Carolyn Jourdan - Nurse Phoebe 03 - The School for Psychics

by Carolyn Jourdan

  A monk and then another nun arrived a couple of minutes apart. J.J. took his leave of Sister Violette and he and Phoebe left with their new escorts, Brother Matthieu and Sister Émilie.

  The four of them continued on through the main Abbey complex to the Infirmary and then they started down. Nobody was saying anything, so Phoebe tried to go along for the ride without asking any questions. They came to a dimly lit tunnel with rounded stone walls. Not another tunnel. What was it about blind guys and tunnels? Phoebe couldn’t help herself. She asked, “Where are we?”

  “The old sewers,” J.J. said.

  Phoebe was grateful they hadn’t been used in a looooong time. They were dry and smelled only of dirt. They went through a metal door that required a keypad code, a card reader, and an iris reader.

  “Wow,” Phoebe said. That seemed redundant to her, but she took it as an indication of the significance of what was on the other side.

  Brother Matthieu explained, “Real security requires something you know, like a code, something you have, like a card, and something you are, like a fingerprint or a retina scan.”

  Seeing the extent of the security measures made her embarrassed that she’d been the person who’d spent the last several hours clutching a bag full of stuff that needed to be protected this well.

  The security door opened into an elevator car. If they were already in the sewers, what was below a sewer? Hell? The environment was certainly warming up from being outside in the snow, but it certainly wasn’t hot enough to roast anyone. At least not yet.

  They took a ride and the elevator door opened again, this time into a small featureless lobby where the nun used a keypad, a card reader, and got her eyeball scanned again. There was a loud click and she opened a door for them.

  They were in a control room now with a bank of keyboards and monitors. Phoebe scanned a few of the monitors and saw images of storage areas.

  J.J. said, “Stay with us,” in a commanding tone and she realized they were waiting for her before passing through another security door. She followed them into the room that Phoebe would thereafter consider the Indiana Jones room, or something out of The Librarian films.

  J.J. felt her balk. He leaned close to her ear and whispered, “Welcome to my world.”

  “What is it?” she whispered back.

  “The place where religion and science meet,” he said.

  * * *

  They stood at an immense table made of a single concrete slab polished to a mirror-like shine.

  “You may show them the objects,” J.J. said.

  Phoebe forced herself to loosen her death grip on the case and set it on the table. She opened it and removed the objects one at a time and set them out in a row. “This is from Chambord,” she said, indicating the book she’d taken from the wall in the studiolo. “And the rest are from Mr. Botsaris at Menars.”

  No one moved. The monk and nun stood staring at the items.

  “Émilie, the books are for you,” J.J. said. “The jewel is for you, Matthieu.”

  Phoebe leaned over and shoved the box containing the diamond toward the monk.

  “Let’s be seated,” suggested J.J.

  “Begin transcription please,” he said to no one in particular, then he started speaking to the air, recounted the details of when, where, and how he and Phoebe gained custody, as he phrased it, of each of the items.

  When he was finished, Sister Émilie opened the wrapping of the Chambord book and dictated a careful description of the object and her preliminary findings. She repeated the procedure for each of the other books. She confirmed J.J.’s authentication of them.

  When she was finished, Brother Matthieu opened the box with the big diamond and did the same. When he was finished, J.J. said, “End transcription please.”

  * * *

  Émilie and Matthieu let out huge sighs at almost the same instant, and then sat silently staring at the treasures on the table.

  Matthieu spoke first. “Where would you like the diamond to be stored? Geology or Joaillerie?”

  “The sister specimen is one of the most famous jewels in the world, so let’s go with Joaillerie, but you should call Geoffrey at your first convenience and let him have a look and enter his observations into the record.

  “The books, of course, should go to translation and decryption, as soon as possible. The cardiod must be maintained in the highest possible security at all times. We need to find a new way to keep that under wraps, immediately, and at whatever cost that requires.”

  “It will be done,” Sister Émilie said.

