Nightbringer (2 page)

Chapter Two

Grinding gears, Miguel eased off the clutch and the tour bus climbed in a roar that was hoarse and large. The narrow road had no shoulder on one side and a shoulder two thousand feet straight down on the other but he did not even glance at the precipice. Instead he glowered at the blinding snow that struck with
what seemed to be unnatural force.

Crowded but not over-packed, the bus bore Miguel, two elderly gentlemen, two women, two children, two other men and a priest who, strangely, traveled alone. Although the priest had been predominately occupied with a satchel of official-looking documents, the rest of the tour group had seemed to enjoy pleasant conversation during the long, groaning journey up the Italian Alps toward the ancient Abbey of Saint Gregory's.

One of the elderly men—a man of distinction wearing an inexpensive three-piece suit rumpled from the long day—half turned in his seat toward the woman seated behind him.

In her late thirties—her age was not so easily determined because she was in superb physical condition—the woman wore her thick brown hair in a layered cut, bangs hand-brushed casually and attractively to either side.

Her eyes were bright green—almost jade—and seemed to pick up the smallest details of her surroundings. The bend of her head hinted that she heard every word spoken in her vicinity, as if she were effortlessly alert. Or as if she had unconsciously developed the habit of following every word and action of those around her.

And although
she smiled easily and frequently, she could quickly turn a withering look upon the two rambunctious children who played beside her. More than once she had politely pardoned herself from a conversation to beam a warning that settled a dispute instantly and without words.

The children, a boy no more than nine years old and a girl no more than twelve, crowded her.

"Don't be afraid," Mr. Trevanian said with the gestures he habitually used as if American tourists couldn’t understand only Italian but they couldn’t understand English, either.

The woman smiled at the tour guide.

"In my line of work, you learn to relax, Mr. Trevanian, or you don't live very long. I was just wondering why you seemed so preoccupied."

"Ms.
Crosswell, isn't it?"

"Just Gina."

"Thank you. And what is your line of work?"

"
It’s a government job."

"Ah." He stared once more at the swirling snow.

"So,” Gina continued, “care to share with us why you're so preoccupied with the storm?"

He shrugged. "Saint Gregory's has not been open to the public since World War II. And, in truth, I have not seen it since I was a child—when my father took me on the very last tour."

The woman's eyes narrowed. "Why was Saint Gregory's ever closed to the public?"

"No one knows."
Trevanian appeared to grow solemn. "It is actually the most fascinating basilica in all of Europe. It is certainly one of the greatest museums," he pondered. "Yes, from what I remember—but I was very young—its treasury, which dates from the Roman Empire's golden age, is without peer. The relics seem to stretch on and on as you wander the halls—shields, candelabra, silver plates, chalices, ceremonial bowls. There are literally hundreds of spears, chariots, bridles and even a bronze statue of Romatus, Julius Caesar's favorite stallion."

"Are you serious?" Gina laughed. "I thought Saint Gregory's sounded interesting when I read a little about it before we came, but I can't believe they haven't opened this place since World War II."

"Well ... there was, perhaps, a legitimate reason." He gestured to canyons that delved into cloud. "It is very dangerous to be caught on the pass during a storm."

"Uh-huh," Gina said, staring carefully
; there had been something in the tone. "Anything else?"

"Oh," Trevanian gestured, "there was some form of trouble before the war. But it seems Saint Gregory's has always been a site for the unexplained."

Gina was intrigued. "Trouble? What happened?"

For a moment Trevanian was motionless and silent. "Well, the story goes that one of the elderly monks—apparently the one responsible for ensuring the others maintained their separation from all things worldly—was killed. And rather horrifically, I believe."

Gina blinked. "Killed? As in 'murdered?’"

"Well, I didn't say
‘murdered.'" Trevanian lifted a hand toward the Alps. "The mountains are filled with wolves, bears, wildcats, and the old man was found in the stable. He'd been torn to pieces, they say, as an African lion would kill a man." He shrugged. "I don't know the truth of it. I only know that the abbey was closed afterward."

"But not 'closed.'"

