»I could only deduce it from what he stammered in Italian, between curses. He had been alone during the lunch break and wanted to prepare another one of the walls for the new wiring. So he cut it open. And in doing so he came upon a hollow space in the wall. What happened thereafter remains a mystery.«
»What was in the hollow space?« Maria asked. Peter already had an idea what the answer would be. Don Luigi raised his arms in regret.
»That’s the point! It was never found! I inspected the spot in detail and more than once. I saw the cuts for the wires in the wall but I didn’t see a hollow space. And it was the same story in the other rooms: nothing. Later on, I even studied the construction drawings from the 15th century but there was no indication of any hollow space in the wall, either. The question that remained, however, was what had happened so suddenly to the construction worker?«
»What did you do with him, Don Luigi?« Peter asked.
»Well, I, of course, tried to help the man on the spot by attempting to cast the demon out of him. Unfortunately, to no avail. He was admitted to hospital, where he died the following day from heart failure. May God have mercy on his soul.«
»And now you think that Laurenz knew about this hollow space and that he hid something in there that is connected to his resignation?« Peter’s voice sounded upset.
Don Luigi shrugged his shoulders. »It is mere speculation. Even if this hollow space really exists… it would be almost impossible to find it without a distinct clue.«
Peter couldn’t help his sarcasm. »Not to mention,« he said, »how much more impossible it would be to enter the Apostolic Palace without anyone noticing, to sneak past the Swiss Guards onto the third floor and to break into the Pope’s sealed private apartment.«
Don Luigi shrugged stoically. »Well, now, I wouldn’t say that.«
XVIII
May 10, 2011, New York City
Frank Babcock wanted to become a better person. He really meant it. He wanted to be strong and change his life, this shabby life that was filled with filth and despair; he wanted to save his soul. He wanted at last to step out of the shadow of his brother Steve, who was feared up and down the Lower East Side, and who had turned Frank into what he was today. He really wanted to do it. Throughout his life, he had trailed behind his big brother, had admired him, had always done what Steve wanted him to do – now he’d had enough. But Frank Babcock knew that he was weak, so weak, much weaker than Steve.
That he would not be able to do it alone.
So Frank had found his way back to his faith. He had remembered that he was a Catholic and had given himself to Mother Church. He attended Mass every day, over time he confessed a whole heap of sins to Father Hanson, and every night he read one chapter from the One Year Bible, an uplifting little book that Father Hanson had given him as a gift, which contained 365 excerpts from the Holy Scripture for each day of the year, all summarized to the essential points.
However, Frank Babcock knew that this still wasn’t enough. Sooner or later he would have to face the facts and his personal Armageddon. As strange as it was, this thought had begun to make him feel quite calm.
As usual, Frank got up at three in the afternoon and made himself a coffee, which was so strong that it started a riot in his poor stomach. He still had two hours until Mass, and afterwards he had to run an errand for Steve, which he couldn’t delay.
Wrapped in his tattered old bathrobe, he was shuffling through his long hallway into his tiny living room when there was a knock at the door. Neil Cummings, his neighbor from across the hall, stood outside, also in his bathrobe, also unshaven, also gray and withered despite the fact that he was not even thirty years old. Occasionally they played chess together and Neil was always on his back about asking Steve whether he had a job for him.
»Hello, Neil.«
»Hi, Frank. Did I wake you or something?«
»What’s up, Neil?«
»There was this country song that I heard on the radio yesterday and I can’t get it out of my mind. Great song. And I know you dig that stuff, so I wanted to ask if you know it or something.«
»Come in, Neil. Would you like some coffee?«
He poured his Irish neighbor a cup and made him sing the song to him.
»That’s ›Someone Else’s Song‹ by Wilco,« Frank told him. »Beautiful song. I have it.«
Frank shuffled into his bedroom, which was just large enough for a bed and the small dresser, on top of which sat his CD Player. Steve had gotten him this apartment because he thought that Frank had to live in Manhattan – to be available 24/7. It was one of those typical railroad apartments – a narrow tube, which consisted primarily of a hallway that ran the entire length of the place and connected to a series of microscopically small rooms. The apartment was tiny, shabby and dark, but it was all that Frank could afford in Manhattan. It was located on 7th Street between 2nd and 3rd Avenue. Lower East Side, Manhattan. Steve’s personal kingdom.
