“Uh-huh.”
“So what does this fucker want?”
O’Donnell looked out through the side window, at all the innocent, unaware people who went about their lives oblivious to the darkness that was all around them.
“I don’t know,” she said. “And that’s what frightens me.”
Ten
YOU HEAR THE word “monastery,” and, if you’re like most people, the image in your mind’s eye is of a cold, forbidding structure of stone, where odd-looking men live out their lives copying manuscripts and dreaming up new ways to torture heretics.
St. Ignatius Monastery, in the Rocky Mountains overlooking Missoula Montana, isn’t like that. The pleasant-looking buildings are mostly wood and brick, and they were all built to include central heating, which comes in handy during the Montana winter. The monks are quiet, friendly, studious guys who aren’t interested in torturing anybody. There’s nothing scary about the place – with one exception. The basement of St. Thomas Aquinas Hall has a room whose contents might well frighten you, if you knew they existed. Most people don’t – including about eighty per cent of the monks who spend their lives at the monastery. Quincey Morris and Libby Chastain hadn’t known what was in that room, either – until they were told that it wasn’t there anymore.
The abbot who ran the place, Father Theodore Bowen, had bushy black eyebrows that were an odd contrast to his pure-white hair. He was tall and broad, wearing a long brown robe cinched at the waistline by a plain white cord. Bowen’s cincture may have been a little longer than average; his waistline offered plain proof that monastery dining halls no longer rely upon gruel as a staple.
Bowen was normally a genial man, but as he led Morris and Chastain along the basement corridor that led to room nine, he wore the somber face of someone whose doctor has just told him that the X-rays have come back, and there’s a problem.
Morris noticed surveillance cameras mounted on both sides of the corridor, each one pointed at the door they were now approaching. On each camera a small red light burned to show that it was operational.
Unlike most of the doors at St. Ignatius, which are made of wood and hollow in the middle, the door to room nine was steel, and solid all the way through. It had two locks, each requiring a separate key, as Father Bowen demonstrated. The click of a light switch revealed that room nine was in fact two rooms. The one where they stood was sparsely furnished, with a long table, four chairs, some religious paintings on one wall, and a large crucifix on the wall opposite.
“This, as you can see, is the reading area,” Father Bowen said. “But we keep the books in here.”
They followed him to another solid looking door with a keypad next to it. “Burglar alarm,” Father Bowen said over his shoulder. He used his body to block the keypad from their sight while he tapped in a series of numbers, then he inserted a third key into yet another lock.
“You take wise precautions, Father,” Libby Chastain said. “Not all of them based in science, I see.”
Father Bowen looked at her. “Excuse me?”
“Above the door,” she said. Morris followed Libby’s gaze and saw a complex symbol drawn on the wall in red and black. It was enclosed in a circle no bigger than a dessert plate. “That is a magical ward, isn’t it?”
Father Bowen cleared his throat, which hadn’t sounded husky a moment earlier. “Yes, it is, Ms. Chastain. I should have known that someone of your reputed talent would recognize it. Father Richie, who is a member of our community, has been given training and permission to practice abjuration magic – but only when strictly necessary.”
Libby nodded approvingly. “It’s a good one you’ve got there.”
“Not nearly good enough, it seems.” Father Bowen opened the second door and reached inside to flick on a light. “Come in – please.”
The windowless room was about twenty feet by thirty, and unremarkable in every way, except for the bookcases that covered every foot of wall space. Many of the books contained there were very old, judging by their bindings. Walking slowly along the shelves, Morris saw several books that he recognized and one whose existence he had always doubted.
The shelves of the bookcases were packed tightly, except for one about halfway along the left wall, which showed a gap of about two feet. Morris nodded toward the space. “Does that represent what was taken?”
“Yes,” Father Bowen said. “Nothing else appears to have been touched, even though several of these works would fetch a good price on the antiquarian market. It would seem the thief knew exactly what he wanted.”
“When did he take it?” Morris asked.
Father Bowen frowned. “Sorry?”
“When did this burglary of yours take place?”
Father Bowen blew breath out between pursed lips. “That’s rather difficult to say, precisely. This room isn’t in use every day, or even every month. The theft was discovered three days ago when Brother Armand came in here, to do some authorized research. The last person before him to use this room was Father Palmer, just over seven weeks ago.”
“So the theft could have occurred anytime over the last seven weeks?” Morris tried to keep the incredulity out of his voice. He almost succeeded.
“But you’ve got surveillance cameras trained on the outer door,” Libby said. “They would have recorded the break-in. Doesn’t the video have a time and date code?”
“Someone appears to have, uh, tampered with the video system,” Father Bowen said. “It has apparently been operating on a feedback loop, playing the same footage over and over, instead of showing what was happening in real time.”
Morris snorted. “Has anybody checked to see if Danny Ocean is still in jail? Or maybe Tom Cruise and the IMF boys passed through town.”
Father Bowen looked confused. Apparently popular culture was not his strong suit.
Libby looked pointedly at the empty space on the shelf, and then asked Father Bowen, “What is it that was taken, exactly?”
