The First Face of Janus

by Valentine, Phil

  “That’s what he was doing!” Crow shouted. “Otto was stalling us on the phone with that lame story about me being a sociopath until his goons could zero in on our cell signal. Damn! I’m such an idiot!”

  The gunman fired another shot. This one struck the back driver’s side door. Crow zigzagged to evade him. He straddled two right lanes of the three available to him. The black sedan tried to pull alongside in the far left lane. Crow brushed him back with a swerve.

  “Switch places with me,” Crow insisted.

  “Why?” Sidney said.

  “Because I’m going to have to operate that Mossberg in the backseat.”

  “I can handle it,” Sidney insisted.

  “You ever shot a shotgun before?”

  “I told you. I grew up with four older brothers.”

  Crow shrugged. “OK. Have at it.”

  Sidney unbuckled and adjusted herself. Her knees were facing toward the rear. Her head was down. The gunman pulled his arm back inside the car. She sprang like a leopard between the two front seats into the back. She laid down on her back and reached beneath the blanket on the floor for the Mossberg 500 All Purpose. She felt for the canvas duffel, reached inside, and grabbed a handful of shells. She inserted five of them into the underside of the shotgun.

  “Roll down the back driver’s side window!” she shouted.

  Crow complied. She pumped the action once.

  “How we lookin’?” she yelled over the sound of the wind.

  “Just a second.” Crow maneuvered the vehicle so the sedan was off to the left and rear of their car. “Get set. Go!”

  Sidney popped up facing the rear like a jack-in-the-box. She steadied the gun on her right shoulder and fired. The blast hit the hood on the driver’s side. The sedan swerved. The shot made nothing more than a scattered scratch. Crow looked in the rearview mirror.

  “Damn. Aim for the windshield this time.”

  Sidney pumped again. The spent shell smoked on the floor of the car. She fired again. The target was too far away for a concentrated blast. The pellets spread about two feet wide and did no damage to the darkened windshield.

  “It’s armored!” Crow shouted. “You’re wasting your time with that thing.”

  “Not necessarily!” she yelled back. “I have an idea.” She looked over her shoulder at the road in front of them. “OK, when we hit this straightaway, on my count, shift to the right lane and slam on brakes. Got it?”

  “Slam on brakes? Why?”

  “Just do it!”

  Crow shrugged, “Got it.”

  She pivoted to a normal sitting position on the driver’s side rear seat. She locked herself down with the seatbelt. Crow gave her a smile in the rearview mirror.

  “You ready?” she asked.

  Crow nodded.

  Sidney gritted her teeth and tightened her grip on the gun. “Get ready. Go!”

  Crow changed lanes and hit the brakes. The black sedan came speeding alongside. Sidney took one shot at point-blank range as it passed them on the left. The blast tore a huge hole in the front passenger-side tire of the car. It lunged to the right in front of them then erratically cut back to the left. Crow hit the gas just as it lurched right again. It barely missed the rear of their car. The black sedan crashed into the concrete retaining wall and came to a smoking stop.

  They drove on for a short distance, their hearts still racing. Crow looked in his rearview mirror.

  “You wanna climb back up here?” he asked.

  Sidney stared out the window. “No, I’m good for now.”

  Crow frowned and rolled the rear window shut. He looked in the mirror then back at the road again. The dotting of little houses became less frequent. They gave way to wide, brown fields of corn that had been plowed over after harvesting. The severed stalks baked in the summer sun. Crow looked back again to see how she was doing. That’s when he saw it in his rearview mirror. The Mossberg. It was pointed directly at the back of his head.

  Chapter Forty

  The private jet touched down at Girona-Costa Brava Airport. Before the wheels came to a complete stop the door was opening and the steps unfolding on the tarmac. Emerging from the interior into the hot Spanish sun was Marcus Foster. A car waited just a few yards away. He slid his sunglasses on his face and hurried down the steps to meet it. He settled calmly into the back for the 38-minute drive to Figueres.

  Sidney Rosenfeld looked out the window as they crossed the Fluvià River, the Mossberg still trained on the back of Crow’s head. “Stop the car,” she insisted.

  Crow looked in the mirror with disbelief. “What the hell’s going on?”

  “Stop the damn car!”

  Crow pulled the rental over to the side of the highway. Sidney hopped out of the back, the shotgun still pointed at Crow. “Pop the trunk.”

  Crow did as he was commanded. “What are you doing?” He unbuckled his seatbelt and jumped out of the car. Sidney opened the trunk. The shotgun was draped with her jacket and held close to her body but still trained in Crow’s direction. He took a couple of steps toward her.

  “Stop right there,” she said, holding the shotgun up. “I don’t want to kill you, but I will if I have to.”

  “Will you please tell me what this is all about?”

  Sidney retrieved her bag from the trunk and placed it over her shoulder. “That little man at the cathedral.”

  “Alejandro?”

  “He’s dead.”

  Crow put both hands to his head. “Oh, my God!” He turned a full circle in the road then looked back at her. “How do you know?”

  “It was on the news this morning. In the hotel. I saw it while you were in the bathroom.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “He was killed yesterday afternoon, Benson. About the time you visited him.”

