The Psalter Read online

  Romano took a deep breath and another. An arc of inky blackness devoured the pinpoints and jagged waves of light underneath his eyelids. His breathing grew slower, more regular. His last thought was of Isabelle’s kiss as he sank into a turbulent oblivion.

  The creak of an antique door disturbed Pascal’s sleep. I’m sure Isabelle showed our guest the bathroom, he thought. Did she remember to leave the hall light on for the priest? He looked though the darkness to where the crack under his door should be, but there was no light. Throwing back the blankets, he sat on the edge of the bed and stepped into his slippers.

  He turned the doorknob and pulled on the door. It slammed against him with a force that launched him to the floor. Stunned and uncomprehending, Pascal shook his head. He recoiled from a muffled wallop and gasped from the sting on his face. A broad gloved hand swung to strike the other cheek just as a slender figure in flannel pajamas wrapped herself around the dark form.

  Isabelle clutched the man’s throat while the Pascal grabbed a wrist with both hands, trying to hang on. The assailant flung his free elbow back and caught Isabelle on the jaw, knocking her to the floor. He raised his fist to punch down, but the hand hung in the air suspended.

  Romano grabbed the fist in mid strike and unleashed a crushing blow to the intruder’s chin, knocking him off the old man. The attacker rolled and jumped to his feet facing the priest, his hands raised in a fighting pose. The priest stood upright and cocked his fists in the boxing stance he had learned first on the streets and then in Catholic school. The assailant launched a sweeping hook. Romano rotated his right foot, pivoting toward the blow, and ducked his head. The swing went wild. He shifted his left foot in the opposite direction and snapped his hips, delivering a shot to the ribs that doubled the man over. He followed with a combination right jab to the face and left hook that struck the man in the mouth. The attacker reeled into the wall, his arms splayed.

  “I’ve got them!” The shout came from another room. The attacker stumbled to the open door and Romano lunged after him. The man balanced on one leg, turned his body horizontal, and delivered a thrusting kick to the priest’s groin. Romano grunted and crumpled in a heap. The assailant stood over him, poised to finish the job. Pascal flung his body over the groaning priest.

  The voice in the other room shouted again. “Let’s get the hell out of here.” The attacker spat bloody spittle at the two men and fled the apartment.

  Romano and Pascal knelt over Isabelle. Pascal wiped blood from the corner of her mouth with a kerchief while the priest cradled her head in his hands. Romano felt a growing goose egg. A tiny groan came from deep within her chest as she tried to lift her hand to the lump. “Lay still, chérie,” Pascal said.

  “Oh, my head,” Isabelle groaned. Her eyes shot wide open and she tried to raise herself.

  “Please lie down, darling. You’ve suffered a nasty blow.”

  Isabelle would not be consoled. “Father, the prayer book!”

  “I’m afraid they’ve taken it,” the priest said.

  And the photograph?”

  “Yes.” Her father added, “but at least we’re alive, thanks to Father Romano.”

  “I didn’t do so well. They got away with everything.”

  “I saw the look in the man’s eyes, Father. If you hadn’t battered him soundly, he would have taken your life—and ours, too. He wanted more than the Psalter. He wanted our silence.”

  Isabelle pushed her father’s hand away and forced herself to her knees.

  “Chérie, you must lie down.”

  “Let me go Papa. Don’t you understand? They followed us to the apartment. They know about the Psalter and the photograph. We must get to the Archives before they do. Stay here,” Isabelle said to her father as she reached for her overcoat. “I’ll call you from the office.”

  “Not on your life. I’m not letting you out of my sight.”

  The battered trio rushed down steep wooden steps in the building stairwell and into the fog-soaked street. The realization came to Romano that even through her addled brain, Isabelle had seen the logic. These men were professionals. If they knew enough to target the prayer book and photograph as well, they would head for the lab where the photo had been made. But how could they know? The priest wondered. Only he knew about the palimpsest and it was just a hunch after spotting telltale signs of Giovanni’s handiwork. The only other person who knew about the ninth-century monk was the Pope’s Secretary, and he was dead. Romano searched his recollection, wondering what he might have said to Father Mackey.

