The Library of the Kings: A Tom Wagner Adventure

by Roberts, M. C.

  Cloutard was also intrigued. He came up beside Hellen and looked on as Theresia de Mey examined the artifact. He nudged Hellen’s shoulder and whispered: “It looks to me as if you have been keeping a rather important detail to yourself.”

  “Just be happy Ossana didn’t get her hands on it,” Hellen replied quietly enough that her mother did not hear.

  She took the disk from her mother. “We’re here because of these markings. When I was a child, if I remember right, papa showed me some scrolls that also had the symbol of the library. At the time he couldn’t do anything with them. Whatever they contained led him nowhere, so he hid them away somewhere. Then he disappeared.”

  “Well, since I’m here, we can look for them together,” her mother said, as if she were doing Hellen a huge favor.

  Hellen just grinned, shook her head and led the way down to her father’s basement office. It was not really a basement. The house was built on a hillside with the main entrance at street level, one floor above the garden level, and the “basement” opened directly onto the back garden. The house was more like an old villa, with three floors and a converted attic. That was where most of her father’s documents were stored, but Hellen decided to start down in his office. The walnut-paneled room had bookshelves from floor to ceiling on three walls; the fourth was taken up by two huge glass display cases containing artifacts and objets d’art collected from different places and eras: African masks, Egyptian statues, a miniature of Michelangelo’s David. More artifacts, large and small, were scattered around the room. In one corner, a few medieval swords and lances protruded from an umbrella stand; a huge, threadbare Persian carpet covered the middle of the room. The old desk was littered with documents, open books, and maps. The room had not changed since Hellen’s father had disappeared.

  In the midst of all the chaos, Hellen found a photograph of her and her father at the pyramids of Giza. She had been eight years old at the time. Her eyes filled with tears as she held the framed photo in her hands for a moment, recalling the trip they had taken together just before he vanished. But she quickly pulled herself together and replaced the picture on his desk.

  “I haven’t touched a thing,” said Hellen’s mother. “Everything is still just as it was the day he disappeared.” She was obviously struggling with her own emotions as she moved slowly around the room. Hellen poked half-heartedly through the documents on the desk, but quickly gave up.

  “They won’t just be lying around somewhere among all this other stuff. It was the most significant find of his life. He would have treated it accordingly and put it somewhere safe.”

  Cloutard was fascinated by the collection of old writings and books filling the shelves and stacked in piles on the floor.

  “All this . . . it’s worth a fortune,” he mused. But Hellen’s mother had heard him.

  “No doubt. Museums and collectors have approached me a number of times over the years, trying to get their hands on his collection. But until now I haven’t been able to bring myself to part with any of it.”

  She looked at Cloutard with a certain wariness as he stroked the spines of the books almost tenderly.

  “He did not have a safe?” Cloutard asked.

  Hellen’s mother shook her head. “He never wanted one.”

  Lost in her own thoughts, Hellen sat down in her father’s huge old leather armchair. She turned her head slowly, scanning every inch of the office. Where did you hide it, Papa? Tell me, where?

  Then, like an epiphany, she knew the answer. The scrolls were not in that room at all. They were on his nightstand.

  “Is the Proust still in the bedroom?” Hellen asked, looking eagerly at her mother.

  “You mean those old hardcovers your father read over and over?”

  “Yes! Remembrance of Things Past.”

  Hellen ran back up the stairs. Seconds later, she was looking at the German first edition of Proust’s monumental work. Her father had had an elegant wooden slipcase specially built to house the seven volumes. Hellen removed the books and turned her attention to the slipcase itself, which was open on one side. Déjà-vu, she thought: like the amphora in the Egyptian Museum, it had a false back.

