The Bordeaux Connection
Page 21
Failing, he closed the book.
Mr White slid his finger across the electronic tablet and the main screen went blank. “The Foreign Secretary will be giving his resignation speech to the Commons before the end of next week. News of his misdemeanours will, for now at least, remain classified. The reason cited for his leaving is a personal private threat against his person, coupled with the shock at having witnessed recent proceedings.”
Kit smiled wryly. “So as far as the world knows, he was the intended victim?”
“The Deputy Prime Minister, of course, has been cleared of any wrongdoing – not that he even knew he was under investigation at all. Charges against his wife are likely to be dropped as reward for her complicity in exposing Pickering. As far as her husband knows, she was never involved. As I’m sure you’re aware, that’s the way it must stay.”
Both men nodded gingerly.
“Finding answers to the events in Edinburgh will continue – that and the attack on the opera house. With Everard incarcerated, only one man remains.
“Catching him must remain our top priority.”
*
As Mike and Kit departed up the hidden stairway, heading back into the pub itself, Maria emerged from the far side of the room, her expression one of clear discomfort.
“You didn’t tell them about the message?”
The Director looked at her briefly. “There are some things that are better left unsaid.”
As Maria exited the stairwell, her destination the car park, Mr White took a seat at the head of the table and removed the white piece of paper from his pocket, unfolding it along the creases. The words had been handwritten, the penmanship precise. It was as if it had been written in the distant past, back when the words meant far more than now. Simply set out on paper, they amounted to nothing more than a short footnote in history. But to a man who lived a life others could never understand, the sinister connotation was there for all to see, a disturbing question posed.
How does Everard know the order still exists?
*
Mike savoured the first sip of his beer. The White Hart Inn, despite its true purpose, hidden from the punters in the room below, also had an image to uphold. The local ales were famed among the regulars, particularly the old guard. Most enjoyed a good beer; tolerated a bad one.
These were among the best.
Kit sat on a barstool alongside Mike, his eyes low, his thoughts scattered.
“Oh do cheer up. For what it’s worth, you did well to even get there.” Mike had been concentrating on Everard when Kit made the sprint to Le Pont Royal. According to Maria, his attempts had been heroic. Worthy of a commendation. If Mike had learned one thing in the last year, it was never the praise that mattered to Kit – not that he’d miss the chance of shoving it in his face. It was something far more personal – more real.
The villain still walked the streets.
An elderly gentleman from the lounge passed by, heading for the gents. He saw the bruising on Kit’s face and asked, “What the hell happened to him?”
Mike grinned. “Didn’t you hear, Freddie? His girlfriend caught him flirting with Maria.”
The old man laughed, and patted Kit on the shoulder. “You’re lucky. In my day, it would probably have been a rolling pin.”
Mike laughed, nearly choking on his beer. He looked around the bar, taking in the scenery. The locals were enjoying themselves, the old guard chatting with their former comrades, preparing for a fish and chip lunch to keep the hunger pangs at bay. As always in his visits to the bar of the White Hart, he noticed things on the wall: symbolism, trademarks of the order’s past, scenes recognisable to historians worldwide. Things an outsider might see but never fully understand.
“I’ve always wondered. What exactly does that mean?”
“What?” Kit turned his head, his expression stern and swollen.
“That.” He pointed to a painting of a white hart that decorated one of the far walls. Like many of its type, it was an original, its manner heraldic. Beneath it was what appeared to be a motto, words written in French.
Honi soit qui mal y pense.
“Shamed be the person who thinks evil of it,” Kit said, reading the line. “It’s French.”
“I guessed that. What’s it mean?”
“Apparently the founder members of our order were once part of the Order of the Garter. The original Order of the Garter gets its name from an incident in Calais. Apparently the King, Edward III, held a ball, and one of the ladies present, possibly his mother-in-law, had a garter slip from her leg. Whilst many in attendance sniggered at her, the King picked it up and returned it to her, saying those words. It’s where the Order of the Garter got its name from.”
Mike nodded, not fully knowing whether to believe it or not. The story sounded as though it had at least a degree of credibility.
He replaced his ale on a beer mat. “There’s one thing I still can’t get my head around. The thefts all involved art and manuscripts, yet none were high profile. There were far more valuable things in Paris. Why a painting no one’s heard of and manuscripts people don’t even know exist?”
Kit sipped his beer and wiped froth away from his mouth. As he did, he shook his head.
“I don’t know.”
Epilogue
Bordeaux
The press had been covering the story since the moment it broke. Every news channel from Euronews to Canal+ had focused on little else. Every station had a crew set up, usually two vans if not three. The reporters changed shift every few hours to keep things fresh, but few had gone home. Those who weren’t on air were probably on the phone, be it to a contact, a potential source, or just to receive new instructions from the producers. Judging by the way things were flowing, they were unlikely to go home anytime soon.
