The Omega Factor(52)
He marched across the grass, the wind whipping in from the north and carrying a chill. He told himself that he was the esteemed metropolitan archbishop of Toulouse, a sacred member of the Roman Catholic Church, entitled to respect. No matter what.
He stopped before the man. “Who are you?”
“You don’t remember me?”
He’d never seen the face before.
“I own an auction house in Toulouse. Have you ever frequented it?”
“Never.”
“That’s a shame. We’ve sold some beautiful items.”
“Your name?”
“Bernat de Foix.”
“Am I supposed to know you?”
“You knew my mother. Rene Bellamy.”
A name he’d not heard in a long time. One he hoped to never hear again. Now he remembered. “You’re the little boy that day, in the rectory, when your mother came to see me?”
“I am. All grown up. I no longer carry the Bellamy surname. I had it legally changed to de Foix, out of respect to my mother and her family. That was her maiden name.”
He could not care less.
“Are you proud, Father? And I don’t mean that in the religious way.”
“I told your mother then, and I tell you now, I am not your father.”
“She’s dead.”
A part of him was glad. But he knew what to say. “I am sorry to hear that.”
De Foix chuckled. “I seriously doubt that. Just one less witness to your sins.”
“I am not your father,” he said again.
De Foix reached into his pocket and removed a glass vial. “Prove it with a simple DNA test. If it comes back that you are not, I will give you Tallard’s recorded confession and our business will be concluded. But, if it’s positive, then you and I will have much to discuss.”
“And how will I know the results you share are legitimate?”
De Foix produced another vial. “Two tests. One by me, the other by you to a lab of your choosing. I want there to be no mistake.”
“Do I have a choice?”
De Foix shook his head. “None at all.”
“What do you really want?” he asked.
“What every son wants. For his father to know he exists.”
He doubted that. This man had gone to a lot of trouble to make this connection. And not out of any love or curiosity. “Did you kill Tallard?”
“I did not. That would be contrary to my religion.”
He was shocked. “You are Cathar?”
“I am a Perfectus.”
He shook his head. Idiots. Perfecti prostrated themselves before falsity and swore to no carnal intercourse, lies, or oaths. To them, having children was abhorrent. The extinction of the human race seemed their ultimate goal. They believed in reincarnation, living one life after another until they supposedly got it right. They called themselves Good Christians. Pure Ones.
What a joke.
But he wanted to know, “Why did you mention les Vautours?”
“To get your attention. And it seemed to have worked.”
Not much of an answer, but he cautioned himself to not be too inquisitive and become trapped in his own lies, which would only make things worse. So he diverted things from himself. “You’re a fool.”
De Foix smiled. “I may be, but I am the fool who has you precisely where I want you.”
That was true.
But now he knew his enemy.
Chapter 34
Kelsey opened the apartment door and invited her prioress inside. She’d chosen here for their talk as the safest and most private place. Home turf. Where she controlled the surroundings. What they were about to discuss could not be seen or overheard by others. Before today she and the prioress had enjoyed a cordial, friendly relationship that had stayed at arm’s length. Never had she doubted the older woman’s wisdom, leadership, or loyalty. There’d been a great element of trust.
Which had now been shattered.
They sat in the den and faced each other.
“I understand your anger,” the prioress said. “But I had no choice.”
“Why did you not just tell me? And ask?”
“I do not have to explain myself.”
Her spine stiffened. “You can’t be serious. That panel was in my care. Entrusted to me. A restorer’s number one duty is to not harm what he or she is working on. Mine was destroyed. I was attacked. You were part of that. I think you definitely need to explain yourself.”
The prioress kept silent and Kelsey allowed her a moment.
“After your call, I made one myself,” the older woman said. “I have received permission to relay some confidential information to you. Hopefully, it will provide the explanation you need.”
The two women waited in the dark.
They’d entered Saint Bavo’s through the front door seven hours earlier, one of many who’d visited the church on April 10, 1934. They’d walked the nave, studied the elaborate rococo pulpit, then wandered through the chancel and its eight chapels. They’d lingered before Rubens’ magnificent Saint Bavo Enters the Convent at Ghent, which the great master called the most beautiful work he’d ever produced. Admired the organ, the choir, the high altar, and the statues of Peter and Paul. Toward the cathedral’s closing time they descended to the crypt, the largest in Flanders, lined with exquisite frescoes. Their tour had been not only to admire the majestic interior but also to discover the best place to hide.