Day of Atonement

by Alex Archer

  The old man knew he would forgive him in time, just as he had forgiven him in the past. Garin could no more change his nature than a shark could or a lion. But it would be much harder to forgive him for robbing him of his good name. The last thing Roux wanted was to be constantly looking over his shoulder for the police. Scrutiny by the law was bound to bring up questions he couldn’t or wouldn’t answer.

  “We’ve got to find him,” he said. “But first we have to deal with Cauchon.”

  “Cauchon?” Annja said.

  “What?”

  “That name.”

  “What about it? I know I should know it. But…” He held up his hands helplessly.

  “You should know it. It should be burned onto your soul.”

  And he remembered it then.

  Cauchon.

  It was the name of the man who had signed Joan of Arc’s death warrant.

  21

  The call came through as he had been about to land.

  The temptation was to answer it straightaway, despite the need to keep his wits about him, but that would have made him seem desperate. Desperation in negotiation was weakness. So he would let the phone ring, make the man wait. He was going to do this on his own terms. Garin patted the bundle on the copilot’s seat to reassure himself that the papers were still there.

  The flight hadn’t been long enough for him to give them more than a cursory glance, but it was enough to realize that there was far more hidden in those few pages of writing than he could decipher. To a certain kind of collector this account was priceless, which added a few zeroes to any transaction as far as Garin was concerned.

  Once the plane had come to a standstill, he made the call.

  It was answered on the third ring.

  “I’ve got the first thing on your list,” he said.

  “Where are you?”

  Garin read the instruments, and just for the hell of it gave his location in longitude and latitude. He glanced out of the windshield at the plowed runway and the banks of snow on either side of the black line that stretched all the way to the airport’s small terminal. Men moved across the apron, working hard to clear more of the snow. None were heading in his direction.

  “I’ll arrange for someone to meet you within the hour,” the man said. “Stay where you are.”

  “Not so hasty, my wealthy friend,” Garin replied, enjoying this part of the conversation. “The price has gone up. I am thinking in the region of an extra fifteen percent in relation to the finder’s fee, then half a mil bonus for the speed of the operation.”

  “I’m not in the habit of bargaining, Mr. Braden. I am a man of my word.”

  “I have what you want. It’s called supply and demand. I control the line of supply, so I can demand whatever price the market will stand. In other words, take it or leave it. I’m sure that I can find another buyer for the papers.” If he squeezed an extra five percent out of the deal, he would feel like he had pulled one over on the other man. That made the whole exercise that little bit sweeter. Ten percent and he would have been robbing him blind.

  Which made the man’s response all the more surprising.

  “Fine,” he said. “But I will send a car to pick you up. I am going to have to inspect the merchandise myself before I transfer the cash.”

  “That’s reasonable,” Garin said, patting the bundle again. “Believe me, you won’t be disappointed. The package is in mint condition.” His thinking was that he’d just opened the door to a cash cow, and now was the time to negotiate on some of the other documents to satisfy the collector’s fetish.

  “I am not a man who enjoys disappointment, Mr. Braden, so let us both hope that I am not.”

  With that, the call ended.

  Garin felt a cold shiver chase up the ladder of his spine one vertebrae at a time.

  His red Ferrari was parked a few hundred yards from the hangar where he kept the Gulfstream, and a couple of mechanics who’d be in place to check her as he taxied her in. It wouldn’t take him long to get anywhere in the immediate vicinity—or technically in Europe, should the caller demand it.

  He jabbed at the phone again, trying to reconnect with his mysterious buyer, but the call went straight to voice mail. Garin assumed he was on a call to his proxy, making arrangements for the inspection. Garin had no choice but to wait it out. The driver would appear eventually, and there were worse places to wait than in a luxury jet.

  He didn’t have to wait long.

  A black limousine swept into view, executed a wide turn, then drove quickly toward the open doors of the hangar, pulling up to a stop right across the doorway. A woman clambered out of the driver’s seat. Even from this distance he liked what he saw as she came walking toward the Gulfstream. He lowered the steps, ready to allow her to board. She was dressed in a tailored suit, designer, Italian and probably worth as much as the car she was driving. It clung tantalizingly to every inch of her body.

  He watched her all the way to the stairs. The closer she came, the better she looked. His buyer at least had exquisite taste in companions. Good to know.

  She boarded, knocking on the frame of the Gulfstream’s door before setting foot inside, calling out, “Mr. Braden?” as she did.

  She had a smile that lit up her sun-kissed skin.

  “That’s me.” He smiled back, rising to shake her hand.

  “I’m Monique,” she said.

  “Do you want to do it here?” Garin asked, enjoying the deliberately provocative double entendre.

  “No, Mr. Braden. Your chariot awaits.” She nodded in the general direction of the hangar doors and the waiting limo.

