The omega factor, p.11
The Omega Factor, page 11
They made three traditional vows.
One of stability with a commitment to live where God called. A second to obedience, agreeing to listen to God and to live under the authority of an abbess, with mutual obedience to others in the community. Then a final one for a conversion, turning one’s whole life to God, striving to become more Christ-like. As expected, included within all of that were pledges to chastity and poverty.
He scrolled down further and read how the Blessed Virgin Mary played an important role in the spirituality of the order. Then something caught his attention. The fleur-de-lys is special to the maidens as a symbol of their devotion to the Virgin Mary and all that she held dear. It resembles both the iris and the lily, two flowers long associated with the Mother of God. The lily is a symbol of virginity and purity. A species of white daylily only blooms during the time of the Assumption, in mid-August. The iris, or Sword Lily, is an emblem of Our Lady’s Seven Sorrows.
Which explained why the dead woman was wearing one around her neck.
He read on and learned that the search for God through a life of prayer was the maidens’ primary activity, but principles of education and gentility remained at the heart of the order. They operated a school in a nearby town, along with hosting retreats and catechesis. Other activities, according to the website, included raising animals, gardening, and making altar breads for sale to churches. He wondered where martial arts training and paramilitary operations figured into their overall mission.
Especially the willful destruction of cultural icons.
He had a ton of questions.
With no answers.
He kept scrolling around the site and learned that the Abbaye de Saint-Michael, the maidens’ motherhouse, located in the high Pyrénées, was open to visitors and thousands came yearly for a guided tour. There were even guesthouses where people could stay, sharing in the peace and prayer, enjoying a break from the business of everyday life.
Really now?
Only the one sister he’d taken down, and the mother superior, had seen his face.
Should he test the odds with a visit?
Why not.
Seemed like the right play.
Chapter 20
Abbaye de Saint-Michael
Pyrénées Region, France
9:45 a.m.
Claire faced the abbess and explained everything that happened in Ghent. The older woman stood still, a slight crease in her spine, both hands behind her back, the dark eyes focused like lasers.
“The information we had,” she said, “indicated that the workshop closed around 5:30. Which is what happened. We waited three hours before proceeding. Nothing indicated that Sister Deal would return. She had not the previous two nights. Somehow attention was drawn to Rachel and she was pursued. She threw the laptop down to me and stayed to face her pursuers. We have to return and help her.”
“Rachel is dead,” the abbess said.
Claire closed her eyes just as they began to tear. No. This can’t be.
“The police shot her.”
Anger grabbed her. “You were warned.”
“That I was. By you. Of which I do not require a reminder.”
She bit her tongue and stayed quiet.
“We have to look at the larger picture,” the abbess said. “Determining Rachel’s identity will be difficult, but not impossible for the police. Of course, their searching our convent in Ghent provides quite the arrow pointed straight to here. Do you have any idea how that man located you?”
She shook her head. “I slipped away in the boat and quietly made it back to the convent. I was unaware of being followed.”
“But followed you were.”
The words bit into her. On purpose.
“You blame me for Rachel’s death,” the older woman said. “But you have exposed us all. The man who followed you is an investigator from the United Nations named Nicholas Lee. Thankfully, your prompt action in sanitizing the convent and leaving helped when the police returned to search the premises. There was nothing to find. It was Lee’s word against ours.”
But she still felt the barb. Sharp. Deep.
The abbess was not noted for niceties. She was a small, sparrow-sized woman, brutally honest, a no-nonsense Italian who’d led the order for the past fifteen years. Practical and pragmatic, attuned to the slightest change in moods. Up until a few weeks ago they’d never had a cross word, which explained Claire’s rise to Vestal, only one step removed from the abbess herself, essentially the second in overall command. But all that changed when the Just Judges reappeared. The abbess had one course. Claire another. But she’d pushed her objections aside and done her duty.
With unthinkable results.
“Your failures could be devastating,” the older woman said. “For us all.”
“There would have been no failures if we had simply left things alone.” And she meant it. Then, she wanted to know, “Is there confirmation that the panel was destroyed?”
“The press reported that it was a total loss. But curiously they continue to speak only of it being a copy. Not a mention of the original that lay beneath. But that could change at any moment. I am told that the press conference that was coming in a week or so will most likely be moved up. Sister Deal’s electronic images still exist for the world to see. Which could be worse than the original, in their detail. So the problem has not changed. Only now there is a spotlight shining right on us.”
They stood in the abbess’ office, located in the abbey’s extreme northern wing, which afforded them privacy. A magnificent view of the adjoining peaks was provided through the open windows, a straight drop down outside about a hundred yards to a river gorge below.
She’d fled Ghent, correctly surmising that the police would come to the convent. If not during the night, surely by morning. Prior to leaving, all vestiges of their presence had been removed, including the boat she’d used and a dinghy that had been found tied to the dock. The two remaining sisters, Isabel and Ellen, had stayed on, finding rooms in a downtown hotel, ready to act once their course was set.
