Monaco, January 8, 1297
Amanda fingered the coins in her pouch and sighed. She had enough for dinner, perhaps even for a bed for the night. Tomorrow would have to take care of itself.
She could, of course, liberate a coin or two from unsuspecting passersby, but few of the figures scurrying through the darkening streets looked more prosperous than herself. Voyagers, mostly, seeking safety for the night behind the fortified walls of The Rock. And soldiers, of course, hired to protect the strategically important fortress in the Emperor's endless battle against the Pope.
Amanda shook her head. It was no surprise to her that neither His Holiness nor the Emperor were putting their own necks on the line. Typical mortal warfare. At least Immortal combat was one-on-one, not sacrificing other lives from a distance.... Suddenly, her attention was caught by a procession of brown robes and tonsured heads as a small band of Franciscan monks entered the gates. As tradition demanded, they would be given shelter for the night, even in this Imperial stronghold. She watched the skulk of monks with growing unease—and certainty. One of them was Immortal.
She scanned the faces of the monks, searching for the one who would be searching for heir. It took only a moment to find him—tall, with piercing blue eyes. A stranger. Amanda joined a group of women offering water to the holy newcomers. Taking up a small ladle, she and the stranger managed to step away from the group.
"I am Philippe Canella." He kept his voice low, and Amanda guessed that his fellow travelers knew him by another name.
"Amanda," she said simply. She offered him his portion of water; he drank gratefully, and Amanda relaxed. He had not come for her, she told herself. He traveled with a band of holy men, men of peace.... For the first time, Amanda took a good look at the other monks. They all seemed to defer to one man, short and dark, who moved silently among them. He bent for a sip of water, and his traveling cape billowed slightly; for a fleeting instant, Amanda caught the impression of a sword hilt hidden under his holy robes.
Then Philippe was in front of her, blocking her view of his leader. She looked up at him. He, she knew, would have his blade on him, for those were the rules of the Game. But the other man was a mortal, and, she was beginning to suspect, no more a monk than she was. She met Philippe's eyes; he knew what she had seen.
"You and I have no quarrel," Philippe told her. "It would not be wise of you to create one."
Amanda thought of the sour dinner and hard bed that awaited her, and weighed it against the inconvenience, if not danger, of a nighttime journey. The mortal with the hidden weapon was moving toward them; others were now in hearing. Amanda made her decision. "I wish I could stay and receive your blessing, Brother"—she smiled demurely—"but I must leave now if I'm to make Roquebrune by nightfall. My mother," she lied, raising her voice slightly, "has taken a turn for the worst."
Philippe looked startled, then nodded his approval. "I'll remember her in my prayers," he said, adding quietly, "You'll want to stay off the main roads." He chose his words with care. "You never know what thieves and cutthroats you might encounter."
"You never know," Amanda agreed.
The two Immortals parted. Fifteen minutes later, Amanda was already well out of the fortress, headed inland, far from the imposing ramparts.
It was a week before the news caught up with her: François Grimaldi, known as Malizia, "The Cunning," had, with a small band of men, wrested Monaco from the Ghibellines. There were conflicting reports as to how they had infiltrated the well-guarded stronghold, but these were laid to rest by history when the new Grimaldi prince designed a coat of arms. It featured two monks, armed with swords.
Theatre Princesse Grace, Monaco, The Present
Amanda had seen him since then, of course—it was a small world, they were bound to bump into each other every few hundred years. But Philippe had never been quite so unnerved at the sight of her before. She crossed to him, and he dutifully bowed over her hand. His eyes were still the clearest of blues, and they betrayed his annoyance at being forced to introduce Amanda to the woman at his side.
Draped, as always, in black, the Baroness du Vaulier was almost as well-known as the necklace glittering around her neck. She held herself ramrod straight, almost a parody of stuffy aristocracy. And yet, despite her sallow skin and etched face, there was an unassailable dignity to her. She was, quite literally, the last of her kind. But for her and the Baron, the family name had already died out. There were no children, no heirs; this generation would mark the end of the du Vauliers. And so the Baroness fought against oblivion with the only weapon she had: money. She founded Marseille's Musée du Vaulier, rebuilt Rome's Teatro Vaulieri, and endowed the Du Vaulier Chair in the history departments of both Yale and Harvard. The du Vauliers might disappear, but the Baroness had made sure they would never be forgotten.
