The omega factor, p.2
The Omega Factor, page 2
“They will not come forward,” a voice said from behind him.
The language was Occitan.
He turned and spied a black-garbed nun who stood alone in the center of the trail. No feature on her face betrayed a shred of fear or anxiety. Odd. He could not decide which was the greater threat—the known antagonists or this out-of-place character.
“What do you mean?” he said, staying with Occitan, then turned his attention back to the Moors.
“They will not come forward,” she said again.
He did not take his eyes off the riotous band.
“There is no danger,” the nun declared, the words calm, like the echo of a voice from heaven.
“They are a mighty danger,” he made clear.
“Not here.”
But he was unconvinced.
So he decided to test the declaration.
He took a few steps forward and raised his arms above his head. He crisscrossed them back and forth and screamed at the horsemen in the language of Aragon, which they would surely understand. “Come forward, you cowards, and do battle.”
They did not accept his offer.
“Are you afraid of a single man, unarmed? Of a nun?”
No response came from their dark, scathed faces.
He lowered his arms.
“By God, you are afraid,” he yelled.
Ordinarily, to challenge a Moor was to invite a fight to the death. Arabs had not held power in the Iberian Peninsula by being weak. Yet these heathens merely turned and trotted their horses away. He wondered if his eyes were deceiving him. So he continued to watch until they disappeared around a bend, and all that remained was dust twisting in the air. He turned back to the nun and wanted to know, “The birds carved to the trees. What are the words in Arabic beneath?”
Somehow he knew this woman could answer the inquiry.
“The devil will have his own.”
“Those are their words?”
The nun nodded. “We adopted it from them. A warning from long ago.”
He stepped close and noticed the chain around her neck and the symbol, in silver, it supported.
A fleur-de-lys.
He’d seen knights, kings, and dukes display them. But a nun? He pointed. “Why do you wear that?”
She beckoned with an outstretched arm.
“Come, and I will show you.”
Present Day
Chapter 1
Ghent, Belgium
Tuesday, May 8
8:40 p.m.
Nick Lee rushed toward the flames and smoke, growing more concerned by the moment. He’d flown to Ghent to see a memory that had haunted him for a long time, the images of her as crisp and vivid as if from yesterday, not nine years ago. They’d come within a week of marriage, but a life together had not been meant to be. Instead, she chose another path, one that had not, and would never, include him. His words at the time had stalled in his throat. Hers were definitive.
I have no choice.
Which seemed the story of his life.
A volatile mixture of good and bad, pleasure and pain. Right place, wrong time? Definitely. Wrong place, right time?
Damn right.
More than he liked to admit, in fact.
He’d started in the army as an MP, then tried for the Magellan Billet at the Justice Department but was not offered a position. Instead the FBI hired him, where he stayed five years. Now he worked for the United Nations Educational, Scientific and Cultural Organization, more commonly known as UNESCO. Part of the UN since the beginning, its mission was to advance peace through education, science, culture, and communication. How? Mostly through initiatives like World Heritage Sites, a global digital library, international literacy days, and a thousand other programs designed to promote, preserve, and sustain human culture.
He was employed by a small appendage within that giant beast. The Cultural Liaison and Investigative Office. CLIO. A play off the Greek goddess Clio, the muse of history. Officially, he was a credentials-carrying UN representative, which definitely opened doors. In reality he was boots on the ground. Trained eyes and ears. A field operative. Sent where needed to deal with artistic and cultural issues that could not be resolved through conference calls, ceremony, or diplomacy.
Sometimes you just have to kick a little ass, one of his bosses had said.
He’d been there right after ISIL plundered Iraqi churches, museums, and libraries. On-site in the Maldives when radicals dynamited Buddhist artifacts. In Timbuktu, after the Battle of Gao, when parts of that ancient city were ravaged by war. His job, first and foremost, was to stop any cultural destruction. But if that wasn’t possible, then he’d deal with the aftermath. He’d come to learn that many so-called cultural purges were simply smoke screens for the hasty acquisition and subsequent sale of precious artifacts. Fanatics weren’t entirely stupid. Their causes needed money. Rare objects could easily be converted to a stream of wealth that was virtually untraceable. No worries about bank accounts being seized or frozen by foreign governments. Just make a deal with reclusive buyers more than willing to supply gold, cryptocurrency, or cash in return for the seemingly unobtainable.
Thankfully, this trip to Belgium did not concern anything threatened, except perhaps his heart. He’d been looking forward to seeing Kelsey again. She was here in Ghent doing what she did best. Art restoration. It had been a mutual love of art that had first drawn them together. Then something wholly unexpected, at least from his point of view, pried them apart. He’d never seen it coming. Should he have?
Hard to say.
Nine years had passed since they last saw each other face-to-face. Their parting had not included any tearful farewells, hugs, handshakes, words of comfort, or encouragement. Not even an argument or anger.
Just an end.
One that had left him stunned.
Their communications since had been through social media. Not much. Electronic comments here and there. Just enough to stay in touch. She had her life and he had his, and never should the two mix. He’d many times wondered if maintaining any contact was a good idea, but he’d done nothing to curtail it. Was he a glutton for punishment? Or maybe he just wanted her in his life, however that might be?
