The omega factor, p.27
The Omega Factor, page 27
What a glorious moment.
“Archbishop. No. Gerard. Might I call you that?”
“Of course, Eminence.”
“Gerard, thankfully, the Dominicans have always been there when the church needed them. They were here, in the Languedoc, during the Albigensian Crusade. They were there during the Inquisition, Reformation, Counter-Reformation, and every other challenge we’ve faced during the past eight hundred years. The Point of the Spear is their elite. The ones called upon for the most difficult tasks, the ones that try our consciences and keep us awake at night. I’m fortunate that the current head of the Dominicans is a close friend and understands the gravity of this situation.” Fuentes paused. “And the importance of me being the next pope.”
The Spaniard gently laid a hand on his shoulder. “Let me tell you a story. I like stories. They help bring things into clearer focus. I once knew a shop owner in Barcelona who had some puppies for sale. A young boy came into the store and wanted to buy one of them. Their price was ten euros, which the boy had. ‘Can I see the dogs?’ the boy asked. And out of the kennel came a large mother with five tiny balls of fur following. One of the five lagged considerably behind, limping as he walked. ‘What’s wrong with that little dog?’ the boy asked. The shopkeeper told him, ‘He has no hip socket. He’ll always be lame.’ The boy smiled, pointed, and said, ‘That’s the one I want to buy.’ The shop owner was surprised and told the boy the dog wasn’t worth the price. ‘He’s never going to be able to run and jump and play with you like the other puppies.’ But the boy was adamant. ‘I want that one.’ Then the boy rolled up his pant leg to reveal a badly twisted, crippled leg supported by a metal brace. He looked up at the shop owner and said, ‘I don’t run so well myself, so the little puppy will need someone who understands.’” Fuentes pointed. “You’re my little puppy that I want to buy, and I will understand, too. Neither of us is without fault.”
He realized that his own sins had backed him into a corner with no way out, save for the man standing next to him. To be a cardinal he had to sell his soul. But at least Fuentes was making it easy.
“What are you going to do with de Foix?” he asked.
“There is no choice.”
No, there wasn’t.
“That man is not going to stop,” Fuentes said. “He can, and will, make your life a living hell. And he’s right. You will not be given a red hat.”
“And I will, most likely, also lose my archdiocese.”
Fuentes nodded.
He did not hesitate. “Do what you have to do.”
“You know what that means?”
“Of course. Do it.”
The sale had just been finalized. His soul was gone.
“The Italians have a term. Fiducia. Their bond of trust,” Fuentes said. “You and I will now have that too.”
The cardinal extended a hand, which he shook.
He realized that his actions, swift and natural, with no hesitation, governed by reasoning and convenient rationalizations with zero quarrels of right and wrong, came with a name.
Amoral.
Fuentes motioned and they walked back through the trees, closer to where the others stood. The cardinal waved and Friar Dwight walked over to them.
“Make sure Bernat de Foix joins Father Tallard,” Fuentes whispered to the Dominican. “Neither should ever be seen again.”
Chapter 55
Pyrénées Mountains
Southern France
12:40 p.m.
Nick stood at the base of Mount Canigou. Perched upon a rocky pinnacle thirty-five hundred feet up sat the motherhouse of the Maidens of Saint-Michael. A narrow single-laned, paved road wound a path up the mountain through stands of old-growth oaks, the cool midday disturbed only by a distant solitary church bell. The sole way to get up there was to walk. The idea, as had been explained in the nearby town, was for the arduous trek to allow the visitor to gradually leave the world below behind. There was a vehicular road, a bit wider and paved also, but it was on the other side of the mountain and sealed off, used only by the convent to bring up supplies.
It bothered him that he hadn’t been able to speak with Kelsey. But he had to remind himself that she was part of another world now, one with its own ways and rules. Both of which he had to respect. At least she was safe, out of harm’s way.
He’d contacted Reynaldo after Sister Claire had fled and explained the situation, accepting full responsibility for his own gullibility.
“This is turning ridiculous,” Reynaldo had said. “Perhaps we should end this now.”
“You said I could have two days.”
“That was before you allowed a nun to get the better of you. The Belgians are going to start screaming shortly. Getting you out of there seems like a good idea.”
“Something big is happening here.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I’m here, on the ground, doing my job. I’m telling you that there’s something here to discover. Something I need to follow through on.”
They’d gone back and forth and finally Reynaldo had agreed to honor the two days. But it was clear that he owed his boss a big one. Less than an hour later a NATO chopper found him and he was flown south to Perpignan, where he’d obtained ground transportation and driven the hour west toward the mountains, to the motherhouse, where Sister Claire was headed with the body. Which meant she was most likely going to use the other way up. Fine. He’d allow her that. He just needed to be up there by the time she arrived.
He checked his watch.
That should be soon, if not already.
Assuming she’d driven straight through.
Which was a safe assumption.
