by Pieter Aspe
“Coke bottle bottoms,” said Judith, more than once.
Both men were wearing dark gray suits, white shirts, sky-blue ties, and black shoes.
“Mephistos,” Judith insisted. “And one of them stopped to put drops in his eyes. Obviously some kind of medication.” There was something sickly about him, now that she thought about it.
His older companion was the double of Einstein; another point on which they agreed completely. He must have been seventy at least, and he walked with a stoop. He couldn’t have been more than five foot six, and he had heavy bags under his watery Bambi eyes.
“Spent a lot of time outdoors,” she said. “My God, the perfect tan!”
The jenever bottle was close to empty when they parted company. The Cornuits were over the moon when Van In suggested that they extend their vacation for a couple of days. City hall would cover it. It would give him time to send a forensic artist to do a facial composite and it would give them an extra day to compensate for the inconvenience.
“City hall will cover it, eh?” Versavel sneered once they were outside. “I can see De Kee’s face right now.”
Van In shrugged his shoulders indifferently.
“The file has to be complete. Otherwise they’ll think we didn’t make the effort.”
“Would Miss Martens dare give our Van In a rap on the knuckles?”
Versavel jumped aside just in time to avoid a sharp elbow to the ribs.
“Go see what Dupon has to say, and the two neighbors who heard the explosion. I want their statements on my desk by tomorrow morning, Versavel,” Van In hissed. “Time for me to continue my investigations in l’Estaminet.”
“At your command, Commissioner.”
“Go soak your head, Versavel.”
“You took the words right out of my mouth! See you tomorrow,” Versavel waved.
“Eight A.M., on the button.”
“We’ll see,” Versavel laughed. “Good luck with your investigation.”
He took to his heels, turning right past the Fish Market, and disappeared into a horde of tourists worming their way along the narrow Blinde Ezel Street.
To compensate for the Duvels and the Bokma, Van In ordered a spaghetti Bolognese and settled down to eat it outside Brasserie l’Estaminet on the edge of Astrid Park. There wasn’t a barfly in Bruges who hadn’t savored the spaghetti at l’Estaminet.
Just as Van In was emptying his bowl, a canary-yellow Audi careered out of Minderbroeder Street onto Astrid Park. Leo Vanmaele was five minutes early for his appointment, and that wasn’t typical of the man.
“Hoy.”
Vanmaele looked for all the world like a blushing leprechaun: spherical upper body on a pair of short sturdy legs.
“Duvel?” asked Van In. He had two fingers at the ready in the form of a V. The bartender knew what it meant.
“Finally,” Leo sighed. “I’ve lost the feeling in my legs.”
“So your efforts weren’t in vain?” Van In inquired, hoping for a positive response.
Vanmaele picked his nose unashamedly.
“The comedians hardly left a single trace,” he said apologetically. “No prints, no hair, no splinter of fingernail. I had two of my team go through the place with a fine-tooth comb. The most relevant discovery was a jar of Vaseline in an adjoining room.”
“Adjoining room?”
“Didn’t you check it out?”
Van In shook his head.
“A fancy lounge opposite the workshop,” Leo grinned.
“Ah, that explains it,” Van In whispered. “Now I understand what the after-hours ‘clients’ are all about. We should look into it.”
“A jealous former lover in his seventies with his grandson along for the ride?” Vanmaele laughed.
“You’re right, Leo. Let me have the rest of your report.”
“Experts from the NIC are looking at the detonator, or what’s left of it. But I’m afraid the source of the Semtex can’t be traced. They smuggle the stuff in containers from Northern Ireland via Zeebrugge. Anyone with half a connection in the criminal world can get ahold of it. And without any idea of the number plates, a Mercedes station wagon is about as easy to trace as an in-focus photo of his majesty the king.”
The foolish comparison brought a smile to Van In’s face. “Don’t tell me you brought me here for a Duvel session,” he said reproachfully.
