“Was that Lionel in there? Was that an accident?” she shouted.
Daniel just gave her an embrace and then let her stand alone.
“No Hélène. I think Lionel has just immolated himself to get away from any further questioning. Whatever he was involved in must be very serious if he was prepared to do that to himself. I can think of far pleasant ways to kill myself than setting myself on fire. But I think Lionel has just given us a major clue that you are going to have to force investigation upon.”
She just stared at him incredulously.
“How can you be so callous at a moment like this? One of my colleagues has just torched himself in a toilet and probably because I had initiated an interrogation of him by you.”
“I’m sorry Hélène that your colleague has just died but I’m trained to deal with it differently than you. I’m from a military background where death is something that will happen and is a daily hazard we always have to accept, whether it is our own, our comrades or those we are with or fighting against. My training has prepared me to separate what happens around me and to make snap decisions or choices for the welfare of others that are still living. Lionel DeChevalier made a choice to kill himself in a manner that history shows that adherents to a particular cause or movement have been prepared to do so as well. The manner of Lionel’s death confirms that he was linked somehow to this ancient Cathar belief and the history or legends that surround their last stand at Montségur. The tattoos on dead bodies commemorating this last stand are the only thing that we really have to go on. The answers to what we need to find out lie somewhere at Montségur and Lionel DeChevalier was the only real connection to there because of his desk ornament. You now have more than enough satisfactory evidence to put before a magistrate to get authorisation for any or all of the various search warrants you require in helping your investigations, and in this day and age, people don’t just go around setting themselves on fire to escape the attention of the law unless there is no other alternative for them to follow. Lionel’s death is suicide to protect something or someone. You are going to have to find out why, who or what that is, because he was your work colleague and something induced him to take his own life.”
The cold honesty of his words cut through her as she realised that Daniel was correct in his assessment. As she was nothing more than a data analyst for governmental agencies, situations such as just now were only ever read about in written reports. She was now processing the harsher realities of life for real – people died and tough decisions have to be made as a result. Her whole DGSE career had been based on the study of information followed by then formulating contingency plans to meet any hypothetical situations. Her recent secondment to Interpol had been a career ploy on her part to further develop these acquired skills within an office-related environment, but she had never considered, let alone even contemplated, her ever being utilised as a field agent. She was now out of her depth and operating way out of her comfort zone when having to deal with some very dark events and happenings.
19.13pm – 14th April, present day.
Montaillou, Rue du Village, Montségur, Occitanie, France.
Arabelle Auguste took the three visitors through to the office and introduced their arrival to Markus Bruscante. Markus got up from his desk to greet them, shook their hands, and after a polite welcoming conversation, he asked Arabelle to take the guests luggage from them and put it in their rooms upstairs. It wasn’t really a request and felt like an order, but Markus’s dismissive manner of her to perform a butler’s duty had irritated her. She could feel hackles beginning to rise on her neck. Calmly, she lifted the luggage to take upstairs, while inwardly, she was seething. As she climbed the wooden staircase, her attention was drawn to reading the luggage labels attached to the holdalls that she carried. The three visitors had just flown into Marseille Provence Airport aboard a Turkish Airlines flight via Istanbul Atatürk Airport in Turkey, from Dushanbe Airport in Tajikistan. Arabelle remembered back to 2012, and the political furore when announcements stated that France would be investing in bringing this Dushanbe Airport up to the specifications of international air traffic standards by providing Tajikistan with a long-term, low-interest €20 million loan.
There had been some heavy criticism levelled at the French government of the time with a growing concern that the allocation of monies to a foreign country would yield a minimal financial return for the investment. But these initial fears were brushed aside as governmental sources quickly revealed that leading French companies would be awarded contracts to undertake the majority of the scheduled construction work. At the same time, it was also disclosed that various charter agreements had been made with several carrier airlines to open up routes to many of the French international airports that could benefit from such an investment at Dushanbe. One of these charter agreements obviously involved Turkish Airlines to operate a domestic route between Tajikistan and Marseille via Turkey, but while impressed to now physically see a French governmental initiative coming to fruition as a result of the airport labels attached to some luggage, she was also concerned about the three guests that had arrived and where they had come from. These were obviously the visitors she had been advised of a few days previously, but what had Tajikistan to do with Montségur and why were they here?
She deposited the bags on top of individual beds and returned downstairs, but, as she was about to return to her desk to switch everything off and leave to go home, her feminine curiosity got the better of her. She quietly walked towards Markus’s office and stood to the side of the door frame and listened. The door was slightly ajar and she could hear four voices in conversation with each other, but Markus’s voice was distinct as it was the only one she could recognise.