He’d managed to grab a little sleep on the flight south, having long ago mastered how to rest in snatches of no more than an hour or so. He’d bought a couple of sandwiches and a bottled water before heading over from town to the abbey. The guy at the local café told him the hike up would take about an hour. Hope you have strong legs. And now, staring up at the start of the inclined journey, he could see that the man had been right.
That was a long climb.
But what the hell?
He could handle it.
Or could he?
“Come on, Nick, let’s go,” Charlie Minter said.
They were on an adventure. Nick, Charlie, and Marvin Royster. Three twelve-year-olds in the hills outside Colorado Springs. Hiking. Packs on their backs. Boots on their feet. They’d done it many times before, one of the perks of living in such a wonderful place. The three had grown up together, their parents close friends. Today they were explorers, following a trail above the timberline, jagged layered peaks capped with snow in the distance, only sunshine and green valleys in between.
A beautiful Saturday afternoon.
They were headed to the tunnels. Originally carved out to transport ore through the mountains, most were boring and unimportant. But one carried a legend. It was said that a wagon full of children had once been trapped there when the tunnel collapsed. So much damage had occurred that the entrance had been sealed, leaving the wagon where it sat with the bodies, trapping the spirits inside for all of eternity.
A good ol’-fashioned local ghost story.
“My brother told me,” Charlie said, “that hikers have heard laughing inside the tunnel. He swears ghosts are there.”
Nick had heard the same thing from his older brothers. But he wondered how much of that was true, and how much was just them trying to scare him.
“My dad told me,” Marvin said, “that some people who’ve gone inside have been scratched by the ghosts. There are voices and all kinds of weird things goin’ on there too.”
They’d heard so many stories that they decided to go see for themselves.
Hence the adventure.
The hike took about half an hour, the trail more like a narrow dirt road, well defined with directional signage. No danger of getting lost. He spotted Beaver Lake off toward the west, its mirrored surface a shiny silver blue. Ghosts were said to dwell there too. He’d read about a battle between the Cheyenne and Utes near its shores. Indians fighting Indians. Women and children had taken to rafts trying to escape the carnage by floating out on the lake. A storm had struck and they were all lost in the water. People said the lake was haunted by those who’d drowned, but he’d never heard or seen anything there.
They were following the trail ever upward, the inclined path passing right by the haunted tunnel entrance, large and wide, plenty of room for a horse-drawn wagon to go inside.
Nick had not expected that.
“My dad told me that they opened this up years ago,” Charlie said.
Nick was not as sure as he once was about the stories being false. Maybe there was something to it? “You think we ought to go inside?”
Marvin shook his head. “I’m not sure.”
Charlie slipped his backpack off. “You’re not scared, are you?”
“I’m not scared,” Nick felt compelled to say.
And Marvin agreed. “Me neither. Let’s go in.”
“Not yet,” Charlie said. “I brought some protection.”
His friend unzipped the pack from his back, reached inside, and removed a gun.
“Wow,” Marvin said.
Nick’s eyes went wide too. “Where’d you get that?”
“My dad. He keeps it hidden, but I know where. I figured we might need it.”
“Against a ghost?” Nick asked.
“We don’t know what’s inside there,” Charlie said.
Nick had never touched or seen a gun up close. His family was not into them. This one was big and black, and looked heavy.
“It’s a Colt,” Charlie said, gripping the stock with both hands. “Like in the westerns.” Charlie raised the gun and pointed it at a tree. “We’re ready now for whatever’s in there.”
It happened fast.
So quick that Nick never realized until it was far too late.
Marvin reached for the weapon, saying he wanted to hold it. Charlie resisted, swinging the gun around and yelling no. The arc of his pivot pointed the barrel, only for an instant, straight at Marvin, but long enough for the trigger to accidentally be pulled.
The bullet plowed into the young boy’s chest.
Then exploded out from the back.
Nick could still see the blood spray from the exit wound and the look of fright in his friend’s eyes, then the body folding to the ground, as if in slow motion. Charlie had stood there, in shock, before tossing the gun aside and running away. Nick had been in shock too, but quickly ran over to Marvin, hoping he might be okay. He’d shaken his friend, trying to rouse him, but nothing happened. Color drained from the face. No breathing. No movement. Nothing. Only lots of blood. He’d seen only one dead body before that day, his grandfather’s at the funeral, and the ashen shade that quickly appeared reminded him of that corpse.
Marvin Royster was dead.
The gun had been an M1911, more popularly known as a Colt 1911, a single-action, semi-automatic, recoil-operated pistol, chambered for a .45-caliber cartridge. Standard issue for the US armed forces from 1911 to 1985. Widely used in World War I, World War II, the Korean and Vietnam Wars. Charlie’s father had served in Vietnam and kept the weapon both as a memento and for protection. He’d also filed down the trigger, as was common with those who’d served, reducing the amount of pressure needed to pull it. Something his twelve-year-old son would have never known, or understood.
A horribly tragic accident.
Nick kept walking up the path toward the abbey.
He still hadn’t seen the motherhouse, which was much farther up. He also hadn’t passed anyone else going either up or down. No surprise there, as a placard below had indicated that the abbey was closed for the day. He was eating his sandwiches, drinking the water, and thinking back.
