Lisa Emmer Historical Thrillers Vol. 1-2 (Lisa Emmer Historical Thriller Series)

by Rob Swigart

  Usem heard Ibrahim speaking from very far away, each word separated from its neighbors, each word distinct. “Tell me,” he repeated.

  “You are a very fortunate man, Dr. Izri. You found the most important document ever written in the history of mankind. It is called the Tablet of Destinies, and whoever possesses the document rules the world, perhaps the universe itself.”

  “You’re mad,” Usem mumbled. “The Tablet of Destinies… legend.”

  The darkness outside had seeped into the room, and he could see little but Ibrahim’s smile. “Not at all, Dr. Izri. The Tablet of Destinies is very real, and we’re quite certain you found it. But,” and here Ibrahim cocked his head in a quizzical way, “you’ve done something with it. I don’t have to tell you how dangerous that tablet would be should the wrong people come to possess it. How the child it foretells, the child who will arrive very soon now, could be manipulated, led off the destined path. Should that happen, great harm will come to the world. Great armies will clash; millions will die. The three great destructions inflicted by the gods on mankind would pale, don’t you see. Some people might say the One God will destroy the world if you make the wrong decision today. So really, you must tell me where it is, don’t you see? I will lift this burden from you. We have been waiting, and are prepared. Ophis Sophia is ready.”

  Usem wanted to tell Ibrahim about the tablet. He wanted to confess it all, to let go of the weight he had been carrying since the night he saw it back in his room. Had it really been less than two days?

  Ibrahim was right, he must tell. He opened his mouth to speak.

  But he had not really read the tablet. That task remained. He knew it was important, that it could change the world. He had known that from the moment of his vision; he could not let go of this burden until he knew exactly what the tablet said.

  Of course, it wasn’t the Tablet of Destinies, carried by the god who ruled the universe. That was a legend, superstition. Heresy.

  No, he could say nothing, only hope to live until he had read the tablet. If he died before that, Frédéric would have to find someone else.

  He thought of the man to whom he had sent the tablet. Frédéric must keep silent. These men were clever, and ruthless. Despite Ibrahim’s agreeable manner, he must maintain his ignorance.

  “I sent…” he began.

  “Yes?”

  “I’m sorry, I can’t remember. My mind is numb. Can’t remember. Sorry.”

  Ibrahim’s smile thinned but did not entirely go away. “I will wait, Dr. Izri.”

  Usem’s eyes closed. After a long silence he said, “Ibrahim?”

  “Yes, Dr. Izri.”

  “Tell me,” he whispered.

  Ibrahim leaned down. “Tell you what, Dr. Izri?”

  “What the shepherd said to the snake.”

  “Oh. He told the snake to bite him, of course.”

  “Why?”

  “Why, Dr. Izri? I’m surprised you would ask,” Ibrahim replied. “Is death not the true path to wisdom?”

  Rue de Montpensier

  Steve and Lisa slipped out to the courtyard behind her apartment, into the basement of the building behind them, across a tree-filled garden, and into the back of a small café on the rue du Sabot. The only person there, a sleepy man behind the bar, lifted a languid hand when they passed through. A taxi idling at the entrance carried them in silence over the river and around the Louvre to the rue de Montpensier, where it dropped them at Steve’s apartment and drove away.

  He placed his palm against a reader. “Philomela,” he said, Greek for nightingale. The Nightingale was the man who acted for the Delphi Agenda as its banker, security chief, and public face. When his predecessor died, Steve inherited the title and the job.

  The lock clicked. He led Lisa into the large salon on the top floor overlooking the gardens of the Palais Royal. It was just before one in the morning.

  “Clothes and toiletries in the spare bedroom for you.” He took off his jacket and hung it on the coat rack beside the entry door.

  “I shouldn’t be surprised, I suppose.” Her voice still quavered, but the tremors had subsided.

  She stuffed her watch cap in a pocket of her jacket, hung the jacket next to his, and dropped into an inviting Empire chair in front of the fireplace. Burning wood had been illegal for some time and the marble framed a Chinese fan decorated with flying cranes. She stared at the birds, necks and legs outstretched, flying toward the left as if into the wind. Carved wooden cranes decorated the arms of the chairs as well.

