The Cathar Secret: A Lang Reilly Thriller (39 page)

     Lang tightened it, simultaneously using his other hand to produce the black spray paint. With a hiss, the camera was blinded. Lang could only hope no one had been monitoring it at the second of his entry.

     The old priest stood, clearly wondering what was going on. Lang shoved Steinmann into the table, sending it, and the man behind it, crashing to the floor. In a step, Lang was spraying a second camera.

     Steinmann spun around, his face registering the shock of recognition. "You!"

     "You were expecting Beelzebub himself?"

     Steinmann quickly regained his composure. "You may as well be. Whatever you want here, you know you'll never get out before the Swiss Guard take you prisoner."

     Lang drew the Browning slowly, letting both priests get a good look at it as the old man painfully climbed to his feet. "What I want is information."

     The older priest's eyes darted between Lang and Steinmann. "You, you're threatening men of God! You're headed straight to hell!"

     "You're hardly the first to make that observation."

     The Jesuit's gaze never left Lang. "They told me you were resourceful, Mr. Reilly, but breaking into the Church's most secret archives . . . Well, you'll never get away with it. As for information," he nodded to the endless rows of shelves, "there's no index. Methuselah himself would never live long enough to find something without knowing where it is."

     Lang motioned with the Browning. "That's why you're going to help me."

     Steinmann's lips parted, more a grimace than a smile. "And why would I do that?"

     Instead of answering, Lang spun Steinmann around so the Jesuit faced the wall. With the hand not holding the Browning, Lang patted him down, stopping at a side pocket. Reaching inside, Lang produced a small vial. He held it up to the light as though to read the label before slipping it into his own pocket.

     "You can't . . ." Steinmann protested.

     "I not only
can
; I
have.
You want your nitroglycerin pills back, you cooperate."

     "How did you know?"

     The color of the man's skin might well have been a billboard announcing cardiovascular problems, but Lang said, "I know more than you might think. Nightly visits to these archives, for instance."

     Surprise flickered and died across the Jesuit's face. "I need those pills."

     "And I need information. The difference is, I can live without the information."

     "And I can get more pills."

     Lang nodded amiably. "Of course you can. Tomorrow. That won't help you if you have an attack tonight. Am I wrong or are you already breathing heavily? Bet your blood pressure has skyrocketed."

     Steinmann's hand went to his chest, a gesture that Lang guessed was almost involuntary.

     Lang moved toward the exit. "What's it going to be? Sooner or later someone's going to notice the security cameras aren't working and come to investigate. Either you take me to where in the archives you go each night or I'm gone. So are your pills. Want to bet you won't need them before you get a new supply?"

     He could almost see Steinmann think for what seemed an eternity. Finally, the Jesuit nodded as though making an agreement with himself. "Very well. Follow me."

     Lang used the Browning to motion to the older priest. "You, too, father. I'm not leaving you here to call for help."

Salzburg

About the Same Time

H
EIM FROWNED AS HE LOOKED OUT
of the only window his small room had. The streetlights showed it was still snowing, near-blizzard conditions.

     One more thing gone wrong.

     A white curtain of snow had been falling since early that morning, closing the roads outside of town. No chance to drive to Oberkoenigsburg in the rental car that was costing him sixty-five euros a day. Most likely, it had also prevented the reopening of the ski slope at the top of the mountain. And the child had cried most of the day and wouldn't eat. Heim had resisted the temptation to drug the little boy, put him into a semiconscious state to stop the annoying sniveling; but he feared the child might be over-medicated already. Who knows what sort of things Gratz had been giving him to keep him quiet?

     Not that Wynn-Three's health was of concern. Once the location of whatever Gratz had been seeking was ascertained, the little boy's well-being was going to take a definite downturn anyway. The problem was that no one had the slightest idea what a steady dosage of tranquilizers and sleeping pills would do to the subconscious, that place where memory of the former life lay.

     Heim glanced over to the shabby sofa where the child whimpered under a blanket.

