The Library of Forbidden Books

Chapter 18

Francois Debaux was in charge of the council membership’s medical arrangements. Being of the mature age they were, the gentlemen of the council had to keep medical records at all times, so that any terminal or severe conditions could be assessed immediately and arrangements could be made for successors, if need be. It was an archaic procedure, but with such old organization, tradition was seldom altered.

Apart from basic medical care, the council members were of course subjected to another practice courtesy of Alfred Meiner, third-generation doctor, geneticist in particular, and all-round mad scientist — in the true sense of the word. A genius who did not waste time with petty things like finishing high school, at least until his fourteenth year, Alfred was a virtuoso since his teenage years and it went straight to his head. Needless to say, the narcissistic doctor quickly reverted to the underground where his work would be admired, instead of the mundane praise of grateful families.

But what society viewed as personal and psychological flaws, the Order of the Black Sun naturally saw as potential and he was soon brought into the fold, even in the earlier years. His special work started when he was enlisted to maintain the monstrous Nazi superweapon, Lita Røderic, lapdog godchild of Himmler himself. Needless to say, when Purdue, Sam, and Nina toppled her empire and she disappeared without a trace, Alfred was given another task. Serving the council, the silent high command over the management of the Black Sun was an honor and a much higher calling, he felt.

Francois Debaux was one of his patients and also in charge of Meiner’s schedule and permissions, therefore he was Meiner’s superior. They worked together very well. The old French gentleman had a love for the more refined and avant-garde, so the twisted genius of Alfred Meiner suited his company swimmingly. He fed the mad doctor’s depravities and vanity with unflinching compliments, gifting him with praise every chance he got.

Debaux enjoyed the company of freaks. He loved the mindset of the mentally grotesque, the immorally rabid; and being a medical superintendent at one of the best sanitariums in Paris held his public mask beautifully in place. A man of honor, compassion, and great medical knowledge, Francois Debaux was held in high esteem by society and most of the benefactors of his hospice institution regarded him as a saint. They knew nothing of his past affiliations with Hitler’s legacy or the powerful underground realm of kings and demons where the rules of the modern world held no sway.

It was good to be back in lively old Paris again, the place he promised his heart to, leaving his soul for the devil. This was where he was born and raised for the first twenty years of his life before trailing a young charismatic man he was obsessed with in the 1950s. His pursuit failed and he married a loose, heroin-addicted actress from Berlin instead.

Now he was a widower, by his own doing but not so that anyone would know.

On his barge he poured himself a drink and kicked off his shoes. After the heavy business in Rotterdam the past few days he was happy to just be Francois, not keeping any capacity or looked to for orders. The only orders and decisions he had to deal with for now was his small crew, but he was going to let the men have some time off as soon as they reached Pont de Sully. From there he would drive his own barge up the Seine toward Bassin de l’Arsenal to dock and just spend the next few days relaxing, while Jaap Roodt took care of the council’s obstacle before moving on to the next step.

The river was bustling with boats and smaller craft, probably tourists and tour groups, mostly. Francois wished he could take a swim, but it was not allowed here and he would have to wait until he could get to the home of a friend and his wife in the 16th arrondissement. They had a lunch appointment in a few days, as soon as his friends returned from business in China, and Francois fully intended to fit in a few hours in their massive azure pool.

He stood on the deck as the sun deigned to color the horizon one last time, challenging the little balls of light that lit up here and there all over Paris as the night dawned. The sky was clear and pale purple in the last light of the day, birds floating past occasionally to bring some movement to the otherwise vast and still canvas above. His crooked fingers clasped around a glass of Chivas Regal as he watched the young people engage in their senseless pursuits of romance and doing their best to impress the objects of their affection. Debaux just shook his head, not because he did not understand their modern mating games, but because he knew what was coming.

It astonished him how obtuse the new generations of the era had become. Of course that was the end to the means of the New World Order that organizations like his served, but they never thought it would be so easy to implement television and manipulate media to effectively brainwash the masses. Herr Kamler and his colleagues at the French arm of the Thule Society always talked about this, when Debaux was still a bit skeptical that this magnitude of cerebral regression was possible on cogent, basically intelligent beings.

Now he saw the harvest of their work. Looking at the reckless and ignorant way in which civilians conducted their business, and their pleasure, it was almost comical. Not since the Roman Empire forced the Christian Bible on the world to stage the biggest mass subjugation of mind and manner had Debaux seen such a successful deposition.

“Monsieur,” a lady spoke behind him. Francois turned and saw that it was his cook, Antoinette, a middle-aged, single mother with a plump body and attractive face. Her smile always lit up the room and Francois sometimes kept her on for trips abroad simply because she had such a pleasant way about her.

“Oui, Antoinette?” he smiled.

“While you were shopping a small parcel came for you,” she replied and handed him an envelope with a small box like that used by prominent jewelers.

“Merci,” he said slowly, scrutinizing the black envelope with his name written in silver on the flat square. “Who delivered it?”

“I don’t know. When I came out of the galley it was on the bar fridge. Nobody other than the usual staff was aboard, not that we know of,” she informed him in a concerned tone. “Please, don’t open it.”

“Why?” he asked, cocking his head in interest at her protest. Did she know something?

