by Jon Steele
Bloody hell, he thought. Same damn stone, same damn construction, as the vertical shaft hidden under the well of Lausanne Cathedral.
Goose clawed through the hole with his backpack still lashed to his ankle. He sat on the floor, undid the lashings. He hooked the backpack to his shoulders and got to his feet.
“How far to the cavern now, Gilles?” Astruc said.
“I’m not sure, but it goes quickly.”
Astruc looked at his watch.
“We should hurry, then. We lost valuable time at the collapse.”
Harper checked his own watch. They’d been down for four and a half hours.
“Right. Let’s go, then.”
Gilles Lambert led the way, then Astruc, then Harper. Goose kept his position five meters back at the rear. Harper listened to their steps echo off the stone walls, ceiling, and floor. Harper had thought about counting his own steps, passed on it, thinking if this tunnel really was like the tunnel under Lausanne Cathedral, then he already knew how deep it would be: two and a half kilometers. He scanned the dimensions of the corridor instead. The tunnel under the cathedral was rounded and went straight down. This place was a rectangle, angled down a slope. But he’d happily bet a round of drinks at GG’s that the dimensions would yield a quotient of 2.5. Same as the Lausanne tunnel again.
He stretched his arms from his sides, his fingertips just touching the sidewalls, feeling those hundreds of divots per square centimeter. He remembered everything Inspector Gobet’s research lads from Berne had learned from studying the Lausanne tunnel after the cathedral job. Nothing, rien du tout. No idea who built it, no idea how it was made. Only that it had been built long before Harper’s kind had come to paradise to hide in the forms of men . . . and that the dimensions of construction, when divided any which way, kept yielding a positive or negative quotient of 2.5, like some mathematical proof of eternal occurrence.
Harper laughed to himself; talk about a higher power. His thoughts faded away, and there was only the sound of steps echoing off stone until Gilles Lambert stopped walking.
“We’re here,” he said.
III
A LOW OPENING CUT INTO A BLACK STONE WALL, STRIPS OF RED tape stretched across the opening. Words on the tape translated as “Crime scene” and “Do not cross.” Astruc and Goose walked ahead, pulled down the tape. They ducked through the opening, disappeared. Harper looked at Gilles Lambert, saw fear flare in the man’s eyes.
“It’ll be all right, Gilles. I’m here with you.”
“Oui, merci, mon père.”
Harper ducked through the opening, and Lambert followed.
Four narrow beams of light cut through the immense dark, reflected mirrorlike off the black stone walls and crisscrossed wildly. The effect was dizzying. Gilles Lambert lay his canvas backpack on the ground, pulled out four candles and a book of matches.
“Attendez. I found it’s easier to see using candles.”
He lit the candles, one by one, passed them out.
“You can switch off your headlamps now,” he said.
The lamps went off.
Slowly, soft light swelled through the darkness and the cavern became visible. Six rectangular walls of equal shape and height were gathered around a conical pillar at the center of the cavern. The pillar was widest at its base and the diameter shrank as it rose tens of meters to the center of the domed ceiling. The dome seemed to glow with candlelight, and so did the walls. The wall with the gate to the outer passage was solid-faced, but Harper saw coves cut into the five other walls. Equal in size and shape, perfectly arranged. Four coves per wall, eight rows, equally spaced from floor to ceiling. He bent down, held his candle into one of the coves. Five chalk outlines of headless forms. French copper scribble, for sure, Harper thought. It was the same in the next cove and the next. Harper looked back at Gilles Lambert.
“The way these markings are drawn, it’s exactly how you found the bodies, yeah?”
“Oui, mon père. There were one hundred of them in the first row of coves. When I was interviewed a few days later by the police, they told me the rest of the coves were empty. Only the first row contained bodies.”
Harper backed out of the cove, looked up at the next row, and the next.
“Empty,” he mumbled.
He stepped back and took in a wide view of the pillar, happy to bet another round of drinks at GG’s that the pillar was 2.5 meters in circumference at its base and stood 25 meters high, to the bloody picometer. His eyes followed the shrinking diameter of the thing till it reached a perfect point almost touching the exact center of the glowing dome.
“What is it, mon père?”
“It’s not a supporting pillar at all.”
Lambert could see it, too.
“Then why is it here?”
“Good question. What’s above us?”
“I don’t know, why?”
“Because the pillar is pointing to somewhere up there.”
“Oh. Do you know what is up there, mon père?”
“No idea.”
Harper watched Astruc and the kid approach and circle the pillar, examining it by candlelight. The big man hadn’t even bothered to look at the coves, the ones that contained all that evil he was so concerned about back at Les Deux Magots. Instead, Astruc was walking to the pillar, sidekick in tow. The two of them stopped at the far side of the pillar, seeing something. Harper whispered to Gilles Lambert.
“I want you to stay here, Gilles.”
“Is something wrong, mon père?”
“I’m about to find out.”
Harper marched toward the pillar. Goose saw him coming, took three steps back. Astruc looked at Harper.
“Ah, Father, I was just about to ask you to join us.”
Astruc held his candle close to the pillar.
“I wonder if you might have a look at this and tell me what you make of it?”
