The Sixth Key

by Adriana Koulias

  Crowley pointed at the old man and Grassaud began to choke, or so it seemed, from whatever power Crowley had called forth to assail him.

  In the middle of the fracas, the madame cried out, ‘Amor Satanas nos coniungat, sua potencia nos dirigat, sua misericordia nos coniunctos misericorditer nos custodiat!’ She made a sign on her forehead with her bloodied finger and, ignoring the chaos around her, lifted her right hand and seemed about to trace the sign in the air when there was a sudden collective wheeze. All argument paused. The crowd drew back and Madame Dénarnaud was left with her arm in mid-air, breathless, dishevelled and once more deprived of her moment. ‘What now?’ she said.

  The agent of this second interruption walked into the circle surrounded by men at arms. The man was small. He wore a crumpled suit and an old Panama hat. Rahn couldn’t see his face but he would have recognised that hat anywhere. It was Professor Moriarty, or rather, the fake Inspecteur Beliere! There was a murmuring of voices. Uncertainty reigned and people moved away.

  The moment Crowley realised who it was, he picked up his skirts and melted into the receding crowd. Madame Dénarnaud was now alone, with only the whimpering Grassaud at her feet for company.

  ‘Did you think you could get away with this?’ came the man’s unmistakeable voice.

  Madame Dénarnaud was suddenly at a loss for words. She was an old woman again and not a priestess of Sorat.

  ‘This is not authorised,’ he said, as if he were chastising a foolish child. ‘All of you!’ He looked about. ‘You should be ashamed! You are all here illegally!’

  Taking a hold of herself and harnessing her melodramatic powers, Dénarnaud shouted, ‘I do not need your authority and I care nothing for legalities!’

  The man ignored her histrionics. He lit a cigarette, shook the match out and threw it into the pentagram. ‘This place is surrounded and I demand that you give me the book!’

  ‘No! You will never take it from me!’ She snatched the blue book away from the fire then, and held it to her bosom.

  ‘I won’t ask again!’ the fake Inspecteur Beliere warned.

  ‘Why should I give it to you?’

  ‘Because you are not authorised to have it.’

  ‘Who says so?’

  ‘I say so.’

  ‘And who are you? I don’t recognise you!’

  He aimed the gun up at her head. ‘Your recognition makes no difference to me.’

  She smiled, and lifted the book imperiously over the fire. ‘Perhaps this will make a difference to you!’

  The fake Beliere stepped into the circle of protection and wiped the line that marked the pentagram with one shoe, rendering it powerless. ‘You will die,’ he said.

  Her face was all rancour and her hand moved the book over the fire. ‘I don’t need this any more. I have the sign – it’s in my head! The key to commanding Sorat, the greatest and most powerful demon the world has ever seen, is mine! If you kill me, I will die knowing it and you will have nothing!’

  ‘You are being foolish – do you know who I am?’

  ‘I don’t care who you are!’

  ‘Have you heard of the Black Lodge – the invisibles?’

  There was a shiver of whispers.

  She faltered, but only for a moment. ‘This is an unpleasant fiction created by men to amuse themselves.’

  ‘It is a reality,’ he said flatly.

  ‘Then if it does exist, I believe the Black Lodge will welcome this convocation.’

  Rahn could see her hesitate. Despite her defiance she was erring on the side of caution.

  The fake inspector casually smoked his cigarette, his gun pointing at her head. ‘You are not only an impetuous woman, but also a misinformed one. Satan is not expected until seventy-four years from now.’ His voice was conciliatory, paternal. ‘The arrival of the vessel of Sorat will announce the dawn of a new age – a New Jerusalem. Time will begin again and it will be measured by His coming as a turning point. His time will be announced by cataclysms, earthquakes, hurricanes, volcanic eruptions and social unrest, because he will rise up from the centre of the Earth, on His own behalf, and not at the behest of an old woman!’

  ‘No!’ She held her chin up. ‘Hitler is destined to be the embodiment of Sorat!’

  ‘Hitler is not the Dark Messiah. He is only the tool of Lucifer. The full power of Sorat would kill him!’

