The Sanctuary

by Raymond Khoury

  “And Paris’s loss will be Naples’s gain, is that it?” St. Germain spat back.

  Di Sangro smiled and dismounted. “Maybe not all of Naples’s, but certainly mine.” His son followed suit, while the other two riders remained on their mounts. The prince stepped closer to St. Germain, scrutinizing him as if for the first time. “You look well, Marquese. Extremely well, in fact. Could it simply be that this filthy Paris air suits you so?”

  St. Germain said nothing. His eyes darted tensely from di Sangro to his son and back. The resemblance was strong, especially in the eyes, even more so now that the boy had turned into a man. Di Sangro himself had noticeably aged in the intervening years: heavier, paler, the skin on his face and neck sagging and lined. He cursed himself for not making the connection sooner, for not realizing who the young man was the minute he first laid eyes on him in that café. He’d always expected di Sangro to catch up with him at some point, and he’d had several years of peaceful, if guarded, anonymity. He knew his life in Paris was now over, but, more immediately, he needed to do something if he was going to have any chance of setting up another existence.

  His mind frantically processed his options, but there weren’t many. A thought, however, blazed through the bleak scenarios like a beacon, a simple realization that colored his reactions in the various confrontations with di Sangro that he’d played out in his mind over the years: Di Sangro needed him alive. The threats of revelation or death were hollow: He knew di Sangro would do his best to keep him alive and use all the methods at his disposal, however grisly and for as long as it took, to wring the truth out of him.

  It was, however, a double-edged sword. Alive was only an attractive option as long as he was free. Captivity, and torture, were far less desirable. Especially given the doubts he harbored about how long his resolve would resist.

  He was boxed in. The two riders had stationed themselves to either side of their master, blocking both routes of escape. Behind him was the wall of the building, its entrance door beyond shuttered up since sundown. And facing him, behind di Sangro and his son, was the low wall and the river.

  St. Germain took a deep breath and pulled out his sword. “You know I can’t go with you,” he told di Sangro flatly. “And there is nothing here for you.”

  Di Sangro smiled coldly and waved at his men. “I don’t think you have much choice, Marquese.” He drew his sword and held it up to St. Germain, as did his son. From the corner of his eye, the count noted that the riders with the crossbows had also reloaded.

  St. Germain edged sideways, keeping the prince and his son at bay with the tip of his sword. Much as he felt tired and weary from the burden he had carried across the continents, this wasn’t the release he was looking for. He couldn’t accept the idea of capture, not by this man. He was ready to resist it with his every breath, although he knew that if he died, the secret, as far as he knew, would die with him. He wondered if that would be, on balance, a good thing—or did he owe it to the world to keep the knowledge alive, even if it was in the hands of a maniacal and selfish man such as di Sangro?

  No, he had to stay free. He had to stay alive. He wasn’t ready to die. And, he now also realized, he couldn’t keep it to himself anymore. It was too dangerous. If he managed to get away this time and continued with his quest, he had to enlist others, regardless of the dangers involved. He just had to choose better.

  A fierce determination raced through his veins, and he lunged ferociously at the two men. As their swords clashed noisily in the deserted street, he noticed that di Sangro had slowed a bit since their last encounter, but his son had more than taken up the slack. The young man was a gifted swordsman. He countered St. Germain’s swings with surgical efficiency and seemed to predict the count’s moves unerringly. The prince edged back, content with acting as a barrier to St. Germain’s escape, as his son took over, lunging and swinging his blade at the count. The son’s cloak had slipped off his head, and in the feeble light of a nearby suspended lantern, the tiger markings streaked across his face now looked positively demonic, heightening the predatory scowl in his eyes and unnerving St. Germain.

