The Sixth Key

by Adriana Koulias

  Still incredulous, La Dame was tied with his hands behind him, back to back with Rahn and Deodat. They were made to sit down with their legs in front of them and then their feet were tied.

  The man with the gun perused the leather-bound book in his hands. ‘We are grateful to you for your wonderful work, Monsieur Rahn. We could not have done it better ourselves.’

  ‘What are you going to do with that manuscript?’ Deodat spat.

  ‘It will be safe with us,’ he said, his perfect, urbane English sounding strange in the present circumstances. He took a cigarette from his pocket and lit it, puffing on it until the end glowed.

  ‘Who are you and what do you want with it, anyway?’ Deodat said.

  ‘I suppose it will not hurt to explain a few things, since you have been of great assistance. Consider it your last sacrament.’ He exhaled a plume of smoke. ‘I suppose you’ve already guessed that there is going to be a war, it is inevitable – even desirable.’ He took a long drag on his cigarette, as if he could see the war in his mind’s eye and it was a pleasant image. ‘We English, I’m sure you know, Monsieur Roche, were always intended to be the leaders of this epoch. We have used the French before – your Masonic Lodge the Grand Orient, for instance, has always been in our pockets and we have used, and continue to use, the Germans. What was begun in the last war will continue with this new war, until we have achieved our aims. Try to view it, magistrate –’ he ashed his cigarette, ‘– as the triumph of Sherlock Holmes over Monsieur Lecoq!’ There was a curt smile. ‘The superior English have outdone the arrogant French and the German peasants!’

  ‘So,’ Deodat said, ‘the English Lodges were responsible for the last war?’

  The British were known to have a particular fondness for talking about their conquests and Rahn guessed that Deodat was playing for time, but time for what?

  He smiled. ‘Plans for the Great War were made in London,’ the man continued, ‘and filtered into western Europe, where they were relayed to the Balkans and through them to Russia. Your history books won’t tell you, magistrate, that Archduke Franz Ferdinand and his wife Sophia were assassinated by men paid by Russians, working for Englishmen.’

  ‘The Serbians who shot Franz Ferdinand were working for you?’ Deodat said.

  ‘Yes, but they didn’t know it, of course; the Black Hand always thought themselves quite independent – if only they knew who was behind them! Do you know that their catchcry is “Viva Angelina”? Angelina is, of course, a Serbian saint.’ The man smiled, looking like a schoolteacher instructing his favourite students.

  ‘Viva Angelina!’ Rahn said. ‘Gélis was killed by Serbians?’

  The man shrugged. ‘It was necessary. You see, Saunière was making friends with the Habsburgs . . . we couldn’t allow that, it was a warning to him.’

  ‘But I thought Viva Angelina was the call of AA?’

  ‘Yes, but AA and the Black Hand are associated, as are other Serbian secretive organisations like Omladina and Narodna Odbrana. Many of their members are staunchly Catholic and happily belong to AA. Their common desire, in those days, was to rid themselves of the Austro-Hungarian Empire.’

  ‘But the two Serbians who tried to kill us today acted as though they despised AA.’

  ‘Of course! Those underlings know nothing of the intricate nature of these associations.’

  ‘But I thought England was at odds with Russia?’ Deodat kept him talking while Rahn tried to reach for his penknife but realised he didn’t have it!

  ‘Of course we are at odds with them, but if a British commercial empire is to be founded, there has to be an opposite pole of consumers – and the Russians do so hate commerce. We leveraged off the animosity that has always existed between Austrians and Serbs and that’s how the assassination came about – it had to look like a Serbian assault on the Austrian Empire. Austria then demanded that the assassins were handed over, Serbia refused and Austria-Hungary invaded Serbia. This now meant that Serbia had to ask Russia for help since they were allies, and in turn, France, having a treaty with Russia, was pulled in; on the other side of things Austria had to call on Germany, and Germany declared war on France and Russia and invaded Belgium, which brought us into the war, of course. We had a moral obligation to help Belgium, and also France. As Sherlock Holmes would say, elementary! You see, in the end, the fall of the Hapsburgs and Germany, as a central power, the curbing of Russia in her desire to expand towards India, and the reconfiguration of the Balkan states to give Russia her winter ports as consolation, was essential for the splitting up of Europe into two distinct regions – east and west. The commercial and industrial monarchy that we are wishing to establish meant we needed to get rid of the middle.