Harper looked at the pillar. There was a relief set in the stone, the size of a book. And like a book, there were letters carved in the stone. Some of the lettering was ancient, some of it wasn’t. Harper scanned it once, then twice . . . Bloody hell. Then he saw Goose from the corner of his eye, reaching into the pouch of his hoodie.
Harper looked at Astruc. “What about it?”
“As I said, I wonder if you might tell me what you make of it?”
“In my capacity as a professor of ancient languages at Lausanne University, along with my job advising the Pope, you mean.”
Astruc stared at Harper. “Yes, as you mention it.”
Harper nodded, raised his candle to the pillar, read the words on the tablet again.
“It’s interesting.”
“How so?”
“Three things. One: The writing is a variation of the Ge’ez script developed in Ethiopia in the ninth century BC. It tells the story of this cavern. Strangely enough it doesn’t say anything about this being a place of evil. Quite the opposite, actually. Two: Something was added to the tablet in the Middle Ages. That bit is in Latin, the lingua franca of the day. This was written in the mid-thirteenth century. June 24, 1244, to be precise.”
“You know this how?”
“Roman numerals, there.”
“Could you translate it, please?”
“Sure. It says, ‘The chosen of the fallen ones may recover what is hidden here by placing his hands on the tablet and reciting the sacred words.’ Those sacred words are carved into the pillar itself, here; carved by the same hand. And they’re in French. Strangely enough, the French words are an exact translation of the last sentence of the tablet, which, as I said, was written in the Ge’ez script. Meaning whoever wrote this in the thirteenth century knew a dead language from a part of Africa he couldn’t have known about. It’s the third thing that’s the most interesting, though.”
Harper sensed Astruc
coil like a serpent.
“Which is what?”
“You know all this already, and it’s the reason you brought me down here.”
Astruc looked at Harper.
“An interesting syllogism, Father Harper. Though I believe it suffers from the faulty logic of the undistributed middle.”
Harper saw the kid’s shadow reflect in the opaque lens of Astruc’s glasses, his hands and shoulders making a move, pulling something from his sweatshirt.
“In that case, call it a fucking hunch.”
Harper tossed his candle at Astruc and spun around. He kicked and caught Goose’s legs, dropped him to the floor. He pulled a Glock 17 from the kid’s hands. He whipped around, targeted Astruc’s head. Astruc was holding his candle in his left hand, a Mini UZI submachine gun in his right. Fully auto, thirty-two-round clip, effective range of a hundred meters. It was pointed at Harper.
“You may wish to consider your next move very carefully, Father Harper.”
Harper shrugged. “What’s to consider? You cut me in half, I put a bullet in your skull. Amen.”
“This really would have been much easier had you just put your hands on the tablet.”
“I have a bad habit of avoiding easy.”
Gilles Lambert yelped.
“Mon père, what are you doing?”
Harper kept his eyes locked on the kill spot above Astruc’s eyes.
“Gilles, listen to my voice,” Harper said. “I want you to leave, now. Get the hell out of here.”
“For the sake of your immortal soul, Gilles, stay where you are,” Astruc commanded.
Gilles Lambert’s eyes darted frantically between the two of them, settled on Harper.
“But mon père, you were sent by the Pope, you’re a priest.”
“Sorry, mate, I’m not a priest.”
“Quoi?”
Harper nodded to Astruc. “He’s the priest.”
Gilles Lambert sank to his knees, the candle shaking in his hand.
“C’est de la folie . . . madness.”
Astruc smiled, bowed slightly to Harper.
“Bravo. May I ask how you knew?”
“The way you prayed the Notre Père.”
“It is a prayer of comfort in a world of evil.”
“Glad to hear it. Though given the circs, I’d say your faith in the comforting power of prayer needs a bloody tune-up. What happened, Padre? Get a little too friendly with your favorite altar boy and they took away your collar?”
Goose flew from the floor, lunged at Harper. Harper turned just as fast, had the barrel pressed against the kid’s forehead.
“What do you know, your ears work. I bet you’re a right talker, too.”
The kid’s glassy eyes dripped with hate. He didn’t speak.
“No matter. You just stand there while Father Astruc and I sort this out, yeah?”
Harper angled around till the barrel was at Goose’s temple.
“Now, where were we, Padre?”
“It would be easier if you put down the gun,” Astruc said.
“I thought we already covered me and easy. Besides, I’ve got a two-for-one shot. Bullet travels through the softest part of your altar boy’s skull and into your head.”
“But you will not pull the trigger.”
“Why not?”
“Because you’re the angel who saved Paris.”
“You shouldn’t believe what you read in the newspapers, Padre.”
Astruc whipped his Mini UZI to the right, lit up the laser targeting. A red bead of light shot across the cavern, landed directly over Gilles Lambert’s heart. Astruc shrugged.
“What I believe isn’t important. What I will do for what I believe is.”
Harper stared at him. Sod it. He released his grip on the Glock. It rolled and dangled from his trigger finger. Goose took the gun, rammed it into Harper’s back, shoved him toward the pillar.
“Good,” Astruc said. “Now, place your hands on the tablet and say the words.”
