The Omega Factor(95)

“Sister Deal,” Fuentes said. “None of this really concerns you. I did not involve you. The maidens made that choice.”

“No,” she said. “I made that choice.”

“Fair enough. Gentlemen, bring all of these women along. It’s time we visit the motherhouse.”





Claire lowered the binoculars from her eyes and set them down, unnerved by the quiet outside, like a prelude to a storm. She stood at the top of the abbey’s conical tower, the highest point in the building, which came equipped with four dormer windows that opened in each direction. It was the building’s crown, commanding a full view, through the trees, of the land the order had owned for generations. From her perch she could clearly see the main gate and watched as Fuentes, Vilamur, and the four Dominicans marched right through and headed for the cemetery. She’d managed to catch glimpses through the trees as Fuentes had found van Eyck’s grave, which meant he was verifying the poem.

Of course he would.

The Vatican was predictable, she’d give them that.

The maidens had known about the poem in 1934, tipped off by friends in Rome. Its discovery, and Pius XI’s intent to declare the Assumption dogma, had precipitated their ill-fated attempt to steal the Just Judges and prevent any close examination of its images. Though they’d failed to secure the panel, its ultimate disappearance had worked in their favor, enabling them to stay silent in the decades after, even when Pius XII sent clear signals that he was going to make Mary’s Assumption dogma. They’d hoped that silence would keep the wolves at bay. But now they found themselves in the precise quandary they’d avoided for all those years.

She fidgeted, her hands groping for something to occupy them, as impatient as a caged animal. Below, she heard footfalls on the stone staircase as someone slowly climbed the spiral up toward her. Insects hovered just outside the window, beneath the eaves, buzzing in the still air. She brought the binoculars back to her eyes and studied the cemetery, the scene splintered by the branches and leaves in between.

They were all back around Sister Rachel’s grave.

The abbess appeared at the top of the staircase. “The forward lookouts report two more persons.”

“Where?”

“Near the main gate.”

She refocused the binoculars in that direction and caught no movement. She continued to scan, looking for something, anything.

Then she saw them. Two men.

One she recognized.

Nick Lee.

Bleak thoughts chased one another through her mind at the unexpected possibilities. None of which were good.

She turned toward the abbess.

“We have a problem.”





Chapter 62



Nick was wary of Andre Labelle. The young man seemed a volatile combination of nerves, alertness, and weariness, all swirling around a whole lot of anger. Ready for a fight. No. Looking for a fight.

Which was worse.

His parents had taught him many lessons from sport, especially world-class sport, where extreme feelings and uncontrolled emotions rarely led to success. Winning demanded good judgment, discipline, timing, and “a little bit of a lion, but a lot of a fox,” as Dad always said.

And his father was rarely wrong.

They walked on, the path ascending and curving sharply, climbing ever higher. The entourage ahead of them had surely made it to the abbey by now.

“Are you sure Bernat de Foix has disappeared?” he asked. “Not just gone away somewhere.”

“They took him. I’m sure.”

He was puzzled. “The archbishop?”

Labelle nodded. “And others, probably.”

“Why would they take him?”

“The archbishop and de Foix knew each other. From long ago. And it wasn’t a good thing.”

He wanted to know more but realized he probably would not get an answer. The young man’s dry, callous, impertinent tone worried him. Clearly, something else was going on here. Something beyond the maidens. He tried to think, to connect the dots, his thoughts tracing back to the past couple of days, which seemed like a lifetime ago.

“There was another man. Shorter, stocky. Who is he?”

“I don’t know, but he and the archbishop left the rectory at Toulouse a few hours ago and came straight here. I followed them.”

Were the Dominicans involved with whatever happened to Bernat de Foix? Possibly. Warm beads of sweat trickled down his forehead and a chill of anticipation tickled his spine. He felt a familiar excitement as the net around him tightened, that element of chance combined with the possibility of error. Which always kept him sharp.

The road turned again and a tall stone gate came into view. No fence or barrier on either side, which surely once existed but no longer. This was for show and welcomed visitors into the shaded area beyond.

Then he saw movement.

Gray-smocked women appeared from the trees to the left followed by the four Dominicans with guns, all walking toward a rambling, multistory structure with wings, annexes, and a tower. The motherhouse. He grabbed Labelle and they sought cover in the foliage adjacent to the road.

He saw another man.

Walking behind the group.

“That’s the archbishop,” Labelle said.

And then he saw something that brought an ache to his gut.

Kelsey.