  He gathered together the bundle of papers, tying the ribbon, and followed her back down the stairs. He liked to walk a few steps behind beautiful women for the view. A person could always learn a lot about a woman from the way she walked when she knew she was being watched. Monique descended with her shoulders back and head held high. In control. Strong. Not unlike Annja. He thought about offering a cheesy line, just for the amusement factor. Sometimes it was fun to play, but without knowing just how far they had to drive, or how tight she was with the buyer, mixing business with pleasure would be stupid.

  But that didn’t stop him from enjoying the view.

  “So, tell me, how long do I get to enjoy the pleasure of your company?”

  She held the rear door open for him. It was a nice reversal of the gender stereotype, the gallant lady and all that, even if he would have preferred to ride up front with her.

  “Around thirty minutes at this time of day, so sit back and make yourself at home. We have an excellent bar. Feel free to help yourself to anything that takes your fancy.”

  “Thanks,” he said, sure she was playing the game and flirting right back at him. As tempting as it was, he didn’t rise to the bait and kept things strictly professional. Playing it straight was positively boring.

  She closed the door. The mechanism was almost silent, save for a reassuring click. Precision engineering. He reevaluated the cost of the car against her suit.

  Garin sank back into the leather seat. The windows were tinted and, he suspected, armored. Interesting. He gazed out of the window as they pulled away from the hangar and followed the parking lot around to the road that would take them out of the airfield, past the parking lot and a hollowed-out 747 that had been converted into an overnight hostel for travelers.

  He felt like celebrating even though the business was far from concluded.

  He’d played the game perfectly so far.

  Even so, he resisted the temptation to help himself to a drink.

  Maybe on the ride home.

  “We should reach the hotel before my employer,” she said. “But he is en route.”

  “Hotel?” For some reason Garin had been expecting a clandestine meeting somewhere far away from prying eyes. But a hotel was practical, even if it was disappointing. Hotels also kept records, which meant he had another way of finding out exactly who he was dealing with.
He smiled to himself.

  “That’s correct. I take it you weren’t informed of your destination? He maintains a suite there.”

  “Not a word. All very hush-hush.”

  She smiled at him through the rearview mirror. “I just do what I’m told to do,” she said, and he caught a glimpse of her eyes watching him in the rearview mirror. “And in your case, I was told to make sure that you were kept entertained.”

  “What a hardship,” Garin said. The thought of spending a little time with a beautiful woman was never a bad thing. Well, almost never. He just wanted this business concluded, then he’d think about blowing off some steam, maybe a visit to the racetrack with some paid companions to dip into his new wealth.

  The car cruised to a sedate halt outside the plushest hotel in the city—exclusive, expensive, home to the beautiful people.

  Monique entrusted the keys to a doorman who looked down at the tip she’d crumpled into his hand as if all of his Christmases had come at once.

  Garin followed her inside.

  They took the elevator straight to the penthouse suite where she produced a swipe card that allowed them to gain access.

  “Hello,” Monique called. There was no reply. “Looks like we’re on our own for a little while. I can check in with him to see how long he’ll be if you like?”

  “There’s no need,” Garin said as he took a look around the room. If there had been any lingering doubts as to the depth of his buyer’s pockets, they were banished by the room. If he could afford to maintain a place like this, which had to have run upward of three or four grand a night, then the man had a good line of credit, at the very least.

  “We can have that drink while we wait,” Garin offered. She hesitated. “Remember, you’re meant to entertain me, and I really hate to drink alone.”

  “I really shouldn’t,” she said.

  “I would consider myself unentertained if you forced me to drink alone. I’m not sure that your employer would be too happy about that, would he?” Garin offered a cheeky grin.

  “Just one, then,” she said. “But only because I wouldn’t want to think you were unentertained.”

  “You are teasing me, aren’t you?”

  “Just a little bit. Perhaps bored would be a better word?”

  “Ah, but I’m never bored,” Garin said. “Just thirsty.”

  “What can I get you?”

  “Scotch,” he said, spying a familiar-looking bottle on a drinks tray.

  She poured a generous measure, ice cubes clinking together as she handed the glass to him. She made herself a gin and tonic. A lot more tonic went into the glass than gin. No ice for her, but she speared a slice of lemon that had already been cut and laid out.

  “So, I can’t pretend I’m not curious. What’s your boss like?” he asked. “Is he good to work for?”

  “He is a powerful man.”

  “Which doesn’t answer the question.”

  “But it’s the best answer you are going to get, Mr. Braden.”

  “Well, if you ever get tired of the cloak and dagger, I’m always on the lookout for good people.”

  “I really don’t think he’d be very happy to hear that you were trying to steal me from him,” Monique said.

  “Well, steal is such a vulgar word. Entice, more like.”

  “I’m not sure the size of your vocabulary will make a lot of difference if he decides that you are disrespecting him.”

  “Oh, rest assured, I’d never disrespect a man of such obvious wealth. You make friends with rich people if you are smart. But it’s out there. I won’t mention it again. But if you were to reach out to me after we’ve finished our little piece of business here I wouldn’t say no.”

  “I’m sure you wouldn’t,” she said, and took a drink, her eyes glancing away for a moment.

