by Alex Thomas
"We need your gift, Catherine. Your second gift."
All at once she felt the old man’s presence and sensed he had not come alone. There were suddenly other figures close to the tomb, shadows surrounded by a blinding circle of light.
"I don’t have a second gift," she explained.
"Oh yes, you do," said the man. "You just aren’t aware of it because it comes naturally to you. I am talking about your energy, or rather your ability to take on your environment’s energy without harming anyone. I want to add mine to it."
What was the old man talking about? She didn’t have superhuman energy. Never did! His response sounded like laughter. She looked at him and suddenly recognised who he was…
Benelli!
"Your mission has begun, Catherine. Now let me tell you what to do next."
25
LUKE…
Even before Ben had left Abel’s flat, he was clear that there was only one direction in which he could investigate further. He had to go back to Benelli’s villa. It was the only place in which he could find out what type of connection Darius and the cardinal had and what LUKE stood for.
Abel had searched the Internet for clues about LUKE, but he came up empty-handed, at least in terms of the connection between Darius, Benelli and Lux. Various companies came up during the search under that name including artists’ paintings, a young professional football player, a publishing house, a comedy series and much more. They had finally come upon the name’s original meaning. It came from the Latin and described a person who comes from Lucania. Ben realised the exact translation was more interesting: "To be born in the light," stemming from the Latin word lux. Did LUKE have something to do with the CORONA project that Ben recalled from his childhood at Chicago’s CIPG?
When he left Rome and cast a look in the rear view mirror, he noticed an unusual glimmer of light on the horizon coming from his direction. The rain had finally stopped and the moon shone through the clouds with a fiery red. Perhaps a bolt of lightning had struck somewhere? He took a detour to Benelli’s estate as he doubted the rescue team had already removed the tree that had nearly meant his doom.
He finally reached the villa. It stood there like a fortress, but Ben knew from earlier visits with Cardinal Ciban that this building – at least for him – was hardly invincible. There were no watchdogs or watchmen, just a security system he was quite familiar with and the usual personnel. The villa was completely dark. Nothing pointed to the tragedy that had just transpired only a few hours before.
When Ben neared the house on a side path, he noticed that something was missing in the darkness. The security system’s red diode on the aluminium panel next to the main entrance was not on. That meant the alarm had been turned off. Had the house staff forgotten in all its distress to turn it on?
He crept toward the entranceway to make certain the alarm was not activated. He noticed that the diode on one of the side entrances was also not on.
He glanced at his watch. He had an hour at most before the house staff began to stir. He had no time to lose.
Within thirty seconds he broke into the side entrance door and found himself standing in a dark, narrow corridor. The delivery service entrance. Ben needed to get to the other side of the villa where Benelli’s library and office were located.
While his eyes adjusted to the dim light, he made a mental run through of all his personal notes surrounding the case. He was a Vatican agent, not a profiler. Nonetheless he had been able to think about the profiles of both perpetrator and victim in the past few days. He knew close to nothing about the perpetrator, but at least he was able to draw a picture of what he looked like thanks to the surveillance cameras. The victim was another story. He had known him personally.
The perpetrator was between thirty-five and forty-five years old, was more than 1.85 metres tall and weighed about ninety kilograms. He had a strong, athletic build with short, brown hair. He was also a cold-blooded liar who was both charming and extremely intelligent. He was no amateur. He had a lot of experience with murder, which led Ben to believe he himself had no personal motive to kill his victims. But did he have an individual advantage if the priest was dead? Did Darius know something that could endanger Lux Domini?
Ben wondered once again if it was possible that a part of the research department for which Darius worked might have been involved in some kind of criminal scheme. Is that why Ciban had blocked any further investigation? He had had no idea what kind of work the priest had done in the past few years. Abel hadn’t known either and he had been the priest’s last student. Could LUKE be the final research project on which Darius had worked? If yes, what part did His Eminence Cardinal Benelli play in it?
He thought about the victim’s profile. Darius had been seventy-four years old, but he had the constitution of a man in his late 50s. Honest. Selfless. Darius loved people. Beyond that he was also a gifted medium even though Ben had never found out which gift his former mentor had possessed. Ben knew just as little about the type of research the priest had done. But LUKE was the only connection between Darius and Benelli, at least when it came to Lux Domini. And now both Darius and Benelli were dead.
As Ben made his way through the villa’s silence, the dark corridors and chambers under which an enormous cellar must lie, he mentally put together the first profile regarding the cardinal, even though he was still missing some crucial information.
Benelli had been a small, chubby man, completely out of shape but somehow still very agile and intelligent. Like Darius he was charming and emotionally extremely intelligent. Ben didn’t know how long he had been a Lux Domini member. At any rate, Benelli had been a somewhat influential cardinal of the Roman Curia. And as Catherine had said, he had an aura like Darius’!
Ben looked around in the darkness and tried to focus. A narrow elegant marble staircase at the end of the dark corridor led into the somewhat better lit ground floor of the villa. Hidden lamps cast indirect lighting on the room, creating a pleasantly dim atmosphere. He carefully slipped passed one of the Roman statues. He thought he must be walking through the stucco gallery depicting scenes from Ovid’s Metamorphoses and select myths from antiquity. The arch showcased several paintings, including a representation of Narcissus as he self-absorbedly peered at his own reflection in the water.
