The Alchemist’s Code (28 page)

“Oscar,
amico mio,
this is an obscure matter and one which carries more than a hint of occultism. I might be able get you some information, but not much. The whole thing's still top secret.”

*

We arrived in Rome at around 11 p.m. Oscar still had a flat in the Trastevere area, where he would stay when he visited relatives and friends, so we decided to stop there for the night.

We parked in the tangled knot of alleys near Via Venezian, and, hoping it wasn't too late, headed straight for the tavern owned by Antonio Navarro's friend, the one who had allegedly sent the postcard of Villa Gondemar.

“Antonio!
Amigo
, how are you?” asked Adriano De Notariis, a big man with a Viking moustache and one of the sunniest smiles I had ever seen.

“Well if it isn't little Adriano! You're looking well.”

“Too well, you mean! I just can't manage to lose weight!” replied the innkeeper in a strong Roman accent that promised a delicious dinner, with all the trimmings. “I haven't seen you in ages.”

“I've been mostly in Naples… Lately. Are we still in time to eat something?”

“Of course, take a seat – there's always a table and a glass of wine for you, you know that.”

Adriano's tavern – old and run-down, and definitely different from most of the restaurants in Trastevere catering to tourists – was in the lovely Piazza de' Renzi. While waiting to be served, we took stock of the situation.

“The name of this congregation is all too reminiscent of the Templars, it can't be a coincidence,” I said, regaining the appetite I had lost in the previous days thanks to Adriano's pasta with cheese and black pepper.

Navarro, always a little uncomfortable when it came to the Villa, nodded unconvinced. “Let's just hope it isn't a joke.”

“It would have to be a very complicated joke.”

While we spoke, Antonio waved Adriano over to ask him about our two postcards so as to dispel any lingering doubts.

The big man assumed a surprised look at first, then frowned his forehead. “What's all this? I never sent it to you, I swear – I don't even know your address in Naples. And, no offence intended, I've seen this gentleman here for the first time tonight. Who could have used my name? It's like some kind of joke, and I don't like it.”

We exchanged a look, then Antonio reassured him. “That's what it must be, Adriano, don't worry. By the way, congratulations – it's delicious, as always.”

The man gave another of the sincere smiles that exploded from time to time from under his moustache. “I should hope so! There's got to be some reason we've been here for seventy years!”

As soon as Adriano had gone, we plunged back into a hopeful silence. My gaze shifted out through the glass door of the tavern, as though searching for something. “It's incredible – if it was really him, and if we'd only realised right away, maybe I could have—”

The expression on Navarro's face softened. “Lorenzo, you mustn't feel guilty. You were in the dark. I, instead, should have paid more attention to that postcard.”

“Father Navarro is right. Tomorrow morning we're going to Villa Gondemar and, one way or another, we're going to solve this mystery.”

Reconstruction based on the testimony of Anna Nikitovna Glyz

Rome, January 2013

The evening was ice cold, and the two cars encountered no others as they made the short drive from the villa to the church of Saint Prisca, at the foot of the Aventine.

Caesar Valentin Vorjas wrapped himself tight in his large black coat and nodded to Anna, who, tied up and under the watchful eye of Bastian, was nursing her wounds.

“The directions that the girl and Lorenzo Aragona found in Kiev lead here.”

“Well, my friend, then the time has come,” Woland smiled at him.

Camille Ferri joined them, hanging slightly behind. She wore her hair in a ponytail and had replaced the long white coat with a pitch black one that she wore unbuttoned, a pendant depicting the symbol of the Thule Society, a gift from Woland, visible around her neck. Vorjas had repeatedly warned his friend about that dangerous, ambiguous woman, but Woland hadn't taken his concerns seriously.

Hadn't they built an empire together with their daring and their unscrupulousness? Camille was undisciplined, yes, but all she needed was a guide, and Woland had been confident that he could be the master she was seeking and take advantage of her criminal nature to his own ends. Vorjas hadn't raised the issue again, but in his heart, the fear that the woman might get out of control or, even worse, conspire against them, remained.

