Apocalypsis 1.04 Baphomet (3 page)

XXXVI

May 13, 2011, Questura di Roma, Rome

U
rs Bühler received his daily briefings and found the news that was coming in increasingly alarming. In the vicinity of Santiago de Compostela, they had discovered the horribly mutilated body of Cardinal Torres, who had been one of the favorites for the upcoming election of the new pope. In Milan, a priest had been murdered; again, literally chopped to pieces with a machete. Last night, there had been a shootout in the Santa Croce church in Gerusalemme. They had found traces of blood but no dead or injured. A laboratory specializing in geochemical analyses reported the disappearance of one of their doctoral students. The disappearance of Gianni Manzoni would not even have been mentioned in Bühler’s briefings, had it not been for two facts. The first was that the Branciforti Institute had worked for the Vatican from time to time, and the second was that this guy Manzoni had met Don Luigi on the day prior to his disappearance. And that was the next thing: Don Luigi had also dropped off the face of the earth, as had Peter Adam. And five days from now the conclave was to begin. He was running out of time.

Bühler knew very well that he had no investigative authority whatsoever outside the confines of the Vatican, but up until now the cooperation between the Swiss Guards and the Carabinieri had always been excellent. They kept each other in the loop and both parties profited from this arrangement. But this seemed to be over now, all of a sudden.

After Peter Adam’s escape during an interrogation by members of international secret service agencies, the Italians were in a state of extreme nervousness. They had started doing things for the mere sake of doing them, even waving goodbye to months of tedious surveillance and busting another Islamist cell every day. Bühler was not surprised, though, that the police and the domestic intelligence service hadn’t found a thing except for some handguns. It was needless to add that they had not uncovered any information about Peter Adam. The entire ordeal had turned into a flop and lost all the characteristics of a well-organized covert operation. It was only a question of time until the details would be dragged through the press. So perhaps it was better not to be in the line of fire.

Not that Bühler didn’t think that these secret service assholes deserved the embarrassment of Peter Adam’s escape. But it also confirmed his conviction that the man was dangerous. Incredibly dangerous. However, he did not believe that Peter Adam was the mastermind behind the mystery. He had to have accomplices, and one of them was pulling the strings. In Bühler’s opinion, Adam had only murdered the American journalist to prevent his cover from being blown so soon.

The only thing that was still a complete mystery to him was the sequence of digits that Loretta Hooper had written in her own blood on the carpet of her hotel room. Why had Peter Adam allowed this to happen? Why hadn’t he run away? The man had behaved like a complete moron, behavior usually reserved for Italians. So Urs Bühler had returned to the murder scene, to take another look at the bloody numbers. To his surprise, though, the room had already been tidied up and a company specializing in the cleaning of crime scenes had removed all traces of evidence.

»What the fuck have you done?« Bühler was beside himself as he yelled at the Commissario in charge, a pale-faced and arrogant Milanese with the composure of a lotus leaf – the Bühlerian rage dropped off him like morning dew.

»The crime scene investigators have finished collecting their evidence, Colonel Bühler. And we thank you for your collegial cooperation.«

Bühler did not believe a word he said.

»What did you find out about this bloody sequence of digits?«

»I don’t understand what you mean, Colonel Bühler. Which bloody sequence of digits?«

»You know damn well what I mean!«

»There was no sequence of digits, Colonel Bühler. There was just blood.«

Bühler tried to stare the Commissario down but he seemed completely unruffled and stared right back with his watery eyes.

»Say that again!«

»There was no sequence of digits. You must be mistaken.«

»Show me the pictures of the murder scene!«

Even though the Commissario cocked his eyebrows in annoyance, he deigned to show Bühler the photos that the crime scene investigators had taken at the murder scene. And, indeed, none of the pictures showed the bloody digits.

»I saw those numbers with my own eyes!« Bühler hissed at the Commissario, throwing the photos back on the table. »These pictures have been manipulated or manufactured.«

»I think our conversation is over, Colonel Bühler.«

Bühler’s hands shot forward and grabbed the Commissario by the collar, almost pulling him over the desk.