  “Anything else?” J.J. asked. “I’ll pick up any outstanding files on my way out.”

  * * *

  Brother Matthieu escorted Phoebe and J.J. out through the security doors and left them at the sewer tunnels. They would be able to go the rest of the way on their own. When they were out of earshot, Phoebe said, “You seemed to be sorta in charge here. Are you their boss?”

  “I am of a higher rank, yes.”

  “Why do you live in Hawaii if your office is here?”

  “That would defeat the purpose.”

  “Which is … what exactly?”

  “The last place I want to be is in the vault, because I carry the duplicate record in case this place is robbed or damaged. I’m the backup plan—a human flash drive in case the electronic files are corrupted or compromised.”

  “Le Archiviste!” Phoebe said. “You are Le Archiviste! I get it now. Your blindness! It gives you the extra room to save all the data!”

  J.J. nodded. “You must never mention any of this again. No matter what. Promise me.”

  “I promise,” she said. “Gosh, it’s like a movie. You’re the Archivist and I’m the Tracker. I feel so … Mission Impossible!”

  “I would never have told you any of this, but it is because of you that we have the items, particularly the cardiod which is truly priceless. You deserve to know. And your personal protection, your spiritual guardians allowed us to bring the items to safety.”

  J.J. smiled. He was obviously relieved to have retrieved.

  “So is our job over now?” asked Phoebe.

  “Yes, it is, thank God. Now we can go home.”

  Phoebe was disappointed. “Can’t we see some of the sights before we go back? These trips are always so rushed.”

  J.J. laughed at her.

  “Fly all night, case a world famous castle, grab a snack and a nap, rob a world heritage site, run for our lives, drive in a blizzard, have near death experiences, get given the other half of the Hope diamond and a book that can change the course of world history, race along the Loire, walk through a sewer, toss the valuables in a safe and go home.”

  She was laughing so hard she grabbed J.J.’s arm for support. He put his arms around her and she hugged him back.

  “What a charming tableau,” a man’s voice said from the gloom down the tunnel.

  Chapter 24.

  A man was walking toward them. He got close enough so Phoebe could see it was the Prince of New Orleans, their tour guide from Versailles. She’d forgotten his actual name. She smiled and started forward to greet him, but J.J. squeezed her arm hard to stop her. Uh oh.

  The Prince walked closer and when he did Phoebe realized there were three men with him, but they were wearing dark clothing and hanging back in the shadows “Don’t stop on my account,” the Prince said. “You were just getting to the good part. You both looked sooo happy.”

  J.J. kept a tight grip on Phoebe but moved to stand in front of her. He said nothing, though, so Phoebe also remained silent.

  “Love in a Sewer isn’t a very appealing title,” said the Prince, “but Phantom of the Opera is already taken.” He laughed at his own joke. “Seeing you here, together like this, makes me want to burst into Music of the Night.”

  Phoebe knew he’d called the Boss about the renovations at Versailles, so she assumed he had some connection to Fontevraud, too. But the way he was talking and the fact that J.J. wasn�
�t responding made it clear that something was terribly wrong. At Versailles, he’d spoken English with effort and with a heavy accent. Now it was obvious he was fluent.

  “I seem to have run into you on your way out,” the Prince said. “That’s unfortunate.”

  J.J. bent to Phoebe’s ear and said in a barely audible whisper, “Run.” Phoebe didn’t understand what was happening. She stood rooted to the spot, confused. He shoved her, and said louder, “Now! Go!”

  She didn’t want to leave him, but she did as he said and took off, headed back the way they’d come. It was difficult to run with her bad ankle, though. She got almost out of sight, but when she turned to look back over her shoulder she tripped over her cane and went down hard.

  She lay there, horrified, unable to get up. She’d blown her ankle out totally this time.

  J.J. walked back to where she lay.

  He knelt down next to her and put his hands out to identify her position and feel what was going on. She was breathing through clenched teeth, trying not to cry. “Did you reinjure your ankle?” he asked calmly, as if nothing else was going on.