"No, no ... not 'closed' – just closed to the public." Although he had probably told this story a thousand times, the tour guide could not conceal his curiosity. "As I said, I don't know the truth of it. I only know that no one was ever charged with any crime." He laughed gruffly. "But that says nothing—the Church often handles matters in-house, so to speak. If another monk was guilty of the horrific deed, then they discreetly stabled him where he could do no more harm."

"Don't worry, Mr. Trevanian, I think we'll be fine." Gina glanced, bemused, at the cliff
and then looked down at a map of the local region. "The map says we're less than a mile away. If we go off the edge, I don't think any of us will be around to sue. And I doubt that a mad monk that might have committed a crime in the 1940s is still hanging around."

Mr. Trevanian seemed not to notice the humor. He turned to look at Miguel, who had been speaking to someone on the CB radio and had just clicked off. The brief conversation had not disturbed the Spaniard's driving for even a second.

"What is it, Miguel?"

"The road down to Lausanne has been closed! I told them we were almost to the abbey! So
there is no problem!"

"No," Trevanian muttered, "no problem." A moment passed, and then he turned again to Gina. "We will be safe once we reach the abbey. It was built with stone walls over twenty feet thick. It's not amazing that it has endured for so long."

"Just how old is the abbey?"

"It was completed in 643 A.D." Trevanian stared at the snow swirling over the windshield as if the bus were submerged in a violent arctic current.

"The history proceeds like this. After Heraclius, the first and greatest of the Crusaders, defeated the Persians in 627 at Nineveh he retook Jerusalem and, according to legend, reclaimed the Holy Cross and the greatest holy relics."

"The Holy Cross?"

"Yes, the Cross of Christ. But in 636 when the Christian Arabs and the Monophysites betrayed Heraclius and killed his commanders in chief, Trithyrius and Vahan, all of Palestine lay open to invasion. Unable to hold Syria against the mounting armies and perceiving that his army was doomed because so many of his soldiers had dishonored God in their wanton depravities, Heraclius personally gathered the relics and set sail from Antioch to Constantinople. Unfortunately, three of his five ships were lost in a storm during the voyage. Only two reached their destination."

"That's an incredible story."

"And true," Trevanian said, "which is why Saint Gregory's is the most mysterious destination on the tour."

"And so Saint Gregory's has the alleged cross of Christ?"

"Unfortunately, no, the Holy Cross and many of the other relics were supposedly claimed by the storm."

"What relics does it contain?"

"Perhaps the head of John the Baptist. Indeed, there are uncountable legends and stories about hidden artifacts and treasures."

The nine-year-old boy beside Gina turned in his seat, staring at the Italian tour guide. "What about the Ark of the Covenant? Like in Indiana Jones?"

Gina tilted her head. "Josh ..."

Josh's mouth tightened in a smile. "I mean
... excuse me, sir. Do they have the Ark of the Covenant?"

"I'm afraid not, young man. It seems the Ark was too well hidden by the prophet Jeremiah—some say within a mountain in what is now Libya. And no one, as far as I know, has ever found it."

"Oh ... bummer."

"But they have other relics that you may find fascinating," the tour guide said enthusiastically. "They have, perhaps, the staff of Moses! There are ancient swords and spears and armor worn by the Romans, the Persians,
and the Crusaders!"

Josh was not impressed. Yet the tour guide was not to be defeated.

"There is also the robe Peter surrendered in Rome before he was crucified! And they have the golden bowl that Pontius Pilate used to wash his hands before the Sanhedrin! And they have what many claim is a scrap of the original book of Romans, written by Paul. Uh ... and they have vast catacombs!"

Josh sat bolt upright.

"With bones?" he asked, glancing at his mother. "Like we saw in the German catacombs?"

Trevanian waved off the
expendable Germans. "Who are these Germans? Saint Gregory's has
millions
of skull bones and leg bones and arm bones! All stacked in huge pyramids and piles and dunes of bones! There are no catacombs in all of Europe to compete with the bones of Saint Gregory's!"

"Wow
! Cool."