  They rushed under the Roman arch into the National Archive courtyard to the flashing of blue lights against the pale stone walls of the ancient Hôtel de Soubise. Half a dozen police cars formed a barrier around the entrance doors. Please God, the priest said a silent prayer, help the cops arrest these criminals.

  12

  Shochetim

  Two uniformed gendarmes blocked the trio outside the French National Archives door. “I’m Doctor Isabelle Héber, Director of the New Technologies department.” The officers opened the front entrance to let her pass, but barred the way to Pascal and Romano. “They’re with me,” Isabelle said.

  “Sorry Madame, orders,” one of the gendarmes replied and pushed Pascal and the priest off the steps.

  Isabelle hurried through the door. “I’ll see what I can do.”

  “Thank God you’re here, Isabelle.” The words came from a short, distinguished man in a navy pinstriped suit whose gray hair fell below the collar. “What happened to your face?” He pointed to her swollen, split lip.

  “I’ll tell you later, Philippe. Did someone break in?”

  “Worse, much worse,” the Director General of the Archives, Philippe de Montfaucon, said as he wiped perspiration from his forehead with a monogrammed kerchief.

  His explanation was interrupted in mid-sentence by a plainclothes officer who confronted Isabelle. “We’ve been trying to telephone you. What a coincidence you should show up at precisely this time.”

  “Whoever you are, you may address me as Doctor Héber or Director Héber or Madame.” Isabelle bristled that the detective would address her impolitely.

  “Of course Ma-dame,” the dectective said. “I’m Cap-i-taine Gérard Desmoulins of the GIGN, the Groupe d’Intervention de la Gendarmerie Nationale. However, you can call me Capitaine Desmoulins or simply Cap-i-taine, if you wish. Now please, why are you here in the middle of the night?” Before she could reply, a uniformed gendarme with chevrons on his shoulder whispered something in the captain’s ear. “Escort them in,” he replied. Turning back to the archivist he said, “You’ve brought guests. Now, I’m waiting, Madame.”

  Isabelle glared at the detective, contemplating how much she should reveal. “Someone broke into my apartment and I thought it might have something to do with the Archives.”

  “Why would you think so?”

  “Well…”

  “Come, come, Madame Héber,” the captain said. “It’s obvious you’ve been attacked and you must believe the motive is related to your work or you wouldn’t be here. Ergo, it’s a matter of National Security. So don’t be coy.”

  Romano and Pascal were escorted to the group by a sergeant, and the priest said, “She’s not being coy, captain. She’s trying to protect me.”

  “Who are you?”

  “Father Michael Romano from the Vatican.”

  The detective seemed to understand. “Go on.”

  “Doctor Héber is a professional colleague and was kind enough to use her equipment to translate an old book.”

  “Doctor Héber!” Isabelle wasn’t sure whether Philippe was simply trying to impress the detective, but he appeared in genuine distress. “You’re well aware the Archives are for the work of the State.” He peered solicitously at Capitaine Desmoulins.

  The captain ignored him. He turned instead to Pascal. “And you are…?”

  “I’m Pascal Héber, her father.”

  The Director General extended his han
d to Pascal with a nervous, polite smile. “Ah Doctor Héber, a pleasure to meet you. I’ve tried for years to get Isabelle to introduce me to—”

  “Please Director,” the captain interrupted, “this is an investigation, not a reception. “Why are you here, Monsieur?”

  The retired professor responded matter-of-factly, “They attacked me, too. I would never let my daughter investigate alone. These are serious men.”

  “It appears they were very serious,” Desmoulins replied cryptically. “Why don’t you all follow me to Doctor Héber’s office. I wish to show you something. Madame, would you lead the way?”

