Angel City

by Jon Steele

  “Infinity, as represented in twin prime conjecture, creates the mathematical possibility of specific supernatural occurrence.”

  Harper wasn’t sure what that meant. Only that it had the same number of syllables as “undefined metaphysical condition.” He slammed back his coffee, looked at Serge.

  “Define ‘specific supernatural occurrence.’”

  “A miracle.”

  “A miracle, you say?”

  “Yes. And if there is a mathematical possibility of one, then mathematically, there is the possibility of more. I have a book in the sitting room, A Mathematician’s Miscellany. Perhaps you would like to read it.”

  Harper flashed the triangulations feeding into Blue Brain. Astruc was doing more than making a map of the world to build a cosmic alarm clock. He was looking for the confirmation of a miracle. Only there’s no such thing in paradise. Or there’s not supposed to be. Harper pointed to the sextant.

  “Actually, what I’d like is to know if the angel who lived under the family roof mentioned where this thing came from?”

  “Jerusalem,” Serge said.

  “Did the angel happen to say who it came from?”

  Serge nodded.

  “And who might that be, according to the story?” Harper said.

  “It was handed down from Christ, brought here and hidden in a cave beneath Montségur during the Roman Occupation of Gaul. Which is what the world called Occitania before the French called it France.”

  Harper paused to render respect to the man’s heritage. In fact, they had something in common with the land. This earth was sacred to both of them. He pushed the sextant closer to Serge.

  “And how did this thing come to Christ?”

  “It was a gift. Given to him a few years after he was born.”

  Harper flashed Matthew’s Gospel.

  Christ, born in a manger in Bethlehem. Shepherds in the fields and angels on high. Years later, three wise men arrive from the East with gifts of frankincense, gold, and myrrh . . . or so goes the legend. Legend called the wise men magi. Fact: Magi was the name of the followers of Zoroaster. Harper rubbed the back of his neck, flashed Karoliina and her Christmas pageant he-is-born fantasy on the train to Lausanne. Looking at Serge, Harper wondered if fantasy was contagious.

  “Quite the family histoire,” Harper said.

  “It gave us something to talk about besides the weather. That is the old family joke.”

  Harper wrapped the sextant, laid it in the reliquary box. He looked at the box, noticing for the first time the wood was well preserved, but very old. Eighth century, maybe. And closing the lid, he noticed the box appeared deeper by half than the sextant. He stared at the box some more; closing the lid, opening the lid. After a bit of that, he removed the sextant and laid it on the table. He felt inside the box, tapped the bottom. There was a hollow sound. He pressed the inside corners. The bottom shifted. He pressed harder, heard a snap, and the bottom of the box separated from the frame. He lifted it from the box. Two little compartments: one squared, one rectangular. There was powder in the square compartment. Harper touched it with his index finger, rubbed the powder on the palm of his hand.

  “It’s clay.”

  “Is it?”

  “Yes. Very old clay.”

  Harper replaced the false panel, then the sextant, then closed the lid.

  “What else was in here, according to the superstitious shepherds in your family?”

  Serge stared at Harper’s eyes a moment.

  “Come with me,” he said.

  Harper picked up the reliquary box.

  “You can leave it here,” Serge said.

  “On the kitchen table? What if someone sees it?”

  “They will think I made a very ugly bread box. Come.”

  Harper followed the man out the kitchen door and into the garden. Shiva joined in the small parade to the shed. Serge pushed open the door and went in. Harper saw the light turn on and spill from the door. That’s when Harper noticed snow falling through the sky. He stopped, scanned the scene above the village rooftops. The Pyrenees had been swallowed by low-hanging clouds. Harper felt Shiva nudge at the back of his legs, coaxing Harper as if he were a lost sheep: Move along, move along.

  Harper walked into the shed. Shiva sat outside the door, snapping at snowflakes.

