I know this man! Damn it, how do I know this man?
»Torezodu! Gohe-el zodacare eca ca-no-quoda!«
After hearing this command, the naked man threw his head back and fell into some kind of trance. With his head bent backwards, he was now standing upright in front of the table with his eyes closed.
They are using him as a medium!
The monks resumed their chanting. After a short while, the naked man began to sway back and forth and then to convulse. And then he spoke. In a voice that did not sound human.
»Micama! Zodir Saitan azodien biabe. Zodir Norezodacahisa otahila Gigipahe elonusahiod. Vaunud-el-cahisa ta-pu-ime qo-mos-pelehe telocahe, dasata beregida od torezodul! Ili balazodareji od aala tahilanu-os netaabe. Micama! Yehusozod ca-ca-com! Od do-o-a-inu noari micaolazoda Vaunigilaji. Ananael Qo-a-an.«
Master! You are the ruler of the light! You are eternal balance. The creatures of the earth and of the light bow their heads to your power. Yet the circle is not closed. Master! Bring us the stone! And kill the man who is hiding in your midst. The lost soul in the darkness!
With these words, the naked man collapsed to the floor and returned to the miserable and demented creature that he had been when they led him into the hall. At the same moment, Peter noticed that there was suddenly a commotion among the monks who were standing in the circle. They were craning their necks and looking around. They were looking for him. Time to get out of here.
This was the moment when the monster hit him. It had waited long enough, now it was hungry. Peter felt the pain in his head expanding like an exploding sun. But before he was plunged into darkness, he saw something. The naked man was still squirming on the floor in front of the stone table with the Sigillum Dei, and Peter saw that he had only one ear. And suddenly Peter knew that he recognized this man.
He even knew his name.
He knew it well.
His name was Edward Kelly.
Ellen’s murderer.
EPISODE 6
ELIXIR
Lübbe Webnovel is an imprint of Bastei Lübbe GmbH & Co. KG
Copyright © 2011 by Bastei Lübbe GmbH & Co. KG, Cologne, Germany
Written by Mario Giordano, Cologne
Translated by Diana Beate Hellmann, Los Angeles
English version edited by Charlotte Ryland, London
Editors: Friederike Achilles/Jan F. Wielpütz
Artwork: © Dino Franke, Hajo Müller
E-Book-Production: Dörlemann Satz, Lemförde
ISBN 978-3-8387-1454-7
All rights reserved
No part of this publication may be reproduced in whole, or in part, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
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XLVI
May 28, 2010, Karakum Desert, Turkmenistan
My name is Edward Kelly.« The red-haired man with the ratlike face bent forward and reached out his hand to greet Peter. He was enveloped in a cloud of cheap eau de toilette and Peter guessed that the man was in his late thirties. Reluctantly, he took his hand.
»Peter Adam.«
Ellen tore her eyes away from the vast expanse of salt desert glistening underneath them and gave the Englishman a noncommittal smile.
»Ellen Frank.«
»A pleasure. Are you from Germany?«
He had to shout, as the noise of the huge propeller at the front made it almost impossible to have a conversation. The thirty-year-old Antonov An-2 biplane was filled to capacity. Ill-humored Russian businessmen in ill-fitting suits and Turkmen with huge lambskin hats on their heads were crowded into the twenty or so seats, holding tight to the briefcases in their laps or to huge packages or cages of chickens. Bulging bags blocked the aisle and lurched around threateningly as the plane juddered through the turbulence. The cabin reeked of sweat and oil. The door to the cockpit was wide open and Peter could see that the pilot was wearing just a sweat-soaked undershirt. His wife, who had been sitting next to him the whole time, began to maneuver herself through the aisle and approached each passenger individually. The passengers answered monosyllabically.
»Çeleken.«
»Krasnovodsk.«
»Nebit Dag.«
Despite the fact that Peter didn’t speak Russian, he understood that on this flight, one had to announce in advance where one wanted to get off, comparable to a rural bus tour.
