The First Face of Janus

by Valentine, Phil

  THEY ROLLED UP to the Hotel Las Arenas Balneario Resort in Valencia well after dark. The hotel appeared oddly out of place in the neighborhood. The four-story facade of the resort looked like a movie set plopped down in the middle of a lower income mixed-use development. Apartments across the street could just as easily have been public housing. The shops were locked up tight for the night with their barred windows and doors. Rosenfeld felt a little uneasy as their car came to a stop, but she had learned not to question Crow’s choice of accommodations.

  “Bienvenido,” the valet said to Crow.

  Crow turned the Benz over to the him without a word and grabbed his bag out of the trunk.

  “Gracias,” Rosenfeld said uncomfortably. “El esta de mal humor.” She explained that Crow was in a bad mood.

  “You don’t have to constantly apologize for me,” he said to her as she caught up to him.

  “You don’t have to always be such an asshole to the help either.”

  “It goes with the territory of being a difficult author.”

  She smirked and shook her head.

  Beyond the revolving doors was a luxurious oasis of white columns and stone floors with large brown resin chairs and comfortable cushions. Outside, past the lobby, was a beautiful blue rectangular reflecting pool with fountains. Palm trees lined it on either side illuminated at their bases with flood lights which gave them the appearance of almost being on fire. Beyond the grounds was the wide beach, and beyond that was the Mediterranean Sea.

  The desk clerk, dressed in a summer-weight gray suit and white pocket square, was scribbling a note on a pad when Crow and Rosenfeld approached.

  “Welcome to the Hotel Las Arenas,” he greeted warmly.

  “The name is Crow.” He produced his passport and credit card.

  The man typed a few words into his computer. “We have you for one night in the Suite Las Arenas.”

  “Let’s keep that open, shall we?” Crow said. “Depending on how we like it here, we may stay longer.”

  “Very good, sir.”

  They showed themselves to the Suite Las Arenas with its two separate bedrooms and a spacious living room. The large terrace had a spectacular view of the Mediterranean Sea which shimmered under a waxing gibbous moon. The view was wasted on the both of them who felt the sand quickly draining from their hourglass. Crow paced between the white desk and the sitting area of the living room. Rosenfeld sat cross-legged on the white leather sofa scrolling through the society pages on the tablet.

  “I’m getting nowhere on this,” she said. “There are weddings all over the place. That’s all these society people do is go to weddings.”

  “We’ve got to find one that fits,” Crow insisted.

  “How? We have virtually nothing to go on.”

  “Remember what Delacroix said? Concentrate on venues. We have to narrow it down,” Crow said. “Let’s go with what we know, or what we think we know. If we’re supposed to take this literally, Nostradamus wouldn’t be predicting just any wedding. It has to be someone prominent. And by prominent, it’s got to be someone whose life affects others, not just some society couple. And remember, Delacroix was convinced it was a royal wedding.”

  “Do any of these people really matter to the rest of the world?” Rosenfeld asked.

  “Don’t be so cynical.”

  “Seriously? You know how these high-society weddings go. The Duke and Duchess of Whatever attend the wedding of Lady What’s-her-name. Who are you wearing?” she mocked. “Oh, darling, you look fa-a-abulous. It’s the social event of the year, darling. Blah, blah, blah. It’s sickening.”

  “I’m not into this stuff either, but royal-watching is huge business, especially in the UK. In fact, I read the British royal family actually brings in far more money in tourism than it takes to keep them.”

  “Still, it’s obscene. These people have done nothing to earn their privilege other than being born into the right family.”

  “That’s the way it is the world over,” Crow reminded her. “You think JFK would’ve ever been president had he been born to a working-class family? We can’t worry about how superficial it might be. The quatrains are pointing to a high-profile wedding. We have to find which one or innocent people are going to die.”

  “What’s one less royal family?” she said.

  “I’ll write that off to your lack of sleep. Besides, this goes way beyond saving lives. It’s about stopping the prophecy.”

