‘Jack! He’s here! I could feel it all morning,’ interrupted Tristan, becoming excited. ‘Right?’
Lorenza shrugged and looked at Jack.
As he whispered, ‘I told you so,’ Jack noticed a little smile creasing the corners of Lorenza’s mouth.
Tristan could see Jack standing on the deck of the vaporetto, waving, as it approached the jetty. The melancholic mood that had taken hold of him over the past few days and had caused Lorenza such heartache, disappeared as soon as Tristan embraced Jack.
‘I knew it!’ said Tristan. ‘I could feel it all morning.’
‘You could feel what?’ asked Jack. ‘You look thin. Has Lorenza’s cooking gone off?’
‘No, of course not. I knew you would turn up today. And here you are. Come, let’s have a coffee in your favourite place.’
‘Caffé Florian?’
‘Where else? Let’s go.’
For Jack, the iconic Caffé Florian with its colourful history spanning three hundred years was the epitome of a Venetian meeting place. To see and be seen was the motto, and the justification for its astronomical prices.
‘It’s truly amazing to think that Goethe, Casanova, Charles Dickens and Lord Byron, to name but a few, sat here in the gallery outside just as we are doing right now, watching the pigeons and, no doubt, the girls parading past in St Mark’s Square,’ said Jack and pointed to a group of tourists taking photos.
‘You are such a hopeless romantic,’ said Tristan. ‘What brings you here? Must be important. Let me guess ...’
Jack took a sip of his hot latte and looked expectantly at Tristan sitting opposite. ‘All right. What do you think brought me here? You know, don’t you?’
‘Let’s say I have a feeling about it, that’s all; a hunch.’
‘I’ve heard that often enough before, and I know just too well where those “hunches” of yours took us, and where we ended up.’
‘All right. Let’s see how close I am this time,’ said Tristan, enjoying himself, and closed his eyes. ‘I thought a lot about you during the last couple of days. You appeared even in my sleep. Once again, there was that aura.’
‘What kind of aura?’ asked Jack, a familiar sense of apprehension beginning to churn in his stomach.
Tristan took his time before replying. ‘Danger,’ he said after a while. ‘It’s about a puzzle, isn’t it?’ he continued. ‘And murder. Brutal murder.’
‘What else can you see?’
‘How can I explain this … I have these “flashes” of unrelated scenes. They are like little windows into the past. I’ve told you about this before. By themselves, they make no sense at all, but when you string them together, well, they actually tell a story.’
‘Is that the case here?’ asked Jack, leaning forward.
‘I can’t really say, but perhaps you can. There is this man sitting in what looks like some kind of cell. A tiny, crowded space full of papers. I can see barred windows, a heavy iron door, and something else …’
‘What?’
‘Something very strange. It looks like some kind of white face, motionless and rigid. A man’s face without a body. The face is contorted, the eyes closed; scary. He looks dead. And wait, there’s more ... next to the face are some strange-looking symbols floating through what looks like fog.’
Jack reached into his pocket, pulled out a creased sheet of paper and put it on the marble table in front of Tristan. ‘Like these here?’ he asked.
Tristan opened his eyes and looked at the piece of paper. ‘Yes, exactly like these,’ he said, sounding surprised. ‘What’s this?’
‘A cipher. It’s at the heart of what I’m about to tell you. But before I do, what else can you see? This is important. Focus!’
‘I can see gold. Lots of gold. Strange figurines, bracelets, jewellery. And all of it seems to be under water – on the ocean floor – because there are fish everywhere, and a bronze cannon like you see on pirate ships, and cannonballs covered in barnacles. Then I see men fighting. They are naked and have colourful feathers in their black hair. And wait, there’s a huge sailing ship. Towering waves, lightning; a storm. And tall cliffs, men screaming, severed limbs, blood. The ship turns over, breaks apart and sinks into the waves ...’ Tristan opened his eyes and looked at Jack. ‘That’s quite something, don’t you think?’ he said.
‘It is. Let’s find out what it means. Interested?’
‘You know me, Jack. Always.’
