The Lucifer Gospel

18

Signore Vergadora’s villa was located in a pleasant shaded valley between two of the seemingly endless number of rocky hills that rose throughout the area like overgrown piles of discarded dirt thrown up by some gigantic dog searching for an old buried bone. Unlike most of the valleys they’d driven through, this one actually seemed capable of growing something. The villa was located in an olive grove, and off to one side a brook meandered pleasantly through the trees. The villa itself was reasonably modest and very old, yellowed stucco peeling away from ancient stone, the deep windows covered with wrought-iron gratings, the roof dusty red with terra-cotta tiles, a central tower in front standing guard above the rest of the sprawling building.

Finn parked in front of the main door, and she and Hilts climbed out of the car and into the bright, warm sunlight. Finn could hear the brook now, babbling quietly to itself, and the afternoon breeze rustling through the poplars that stood around the house like sentries, much taller than the gnarled grove of olives that might have been here as long as the house, perhaps centuries.

They stood in front of the heavy planked front door and Finn pulled the bell chain. From somewhere deep inside the villa there was a faint tinkling sound and then the shuffle of approaching feet. A moment later the door creaked open and a face appeared: an Italian J.R.R. Tolkien wearing a yarmulke pinned to unruly silver hair, drooping bags beneath twinkling eyes, and rosy cheeks forced down by time and gravity on either side of an almost feminine mouth that looked as though it rarely frowned. The man had bright red reading glasses perched on his forehead and wore a brown corduroy suit much too warm for the summer, complete with vest, white shirt and tie, the vest decorated with a fob and chain that spanned a moderate belly. He wore purple velvet bedroom slippers.

“Ah,” he said happily, “you are the American couple.”

“How’d you know that?” Hilts asked.

“Alberto called me from the Municipio,” the old man answered, still smiling. “That one thinks every American is a Hollywood producer looking for new stars.” He stepped aside and gestured them forward. “Come in, please. My name is Abramo Vergadora.”

Vergadora took them through several high-ceilinged underfurnished rooms, finally ushering them into what was obviously his sanctum sanctorum, a library, the walls lined with overflowing bookshelves, the stone floor covered with overlapping Persian carpets. The room was laid out with a dozen chairs and couches, with more tables and chairs piled high with books and more stacks on the floor. The whole room smelled of paper, leather, cigar smoke and ash from the gigantic fireplace that stood in the corner. Finn stopped. Carved into the mantel of the fireplace was the same coat of arms she’d seen on Pedrazzi’s ring and on the corner of the ancient handkerchief that had been wrapped around the gold medallion.

“That’s the arms of the Pedrazzi family,” she said.

Vergadora looked at her curiously.

“No, it’s not,” he said. “But it is extraordinary that you should know it at all.”

“It is the coat of arms Lucio Pedrazzi used,” she insisted.

“True, but not one that the Pedrazzi family had any right to,” Vergadora replied quietly. “But before we get into any further discussions, perhaps I can offer you coffee, or tea? Lemonade? A soft drink? I only drink Dr Pepper, I’m afraid.” The old man’s smile widened even more. “Or perhaps something stronger. A martini? Brandy Alexander? They are the only two American drinks I know how to make, and sadly I am without domestic help with the exception of the old woman who does my laundry on Thursdays.”

“Coffee would be nice,” said Finn.

“Sure,” said Hilts with a nod.

“Wonderful.” Vergadora beamed. He turned and scuttled away, his bedroom slippers whispering into the distance.

“He’s a nut bar,” said Hilts. “A nice nut bar, but a nut bar nevertheless.”

“I prefer the word ‘eccentric,’ ” Finn said and smiled. She began wandering along the rows of books.

“He’s got everything here from Dante’s Inferno to The Stand by Stephen King.”

“Not such a leap when you think about it,” Hilts said, dropping down into one of the comfortable leather armchairs. He watched Finn continue her inspection of the bookshelves. “What do you think about the Pedrazzi thing?”

“I can’t wait to hear his explanation,” said Finn.

“He’s Jewish,” mused Hilts. “That’s a bit strange.”

“The villa’s called the Wandering Jew. Historically there’ve been Jews in Italy for thousands of years.”

“Not something you hear about much.”

