The omega factor, p.17
The Omega Factor, page 17
In recent years the Catholic Church had apologized for the way it historically treated Jews, the repeated use of violence under the guise of religion, the Inquisition, the disrespect it had shown toward women and minorities, even the rampage of crusaders through Constantinople in 1204. But never had it explicitly stated open and sorrowful regret for the Albigensian Crusade. True, in March 2000 John Paul II issued a general apology for, as he said, all of the faults of the past. But no specific mention of Cathars was included. You would think the systematic extermination of tens of thousands of people, Christians killing Christians, would merit at least one mention.
But not a word.
He could not change those omissions, but he could expose the hypocrisy of both the institution itself and certain members of the Roman Catholic Church.
Starting with the bastard walking toward him.
Ω
Vilamur studied the man waiting for him.
Tall, broad-shouldered, middle-aged, with a thick mane of chestnut hair, dressed in a long-sleeved shirt, jeans, and boots. He stood with both hands behind his back, ramrod-straight, near a stele that commemorated those long-ago victims. Its inscription an open slap to the church: “Als catars, als martirs del pur amor crestian.” Occitan for “To the Cathars, to the martyrs of pure Christian love.” Along with a date. 16 March 1244.
He marched across the grass, the wind whipping in from the north and carrying a chill. He told himself that he was the esteemed metropolitan archbishop of Toulouse, a sacred member of the Roman Catholic Church, entitled to respect. No matter what.
He stopped before the man. “Who are you?”
“You don’t remember me?”
He’d never seen the face before.
“I own an auction house in Toulouse. Have you ever frequented it?”
“Never.”
“That’s a shame. We’ve sold some beautiful items.”
“Your name?”
“Bernat de Foix.”
“Am I supposed to know you?”
“You knew my mother. Rene Bellamy.”
A name he’d not heard in a long time. One he hoped to never hear again. Now he remembered. “You’re the little boy that day, in the rectory, when your mother came to see me?”
“I am. All grown up. I no longer carry the Bellamy surname. I had it legally changed to de Foix, out of respect to my mother and her family. That was her maiden name.”
He could not care less.
“Are you proud, Father? And I don’t mean that in the religious way.”
“I told your mother then, and I tell you now, I am not your father.”
“She’s dead.”
A part of him was glad. But he knew what to say. “I am sorry to hear that.”
De Foix chuckled. “I seriously doubt that. Just one less witness to your sins.”
“I am not your father,” he said again.
De Foix reached into his pocket and removed a glass vial. “Prove it with a simple DNA test. If it comes back that you are not, I will give you Tallard’s recorded confession and our business will be concluded. But, if it’s positive, then you and I will have much to discuss.”
“And how will I know the results you share are legitimate?”
De Foix produced another vial. “Two tests. One by me, the other by you to a lab of your choosing. I want there to be no mistake.”
“Do I have a choice?”
De Foix shook his head. “None at all.”
“What do you really want?” he asked.
“What every son wants. For his father to know he exists.”
He doubted that. This man had gone to a lot of trouble to make this connection. And not out of any love or curiosity. “Did you kill Tallard?”
“I did not. That would be contrary to my religion.”
He was shocked. “You are Cathar?”
“I am a Perfectus.”
He shook his head. Idiots. Perfecti prostrated themselves before falsity and swore to no carnal intercourse, lies, or oaths. To them, having children was abhorrent. The extinction of the human race seemed their ultimate goal. They believed in reincarnation, living one life after another until they supposedly got it right. They called themselves Good Christians. Pure Ones.
What a joke.
But he wanted to know, “Why did you mention les Vautours?”
“To get your attention. And it seemed to have worked.”
Not much of an answer, but he cautioned himself to not be too inquisitive and become trapped in his own lies, which would only make things worse. So he diverted things from himself. “You’re a fool.”
De Foix smiled. “I may be, but I am the fool who has you precisely where I want you.”
That was true.
But now he knew his enemy.
Chapter 34
Kelsey opened the apartment door and invited her prioress inside. She’d chosen here for their talk as the safest and most private place. Home turf. Where she controlled the surroundings. What they were about to discuss could not be seen or overheard by others. Before today she and the prioress had enjoyed a cordial, friendly relationship that had stayed at arm’s length. Never had she doubted the older woman’s wisdom, leadership, or loyalty. There’d been a great element of trust.
Which had now been shattered.
They sat in the den and faced each other.
“I understand your anger,” the prioress said. “But I had no choice.”
“Why did you not just tell me? And ask?”
“I do not have to explain myself.”
Her spine stiffened. “You can’t be serious. That panel was in my care. Entrusted to me. A restorer’s number one duty is to not harm what he or she is working on. Mine was destroyed. I was attacked. You were part of that. I think you definitely need to explain yourself.”
The prioress kept silent and Kelsey allowed her a moment.
“After your call, I made one myself,” the older woman said. “I have received permission to relay some confidential information to you. Hopefully, it will provide the explanation you need.”
The two women waited in the dark.
