Lethal Pursuit

by Will Thomas

  “Cyrus, let’s face it. You’re not twenty-five anymore. Or forty. Your leg is in a brace. I imagine you don’t heal as quickly as you once did.”

  “I’m perfectly capable of doing my work, thank you! I get about as I have always done. A little slower for the moment, perhaps, but my bones will knit together again.”

  From his pillow, Forbes contrived to press him. “How would you like to be able to plan your life for a change, like other mortals? You could go home at a decent hour, and not work past midnight, as you so often do.”

  I shook my head at him. That wasn’t the way to convince the Guv. He liked working past midnight. Pollock caught my signal and nodded. He tried a different tack.

  “You’d be doing important work, as well, work you are uniquely suited for. It’s the next logical step in your development. We need, our country needs, your expertise. There are important events occurring just now. Many of them concern Germany, which is quickly becoming England’s chief rival. Do you really want me to hand such delicate information to another man, a less competent one, merely because he rose through the ranks and it is his turn? Don’t make me do that!”

  The young man came into the room again. He put his hands on his hips.

  “Pollock,” he said.

  Forbes waved him away. “I’m all right, Charles. Let me alone. This is important.”

  “So is your health.”

  “You need not be chained to a desk, if that is what concerns you,” he said, turning back to my employer. “You may make your own rules. I chose the Café Royal because I liked it. It became my workplace. You could work out of your antagonistics class, if you wish.”

  Pollock kept glancing at me, hoping I would encourage Barker to accept, but he did not know what he was asking. Helping Forbes in this endeavor would be tantamount to treachery in the Guv’s mind. It was difficult enough that I might have opinions of my own, but to try to change his was unthinkable. I shook my head. Pollock would have to convince him alone.

  “The work is not as onerous as it sounds,” he continued. “Thomas here can help.”

  “He’s not a Templar,” Barker countered. “He’s not even a Mason.”

  “Then make him one.”

  “I’m sorry, Pollock,” I said, “but I have to agree with the Guv. I’m a married man now and too busy to attend meetings or be initiated into arcane secret societies with all-seeing eyes.”

  “We can work that out,” Forbes croaked. He was almost panting. “Actually, you can work it out yourselves. I don’t care. Whatever works for you will suit me. Or rather, us.”

  “You say ‘us,’” Barker said. “How many is ‘us’?”

  Forbes mopped his forehead with a clean handkerchief. There was a great stack of them on his night table, as well as the bloodied wicker basket to drop them into.

  “We have a hundred members in Her Majesty’s army, at least. More from the navy. I suppose we could muster an army of our own. There are politicians, MPs, clerks, barristers, bankers. We’ve even got a Yeoman Warder or two. We both know you could never be in an organization with a leader you do not respect. Neither would most of the other members. You have a reputation in this town.”

  “Pollock, do not exert yourself,” Barker told him.

  “I do not ask you to say yes today. Just promise me you will not say no until you have time to consider the matter. I leave in a few days. Surely you can decide by then.”

  Barker grunted to himself and then finally spoke. “Very well. I would not consider it for anyone else in the world, but you are a friend.”

  “Charles!” Forbes cried, tossing pillows off the side of the bed.

  “Yes?” the man said, returning to the room.

  “I’m going to take a kip. Show the gentlemen out.”

  Charles waved a hand toward the entrance. We followed him. Then the door was shut in our faces.

  “What have I got myself into?” Barker muttered to the door.

  “No,” I said, staring at the brass number. “What have we gotten ourselves into?”

  The cabman was still waiting when we returned. There was snow on his hat and greatcoat, and on the back of the piebald gelding in front of him. Such conditions would send most jarveys back to their stables quickly. It helped that Barker had a reputation for being a generous customer.

  “Where to, Push?” he asked.

  “Carlisle Place, Westminster!” the Guv bellowed in my ear.

  I would not ask. I promised myself I would not ask.

  “What’s in Carlisle Place?”

  “The archbishop’s house.”