“Fiorello La Guardia was an Italian Jew. Modigliani, the sculptor, was a Jew. I think the guy who invented the Olivetti typewriter was Jewish.”

“He was. His name was Camilo Olivetti.” Vergadora came back into the room carrying a tray. In addition to the coffee there was a single budding rose in a slim, porcelain vase. He set the tray down on a table.

“I knew his son, Adriano, quite well,” the old man continued. “We spent the war in Lausanne together pretending to be exiles. If he hadn’t been so wealthy he would have been a communist, I’m positive.”

He paused, his smile wistful. “Did you know they are the only company that still manufactures manual typewriters? I find that a comfort in a world where people have things called BlackBerries instead of address books and computers are named after fruit.” He smiled at Finn. “Cream? Sugar?”

“Black,” she said.

“Both,” said Hilts.

Vergadora poured, then handed the cups around as Finn took a seat across the table from him.

“Tell me about Pedrazzi and the coat of arms,” said Finn.

“Tell me why you wish to know,” Vergadora replied.

Hilts answered. “A few days ago we found his dried-up corpse in a cave in the Libyan Desert. Someone had shot him in the head.”

“How wonderful,” the old man said and beamed again. “An end devoutly to be wished. He was truly an evil man.” He took a sip of coffee and squinted at the rose. He adjusted the single stalk fractionally. “Did you find the remains of that busone DeVaux, as well?”

“No, Pedrazzi’s body had been hidden away in an old ossuary,” said Finn. “The only other remains were some British soldiers from years later.”

“Pity. As a rabbi I’m supposed to be above that sort of thinking, but sometimes I just can’t help thinking that some people should have been strangled at birth, Pierre DeVaux being very high on my list.”

“You still haven’t explained about the coat of arms,” Finn prodded.

“What were you doing in the middle of the Libyan Desert?”

“Do you always answer questions by asking them?” asked Hilts.

“It’s a rabbinical thing, a bad habit, but useful.” Vergadora offered up one of his gentle smiles. “It gives an old man time to think. I’m not quite as sharp as you young people.”

“Yeah, right.”

“The coat of arms?” insisted Finn.

“Three hands holding crescents, three palm trees, and a lion rampant. Nothing particularly Hebraic about that in Pedrazzi’s limited brain except that the duchy of Lorro, which was centered roughly where the olive grove is outside my door, used to belong to my family, the Duca di Levi Vergadora Ibn Lorro being the original holder of the title granted by the Lombard kings in the twelfth century. If Pedrazzi had done his research he would have realized that crescents, palms, and open hands were all indicators of the Jewish faith in heraldry. I was the last duke of Lorro, not that Italian titles meant much by then in any real sense, but in 1938 Mussolini decided to follow Hitler’s path and Jews became persona non grata for a time. I was living outside of Italy by then, but in absentia they stripped me of the title, this house, and what land was left. It was given to Pedrazzi as a gift by Il Duce himself. Pedrazzi took his dukedom very seriously; he had the crest put on everything.”

“You went to Switzerland, Lausanne,” offered Finn.

“And then America after the war, then Canada, then Israel for a time. But I am as much Italian as I am a Jew, and I became homesick. I heard that the villa was for sale and I purchased what had once been mine. Pedrazzi had named it for himself, but I erased that as well.”

“The Wandering Jew comes home,” Hilts said and grinned.

“Something like that.” Vergadora nodded. He finished his coffee and set the cup back on the tray. He sat back in his chair, dug into his pocket for an old briar pipe, and lit it using a kitchen match he took from the other pocket and struck with his thumbnail. The old man puffed, the pipe sucking with a noisy gurgle. He looked more like Tolkien than ever. “So,” he said, once the pipe was fuming and sending up clouds of aromatic smoke toward the nicotine-colored ceiling. “You seemed surprised to see my family crest over the fireplace, ergo, that is not the reason you came here. Since you are American and have recently been in the Libyan Desert, I can only presume that you were part of that buffoon Rolf Adamson’s so-called archaeological expedition that has been so much in the news of late. Yes?”

“So-called?” said Finn.

“Rolf Adamson has the somewhat limited archaeological credentials of a man digging a cesspool in his back garden.”

“I can see you don’t mind sharing your opinions,” Hilts said with a laugh.

