Sixtine- The Complete Trilogy Box Set

by Caroline Vermalle

  A black body bag, with the remains of Franklin G. Hunter.

  Rust waited in a chair outside the hangar, at her feet, an ashtray full of ash and buds. She thought of the perfectionism of those young soldiers who had just reached drinking age, who barely knew what life was like and who were preparing for death. They were called “dirty hands”.

  She too felt like she had dirty hands.

  Rust knew the work of soldiers in charge of funeral affairs, having witnessed their work too many times. She mentally retraced the steps which were being taken inside the mortuary, as she had been doing non-stop since the previous night. The corpse was being placed onto the metal table. The inspection of the corpse started at the feet, always. Their gloved hands searched for personal belongings such as wallets or jewelry, which they placed in a small plastic bag attached to the left wrist. Rust knew that the deceased had nothing on him but his clothes. The closed bag would then be placed in the lower part of the transfer coffin, biohazard bags filled with ice under the head and feet. Another team would place the top of the coffin, and Aziza Rust had instructed that she should be surrounded by the flag.

  That’s the way it would work.

  It was supposed to be like this.

  The anguish didn’t let her go, though. There was one thing wrong with it. The music. Mozart. They usually listened to pop music. From the radio emanated a solitary operatic voice that enveloped the entire hangar and desert, undulating despite the winter.

  But she tried not to think about it.

  After a time that seemed far too long, she was called inside. The priest was ready to say the prayer. The funeral affairs staff gathered around the coffin in the oversized hangar, and whispered in a broken voice a prayer that was too fast.

  They loaded the aluminum coffin before climbing into the truck, and drove silently to the airfield, where a cargo plane was waiting for them. In the rearview mirror, Rust saw the orange dust from another truck following them. Behind her RayBans, her eyes squinted. The truck entered the tarmac, the other arrived after it. The coffin was lowered without a word. One of the soldiers stood up and saluted with his whole body. Rust did not take her eyes off the coffin but concentrated on what happened at the end of her field of vision.

  Her FBI supervisor, Northwood, approached her.

  “Rust.”

  “Sir.”

  The soldiers waved to him to join them in the back of the cargo plane, towards the cargo hold. As they moved forward, Northwood said, “I am not going to tell you that this procedure, with the flag, is reserved for – ”

  “-fallen citizens as a result of an action that falls within the scope of what the combat, terrorism or organized crime office,” Rust interjected.

  Northwood’s silence encouraged her to speak. “Hunter said something before he died.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “Killed as a result of a gunshot wound fired by Egyptian Police Commander Mohammed Hassan, and it was not – ”

  “Thank you, Rust, I know who Hassan is.”

  “I was going to add that it wasn’t a friendly fire.”

  The FBI agent gave Rust a hard look; this accusation could not be made lightly.

  “Hunter was wrongly accused of the murder of Zahara Ali, Nasser Moswen’s sister-in-law, the man who died in the assault on the police station. Hunter was investigating the theft of Tutankhamen’s mask.”

  “The alleged robbery,” her superior cut her off.

  “I’m sure it was stolen. And you know that of all the people in the world, I was the one he would have the hardest time convincing.”

  Northwood nodded.

  “Well, Hunter met the traffickers following information from Zahara. They confirmed that they had sold the mask to Yohannes De Bok.”

  “De Bok? Why is that name familiar to me?” Northwood asked with a frown.

  “He’s the discoverer of Nefertiti.”

  Northwood stared at Rust. Keeping her eyes fixed on the coffin that was still moving forward, Rust felt that she had managed to surprise her superior and felt a hint of satisfaction.

  “Traffickers have repeatedly said they have been threatened,” she continued. “They reported that Moswen had discovered an organization who gave orders to Al-Shamy and Hassan and perhaps also to De Bok, and that there would be damage.”

  “An organization? What kind?”

