CHAPTER TWENTY

Martin Reid called me first thing the next morning, leading Angel to question if he was actually in league with the very people he was supposed to be working against, since only someone involved with the devil would call at 6:30 A.M.

“Will you be attending today’s event?” he asked.

“I hope so. What about you?”

He grunted.

“I’m a little too well known to mingle unnoticed in such company. Anyway, I had a fraught telephone conversation with our Miss Stern yesterday, during which I stressed once again my unhappiness with her determination to continue with the sale, despite doubts about the provenance and ownership of the box. We’ll have somebody there to keep an eye on what transpires, but it won’t be me.”

Not for the first time, it struck me that there was something wrong with the way in which Reid was dealing with the sale of the Sedlec fragment. The Catholic Church was not short of lawyers, especially in the Commonwealth of Massachusetts, as anyone who had dealt with the archdiocese in the course of the recent abuse scandals could attest. If it were determined to stop the auction from going ahead, Claudia Stern’s business would have been crawling with oleaginous men and women in expensive suits and polished shoes.

“By the way,” he said. “I hear you were asking questions about us.”

I had checked up on both Reid and Bartek after my meeting with them. It took me a while to find anyone who was prepared to admit that they had ever set foot in a church, let alone taken holy orders, but eventually their identities were confirmed to me through Saint Joseph’s Abbey in Spencer, Massachusetts, where both men were staying. Reid was officially based at San Bernardo alle Terme in Rome and was apparently responsible for instructing visiting clerics and nuns about the way of life of Saint Benedict, the saint most closely associated with the rules governing the order, through contemplation of places in which he spent crucial parts of his life: Norica, Subiaco, and Monte Cassino. Bartek worked out of the new monastery of Our Lady of Novy Dvur in the Czech Republic, the first monastery to be built in the Czech Republic since the fall of Communism, and it was still under construction. He had previously lived in the community at Sept-Fons Abbey in France, to which he and a number of other young Czech men had fled in the early 1990s to escape religious persecution in their own country, but had also worked extensively in the United States, mainly at the Abbey of the Genesee in upstate New York. Sept-Fons, I remembered, was the monastery that Bosworth, the elusive FBI agent, had desecrated.

Still, Bartek’s story sounded plausible enough, but Reid didn’t strike me as the type who was content to sit at the front of a tour bus muttering platitudes through a microphone. Interestingly, the monk who explained all this to me-having first cleared it with the head of the order in the United States and, presumably, with Reid and Bartek themselves-told me that the two monks actually represented two distinct orders: Bartek was a Trappist, a group deriving its name from the Abbey of Our Lady of La Trappe in France and formed after a split in the order between those who subscribed to strict observance of silence, austerity, and simple vestments, and those like Reid who preferred a little more laxity in their duties and lifestyles. This latter group was known as the Sacred Order of Citeaux, or the Cistercians of the Common Observance. I also couldn’t help but feel that there was a certain amount of respect, bordering on awe, in the way the monk spoke about the two men.

“I was curious,” I told Reid. “And I also had only your word that you were actually a monk.”

“So what did you learn?” He sounded amused.

“Nothing that you didn’t give them permission to tell me,” I said. “Apparently, you’re a tour guide.”

“Is that what they said?” said Reid. “Well, well. They also serve who only stand and wait at the bus door for latecomers. It’s important that history is not forgotten. That’s why I gave you the cross. I hope you’re wearing it. It’s very old.”

As it happened, I had attached the cross to my key ring. I already wore a cross: a simple Byzantine pilgrim’s cross, over one thousand years old, that my grandfather had given to me as a gift when I graduated high school. I didn’t think that I needed to wear another.

“I keep it close,” I assured him.

“Good. If anything ever happens to me, you can give that a rub and I’ll be in touch from the next world.”

“I’m not sure I find that reassuring,” I said. “Like a great many things about you.”

“Such as?”

“I think you want this auction to go ahead. I don’t think you and your order made more than cosmetic efforts to stop it. For some reason, it’s in your interests that whatever is contained in that last fragment is revealed.”

There was only silence from the other end of the line. Reid might almost have abandoned the phone, were it not for the soft susurration of his breathing.

“And what reason would that be?” he asked, and there was no longer any trace of amusement. Instead, he sounded wary. No, not wary, exactly: he wanted me to figure out the answer, but he wasn’t about to give it to me. Despite all my threats of the combined wrath of Louis and the Fulcis being unleashed upon him, Reid was going to play the game his way, right until the end.

“Maybe you’d like to see the Black Angel too,” I said. “Your order lost it, and now it wants it back.”

Reid tut-tutted, and the mask was restored.

“Close,” said Reid, “but no cigar for you, Mr. Parker. Look after that cross, now, and give my love to Claudia Stern.”

He hung up, and I never spoke to him again.

I met Phil Isaacson at Fanueil Hall, and from there we walked to the auction house. It was clear that Claudia Stern had taken certain precautions for the sale of the map fragment. A sign announced that the house was closed for a private sale and that all inquiries would be dealt with by phone. I rang the bell, and the door was opened by a big man in a dark suit who looked like the only thing he had ever bid on was the option of striking the first blow.

“This is a private event, gentlemen. Invitation only.”

Phil removed the invitations from his pocket. I didn’t know how he had acquired them. They were printed on stiff cards and embossed in gold with the word STERN and the date and time of the auction. The doorman examined them, then looked at both of us closely to make sure that we weren’t about to produce crosses and holy water and start sprinkling the place. Once he was satisfied, he stepped aside to let us through.

“Not quite Fort Knox,” I said.

“Still, more than one would usually encounter. I have to confess, I am rather looking forward to this.”

Phil registered at the desk and was handed a bidding paddle. A young woman in black offered us refreshments from a tray. In fact, there were a lot of people in black present. It looked like the launch of a new Cure album, or the reception after a Goth wedding. We both opted for orange juice, then took the stairs up to the auction room. As I had hoped, there were still people milling about, and we were lost in the throng. I was surprised at the size of the crowd, but even more surprised at the fact that most of them seemed relatively normal, apart from their monochromatic dress sense, although there were a few who looked like they might spend a little too much time alone in the dark pursuing unpleasant activities, including one particularly nasty specimen with pointed nails and a black ponytail who was only one step away from wearing a T-shirt announcing that he suckled at Satan’s nipple.

“Maybe Jimmy Page will be here,” I said. “I should have brought along my copy of Led Zep IV.”

“Jimmy who?” said Phil. I couldn’t tell if he was kidding.