by Jon Steele
“Yes? So?”
“You left something out. It was your family who brought the reliquary box to Occitania.”
Serge had another bite from his own croissant, chewed thoughtfully.
“Why would you say this?”
“The History Channel.”
“Compreni pas.”
“I watch a lot of the History Channel.”
“I know, on my wife’s television last night.”
“That’s right. And last night, between looking at stars and smoking fags in the garden, there was a program about the Caliphate in Spain, 711 to 1492. Just now, driving through the snow in your cousin’s bread truck, the penny dropped.”
“You are very strange, I think.”
“You’re not the first man to mention it. Would you like me to tell you what I think?”
“Perqué pas?”
“After 720 AD, the Caliphate would have extended from Gibraltar to the Pyrenees, just south of Montségur.”
“This is true. So?”
“I think one fine summer’s day, in the eighth century, your family carried the reliquary box across Heaven’s Gate and hid it in a cave beneath Montségur.”
“Why would we do this?”
“Because you were told to, by someone like me.”
“Someone like you.”
“You know, like the one your family found in the ashes in the Field of the Burned.”
“Are you saying it’s the same person, this someone like you and the one my family found in the ashes, separated by five hundred years?”
“Maybe, maybe not.”
“So are you saying someone like you commanded my family to carry the box from Spain to keep it from falling into the hands of the Caliphate?”
“The religions and flags of men mean nothing to me, or those like me. Religions and flags come under the heading of free will. We can’t make those sorts of choices for men. It’s a certain breed of evil hiding behind the religions and flags, the ones who sow fear and greed among men, that we’re interested in. But I’m sure you’ve heard all about it from your father, as he heard it from his father.”
“You give my family too much credit. We were superstitious shepherds.”
“You also said they were nomads. Someone like me would look at such a family and think they’d be good cover.”
“To do what?”
“To take the reliquary box, follow the constellation Draco north across a place described to them as Heaven’s Gate, then travel to another place called Montségur. Hide the reliquary box and watch over it till someone like me returned to you again. Your family turned from nomads to farmers to do just that. Fast forward to 1244: This time evil is hiding behind a royal crest and a cross, and they’re closing in. The rest brings us to nowtimes.”
“What is nowtimes?”
“You and me in your cousin’s bread truck at this very moment in space and time.”
Serge finished his croissant, brushed crumbs from his coat.
“All this was on the History Channel last night?”
“No, most of it was me imagining.”
“Imagining, you say.”
“That’s right. It’s how the ones like me do things.”
“I see.”
They didn’t speak for a long time.
The snow-covered countryside gave way to gas stations, used auto dealerships, and discount shopping outlets. Locals were at their doors with shovels and brooms, fighting a losing battle with the mounting snow. A road sign advised they were traveling the Route d’Espagne, and after turning left at a rotary, another sign advised they were now traveling the Avenue de Barcelone. There were old stone houses along this road. Harper saw children making a snowman in one front garden. He heard the thump of a snowball hitting the thin side panel of the bread truck, then the sound of young laughing voices. The clouds lifted a little here, but the snow kept falling. Harper saw a river running along the left side of the road, and above a clump of buildings beyond the river, a medieval castle on a low hill.
“This is Foix,” Serge said. “There is an old city under that castle. If you were not in a hurry to break someone out of jail, you might enjoy visiting it.”
“Something to look forward to the next time I pass this way.”
Serge nodded, turned left at a rotary, and crossed a small bridge onto a tree-lined road. There was a parking area set between the opposing lanes of traffic.
“It was your eyes,” Serge said.
“My eyes.”
“We were always told about a light in the eyes of those who visited my family. The story was, we were given a gift to see that light. A gift that was passed down through the generations. When I saw you outside the shed last night, you were surrounded by darkness, but I saw a flame in your eyes.”
Harper flashed back, saw it happen. He blinked.
“That’s why you didn’t want me to tell you my name, that’s why you wouldn’t shake my hand. You know we can’t touch the locals.”
“So I was told.”
“You were expecting me last night?”
Serge shook his head.
“Not really. The Field of the Burned was nine hundred years ago. Family stories lose their hold on the soul with time. Then I saw the comet.”
Harper thought about the impact on a disbelieving man to have a family secret, long thought to be no more than legend, to suddenly burst across the night sky in a revelation of brilliant light.
“You were told the comet would appear one day by the one your family found in the ashes. That it would be a sign that he would return to this place again, that it would mean the time of the prophecy was at hand.”
“No, that’s not what happened. The one my family found knew nothing more than there was a treasure beneath Montségur, and that he needed to remain alive for one hundred more days.”
“You know what it means, don’t you?”
“Of what do you speak?”
“The prophecy. Your family didn’t just carry the reliquary box to Montségur, they carried the prophecy and passed it to the one they found in the ashes.”
