God's Formula

by James Lepore

They ground their torches into the dirt floor to extinguish them, then pressed their backs against the damp stone wall of the alcove. A moment later, Philippa and Ian Fleming, torches in hand, walked past the alcove’s narrow opening.

  “What’s down that way?” Conrad whispered, when their footsteps could no longer be heard.

  “I don’t know. We must return.”

  Chapter 25

  Foix, June 19, 1940, 2:00 a.m.

  “So,” said Philippa Esclarmonde. “Will it serve?”

  She and Ian Fleming, their Berthier carbines slung over their shoulders, were crouching behind a rocky outcrop looking across a shallow valley at a flat rock shelf perhaps thirty meters wide by seventy or eighty meters long, the front porch, so to speak, of a huge gaping maw in the side of the mountain. At the bottom of the valley ran a narrow river that looked like a black ribbon on the forest floor.

  “Is that a cave?” Ian Fleming asked.

  “The Bedeilhac Cave.”

  “It might.”

  Fleming put his glasses to his eyes and swept the valley.

  “Those three peaks we call the Devil’s Pitchfork,” said Philippa, following Fleming as he gazed west.

  The Englishman pulled a map out of an inside pocket of his jacket. “Show me where we are,” he said.

  “Here,” said Philippa, “and here is the Devil’s Pitchfork.”

  Chapter 26

  Foix, June 19, 1940, 3:00 a.m.

  “Karl! Karl! Wake up.”

  “Huh? Monique? What is it?”

  “Conrad is gone.”

  “God help us.”

  Chapter 27

  Foix, June 19, 1940, 3:00 a.m.

  On the trip to Bedeilhac Cave, Ian Fleming caught Philippa in his arms when she tripped on a root on a particularly dark forest trail. The moon, nearly full, had risen as they made their way back, making it easier on this trek to see the forest floor, but the Englishman found himself hoping that the light would vanish, that the girl would again stumble inadvertently into his embrace. The memory of her body pressed against his lingered like a perfume in his brain. Ahead of him by only a meter or two, sometimes closer, he watched her as she swung her legs up and over boulders, over fallen trees and across small streams. She moved through the undulating hills with the utter, unthinking confidence and swiftness of a panther, of animal royalty. It was, he now realized, this feral quality that attracted him most of all, not only attracted him, but aroused him in ways he thought dormant since his hot-blooded youth. She was a virgin, of course, but not like the virgins of Fleming’s experience, who thought more or less constantly of losing their virginity. This was a thought that the Englishman was sure Philippa had never had. How utterly, breathtakingly odd. He had met The First Virgin. Ian, my lad, soon, very soon, you will be either dead or on your way to England. More likely dead. What are you waiting for?

  At the top of a small rise, Philippa stopped to drink from her canteen, resting her rifle against a boulder. Sure-footed, familiar with the terrain, she had gotten ahead of him by ten meters or so, as, lost in his thoughts, he unintentionally slowed his pace. When he reached her, he also placed his rifle aside and drew his canteen.

  “We can’t be far,” the Englishman said, wiping his canteen with his sleeve and reattaching it to his web belt.

  “No,” Philippa answered, pointing. “That way, a kilometer perhaps, two hills, and we will come to the trap door.”

  “The castle is positively medieval,” said Fleming. Above them in the near distance loomed the Foix Castle, its three towers starkly outlined against the moon-lit night sky, a sky made brighter still by a dome of stars. “How old is it?”

  “We don’t know for sure. We think the first stones were laid in the seventh century.”

  “You make it sound as if it belongs to you.”

  “My ancestors built it.”

  “Who were they?”

  “I am descended from Esclarmonde de Foix, the Countess of Foix.”

  “She sounds important.”

  Philippa smiled at this, which Fleming did not expect, nor had he anticipated his own reaction, which was to smile himself and feel light, like a schoolboy. “Why are you smiling?” he asked.

  “It’s a strange sensation,” Philippa replied, “being teased.”

