Matt Drake 14 - The Treasures of Saint Germain

by David Leadbeater

  Lauren clicked her fingers. “I can fight my own battles, Smyth.”

  Alicia picked up on that. “You still call him Smyth, eh? Dude, do you even have a first name?”

  “When we’re alone we don’t talk overmuch,” Lauren said.

  “Same for most soldiers,” Yorgi reflected.

  Hayden finally managed to get herself heard over the chit-chat. “Updates!” she yelled. “As you know we’re kept informed of what’s going on in the world. Now, let’s start with Syria . . .”

  As Hayden ran through the various new incidents around the globe, none of which were deemed serious enough for SPEAR to get involved with, Drake wondered if their patched, rag-tag crew was starting to fray. Was fatigue setting in? Did they all need to go and do something different for half a year?

  Kinimaka came around with coffees, a bold Kona blend which Drake knew would keep him awake later but it was so bloody nice. Also, it was both hard and dangerous sleeping with a frolicsome Alicia bouncing around your groin. He’d slept in war zones that worried him less.

  Dahl wandered over to him. “If I were you two I’d be a bit more discreet. The dynamic here is shaky enough as it is.”

  Alicia frowned. “And yet I’m always there, aren’t I? Pulling you out of the sea after you couldn’t handle a little nuclear explosion. Flying to Barbados to join your busman’s holiday? What’s next—babysitting?”

  Dahl looked horrified, as intended, and Drake let out a good chuckle. “Personally I’d love to see Alicia babysit your kids,” he said seriously. “Imagine the aftermath.”

  Dahl shuddered. “Fine. I’ll shut up.”

  “Good idea.”

  Hayden cocked her head as an internal line started to ring. It wasn’t surprising that someone knew the team were here late, evaluating. They did work for the government after all.

  Hayden flicked a button. “Yeah?”

  “Hey. Interpol’s flagged up something you guys might be interested in. I’m sending it over to your inbox now.”

  Hayden thanked the tech and tapped at a nearby screen. She threw the information up onto a large screen with a flick of her wrist, enjoying the standard Pentagon technology. What appeared to be an official email sat, scanned, virus-tested and cleared, ready to be opened. Drake noticed the sender’s name.

  “Armand Argento,” he said. “Remember him? Good guy. Good agent. He was Aaron Trent’s inside man at Interpol.”

  “The Disavowed crew?” Beau said. “I remember them too from Niagara Falls, though never had the pleasure of . . . bumping into them.” He gurgled, clearly remembering the skirmish where he’d inflicted several bruises upon the SPEAR team. “I know Argento too, from some European travels. A smart guy.”

  Hayden opened the message, taking time to digest the information. “All right. It seems they sighted Tyler Webb.” She spoke the name as if she’d gotten a bad taste in her mouth. “But it’s over a week old. In Transylvania.” She shook her head.

  Nobody spoke out with the expected flurry of bad jokes; instead focusing on Argento’s text and further information.

  “Nothing concrete. Just a sighting by a local cop,” Hayden went on. “Reported too late to act upon. They believe he may have been visiting the local castles in the area.”

  “It’s all guesswork. There are many castles in the vicinity, not to mention hundreds of homes, churches, villages . . .” she tailed off.

  The team were all processing the email simultaneously.

  “But then much later in Versailles,” Dahl said.

  “When?” Alicia asked quickly.

  “Just six hours ago.”

  “The world’s most wanted man,” Smyth grumped. “And the French let him slip through their hands.”

  “As did the Americans,” Beau said. “And most other countries.”

  “He hasn’t slipped away yet,” Hayden continued to read. “They backtracked and say Webb boarded a Paris-bound train a few hours ago. It seems he was being chased through Versailles, at least, which is probably why he broke cover.”

  “And it was not just a random robbery,” Yorgi pointed out. “Shots were fired, cops injured.”

  “But they were defending Webb?” Dahl’s voice was laced with incredulity. “Why?”

