The Forbidden Book: A Novel

by Joscelyn Godwin

  “Barone, I’ll contact the usual leaders immediately, and they’ll alert the network.”

  ****

  On Friday, Giorgio came to the villa an hour before the lecture and found the Baron in the library. “Have they begun to arrive yet?” he asked, looking up from his notes.

  “I haven’t seen any,” said Giorgio, “but I made it plain that they weren’t to wander around the grounds as they used to. They’ll probably fall in the door just before the lecture.”

  At ten to two, Giorgio knocked again at the library door. “Barone, I’m afraid that no one has arrived yet.”

  “Are you sure that you gave them the right day and time?”

  “Yes, Barone, and I confirmed it too.”

  “Whatever has become of them? It’s time for me to go in, anyway.”

  Emanuele and Giorgio entered the ballroom from the door behind the lectern. Their steps were loud in the echoing hall.

  “This is very strange, Giorgio. What’s your explanation of the matter?”

  “Barone, I cannot understand it.” Giorgio was visibly embarrassed. “I left e-mails and phone messages with the usual people, as I always do. After your phone call from Venice, I contacted them all over again, to confirm the date and time of the lecture. Each one passes it on to ten or a dozen others. It’s informal, but very efficient, and it’s never failed before.”

  “I asked for an explanation, not an excuse.”

  Giorgio hesitated. “Barone, I didn’t know how to tell you this, but one of the leaders, a Swiss I call Raoul, told me that he wasn’t going to attend the lectures any more.”

  “What did this Raoul say to you?”

  “He just wasn’t going to attend, but he’d pass the message on.”

  “Is that all he said?” Giorgio hesitated. The Baron raised his voice. “What did he really say?”

  Giorgio took a deep breath. “He said he wasn’t fool enough to spend another night in an Italian jail.”

  “And the others?”

  “A couple of them said something similar.”

  “It seems as though your network is all too efficient, doesn’t it?” snarled the Baron. “You are dismissed for the day, Giorgio,” he said, in a calmer tone. “I want to be left alone.”

  Half an hour later, the Baron was in his studio again, at the heart of his magical kingdom. It was here that for years he had performed the rites with his magical companions: first with hired women, but without much success; then, far more potently, with Angela. Having realized only too painfully that he was not “gifted”, the Baron had finally followed the commentary’s injunction:

  As Jupiter chose as wife his sister Juno, so a kinship of blood is favorable to the practices of the weaker kind. For though they cannot contain their alembic within themselves, let it be a work shared with a soror mystica.

  No doubt about it, the magical work had been effective: against all odds he had succeeded in attracting a band of some hundred disciples who had made considerable sacrifices to attend his lectures. And in recent months, he had gained the ability that the greatest of the Riviera had possessed: that of causing men to act in his interests, rather than in their own. That small seed, that semen sown in a magical spirit, had grown into a mighty tree.

  The unsuspecting masses had been prodded into action by the violation of their sanctuaries; the ploy had been discovered as his influence had ceased and the impressionable young men had given in to fear or, worst of all, to that most despicable of feelings: repentance. But genuine Islamic fundamentalists had unexpectedly come to the Baron’s aid by desecrating the Cathedral of Chartres. The masses were aroused once more and, if further prodded, they would not let up until the alien presence was banished from Europe.

  This was true politics! Not the popular mandate of democracy, the aberrant notion that the low can govern the high; not the wranglings of parliaments or the farce of plebiscites, but the skilful manipulation of human beings for purposes which only high initiates could comprehend. It was their calling to change the world, as the noblest of the Riviera had always done. Emanuele would not take second place to any of his exalted ancestors. He was political through and through, and his ambitions stretched far beyond this initial phase of arousing the sleeping masses. Once the Muslim threat was dealt with, he would work towards his grander vision of a Europe cleansed of Judeo-Christianity and restored, at long last, to pagan imperialism.