Frank put the CD in and set the song on repeat.
»It really is a beautiful song,« he repeated, and began to set up the chess pieces.
»Tell me,« Neil said, »is that story true about Steve and the bad guys?«
Frank was focusing on his opening. »Hem,« he grunted. He was not exactly in the mood to talk about this. Three months ago, Steve had taken over a newspaper delivery service, a line of business which was traditionally dominated by the Mafia. So it had only been logical that two weeks ago, two guys had shown up at Steve’s to »negotiate« with him. But it was not so easy to take something away from Steve, not even for the Mafia. In the end, he was the one who »negotiated« with the two guys; he even managed to squeeze some money out of them. Word got around quickly in the neighborhood, strengthening his reputation.
Frank made a move with his knight, as he listened to the song wafting from the speakers in the bedroom. Beautiful song; really a beautiful song.
»Did you ask Steve yet if he might have a job for me or something?«
»Make your move, Neil, and stop bugging me.«
»What kind of job are you doing for him?«
Frank sighed and looked at Neil. »I sell lemons to assholes who have bad credit or no credit.«
»Cool. How does that work?«
»These folks have no cash, can’t get any credit anywhere, but they need a car. Okay? So I sell them some junk that will barely make it off the lot. The first payment is three times higher than it would be for a new car. After that, most of them can’t come up with the next payment or pay late and then Steve shows up and repossesses the lemon and I sell it to the next asshole.«
Neil’s face broke in a grin. »Cool. And there’s never any trouble or something?«
»Not with Steve.«
Neil nodded. »No, for sure. No one wants trouble with Steve.«
»Make your move, Neil. I need to make a call.«
While Neil was brooding over his response to Frank’s opening, Frank called Father Hanson to make an appointment for his long overdue confession. The moment the priest answered the phone, Frank noticed that the music, which was coming from the bedroom, abruptly dropped in volume and he heard loud banging noises from the adjacent room. Neil had heard it too and was startled. Frank didn’t let it show and continued to talk to the priest as calmly as possible, while Neil went into the next room to see what was going on. When Frank hung up, Neil was standing in the doorframe and his face was even paler than usual.
»Shit, Frank, but you have to see that.«
Frank suspected he knew what had happened. For Neil’s sake, he cast a glance into the bedroom and saw that one of the huge loudspeakers, which he had squeezed between the wall and the bed to make it fit, was now standing in front of the bed, right in the middle of the doorway. Six feet away from its proper place. As if it had simply jumped over the bed. The connection cable was torn from the unit and had pulled the CD player onto the bed.
Neil was distraught. »Get out of town!« he stuttered. »That’s impossible or someth
ing!«
Frank was as cool as a cucumber as he took a little spray bottle from the dresser and began to spray water into all four corners of the room.
»What the fuck are you doing, Frank?«
»Good Lord, Neil. You’re Irish. You’re Catholic. You know exactly what I’m doing here.«
»Shit, man, don’t tell me that this is holy water or something.«
»What else would it be, Neil?«
He put the bottle back where it belonged and tried to hide his own trepidation.
»Has this happened before or something?« Neil was really upset. »Does it just happen to you from time to time or something?«
All of a sudden, Frank felt weak and weary, as he did so often. »Don’t ask, Neil.«
Again, there was a knock at the door. Frank was glad of the chance to leave Neil alone with his dread, and he shuffled through the long hallway towards the front door. Yes, Neil, this has happened before from time to time. You have no idea of the things that I have seen, Neil. Because I am sharing my life not only with a brother, whose eyes are colder than the snow on Broadway, but also with something far worse than that. With a being that once revealed itself to Father Hanson as »Astaroth«. A being who branded a sign on my chest and who whispers the most atrocious things into my ear, things that I cannot discuss with anyone, not even with Father Hanson. Yes, my friend, that’s the way it is, and it would be better if you began to look for a new chess partner or something.
