The Omega Factor(29)

And it would act.

What a mess. Sister Rachel was exposed. The convent in Ghent had been violated. And far too many directional markers now existed. Which those in the know—

Could easily follow.





Bernat sat on the terrace and enjoyed the solitude. The time was approaching midnight. Carcassonne had settled down for the night, the lights in the distance fewer and farther between. The day had been both a success and failure. He’d been waiting for this moment his entire adult life, ever since he discovered the truth about himself. He’d long lived by a single mantra. One of long standing in the Languedoc. Qui court deux lièvres à la fois, n’en prend aucun. He who runs after two hares at the same time, catches neither.

So true.

Concentrate on one task at a time and devote your full attention to it. Trying to accomplish two things at once usually produced double mediocrity. Something well done was something done with dedication. Phase one was complete with the confession of Father Tallard. Andre had duly recorded everything, the e-file now waiting for him in his inbox, ready for phase two.

Qui n’avance pas, recule.

Another important mantra.

He who does not move forward, recedes.

Life does not stand still. There was only evolution or devolution. Expect poison from the standing water, the English poet William Blake once wrote. How true. To be stagnant was the same as to recede. He had to persevere. Move ahead. And he intended to do just that.

A text from the curator in Ghent an hour ago had told him that the electronic images had been recovered. Excellent. Things might be salvageable on that end. Finding the original Just Judges had been a sure thing. A way to finally establish himself within the art world and generate some worldwide notoriety. He was grateful for his inside information. True, Cathar beliefs about the evil of the physical world remained, and wealth was definitely part of that, but some modern accommodations had been made to ancient doctrine, all brought about by being nearly wiped out.

Survival.

That took precedence.

He’d invested a hundred thousand euros, which slid his foot in the door. Months back he’d agonized over how he would maneuver any restorer to look beneath the overpaint. But Sister Deal had come through on her own, making the discovery and allowing him to stay back out of the way.

Which had been perfect.

But why would someone destroy the panel? Why steal the electronic images? What was the point? It was all so strange, but he assumed Belgian investigators were working on determining answers.

He’d already answered the curator and asked for a copy of Sister Deal’s images. He’d been assured they would be forwarded along tomorrow. And the press conference they were planning for next week or the week after? That would go ahead too, only sooner, in the next day or so, with the narrative changing to now include the deliberate attack.

He stared out into the night.

A lot lay ahead.

A cruel spring had long wound tight inside him. He was too strong and too mature for a bout of nerves, but he could not deny the sudden fatigue that had overcome him. Like a marathoner who’d mistimed his final surge and burned himself out a hundred meters too soon, he wondered if he possessed the will to keep going and cross the finish line. Life had taught him that satisfaction was bought in fractions, tiny amounts here and there that eventually balanced the whole.

And led to the God of Light.

He reached over to the metal table and retrieved a copy of the day’s La Dépêche. The regional newspaper was published throughout the Midi-Pyrénées region. A photograph of Archbishop Gerard Vilamur, the titular head of the archdiocese of Toulouse, appeared on the front page, along with a story of his possible elevation to cardinal in the coming months. In the ambient glow from the lights in his room, seeping out through the open terrace doors, he studied the prelate’s features. The fleshy lips. Wide nose. An owlish face adorned by thin wire-rimmed glasses. The head topped with a perfectly coifed mop of wavy dark hair. The mouth split into a toothy, annoying smile.

“Time to end you,” he whispered.





Chapter 18

Toulouse, France

Wednesday, May 9

8:40 a.m.



Archbishop Gerard Vilamur loved everything about his chosen profession. He’d joined the priesthood fifty years ago as a young man of twenty-seven, rising through the ranks to monsignor, then bishop, and finally archbishop. He was presently one of only fifty-six hundred bishops that existed within the Eastern and Latin Catholic churches.

The next logical step upward was the red hat of a cardinal, and the Vatican had assured him that one would soon be coming his way. For several decades he’d faithfully served the archdiocese of Toulouse, a conservative enclave that dated to the fourth century, with competent and steadfast leadership. Which was no small feat. It spanned sixty-four hundred square kilometers. Nearly eight hundred thousand Catholics. Six hundred and two parishes. Two hundred seventeen priests. One of the few metropolitan archdioceses left in the world.

His own personal fiefdom.

As bishop he could perform the sacrament of Holy Orders, ordaining new priests. He was responsible for teaching doctrine and governing the religious lives of all of the Catholics who lived within his borders. He supposedly sanctified the world, representing the church in an official capacity. His office traced back to the apostles, who had been endowed as special by the Holy Spirit. Over a billion Catholics believed that such a transmittal of goodness had continued through an unbroken succession of men from then to now. Bishops were required to be men of good reputation, possessed of outstanding faith, with high morals, piety, a zeal for souls, wisdom, and prudence. Each had to be older than thirty-five, ordained for at least five years, and in possession of a doctorate or at least a licentiate in sacred scripture, theology, or canon law from an institute of higher studies approved by the Apostolic See. Not many ever bothered to obtain such a higher degree, so there was a catchall in canon law that allowed a bishop to simply be a true expert in those same disciplines.