After Ben had crossed the gallery and two more splendid rooms, he found himself very close to the library, which was located far beyond the large reception hall. He once again thought about what Catherine had said during the car ride. Darius’ and the cardinal’s auras were like twins, something she had never seen before. He then asked himself if Benelli’s motive for killing himself had something to do with Darius’ murder. Was there a connection?
For a moment, Ben stood there, not knowing what to do. Had he just heard a noise? He peered down the dim corridor. He couldn’t see anyone, but that meant nothing given the number of niches, doors and side entrances the villa had. He held his breath for another moment, waited and listened before starting up again with a rising feeling of nausea in his stomach. No, there was no way out now. He had almost reached Benelli’s office behind the library.
The door to the room stood open. He looked at the glass-protected shelves that were as high as two floors. For a second he thought he might have seen something out of the corner of his eye. A spark or a reflection. But when he looked directly at it, he realised they were only the gold-laced spines of the thick volumes.
He scurried forward as if on tiptoe and listened at the tilted office door. No light. No sound. Nothing. He then slipped through the small opening into the office without touching the door. The nausea in the pit of his stomach rose a notch further. No matter. He had made it.
Once again he had to wait a moment until his eyes adjusted to the poorer light conditions. He found the dimmer switch on the wall and regulated the light so he could see better. He headed for the desk, searching his jacket pocket for the small LED lamp that he kept in a secret compartment in the trunk o
f his car. Ten minutes later he had completely searched the desk and had come up with nothing. Oddly not one of the drawers had been locked. From what he could tell Benelli hadn’t kept anything suspicious there. On the other hand…something didn’t seem right. Something was…missing.
Ben moved his gaze from the desk to the adjacent shelves and filing cabinets. Just as he wanted to go to one of the sideboards, he noticed that the rolling drawer of one of the filing cabinets wasn’t quite closed. It stood open about a centimetre. He quietly made his way to the filing cabinet, pulled the drawer open and shone his lamp inside.
Darn!
Someone must have hurriedly searched the drawer and ran out of time before being able to close it correctly. A part of the file was missing. The drawer under "L" was completely empty. "L" could stand for "Lux" and "Luke".
The nausea in Ben’s stomach returned immediately. He might not have imagined that sound in the corridor after all. Perhaps the person who had gone through the drawer was still there with him in this room?
Ben took a deep breath, closed the drawer and decided to act as if he had noticed nothing of the kind. But in that moment he looked at the desk and he suddenly realised what had irritated him in the first place. A cable hung from the side of the desktop, pointing to the heavy rug. But there was no computer to be seen.
In that precise moment as he made this realisation, he caught something in the corner of his eye. Someone was coming at him and hit him on the temple. He fell to the floor.
26
It was pitch black, musty, raw and damp. Ben had a droning sensation in his head as if he had been run over by a herd of buffalo. He tasted dried blood. Just as he wanted to raise his hands to his pounding temples, he realised he couldn’t because his arms were tied together in a sling over his head. His feet were tied together as well. But it wasn’t just the shackles. He had the dull feeling that maybe he was lying on a torture table.
The nausea in his stomach quickly turned to panic. He had a hard time quelling the sudden desire to vomit. Then he remembered…Benelli, the villa, Benelli’s office…
Damn, he must still be in the villa. Most likely in the circuitous labyrinth-like cellar vaults and tunnels deep beneath the living area. The building had been built upon the foundation of a much older estate building. Ben had only searched out this area with Ciban once before during some research. He came upon some human remains as one would in an underground graveyard. By God, down here in many sections there wasn’t even electric light, not to mention that even if he could call for help, no one could ever hear him.
At once he realised something else too. Down here in the pitch darkness and cold, he was not alone. He started to yank wildly at his chains.
"Senseless," said a thin, icy male voice. A slip of light filled the room. "As you most likely know, the word ’torture’ comes from the Latin. Originally, it pertained to a medical term, an expression for pain and suffering. The stretching rack is only one of the ways to get at the truth. In Europe, its use spanned from the Middle Ages to the beginning of the nineteenth century. This villa knows a thing or two about it."
"What do you want from me?" Ben’s heart pounded mercilessly, but somehow he managed to keep his voice steady.
The thin, ice-cold voice came closer, but not close enough to reveal the person’s face. "What were you looking for in Cardinal Benelli’s office, Monsignor?"
"What if I were to say, ‘Nothing!’?" asked Ben. He didn’t feel as nearly as heroic as he acted.
The stranger walked behind the torture table and slightly tightened the rope with the manual lever. Ben felt the stretch in his entire body immediately, especially in his arms. "I hate to repeat myself: What were you doing in Benelli’s office?"
Ben decided to gain some time by countering with a question. "Why did you remove His Eminence’s computer and the files?"
The stranger took some time in answering, if he intended on answering at all. But then he finally said: "Can’t you answer the question yourself?"
"Either you are looking for something or you want to cover something up. Who are you?"