  As Emanuele came down from his musings, he faced the reality of his situation. Through a regrettable lapse of self-awareness, he had lost his ideal magical companion. Through no fault of his own, he had lost his band of shock troops, without which his political plans were seriously hampered. Through some malicious enemy, the occult support of the Riviera family spirit had been compromised, if not irrevocably destroyed.

  Had he also lost Orsina? When she recovered from her long sedation, whoever had abducted her would tell her where she had been. She would realize that her uncle, and none other, had been her kidnapper. Might she recall that unfortunate episode too, he wondered? Would she then contact the police? Her husband—now probably a contrite libertine, the worst kind—would surely urge her to do so; besides, the police would interrogate her anyway, and with the curiosity of one unanswered question too many. Even if her kidnapping were past history, its proximity to an unsolved murder would strike even Ghedina, and he would follow up any leads arising out of her testimony. What she would have to tell the police would reflect suspiciously, to say the least, on himself. He might well be arrested and charged with the crime of kidnapping, for which the penalties were severe. From there, the steps to suspecting him of covering up Angela’s murder would be small indeed.

  At what point, Emanuele wondered, could he intervene in this potentially catastrophic sequence of events? The only accessible link was Orsina herself. He must find her and neutralize her, by whatever means were necessary. And since he could not do so at this moment on the physical plane, not knowing where she was, he must invoke the aid of high magic.

  ****

  A battery of tests had found Orsina slightly anemic, but overall in decent health. A course of vitamins and minerals coupled with a period of rest would complete her recovery. “As for post-traumatic stress,” the clinic’s doctors had agreed, speaking confidentially to her husband, “that is another matter entirely.” And her trials were not over. Upon leaving the private clinic, Orsina felt that it was her duty to inform Inspector Ghedina of her release, and agreed to his demand to question her. She gave him an appointment at the hotel she and Nigel had temporarily moved to in Milan.

  Inspector Ghedina had to scold Colucci as they were escorted through the Hotel Principe di Savoia to the MacPhersons’ suite: “Just act naturally and stop gawping!” Nigel was there with some brawny men in dark suits and Avvocato Alemanni in his usual Caraceni outfit. The Baroness was sitting in an armchair, her legs aslant, looking gaunt and shaken but still very beautiful. Ghedina greeted her formally and asked permission to record the interview. The bodyguards stepped out and Colucci turned on the recorder.

  “Baronessa, please tell me all that happened.”

  After a long pause, she said: “I’m afraid there isn’t much to tell, Inspector. I’m sure you’ll be reading the test reports from the clinic. I’m told that traces of an anesthetic were found in my blood. The fact is, I was sedated from the very beginning.”

  “By whom?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Ghedina was both baffled and frustrated. “Please explain yourself, Baronessa. What happened?”

  “The last thing I remember is being in a café in Bolzano. Giorgio,” the Inspector looked at her keenly, “yes, Giorgio Moser, my uncle’s secretary, had taken me there.”

  “What was signor Moser doing in Bolzano?”

  “After my sister’s funeral, my uncle had put him at my disposal as a chauffeur. He’d just dropped me off close to my hotel, as I’d asked him to do. I expect that after that he drove back to Verona. Anyway, I walked to
a café nearby and drank an espresso. The next thing I remember is waking up, very weak and with a splitting headache, on a train bound to Milan. Eventually, I asked a woman to lend me her cell phone, and called my husband. He came to pick me up at the station in Milan, and took me directly to the clinic.”

  “Is that all?” The Inspector did not try to conceal his disappointment. “Are you quite sure, Baronessa?”

  “Yes, Inspector, I am quite sure.” In fact, she did remember other things. Giorgio had accompanied her into that café, and had ordered an espresso for her while she had gone to the toilet. Then she remembered drinking it as he drank one too. Then, a jumble of bad dreams and total blanks.

