by Ken Fry
“The Order folded and was later resurrected?” Ulla asked.
“Alphonse lost no time in re-establishing it, and a new Abbot was appointed, Fr. Salvador Ruiz. There appears to be, would you believe it, a faded note, presumably from either a scribe or even Alphonse. It is dated 1249 A.D. The gist of it states…”
He is our fourth Abbot and is possessed of much energy. He knows our Order and its history and will avoid future mistakes. Our isolation is guaranteed and so with it, our secret is safe from the hands of murderous Islam and our own brothers, many who know not our holy secret or of our hidden Order. There has been no successor and we know that if there is, our blessed Abbot will reveal it when ready. Fr. Nicolás’s work waits for a man worthy to carry our mantle. God bless his soul. God bless Alphonse, Abbot Ruiz and the Blessed Saint Lazarus, in whose hands our sacred secret remains safe.
“So,” said Ulla as she swerved to avoid a horse drawn cart, “an Order existed within an Order.”
“It looks that way from just one small note. It was sublime. Who would think of looking for another Order or guardians existing within another? The treasure has to be a painting or the painting the Condesa is seeking.”
“Who was Nicolás, another painter?”
“At the moment, no idea.”
“What order was Cortez in?”
“Cistercian, but he would have belonged to this other order secretly. The Order all but collapsed and their connection with the historical Lazarus was the only thing that kept the flame alive. But how does all this information help?”
“I can’t say. It sounds like a secret society, but if it was, why advertise it with initials?”
Ladro went quiet and Ulla looked across at him. He carried on reading. Thirty minutes passed by.
“Oh, my God!” he muttered aloud. Then he shouted, “Ulla, stop the bloody car. Pull over. Stop it!”
“What on earth!” Ulla swung the car into a lay-by. “What’s got into you?”
Brodie didn’t look at her. Instead, he stared intently at a sheaf of papers. “This explains a lot.” He rapped the papers with the back of his hand. “Unbelievable. Read this.”
She took them from him and read it in English:
Fr. Covas, Abbot of the Monastery of San Vicente of Valencia
September 1562
We live in troubled times. I fear our sacred trusteeship has run its course. I chose badly. Francisco Cortez, it appears, was chosen by Satan who blinded both my eyes and those of Cortez and of Méndez.
To think our role was passed onto us through generations by the personage no less than the Blessed Saint Lazarus himself. Glória in Excélsis!
Alphonse delivered to Spain this most sacred of relics. Protected and guarded by the Knights of the Resurrected Lazarus, its safety was threatened by the Muslims overrunning our sacred city of Jerusalem. Albeit the image is known to change for those blessed to receive its wondrous powers. Cortez, I know not where he vanished, or if what he painted was given by God. It was God who spoke to me in a dream telling me a painter was soon to come. It was Méndez who brought him to our secret Order, and from this, I believed my dream was fulfilled.
Cortez’s paintings were strange and beautiful, revealing thought I, that God worked through him. The previous work, like its forebears, had vanished … and we were to expect a new vision. I was in error to think Cortez was the appointed one. It was Satan’s doing. For it was only when Méndez revealed to me that Cortez had fathered a child and the mother had died, did I understand that Cortez had not revealed all in his confession to our most sacred portals. He deceived us. A mortal sin. When confronted, he did make full confession and was stricken by grievous remorse. Knowing that God moves in ways too mysterious for us to understand and remembering the power of the dream he gave to me, in my sorrow, I banished Cortez to the desert for forty days and nights. All sin is forgivable, but once the Holy Father in Rome hears of this affair, he should expect the punishment of excommunication, and burn forever in the fires of Hell.
I sent him out to redeem himself and to fulfil what I know God revealed to me. It is God’s mysteries that draw men to him. Cortez disappeared and was never seen again. The painting he left was covered in his tabard and was brought back, together with his brushes. When first I saw it, I knew God had forgiven him. The work was almost too painful in its intensity to look upon. Indeed, it was alive with goodness. Of that I had no doubt. It will remain here, concealed from all until God deems otherwise.