  “What archbishop?”

  “Keep up, Thomas! There are only two archbishops in England and we are not in Canterbury.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  “I don’t want Pollock to die,” I said to my employer as we climbed into the hansom. “He’s always been a good friend. He never got married and never traveled far. He only ran an organization that no one has ever heard of.”

  “There is a reason it is unheard of. The Templars are necessary, Thomas. There is a flow of information that moves about London that needs to be sieved through the minds of certain individuals, to make correct decisions, to speak with the right members of Parliament, to take action.”

  “But not Pollock anymore.”

  “None of us are promised our full threescore and ten. It is a hostile world in which we live.”

  “It isn’t fair.”

  “No, it isn’t. Fair is a concept that has no meaning here. There is no system of checks and balances here.”

  “Thank you. I think I prefer comfort to common sense.”

  “Do not we all, lad?”

  We sat with our own thoughts for the rest of the journey. Carlisle Place looked as if someone had broken off a piece of Westminster Abbey and set it down a few streets away. It could have been ancient, or it could have been finished last week and carefully aged. That happened these days.

  We alighted from the cab and a no-nonsense cleric met us at the front door, inspected our card, and led us from the entrance. We walked past statues of unidentifiable apostles and gold filigree crosses. The Guv looked askance at such lavish adornment. The cleric was too sedate, and I missed the winged feet of Swithen from Downing Street again. Finally, we came to a pair of ornate doors and he stopped us. He stepped inside with the door slightly ajar and I heard the murmur of low conversation. Then we were led in.

  The man sitting in the center of the room was recognizable to anyone in the world who ever read a newspaper. He was draped in a caped robe and a skullcap, both in a shade of scarlet so bright that it picked up light from the window behind him until it almost glowed. It was Manning, Cardinal Manning, the Archbishop of Westminster, the highest-ranked Roman Catholic leader in all Britain. Everyone had heard his story, how he’d graduated from Balliol College and quickly begun to climb the rungs of Anglican ecclesiastical success. He would certainly have been Archbishop of Canterbury by now if he hadn’t gotten into a quibble with the Church of England over some matter and suddenly cast off not only his position but the Church entirely, causing a public sensation when he joined the Roman Catholic Church. His career rose as swiftly among the Roman clergy from position to position until he became the Archbishop of Westminster. The same rank, but a different church entirely.

  Of course, I’d seen etchings and photographs of him, but I was not prepared for the man himself. He looked like every sketch of Virgil I’d ever seen. His brow and crown were huge, as if he were carrying about the largest brain in Christendom. His eyes were steel blue, his face so ascetic as to make one imagine him living in a monkish cell, subsisting on a single cup of gruel per day.

  “Come, gentlemen,” he said in a reedy voice. “Sit, sit, by all means. I have a busy schedule today, but nothing is more important than this. Have you taken possession of the satchel?”

  “I have,” the Guv replied.

  The archbishop placed an arthritic hand on the edge of his chair. “I tru
st the Prime Minister has not revealed to you what is inside.”

  “He has not.”

  “I should prefer that it stay that way.”

  Barker nodded and then tilted his head back in thought and shook it instead. “Nay, sir, you cannot ask that of me. I will be sending my partner and myself into mortal danger. I might risk it myself, but I would not ask it of him, who might leave his young bride a widow.”

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Barker, that is private information that belongs solely to the Roman Catholic Church.”

  “Then I would have to decline the request to convey the satchel to its destination.”

  The archbishop gave a wan smile. “It was worth the attempt. You must understand, this valise contains something that has historical and religious significance of the highest order. It is vital that it reach Rome quickly. I was awake all night discussing matters with the Archbishop of Canterbury. At first we considered keeping it at the Bodleian, but they have neither the security nor the knowledge of how to care for such a treasure.”

  “But the Vatican does,” Barker murmured.

  My mind tried to conjure what kind of manuscript could have such significance. Letters from Martin Luther perhaps? The original Book of Kells? More likely anti-popish doggerel. That was the kind of thing coming out of Eastern Europe these days.

