by Rob Swigart
“Not arso vivo,” Defago mused. “Not burned alive, but condemned to the flames nonetheless. Such is the fate of heretics.” His hand rested lightly on the nun’s shoulder as if he could draw strength from the metal joint inside. They could no longer see the body on the cot through the inferno.
Her breath rasped when she sighed. “It is a shame.”
Defago gave her shoulder a squeeze. “I know.”
“This was my home these last two years.” She reached up and touched his hand. “But I understand the need.”
The great crucifix lay on top of the precious copy of Augustine’s City of God in her lap. The agonized face of the Redeemer seemed to flicker with false life. Flames poured through the burning door and licked up the side of the hut.
“I do regret it, believe me,” Defago told her. His voice was tender. “We had nowhere else nearby to use.”
The roof gave a sudden roar and a spiraling tower of sparks shot into the sky. Smoke was already blending into the low cloud, gray on gray. Moments later a ceiling beam crashed into the room, and new constellations of red stars danced for a time and one by one winked out. Ash fell on the two witnesses.
They watched in silence until the flames began to falter. “Well,” Defago said. “That’s one loose end. Now for the girl.”
They returned to the van, dark against the trees beyond reach of the firelight and drove slowly away on the gravel road. In the distance a siren began to wail.
19.
The shattering glass and the scream left behind a shocking silence in the Institut de Papyrologie.
“What the hell was that?” Lisa exclaimed. She shoved the document back into the envelope and slid it into her new large canvas bag. For someone who might have to go on the run it had seemed more practical than her old shoulder bag.
They clattered down the narrow spiral stair.
The front door was ajar. Down the corridor a figure was just disappearing around the corner. “Olivier!” she yelled, starting after him.
Steve held her back. “Look.”
The office was empty. Warm June air floated in through the shattered window beside the secretary’s desk, bringing the smell of flowers. Confused shouts rose from the Court of Honor.
“Stay here!” he hissed, moving toward the window. As he approached the frame a large triangular wedge of glass suddenly dropped free and fell into the courtyard. Someone screamed.
“We have to go!” He grabbed her hand and dragged her from the room. The hallway was empty. They ducked through the door to stairway B. Someone was running down the stairs ahead of them. A door slammed and they were alone.
One flight down new footsteps pounded up toward them.
They hurried from the stairwell and raced down the corridor, past three more stairways and several lecture halls. They were now on the St. Jacques side of the building, away from the Court of Honor. Finally they turned into yet another hallway, breathing heavily. Steve tried door after door, but formal classes had ended and they were locked.
Finally one yielded, opening onto an untidy office smelling strongly of chalk dust. The blackboard was covered with illegible writing that might have been English but looked as if it had been left over from a century ago. Old journals, stacked precariously on every available surface, were covered with a visible film of dust. The window faced the south end of the Cour d'Honneur. They looked down at brown and white checkerboard paving and the brown expanse of the court. Embedded in the surface were the palimpsest lines, reminders of the foundations of previous buildings.
A crowd had gathered at the far end. Several people were pointing up at the broken window.
“Olivier?” Lisa whispered.
“I can’t see; there are too many people, but if it’s him, he must have fallen.”
“Fallen?”
“Protecting us.”
She sank against the desk. “He said something about a monk.”
“No time now. Come on.”
They clattered down the stairwell and found an outside door. A knot of spectators surrounded the SAMU paramedics. No one saw them walk across the court and out onto the Rue de la Sorbonne.
An ambulance, its engine running and blue lights flickering, was double parked at the curb. Another crowd had gathered near the door, generating an excited buzz of speculation.
Lisa and Steve walked to the Renault. Moments later they turned into the evening traffic on the Rue des Écoles.
Lisa’s mind chased itself around a wheel: her fugue of this morning, Raimond’s bizarre murder, the boy’s death. What did it all have to do with her? Why was she on the run? She hadn’t had a moment to collect herself, and now here they were, circling the Sorbonne and heading south on Rue St. Jacques. Soon they were passing the normally creamy white stone pile of the Pantheon on their left. Tonight, against the cloud-filled sky its columns and narrow dome seemed to be illuminated by a more somber light than usual. As she had in Raimond’s study this morning she told herself she was strong, she could handle this, whatever it was.