  She frowned, but her resolve had weakened. She looked to be standing on uneven ground.

  ‘Only an incarnation of Satan could bear the full power of the dark sun’s maleficence and he will not come until the year 2012! Now hand me the book, if you don’t mind!’

  ‘What will you do with it?’

  ‘It is ours for safekeeping.’

  ‘And I?’

  ‘You will be bound to that little hovel at Rennes-le-Château,’ he said. ‘As punishment.’

  Her hand moved, unbidden, away from the fire. She looked down at it in horror. She was being manipulated against her will. ‘No!’ she cried.

  Rahn could not let them have the book, but what could he do? At that moment fate decided that question because the Countess P’s clock struck twelve. The noise of it broke into the silence like a horn blast. Its chime echoed from the stony walls and cowled heads turned this way and that to look for its source. Rahn did the only thing he could do then, being the inept hero that he was. He stood and threw the clock as hard as he could, aiming it at the madame. It hit her and the shock caused her to drop the book, and once again it landed close to the great fire.

  The fake inspector leapt forward to grab it. At the same time the old woman let go an ungodly scream and lunged with an unexpected fierceness, colliding with him and causing him to lose his balance so that he fell backwards into the flames. He caught alight immediately. He dropped the book into the blaze as he tried to get up, yelling and screaming and flapping his flaming arms in a directionless, terrified panic of anguish and pain, before falling again. His men at arms rushed to him, trying to pull him from the flames, but it was too late. There arose a cacophony of disapprobation and surprise and finally of terror and of disgust, and the gathering dissolved in all directions.

  Rahn saw Eva get up but he hesitated, drawn by the horror of the spectacle. She nudged him with her shoe, breaking the spell, and in a moment he was following her through the passage, running, stumbling, falling, ascending, turning and ascending again. It seemed like an eternity before they reached the grilled door, out of breath and weary. Behind them, they heard the growls of the rabid dogs drawing nearer. There was no time to pause. Rahn followed Eva out of the grotto of Mary Magdalene and closed the gate. Eva stumbled and nearly fell but he caught her by the arm. There was a flash of lightning and the rumble of thunder as they clambered through the turmoil of leaves and dirt and branches that the wind had whipped up. He felt like a child again, running with lightning through the forests near his home. But once more, he didn’t sense the sovereign protection of Michael the dragon slayer, the feeling that good always triumphs over evil, and he wondered, as he ran with his heart in his throat, how he had ever imagined that Hell could lead to Heaven.

  ‘They’re coming!’ Eva said, beside him.

  The dogs of the Underworld were not far behind; they would soon be at their heels.

  ‘Don’t look back!’ Rahn shouted.

  When they got to the Peugeot it was locked and it took a precious moment for Deodat to recognise their panic and to open the door. Rahn threw Eva in first, following her into the back seat and closing the door seconds before the hounds were at the car. Rahn climbed into the front seat and turned the ignition with a trembling hand. It wouldn’t start. He tried again. Black figures were moving in the night towards them. The dogs threw themselves against the car with such fury that he heard the dinting of metal. He tried again and the car grumbled to life.

  He backed out of the hiding spot and skidded off onto the narrow road, leaving behind the pursuing hounds and whatever else might be chasing them. Almost on cu
e, icy rain poured down in great sheets, lightning flashed again and thunder rumbled, as if Hell had broken loose.

  50

  Two Places at Once?

  ‘It is a secret about a secret that is based on a secret.’

  Imam Ja’far Sadiq Henri Corbin, Historia de la Filosofia Siglo

  They arrived at the village of Rennes-les-Bains and, following Deodat’s directions, they crossed the rain-slashed street and made their way over the footbridge that spanned the River Sals. Beneath them the river rushed, swollen and tortured. Deodat led them to a house near Place des Deux owned by an old and trusted friend.

  Gaspar welcomed them without fanfare or question. He was a tall, thick-set man of about fifty, a veteran of the last war, and Rahn immediately felt safe in his company. Once inside, in the light, Gaspar took in their appearance but he didn’t look particularly perturbed. He was obviously not the sort of man for effusive gestures. He said, ‘I guess you’ll be wanting a coffee?’