They’d entered Saint Bavo’s through the front door seven hours earlier, one of many who’d visited the church on April 10, 1934. They’d walked the nave, studied the elaborate rococo pulpit, then wandered through the chancel and its eight chapels. They’d lingered before Rubens’ magnificent Saint Bavo Enters the Convent at Ghent, which the great master called the most beautiful work he’d ever produced. Admired the organ, the choir, the high altar, and the statues of Peter and Paul. Toward the cathedral’s closing time they descended to the crypt, the largest in Flanders, lined with exquisite frescoes. Their tour had been not only to admire the majestic interior but also to discover the best place to hide.
They found a perfect spot and waited until midnight had passed before venturing back up to the nave. All of the maintenance personnel were gone. The coin boxes empty and hidden away beneath the votive candles. The doors were locked, the lights dimmed. The two women were dressed in black, their heads and faces covered with hoods for no one to see. The last thing they needed was to be recognized. The idea was to accomplish their task and leave quickly.
They walked through the nave to the Joos Vijd Chapel, named for the fifteenth-century first alderman of Ghent who, along with his wife, endowed the creation of the famed altarpiece. A padlock sealed its doors, but they’d brought tools and easily freed the lock. Everything about this seemed easy. No security. No guards. Not even barriers to keep visitors from actually touching the painting.
They entered the chapel.
The altarpiece stood about a meter off the ground, closed, its side panels folded inward shielding the main panel depicting the Lamb of God. A cloth draped over it aided with dust control.
Everything had been planned for weeks. Every detail accounted for.
One of the women removed the dust cover and opened the two side wings, which squealed on their hinges. The object of their visit hung at the bottom left of the open altarpiece. It had been carefully studied thanks to photographs taken by other women who’d visited the chapel, with the rest of the public, in recent weeks. Fifty years earlier, when some of the panels were on display in Berlin, they had been sewn through and cradled so that all of the painted surfaces could be shown simultaneously. Repairs had occurred, which made it easy for them to free the hinges and separate the two sides of the panel. There was no need to take the frame itself, so both paintings were pried loose, slightly damaging the olden frames but otherwise not affecting the other images.
They were not here to destroy.
Only to protect.
Both women wore gloves and were slow and methodical in their efforts. The idea was to leave not a shred of evidence that could be used to locate the thieves. Once free, they slid the two panels into burlap sacks, then reclosed the two wings of the altarpiece and re-draped the dust cloth. With the twelfth panel gone a portion of the main panel was now visible. Usually, that could only be seen when the wings were swung open. They each crossed themselves and muttered a quick prayer. Then they left a handwritten note, one designed to misdirect the authorities. Taken from Germany by the Treaty of Versailles. The idea being that this was some sort of act of revenge for the indignities suffered by Germany at the end of World War I.
Then they left the chapel.
“Those two women,” the prioress said, “were Maidens of Saint-Michael, pledged to a sacred duty.”
She was shocked. “Nuns stole the Just Judges?”
The older woman nodded. “That is correct. But something unexpected happened afterward.”
She listened as the prioress explained how the two maidens left the cathedral through a side door. No way had existed to relock it, so their exit route would be easy to determine. Once outside they each cradled one of the large sacks and headed off in separate directions. The late hour helped. Few people were out in the cool night. Though by differing routes, their destination was the same. The convent of the maidens on the city’s north side.
“They had planned it all so carefully,” the prioress said. “Intentionally, they took the front and back of the twelfth panel so as not to draw attention to one side over the other. Unfortunately, once away from the cathedral, the two maidens were attacked and robbed of their panels. Neither was ever seen again. The maidens had received help in planning the theft from people they thought allies. Those men had other plans. They took both panels, then engaged in months of negotiations with the authorities, trying to garner a ransom. At one point, they even returned the panel of St. John the Baptist, as a supposed show of good faith.”
Kelsey knew the story.
No ransom was ever paid. Police zeroed in on a Belgian, Arsène Goedertier, who claimed on his deathbed that he had stolen Just Judges. But his admission was met with skepticism. He had no real motive, no need for money as he was well off, and he lacked the physical capability to have even executed the theft. Then Goedertier died suddenly in late 1934.
“Copies of the twelve ransom letters were found in Goedertier’s home,” the prioress said. “The maidens investigated everything thoroughly, but they were never able to locate their lost sisters, find the Just Judges, or identify any of Goedertier’s accomplices.”
“Why did they steal it in the first place?”
“It contains a secret.”
“About what?”
“To know that you will have to speak to others.”
She was puzzled. “Who?”
“Sister Deal, since our formation, the Congregation of Saint-Luke has maintained a close relationship with the Maidens of Saint-Michael. Our prioress has always come from them. I am but one of a long line to make the transition. Until now, that relationship has been private. But what’s happened here over the past few days has changed things significantly. The abbess of the maidens has been in contact with me. It is why I am here. I now know that the laptop you gave me contained no images. You and your acquaintance Nicholas Lee were clever in tricking me. But what you recorded on those images is threatening something that the maidens have guarded for nearly two thousand years.”
