Dead Bishops Don't Lie, page 4
Dulac knew Dorlot was taking the plaque at face value: the lion is dead equals the archbishop of Lyon is dead.
“Monsignor, I won’t take any more of your precious time. I know you have a lot to do these days. Have the legate contact me when he comes.” Dulac rose and walked out of the musty room, but the smell would stay with him for three days.
* * *
The following morning Dulac returned to his office in Paris, where Lescop handed him a large brown envelope, sent express post from Sion. Zubriggen’s final postmortem report had been sent well within the proverbial Swiss week, and yielded only the slightest of clues. The doctor had found seal hairs on Salvador’s body, probably emanating from an assassin’s coat or hat. He’d also discovered a minuscule bit of foreign human tissue on Salvador’s nose.
Besse had left Dulac a message on his answering machine, stating he and his policemen had started investigating the hotels, bars, and restaurants to see if someone could identify a person, somewhere, wearing a sealskin coat or hat. Besse would copy him on his report.
Probably in a week.
Chapter 8
After a protracted discussion with her department head, Karen called Dulac, begrudgingly accepting his offer. Sitting at her desk, she began to apply her structured mind to the task.
Where to begin? Lions, through archetypal time, were not usually connected to the Catholic Church, except incidentally. How did the killing of an archbishop relate to the killing of a lion? On what archetypal plane could the killing occur? Had a lion been killed, metaphorically, in a struggle with a dragon? Were there any references in mythology to such a battle, and if so how did it apply here? Was the killer making a bold political, religious, or other statement? If so, to what audience? Or was this a personal vendetta? The thought struck her that the same killing could represent a killing of a lion on one plane and the wounding of a dragon on another. Even so, why was the assassin bothering to advertise this event so obscurely, instead of making his demands known clearly? This must be Dulac’s job, not mine. The ringing of her phone interrupted her thoughts.
“Doctor Dawson?” The voice was high-pitched, childlike.
“Yes?”
“My name is Archbishop Paolo Fiore. I’m the Vatican envoy concerning the replacement of Monsignor Salvador. I’m told that you’re collaborating with Mr. Dulac in the investigation?”
“I’m doing some research for him, if that’s what you mean.”
“You are the mythologist?”
“Correct.”
“I’m in Paris for a few days, and I’d like to make your acquaintance. Would that be possible?”
Karen was all too familiar with the European need for personal, face-to-face contact. “I have a rather busy schedule.”
“I won’t take much of your time. We could meet for coffee, yes?”
Fiore’s insistence wasn’t going to be softened by any of her academic constraints. Might as well get rid of him quickly. “I have a break at three this afternoon.”
“Perfect. Where do you suggest we meet?”
“At the Café Estudiantin, at the entrance. Do you know it?”
“I’ll find it. How will I recognize you?”
“Ask for the manager, Charles.”
* * *
“Good afternoon, Ms. Dawson?” said the man in the brown suit standing at the counter, incongruous among the students.
“Monsignor Fiore?”
“Yes. Thank you for coming on such short notice.”
She approached the extended hand, only to clasp a small, sweaty sponge. She wasn’t sure what to expect in the way of the representative of the Vatican, but Fiore wasn’t it. A full head of dark blond hair, youngish with horned-rimmed glasses, dressed in a well-cut suit. Save for the clerical collar, he could have easily passed for a patent lawyer at Coudert Brothers. Obviously, the Church is still recruiting successfully, at least in Rome, she thought.
“Let’s have coffee, shall we?” said Fiore.
“Fine.”
As they ambled towards the busy dining room, Karen noticed an almost imperceptible limp in Fiore’s otherwise assured gait. He found an empty table, and offered Karen one of the uncomfortable, straight-backed chairs.
“First, let me properly introduce myself. I am the pontifical nuncio, sent by the Vatican to oversee the succession of Archbishop Salvador, the late Archbishop Salvador, I mean. I am also the contact with Interpol in this horrible business.”
The high-pitched voice started to irritate her.
