The omega factor, p.21
The Omega Factor, page 21
“We are going to meet some people who can answer your questions,” her prioress suddenly said.
“Thank you. For telling me.”
They were headed away from Saint Bavo’s, past a row of local landmarks, strung together like rides at Disneyland. First the Belfort, the ancient bell tower lit to the night. Then the Stadshal, an odd-shaped canopy that stood at nearly the center of town. And finally two churches, the first dedicated to St. Nicholas, the second, across the river, to St. Michael. She’d walked by here many times over the past few weeks, enjoying the sights. One of the things she truly missed from before taking her vows was unlimited human interaction. Living within a convent came with limitations. Some she liked, others not so much. Being on assignment offered her the freedom to interact at will. She’d always been a social animal, unlike Nick who leaned more toward being a loner. That was another thing that had made them great together. Their strengths and weaknesses had complemented the other’s.
“Prioress, I’m sorry for my impertinence,” she felt compelled to say. “But this situation is extraordinary, to say the least.”
Which seemed like an understatement.
“I am telling myself,” the older woman noted, “that this is indeed a difficult situation. For us both. So I am trying hard to ignore your disrespect.”
There were definitely difficult aspects to a religious life. But most were not all that different from the nicks and bumps that came in all walks of life. Marriage. Career. Family. Raising children. All of it was hard. For so long she’d wanted a sign to tell her that if she joined a convent everything would be okay. Life would work itself out and she’d finally be content. But no such divine message ever came. So she’d ignored the voices inside her head and procrastinated for years. It took an impending wedding for God to finally acquire her undivided attention.
She loved the convent and living with the sisters. She missed her family, but they visited at least once a year. Either she flew home to the United States, or they came to Europe. Thanks to her restoration work she’d had the opportunity to meet all types of people and learn from them. She’d been fortunate to be part of some really fascinating projects. It seemed her place to help bring back what had been lost. Which was why the destruction of the twelfth panel had struck her so hard.
She knew several published writers in the art field and the number one question they always heard was, Where do you get your ideas? For a nun there were three equally common topics for questions. The first was superficial. Why do you cover your hair? Or why wear black robes? Why do you have knots in your belt or a cincture at your waist? The second dealt with practicalities, like what do you do all day or how do you support yourself? The third was the most intriguing. Why are there monks and nuns at all? What purpose do they serve? What good do they do? Those were the questions she’d posed to the woman who’d come to see her from the Congregation of Saint-Luke. The woman who provided her with answers that made sense and who eventually brought her to the convent. She was gone now, God rest her soul, having died five years ago. Liver cancer. Kelsey missed her. Especially right now. That woman had never, ever lied to her.
They turned off attraction row and headed down a quiet side street. She’d walked here before too. The route led to the central train station. Ahead she spotted the neoclassical building for the old law courts. It sat directly adjacent to the river, a low wrought-iron fence the only barrier from a small parking lot down to the water. Her prioress led the way toward a vehicle that sat idling near the iron fence.
The doors opened and two women emerged.
Both dressed in jeans and shirts.
They approached.
“It’s good to meet you,” one of the women said. “I’m Sister Ellen. This is Sister Isabel. We are Maidens of Saint-Michael.”
No surprise really. As these women were the only ones with answers.
“What happened to your face?” she asked Ellen.
“An unexpected fall. It looks worse than it is.”
“Sister Kelsey,” her prioress said, “the maidens are here, in Ghent, performing a sacred duty.”
“Did that include the willful destruction of a national treasure?”
“It did,” Isabel said.
She was fascinated. “Why?”
“Sister Deal,” Ellen said. “We would not have done such a grievous thing if it was not vitally important.”
“You’re talking like terrorists.”
“They are anything but,” the prioress interjected.
“Believe me,” Ellen said, “we regretted having to burn that panel. But there were good reasons for it.”
Kelsey shook her head. “A woman died.”
Ellen nodded. “Rachel. She was our friend.”
She saw the pain in both women’s eyes, which eased her anxiety a bit.
“Why not just come to me?” she asked. “Explain the problem.” She pointed at her prioress. “Or go to her, as you’re doing now. Why all the subterfuge?”
“We had no choice,” Isabel said. “None at all.”
She stayed defiant. “I have high-resolution images of that entire panel. Burning it was useless.”
“We are aware of that,” Isabel said. “But your images are no longer an issue.”
“What is?”
“Monsieur Lee.”
That raised red flags inside her. “Is Nick all right?”
He hadn’t called her back since much earlier when she told him about summoning the police. Since then she’d been consumed with her prioress and now with these two. She needed to talk to him.
Now.
“I want my phone back,” she said to the prioress.
“I can’t do that.”
“Then I’m leaving.”
She turned.
Isabel lunged toward her, one arm wrapping her neck, the other bringing a cloth to her face. A sickly-sweet smell invaded her nostrils, reminiscent of cleaning day at the convent or a visit to the hospital.
Her head began to spin.
Isabel kept a firm hold. She tried to resist but her muscles would not react. The world winked in and out.
Then vanished.
Chapter 42
Claire was back in Belgium.
