The Sixth Key (41 page)

‘You certainly make it hard for me to keep you out of trouble,
Otto Rahn!’

It was Eva! She was busy cutting their
bindings with his penknife. He coughed and his lungs burst into screams of
pain. When they were loose she herded them without a word to an opening and
they stooped to enter what seemed to be a low storeroom. After negotiating
their way through boxes and barrels and bric-a-brac, she directed them on their
knees through a small hatch into what became a low tunnel.

‘Keep moving, don’t stop, it leads outside!’
she called out to them from behind.

They proceeded for a time, coughing and wheezing
and stumbling in the darkness. Here the air was clear and earthy, and
eventually Rahn came to some stone steps that led upwards to the garden. By
instinct and without thought, he staggered as far as he could from the
conflagration before throwing himself down. The others followed and the four of
them sat, breathing fresh air into their tortured lungs, coughing and spitting.
He could hear Deodat vomiting and coughing. The sleet came down all around them
and the ground was wet. Above, the clouded firmament was untouched by this
human madness. There was lightning in the far reaches and he could tell the
moon was rising behind it.

In the meantime the inferno had progressed.
The roof caught alight and the thirteenth-century monastery that had survived
revolutions and purges, ruin and desecration, now began its last song as the
roof rafters caved in, one after the other, sending clouds of sparks into the
cold air.

Eva was sitting beside him, wiping her face.
She was a little breathless but otherwise unhurt, and even seemed exhilarated.
‘I once saw a fire like this,’ she said wistfully, sadly. ‘It burnt the most
beautiful building in the world, my building! The twisted metal of the musical
instruments created the most wondrous colours and one could hear it like music
whistling in the flames. Isn’t it interesting?’ She looked at him, coming out
of her contemplation, her eyes still distant but only for a moment. ‘Are you
alright?’

‘You mean, aside from my manly ego? Yes, I’ll
be fine, but you know, I was the one who was supposed to save the damsel from
the fire of the dragon – not the other way around.’

‘Don’t worry, in saving
you I am also saving myself
– remember?’ Rahn smiled a little.

‘How did we get out?’
Deodat said, panting.

‘All medieval monasteries have at least one
underground passage leading to the outside. Elementary!’ she said to him.

‘Now you’re sounding like me!’ Deodat smiled
weakly.

‘What are you doing here anyway?’ Rahn asked.
‘I thought you would be halfway to Italy by now.’

‘Italy? Why would you think that? No, I was
waiting for you to wake up.’ But he didn’t have time to ask her what she meant
because she stood. ‘Come on – we have to leave before the fire brigade
arrives with the gendarmes . . .’

‘Did you see anyone?’ Rahn stood with his head
light and his legs weak.

‘Yes. Three men. I think they’re going to the
hermitage we went to that day.’

‘The hermitage of Galamus?’ Deodat said. ‘How
do you know that?’

‘Just a hunch.’

Rahn frowned. ‘You and your hunches.’

‘We have to follow them,’ Deodat made a grab
for Rahn’s arm and Rahn helped him up. Rahn was too exhausted to argue.

In a moment all four of them had left the
Maison de Cros’s sacrificial burning behind them and Eva was leading them to
where she’d hidden the auto-car. Inside the Peugeot, Eva’s single-minded
profile was lit up by the reflection of the headlamps and this gave her, to
Rahn’s mind, an otherworldly look. Once again she exuded a detachment that
seemed unnatural.

‘How do you feel?’ Rahn asked Deodat, who was
coughing and wheezing in the back seat beside the traitor La Dame.

‘My chest feels like I’ve been breathing in
hot peppers but otherwise I’ll be fine.’

Rahn passed a hand over his face full of cuts.
He could smell smoke in his hair. ‘You never mentioned what made you come back
for us, Mademoiselle Fleury,’ he said.

She looked at him a moment; her darkling eyes
staring out from that pale face were as deep as the well of Democritus. She was
remarkably beautiful, almost too beautiful to be real He fancied, in his exhausted
state, that she was Joan of Arc: a mighty female warrior, her eyes replete with
the visions of archangels and her heart full of strange tempers.

She shrugged.

She’s
an enigma!

‘You followed us?’ Rahn said.

‘Yes . . .’

