As they strolled arm in arm to help deter onlookers Crouch spoke softly. “As things stand, I don’t like introducing outsiders. We don’t know where Riley has bribes and hooks in place. But with this I had no choice. Without this curator’s help we’re all hammers striking at a nail made of rubber. Getting nowhere fast.”
Caitlyn squeezed his hand. “Riley’s sent you all off kilter, huh? I’ve never seen you like this.”
Crouch gave a half chortle. “Caitlyn, despite the hand-holding, we’ve known each other for about five minutes. You don’t know me and I don’t know you. Not really. It’s a credit to you that I already regard you as an indispensable member of our team.”
“Well, thank you. My time at MI5 was vital. In one way I’m sorry it was cut short, but in another . . .” she indicated their position. “I never would have come this far.”
Crouch asked a question that had worried him since he first heard about Caitlyn Nash and her burnout. “Did MI5 fail you?”
Caitlyn instinctively pulled away, but then came back to show her reaction had been unintentional. “No. They were entirely professional. I guess you could say it was my father who failed me.”
Crouch did not want to pry any further. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. It wasn’t your fault, nor mine. To save myself from what happened I would have to turn back time.”
Crouch gave her hand a lighthearted squeeze. “Oh, the wrongs I could right . . .”
Caitlyn pointed toward a floor sign, showing the way to the temporary exhibition. “We’re here.”
Crouch stopped before a fourteenth century French painting, pretending to have an interest but in reality scanning their peripherals. The Richelieu Wing in his experience had always been the quietest, probably because it didn’t contain any of the more famous works of art popular in the Denon Wing, but it still maintained a high frequency of foot traffic. After a minute with no warning sensors triggering in his brain he moved along.
A narrow offshoot to the Richelieu Wing appeared ahead. On one side stood a row of all-glass display cabinets, stretching from floor to ceiling, with knee-height pedestals inside upon which sat many documents and manuscripts. Black signage ran along a supposed centerline. Crouch quickly moved to the one that read ‘Congress of Venice 1815’.
Caitlyn almost touched the glass in her urgency, but Crouch pulled her away. “We’re ten minutes early.”
Caitlyn whistled. “I can’t believe we’re about to read passages from one of the most important international conferences in European history. It’s . . . a little sublime.”
The official document before them, under glass, was yellowed but perfectly legible. The title page read: Acte du Congrès de Vienne, Du 9 Juin, 1815. It was signed, though Crouch could not make out the name, and attested as the ‘official edition’. Of course, he thought. Otherwise why would it be displayed in the Louvre?
A man approached noisily, dressed in a blue suit and sporting a bright red tie. His hair, professionally styled, swept up over the top of his head into a fin-like shape. He was much younger than Crouch had expected.
“Are you Amaury?”
“I am. We should be quick.” Amaury’s eyes darted left and right as if expecting a surprise attack at any moment.
Crouch nodded. “My thoughts too. You seem nervous?”
“It is not often one of the museum’s directors wakes you in the middle of the night, rips a man out of his bed and orders him to allow a person he doesn’t know a private, uninterrupted viewing.”
“It isn’t? I would have thought it happened more often than most people would imagine.”
Amaury almost smiled. “I can’t speak for that.”
“Of course. Carry on.”
The curator produced a small key, inserted it into an inconspicuous silver lock, and slid a portion of the glass aside. The gap was enough to allow only Crouch access. Caitlyn hovered at his shoulder.
“Please,” Amaury insisted, holding an object out. “Use these and have care. No fingers. Flex the pages as little as possible. Do not touch them with items of your clothing.”
Crouch knew the guidelines well. His love of archaeological history had sent him down every avenue in the past, and that included how to handle ancient manuscripts or parchment. The trouble was, the ink was no longer firmly attached to the pages. Forcing anything was out of the question. Amaury was holding out a pair of book snakes, lead weights inside fabric tubes used for holding a book open, essential for handling the document.
“Don’t worry. I will be careful.”
“Hmm. I reserve the right to worry.”
Crouch handled the document, conscious of Amaury’s every tiny intake when he suspected Crouch may have the snakes one or two millimeters off. The curator listened to Caitlyn’s contrived spiel regarding the so-called Horses of St. Mark and thankfully knew immediately what they were looking for.
“I understand. It is a passage that clearly indicated the return of the Horses to Venice and yet also alludes to the unknown. I’m surprised you have heard of it. The passage is totally anonymous.”
Crouch stopped himself from laughing aloud. “You mean you don’t get many visitors asking about the Congress of Vienna these days?”
Amaury shrugged. “Most are not so rude. With this treaty they redrew Europe’s political map, enforced Napoleon’s abdication and restored lands to many that France had plundered. Though not always their treasures,” he admitted at the end.
Crouch waited for the curator to step forward, take over the snakes and find the passage. He had no idea what he was looking for, but Amaury’s words gave him a shard of hope. Minutes passed. Crouch eyed their surroundings, in particular their only way out, and motioned that Caitlyn do the same. Their newest recruit wasn’t a soldier and didn’t possess a soldier’s instinct, but she was always willing to learn as best she could. Another minute ticked by. The sound filtering from the Richelieu Wing grew steadily louder as the day wore on. As Amaury flicked past the pages Crouch saw much white parchment covered in spider-web writing, some adorned by thick red, waxen seals.