  Inside, Serge was at the worktable, clearing the surface. There were shelves built into the wall behind the table, loaded with cans, tins, toolboxes, junk. Harper watched him sort through the shelves and carefully remove a round tin. White, a small picture of a red-and-blue impatiens above the word Sucre. There was a muted rattle from inside the tin as Serge laid it on his workbench. He turned back to the shelf, pulled down a squared tin this time; green with pink roses and a smiling baby on the lid, Biscuiterie Nantaise printed along the side.

  “Come and see.”

  Harper walked over, saw the tins were antiques.

  “Very nice. What’s inside?”

  Serge opened the lid of the biscuit tin, reached in, and pulled out a wad of leather. Same type of leather that was wrapped around the sextant. He laid the wad on the table, unwrapped it. Whatever it was, it was broken.

  “And this is a what?”

  “One third of a burnished clay cup.”

  “A broken clay cup, at the bottom of a reliquary box. From Jerusalem, sometime during the Roman empire.”

  Serge nodded.

  “Interesting. What’s in the sugar tin?” Harper said.

  Serge opened the lid, pulled out a leather scrap tied closed. He opened it, pulled out something wrapped in old linen. He laid it on the table and opened the linen. A carpenter nail, five inches long, iron. Harper stared at the linen, saw traces of blood splatter. He looked closer at the nail. Ancient blood on iron.

  “That’s interesting, too. Looks like it would fit in the rectangular compartment of the box.”

  “Yes, it does, doesn’t it?”

  Harper rubbed the back of his neck. “What else do you know?”

  “Only what has been passed down through the family.”

  “Tell me.”

  “In the nineteenth century, a professor of antiquities from la Sorbonne came to Montségur to visit the fortress. He stayed in our house. He was shown what was left of the cup and the one nail. My family lied, told the professor the things were bought from an antiques dealer in Languedoc. The professor examined the clay fragment and said it was part of a cup, sort of thing people drank wine from. He said it was at least two thousand years old, from the Near East, brought by the Roman army, most likely. He said the nail was from the same period. Given there was blood on the nail, the professor suggested it had been used in a crucifixion.”

  “A crucifixion.”

  “So said the professor from la Sorbonne, passing through this place in the nineteenth century.”

  Harper felt a chill down his spine. No bloody way.

  “The Romans crucified people all over the empire, Serge. It was their preferred method of dealing with troublesome locals. Or maybe this nail belonged to a carpenter who missed and hit his hand with a hammer. After all, it takes three nails to make a crucifixion.”

  Serge leaned down, studied the broken cup.

  “As it would three matching pieces of clay to make this the Holy Grail.”

  Harper leaned down, stared at the cup. The lines of the break were clean, not ragged. It had been carefully sliced into three parts. He worked the odds there were two sets of the same sort, hidden somewhere in the world. Coming up 1,000,000,000 to 1, and it had the feel of a safe bet.

  “So this angel, nine hundred years ago. He stays a few weeks in the family hut, gets his strength back, disappears with the sextant, but leaves a broken cup and a bloody nail with your family. Why would he do that?”

  Serge shrugged, nodded at the nail a
nd broken cup.

  “Simple. The broken cup and the nail are the things of men, but the sextant was a thing of the Gods.”

  “Gods, not God?”

  “Gods.”

  Pure God, Evil God . . .

  Harper felt dizzy, rested his hands on the table.

  Bloody hell.

  Montségur wasn’t just a place where lines of causality simply intersected; here they ran in circles at the speed of light, crashing into one another head-on, releasing enough energy to shake the fabric of time and space. Strangest of all, the two American girls at the fortress this morning weren’t that far off; the Cathars were into that kind of stuff. A faint sound rang through the shed. Serge reached into his trouser pocket and pulled out a mobile, connected the line.

  “Bono matin.”

  Harper watched the man listen, then talk . . .

  “Conter vos recontrar, monsieur. Mercé. Adieussiatz.”

  . . . then hand over the phone.

  “It’s for you,” he said.

  Harper took it.

  “Yes?”

  “Get your roller skates on, brother, I got a lead on Astruc and the kid.”

