by Cindy Dees
Sometime around 2:00 a.m., the cars finally stopped driving past, the television downstairs went off, and no more police cars came screaming by my window. My eyes gritty and my body aching with fatigue, I finally, thankfully, drifted off to sleep.
Torches flickered, throwing off more smoke than light. I squinted into the shadows and made out that I was in a lavish room, its stone walls covered with huge, brilliantly colored tapestries. An intricately carved table stood to my left, a gold-and-jewel-encrusted chest resting upon its greasy surface next to a small religious statue. Two high-backed wooden chairs stood against the wall at either end of the table. A strangely proportioned bed stood on the opposite wall. Mounded high with red velvet and elaborately embroidered pillows, it was only about three-quarters length and abnormally high off the ground. Wooden steps led up to it, in fact. More red velvet curtains were pulled back beside the headboard, which stood a good eight feet high and was carved and gilded into a replica of a giant crown.
It smelled in here. Bad. Like an outhouse. With a disturbing overlay of something floral and cloyingly sweet along the lines of roses mixed with cinnamon. The combination nudged my stomach well down the road to nausea.
A young woman stood across the room, staring out the diamond panes of a leaded glass window. Her red velvet dress was Elizabethan—wide skirt, narrow waist, elaborate starched collar that forced her chin up to a haughty angle. Her hair was red, her skin pasty, damp with a thin film of perspiration, as if she had a fever or was in distress of some kind. She might have been a statue except for her hand, which clenched and unclenched spasmodically in the folds of the red velvet drapes hanging beside her. She looked vaguely familiar, but I couldn’t place her.
It was quiet. Really quiet. No cars. No television, no radio. Not even birds chirping. It was the dead silence of a tomb. And it was cold. See-your-breath cold. The woman’s nose and fingertips were red with it.
Where was I? Or more to the point, when? The room could be anything from late thirteenth century to early seventeenth. I’d guess mid-sixteenth century from the woman’s garb.
A door squeaked open on iron hinges behind me, loud in the silence. The woman whipped around and her chin notched up even higher. But then she seemed to recognize the intruder and her stiff posture wilted. “Where have you been, Jane? I need you.”
A young woman, dressed well but not opulently in a black dress, hurried over to her. The newcomer dropped a small curtsey and then flung her arms around the redhead. “Oh, my lady, how do you bear it?”
“I bear it because I must,” came the muffled reply.
Jane cried, “There is still time. The executioner has yet to climb the scaffold.”
The first woman shot a steely look over Jane’s shoulder in my general direction, and her back went stiff. Jane pulled away from her as the redhead snapped, “Have his supporters bribed you to sway my mind?”
As if she realized she’d made some sort of grave mistake, the one called Jane fell to her knees. “Never, Your Highness. You know my only loyalty is to you. Only to you. I only thought of your heart. Condemning your lover to death—”
She answered sharply, “I do not have the luxury of a heart, Jane. I am a queen before I am a woman. He plotted with the Papists, and the penalty is death.” She paused, then added in an aching whisper, “I had no choice.”
Abruptly I knew the redhead. Elizabeth I, Queen of England.
“The smell of blood does not agree with me. Fetch my pomander, Jane. It is time.”
Jane suppressed a sob and opened a heavily carved trunk. She emerged with an orange stuck all over with cloves. The two women hastened toward the door. Jane stepped out, and Elizabeth paused for a moment. I watched her draw a shaky breath and release it slowly. In that instant, she looked like a lost little girl. Hurt. Vulnerable. Betrayed.
I thought that when she left, the room would dissipate, but it did not. In a few moments, a ruckus erupted outside the window. It sounded like hundreds of people out there jeering, whistling and shouting insults. As abruptly as the noise had started, it stopped. The silence drew out, like pain being stretched to the point of unbearability.
And then I heard a dull thud. Reminded me of a sledgehammer hitting a log.
The crowd erupted again, screams mingling with the cheers and jeers this time in a macabre chorus. I heard a voice in the crowd shout, “Coins for the axeman!”