The small group reached the platform upon which the church of Saint Prisca stands, a sort of receding terracing about two and a half metres high, and stopped at the main door.

After making sure no one was around, Woland's men set in motion a mechanism hidden in a suitcase, a kind of portable smoke machine from which a thick fog emerged and enveloped them, hiding them from view. Then they came up to the main door and easily opened the lock.

They were inside within a moment. Whoever had witnessed that scene from the outside would have thought they were hallucinating.

“This church wasn't chosen at random, as I was telling you,” resumed Vorjas as they walked down the nave punctuated by seven Ionic columns. “It seems that after the damage caused by the Normans, the Templars handled the reconstruction in the eleventh century.”

Woland raised an eyebrow. “Glyz, or some other
dear brother
of the Lodge of the Nine, would have hidden the Baphomet here for that reason?”

“Yes, and because of the mithraeum.”

In 1934, as Vorjas explained, in-depth excavations were conducted in the Roman
domus
under the church and it was discovered that at some point in the past it had been converted into a mithraeum.

“From the Chaldean magicians, over the Lodge of the Nine, to the initiated of the cult of Mithras and the Templars. The poor Baphomet has sunk so low through the centuries,” Woland said sarcastically. “It's time to make amends.”

Once they arrived at the gateway that led to the underground rooms, the small group began to descend, and after a few steps, they found themselves in a rectangular room with stone benches on the sides, where, in the past, the initiates of the mysteries of the god Mithras had attended the ceremony, reclining on soft cushions. In the back of the temple, the now ruined bas-relief depicting the tauroctony – the supreme iconography of Mithraism in which the god Mithras kills the cosmic bull – was visible.

Camille looked around her in fascination, then shook her head and glanced at Vorjas. “If Glyz or the members of the Lodge of the Nine have hidden the Baphomet here, there must be a connection with Mithras, who was, after all, an ancient Indo-Iranian divinity revered by the Persians, and the Baphomet too has Chaldean-Babylonian origins. At some point during history, there may have been contact. Or maybe, since Mithras is a sun god, the Lodge of the Nine has chosen that way to try and limit the obscure power of the Baphomet.”

Approaching the altar, Woland waved his hand as though to reject that hypothesis. “Or more simply, my dear, Vladimir Glyz and friends randomly picked a beautiful place with a connection to Templar legends. Quick, scan down here.”

In a few seconds, one of the Thule's men had assembled a highly sensitive scanner – one of the type used in archaeological excavations which is capable of detecting buried objects or cavities buried up to twenty-five metres deep – and after just a few seconds, the scanner display showed the silhouette of a cubic object.

Woland was excited. “Here we are! Dig! Dig, quickly.”

The men set to work and lifted the stone slabs that covered the floor. They began to dig, and after five minutes, their shovels bumped against something hard that looked like a wooden case. The men turned to look at Woland. His eyes gleaming, he gestured to them to lift out the box. The men obeyed his order and, with the help of strong ropes, pulled it up.

They set it on the floor in front of the hole they had dug.

Woland knelt down so he could clearly see the symbol of the Lodge of the Nine imprinted upon the ancient wood. “No seal can stop me anymore. Scan it again, then open it with caution.”

The men leaned a hand scanner on the case, then one of them looked at Woland. “There's a cubic metal object inside.”

Woland nodded. “Go ahead.”

The two men took a crowbar and, being careful not to nick the contents of the case, removed the lid.

Woland continued to observe anxiously. “Aren't you excited, Anna? Finally you're going to get to see what, in all probability, your grandfather was killed for.”

Anna was behind him, held tightly by Bastian. She snorted like an enraged bull. “And you know something about it, don't you?”

Woland turned and cast her a disparaging look.

“Oh, if you think I had anything something to do with the death of your grandfather, you're wrong. I am certainly not the only one on the trail of the Baphomet. The intelligence agencies of half the world would pay in gold to be here, right now. It wouldn't surprise me to discover that your own country's government was behind your grandfather's death. In any case, I am sorry for him, you know? I truly am. A beautiful mind, despite his recklessness. The proof of his failure is that I am here, now. By the way, do you know why I wanted you here as well?”

