She arrived just in time to help Max serve customers, creating a private party atmosphere, like she did at her Tiki bar. Just before midnight, Greg walked through the door.
“I thought I’d find you here,” Greg said.
“Perfect timing.” Louise handed him a glass of champagne and a party hat.
Greg remarked on her modified Karen Baker look, accomplished at the boutique. “I see you’re ringing in the new year with a sunnier look.” His blue eyes were twinkling.
“I’ll take the compliment,” Louise said, clinking his glass.
Then they counted down to midnight and sang Auld Lang Syne in French, purging the crushing sense of loss as they bid good riddance to 2001.
After most of the customers had left, Louise helped clean up, then sat with Greg and drank champagne. Max brought a large black leather portfolio from behind the bar and gave it to Louise.
“Ne l’ouvre qu’au retours chez-toi.”
“Okay, I won’t open it until I get home. Thank you, Max.”
Ever the man of few words, Max simply raised his glass toward heaven. “To Diana.” They all toasted.
“May I accompany you back to your hotel?” Greg proposed, lighting his cigar and offering it to her.
“As tempting as that sounds, I have to get up early and catch a flight.”
Greg resignedly raised his glass. “To the one that got away.”
“To the one that got away.” Louise clinked his glass. In essence, they also meant 2001.
F O U R T E E N
January 1, 2002
“We fly unto thy patronage, O Holy Mother of God. Despise not our petitions in our necessities, but deliver us from all dangers, O Ever Glorious and Blessed Virgin,” Jean-Philippe said, completing the opening prayers of the Fathers of Mercy for the ordination to the Blessed Virgin Mary on the Solemnity of Mary, Mother of God.
He had gone deeper into his undercover role as monk than even he expected. He found that he was starting to love the ritual, the self-flagellation, the sacrifice and the holy words he intoned on a daily basis. His old life was in the rearview mirror, appearing more distant with every alternative day. He knew it was still an undercover assignment, but unpredictably he felt a tiny pinpoint of light had brightened inside him, blazing stronger each day.
His sentiment was validated as a small crowd had gathered, intrigued by the group of robed monks. This spontaneous gathering of pilgrims alongside the monks, and his solemn prayer, were the quintessence of what his life had become.
“The year 2001 was a tumultuous one,” Jean-Philippe continued. “Many suffered and now more than ever are reaching out to Mary Magdalene for comfort. Father Timothy has brought us to this location in Burgundy, for a very important purpose. Here at the Basilica of Saint Mary Magdalene of Vézelay we stand at the convergence of two symbolic roads, the Via Agrippa and Camino de Santiago. This Christian pilgrimage route, also known as Saint James’s Way, has been a popular destination for centuries.” Jean-Philippe turned to indicate the magnificent basilica with its Romanesque tower tending over the gathering.
“The word Santiago came from the Latin Sancti Iacobi, or Saint James Way.” Jean-Philippe held up a scallop shell. “The scallop shell is the symbol of Saint James, who became a martyr by beheading in Jerusalem in 44 AD. Legend holds that Saint James’ disciples took his body by boat from Jerusalem to northern Spain, to be buried in what is now the city of Santiago de Compostela. A heavy storm hit the ship off the coast of Spain, and the body was lost to the ocean. Miraculously, his body washed ashore undamaged, covered in scallop shells.”
Jean-Philippe pointed to the shell. “The scallop shell serves as a metaphor. The grooves in the shell, which converge at a single point, represent the various routes that pilgrims have traveled, eventually arriving at a single destination: the tomb of James in Santiago de Compostela. The shell is also a metaphor for the pilgrim. Just as the waves of the ocean wash scallop shells onto the shores of Galicia, God’s hand also guides the pilgrims to Santiago.” He waved a hand indicating the road. “The scallop shell can be seen frequently along the trails of Saint James Way if you look for it.”
He put the crude leather twine attached to the scallop shell around his neck. The other Fathers ritualistically did the same with theirs. “Wearing a scallop shell thusly denotes that one is a traveler on the Camino de Santiago. The scallop shell also serves practical purposes for the pilgrims. The shell is the perfect size for gathering water to drink or for using as a spoon to eat.” Father Timothy handed a simple stone bowl containing water to Jean-Philippe.
