“Even monks have past lives,” he said. “But these days I mostly practice the rosary.”
“As you can see, I practice yoga and meditation.”
“The Holy Rosary is also a meditation about the chief mysteries of the life, death and glory of Jesus Christ and of His Blessed Mother. The fifteen principal virtues serve as a mantra.”
“The fifteen mysteries of the Holy Rosary,” Louise rejoined.
“You know your rosary.”
“There is no shortage of mysteries in a lifetime,” Louise said, evoking a silent blessing for her mother.
“If you do not have rosary beads, it is perfectly okay to count with your fingers, which frees the mind for meditation. You do not have to be a Christian to understand this freedom.”
“It’s not that Christianity is limiting,” Louise said, nearly under her breath. “But I prefer Om to prayer.” She was looking for a way out of this discussion and noticed an embroidered patch on the left shoulder of the monk’s habit. “That is an interesting badge.”
“It is the emblem of the Congregation of the Fathers of Mercy.”
“Fathers of Mercy?” Louise asked.
“That is why I am here.” Father Gregory pointed to the Marian shrine. “To bless this shrine of the Blessed Mother. That is why I recite the five decades of the rosary every day.”
“Is that why you’re also wearing your full habit?” Louise inquired.
“Precisely. Our Founder, Father Rauzan, adopted this black Roman cassock from the secular clergy. This badge with the emblem of the congregation, the Return of the Prodigal Son, is always worn on the upper left side of the habit. Each member is required to undertake mental prayer and an examination of conscience twice a day.”
“I also try to devote myself to daily meditation.”
“You have many spiritual gifts, I see. We are happy to have your special presence at the shrine of the Holy Mother.”
“Thank you,” Louise said. “Will I see you at dinner?”
“Yes, I will be giving the blessing.”
“I look forward to it.”
“As do I,” Father Gregory replied with a gracious bow of the head. “Forgive me, but I must resume my duties.” He walked away with a forthright stride. Louise wasn’t sure if Father Gregory was a legitimate monk, given his proficiency with his weapon, but he seemed to have his back story down pat, whoever he was. She resumed her yoga routine while contemplating the many mysteries in her life, keeping her eye on Father Gregory.
The monk approached the Marian shrine and tended to some of the greenery, then walked into the chapel. Louise extricated herself out of a yoga pose and walked over to take a look at the Marian shrine. She knew of official pilgrimage sites such as Lourdes in France, which had Marian shrines that marked the miracles ascribed to Mary, the Blessed Mother of Jesus. But the shrine located here appeared to be symbolic, which was commonly found in silent retreat centers away from the chapel and residence. Louise took one of the long votive candles from the wicker trug and placed it in a holder in front of the Holy Mother’s image. She lit the candle and, as she had been taught in another lifetime, crossed herself in silent prayer.
Having established her devotion, she wondered about the looming Rapunzel towers on the grounds. She went to the back of the château and stealthily tried to enter one of them, but the door was locked. She contemplated her next move and decided to go back to her room and her trusty mobile phone. Several messages and texts from Michael awaited her. The next text she sent to him was simple and to the point. F O L I A G E.
Michael immediately rang her phone, but as it was on silent in respect for the retreat atmosphere, it just buzzed in Louise’s hand.
“Hello, Michael.”
Michael went to full decoy mode even though he knew exactly where she was. “Where the hell are you? I’ve been trying to reach you.”
“I’m at a retreat in Brussels and have my phone on silent,” Louise said. After a back-and-forth on the importance of keeping the phone with her at all times, Louise got to the point. “I’m getting very close to something and I’ll text you my exact location after I hang up. If after that text you don’t hear from me precisely 24 hours from now, get a team of the local authorities over here.”
“Why can’t I mobilize something now? I don’t want you to take unnecessary risks.”
“I need to stay undercover and not arouse any suspicions, or certain suspects might escape.”
“Could you at least tell me who you think these people are?” Michael asked.