  “The room’s been ready for you since you became the Pythia, so, no, no surprise called for.”

  “I should get some sleep.” She stifled a yawn. “But I don’t think I can.”

  “You’ll be fine by morning.” Steve was at the window, checking the street. “I can give you something to help you sleep if you like.” He set the alarms and dropped into the companion chair. “Did you hear me?”

  She was asleep. He appraised her for a few moments, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. True, her color was still high, but her breathing was slow and steady. When he lifted her to carry her to the spare bedroom, she put her arms around his neck without awakening. He undressed her carefully and tucked her in. Though he had done it before, the faint scent of her perfume lingered and it was another hour before he fell asleep alone in his own room.

  It was nearly noon when he set a tray with coffee and hot milk down on the bedside table and shook her shoulder. She opened eyes full of sleep and smiled at him. “You did it again, Étienne Viginaire, took off my clothes, and I don’t think I can…. I mean, this could become a habit, and I’m supposed to be childless.”

  He looked down at her gravely and said slowly, “Childless. Not celibate.”

  “Ah, well, then.” She arched her brows and reached up. “In that case, come here.”

  He didn’t move.

  She laughed and sat up, arranging herself primly. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have joked about it. Unfair of me. It’s just that sometimes childless seems to mean mostly celibate.”

  “No, not that.” His half-smile was regretful. “We have things to do.” He poured coffee, added milk, and handed her the cup. “How are you feeling?”

  “Shaken, but better now. I’ve never shot anyone, Steve. Except the few times with you at the range I haven’t really fired a gun.”

  “As I said, you’re normally a lousy shot, but last night your aim was perfect. How do you account for that?”

  “Necessity,” she said simply. “He was going to kill you.”

  “That must mean you care about me.”

  “Of course I… Oh, I see, now you’re joking. My apartment must be a mess.”

  “Not too bad, actually,” Steve told her. “Alain’s compagnie de déménagement has almost finished cleaning up.”

  “Alain has a moving company? Of course he does.”

  “Former Sureté, competent and discreet. As soon as they finish repairing the damage to the roof and basement you can move back in. A day, perhaps two.”

  “What about the bodies?”

  Steve scratched his temple. “Well, the story is there was a gas leak. That’s what people say after a small explosion.”

  “The bodies, Steve. The dead bodies?”

  He shrugged. His grin was wolfish, without humor. “What bodies? Alain’s crew took care of them. They were never there. In fact, they never existed. On the other hand, we did acquire a leather sack and nine angry saw-scaled vipers from Iraq. They’re already in the zoo in the Jardin des Plantes.”

  “Hmph, so much for symbolic gestures. Those were real poisonous snakes, Steve. If you hadn’t cranked up the air conditioning… Wait, what time is it? We’ve got to look for Usem. You didn’t wake me!”

  “You needed the sleep. Usem’s gone and the Collège must be a dead end by now, unless you’ve had an intuition? No? Well, while you were sleeping there’s been a development.”

  “Give me a minute.”

&
nbsp; She sipped steadily, finished the coffee, and set it aside. “OK, what development?”

  “The Thaumastos letter’s on my desk in the office.”

  “Good. And?”

  “Frédo’s still scared. He was right to be scared. I told him about the attack and warned him to be careful.”

  She smiled grimly. “I hope he is.”

  “We’ll call Ted for an update, but I’ll let you get ready first.”

  She threw a pillow at his retreating back.

  Ten minutes later she entered his office dressed in a loose cream blouse and jeans, hair back in a short ponytail and face freshly washed.

  Steve was gazing somberly at a sheet of parchment on the blotter before him, but when he saw her, his face lit up. “You look good. Well.”

  “Thaumastos letter?”

  He nodded. “Frédo sent it over. Read it while I get us some breakfast. I’ve a feeling we’re going to be busy soon.”