She’d been driven north from the mountains to Toulouse and caught the only nonstop flight from there to Ghent. Normally, maidens shunned air travel, preferring car or train. Less expensive and less noticeable. But there were exceptions to that rule, especially when time was of the essence. Like here, over the past two days.
Nick Lee’s offer to help retrieve Sister Rachel’s body could not be refused. They desperately wanted to return her to the abbey for a burial befitting a maiden, especially one like Joan of Arc herself, who’d made the ultimate sacrifice. She’d been at a loss as to how that could be accomplished without risking even greater exposure, but their new ally had assured her he could make it happen. And, to fix this mess, she’d accept help from wherever it might be offered.
She’d taken a cab from the airport and caught up with Sisters Ellen and Isabel, directing them, on orders from the abbess, to take control of Sister Deal. While that happened, she would connect with Nick Lee. He’d been told to wait for her in the Groentenmarkt which, long ago, had been Ghent’s main vegetable market. A nineteenth-century water pump still filled its center, a high obelisk atop a square pedestal. Bordering the cobbled square were a variety of specialty shops selling things like high-end chocolate, sweet cuberdons, and tangy Tierentyn mustard. She was familiar with Oud Huis Himschoot, the oldest bakery, which produced some wonderful bread.
She’d dressed in pants, a dark blouse, jacket, and comfortable shoes with laces. She’d left the fleur-de-lys necklace off, nothing indicating that she was a maiden other than the tattoo on her left shoulder. The ability to blend in was one of the things that had long aided their effectiveness. But she could not help feeling a little exposed.
The cab dropped her near the square and she walked right over. She’d been texted a picture of Nick Lee found on the internet, so it was easy to find him near the fountain.
“I’m Sister Claire,” she said, introducing herself.
And she took measure of her adversary.
Medium height and build. Brown wavy hair cut in a boyish fringe that definitely made him look younger than mid-thirties, which was most likely his age. Clean-shaven, the face as yet not sheathed with any fine lines from age. And the eyes. A pale gray. Warm. Playful. Engaging. She told herself to be careful. This man was physically attractive, forceful, quick-witted, and surely charismatic, the type who gave just enough of himself to inspire trust, dropping the other person’s guard. She’d tried to learn what she could about him, but the UN and UNESCO websites mentioned little to nothing.
Which made her wonder. “Who exactly do you work for?”
Nick produced a badge from something called the Cultural Liaison and Investigative Office. “We deal in the loss or destruction of cultural treasures for member states. Belgium and France are members.”
“I would imagine you have precious few powers to go along with that badge.”
He grinned. “It gets me by.”
She supposed it did. He was definitely competent and resourceful. After all, he’d gotten the better of her. She’d thought about how to handle this situation on the trip north from Toulouse. Everything was in motion. Fluid. Changing by the minute. Police were involved. A convent violated. Dominicans had arrived. It was only a matter of hours before all of them appeared in southern France. Isabel and Ellen had reported how Lee had helped them with the police and the Dominicans. So she’d decided on conciliation and diplomacy, until a more definitive course became evident.
“You followed me last night?” she asked.
He nodded. “I tailed your accomplice and watched as they shot her, then found a boat and kept close to you.”
“And broke into a convent. That will look good on your résumé.”
“You do what you have to do. Right?”
She smiled. Right.
“Your minions are tight-lipped,” he said to her. “They told me to come here, and you would explain everything.”
“Can you obtain Sister Rachel’s body?”
“That depends.”
“On what?”
“Whether I want to help or not.”
“I have to tell you, Mr. Lee—”
“How about you call me Nick?”
“Going to a first-name basis isn’t going to change things between us.”
“I didn’t realize there was an us.”
She caught herself. There he went again. Drawing her in. Engaging. “Do you use that charm often?”
“All the time.”
She smiled. “All right. Nick. As I was saying, I have little room to negotiate.”
“You destroyed a Belgian national treasure. I’m assuming there was a really good reason for that. At the moment, the police are not on your trail. Only me. We can keep it that way. The Dominicans, though, seem laser-focused on you.”
“They are, but we will deal with them, as we have in the past. You, though, are another matter. I came to listen to what you propose.”
But she wondered how he would react if he knew that Sister Deal was being taken as they spoke. What was their connection? Friends? Family? Who knew? The mother superior had reported that it seemed there was something familiar between them. But asking would only arouse suspicions.
“Rachel was a friend,” she said. “A close friend. How do you plan to retrieve her body?”
“You left her to face those police alone.”
Yes, she had. The reminder of which she did not appreciate. “At the time, securing those images was more important. Rachel knew that. She did her duty. And I had no choice.”
“We all have choices.”
“I wish that were the case. Unfortunately, it’s not here. Of course, no one, Rachel included, thought they would shoot her.”
“Those cops were fired up and hot. That never ends well. Where are you from? I hear Cajun in your voice.”
“Louisiana. Born and raised. But I’ve lived overseas a long time.”
“If I get your friend’s body back, are we going to talk about why all this was necessary?”
“I can’t promise that.”