“Archaeology is serious business, young man,” said Vergadora, using the stem of his pipe to emphasize the point. “As somebody once said, the blueprint of the past often provides a road map for the future.”

“If you don’t know where you’ve been, how can you know where you’re going?” Hilts responded.

It was the old man’s turn to laugh.

“He who forgets the past is doomed to repeat it.”

“How about this one-‘Archaeology is the search for fact… not truth. If it’s truth you’re looking for, Dr. Tyree’s philosophy class is right down the hall,’ ” Hilts quoted.

“Now you’re making fun of me,” puffed Vergadora, laughing even harder.

“You’re both crazy,” said Finn. She reached into her pocket, took out the old cigarette tin, and slid it across the table toward the white-haired old man. He looked at the picture of the woman on the lid for a moment, then popped open the tin. Pedrazzi’s old handkerchief had been replaced by a square of cotton batten from a drugstore. Vergadora stared at the gleaming medallion, then carefully turned it over and looked at the obverse side.

“This is the reason we came to Venosa,” said Finn.

“Oh dear,” the old man murmured.

“Oh dear?”

“Young Luciferus Africanus and his mythical legion.”

“Mythical?”

“There is very little factual evidence that he ever existed, let alone his legion. When Rome fell, so did its bureaucracy, I’m afraid. There are scattered references here and there, but not much more than a hint. He was a legionary in Judea at the time of Jesus, that much is known. Some credit him as being the Roman who guarded Christ’s tomb and witnessed the Resurrection. Others credit him as the source for Lloyd C. Douglas’s novel The Robe. He’s also supposed to be the man who led the Lost Legion into the desert, and Almasy thought he was the source of the legends about the blond, blue-eyed men who were the guardians of Zerzura.”

“In other words he’s anyone you want him to be.”

“Basically, yes.” He glanced at the medallion again. “Although this would seem to take him out of the realm of myth… if it’s genuine.”

“How can you tell if it’s the real thing?” Hilts asked.

“Difficult,” the old man said and shrugged. “Gold is extremely hard to date accurately. Someone melting down gold objects from the appropriate era and using Roman gravity casting methods from the time period would have little difficulty forging such an object.”

“It was in Pedrazzi’s pocket when we found his body.”

“So much for provenance then,” the old man said, snorting. “If ever there was a man who could rightfully be charged with falsifying data, it would be him.” He shook his head. “On top of that there are the other legends.”

“What other legends?”

“The legends of the Luciferians and the Lucifer Gospel.”

“The Luciferians?” Finn asked.

“Sounds devilish,” said Hilts.

“Please,” sighed Finn.

“The Luciferians were a schismatic group within the Catholic Church during the late fourth century. They followed the teachings of a man named Lucifer Calaritanus, who was a bishop in Sardinia. Lucifer had once been a follower of Arius, a quite important theologian who argued that Christ was not part of the godhead but only a mortal expression of it. Some people, Pedrazzi included, thought that Luciferus Africanus was the namesake of Lucifer Calaritanus, the bishop. There’s a lot of Freemasonry and idiocy about the Knights Templar involved, which Pedrazzi embraced fervently of course, since much of it was the mythic foundations of Nazism. All that silli ness with Beowulf and Wagner and the Ьbermensch. Your friend Pedrazzi even thought there was a connection between Arius the heretic and ‘Aryan,’ the racial term invented by lunatics like the Frenchman, the conte de Gobineau, and his English friend Houston Stewart Chamberlain.”

“Never heard of either one,” Hilts said.

“Hitler did. He used Gobineau’s An Essay on the Inequality of the Human Races as a blueprint for Mein Kampf and the Final Solution. It described the concept of a concentration camp perfectly, among other things. The French may have invented the idea of Liberty, Equality and Brotherhood, but sadly it was a Frenchman, not a German, who also invented Nazism, I’m afraid. Chamberlain was one on his acolytes. He came up with an amusing theory that Christ was somehow not Jewish. Hitler called his good friend Herr Chamberlain the Prophet of the Reich.”

“The original white supremacist,” said Finn.

“Yes,” the old man said and nodded.

“What do you know about the man who was with him when he disappeared? DeVaux,” asked Hilts.

