“Go now,” the man said. “You do not have much time. Before the sun rises on Sunday it will be done.”
“What will be done?”
“There is precious little time. You must hurry.”
“What the hell are you talkin’—”
“Shhh,” the old man scolded.
The restroom door opened. The old man moved quickly in front of a urinal and unzipped his pants. The leather soles of the entering footsteps echoed off the tile. Crow reached for another paper towel and finished drying his hands. A blonde-headed man in a dark blue suit stood before the mirror beside Crow and combed his hair. After a short moment, the old man zipped his pants and headed out the door. The suited man stopped his preening and made for the door behind him. Crow threw the paper towel in the trash and strode to the door. Looking out, he saw the suited man trotting up beside the drifter. Another man in a dark suit quickened his pace to join them. They escorted the old man out a bank of glass doors onto Rue Saint-Antoine. Crow ran across the convention center hallway to the same side door, reaching it just in time to see. The old man waved his arms wildly arguing with the two men before being shoved violently into the back seat of a black SUV and driven away.
Chapter Four
“I don’t bloody care how much it costs,” the woman in the smart business suit snapped at the telephone in her refined British accent. Her auburn hair was neatly tucked away on the back of her head. “I simply need to know we can get it through customs.” Her furrowed brow eased. The corners of her mouth relaxed and even seemed to resemble the early stages of a smile. “Splendid.” Then her face went serious again. “Not a word of this. Do you understand?”
“Señorita,” the man with the gold tooth on the other end of the line assured her, “discretion is our specialty.”
“See that it is,” she said. “You’ll be paid properly when the package is delivered. Are we clear?”
“Sí, señorita.” He sucked his teeth. “Very clear.”
“If my employer is exposed in the papers, we’ll know exactly where the leak came from and the consequences will be swift and severe.”
“There will be no leaks, this I can assure you.”
“Very well. We will rendezvous on Thursday.”
“It will be my pleasure, señorita.”
CROW STOOD IN stunned silence. The SUV with the odd stranger inside melted into the afternoon traffic and out of sight. He gave a brief thought to alerting someone about what he’d just witnessed, but what would he tell them? He didn’t know the man nor did he know the men who took him away. Perhaps they were from the local mental institution. Maybe they were the police. Whatever trouble the man was in was not his concern.
He exited through the same door they had escorted the stranger and turned right up Rue Saint-Antoine. On the short walk back to his hotel he started to pull the red velvet sleeve from his coat but decided to keep it safe within his breast pocket.
He took the elevator to his room and made sure the door was double-locked. He didn’t give a second thought to his inexplicable desire for security. It seemed to be the natural course of action. The book burned in his pocket like a secret waiting to be whispered. He sat at the table in the living area of his suite and produced the red velvet sleeve from his jacket. With great care he pulled the small old book from its resting place inside the sleeve. He examined the cover. It was French. Not unusual, since he was in French-speaking Montreal. Crow didn’t speak French, but he didn’t have to in order to understand what he held in his hand. Les Propheties, the cover read, de M. Michel Nostradamus. The Prophecies of Michel Nostradamus, the famous sixteenth-century prophet. He wasn’t able to translate the Roman numerals MDCXXXIV by sight. He pulled out his computer tablet and searched the Internet for an online converter. 1634. This particular edition was printed about 70 years after Nostradamus’ death.
He turned the pages with care until he came upon a folded sheet of paper that was not of the same age as the book. It was the size of a page of stationary, the kind used to write a short correspondence. In blue ink was written what appeared to be a poem.
Dans le siècle de quatre
Son âge est de soixante et onze
Sa première face voit
Quand l’horloge sonne douze
Ajouter la note de C deux fois
Et enlever le score
Compter sur de bonnes actions
Riche en grâce
He called up a language translator on his tablet and typed in the words. He got his answer and wrote it down in his notation pad.
In the century of four
His age is seventy-one
His first face sees
When the clock strikes twelve
What could it mean? It seemed to point to someone in the fourth century, someone who was seventy-one years old. His first face sees? That didn’t make sense. The last line was more straightforward. When the clock strikes twelve. He noticed it wasn’t in the past tense, so it indicated something was going to happen in the future, which was confusing given the reference to the fourth century.
The second stanza was just as confounding.
Add the note of C twice
And take away the score
Count on good stock
Rich in grace
Add the note of C twice? A musical clue, but what did it mean? Add it to what? And what kind of score was he to take away? A musical score? A sports score? If sports, it depended on the game. Given it was French, he figured it must be referring to soccer. Take away one? From what? The last two lines were a little easier to decipher, or so he thought. Good stock was most often in reference to a good family. Rich in grace could denote elegance or a philanthropic family.
There was no way he was going to be able to decipher this on his own. He did a search of people dealing in old books, Nostradamus in particular. It appeared as though the closest to him was Rothschild’s in Boston. They had handled a few of the early editions of Nostradamus. It was a reputable auction house according to all he read about them. He searched their website for the resident expert on books and manuscripts and came up with the name Dr. Sidney Rosenfeld. Maybe he could send Dr. Rosenfeld an e-mail, ask him what he thought about the strange verses. But then again, Rosenfeld could very well think he was crazy. Besides, did it really matter? Crow was curious but not to the point of looking like a fool. He closed the tablet and placed the book back in its sleeve laying it on the bedside table with the odd verses folded on top.
