The Lazarus Mysteries- Omnibus Collection

by Ken Fry

  It was identical to what he had seen in his vision.

  Another rumble, but closer this time, broke his concentration as he began the slow descent to what, he had no idea, but was full of hope.

  A sweaty weather-beaten monk stood resting on a hoe close to the gates and gave Brodie a broad grin. “Come to join us, brother?”

  “Not if I can help it, brother.” He returned the smile and read the inscription on the large gated entrance, Pax Intrantibus ─ Peace to Those Entering. He somehow doubted that. He struck the large bronze bell three times for admittance. It was a few minutes before the gate swung wide and a stooped old monk ushered him in.

  His voice croaked like a rusty hinge. “The Abbot is expecting you. Follow me, Señor.” He lurched forward with a pronounced limp.

  Brodie jolted at the monk’s words. So many strange things had been happening around him that he shouldn’t have been surprised. The route to the Abbot’s chambers took them across the central courtyard and then up a narrow spiralling and worn stone staircase before crossing a small corridor lit by meagre strip lighting. It was then he noticed that hung around the walls were numerous religious paintings, including portraits of monastic dignitaries. One work caused him to come to an abrupt halt and at the same time gasp for breath. He recognised the exquisite hands, the solemn face of a man praying and the rapt expression of the Virgin Mary.

  It was Abbot Covas. The girl must have been Paloma! It was the culmination of Cortez’s sketches and rough drafts he had seen at the Bodega.

  “Wait.,” he shouted at the monk. The monk showed no sign of having heard him and continued shuffling forward. “Damn it,” Brodie cursed the hunched shape of the monk.

  How did that get there? The rumours that there was no trace of Cortez’s former works in existence had just been proven wrong ... very wrong. How many more are there?

  The monk ignored all communication and came to a stop in front of a metal studded door. His rap on the door was performed as if part of a religious ceremony by bowing his tonsured head at it. He stepped back when it opened without a sound to reveal a small man with youngish looks and a beaming smile.

  He was dressed as the other monks apart from an extra wide cord around his waist and a large gold crucifix hanging from his neck. He nodded at the other monk who bowed, turned and walked off. He gestured for Brodie to enter and extended his hand.

  “Señor Ladro, you are most welcome. I am Father Louis, the Abbot. Please, take a seat.”

  Ladro sensed himself disadvantaged. His arrival and name all known, and then the Cortez painting on the wall completed his disorientation. He gripped the extended hand, which had strength and vigour.

  “Father, just what is going on here? How did you know about me?”

  The Abbot’s gaze was penetrating. His shaven head disguised his real age that was only to be guessed at by the small wrinkles around the eyes. He wore a pair of steel framed spectacles balanced on an aquiline nose. His lips were thin like a slit cut into a sheet of paper. Brodie put him in his late forties.

  He spoke from behind steepled fingers, his voice sounded rich like a cello. “We are sorry, Señor, if we seem mysterious … but it’s all quite simple. We knew of you and your mission earlier today as we had a telephone call from Mother Agnes, who is with your friends, Senorita Stuart and the Condesa Maria. You were expected and here you are. What is mysterious is how you have known to come here.”

  Brodie relaxed as he realised the mystery didn’t exist. Modern technology could explain much. Yet he knew he couldn’t answer the Abbot’s question. He didn’t know how he’d got there. It all had something to do with his vision and that knowledge had been implanted into him.

  “Father, I can’t answer that because I have no idea. I’m attempting to trace a long-lost painting by Francisco Cortez and my research can’t be far wrong as I’ve just seen what looks like one of his works hanging on your walls here.”

  “Ah ... Cortez. You are not mistaken; the work to which you refer is sixteenth century and of Abbot Covas who was local to these parts. We believe it could be valuable.”

  “You’re right there, Father. I’d like to inspect it, if I may.”

  “Of course, but what makes you think more of his works should be here?”

