Promethea (2 page)

             
Vienna’s Hofburg Palace complex is one of the Imperial City’s most venerable tenants. For a period of more than six hundred years, the ever-expanding structural maze has been the designated home of some of Austria’s most powerful rulers, notwithstanding being the official residence of the current Austrian head of state. It consisted of a sprawling network of edifices comprising of museums, residences, stables and even managed to confine an ample space for the Austrian national theatre. It functioned as a cultural hub, an astute focal point of great interest in the middle of the artistically rich, peaceful European capital. To serve here was an outright privilege. Only the masters of their trades were allowed to practice their crafts here in these premises, including those who were in charge of its security. Everything ran like a blissful symphony around the clock, so much that guards often complained about the dull monotony in their private time of leisure. Yet, their false sense of confidence worked against them at that late hour of such an atypical night, when events took a grim, spine-chilling turn and the Swiss Wing’s searing alarm buzzer filled its corridors with panic. It caused some unexpected shockwaves that prompted the on-guard security officers off their slumber, as they leapt off their chairs and got into an immediate frantic pursuit of a hasty, all white clad, agile spectre.

             
The elusive man in a white ninja outfit ransacked the hallways, dodging one guard after another. He possessed such an exquisite unique agility that served him well against his heavier, more muscular foes that seemed to be caught in a serious disadvantage. Physical strain was quick to take its toll on the Austrian guards. It crept ruthlessly on the breathless pack striving to keep track of the highly acrobatic trespasser. Yet, he seamlessly manoeuvred and feinted across the corridors, seemingly knowing them by heart. He had probably studied them and engraved them in his memory. Behind him, he had left a long trail of broken priceless displays to obstruct those in his shadow. He dashed and swerved with incredible speeds in obvious dismay to the outcries demanding him to hold his ground. Then, and in a definitive act of showmanship, he waved his hand like a wizard towards one of the side windows propelling away its external steel balustrade, which he later used for his escape to the rooftops. The officers’ ears muffled, rang and whistled as the imposing bang left them in awe and acute disorientation.

             
The intruder slipped to higher ground, pledging allegiance to his frosty surroundings. The crawling winter snow has been relentless in its perpetual annual quest, slowly claiming dominion over the city and its ancient rooftops. It offered benevolent refuge for those who wished to remain undetected, as long as the implied terms have been agreed. The runner blended flawlessly with his all-white backdrop, which bestowed upon the parkouring intruder the gift of anonymity, presenting him with a considerable advantage over the panting officers. He headed north through the searing chimneys of the former 13
th
century castle and towards the wine-coloured clay tiled sloped roof of the Redouten Wing, obliging more reinforcements to pour in, hell-bent on his apprehension. The once darting men tussled against the new adverse hunt conditions. They tripped and toddled as their target dashed through the towering scattered brick chimneys. Their bodies faltered and their eyesight played tricks, even the mere act of tracking him proved almost impossible. The circumstances may have already been harshly dire, yet there was still quite a wide margin for further dismay: The pursued man had unexpectedly completely vanished from their field of vision only to reappear almost instantly a hundred meters away, breaking conventional laws of physics for the second time around. He stood north at the extremity of the Imperial stables gazing back at them before resuming his sprint. Baffled and desperate to catch up, guards rushed farther ahead only to catch a glimpse of him climbing down a drainage pipe and escaping through Stallburgg Alley, until he completely disappeared, veiled by pitch-black darkness of the night.

             
The breathless Austrian Police Inspector’s radio buzzed after a brief static: “Did you get him?!” Exclaimed a tense voice in German.

             
“Negative.” He replied

             
“They’re not going to be happy about this.”

***

              No direct flights operate between my hometown’s Louis Armstrong and Saint Exupéry airports. This unavoidable fact had left me with almost none other better option than a fourteen-hour 2 stops journey to reach Lyon from New Orleans. It seems to me like no matter how long would I stretch my age in numbers, I shall never be at ease when taking off the ground… Certainly my local airport was not one that made things any easier. Aside from its distasteful architectural features, and the incomprehensible lack of proper recreational outlets, a relatively recent accident played its part in adding to my psychological woes. In 1989, a Pan Am’s Boeing jetliner’s pilot struggled to gain altitude on one of the airport’s three runways, which sent the plane crashing into a nearby residential neighbourhood killing all those on board plus a few others who were on the ground… Hardly if at all poetic.

             
As my plane made its pre-assigned voyage ascending well beyond the thick entangled fibres of cotton candy clouds, I began to experience an elevated sense of relief. Mainly because statistically most flight accidents occur during take-offs and landings. Yet here above 35,000 feet, everything is motionless, monotonous and serene, well over pitiful human grievances. The stillness of the familiar scene had always forced an absurd idea into my head:
Is this how God perceives us? Are our sufferings so miniscule that they go by unnoticed?
I was still slightly shaken by what had happened that past week yet I decided not to dwell on that notion much longer. Instead I pulled some noise-cancelling headphones out of my bag, pressed the shuffle button on my music player and attuned my ears to the familiar voice of Carla Bruni as my eyelids slid to a comfortable complete shut, unable to no longer withstand their very own weight.

