The Psalter (12 page)

“What’s inside, Philippe?” Isabelle asked her boss.

“I’m afraid…”

“Silence!” the detective captain barked. “I’m in charge of this investigation.”

Isabelle Héber turned back toward the light and startled as a man appeared in her office doorway, inches from her.

Romano’s heart gave a heavy thump as he came face to face with the last person in the world he wanted to meet. “Well, well, Father Romano,” the man said to the priest. “What an expected surprise.”

“
Colonelo
,” the priest replied.

The French captain addressed the group. “May I present
Colonelo
Del Carlo of the Carabinieri’s GIS. I believe, Father, you two know one another.”

The priest tried his best not to look guilty. “Yes, Captain, I’ve had the pleasure.”

Del Carlo confronted the priest. “You didn’t return my telephone call, Father.”

“I apologize,
Colonelo
, but I had critical work to do here.”

“Does your work have anything to do with the evidence I foolishly let you return to the Vatican?”

Romano saw no further reason to lie. “Yes.”

“I thought so. Am I correct in assuming that Madame Héber and Monsieur…?”

“Héber, also,” Pascal held out his hand smiling. “I’m her father.”

Del Carlo didn’t take the hand. “Do they know about the prayer book?”

“Oh, yes,” Pascal said. “Magnificent, Colonel, the greatest discovery of the century, maybe the last two thousand years.”

Del Carlo threw up his hands in exasperation. “It appears everyone knows more about this book than I, for which, I might add, a priest was murdered.”

“I’m sorry, Colonel,” the Director General of the Archives said, “but Pascal Héber isn’t just anybody. He was a most illustrious professor, head of the department of…”

“Arab and Hebrew studies,” Pascal helped the Director’s memory.

“Thank you, professor.”

“You’re welcome,
Monsieur
Director,” Pascal nodded.

Romano interrupted their solicitous exchange. “Listen, Colonel. I admit I suspected something when you showed me the Psalter. But I had to be certain and I didn’t want to make a mistake in front of Cardinal Keller. The Vatican’s technology is limited, so…”

“So you brought it here?”

“I’m afraid so.”

“Father, The Psalter is evidence in a capital crime. You’d better hand it over”

“I can’t.”

“You gave me your word,” Del Carlo said.

“It’s just—”

“I am not asking, Father. I’m ordering.”

Pascal cut in again. “He can’t, Colonel, because he doesn’t have it. He brought it to my apartment to translate, and two men broke in and attacked us while we slept. I was certain they were going to kill us, and they stole the—”

“They stole the prayer book?” Del Carlo shook his head.

“Not only that, Isabelle discovered what was written underneath the Latin and made a photograph, and they pinched that as well. We came here to make sure they hadn’t taken her computer.”

Pascal wanted to continue, but Del Carlo held up his hand to stop his rapid-fire soliloquy. “You’re quite informative, Professor. I pray we can write fast enough to take your deposition. Now, however, I’d like all of you to join me in Doctor Héber’s office. I would value your opinions of the crime scene. Madame, I should warn you that there’s a dead body on the floor, so prepare yourself.”

The Director General grasped the colonel’s arm, “Is it necessary for Doctor Héber to witness this? After all, Eugène was a colleague.”

“Eugène?” Isabelle gasped. “Is he…?”

The GIS Colonel put his hand on the raven-haired woman’s shoulder. “I fear he’s dead, Madame.” Isabelle plunged her face into her hands to hide the tears flooding her eyes. “We must ascertain what they’ve taken. Are you willing?”

“I’ll help however I can.”

Del Carlo looked squarely into Isabelle’s dark eyes. “We’ve covered the corpse, but the scene is macabre. Nevertheless, I would like for you to identify anything that has been taken or moved. Can you do that?”

“I think so.”

“Try not to look at the body,” he counseled, “just the surroundings.”

Isabelle took a deep breath, steeling herself as she walked into her laboratory. She had been to funerals before and seen dead bodies, but they had been coiffed and dressed in their best clothes to appear at peace. She was unprepared for the indistinct outline of a body on its back, covered by a white plastic sheet, or the viscous red that spread across the floor, as well as fiery spots splattered on the walls. Isabelle felt as though she was rising off the ground, weightless. Shadows crept into her peripheral vision and closed in from all sides. Pascal tightened his arm around her narrow shoulders, too late. Her legs gave way before her father could react. Romano caught her just as she slumped to her knees.