Vanmaele wiped the foam from his lips and vehemently shook his head. “I wanted to talk about that note with the Latin on it. A friend suspects it might have to do with one or other esoteric society: the Rosicrucians, for instance, or the Freemasons. Something of the sort.”
“Did your friend have any idea what it meant?”
“Negative,” said Vanmaele. “But he knows someone who should.”
“Who?” asked Van In impatiently.
“The concierge at the Holy Blood Basilica.”
Van In stared at Vanmaele in disbelief. “The concierge at the Holy Blood Basilica,” he repeated vacantly.
“The very one,” Leo nodded. “According to my friend, the man’s knowledge of magic, alchemy, and all that secret stuff is close to encyclopedic.”
“Speaking of alchemy,” Van In muttered. “Wasn’t that all about turning lead into gold?”
“Something like that,” said Leo, sticking two fingers in the air. “I’ve arranged to meet him. He’s expecting us at seven. His name’s Billen. Sounded enthusiastic over the phone.”
They settled the bill at ten to seven. The terrace was pretty full by that time. The bartender turned up the blues music a little louder.
Van In and Leo turned right and ambled toward Burg Square via Jozef Suvee Street and the Fish Market.
The southwest corner of Burg Square in Bruges houses an extraordinary shrine, a two-chapel basilica in which a relic of the blood of Christ has been preserved since the beginning of the thirteenth century. The Holy Blood Basilica welcomes no fewer than two million tourists a year. Few people are aware, however, that a nineteenth-century mansion is located at the back of the basilica, concealed behind its lofty walls. The door that gives access to the mansion is underneath the entrance to the basilica, a monumental staircase known as the “Steeghere” that leads to the upper chapel.
It took a while before anyone responded to the old-fashioned doorbell. Van In was about to tug the bell a second time when they heard sound of shuffling feet. The heavy door dragged against the floor and the young man had difficulty getting it open. He was wearing shorts and a bright multicolored T-shirt.
“Good evening, we’re from the police. Is your father at home?” asked Van In. Leo noticed the young man’s extremely curt smile.
“Frans Billen,” he said, clearly amused. “Please, come in.”
Concierges don’t look the same as they used to, Leo thought to himself as they went inside. They followed Billen along a bare vaulted corridor, turned left and made their way up a flight of stairs to a second corridor.
“A bit of a maze,” Van In observed lightheartedly.
“Yeh, that’s what everyone says first time,” said Billen, his tone suggesting that no one ever came back for a second time. He opened one of the many doors and switched on the light.
The room was spacious and tastefully furnished. The amply proportioned mouse-gray leather lounge suite must have cost an average sixth-month salary. The walls were covered with sandy-yellow textured wallpaper, in perfect harmony with an impressive antique cabinet. But the room was dominated by an enormous bookcase. An old framed poster of the Holy Blood Procession hung above the fireplace, and a flourishing variety of indoor plants graced an assortment of side tables.
“Make yourselves at home, gentlemen, while I open a bottle of wine,” said Billen invitingly as he disappeared into the corridor. The same sound of shuffling feet as before.
“Oddball,” said Van In when they were alone. “Isn’t this kind of luxury a bit too fancy for a concierge?”
“Not a bit.” Leo caressed the sleek leath
er sofa. “Concierges are in great demand in the States. Officially they’re paid almost nothing, but if they’re in the right place and they use their brains they can earn a fortune in tips. If you ask me, Billen knew what he was doing when he took on the job.”
“Maybe you’re right,” Van In sighed. “Only fools work for the police … apparently.”
Leo jealously inspected the contents of the bookcase.
“They say you can get to know people by the books they read, but here it’s hard to know where to start. He seems to be interested in everything.”
The sound of glasses clinking outside in the corridor betrayed their host’s imminent return. Van In and Leo quickly settled on the sofa. Sparrows, blackbirds, and thrushes chirped in the garden outside. The sun’s oblique rays gave the room a golden glow and a unique ambiance.
“So, here we are,” said Billen.
