The Bergamese Sect (43 page)

‘
Mainly theologians, but historians too.’

‘
But all are devoted Christians?’

Radich smiled. ‘Well, no. We don’t require our members to be Christian, or indeed to be religious, but it’s probably true to say that most of our members are religious people.’

‘
And how do you gain membership?’

‘
By proposal from active members and then election by the council of the Society.’

‘
So, you’d have to have a proven track record in this area of academia?’

‘
Sure. We’re a bit fussy about whom we let in, but only to ensure we have the cream of religious academics, no other reason.’

Castro was screening Radich’s every word, every nuance of expression. The man seemed detached and aloof. He’d expected something else, something more sinister than the thin, evasive man before him.

He glanced around the room. It was an office and a boardroom. Bookshelves held rows of dusty journals. Desks were shunted against the walls; the huge mahogany table was surrounded by wooden chairs. He couldn’t reconcile these plush offices off Lexington Avenue, these rooms that smelt of academia and tradition, with the nightmare thrust upon him one afternoon over a year ago. What could men of erudition, religious erudition at that, have to do with that madness?

But Castro felt uneasy. However harmless the spokesman appeared, agents of his Society, or some inner sect of it, had already tried to kill both he and Koestler. They’d murdered Lanza just for mentioning a dead man’s name.

‘
Would it surprise you to find that at least three of your members were neither theologians nor historians? They weren’t even intellectuals,’ Castro said.

Radich didn’t react. He looked at Castro blankly. ‘Yes,’ he said slowly. ‘What makes you say that?’

‘
We’ve just done a bit of research in preparation for this meeting.’

There was a flicker of emotion in Radich’s face, but Castro couldn’t pin it down.

‘
Well, we shouldn’t have anyone in the Society who hasn’t somehow furthered our purpose. Plus, we don’t publish our members list, so I’d like to know how you got that information?’

Castro didn’t answer the question. ‘One was a member of Roosevelt’s Joint Chiefs of Staff,’ he said. ‘The other is a member of the CIA.’

An uneasy smile crossed Radich’s face. ‘You must be mistaken,’ he said. He took a half-concealed glance at his watch.

Castro’s gaze brushed over the top of a chair behind Radich and something caught his eye. He knew what it was instantly, but he was compelled to stare. The dark wood of the backrest was carved ornately with a series of concentric lozenges. In their centre stood a symbol – the mysterious double-E now so familiar to Castro’s mind. It was clearly engraved in an archaic font, two inches high and highly polished. Castro’s vision darted around the room. The symbol was carved on every chair.

The uneasy feeling suddenly gripped Castro again. They were within the lair of a sinister organisation, exposed and helpless. It had been foolish to walk in there, blatantly revealing themselves. But Castro’s hunger for answers was stronger than his fear. He swallowed nervously.

‘
This symbol, on the chairs, is interesting,’ he said. ‘Does it have some significance?’

Radich was shaken from a cold silence. ‘Yes,’ he replied, ‘it’s a symbol once used by the Society. A sort of logo I guess you’d call it. We no longer use it.’

‘
What does it mean?’

‘
It’s formed from two capital ‘E’s, one turned the other way. I believe it stands for the Latin phrase
ecce eversor
.’

‘
And what does that mean?’

‘
Literally it means ‘behold a destroyer’. I think it was used in the early days of the Society to symbolise that religious scholarship would destroy doubt.’

‘
Doubt?’

‘
About the meaning of Christian faith.’

Castro nodded.

‘
Another one of your members was an SS officer during the Second World War,’ Koestler interrupted. ‘Why on earth would a German soldier be part of your Society?’

‘
An SS officer?’ Radich repeated. ‘I doubt it.’

‘
Really,’ Koestler went on. ‘He died many years ago, but he was certainly involved in your Society in the years immediately following the war. His name was Gerhard Erich Schlessinger.’

Radich moved uncomfortably, a frown forming on his brow. Castro noticed his hand lingering at his breast pocket. ‘I’m afraid I don’t know the name,’ he said.

‘
What about the CIA man?’ Koestler went on. ‘What’s he got to do with religious scholarship?’

