Sixtine- The Complete Trilogy Box Set

by Caroline Vermalle

  Only a few hours after his arrival in Vietnam, Max was convinced that Alfred-Jean de Stehl had chosen the imperial city of Hue as his final destination for him and his young wife.

  Three days later, however, he was no longer sure. He was by the pool in the same hotel as the de Stehl couple, with a novel in his hand, trying to gather his courage to start a conversation with Livia. She was lazing on a sun lounger, her long, thick brown hair fell on her shoulders. A large straw hat protected her face from the early afternoon sun and the turquoise water shone almost as brightly as the large diamond on her finger. Her tanned legs were bent, her toenails painted bright green. The revealing red bikini had given Max the opportunity to examine every inch of her skin. A long white scar was displayed on her right shoulder. But no trace of a cross tattoo.

  Max felt the minutes slipping away, and his determination did the same.

  How do you explain to a girl who is relaxing on vacation that her husband may be a member of a secret society and that he may kill her so he can take her to the afterlife with him?

  In addition, what evidence did he have to make these senseless and absurd accusations? If he had the courage to actually tell Livia this story, Max would look like a psychopath much more than Alfred-Jean, the 80-year-old husband.

  The old man had a particularly grumpy character at mealtime, and a strong penchant for red wine. Otherwise, he didn’t seem to be able to hurt a fly. After watching them for three full days, Max was no longer sure of his accusation either. What if the granite plate means something else?

  Wasn’t the fact that they were there, alive and well, in Vietnam rather than Egypt proof that Max had been wrong? Or maybe Alfred-Jean had changed his mind?

  Max, hiding his face with a pair of Ray Bans and a thick novel, bit his bottom lip. He just had to lift his glasses, turn his head towards her and talk, and contact would be made. He did, but when he opened his mouth, his momentum was interrupted by the ringing of a mobile phone. Livia answered immediately, and Max listened.

  “Yes, so what news? Is he feeling better? All right. But did he at least eat this morning? Ah, thank God. When are you going back to the clinic? Okay. You call me when he’s out, okay?”

  My god, Max thought. She must have a son. If he needed a reason to save Livia, it was this one.

  “Yeah, we’re leaving this afternoon. Just for three days,” Livia continued. “I don’t know if I’ll get a signal, but I’ll try. A spa, you know, the detox kind will do me good. The stress of marriage.”

  Max’s heart started beating even harder. They had to leave? It wasn’t planned. Mentally, he went through his things. If they had to be followed, he could be ready in ten minutes. But if he didn’t take the opportunity to talk to her now, it would be too late.

  He looked at his watch. It was just after half past two.

  “Whatever happens, I’ll find a phone to check in with him. And then I’ll be back here at the end of the week. Thank you very much, I am so grateful to you, Laura. I miss him so much too. But we’ll be back in London in two short weeks, it’ll be over soon. Goodbye Laura, and thank you again for looking after him.”

  She hung up so quickly that Max didn’t have time to look down, and he caught Livia’s eye. Against all odds, she smiled at him.

  “My cat is sick.”

  “Excuse me?” Max asked with a stutter.

  “My cat,” Livia said softly. “I left him alone to come on our honeymoon, and he got sick. I’m so stressed out. I don’t think he can stand my absence.”

  “I get it,” Max said. “I live in London too, my apartment is too small, I couldn’t take my dog with me. But as soon as I go back to Germany, I find him and … let’s just say it’s hard to get back to London on your own. It’s a Labrador.”

  Silence fell over them for a moment and Max cleared his throat. “What is your cat’s name?”

  “Silver. What about your dog?”

  “Domino.”

  “That’s cute.” She smiled and returned to her mobile phone; a clear signal that the conversation was over.

  Max swallowed loudly. “Excuse me, I couldn’t help but overhear, are you going to a spa this afternoon? I’m looking for a good one.”

  “Oh, I don’t know, my husband made the reservation.”

