“So you and Logan hopped on a plane and flew a thousand miles? Why didn’t you just call, Dad?”
“Well, our information is a bit complex,” Mr. Perrot replied. “And I thought you were working in Spain on a case. So Logan was kind enough to accompany an old man on a journey. We thought that a face-to-face meeting with the authorities would best serve our purpose.”
“I see. And what purpose would that be?”
“To assist with the case, of course,” he replied. Valerie gave her father a look as if she couldn’t believe it. And then another as if she could.
“I was working on a case in Spain,” she said in frustration as she stood up. “But they pulled me to work on this one. I arrived just a few hours ago, and I’m still trying to understand what the hell happened here. And how—”
Before she could continue, a portly older man entered the room carrying Logan’s backpack and his PCD. “They check out, Chief,” he said. “The tickets on the PCD were bought today and match up with the airport security data. We have surveillance that shows both of them getting on a plane in New Chicago earlier this afternoon.”
“Thanks, Charlie,” Valerie said with a note of relief, as she took the backpack and PCD from him. “As for the two of you,” she continued, her annoyed demeanor quickly returning as she addressed Logan and Mr. Perrot, “I am still trying to comprehend how you got into this building without anyone seeing you.”
“We used the secret tunnel,” Logan blurted out as Mr. Perrot placed his hand on his shoulder, trying to forestall his response.
“The secret tunnel?” Valerie looked at him incredulously.
“Yeah,” Logan said. “We waltzed in here using the tunnel.”
“Well, you see,” Mr. Perrot interrupted, “that is part of the important information that Logan and I would like to share with you. If you would allow us to explain, we have quite an intriguing tale to relay.”
“Well,” Valerie said, as she slid Logan’s backpack and PCD over to him. “Why don’t you show me just how you waltzed in here, then?”
She escorted them out of the room, and they waited a moment while she spoke to her superior, who didn’t look happy with what she was telling him. Once the brief conversation was over, Valerie was joined by the portly man wearing a rumpled gray suit and a white shirt with a poorly knotted blue tie. She introduced him to Logan and Mr. Perrot as her trusted partner, WCF agent Charlie Baker. The four of them walked downstairs to the basement storage room.
“All right, Dad,” Valerie said matter-of-factly. “Where’s the tunnel?”
Mr. Perrot walked over to the bookshelf and pulled it open as far as the rusty hinges would allow.
“Really? Just like that?” A dumbfounded Charlie walked over and examined the hidden door. “How did you know about this, sir?”
Mr. Perrot did not answer; he merely looked at his daughter.
“We’ll get to the bottom of that shortly,” Valerie said. “But first, let’s get the crime-scene team down here to do their thing.”
“Come on,” Logan said enthusiastically, about to enter the tunnel. “I’ll show you the ladder we climbed down.”
“Not so fast.” Valerie grabbed his arm. “We need to let the site investigators go in first so they can collect evidence. It’s likely the two of you already contaminated the scene.”
Two investigators dressed in loose-fitting white jumpsuits entered the room and started setting up their equipment. They carefully removed the door, opening a clear path to the tunnel, and set up two bright lamps by the doorway. Valerie and Charlie, along with Logan and Mr. Perrot, watched as the investigators entered the tunnel and began processing it for evidence.
“Looks like we have three sets of footprints in the dust here,” one of the investigators called out. “Two large pairs of shoes, probably belonging to males, and another smaller pair. Looks like they were left by a pair of high heels.”
“Who else was with you?” Valerie asked her father and Logan.
“No one,” Logan answered.
“It was just the two of us,” Mr. Perrot confirmed. “I assure you.”
“Take off your shoes.”
Logan and Mr. Perrot handed their shoes to Charlie, who took them to the investigators.
“Should we tell her about the box?” Logan whispered to Mr. Perrot.
“No, not at the moment,” Mr. Perrot replied. “I would like to examine its contents before we do so.”
