She walked over to the table and peered down at the bloom. August noticed that she didn’t touch it.
‘I know this rose. We use it in the Ofrenda de flores when we offer up flowers to the holy Virgin. It is the rose of sacrifice, of purity. It’s suggesting that sacrifice should be, or has been, made.’ Here she indicated the flesh. ‘It’s a warning, August.’
‘Damien Tyson. I have this feeling every move I’ve made has been choreographed, by either Jimmy or Tyson, like I’m unwittingly leading them both somewhere.’
‘Jimmy’s heart is good.’
‘He chose me because he knew I wouldn’t be able to resist the chronicle and here I am embroiled in something that will quite likely kill me – it certainly killed Copps. I don’t doubt that Tyson was behind the massacre, but am I ready to take on him, Interpol and MI6? I couldn’t tell you.’
‘You have no choice. You’re involved, whether you like it or not. What kind of man are you?’
‘I know what kind of man I used to be.’
‘So be that man again, he must still be there, somewhere inside of you. And if you can’t do it for him, do it for me. My sister was a great woman, a hero to her people. Her death should be avenged.’
‘It won’t be that simple, the great game never is. Neither is politics.’
Izarra stared at him in open disgust, then stood, grabbing her gun and her bag.
‘Fine. I will work alone. I’ll find Tyson and kill him, while you can procrastinate as you discover whether you still have cojones. But the chronicle is mine!’
‘Sit down, Izarra.’
‘No. I leave now,’ she started, rummaging furiously through the chest of drawers. ‘Where is the chronicle?’
‘Sit down!’ he shouted, losing his temper completely. They stood face to face. Izarra shaking with fury, glared at him, not moving. Stalemate. He pushed her suddenly down onto the bed, where she collapsed.
‘There’s something else you should know, before you go storming off,’ he said. ‘Jimmy thinks Tyson was one of the negotiators behind a defence pact between Franco and the US, one involving millions of dollars for US military bases in Spain.’
‘So the rumours are true.’
‘I’m afraid so.’
‘If this happens, Franco will be able to stay in power longer. Decades of hardship, decades of dictatorship, who knows for how long. The international community doesn’t care at all, and neither do you!’
August watched her, but all he could think about was his torturer back in that cell in 1938, the arrogance and complete belief of the fascist general arguing so coherently for Franco’s regime, his calm voice murmuring on through August’s pain. And then, of all the Lincolns who had died fighting, of the wild hopes they had discussed late into the nights, men from all corners of life united by one belief, at the time so gloriously and seductively simple – equality for all, regardless of class and race. And how all of them, despite the daily slaughter and the terrible odds, sitting there together – Negro, Jew, Christian, wharfie, artist, intellectual, actor, teamster – all of them were swept up by the searing glory of true believers. Izarra was right, he owed something to those ideals, he owed something to those ghosts.
‘What skills do you have?’ he finally asked.
‘I can speak good French, my sister taught me to be a good soldier and, most importantly, I can identify Tyson for you. I will never forget that monster’s face. I want him dead.’
‘No, it has to be on my terms. He will stand trial as a war criminal.’
Izarra laughed bitterly. ‘You think the European courts are not corrupt? Maybe you are more idealistic than you think.’
‘My way or no way.’ August’s face was grimly determined.
‘It seems I have no choice.’ She held out her hand and they shook.
Outside, the moon was low, dawn looked to be only a couple of hours away. August pushed up the window and immediately a fresh breeze swept through the bedroom, catching at his tired face.
‘Smell that,’ he said, smiling at Izarra, now awkward at the intimacy of her proximity. ‘The lilac is fading. Soon it will be all hot mown grass and the faint smell of gasoline. In weeks Paris will be empty – summer’s coming.’
She walked over and stood next to him, both of them staring out at glistening rooftops.
‘It’s a beautiful city,’ he remarked, to fill the silence, horribly aware of the warmth of her arm so close to his own.
