The omega factor, p.25
The Omega Factor, page 25
Obviously, something was up.
He listened as Friar Dwight explained about what had happened in Ghent, Belgium. A lost work of art had been found, then burned. The Just Judges. Part of the famed Ghent Altarpiece. Stolen in the 1930s, but recently rediscovered during a restoration. The Maidens of Saint-Michael had burned it. They were, in actuality, les Vautours.
Really?
He was familiar with the maidens. Headquartered to the south, in the mountains, near the Spanish border. He’d visited their motherhouse several times. Knew the current abbess. Nothing exceptional about her or them. One of many convents located within his archdiocese, each a quiet, innocent place.
“You’re saying that the Maidens of Saint-Michael actively attacked and burned a panel of the Ghent Altarpiece. And that these nuns are the Vultures?”
Fuentes nodded. “That is exactly what he’s saying. Regrettably, one of their own was killed in the process, but that has allowed us to finally locate them. And, most fortuitous, here they are, right in your archdiocese.”
He did not know what to say.
“They also have acquired some assistance from the United Nations,” Dwight said. “A man named Nicholas Lee, who is actively involved with them.”
“Let me see what I can do to end his involvement,” Fuentes said. “We have a presence at the UN.”
He wondered why he’d been woken and included in this conversation. Fuentes could have easily done this without him. But he recalled what the cardinal had said earlier about what would happen once the Vultures were identified.
“Do you still plan to silence them?” he asked.
“I do,” Fuentes said. “And immediately. I’ll supervise the incursion.”
Incursion? “Are you planning a war?”
Fuentes’s eyes zeroed in. “I’m planning on dealing with a group that has shown nothing but disrespect to Rome for centuries. I’m planning on teaching them a lesson, one they will never forget.”
He could see that the Spaniard was serious. Still, he wondered, “Why am I involved?”
“Because,” Fuentes said, “you could prove helpful in dealing with the maidens. They are subject to your temporal authority. Also, we must deal with Bernat de Foix. It seems that your blackmailer was also involved with the Just Judges.” The cardinal pointed to Dwight. “Explain it to him.”
“De Foix funded the restoration of the Just Judges reproduction. To his good fortune, the restorer discovered the hidden original beneath that overpaint. We have to wonder if that was coincidental or intentional.”
He was wondering the same thing.
“Also,” Dwight said, “the restorer created electronic images of the original panel.”
“Which are now irrelevant,” Fuentes added. “Prior to yesterday they were invaluable. But now we know where to find les Vautours so it doesn’t matter if they are revealed and studied by others. But de Foix? He’s a separate issue altogether. On several levels. One we must deal with tonight.”
“What do you mean deal with?” he asked.
“We’ve gathered as much information as we could, in the short time we had to prepare,” Friar Rice said. “But we know a lot more about de Foix than we did a few hours ago. Him being involved with the discovery made in Ghent, funding the restoration, could be significant. It might be connected to what is happening here with you, Archbishop.”
“And he might know nothing at all,” Vilamur said, a touch of irritation in his voice. “He might just hate my guts.”
Fuentes shrugged. “Quite true. It’s hard to know for sure. But he did specifically mention les Vautours to you, which is a rather obscure subject, so it’s not that far-fetched to think he could know more. He is definitely schooled in your personal problem with him.”
“Our problem, Eminence,” he said.
Fuentes nodded. “Quite right. Our problem.”
“And they are also here to deal with that?” he asked, pointing at the two friars.
Dominicans. In Toulouse. Ironic, since this was where the order began. Its founder, Félix de Guzmán, had dedicated himself, and his followers, to the reconversion of the Cathars. The friars played an integral role in the Albigensian Crusade, effectively leading the attack. In 1206, Dominic founded a convent near Toulouse. Then, eight years later, he added another order for men. Vilamur had studied that time period. A lot of irony existed then. Some historians had even postulated that the Dominicans were a blatant attempt by the church to copy Catharism. Friars traveled around the Languedoc in pairs, like Perfecti, dressing simply in sandals and plain habits, avoiding the ostentation of other churchmen and preaching poverty. They spoke in the local language in order to be understood, a practice the Cathars began. Even now, Dominicans still wore black robes, almost identical to the habit of the Perfecti. Celibacy itself might have been hurried into dogma in the twelfth century as a reaction to the Cathars’ aversion to sex.
Like with here, far too many things to be coincidental.