“The convent was searched?” Claire asked.
“Just the room you occupied. Signore Lee led them straight there. Sister Deal was also present and accused the mother superior of being a liar. Which, of course, she was.”
The abbess was right. Her failures had placed everyone in a tough situation.
“All of this must be addressed with the collective,” the abbess said.
Claire agreed.
She trusted the maidens as they trusted her. Each leaned on the other in good times and bad. Her own personal journey to here had started out of a sense of loss. Her mother and father had both died within an hour of each other, after fifty-four years of marriage. They’d been inseparable in life and so it would be in death. As their only child she’d buried them near the bayou and tried to understand why they’d been taken. By then she’d been a teacher for several years, and it wasn’t six months later that Sister Anne appeared at Christ the King Catholic Church. She’d never really considered joining a convent. But the more she thought about the idea, the more a religious life had appealed to her. Of course, at that time she had no thoughts of what was to come.
She was not just a nun.
She was les Vautours.
The abbess’ eyes began to soften. The scolding might be over. For all her rigidity this woman, flush with life, was also known for compassion. She presided over the maidens like a queen bee, but always with politeness and etiquette. Today’s anger was unusual. The maidens had unanimously chosen her as their leader in one vote after another. All abbesses had to stand for selection every two years, and could be removed anytime from the position by a unanimous vote. Who led the order was just as important as the maidens themselves. That person made all tactical decisions, judging any threatening situation, assessing the risks, and dispatching eyes and ears to deal with problems. Good judgment was essential. Recklessness could be fatal. The collective depended on a responsible, mature, competent woman to lead them. There’d been bad choices in the past, but those were rectified by a swift removal. The current abbess was known for her competence. But her time was coming to an end.
She knew it. And the sisters did too.
“I am sorry,” she said to her superior. “For my mistakes.”
“As am I, in not listening more closely to you and the others.”
She heard the pain in the voice.
The older woman pointed a finger. “But contrary to what you may think, the Vatican is attentive. They are out there. Watching. Waiting for us to make a mistake. And we just accommodated them.”
She had to say again, as she had weeks ago, “We don’t know they are watching.”
“Don’t be a fool, Claire. They are most definitely watching. Our only salvation has been they did not know where to look. We have remained hidden in plain sight for a long, long time. But you may have just solved that problem for them.”
“May I have the opportunity to fix things?”
“How would you do that?”
“I would first retrieve Sister Rachel’s body. She is entitled to a proper burial, here, among us. It could also help chill the trail.”
“And that laptop?”
“I would also obtain it. Or, at a minimum, destroy its memory.”
“Both would now be difficult feats, considering the situation.”
The abbess’ eyes maintained a steady, noncommittal gaze. Claire fought for control over her voice as she said, “But not impossible.”
The older woman appraised her with a stern gaze. “I will address Sister Deal and the laptop through other, more manageable, means. Ones I was hesitant to use at first, but which now are imperative. As to Rachel, I will not make that decision. We will place it before the collective.”
She bowed her head. “Yes, abbess.”
“If the maidens so desire, your next efforts must be totally successful, without any error.”
“I understand.”
“For your sake, and ours, Claire, I hope you do.”
Chapter 21
Ghent, Belgium
10:00 a.m.
Nick sat in Kelsey’s apartment as her fingers skipped across the keyboard and she called up the images she’d methodically scanned onto its hard drive. He’d walked over, with her computer, from his hotel immediately after talking with his boss.
The Just Judges appeared on the screen.
The oak panel was about sixty inches tall by twenty inches wide. A gradually withdrawing landscape showed a group of people on horseback making their way toward the New Jerusalem, depicted in all its glory on the main center panel, where they all would worship the Lamb of God. Expert consensus was that the ten people depicted in the Just Judges were administrators and politicians from Jan van Eyck’s time. But with the original gone there’d been no way of confirming that until now.
“The Ghent Altarpiece is twenty-four pieces that fit together front and back, akin to a double-sided jigsaw puzzle,” Kelsey said. “It’s a fairly simple construction. What’s difficult is piecing together the iconography in each panel. How they go together. What they mean in relation to the others. Nothing here was painted haphazardly. There’s a purpose to every single thing depicted. Experts have wrestled with what those purposes and meanings are for six centuries.”
“I’ve read a few articles,” he noted. “There’s a lot of speculation and debate about the whole thing.”
“To say the least. The Just Judges is probably the most complex, message-wise, of the twelve. Each of the ten riders most likely expressed a particular story. We know van Eyck worked from a plan. What that was, though, has been impossible to determine. It’s truly in-the-eye-of-the-beholder. What we do know is that the altarpiece is loaded with hidden detail and symbolism. In its entirety, when opened, it’s a mystical poem of the Eucharist and the sacrifices of the Lamb, all occurring with Christians, the church, and the world adoring. Eleven of the panels have been totally mapped and minutely studied. Let me show you an example.”
