The Last Prophecy - [Kamal & Barnea 07]

by By Jon Land

  “Oh, much more than chat, Inspector.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You’ll see,” al-Asi said, and gave the SUV more gas.

  * * * *

  Chapter 58

  D

  anielle followed Jacques Mathieu into the center of the Old Town section of Nimes to a restaurant called the Vintage Cafe. The way he seized the menu from the waiter’s hand helped explain his generous girth, his eyes aglow just from perusing the café’s daily selections. Around them, all the tables were taken and a hefty line of patrons Mathieu had bypassed spilled out onto the sidewalk. The maitre d’ had greeted him fondly by name, exchanged a smile with Danielle, and then led both of them to a reasonably secluded corner table.

  “I would have preferred to speak somewhere less crowded, mademoiselle, but I’m afraid our town’s annual festival, an homage to Spain, is under way, and the tourists are everywhere.” Mathieu chuckled lightly. “Except enjoying my tours of historical artifacts, of course. In any case the food here is excellent.”

  Danielle studied the menu. “I don’t read French very well.”

  “Then let me translate the key items. The hot lentil salad served with smoked haddock is superb, as is the goat cheese terrine. If you have a heartier appetite, I’d recommend the mullet crisped in olive oil and basil or the herb-crusted lamb.”

  Danielle hadn’t realized how hungry she was, only now trying to recall the last good meal she’d had. “Either of those last two sound fine. Your choice.”

  “Very well,” Mathieu said and summoned the waiter. After ordering, he returned his attention to Danielle. “You’re Israeli,” he said suddenly.

  “Is my French that bad?”

  “Let’s just say your accent is . . . distinctive. You would prefer English.”

  “Please.”

  “And I am to assume you are here on the Israelis’ behalf?”

  “I work for the United Nations now.”

  “On their behalf, then?”

  “My own, Monsieur Mathieu. And the United States’, where I believe this threat I mentioned is aimed.”

  Mathieu gazed at the backpack still resting on Danielle’s lap. “A threat you learned of because of an ancient prophecy.”

  “That’s right.”

  “And just how did you come to be in possession of it?”

  “Through a World War Two veteran whose unit uncovered it in Buchenwald.”

  “Buchenwald? So that’s where it ended up after ...” Mathieu’s voice tailed off.

  “It had been hidden there,” Danielle explained, “along with numerous other historical documents.”

  “A pity,” Mathieu said, shaking his head. “I should like to speak to this veteran.”

  “You can’t, I’m sorry to say. He’s dead, along with virtually all the others in his unit who were aware of the prophecy’s message. All murdered in the last few months.”

  “I’m not surprised.”

  “No?”

  “Nostradamus always feared his great gift could be used in the wrong way. It’s why he blurred the meanings of his prophecies, sometimes making them all but unintelligible.”

  “Then why bother writing them down at all?”

  “I’d imagine he felt it was God’s will. Or, perhaps, he could not keep what he saw bundled up inside. Imagine carrying such a burden alone.”

  “Imagine sharing it with the world.”

  “You’ve proven my point, mademoiselle: for Nostradamus, there was no simple solution. He felt he had been given a great gift, that it would be tantamount to sacrilege not to use it for what he hoped would be the betterment of the world.”

  “Unfortunately that hasn’t been the case.”

  “Hasn’t it? If not for this last prophecy you speak of, would you be in a position to stop the cataclysm you seem quite certain is about to befall the United States?”

  Danielle remained silent.

  “And my guess,” Mathieu resumed, “is that you are exactly the kind of person Nostradamus hoped would grasp the meaning of his work.”

  “I’m afraid he’d be disappointed in me.”

  Mathieu studied her briefly. “He foresaw the Six-Day War, you know.”

  “No, I didn’t.”

  “Quatrain Twenty-two from Centuries Three: ‘Six days the assault is made in front of the city,’” Mathieu said, reciting the words more than speaking them. “ ‘Freedom is attained in a strong and bitter fight. Three will hand it over and to them pardon. To the rest fire, and bloody slashing and slaughter.’” He took a sip from his water, then continued. “The city, of course, is Jerusalem. The ‘three’ Nostradamus speaks of are Egypt, Jordan, and Syria. The rest could be Libya, Iraq, and Iran.”

  “Could be,” Danielle repeated, as if the phrase made her point for her.

  “Nostradamus did not always deal in absolutes so much as indications, much the same as your own prophets.”

  “I don’t see what—”

  “Your heritage, mademoiselle, the Jewish heritage, is rich in this very tradition. You’ve heard of the Ro’eh?”

  “I suppose,” Danielle said, recalling the term from her studies years before.

  “They were the original prophets. Seers who foretold the future in writings not much different from those of Nostradamus, although less poetically. The Jews of their time made nary a move without their council.”

  “Not a very long time, considering the length of Jewish history.”