‘Then come with me to meet a fascinating man who may be able to make sense of all this.’
‘What man?’
‘A monk.’
‘Where?’
‘Mount Athos.’
‘Greece? Are you serious?’
‘Absolutely.’
‘If you clear it with Lorenza, I’m in.’
Jack smiled. ‘Coward. I already have.’
‘I know. Another coffee?’
6
Mount Athos, Greece: 1 October
Jack and Tristan stood on the outside deck of the small boat taking them to Dafni, the main port. It was early in the morning and Mount Athos, the legendary mountain dominating the peninsula, was shrouded in dense sea mist, adding to the mystery of this extraordinary place of spirituality and contemplation, with a monastic tradition reaching back twelve hundred years. Referred to by the monks as the ‘Garden of Virgin Mary’, Mount Athos with its twenty historical monasteries housing priceless collections of unique religious artefacts, books, and precious ancient manuscripts, was home to some two thousand monks devoted to study, spirituality, and a monastic life of piety, prayer and contemplation. As one of the largest monastery complexes in the world, it had no equal.
‘You are very quiet,’ said Jack. ‘Penny for your thoughts?’
‘It’s this place,’ said Tristan. ‘Just look at that.’ He pointed to a spectacular monastery complex melting out of the mist as they approached the tiny port of Pyrgos along the way.
‘That’s the Bulgarian Zograf Monastery. Impressive, isn’t it?’
‘How do you know this?’
‘I’ve been here before.’
Tristan turned to face Jack. ‘You have? You never told me about that. When?’
‘A few years ago. Just after I met you, and Will and I found Anna living with Aboriginal people in the outback, and we rescued her and her baby in the Kimberley—’
‘And my mother died protecting Anna from that monster in the hospital in Broome,’ interjected Tristan with sadness in his voice.
‘Yes.’
‘You came here, why?’
Jack took his time before replying. ‘To find myself, I suppose. I was in bit of a mess after …’
‘Your friend Will fell to his death during Anna’s spectacular rescue? Katerina told me all about it,’ said Tristan and put his hand on Jack’s arm in a gesture of friendship and reassurance. ‘I know what that did to you, but what I didn’t know was that you came here. For some kind of solace, no doubt.’
‘Very perceptive of you, as usual.’
Tristan smiled but didn’t reply.
‘As you know,’ continued Jack, ‘only men are allowed here, and you need a permit to visit. The monks were very hospitable. They sensed my need and welcomed me. Took me in and looked after me.’
‘In what way?’
‘Apart from food and shelter?’
‘Yes.’
‘They looked after me spiritually and guided me until my wounds began to heal. They included me in their daily activities during my stay here. We went to church at two in the morning to pray, and stayed until six. Then we had a hearty breakfast – the food is outstanding here, the monks grow all their own stuff – and after that, we went to work in the fields until sundown.’
Tristan nodded. ‘Can you feel it?’ he said, holding up his hand.
‘Feel what?’
‘Difficult to put into words. Spirituality would be the closest. This place radiates a sense of peace, calm.’
‘Or perhaps love?’
ventured Jack.
Tristan was surprised. ‘Yes, that’s exactly what it is. You amaze me at times with—’
‘Occasional insights? Not bad for an incorrigible rascal, you mean?’
‘Something like that.’
‘Will’s death took a lot out of me, and then came that horror with your mother, and that showdown with the Wizard.’
‘Dark times. The Wizard was the personification of evil. The cycle had to be broken, but that always comes at a cost. Someone had to pay.’
As Tristan was talking about something very painful and personal, Jack knew it was time to change the subject. ‘Look. Here we are,’ he said, as the boat approached the wharf at Dafni. Because it was the first boat of the day, there were only a few passengers on board. An elderly monk dressed in a simple black cassock approached Jack as soon as he stepped on shore, and introduced himself as Father Theophilos.
‘Brother Acrivos is expecting you. I will take you to him,’ he said. ‘I will also show you to your quarters and be your guide while you are with us. We follow a strict protocol here. You will dine with me at the refectory of Pantokratoros. I will explain everything.’
