Saboteur: A Novel (11 page)

Chapter 23

The carriage pulled to a stop at the peak of the hill. Below
the man could see down to the ravine where the ruins stood. How long had they
been there? No one knew for sure. Perhaps long before the Greeks even he
supposed. Gods had built them for certain, not mortal hands. Titans. The
architecture was impossible. Everything was built to the scale of giants it
seemed. Strange lights reflected out from the interior as if the gods still
lived there. Flowers of unknown origin, not native, bloomed suddenly, then
disappeared. They could be seen growing and wilting again in only a few
minutes’ time. Men and women of the most beautiful physiques were often
reported to be wandering the edges of the ruins. He had been told the stories
as a child of these ephemeral creatures leading unwary travelers into the
ruins, never to be seen or heard from again. Some thought it an ancient
madhouse, or an asylum, and few dared tread there. The pond was just beyond the
wall. A ghastly odor emanated from its depths. It was the smell of death.

The day was a beautiful one though, with a soft, cool wind,
which blew against his face. The hills were almost silent. Even nature
retreated from the place it seemed. It reminded him of his boyhood, traipsing
across the meadows pretending to be heroes from the past: Hercules fighting in
the Trojan war alongside brave Achilles; holding him as he fell in battle,
killed by an arrow to the back of his ankle, where the goddess had held him as
she dipped his body into the ocean, making him forever immortal.

As he approached he could see the dark water’s surface. He
turned his face away so as not to get lost in the strange visions that shone in
its depths. It was a picture of chaos in the pond. Inky, primordial chaos. Some
said it was full of snakes, but he could see none. He had made it. There would
be no stopping him now. He tried to put the feeling in perspective, but found
he could not. His blood surged with the victory. There was simply no other
feeling like it. He wondered if the gods would speak to him once it was
finished. That wasn’t too crazy to believe was it? A kiss from Venus, perhaps?
Perhaps she would take him as her lover. He looked back into the carriage and
saw his captive sleeping. He would be awake soon. He would be free soon. His
color had returned, though he was completely still, his expression light,
almost pleasant. It looked like his eyes might flutter open any second, but it
would all seem a dream to him in any case. But once he returned home his mind
would return as well. It would be an unrecorded episode. “Barely a ripple on
the surface of an unimaginably large ocean,” the teacher had said.

The man circled the courtyard before pulling the carriage to
a stop. He popped two more sugar cubes into his mouth and waited. The usual
rush didn’t overtake him. He was already in such an elevated state and needed
to slow down. How could he experience more pleasure than this? He laughed. He
was a god then. He would not need to take any more in any case. There were
several left in his pocket, but he would eat them only at the very end, and all
at once, just for fun. That should test his godly powers. The sleeping man
opened his eyes with a soft whine, but they fluttered back shut. He whinnied
just like a child waking from a long afternoon nap.

The man got down from the carriage and pulled his cloak back
over his head. He needed to move the man to one of the gated cells just to be
cautious. Walking around to the back he grabbed the man’s sleeping body and
heaved it over his shoulder in one swift jerk. He struggled down the staircase,
stopping at the bottom only to wipe great streams of sweat from his brow. He
lay the man’s body as carefully as he could manage onto the floor, but it hit
with a dull thud.

 
“We always hurt the one’s we love my dear,”
he said with a laugh into the man’s sleeping ear.

 
He lay on his back on the floor. The room
smelled of amber and incense. There were bones of slaughtered sacrifices in the
corner in a pile. They were nearly opaque now, otherworldly. He had certainly
never seen such creatures in his travels. The sound of a woman’s quiet laughter
echoed through the halls. A sudden wind blew past and a man’s voice sounded off
a “No!” He had to ignore these things. They meant nothing. They were a
distraction, probably intentional, but couldn’t hurt him. He was merely amongst
jealous peers now, a feeling he knew all too well.

He rolled the man’s body into the cell and clanked the gate
shut behind him. Ok, so he wasn’t completely a god yet. His heart pounded in
his chest. He rather liked the feeling, but he could not yet move himself. What
a spectacle was before him. Something or someone was chained to the wall in the
next cell. He looked in. It looked like a gladiator, a hulk of a man completely
stripped nude. Great lashes bled from his back. He wanted to ask the man if he
was ok, but he was interrupted by a voice.