  “Ahh, hhhhh,” was all she could manage to say, but he took that for a yes.

  He ran his hands over her lower leg gently. He didn’t feel any displacements or awkward positions, but above the splint her ankle was already ballooning to an alarming degree. She was bleeding underneath the skin.

  He lifted her head into his lap and smoothed her hair back from her face. “Are you hurt anywhere else?” She shook her head because she didn’t trust herself to speak without bursting into tears and she knew he could feel the movement. “You didn’t hurt your wrists or a knee when you fell?”

  She shook her head again.

  The Prince was taking his time getting to them. But no one was fooled. He was after them. This was not a good situation. J.J. didn’t need to explain. Clearly the Prince was a bad guy who wanted something they’d just locked up very securely.

  Through a haze of pain Phoebe vaguely remembered J.J. telling her she had protection as a courier. She lay there watching the Prince and his men come toward her and began to suspect that the protection was for the objects and not for the couriers. That was unfortunate.

  Mr. Bourbon Street and his men came closer. Each of the men standing behind the Prince carried a Pelican case. Phoebe recognized them as the hard-sided protective cases for expensive electronics or delicate equipment. They were color-coded by size. One of the men held a small red one, another had the medium sized yellow, and the man farthest away had a large black case. The big case was so heavy the man carrying it set it down rather than hold it while he waited.

  “Be careful with the woman,” the Prince warned. “She has quite a high kick, that one. Just like a dancer. But maybe not such much now.” He kicked at her injured foot and she winced.

  Phoebe wasn’t focused on what the Prince was saying, though. All her attention was directed to J.J.

  “And the blind one fancies himself a boxer.”

  “Come a little closer and I’ll give you a demonstration,” J.J. said.

  “I must say you are an entertaining pair. And amazingly effective burglars. That was quite unexpected. It’s so rare to see anything really and truly surprising these days. And to demonstrate a new skill like that at your age, and with your, well, how should I put this, physical challenges was very impressive.”

  Well, Phoebe thought, now she knew who’d sent the men in the black Range Rover to chase them around in Chambord.

  “I know you’re dying to ask, but are too polite, so I’ll confess. When you were at Versailles, I placed a bit of nanotechnology on your coat so we could track you. We lost you when you left it in the hotel, but thank goodness we’ve managed to meet up with you again.”

  So he was after the book from Chambord. He didn’t even know about the treasures from Menars. That was good news.

  “Search them,” the Prince barked. One of his men stepped forward and professionally searched both J.J. and Phoebe. He even examined the ankle splint, but was gentle and didn’t hurt her. “No weapons, no valuables.”

  “That’s what I feared,” the Prince sighed. “You’ve put your discovery into the vault already, haven’t you? That’s inconvenient.”

  He crossed his arms and studied them. “Fortunately, I anticipated that possibility and we’ve brought a few things with us.”

  Phoebe wondered if they had explosives in the Pelican cases.

  “Although I would truly enjoy hurting both of you, and even blowing this place up, I won’t if you will answer my questions.”

  “What do you want to know?” J.J. asked, in a neutral tone.

  The Prince laughed. “Everything.”

  “Everything?” J.J. repeated.

  “Oui.”

  “Well, okay, but you’ve gotta know that’s gonna to take awhile. I’m an academic and we can get pretty longwinded. Did you bring a recording device? I don’t want to be immodest, but I know a lot. There’s no way a guy like you could remember even half of it.”

  “Someone like me?” the Prince said, incredulous. “You think you are more intelligent than I am? I assure you that is not the case.”

  “No offense. All I meant was that you can see. And all those little home movies you’ve saved up in your memory banks take up a shitload of space in your brain. It’s sorta like I’m all text files while you’ve got jpegs and video hogging your hard drive.”

