by Jon Steele
It was quiet on the roof, the din of Paris still hushed in the wake of the celestial visitor. Inspector Gobet’s computer geeks kept working at their Crypto laptops, numbers and equations now dripping down the monitors like rain. Off to the side was the judge, puffing on his pipe, staring at Harper. The three tramps spread around him in a protective arc, doing their own bit of staring. Clarity required. Harper looked back over his shoulder to Sergeant Gauer, held up his bandaged hands.
“Don’t suppose you could get me a fag? They’re in a cigarette case in the right pocket of my overcoat.”
Sergeant Gauer found the case in the left pocket. He pulled a cigarette, set it between Harper’s lips. Unlike the inspector, Sergeant Gauer actually had to strike a match and hold the flame to the tip of Harper’s cigarette. Harper sucked in the smoke. As always, relief was just a drag away.
“Anything else, Mr. Harper? Need me to help you take a piss or anything?”
“Clever lip for a Swiss cop.”
“Merci, but just so you know, if it comes to it, you’ll be pissing your trousers.”
Harper raised his left hand. His fingers poked through the bandages. He pulled the cigarette from his lips with his fingertips.
“I’ll manage.”
“Bon.”
“I’ll be back.”
“Where are you going?”
Harper nodded toward the judge. “For a walk.”
“Is that a good idea, without the inspector being present?”
“No worries, I’ll take the scenic route. Besides, knowing Inspector Gobet, this is the way he had it planned.”
He walked over to the computer geeks, stood behind them. They sensed his presence but didn’t turn to look at him.
“Was he right?” Harper said.
“Who?” the geek on the left said.
“Dr. Mates. Was he right about Blue Brain and the clock?”
“Yes, but he was trying to explain it to you in very basic terms. It’s quite complex, actually,” the geek on the right said.
“How so?”
“That depends.”
“On what?”
The geek on the right looked at Harper.
“How much do you know about Minkowski’s space-time theory?”
“Unless it’s been on the History Channel, not a bloody thing.”
The geeks looked at each other, then back to their Crypto Terminals. The one on the left said, “In that case, sir, find a chair and sit down. We can spend the next fifty years explaining it to you.”
Nothing quite like a put-down at the hands of the very creatures you were sent to protect two and a half million years ago, Harper thought. Then again, with some of them knowing space and time were the same bloody thing, they were learning fast.
“Cheers.”
He turned around, walked toward the judge. The tramps straightened up seeing Harper coming.
“At ease, lads. Just coming over for a chat.”
He stopped before the judge, took a hit off his cigarette. Did his best imitation of the head-swallowing smoke trick.
“Mind if I ask a few questions?”
The judge prayerfully bowed his head a little. Or maybe Harper was imagining it. Hard to tell. The whole disciple thing was rather new.
“Bien sûr, monsieur,” the judge said.
“First. I take it the crime scene in the cavern was run by you to put pressure on Astruc, forcing him to make a move; seeing as you seem to run things at Brigade Criminelle.”
The judge’s silence meant yes.
“So you moved the bodies of the fallen to safety, to Base Aérienne 442. Same place you stashed the bomb from the Paris job, so you could send a dud to the generals, yeah? But nobody knew the truth, but for you and your gang.”
Yes again.
“When are you putting the bodies back?”
“As soon as we remove the body of Gilles Lambert for burial.”
“No. Leave him down there.”
“Pardon?”
“If I am who you think I am, that’d mean you still take your orders from me, regardless of what form I’m in just now, right?”
The judge bowed his head. “Oui, Monsieur de Saint—”
“Stop right there, gov. I already have one dead man running loose in my head, I don’t need another one. Call me Harper.”
“D’accord, Monsieur Harper. As you wish.”
He looked at the judge and his attending bums.
“Right then, here’s the drill. I want you to lay Lambert in one of the coves, his hands across his chest. And I’d like you to leave a sanctuary candle burning in the cavern. Be a bitch of a job going down there every week to light a new one, but that’s the way I want it.”
The tramps fidgeted.