“They’re a match,” the investigator called out from the tunnel, re-emerging with the shoes. “These two pairs match the two sets of larger prints—all the prints are fresh. The third set of prints appears to have been made by a female.” He brought up an image on his PCD. “Central Lab has identified the shoes as Pierre Masu—women’s size six and a half.”
“Pierre Masu.” Valerie recognized the name. “That’s not a cheap brand.”
“There wasn’t anyone else with us when we came through the tunnel,” Logan said again. “Just me and your father.”
The investigator went back to work in the tunnel, and while Charlie took a call on his PCD, Valerie pulled her father and Logan aside. “Who else knew about this tunnel?” she asked.
Logan and Mr. Perrot remained awkwardly silent.
“Right—that’s part of the story you need to tell me. Well, now would be a good time to start.”
15
All desire to be free. The question you must ask is, what will you risk to ensure that freedom?
—THE CHRONICLES OF SATRAYA
CHTEAU DUGAN, SWISS ALPS, 4:00 A.M. LOCAL TIME,
5 DAYS UNTIL FREEDOM DAY
The old dungeon under Château Dugan had changed little since the Dark Ages. Its stone walls and iron doors were an intimidating sight for even the bravest souls. Eight rooms surrounded a large common area, where a reputedly bottomless well had emitted a foul odor for as long as anyone could remember. The only modern convenience in the dungeon was electricity. In keeping with the dungeon’s original purpose, it had been installed to facilitate punishment.
Macliv had been plying his craft in one of the rooms for many hours now. “You really should tell Mr. Simon what he wants to know,” he advised the badly bruised man who sat naked, chained to a metal chair. On the walls surrounding him were the futile etchings of past visitors.
As it was very hot in the dungeon, Macliv had removed his shirt, revealing a full tribal tattoo that ran from his upper neck all the way down the right side of his torso and his right arm, ending at his wrist.
Buckets of salt water sat ready to wash the blood off the prisoner’s body.
The chamber door swung open. “Macliv, how is your interrogation progressing?” Simon asked as he entered.
Macliv shook his head and slapped the prisoner on the side of his face. Simon walked over and bent down so that he was face-to-face with him.
“You are Lokesh Sarin, the son of Deya Sarin, are you not? The woman who found a set of the Chronicles in the Ganges River?”
“Yes,” Lokesh responded. “Deya was my mother.”
“Excellent. See how easy this is, Macliv,” Simon said, turning to the torturer. “You just have to ask the right questions.” He looked back at the battered young man and smiled. “Before your mother died, she had in her possession a copy of The Chronicles of Satraya, is that right?”
“Yes,” he said.
“Once again, excellent. I need to know where I can find those books.”
“I don’t know,” the prisoner said, a response that quickly earned him another blow to the back of his head. “I am telling you the truth. No one knows what she did with the books before she drowned in the river eighteen months ago. She must have taken them with her—she took them everywhere. Her boat capsized, and the books must have been lost.”
“I am told she didn’t have them at the time,” Simon said with certainty. “Macliv, did Deya have the books with her when she drowned?”
“Not that I saw,” Macliv said matter-of-factly.
“See, she didn’t have them,” Simon repeated. “I tried for some time to buy the books from her. I proposed to pay her more money than she and your father could ever amass in their lifetimes. But she refused to consider any of my offers. Now, we need to know where those books are. So I ask again, where are the Chronicles?”
“You killed my mother!” Lokesh shouted, as he struggled to break free of his bindings. “Even if I knew where the books were, I would never tell you. She would never want you to have them!” He spit into the air, the chains making a loud clanking sound against the metal chair as he struggled to break free.
Simon looked at Macliv, who was now standing in the corner of the room, cutting an apple with a very sharp knife. Simon took a small box from his jacket pocket. “Macliv, I want to show you a special gift from Dr. Malikei. Did you know that your brain works harder when you lie than when you tell the truth? It’s a fact. People lie because they fear telling the truth. They believe that they will get punished or that they will hurt someone else by their admission. Our doctor has created a serum that deadens the amygdala region of the brain, thus eliminating fear. When a person is no longer afraid, he no longer needs to lie.”