“Because we don’t know who put it there, Monsieur Debaux. I would not trust anything like this if I were you,” she warned with a suspicious eye on the pretty black and red box while he opened the envelope. On the small card, written in elegant writing slanted in old ink and quill, no doubt, the words lay spread evenly over the length of the space. Francois smiled.

“I know who this is from, Antoinette,” he reassured. “And I promise you it is not only harmless, but quite a lovely surprise.”

She sighed, her eyes rolling back in her head, “Oh, thank goodness. I was almost too worried to give it to you.”

“No, all is in order; thank you, my dear. You can return to your station with ease. It’s not too much farther up the river before you and the others will be relieved of all my homosexual appetites,” he winked mischievously and evoked a giggle from the humorous lady. She always enjoyed her employer’s jests.

They all knew Francois Debaux was bisexual, but he so enjoyed rubbing it in when he landed men of good status or financial potency. They were like trophies to his charm and the crew had on more than one occasion been forced to play audience to the muffled moans that came from Debaux’s chamber below deck.

“Marcel,” Debaux said under his breath, running his thumb gracefully over the fancy lettering in the card with amour.

Would you like to come below? was all it said. Short, but powerful in its sexual innuendo. Typical of Marcel, there was always a catch or a trick involved with their meetings. Somehow the opera performer had managed to slip aboard unnoticed again, fashioning himself some handsome prowler. It was one of his favorite roles to play when he was in town and it had been at least three months since their last encounter. The old man sighed. His lover was of the insatiable variety and Francois was hardly prepared for a night with him, but it would be so good to see him again.

In the small box he found a magnificent piece of jewelry, a bracelet crafted in what looked like marcasite and silver, inlaid with a beautiful bronze colored mineral that formed the name of Francois’ zodiac sign, Sagittarius. It was flawless, presenting his own reflection in its pristine clarity.

From the clasp to the edges, the bracelet was engraved with numbers significant to Francois, his birthday, Marcel’s birthday, Marcel’s cell number, and what looked like his finger print.

“I must say, very romantic,” Francois whispered and he slipped it over his hand, securing the piece by locking the clasp in place. He descended the steps to his cabin and sure as the sun, there Marcel was, grinning like a horny stag.

“You are too kind,” Francois smirked.

“Oh, you are worth it, my dear Francois,” Marcel winked, his arms folded over his chest.

“Excuse me, Monsieur Debaux,” Pierre, the barge pilot, interrupted their reunion politely from the top of the steps, “but we are now reaching Pont de Sully.”

“Ah! And perfect timing too,” Francois cheered, casting a naughty look at his young companion. “Let’s go and see the crew off, Marcel. I am heading for Bassin de l’Arsenal after this. If you are good, I’ll let you drive.”

“You always do,” Marcel replied in a sultry slur, his blue eyes shimmering under his long dirty blond fringe.

When the crew had disembarked, Francois and Marcel greeted the darkening night with some champagne and mutton pie. The pie was Marcel’s idea. The man had no finesse, but his food was always good, nonetheless, and Francois enjoyed his odd palate. Francois had finished his meal and stood admiring the lights of the rue parallel to the river where they had docked for the night.

“I’m going to swim,” Marcel announced.

“What?” Francois asked as he turned, but all he heard was the splash. As always Marcel did just what he wanted, when he wanted. It was a sexy rebelliousness he wielded wherever he went and Francois could only shake his head, smiling.

“Come on in!” Marcel called from the water, and Francois needed no more urging. He had been craving the water, so he undressed and jumped into the cold water, joining Marcel in a night swim.

His arm felt heavy, making it hard to swim toward Marcel.

“What is it? Not in such great shape anymore, eh?” Marcel joked, but soon he saw that the old man was not enjoying the effort anymore.

Marcel paddled playfully toward the step fixed to the side of the vessel and called out, “I’m going to jump from up there! Watch!” He pointed to the roof of the cockpit.

“Be careful!” Francois shouted, aware that his arm was so heavy that it seemed to pull him downward. His scowl grew deeper as he found himself unable to lift his hand and he did not even notice that Marcel was not on the roof. Instead he had entered the cockpit and switched on the engine.

“What are you doing?” Francois bellowed, as his arm was now drawn deeper under the surface, where the water now submerged his shoulder and ear. It was the bracelet, tugging him down, but he could not undo the clasp. With wide eyes he watched Marcel expertly set the route and drive the barge forward, accelerating with every second.

“Where the bloody hell are you going?” he screamed from the water, but he need not worry, because the electromagnet fitted under the hull of the craft was in love with the cobalt and iron in the steel bracelet. It drew more and more as the boat traversed the canal, pulling the old man under. In the black frigidity Francois felt his old lungs burning as they ran out of time and oxygen, while his body was relentlessly reeled in under the barge where there was no way of reaching the surface for breath.

For several minutes, Marcel piloted the barge down the Seine River, for good measure, dragging the cold, limp corpse of another council member through the slipstream of his own vessel. Then he dialed a number from his cell phone, and reported, “This is Unit 5. Francois Debaux — exterminated.”

He ended the call, moored the vessel and disembarked, disappearing into the gay vibe of the cheerful Paris night with a skip in his step.