Blood Symbols

by Izak Botha

  Simon had had intuitions before; some form of sixth sense. His ability to predict things had started early. As a child, he had anticipated events weeks in advance. It was an unusual skill, which some considered a blessing. Others thought it represented occult powers and was therefore a curse. In the past, such individuals were burned at the stake. For Simon, it was normal, just the way he was born. He did not know how it worked, and recognized science had no explanation for it. Though his premonitions were as dependable as death itself, he had no control over them; they occurred on their own schedule, seemingly at their own will, making any sort of scientific validation through replicable testing impossible.

  Even so, his foresight was real enough and he trusted it, in some measure, more than his other senses, it had proved reliable so often. It was this that drove him into his study. He crossed the room to a full-length painting hanging on the wall behind his desk. Tucking his index finger behind its Baroque frame, he pressed a switch. The painting clicked loose and tilted forwards. He swung it open to reveal a safe. He typed a code on the keypad, waited impatiently for it to unlock, and swung open the eight-inch steel door.

  All his personal documents lay neatly stacked on the middle shelf. Items of jewelry and bundles of cash lay directly below that. None of these were a concern. He took his Browning pistol from the top shelf, pushed down the safety pin, then pulled the slide back and checked for a round in its chamber. Contrary to habit of returning the hammer and flicking the safety catch to its locked position, he half-cocked the weapon instead. He then took out his harness and felt the weight of the two magazines to make sure they were loaded. They were. Finally, he took a pack of notes and slid it into his back pocket.

  After locking the safe and returning the painting back to its original position, he checked his watch. It was nearly eight. Jennifer had better get moving; they had already missed the chance to catch last flight, he was sure, and now they were at risk of being apprehended. They would still try for the airport, but failing to make a flight, they would have to head on for the Greek border. Yes, the birthplace of Western civilization was presently an economic mess, but Syria and Iraq were both out of the question, and Greece was at least devoid of the organized crime and corruption of Bulgaria. Along the way, they could stay at a guesthouse; that would be safer than staying at the farm. His heart throbbed faster. Somehow, he knew these were futile thoughts and there was something unforeseen about to happen.

  He decided to check the flight times, but as he clicked the mouse to call up the internet on the desktop monitor, he heard a ticking sound come from the passage outside his study. At first, he told himself it was Jennifer closing the shower door, but given the distance between his bedroom and the study—plus the fact that he remembered closing the bedroom door—her presence seemed unlikely. There it was again! Remaining still, he turned the noise over in his head. What was it? It had almost sounded like the ticking of a window blind. This happened when the wind picked up, causing the pull-button to hit against the glass if the window was slightly open, as his housekeeper sometimes left it. This drove him crazy, especially at night when he was trying to sleep. To reassure himself he leaned over the desk and drew the blind back. He looked across the lawn at the trees in the garden. To his surprise, they were motionless. Not a leaf stirred.

  His head swung towards the hallway. It could have been Jennifer, but he was doubtful. Then, he heard the noise again. Flinging the harness over his shoulders, he charged through the doorway. The adrenalin surge tricked his brain into believing he was moving slowly. His pistol was cocked and ready to fire at the slightest sign of movement. Years of Israeli military service had kicked in. First response was attack, then follow-up. You did not stop unless your enemy was either dead or disarmed. Wars began with patriotism and ideals, but they soon became a matter of simple survival; turning living itself into killing to live, and for the soldier’s own safety, mercy could only come to those lying on their faces.

  Simon sprinted down the passage. Passing an open window, he saw two intruders in the courtyard, both armed. He halted on the other side of the window and peeked out. One man was already climbing through his bedroom window. He fired twice, hitting the man in the jugular and cheekbone. The intruder slammed against the bedroom window, spun completely around and dropped, blood spurting from his neck and head. Simon’s next two rounds hit the second intruder in the chest, one near the heart and the other in the right lung. The force of the shots sent the man’s body crashing through the bedroom window.

  Pistol clutched in both hands, Simon continued to the bedroom. He knew more were on their way and desperately needed to know where they were, but there was no time. He had to get to Jennifer. Keeping his back to the wall, he approached his bedroom. Just before reaching the door, another assailant sprang from the TV room shooting.