“Within the Dominicans,” Fuentes said, “there are specialized cells, friars who are trained and devoted to a particular expertise. These two are part of the Ad Designandum Hastam. The Point of the Spear. For centuries that cell has been called upon to deal with problems in ways that may seem…unconventional for the church. But the desired results cannot always be accomplished solely by talk or prayer. There are times when more definitive measures must be taken.”
Good to know. And also disconcerting.
“Please, wait outside,” Fuentes said, and the two friars left the study. The cardinal faced him. “Archbishop, our pope is dying.”
Had he heard right? That couldn’t be. “He was only elected a short while ago.”
“He has a tumor in his brain that will kill him within the coming months. Only a handful of people know this. Now you are one of them.”
He was shocked. “Why me?”
“Because I intend to be the next pope.”
Now he understood. “And you have the advantage of being able to get ready for the next conclave.”
“Exactly. I have many friends, but I will need more within the College of Cardinals in order to be elected. Friends of unquestioned loyalty.”
“And ones upon whom you know a great secret.”
“Precisely. Trust can be so fleeting. But, as you said, this is our problem. And I intend to solve it. I also have to know that whoever I choose to bring within my confidence will participate in the conclave with great zeal.”
He knew the right answer. “That would be me.”
Fuentes smiled. “I thought as much. Which explains why we are here, in the middle of the night, speaking to each other. I will deal with Bernat de Foix. Together we will deal with les Vautours. And, after that, you shall become a cardinal.”
“And perhaps also garner a worthy appointment to the Curia, once you are pope?”
Fuentes never flinched at his greed. “I would expect no less for you.”
Message sent. And received. The extortion ran both ways.
“I did not ask before,” Fuentes said, “but I will now. Do you still have Father Tallard’s video that was sent to you?”
He shook his head. “Deleted.”
“All right. We will need to also retrieve it from de Foix. Friar Rice is an expert with computers. Get dressed, Archbishop. We are going to face your demon. Then we will face mine.”
Chapter 51
Claire kept driving, like a robot, her mind numb, her body reacting automatically to the road and traffic. She was well out of Belgium, now into northeastern France, headed south at a good pace. Hopefully, there’d be no more police. It was important that she return to the motherhouse with Sister Rachel’s body. She’d stopped a few hours back for gas and a bathroom, shielding the body bag with a lot of the clothes and other stuff that littered the back seat. She’d have to stop again along the way, but thankfully the black body bag was fairly innocuous among the litter. Still, she’d have to be careful. Ellen had called and confirmed that Sister Deal was in their custody and had agreed to cooperate. So she’d given the okay to provide her a laptop so the images could be compared.
They needed that expertise.
To be sure. To know if the old stories were indeed true.
If and when they dealt with the current threat, depending on the outcome, those images could present a more lasting problem. But first things first. She checked her watch: 2:25 a.m. She reached for her cell phone and tapped the screen at the top of her favorites. The call connected and the abbess answered almost immediately.
“I should be there a little past noontime,” she reported. “It was not exactly what I envisioned, but Lee got the job done. Hopefully, he’ll give up and move on.”
The plan all along had been to use Lee to the point where he was no longer needed. Then ditch him. Which she’d done.
“What does not exactly what I envisioned mean?”
“The police were involved, but we eluded them.”
“Are you sure? Were you identified?”
“I don’t know.”
Silence filled the phone.
“It’s so easy for you,” she said. “There. Safe in the abbey. Judging. It’s really different out here.”
“I worked the field for many years, without any problems.”
“But did you have any challenges?”
More silence.
“I didn’t think so,” she said. “Look, I realize the Dominicans have changed everything. But I’m just a schoolteacher from Louisiana who answered the call in her head, and now finds herself at the epicenter of a storm that has raged for centuries. I’m doing the best I can.”
“But you keep falling short. Focus on the task,” the prioress said. “We can debate all this later.”
And the call ended.
Damn that woman was obstinate.
She was hungry and made a note to stop at the first opportunity that food was available. The car needed more gas too. A road sign indicated that Reims was twenty kilometers ahead. She’d purposefully avoided any roads through or around the snarl and blare of Paris, staying east in the French countryside, her intended route moving from Reims to Dijon to Lyon to Montpellier, then Perpignan and west into the mountains. Four-laned autoroute nearly the whole way. Another sign indicated that a service area was coming up soon. Unlike back in the States, none of the commercial establishments were off the exits. Instead, they were built between the four lanes where drivers from either direction could make use of the gas pumps, food, bathrooms, and rest areas. They came at regular intervals and she’d make a stop at the next one parking the car off to the side, away from any bright lights. At this late hour there should not be too many people around. It seemed that everything she’d devoted the better part of her adult life to would come down to the next day or so.
