The Sixth Key (9 page)

The office of Alpha Galates was on the first
floor of a rundown two-storey building, above a bookshop on a narrow and
unfashionable street.

The rain had dried up that morning, leaving in
its wake a cold autumnal day with clouds streaking the skies. The streets were
busy and Rahn had slipped easily in and out of the crowds, though he guessed he
was still being followed. In truth, he knew it was possibly dangerous to try to
lose his ‘tail’. After all, he had been warned that he had a ball and chain
around his leg and everyone seemed to know his every move. Even so, he had
stopped now and again to look through a shop window, hoping to catch a glimpse
of whoever was following him in its reflection. He had seen nothing amiss
– the man was obviously a professional.

He took a winding stairway to a dirty hallway
and followed the numbers until he came to a battered door. He checked his
pocket watch for the time; he only had two hours before his train. Waiting for
him on the other side of the door could be another way to Hell, he didn’t know.
He knocked and waited. He heard shuffling sounds and the door opened a little,
revealing one dark, hooded eye, a sunken cheek, half a long nose and a couple
of full lips.

‘C’est quoi?’ the mouth said, annoyed.

‘Vincent Varas?’

‘Qui veut savoir?’

‘Otto Rahn,’ he said, ‘I telephoned you
yesterday?’

The door closed. Rahn heard the chain. It
opened again to reveal the tall young man.

‘Entrez . . . entrez . . .’ he said, his eyes
furtive and his manner nervous.

Rahn’s first impression of the apartment was that
it smelt of burnt toast and sardines. He imagined a kitchen full of dirty
plates and half-drunk cups of coffee. He could also hear soft music coming
through the walls and it lent an atmosphere of nostalgia and decadence. He was
led to a sitting room that was largely empty except for a table burdened by a
typewriter and wads of paper. More piles of paper littered the floor and Rahn
had to step over them. The young man – long, gangling and wet-eyed
– came to stand before the table, wearing a vaguely disconcerted frown on
his oily face. The pale light coming through the window fell on his emaciated
frame, catching the plume of cigarette smoke through which his little bloodshot
eyes squinted. He removed a pile of papers from a torn armchair and gestured for
Rahn to sit, and in the meantime dragged a stool closer.

‘Well?’ Rahn said to him, feeling the onset of
a headache and the desire to be out of this place sooner rather than later. ‘As
I explained on the telephone, I don’t have much time . . . my train leaves
shortly and I must be on it.’

The young man stubbed out his cigarette in a
cracked saucer full of old butts and ashes and looked at Rahn with a cursory
frown. ‘Forgive me, monsieur, but what exactly did De Mengel say to you about
Le Serpent Rouge?’

‘I didn’t speak to De Mengel,’ Rahn confessed,
feeling suddenly on the back foot. ‘My superiors tell me it’s an important and
rare grimoire and I am to acquire it for the Führer.’

There was a nod of consideration.

Rahn grew annoyed. He didn’t know why he’d come
here, and he was of the mind to leave soon if the man didn’t reveal whatever he
knew. ‘De Mengel told my superiors that you have information on the grimoire.’

‘Gaston De Mengel says many things,’ the young
man replied with an irritating arrogance. He offered Rahn a cigarette from a
crushed packet. He was smoking Black Russians – expensive.

‘I’ve given them up,’ Rahn said.

‘Pourquoi?’

‘The superior race must keep itself healthy .
. . Himmler’s orders,’ he said, but his sarcasm was lost on the boy, who nodded
appreciatively.

Rahn shifted in his chair and tried to keep
the impatience out of his voice. ‘Look, can you help me or not?’

The young man struck a match, lit the end of
the cigarette and puffed until it glowed. He was stretching the moment out,
making resolves and breaking them in the space of seconds.

‘That depends,’ he said finally.

‘On what? Do you want money?’

There was a wide smile. ‘Money? Look around,
do I look like the sort of man who covets material goods, Monsieur Rahn?’

Where did he get the money for those
cigarettes?