  “You are correct, sir. The precise ownership is in question at the moment, but Her Majesty’s government is lending it on a near permanent basis to the Vatican archives.”

  “That is very wise, I’m sure,” Barker said. “I will still need to know what it is.”

  The archbishop raised a hand.

  “In good time. You should know, if you don’t already, that there has arisen a certain national pride in countries to the east of here. Take Germany, for example, or Austria-Hungary, those states that once erroneously called themselves the ‘Holy Roman Empire’ until the Habsburgs lost power. Along with this growing conservative patriotism has arisen anti-Catholic sentiment. Children are teased in the schoolyard by both teachers and students. Young men are beaten and women assaulted. Openly wearing a rosary can get an old woman spat upon in the street, even by people she had known for decades. Parishioners are told to go home when in fact their ancestors have lived in the same village for hundreds of years, often longer than their neighbors.”

  “I have heard something of this, Your Eminence,” Barker said. “Pray continue.”

  I had my notebook in my lap and had been scribbling notes. The archbishop looked quizzically at the page.

  “Pitman shorthand,” I explained, a trifle embarrassed.

  “Ah. Yes. Where was I? The Germans want to expel Jews, gypsies, and other refugees from their borders, as well. Politicians pound podiums and curry favor with the common people, while preachers spew vitriol from the pulpit in order to stir the crowd against their old enemy, the Roman Catholic Church. Our buildings are being vandalized and our numbers dwindle.

  “You must understand, Mr. Barker. England has its Rosetta Stone with its pride of place in the British Museum. Paris has its Moabite Stone in the Louvre. Berlin? Vienna? Their museums are still empty. They have made exorbitant purchases that proved to be fake. They have sent expeditions that found mere trinkets and pottery shards. A major find would justify their positions as premier countries in the world. Not to have one is an embarrassment. This, gentlemen, this was their major find. Somehow, Mr. Drummond snatched it from their hands and ran. Whoever lost it must be near mad with frustration. Not only was it taken, but by an Englishman. That must rankle most of all.”

  Barker had listened patiently to the archbishop’s story. Old men are often long-winded. Now he leaned forward eagerly, and perhaps with a little annoyance.

  “Your Eminence, what am I guarding?”

  “Must you know, sir?”

  “I fear I must.”

  “For the last time,” Manning said. “Can it not be prevented? In its way, it is a terrible secret.”

  Barker stood. “Sir, I fear we are not the men for this assignment. I cannot work under such circumstances. Come, Thomas.”

  We were halfway to the door when we were called back.

  “Gentlemen, wait,” the archbishop said.

  “You must either trust us, sir, or not trust us,” the Guv said, with his hand on the door. “You cannot do both.”

  “Yes, yes. You are correct, Mr. Barker. Trust you, I must. Very well. It is a manuscript. A very old one. It is held in the satchel between plates of glass.”

  “How old?” the Guv asked.

  “As near as we can ascertain, the first century.”

  Barker’s brows rose above the rims of his black-lensed spectacles. He was surprised, and not much surprises him.

  “The first century? Not the second?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is it a gospel?” Barker continued.

  “It is.”

  My partner resettled himself in the chair. “Which one?”

  “It is a fifth gospel,” the archbishop replied.

  Cyrus Barker grunted in frustration. “Apocrypha, then.”

  “Actually, no. For the last fifty years, German scholars have speculated that Luke and Matthew drew events from both Mark and an unknown source, one as old as Mark, which many consider the first written gospel.”

  “To whom is it attributed?”

  “There is no name implied in the text. The Archbishop and I simply called it the ‘Alpha Gospel.’”

  “That would make it the Epsilon Gospel,” I said. “The name implies that this is actually the first gospel.”

  “Historically, it may be so.”

  Barker grunted again. “So this is what the Foreign Office agent was carrying that got him killed.”