“Don’t speak to me. You must never
speak to me.” The man had read his very thoughts it seemed. A neat trick. He
could nearly do it himself though.

“I need nothing,” came the voice
again, “go away.”

“Fine,” he thought.

The man walked back to the top of
the staircase, then through the courtyard, resting finally at the edge of the
pond. The valley walls seemed to sway with the wild grasses that grew there.
What great struggle had taken place here he wondered? That he would like to
see, but it was too late for any more adventures. It was time to assert his
place once more. He laughed at how grandiose his thinking had become. He
thought of the Vestals. They would be consumed in the very morass they had
created. Poetic. Beautiful. He had nothing to write with or he would have
written some lines of verse to commemorate the occasion. He missed writing
actually, but of these things it would be for others to write. He had chosen
someone perfect for the task in fact. He had his life back now and soon so
would his dear companion. They were prisoners no more.

Chapter
24

Downy stood at the window overlooking Mission Bay. He was
relieved to be home finally. He went to the liquor cabinet and pulled a bottle
of scotch from the shelf, pouring a little longer than usual. He looked at the
spot just in front of the bay window where he had seen the detectives and tried
to imagine what might have taken place there. That someone might choose a spot
of such beauty as a place to kill someone was unimaginable. But a true killer
probably cared little about beauty did they? The detective had said “mountains
of blood.”
What could have happened?
Downy couldn’t get the image from
The
Shining
from his mind, of the blood flowing like a river through the
corridors of the Overlook Hotel. The two twin sisters. Ghosts. Downy drained
his glass. He was a writer after all, just like Nicholson had been in the film.
Maybe it was time to get out his typewriter and retire to the grand hall of the
Overlook Hotel.

He threw his bag down and opened
the doors to the bay. The scotch tasted smooth and warm going down and he laid
his head back letting out a long exhale. He might have slept, but instead got
up and walked back to the kitchen to pour another glass. Reaching into his bag
he put the strange gift that Tannehill had given him on the table. It was still
wrapped in a fine piece of linen, which was tied with a purple ribbon at the
center. Downy could see what looked like a seal of some sort, but the writing
was too small to read. He pulled at it, unwrapping it carefully so as not to
break the seal, hardly knowing what to expect. He saw the gold immediately.
Holding it in the light he could see it was a laurel, covered in gold leaves,
clearly made to be worn on the head. A tiny string of what looked like black
pearl or amethyst hung from the back by a clasp, which connected to a smaller
amulet. On the amulet was an insignia. He had only seen it once before: the first
century Roman sword, in the collection at school, one of the few in the world
of its kind. He turned it with his fingers. There was also a Latin script
written on the amulet, which he immediately recognized as Roman. It read:

C.
Caesari
,
Romam primain animis
.

Downy paused for a moment and translated.

For Gaius Julius
Caesar. First in the hearts of Rome.

Downy could see a piece of paper sticking out from the
linen. The writing was a scrawl, undoubtedly from Tannehill’s unsteady hand:

This is exactly what
it appears to be. It is stolen, for the record. Have its age tested at
once.

Professor Jacob
Tannehill

He shook his head. Poor man. It was a clever prop, probably
fabricated by a talented artist in fact, but it was clearly too clean and far
too unblemished to be a true relic. But the insignia interested him. Why would
someone take the trouble to copy that particular feature unless they were truly
trying to pass it off as real? It could be a serious forgery and Downy felt an
obligation to look into it. Tannehill, in his state, might have even paid for
it. He plopped down into his chair putting the laurel on his head like an old
hat. It nearly fit. He grabbed for his phone and dialed the school. Janine
answered at his office.

“Hey, you’re still there.”

“Sure, ever the busy bee.”

“Could you do me a favor and phone
the archives and let them know I’m coming by to check out one of their pieces?”

“Sure. Only one piece?”

“Yep, just give them our budget
number.”