‘Thank you. I have been here before,’ said Jack, ‘and have benefited greatly from the hospitality in this remarkable place. And the guidance I received,’ he added quietly.
Stroking his long grey beard, Father Theophilos looked thoughtfully at Jack and smiled. ‘I hope that it will be the same this time. Brother Acrivos lives in a remote skete in Karoulia – a reclusive, pious community. All by himself in a cell on a cliff edge high above the sea. It’s the most isolated part of Mount Athos.’
Father Theophilos paused, collecting his thoughts, a little unsure if he should continue. ‘He has left monastic life behind and prefers to live as a hermit in complete isolation, far away from the distractions of everyday life here. He has been quite poorly lately; that’s why he couldn’t come himself and has asked me to take you to him. Access to his cell is quite difficult, as you will see. Come.’
The view from the clifftop was breathtaking. The morning mist had lifted, and the imposing mountain with its heavily wooded slopes reaching up to the summit some two thousand metres above sea level, inspired awe with its timeless beauty and majestic proportions pointing to heaven.
Jack looked down to the waves crashing against the rocks below. That’s when he noticed three small lean-to-like dwellings wedged between crevices halfway down to the beach. They looked like swallows’ nests clinging precariously to lofty rafters in a country barn. ‘Is that where we are going?’ he said and pointed to a narrow set of steep steps chiselled out of virgin rock.
‘Yes, that’s where Brother Acrivos lives,’ said Father Theophilus. ‘As you can see, the place is difficult to reach with all these ladders further down, and only a chain to hold onto for support. It’s particularly precarious in the rain.’
‘I can imagine.’
‘That’s why supplies are winched down in a large basket. Much safer that way, and faster. As long as you hold on to the chain, you will be fine,’ said Father Theophilus. ‘I’ll go down first; come.’
Brother Acrivos was lying on a narrow wooden bed facing a window overlooking the sea. He propped himself up on his elbows and looked at his visitors. It was impossible to tell his age, but the grey streaks in his long hair and unkempt beard suggested a man well past sixty. Jack noticed that he was frightfully thin and the haunted look in his restless, feverish eyes reminded him of something he had seen before, especially during his days as a war correspondent in Afghanistan: approaching death.
‘Ah, Mr Rogan and his young companion. Welcome to my humble lodgings,’ said Brother Acrivos, his voice surprisingly strong for such a feeble-looking man. ‘Forgive me for not getting up, but last night was particularly difficult for me. I’m on the end stretch, you see; cancer. Not long now …’
‘I should go,’ said Father Theophilos.
Brother Acrivos raised his right hand and pointed to Jack. ‘Before you do, there’s something you should know about Mr Rogan here, and his young friend.’
‘Yes? What?’
‘It was Mr Rogan who found Kazanskaya Bogomater and returned her to the Alexander Nevsky Cathedral in Yekaterinburg last year. We all saw it on TV, remember?’
Father Theophilos looked thunderstruck. ‘Are you serious?’
‘Absolutely. That’s one of the reasons I’ve agreed to see him.’
Father Theophilos turned to Jack. ‘It was you standing next to the pope and Patriarch Nicodemus in the Cathedral?’
Jack nodded.
‘And it was you who carried the holy icon up to the altar, placed it on its pedestal and returned it to where it belongs?’
‘Yes,’ said Jack. ‘That was me.’
Father Theophilos shook his head, unable to hide his surprise. ‘That was history in the making. Would you mind if I introduced you during dinner at the refectory this evening? And perhaps you could say a few words about this to the monks? I know they would love to hear your story.’
‘It would be my pleasure,’ said Jack, always ready to oblige when storytelling was involved.
‘You do know that we have a precious icon right here at Mount Athos?’ said Brother Acrivos.
‘Yes, the sacred eleventh-century icon of the Panagia,’ replied Jack, ‘known as the Axion Estin. As I understand it, the whole of Mount Athos is in fact dedicated to the Panagia.’
Brother Acrivos looked impressed. Few visitors knew that.
‘Amazing,’ said Father Theophilos and turned to leave.