Chapter 35
Nick ranked what he was about to do at the top of his you-gotta-be-kidding list. He’d first deceived, then made a deal with a group of nuns who were doing who-knew-what. The one indisputable fact was that the Just Judges had been burned to a cinder by the same nuns he’d successfully worked into a corner. It had taken them nearly an hour to call back and arrange for a meeting. But call they did, choosing home ground at the convent. Which was fine by him, since he held all of the cards.
A cab dropped him outside the iron gates.
The day had turned warm, the late-afternoon sun beginning its final act toward the west. He’d made a lot of progress in one day. Far more than the police. Hopefully Inspector Zeekers would keep chasing shadows and stay out of the way. He’d stopped by his hotel and deposited Kelsey’s laptop in his room. He hadn’t called her back, preferring to let that stew a little while longer until he could figure out how best to handle her. She should be fine in her apartment. Time now to see just what in the world was going on.
He stepped through the gate, walked toward the convent’s front entrance, and knocked on the heavy oak slab. The door was answered not by one of the nuns, but by a tall man with piercing violet eyes and strong, lean features. The older woman from last night, the one who’d said she was in charge, stood off to the side beside another man. This one shorter, more rotund, with florid jowls hanging to each side of thick lips. The two men were dressed in differing trousers, shirt, and shoes, with jackets, but each sported a chain around his neck from which a cross hung.
Which had to be significant.
“You must be Nicholas Lee,” the tall man who answered the door said.
He caught the concerned look on the older nun’s face.
“And you are?” he asked.
“Friar Robert Dwight.”
He pointed at the other guy. “And him?”
“My associate, Friar Paul Rice.”
His gaze shot to the nun, asking with his eyes if she was all right. The older woman nodded. Not a hint of fear filled her eyes. Instead, she seemed on alert, watching, listening.
“I understand that you’ve come to speak with the maidens,” Dwight said. “Instead, you will now speak to me.”
“And what will we be talking about?”
“The electronic images of the Just Judges that, I’m told, you possess.”
“And what’s your interest?”
“If you please, I’ll be the one asking the questions.”
He wasn’t sure about the arrogance but decided to let it pass. For the moment. He needed to find out what was going on, as these men’s appearance had clearly been unexpected.
“Where is the laptop computer these women say you stole back from them last night?”
Now he understood. The good maidens were playing a shell game of pass the laptop. Smart. Which raised a question.
“Where are the others?” he asked the mother superior.
“They are not your concern,” Dwight said.
“If you want those images, they’re my concern. That’s non-negotiable. And, by the way”—he pointed at the cross around the guy’s neck—“what are you?”
“Domini canes,” the older woman spit out, contempt in her voice.
“Forgive her,” Dwight said. “She uses an old Latin pun, a nickname we were sometimes referred to. The master’s dogs. The Hounds of the Lord. Which by the way, we take as a badge of honor.”
“And who is we?”
“I am of the Dominicans,” Dwight said. “The insult the mother superior hurled, her reference to hounds, draws on the story that Saint Dominic’s mother, while pregnant with him, had a vision of a black-and-white dog with a torch in its mouth. Supposedly, wherever the dog went, it set fire to the earth. That vision was fulfilled when Dominic, and his followers, went forth, clad in black and white, setting fire to the earth with the Gospel. A hound is loyal, and we Dominicans have a reputation as obedient servants of the faith.”
“And the cross around your neck?”
“Our symbol. Revealed here,” Dwight said, “so the maidens understand that we are not a fraud.”
He’d already underestimated one religious group, and he wasn’t about to make the same mistake twice. So he calmly asked, “Where are the other maidens?”
Dwight motioned toward the corridor leading out of the foyer.
He headed in that direction, assuming that the others were in the hall he’d spotted during his first visit. Some sort of dining room and gathering spot. He entered and saw more of the older women, two he recognized from the hotel along with the two younger ones. All of them wore the same gray smocks and veils. Another man, with a cross around his neck too, watched over them.
“Satisfied?” Dwight asked him. “What did you think? They were in some sort of danger? I am a friar of the church, not a thug.”
“That’s open to debate,” one of the younger maidens said, the one with the bruised face.
Dwight pointed a finger her way. “You should watch your words.”
Actually, Nick thought, you should watch yours. That woman can hurt you.
“What are you doing here?” he asked Dwight.
“I’ve been sent to conduct an investigation.”
Now he was intrigued. “By who?”
“The Vatican,” the mother superior quickly said.
And he saw the concerned faces of the other maidens. This was apparently not a good thing.
“That’s correct,” Dwight said. “My mission is one of long standing. Perhaps, finally, we may know the truth, the life. Veritas Vita.”
“Is that supposed to mean something?” he asked.
“To you? No. But to these maidens. Absolutely.”
Something major was happening here.
And bad.
“These women say you know where the laptop computer they managed to steal last night is located,” Dwight said. “One of their own was killed by the police in the process.”
