemed as though things were taking a sudden nasty twist – the police were onto them. But then she saw the cars leaving, and started breathing normally again.
45
The Archbishop of La Plata
Reconstruction based on the testimony of Father Palminteri
Palazzo del Governatorato, Vatican, January 2013 – h 17:37
Two minutes after the explosion in Piazza di Spagna
As soon as he had heard that name from Barucci, Father Palminteri was overcome with anguish. He couldn’t believe that one of the most generous sponsors of the Vatican’s charitable projects was, in fact, a criminal. In fact, his first instinct was to ignore the information, just the way Barucci had ignored it, limiting his reaction to a shake of his head and a sarcastic smile. The girl must have gotten mixed up – she was probably still in shock. Then there had been the explosion in Piazza di Spagna, and in the ensuing confusion everyone had started to take the situation seriously. Or at least, almost everyone.
Palminteri and all the others involved in the summit were already supposed to be in the Nervi Auditorium, which had been buzzing with people for hours in preparation for the concert which would open the meeting the following day. The priest had decided to talk to the director of the summit, the archbishop of La Plata, himself, to inform him of the situation.
He knocked at the door after being let into the waiting room of the high priest’s office.
“Come in!”
Father Palminteri crossed the entrance to find himself in front of the extravagant figure of Caesar Valentin Vorjas. The South American priest, with his long hair, perfectly trimmed goatee and forceful yet elegant manners, had always fascinated Father Palminteri, but at the same time he also found him unnerving. Maybe because of the rumours that had him as the heir to one of the most controversial families in the papacy’s entire history, the Borgias. Maybe because of the gossip about his involvement in the Ratlines – the escape routes for Nazi top brass at the end of the Second World War which, in some cases, had apparently been organised by high-ranking Catholic priests.
Palminteri was convinced that Vorjas couldn’t have had any part in that incident – he would have been too young at that time – but in any case, he had never really felt comfortable around the enigmatic archbishop.
Now, however, he had no choice but to share with him the news that behind the bomb which had exploded a few minutes ago in Piazza di Spagna there might be none other than Raymond Woland. Vorjas had smiled at first, but then his noble Hispanic face had grown serious.
“Father Luigi, I sincerely hope this is a joke.”
Father Palminteri tried to appear humble while he attempted to underline the gravity of the situation.
“I wish it was a joke a too, Eminence, but we must take what has just happened in Piazza di Spagna seriously.”
“Of course we must take it seriously, but I will not listen to the ravings of a girl who accuses one of the Church’s, and of the Holy Father himself’s, best friends,” shouted Vorjas. “In half an hour there will be the solemn opening ceremony of the summit in the Paolo VI hall, and I will not call it off. The American and Russian authorities agree with me. Let the Italian police sort out what happens on Italian soil. In fact—” He lifted the telephone and called his secretary. “Father Luca, call the Police Chief of Rome for me, please. He should be in the Nervi Auditorium with the others.”
Father Luigi looked at him in surprise.
“You can go, father. I will see you in a few minutes at the concert. The summit needs you. Many thanks for all you have done so far,” the archbishop said, then began talking to police chief De Sanctiis.
Father Palminteri left the room with lowered eyes. He should have tried to handle things without involving Vorjas, whose reaction was entirely predictable.
But something in Vorjas’s eyes hadn’t convinced him at all.
46
Hands Tied
Events reconstructed by Lorenzo Aragona
Piazzale Ostiense, Rome, January, 2013 – 17:45
Volta hadn’t said another word, but it was obvious that he didn’t like his orders. He had agreed we would meet up with the men on the Aventino to fetch Anna anyway.
A few minutes later, we reached Piazzale Ostiense and saw the police cars waiting for us in front of the station.
Even though I couldn’t have known what would happen, I was haunted by a feeling of guilt that I had been the one to trigger the bomb.
Oscar had tried to comfort me. “It’s not your fault, Lorenzo – I would have done the same. I would have gone along with their orders too. Now at least we know that they’re not going to be satisfied with anything we give them.”
Caruso pulled up next to his colleagues’ cars, and a furious Anna suddenly appeared.
“What the hell is going on, Oscar?”
“I haven’t got a clue.”
One of the policemen, a big guy with a tough-looking face and clad in a black leather jacket, walked over to our car. “Good evening, Chief. I’m Inspector Ferraris. Listen, between you and me, somebody pulled some strings to force us to leave Mr Woland alone. Pressure from the high-ups. Anyway the girl didn’t recognise the man as being the person responsible for her kidnapping either.”