  Carrying the empty slipcase, she ran back to her father’s study; with the help of a letter opener she was able to pry the back wall forward. On the other side, four sheets of papyrus came to light, which Hellen carefully removed and laid on the desk. Even now that she had the disk, she did not really know what she was supposed to do with it. These papyruses were special: they were four pages of a letter containing both hieroglyphics and a text passage in Latin. They had been written and signed by someone named Ganymedes, but why this Ganymedes had written the letter, or who the intended recipient had been, even her father had never been able to discover.

  “My great-grandfather unearthed these papyruses,” Hellen explained. “Papa was vague about their true origin, and to tell the truth I think his grandfather may have stolen them.”

  She tilted the neatly handwritten sheets left and right and held them up to the light. Nothing. Cloutard and Hellen’s mother each took one of the pages and did the same, but saw nothing that stood out. They shrugged uncertainly.

  Then Hellen noticed something. She took the other pages and peered at them closely.

  “Do you have a photocopier?” Hellen asked excitedly, turning to her mother.

  “Of course. Up in my office.”

  Hellen jumped to her feet and ran off with the scrolls, returning two minutes later with copies of the ancient pages. She put the originals aside and worked with the copies as she explained: “On each of the pages, in different places in the text, you can see one quarter of the disk with the symbol. It’s very small, see?”

  She folded each of the four photocopies so that each quarter of the symbol formed a corner. Then she put the four corners together and, lo and behold, they fit perfectly, forming a miniature disk with the ankh symbol. Hellen quickly taped them together, then took the clay disk and placed it over the document so that the hole in the center was positioned exactly over the ankh. She turned the disc slowly until the ankh was in the correct position. Like this, one letter appeared in each of the holes in the disk.

  Hellen paused. “It truly is the key,” she whispered as all three gazed at the holes in the disk. Hellen looked up excitedly at her mother and Cloutard. “And I know where we have to go next!”

  31

  Hotel Gran Meliá, near the Vatican, Rome, Italy

  “How did we get a papal audience so quickly? How is that even possible?” Cloutard asked Tom. He bit into his biscotti and brushed away a few crumbs caught in the fluff of his bathrobe.

  Noah and Hellen were also sitting out on the terrace of the suite and enjoying a lavish breakfast, by Italian standards.

  “And why did the Vatican instantly give us this suite?” Noah asked, sweeping his arm wide to take in the breakfast table and the rooftop terrace with its stunning view of the city.

  “The Pope likes me, that’s all,” said Tom. “I messaged him after we dropped the chancellor back in Vienna. He called me back pretty much right away, which was unfortunate, because I was, uh, preoccupied.” He cleared his throat. “I was . . . using the bathroom,” he said more quietly, but quickly added, “But we worked it out in the end, as you can see,” said Tom, as if was the most natural thing in the world.

  Cloutard looked at Noah. Noah looked at Hellen. Hellen looked back at Cloutard. And then all three of them looked at Tom in disbelief.

  “You cannot be serious,” Cloutard said. “Can you?” He was actually a little afraid of what Tom would say, and Tom certainly took his time, letting the suspense build. He fished out his mobile phone and put it on the table so that all of them could see it. He opened the list of recent calls and the display said “Pope Sixtus VI.”

  “Holy shit! You’ve got the Pope’s private number?” Noah had just choked on a slice of prosciutto. “Not even Mossad has that. How did you even get it?”

&nb
sp; “The Pope has a cell phone?” Cloutard mused.

  Tom grinned. “When we were down in the catacombs the last time, after Barcelona, and you guys were busy talking shop”—he glanced at Cloutard and Hellen—“the Pope took me aside. He thanked me personally and said I should call him anytime, for anything. If I was in a tight spot or needed spiritual guidance, you know. Since then, we’ve chatted occasionally on WhatsApp.”

  Noah, apparently the bravest among them, summoned up the courage to ask: “And . . . uh, you were really on the throne when the Pope called you back?”

  Tom was about to reply when all three of them cut him off with waving hands and shaking heads. “Spare us the details, please,” Hellen said, speaking for everyone. Silence settled for a second, then they all burst out laughing. For a few moments, they didn’t have a care in the world, despite all that had happened in the past few days. Cloutard raised his glass of champagne. “To us! And to Tom, the man the Pope calls in the bathroom.”