  “Wait a minute, you think I killed him? I swear to you—”

  “Dr. Grumbling is killed along with his housekeeper and you miraculously escape when you were the only one they’d have a reason to kill. Nobody seems to know this guy in Montreal is dead but you? Was he your first victim? Delacroix ends up dead.”

  “We both saw him alive after midnight.”

  “I don’t know where you went after I went to bed.”

  “Oh, come on, Sidney. I—”

  “Father Simonin, the same thing. You leave me in the room while you go visit him and then, amazingly, he turns up dead, too?”

  “Sidney, please. Otto’s filled your head with—”

  “Shut up!” She fired once into the air. Frightened birds in the fields on either side of the road took frantic flight. “You used me.”

  “Used you? For what?”

  “For information. For my expertise. You never would’ve gotten this far without me.”

  “Do you realize how crazy that sounds? It doesn’t make any sense.”

  “I didn’t trust you from the moment you came into my office. I thought you were a con man, somebody who wanted a sensational story for a new book. I should’ve trusted my instincts.”

  Crow took a step toward her. She raised the shotgun. “I swear to God I’ll blow your head off.”

  Crow stopped. “I was willing to take a bullet for you in Salon.”

  “You weren’t going to take a bullet for me! You’re one of them!” She wiped a tear from her cheek with the back of her hand. “You pulled me into this. You arranged it so I’d have no choice. My life was in danger, you said. The First Facers were after me, you said. I had to run. I had to run with you. Babineaux and Otto were right. You were after the Unriddled Manuscript and once you found it, you were going to murder me, just like the others. It all makes sense now. Those men at the Chapel of the Virgin in Salon weren’t First Facers like you tried to make me believe. They were Custos Verbi. That would explain why they were in a church. First Facers wouldn’t be in a church. The creepy robes, the secret ritual. They were trying to conjure up the same power as Nostradamus. When that man chasing us in Salon saw you, h
e realized you were one of them. That’s why he let us go.”

  “So I’m CV now? This is bullshit, Sidney, and you know it!” Crow shouted. “Think about it. It was your lead that brought us here to Figueres, not mine.”

  “Exactly! You used me! Damn, I can’t believe I was so gullible. You couldn’t quite put it all together and I was stupid enough to connect the dots for you. What’s your mission, Benson? To stop the prophecy, like you’ve been saying? Then to get me to help you find the manuscript?”

  “No, Sidney.” His tone turned somber and defeated. “None of this is true.”

  She started walking backwards down the highway. “Death follows you, Benson. That’s what you said, isn’t it? Huh? Everyone you meet turns up dead. Isn’t that what you said? You also said you don’t believe in coincidence.” Her laugh was sarcastic. “Yeah, well, neither do I.”

  She turned and walked away. Crow called after her, but the image of Sidney Rosenfeld with her bag hanging from one shoulder and a shotgun wrapped in her jacket slung across her arms grew smaller and smaller.

  He looked at his watch. Eleven-forty-three. “Shit.” He reluctantly jumped back in the car and entered St. Peter’s Church into the car’s GPS.

  “Proceed to the highlighted route,” the automated voice said. Crow hit the accelerator and threw gravel behind him. His tires connected with the pavement. “In one kilometer take exit 4.”

  The kilometer came quickly. Crow paid the toll and screamed to the first roundabout. He fishtailed the turn then floored the gas pedal. He took the first exit, barely missing a delivery truck that couldn’t make up its mind where in the roundabout to go. In another kilometer he took another roundabout, cursed it, and took the third exit. After just another 350 meters he was in another roundabout laying on the horn behind a red trash truck.

  “Come on, get out of the way!” he shouted.

  The car with the darkened windows stopped at the intersection of Carrer Sant Pere and Pujada Església. Marcus Foster pulled back the slide of his Beretta and chambered a round then placed the weapon back in its holster under his armpit. He checked the area before exiting the vehicle one block from the Church of St. Peter.

  A crowd began to gather up and down the tiny street. The increased presence of security personnel around the church and the magnificent horse-drawn carriage let people know that whoever was about to emerge from that church must be someone important. Foster stealthily weaved among the excited tourists. He surveilled the area from behind his dark glasses. He moved further up the street, closer to the church, noting the plainclothes Spanish Royal Guard surrounding the carriage.

  After a ridiculous number of roundabouts, Crow found himself squealing around the corner onto Carrer Canigó in Figueres, Spain, past the iconic eggs atop the Salvador Dalí Theater and Museum. “Your destination is ahead on the right.” A block later, he was screeching to a halt and jumping out of his car. The clock on the car’s dash read 11:54. He bounded up the eight stone steps two at a time onto the Plaça Gala i Salvador Dalí and rounded the corner. Just abreast of a statue of Jean-Louis Ernest Meissonier, Crow was abruptly clotheslined and taken to the ground. Two security officers secured his arms behind his back. Only then did he see that the church was ringed with security detail, a mixture of the British and Spanish variety. The wedding party inside the church, along with the Spanish king, a British prince, and other assorted family and friends from Spain and England, waited for Lady Grace to walk down the aisle.

