Dead Bishops Don't Lie, page 7
Dressed in a worn blue lab coat, a stocky man with a long, slightly offset nose upon which sat a pair of glasses the thickness of a telescope’s lenses, stood up and smiled. “Thank you, your Eminence,” he said. “The illumination is inspired by early medieval motifs, and the writer has used the Batarde Miniscule lettering style, popular mainly during the fourteenth to sixteenth centuries. Today, not many calligraphers are good at it, and the ones that come to mind are from the Russian Orthodox—”
“Can it be imitated by others?” interrupted Dulac.
“Not without years of practice. This document was done by a master, probably good at other types of skillful, detailed, and meticulous artwork.”
“Such as forgery?” said Dulac.
“Possibly. Unfortunately, one doesn’t earn a good living doing only calligraphy or illumination these days.”
“Can you be more precise as to the source?”
“I guess there are half a dozen calligraphers that could have written this. However, the heavy, rough vellum paper indicates that the source is middle European, again, possibly Russian.”
“I want the names of those calligraphers, Dr. Franchi,” said Dulac.
Legnano turned to Karen: “What do you think of the illumination, Miss Dawson?”
“Actually, it resembles the main icon of the Pistis Sophia mythology. The Divine Feminine, adorned by the eagle, supplanting the ox, and—”
“My God, of course,” exclaimed Legnano. “This resembles icons on letters we have received over the years from that group. Demands for the ordination of women, change of the basic liturgy, public recognition of papal fallibility, abolition of the teaching of the resurrection of Christ, modernization of the credo, etc. Why didn’t I think of it?”
“Let’s get back the purpose of the meeting,” said Volpe. “It is quite probable that the reference to our deceased bishops means that the writers of this letter are the assassins, that if their demands are not met, they will execute other bishops.”
“Extortion,” interjected Legnano.
“Perhaps,” said Volpe.
“Perhaps?” said a surprised Legnano.
“Monsignors,” said Volpe, glancing at his notes, “please consider another perspective. You are all perfectly aware that for centuries, popes have enjoyed surrounding themselves with art, including the many paintings which hang in our magnificent museums. Popes Sixtus IV, Julius II, and the art of Michelangelo, Raphael, Titian and Bramante, come readily to mind. This passion for the beautiful, and the showing of religion through the eyes of great masters, was beyond any form of moral reproach. On the contrary, the Vatican encouraged artists, many of whom would not have created the masterpieces we now enjoy, without Papal support. As you all know, it was also part of a well-established social structure, making work for poor artists and artisans.”
Volpe reached for his glass of water, took a sip and continued, “But the Church became the victim of its good intentions. These paintings, bought for a mere pittance at the time, have acquired tremendous value. We are perceived now as rich owners of another private, priceless collection.
“The moral dilemma brought to our attention by this letter is this: can we stand on high ground and argue that generations will continue to enjoy these treasures in their proper setting in the Vatican, while our African parishioners die of hunger, sickness, and thirst, en masse, and we do little or nothing about it?
“The dilemma is whole, even without the threat of further assassinations. I must tell you that this subject has been discussed before within the Curia, without any looming threats. There is far from unanimity on the subject, as my colleagues will attest. Please don’t misunderstand me: I, for one, don’t instantly condone these acts of madness. These assassins should be brought to justice. At the same time, I cannot see how we can ignore this letter and risk the lives of our bishops.”
The prelates sat silent, embarrassed, looking furtively at each other for the first one to react.
Finally, Legnano spoke. “But the church does contribute financially to aid the poor in those countries.”
“Apparently, not enough,” replied Volpe. “I’m trying to obtain from you a solution to this crisis. Right now, we in this room, and the Holy Father, are the only persons who know of this letter.”
“You’re not suggesting we sell the paintings?” asked Legnano.
Volpe took another sip of water, and said, “Cardinal, Albert Einstein was once asked, ‘if you were escaping from a burning house, and you could only save either a Picasso or the cat, which would you choose?’ To which Einstein answered, ‘The cat. Life is priceless.’”
“I see,” said Legnano, “but if we agree, we risk that these people will ask for more. Besides, are we absolutely certain that the murderers wrote this letter?”
* * *
Dulac listened, dispassionate at the exchange between the prelates, contemplating the rapport de forces. Volpe appeared to be in command, and Dulac couldn’t fathom why Fiore was so subdued. He seemed in admiration of Volpe, nodding in approval now and then at Volpe’s comments.
“To answer your question, Monsignor Legnano,” said Dulac, “the writer of this letter has cleverly written it with enough ambiguity to leave you the choice of deciding whether or not he is the assassin.”
“Precisely,” said Volpe. “If we can conclude that the letter is but a request, a timely reminder of a moral obligation that the Church should fulfill, we could take the position that we are contributing to a just cause. Besides, the writer is not benefiting personally from this request.”
“Except that if Pistis Sophia ordered these murders, we are agreeing to being blackmailed,” Legnano replied.
“Are you willing to accept and live with the fact that if we do nothing, other bishops will die?” said Volpe.