     If the weather forecasters were right, this accursed snow would stop
soon. The roads should be cleared by midday tomorrow. With a little luck, this would be the last night with the boy. By tomorrow, he might be rich beyond any hope he had ever entertained, rich and on his way to where the Jews would never find him.

     Almost as sweet was the prospect of being shed of this dreary child.

The Vatican

L
ANG FOLLOWED THE TWO PRIESTS DOWN
a long corridor lined with closed cabinets, behind which were shelves of a millennia of Church history. He was searching the high-arched ceiling, noting the placement of security cameras at regular intervals. Hopefully, the image of three priests would cause no concern. It was the ones that were blacked out that lent urgency to Lang's mission.

     Steinmann's steps were becoming slower, his breath labored.

     "There!" The Jesuit was grasping his chest with his right hand, pointing with the left. "What you want is in there."

     "Get it."

     "Get it yourself."

     Lang produced the pill bottle, turning it in his hand. "From the way you're sweating, having a hard time breathing, I'd guess you need these sooner rather than later."

     "At some point," Steinmann puffed, "someone is going to notice there is no picture from those cameras and come to investigate."

     "Your choice: you can stall until that happens or get your nitroglycerine right now."

     The Jesuit was not too weak to glare. He opened a cabinet, ran his finger along a stack of scrolls, and extracted one. "Here. Now give me back that bottle."

     Lang moved back, too far for Steinmann to reach him in a single step, and unrolled what felt like vellum.

     He studied the words a second and looked up. "It's in some Oriental language."

     Perspiration was shining on Steinmann's face and his color, if possible, was even more pale. "That is not of my doing, Mr. Reilly. Now, if you please, my pills."

     Lang rolled up the scroll. "I believe there is a translation."

     "Please," the older priest begged, "Can you not see Father Steinmann is ill?"

     Lang ignored him, staring at the Jesuit. "The translation, please."

     Steinmann extended a sheaf of papers beginning to yellow with age. He managed a sardonic smile. "The only translation is in Latin. Much good may it do you. I suppose you read Latin?"

     Lang glanced at the pages. "Just so happens." He stuck them in a pocket, handing the bottle back to Steinmann. "I'd suggest you take one quick."

     Steinmann's fingers fumbled with the top for a second before he made a choking sound. Both hands clawed at his chest, the vial of pills clattering to the marble floor. He dropped to his knees as if in prayer, mumbled something through lips foaming with spittle, and pitched forward.

     The older priest knelt, cradling the Jesuit's head and glaring at Lang. "If he dies, it is on your head."

     Lang didn't stay to argue.

     As he crossed the Campo Santa Teutonica, three priests dashed by him in the opposite direction, one of whom carried what looked like the small black bag physicians used in the long-ago days of house calls. Behind them came two large men in suits, each with a gun in his hand. Lang supposed they were Swiss Guards.

     He certainly wasn't going to ask.

     No one noticed the priest making his way toward St. Peter's Square.

     Once beyond the lights of the square, Lang ducked into the first alley he could find to remove his cassock, collar, and hat, all of which went into the Tiber as he crossed back over it. He forced himself to walk at a normal pace, the stride of a tourist enjoying Rome by night.

     The Piazza Navona, as usual, was lit as bright as day. Lang found a seat in front of a
trattoria
across from Bernini's magnificent Fountain of
the Four Rivers supporting an Egyptian obelisk. He ordered a cup of coffee and surveyed the huge oval piazza that had once been the Stadium of Domitian, hosting chariot races and other entertainment for the hungry Roman mob. Even at this hour on a chilly night, there were a lot of people milling about, eating, or simply watching each other. Some were admiring Bernini's three sculptures.

     After a few minutes, Lang determined no one was paying him any particular interest. Tense muscles relaxed a little. He sipped his coffee and began to read.

