The Book of Lost Fragrances: A Novel of Suspense

by M. J. Rose

  Swollen raindrops hit the window and blurred the scene.

  The detective hung up. Shrugged. “I’m sorry, but I have to follow up on that call. I’ll be with you in a moment.”

  As Marcher punched in the number, Malachai glanced at the clock on the dashboard. They’d gone five minutes out of their way. Now they were stuck in traffic. This was a disaster. The plan he, Jac and Griffin had worked out last night required Malachai to get to the museum by eleven fifteen. It was going to be his last chance to talk L’Etoile into selling him the memory tools instead of giving them to the Dalai Lama.

  If he was late, Malachai would have lost yet another chance at the golden ring. How many more chances would there be?

  His nerves were getting the better of him. Pulling a deck of playing cards out of his jacket pocket, he shuffled the deck. No matter that the cards were worth thousands of dollars, they were made to be played, appreciated, enjoyed. As he manipulated them, their golden edges sparkled.

  Malachai glanced at the dashboard again. Another minute had evaporated. The traffic was still congested. The detective was still jabbering away.

  The reincarnationist swallowed a sigh. He had no more patience for gendarmes and Interpol inspectors, FBI agents, Art Crime detectives and New York City policemen. Since 2007, he’d been on the receiving end of far too much attention from the authorities. But once you were on their radar, you couldn’t escape.

  Possessing one of the memory tools would be the culmination of Malachai’s career. So he’d followed the rumors wherever they’d led him whenever a potential tool surfaced. And even though he wasn’t the only one to covet the ancient artifacts, over and over he’d found himself at the center of international incidents and investigations. He couldn’t blame them that he was often the first to be suspected and the last to be exonerated.

  Once more, Malachai checked the clock on the dashboard. Two more minutes passed. He had only ten left before he had to be at the Orangerie. How long would Marcher’s questions take? How much was there to ask him? He hadn’t done anything illegal since arriving in Paris. Hadn’t seen anyone but Jac and Griffin. Leo the driver. No crimes he knew of had been committed since he’d been here. He’d been in New York the night Robbie had disappeared and the murder had occurred.

  For once, Malachai was almost thankful that the FBI had his residence and office under surveillance. They’d probably already confirmed he’d been safely ensconced in his apartment and hadn’t left America until forty hours later.

  As Leo navigated the sluggish traffic, Malachai checked the time yet again. What if he just opened the door and ran out? Left the stupid little detective in the Mercedes. Catch a cab—no, no cabs in the rain. Could he get to the Orangerie on foot?

  Outside, the sky darkened. The charcoal clouds thickened. What was left of daylight disappeared and was replaced by an ominous gloom.

  Leo turned a corner. The stone buildings on the narrow street were cast in shadows. A boom of thunder. A heavy wave of raindrops hit the rooftop with enough force to reverberate inside the car.

  Even for someone who believed in the impossible, Malachai knew he was too far away and it was too late for him to make it to the museum on time.

  The detective closed his phone. “Since we didn’t get a chance to chat at all, I’d like you to come upstairs with me.”

  “Do I have a choice in the matter? Speaking to the police wasn’t on my agenda for this morning.”

  “Yes, you mentioned you had somewhere to be. Would you like to tell me where your appointment is?”

  “Was. Where it was. I’m too late to make it now.”

  “Where was the meeting?”

  “It’s a private matter.”

  Marcher’s eyebrows rose. “That makes it sound suspicious.”

  “No, it makes it sound private. I’m not a French citizen. I haven’t been involved in any crimes committed while I’ve been in Paris. At least to my knowledge. Or am I wrong?”

  “You are in Paris because Robbie L’Etoile is missing, correct?”

  “Yes, because both he and his sister are friends of mine, and I wanted to offer support.”

  “Robbie L’Etoile is a prime suspect in a murder.”

  “That happened days before I arrived.”

  The chauffeur inched ahead.

  “I’m going to have to insist you come upstairs.”

