The Tower (5 page)

The driver opened the rear door, but Father Hogan’s hand touched his shoulder. ‘What did you mean when you said before, “Perhaps you can find the key”? Why didn’t Father Boni answer you?’

The scientist looked at him with an expression of ill-concealed surprise. ‘You were the ones who asked me to build that apparatus. The first ultra-short-wave radio ever built with those characteristics. The only one that can receive signals from cosmic space. An instrument that no one else has access to, nor will for years.’ Seeing Father Hogan’s bewildered expression, he continued, ‘Don’t tell me you didn’t know. No. You didn’t know, did you? Well, then, let me tell you something else.’ He drew closer and whispered in the priest’s ear. ‘Be careful!’ he added, and slipped into the car.

Father Hogan crossed the square, which was still immersed in darkness, and vanished between the huge travertine columns. At that moment, a light came on suddenly in the window of the Pope’s apartments.

F
ATHER
H
OGAN
put his glasses back on after nervously wiping them clean with his handkerchief. He replaced the big register that he had just finished consulting and took down the next from the large cupboard. He started to leaf through the book with great patience, running his finger down the list of the works consulted in the Vatican Museums during September 1921. The dusky light streaming through the window was reflected on the frescoed faces lining the empty, silent room. His finger abruptly stopped on a date, a signature: ‘Desmond Garrett, PhD.’ He pressed an interphone button.

‘Have you found something?’ replied a voice at the other end.

‘Yes, Father Boni. Ten years ago, someone probably saw the Stone of the Constellations and may have read the text you’ve enquired about. His name was Desmond Garrett. Does that name mean anything to you?’

There was a moment of silence at the other end of the line and then the voice again. ‘Come here, Hogan, immediately.’

Father Hogan replaced the register on its shelf and left the consulting room. He descended two flights of stairs to the ground floor and then took a lift down another couple of levels. He walked along corridors lit by dim bulbs until he found himself in a room dominated by a large painting which hung on the wall, picturing a cardinal in his purple robes and rochet. He touched a golden curl on the frame and a sharp click was heard. The painting rotated on itself and Father Hogan disappeared behind it. Another brief, blind corridor lit by a single bulb led to an anonymous door.

He knocked and heard the lock turn twice on the other side. The door opened and Father Boni appeared. ‘Come with me,’ he said.

On a large wooden table was a model of part of the earth’s surface in three-dimensional relief. The wall behind it had been papered over and was completely covered with mathematical calculations. A three-faced glass pyramid had been carefully positioned over the plaster cast. Father Hogan examined it carefully and then raised his eyes to Father Boni’s. ‘So this is the model.’

‘Yes, I believe so,’ replied the elderly priest. ‘The symbol which recurs every three sequences of signals contains topographical data corresponding to each of the vertices of the base. The vertex of the pyramid coincides with the source of the signal – that is, with the repeater.’

‘What about the receiver?’

‘I don’t know. The signals are retracting from our listening position. They seem to be concentrating on a different point . . . perhaps the final receiver . . .’

‘And where is the final receiver?’

Boni shook his head. ‘I don’t know. Not yet. I’m considering two hypotheses: either the receiver is at the centre of the base, at the point of vertex projection, or it is in one of the three vertices of the base triangle.’

Father Hogan observed the luminescent pyramid. The vertices of the base triangle were widely spaced: one in the Azores, a second in Palestine, the third in the heart of the Sahara desert. He slowly moved his finger towards one of the vertices of the pyramid, where a little light pulsated.

‘It’s connected to the radio,’ said Father Boni. ‘It pulsates with the same frequency as the signal.’

‘The signal,’ repeated Father Hogan. ‘A message in a bottle cast ashore at our beach . . . a message from the infinity of the cosmic ocean . . . Oh, God.’

Father Boni looked at him over the top of his glasses. The close light of the table lamp carved out his features. ‘Are you so sure? And what if it comes from here on earth instead?’

Father Hogan shook his head. ‘That’s not possible. Even Marconi said so. Neither America nor Germany, Japan nor Italy possesses such advanced technology . . . not even all of them together. I am sure of this, and you know it as well. An object that could transmit such a signal is conceivable only in the distant future.’

