The First Face of Janus

by Valentine, Phil

  “Gregory walked into this guy’s trap?” Crow said.

  Alejandro held up a finger. “But there is a twist. The council ruled that all three papal claimants should abdicate so they could name a new pope and settle the dispute. With John XXIII stripped of his title, his crimes were laid bare for everyone to see.”

  “What kind of crimes?” Crow asked.

  “Murder, rape, sodomy, incest, piracy. Instead of facing his accusers, he disguised himself as a postman and ran like the coward he was, fleeing Constance with Frederick IV, Duke of Austria. The King of the Romans declared the two of them fugitives and they were pursued vigorously. The king’s soldiers eventually caught up with them in Germany and Frederick was convinced that he had too much to lose harboring a fugitive. The duke agreed to surrender and to hand over the disgraced John XXIII. John was taken back to Constance where he stood trial. He was imprisoned but was freed in 1419 after a handsome ransom was paid by whom?”

  Crow stared at him then said, “The Medici family?”

  “Precisely. And that is when they made the pact. They would spend all the money it took, expend all the manpower that was necessary, spill all the blood they had to in order to exact revenge and overthrow the Roman Catholic Church. You see, the Keeper of the Word is not the keeper of the word of God. It is the keeper of the word between the Medici family and Baldassare Cossa. Not only Baldassare Cossa but all who were loyal to his papacy. These two factions intermingled for several decades until they became one, a group with two driving goals. First, to take their place as the rightful custodians of Catholicism and, second, to control all of the world’s banks.”

  “So the Custos Verbi is an alliance between outcast Catholics and the Medici family?”

  “Sí, but not just the Medici family bloodline, the Medici family as an organization.”

  “Like the Mafia.”

  Alejandro smiled and reached for another piece of cheese. “Now you understand.”

  “Did they ever take control of the Church?”

  “Sí. Pope Leo X, who became pope in 1513, was a Medici, as was Pope Clement VII in 1523. Pope Pius IV was a distant Medici cousin and when he died in 1565 the Medicis lost control of the papacy.”

  Crow asked, “The last real Medici pope died in 1565? That was just a year before Nostradamus died. Is that the Custos Verbi connection with him?”

  Alejandro smiled. “The author in you has a nose for this. When Nostradamus came along, the Medicis could see great power in predicting the future. Catherine de’ Medici, the daughter of Lorenzo II of Florence, married King Henry II. Henry was king of France and Catherine became Queen consort. Very powerful woman. She summoned Nostradamus to Paris in 1556 after he predicted her husband would be struck in the eye and suffer a cruel death. She asked him to plot the horoscopes of her seven children. Nostradamus told her that all of her sons would become king during her lifetime. It was a test, of sorts, by the Medicis to see if Nostradamus really was the all-powerful prophet.”

  “Was he right?”

  “He was right but for one son who died before he could become king. The other sons all became king and died on the throne while Catherine was alive.”

  “Still,” Crow said, “that’s pretty amazing. Six out of seven? What about the prediction of her husband being hit in the eye and dying?”

  Alejandro nodded, “Three years after the prediction, the king was wounded in a jousting match. A splintered lance went through the visor in his helmet. It penetrated his eye. He suffered ten agonizing days before he died. Which only confirmed what the Medicis already believed, that Nostradamus possessed great powers of prophecy. Two years prior to Nostradamus’ death, Catherine de’ Medici paid a royal visit to his home in Salon. It is believed she made the trip specifically because she had heard about the Unriddled Manuscript and she wanted to verify its existence.”

  “Did he know she knew about the book?” Crow asked.

  The little man shrugged. “Who knows? Probably not. He guarded that book with his life.”

  “He didn’t suspect she was after it?”

  “He trusted her. The queen had protected him from the Justices of Paris who were ready to accuse Nostradamus of engaging in magic. She bestowed upon him the title of Physician in Ordinary, which made him a personal physician to the queen and insulated him from prosecution.”