We all looked in astonishment at Anna, and she shook her head, a bewildered expression on her face.
“It’s true. That man, the one who presented himself to the police as Woland – well, he looked like him, but it wasn’t him. He was a much older man.”
I ran my fingers through my hair in frustration.
“Ok, let’s try and remain calm,” Oscar said. “What are your orders now, Ferraris?”
“Some of us have to go to Piazza di Spagna, because they need more men there.”
“Who’s going to stay here?”
Ferraris hesitated for a moment
and Oscar threw his arms out wide in astonishment.
“Ferraris, are you telling me you’re not going to continue searching the Aventino? The girl was held hostage here!”
“These orders came from Chief Volta.”
“Get him on the radio for me immediately!”
“No need – here he is now.”
A police car pulled up a few metres from us and a tall guy with curly hair emerged and shambled over.
“Hi, Franchi.”
“Glad to see you, Volta.”
They shook hands, and then, after a few interminable moments of tension, Oscar said very clearly, “Volta, what the fuck are you playing at?”
Imperturbable, Volta continued to stare at Oscar.
“I practically told you where to find the people responsible for the attack fifteen minutes ago. Aren’t you going to do anything about it?”
“Franchi, can you come with me for a moment?” answered Volta in a pronounced Sicilian accent, and not losing his cool. The two of them walked a few metres away and there was a brief, though animated discussion. They walked back towards us, some kind of agreement seemingly having been reached.
“One car comes with me,” said the Sicilian, nodding to Ferraris, “we need to double check the whole area around here.”
The inspector nodded and smiled slightly. It was clear that the orders not to follow up the lead hadn’t come from Volta and that his men were more than happy to disobey them.
Anna, Oscar and I climbed into Volta’s car and, accompanied by another car, we went back to the Aventino to carry out a thorough search.
47
The Templar Idol
Reconstruction based on police interrogations
Fosse Ardeatine Memorial Cemetery, Rome, January, 2013 – 17:45
Woland was deeply shaken, and his mood had grown suddenly dark. He hadn’t said a word while the car hurtled towards the south of the city. Camille was sure the change was due to what they had discovered when they had decoded the message they’d found in the mithraeum. It contained a clear and detailed indication of the place where the Baphomet was hidden: the Fosse Ardeatine.
“Damn them,” Woland had mumbled, his face ashen, “they are still playing with me, even from the beyond – but I swear I will exterminate their families for this!”
Despite her lack of scruples, Woland’s vow to avenge himself upon Lorenzo’s family made Camille feel uncomfortable, though she couldn’t have said why. Apart from hiding the Baphomet, what had Lorenzo Aragona senior and his brothers of the Lodge of the Nine done to deserve all that hatred?
The Sacrarium had been already been closed for a couple of hours, and in the early winter night its walls and the large statue just behind the massive gate looked gloomy and forbidding, despite the street lights.
“This damn place”, were Woland’s first words as he stepped out of the car. “Deal with the CCTV immediately and open the gate,” he said to his men.
“How creepy it us,” said Camille, “There was some kind of massacre here, right?”
Woland looked at her with icy eyes and his voice, aloof at first, began describing that event as though it were perfectly ordinary. But the more he talked, the more intense his tone became.
“It was no massacre, my dear, but a perfectly legitimate retaliation. The twenty-third of March 1944, in a street in the centre of Rome, a group of terrorists killed thirty-two soldiers of the SS Police Regiment ’Bozen’ from Wehrmacht with a bomb. It had been announced that, in case of terrorist attacks against the German army in Italy, not less than ten Italian prisoners would be executed for each deceased German soldier. For this reason, Hitler himself ordered the retaliation for the attack in Via Rasella, which was carried out the following day here, in these abandoned mines.”
Camille had goose bumps. It’s true, she had hurt a few people and committed more than one crime, but she had always considered herself a thief, a cheater – she had never been indifferent to death. Woland’s voice was as low and hoarse as usual, but this time it trembled in a different way, as though he were disturbed by something coming from very far away. As though that event, which he considered perfectly legitimate and natural, had taken place right in front of his eyes.
“Master, we’ve finished. The gate is open, all the cameras in the Sacrarium have ben neutralised and we’ve set up our own at the corners of the street. Nobody can pass by without us noticing.”
Woland nodded and then sighed, as though entering that place was hard for him.
“Hide the cars and be alert.”