Plantard leant in. ‘Truth is, monsieur, what I
know is more unhealthy than this.’ He took a drag of the cigarette and let the
smoke out, looking at Rahn. ‘It is unhealthy not just for the body, but also
for the soul.’

‘You mean dangerous?’

‘Dangerous?’ he asked, his long face wrinkled
in a mocking smile. ‘Yes.’

‘Are you speaking about what happened to your
superior, Monti?’

The young man seemed surprised. ‘If you know
about that, then you understand my concern,’ he said, and sat back, satisfied
he had made his point.

‘What about Savoire, does he know?’

‘Savoire?’

‘Look, let’s not play games. I know that your
name is not Vincent Varas but Pierre Plantard, and I know that Alpha Galates is
just a front for another group started by Monti and De Mengel. I also know that
after Monti’s murder, this Dr Savoire took his place, and that now there are
differences between Savoire and De Mengel, am I right?’

The young man made a considered nod. ‘Yes, you
are correct, and yes, there are always differences.’

‘Ideological?’

‘Ideological, esoteric, especially esoteric,
monsieur . . . it is the way of the world that there are hierarchies! Those
higher on the ladder wish to keep things secret in order to maintain their
position, while those who are lower want things revealed so they can rise
higher.’ He smiled sardonically. ‘But Monti didn’t believe in ladders. That is
to say, he believed he could do what he liked.’ The man ashed his cigarette
thoughtfully. ‘And for the most part, he got away with it.’

‘Does he have something to do with this Le
Serpent Rouge?’

‘Some years ago there was a rumour circulating
about it. Apparently, a man in possession of the grimoire came to Paris looking
for a buyer. Monti was intrigued and made some inquiries that came to nothing.
Whoever it was, he had come and gone, perhaps he sold the text privately and
then disappeared again. Years later Aleister Crowley hired Monti to find it. He
told Monti he knew someone who would pay any amount for information. Any
amount, do you understand?’

‘Who’s Aleister Crowley?’

‘Aleister Crowley? Mon Dieu! He is the head of
OTO – Ordo Templi Orientis, a conventicle of magicians. Everybody knows
who he is!’

Rahn smiled coolly. ‘You said he wasn’t buying
it for himself?’

‘Oh no! In those days he was bankrupt, living
off the good graces of his followers. No, he wanted it for someone else.’

‘A collector of books?’

‘A collector, yes, but not of books. You see,
Monsieur Rahn . . .’ Plantard paused. ‘There are certain people in this world
who collect secrets. Such people invariably need others, who are brokers of
secrets, to supply them with what they crave. Monti was such a man, a trader of
secrets, and he performed this task for Aleister Crowley and for others. To do
this job, he had to belong to a number of groups; some might say he was a
serial joiner of esoteric societies. Anyway, as you can imagine, these groups
compete intensely for the really good secrets – those that can lure the
most distinguished members. That is why he could do as he wished. To put it
simply, Monti was good at his job and in high demand. Over the years, he
devised ways of learning what other men knew and also ways of knowing what
other men knew about what he knew. Despite his cleverness, however, he could
not uncover any information about Le Serpent Rouge. So he decided to take a
gamble – he whispered into the right ears that he had met the owner and
that the man was willing to sell it. He was hoping to flush the real owner out
of his hiding spot, for owners of things like that are always on the lookout
for copies. Perhaps they are afraid that the copy they have is not the original
and they must test it by comparison, or they may just be interested in buying
the copy to increase the value of the original.’

‘But in doing that he would also have flushed
out those who wanted the book at all costs?’ Rahn said.

‘Yes, a difficult situation, as you can
appreciate, considering Monti did not have the book, nor did he even know for
certain that it existed.’

‘And you think this led to his murder?’

‘Officially, no. Unofficially, who could
know?’

‘And so, does it exist?’

‘The truth is, it is no longer relevant,
Monsieur Rahn. A man has been murdered for it and this has made the idea, the
dream that it exists, a commodité. Even now, a dozen groups have circulated
that they have knowledge of it. Some purport to have part of it, others to own
the entire manuscript.’