  “But he didn’t trust her enough to show her the book.”

  “Nostradamus did not fully trust any Medici. As it was, his instincts were not misplaced. Six years after Nostradamus’ passing, Catherine de’ Medici instigated the infamous St. Bartholomew’s Day massacre.”

  “I remember learning about that,” Crow said. “The Catholics of Paris murdered thousands of French Protestants.”

  “Sí, the Huguenots. As many as 30,000. These were people who had split from the Catholic Church and the Medicis saw them as a threat to their power base.”

  “So, Catherine wasn’t able to get her hands on the Unriddled Manuscript and—”

  Alejandro finished, “The Custos Verbi, of which Catherine was a member, sent their agents to seize it on the night of Nostradamus’ death. Their pope had died seven months prior. They were desperate to regain power by any means necessary.”

  “I’m guessing they weren’t successful. Getting the book, I mean.”

  Alejandro shook his head. “But they have been trying to get their hands on it ever since. With each prophecy that comes true, their determination intensifies.”

  “Whatever happened to the Medici bank?”

  Alejandro finished chewing on a piece of cheese then swallowed. “The rival Pazzi family took the papal business from them in 1478. By 1494, the bank had collapsed. But do not cry for the Medicis, señor. They drove their bank over a cliff on purpose.”

  “And the purpose being?”

  “To take their finances underground. The Medici banks kept meticulous records. Too meticulous to continue to hide their financing of the Custos Verbi. The ineptness of the Medicis who controlled the bank in its final years was so laughable as to be unbelievable. No one could be that incompetent if they tried. By the end of the fifteenth century, their attention had shifted from the banking business to the royalty business. Catherine, Queen of France. Maria, Queen of France. Medici women were queens of Spain and England. There was one Medici whose brother-in-law was the Holy Roman Emperor. Who needs a bank when you have that kind of power?”

  “They had power,” Crow said. “Wasn’t that enough?”

  “Scattered power. A pope here. Queens, dukes, and archbishops there, but not enough. Once you taste power on the order of the Medicis, señor, there is only one type of power that will satisfy. And that is the power the Custos Verbi seeks to this very day. It is the power of religion and the power of money combined. The power of riches and the power of control over the people. It is like no other power the world has ever seen. My friend, what the Custos Verbi crave is absolute power.”

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  “Bouchard’s Paris,” the man on the phone said.

  “Hello, Romain, this is Sidney. How are you?”

  Romain’s eyes lit up on the other end. “Fabulous, mademoiselle,” he answered in his theatrical French accent. “How have you been?”

  “Just fine. Look, Romain, I’m in a bit of a hurry and I need a small favor. I’m trying to track down a client who does business with you. His name is Philippe Babineaux.”

  “Philippe Babineaux,” he repeated. The painted nails of his fingers tapped his waist. “Why does that name ring a bell? Hmmm. Oh, I know. He’s not a client. He’s an agent. He’s here from time to time representing different buyers. The man with the eye patch, no? Ew, flagorneur.”

  “Yes, he is a bit on the smarmy side. Do you know who he represents?”

  “He represents several clients, I believe. Most of them less than reputable. Anyone in particular?”

  “A guy named Otto. That’s all I have.”

  “Otto, hmmm? It may take me a bi
t, but I will see what I can do.”

  “That would be great. I’m going to be in a meeting. Can you text me what you find?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “You have my number?”

  “I do.”

  “Oh, Romain, is there any chance Monsieur Babineaux is a member of the Société des Antiquaires?”

  “At the Louvre?”

  “Yes.”

  Romain chuckled. “Not a chance. Monsieur Babineaux is, how we say in French, mal élevé.

  “Thanks so much for the information. Please let me know when you have anything on this Otto character.”

  “I sure will.”

  “You’re a doll.”

  “Don’t I know it,” Romain snickered.

  The line to Paris was only disconnected for a few seconds when Rosenfeld’s phone rang. She placed it back to her ear. “Hello.”