  The son’s blade was now slicing the air faster and more viciously, with St. Germain struggling to parry and block the onslaught. As they stomped through the central gutter and its filthy slush, St. Germain scuttled to his side to avoid another big swing and his shoe caught on a paving stone, throwing him off-balance. Di Sangro’s son grabbed the opening and bolted forward, lunging at St. Germain. The count recovered his footing and darted to his right, but couldn’t fully avoid the blade, which cut into his left shoulder and sent a burning pain searing through him. He raised his sword back in time to deflect his attacker’s next swing and stepped back to regroup.

  They circled each other like jungle cats, their eyes locked on each other, the clanging of their swords now replaced by their labored breathing. A leering smile curled up the sides of the young man’s fine lips, and he slid a glance at his father, who gave him a pleased and approving nod. St. Germain saw an unguarded cockiness in the young man and a mirrored pride in his father as he felt the blood trickling down the inside of his sleeve. The wound was going cold, and with it, the pain would be getting more intense and the muscles would stiffen. He had to move fast, even though he knew he wasn’t going to defeat all four men.

  He knew where he had to strike.

  He summoned all the energy he could muster and struck out at the prince’s son with renewed vigor, lashing his blade at him from all sides and forcing him back a few steps until he was trudging through the central gutter and its pile of sludge. The young man seemed taken aback by St. Germain’s determined attack, and as he fought back the deluge of demented lunges and swings, he shot a doubting glance at his father, as if looking to him for reassurance. St. Germain saw the split second of weakness and attacked. His blade plunged into the young swordsman’s side, making him howl with pain.

  The prince’s son stumbled backwards with a shocked, almost disbelieving look as he touched his wound and brought up his bloodied hand. Di Sangro saw his son stagger through the filth and raced forward to him, calling out his name, “Arturo.” His son shook his pain away and stayed him by holding up his hand and turned to St. Germain. He raised his sword, but his legs faltered as he took a step forward.

  Di Sangro yelled out, “Prendetelo,” to his men—get him—and rushed to his son’s aid. St. Germain watched as the two riders dismounted and converged on him, cutting off both ends of the street. Their crossbows blinked at him through the darkness. He looked behind him—the low wall edging the lane was within reach. He bolted and, reaching it, flung his sword over and clambered onto it. Flames of pain shot through his shoulder as he pulled himself onto the ledge. He righted himself and stood up.

  Below him was the Seine, cold and littered with detritus, only this time, the water, flowing slowly and shimmering under the moonlight, wasn’t comforting. It made him dizzy. He sucked in some night air and turned back to face the street. Di Sangro saw him standing there. Their eyes locked for a brief moment, and St. Germain saw the pain, the anger, and the utter desperation radiating from di Sangro, who then yelled out, “Don’t be foolish, Marquese—”

  But before the prince could do or say anything else, St. Germain just turned away, closed his eyes, and stepped off the ledge, letting himself drop into the river.

  He hit the water hard and sank deep into its murky darkness. Tumbling over himself, he was momentarily disoriented and couldn’t tell which way was up. His arms flailed as he spun over himself aimlessly, his ears throbbing from the changing pressure, his lungs aching for air. He tried to calm himself, but the cold was biting into him and he could feel his head going woolly. As he spiraled down, he caught a glimpse of what he thought could be a reflection on the surface and decided to head for it, but the weight of his clothes was pulling him down. He reached down and managed to pull off his sodden shoes, but his clothes were locked in place by rows of buttons, layer upon layer of the finest
material, breeches, shirt, cravat, waistcoat, and justaucorps that now clung tightly to his skin and inhibited his movements.

  He felt as if the devil himself were reaching up and dragging him down to his death, and in that brief moment, he felt a perverse relief at ending it all, here and now, but something made him fight to stay alive and he thrashed away with his limbs, pushing against the water desperately until he made it back to the surface.