“That was what we were meant to do from the beginning. That was the mission given to us by someone like you thirteen hundred years ago.”
Harper watched the road.
“What is the prophecy?”
“Do you command me to tell you?”
“Is that what it takes?”
“According to the story, yes.”
“Then I command you to tell me about the prophecy.”
Serge rounded a hairpin turn; the bread truck slid a little, but steadied and drove on.
“That when the comet appeared in the northern sky and was eclipsed by the pluton, it would mean a child, conceived of light, had been born. That he would lead mankind to the next stage of evolution.”
Harper flashed back to Karoliina, the girl on the train. She was connected, but a local, and she’d said the same damn thing. What the hell?
“Has anyone in your family ever told anyone else about this?”
“Of course not, it was our sacred duty to say nothing. Why do you ask?”
Harper finished his croissant.
“No reason, just checking up on you. Making sure you were keeping to your sacred duty.”
Serge smiled.
“I understand. By the way, what should I do with the sextant?”
Harper saw it, in the reliquary box, sitting on the kitchen table. Shit. Serge saw the expression on Harper’s face.
“Do not worry,” Serge said. “Shiva is a very good watch dog. The greatest danger is my wife opening the box and putting the sextant on the mantle above the fireplace. She likes to collect junk.”
Harper chuckled imagining it.
“Keep the sextant in the box, hide it in the s
hed. Might as well put the broken cup and the nail in the box, too.”
“As you command.”
Harper looked at him.
“For the record, I’m not really in the business of giving commands.”
“No?”
“No.”
“Whose business is it to give commands then?”
“Well, there’s a cop in a cashmere coat above me. Beyond that, no bloody idea.”
“Interesting.”
Serge came to the end of the road, looped to the opposing lane, and drove back toward the river. Halfway along the road he pulled into the parking area and shut down the motor. He looked at Harper.
“My family has been in the service of the noble lord for thirteen hundred years. Today, I am very proud to be a member of my family. Do you understand this?”
Harper flashed back to Serge’s shed, watching the man weld bronze wings to an angel. Nobel lord, the man called the sorrow-laden thing.
“Sure.”
Serge tipped his head toward the windshield.
“The gendarmerie is out there, across the road.”
Through the falling snow Harper saw two gray buildings. Four floors, burnished red trim along the corners and windows. Black letters in relief on the building to the right: GENDARMERIE NATIONALE. The letters weren’t quite straight for some reason. There was a green gate between the buildings; it was open.
“The building you want is the one with the sign.”
Harper saw bars on the windows of the first floor.
“Jail’s there, behind the bars?”
“That’s just to keep young Occitans from throwing rocks through the window. The holding cells are in the basement. There’s a door on the side of the building. You go in, there’s a reception counter with a policeman. Behind the desk is a steel door. It’s controlled by a button under the counter. Behind the door are stairs to the basement. At the bottom of the stairs is another policeman, and there is a guard locked inside a bulletproof office. The one in the office controls the cell doors. There are only four small cells.”
“You sound like you know the setup.”
“When I was young, I was a rock thrower for the glory of Occitania. I’m the reason they put up the bars. I caught a policeman on the head. I was only ten, so they let me go. After they locked me up for three days to teach me a lesson.”
“Maybe they’ve added a few upgrades since you were a rock-throwing lad.”
“Are you serious? This is the départment of Ariège. Nothing changes here.”
Harper looked at his watch: 11:54 hours.
“Just about lunchtime.”
“Good timing. Most of the police in Foix will be heading to cafés for their meals. Except for the ones in the jail, of course. And the few hundred of them that live out the back.”
“Sorry?”
“All those buildings in the back. Those are residences for police.”
Harper looked through the gates. The place was more than a small-town cop shop; it was a compound.
“Oh, swell.”
“Not to worry. With this weather, they’ll be in their rooms playing with their guns, hopefully.”
Harper looked at the back of the bread truck.
“Is the rear door open?”
“I’ll unlock it.”
“And how far to Gare de Foix? Two minutes, you said?”
Serge pointed out his side window.
“Back over the river and go left. The train station is very close. But it will take three or four minutes in this weather.”
Harper looked out the window. The clouds had come down again and there was nothing but a blur of heavy snow.
“Right.”
He removed the bandage from his right hand, stretched the fingers. He pulled his killing knives from their sheaths, then the SIG. He ejected the clip, checked the firing chamber was clear. Serge watched with interest.
“No bullets, no weapons. A most interesting method to break someone out of jail.”
“Not here to harm anyone, just need to do a job.”
“Is he someone like you?”
Harper looked at the man. “He is, but he doesn’t know it.”
“How can that be?”
“Comes to telling forests from trees, we’re not that different from you sometimes.”
Serge pointed to the little glass objects on Harper’s weapons rig.
