Day of Atonement

by Alex Archer

  “I’m sorry,” was all he could say.

  “Sorry? That’s a first. But I’m disappointed, Garin. All you had to do was ask. You know I would have given you whatever you needed, so ‘sorry’ isn’t going to cut it this time,” Roux said. “I want everything back. Everything you took.”

  “That’s just the thing…”

  “You’ve sold it? Obviously you have. What could I have been thinking to ask such a silly question? I hope you made enough money to make betraying me worthwhile.”

  “I’ll get the documents back. I promise you. I’ll get everything back. But I need to get out of here first. And I need you to help me do that.” He had expected to hear more venom in Roux’s voice. There was no doubt the old man was angry, but there was something else, something that he was more concerned about.

  There was only ever one thing more important than berating Garin for doing something venal and stupid, and that was Annja.

  “Who did you sell the papers to?” Roux demanded.

  “It doesn’t matter,” Garin replied, still unable to admit just how badly he’d screwed up.

  “Believe me, it matters. It matters because on the same day that you break into my vault there’s a threat on Annja’s life. It matters because she discovered someone had signed out documents here in Carcassonne in my name. And now she’s gone missing. There has to be a connection between those documents and what has happened to her. That’s why it matters, Garin.”

  “Missing? What do you mean, missing?”

  “I mean missing. What else would I mean? She was supposed to meet her cameraman, and she didn’t turn up.”

  Garin listened as the old man told him about her encounter with the thugs Dugarry and Rameaux, how he had paid them a visit in the local lockup and that he had managed to get the phone number of their boss, Cauchon.

  He had to admire the old man’s tenacity. He was a terrier when he was chasing something.

  “But that doesn’t mean that there’s any connection with the man who wanted those documents,” Garin argued. “Sometimes a coincidence really is just that.”

  “And yet here you are calling me to say you need my help. Let me guess, your little transaction didn’t go smoothly, did it? I assume you aren’t wanting advice on how to invest your windfall? Did your buyer know these papers were in my vault? Or was that just blind luck?”

  “You’re right, it didn’t go well,” Garin confessed. He’d already figured out that there was more going on than just the theft of a few ancient documents.

  You didn’t need to be a rocket scientist, he thought, to work that out when people started drugging you and trying to frame you for murder. The problem was he couldn’t bring himself to talk about it. It would have been easier face-to-face. Right now Roux needed his help and he needed Roux’s help, and Annja almost certainly needed both of them.

  That’s what was tempering the old man’s anger. He would have to make things right later. Saving Annja would be a start.

  “Give me the number. I’ll get my guy on to it. If you’re right and Cauchon doesn’t know you have it, there’s a chance he hasn’t covered his tracks. Where are you at the moment?”

  “Carcassonne,” Roux said, giving him the name of his hotel.

  “Room number?” Garin asked. It came as no surprise that the old man was already there. It was almost certainly the same hotel that Annja was staying at.

  “Room 301, but I’ll be heading out for a while.”

  “You have a lead?”

  “No. I’m going to check Annja’s room. If there’s nothing there, I’ll take a walk from here to where she was supposed to meet her cameraman.” And almost as an afterthought, he added, “So, you called me. You didn’t do that for fun. What’s your problem?”

  Garin glanced through the open bedroom door at the body on the bed and knew that Roux was right; there had to be a connection. And if that was right, it meant that Annja could be in real danger.

  “You know what? It can wait,” he said. “I’ve got a couple of things to take care of here, but then I’ll come over to you.”

  “Call me as soon as you have news. Anything at all. And just because we are working together doesn’t mean I have forgiven you, Garin. Don’t mistake my concern for Annja as anything but that.”

  “Wouldn’t have it any other way, old man,” Garin said, and finished the call.

  He had more calls to make.

  First things first; he needed a cleaner.

  30

  The documents were more than he could have hoped for.

  The man who called himself Cauchon pored over the papers he had spread out on the desk in front of him.

  He had assumed that he would find at least a hint that there was real evidence of witchcraft buried somewhere among the material that had, as of yet, never seen the light of day. He felt a grim sense of satisfaction in having framed Roux for the theft of material, even though it had meant that the dealer who had impersonated him—Jake Thornton—lay dead in a hotel room. At least his corpse was serving a second purpose, in setting up Roux’s cohort. Garin Braden was going to have his hands full trying to worm his way out of the mess he’d woken up to, assuming Monique had not disappointed him. It was highly unlikely Braden would be in a position to interfere before his endgame was played out.

  And then his time would come.

  All good things come to those who wait.

  Hiring a man like Garin Braden to steal those papers from under the nose of a man he knew so well had been inspired—it drove a wedge between them. Cauchon reveled in it.

  They would all pay in the end, but in the meantime he would draw enjoyment from their torment.