  It was Krinkle. Harper could hear the same trippy sound in his voice, trippy music blaring in the background.

  “Where?”

  “A guy driving south of Auzat found him walking in the middle of the road last night. He was carrying the kid in his arms. The kid was mauled pretty bad. Looks like the bad guys got to them.”

  “What happened?”

  “The driver stopped, thinking they’d been in a car accident. Astruc pulled a Micro UZI on the driver, told him to take them to the nearest hospital. Driver headed back to Auzat with Astruc raving about the kid being the light of the world and the Dark Ones finding them at Heaven’s Gate.”

  “Heaven’s what?”

  “It’s a pass across the Pyrenees. Astruc and the kid must’ve been trying to cross into Spain when the bad guys found them. Looking at a map, Astruc must’ve carried the kid all night to reach Auzat. He passed out in the backseat.”

  “Where are you getting this info?”

  “I told you, I’m in the communications business; I was tuning in to what the French cops were communicating with one another. And let me tell you, it’s mighty weird.”

  “What?”

  “Cop sees a car speeding through the streets of Auzat, sees blood dripping from the trunk. Cop stops the car, realizes it’s a taxi, finds Astruc passed out in the backseat with the kid in his arms and a Micro UZI machine gun hanging from his neck, both of them covered in blood. Cop opens the trunk, and there’s a dead deer with a bullet in its head. I mean, the French like it surreal, but this was one step beyond.”

  “The cabbie, from Toulouse.”

  Took two seconds for that one to sink into Krinkle’s head.

  “Yeah, how did you know?”

  “Long story. Where are Astruc and the kid now?”

  “The kid was medevaced to a small hospital in Foix. Astruc tried to patch him up, but he’s in critical condition.”

  “The kid is a half-breed; the doctors can’t help him. They might kill him.”

  “Don’t worry about the kid, I got him covered. You need to get Astruc.”

  “Where’s he?”

  “In a French jail.”

  “What?”

  “You show up in the back of a taxi, machine gun hanging from your neck, bloody and passed out, with a half-dead kid in your arms, you’ll probably get arrested in this country. He came to as they were locking him up, got rowdy. The police hit him with fentanyl, he went down. More fun: Cops in Foix ran Astruc’s prints, ID’d him as the long-lost Christophe Astruc, OP. Toulouse is sending down a paddy wagon to pick him up on outstanding charges of murder and kidnapping.”

  “When are they picking him up?”

  “ETA at twelve thirty. Which gives you enough time to get to Foix and nab Astruc before he’s hooked and booked. Oh yeah, you’ve got clearance to touch the locals if you have to, but do no harm.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “How should I know? Maybe scare the crap out of them, just don’t kill anyone. Bottom line, get Astruc to Gare de Foix by twelve fifteen.”

  “There’s a train to Lausanne?”

  “Yeah, but don’t take it, don’t even go in the station. Just wait outside.”

  “Where outside?”

  “At the bus stop, brother, where else?”

  The line went dead.

  Harper handed back the mobile to Serge.

  “You wouldn’t happen to have an automobile, would you?”

  “Why do you need an automobile?”

  “I need a lift. Have to make a couple stops in Foix.”

  “Where must you go in Foix?”

  “The gendarmerie, then the train station. You know where they are?”

  “The gendarmerie is on Allée de Villote, Gare de Foix is nearby on Rue Pierre Semard. But if you don’t mind my asking, and seeing as you’re asking me for transportation, what must you do at the gendarmerie?”

  Harper tried to imagine a polite way of putting it. There wasn’t one.

  “I need to break someone out of jail.”

  Serge scratched his chin.

  “I see.”

  He wrapped the broken cup and bloodied nail, replaced them in their proper tins, set the tins back on the shelves. He turned back to Harper.

  “I do not have a car, but I can borrow a bread truck.”

