by Craig Smith
'Why not call it that?'
'My guess would be to keep the secret from the outside world.'
'You have any proof?'
'I had a document stating as much, but I had no proof until I was able to trace the painting to the Arsenal Library in Paris.'
'The Templar artifacts went to the Vatican, son!'
'Napoleon brought them to Paris after he tossed the Pope in prison.'
Starr eyed Brand curiously. It seemed he was not accustomed to being corrected.
'The other relics of the Crusades were made public. Why not the Holy Face?' Nicole North asked.
'The answer is in Scripture, Dr North. "Blessed are the pure of heart, for they shall see in the face of God."'
Nicole North did not answer, but her mouth opened as she uttered an involuntary gasp. Her expression had suddenly lost all trace of skepticism.
'According to the Grail legends, whoever seeks the Holy Grail must have a pure heart. Without it, he will never find it. That was the requirement for every knight who joined the Order of the Poor Knights of Jesus Christ and the Temple of Solomon. They surrendered their personal wealth to the Order and renounced all worldly pleasures. Having met those requirements, the initiate would then be allowed to wear the cross of Christ and, if my theory is correct, see the face of God.'
'How did they get hold of the thing in the first place?' Starr asked.
'Baldwin had it by the time he was elected the first king of Christian Jerusalem.'
'You say that like it's a fact.'
'Baldwin came to Jerusalem by way of Edessa, Dr Starr.'
Jonas Starr's eyes lit up.
Ethan nodded. 'There are three distinct legends placing the Holy Face in the city of Edessa, all of them predating its discovery inside the city wall.'
'Eusebius,' Starr answered, nodding. 'He calls it a painting made by no human hand and tells us Paul sent it to Edessa.'
'When you see the quality of workmanship, you'll understand why they believed it was created by no human hand.'
'The Holy Face of Edessa was taken to Constantinople in 900,' North interjected, 'two
hundred years before Baldwin. That same face disappeared in 1204, when the Crusaders sacked Constantinople - a century after Baldwin's death.'
'You're talking about an image that appeared on a piece of cloth - the legend that Jesus touched his face to it and sent it to the king to heal him of leprosy.'
'You don't think it's the same?'
'I think it's possible the cloth was a copy.'
'How did Baldwin find it?' North asked.
'Baldwin's Armenian friend, who directed him to Edessa, must have known about the legend - maybe told him the image in Constantinople was really only a copy, that the king had the original somewhere in the palace. I'm certain that after the death of King Thoros, Baldwin would have had the power to search the palace for it without asking anyone's permission.'
'And you think Baldwin gave it to the Knights Templar?'
'The Templars organized in 1118, the year Baldwin died, but everyone agrees the Templars were active under the name of the Soldiers of Christ for at least a decade before that. I think Baldwin organized them expressly for the purpose of guarding his relic - which makes him the model for the Fisher King of the Grail legends.'
'The Fisher King is a myth,' Jonas Starr grumbled.
'Like most myths of heroes it was built from fact,' Ethan responded. 'As you well know, the legendary Fisher King was an old man who was incapable of walking because of a wound he had received - according to some versions of the story - in the groin. That is exactly what happened to Baldwin during the last year of his life, the same year the Order was officially founded. The Fisher King ruled in a far-away place that very few knights could even find. He was a recluse, he had a brother whose death came at the hands of his enemies, and he was exceedingly mysterious about what he possessed - refusing to name it. All of which fits perfectly with the information we have on Baldwin.'
'So how did you get your hands on the thing?' Starr queried, suddenly excited by the notion.
'Roland told you that.'
'Roland told me a story! I want the truth.'
'I've told you everything I can, sir. You understand, I think, this painting is not something you can display in your museum.'
Jonas Starr considered the matter quietly. Finally, he turned to his niece. 'Nicole, honey, how about you get me a fresh drink?'
As North walked across the room, Ethan's eyes inevitably studied her figure. It was all Starr needed. He pulled a compact pistol with a silencer attached from under his jacket and aimed it at Ethan's heart. 'For twenty-five million, son, I want the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but!'
'Do you want the painting or the truth, Dr Starr?'
'I'll take both, and if you're quick about it, I'll even let you walk out of here on two good legs!' He pointed the weapon at Ethan's knee.
Ethan looked up at Nicole North. She was watching him with the cold-blooded indifference of a pit bull. 'We need to know the name of the person you stole it
from,' she said. 'The painting has no value to us without that information.'
'Why?'
'That's not your concern!' Starr screeched.
'Are you planning on eliminating your problem?'
'Answer the question, son, while you can still walk.'
'I stole the painting from a man named Julian Corbeau.'
'The American fugitive?' Nicole responded incredulously. 'The man is an avowed Satanist!'
'He is also someone who will go to any length to recover his property if he finds out you have it, and I'm under the impression he won't bother with the courts.'
'I don't understand his interest in a painting of Christ?' North pressed.
She did not fear Corbeau. What bothered her was that a sacred relic had been in the possession of a perfect devil.
