Krakowski read for several hours. He was only interrupted by a phone call from Dr Ulrich, politely offering refreshments.
73
Carrington put on his wig, adjusted his gown and was headed for the door when his mobile rang.
‘Marcus, it’s me, Benjamin.’
‘Where are you?’
‘In a bank vault in Zurich.’
‘How did it go? What did you find?’
‘Are you near a fax? I want to send you something.’
‘Send it here to my chambers, I’m late for court. Newman had another stroke; he’s in a bad way.’
‘Just as we thought. Please, call me back as soon as you can, but read what I’m about to send you first. I know you’ll find it difficult to believe ...’
‘Sounds intriguing.’
‘It is. More than you can possibly imagine. I’ll wait here for your call.’
‘I’ve got to go.’ Carrington hung up, grabbed his brief and hurried out of the room.
Archibald advised the court that the Accused had suffered another stroke during the night, leaving him paralysed and unable to speak. The trial was over and Newman, albeit severely disabled, even close to death, was a free man.
Archibald walked over to Carrington and held out his hand. ‘We’ll call it a draw, Marcus, what do you think?’
‘I didn’t realise this was a contest,’ Carrington replied, closing his brief. ‘You know better than I, who, or shall I say, what, your client really is.’
‘Come on, Marcus, you know that’s not our job. Without Hoffmeister’s evidence you wouldn’t have got a conviction, admit it.’
‘Someone once told me there’s nothing quite as unpredictable as a jury trial. I’ve never forgotten that, Archie.’
Carrington hurried back to his chambers and went straight to the fax machine. The green light was on, with several pages waiting in the tray.
Across the top of the first page, Krakowski had scrawled: ‘Marcus, please read this and phone me. I need your counsel. I will stay here and wait for your call. Ben.’ Carrington cleared the law books off his leather chair, turned on the lamp and began to read.
The first page was barely legible – a copy of a papyrus in French, with a paragraph in Latin towards the end. The letter from a Fra. Armand de Blanquefort to Fra. Jacques de Molay, Grand Master of the Templars, was dated October 1305. The second page was a typed translation:
We quit Axum with the Holy Relic some three months past and have now reached the Nile. Regrettably, what follows is not good news.
Our number has been reduced to five. Two of our brothers perished during the most arduous of journeys. We have endured great hardships and deprivation and have encountered many dangers. We can trust no one and the Abyssinians have pursued us all the way. Our Nubian servants have turned hostile and we cannot go on without them. We are weak and in poor health. I fear for our future and the safety of the precious treasure in our care.
Carrington took off his glasses and looked at the small ibis-headed statue of Thoth standing on his desk.
I have asked the Good Lord for guidance and devised the following plan: I believe it is only a matter of hours before the Abyssinians find us. I am sending Fra. Bernard, who is strongest and youngest among us, ahead to Alexandria in the hope that he can elude our enemies and make the journey safely back to France.
After much deliberation, we have decided to send you one of the _____ in case we fail to _____ and the Holy _____ lost _____ hope _____ approval.
Carrington held the fax up towards the light. He followed the text with his finger until he reached the missing parts. Lacuna, he thought, missing bits in the manuscript; what a pity. Then he continued to read:
The other _____ has been well hidden in the place recorded below and is out of our enemies’ reach _____
The next part in Latin contained elaborate directions to a hiding place. Returning to French again, the letter concluded:
I know this is a desperate measure, but we have become desperate men near the end of our strength. We entrust our fate to God.
Your obedient servant,
Armand de Blanquefort
October 1305. Interesting, Carrington thought. That’s two years before the Templars were arrested by King Philip the Fair. That particular mass arrest was sanctioned by the Pope himself, he noted. He reached for the phone and dialled.
Krakowski sat up with a jolt. ‘Are you really telling me that you’re sitting somewhere underground in a Swiss bank vault?’ Carrington joked. ‘Reading old manuscripts? Too much schnapps, more like.’