She took a deep breath and asked, “Are we going back to your place?”
“It won’t be safe. Olivier’s killer may have panicked, but whoever it was obviously didn’t believe Olivier when he said you weren’t coming back.” They stopped at the Boulevard de Port Royal by the Val de Grâce military hospital. “Did you get a good look at him?”
“I couldn’t even tell if it was a man or a woman.”
“Was he wearing robes? The monk?”
She shrugged. “Sorry. It’s possible; I just don’t know.”
To the west Boulevard Port Royal became Montparnasse. “Sooner or later they’d figure out where I live and now I think it will be sooner. And Hugo will be anxious to find us; he’ll probably think we’re responsible for what happened.”
“Check your phone, maybe he called.”
Steve handed it to her and she switched it on. A few moments later it beeped. “You have three messages, two from Hugo, one from a number with no name.”
“What’s the number?”
She read it to him. Before she could point out that it ended with 22-14, the same numbers as Raimond’s door code, he sped up, raced a yellow light and swerved into the bus lane, passing slower traffic.
“What?” She gripped the door handle.
“Turn it off!” He glared at her. “The phone, turn it off!”
She did. He swerved around a bread van and cut across oncoming traffic onto the Rue Delambre. Moments later he turned hard left into a dead end a block long. A large green garage door at the end of the street began to slide open as they approached. He drove inside, maneuvered up a ramp and parked against the far wall. The door was already closing behind them. “Come on!” He grabbed the duffel bag from the back seat.
She hurried after him. “Where are we going?”
Inside a service door was an elevator. She pressed herself against the back wall. “Another one of your secret retreats?”
“Safe house. Extreme emergency. The elevator’s private, for the back penthouse. The rest of the building is for normal people, who have their own elevator. I’ve never been here, but something’s happened to M. Rossignol and I have to call that number back as soon as possible. That means you and I are on our own for now, and we have a lot of people after us. Until we know who and why, we avoid everyone. I’ll know more soon.”
The door opened onto a small but finely furnished salon. There was a kitchen, the kind called American, built against a wall, Two open doors led to a bathroom tiled in off-white and a bedroom with a large bed covered in dark blue silk. There were no windows.
Steve put the bag on the entry table. “Montparnasse cemetery’s on the other side of that wall. If there were a window you could look down the grave of Charles Baudelaire. We should be safe here. See if you can figure out what that Procroft document means while I call.”
“Want me to turn on the phone?”
“No!” He lowered his voice. “Sorry, the police could
trace it, and if they could, so could others, whoever they are. I’ll use the land line; it’s secure.” He was already dialing, simultaneously pulling a notepad and pen from a drawer.
He listened carefully, taking notes and speaking only a word from time to time. After he hung up he scribbled rapidly, filling the page.
“Well,” he said. “We have to catch a train in the morning.”
“Where are we going?”
“Toulouse.”
“I see. I’m sure some time soon you’ll tell me why we would want to suddenly go to Toulouse.” She sat on a plush sea-green couch, pulled the Procroft envelope from the canvas bag and laid it carefully on the white lacquered surface of the coffee table. “It’s parchment, not papyrus,” she said.
“What does that mean?”
“Perhaps nothing. Papyrologists study texts, no matter what they’re written on. The ancients mostly wrote on papyrus, but they also used broken pottery. Parchment or vellum were more rare and expensive, though, and would only be used for really important documents.”
“Then this would qualify as an important document, I’d say.”
“Yes.”
“Looks like Greek,” he observed.
She looked closely at the text. “The style is first or second century. I think it’s a forgery, a very good one.”
“What does it say?’