  Dead end, Max thought to himself. But against all odds, Livia looked at him, leaned her head closer to him and asked, “How’s your book?”

  “Uh, yes, it’s very good. Very suspenseful.”

  “Ohl,” Livia said, with sparkling eyes. “It doesn’t seem like it. You’ve been reading the same page for the past three days.”

  He opened his mouth, then closed it again as Livia maintained her gaze. He felt his cheeks catch fire. She wasn’t flirting, but it was the look of a girl who knew she’s beautiful.

  “You’re Livia Minore, aren’t you?” he asked.

  “Yes, how do you know that?”

  His tone was much colder. “My name is Max Hausmann. Have you ever heard of a girl named Jessica Pryce?”

  Livia’s face remained unaffected for a few moments, but then suddenly she put her hand over her mouth. “Oh yes, my god, it’s the girl from the pyramid.”

  “I was there when we found her.”

  “You?”

  “I was doing archeological surveys. I was also with a television crew.”

  “I saw the pictures – ” Livia began.

  “Livia!”

  Livia turned her head at the same time as Max. It was Alfred-Jean. He stood in the lobby, wearing beige shorts with high socks, a white polo shirt and an angry look on his old face. He waved a newspaper in a gesture that meant he wanted her by his side.

  “Yes, darling, I’m coming!”

  Her answer seemed to satisfy him, as he turned his back on them to speak to one of the hotel employees. Livia got up from her sun lounger and put on her robe.

  “It’s horrible, what’s happening in Egypt. I’m glad I came here instead. Max, it was nice to meet you. I have to go”

  Max straightened up and grabbed her arm, and Livia’s long hair grazed his wrist. While checking that her husband’s back was still turned away, he whispered, “Livia, listen to me. I traveled nearly seven thousand miles to talk to you. Your name was found in the pyramid, engraved on a piece of marble. Next to Jessica Pryce’s. You are in danger.”

  “But that’s why we came here,” Livia replied.

  Her lips were shaking, and she was trying to free her arm from Max’s embrace. “It was too dangerous in Cairo, with the revolution.”

  “You don’t understand. Livia, Jessica was just like you, she was on her honeymoon too. And she too had just married a rich, older man.”

  Livia stared at him for several seconds. Max read about his features of disbelief and fear, but it soon turned to anger.

  “Let go of me or I’ll scream,” she whispered.

  Max released his fingers immediately, and he turned on her heel, hurriedly gathering her things. As she bent down, her hair fell on her right shoulder, revealing her neck.

  A little cross tattoo.

  Something started to happen inside Max. He had no time to think. He had to act.

  He saw Alfred-Jean waving impatiently at Livia to hurry, pointing at his Rolex. She trotted towards him and then disappeared into the lobby. The doorman with whom Alfred had spoken was already stacking their luggage into a BMW.

  Max noticed a white and green taxi parked in the street, just beyond the decorated hotel gate. Max walked through the lobby and hurried to the taxi, pulling his wallet out of his jeans pocket and praying that the driver spoke English.

  Ten minutes later, Max paid his hotel bill. He watched Alfred-Jean gesticulating the address at his driver, who himself was shouting at the taxi driver who blocked the exit.

  A few minutes later, the BMW left the hotel, and the same white and green car followed them to an unknown destination.

  8

  A few small bubbles escaped from her nose as her silver ha
ir waved like seaweed above her. The calm returned to her head as Sixtine was floating at the bottom of the pool at Seth’s penthouse apartment.

  For the last seven minutes.

  When she returned to New York after coming out of the coma, she spent hours, every day, every night, immersed in that pool, while the music at maximum volume vibrated through the depths. It was the only place where the visions didn’t come. Where she could clear her head and forget her body. Life was like her breath: suspended.

  Thaddeus had not wanted to reveal the identity of his enemies to her. She had already seen in Mexico City, he was being chased. He also forbade her to be afraid. All she had to do was be ready to run away, or face it. Together, they had made a tacit agreement; they didn’t talk about what the darkness was hiding. What had happened in the Vatican – the disappearance of light, the appearance of Nefertiti, Florence Mornay’s vision – were part of the invisible, and the unspeakable.