‘Have you read my fax? What do you think?’
‘Calm down, Benjamin. Very interesting, but ...’
‘But you don’t know half of it,’ Krakowski interjected. ‘Have you noticed the missing parts? I think I know what that’s about.’
‘You do?’
‘Yes, I have Diderot’s letter to his son that explains it all. I know you’ll find this hard to believe – part of me still can’t – but Diderot’s son was my father ...’ Krakowski said quietly.
‘Come on, Ben, are you seriously suggesting Diderot was your grandfather? You are joking, surely.’
‘I haven’t been more serious in my life, Marcus. That’s what I couldn’t tell you the other day – I had to come to terms with it myself first,’ Krakowski explained. ‘It’s all in my father’s papers; it all fits. There’s proof.’
‘Go on.’
‘Marcus, I don’t know how else to put it. This is ... a matter of monumental importance. And it’s all here, right in front of me.’
Carrington said nothing.
‘Marcus, you’re still there, right? I know, it sounds ... well ... let me convince you.’
‘Please do.’
‘The Holy Relic, the one in the Blanquefort letter is the Ark of the Covenant. The Templars, removed – no, stole – it from Axum in Ethiopia in 1305.’
‘Come on, Ben. That’s a tall one.’
‘You must believe me! Wait, it gets better. This is what is here: We have decided to send you one of the _____ Krakowski quoted. ‘Do you know what Blanquefort sent to the Grand Master, in France, from Egypt, in an act of final desperation?’ Krakowski asked, his voice sounding shrill.
‘Tell me.’
‘One of the two ...’ whispered Krakowski.
‘Yes? I can hardly hear you.’
‘One of the two Tablets of Moses – the Tablets of the Law!’
‘Benjamin, come on ...’
‘I’m serious, Marcus, I really am.’
‘How can you say that? How can you be so sure?’
‘Why? Because ... because it’s right here in front of me!’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean, right here in front of me on the table.’
‘What does it look like?’ Carrington asked, turning serious. ‘Describe it to me.’
‘I’ve never seen anything quite like it. It’s very strange, not at all what you would expect,’ Krakowski replied.
‘In what way?’
‘Well, to begin with, it’s very heavy. Like stone, only heavier.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘The material looks like stone, but isn’t, if you know what I mean. It’s bluish, sapphire-like. Like stone, I guess, but different.’
‘How big is the tablet?’
‘About half-a-metre-or-so long and very heavy. But, when I lifted it, it started to bend; it’s flexible. I know this sounds weird, but that’s the best I can do.’
‘Is anything written on it?’
‘Yes, it’s covered in writing.’
Carrington’s mouth went dry. He had to swallow several times before he could ask the next question. ‘What does the writing look like? Describe it to me,’ he whispered.
‘Well, it looks ... like ...’
‘Yes,’ Carrington said, impatient. ‘What?’
‘Just like, you know, hieroglyphs, I suppose. Beautifully carved, mind you,’ Krakowski
explained.
‘The finger of God laying down the Law in Egyptian hieroglyphs?’ Carrington asked himself. ‘It couldn’t be, surely! But then again, why not?’
‘Are you still there?’ Krakowski asked.
‘You know, Ben, the account you just gave me,’ Carrington said after a while, ‘is identical to the clearest description we have of the Tablets of the Law in the Scriptures. There’s only one difference; the writing. Apart from that, it really is the same.’
74
‘You look good on television,’ Dr Rosen said. She walked across the polished parquetry floor and sat down next to the open window overlooking the piazza. ‘How did the commentator put it? He plays with the passion of Rachmaninoff and the virtuosity of Paganini – the melancholy mood of Eastern Europe meets the sunny sparkle of Italy. The Warsaw concert was obviously a great success.’
‘You’re making me blush. It was very emotional and brought back many memories – most vividly,’ Krakowski explained. ‘Drink?’ He opened a bottle of Chianti and sat down next to her. ‘Salute.’ They touched glasses. ‘And Doktor Bettany charmed the Viennese and loosened their purse strings, I hear.’
