Matt Drake 14 - The Treasures of Saint Germain

by David Leadbeater

  Only the finer details were left blank, ensuring any who came after would have to search with the same fervor as Leopold himself. Which suited Webb just fine.

  At last, the man paused outside a room.

  “Are you sure?” Webb made his voice threatening.

  “Yes, sir. This is the room.”

  Webb nodded. “Wait outside. I’ll need a fast getaway.”

  “Please . . . please don’t dally too long, sir. They will see us on the cameras.”

  Webb shrugged as if it hardly mattered to him and then turned every ounce of his attention to the door that stood before him and the room beyond. Even as he stepped through, a sense of wonder overcame him, rescinding all else. Gilded walls vaulted up all around to join at the apex of a high ceiling. Pristine, emerald-green paper covered the walls which were also beautified by old masterpieces, by man-sized, gold-plated mirrors and by hanging drapes of rich, crimson-red. Webb stood in awe, imagining the times over two hundred years ago when the Count himself would have slept and deliberated and planned right here. The man’s intrigues were legion.

  Webb carefully removed the scroll from its plastic cover and leafed through the stiff, old pages. The thick leather embossed cover felt like a soft balm to his fingers, Leopold’s errant scrawl a surprising comfort blanket. The first few pages were now done with, describing the hiding place of the first clue that he’d already found in Transylvania, and then offering a further hint as to the type of cipher Germain had used to encrypt messages to his subsequent hiding places.

  Webb approached the very bed, the very footstool, the very chair Germain once sat in. He read aloud from the scroll, hearing a scuffle outside the door but ignoring it completely. The Englishman was too impatient. Maybe Webb would pay him a little visit . . .

  He shut it down quickly. Concentrate. Leopold described his entry into the palace in the early 1920s, essentially the same route as Webb had taken and ending up in the same bedroom.

  “Take heed, questor,” Webb intoned softly. “This is no light journey. An end to everything you think you know is all that you will find. Hold nothing dear, for all fades away.” Webb paused, thrilled.

  “Except you.”

  He moved deeper into the room, skirting the bed and approaching the back wall. He knew these words off by heart, knew what was coming.

  The road to Germain’s greatest achievement, and the paramount accomplishment throughout all of human history led past every one of his lesser but no less incredible triumphs. Transylvania had offered a clue into the early stages of his experiments with alchemy. The Palace of Versailles would hopefully further that exploration, revealing to Webb even more of the Count’s secrets.

  Alchemy was more of a tradition, attempted mostly in Europe and Egypt. It was aimed toward the purification and perfection of certain objects, and the potential creation of new, powerful talismans. Some say a few down the ages came to understand alchemy at all its levels—Germain at least was one of those people, believed to be able to manipulate metal and form elixirs, and even a universal solvent in his day. Webb believed the clue in the Palace of Versailles would reveal some of those, but was quickly disappointed.

  For there, carved in the wood beneath the mattress of the single bed was merely another cipher, this one leading no doubt to a third clue. Of course, Webb had half expected that. Surely the secrets of alchemy and their disclosure required a lab.

  Nevertheless, disappointment cowed his soul as the cipher was revealed. He compared it to the scroll and then took a quick photo. This was a Baconian cipher, designed by Sir Francis Bacon, another mysterious, revered and enigmatic figure from before Germain’s time, but also a dabbler in the methodologies of science, disputing known facts.

  It had been postulated that Germain and Bacon were the same person.

  But Webb had no time for that now. Scuffles again sounded outside the room door and now a cry that sounded decidedly English in tone. What on earth . . . ?

  Unless . . .

  Quickly, he tucked the scroll away, safeguarded the phone with the photo of the cipher on it and searched the room. Of course, there was an interconnecting door, this one surprisingly obvious for such an old chateau. Oh, how the French used to love their intrigues and secret passageways. Germain must have loved those times.

  Hold nothing dear, for all fades away.

