The Alchemist’s Code (25 page)

“It's incredible,” I said, shaking my head as I read through letters where my grandfather asked after his children, informing them when and where he would turn up and little else. Some of these he signed ‘… Anastasio Elpìda.'

“That's the last fictitious name he used,” Navarro said.

“Anastasio… Elpìda. 'Hope rises anew',” I muttered.

Navarro looked at me curiously.

“Every serious alchemist or esotericist must know the language of birds, the coded language that conceals enigmas and formulas. The fictitious name my grandfather chose means 'hope rises anew' in Greek.”

I leafed through the last postcards and letters sent by my grandfather. Those apparently insignificant messages said a lot about the loneliness he must have suffered after his wife's death, so I looked back at Navarro. “When did you hear from him for the last time?”

“Five years ago. A phone call. Your grandfather called both your father and me. On that occasion, we begged him to tell us where he was and said that we would take all precautions so as not to run unnecessary risks to meet him. He was adamant, the stubborn old goat. He told us he was being taken care of and he didn't need anything. We gave up, and that was the last time we heard from him.”

I was thoughtful for a moment. “Five years ago… Grandpa was tough… He said he was being looked after?”

“Yes, but of course we never got to know by whom.”

I took a last look at the letters and postcards on the table, then stood up exhausted from the whole thing. I was still feeling the effect of the sedatives they had given me. I looked at my reflection in a mirror and felt compassion for my hollow face, unshaven beard and unkempt hair among which a white tuft had appeared.

I ran a hand over my face, as if to brush away the fatigue, then turned round.

“All right, Antonio. I've listened to this whole story with interest, because it's about my life, my family and the people I love and loved. But now you must tell me the truth about this Baphomet, because I'm chasing this chimera for one reason and one reason only, which is that I'm desperate and have reached the point where I'll believe in anything, even in miracles. I know I'm deluding myself, but I want to save Àrtemis and if this object can help me then I have to find it. What's the real power of the Baphomet or the Guardian of the Threshold? And above all, where could it be?”

Navarro shook his head sadly. “Only the members of the Lodge of the Nine know the truth, Lorenzo.”

“You've just told me that my grandfather gave me the sequence to evoke the Guardian, so, strictly speaking, I'm an unwitting member of the Lodge of the Nine, am I not?”

“You are, but the sequence implanted in your subconscious can't be evoked at will and, as far as I know, not without the object that evokes it, in your case, your old toy.”

I shook my head. “I don't have it any more, I had it in my pocket in Kiev, but they took it, along with everything else.”

Navarro frowned. “In any case, no one knows where the Baphomet is, so for now, my job is to protect you and the sequence in your brain.”

“I don't give a damn about your job, Antonio! Things have changed. The goal now is to find the Baphomet, if it exists, and do it quickly.”

Navarro came over to me and put his hand on my shoulder. “Lorenzo, calm down. The last person who knew where the Baphomet was hidden was your grandfather and he died, probably five years ago.”

I pushed his hand away and went back to staring at the letters and postcards on the table.

At one point, my attention was drawn to something I hadn't noticed before. A very strange postcard that was now peeping through the papers scattered on the desk. My attitude surprised Navarro. “What is it?”

I grabbed it and read what was written.

I started to examine it against the light.

Navarro shrugged, obviously not giving it too much importance. “Ah, yes – it's a postcard from Anguillara, a town on Bracciano Lake. I must have put it in with the others by mistake. A Roman friend of mine, Adriano de Notariis, the owner of a tavern in Trastevere where I went with your grandfather from time to time, sent it to me about six months ago. Adriano comes from Anguillara. I've never even thanked him for it.”

“Antonio, I don't know any Adriano de Notariis from Anguillara, but I received the very same postcard last summer, signed by the same person,” I said while analyzing it.

Antonio looked at me quizzically. “How is that possible?”

