“The tickets are already booked. We’re leaving tomorrow at noon.” He concluded his sentence in firm resolution.
I lowered my empty cup of coffee and placed it equidistantly from the edges of the orange plastic coaster underneath, which had a doodle referencing Le Chat Noir, the first, and most famous French modern cabaret. It was so iconic that some of the most prominent artists such as the great Picasso used to look for it when they came to Paris. I glanced back at Adam and he already knew I was in one of my usual trances. He could sit by me all day, yet I felt it was time for me to leave, even if I really never wanted to. I walked back home jetlagged and tense, wrestling to put a conclusive end to such a needlessly prolonged day.
Chapter four
The snow may have had slightly receded, but the bleak weather was still uninvitingly present. It confined me to a military oversized-collar all-white coat that blended me perfectly with my frost-glazed surroundings. Fashion awareness was yet another thing that crept on you when you have lived in France long enough. We were just stepping outside Vienna’s international airport when we caught the first glance of our Austrian law enforcement liaison, waiting for us. He stood confidently by the passenger door side of a silver Volkswagen Touran police car alongside his driver. People here evidently do not waste time. The bald man with the authoritative character spoke very little; he had only identified himself as Senior Councillor Karl Schuster before gallantly asking us to join him.
Adam was keen on sharing the details of the investigation, I, on the other hand, retreated to the back seat leaning my head on the side window and consented their conversation to thaw fully in the background as my thoughts drifted further and further away into a bottomless abyss. I had already known that reaching our destination would have required us quite some time, which gave me an ample opportunity to silently review last week’s personal trauma.
“We are here! Hofburg Palace.” Declared a deep voice with a noticeable German accent. “I would have to ask you to take some of the reports with a grain of salt. Apparently, some of my officers here are superstitious.” Adam and I exchanged jeering frowns as we stepped out of the vehicle and dragged behind Schuster’s trail. As he led us to the western side of Joseph’s Square, I could not help but to notice the seemingly unalarmed citizens. Even on such a frigid day, they had gathered around the equestrian statue erected at the centre of the plaza, carelessly enjoying their afternoon as if absolutely nothing had happened. “Have you not closed the area? Set a perimeter?” I queried naively.
“We do not want people to panic, we have simply announced that this part of the museum was closed for renovations.” Schuster replied firmly as we paced past them. He was so fixated on his duties that he did not even bother looking back at me.
Silence prevailed as we advanced steadily towards the Swiss Wing’s entrance, the oldest part of the complex. We marched accompanied by the thumping beats of my stilettos, which set our tempo on the ancient stone floor tiles. A red-black gate appeared at the opposite end of the Swiss Courtyard. The gate carried the many titles of Emperor Ferdinand I and the insignia of the order of the Golden Fleece. It was guarded by ceremonial Swiss guards fitted with renaissance inspired uniforms. On the left, stood a fifteenth century gothic chapel, which is used until this very day for various religious purposes.
I extended my neck, reaching out to inspect the roof where the alleged chase had taken place, but found it unfeasible. The narrow dimensions of the courtyard alongside the relatively high surrounding buildings masked my field of vision. It was impossible to gain any vantage point from where we currently stand. Ground patrols must have suffered from the same nuisance during the nocturnal hunt.
It was not long before we finally entered the Imperial Treasury premises; a confident display of vast wealth covering an era of European history that spans over a millennium. Many iconic works of art, relics and artefacts inhabited these hallways. Some looked drained and weary from the ever-exchanging hands that once possessed them, while others gleamed under the slightest hint of light. There were, however, obvious signs of struggle on the parquet wooden floor; broken glass among other miscellaneous forms of rubble and various sizes of footprints. They all implied to the dreadful events that took place here last night: They must have caused this havoc. Many of Schuster’s men were already hovering the area tirelessly in a beehive-like mindset, collecting evidence and assessing the damage. As we continued our march, we were led through a sign heralding the Secular Collection, which was a compilation of royal objects and priceless treasures. It included the Austrian Crown Jewels, but more importantly the insignia of the Holy Roman Empire, where the lance was once exhibited.
Our guide decelerated as we approached yet another broken display surrounded by a web of intersecting yellow crime-scene tapes. Near it, stood two men who were apparently swapping perspectives in what seemed to be an amicable debate. One of them suddenly hushed as he observed us looming closer. The other, telling from his distinct attire, did clearly belong to the clergy. He saved no effort in greeting us as cordially as one could ever be. My intuition was that he was probably here to report back to the Austrian church on yesterday’s happenings. Schuster waved to the mute former to escort him out for a private discussion, while briefly leaving Adam and me with the courteous latter.
“Quite tragic isn’t it? My name is Father Bauer.” Stated the middle-aged man with the compassionate green eyes and black-rimmed rounded glasses. Adam appeared reluctant to acknowledge his remarks; he was not sure whether he should be discussing any of the details with the priest. Instead he roamed silently around the broken display, further crushing the scattered fragmented shards of glass spread under his black leather shoes. My eyes, however, remained fixated on the talkative man, as he pressed with the conversation even further.