  Webb ran those words through his head as he approached the door, understanding their deeper meaning and what they stood for where Germain was concerned. As he reached for the handle, the door at the other end of the room crashed open.

  The Englishman fell through, face bloodied.

  Webb paused, startled, unused to seeing such sudden violence. A life of pampering never helped in these situations.

  Someone pushed the Englishman into the room. A thug, Webb thought. But it was a thug he recognized. This was the group who’d been dogging him since Transylvania, the group he had people investigating.

  Beset by a strange fear and confusion, he pulled hard at the door handle.

  The Englishman tried to rise, but the thug and one of his colleagues kicked at his skull, sending him reeling, sprawling across the polished floor. The blood leaked faster now. Webb experienced an insight into the world he used to help create as the men kicked out again and the Englishman stopped moving.

  Now they locked eyes with him.

  “You stay right there,” one said, a local judging by the accent.

  “The group wants a word with you,” another said, this man swarthier, possibly of eastern origin.

  Webb wrenched the door open, thankful it wasn’t locked, and ran through. He wasn’t a fit man, never worked out, but he wasn’t overweight either and had already told himself that if these men caught him his lifelong dream was over.

  Adrenalin fired his heart and his limbs. Webb raced through another bedroom where the bed was separated from the rest of the room by a golden railing lined by footstools and then twisted back toward the outer corridor, pausing at the door before peeking out.

  Coast clear. Only two pursuers then.

  He sprinted, arms flapping, knees pumping. He would be no match for anything short of a fit school mom, he knew, but need galvanized him. The halls were clear, each sweeping expanse of magnificent architecture blurring past so fast he felt a little giddy, until the shout was barked out from behind.

  “Don’t make me run after you, homme.”

  Webb pushed it, already seeing the side door up ahead and knowing all he needed to take from this place was the cellphone in his pocket. Once clear, he’d accelerate the investigation and put an end to this annoying group once and for all.

  How dare they?

  For now he smashed against the outer door and raced into the night, a chill breeze cooling the sweat on his forehead, the distant chiming of bells giving the city a solitary air. Not what he needed right now. What he needed was a crowd, a busy road, a parade of shops. What he needed was not to be chased into the streets as his, so far, very careful avoidance of CCTV would then be rendered ineffectual. Many of them were so good these days they’d ping your face over to Interpol in a matter of seconds.

  Webb heard the pursuit gaining ground. Despite the shadow-jamboree he managed to spy the outer gate, the same he’d been spirited through. He lengthened his stride, almost tripping in the process and tried to stop the endless flap of his arms. It wasn’t easy with his heart threatening to burst through his chest. And no respite was upcoming. The palace sat amid a great expanse of flat courtyard, stretching far and wide. Webb chanced a glance over his shoulder.

  Hurry!

  He knew the way by heart. Out of the gate and hang a left, past the Orangerie toward the train station. He already knew where the scroll would take him to next. The scroll provided the places, the ciphers the exact locations; the locations themselves provided the ongoing and unraveling wonders of Saint Germain.

  Webb wrenched the gate closed behind him, spitefully hoping it might catch one of his pursuers in th
e mouth. A dreamlike moment hit him then, when he saw the same man and wife, hand in hand, hurrying the other way across the street—the woman staring at him. A small smile broke out across her features when she saw the panic in his face and the two large brutes chasing him down.

  Webb puffed hard and continued on. But he was fighting a losing battle. As the train station finally came up ahead, one of the chasers came close enough to snag his outer jacket. A vicious tug and he was spinning, falling, going down to one knee.

  He overbalanced, not realizing but actually helping himself as a haymaker smashed through the empty space where he’d been. The brute grunted, slipping. Webb shuffled away on his knees, looking for a place to stand. The jeans of his knees were scraped raw, and possibly his skin, a new experience. A low wall gave him purchase and helped him stand, and then he stood there, panting hard, taking in deep lungfuls of air whilst he still could.

