Promethea (6 page)

             
“Science does not exclusively belong to a certain group of people Hélène.” Bauer’s voice broke my concentration like an ancient broken record. “Scientific revelations made by these incredible thinkers do remain cold hard facts, yet it comes to the rest of us to accept them the way we see fit.” He continued. “To me, these are the rules God had spun the universe around. More importantly, we must always lend an attentive ear to those who oppose us. Don’t you think? Now, would you care to join us?”

             
I flaunted a forced grin as I dragged myself back to his desk, sitting opposite of Father Russo and his Mediterranean wide smirk.

             
“So, Franco, tell us more about that message you received warning us of yesterday’s events.”

             
I arched both eyebrows in obvious discontent: “The Vatican had a warning letter and you guys haven’t thought about reaching out for the authorities?
Perfect.”
Bauer did not appreciate my tone. Apparently he did not want to offend his guest.

             
Russo on the other hand seemed laid back and indifferent. “Warning, hatred, abuse... These sentiments are never new to us. If only we had a donation for every single letter we received.” I certainly preferred how he kept his sanity at bay. He was an admirable, positive, forward-thinking man. He reached for his right pocket scrambling for a piece of paper, which he had folded in half.

             
“Yet we did forward it to the Italian police after yesterday’s events. Here, have a look.” He presented the paper to me as I unfolded it back to its original state.

             
This is the Omega, the last and the end. It is where you shall finally release your decadent grip off the most precious, the sign of your reign.

             
                                                                                    Bringer of Light

              Signs of confusion appeared on my face, as Russo began to explain the document.

             
“The first sentence refers to the latter part of Christ’s description in the book of revelation. He referred to himself as the Alpha and the Omega, the first and the last, the beginning and the end. The rest is, well, it’s a warning of depriving us of the most precious: the sign of our reign.”

             
Father Bauer just sat there listening to us. I assumed he had already known about that letter; he was definitely tense but unsurprised. I, on the other hand, just stared back blatantly, keeping my existing aura of deep resentment.

             
“It’s a little too old testament for my taste… so in a nutshell what we have here is a person with a God Complex hiding behind a catchy nickname?” I asked provocatively.

             
In contrast to the strict Austrian Bauer, Russo found this funny enough to crack a smile.
The lively Mediterranean
, that part of the world where emotions are always there on display. I was even expecting a hand gesture or two and as the conversation progressed, he certainly did not disappoint. Yet as sociable as Russo seemed to be, he did not openly disclose the reason why he was here. The concerned authorities could have well handled all these matters over email or phone. More importantly:
How did he get here so fast?
I must say that he was only drawing suspicions with his questionable, premature presence.

              Schuster’s methods did not appeal much to Adam, yet he had to admit: They formed an effective team. The Austrian’s far-reaching authoritative arm was just the perfect ally to Adam’s intellectual curiosity. Even if the Frenchman, at times, felt ruffled by his rigid approach and patronizing demeanour, they were now able to obtain the full address of the absent surveillance professional and quite possibly the only lead they have got from a poor Human Resources lady back at the Hofburg Palace.

             
Together, they had just arrived at a less fortunate part of the city. A neighbourhood that is not well accustomed or even tolerant towards their unwelcomed presence. Many have come here illegally and they would rather not risk being spotted talking to an officer of the law. That is why most grew restless at the looming sight of a police car entering their area. They began retreating to the shadowy back allies, lurking from the safety of the darkness and concealing themselves by staying out of view.

             
“Delić is of Bosnian ancestry. He descends from one of the many families that have left former Yugoslavia to find more bearable living conditions. Surveillance is his night job. During the day, he is studying IT at the local university. He is trying his best to break out of this place and help his parents. You see, they came as refugees but he was born here.” Schuster had already done the background check en-route to Vienna’s 15
th
district.

             
The five policemen took confident steps up four flights of stairs and down a long dark corridor, where eight typical, small one-bedroom apartments stacked boringly on its right side, giving way to ugly broken black and white chequered ceramic tiles that clearly were in dire need of maintenance. The hallway reeked of eccentric cooking smells and resonated with the loud bangs of frying pans and searing cries of hungry babies, as they anxiously awaited exhausted husbands and drained lovers before sending them back on their way again for their night shifts.

             
“206.” Schuster signalled to one of their three escorts to knock on the cheap wooden door, as he crossed his arms anticipating Delić’s answer. Yet, the firm officer’s knock had nudged the door open. The lock had already been broken.