The majority of the attention had been on the Musée d’Orsay, the scene of the crime – or the attempted crime. The alarm had been triggered at just after 1 a.m.; the furthest the thieves had got was half a mile along the Seine, heading west towards a restaurant. As far as the police was concerned, everyone was now accounted for.
Almost everyone.
Walking the streets of a city over five hours south of Paris as dusk began to fall, Fabien Randek presented an air of purpose. On reaching a familiarly wealthy looking street in the centre of the city, less than three hundred metres from the nearest stretch of the Garonne, he walked to the gateway of one particularly grand-looking building and pressed the doorbell. As usual, the street possessed a sense of tranquillity, as though the buildings belonged to those of royalty. Being located so close to the river, the air felt refreshing.
The avenue itself was wider than most, the pavements on both sides shaded by the branches of chestnut trees that lined the way. The avenue was as famous for its gardens as its architecture. Like most on the street, the building was 19th century, and could aptly be described as palatial. It was as if the street had been dropped in the middle of an arboretum; should a casual passer-by be driving past, heading for one of the main sights, they were more likely to see the trees than the exterior of the building. Like the famous borough of Kensington in England, privacy was assured.
As the seconds passed, a man emerged from within; he was bald-headed and dressed in a fine suit, his physique clearly muscular.
He opened the gate and asked, “You are safe?”
Randek’s expression was no nonsense. “The police are leaving. I saw them myself. They’re moving across the water. Only the press remain.”
“They are not looking for you?”
“No.” He placed his hand against his bag. “But much can change.”
The concierge of the house led Randek inside. Unlike his appearance of the night before, he was dressed once more in a smart and expensive suit with well-polished shoes that made an echoing sound as they crossed the marble floor. At the far end of the grand hallway, a fine circular stairway rose to the upper floors like a scene from a fairy tale. Priceless artworks
lined its cyan walls, the scenes mainly of relevance to the city. On reaching the second floor, the theme on the landing was no different. At the far end a door was already open; Randek had seen it often enough to understand its unique significance. He stopped outside and waited for the concierge to announce him.
Finally he stepped inside, taking in the sights he’d seen many times. Within the grand walls, illuminated by the natural light that entered from the original bay windows that commanded views all the way to the river, the setting was unquestionably serious. Twenty chairs surrounded the room’s most important feature, a large table that dated back further than the house. Of the twenty, seven chairs were in use; all occupied by men, seated together at one end, their facial expressions cold and serious. The first thing he noticed was the same thing he always noticed: the obvious similarity, not just to each other, but others also – famous others, including those captured in the paintings of old. While six were younger men, their ages indeterminate from forty to sixty, the person who sat in the position of greatest prominence was considerably older, over eighty, his white hair and beard lacking the vigour it once had. He eyed Randek seriously through thick bifocal lenses and cupped his hands together in deep expectation. To Randek he was the boss.
As he was to everyone present.
The man who commanded centre stage addressed Randek as he arrived. “I must say I am surprised to see you. The news in Paris has been anything but pleasing.” The coldness in his expression escalated. “Our family has too much at stake to risk failure.”
Randek placed his bag down on the table. He unzipped it, and revealed the content to his audience. After allowing them a moment to view the front, the elegant Impressionist artwork catching the light of the setting sun, he turned it over, revealing the other side. While those at the table stood too far away for the individual marks to make sense, Randek had seen everything he needed to see.
“The rumours, gentlemen, were indeed correct after all. The tunnel exists, just like they do in England and Scotland. The original ran from the Paris Temple all the way into the heart of the Louvre.”
“You have seen this?” The question came from one of the younger men.
“Oui. The same tunnel still exists now, hidden beneath the Metro. It starts in the same place, and ends in the heart of the museum, in the bedroom once used by the King of France.”
*
Everard Payet stared at the dull grey walls of his characterless prison cell and knew that the end was near. Though he had suffered no fatal injuries, there was no longer any way of escaping his grizzly fate.
No man was ever greater than his master; even as a child, he had learned to accept the importance of respecting a cause bigger than himself. In recent years, the tale had come back to haunt him, stalking him like a recurring nightmare; an inescapable reminder that had become embedded within his psyche. As an adult, he’d learned to respect things more easily; what his young self had lacked in discipline, his experienced self possessed in plenty. The mission to which he’d devoted the last twenty years of his life would continue, without him. In some ways, it would stand in greater stead without him. He remembered a quote, perhaps from the Bible, St Paul or one of the apostles, on how everything is revealed when exposed to the light, and how that, in turn, becomes light. By being captured, he had been exposed; and being exposed meant those he loved most would suffer. As long as he was captured, the mission was in jeopardy. Though his body was broken, his mouth and mind still worked. In his weakest moment he had already done great harm; served the wrong people. What harm it could do in the future, he dreaded to contemplate.
