“Yes, here you go,” Sue said, handing her a photograph. “Johnson is working on the identification.”
Aziza smiled as soon as she saw the face of the young woman. “You don’t have to. I know who it is.”
Of course, it could only be her. Silver hair, green eyes, pale skin. This same solar quality, bewitching, hypnotizing, and yet paradoxically obscure. Like light piercing the black depths of the ocean.
Like Thaddeus di Blumagia.
At that moment, the flake crystallized again. Other ideas, other connections materialized. Aziza’s gaze was lost somewhere beyond the police station.
The empty center.
The empty center was filling up.
Not with the murders committed by Thaddeus di Blumagia, but with the presence of this woman.
Aziza realized that Sue was waving her hand in front of her.
“Hey, Rust, stay with us! So, who’s the murderer’s girlfriend?”
Aziza swallowed, realized she had held her breath. “Jessica Pryce. But she now goes by the name Sixtine.”
The young counselor first noticed its smell. A stony smell mixed with burnt plastic and rancid sweat. When she saw it, she managed to smile through her repugnance.
The man must have been in his fifties. His pale complexion behind his sunglasses suggested that he was sick. He was bald with some brown hair falling on his greasy neck, but he wasn’t smiling.
The counselor thanked God: the security cameras covered every inch of the bank’s premises. Even the corridors and the vault room, where she had to accompany him.
It was only when the fat man left the bank that she finally relaxed. She realized that she had held her breath the entirety of his visit. Despite herself, she still watched him as he disappeared into the crowd on the avenue.
Him and his seven envelopes.
14
Sixtine climbed the steps of the Metropolitan Museum, her tiny silhouette in front of Nefertiti’s face printed on the banners of the imposing neoclassical façade.
The sight of hundreds of people standing in line in front of the entrance slowed her down for a moment. After a second of hesitation, she approached one of the security officers and introduced herself, head held high and her eyes filled with self-assurance.
“I am Sixtine Desroches. I’m here to see Thaddeus di Blumagia.”
Without a word, the red rope opened and she entered the Great Hall, her eyes drawn by the immensity under the three stone domes. She took a few steps on the yellow marble mosaic and walked around the thick pillars; at each of the eight arches was suspended Nefertiti’s face, in two variations.
One displayed the famous limestone bust with its empty eyes, the centerpiece of the collection of the Neues Museum in Berlin. The other was the face painted on the mummy’s fabric strips she had seen in Paris. The Queen of Egypt was replicated all around the Great Hall like a giant kaleidoscope.
A young guide informed a small group that Nefertiti’s exhibition, which would begin in a few weeks’ time, was the largest exhibition ever organized at the Met. The museum expected two million visitors more than the previous year thanks to this new addition to its collection. The mummy, the sarcophagus and its many burial artifacts were a donation from one of the most generous patrons of the illustrious institution, Mr. Helmut von Wär. She added that the majority of the twenty-six thousand items in the museum’s forty Egyptian galleries also came from private collections, but the other half was the result of archeological excavations organized by the Met in Egypt between 1906 and 1941. The curator in charge of the collection, Cheryl Wood-Smith, had just retired, but she was replaced by her assistant.
Sixtine didn’t listen further, as her attention was elsewhere.
The Green River flowed once more.
She saw its glow, but as soon as she focused on herself, she fainted. So she let herself be guided. She went through dozens of galleries without seeing them.
A few moments later, she was in the Sackler wing, in front of the gigantic jewel of the Egyptian collection.
The Temple of Isis of Dendour.
The latter had been saved at the last minute from the waters of Lake Nasser, which had swallowed up the Upper Nile Valley fifty years earlier. It had been transported to New York and rebuilt stone by stone in the middle of a large wing built just for him. The temple sat in the middle of a huge basin reflecting its majesty like a mirror. The giant canopies overlooking Central Park bathed it in a foggy light.