‘Where did you hear that?’ asked Dr Rosen, laughing.
‘I read it in The Times, actually.’
‘Well? Here I am.’ Dr Rosen looked expectantly at Krakowski. ‘We had a deal, remember?’
‘You too? That Swiss deposit box certainly appears to have aroused a great deal of interest lately,’ Krakowski observed quietly. ‘In many different circles, it would appear.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I think I’m being followed – since my visit to the bank in Zurich.’
‘Really?’
‘Well, at first it was just a hunch. Then, well ... I kept noticing familiar faces – a reflection in a shop window, a face in the audience, at the next table in a restaurant, at the hotel reception. Always young men with Slavic features, in need of a shave. I’m good with faces. I notice such things. Then, in a crowded lift in Warsaw the other day, I overheard a conversation between two of them – in Russian. They clearly assumed I couldn’t understand. They mentioned a priest they called the Black Dominican. They were joking about having to report to him twice a day about the crazy musician – me, I assume – standing next to them in the lift. Strange, isn’t it? I wish I could tell you more, but ...’
‘Perhaps I can help,’ Dr Rosen interrupted.
‘You can? How?’
‘After you left, my father sent for me – urgently, just before his second stroke. I thought – hoped rather – he wanted to make peace with me,’ Dr Rosen explained, her eyes turning misty.
‘Go on.’
‘Instead, he said he wanted to tell me things about his past; things I had to know before it was too late. It was really more like a confession, a rather surprising one, I must say.’
‘A confession?’ Krakowski raised an eyebrow.
‘Yes, I know. Well, at first he was quite rational. He spoke about the War and coming to Australia ... even mentioned my mother, which was really out of character. But then, he got quite agitated and started rambling. I thought he was hallucinating, but now, I’m no longer so sure.’
‘In what way?’
‘He said some strange things; nothing made sense. For instance, he said that the Cardinal and – his black priest – would stop at nothing to get their hands on ...’ Dr Rosen paused mid-sentence. Her attention was taken by a small batch of children running around Bernini’s fountain in the busy square below. One jumped into the fountain and began splashing water at the others.
‘On what?’ said Krakowski, a little annoyed at the break in the story. ‘He mentioned a black priest and a Cardinal?’ he went on, turning to look at what had distracted the doctor.
‘Yes, and I’m sure I heard him say ... the ark. No, he used the words Holy Ark and the missing ... something; he didn’t say what. I didn’t take him seriously of course; I thought, you know, he’s lost it. But he was adamant, wouldn’t let go and kept returning to this weird topic. He said the Ark was on the move – whatever that means – and that even if it were actually found, it couldn’t be taken anywhere against its will because it had a will of its own – a divine will.’ Dr Rosen became quite animated by her recollection, and kept staring down into the piazza. Krakowski followed her to the window and put his hand on her shoulder.
‘This is very strange, my father’s notes refer to the very same thing. He even quotes various ancient texts supporting this extraordinary view,’ he explained. ‘An object with a will of its own, a conduit to the Divine that can influence events, shape history ...’
‘And how is it supposed to accomplish all this? What do those ancient texts say about that, Ben?’
‘By appealing to – no, guiding,’ Krakowski corrected himself, ‘something rare and precious.’
‘What?’
‘The hearts of worthy men.’
Dr Rosen put her hand on Krakowski’s arm and turned around to face him. ‘And then he said,’ she continued, ‘that he realised at last that the Cardinal was the wrong man ... that the Ark would not reveal itself to the Church ... that it was now all so clear. He explained that you, you were the chosen one, that you had the missing link within your grasp and that you had been saved for that specific purpose. He also said that the time had arrived – for the Ark to guide you and all you had to do was to listen. These were his exact words.’
‘Amazing. The ravings of a confused old man – you think – close to the end? Or something more, perhaps?’