“You will not have died in vain,” she said to Rachel in the back seat.
And she meant it.
Women had been living in the abbey atop Mount Canigou for over a thousand years. Each was the successor to other women who’d assumed a duty starting around AD 50. Those first few had buried the Blessed Virgin in a place only they knew, and then assumed stewardship over the tomb, passing their guardianship down from mother to daughter. They’d survived countless wars, the Albigensian Crusade, the French Revolution, and repeated attempts by Rome to discover their presence. Eventually, they evolved into a religious order, which made their task much easier, and for over a thousand years the maidens had performed admirably.
Only a tiny portion of those who attempted to join were allowed to stay. The most dedicated and determined, she’d been told. Women who freely swore allegiance to God and the Virgin. Every single person who’d done that was recorded in the Books of Honor. Volume after volume that noted the date of final vows and date of death. Rachel’s entry would now be amended to add her date of death, then she would be afforded her final rites, as had been extended to maidens all the way back to Joan of Arc and before. Claire had presided over many such solemn occasions. But all of those maidens had died from natural causes.
This was different.
She muttered out loud three Hail Marys and asked for strength.
Catechism declared that through that prayer a person rendered to God the highest praise and most gracious thanks, because He bestowed all His heavenly gifts on the most holy Virgin. Never be afraid to earnestly implore Her help and assistance as She is most desirous to assist. As a Christian, a practicing Catholic, and a daughter of Christ she believed that to be true.
But as a maiden—
Sworn by oath as a Vautour.
She had her doubts.
Chapter 52
Bernat was dragged from the car, his hands bound behind his back, his mouth taped shut. Two men had burst into his bedroom, roused him from a sound sleep, then forcibly removed him from his house. In the past, living outside of Toulouse amid the woods had been a blessing. He enjoyed the solitude. But now that refuge had turned into a liability, as there was no one around to see what was happening. He’d never alarmed the house or equipped it with cameras either.
There’d never seemed a need.
After all, it was nothing but physical objects that carried only a minimal amount of value. Eventually, he would shed himself of them all.
The best he could determine they were an hour to an hour and a half south of Toulouse, in the Pyrénées foothills. Darkness enveloped everything in thick shadows, the black sky overhead teeming with stars. His captors were two men, one tall, the other short and stout. They’d not said a word on the trip from his house, nor could he speak thanks to the gag. He was still in a state of shock and surprise. Never had he been so violated. He was unsure as to the men’s identity or affiliation, except for one thing.
The Holy Roman Church.
It had something to do with them.
Ω
Vilamur waited among the trees, watched as the car came to a stop, and Bernat de Foix was pulled from it. He and Cardinal Fuentes had come straight here from the rectory while Friars Dwight and Rice retrieved de Foix. He was unsure just exactly what was happening and what was going to happen, but he appreciated all of their efforts.
Desperate problems mandated desperate measures.
De Foix was bound and gagged. Not the cocky son of a bitch who’d sent threatening e-messages and summoned him to Montségur.
“Are you ready to face your son?” Fuentes softly asked.
“I’m ready to be rid of him.”
Ω
Bernat caught movement in the darkness and saw two people walking toward him through the trees. They came to within a couple of meters and, with eyes adjusted to the dark, he saw that one of the men was Vilamur.
“Monsieur de Foix,” the other man said. “I am Hector Cardinal Fuentes. I’ve come from Rome to deal with you.”
Friar Dwight ripped the tape from his mouth.
“This is outrageous,” he blurted out.
“I agree,” Fuentes said. “The murder of Father Tallard, though perhaps deserved, is outrageous. The extortion you have attempted relative to Archbishop Vilamur is, without question, outrageous. Your chosen religion is most definitely outrageous.”
What had Raymond warned? Careful, the barrel has been jostled, and you have no idea what will now spill out.
No kidding.
“What are you doing here?” he asked the cardinal.
“Why did you mention les Vautours?”
“Is that what this is about?”
“Please answer the question.”
“I was told to use the reference in order to get Vilamur’s attention. Beyond that, I know nothing.”