“Let us pray,” Jean-Philippe said. Many of the gatherers bowed their heads along with the Fathers.
“O God, who for the salvation of mankind has appointed water to be the foundation of Thy greatest sacraments, graciously hear our prayers and fill this element, which has in manifold ways been purified with Thy power and blessing so that this creature of Thine, for use in Thy mysteries, may be endowed with divine grace to drive away devils and to cast out diseases.”
Jean-Philippe used the scallop shell to sip some of the holy water and passed it to Father Timothy who repeated the ritual and passed the bowl to the next monk.
Jean-Philippe held out his arms. “The priority of the Fathers of Mercy is to protect the Marian Shrines throughout the world. When Father Timothy chose this location before the Basilica for our annual consecration, it was not only a great symbolic gesture. It was also personally very special to me. You see, I was born right here in Vézelay. This is my hometown. As Fathers of Mercy, we must follow Mary’s lead and welcome all those who have strayed. We are, all of us, whether we realize it or not, on a journey, and we choose the path. However, sometimes things can send us on another path. We must be of two minds, both vigilant and focused on our journey, but also open to the path of enlightenment. The next Jubilee Year will be Saint James’ Feast Day, Sunday, July 25, 2004, and we look forward to returning to this very location on that date. Now, as we hold this sunset vigil, we look upward to the heavens.”
Jean-Philippe looked skyward and the Fathers and gatherers did the same. The last of the sun’s rays cast gold and magenta on the horizon, as the sky grew darker, revealing the constellations with the half-moon in a magical display.
“The Spanish name for the Milky Way is El Camino de Santiago. We are all stars on the pathway to enlightenment.” Jean-Philippe turned to indicate the basilica. “We invite you to continue this moonlight vigil inside before the shrine and relics of Mary Magdalene.” He walked to the Basilica, followed by the Fathers of Mercy and many of the crowd that had gathered. Jean-Philippe and Father Timothy stood outside the open doors to greet the gatherers.
“Father?”
Jean-Philippe recognized the voice and turned to the woman standing by him.
“Mother.” He held her hands in his and she kissed them. “It’s good to see you.”
She was svelte, dressed all in black with wavy salt-and-pepper hair cut in a shoulder length bob. “I wanted to apologize for your father. We are proud of you and support what you are doing.”
“Thank you, mother. I made a promise. Although I don’t know when, as soon as my mission ends, I’ll return home.” He kissed her cheeks and she walked away down the cobblestone street. He looked up at the night sky just as a shooting star blazed a trail.
Louise was dressed and packed by 7:00 a.m. to catch a 9:00 a.m. flight to Monte Carlo. Before checking out of the hotel, she called Charlie Larsson back on the island with a progress report.
“Sorry to call you so late,” Louise said.
“No problem, it’s not even midnight here,” Charlie replied.
“Tell Louise that my wife and I are staying here during the investigation for our safety,” she heard Roblot say, not realizing he was on speakerphone.
“Did you hear Patrick?” Charlie asked. “We’re still awake, but his wife is asleep, so you can speak freely.”
“Oh, I’m glad you’re there Patrick,” Loui
se said. “I have a lead that is taking me to Burgundy, France. But first, I’m flying to Monte Carlo to do some sleuthing and have some questions about your notes from the investigation.”
“Oui, j’écoute,” Roblot said.
“You’re notes say there were two bullets found in Ekram Almasi’s body,” Louise asked. “But I thought he died of smoke inhalation.”
“That was the official cause of death,” Roblot said. “But there was much more evidence that wasn’t made public.”
“To wrap the case up quickly,” Louise concluded.
“Exactly,” Roblot confirmed.
“That’s a good place for me to start,” Louise said.
“Yes,” Roblot said, rifling through his copy of the notes. “There are so many inconsistencies it’s hard to keep track. You should start by looking into the Criminal Police Division officer who arrived on the scene and interfered with my investigation.”
“Interfered how?” Louise asked.