  Simon ducked just in time, and the first round clipped him in the shoulder; the second missed, striking the wall inches above his head. Adrenalin must have numbed him because he could not feel anything. He fired over the top of the desk, both rounds hitting his opponent in the sternum. The hollow-point rounds exploded the man’s chest, leaving gaping wounds as they left his body. The intruder collapsed backwards, smashing into the grandfather clock and landing on the gore-splattered floor.

  ‘Simon!’ Jennifer screamed from the bedroom.

  Simon did not wait to see if the wounded assailants stayed down. He reached for the bedroom door. There was no time to check whether Jennifer had locked it. Like a wounded bull, he bashed in the door. The timbers ripped from the hinges and crashed inwards. He tumbled forward, landing on one knee. A man was pushing the barrel of an MP5 to Jennifer’s temple. A second man stood behind her, holding her arms behind her back. He posed the lesser threat. He would die second.

  Simon’s finger was poised on the trigger of his Browning, but his heart failed him. He would not risk getting Jennifer killed. He relaxed his trigger finger, but held his aim steady on the intruder with the MP5.

  ‘Drop it!’ he snapped.

  ‘Drop yours,’ the intruder with the MP5 said, ‘or she dies!’

  Jennifer’s face was red and swollen. She was still wet from the shower and had not even had the time to cover herself, revealing her nakedness. They had also hit her and tears and spit pooled around her lips. Simon wanted to shift his gaze to her—wanted to make eye contact like they had when she had fallen into the chasm to let her know everything would turn out fine—but he dared not lose focus. Any wrong move and they would both die. He remained kneeling. Realizing he would have to move, his focus remained on the gunman. ‘If you do anything stupid,’ he said, ‘you die first.’

  Suddenly, Jennifer began struggling to free herself. The man holding her clapped his hand over her mouth. He squeezed down hard, but she shook loose.

  ‘Behind you!’ she cried.

  Simon knew what she meant, but he had no time to react. He heard the telltale click of a pistol’s hammer being cocked. The firearm was inches behind his head. When a voice ordered him to lower his weapon, he remained still.

  ‘Do it now!’

  Simon held his aim.

  ‘I’ll say this one more time!’

  Simon shifted his gaze to Jennifer and their eyes met. She was determined not to return to Rome. She would rather die than surrender.

  ‘Shoot me, Simon,’ she cried. ‘Just kill me.’

  He did not waver. He needed time to make the right decision.

  ‘Simon, shoot me!’

  ‘No Jennifer, be calm. We’ll get through this.’

  Simon lowered his pistol. ‘Just do as they say.’ He could not see her die.

  ‘Slowly ...’ said the voice behind Simon.

  Simon placed his pistol on the floor.

  ‘Now slide it back towards me.’

  Simon flipped the pistol back towards the man behind him. ‘You are trespassing,’ he said, his voice now composed.

  ‘So were you.’

  The voice behind Si
mon had a distinct Italian accent. It could only be one man. ‘You’re the head of the gendarmerie?’

  ‘Let me introduce myself. I’m Inspector General Arnaldo Verretti.’

  The synapses in Simon’s brain flashed. If Verretti had wanted them dead, he would have given the order already. It meant he was after the letter. That bought them time. To get the letter, Verretti would need to keep them alive. They would use Jennifer as leverage. How many times had he foreseen this? He might as well have written the script himself. He needed time.

  ‘What do you want?’

  ‘You know what I want,’ Verretti snarled. ‘You took something that doesn’t belong to you.’

  ‘First, let her go. She has nothing to do with this.’

  ‘Right, and I’m the Second Coming,’ Verretti laughed. ‘You know I can’t do that.’

  ‘I forced her to come with me. She knows nothing.’

  ‘Then she has nothing to fear, does she?’ Verretti was now in front of Simon, the muzzle of his Glock touching the Turk’s forehead. ‘The letter, where is it?’

  Simon had to find a way to get Jennifer away from them. He could worry about himself later. Uri might also still be at the site. He often worked late, and he was likely to be awake tonight. He dreaded what would happen if the inspector decided to go to the site and found the professor still there.