  “One thing’s for sure,” Smyth growled. “We won’t make the same mistake with Webb that we made with Nicholas Bell. This one ain’t comin’ back alive.”

  “We will need to identify the chasers,” Dahl said.

  “And why Webb has popped up in Versailles.”

  “They backtracked his movements to a break in at the palace.” Another observation, this one from Mai. “Webb’s on the trail of something.”

  “That’s why he let the Pythian organization destroy itself and then wither away,” Drake said. “His obsession with this Saint Germain character.”

  “It must be a heck of a treasure,” Alicia said, “to so readily relinquish his entire privileged life for. What prize could be worth all that?”

  “We have been lax,” Kinimaka said. “We should have been researching. But I guess that was Karin’s forte.”

  “Not long now,” Drake put in. “She’ll be back.”

  “The big question is . . .” Dahl added softly. “It seems by the wording at the end there, that Interpol are inviting us over?”

  “Appears so,” Hayden replied. “So they can take on board our recent dealings with the world’s most wanted man. And Argento knows us.”

  She made a call. “Wheels up in thirty. I’ll call Argento and then the State Department. Make your preparations. We should arrive in Paris by 4 a.m., local.”

  The team took a common, deep gulp of air. This was how it always began. Planning for the new job, calling relatives to give them the news, not even time to slip back and grab a hug. Their lives were about to change once more, for better or worse.

  Drake wished they could leave all the uncertainties and discontentment at the door, but this team had changed. Whether it was for the better was about to be determined.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  The Baconian cipher was a relatively simple cryptogram, but one that could still be tricky without respect and concentration. Webb had given it both, and figured out a location for the next clue on the train to Paris. The address was particularly interesting. Not a museum or church or palace this time, but a residence of sorts. Maybe this time he’d become one of the few individuals throughout history to be privileged enough to stand in one of the Count’s many laboratories. Maybe certain alchemical secrets would be revealed.

  Webb had found his excitement rising. He’d better quell it before giddiness took hold and made him careless. No doubt the authorities would eventually track him from Versailles to Paris—that was unavoidable thanks to the gun-toting goons back in Versailles, but once he left Gare du Nord, Tyler Webb would wholly and completely vanish once again.

  When the train slowed and the famous station loomed closer, lit up in the dark and recognizable to Webb, he had risen out of his seat and readied to disembark, face down. Every little helped, of course. Quickly then, he’d escaped the station, breathing a sigh of relief at the lack of police presence and knowledge that he hadn’t yet been recognized on CCTV. Time passed, and he melted away, using his stalking skills to avoid cameras, busy areas and tourist hot spots where surveillance would be at its highest. The residence sat exactly where he expected it to be, so he’d made a fast reccie, then paid cash to sit in a hotel room not too far away.

  Waiting for the night.

  Webb now had other problems, bigger complications. Never in his decades of research had he come cross a group that might already be on the path to Saint Germain, or perhaps guarding it. But that appeared to be the case. Investigations had revealed that the group dogging his footsteps were secretive, largely unidentified and unfamiliar. Webb reasoned that they must be Saint Germain nuts, purists, keeping their criminal ardor only for the Count, otherwise they’d be red-flagged by now and easier to research. Of course, he
hadn’t embarked upon this trip unprepared—he had contingencies upon contingencies. Ways of escape and backup plans and worse, much worse, if it seemed somebody might be about to catch him. The years of meticulous planning will pay off.

  Chase me all you like, he thought. I have so many ways prepared.

  The room was tiny, comprising of a single bed with a coffee-stained top sheet, a wardrobe with enough room for two T-shirts and a shower that might just be large enough for a dog. Webb thought of the grand hotel rooms he’d stayed in, the sumptuous suites and world-class service. Oh, to fall so low in the name of the Count. The fever burned bright within him. Twenty four hours had passed since he came here and he hadn’t even embarked upon the dark prowl. But as he looked out the window, plenty of candidates showed their true colors.