"Now you see. We have two answers at once. I’m only interested in one thing: What were you looking for in Benelli’s office?"
"If I only knew. Perhaps his secret?"
The stranger let out an ominous laugh. "You have a sense of humour. Well, it might help you withstand the torture a bit better."
He moved the lever once again and Ben’s arms were pulled even more brutally over his head. This time he felt real pain, groaned and suppressed the desire to scream.
"Did your boss never show you this part of the villa?" asked the stranger with avid interest.
Ben cursed silently. "I’m guessing this here is the secret dungeon."
The stranger took a step forward, just far enough so he could see him like a shadow from his peripheral vision. "Many an unpleasant tale has been passed down about this place, woven with insanity and blood, the cross and the sword. But as the last male offspring in his family, your boss most certainly won’t be interested in warming up old tales. The latest drama isn’t even that long ago either."
"Cardinal Ciban’s family history doesn’t interest me," Ben coughed. The pain in his arms was becoming unbearable. "It is none of my business." In reality he knew Ciban’s past history quite well, at least the public parts. He didn’t like working for people whose background he didn’t know. But the stranger was right: where there is much light, there are many shadows too. The cross and the sword that the man mentioned stood for nothing less than the Vatican’s secret service. Ben had heard the rumour that the Vatican’s secret service had been responsible for the death of Ciban’s only sister.
"A little bit," said the voice calmly. "Don’t trust your boss too much. Because trust is something he doesn’t deserve. But let’s get back to the topic at hand: What were you hoping to find in Cardinal Benelli’s office?"
"I don’t know," Ben said, groaning from the pain. "But I bet you will find out when you search the files and the computer?"
The stranger pulled the rope a bit further. Sheer agony racked Ben’s body. He felt as if he could hear a deafening cracking in his shoulder sockets.
"At this point you will still fight against the tension," explained the voice with a coldness that ran shivers down Ben’s back, "not only with your arm and leg muscles, but with your stomach muscles too. In the next stage the strength in your limbs will immediately give out. First you will lose strength in your arms, then in your legs. The ligaments will rip first, then your muscle tissue. In the stage thereafter your stomach muscles will burst. And when I happily continue the torture tomorrow morning, your limbs will be completely dislocated. Believe me when I say the pain of this torture will be unimaginable."
Ben didn’t answer. His body was sore and soaked in sweat. Every fibre of his being hurt as if he were on fire. The stranger waited a moment, then approached the torture table. He wore a hooded robe that completely covered him. But he was as tall as Ben.
"How do you feel?"
"Like shit. And you know what: You won’t achieve anything by torturing me. Not a thing."
"I hope you are clear how serious your situation is. This is not a joke."
Ben looked around the dim room, then looked back at the stranger without saying a word. Damn! What kind of trouble were Darius and Benelli involved in? And what did Ciban know?
"You’re tough. Tougher than I thought," said the stranger quietly. "What can I say – we no longer live in the Middle Ages. And to be honest, I loathe violence."
With these words he opened a bag standing next to the torture table and took out a syringe and a vile with a fluorescent liquid. He filled the syringe, pressed the plunger and let out some of the air pockets through the needle’s tip.
Ben tugged at his chains. "What the devil…"
"The devil has nothing to do with it. But since you aren’t willing to cooperate, I have been forced to rely on a more appropriate instrument to get to
the truth. No worries, it isn’t sodium amytal. This is much more effective. After it has been administered, you will be most communicative and open with the slightest of inhibitions."
The hooded figure came at Ben with the filled syringe. He stared at it and felt a cold shiver run down his spine. What kind of fluorescent infernal stuff was this? It looked like liquid fire. He had never seen anything like it before in his life. What he knew about amytal is that it not only made you talkative, but it could also lead to brain haemorrhages. The active ingredient could make you insane or even kill you. And this luminous infernal stuff could do that too.
The stranger administered the syringe. Shortly thereafter, Ben had the feeling he was swimming in fluorescent blood.
27
After taking her shower, Catherine lay completely exhausted across her bed and stared at the white ceiling. It was the middle of the night. Not quite. The morning hour was about to dawn and after her strange dream, she hadn’t had a moment of shut-eye. She looked over at the digital clock on the nightstand, registered what time it was, then promptly forgot.
By God, what did her crazy series of dreams mean? Wasn’t the whole thing simply ridiculous?
She snapped on the small ceiling light, sat up and leaned herself back in a cross-legged position with her back against the wall of pillows. The encounter with Benelli still felt so real that her actual surroundings in the guesthouse room felt like a dream. At that hour even the exotic two thousand year old starlit sky over Golgotha seemed to have greater substance than the lamp above her head. She closed her eyes tightly for a moment and took a deep breath.
What should she do? To whom could she speak about her dream? Who would even believe her? Even she did not believe her dream, not to mention Benelli’s completely crazy plan. She, of all people, should be the one to protect the Pope?! And with nothing more than her spiritual energy?
Did it sound crazy? Somehow it did. But it didn’t sound any crazier than all the bizarre things that had transpired in the past twelve hours. Catherine also had the sense that what she had seen was only the tip of the iceberg.