Amaury grunted. “It is here. This is your passage.”
Crouch thanked him and waited for him to move aside before bending toward the page. Written on surprisingly white paper in tiny lettering were several passages. Crouch took his time to read them all.
“All right.” He smiled. “I have the official part where the Congress ceded the Horses back to Vienna. All good and proper. It makes no mention . . .” he tailed off.
“Makes no mention?” Amaury enquired.
“Wait.” Crouch was surprised to find that, amongst all the bureaucratic, legal language there sat a small, inconspicuous passage that almost went unnoticed. The only reason he didn’t skim it over was that it was written in a different style to everything that came before.
“Is this the passage you referred to?” he asked Amaury, pointing but careful to stay away from the page.
“Yes, that is the one.”
Crouch turned to Caitlyn, unable to hide the smile. “I think we’ve found a bloody fine clue.”
TWENTY FOUR
Crouch read the passage aloud:
“From an Ancient Wonder’s home to the Domus,
“From the Golden palace to the Emperor’s Circus,
“The First riding above all,
“The Second supporting the wall.
“From the Floating City to the New Rome,
“Undivided as Lysippos intended,
“The Tarentum—the strength, the bolster,
“The Quadriga—the show, the vision.
“Then sundered materially as never in spirit,
“One always the show,
“The other below,
“By the Pillars of Hercules he endures,
“A part of the soil,
“Hiding among New Arches envisioned,
“To the victor the spoils.”
Caitlyn peeked over his shoulder as he recited the passage.
Amaury shifted from foot to foot, still clearly nervous. Both of them looked at Crouch at the same time.
“Well?” Caitlyn asked. “Do you know what it means?”
“I haven’t a bloody clue,” Crouch said. “But let me copy it down. I take it you have no objection to me taking a picture?” He glanced toward the curator.
“It is the Louvre,” the Frenchman said in assent. “It is what is expected.”
Crouch snapped several photos and then thanked the curator. After the man locked up and walked away Crouch allowed himself to break into a wide grin.
“This is why we do this,” he said. “For breakthroughs like this. For the discovery of lifetimes. For the thrill of the chase. This is what it means to be a treasure hunter.”
Caitlyn threw her arms around his neck before she could stop herself, exuberant as ever. Crouch immediately coughed and grunted and regained most of his English reserve.
“Um, okay. Well, let’s go then. Figure this out tonight and then round up the gang.”
“You make them sound like the Scoobies.”
“Are you kidding? I’d kill for the Scoobies at a time like this.”
Caitlyn nodded. “Wouldn’t we all.”
“Now how the hell do we get out of this place?”
“We go against the flow, Michael. Isn’t that what we always do?”
TWENTY FIVE
As the day passed, Alicia found solitude increasingly demanding. Another walk along the Seine, another coffee in a café, one more hour behind a desk trying to chart the future course of her life. One more sheet of blank paper. A distant study of “normal” people, and of how they went about their daily lives. It all seemed so alien to her. It had been said time and time again that career soldiers could never adapt to a regular life. Looking at typical habits and routines, Alicia could easily understand why.
The first man who beat her to the last bottle of milk on the shelf would end up crushed at her feet. The pushy woman who barged past her in the street would find her head in a handbag, still attached of course. The idiot wandering along in the flow of human traffic, obliviously texting or flicking at his cell screen as he walked, would run right into the point of her elbow.
As her thoughts turned darker, Alicia knew it was time to seek some company. First she rang Russo and thought, What the hell, why not make it a threesome?
Russo and Healey turned up together. Alicia suspected they’d met some time earlier, but said nothing. Russo sat down on the bench beside her and stared at the huge Egyptian obelisk at the center of the Place de la Concorde.
“They all seem so . . . unaware,” he said, referring to the people. “Carefree.”
“They’re not,” Alicia said. “But for today, and because of people like us, they can be.
“Do you think we’ll ever get to do that?” Russo said.
Alicia stared at him, surprised how close he was to her way of thinking. Silently, she shook her head. Healey voiced an objective of one day becoming a model civilian but Russo pointed out the fact that he was barely out of pre-school.
The hours passed. The day wore on. The soldiers took stock of their surroundings and ensured all was safe. It was what they did. Sentinels watching over the living, as those who had gone before watched over them. Uncles, brothers, fathers, mothers, sons and daughters forever lost but never forgotten.
Memory preserves them all.
*
Darkness fell for the second night and Alicia was looking forward to an early start the next morning. Crouch had texted to explain what they had found, but demonstrated no headway yet. She said her goodbyes to Russo last after forcing Healey away an hour earlier and topping her quota of the expected “time you were in bed” wisecracks, then took a steady walk back to her hotel. Even before she entered the room she knew it was occupied.
Call it sixth sense, SAS training, perception by a woman at the top of her game. Call it luck. She knew. And when the door opened inwards and the figure loomed she was ready.