Amanda was introduced to the lady just as the Baron himself joined their party—already drunk on the free champagne, flowing in honor of the premiere. All told, Amanda was flattered at his reaction when his bleary eyes finally focused on her. His mouth fell open, his eyes bulged; his patchy red face resembled nothing more than a gaping fish.
Before he could recover, the Baron was hit by another outrage. An irate woman marched up to the group, glared spitefully at the Baroness' necklace and began to curse the Baron soundly and with flair. She topped the moment by throwing her champagne in the Baron's face, then turned on her heel and stomped off. Amanda found herself smiling as the crowd broke out in astonished murmurs and discreet laughter. Madame Isabelle Jauverne had just given the finest performance the Monegasque audience had seen in years.
The Baroness had remained completely still throughout Madame Jauverne's histrionics, and made no move to help her husband as he mopped the champagne from his face. This was not, Amanda guessed, the first public scene between her husband and an ex-mistress. Mustering the shards of his dignity, the Baron held out his arm to his wife.
"Shall we?" he asked. The Baroness laid her hand on his. Without a backward glance, they disappeared into their box.
As soon as they were out of sight, Philippe turned to Amanda. "What are you doing here?" he demanded.
"Philippe! I missed you, too."
"If you've come to steal the Star of Athena," he said bluntly, "forget it. The Baroness is cousin to Prince Rainier. She is under my protection here."
"Lucky lady." Amanda smiled up at him. "Still the Grimaldis' knight in shining armor, are you? Or," she mocked softly, "would that be, friar in shining armor?"
"You won't get the necklace, Amanda. Not this time."
"Sounds like a challenge."
"I hope not," he answered. There was an awkward silence. The lobby lights began to blink, warning them to take their seats. Philippe took a step toward the Baroness' box. He stopped, looked back uncertainly.
"Run along, darling," she told him. "You're perfectly safe. I'm on vacation."
She wiggled her fingers at him, in what she hoped was a reassuring wave. He turned and disappeared. Amanda rolled her eyes and snagged a glass of champagne from a passing waiter. Why did the French have to take everything so seriously?
She disappeared into the ladies room to touch up her makeup and steal a moment of peace. The curtain was about to rise; she could count on having a few minutes alone. And then the door opened. A dark figure brushed in. Amanda glanced in the mirror and saw the uncompromising reflection of the Baroness du Vaulier standing behind her.
"You are Amanda Montrose." The Baroness didn't wait for an answer. "Philippe tells me you are a jewel thief."
Amanda finished putting on her lipstick. "Philippe is indiscreet," she said finally.
"How much will it cost to have my necklace stolen?"
Amanda smiled, gathered her things. "A hundred thousand francs seems to be the going rate."
"Done." The Baroness threw a handful of bills on the counter. "Half now. Half when the necklace is gone."
For the first time, Amanda looked directly at the Baroness.
"You're serious?" The Baroness didn't answer. "Why?"
"I am not paying you to ask questions," the Baroness snapped. "I'm paying you to make the Star of Athena disappear into history, now, tonight." She paused, fingering the necklace at her throat. Amanda thought she detected a note of panic behind the steely voice. "Will you do it?"
Amanda shook her head. "Let me get this straight. You want me to steal the jewels from around your neck, with no preparation time, no plan, in front of three hundred witnesses?" The Baroness nodded once, quickly. There was a moment of silence.
"Okay," Amanda said.
All things considered, it was one of the smoothest heists of Amanda's career. It helped, of course, to have a willing victim, not to mention a slightly drunken crowd pressing en masse to the front doors once the final curtain had come down. It took twenty-two seconds to cut the electricity, another minute to get from the fuse box back to the lobby. The Baroness was exactly where Amanda had told her to be. The crowd dutifully panicked in the sudden darkness, and Philippe found himself stranded near the coat check. Apart from a slight gasp as the Baroness felt the necklace slip from her neck, she made no noise, no move. Amanda slipped out the stage door a moment later. Perhaps Monaco wasn't so unprofitable after all, she decided.