“I earlier conferred the Consolamentum personally upon Brother Lionel by telephone and fully expect him to remedy the situation he has found himself in. It is utterly imperative that all traces of our involvement in recent matters cannot be followed back to The Path of Belibasta. I am disappointed in you Henrique that you resorted to less subtle means to deal with the problems in Srinigar. What is the latest update on your efforts to recover the stone?”
Arabelle ears pricked forward when overhearing this snippet of conversation, and crept closer to the door as was safe for her to do so without drawing attention to her eavesdropping. With her now hearing Markus confirming that he had performed a Consolamentum by telephone upon someone, she now had a name of the individual concerned, but on learning about Srinigar, she became frightened about what she may be also involved in.
Srinigar had been a major world news story in recent days. A terrible car bombing outside of a police station in that city had been linked to the brutal murder of an old man and his grand-daughter. An international appeal for information had been issued with a photo-fit description of one of the suspects, and as she knelt down beside the door, her mind considered whether this man Henrique was similar to the description. She mentally mulled the various coincidences over and over before deciding that it was nothing more than a remarkable concurrence of events taking place that did not appear to have a causal connection to each other.
“Needs must Perfecti. I had to be inventive. This Daniel Lauridsen is more capable than I had anticipated him to be and seems to be very resilient in adapting to ever-changing situations. However, I have established that he definitely has had possession of this stone but we have been unable to locate its current whereabouts. I met a former comrade from my French Foreign Legion days, Clément Chaumont, at Marseille Airport and he told me he had shared a flight with this Daniel Lauridsen to Perpignan from Turkey. During this flight, they had been talking about football and Clement found out that this guy had been previously living in the Faroe Islands and was hoping to return there in the very near future after concluding some business in Lyon. Clément had thought it strange that DGSE operatives were waiting for him on the tarmac as the plane landed, especially as the guy was
Danish, but he must be special if he was aboard a NATO flight. I don’t know where the Faroe Islands are, do you? Do you think he may have sent the stone there and is making his way to get it?”
Henrique handed over to Markus the photocopy of the stone that he had uplifted from beside the young woman he had killed in Srinigar. As Markus studied the images, Henrique asked him three further questions.
“Were these white stones originally to be given out by Jesus Christ to his disciples? Did these stones disappear from Jesus Christ’s belongings from inside the tomb at Golgotha? Are these stones the final proof that Heaven is real?”
Markus considered what Henrique had just asked him and thought carefully about his reply before answering. He was impressed that Henrique was asking him such questions and whatever doubts he may have had previously about the man were now quashed as it was evident he believed and he possessed faith.
“We will have to recover the stone to find that out Henrique. To hold the stone in the palm of your hand will take you closer to achieving ‘oneness with God’ and returning to the Holy Father.”
Arabelle stood back up, went over to her computer, typed in Srinigar in the search engine and followed the instructions taking her to maps of northern India and surrounding countries. Tracing the proximity of the city of Srinigar to Tajikistan, she formulated a route that this Henrique and his two colleagues could have travelled from India, through Pakistan, and then onto Dushanbe. These three men could have journeyed to France within a travel time-frame that fitted exactly with events and Markus instructing her to prepare the upstairs bedrooms for some arriving guests. On overhearing this continuous mention of a white stone, Arabelle was convinced that it was far too much of a coincidence that the file she had retrieved from the basement detailed a similar stone that The Path of Belibasta had looked for 80 years previously. After reading in that file why Otto Rahn was murdered, and by then connecting the pieces of all the available information together, she concluded that the three visitors that had just arrived had something to do with the awful events in India and that a current search for a white stone was also underway. This Henrique had a vague similarity to the photo-fit image displayed in the news reports, and just by going by her first impressions, he certainly looked liked someone who would have no compunction about ending the life of another living being. She shuddered with revulsion that the man in the room next door could be responsible for a number of deaths. She began to feel nauseous as a tidal wave of realisation hit home - the supposed saviour that prevented her harming herself, Markus Bruscante, had probably endorsed these killings.
As she began to shut down her computer, an emerging news article caught her eye as reports of a fire within the headquarters of Interpol at Lyon were unfolding. She opened one of the links to watch a television reporter describe that a dreadful accident had happened in a store area on the 5th floor of the building. A hugely respected member of staff, a Lionel DeChevalier, had lost his life while valiantly trying to quell the fire that had broken out. Her hand covered her mouth while she processed yet another ‘coincidence’ - this Interpol employee that had died in the fire was called Lionel. Markus had just confirmed that he performed a Consolamentum upon a Brother Lionel by telephone. She slipped off her shoes and quietly padded over in her bare feet to the door to try and catch more of the conversation.
“Did your friend Clément tell you why the DGSE were waiting for this Daniel Lauridsen?”
“No Perfecti, but he did think it was odd for a Danish civilian to get picked up directly from the plane. As far as he knew, the man was going to Lyon on business.”