After the first few seconds of amazement, she noticed the presence of a feeling she had felt several times. Like a beast she learned to tame, she recognized him, but did not dare to define him for fear of his escape. It translated into the bewitching impression that she was outside her body, that her consciousness was suddenly increased. Her breath left her lungs and swirled all around the temple.
She suddenly knew everything that this temple had been, everything that it would be, everything that these flint stones had seen. Knowledge flowed through her veins, and it was just enough for Sixtine to stop to be able to fish it inside herself.
Would a memory come back? Or was she going to discover someone dressed in the gray veil, this sinister omen?
She stared at the temple for a few moments, then smiled.
“Hello, Franklin.”
While studying a hieroglyph on the temple wall, he jumped, and turned around. “Sixtine, nice to see you again.” He gave her a broad smile and shook her hand.
“I was told you were dead,” Sixtine said.
“I was told the same thing about you. These rumors are greatly exaggerated, don’t you think?”
Sixtine laughed. “In any case, you can tell your spy that he is not very discreet.”
“My spy?” the detective asked.
“Yeah, the guy in the leather jacket, red hat. Is it recommended that the FBI wear red when you’re watching someone?”
“I’m sorry to disappoint you, but no one is following you. At least not anyone I know of,” Franklin assured her. “On the other hand, I hope you appreciate it if I throw myself into the wolf’s mouth for you.”
He led her behind the temple, where few visitors ventured. “Han told me you met Cheryl Wood-Smith.”
Sixtine told him, in a low voice, about her meeting with the curator at the Explorers Club.
“The woman in the sarcophagus was the victim of a homicide. We believe that the forger is also the murderer.”
“Oxan Aslanian,” she whispered.
“Yes. We also identified the victim.”
Sixtine opened the brown envelope Franklin handed her. It contained a forensic report. She leafed through it, looking for an answer, a clue. She didn’t dare ask a question. Why did she have the feeling this document would change her life?
Franklin put his finger on a line in the report.
“Elizabeth von Wär.”
The daughter of Thaddeus’s stepfather. That missing half-sister Thaddeus hated so much. She returned the envelope to the detective and took the most relaxed tone she could.
“I guess I should be relieved that I didn’t win the auction. Helmut von Wär, on the other hand, won his daughter’s body. Oxan Aslanian had a special sense of humor.”
“It’s precisely because of that that I wanted to see you.”
“About Yohannes De Bok,” Sixtine said anxiously.
“No. Thaddeus di Blumagia.”
Sixtine’s breath died in her chest. She remained silent, defiant, her green eyes focused on the detective.
“I know you can see it. That’s your right, and I’m not asking why you’re dating a man who was so close to your husband.”
“Thaddeus is not like Seth, and he has proved it enough,” she said and gritted her teeth. “Yohannes De Bok was Oxan Aslanian, and if he had an accomplice, it was Seth. The presence of the mummy in our apartment is all you need to charge him.”
“All right,” Franklin said with a stern look. “I just want to make sure that you have all the elements to give
your trust.”
So he told her what Aziza had found. The wig, the DNA, Sophie Neumann’s incrimination.
It was not the impression that everything was collapsing around her that twisted Sixtine’s stomach. It was the doubt. She had just discovered that, in her immense love for Thaddeus, there was room for suspicion. It was ridiculous, it was illogical. And yet, there he was, and he was poisoning everything. But, in the midst of this doubt, a ray of hope remained.
“I can assure you that Thaddeus did not murder his sister on January fifteenth,” she said confidently.
“And how do you know this? It was ten months ago.”
“It was the day of my engagement party. It was where I met him. He was with me the whole time. On the other hand, my fiancé disappeared for several hours in the middle of the evening. If you’re looking for a murderer, I think he’s proved himself.”
“Seth Pryce may have killed her, but he’s dead. Thaddeus di Blumagia is alive. And Oxan Aslanian.”
As if she had been punched in the stomach, the nausea rose in her throat.