He entered the Sacrarium. The dim beams of the spotlights made the open space in front of the caves, where the Nazi slaughter had been carried out, look spectral. On the left there was a statue of three men, tied up and about to be executed. On the right there was a large concrete parallelepiped, the mausoleum that had housed the corpses of the victims in 1949 when they had finally been re-interred. Woland seemed to know the place very well.
Camille and another three men followed him in silence. Jürgen Herzog was also with them. They climbed down the few steps that led to the mausoleum and were immediately overcome by an oppressive sensation. What had initially appeared to Camille as a concrete parallelepiped in fact covered the entire area where the 335 sarcophagi, laid out in seven double lines, rested. The whole place seemed like a huge gravestone now, and Camille felt breathless, as though something was crushing her.
Woland walked over to the first line of sarcophagi.
“We need to find the first tomb.”
The message found in Santa Prisca had indeed said: Fosse Ardeatine, first tomb.
“Perhaps it’s one of the ones in the corners,” Camille suggested.
Woland nodded. “No, I think it means the tomb identified as number one. See? Each sarcophagus has a number.”
They started inspecting the tombs with the powerful torches they had brought along, trying to work out the order they had been arranged in.
Woland indicated something on the far side of the multitude of sarcophagi. “Down there. Tomb number one is in that corner.”
They reached the opposite side and found it: it bore no name or photograph, but there was an epitaph.
To all those fallen in battle to defend their Homeland and Freedom from Nazi-fascism.
Woland smirked in contempt. “Ja, ja, mein Bruder, to all of them. Open it, quickly!”
Herzog and the other two men put crowbars under the sides of the cover and after a couple of attempts managed to lift it slightly and move it to one side. They pointed their torches into the tomb and the corner of the mausoleum was immediately filled with flashes of gold.
“Finally!” he said, as his eyes lit upon the chest, which appeared to be made of solid gold. “I’ve been waiting for this moment for so very long!”
With an almost reverent gesture, he gently caressed the shining surface, the decorative spirals on the corners and the effigy in the centre of the front of the chest.
“Quickly, get it out.”
The men attempted to lift up the chest but it was immediately obvious that it was too heavy, so, using the iron bars to tilt it, they slipped some thick cords underneath, lifted it out and set it on the lid.
Camille examined the strange carving on the side of the chest in front of them.
“What is it?”
“A stylised representation of the Baphomet, I would imagine,” Woland answered as he walked around the golden cube. “This is not the original chest that contained the idol. That was abandoned in Berlin in 1945. But I’ll concede that old Aragona and his friends found a worthy enough container to bear it.”
Camille continued to examine the strange inscription for a few moments more.
“They look like alchemic symbols organised so as to form a face.”
“It is irrelevant,” Woland cut her off. “Help me to open it.”
Under Herzog’s orders, Thule’s men began trying to open the lid with their bare hands, and after some effort they succe
eded, since it was not attached but simply set on top. Inside the chest there was the strangest object Camille had ever seen.
It was something that appeared to be a sort of totally golden head – smaller than a human head and with a monstrous appearance, like a fleshless skull or some bizarre humanoid being. The head was attached to a square base, upon which were set two rotating discs, also made of gold, upon which incomprehensible symbols were engraved.
The Baphomet.
“Here it is, Master,” Herzog whispered.
“Good Lord, it’s entirely made of gold! And it’s… disturbing,” Camille said, seeming more nervous than usual.
Woland was completely absorbed.
“Oh, yes! That is exactly how people will see it – as something disturbing. They will have to fear it, be terrified by it. Fear, terror, anguish: these are the weapons Thule will use to rule the world.”
Then Woland lifted his eyes to look at the three men.
“You two leave us and join the others at the entrance. Herzog, you guard the area of the tombs. Camille, come with me – it’s time to perform the ritual.”
As soon as the men were out of the mausoleum, Woland gently lifted the Baphomet out of the chest, placed it on the floor and set nine candles around it.
“One for each member of the Lodge of the Nine, as the ritual requires.”
Camille assisted him, but from the moment she had seen the idol, her conviction had began to waver.
“Woland, why don’t we take it away and perform the ritual somewhere else, in peace?”
Woland lifted his eyes and the diabolic light in them grew more intense.
“Are you afraid, Camille? Do you fear this place? It’s just a cemetery, and we are superior beings, the children of the Thule brotherhood. What could possibly happen to us?”
Everything was proceeding according to plan, but the sight of what appeared to be a grotesque and insignificant three-thousand-year old sculpture had given her an inexplicable feeling, which was clouding her mind.