The Alchemist’s Code (40 page)

He took out his phone and typed in something. Camille, meanwhile, held the gun on me.

“So,” continued Woland, “all I have to do is change the last letter of this message to decide the fate of the people who are attending the concert.”

I held his fierce gaze, brimming over with hate and violence.

“Come, Lorenzo, think of all that we can do with the Guardian of the Threshold at our side,” he said with increasing fury, then, looking around him with wild eyes, added, “Come on, it doesn't take much, it is certainly easier than pulling the trigger of a gun held to the neck of a man kneeling in front of you. An unarmed man… an innocent man.”

Camille and I exchanged a glance, while Woland continued to look around him and move his head as though possessed.

“Believe me, it is not easy. But then you simply need to remember that one of those thirty-two boys killed in Via Rasella was your friend, your best friend, the person to whom you had given your heart… And then the moment of hesitation passes, you look ahead of you and you shoot. After you have seen the blood of the first spread on the ground… then, it is easier.”

Slowly, Camille lowered the gun.

“Matthias was only twenty,” continued Woland, his eyes lost beyond the walls of the cave. “He was as beautiful as an angel. He came to see me in Switzerland, Glarus, whenever he could and we spent days of love together in my family's mountain home in the Glarus Alps. Until that accursed twenty-third of March, when your partisans blew him up. I was there, Lorenzo! I was there, you see? I had infiltrated the Regiment Bozen on behalf of the Lodge of the Nine. I was there and I saved myself! But he was… oh, God! He was—”

The words died in his mouth while an incredible phenomenon began to take place right before our eyes. Woland was ageing rapidly – his skin was wrinkling, his posture, previously so straight and erect, was now arching, his eyes were clouding over.

“Good God—” I murmured.

“He was thrown into the air,” continued Woland with great effort, tears in his eyes. “…and I lost him forever, forever… Now he lies in a marble and crystal coffin in the sanctuary that I built. Waiting to be resurrected.”

He raised his head and looked at us. His pain had once again given way to hatred and infinite cruelty.

“I was the only one of the Regiment Bozen to volunteer when Kappler put together a platoon to carry out the reprisals. The only one! The bastards had to pay! Ten shitty Italians for each German killed, those were Hitler's orders. I killed thirty, forty… I forget. One after another, and every time I said, 'this is for you, Matthias, for you'. The next day my fury was still not appeased, so I decided that I had to go further. In my mind, the dear brothers of the Lodge of the Nine were also responsible for the death of Matthias. They too would have to pay, and that was how I decided that I would deliver the Baphomet to the Führer.”

I stood there immobile, but now understood finally why my grandfather and Vladimir Glyz had hidden the Baphomet there. The place meant something to Henri Theodor von Tschoudy. And it was disturbing to note how this almost hundred-year-old man had been kept alive more by his hatred than by his extraordinary mettle.

Slowly, as she had lowered it from my face, Camille raised the gun again, only this time it was pointing at Woland.

“Camille, no, what are you doing?” I murmured.

Camille kept her eyes fixed on what was now an old man kneeling in front of us.

“If you do that we can't stop his men.”

“Lorenzo, in the name of the pursuit of knowledge, like you, I have done evil,” she said without taking her eyes from Woland. “I'm not looking for an excuse, I know I have done horrible things and behaved unscrupulously, but – and now I shall surprise you – I am not proud of it, and if I could go back, I would not do it again. This man, however, this… monster,
ce morceau de merde
– he did what he did with mathematical precision. Killed people he knew to be innocent. He deserves to die. Turn around, Woland, and look at me.”

“Camille, no, don't. If you want to clear your conscience, help us to save the lives of people who are in the Nervi Auditorium – convince him to stop his men.”

Camille gave a melancholy smirk, shook her head and looked at me.

“You're naive, Lorenzo. There
is
no code to stop his plan. What he and Vorjas have organized has already begun, and it cannot be stopped. He has tricked you, as he tricked me and everyone else involved in all of this.”

She ground out the last words with growing anger, then looked back to Woland, who meanwhile, as docile as a puppy and putting up no resistance, had turned his back to her and continued to sob.