“I have no idea yet. But I’ll keep you posted.” She hung up and texted Michael the location of the retreat.
T H I R T Y – T W O
January 12, 2002
Arnaud’s red hair was disheveled as he riffled through Annabel’s chest of drawers. She watched subserviently as he frantically gathered only the essentials for a short trip.
There was a change of plan and they needed to leave the retreat and the secrets inside this strange tower. The bodyguard-for-hire, who was assigned to protect the violin prodigy, Annabel, at any cost, was clearly earning every cent at this point. The spat with his contact at the Château Du Lac Hotel in Genval had set Arnaud off. He knew it was time to move his merchandise or everything he had worked for over the past 16 years would vaporize.
“Are we going away?” Annabel asked.
“Yes,” Arnaud replied, but he immediately saw the anxiety on Annabel’s face, so he improvised. “We’re going to see Evelyne!” Her expression instantly changed to excitement. “Come now, finish packing your things. We’re leaving tonight.”
Annabel began meticulously folding and packing her overnight bag. Arnaud left, locking the door behind him, and made his way down the stairs. He heard someone jiggling the outside handle to the Rapunzel tower door and held still for a moment listening until the intruder gave up and walked away. Was it that idiot groundskeeper or his equally meddling wife? He decided not to check. Who else would even know someone was here?
He continued down the stairs and unlocked the internal door leading to the main château. Once in the kitchen, he prepared a plate of very plain food, a country pâté with crackers, and a glass of milk. He carried the meal back to the tower and bolted the door from the inside. Instead of going upstairs, he set the meager meal on a side table, took out his keyring, and opened another heavy door below the staircase. It creaked open, lighting a pathway into a damp gloomy dungeon. He turned on the lantern that sat outside the door and hung it over his forearm, picked up the plate and glass of milk, and entered. The heavy door closed with a thud, the latch catching.
“Evelyne, it’s time to eat,” Arnaud said.
He crept to the back of the cell, the lantern exposing a dingy wood frame with a mattress covered in tattered bedding. In the corner, a half-naked girl hung by her wrists from a ladder. When she saw him, her crystal blue eyes widened in terror. With her disheveled mass of platinum blonde hair and full red lips, Evelyne, the daughter of Annabel’s former tutor, was still stunningly beautiful. However, it was clear that she was now emotionally and physically diminished. He removed the gag from her mouth, but she made no sound. Tears flowed from her eyes as she stared in horrified dread at the monster.
The décor of Louise’s room with a canopied bed and a stone fireplace was sumptuous. But it was icy cold, so Louise freshened up with a birdbath in the sink instead of a shower. She pulled together a tasteful outfit, wearing her burgundy knit pencil skirt with a cream cashmere turtleneck and black leather boots. Her dark hair, black eyeliner, and burgundy lipstick tied the look together.
She walked to the main dining hall that was still empty of other guests. There was a long medieval wood table surrounded by high-backed upholstered chairs, set with candelabra and full dinner service. A fireplace large enough to walk into burned in vain to warm the cavernous space. Louise pulled her turtleneck up to her chin and helped herself to the red wine that was set out for the dinner guests. She stood by the fi
replace watching the flames.
“Bonsoir!” Ferdinande entered carrying a tray of plated salads and breadbaskets.
“Bonsoir!” Louise continued in French, “May I help?”
“You have already helped by serving yourself a glass of wine.” Ferdinande placed the tray on the table and distributed the salads and bread evenly around the seats.
“The wine by the fire is very pleasant,” Louise said.
“À vôtre santé! Make yourself at home. The other guests will be arriving shortly.” Ferdinande straightened a few place settings and hustled back out to the kitchen.
Father Gregory and three nuns entered.
“Bonsoir, mademoiselle Karen,” Father Gregory said. “This is Sister Paula, Sister Anne, and Sister Monika.” The nuns bowed their heads. “They are here on a silent retreat.”
“Bonsoir,” Louise said, bowing her head in turn.
