The Lazarus Mysteries- Omnibus Collection Page 2

  Brodie sighed. “What else is here?” He moved towards a large wall-mounted bookcase groaning with leather-bound first editions. “These are worth a mint, Ulla. Perfect for my collection at home, don’t you think?”

  “No, you don’t ... leave them be. Remember, we’re ethical robbers not common thieves.” She pushed him away and pointed upstairs. “Our information indicates the icons are mounted in the main bedroom. So, let’s get up there, grab them, and get out of here.”

  They reached the top of the staircase and headed for the main bedroom at the far end of the corridor. It had two large grey Gothic style doors.

  “There it is.” She pointed.

  “How are we doing on time?”

  Ulla checked her watch. “We’re on par. We have seven minutes to get back to the car.”

  As expected, the bedroom was huge; circular with en suite facilities, walk-in cupboards and closets. It was perfect and neat, with nothing out of place. But there wasn’t time to admire the fixtures and fittings. Brodie swung his gaze around the walls and saw what they had come for. Positioned on each side of the bed were two icons, resplendent in golden and red hues. With their reproachful Byzantine facial expressions, they stared down at him.

  “Not my cup of tea.” Brodie gestured at the pair.

  “Nor mine. God knows what our client sees in them.”

  “Something to do with his family. He has a connection with these icons. That’s his business. So, let’s get them wrapped and bagged and leave this place.”

  Eight minutes later, the 4x4 fired up and headed back the way it had come. The Martin Miguel airport at Salta, the provincial capital, was a good two-and-a-half hour’s drive. A private jet was waiting for them.

  CHAPTER 2

  Toledo, Spain

  1553 A.D.

  Because he was twelve years old, and busy with producing drawings and paintings that were the love of his young life, Francisco’s periods of prayer were not as frequent as he would have wished. Yet, in the last few days, he felt an overpowering desire to put that right.

  For his age, he was not atypical. His build was slight, with dark hair and curious deep brown eyes, staring out from behind his smooth olive skin. As if giving evidence of his prodigious artistic ability, his hands and fingers were slender, elongated, and tapering off almost to a point. He promised himself he would set aside his paints one morning and attend mass at the Cathedral.

  Later that evening, his father, who rarely spoke about prayer or church, but often of his vineyard and wine, had discussed the awfulness and sinful nature of one of his worker’s reckless remarks concerning God. He’d overheard the man cursing Him, shaking his fist at the sky and calling Him a bastard. For that, his papa announced, he was going to get rid of him. At the same time, he fixed Francisco with a withering stare.

  “Don’t ever let me hear you say such things, son. There are mysteries in this world that only God knows of, or those with whom he chooses to share them with.”

  Francisco bent his head and cast his eyes downward. “Yes, papa. I could never say such things.”

  “Promise?”

  “I promise, papa. I promise.”

  That night, after he had gone to bed and said his prayers, Francisco thought about what his father had said and what sort of mysteries he meant. Unable to come up with an answer, he drifted to sleep, but not before he resolved to go to the Cathedral in the morning. That would please his father. It would also satisfy the strange longing he was experiencing. He’d enjoyed going to church, and it was time to feel that pleasure again.

  The cries of the crows woke him early. Francisco had never got used to their noise. They were always fighting. Spring had arrived, and daylight broke much sooner. As he prepared, what his father said the night before remained with him. The thought of saying such an awful thing about God made him uncomfortable.

  The Cathedral was an hour’s brisk walk away, and that morning his father was unable to go with him. He was expecting wine merchants, and his mother would have to stay and see to the cooking.

  “You’re old enough, and the way is straight. So yes, Francisco, I would be pleased to see you go. And while you’re there, say a prayer for us both. Don’t dawdle back or get in with those gypsy boys. They can only get you into trouble.”

  After breakfast, he waved goodbye to his parents and left. On the way, he saw many people he knew and exchanged greetings with. Some were his father’s customers, and some were people he knew from the market. He avoided the gypsy boys. But this morning, he felt no desire to be with others and preferred his own company. He strode with purpose along the track.

