The False Door

by Brett King

  While caring for lepers, Jeanneton hinted that she had owned a piece of the Roman helmet. The rest of the story remained murky. However, in her journal, she made it sound like a cross would lead to the helmet piece. Back while searching the coffin above, he was looking for a small cross like on a rosary. Not a massive one like he had found down here.

  Brynstone continued to clear the dead, dragging them from the pile of corpses surrounding the cross. Reluctantly, Véronique helped, but she couldn’t hide her disgust.

  “This better be worth the trouble.”

  “Can’t guarantee anything. Including getting out of here.”

  “I am astonished this is beneath Père Lachaise. I wonder if the men who founded it knew about the cavern.”

  “You’re the cemetery historian, right?”

  She nodded. “Someday I hope to be promoted to la directrice du crématorium.”

  “Maybe the founders designed the cemetery to conceal this cavern. That’s my private hypothesis.”

  “It’s possible,” she said, thinking it over. “The land has a rich history. In the twelfth century, it was owned by the bishop of Paris and was known as Champ l’Eveque, or the Bishop Field. Two centuries later, a hospital dedicated to Saint Lazarus was built on this land. In 1430, a wealthy merchant named Régnault de Wandonne built a mansion on the property. During the seventeenth century, the Jesuits turned it into a convalescence house. That was all before it became a cemetery.”

  Véronique explained that in 1804, the founders had been criticized for building a cemetery far from the city and so they hit upon a plan to promote Père Lachaise. They dug up famous people from other cemeteries and transported them here. They unearthed the poet La Fontaine and the celebrated playwright Molière from their initial resting places and buried them in new graves in this cemetery. Little more than a decade later, they disinterred the medieval star-crossed lovers, Abélard and Héloïse, and enshrined their remains in an impressive tomb at Père Lachaise.

  This hadn’t been a new idea. Reburials of everyone from Copernicus to Descartes had gained attention before the founding of this cemetery. The whole thing had been a publicity stunt, but one that had paid off, bringing recognition and acclaim to Père Lachaise. Before long, requests flooded in as people hungered to be buried alongside the renowned dead, basking in their reflected glory. Even back then, the status of a celebrity had marketing power.

  Brynstone believed that the cemetery founders had devised a way to cover up the secret they were looking at now, buried deep beneath the earth. Although not as famous as Molière and the others, the descendant of Joan of Arc was one of the first to be moved from his original burial spot. Brynstone guessed that the cemetery founders had some connection to the Order of Saint Lazarus and knew about this cave chamber. Following their plan, the d’Arc corpse had been buried above the entrance, concealing this cavern from the world.

  After clearing the area around the cross, Brynstone grabbed its base. He struggled, but managed to lift the heavy beam inside its deep pivot.

  “Help me balance it,” he grunted.

  Véronique grabbed the cross and helped guide it. The beam came out fast and they nearly dropped the thing. Lowering it to the floor, they stood back and caught their breath. She dusted her hands.

  He knelt beside the cross, examining its oak surface and running his gloved hand along the grain. This side contained no secrets.

  “Flip it,” he said.

  They raised the cross on one side, then turned it. Starting at opposite ends, they pored over its surface, exploring every crevice and pit.

  Nothing seemed relevant.

  “It’s a waste of time,” she announced.

  He arched an eyebrow. “Was there something else you were going to do?”

  “I’d like to escape this place, for one.”

  “Good luck doing that by yourself.”

  Brynstone glanced at the hundred leper knights. Dragged away now, their bodies formed a mummified ring around the cross. It got him to thinking. In the third century, an Egyptian theologian named Origen had researched Golgotha, a hill outside of Jerusalem where Jesus Christ was allegedly crucified. According to Origen, Golgotha also marked the site of Adam’s burial. His claim inspired generations of artists to paint an image of a skull at the base of the cross.

  “Later legends claimed,” he told Véronique, “that a great treasure could be found beneath the cross of a martyr. Maybe the Lazar brethren followed that tradition.”