The axeman? The axeman? I’d just heard someone being beheaded?
Oh. My. God.
I lurched awake, startled to find myself sitting upright in bed already. My hands shook as I pushed my tangled hair back. What a godawful dream! That heavy, wooden thud still rang in my ears and creeping horror crawled up my spine.
I fell back to the mattress. Jeez, I felt like hell. As if I’d gotten about ten minutes’ sleep all night. I cracked one eye open to peer at the clock—6:51 a.m. My alarm was set to go off at seven. No time to close my eyes and sleep off that bizarre dream. Nope, it was time to wake up, go to work, and ruin my—to date—undistinguished career. Oh, joy.
I staggered into my bathroom, which was approximately the size of a telephone booth. I pulled the chain on the overhead tank to flush the toilet and leaned over the sink, propping my hands on the cool porcelain. God, I was exhausted. It was as if that strangely real dream had totally drained me. I couldn’t recall experiencing one that vivid before. I’m the kind of person who closes my eyes, goes comatose and wakes up the next day. Nothing fancy.
But this dream wouldn’t leave me. I could still see that room, down to the dust between the paving stones. I’d had the distinct feeling I was there seeking something. What I’d have loved to seek right then was another couple hours of sleep.
I reached for my toothbrush and squeezed out some toothpaste. I stuck it in my mouth and let the rush of overpowering mint wake me up a bit. I looked up at myself in the mirror.
And lurched violently.
In the glass, just over my right shoulder, was a vague image of a woman and the top of her starched and pleated Elizabethan accordian collar.
Chapter 3
I whirled around, brandishing my foamy toothbrush like a weapon. The dingy, tiled wall of my bathroom stared back at me. She was gone. What in the bloody hell was that?
For all the world, that had looked like a ghost.
Yeah, right.
Not.
I turned around slowly, almost afraid to see what was behind me in that mirror. Reluctantly, I looked at it. Only my own wary eyes stared back.
I scowled at myself. Clearly, I had ingested way too much caffeine before I went to bed last night. But, God almighty, that transparent gray image had looked real—just like the woman in my dream.
The woman called Jane in my dream. Of course.
I breathed a huge sigh of relief. I had only been half-awake when I came in here to brush my teeth. Some part of my mind had still been stuck back in that Elizabethan room. I’d imagined the face in my mirror. It was nothing more than a leftover image from my wild dream. Sheesh!
Note to self: lay off the coffee in the evening.
Without further incident, I managed to get dressed in my usual brown tweed suit, cut too large and boxy. Part of my post–Jean-Michel, man-repelling wardrobe. I walked to work to help clear my head, and thankfully, no random afterimages of Jane popped up in any storefronts. I was more rattled by the dim image of that face in my mirror than I liked to admit. Maybe I ought to get around to taking that vacation I’d been talking about for the last, oh, four years.
All that staring in store windows was probably why I spotted the guy trailing along behind me. He was actually very good. The tail, I mean. Subtle. Blended in with the surroundings seamlessly. And I was not imagining this. I’ve had some police training, after all. Now why was somebody watching me? The timing made it patently obvious that it had to do with Elise Villecourt. Okay, so maybe the woman actually did have real enemies. But that didn’t make her any less crazy.
The thing abou
t Paris is that everybody walks everywhere. Because of that, it’s easy to conclude that someone is following you, when perhaps they just happen to be walking in the same direction you are. Besides, it was a bright, sunny morning and the streets were crowded. I felt perfectly safe out here. No need to confront the guy. I memorized his face. If he showed up behind me again, then I’d take him seriously.
I walked into the Préfecture de Police, across the square from Notre Dame Cathedral, at 8:20 a.m. My meeting with St. Germain and Littmann was at 9:00 a.m. I took a few minutes to check the police blotters citywide for any stolen statues or pottery turning up. Nada. No e-mail messages from any of my Internet informants, either. Nobody had come up with even a hint of a stolen object overnight. Damn.
