Soul Meaning (Seventeen)

by AD Starrling

  The blast from the rocket-propelled grenade threw me onto the hood of the car. I lay there for several heartbeats, stunned and blinking slowly while my ears throbbed and pain radiated across the right side of my chest.

  Reid’s voice finally made it through the ringing in my head. ‘Get up! Move!’ He dragged me off the Jag, pushed me inside the car, and climbed into the passenger seat. A spray of bullets scored the ground next to the wheels. One round ricocheted off the wing mirror. As I turned the key in the ignition, my gaze was drawn to something glinting under the sun several feet away. It was the memory stick.

  ‘Where the hell are you—’ Reid shouted behind me. I was already out of the door and lunging for the silver rectangle. My fingers were inches from it when a bullet slammed into the grass next to my hand.

  Reid leaned out of the passenger window and returned fire over my head while I scrambled backwards into the driver’s seat. Somewhere to the right, a panicked scream was abruptly cut off. I blinked sweat and blood from my eyes, engaged the transmission, grabbed the wheel and floored the accelerator. Seconds later, flames flashed up ahead. I spun the car to the left sharply. Reid cursed as he slammed into the door.

  The second explosion blasted a young tree from its roots and lifted the rear wheels of the roadster several inches in the air. The suspension groaned as the vehicle bounced back onto the asphalt. I shifted gear and headed towards the north exit of the campus.

  ‘Well, that was fun,’ said Reid with a scowl.

  I frowned and glanced at the journal by my feet. ‘They’re getting reckless. Whatever’s in there, they want it badly.’

  ‘You’re probably right,’ said Reid. He glanced over his shoulder. ‘Oh, and by the way, not that I’m rushing you or anything, but it looks like they’re closing on us.’

  I glanced at the rear view mirror. There were two black SUVs on our tail. ‘Hang on,’ I said grimly.

  The Jag was doing ninety miles per hour when we hit the road. I twisted the steering wheel sharply to the right and narrowly avoided a caravan in the opposite lane. A horn blared and angry words rose from the other vehicle. Birds erupted from the trees that lined the carriageway at the sound of screeching tires. The SUVs shot out onto the asphalt behind us.

  Something pinged off the rear of the roadster. Reid looked at me. ‘Are they firing at us?’ he said incredulously.

  I glanced at the wing mirror. ‘Ah-huh,’ I replied with a nod, swerving to overtake a horse trailer.

  A resigned expression dawned on Reid’s face. He sighed. ‘Darn,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘I really hate shooting in the wind.’ He loaded another magazine into the Glock and leaned out of the window. The SUVs were forty feet away and closing. He gripped the gun in both hands and fired twice in rapid succession. There was a distant bang. ‘Gotcha!’ He grinned and slid down into the seat.

  The blown-out front tyre destabilized the leading SUV. It spun, flipped over twice and crashed into the safety guard with a harsh shriek of metal tearing against metal. The second SUV swung around the smashed up vehicle with a sharp squeal of tires. It almost lost control, righted itself at the last moment and resumed the pursuit. A couple more bullets struck the backend of the Jag. I winced at the thought of the expensive paintwork.

  Reid leaned out of the window again and emptied the magazine in the Glock. ‘Can this thing go any faster?’ he said conversationally seconds later.

  I glanced at the speedometer. We were already doing one hundred and twenty miles per hour. ‘Not really.’

  ‘That’s a shame,’ he continued in the same relaxed tone. ‘They just lifted the rocket launcher out through the sunroof.’

  I looked at the rear view mirror and spotted the black mouth of the weapon on top of the pursuing vehicle. ‘That’s not good,’ I said, my fingers gripping the steering wheel tensely.

  ‘No, it sure ain’t,’ said Reid.

  My gaze shifted to the road ahead. We were coming up to a roundabout. To the right of it lay the entrance to Soleil Synchrotron, a scientific facility co-owned by the CNRS and the CEA, and dedicated to research on sub-atomic particle acceleration. I shifted gear and swerved sharply.

  The grenade missed the roadster by a foot and took out the Synchrotron signboard, a huge chunk off the grassy knoll in the middle of the junction and part of the road beyond it. Clumps of soil rained down around us and clouded the windshield.