  “Even though I just told you I am in Paris offering support to a dear friend.”

  “I’m sure your support is of great value to Mademoiselle L’Etoile. But the murder was a result of a robbery attempt that does have something to do with you.”

  “I think you are mistaken.”

  “The fragments of ancient Egyptian pottery, which are now missing along with Monsieur L’Etoile, are inscribed with poetry that references reincarnation.”

  “Just a coincidence,” Malachai said and smiled sadly. Let the detective believe that. Malachai knew better. There were no coincidences.

  Fifty-five

  11:21 A.M.

  Jac spotted her brother in the second of the Monet galleries. Standing in front of one of the blue-green murals, he was writing in a small notebook. He’d cleaned up and was wearing the clothes she and Griffin had brought him early that morning. But he hadn’t been able to disguise the bruises on his cheek.

  Since they were all supposed to look like visitors, she tried to focus on the painting Robbie was studying, but couldn’t see past her brother’s bowed head as he scribbled notes. There were about twenty other museumgoers in the room, some of whom appeared truly absorbed by the artwork, while others walked through barely giving the masterpieces more than a glance.

  No one looked suspicious. No one seemed to be watching her or Robbie. And Malachai was nowhere to be seen.

  Robbie put the pen and notebook in his pocket, turned, and walked out of the gallery.

  After sixty seconds, Jac and Griffin followed.

  They found Robbie on the lower level, in the suite where the temporary show hung. The signage here was in both French and Chinese. Jac translated for Griffin. “New Masters of the Ancient Art of Calligraphy.”

  The predominantly black-and-white pen-and-ink drawings were in stark contrast to the soothing blues and greens, lavenders and pinks and lemons of the Impressionist masterpieces on the floor above.

  Malachai wasn’t here, either. Where was he? Could they orchestrate all this without him? They’d planned on having three of them in place to help her brother make his donation without interference from the police or anyone else.

  While they waited, Jac looked at the calligraphy, examining the foreign letters. Even in her nervous state, she recognized they were beautifully rendered, elegantly spaced. It didn’t matter if she didn’t understand the words, she knew they were poetry and for a moment found some respite in that.

  Jac felt eyes on her. Looked up.

  Across the room, seven or eight young Asian men and women stood in a group. Curiously, none of them was inspecting the artwork. Instead all of them were watching the crowd. Who were they? Why were they here? The Dalai Lama’s visit hadn’t been announced to the public, so they couldn’t be here to meet him. One of them was watching her.

  He bowed his head. Then looked from her to the drawing she was studying, then back at her. He smiled. His expression exuded so much innocent joy that she knew without any doubt that he was the artist whose work she was examining. Peering at the legend under the frame, she read his name:

  Xie Ping

  Nanjing, China

  She glanced back at Xie. Now he was staring at a spot behind her, his joyous expression replaced with anxiety. Jac felt a chill pass over her.

  Turning, she saw a tight formation of a dozen men, all wearing similar dark uniforms, coming through the entranceway. These weren’t visitors; their faces were expressionless, their stance cautious but in control. Their eyes scanned the room. Missing nothing.

  Beside her, Griffin was watching them too. Jac glanced across the r
oom. Everyone, including her brother, was focused on the approaching phalanx.

  As the circle entered the gallery, they split apart. A bespectacled, bald-headed man wearing saffron robes emerged from inside their protection. Before he examined any of the artwork, His Holiness bowed to the crowd. His smile never waned. Then, starting at the beginning, he scrutinized the exhibition.

  Griffin stood still. On alert. Watching. Jac could feel the tension in his body and his concentration. He was scanning the crowd. So was she. Looking for anyone paying attention to Robbie. Or to them.

  If anyone here had discovered their plan, he or she would be especially careful. But there was no way anyone could have found out, was there? Even Robbie hadn’t known the time and place of the meeting until early this morning.

  The Dalai Lama spent at least thirty seconds on the first drawing. Leaning in, then stepping back. Gesticulating, he pointed to the upper-left corner and then said something to one of his companions. His Holiness radiated pleasure so pure, Jac felt it all the way across the room. For a moment, she actually thought that everything was going be fine.