  One of the men crouched low, hands on knees, also panting. “We . . . told you not to run. But you ran. Now . . . now we have to hurt you as well as take you to our leader.”

  Webb would have laughed if he’d been able. “What are you, aliens?”

  The man looked surprised, then angry. He went to sucker-punch Webb in the gut, but Webb stepped back out of the way and the blow whistled by.

  Both the thug and Webb looked surprised that he had managed to dodge.

  “Stand still.”

  “Why? So you can hurt me?”

  “So I can break your skinny ribs and use them as a toothpick, homme,” the Frenchman growled. “Make me run, will you? We’ll see . . .”

  The dangerous bully moved in again. Webb saw no reason to stand around, spun and tried to make off. Smashed into the second man’s chest. Grunted.

  “Don’t you know who I am?”

  It slipped from his mouth before he could rein it in.

  The swarthy man laughed. “Not yet. But we will soon.”

  “Why are you chasing me?”

  “Are you stupid? I already said the group want to speak with you.”

  Which group? Webb opened his mouth to ask, then found it filled with a bunch of knuckles. The pain came a split second later, then the blood, and a decidedly loose feeling in one of his teeth. I could have made Beau train me. I could have fought my way out of this. He moaned in pain as another fist connected with the side of his head. The train station now seemed so far away.

  “Let’s get him back to the car.”

  They hefted Webb, each one taking an arm, ignoring the stares of passersby. Webb struggled weakly, but even the threat of another punch doused his ire. The cell remained in his pocket along with the picture of the Baconian cipher, but anyone worth their salt would soon find it.

  “That’s better,” the Frenchman said as Webb quit his resisting. “Know your place, homme.”

  That infuriated Webb all the more, but again he was no fighter. Best to wait . . . wait for an opportunity.

  “Hey! Stop right there!”

  It came sooner than expected.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Two policeman came warily toward them, hands hovering over the holsters that contained their guns. On guard at the train station, they must have spotted the altercation and seen Webb being dragged away.

  Both his captors turned instantly, the sight of the approaching cops fazing them not one bit. Several passersby stopped to watch and, as if Webb didn’t know already, the street cams would have spotted them. What happened next shocked every onlooker, including Webb.

  Taking things into madness, the two goons drew their own weapons and instantly opened fire. No warning. No aiming. Bullets glanced off the asphalt and perforated a parked car. The cops dived for cover, one lucky, the other not so much. A bullet slammed into the meat of his calf, leaving him prone on the ground.

  The Frenchman lined him up with a vicious leer.

  The second cop fired now, bullets whizzing past Webb. Both thugs backed away. The second cop was already on the radio, calling for backup. And it would arrive in a hurry, the French assuming this another terrorist incident. Webb was caught in two minds as he was manhandled: stay put or run? Luckily, he knew that he was a coward now. But would these men shoot him in the back?

  Doubtful. This mysterious ‘group’ wanted to question him, not kill him. They wanted to know what he’d already discovered. And how.

  Taking the biggest chance of his life, he pushed Frenchie and kicked out at Swarthy. Parked cars were everywhere, so he pulled free and ran for one, slipping round the front end. Grating shouts pursued him. He veered away from the cops, spying a side street that ran alongside the station. A bullet zinged past, probably a warning but Webb felt his insides turn to jelly. One more and he’d wet himself, he knew. Head down he continued. The next sound of gunfire was further away as the cops engaged, and already sirens were screaming through the night.

  This was his chance.

  If he made it fast he’d be on a train before they shut the stations down. The witnesses saw him as a victim, not a perpetrator. The authorities wouldn’t be as fixated on him as they were on the others. One brisk look back revealed that the swarthy man still watched, tracking his progress, but appeared to be pinned down. Webb wanted to grin or give a childish wave, but didn’t dare. Not yet. Only when he was guaranteed safety.