“Almasi’s chief of security tried to give us the key to the saferoom that could have helped us save Almasi. But the CPD officer refused to take the key and instead took Almasi’s chief of security into custody for questioning.”
“What is that officer’s name?” Louise asked, looking through the notes.
“Dupont,” replied Roblot. “Paul Dupont. But I suggest you avoid speaking to him directly and raise suspicions.”
“Maybe I can find someone within the local Monte Carlo police who might be willing to talk to me off the record.”
“I can do better,” Roblot said. “The person who hired me can give you more information. He has others like me on the inside and may have more information since the last time we spoke.”
“And the man who hired you is?”
“Frédéric LaFontaine,” Roblot said.
“How will I find him?”
“You do not find him. He will find you.”
Louise hung up and checked out of the hotel. Before leaving, she stopped at the concierge and handed him Max’s portfolio case containing the painting and a slip of paper.
“Could you ship this package to this address?”
“Avec plaisir, Madame.”
“It is fragile so please send it special delivery. Just add it to my room charge.”
“Express shipping?”
“No rush.” She slipped him another 20 Euro note. “Merci.”
Like a reimagined Grace Kelly, Louise wore the silk Hermès headscarf – one of the gifts from under the Christmas tree – as she sped along the coastal route Basse Corniche from Nice to Monte Carlo in a rented Mercedes. The seaside resorts of Saint-John Cap Ferrat and Eze-Bord-de-Mer with their elegant villas invited exploration. But Louise was on a mission, so she opened the sunroof, blasted the heat and drove on.
By noon, she had arrived at Hôtel Hermitage, parked the car with the valet and entered the lobby of the Belle Époque palace overlooking the French Riviera. Louise stopped to admire the stunning architecture. A placard informed her that Alexandre-Gustave Eiffel was the designer of the cupola in the Hôtel Hermitage’s Winter Garden. Taking a detour, Louise entered the soaring stained-glass dome that delicately filtered daylight like a Tiffany lampshade. She was overwhelmed by the beauty and stood motionless staring upwards.
“A masterpiece, n’est-ce pas?”
Louise drew her eyes away from the ceiling to see an impeccably dressed Frenchman. His crystal blue eyes and alabaster skin contrasted strikingly with his dark hair. His age was anywhere from a couple years younger, to ten years older than her.
“His architecture is truly amazing,” Louise said.
“Eiffel was a visionary magician of iron.”
“The Eiffel Tower is my favorite place in Paris.” Louise started to roll her suitcase back towards the lobby.
“Allow me.” He took her bag. “Are you a guest of the hotel?”
“I hope so. Do you know where the front desk is?”
He laughed in a surprisingly jovial manner. “Certainly. Let me show you.”
He escorted Louise across the lobby. “Did you know that Alexandre-Gustave Eiffel also designed the Statue of Liberty?”
“No, I didn’t know that.” Louise followed him through the large atrium imagining its original occupants in full attire of the era.
The man read her mind. “La Belle Époque of Western Europe from 1871 to the outbreak of World War I in 1914 coincided with the late Victorian and Edwardian eras in England and the Gilded Age in the United States. It was named La Belle Époque retroactively, in fond memory of the Golden Age before the horrors of the war. The arts flourished, especially in Paris when many masterpieces of art, literature, music, and theater gained recognition.”
“Are you a historian?” Louise asked.
The man laughed giddily again as they arrived at check-in. He discretely instructed a young woman in French, then turned to Louise. “Mademoiselle Béatrice will be happy to assist you with anything you need.” He handed Louise his business card.
“You are very kind.” Louise read the card. It had only his name and a phone number. “Thank you, Monsieur LaFontaine.” She shook his hand, and he disappeared as quickly as he had appeared. Just as Roblot had predicted, Frédéric LaFontaine had found her.
“Bonjour, Madame,” Béatrice said with a friendly smile. “We have a deluxe room or a suite available. Both overlook the Monaco Harbor and the Mediterranean Sea.”
“The deluxe room is fine,” Louise said. “The view is the most important thing, and I won’t be spending much time in the room anyway.”