Post Scriptum: It has now been two years since the events I wrote of above and they are as clear today as ever. My monastery has been destroyed by God’s wrath and my days here at San Jose are now numbered in weeks alone. I am ill, old and dying. Far too old, and I now look forward to joining my beloved Saviour with his Father in Heaven. Our secret guardianship is safe and awaits its next miracle.
Glória Patri, et Filio, et Spiritui Sancto.
Nothing was said.
Ulla swallowed hard and spoke in a whisper. “So, it is true, and it’s written down by his Abbot.”
“Now we know. But where is or was that monastery? It’s not on Evita’s list.”
“Well, our local Abbess should know. You know what, Brodie?”
“What?”
“I’m starting to enjoy this.”
CHAPTER 46
“One moment.” Throgmorton snapped the lid shut. He turned away from her and answered his phone. “What is it?”
The voice of his new hit man, known simply as Ox, spoke. Ox was an American, real name, Frankie Oxendale, who specialised in assassinations. He’d only been caught once and that was in the UK but the evidence to convict him was inconclusive. The judge at the trial was Sir Maxwell Throgmorton.
“They are leaving and in a hurry.”
Throgmorton winced. He never cared much for American accents and those from New York emphasised his reason why.
“Just stay close but don’t be obvious. Do nothing, just observe and report back. The woman is dangerous so be careful of her.” He switched off the phone and turned to the Condesa who was leaning for support against the car. “Where were we? Oh yes.” He pulled back the lid.
He watched her as she lifted out all the documentation and the stolen materials from the library. She didn’t even glance at them. The painting was wrapped in a heavy brocaded purple silk covering. She started to unravel it.
“Not out here if you don’t mind.” Throgmorton grabbed her wrist and pulled her away. “I’ll take it inside.”
Minutes later he stood the painting up against a wall and positioned her a suitable distance from it, walked over and in a dramatic sweep of his arm exposed the work. “Magnificent beyond belief, isn’t it!” He saw her head start back.
A thin beam of sunlight filtered across the room and shone straight in to the face of Christ who was gesturing to Lazarus as he unravelled from a heavy shroud.
That ray of light gave her time to check her emotions and reactions. She placed a hand to her mouth suppressing a gasp. She moved in closer. Her skills obtained from a Master’s degree in Fine Art History surfaced . . . composition, placement, perspective, angle, colours, brushwork, genre and structure. In a moment, she should be able to make a preliminary assessment of the work, based on that knowledge and what she knew of Francisco Cortez’s other works.
It was all there. It shouted out … Cortez.
But not loud enough.
Something was missing. All she could sense was a deadness. She stared into the eyes of Christ and then into those of the rising Lazarus, and then back again.
Nothing.
This wasn’t right. It lacked an insignia, a miniature back pattée, the eyes were dull like a fish on a monger’s slab, but above all it lacked what she had dearly hoped it would have … a miraculous soul. Then came the warning bell. Throgmorton was an unconvicted criminal of whom anything was possible, even murder. The wrong reaction could activate God knows what from him. She made a calculation based on her emotional insight
and religious feelings that this so clever, but preposterous work was not Cortez. It was a phenomenal, uncanny fake. Making an interested show she peered at it, stood closer, stood further away, and bent herself lower as if to inspect parts of it.
She walked around it, sniffed the canvas, tapped the side of the frame with her folded glasses. “I congratulate you, Sir Maxwell. A remarkable find. Where was it you said you found it?”
“I didn’t. That monastery is extinct. It’s all in the paperwork.
He’s bluffing. “I’m surprised it was never found having been lying somewhere for centuries, Sir Maxwell. An extraordinary find. Let’s say I’m interested, more than interested. You will of course give me a few days to make a more detailed consideration.” She saw Throgmorton’s cautious look give way to one of unrestrained greed.