  He broke through and found himself floating down the Seine among scattered pieces of timber and rotten fruit. He had drifted away from the Île de la Cité and was in the middle of the river, moving slowly back in the direction of the Tuileries. He fought against the tide, swallowing up big gulps of filthy water and coughing it up, his drenched clothes still weighing him down, his arms hitting blindly against floating debris and garbage. He fought as he’d never fought before, struggling to stay alive, to stay afloat, all the time trying to edge closer to the right bank, to dry land. Inch by inch, the bonfires of the homeless, scattered along the quays to his right, drew nearer, and by the time he grabbed a rusted iron ring that stuck out from the stone pier along the riverbank, he’d lost all track of time.

  He dragged himself out of the water and lay on his back, sucking in grateful gulps of air, letting his drained body regain some semblance of life. He didn’t know if it was minutes or hours later, but it was still dark when he heard a voice he thought he recognized calling out to him. He thought he was dreaming when, moments later, Thérésia’s angelic face came beaming down at him from among the stars, muttering words that he couldn’t quite comprehend.

  He felt his battered body being lifted under the shoulders by a man, and aided by Thérésia, he soon found himself wrapped in a thick blanket and ensconced in the cushioned comfort of a great carriage that whisked him away from the rats and the brigands and burrowed into the dark streets of the city of light.

  AS THEY DROVE to Thérésia’s apartment, questions swamped St. Germain, and his confused mind struggled to process the answers she gave him.

  She told him that she had noticed that something seemed to have unnerved him at the ball, and that as he had headed out of the palace, she had spotted a man dressed as a tiger shadowing him. She had left the ball soon after them, having lost interest, and her coachman had told her that the man had indeed followed the count out and trailed his carriage. She had headed off after them, sensing trouble, and had witnessed the fight from the bridge, too afraid to intercede. After St. Germain had jumped into the river, she’d thought he had drowned. Her coachman had spotted him floating down the middle of the river and, ultimately, brought her to him.

  The words didn’t fully register with St. Germain, but he didn’t mind. For now, he was happy to be alive and happy to be with her. Deep down, he knew this would only be temporary, but he didn’t want to think about that right now. He just let himself drift away into the comfort of her arms and tried to shut the world out for as long as he could.

  She took him to her apartment, in the newly fashionable Marais district, and had her maid draw up a hot bath. She helped him out of his clothes and into the tub, and later, after she’d dressed his wound and fed him, they put out all the candles save for a solitary one by the bed and made love with ravenous abandon.

  He woke up with the first hints of sunlight and watched her sleeping by his side. His shoulder still hurt, but at least the wound had stopped bleeding. He ran his hand gently down to the small of her back, relishing the smoothness of her skin under his fingers, and dreading the inevitable reinvention that he’d soon have to undertake.

  Watching her breathing peacefully by his side, his mind escaped to a sunnier life where he didn’t have to live a lie, and where he could take pleasure in the ever-dwindling time he had left. He found himself asking himself the same question that had been tormenting him of late, wondering again about the validity of the quest he had devoted his life to, about whether it was time to finally give it all up and retreat into a blissfully mundane existence.

  As he pondered the journey of his life, he also found himself doubting what he would ultimately achieve even if he did succeed in finding what he was looking for.

  Finding it was one thing.

  Announcing it, revealing it to the world, and making sure that it was available and shared by all…that was a far more insurmountable challenge.

  The world wasn’t ready for it, so much was certain. Powerful forces would be aligned to smother it, to keep it from altering—and empowering—mankind. Immortality—spiritual, individual immortality, that is—was a gift only religion was allowed to bestow. Nothing else could be allowed to alleviate the dread of the specter of death’s inevitable and irresistible invitation. The gift he was pursuing was sacrilegious, unthinkable. The Church would never allow it. Who was he to overcome such venomous hostility?

  Confusion flooded his mind. Countering his weariness and his feelings of despair was the observation that, despite everything, the future held promise. With every passing year, he felt the winds of change blowing through the cities of men around him. Salons and coffeehouses were brimming with new ideas that were challenging ignorance, tyranny and superstition. Religious dogma and persecution were being undermined. Rousseau, Voltaire, Diderot, and others were feverishly working while warding off the suppression of their works by the ever-present Jesuits. People were finding themselves lifted and inspired by the words of great thinkers who believed that man was essentially good, and that happiness in this earthly life, achieved through social fraternity and advances in sciences and in arts, was a far more sensible and noble aspiration than hoping to reach paradise through penitence.