  Phoebe marveled at the surreal scene. The two men were talking to each other like they were at a cocktail party. Was this the result of generations of French noble breeding? Or was it simply an affectation they believed they owed their ancestors? Whatever the reason, it was way too much we are the makers of manners for Phoebe’s taste. She wanted to smack somebody and get this party started.

  Among her people violence was the easiest thing in the world to provoke. Appalachians could go from a standing start to all out war in an instant. That was why the local people had developed soft, elliptical ways of speaking, and hyper-polite manners, to ensure that blood wasn’t spilled unless it was absolutely unavoidable.

  Hillbillies were raised to be experts at producing mayhem. It was a key feature of Appalachian genetic and cultural heritage. She listened to J.J. and the Prince and realized that maybe hillbillies and French nobility weren’t so different after all. The foreplay was different, but the result was still a brawl.

  “Perhaps you have a point,” the Prince conceded. “Our conversation should be conducted in more congenial surroundings. I have just the place. Actually I have a lot of places, but how about a place,” he said giving it the French pronunciation. “Place Vendome. I have an hôtel particulier there,” he looked at Phoebe and explained, “That’s French for a really big house.”

  He stooped and grabbed J.J. under one arm to help him stand. J.J. leaned away from him and the Prince gave him a vicious slap across the face.

  He fights like a woman, Phoebe thought, in surprise. Now she was a lot less scared of him. Where she came from even women didn’t fight like women. They were taught far more effective tactics.

  “Let’s go!” the Prince snapped.

  This decision to forcibly move them sparked something in Phoebe’s pain-fogged brain. She remembered Oprah repeating with emphasis to never let a kidnapper or carjacker take you to a different location. Even if they were holding a gun on you, Oprah said you were always far better off not going to a second location with a bad person.

  Phoebe had a lot more confidence in Oprah right now than anyone else she could think of. That, and she’d had enough. “Let go a him! You should be ashamed of yerself, roughin’ up a blind man.”

  Her accent got noticeably heavier when she was angry, “Whur I come from, we don’t slap handicapped people around. I never seen anybody do it, until now. Honestly, it makes ye look sorta depraved.”

  The Prince smiled and bowed, “C,a c’est moi, the refined product of a thousand years of depravity.”

  When
he said that, Phoebe totally lost her temper. This guy was just bad. She hated to waste time and effort on people who were just bad. “I know you think I’m just a hillbilly woman and no match for the likes a you, but I’d like to see you try some of your sissy French fighting skills on me. I’ll smack you into next week.”

  “I’m sure that would be most amusing, but not yet,” he said. “You and I, we will chat later. I promise.” He threw her a kiss and reached down and grabbed a handful of J.J.’s hair and shouted, “Get up!”

  “I tole you not to touch him!” Phoebe said, kicking out with her good leg and making powerful contact with the Prince’s man parts. At the same time J.J. punched him in the face.

  He went flying backwards into one of his henchmen and was able to remain upright only because the man held onto him. Even with that support, he doubled over, retching, and then went down onto his knees. He’d forgotten his own warning about getting too close.

  “Not much experience fightin yer own battles, I see,” she said. “Honey, I believe yor line mighta just petered out.”

  One of the Prince’s helpers came toward her with a long ziptie, and it took all three of the men to restrain her enough to bind her hands and feet. When they were done, she was sobbing from the pain in her ankle.

  Then they decided to tie J.J. up, too. Getting in close enough to do that started another brawl. J.J. got in some powerful punches and clearly earned the men’s respect, but they nevertheless managed to get him bound at wrist and ankle, as well.

  When the job was done, the Prince had recovered enough to hobble over and remove J.J.’s sunglasses. He tossed them aside and looked at the scars.

  “Who is in charge now?”

  “You’re bragging after it took all of you to tackle one middle-aged blind guy and his nurse?”

  Phoebe suspected the Prince’s strategy hadn’t been very well thought out to begin with, but at this point it had to be clear to him that he wasn’t going to be able to walk the two of them anywhere without attracting a lot of unwanted attention.