  They took their champagne glasses in their hands and shared a toast. Hellen’s smile and her good mood were only feigned, but nobody seemed to notice. She was more on edge than ever, her thoughts first with Arno and then with her father—and the secrets she suspected lay hidden in the library.

  An hour later, the disgruntled Camerlengo led them into the Pope’s chambers. He looked at Tom reprovingly—his close relationship with the Holy Father clearly rubbed the Camerlengo the wrong way. None of them had expected ever to be here again, and certainly not together. The Pope greeted them warmly.

  “May the Lord be with you. I am very glad to see you all again, although I must say the circumstances are still something of a mystery to me.” The Pope asked them to sit at the small meeting table, around which five simple chairs were arranged. Seeing that there was no seat left for him, the Camerlengo, still piqued, remained standing. The Holy Father turned inquiringly to Tom. “What is so important that we must speak face to face?”

  As if in a team presentation, Hellen and Tom took turns describing to the Pope everything that had happened in the last few days. Noah and Cloutard added what they could, and the Pope’s head swung back and forth as if he were watching a tennis match.

  “We think AF might be looking for the Library of Alexandria,” Tom said. “And the trail has led us here, to you.”

  The Pope raised his eyebrows and his brow furrowed.

  Hellen said, “My father spent his whole life searching for the library. With the disk I found in Egypt, we deciphered a code I found among his papers. The result was the word ‘Pontifex Maximus.’”

  The Pope nodded. “Pontifex Maximus, yes. It is a title that applies to the head of the Catholic Church, true, but not always. The Roman emperors used to call themselves by the same title,” he said.

  Hellen nodded. “Either way, the trail leads here,” she said.

  “And these are the same people who were responsible for the attack last year in Barcelona? They are now looking for the Library of Alexandria?” the Pope asked with a trace of fear in his eyes. He looked intently at Tom, recalling the horror that had taken place just six months earlier.

  Tom nodded.

  “These people are dangerous. Their power runs very deep.” The Pope lowered his eyes.

  Tom nodded again.

  “We can only guess how far their influence goes,” Noah said.

  For a while, the Pope said nothing. He stood and went to the window, gazing out at St. Peter’s Square below. For a long moment, the room was completely silent. Then, in barely a murmur, the Pope said, “It is here.”

  No one moved. They all believed they had misheard. Hellen was the first to break the silence. She joined the Holy Father at the window, wanting to be certain that she had understood him correctly.

  “You Holiness, what do you mean, ‘it is here’?”

  The Pope returned to the small table and sat down again.

  “Most of the treasures of the Library of Alexandria are here, in the secret archives of the Vatican.”

  Everyone, including the Camerlengo, drew a sharp breath and their eyes widened. Hellen opened her mouth to say something but could not get a word out. She reached instead for a glass of water and took a large gulp. Her hands were trembling. The Pope waited for a moment before he spoke again.

  “When I say the secret archives, I mean the truly secret archives. Not the archives you find in films or books, not the ones the researchers can visit any time they want. I am talking about a section of the Vatican archives to which only two people in the world have access: the archivist and the incumbent Pope.”

  Hellen had recovered her voice. “Your Holiness, the Library of Alexandria is actually here? In the Vatican?”

  The Pope nodded. “I don’t need to tell you that you have just learned one of the Vatican’s greatest secrets, one that we have kept to this day. But I believe it is necessary for you to know this. We have a danger to avert, a threat to the entire world. And I trust that you will preserve this secret of the Church.”

  Incomprehension marked the faces around him.

  “A threat to the entire world?” Cloutard asked. “So AF is not only trying to steal the treasures in the library? They must be worth millions.”

  “The value of the scrolls is beyond almost anything in this world,” the Pope said and Cloutard, almost imperceptibly, raised an eyebrow. When the Pope spoke again, his voice was a whisper: “But I am afraid it is not a question of money. I am afraid they are after the holiest relic of all.”