  Reid absent-mindedly wiped some dirt off his arm and looked over his shoulder. ‘At this rate, if they don’t kill us, you will for sure,’ he said lightly. ‘So, you got any other bright ideas?’

  I frowned and studied the layout of the road. A glance at the rear view mirror showed the SUV thirty feet behind and closing. ‘Yes,’ I said tersely. ‘Put your seat belt on.’

  Seconds later, I crossed the central reservation and accelerated towards an oncoming truck in the opposite lane. Behind the windscreen of the elevated cabin, the driver’s eyes widened in horror. He spun his steering wheel to his left.

  The roadster skidded into a lay-by, raising a cloud of dirt and gravel. The tail of the truck screeched past inches of the front bumper, before spinning lazily through one hundred and eighty degrees. Bales of hay scattered across the lanes. The truck tilted slightly and finally came to a juddering halt on all four wheels in the middle of the road. The SUV hurtled into one of the haystacks, skidded wildly and smashed head first into an electric pole. Flames erupted from beneath the hood and rapidly engulfed the front of the vehicle. The doors opened and dark-clad figures slowly scrambled out.

  I steered the roadster onto the road and drove off.

  Reid stared from the chaos behind us to me. ‘That was a bit wild,’ he said.

  I shrugged. ‘It worked.’

  ‘You’re bleeding again.’ He pointed at his right temple.

  I wiped the blood trickling down my face and winced at the pain in my chest; I suspected I cracked a rib when I landed on the car. Minutes later, we merged with the traffic heading south on the N118 and were soon travelling east on the A5 motorway.

  Just before noon, I pulled into the town of Troyes. We grabbed something to eat and went in search of a cyber cafe. The incident at Gif had already made the news.

  ‘One student has been shot dead and three more were seriously injured on the campus of the CNRS in Gif-sur-Yvette following an incident earlier this morning. According to the police, gunfire erupted during an apparent altercation between a number of unidentified men just after nine-thirty. Judging from the scenes of devastation around us, the use of some sort of incendiary device or bomb has not been excluded by the authorities. The men implicated in the disturbance subsequently fled the scene in separate vehicles. Two black Freelander 4x4s with unknown registrations have since been recovered within a two-mile radius of the campus. Both have been involved in crashes. One police source reports that, although a significant amount of blood was evident at the sites of the accidents, no bodies have been recovered from the vehicles.’

  The live feed had been shot on the Gif campus. The building containing the laboratories of the Centre de Génétique Moléculaire dominated the background. Behind the female presenter, the police had cordoned off a large area of the lawn. Under the elm trees, two coroner officers were zipping a body into a bag.

  ‘Police are still looking for the third vehicle involved in this incident, thought to be a black vintage Jaguar. So far no information is available on its possible whereabouts.’ The female presenter paused and frowned. Her hand went to her earpiece and she listened intently for several seconds. Her eyes widened as she stared into the camera. ‘I have just received some breaking news from my colleague in Paris,’ she added breathlessly with barely concealed excitement. ‘The body of internationally renowned scientist Professor Hubert Eric Strauss was discovered in his apartment in the 11ème arrondissement two hours ago. Professor Strauss, who worked at the Centre de Génétique Moléculaire on this very campus behind me, is thought to have been the victim of a botched burglary. T
he police in Paris have since confirmed that one of the professor’s neighbours reported seeing a black vintage car at the scene of the crime late last night.’

  Silence followed while we stared at the images on the computer.

  ‘The Hunters put the body there?’ said Reid finally.

  ‘Probably.’ I gazed blindly at the elm trees on the screen. The immortals were more than desperate: the mounting body count was proof enough of this. The anger simmering in my gut flared at the thought of Olsson and the Crovir First Council.

  ‘I don’t get it.’ Reid was frowning. ‘If he’s the one they were looking for, why kill him?’

  I tapped a finger on the cover of the late professor’s journal. ‘Maybe it wasn’t him they were after,’ I murmured. Reid stared at me blankly. ‘I think whatever they’re searching for has something to do with his work.’

