by Vaseem Khan
The speechless old man fell back with a whump.
‘I would appreciate it if you did not move.’ Turning back to Persis, Skorzeny said, ‘The manuscript. Bitte.’
Her jaw writhed. She had no doubt that Skorzeny was not only an excellent shot but more than willing to demonstrate his resolve. And there was Shah to consider.
Too many had died already, caught up in Healy’s strange game.
She stepped down from the stage, and walked over to him. He was a tall man, broad and heavy-set. He loomed over her in the hall, a giant in a fairy tale. The scar on his cheek seemed to glow.
‘First, your revolver. Slowly.’
She slid out her revolver and gave it to him. He stuck it into the pocket of his suit.
‘And now the manuscript.’
She looked down at the wrapped package in her hands. For a moment, time stood still . . . So many had died for this book, words penned almost seven centuries ago. And now it would all be for nought . . .
She took a deep breath and handed the manuscript to him. He tucked it under his arm, then held her with an evaluating gaze. ‘You really are a remarkable woman. In another life, if we had met, just ordinary citizens of the world . . .’ He grinned. ‘Auf Wiedersehen, Inspector.’
‘Wait.’ She took a step forward. ‘Why? Why did you do this? What could you possibly want with that manuscript?’
He appeared to consider the question. ‘I suppose you deserve to know. You’ve certainly earned it. Very well . . . In 1943, I helped to rescue Italy’s rightful leader, Benito Mussolini, from imprisonment by disloyal factions in his own country. While escorting him to Munich, we stayed together at the Hotel Imperial in Vienna. I’d never had much time for him before, but that night we drank together and I discovered that he was my twin. We shared a love of the same things; he believed in everything I believed in.
‘Mussolini was not like Hitler. Mussolini was a fascist in name only. He believed, like a father, that children must sometimes be beaten for their own good, but he never believed in murdering non-combatants. Hitler had the type of courage that rarely hesitated to volunteer others for death, but Mussolini was a real soldier. He was . . . Il Duce.’ Skorzeny’s voice filled out the room; there was a sense of heavy music to it that made her think of Wagner. ‘When I asked him what he desired most, do you know what he told me? A sympathetic woman, a good bottle of wine, a fine cigar . . . and peace in Italy.
‘I suppose you could say we poured our sins into each other’s ears that night. He revealed to me an obsession that had ruled him for many years. A copy of La Divina Commedia, here in Bombay. He was an acolyte of Herr Dante Alighieri and it was his dream to collect together all the oldest versions of the manuscript, to put them on display in a new museum in Rome, one he would build after the war.
‘That night we got drunk and swore eternal friendship. He made me promise that I would help him recover the Bombay manuscript. He offered me a fortune. We slashed our palms and made a blood oath.
‘Six months ago, after fleeing Bavaria, I was given shelter by a wealthy Italian living in France, an old friend of Mussolini. We got to talking and I mentioned the vow I had made. He became animated. A day later, he came to me with a proposition. If I would fulfil my pledge, if I would steal the manuscript and give it to him, he would ensure that I’d receive the sum Mussolini had promised me.’ He smiled. ‘For a man in my position, it was an offer I could hardly refuse. The mission did not seem overly difficult or dangerous, and the money would allow me to stay out of sight for a very long time without having to rely on the goodwill of others.’
He stood there, wreathed in the room’s dimmed lighting, a man blinded by his own glory.
‘And Bruner?’
‘Matthias and I have been in touch since the end of the war. I helped smuggle him out of Germany, helped him settle in Brazil. Three years later, he repaid the favour by helping me escape from Darmstadt.’ An arrogant smile crept around his mouth. ‘It was incredible. He walked in with two SS officers dressed in US Military Police uniforms and told the fools there that they were under orders to take me to Nuremberg for a legal hearing. I still find it hard to believe that such a simple ruse worked. Truly, I cannot understand how we lost the war to such dolts.
