The Nostradamus Prophecies (15 page)

‘Your metaphor lacks both grace and merit, Macron.’

‘I’m sorry, Sir.’ Macron searched around for something neutral to say. Some harmless way of diffusing his anger at the situation Calque was placing them in. ‘What are you doing, Sir?’

‘I’m trying to decode this anagram. At first I thought rat monstre was simply an anagram for monastere. That it meant that the secret of whatever it is these people are searching for will be kept in a monastery.’

‘But there aren’t enough letters for that. Look. There are too many tees and not enough ees.’

‘I know that.’ Calque scowled at him. ‘I’ve realised that. However, I was making the perfectly reasonable assumption that the author of this verse may have been using an antiquated spelling – monastter, for instance. Or montaster.’

‘But it’s not that?’

‘No. Now I’m looking through this book for other sites in France which have Black Virgins. Perhaps we’ll get to it that way.’

‘But why does it have to be in France?’

‘What are you talking about, Macron?’

‘Why does the place in which this secret is hidden have to be in France? Why not in Spain?’

‘Explain yourself.’

‘My mother is very Catholic, Sir. Particularly so, I should say. When I was a child, she would frequently take us the few hundred kilometres down the coast to Barcelona. By train. On the Esterel. It was her idea of a day out.’

‘Get to the point, Macron. I haven’t got time to listen to stories of your happy childhood holidays just now.’

‘No, Sir. I’m coming to the point. Near Barcelona, not far from Terrassa, lies one of Spain’s holiest shrines. It’s called Montserrat. I don’t remember if there’s a Black Virgin there, but it’s one of the spiritual homes of the Jesuits. St Ignatius de Loyola hung up his armour there after he decided to become a monk. My mother is particularly fond of the Jesuits, you see.’

Calque rocked back in his chair. ‘Macron. For once in your life you’ve succeeded in surprising me. Perhaps we’ll make a detective of you yet.’ He began leafing through the book. ‘Yes. Here we are. Montserrat. And it’s spelled with two tees. Brilliant. And there is a Black Virgin there. Listen to this:

‘The worship of La Virgen de Montserrat, otherwise known as La Morenita, or the Dark One, dates back to 888, when she was found hidden high on the Sierra de Montserrat by a group of shepherds, under the protection of a flock of angels. Carved by St Luke himself, the statue was believed to have been brought from Jerusalem to Montserrat by St Peter, where it had lain undisturbed for hundreds of years. Soon after her discovery, the Bishop of Manresa tried to move the statue, but she remained firmly in place. The Count of Barcelona became her first protector and his son dedicated a shrine to her in 932, an endowment sanctified by King Lothaire of France in 982. Montserrat is now a centre for both pilgrimage and for the promulgation of Catalan nationalism. Married couples visit from all over Spain in order to have their union blessed by the Virgin, for, as the saying goes, “No es ben casat qui no dun la done a Montserrat.” “A man is not properly married until he has taken his bride to Montserrat.” It is also alleged that the present shrine once housed an altar to Venus, goddess of beauty, mother of love, Queen of laughter, the mistress of the graces and pleasure and the patroness of courtesans.’

Calque clapped his hands together. ‘Venus, Macron.

Now we’re getting somewhere. Do you remember how the verse went? “He will be neither man nor woman.’’ ’

‘What’s that got to do with Venus?’

Calque sighed. ‘Venus was also called Cypria, after her main place of worship on the island of Cyprus. There was a famous statue there, in which Cypria was portrayed with a beard and carrying a sceptre. However and here is the link with the verse, the male-seeming Cypria had the body of a woman and was dressed in female clothes. Catullus, when he saw the statue, even called her the duplex Amathusia . She is a hermaphrodite, in other words, just like her son.’

‘A what?’

‘A hermaphrodite. Half man, half woman. Neither one thing, nor the other.’

‘And what’s that got to do with the Black Virgin?’

‘Two things. One: it confirms your reading of Montserrat – excellent work, Macron. Two: when paired with the writing carved on its base, it further reinforces the connection between the Black Virgin of Montserrat and that of Rocamadour.’

‘How do you figure that one out?

‘Do you remember the faces of the Virgin of Rocamadour and her son? Look. Here is a picture.’

