The Omega Factor(98)

“You are?” he asked.

“Sister Claire Haffner, Vestal of this order.”

An officer. Second in command. Perfect.

He caught the attention of Friar Rice, who walked over and took charge of Sister Deal. He then stepped to the Vestal and, with no hesitation, swiped the butt of his gun across the woman’s dark face, knocking her down. The other maidens gasped at the assault and reacted, but he fired a shot into the ceiling that kept them at bay. The bang bellowed in the high-ceilinged room, then echoed back. Chips of plaster rained down and dust twirled in the still air from the ceiling breach. Sister Deal rushed over to see about the Vestal. Sister Haffner was down on one knee, Deal beside her. A small gash bled on the woman’s right cheek.

“There will be no more attacks,” he said. “Is that clear?”

No one said a word.

“You will bow to the will of your archbishop, who is here, and His Holiness, of whom I am the duly appointed representative.”

Haffner stood. “And the Dominicans with guns? Who have they come for?”

“They’re here to ensure your compliance,” he said.

“With what?” the abbess asked.

“Revealing the location of the Chapel of the Maiden.”





Nick heard a shot.

He and Labelle were still outside, approaching the building, noticing that all of the windows were protected by filigreed iron grilles. No way to get through any of them. The sound of gunfire made it even more imperative that they find a way inside. The place seemed a mishmash of randomness. A wing here. A tower there. Annexes of differing styles. Lots of blue-gray limestone and a mantle of ivy beneath a slate roof defined by crenellated gables.

They rounded a corner and headed toward the rear.

The whole structure sat at the edge of a promontory, nothing but open air on the other side. They passed a small enclosure that held some wrought-iron tables and a few concrete chess pedestals flanked by wooden benches. Farther on they found a flight of stone stairs, built out from the wall and protected by a slender wrought-iron rail, that led up to a door.

Unlocked.

Finally.

A break.

A long barren corridor stretched ahead studded with more doors, not unlike the one from the convent in Ghent. Only difference, the ones here were all closed.

They hustled ahead.





Vilamur was becoming progressively more uncomfortable. Fuentes had brought him along to gain entry. That had been accomplished. So why was he staying? These men were on a mission that certainly did not concern him any longer. And the guns? Then the battery on the maiden.

This was too much.

He was a metropolitan archbishop of the Roman Catholic Church. True, he had a problem. But that had been cured last night, no danger of any of it resurfacing as it would implicate not only him, but Fuentes and the Dominicans as well. Bernat de Foix was gone. All of the incriminating evidence was gone. True, his mistakes had compromised his reputation, credibility, achievements, even his probity, but not his title. He was the archbishop of this diocese, usually residing high above the world, free from worry, wrinkles, and harm. But he could not escape, or disguise, the leaden grooves which his thoughts had found and from which they could not free themselves. This was bad. And going to get worse. So he made a decision, then silently cleared his throat and drew saliva to the top of his mouth so that a cracked voice would not betray his anxiety when he spoke.

“I’m leaving,” he said, his manner businesslike.

Fuentes turned to face him. “I did not dismiss you.”

“Forgive me, Eminence, but I don’t require your permission.”





Fuentes assessed the situation.

Vilamur was challenging him in front of the maidens.

Not the best time.

Bishops could be that way. Within their diocese they were more powerful than a pope. They were the absolute rulers. Cardinals, not even those within the Curia, could not overrule them without consequences. This archbishop seemed different. He wanted to be a cardinal, and to do that he had to curry favor with those who could make that possible. But for some odd reason Vilamur was willing to throw that away.

Or was he?

He’d always judged people by gauging what they wanted in life. And this man definitely wanted more than he presently enjoyed. Of course, the blackmail on Vilamur cut both ways. God knows enough had happened that could be classified as out of the ordinary. No danger of the maidens lodging any complaints. But Vilamur? Possible. So why fight him? Not now anyway. That could always be done later.

“Of course, Archbishop, you don’t require my permission,” he said.

“You can handle whatever remains of this on your own. It does not need my presence.” Vilamur faced the abbess. “Please know that I am bowing to the wishes of the Vatican here. This is a matter between you and Rome. It is a private affair that does not concern me.”

“And yet you are here.”

“Yes, abbess. I am. But now I leave this to you.” Vilamur bowed to the older woman then turned and said, “Good day, Eminence.”

And he left through the main doors.





Nick and Labelle headed down the corridor. They were toward the far end of the rambling building. The main entrance was more to the center, so he turned at a junction and headed that way, past a line of more closed doors. He assumed all hands were on deck dealing with the intruders, so no danger of encountering anyone. But, if so, they were all on the same team this time.