  Rahn was shown to the bathroom and stood at the mirror staring at his unrecognisable reflection: his bloodshot eyes looked out from red-rimmed sockets; under the left one a gash had crusted over; above the right eye there was a sizeable bruise; he touched his swollen split lip and winced. He removed his fedora. Under it, his hair was filthy, in fact all his clothes were soiled beyond recognition. He filled the dirty sink with water and took the half-used cake of soap in his hands and began to wash.

  He dressed in some spare clothes that Gaspar had given him and looked at himself in the mirror again. The shirt and jacket were too big and emphasised the lean, hungry look he’d developed these last days. But there was more to it. He felt like he had passed through some terrible illness that had left him inexorably changed, both physically and mentally. With those events at the hermitage locked behind his eyes, he went to the small room at the back of the house where Deodat lay. He tried to put on a brave face but Deodat looked terrible.

  He found a seat near the bed. ‘I’m sorry about all this, Deodat.’

  ‘Don’t speak nonsense! I’ve had the time of my life,’ he said. A coughing fit took hold of him and it was a time before he could speak again. ‘Tell me everything.’

  ‘It was the fake Beliere!’ Rahn said. ‘As it turns out, he was Professor Moriarty, after a fashion – the organiser of half that is evil and nearly all that is undetected.’

  ‘I see,’ Deodat said, frowning.

  Rahn recounted the events from the time he left the car to his return.

  ‘So, Madame Dénarnaud was there, at the centre of it all, a popess, what nonsense! And Grassaud belongs to AGLA – the Catholic Mafia?’ Deodat marvelled. ‘And you say there was a battle of wills between them? My Lord, she drank blood!’

  ‘I think it was the blood of that Englishman who tried to burn us at the Maison de Cros. But before she could make the sign of Sorat, Professor Moriarty came in and everyone scattered. He works for the Black Lodge – this sounds like the Cénacle you mentioned.’

  Deodat sat up excitedly. ‘The invisibles? Yes!’

  ‘Oh! You were right, Deodat, it is a nest of vipers!’

  ‘Fascinating!’ he exclaimed. He was weak but it didn’t prevent him from enjoying the moment. ‘So, the madame took it upon herself to make Hitler the vessel for the demon of the sun! But you say the vessel is yet to come?’

  ‘Yes, the year 2012 apparently, according to Professor Moriarty . . . He said it was going to be the turning point in time.’

  ‘Diabolically ingenious!’

  ‘But as we heard, before that they will need a reordered Europe, which they expect this coming war will create.’

  ‘Yes. Don’t let this buffoonery fool you, Rahn, there is real danger still looming ahead. The Countess P’s clock may have saved the day, but Madame Dénarnaud still has the sign, even if it is only in her head. Did you see it, Rahn?’

  ‘No, the old woman never made it. But there’s something else bothering me now. Earlier when you said something about chess and being in two places at once, what did you mean?’

  Deodat nodded, frowning. ‘Yes, it is this: I think that perhaps old Cros has had the last laugh, after all. At least I’d like to think so.’

  Rahn creased his brow. ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘Oh, it’s just an old man’s hope that—’ But another bout of coughing prevented him from finishing. When he got his breath back he looked at Rahn with eyes that were losing their hold on consciousness. ‘I’m afraid I’m going to need a few days in bed, then I will be as good as new.’ He smiled weakly. ‘Don’t worry. I’ll be safe with Gaspar. I’ll lay low for a while. I am a magistrate, after all.’ His words were slurring. ‘There’s not much they can do to me without raising a few eyebrows. At any rate, I didn’t see anything and there is no longer any evidence, is there? Everything is burnt. It’s all gone! All gone. The orders would have covered their tracks, you can be certain of it.’ He faltered. ‘I guess there is nothing left for the police. The old maison was empty – arson – who knows who did it? Listen, Rahn. Come close.’

  Rahn leant in.