  “The holiest relic of all?” Hellen stammered. “What is it?”

  “That is something I would like to show you personally.” The Pope rose and went to the door. “Let us pay a visit to the Library of Alexandria.”

  32

  47 B.C., Alexandria harbor, Egypt

  Gaius Julius Caesar gazed solemnly at the ships ablaze below. His experience as commander told him that he had won this battle, but the war against the Alexandrians was far from over.

  “I bring tidings, Pontifex Maximus.”

  Caesar turned his attention from the destroyed Alexandrian fleet to the messenger who had just arrived.

  “The books, scrolls and papyruses have all been brought to safety. Half our army was engaged in moving the hundreds of thousands of documents onto our ships, as ordered. The library itself now lies in ruins.”

  Caesar nodded, satisfied.

  The messenger continued: “Unfortunately, we have lost many men. The eunuch Ganymedes gave orders for the underground passages that lead to our quarter to be flooded. Many have drowned, and the water supply has been contaminated. It is undrinkable, and some are already suffering from thirst.

  Caesar was unmoved. “Have them dig new wells on the edge of the city. We’ll find enough drinking water there.” He turned to one of the generals standing with him. “Part of the fleet will bring the treasures of the library to safety. They are to set sail for Rome with the tide. The rest of the fleet will assault the Pharos lighthouse and the Heptastadion causeway. They are strategically vital to us.”

  The general hesitated. “Caesar, won’t our fleet be severely weakened if half our ships begin the retreat to Rome?”

  Without warning, Caesar struck the man across the face with the back of his hand. “This is not a retreat. With the documents from Alexandria, we secure the future of the Roman Empire. All the knowledge of the world was collected here. Now stop wasting time standing around. Go to the men. Launch the attack on the Pharos of Alexandria.”

  33

  St. Peter’s Square, Rome

  Farid had been waiting more than two hours in St. Peter’s Square. He had watched Cloutard together with another man, a woman and a man in a wheelchair pass the Swiss Guards and enter the Vatican through the Arco delle Campane, the gate to the left side of St. Peter’s Square. Farid had now settled in. He would wait as long as he needed to. He used the time to do a little research, and was surprised at how good Google’s image search had become. It wasn’t long before Farid
knew a little more about at least one of Cloutard’s companions: the woman was an archaeologist named Hellen de Mey. He had not been able to find out anything about either of the men, but it was clear to him that this was not just a friendly visit, nor had they come to marvel at the Vatican gardens. Cloutard was here for something big, Farid was sure of it. And he, Farid, would get a piece of it for himself. He would not let Cloutard get away.

  * * *

  Tom was rarely at a loss for words, but when he stepped into the true secret archives of the Vatican, even he was rendered speechless. From the moment the Pope instructed the archivist to take them to the secret archives, no one had spoken a word. Awe mingled with surprise, wonder with disbelief. The archivist had led them to an unremarkable old elevator that plunged into the depths, for what felt like forever. At the bottom, a completely new picture awaited them. Tom was reminded of “Mission Impossible” and similar films as they passed through the security measures, which included retinal and palm scanners, voice recognition, laser sensors and more.

  “Impressive,” said Noah, eyeing the equipment with respect. It was like running a high-tech gauntlet, until finally a large vault-like titanium door swung open to reveal a white corridor. Hellen inhaled sharply as she realized that she was about to enter the very place her father had spent decades searching for. At first glance, all they could see was a gleaming white corridor, unusually wide and seemingly endless. It looked like the entrance to heaven.

  “What is this ‘holiest relic’?” Cloutard asked impatiently. He had elbowed his way past the Camerlengo and was now walking directly beside the Holy Father. The archivist led the small group onward, followed by Pope Sixtus VI and Cloutard, then Tom and Hellen with the Camerlengo, with Noah rolling behind them.