It always happened when he hiked.
He ultimately joined the army, became an MP, then went to work for the FBI. Guns had been a part of all his training. He knew how to handle a weapon and was a pretty good shot on the range. But truth be known, he hated them. One killed his friend Marvin Royster, which his other friend Charlie Minter had to live with until the day came years later when Charlie took his own life.
With a gun.
So far, he’d never drawn a weapon in the line of duty. And he only carried one when absolutely necessary. Reynaldo had authorized that he be armed and a weapon had been waiting in the chopper. A semi-automatic pistol with two spare magazines. But he’d left them all there. What awaited him at the end of this path?
Impossible to say.
But he wasn’t going to shoot anybody.
Chapter 56
Kelsey had managed to tumble in and out of sleep, her mind roaming unrestrained. When she woke for good, Sister Ellen was driving with Isabel in the passenger seat and it was daytime. The dashboard clock read 12:20. She’d been out awhile. Amazing, really, considering the situation. The computer still rested on her lap. Outside the car windows she saw trees and mountains.
“Where are we?” she asked.
“Not far from the motherhouse, in southern France,” Isabel said. “You slept a long time.”
“I was more tired than I realized.”
They’d made a stop hours ago, before she fell asleep, for food and a bathroom, which she’d appreciated. What she’d discovered within the original Just Judges panel still filled her brain. Was she right? Were the two faces the same? Pointing the way to a building?
It might never be clear why Jef Van der Veken painted over the original Just Judges and handed it off as a reproduction. Had he been part of the theft? After the suspected thief died of a heart attack in late 1934, had he been stuck with the panel and, so as to not be implicated, painted over and returned it, thereby preserving the original masterpiece and not implicating himself?
That made the most sense.
Then there was the poem Van der Veken painted on the back side. I did it for love. And for duty. And to avenge myself. I borrowed from the dark side.
Considering what she now knew, that seemed like a confession.
But none of those whys really mattered anymore.
The fact remained that the original had existed, she’d photographed it, and, most important, two of the faces were identical, something Van der Veken might not have even noticed given the original panel’s horrendous condition at the time. No way those two faces being the same was simply a fifteenth-century mistake. Jan van Eyck didn’t make mistakes. And, another fact, no other character on the altarpiece held anything like a pointer.
That was a message.
From long ago.
But for, or to, what?
Something told her the Maidens of Saint-Michael knew it all. Which was another reason why she’d decided to cooperate.
She wanted those answers.
Nick had to, by now, be wondering what had happened to her. Perhaps he contacted the convent or confronted the prioress? Either way he would learn nothing. How she wished he was here. She was in way over her head and the only person she trusted completely, in all the world, no questions asked, always and forever, was Nick. They might not be able to be husband and wife, or lovers, but they could be man and woman, friends.
And she definitely needed a friend right now.
They were off the main autoroute on a two-laned regional road that wound a path at the base of the mountains. The tires hummed a steady whine on the seamless asphalt. Sister Ellen slowed at a driveway protected by a heavy iron gate. Thick-trunked trees guarded both sides, along with a deep ditch that drained the road. No way to drive around the gate. Ellen stopped the car and Isabel tapped on her phone.
“It’s electronically controlled,” Ellen said. “From the motherhouse.”
The gate began to roll to one side.
Apparently, they were expected.
Ellen drove through and navigated a switchback that zigzagged upward along the steep incline. It had been cut from the rock and paved with concrete, most of it cracked and potholed. Clearly it had been there awhile. The turns were tight and nerve-racking, barely enough room for the car to make the climb. But Ellen handled the challenge with expert precision.
“You’ve done this before,” she said to Ellen.
“Once or twice.”
“She’s the best,” Isabel said. “We all have to do it at one time or another.”
“I actually prefer to walk up from the other side,” Ellen said as she spun the wheel tight to the left and took another sharp curve.
She was beginning to like these two women, despite the fact that they’d assaulted and drugged her. For so long her entire life had been confined to the women in her convent. Sure, she still had her mother, father, and two brothers who all lived back in the United States. But contact with them was limited to a visit once a year, social media, and an occasional FaceTime call. They were all devout Catholics and respected the choice she’d made in life. No problems on the home front. Her closest friends all lived at the convent, with a few more added from the outside assignments she’d managed to snag along the way. That was another reason why she’d decided to contact Nick. She needed a different kind of friend. One who knew her from before, and one that she could count on no matter what.
The road began to level off and they came to its end. Three other vehicles were parked in a small graveled clearing ringed by trees. One of them a Volvo with Belgian license plates. They stepped from the car out into cool mountain air, warmed ever so slightly by bright rays of sunshine that filtered through the leafy canopy.
Sister Ellen retrieved the laptop from her. “Nothing there?”
Enough with the lies, she decided. “I wouldn’t say that.”
The admission grabbed the two women’s attention.
“What did you find?” Isabel asked.
