The Alchemist’s Code (37 page)

“Master, we've finished. The gate is open, all the cameras in the Sacrarium have ben neutralised and we've set up our own at the corners of the street. Nobody can pass by without us noticing.”

Woland nodded and then sighed, as though entering that place was hard for him.

“Hide the cars and be alert.”

He entered the Sacrarium. The dim beams of the spotlights made the open space in front of the caves, where the Nazi slaughter had been carried out, look spectral. On the left there was a statue of three men, tied up and about to be executed. On the right there was a large concrete parallelepiped, the mausoleum that had housed the corpses of the victims in 1949 when they had finally been re-interred. Woland seemed to know the place very well.

Camille and another three men followed him in silence. Jürgen Herzog was also with them. They climbed down the few steps that led to the mausoleum and were immediately overcome by an oppressive sensation. What had initially appeared to Camille as a concrete parallelepiped in fact covered the entire area where the 335 sarcophagi, laid out in seven double lines, rested. The whole place seemed like a huge gravestone now, and Camille felt breathless, as though something was crushing her.

Woland walked over to the first line of sarcophagi.

“We need to find the first tomb.”

The message found in Santa Prisca had indeed said: Fosse Ardeatine, first tomb.

“Perhaps it's one of the ones in the corners,” Camille suggested.

Woland nodded. “No, I think it means the tomb identified as number one. See? Each sarcophagus has a number.”

They started inspecting the tombs with the powerful torches they had brought along, trying to work out the order they had been arranged in.

Woland indicated something on the far side of the multitude of sarcophagi. “Down there. Tomb number one is in that corner.”

They reached the opposite side and found it: it bore no name or photograph, but there was an epitaph.

Woland smirked in contempt. “
Ja, ja, mein Bruder
, to all of them. Open it, quickly!”

Herzog and the other two men put crowbars under the sides of the cover and after a couple of attempts managed to lift it slightly and move it to one side. They pointed their torches into the tomb and the corner of the mausoleum was immediately filled with flashes of gold.

“Finally!” he said, as his eyes lit upon the chest, which appeared to be made of solid gold. “I've been waiting for this moment for so very long!”

With an almost reverent gesture, he gently caressed the shining surface, the decorative spirals on the corners and the effigy in the centre of the front of the chest.

“Quickly, get it out.”

The men attempted to lift up the chest but it was immediately obvious that it was too heavy, so, using the iron bars to tilt it, they slipped some thick cords underneath, lifted it out and set it on the lid.

Camille examined the strange carving on the side of the chest in front of them.

“What is it?”

“A stylised representation of the Baphomet, I would imagine,” Woland answered as he walked around the golden cube. “This is not the original chest that contained the idol. That was abandoned in Berlin in 1945. But I'll concede that old Aragona and his friends found a worthy enough container to bear it.”

Camille continued to examine the strange inscription for a few moments more.

“They look like alchemic symbols organised so as to form a face.”

“It is irrelevant,” Woland cut her off. “Help me to open it.”

Under Herzog's orders, Thule's men began trying to open the lid with their bare hands, and after some effort they succeeded, since it was not attached but simply set on top. Inside the chest there was the strangest object Camille had ever seen.

It was something that appeared to be a sort of totally golden head – smaller than a human head and with a monstrous appearance, like a fleshless skull or some bizarre humanoid being. The head was attached to a square base, upon which were set two rotating discs, also made of gold, upon which incomprehensible symbols were engraved.

The Baphomet.

“Here it is, Master,” Herzog whispered.

“Good Lord, it's entirely made of gold! And it's… disturbing,” Camille said, seeming more nervous than usual.

Woland was completely absorbed.

“Oh, yes! That is exactly how people will see it – as something disturbing. They will have to fear it, be terrified by it. Fear, terror, anguish: these are the weapons Thule will use to rule the world.”

Then Woland lifted his eyes to look at the three men.

“You two leave us and join the others at the entrance. Herzog, you guard the area of the tombs. Camille, come with me – it's time to perform the ritual.”

As soon as the men were out of the mausoleum, Woland gently lifted the Baphomet out of the chest, placed it on the floor and set nine candles around it.

“One for each member of the Lodge of the Nine, as the ritual requires.”

Camille assisted him, but from the moment she had seen the idol, her conviction had began to waver.

“Woland, why don't we take it away and perform the ritual somewhere else, in peace?”

Woland lifted his eyes and the diabolic light in them grew more intense.

“Are you afraid, Camille? Do you fear this place? It's just a cemetery, and we are superior beings, the children of the Thule brotherhood. What could possibly happen to us?”

Everything was proceeding according to plan, but the sight of what appeared to be a grotesque and insignificant three-thousand-year old sculpture had given her an inexplicable feeling, which was clouding her mind.

In the meantime, Woland, had calmly taken out the nine keys. Along the circumference of the outermost disc, upon which the head of the Baphomet was set, there were nine identical holes, shaped like the sun wheel which is the equivalent of the number nine in the Chaldean alphabet. The symbol of the Lodge of the Nine. Woland inserted the nine keys in the holes, then looked at his watch. His eyes sparkled in the dark as he raised them to Camille's.

“Vorjas will have already initiated the operation. Call Commissioner Franchi.”

Events reconstructed by Lorenzo Aragona

Fosse Ardeatine Memorial Cemetery, Rome, January, 2013 – 18:00

We had just started searching the Aventino when Oscar received another phone call. Woland and Camille had interpreted the message found in Santa Prisca and wanted to meet us in a completely unexpected place. According to the directions they had found, that was where the Baphomet was.