She had ten minutes alone before Philippe pounded on the door of her room at the Hotel de Paris.
"Darling!" Amanda flung the door open. She took in Philippe's glare, the Baroness' composed face, and the professionally bland looks of the Hotel Security team standing behind the Immortal. "If I'd known it was a party, I'd have ordered room service."
"We're going to search your rooms," Philippe began. "If you try to stop us—"
"But why ever should I do that?" Amanda asked. She swung the door open wide. "Come in, boys. Make yourselves at home."
Philippe brushed past her; the others followed. It took less than ten minutes for Philippe to work his way to her jewelry box. He lifted it, felt for a false bottom before he even bothered to open it up. When he lifted the lid, Amanda heard his sharp intake of breath. The room froze.
Gently, Philippe drew the necklace from the box. Light danced over it, sparkling, brilliant, unmistakable.
Philippe approached the woman in black. He held out his hand, bowed his head slightly. "Madame la Baroness," Philippe asked formally, "is this your necklace?"
"I—"
"Don't be absurd, darling," Amanda's voice cut in, languid, bored. She rose from the chair she'd been lounging in. "Why in the world would the Baroness wear paste?"
Philippe whirled to face her. "What?" he asked.
"Paste. Fakes. Falsies. Here"—she tossed her jeweler's loupe at him—"Take a good look."
He did, peering through the glass at the glittering necklace for what seemed an eternity.
"I had a copy made some time ago," Amanda continued. "What can I say, Baroness? The Star of Athena is so beautiful, so legendary, so difficult to fence." She turned back to Philippe. "I couldn't have the real thing, of course, but I saw no reason not to have a copy. Childish, perhaps, but illegal?"
"The real one's here somewhere." Philippe nodded to the security team, who continued their search. "If I have to rip through every pillow, tear down the walls—"
"You'll have quite a hotel bill on your hands. And you won't find it, Philippe," Amanda added, quietly. "I promise you. You won't find anything at all."
And he didn't. Forty minutes later, Philippe and his men were forced to admit defeat. The Baroness, who hadn't spoken a word during the entire search, abruptly rose from her chair, glared once at Philippe, then disappeared out the door. The security men looked to him, then, reluctantly, followed the Baroness. Amanda smiled gently at the Immortal.
"Sorry, darling. Win some..."
He didn't let her finish. Philippe grabbed her arm, hard. "This isn't over, Amanda," he managed finally. "We both know it's not over." And he was gone.
Amanda packed quickly. Not that she'd be able to shake Philippe forever, of course, but she might be able to buy some cooling-off time. She checked her watch: 1:40 A.M. Maybe she could rouse one of the helicopter pilots and get a private flight out....
It was not to be. Amanda felt the Buzz the moment she stepped from the hotel. She cast around; Philippe was nowhere in sight. She dropped her bags and moved carefully around the side of the building, her back to the wall. A wide stone walkway, deserted at this time of night, ran behind the hotel, linking it to the Casino. She found him there, waiting for her, sword in hand.
"We have no quarrel, Philippe." Amanda circled him cautiously.
"Draw your sword," he answered.
Amanda heard the regret in his voice, and the uncompromising steel. Reluctantly, she obeyed. Her blade appeared as if by magic; centuries of wielding it had molded the hilt to fit her as if she'd been born with a sword in her hand. Which, in a way, she had.
She parried the first blow and felt a familiar rush of excitement, her confidence in her own ability to survive mingling with a flicker of fear. But her exhilaration was short-lived. Philippe was a powerful fighter, an experienced swordsman. She could only duck and parry so long before she would be forced to kill, or be killed. And, attached as she was to her own neck, Amanda didn't want to be the one to end Philippe's extraordinary life.