“When I was told Mr. Dulac hired you, I thought it would be useful to meet you. The Vatican is extremely upset about all of this. Yes, very concerned, and wants to find answers quickly.”
“When you say the Vatican?”
“The Pope, if you prefer.”
“I see.”
“We are worried about the repercussions on the Archdiocese. Also, is this an isolated incident, or will these assassins try again?”
“It crossed my mind also.”
He slouched forward slightly and looked intently into her gaze. “Do you have any idea what the plaque means?”
“Not yet. I don’t have much to go on. The plaque is pretty enigmatic.”
He relaxed, looked away, reclining a bit. “I know, I know, I have some vague notions of mythology myself. I studied Greek history at the seminary,” he said, obsequiously trying to strike a sympathetic chord.
Karen noted the legate’s body-language. She couldn’t help wondering what was the attraction for a handsome, intelligent, and personable man—in his mid-forties, she guessed—to join such a sterile, suffocating organization as the Catholic Church, especially in the Vatican? Was it unshakable faith? Was it power? Was it the will to bring about change? Or all three?
Fiore finished his coffee and rose to leave. “Again, Ms. Dawson, the Vatican is extremely pleased that you’ve accepted to help us. Feel free to communicate with me directly if I can be of help. You can reach me through the Secretariat of the Vatican.”
“Yes, of course,” Karen said, feeling ill at ease with Fiore’s offer. Why should she contact him? She reported to Dulac. The last thing I need is to get between Vatican-Interpol politics.
Chapter 9
Inspector Pierre Schmidt had ordered the Fiat towed into police custody. It was now material evidence in his crime investigation, and would be gone over with the proverbial Swiss meticulousness for any fingerprints or other clues as to the true identity of the occupants. Forensics in Berne had discovered the well-crafted counterfeit of Berger’s driver’s license. Since he was now a fugitive of the Swiss authorities, the event had taken an international turn, requiring registration at the Registry at Interpol under the Swiss-Interpol Cooperation Agreement. Fate, through the untimely death of a Swiss schoolgirl, would now intertwine Schmidt’s and Dulac’s paths.
The report read:
Head investigator: Pierre Schmidt.
Rented Hertz Fiat, plate ZH 10387 683, involved in hit-and-run on Kleiner Strasse, corner Littoff Strasse.
Driver: alias Christian Berger, registration number 60756-90876.
Analysis:
no fingerprints
Four cigarette butts, no prints
456.6 km odometer reading from Kloten airport
Seal hairs found between front seats and dashboard
Minimum two occupants, no description
Onboard GPS indicates car traveled through Sion, Saas Fee, Zermatt, Sass Fee, Zürich
* * *
Later the same morning, Lescop was waiting in Dulac’s office on Place de la Concorde when Dulac arrived, disheveled, unshaven, and wearing the same shirt, tie, and jacket as the day before. Lescop gave him a knowing smile and said, “Patron, you must see this. It’s a report from the Swiss authorities on a hit-and-run near Zürich.”
“Yes, yes, more of the same shit.” Dulac, exhausted by the previous night’s extracurricular activities, sat down heavily and read the report. Suddenly his eyes grew wide. He sprang up, his face suddenly aglow with anticipation. “Get Schmidt on the line, now.” he barked at Lescop.
“This is Thierry Dulac, Interpol.”
“Yes?” said Schmidt.
“You have a rented Fiat involved in a hit-and-run?”
“ Oui, c’est exact,” said Schmidt in effortless French.
“I want your people to make a DNA analysis of the seal hair contents.”
“No problem, but why?”
“These men may be involved in the Archbishop Salvador murder case.”
“I see.”
“When can you have the results sent to our Lyon office?”
“It might take a few days.”
At least it wasn’t a week, thought Dulac. “Any information on the occupants?”
“Not yet. We’re looking at the Kloten videotapes. The car was rented under the name of Christian Berger. The driver’s license is a fake.”
“Send me the tapes as soon as possible,” said Dulac.