  He dipped his hand into the small crater that had housed the cross and started digging. In the darkness, something scrambled across his wrist. He flicked his fingers and three albino spiders flew into the air.

  Véronique made a startled squeak. The creatures scrambled away on spindly white legs.

  “Was the helmet piece beneath the cross?”

  “Nothing down there but spiders.”

  Not giving up, he studied the circle of mummified knights. He walked along the ring stacked three bodies high. He paused beside the redhead with the forked goatee. The man he suspected might be Lost John. Kneeling, he lifted the man’s arm, rolling him onto his back. This knight was one of a hundred lashed to a fifteen-foot cross, but something made him different.

  It wasn’t just the porphyria. In a cavern with knights of Saint Lazarus of Jerusalem, this knight belonged to a different order, bearing a white Maltese cross on his black mantle. He was a knight in the Sovereign Military Hospitaller Order of Saint John of Jerusalem. Brynstone didn’t know why a Hospitaller was down here in a cave full of Lazar Knights. It was uncommon to have banished knights of different orders in hiding together.

  Tyon d’Arc had been a Knight Hospitaller. Was it possible he had entrusted Lost John, a Brother Hospitaller, with the helmet piece?

  Brynstone searched the knight. Frisking the corpse, he ran his hand down the withered arm then across the man’s chest. His fingers traced over a bumpy metal surface beneath the mantle. He tore back the uniform. Positioned on the knight’s chest, a bronze face stared up at Brynstone. It was the facemask from the Roman helmet.

  He smiled. It was right there. As easy as that.

  Crafted in the first century, the mask had once protected a cavalry soldier’s face. Stylized and three dimensional, the features lent a human appearance to the mask.

  Sculpted lines suggested eyebrows above slit-like eyeholes. Nostril holes had been cut into the metal with the curved impression of a septum connecting the raised nose to a slit for the mouth. Smooth contours around the mouthpiece mimicked the shape of human lips. Centuries of oxidation and corrosion had converted the surface from bronze to copper sulfate, coating the facemask with light green patches and streaks of brick red and black. Brynstone imagined the sight of marching Roman soldiers, all dressed in identical facemasks, their bronze features gleaming in sunlight. In the ancient world, it must have been a menacing spectacle.

  He turned the facemask over. Like the neck guard Wurm had shown him in Central Park, a series of bizarre symbols were carved on the inside of the mask.

  “C’est magnifique,” Véronique said, coming over. “May I see it?”

  Still kneeling, he handed the facemask to her. “Careful with it.”

  “That evil woman who shoved me into the grave? She was correct about a Roman artifact after all.”

  “Maybe she found out from her brother,” Brynstone said, rising. “Reece Griffin was a brilliant historian. Years ago, I traveled to Cork, Ireland, to meet with him. It was too late.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “His sister hired a man to murder Reece. Nessa Griffin is dangerous.”

  “Glad you noticed,” a voice called from behind.

  Near the open blue door, Nessa Griffin stood with her hands fixed on her hips. Five men moved in behind her. Léon and Kane were armed with FAMAS assault rifles.

 
“You and my brother are the same, John. Always gettin’ in the way.” She looked at Véronique. “Give me the mask. Now.”

  Véronique studied Brynstone.

  “Don’t,” he said in a controlled whisper.

  Griffin’s men pointed their rifles at her.

  Véronique swallowed. Worry colored her expression.

  He narrowed his eyes. “Don’t do it.”

  She looked down. Thinking it over, she walked toward them.

  Brynstone cursed.

  Looking back, she said, “I’m sorry, John.”

  She opened her hand. Griffin snatched the Roman facemask from Véronique’s fingers.

  “How’d you find your way down here, Nessa?” he demanded. “The lock beneath the coffin only closes from inside. Unless you have the amulet key.”

  It didn’t make sense. He had pushed the dowel into place, locking the coffin’s trapdoor. The only way to open it was with the key.