  Each time, the sight of Nefertiti left traces in Sixtine’s soul, gaping scars oozing with terror. This had been her first appearance since the Night of the Dead in Mexico City. The night she understood everything, and the threat of Oxan Aslanian had died with the death of De Bok. Since Sixtine had climbed to the top of the pyramid, spoken with Max and, in a way, accepted that these events were part of her past, she had seen the dawn color Cairo, and had sworn to live. Then she found Thaddeus, the man she should have been with, the one who risked his life for her.

  Nefertiti had arrived at the moment when she sealed her love with him, when she was finally herself, and when happiness began to erase the horrors of the past. This presence proved to her that she could not be safe anywhere. Not even in the arms of the man she loved.

  Would Nefertiti come to the depths of the water?

  Sixtine, still submerged, opened her eyes. She only saw the rays of the sun radiating from the surface. Everything was quiet. It would be so easy to keep holding your breath. And to leave for the "other side”, without a sound.

  Like her mother.

  She pushed her feet against the bottom and swam to the surface. When she finally let the air into her lungs, she heard the sounds of the city below.

  Life had to go on.

  The ring on her finger dripped with water, a wonderful reminder that Thaddeus loved her. She clung to the vision in the dunes. They would have a happy ending, this certainty burned in her womb. Thaddeus had some things to do in New York, which would take a few days, a week at most. Then it would be time to start their future together.

  The future.

  It had been the first time Sixtine had dared to hope.

  She too had to prepare for it, and settle the business of the past. Her first task was to make Seth’s presence disappear from her life.

  The apartment was for sale, and she kept nothing. Her late husband’s massive collection of antiques was going to be sent to an auction house; Han was taking an inventory of them. Then she wouldn’t hear about it anymore. Perhaps Nefertiti’s apparitions would disappear once the collection was sold.

  Before letting the antiques go, however, Han had asked her to do one last check. A particular object did not seem to fit in the collection.

  Sixtine’s hair was still wet when she entered the garage and Han noticed her. The dark circles around her eyes also did not go unnoticed; the old butler had fished her out of the pool often enough to recognize these signs. Before he could ask questions, she headed straight for the last antiques which three men placed into metal trunks.

  “Is everything ready to go?”

  Han lowered his head towards his briefcase, glancing down at the sheets filled in with a pencil.

  “Almost. We only have the small ones left, a dozen amulets, a shabti, a ring. The transport is scheduled for Tuesday. It took less time than I feared.”

  “Seth cared so much about these pieces,” she said, distractedly manipulating a faience amulet representing Horus’s eye. “I’m not surprised, he had catalogued everything down to the last detail. I’ll be happier and more content once they’re sold. Which one is the problem?”

  “The mummy.”

  Sixtine’s eyebrows shot up and she asked, “A mummy. An actual mummy?”

  “I’m afraid so, and unfortunately I don’t have any other information about this piece. It was among the others, and – ”

  “Where is it?” Sixtine interrupted, her migraine returning at a swift pace.

  “In the back, I’ll take you there.” After a few steps, he stopped. “As you know, I am not an expert in Egyptian antiquities, but I can say with a degree of certainty that it bears no resemblance to Nefertiti’s.”

  Sixtine waved at him to continue. They passed in single file between the high rusty shelves filled with crates and cardboard boxes, which gloved men labeled “The S. Pryce Collection”. Under the yellow neon lights, their steps swirled the polystyrene pieces on the concrete.

  They arrived near a door that led to a parking lot. A guard in a small office listened to the radio by refilling a dirty stapler. Han greeted him, and turned around to arrive in front of a forklift truck, behind which were empty shelves. Except for a long dirty figure, lying on one of the shelves at man’s height.

