“Yeah,” said Bolton, “I figured that would get your attention. Someone is trying to sell one of the Unlearnable Truths.”
INTERLUDE EIGHT
The man looked like what he was.
A killer. Though Oscar Bell knew that this was a side effect of his profession, not a calling. The man was not psychotic or sociopathic, and from the reports Bell had paid for, it seemed clear the thief did not particularly enjoy killing. It was a means to an end when all other options proved inefficient.
Bell could appreciate that. The blood he had on his own hands — at however many removes — was equally cold. Emotional attachments to that sort of thing created problems.
Bell hated problems. What made him happy were solutions.
“What do I call you?” asked Bell.
“Priest,” said the killer. They sat on opposite sides of Bell’s big desk. They hadn’t shaken hands when the thief arrived. Bell’s courtesy extended to providing the man a cold beer, which sat untouched, beads of sweat running down the outside of the bottle. Bell hadn’t even suggested a glass of his very old, very extraordinary scotch. The killer was dressed in a dark suit, with a white shirt and dark tie. His sunglasses lay on the edge of the desk.
“‘Priest’?”
“An old joke,” said the killer. “You had to be there.”
“Whatever,” said Bell. “You come very highly recommended, Mr. Priest.”
The man said nothing; merely lifted a finger and let it drop back.
“And yet,” said Bell, “your former employer was killed.”
Priest smiled. “Not on my watch. My team was in Yemen when that went down.” He spoke with a faint Spanish accent. Cultured and elegant, though Bell thought it was overlaid atop a more plebian one. A self-made man.
“Would things have been different had you been there?” asked Bell.
“I could not say,” said Priest. “I wasn’t there.”
Bell shifted the subject. “Have you had time to go over my request?”
“I have.”
“And—?”
“I asked a few discreet questions and received some interesting leads,” said the killer.
“How interesting?”
“We do not yet have a contract, Mr. Bell. I did not mind asking those questions, but sharing the answers is different.”
“Fair enough.” Bell opened a drawer and removed an envelope, weighed it in his hand, and then tossed it onto the desk. Priest took it, opened it, leafed through the sheaf of bearer bonds.
“It’s light.”
“It’s enough to pay for those answers. If I like what I hear we’ll negotiate a fee for the rest.”
Priest nodded. “The Unlearnable Truths aren’t a myth. References to them have been heavily fictionalized, but they are real.”
“And you know this for a fact?”
“I do. It’s why my colleagues referred you to me. I have had some experience with rare collectibles of this kind.” Priest grinned, showing a lot of white teeth. “You might say that this is kind of ‘my thing,’ as the saying goes. It is a very small community of people who deal in such things, and a much smaller group who know about the Unlearnable Truths. Whoever told you about these books, though, must have very specialized information sources.”
“That’s an understatement,” muttered Bell. “Continue, please.”
“Do you know the phrase ‘Index Librorum Prohibitorum’?”
“I can translate the Latin. Let me see… ‘list of prohibited books.’ Something like that?”
Priest nodded. “The Index Librorum Prohibitorum was a list of books deemed heretical, lascivious, or anticlerical. Exciting, yes? Intriguing. Such a list makes you hunger to know what is in those books, does it not?”
“I will admit that I have a certain interest,” conceded Bell.
“Yes,” purred Priest. “The first list was authorized by Pope Paul IV in 1559.”
“Ah,” said Bell, “you’re talking about the Pauline Index.”
“Then you have heard of it.”
“A passing reference,” said Bell. “I’m not too familiar with it. Feel free to explain.”
Priest laughed. “You would not believe what I would tell you.”
Bell sipped his scotch. “I wouldn’t make assumptions, friend. Now, stop dancing around it. Give me the basics. I catch on pretty quickly.”
“Very well. The Index Librorum Prohibitorum has two parts. One was made public through priests whose job it was to remove restricted texts from their parishes. These priests would visit homes and inspect books to make sure that their flocks had no access to heretical, blasphemous, or obscene materials, yes? And as the years passed this became less official and more of an advisement. Banned books, book burnings. These things happen even today.”
“Sure. There are a lot of very aggressive idiots in the world. I do business with some of them.”
“You disapprove?”
“Whatever else I am, Mr. Priest, I am not a fan of censorship, and particularly enforced censorship. It gets in the way of the flow of information. Now, you said that there were two parts…?”
“The main list is the Index Librorum Prohibitorum. That is the published list of forbidden books. But there is a second list that is shared only among the most trusted members of the inner circle at the Vatican. This list is never named except in oblique references, but in the house of the Goddess — and to a few true scholars — this most secret of lists is known as the Unlearnable Truths. Many of these books have been found and destroyed by the Ordo Fratrum Claustrorum.”
Bell picked his way through that translation, as well. “The Order of the Brothers of the Lock…? What’s that?”
“They are a very ancient brotherhood of warrior priests. This brotherhood was created by a papal bull, but you will never find a record of it in any church history. They, like a few other groups, were kept secret. Only a few cardinals knew of them. Most popes, by the way, did not. I doubt Pope Francis will ever be told about it. He is too liberal and humanist. In any case, it was the mission of this brotherhood to seek out the Unlearnable Truths and to protect humanity from the secrets they contained. This they did by any means necessary. Much blood was spilled. Many heretics were burned or butchered by the Brotherhood, because, after all, sacrifices must sometimes be made to protect the flock.”
“Assholes,” groused Bell. “Are these jerkoffs in possession of the Unlearnable Truths?”
“They have some of them. Not all. Some of the Unlearnable Truths were burned by the Ordo Fratrum Claustrorum, others were locked away in special repositories known only to the Brotherhood. Others still remain hidden, lost perhaps. Or kept by those who seek to understand the mysteries contained therein.”
“If this brotherhood is so secret, how is it that you know of them?”
Priest picked up the beer, looked at it, took a sip, and then set it down. Then he unbuttoned his left cuff and pushed up the shirt and jacket sleeve. There, on the inside of his forearm, was a very old tattoo of a burning cross set against the silhouette of a book.
“As I said, Mr. Bell, this is very much my kind of thing.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
His handlers kept people away most of the time. These things had to be managed.
Abdullah was his personal aide and Akbar was his bodyguard. There were others assigned to the detail. The rules were simple. Until and unless the Mullah spoke to one of them in the other voice, then the man was to be kept in absolute isolation. This was critical because when he was not the Mullah of the Black Tent, as he came to be called, he was merely Maki Al-Faiz, a frightened man from a tiny village who did not know what was happening to him. Al-Faiz was probably mad, they decided. Touched by God, as the saying went. Al-Faiz would rave and beg and swear that he was not the same person who spoke with his mouth and stood in his body and who directed the actions of the soldiers of the caliphate. That person, the crazy man, was kept far from the public.