  Griffin gave an icy smile. “Véronique can answer.”

  The French woman shrugged. “Remember when we used the lever to lock the coffin door from down here? You left me behind for a moment as you walked down the stairs to explore the cavern.”

  Brynstone smoldered at the betrayal. “While I was gone, you released the dowel for Griffin. You knew she’d figure out to follow us down here. Don’t you know what a bad idea it is to work for her?”

  Véronique sashayed over to him, innocent but sexy with hands interlaced behind her butt.

  “You must admit,” she said, reaching in his pocket and removing the eye key. “We had a lovely adventure, John. Perhaps, just perhaps, we will do it again sometime.”

  Véronique kissed his cheek, leaving a faint trace of moisture on his skin as she turned to join the others.

  “I’m afraid this will be the final adventure for Dr. Brynstone,” Griffin said. “He loves bones and mummies. The leper knights will keep him company down here for the rest of his short life.”

  “Take their company over yours any day, Nessa.”

  She laughed. “When you get to hell, John, say hello to my brother.”

  As Véronique followed Griffin through the doorway, Brynstone sized up the men. He thought about making a move. Earlier in the night, he had faced off against Léon and Kane and a third man in the cemetery. Both guys were decent fighters, and like before, their numbers and weapons favored them in a big way. He switched to thinking about an escape plan.

  Torn Kane closed the door, sealing Brynstone in with the leper knights. The lock clicked into place.

  Now alone, Brynstone rushed to the cross. It was his best hope of getting out alive.

  Chapter 11

  Sofia, Bulgaria

  11:03 p.m.

  Nikola Paskalev had vacated his office, leaving it a mess. The big man had shoved his wife around the desk, and now the carpet was littered with a spill of papers. Rashmi Raja pushed them aside and discovered the oval box on the floor. She opened it, but found only Cuban cigars. She snapped one in half in frustration.

  I should have shot Paskalev after all.

  Raja moved around the room, going from bookshelf to bookshelf, exploring every table. Where had he hidden the relic? She dropped to her knees and searched desk drawers. Two were locked. She opened a third and found a necklace box from Paskalev’s boutique on Vitosha Boulevard. She popped the lid and marveled at a teardrop-shaped blue diamond haloed by smaller clear diamonds on a delicate gold chain. It wasn’t what she had come for, but she pocketed the necklace anyway.

  “Welcome to my home.”

  At the sound of the words, Raja jolted back in shock. She peered over the desk. Paskalev stood in the doorway of his study, grinning.

  “I was told an intruder had invaded my house,” his voice boomed. “I was taken to the safe room. There, I can watch security cameras.” He pointed to a small camera mounted on a branch of a decorative tree. “When I saw that my unexpected guest was nothing more than a girl, I decided to greet you myself.”

  “You caught me,” she admitted, moving to her feet. “Now what?”

  He walked into the room, studying her. His tenor shifted from amusement to flirtation. “Others have broken into my home, but never before have I seen such a beautiful intruder.”

  Paskalev came over and pulled the silk scarf from her head, freeing sleek black hair to spill around her shoulders. He examined the scarf, noting the white Hermès Paris logo.

  “You have exceptional taste for a common thief.” He looked down at her. “And gorgeous skin.” He stepped closer. “Did you come here for my money? Or did you come for me?”

  “Your father owned a Roman relic. He stored it in a glass box.”

  He rumbled with laughter and tossed the scarf at her. “You bypassed security and killed one of my men, all so you could get your hands on that thing?”

  “Where is it?”

  Paskalev walked to a bookshelf. He pressed on a notch in the wood panel and a recessed drawer popped open. Removing a rectangular glass container, he held it out for her inspection. The box stored a curving piece of aged metal.

  “Is this what you wish to steal?” he asked. “My father cherished it, God knows why. In all honesty, I’d forgotten about this thing. I’m told it was part of an old helmet.”