“By who?”
He hesitated. No way he was going to involve Raymond Barbe. One Perfecti never implicated another. Not eight hundred years ago. Not now. Not ever.
“How about you go—”
Fuentes held up his hand. “No need to resort to the profane. I understand. You do not wish to say. I can only assume it was one of your Cathar companions. Possibly another Perfectus.”
He said nothing.
“The Cathars knew les Vautours,” Fuentes said. “They were…kindred spirits. Rome wanted them both destroyed. It sent a crusade to accomplish just that. It seems the church failed in both endeavors.” Fuentes paused. “But all that failure has brought us here.”
He wanted to know, “Is the archbishop allowed to speak? Or does he just do as told?”
“This man is your father,” Fuentes said. “You went to a lot of trouble to garner his attention.”
“I still have Tallard’s confession and a video of the archbishop leaving the priest’s house.”
“Not anymore,” the shorter friar said.
“Friar Rice,” Fuentes noted, “is an expert with computers. The Dominicans have fully embraced modern technology. Tell us what you were able to accomplish.”
“I erased the video and text messages sent to the archbishop from Monsieur de Foix’s computer and phone. I then accessed his cloud server and deleted them from there too. I also deleted a second video of the archbishop leaving the dead priest’s house. Then I altered the registries to eliminate all references to them. They no longer exist. Anywhere.”
“No password?” Fuentes asked.
“There was. A complicated series of letters and numbers, but Monsieur de Foix kept them written down on a piece of paper taped under his desk drawer. Not all that imaginative.”
Bernat’s mind raced. The video of Vilamur at Tallard’s house, which Andre had captured. He’d told the younger man to delete it once sent. Maybe he’d not done so, and a copy still existed.
“Seems you’ve been quite the busy man,” Fuentes said to him.
Bernat motioned with his head toward Vilamur. “He’s a sexual predator, as dangerous as Tallard. You criminally violated every one of those women, including my mother.”
Vilamur started to speak, but Fuentes held up a hand. “This is no longer about the archbishop.”
“It is entirely about that bastard,” he spit out.
“This is about the Vultures.”
“Then you’re wasting your time. I know nothing of them. I was told they would get your attention, and that information proved correct.”
He listened as Friar Dwight explained about what had happened in Ghent, Belgium. A lost work of art had been found, then burned. The Just Judges. Part of the famed Ghent Altarpiece. Stolen in the 1930s, but recently rediscovered during a restoration. The Maidens of Saint-Michael had burned it. They were, in actuality, les Vautours.
Really?
He was familiar with the maidens. Headquartered to the south, in the mountains, near the Spanish border. He’d visited their motherhouse several times. Knew the current abbess. Nothing exceptional about her or them. One of many convents located within his archdiocese, each a quiet, innocent place.
“You’re saying that the Maidens of Saint-Michael actively attacked and burned a panel of the Ghent Altarpiece. And that these nuns are the Vultures?”
Fuentes nodded. “That is exactly what he’s saying. Regrettably, one of their own was killed in the process, but that has allowed us to finally locate them. And, most fortuitous, here they are, right in your archdiocese.”
He did not know what to say.
“They also have acquired some assistance from the United Nations,” Dwight said. “A man named Nicholas Lee, who is actively involved with them.”
“Let me see what I can do to end his involvement,” Fuentes said. “We have a presence at the UN.”
He wondered why he’d been woken and included in this conversation. Fuentes could have easily done this without him. But he recalled what the cardinal had said earlier about what would happen once the Vultures were identified.
“Do you still plan to silence them?” he asked.
“I do,” Fuentes said. “And immediately. I’ll supervise the incursion.”
Incursion? “Are you planning a war?”
Fuentes’s eyes zeroed in. “I’m planning on dealing with a group that has shown nothing but disrespect to Rome for centuries. I’m planning on teaching them a lesson, one they will never forget.”
He could see that the Spaniard was serious. Still, he wondered, “Why am I involved?”
“Because,” Fuentes said, “you could prove helpful in dealing with the maidens. They are subject to your temporal authority. Also, we must deal with Bernat de Foix. It seems that your blackmailer was also involved with the Just Judges.” The cardinal pointed to Dwight. “Explain it to him.”
“De Foix funded the restoration of the Just Judges reproduction. To his good fortune, the restorer discovered the hidden original beneath that overpaint. We have to wonder if that was coincidental or intentional.”
