The Alchemist’s Code (20 page)

“We've always been sceptical at the beginning of our adventures, me especially. And then—”

“And then?”

“And then we've touched these things with our own two hands. You've convinced me that certain things really do exist. I've seen with my own eyes what you're capable of doing in your alchemical laboratory.”

I looked at her in silence, still holding her hands.

“I'll be fine here, don't worry. You said it yourself – these are the very best doctors.”

At that moment Christa and Mitzos came in.

“Mama, babbà, ti kanete?”

The old couple smiled and made a gesture to show they were well.

“Listen, Lorenzo has to leave. I've asked him to do something for me. He'll be away for a few days.”

The two of them looked surprised, but made no objections.

“He'll be back soon, I'm sure,” concluded Àrt, hopefully.

Events reconstructed by Lorenzo Aragon

Zurich – Kiev, January, 2013

I hastily gathered together the few things I had brought with me, pulled on my coat, and before setting off for the airport made a phone call, hoping that the number would be working again.

“Hello?”

I was lucky.

“It's Lorenzo, I've decided to try to find the Baphomet. I'm leaving for Naples. Are you still in Zurich?”

There was a moment's silence.

“Yes, but I don't think it's a good idea to go to Naples. There are more promising leads elsewhere. Meet me at the airport and we'll take the first flight to Kiev.”

I thought for a moment about Anna's grandfather's book and the strange package that had been sent to me from the Ukrainian capital. Maybe Anna was right.

“Ok, I'll see you there.”

Two and a half hours later we were flying over Austria heading East.

“What made you change your mind?”

“My wife.”

“Really? She must be a very special woman.”

“How else could she put up with me? Anyway, she's in… good hands. And who knows, maybe I'll find a mysterious Chaldean remedy to save her,” I said with a smile, thinking about the absurdity of my words.

“Perhaps that's exactly what it is.”

“The Baphomet described by your grandfather? I don't know, but there's something you need to know about Kiev.”

I told her about Bruno, his safe and the strange package which had been delivered from the Ukrainian capital, and then I showed her the copy of the Cardan grille that the package had contained.

“What is it?”

“An encryption system invented by an Italian mathematician in the sixteenth century.” I explained how it worked.

“Obviously the person who sent it knew you'd find a way to use it.”

“Yes, but I need the text that contains the secret message, otherwise it's just a key without a lock.”

“Perhaps there's something in my grandfather's book. Let's take a look.” Anna took out the little tome and opened it at the title page. “
The Baphomet Code, Volume I
. I wonder if we'll need to find the second volume too to solve the riddle.”

“Let's hope that this one will be enough, or at least enough to begin to make sense of it.”

“Did you notice the date it was printed?”

“The ninth of September 1953?”

“That's right: nine, nine, 1953. Add up the digits that make up the year and you get eighteen. One plus eight—”

“Is nine.”

“Yes, the full date is three times nine, that's twenty-seven.”

“Nine again. It looks as though your grandfather, or the publisher, wanted to leave a message for other members of the Lodge of Nine.”

“That's undoubtedly so. Moreover, if the date of 1953 is real, we must remember that publishers at the time were all state owned and the Soviet regime didn't allow everything to be published freely. As you can see, in fact, on the title page it doesn't say that the book was published, only printed.”

“I don't understand.”

“Lorenzo, I don't think this book was ever sold in the Soviet Union, it was only printed for a few people. The
Michail Izbrannovič Deviatov Printing House
is the name of a typographer, not a publisher. I'll tell you more, I did some research and discovered that this typographer never even existed.”

“Great, then why are we going to Kiev?”

“Precisely because he's called
Michail Izbrannovič Deviatov
, and there's his address.”

“Yes, I know. So what?”

“In Russian,
Izbrannovič Deviatov
, means Elect of the Nine.”

*

We arrived in Kiev late at night, welcomed by a blizzard which blew ice cold snow across the open space in front of the entrance to Boryspil airport. The thermometer showed minus twelve degrees celsius.

Anna had booked a hotel just a few doors away from the address where, presumably, the book had been printed.

We crossed the dark, snowy plains which stretched between the airport and the Ukrainian capital. The traffic was slow, due to the heavy snowfall.

The hotel was located at the top of the Andriyivskyy Descent, one of the most charming streets in the Ukrainian capital, where, in an atmosphere redolent of Bulgakov, it was possible to stroll past theatres and cafes and take in a remarkable view of the lower part of town. Halfway along this road, just before St. Andrew's church, was the address indicated in the book.

*

As we made our way there the next day, Anna told me the story of the building which appeared to have been home to the typographer we were looking for.

“On the Andriyivskyy Descent there was a famous building, built in the early twentieth century
belle époque
style. It was originally to be named The Orlov House after its architect, but the Ukrainian writer Viktor Nekrasov renamed it the Castle of Richard the Lionheart in 1966: the address of the Mikhail Izbrannovič Deviatov Printing House corresponds to that building.”

“Let's hope it's not just a wild goose chase. Everything would seem to point to that date as being fictitious. We might not find anything.”

“If the date is fictitious, it means that we're on the right track,” said Anna.

Her answer didn't do much to convince me, but in any case, we were almost there now. As we walked along the road, we at last saw in the distance the Castle of Richard the Lionheart – an elegant, beige building topped by spires and towers and constructed in a mixture of art deco and art nouveau styles. As we approached, however, we found that the building was completely uninhabited and closed to the public, sealed off by a high wooden fence.

“Well, that's that, then,” I said sadly.