  Bernard Gui had been only too aware that there had been a form of witchcraft that had existed long before it had first been recorded in the suspicions and revelations of the Inquisition. That magic was far more dangerous than the hedge magic of cures and curses. The writings showed no evidence of devil worship however, there was something else, and if he could follow its trail he would use it to his advantage.

  What he had was proof that it was possible to rid the woman, Annja Creed, of the spirit that possessed her. Then she could be a true martyr.

  Her death would mark the beginning of his new Inquisition.

  There had been so many years of planning, so many years of preparation, waiting for more than just the stars to align, but now he had the key to it all and he was going to use it.

  There were other items he needed to locate before the last pieces could fall into place, but by the grace of God he had already obtained most of them.

  In a box on the floor beside him he had accumulated possessions and documents touched by the men who had condemned Joan of Arc.

  Even with the amount he had so far, he might be able to make the attempt. All he needed now was something that had belonged to Joan herself, something that had once been close to her.

  Since he had the girl, he knew that he would be able to make Roux dance to his tune. The old man would do anything if he thought that it would lead to Annja Creed’s release. More fool him. He was also sure that if he gave Roux the opportunity, he would make the suggestion himself: he would exchange his life for hers rather than see her suffer. The thought alone was delicious in itself.

  His sister would truly enjoy that.

  There were times when he worried that perhaps Monique enjoyed inflicting suffering on others a little too much. She had relished the opportunity to deal out pain and death. It had been her idea to kill what she called their loose ends. They were expendable. Cauchon was only too aware how dependent he was on his sister.

  Roux had to have realized that Annja was missing by now, and it had to have been driving him out of his mind that he couldn’t find her. Come nightfall Cauchon would make sure Creed was sedated before they moved her. Monique was certain that she would be able to handle it on her own, no matter how doubtful he was. There were some things he could not do himself.

  He looked out of
the window at the world and wondered if it sensed what was about to happen. If it could feel the importance of tomorrow and the beginning of his New Inquisition.

  This time it wasn’t about which god people believed in.

  It was so much more fundamental than that.

  He knew where he could find the last piece in the puzzle. Roux was going to be the man to get it for him.

  The most important thing now was not to rush. This was a time for patience, for choosing the right moment when the broken old man would do anything for him.

  31

  Garin wrapped the body in the bed linen and waited for the cleaner and a team to arrive.

  It hadn’t been as easy to organize as he had hoped. It wasn’t as if a person could just look them up on the internet and check their ratings. But he was resourceful. He made a call to a guy named Hunter, thousands of miles away in the States, who connected through four different fixers to the kind of cleaner he was looking for, who were over the border in Zaragoza. That meant several hours before they could get to him. He didn’t have a choice. Better to go with someone he could trust than take a risk on trying to do it himself, and these guys came on Hunter’s recommendation. That meant they were good at what they did. In the grand scheme of things, a couple of hours wasn’t so bad—certainly better than no help at all.

  Roux’s voice echoed inside his head, the unspoken accusation that this was all his fault, that he was the one who had brought this to their doors.

  The accusation had no foundation in reality. Garin hadn’t precipitated this. The worst he had done was not turn his back on an offer of easy money.

  Roux had received the call about the first threat on Annja’s life, not him.

  The old man was at the center of this, even if he could not see it.

  Garin had played his part. He was prepared to admit that, and he intended to put that right, but playing his part was a damned sight different from taking the blame for everything.

  He heard the movement in the hall before he heard the tap on the door.

  “Housekeeping,” said the voice from the other side.

  Garin checked his watch.

  It had barely been an hour and a half since he had made the call. It was hard to believe that they could be there already, given the distance from Zaragoza, but it wasn’t impossible, he supposed.

  He closed the door to the bedroom just in case it wasn’t them and went to answer the knock. Two men, far too burly to be regular hotel staff, waited on the other side.

  “Mr. Braden?”

  He nodded.

  “We understand that you have something in your room that needs to be removed?” one of them said. The other scoped the corridor, making sure no one was coming. He leaned against a laundry cart. They had come prepared.

  Garin stepped aside to let them through without another word.

  “If you could direct us to the item?” the first man said.

  Garin nodded toward the bedroom and made sure that the door to the hallway was closed before they reached it. He wasn’t about to risk the slightest chance of a tourist or a member of the staff getting even a glimpse of what lay on the other side.

  “You might want to be somewhere else while we do this. It’s going to take a little time and it’s not particularly pleasant.”

  “How long?”

  “A couple of hours, maybe more. By the time we’re done you won’t be able to tell that anyone has been in the room, at least not with the naked eye. We’ll cleanse the room, scrub it down to be sure nothing will turn up under UV light, either.”

  “What about the bedding?”

  The silent man reached inside the linen cart and pulled out a set of the hotel’s bed linen complete with a new duvet.

  “We’ll dispose of the soiled sheets.”

  The man ignored the bundle that wrapped the body, still lying in the middle of the bed. The mattress beneath was stained red and it seemed unlikely that they would be able to do anything about that.