“Done.”

“Thanks, Janine. You’re the best.”

“That’s what you keep saying.”

Looking back at his bag he could
also see the letter of recommendation from that rather strange student, what
was his name again? Tero, Taro? It was poking out of his bag. He leaned forward
pulling it out and sat on the floor with his glass. He unrolled the pages and
began to read:

Greetings
Distinguished Professor Downy,

I
apologize that I must write to you, but in my advancing years’ travel has
become something of a difficulty for me. I write to you today on behalf of Monsieur
Guy Taro. Monsieur Taro came to our brotherhood, the Brotherhood of the
Gracchi, under what I can only call vague circumstances. Let me take a moment
to explain that this is not unusual in the brotherhood. Many men who choose to
renounce the material world and the pursuits of the flesh in favor of a purely
spiritual life never share with us what their lives were like before they
arrived. It is a policy going back nearly two thousand years in our order to
never force a man to make an accounting of his past. Having said this, I must
confess that our order must at times protect its interests, both in the name of
safety and of continuing good relations with the community. In any case, our
inquiries, which were quite thorough, revealed nothing of concern either
legally or personally, therefore we welcomed Monsieur Taro into our community
with open arms. That was nearly eleven years ago. It has turned out to be a
most prosperous decision on our part.

I
must be frank and tell you that I believe Mr. Taro to have suffered some great
misfortune or tragedy in his past. In the years I have known him only a spare,
few details have given any glimmer of the true nature of what this tragedy may
have been. One gets the impression that his loss was of a deeply personal nature,
some great indignity perhaps. Of his origins I can tell you only that a man who
did not wish to be identified delivered him to us late one night. He came to us
a broken soul, nearly mute and completely disoriented, probably intoxicated,
having been rescued by the stranger from a local tavern near us, where he was
found unconscious. We thought him possibly mentally ill when he arrived. I have
never seen one so pitiable in his demeanor in my long years and let me assure
you I have seen many a broken man. His recovery, while slow, was nevertheless
steady and after only a year’s time he was a fully functioning, though silent,
member of the brotherhood. Allow me to stop for a moment to tell you on this
point that Mr. Taro is without question one of the most industrious and
motivated men I have ever come to know. Even before he began to speak he worked
with great diligence and energy, as all who live amongst us must. Our order
operates under what I must call a rather strict standard of both spiritual and
physical obligation, but Mr. Taro took to our Spartan ways immediately, without
complaint. It is common for us to work sixteen hour days in our vineyards or on
construction projects in our surrounding communities. Mr. Taro has clearly had
much experience in this regard, as his understanding of how to get things done
as a manager of men is only eclipsed by his individual ability at doing them.
He is a natural leader and a man of few, but choice words. He is also a deeply
learned man. We have many scholars of renown among us, but rarely do such men
appear in our midst under such circumstances. In fact, a great part of our work
here at the monastery involves the translation of ancient texts and in this
regard Monsieur Taro excels to a degree that is difficult to measure. His
mastery of classical Greek and Latin is unparalleled. In his time with us he
has decoded texts that our most prodigious scholars have struggled with for
many years. Furthermore, his elocution of the Latin tongue offers rarely seen
insights into the true nature of that language as it might actually have been
spoken in antiquity. For this reason and many others, I suspect he comes from a
very distinguished background, though on this point he has only spoken of his
people rarely and always with a note of melancholy.

I
must finish by telling you that when Mr. Taro indicated his desire to leave the
order some months ago he also made known his wish to bestow upon us an
endowment. It would be a breach of his trust to divulge details, but let me say
that his gift to us was truly astonishing in its scope, so much so that the
continued preservation of our lifestyle will be guaranteed for many generations
to come. I must tell you on a personal note it was a great shock to us all that
he made the decision to leave the monastery. Each of our members may leave
whenever they wish of course, but it is unusual since we had only recently
passed his ten-year confirmation, a time when our brethren may freely depart
without explanation, should they choose to move on. His reasons are his own and
I shall not speculate on them, not in light of his incredible contributions,
nor his impeccable character.