“It’s a series of eight short texts, each one prefaced by a Greek letter. The first says something like, ‘Know what’s in front of your face, and what’s hidden from you will be revealed to you.’ It’s another of Raimond’s damned jokes! It’s from the Gospel of Thomas.” In response to his unspoken question she continued, “One of the Gnostic texts that didn’t make it into the New Testament, like other gospels, like Judas or Mary, ancient wisdom shunned by the emerging Church hierarchy. Too pagan, or didn’t fit into the emerging orthodoxy. It’s a little odd that this is in Greek, not Coptic Egyptian. Except for a few fragments from Oxyrhinchus, the Thomas we know about is in Coptic, from the Nag Hammadi library. Raimond either translated Thomas back into Greek or had a Greek version I don’t know about.”
“Is that significant?”
She turned down her mouth. “Could be. He was a great scholar and may have sources like Oxyrhinchus that had not yet been published in the scholarly literature. New texts do still turn up from time to time, like the Archimedes manuscript a few years ago.” She let her head fall against the back of the couch and closed her eyes. “I’m so tired. Why are we going to Toulouse?”
“Procedure,” he said softly. “I’ll explain, but right now we know that at least one person has died for this document and a platitude from Thomas doesn’t seem enough to kill for.”
Her eyes snapped open. “It’s not!” She took the pad and pen from his hand, flipped to a new page, and began to write. “Look, if the letters before each text are there to organize it, you’d expect them to be sequential, wouldn’t you? A, B, C, D? These aren’t. The list starts with Beta, jumps to Omicron, and so on. There are even two Betas. It doesn’t make sense, either as a word or a list, unless it’s another of Raimond’s acrostics.” She showed him the letters: Β-Ο-Υ-Ρ-Β-Α-Κ-Ι. “In the Latin alphabet that would spell Bourbaki.”
“Then it is an acrostic, and confirms it’s definitely a forgery.”
She looked at him curiously. “We already know Raimond forged it. But why does this confirm it?”
“Nikolas Bourbaki was one of the most famous mathematicians of the twentieth century. A little too modern for the first, wouldn’t you say?” After a pause he added, “On top of that, he didn’t really exist.”
20.
The earth turned, bringing darkness over the city of light, the flax fields, and the ruined abbey.
After Captain Hugo had dismissed him, Guardian of the Peace Dupond took the number 14 Metro to the Gare St. Lazare and waited for a train to Mantes-La-Jolie. He browsed magazines at the newsstand, had a Perrier at the bar, and went without hurry to the platform. He found a seat in one of the middle cars by the window and read his copy of Paris Match. The train pulled out into the evening light. There was the promise of more rain.
Half an hour later he descended, went through the station and waited for a bus which he took to an intersection in the countryside. There were flax fields in bloom all around but he could see only an edge revealed by the lamp at the bus stop.
He sat down to wait.
Twelve minutes later the van arrived. He got in the front. Defago nodded and drove on.
Sister Teresa sat in back. She tapped Dupond on the shoulder with her gloved hand. “Well?”
“Yes,” he answered shortly. “I’ll report to M. Lacatuchi.”
She sat back, her lips tightly pursed.
They arrived at the abbey. Xavier let them in and they proceeded through the ruins to the modern section.
Lacatuchi looked up from a thick folder at the knock. “Ah,” he said with a bleak smile, closing the folder. “Come in, Brother Defago.”
The friar dipped his head in a cursory bow. Obscurely he felt it was the most he could get away with without showing obvious disrespect. He stood aside and ushered Sister Teresa into the room.
She looked around, taking in the opulent sofa, the enormous desk, and the pear wood coffee table with its cloisonné bowl of pistachios.
The Prior General said, “You’ve brought your inclusa, I see.”
“Sister Teresa, Eminence. Not enclosed at the moment, of course.”
“I remember signing the dispensation, Brother Defago. I hope it is temporary. Soon this will all be over, yes?”
Defago stammered. “Why, yes, your Eminence. I hope so. I mean…”
Dupond, standing by the door, smiled.
Lacatuchi’s gimlet eyes swiveled to the policeman. “You don’t agree?”
