Sorry no news.

But then, as he sat there, hunched forward, muscles tensed, he overheard it, the telling phrase: Pius the Tenth.

The journalist edged slightly nearer this overheard dialogue, even as he stared resolutely ahead.

Two people were chatting next to him. A fortyish monk, and a pilgrim: an older woman. American, or Canadian maybe. He listened in.

‘Brother McMahon has been here eight years now.’

‘Uh-huh?’

‘As I said, Miss Tobin, the previous librarian was…well…rather a bad influence. Member of the Society before they were excommunicated.

‘Gotcha. And this was when? When you were a seminarian?’

‘Yes. Many young monks trained here in the 1990s. But the librarian was like a malignancy, in his teaching. The Society had a lot of influence here, in those days. He taught injudiciously. From inappropriate texts and materials. But now we have Brother McMahon. And we are no longer a teaching institution. Would you care for some more wine?’

The woman proffered her glass. Their dialogue dwindled.

Simon finished his coffee, not even tasting it; he tasted a very small triumph instead. So that was it – the explanation. Tomasky had been here, an eager young Catholic seminarian. And he’d learned something from the librarian.

But what was it? What changed people? There were supposedly secrets in this monastery which could induce a severe religious militancy, even murderous violence.

And yet there was no sign of the archives themselves.

He stood up and got ready to leave the refectory – maybe he should do another search through the books in the library. Perhaps the archives were hidden in the books: in a foreign language. Greek. Arabic. Or in code?

Of course this was desperate, but he was desperate. He had one evening and that was that: go home and hug Conor and find Tim. Simon turned for the exit – and he saw the young blond visitor, the man who had been chatting with a monk, was now sitting at the long table, on his own.

Pensive.

What had the two of them been discussing so passionately? The man and the monk?

The journalist took the opportunity and extended a hand. The young man smiled cheerily.

‘Guten tag. Julius Denk!’

‘Sssimon ah…Edgar Harrison.’

A stupid mistake. But Julius Denk didn’t seem to notice or care. He was animated – and yet distracted. His thin-rimmed spectacles reflected the lamplight. He spoke good English; he said he was a trainee architect from Stuttgart, interested in Le Corbusier. The journalist knew just enough about architecture, from his father, to sound like he was also an architect, albeit a pretty stupid one. They swapped opinions.

Then Julius talked of the balding monk: their conversation at dinner.

‘That monk. Very unhappy. American Irish. He drinks. Has been here seven years.’

‘Yea?’

‘Ja. I think he is the archivist. He says he is having a crisis of faith. He is losing his faith in God. Not so good for a monk I think!’ The young German laughed. ‘I feel sorry for him you know. But he talk too much. The wine is good, nicht wahr?’

Simon agreed. With a pang of wild surmise. The archivist is losing his faith. Why?

Julius was still talking.

‘You have not told me, Herr Harrison, you are here to admire Le Corbusier? What you think?’

‘Ah…er. Le Corbusier. Yes. I think he’s OK.’

‘Ja? What aspect of his work is it that you like?’

‘The, er, villa in Paris.’

‘Savoie?’

‘Yes that one. That one’s OK.’

Julius beamed.

‘True. I admire the Villas. And perhaps Ronchamps. But this building, it is a disaster. No?’

Now Simon shrugged. He couldn’t manage an intricate discussion about ‘roughcast concrete’, or ‘the modulor’ – not when he was so alarmed about things at home.

But he made a stab at sounding coherent.

‘The building is rather…disconcerting. That is true. Those noises everywhere in the…ah…the top bit.’

‘Every sound amplified. Yes yes! And I think it is worse at night. I think I hear the monks masturbating.’ The German chuckled. ‘So. I wonder why it is designed like that, ja? To punish the soul?’

‘Yes…or to stop you doing anything bad in the first place…a security thing. So someone will hear you…’

Julius had stopped laughing. Simon tried to push the conversation along. One last go.

‘So, Julius, I’m guessing you don’t like Le Corbusier.’

‘Nein. I do not. And this place confirms it.’

‘Why?’

‘Because Le Corbusier was a liar!’

‘Sorry?’

The German frowned behind his glasses.

‘Remember what Le Corbusier said, in English.’ Julius Denk’s expression was pensive, and almost contemptuous. ‘Remember?’

‘No.’

‘He said form follow function. Ja? But did he mean it? I think not.’

‘OK…’

‘And I can show you something. Can prove it! Hier.’

Julius Denk reached in his bag, and took out some paper. Simon stared.

It appeared to be…a blueprint.

The German gestured. ‘An example. I bring this with me. A schematic of the whole building, from the Corbusier museum in Switzerland.’

A schematic. A blueprint.

This was interesting. This was very interesting. An entire plan of the monastery. The journalist’s eyes widened, he tried not to show extreme curiosity.

‘And…?’

‘Here.’ The German pointed. ‘You see. If everything is so functional, what is that?’

‘That’ was a mess of complex dotted lines and faintly traced angles, with numbers and Greek letters attached. He couldn’t see what Julius meant. He’d been pretending he was an architect for six hours. He couldn’t keep up the lame and feeble illusion.

‘Looks alright to me.’

‘You do not see?’

‘Why don’t you tell me?’

Julius’s smile was triumphant.

‘I have been studying the building. But this section here makes no sense.’

‘The…?’

‘The pyramid. The pyramid has no apparent function at all. It just sits there doing nothing, in the middle. I have checked, there are no heating ducts, no engineering purpose. No one can explain it. I have therefore concluded it is mere decoration. You see?’

Simon hesitated, his throat slightly choked.

‘I see.’

‘It means he was a liar! The great Le Corb was a fraud. He added this pyramid as pure ornament. A purely decorative addition to the architectonics. The man was a charlatan! Form follow function? – it is nonsense!’

Picking up the schematic, Simon looked close. The pyramid sprang from the basement. If it was accessible, it must be accessed from the lowest floor of the monastery. The dark and mysterious underchapel.

This had to be it, if anywhere: this had to be it, the only place he hadn’t looked.

The pyramid.

33

‘Disgusting, isn’t it?’

David turned. A large blond man in a rugby shirt had sat down at the next table; he was staring at the roistering Germans.

He had a kind-of South African accent. David shrugged, not knowing quite what to say.

‘Sorry.’ The man burped. ‘But I overheard your conversation. The waiter is right. Those bastards are celebrating the Nazis. The ascension of Hitler to power.’

He ran fingers through the thick blond hair; he was tall, tanned, vigorous, about thirty-five.

‘And I am German! At least by descent,’ he said. He extended a manly hand. ‘Name is Hans. Hans Petersen. Only come here for the Tafel, best beer in Swakop.’ He smiled again. ‘My people are from Otasha. Cattle farmers.’

David offered his own name, and he introduced Amy.

‘So…’ David tilted a glance at the partying Nazis. ‘Why…do they do it? Is it a joke?’

‘For some of them, yeah.’ Hans swigged from his Tafel. ‘They fly here from Germany and make a big joke of it. They say it is…ironic. Shocking the bourgeois. But for others it is no joke. Some of them are descended from Nazis, or Nazi families, who fled here after the war. Some are from old colonial families – they’ve been celebrating Hitler since 1933.’ He wiped the beer from his lips with a thickly muscled wrist. ‘So what about you?’