‘It’s a city that was never bombed. Once all cities were beautiful,’ she said, solemnly, then swayed slightly on her feet. August fought the impulse to reach out to hold her.
‘You should get some sleep, it’s late. Take the bed, I’ll have the chair.’
‘What about you?’
‘I’ll be okay. I have some work to do. Seriously, Izarra, get some rest.’
She slipped off her shoes and, after placing them under the bed, curled up on the cover. Within seconds her eyes were shut.
He pulled the chair up to the desk and stared down at the chronicle, still open at the drawing of the small white rose. The rose itself lay above the drawing – a three-dimensional twin, its petals now curling slightly at the edges. If anything, August thought to himself, the diary seemed to have gathered presence like an invisible but powerful catalyst that had swept through people’s lives – a source of both inspiration and terror, condemning some to a fruitless search and some to death. He lifted the rose, the curl of drying skin still impaled on the thorn. Who did the flesh belong to? How much was he risking by following Shimon Ruiz de Luna’s path? How much was he really in control?
His expression hardened in determination. The threat the rose implied didn’t frighten him. If anything it intrigued him – it was a character trait that had ended up serving him well in battle. He fed off his own fear – like a chess player who knowingly takes on a far better player just for the sheer exhilaration of pitting his wits against his opponent.
Reaching for his satchel, August pulled out the equipment he used to ink up the chronicle and began the painstaking process of deciphering the book. He’d been working on it steadily when he could, but it seemed Shimon had chosen to tantalise him. The Spaniard digressed constantly, as though testing his reader. August worked for an hour, following Shimon’s progress. By now Ruiz de Luna had crossed into the South of France. Who knew where he would be leading him? August felt his eyelids start to droop. Finally, he decided just to rest his head on the desk for a moment. As he did in the distance the bells of Notre Dame began to peal six o’clock. By the fourth chime August was fast asleep.
§
In the distance the bells of the cathedral began to sound for evensong. Shimon tapped his quill against the inkpot and watched the welling ink pool and drip from the tip. He’d been writing for over four hours in the dim light of an oil lantern lent him by the innkeeper, a jovial man who, for an extra few gold coins, was happy not to ask too many questions of his Spanish guests. Uxue had just left to attend the evening prayers. Shimon hadn’t wanted her to go, but she had argued that they brought more attention to themselves by not going; nevertheless, Shimon had insisted she took Menditxu with her for security. The fourth bell tolled and Shimon shut his eyes, imagining the determined figure of his wife winding her way through the narrow lanes of Avignon towards the massive papal palace – obscenely lavish for a house of God, Shimon thought, secretly uncomfortable with his wife’s Christianity.
They had been resting at the inn for a week. Situated outside the city walls near the Pont Saint-Bénezet, it was small and, as a midpoint for many travellers, indifferent to strangers, which suited Shimon. The couple were exhausted, having journeyed by horse and cart and foot from the Basque village of Irumendi. The trip had taken twenty-one days and on several occasions Uxue had lost patience with her husband, worn out by the constant movement.
‘We are fools to journey to the Pope’s own city, we, who are sought by the Inquisition. We might as well go straight to his door and announce
our arrival, and save the guards some time,’ she’d challenged him.
‘But Avignon is not part of France. It remains under papal protection and as such, many people, including Jews, can live there in safety, which is exactly why it is a good city in which to hide,’ Shimon had argued back. ‘Besides, it is the next city mentioned in Yehuda’s journal.’
‘In that case we go and with joy in our hearts.’ By which he could not tell if she was being ironic or had simply surrendered herself entirely to his plan. But the journey was arduous and there had been plague in Toulouse that had meant they lost two days’ travel. On several occasions Shimon had found himself doubting the sanity of the journey. On those nights, often sleeping out with just the stars as a ceiling, he would clasp the ancient document close to his chest, as if, by such proximity, he might imbue himself with unwavering faith. After such a night Uxue, lying beside him, had turned and simply said, ‘If you lack faith, take mine, I have enough for three.’ Her words had quieted his mind. Now the thought of her solemn pledge made in a ditch outside of Nîmes made him smile.