  In the distance, he could see the small city of Toledo dominated by the imposing silhouette of the Primate Cathedral of Saint Mary. Francisco lifted his head towards the sky to feel both wind and sun shower down their offerings upon him. It gave him a happy glow. Soon, he was passing into the narrow, shady streets, squares, and beneath numerous archways surrounding the great building.

  §

  Francisco sat in blissful devotion within the coolness of the Chapterhouse, the Sala Capitular. Such was the ardour of his immersion, he lost awareness of time. To open his eyes would be an affront to the sanctity that now possessed him.

  He listened hard but heard no external sounds.

  He was cocooned in an awareness of the overwhelming wonder of God’s breath entering his young mouth, accompanied with the unique aroma of the Cathedral’s frankincense. It was heady, luscious, and more exotic than his paints and their inimitable smells. He held the moment, letting it stretch into a timeless realm.

  Of their own accord, his eyelids fluttered open and he suspended his quivering breath.

  Things were as they had been one hour ago, except they now possessed a beauty he’d never seen before ... a beauty of bewildering colours, of dazzling gold and silver, never ending perspectives of harmony, and perfection of structure and dimension.

  He looked down at the wooden stool he was sitting on and saw the large crack running the full length of the leg. He could only smile, for he now knew that the crack, insignificant, and for some a blemish, contained a symmetry equal to any of the great works of art to be found in Spain. Lifting his head, he enjoyed a feeling of serenity, asleep and cocooned in his mother’s womb was the closest image that came into his mind. Where this wonder and timelessness came from, he couldn’t explain. It was then his eyes were drawn to the many frescos around the walls painted by Juan de Borgoña. These were hailed as the most magnificent religious paintings of their genre in Christendom. They were depicted in a glorious variety of reds, blues, purples, and vibrant yellows, scenes depicting the healing miracles performed by Christ. They completed the sacredness of the Chapterhouse.

  Francisco marvelled at Borgoña’s work, its vibrancy, its realism, unique for its time. Although he had not been taught, he found he understood Borgoña’s technique intuitively ... the positioning of his characters blending into a perspective, highlighting the subject matter. He sensed the structure and the passion behind his interpretations. Each work showed a healing—the blind made to see, the lame to walk, the lepers cured and the raising of the dead. It was the huge fresco on the far wall depicting Lazarus being brought back to life that captured his attention. Francisco was transfixed. The whole of his being responded in a mysterious rapture as he gazed on the yellow shroud that covered Lazarus and the white-robed figure of Christ, who with one hand raised, was addressing Lazarus’s dormant body.

  As he studied the work, it seemed to move! Francisco gasped out loud and struggled for breath. The shroud had shifted, and the form of Lazarus had become visible as he appeared to support himself on one elbow to look into the face of Christ, whose body was surrounded by a golden aura. Christ then lowered his hand, turned his head, and directed His gaze towards Francisco.

  Francisco collapsed.

  How long he had lain there on the stone floor, Francisco had no idea. He sat up. His head buzzed, and he could see he was alone. Everyt
hing was as it had always been in the Sala Capitular. Had he just fainted? he wondered. He sensed that an extraordinary event had occurred.

  His entire body tingled. The colours around him remained the same, and the dimensions no different to his previous visits. The frescos were as magnificent as ever. The Lazarus fresco was as it was, unchanged. Yet, he was looking at it in a different way. There were no clues or signs to tell him what had happened.

  He stood with caution. A blaze of colours played through his mind, vanishing as fast as they appeared. His whole being, physical and mental, had a lightness that left him feeling as if he could fly. He turned, paused to think, and decided to return home. Perhaps his parents could give him an explanation.

  He walked through the city and observed along its walls the ancient and uneven brickwork formed with rough mortar and wondered how he could capture its texture and colour with his paints. He passed old alleyways with crumbling arches, bricks warm and weathered, and questioned why he’d never noticed them before. Entering the market place, he was astonished to realise it was a living thing. It was alive with colourful foods, meats, fish and vegetables from all regions; plus, clothes and textiles being hawked by their merchants.