“The fake Nefertiti is too big to be the work of a single person. Such forgery is unimaginable, unless there is an entire organization behind it, the hands of several counterfeiters. The FBI is watching Sophie Neumann as we speak, she’s probably an accomplice. We think his denunciation of Thaddeus comes from the fact that their association implodes.”
The questions swirled around in Sixtine’s head. She wanted to question Franklin, but every question seemed to incriminate Thaddeus.
“The presence of Elisabeth von Wär as the mummy confirms that nothing was left to chance. Oxan Aslanian had to know that Helmut von Wär would bid on the mummy. I think it was meant for him. So naturally, we are looking at Helmut von Wär’s enemies. Thaddeus di Blumagia is just one name on a long list, but…”
The images of the dinner with De Bok burst into Sixtine’s consciousness: the moment when the antique dealer revealed to her that Thaddeus was in conflict with his stepfather. The dizziness crept into her limbs, her breathing became ragged.
“What incriminates him the most is that he bid in Paris,” Franklin continued. “He bid against you.”
“Thaddeus is also an antique collector.”
“That’s true. But his fortune is not as great as his father’s, he was gambling big. Nefertiti was not meant for you. It had to be his father who bought it. You were the disruptive element.”
Franklin cleared his throat. “Let me put it another way. Have you ever thought that Thaddeus could have bid just to save you?”
“Yes, I think he wanted to protect me from my own revenge. But he’s not a murderer.”
Yet, he was, she thought as she remembered how he had killed De Bok in cold blood.
“If you expect me to give you information about him, you’re wasting your time.”
Franklin approached her. “What I’m asking you to do is help me prove his innocence. And it’s very simple.”
Sixtine didn’t answer, but continued to stare at Franklin. He knew she was ready to listen.
“We know that Sophie Neumann is not reliable, we know she has already lied about the body. You tell us that you are Thaddeus’s alibi for the evening of January fifteenth, and Seth is indeed a suspect. But the FBI is working on the secret society, and the net is tightening. The name Thaddeus di Blumagia appears just a little too often. Scientific evidence can exonerate him for good, his DNA. We took the DNA from the clothes and wig brought by Sophie Neumann. If we had Thaddeus’s DNA, we can compare them. If they are not identical, he will be immediately exonerated. All it takes is a lock of hair.”
“I’ll get you what you need,” Sixtine said with a nod.
“Sixtine, listen to me. I spoke to Max Haussmann this morning. He’s in Vietnam right now, following in the footsteps of another possible victim. Florence Mornay is also missing. This is only the beginning, and it’s much bigger than we thought. We need your help.”
The young woman stared at the detective. Behind her, people came and went. Girls laughed together, showing each other their phone screens. A grandfather showed hieroglyphics to his grandson. A teenager sketched a temple. None of them had seen the inside of the pyramids and the darkness which swarmed with whispers.
None of them had returned from the Green River.
Her heart exploded with envy. She gathered all her strength to look Franklin right in the eye. He spoke before her, the more conciliatory tone.
“If you are convinced of his innocence, then it is child’s play to prove it. If, on the other hand, you have any doubts – ”
“I have none,” Sixtine lied. “I’ll give you what you want tomorrow. But it’s up to you to listen to me. I’ve already paid the price for what you found. I have earned the right to leave my past where it is. I was given a second life, I decided to live it. I will prove Thaddeus’s innocence to you and then I want you to promise me that you will leave us the hell alone.”
“I can’t promise you that the whole FBI will leave you alone, but I will,” he said and held out his hand to her.
She shook his hand and he asked, “Where will you go once this is settled?”
“You think I’m going to tell you?” she retorted.
“No, but I consider that asking about a young woman I admire is beyond the scope of my promise.”
Sixtine smiled. “I intend, as you say, to dispel rumors of my death.”
A strange expression blurred Franklin’s face. “These are not just rumors, Sixtine.”
He took out folded page from the pocket and handed it to Sixtine.
It was a death notice, in French, stamped by the town hall of the village where her childhood home was located. It was twenty-five years old.
The deceased was Sixtine Desroches.