  ‘Just remember what I said.’ He closed his eyes. ‘One can’t be in two places at the same time . . . Two places, Rahn. Go to Eva . . .’ And like that, mid-sentence, he fell asleep.

  Rahn found Eva in the kitchen, sipping a coffee. She was the most beautiful woman he had ever known, or perhaps the most cunning at making herself seem so – he couldn’t tell.

  ‘So, how is he?’ she said.

  ‘He’ll be alright, I think.’ He sat down opposite.

  ‘And you? Are you alright?’

  ‘I don’t know how I feel,’ Rahn said truthfully. ‘At least it wasn’t all for nothing, I suppose. We did prevent the Lodges from getting the Apocalypse. My only regret is in losing the treasure of the Cathars. Perhaps I was never destined to see it. Madame Dénarnaud is now the only one who has seen the key, the sign of Sorat. She said it was in the shape of a two-horned beast.’

  ‘Yes, it is, but not the way you think.’ She set down her cup to look at him.

  He blinked. ‘How do you know?’

  She smiled a little. ‘Some years ago a scientist, a woman actually, discovered that men are born with something women don’t have, they call it the Y chromosome. One day scientists will know how to distort this chromosome. They will add something to it, so that it resembles the sign of Sorat.’

  ‘What? I don’t understand.’

  ‘This is how it will look.’ She drew the sign on Gaston’s dusty kitchen tabletop.

  ‘The addition of the barb at the bottom of the Y will bring about a race of men who will be carriers of evil – vessels for the forces of six-six-six. You see, it isn’t God who is found in the details, it is Satan.’

  Rahn sat back a little numbly. He remembered Himmler’s words in the crypt at Wewelsburg, about a program for children – Lebensborn, he had called it.

  ‘In the future,’ Eva continued, ‘it will be a gift of grace to be born a woman, because a woman does not carry that chromosome and cannot be manipulated in this way to become a vessel of evil. These are the truths of the future that will begin with the year 2012. By then you will return again.’

  ‘Return?’

  Her deep eyes met his. At this point it may have been fatigue or that knock on the head, or those things she had said, but before his gaze her face seemed to change: one moment she was the evening star, the next she was Demeter, the mother of nature; she was the lady who stole into the heart of every troubadour; the ideal woman; the good, beautiful and true in the soul of every poet. She was Dante’s Beatrice, Petrarch’s Laura, Louise Brooks and Irene Adler. All women in one! When her face paused in its transformations, he realised with a sense of wonder and awe that he was gazing at a countenance he had seen only in his dreams. He may not be wise but something told him that he had been in the company of Wisdom all along.

  Her gaze shifted to her coffee and the world returned to what it had been.

  ‘Who
are you?’ he said to her.

  Her eyes fell on his again, brown and liquid and tranquil. ‘Who do you think I am?’

  ‘Like everything else in this strange script, the writer has certainly created an enigma in your character, Mademoiselle Fleury.’

  There was the slightest trace of a smile. ‘You can call me the guardian of the Cathar treasure, if you like. I think Poussin managed a very good classical likeness of me.’ She stood to go. ‘One day, when you have time, you must go to Venice and when you get there, don’t forget to look for the Leoncetophaline.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You’ll find it in the cemetery Island of the Dead, the island of San Michele. You see, Deodat was right – a man can’t be in two places at once.’ She walked to the door.

  ‘Mademoiselle! Surely you’re not going to leave without an explanation?’

  She turned around. ‘Since the beginning of time initiates have known about seven mysteries, seven keys.’

  ‘Seven keys?’

  ‘Yes, the key in the Apocalypse of Saint John, the sign of Sorat, was the Sixth Key. It was the key to the bottomless pit held in the hand of the angel in the Apocalypse.’

  This struck Rahn. He recalled the poster of Dürer’s woodcut in Pierre Plantard’s apartment.

  ‘The Seventh Key,’ she continued, ‘is, in fact, the most important of all, Otto. Cros knew he had to guard it with his life. To find it you will have to go to Venice. Don’t worry, I will see you there.’

  He had a last impression of that beautiful, haunted face, those fathomless eyes, and the calm mouth and then, she was gone.