“What are those tiny jars? If you do not mind my asking.”
Harper looked down at the vials of flash and fog on the straps of his weapons harness.
“Things to make us disappear.”
Serge smiled. “This I would very much like to see.”
Harper holstered his empty SIG.
“Maybe you will, and maybe you should keep the motor running.”
“This is not a good idea.”
“Why not?”
“We are almost out of gas.”
Harper rubbed the back of his neck. He looked deep into Serge’s eyes.
“I want you to listen to me. If it goes bad, you drive away. Don’t look back, go home.”
“As you command.”
Harper opened the door, stepped out, pulled up the collar of his coat.
“By the way, you and your ancestors are the noble ones. Without your family, the ones like me would’ve been wiped from the Earth long ago.”
Serge scratched his chin.
“I should like to ask you something about my family story, in the event I do not see you again.”
“All right.”
“Why would this someone like you see to it that the things of Christ were delivered to my family in the eighth century and command us to protect them, only to leave behind the broken cup and the bloodied nail, calling them ‘the things of men’?”
“Sounds like a philosopher’s riddle.”
“One I have tried to answer all my life.”
“Come up with anything?”
“A third of a cup, one of three nails. In pieces and separate, they are the things of men. Rejoined and together, they become things of the Gods again.”
Harper thought about it.
“That’s a damn good bit of imagining, Serge.”
“Mercé. By the way, have you ever broken anyone out of jail before?”
“No idea. But I saw it on the History Channel once. It was a reenactment of a jailbreak in the Old West. Arizona, it was.”
“Then you should do just fine.”
II
HARPER CLOSED THE DOOR, WALKED ACROSS THE ROAD AND through the open gate. There were CCTV cameras mounted at the gate and above the door marked BUREAU. Harper looked down, watched his feet kick through the snow. He got to the office door, went in.
Fluorescent lights in the ceiling, greenish paint on the walls, brown linoleum floor. A poster board along the inner wall was stuffed with official notices, and there were red plastic chairs anchored to the floor underneath. Everything about it said This is an official reception area of the Gendarmerie Nationale and you are not welcome.
Harper looked out the barred windows. Saw the bread truck in the parking lot, saw Serge watching him. Far end of the room was a counter and one French policeman leaning over a newspaper. He couldn’t be bothered to look up to see who came through the door. Harper walked over, saw a bank of video monitors under the counter. Surrounding grounds of the compound on monitor one, cells in the basement switching every two seconds on monitor two. He saw the form of a big man lying still on a cot in one of the cells; the other cells were empty. Monitor three was Harper himself standing in the reception area. He looked up, saw the small CCTV camera in the corner. Getting better all the time, he thought.
“Vous désirez, monsieur?” The policeman asked the question while checking the sports page.
“
What I need for you to do is to stand up straight, look into my eyes, and listen to my voice.”
“Je ne parle pas anglais.”
Harper rested his hand over a picture of Lionel Messi scoring against PSG. The policeman looked up; Harper smiled, spoke slowly.
“Je veux que vous vous leviez, que vous me regardiez dans les yeux, et que vous m’écoutiez.”
The policeman stood up, stared at Harper. “Quoi?”
“That’s better.”
Harper waved the palm of his right hand before the copper’s eyes.
“Dulcis et alta quies, placidæque simillima morti.”
The policeman slumped. Harper rounded the counter and caught him, set him in his chair. He pulled the policeman’s gun, chucked it in a desk drawer. He found the door release and hit it, and the door popped open. Harper passed through, went down the stairs. He called back to the sleeping policeman, “Merci, ah?” giving it his best imitation of a hotshot French detective from Paris coming down to throw his weight around the provinces. The prison guard at the bottom of the stairs saw Harper coming, but hearing Harper’s voice call back to the reception, he didn’t react.
“Bonjour,” Harper said, reaching to shake the guard’s hand.
The guard took the bait, Harper latched on tight.
“Bonjour,” he said. “Vous êtes ici pour le prisonnier?”
Harper nodded. “Oui, c’est moi.”
The guard looked back up the stairs, looking for the rest of the armed detail.
“Où est l’escorte armé?”
Harper explained the armed escort was late because of the snow. The guard was annoyed.
“Merde,” he grumbled. “On voudrait bien aller déjeuner.”
Harper switched to English.
“Sorry, lunch is canceled on account of snow.”
“Quoi?”
Harper spun the guard around, twisting his arm and slamming him face-first into the bulletproof window. The guard inside the office jumped for the alarm. Before he touched it, Harper pulled his SIG, pressed the muzzle to his captive’s head.
“Vous touchez l’alarme et je tire.”
The guard in the office froze.
“Jetez votre arme par terre, ouvrez la porte, mettez vos mains sur la tête, et vous allez dans la salle.”