“Five million, Condesa. How much is life worth, eh?”
He stood smoking his cigarette, looking outwardly calm and assured. One, she surmised, that one would not, for all the oranges in Seville ever expect him, a former High Court judge to be a major criminal. Her lips puckered. “Well, it’s not everyone who can say they own a Francisco Cortez even at that ridiculous price.”
He said nothing but tilted back his head and blew an elegant smoke ring.
It was a game of bluff and for a moment, she wondered if the work was genuine. She dismissed it. “For the money you’re asking, you will at least allow me to retain the work for a few days?”
“Of course not. It’s far too valuable. If something happened to it there would be too many issues to deal with.”
“All I can say is, if you continue to refuse, then good afternoon, Sir Maxwell.”
She saw his fist tighten as he fought to control his inner rage. Even at her age, she could play a close game, but she feared what he would do next.
“You really don’t understand, do you? You stupid old cow. Sit down now and shut up.”
He grabbed her thin wrist and twisted her arm up around her back and at the same time pushing her forcibly into the sofa. Her voice froze at the back of her throat as she found herself staring into the barrel of a large pistol. An unexpected calmness descended on her as she thought for an instant what it might be like to be shot.
“Do what you may, but you’ll not get a penny from me. I suspected that your picture would be a fake, as clever as it is, although I admit part of me wanted to believe.”
“There are ways and means, you pathetic bitch…” His voice stopped. There were footsteps approaching. It was her maid.
“Donna, I don’t need you. Go home.” She managed to shout again, “Look out!” But it was too late. The door swung open and before she could warn her again, Throgmorton had swung in behind her, grabbed her around the neck and had the gun pressed against the side of her head.
Donna’s eyes widened in panic.
“Don’t move.” He pushed her down to the floor with the gun, his eyes fixed on the appalled face of the Condesa. “Now, you skinny wretch, how much is a life worth? Five million seems a fair price.”
Donna began whimpering. Throgmorton’s foot remained firmly pressed into her back.
“I’ll count to five. The money or she’s dead.” He began counting. One … two … three …”
The Condesa heard the safety catch release.
“Stop! Don’t harm her.” Her voice croaked. “Stop. I’ll get the money.”
“Where is it? I need it now.
I have it. It’s in Bearer Bonds. Now let her go please.”
“Where is it?
“My strong room.”
He hauled the terrified maid up by her hair with the gun pressed hard to her head. Her glasses were falling from her head at a bizarre angle. “Lead on, Condesa and remember her life depends on you.”
Maria picked herself up and now she was shaking. Donna had been with her for over ten years and regarded her as a friend and confidant. Staring hard at Throgmorton her look registered all the disdain and contempt she could put into one look. “Follow me, Donna, I’m so sorry!”
Donna stared at the floor and shook her head, causing her glasses to fall to the floor. Throgmorton propelled her along in front of him with the Condesa leading the way to the strong room.
Her heart raced. What can I do? She realised there was nothing she could do.
Nothing.
The safe was located behind a large array of medieval pottery. The thought occurred to her of throwing them at him but that was out of the question. Too heavy. She exposed the lock and dialled the combination of numbers and letters and the metal door swung open with a loud click.
“Do it slowly and I want to see your hands at all times.”
She reached inside. It wasn’t the movies. There was no hidden gun to grab hold of or a pile of blank papers to deceive the robber, only what she had said, Bearer Bonds. Her fingers counted out ten. She knew they were in denominations of half a million each. She turned and faced Throgmorton who still had hold of a petrified Donna. With his free arm, he extended his hand. She began handing the bonds to him as if in slow motion. This cannot be happening!
It was then she passed out with the softest of groans.
The bonds flew into the air.
Donna’s scream was the last sound she ever made as the bullet passed through her brain, exiting unseen somewhere into the room.
CHAPTER 47
Our Lady of Olives lay in the rocky embrace of low lying brown and gorse covered hills as it had done for centuries.