             
“You’re unarmed. Stay behind me.” Schuster whispered sternly as he reached for his brown stitched leather gun holster. The other three officers were already in, stepping slowly on the old creaking wooden floor, where Delić was laying, between a loud television set and a fabric grey Ikea couch, sunk in a pool of drying blood.

             
“Whoever did this may still be in here. Check the rest of the apartment.” Schuster ordered. His eyes followed his subordinate officers until they vanished inside the apartment’s bathroom and bedroom. He then turned to Adam seemingly irritated. “Dubois, look at this; he cannot afford to rent a better place, not even buy proper furniture, yet his house is filled with gadgets: a fifty inch TV, a home theatre, video games consoles and a state of the art computer. Kids these days.”

             
Adam stood there, just silent. The scene was just too much for him to handle. It was one that he had never witnessed before.
He had never gotten his hand dirty,
as his colleagues used to say. Most of his work required him to stay behind a desk coordinating vital data between different law agencies across the globe. Always engaged in theory rather than application. Yet what may have really disturbed him was Schuster’s indifference and seemingly disconnected reaction to such a grim violent encounter.

             
“Why didn’t anyone call the police?” Adam asked feeling increasingly sickened. The smell and sight of blood was nauseating. He pretended to be looking around for evidence but in fact he was just trying to distance himself from the uncomfortable scene.

             
“A lot of people came here illegally, they’d rather avoid our rather unpopular presence in the area.”

             
“… But a murder?!” Adam’s voice came out shrieking that it made Schuster aware of his shakiness. The Frenchman took a deep breath trying to quell his hectic, pulsating heart rate. Yet, his uncontrollable hyperventilation and increasingly sweaty forehead gave away his nervousness. His whole face glistened under the fluorescent bulbs that illuminated the tiny residential space.

             
“Everyone is on his own in this part of the city.” Schuster replied in an apathetic disconnected tone.

             
“IT’S CLEAR!” Exclaimed a loud voice from inside the bedroom.

             
“Alright, you three go ask the neighbours if they had seen or heard anything suspicious… So, Dubois, another dead end?” Schuster asked as he reported the murder on his radio.

             
“Not precisely.” He said. “Whoever did this, did it in a hurry and obviously it wasn’t a robbery; even Delić’s wallet along his other expensive belongings were still there. Let’s just hope that they did not find what they were looking for. Unlike yesterday’s heist, this looks very sloppy.” Adam felt confused, from what he had previously encountered, art heists were almost always non-violent.

             
The Senior Councillor bent down taking a closer look at the body, still refraining from touching it. He did not want to tamper with any evidence before the forensics team arrived.

             
“He was shot at point blank. Three bullets. Two in the chest and the last one entered through his jaw, exiting the back of his skull. I think he was probably being threatened too. There’s a small mark where the gun muzzle was pressed against his cheek. What do you think they were looking for?”

             
That was the only question Adam had a perfectly good answer to. “Just plain old leverage. Whatever power he had over them.”

***

              The question had to be posed and there was obviously no better time than right here and now. I patiently awaited the first conversational pause to reveal my concern. I was actually hoping that the Italian would present me with a convincing explanation.

             
“So how did you make it here so fast, Father Russo?” I asked playfully, yet I could tell that it did not go so well; his facial features tensed and cringed to the extent that I feared the irreversible departure of his joyful mood. He was definitely caught off-guard.

             
“You seem to have suspicions, child. So do you consider me a suspect now Ms Hélène?” He grinned before continuing, “I came here for the latest negotiations with the Austrian ‘Call to Disobedience’. Even if I had just seen him today, I have been here all week. Didn’t you tell her that you have received a letter yourself, Max?”

             
How convenient.
“And I presume you already gave that document to Schuster?” I asked in a frustrated mood. It seemed that everyone around here was hiding one thing or another.

             
“Of course, but it was already too late. I believe they are running their diagnostics now, trying to trace back the letter to where it came from.” Bauer answered while readjusting his glasses.

             
It seemed like yesterday’s events have revealed, in part, the contents of the letter. Everyone had already presumed that ‘the sign of your reign’ had something to do with the various versions of the Holy Spear scattered across Europe. After all, these items were used in coronations for centuries. I sat here processing all the newly presented data. I sensed the irony in being acknowledged by the church as a qualified expert, even if to them I was just a woman, unworthy of ordination. I could clearly see it in Russo’s eyes, which were still fixated on me, looking increasingly aggravated.

             
“Well gentlemen, I think that you should send us this letter officially. The Interpol would then share it with all the designated police forces in the region. As for me, I’d advise you to tighten the security around the Holy Spear in Rome or even consider moving it to somewhere more secure, until we know what it is exactly that we’re dealing with.”