  It didn’t matter though. With the lab almost certainly discovered all else could wait. The problem remained though . . . this so-called group. Would they be observing the lab?

  Of course. If they had seen him at the castle and the palace, they’d obviously be at every stage. But how did they know about these places without access to the scroll? Was there another tributary in existence that led to the vast pool of mystery surrounding Saint Germain? Or was it something else . . . ?

  Webb made dire instant coffee and sat again, patient as the sun lowered across the skies. Enquiries were still ongoing but, so far, the group appeared to be well funded protectors of Saint Germain’s greatest treasures. Probably wanted them all for themselves. Assholes. But they wouldn’t stop him now. Nobody would. Webb remembered the attentions of Hayden Jaye and her mountainous boyfriend, of Matt Drake and his vulgar girlfriend, and of the highly capable Beauregard Alain. It wouldn’t take them long to jump on the trail. Webb had lingered thus far, enjoying the freedoms and joys of the quest, but could afford to do so no longer.

  To the end.

  The sun sank lower. Webb could see the Eiffel Tower if he leaned at an awkward angle across his grime-spattered window. The Champs-Elysees was within walking distance. More information had trickled down to his tablet now regarding the organization he now thought of as “the group”. It seemed there were several societies or bodies or cults around the world who believed in the existence of beings called Ascended Masters. Webb had yet to be informed of the exact meaning, but this group believed Saint Germain was a member of that ultra-exclusive set. As he waited, though, and perused the new information, time ran out.

  Darkness fell.

  Not at all deterred by the events in Versailles or his almost-certain public reveal to the authorities, he collected everything he would need to break into the residence and search for what he was sure would still be there. The ironic thing was, the group’s presence so far only confirmed and strengthened his resolve. It showed he was on the right track, from reading the scroll to deciphering the codes and clues.

  Thank you, group.

  Webb exited the room, taking all his belongings and not expecting to return. The street outside was quiet and dark, and he turned in the direction of the Champs Élysées, knowing his route and not too concerned yet about concealed eyes. The building in question had been transformed many times during the last two hundred and fifty years but was currently a vacation rental home, upper scale, set around a small courtyard filled with trees, benches and a paved, meandering path. It took Webb eight minutes to walk there.

  Approaching wasn’t easy; there were no easy ways to reach the front door and the side entrances bordered on a well-lit side road. Webb sauntered at first, then sped up past the green area. The blueprint in his head should lead him straight to the area of the house in which Germain’s lab was located, well below ground level, his major concern that someone had tampered with it in the last few centuries.

  Of course, that seemed less likely now with the radical group involved at every step—hopefully there would have been people of influence observing the changes to Germain’s residences down the years and discreetly ensuring certain areas were left untouched. He guessed this could probably be achieved in any number of ways—from sticky red tape and planning control to downright bullying, discrediting and ruination. Maybe they even went further.

  Not by luck but through diligent and constant investigation, Webb’s small network had learned where the service entrance was. Service entrances were notoriously left unlocked, for several reasons from frequent smoker’s breaks to keeping delivery schedules at any time of the day so as not to annoy the residents. When Webb tried the door, however, it was locked, showing how fickle his life had become and how everything could turn on a mote of luck. Of course, more in-depth preparations had been made. Some service staff could quite easily be paid off.

  Webb waited, standing in the shadows. The feeling of unease that trickled across the breadth of his shoulders was an alien one, and rather thrilling. It almost felt as though he might be a little vulnerable. Webb worried only for the scroll, and was relieved when a faint click came and the door inched open.

  “Oui?”

  Webb played the game and spoke a password.

  The door opened and Webb entered, making sure it closed and locked behind him. Then he waved the dubious looking man away and followed the outline in his head. Corridors branched off this way and that, and Webb got the impression that only about a third of the vacation home was in use, as he switched from side to side and walked carefully toward his first destination: An old set of stairs built against a far wall.