Harper touched the stone and whispered, “C’est le guet. Il a sonné l’heure. Il a sonné l’heure.” He wondered what the hell would happen next. There were long seconds of nothing till . . . clunk, clunk. A section of stone opened at the base of the pillar. Harper looked at his hands.
“Huh.”
Astruc stepped closer.
“Now, step away and join Gilles Lambert on the floor.”
Harper walked across the cavern, sat down against the wall next to Gilles. Goose stood over the two of them. He kept the barrel of his Glock pointed at Harper’s head. Message loud and clear: You move, you die first, then Lambert. Harper smiled.
“Just should’ve put a bullet through your skull when I had the chance.”
Goose signed fuck off.
Gilles Lambert looked at Harper.
“What is all this?”
“Don’t ask, Gilles, and don’t speak.”
“But what will happen to us?”
Harper didn’t answer. He kept his eyes on Astruc, watching him tuck the UZI into its holster inside his windbreaker, gather the candles spread about the floor. Relighting them and standing them near the pillar. Getting on his knees and reaching into the pillar. Slowly, carefully, removing a small wooden chest and resting it on the floor near the candles. The chest was old. Ninth or tenth century, maybe. Half a meter long, a quarter meter high, half a meter deep, with rounded corners. Looked like a single section of oak that’d been hollowed out instead of joined together. Wrought iron straps and hinges held the lid in place, and a plate lock mechanism was secured by a padlock of forged iron.
The more Harper looked at it, the more it looked familiar. Like a reliquary box he’d seen on the History Channel. He watched Astruc’s hands tremble as he pulled at a chain hanging around his neck. A skeleton key was attached to the chain. Astruc eased the key into the lock . . . click. He raised the lid, looked inside. He looked at Harper.
“Praise to the Pure God, it is here.”
“Swell. And what the hell is it?”
Astruc reached into the box, unwrapped layers of leather sheets, and lifted a six-inch telescope mounted on a triangle-shaped frame. The metal housing of the telescope and the frame glowed in the candlelight. Two lengths of the triangle were equally straight and joined a sixty-degree arc at the base. Mirrors and filters for the telescope, an index lever, and calibration dials fitted at the arc.
“You must be joking me,” Harper said.
Gilles Lambert was fit to burst. “What is it?”
“It looks like a sextant,” Harper said.
“A what?”
“A triangulating device to locate your position at sea.”
“Down here, hundreds of meters under Paris? I don’t understand.”
“Welcome to the club, mate.”
Astruc returned the object to the reliquary box, lifted it in one arm, and picked up a candle from the floor. He walked across the cavern, lay the box near Harper. He opened the lid and held the candle close.
“Perhaps you would care for a closer inspection.”
Harper looked at it. The triangle-shaped frame and telescope were made of copper, had to be copper. And the thing was old, much older than the reliquary box. Candlelight reflected in the metal and Harper could see an elaborate design engraved into the legs of the triangle. The mirrors and lenses attached to the frame looked to be ground with a precision too exact for its age. The mirrors captured the dim glow of the candle and reshaped it into a brilliant needlelike thread of light, feeding it into the telescope. And instead of numbers along the arc, there were groupings of tiny strikes in the copper. The calibration dial was marked with fourteen astrological symbols. Bloody hell, Harper thought, it is a sextant. Though from everything Harper could recall from the History Channel, the one in Astruc’s ha
nds appeared to have been made thousands of years before a British mathematician named John Campbell invented the first sextant in 1757.
“You do not recognize it still?” Astruc said.
“Like I said, should I?”
“Because it was you who brought this sacred treasure to this place.”
“Me?” Harper looked at the sextant again, laughed. “I’m sure you know what you’re talking about, but trust me, I’m as clueless as a rock.”
Astruc nodded, returned the sextant to the reliquary box, wrapping it carefully. He closed the lid, looked at Harper.
“You let them build a world void of truth to blind the souls of men from the stars. This is your original sin, and it must be cleansed.”
“And how do you plan to do that?”
“Confess unto me, and I will give you absolution.”
“Get stuffed.”
Astruc ripped the Petzl lamps from Harper and Lambert’s heads.
“So be it.”
He dropped the lamps on the stone floor, crushed them underfoot. Gilles Lambert panicked.
“Les lumières! Non! We’ll be blind without light!”
Astruc kicked Gilles Lambert against the wall, bent down, rammed an auto-injector into the man’s thigh.
“Receive this, Gilles, receive your portion of the divine sacrament.”
Lambert jumped as the needle punched through his jeans and into his leg. He screamed.
“Non! What are you doing to me?”
Astruc bowed his head.
“Holy Father, welcome thy servant in thy justice, and send upon him thy grace and thy holy spirit.”
At the same moment, Harper felt a sting as Goose pressed an injector into his leg. Harper didn’t jump. He waited for whatever it was in the needle to enter his bloodstream. Coming on fast. He checked Lambert. Already under.
“Will it kill him?” Harper said.
“What?”
“Your divine whatsit? Will it kill him?”
“You’re the killer, I am the protector of men’s souls.”
A sensation of separating from his flesh began to rush through Harper’s form . . . falling. He shook his head, trying to stay clear.
