Paul Christopher - The Lucifer Gospel

“The original white supremacist,” said Finn.

“Yes,” the old man said and nodded.

“What do you know about the man who was with him when he disappeared? DeVaux,” asked Hilts.

“Another Frenchman. Trained at the Йcole Biblique in Jerusalem. Personal private secretary to Cardinal Maglione when he was papal nuncio in France, continued with him for the rest of his career both as Vatican secretary of state under Pacelli, Pius XII, and also interestingly enough as Grand Chancellor of the Pontifical Institute of Christian Archaeology.”

“What exactly does that mean?” Finn asked.

“DeVaux had a great deal to do with all things archaeological within the Church. It’s well enough known that at the time certain elements within the Vatican were looking for archaeological justifications for some of the things Hitler and Mussolini were extolling. The Spear of Destiny, the Ark of the Covenant, Ultima Thule, or Atlantis. Also at the time one of the great fears was the establishment of a Jewish State in Palestine. DeVaux and a lot of other Franciscans were afraid that their hegemony over the Holy Land would come to an end if that happened.” The old man smiled around the stem of his pipe. “And just to make things interesting, Maglione, DeVaux’s boss, DeVaux himself, and Pedrazzi were all members in good standing of the Knights of Malta.”

“Who were they?” asked Hilts.

“You’ve seen the Godfather movies presumably?”

“Sure.”

“Our friend Tony Montana at the Municipio in Venosa can quote from all three extensively. You remember in the last of them that Al Pacino is given a medal?”

“Vaguely.”

“It is the cross of Saint Sebastian. He is being made a Knight of Malta. It is indicative, I think.”

“Is that anything like the Templars?” Finn asked.

“They are the Templars. There were two parts to the order when it was formed-the Hospitallers, the ones who cared for the sick, who wore black, and the Military order, who wore white in the manner of the Cistercians.”

Hilts looked amused. “We’re talking Dan Brown, The Da Vinci Code, all that?”

“I’m afraid so,” Vergadora said with a nod. “But these men are no joke. In recent years the Fraterninty of Saint Sebastian has returned to its paramilitary roots. They are zealots, trained like marines and utterly obedient. They even have a Web site: www.Christiansoldiers.org. These are not people to be taken lightly.”

“They sound like they could be friends of Rolf Adamson,” said Hilts.

“They certainly share the same basic philosophy,” the old man said. “Which I’m afraid brings me to the last piece of mythology associated with your legionary, Luciferus Africanus.” Vergadora reached out and touched the medallion. “Do either of you know the story of the Seven Sleepers?”

“Never heard of it,” said Hilts. Finn just shook her head.

“It is undoubtedly the source of your own fairy tale of Rip Van Winkle. Gregory of Tours discusses it during the sixth century, but it was well known before that. There are several versions, but the basic story is this: seven youths in the time of the Roman emperor Decius refused to honor his decree and repent of their belief in the Resurrection. They were walled into a cave but did not die. Instead they slept for two centuries, woke up to show that the Resurrection of the flesh was possible, then slept again until the coming of the Messiah. They sleep there still, these seven warriors, in a cave of immense riches, somewhere beyond the Western Sea.”

“Beyond the Western Sea?” said Hilts.

“The U.S.,” said Finn.

“Exactly,” the old man said, nodding.

“A treasure cave in the United States-that really is Adamson territory.”

“And the territory of his grandfather, the Reverend Schuyler Grand.”

“You’ve heard of him?” said Hilts, obviously surprised.

“My boy,” the old man said pleasantly, “if you live long enough your hearing begins to fade but you wind up hearing everything.”

Finn laughed at the small joke but she found herself thinking of Arthur Simpson in her hotel room and his warning about Senator Jimmy “Sword of the Lord” Judd and his Tenth Crusade militia.

Hilts stood. “Coffee went right through me, I’m afraid. Can I use your facilities?”

“Certainly. There’s a powder room just down the hallway by the kitchen.” He stood. “I’ll show you.”

“I can find it,” Hilts said. “No problem.” He left the room.

Finn looked at the gleaming medallion on the table in front of her. The connections were becoming frighteningly obvious, but the final intent remained obscure. What was Rolf Adamson’s real objective in all of this and just how far was he willing to go to accomplish it?

“What would this DeVaux person gain by killing Pedrazzi?” Finn asked.

“Silence, I suspect,” murmured Vergadora. “He clearly had a different agenda.”

“I wonder if he got out of the desert alive? The plane was a wreck,” she said.

“Perhaps it was always his intention that Pedrazzi would die that day,” suggested the old man. He used another match to light his pipe again, then looked at her above the smoking bowl. “Perhaps he had some other means of transportation at hand.”

Hilts reappeared.

“Possible,” he said, sitting down again. “With the right vehicle and enough water it wouldn’t have been too difficult for a man who knew the desert.”

“DeVaux accompanied Almasy on one expedition between the wars and he was with Bagnold on several of his expeditions.”

“Bagnold?”

“The man who organized the Long Range Desert Group; those men in the scorpion cave.”

“Quite right,” said Vergadora. “DeVaux and Bagnold were at Cambridge together. That’s where they met.”

Cambridge, thought Finn. Arthur Simpson, her father, DeVaux, and this man Bagnold, all sharing a single thread. Were there others? She had another thought, this one far removed from Cambridge University.

“Was Lucio Pedrazzi from Venosa?”

“That’s rather an interesting question,” said Vergadora. “And the answer to it is no. Pedrazzi’s family were orphans of the Papal States; his family were burocrates in the commune of Pontecorvo, just south of Rome, until Napoleon threw them out.”

“Then why did he come here? Was there something between your families?”

“Not that I’m aware of. He had an interest in the Jewish catacombs here, that I do know.”

“And DeVaux?”

“The inscriptions in the Benedictine abbey were his specialty. The abbey and the Church of the Trinity are built on the ruins of the catacombs.” The old man made a sour face. “Unfortunately access is controlled by the Vatican. They say one need only apply to the custodian in Rome, but it seems the custodian is never available for such applications. It has been that way ever since I can remember.”

“Could Luciferus Africanus have been buried there?”

“If he was a Jew, which is doubtful. The legate or the tribune of a Roman legion was usually of the senator class; not a group known for keeping kosher.”

“I’m getting a headache,” said Finn. “Too much information all at once.” That and her growing suspicions about Vergadora, not to mention the clouds of smoke from the old man’s pipe.

“So there would be no point in trying to get into the catacombs, is that what you’re saying?” Hilts asked, ignoring Finn’s comment.

“None whatsoever,” the old man replied. “Unless you have some facility with ancient Greek, Latin, and the occasional inscription in Aramaic. The only person who ever knew much about them was an old man named Mueller, one of my teachers. Even DeVaux only scratched the surface, at least as I understand it.”