  “Yes, it was. The young fellow was very rash, stealing the manuscript and bringing it here at the cost of his own life. Brave, perhaps, but rash. He had a family.”

  “Who is trying to retrieve the manuscript? Is it the Germans, then?”

  “We don’t know,” Manning replied. “Mr. Drummond was quite a traveler. Moscow to Bern was his territory, or so I’ve been told. It could be any one of a half-dozen countries, and in those countries are dozens of states that were countries themselves in recent memory. It would be more difficult to work out how this satchel arrived here than to deliver it safely to the Continent.”

  “Your Excellency,” Barker said. “I hardly think the gospel would be any safer there, though I admit the Vatican archives have a fine reputation for security.”

  “Mr. Barker, I must disagree. A man was killed yesterday trying to safeguard the manuscript. I fear he will not be the last. You were chosen because the size of your agency is small. You might slip through a net spread wide enough to catch the Home Office. At Calais, the Jesuits will take possession of the satchel.”

  “How many Jesuits will it take to replace us?”

  The Archbishop of Westminster actually chuckled.

  “Ten or so, I should imagine. You will meet Monsignor Bello in Calais.”

  “I look forward to that,” the Guv replied. “Will the manuscript be studied or merely hidden away?”

  The old man took the edge of his chair and pulled himself forward.

  “That,” he said, “is a very canny question. I wish I could give you an equally canny answer. Only time will tell.”

  “Is it possible that the manuscript is a forgery?” the Guv continued, not willing to be put off.

  “There is always that possibility. We deal in forgeries every year. However, why create an unknown and controversial manuscript if a copy of one of the four gospels could earn more money?”

  “It might not be about money,” Barker said. “However, I am just speculating. One can speculate all day.”

  “You are correct, Mr. Barker. I do it often.”

  “Your Eminence, may I ask what you think? I am a humble layman. I know the Good Book, but I cannot parse it in Greek or Aramaic. What say you? I assume you read it yourself. Do you believe
it is real?”

  “I have not made up my mind, I’m afraid. I wish I could. The Alpha Gospel does indeed have verses quoted in both Matthew and Luke, as well as one or the other. You understand, Matthew was writing to the Jews and Luke to the Gentiles. Yet both borrowed from this unknown author. It is maddening. Suppose it is genuine—just suppose. Who wrote it? One cannot say Matthew, Mark, Luke, John, and an unknown author. If this information is released, and I’m not quite sure it ever shall be, there will be consternation among the clergy. Was it John? The Apostle, that is, not John of Patmos. Was it Thomas or Peter? James, the brother of Jesus, is a likely candidate. I’ve heard references to a lost Gospel of Lazarus. The problem is there is nothing obvious in the manuscript to show who wrote it. It could be Mary Magdalene! That would turn a few bishops I know red-faced.”

  “What else was in the manuscript?” Barker asked. “Besides the quotes by Matthew and Luke?”

  The archbishop settled back. His feet were too far from a footstool nearby, so I pushed it closer.

  “Thank you, young man. Let me see. There were not many miracles in the book, which was no more than eighteen pages in length. There were no terms like ‘Son of Man,’ but Christ proclaimed himself the Son of God and made reference to prophecies in the Old Testament. If there was anything evident in the text it was that Jesus knew what kind of changes he was bringing to the world.”

  Barker nodded, clearly enthralled.

  “I will say this to the manuscript’s detriment,” the archbishop continued. “It does not change one’s view of the Lord. One does not come away feeling one has had a profound experience. Matthew and Luke lifted the best of the sayings. There was some overlapping with Mark, as well as some Gnostic gospels. One could theorize that this was one of the books considered in Nicaea that was not accepted into the New Testament, and it then fell out of favor until it was forgotten. It is good, but it will not win souls in the far reaches of Assam or Amazonia. Not by itself, anyway.”

  “A pity,” the Guv said.

  “For the Christian actively seeking the face of God, however, there is a turn of phrase or two and some new verses that make one feel that the anonymous author actually knew Jesus.”