  “They didn’t say. Hunter had convinced them to talk when Hassan broke into their house with his men. Of the three traffickers, two did not survive, the fate of the last one is unknown. Hunter only managed to escape because he shot Hassan and wounded him. Hunter thinks…”

  Rust stopped abruptly, closed her eyes for a moment and sighed. “Hunter thought, and I agree with his analysis, we are dealing with an organized network that goes beyond the Egyptian borders. I am thinking in particular of the trafficking in antiquities, which would go further than the antiquities themselves.”

  “The trafficking of antiquities is always mixed with other trafficking,” Northwood muttered.

  Close to the truck, soldiers mounted the coffin on their shoulders. As per protocol, the two FBI agents formed a line. Northwood straightened up and sighed.

  “The circumstances of our interview today speak to me of the danger you face in investigating in this way.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And,” he said, looking at the coffin approaching as if it was levitating over a moving asphalt, “you’ve already taken risks that put your career at risk, haven’t you?”

  Rust swallowed and answered, “Only what duty dictates to me.”

  After that, they were quiet.

  Under the American flag, which blew in the wind as it was draped of the coffin, revealed the smooth aluminum, reflected the hard rays of the sun which burnt this foreign piece of land.

  Finally, the coffin was placed at the bottom of the plane, and soon it would fly to Dover Mortuary in Virginia, USA.

  Northwood waited for the cargo bay to close, then said, “I expect your report tonight. Rust, I hope you know what you’re doing.”

  “One last thing, sir. Due to recent events, I would like to ask you for permission, effective tonight. I would like to take a break, just for a week. To see my family,” she said and handed a pre-filled permission slip to her supervisor.

  “Granted, Rust. Relieved to see that you finally agree not to be infallible. Where is your family?” he asked, signing the paper that was slamming in the wind.

  “New York. Manhattan.”

  Northwood raised an eyebrow and, after an imperceptible pause, returned the signed paper to his agent. He greeted her and went back to the truck.

  Rust remained alone on the tarmac, facing the setting sun, against all odds. Was she really sure what she was doing?

  For being Hunter’s informant all these years, and now for standing here. Before, she was fair and naive. By testifying against her partner because he had not followed the rules, she had ended Hunter’s career, destroyed his reputation and precipitated his divorce. He had been exiled.

  And yet, he was right.

  She owed it to him to break a few rules, she thought, her hand in her pocket, her fingers touching the Udjat Eye.

  She had been Franklin’s source, she had been the Eye to him, and she would continue the mission he had entrusted her with.

  A few minutes later, she left the compound of the military base. She turned her gaze towards Cairo, at a car approaching.

  He was there, as planned. As always, as the only thing in this world she could count on. Her chest filled with gratitude when he rolled down the window to smile at her.

  She opened the door and slid into the passenger seat. She looked at him and kissed him on his deformed cheek.

  Deformed by fire.

  “Hello, Kamal.”

  9

  On a lonely Cornish road, dark and tortuous like the souls of the shipwrecks who once used to drive it, a car split on the night of its yellow headlights.

&n
bsp; She ignored the wind and its black tongue of sea spray and moved fast despite everything. It ran along the violent coast of which the large closed houses seem to be the sentinels. Rushing inland, she passed the abandoned station, the dreary villages, the forest. The light of its headlights drew a halo on the grey path and the silent undergrowth, which the next moment returned to the night. It led to a wide clearing, into a perfectly sculpted park, tamed by a man’s hand in the middle of a wild land. From behind century-old trees emerged the complicated contours of an imposing and silent mansion.

  Falmouth Manor.

  A FOR SALE sign hung sideways from one of the branches of the slightly rusty wrought iron gate. The weeds wound through the bottom of the gate, as it had not been closed for a long time.

  The car parked, a door slammed. Steps sank into the gravel.

  It was Halloween night, called here Kalan Gwav, the first day of winter. The moment the souls of the dead visited their old homes. The start of the darkness.