  Most of the time, she was unconscious. Occasionally she would awaken in the dark, or perhaps she was blindfolded, long enough to eat and drink. Somebody fed her. Then she would feel a vague pinch on her arm, and plunge into deep sleep. One episode, however, stuck out, and there was nothing she could do to forget it. But she would reveal none of this to Ghedina. She had made up her mind as soon as Leo had left her at the railway station in Milan. No, the police were hopeless, and her uncle needed to be dealt with. And then there was the unbearable shame. It was best to wait for Leo, who had already proven to be Emanuele’s only capable opponent. Ghedina would remain clueless—it would be nothing new for him.

  The Inspector was still sitting expectantly. Was he hoping for some spontaneous confession? More details? Or merely enjoying what he was seeing? “One more thing,” he added slyly, almost as an afterthought. “What can you tell me of Professor Leonard Kavenaugh?”

  “Professor Kavenaugh?”

  “Yes.”

  “I wouldn’t know what to tell you. I expect he’s at Georgetown University, in Washington, teaching classes.”

  “No, he is not.” Ghedina explained the strange and sinister circumstances surrounding Leo’s latest stay in Italy. “I’m asking you about him, Baronessa. I know you were in daily contact with him by phone during the weeks before your sister’s murder. You even called him many times from the train on your way to Bolzano from Venice, after your sister’s funeral. What could be so urgent? Finally, you called him again very late at night, twice, the day before you were kidnapped.”

  “What are you suggesting, Inspector? Leonard and I are friends; I was his assistant at Georgetown University. Before the tragedy, I was studying some ancient books, in Latin, as a pastime, and I took advantage of his expertise. Is there really no news about him?”

  Hearing about the room daubed with human blood seemed to have shocked Orsina. It pained Ghedina, but he pressed on. “Are you sure you’re not omitting something, Baronessa? Remember, I’m not only investigating your kidnapping, but also your sister’s murder. I have become very suspicious of this professor. I suspect foul play on his part.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that. I don’t think he could hurt a fly. On the contrary, I do hope no harm has come to him.”

  Ghedina leaned forward and almost whispered, so that only she could hear: “A letter you wrote him some years ago has come to my attention.”

  Orsina was taken aback, this time visibly. How could that be, she wondered in her mind as she made an effort to keep still? Hadn’t Leo himself told her that he had had his secretary shred it along with the junk mail? Was that the letter the Inspector was referring to? She must not jump to conclusions.

  But it was. Dean Throckmorton, immediately after having read Orsina’s letter, had called Mrs. Reed, from the Italian Department; together, they had phoned Inspector Ghedina, with the secretary acting as interpreter. The letter had then been faxed over to him.

  “I have read that letter, Baronessa. We had it translated. So you can see why, when you say ‘we’re friends’ about you and Kavenaugh, I simply cannot believe you. And of course, I don’t like this: what other lies are you telling me? What else are you omitting?”“Very well, Inspector. You seem to enjoy sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong. I will admit that, when I was at Georgetown, years ago, I … I fell in love with him.” Orsina too was now whispering. “But, how can I put it? My love was unrequited. Since then, I returned to Europe, met Mr. MacPherson, and got married. Professor Kavenaugh and I, I repeat, are just friends.”

  Ghedina’s curiosity was not satisfied. “Baronessa,” he said, “do you remember the call you made from the train to your husband?”

  “Yes.”

  “You just told me that you made it from a borrowed cell phone, did you not?”

  “Yes, that’s what I said.”

  “You see, Baronessa, your husband’s cell phone was tapped. So, we heard your call,” unfortunately for Ghedina, only the next morning, but that he did not need to reveal. “We traced the other cell phone too, the one you borrowed, to its registered owner.”

  Orsina did not bat an eyelid; Ghedina pressed on. “The woman said you were with a tall, thin man all along; that he asked her if he could borrow her cell phone. So we showed her the photo of Kavenaugh …” Ghedina paused artfully. Orsina waited, then said: “Inspector, I’m sure you take your job very seriously, and I thank you for it. But, if you don’t mind, I’m very weak, so, if you have a point, could you please get to it?”

  “The point is, Baronessa …” the point was that he did not have a positive identification from the woman in the train. She said that the man with Orsina was a lot slimmer, bearded; he seemed older, different in many ways, maybe taller; she was not at all sure that he was the man in the photo.