As he rolled to one side, his injured shoulder pressing against the unyielding mattress on his bed, he looked out at the window and smiled with satisfaction, knowing such things would never come to pass. Thanks to their recent successes, the mission would succeed. Though his time was drawing near, the longevity of his brethren would be secured and enhanced. Replacements would be found, as they always were; their suitability and capabilities without question. The young would, one day, become masters, and they, too, would pick their successors. The mission would continue, as it always had.
And the fate of his country would be better for it.
Thank you for reading! If you enjoyed this book, look out for the second thriller from The White Hart series, coming in 2016
The Facts Behind My Fiction
As always, writing these books has been a tremendous joy, and, as usual, the story was inspired by a mixture of fact and fiction. For those of you who are interested, here’s your chance to find out which is which.
The majority of the locations mentioned in this book are real and their descriptions are true to life. The Houses of Parliament are, of course, real, as is the Cabinet Office located at 70 Whitehall. Descriptions of the interior here, especially the Deputy Prime Minister’s office, is made up – maybe one day they’ll invite me inside! The Cockpit Passage, which connects 10 Downing Street to the Cabinet Office, does exist; my use of it in this book, however, is made up based on real life descriptions.
The Admiralty Complex is a group of buildings located on Whitehall, and close to St James’s Park. Admiralty House exists and its four storeys include three residential apartments used solely for members of the Cabinet, including the Deputy Prime Minister. The Old Admiralty Building alongside it also exists with parts dating back to the 1600s. There are rooms located beneath the ground, close to, among others, the Cabinet War Rooms. Their connection with The White Hart is made up.
Dorneywood and Chevening are real locations, and both houses have been allocated to the Prime Minister for official use under the terms of their last owners’ wills. The Chancellor of the Exchequer presently uses Dorneywood; during the Tony Blair government John Prescott famously used it for croquet practice. During the coalition government, Chevening was shared by the Deputy PM and the Foreign Secretary.
The Royal Opera House is real, and references to its appearance and history are based on both first-hand and second-hand research. I have taken a few liberties regarding the interior, most notably the smokers’ section, which does not exist. Descriptions of the auditorium and the Paul Hamlyn Hall I believe to be accurate.
The locations mentioned in and around London are real, and I have visited them all recently. The church of St Mary le Strand is real, and its inclusion in this book is inspired by my visit. The same is true of the Tube stations. There are vaults beneath the Royal Mile in Edinburgh; however, those mentioned in this book are made up. The house mentioned in Bordeaux is also fictitious. The buildings mentioned in Paris all exist, as do the RER stations. Descriptions and references to the Musée d’Orsay are accurate except for the hidden stairwell, which, as far as I’m aware, does not exist.
The manuscripts mentioned in this book are largely made up. The Ocean to Cynthia by Sir Walter Raleigh is alleged to have once existed, but no copy seems to have survived. The artwork mentioned is all real.
Charlestown in Suffolk does not exist; nor, of course, does The White Hart Inn and its secret room beneath the pub. The Order of the Garter is a historical order that exists to this day; the possibility that it got its name from the story mentioned in this book is a very well-known legend. The Order of the Garter dates back to around 1348 and was the brainchild of King Edward III and his son, Edward, the Black Prince. Five years earlier, the King made plans to create a special Order of the Round Table in honour of the Arthurian legends.
So far, no evidence has come to light that this order was ever created . . .
Acknowledgements
As always, I am most indebted to the kindness and assistance of many people; in particular, everyone I spoke to on my visits to London who selflessly offered me their time and expertise. A special thank you, again, must go to my fellow authors and friends, David Leadbeater, Karen Perkins, Mike Wells, Steven Bannister, Andy Lucas, and Cathy (CR) Hiatt for helping to put The Cool Box project together, which included the first edition of this book.
Thrillers
The Templar Agenda, 2011
The Larmenius Inheritance, 2013
The Plantagenet Vendetta, 2014
The Cortés Enigma, 2014
The Cromwell Deception, 2014
Historical Biographies
Robin Hood: The Unknown Templar, Peter Owen 2009
Pity for the Guy – a biography of Guy Fawkes, Peter Owen 2010
The Gothic King – a biography of Henry III, Peter Owen 2013
John Paul Davis Amazon Author Pages:
amazon.com
amazon.co.uk
For more on me, check out my websites, www.johnpauldavisauthor.com and www.theunknowntemplar.com. There, you can also find a link to my blog.
Constructive comments are always appreciated. If you have any questions or you would like to get in touch, you can email me at jpd@theunknowntemplar.com or use the contact page on my website. You can also follow me on Twitter at @unknown_templar