»Listen to me, you polenta-eating bastard. I don’t know what kind of crap you are pulling here, but five days from now a new pope will be elected and I am responsible for the safety of the cardinals. Somewhere out there, some asshole is on the loose who is most likely planning to blow up the Vatican. And that’s not going to happen on my watch. I will prevent this – with or without you and your band of losers and mama’s boys!«

He returned to the Vatican still fuming with rage, uttering profanities against all Italians that were ever born, when he noticed a pickup truck with the logo of a mining company that he had seen a couple of times during the last few days. But suddenly, for some unknown reason, he felt unsettled by the sight of the truck. Bühler briefly considered stopping the car, but the pickup was already merging into the Roman traffic flow. Enough time for Bühler to memorize the name and the circular logo of the mining company as well as the number on the license plate.

Bühler had learned when to respond to the alarm bells of his body or brain: always and immediately. His ability to process different sensations and perceptions simultaneously and to respond to subconscious emotions had saved his life more than once during his years with the Legion. He remembered that he had seen the pickup truck in recent days in front of the entrance to the Necropolis, the vast and not yet fully explored subterranean labyrinth of catacombs underneath the Vatican, which archaeologists thought contained the true grave of Saint Peter.

Back in the sala operativa of the Guards, Bühler immediately ordered his staff to replay the surveillance tapes of the entrance to the Necropolis for the past few days.

»What are you looking for, Colonel Commandant, Sir?« asked the guard who was sitting in front of the monitor.

Bühler did not respond. He just stared at flashing images on the screen.

»Stop!« he suddenly barked. »Go back!«

The time stamp said 05-11-2011 – 10:24 AM. The monitor showed the pickup truck of the mining company stopping in front of the entrance to the Necropolis. Three workers in blue overalls disembarked and unloaded equipment from the truck.

»Zoom in!« Bühler ordered. »What is the stuff they are unloading there?«

»Looks like … I would say … drilling equipment, Colonel Commandant, sir.«

»And what’s that? What is that bald guy heaving from the truck?«

»No idea. Never seen anything like it before.«

»Make a printout of the picture and find out what that thing is. Also, I want a list with all the dates and times that these people were here.« Bühler turned to another one of his guards. »Favre, what are you doing right now? Whatever it is, stop doing it. Check the license plate of the pickup truck and, even more important, check this company out. Address, commercial register entry, credit report – absolutely everything. Steiner, put a team of five men together. Light armament. Take one of the dogs with you and search the Necropolis for any suspicious activities. Report to me in my office in one hour.«

XXXVII

May 13, 2011, Avignon

M
ohammed Al Naimi kept his word. After their arrival in Avignon, the Saudi Ambassador led Peter and Maria to another luxury limousine with a diplomatic license plate, which carried them out of the airport area, successfully circumnavigating the pitfalls of customs and immigration. They drove to a nearby parking garage and there he explained that he would expect them back at the same location 24 hours later for their return flight to Rome. If they didn’t show up, it would be their problem. Peter assured him that they would be at the airport on time and under all circumstances, with or without the original prophecy. He suspected that he was by now on Interpol’s Most Wanted List and that his picture was plastered all over Europe, and he hadn’t the slightest desire to struggle his way from Avignon to Rome without a passport in his pocket.

Peter went to the car rental area of the parking garage, entered a PIN code into an automated key dispenser, and withdrew the keys to an inconspicuous Peugeot that Don Luigi had rented for them.

The rain was coming down in torrents when they left the parking garage and began to fight their way along the N7 towards the center of the city, one traffic jam at a time. The rain continued throughout their entire drive, until they reached the Place du Palais by the Rhone. Threatening masses of dark clouds were pressing down on the rooftops of the city, as if they were determined to drown the entire town of Avignon in a deluge of rain. In front of them, a monstrous monolith of sandstone and huge stone blocks rose into the air, a rugged Gothic façade melting with the rain and the clouds into an ominous entity that seemed ready to devour everything in its path. A repellent bastion with arrow-slits instead of windows, crenellations on the roofs, and countless merlons for the defense of the blind angles with boiling oil or pitch. A giant of a palace with four wings nestled into each other. A Gothic massif reminiscent of the Dolomites, rutted and impregnable, without unnecessary embellishments, a masterpiece of almost Moorish strictness. It was obvious: Avignon’s Palace of the Popes with its nested structure was a fortress. And at the same time one of the most magnificent castles of its time.