  Rosenfeld looked at Crow for a long moment. “Is that what this is really all about with you? Or is it about the story?”

  Crow didn’t say anything.

  “I know your publisher has gotten in your head,” she continued. “You’re scared your days as a successful author are over.”

  “Here we go again with the psychoanalyzing.”

  “You’re looking for that mid-career bump, that big book that puts you back in the game.”

  “You really think I’m sensationalizing this for the sake of the story?”

  “You tell me. If you are, you’re risking both our lives for your career.”

  Crow was silent for a moment. “You think that’s what this is all about? My career?”

  “I just want you to search your soul for your motivation. Are you trying to impress somebody? Your parents, maybe?”

  “I don’t have any,” Crow said.

  She looked down. “Oh, I didn’t know. I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be. I haven’t had any since I was sixteen.”

  “You want to talk about it?”

  “Do I look like I want to talk about it?” He sat down in one of the overstuffed leather chairs next to the sofa and faced her. “It may be ugly to admit, but, yeah, I see real value in this story. If I said the plot hadn’t been rolling around in my head I’d be lying. But you know what really motivates me? For nearly 500 years, a secretive group of people has been manipulating world events to fit the predictions of some guy who just very well may have been a crackpot. I’ve wrestled with religion all my life. I believe in God, but I’m not too keen on organized religion. In fact, it can be downright scary. They try to control people. Look at the Inquisition. They killed people who didn’t convert to their way of thinking. The radical Muslims are doing that today. Why are people so obsessed with making people believe just like they believe?”

  “What does this have to do with the First Face of Janus?” Rosenfeld asked.

  “Because they’re exactly the same. They fight the Church over these prophecies, but their sole existence is about manipulating events so that their religion is right. Their god just so happens to be Nostradamus. Am I motivated to stop them? You damn right I am. No one should have that much power. No one should be able to control world events with impunity. No one should be allowed to decide who has the power and who is left powerless. You’re worried about privilege? No one should be allowed to decide who eats and who starves, who lives and who dies. Almost 3,000 people died on 9/11. Don’t you think if I had a chance to save them I would? The First Face of Janus didn’t help them. They let them die. For all we know, they helped them die. If that’s the story that draws me to it, it’s because that’s the story that has to be told. For way too long they’ve wielded that power based on the writings of one man. One man! They’ve been stacking the deck based on their ‘religion.’ How are they any different from the Inquisition? Yeah, I may have gotten in over my head, but guess what, I have absolutely nothing to lose now. I can’t go home because somebody’s going to kill me. I can’t sit still because I’m being chased. So I’m going to stop this prophecy with or without the help of the Custos Verbi. We stop this prophecy and we stop this cycle of insanity once and for all.”

  Rosenfeld leaned back slightly and nodded. “OK,” she patted the tops of her legs, “good talk. Then we better get to work. It’s gonna be an all-night cram. We’ll need some joe.”

  She took the elevator down to the lobby past a scaled-down replica of the resort. She asked the clerk at the fr
ont desk if there were somewhere she could get a couple of cups of coffee at this hour.

  “Sí, señorita. You should have called room service. They are open 24 hours and they would have brought it to your room.”

  “Ah, no problem. I needed to get out anyway.”

  He looked back over his shoulder at the large inlaid clock on the marble wall. It read 10:51. “The restaurant.” He pointed straight ahead. “It is open for another few minutes.”

  “Gracias.”

  “De nada.”

  The gold Jaguar pulled off Carrer d’Eugènia Viñes onto the black pavers and up to the valet at the Hotel Las Arenas Balneario Resort in Valencia. The young attendant opened the driver’s side door. The bald man with the black eye patch emerged elegantly from the automobile and took the stub the valet was offering. He inhaled the salty breeze blowing in from the Mediterranean Sea. The man strolled into the foyer of large boxed columns, tray ceilings, and modern low-back off-white sofas with the occasional palm tree as an accent. His sand-colored linen blazer was draped over his shoulders. He approached the man at the counter with the gray suit and white pocket square and checked his Cartier watch against the inlaid clock on the marble wall behind him. 10:55pm. He laid his passport and credit card on the counter and looked around surveying the area as if the clerk were just another fine fixture in the hotel. The desk clerk picked up the passport and greeted him with a smile.