  “That’s a long story. But if I say visions, ruins, a certain set of paint brushes and not least of all, a remarkable Condesa, would that help?” Ladro looked into the grey eyes of the impassive man opposite him, who said nothing before nodding.

  “Señor, I would be guilty of a sin if I told you I have not known much of your activities. It is hard to keep secrets amongst monastics when God-given quests as yours are involved. You appear to be blessed. To help you, let me tell you of our secret.”

  Ladro’s eyes widened. Discovering secrets in the field of research was not unwelcome but most revelations succumbed after scientific scrutiny. His instincts told him that this could be different. All he wanted was to look at the Cortez painting hanging in the corridor. He leant forward. “I’m all ears, Father.”

  “Before he died, Abbot Covas revealed to his Designate the true story concerning Francisco Cortez and the legend of the Lazarus legacy.”

  “Legend? I had hoped it was more than that.”

  “My, you sound like a believer, Señor. Let me continue. A painting was found but Cortez was never seen again. It was said he made alterations to some works, although that is for historians to argue. Apart from the painting and his brushes, everything he ever had or owned was left to the mercy of the desert. Brushes and painting were brought back to his monastery. In time, the painting was revered as a Holy Relic, due to the number of sick and ailing monks, including the Abbot, who attested to its miraculous healing powers. To protect the painting, Covas, being a man of medieval values, ordered that any written records concerning Cortez and his work be destroyed, and forbade any monk from mentioning the painting under threat of excommunication. However, at that time, in and around Europe, there were many disaffected and homeless knights from the Hospitaliers of Saint John and from the Holy League, dislodged after the Battle of Lepanto and the Ottoman Turks. All sought a home or how best they could serve God. To be brief, many came to monasteries in this area and became monks. It was said, by whom we do not know, that sick or injured monks and knights, if true in heart, had been healed simply by looking at the Lazarus painting of the time. I believe that there were several. Once cured, these warrior monks were sworn to protect the painting and its secret until death.”

  “If they didn’t?”

  “There were no reports of that. Excommunication is a powerful inducement.”

  A low rumble caused the floor to tremble and interrupt the Abbot’s story.

  “That happened earlier,” Ladro half shouted.

  “No need to be alarmed, Señor. It happens around here. We are in a triangle of tectonic plates that tend to move every so often.”

  The shifting stopped almost as soon as it had started.

  “Okay Father, so where’s the painting now?”

  Father Louis’s expression didn’t alter. He said nothing but stared at Ladro who couldn’t help thinking he was being evasive.

  “You don’t know, do you?”

  “No, we don’t. That’s why you are here I believe, to help find it. What I can tell you is that it was here, guarded and protected in a secret location. The monastery was almost destroyed in a fire caused by a series of quakes that ravaged Toledo and Valencia. Cortez’s monastery was reduced to rubble about that time. That is where the painting of Abbot Covas was found. Nothing is known since that date, as many died, and no records were allowed to be kept.

  Another tremor.

  Ladro’s eyes closed. He bent his head and his clenched fist rested between his eyes. A brief flash ... a dark place ... rocks ... candlelight ... noise ... shouts. It was clear. Too damn clear, but where was it? He’d got to the point of not being amazed or scared by his visions. He was beginning to look forward to them.


  More ... more ... I know you are close, but where are you?

  There was no reply and the vision faded. His skin irritation had become worse.

  “Are you all right, Señor?” The concerned voice of the Abbot broke through his thoughts.

  Ladro ignored the question. “Father, do you have any drawings, plans or that sort of thing as to how this place might have looked inside and out during the Middle Ages?”

  “Of course, but most of today’s building stands on what was the original construction. This very room has access to passageways and corridors that used to run the entire length of the monastery. Many of these are now blocked off and closed. Some, I believe, were to supply secret exit routes beyond the walls should an emergency arise. Times were very different then.”