  Down these he spiraled, stopping once to listen to the house and hearing no suspicious movements. He licked his lips, feeling the dryness there, and tried to quell his rapidly beating heart. The wooden bannister was rough under his fingers. Reaching a level below ground he found the walls peeling, the floor rough and a peculiar odor hanging around. A great deterrent to the curious.

  Moving forward, he flicked on a small torch, illuminating the way ahead. No need to stop and investigate the slightly ajar rooms down here, they would be full of junk, unwanted items and newspapers for the most part.

  The next significant movement he made involved a dusty, dirty chimney breast and a heavy trapdoor set in the floor to the left of it. Webb fell to his knees and used a couple of tools to dig around the trapdoor, found the thick metal ring that lifted it, and tugged. It took some effort, but eventually the door came grating upward, spilling debris all over his knees. Webb rose and dusted off, then shone the torch below.

  A rickety set of timber steps led below, cobweb-covered and thick with dust. No footprints anywhere. Webb felt elated to see that nobody had been down this way in decades, or longer.

  “Wait.”

  He forced himself to take a breath, pay attention to the house. This would be no quick getaway. He needed valuable information from this, the third clue. The building remained silent all around as if it sat with bated breath, waiting to see what would happen.

  Webb took the first step, then descended below ground, deciding to leave the trapdoor open. No way did he want to risk being trapped below ground. The steps were evenly spaced and eventually he came to a rocky floor. Now, the hard bit. Four overlarge, pitch-black rooms sat down here.

  Webb broke out a bigger torch—a flashlight now. At length, he found that the third room had been partitioned—a strong plasterboard wall effectively cut it in half. Webb attacked the plasterboard with gusto, coughing as the dust swirled, and began to choke. He ripped off a chunk with his bare hands, seeing himself as an aggressive conqueror destroying everything that stood in his way. He threw plasterboard portions to the corners of the room, and stamped on others. He stood amidst the churning powder, a god.

  The enlarged hole revealed all he sought. One of the labs set up by the Count himself; one of the labs built to further his investigations and delvings into alchemy.

  Webb entered, finally humbled.

  *

  Seeking the true secret of alchemy, delving into the deep enigma that surrounded its very name, had always been the quintessential goal for a certain kind of tre
asure hunter—namely those in search of the Philosopher’s Stone. Webb didn’t see himself that way, naturally; he wanted everything that Germain pioneered. A way to turn base metals into noble ones. A way to fashion gold. An alternative to accepted science.

  Using a heady and complex mix of lab techniques, terminology, theory, experimental method and a firm belief in the power of the four elements, the Count was also guided by magic, mythology and religion. A dangerous mix then, unsurprising that its very practice set the hands of kings and priests trembling and native pitchforks a-twitching.

  Webb trod the hallowed floor as gently as he might sneak upon an unsuspecting victim, biting his bottom lip to hold in the excitement. A waist-high wooden bench dominated the room, stretching almost wall to wall, and upon this sat various items; a flotsam and jetsam accumulation that was potentially centuries old. Webb skirted the table, spying a cupboard in a far corner and a stack of boxes in another.

  On the table sat an array of beakers, a cylindrical shaped vessel Webb knew to be a boiling glass, a flask, a funnel, a measunder, a meabul and a medicine glass. Vials lay everywhere and he also spotted a mortar vessel and crucible with some kind of ancient, furred mush inside. A spirit lamp sat at one end, a vial claw and stand at the other. Webb had found at least one set of Saint Germain’s sacred alchemical tools. The path of his future was now set.

  The book that lay half open on the table revealed the first alchemical formula. Without reading Webb knew part of the recipe would be missing. Real alchemists thought if the one who followed wanted to aspire to greatness he would be able to fill in the missing piece himself. Masonic symbols stared back at him, and words for base metals, other formulas.

  The path of the seed of the metal.

  I see it now.

  First—distillation. Separate the sanctified metal from the crude; the blessed essence from the basic crust. Next, digestion. When it becomes a black glutinous matter and attains purity. And then it is drunk, or molded or poured into vials for further manipulation.