  They were beginning to dare to value their lives more than their afterlives.

  But there was still a lot to overcome. Poverty and sickness, chiefly. Premature death lurked around every corner, and the most brilliant minds were still trying to understand what the human body was made of and how it worked. This would be a huge distraction to their work, and it could have disastrous effects. And beyond all that was the seemingly intractable issue of man’s greed, his innate propensity to covet and amass. As St. Germain had witnessed, firsthand, in di Sangro.

  St. Germain looked at the sleeping silhouette by his side. He reached out and stroked her naked shoulder. He studied her face, radiant even in sleep, and saw promise and inspiration in its finely sculpted lines, and it tormented him. Something deep within him tore.

  He felt exhausted.

  Perhaps it was all unattainable. Perhaps it was time to be selfish.

  Perhaps it was time to give up.

  The thought brought him comfort. But there were more pressing problems to solve.

  Either way, he’d have to leave. He had the ability to travel and reinvent himself. He’d undertaken a couple of sensitive missions for the king, who, in another misguided attempt to assert himself, had instituted le Secret du Roi, the “king’s secret,” a covert effort of agents he would send abroad to pursue objectives that were mostly opposed to his publicly announced policies, such as seeking peace with the British. St. Germain could make use of the system to slip away and resettle in secret.

  With a heavy heart, he knew it was the only option.

  As if reading his mind, Thérésia stirred beside him and stretched awake. Her face beamed with a luminous smile as she curled her body into his.

  She seemed to read the expression on his face, and her face darkened for a quiet moment, before she asked uncertainly, “You’re going to leave Paris, aren’t you?”

  He couldn’t bring himself to lie, not to her. He simply nodded without taking his eyes off her.

  She held his gaze, then leaned in and gave him a languorous kiss. When she finally pulled back, she simply said, “I want to go with you.”

  He looked at her and smiled.

  Chapter 33

  T he campus was barely stirring to life as Ramez moved cautiously down the quiet, tree-shaded lane that led to Post Hall.

  He’d hardly slept. He’d
watched his clock tick the interminable hours away, minute by minute, and by the time the sun had finally deigned to make its appearance, he couldn’t take the confinement anymore. Hesitantly, he’d emerged from his apartment and made his way to the university, looking over his shoulder, scanning the street as he hurried along, alert to anything that looked even remotely out of the ordinary.

  The building itself was deserted this early in the morning. The most conscientious of the staff didn’t come in before seven thirty, which wasn’t for another half hour. He paced around his office, looking out onto cypress trees outside, stealing anxious glances at the cell phone on his desk, tormented by indecision—and by fear.

  As he heard the first of his colleagues trickling into the department, he decided to put an end to the ulcerous pain that was knotting up his chest and grabbed his phone.

  THE FERRET WATCHED intently as the taller detective spoke on the phone. Reading between the lines, he realized what was going on. His suspicions were soon confirmed once his partner hung up. The man who’d called worked with the kidnapped American professor at the university. He’d been contacted by the Iraqi antiques smuggler they were looking for, who wanted to make a deal before coming in. He was scared.

  The taller detective had told him to stay put; he and his partner would be there shortly.

  He told the ferret to get ready to head out to the university with him and picked up his cell phone to make a call. He wasn’t exactly bolting out the door at the news. That was good.

  The ferret guessed he’d be calling the American agent to give him the news. He had to move fast. They weren’t paying him to stand idle.

  He had to let them know. Then he had to delay things at the station long enough for them to get there first.

  He told his partner he needed to take a quick leak, then left the room. He found a quiet corner in an interview room, made sure he wouldn’t be overheard, and speed-dialed Omar’s number.