  Isabelle led them up the stairs toward her lab. Turning back as she climbed, the expression on the Director General’s face scared her. He walked with halting steps, a kerchief over his mouth as though he was about to be ill. How serious had the burglary been? she wondered as she approached her first floor office. The door was ajar. Light from inside shone into the hallway. As she reached the handle, she stopped short, alerted by the shrill voice of the Archive Director, “Stop, Isabelle! Don’t go in.” Captain Desmoulins glared at the Director General to which Philippe said, “Monsieur Capitaine, you go too far. Interrogation is one thing, but cruelty quite another.”

  “What’s inside, Philippe?” Isabelle asked her boss.

  “I’m afraid…”

  “Silence!” the detective captain barked. “I’m in charge of this investigation.”

  Isabelle Héber turned back toward the light and startled as a man appeared in her office doorway, inches from her.

  Romano’s heart gave a heavy thump as he came face to face with the last person in the world he wanted to meet. “Well, well, Father Romano,” the man said to the priest. “What an expected surprise.”

  “Colonelo,” the priest replied.

  The French captain addressed the group. “May I present Colonelo Del Carlo of the Carabinieri’s GIS. I believe, Father, you two know one another.”

  The priest tried his best not to look guilty. “Yes, Captain, I’ve had the pleasure.”

  Del Carlo confronted the priest. “You didn’t return my telephone call, Father.”

  “I apologize, Colonelo, but I had critical work to do here.”

  “Does your work have anything to do with the evidence I foolishly let you return to the Vatican?”

  Romano saw no further reason to lie. “Yes.”

  “I thought so. Am I correct in assuming that Madame Héber and Monsieur…?”

  “Héber, also,” Pascal held out his hand smiling. “I’m her father.”

  Del Carlo didn’t take the hand. “Do they know about the prayer book?”

  “Oh, yes,” Pascal said. “Magnificent, Colonel, the greatest discovery of the century, maybe the last two thousand years.”

  Del Carlo threw up his hands in exasperation. “It appears everyone knows more about this book than I, for which, I might add, a priest was murdered.”

  “I’m sorry, Colonel,” the Director General of the Archives said, “but Pascal Héber isn’t just anybody. He was a most illustrious professor, head of the department of…”

  “Arab and Hebrew studies,” Pascal helped the Director’s memory.

  “Thank you, professor.”

  “You’re welcome, Monsieur Director,” Pascal nodded.

  Romano interrupted their solicitous exchange. “Listen, Colonel. I admit I suspected something when you showed me the Psalter. But I had to be certain and I didn’t want to make a mistake in front of Cardinal Keller. The Vatican’s technology is limited, so…”

  “So you brought it here?”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “Father, The Psalter is evidence in a capital crime. You’d better hand it over”

  “I can’t.”

  “You gave me your word,” Del Carlo said.

  “It’s just—”

  “I am not asking, Father. I’m ordering.”

  Pascal cut in again. “He can’t, Colonel, because he doesn’t have it. He brought it to my apartment to translate, and two men broke in and attacked us while we slept. I was certain they were going to kill us, and they stole the—”

  “They stole the prayer book?” Del Carlo shook his head.

  “Not only that, Isabelle discovered what was written underneath the Latin and made a photograph, and they pinched that as well. We came here to make sure they hadn’t taken her computer.”

  Pascal wanted to continue, but Del Carlo held up his hand to stop his rapid-fire soliloquy. “You’re quite informative, Professor. I pray we can write fast enough to take your deposition. Now, however, I’d like all of you to join me in Doctor Héber’s office. I would value your opinions of the crime scene. Madame, I should warn you that there’s a dead body on the floor, so prepare yourself.”

  The Director General grasped the colonel’s arm, “Is it necessary for Doctor Héber to witness this? After all, Eugène was a colleague.”

  “Eugène?” Isabelle gasped. “Is he…?”

  The GIS Colonel put his hand on the raven-haired woman’s shoulder. “I fear he’s dead, Madame.” Isabelle plunged her face into her hands to hide the tears flooding her eyes. “We must ascertain what they’ve taken. Are you willing?”

  “I’ll help however I can.”