Legnano turned to Dulac for help. “Mr. Dulac, can we be reasonably sure that Interpol will prevent further assassinations?”
“We are in the process of narrowing down the list of possible targeted bishops,” replied Dulac. “We will give them maximum protection. However I must tell you the assassins may change the rules, if they find out we’re onto them. We’re working with our underground contacts in Moscow, but we must buy more time.”
* * *
Karen sat quietly, dumbfounded by what she was witnessing. Here were the most senior representatives of the Catholic Church, discussing the possible sale of its most valuable treasures. To appease assassins? She had thought, naïvely she now realized, that if any organization was beyond bent morals, it would be the Church, her Church. She felt disappointed and deceived. Yet, she remembered that during her first visit to the Vatican’s museums as a student many years back, she had felt a mixture of awe, embarrassment, and finally guilt. Her sense and appreciation of beauty had been in direct conflict with the values of her strict Catholic upbringing.
Wasn’t the essence of Christianity being compromised? Weren’t the masses of Catholics, witness to this display of riches, being misled in their religious emotions and spirit? Was it not too much to ask of any witness to these treasures, to make abstraction of the fact that they were owned by the Vatican, and admire them purely for their art?
Wasn’t the message contradictory? You must follow Christ and live in modesty, but we in the Vatican, the higher caste, deserve to see, live, touch this luxury, and be inspired by it, every day.
Deep inside, she felt a low-lying conflict and resentment that she had buried long ago, under the guise of a certain fatalism, being rekindled and brought to the surface for eventual resolution. She couldn’t help but feel certain sympathy towards the writers, if indeed they weren’t the murderers. Could one rationalize that the mere condolences mentioned in the letter were just that, and not a threat? She knew, deep down, that it would be an impossible sell.
* * *
It was late in the evening, and tensions were mounting between Volpe and Fiore on the one hand, and Legnano, whose opposing views received weak, discordant support from other members of the assembly. The cardinals were at an impasse.
Choosing his moment carefully, Dulac broke the oppressive silence. “Your Eminences, I sense we cannot resolve the dilemma along the clear-cut lines of either the commitment to sell the art or to simply ignore this request. I do feel we cannot allow the Church to be blackmailed, but, at the same time, I can’t stand by idle while the lives of bishops are put at risk. I suggest the following: the Church will make a public commitment to give UNESCO another $10 million this year, to be distributed to needy villages in Somalia, Ethiopia, Darfur and Senegal. If the writers of this letter are sincere, they shouldn’t care if the funds come from the Vatican’s Treasury or otherwise.”
Dulac’s timing was perfect. A sense of relief permeated the room. Volpe had his recommendation.
Chapter 17
Isola Rossa had been bought in the late 1880s from the British government by Sir Thomas Litman, the steel magnate. After a scandalous affair, he had married the eventually widowed Marchioness of Dorset, and their great-granddaughter, Sarah, had inherited both title and fortune. True to her great-grandfather’s liberal disposition, unfettered by social mores, she sported a long history of affairs with married nobility, unmarried gardeners and chauffeurs, and recently a divorced cousin, the Earl of Salisbury. She also had fought and won a personal battle with drugs, and publicly attributed her success to the discovery of her new faith, Pistis Sophia. Liberated from her Anglican guilt, she enjoyed publicizing her views on Gnostic Christianity. Coincidentally, the faith gave full license to the few unexplored depths of her now-untrammeled middle-aged sexuality.
It hadn’t been difficult for Dulac to convince Karen to join him on his forthcoming trip to the Caribbean. A few days of sunshine on Isola Rossa would be a welcome change from the grayness of Paris, even if overshadowed by the investigation’s pall. Dulac felt Karen’s knowledge of Pistis Sophia was indispensable to the upcoming meeting, and that her presence would soften its tone.
The meeting had been arranged through the British Embassy in Paris, under the guise of an informational visit to the Pistis Sophia haut lieu. The marchioness agreed to meet Dulac, but on her turf.
* * *
Dulac felt the humidity increase in the chartered jet, announcing their impending arrival. As the jet slowly taxied down the boiling tarmac and came to a stop, Dulac saw a white-gloved chauffeur dusting a light blue Bentley parked near the plane. Dulac, Karen, and Lescop descended the few steps of the jet’s onboard ladder, and the chauffeur walked up to greet them.
“Welcome to Isola Rossa,” said the chauffeur in a soft Caribbean lilt, as he ushered them towards the limo.
Dulac and the others seated themselves in the Bentley’s lush Connolly leather seats, and the Bentley glided quietly along a winding road until suddenly before them, at the road’s end, a mansion surged into view.
The rays of the setting sun were warming the limestone of the Parthenon-inspired façade to the color of crème caramel. With its Doric columns flanked by late-Edwardian style adjacent wings, Dulac thought it looked curiously out of place amidst the untamed Caribbean landscape. The perfectly trimmed cedar hedges, forming a typically French garden labyrinth, added to the incongruity.
The chauffeur led Karen, Lescop, and Dulac up the expansive front steps and through the high entrance to the inside of the chateau.
“The marchioness will meet you in the library at seven,” announced the self-effacing portier as they crossed the pink Italian marble hall.