  Inside, in one of the rooms on the second floor, Charles Mornay, the tenth Viscount of Falmouth, yawned at the crows, but did not have the courage to go to bed. Comfortably seated in a vintage chair from the 1950s, rocked by a jazz radio program, he ate strawberries à la Chantilly while reading Horse & Hound Magazine, the oldest and most read equestrian magazine in the United Kingdom. Naturally, he had not heard the sound of the car, so when the entrance bell rang, it made him jump with such a jolt, a dollop of cream transferred onto his chin. He growled, glanced at his watch, swore against the damn Halloween tradition. He had spent the entire evening handing out candy to the children ringing his doorbell and shouting “Trick or Treat”, but now, at one o’clock in the morning, they were really taking it a step too far. The neighbors’ teenagers, probably. Drunk, too, he could have bet on it.

  The bell rang again, the sound of espadrilles on a large 19th century carved wooden staircase.

  “Okay, okay, I’m coming! But I’m warning you, I’ve given away all my sweets.”

  But a surprise met him at the door when he opened it and his eyes widened, and his face lit up instantaneously.

  “Florence!”

  10

  With the hood of her sweatshirt darkening her face, Sixtine crossed the airport departure hall. Han ensured she left Paris without anyone following her and she was only minutes away from boarding Seth’s private jet. In less than an hour, she’d be with Gigi.

  Every time she thought about the house on the cliffs, her body tensed. It only took a few words in the catacombs for this place she loved so much, and which housed the best part of herself, to turn into a bitter prison. But no matter how much she considered all the possibilities, there was no way to escape. The path stopped there.

  She would have to resign herself to living with missing days in her history and endless questions, but she’ll probably get used to it in the long run. Maybe she’d even take Han’s advice and go to someone to heal her from her nightmares.

  She weaved through the crowd of passengers who moved along slowly, cluttered with luggage. It was seven in the morning and only a few shops in the small terminal had opened their doors. The coffee place was already full, the tables already dirty. She shivered, as she hadn’t slept for several days and only wanted one thing – to settle into her seat in the plane, hide her face under a blanket and give herself the luxury of sleep. Even if the flight lasted barely an hour, perhaps she would forget Paris and its catacombs.

  “Hey, look where you’re going, for Christ’s sake.”

  Sixtine glanced up abruptly. A man weighed down a woman whose cart had just collided with her suitcases; but when she refused to apologize, it made him even more angry. Sixtine was about to look away when she noticed that her vision had suddenly blurred.

  Luckily, a flight attendant stepped in to soothe the traveler. Sixtine rubbed her eyes and saw the hostess very clearly, but the man was still blurred. A translucent gray veil, larger than him, seemed to envelop him.

  Sixtine had no time to wonder why her eyes suddenly played tricks on her; the man looked directly at her without even blinking, which was a little unsettling to Sixtine. She lowered her gaze and continued on to the private lounge, beyond the boarding gates.

  The long corridors of the terminal were conducive to introspection, and thoughts bubbled up in her mind. When she arrived at a long white tunnel, she stepped on the treadmill crossing it and tiredly allowed herself be guided, her eyes lost in the vast void around her.

  A vision which surprised her, flooded into her mind, blurring out everything around her.

  Seth at the airport in Mexico. On their honeymoon.

  Her heart pounded in her chest as she realized it was not a vision.

  It was a memory.

  Seth crouched in front of Jessica, who sat on the leather sofa in the VIP lounge of a small Mexican airport.

  “It’s the heat, my love, and the excesses of yesterday. Too much champagne. But we had to celebrate our new life.”

  Her silky smooth blond hair shone brightly, a floral dress which accentuated her beautiful curves, arms covered with bracelets, large colored earrings and designer glasses on her face tanned by Jalisco’s sunshine. No one could have believed the bride felt nauseated, except for her forehead which was covered in perspiration.

  They were alone, except for a hostess and the catering staff. The breath of air conditioning competed with international pop music as Jessica glanced into her husband’s eyes. He seemed happy, and she hadn’t seen him so calm since their wedding day.

