The Alchemist’s Code (22 page)

“You should know that your grandfather and his comrades ignored precise orders. Others took care of making them pay for it before we could find him. People very close to you.”

I looked at Anna and saw that her face was contorted into a frown. Could this man be telling the truth?

“Where's the book?” Herzog continued.

We were startled. How did he know about the book?

“We know that your grandfather left you a book,
The Baphomet Code
. Give it to me.”

“Give it to him, Anna, don't to do anything stupid,” I whispered without thinking twice.

“Listen to him, Frau Glyz, there's no point in risking your life.”

Anna held Herzog's gaze for a few seconds more, then reached into her bag and handed him the old tome. The German leafed through it quickly.

“This is the first volume, where's the second?”

“I only have this one, I swear.”

Herzog looked at her intently, trying to guess if she was lying. Finally, he nodded, and then put the book in pocket of his large coat.

“Very good.”

Meanwhile the car was leaving Kiev, heading east.

“So, where are you taking us?” I asked, impatient but trying to remain in control of myself.

Herzog reached into his coat and pulled out a kind of compressed air gun.

“Home.”

Anna and I jumped in shock, and at the very moment we lifted our hands in a vain attempt to defend ourselves he pulled the trigger and seconds, later, everything went black. The last thing I saw was Àrtemis' face and her beautiful smile.

I felt relieved, and abandoned myself to oblivion without a fight.

Events reconstructed by Lorenzo Aragona on the basis of the account of Antonio Carlos Navarro

Naples, January 2013

The old man kept at a safe distance. Although it was night, the place was too isolated for the two men not to be suspicious of any passer-by. He had been following them for two days now, with some difficulty. They moved with great circumspection and he had risked losing them more than once. They were professionals.

But he was no amateur himself – it was hard to give the slip to a sly old fox like him. He had survived wars, terrorist attacks and plots unscathed, always moving behind the scenes like a shadow. Changing his identity. Disappearing. To do so, he had sacrificed his nearest and dearest, his dreams and his desires. He had joined the Order, carried out his assignment and stayed faithful to the cause. He knew how delicate his job was and he had never been tempted to give up. The stakes were too high. He knew that. Because that millenary object had caused the deaths of many people who had come into contact with it. Its power was the reason why half the world had been on its trail, perhaps for centuries.

And maybe everything he had been through had served the sole purpose of bringing him right there, in front of that crumbling building in the centre of Naples.

“It's incredible,” he thought, “they aren't in the slightest bit scared of being discovered. After all that's happened, they've come back here. Just as well, I suppose – down here I'm free to act in any way I see fit.”

The two men had meanwhile completed their work and, after having carried the heavy load into the building, they reappeared on the street.

“
Don Antò
, is that them?” asked one of the two young men he had brought along with him, in a thick Neapolitan accent. “What d'you want us to do, you want us to crack on with it?”

“No, lads. Wait a minute.”

It seemed that the two men in front of the building were waiting for something or someone, and indeed, a few minutes later a motorcycle appeared. The rider took off her helmet and dark curls fell on her shoulders.

“Hey, is there a chick with 'em?”

“Ok, it's time,” the old man said, looking at the two. “A nice clean job please, lads.”

“You're in the hands of pros with us,
don Antò
.”

His brothers probably wouldn't have approved of those
friends
and those unscrupulous methods of his. That was why, at a certain point, he had withdrawn from everybody. Or rather, had disappeared. In special circumstances, however, those friendships were a safeguard. He had to compromise.

His two
friends
got out of the car, guns in hand, aimed them at the three standing outside the building, and one of them shouted, “Now then, my lovelies, d'you mind having a word?”

Without thinking twice, the three scattered into the alley, hiding behind parked cars and bins, while the old man's friends began to shoot. The three returned fire.

The shooting immediately attracted the attention of the few residents of that lonely alley.

“Oh my God, what's going on?” someone screamed. “They're killing each other!”

One of the three was shot and fell to the wet slabs of basalt which paved the alley floor. His mate tried to help him, but the old man's friends gave no respite and continued to rain bullets on them. The woman had meanwhile put her helmet back on and managed to get back on her bike. Protected by the covering fire of her friend, who was still unharmed, she rode to him and he climbed aboard, leaving the other one on the ground.

One of the old man's friends was taking aim, but the other stopped him. “No Salvatò, don't shoot – we don't want to be killing too many people.”

They ran toward the man they had hit and dragged him inside the building where they had surprised the three. They came out a minute later, dragging with them another man who could barely walk. They went to the car where the old man was and put him inside.

“Thank you lads –you'll take care of the rest?”

“Don Antò, don't worry, you just get going now.”

“I'll give you the rest of the money as agreed.”

The car dashed away into the night, and as he drove the old man prodded the slumped form he had just rescued, who was in an obvious state of confusion.

“Hey, wake up! C'mon, you're safe now. Can you hear me?”

The man mumbled some incomprehensible words, before finally managing to say something that made sense.

“Yes… I… yes, I hear you.”

“Great! And can you tell me your name? Eh? Do you remember your name?”

“Yes… My name's, Aragona. L-Lorenzo Aragona.”

Events reconstructed by Lorenzo Aragona

Naples, January 2013

Still shaken, trembling, with flashes of light in my eyes I turned round to look at the man behind the wheel and I recognized him.

“You're—”

The old man, who was racing along the streets like a Formula 1 driver, wore a serious and focused expression on his face, but he allowed himself a quick, though somehow bitter smile for a moment.

“Nice to see you again, Lorenzo.”

It was Navarro.

Driving in an entirely unscrupulous manner and dodging cars and pedestrians, Navarro came out onto Via Foria, not far from the place where Herzog and his partners had kept me hidden.