             
A woman lecturing two catholic bishops in a church rather than being burnt at the stake;
things have definitely changed
. As much as they do not like being
preached
by a woman
, which is ironically one of the demands of the ‘Call to Disobedience’, I was sure they would be soon entertaining my ideas. Father Russo was already scratching his bronze dimpled chin in consideration.

             
“We will definitely look into that after yesterday’s events. I’m sure the Pope wouldn’t even mind stating ‘restoration works’ as the main reason for moving the spear along some other invaluable items to quell suspicion.”
Funny how only them could use a white lie
, I thought.

             
“I’d also appreciate it if I can have a photocopy of the Vatican letter to inspect along the one you received here in Vienna. I am willing to compare similarities between the two until you officially submit it.”

             
Russo pointed at the snippet of paper I was holding, “You can have this copy. It was emailed to me this morning. The original shall be sent to the Interpol later this week. Italian bureaucracy, my apologies.” He was joking again; I guess he was no longer bothered by my remarks.

             
I eloquently stood up and planned to head out. “Thank you for trusting me with this piece of information Fathers, yet I have to leave now to reunite with my partner.” Bauer seemed to have the intention of walking me back to the palace but I politely refused. “I am sure you have more important things to discuss with Father Russo.” I politely said, while admittedly I just needed some time on my own.

             
I backtracked my journey down the stone staircase leading back to the main Cathedral hall only to find myself hesitant, unable to leave. I felt compelled to venture all the way across the creamy chequered stone tiles and under the imposing towering concave vaults to get a closer look at a crucifixion statue that hung by the altar. It lynched well above two stories over and above my head, intentionally forcing those beneath it to extend their throats like cattle prepared for slaughter, an ironic and fitting relationship between lambs and their shepherd I presume. Yet my cynicism did not affect the extent to which I was overwhelmed by the spectacle. I felt emotionally crippled, admittedly weak as the events of my sister’s murder rushed back in overflowing abundance to my head, flooding the memory gates I once thought were sealed shut.

             
She was doing this for you.
I couldn’t stop thinking.

             
She had considered herself on a personal crusade when she crossed the massive Atlantic Ocean barrier and settled in Africa, hushing the surrounding cowardly gossips of the sceptics and the doubtful. I recall it clearly now: her avalanching enthusiasm for the prospect of being a more devout Christian, a volunteering Catholic, and how it was an object of pure untainted fascination. It was in the oddest possible way that her college theology studies have awakened the divine in her. It was simply something she was powerless to resist.

             
When she had finally reached that spiritual point, she felt no other urges and no basic needs, she was exclusively consumed by an unachievable idea: playing a part in making up for the xenophobic atrocities committed within the boundaries of our typical Southern American city. She was deeply disturbed by the fact that even up to this very day some parts of the city were still segregated. Shiny suburbs as opposed to festered neighbourhoods splintered the white and rich from the black and poor; everyone knew that New Orleans was no paradise. It was labelled one of America’s ‘Dirtiest Cities’ and the ‘Murder Capital of the United States, by the time I had lived there. Yet with all the doom and gloom surrounding the Mississippi-pumped Jazz-echoing metropolis, I had known no other home. It was one of those charming distinctive cities erected by the French almost exactly three centuries ago and proud residence to my family for as long as it set foot in the vast plains of the new world.

             
On recurring thanksgivings, our relatives would gather around a lavish dinner table, with mouths full of turkey and tongues wet with wine. Their exaggerated family tales may have certainly usually stretched the boundaries of logic wearingly thin, yet they have always managed to hint to an exceptional ancestor whom we actually descended from and inherited his name, Jean-Baptiste Le Moyne.

             
The Frenchman had founded the city on a piece of land that once belonged to a Native American tribe named the Chitimacha. As Emily and I grew more informed, we started noticing how they always deliberately skipped the part about the natives’ current struggle with imminent extinction. Their numbers have actually withered and dwindled to a meagre 700 tribesmen currently drawing their last cultural breaths in the State of Louisiana,
so much for American and family glory
. Yet I was not the only cynic in our gatherings, Emily too started spending an increasingly amount of time in our house’s massive library, drunk on the nectar of knowledge with each book she left vanquished in her tracks. Suddenly, no amount of reading was ever enough. Our library’s two-story atrium became her impenetrable fortress, where she developed an emphatic, nimble skill and versatility for hopping on-and-off the dark wooden shelves’ wheeled steel ladder.