He flipped on the television and readied himself for bed. The news anchor was droning on about the autumn meeting of the board of governors of the World Bank meeting in Montreal in a few months. The only thing that made the boring meeting even the least bit interesting was the squabble over who would be its next president. Crow pulled back the covers and climbed between the sheets. The Chancellor of the Exchequer in the UK appeared to be the skunk at the garden party, almost singularly opposed to the consensus pick. He vowed to “take a stand in Montreal,” as he put it, and derail the establishment’s choice. The anchor returned after the sound bite to tease a sports story coming up after the break. Crow turned the volume down and looked over at the red sleeve. He picked up his note pad and read the translated verses. Very strange. He thought about them for a few moments then reached for the tablet. He opened it and found it still on the Rothschild’s page. Crow clicked on Dr. Rosenfeld’s name, which brought up an e-mail form. He chose his words with care then began to type.
He informed Dr. Rosenfeld that he was in possession of an early edition of The Prophecies by Nostradamus. He was cautious not to reveal too much. Perhaps when he was back in the states he could bring the book up for Dr. Rosenfeld to examine. He left his phone number and powered down the tablet. He lay there in bed forgetting all about a night at the casino, thinking of nothing but the book—and the odd verses—until he drifted off to sleep.
The ding on his phone woke him from a deep sleep. He looked at the clock on the bedside table. 6:14AM. I
t was Monday morning. The text was from Rothschild’s in Boston. Dr. Sidney Rosenfeld was interested in taking a look at the book. Crow looked up to gather his thoughts for a reply. That’s when the image on the television, that he didn’t realize he had left running all night, grabbed him. Crow had goosebumps on his arm. He scooted to the foot of the bed to get a better look and turned up the volume. The police fished a man out of the St. Lawrence River.
“The yet unidentified man is believed to have been bludgeoned to death then thrown into the river,” the reporter on the scene said. “At this point, they don’t have a motive or a suspect.”
The cameraman was careful not to zoom in too closely out of respect for the viewers’ sensitivities, but it was unmistakable. Crow’s mouth went dry. His breathing became shallow. Terror gripped his very soul. Even in the man’s wet, lifeless state—the hair, the clothes, the shoes—there was no doubt. Crow could see him clearly in his mind. The dead man on Crow’s television screen was the mysterious blue-eyed stranger.
Chapter Five
They killed him, Crow thought. But why? It clearly had something to do with the book. The old man was all too eager to pass it along to him. Even obsessed to do so. That had to be why he’d been stalking him since he landed. The killers were after the book, that was certain, but what was it about that book that drove men to murder? Panic set in. Now he had what they wanted. If they pieced everything together, they would come for him. He was sure of it. How sophisticated were they? Did they have access to video footage at the convention center? They wouldn’t need it. The blonde man in the bathroom had gotten a good look at him. A couple of questions and they would certainly figure out he was Benson Crow. He had to get out immediately. They had probably already interrogated the convention people. Everyone associated with that convention knew where Crow was staying. They could be coming for him right now.
After seeing the awful images on the screen, Crow texted back a serious reply to Dr. Rosenfeld, trying hard to mask his hysteria. Rosenfeld immediately responded to his urgent request for a meeting. If he were in the city, Rosenfeld could see him this morning. Crow then grabbed his tablet and called up the airport website. He booked the next direct Air Canada flight to Boston. One first-class one-way ticket. He dressed, grabbed his overnight bag, and headed for the door.
Everything about Benson Crow screamed ‘unapproachable.’ He was distant, antisocial, naturally disinterested in those around him. Fame exacerbated those qualities. He had become all but totally detached. Some might call him a recluse. His first inclination was to avoid contact with anyone unless it became absolutely necessary, eye contact in particular. His customary gaze was at the floor or his phone, avoiding any body language that would invite interaction. The events of the last several hours altered his behavior. He was now hypersensitive to each face he passed. Even paranoid. It was as if the handful of people he saw in the lobby of the hotel were staring at him. He studied every face, analyzed every reaction. Some, perhaps, recognized him from the inside back flap of a book or from the signing event the prior day, or maybe they were just being pleasant. That look of recognition could also mean they were one of ‘them.’ If they were willing to murder a man with nothing on him, he could only imagine what they’d do to him. Trying to convince them that he had just come into possession of the book by happenstance would be futile. Did the old man steal the book from them? Is that all they wanted, the book back? Surely if the old man only wanted to save his own skin, he would’ve ratted Crow out. But that wasn’t the man’s intent. He wanted desperately for Crow to have the book. But why? Why him?
Crow went straight to the front desk to settle his bill. He laid his room key on the counter and canvassed the lobby.
“How was your stay?” the clerk asked.