Gina laughed. "Skull bones?"

"Oh, Josh," said the girl seated behind them.

Josh glared. "C'mon, Rachel! This is gonna be twice as cool as Frankfurt!"

Rachel leaped. "Look!"

Together they turned.

Rising from the crest of a wind-blasted hill, the Abbey of Saint Gregory's stood alone and gigantic and brooding on the crest of the mountain. A single square tower rose a hundred feet taller than the hundred-foot-high walls, and two parapets like huge black eyes glared down from above a length of white columns that supported the gigantic domed mouth of an entrance. The ominous impression was that of the mountain's gargantuan skull staring angry and displeased over a grave-yard of gray and scattered stones.

No one spoke or moved. Then Trevanian turned and gazed frankly at Gina. The tour guide attempted to appear relaxed, though his smile was clearly forced.

"Welcome to Saint Gregory's, madam."

* * *

Chapter Three
 

Saint Gregory's seemed even more enormous inside its massive walls. The gigantic stones, each weighing tens of tons, had been fit together with such exacting craftsmanship that Gina couldn't imagine air passing between them even a thousand years from now. She wondered how men might have accomplished such a prodigious task using only primitive tools.

Skill, dedication, patience
...

Curiously she saw no signs of war—no pockmarks of cannon or mortars or even rifle fire that had scarred every historic structure she had seen across Europe.

Yes, this place had somehow avoided the armies that had fought World War II ... or the armies had avoided it. Then she laughed; yes, it was scary, but it wasn't that scary.

Saint Gregory's had probably escaped the war because it was so inaccessible and had no true military value—at least not enough value to risk a battalion on the road they had just exited. The closest place for an airstrip was in the valley eight thousand feet below and even today there wasn't a nearby open site to land a helicopter. It was as though this place had been content to let time pass it by
– as if it served its most profound purpose by serving no purpose at all.

Wandering about the outer courtyard alone, Gina seemed to study the abbey for more than its architecture. She noticed
the doors and windows, as if searching for something specific and then she entered the enormous edifice.

S
he paced slowly down a wall, reaching up to touch the stained-glass windows set low to the ground. She touched the frame, pinching the wood as if to test its strength. She pressed softly against the glass.

Her athletic build was evident even in loose-fitting casual clothes and she seemed every bit a woman in the prime of her life. Her tanned cheeks were high above full lips and she showed no tension. It was only her eyes that revealed a detective's acute awareness to detail.

She turned, staring at the bus. Beside it stood the quietest member of the tour group—a man in his mid-forties.

He had a strong build and spoke little. His hair was dark brown and his eyes were blue like the sea off the coast of some Mediterranean island. He carried nothing but an aluminum case and a duffel bag.

She had attempted to speak with him several times during the past four days, and he had been unfailingly polite but also mysteriously elusive. He did not seem to mind her questions, however, and so Gina had persisted. What she noticed most was that he always seemed to pause before answering—a trait of intelligence or deceitfulness.

His name was Michael Constantine.

She had barely walked out of the courtyard and back to the bus as the wide doors of the basilica behind her opened. The priest who greeted them was the personification of graciousness. He stretched out his arms as if to embrace the whole of them— men and women he had never met and knew nothing about.

"Welcome to Saint Gregory's," he s
tated. "I am Father Stephen, the Father Abbot. Please freely receive the blessings we bestow upon each of you, and please leave something of your happiness when you depart."

With formality Trevanian bowed. "Father Stephen, I am Mr. Trevanian, the tour guide. We were forced to curtail the museums of Antigone to beat the storm to your door. I hope you expected us."

"Certainly we expected you!" Father Stephen laughed. "Each of your accommodations is prepared and a meal awaits!" Then, sobering somewhat, he focused on Josh and Rachel. "And just which of these grown-ups do you own?"

Gina placed an arm around each of them. "They're with me, Father. I'm Gina Cr
osswell. This is Rachel, and this is Josh."

"My pleasure, madam."

"Mine as well." Gina nodded and couldn't help but smile. "They won't be any trouble—I promise."

