The Alchemist’s Code (42 page)

“Doesn't it say?”

“No, it just says to find the door and then perform the ritual to—”

“To—?”

I looked up and stared into her intense blue eyes.

“To imprison the Guardian of the Threshold.”

After that momentous discovery, we were about to continue reading when another policeman arrived, in a state of visible agitation, and Oscar and Volta broke off from helping paramedics put the wounded policemen on stretchers to listen to what he had to say.

“Commissioner, we've just received a communication from a patrol in San Giovanni.”

“What does it say?” asked Volta.

“There have been some strange accidents. Apparently several motorists and motorcyclists passing under Porta San Giovanni lost control of their vehicles and crashed. And our colleagues there say that people are acting strange; they swear they saw someone drive straight into the wall, looking up at the sky the whole time, and that they've seen a big black bird perched on the gate.”

“'
If you want me, o impostor, you will find me between the gates of this city of sinners
',” I muttered to myself.

“The gates! It's moving along the old city gates. Quick, let's get to Porta San Giovanni – perhaps it's still there.”

Volta had now realised that he could no longer ignore what was happening, and immediately called Ferraris.

“Go to San Giovanni with Commissioner Franchi and Mr Aragona, I'll sort things out here and then get over to the Vatican.”

“Anna's coming with us – I need her to crack the code.”

“All right,” said Volta with a nod.

Before setting off towards the entrance, I picked up the Baphomet. Judging by Glynz's notes, it seemed that, just as it had evoked the Guardian, the Baphomet would allow us to imprison it again.

Events reconstructed by Lorenzo Aragona

Porta San Giovanni, Rome, January, 2013 – 19:30

We drove the three short miles that separated us from Porta San Giovanni in a matter of minutes. Firefighters had just arrived to put out a fire caused by burning vehicles which appeared to have crashed into the arches of the walls on either side of the gate. People were rushing to the scene while the police were trying to keep them back, and all were watching something on top of the gate. As we approached, we noticed that from time to time one of them would fall to the ground.

We looked up and we saw it. A large black bird, like a raven, perched above the great arch of the gate. Whenever its eyes, which from down there looked like two small flames, met those of an onlooker, the victim would be instantly paralysed, just as the police and Camille were in the Fosse Ardeatine.

We got out of the car and ran toward the crowd gathered under the gate, shouting, “Don't look at it! Don't look at the bird for any reason!”

Everyone turned toward us.

Oscar and Ferraris approached the policemen who were attempting to hold the crowd back.

“Who's in charge here?” asked Oscar.

A stocky middle-aged man with a plump face and an imposing physique came forward. “Inspector Bocci – to whom do I have the pleasure of speaking?”

“Commissioner Franchi, from the San Ferdinando station in Naples. I'm assisting Commissioner Volta in this matter.”

“It's ok, Bocci, do what the commissioner says,” said Ferraris.

“Get these people out of here immediately, and tell them all not to look at that bird.”

Without wondering what the bird actually was, Inspector Bocci set to work with amazing speed, and the police soon managed to disperse the crowd that had gathered there and which was starting to get nervous.

The Guardian of the Threshold turned his gaze on me. It seemed that for some reason I did not fall under the spell of his eyes.

“You are not ready, Chosen One,” he whispered, talking directly to my mind, “I will await you at the next threshold.”

And so saying, he took off towards the north, leaving behind him another trail of victims.

“Where will he be going now?” asked Oscar, watching the bird vanish into the night.

“He said something to me,” I muttered as if in a trance. “'I'll wait for you at the next threshold'.”

“The next threshold?” asked Oscar. “What does that mean? There are dozens of gates in Rome, we can't drive around the whole town looking him.”

“Commissioner, we've got helicopters and patrol cars all over the city, we can use them to try and locate him,” suggested Ferraris.

“All right, let's try that before we start driving around aimlessly.”

While my friend was co-ordinating his men, Anna and I moved away to the gardens in front of the nearby Porta Asinaria to try and interpret Vladimir Glyz's
Codex Baffometi
.

“We need to figure it out, and fast.”

“All right, the second sign says to turn to page eighteen of the second volume,” said Anna, flipping through the book. “There's a paragraph here called 'About the Baphomet', let me read it to you.”

I gestured to her to carry on. “All right, we know that already – keep going.”

“Ok, on the piece of paper there's a reference to page thirty-six of the first volume.”

“And then again, page forty-five”.

“Where is Autricum?”

“It's the Latin name of Chartres, in France – but we're interested in Rome, keep going.”

“Good God, it's describing the bird form of the Guardian of the Threshold!”

“Keep going, come on!”

Anna stopped.

“Well?” I insisted, “Where's the door?”

Anna shook her head. “I don't know, it doesn't say! It just goes straight to what you have to do once you get to it.”

I put my hands to my head.

“Ok, ok, Lorenzo, concentrate.
Ruach Elohim…
A door and alchemical references. Your grandfather must have known about them.”

As I sat there thinking, a sudden ray of light, as fast quick as a bullet, shot through my mind.

“Of course, what an idiot!”

I jumped up with a smile, grabbed Anna by the arm and dragged her away.

“I know where we have to go.”