'Sacred objects, Dr North, are believed to have special powers. For the faithful, that means healing, miracles, visions, inspiration. For people involved in the occult, like Julian Corbeau, religious objects can be used as a medium through which a master magician, or magus, contacts the spirit world - or at least pretends to. The holy object supposedly channels the energy and functions as a doorway between the material and spiritual worlds. The more holy the object, if you can quantify such a thing, the more potent the magic.'
'That's obscene,' North answered icily.
'I don't expect Corbeau is the first to use the painting in that way. I think the Templars involved it in ceremonies involving necromancy, perhaps even infanticide. Their corruption is too well documented to believe the charges against them were purely the fabrication of the King of France. From their humble beginnings as knights without property or fortunes, the Templars became the epitome of arrogance, their name synonymous with hypocrisy. They made an open display of defying their Order's constitution, and they were notoriously fascinated with the occult. Baphomet seems to be at the centre of it. Of course the priests who were searching for Baphomet on that infamous Friday the thirteenth in October of 1307 were looking for the face a devil - so they missed it - and the painting of Christ wearing a crown of thorns got packed away with all of the other objects of ritual and was eventually shipped to the Vatican.'
Jonas Starr holstered his revolver. 'Well, we'll put an end to this business with the occult, I promise you! Once we have it, only the people who love God are going to see this painting!'
'That's how the Templars started.'
'Well . . . we're not Templars!' Starr stood up and extended his hand by way of apology. 'No hard feelings about the rough stuff, I hope!'
'You still want the painting?'
'We have an appointment with Roland to look at it tomorrow morning at the bank,' Starr answered, dropping his hand when Ethan refused to take it. 'Assuming it's all Roland and you say it is, I guarantee you we want it!'
Ethan nodded and started for the door. 'Just one more thing, Dr Starr.' He looked at t
he old man without emotion. 'Don't think you can pull a gun on me twice.'
Jonas Starr's smile cooled, but his eyes stayed locked on Ethan. 'I'll keep that in mind, Mr Brand. I certainly will.'
Malloy called Gwen Sunday evening - her afternoon. She was painting, she told him, a self-portrait she didn't think he would care for. Too abstract. They talked about it, and it sounded interesting. When she asked about Zürich and if he had seen any old girlfriends, he was tempted to mention the contessa but resisted the impulse. He said he saw no one but silver-haired bankers.
On Monday Malloy spent the day dropping in on friends, catching up on private lives and gauging their willingness to resume contact. He tried Gwen late in the evening, but missed her. It was Monday afternoon in New York and there were a dozen good reasons why her cell phone was inactive. Still he could not help worrying about her.
He found Marcus Steiner after eleven o'clock that evening at the James Joyce Pub and sat down for a report on Nicole North's arrival in Switzerland. Marcus did not disappoint him.
'Dr North showed up yesterday in the company of a man named Dr Jonas Starr.' Malloy nodded thoughtfully. He had not expected Starr, but it didn't surprise him. Starr's expertise and experience would be useful. 'They checked into a suite at the Savoy, and had one visitor yesterday evening, a bookstore owner here in town named Ethan Brand.'
'What do you have on - Brand Books, right?'
Marcus nodded and took a sip of beer. 'The shop has been around a few years. Brand has no record.'
'I know him. I used to stop in there sometimes. He's a sharp guy. A freak for medieval stuff. He told me one time he had a scholarship to Notre Dame. He was going to become a priest, but after he got there he found out about women.'
'He spent about twenty minutes with North and Starr, walked across town, downed four shots of Johnnie Walker Red, and went back to his apartment. You want me to keep watching him?'
'I guess not, but I'd sure like to know what he was doing with my people.'
'I can't help you, but your people went to the bank this morning. Roland Wheeler was already there. After about forty minutes Starr and North took a taxi to the university. This was around lunchtime.'
'What's at the university?'
'I was curious about that myself. We did a follow-up and found out they had an appointment to see the director of the radiocarbon laboratory.' 'They're dating the panel.'
'I dropped by later and flashed my badge. The director told me they had a chip of wood that was not the size of a nail clipping that they wanted him to test. The process doesn't take too long, and for a fee they will waive the standard four to six month waiting period.'
'Did you get an age?'
'Plus-or-minus forty years, he estimated the tree was chopped down in the middle of the first century.'
Malloy stared at his friend as if he hadn't understood. 'First century, Thomas.'
'They told me it was from the twelfth century.'
'They lied.'
'A first century portrait of Christ . . . I'm guessing there aren't too many of those around.' The price tag was beginning to make some sense now.
Marcus smiled. 'Hasan could find a buyer for us in Russia - ten, fifteen, twenty million? Who knows?' Hasan Barzani was the crime lord whose career they had both spent a great deal of time and effort developing. 'We stage a little incident, and presto, the thing just disappears!'
'I recall a lecture you gave me a few years ago about Swiss mercenaries. Once they sold their services, they never went over to the other side for a higher price.'
'It was a matter of national pride for five centuries, Thomas. We sold ourselves to the highest bidder, yes, but we gave good value. There is not a single example in the entire Chronicles of European history where a Swiss mercenary betrayed his employer. It's something in the DNA, I think.'
'So you would be the first?'
