by Rob Swigart
“Time,” he said aloud.
Her eyes opened.
“Who are you?” he asked.
She blinked. “Lisa Emmer. Why?”
“Just wondering.” He started the engine and turned onto the abbey road.
53.
Philippe Dupond’s sweat-slick palms threatened to slide off the wheel every time he took a turn. He wiped them on his thighs. He was sure if he didn’t speed he’d arrive too late. Every time this fear arose he pressed harder on the accelerator.
Though he maintained it well, his rusty Peugeot shuddered, the tires whined when he took the turns, and the air-conditioner labored against the intolerable heat. The car just wasn’t built for high-speed chases, and this was a high-speed chase.
Emmer and Viginaire were ahead of him on the road. He had seen to that. He’d warned them the police were after them.
He didn’t want either Hugo or the Prior General to get them, not until he had a plan. They had escaped the safe house and disappeared. It wasn’t until he called his contact at the American Department of Homeland Security that he learned they were on their way, just as Defago and the nun had planned. If the Order lured them to the cellar, Dupond would have to get past the Prior General and that thick-necked “secretary” of his to rescue them. Without a rescue he saw his future crumble; he would have nothing to sell, no bargaining chip.
He touched the butt of his Manurhin MR 93 service revolver. It was no more effective than the nun’s Glock, but at least it wasn’t less so. The feel of it was reassuring.
He couldn’t be late! Already they’d snatched Alain, Rossignol’s attendant, from the hospital. He had to hurry. If he failed this time that fat priest was going to get it all. He would instantly become unemployable at best. At worst he would die.
What about the Church? Shooting inside the royal tombs would be very bad press. Would the Vatican attempt to cover it up, deny the existence of the Order, stonewall while the monk and nun disappeared? They could say the nun was a fraud and had nothing to do with the Church. Could it make that stick? Did it have that kind of power?
They must believe speed more important than stealth, or that it no longer mattered if they were careful. They would get Lisa and Steve and disappear. Neither one would be seen again.
It made no sense either way. The massacre at St. Denis had exposed the Order. It was a huge mistake. It had been so public, and so unnecessary. Innocents killed and wounded. A national monument damaged, the police involved, an international incident. They should be more concerned about security than ever.
He had to admit they probably did have the power. He also had to admit the Vatican might not know about the Order at all.
Still, none of it made sense. This secret conflict had been going on for a long time. Emmer had something both the Ministry and the religious people wanted very badly. If he had it, he would have leverage.
They must plan to finish this and disappear, the monk and the nun. He increased his speed. What if they had taken Emmer and Viginaire and the abbey was deserted? What if he was too late?
It was unthinkable. Yet he thought it.
He was passing the bridge across the river when there was a frightening thump and the car began to stutter and slew wildly toward the right. He slammed on the brakes and came to a halt with the hood humming in the thick shrubbery of a ditch. In his wake a trail of black smoke hung in the still, humid air like a line of old, soiled laundry.
He was looking at the flat tire when an enormous black SUV with two grim-faced men in the front seat roared past. When the sound of the SUV had faded to silence he opened his trunk and yanked out the jack.
* * *
At 7:46 p.m. Lt. Mathieu telephoned his chief at home.
“I’m preparing dinner,” the captain told him. “Can’t it wait?”
“Viginaire’s car was photographed passing the Arc de Triomphe, sir.”
“Which way was it going?”
“West. I’ve alerted the Yvelines gendarmerie.”
Mathieu could sense rather than hear Hugo summoning patience as if it were a high-order demon.
“And at what time was the car so photographed, Mathieu?”
“Just before eighteen hundred, sir. It took nearly two hours to confirm. Something about the software…”
“Of course,” Hugo said bitterly. “Always the software. I’ll be there in twenty minutes. And order up a couple of SWAT people from RAID to go out there. They’re probably bored and would like a little excitement.” RAID stood for Recherche Assistance Intervention Dissuasion; Research, Assistance, Intervention and Deterrence.
Mathieu hung up. He had hoped it wouldn’t come to this. His boss was especially irritable when he missed dinner.
* * *
The sky had turned a luminous pearl and suede along the tree line and painted an opaque sheen on the river, giving the water a mute, frozen look. Insects hummed and thrilled in the dry weeds. The heat was vicious.
The great hulk of the abbey was shrouded in gloom. Heat shimmered over the plastic debris and broken shards of green and transparent glass in the yard and gave an impression of false life to the blank façade of the squat gray warehouse beside the ruin. The spray-painted graffiti “SPIKE” faded with the light and suddenly winked out.
Steve and Lisa stood by their car. The engine ticked, struggling to cool down. They examined the cracked concrete path to the door. No lights were visible.
Lisa leaned down and blew gently on the pen in Steve’s shirt pocket. There was an answering huff from a tiny speaker set into it. “We’re going in,” she said. “The speaker will be off so we won’t be able to hear you. Any last words?”
Ted’s tinny voice wished them luck. Lisa glanced toward the wood but saw nothing but trees.
Steve twisted the cap and the speaker went dead.
They started toward the door. Lisa sang, “There’s a light/Over at the Frankenstein place…”
“I beg your pardon?”