Ellen graced the Englishman with another smile and then she pulled out her Canon and snapped a few shots of the passengers in the cabin. Once again, Peter admired her for her ability to extract herself from unpleasant conversations without appearing rude. Shortly after their take-off in Ashgabat, the Englishman had spotted Peter and Ellen in the row across the aisle, and he had been keen to talk to them. Peter was not in the mood for a chat, but he did not want to be impolite. An old weakness of his.
»Where are you going?« Kelly asked now.
»Nebit Dag.«
»Hey, me too! What brings you to Turkmenistan? Business or honeymoon?«
Peter noticed that Kelly’s pale green eyes were scrutinizing him and Ellen, as if he was trying to commit even the smallest details to his memory. Of course, he was mostly interested in Ellen. When Kelly turned his head to the side, Peter could see that the Englishman had only one ear. What was left of his left ear was just layers of reddish, rubbery scar tissue.
»We aren’t married,« Ellen replied, »and we don’t do business either. We do our jobs.«
Kelly laughed. »Touché!« he said. »I did not intend to be intrusive.«
»We are working for an international news magazine on an article about the Silk Road.«
»Uh, you are journalists. That’s what I was thinking.« Kelly pointed at Ellen’s camera. »Beautiful camera.«
»And you, Mister Kelly?« Peter asked out of mere courtesy. »What brings you into this godforsaken land?«
»I am an archaeologist.«
They were engulfed by hot and dust-filled air as they left the Antonov, shouldering their backpacks. Nebit Dag airport consisted of a single tarmac runway and a small passenger terminal, which was ripe for demolition. In the distance, one could see the outlines of desolate buildings made from prefabricated slabs. A small town on the edge of the Karakum Desert, wrested from the barren soils between the natural gas fields and the Caspian Sea.
Peter had gotten rid of the one-eared Englishman by saying some polite nothings. He was happy about that. He wanted to be alone with Ellen.
A car was waiting for them in front of the passenger terminal, a battered Toyota with a Turkmen driver who would bring them to their final destination.
They had arrived in Ashgabat the day before. They had flown in from Frankfurt via Moscow and spent the night in the Turkmen capital before continuing their trip to Nebit Dag the following morning. Ellen had gotten them the article job and she had planned the entire trip. It wasn’t the first time they had worked together, but lately, they hadn’t been seeing much of each other. Peter was often working away in Rome, and Ellen flew around the world with her camera. So Peter was looking forward to spending a full week with her. He was looking forward to seeing her take pictures and to perceiving the world with her special eye for detail. He was looking forward to seeing her for an entire week and feeling her close to him.
Turkmenistan was not what he had imagined. What he saw had little to do with desert romanticism or tales from the Arabian Nights. Hundreds of oil pumps were scattered across the land like herds of dull steel dinosaurs. The skeletons of drilling rigs were rusting away amid forests of utility poles and bundles of tattered power lines. Rusty oil tanks, concrete slabs, dilapidated walls – junk and scrap everywhere. Everything broken, the whole country. Oil pipelines cut through the sand dunes along the roadside and in some spots, oil-soaked sand was on fire, sending dense plumes of smoke into the air. The uneven road fo
rged dead straight ahead through the salt desert, right into the shimmering nothingness. At the horizon, Peter could see the dark shadows of the heat flicker and swirl. Time and again, they had to stop and wait for camels to cross the road.
Peter leaned back in his seat and watched Ellen as she sat next to him, snapping pictures again. Her hair was fluttering in the wind and from time to time, she angrily pulled a strand out of the corner of her mouth. When she did this, Peter knew that everything was fine.
That he loved her.