Arabelle returned to her desk, slipped her shoes back on and went through to the kitchen area. She returned a few minutes later, cleared away her desk for the night, put on her coat, gathered her handbag and car-keys together before knocking on the door of Markus’s office.
“Come in.”
“I’m just going home now Perfecti. I’ve prepared the bedrooms upstairs for your guests and there’s a pot of soup, bread and a selection of cheeses on the kitchen table should you wish to get something to eat.
“Thank you Arabelle. That was very thoughtful of you. Have a good evening.”
She smiled at him and the three visitors and turned to leave the room. As she was closing the door behind her, she stopped and turned to Markus.
“There seems to have been a terrible accident at the Interpol building in Lyon. It is all over the news channels at the moment.”
While pulling the door shut behind her, she could see Markus quickly reaching for the remote control to switch on the television. She could hear the sound of the television report as she shut the front door to Montaillou and got into her car to drive away down the Rue du Village.
“What the hell have I got involved in?” she said aloud to herself as she turned the car out of the village.
08.14am – 15th April, present day
Jónas Broncksgøta, Tórshavn, Faroe Islands.
The three knocks at the front door startled Sólrun and she quickly placed her plate of toast down on the coffee table, rose from the sofa and wandered through her kitchen to answer it. As she passed through, she peeked out the window into the street below to see a blue van parked outside, its livery on the side panels proclaiming ‘Posta Pakkar’. The postman must have a package for her.
Standing at nearly 6 feet tall, and although masked by her employer’s corporate business uniform of navy skirt and jacket, she had an athletic body that she smoothed and patted into a presentable manner before opening the front door. With her face framed with shoulder length dark hair, her hazel-green eyes twinkled in anticipation as she greeted the postman, Jákúp Rúnnison, on her doorstep. With a population of 50,000 souls spread over 18 islands in the middle of the North Atlantic, most Faroe Islanders know of each other, and in the capital Tórshavn, the 27,000 residents living there definitely do so. And this was no exception – Sólrun had grown up with and had gone to school with her postman and his wife, and although now adults and drifted apart from the closeness they once all shared in their childhood, the unique character trait that is peculiar to all Faroese was still very evident - they will always politely acknowledge each other even if it is only by a wave of a hand or a nod of a head.
“Good Morning Jákúp. How are you today? How are Elisabet and the kids?”
“We’re all good Sólrun. Hanna is now five and Annika is almost three. They grow up so fast. I have a parcel for you from Pakistan. We don’t get many from that part of the world. Can you sign here please?” and passed over his hand-scanner for her to electronically sign.
“Thanks Jákúp and give my love to Elisabet and the children. Tell Elisabet I will call her soon to arrange a night out.”
“Will do” and walked down the stairs to return to his van.
She closed the door shut, placed the small package on the kitchen table before retrieving a pair of scissors from a drawer to begin opening it. Carefully cutting open the package at one of its corners, she removed a small object that was covered in bubble-wrap. After unfolding these wrappings, she revealed a small white stone with some markings on it. Sólrun was excited to have received a package from Pakistan, the country where her partner, her boyfriend, her lover was currently working. She missed his company dearly and had not held him close for over a year, but she was also disappointed that he had posted an ornamental stone to her. She wasn’t being ungrateful for the gift, and there must be a story attached to it, but it wasn’t what she was expecting from Daniel. There had to be more and she removed a folded piece of paper from inside the package along with a business card. The business card was for a Rifatullah Khan and she opened up the piece of paper and began to read a hand-written message.
Islamabad, 11th April
Sólrun,
My name is Rifat and I work with Daniel.
He asked me to post this stone to you for safekeeping as you
are the only person he completely trusts. Daniel is currently making his way to the Faroe Islands just now and hopes to be with you by the 18th.
Please hide this stone somewhere until he returns to you and only give it to him. It is very important for some reason and Daniel knows that he can rely on you to help him. He may not show it but he loves you deeply and misses you terribly.
I look forward to meeting you one day.
May God bless you and keep you.
Rifat
Sólrun began to cry after reading the piece of paper and held the stone close to her chest. Her heart pounded a faster beat than normal as she felt the exhilaration of the knowledge that Daniel was on his way back to her. It wasn’t concupiscent desire, it was more than that – she missed him deeply and he was now returning home.
“Why have you posted this stone to me for safe-keeping Daniel? What’s so important about it?” she said aloud while running her fingers along its grooves and markings. She laid the note and stone beside each other on the kitchen table, took a photograph of them together with her telephone, before gathering them both up, and the packaging, and placing it all in her jacket pocket, put her plate in the sink and prepared to leave for work. It was now 8.30am and she started at the AVIS car hire station at the airport at 10.00am. Her daily commute to Vágar Airport took about 45 minutes and if she left now, she would give herself nearly 90 minutes to think about what to do with this stone.
Thor's Haven Page 20
