The omega factor, p.18
The Omega Factor, page 18
This guy had some good intel. The question was, how much did he really know?
Nick tried to recall what he could about Dominicans from his grade-school exposure, as a Protestant, to Catholicism. Founded in the early thirteenth century by a Spanish priest named Félix de Guzmán, who came to be known as Brother Dominic. The order preached the Gospel, opposed heresy, and served as teachers at the forefront of medieval intellectual life. Some called them black friars because of the black cloak they wore over white habits. Also, they’d once sported a distinctive hairstyle. A tonsure. The scalp shaved smooth to a perfect bald cap. In books and movies they were always the scary ones in the dark robes who did all sorts of sinister things.
But that was fiction. Right?
Dwight reached into his pocket and found a cell phone. He tapped the screen then displayed it to him. On it he saw an image he recognized.
“That was taken from the left shoulder of the dead woman from last night,” Dwight said.
“And how did you gain access to the body?” he asked.
“The church has many friends in Ghent,” one of the friars said with an annoying grin.
“Do you know its significance?” Dwight asked.
“Not a clue.”
“Perhaps I should be asking that question to the maidens here in the room.” Dwight held the image up and displayed it to them. “Do you recognize this?”
No one spoke.
“I wouldn’t think you’d admit to a thing,” Dwight said. Then he motioned and the two other friars grabbed the younger maiden with the bruised face, the one who’d insulted Dwight. Nick and the other maidens moved to help, but Dwight displayed a gun, aimed straight at them.
They froze.
“Is that standard issue at the monastery?” he asked Dwight.
“It is today. Now, all of you, step away.”
No one moved.
And he brought the gun level to make his point clearer, cocking the hammer back into place.
“Do as he says,” Nick urged the women, and they collectively retreated.
But Nick held his ground.
“You too,” Dwight said.
“What are you doing with her?” he asked.
“Finding out the truth.”
Dwight kept the gun aimed and stepped toward the younger maiden. He grabbed her smock, pulling it back across her left shoulder, ripping buttons away and exposing the skin and bra strap. The other maidens gasped at the violation. But there, tattooed, like on the dead woman from last night, was a vulture.
A smile creased Dwight’s thin lips. “Les Vautours.”
His French was terrible. “You’re going to have to translate that.”
“The Vultures,” Dwight said. “These women are les Vautours.”
“And that is?”
“A thorn in the side of the church. But now we know they have existed, out in the open, right in front of everyone, as the Maidens of Saint-Michael. Finally, we have shed their disguise and located them. And that’s all thanks to you, Mr. Lee. You caused quite a disruption in their operation last night.”
Dwight motioned with the gun and the two other men released their hold on the maiden, who quickly covered the tear in the smock with her right hand.
“You will regret what you just did,” the mother superior said.
Dwight chuckled. “You’re an old woman. No threat to anyone.”
“I’m not old,” the younger maiden who’d been assaulted added.
“This is a lot of intimidation,” he said to Dwight.
“Necessary, under the circumstances. These Vultures have been a problem for a long time. And you? They willfully destroyed a great work of art last night. Is it not your job to protect the world’s treasures? Now, what about that laptop computer.”
“Not going to happen.”
He hoped his obstinance bought some brownie points with the maidens.
Dwight, though, only shrugged. “I don’t really need those images any longer. I now know exactly where I have to go, and that’s what I came to find out.”
The friar motioned and his two cohorts headed from the room.
Dwight backed out, gun still pointed. “Please. Stay here until we are gone.”
Nick’s gaze scanned the room. Nothing from any of the women betrayed even the slightest emotion. They watched calmly as the Dominicans left.
One of the younger women stepped forward. A brunette, with an olive complexion. “Mr. Lee, I am Sister Isabel. My colleague, the one who was just violated, is Sister Ellen. We appreciate what you did.”
“You’re going to have to tell me what’s going on. A woman died last night and a great work of art was intentionally destroyed. That piece of crap that just left here was right. It is my job to look after cultural treasures. What did he mean about knowing exactly where to go?”
The mother superior stepped forward and told the two younger women, “Make the call. Now.”
Sisters Isabel and Ellen fled the room.
He faced the older woman. “Are you going to talk to me?”
She nodded. “I am. And you are correct. Nothing about this is good.”
Chapter 36
Vilamur entered the rectory.
On the drive back to Toulouse from Montségur he’d processed everything. Why this? Why now? Just when everything was falling into place. After all the years that had passed, Bernat de Foix appears? Do not be deceived. God is not mocked, for whatever one sows, that will he also reap. Galatians 6:7. Quite apt. And Cathars. Back? Existing? How was that possible?
He’d meant what he’d told de Foix. Cathars were pedantic fools, who regarded the Holy Roman Church, much the same as everything else, as evil, allied to the wrong god. Like there were two different gods? Really? Polytheism had been gone for a long time.
But so had Cathars.