He turned back to the ancient scroll stretched out under the lantern light. Elazar ibn Yehuda, the ancient physic, had described the Roman walled city of Avignon as a colony of recent Christians and a resting house for old mercenaries attracted by the possibility of being paid by the Holy Emperor to defend the weakened stronghold. But he had also written of a secret garden, a place belonging to an old sage who he had visited and who had been most helpful in his quest. The second clue to the treasure was contained within this garden, Yehuda had written. Next to the ornate calligraphy was a small hand-drawn map. Shimon studied it – he recognised the walls of the city and saw how once, in the philosopher’s time, the garden must have lain far beyond the walls, but now, Shimon calculated, it would be within the sprawling ghettos and settlements that had sprung up beyond the original Roman walls of the city. Possibly north of the inn itself. He stared into the lantern thinking, the flickering reflection of his own face momentarily unrecognisable he had aged so. It was one thing to discover the puzzles the ancient philosopher had left but another thing to preserve them from future exploitation. It was this moral dilemma that had left Shimon sleepless for nights. He could not bring himself to reveal Elazar ibn Yehuda’s discoveries then leave them to be raped and pillaged by men who did not have the spiritual or philosophical sophistication to use them correctly. There had to be a way of disguising such sacred sites and saving them from such abuse.
On the journey to Avignon a Spanish servant at a summer villa that was lying empty had sheltered them. The gardener, from Seville and homesick, had walked them around the elaborate gardens of the house, describing to Shimon in a floral Spanish the intricacies of his job. At the back of the property stood a maze, the geometrical shape of which was clearly visible and easy to read from the turret of the same palace. The folly had delighted Shimon. Made from privet, the maze had both a mystery and a permanence about it that the rest of the garden lacked. Shimon had cross-questioned the proud gardener about the methods and work involved in constructing such a thing, not fully aware as to why it intrigued him so. Now it struck him as the perfect cipher. A cipher that cultivated under his hands could convey all kinds of meaning to those enlightened in the mystic arts. Newly enthused, the young physic pressed the quill to the paper and began to write.
§
The Nouvelle Athenes was filled with a mixed clientele of artisans and intellectuals, August noted with satisfaction, but the atmosphere appeared strangely muted, as if some national disaster might have taken place overnight. It was eerie. At one table a group of students were arguing furiously, but August could only catch snippets of the conversation, his ears pricking at the mention of a possible assassination, maybe even war. Something’s changed, the atmosphere has that dense sense of expectation I recognise. It’s like they are waiting for a bomb raid or the sky to fall in. As he wondered what possibly could have happened overnight, August ushered Izarra to a table in the corner, then ordered them croissants and coffee. Despite her exhaustion the night before, she looked radiant, while he felt dog-tired, having woken with his head resting on the desk. They would have to find better sleeping arrangements, he secretly concluded. A businessman in an expensive suit with immaculately pressed trousers looked across from another table. Izarra’s exotic looks were attracting attention, but August knew it wasn’t only that – they looked like foreigners.
‘We will have to get new clothes to blend in,’ he told Izarra, as the coffee arrived, steaming hot and fragrant, immediately re-energising.
‘I have money, I have come prepared,’ she said.
‘As soon as we finish, we go over to Jimmy’s. I need more information about Tyson, his psychology, where he might be based.’ August bit into a croissant, the buttery pastry making him realise how ravenous he actually was. Izarra, watching him pensively, bit into her own.
‘It’s delicious,’ she said, her mouth full. ‘The last time I had a croissant was in Biarritz, with my father, a lifetime ago.’ She wiped her lips. ‘Jimmy is still a fighter, no?’
‘Sure is.’ August was distracted by the businessman – he looked Eastern European, and August didn’t like the way the man looked uncomfortable in his own suit, as if he wasn’t used to wearing one. He was also ignoring them in a rather pointed manner. August instinctively began calculating the fastest route to the exit.