  With great delicacy, Seth brushed a lock of blond hair from his wife’s face, and tucked it behind his ear. He stroked her cheek, kissed her tenderly on the forehead as he rose to his feet.

  “Even with a hangover, you’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.”

  Jessica forced a smile, but the nausea swiftly returned. She sank even deeper into the couch and closed her eyes. “Honey, I want you to be a witness. I solemnly swear not to drink a single drop of alcohol again for the rest of my life.”

  Seth slumped down beside her and browsed through a magazine. “Too bad I won’t have the pleasure of seeing my wife dancing on a bar anymore.”

  Jessica sat upright, staring at her husband with amused curiosity. “Did I dance on the bar?” she gasped.

  “You did. I even have the pictures to prove it.” His eyes sparkled, unable to stop smiling.

  She lunged forward to try to grab Seth’s phone, but he jumped up, much too fast for her and chuckled. “No, it’s mine to treasure for always.”

  “Not fair,” she whispered. “You’re taking advantage of the fact that I’m in this state. Otherwise, you know you have no chance against me.”

  Jessica slumped down as her words had triggered a vertigo that nailed her to her seat. She had never felt so bad a day after the party. And she definitely didn’t remember dancing.

  She didn’t even remember the bar.

  At least she was comfortable in that comfortable couch. In a few minutes, they would have to get up to board, and she hoped to delay that moment as much as possible.

  She had almost fallen into a restless sleep when her instinct caused her to glance in Seth’s direction. He had changed his posture. He sat upright on the couch, ready to get up. His eyes were dark and he stared at the tarmac in front of them. His lips were pursed and his jaw clenched, the tension digging streaks into the skin of his perfectly shaved cheeks.

  Jessica knew that expression and it was never a good sign.

  She preferred to close her eyes and pretend that everything was fine, but a scent woke her up completely, obliterating nausea and fatigue. She could recognize his scent among a thousand.

  Thaddeus di Blumagia had arrived in the waiting room. A violent emotion stirred Jessica’s insides, as if her body suddenly recognized an immense danger.

  “What are you doing here?” Seth asked.

  “I am coming with you,” Thaddeus replied.

  Wearing a white t-shirt,
his jeans covered in paint, and his leather bracelets around his wrists, he seemed to have arrived directly from his workshop, more than six hundred miles from here. He placed an old leather bag next to them on the floor, but instead of turning to Seth, he faced Jessica. Her body froze as his gaze struck her, and her heart pounded in her throat. And yet she couldn’t turn her eyes away from Thaddeus’s.

  “Do you even hear yourself?” Seth exclaimed.

  “Of course I do,” Thaddeus shrugged nonchalantly.

  This time he approached Seth calmly, with a smile that turned into a grin as he met his friend’s gaze.

  “You’ve gone completely insane,” Seth hissed, walking towards Thaddeus with balled fists. “We’ve already settled that. You want it to end like this between us, don’t you? Fighting in an airport?”

  The bartender watched them from the corner of his eye and the hostess took the phone handset as discreetly as possible.

  “I just want to get on that plane with you, Seth. What, you want me to make a chopper disappear too to accompany you? One phone call, and it’s done, if that’s what you’re upset about.”

  “This is a trip for my wife and me, you know that better than anyone.”

  “Maybe I should ask her, then. Jessica?”

  Jessica stood immediately, forgetting her tired body and the dizziness which made things turn upside down around her.

  Thaddeus took her hand, and she stared into his gray eyes in the depths of her own heart.

  Her body refused to remove her hand from Thaddeus’s hand, but in a superhuman effort she was able to tear her eyes away and glance at Seth.

  A gray halo enveloped her husband. Only the anger of his black pupils seemed to pierce this ethereal veil.

  Then a huge wave crashed over Jessica, which plunged her into darkness.

  Han had warned her: the retrograde amnesia she had certainly would not last. The oldest events would appear to her first.

  But nothing had prepared Sixtine for the shock this memory had caused. The nausea rolled around in her stomach, and she sweated profusely.