  Sirens shrieked closer, beginning to light up the black vault above with their lurid blue flashes. Webb felt for the reassuring packet inside his jacket—the phone and the scroll, carefully wrapped. All was well then. His teeth hurt like hell and his mouth still bled, but he’d cry about that later. First he needed to get on that train.

  Inside, the station buzzed with activity, almost everyone ignorant of the events outside. Webb hurried as best he could, still trying to avoid cameras but realizing that particular game was up for tonight. It would take a while for the recognition to hit the right people anyway, and by then . . .

  Webb grinned, spotting the time of the next train out.

  Seven minutes. Perfect.

  Paris beckoned then, along with the scroll’s third clue. The pure alchemy evidence should be next, the full reveal. Then that could only lead him to greater things.

  Le Comte de Saint Germain unraveled.

  More treasures. More ciphers. If he could decode the Baconian cipher, around at the time of Leopold and one of the cipher’s associated with the mystery of Saint Germain, then he should be able to at least interpret all the others. All connected with the Count—the Shakespearian code, Merlin, Plato and Columbus. All doors stopped at Saint Germain.

  Webb had gambled his life on this.

  The fruits of that stake were already paying off.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Matt Drake and Alicia Myles were alone, the recent events in New York over a week past, enjoying more than a little R & R.

  Drake checked his watch. “It’s getting on for six, love. We have to be at the office for six-thirty.”

  “Man like you should be able to ram it home three times before then.”

  Drake shook his head at her crudity. “Let’s make it once and make it a good ’un.”

  Alicia sniffed haughtily.

  Drake jumped atop her naked body. “Owt’s better than nowt, buggerlugs.”

  He put Alicia’s lack of further questioning down to his prowess, though in truth she probably understood the Yorkshire slang from being around him so long. He fixed the tall blonde firmly in his thoughts, allowing nothing else to interfere. It had taken them so long to get this far. She was all that mattered now and nothing else was guaranteed.

  Nothing.

  The bed groaned and so did Alicia. With a feisty shove she had him on his back and then took control for a while, allowing him to spin her over once more for the last few moments. The night outside was darkening as 6 p.m. passed. Raindrops pattered the draped windows, their rattling filling the small apartment. For a while, the two became lost in a different world; free, cheerful and soothing.

  When they’d finished, Drak
e rolled over. “So how was it?”

  Alicia rolled onto her side, studying him. “Meh.”

  “Oh, thanks. It takes two you know.”

  “A team you mean?”

  “Well, not necessary a whole—”

  “Good, ’cause I was gonna question that, since in my experience . . .” she paused. “Actually no, I’ll let that one hang.”

  Drake was glad she did. One never knew if the spirited southerner was joking or not.

  “Speaking of hanging.” She glanced down between his legs.

  “Bloody hell, woman, give me a minute.”

  “Hey, you got yourself into this.”

  “Oh, did I?” He flashed back on Alicia’s explosion during the ghost ships battle, the way she had chosen him to vent upon. “Haven’t we always been ‘in’ this? Together.”

  “Bollocks. That’s too deep for me.”

  She slapped his right thigh before leaping out of bed, laughing and pulling on some clothes. “C’mon, Drakey. Duty calls.”

  He grumbled about having just done his duty as he followed suit, keeping the attire purely civilian as this scheduled meeting at the office was routine, nothing urgent. Following the events of New York, the outing of Robert Price at the very least as a terrorist conspirator, the embarrassment of the CIA, and even harder lessons learned about the state of America’s true defenses, the SPEAR team had a mountain of problems to sort through. Hayden was leading the charge, but the entire team was being called upon to pitch in.

  “So long as they don’t ask me to fix any furniture in whatever new office they give us,” Alicia spoke his own worst nightmare, “I’m good. Y’know, I almost wish there was another crisis to get us outta the way.”

  “Dahl’s little escapade wasn’t enough?”

  Alicia snorted. “Torsty’s vacation? I just love the way he squirms every time I tease him about it.”