The Omega Factor(57)

They both sat in chairs, facing each other.

Fuentes, like himself, was dressed casually in trousers, shirt, and jacket. No ring. No cross. Not a thing that identified him as a prince in the Holy Roman Church. Which also raised warning flags.

“You look like you’ve been hiking,” Fuentes said.

“I had to travel to the south to see about things. I decided a walk in the mountains would be good.”

“Was it?”

“Delightful.”

“I love the outdoors. Unfortunately, I don’t get to enjoy it much anymore.”

He decided to get to the point. “What brings you here? And why all the interest in what happened to Father Tallard?”

“Let me be clear. I care nothing for that deviant priest. You were correct. Whoever killed him did the world a favor. But that video confession is something that interests me, along with Cathars and les Vautours. Two subjects I have long been fascinated with.”

He now knew that all of the information anonymously sent to him had come from Bernat de Foix, who apparently was incredibly well informed about something important enough to stir the Vatican.

“Will you be explaining why you have such an interest in those two subjects?” he asked, keeping his voice controlled. “Or will I be working in the dark?”

Fuentes grinned and motioned with his hands. “That is precisely why I am here. But first, Archbishop, is it possible to have some dinner. It is nearly 6:00 p.m., and I have neglected to eat since this morning.”

He’d spent his entire clerical life dealing with people. Some priests focused entirely on their parishioners, ignoring ambition, intent only on human relations. Others were more aloof, keeping their distance, directing their attention toward the politics of religion rather than its substance. He liked to navigate a middle-of-the-road approach, interested in parishioners but always conscious of the lay of the land around him. Always looking for the next fork in the road. Which explained his rise from priest, to monsignor, to archbishop, to metropolitan archbishop, to, he hoped, cardinal.

Be careful, he told himself. Be really, really careful. He’d drawn Rome’s interest, and the man sitting before him had the pope’s ear. A word from him could make or break. Something here, in Toulouse, had grabbed Fuentes’s attention. So he could be either a help or a hindrance. And he’d learned long ago that hindrances ended up with nothing.

“I’m sure the cook is preparing my dinner as we speak,” he said. “I will make sure there is plenty for two.”

“That is most kind of you. But perhaps we could go out to eat. I would so like to see Toulouse again. It has been a long time since I visited.”

Okay. Plan B. “I will make us a reservation.”

“I will also need a place to stay.”

He knew the correct response. “I have five bedrooms. Pick whichever one you desire.”

“Again. Most kind.”

Like he had a choice.

Fuentes pointed a stubby finger. “I was told by those who know that you are a good man to have on your side. The pope himself is aware of you. But let me make something clear. Your cooperation here will have a direct bearing on whether you remain in good favor.”

As if he did not already know that.

“Be assured, Cardinal Fuentes, you will have my undivided attention.”





Chapter 37



Nick and the mother superior retreated to a small office not far from the dining hall. There, behind a closed door, the older woman faced him.

“There are many, many religious organizations,” she said. “Each has its own purpose. Its own meaning. They cover everything and anything. The one common denominator, though, is an unwavering devotion to the particular duty, or duties, they select.”

“And what is the duty of the Maidens of Saint-Michael?”

“To serve the poor and help the disadvantaged. Along with another, more sacred responsibility.” She paused. “To protect a secret.”

“Are you les Vautours?”

She nodded.

“Why are the Dominicans focused on you?”

“The Vatican has been seeking us for a long time. But we’ve managed to evade them at every turn, which was no small feat. Our luck, though, has finally run out.”

“Do you have a vulture on your left shoulder too?”

“I led the maidens for fifteen years,” she said. “I did my best, as have all of the other women who came before and after. I know the current abbess would vehemently disagree, but I’m trusting you. You seem like a decent person. I was told about what you did at the hotel, helping with the escape. With the Dominicans at our door, I have no choice, Mr. Lee. We need your help. Please don’t make me regret this.”

“How about you answer my question.”

“I have a vulture on my shoulder. As do all of the maidens. It is placed there after taking an oath. It reminds us of our duty.”

“Which is?”

“To guard the truth.”

He could see that she meant every word. This was no fanatic. Or dreamer. Whatever was involved seemed deep-set, reverent.

“Trusting outsiders has proven a problem for us in the past. That’s why we deal with things ourselves, in our own way. The truth we protect is not something the Vatican supports. Quite the contrary. Many popes have preferred that it go away, which has placed us at odds with Rome for centuries. But this is the first time that they have ever been able to positively identify us.”