When he reached the top, O’Hara was instantly overwhelmed by the eeriness. It was not so much the place as the ambience of the place: the hooded monk, a faceless spectre bent over the crank of the basket; the monastery itself, an adobe maze commanding the cramped mountain top like some medieval gaol, its squat, weather-scarred buildings, connected haphazardly by roofed walkways; and underscoring it all, a chilling and constant moaning pierced by an occasional scream that reminded O’Hara of Dante’s description of the torments of hell.
Billy and the Magician were huddled in the low arched doorway of what appeared to be the main building.
‘I am Frere Clef,’ the hooded monk said.
‘O’Hara. This is Mike Rothschild, and you know Billy.’
‘Oui. Bonsoir, mon ami.’
‘Bonsoir,’ the Haitian replied.
Frere Clef turned back to O’Hara. ‘You should know that those who have joined our order have taken a vow of silence,’ he said. ‘I am the gatekeeper. By tradition, I alone may converse with visitors.’
He spoke softly, his accent a hybrid. British, a touch of French, perhaps even a bit of Spanish.
‘We understand you are here to see the man with the umbrella and that you are sympathetic with his plight.’
‘That’s correct,’ O’Hara said.
‘Bon. Please follow me.’
Billy elected to wait in the grim anteroom while the monk led O’Hara and the Magician along walkways that protected them from the rain. They went down through the catacomb-like monastery, past doors with barred windows, and suddenly O’Hara realized where the wailing was coming from and why, and the name of the place made sense for the first time.
La Montagne des Yeux Vides: the Mountain of the Empty Eyes.
Well-named. Lifeless eyes peered out at them from behind bars, arms reached out to touch them, and with each crack of lightning, a chorus of woe arose from the lips of inmates.
The monastery was an insane asylum, the silent monks its caretakers.
The Magician cast O’Hara an apprehensive look and rolled his eyes heavenward.
Another crack of lightning, another chorus from the damned.
They entered the last of the buildings and went down a short flight of wide stone stairs. Torches flickered in sconces on the bare walls of the grim, winding hallway. The building, chilled by rain and wind, smelled dank and foreboding.
The hooded man stopped at the first cell. ‘I have told him you are coming,’ he said. ‘But his reaction may be ... a bit startling.’
‘Frere Clef, is Danilov insane?’
‘You didn’t know? Oh yes, Brother Umbrella is quite mad. He seeks repentance in his madness.’ The monk peered through the barred door. ‘You will find that he ... what is the word — meanders? He meanders in and out of the real world.’
‘Are you treating him?’ the Magician asked,
‘lam afraid those who have been sent to Les Yeux Vides are beyond treatment. Brother Umbrella was brought to us by friends, but he asked to be secluded here.’
‘He asked to be brought here?’ said the Magician.
‘Yes. He was suffering extreme paranoia and had become occasionally irrational. He thought everyone was trying to kill him. He even believes his umbrella is deadly.’
Believes! O’Hara thought. Obviously the monks of Les Yeux Vides did not know who Danilov really was. Or care. And they thought his deadly umbrella was harmless.
‘How long has he been here?’ O’Hara asked.
‘Four months. And since coming here, he has slipped further away from reality.’ He pointed to a bell beside the door. ‘You may ring the bell when you are finished. Oh, one other thing. He believes this is his home. He does not realize he is one of them. Good luck.’
The monk unlocked the door and slid back the large shot-bolt lock.
‘Monsieur, you have guests,’ he said and padded silently back up the stairs.
They entered the room cautiously, remaining near the door, and their eyes were assaulted by flickering candlelight. Candles were everywhere, casting a ghoulish yellow light over Danilov’s cell — or cells — for it was actually two cells connected by an arch carved through the stone wall. The main room was a surprise: there was a large oak table, pushed against the wall opposite the arch, covered with papers and notebooks; a large bookcase, choked with books in many languages against another wall; a cot with several down pillows opposite it; a small table beside the cot; a high-backed chair at the desk, and two others shoved haphazardly in corners. The walls were covered with maps, photographs of flowers and wild animals, and a small black-and-white photograph of downtown Sofia, the capital of Bulgaria, which appeared to be a dismal, grim-looking city.
The other room contained a bed, a night table and a large, bulky free-standing closet. Nothing more.
There was a large vase of daisies on the floor near the desk, where Daniov was sitting, pen in hand, bent over a sheaf of papers and writing furiously.
‘Un moment, un moment,’ he said with the wave of a hand. And when he had finished what he was working on, he turned around. His face told the whole story, for here was a man haunted by his own ghosts, driven to insanity by age, conscience and fear; an assassin, urged further into madness by his own bizarre, self-imposed imprisonment; a madman sequestered among madmen, totally oblivious of his predicament. His cabbage-face was