  “It’s a cheek guard,” she answered. “At one time, it protected a cavalry soldier’s face during battle.”

  He gave an indifferent look. “It’s been in my family longer than I care to remember.”

  Raja held out her gloved hand. “Give it to me.”

  Another grin. “I could be compelled to sell if the price were right.”

  “How much?”

  With a wolf’s stare, his eyes made close measure of her body.

  “I don’t want your money.”

  She walked to him. Reaching up, she traced her fingers along his round cheek and snared his neck, pulling him down to her. A whiff of acrid breath hit her nostrils. Nauseating. Finding courage, she kissed the big scary man. His meaty hand closed on her breast.

  Raja shoved away from him.

  “First,” she said with a pout, “the Roman cheek guard.”

  He studied her before handing over the box.

  She rotated it, making certain the helmet piece was authentic. Designed to curve around the cheekbone and down to the chin, the shield featured raised contours that formed a stylized impression of a human ear. At one time, Roman warriors attached a cheek guard like this one to an Imperial Gallic helmet.

  A business card was inside the glass container, trapped against the cheek guard. She tilted the box and read the name on the card.

  “Math McHardy?”

  “He wished to purchase it from my father long ago. You’re not the only one interested in Roman helmets, you know.”

  “Why did he want it?”

  “Symbols are engraved on the inside. He thought he could decode them.”

  “Did he?”

  “He never saw it. Mr. McHardy offered a great sum of money, but my father refused. He said the man was psychotic.”

  “Was he?”

  “How should I know?” He smirked. “You have what you want. Now it is my turn.”

  She placed the glass container in her pack. Glancing at the camera on the tree branch, she said, “Take me somewhere private. I don’t want your depraved men watching with their little cameras.”

  “Why don’t we go—”

  “The balcony overlooking the waterfall,” she interrupted.

  “You’ll make love to me on the balcony?”

  “I’ll do what I must to leave here with the relic. But I do not wish to be seen doing it.”

  “But what if my wife catches us?”

  “You don’t seem like a man who wastes much time thinking about his wife.”

  She he
aded for the library door.

  Paskalev followed.

  As they walked the long hallway, his hand glided down her butt, surveying the curve in her black leggings. She didn’t flinch. She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. Past the view of cameras, she glanced around to make certain security guards were nowhere around.

  Now. She had to act now.

  She blasted into a full sprint, running ahead of him.

  Footsteps pounded loud as he chased after her. He chortled, the man still thinking this was a game. Rumbling down the hallway, Paskalev was closing in. He was fast for a big man, faster than she had expected. She focused on the decorative iron pole ahead, the one protruding from the wall at the edge of the balcony. The one adorned with curls of ivy.

  He was close behind, ready to lunge. She had to time her next move with precision. Years before, she had trained as a gymnast. She never guessed it would help in her new line of work.

  Raja jumped and grabbed the iron pole above the balcony. Swinging a full 360 degrees around the horizontal pole, she moved in a graceful arc, coming behind Paskalev on the downswing. At the edge of the balcony, he turned as her feet struck him. Paskalev lost his footing and smashed through the wooden railing. Reaching out, he grabbed her ankle.

  That wasn’t part of her plan.

  As his body broke through the balustrade, Paskalev ripped her from the pole. Falling toward the waterfall, his eyes blazed. He held his grip on her ankle. The falls roared in her ears as the sheet of water blurred past them. Paskalev landed hard, his body smashing into the pool at the base of the waterfall. In reflex, he released her foot. When he hit, she flipped off his chest. Somersaulting in air, she landed outside the pool, nearly twisting her ankle. Raja rolled to absorb the impact of her fall. Water splashed her back. Dripping wet, she turned with fists clenched, ready to fight.

  Not necessary.

  Nikola Paskalev floated on his back in a pool of bloodred water, staring at the ceiling with glazed eyes. Water splashed around him, leaving droplets on his vacant face. She flipped long wet hair from her forehead then reached for the pack to check on the Roman cheek guard.