  “Good evening, Señor Babineaux. We have been expecting you.”

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chaos surrounded him. Broken glass, bits of steel, and other debris rained down around him. The myriad sounds were confusing and disorienting. Crow shielded his face with his arms and strained his eyes up at the unusually tall building in front of him. He couldn’t make out the top for the smoke. Flames leapt from the highest story he could see. People screamed. Policemen shouted orders. Sirens blared. Hordes of people were running past him away from the burning building. And then he heard his name. Faintly at first, but it became louder and clearer. “Benson!” a woman’s voice screamed. He looked up again. Through the heavy smoke he saw her, arms flailing wildly, screaming, tumbling closer to earth. “Benson!” He could now make out her face. Her terrified eyes locked with his. “Help me, Benson!” she screamed. Then the hideous thud as her body hit the concrete sidewalk and bounced. Crow turned away in horror. He couldn’t comprehend what he’d just seen.

  I actually watched her die!

  Then he heard it again. His name. Being screamed. This time a man’s voice. “Benson! Help!” He looked up between his protective arms into the smoky abyss. A man fell from the smoke and flames, terror on his face, screaming desperately. “Benson! Help!” Crow knew he was going to suffer the same fate as the woman before him. All he could do was stand by helplessly and watch. Crow cried out, “No!” He turned his head, hoping against hope he wouldn’t hear that horrible thud of another life being snuffed out right before his eyes. The man’s screams were deafening. Crow covered his ears. It was like the man was screaming right beside him. “Help, Benson! Ple-e-e-ease!”

  Crow bolted upright in bed, drenched in sweat. His heart pounded. He fought to catch his breath as if he’d just run a marathon. The realization of where he was began to sink in. He calmed himself, but the image of the desperate people falling gnawed at him. He pulled back the covers and dressed himself. Instead of a shower, he grabbed a ball cap from his shoulder bag. He left Rosenfeld sleeping in her bed. The all-nighter proved fruitless and he wandered downstairs in search of fresh air and food about the time the restaurant opened at seven. He took his breakfast on the manicured grounds of the Hotel Las Arenas Balneario in sight of the distant sea. Out on the beaches of the Mediterranean, seagulls floated in place above the sand, steadying their wings against the morning wind, their sharp eyes looking for a morsel of food. They communicated with a cry that bordered on a laugh seemingly in rhythm and concert with the gentle roar of the small waves that broke on the shore. Servers dressed in black trousers and white mandarin-collar jackets ferried breakfast trays between the grass and the kitchen.

  It was Friday morning. The sands of the hour glass poured relentlessly through his mind. He could see his chances slipping through his fingers. After ruminating over a quick bite, he planned to resume his research in the room but held out little hope that he’d find that snowball in the blizzard. Sánchez Muñoz. Valencia had to be the right place. Nothing else made sense, but the name had meant nothing to this town for centuries. Muñoz was born in Teruel, not Valencia. His tomb was in Palma, Spain. His only connection to Valencia was his brief stint as envoy to the Bishop of Valencia and that was well over 600 years ago. Crow fretted that he was in the wrong place. Maybe Teruel was where he was supposed to be, or Palma. But Teruel wasn’t by the sea. Palma was, but it was actually an island off the coast of Spain. Simonin said, ‘No man is an island.’ The father had to know that Crow would consider the man’s birthplace and burial site. Was that why he said that, or did he mean something else? Something to do with some English poet? He looked at his watch. Less than twenty-nine hours until the wedding. That was if he was even in the right time zone.

  He took another sip of his coffee when the outline of a man with the sun over his shoulder appeared just a few feet away from the table. The sun glistened off his bald head and concealed his face in shadows. He reached for the back of the chair opposite Crow.

  “Mind if I join you?” he asked in a refined French accent.