“May I have a passport and credit card?” Louise handed her the items and within a few minutes, Béatrice handed them back to her along with the room key. “Thank you, Madamoiselle Baker.”
“Merci,” Louise said with a singsong French accent.
“Merci, bon séjour!”
Louise entered her room and unpacked, then walked out onto the south-facing terrace. There was a winter chill in the air, but the Mediterranean Sea sparkled in the afternoon sun. She looked up to the right at the adjacent building where workmen on ladders were finishing the bright new mansard roof, characterized by two slopes, the upper slope almost flat and the lower slope at a very steep angle, punctured by dormer windows creating an additional floor of habitable space. This had been Almasi’s penthouse home where he died in the blaze. It was also the former Republic New York Bank building, recently renamed Hong Kong and Shanghai Banking Corporation, commonly known as HSBC.
Louise cast her gaze downward and saw the terrace of the hotel’s Vistamar Restaurant. The journey had made her hungry, so she headed downstairs.
“Will you be joining us for lunch?” the stunning hostess asked in French.
“Oui, merci,” Louise said. “Is the terrace open?”
“Yes, of course.” Louise followed the hostess who seated her on the heated terrace with panoramic views.
“Merci.” Louise was immersed in the Michelin-starred Vistamar Restaurant’s menu when LaFontaine set a flute of champagne down in front of her.
“Oh, merci!” Louise said. She indicated the seat next to her. “Please, join me.”
LaFontaine took the seat and raised his glass of champagne. “À Votre Santé.”
“À la votre,” Louise said.
“You speak French very well.”
“Thank you. But let’s speak English in case anyone is listening,” Louise said.
LaFontaine laughed loudly in an almost playful way that both startled and relaxed her. His blue eyes, although intense, also seemed innocent and unaware of their effect. “Your eye color with your hair is very saisissante,” he said, reading her mind again.
“I was just thinking the same thing. Your eyes are striking.”
LaFontaine gave another guffaw and gulped the champagne. “Shall we order? The food is fantastique.” His French accent emphasized the last syllable of fantas-TIC.
The server came to the table and LaFontaine ordered a gourmet meal an
d a bottle of rosé wine from Provence.
“What brings you to Monte Carlo?” LaFontaine asked. “New Year’s resolution?”
“Sort of. I am a French teacher on hiatus doing research for my first novel.”
“What’s your novel about?”
“I think it will be a mystery,” Louise spit-balled, going along with the charade. If LaFontaine wanted to maintain an appearance of being random strangers she was ready to play the part.
“You think? You don’t have the plot yet?”
“Not yet. I have been taking copious notes, but I’m waiting for inspiration.” Her gaze hung over the Mediterranean Sea churning beneath manicured cliff-top gardens. It reminded Louise of the manuscript she had discovered in the hidden closet of her Paris apartment ten years ago that read like a first-hand account of the destruction of Atlantis. She vividly recalled the first passage. Perched safely on the cliffs of Thera, high over the southern Aegean Sea, her screams of anguish were heard by no one as she witnessed the massive wave wash away an entire civilization.11
LaFontaine waved a hand toward the sea. “Voilà, your inspiration!”
“Yes, this view is inspiring. But Monaco has no intrigue. No crime, no drama…”
LaFontaine let out another hilarious chortle then cozied up close to her. “Monte Carlo is a sunny place for shady people.” He leaned back and elaborated. “True, Monaco is considered one of the safest cities in the world. However, there is much going on beneath the surface. In fact, we recently had a major scandal,” his French accent emphasized the last syllable of scan-DAL.
“What happened?”
“The murder of the very prominent owner of that bank right there.” LaFontaine nodded discretely toward the HSBC building.
“Murder?” Louise whispered.
“Second degree murder,” LaFontaine clarified. “See the workers on that roof? A fire destroyed that entire penthouse with the owner Ekram Almasi trapped inside. The official records name Almasi’s male nurse, Todd Mayer, as the sole perpetrator. He confessed to staging a break-in by stabbing himself and setting the fire in a trash bin, and then the fire burned out of control.”
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