  She stole a glance at Robbie. He smiled at her. He felt it too.

  The monk from the Buddhist center had given her and Griffin simple instructions:

  “Wait until His Holiness finishes looking at the paintings and begins to talk to the visitors. Tell your brother to approach then. Give His Holiness his name. The Dalai Lama and his Dhob-Dhob guards will be aware of him and know Robbie has a gift for him. One of the guards will take it from him.”

  The elderly but spry holy man continued around the gallery, examining and delighting in the artwork. His mood was infectious, and most of the crowd watched him with smiles on their faces too. Only among the group of Asian calligraphers did Jac notice discord. Two of the young men were scowling. And one of the women looked horrified. The elderly man standing beside Xie Ping watched the Dalai Lama in awe.

  When His Holiness had completed his perusal of the artwork, he strode into the center of the room. Facing the crowd, he put his palms together and bowed. He then rose, smiled, and walked toward the first person on the right of the room: a woman so in shock, she didn’t move.

  “I don’t bite,” the Dalai Lama said to her in French, laughing as he reached out and took her hands in his.

  As he moved on to the next visitor, two bodyguards flanked him and followed his every step. Three others stood behind him, covering his back. The rest of the team faced in different directions, watching the room.

  As the Dalai Lama continued mingling with the crowd, two things happened simultaneously.

  Robbie stepped out from where he stood on the left side of the room, and Xie emerged from the knot of students in the middle. From different directions, both men approached the Dalai Lama. Xie moved tentatively. Robbie was more self-confident.

  The guards watched, aware of both men.

  “Something is wrong,” Jac said to Griffin.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I don’t know. I can smell something.” She looked around. Scanned the crowd.

  Close by, behind a heavyset man in his fifties, Jac spied the couple. For a second, she wasn’t sure. The man was wearing a windbreaker and a Disney baseball cap. The woman was slight. She was wearing black slacks and a yellow rain slicker and had a camera around her neck like any tourist. Her thick, shining black hair hung down past her shoulders. Shoulders she held stiffly, as if she was in pain. Jac could smell the woman’s skin. Knew the scent. Recognized the spice of it. The hair was too shiny. A wig. It was Ani and the intruder, whom Jac had last seen in a well in the catacombs.

  She elbowed Griffin. Looked over. He followed her glance.

  “I’m going to go around the other side to try to cut them off,” Griffin whispered. “You stay put. We can’t let on we know they’re here.”

  Then he was gone. Jac couldn’t bear just standing there and watching. What if Ani and her companion noticed Griffin? If one of them took off after him while the other tried to intercept Robbie?

  She tried to work her way out of the crowd. The couple in front of her wouldn’t let her through. She asked them to move. First in French. When they didn’t understand, she tried in English. Still no recognition that they understood. She pushed through. Headed toward her brother. Went as slowly as she could so that she wouldn’t draw any undue attention.

  “Robbie?”

  He turned. “What are you—”

  She interrupted him. “Ani. That man. They’re here. Someone must have followed them into the tunnel. Got them out. Griffin’s going to try to keep them from getting to you. But we can’t take a chance. I’m going to stumble. Grab me. Hold me like you’re helping me. Then slip me the pottery. No one will see what you’re doing. Quickly. I’ll get it to him. I promise.”

  She slumped. Robbie grabbed her before she hit the ground. Put his arm around her back then tucked the pouch into her pants pocket.

  “Now walk away,” she whispered. “Go away from the Dalai Lama.”

  Jac took a step toward His Holiness while Robbie went in the other direction. She couldn’t see where he was going. He was behind her now. Jac took another step. Were the guards going to let her talk to the Dalai Lama?

  From the right, Jac saw the young Asian man approaching. The guards were watching him. But not suspiciously. They seemed to be expecting him.

  Maybe . . . picking up her pace . . . maybe . . .