He was wondering the same thing.
“Also,” Dwight said, “the restorer created electronic images of the original panel.”
“Which are now irrelevant,” Fuentes added. “Prior to yesterday they were invaluable. But now we know where to find les Vautours so it doesn’t matter if they are revealed and studied by others. But de Foix? He’s a separate issue altogether. On several levels. One we must deal with tonight.”
“What do you mean deal with?” he asked.
“We’ve gathered as much information as we could, in the short time we had to prepare,” Friar Rice said. “But we know a lot more about de Foix than we did a few hours ago. Him being involved with the discovery made in Ghent, funding the restoration, could be significant. It might be connected to what is happening here with you, Archbishop.”
“And he might know nothing at all,” Vilamur said, a touch of irritation in his voice. “He might just hate my guts.”
Fuentes shrugged. “Quite true. It’s hard to know for sure. But he did specifically mention les Vautours to you, which is a rather obscure subject, so it’s not that far-fetched to think he could know more. He is definitely schooled in your personal problem with him.”
“Our problem, Eminence,” he said.
Fuentes nodded. “Quite right. Our problem.”
“And they are also here to deal with that?” he asked, pointing at the two friars.
Dominicans. In Toulouse. Ironic, since this was where the order began. Its founder, Félix de Guzmán, had dedicated himself, and his followers, to the reconversion of the Cathars. The friars played an integral role in the Albigensian Crusade, effectively leading the attack. In 1206, Dominic founded a convent near Toulouse. Then, eight years later, he added another order for men. Vilamur had studied that time period. A lot of irony existed then. Some historians had even postulated that the Dominicans were a blatant attempt by the church to copy Catharism. Friars traveled around the Languedoc in pairs, like Perfecti, dressing simply in sandals and plain habits, avoiding the ostentation of other churchmen and preaching poverty. They spoke in the local language in order to be understood, a practice the Cathars began. Even now, Dominicans still wore black robes, almost identical to the habit of the Perfecti. Celibacy itself might have been hurried into dogma in the twelfth century as a reaction to the Cathars’ aversion to sex.
Like with here, far too many things to be coincidental.
“Within the Dominicans,” Fuentes said, “there are specialized cells, friars who are trained and devoted to a particular expertise. These two are part of the Ad Designandum Hastam. The Point of the Spear. For centuries that cell has been called upon to deal with problems in ways that may seem…unconventional for the church. But the desired results cannot always be accomplished solely by talk or prayer. There are times when more definitive measures must be taken.”
Good to know. And also disconcerting.
“Please, wait outside,” Fuentes said, and the two friars left the study. The cardinal faced him. “Archbishop, our pope is dying.”
Had he heard right? That couldn’t be. “He was only elected a short while ago.”
“He has a tumor in his brain that will kill him within the coming months. Only a handful of people know this. Now you are one of them.”
He was shocked. “Why me?”
“Because I intend to be the next pope.”
Now he understood. “And you have the advantage of being able to get ready for the next conclave.”
“Exactly. I have many friends, but I will need more within the College of Cardinals in order to be elected. Friends of unquestioned loyalty.”
“And ones upon whom you know a great secret.”
“Precisely. Trust can be so fleeting. But, as you said, this is our problem. And I intend to solve it. I also have to know that whoever I choose to bring within my confidence will participate in the conclave with great zeal.”
He knew the right answer. “That would be me.”
Fuentes smiled. “I thought as much. Which explains why we are here, in the middle of the night, speaking to each other. I will deal with Bernat de Foix. Together we will deal with les Vautours. And, after that, you shall become a cardinal.”
“And perhaps also garner a worthy appointment to the Curia, once you are pope?”
Fuentes never flinched at his greed. “I would expect no less for you.”
Message sent. And received. The extortion ran both ways.
“I did not ask before,” Fuentes said, “but I will now. Do you still have Father Tallard’s video that was sent to you?”
He shook his head. “Deleted.”
“All right. We will need to also retrieve it from de Foix. Friar Rice is an expert with computers. Get dressed, Archbishop. We are going to face your demon. Then we will face mine.”