“The Rocky Horror Picture Show,” Lisa whispered. “Brad and Janet lost at night come to a mysterious castle. You never saw it?”
“No.”
“Never went to the theater at midnight with an umbrella? Never sang Time Warp?”
“Sorry.”
She shook her head sympathetically. “You were deprived, Steve Viginaire. One day we’ll have to go. You can still see it at midnight sometimes, even in Paris.”
“You’re kidding.”
She pulled the chain and they heard the melancholy peal of a distant bell inside. “Dr. Frank-N-Furter. Very creepy, very funny.”
“Yes, I see.”
He didn’t see at all, she knew that. She was nervous, just making small talk, waiting in front of the door to the castle of the evil prince. There were too many variables and too much was at stake and no turning back.
Unless the door remained closed. If the door remained closed they could try a call to the police, an anonymous tip that Alain might be in the ruined abbey. It would be out of their hands.
She thought of walking back down the broken pavement. Steve was watching her expectantly.
There was no one home. The abbey was deserted. It was a wild goose chase.
“Come on, Rocky,” she said, taking that first step away from the door.
“Are you whistling in the dark?” Steve asked.
The bolt screamed, and the door began to creak open. They looked at each other and burst out laughing. “Cut the melodrama,” she said after a moment. “Just open the door.”
The man standing inside was thick and hideously ugly, with a misshapen face and no visible neck. His head was completely shaved, but this failed to conceal the fact that he was prematurely bald. He wore a black shirt and pants, but the hands that gestured them inside were surprisingly delicate, long-fingered and pale, like those of a pianist.
The vast interior was a place of dust and mildew and abandoned furniture. The man closed the door behind them and led them past empty bookshelves to a
fat man in a checked flannel shirt and neatly pressed blue jeans seated on an old sofa. He lifted a soft hand as they approached. The smile under a nose once broken and now bent to one side was bleak and unfriendly. “Ah, Miss Emmer! M. Viginaire! Such a pleasure! Welcome to the Abbey of St. Théophile.” His smile snapped off like a light.
“Theophilus of Alexandria?” Lisa replied. “Patriarch and uncle of Cyril?” She deliberately left off the “Saint.”
The fat man nodded.
“I have seen a picture of him standing on top of the Serapeion in Alexandria with the gospel in his hand.”
“I believe there is a picture from the fifth century of Saint Theophilus as it was when he destroyed the pagan temple in 391. That would be just the year before the great Theodosius closed the temples at Delphi forever.”
His eyes held a malicious glitter when he said this, but she failed to rise to the bait. Instead she continued, “And Cyril would be the Patriarch of Alexandria who had Hypatia killed.”
“The witch,” the man agreed with false cheer. “Yes, it was justified.”
“And for this they called Cyril the new Theophilus, and made them both saints, I believe.”
Again the head nodded, tripling his chins.
Lovely hosts we’re going to have. She asked aloud, “And you are?”
He stood and extended a plump, white hand. He was taller than he had appeared when seated. “Gabriel Lacatuchi, Prior General of the Order of Theodosius.”
“I thought the Order was secret,” Steve said, his hand resting protectively on Lisa’s elbow. “It doesn’t show up in any search of Church literature.”
“Quite so.” Lacatuchi’s merriment seemed genuine. “But we need not keep it secret from you, not any longer.” Since neither Lisa nor Steve had taken the offer of his hand he used its back to wipe moisture from the corner of his eye. “After all, whom would you tell?”
Steve started to protest, but Lisa interrupted. “We don’t need to tell anyone. You’ve made yourselves known.”
Lacatuchi maintained his good humor. “Brother Defago told you, Mademoiselle Emmer, that secrecy does not matter, not any longer.”
“Now why would that be?” Steve managed to say.
Lacatuchi paused, savoring the moment, aware of the drama. “Because the Struggle will soon be over.” He sounded as if he was being recorded for the sake of history.
Lisa clicked her tongue. “Don’t presume to know the future.”
“Ah, that would be your province, would it not?”
Lisa’s eyes glittered but at that moment a door opened behind the Prior General and Brother Defago took a step into the vast hall. When he saw the tableau he stopped and waited patiently.
Lacatuchi did not notice him. He thrust his face close to Lisa’s. “Then let’s get down to business, shall we?”
“Certainly.” She was standing at an angle to the monk and made no sign she had seen him.
Lacatuchi held out his hand. “You will give me the so-called Founding Document.”
Lisa’s smile moved across her lips like a fast-moving cloud over a meadow. “Surely the Prior General of the Order of Theodosius cannot seriously believe we would be so naïve as to bring it with us? When Alain is safely on his way back to the hospital, assuming he’s still alive, we can discuss the next steps.”
The remains of Lacatuchi’s geniality vanished. “How dare you!”
“Please, no theatrics,” Steve interjected. “We are negotiating a very simple business arrangement, a quid pro quo. Shouting will only interfere with trust.”
“Trust!” Lacatuchi snapped. “I don’t bargain. You were to bring me the Document.” His eyes narrowed and turned sly. “Of course, it doesn’t matter whether you brought it with you or not. If you don’t have it then it’s back in Foix’s apartment, and as you know we’ve already entered that place with impunity.”