  Jac bumped into Xie Ping. “Je m’excuse,” she said as she slipped the pottery into his pocket.

  He gaze was deep and penetrating. As if he was seeing far into her and recognized something in her.

  “Pour le Dalai Lama, s’il vous plaît? Please give it to his Holiness. Please?” Jac begged in a low voice.

  She didn’t know if he spoke French. English? But he closed his eyes, then quickly opened. As if in response.

  Jac was close enough to smell him. His scent was so familiar. As if she’d smelled him before once, in a dream. Now his aroma was mixing with the scents coming from the pottery.

  The scented air waved and crashed around her.

  Through the shadows, Jac watched as Xie reached the Dalai Lama. Bowed. Whispered something. The Holy Man reached out and pulled Xie to him. Instantly the bodyguards surged forward, surrounded them both, hid the old man and young artist from view.

  From behind, strong arms grabbed Jac.

  “Give it to me,” Ani said in Jac’s ear as she shoved a gun in her side.

  Jac shook her head. “I don’t have it.”

  “Give it to me!”

  Then someone shoved Jac so violently, it broke Ani’s grip. Jac tumbled to the floor. Then smelled the cordite at the same instant she heard the gun. The odor was bitter and cold as it mixed with the scents still in her memory: Xie’s scent and the scent of the ancient perfume. Then both were overpowered by the aroma of rich, sweet blood.

  Fifty-six

  Xie bowed his head and whispered his name to the Dalai Lama. He felt the venerable man’s hand under his chin. He lifted up Xie’s face, smiled brightly, and put his arm around the boy’s shoulder. His Holiness turned, whispered something to the guard closest to him. In seconds, the cadre of guards had closed ranks around them.

  Suddenly the room exploded. First there was a popping sound. Not too loud. But ugly. Screams. The bodyguards tightened even more. Xie heard someone shouting his name. He peered through a sliver of space in the human shield and saw Lan rushing toward him. At first he thought she was worried. Then he saw the flash of the ceramic knife in her hand, slashing her way through the crowd.

  A melee had broken out. Visitors screamed. Museum security guards shouted. Held guns up in the air. Fought to control the hysteria, to hold the crowd away from the Dalai Lama’s guards.

  Xie watched as Ru, the student he’d suspected was spying on him, grabbed Lan by the hair and efficiently threw her down in one expertly executed martial arts move.

  As the Dhob guards pushed Xie and the
Dalai Lama toward the exit, Xie was able to look back once more. The students he’d traveled with were watching—some in shock, others in horror. Only Professor Wu was observing the scene with equanimity, his face impassive except for the single tear slipping down his weathered cheek.

  Outside, along with the Dalai Lama, Xie was hustled into a waiting limousine. From the backseat, through the window, he saw the dark-haired woman with the bright green eyes who’d spoken to him. There was a red stain on her white shirt. More red—the color of the ink he used on his stamps in his calligraphy—dotting the scarf around her neck. Her skin was as white as its fabric. Ghostlike, she moved as if in a trance, following a stretcher.

  She wasn’t crying, but her face was ravaged with grief.

  Xie wanted to get out of the car. Talk to her. See if he could help her. Soothe her. Then he remembered the packet and her desperate plea.

  Please give it to His Holiness. Please?

  Xie felt strange. Not pain. Not confusion. Not fear. It seemed as if he could see further and more deeply than he’d been able to see since he was a child. When he’d remembered things that hadn’t happened to him as Xie. But before this life. When he was a ninety-year-old monk living by a waterfall in the shadow of a tall mountain. And the man he’d been before that. Remembered a whole dreamscape of beings. Past embodiments.

  Reincarnation was part of the fabric of what he had been taught. But there was a difference between learning and doing. Between imagining and knowing.

  As the car took off, the Dalai Lama took Xie’s hands in his and told him how glad he was to welcome his spiritual son back.

  “How long it has been. How much you have suffered. But you have been brave and done well, and we’re very proud of you.”

  Xie was too moved to speak.