  However, things did not go so smoothly, there were complications. Groups began sprouting up all over Europe: there was the revolution in Russia and the rise of the Bolsheviks; the Fascist movement in our own country; as well as an intrusion from the annoying American Freemasons who wanted to get what they could from the spoils. In the end the true aim was not reached, you see? Too many cooks stirring the pot! So a decision was made to make the best of a bad situation and that is how the Treaty of Versailles came into existence – as the seedbed of another war. The stab in the back was a good slogan, it stuck, and when it was combined with the Communist threat, inflation and unemployment . . . well, it was simple, really. The ordinary people are always led by the nose, all they need is a charismatic leader,’ he said. ‘The Germans, for instance, will follow Hitler into a bloodbath, while they sing a chorus of: “Deutschland erwache!”’

  Rahn was fuming. ‘You bastards!’ he said.

  ‘Your people, old chap, will welcome the destruction of their precious Germany rather than see it conquered. And when it is fully destroyed, we’ll step in, of course, and with the help of the Americans, the Russians and the French, we’ll change all the borders of Europe, once and for all!’

  There was the strong smell of gasoline now, and Rahn assumed the men upstairs were preparing their cremation.

  ‘So, you are saying Hitler is your man?’ Deodat said, completely oblivious to everything around him.

  ‘Hitler is an experiment, that’s all.’

  ‘And you think you can control him? He might turn on you, what then?’ Deodat said.

  ‘We have Himmler – and Hess – up our sleeves . . .’

  ‘What?’ Rahn exclaimed.

  ‘Oh yes, Monsieur Rahn, the man you are working for wants the top job for himself, but of course we will doublecross him and Hess before the end.’

  ‘But you haven’t answered my question. How can you be certain you can control Hitler?’ Deodat said.

  ‘That is why we need the key found in this book, and why it is so important that it fall into our hands. We wouldn’t want it to end up in the hands of the Nazis, or the different French Nationalist groups, or the Russians, or even the Jesuits! You see, Hitler and the Vatican are well connected. Why else do you think the present pope never speaks out against Hitler’s crimes against the Jews and the disabled and mentally ill? They do not count in their mutual plans. Look at Goebbels – he was brought up in a Jesuit college, not to mention the fact that Himmler’s father was a director of a Catholic school in Munich and his brother was a Benedictine monk!’ he said, pleased with himself. ‘All the popes since Honorius have known about Le Serpent Rouge and all of them have been after the key that completes it . . . And they still are, as you know. You see, when Pope Honorius made his pact with the Devil, he soiled the papal chair with excrement forever!’ He laughed.

  One of the burly men came down now and told the Englishman that ‘it was ready’ and to make sure that he extinguished his cigarette before he came upstairs. The Englishman paused. ‘This, I’m afraid, is the end of our occult history lesson – something to take to Hell with you. You really should not have jumped out of the frying pan and into the fire!’ He laughed, threw his cigarette on the floor and climbed the steps out of the wine cellar without lookin
g back.

  ‘What about my position at Oxford?’ La Dame shouted after him.

  ‘What job at Oxford?’ Rahn said.

  ‘Never mind, Rahn!’ Deodat shouted. ‘Use your penknife to cut the ropes!’

  ‘Eva left with it,’ Rahn answered.

  ‘What?’ La Dame said.

  ‘Afraid so.’

  ‘That beautiful Irene Adler will be the cause of our demise,’ La Dame said.

  ‘Well, perhaps if we bring our feet underneath us,’ Deodat said to Rahn and La Dame, ‘we can push on each other to get to our knees.’

  They tried but this was impossible and they toppled, righting themselves again with great effort.

  Rahn thought of something. ‘Look, we can inch along on our backsides but we have to do it together, at the same time.’

  Rahn pulled while Deodat and La Dame pushed. Rahn imagined they must look like a large octopus scurrying over dry land.

  They could smell smoke.