  Francisco became conscious that a door he’d not known of had opened in his mind. Was this one of the mysteries of which his father had spoken?

  Stepping outside of the city’s main portal, the gentle wind possessed warmth, although the sun’s glare caused him to shield his eyes. He strode out of the city and once outside the walls of Toledo, Francisco set off in a daze along the dusty brown track that zigzagged its way back to his father’s house.

  CHAPTER 3

  The Hofburg Palace

  Vienna, Austria

  The present day…

  The Juristenball was in full swing. An atmosphere of struggling elegance pervaded the ballroom as dresses swirled, perfumes wafted, and men of all ages in starched shirts and evening dress attempted to look casual.

  Sir Maxwell Throgmorton, former UK High Court judge, stood alone on the balcony, smoking as he gazed around at the building’s curvature and down at the cultural magnificence of the Heldenplatz and the statue of Prince Eugene of Savoy on horseback. The ball was an annual event and primary for those involved in the legal profession: judges, lawyers, students and others involved in the judiciary. He’d been formally invited.

  His hosts knew nothing of his reasons for retiring early in his career.

  He’d left London and hadn’t been practising for three years. His departure had been an escape from the ignominy of facing possible arrest and police charges. He could imagine the headlines in the papers, Famous Judge Arrested. Possible Criminal Charges. A discreet voice in his ear had said all would be forgotten if he disappeared. If he didn’t, they could not guarantee what might happen to him.

  Drawing deeply on his cigarette, he mulled over the events that led to his exodus. Too many important establishment figures had their fingers in the pie. They’d been afraid he’d expose them, and he would have. So, to avoid more trouble, he announced his retirement. He was fifty-three. It didn’t appear unreasonable although judges went on for many years past that age. He had moved to Vienna, a city he had always adored. Now, three years later, he looked fitter than ever. At a trim six feet and in good health, he was in better condition than ten years ago. His face was pale as he avoided sunlight as much as possible. It remained unlined and he had a full head of tangled hair. Too many people didn’t want him back in the UK. He feared for his freedom and safety, yet the thought of returning was never far away. So, he’d learned to be content living his life as a disaffected expat, scouring around the rich and famous notaries of Europe.

  The night was warm, sticky, and a quarter moon hung without enthusiasm in the sky, offering its faint glow across the plaza. The filtered gaiety from behind him contrasted with the silence that stretched out for what seemed like forever. He couldn’t deny that the sight of Austria’s top legal fraternity dancing and drinking was a sharp contrast to his introspection as he stood gazing into the heavens. He let the ash drop from his cigarette, reached into the inside pocket of his tuxedo, and pulled out a gold case that he’d filled with twenty cigarettes before he’d left for the ball. There were twelve left. Smoking was a habit he wished he could abandon but had never mastered. He lit another and found himself reviewing his whole life and the past activities that had brought him to this moment.

  He’d never escaped the notion that his privileged background, his education, Charterhouse and Cambridge, gave him superiority---a natural assumption that he wasn’t of the herd. He’d always known he had the ability to do whatever he wished. It was in his blood. He found the process of study boring for its unbelievable easiness. With a first-class degree, he went into law. The mandatory processes applied, and his rapid rise ensured that at forty-six, he became the youngest High Court judge ever. Successful as he’d become, it lacked real challenge. It was too simple. He would have preferred a more risqué life. However, he discovered that convention and the route into respectability had advantages. Both his marriages gave him access to the wealthiest strata of society. Lady Isabella McKenna was his first choice. She’d possessed enormous wealth and it hadn’t been for her good looks that he’d married her. She was by any degree plain… plain in the extreme. She perished in a yachting accident off the coast of Cannes. His grieving picture made the national newspapers, as did his next wedding eighteen-months later to Ruth Overberg. She was pretty, intelligent, and the only daughter of the international financier and banker, Donald Overberg.