“Your nun entered, you mean.”
Lacatuchi laughed aloud this time. “Sister Teresa is our finest instrument, utterly dedicated and an unerring shot. We are very proud of her.”
“A deadly sin, pride,” Lisa suggested dryly.
“Indeed. Nonetheless.”
“And her aim is not so unerring as all that. She missed once.”
Lacatuchi spread his plump, pale hands.
“Then there is her adventure at St. Denis.”
His eyes narrowed. “What of it?”
“She’s now quite famous.”
He waved negligently. “Oh, that. As I say, there is no further need for secrecy. Or for Sister Teresa and her keeper, for that matter.” He drew a sorrowful expression. “It will be the end of the Order, which will never have existed.”
Defago reached back for the door handle and was gone, as silently as he had appeared.
Lisa smiled. “And what will you do then, Prior General? Go into retirement? What about the others? They will become… inconvenient. How will you dispose of them?”
The Prior General’s complexion had been darkening. “You will now see your friend Alain,” Lacatuchi said. He nodded at his secretary, who gestured at the shadows. Instantly three figures materialized and seized the pair, snapping handcuffs on them. It happened so fast neither could get a good look, but what little they saw was not encouraging. They were large and efficient and silent men. They might well be deaf-mutes.
They were pushed toward an opening. Beyond was a circular stone stair, lit by a dim electric bulb around the first turn.
Lisa resisted but her keeper shoved her roughly and stayed close to her. She followed Steve down. With her hands confined behind her she felt vulnerable and unsteady and tried to keep her shoulder against the outer curve so as not to stumble.
Somewhere down below she could hear the monotonous drip of water.
54.
It was nearly dark when Philippe Dupond finally arrived at the abbey. A Renault was parked at the end of the walk, its engine nearly cooled to ambient temperature, which was high. There was no sign of the SUV or its occupants.
He drew his revolver and started up the walk before catching himself. He was dirty, sweaty, frustrated and angry. That could lead to mistakes. He holstered the gun and leaned against the car, studying the abbey.
He was an observant man and had been out here several times, so he knew there were broken windows facing the river. Though boarded up, they offered a possible point of entry.
A dirt track off the main road went past the warehouse with a service entrance to the east. The gray AGON van was usually parked nearby. This door was normally locked and he’d never seen anyone use it.
Finally, there was the front door. Perhaps he could just pretend it was business as usual, he was here to report? Would Xavier, Lacatuchi’s pet thug, believe him, usher him into the office and say, Look who’s here?
This didn’t seem likely under the circumstances. Emmer and Viginaire were already here. The police must be somewhere around as well ready to kick everything into the merde.
He sprinted along the low wall past the trash and debris that filled the yard. At the far end he turned toward the annex. Fortunately it was windowless and as far as he knew there were no cameras or other forms of electronic surveillance. The Church sometimes remained stubbornly conservative when it came to technology.
Sometimes, but not always, he reminded himself.
Nothing happened, though, and soon he was edging along the south wall of the annex toward the east end. Here he found three steps down to the door. The empty van was parked nearby, a gray bulk. It was unlocked and he checked inside but found nothing useful. The glove compartment contained only registration papers and an old map of France.
He went down to the service entrance. As he expected, the door was locked from the inside. He got out his picks and began working on the mechanism.
55.
Lingering sunlight was draining from the west end of the abbey. Two members of a National Police SWAT team dressed in dark gray and bristling with hooks, clamps, weapons and
Velcro pouches were perched on the edge of the peaked roof looking out over flax fields toward the fading sunset. Though they appeared identical, both stocky with hard eyes and identical facial hair, one, nominally the leader, stroked his mustache with evident satisfaction. He liked sunsets.
They had scaled the rough outer wall and remained with their feet dangling over the edge for a little more than an hour.
The other stirred and whispered, “It’s dark enough. Shouldn’t we get going?”
The first nodded and, moving in a crouch, led the way along the ridgeline toward the center of the great hall. Before them the river twinkled in the last light. The water looked as if it had suddenly been kicked into motion. Stars were appearing. He gestured at the top of one of the buttresses along the north side. The second man slid down and affixed two ropes. His thumb up gesture was barely visible. The first gave a soft grunt of satisfaction and slid down the roof.
This time he pointed down. One by one they slipped over the edge and lowered themselves halfway. They were now level with the pointed arch of a window. It was missing most of its stained glass, and badly patched with cheap plywood, heavily warped by years and rain.
The leader touched the wood, curled his fingers around an edge and pulled. He froze at the faint screech. After listening for a time he tugged again. A section came away.
It was now completely dark. Still dangling from the ropes the two men put on night vision goggles. The leader peered through the opening.
After a moment he wormed his way through, taking the remainder of the rope with him. The other followed and soon they were on the floor near a series of straight-backed chairs.
The hall contained only old furniture and debris. There were three potential doors, one just an opening outlined in dim reflected light.
They made their way to the front door. It was massive, ancient, and secured by a large bolt. The east door was locked. The nearby opening led to a descending spiral stair illuminated somewhere below by a low-wattage bulb.