"Oh, worry for nothing, Ms. Cro
sswell—"

"Gina, please."

"Of course—Gina. Worry for nothing, Gina. The abbey is quite childproof." He leaned into Josh's open stare. "There are no breakables within reach!"

Everyone laughed as Father Stephen looked over the rest of the party, and his eyes widened as he beheld a priest formally dressed in a soutane. Father Stephen focused instantly on the surplice—the tiny red threads of a cassock that marked a monsignor.

Openly shocked, the father abbot knelt and extended his hands.

"Arise, my friend," said the monsignor.

Father Stephen stood. "I did not know, Monsignor."

"Monsignor DeMarco, Father." The monsignor's tone was warm and comforting. "And it is I who should apologize. I am on a personal pilgrimage, so you could not have known of my coming."

"Yes, Monsignor—a pilgrimage, of course. Are there any special needs that we should—"

"No—nothing, Father. For this visit I am only another guest and wish to be treated as such."

Stephen bowed. "As you wish, Monsignor."

Slightly over six feet, in his late forties, the monsignor's elegant posture and manner indicated a natural possession of refined dignity and culture. His hands were broad and powerful, his face smooth-shaven,
well-tanned, and without scars. His forehead was broad and high, and he possessed eyes clear and intelligent and aquiline. There was a thin trace of Italian origin in his words.

Father Stephen turned and nodded to the rest of the tour group—an old man; a woman who seemed to be around Gina's age; a well-built, middle-aged man; and a large, bearded man who effortlessly held a huge duffel bag in a single hand. The man was utterly bald—his head apparently shaved—and he smiled with his every response or comment. His thick legs and arms were like marble pillars straining against his unassuming brown shirt and trousers. His sheepskin vest was his only fortification against the howling cold. He called himself Molke, saying one name is enough for any man.

He was good-natured and friendly and had found himself crossing Gina's path more than once on her trip through Europe. During a journey they had taken together from Lucerna he'd frequently reminded Gina of the men in the world's strongest man contests.

He was by no means Olympian in build—his large gut, low center of gravity and thick neck would have instantly disqualified him from any bodybuilding contests—but he had an obvious aura of gigantic strength. A gentle giant, Molke had playfully demonstrated prodigious feats of strength for the children, once lifting an Audi onto
two wheels. At one of the castles they had visited at the same time, he hoisted a 1,000-pound cannon, inspiring the children to erupt with applause. Then he had laughed and replaced the weapon with as much ease as he lifted it. Gina felt comfortable in his presence and had come even to trust him, to a degree, to watch the children.

The abbot extended a hand to the huge double doors at least twenty feet high. They were built of thick wooden beams
– possibly oak or hickory – that looked much like railroad ties. They were also paneled in iron plates recently painted glossy black.

"Please," the abbot smiled, "enter our home and consider it your home
, as well."

As the others began up the steps, Josh held his place. His utter stillness attracted Father Stephen's gentle attention. "Do you not wish to join us, Joshua? We've prepared an excellent meal for you and you must be hungry from your trip."

Josh didn't move. "It looks scary."

Stephen laughed. "Oh, young man, rest assured. There is absolutely nothing to be afraid of in Saint Gregory's. Neither tempest nor storm can enter these walls."

After a long, uneasy stare, Josh tightly grasped Gina's hand and tentatively mounted the first step.

***

Melanchthon, bent upon a single knee, turned his head to gaze at the feet of the man who had arrived behind him. Nothing was said, for the other monk could not speak. Yet he was one of the few who dared approach Melanchthon so deep within the catacombs of Saint Gregory's where hundreds of thousands of skeletons hung in mute anticipation of what they alone knew.

Melanchthon nodded slowly and rose.

"So, Brother Basil," he rumbled, “they have come."

Melanchthon sighed,
and then looked at Basil. "How is Brother Dominic doing today? Resting now, I assume, since you are here and not tending to his needs?"

Basil faintly nodded
and then stared pensively at Melanchthon.

"The guests, yes
– they have come," Melanchthon said with another sigh. "Very well, advise Father Stephen that Melanchthon will be up as soon as he can wash and change."