  The butt of Verretti’s pistol struck Simon behind his ear. The skin split, and he fell sideways.

  Simon struggled to right himself. The blow had caused a ringing in both his ears, but as if from a distance, he could still hear Jennifer pleading for him. He held his head, blood oozing through his fingers. He struggled back onto one knee. Verretti was not there to negotiate, that was evident. But he did not know where the letter was. Their only hope lay with the professor. He somehow had to get word to him. He noticed Jennifer fighting to free herself and motioned for her to calm down, saying he was all right.

  Verretti kicked Simon in the back, forcing the Turk to the ground. As Lioni ran through the door, he ordered the adjutant to handcuff Simon. He waited as Lioni—knee pushed into Simon’s shoulder blades—drew their captive’s arms behind his back. When Lioni was done handcuffing Simon, he helped pull him to his feet.

  ‘Take him out and wait in the living room,’ Verretti ordered. ‘I’ll be there in a few minutes.’ Then, in a cruel, mocking tone, he added, ‘We can’t let our new friend go out in the nude now, can we. That would be unseemly.’

  Simon heard Jennifer scream frantically as they dragged him from the room.

  Chapter 40

  Two thousand kilometers to the west, Colonel Schreider made sure Father Franco had retired for the day before he slipped into the Penitentiary. His Eminence Santori’s summons that morning had sparked a sequence of events that seemed to be spiraling out of control. It was clear from the events that the cardinal was withholding crucial information regarding the Church, and if so, was Schreider still obligated to honour his pledge? Was it his duty to protect the Church’s leadership even when they broke their own vows? It was only his faith in God that had brought him to the coveted position of commander in the first place. How could he protect a man whose actions were contrary to both God and man? He felt sick.

  These thoughts appalled Schreider. Even thinking them was a betrayal of his pledge. How could he maintain his integrity? He turned to Weber, who was waiting for him to lock the office door. On the way, he had told his captain about the vault and the secret letter taken from it. He did not want his most trusted soldier to break his vows as well, but the man had the right to know the truth. Schreider would not have involved his second-in-command otherwise.

  For his part, though, Weber would take a bullet for his commander. Not that he ever expected it to come to that—Schreider, he knew, would rather take the bullet himself. Defending Schreider was one thing, defying the Holy See, something else entirely; essentially, the colonel was asking him to commit treason against both God and country.

  Weber was not insensible to the strangeness of Santori’s behavior or the injustice if Schreider’s suspicions proved true. Thus, he had joined his commander in what could yet prove the most quixotic mission either of them had ever undertaken. He stood beside the colonel, scanning the entrance to Father Franco’s office. Satisfied no one had seen them enter, he closed the office door behind him.

  ‘I’m not happy about this, Oberst,’ he protested.

  Schreider gave him a hard look. ‘Suppose one of the cardinals is a murderer; I can’t imagine their infallibility allows them to break one of the Ten Commandments and, then, blaming it on someone else, break another.’

  Weber felt as if he were confronting the Devil. ‘Damn it, Oberst! You can’t say that.’

  ‘We’re the ones giving them their power,’ Schreider said. ‘Do they really deserve it? I need an honest answer, Franz—would you desert them?’

  Weber looked down. His commander was questioning his loyalty to the Holy Father. ‘I’ve taken a solemn vow.’

  ‘So you would defend them, even though they are breaking God’s laws? What does it take then? Who do you worship, Christ or a bunch of old men in red cassocks making out as if they represent Him?’

  ‘Are you testing me, Oberst?’

  ‘Stay with me Franz. … Just tell me how you feel.’

  Confronted with his senior’s persistence, Weber contemplated the question. At last he said, ‘They are the custodians of God’s power and authority. We need them. Our salvation depends on them.’

  ‘Yes, yes. I know that’s what they tell us, but ask yourself, is that really the truth?’

  Weber thought deeply. The idea of being disloyal to God’s elite was frightening.

  The more Schreider thought about it himself, the more he needed to know if his oath deserved his loyalty. Proof lay right there in the Penitentiary; of that he was certain.