Ten minutes before nine, a detective stopped by the spare computer workstation I was sitting at. “They’re here,” he said shortly. “Conference room five-oh-four.”
Oh, Lord. My two bosses were so nervous they’d shown up early—a minor miracle for Frenchmen, who were more inclined to see meeting times as guidelines rather than deadlines.
I sighed. Time to face the music.
Carl Montrose laid his briefcase on the polished mahogany conference table and opened the black leather attaché. He pulled out his briefing notes, although he had the grim details completely memorized this morning. A quick hand through his short, graying hair to make sure it was in place, a brush of his suit’s shoulders for nonexistent lint, and he was ready. Not a moment too soon, either.
The door at the end of the table opened, and his boss walked in. Alone. The significance of that was not lost on Montrose. The matter he was here to discuss today was of utmost secrecy and importance to the French republic.
Pierre Dupont, president of France, said gravely, “Good morning, Carl. I trust you have good news for me.”
“I’m sorry, but the news is not good. Four more power outages occurred simultaneously last night.”
“Four?” Dupont exclaimed. He swore violently.
Carl waited out the outburst and then answered, “That is correct.”
The electrical power outages had started small a few weeks ago, happening in remote locations around France, not long after the freak earthquake in Paris. Nothing of any real concern. But then they started getting larger and more frequent. At that point, a conspiracy theory started circulating quietly within the highest levels of the French government. And it was then that Dupont pulled strings to put the lid on any press coverage of the incidents. He’d claimed there was no need to unduly panic the people of France by exaggerated reports of the nation’s power grid being on the brink of collapse.
Except more and more, it looked as if that was exactly the case.
To complicate matters, a lone voice from outside the government—the president’s old friend, Elise Villecourt—had predicted exactly this sort of attack weeks before it began. And now someone was trying to kill her. Which made her description of this as an attack all the more credible. Problem was, she also claimed the source of power for these attacks was…supernatural. That was the only reason the French army wasn’t camped out at every power transformer station in the country right now.
Montrose reviewed the events of the weekend quickly for Dupont. “The Interpol agent Madame Villecourt asked for is on the case as of Saturday evening. Agent Reisner spent Sunday morning at home, working on her computer. Late yesterday afternoon, Agent Reisner went to the Latin Quarter and sought out a rather disreputable fellow whom I’d guess is one of her informants. They ate together. She spent last evening on the computer, as well.”
“Any progress?”
“We will know shortly. She is due to brief St. Germain in—” he glanced down at his watch “—three minutes.”
Dupont nodded. “Update me after that meeting. I’ve left instructions with my secretary that you are to be allowed to interrupt me no matter what if you have news to report. Understood?”
Montrose nodded crisply. He might worry that his boss was losing his mind for taking Elise Villecourt’s claim seriously, except he’d talked to the woman himself, and she was arguably one of the sanest people he’d ever met. It was very difficult to discount her claims. Dupont believed her without reservation. But then, she’d saved Dupont’s life on multiple occasions during World War Two. He was devoted to her.
Montrose reached for his notes with the intent to put them back in his briefcase when a door behind him opened. Dupont’s secretary hustled into the room. Not good. The president took a single sheet of paper and began to read it. Looked like a fax.
Dupont looked up, his face grim. “We have a major transformer failure. Bordeaux region. Stopped the TGV.”
Montrose winced. The Train à Grande Vitesse, high-speed train, was a huge source of national pride for the French people. No way would Dupont be able to keep it out of the news that the train had stopped without electricity to power it. “How big a region is affected this time?” he asked in resignation as he pinched the bridge of his nose. If and when word of these power problems became public, Dupont’s distinguished forty-year career in public service would be in grave jeopardy of going up in smoke.
Dupont continued heavily, “Largest so far. Fifty thousand people affected.”
Carl commented, “Each power failure is getting bigger, just like Madame Villecourt said they would.” He traded looks with Dupont as they simultaneously took the next leap of logic. Elise Villecourt also said the entire French power grid would be destroyed before this was all said and done.