  Reid scratched his chin thoughtfully. ‘Well, we’ve got his journal.’

  ‘Yeah.’ I frowned. ‘But they’ve got the memory stick.’

  Reid’s eyes narrowed. ‘I still don’t see what any of this has to do with you. Where’s the connection?’

  My frown deepened. Things were getting more dangerous by the hour. Yet, I felt I was still far from arriving at any answers.

  The screen in front of Reid flickered. He studied it for a couple of seconds and sighed. ‘Well, I’m afraid I’ve got more bad news.’

  I tensed. ‘What is it?’

  Reid indicated the monitor with a cocked thumb. ‘Looks like we’ve both made the wanted lists.’

  I leaned across and studied the fuzzy mug shots of the pair of us on the NCIC and Interpol pages. My eyebrows rose fractionally. ‘Do we always look that disreputable?’

  Reid shrugged. ‘Depends on the time of day, but yeah, mostly we do.’

  A name on the Interpol site drew my eyes. The agent assigned to our case was one Christophe Lacroix.

  ‘I don’t know whether to call it coincidence or irony,’ said Reid flatly.

  I glanced at him. ‘Do you need to tell Sam?’

  Samantha was Reid’s ex-wife: despite their divorce five years ago, they still got along well. I sometimes suspected they would get back together at some point in the future.

  ‘No, it’ll only make things worse,’ said Reid. ‘Besides, they might trace the call.’ He struck a match and lit a cigarette.

  ‘I don’t think you’re allowed to smoke in here.’ I looked past Reid and directed a friendly smile at the large bearded man behind the front desk of the cafe. The latter did not return it; instead a frown marred his reddening brow.

  Reid inhaled slowly and blew smoke rings towards the ceiling. ‘It’s been a busy day,’ he said coldly. ‘Anyone who wants to stop me from smoking will have to kill me first and prise this out of my cold, dead fingers.’

  The bearded man had rounded the desk and was heading our way like an unmoored tugboat. The frown had taken on a life of its own. I closed down the computers, rose and dragged Reid off the chair. ‘Come on, let’s get out of here. We need to find a new car.’

  We exited the cafe. I found a public phone booth and called Gustav Lacroix.

  ‘What’s going on?’ said the old detective in a troubled voice. ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I said quietly. ‘We never meant to cause you any trouble.’ I hesitated. ‘Tell your nephew that not everything is as it seems.’ I put the receiver down and tried to ignore the pang of guilt that stabbed through my chest.

  We bought a second hand Audi A4 from a dealership just outside Troyes. Reid followed me in the Jaguar as I headed down a series of narrow country roads. I found an abandoned barn tucked in some woods at the end of a rutted lane and left the roadster inside, under a dusty tarpaulin: I planned to call Vauquois and tell him of its whereabouts at our next stop.

  ‘Where to now?’ said Reid once we were back on the motorway.

  I glanced at him, my grip light on the steering wheel of the Audi. ‘We’re going to Zurich.’

  Thoughtful silence followed my words. ‘We checking out Strauss’s bank?’ Reid said finally.

  ‘Amongst other things.’ I paused. ‘The number Strauss had been calling is also in Zurich.’

  Reid gazed at my profile. ‘You think this “A” person is there as well?’

  ‘I’m betting on it.’

  Chapter Eight

  We drove through Basel, followed the Limmat River and finally reached Zurich in the late afternoon.

  Known as the cultural capital of the Switzerland, the political capital being Berne, the city had started life as a tax collection point on the border of the Roman Province of Gallia Belgica in the first century AD. After passing through the hands of several Holy Roman Emperors in the ensuing centuries, it finally became part of the independent Swiss Confederation in 1291. Immortals had a heavy hand in moulding the future of the country, as they did in so many others throughout the history of mankind.

  I exited the motorway west of the river, crossed over the Wipkingerstrasse and pulled in at a hotel further down the Limmat Quai, where I booked us into a room facing over the water. The windows offered a glimpse of Lake Zurich, as well as sweeping views of the Limmat and two of the city’s most famous churches, the Fraumünster and St. Peter. While Reid stocked up on cigarettes, I went down to the reception and used the hotel’s internet room to access an online reverse search database. Minutes later, I had an address for the Zurich phone number that Strauss had been calling. It was in Riesbach, an affluent district further down the coast of the lake.

