Free The Delphi Agenda by Rob Swigart Page A

prohibition against spilling blood,” she continued, “explains why so many heretics over the years were burned at the stake. No blood flows in fire.” She leaned forward and stared into his face. The beads of her rosary flowed relentlessly. The black veil above the headband fell alongside her head. Her eyes, behind yellow-tinted glasses, were blank ovals. “The blood…,” her tongue darted between her pale lips, “…goes up in smoke.”
    She leaned back with a sharp laugh and closed her eyes, as if relishing this moment.
    They snapped open. “Are you familiar with the Judas Chair?” She stabbed with her crucifix at a stool with a pointed iron pyramid in place of a seat. Vague figures stirred restlessly in the gloom beyond the circle of light.
    Rossignol lowered his chin to his chest in exhaustion.
    “In French it is called
la veille
,” she continued. “I understand this means the Night Watch.” She lingered over each word. The bleak smile returned. “The accused is lowered slowly onto the point. Quite painful, as you can imagine. The accused instinctively tightens the muscles of the anus to keep the point from penetrating. The examiner can adjust the amount of body weight brought to bear, varying the amount of pain. If the accused falls asleep and the muscles relax, the result is regrettable damage. Though it sheds no blood,” she added thoughtfully. “Not on the outside, at least.”
    Rossignol cleared his throat. “Historically, use of such a device is extremely doubtful,” he observed. “Even by the Inquisition.”
    She barked once in what he presumed was a laugh. “We do not speak of history, we speak of the present. The Judas Chair exists; it is right there, not far away. The ropes above it are in place. The examiners are ready.”
    Rossignol said nothing.
    After a few moments she continued, “The disk we found in your pocket, the disk you collected from your apartment… this disk.” She produced it from a pocket in her habit and held it up. The tarnished bronze caught the dim light. “This is part of a fifteenth century enciphering device invented by Leon Battista Alberti.”
    “You’re very well informed.” His tone was dry.
    “We want the rest of it.” She put the disk away and resumed her rosary.
    “I’m sure you do.”
    “You will give it to us.”
    Though his thin chest rose and fell, he said only, “I’ll give you nothing.”
    She sighed. “Regrettable.” She produced a pistol from inside her habit with the same hand holding the rosary. “This is my Glock 17. I love this weapon. I know you saw what it did to the Pythos,” she stated. Her beads clicked against the metal. “We are thorough, you may be sure. This war is ending.”
    “I’m sorry?” Rossignol said. “What war? I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
    She snapped the barrel against his kneecap. Her strength was such that the bone shattered with a dull, wet sound. She ignored Rossignol’s agonized writhing. “Don’t play with me. Foix was your client. He left you instructions and you retrieved the disk. You were going to give it to someone. Our two questions are simple: was it to the girl and where is the rest of the Alberti disk? The girl’s name, by the way, is Elizabeth Sybilla Emmer, thirty-two years old, born in Chicago. She has a doctorate in Classics and works at the Sorbonne. I believe she also does archaeological research in the Egyptian desert. She and Foix are not related, so why is she his heir? I guess that’s a third question,” she added thoughtfully. “But it’s less important than the others. If she is the heir and you were to give her the disk, then we will presume she knows where the rest of it is. Of course we will question her. If she knows anything, anything at all, she is dangerous and will be eliminated.”
    She looked expectantly into Rossignol’s eyes.
    So far the scene had been too preposterous to believe. He was confined in a Medieval dungeon under threat of torture