15
“Come on, let’s not hang around!” Bian walked in front with the flashlight. “If you hadn’t dressed up-”
“I didn’t get dressed up,” Max grunted, hitting a mosquito on his arm. “I only took a shower.”
“After sleeping in. What were you waiting for? A cappuccino and the morning papers?” Bian laughed.
“Very funny.”
“We’re late. Look, the sun is almost up.”
Max looked up at the canopy colored by the light of dawn. He was behind Bian, his back bent under his heavy backpack. They walked through the rice fields, and Max didn’t take his eyes off the narrow path.
When they started walking, Max had taken care to exaggerate every step to scare the cobras lurking in the grass. A little beige snake had already snuck between his boots. But that was almost an hour ago. Now he was too tired to make his steps heavier.
“This is it. Watch out for the descent.”
The rice fields ended abruptly, giving way to a vast space before it. At the bottom of the ravine flowed a wide stream. Bian went down easily, using the roots coming out of the ground like a staircase. Max proceeded slowly. When he finally reached the stony shore, Bian was already disappearing through a thick curtain of vines.
She came out almost immediately, pulling a small boat and two paddles.
“Are you kidding?” Max exclaimed. “There’s barely a foot depth of water here.”
“It gets deeper a little further. We’re gonna have to walk a couple of hundred yards,” she asked as she pulled a rope from her bag and tied it to the boat. “Unless you want me to carry you?”
She was fully capable, Max thought, whose leg had not been able to withstand the short hours of sleep. But he just shrugged his shoulders and went ahead. They followed the stream, pulling the boat that often scraped the bottom. Max nearly slipped several times on the stones on the shore. Then finally the canyon widened, and the river became deep enough for Bian to jump into the boat and help Max into the boat as well.
A few minutes later, they had found their rhythm and paddled along the canyon.
Max was in too bad of a mood to admit it, but the landscape amazed him. They were in the middle
of the wilderness. No trace of anything Western or urban here. The high banks were rich in splendid and generous vegetation. There were wooden houses on the side of the hill. Villagers, women in their colorful clothes walked on a path along the cliff.
He even surprised himself by forgetting the reason for his presence here. He could not imagine that Vivant Mornay’s acolytes could bring their sordid designs here.
Most importantly, he knew old Alfred-Jean was unable to do this hike, and that Livia seemed more comfortable by the pool than in a trek in the heart of the jungle. And who could carry their luggage or treasures?
They had been drifting on the river for about twenty minutes and Max had already convinced himself that he was in a dead end.
He’d never find Livia again. A deaf anguish fed by fatigue numbed his mind and muscles.
He was revisiting the conversation with that strange detective he had met in Cairo, Franklin Hunter.
He had been the last to see Florence. He had left her in the middle of Cairo, the taste of betrayal, anger and shame mixed with the memory of their kiss. The last image he had of her was that of a girl begging him to forgive her. But he couldn’t do it.
Now he had no idea where she was.
The vegetation around them was so dense he had to hunch down to avoid the branches. When he pressed the paddle, he touched the bottom of the river, while he struggled against the vines which were like green tentacles determined to slow their course.
Suddenly, there were no more insects or vegetation: the boat had gone wild, and they were going down into the void. His stomach spun when he realized they were spinning at high speed towards an almost vertical waterfall.
He lost his balance, shouted and clung to the edges of the boat.
Bian, on the other hand, was laughing her head off.
Then Max’s entire spine seemed to settle when the boat finally stabilized eight feet below. Their boat then rushed into the peaceful bed of a wider river, and Max opened his eyes.
They had arrived in a plain, the bright green of the rice fields forming like a striated and shimmering carpet, and in the middle of which the river meandered. All around stood mountains like giant sentinels protecting this breathtaking landscape of purity, covered with abundant vegetation of a deep green, their height playing with the rays of the rising sun that descended in clusters of light mist. The birds’ melodies echoed in this immense clearing and accompanied the lapping of the water.
Sixtine- The Complete Trilogy Box Set Page 55