  Del Carlo looked squarely into Isabelle’s dark eyes. “We’ve covered the corpse, but the scene is macabre. Nevertheless, I would like for you to identify anything that has been taken or moved. Can you do that?”

  “I think so.”

  “Try not to look at the body,” he counseled, “just the surroundings.”

  Isabelle took a deep breath, steeling herself as she walked into her laboratory. She had been to funerals before and seen dead bodies, but they had been coiffed and dressed in their best clothes to appear at peace. She was unprepared for the indistinct outline of a body on its back, covered by a white plastic sheet, or the viscous red that spread across the floor, as well as fiery spots splattered on the walls. Isabelle felt as though she was rising off the ground, weightless. Shadows crept into her peripheral vision and closed in from all sides. Pascal tightened his arm around her narrow shoulders, too late. Her legs gave way before her father could react. Romano caught her just as she slumped to her knees.

  Del Carlo pulled up a chair, and Romano eased her slight frame into it. Her eyes fluttered. She tried not to look at the contorted outline under the white sheet or the scarlet pool seeping from underneath. “Isabelle?” Father Romano said to her. “Isabelle,” he called louder and broke the trance.

  “Yes.”

  “You don’t need to do this.” The priest held her hand. “I can take you out of here.”

  Isabelle squeezed his palm. “I’ll be alright.”

  “How well did you know him?” Colonelo Del Carlo asked.

  She answered from a far away place, “Not personally. He was a graduate student who wanted to work at the Archives when he completed his studies. He visited the lab often and asked technical questions about restoring old documents.”

  “What’s out of place?”

  The archivist’s eyes went first to a rack of shelves. The steel cover had been detached from her computer processor. She forced herself out of the chair and edged gingerly around the body for a closer inspection. “They’ve removed the hard drive. Nothing’s left.”

  “I thought as much,” the colonel accepted with resignation. “Has anything else been taken?”

  Isabelle walked the perimeter of the room, passing her hand over books and equipment, but avoiding the bloody spots. Finally she turned to Del Carlo. “Nothing. They got what they came for.”

  “Thank you for your courage, Doctor Héber. I’m sorry for subjecting you to this grisly scene, but I needed to confirm what I believed to be true. Why don’t we talk outside?”

  The Director General led them to the conference room at the end of the hall.

  Isabelle addressed no one in particular. “Why was there so much blood?”

  “He was
tortured,” Del Carlo said.

  “My God.”

  “They cut his jugular veins.”

  “His throat?” She shuddered.

  “Not the throat, just the veins. They probably forced him to tell what he knew.”

  “He must have surprised them and tried to stop them.” Isabelle noticed the Director General hang his head.

  “They didn’t break in, Doctor.” Del Carlo said.

  “You can’t believe Eugène opened the door?”

  “That’s precisely what I think.”

  Pascal listened with a professor’s objective interest, weighing what had been explained. Then with conviction, he spoke a single word, “Shochetim.”

  “Excuse me?” The colonel answered while the entire room looked, uncomprehending, at the retired professor.

  “I’m sorry, Monsieur Colonel, but you’re wrong.”

  “About what?”

  “It’s quite logical,” Pascal said. “If these men wanted information, they would have inflicted a great deal of pain on the poor boy. They did no such thing. The only discomfort Eugène endured was the slash on his neck. I’m guessing they used a razor, possibly a straight razor.”

  “That’s what we suspect.”

  “Did you ever witness someone having their throat slashed?”

  “No,” Del Carlo admitted.

  “Had they cut just one jugular, blood would spurt out rapidly. The heart is a remarkable pump, as you can see by the spots on the walls. Within several seconds, he would lose so much oxygen to the brain that he’d be groggy. They cut both, so the loss of pressure rendered him unconscious almost immediately. He didn’t say anything.”

  “How do you know this?”

  Pascal shrugged. “Nothing suspicious, I assure you. This is how Jews slaughter animals for kosher meat. The Shochetim are the slaughterers.”