  Maxwell exhaled another lungful of cigarette smoke and watched its greyness rise lazily into the cool night air before it vanished forever.

  His thoughts turned to love. It was an emotion he had little experience of. Ruth got as near to that for him as was possible. He still thought of her and was surprised to feel pangs of sadness at her absence. The never-ending social whirl of their life together ended once she’d discovered the true reason for his retirement. She left him. Now living in Zurich, she had, apart from the divorce, granted him one thing. She promised him she wouldn’t reveal anything of his circumstances. He still didn’t believe that. Ruth had never been able to keep her mouth shut.

  Crooks, villains, bent bankers, financiers, politicians, judges, lawyers, solicitors, all had added spice to his life, making it interesting, more rewarding. For the right fee, anything was possible; reduced sentence, acquittal, procurements, insider trading, and anything else that required a legal stamp of some sort. He had the right contacts. There was always someone who could help.

  A perk of the job, he reasoned.

  For many years, he had managed to keep his double life hidden. That secret had teetered on the edge of exposure. A journalist, Desmond O’Keefe from The Times, had been tipped off about possible irregularities between government and the judiciary. Through a process of elimination, O’Keefe’s investigations had pointed directly at him and a handful of his associates.

  He paused and lit another cigarette. The memories were raw, stressful, and caused him to tighten his lips.

  It had been an almost fool-proof idea.

  Two government ministers had negotiated with a contractor to build three major privately-run prisons: one juvenile in Penrith, and the other two in Anglesey and the Isle of Dogs. Without their input, the prisons would not have been built. The ministers were on a kick-back, and the price had been over inflated. Prisons require prisoners. The more prisoners and the longer they stayed locked up, the more money went to the operator and contractor who, unknown to anybody apart from those involved in the scam, were close cousins. Throgmorton considered what he had done. Using two other judges who were important to the success of the scheme, they handed down severe maximum sentences for every offence, no matter how minor or ludicrous. The prisons were kept full. Between them, the three judges netted a cool £3.5 million.

  What the ministers required was action to prevent O’Keefe from exposing the ent
ire scam. They leaned on Throgmorton to use his knowledge of the underworld. He did. O’Keefe’s body was later found drifting down the Thames. The report that he’d entitled ‘Lags for Cash’ plus all traces of his records and research … vanished. The ministers were pleased but decided that he, Throgmorton, was now a liability. If he retired quietly, nobody would be any the wiser. If he didn’t ... well, he too might be found in the watery coldness of the Thames. He considered the proposal. Why not? He’d made a small fortune together with added excitement. It’s time for some new venture.

  He gave a start and turned around with a scowl as somebody tapped on his shoulder. He recognised Dr. Marcus Urbanek, Public Prosecutor from the Federal Ministry of Justice. He didn’t know the woman with him. He disliked disturbances unless they were of his own making.

  “Sir Maxwell, I’m so sorry to startle you but I’ve been looking for you all evening, and then I thought it was you standing here.” Peering over his steel rimless glasses, he offered his hand.

  Throgmorton shook it. “Hello, Marcus. Good to see you.” He wasn’t sure about that statement and the man’s hand remained as damp and podgy as it had been the previous month when they had met at the opera.

  “Allow me to introduce you to a close friend of mine, from Spain, the Condesa Maria Francisca de Toledo.” He stepped back and with a flourish of his arm, ushered her forward.

  She was a tall, spidery looking middle-aged woman, dressed in black with a severe countenance that oozed a confidence born of her upbringing and the certainty of years. Her dark hair was pulled back into a tight bun, with no attempt to disguise the obvious grey streaks that reminded him of aircraft vapour across a dark night’s sky. Deep brown eyes hinted at a long and distinguished history. The jewellery had an expensive aura. He couldn’t fail to notice the discreet diamond and pearl Riviere necklace and the hefty ring on her finger, a large oval sapphire surrounded by diamonds worth God knows how many hundreds of thousands. This had to be a lady worth knowing.