The First Face of Janus

by Valentine, Phil

  “I’m going to work Delacroix’s connection.”

  “The priest? In Avignon? And what if he’s one of them?”

  “If he were one of them, he wouldn’t have been exchanging information with Delacriox.”

  “Unless it was Delacroix who gave away our location,” she said.

  Crow shrugged. “A valid point, but if Delacroix wanted us dead, why didn’t he just kill us when he led us all the way out to the house? If he’s CV, he would’ve taken us out when he had the perfect chance to. No, there’s more to it than that.”

  “You just called him to cuss him out!” Rosenfeld said. “You think he ratted us out, don’t you?”

  “No, I don’t think he ratted us out, but I think he may have inadvertently told someone. Someone he shouldn’t have. He’s just not being careful enough. He’ll call me back. We’ll sort this whole thing out.”

  “Somebody knows who we are.”

  “Obviously,” Crow said.

  “I mean the goon who let us walk last night,” she said. “Delacroix could’ve decided to leave us alone until we saw them involved in that creepy ceremony. At that point he could’ve decided we were too much of a liability. That’s when he sent the drone.”

  “Well, that’s why I don’t think he’s involved. The guy last night could’ve killed us. Why let us go last night then drone us this morning? Plus, Delacroix has a key to the house. If he’s CV, he’d just let them in.”

  Rosenfeld pondered the observation. “Maybe the leak was that monk you met with.”

  Crow thought about it for a moment. “Could be.”

  “And you told him everything.”

  “I didn’t tell him everything,” Crow insisted.

  “You told him enough. Enough to get us killed.”

  “I didn’t tell him where we were staying, if that’s what you mean. And I know we weren’t followed back from town. I made sure of that.”

  “We just got droned, Crow. The only thing you can be sure of is you can’t be sure of anything.”

  They rolled into Avignon on the N100, crossed the Rhone River, and followed the signs for Centre Historique, the historical center of Avignon. Crow stopped alongside a call box at Rue Peyrollerie and pressed the intercom for his hotel. He was entering an area with roads so narrow only authorized vehicles and guests of the hotels were allowed to enter. He was cleared to proceed and Crow drove the Mercedes further into the ancient town center of Avignon. Old sycamores shaded cobblestone lanes and loomed over white umbrellas where locals and tourists gathered for breakfast in the shadow of history itself. The Mercedes barely cleared the centuries-old buildings on either side that lined a medieval maze of incommodious streets. Crow turned onto Place de l’Amirande and pulled up in front of their hotel, handing the key fob to the valet.

  There was only one way up the narrow, one-lane cobblestone street to the hotel. Its entrance was blocked by two rising and falling bollards controlled by the front desk. Another single bollard blocked the only exit and one had to call the hotel on the intercom to have it lowered. Crow wasn’t sure what he might encounter in Avignon and wasn’t comfortable having to wait on his car from the valet if they had to leave in a hurry, but it was their only option. There were, of course, other hotels, but, for Crow, this location was exactly the signal he wanted to send.

  Avignon sits on the edge of Provence, an area of France that derived its name from being the first Roman province beyond the Alps. They named it Provincia Romana in the second century BC, which evolved over time into simply Provence. Through the ages, it became world renown for the arts and synonymous with culture. Famous painters who either hailed from Provence or did their best work there included Cézanne, van Gogh, Renoir, and Picasso. F. Scott Fitzgerald wrote most of The Great Gatsby in Provence. Crow had actually drawn inspiration from drinking in the culture and history, especially at this particular hotel. Rosenfeld wondered why he went to so much trouble to stay there. It was more than just its location. Her question was answered the moment they walked through the front door.

  La Mirande Hotel was a flashback to La Belle Époque, the Beautiful Era, a period of time between the end of the Franco-Prussian War in 1871 and the outbreak of the first World War in 1914. That period was known in the United States as the Gilded Age. The hotel appeared frozen in time. Menacing-looking stone-carved faces looked down on passersby from atop the arched windows outside. A single lantern hung over the modest entrance that belied the five-star accommodations inside.