The priest seemed relieved to receive a question he could answer. “Marsilio Ficino’s 1484 translation of the Corpus Hermeticum,” he said. “Five volumes. Original binding, if it matters.”
Morris blinked a couple of times, all sarcasm forgotten. “That’s the Latin version, right? Can’t be that many copies of that still around.”
“Two others, as far as we know,” Father Bowen said. “One is locked in a secure room in the Vatican and the other, interestingly enough, is believed to be in the Kremlin.”
“You two lost me about a minute ago,” Libby said. “I’ve never heard of this Corpus...”
“Hermeticum,” Morris said. The Latin translation of an even older work in ancient Greek by... I forget his name.”
“Hermes Trismegistus,” Father Bowen said. “One of the most brilliant men of his age, or so we’re told. He wrote it in Egyptian-Greek, somewhere in the Second or Third Century A.D. There are no known copies of the original in existence.” He looked at Morris. “Although parts of it are said to be even older, with Trismegistus merely acting as translator.”
Morris nodded slowly. “Yeah, I’ve heard that rumor.”
“Older?” Libby said. “How much older?”
“As old as Solomon, perhaps – although that’s never been proven to the satisfaction of all the experts,” Father Bowen said. “Some believe it, though.”
“Solomon? It was written by Solomon?” Libby’s incredulity was clear in her voice.
“Like the man said, it’s never been proven,” Morris said. “But if it’s true, it would be very powerful stuff.”
“Solomon was said to have been given power over demons, especially the demon Asmodeus, who is believed to be high in the councils of Hell,” Father Bowen said. “According to legend, Solomon was able to both summon and banish demons at will.”
Libby glanced again at the empty space where the Corpus Hermeticum had been kept. “So that’s what was in there – Solomon’s instructions for calling and expelling demons?”
; Father Bowen wiped a palm across his face. “I don’t know, for certain – I’ve not read it. No one in the community has ever been given permission to read it. It’s possible that there’s no one still alive who has – not counting whoever stole it, that is.”
“So what’s it doing in a library, even a very exclusive one like this,” Morris said, “if nobody’s allowed to read it?”
“This archive serves two functions,” Father Bowen told him. “One is, of course, research. Many of these books are available to scholars – although the number of those allowed access has traditionally been quite small, and they are required to obtain permission from an office in the Vatican. But its other function is protection. Some of the works kept here are intended never to be read – by anyone.”
“Then why not just destroy those, so you don’t have to worry about them anymore?” Morris asked him.
Father Bowen seemed to choose his words carefully before he spoke. “That approach has, in fact, been recommended by a number of people – including myself. As a solution it has, I think, a certain elegant simplicity.”
“But they won’t let you,” Libby said. “They being whoever in the hierarchy you report to.”
“No, they won’t. The reason behind that decision is logical, even if some of us regard it as morally bankrupt.”
“Why morally bankrupt?” Morris said. “If you don’t mind my asking.”
Father Bowen walked slowly along a wall of bookcases. He removed a book, seemingly at random, glanced at its cover, and replaced it. He looked at Morris. “I was trying to think of the best way to explain their viewpoint, and perhaps an analogy will help. The United States is a benevolent, peace-loving nation.” Father Bowen produced a brief, rueful expression. “At least, that’s the image most Americans have of our country. Correct?”
Morris and Libby both nodded.
“And yet it is a poorly kept secret that the U.S. government, in addition to its large nuclear arsenal, has a considerable stockpile of chemical and biological weapons, every one of which is banned by the Geneva Convention and a host of other international agreements. You’re aware of this, yes?”
More nodding.
“Now, a succession of presidents, and other high government officials, have sworn that the United States will never, ever make use of such horrible weapons. And yet we have refused to destroy them.”
“Because, in a hostile world, nobody who’s got a weapon that powerful is going to just throw it away,” Morris said. “It would be like one of my ancestors, who was a Marshal in Dodge City, locking away his guns before going out into the street. Could be nobody would take a shot at him – but somebody might.”
Father Bowen looked at Morris. “I see you’re a man who understands the value of analogy, yourself.”
“So the upshot of all this analogy-making,” Libby said, “is that the church wants to keep dangerous books like the Corpus Hermeticum around – just in case.”
“Succinctly but admirably put, Ms. Chastain,” Father Bowen said. “And whether I personally agree with that decision or not, I have taken a vow of obedience. It was my responsibility to safeguard that book – and in this I have failed.” He looked from Libby to Morris and back again. “I would like you to help me atone for my failure by restoring the Corpus Hermeticum to its proper place of safekeeping.”
“Why was it here in the first place?” Morris asked. “The Vatican’s got a well guarded collection of occult books – you said so yourself, although I already knew about it. Why weren’t they looking after it?”
“They’re following the principle of not keeping all of one’s eggs in a single basket,” Father Bowen said. “If something should happen to that collection in Rome – through fire, explosion, natural disaster or terrorist attack – having backup copies at other secure sights offers some insurance that the information will not be lost, even if some of us believe that it should be.”
“So the Vatican’s backup location is a monastery in Montana?” Libby asked. “I’m sorry, I don’t mean that the way it sounds.”