  ‘They’re going to burn us!’ La Dame cried. ‘This is all your fault, Rahn – if you hadn’t written that damned book we wouldn’t be here!’

  ‘What? Me? You’re going to blame this on me?’

  ‘You’re at the centre of everything!’

  ‘Don’t you point the finger! We wouldn’t be in this mess if it weren’t for you, you traitor! How long have you been setting me up? Was it from before the manuscript of Don Quixote? Before the Pabst film set? Before our potholing . . . ?’

  ‘Good heavens no, Rahn!’ La Dame said, out of breath, behind him. They had almost reached the steps. ‘It was while you were in Germany.’

  ‘What was?’

  ‘I was invited to a party put on by George Darmois, from the faculty of science.’

  ‘Quite an honour,’ Rahn said, sarcastically.

  ‘Oh yes! Turns out he is a Freemason and he said he liked my paper on the demise of the Templars and the theory of probability,’ La Dame said, coughing. ‘One thing led to another and I was being made an offer I couldn’t resist. And you know what that’s like, Rahn.’

  Rahn strained to breathe – the acrid smoke coming from the fire above them made his lungs shrink to half their size. ‘What was that?’

  ‘They told me if I helped them get whatever it was you found, they would give me a job at Oxford University.’

  ‘Now I know why I never liked you, La Dame,’ Deodat said, between gasps.

  ‘Leave off, Deodat, it’s not so simple as you think,’ La Dame gave back. ‘If I didn’t agree to their conditions they were going to kill both of you as soon as you found what they wanted. And, as they had now exposed their plans to me, if I refused, they were going to kill me first – leaving no one to warn you! I was doomed no matter what, you see?’

  A small part of Rahn had to admit he knew what it was like to be in such a position, but he was too angry to acknowledge it and, besides, there were other things to think about now because the fire had taken a hold of the house. They could hear it crackling and embers were floating down into the wine cellar. It was getting louder and hotter.

  ‘The trouble is, you were always so damned interesting!’ La Dame shouted. ‘The adventurous Otto Rahn – the great Don Quixote!’ He coughed. ‘Author! Archaeologist! Historian!’ He took in a strangled breath. ‘I was boring old Sancho Panza, professor of Scientific Methodology, for God’s sake! A man with only a little imagination and a small talent to match. And though I’ve always been dashingly good-looking, I’m also boringly dependable, and terribly uninteresting. Here I was finally given a chance to be a leading character and I took it.’

  ‘And the picture’s a flop – everybody dies!’ Rahn said. ‘You could have confided in me at least.’

  ‘I was scared . . . I was confused. Think about it, Rahn, I could have just gone back to Geneva and let them kill you, but I didn’t. Don’t forget, they killed that man in my room to show me they meant business.’

  ‘So it wasn’t a case of mistaken identity?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Liar!’

  ‘For God’s sake, don’t be like that, Rahn!’

  ‘Will the two of you shut up!’ Deodat said, at the peak of irritation. ‘Rahn, try to leverage off the step to stand up.’

  Rahn tried to get onto his knees by bringing his tied feet under him and leaning his side on the step, but he was fettered by their collective weight working as an opposing force. It was no use. Rahn could hardly see now for the smoke and he was completely exhausted; the events of the last days had caught up with him.

  He gave up, defeated. ‘What about all that talk about liking your boring life?’

  ‘It was all rubbish. I hate my life!’ La Dame coughed. ‘Dull routine. Endless days. But this . . . I could have done without this . . . Come on, Rahn, let’s not die with this coming between us.’

  Rahn’s eyes were watering. ‘You mean, like the gun you were pointing at my head?’

  ‘It wasn’t even loaded! I didn’t know they were waiting—’

  ‘You didn’t theorise that it might be in the realm of probability?’

  The house upstairs erupted in a conflagration. They tried one last time to squirm out of the ropes but they were too tight and the knot would have made a sailor proud. There was nothing sharp they could try to cut the rope with. They were trapped.

  ‘I don’t want to die with this on my conscience, Rahn,’ La Dame said, emphatic for a dying man. ‘Say you forgive me!’