The idiots rejected the entire material world, considered having children offensive, and regarded the church as satanic. For them, anyone who attached great value to things was, at best, mistaken, and, at worst, a disciple of the devil. Sadly, the church of the thirteenth century had certainly provided more than enough support for that conclusion. Popes, cardinals, bishops, and priests of that time all lived in great luxury. They said one thing and did another, elevating hypocrisy into an art form. Even worse, the church had openly encouraged the worship of material objects such as relics and venerated the cross. And for good reason. Both were revenue producers. Cathars liked to quote Matthew. Watch out for the false prophets who come to you in the guise of lambs, when within lurk voracious wolves. Only their fruit will tell them apart.
Hence the label the Cathars created for papists.
The Church of Wolves.
And there was much truth to those assertions.
Just like there was to him being Bernat de Foix’s biological father.
He’d known Rene. A beautiful woman with curly auburn hair and a bosom he’d greatly admired. She’d been one of his parishioners in Pau over forty years ago. He’d served that parish a long time and there’d been many women. Ten? Twenty? Hard to say. All of them had been married since, after all, those were the safest to pursue. Something about the white collar attracted them. Not a one had ever been forced to do a thing contrary to their desires. All grown adults. Nearly all with children. And when it came time to end things, they all ended easily.
Except for Rene.
She’d birthed a child.
And kept that to herself for ten years.
Amazing.
When the worldwide revelations of clergy sexual abuse were first exposed he’d worried that something from his past might resurface. But nothing had. Whatever happened was long over and none of the women involved wanted any attention brought to it.
He’d chosen them carefully.
Rene had seemed the perfect example.
She’d worked at a local department store. A devout Catholic, active in the church, who regularly took confession. That was where he’d learned about the unhappiness in her marriage. A simple matter from there to lure her into his bed, her vulnerability easy to exploit. Their relationship had been a long one, more so than the others. They’d both seemed to enjoy it and, for a while, he’d devoted himself solely to her. But the inevitable end came and he moved on. She’d taken it fine, just like all of the others, and never created a problem. But what were they going to say? None really wanted to leave their husbands. They just wanted a diversion, the attention, the pleasure, for however long it might last. Then Rene had come back.
With a ten-year old son.
He and Bernat de Foix had swapped saliva samples, each depositing damp swabs into their respective glass vials. But he had no need for a DNA test. He knew then and now.
That man was his son.
“What do you want from me?” he’d asked de Foix, before leaving.
“A great deal, Archbishop. A great, great deal.”
None of that had sounded promising.
He assumed de Foix would run the DNA test, not quite as sure about parentage as he wanted him to believe. That should buy a day, maybe two.
Then what?
“You have a visitor,” the housekeeper said, interrupting his thoughts.
He stood in the rectory’s foyer.
The older woman had been with him a long time and they got along reasonably well. He’d always made a point to never alienate, abuse, or sleep with his staff. They were vital to an orderly progression of things. Parishioners came and went. Diocese employees stayed around a long time.
“Who is it?”
She told him.
And he headed straight for his office.
Hector Cardinal Fuentes rose from the chair as he entered the room. “Archbishop Vilamur, it is a pleasure to meet you.”
“Eminence, I thought you said you would be here tomorrow.”
“The opportunity presented itself to come immediately, so I took it.”
No way that fortuitous occurrence was going to be good for him.
Fuentes was a husky man with bearish shoulders, a thick chest, and meaty arms. He had a broad nose and a heavy shelf of thick eyebrows under close-cropped auburn hair. Well groomed, the face, the eyes, the creases in the skin all conveyed a perpetually intense look, which, he assumed, fit this man’s mood more often than not. Cardinals by and large were an aloof group. There were only 221 on the planet, 128 of them below the age of eighty and eligible to elect a pope. Fuentes appeared to be one of the younger ones. Mid- to late sixties, possibly. The question for the moment, though, was what was he doing here? And what did he want?
They both sat in chairs, facing each other.
Fuentes, like himself, was dressed casually in trousers, shirt, and jacket. No ring. No cross. Not a thing that identified him as a prince in the Holy Roman Church. Which also raised warning flags.
“You look like you’ve been hiking,” Fuentes said.
“I had to travel to the south to see about things. I decided a walk in the mountains would be good.”
“Was it?”
“Delightful.”
“I love the outdoors. Unfortunately, I don’t get to enjoy it much anymore.”
He decided to get to the point. “What brings you here? And why all the interest in what happened to Father Tallard?”
“Let me be clear. I care nothing for that deviant priest. You were correct. Whoever killed him did the world a favor. But that video confession is something that interests me, along with Cathars and les Vautours. Two subjects I have long been fascinated with.”
He now knew that all of the information anonymously sent to him had come from Bernat de Foix, who apparently was incredibly well informed about something important enough to stir the Vatican.
“Will you be explaining why you have such an interest in those two subjects?” he asked, keeping his voice controlled. “Or will I be working in the dark?”
Fuentes grinned and motioned with his hands. “That is precisely why I am here. But first, Archbishop, is it possible to have some dinner. It is nearly 6:00 p.m., and I have neglected to eat since this morning.”