With a single solid bow Basil turned solemnly and walked in almost complete silence up the tunnel, surrounded by a halo of yellow light thrown from his lamp.
Unlike Jaqual, he did not seem to fear the darkness.

***

In the Great Hall—actually a stupendous cathedral-museum of relics that gleamed silver and gold in the light of a hundred oil-fed candelabra—they moved among remarkable displays of the weapons, uniforms, and armor of ancient Rome.

There were also holy relics, each presented in intricately carved display cases that, alone, were works of art. And Gina found it remarkable that this eighth wonder of the world had not been open to the public for almost sixty years. It was certainly a boon for the world.

Then she wondered vaguely about security and observed that the glass of the cases was over two inches thick and, for all practical purposes, unbreakable. Sure, it could be shattered, but it would take something like a bomb. It was certainly a modest measure of security but she did not see cameras or guards or even monks who watched closely enough to be called ‘guards.’

She was staring upon the marble statue of a heavily armored Roman centurion when the oldest man of the tour group turned to her.

At least eighty, as his face reflected, the man's body was slightly bent and withered. And as Gina shook his hand she realized that it was soft and without calluses—the hand of a man who turned little more than pages. But his eyes were a scintillating blue and his hair a breathtaking white.

"Forgive me," he said with a humble, deferential bow, "I am afraid that I did not formally introduce myself. I am Professor Benjamin Haider, and this young lady behind me is my daughter, Rebecca."

Handshakes all around and Gina re-crossed her arms. "Yeah, I thought you were a professor – especially with the way you entertained the children on the bus ride. You kept them fascinated with all those stories about wars and soldiers and legends." She laughed. "I have to admit, you kept
me
fascinated! Are you a history professor?"

"Well," he said, "actually, I'm a sawbones, as they used to call us. But I no longer pract
ice medicine. My greatest fascination in these past few years has been history—languages, mostly."

"That's wonderful!" Gina said instantly. "I hope you can teach Josh a thing or two while you're here!"

The professor laughed. "Latin?"

"English!"

He laughed as Rebecca placed a hand on his shoulder. Appearing to be no older than her mid-thirties—no older than Gina—she must have been conceived when the professor was at least fifty. Not so unusual among the English aristocracy, where the professor surely belonged.

"Father believes that people should continue to learn as long as they live." She smiled.

The professor tilted his head back and laughed. His affection for his daughter was natural and endearing. Gina was already enjoying their company and remembered how the professor had humbly shared his great learning as they'd driven over the mountains. He had been casual and polite— a man of genuine passion and great knowledge who simply enjoyed sharing it. He pointed to the walls. "Fascinating, is it not?"

Gina looked at the curious running-dog pattern of swirls and Latin letters with Roman numerals inserted at random intervals. She had intended to
reply to the professor's assessment with polite disagreement but then she looked closer. Her eyes narrowed. The pattern was not only fascinating, it was eerie. Clearly, it wasn't the eclectic or random artistry of a mason or sculpture. It was far too tightly ... coded?

"What is it?" she asked.

"According to legend it is a form of calculus."

"Calculus? Isn't that strange for a monastery?"

Professor Haider shrugged. "Perhaps. But there are similar chapels throughout Christendom." He pointed to a section heavy with numerals. "According to legend—there is little fact to back it up—this is a secret message left by the ancient Order of the Knights Templar. Some say it reveals the vault of the greatest Christian relics."

"Relics," Gina repeated with a slow nod. "Ye
ah, Mr. Trevanian told me about that. But some of it seems a little incredible." She became more considerate. "What do you think?"

Professor Haider laughed. "I suppose that some might be the genuine article, as they say. And some, for certain, are forgeries or fakes." Despite his scholarship, the professor was quite agreeable to reasonable skepticism. "You see, the medieval period is top-heavy with legend and lore—of witchcraft, sorcerers, holy warriors and wars waged between angels and demons. And the Order of the Knights Templar is particularly
shrouded in myth since it maintained such fanatical secrecy. Even their initiation rites remain a secret."