The omega factor, p.12
The Omega Factor, page 12
A phone chimed.
Not his. Kelsey’s.
She reached for the unit and answered, listening for a few moments, then saying, “Yes, ma’am. I’ll be there.” She ended the call. “That was my prioress. She’s here, in Ghent, and wants to see me.”
He was intrigued. “When and where?”
“One p.m., at Saint Bavo’s. She wants me to bring my laptop.”
That pricked his interest. “Did she say why?”
Kelsey shook her head.
“Your convent is how far away?”
“Three hours by train.”
“And your prioress came all that way?” His statement was rhetorical, but the answer was easy. “You said only three people knew what you found and that you’d recorded those images.”
She nodded.
He’d originally thought his next move was to head to southern France. Not anymore. The next move might have just come to him.
“The curator wants me to email the images file to him,” she said.
“I assume Monsieur de Foix will be privy to those images too?”
She nodded. “Of course.”
That eliminated two of the three suspects.
“Any idea why your prioress is so interested in those images?”
She said nothing.
But he could see the questions forming in her mind.
“Don’t email the images,” he said. “Not yet. First, if you’ll allow me, I have an idea that may give us the answer about your prioress.”
Chapter 22
Archbishop Vilamur had to force himself through the rededication ceremony, saying the right words, smiling at the right time, careful with the cameras, which had been numerous.
But the video he’d been sent kept replaying through his mind.
Father Tallard was a problem, one that he’d tried several times to either ignore or suppress. He’d only been a monsignor when Tallard committed his crimes, another man then in charge. But that archbishop was dead and the problem of Father Tallard remained alive. Nobody would care that he’d inherited the issue. He was the current archbishop. His job was to safeguard the church and its members. He’d removed Tallard from any and all parishioner duties and ordered that he stay out of sight. But he’d not taken the man’s collar. Even after formal charges had been brought, he’d opted instead to allow the criminal process to play out. That course, along with every other decision he’d made relative to Tallard, had been approved by the Vatican and all had remained relatively quiet the past three years. Sure, there’d been news accounts here and there. Victims raging about the lack of justice. But none of that lasted long. Thankfully, the public had become somewhat anesthetized to clerical sexual abuse claims. One more seemed not to matter much. But now this. A recorded confession? While tied to a table?
That was an entirely different matter.
Sensationalism?
Sure. But that’s what people loved.
Other than Tallard, his diocese had been relatively free of abuse allegations. Not a single substantiated case had arisen during his tenure, which he liked to remind Rome about. His public comments had always been focused on zero tolerance, along with a respect for secular authority to charge, try, and sentence abusers. So far, Tallard had vehemently denied all of the allegations. The church had quietly arranged for him to have competent counsel, but everything was now in doubt. To this point Tallard had smartly remained silent. Clearly, the video had been obtained by coercion. But by who? Victims? Zealots? And why send it to him with the rather cryptic For your excellency’s eyes only. You, of course, will not find it enlightening. But others will.
Really?
Was the statement about enlightenment meant to convey that Tallard had already privately confessed his sins? Vilamur had heard Tallard’s confession himself, every word protected under French law as confidential. Only two people knew that had happened. Had Tallard confessed that too? An admission not recorded? One that others would learn?
He had to know.
So he’d changed back into his black suit and collar and left the church right after the ceremony ended, driving away from Toulouse. He’d called his office and instructed that his appointments into midafternoon be canceled, manufacturing a story that one of the bishops needed to speak with him. The drive from Toulouse to Béziers was about two hundred kilometers, four-laned highway most of the way.
It took him only two hours to make the journey.
The house north of town had been obtained by Tallard’s lawyer as the perfect out-of-the-way locale where nobody would pay the disgraced priest any attention. The farmhouse sat amid the dense local forest, with few neighbors. Tallard had been told to not venture out except to buy food, which should be done from different stores each time. No patterns. No routine. No consistency where the press or a victim might recognize him. He’d also been told to grow a beard and mustache to further complicate things. So far all of the deceptions had worked. Not a word had appeared about Tallard in the media or on the internet. Everything possible had been done behind the scenes with the authorities to delay the trial for as long as possible. It had not helped that the French government recently pledged to toughen laws on child rape. That move came after a massive online movement saw hundreds of victims share accounts about sexual abuse within their families. A draft bill had already started being debated in Parliament. Thankfully, that was months or years away from becoming law, if ever, and the local prosecutor was a friend, with a cooperative personality.
He found the farmhouse and parked out front.
He’d never thought a trip here necessary. He’d been kept informed of Tallard’s case covertly, along with a report on all activities—which, to this day, had been minimal.
The day was warm and sunny. Before leaving the car he removed his white collar. Better not to announce his profession so openly. He stepped out and approached the front door and noticed it ajar.
He stopped.
This was foolish. He should not be here. But it had to be done. He was the only one who could make this inquiry. Especially considering that someone else apparently knew all about this problem.
He stepped to the door and knocked.
No reply.
“Louis,” he called out. “Louis.”