Another couple entered, chatting quietly in Russian. The man was tall, with graying dark hair with a prominent proboscis, the woman also brunette, statuesque with short cropped hair. Everyone found seats around the table.
Ferdinande returned carrying a tray of the main course, distributing the plates first to the women then to the men. “Bon appétit,” she said before dashing off to the kitchen.
“Let us pray,” Father Gregory said.
They bowed their heads as Father Gregory recited the traditional grace with no embellishments.
All replied, “Amen.”
Ferdinande reentered with more bread and Louise used the etiquette of waiting for others before eating to ask, “Will anyone else be joining us? When I arrived, I saw a man and a young woman enter through the back of the château.” Louise noticed the Russian’s exchange a look.
“Oh, you must be thinking of the owner’s son and his niece. They live on the premises, but usually dine in private.” Ferdinande dashed off again.
“Praise be to the chef,” Father Gregory replied.
“Amen, and bon appétit,” Louise seconded. “You have a refreshing sense of humor, Father.”
“Humor is tonic to the nonbeliever and comforting to the hopeful,” Father Gregory said.
“Cheers to that,” Louise said, drinking more pinot noir.
“You are American?” the monk asked.
Louise took his question as a subtle jab for asking the nosy question about the guests. “I was just trying to be polite.” She shrugged in mock embarrassment.
“This Ruby Red is as stupid as that idiot male nurse,” the woman said to her companion in Russian. Louise showed no sign of understanding, but she felt the blood rush to her face. Did they really know her by her code name, Ruby Red? She glanced at Father Gregory to see if he showed any signs of complicity, but his expression gave nothing away.
The Russian coolly turned to Louise and asked in French, “Where are you from in America?”
“Chicago,” Louise replied. “But I’ve been traveling around Europe for over a month.” She babbled, hoping the conversation would open him up so she could assess if the Russians really knew who she was.
“Where have you been to so far?” he asked.
Louise saw an opportunity. “Mostly Burgundy, but I’ve taken side trips to Paris and Monte Carlo.” Bingo. The Russian blinked when she said “Monte Carlo.”
Recovering, he said to Louise, “Excuse me, my wife wants me to translate for her.” He turned to his companion and said in Russian, “That confirms it, she’s here investigating the murder of the Israeli banker. It’s time to move the Maltese Falcon,” he continued in Russian. “Make an excuse to leave.”
Ferdinande’s husband, André, entered and tried to build the fire higher in an ever-futile attempt to bring the ambient temperature up a couple of degrees.
The Russian woman shivered and said in broken English, “Excuse me, I forgot my sweater.” She got up and walked out.
“Is everything okay?” Louise asked the Russian.
“She’ll be fine,” he replied. “She’s rather thin blooded for a Russian,” he joked.
“André, mon amour,” Ferdinande asked her husband, “could you also check the heat in the guest rooms?” She looked apologetically at the visitors. “This old château is beautiful, but there is no central heating.”
This was Louise’s only chance to excuse herself and go after them as they tried to get away. She shivered and said, “I’m chilly too. Please excuse me while I go get a jacket.”
She rose from the table and exited the grand salon in time to see the Russian woman walking up the staircase to what Louise assumed was their suite in the main château. She headed down the shadowy hallway toward the back exit and opened the door, letting it swing wide. She pressed herself against the wall in the shadows allowing the door to close to give the impression she had gone out.
She made her way back into the château and looked for an entrance into the rear Rapunzel tower. Turning a corner that led to another hallway, she stayed in the shadows searching for the tower door. She surmised with the guest rooms upstairs, the rooms on the ground floor were common areas or servants’ quarters. She passed a chamber with the door ajar that had four single beds and a simple chest of drawers. She also passed a reading room with well-stocked bookshelves, comfortable armchairs, side tables, and reading lamps.
At the end of the hallway, she could see the curved wall of the Rapunzel tower with a large wooden door. Historically, these flanking towers protruded from castle allowing defenders to fire along the length of the wall, making an attack difficult. Although the original purpose of the towers had been defense, they could also be used for storage and imprisonment.