»Where do we start?« Peter asked after they had left the underground parking garage and were standing on the rain-swept Place du Palais.

»At the main entrance?« Maria suggested in a cheerful tone and strode towards the main gate, which was flanked by two minaret-like towers overlooking the wall. »The priority is to get out of the rain!«

Peter bought two admission tickets and an English guidebook about the palace. And he was stunned. As repellent and vicious as the palace looked from the outside, the interior in all its pompous magnificence was just as playful and luxurious. The interconnecting halls and chambers were richly decorated with frescos and had once been filled with the most refined furniture.

Peter was enthused. »Fortress outside, castle inside,« he said. »Have you noticed how much this resembles Arabic architecture? Strictness on the outside, playfulness on the inside. The crusaders slaughtered the Saracens but were inspired by their lifestyle.«

Maria did not seem overly impressed by the magnificence of the palace. »Let’s get started. What exactly are we searching for?«

Peter tore his eyes away from the ceiling fresco that depicted an amorous tête-à-tête.

»For clues connected to the Templars. If they really found refuge in this palace, then they’ll have left signs behind. Encrypted clues. It’s doubtful that they put their treasures into the closest archive or into some treasury. If they did it, they hid their secret very well. At the same time, they had to make sure that future generations of Templars could find it as soon as the Order was resurrected.«

»But the Templars do exist,« Maria said. »They have their headquarters in Paris. They have always existed, throughout the centuries. Perhaps they beat us to it a long time ago.«

Peter made a face. »Listen, Maria, I don’t have a Plan B. And I only have 24 hours to find something that might put my life right and perhaps even save the Vatican. Let’s just search for clues and hope for the best, okay?«

»No problem,« she said sharply, »you go that way, and I’ll go this way. And in three hours we’ll meet back here for a situation report.«

Peter sighed. »Oui, mon général.«

The situation report turned out to be disappointing.

»Did you find anything?«

»Nope. No skull and crossbones, no Baphomet, no Templar seal, no gravestone inscriptions with the usual secret signs. I asked one of the tour guides, but he only shrugged his shoulders.«

»Maybe we’ve overlooked something. The palace is huge. We should look again.«

»Or we are on the wrong track and the document is not even here.« Peter looked at his Jaeger-LeCoultre. »Let’s go and have a bite to eat. Perhaps we’ll come up with a better idea.«

The rain was taking a short breather when they came out of the palace. They walked to a little restaurant down a side street within sight of the palace and were lucky to snag the last table for two in a corner. They ordered fish and a Sauvignon Blanc. The bald-headed owner of the restaurant could not stop staring at Maria, who was fighting with a strand of hair that had slipped loose from her coif. Peter watched her as she was put the unruly hair back in its place with a hand movement that was as determined as it was eternally feminine.

»Why are you staring at me? Is something wrong?«

»Uh, no. Everything’s fine. I’m sorry. I was just thinking about something.«

She didn’t believe him. »You think that I’m attracting too much attention, don’t you? A nun in her full habit.«

Peter shrugged his shoulders. »Is there an alternative?«

She looked at him as if she could read his mind.

»No, there isn’t.«

Peter was glad when their food was served so that he could focus on something other than Maria’s face and her eyes and her lips and her hands.

This is not some frigging day trip, Romeo! Pull yourself together, damn it!

The excellent fish and the cool Sauvignon were sufficient to make them feel a little bit more centered and relaxed.

But if it were a day trip, it would be perfect.

»What are you thinking right now?« she asked. »And don’t say ›Nothing!‹«

»Perhaps they hid the document in a nearby monastery so that the Pope would not have immediate access to it.«

»Do you have any idea how many monasteries there are in and around Avignon?«

»Do you have a better idea?«

She gave a resigned sigh and finished her wine.