Two weeks ago she’d suggested in a Facebook direct message that he come to Ghent. A first. An invitation to visit. Which made him wonder. Good idea? Bad? But once she’d told him what she was working on, he’d decided, what the hell, why not. Now he was here and the building he’d been sent to, per her texted directions, was on fire.
Was she inside?
He ran faster.
He was a few blocks over from the ancient Cathedral of Saint Bavo on a darkened street amid Ghent’s old town. All of the buildings around him seemed a tribute to Flemish architecture, a gauntlet of brick brownstones with stoops and chimneys. He was not far from the famed Graslei. A stunning ensemble of riverside guild houses spanning centuries and styles. Once part of a medieval port, one of the oldest sections in a town dating to the fifth century, it had been a focal point back when Ghent acted as the center of Flanders’ wheat trade. The district now was a touristic hot spot with a high concentration of café patios. He was hoping to have a late supper with Kelsey at one of them after seeing what she’d promised to show him.
The building ahead, ablaze in smoke and fire, rose three stories to a stepped-gable roof, but all of the destruction seemed localized on the ground floor. People had gathered in the narrow street, watching, but no one was moving to help. He ran up and asked if the fire department had been notified. An older woman said in English that a call had been made. He heard sirens in the distance and decided not to wait for their arrival. Instead, he bolted toward the front door in six quick steps and pushed the heavy wooden slab inward.
Intense heat and smoke poured out.
He grabbed a breath and plunged inside a large studio, metal racks of art equipment and supplies lining the walls. Tables filled the center. All consistent with a workshop, where Kelsey had told him she wanted to meet.
But no fire raged here.
“Kelsey,” he called out.
He heard a noise from the next room and headed toward the open door. There, he saw Kelsey engaged in a struggle with another person. The figure was black-clad, in tight-fitting clothes, the head and face hooded. It was hard to see much through the smoke, the only light coming from a raging conflagration on the other side of the room that was rapidly burning, the flames crackling and curdling like the sound dried wood made in a hearth.
He moved to help, just as the black figure pushed away and landed a kick to Kelsey’s gut that staggered her back. The attacker used the moment to bend down, grab something from the floor, then disappear into the smoke. He blinked away the burn from his pupils and found Kelsey.
He helped her from the floor, gentle with his touch, and they fled the room. “You okay?”
Her eyes were red, watery, and wild. Her gaze changed from rage, to fright, to recognition. “Nick.” She coughed out the smoke from her lungs and nodded fast. “I’m fine. Really. I’m okay.”
The curtain of time parted in his mind. It was like nine years ago again, and that familiar connection clicked. But he forced his thoughts to the present. “We have to get out of here.”
She shook her head. “I have to stop the fire.”
“Help is on the way. They’ll do it. Let’s go.”
She would not budge. “Nick, go after her—”
Her?
Two policemen burst into the room.
“I’m okay,” Kelsey said. “Get my—laptop back.”
One of the uniforms came close to help, and the other wielded a fire extinguisher that he began to use on the flames.
“Please,” she said. “Go.”
Part of him said to stay and make sure she was okay.
But another part knew what Kelsey wanted.
And it wasn’t comfort or protection.
So he hustled off into the smoke.
Chapter 2
Carcassonne, France
9:00 p.m.
Bernat de Foix dropped his napkin on the plate and turned his attention to the young man sitting across from him. They’d just broken a three-day fast. A last tribulation, all part of what they’d both been working toward for over a year. Fitting that it would finally occur here, within this ancient fortified city.
Humans had lived on this mount adjacent to the slow-moving river Aude since the Neolithic Age. It had been the Visigoths who founded the grand walled Cité de Carcassonne as an oppidum on the historic trade routes that once linked the Atlantic Ocean to the Mediterranean Sea. All that former glory, though, was gone. Now it all existed as a mere paraphrase of what had once been. Its hotels, souvenir shops, and cafés were busy year-round accommodating tourists wanting to experience the past. The Hôtel de la Cité was the only five-star establishment within the olden walls. A mix of the neo-Gothic and art deco styles, it stood in a quiet corner beside Saint-Nazaire Basilica. Tonight, he’d specifically avoided all of the popular restaurants scattered across the cité and dined in his suite, requesting that Andre Labelle join him.
“I must tell the hotel chef how much I enjoyed the meal,” he said to the younger man.
And he meant every word.
The stuffed courgette blossom in tomato velouté had been the perfect starter. The local trout, baked with mushrooms and sweetbread, the ideal second course, augmented with some roasted cauliflower in brown butter. Dessert had been particularly exquisite. Crème brûlée with hazelnuts, topped with chocolate sauce and a scoop of caramel ice cream.
A feast fitting for this grand occasion.
“Are you ready?” he asked.
Andre nodded. “I have been for a long time.”
“And you wish to fully accept?”
“I do.”
“You know what that entails?”
“In every way.”
“Your past sins? Have you atoned for them? Are you remorseful? Prepared to lead an exemplary life from this day forward?”