Louise approached the door and assessed the old lock. Her fascination with these older security methods began when she lived in Paris and found the secret room in her apartment.20 She started taking note of various medieval doors then bought the fascinating book Lock & Key by Stephen Tchudi. Locksmiths from the fourteenth through seventeenth century were skilled metalworkers, the best of which became internationally famous. However, this lock was a simple warded lock invented by the Romans and was based on projections built inside the keyhole. The projection would block a wrongly-shaped key from turning the lock, but it didn’t look difficult to pick. Louise tried her room key and although the shank was long enough, the bit was too short to trigger the projection. She took her metal nail file from her purse and held it at an angle against the key to extend the key lever. It took several tries and determination, but she finally got the internal mechanism to tumble. She pushed down on the handle and entered the tower.
A staircase spiraled clockwise down the right wall. Another bit of trivia entered her head as she assessed the situation. In medieval castles staircases were deliberately built clockwise to diminish the ability of right-handed attackers to properly swing their swords. Below the staircase was a wooden door that Louise assumed was a storage cellar. She ascended the staircase to another heavy wooden door with the same kind of warded lock. She tried the handle, but it was locked. She crouched to look through the keyhole. Inside was dark except for the light of a single lamp. She could make out a well-appointed room with stone floors covered in French Aubusson-style rugs. The French Royal style queen-sized bed was covered in warm quilts and ample pillows. There were comfortable chairs, and burning wood crackled in the stone fireplace.
Louise tried to open the lock, using the same skeleton key-nail-file method. She froze when she heard someone moving on the other side of the door. Looking through the keyhole again, Louise saw the same tall blonde girl from the hotel on Lake Genval. She looked frightened at the sound of Louise’s key in the lock.
“It’s okay,” Louise said. “I’m here to help you. Can you open the door?”
“It’s locked,” the girl said.
Louise hurried to pick the lock, but in her panicked effort, she didn’t hear the person come up behind her until it was too late.
Louise squirmed, the sharp pain of the knife blade penetrating her shoulder.
“No!”
Her own cries awoke her from the nightmare to the real-life horror. She realized the searing pain was not from a knife, but from her arms being bound over her head as she dangled from a heavy wooden folding ladder. She straightened her legs and stood to alleviate the pressure on her arms and shoulders. The darkness dissipated as her eyes adjusted to the dim light of a single lantern revealing a dank squalid dungeon with stone and dirt floors.
The pain in her shoulders eased only to bring her attention to her throbbing headache. She gently pressed the back of her head against the wall to detect the injury at the right side of her skull. Having been knocked unconscious meant she would likely have a concussion. To remain conscious, she tried to wrest herself loose or tip the ladder over so she could lower her arms. But the ladder was bolted to the wall. She screamed again, trying to alert anyone. Another scream echoed, but she wasn’t sure if it was her own.
“Is anybody there?” Louise asked. The sound of nearby whimpering startled Louise, the anguish conveyed by the sobs redoubling her fear. “Who are you? Where are we?”
The clang of a heavy door elicited a blood-curdling scream from the other soul in the room. But the sound was completely absorbed by the dense, solid-stone walls.
“Shut up, Evelyne!” a man snarled.
The glow of his lantern silhouetted him, an evil filament within a surreal golden sphere. The face belonging to Evelyne became visible as he approached her. It was a young woman who appeared to be physically handicapped. Her wide blue eyes and bulbous red lips were animated under a shock of platinum blonde hair. She sat on the ground in a scooting position, one leg bent in front of the other, cowering against the wall to Louise’s right, utterly helpless. From the torn rags she wore exposing most of her skin, it was clear she had been the object of all kinds of abuse, including sexual. She raised her good arm in pitiful defiance against her offender. The captive girl was of no interest to him now, except to demonstrate to the immobile Louise of what he was capable. Holding the lantern in his right hand, he grabbed Evelyne’s hair in his left hand and kicked her shriveled legs.
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