Anna remained silent, staring at him.

Woland nodded to Camille, who pulled out a smartphone from her coat pocket. “In the unfortunate event that this case doesn't contain the thing which I've flown fifteen hours to get hold of, your friend, Lorenzo Aragona, will receive an amazing video where he'll be able to enjoy Bastian's mastery of the art of torture. To begin with.”

Events reconstructed by Lorenzo Aragona

Rome, January 2013

At half past eight sharp we were at the gate of Villa Gondemar, the Roman headquarters of the Missionaries of the Temple of Jerusalem.

The day was cold, but the sky was blue and clear and although we were nervous about what we might find, the journey from Trastevere to the Aurelia Antica had been pleasant.

“Well, according to the information about Villa Gondemar that I found last night, it seems that in this area, there was a small
commendam
of the Templars centuries ago,” I said as we were waiting for someone to let us in. “It's a recent discovery.”

Meanwhile, a male voice answered the intercom.

“Good morning, this is Police Chief Oscar Franchi, I'm here with Mr Aragona, we have an appointment with Father Palminteri.”

The feeble voice that had answered gave out an almost imperceptible, “Yes, please come in,” and the gate opened.

We walked down the path leading to the villa, a very elegant building from the late seventeenth century which stood out against the blueness of the heavens that morning. There was a beautiful garden all around the villa, and a church, certainly older than the main building, peeped out from one secluded corner.

As we walked past it, we were given confirmation of the information I had unearthed: a cross pattée, with the regular arms typical of the Templars, stood proudly above the main door of the little building, which clearly dated back to the Middle Ages.

“It's quite disturbing that they call themselves Missionaries of the Temple of Jerusalem,” Oscar said, “but if the connection with the Templars is more than just a name, I'm starting to see a thread running through all of this.”

“Among the curious information that I found on these missionaries, there was one thing which is very interesting,” I added when we were almost in front of the villa's main door. “It seems that the founder belonged to an ancient noble family who, in the Middle Ages, counted several of its members among the Templars. So if you put two and two together—”

“And what was the founder's name?”

“Father Sean Bruce. He was Scottish. The order was founded in the late nineteenth century.”

A priest in his sixties clad in a black cassock was waiting for us in the doorway of the villa. Of medium height, with thin grey hair and a clean-shaven face, he wore a serious but not unfriendly expression. The priest half nodded.

“Good morning,” Oscar greeted him, holding out his hand, “I'm Commissioner Franchi, and this is Lorenzo Aragona.”

“Luigi Palminteri,” said the other immediately.

His friendly expression changed abruptly when he saw Antonio Navarro. He immediately tried to hide the surprise which had appeared on his face, but for a split second it looked as though he'd seen a ghost.

Oscar and I noticed it.

“Do you two know each other?” asked my friend with a frown.

Palminteri hastily gave a quick smile of embarrassment and shook his head. “N–no, no, I thought I had met the gentleman but—”

“But you must have mistaken me for someone else, mustn't you, father?” Navarro broke in, completing the other's sentence for him.

“Yes, I think I must.”

Oscar and I exchanged looks. There was definitely something odd, but it seemed better to leave it for the moment.

“Thank you for agreeing to meet us, father.”

“When you told me on the phone that you were looking for Anastasio Elpìda yesterday, Mr Aragona, I feared for a moment that you were just some troublemaker.”

“A troublemaker? Why?”

“Please, come in – it's cold outside,” said the priest, without answering my question and leading the way into the villa.

Brilliantly coloured frescoes representing Greek gods and muses adorned the high ceilings, but the splendour that still characterized the decoration of the noble residence was counterbalanced by the simplicity of its furnishings. We walked past a couple of rooms, and as I cast a desultory glance into one I saw a silhouette sitting in a wheelchair with its back to the door, looking out of a window. For some reason I didn't comprehend, that image disturbed me, but I shrugged and tried to concentrate on the reason why we were there.