‘Before you go, there’s something about the young man here you should know as well,’ said Brother Acrivos.
Father Theophilos stopped and looked at Tristan. ‘What?’ he said.
‘He can hear the whisper of angels and glimpse eternity,’ whispered Brother Acrivos, ‘just like me.’
Brother Acrivos’s reputation as a psychic, who had worked with the police throughout Europe on high-profile criminal cases for years, was well known at Mount Athos. His psychic powers were questioned by many of the monks and viewed with scepticism, bordering on dismissive disdain. It was one of the main reasons he had withdrawn from monastic life and preferred to live in ascetic isolation.
‘I don’t think I’m quite ready for that just yet,’ said Father Theophilos. With that, he took a bow. ‘I will see you both this evening,’ he said and stepped outside.
‘A sceptic, as you can see,’ said Brother Acrivos, smiling, and pointed to two chairs by the window. ‘No matter, I’m used to it. Psychic powers are difficult to accept for monks here. I think they feel intimidated by them. They feel uneasy about things they don’t understand and therefore threatens their faith. Yet, there’s absolutely no need to feel threatened by these matters, isn’t that right?’
Tristan nodded, watching the fascinating man on the bed in front of him with interest.
Taking a deep breath, Brother Acrivos turned to face Tristan. ‘Francesca has told me a little about you. She said you have an extraordinary gift: psychic powers. Can you tell me about that?’
Tristan was a little taken aback by the unexpected question, and took his time before replying. ‘Not everything around us can be explained in rational terms, my mother used to tell me. She was a Māori psychic just like her mother before her, living in New Zealand. What if psychic powers and insights are nothing more than a key to open a door to something that is perfectly natural, but hidden, and has always existed but not everyone has a key, or knows what to do with it?’
Brother Acrivos nodded, seemingly pleased with the explanation so far.
‘What if,’ said Jack, stepping in, ‘all of us are part of a huge human memory bank, a repository of all of our experiences as a human race that can be tapped into by those who know how, and have the “gift”? While this may appear strange and far-fetched to some, why is this notion any stranger than, say, the recently discovered dark matter in our genome that appears to be a record of our entire evo
lution? Footprints, so to speak, left behind by nature for us to find and discover?’
‘Very good. I was an illiterate shepherd boy on Ithaca, a small Ionian island with a turbulent history reaching back to ancient times,’ said Brother Acrivos. ‘According to Homer, it was the home of the mythical Odysseus. I discovered early on that I had the gift. My grandmother had it too, and taught me how to use it. It grew stronger as I grew older, and then came a day that changed my life: I helped solve a murder case on the island, and it all went from there.’
Jack pointed to a book on the floor next to the bed. ‘I can see you are reading Carl Jung,’ he said.
‘Very observant of you,’ said Brother Acrivos and picked up the book – Synchronicity: An Acausal Connecting Principle – and held it up. ‘I am particularly interested in synchronicity, a fascinating concept developed by Jung that has resonated with me for years.’
‘Please explain,’ said Tristan.
‘According to Jung, who as you no doubt know worked closely with Freud, synchronicity is a meaningful coincidence of two or more events where something other than the probability of chance is involved—’
‘Meaningful coincidence?’ interrupted Jack. ‘But Jung believed in the paranormal, didn’t he?’
‘Oh yes, he did,’ said Brother Acrivos and put down the book. ‘But you didn’t come here to discuss analytical psychology and hypothetical matters, but a specific case: the tragic case of Maurice Landru.’
‘That’s right.’
‘Then please listen to what I have to say, as this is most likely the only time we will meet. I can think of no better example of synchronicity than you coming here today to talk to me about Landru. What is happening right now, here in this place, is nothing more than a meaningful coincidence with no apparent causal relationship, which is nevertheless meaningfully related. You will see in a moment exactly what I mean. Just consider how and why you came to see me here, today, to talk about Landru. That’s a good start.’
Jack pulled his little notebook and pen out of his pocket, removed the rubber band and began to take notes.
The Death Mask Murders Page 5