“It’s like a truth serum,” Macliv said.
“It is more than that,” Simon said. “Militaries around the world would love to get their hands on this serum. They could create the perfect soldier, one without fear. But the doctor still has some work to do on it.” He took a syringe in the shape of a small handgun from the box and inserted a capsule containing a red liquid. “Currently, it is a one-way trip, and the patient doesn’t last very long.” He put the syringe to Deya’s son’s forehead. “This is only going to hurt for a second,” he said, before pulling the trigger.
The young man let out a bloodcurdling scream and slumped forward in the chair.
Macliv stopped eating his apple. “How long will it take to work?”
“Only a few moments,” Simon answered. “His body will not resist. He is in pain; he will welcome the relief from fear. The serum also contains a muscle relaxant that will eliminate any desire to struggle physically.” Simon put the syringe back in the box and put the box back in his jacket pocket. “See, it is already beginning to work,” he observed, as the prisoner sat up, his eyes fluttering open. “Go ahead, Macliv. Ask him his PCD access code. He will gladly tell you now.”
“What is your PCD access code?”
“LS498,” the prisoner instantly answered.
“This is a most wonderful drug—one of the doctor’s finest, I have to say.” Simon leaned down so that his face was level with the prisoner’s. “Now, let’s get on with this. What did your mother do with her copy of The Chronicles of Satraya?”
“No one knows,” Lokesh answered.
“Someone must know,” Simon insisted. “She must have told someone.”
“Not even my father knows,” Lokesh answered. “He thinks that she must have hidden them.”
“Where would she hide them?”
“I don’t know.”
“Does your father know?”
Lokesh did not answer this question.
Simon paused and thought about how to proceed. He believed Deya’s son was indeed stating the truth, but Deya had to have left a clue. Simon just had to ask the boy the right questions. He thought a moment longer, then said, “What was the last thing your mother said to you before she went on her trip?”
“She told me that she loved us,” Lokesh answered.
“Did she give you anything?”
“She wrote us a letter.”
“What did the letter say?”
Lokesh’s eyes closed, and his head fell forward.
Simon slapped him across the face to revive him and repeated the question. “What did the letter say?”
“She told us to take care of the garden.” Lokesh could barely remain conscious, and his head kept slumping forward. “She told us to make sure that the pond was always filled with water.”
“What else did the letter say?”
“Nothing else.” Lokesh’s answer was barely audible.
“Where is the letter now?” Simon asked. Then, more loudly, “Where is it?”
“I threw it away,” Lokesh mumbled.
“What was so special about the garden?” Simon pressed.
“Nothing anymore.” Lokesh was fading in and out of consciousness. “Once it was beautiful, but my parents let it grow wild after my father got sick.”
Simon paused again. Why would Deya want her family to tend to a garden that she herself had ignored? His interest was piqued. “And what about this pond—why is the pond so special?”
There was no answer. Simon hit Lokesh again and shook him, but it was too late. Lokesh had died, his one-way trip ended. Frustrated, Simon kicked over a bucket of water. He paced the room for a few moments. “Looks like I’ll have to go to India and see this garden for myself.”
Macliv nodded. “What should I do with the body?”
“Let him visit the bottom of the well,” Simon said coldly. “And then join me upstairs. You will be going with me.”
16
What we have written, what we present to you with our simple words, is philosophy. It is not yet Truth to you. It is not yet Wisdom to you. But if you embrace our words sincerely, an experience will unfold for you, and then our philosophy will become your Truth and your Wisdom.
—THE CHRONICLES OF SATRAYA
WASHINGTON D.C., 9:00 P.M. LOCAL TIME,
5 DAYS UNTIL FREEDOM DAY
Mr. Perrot and Logan entered Valerie’s top-floor apartment in a newly constructed eight-story building in the Glover Park district, a short cab ride from the Council of Satraya offices.