Events reconstructed by the police

Piazza San Pietro, January, 2013 – 19:40

As soon as he had left the Nervi Auditorium, Pope James had been approached by a man in the uniform of the Vatican gendarmerie who had handed him a small object.

“Please, Your Holiness, wear this earpiece.”

James had recognized a northern European accent in the man's Italian. Maybe German. He had taken it and placed it in his ear.

“Why don't you release the people in the auditorium? I'll do what you want.”

He had addressed the man in German, to gauge his reaction.

The other had remained impassive and had merely gestured to Piazza San Pietro.

“
Gehen Sie zu dem Platz, bitte.
”

So he was right. Without another word, he had set off for the centre of Piazza San Pietro with his escort, and stopped in front of the Vatican obelisk.

Now he was there, his eyes proud but at the same time respectful, facing the Basilica which was shrouded in darkness. The man in uniform was at his side. He waited for something to happen, but in the vast square there was only darkness and the earpiece remained silent. He looked around and could see the furtive shadows of snipers on the roof of Bernini's colonnade, men from the security force that had been set up for the summit. If the pontiff ran any risk, if anyone tried to make an attempt on his life, he would be picked off by one of those snipers, who were among the best in the world. But what would be the consequences for the people in the Nervi Auditorium?

The Pope moved his gaze to the staircase leading to the entry of the Basilica and then, along the facade of the Maderno. He paused to read the engraving under the entablature that, despite the darkness, was visible through the pale moon that night.

IN HONOREM PRINCIPIS APOST PAVLVS V BVRGHESIVS ROMANVS PONT MAX AN MDCXII PONT VII.

In honour of the prince of the apostles Paolo V Borghese Pontifex Maximus Romano. Year 1612. Seventh year of the pontificate.

All his life, first priestly and then pontifical, Pope Sinclair had sought humility and modesty, never showing ambition or flaunting his noble origins. Kneeling in front of the house of God, at the tomb of Peter and the many other successors of the first pope, was a joy for him. But it weighed heavily upon his heart that he was doing it to meet the demands of a murderer.

The minutes passed without anything happening, until, suddenly, a strange hum came from the earpiece, followed immediately by a metallic voice.

“Good evening, Holy Father,” it said, “you were very wise to accept our conditions.”

The Pope didn't move.

“Very good. Keep looking straight ahead of you, at your church. Soon someone will come out from the Basilica. When he has reached the bottom of the stairs, you, Holy Father, will kneel. If you don't, the people in the Nervi Auditorium will die like rats in a trap. We can kill them instantly. So, are we in agreement? You may simply nod, Holy Father – a small gesture of assent.”

James hesitated, then bowed his head slightly. It seemed he had no choice but to bow before evil. A few seconds later, a hooded figure clad in a long black habit emerged from the Basilica, followed by a man in a dark suit. At the same time, in the earpieces of the snipers on the colonnade, which a moment before had not been working thanks to the electromagnetic wave, a buzzing voice began to speak.

“If any of you heroes even thinks of firing a shot, your Pope will be killed immediately. In addition to the men you see in the square, we have dozens of guns trained on him.”

The dark figure moved slowly, as though savouring the moment, and when it reached the top of the stairs it found the Pope kneeling at the foot. Its escort walked ahead and moved aside one of the barriers blocking off access to the large flight of stairs. The figure in the habit then began to descend, pausing at each step, seemingly oblivious to the icy cold of the square. His gait had something regal, yet also contemptuous, about it.

Having reached the bottom of the stairs, the figure took a few more steps towards the Pope, then stopped. The two men now faced each other from a distance, one dressed all in white and the other all in black.

The metallic voice sounded again in James's ear.

“Good. And now, Pope, save the life of your flock. On your knees!”

The Pope looked up at the sky and asked the Lord's forgiveness for what he was about to do. Immediately all the cameras trained on the square which had followed the slow procession of the guests at the opening concert of the summit and which had been knocked out by the electromagnetic pulse, began working again simultaneously, as did all the other electronic systems which had been down. The image was beamed via satellite to televisions around the world, shocking the whole planet: the head of the Catholic Church knelt before a hooded man.

James was on his knees, looking straight ahead, while the hooded figure began to move towards him. The earpieces of the snipers positioned on the colonnade became functional again, and they instantly received a precise order.

“Nobody shoot!”

Only inches now separated the pontiff from the man in black, who reached out to the face of James and showed him two rings. “Now, Brandon Tyler Sinclair, kiss my rings,” he said, his voice unctuous.

James looked up and saw the coat of arms on the big rings. “But this is—”

The man in black nodded, and James's eyes alighted upon the small emblem which was visible on the habit. A crude wooden cross, surrounded by the symbols of mercy – olives – and justice – the sword. The coat of arms of the Inquisition. He could not understand.

“What are you playing at? Why are you wearing that robe?”

On one of the rings was the swastika with the sword of the Thule Society, and on the other was the arms of the Borgias, the symbol of the archbishop of La Plata.

“My family was powerful, respected and feared – until history trampled upon it without restraint,” said Caesar Valentin Vorjas. “It is time for the Borgias to return to their rightful place. The new alliance that we have formed is a child of these changing times. Together, Thule and I will do what none of you has yet been able to do: wipe out the infidels and restore the Church to its role of great power. The real role of the Inquisition. After all, it was you who put me in charge of the congregation, was it not?”