‘I don’t see anything. It’s just a statue.’

‘Macron. Use your eyes. The two faces are similar. Interchangeable. They could both be male, or both be female.’

‘I’m completely lost. I really don’t see what this has to do with our murder.’

‘Frankly, neither do I. But I agree with you about the wedding. I think the gypsies will stay here for the duration and lick their wounds. Sabir is another matter, of course. And where he goes, the eye-man will surely follow. So we are going to be ahead of the game for once.

We are going on a field trip.’

‘A field trip? To where?’

‘To renew acquaintance with your childhood haunts, Macron. We are going to Spain. To Montserrat. To visit a lady.’

Achor Bale watched the new young security guard work his dog in and out of every corner of the St-Sauveur Basilica. You had to hand it to the Rocamadour church authorities. They hadn’t been slow off the mark in the recruitment stakes. Still. Must be soul-destroying work. What were the chances of a miscreant coming back to the scene of his crime the very evening after an attempted robbery? A million to one against? More than that, probably. Bale eased himself closer to the edge of the organ loft. Another minute and the man would be directly beneath him.

It had been child’s play to switch the tracker back on and follow Sabir and the two gypsies as far as Gourdon. In fact Bale had been sorely tempted to bushwhack them that first night, while they were sleeping in the car. But they had chosen a particularly inconvenient spot, slap bang in the middle of a bustling market town, on the outskirts of the Bouriane – the sort of place that had security cameras and eager-beaver policemen on the lookout for drunks and pugnacious young farmers.

Bale’s decision had been duly validated when he had heard on the radio that the robbers had left the Virgin behind them. What was that all about? Why hadn’t they stolen her? They had his pistol. And the gardien was midway between senescence and the grave. No. He had definitely seen the gypsy squinting at the base of the Virgin before indulging in all that religious mumbo-jumbo of his – which meant that there was something written there, just as the girl had implied at the riverbank. Something that Bale desperately needed to see.

Now the security guard was zigzagging up and down between the pews, urging his dog forwards with a sequence of short whistles. You’d think someone was filming him, the zeal he was showing for his new job. Any normal human being would have stopped for a cigarette long ago. This one would have to be put well out of the way. The dog, too, of course.

Bale threw the candle-holder high over the man’s head, counted to three and launched himself out of the loft. The man had made himself an easy mark, just as he’d known. Hearing the noise of the candle-holder, he’d instantly turned away from his perusal of the organ and flashed his torch at the fallen object.

Bale’s feet caught him on the back of the neck. The man jerked forward, landing with the full weight of Bale’s projectile body driving him on to the flagstones. It had been an eight-foot drop for Bale. The security guard might as well have launched himself off a foot ladder with a rope tied around his neck.

Bale heard the vertebral crunch immediately he landed and turned his attention directly to the dog. The dead man still had his hand looped through the braided leather leash. The Alsatian instinctively backed away, crouching prior to his leap forward. Bale grabbed the leash and swung, like a baseball player striking out for a home run. The Alsatian took off, propelled both by its own forward impetus and the centrifugal throw-out of Bale’s swing. Bale let go of the leash at the perfect moment. The principle of the fulcrum worked to its full effect, sending the dog star-fi shing across the church like an athlete’s hammer shot. The animal struck the stone wall of the church, fell to the fl oor and began howling. Bale ran across and stamped on its head.

He stood for a moment, listening, with his mouth and eyes wide open like a cat. Then, satisfi ed that no one had overheard him, he set off for the Sanctuary.

Sabir resettled the blanket over his groin. There were times – and this was one of them – when he wished that Yola could wean herself off the habit of bursting into people’s rooms unannounced. Earlier that afternoon she had taken their clothes to the communal washtub, leaving both of the men wrapped in blankets, like shipwreck victims and forced to contemplate indefinite, unwanted siestas. Now Sabir found himself frantically searching around for something innocuous to say in order to defuse his embarrassment.

‘All right. I’ve thought of another riddle for you. This one is a real stinker. Ready? “What is greater than God? More evil than the Devil? The poor already have it. The rich want it. And if you eat it, you die.’’ ’

Yola scarcely looked up from what she was doing. ‘Nothing, of course.’