  “Yes, Inspector, the point is?”

  “Was Kavenaugh with you on that train? Did he have you kidnapped, and then change his mind? Or did your uncle or your husband pay the ransom to him, and he was dropping you off?”

  “Inspector, you’re not only insulting me by implying that I’ve lied to you; you’re insulting a good friend of the family. I told you already: I woke up in that train alone, by which I mean next to no one I know. Yes, a bearded man was sitting close by, so I asked him if he had a cell phone to lend me. He didn’t, but asked the woman for me. Then he helped me off the train until my husband arrived. That’s all.”

  “That’s all,” repeated Gehdina in his mind, unconvinced, while he gestured to Colucci to turn off the recorder.

  On his way out, Ghedina said to Nigel: “You know where to find me if your wife suddenly remembers anything.” They looked at each other with strong mutual dislike.

  “Before you leave, Inspector,” said Nigel, “have a word with my lawyer.”

  “Inspector,” said Alemanni quietly, “you should know that my clients will be leaving tomorrow, and do not intend to return to Italy any time soon. They want to avoid the assault of the media, of course, and the Baronessa needs to recover. Should you need to contact them again, you are advised to let me know. They will not reply to any of your calls unless you’ve contacted me first. Is that understood?”

  TWENTY-SIX

  The next day, Inspector Ghedina was in Verona, on the third-floor landing of an oldish building in the central part of town. Colucci and Gallorini were with him, as well as four policemen in assault gear. The porter, downstairs, had told them that the man they were looking for was at home.

  “Break down the door,” Ghedina said to the four agents.

  Gallorini wondered if they shouldn’t have knocked first, but it was too late: the door had already been smashed in.

  Giorgio was in the living room, surprised and alarmed; he had been working on his laptop. “What the hell? What’s going on?” he asked.

  “Giorgio Moser: you are under arrest,” said the Inspector. “Officers, handcuff him.”

  “Under arrest? What for? On what charge? Hey, wait a minute!”

  “Resisting arrest would be very unwise in your situation,” Ghedina explained; “it’d be like adding insult to injury.”

  Giorgio allowed the policemen to handcuff him, then repeated his questions: “Will you explain, please? Why am I being arrested? On what charge?”

  “You want the whole list?” Ghedina
smiled sardonically, then said: “Perjury; lying to the authorities; obstruction of justice; tampering with the evidence; kidnapping; concealment of individuals; sex offense; and, last but not least, murder. You are a principal to the crimes in the first degree, and an accessory before and after the facts. You’re looking at a life sentence with no pardon. Any other questions?”

  Dumbfounded, Giorgio fell back on a chair.

  “Good,” commented Ghedina, “sit there and let it all sink in. Gentlemen, let’s search the place.” They began the search, leaving Gallorini to watch him.

  The apartment was large and surprisingly well-appointed. Evidently the Baron paid his secretary well. Ghedina and his men went through drawers, books, correspondence, and confiscated documents, two computers, and so on. In the meantime, Giorgio had time to consider his own predicament. Of all the charges, that of murder was outrageous. He had never killed anyone. Some of the other ones were unwarranted too, and a few, in a sense, unfair. But the Baron had warned him when he gave him the task of abducting Orsina.

  “Giorgio,” he had said, “the essence of an initiatic trial is that you ask no questions, not even in your mind. What you are asked to do may seem absurd, even immoral, by the world’s standards, but you cannot yet see the deeper meaning of events. For example, the Knights Templar were required to spit and tread on a crucifix, then thrust their tongues into the anus of a goat. Would you do that?”

  Giorgio’s nose wrinkled as he replied: “If it were a true initiation, I would.”

  “Times have changed, and so have the trials of initiation. But the intention remains the same. By your unquestioning obedience and faithful execution, you awaken the impersonal Self within you. And do not forget, Giorgio: you also awaken the blood of the warrior caste that flows in your veins.”