“The lance had more significance than just being a historical relic, it was always regarded as a sign of any ruler’s true worth.” He was right. Those kings who once held the spear considered it their destiny to possess it. They were seen as the protectors of God’s kingdom on earth during great decisive battles. It was the real life counterpart of King Arthur’s Excalibur. My partner, however, had completely missed the underlying point.
“You believe this has anything to do with a certain political agenda? Proving the unfitness of the Austrian president, perhaps?” Adam annoyingly asked while still examining the red velvet casing inside the display. I found his lack of insight so embarrassing that I had no choice but to intervene to get over the banality of their argument.
“Whatever the motive is, I believe it’s absurd to treat this as a standard burglary.” I pointed at the more rewarding items scattered all around the gallery; even the adjacent crosses and relics in the very same display remained unscathed. Bauer gazed at me enthused. He felt a curious urge to move the discussion even further. “Have you heard anything unusual about yesterday’s events?” He probed cunningly.
I knew where this was heading; an ode to the unlikely mystical powers of the lance, an argument I simply was not willing to entertain at that particular moment. I glanced over my shoulder to look for Schuster who seemed to be still engaged in a serious dispute with the other man. They did not seem to be in much agreement. I then looked back at Bauer, who I presumed suspected my scepticism, even if he remained adamant in the pursuit of his argument, trying to give it a proper foothold.
He tried to concoct a blend of history and fiction, giving us a brief lecture about how a particularly infamous young Austrian that went by the name of Adolf Hitler, once stood a few feet from us. It was in this very same room, where he was overwhelmed by the legends many consider today as old folktales. He was truly convinced that the key to his greatness lied in seizing control of this artefact and as so, he worked tirelessly, until he was fully consumed by an eccentric idea.
“Now do you think such a powerful wicked man would…”
“Father Bauer!” Interrupted Schuster’s voice alarmingly. “If you would excuse us I
would like to grab them both for a quick tour around the place.” Schuster’s strict opposition to all these ideas could not have been any more evident. He had trained himself to deal exclusively with facts. He did not like the idea of Bauer’s attempts to tamper with his case. The bishop was here to observe in silence, nothing more and nothing less.
“Certainly.” Replied Bauer. “Although I would appreciate it if I borrowed the young lady here for a few minutes. We will be tailing you shortly. If that is okay with you Miss…”
“Baptiste. My name is Hélène Baptiste.” I affirmed. Adam looked at me wondering if this would be something I would object to, which at that time I did not. I had really felt the impulse to beat Bauer at his very own game, rattle his smug confidence in everything he had ever considered holy. Schuster, on the other hand looked furious. He was already under a lot of pressure from the church that he had no time or energy to argue about trivialities. He left with Adam in a hurry without humming a word, only expressing a strong underlying notion of his discontent. Bauer was unfazed. He made sure everyone was out of sight before gazing back at me, as if trying to unravel a mystery. I already recognized his isolation technique; it was a commonly used method to attempt and convince me of something radical. In other words, brainwashing me into believing in an improbability.
He cast his web intricately and carefully, as he edged closer to his mental prey with each argument he laid in his defence. In the beginning, he sought my sympathy, claiming that modern perspectives of faith and religion have now become pretty much distorted.
“Many wrongfully accuse men and women of God, of not sharing the same worries of the average common man. Yet doubt is very real.” He reassuringly said. “And no one is ever immune to it.” He knew he was treading on thin ice, this is why he needed to capitalize on my curiosity before I lost interest.
“Jesus has a very special love for you. As for me, the silence and emptiness is so great that I look and do not see, listen and do not hear. The tongue moves in prayer but does not speak.” He was quick to inform me that these were the reflections of Mother Teresa in one of several, recently published, personal letters. They portrayed a prolonged crisis of faith she had been having, one that spanned almost forty long years of her existence. Even the sternest of devotees have doubts that lurk in the shadows when they are alone and vulnerable.
I could not conceal the fact that this was, without a doubt, an interesting foreword. Mother Teresa’s crisis of faith was a relatively novel revelation and certainly not a classic foreword by a mundane priest; it was an expertly delivered speech by a man eager to tackle sensitive taboos instead of merely ignoring their existence.
“So what struggles rage within you, Father?” I asked dubiously, leading the conversation on. Bauer was troubled. He released a long sigh of contention prior to sharing unorthodox ideologies for a man of his stature. I deduced that he might very well be a sympathizer, if not even a member, of the Austrian Catholic priests ‘Call to Disobedience’. A movement that ushered in 2006 calling for a more flexible approach to Catholic faith and religion. They favoured the ordination of women, married priesthood and allowing Holy Communion to remarried divorcees and non Catholics, which steered controversy and caused many clashes with the Vatican who repeatedly described them as heretic and schismatic.
Unlike many, he had believed that science and religion do not necessarily stand on opposite grounds. In fact, he had regarded miracles as scarce ancient knowledge that was still bound by scientific guidelines, which were revealed only to the most venerable of God’s disciples.
“God had bound the universe, time and space, with a flawless set of laws of physics and like clockworks, the watchmaker does not intervene to change them.” He declared.