“Fine,” Crow said. “It was fine.” He continued to survey the room.
“Monsieur Crow, there was a man here asking for you.”
“What?” Crow snapped his head in her direction. “What man? When?”
“Just about 30 minutes ago. He wanted to know if you had checked out.”
“What did you tell him?”
The clerk smiled. “We don’t divulge any information about our guests. I told him as much.”
“What did he look like?” Crow asked.
“A man in a suit.” She looked Crow over. “Probably a couple of inches taller than you. Well-built fellow. Very business-like.”
“What color hair?”
“Blonde. Short.”
The man from the bathroom. “Where’d he go?”
“He left.”
Crow tucked the final bill into his coat pocket and cautiously walked past the concierge’s desk to the front door. He stopped abruptly. Directly across the street, wearing dark glasses and the same blue suit from the day before, stood the blonde man. Crow could see him in his mind stuffing the homeless guy into the SUV. He hurried back to the front desk.
“Is there another way out of the hotel other than the front door?”
“Oui,” the clerk answered. “Through that door,” she pointed behind him, “down one flight of stairs.”
He hurried through the dark wooden door and down the steps. Beside the hotel spa, he spotted the exit that spilled out onto Rue Saint-Pierre. The double doors were coated with tinting that allowed one to see out, but those looking in only saw a reflection. Standing across the street was the blonde man’s accomplice from Congress Palace. A hotel worker was coming out of the spa.
“Is there another way out of the hotel other than here and the front door?” Crow asked.
“Oui, monsieur,” the demure woman said. “Just down this hall. It leads to the alley.”
“And what’s beyond the alley?”
“The World Trade Center.”
“What’s that?”
“Restaurants, boutiques, and the like to your left. Straight through is the InterContinental Hotel.”
“Perfect. Do you mind,” he said, half-pulling her along by the arm, “taking a look out the door and see if you see anyone who seems to be just standing around?”
She looked at him curiously.
“Apparently, I’ve made an enemy with a jealous husband. I’d rather not run into him, if you know what I mean.”
She smiled. Easing the door open, she peaked out and looked both ways. Then she motioned to Crow that the coast was clear. He stuck his head past hers to see for himself.
“Merci,” he said before disappearing through the door, across the alley, and into the rear of the InterContinental.
He saw no one and continued down the large hallway and around the escalator that led up to the main lobby. A man stepped off the down escalator and Crow froze. He passed with a casual glance and a polite nod. Crow stood and contemplated his next move.
“Could I help you find something?” the voice behind him said.
Crow whipped around coming face-to-face with a hotel employee in a gray suit with a name tag.
“I, uh, I seemed to be turned around,” he said. “Where’s the front entrance?”
“No problem. Through there and to your left,” he pointed.
Crow moved again past the concierge and through the automatic glass doors that led to the street. He found himself catty-corner to Congress Palace on the same street where the old man with the Nostradamus book was abruptly whisked away. The image played again in his mind. He shuddered. Crow was afraid to glance around the corner to see if his sentinel still guarded the side door. Instead he hailed a cab on the street in front of the hotel, cutting his eyes to the side as the car pulled away from the curb. He caught a glimpse of the man still standing on the side street and instinctively slinked down in his seat. If they hurried, he could just make the 8:10 flight, accounting for customs and security. He eyed the driver with suspicion in the rearview mirror. He had no intention of ending up in the St. Lawrence River. His only concern at the moment was getting out of the country and getting to Boston and Dr. Rosenfeld. Maybe Rosenfeld could help him m
ake sense of the strange verses and tell him why on earth someone would be willing to kill for them.
They came to a stop at Pierre Trudeau. Crow handed the cabbie some bills and exited the taxi.
“Did you pack your own bag?” the ticket agent behind the counter asked.
“Yes.”
“Is Boston your final destination?”
“Yes.”
He thought he caught the man in the next line looking at him. Did he recognize him? Was he one of the killers?
“According to your passport, you’re not from Boston,” the agent said.
“I’m visiting a sick sister. I don’t know how long I’ll be there. She’s pretty bad off. The doctor says she may have months, but most likely it’s weeks.”
The agent laid his passport back down on the counter. “I’m so sorry to hear that.”
“Thanks,” he said.
Every answer he gave was guarded. He wasn’t comfortable telling anyone the truth about his movements. He wouldn’t feel safe until he was on the plane, and even then he craned his neck around the edge of his headrest to see who might be watching. He had never experienced anything like this before. A man with whom he’d just had a brief encounter was murdered. Could he have saved the man had he alerted the authorities? Why were they after the book? It must be worth a fortune if they were willing to kill for it. Did they connect the dots and realize the man had handed it off to him? They were staking out his hotel. They knew who he was. That much was certain. Whoever these people were, they were killers, and the killers were now after him.
He felt a touch on his shoulder. He jumped.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” the flight attendant said. “I didn’t mean to startle you. Would you like something to drink?”
“No, thanks,” Crow answered. She started to ask the next passenger in front of him. “On second thought, yes. A bourbon, please. No ice.”
The First Face of Janus Page 3
