The Omega Factor(63)

“His father-in-law confided in him that the original lay beneath,” Raymond said. “He’d been involved with the 1934 theft. But when his co-conspirator died of a heart attack he was left with the Just Judges. When he was asked to create a reproduction for the cathedral he used the opportunity to hide the original back in plain sight. Quite brilliant, actually. During the 1950 restoration, Philippot confirmed that fact for himself, but told no one.”

“Why would he keep that secret?”

“He was one of us.”

“Cathar?”

Raymond nodded. “A Perfectus. He hated the Roman Catholic Church and loved his father-in-law. To hurt the one and protect the other, he kept Van der Veken’s secret. Before he died in 1974, he told me. We were friends for a long time. Now I’m telling you. Use this opportunity and bring it back to life. Make a name for yourself.”

Which was precisely what he’d done.

“I worry about you, Bernat,” Raymond said.

He smiled. “And I appreciate your concern. You have been more than good to me.”

“It’s curious why someone would destroy that panel, but perhaps the images of it might still be enough for you to garner some recognition.”

They’d timed the attack on Vilamur to happen while the Just Judges made its reemergence. A one-two punch. Acclaim from one direction. Satisfaction from the other. The cathedral curator had told him a few days ago that a press conference would happen shortly when the world would be told what had been found. The attack might well alter that timetable. He was still waiting on the curator to forward Sister Deal’s images.

“Careful, my friend,” Raymond said. “The barrel regarding the church and Vilamur has been jostled. You have no idea what might spill out.”

“It doesn’t matter, I’m way ahead of them.”

Raymond shook his head.

“That’s what our ancestors, who once filled these woods, thought too. But a papal army came and look what happened to them.”





Chapter 40



Vilamur strolled with Cardinal Fuentes down the streets of Toulouse. They’d enjoyed dinner at his favorite restaurant, sitting at his usual table, the meal interrupted several times by parishioners stopping by and extending him greetings. Here, in the heart of the city, he was well known. But he’d always made a point to be visible, accessible, making sure that his was the face of the diocese. At Fuentes’s request he’d kept the cardinal’s identity confidential, introducing him with another name, explaining he was a friend from Spain visiting for a few days. He assumed that the cardinal, unlike himself, kept a much lower profile.

“Let me see if I have my history correct,” Fuentes said as they walked. “St. Saturnin was the first bishop of Toulouse. Supposedly, he was the son of Aegeus, king of Achaea. He lived in the first century and some chroniclers have described him as one of the seventy-two disciples of Christ, placing him at the Last Supper. Quite an honor. Peter himself supposedly consecrated him a bishop. But who knows if any of that is accurate?”

He agreed. There was simply no way to know what happened that far back, as few records had survived.

“But,” Fuentes said, “like with most of the important people from that time, his death had greater significance than his life. Strange how that is.”

Yes, it was.

“Supposedly, Saturnin lived here, in Toulouse. Each day, to reach the local Christian church he had to pass by the Capitole. The pagan priests had an altar there and they began to blame the silence of their oracles on his regular appearances. So one day they seized him and tied his feet to a bull, which dragged him about the town, killing him. How am I doing?”

“Quite well, Eminence.”

Fuentes stopped walking, clearly pleased with himself. “Where the bull stopped and the rope broke, Saturnin lay dead. Two Christian women gathered his remains and buried them right there. Which, if I’m not mistaken, is somewhere here, on this street. Correct?”

He nodded. “That’s why it is named the Rue du Taur, street of the bull. The church of Notre-Dame du Taur, right over there, is regarded as the place where the bull stopped. The saint’s bones were there until the basilica was built farther down that way. We recently completed a renovation of the tomb. I reconsecrated it this morning.”

“Ah, that’s right,” Fuentes said. “I saw a news clipping from one of your local papers. I did some reading on the flight over from Rome. After all, I do head the Pontifical Commission for Sacred Archaeology. So I should know these things. Right?”

He knew the correct answer. “Of course.”

They kept walking and entered the plaza before the basilica, lit to the night. People milled about in every direction.

“Archbishop,” Fuentes said. “As I mentioned on the telephone, it’s important that you tell me exactly why you were provided that email referring to les Vautours. Why you? Why now?”

He did not know what to say.

“And, please, do not lie or try to say it was all because of Father Tallard. The truth I can deal with. I can even be helpful. But lies? That will bring you nothing but misery from me.”

That he believed. So he decided to take a chance. “I have a son.”

If Fuentes was surprised, the man showed not a hint.

“Conceived when you were a priest?”