Chapter 51
Claire kept driving, like a robot, her mind numb, her body reacting automatically to the road and traffic. She was well out of Belgium, now into northeastern France, headed south at a good pace. Hopefully, there’d be no more police. It was important that she return to the motherhouse with Sister Rachel’s body. She’d stopped a few hours back for gas and a bathroom, shielding the body bag with a lot of the clothes and other stuff that littered the back seat. She’d have to stop again along the way, but thankfully the black body bag was fairly innocuous among the litter. Still, she’d have to be careful. Ellen had called and confirmed that Sister Deal was in their custody and had agreed to cooperate. So she’d given the okay to provide her a laptop so the images could be compared.
They needed that expertise.
To be sure. To know if the old stories were indeed true.
If and when they dealt with the current threat, depending on the outcome, those images could present a more lasting problem. But first things first. She checked her watch: 2:25 a.m. She reached for her cell phone and tapped the screen at the top of her favorites. The call connected and the abbess answered almost immediately.
“I should be there a little past noontime,” she reported. “It was not exactly what I envisioned, but Lee got the job done. Hopefully, he’ll give up and move on.”
The plan all along had been to use Lee to the point where he was no longer needed. Then ditch him. Which she’d done.
“What does not exactly what I envisioned mean?”
“The police were involved, but we eluded them.”
“Are you sure? Were you identified?”
“I don’t know.”
Silence filled the phone.
“It’s so easy for you,” she said. “There. Safe in the abbey. Judging. It’s really different out here.”
“I worked the field for many years, without any problems.”
“But did you have any challenges?”
More silence.
“I didn’t think so,” she said. “Look, I realize the Dominicans have changed everything. But I’m just a schoolteacher from Louisiana who answered the call in her head, and now finds herself at the epicenter of a storm that has raged for centuries. I’m doing the best I can.”
“But you keep falling short. Focus on the task,” the prioress said. “We can debate all this later.”
And the call ended.
Damn that woman was obstinate.
She was hungry and made a note to stop at the first opportunity that food was available. The car needed more gas too. A road sign indicated that Reims was twenty kilometers ahead. She’d purposefully avoided any roads through or around the snarl and blare of Paris, staying east in the French countryside, her intended route moving from Reims to Dijon to Lyon to Montpellier, then Perpignan and west into the mountains. Four-laned autoroute nearly the whole way. Another sign indicated that a service area was coming up soon. Unlike back in the States, none of the commercial establishments were off the exits. Instead, they were built between the four lanes where drivers from either direction could make use of the gas pumps, food, bathrooms, and rest areas. They came at regular intervals and she’d make a stop at the next one parking the car off to the side, away from any bright lights. At this late hour there should not be too many people around. It seemed that everything she’d devoted the better part of her adult life to would come down to the next day or so.
“You will not have died in vain,” she said to Rachel in the back seat.
And she meant it.
Women had been living in the abbey atop Mount Canigou for over a thousand years. Each was the successor to other women who’d assumed a duty starting around AD 50. Those first few had buried the Blessed Virgin in a place only they knew, and then assumed stewardship over the tomb, passing their guardianship down from mother to daughter. They’d survived countless wars, the Albigensian Crusade, the French Revolution, and repeated attempts by Rome to discover their presence. Eventually, they evolved into a religious order, which made their task much easier, and for over a thousand years the maidens had performed admirably.
Only a tiny portion of those who attempted to join were allowed to stay. The most dedicated and determined, she’d been told. Women who freely swore allegiance to God and the Virgin. Every single person who’d done that was recorded in the Books of Honor. Volume after volume that noted the date of final vows and date of death. Rachel’s entry would now be amended to add her date of death, then she would be afforded her final rites, as had been extended to maidens all the way back to Joan of Arc and before. Claire had presided over many such solemn occasions. But all of those maidens had died from natural causes.
This was different.
She muttered out loud three Hail Marys and asked for strength.
Catechism declared that through that prayer a person rendered to God the highest praise and most gracious thanks, because He bestowed all His heavenly gifts on the most holy Virgin. Never be afraid to earnestly implore Her help and assistance as She is most desirous to assist. As a Christian, a practicing Catholic, and a daughter of Christ she believed that to be true.
But as a maiden—
Sworn by oath as a Vautour.
She had her doubts.
Chapter 52
Bernat was dragged from the car, his hands bound behind his back, his mouth taped shut. Two men had burst into his bedroom, roused him from a sound sleep, then forcibly removed him from his house. In the past, living outside of Toulouse amid the woods had been a blessing. He enjoyed the solitude. But now that refuge had turned into a liability, as there was no one around to see what was happening. He’d never alarmed the house or equipped it with cameras either.