  Ignoring his captain’s panic, Schreider moved over to the hearth. ‘Look. The fact is that Santori probably killed Yilmaz this morning and blamed it on this Simon person, who stole a letter that the cardinals have admitted is evidence that the Church is lying to the faithful. In the light of that, I have no problem breaking an oath that was founded on a deception. I want to uphold God’s law, not pledge vows that protect evil, and to do that we have to get into the vault.’

  He pulled the pike from its holster and held it out to his captain. Like the Swiss Guard’s halberd, the weapon consisted of a shaft and a spearhead, but instead of the customary steel axe, this spearhead was made from brass and in the shape of a fleur-de-lis.

  Holding the pike out before him, Schreider demonstrated how, from the side, the spearhead looked like a two-dimensional three-petal fleur-de-lis. He also showed Weber how, viewed straight on, it resembled a Maltese cross with four leaves and eight points.

  Schreider noted the confusion on the captain’s face and lifted the pike to the circle motif cut into the side of the hearth, which also contained a Maltese cross. He inserted the spearhead into the center of the cross, aligning the fleur-de-lis petals with the arms of the Maltese.

  The petals pressed against the fleurs-de-lis, driving them outwards. Suddenly the brass head disappeared into a hole. He continued sliding the pike deep into the hearth until it stopped against an object on the opposite side. He tapped the butt of the shaft to see if it would go any farther in, but nothing happened. When he tried to move the hearth forward but with the same result, he crossed to the other side of the hearth. Removing the symmetrically placed pike from the opposite wall, he inserted it into the matching cross. He slid it in as far as it would go and had Weber mirror each move. Standing on the library side, they pushed against the pikes to see if the hearth would shift towards Santori’s office. Frustrated when nothing happened, Schreider rotated the pike.

  A thud followed as the brass head slotted into place.

  When Weber followed suit, the locking mechanism disengaged. Suddenly the hearth moved, revealing the secret entrance. ‘There’s n
o way the Maggiore would have brought a junior priest in here with him,’ he said staring into the abyss. ‘Not if the letter is blasphemous.’

  Schreider stopped by his captain’s side. ‘Exactly, and did you notice anything about how we just opened the vault?’

  Weber thought for a moment. He was dumbstruck to realize what his commander meant: ‘It takes two to get in here!’

  Schreider turned on his pocket torch. Taking the lead to familiarize his captain with the space, the colonel stopped at the first landing halfway down. After shining the light into the storage area beneath Santori’s office, he descended to the chapel below the library. On reaching the altar, Schreider shone his light where Father Yilmaz had fallen. The blood had dried, but the stench of death lingered.

  ‘Father Yilmaz and our suspect must’ve worked as a team,’ he explained. ‘I can’t see why he’d enter the vault with his killer. It wouldn’t make sense.’

  ‘Unless our suspect used Father Yilmaz to get in and, once he’d found the letter, killed him.’

  ‘That’s possible, sure, but since it takes two to get in here, Father Yilmaz would’ve had time to flee his attacker before entering. Also, the killer left the murder weapon—a knife. Everyone knows about fingerprint evidence, so the only time that happens is when?’

  Trained in forensics as a cadet, Weber knew the answer by rote: ‘When a suspect’s interrupted or trying to frame …’

  ‘Precisely,’ Schreider said. ‘There must’ve been three people in here: two who opened the vault for sure, and a third who either interrupted a murder, or on committing the murder, tried to frame it on someone else. Now we must wonder who had a motive to kill Yilmaz—a person he opened the vault with or another person who wasn’t with them to begin with. Or did Yilmaz and the third person such as Eminence Santori enter the vault, and when the suspect entered to steal the letter, he killed Yilmaz without harming the cardinal. Maybe it’s just me, but it’s hard to imagine the suspect taking on two, killing one but fleeing from the other. Moreover, consider that His Eminence was covered in blood when we were first called to his office. Adjutant Lioni was the first here and he and Father Franco can attest to seeing it. Hell, there are still splotches of blood and bloody footprints in the Maggiore’s office and library, so the fact that His Eminence had contact with a bleeding Yilmaz is beyond any doubt. Now think about us chasing the suspect today. Did you notice anything out of the ordinary?’