Father Boni let out a deep sigh and shot an intense look at Father Hogan. ‘Marconi is nothing but a technician, Hogan, albeit a very ingenious one. This . . . object is described in a text that comes from a civilization older than any we know. A document handed down to us by the dying empire of Byzantium, which had got it from the Great Library of King Ptolemy in Alexandria, where in turn it had been copied from the Temple of Amon at the oasis of Siwa. The transmitter comes from the past, my friend, from such a remote past that it may, perhaps, coincide with our possible future. Time is a circle, Hogan . . . and the universe has a curved shape as well.’ His eyes went back to staring, as if hypnotized, at the pulsating light at the top of the pyramid.

‘You’re making fun of me. All this is pure fantasy. A man of your scientific rigour, of your intellectual stature, cannot seriously believe such—’

‘Don’t contradict me, Hogan,’ burst out the old priest, cutting the other man short. ‘I know exactly what I’m talking about. And you are here to assist me with the most important endeavour that has ever been attempted on the face of this earth since the time of Creation.’

Father Hogan held his tongue, startled and confused. The atmosphere in the locked room had become unbearable.

‘Who is Desmond Garrett?’ he asked abruptly.

Father Boni shook his head. ‘I don’t know much about him yet. What we do know for certain is that he managed to get access to the Stone of the Constellations and “The Book of Amon”, both of which had been barred from public viewing for centuries. His signature on that register proves it.’

Father Hogan thought about this for a moment. ‘That’s not necessarily true,’ he protested. ‘His signature means that he requested a consultation.’

‘Oh, no, I’m sure he actually saw them. When I discovered the existence of the cryptographic section of the Vatican Library, where such texts are held, I found a safe there. Inside was a note from my predecessor, Father Antonelli, which mentions Garrett and speaks of a bilingual text that they seem to have been working on together. Antonelli was later rushed to hospital after a sudden deterioration in his health, not leaving him the time, apparently, to find a better hiding place for his notes.’

‘But how could a foreigner have been given access to such a document?’

‘I don’t know and I can’t explain it. Nothing of this sort should ever have happened.’

‘Father, who was your predecessor?’

‘As I told you, a certain Giuseppe Antonelli. A Jesuit from Alatri.’

‘Where is he now?’

‘I don’t know. Not yet. The Jesuits have raised a wall of silence. There’s something very strange about all this. Confound it, Hogan, you’re a Jesuit. It’s your order! Find out what they have to hide! And find out where Antonelli is. We absolutely must speak to him before it’s too late.’

‘I’ll do what I can,’ said Father Hogan, ‘but I can’t promise anything.’

He left the room and retraced his steps to the library’s reading room and then back to his office. He went in and closed the door swiftly behind him as if he were afraid of being followed. He felt as though he had just returned from hell.

P
HILIP
G
ARRETT
met Giorgio Liverani in a café on Vicolo Divino Amore, where the Italian scholar was renting a small house. Philip was so pleased to hear that his friend had managed to arrange a meeting with the director that he gratefully accepted an invitation to dinner at Giorgio’s place that evening.

‘Let me tell you,’ began Liverani, after having ordered gelato for both of them, ‘Boni, who’s usually such a cantankerous old character, didn’t object in the least. As soon as I told him who you were, he seemed very keen to meet you. He’ll see you this afternoon at five in his study on Via Mura Leonine.’

‘Giorgio, I don’t know how . . .’

‘Oh, come on now, I’ve done nothing at all. And good heavens, I’m really pleased to have met up with you again! I wish you could stay a while. You have no idea how I miss the old days in Paris. You will let me know how things go with Father Boni?’

‘You bet,’ said Philip. ‘Tonight, dinner at your house. I’ll tell you everything.’

F
ATHER
B
ONI
’
S STUDY
was very simple and austere, lined from floor to ceiling with bookcases full of bound manuscripts and extracts from scientific journals. Behind the priest’s desk, in the only space free of bookshelves, hung portraits of Galileo Galilei and Bonaventura Cavalieri.