He pushed the door inward, which squeaked on its hinges. He stared into the small unlit den, everything all awry, as if from a struggle.
Then he saw Tallard.
Bound to the kitchen table, the body limp, head dangling down from one edge, the mouth and eyes wide open, the tongue protruding.
He stepped inside and approached the table.
Tallard was dead.
Which solved a whole host of problems.
And he would be thrilled by the fact except for what lay atop the body.
Two crosses. Made of wood. Both painted yellow.
The color brought context to the message.
When the Inquisition came to southern France to eradicate Catharism, repentant first offenders were ordered to forever wear a yellow cross on their clothes, called las debanadora, which meant in Occitan “reels” or “winding machines.” The term came from the Cathars comparing the cross to a reel and line, by which the wearer could be hauled in at any time for a second offense.
And that meant the death penalty.
Its presence here, eight hundred years after the fact, lying atop a Catholic corpse, was meant as a signal.
The other yellow cross, lying beside it, completed the message.
Many mistakenly called it the Cathar cross. The image was for sale in every tourist shop across the Languedoc as a supposed Cathar souvenir. But it had nothing to do with the Cathars. It was the Cross of Occitan. The heraldic design was first used in the coat of arms of the counts of Forcalquier, in the twelfth century, and by the counts of Toulouse on thirteenth-century coins and seals. It later spread to other provinces. Such a cross, upon a blood-red background, still made up the flag of modern-day Occitania. It was also found in the emblems of Midi-Pyrénées, Languedoc-Roussillon, and Hautes-Alpes, as well as in countless cemeteries and at country crossroads.
Old and new.
Atop the body of a sexual deviant. A priest of the Roman Catholic Church. He closed his eyes.
Dear God.
What was happening?
Chapter 23
Carcassonne
Bernat’s phone signaled an incoming call from Andre. He’d stationed the young man outside Father Tallard’s farmhouse, among the trees, to wait and watch.
“He came,” Andre told him when he answered. “Then left in a hurry, with the two crosses.”
Perfect. Exactly what he wanted to happen.
“Were you able to record him?”
“I have a full video and pictures. His presence is well documented. He removed his collar before entering.”
“Little good that will do him.”
He prided himself on being quite knowledgeable about Cathar history and philosophy. But there was one other subject he’d become an expert on too. Gerard Vilamur. He’d studied that prelate for a long time and knew, without question, that once the archbishop saw that video he’d go straight to Tallard. He’d have no choice. That was why he’d so carefully phrased the text that accompanied it, and edited out the last part where Tallard admitted that Vilamur knew it all.
That, he would save for the next message.
The idea right now had been to draw the archbishop to the scene and create more incriminating evidence.
“Send me the video,” he told Andre. “Then head back here.”
He ended the call.
Things were on track with Vilamur.
And also in Ghent.
No one, other than Sister Deal, himself, and the curator, had laid eyes on the original Just Judges since 1934. Of the twelve panels for the Ghent Altarpiece only one had been stolen, then its back side returned, so only the Just Judges itself would be gone.
Why?
Investigators had pondered that mystery for a long time.
As had he.
What later generations would call the Hundred Years’ War raged from 1337 to 1453. It pitted the English, along with some rebellious French allies, against the remaining French nobles in a struggle not only for territory but over who should be the rightful king of France. Over the course of 116 years, five generations of kings from two rival dynasties fought incessantly for the throne of the largest kingdom in western Europe. By 1429 it had devolved into a battle over whether Henry VI of England or the French dauphin, Charles, would assume that throne.
And the English were winning.
Then something wholly unexpected happened.
The appearance of seventeen-year-old Joan of Arc at the siege of Orléans sparked a revival of French spirit, and the tide began to turn against the English. They had laid siege to Orléans in 1428 but had been unable to take the city. In 1429 Joan persuaded Charles to send her to Orléans, saying she had received visions from God telling her to drive out the English. Her religious fervor raised the morale of the troops, and they attacked, lifting the siege. Inspired by Joan, the French claimed several more English strongholds along the river Loire. Those victories opened the way for the dauphin to march to Reims for his coronation as Charles VII, which happened on July 16, 1429.
Ultimately, the war affected alliances throughout France. Some nobles remained loyal to Charles, while others aligned with the English. The most powerful to take the English side was Philip, Duke of Burgundy and Count of Flanders, Artois, and Franche-Comté. Philip fervently believed that Charles had been involved with the murder of his father, John the Fearless. So he waged a civil war on Charles, which eventually entangled itself in the larger Hundred Years’ conflict. In 1420 Philip formally allied himself with Henry V of England against Charles.
On May 23, 1430, Philip’s Burgundian troops captured Joan of Arc and sold her to the English, who orchestrated a heresy trial against her conducted by pro-Burgundian clerics that ended in her execution. The Hundred Years’ War continued for twenty-two years after her death. Eventually, Philip switched sides and joined with Charles VII, helping the French to finally banish the English from the continent. That move cemented his control over Burgundy and elevated him to the status of kingmaker.