“I’m sorry, Reverence, perhaps I was thinking of something else.”
“Pray enlighten me,” the Prior General snapped.
“Very well.” Dupond advanced to the desk. “Rossignol’s assistant, Étienne Viginaire, Canadian, thirty five, Doctorate in Economics from the University of Paris. He’s been helping the girl. This would seem normal, of course, if she’s the heir. I was assigned to follow them. They went out for lunch. Afterward they wandered around. On Mouffetard I lost them. I can’t confirm they deliberately evaded me, but suspect so. It took some effort to find where he lived, but between police resources and those of the Order, I succeeded. While it’s possible such secrecy is normal for someone in his profession, it may well mean he has something to hide. When I arrived, they were gone. A sales slip from Monoprix indicates they took some new clothing with them. I deduce they don’t plan to return. This is all in my report to Captain Hugo; I’m sure you can obtain a copy.”
Dupond paused and looked around. Darkness pressed against the window facing the river and he could see only a washed-out reflection of the four of them. He turned back to the Rumanian. “Viginaire drives a dark green Renault Megane, the most common vehicle in Europe. He has a special permit. I was able to discover that late in the afternoon this vehicle was parked outside the Sorbonne. During that period there was an incident: a secretary at the Institut de Papyrologie fell from a window. It appears he was pushed. Hugo may think the Emmer woman and her companion were involved, but this I doubt.” He glanced at Sister Teresa and cleared his throat. “They’re looking for a nun. And a monk.”
“Thank you, Dupond, that’s most helpful.” Lacatuchi leaned back and tented his pudgy fingers on his chest. His voice was barely audible when he continued. “Though we knew this would happen eventually, the situation has grown more complex, has it not, Defago?”
On hearing his name, the monk flinched. “Pardon?”
“The incident.” The Prior General leaned forward. “You didn’t mention it, Brother Defago. This would be the work of your man Cedric, would it not? Are you withholding other information? Perhaps to conceal your incompetence?”
Defago twitched. �
�No, Prior General. Brother Cedric evaded pursuit. The situation was contained. I didn’t want to bother you with…”
Lacatuchi stroked the lump on his broken nose. “Well, we anticipated the police would find out about Sister Teresa. As long as we move her carefully….” He smacked the desk with impatience. “But the girl, Defago! She was supposed to be neutralized. Now she’s disappeared and has effective and powerful assistance.” He stood and towered over the desk, leaning forward. “Dupond will help you find her, Defago. You and Sister Teresa will track her down and you will eliminate her. The Canadian, too. Do I make myself clear?”
Defago straightened. “I’ve already taken measures.”
“See to it.” Lacatuchi sat down and reopened the thick folder.
Dupond led the way out of the room, followed by Defago and Sister Teresa. Her prosthetic foot fell heavily, emphasizing every other step.
21.
Lisa tilted her head quizzically. “Bourbaki was a famous mathematician who didn’t actually exist?”
“Correct. He was a group.”
She sat up, her fatigue forgotten. “Explain.”
“There was a real person named Bourbaki, a general in the French army and the son of a hero of the Greek war of independence. He died in 1897.”
“Not a mathematician, then?”
“Bear with me. In 1923 a group of students in Paris put out the word that the prime minister of Poldevia was going to speak at the Boulevard Montparnasse. A large crowd assembled, and a student began speaking about Poldevia’s misery and abject poverty. They passed around a hat and collected money. Then the student introduced the prime minister, who appeared in his underwear, so poor he couldn’t afford a pair of pants. It was all a great joke.”
“What about Bourbaki?”
“I’m getting to that. One of the students involved was a mathematician with a sense of humor. He had a friend write, as Bourbaki of Poldevia, a bogus article on the so-called ‘Bourbaki Conjecture’ for an obscure Indian math journal. The ‘Conjecture’ was no more real than its author. But later he helped found a group that wanted to revolutionize French mathematics. And so they did, publishing many important books under the name Bourbaki. Over the next decades Bourbaki developed set theory and the New Math, among other things.”