Monsieur
Taro has asked, as is his way, very little of me in writing to you on his
behalf. I do so with great enthusiasm. His interest, if I understand correctly,
is to be allowed a chance to both receive and share knowledge with you. I know
how busy a man of your talents must be. I would consider it a gravely missed
opportunity though, for someone like yourself, who is so deeply interested in
classical studies, to miss out on the opportunity to converse with Monsieur Guy
Taro. His knowledge of the classical period is second to none I have ever
encountered. Your interests and his converge in every respect I would say. Our order
has benefitted tremendously from his presence and it is with something of a
heavy heart that I present him to you, knowing we are losing such a man. We had
come to believe that he would in fact be staying with us, as most in our order
do, until the end of his days, but we wish him God’s own speed and all the
blessings life has to bestow nevertheless.

Professor
Downy, thank you for your consideration in this matter and should you ever need
to speak with me in person I can be reached by telephone at our front office
number, which is enclosed. If you should ever find yourself in the Parnassus
region of Greece consider yourself a welcome guest with us. It would be my
honor to receive a man of your talents and prestige as a brother.

With great respect,

Vigo Alfonse Gracchi

Head Prior of the
Brotherhood of the Gracchi

π__

Downy laid the letter on the rug. Some reference indeed. He
thought of the man’s overly polite demeanor and general awkwardness in class,
which made more sense now. He was a goddamned monk.

He looked at his phone, which had
fallen from his bag as well; two messages blinked. The first was a text from
Samara:

I
hope I haven’t spooked you. You doing ok? Your stunt double, Chad, is a barrel
of monkeys…whole class seems highly disappointed…just sayin.

Sam

The second was a voicemail. It was
Nazim’s number. So he had called back. Downy never had his ringer turned on
because he could never remember to turn it off when class was in session. If his
phone rang even once, he could look forward to an entire semester of listening
to his students horrible ring tones, not to mention their incessant texting.
Downy pushed the speaker button:

Professor
Downy, I apologize for our last conversation. I have left a message with Mr.
Charlie and his hotel assures me he has been there all this week without
incident. I know the owner personally. I hope you are not angry and I would
like to set up a conference call for the three of us as soon as I hear from
him. I also indicated to the front desk person that Charlie might simply call
you directly. I hope it will help calm your fears for his safety. I hope all is
well and look forward to clearing up this matter soon. Thank you very much sir.

He poured much more scotch into his
glass. He thought back to the funeral. Nazim had been distraught over Charlie’s
loss, it was true. Could it have pushed him over the edge though? This far over
the edge? He had fallen to his knees in fact, in private, when he and Downy had
been alone with Charlie’s wife Sarah at the funeral. It did seem extreme, but
he had always assumed it was a cultural nuance. Intense and visible grief in
Middle Eastern countries was always treated more as an expression of the extent
of one’s love and respect for the deceased. The suffering of the bereaved
should be equal to the loss. Wailing, even self-flagellation wasn’t considered
taboo. The ancient Egyptians had practically made a fine art of suffering in
fact. Professional wailers could be bought if there weren’t sufficient family
members or loved ones who could provide the necessary intensity at a sendoff.
But this level of denial made no sense. There was something else though, that
had always bothered him. Nazim always seemed excessively puzzled by how Charlie
could have fallen overboard. He could only say, “We lost him. I do not know
how.” He had pressed him for more details, but Nazim only hung his head
repeating, “I do not know how.” The boat had been full of Charlie’s grad
students as well, and yet no one could quite explain how it had happened.
Charlie was there one moment and simply gone the next. Nazim clearly felt it
was his fault nevertheless. “I have lost my friend, I have lost him,” he had
said over and over again, banging his fists against his temples. He had wept so
violently he had torn his shirt. Downy needed to talk to Diba Jan, Nazim’s
wife, but it seemed that she too was somehow involved in this horrible charade.
Why else would she turn Samara away and pretend not to know her. There was something
truly amiss, possibly criminal going on. He could feel it. There was some
unknown pressure at work here, something causing his friends to act in such a
strange way. He felt their very lives might be in danger. Why else would Nazim
deny him?