Del Carlo pulled up a chair, and Romano eased her slight frame into it. Her eyes fluttered. She tried not to look at the contorted outline under the white sheet or the scarlet pool seeping from underneath. “Isabelle?” Father Romano said to her. “Isabelle,” he called louder and broke the trance.

“Yes.”

“You don’t need to do this.” The priest held her hand. “I can take you out of here.”

Isabelle squeezed his palm. “I’ll be alright.”

“How well did you know him?”
Colonelo
Del Carlo asked.

She answered from a far away place, “Not personally. He was a graduate student who wanted to work at the Archives when he completed his studies. He visited the lab often and asked technical questions about restoring old documents.”

“What’s out of place?”

The archivist’s eyes went first to a rack of shelves. The steel cover had been detached from her computer processor. She forced herself out of the chair and edged gingerly around the body for a closer inspection. “They’ve removed the hard drive. Nothing’s left.”

“I thought as much,” the colonel accepted with resignation. “Has anything else been taken?”

Isabelle walked the perimeter of the room, passing her hand over books and equipment, but avoiding the bloody spots. Finally she turned to Del Carlo. “Nothing. They got what they came for.”

“Thank you for your courage, Doctor Héber. I’m sorry for subjecting you to this grisly scene, but I needed to confirm what I believed to be true. Why don’t we talk outside?”

The Director General led them to the conference room at the end of the hall.

Isabelle addressed no one in particular. “Why was there so much blood?”

“He was tortured,” Del Carlo said.

“My God.”

“They cut his jugular veins.”

“His throat?” She shuddered.

“Not the throat, just the veins. They probably forced him to tell what he knew.”

“He must have surprised them and tried to stop them.” Isabelle noticed the Director General hang his head.

“They didn’t break in, Doctor.” Del Carlo said.

“You can’t believe Eugène opened the door?”

“That’s precisely what I think.”

Pascal listened with a professor’s objective interest, weighing what had been explained. Then with conviction, he spoke a single word, “
Shochetim
.”

“Excuse me?” The colonel answered while the entire room looked, uncomprehending, at the retired professor.

“I’m sorry,
Monsieur Colonel
, but you’re wrong.”

“About what?”

“It’s quite logical,” Pascal said. “If these men wanted information, they would have inflicted a great deal of pain on the poor boy. They did no such thing. The only discomfort Eugène endured was the slash on his neck. I’m guessing they used a razor, possibly a straight razor.”

“That’s what we suspect.”

“Did you ever witness someone having their throat slashed?”

“No,” Del Carlo admitted.

“Had they cut just one jugular, blood would spurt out rapidly. The heart is a remarkable pump, as you can see by the spots on the walls. Within several seconds, he would lose so much oxygen to the brain that he’d be groggy. They cut both, so the loss of pressure rendered him unconscious almost immediately. He didn’t say anything.”

“How do you know this?”

Pascal shrugged. “Nothing suspicious, I assure you. This is how Jews slaughter animals for kosher meat. The
Shochetim
are the slaughterers.”

“Are you suggesting Jewish butchers killed him?”

“Don’t be ridiculous, but look at the facts. Eugène was bound and placed on his back, the prescribed position for slaughtering animals, according to Jewish law. Then they cut his jugulars and he bled to death—or rather, he was bled. What I suggest is that the men who murdered him were familiar with traditional methods of sacrificial slaughter. They didn’t do it quite right, however. They were supposed to sever his trachea and esophagus, leaving the spinal cord intact. Maybe they were squeamish?”

“What do you mean, sacrifice?”

“If I understand correctly, a priest was murdered for a religious book, and now it’s been stolen. The killers bled Eugène to death like a lamb on an altar. This might be a religious killing.”

Pascal now had the GIS Colonel’s attention. “I want to speak more about this, this…”

“Sacrifice.”