“I know he’s dead, lads,” Harper said. “I’m just not sure about the state of his soul. I’ll sort it after I sort whatever the hell’s going on just now. Also, somewhere down there you’ll find a pocket knife, a Laguiole. I want you to carve his name into the stone above his cove, leave the knife next to his right hand. Like I said, sorry about the fuck-about factor in getting it done.”
The judge cleared his throat.
“In fact, Monsieur Harper, there is a secret ladder from the surface to very near the passage leading to the cavern. Because of the damage caused by Father Astruc’s explosives, we were unable to use it in rescuing you. But it will be repaired very soon.”
“A ladder. You’re kidding me.”
“Non. It begins in l’Église de Saint-Germain-des-Prés.”
Harper flashed his tour through the church.
“Let me guess. In Chapelle Saint-Benoît, behind Descartes’s tomb.”
The judge smiled.
“Actually in the priest’s compartment of the confessional. May I ask, Monsieur Harper, why would you honor Gilles Lambert this way?”
“Because he bloody well deserves it.”
The judge did a slight bow again. “Thy will be done.”
Giving orders to disciples. Interesting concept, Harper thought. He nodded to the sky.
“Right, the comet, tonight. By chance, way back when, did I happen to mention what all this was supposed to mean, if and when it happened?”
“You said, ‘By this sign you will know that the time of the prophecy is at hand.’”
“The time of the prophecy? I said those exact words?”
“Those were your exact words.”
Harper thought about it.
Resurrection, reincarnation, thirteenth-century heretics burned at the stake, not to mention a strange light in the sky as the bearer of some prophecy come true . . . all in one night. Was making for a swell evening in paradise. Harper drew on his smoke again. Realized there was only one question.
“Just out of curiosity, gov, did anyone happen to jot down what this prophecy was, exactly?”
A voice called across the roof. “Actually, Mr. Harper, we were hoping you could tell us.”
Harper turned around, saw the cop in the cashmere coat coming back.
“All’s well with our eminent astrophysicist?” Harper said.
“Indeed. My men are serving him tea and showing him a short film we prepared earlier today. Something to better assist him in understanding this evening’s events. More to the point, you say you have no idea what the prophecy is?”
Harper took a hit of radiance, scanned the men around him. One Swiss copper, one investigating magistrate from Brigade Criminelle, three bums with guns. They were staring him down again. Harper exhaled, shook his head.
“Sorry, gentleman. Haven’t the foggiest. Seems more than my timeline’s been scrambled on this one.”
Inspector Gobet rocked on his heels.
“Then it would appear the only ones who know the meaning of the prophecy are o
ne renegade priest with a penchant for murder and a misshapen young man suffering from paedomorphia. As of now, we have no idea where they are.”
“Is there anything we do know?”
“We know the enemy is tracking Astruc and the boy with everything they’ve got. Which suggests something rather ominous.”
Harper took a drag on his smoke. Sounded like marching orders about to drop.
“I’m listening.”
“If the enemy doesn’t know about the prophecy, they will very soon.”
“You’re telling me not one of our kind, not one of us knows what the hell this is about?”
The inspector didn’t answer. Maybe he didn’t have an answer, maybe he wasn’t ready to let Harper know what he knew. Maybe the inspector’s silence was saying, When I want shit from you, Mr. Harper, I’ll squeeze your head.
“Right. So what do you want me to do in the meantime?”
The inspector looked at his watch.
“You’ll be billeted here for the night, get cleaned up. The judge has kindly arranged for a doctor to tend to your hands and arm. I want you on the first TGV to Lausanne, it leaves in three and a half hours. I’ll remain in Paris, see what I can find shifting through Father Astruc’s library.”
“Lausanne? What the hell am I supposed to do in Lausanne?”
“Oh, I’m sure you’ll figure it out along the way. Good night, Mr. Harper.”