  The large wooden doors were flung wide during the daylight hours and two thick glass doors with large brass knobs kept the elements from the tasteful elegance inside. A single carriage lantern hung from the center of the entrance hall surrounded by light-brown intricately-cut carvings spaced every foot or so inside the gray dentil molding. To the right through a doorway was the front desk made of carved wood paneling painted gray to match the large cornice that framed the ceiling. An enormous tapestry hung on the wall behind.

  Rosenfeld wandered toward the rear of the hotel into another room and gazed up in awe. A huge atrium lounge was the central room of the hotel, which more resembled an old French manor. Its walls were made of hewn stone and they stretched several stories high. One could imagine that it had been a central outdoor courtyard at one point in the structure’s rich history. It doubled as a dining room and sitting area, depending on the time of day, with round tables and white tablecloths.

  She peeked through an oversized doorway. Adjacent to the atrium lounge was another sitting room where guests passed the time reading or enjoying conversation. The walls were weathered green wainscoting from the waist down with bold stripes of red, gold, and green stretching from the wainscoting to the crown molding at the ceiling. Period portraits hung from the walls along with intricate tapestries and gold and crystal chandeliers. A gold-framed mirror hung above a French provincial fireplace adorned with painted vases and a glass-enclosed French porcelain figurine of a pale young lady fanning herself. Small round tables with white linen tablecloths were surrounded by comfortable club chairs upholstered in a rich gold and wine brocade below a Renaissance period wooden coffered ceiling. An antique table was covered with books on art. A large oriental rug pulled all the eclectic elements together.

  Parts of the hotel dated to the fourteenth century, but the bulk of it was constructed in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries. The entire hotel retained the feel of the fine country manor it once was. Its roots were that of a mansion to a cardinal once upon a time. The old palace was seized in 1410 and the mansion burned to the ground. Construction on the current structure began in 1653 and continued off and on for the next hundred years. The hotel epitomized what is known to the world as Provence.

  They walked through another doorway and were back at the front desk.

  “I feel like I’m in a dream,” Rosenfeld said.

  Crow smiled.

  “Bonjour,” the desk clerk greeted.

  “Bonjour,” Crow said. “Parlez-vous anglais?”

  “Yes, I speak English,” he said. “How can I help you?”

  “I have a reservation,” Crow said. “A suite. The name is Crow.”

  “Um,” Rosenfeld said, looking to the clerk, “I have a question.”

  “Oui?”

  “Does the suite have two beds?” she asked.

  “The suites come with a queen bed.”

  “Wait a minute,” Crow said gruffly. “They told me on the phone they could do two beds.”

  “If I may finish, monsieur. All of our suites come with queen beds, but our house service can remake the bed as two single beds.”

  “Two beds?” Rosenfeld asked.

  “Yes,” the clerk explained, “the bed comes apart as two singles, and we have one available already this morning if you would like.”

  “That’s better.” Crow signed the necessary papers and was handed a key to their room. “Send someone up immediately to do the two bed thing, will you?”

  “Oui, mons
ieur.”

  He turned and headed for the elevator.

  “I apologize,” Rosenfeld said to the man behind the counter. “He’s been up a long time.” She hurried to catch up with Crow. “What is it with you and service people?”

  “What do you mean?” he asked.

  The clerk watched as the two walked through the atrium, past the grand staircase, and called the elevator. He reached for the phone and dialed, never even waiting for a ‘hello.’

  “They are here,” said the clerk in a hushed tone.

  The man at the outdoor cafe with the bald head and the black patch over his eye took a long drag from his cigarette and held it in his lungs before exhaling. He ended the call, blew smoke through his nose, and placed the phone on the table.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Crow and Rosenfeld took the small elevator to their floor and showed themselves to their spacious suite. An elegant crystal chandelier hung from the tall painted wood-paneled ceiling in the bedroom. The room was bright and airy. A floral love seat and two matching chairs created a sitting area at the foot of the bed. The walls were knee-high wainscoting and painted an off-white with thick molding above the doors and windows. Sheer curtains covered the windows in both rooms with beige silk-lined ceiling-to-floor draperies trimmed in wine and gold pulled to either side.

