Tom Harper - The Book of Secrets

Emily went quiet. Nick gave her a sideways glance. ‘What are you thinking?’

‘There is someone who could help us. Someone who could analyse this book to see what Gillian might have found. Where it took her.’

‘Who?’

Emily drummed her fingers on the door handle. ‘His name’s Brother Jerome. He’s a Jesuit – or used to be. He’s an expert in medieval books. He was… He taught me at the Sorbonne. He’s retired now.’

‘Does he live near here? Is he trustworthy?’

‘Near the German border. Probably about an hour’s drive from here. As for trustworthy… You can trust him, I suppose.’

Nick craned around and stared at her. ‘If there’s something you need to tell me, then tell me. If this guy’s not above board, I’m not going anywhere near him.’

‘You can trust him,’ Emily repeated. She sounded close to tears. ‘It’s just… awkward. I was his student, once. He made a pass at me; I reported him. He lost his job.’

Now it was Nick’s turn to stare at the dashboard in embarrassment. ‘If you think-’

‘No. He’s the only man who can help us.’

Before they left, Nick found a tyre lever under the back seat and smashed out the remained shards of broken glass from the window. From a distance it made the car look a bit more reputable. Then he started the engine and pulled out of the gas station. He could see the highway ahead: trucks thundering across a bridge in the night. Blue signs pointed left and right. Nick slowed the car.

‘Which way?’

Italy

Cesare Gemato sat behind his desk and stared through the windows of his eighth-floor office. Rain beaded on the bulletproof glass; beyond, the ships crossing the Bay of Naples were mere smears of grey against a grey sea.

‘Nessun dorma! Nessun dorma!’

Pavarotti burst into life on his phone. Gemato saw the number flashing on the screen and grabbed it. He listened for a minute and said nothing, though his knuckles went white.

‘OK,’ he said, and hung up.

He spent five minutes delaying what he had to do next. There weren’t many people he was afraid to call, but Nevado was one. Perhaps the only one.

He picked up the black phone on his desk – the secure line – and dialled the number from memory.

The voice was there at once. ‘What happened?’

‘My men followed them to the warehouse you told them. They…’ He swallowed. ‘They were caught by some security device. Two died; one managed to get away. The man and the woman escaped.’

He waited for a tirade of abuse. Instead, all he heard was a soft voice rasping, ‘What are you going to do about it?’

‘They stole a vehicle belonging to my men. Like all our vehicles, it is fitted with a tracking system. We have traced it to a suburb of Liège near the German border.’

‘Did the American take the book?’

‘The police came too soon for us to find out.’

Gemato waited. ‘I will go myself,’ said the voice. ‘Have one of your men meet me there.’

One hundred miles to the north-west, the old man put down the phone and stared at the office wall. There were rooms in this building decorated by Raphael and Michelangelo; others that housed marvels from an art collection built up over almost two thousand years. Nevado could have had any of them to decorate his office. Yet he had chosen a small, spare room overlooking an obscure courtyard, and the only decoration on the wall was an ivory crucifix. He contemplated it for a moment.

There were records he could have consulted, books and files – he did not trust his secrets to computers – but he did not need to. Somewhere in the Vatican’s vast archive was an index card with Emily Sutherland’s name on it. He had studied it only yesterday. It had referenced another file in another basement, this one much fatter. He had read that too. He knew who Emily Sutherland wanted to see near Liège.

He buzzed his secretary. ‘I need to travel to Liège. At once, and in private.’

Near Liège, Belgium

Nick had never thought about monks retiring. If he ever had, he’d have assumed they just carried on until they died, like the pope. He certainly wouldn’t have guessed the reality. Brother Jerome had swapped the Society of Jesus for the drab mortification of the suburbs: a cul-de-sac of brick and pebble-dashed bungalows on the edge of a small town. It felt like the end of the world.

Nick parked the car against a hedge to hide the broken window. Low clouds were holding back the dawn; the world was sunk in shadows, a thousand shades of grey. A woman in a quilted jacket walked a terrier along the opposite pavement; she shot them a suspicious glare as she passed. Otherwise, the street was empty.

Emily led them up a path to a white front door and rang the bell. Nick rubbed his hands together. The cold air was the only thing keeping him awake right now.

Emily rang the bell again. A second later, Nick saw movement behind the blurred glass panels in the door. A voice mumbled at them to be patient while keys jangled and locks clicked. The door cracked open on its chain and a gaunt face peered through the gap.

His eyes widened. ‘Emily. Was I to expect you?’ He noticed Nick. ‘And a friend. Who is he, please?’

If Andy Warhol had ever taken holy orders and retired to Belgium, perhaps this was what he’d have looked like. Brother Jerome was a thin, bony man with a mop of white hair that almost touched his eyes. He wore a Chinese-patterned bathrobe, loosely knotted so that when he walked his bare legs were exposed right up to his thighs. Nick had the unpleasant suspicion he was naked underneath it.

He unchained the door and kissed Emily on both cheeks; she stiffened, but didn’t pull away. Nick got a nod, but Jerome was already leading them into a room off the hall.

Nick looked around in amazement. The room was a mess. Books and papers overflowed from shelves that had been screwed to every available inch of wall. Mould frothed on the half-empty mugs that clustered around the battered easy chair in the middle of the room, which had several more towers of books wobbling uncertainly on the arms.

Jerome headed for the kitchen. ‘You would like some coffee?’

No one else did. Through the door, Nick saw him boiling a kettle.

‘So – Emily. It is a long time, yes? How have you been?’

‘Fine.’

‘I have thought perhaps I never see you again.’

‘We’ve got a book we’d like you to look at.’

Jerome came out of the kitchen with a steaming mug. It looked as though it hadn’t been washed up in weeks.

‘You want to give this to me?’

‘We want you to help us.’

The words had an extraordinary effect on Jerome. His bowed head suddenly snapped up with a furious stare; his body went rigid.

‘Do you know why I am here?’ He flung out an arm at the dilapidated living room. Hot coffee spilled over his fingers and dribbled onto the carpet, but he didn’t notice. ‘Do you know the reason of this exile? Do you?’

Emily bowed her head. A tear ran down her cheek. Nick moved closer to protect her, but neither she nor Jerome noticed. He had no part in their story.

‘I’m sorry,’ Emily whispered. ‘If I could go back…’

‘You would do the same. And so would I.’

As abruptly as it had flared up, his anger died away. He stepped forward and wrapped his arms around Emily. Her face was hidden from Nick, but she looked as though she was hugging a corpse.

Jerome stroked her hair. ‘Let us no longer deceive ourselves with remembrance of our past pleasures. We only spoil our lives and sour the sweets of solitude.’

Emily pulled back – gently – and straightened her hair. ‘I’m sorry to disturb you. But we need your help. And… I thought you would appreciate this.’