“Another Frenchman. Trained at the Йcole Biblique in Jerusalem. Personal private secretary to Cardinal Maglione when he was papal nuncio in France, continued with him for the rest of his career both as Vatican secretary of state under Pacelli, Pius XII, and also interestingly enough as Grand Chancellor of the Pontifical Institute of Christian Archaeology.”

“What exactly does that mean?” Finn asked.

“DeVaux had a great deal to do with all things archaeological within the Church. It’s well enough known that at the time certain elements within the Vatican were looking for archaeological justifications for some of the things Hitler and Mussolini were extolling. The Spear of Destiny, the Ark of the Covenant, Ultima Thule, or Atlantis. Also at the time one of the great fears was the establishment of a Jewish State in Palestine. DeVaux and a lot of other Franciscans were afraid that their hegemony over the Holy Land would come to an end if that happened.” The old man smiled around the stem of his pipe. “And just to make things interesting, Maglione, DeVaux’s boss, DeVaux himself, and Pedrazzi were all members in good standing of the Knights of Malta.”

“Who were they?” asked Hilts.

“You’ve seen the Godfather movies presumably?”

“Sure.”

“Our friend Tony Montana at the Municipio in Venosa can quote from all three extensively. You remember in the last of them that Al Pacino is given a medal?”

“Vaguely.”

“It is the cross of Saint Sebastian. He is being made a Knight of Malta. It is indicative, I think.”

“Is that anything like the Templars?” Finn asked.

“They are the Templars. There were two parts to the order when it was formed-the Hospitallers, the ones who cared for the sick, who wore black, and the Military order, who wore white in the manner of the Cistercians.”

Hilts looked amused. “We’re talking Dan Brown, The Da Vinci Code, all that?”

“I’m afraid so,” Vergadora said with a nod. “But these men are no joke. In recent years the Fraterninty of Saint Sebastian has returned to its paramilitary roots. They are zealots, trained like marines and utterly obedient. They even have a Web site: www.Christiansoldiers.org. These are not people to be taken lightly.”

“They sound like they could be friends of Rolf Adamson,” said Hilts.

“They certainly share the same basic philosophy,” the old man said. “Which I’m afraid brings me to the last piece of mythology associated with your legionary, Luciferus Africanus.” Vergadora reached out and touched the medallion. “Do either of you know the story of the Seven Sleepers?”

“Never heard of it,” said Hilts. Finn just shook her head.

“It is undoubtedly the source of your own fairy tale of Rip Van Winkle. Gregory of Tours discusses it during the sixth century, but it was well known before that. There are several versions, but the basic story is this: seven youths in the time of the Roman emperor Decius refused to honor his decree and repent of their belief in the Resurrection. They were walled into a cave but did not die. Instead they slept for two centuries, woke up to show that the Resurrection of the flesh was possible, then slept again until the coming of the Messiah. They sleep there still, these seven warriors, in a cave of immense riches, somewhere beyond the Western Sea.”

“Beyond the Western Sea?” said Hilts.

“The U.S.,” said Finn.

“Exactly,” the old man said, nodding.

“A treasure cave in the United States-that really is Adamson territory.”

“And the territory of his grandfather, the Reverend Schuyler Grand.”

“You’ve heard of him?” said Hilts, obviously surprised.

“My boy,” the old man said pleasantly, “if you live long enough your hearing begins to fade but you wind up hearing everything.”

Finn laughed at the small joke but she found herself thinking of Arthur Simpson in her hotel room and his warning about Senator Jimmy “Sword of the Lord” Judd and his Tenth Crusade militia.

Hilts stood. “Coffee went right through me, I’m afraid. Can I use your facilities?”

“Certainly. There’s a powder room just down the hallway by the kitchen.” He stood. “I’ll show you.”

“I can find it,” Hilts said. “No problem.” He left the room.

Finn looked at the gleaming medallion on the table in front of her. The connections were becoming frighteningly obvious, but the final intent remained obscure. What was Rolf Adamson’s real objective in all of this and just how far was he willing to go to accomplish it?

“What would this DeVaux person gain by killing Pedrazzi?” Finn asked.

“Silence, I suspect,” murmured Vergadora. “He clearly had a different agenda.”

“I wonder if he got out of the desert alive? The plane was a wreck,” she said.

“Perhaps it was always his intention that Pedrazzi would die that day,” suggested the old man. He used another match to light his pipe again, then looked at her above the smoking bowl. “Perhaps he had some other means of transportation at hand.”