“I am.”
He was pleased. “Then proceed.”
Andre rose from the chair and dutifully knelt on the carpet. “Thou just God of all good souls, thou who art never deceived, who dost never lie or doubt, grant me to know what thou knowest, to love what thou dost love, for I am not of this world, and this world is not of me, and I fear lest I meet death in this realm of an alien evil god.”
The declaration had been delivered in perfect Occitan, the language in which the prayer had first been uttered more than eight hundred years ago. Precious words that drew a stark contrast between the just God of all good souls and the alien evil god of the physical world.
“If God wills it,” Bernat said, “good souls, like yourself, can have knowledge of the world of the Father. Whether we can have knowledge of the other world, in this life, or only in the next, remains to be seen.”
Andre’s head remained bowed, eyes to the floor. Reverent. Respectful.
“Do you wish the consolamentum?” he asked.
“With all that I am,” Andre said.
“Have you properly prepared?”
The head nodded. “I am ready.”
“For every duty that might be required?”
“Every one.”
Andre had begun his journey three years ago as a credente, a mere believer. He had shown both promise and desire, so when he’d requested further training—to test his sense of faith with rigorous examinations—the Elders had been pleased. He’d been allowed to participate in seminary, the maison des hérétiques, where his devotion had been honed and tested. Now, after lengthy fasts, vigils, and prayer, he was ready for the final step.
Only a Perfectus could administer the consolamentum, the laying on of hands, which meant that every new Perfectus stood at the end of a chain linking them all the way back to the apostles and Christ himself. The ceremony marked the transition from credente to one of the elect. Not a cleric or a priest or anything special, merely believers who’d chosen to become teachers, their task to aid other believers in becoming part of the Perfecti, too. Each one lived a solitary life, at the last phase of their worldly existence, practicing self-denial, finally assured that they would never again return to the physical world. Long ago their name had been born as an insult, reflecting how the Holy Roman Church saw them as “perfect heretics.” But they’d kept the label as a badge of honor, out of defiance, signifying an element of completeness in their spiritual lives.
“Shall we keep going?” he asked.
Andre nodded.
It was during the consolamentum that the Holy Spirit inhabited the Perfectus’ corporal body as a symbolic death from the material world and a rebirth in the Spirit. The ceremony was striking in its simplicity. Unlike other religious baptisms no water or anointing oil were required. No towering churches laden with idols, or priests clad in gold-embroidered robes. Only belief and devotion cemented the bond, most times administered in the forest, beside a lake, in the mountains, or before a hearth in the homes of those wanting salvation. Once done, any deviation from the righteous path and you were no longer a Perfectus. The journey to salvation had to be restarted. The consolamentum had to be immaculate, without blemish, that element necessary as a counter to the corrupt priests and bishops that had existed in the thirteenth century and whose profane acts were still allowed to go unpunished. The cursed Catholics had long considered the rite a distorted imitation of their own baptismal ritual. But that was not the case. Instead, the consolamentum dated back to the earliest Christian church, handed down from generation to generation without the interference of priests or popes.
“Pray God to make a good Christian of me, and bring me to a good end,” Andre repeated three times.
He’d been fully apprised on Andre Labelle by those who’d worked with him over the past three years. Thirty-one years old. Possessed of an arrest record. Petty theft. Assault. Disorderly conduct. Once a wild, impulsive man who never admitted a mistake living what some would say was a wanton, reckless life. Thankfully, he’d come to the attention of another Perfectus who’d started him along the right path. Andre had been born not far away to the south, in the Roussillon, where nature loomed larger than life and mystery reigned. An extraordinary place with a rich heritage full of all sorts of legends and tales involving Moors, Charlemagne, and Roland. Andre was reflective of the hearty stock bred there. A slim, muscular youth with dull black, curly hair and a flat nose that projected a tough-guy look. Only the dark eyes betrayed the clouds of pain that still haunted a troubled mind. But every report Bernat had received had noted an exemplary record and a deep dedication to the faith. The road to salvation stretched long and narrow, reserved only for those in full possession of their faculties and enjoying the support of the Elders, which Andre had earned.
Bernat stood from the chair. “Proceed with the melhoramentum.”
An Occitan word meaning “improving,” which began with an acknowledgment that the Holy Spirit dwelled within the Perfectus standing before you. An initiate had to believe that to be the case or none of what was about to happen would matter. Andre stayed kneeling on the carpet and folded his hands, bowing three times. “Bless me, Lord. Pray for me. Lead us to our rightful end.”
He provided the correct response. “In our prayers, I ask from God to make a good Christian out of you and lead you to your rightful end.”
“I will devote myself to God and the Gospel,” Andre said. “I will no longer eat meat, eggs, cheese, or fat apart from oil and fish. I will not swear any oaths and will never forsake the sect out of fear of fire, water, or death.”
“Do you have anything to confess?”
Part of the ceremony was a cleansing of the soul.
“Only that my pride and arrogance can, at times, still get the better of me.”
“We could all say the same thing.”
“But mine must be controlled.”