Philip’s reign as duke was a long and enlightened one. So much so that he acquired the label of the Good. He eventually presided over an extended period of peace, which encouraged a flourishing of thought dominated by knightly chivalry. Though poverty remained rife, burghers grew wealthy from increased commerce and developed a highly genteel lifestyle. Philip himself maintained no fixed capital and moved between his two richest territories, Burgundy and Flanders, and his various palaces, the main ones being in Brussels, Bruges, and Lille. His court was regarded as the most splendid in Europe, a leader in taste and fashion, which catapulted Flemish goods into the most sought-after commodities in Europe.
During his forty-eight-year reign Philip added six hundred illuminated manuscripts to the ducal collection. He commissioned tapestries, jewelry, paintings, and other works of art. The Burgundian school of composers and singers rose to prominence. He was a serious patron of artists and only the best of the best worked for him.
One artist in particular always had his favor.
Jan van Eyck.
Bernat had studied van Eyck.
Born in Belgium sometime between 1380 and 1390. No one knew which year for sure. By 1422 he worked at The Hague as a master painter, then in 1425 he became Philip the Good’s court painter and confidant. So close were they that Philip became godfather to one of van Eyck’s sons. He also undertook a number of confidential spy missions abroad on Philip’s behalf for both diplomatic and intelligence purposes, and the Duke of Burgundy came to rely upon him.
Only about twenty works have ever been definitively attributed to van Eyck, all signed with his Als ich kan, As I can, which he added in Greek characters. He painted both secular and religious subjects as well as commissioned portraits. Philip paid him well and allowed him the artistic freedom to create whatever and whenever he pleased. All of his works emphasized naturalism and realism, creating a new level of virtuosity in the use of oil paint, the Ghent Altarpiece his crowning achievement. History labeled van Eyck a Renaissance man a hundred years before there was such a thing, and he lived a full life, dying in 1441. Now the resurrected Just Judges, existing only as images on a computer screen, was set to reappear before the world.
And he’d be a part of that.
But first he had to twist the knife he’d inserted into Gerard Vilamur—
One more time.
Chapter 24
Ghent
1:00 p.m.
Kelsey entered Saint Bavo’s Cathedral, Ghent’s largest and most monumental house of worship. A rugged, hulking structure. A blend of French and Gothic, its portrait gallery, bishop’s seat, mausoleums, side chapels, and tombs all reflective of its special role as an episcopal church. Ten centuries of precious art was displayed inside.
She marveled at its interior with single aisles and short transepts, striking for its simple dignity and high arches. A vertical grandeur unfolded in massive columns that stood on high plinths, as if reaching for heaven. The many sandstone ribs in the complex vaults stretched in stark contrast with the unadorned brick walls. Across the nave she admired the elegant black-and-white high choir near an opulent rococo pulpit, curiously topped with a golden serpent. The church seemed welcoming without trying too hard. Touristy, but not overly so. It had been a cathedral since the sixteenth century and had borne witness to a multitude of historic events. Most notable it served as home to The Adoration of the Mystic Lamb. The altarpiece occupied a former baptismal chamber, displayed in all its glory by special lighting behind bulletproof glass.
She entered the chamber.
The majesty of the restored panels immediately caught her eye. The colors so vibrant, so alive, as if just painted a few days ago. Her prioress waited, admiring the altarpiece. About half a dozen other people were inside too. An attendant stood off to the side and kept watch. Photography was strictly forbidden, and security cameras watched everything. The older woman greeted her with a smile. They both wore the green smocks and veil of Saint-Luke.
“Are you truly okay?” the prioress asked.
She nodded. “I took a kick to the chest. But I’ll survive.”
“I was so concerned when I received the call, for your safety. I’m relieved to know that you were not harmed.”
Kelsey carried the laptop, which she’d been instructed to bring. “We were able to retrieve this, though. Thankfully, my images survived.”
The others drifted out, the attendant following, and they were left before the altarpiece alone. Eleven panels stood open under the indirect light. The space for the twelfth marked by a placard that read “Being restored will return soon” in several different languages. But it wouldn’t return.
Not ever.
“Kelsey,” the prioress said, “I came here today first and foremost to make sure you were safe. I am grateful to God that is the case.”
She appreciated the concern, which seemed genuine.
“You are a lovely woman and a most talented restorer. Our convent is honored to have you.”
“Why do I hear a but in there?” She could see that the older woman was conflicted. “What is it?”
“Before I came to the Congregation of Saint-Luke, I served for many years with the Maidens of Saint-Michael.”
She connected the dots. “They have a convent here, in Ghent.”
The prioress nodded. “They do. It’s a retirement home. The motherhouse is in southern France. I served there for nearly ten years. I then moved to our order, a promotion of sorts, for my many years of loyal service.”
The chapel remained empty and they stood off to one side of the display. It was hard for her eyes not to focus on the magnificent painting, her mind drifting back to the conversation earlier with Nick. What she’d told him was true. Works of art like this were not produced solely for beauty. They were more like ancient billboards, serving God and church, educating and edifying. Designed to strengthen Christian ideals through majestic images, and to send subtle messages, the fabulous aesthetics more a means than an end.
