Tom Knox - The Babylon rite

‘Bestiality and necrophilia, in fervent variety. Yep. I reckon that’s what they did.’

‘It’s hard to take, Jess. Hard to believe any society could be that sick. Unless you get Venturi to back you up on the amputations I’m going to hang fire. And think some more.’ His gaze was troubled. ‘However, even if we eventually accept that the Moche did some of this stuff, we still need an explanation why. ’

‘Sorry?’

‘Well. I’m wondering if it occurred, perhaps it was a reaction, to terrible societal pressure, possibly an El Nino event?’ His eyes were alive now, as he calculated and theorized. ‘That makes sense, Jess. Doesn’t it? We know El Nino ruined cultures around here. A bad El Nino might have traumatized an ordinary civilization into performing… appalling acts. Yes.’ He smiled. ‘Anyway, darling! Get me Venturi to confirm you on the amputation, then we can talk some more.’

This time she ignored the darling. This time, in truth, she realized she quite liked it. Why not? They were going out, they were lovers. Maybe it was time to get over herself, and tell the world. This is me, and I’m with Dan. Jessica excused herself to go to the washroom. She felt a rising elation as she did. So long as Venturi came through she had a chance at proving her Big Theory. Once they understood the Moche rites, they would be close to understanding Moche beliefs.

And yet there was still so much more to be unravelled and explained. Was it really El Nino that had caused all this? It seemed hard to credit; the sacrifices and tortures had been going on for centuries. They had not sprung into being after just one drought or flood, however apocalyptic. And then there were the ulluchus, the blood of the unknown god. Why was the god bleeding?

Jess dried her hands, and walked quickly towards the door but the last washroom mirror caught her attention. She lingered, examining herself. Her pale European face. Her blonde hair. Her lips. Her face. What did that face say? Was she really OK?

Jess gazed over her hands. The fine tremor had gone. Hadn’t it? That sudden thought about her father was paranoia, surely. He had died of cancer. That’s what she knew. That’s what she had been told.

No. Yes. No.

She chastened herself for her hypochondria. Pushing the door to the washroom, she walked back down the long corridor to the main lab. Concentrating on science, not silly fears.

But a noise made her pause. Ten metres from the lab door.

Shouting.

What was this?

Someone was shouting in the lab. And it wasn’t Dan. The voice was harsh, Spanish, probably Peruvian — and the voice was angry, and brutally aggressive.

Where was Dan?

Jessica inched to the laboratory door, its tinted glass panel. If she got close, she could probably see through, without being seen herself.

There!

Stunned by what she had seen, Jessica flattened herself against the wall, her mind roiled by panic.

A strange dark tall man had Daniel Kossoy pinned by the window, next to the bone fridges. A gun was pressed so hard to Dan’s throat it had visibly whitened the skin of his neck.

The man was going to shoot. The finger on the trigger was squeezed with slow, delicious subtlety. About to kill her boss. About to kill her lover.

Rosslyn Chapel, Midlothian

‘Are you all right?’

Adam extended a hand to Nina, and as they crossed the snowy car park of Rosslyn Chapel.

‘It’s just a wee bit of snow! I grew up in the Borders, we’re used to snow.’

He tried again. ‘No, I meant, you know, coming back here to Rosslyn…’

‘ I’m OK! C’mon let’s just get going.’

They reached her car, chucked their coats on the back seat, and climbed in. Nina turned the key and they took the main road out of town, past the site of the crash. Adam stared out of the window.

A casual passer-by would never have guessed that this chilly stretch of urban road was the scene of a recent suicide — or murder. Virtually all traces had been erased: just a few broken bricks in the snow-capped wall — where Archibald McLintock’s car had impacted — told the story.

‘So.’ Her voice was firm, probably masking the emotion. ‘What did that tell us?’

Adam didn’t know what to say. What had this visit to Rosslyn told them?

They knew, from her father’s receipts, which Nina had sorted into a time sequence, sealed in different noted envelopes, that her father had spent two days at Rosslyn. He had visited on two consecutive occasions before embarking on his long journey south to the Templar sites. But why?

Nina was swerving the car — a diminutive Volkswagen — on to the A1. The high road for the south.

‘Ach,’ she spat. ‘Dammit.’

More snow flurries had slowed the traffic to a maudlin crawl, behind gritting lorries which were spitting their loads into the fresh white snow, soiling it brown.

‘Take us six hours to get to Berwick, this rate.’ She gazed across the gear well at him. ‘Come on, Adam. Talk to me. Mr Australian Journalist. Rosslyn. Tell me we found something.’

Reaching in the damp pocket of his wax jacket, he took out his notebook. ‘I did make some notes.’

‘And?’

‘Whatever he found in Rosslyn has to be mysterious. Your dad was an expert on the Templars and the Grail legends and medieval European history. In that light, what could Rosslyn have told him that he didn’t know already? It must be something no one has solved…’

‘With you so far, Sherlock. What did he find?’

‘Well… What about under the floor of Rosslyn? The alleged vault?’

She tutted. ‘Puh-lease. The vault almost certainly doesn’t exist. Da Vinci Code nonsense. Next?’

Adam turned a page. ‘OK, what about the Green Men? There are hundreds of Green Men — stylized images of pagan fertility. One of them in Rosslyn seems to be dead. Is that interesting?’

She shook her head as they overtook another gritting lorry, spewing its pebbledash into the settling snow. ‘Green Men aren’t unique to Rosslyn, they’re a common motif in European architecture. Nope. Tell me another. There must be something. What did my father see in that chapel? He visited it two days running. He must’ve found something.’

The road was emptier after the final gritting lorry; the car was accelerating. Adam half-sighed, and flicked the pages. ‘Er… An inverted Lucifer. Musical cubes. Corn on the cob. Adam and Eve?’ The idiocy stifled his energies. ‘Look, Nina. I reckon this is pretty pointless. ’

‘Why? Rosslyn is key. Dad said so.’

‘That’s what I mean. Rosslyn is the key. That’s what he said: it’s all here. So it’s the centre of the puzzle, or at least something like that. So we’re going about it the wrong way.’

‘Don’t understand.’

‘Imagine this was a jigsaw puzzle. Do you start at the centre?’

She gave him another look. ‘Ah.’

‘Exactly. You’d start-’

‘At the edges! Yes. Straight lines, the easy bits. The frame.’ She tutted at her own stupidity and nodded. ‘ Yes.’

‘Therefore we start at the edges. The Templars. That’s the frame. Then we work our way to the centre. Rosslyn.’

The car was now silent. Adam gazed out. The resonant place names sped past on either side: Athelstaneford, Luggate Burn, Longniddry.

‘Yorkshire.’

He started from his reverie. ‘Sorry?’

‘I’m starting with the edges! The first place he went in England was Yorkshire. That’s the second envelope. After Rosslyn. That’s our destination. Look it up, Ad. In the bag?’

Adam reached into the back seat and grabbed the large duffel bag. Inside were the envelopes containing the assiduously sorted receipts.

He rummaged, and located a white envelope. Handwritten on the front was Yorkshire, July 23–26. ‘I’m impressed with your bookkeeping.’