Hilts reappeared.

“Possible,” he said, sitting down again. “With the right vehicle and enough water it wouldn’t have been too difficult for a man who knew the desert.”

“DeVaux accompanied Almasy on one expedition between the wars and he was with Bagnold on several of his expeditions.”

“Bagnold?”

“The man who organized the Long Range Desert Group; those men in the scorpion cave.”

“Quite right,” said Vergadora. “DeVaux and Bagnold were at Cambridge together. That’s where they met.”

Cambridge, thought Finn. Arthur Simpson, her father, DeVaux, and this man Bagnold, all sharing a single thread. Were there others? She had another thought, this one far removed from Cambridge University.

“Was Lucio Pedrazzi from Venosa?”

“That’s rather an interesting question,” said Vergadora. “And the answer to it is no. Pedrazzi’s family were orphans of the Papal States; his family were burocrates in the commune of Pontecorvo, just south of Rome, until Napoleon threw them out.”

“Then why did he come here? Was there something between your families?”

“Not that I’m aware of. He had an interest in the Jewish catacombs here, that I do know.”

“And DeVaux?”

“The inscriptions in the Benedictine abbey were his specialty. The abbey and the Church of the Trinity are built on the ruins of the catacombs.” The old man made a sour face. “Unfortunately access is controlled by the Vatican. They say one need only apply to the custodian in Rome, but it seems the custodian is never available for such applications. It has been that way ever since I can remember.”

“Could Luciferus Africanus have been buried there?”

“If he was a Jew, which is doubtful. The legate or the tribune of a Roman legion was usually of the senator class; not a group known for keeping kosher.”

“I’m getting a headache,” said Finn. “Too much information all at once.” That and her growing suspicions about Vergadora, not to mention the clouds of smoke from the old man’s pipe.

“So there would be no point in trying to get into the catacombs, is that what you’re saying?” Hilts asked, ignoring Finn’s comment.

“None whatsoever,” the old man replied. “Unless you have some facility with ancient Greek, Latin, and the occasional inscription in Aramaic. The only person who ever knew much about them was an old man named Mueller, one of my teachers. Even DeVaux only scratched the surface, at least as I understand it.”

“Then I guess we’ve reached a dead end,” said Finn. All she wanted to do now was leave, to have some time to think about everything that had happened during the last few days.

“Perhaps so,” said the old man. “It depends of course on what you were trying to accomplish in the first place.”

“We want to find out why everyone’s so interested in this Lucifer Africanus guy for one thing,” said Hilts. He stood up, walked to the table and picked up the cigarette case, snapping it shut over the medallion. “Interested enough to kill for sixtyfive years ago, and interested enough to kill for now.” He handed the old tin box to Finn, who dropped it back into the pocket of her jacket.

Vergadora peered up at them over his glasses from the other side of the table and slipped the pipe out of his mouth. He pushed a nicotine-yellow thumb into the bowl, tamping down the plug of ash and tobacco.

“My suggestion would be to abandon your quest before your curiosity kills you like it did Pedrazzi,” the white-haired gentleman cautioned. There was something in his voice now other than the soft tones of a retired professor. The warning sounded more like a threat, and a threat with something dark and menacing behind it. “Old secrets are like old wounds; they fester.”

“How long have you worked for Mossad?” asked Hilts flatly.

“You mean Hamossad Le’mode’in U’le’tafkidim Meyuchadim, the Institute for Coordination? Israeli Intelligence?” The old man smiled. “Believe me, young man, I really am nothing more than a retired university professor.”

“Sure you are,” said Hilts. He turned to Finn. “I think we should be going.”

Finn stood.

“Thank you for your help, signore,” she said, and held out her hand.

Vergadora climbed to his feet. He shook her hand, his grip strong and firm. “You are traveling in dangerous seas,” he said. “It would be a shame if you were hurt in a battle that was not yours to fight.”

“Maybe you’re right,” she replied. He seemed sincere enough, but again there was an undertone of threat in the old man’s voice.

He walked them to the door and stood at the entrance as they climbed back into their rental car, and watched them as they drove away down the long drive that ran between the poplars and through the ancient grove of olive trees. Then he turned and went back into the villa.