‘In some ways he is the last link to my sister.’
‘He loved her, I don’t doubt that for a moment and neither should you.’ August was only half-concentrating. The man looked at his wristwatch – it was a Patek Philippe. No agent could afford such a watch – relieved, August turned his focus back to Izarra.
‘That doesn’t change the circumstances of her murder,’ she answered him, coldly.
‘You know he wants to see Tyson go down before he himself dies.’
‘Which means we haven’t very long.’ She glanced around the café. ‘It’s so colourful here, so much visible wealth, so much freedom. Sometimes I wonder whether Spain will ever change.’
‘Everything changes, it’s inevitable. It’s just a question of when.’ She looked so vulnerable, so out of place, August couldn’t stand it. He took her hand across the table. Again, there was that spark, the undeniable tug of mutual attraction running like a current from him to her. He waited: surely, she must react now. Instead she pulled her hand away.
‘We are camarada, not lovers,’ she told him, firmly, in Spanish, under her breath.
Covering his disappointment with indifference, August glanced back over at the businessman, who now appeared to be reading Le Monde, ‘Stalin est Mort!’ the headlines screamed.
‘Jesus, it’s happened, it’s really happened,’ he exclaimed, in English, forgetting himself. Now he understood the reason for the muted atmosphere.
‘What’s happened?’ Izarra asked, also in English.
‘Stalin, he’s finally died.’
‘And what does this mean?’
‘It means the whole world is on notice. Now it will really start, the new Cold War. Everything is going to accelerate.’
Vinko looked back at the paper. ‘Fuck the Russians and fuck the Soviet Union,’ he said, softly to himself in Croatian, then watched the reflection in his spoon of the couple leaving. After slipping five francs under his plate, he followed.
They hurried back; on the street corner of place de Clichy the newspaper vendors were already shouting the news: ‘The father of the Soviets is dead, Stalin is no longer!’ August bought a paper off a boy of about twelve. Flicking through the pages, he turned to Izarra. ‘According to Le Monde, he died late last night, but has now been declared officially dead. And everyone’s speculating as to who will take over from him. I’m telling you, this is going to change the world order, you wait.’
‘But is this a good thing or a bad thing?’
‘I don’t know, I just don’t want another world war. But Jimmy will be in mourning – once up
on a time he was a Stalinist.’
They reached the top of rue des Martyrs. In daylight it looked far more innocuous a street. He wondered if he had been imagining the black car he saw slip away when he’d left Jimmy’s building two nights before. A teenager and his dog emerged from the building opposite Jimmy’s place and walked past them. The boy, indifferent to the snarling terrier on the end of the leash, leered openly at Izarra, who ignored him. Anxious to get off the street, August led her across the road and to the entrance of number fifty-six. He pressed the buzzer. No reply.
‘He’s probably passed out with a hangover,’ he told Izarra. But a small knot of anxiety began to tighten around his belt. He pressed the bell again. Still no reply. A small rotund man wearing an apron over a grimy vest and trousers stepped out of the building, a cigarette hanging out of the corner of his mouth.
‘Please, Monsieur, I’m trying to see my friend Monsieur …’ August glanced back at the nameplates, wondering whether Jimmy went by his real name or the one on the nameplate, ‘Monsieur Twain?’
‘You mean Jimmy!’ The man grinned, revealing a row of blackened teeth. ‘That old bastard never sees the sun until two, but here, you can try waking him.’ He held the door open for them.
The lift was out of order, so August and Izarra walked up as fast as they could. August could feel her own growing anxiety. All I want to do is protect her. How can I expect her to pursue, maybe even draw a weapon to cover me, when all the time I’m thinking about her safety?
They stood in front of Jimmy’s apartment. August lifted the knocker then noticed the door was very slightly ajar. He glanced across at Izarra, her tense expression telling him she’d arrived at the same conclusion. Heart pounding, he pushed the door open.
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