  We left the hotel shortly after six and headed east on the Uto Quai.

  The drive to the Bellerivestrasse was short and uneventful. The evening air was crisp and clear, and the harsh cries of black-headed gulls and piping calls of terns echoed across the lake. To the south, the fading sunlight glistened on the distant peaks of the Alps.

  The house was a fairy-book, three-storey Swiss style cottage, complete with shingled roof, bracketed eaves, gables, and pretty, decorative wood-work trimmings on its outer walls. Located on a low rise at the end of a residential street, it had spectacular views over the water.

  Night fell. Traffic gradually slowed and the shores of the lake came alive with the lights of the city. The cottage remained dark and lifeless.

  Shortly after eight, we left the car and ascended the slope towards the rear of the property. Hazel bushes and honeysuckle shrubs formed a natural hedge around the yard and the air was redolent of the sweet smell of late blooming flowers.

  Lights came on in the neighbouring house as we stepped onto the lawn. We paused in the shadows of the hedge and watched an elderly man close the curtains on the ground floor. Seconds later, we were on the wooden steps that led to the rear porch. A pair of sturdy walking boots and a lone umbrella stood leaning against the wall outside the back door.

  Reid used the lock pick to open the door. Beyond it was a kitchen full of bright and vivid autumnal colours. The countertops were tidy and clean. A single cold mug of black coffee stood by the sink. From the layer of mould that coated the inside, it looked like it had been there for days. The cupboards were well stocked. The fridge and the bin were empty.

  The rest of the house was decorated in pale pastels. Oil paintings dotted the walls and corridors, and an eclectic collection of antique furniture crowded the rooms, their dark lines broken by a scattering of bright throws and cushions. On the second floor, a large, black, French Rococo carved bed dominated a distinctly feminine bedroom. The wardrobe and drawers were full of women’s clothing and the air smelled of oranges.

  On the ground floor, a study lined with floor to ceiling bookcases looked out onto the lake. An imposing antique Louis XVI desk occupied the space in front of the main window. A careful search of the drawers and wall cabinets provided no clues about the identity of the owner of the house.

  There was a single letter on the doormat inside the front door. Addressed generically to the owner of the property, it confirmed that all the post h
ad been diverted to a private mailbox in Geneva. Of the dozens of picture frames that crowded the window sills, walls and furniture around the house, not one contained a single photograph.

  It was Reid who found the small metal and glass casing wedged in a gap between the floorboards in an upstairs closet. ‘This looks old,’ he muttered, handing it to me.

  ‘Yes, it is. It’s a daguerreotype.’ A faint smile dawned on my face as I slowly traced the antique plating with my fingers: it was several decades since I had last seen one of these. I looked up into Reid’s blank stare. ‘It’s a style of photography dating from the early nineteenth century,’ I explained.

  I turned the daguerreotype over and stared at the picture under the glass. Though the image had faded over the years, I could still make out the two figures within the frame. The first one was a tall, thin man with greying hair. He was dressed in a double-breasted frockcoat, worn over a buff waistcoat and trousers, and had a top hat on his head and an ivory headed cane in his hand. The second figure was a little girl in a pale, high-waisted gown, complete with a pelisse. Dark curls peeked out from beneath her bonnet and framed a pair of pale, wide eyes. She was holding on tightly to the man’s left hand.

  They stood in front of a half-finished St. Vitus Cathedral, within the grounds of Prague Castle.

  ‘This original?’ said Reid skeptically.

  ‘Yes.’ I stared at the figures for a while longer, before slipping the frame inside my coat. Although I was certain I had never met either of the people in the picture, a strange and uneasy sense of recognition hovered at the edge of my consciousness.

  We left the house and returned to the hotel. Once in the room, I took out Strauss’s journal and laid it on the coffee table. We had not had time to study it yet.

  ‘Do you understand any of this stuff?’ said Reid after we had pored over it for half an hour.