‘Well . . . this entire hunt’s been for
nothing anyway. All we’ve managed to do is to lead them to it,’ Rahn’s words
tasted sour.

‘Do you mean the Cathar treasure – the
key?’ Eva asked, serenely, as if it didn’t matter.

‘Yes, it’s a book. Cros had always kept it at
Bugarach in plain sight. But the English Lodges have it now – it’s all
over!’

‘No, they don’t,’ she said.

Rahn blinked. ‘What?’

‘When those men left the house there were
others outside waiting for them.’

‘Others?’ It was the traitor, La Dame,
speaking now, and it irritated Rahn.

‘They looked like priests, but they were
carrying guns. Two large men came out first and they were shot immediately, a
third man exchanged shots with them but in the end he was wounded. They bundled
him into the Citroën at gun point and took off,’ Eva said, rounding a corner
too fast for Rahn’s liking.

‘Where were you?’

‘I was hiding in the bushes.’

Deodat grabbed the back of Rahn’s seat and sat
forward.

‘We’ve got to get it from them, Rahn!’ he
said.

La Dame cleared his throat. ‘I guess this is
where my character exits then – stage left. I’ve been written out of the
film, I’m afraid,’ he announced. ‘Look, this has always been your script, Rahn.
You’re the leading man and I’m just the greatest dolt in the world. I’ve always
had the bit parts and I’m afraid I’ve come to realise that’s all I’m cut out
for. So, mademoiselle, if you would be so kind as to drop me off at the next
town I’ll catch a ride to back to Couiza and from there I’ll find my way home.
I’m going to lay low for a while . . . in the mountains. You know where I live,
Rahn, if you should ever trust me again, I’d love you to come for a visit. I
shall wish you a fair adventure, “O dear Rahn, perpetual discoverer of the
antipodes, torch of the world, eye of Heaven, sweet stimulator of the
water-coolers!”’

‘Oh shut up, La Dame! Quoting Sancho won’t get
you out of this one. Trust you? You?’ Rahn said, glowing with rage. ‘You’re
nothing but a great scoundrel, dunderhead, and thief all in one! Why should I
ever trust you again?’

La Dame frowned, obviously hurt. ‘Now, Rahn,
don’t say things you’ll regret. Remember, I saved your life!’

‘You’re a dirty, doublecrossing rat! You
wanted the job at Oxford!’ he spat, relishing his anger now.

‘That’s offensive! That was just an added
bonus,’ La Dame said, with indignation.

‘Let me be precise. You’re a cowardly,
suppurating, dirty, doublecrossing rat – and a bastard!’

‘Now you’ve gone too far, Rahn. You’ve wounded
my pride.’

Rahn almost expected him to shout, ‘Pistols at
dawn!’

Instead, La Dame sighed, and his voice
suddenly sounded full of remorse. ‘You’re just anxious – I understand.’

‘Anxious? Why should I be anxious?’ Rahn said,
sarcastically. ‘There are secret societies on our tail: some trying to burn us
alive in car trunks; others trying burn us alive in cellars; some have a
preference for shooting us to pieces; and others find it more amusing to drown
us in crypts. I’ve been manipulated, lied to, messed about! I’ve got cuts and
bruises everywhere. I haven’t slept in days, there’s a bee flying about in my
head and the Eiffel Tower is snowed under! And what has all of it achieved?
I’ve managed to lead evil-minded madmen to a secret that was elaborately
safeguarded and hidden for centuries and now, to exonerate myself, I have to
walk into the middle of a conventicle of black magicians to stop them from
conjuring the evil spirit Sorat – who makes Satan look like a retarded
demi-god – where I will most likely end up suffering moral and spiritual
ruination. Or at best a grievous, agonising, living death for all eternity.
Anxious? Yes, I’ll admit I’m a little anxious. But I’d say no more anxious than
this insane story demands!’ Rahn finished, loudly.

‘That’s because, my dear Rahn,’ La Dame
countered, meekly, ‘you’re the hero of the script, I realise that now. The one
prepared to march into Hell for Heaven’s sake! And I’m, well, I told you, I’m a
coward, I have no ribs to bear Hell and I freely admit it! Even when I’m
holding a gun, the truth is, the gun is holding me. I couldn’t even load the
damned thing for fear it might go off and shoot something unintended. I’d be no
good to you at all, you see? Better to be rid of me.’ He sat forward. ‘When all
this is over we’ll break open that numbered bottle I’ve kept hidden away for a
special occasion and we’ll have a jolly laugh.’

