“But it makes sense,” Michael said. “It’s the Biblical apocalypse, isn’t it? And at the same time he paints John, the author of Revelation? For reassurance about deliverance? The Baptist may be a strange figure, but he looks incredibly serene to me.”
“Does it occur to you that if this kind of apocalypse was in Leonardo’s mind at the end of his life, that our quarry may be filled with something of the same horror and madness? And what could you do with twenty billion nuyen?” Serrin said, shaking a little.
“Oh, hell,” Michael breathed, turning a little pale himself. “You don’t think, surely-”
“I don’t know. We could be following the wrong route entirely. We just don’t know. And what did his biographer mean by saying that John the Baptist leads to every temptation?”
“Look, guys, I’ve had enough of this bollocks,” Streak said suddenly, getting to his feet. “You two are talking out of your arses. How about finding me someone to shoot? That, I can do.”
Michael had just opened his mouth to hurl some reply when there was a soft knock at the door. It was a maid, small and dark, holding a silver tray with a small card on it. When bade enter, she looked about her.
“You are English Michael?” she said, looking at the man.
“I am, thank you. That is for me?” he replied, puzzled. “Thanyou,” she said sweetly, putting the tray down on the table before him and sashaying out of the room.
“Who knows we’re here?” Michael questioned.
“Don’t touch it,” Streak growled. “It could have contact poison.”
“The maid isn’t dead,” Serrin said sarcastically. Streak pulled a pair of tweezers from one of his pockets and held up the card for Michael to read.
“A small token of esteem will arrive for you at five clock this afternoon,” Michael recited. “Beautiful handwriting.”
“That’s it?” Serrin enquired.
“That’s it.”
“From whom?”
“I haven’t the foggiest.”
“Get that bloody maid back in here!” Streak snarled. He took a couple of paces to the doorway.
“Let me,” Michael stopped him in a weary tone of voice. “I think I can handle this a little more diplomatically.”
He left for the domestics quarters and returned within couple of minutes, looking distinctly puzzled. “She doesn’t remember.”
“Oh, great, someone called no more than five minutes ago and she can’t remember what he looked like?”
“No. She doesn’t remember anyone calling. She doesn’t remember giving me the card. She says she’s been stocking the linen cupboards.”
“Did you get the right maid?”
“Give me a break,” Michael complained, “I can tell the difference between a maid in her twenties, five foot one or so, slim and dark, and one who looks like a retired member of the Bulgarian Olympic shot-putting squad.”
“Can you deal with it?” Streak asked Serrin. He drew the obvious implication that the maid must have had some memory-affecting suggestion implanted magically in her mind.
“Possibly, but why? He’s going to be back at five o’clock, right?”
“I suppose so,” Streak said, fidgeting. “I’ll be waiting for the bugger when he gets here.”
“We might actually want to talk to him,” Serrin pointed out.
“I had lasers in mind,” Streak said defensively. “I think we might opt for something a little less aggressive,” Serrin replied sharply. “Whatever, we’ll wait for Geraint. He should be back soon, and we’ve got three hours before the little token turns up.”
“Can we go sightseeing?” Kristen asked plaintively. “I’d really like to get out of here and look around.”
Serrin was on the point of refusing, when he stopped to think about it. “I don’t see why not if we stick to a car,” he said. “After this morning it would be best not to go about on foot. If they were prepared to take a crack at us outside a church, they’d take a crack anywhere.”
“Okay.” She was a little disappointed, and not able hide it very well.
“Look, when this is all over we’ll come back and see the place properly. And it’ll all be over one way or another very soon,” Serrin said soothingly.
“Yeah, and whether the Jesuits still want to kill you may still be up for grabs,” Streak pointed out. “Sorry be a party-pooper, but-”
“I think Geraint just got back,” Michael said, looking out the window. “Keep any wisecracks down. I was winding him up before, but I think this won’t have been much fun for him.” He decided, on impulse, not to trust Streak’s discretion in particular, so he got up and raced downstairs to the hallway.
It didn’t look good, “You okay?”
“Don’t ask. It’s no use. Nothing has changed. If anything, she drinks even more than before.” Geraint’s voice was filled with sadness, weariness, but above all resignation. “I want to be out of here tonight. I’ll fix something with the consulate. Get packed.”
“Someone is delivering something for us at five o’clock. I guess,” Michael extrapolated wildly, “that it may be some kind of message from our target. From the blond man, probably.”
“All right,” Geraint said, too drained of emotional energy to argue. “Get packed so we can be out of here right afterward. I have some calls to make. See you later.”
He didn’t even ask about their continuing researches, just made his way to his room and locked the door behind him.
That’s the difference between us, Michael thought after his friend had disappeared from view. We can both do the British gentleman act to a tee. Everyone looks for the deeper stuff behind that facade. I’m the lucky one. I don’t have any depth. I am facade. It’s a lot less stressful like that. I don’t end up locking myself in my room.
With a shrug, he turned and followed his friend up the stairs.
Across the city, three men stood ashamed before a seated figure, their heads held rigid but their eyes downcast. Their interrogator wore clothes akin to those of a Vatican cardinal, but simpler and more austere. Eyes the gray of graite stared out at them over the bridge of his hooked nose.
“So you failed,” was all he said speaking in harsh Spanish.
The men stayed silent.
“And now they may be one step nearer. Fortunately, we ahead of them. We know where the heretic is now. And against my better judgment, I shall grant you a second chance. Not that I will trust you alone, needless to say. Nadal will command the unit.”
The men did not look at each other, did not move at all, but their hearts sank. Juan Nadal was as fanatical as any commander they could have hoped to avoid. Formally titled an Assistant, nothing could have been further from the truth. Nadal was as powerful as the General himself and when he spoke at the Gesu, everyone listened. Those who had worked with Nadal in the New Inquisition didn’t speak of it. His name itself was only whispered, and then in fear.
“I hardly need add that if you fail this time, you will have an eternity to pray that you might receive the blessed mercy of purgatory. Remember that the faithful who disappoint God are more damned than those who have never heeded his words. Do not fail Him again.”
The men turned away and said nothing as they trooped quietly toward the unvarnished wooden door. The one to the left of the group twitched just slightly, a muscle in his left hand overtensed and dysfunctional. He bailed his hand into a fist and said nothing.
22
Michael had shooed the others out of the room and was busy skipping through the electronic static, He knew the LTG number of the Priory system at Rennes-le-Chateau, and now that he’d recovered he was finally doing what he should have done much earlier.
Somewhere there has to be a directory, he thought; somewhere, I can find who was connected to that system; who entered it, the records will be somewhere. Oh, I just love these blind hunts, and I don’t expect the icons will be the obvious ones.