After a few seconds I realized why, besides the fact that I had already seen it, that postcard had caught my attention. The photo showing the view of Anguillara seemed almost super-imposed, glued with extreme precision on top of another image. I tried to lift it gently with my nail and after a few attempts managed to remove it, bringing to light the true picture of the postcard.

“
Madre de Dios—
” muttered Navarro.

It showed a period photograph from the early twentieth century of a luxurious Roman residence. There was a caption.

'Villa Gondemar, Via Aurelia Antica'.

“Look, there's something written behind the photo of Anguillara: 'It's time to go back. Giovanni'.”

Does it ring a bell? Who's this Giovanni?”

I looked at Navarro and saw him turn pale.

“Well, what's the matter? Does it mean anything?”

“N-no, no,” the Spaniard stammered, “it's just that I didn't expect it. I had set aside this postcard without attaching any importance to it but—”

Navarro's nervousness made me suspicious, but I ignored it.

“I see. Well, it seems that this Giovanni knows you and invites you to go back somewhere, maybe to this villa Gondemar, if it still exists.”

Navarro tried to regain control and then confirmed. “I don't know what to say… I know neither the place, nor anyone called Giovanni who might have anything to do with that villa.”

“So who is this Giovanni? How is it possible that your friend Adriano sent it by mistake? Have you ever thanked him for the postcard?”

“No, never.”

“So, at a guess, this Giovanni has used the name of Adriano de Notariis to send a hidden message.”

Navarro was silent, tense.

“Do you have a computer?”

He nodded, still disorientated, then walked over to a desk upon which sat a notebook, turned it on and gestured to me to use it.

I searched for villa Gondemar online and immediately found an official website.

“Home of the Missionaries of the Temple of Jerusalem in Rome. Quite a name for a group of Catholic missionaries, don't you think?”

“Y-yes, it is quite unique.”

I gave him a quick look, then went back to the screen. “It's more than unique, Antonio. Let's try and call them.”

I called the number on the homepage and after several rings, a young voice with a clear foreign accent said. “Missionaries of the Temple of Jerusalem, good evening.”

“Good evening. My name is Lorenzo Aragona. I'm calling from Naples and I am seeking information about someone who perhaps could have been your guest. His name is Giovanni, but you might know him as Anastasio Elpìda.”

There was a moment of silence, then the young man replied, “Hold on a second, please.”

I turned to Antonio and gave him a doubtful look. After a few seconds, another, distinctly more mature voice with a strong Roman accent, spoke.

“Good Evening, Mr Aragona, this is Luigi Palminteri, Father General of the Roman mission of our order. José, the young seminarian who answered before, tells me you're looking for news about Anastasio Elpìda.”

“That's right, Father… Anastasio is a close family friend and—”

“I have some information that may be of interest, but I'm afraid I can't tell you anything over the phone. Will you be able to come to Rome tomorrow morning?”

I was speechless, but I seized the opportunity right away. “Of course… I'll see you tomorrow morning.”

“Very well. Goodbye, Mr Aragona.”

I hung up and, more amazed than ever, looked back at Antonio.

“If I understand it correctly, the priest who has just replied knows something about my grandfather.”

Navarro first turned white, then gaped.

“…I can't believe it.”

I nodded and smiled slightly.

“If I know anything about the Aragonas and their style, I'd say that son of a bitch might just still be alive. Hope rises anew.”

Reconstruction based on the interrogation of Dr Brad Höffnunger

Terminal for private flights, Ciampino Airport – Rome, January 2013

The Gulfstream G550 obtained permission to land and the pilot invited the few people on board to fasten their seatbelts. Despite the comfort of the private jet, its most important passenger felt exhausted. Nowadays, intercontinental flights wore him out and he travelled only out of necessity. And the news he had received certainly necessitated his presence.

“The girl has spoken,” the voice on the phone had said twelve hours earlier, before continuing, “we are going to recover him.”