  “Nothing has changed, Father. It’s still the same old world out there, a hunt for power and wealth. When can I have a look at what lies beneath us? “

  “First, let me show you what we have.” He walked to a large wooden cupboard and slid open a retaining shutter. A row of ancient leather-bound volumes stood in neat stacked rows an antiquarian would have died for. “These chronicles the monastery’s existence, and so far, they have survived every disaster that has struck us through the ages.” He scanned up and down the ranks before he pulled out a large brown and black volume and placed it with care on the study table. “I think this is the one we are looking for.”

  Abbot Louis’s thin fingers, thought Ladro, looked like ivory spikes. He picked out a volume held together by a pitted metal clasp. Ladro experienced an overwhelming sensation of antiquity ... of things known and unknown. There was little dust as Abbot Louis flicked the vellum pages.

  “Ah, this should be it.” He began unravelling a gatefold section, handmade and stitched together by fine needlework that had survived the centuries. It contained an overall plan of the entire monastic structure drawn in black ink and inscribed in gold, blue and red letters. There was an exploded view of various rooms, which Ladro noticed drew the eye across the central courtyard and all converged to a central point outside the monastery walls. What was interesting, they were underground and not visible. He traced his finger along the lines. “So, Father, where would your room be on this plan?”

  “Right there.” The Abbot poked at a small ink square located at the centre of the complex.

  “That’s amazing, so if they all lead to one place outside the walls then that has to be an exit point.”

  “It would seem so, Señor, but since the building has been twice rebuilt, I’ve not heard of any reports. I went down to have a look some five years ago, out of curiosity, but there was nothing there. Just damp walls and dirt. They all looked alike. It was the same story. A series of dead-ends.”

  “Father, I need to look. I may see things you wouldn’t. You can tell me as much as you like about God and I can tell you just as much about archaeological research, both practical and theoretical. So, I’m going to ask you a big favour. I need a flashlight or some sort of lighting. Can you do that for me?”

  The other man’s eyebrow lifted. There was a moment’s silence before he nodded. “Of course, but should you discover anything, it automatically belongs to our monastery. Agreed?”

  “Of course. Agreed.”

  Twenty minutes later the Abbot’s desk was pushed aside to reveal a concealed trapdoor. Ladro hauled it up and was struck by a blast of cold air as the flashlight revealed a small spiral iron staircase leading down about twenty foot to the bottom. It looked uninviting and as soulless as the rocky walls that formed it.

  He began the descent.

  CHAPTER 52

  Looking from the window, Ulla saw the lights of an approaching car switch off. She needed no second thought.

  “Sister, turn off the lights!”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Just do as I say. It looks like we could be having visitors.”

  The lights went off, plunging the room into semi-darkness.

  “It’s Throgmorton, isn’t it?” The Condesa’s voice sounded croaky but calm.

  Ulla’s fingers closed around the butt of her pistol. “It’s my bet whoever it is knows we’re here and saw our lights switch off. I need to get you two out of here and fast. Maria, is there a way out of here without being spotted?”

  “We could try the rear of the building and work our way to the front.”

  “Sister, can you drive?”

  “Yes but...”

  “No time for excuses, Sister. Grab these.” She tossed the car keys to her. “You know where it is and if I’m not there in a few minutes just go without me. Understood?”

  “But Ulla...”

  Ulla cut her short. “Did you take Vows of Obedience, Sister? I’m sure you did. I’m in charge here and you will do as I say. Your mother’s life depends on it. Now do it will you!”

  The nun was left in no doubt. She put an arm around her mother and ducking low, began to move out of the room. A loud banging on the front door froze her in her steps.

  An unfamiliar male voice shouted out, “Hello, is somebody there?”

  “Sister,” Ulla hissed, “what are you waiting for? Go now!?” She waved the gun barrel in the direction of the door.

  Again, the voice shouted, “Hello there!”