  “That’s how we found it. No body mask, no sarcophagus, not even a chest or a simple cardboard box to protect it. Nothing. No documentation.”

  Sixtine inspected the perfectly aligned strips, the arms being one with the torso, the legs merging into one. The head thrown back, as if in a last burst of pain.

  “Where did you find it?” she asked in a neutral tone. “I’ve never seen it on display anywhere, and I checked the vaults.”

  “It was in one of the rooms on the fourteenth floor.” Han seemed embarrassed. “You mean it was stolen?”

  “No, this room was not occupied, we used it as a warehouse. I found sports equipment, several truly atrocious contemporary works of art, and this. I wondered if maybe – ” “It was a fake,” Sixtine finished.

  Han nodded.

  “The auction house required for all the documents relating to the origin, which we have, even if for some it is necessarily nebulous. But for this one, we have nothing, no record.”

  “Even a counterfeiter takes the trouble to create forged documentation.”

  “I took the liberty of asking Mrs. Boulton, the accountant. She also found no record of any purchase.”

  Sixtine lost herself for a moment in the contemplation of the mummy. It was so different from Nefertiti’s that she had been so close to buying. Nefertiti had gone to death adorned with almost a hundred accessories, amulets, masks, Canopic vases. Her strips of material were painted. Despite the time period, it was easy to imagine a queen and the luxury that surrounded her.

  The mummy in front of her, on the other hand, was kept to a minimum. Many strips had been ripped off. Some traces of color could be detected, except on the shoulders where they were a little brighter, but it was difficult to distinguish them from the discoloration that time had caused. While Sixtine had only seen Nefertiti’s mummy as a priceless antiquity – and a means of avenging Seth – it evoked much more ordinary realities for her. In front of her lay a body, lost in the vastness of an anonymous garage.

  “Should we send it to the auction house?” Han asked quietly “No,” Sixtine replied. “I don’t want the sale of a thousand two hundred pieces to be compromised by a single one. Let’s first do an assessment,” she said as she bit the inside of her cheek, looked furtively at Han, “discreetly”.

  Han nodded. “Very well. If I may.” He handed the same sheet to Sixtine: under the question mark was a name, with a telephone number. “She is an expert in Egyptian art, a former employee of the Metropolitan Museum.”

  Sixtine glanced at the name.

  Dr. Cheryl Wood-Smith.

  The name sounded vaguely familiar. A headache insidiously settled on her forehead.

  “All right, Han, call her.”

  When Sixtine came out of the garage,
the light was too bright and blinded her, so she crossed the parking lot with squinted eyes. The headache intensified.

  As she was about to start her car, she saw Han running towards her, out of breath, with a mobile phone in his hand.

  “Miss, I have someone for you on the phone. It’s Mr. Hunter. Franklin Hunter.”

  9

  The green and white taxi followed a national road through the rice fields for almost an hour. Max found that the traffic was constant and rather dense, and the road network was limited in the area, so Alfred-Jean and Livia had no reason to suspect they were being followed.

  It was only when the BMW turned into a country road that the taxi driver asked Max if he wanted to continue.

  “What is there to see on that side?”

  “Xhuao National Park, that’s all.”

  “Is there a spa?”

  “A what?”

  “A spa, with massages. Or a luxury hotel.”

  The taxi driver burst out laughing. “Hotels here are mostly for locals, or backpackers.”

  “How many hotels?”

  “Just two. It’s a small village.”

  “And then what?”

  “After? There’s nothing there. No one takes this road except to go to the National Park. If they want to go elsewhere, they will have to turn around, and inevitably pass through here.”

  “So we wait.”

  But after 15 minutes, the BMW had not reappeared. The white and green car took the road to the village.

  The sun was setting over the intertwining of palm leaves and electrical wires. Threatening clouds rolled behind the bell tower of a Catholic church and the blue chimneys of a smoking factory. The sidewalk in front of the first hotel was cluttered with cows; one of them was lapping water from a puddle in the broken road.