             
It took me thousands of miles and many necessary jet lags to bring my globetrotting experience to an end; by the time I reached Lyon’s international airport,
I had finally felt at home. At the immigration gates, an exquisite blonde French muse in formal navy attire greeted me with a blindingly white smile that I felt compelled to mirror. One thing I learned during my decade-long residence in France was going the extra mile concealing my American background unless exceptionally necessary and so far, this had been serving me quite well. I was able to avoid snobbish smirks and nods of disapprovals targeting our dissident approach to politics, culture and lifestyle, which proved to be quite criticized in Europe. Luckily, a combination of my long forgotten French family ancestry and recently acquired fresh travel documents has been serving me just fine. I presented Cécile with my official papers, a black coloured passport with the words “INTERPOL” and “Passport” engraved in Latin and Arabic silver letters on its front cover. The words placed much confidence in her that she speedily stamped the document after a mere swift glance. “Bienvenue!” the French officer cheered gleefully as she handed me back my papers.

             
Arrivals have always been some of my favourite experiences; I had always hated loose ends and contrarily they have always struck me as closures of some sort. The strikingly post modern and beautifully incepted passageway expanding out of the airport hinted at what to expect from the architectural chef-d'oeuvre that is the Saint Exupéry TGV station. Even this late in the day, the sunlight-flooded bird shaped steel constructed hall felt like a deserved visual pat on the back after such an exhaustive journey. The station was relatively empty; it was too expensive to be a popular way back to the city. Yet, money was never an issue for me. I had always preferred paying extra just to enjoy Santiago Calatrava’s manmade wonder and limit human interactions to a confortable bare minimum. I took the space age like bullet train and before I knew it, a few metro line switches later, I finally made it home. I had rented a studio apartment in La Croix Rousse for about four years now and was finally considering buying it. Compared to the other apartments I rented earlier, this one was fairly close to where I worked, which gave me the luxury of enjoying a 30-minute walk everyday along the Rhone, crossing Winston Churchill Bridge to the Interpol’s headquarters. A blessing most working-class citizens do not usually possess. However and as pleasant as these strolls proved to be, I was not put off the idea of owning my own car, a white Peugeot 308 cc. The carmaker was not only overly popular in France but was also one of the scarce brands unavailable back in the US. Peugeot was also one of the few manufacturers that offered a line of coupé cabriolets, not to mention being the one to actually come up with and introduce the retractable hardtops to the world back in 1934. My brain was an encyclopaedia of random knowledge that I seem to have collected throughout the years. I would like to think that I have amassed some sizeable knowledge between its tiny curly grey creases.

             
That last train of thought fired up my OCD, I
needed
to check on my car and make sure it was still in order before going up and calling it a day. Yet as I loomed closer, I could not help but to notice a man leaning back by the driver’s door, apparently waiting for me. He turned his head slowly, as I approached, sporting a courteous friendly smile: “Hélène, you’re back!”

             
“Adam, you know very well that I hate it when someone touches my car…” I replied gloomily.

              Werner Brunner took unusually shorter steps back to the Police Department offices where he was recalled for debriefing. The blond Viennese Police Inspector, who stood just shy of two meters tall, had no credible explanation to what he had experienced earlier that day. “An incredibly powerful, teleporting space-folding burglar wizard? I better have a more convincing explanation to fend off the Senior Councillor.” The Austrian giant murmured. Yet, he was not alone in his bewilderment; all the other officers had unanimously witnessed the same implausible course of events, even if for obvious reasons vowed to remain sceptical. They had nothing to declare except for the exchange of vague yielding glances, as Brunner passed by on his way to the Senior Councillor’s office. “This is it.” He muttered as he stood by the black-rimmed frosted glass door of Senior Councillor Karl E. Schuster before twisting the doorknob nervously on his way in.

             
Schuster was a tediously organized man, and this is how he probably effectively climbed the hierarchal ladder. He never socialized nor talked in abundance with any of his subordinates, which created an allure of fear and respect. His wall was an extension of his arduous life; a shrine of achievements, shimmering with framed acknowledgments and merits. Stepping into his Zen theme inspired office interior was always a scene to behold. Soothing shades of whites, greys and hints of dark browns dominated his workspace, with only the most innate and primitive of furniture pieces present. No matter how much work he had to do, he always had his desk organized and uncluttered. The Senior Councillor was on the phone when Brunner stepped in, which to whom he signalled to sit down. The whole office seemed ablaze with the flickering lights indicating a frenzy of messages, emails and phone calls, yet somehow Schuster was characteristically prudent. He had always appeared calm and in control. In contrast, Brunner sat down anxiously, in acute discomfort. He looked down feeling unnerved when his superior ended his phone call and granted him his full, undivided attention.