  Rahn’s lungs were burning from irritation, his lips were dry and he was sweating. ‘For God’s sake, La Dame!’

  ‘Say it!’

  ‘Alright! I forgive you!’

  Deodat said, wheezing, ‘It’s over!’

  Rahn knew it was true. He held his breath and closed his eyes. He saw himself in a cemetery, pointing to a gravestone on which stood the Leoncetophaline of the Countess P’s pendulum clock. He sank then, for the third time in so many days, into a black mine, into a womb of darkness, into that tomb . . . He was going to die – perhaps he was already dead? But something made his eyes open briefly. There was a figure in the smoke and flames. It was coming towards him. He heard the sound of a bee . . . but it wasn’t a bee at all. It was Esclarmonde de Foix! She had returned from the land of Prester John! Her hair flowed white about her face, she wore a crown of stars, and in her belly there was an effulgence like the sun. She stood on a crescent moon, whose body crushed a great red dragon with seven heads. She would take him out of this momentary terror and together . . .

  ‘You certainly make it hard for me to keep you out of trouble, Otto Rahn!’ she said.

  THE ISLAND OF THE DEAD

  46

  An End Without an End

  ‘In the deepest slumber – no! In delirium – no! In a swoon – no! In death – no! Even in the grave, all is not lost.’ Edgar Allan Poe, ‘The Pit and the Pendulum’

  Venice, 2012

  There was a knock on the door. I looked at my watch – twenty to midnight. A voice came from the other side. It was the Irish monk. I was to get dressed and to go to the library.

  I found the Writer of Letters waiting for me with a coat and scarf in his hands.

  ‘You’ll need these; come, I have something to show you.’

  He led me out into the fog-laden cemetery by the light of a lamp, without so much as an apology for the late hour. I asked him what we were doing and he was effusive in his reply.

  ‘It’s time to solve the puzzle,’ he said. ‘I hope you’re up to it?’

  I wasn’t about to have him think otherwise. ‘Of course.’

  It was deathly cold. I blew into my hands to warm them. There were no sounds except for the hooting of an owl in a nearby tree and the gentle lapping of the lagoon. My drowsiness had by now completely deserted me and I kept a sharp eye out in case this man was planning to kill me – as a macabre solution to the puzzle of death that I had come here to solve. I didn’t want to die but I knew that if I were to despoil the Writer of Letters of his dramatic e
nd I would equally despoil myself of the final conclusion, the master work.

  ‘This is all very dramatic,’ I managed to say without sounding too nervous.

  ‘Dramatic? Yes, metatheatre is dramatic,’ was his cold reply. ‘But you have always tried to keep reality at bay, isn’t that so? Living your life as if it were a work of fiction. No, my desire is not to create drama but to unveil your life. Now, where did we leave Rahn last night?’

  ‘He was dying in the fire and dreaming he was in a cemetery . . .’ I looked at him, and it occurred to me – the Leoncetophaline! ‘Surely you’re not about to tell me he was dreaming of this cemetery, are you?’ I asked him, unable to prevent a chuckle at this new absurdity.

  ‘I don’t know, was he? Why don’t you tell me how the story ends?’

  ‘Me?’ I said, surprised.

  ‘Yes; just write the end. If there is anyone capable of judging your abilities it’s me. Perhaps this is the test you spoke of? Could you see yourself replacing me on this island, in this library of galleries?’

  I looked at him. He wasn’t joking. I realised I was being cheated of my ending. Perhaps that had been his intention all along, to drag me like a laboratory mouse, through his labyrinthine galleries, only to deny me my hard-earned cheese at the end.

  ‘Think of it as an exercise in reasoning,’ he said. ‘What is the most likely thing to happen next?’

  I was so annoyed I could say nothing in reply.

  He paused and lifted the lamp to look at my face. I returned the look with a wild stare. I was angry, resentful.

  ‘You’re upset. You thought I was going to make it easy for you, didn’t you? Every story gets the end it deserves, don’t you agree? Now, what is the end this one deserves?’

  ‘I have no idea!’

  ‘Perhaps it would help you to see another gallery, then? I can tell it to you as we walk. It is the gallery called Penitence.’