  “Did it work?” Crow asked as he left the church.

  “Like a charm,” Rosenfeld said. “I’m on my way to meet him for dinner right now. We’re going to ‘join forces,’ as he put it, and see what we have together.”

  “Have you called Paris yet?”

  “Just got off the phone with them,” Rosenfeld said. “Monsieur Babineaux has a less than stellar reputation. He’s apparently lying about his credentials. They’re trying to track down Otto for me. They’ll let me know when they have something. How about you? How’d you make out?”

  “A very strange encounter. I’ll fill you in tonight,” Crow said.

  “Great. See you when I’m done.”

  “Oh, Rosenfeld.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Be careful.”

  “I’m a big girl, Crow. I know how to take care of myself.”

  THE MAN THEY called Otto gazed out across the valley from his vantage point inside the greenhouse to the distant blue of the mountains, lost in thought. He caught himself and continued trimming the flowers he tended. It was his therapy. Although he could not possibly nurture all of the flora that rotated among the grounds of the great complex personally, he insisted on being involved despite his lofty position.

  A suited man appeared in the doorway. “Your Excellency, I am sorry to disturb you.”

  “What is it?” Otto asked impatiently.

  “A development from the field.”

  “What kind of development?”

  “The little man in Valencia.”

  Otto pulled the garden gloves from his hands and headed for the main house.

  ROSENFELD WAS GONE by the time Crow returned to the hotel suite. He used the time to renew his wedding search. Delacroix had said to concentrate on venues, so he included palaces in the search. He learned that even royal weddings of the past were not traditionally held in palaces. They were held in churches. Most of British royalty were married at Westminster Abbey. Charles and Diana were an exception, being married at St. Paul’s Cathedral. Some British royalty had been wed at the Chapel Royal at St. James’ Palace, but the last was the Duke of Gloucester in 1935. Crow checked that venue to make sure no weddings were scheduled for the weekend. He found the tradition of royal church weddings to be the case in country after country.

  He checked Almudena Cathedral in Madrid, the site of the wedding of Prince Felipe and Princess Letizia in 2004. Nothing. The Basilica of Our Lady in Trastevere in Rome where Prince Amedeo of Belgium was wed. No wedding this weekend. He checked the Cathedral of St. Michael and St. Gudula in Brussels, the Church of Our Lady in Copenhagen, St. Michael’s Cathedral in Belgrade, Basilique de Sainte Marie-Madeleine in Provence-Alpes-Côte d’Azur in France. No royal weddings. No weddings of any kind.

  He closed the tablet and stepped out on the balcony to think. The sea air caressed his face with a light breeze. What was left of the day glimmered atop the Mediterranean and storm clouds formed in the distance. Families lazily walked from the beach with their belongings bundled in their arms. Tanned tourists in their expensive clothes strolled along the wide promenade that separated the hotel from the beach beyond.

  Crow’s phone on his bed dinged and a message popped up on the screen. He stepped back inside and grabbed it up. It was from Rosenfeld.

  Still meeting. Come join us.

  She gave an address and nothing else. Maybe they had found something. He phoned the valet on the hotel phone to bring his car around.

  Rosenfeld’s shaking hand set the phone down on the table. A hand reached down to the table with a Cartier watch attached to its wrist, took the phone from the table, and placed it in his outer coat pocket. His other hand clutched the handle of a pistol that was aimed at Rosenfeld’s head.

  “Good girl,” Philippe Babineaux said with a grin. “Good girl.”

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Night fell on Valencia. Sheet lightning lit the horizon in the distance. Crow didn’t particularly care for the neighborhood he was driving into. He removed the sweat on his upper lip with his lower and turned where his phone’s GPS instructed him to turn. The industrial part of town was desolate this time of night. From what he could tell, it was desolate any time of the day. Out his window it looked like a place time forgot. The moonlight peeked from behind clouds to shine on rusted pieces of equipment dotting the landscape around buildings that appeared abandoned long ago. There were no street lights. No sign of electrical power at all for that matter. He double-checked the GPS, parked, and stepped out of the car. The gold Jaguar looked out of place. He felt the energy of the impending storm.