  “It will be more difficult to get the blood out of the mattress. Ideally we’d take it off-site, too, but we’ll scrub it down, flip it and buy some time. With luck it’ll be weeks before the staff turns the mattress. By then dozens of people will have come and gone. The wall and the headboard shouldn’t be too much trouble.”

  He talked as if the disposal of the body was the least of his problems. For that reason and that reason alone, Garin was convinced the man knew what he was talking about.

  There was nothing to keep him there.

  The best thing he could do was get out of their way and let them get on with their job.

  “We’ll close the door behind us,” the man assured him. “Unfortunately, there will be a lingering smell of chemicals for a few hours, so we’ll leave the window open, but I’ll make sure that the do not disturb sign stays on the door. Trust us, everything will be fine.”

  There was no talk about what would happen after they took the body away; that wasn’t his concern, and frankly, the less he knew, the better.

  There was no talk about payment, either.

  This was about favors being called in and repaid up and down the line through a network of people who offered specialist services, where a cash value could not be placed on a service. These were professionals, just like him. It was going to cost a lot of people a lot of favors in the long run, but contrary to what the song said, the best things in life weren’t free.

  He left them to it.

  He took the elevator back down to the lobby and headed out to get his car from the valet who brought it around from the hotel garage for him. As he passed through the doors, the valet stood beside the red Ferrari he had left behind at the airport.

  “Your keys, sir,” he said, holding out a set of keys by the leather fob with the iconic Ferrari badge on it.

  There was no doubt that they were his keys.

  She’d worked fast when he was drugged up. Faster than he would have thought possible, unless he’d been under longer than he believed.

  “Thanks,” he said, slipping his hand in his pocket for a folded bill. He handed it to the valet, who slid it into his own without giving it a glance. A moment later he was behind the wheel and roaring away from the hotel without really knowing where he was heading, not even completely sure where he was. He was loath to admit it, but he had been distracted by his abductor’s beauty, which no doubt was part of her plan. Yet again he was left to ponder the wisdom of trusting in beauty.

  Garin had been driving for a few minutes before he noticed that there was something off about the car, something different about how it handled.

  He pulled over to the side of the road and took a look around to try to understand what it was.

  When he figured out what was missing, he couldn’t help but laugh at just how devious the woman had been, and in truth how incredibly careful she had to have made her plans.

  He climbed out of the car to take a look at the license plate to confirm that it was the same as his own car.

  It was.

  But this wasn’t his car.

  It was the same make, the same model, but it wasn’t his.

  She’d worked out the con to the minutest detail, determined to ensure that he was implicated in Jake Thornton’s murder, including putting on plates that would incriminate him.

  But he’d slipped away before the noose had closed.

  He had to assume she’d made an anonymous call to tip off the police, or was going to soon. He could only hope the law wouldn’t arrive in the middle of the cleanup.

  Garin climbed back into the car, sure it was hot. He needed to switch vehicles, but he couldn’t just ditch a flame-red Ferrari in the middle of nowhere. First he needed to swap the plates out with some other vehicle—thankfully Monaco was a billionaire’s playground. There were plenty of supercars lining the strip and the seafront, and he left the vehicle in its natural habitat, where one more Ferrari wouldn’t set off any alarm bells.

  He didn’t go back to g
et his own car, but hopped a bus to the airport and went inside the terminal to the car rental desk, emerging with the keys for a tank of a 4x4.

  The urge to skip the country was strong, just drive south, hit the border and keep going, but he couldn’t do that while Annja was still in trouble. Especially when there was just a tiny part of it that was his fault.

  If Garin kept to the speed limits on the winding country roads, Carcassonne was a little over five hours away.

  He had no intention of keeping to the speed limits.

  32

  Roux was itching to get out of the hotel room.

  He was wasting far too much of his life in places like this, walking up and down a cramped room little bigger than a prison cell, even if it was better furnished.

  The cameraman hadn’t shed any more light on Annja’s whereabouts, and Garin’s call was worrying away at him. There was more going on here than he was seeing. He clenched his fist and unclenched it, but the exercise did nothing for the frustration he felt building. He needed to do something. He couldn’t waste the day just waiting.

  Roux grabbed his coat and headed out, checking his phone instinctively before he slipped it into his pocket. The caller ID was empty. No calls. No messages. No texts. No Annja.

  He obtained a city map from the rack in reception and stepped out into the street, feeling the icy air hit his lungs as traffic swarmed past.

  He took a minute to pick the best route to the cathedral and struck out, folding the map and slipping it into his pocket as he walked.

  It felt good to be moving after being cooped up inside.

  There was every likelihood that he was being watched. Cauchon knew too much about Roux not to have eyes and ears on him. Let the man watch. Let his spies report back. He wasn’t going to hide from him in some hotel room. Now he was going to take the fight to the mystery man. It would help to know the underlying cause behind Cauchon’s obsession with him, which had to have something to do with the papers Garin had stolen from his vault and the papers that had been liberated from the museum here.