There’d never seemed a need.
After all, it was nothing but physical objects that carried only a minimal amount of value. Eventually, he would shed himself of them all.
The best he could determine they were an hour to an hour and a half south of Toulouse, in the Pyrénées foothills. Darkness enveloped everything in thick shadows, the black sky overhead teeming with stars. His captors were two men, one tall, the other short and stout. They’d not said a word on the trip from his house, nor could he speak thanks to the gag. He was still in a state of shock and surprise. Never had he been so violated. He was unsure as to the men’s identity or affiliation, except for one thing.
The Holy Roman Church.
It had something to do with them.
Ω
Vilamur waited among the trees, watched as the car came to a stop, and Bernat de Foix was pulled from it. He and Cardinal Fuentes had come straight here from the rectory while Friars Dwight and Rice retrieved de Foix. He was unsure just exactly what was happening and what was going to happen, but he appreciated all of their efforts.
Desperate problems mandated desperate measures.
De Foix was bound and gagged. Not the cocky son of a bitch who’d sent threatening e-messages and summoned him to Montségur.
“Are you ready to face your son?” Fuentes softly asked.
“I’m ready to be rid of him.”
Ω
Bernat caught movement in the darkness and saw two people walking toward him through the trees. They came to within a couple of meters and, with eyes adjusted to the dark, he saw that one of the men was Vilamur.
“Monsieur de Foix,” the other man said. “I am Hector Cardinal Fuentes. I’ve come from Rome to deal with you.”
Friar Dwight ripped the tape from his mouth.
“This is outrageous,” he blurted out.
“I agree,” Fuentes said. “The murder of Father Tallard, though perhaps deserved, is outrageous. The extortion you have attempted relative to Archbishop Vilamur is, without question, outrageous. Your chosen religion is most definitely outrageous.”
What had Raymond warned? Careful, the barrel has been jostled, and you have no idea what will now spill out.
No kidding.
“What are you doing here?” he asked the cardinal.
“Why did you mention les Vautours?”
“Is that what this is about?”
“Please answer the question.”
“I was told to use the reference in order to get Vilamur’s attention. Beyond that, I know nothing.”
“By who?”
He hesitated. No way he was going to involve Raymond Barbe. One Perfecti never implicated another. Not eight hundred years ago. Not now. Not ever.
“How about you go—”
Fuentes held up his hand. “No need to resort to the profane. I understand. You do not wish to say. I can only assume it was one of your Cathar companions. Possibly another Perfectus.”
He said nothing.
“The Cathars knew les Vautours,” Fuentes said. “They were…kindred spirits. Rome wanted them both destroyed. It sent a crusade to accomplish just that. It seems the church failed in both endeavors.” Fuentes paused. “But all that failure has brought us here.”
He wanted to know, “Is the archbishop allowed to speak? Or does he just do as told?”
“This man is your father,” Fuentes said. “You went to a lot of trouble to garner his attention.”
“I still have Tallard’s confession and a video of the archbishop leaving the priest’s house.”
“Not anymore,” the shorter friar said.
“Friar Rice,” Fuentes noted, “is an expert with computers. The Dominicans have fully embraced modern technology. Tell us what you were able to accomplish.”
“I erased the video and text messages sent to the archbishop from Monsieur de Foix’s computer and phone. I then accessed his cloud server and deleted them from there too. I also deleted a second video of the archbishop leaving the dead priest’s house. Then I altered the registries to eliminate all references to them. They no longer exist. Anywhere.”
“No password?” Fuentes asked.
“There was. A complicated series of letters and numbers, but Monsieur de Foix kept them written down on a piece of paper taped under his desk drawer. Not all that imaginative.”
Bernat’s mind raced. The video of Vilamur at Tallard’s house, which Andre had captured. He’d told the younger man to delete it once sent. Maybe he’d not done so, and a copy still existed.
“Seems you’ve been quite the busy man,” Fuentes said to him.
Bernat motioned with his head toward Vilamur. “He’s a sexual predator, as dangerous as Tallard. You criminally violated every one of those women, including my mother.”
Vilamur started to speak, but Fuentes held up a hand. “This is no longer about the archbishop.”
“It is entirely about that bastard,” he spit out.
“This is about the Vultures.”
“Then you’re wasting your time. I know nothing of them. I was told they would get your attention, and that information proved correct.”
