Scott Mariani - The Babylon Idol

From Limousin he passed into the Midi-Pyrénées. A while later the signs for Toulouse flashed by. He left the motorway and veered south-east into Roussillon, then due south from Carcassonne, deep into the rugged landscape along ever narrower and twistier roads, slippery with ice, that led him up dizzying mountain passes where the ruins of medieval castles stood silhouetted on craggy snow-capped peaks against the winter sky; then plunged steeply down into green pine valleys, through small towns and villages and hamlets too small to feature on the map. Couiza, Quillan, Montségur. He passed within a couple of kilometres of the villa that had been Anna Manzini’s base for her research on ancient Languedoc history and the mysteries of the Cathars. The same villa where Franco Bozza had almost managed to kill her.

Being back here again for the first time since that summer brought back memories he’d thought he’d left far behind him: he and Roberta Ryder dodging bullets and chasing clues all over the Languedoc; the deadly running pursuit on which Usberti’s hired killers had led them; playing tag with Luc Simon and an army of police; finding Anna battered and unconscious after Bozza’s attack; the final bloody standoff with Bozza in an underground cavern buried deep in the heart of a mountain. And Ben remembered the kindness that Father Pascal had shown him when he’d turned up on the priest’s doorstep, badly hurt. The old man had been more of a father to him than his real one ever had. The memory sent a painful stab of guilt deep inside Ben as he replayed those images inside his head.

He should have done more to stay in contact. But keeping in touch with people who had been important in his life had never been one of his greatest talents.

If you ever find yourself in Florence, you must give me a call.

In the desert of life, you are my mirage.

Running off when people need you around is what you do best, after all.

Their voices echoed in his mind. He’d let them all down. For that, he was truly sorry.

Soon, his speeding headlights lit up a road sign for the village of Saint-Jean. Dawn was still a couple of hours away. He’d made good time.

The village was still more or less as Ben remembered it – a few new houses might have sprouted up at its edges, and more of the ancient red-tiled roofs were incongruously decorated with recent add-ons like solar panels and satellite dishes. He passed the drystone wall that had been painted with blood from his gunshot wound, then winding deeper into the village he passed the little church in which he’d prayed alone in the dead of night; then he saw the graveyard, and beyond it the slope of scrubland leading up the hillside where Pascal tended to his vines; and then he saw the priest’s cottage. The same old pale-blue Renault 14 was parked in the narrow, winding street outside. Ben’s spirits brightened seeing it, knowing it meant Pascal was at home.

He pulled the Alpina up at the kerbside and got out. Looked up at Pascal’s windows, dark and shuttered like every other window in Saint-Jean. The cold stillness seemed to hang over the place like a shroud, and he shivered. He didn’t want to wake Pascal, and thought about sitting a while longer in the car, but changed his mind, walked up to the door and knocked softly.

There was no response after a couple of minutes, so Ben made his way around the back, through the neat yard, past the henhouse. A goat bleated from somewhere in the darkness. The back porch was open. He creaked the door ajar and stepped into the narrow hallway. He smelled the rich cherry and vanilla tang of aromatic pipe tobacco that had soaked into every crevice of the old stone walls. An antique case clock ticked steadily, sonorously from within. He called out softly, ‘Father Pascal?’

‘ Arrêtez! ’ The voice behind him made him tense and whirl around. Yellow torchlight shone in his face and glinted off something that Ben instantly recognised as a wartime French service revolver. One that was pointed right at him.

Ben froze and put up his hands. Normally, when faced with a firearm aimed in his face, he would have done either one of two things: move in faster than a striking cobra and take control of the weapon, breaking the fingers of the person holding it. Or, if that wasn’t tactically favourable, he would have drawn out his own gun and fired first. And so far in his life, Ben had always been quicker.

But he wasn’t about to do either of those things when the person with the gun was a little old woman as frail as a sparrow, so frightened that the weapon was fluttering in her skinny hand. ‘Who’s there?’ she quavered.

‘Don’t shoot,’ he said in French. ‘It’s all right. I’m a friend of Father Pascal. My name’s Ben.’

The woman hesitated, then reached tentatively out and clicked on the wall light. She was in her seventies, with thinning grey hair, wearing a dressing gown topped by a shawl draped around her shoulders. Her eyes were reddened as though she’d been crying.

‘I couldn’t sleep,’ she said. ‘I saw the car lights. I thought perhaps they had come back.’

‘You thought who had come back?’

‘Those men. The men who—’ Her voice trailed off. She sniffed.

‘You don’t have to point the gun at me,’ Ben said, eyeing the antique revolver and her finger on the trigger. It might be a relic, but if it had been good enough to kill Germans in two world wars, he didn’t want to be on its business end. ‘I promise I won’t hurt you. Where’s Pascal? What men are you talking about? Is everything all right?’ But it obviously wasn’t. He sensed something was terribly wrong.

The gun drooped in her thin hand, pointing at the floor. The old woman’s eyes filled with tears. And now Ben knew for sure, and he felt his own shoulders sag.

‘When?’ he asked.

‘Two days ago.’

‘What happened?’

‘There was an attack. At the church. The police think it was two intruders. Nobody knows. Nobody saw anything.’ She sniffed again, and shook her head. ‘Pascal … I knew him all my life. And now he is gone.’

Ben’s throat was so tight that he could barely speak. ‘What did they do to him?’

‘They beat him. They killed him, les salauds . The funeral is this morning.’

Ben was numb as he walked back to the car. He watched the old woman disappear inside her house, her head bowed. He sat and smoked, letting his mind become empty.

Dawn came; the sky lightened in gradual shades. A fog hung over the mountains in the background. The old woman reappeared, dressed in boots and a coat. If she was still carrying the gun out of fear that the attackers might return, it was hidden in a pocket. She let Pascal’s hens out and fed them, moving stiffly in the morning cold. Seeing Ben sitting there in his car, she came over with a sad smile and asked if he’d like to come inside for coffee. He said no, thanks, and apologised for having scared her earlier. He told her the men wouldn’t be back, and that she shouldn’t be afraid.

There was nothing more to say. Nothing more to do here. He’d be on his way, after the funeral.

At ten o’clock in the morning, Father Pascal Cambriel was laid to rest in the graveyard of the church of Saint-Jean where he’d spent so many years caring for his community. Many had turned out to pay their final respects to the much-loved priest they’d known all their lives. Ben stood at the back of the crowd and watched with a clenched jaw as the coffin went into the ground. There were tears and sobs. A younger priest drafted in from a neighbouring town said a few solemn words. Ben spoke to nobody.

He was the last to leave the cemetery. As he knelt alone by the fresh grave, he made his promise. Then, slowly, calmly, he walked back to the car and drove away, never to return to Saint-Jean.