  She sat down. When Steve came back in with a tray she held up the parchment. “Pretty much as Frédo said. Asking for confirmation of a prophecy about the birth of a child, and so on.” She looked at him, lips tight. “Usem is the key.” She took a piece of toast and went to the window. Heavy cloud hung down nearly to the rooftops. From the way people were walking in the gardens it was clearly hot and damp outside. Finally she said, without turning, “Time to call Ted.”

  Steve moved his plate away to open the desk computer. Ted’s image appeared, dark smudges under his eyes. His voice was hoarse. “Ah, Lisa, good, understand you had a spot of trouble last night? We’re pleased you’re safe and sound. Now, research. Marianne will tell you. I’m afraid I’ve got a bit of a scratchy throat.”

  He moved aside to let Marianne speak.

  “A recent pamphlet signed only Teacher calls OS the oldest, original, and true religion, though from what we can tell it appears to be blended with Christian and Islamic theology. God, the World Serpent, spoke once through the Patriarch Abraham. But, the pamphlet claims, priests later perverted the message.”

  She went on to explain that Ophis Sophia was closely tied to a Mesopotamian cult of Tiamat, the First Mother, the chaos of salt water normally depicted as a sea monster, dragon, or snake. Tiamat copulated with fresh water and gave birth to snakes, among other monsters like herself. Her children killed her and divided her body into heaven and earth.

  Whatever her name, the primordial serpent attracted followers up and down the two rivers. Millennia later she was the Greek Wisdom Serpent, a shifting, ambiguous figure with good and evil aspects. With the spread of Christianity, her cult attached itself to the Maronites and was forgotten by the rest of the world, surviving in the high mountains of what are today Turkey, Syria, and Lebanon. “During the Crusades,” Marianne said, “the Maronites came under the Catholic umbrella and Ophis Sophia has had Church protection ever since.”

  “What about today?” Lisa insisted. “What are they now?”

  Ted’s face filled the screen. “Today the Maronite church harbors Ophis Sophia in its bosom without knowing it. We suspect there may be other established sects who harbor them as well. OS teachings are secret, like the Masons, with levels and degrees of power and occupation: theologians, warriors, couriers, bankers. Common theme though is a story of a miraculous child.” He stopped to sneeze and blow his nose. “Traditionally, Ophis Sophia was a small, relatively obscure cult, but they’ve been quietly recruiting for decades. They believe their great moment is at hand.”

  Steve stirred. “Their great moment? For what?”

  Ted shrugged. “What does anyone want?”

  “Power, wealth, acknowledgement.”

  Lisa urged, “We know all this because of Usem and his tablet. But you have something more important to tell us. What is it?”

  Ted let Marianne speak again. For once she was all business. “Something else, yes. Our man in Greece has far more resources than we do. He’s performed sweep searches in several languages for keywords like child, miracle, birth, prophecy, and so on. We thought it was probably pointless, but in the National Archives he found a file. It was labeled, ‘Notes by the Nolan, Bruno, G, 1585.’ At first we thought it wasn’t relevant since none of the keywords appear in the title of the file, but he sent us a digital copy anyway.”

  “And it’s relevant after all,” Lisa said.

  “Yes. I’ll send you the file. Even enhanced Bruno’s Latin is hard to read, but it says, ‘I, Giordano Bruno, called the Nolan, commissioned to my specification, from memory, a near-perfect copy of a painting labeled Miraculous Child by banner, Edessa 1433, artist unknown. I saw the original in Venice in 1577, the year of the great comet. I have learned today the original has disappeared. There is a great and immediate danger. I sent my copy to the collections of Henri III, King, where despite the religious wars to come, it should remain safe until needed. At that time, vide 111, and look to the light. You know who you are. GB.’”

  Marianne tapped a key, saying, “File’s on its way.” A chime announced its arrival.

  Ted leaned in again. “Why would the copy be ‘near-perfect?’ Shouldn’t it be perfect? Bruno was famous for his prodigious memory, and his arrogance, of course.”

  Lisa straightened. “He deliberately changed the painting to hide something. Can you find out what happened to it?”

  Marianne looked down. After a moment she said, “Eighty-two percent confidence it went to the Hôtel de Cluny in 1583, shortly after it became a museum.”

