The Omega Factor(35)

ds fortis adonay sabaot v. emel el i.h.s. xr. agla.



“Some observers add ominu to the ds to form dominus, and manu to the emel to make emmanuel. But that’s taking liberties with the inscription.”

“What does it mean?”

She shrugged. “It’s an odd mixture of Latin, Hebrew, Greek, and Coptic and is barely understandable. I read somewhere that it could be some sort of Middle Ages magical formula that was inscribed on weapons to make them stronger. Supposedly, it was written by the hand of God on a parchment found when Jesus was taken down from the cross.” She smiled. “See what I mean? People have read many things into van Eyck’s work.”

She told him about more wild theories. References to the Holy Grail. The Golden Fleece. Alchemy. And the philosopher’s stone.

“Supposedly, van Eyck was passing on these secrets to later aspirants through hidden messages in the work.”

She looked lovely sitting at the kitchen table. Electric, alive, and beautiful, her voice soft but strong. She wore her order’s dark-green smock with white trim and a high collar. No coif or veil shielded her red hair. She’d offered him coffee, but he’d eaten breakfast at his hotel. He was more interested in sizing up the playing field. He only had two days to work this and was determined to help in any way he could.

“There’s something in the images you made that other people either want, or want kept secret,” he said to her. “Something that woman died for.”

“Were you there?”

He nodded. “I saw it all.”

Her eyes warmed. “I know how bad that must have been.”

“I would have preferred not to have seen that. But I did.”

She gripped his wrist. He smiled and let her know that he appreciated the gesture.

She withdrew her hand. “All those other crazy theories aside, let me say that it would not be shocking if we discovered that a true secret did lurk somewhere in the altarpiece. A learned theologian advised Jan van Eyck. Most likely, Olivier de Langhe, the prior of the Ghent church at the time. Even more important, this was the only work of Jan van Eyck’s intended for public display. All of his other paintings were private commissions. So van Eyck knew a lot of people would see the altarpiece. The only question seems to be, what’s there that required the Just Judges to be destroyed?”

A phone chimed.

Not his. Kelsey’s.

She reached for the unit and answered, listening for a few moments, then saying, “Yes, ma’am. I’ll be there.” She ended the call. “That was my prioress. She’s here, in Ghent, and wants to see me.”

He was intrigued. “When and where?”

“One p.m., at Saint Bavo’s. She wants me to bring my laptop.”

That pricked his interest. “Did she say why?”

Kelsey shook her head.

“Your convent is how far away?”

“Three hours by train.”

“And your prioress came all that way?” His statement was rhetorical, but the answer was easy. “You said only three people knew what you found and that you’d recorded those images.”

She nodded.

He’d originally thought his next move was to head to southern France. Not anymore. The next move might have just come to him.

“The curator wants me to email the images file to him,” she said.

“I assume Monsieur de Foix will be privy to those images too?”

She nodded. “Of course.”

That eliminated two of the three suspects.

“Any idea why your prioress is so interested in those images?”

She said nothing.

But he could see the questions forming in her mind.

“Don’t email the images,” he said. “Not yet. First, if you’ll allow me, I have an idea that may give us the answer about your prioress.”





Chapter 22



Archbishop Vilamur had to force himself through the rededication ceremony, saying the right words, smiling at the right time, careful with the cameras, which had been numerous.

But the video he’d been sent kept replaying through his mind.

Father Tallard was a problem, one that he’d tried several times to either ignore or suppress. He’d only been a monsignor when Tallard committed his crimes, another man then in charge. But that archbishop was dead and the problem of Father Tallard remained alive. Nobody would care that he’d inherited the issue. He was the current archbishop. His job was to safeguard the church and its members. He’d removed Tallard from any and all parishioner duties and ordered that he stay out of sight. But he’d not taken the man’s collar. Even after formal charges had been brought, he’d opted instead to allow the criminal process to play out. That course, along with every other decision he’d made relative to Tallard, had been approved by the Vatican and all had remained relatively quiet the past three years. Sure, there’d been news accounts here and there. Victims raging about the lack of justice. But none of that lasted long. Thankfully, the public had become somewhat anesthetized to clerical sexual abuse claims. One more seemed not to matter much. But now this. A recorded confession? While tied to a table?

That was an entirely different matter.

Sensationalism?

Sure. But that’s what people loved.