Free The Delphi Agenda by Rob Swigart Page B

by a nun. Even the smoothness with which he had been captured and sedated seemed unreal.
    But now, for the first time, he felt real fear. They knew about the girl! “If the Inquisition was not supposed to spill blood,” he said with a ragged smile. “You must be planning a public burning. Of course, that’s not done any more, so I suppose it will have to look like an accident.”
    This time she slammed the barrel of the Glock on the back of his hand. He felt the small bones break and shock flooded him. He bit through his lip, filling his mouth with blood, but did not cry out.
    She crooned, “I thought I had made it clear that the prohibition is no longer in force. The Order has complete discretion in this matter, and has had for a very long time. Only through extreme measures have we been able to bring this matter so close to a final conclusion.”
    Sweat stood out on Rossignol’s forehead, but his voice was steady. “That explains how you could shoot Raimond Foix.” It also meant they didn’t believe it was really finished. Could he find a way to convince them they had won?
    The nun’s wintry smile stretched her thin, dry lips.
    He said, “Since you’re going to kill me, too, why should I tell you anything?”
    The smile faded. “Your choice is between a long and very painful death, or a short, merciful one. God prefers mercy, but this matter is too important to be hindered by weakness. His will must be done.”
    Rossignol forced himself to smile back, feeling the blood slick on his teeth.
    His defiance seemed to unsettle her, for the beads moved more rapidly through her fingers. One of the figures in the shadows stirred and detached from the others. He was a tall, thin man who stayed just outside the circle of light, examining Rossignol. After a moment he struck a match and lit a cigarette. Rossignol couldn’t see the face behind the flare of light.
    After exhaling a long slow plume of smoke the man, speaking a quiet, unhurried French, said, “We have had many centuries of experience in persuasion. You know the Pythos is dead, the last of a long line; there are no successors. We have, over the centuries, killed others, many of them. There is no regret for those deaths; they were necessary. God’s creation must be protected from the satanic plague of paganism and barbarity, with sword and torch and pain, as needed. No price is too high. There really are some things man should not know, M. Rossignol, things that belong to God’s domain and the Holy Mother Church.”
    His voice fell to a low, caressing purr, more ominous even than the nun’s. “Our Order,” he continued smoothly, “has nearly completed its work. With the elimination of Raimond Foix the only institution surviving from the misguided past is finished. You, and perhaps the girl, are merely loose ends, but the Order leaves nothing to chance. It is our sacred duty. Once these matters are settled, we will have fulfilled our destiny. You can only imagine our satisfaction, after all these centuries.”
    He leaned into the light and Rossignol saw an older man with a gray beard. One eye drooped slightly, and his breath carried the strong smell of cigarettes, yet the face was kindly, compassionate. Furrows of concern divided his brows. “My name is Defago. I want you to remember my name for the rest of what life is left to you. We want the rest of the Alberti cipher disk, M. Rossignol.”
    “You’re from Languedoc,” Rossignol said, averting his face. “A Dominican, I would guess, though out of uniform. Are you an Inquisitor? The Inquisition no longer exists.”
    Defago straightened the knot of his black tie and smoothed his lapel. “Don’t play games, M. Rossignol. We are not fools. We know who you are. The Order and its predecessors have been pursuing the Pythos for sixteen centuries. Our struggle has been long, and at times seemed agonizingly slow, but the Order is patient, and now, finally, today, our patience is rewarded. All we want is the