  “Eighty-two percent is good enough,” Lisa said briskly. “Thanks to you both. Keep looking into OS, what they’ve been doing, who runs it.”

  Ted nodded and signed off.

  “And now?” Steve asked.

  Lisa massaged her scalp gently. “One-one-one. Bruno was the Pythos of the Delphi Agenda. He picked that number for a reason.”

  “And that is?”

  “Could it be something in the treasure vault downstairs.”

  “Could.” He sounded dubious.

  “Let’s find out, shall we?”

  He led her to the end of a lengthy corridor and keyed open a special penthouse elevator paneled in rich rosewood. Joe Dassin, Steve’s favorite twentieth century pop star, was singing Le Jardin du Luxembourg. They passed the ground floor and kept descending.

  The door opened onto a small square room with thick beige carpet, paintings of the Burgundy countryside, and, on the opposite wall, a plain blue steel door. “This room is called a mantrap door,” Steve explained, handing her an elaborate metal key. “Full of sensors like facial recognition, voice, iris. The locks on either side of the blue door are too far apart for a single person to turn both keys at once.”

  He stated their names and numeric codes and they faced the iris scanner. A light turned green. They turned the keys together and the steel door parted in the middle, slid to the sides, and sighed shut behind them.

  The vault itself was far larger than the mantrap. Except for the door behind them, the wall space was covered floor to ceiling with 144 large safety deposit boxes. Steve tapped box 108. “All these boxes contain treasures. The Alberti Disk’s in there. Not that we’ll need it again.”

  “You never know.”

  “You know something?”

  She shook her head. “Just joking. Try one-one-one.”

  The boxes were keyed to one of Steve’s fingerprints. After a couple of tries the box opened with a soft click. He lifted the lid and stepped aside so Lisa could look down at the piece of broken pottery on crushed maroon velvet.

  “An ostrakon,” she said. “A personal letter, in Greek. A fine, almost womanly hand, late fourth century. Written to Thaumastos.” She lifted it from the box and placed it carefully on the table under the overhead light and looked at Steve across the small table. Her eyes were burning. “This is the reply to the letter upstairs.”

  The slightly convex fragment, about the size of an open palm, was dry, pale brown, unglazed, and seemed to shimmer with an internal light. An illusion, Lisa
told herself. She leaned down. The letters lifted off the surface and drifted toward her. She translated slowly: “ ‘Say to Thaumastos, Christian of the city of Alexandria, in answer to his letter dispatched in the summer of the closing of the Oracle at Delphi in the fifteenth year of the reign of our Emperor Theodosius, that he is correct: here at the headwaters of the Euphrates River I myself have seen ancient documents telling of a miraculous child born and thwarted, perhaps by treachery. Some say one day it will be reborn somewhere in the far west, but that it will remain under terrible threat. One hears of a demon Lamaštu, Lilith, Hecate, Lamia, or many other names. Details are contradictory. Some say snakes announce the child, some say they accompany it, yet others say they threaten to destroy it. Some say the child’s birth will be salvation for the world, others a catastrophe for all mankind.’ That’s cheerful. Why are you smiling?”

  She was right; Steve’s spirits had lifted. “Ophis Sophia.”

  “Yes. I’m glad you’re enjoying yourself.”

  “You now have a mission, Lisa, so, yes, it’s good to see you focused.”

  “I’m fine now.” She continued reading: “‘Two omens announce the birth, Blood Moon and blue demon in the constellation we Greeks call Boötes. Many times men have proposed dates for this birth. All have come and gone. Yet the Omens foretold have never appeared together. Philosophers and seers in this region insist that many hundreds of years must pass before the prophecy can come to pass. I suggest you consult astronomers in your city to confirm this. Here they are too little learned to be trusted, and the fame of a philosopher of Alexandria, a woman called Hypatia, has reached us. If she confirms what the men here say and the Omens cannot appear soon, then you and I will be long gone before the child is born, and it cannot concern us. Yet we may be sure the story will persist, as it has through generations. When the Omens do appear, men will know the Child comes as well. So it is written. I will pray that when the child does come, the Omens will be more precise.