She deflected another attack. "Philippe," she began, "listen to me." She backed up slowly, leading him up the stone steps to the courtyard behind Monaco's Casino. She quickly judged the distance between her and the ornate, second-story balcony, then made a run for it. In three great strides, she hurled herself straight up the terraced flower beds. She leapt as he dove for her legs; grabbing the iron bars of the balcony, she swung herself up and over the metal railing. It was a feat, she knew, that Philippe would not be able to duplicate, and it bought her a few precious moments.
"I will be damned," she continued, catching her breath, "if either of us loses our head over a worthless piece of paste."
"Bon Dieu!" he roared, as he desperately looked for a way to reach her. "Now you mock me!"
"No, Philippe, really, I—"
She jumped hack as Philippe slammed his sword through the railing, narrowly missing her ankle. His voice shook with anger and frustration. "Where is the Star of Athena?"
"I have no idea.... Brussels?" she ventured. "Vienna, possibly. Oh, not the whole necklace, of course," Amanda continued. "The diamonds would have been sold off long ago. But the Sapphire itself, she would never have been able to get rid of it, it's too well-known...."
"She? She, who?"
Amanda looked down at him pityingly. "Why the Baroness, of course. Who did you think?"
* * *
"At first," Amanda explained, "I thought Isabelle Jauverne had the copy made, knowing the Baron would try to get it back." They were back at the Loews Hotel, in Philippe's suite. He had ordered champagne and room service in exchange for the full story—and a cessation of hostilities.
"How did you know she hadn't?"
"If she'd known the necklace was paste, I don't think she'd have been as eager to tear the Baron's heart out with her bare hands," Amanda reminded him. "And the Baron himself would never have paid me a hundred thousand francs to retrieve a fake."
"Aha!" exclaimed Philippe. "Then you admit you stole the necklace from Madame Jauverne?"
"Of course not," she replied, indignant. "I returned the purloined necklace—which just happened to be a brilliant fake—to its rightful owner, the Baroness du Vaulier."
"Who then paid you to take it off her hands."
"Who better?" Amanda smiled and allowed Philippe to refill her glass, just to show there were no hard feelings over his attempt at her head. "I think she knew when she married him that the Baron had, shall we say, a weak heart?" Amanda continued. "She had the fake necklace made in case he was ever tempted to buy affection with the legendary Sapphire. What she didn't realize was that the Baron also had an uncanny ability to lose at cards."
"So she was forced to sell off the diamond
s, one by one, to cover his losses."
"And protect the family name."
"Yes," he agreed, "that does seem to be a concern."
"It's more than that, Philippe. It's her immortality." Amanda paused to sip her champagne. "When she realized I was in Monte Carlo, it must have seemed that all her worries were over."
At that, Philippe raised an eyebrow. She shrugged, modestly. "With my name in the report, do you think the insurance company will doubt for a moment that the Star of Athena was really stolen?"
"You do have an unsettling effect on insurance adjusters."
"It's a gift." Amanda smiled at him. "One of many."
Philippe raised his glass. "To your many gifts..." He reached over and gently began unbuttoning her blouse. "And to unwrapping them all...."
Amanda closed her eyes as Philippe's lips brushed her neck. She did so love the French.
Words To The Highlander
by Peter Hudson
"JAMES HORTON": Peter Hudson
British actor Peter Hudson is one of a number of one-time guest stars on Highlander: The Series who made such a positive impact that they were brought back for additional appearances. Hudson was originally to appear as evil Watcher James Horton only in two episodes (the first-season finale, "The Hunters," and the second season premiere, "The Watchers"), and in fact he died rather convincingly at the end of "The Watchers." But on Highlander, dead doesn't always mean gone, and in a series of spectacular revivals, Horton returned to the show again and again.
Even after he was conclusively killed, ways were found to bring him back, at first in flashbacks, then later as the embodiment of all the evil at loose in the world. Although the role came to be dubbed "Ahriman," in fact Ahriman (the Zoroastrian name for the forces of darkness) was only one face of the universal character he portrayed—and it is a great measure of Peter Hudson's success in the role of James Horton that he seemed the natural choice to give a face to the greatest evil in the world, that which different cultures call Set, or Ahriman, or Satan.
An Evening at Joe's Page 3