             
“I have read your report. Do you have anything to add or perhaps,
amend
?”

             
The room’s breadths started to shrink, or so felt Brunner. His heart drummed frantically as droplets of cold sweat slid hastily down his spine. He knew that the scenario suggested by his report seemed farfetched, almost ridiculous, which forced upon him a painful struggle; either to stand by what he believed was the ultimate truth, putting his professional credibility in question or to yield to the increasingly daunting pressure exercised by his peers.  “No sir, I know what I saw.” He nervously answered.

             
Schuster seemed unconvinced. He gawked into Brunner’s eyes as if peeking and sifting through his soul, attempting to validate his unconvincing recount of things. It created a moment of uncomfortable silence, which was a classic Schuster trait. Only he was able to weave such intense encounters, ones that can be seen as being built with such an elaborate theatrical talent. He had always been a condescending superior, a sadist perhaps, giving himself an unrestrained access to other people’s affairs. He considered these his ultimate playgrounds, places where he was allowed to push people around with his aggressive curiosity just to see what made them tick. Right now, he was merely laying the foundations for his next gambit. He relaxed his back on his extremely comfortable leather chair and released a long sigh, which was then followed by a command in the form of a proposition. “I have a chore for you.” He said, presenting his assistant with a deceiving illusion of choice.

             
The Austrian Conference of Catholic Bishops had appointed one of its own members, Maximilian Bauer of the Archdiocese of Wien, to oversee the case. He was to act as the primary link between the Church and the State in this particular sensitive issue. It was a move that left Schuster furious. He saw no reason for the Church to meddle with his affairs, but more importantly he had no time to spare entertaining their trivialities. That was until he read Brunner’s report. As absurd as it may have been, it inspired Schuster to use him to his advantage. Everyone has a purpose in life, he believed, even if that purpose was minimal and insignificant. It was time for him to move his shameful pawn to intercept the Church’s bishop. They could both go on and waste each other’s time for all he cared. He had much more important matters to attend to. The Interpol is planning to send two agents to help in the investigation and coordinate a regional manhunt. There was where he, the leader, really ought to be.

             
There was a definite patronizing underlying tone in the air that did not appeal much to Brunner. He fully knew that he was being marginalized and ridiculed, brushed aside so carelessly. Yet what made things unbearably worse was his colleagues’ lack of support, it severed his credibility to a considerable extent. He felt abandoned and adrift, unable to digest the harsh criticism. Schuster’s orders may have been demeaning, yet Brunner knew that this was the most convenient opportunity for him to be dismissed from his superior’s office with no further humiliation, and as so he gladly took it.

***

              “Couldn’t this wait till the morning?” I asked with stern eyes and a bemused tone. “You know exactly where I was.” I could clearly see him struggling to supress faint signs of embarrassment.
The things they teach you about human behaviour in the force
. I, nonetheless, knew that he had a perfectly good reason to be here waiting for me. Adam was a well-mannered, by-the-book, square-jawed heartthrob, and he did look like he was working overnight with his loose grey wool twill square tie, slightly messed up dark hair and weary blue eyes. “So, what is it?” I asked again more firmly, pitching for a conversational fumble: As smart and confident Adam could sometimes be, his self esteem always shattered around me.

             
“I am sorry about your sister. You are right this could
have waited till the morning but I thought about giving you a heads up since you will probably be heading to Austria tomorrow.”

             
Great… Five airports in three days… that was
exactly
what I needed. “Say, why don’t you buy me a cup of coffee?” I asked fairly gently this time around. “Things have not been great since,
you know,
and I happen to know just the perfect place.” I left my small red suitcase in the car; it has always been an advantage travelling lightly, and we walked together to this little café a few turns and twists from the building where I currently reside. The place was a family-run business, which made interactions with the owners exceptionally friendly. I suppose this is what you would normally get when you avoid global capitalist conglomerates. The owner was a sixty something year old woman who ran the business alongside her daughter after her late husband died out of old age a few years back. It was a simple place. Atmospheric and elegant, yet what had always brought me back here was their spacious tranquil terrace. It overlooked a peaceful stone paved courtyard, where white and grey pigeons gathered around a small tan marble fountain looking for scraps of food that got purposefully left by the café’s visitors. Everything was designed to human scale as opposed to the concrete jungle I had just abandoned a whole continent behind.