Brodie stepped from the car and looked down on the ancient convent. For a moment, he wished he had paints and canvas with him. It screamed to be painted. He scanned the area and it was as he knew it would be. Its grey stone walls and red roof tiles whispered to him, welcoming him back.
The silence was all engulfing. I know this place.
Only Ulla’s gentle shaking of his arm broke the reverie. “Have you gone deaf? I said it looks like the kind of place that contains a mystery, like how did Cortez’s brushes get here and are they really his? What do you think?”
“It contains a mystery all right, trust me. So, let’s get down there.”
Ulla raised an eyebrow.
Twenty minutes later they were in the main courtyard. It was surrounded by whitewashed walls, their symmetry interrupted by numerous arches and small windows overlooking a simple cloister that ran the entire circumference of the courtyard. It was broken by various exit routes. A sweet smell of roses intermingled with lavender hung in the air. Sister Agnes was waiting for them in the main courtyard. She was dressed exactly as when Ulla had first met her. She stepped forward and opened her arms and gave the broadest of smiles that surprised Brodie. She gave Ulla a large hug and a kiss on both cheeks, then stepped back to appraise Brodie.
“Señor Ladro, I know much of you.” She shook his extended hand.
“You do?”
“Yes, my mother, the Condesa, remember her?” She accompanied her reply with a mischievous grin.
“I told him,” said Ulla. “He was even more surprised when he heard about the brushes.”
“Yes, I expect you want to know all about them but first follow me to my room and let me offer you some refreshments. When I have told you all I know, we can look around.”
Brodie nodded. “Lead on, Sister.”
Drifting through the air he could hear the melodic chant of nuns singing the Marian Canticle. He didn’t understand how he knew that but let it go.
Her room was simple. In the air hung a faint aroma of incense, otherwise, there were just the bare essentials; whitewashed walls, an icon of Madonna and Child dwarfed by a large mounted crucifix. The only submission to modernity sat on the desk, a cordless telephone and a laptop computer.
“Sit down, please.” The Abbess indicated two easy chairs placed by the desk. A side door opened, and a nervous looking nun scuttled in, bent low with a tray of three tall glasses of iced tea. She placed them down on the desk. “Thank you, Sister, you may go.” She pushed the tray towards t
hem. “Please.” She picked up one and sipped at it. “I expect you are itching to know the story of how we obtained the brushes that I’ll show you later.”
Ulla nodded. “Before you start Sister there are some things you should know.” She told her the information they had discovered and the strange things that had been happening to Brodie. She said nothing of the threat from Throgmorton.
Ladro said nothing but his psoriasis sent out painful messages that refused to be ignored. When a crisis loomed, it got worse.
Sister Agnes looked at him with an odd expression. She began speaking in hushed tones as if she was speaking of some unmentionable secret. “You know much, and I congratulate you. There is a mystery here and where the painting went has never been discovered. There are those who say it never existed, but we know from our archives that something did. Before Borgoña, it was said a painting of Lazarus by Fr. Nicolás existed and was greatly revered. It was his major work and like all others, including Borgoña and Cortez, no traces remained. Borgoña’s work succeeded the legend of Nicolas’s work. Whilst on public view, its power remained a secret that only─”
Brodie interrupted her, “─the Knights of The Resurrected Lazarus knew of.” He continued to speak as if he were her.
Sister Agnes and Ulla stared at each other with astonishment as Brodie continued. His head had tilted upwards and his eyes closed.
“The brothers had decided that as times were precarious and rumours rife, the best way to hide a pebble was to leave it on a beach. Only one person had the privilege of truly discovering its secret. It is said that Francisco Cortez was that person although this cannot be proven nor can any of the other stories that surround other paintings of Lazarus that they guarded so jealously. Borgoña’s work mysteriously disintegrated in a pile of fine rubble. Señor Méndez, Cortez’s tutor and known to be a lay member of the Order, witnessed that very event.”