  “Teasing can be a sign of affection,” said the Englishman. Was I teasing? he thought. Must have been. My God, is she blushing? “Who was she?” he asked.

  “She was the Cathar’s Joan of Arc, a great leader, very pure.”

  “But she was not Cathar.”

  “She was, but what do you know of Catharism?”

  “Professor Tolkien told me of your religion. If the Countess was Cathar, then how could she have bred?”

  “She converted after her husband died. She had children with him.”

  “So she tasted life.”

  “The flesh, you mean?”

  “Yes.”

  “There is more to life than sexual relations.”

  “How do you know?”

  Philippa did not answer. They gazed in silence up at the castle and the star-filled night sky, a scene from a dream in which war and genocide and atomic bombs no longer existed, nor, Fleming hoped, the perverted celibacy of the religious fanatic. He let the night envelope them for a long moment or two, then put his hands softly on Philippa’s shoulders and turned her gently until she was facing him. “How do you know?” he asked again. He expected her to pull away, but instead she crossed her arms and placed her hands over his. Her touch sent a shock wave into his body, and he was speechless for a moment.

  “You have made me think of it,” she said, looking directly into his eyes. “You, who know only the physical world.”

  “We would complete each other, then.”

  “Or destroy each other.”

  “To be reborn.”

  Philippa broke off her gaze and cast her eyes down.

  “Shall I kiss you?” Fleming asked.

  “I—”

  “Hush!” said Fleming. “What was that?”

  The sound that Fleming heard, a guttural German voice shouting auf die Knie fallen!, came from the bottom of the hollow to their left. Looking down, they saw two German soldiers in front of a forlorn shepherd’s hut holding rifles on Conrad Friedeman, Karl Brauer, and Monique Esclarmonde, who were standing stiffly in the moonlight, their hands behind their heads. The handsome Englishman and the beautiful French woman he was just about to kiss, watched, riveted, as if they themselves had turned to stone, become part of Foix Mountain, as Karl and Conrad complied. Monique, looking confused, remained standing. One of the soldiers barked something at Monique, then moved swiftly toward the waif-like fourteen year old, who neither spoke nor understood German, and swung the butt of his rifle into the side of her head. As she fell to the ground, Karl Brauer immediately bent over her, only to receive the second soldier’s rifle butt against his own head.

  Grabbing their rifles virtually simultaneously, Fleming and Philippa swiftly took aim, shot both soldiers, and then clambered down the hillside into the flat hollow bottom. There they found both soldiers dead, shot squarely in the chest; Monique and Karl, unconscious on the ground, their heads in pools of blood, and Conrad stiff on his back, his body convulsing, his eyes rolled up into his head.

  Chapter 28

  Foix, June 19, 1940, 7:00 a.m.

  “Etienne?”

  “Yes, Philippa.”

  “Monique and the boy Karl are dead.”

  “Philippa…”

  “You must listen to me.”

  Etienne Esclarmonde looked into Philippa’s eyes, but he did not see his sister in them. What he saw silenced him.

  “You will have to bury them outside, today.”

  Silence.

  “Say yes, Etienne.”

  “Yes, I will.”

  “There are Germans everywhere, so you will have to be careful.”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Monsieurs Tolkien and Fleming wil
l be leaving tonight with Conrad.”

  “And Mademoiselle?”

  “I have plans for her.”

  “What happened? To Monique and Karl?”

  “They must have found a way out. They were captured by German soldiers near the old shepherd’s hut. Conrad was with them. He had a seizure, le petit mal. Monsieur Fleming and I came upon them. We brought the bodies back.”

  “Claude?”

  “I gave her something to sleep.”

  Etienne stood and went to the open doorway of his room, which was next to Adrienne Archambeau’s. The only light in the room came from the torch that Philippa had brought with her and hung on the wall near the entrance. He took the torch in hand and stepped out into the long stone cave that served as a corridor in this part of the catacombs.