‘So why did De Mengel send me to you? Didn’t
he know about Monti’s game?’

‘De Mengel? Of course not! De Mengel and Monti
may have been behind Alpha Galates but they walked in different circles. Monti
was a man of many faces and gave his loyalty to no group, while De Mengel was,
and still is, a member of the Société Alchimique in France and this society is
closely affiliated with a sister society in England called the Society for the
Study of Alchemy and Early Chemistry. You see, Monsieur Rahn, De Mengel, one
could say, is working with those English Lodges who are in no way desirous to
have anything to do with Aleister Crowley. They see themselves as legitimate
scientists, while they see men like Aleister Crowley as cheap magicians –
Satanists. No, De Mengel did not know anything about what Monti was doing.’

Rahn was surprised that De Mengel had English
connections and he wondered if Weisthor knew.

‘So how much did De Mengel know about Le
Serpent Rouge?’

‘De Mengel only knew what I told him,’
Plantard said.

‘What do you mean?’

‘It is complicated, monsieur. Monti knew of
your book Crusade Against the Grail. You see, he wrote your name in a notebook
he kept with him always. After his death, I found the notebook and when I saw
that he had written your name in it I had to contact you. You can’t imagine my
surprise when I found out you’re a member of the SS! After that I spoke to De
Mengel. I knew he was having dealings with your superiors and so I told him
about Le Serpent Rouge and suggested that he ask for you.’

‘And you’re not afraid of winding up like
Monti?’

He smiled. ‘I am nobody. Who would expect that
an eighteenyear-old errand boy would know anything?’

‘But here I am, because of an errand boy, one
who wants me to find Le Serpent Rouge. My question to you is why?’

‘Look, De Mengel is my superior but I don’t
have to like what he’s doing!’ Plantard said, sitting forwards.

‘What is he doing exactly?’

‘He is working for the English Lodges and
using the Nazis, you see? But I am of a different mind, monsieur.’

‘A different mind?’

‘One could say I am sympathetic to the aims of
the Nazis. One could say that I understand that the unification of our two
countries under one national socialist government would be something mutually
beneficial.’ He motioned for Rahn to lean in. ‘I have heard about Hitler from
the occult circles that I frequent. I know that those who groomed him recognise
in him the reincarnation of a powerful magician. So you see, if this grimoire
does exist, then only such a man as Hitler can use it to its fullest
potential.’ He smiled wetly and his little eyes gleamed. ‘You will tell him
this when you see him – that I recognise his genius? He may be interested
to know that I am of the lineage of Saint-Clair, and therefore, of Merovingian
descent. He will understand that this is the lineage of magicians and the
rightful heirs to the throne of France. You will tell him this also?’

‘At the earliest opportunity,’ Rahn lied,
feeling an intense dislike for the impertinent and conceited youth.

Plantard nodded, stupidly satisfied, Rahn
thought, and searched under the myriad of papers on his desk. ‘If you want to
hide something it is best to leave it in plain view, don’t you agree? Here it
is!’ He brandished a small book covered in a dark leather binding. The cover
was embossed with a gold sigil, or magic symbol: a pentagram inside a heptagon
inside a six-pointed star inside another heptagon inside a circle.

‘In the notebook,’ Plantard said, ‘Monti has
written down some references to Le Serpent Rouge. Also, he writes that the
grimoire was not complete, that there was something missing – a key. Do
you know much about grimoires, Monsieur Rahn?’

‘A little. In a grimoire, keys are really
formulas one uses to summon demons. The formulas can be in the form of a word,
or a sign or sigil.’

‘That’s right, and you see, Monti seemed to
think there was one very important key missing from all the grimoires. It looks
like he thought you would know where to find it because he has your name in his
notebook and a page number from one of your books in reference to it. Monsieur
Rahn, one word of advice,’ Plantard said, before handing the notebook to Rahn.
‘Should you decide to go after this Le Serpent Rouge, I would urge you to
beware not only physical enemies but also metaphysical ones.’