“We don’t,” Athanasius replied. “Malachi has never been a man who could be swayed. And he hates me. He thinks I have betrayed the brotherhood. There is no way he is going to share what he learned with us. I should have known better than to trust him, but I wasn’t counting on him being so — unhinged.”
“Yes,” Thomas agreed, “there was something desperate about him. He’s not going to help us. I fear he is already lost.”
“So it seems we must take matters into our own hands,” Athanasius said, rubbing his hands together as if, on some level, he was enjoying all this. “If we are going to interpret the rest of the stone we need to gain access to the ancient records. You helped me break into the library once before.”
Thomas smiled. “And that was when the lights were still working, the security protocols were in place, armed guards were on constant patrol and unauthorized access was punishable by death. This should be relatively easy in comparison.”
“Can you do it tonight?”
“I’ll need to hook into the library systems to see what is still running and what has been disabled; I don’t want you walking into a trap or tripping any alarms. The absence of the lights will be a big help, and I don’t suppose they’re availing themselves of the night vision goggles, what with ‘the corrupting influence of modernity,’ which means we can use them. They are kept in the control room by the main entrance.”
“Could we gain access via the reading rooms? We could go via the restricted section to the one used by the Sancti?”
“What’s that?” Gabriel asked.
“The Sanctus monks were kept strictly segregated from the rest of the population to preserve the secrets they kept. However, they still had access to the library at certain times when no one else was there, and they had their own reading room. It’s reached by a staircase from the upper section of the mountain. There are other stairways too, one in the prelate’s quarters, one close to the cathedral cave and one just through there.” He pointed to the door leading to the abbot’s bedchamber. “They enabled the trusted senior members of the mountain to meet with the Sancti and partake in their ceremonies. Since there are no longer any of them left, the stairways and the Sancti’s reading room have been unused.” He looked back at the door leading to the bedchamber. “I have the abbot’s key for that door. But not one for the door leading into the reading room. We’d have to force it.”
Father Thomas shook his head. “We would make far too much noise. It’s a heavy door with a solid lock and the reading rooms where Malachi and the black cloaks are residing is right next door. I’d rather break in using my own systems than bludgeon my way through a door. Once we are inside and have acquired the night vision goggles it should be easy. We can find our way to the ancient texts and read anything we like in total darkness. Give me a couple of hours and I’ll have worked out how to get us in. That should also give everyone time to go to sleep. Shall we say midnight?”
Athanasius nodded. “Between matins and lauds.”
“Can I come with you?” Gabriel said, clearly meaning it.
“You’re not going anywhere.” Dr. Kaplan appeared behind Thomas with something in his hand and a serious expression on his face. “You’re far too weak to do anything other than lie here and rest. However, if you really want to help…”
He opened his hand and Gabriel felt his stomach flip when he saw several empty test tubes lying in his palm. “This is the situation. So far we’ve taken eight hundred mils of your blood, which would take your body about five weeks to fully replace. The plasma gets replaced in a day or two. The blood cells take much longer. In the study of disease it is these cells that give us the most information. They’re the things that have battled the disease and, in your case, won. At the moment your body will only just have started replacing the plasma and your white cell count per liter will still be relatively high. As far as virology and toxicology is concerned this is the good stuff, packed full of all the information we need. It would really speed things up if we could take some more of this rich blood now.”
“How much?”
“Another five hundred mils.”
“And how much would that leave me with?”
“Enough; you’d still have seventy-five to eighty-five percent of your usual amount, which is in the safe zone for a healthy patient. My concern is that the last time we took blood it triggered some kind of mild relapse, though you recovered quickly and seem fine now.” He looked at the ECG monitor connected to Gabriel’s finger by a clip. “Your vital signs are all strong and there’s no obvious reason for concern. But ultimately it’s your decision.”
Gabriel looked at the stained-glass window, the peacock motif hardly visible now as evening darkened the sky behind it. “What the hell,” he said. “I’m not going anywhere. But if I do pass out please don’t wake me until morning.” An assistant appeared from nowhere and started to tighten Gabriel’s bindings.
“Just a precaution,” Kaplan said. “In case you do have another fit.”
Gabriel turned to Athanasius. “Good luck,” he said. “And I sincerely hope you have a better night than I’m about to.”
81
Malachi’s candle lit up the words carved into the inside of the upper curve of an archway as he passed through it: CRYPTA REVELATIO—Vault of the Revelation.
Most of the library was organized according to date and origin, with the newest items nearest the entrance. But the contents of the Crypta Revelatio were drawn from every culture, every century and every part of the world. It was a collection with one unique subject in common: all of the texts and references gathered there contained prophetic accounts of the end of the world.
He made his way over to the far side of the vault and held his dying candle to a fresh one until the new wick caught and wavering orange light rippled across a desk entirely buried beneath books and sheets of paper filled with Malachi’s dense handwriting. Collapsing in the seat at his desk, he grabbed a fresh sheet of paper and took up his pen. His hand shook as he wrote, his lips moving as he recalled the symbols he had seen. He had not been able to memorize them all in the short time, but he had seen enough. He drew the symbols from memory, writing his interpretation of each next to it so he could capture as much of it as he could remember: one sign for a rider — a warrior on horseback; one sign for the Citadel, which occurred more than once; and at the very end of the prophecy the symbol of a skull — meaning death or an end — followed by the moon in the sun, representing a day.
End of Days.
He pulled the candle over and his magnified eyes moved behind the lenses of his spectacles, his skittish hands extensions of his tumbling thoughts as they searched through the accumulated mass of doom that spilled across the tabletop and down to the floor, looking for one item in particular. He had read and reread the documents so many times that the terrible imagery and predictions they contained bled into his dreams as he slept here each night in his nest of prophesies.
He found what he was looking for buried beneath the handwritten, original manuscript of the Poetic Edda and a first edition of Les Propheties by Michel de Nostredame. The text was written on papyrus in ancient Greek and bound into a codex with thin strips of leather. Such binding was usually reserved for pristine texts but these pages were filled with crossings out and additions crammed in the borders and between every line.