  “You like living dangerously, don’t you?” Rosenfeld said, dramatically pulling back the sheer curtains and gesturing like a game show model. Directly across the street, filling the entire set of windows, was the Palace of the Popes.

  Crow pulled out his tablet and plopped down on the bed. “Why not? We don’t want to sneak up on ‘em. If they’re there and they know we’re here, they’ll reach out to us.”

  “Yeah, that’s what I’m afraid of.”

  There was a knock on the door. Crow and Rosenfeld looked at one another. Rosenfeld bit her nails. Crow rose cautiously from the bed and walked to the door.

  “Who is it?”

  A muffled response in a thick French accent came from the other side. “Guest service,” she said.

  Crow hesitated a second, looking back over his shoulder at his nervous companion. He opened the door. Two chambermaids stood in front of him in black dresses covered with full-length white aprons. One said something in French. Crow looked again over his shoulder to Rosenfeld.

  “They want to arrange our bed.” Then she spoke to the two ladies directly, “Entrez, s’il vous plaît.”

  They entered the room and went about removing the duvet.

  “I’m going to take advantage of that buffet I saw when we came in while they’re still serving,” Crow said. “Care to join me?”

  “I’m not very hungry. You go ahead.”

  Crow was eager to learn more about this Palace of the Popes. He needed to talk to someone who was an expert on the palace aside from those at the palace itself. On his way downstairs, he pulled out his phone and looked up the priest Delacroix mentioned he knew in Avignon, Father Pierre Simonin. He was a father at the Church of St. Agricol in Avignon and had given university lectures on the palace. Rosenfeld was right to be cautious. Simonin could very well be working with the CV. Crow had to be more careful this time. He made the call.

  Marcus Foster sat at a table in his hotel room in a white tank top t-shirt cleaning the tool of his trade, a Beretta APX. Like a barber sharpening his razor, he regularly made sure it was in peak working order. The ceiling fan barely turned. The TV was tuned to a newscast in French. His room was nondescript like someone on a budget, or someone who just didn’t give a damn where he slept. The room was hot, muggy, small, but it didn’t matter. The job was what mattered. Completing the mission was paramount. His cell phone chirped three short beeps. Foster hit a button to engage the phone and turn on the speaker. He heard a phone number being dialed and then the number ringing.

  “Eglise Saint Agricol,” the woman said.

  “Parlez vous anglais?” Crow asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Great. I need to meet with Father Simonin for a few minutes this morning, if he’s available. My name is Benson Crow. Please tell him I’m a friend of Jean-Claude Delacroix. He sent me.”

  “Hold please.”

  Foster placed the slide back over the barrel and pulled it toward him and into place then released it. He inserted the 15-round magazine into the grip and snapped it home with the heel of his palm.

  “Monsieur Crow?”

  “Yes?”

  “Father Simonin can meet with you in about an hour if you wish.”

  “Perfect. I’ll see him then.”

  Rosenfeld took a seat in one of the chairs at the foot of the bed to wait for the chambermaids to finish but quickly learned she had a ringside seat to a show. Like something from Downton Abbey, the two ladies folded the queen sized duvet and laid it to the side. They then pulled the bottom sheet and folded it with the precision of folding a flag at a military funeral. The queen bed was pulled apart into two separate twin beds. The ladies took new sheets and one ran her fingers along the bottom of the foot of the bed and neatly tucked the sheet underneath the mattress. In unison, on either side of the bed, they pulled each corner taut and formed perfect hospital corners simultaneously tucking each corner under the mattress. They did the same at the other end of the bed. They then took the single-sized duvet cover and, like magicians, lifted and turned it until the down-filled quilt disappeared inside of it. They repeated the process on the other bed. They added the final touch, what looked like an oversized placemat that floated to rest on the wood floor beside each bed so that the first thing guests felt in the morning was luxurious linen on their toasty feet. Rosenfeld smiled.