“This apartment is immaculate,” Logan said. “There’s not one thing out of place.”
It was true. From the living room to the kitchen and the small dining room, everything was sparkling clean. Off the living room was a set of French doors that led to a balcony overlooking a portion of Washington.
“Yes, my daughter is a rather organized and precise young lady,” Mr. Perrot replied, escorting Logan into the den. “I suppose it is one of the reasons she is such a splendid agent.”
“And I see she loves Asian design,” Logan said. He walked over to a hand-painted Mandarin cabinet standing in the corner of the room. “I knew she went into police work, but I didn’t know she was so successful. Not that I’m surprised—she always ordered me around when we were kids.”
“Probably practice for her current job. She’s a lead investigator, you know.” Mr. Perrot took a seat in a high-backed chair while Logan sat on the couch. Each took a deep breath of relief, acknowledging the events of the day with a smile and some giddy laughter born of fatigue. “Seems as if fate was on our side today, bringing in my daughter to salvage our adventure.”
“Yes,” Logan agreed. “But that was a bit too close.”
They exchanged another deep sigh. Then Mr. Perrot leaned forward in his chair. “Now,” he said, “let’s have a closer look at that box.”
Logan nodded. He took the box from his backpack and placed it on the coffee table between them. The unassuming tin box had a simple latch that secured the lid. Logan wiped the dirt off it.
“Go ahead, my boy. Open it.”
Logan obliged, slowly unhooking the brass latch. Mr. Perrot watched intently, as Logan removed the items from the box and placed them gently on the table. A blue candle, a lock of hair in a plastic bag, and a roll of papers bound only with a piece of string lay before them. “That’s it,” Logan said, as he closed the lid and set the box aside. “What do you make of it?”
“Interesting—only three items.” Mr. Perrot picked up the blue candle; it was about ten inches long and one inch in diameter. The wick was burnt, and there was melted wax along the side. “This candle has been lit,” he said.
Logan was looking at the lock of black hair. “Why would someone seal a lock of hair into a small plastic bag?”
/> “Peculiar, indeed,” Mr. Perrot agreed, as he set the candle down and picked up the roll of papers. “Camden didn’t have black hair and neither did Cassandra.”
Logan set the bag down and took the papers from Mr. Perrot. He loosened the string, and the papers unrolled. Logan set them on the table and pressed them flat with the palms of his hands. “It appears as if they were ripped out of a book. The edges are torn.” He examined the papers more closely. “The writing looks similar to Camden Ford’s in the note that fell out of the book at the auction. I wonder if the wax on it came from this blue candle.”
Mr. Perrot looked at the pages as Logan handed them to him. “Yes, the wax of the candle does look similar. And the handwriting is familiar. I believe these are pages from Camden’s journal.”
“How can you be sure?”
“By the mark in the upper right corner.” Mr. Perrot pointed to a little hand-drawn symbol.
“I often used to watch Camden write his entries. Every time he wrote on a new page, he drew that symbol on the upper right-hand corner. When I asked him what it meant, he refused to say, and I didn’t push it. I wonder where his journal is now.” Mr. Perrot glanced at all the pages, confirming that they bore the mark. “I always loved sitting back and having a good story read to me,” he said, as he handed the pages back to Logan with a smile.
“This is interesting,” Logan remarked, quickly flipping through them. “Most of the pages are dated 2035, but this one page is dated 2037.”
“That’s the year the Council split.”
Logan nodded. “Something tells me to start with that one.” He began reading aloud.
November 21, 2037. I fear that this will be my last entry for some time. I have written a letter to Baté, but the opportunity has not arisen for me to present it. It would be so much better if I could meet with him, but I don’t have a choice in the matter. I never did. The Council has broken up, and we need to leave. Robert is coming with us. I said good-bye to Deya and Madu last night. They both have their own plans. I hope they will be safe.
Journey Into the Flame: Book One of the Rising World Trilogy Page 12