  He took a pull at the whisky, feeling the heat on his tongue before it slipped to the back of his throat. He swallowed. The liquid burned his chest as it slid down, a familiar warming that held him like an old friend. He held the glass up to the light and watched the ice cubes drift through the amber liquid.

  “Only the best,” he said.

  “Would you expect anything less? My employer doesn’t do things in half measures. His belief is that if you want the best in life you have to be prepared to pay for it, and that goes for everything.”

  It was hard to disagree. Garin had the same philosophy. He took another mouthful, holding it in his mouth a little longer this time, allowing the fire to melt in his mouth before swallowing.

  “Does that include you?” he asked, pushing his luck.

  “I certainly don’t come cheap.”

  “And what exactly do you do for him apart from pick strangers up from the airport in a fancy car?”

  “Whatever I’m asked to do,” she said, and settled down in chair opposite him. Her legs stretched out in front of her, impossibly long. She swirled the ice in her glass and he listened to the steady clink, clink, clink as if it was building into a rhythm, like a song or a heartbeat.

  The sound seemed to mean something to him, or was it the smell, or the heat?

  Clink, clink, clink.

  His thoughts tumbled as he tried to hang on to a single thread of thought, wanting it to make sense, but it was getting hotter in the room, and the clink, clink, clink was less like a heartbeat now and more like the banging of a drum. Incessant. Driving.

  He loosened his collar, feeling uncomfortable.

  The room swam around him as Garin reached out to place his glass on a marble-topped table. He misjudged it. The drink splashed over the side in slow motion, the glass tumbling to the plush carpet, the ice cubes falling out like a pair of dice.

  He needed to get to the bathroom as quickly as he could.

  When he tried to get to his feet his legs refused to hold him. He leaned on the arm of the chair, struggling to find his balance.

  “I think you should sit back down, Mr. Braden. I wouldn’t want you to have an accident,” Monique said. Her voice sounded strange, her words echoing.

  “What’s…?” His tongue struggled to wrap itself around the next word, his lips numb as he worked his jaw.

  He clung to the arm of the chair, stubbornly refusing to collapse, but it was a losing battle. The bathroom door seemed to be moving closer, swimming toward him across the silk carpet, but he couldn’t tell if his feet were moving or if he was pitching headfirst toward it.

  She’d slipped him something in his drink.

  He tried to curse his own stupidity, but was incapable of doing even that.

  Somehow he managed to reach the door, his palm sweating as it grabbed for the knob, slipping as it opened at his touch. Instead of the hoped-for bathroom he fell into a bedroom that seemed far too white, a brilliant white that dazzled him apart from the vicious splash of arterial red on the bed and the wall beyond it.

  He tried to focus, tried to hold on to his grip on consciousness, even though he knew he was failing.

  All he could see was the shape on the bed and the splatter of blood.

  22

  “It’s done,” was all the voice said before killing the call.

  Two words.

  Small words, but so very important.

  There was no more that needed to be said, no need for small talk.

  She would be on her way to join him now that she had everything he needed.

  Patience was a virtue.

  But getting what you wanted was so much more satisfying than being patient.

  It had taken so very long to locate everything he needed, but now all of the pieces in the puzzle were beginning to come together, the long game he’d been playing paying out. He was determined to enjoy each and every little victory now. This was what it was all about.

  He put the phone on the desk in front of him.

  How long would it take for her to reach him?

  Too long for his liking obviously, he thought wryly. Knowing how long he’d waited for this moment, a few more minu
tes couldn’t hurt.

  He felt the familiar pain in his legs even though he knew that it was no more than a memory; it had been a long time since there had been any significant feeling down there. His lower limbs were little more than an ornament, their presence an elaborate charade meant to make him feel close to normal. Not that he would ever feel normal again.

  He had spent years watching military advances into the field of exoskeletal frames, willing the breakthrough to come, dreaming of walking on his own two feet again. The time would come, but not yet, and maybe not even in his lifetime.

  There were times when he had wished that the surgeons had just cut them off instead of fighting to keep them intact. Their very presence meant he clung to hope despite the torment hope entailed.

  Now, though, he had a mission of his own.

  He hated having to rely on other people to do the work for him, but he would find his own reward. All he had to do was to continue with the work of the man whose name he had adopted.

  On the table in front of him lay a copy of the document.

  He ran his fingers down the paper, realizing that while this might not be as significant as the moment that the other Cauchon had added his name to the warrant that led to Joan of Arc’s execution, this was his moment and that meant savoring it. He had no doubt now. It was fated. He was going finish what Cauchon had started six centuries ago.

  He picked up his pen and unscrewed the cap.

  There were no witnesses to what he was doing.

  That didn’t matter.

  He wasn’t looking for fame or immortality; his writing would not be stored in museums and libraries beyond the next generation.

  This was about ending things—one thread that had been dangling for centuries, another for considerably less time but promised the sweet succor of vengeance. He ached for satisfaction.

  Cauchon took a deep breath, the nib of the pen still a hairsbreadth from the paper, then added a name into the space where the Maid of Orleans’s name would once have been.