His desk was oddly uncluttered and tidy. A few volumes to his right were ordered by decreasing size. A folder of Moroccan leather lay before him with a finely wrought seventeenth-century stiletto on top – ostensibly a paper cutter, it was shiny and sharp, as though it could well be put to another use. A calculating machine, jewel of the most modern technology, sat on his left, along with a slide-rule.

‘If I believed in telepathy,’ the priest began after asking Philip to sit down, ‘I would say that I had been expecting your visit, although we’ve never had the pleasure of meeting.’

‘Is that so?’ said Philip. ‘I’m happy, then, because you’re the only person in the world who can help me right now.’

‘I’ll be glad to do so if I can,’ said Father Boni. ‘Tell me, please, what is it you need?’

‘As you may know, my father, the anthropologist Desmond Garrett, disappeared in the south-eastern quadrant of the Sahara desert ten years ago without leaving any trace. An officer of the Foreign Legion recently contacted me and passed on what may be a sign from my father in the form of a coded message. In ten years, I’ve been up any number of blind alleys trying to search for him, but this time I’m convinced I’m on the right track.

‘I’ve learned that shortly before he vanished, he spent some time here in Rome and met with a man who may have been very important for his research: the director of the Vatican Library, a Jesuit named Giuseppe Antonelli. I contacted the Curia Generalizia to learn what I could about him, but the answers I received were rather evasive. Since you are his successor at the library, I was wondering if you could give me any information about this man and perhaps tell me how I can find him. It’s vitally important to me, as I’m sure you will understand.’

Father Boni widened his arms. ‘Father Antonelli left his job a year ago due to ill health. I’m afraid I never met him.’ Philip lowered his head in disappointment but the priest quickly began speaking again, as if afraid of losing the young man’s interest. ‘However,’ he said, lifting his index finger, ‘that’s not to say I can’t help you. You see, I need to see Father Antonelli myself, regarding a matter of certain library funds that I am responsible for. I was meaning to call the Father General of the order this very evening to request a meeting. If I can arrange this, I may be able to ask Father Antonelli to see you as well.’

‘You’d be doing me an immense favour,’ said Philip, without managing to hide a touch of scepticism.

Father Boni nodded, then said, ‘Father Antonelli was always a very private person, even when he was in good health. I imagine that he would want to know the reason for such a request on my part, especially now that he is suffering from such a grave illness. I’m sure you understand . . .’

‘Naturally,’ replied Philip. He admired the man’s ability to move his words as carefully as pawns on a chessboard. ‘You can tell him the truth. That Desmond Garrett’s son asked to see him to learn what was said ten years ago, when he and my father saw each other here in Rome, and what the true object of my father’s research was.’

‘Do forgive me,’ said Father Boni, ‘but it’s hard to believe that your father told you nothing at all about his research. I wouldn’t want to arouse Father Antonelli’s suspicion. As I told you, he’s quite a reserved man.’

Philip betrayed a barely perceptible twinge of impatience. ‘Father Boni,’ he said, ‘you’ll have to excuse me, but I’m not used to this subtle verbal sparring. If there’s something you want to know, ask me straight out and I’ll answer. If I can’t, I’ll be glad to explain the reason why.’

Accustomed to the tortuous, diplomatic tones of curial discourse, Father Boni was embarrassed at first and then irritated at this brash young man, but he restrained himself. ‘You see, Garrett, we’re speaking of a man who is very ill, weak, racked by pain, a man who is facing the mystery of death and eternity with the fragile forces he has left to him. Vague . . . curiosities may well seem distant and practically meaningless to him.

‘I seem to remember hearing that your father had discovered the key to reading a very ancient language, older than Luvian hieroglyphics, than Egyptian or Sumerian. I imagine that this was the interest he had in common with Father Antonelli, who, as you will know, was an expert epigraphist. You realize, of course, that we too are extremely interested in the key for interpreting this language . . . We do not want all Father Antonelli’s efforts to go to waste with his death, which unfortunately seems near. Especially since, as you tell me, your father, the only person on earth who may have been privy to this knowledge, has disappeared. There, I’ve said what I know. It might be helpful if you would let me know what “sign” your father has sent. Perhaps, if we combined forces . . .’ He paused, without concluding his thought.