  “You have to get everyone out of there!” Crow yelled from his prone position.

  Tourists crowded around to see what the commotion was all about. Several members of both countries’ security teams pulled their firearms and forced their way through the mob. Crow was fiercely pulled to his feet.

  “Everyone out!” Crow shouted. “You have to get everyone out! We only have a few minutes!”

  A bulky officer held Crow’s arms behind his back. Two men rushed forward from the line of security officers that had surrounded him. One was Spanish, the other British, the heads of their respective teams.

  “What the bloody hell is going on?” the RaSP officer named Travis asked.

  “The wedding party is in danger,” Crow said almost out of breath. “Daniel Mercer. He’s the target.”

  “The target of what?” Officer Lorenzo of the Spanish Royal Guard asked.

  “An assassination.”

  “By whom?” Officer Travis asked.

  “I’m not sure,” Crow admitted. “I just know of a plot. I don’t know who’s behind it.”

  “Who are you with?” Travis asked. “Let me see some identification.”

  “I’m not law enforcement,” Crow said. “I’ve been given secret inside information that something terrible is happening at noon.”

  “Where’d you get this information?”

  “It’s complicated. Look, it’s not just Mercer. Lady Grace’s daughters, everybody in there. All those people inside are going to die unless you get them out of there.”

  Officer Lorenzo said, “And we are just supposed to take your word for it?”

  “We don’t have time to argue about this! It happens at noon.”

  The officers looked at their watches. Three minutes ’til.

  The British officer came closer. “And you want us to disrupt this wedding on some wild theory that you have when you don’t even know what’s going to happen or who’s going to do it?”

  Crow was adamant. “I knew Lady Grace’s daughters were in there, didn’t I?”

  “Well, everybody knows she has daughters.”

  “How many people know she’s marrying the Earl of Stockland at noon? I’d never even heard of her or him until this morning. Those people are going to die in about three minutes.”

  “Two minutes until noon,” an officer reminded his boss.

  His boss fretted.

  “Do you want to take a chance that I’m just some kook?” Crow said.

  The two heads of security stared at him for a moment.

  “OK, dammit,” Crow said, using the only option he had left to play. “There’s a bomb in there!”

  Lorenzo spoke first. “I am getting my people out.” He turned to a subordinate. “Detain this man.”

  Two armed members of the Spanish Royal Guard took Crow from the two British officers, grabbing him by either arm. Another patted him down for weapons. Travis started to feel the pressure. He motioned for his men to follow him.

  “If this is some kind of a joke…” he warned as he and his security detail dashed across the plaza toward the church.

  Officer Lorenzo was already inside. He calmly walked up to the bishop who was set to begin the ceremony and whispered in his ear.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” the bishop announced to the crowd, “there has been a minor emergency. If you would be so kind as to exit the sanctuary in an orderly fashion, we would appreciate your cooperation.”

  Murmurs swept across the wedding party. The attendants descended the altar. Distinguished guests politely exited the building. Security detail outside created a perimeter. The bridesmaids and groomsmen all stood on the plaza between the Dalí Museum and the Church of St. Peter. Security officers, guns drawn, stood shoulder-to-shoulder with their backs to their charges. Onlookers gawked from behind the human barricade. The British security team escorted the bride-to-be and her daughters into a waiting armored van that arrived up narrow St. Peter Street. The Chancellor of the Exchequer’s team surrounded him and whisked him into a separate van along with the king and his wife. The earl refused the safety of an armored vehicle and paced nervously on the cobblestones demanding answers from his security detail.

  Officer Travis watched the second hand of his watch count down. Five, four, three, two, one. Noon.

  Chapter Forty-One

  Officer Travis looked at his watch. It was twelve noon. Nothing. He marched red-faced up to Crow who was detained by both arms between two Spanish security officers.

  “You damn well
better have an explanation.”

  Crow felt the blood rush to his face. “All I know is the daughters of Lady Grace and everyone else but her were supposed to be killed at noon.”

  “You said Mercer was the target.”

  “He is. They are. They all are.” But he wasn’t so sure anymore.

  “Everyone except Lady Grace?” Travis asked.

  “Yes.”

  “And how do you know this?”

  “It’s complicated.”

  Travis drew a furious breath. “I’m all ears.”

  Had Crow let his imagination get away from him? After all, everything he had come to believe was based on speculation. Speculation that was largely his own. Was Thomas Browning right? Had he simply found an intriguing story and let his inventiveness fill in the blanks? “Maybe I got here just in time,” he offered feebly. “Maybe we thwarted the plot and the danger is over.”

  The woman with the auburn hair pinned to the back of her head stormed across the plaza, her steps as wide as the skirt of her suit would allow. By then, Officer Lorenzo had joined his British counterpart seeking questions of his own.

  “I demand an explanation,” she said to Lorenzo.

  Officer Lorenzo looked quizzically at the head of RaSP.

  “This is the earl’s social secretary,” Travis explained. He then turned his attention to her. “Ms. Cambridge, we have a man who claims inside information on a plot against the wedding party. We acted on the side of caution. We’re sending bomb dogs back in just to make sure.”