“At least you’re honest. But I want you to know that, if you can convince me, I’ll help get the heat off you.”
A cautious atmosphere had sprung between them, as if neither believed a word the other said. They were definitely fencing, and she doubted he could deliver on that promise, especially with the Vatican and the Dominicans, which represented the greatest threat. But she wasn’t going to tell him that. “Do what you promised and we’ll talk.”
He grinned. “I get it. And it’s okay. I don’t trust you either. But neither one of us has a choice. We seem stuck with each other.”
True.
For now.
Chapter 43
Mary first appeared in the art of Roman catacomb paintings, though it was hard to know for sure since the images of a woman, cradling a baby, were rough and blurred. By the fourth century after Christ her skin became dark, with heavy features, typical of the Mediterranean region. Usually she was depicted as praying with arms raised to heaven. With the rise of the Byzantine Empire she changed to an august, pale, blue-clad figure, hooded and haloed, their patroness in both war and peace. By the Middle Ages her features were firmly established as European, her skin always a milky white.
Marian worship existed nowhere in the church’s origins or in the teachings of the apostles. There was no Immaculate Conception, Annunciation, or Assumption into heaven. She was not the mother of the faithful, the interceder with Christ. The Gospels themselves never described what she looked like and never mentioned where she lived. No ages were listed. She played no part in Christ’s ministry and no role in establishing Christianity. Yet she became the second Eve, bestowed by popes with divine power though she herself was not divine. Protestants generally rejected Marian devotion. For them, Christianity was all about one person. Sure, there were supporting players, but nothing ranked with the Son of God.
Even more puzzling was what happened to Mary after the crucifixion.
She was not present when Christ’s empty tomb was discovered. Nor was she there at his Ascension into heaven or at Pentecost when the Holy Ghost divinely inspired the apostles. She was never visited by the risen Christ, though he did appear to the disciples and Mary Magdalene. There was but one reference in the Gospels.
John 19:25–27.
Near the cross of Jesus stood his mother, his mother’s sister, Mary the wife of Clopas, and Mary Magdalene. When Jesus saw his mother there, and the disciple whom he loved standing nearby, he said to her, “Woman, here is your son,” and to the disciple, “Here is your mother.” From that time on, this disciple took her into his home.
The disciple whom he loved.
A cryptic reference that appeared two other times in John’s Gospel. That mysterious man was mentioned with the same five words as being at the Last Supper, his head resting on Christ’s chest. Then again when the risen Christ appeared to the disciples on the shores of Lake Galilee. Who was this person? No one knows.
But he supposedly cared for Mary the rest of her life.
Eventually, Ephesus, in Turkey, became the center of her worship. Supposedly the disciple whom he loved took Mary there. By the fifth century a basilica had been erected there in her honor. Centuries later a house was recognized as belonging to her and venerated.
But no mention of her grave appeared.
And though relics of saints flooded churches, other than a garment and a few supposed drops of her milk, nothing of her was ever found.
“You speak strangely of the Blessed Virgin,” Vilamur said to Cardinal Fuentes.
“I speak honestly. Catholicism wanted Mary to be a woman who never sinned. Never did a thing wrong in her life. Birthed children, but was still a virgin. They went to those extremes for good reason. They needed a goddess, and the worship of her proved quite lucrative.”
He realized that everything associated with Mary had been manufactured early on, seizing on the wants and desires of the faithful since the adoration of pagan goddesses had been so prevalent. Christianity was then a male-dominated religion. Mary added a new dimension, one that quickly gained traction. She aided with the recruitment of new followers and opened the purses of the existing faithful. She acquired her own prayer, the Ave Maria, along with a rosary. Eventually, she established an autonomy—not a god, but more than a saint—blessed the term appended to her. She became the voice of heaven and even appeared on earth from time to time. At Guadalupe in Mexico. Czestochowa in Poland. Lourdes and La Salette in France. Fatima in Portugal. Beauraing and Banneux in Belgium. Medjugorje in Bosnia. And many other places, some recognized by the church, most not. Always to the poor or the downtrodden, leaving cryptic messages to decipher. Hundreds of churches, cathedrals, and basilicas around the globe were still, to this day, dedicated to her. A myth that became a reality. One that was never widely debated, or ever challenged.
Just adored.
“Why are you telling me this?” he asked Fuentes.
They still lingered in the square before the basilica, under one of the overhead lamps, the hour approaching 10:00 p.m. Fewer people were now moving about in the darkness, nobody paying them any attention.
“What do you know of the Virgin’s grave?” Fuentes asked.
Quite a bit actually.
Eastern Christianity taught that Mary died a natural death, like any human being. Then her soul was received by Christ and her body resurrected on the third day into heaven. The Roman Church went a step further, teaching that Mary ascended into heaven in full bodily form. But had she died first? That point was never resolved until 1997 when John Paul II decreed that Mary had in fact died before ascending. But how would the pope have known that? Easy. It was all a matter of faith. Aided by the fact that no one knew where Mary’s tomb lay. Some said in Gethsemane, others in the Valley of Jehoshaphat, and still more thought she was laid to rest in Ephesus.