  “Her door is locked,” said Philippa when he returned. “She’s sleeping, I checked.”

  “What of her?” Etienne asked.

  “I want you to help her escape,” said Philippa.

  “Escape?” said Etienne. “Philippa…”

  “Yes, escape.”

  “Why?”

  “So that we can discover her true nature. Unless I am badly mistaken, she will lead the Germans into the catacombs, thinking the boys are still here.”

  “When?” Etienne asked.

  “Mr. Fleming and the professor leave with Conrad tonight. Jean Foret has radioed their coordinates to London. They expect their plane to arrive at midnight.”

  “Which entrance, the one in the castle?”

  “Yes, take her out that way. Tell her the boys are in the catacombs. Tell her that armed resistance fighters are using the catacombs as a base. That there is a large store of weapons and ammunition here as well.”

  “She will suspect me, my motives.”

  “Sleep with her.”

  “What?”

  “She will think she has conquered you, that you are in love with her.”

  “Philippa…”

  “Catharism is dead.”

  “No, it isn’t.”

  “It will be soon.”

  “Philippa, what are you talking about?”

  “The world is not evil, Etienne. Men can be. But they can choose.”

  “Are you in love, Philippa? With Monsieur Fleming?”

  Etienne watched as the woman across from him collected her thoughts, or her feelings, and saw his sister once again in her eyes. “Don’t answer,” he said. “I am happy for you.”

  “After you escort Mademoiselle out,” Philippa said, “come back and get Claude and Jean. Make your way to Spain.”

  “And you?”

  “I will follow. We will surely meet again soon.”

  Chapter 29

  Foix, June 19, 1940, 8:00 p.m.

  “It will take two hours to get to the cave,” said Philippa Esclarmonde, “but you should leave at nine, to be safe.”

  “And London has confirmed?” Ian Fleming asked.

  “Yes, midnight.”

  “Does the pilot know what he’s in for?”

  “Yes, the cave is not unknown. They have found photographs. The moon will be full. The Devil’s Pitchfork is a landmark.”

  “God help him.”

  “And us,” said John Tolkien.

  “How is Conrad?” Philippa asked.

  “He slept all day,” said Tolkien. “That potion you gave him seemed to help.”

  “I will say goodbye then. God be with you.”

  “And with you,” said the professor.

  “Philippa,” said Tolkien. “Before you go.”

  “Yes, professor.”

  “What is the pendant you wear on your neck?”

  “It belonged to the Countess of Foix.”

  “You mean…”

  “Yes.”

  “Is it an emerald?”

  “No.”

  “Can I see it?”

  Philippa exposed the pendant and held it for Tolkien to see.

  “It looks like liquid,” Tolkien said.

  “It could be. I don’t know what it is.”

  “The cupped hand carving was holding a gem,” said the professor.

  “Yes, I know.”

  “What will you do with the book?”

  “I will destroy it. No one wants the rock from that cave.”

  “We can return for you.”

  “I will stay and fight.”

  “I know that Philippa is the beloved, from the Greek,” Tolkien said, “but what does Esclarmonde mean?”

  “It means the light of the world.”

  Professor Tolkien took Philippa’s hand and gently kissed it.

  Ian Fleming and Philippa Esclarmonde looked at each other for a second, then looked away. Then Philippa turned and left.

  “Tell me, Ian,” Tolkien said when Philippa was gone.

  “Yes,” Fleming replied. “Tell you what?”

  “Did you live up to my expectations?”

  “Did I…?”

  “Never mind. I can see you did.”

  Fleming smiled. “I did and I didn’t.”

  “How is that?”

  “She liked me.”

  “Well, that would make a difference.”

  “In the event, however, the world intervened.”

  “As it will. Sometimes the world is enough and sometimes it isn’t.”

  “It was enough this time.”

  Tolkien looked at his watch. “We leave in an hour,” he said. “Let’s hope the world and God are on our side at midnight.”