‘Eighteen months later, I was in Paris, sitting in a café, and I saw an article in Le Monde about John Healy, the famous English scholar and war hero, now based at the Asiatic Society of Bombay – this was just a few days before my Italian benefactor made me his offer; in fact, it was the article that touched off our conversation. The article stated that Healy was the Curator of Manuscripts at the Asiatic Society and detailed his efforts at producing a new translation of Dante’s masterwork.
‘I remembered Healy. You see, it was the Abwehr that had been tasked to secure his cooperation during the war. Himmler wanted an expert in ancient manuscripts and Healy practically fell into our laps. When we found out that he was being held at Vincigliata, I sent Matthias along to talk to him.’
‘Talk? You mean to threaten him.’
He flashed a lopsided grin. ‘I’m afraid Healy didn’t put up much of a fight. He was a coward, Inspector. Matthias hardly had to apply any pressure at all. He agreed to help us readily enough. In return, all he asked was that we keep his involvement a secret.’
‘That’s why you had the documents pertaining to his stay at Vincigliata forged.’
‘It was a small price to pay for his willing cooperation. I believe in doing things the easy way, Inspector. Torturing a man into cooperating is a means of last resort.’ He bared his teeth. ‘We doctored the records and gave Healy a false ID, a nom de guerre. Of course, the alias wasn’t much good once he came face to face with some of those he helped us track down; old colleagues, men who knew him or knew of him . . . Not that it mattered. Himmler was never the type to steal a man’s possessions and leave him alive to complain about it afterwards.’
Her jaw tightened. ‘How did Healy escape?’
‘A momentary lapse. Healy had been so docile during the time he’d been working for us that his escort – including Matthias – let their guard down. They’d been raiding a home near the French-Italian border. Things had gone well and they’d decided to celebrate in the local brothel; naturally, they all ended up blind drunk. By the time they regained their senses, Healy was gone. He made it over the border and managed to get to Monaco. He’d stolen a few items of value that helped pay his way on a fishing trawler that took him across the Med to the Tunisian port city of Bizerte – the Allies took it back from us in 1943.’
‘Why didn’t you expose him?’
‘You’ve never worked in intelligence, have you, Fräulein? One never burns an asset unless there’s something to be gained. Healy was being fêted as a hero in England. We knew he hadn’t told them the truth. For an intelligence officer, that’s the perfect scenario. A man in the enemy fold who might easily be compromised.
‘Of course, I had no idea I’d ever need Healy again. But fate has its own plans for us all, yes?’
‘So you came to Bombay and threatened to expose him unless he stole the manuscript for you.’
‘We did what was necessary.’
‘But if he voluntarily agreed to cooperate . . . what went wrong? Once he’d taken the manuscript from the Society, why did he hide it? Why did he kill himself?’
The big man shrugged. ‘The truth? I don’t know. I suspect he had a change of heart. Even the rat looks in the mirror one day and hates what it sees.’
They stood there, allowing a moment of silence for the man at the centre of it all, a man who’d taken his secrets to the grave.
Skorzeny lowered his pistol and began to back away.
A noise darted his head upwards.
George Fernandes emerged from behind the curtains at the rear of the stage. He held a revolver, trained on Skorzeny. ‘Take another step and I’ll put a hole through you.’
The German’s face slackened in astonishment. Then his eyes shifte
d to Persis. ‘Very clever.’
‘I knew you’d be following me, now that Bruner was gone, and armed with the information you’d gotten from Belzoni – namely, that I was tracking the final clue Healy had left behind. Once I’d solved the riddle, I sent Fernandes here in advance, to wait for me. To wait for us both.’
‘What if I hadn’t shown myself?’
‘Then I would have set the trap elsewhere. I don’t believe you’re the type of man to shy away from a challenge.’ She grimaced. ‘Put the guns on the table. Slowly.’
She watched him closely as he placed the weapons on the nearest trestle table.
Fernandes moved down from the stage. On the bottom step, his foot caught, and he stumbled.
Quicker than Persis would have thought possible, Skorzeny grabbed his pistol and fired. Fernandes went down with a grunt.
Persis lashed out, kicking the gun out of the German’s hand. She whipped around, swept up her own revolver, and fired.