Sabir slumped back against the wall. ‘Oh Christ. How did you get the answer so quickly? It took me well over an hour when my cousin’s boy tried it out on me.’

‘But it’s obvious, Adam. I got it in the first line. When you asked what is greater than God. Nothing is greater than God. The rest falls into place when you realise that.’

‘Yeah, well, I got that bit too. But I didn’t stop to think that it might be the answer. I just got irritated and outraged that anyone could imagine that there was something greater than God.’

‘You’re a man, Adam. Men are born angry. That’s why they have to laugh at everything. Or strike out at things. Or act like children. If they didn’t, they’d go mad.’

‘Thank you. Thank you for that one. Now I know where I get my sense of humour.’

Yola had conjured up an entire change of clothing for herself. She was sporting a red-flowered blouse, buttoned to the collar and a hip-hugging green skirt with a flared rim, reaching to just below the knee. The skirt was cinched in at the waist with a broad leather belt studded with small mirrors and she was wearing Cuban-heeled shoes with ankle straps. Her hair was partially up, just as it had been at the Kriss.

‘Why don’t you ever wear jewellery? Like some of the other women?’

‘Because I’m a virgin and still unmarried.’ Yola cast a loaded glance at Alexi, who somehow contrived to ignore it. ‘It wouldn’t be seemly to compete with the bride and her married female relatives.’ She fussed around laying out two sets of clothes on the bed, near Alexi’s feet. ‘Your own clothes are still drying. I’ll bring them in when they’re ready. But here are two suits and two ties I borrowed. Also some shirts. They should fi t you. Tomorrow, at the wedding, you must also have some paper money ready to give to the bride. You’ll need to pin it on to her dress with this.’ She handed each man a safety pin.

‘Eh, Adam…’

‘Don’t tell me, Alexi. You need to borrow some money.’

‘It’s not only me. Yola needs some too. But she’s too proud to ask.’

Yola flapped her hand in irritation. Her gaze was focused on Sabir. ‘What were you going to tell us in the car? When I stopped you?’

‘I don’t understand…’

‘You said you had something important to say. Well. We’ve eaten. We’ve rested. Now you can speak.’

It had to come, thought Sabir. I should have learned by now – Yola never leaves a thing alone until she’s worried the juice out of it. ‘I think you both ought to stay here. For the time being, at least.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Alexi’s injured. He needs to recuperate. And you, Yola… Well, you had a terrible shock.’ He reached across the table for his wallet. ‘I’ve figured out the rhyme on the foot of the Black Virgin, you see.’ He pulled out a crumpled piece of paper and flattened it against his knee. ‘I think it refers to Montserrat. That’s a place in Spain. In the hills above Barcelona. At least that seems to be the gist of it.’

‘You think we’re wasting our time, don’t you? That’s why you don’t want us along? You think this man will appear again and harm us if we continue along this path. But worse this time, maybe?’

‘I think we’re on a dangerous wild goose chase, yes. Look. Nostradamus, or your ancestors, or whoever carved these things on the Virgin’s feet – they could have carved stuff on half a hundred Virgins around the country. Things were much looser then than they are now. People made pilgrimages all over the place. It doesn’t take a genius to work out that eighty per cent of the Virgins that existed then are probably gone – victims of a dozen different religious wars. Not to mention the Revolution, the First and Second World Wars and the war with Prussia. Your people were nomadic, Yola. Far more so than they are now. They spent their time avoiding armies, not going in search of them. It’s odds on that if we find writing on the Montserrat Virgin’s feet, it’ll just lead us somewhere else. And then somewhere else again. That the verses, or whatever it is we are searching for, are long gone.’

‘Then why did the man follow us? What does he want?’

‘I think he’s crazy. He’s got some notion in his head that there’s money tied up in this thing and he simply can’t leave it alone.’

‘You don’t believe that.’

Sabir shook his head. ‘No.’

‘So why are you saying this? Don’t you like us anymore?’

Sabir felt momentarily at a loss, as if he had been blind-sided by a child. ‘Of course I like you. These last few days… well… they’ve felt like years. Like we’ve always been together. I don’t know how to explain it.’