  BOOK FOUR

  FOR THE LORD GOD OF ISRAEL HATH SPOKEN IT

  TWENTY-THREE

  I

  IT WAS A BREAD TRUCK. A YELLOW, 1971 CITROËN H-TYPE. FOUR cylinders, forty-six-horsepower. A bloody antique. Gasca Boulangerie & Pâtisserie, Avenue Alsace Lorraine painted neatly along the sides. It belonged to Serge’s cousin. He lived in Montségur, had a bakery in the next town. Worked nights, slept in the day. Rattling along at forty klicks per hour through the snow, it was slow going. The truck’s interior smelled of freshly baked bread. Harper looked in the back. There were some croissants in a bin.

  “Suppose your cousin would mind if I had a croissant?”

  “They are leftovers from the morning, but help yourself. I’ll have one, too.”

  Harper undid his seat belt, hunched down and walked into the back, grabbed two croissants. He got back in his seat, handed over one of the croissants.

  “Mercé,” Serge said, biting into the bread.

  Harper chomped his own.

  They wound down the north slope of the Pyrenees and onto the plain. The storm followed close after them. Soon the snow came in fat flakes, quickly covering open patches of ground at the sides of the road. Then came a farm where horses in a field quivered to shake the snow from their backs and withers. Serge flipped on the windshield wipers. The blades made squeaking sounds over the glass.

  “It’s a big storm,” Serge said.

  “Looks it.”

  And thinking about it, Harper imagined Astruc and the kid crossing the Pyrenees through a place Krinkle called . . .

  “Heaven’s Gate.”

  Serge was chewing.

  “Excusatz-me?”

  “There’s a pass across the Pyrenees called Heaven’s Gate. You know it?”

  Serge nodded warily. “I know it. La Porta del Cel. It’s a high mountain crossing from Spain to France. A very difficult crossing.”

  “Where is it from Montségur?”

  “Southwest, about sixty kilometers as the crow flies.”

  “Could a hiker reach it in a day, two days?”

  Serge glanced quickly at Harper, then back to the road.

  “Yes, if they were fit. One day to reach the base of the pass, cross over the next day. Are you considering taking a hike? It is a pop
ular trek for tourists. Very scenic. Though I would not recommend it in this weather. There would not be a lot to see, and you would most probably freeze to death.”

  Harper looked ahead. Snow drifted over the two-lane road.

  “I’ll keep it in mind. How did it get its name? Heaven’s Gate?”

  Serge shrugged.

  “It’s more than twenty-five-hundred meters high.”

  “Must be more to it than that.”

  Serge shrugged again.

  “It was used by Catholics fleeing the conquest of Spain by the Saracens in the eighth century. It was used again by Republicans fleeing the Fascists during the Civil War.”

  “So that’s how it got its name.”

  They passed through a small forest. It grew dark on the road; Serge switched on the headlights.

  “I suppose so,” he said.

  Harper listened carefully to the sound of the man’s voice. As if sensing Harper’s attention, Serge shifted uncomfortably behind the steering wheel. There was a turnoff to the motorway. A long line of taillights in the direction of Foix said the motorway was jammed because of the weather.

  “I’m afraid we must take the side roads, through Montgaillard. We will be at the gendarmerie in ninety minutes, and the train station is two minutes from there.”

  Harper checked his watch: 10:15 hours. Gave him a half hour to snatch Astruc and get to Gare de Foix by 12:15. Swell, he thought. Running late, no backup or time warp for support. Have to get in and get out the old-fashioned way. But running late gave him time to focus on Serge. Harper bit into his croissant again.

  “Not bad,” he said.

  “My cousin is a very good baker.”

  “How is he at watching the shed when you’re away?”

  Serge kept his eyes on the road. “What do you mean?”

  “Your family name is Gasca. It’s a Catalan name, from the other side of the Pyrenees, yeah?”

  “Yes, and what has this to do with my cousin the baker?”

  “I’m just killing time on the way to Foix, filling in the rest of your family history, pre–Cathar era.”

  “I do not understand.”

  “You said your family was one of the first to settle under the pluton in the eighth century. From near Sant Pau de Segúries, yeah?”