“Your life ends here, Henri Theodor von Tschoudy – here, where you took the lives of innocent people. You will never meet the Guardian of the Threshold in this world.”

“Camille no!”

Camille fired at the nape of Woland's neck, and the impact sent him flying forward, slamming him with a thud against the gate that enclosed the area where the executions had taken place. Woland, his skull pierced from front to back by the bullet, slumped to the floor, and when his head hit the ground, his right ear fell off.

The French woman took a few steps and dropped the gun, then slid to the floor along the rock wall and, wrapping her arms around her legs, hid her head and began to cry.

At the sound of the shot, the policemen ran over to the entrance of the cave, trying to understand what had happened and ready to intervene.

“Lorenzo, can you hear me? Lorenzo!” shouted Oscar.

Still kneeling next to the Baphomet, I looked up and said in a faint voice, “I'm here – I'm fine.”

I saw the police approaching. They were now about twenty metres from us when the glow of the idol's eyes suddenly caught my attention. A clear image of Àrtemis on her deathbed sprang into my mind and, without thinking twice, I aligned the final symbol.

The cave suddenly became indescribably cold, and all sound abruptly ceased.

From the testimony of Father Luigi Palminteri and the reconstruction of the Police

Paul VI Audience Hall, Vatican City, January, 2013 – 19:00

The concert was going well, and the guests were entranced by the beauty of the music. At that moment, the musicians on the stage, led by one of the greatest viol players in the world, were performing the seventh
Estampie
from the famous King's Manuscript, a collection of the fourteenth century. The Pope looked relaxed, as did the Secretary of State to his right and the Russian Foreign Minister to his left. A few rows back, Father Palminteri felt that something was going to happen, but knew he was helpless and could only wait and see what it would be. What were Lorenzo Aragona and the police doing? Had they been able to stop those lunatics? And had Antonio Navarro managed to read the text message with which Palminteri had given him his blessing to proceed?

Halfway through the song, while thousands of ears were engrossed in those gorgeous antique melodies, the spotlight that cast its soft beam upon the stage suddenly went out, and at the same moment so did the microphones and the entire sound system. The musicians stopped playing and a loud “oooh!” rose from the audience. Emergency generators should have come into operation, but the darkness reigned supreme. Security agents immediately lit torches and arranged themselves around the Pope and his distinguished guests, ready to lead them out of the hall.

“Nobody move!” boomed a loud artificial voice, first in English and then in Italian, from the one speaker which mysteriously continued to work. “This is not a power cut. Do not try to leave the room by any exit, even those which are secret: if you do, you will be killed instantly.”

At the same moment, those present suddenly realised that all their electronic devices – phones, walkie-talkies, handsets – seemed to have stopped working. Total panic broke out. They seemed to have been plunged into the Middle Ages evoked by the music they had been listening to only a few seconds before.

Father Palminteri tried to make his way through the guests in his row and head for the exit, despite the warning.

“I repeat, do not try to leave the building.”

The security personnel attempted to impose order with the little light that came from their torches, but it was practically impossible to control ten thousand panicked people, all trying, like rats in a maze, to reach the exit.

Groping his way, Father Palminteri, managed to get to the front rows, but the security personnel there stopped him.

“Let me talk to the captain, Barucci.”

A frightened-looking Swiss guard took him to Barucci who was talking to Landolfi by the light of a couple of torches.

“What the hell do you want now?!” Landolfi asked sharply.

“You didn't listen and now look what has happened! You idiot!” burst out Palminteri, heedless of the rank of the person he was addressing.

Instead of an indignant retort, Landolfi simply stared at him with his mouth wide open, unable to utter a word. Barucci took him by the arm.

“Father, what do you think is going on?” he asked in a reasonable tone. “We are completely cut off from everything – no electronic device seems to be working.”

“I don't know, Captain, but at this point we have to do exactly what that voice ordered. I hope you have now understood that these people are entirely unscrupulous. Do not let anyone leave. A person I trust is with Lorenzo Aragona. They will negotiate, we have to give them time.”