     Finishing the translation, Lang was more puzzled than before. Though he understood the implications of what he had read, its relationship to Steinmann's interest in Wynn-Three was still a mystery, unless Lang accepted that the priest really did want to simply question someone who remembered a past life. But that made little sense. In the Western world, incidents of claimed reincarnation, though rare, were not unknown. They seemed common in parts of the world where the culture and religion accepted them. So, why single out Wynn-Three?

     He was still trying to puzzle out an answer when he reached his hotel, a small inn on the Piazza della Rotunda perpendicular to the east side of the Pantheon. Marked only by a single door, the Sole al Pantheon had been in business since 1467. Several of its dark, cramped rooms had been transformed into airy suites, and claustrophobic bathrooms into luxurious spas. Since it had no real bar, Americans shunned the place. That, along with the fact that those unfamiliar with Rome would be unlikely to find such a small hotel, made it appealing to Lang.

     In his room, Lang drew shutters, closing out the noise of the piazza below. He checked his watch, calculated the five-hour time difference, called up the directory of his iPhone, and selected a name.

     "What's up?" Francis's voice was as clear as if it was coming from across the room rather than the ocean.

     "I need a few questions answered."

     "I'd say you need a great deal more than that unless you've had a miraculous conversion, but shoot."

     Lang summarized what he had just read, finishing with, "I gather Issa is Jesus. The similarities in teachings and miracles are too close to think otherwise. I get the theological implications but I'm not sure how all this
relates to Wynn-Three, Steinmann's interest in him, and just what that interest might be. I mean, from time to time people claim they had a former life, but the Church either ignores it or denies the phenomena exists. This is the first time, at least in modern days, I've heard of the Church wanting to speak with the person in question. Why the sudden interest?"

     There was a brief pause, Francis either thinking or trying to organize what he was going to say. "One question at a time. Let's start with a little biblical history. In the Gospels, there is about a seventeen-year gap in the life of Christ. We see him debating with the elders in the synagogue at twelve or thirteen, then he's an adult being baptized in the River Jordan at the beginning of his ministry. There has always been speculation about those missing years. More than one person has suggested he spent them in the Orient, India, or any number of other places."

     "So what?" Lang wanted to know. "What does it matter?"

     "If you can summon up a little patience and listen, perhaps I'll answer that question. In the late nineteenth century, a Russian by the name of Notovitch published a book,
The Unknown Life of Jesus.
He claimed he had read an ancient Tibetan manuscript that pretty much matches what you say your translation said. Since he was never able to actually produce the evidence, the Church dismissed his claims as pure fantasy.

     "In, what, 1950, the Chinese Communists invaded Tibet. A number of monasteries were closed, their libraries destroyed. Although the monastery Notovitch described was actually in the Kashmir of India, the resulting panic that the Chinese might push across the border caused enough confusion that a number of ancient manuscripts were lost. Ever since, there has been a rumor some of them wound up in the Vatican's Secret Archives. It would seem that, at least as to one of them, it is no longer just a rumor."

     Lang was growing restive. "That still doesn't explain Steinmann's interest."

     There was an audible sigh. "I'm getting there, Lang, I'm getting there."

     "So is Christmas."

     "Look, my impatient friend: I've got tonight's women's guild to attend to, Sunday's sermon to work on, and a monthly meeting with the accountant, the parish bean counter, as it were. If you want to listen, fine. Otherwise, I've got work to do: mine, the bishop's, and, time permitting, God's. Being of service to my favorite heretic is simply an add-on. The possible
reason for Steinmann's interest in the child isn't like one of your court cases where the defendant is either guilty or not."

     Distance did nothing to diminish the peevish tone.

     "Sorry, Francis. I'll shut up and listen."

     "That would certainly be a remarkable first. Where was I? Oh yeah, the Tibetan manuscripts. There has always been speculation that Jesus's ministry had some connection to the East, that he had some long-standing relationship with Eastern mysticism. For all we know, the three wise men, Magi magicians or cognoscenti from the East, Matthew mentions might have exerted some unknown influence, bringing symbolic gifts: gold for the glory of a king, frankincense for life, myrrh for death.