“Talk to her, Carl,” Dupont said urgently. “Ask Elise if there’s anything at all we can do to prevent this disaster.”
“I already have, sir. Several times. All she ever says is to send her Ana Reisner. Ana is the key.”
I followed the policeman quickly up four flights of stairs and down a corridor to the conference room in question. The long hall allowed me to catch my breath after all those stairs. Still, with each step my feet felt heavier. I had no choice but to tell the unvarnished truth. No choice at all.
We all have choices, Ana, a voice whispered in my ear on a cool breath of air against my earlobe. I whipped my head around to see who was getting fresh with me. Nobody there. Jeez! I’m not touching any more coffee for a month!
The cop with me gave me a funny look as he held the door for me. That’s one nice thing I can say about Frenchmen. Chivalry is not dead over here. I stepped inside, and was startled to see only two men in the room. Armande St. Germain and François Littmann. I’d naturally assumed they would bring along a posse of flunkies to witness my humiliation…and to cover their own asses, which were flapping in the wind right alongside mine.
“Ana, there you are!” François twittered.
Oh, boy. In full poodle mode this morning. “Hello, sir,” I replied grimly.
“What have you got for us?” St. Germain blurted.
Yowza. Couldn’t even wait long enough to say hello. Poor guy must have someone from Dupont’s office breathing fire down his shorts. Sometimes I’m reminded that being a peon isn’t such a bad deal.
I shook my head. No sense beating around the bush. “The President’s friend is a certified lunatic. She reported her own murder to me. Something—which she won’t describe to me, by the way—was stolen from her on Saturday, and she’s convinced that without it she’s going to die any day. She’s also convinced the thief knew this and took the alleged item specifically to kill her. She won’t allow a crime-scene team into her home, but wants Interpol, or more specifically me, to conduct a full-blown investigation into this theft and murder, even though she knows I’m not actually a police officer.”
The two men stared at me, their jaws hanging slack. Good. I wasn’t crazy to have reacted to this thing the way I had. They thought it was as nuts as I did.
St. Germain collected himself enough to start swearing, and within a few seconds, Littmann was right there with him. After an impressive demonstration of words that didn’t make it into my high school French
dictionary, their attention swung back to me.
“What do you suggest we do now, Agent Reisner?” St. Germain demanded.
I took a deep breath. “Someone has to tell the president that this is a wild-goose chase.” Like, oh, him.
Panic flitted across the guy’s face. He huffed and he puffed, and opened his mouth to blow me down when the cancan song erupted from his suit. The cancan? Who’d have guessed the old guy would go for something so bawdy for his cell phone ring? St. Germain dug out his phone, scowling. But even more panic leaped in his eyes when he looked at his caller ID. “St. Germain here,” he answered smartly.
He summarized my just completed briefing. And then listened for a long time. Long enough for whomever was at the other end of the phone to deliver quite a speech. Then, St. Germain said, “Are you certain? There’s practically nothing to go on. Yes, sir. I understand, sir. Of course. We will do our best—” a short pause “—right. Rather, Agent Reisner will do her best.”
Why did the mention of my name make my skin crawl?
St. Germain closed his phone and stowed it in his breast pocket once more. Then he announced ponderously, “That was the president’s personal assistant. He reiterates that it is of utmost importance for you to proceed on this case with all possible haste, Agent Reisner.”
I scowled. “What? Is it a matter of life and death that this crazy old lady be humored by me personally?”
St. Germain answered slowly, “Apparently, it is.”
I blinked. The guy sounded dead serious.
“You’ve got to be kidding,” I muttered.
“Dupont’s man said this is a matter of national security. He needs you personally to solve Madame Villecourt’s theft and prevent her murder with utmost speed. She must not die.”
“Good grief! The president buys into her nutty claims, too?” Dupont could forget getting my vote anytime soon. Of course, I’m not a French citizen and can’t vote over here. Nonetheless, good grief!