'Thomas! I would never do something like that. You're the one who cut the deal with these people. You can do anything you want. You're an American. You have no tradition! Me, I hired on to work for you. Tell me what you want, and I'll take care of it. You want the painting to disappear in Russia, it disappears! You want it to go to New York, I make sure it gets there.'
'Stealing a painting of Jesus is like dipping into the collection plate at church.'
Marcus shrugged indifferently. 'It happens.'
'It doesn't happen tomorrow.'
'You spent too much time in Switzerland as a young man. I think it rubbed off on you.' Marcus seemed vaguely disappointed, nothing more.
'Are we set for tomorrow?'
'I'll have two people across the river on one of the rooftops. If anything unexpected happens outside the bank, they're instructed to take care of it without consulting me.'
'Rubber bullets?'
Marcus nodded. 'Live ammunition for backup.'
'I'm going to need someone on the train with me . . . and a vest.'
Marcus seemed curious at this change in the plan, but he didn't say anything about it. 'I have just the guy, but he is pricy.'
'He worth it?'
'Let us hope you don't have to find out.'
Malloy passed another stack of bills under the table.
Marcus took the money without counting it. 'Someone will drop a vest off at the hotel before you go to the bank. Anything else?'
Malloy hesitated. He wasn't sure he wanted to bring this up, but it had been nagging him since his meeting with the contessa. 'You think I've lost my edge?'
Marcus gave a casual shrug of his thin shoulders. He kept his gaze locked on the room. 'People get older.'
'You're not answering my question.'
'I don't think it matters tomorrow. It's not like we're going to kill someone or steal the Mona Lisa. I mean, we're moving a piece of wood across town!'
'I got a tip. I don't know how good it is, but I think there could be trouble - quite a bit of it, actually.'
'We can change the plan if you want.'
Malloy had considered it. It would be easy enough to disappear once he left the bank and then show up in New York, the painting carried by one of Marcus's people, but Whitefield's diplomatic pouch was a one hundred percent play against chance discovery by the customs authorities in both Zürich and New York. No other plan gave him that kind of protection.
'Let's stay with the plan, but we keep our heads up.'
CHAPTER SIX
Jerusalem Winter
AD 26-27.
Jerusalem was nothing like Caesarea. Caesarea was a modern city born of imperial power. Jerusalem was inestimably old. Only the great Temple of Solomon, the tower of Antonia, and the palace of Herod were essentially modern. Beyond this small precinct of Judaeo-Roman architecture there was little of note for a foreigner to enjoy. Even the great structures Herod had refurbished in the Roman style lacked all manner of sculpture, so did not seem Roman at all. Arches and columns, acanthus leaves, ionic scrolls, Corinthian medallions, none of it was really Roman without the images of gods to finish the effect. Nor could the celebrated opulence of the East offer anything by way of recompense.
After a time, a sense of emptiness, one might almost say sterility, began to wear away at Pilate. He was expected to spend his winter in this dense, stinking, unwelcoming city, but he was ready to leave after only a few days. He was too good a soldier of course to complain or announce a sudden change of plans for the sake of his or his wife's comfort. So he endured.
There was one moment of amusement for him during that first long winter, a piece of accidental humor on the part of his wife. They had hardly settled in the great palace and were staring down upon the Temple across the great plaza when Procula announced in all innocence that she would love to go inside and have a look about. Could he arrange a tour for her? 'With three or four centuries of soldiers, I suppose,' Pilate answered, 'though I doubt we would ever get out alive.' At her look of confusion, he added, 'We are not welcome beyond the Court of the Gentiles, Procula. The Jews believe a we
ll-bathed Roman might pollute the air and thus offend their God.'
It was not the last time they spoke of the culture of the Jews, of course. In Jerusalem one could not escape it. One saw them every day as they gathered before the Temple, conspiring possibly, worshipping perhaps, running their business inevitably. Soldiers stationed inside the city wore special armor lacking all human and animal insignia. Cohorts kept their standards covered and stored in the great armory above the city on the mountain of Masada. Even the coins Pilate minted were peculiar in all the empire. There were no animals, no human bodies or faces, only pieces of grain for decoration. The Romans conformed so much it seemed Jerusalem ruled Rome and not the other way around.
'Do you like them, sir?'
'It is not my business to like them,' he answered his wife with stately indifference. 'It is my business to govern and to tax.' The truth was Pilate hated them. He felt as if his first encounter over the matter of the imago standard had left him looking impotent and foolish and, without really understanding the impulse, he anticipated the next protest as gladiators finally learn to anticipate the arena. It came sooner than he imagined. Without realizing it, Pilate set the thing in motion. It was, even in retrospect, an innocent mistake: unforeseeable to any reasonable person. Like many great catastrophes it began with a new friendship.
Nicodemus was known to all, Roman, Jew, Egyptian, and Syrian, as the wealthiest man in Judaea. He appeared one morning shortly after Pilate had settled into Herod's palace, and begged the favour of meeting the new prefect. Like others of his social status, Nicodemus had made his peace with the Romans when Herod's eldest son, Archaelaus, had very nearly destroyed Jerusalem through his incompetence. He was now an old man with a son, also named Nicodemus, a few years younger than Pilate. Father and son came together.