»We were very rude to that Kelly guy,« she said all of a sudden. »I think he wanted us to ask more questions.«
»I am very sorry, Miss Frank, but my clients have enjoined me to strictest secrecy,« Peter imitated Kelly’s voice. »He is a son of a bitch and a bullshit artist. I’m glad we got rid of him.«
Ellen laughed. »You are a walking judgment machine, Peter. That’s why you are so obsessed with exposing the secret machinations of the Catholic Church.«
»Well, fraudsters and bullshit artists are not my thing.«
She gave him a mild look. »No, Peter. You are on a lonely crusade against God and you don’t even know yourself why you are doing it.«
Peter fell silent. Their driver left the road and turned onto a sand track that zigzagged away towards the south. Two hours later they reached their destination: Mashhad-i Misrian. At first, Peter only saw a high rampart of sand and behind it the ruins of two minarets. Until the 13th century, Misrian had been a wealthy nomad city, a flourishing trade center along the Silk Road, and then it was attacked and ransacked by Genghis Khan's hordes. The world had forgotten about Misrian and the remnants of the city lay buried under the sand of the Karakum Desert. Only the two minarets had defied the sand storms of the last 700 years.
Beyond the sandy ramparts that covered the relics of the city wall, forming a natural border around the whole area, there was a small camp with tents and yurts. Professor Haase from the Archaeological Institute of the Free University of Berlin gave them a warm welcome and showed them to their tent.
»It’s not exactly the Ritz, but we offer cold beer and our chef is from southern Germany. Yesterday, he served us camel strips in cream sauce with homemade Spätzle.«
Ellen laughed heartily. »Terrific. We will stay.«
»Don’t forget to shake out your shoes before putting them on if you need to go out at night. The sand vipers have disappeared but the scorpions love to find themselves a cozy spot.«
»No problem. This is not our first wild camping experience.«
»Well then, welcome to the Karakum Desert. Get unpacked and I will give you a tour of the excavation sites.«
»By the way,« Peter said without giving it any thought, as he was unpacking his backpack, »we met one of your British colleagues on our flight.«
Haase almost winced. »What? Who?«
»Edward Kelly. He said he is an archaeologist.«
Haase made a face. »Really? No, Kelly is not an archaeologist. He is just an adventurer and treasure hunter. An extremely shady person.«
Peter threw a triumphant glance at Ellen.
»And where does this Kelly guy think he’ll find treasures in the Karakum Desert?«
»Right here, of course!« said a voice behind him.
Peter turned around and saw Kelly standing at the tent entrance, grinning at them. »After all, there is hardly any other place in the world as promising and mysterious as Misrian.«
XLVII
May 28, 2010, Apostolic Palace, Vatican City
Alexander Duncker was only in his late forties but had already come a long way. As the private secretary of the Pope, his position within the Curia encompassed a broad power base and he had quickly learnt that his office attracted a particularly disgusting subspecies of human beings native to the Vatican: bootlickers and begrudgers. In his company, Curial employees went out of their way to shower him with reverence and compliments or to accuse him, publicly and shamelessly, of vanity, personal gain, and visits to local brothels. The Roman jet-set loved the well-dressed Monsignore and bombarded him with invitations to film festivals, receptions and elegant soirées. The society magazine Gente selected him as the sexiest man in all of Italy. Lobbyists and trade associations invited him as a lecturer and universities offered him visiting professorships. International magazines and television networks lined up for interviews with »the man in the background,« and he received regular offers to shoot commercials: toothpaste, cars, chocolates, fashion labels, coffee, organic yogurt, absolutely anything seemed to sell with Don Alessandro on the cover.
Duncker had been forced to admit to himself that he had felt far more flattered by this aspect of his office than he had initially expected. He had consequently imposed an even stricter self-discipline upon himself. Outwardly, he continued to play the role of the media magnet and represented the image of a worldly and modern church. Inwardly, however, he began to withdraw more and more, focusing exclusively on his work and on the man to whom he owed his position and whom he trusted with all his heart.