‘I don’t know what to think, Ben, but I do believe that in a round about way this was as close as he could get to ... some kind of reconciliation. He was trying to, well to justify himself, I guess,’ Dr Rosen added quietly. ‘He knows he doesn’t have much time left. In the end, we all have to come to terms with our life, have to face our ghosts, don’t you think?’
Krakowski nodded, and said nothing.
‘And then, he did something surprising,’ explained Dr Rosen, ‘he actually took my hand ...’ She stopped in mid-sentence, choking with emotion. ‘And told me that he admired my work,’ she continued haltingly, ‘and that he was proud ...’ She reached for her handbag, took out a handkerchief and wiped away tears. ‘And just before I left Sydney, I found out from our family solicitor that my father has made a large bequest to the Rosen Foundation,’ she said, a faint smile lighting up her troubled face. ‘Founded by a Jew!’
‘But that’s marvellous,’ said Krakowski. ‘Better late than never. We should drink to that.’ He reached for the bottle and refilled their glasses. Dr Rosen looked at Krakowski, a melancholy look casting a shadow across her face, and lifted her glass.
‘So, what about this Cardinal and his black priest? How do they fit into all this?’ asked Krakowski.
‘My father never spoke about the War when I was a child. We, my mother and I that is, didn’t really know anything about his life before he came to Australia. Apparently he was actually in Switzerland when Germany surrendered and then travelled to Italy. Right here to Rome. The Vatican to be precise.’
‘Interesting ...’
‘He stayed in the Vatican for almost a year, he said.’
‘Did he tell you what he was doing there?’
‘He was – how did he put it now – reinventing himself.’
‘How?’
‘By helping the Church. He had something the Church wanted – desperately ...’
‘Montsegur,’ whispered Krakowski, turning pale.
‘What did you say?’
‘Nothing, please go on.’
‘Apparently, during the War, the Germans had found what the Church had been searching for in vain for centuries,’ Dr Rosen continued. ‘Do you want to know what it was?’
‘Tell me.’
‘A cache of old manuscripts. The secret archives of the Templars.’
‘Hidden by the last Grand Master, Jacques de Molay, in the ruins of a Cathar fortress – Mo
ntsegur – just before the mass arrest of the Templars in 1307,’ Krakowski added quietly.
Dr Rosen looked stunned. ‘You never cease to amaze me, Ben. How do you know all this?’
‘From the documents in the safe deposit box,’ Krakowski replied. ‘There are forces at work here, Bettany, I don’t really understand, yet they are real, powerful, primeval.’
Krakowski went on, softly. ‘At times I feel like a pawn, a puppet on a string, tied to something reaching out of the distant past I can’t understand, pulled along by someone I don’t know ... You asked about the deposit box,’ Krakowski continued, changing the subject. ‘Well, let me show you something.’ He walked into the next room, lifted a mirror off the wall and began to open a large wall safe, turning the dials with speed.
‘Perhaps you have the heart of a worthy man,’ Dr Rosen suggested, following him.
Krakowski opened the safe and carefully lifted out a heavy, rectangular object wrapped in linen. ‘Tell me about the Cardinal,’ he said.
‘Apparently, there was a young Monsignor at the Vatican in 1945, a close friend of my father’s. They both came from the same Bavarian mountain village – Berchtesgaden – you see, and had grown up together. The Nazis had smuggled the Templar archives into Switzerland for safekeeping just before the end of the War. My father gave the whole collection to the Church in return for a new identity and passage to Australia. The Monsignor is now a Cardinal; Brand ... – something, in charge of the Office of the Doctrine of the Faith ...’
‘The direct successor of the Inquisition. New name, similar methods, same purpose. How neat,’ Krakowski interrupted.
‘It would appear that my father and the good Cardinal have been collaborating – you know, working together all these years on a ... my father called it a quest. Trying to find something – a relic of enormous importance to the Church in Rome.’
‘Did he say what it was?’ Krakowski interrupted, holding his breath.
The Empress Holds the Key Page 32