The retort was extraordinarily loud in the basement room. Skorzeny bellowed in pain, clutching at a spot just below his right shoulder where it met the upper chest; and then his eyes narrowed and he leaped at her.
They went down together, him on top of her, clutching with his left hand at her wrist as she fired off two more shots. She screamed as his weight bore down on her; spots wavered before her eyes.
No!
She gritted her teeth, then reached out with her free arm and stuck a thumb into the wound on his upper chest.
He roared in agony, let go of her gun arm, then smacked backhandedly at her wrist. The blow was powerful enough to dislodge the gun from her hand and send it spinning under the table. He reached back with the same hand and punched her in the jaw.
Her head cracked against the tiled flooring, and she momentarily forgot about the world.
She felt his weight lift from her.
Groggily, she raised her head and saw him limping away, clutching at his shoulder, the manuscript tucked under his arm.
‘No!’ she breathed, but the room began to spin again. She lay back and closed her eyes.
Eventually, she was able to scrabble to her feet.
Her every instinct screamed at her to hurry after Skorzeny, but, instead, she turned and went to Fernandes.
He lay there like a beached whale, his face pale, eyelids fluttering. She saw that he’d taken a bullet to the stomach. A stain darkened the front of his uniform.
Kneeling beside him, she clutched his hand.
It pulsed warmly.
‘Breathe steadily. Don’t close your eyes.’ She looked up at Shah, still sitting in his chair, clutching at himself in terror. ‘Call an ambulance.’ She waited. ‘Now!’
Chapter 47
‘How far can he get? In that state?’ Roshan Seth paced the checker-tiled floor of the Freemason’s Hall foyer, wheeling in a tight arc and almost bumping into Archie Blackfinch, standing silently beside a bust of Swami Vivekananda, the famed spiritualist. ‘His picture will be everywhere by the morning.’
‘Are you sure you want to do that?’ asked Persis.
‘Things have gone too far,’ he said. ‘We have no choice.’ He stared at her. ‘What the hell were you thinking?’
She stiffened. ‘I was sure he was following me. So I made it easy for him. I guessed that if he thought I’d tracked the manuscript down, and that it was only me here, he’d show himself. I was right.’
‘You were reckless! All you did was get Fernandes shot and lose the manuscript.’
Her lips pursed, but she held her tongue, allowing Seth’s fury to wash over her, then: ‘How is he?’
Blackfinch shivered to life. ‘The doctors say it’s touch-and-go. We won’t know if he’ll survive until they get him out of the operating theatre.’
She rubbed the back of her neck, stifling the urge to curse. Her jaw throbbed where Skorzeny had struck her . . . They’d had him!
How had it gone so wrong?
She remembered George Fernandes’s tiny apartment; the incongruous image of the hulking policeman with an infant on his shoulder. She remembered his wife’s fury. What would she say when she found out?
Seth shook his head in disgust. ‘Get yourself cleaned up. Get a good night’s rest. There’ll be a debriefing at eight a.m. tomorrow.’ He exhaled dramatically. ‘They’re going to nail you to the Cross, Persis.’
After he’d left, Blackfinch said, ‘I’d ask you how you were feeling except I suspect you’d bite my head off.’
He moved closer and she was suddenly glad of his presence.
‘They’ll catch him,’ he said. ‘They’ll get the manuscript back.’
She shook her head. ‘No. They won’t. Skorzeny has spent years learning how to evade the authorities.’
He shrugged. ‘I know it’s an important artefact but it is only a book. It’s not as important as your life.’
She met his eyes. For a moment, they just stood there, staring at each other. And then she turned to Tariq Shah, splayed on a sofa in the foyer, still recovering from his ordeal. ‘Could you come with me, please?’
Shah stared at her, then turned to Blackfinch, who was looking at her curiously. ‘I’d do as she says,’ he finally said.
She led them up the carpeted staircase to the first floor, where they stopped at a set of double doors. ‘Is this the main temple?’
‘Yes,’ said Shah.
She waited as the old man unlocked the door.
They walked into the temple.