Dulac cringed. He felt control of the situation slowly but inextricably being whittled away from him by the sumptuousness of the décor.
“This way, please,” the portier said as he led them up the grand, granite staircase to their rooms.
Dulac couldn’t help but stare at the lush landscape paintings adorning the walls of the entry hall, and thought he recognized a Vermeer and a Holbein, flanked by the proverbial, ancestral turn-of-the-century British portraits.
At five minutes before seven, a muted knock on Dulac’s door announced the meeting with the marchioness, and the portier led him, along with Karen and Lescop, to the library.
* * *
“Good evening, Mr. Dulac,” said a pert, fiftyish redhead, her long, full hair held loosely by a silver barrette, thick curls wandering onto her naked shoulders. “How good of you to come.” Clad in a pale pink and very revealing jellaba, the marchioness rose from her sofa and glided gracefully across the room. She extended a regal, downturned hand to Dulac.
“Good evening, Marchioness. It is I who thank you for receiving us in such beautiful surroundings,” said Dulac, quickly establishing equality of rank as a nobleman, by the contresens des nobles return of the compliment.
“This is Karen Dawson from the Sorbonne, and my assistant Daniel Lescop.”
“Hello,” said the marchioness. She gave Karen a quick inquisitive look, and dismissed Lescop with barely a glance. “Why don’t we sit here?” She led them across the lustrous silk carpet to the huge leather sofas in the middle of the room.
Dulac felt at ease with the practiced attitudes and manners of nobility. He knew that Lescop was not, and sensed Karen was struggling. He couldn’t guess that the smell of old books and the vastness of the library had helped relieve her initial discomfort.
* * *
As she gazed at the endless rows of leather-bound collections, Karen’s wonder caught the marchioness’s eye.
In anticipation of her question, Lady Sarah said, “A little overwhelming at first. It’s probably the largest library of Gnostic works in existence today. My great-grandfather was a Manicean.”
“Impressive,” replied Karen.
“And what is your profession, may I ask?”
“I teach animal mythology.”
“How unusual. Come to think of it, we have works here on early Chinese Chou dynasty serpent rites that might interest you,” she said coyly.
Karen felt the probing thrust of the marchioness’s query, and deftly parried the blow. “Yes, the Chinese were one of the first cultures to un-demonize the serpent through elaborate sexual interspecies rites, including men and women with serpents,” she said matter-of-factly.
“Quite,” Lady Sarah chuckled, embarrassed at having been so obviously caught in her own trap.
Dulac interjected, looking annoyed and impatient. “Lady Sarah, thank you for receiving us on such short notice, but this is not a purely social visit.”
“Of course,” she replied. “Surely you have more serious matters you’d like to discuss.”
“We’re investigating the murders of Archbishops Salvador and Conti, and have reason to believe Pistis Sophia members might be involved.”
“Really? I must say that I find that extremely unlikely. We’re a peaceful, meditative tradition. Why would a Pistis Sophia member want to kill archbishops?”
“The Vatican has received this, bearing one of the motifs of Pistis Sophia in the illumination,” Dulac said, as he bent over towards her and showed her the letter.
“What makes you think it comes from our membership? Surely the motif can be easily copied,” said the marchioness.
“We’ve had the color particles of this letter chemically analyzed with a gas chromatograph, and they match previous Pistis Sophia letters to the Vatican.”
“I see. But how is this letter related to the deaths? The authors commiserate with the pope.”
“Do you really think so?” said Dulac. “The context here is quite different. We found these plaques with the bodies of the bishops. We’re treating the letter as a threat.”
“The Lion is dead, the Dragon is wounded. The Ox has fallen, the Dragon is wounded. Most enigmatic, but I still don’t see the connection,” said the marchioness.
Karen stepped in, “The given names of the dead bishops include Mark and Luke. These animals are the apocalyptic references to the evangelists Mark and Luke. These are also part of the Pistis Sophia motif.”
“I have often wondered where these animals came from,” said the marchioness. Turning to Dulac, she said, “Surely you don’t think I have anything to do with this?”
“Of course not, Lady Sarah, but perhaps you can help us. For instance, have any of your members proffered threats recently, or spoken of their hatred of the Church?”
“No, not that I can think of. As you are probably aware, Pistis Sophia is not an organization in the traditional sense. In true Gnostic tradition, we are a community of faithful, but we have no hierarchy. I have little knowledge of what happens outside this island. We have, and I hate the association the term implies, many small “cells,” each grouped on a very local geographical basis. I have absolutely no link, control or responsibility for the cells, which are autonomous. I am only a host for those members wishing to practice their faith in our rather unique surroundings.”
“Who wrote these?” said Dulac, showing her previously written letters addressed to the Vatican bearing the Pistis Sophia motif.
“I have no idea,” she said, as Dulac noticed a slight curl of her lower lip.
“The letterhead was traced to your printer, Karl Mittenwald, of Vienna,” said Dulac.
“Perhaps, but all of the members staying here have access to our stationery,” said the marchioness.
“Excuse me Madam,” interrupted the butler. “Dinner is served.”