Chapter 10
The task is bewildering, Karen thought. How could one go on examining cultures that spanned centuries, hosting lions and dragons? How did this relate to the crucifixion of an archbishop in modern times? The message had to be deciphered, better sooner than later. Lions had enriched and nourished the imagination, folklore, art, and mythology of mankind since the dawn of civilization. As depicted by the Paleolithic paintings and drawings of Lascaux, Chauvet, Bernifal, through Assyrian, Greek, Semitic, and Egyptian cultures, lions had given courage, strength, and wisdom to the heroes that vanquished them, often bestowing mythological immortality.
Karen had been moved by the early cave drawings and paintings, witnessing man’s preoccupation with his passage to death, through ritualistic depictions of offerings and sacrifices. On her tour of Iraq’s sites during her summer semester, the dramatic, beautiful Assyrian bas-reliefs showing lion hunts had tweaked her curiosity about Assyrian mythology and history. She had made her career choice early.
The Old Testament’s reference to lions in Genesis 49.9 was the most well-known in Judaic traditions. The lion of Judah symbolized Christ, descendent of Abraham, Judah, David, and Solomon. Passages in Isaiah 11.6.9 referred to lions as a symbol of unification of opposites and eventual peace on earth. Surely, there was no application of such myth here. Karen knew there was a paucity of lions in the history and mythology of the Catholic Church. A winged lion sat triumphant, illuminated in the Book of Revelations, better known as the Apocalypse according to John. The apocalyptic vision of its author had metamorphosed the four synoptic evangelists into animals, the first of which had been a lion representing Saint Mark.
How could this relate to the killing of Archbishop Salvador?
Biblical scholars inferred that the lion’s den, in the allegory of the Lion of Judah, supposedly foretold of the Inquisition, the purification arm of the Church sent to convert the rebellious Albigese in 1233. A.D. The many references to lions in the Torah made analysis even more complicated. She needed more facts.
Chapter 11
Dulac slouched slightly at the keyboard of his Steinway baby-grand, inherited from Clara Fournier, his concert pianist mother. He labored at the difficult spreads and chords of the Brahms Rhapsody Number 2, Opus 79 in G minor. Since the accidental death of his wife, killed in front of his eyes by a drunken taxi driver in Athens, he’d found solace and refuge from the somber world of international crime in his childhood passion, his piano. Mainly self-taught, the limitations of his lack of technique hindered his progress. The speed and dexterity of earlier times were all but gone, to the extent he was relearning works that had seemed so easy in his teenage years. The frustration and distraction contributed to many false notes. To minimize mistakes in the fast passages, he borrowed a trick from older concert pianists. He would improvise an uncalled-for ritardando, giving the impression of slow, thoughtful expression instead of the superficiality of brilliant technique. If Ivan Pogorelich can get away with it, so can I.
Regardless of the increasingly disproportionate work-reward ratio, the Steinway’s unique, crisp sound drew him back again and again, like an addiction. His day had gone well. The DNA test results of the seal hair in the Fiat matched those found on Salvador’s body. He made an appointment with Karen for next morning, and actually looked forward to meeting her. Until lately, he hadn’t given much thought to more serious forms of female companionship, preferring the occasional, impersonal release of the one night stand. Now, Brahms removed him from the world of subterfuge and murder, and thrust him into a world of melancholy, honesty, and beauty. For a moment, he wished he could share the experience.
The following morning, Karen strode briskly into his office and sat down. Her tousled hair framed that high forehead and almond eyes sensuously. Her light blue blouse, opened slightly suggestively, confirmed Dulac’s earlier impression: fit verging on desirable.
“I’m afraid I don’t have much to report, except a bunch of hypotheses. Oh, by the way, I met a Monsignor Fiore yesterday. He mentioned he already talked to you about meeting me.”
Dulac felt uncomfortable. He would have preferred to be the only contact, but found no reason to object to Fiore’s request. “Yes, he told me he would phone you. So what have you found?”