“No offense taken, Ms.Chastain. I would say in our defense that this facility has had an excellent record of security for almost a hundred years.” Father Bowen made a face. “Until recently, that is. And we are not the only such location to house dangerous materials – there are others.”
“Where are they?” Morris asked him.
“I’m sorry, but I am not permitted to say how many other secure facilities there are, or where they are located. I hope you understand.”
“Sure, I do,” Morris said. “But it might not be a bad idea for you to check with the hierarchy to see if any of those other locations have been hit, or if an attempt has recently been made.”
Father Bowen frowned. “Why?”
“It would be useful to know whether the focus of the thief, was this particular facility, or whether he’s tried and failed to get into one of the others. Or even succeeded.”
Father Bowen nodded slowly. “All right. I’ll see what I can find out.”
“Good,” Morris said. “In the meantime–”
“No, you won’t.”
Both of the men turned their heads to stare at Libby. Before either one could speak, she went on, “I’m sensitive to deception, Father – that’s part of my training, too. And what you said just now was a flat-out lie, although I don’t know what your motivation was.”
Father Bowen’s face began to grow red. “Ms. Chastain, I’m afraid in this instance, your vaunted abilities have let you down. I have every intention of doing what–”
“You’re covering your ass, aren’t you?” This time, it was Morris who interrupted him.
“Mister Morris, I don’t know what you think you’re–”
Morris went on as if the priest hadn’t spoken. “I’ve known Libby a long time, and she’s never wrong about things like this. So, if I accept as a fact that you’re lying, it isn’t hard to figure out why. You haven’t even reported this to your superiors, have you?”
Father Bowen just stood there, looking at him.
“I’d been wondering, if this set of books is so damn dangerous,” Morris said, “why there wasn’t a team of investigators from the Vatican crawling all over this place. Now I think I know the reason – you didn’t tell them, did you? You’re hoping that Libby and I can recover the Corpus Hermeticum without causing a lot of fuss that anybody in Rome would notice. Then you can just put it back on the shelf and act like nothing ever happened. Nobody at the Vatican would even know that you fucked up. That’s it, isn’t it?”
Father Bowen held Morris’s withering gaze for perhaps three seconds longer, then dropped his eyes. He took in a breath and let out a long sigh that seemed to come from deep within him.
“There is some truth in what you say,” he told them. “I have not reported this theft to my superiors, even though we have very specific protocols that say I must do so immediately. And it is possible that concern for my position here, as well as plain, sinful pride, played a role in my decision.”
Father Bowen paced the length of the room, which didn’t take him long. “But there is more to it than that,” he said. “Informed of the theft, the order would almost certainly close this place down. That would have serious consequences – and not just for me. There are several men in our community who have lived here most of their adult lives. They would find life outside, even in another monastery, difficult at best and impossible at worst. Furthermore, many lay people from all around the area – to meditate, and pray, and find some peace in their lives. If this monastery were not available to them...”
Morris seemed unimpressed. “Yeah, sure. And during the Watergate scandal, Richard Nixon argued that the investigation should stop because it was hurting the presidency and the country, by preventing him from focusing on the job he was elected to do – keeping us all safe from harm.”
“I resent that comparison, Mister Morris,” Bowen said with a scowl. “I am a man of God, not a... a–”
>
“Crook?” Morris said mildly.
“Precisely. It may be that I cannot alter your opinion of me, but in future I will thank you to keep it to yourself – unless it affects your willingness to accept this assignment.”
“No,” Morris said. “The job needs doing – regardless of who I have to do it for.”
Eleven
IT WAS SNOWING lightly as Morris headed their rental toward the motel.
“You were pretty hard on him, Quincey,” Libby said.
“Not as hard as I should have been. He’s just a fucking bureaucrat, and they’re all the same, whether they wear a three-piece suit or an outfit like Bowen’s. All they care about is covering their asses.”
“But, as you said, it’s the assignment that matters, not the employer.”
“Keep reminding me of that, will you?”
“Getting a line on this Corpus Hermeticum isn’t going to be the easiest job we ever took.”
“If the jobs were easy, they wouldn’t need us to do them,” Morris said. “But you’re right – this could be pretty complicated. Tell me – did you get a whiff of black magic down there in the book room?”
“No, not a trace.”
“I was afraid of that,” he said.
“Afraid? The absence of black magic isn’t usually a bad thing, Quincey.”
“No, but if you’d found some, it might help narrow the list of suspects. There are a few practitioners we both know who might be very interested in that book, if Bowen’s right about what it contains.”
“And yet, the thief got past the ward above the door – and as I told Father Bowen, it was a pretty good one. Some civilian who just fell off the turnip truck isn’t going to be able to do that.”
“Yeah, but a non-magician can carry magic with him, to a limited extent. Remember those guys who tried to kill you last year?”
Libby had been the target of professional assassins while in her New York condo. Although the killers were not themselves magic practitioners, they had been given a magical device that, when activated by a word of power, allowed them to get past the complex system of wards that guarded Libby’s home.
Play With Fire Page 4