He placed three slender wine glasses on the marble coffee table and nimbly uncorked a dusty bottle of burgundy. Leo was able to identify the wine from the shape of the bottle. Van In, who was a little closer, spotted the vintage: 1986.
Billen filled the glasses, sloshing the scarlet burgundy as he poured to give it the necessary oxygen.
“I presume I can tempt you to a glass of wine?” he asked, as if he had suddenly realized that there were people in this world who might not have been interested in the excellent Chambolle-Musigny he had fetched from the cellar.
“You shouldn’t have gone to the trouble,” said Leo. “All the same, both my colleague and myself know how to appreciate a good burgundy.”
Billen nodded approvingly. Visitors who liked their wine were always welcome.
“Hendrik told me you wanted to ask about a Latin puzzle,” he said calmly as he handed each man a glass. He spoke slowly and with an irritating nasal voice, and it was impossible to tell otherwise that he was from West Flanders.
Van In fished a copy of the puzzle from his inside pocket. Billen took the piece of paper, glanced at it quickly, and took a seat.
“Am I allowed to ask where this came from?”
Leo turned to Van In. They weren’t in the habit of discussing the details of ongoing cases with outsiders, but Van In decided not to beat around the bush and told him what had happened in a couple of short sentences.
“Intriguing,” said Billen. Two deep vertical furrows appeared on his forehead. “I think you’ve come to the right place.” It sounded blasé, but it wasn’t meant to. Frans Billen was a very modest man.
“Any idea what it might mean?” asked Van In optimistically.
“More or less. The translation is a question of interpretation, but I know what it is,” he said with conviction. “This, good sirs, is the Templars’ Square, their creed in a nutshell. The original text is carved in stone on a pillar in Ethiopia, in Axium to be precise. Christ is said to have leaned against it.”
Leo’s eyes almost popped out of his head and Van In rubbed his chin in disbelief.
The Templars, he thought. So they were dealing with a bunch of crazies after all.
Billen noticed their surprise.
“There’s a lot of nonsense doing the rounds about the Templars. It would help if we tried to get handle on them first, then take a look at my interpretation.”
Van In and Leo nodded in unison. They knew as much about the Templars as a retired padre knew about modern mathematics.
“Let me try to sketch the history of the order as a basis for explaining the text. But why don’t we begin with the wine. It’s not a short story.”
Billen gave the example by raising the glass to his lips. Leo, who was more used to beer, fluttered his eyelids. This was the nectar of the gods … no denying it.
Billen waited until they had put down their glasses.
“We know from the history books that Philip IV, otherwise known as Philip the Fair, had the Templars arrested and that the pope of the day, Clement V, had reluctantly supported him. The judicial proceedings that followed the mass arrest served as a source of myth and gossip about the Templars that was to last for centuries. Philip was jealous of their power and wealth, and this led him to concoct a number of grotesque accusations. The Inquisition extracted the required confessions. It was claimed, for example, that the Knights Templar stamped on the cross and spat on it, kissed each other’s anus, and indulged in sodomy and devil worship.
“It can be demonstrated on the basis of documentary evidence from the proceedings that only a handful of Templars actually confessed, but that would take us too far from our purpose. Suffice it to say that even the most gruesome torture failed to bring them to their knees. The majority of those who succumbed later withdrew their forced confessions. Sadly, Philip the Fair’s version of events is what survived, not the truth.”
Van In and Leo listened attentively. Billen was a passionate narrator.
“And the truth is a different story altogether. When Hugues de Payens and eight other noblemen founded the order at the beginning of the twelfth century, they had one goal in mind: keeping the roads that led to sacred places free of robbers and heathens and thus protecting pilgrims. They were monks in the first instance. Hugues was later supported by St. Bernard of Clairvaux, and the order acquired official status in 1128.
