The Omega Factor(22)
Until the end.
“I can’t ignore what’s inside me anymore,” she said to him. “I’m so sorry, Nick. I love you dearly. But I love God more.”
He’d told her he understood. And part of him had. But another part had found it all inexplicable.
He kept moving and entered one of the many cobbled squares, this one surrounded by cafés. Guests huddled around the outside tables, pawing and nibbling, talking in a variety of languages. Twenty euros to a maître d’ bought him a call to a taxi service, which arrived a few minutes later and drove him back to where it had all begun.
Emergency vehicles were parked at the end of the street that led to the workshop, the path too narrow for their girth. People were being kept back by the local police. He approached one of the uniforms and flashed his UN credentials, which gained him access beyond the barriers. He walked down the dimly lit route between the olden buildings, the scent of charred wood heavy in the night air. Smoky wisps continued to seep from the workshop’s shattered windows. He approached closer and could see that the interior was a black mess. Beyond the building, at the other end of the street an ambulance was parked and he spotted Kelsey, a blanket wrapped around her. He headed that way, relieved she was okay, and she saw him. He held up the laptop, signaling that he’d been successful.
She stood, shed the blanket, and rushed to him. “I can’t thank you enough, Nick. I was afraid it had been lost.”
He handed over the computer. “Mind if I ask what was so important about this?”
“It has the images I made on it.” Her voice was low, in a whisper. “Of what I found.”
Now he was curious. “What did you find?”
She shook her head, a piece of her red hair falling across her cheek. “We can’t discuss it here.”
He got the message and nodded. “I assume the panel was destroyed?”
“It’s ash. That’s why this”—she motioned with the laptop—“is so important.”
But he wondered why images of a 1945 copy of the Just Judges carried any value. He started thinking like a CLIO field asset, his inquisitive mind churning away. But he agreed with her that this was not the time or place to have an in-depth discussion. Still, he wanted to know, “Do you know anything about the Maidens of Saint-Michael?”
“That’s an odd question.”
“And a full explanation also falls into the category of not now, later.”
She smiled. “I get it. And, yes, the convent is located on the north part of town. It’s a retirement home for the members of that order. They do some volunteer work throughout Ghent. I met one of them.”
“Older women?”
She nodded.
“Anyone named Claire?”
He could see her mind was working, assimilating the bits and pieces he was tossing out, trying to make sense of them.
She shook her head. “No one by that name.”
He’d probed about as far as he wanted to go for the moment. “I’ll be back in half an hour or so.”
“What are you going to do?” she asked him.
“Throw what little weight I have around.”
Chapter 13
Claire realized that the intruder had escaped. She’d found an open sash on the second floor and assumed he’d used the outer ledge to make his way to the trees, then down to the ground. That suggested a level of training and nerve, especially given the fact that the man had brazenly invaded a convent. A professional? The police? Or something else? What had been a partial success had now turned into a total failure with one person missing in action.
This was perhaps the most difficult thing she’d ever faced. But adversity was not something she ever shied away from. Growing up Black in Louisiana had come with a whole host of challenges. She’d never been a political activist, but she had been mindful of her rights, facing down her share of ignorance, hate, and racism. The world was full of good and bad. In the convent race meant little to nothing. The maidens came from all walks of life and every corner of the globe. Each was special. Chosen. Then trained. Sure, there’d been challenges here and there. Nuisances that had required some correction. But nothing on this magnitude. Of course, the altarpiece had always represented the greatest threat. That was why the maidens’ retirement community had been based in Ghent for over three hundred years, providing ready eyes and ears nearby.
Just in case.
She’d learned that being a maiden meant making a conscious choice to live outside normality, in a private world that totally influenced your entire life. Some religious orders were cloistered away, apart from the world. Hers cast the appearance of such, but in reality they surreptitiously engaged humanity on a daily basis. Being a Maiden of Saint-Michael came with challenges not faced by any other religious order. There were thousands of abbeys and convents. Some quite famous, like the Carmelites. Others not so much. Each had their own mission and purpose, usually reflected in their creation and history. All of them involved an oath to celibacy, poverty, and a total commitment to God. The maidens swore a fourth pledge. Veritas Vita.
The truth, the life.
The cursed Jan van Eyck, who created the Ghent Altarpiece with his skillful brush and cunning mind, even added those words to the lappets on the main altar of the center panel. Thankfully, in nearly six hundred years, only a precious few had ever grasped their significance. And now, with the twelfth panel’s destruction, any chance of that ever happening again had been made that much harder. The original was gone. No images of it existed anywhere else in the world except, if their intel was to be believed, on Sister Deal’s laptop.