  Crow entered the dining area downstairs to behold an elegant display of delicious breakfast items arranged on a short khaki linen tablecloth atop a floor-length white one. An assortment of juices and crystal glasses were at one end of the long table. Croissants and other fresh breads spilled out of a linen-lined basket at the other. In between were poached eggs, several varieties of meats and cheeses, fruits from the local farmers market, and various jams, jellies, and honey. Crow was shown to his table and brought a silver coffee pot which was poured into his fine china cup. He added a dash of cream from the silver cream dispenser and a lump of sugar. He stirred his coffee and waited for his appointed time to meet with Father Simonin.

  Once the chambermaids were gone, Rosenfeld grabbed Crow’s computer tablet and made herself comfortable on one of the freshly-made beds. She began researching the social pages for possible weddings that fit the quatrains. Venue, she told herself. Delacroix had said the key was the venue. She shook her head at the overwhelming possibilities.

  Crow dabbed a napkin to the corner of his mouth after finishing his breakfast. He exited the hotel and took a left into the warm summer morning soaking in his surroundings. He walked past the impressive walls of the Palace of the Popes’ east side wondering just what secrets they held behind them. An attractive brunette with white sunglasses, a white dress, black sandals, and a slight sunburn just above her cleavage sat outside the iron gates. She plucked an acoustic guitar and softly sang a mesmerizing song. The melody drifted up the wall of the hotel and into the open window where Rosenfeld, atop a plush duvet, fell into a deep sleep.

  Crow followed the narrow cobblestone street around the corner and took a couple of side streets, looking back over his shoulder every few moments. Several blocks down, he passed through a large courtyard where restaurant workers were opening umbrellas on small metal tables preparing for the day’s lunch crowd. Clock Square was named for the large clock tower that was separated from the city’s main square by Avignon City Hall. The church was just two blocks beyond, and Crow ascended its ancient steps.

  The church doors were large and imposing yet unpretentious and almost humble, much like the church’s namesake, Agricol of Avignon. Agricol was a sixth-century monk famous for defending the sick and the poor from overbearing civil authorities. He was, oddly enough, made the patron
saint of storks, something to do with a legend of preventing an invasion of storks with his blessing. Crow was reminded of the story when he saw the saint’s emblem depicting him with the bird.

  Crow entered through the paneled doors which were hung beneath statuary of an angel on the left side and Mother Mary holding the baby Jesus on the right. He found an employee removing flowers from the altar. The smell of white roses and recently snuffed candles hung in the air. He informed her of his appointment with Father Pierre Simonin and was escorted out a side door into another part of the church. He sat in an outer office with a secretary while the father met with a parishioner behind closed doors. Crow could hear a faint conversation in French that he didn’t understand.

  The music outside her window went quiet and Rosenfeld awoke with a nervous start. She headed for the bath for a long shower making sure the door was locked. The bath had his and hers white pedestal sinks atop white Carrara marble floors with a luxurious tub and old-world fixtures. There was a separate shower and a water closet. She prepared to disrobe but hesitated. She went back to the bathroom door, unlocked it, peered out into the bedroom, then closed the door and locked it again.

  Crow shifted in his seat. After what seemed an eternity, a stern but pleasant man wearing a black cassock with a black sash and white clerical collar emerged from his office. He offered a parting word of comfort to the elderly lady with whom he had been meeting then leaned down to hear the whisper of his secretary. The cassock hung much like a robe as he walked across the room to greet Crow.

  “Thanks for agreeing to see me on such short notice, Father. I hope I’m not intruding,” Crow said.

  “Certainly not. I am never too busy for a friend of Jean-Claude Delacroix. I was just before making the long trek up the tower to do my weekly inspection of the belfry. Lots of upkeep on this old lady,” he smiled. “I am in no hurry, believe me. How can I be of assistance?”

  “Is there somewhere we can speak privately?”

  “But of course,” Father Simonin said. He led Crow into his office. The door squeaked to a close, and the priest took a seat behind his desk.