Anna didn't lose heart and began to wander along the fence. A few metres from the entrance, an old man wrapped in a bundle of clothes that left only his eyes visible, was selling souvenirs on a wooden stand. While I remained near the entrance, Anna approached him and began to speak sweetly to him. The old man nodded and mumbled something. Then she showed him the book. The old man reached out and took it, and it was only then that he looked up at the girl. He studied her for a moment then, with an effort, as though the cold had frozen him to his chair, stood up and walked towards me. He pulled out a bunch of keys and opened the door, beckoning us to follow him.

“What did he say?” I whispered to Anna. “That he was waiting for us,” she said in amazement.

The bundle of clothes took us inside the fence to a small space in front of the building's entrance, which was littered with tools, half buried in the snow. It was evident that no work had been done there for months.

There was a sinister feel to the inside of the castle. Anna had told me of the legends that had circulated over the years since its construction: it was said that the place was plagued by ghosts, and that at night you could hear strange noises. In fact, it seemed that the building had been constructed in such a way that the wind, blowing in through the chimneys, produced a noise that some had mistaken for mournful lamentations. A construction error, basically, but the rumours had been so persistent over the years that only a few had wanted to live there. At the moment it was still uninhabited, awaiting the completion of renovation work. And I noticed that the icy January wind actually did create disturbing noises as it howled between the shabby beams.

The old man led us down to the basement. The floor was uneven and covered in rubble as well as more tools and objects of all kinds. Lighting our way with a large torch that looked as if it came from the Soviet era, our guide stopped in front of a door and shone the torch on it.

The faded words upon it startled Anna.

“Oh my God – here it is.”

“This is the place?”

“Yes, look – 'Michail Izbrannovič Deviatov – Typographer'.”

The old man nodded and handed Anna the torch and a key, mumbling something as he did so.

“He says he can't come inside with us, but that we'll find what we seek.”

Our escort departed, and left us staring at the closed door, undecided as to what to do. I took a deep breath and exchanged glances with Anna.

“All right, let's do it.”

The girl opened the door, which creaked eerily on its rusty hinges. The room that stood before us, lit only by the torch the old man had given Anna, was rather down at heel, but certainly more welcoming than the rest of the building. In the middle, surrounded by some chairs, was a large round table upon which sat several candles. We approached it and lit the candles with the matches which had been thoughtfully left on the table.

“Nine,” said Anna, counting the chairs and candles.

“You don't say. Look, there's something carved into the wood all the way round the circumference of the table.”

“The Lodge of the Nine—” murmured Anna. “They met here.”

“Yeah, deep in the heart of the castle along with the ghosts. No one would disturb them. But what was the purpose of their meetings? Did they spend all their time contemplating the Baphomet? And these names… I know them very well.”

Anna looked at me, awaiting an explanation.

“There's a degree in the Masonic path called the Royal Arch. It's very common, especially in England. The initiation ritual tells of a treasure hidden in the bowels of the Temple Mount, in Jerusalem, inside a crypt excavated by Solomon. To get there, he had to go through nine arches, each guarded by a watchman. What you see engraved on the table, set in stylised arches, are the nine secret words that you had to learn to overcome each guardian, get to the crypt and find the treasure.”

“It looks like we are in the right place. Nine seats, nine names for nine keepers at the place indicated by my grandfather in his book.”

“Ok, let's pretend that this mixture of Freemasonry, Templars and Chaldean magic makes any sense at all – the question now is, where is the Baphomet?”

We looked around us but the room offered up no other interesting details, and so I started to scrutinise the large table. In addition to the names carved along the circumference, I noticed something in the middle. A small square divided, in turn, into two rectangles, one above the other. On the top one there was an inscription in Cyrillic, and the bottom one looked strangely familiar.

“Translate that writing in the middle of the table for me, Anna.”

I shone the torch on the small part of wood and Anna read the three lines of text.

“This is a poem by Dmitry Grigor'ev, a contemporary Russian author. But why is it engraved in the middle of the table?”

“Maybe it isn't the content that counts, but what's hidden in the words, in the letters themselves.” I tried to lift out the lower wooden rectangle, which featured some unmistakable small openings. I was right, it could be removed. I placed them on top of one another, while Anna observed the operation with wonderment.

“Just as I thought – this is another Cardan grille! Now read what appears in the holes.”

She read it, but after a while shook her head. “It doesn't mean anything, I can't make any sense of it.”

Not discouraged, I took from my pocket the piece of paper onto which I had copied the other grille, the one I'd found in the safe at Bruno's house, and replaced the rectangle of wood with it. “Of course! The right key is the one that someone sent to my house, not the one that's right next to the poem engraved on the table. That would be too easy. Try again.”

This time her eyes brightened.

“Yes, now it makes sense! 'Look for us at the third grave after that of Nestor's'.”

We looked at each other for a few moments, both trying to find a way to interpret the clue, until suddenly, Anna's face lit up.

“Nestor is one of the most famous saints in Ukraine, I know where he's buried! In the monastery of Pechersk Lavra!”

Events reconstructed by Lorenzo Aragona

Kiev, January 2013

We left the building and set off in search of the bundled up man to give him back the key and ask him a few more questions. I suspected that he was the one who had sent me the package with the Cardan grille and I wanted him to throw some light on the matter. To our left, we saw his stall, standing upside down in the snow, but of him there was no trace.

“What the hell happened?”

“Look, Lorenzo!”

Across the street, in the lobby of the building opposite the Castle of Richard the Lionheart was a group of people staring at something on the pavement.

We spotted a silhouette between the snow and the soil – it looked like a pile of rags.