BOOK THREE
AND THE WATCHMAN SAID: THE MORNING COMETH, AND ALSO THE NIGHT
SIXTEEN
I
AFTER GOOSE UPLOADED THE FINAL TRIANGULATION INTO BLUE Brain, he shut down the satlink. He opened the intrusion detection program on his laptop. Nearly three hundred thousand attacks, not one intrusion. He looked out the north gate. The priest was standing at the edge of the cliff with the sextant in his hands, still staring at the sky. Goose hit the remote trigger for the laser gun, shut down the thread of light beneath the south gate of the fortress. It awakened the priest from his reverie, and he turned back to Goose. He saw the boy’s face aglow in the light of the laptop’s screen.
“All is well?”
Goose signed, We’re clear, Father. They tried to find us, but I think we got off the satellite in time.
“Good,” Astruc said.
He walked through the gate, stepped around the transmission gear. He lowered himself to one knee, carefully laid the sextant in the reliquary box, and closed the lid. He looked to the southern sky, saw Sirius floating between Orion and the dark shadows of the Pyrenees.
“We have an hour to the morning twilight.”
Goose smiled, picked up the night vision goggles, handed a pair to the priest. The way down will be easier than the way up.
Astruc looked at the boy. It was good to see him smile. It was such a rare thing.
“I’m very proud of you, Goose.”
Thank you, Father. Thank you for trusting me.
Goose shut off the laptop and it was very dark. They fixed their goggles over their eyes, switched them on, and were returned to a bright green world of near infrared light. Goose disconnected the laptop from the base station, walked across the courtyard to where a sharp rock poked from the ground. He smashed the laptop against the stone and broke it open. He pulled out the memory cards and CPU, dropped them in the pocket of his leather jacket. He left the broken laptop where it lay. He walked back to the base station, disconnected the external hard drive. He slipped it in the pouch of his sweatshirt.
Astruc was busy redistributing the weight of their backpacks. Ammunition, weapons, high-protein biscuits, cold weather and rain gear, sleeping bags. He wrapped the reliquary box in one of the sleeping bags, packed the roll into his backpack.
“Our burden is lighter now, Goose. If the weather holds, we’ll reach the high country by nightfall and Heaven’s Gate the next day.”
God willing, Father.
They lifted their backpacks and adjusted the shoulder straps. Goose took up the walking staffs, handed one to Astruc. They walked toward the south gate. Astruc stopped, turned back to look through the open arch of the north gate. He didn’t move.
Father?
Goose watched the priest step slowly toward the gate as if in a trance, dropping his staff and raising his eyes to the sky, opening his hands and lifting them to the heavens; and he cried out:
“Notre Père!”
Goose felt the powerful voice echo off the fortress stones. And for a moment, Goose sensed the earth quake. Surely, he thought, his is the voice of the prophet. Goose waited, watched the priest, hands still lifted to the heavens as if waiting for an answer to his cry. The priest slowly lowered his hands, then he lowered himself to his knees. Perhaps he was praying, Goose thought. After many minutes, and seeing Astruc was not moving, Goose moved closer to him. He heard the priest whispering again and again to himself.
“How is it that you did not burn?”
Goose had heard the words many times in the night, as the priest lay half awake, half asleep, bound in the place of a terrible dream that haunted him like a ghost. Goose bent down, signed before the priest’s eyes, We must go now, Father. The morning twilight is coming.
Astruc raised his head. “What happened?”
You were dreaming of the man who did not burn. But it is finished, Father. You have defeated the Dark Ones. Soon, all the world will know of the prophecy, and you will be able to sleep.
Astruc looked around the fortress.
“Yes, yes. We’re finished here. We must leave.”
Goose helped Astruc to his feet, and they left the fortress and made their way down Montségur. The black stones on the trail were wet with dew now, and they used their walking staffs to keep from slipping from the cliffs. By the time they reached the Field of the Burned, the sky above the mountains had begun to brighten. They removed their night vision goggles and stowed them in their backpacks. They rested their staffs against the wooden fence surrounding the field and drank water from their goatskins. A haze lay over the field, and there was the chatter of swallows from the surrounding forest.
“Goose.”
Yes, Father?