Radich bit his lip, glanced at the door. ‘Look, I know nothing about Sewell’s profession,’ he said. ‘I hardly know the man. But I really doubt he’s involved with the CIA.’

‘
Sewell?’ Koestler repeated. ‘His name’s Sewell?’

Radich’s face dropped.

Castro suddenly felt vulnerable. The Society’s spokesman knew something. Castro looked at Koestler, but the German seemed unconcerned.

‘
Okay,’ Castro butted in, ‘you’ve been very helpful, Mr Radich. But we have another appointment.’ He began to rise.

Suddenly, a darkness appeared in Radich’s eyes, a terrifying sneer on his mouth. He stood quickly, his hand disappearing into his jacket.

‘
Okay,’ Radich said. ‘That’s enough.’ A gun appeared. ‘Both of you; put your hands on your heads.’ He shook the weapon at them.

A knot of fear expanded in Castro’s stomach. He raised his hands, but before he could speak, a bell began ringing. A constant, droning alarm bell. They all looked toward the door.

Radich frowned. ‘Don’t move,’ he said. He walked over to the door, angling his gun at the two men, and prised it open a few inches. A distant noise wandered up from the floors below, mingling with the throbbing clang. People’s voices, the thump of footfalls on the wooden stairways.

Radich turned back into the room. ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘Through that door.’

He waved the gun at them again, pushed them toward a large door in the far corner of the office. Keeping his hands raised, Castro pushed through into a small room with no window. It was strikingly dim. There was a faintly musty smell of old wood, beeswax and leather polished smooth by years of use.

Radich shoved Koestler into the room behind Castro. ‘I’ll be back,’ he said, backing out of the room. The door closed quickly and the lock was turned from the outside.

The room had a high ceiling. Two wall lamps cast a pale light over the crimson walls. Along the two longer walls stood pew-like benches of dark wood. At the far end, on a small podium, stood a long stone-topped table. On it were a large crucifix and two chalices. Above it, fixed to the wall, the mysterious symbol shone in bright silver.

Castro turned around the room. ‘Shit!’ he said. ‘What
is
this place?’

Koestler’s face was pale. ‘I don’t know,’ he said, ‘but we should never have come here.’

‘
It’s some sort of inner sanctum,’ Castro said softly. He looked around again, then back at Koestler.

Suddenly, something over the German’s shoulder caught his eye. He stepped past the German, his features widening.

He shuddered, hardly able to take in what he was seeing. Before him shone the deep brown eyes of Alfonso de Morillo. They were enraptured eyes, full of a forlorn, confused passion, almost a fear beyond imagining. The artist had captured something altogether disturbing in the old inquisitor. Something that overwhelmed the simplicity of its composition. Alfonso was a troubled man, a man whose wisdom was tested; whose resolve could falter at any moment.

There it was, plain to see, a missing painting rediscovered. Castro’s eyes moved slowly over the cleric’s features, down to the hands clasped across his stomach, the dangling rosary whose sparkling light was so exquisitely depicted it seemed to sway rhythmically before the onlooker. And then to the pendant lying on his chest. The symbol seemed to fill all of Castro’s vision.

Castro’s hand darted up, his fingers running over the bumps and creases of long-dried oil paint. He felt an unusual warmth in his chest. It was as if he’d been handed an envelope containing the solution to his broken life. Like he was that close to salvation. It didn’t matter that he couldn’t prise open that envelope; peek at its contents. It was in his hands, and that was enough.

Taking a step back, he stared entranced by the painting. It was much smaller than he’d imagined, less than two feet tall. But its effect was even more disturbing than the image of it that inhabited his nightmares. The brushstrokes seemed more pronounced; the shading somehow more powerful, sinister.

Suddenly, a wave of realisation span through him.

There was a faint whisper of breath on Castro’s neck. He turned to see Koestler looking over his shoulder at the portrait.

‘
What is it?’ he said.

‘
This painting,’ Castro replied. ‘It’s the one I’ve been looking for.’

Koestler raised an eyebrow, took a closer look. ‘This is it?’ he said, surprised. ‘It’s not very impressive.’