“Anticaglia, the area of the Greek-Roman Neapolis—”

“You know as well as I do, if you do things discreetly there are plenty of abandoned buildings and other places in Naples where you can hide things – and people,” Navarro said. “But I never lost sight of you.”

Tossed about by the car and still in a state of confusion, I couldn't take in what had happened, although images and memories came flowing into my mind with increasing clarity. Indeed, after a few seconds, a name came to my lips.

“Anna! What's happened to her?”

Navarro shook his head. “There was only you in that flat.”

“That's impossible… We were together in Kiev… The last thing I remember is being taken to the monastery.”

A terrible doubt was overwhelming me again: could I have invented the whole thing, the girl included? Was it all an illusion created by my disoriented mind? I looked at the old man, hoping he had an answer.

“I followed you to Kiev, where you were captured. There they separated you and I had to choose whom to save.”

I breathed a sigh of relief. Ok, Anna existed – but where was she?

“How long have I been unconscious? And why you are here to save me? Who are you?”

If Anna was not a projection of my mind, if she wasn't a hallucination, that also proved that everything which had been happening to me was real. That it could be fought. But there was so much about the whole situation that was unnerving, not least of which was the presence of Navarro, whose appearance in Zurich was obviously no coincidence.

The old man grinned and opened his mouth to speak, but then fell silent. I realized that this man who had looked so familiar to me was far more involved in the events of my life than he had let on, and was perhaps the key which might cast some light on this absurd affair. Our conversation in Zurich must have been part of a plan.

The old man, still silent, crossed the Vomero, then slipped into the car park of a building in Via Aniello Falcone. “Come on, get out – we have to change cars.”

“Hey, I asked you a question!” I said impatiently.

He walked over to a car covered with a tarpaulin and yanked it off, revealing a Mercedes with smoked windows.

“Get in – you'll know everything soon enough, but for now we absolutely must get away from here.”

I had no choice but to stagger in, still under the effect of the sleeping pills they must have given me. The Mercedes came out of the building and drove to the lower side of Via Falcone from which we had come a few minutes earlier. It turned right halfway down and went up towards the hilly area of the Vomero.

This man knew Naples perfectly.

“Tell me where we're going.”

“A little patience – we have to get to a safe place.”

He only stopped when we were in front of a two-storey house, whose electronic gate he opened with a remote control, closing it as soon as we were inside the small courtyard.

“This way,” said Navarro, leading the way.

We went into the charming, sparsely decorated little villa, and the Spaniard led me upstairs. In a small living room was a door giving onto a terrace with a breath-taking view of the gulf.

I stood there, staring at the dark sea and the thousands of lights that dotted the area around Vesuvius and the Sorrento peninsula, then turned my eyes on him.

“Who are you?”

Navarro smiled kindly, abandoning his serious expression for a moment. “I am a friend of your grandfather, Lorenzo. We met in Barcelona in the nineteen fifties, when he moved there with his family to work at the university. Your grandfather was sharp, he knew how to work every situation to his advantage. He'd never been a great lover of the fascist regime, but had been a good public officer. Being fairly renowned at home, he built himself a reputation as a serious researcher, and it was easy for him to find work in Spain. He didn't like Franco, but he kept that to himself. I was a young bookseller. I'd inherited a small antiquarian bookshop in the Gothic Barrio from my father, and your grandfather started to come there. There was more than twenty years difference in age between us, and yet we became friends – close friends. And so, gradually, I began to go to his home, where I met your grandmother, your father and your aunt. It was there that, one day, your grandfather decided to inform me of the murky business in which he was involved and which has now fallen upon your shoulders with all its violence.”

“Ok, but first of all tell me what the hell is going on.”

Navarro walked over to me. “Your grandfather was a special person, an educated man who was chosen, along with a few others for a very delicate task.”

I looked at him in silence and waited for him to go on. There was no trace of emotion on his face now.

“Guarding the Baphomet.”

I tried to contain my surprise, but couldn't help but urge him on. “What do you know about all this? What is the Baphomet,
really
?”

His answer was enigmatic. “An object with vast destructive power. That is all I know.”

Navarro saw the disappointment on my face – as an answer, it was less than satisfactory.

“Let me explain. You'll understand everything,” he went on, pre-empting my anger. “Everything I'll tell you was told to me by your grandfather. It's a story that began perhaps thousands of years ago, but most reliable sources date it back to 1118. Back then, a group of knights stationed in Jerusalem, the first Templars, made a discovery in the bowels of the Mount of the Temple of Solomon. The Knights found a secret room behind a wall at the end of a tunnel which apparently had no exit. They entered that forgotten place and discovered nine sarcophagi. Solomon's Architect was buried there along with his most loyal aides.”

“Hiram Abiff? The legendary figure of Masonic legends?” I muttered in disbelief.

“Exactly. The Knights found a key within each sarcophagus.”

“The symbol of the Lodge of the Nine—”

Navarro nodded. “Your grandfather had one as well. The symbol represents the letter
tet
of the Phoenician alphabet, which, as in many ancient languages, also had a numerical equivalent.”

“The number nine, to be precise.”

The Spaniard nodded again and I shook my head sadly. “Anna and I found one of these strangely shaped keys in Kiev. Unfortunately those bastards took it.”

Navarro's face darkened. “That means that our enemies now have at least three of the nine keys. Vladimir was incautious.”

“You mean Anna's grandfather?”

“Exactly. But let me continue,” he resumed. “There was a symbol on each sarcophagus, a letter of the Phoenician alphabet. In addition, they found a strange cubical object in a niche carved into the rock, a sort of casket. On one of its faces there was a complex bas-relief which reproduced some of the symbols carved on the sarcophagi. The knights realised that it was a mechanism devised by the ancients to seal the contents of the casket. Basically, a lock.