“I agree. Meanwhile, let's try to keep people calm—”

“Captain!” A breathless policeman ran up to Barucci. “Captain, it seems that all electronic devices outside the building are out of order too. And no one can get near. I saw myself one of my colleagues taken out by something that struck him down on the spot as he was trying to enter the hall.”

“Heavens above—” muttered Palminteri.

“Nobody leaves or enters the building! Get me something I can use to amplify my voice that doesn't run on electricity – now! Father, give us a hand – comfort people, calm them down.”

“Very well, Captain. You take care of restoring order in here and protecting the Holy Father.”

Barucci nodded, then groped his way back towards the area where the special guests and the Pope were.

The voice spoke again.

“Listen carefully! Do not try to leave the room! Stay calm and nothing will happen to you.”

“How are they managing to use the speakers if we can barely manage to get our torches working?” snapped Barucci angrily to his men.

“Shut up! Listen, all of you!” came the voice again, suddenly silencing about ten thousand terrified people. “We have used a system to prevent all your equipment from working within a range of a hundred metres around the building. We have positioned weapons at the four sides of the hall and inside it which will kill anyone who tries to leave or enter. We advise you not to do anything, but to wait for our instructions. Do this and no one will be harmed. Remain calm and return to your seats.”

The head of US security, Terence Bolt, a glacially cool-headed African American, approached Barucci, a large torch in his hand.

“Captain,” he said, “Mr Landolfi doesn't know how to proceed. I hope you're more lucid. I've already consulted my Italian and Russian colleagues and they seem to think that we've no choice except to wait. But I want to look for a way out that the terrorists might have missed. Can you help me?”

“Certainly, Mr Bolt. I suspect that someone inside the Vatican must have helped these criminals – it's all been prepared too perfectly, and has somehow managed to elude all the checks we were carrying out until a few minutes before the concert.”

“I agree, but we have to try. I have the responsibility of getting the Secretary of State and the American delegation out of here safe and sound. Just as you do for the Pope, and our Italian and Russian colleagues do for their heads of state.”

Having slipped quickly out of the Paulo VI hall just before the trap sprang shut, Vorjas was hiding, together with one of the members of the Thule brotherhood, in the basement which ran between the basilica of San Pietro and the hall. Locked inside an equipment room, the existence of which only a few were aware, they had activated a kind of electro-magnetic pulse which had knocked out all the security equipment. They then proceeded to activate the tasers that Vorjas had patiently installed around the hall in the weeks preceding the summit, eluding all security checks. Being well versed in Vatican life had its useful side.

Using powerful devices designed by Nanotech, Vorjas could remotely control the weapons, communicate with the Nervi Auditorium and monitor the entire area so that not even a fly would pass unnoticed. He was pleased and excited – finally, he would have his revenge, and obtain the glory he deserved.

In the meantime, Father Palminteri had reached the foyer, where priests and nuns were trying to calm, as well as they were able, the people who had crowded there. Seeing that they seemed to be in control of the situation gave Palminteri at least a little comfort. Security agents had positioned themselves in front of the entrance to prevent anyone from panicking and attempting an escape. It was a grotesque situation.

Father Palminteri was about to go back into the hall, when the voice echoed again from the walls of the Nervi Auditorium. Father Palminteri froze to listen.

“Listen, ladies and gentlemen – silence!”

The background noise suddenly ceased and thousands of ears strained to hear their fate.

“Our decision is made. There is only one person who can save your lives. His name is Brandon Tyler Sinclair, Pope James.”

The hum of the crowd began again, but the voice spoke now angrily, bringing all to silence.

“Shut up, I said! Our decision is this: we demand that the Pope leave the building and walk to the centre of St. Peter's Square; we want him to kneel in front of the temple of Christ and ask forgiveness for having reduced the Church of the Lord to a place of amusement, where all manner of licentious behaviour is tolerated. The Pope must kneel and await our final verdict. We will judge his repentance. In fifteen minutes we will allow the pontiff, and he alone, to leave and walk to the centre of the square, covered at all times by our weapons. If, in fifteen minutes, the Pope does not obey our commands, the hall will be blown up by the bomb which is under your feet.”