Lightning quick, she jabbed to the throat, poked at the eyes, kicked at the knees. The figure danced back, staggering as the lower blow struck home. Alicia followed it up with another blitz attack, slamming her knee in hard—once, twice, three times—but each blow was blocked by a raised elbow. No words were passed.
The figure rolled away, a jacket left in its wake. Alicia bounded forward, felt brief contact with the bridge of her nose, and stopped, tears blinding her eyes. The next blow struck her sternum, causing her to gasp, ripping her T-shirt. She retaliated in a second, fast blows to the body, digging her fingers into the figure’s own clothing and ripping a good chunk of it away. Hard, hairless muscles were revealed. The man attacked in a blur, all darkness and distorted silhouette, spinning around her body in a full circle and ripping the rest of her T-shirt away. Alicia didn’t let up; there was no modesty in this kind of battle.
A feint to the groin and a punch up into a falling chin made her opponent see stars. She stepped in and tore the man’s black clothing down from the chest to the waist. He recovered fast, dropping to one hand and kicking with both feet. The strikes took Alicia by surprise, made her fall flat on her ass. Before she could move, both her shoes were ripped from her feet. Alicia couldn’t help but mutter in surprise.
How the hell . . ?
But he wouldn’t get the better of her, she was determined. She knew where certain vulnerabilities lay. As the man ducked in again she rose powerfully and then dropped quickly to her knees, shredding the rest of the material that covered his body.
The man paused in shock.
“Be careful, Beau,” she breathed. “If I manage to get hold of that thing I’m gonna use it to twirl you above my head like a whirlycopter.”
The man kicked at her shoulder. Alicia forced herself to concentrate but found it hard to avert her eyes. “Oh wow, I’ve so missed—”
In a move too fast for her to comprehend, Beauregard spun her around so that her back was pressed into his body and then launched her onto the hotel room’s bed. Two seconds later he’d ripped her trousers off. Alicia, panting, lay still, then slowly turned her head to look coyly over her golden shoulder.
“So? You waiting for an invite or are you gonna pound that?”
Beauregard needed no second request. Falling atop her he put his lips close to her ear. “Are you ready for me?”
“Fighting my boyfriend always turns me on.”
“That is what I thought.”
Alicia propped a cushion under her hips. “For fuck’s sake, be careful.”
“Ah, if only I had a franc for every girl who asked me that.”
“Fuck you.”
“No.” Beauregard pressed into her hips. “I think you have that backward.”
*
Later, bruised and spent, Alicia rolled over to create some space between herself and the Frenchman. What had promised to be a spectacularly boring evening had turned into something far more satisfying, but there were still questions to be asked.
“Beau? What the bloody hell are you doing here?”
“Isn’t that obvious?” The master assassin thrust his hips at her.
“Quit that. I’m serious. Who are you working for, Beau. And why are you in Paris?”
Beauregard pulled the sheet across his body, giving Alicia a moment’s regret. He plumped the pillows behind his head and sat up. “Look, Alicia, I cannot answer your questions yet.”
“Yet?”
“Yes. The time is soon, but it is not my decision.”
“Shit Beau, you had better be working for the good guys. If you turn out to be working for those asshole Pythians I’m really gonna have to kill ya.”
“Your patience will be worth it.”
“Now you sound like one of those business answering machines.” She switched to a tinny accent. “We appreciate your call. It is important to us. You are fifth in the queue. We are currently servicing Trevor. Please bend over and let us take you—”
“Look.” Beauregar
d interrupted her and leaned forward. “I have never been this far on the inside, undercover. Every moment I remain with you my life is in danger, but I did remain.”
“In danger?” Alicia repeated. “Is that why you finished so quickly?”
Beauregard turned away, frustration flashing across his features. Alicia relented and reached out to him. “So tell me this then. What are the Pythians up to now?”
“Nothing but their usual megalomaniacal bullshit. Tyler Webb’s incessant needs center around ghost ships and Saint Germain. I fear if he does not get what he wants then he will turn our world to ashes. And his needs—they’re demonic to put it mildly.”
“Demonic?”
“Subjugation. Domination. Societies in chains. Death squads. I could go on.”
“Please don’t.”
“And if he becomes frustrated . . .” Beauregard let it hang.
“So you’re the inside man. And you won’t tell me who you work for. All right. I can live with that but only for a short while, Beau. You get me?”
Beau nodded, his powerful body shifting slightly beneath the sheets and drawing Alicia’s attention. “Already, the Pythians are recruiting new primary members. I have only two names so far—Julian Marsh and Zoe Sheers. But it is a start. The names have been . . . passed on.”
Alicia sensed that her lover wished to tell her more. Wanted to. Her intuition was rarely wrong and she truly believed Beauregard was genuine. Despite the fact that whenever they met she always seemed to end up with a set of fresh bruises.
“And now to a more serious issue,” she said, leaning forward. “Never, ever, try to cover yourself up when we’re alone again. I like you naked.”
Beauregard gave an exaggerated sigh. “Of course.”
Alicia hesitated. “And just so we’re clear this time. You wanna fight first or fuck?”
“It is up to you.”
Alicia laughed. “Oh, I know that, Beau. I really do.”
Alicia Myles 2 - Crusader's Gold Page 13