  Sister Agnes, leading her mother, crept towards the door and into the outside air. The banging stopped, leaving the house in silence. Ulla’s heart began to beat faster. She was tough, she knew that, but this was a different situation. There was somebody out there who could kill them all.

  She flattened herself down as low as she could and pressed every inch of her body to the floor behind a long fat sofa. She pointed her gun at the door and waited. Her hands were sticky with perspiration. She had one advantage. Whoever it was didn’t know where she was, and she could finish him with one shot.

  There was an explosion of sound as a bullet burst the wooden door latch, sending splinters in all directions.

  She gasped and pressed harder to the floor, her gun ready to blast at whoever it was. With a loud clatter the door swung open smashing into the wall behind but there was nobody to be seen. One hand held tightly on to her outstretched wrist as she let off a round in the direction of the door. There was a blur of movement as a man hurtled low through the doorway in a perfect shoulder roll and still clenching a large black pistol, came up to a firing stance. But he was pointing in the wrong direction.

  Ulla enjoyed an unexpected calmness. “Drop it, arsehole or a bullet will go straight through your head.” She watched as his fingers relaxed their grip on his gun before letting it clatter to the floor.

  “Kick it over here nice and easy, if you please.”

  He did as he was told.

  “I must be getting soft.” Ulla found it hard to keep a note of triumph out of her voice. “I don’t know who you are, but I know who you’re working for. We need to talk about that. Sit in that chair, will you” She gestured to a large wooden chair behind him.

  Ox said nothing, turned his head towards the chair and moved to sit in it. She could see from his expression he was attempting to work a way out of the situation.

  “If I have to, I will disable you with a shot to the leg. If I’m terribly unlucky I’ll miss your main artery. Do you understand?”

  “I don’t think that will be necessary, Miss Stuart.” The voice from behind her was unmistakeable.

  Keeping the gun trained on Ox, she swung her head around in confused disbelief. Throgmorton stood in the rear doorway with a smirk across his face. He held a pistol to Sister Agnes’s head who looked terrified as she supported the Condesa.

  His voice became guttural, coarse. “Now drop the gun or this heavenly Sister will be getting there sooner than she had hoped for.” He prodded the gun hard into the side of her head.

  “Oh, my God.” Ulla could see Sister Agnes’s eyes were shut, her lips moving in prayer as she expected her head to be blown apart. Ulla let the gun drop but wasn’t expecting Ox’s huge bony
fist to crash into her face. It spun her sideways. The second blow to her nose sent a spray of blood across her face as she crumpled to the floor in a haze of coloured lights.

  CHAPTER 53

  Flinty pebbles, small rocks and stones crunched and shifted beneath his boots. Torchlight threw his shadow into immense proportions along the passageway. He could see his breath in the cool air billowing in small white puffs as he bent to avoid hitting his head on the low roof.

  The Abbot’s right so far, there’s nothing to see at all.

  Ladro let his finger run along the sides of the wall as if he expected to find something. Nothing. The structure was straight without a curve or a bend.

  Whoever built this must have been a fan of the Romans.

  At one point, Ladro noticed a large indentation in the side of the wall, almost like an alcove. He stopped to examine it. He ran his finger across the pitted surface and brought the flashlight to bear in the recess. He could see what looked like the remnants of an old stone seat.

  What point did that serve?

  He sat on it and shone the torch all around the area. There wasn’t anything to see.

  Nothing but rocky wall. Others exploring must have sat here, and if there was anything of significance, they must have seen it.

  He stood to move on but let his trained eyes survey the area inch by inch. It was then he noticed something. The wall opposite looked unnatural. He brought the light up closer. A small area had been smoothed off and the more he stared the more obvious it became. He leaned closer and ran his hand over the area. It was about A4 in size. The more he looked the more obvious it became. It was a face: the face of a woman cut with light relief directly into the exterior wall, and he knew who the face belonged to.

  The face of Abbot Covas’s Madonna, Francisco Cortez’s lover, Paloma, gazed out with forlorn intensity.