We reached the Fosse Ardeatine Sacrarium in slightly over ten minutes and left our cars in Via Delle Sette Chiese, then continued on foot. Oscar and Volta walked ahead with a police officer, and behind them came Anna, the other policemen and me. The cold of the night and the dim street lights made the atmosphere gloomy and tense, as though something could jump out when we least expected it. We walked for about a hundred metres then stopped at the corner where the street met Via Ardeatina. We could see the entrance to the Sacrarium from there.

Volta gestured to Ferraris. “Let's have a look.”

The two of them peered out from behind the trees which grew along the street. The area was right at the beginning of Appia Antica park, where traffic was light even in daytime, and at that moment in particular there was practically none.

“It was them who called us – how come there's nobody here waiting for us?” wondered Volta aloud.

After a few moments Oscar's mobile phone rang again.

“Franchi.”

Oscar listened to the call and his face grew dark with anger and frustration.

“You damn murderer. Why did you have to blow up the metro? We'd done what you asked.”

Without adding anything he gave me an intense look and handed me the phone.

“Hello Lorenzo, how are you?” said Raymond's deep voice slowly.

“I could be better. Why don't we put an end to all this?”

“In due time. Talking of time, do you know what time it is now?”

His unexpected question left me speechless for a moment. “It's… 18:10. What's the time got to do with anything?”

Raymond laughed.

“Because very soon he will be entering the Nervi Auditorium and there's no longer much you can do to stop him.”

Confused, I held the phone away from me and whispered to Volta, “What's going on right now in the Nervi Auditorium?”

Volta looked at his watch, then looked back at me. “The foreign delegations should already be there ready to see the concert that opens the summit on human rights. The Pope will enter the hall last.”

A shiver ran through me and I started talking on the phone again with a trembling voice.

“What are you planning? Are you going to blow up the auditorium?”

“Perhaps – who knows? Anyway, I await you here in the Sacrarium. If you wish to avoid more fireworks, I suggest you and Miss Glynz join me immediately.”

From the testimony of Father Luigi Palminteri

Sala Nervi, Vatican, January 2013 – h 18:00

Father Palminteri's phone started vibrating at the least appropriate moment. As scientific consultant to the summit, he had been granted a place of honour in the front row of the Paolo VI hall, which was almost completely full. Among those present were delegates from the most important countries in the world, well-known figures from the world of culture, some Nobel peace prize winners and not less than a thousand security guards. Swiss guards, Italian police, the FBI and intelligence services from every corner of the globe.

The first reaction to the news of the bomb which had exploded only half an hour before in Piazza di Spagna had been panic, but the master of ceremonies had managed, on the whole, to keep everybody calm, and the concert would take place as planned.

The real summit would begin the next day, while the music that evening, chosen by the Pope himself, would celebrate its opening.

“I want this event to be inaugurated with joy. The same joy we feel when we dance, and which should fill the hearts of all of us when we put our signatures to our work at the end of the summit. I want it too to represent that simplicity which is embodied by these medieval dances – a simplicity we would do well to lead our barbarised society towards once again.”

With these words, Pope James – born Brandon Tyler Sinclair and the first Scottish Pope in the history of the Catholic Church – had explained his choice of medieval dances, and managed to convince the various heads of State to participate in the meeting.

At just over fifty-five, he was an extremely young Pope. One who was refined, very well-educated and, despite his noble origins, had remained close to the poor and humble. Open minded and progressive, his plans included a gradual purge of the privileges and obscurantism which had caused the loss of millions of believers in recent years.

His enemies said that he had chosen his name so as to openly declare his position on the old dispute about Jesus Christ's brother, known as James the Lesser. It was only a rumour, but it had persisted. The Pope himself declared that his intention was to honour James the Greater, one of the most dynamic and dedicated Apostles – so much so that he had gained the nickname of Boanerges, a Greek word meaning ‘the son of the thunder'. The same nickname that the Pope would jokingly claim for himself. But the truth was different again. Brandon Sinclair had chosen that name in homage to the last Templar master, Jacques de Molay. Pope James was in fact secretly very close to the missionaries of the Temple of Jerusalem.

The conclave that had chosen Brandon Tyler Sinclair, cardinal archbishop of Saint Andrews and Edinburgh, had been one of the most surprising in all the Church's long history. When, after the first counts, the election of the powerful archbishop of La Plata, Caesar Valentin Vorjas, already seemed certain, the young Scot had started to gain support among those who had initially voted for Vorjas, eventually defeating him.

The Argentinian had accepted his defeat with dignity and made much of his willingness to co-operate with the new Pope, though his ideas were much more conservative than those of the ‘Scottish lad', as some called Pope James. To fulfil the Argentinian archbishop's ambitions and contain his vast ego, the Pope had named him prefect of the Congregation for the Doctrine of the Faith – head of the modern-day Inquisition.

In spite of all the calumnies, the conspiracies and the gossip, the Pope was now there, ready to take the stage in the Nervi Auditorium together with a host of world leaders, and it would be shown live on TV all around the world. He was about to open the historical summit he had so ardently desired.

Father Palminteri glanced quickly at his phone's screen.

It was the only number he was willing to answer at that moment.

It was Lorenzo Aragona.

Tension showed in his face and, breathing faster, he discreetly left his seat. The guests sitting in the same row looked at him in surprise as he left, clearly embarrassed and anxious.

The most important guests had just entered the hall and the only person still missing was the Pope himself. Father Palminteri reached the left side of the hall and answered his phone, which was still ringing.

“What's happening?”

“Father, I'm with the police, Raymond called us and we're about to meet them. Please, listen to me carefully – it seems there might be problems there, in the auditorium. It would probably be better if the Pope didn't enter. I would find a way to evacuate the building, if I were you.”

“Oh heavens… how can I do that? The concert is about to begin!” cried Father Palminteri.

“Father, do what you can! We'll try and negotiate. And may God be with us.”