The sound of the beautiful and slow country song, now coming out of only one of the speakers, was still filling the little apartment with its mild melancholy. Frank decided that this would be the day. Today he would finally accept Father Hanson’s offer. He would tap Steve for money and buy a plane ticket to Rome to meet with this Padre whom Father Hanson had recommended to him. He would try to be strong. Just for once in his life.
After making this decision, he felt much better right away. He opened the front door and saw a man in his mid-thirties. He had a friendly, boyish face and was elegantly dressed. Too elegant to be one of Steve’s partners.
»Yes?«
»Frank Babcock?« asked the man in a voice as gentle as the April sun.
»Yes, what’s up?«
The man in the light trench coat gave Frank a friendly smile. And then, in one fluid movement, he pulled a machete from underneath his coat and rammed it into Frank’s abdomen.
Frank Babcock uttered a gurgling sound, as the man in the light trench coat and the gray flannel suit sliced him open from groin to chin. The pain was a glaring flash of light running through his body like a bolt of lightning. The last thing that went through Frank Babcock’s mind was that he had been too weak for Armageddon and how terribly sorry he was for Neil and his bad luck. Just because he had happened to hear a song yesterday that he couldn’t get out of his head, he was now in the wrong place at completely the wrong time.
Frank Babcock, forty-three years old, Caucasian and Catholic, died in a pool of blood and organs on the threshold of his apartment on the Lower East Side, 7th Street between 2nd and 3rd Avenue. He didn’t live to see that his murderer killed his neighbor Neil Cummings in exactly the same way as he had killed him. Nor did he see that his murderer used one of Frank’s towels to clean the machete after all the killing was done. And he didn’t see what his murderer did next, either: that he pulled a handwritten list with twenty-one names out of his jacket pocket and crossed out the first name on the list with a stylish fountain pen made in France.
XIX
May 10, 2011, Vatican City
But this is crazy, completely insane! We don’t even know whether this hollow space really exists! Not to mention whether it contains any clues about Laurenz’s whereabouts.«
Don Luigi looked at Maria. »Would you please be so kind and get the cat?«
Maria nodded and left the kitchen. Peter didn’t understand. »The cat?« he asked. »What cat?«
Outside, he heard Maria calling, »Here, kitty, kitty, kitty, kitty.« She made clicking sounds with her tongue and then she called again, »Here, kitty, kitty, kitty, kitty.« After a while she came back into the kitchen with a fat orange cat in her arms: a displeased little guy who tried to wriggle his way out of her grasp.
»May I introduce to you,« Maria laughed. »Vito, the apostolic cat!« She put the cat down on the kitchen floor, where he immediately started expressing his annoyance by licking his fur. »I discovered him the day before yesterday when he was roaming around the house.«
»And?«
»Take a look at the tag on his collar,« Luigi said and Peter bent over the cat, who gazed at him in suspicion. The tag showed the coat of arms of Pope John Paul III. A snail shell and a sword in front of crossed keys. Peter had seen the coat of arms before, quite often actually, but only now did he notice the snail shell.
This cannot be happening!
Don Luigi smiled triumphantly. »You see,« he said. »I didn’t get it myself, at first. Sometimes we don’t see the obvious. The whole world has been wondering what the snail shell in the papal coat of arms could possibly mean. Officially, it was interpreted as the Pope’s bow to the divine harmony of the world, which reveals itself through the mathematically perfect proportions of the snail shell. In reality, it is an ancient symbol.«
Peter was still wondering how in the world he could possibly have overlooked the striking resemblance between the snail shell and the spiral symbol.
»But this doesn’t help us to find out where this hollow space is.«
»Turn the tag over, Peter.«
A word was written on the back of the tag. Just one word.
VITRIOL
The word had been written on the back with a silver-colored marker pen.