  “You’re right, of course,” Mathieu conceded. “Around 850 b.c. the Ro’eh was usurped by another group of prophets known as the Navi: Amos, Hosea, Isaiah, Jeremiah, and Ezekiel to name some. The philosophy of the Navi made them more ‘forth’ tellers than foretellers, in that they spoke of the world as it was as opposed to how it was going to be. The Navi believed in a contingent future totally dependent on the actions of man. If this, went their writings, then that. . . .” Mathieu shoved his chair closer to the table and lowered his voice. “My point, mademoiselle, is that Nostradamus wasn’t a fortune-teller either. His abilities, his talents, lie somewhere between your Ro’eh and Nivi’im, and his writings are best considered in that context.”

  Danielle lifted Walter Henley’s lockbox from her backpack and placed it in the center of the table. Unlike Klaus Hauptman, who couldn’t wait to lay his eyes on the manuscript unearthed at Buchenwald, Mathieu left the lockbox just where Danielle had put it.

  “Don’t you want to see the manuscript?” she asked him.

  Mathieu left his eyes upon her. “I’m more interested in the person who brought it to my attention.”

  “I don’t matter.”

  “I disagree. Do you believe in the Ro’eh, mademoiselle, the Navi?”

  “I was taught to.”

  “Because of your faith, your education. And if that same faith, that same education, had substituted the words of Nostradamus, what then?”

  “Do you believe?” Danielle asked Mathieu, instead of answering.

  “I have to, mademoiselle,” he said, gazing down at this stiff leg. “Otherwise, this was for nothing.”

  “I hadn’t realized that. . . .”

  “What, Hauptman failed to tell you how his father came into possession of that manuscript?”

  “I’m not sure he knew.”

  “Well, I certainly do,” Mathieu said, struggling to slide his chair farther beneath the table. “And it’s time you heard the story too.”

  * * * *

  Chapter 59

  T

  hrough a third-floor window of the abbey, Henri Mathieu saw the car coming. Big and black, its headlights slicing through the afternoon fog and windows tinted dark to keep its passengers from the view of those beyond.

  A tall, broad man with straw-colored hair and sharp blue eyes climbed out of the backseat and approached the Abbey de Sébastian in Salon. Mathieu had come here following the sudden, tragic death of his wife that had left him to raise his young son alone. He had shown up at the front door of the abbe
y in a drunken stupor with his son Jacques huddled against his coat, searching for no more than a place to spend the night. He had remained three years, staying on as caretaker of the property even after the Franciscan monks had been reassigned elsewhere. In essence, Mathieu had survived his saviors.

  He had not taken a single drink in those three years, coming to enjoy the quiet lifestyle that proved the perfect remedy to his vast grief. Since the monks’ reassignment, the abbey received no visitors and this car was the first to drive up the long approach in many months.

  The tall man with the straw-colored hair looked around, as if to reassure himself no one was about, then continued up the walk to the abbey’s majestic double-door entrance. He rapped the tarnished brass knocker hard and for just an instant Mathieu considered ignoring his presence and staying clear of the windows until he was gone. But the man could have come bearing a message from the monks or the heads of their order, and Mathieu did not want to shirk his responsibilities. Besides, by the third series of heavy raps, it was clear the tall man wasn’t going anywhere until he gained entry.

  The stranger greeted Mathieu with a warm smile as soon as the caretaker threw open the doors, instantly putting him more at ease.

  “I hope I am not disturbing you, Brother,” he greeted.

  “I am not a brother, “Mathieu returned. “Just a lowly caretaker.”

  “As am I, Mr. Mathieu.”

  How does he know my name? Henri wondered. The man’s French, he noted, was laced with a heavy German accent.

  “I believe the monks who once occupied this holy place left something here for me,” the visitor continued.

  “Six months ago?”

  “Has it been that long?” The man shook his head in mock surprise. “My travels have taken me elsewhere.”

  “Who are you, monsieur?”

  “My name is Hauptman, Erich Hauptman. But that’s not important now. What’s important is that you produce the manuscript that the monks left here in my name.”

  Mathieu felt a chill surge through him. The manuscript Hauptman spoke of could only be one thing. Mathieu knew little about it, other than the fact that the monks here had kept its existence secret even from the holy fathers of their order. Hence, upon being reassigned they could not take it with them and opted to leave it in place, accounting in large measure for Mathieu’s continued presence. He never asked what it was, simply accepted the charge of preserving and protecting it at all costs in return for the brothers of the abbey giving him back his life.

  “I know of no such manuscript,“ Mathieu lied.

  Hauptman frowned unhappily. “A pity.”

  “They must have taken it with them when they were called to the north.”

  Hauptman’s piercing blue eyes grew utterly cold. “The monk I spoke with yesterday said otherwise.”

  Mathieu could only stand there, silent.

  “The monk I spoke with yesterday told me the manuscript still lay within these walls. He mentioned you by name before I killed him.”

  Mathieu shuddered, felt his bowels loosen. “I am sorry, monsieur,” he said, wondering if he could get the heavy door slammed before Hauptman forced his way inside. “But I know of no such manuscript. The brothers never shared its existence with me.”

