‘We
did. And believe me, from what I saw, my dear departed brother, the Crown
Prince, was very much alive and…active…when we left.’
De
Christo gazed long and hard at the insolent young man who was now next-in-line
to be King.
The
prince kicked back his chair, stood. ‘Good luck with your investigation, Master
Builder.’
* * *
THE
ASSISTANT
De
Christo questioned another dozen or so monks and nuns that afternoon, including
the Abbott himself. No leads arose.
At
dusk, he stepped out onto the great balcony overlooking the sweeping Gulf of
San Malo.
He
was joined by the Abbott. ‘Any luck?’
‘None
so far.’
De
Christo saw some monks crossing a courtyard below them, carrying their water
bowls for the night. Among them, he saw old Brother Michael talking to a much
larger young monk, a veritable giant of a man.
‘Who
is that?’ he asked. ‘The monk Brother Michael is speaking to.’
The
Abbott said: ‘Why, that is Brother Barnabas. He is a mute and a simpleton. But
a most devoted soul—almost as devout as Brother Michael. They make a fine
pair—Brother Barnabas worships old Brother Michael, parrots his every word.
Indeed, he aids Brother Michael in his duties as caretaker of the cathedral.’
‘He
is the
assistant
caretaker of the cathedral?’ De Christo said.
‘Yes.
Brother Michael did not mention this?’
‘No,
he didn’t…’ De Christo eyed the gigantic Brother Barnabas. ‘Could this man have
committed the crime?’
‘Brother
Barnabas!’ the Abbott exclaimed. ‘No! He is a most gentle giant. Strong but
withdrawn, quiet as a mouse. I cannot even begin to imagine the obscenity that
could rouse Brother Barnabas to anger, let alone murder.’
De
Christo frowned. ‘Hmm. Still, I think I shall question him tomorrow.’
* * *
THE
WALK
Exhausted
from his day’s investigations, De Christo decided to take a walk around Mont St
Michel—to examine some of the places he had heard about.
He
went to the cathedral—and gazed up at the cross upon which the Crown Prince had
been crucified.
Looked
up at the high balcony on which he had found the small orange pebbles from the
gardens.
Then
he descended into the complex, whence he came to the Crown Prince’s bedchamber.
It
was smaller than he had imagined—a lot smaller. A canopied bed, a sitting
chair, a window. Barely big enough to hold seven people pressed close together.
Seven
people only.
But
Sister Madelene had said—
Wait
a moment
, De Christo froze at the realisation
.
‘Oh De Christo! You
fool! You assumed that it all happened
here
!’
* * *
ILLUMINATION
De
Christo charged into the nuns’ dormitories. Some of the nuns squealed at the
sight of a man in their midst, but De Christo ignored them. ‘Where is Sister
Madelene!’ he shouted. ‘Where is she!’
Sister
Madelene stepped forward. ‘Yes, Master Builder?’
‘Last
night. The third orgy,’ he said. ‘It did not take place in the Crown Prince’s
bedchamber, did it?’
‘Well,
no…’ Sister Madelene flushed red.
‘Because
the prince’s bedchamber was too small to accommodate seventeen lustful young
bodies—twelve nuns, three princes and two stewards, if I remember correctly.
So!
Where
did this third orgy take place?’ De Christo asked, even though he now knew the
answer.
Sister
Madelene averted her gaze.
‘Where
did this third congress take place!’ he demanded.
The
young nun swallowed. ‘It took place in the cathedral, sire.
All
around the altar. By the light of many candles. There were naked bodies
everywhere, engaged in every form of sexual congress both natural and
unnatural; writhing forms splayed all about the holy area, on the steps, on the
floor, with the Crown Prince
on
the altar itself lying with Sister
Phillipa; Sister Phillipa moaning in ecstasy.’
De
Christo saw the scene in his mind—but in his mind’s eye, he also saw the
individual who had watched it all from the balcony high above the cathedral.
An
individual carrying an orange terracotta water bowl—presumably having gone to
get more water in the dead of night—only to hear a noise in the cathedral—then
going to the balcony to investigate—and witnessing the depraved scene.
Witnessing
the Crown Prince himself defiling an altar of God.
At
which sight, he dropped his bowl in shock, breaking it. The killer had managed
to sweep up nearly all of the orange shards of the broken bowl, but not all of
them.
Then
he must have waited for the fornicators to leave the cathedral, waited for the
Crown Prince to fall behind.
So
he was big enough to overpower the prince.
Strong
enough to nail him to the cross and hoist it high.
And
passionate enough, devout enough—and dull-minded enough—to kill
the Crown
Prince of France
for his display of gross disrespect on an altar of the Lord.
De
Christo heard the Abbott’s voice in his head: ‘
I cannot even
begin
to imagine the obscenity that could rouse Brother
Barnabas to anger, let
alone murder
.’
‘I
think I can imagine it now,’ De Christo said aloud.
The
King would arrive two days later.
Of
course, riders had already brought him the news of his son’s death. Upon his
arrival, De Christo told him everything—of the orgies, the murder, and the
killer: the gigantic halfwit, Brother Barnabas.
The
King took the news in an odd way. He asked to see the killer.
Brother
Barnabas was brought to him. The King appraised the devout simpleton closely.