  Crow thought it odd, with all the empty tables, that someone would feel it necessary to share his. Odd, that is, until the sun eclipsed behind his head and his face became clear.

  “Who the hell are you?” Crow said.

  “My name is Philippe Babineaux,” the man with the eye patch said. His Façonnable navy linen blazer was accented with a sky-blue pocket square. The Breton blue and white stripe shirt and white pants made him look as though he’d just stepped off a yacht. He presumed he was welcomed and took a seat.

  “I saw you in Avignon,” Crow said. “You’re following me. Why?”

  “I want to help you, Monsieur Crow.”

  “Help me with what?”

  “Help you in your quest.”

  “My quest?”

  “You and I are very much alike,” Babineaux said.

  “Is that so?”

  “Neither of us suffers fools. We also share the same tenacity. I believe we share the same goals.”

  Crow took another bite of his breakfast.

  “You left Avignon in such a hurry,” Babineaux said.

  “I had business here in Valencia.”

  “Please, do not play coy with me. You want to stop the prophecy and you are quickly running out of time. I can help you.”

  “How do you know all this?”

  “Father Simonin.”

  “You knew him?” Crow asked.

  “Very well. He and I along with Jean-Claude Delacroix have been exchanging ideas for years. I urged Simonin not to meet with you. We knew a prophecy war was in progress. Very dangerous to get in the middle of one of those. He ignored my advice. When I heard the bell ring at the odd time, I knew they had killed him.”

  “They being…?”

  The female server with long legs and a small face interrupted to take Babineaux’s order.

  “Eggs Florentine and a Bloody Mary.”

  “Coffee?” She gestured toward the silver pot.

  “Yes.”

  She filled his cup.

  Babineaux continued after the server was gone. “Who killed Father Simonin? Probably the same people who killed Delacroix.”

  “And who would that be?” Crow asked.

  Babineaux reached for the cream and poured a healthy amount into his coffee. “If I were a betting man, I would say the First Face of Janus.”

  “Are you a betting man?”

  He set the creamer down and stirred his cup. “That depends upon the odds.”

  “Di
d you just roll the dice that I would be in Valencia?” Crow asked.

  Babineaux smiled. “I knew the good father would tell you.”

  “He didn’t exactly tell me. He gave me the name Sánchez Muñoz.”

  Babineaux threw his head back and laughed. “Very clever. He did not want you caught with his explicit instructions on your person. He learned much in his studies over the years.” His face turned solemn. “Too bad it got him killed.”

  “Unfortunately, I seem to have that effect on people. You don’t appear to be too torn up over your friend’s death.”

  “I never said he was a friend. I said I knew him well. We shared a similar interest in the prophecy wars. Just like Delacroix. They both knew death was a possibility, a hazard of the profession, Monsieur Crow. What else did Father Simonin tell you?”

  “Nothing,” Crow said too quickly.

  “Nothing,” Babineaux said with a sarcastic tinge to his voice. “You are sure?” He sipped his coffee.

  “Nothing,” Crow stated emphatically. “If there’s something you’re fishing for, just come right out and say it.”

  “Oh, no, no, no, monsieur. Just gathering information.”

  “If I’m such a death magnet, why are you brave enough to be seen with me?” Crow asked.

  “Because if you are important enough to leave death in your wake, monsieur, you must be getting close to something.”

  “I see. And that something is worth dying for?”

  “I should hope it would not come to that.”

  “And how’d you know I’d be at this particular hotel?”

  “It is the only five-star hotel in Valencia recommended by the LHW. Where else would you be?”

  “I’m that predictable?”

  “You are Benson Crow, the famous author. How do you say? It is how you roll. And now you are on the trail of your latest novel. You are intrigued by the First Face of Janus. You can already imagine the story in the pages against the backdrop of France and Spain.” His eyes became animated. “It has danger, conspiracy, secret societies. What is not to love, no? You are determined to find the Custos Verbi because you think together you can stop the next prophecy, and you think you will find them here in Valencia. Stop me if I have missed anything.”