He’d spent his entire clerical life dealing with people. Some priests focused entirely on their parishioners, ignoring ambition, intent only on human relations. Others were more aloof, keeping their distance, directing their attention toward the politics of religion rather than its substance. He liked to navigate a middle-of-the-road approach, interested in parishioners but always conscious of the lay of the land around him. Always looking for the next fork in the road. Which explained his rise from priest, to monsignor, to archbishop, to metropolitan archbishop, to, he hoped, cardinal.
Be careful, he told himself. Be really, really careful. He’d drawn Rome’s interest, and the man sitting before him had the pope’s ear. A word from him could make or break. Something here, in Toulouse, had grabbed Fuentes’s attention. So he could be either a help or a hindrance. And he’d learned long ago that hindrances ended up with nothing.
“I’m sure the cook is preparing my dinner as we speak,” he said. “I will make sure there is plenty for two.”
“That is most kind of you. But perhaps we could go out to eat. I would so like to see Toulouse again. It has been a long time since I visited.”
Okay. Plan B. “I will make us a reservation.”
“I will also need a place to stay.”
He knew the correct response. “I have five bedrooms. Pick whichever one you desire.”
“Again. Most kind.”
Like he had a choice.
Fuentes pointed a stubby finger. “I was told by those who know that you are a good man to have on your side. The pope himself is aware of you. But let me make something clear. Your cooperation here will have a direct bearing on whether you remain in good favor.”
As if he did not already know that.
“Be assured, Cardinal Fuentes, you will have my undivided attention.”
Chapter 37
Nick and the mother superior retreated to a small office not far from the dining hall. There, behind a closed door, the older woman faced him.
“There are many, many religious organizations,” she said. “Each has its own purpose. Its own meaning. They cover everything and anything. The one common denominator, though, is an unwavering devotion to the particular duty, or duties, they select.”
“And what is the duty of the Maidens of Saint-Michael?”
“To serve the poor and help the disadvantaged. Along with another, more sacred responsibility.” She paused. “To protect a secret.”
“Are you les Vautours?”
She nodded.
“Why are the Dominicans focused on you?”
“The Vatican has been seeking us for a long time. But we’ve managed to evade them at every turn, which was no small feat. Our luck, though, has finally run out.”
“Do you have a vulture on your left shoulder too?”
“I led the maidens for fifteen years,” she said. “I did my best, as have all of the other women who came before and after. I know the current abbess would vehemently disagree, but I’m trusting you. You seem like a decent person. I was told about what you did at the hotel, helping with the escape. With the Dominicans at our door, I have no choice, Mr. Lee. We need your help. Please don’t make me regret this.”
“How about you answer my question.”
“I have a vulture on my shoulder. As do all of the maidens. It is placed there after taking an oath. It reminds us of our duty.”
“Which is?”
“To guard the truth.”
He could see that she meant every word. This was no fanatic. Or dreamer. Whatever was involved seemed deep-set, reverent.
“Trusting outsiders has proven a problem for us in the past. That’s why we deal with things ourselves, in our own way. The truth we protect is not something the Vatican supports. Quite the contrary. Many popes have preferred that it go away, which has placed us at odds with Rome for centuries. But this is the first time that they have ever been able to positively identify us.”
He understood. “Because of me? And what happened last night?”
She nodded. “It was an unprecedented breach of our security. You heard Friar Dwight. He knows where to go now. He doesn’t need those images you guard. They are irrelevant now. The path straight to us has been brightly illuminated.”
“Where will they go?”
“To our motherhouse, in southern France. They came here first. To be sure. Now they are.”
“It would help if you’d stop talking in riddles and tell me the situation.”
He could see the older woman was conflicted. A part of her seemed to want to talk, while another part, one trained and hewn from years of experience, cautioned silence.
Finally, she said, “Do you know much about Jan van Eyck?”
“Only that he created the Ghent Altarpiece, finishing what his brother started.”
“He did just that. But he also went a step further.”
In late spring of 1428 Jan van Eyck found himself along the border with Spain and the Languedoc. He’d been sent south from Burgundy by his patron, Philip the Good, on a reconnaissance mission to map mountain passes. Philip was then in a state of civil war against the French dauphin, blaming Charles for the murder of his father, John the Fearless. Charles saw Philip’s Burgundian state as a serious impediment to the expansion of French royal authority. Finally, in 1420, Philip formally allied himself with Henry V of England against Charles. In 1423, the marriage of Philip’s sister Anne to the Duke of Bedford, regent for Henry VI, further strengthened the English alliance.
During all of those conflicts van Eyck engaged in covert missions for Philip, using the guise of an artist to make detailed observations. He was nearly the perfect spy and Philip had been thrilled with the results. So much so that in 1428 he dispatched van Eyck to the south and the cursed Languedoc, a place that had been a thorn in the French monarchy’s side for a long time. Philip planned to sow further discontent for Charles by stirring up the south. Van Eyck completed his mission but was discovered by Moors and chased over the border into the Pyrénées, where he happened upon a mountain convent. Women the Moors would not defy. Women who bore a strange name.