“Yes. But first, can I talk with you in private, Father?” Del Carlo nodded to
Capitaine
Desmoulins, who opened the door and ushered everyone out. Pascal cast an encouraging glance at the priest as he helped his daughter. Romano acknowledged him with a nod and half-smile.

The librarian knew Colonel Del Carlo was about to chew him out. Sure, he felt culpable, but also defensive, and he bridled as he anticipated the reproach. He had the same feeling as a child waiting for a beating, guilty but still prepared to defend himself. Nevertheless, it was a rebuke that didn’t come.

“Listen, Father…”

“Call me Mike.”

“Okay, Mike. I told you in Rome I trusted you. God help me, I still do, although I don’t know why. It should be obvious now that this is an organized group that will stop at nothing. Another man is dead, and they’ve taken what they were after.”

“Do you still believe these people, the Children of the Book, are behind it?” Romano asked the colonel.

“They’re my only lead. I’ve sent inquiries to Washington. Unfortunately, we’ve lost the one piece of evidence we had, and I discover the book is more valuable than we thought. How would you value the Psalter now?”

The priest didn’t hesitate. “Priceless.”

“Theft might be a motive. The black market for rare documents is voracious.”

“No one else understood what the Psalter actually was. I only discovered the truth tonight.”

“Maybe the Pope’s Secretary guessed, and perhaps he took it from the Vatican to verify what he suspected, just as you did.”

“He certainly had the same interest in certain prayer books produced by one scribe in particular.”

“Since we no longer have the evidence, perhaps you can tell me what the professor meant by what you discovered underneath, and why the book is priceless.” Del Carlo retrieved a notepad from his suit jacket pocket.

Romano explained the theory that the Gospels had been originally composed in Aramaic, the dialect of Jesus and the Apostles, and translated later into Greek, and that none of the Aramaic scriptures had ever been discovered. However, the Psalter had been copied over an erased page of parchment, and the original text was the only first-century scripture in existence written in the language of the Son of God. Thus, the document was likely the most valuable in the world, and no price could be placed on it.

Colonelo
Del Carlo listened intently while he scratched notes. He stopped the priest at a pause in his explanation. “What did the page say, Father?”

Romano thought for a moment. “It said the Apostle Thomas was Jesus’ twin brother.”

“I’ve never heard of such a thing.”

“I work in the Secret Archives,
Colonelo
. I’ve heard that and much more. To think those words were written by Christians; moreover, to suspect they might be true.”

Del Carlo thought for a long moment. “Father, have you considered that perhaps these men were hired to steal the book, not for the monetary value, but because of what the text reveals—or more to the point, to keep it from being revealed?”

The vice-prefect of the Secret Archives had tried not to think about it, but the very suspicion had crept into his mind. “As I told you, the only other person who might have guessed the book contained a concealed text was the Pope’s own Secretary.”

“Who paid with his life. How would Father Mackey have known this prayer book held hidden scriptures?”

The librarian explained about the ninth-century monk who worked in the
scriptorium
as a scribe, whose prayer books always seemed to be written over erased heretical scrolls; the monk whose unique calligraphy was out of place among the scribes in Rome; the monk he had nicknamed Giovanni.

“You’re an American, Father. What’s the English translation for Giovanni?”

“John, or in Latin, we say Johannes.”

“What can you tell me about this monk?”

“Not much, but some things I can guess at. He lived during a turbulent, violent era in Rome’s history, the church’s history.”

13
Hall of Blasphemy

November in the Year of Our Lord 843

What can you be thinking, Johannes, to go out in the middle of the night to the Jewish quarter?” Anastasius was red-faced despite the chill in his cell that the brazier could not drive out. “Not only is it dangerous, you were seen.”

“Baraldus was right. We were being watched,” Johannes said more to himself, but loud enough for the Archive
primicerius
to hear.

“Of course you’re watched. This is not some monastery in the countryside. We’re in the
patriarchum
, the capitol of Christendom, where Pope Gregory rules and many are impatient to unseat him. You were missed at Vespers, and I listened to more than one whisper that you were half asleep at Lauds. Everyone spies on everyone.”

Johannes grew defensive. “I’ve done nothing wrong. I simply wished to speak to the head of the Jewish school. You sound as though I’ve committed some iniquity.”