‘You know where you can shove your numbered
bottle and your jolly laugh, La Dame,’ he said testily, ‘where it’s dark and
the temperature’s stable!’

‘Rahn! There’s a lady present!’ La Dame cried,
shocked.

Rahn gave him a sidewise glance. ‘Shut up
before I punch you again and break your nose twice.’

La Dame winced. Deflated and consumed by
guilt, he said nothing more.

When they came to the little hamlet, Eva
stopped in a small lay-by to let La Dame out.

As they sped off, Rahn caught sight of La
Dame’s pathetic form in the rear-view mirror. He stood by the side of the road
like an abandoned dog looking for a good home. Rahn felt a sudden remorse. His
temper had ebbed and he was already missing La Dame. He realised once again
that he was no different to his friend and moreover he was at fault: La Dame
was right, had he not mentioned the skeleton key in his book, had he not gone
to that apartment in Berlin, none of this would have happened. He sighed,
fighting a desire to tell Eva to turn back to get him. La Dame was better off
staying away from all this. He had wounds to nurse and a life to live. He was
right. Rahn was the one who had to walk into Hell.

‘I don’t know . . .’ Deodat said, wrenching
him from his painful thoughts.

‘What is it?’

‘At that moment in the
church, when La Dame called out with the revolver in his hands, something
occurred to me. Cros was a good chess player. He always found a way to create
weaknesses in his opponent’s position in two directions. He said it took at
least two weaknesses to win a chess game, because an opponent couldn’t be in
two places at the same time.’

‘I don’t understand,’ Rahn said.

‘Two places, Rahn. The clever player creates a
diversion to allow something else to go unnoticed. He even risks losing a
valued piece to secure victory. Cros sent us in search of rotas but did we only
find what he intended us to find?’

‘You saw the manuscript, didn’t you? It is the
original Apocalypse of Saint John isn’t it?’

‘I didn’t have time to open it.’

‘So what do we do now?’ Rahn felt like
throwing his hands up in the air.

‘We have to assume, for the time being, that
it is what we think it is.’

Rahn was so exhausted he didn’t know when he
fell asleep, or how long it took for them to reach the turn-off to the
hermitage. He woke, perhaps sensing the sudden stillness, with his feet numb
and his mouth tasting like charcoal. He sat up. Eva was staring straight ahead.

‘Do you know what tonight is?’ she said,
buttoning up her coat, getting ready for a battle, looking practical and cool.

‘Tonight?’ Rahn said.

‘Remember what Madame Corfu told us at
Rennes-le-Château two nights ago, when she recounted Gélis’s horrific murder
over dinner? Remember what the Serbians said?’

He could hear the gorges below, water rumbling
over the rocks. The moon was edging the clouds, filling the world with
phantoms, spectres and demons disguised as rocks, trees and bushes.

‘Today is
All
Saints’ Day
and tomorrow will be
The
Day of the Dead
,’ she said. ‘Tonight
is the cusp. This night, forty-one years ago, Gélis was murdered.’

‘You mean, at midnight?’ Rahn said.

She nodded.

Rahn allowed a smile to steal over his face. The
creator of this script had thought of everything except for his choice of
leading man! He took one look in the rear-view mirror and inspected his red
eyes and his split lip. La Dame was wrong about him – he wasn’t leading
man material. He badly needed a brandy and his hands were shaking. Perhaps
Pabst would one day make a film about such a man as he might have been, a
wise-cracking, hairy-chested archaeologist – a larger-than-life Grail
hunter who wore an ironic smile on his face, a tropical helmet on his head and
a pistol on his belt. He sighed. It was a ludicrous thought. Now another
thought occurred to him. Perhaps he had died at Wewelsburg; perhaps those shots
had killed him and he was now in some hellish version of a story by Edgar Allan
Poe? A story in which the hero is trapped in Purgatory and doesn’t realise he’s
dead. Where he is made to live and relive Hell, over and over again, like the
legend of Judas – stuck on that island where every day is Good Friday.