  Chapter 30

  Foix, June 19, 1940, 11:00 p.m.

  “Herr Reichsfuhrer,” said Josef Kieffer. “Heil Hitler.”

  “Heil Hitler,” said Heinrich Himmler.

  “Herr Reichsfuhrer, I have a matter of some delicacy to discuss.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “We have an Abwehr agent here who says she works personally for Admiral Canaris. She has found the Friedeman boy. She has notified Canaris.”

  “Where is the boy?”

  “In catacombs beneath the castle here. We have secured the entrance.”

  “Canaris, you say?”

  “Yes. He is coming to Foix to take custody of the boy. When he arrives, he will be the highest ranking officer here.” He is the head of the Abwehr. He can have me executed with a nod of his head. I will have to obey his orders.

  “He will not arrive.”

  “Yes, Herr Reichsfuhrer.” Thank God.

  “What is the agent’s name?”

  “She calls herself Adrienne Archambeau.”

  “German?”

  “Yes.”

  “Eliminate her, then seize the boy. I will come for him myself.”

  “Yes, Herr Reichsfuhrer.”

  Chapter 31

  Foix, June 19, 1940, 11:15 p.m.

  Adrienne Archambeau took her time drying off after her bath and long soak. Her hotel “suite,” such as it was, was deplorable, but it was the best the vulgar little town of Foix had to offer. She could hear Josef Kieffer and Kurt Diebner talking quietly in the sitting room just outside the bathroom door. She looked at herself with satisfaction in the full-length mirror, recalling with delight the way her body had responded to the muscular Etienne Esclarmonde. Muscular and now dead. Smiling, she donned the cheap but serviceable robe that the hotel had supplied and went out to greet her guests.

  “My dear Fraulein,” said Josef Kieffer when she entered. He had risen quickly to his feet, as had the diminutive Kurt Diebner, who was nodding and smiling like an idiot.

  “Please sit, gentlemen,” said Archambeau.

  She sat as well, across from them, showing just the right amount of leg.

  “You have spoken to Admiral Canaris, I take it?” she said.

  “Yes, he will be here in the morning.”

  “And Reichsfuhrer Himmler?”

  “I, of course, notified him of the situation.”

  “Of course.”

  “He will be arriving himself in the morning.”

>   “They will be heroes of the Reich.”

  “As will you,” said Kieffer, drawing his service Luger. “Posthumously.”

  Chapter 32

  Foix, June 19, 1940, 11:30 p.m.

  Yes, Uncle Raymond, Philippa Esclarmonde thought, as she turned the iron ring behind the altar, the book is what you were looking for, but it was not whatyou expected it to be. The last Cathars had found a way to make a powerful weapon. A chunk of pitchblende bathed in green liquid from a spring deep below became a fiery missile. The armies of Pope Innocent III were nearly annihilated by it. But it also killed the Cathars, slowly poisoning them as they mined the rock, retrieved and poured the green water, carried their frightful bombs to the castle ramparts, and hurled them at their enemies.

  When the altar fully opened, she picked up the book and set it aside. Then she lay at the edge of the hole, and, using a pickaxe, hacked off a chunk of the greenish-brown rock that her doomed ancestors called green iron. She removed the crystal pendant from her neck, unscrewed its silver cap, and poured the bright-green liquid that had been inside it for seven hundred years over the rock. Attuned to the sounds of the caves, she could here muted thuds above her, the stamping of many troops as they searched the corridors and rooms of the catacombs. She held the rock over the hole for a long second, her last alive on Earth, then let it go.

  Chapter 33

  Foix, June 19, 1940, 11:35 p.m.

  “This is a good place to stop,” said Ian Fleming. “We’re early. How are you, Conrad?”

  Conrad Friedeman did not answer. He had borrowed one of Etienne Esclarmonde’s canvas jackets and, though the night was warm, stood huddling in it at the crest of the ridge, the same ridge that Fleming and Philippa had stood at the night before.