Castro smiled and turned back to Alfonso’s sad expression. He raised a finger at the monk. ‘This man knew a secret. A dangerous secret; one handed down through generations of men just like him. And the men of this Society are protecting that same secret. They’re not protecting Schlessinger; they’re protecting Alfonso here. They’ve tried to eradicate him from history, remove any possible link between them and the secret he entrusted to them. That’s why he’s here, in this spiritual home, if you like. Schlessinger removed the monk from scrutiny, but they couldn’t bring themselves to destroy the image of their forebear. And he’s sitting over them still, party to their code of silence.’

Turning back to Koestler, Castro’s face showed a strange sense of relief.

But Koestler looked worried. ‘It’s a shame it had to come to this.’ he said.

A moment later, the door was unlocked and Radich came back in. He closed the door and turned into the room, a quizzical, slightly perturbed look on his face. As he opened his mouth to speak, the door flew open again and a man rushed in.

‘
Nobody move!’ the man bellowed, scanning the barrel of a huge handgun between the three men. He was dressed in black; dark jeans and a shiny padded jacket. He was unshaven, had an uncompromising stare in his eye. He looked between the three men quickly.

Radich looked surprised. ‘Who the hell are you?’ he cried. ‘One of Sewell’s men?’

A look of confusion crossed the intruder’s face, but it quickly changed into a knowing smile. ‘Yes, Sewell wants them outside,’ he said and motioned with the tip of his weapon for the two men to pass through the door.

‘
What’s going on?’ Castro asked.

The intruder looked at him briefly then back at Radich and then to the door. ‘Just move!’ he said.

Castro complied, followed by Koestler. The man turned to Radich as they left and said, ‘wait here for Sewell’s call.’

‘
I wanted to do it,’ Radich said.

‘
Just wait for the call,’ the stranger repeated.

Radich’s bony face disappeared behind the door, his mouth turned down.

The stranger led them through the outer office and to the top of the stairs. They went down one storey and stopped. The alarm was still ringing.

‘
Okay,’ the man said. ‘I want you to walk slowly down the stairs and out the front door. Don’t turn around and don’t stop, even if someone talks to you. I’m right behind you.’

‘
Who are you?’ Koestler asked.

‘
And don’t talk, even to me. Just do as I say and no one will get hurt.’ He urged them on with his gun, then concealed it within his jacket. It bulged menacingly.

As they reached the head of the next flight, voices suddenly became audible. The man told them to stop and peered over Castro’s shoulder down the stairs. Castro turned and followed his gaze.

Directly below, three men were jogging up the stairs. Two tall men followed by a grey-haired, heavily tanned man in a dark coat. The tall men were carrying automatic weapons. The older one had his arm in a sling.

‘
Stop,’ the man whispered in Castro’s ear. ‘Both of you, over here.’ He ducked into the nearest doorway and threw Castro and Koestler tight against the deep doorframe. ‘Don’t make a sound,’ he breathed, ‘or I’ll silence you for good.’

A few moments later the three men reached the top of the stairs and passed only three feet away, turning along the corridor and vanishing up the final flight of steps.

The man hesitated a moment. ‘Quick,’ he whispered and pushed Castro and Koestler toward the stairs again. ‘Remember; go straight out the front door. Don’t hesitate for anything.’

Castro and Koestler marched down the steps, passing the dark paintings that covered the walls. The alarm bells were deafening.

They were almost in the deserted reception area when suddenly a loud bang cut through the noise of the fire alarm. Castro jumped as a chunk of wood splintered off the banister by his hand and flew against the wall.

‘
Outside, quickly,’ the man shouted at them. He pushed them down the final few steps and turned back up the stairs.

Castro got a glimpse of the other men coming quickly down at them, weapons raised. The intruder whipped out his own weapon and fired. Castro was jolted by the noise of the discharge and almost lost his balance. But Koestler had grabbed his arm and was dragging him toward the door.

―
§ ―

The alarm had been ringing for what seemed an eternity, the clanging amplified as it funnelled through the open door. It began to mix with the distant sound of fire department trucks.

Walsh had concealed himself behind the wall that bordered the steps to the
Tagaste
building. He’d watched as people had run through the door. He’d counted two women and five men. They’d gathered across the street, looking up at the building for signs of smoke, chatting noisily among themselves.