She tapped the screen and called up the image of a seated bearded man holding a scepter in one hand, his right fingers outstretched and pointed skyward. He occupied the top spot above the center panel in a clear place of prominence.
“Many think this is God the Father, overseeing the story of salvation,” she said. “But he wears a papal tiara, there are no wounds in his hands, and he’s wearing shoes, which usually doesn’t connote Christ.”
He saw the contradictions. “More of that mysticism?”
“Probably. It’s a magnificent image. But let me show you the genius of van Eyck.”
She tapped the keyboard and zeroed in on the cylindrical glass scepter that the figure held in his left hand. The detail on the enlarged image was amazing. Nick could see creases in the skin, cracks in the fingernails, the crisp folds in the cloth. Like a magnified photograph instead of paint with brushes.
“If all that is only revealed at high resolution,” he said, “how did van Eyck paint it in the fifteenth century?”
“He was a trained miniaturist, skilled in the technique. Look at the scepter.”
He focused on the translucent image.
With paint, van Eyck had created a reflective surface where light entered the transparent medium, then a portion bounced back through a long white line on the right side of the staff, creating a reflection in the pigment. Even the skin from the fingers was visible on its back side, looking through the staff. Incredible. He had to keep telling himself that this was not a photo.
“Jan van Eyck elevated the use of oil paint to a whole new level,” she said. “The entire altarpiece is filled with this type of minute detail. Only now, after a thorough cleaning, and with the use of digital technology have we been able to reveal it all.”
“And you’re sure what you found was the original Just Judges?”
“There’s no question. I had the original.”
“So why would someone burn it?”
“I’ve been thinking about that all night. There’s no definitive answer. But there are legends.”
Now he was intrigued.
“The Ghent Altarpiece, like the Mona Lisa and some of the other great works of art, has always been surrounded by riddles. Outwardly, and in its simplest form, it’s an ecclesiastical polyptych, a retable, an architectural feature set up at the back of an altar. Religious art. But, like I said, the notion of an abstract or a timeless painting was regarded as absurd in the fifteenth century. Art in that time period included messages, however subtle they might be. And many people have read a lot into this particular polyptych.”
He listened as she explained how some found unmistakable references to the crusades, the Knights Templar, Teutonic Knights, even supposed incantations attributed to a variety of pagan origins.
“But it’s all nonsense,” she said. “Look at this.”
And she clicked on the Knights panel depicted on the website, the one directly adjacent to the Just Judges. Nine horsemen in battle gear, three wearing crowns, were riding toward the center panel and the adoration. She zeroed in on the lead horseman, wearing silver armor and sporting a shield with a cross of blood. At the current resolution the cross on the shield appeared solid red. But as she magnified the image, letters began to form in the red paint.
ds fortis adonay sabaot v. emel el i.h.s. xr. agla.
“Some observers add ominu to the ds to form dominus, and manu to the emel to make emmanuel. But that’s taking liberties with the inscription.”
“What does it mean?”
She shrugged. “It’s an odd mixture of Latin, Hebrew, Greek, and Coptic and is barely understandable. I read somewhere that it could be some sort of Middle Ages magical formula that was inscribed on weapons to make them stronger. Supposedly, it was written by the hand of God on a parchment found when Jesus was taken down from the cross.” She smiled. “See what I mean? People have read many things into van Eyck’s work.”
She told him about more wild theories. References to the Holy Grail. The Golden Fleece. Alchemy. And the philosopher’s stone.
“Supposedly, van Eyck was passing on these secrets to later aspirants through hidden messages in the work.”
She looked lovely sitting at the kitchen table. Electric, alive, and beautiful, her voice soft but strong. She wore her order’s dark-green smock with white trim and a high collar. No coif or veil shielded her red hair. She’d offered him coffee, but he’d eaten breakfast at his hotel. He was more interested in sizing up the playing field. He only had two days to work this and was determined to help in any way he could.
“There’s something in the images you made that other people either want, or want kept secret,” he said to her. “Something that woman died for.”
“Were you there?”
He nodded. “I saw it all.”
Her eyes warmed. “I know how bad that must have been.”
“I would have preferred not to have seen that. But I did.”
She gripped his wrist. He smiled and let her know that he appreciated the gesture.
She withdrew her hand. “All those other crazy theories aside, let me say that it would not be shocking if we discovered that a true secret did lurk somewhere in the altarpiece. A learned theologian advised Jan van Eyck. Most likely, Olivier de Langhe, the prior of the Ghent church at the time. Even more important, this was the only work of Jan van Eyck’s intended for public display. All of his other paintings were private commissions. So van Eyck knew a lot of people would see the altarpiece. The only question seems to be, what’s there that required the Just Judges to be destroyed?”