At first glance, it resembled an enormous courtroom. There were three high chairs positioned at the east, west, and south of the room, like the chairs of judges. A letter G, fashioned from metal and about two feet in height, hung from a chain attached to the ceiling.
Persis reached into her notebook. She turned to the page containing the final riddle, then handed it to Blackfinch, who scanned the inscription:
The road to salvation has many gates,
That which you seek in Cutters embrace awaits,
’Neath Sun and Moon and unchanging skies,
Watched over by God, in litteral disguise.
’Twixt Jerusalem and Mecca, it lies.
‘The road to salvation has many gates refers, I believe, to the central idea of The Divine Comedy, namely, man’s journey to Paradise via Hell and Purgatory. At each stage, for each sinner, there are different ways to repent and achieve salvation. Many gates.’ She waved a hand at the room. ‘The line about Cutters embrace led me here, to Freemason’s Hall, the Bombay home of the Masons – the guild that originated with ancient stonemasons, or stonecutters.’
‘Persis, I don’t understand. Skorzeny already has the manuscript.’
She allowed herself a grim smile. ‘Skorzeny has a wrapped package that he thinks contains the manuscript.’
Astonishment spread over the Englishman’s face.
She turned back to the room. ‘Mr Shah, what do those chairs represent?’
Shah cleared his throat. ‘Well, the three chairs are for the sun, moon, and Grand Master of the Lodge.’
She pointed upwards. The ceiling was painted with a map of stars.
‘’Neath Sun and Moon and unchanging skies,’ breathed Blackfinch. He stared at her. ‘The manuscript is here, isn’t it?’
She next pointed to the hanging G, then looked again at Shah.
‘The G signifies that the Grand Architect is always watching over us.’
‘The Grand Architect being God?’
‘Yes. But we don’t call Him that.’
She tapped the line in the notebook in Blackfinch’s hands. ‘The word litteral threw me at first. Did he mean literal disguise? But I knew Healy wouldn’t have made such a mistake. Besides, he’d used this trick before. Playing with words. So I called Neve Forrester.
‘It turns out that littera is an ancient Latin word meaning “a letter of the alphabet”. It didn’t become clear to me what he could have meant until my father described this temple. Watched over by God, in litteral disgu
ise. God disguised as a letter of the alphabet.’
Blackfinch looked up again at the metal G suspended high above their heads. ‘And the final line? Between Jerusalem and Mecca? What could that possibly mean?’
She smiled. ‘Look around you.’
He glanced around the room, not, at first, seeing. And then it sank in.
Against the walls of the temple were book cabinets, stretching from floor to elevated ceiling. The books were kept behind glass, and there were thousands of them.
She asked Shah to explain. ‘Well, yes, our collection has built up over the past seventy years, ever since the Bombay Lodge was initiated.’
‘Are the books regularly used?’
He shook his head. ‘No. We keep them as a repository of our history. They are rarely taken out of the cabinets.’
Persis turned to Blackfinch. ‘John Healy was a Mason.’
‘How do you know?’
‘I spoke with his father. He was a Mason too.’
She swept her arm over the book cabinets. ‘What better place to hide the manuscript than in plain sight?’ She stepped across the tiled floor to the nearest cabinet. ‘What we’re looking for are religious books.’
‘In that case, you’re looking in the wrong place,’ said Shah. ‘That’s engineering.’ He led them across the room, to another set of towering cabinets. ‘All the religious books are here.’
‘There must be thousands of them,’ said Blackfinch, surveying the shelves.
‘There’d be no use hiding a needle in a haystack containing only a handful of straws,’ she said.
Dropping to her haunches, she peered at the lowest shelf. ‘Unless I miss my guess, Healy hid the manuscript between a copy of the Tanakh – or the Torah – or possibly even the Bible – and a copy of the Koran.’
‘’Twixt Jerusalem and Mecca,’ said Blackfinch.
‘Precisely.’
They set to work with a will.
Fifteen minutes later, Blackfinch shouted from atop a stepladder. He clambered down with a book wrapped in velvet cloth. ‘Right between the Tanakh and the Koran.’ He handed her the volume.