  He opened the creaky door of the warehouse and entered with trepidation. This was the address Rosenfeld gave him, odd as it was. He had tried to call her. She didn’t pick up. Just enough natural light lit his way. Moonbeams sliced through a vent on the far wall. The floor smelled of dust and dirt, the musty smell that came from years of neglect, perhaps even decades.

  “Rosenfeld?” he called almost in a whisper. He heard the distant rumble of thunder.

  No answer. This just didn’t feel right. Why would she ask him out here in the middle of the night then not be at the door to greet him? He lit a light on his cellphone and crept slowly under a balcony that used to house the office of the foreman when this warehouse was operational. Crow imagined the activity that might have gone on. The unloading of freight, the distribution of goods, the loading of trucks. The foreman could oversee it all either from his office or by pacing along the catwalk above him. Broken glass crunched under his feet.

  “Sidney,” he whispered.

  The only light other than his own and the moon’s was a pale light that emanated from the far end of the warehouse. He squinted and killed the light on his phone. As he drew closer he could barely make out two figures. One he took to be Babineaux. The other, seated beside him, he couldn’t quite see, not at that distance. He figured it must be Rosenfeld. The outside sky lit momentarily and the scene came into clearer focus. The dire situation began to register in his mind. A bare lightbulb covered by a black metal shade hung above the two figures. It cast a light like a streetlamp down on Babineaux who was standing with his hands behind his back. Sitting next to him in a plain wooden chair with hands tied to the arms and duct tape across her mouth was Sidney Rosenfeld.

  “It is a pity it had to come to this,” Babineaux announced with feigned sorrow, his voice echoing off the barren walls.

  “It’s my fault, Sidney,” Crow said. “I should’ve known.”

  “Yes, you should have,” Babineaux said. “The Unriddled Manuscript. Where is it?”

  Crow sneered. “Is that what this is all about? You’re wasting your time, Babineaux. I have no idea where that book is.”

  Babineaux raised a gun to Rosenfeld’s head. “I am not bluffing.”

  Crow’s mood turned grave. “Listen to me. If I knew where the Unriddled Manuscript was, do you think I’d be here? I’d already be stopping the next prophecy, wherever that is.”

  “Yes, of course. Unless stopping the prophecy is not really your objective.”

  “Ah, it’s all coming back to me
,” Crow said. “At breakfast you said the Unriddled Manuscript holds immense power and wealth for whoever possesses it. You want to possess it.”

  Babineaux laughed. “I would not know what to do with the book. I simply represent clients. I make deals, Monsieur Crow. So here is the offer. You either tell me what I need to know or I kill the girl.”

  “You’ve got me, Babineaux. That’s what you were after, isn’t it? Keep her out of this.”

  He laughed again as a flash of lightning highlighted the right side of his face, the side with the good eye that seemed to smolder even after the light subsided. “I could not care less about you. I am after the manuscript.”

  “Clearly, she doesn’t have it, so why don’t you just let her go?”

  The low roar of thunder accented his angst.

  “Because she is more valuable than you. I can get information with her. You? You do not particularly care if you live or die.”

  Crow stared at him in silence. Rosenfeld’s wide eyes jumped from one man to the other.

  “You are a defective man, Monsieur Crow.”

  “Is that so?”

  “Your life has been filled with one vagarious relationship after another. Hot and cold. Love and hate. You are a loner because of your persistently unstable self-image. You are reckless. You spend too much money. You take unnecessary risks. You go to extremes. Your life is chronically empty hoping the next book or the next purchase or the next adventure or,” he glanced down at Rosenfeld, “the next girl will somehow fulfill you. A perfect recruit for whoever hired you.”