“No!” he had snapped. “I want to see him first! All of you wait until I arrive.”

“What do you mean? Be reasonable!”

“I'll set off immediately. Do as I say.”

The other sighed. “Very well, as you wish.”

As soon as the plane landed, a big black limousine with tinted windows pulled up, followed by two Mercedes. The passenger climbed down slowly, as though counting the few steps to the ground. No one, however, moved to assist him.

He lifted his head, his hairless scalp looked like ancient parchment, and gave an icy look in the direction of the limousine through his dark pince-nez.

Despite his old age, there was an indomitable pride and vigour in his bearing that inspired awe, if not actual fear. A well dressed, fifty year old man appeared just behind him on the plane ladder, with grey, backcombed hair and a handsome, clean-shaven face.

“Doctor, to the villa, now,” the old man said, before climbing into the limo.

“I'll drive ahead with the other car, Doctor Woland. You'll find everything ready on your arrival,” the other replied.

One of the two Mercedes sped away quickly with the doctor on board, while the other two cars followed at a slower pace.

“I've landed,” said Woland on his mobile as his limousine proceeded along the motorway. Besides the driver and a bodyguard sitting in front, there was a young woman who had come to the airport to welcome him. Her eyes were dark and penetrating, like two black pearls set in a porcelain-white face, long, wavy brown hair and a lean physique.

Woland nodded while his interlocutor updated him on the last twelve hours. “Perfect, I'll be there in forty-five minutes at the most,” he said before hanging up.

He looked up at the woman sitting in front of him. “At last, we've made it,” he murmured, in an awful gasp. “I've been waiting for so long, waking up every day and hoping it wasn't the last.”

“Your willpower has kept you alive, Mister Woland,” the woman said in English, with an accent that betrayed her French origins, “and your research, of course. You couldn't have failed.”

Her voice was persuasive and determined, typical of those who know exactly what they want and have no scruples when it comes to getting something by any means.

Woland nodded imperceptibly. “Don't forget Caesar, my dear. Nothing would have been possible without him. From the very beginning. Of course, I also owe the success of the last few months and the speeding up of the project to you,” said the old man, keeping his eyes riveted on the woman. “You deserve your reward.”

From the report of Commissioner Oscar Franchi

Naples, January 2013

Viola Brancato dashed into the chief's office, startling him. Although it was already dinner time, they were still both at work.

“What the hell!” cried Oscar, raising his head sharply.

“Sorry, chief, but you absolutely must take a look at this,” said the young policewoman, holding out a folder to her superior.

“You could have taken a second to knock instead of giving me a heart attack,” continued Oscar.

Viola leaned on the desk with both hands and smiled.

“Sorry, boss.”

Oscar shook his head and opened the folder. “What is it?”

“A dossier that will open up new leads in the case of Bruno von Alten.”

“What? Just tell me, can't you? I don't want to have to read through it all.”

Viola moved behind the desk and sat next to Oscar. “It's a series of seemingly unrelated events that all occurred in the summer of 1970. Four murders over the space of one week in distant places – Marseille, Singapore, Odessa and Santa Monica in California – and a fatal accident in Naples.”

Oscar flipped through the dossier, focusing on the photographs taken at the time. “
The collector of ears
, so called because he would cut off or mangle the right ear of his victims,” Oscar read quickly while scanning the main points of the dossier.

“Exactly,” confirmed Viola. “The first victim is François David, a retired, highly decorated French army major. He enlisted in 1939 and, thanks to his mathematical and strategic studies, he was immediately assigned to a special department that dealt with codes and espionage, known as Group 9. When the Nazis occupied France, he entered the Maquis with the nickname 'Fernand', while continuing to work with Group 9. He wasn't married and lived in Marseilles, where he was killed on the night of 25 June 1970, while he was leaving a bistro. At first, the investigators thought he'd been shot in the head, but then they found out he had been poisoned by something extremely powerful.”