He then argued that some modern studies have even tried to explain some significant biblical events such as how Moses may have split the Red Sea. His theory included an exceptional Tsunami-like event, which God have revealed its exact date and location exclusively to his prophet, consenting believers to a safe passage.
His approach resembles that taken by an increasing number of modern day clerics who are assimilating recent scientific findings into their broader religious beliefs. Muslim scholars have repeatedly done so in their own way, and when it comes to the Christian faith, I cannot fathom a better and more shinning example than Bishop of Oxford, now Lord, Harries. He, alongside Richard Dawkins the exceptional English ethologist, have jointly addressed the Prime Minister of England, then Tony Blair, voicing their concern of omitting Evolution as a scientific theory from the British educational system. To him evolution was in fact one of the greatest of God’s works. It is indeed now a very different world than the one Galileo had lived in.
All his theories were enticing enough, I must say, yet I was still expecting him to wrap all the loose ends into one plausible conclusion.
“All I implore you to do is not to dismiss any possibility just because it sounds highly unconceivable. There is at least one filament of truth, a logical explanation if you may, behind all improbable tales.”
There it was, his finale. Although I agreed to a negligible extent with his last statement, I still do not accept the presence of a divine intervention until mankind comes forward with a logical, well founded proof of an intelligent design, a conclusive evidence if one may say. My strictly religious sibling had already lost her life appeasing one of the hundreds of thousands of Gods men currently believe in, but I had already chosen to let go of the illogical restraints people put themselves under in the name of religion. I had gifted myself with the ability to roam freely without the chains of guilt or remorse, and was even brave enough to consider eccentric possibilities that many would deem pure heresy.
Nonetheless, his logic towards yesterday’s heist lacked argumentative reason. There was one fundamental fact that we both avoided up to this very last moment. His story simply did not add up and that irked me enough that I found myself unable to retain the truth no longer. I knew he was deliberately giving the spear more merit than it did deserve.
“Father Bauer, if you do actually believe that the Holy Lance would grant its bearer unlimited power, why didn’t you tell the inspectors that the stolen item was not the actual Holy Lance of Longinus?” I was quick to realize how my question summoned a devious grin on Bauer’s face.
Chapter five
The law enforcement trio took a perceptive tour around the medieval Swiss Wing. They had no expectations or immediate guesses. Instead, they were only armed with the prospect of stumbling upon anything they would consider of value. Adam walked slowly, keeping a watchful eye over his companions. It seemed as if there was a concealed tension between Schuster and his towering, seemingly inept, assistant.
“Brunner!” Schuster had finally ripped apart that heavy shroud of silence he had carefully knit around the three of them. “As police investigations showed nothing extraordinary about the manner in which the intruder blew away the steel balustrade, would you mind taking us to where he later… teleported?” He then turned to Adam donning a patronizing smirk. “It was a military C4 plastic charge, moulded around the edges of the steel bars in very small and precise quantities. He actually presumed that the burglar had telepathically caused the explosion.”
Brunner clearly looked distressed. He had no supportive arguments or means of confrontation against his superior who wasted no occasion flaunting his shortcomings. He had already always considered the museum’s security to be such a hefty burden, one that he had to carry on a daily basis, and as such, he felt deeply offended and underappreciated by his statements. All he could do now, however, was to brush off these distasteful remarks and lead his escorts to the rooftops as being ordered. The Inspector backtracked the chase’s events. He began reciting them to his companions as they stepped carefully on the sloped rooftops. From up here, the place looked like a manmade industrial forest: More than thirty brick chimneys stood their ground at the Swiss Wing alone, some even towered well above three meters i
n height. The chimneys were surrounded by the evident aftermath of yesterday’s pursuit; a random mess of skid marks and footprints. Brunner stopped abruptly, brushed aside a scruffy, golden lock of hair that temporarily impaired his vision and ran his fingers across one of the brick towers that stood erect to his side. He was now almost certain that this was in fact where they had lost track of the intruder. He then gazed blandly at the far end of the complex, releasing a frosty gasp of air and pointed timidly at where the thief had miraculously reappeared.
Adam has always been practical. He carefully inspected the markings with much interest, until an unlikely idea forced its way to his head. At first, He felt the impulse to instantly share his wild hypothesis with his Austrian companions but then felt restrained by Schuster’s evident cynicism. He realized that starting from this moment, here and now, once he was willing and ready to voice his opinions, he had to first validate and practically put them to the test. He therefore turned to Brunner and asked him to lead the way to the far end of the complex.
“Any theories?” Schuster was quite curious, and while the Frenchman gave him an uncertain nod, Brunner appeared increasingly worried when they all jointly progressed towards that distant second position. He could very well feel his knees buckle underneath the weight of dread and panic. He feared whatever sort of new evidence that may be trapped underneath that thinning layer of snow, itching and scratching to be unearthed. He was fully convinced that the chances to clear his already tarnished reputation were constantly slimming, and there was little if anything he could now do about it. That tiny Frenchman was just about to cement his newfound stigma of inefficiency, worsening his credibility even further in front of the Senior Councillor.
Promethea Page 3