“Reach in my backpack, bring out the box.”
Father?
“It should be buried here, in the Field of the Burned, to honor the souls who died here. We have no use of it now.”
Do we have time?
“If you hurry, there will be time.”
Goose rested his walking staff against the fence, stepped behind Astruc, and opened the priest’s backpack. He dug through the sleeping bag and found the reliquary box. He picked up his walking staff, stepped into the field, stopped. He looked back at Astruc.
Is it all right to walk on this ground? Where they died?
“Only their ashes were left, Goose, and their ashes became part of the corruption of Earth. Their souls were lifted to the stars to be with the Pure God.”
Goose looked back to the field as if searching for something, then said to the priest, Where was it? Where did it happen?
Astruc studied the field. There was a rise in the ground, hidden by newly harvested stalks of hay. He pointed to it.
“Over there. Where the ground rises.”
Should I bury it there?
“No, it might be found when the farmers work the ground. Take it across the field and into the trees.”
Goose nodded.
He pulled his hoodie over his head and walked ahead. Astruc watched the boy’s feet move silently over the ground. The watching brought the dream to the priest’s eyes. Two hundred fifteen men and women, ankles and wrists bound, walking into the field. They’d been dragged down Montségur by French Crusaders, condemned to death by the Inquisition. The palisade ahead of them looked large enough from the heights of the fortress, but as the frightened men and women approached it now, they saw it was half the size of th
e fortress itself, with timber walls almost four meters high. The Crusaders had formed a gauntlet from the edge of the field to the wooden gate of the palisade, and as the men and women passed through it the Crusaders slapped them, kicked them, spat upon them. The Crusaders saved their bitterest blows for the twenty-seven fighters who refused to surrender and instead became heretics themselves. Astruc could see some of their faces . . . especially the traitor, the Dark One in their midst. Dominican priests stood closest to the gate. Rosaries in hands, praying and weeping false tears; entreating the martyrs to turn to Holy Mother Church for forgiveness. Through the gate, the men and women climbed atop a great mound of wood, pitch, and hay. There were no stakes to be bound to, and they huddled together as the Crusaders closed the gate and dropped a cross brace to trap the last of the Cathars inside. Then came the fire . . . screams and forever pain . . .
“No!”
Father?
Astruc saw Goose standing before him.
Are you all right, Father?
Astruc straightened up.
“Yes, I’m fine. I was meditating on the martyrs.”
The dream?
“Yes. Have you finished with the box?”
Yes, it is buried.
“How are your eyes, Goose? You must be tired from the night’s work. Do you need a shot?”
No, Father. I will wait till the evening.
Astruc reached in his overcoat, found the leather-strung scallop, hung it around his neck. Goose found his own scallop, put it on.
And once again, we are pilgrims on the Way of Saint James, he signed.
“And may the Pure God keep us alive long enough to serve the prophecy.”
He has led us this far, Father, he will not abandon us now.
They followed the road to the northwest. The road wound through a narrow valley bordered by steep cliffs, and they walked in morning shadows. Now and again they saw lights burning in the kitchens of farmhouses where women laid out coffee and bread for their husbands. The Great Pyrenees mountain dogs guarding the farms from wolves and bears picked up the scent of passing strangers and let out throaty howls: I hear you! I smell you! One farmer emerged from his kitchen, shotgun in his hand. But it was still too dark to see into the shadows, and the man scolded his dog to be quiet. The beast bowed its head, circled once, and slunk to the ground: I heard them, I smelled them. Soon after, a tractor hauling a load of hay approached from behind a bend. Astruc and Goose stepped from the road and into the trees so they would not be seen in the tractor’s headlamps. It was not from fear of detection they avoided the farmer; it was to protect him. Dressed as they were, as pilgrims traveling the Way of Saint James, Astruc knew the farmer would offer them a lift, invite them to take breakfast in his home. It was the custom among the common people of the Pyrenees. But such an act of kindness would put the farmer and his family in the gravest danger. The Dark Ones would be searching, hunting.