             
Adam reached for his black leather handbag’s zipper to extract some hastily researched papers and photographs. He then began recounting a certain panic in Vienna. Apparently, authorities in many surrounding countries were forced to cooperate overnight in an attempt to retrieve a seemingly important stolen item. Here is where the Interpol weighs in: Interpol agents do not make arrests themselves, we, on the other hand, act as a liaison between different law enforcement agencies. We work to minimize the grinding caused by the linguistic, cultural and bureaucratic disparities across nations.

             
“So you wouldn’t believe what was stolen overnight…” He then paused for a moment, trying to build some sort of a climax before feeling overwhelmingly ashamed. “I suppose you’re not in the mood for guessing. It’s the Holy Lance!” He exclaimed. I did not give him the expected reaction, I looked at him with a blank, bland face, not batting an eyelid. I have always enjoyed watching excitement as it fled his face like a child receiving a knitted sweater on Christmas day. I had always toyed with him in such fashion back then when we were dating.

             
“So what is so holy
about this lance?” I intentionally throw him a bone, giving him something to brag about. He frowned a bit, knitting his eyebrows while readjusting his posture on his wooden chair. “Well, you’re the expert I’m sure you know… the holy lance, the spear of destiny, the lance of Longinus: The spear used to stab the side of Jesus as he hung on the cross.”

             
The story certainly neither starts nor ends where Adam here thought it did. I had definitely known better. Two millennia ago, the Roman Empire had considered one’s crucifixion to be a humiliating, deliberately slow and painful affair, so much that Roman citizens were never subject to it no matter the offense or the circumstances might have been. If a non-Roman man was subject to it, however, the execution could have always been hastened by crurifragium: breaking and crushing one’s legs to prevent him from pushing up his feet against the cross for petty gasps of air. This was exactly the intention of Roman Centurion Caius Cassius Longinus who was present on this notable day. The soldier had approached the bloodied body Christ steadily with the intent to put an end to his agonies. The plan was to accelerate the execution so it would conclude before Sabbath, the weekly day of rest and worship for the Jewish community. However, when Longinus stretched his spear stabbing Christ on the side to validate whether he was still alive, he realized that no further action was in fact needed; the crucified man was already dead. The infamous stab was the last of five holy wounds marked in detail in Christianity. One that also gave way to a significant biblical event: The discharge of blood and water from Christ’s side; a sign many Christians believe to be pointing to both his human and divine sides. The Longinus tale wove even more intricately over the years. It was said that he converted to Christianity after blood from the wound fell upon his blind eye and healed it. Eventually he was granted the stature of saint and a sculpture was erected in his name at St. Peter’s Basilica in Rome.

             
Oddly enough, the act was also pivotal in starting a long series of urban myths, both old and modern, about the spear’s alleged mystical powers and its ability to determine the outcomes of wars and battles. Not to mention, the influence it had on the rise and fall of chief historical figures that once held it in their possession. The eyebrow-raising list includes Emperors Constantine, Fredrick Barbarossa and Charlemagne who carried the spear into battles, as well as, Napoleon who craved it obsessively. Yet what would a similar list be without the most prolific occultist Adolf Hitler who actually displaced the fabled relic out of Vienna and back to Nuremberg where it was once held during the Middle Ages, believing it would grant him indefinite power and victory over the Allied forces during World War II.

             
Adam probably struggled to get even the bare minimum of any coherent relevant information overnight, any if at all which may add to my pre-existing knowledge at the very least. He was right: I was the expert on this matter and I was quite sure he was not going to tell me anything new or of relevance. “Well, why was I the one to go? I am sure there had been so many other alternatives given my circumstances.” I enquired.

             
“It’s
we
actually and you already knew that it was always going to be you.” Adam replied.

             
He was right. It would seem like I work exclusively on art heists and light, non-violent crimes. From a Picasso, Matisse and Monet heist at Rotterdam’s Kunsthal museum to a Degas swoop at a private E.G. Bührle Collection in Zurich when I first joined the force; I covered them all. I was efficient, their very best in what we categorized as
illicit traffic in works of art
.
Yet, I had always believed that misogyny had a lot to do with assigning me to what I had always considered petty errands. I truly believed, that all the interesting grim cases were unashamedly allocated to men.

             
“The tickets are already booked. We’re leaving tomorrow at noon.” He concluded his sentence in firm resolution.

             
I lowered my empty cup of coffee and placed it equidistantly from the edges of the orange plastic coaster underneath, which had a doodle referencing
Le
Chat Noir
, the first, and most famous French modern cabaret. It was so iconic that some of the most prominent artists such as the great Picasso used to look for it when they came to Paris. I glanced back at Adam and he already knew I was in one of my usual trances. He could sit by me all day, yet I felt it was time for me to leave, even if I really never wanted to. I walked back home jetlagged and tense, wrestling to put a conclusive end to such a needlessly prolonged day.