“I don’t see the ancient lion-dragon myths applying. The religious background of the crucifixion and the death of an archbishop make me think that any lion or dragon mythology prior to the Greek and Judeo-Christian traditions is just not going to lead us anywhere.”
“That sounds plausible,” Dulac said.
“Don’t get your hopes up. There’s a lot of mythology involving lions and dragons in that period of history, but let’s start with the most commonly known lion myths: in Greek mythology, Heracles, our Hercules, the Greek demigod and son of Zeus, was first given the task of killing the lion of Citheron. But later, to repent for the killing of his own sons by mistake, he was given twelve tasks. If he were successful, he would no longer feel the pain and remorse.”
“Sounds vaguely familiar,”said Dulac.
“The first task was to kill the lion of Nemea, which he did with his bare hands. Now, his second task was to kill the Hydra of Lerne, a gigantic dragon with nine heads that keep growing back when they’re cut off. With the help of Iolaos, god of the wind, Heracles finally killed the dragon.”
“I’m sure you’re about to tell me what all this means, right?” said Dulac, smiling.
“In mythology, you’ve got to think in terms of transposition. If the assassins impersonate Heracles and see themselves as liberators from the Catholic Church, the killing of a lion is only one of many tasks, possibly killings.”
“And the dragon?”
“The wounding of the dragon symbolizes the wounding of the Church, as it replaces severed heads by growing others.”
“Then why kill at all, if the dragon—Church—keeps replacing severed heads?”
“Yes, I know, but don’t forget that Heracles eventually kills the dragon.”
“Isn’t Greek mythology quite remote—”
“I thought I should mention the theory anyway,” interrupted Karen.
“You don’t look very convinced.”
“Yes, well, another lion myth is the so-called Lion of Judah. Scholars have interpreted this as a symbol and prophecy of the coming of Christ, as a descendant of Abraham, Solomon, and Judah. This could fit with the crucifixion of Salvador, representing a modern-day Christ in the eyes of his murderers. The lion’s den in that allegory represents the Inquisition, launched to convert or kill heretics, like the Albigese.”
“Are you suggesting this is a revenge of some early Christian sect?”
“It’s not impossible.”
“You’re reading too much Dan Brown. This is still pretty far-fetched.”
“Not necessarily,” replied Karen.
“The closer myth in time is the one in the Book of Revelations or, if you prefer, the Apocalypse according to John. He represents the four synoptic evangelists, Mark, Matthew, Luke, and John, by animals. And the first is Mark, represented by a lion.”
“I still don’t see the connection with our case.”
“Not at first blush, but again, the lion has been seen by critics of the Apocalypse as Christ also, because they say Mark was the most Christ-like of the evangelists. I know these myths are diffuse and distant, but I need more information to—”
“I don’t have any more to give you, other than we’ve traced the assassins’ rented car. They traveled through Kloten.”
* * *
His meeting with Karen left him with mixed feelings. The elusive, allegorical world of mythology did not sit comfortably with his rational, Cartesian way of thinking. He was used to cold, factual, and scientific analysis, not ancient, vague allusions to long gone myths, personages, and deities. He was starting to wonder if she would help at all in his investigation. He caught himself wishing she wouldn’t, to break the bond of professionalism that now forcibly restrained him.
Later in the day, Dulac contacted Besse again in Sion, in the hope that the tracing of Berger to the Hotel Tenne, and the interviews with the hotelier, bartenders, and waitresses, would help him come up with composite pictures of the killers. The Kloten videotapes were blurred and inconclusive, but a man fitting Berger’s description had taken a Lufthansa flight to Moscow the day of the hit-and-run. Dulac had sent the tapes to the Interpol National Central Bureau in Moscow, but no match had been found in their database. Meanwhile, in Paris, pressure from the French Minister of the Interior and Minister of Justice was mounting steadily, along with public outrage. Daily references to Salvador’s murder in the press kept reminding him of the slowness of his progress. France did not take lightly to the murder of one of its archbishops.