»And?« Don Luigi was all cheerful. »Does this ring a bell?« he asked.
Peter was perplexed. »That’s the historical name for sulfuric acid,« he said.
»It’s a message,« Don Luigi said in a determined voice. »A message from Laurenz. He’s the only one who could have written it.«
»A message for whom?«
»For me. Come on, Peter, don’t look so surprised. You know very well that Laurenz and I shared a bond of mutual trust and that he entrusted me with various missions that took me all over the world, secret missions that I am not at liberty to discuss with you. I gave him this cat as a gift. Vito grew up in this little house, right here. He knows the gardens and knew precisely where he had to go.«
Peter gave Don Luigi a skeptical look.
»But what kind of hint is the word Vitriol supposed to be?« Maria interjected.
»You can’t have known this, but Pope John Paul III was interested in the history of alchemy. Don’t ask me why. It was kind of a hobby for him. And the word vitriol has a special significance in alchemy.
Visita Interiora Terrae Rectificando Invenies Occultum Lapidem. How do I know this?
»Visita Interiora Terrae Rectificando Invenies Occultum Lapidem,« Don Luigi proclaimed. ›Visit the interior of the earth and rectify what you find there, and you will discover the hidden stone.‹ This is how the alchemists encoded their search for the Philosopher’s Stone.«
Peter placed the tag on the kitchen table.
»This is not a hint. This is pure speculation. Anyone could have written the word on the tag.«
»Do I hear an undertone of suspicion in your voice, Peter?«
»I’m only trying to keep my feet on the ground and draw reasonable conclusions.«
»Very good, Peter. And what are the conclusions that you are drawing?«
Peter looked at Don Luigi and Maria and realized that he was fighting a losing battle. Against his common sense, against his better knowledge and against the facts of the last twenty-four hours. This entire ordeal had long ceased to be about reason. It was only about answers. Peter sighed and leaned back.
»Okay, tell me again how I get there. In full detail, please.«
The young Swiss Guard, who was in charge of watching the little garden house, repor
ted shortly before dusk that a priest had entered the little house. The guard could not comply with his headquarters’ demand to identify the priest because the man had been wearing a hat.
One hour later, he reported that the priest had left the little house again, this time in the company of a nun, and that together they were walking towards the Vatican Museums.
Nothing further happened after that. Night fell, it became chilly, and the young Swiss man, who should have spent the evening on a date with a student from Prague, cursed his commander for sending him to the shittiest of all shitty posts.
Peter was feeling uncomfortable and constrained in the cassock. What made him feel even less comfortable was the thought that he was about to break into the Apostolic Palace, into the private apartment of the Pope, to find a certain spot on the wall, pry it open with a chisel and hopefully find a hollow space, which hopefully contained something that hopefully provided some answers. Clearly a shitty plan, he thought.
Maria had insisted on going with him and he had not argued with her, at least not very much. Firstly, he enjoyed having her around, and secondly, he realized that he might need her help. If they got caught, having a nun by his side could prove helpful.
The Vatican Museums were an H-shaped complex consisting of two long side wings that ran parallel to each other and enclosed three courtyards. The museums were richly decorated with frescos and housed the most valuable collections of paintings, ethnological artifacts, ancient treasures, maps and books. But Peter and Maria were not here for the art treasures. They were here because the south side of the structure adjoined the Apostolic Palace.
Undisturbed and undetected, Peter and Maria reached a small maintenance entrance in the west wing. They slipped into the shadows of an ornamental bush and waited for what felt like an eternity until a member of the Swiss Guards came by, checked the door, and then continued his patrol.
»Let’s go!« Peter hissed and pulled her behind him. All of a sudden, all his nervousness was gone and the old reflexes kicked back in. Briskly and quietly, he stepped in front of the little door and entered the PIN code that Luigi had given to him. He had asked him how he knew the code, which changed every week, and, of course, Luigi had given him a vague answer: »You can get a lot of things done in the Vatican – if you can pay in the right currency.«
Apocalypsis 1.02 Ancient Page 2