  Hauptman planted a large booted foot inside the doorjamb, as if reading Mathieu’s mind. “He did not know where it was hidden and, I suppose, I could search this place for weeks, months even, and never find it. Since I do not enjoy the luxury of time, I trust we can find a way to expedite matters.”

  Hauptman looked back over his shoulder at the black car and nodded. The rear door opened and another man, shorter and stout but clearly layered with heavy muscle, emerged dragging something behind him.

  Jacques!

  Mathieu s eight-year-old son trembled badly, clearly sniffling and sobbing. They must have taken him out of school, or been waiting when he emerged from the building.

  “No,“ Mathieu muttered.

  The short, heavily muscled man dragged Jacques halfway up the walk, then kicked the boy’s legs out from under him. Mathieu watched him pull some kind of club from his belt and raise it over his head.

  “NO!”

  The man crashed it down into Jacques’s right leg. The crack of the bone breaking was audible. The boy wailed in agony, writhing wildly on the ground. The short man raised the club a second time and sliced it down again.

  CRACK!

  Again Mathieu could hear the sound of his son’s leg being broken. Enraged, he rushed forward only to be swallowed in Hauptman’s powerful grasp.

  CRACK!

  And his son screamed once more.

  “A few more strikes and the boy will be a cripple for life, but at least he’ll live,” Hauptman said, quite calmly. “That will change if you do not produce the manuscript immediately, forcing us to move on to his other leg and then his arms.”

  CRACK!

  “I’ll get it for you! Just leave my son alone. Please, I beg you!”

  Hauptman nodded at the short man who stopped the next swing of his club in midflight. “You have five minutes,“ he told Mathieu.

  Mathieu needed only three to retrieve the case in which the manuscript was stored from inside the bricks layered onto a false chimney wall on the abbey’s third floor. He rushed back down to the entrance, his hands shaking as he handed the case breathlessly to Hauptman. He tried to look past the big man out to his son who was moaning in agony on the ground.”

  “You see,” Hauptman said, kneeling down to open the case, “that wasn’t so hard.”

  Mathieu yanked a pistol that had been tucked into the same hiding place as the manuscript from his jacket and shot Hauptman point blank. He aimed for the chest, but the gun’s powerful kick pulled the bullet high and to the right, into Hauptman’s shoulder. Still enough to punch him backward, clearing a path to the heavily muscled man beyond. Mathieu ran outside firing and kept firing until the gun was empty and the short man had sunk to his knees with blood rushing from his chest and belly, his own pistol clamoring to the stone walk.

  Mathieu scooped up his son, drawing a high-pitched shriek as he jostled the boy’s shattered leg, and rushed toward the forest that bordered the abbey’s property. He never looked back, even when shots erupted behind him. He expected to feel the hot, searing pain of a bullet piercing his back. Asked only that he be given the strength to get his son to safety before he died.

  Gunshots continued to echo, but Mathieu ran on. He reached the forest safely and took cover amidst the trees and thick brush that raked his face even as he sought to protect his son’s. He ran far into the woods and hid himself and his son deep in a thicket.

  Mathieu stayed hidden there until nightfall, keeping Jacques as warm as he could. Emerging only when the temperature grew too cold to bear, with a prayer on his lips.

  * * * *

  Chapter 60

  W

  hen we got back to the abbey,” Jacques Mathieu continued after a pause, “Erich Hauptman was gone. The muscled man too.”

  “What happened next?”

  “My father got me to a doctor. There wasn’t much he could do,” Mathieu said, looking at his stiff leg. “I remember the doctor recommending amputation and my father refusing to hear of it. After that, I remember very little. I know we spent a lot of time on the move, hiding out.” Now, at last, his eyes turned to the case Danielle had placed on the table before him. “All because of what lies in this box. Now tell me how you came to be in possession of it, mademoiselle.”

  Danielle told him the story, starting with the massacre that had brought her to the Palestinian village of Bureij; then the tale told by Victoria Henley.

  “Buchenwald,” Mathieu echoed, when she had completed that part. “Of all the places . . . And so Hauptman’s work was for nothing.” Another angry glance at his stiff leg. “This was for nothing.”

  “Hauptman paid for it with his life. Goebbels must have ordered the manuscript and everything else Hauptman had
uncovered hidden away . . . and everyone with knowledge of the manuscript’s existence killed.”

  “That’s small consolation at this point. You showed this manuscript to Hauptman’s son?”

  “Yes.”

  “And he believed it was authentic?”

  “I think he did. Klaus Hauptman claimed these final prophecies were uncharacteristically clear and unambiguous. Much different from the ones that comprised the thousand or so contained in The Centuries. The translations are all in this lockbox, along with the original manuscript your father gave to Hauptman to save you. The problem is Nostradamus never completed the last prophecy. The quatrain only contains three lines. The fourth, the line that lays out exactly what the United States is about to face, is missing.”