The Aztec Heresy by Paul Christopher

the Vatican Watch?’’
    ‘‘Good Lord, not another secret society!’’ Billy laughed.
    The old man smiled. ‘‘Nothing secret about it at all, although we don’t advertise our existence very strenuously.’’
    ‘‘What is Vatican Watch?’’ Finn asked.
    ‘‘An association of concerned Catholics, lay members as well as those like myself, people with a religious vocation. We monitor the activities of certain groups within the Holy See. Discreetly. One would assume that the Vatican of all places could police its own activities, but events of the last hundred years or so have sadly confounded that hypothesis.’’
    ‘‘ Quis custodiet ipsos custodes? ’’ Billy nodded.
    ‘‘The benefits of a classical education, I see,’’ said the old man.
    ‘‘Who shall watch the watchers?’’ translated Finn. ‘‘You learn a few things in public school as well.’’
    ‘‘Quite so,’’ the old man said. ‘‘You’re quite right to chide me. I’ve become something of a snob in my old age.’’ He dipped his cookie again. ‘‘Plato, and later Juvenal, were perfectly correct. The watchers are not capable of watching themselves since any position is corruptible. Thus, the monitoring must fall to those outside the organization being monitored. That is the origins of Vatican Watch.’’
    ‘‘And Vatican Watch has been monitoring Cavallo Nero ?’’
    ‘‘Yes. For many years.’’
    ‘‘What does any of this have to do with Cortéz and the Codex?’’ Finn asked, her tone a little frustrated.
    ‘‘Nothing directly,’’ said the old man. ‘‘But Cavallo Nero has made a number of somewhat disreputable alliances over the years to further their cause.’’
    ‘‘What sort of alliances?’’ Billy asked.
    ‘‘Dangerous ones,’’ said the old man. ‘‘It is not so much the Codex but where the Codex leads that is important. Equally, it is the people along the way to that destination who we find disturbing.’’
    ‘‘Who?’’ Finn asked bluntly.
    ‘‘It is not my place to say. In fact, if anything, my purpose is to warn you against pursuing this matter any further.’’
    ‘‘And if we decide not to heed your warning?’’
    ‘‘Then go with God,’’ said the old man. ‘‘But before that I suggest you visit a friend of mine.’’
    ‘‘Who?’’
    ‘‘His name is Pierre Jumaire. He lives in Paris. He operates a bookstore on the rue de la Huchette. Perhaps he can guide you better than I.’’

7
    Rue de la Huchette is a short narrow street on the Left Bank of the Seine one block in from the river and the Quai St. Michel. The street runs between rue de Petit Pont on the east and Boulevard St. Michel on the west. ‘‘Huchette’’ is probably an archaic bastardization of the word ‘‘hachette,’’ or ‘‘hatchet,’’ which stands to reason since the street was once predominantly occupied by charcoal burners, who must have chopped a great deal of the hardwood from the local forests that grew in what was at one time the outskirts of Paris.
    For most of the twentieth century rue de la Huchette was an eclectic mix of cafés, small hotels, and neighborhood shops that ranged from Le Garage de Terreur to a pawnshop named Aux Temps Dificiles, and a brothel called Le Panier Fleuri. It formed the backdrop for dozens of movies, and by the fifties it had been made famous in at least two books, The Last Time I Saw Paris and Springtime in Paris.
    By the beginning of the twenty-first century all that had changed. Mado, Daisy, Consuelo, and Amandine, once the favorites at Le Panier Fleuri, were all great-grandmothers, and Monge the horse butcher was long dead, as was his trade. L’Oursin, the man who’d once sold chestnuts outside the Pharmacie Rabat at the corner of the narrow alley romantically known as rue de Chat Qui Peche—Street of the Fishing Cat—vanished the day Kennedy was shot and was never heard from again. The street was now filled with Greek restaurants offering