“Directly responsible to the pope alone, the Templars amassed a gigantic fortune in the shortest time. They enjoyed enormous respect and they became powerful, perhaps too powerful. Conditions of admission to the order were strict, its life was hard, and its discipline was unrelenting. For the nearly two centuries the Templars sojourned in the Holy Land, they performed their duties with excellence. Their permanent presence was remarkable in itself, especially when you realize that the order only reached a couple of thousand members at its peak.
“Moorish superiority was increasing, however, and after a while they were left with little choice: negotiate or face defeat.
“Peace negotiations naturally took place in the strictest of secrecy. The Church had forbidden compromise with unbelievers. Those on the home front were also unlikely to understand what they were doing and would probably condemn them in no uncertain terms. This is where we find the primary difference between the faith of the Templars and the faith of the official Church. The Templars were practical and broadminded for their day. They had long stripped the Church’s teaching of its encrustations in search of the core of the faith, le noyau as they called it, its nucleus. They had shorn off the frills and absurd rules with which previous generations of popes and bishops had encumbered the message of Christ.
“The Christ they ardently believed in spoke words of love, fraternity, tolerance, and forgiveness, words that attracted the soldier monks more than the hodgepodge preached by the successors of Peter. They opted with determination for the most evangelical solution and tried to live in peace with the Muslims, for better or for worse—or at least those Muslims who had encountered the same message in the Quran. The Templars’ greatest contribution has to be their conviction that we all worship the same God, that human beings are responsible for division, and that unity speaks for itself.
“The Pax Dei or Peace of God seemed to function well for a time. A fertile exchange of ideas and knowledge evolved between East and West. For example, the Templars imported windmills, algebra, exotic plants and fruits, and advanced medical techniques from the East.
“Everything went well until the order was torn apart from the inside by incompetent leadership, pride, and overindulgence. The Templars lost the Holy Land and returned to Europe without a purpose. They tried to return to their sources and renew themselves in the hope that they might one day retake Jerusalem. In those days they were even responsible for the French treasury. The Temple in Paris functioned as a sort of National Bank. Their exceptional status provoked the French king’s jealousy. Philip the Fair, le Roi Fraudeur, was fed up having to go cap in hand to the Templars for money. He also found it difficult to swallow that the grand master of the order enjoyed more respect in certain circles than he did. So
he decided to discredit the knights.”
Billen interrupted his monologue for a sip of Musigny.
“Historians would burn me at the stake for less,” he grinned. “And maybe they would be right. There are plenty of things I still can’t prove.”
He noticed that Leo’s glass was empty, got to his feet and quickly topped everyone up.
“An exceptionally interesting story, Mr. Billen,” said Van In, and before he could add “but” to the compliment, Billen interrupted.
“Thank you, but you still don’t know much about the text, and I presume that’s why you’re here.
“You should know that the Templars left almost no documents behind. We have their Rule of Life, a copy of which happens to be preserved here in Bruges, by the way, details of the suppression proceedings, inventories, and this …”
Billen waved the piece of paper in the air.
“As I mentioned, we already know this inscription from Ethiopia. It was found in a mosque that had been converted into a church. What the Templars were up to in Ethiopia isn’t clear. Links have been made in recent years with their search for the Ark of the Covenant, but that’s another story altogether. It might be better if we concentrate on the text.”
He got to his feet and fetched a notebook and felt-tip pen from a drawer in the bookcase. He tore a sheet of paper from the notebook and wrote down the puzzle in large uppercase letters.
ROTAS
OPERA
TENET
AREPO
SATOR
“There we are.”
He handed the sheet of paper to Van In.
“Notice anything special?” Leo edged a little closer.
“A cross,” said Van In hesitatingly, as if he was afraid of making a fool of himself in front of the concierge. Billen had written the letters forming the cross in bold.
“Spot on, a cross. And if you turn the Ts of TENET on their side you get a perfect Templar cross.”
“Does that mean anything?” asked Leo.
“We’re not done yet,” Billen grinned. “There’s more. If we puzzle around a bit, we get PATER NOSTER twice and we’re left with the letters A and O.”