Duncker knew how to behave in the oldest bureaucracy in the world. He knew what to do and, especially, what not to do in order to advance. He knew the written and the unwritten rules of the Curia, the last Royal Court-like unitary system in the world, complete with all the necessary ingredients: intrigues and jealousy, hypocrites and fools, generals, protégés and mistresses. The Curia was a monstrous bureaucratic apparatus consisting of dicasteries and congregations, counsels, committees, and offices, academies, tribunals and agencies. The hierarchy within the Vatican was visible, since each and every detail was regulated, from the color of the zucchetti to the number of buttons on a cassock. The dress code for cardinals was not written in stone but on 31 printed pages. And as was the case at all royal courts, everybody had to adhere to protocol and etiquette to avoid a scandal. Duncker knew where the ditches were in this snake pit, who was intriguing against whom, and who still owed whom which favor. Duncker knew the currency that was used at this court: targeted indiscretion. He knew the salons one had to visit, the men-only circles one had to join, the jours fixes one had to attend, or to avoid at all cost. He knew which sports were accepted (hiking) and which ones were not (boxing, wrestling, golf). One never had too much to eat, but one never played the role of the ascetic either. The name of the game was to be inconspicuous. Not to become overly visible or to attract attention through eccentricity. To be dashing or to seek the spotlight didn’t get you anywhere. Arrogance, presumptuousness and exaggerated elegance were deemed deadly sins. One did not have public beefs and one did not snub anyone. The ideal of a Curial employee was the proverbial gray mouse. In the beginning, one looked for a padrone, for a mentor and supporter within the Curia, to whom one was loyally devoted. One did what one was told to do, quietly and inconspicuously, with diligence and without ever complaining, often for decades. Careers in the Vatican took time and required crafty deceit and extreme slickness.
Not exactly the kind of life that Duncker had dreamed of as a young priest. He had always admired Franz Laurenz, who was the radical opposite of the typical Curial employee. A charismatic leader who couldn’t give a damn about conventions. A jovial demagogue, a wrathful manipulator with an iron will, outwardly liberal with a common touch, inwardly as rigid as the steel they made in his hometown. A man who didn’t play by the rules but defined them. When they had met for the first time, more than twenty years ago, Duncker had immediately understood that he had to stay close to Laurenz, because Laurenz was the man. The man who would one day become Pope.
However, Duncker had also understood that this Pope had a destructive streak. That he was willing to sacrifice himself and others to reach his goal and that he was even prepared to leave behind everything that had once been important to him, if it was necessary to achieve his goal.
Duncker did not have the slightest idea what the goal was that the Pope was pursuing. But he had understood what he would sacrifice: himself, the Curia, the Vatican, the entire Cath
olic Church. And this was why Duncker was prepared to betray the man to whom he owed everything.
»I am very pleased that you have requested this meeting!« Cardinal Menendez welcomed him in his private rooms in the Apostolic Palace and pointed at one of the armchairs. »Tea?«
»Please.«
Duncker was visibly uncomfortable as he took a seat opposite Menendez, who scrutinized him with piercing eyes.
»Nonetheless, I am surprised by your visit. Are you here at the behest of His Holiness?«
»No, Your Eminence, this is a private visit. The Holy Father does not know about this meeting.«
Menendez leaned back and continued to scrutinize Duncker.
Duncker cleared his throat. »I am well aware that this conversation between you and me, without the Pope’s knowledge, constitutes an outrageous indiscretion. But the events of the last weeks do not leave me any other choice.«
Duncker paused.
»Go on!« Menendez said, with a wave of his hand. He looked now as if every fiber of his ascetic body were tense and alert.
»I am doing this for the protection of our Holy Mother Church,« Duncker pointed out.
»Of course you are. I know you, Monsignore Duncker. I have always thought very highly of your clear mind and your unswerving faith.«
»I fear that doubts about the Holy Father’s mental state may be appropriate.«
Menendez’s face did not betray a trace of the triumph he was feeling at this moment. He remained seated in his chair, stoic and motionless.
»A bold diagnosis. On what do you base this?«
»For one thing, he has recently begun to take an increasing interest in esoteric issues. He is studying books about alchemy and occultism. For another thing, he often seems downright absent-minded. Only on rare occasions does he still coordinate his decisions with me. He is withdrawing, and he is spending much more time with Mrs. Eichner than he used to.«
Apocalypsis I Page 24