No-one
dared speak.
The
King gazed at the silent Brother Barnabas.
Then
he said softly: ‘This man is to be allowed to live. My son debased himself on
an altar of the Lord. Sadly for my son, the eyes of God were watching.’
The
twelve nuns who had partaken in the depravities were reprimanded by their
seniors, but they were also forgiven—and given the choice of a pure life
henceforth or leaving the holy orders.
Eight
of them repented and stayed. But four of the disgraced women—all of them
younger nuns, among them Sister Madelene—chose to leave the abbey.
As
for De Christo, one week later he would leave Mont St Michel, too, never to
return.
________________
__________
PART
1
THE
BITE OF THE MINE
They
carried him out of the mine entrance screaming, 'Oh
Christ
! My legs!
Look at my
goddam
legs!'
The
four soldiers set him down on the waiting stretcher, then stood aside so the
medical team could take him away.
The
four-star general in charge of the project--a man named Washington Haynes—just watched
as the injured man was wheeled out of the entry cave. He eyed the soldier's
legs coldly, impassively.
The
man's lower legs--everything from the knee down, including his feet--looked
like a pair of foul pancakes: blood everywhere, every bone broken, the skin
swollen black-and-blue.
The
man's legs and feet had been completely and totally
flattened
.
General
Haynes turned to the aging man by his side. 'I think we need some more expert help.
Call your girl.'
DESERT
OUTSIDE MEXICO CITY
Doctor
Jessica Chase sat in a gigantic black leather swivel chair inside the cabin of
the private jet, not knowing where it was going or why she was in
it.
In
front of her sat her diminutive dig partner, Kenneth W. Georgeopolous. Kenny
was all of five-foot-two, with hair brushed up into an Elvis Presley pompadour.
He was known about the site as 'Little Kenny G'.
On
Chase's lap sat the five-page form that she and Kenny had just signed. The
cover sheet read:
THIS
PROJECT IS CLASSIFIED TOP SECRET
Any
unauthorised disclosure of information witnessed or obtained through
participation in this project is a criminal offence under Title 50 of the United
States Code punishable by imprisonment for up to 75 years and fines of up to
$25 million.
Okay
…
Chase
was an archaeologist from the University of WA in Australia, working at
unmasking the secrets of the ruined city of 'Teotihuacan' high in the Mexican
desert. As such, she wasn't really accustomed to signing threatening
non-disclosure agreements with the US government.
The
object of her study-Teotihuacan-was one of archaeology's greatest mysteries.
Comprised
of a series of gargantuan flat-topped pyramids and sun-aligned temples, the
desert city had been built by an unknown pre-Aztec civilisation sometime around
the first century AD. It had reached its zenith in the sixth century, before
suddenly, around the year 800, it was abruptly abandoned by its inhabitants.
They
just left. Vanished. Disappeared.
Leaving
an enormous ghost-city in the middle of the desert.
This
great desert ruin, however, was also a particular challenge for Dr Jessica
Chase.
At
the tender age of 27, Chase was known thoughout the archaeological community
for her extraordinary abilities at deciphering hieroglyphics and other ancient
symbols-and in this field, Teotihuacan was Everest.
And
with her lanky, athletic six-foot frame, pony-tailed red hair and beautiful
smile, Jessica Chase was sellable. A former high-school gymnast, she was the
poster girl of archaeology.
National
Geographic
loved her.
Not
surprisingly, the high-powered Breslin Corporation had come calling soon after
she got her doctorate.
Led
by its eccentric billionaire chairman, Leonard Breslin III, the Corporation was
the major sponsor of over a dozen archaeological digs around the world,
including Chase's Teotihuacan work.
As
such, for the last six months, Chase and Kenny G--her symbol database manager
and all-round techno-genius--had been working hard at deciphering Teotihuacan's
complicated glyph systems.
And
then, today, the Corporation's Lear jet had arrived, with a message from
Leonard Breslin.
He
wanted to see the m. Now.
There
is an old adage in academia:
He who pays the piper, calls the tune
.
And
so they'd got on the plane.
It
was only once it had taken off, however, that they were presented with the
government non-disclosure form.
THE
HANGAR
After
about an hour of flying, the Lear touched down. Exactly
where
it had landed, neither Chase nor Kenny knew. The shutters on the plane's windows
had been fixed in place, blacked out.
The
plane taxied for a short way, then jolted to a halt. The side door was opened
and a set of stairs folded down.
Chase
emerged from the plane…
…and
found herself standing inside a brightly-lit aeroplane hangar.
The
hangar's doors were closed, but they couldn't hide the slivers of white
sunlight that crept in through the cracks, or the dry oven-like heat inside the
building.
All
right
, Chase thought,
we're in a desert somewhere
.
But
since the flight had lasted about sixty minutes, they could have been anywhere
between Texas and Nevada.
A
two-person reception party was waiting for them.
Leonard
Breslin himself and a four-star US Air Force general, complete with a chest
full of medals.
'Jessica,'
Breslin said, stepping forward and kissing her on the hand. '
Delighted
,
as always.
I'm
terribly sorry for all the cloak-and-dagger precautions surrounding your
arrival. Awfully
rude
. But it seems that the US Government needs our
help, and well, they want to keep all this sort of
hush-hush
.'