They asked for directions to the nearest internet café, a bleak and joyless place filled with adolescents staring at their screens. Peter paid for a computer and began to search.

»Which religious order do you want me to look for?«

»Bernard was a Cistercian, Maria thought aloud. »The Cistercians were originally the reform movement of the Benedictines. So, how many Benedictine and Cistercian monasteries are there in Avignon?«

»Not a single one.«

»Excuse me?«

»Not within the city limits of Avignon. The nearest Cistercian monastery is in Senanque, 25 miles to the east. The nearest Benedictine monastery is the Sainte Madeleine du Barroux abbey in Le Barroux, 30 miles to the north.«

Maria seemed disappointed. »Too far away. It has to be closer.«

She thought for a while.

»Look for Carthusian monasteries.«

»Why the Carthusians?«

»Because they are also a contemplative order and they were very close to the Cistercians.«

Peter entered the keyword.

»Well, hello! Look at that!«

Villeneuve-les-Avignon was right across the Rhône River, opposite Avignon. The community with less than 12,000 inhabitants had always been a preferred residential area for the wealthier people of Avignon, as it offered the best views of their marvelous hometown. From the moment Peter and Maria entered the small charterhouse that was located on a hill overlooking the Rhône, they knew that, this time, they were in the right place.

Bingo!

The monastery complex was not large. Behind a small Gothic church was a u-shaped group of low buildings enclosing a little courtyard. But what was standing in this courtyard was anything but hidden or subtle, and a rather self-confident sign: a small open temple with eight pillars, which looked at first sight like a secluded gazebo in a palatial park. But Peter recognized the layout right away.

»That’s how the Templars used to build their churches!« he called out. »Octagonally like Solomon’s Temple!«

He did not waste a second and began to examine the little temple. It didn’t take him long to find something.

»I don’t believe this! Maria, take a look at this. They were totally brazen!«

He pulled Maria into the small temple and pointed at a relief under the vaulted ceiling. It showed a depiction of the three-headed Baphomet.

»These Templar guys must have felt pretty safe in Avignon.«

Maria seemed skeptical. »A little bit too obvious, don’t you think?«

Peter was electrified. »Perhaps these are only clues to the real hiding place,« he called out, »continue to look around.«

They checked each and every corner of the little temple, Peter on the outside, Maria on the inside. On one of the exterior walls of the temple, Peter found a second relief. A square divided into 25 smaller squares. Each of the squares seemed to have some sort of inscription, but 700 years of weather and cold winters had done so much harm to the sandstone that it was impossible to decipher the writing.

»Damn it, what could this be?«

Maria ran her fingers over the relief.

»I know what this is!« she called out. »It’s a Sator Square!«

»A what?«

»A magical formula from the early Christian times. In Austria, alpine dairy farmers still decorate their front doors with these squares as a protection against demons.«

»What does it mean?«

»It’s a palindrome, some form of magical square that contains letters instead of numbers. The letters can be read horizontally and vertically and in both cases they form the same Latin sentence. If you read it from top to bottom, it says, ›Sator Arepo Tenet Opera Rotas.‹«

Peter thought for a moment and then he furrowed his brow, visibly dissatisfied. »What does Arepo mean?«

»Nobody knows that. It might be a name.«

Peter made a first attempt at a translation. »The sower Arepo struggles to hold the wheels?«

»Not bad. But it could also mean, ›The sower holds the works.‹«

»And, of course, no one has ever found out what these words mean and the entire world has been speculating for centuries about what kind of secret knowledge might be hidden in this nonsense.«

»Otherwise it would not be a magical formula.«

Peter was not satisfied. »Let’s keep searching.«

»I already found something. Come.«

She led him to a place in the interior of the open octagon and pointed at a spot on the stone wall, which was approximately at head height and almost exactly opposite the Sator Square. At first, Peter couldn’t see anything.

»It’s pretty weathered,« Maria said. She took his hand and let it slide over the rough stone. His fingers felt grooves in the stone, straight and crossed grooves and pits. Then Peter recognized what it was that had been weathering in the sandstone for the last 700 years. His hand jerked away as if he had received an electric shock.

»The symbol!«