The First Face of Janus

by Valentine, Phil

  “I see,” Legrand said. “And what services could Monsieur Delacroix provide for you?”

  “Well, for starters, the book’s about Nostradamus. Mr. Delacroix is an expert on the subject. I hope to learn a lot from him.”

  “When did you last see him?”

  “Yesterday afternoon,” he lied. “I followed him out to a farmhouse he was letting me use while I do my research. Now, do you mind telling me what this is all about?”

  Legrand studied his face. “You really do not know?”

  “Know what? How could I know? Your goons grabbed me and threw me in the back of a van and wouldn’t even talk to me.”

  Legrand thought about it for a moment then said, “Monsieur Delacroix has been murdered.” His voice was devoid of emotion. He was more interested in Crow’s reaction than dispensing information.

  Crow was stunned and everything about him showed it. “Oh, my God.”

  “We need to know your whereabouts this morning.”

  “I, uh, I left the house Mr. Delacroix had arranged for me and I drove here. To Avignon.”

  “Why?”

  “Why?” Crow repeated.

  “Why did you come to Avignon?”

  “I had only planned to spend one night in Salon.”

  “My men picked you up leaving a church.”

  “I wanted to see the sights. That’s a historic church. Look, let’s not beat around the bush. You think I had something to do with Delacroix’s murder. This is the first I’ve heard of it. I certainly had no reason to kill him.”

  Captain Legrand stared back at him.

  “If I killed Jean-Claude Delacroix, why did I call a dead man and leave him an angry message? And tell him exactly where I was going? You’re wasting your time with me. You should be out there looking for the real killer.”

  Marcus Foster glided past the clusters of tourists who gazed up at the sheer walls of the palace in wonderment. His plaid shirt and khakis acted as camouflage blending him into the fabric of the Avignon tourist scene. His eyes were not on the walls but on the bank of windows on the second floor across the street. The ones now darkened by closed curtains. He pulled the sunglasses from his head and lingered for a moment then stepped inside La Mirande Hotel. Rosenfeld pulled back the curtain and peered down into the street below. Seeing nothing, she sat back down on the chair at the foot of the bed. Marcus Foster paused at the foot of the grand stairway and looked up.

  Legrand pulled a series of images from an envelope. “We have these photographs of pedestrian traffic caught on a surveillance camera a half-block away from La Maison de Nostradamus between the last time we’re certain he was alive and the time his body was discovered.” Crow had noted the camera during the time he and Rosenfeld were waiting for Delacroix to emerge from the museum the night before. They had purposely walked on the other side of the street to avoid it. Legrand pushed a photo toward him. “We know from the surveillance camera that Delacroix returned to his office at 12:41 in the morning. We will not know a precise time of death until the coroner’s report is completed. Do you recognize this person?”

  Crow studied the photograph for a second. “No. What time was his body discovered?”

  “Just after nine o’clock this morning. By a fellow employee.”

  “Did the person who killed him break in?” Crow asked.

  “No sign of forced entry. Perhaps Monsieur Delacroix carelessly left the door open. We have no footage of the door itself. How about this one?” He pushed another photograph in front of him.

  Crow looked down. “Nope.”

  “This one?”

  “Look, I’m not from around here, Captain. I don’t know anybody.”

  “The photograph, please, Monsieur Crow.”

  He glanced at it. “No.”

  “This one?”

  Crow’s eyes froze on the picture. He tried desperately to conceal his surprise. The whole scenario played out in an instant in his head. If he told them the truth, he would have to involve Sidney. Then they would surely not be allowed to leave the area as material witnesses in a murder case. Time was running out. He needed no more complications. Crow shook his head. “No,” he said. But he was lying. He caught another glimpse before Captain Legrand pulled it away. There was no mistaking the man in that photograph.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Rosenfeld continued to pace the floor of the hotel suite. She knew she couldn’t remain where she was. Staying in the room literally across the street from the Palace of the Popes made her a sitting duck. Then she heard it. The door mechanism engaged. Someone had a key to her room. Terror overwhelmed her. The latch retracted. The door opened, but the swinging guard caught the door and prevented it from moving more than a few inches. She looked around the room for another exit. No escape except for the windows, and the drop would probably kill her. She leapt to the bed and picked up the phone and began to dial the front desk. Then she heard the voice.

  “Sidney. It’s me.”

  Rosenfeld hung up the phone, rushed to the door, and unlatched the swinging guard.

  “You scared the hell out of me. I thought you’d been taken by the Custos Verbi. Where have you been?”

  Crow strode past her and sat down on the loveseat by the window. “Delacroix’s dead.”

  She gasped.

  “He was murdered.”

  “How do you know?” she asked.

  “I was picked up by the French national police. They questioned me about my phone call to him this morning.”

  “That’s who grabbed you after you left the church?”

  “Yes,” Crow said. “How’d you know I was grabbed?”

  “I saw it. I was getting nervous about how long it was taking, so I went to find you. You met with the priest all that time?”

  “No. Well, I did have to wait for him to meet with a parishioner, but our meeting didn’t take that long. He had to go inspect the belfry. I knew he’d be occupied, so I snooped around.”

  “And?” Rosenfeld asked.

  “Nothing.”

  “Did the police think you killed Delacroix?”

  “Well, I thought so initially, but they really wanted to see if I could identify someone caught on surveillance near the Nostradamus museum.”

  “Could you?”

  “I didn’t tell them, but yeah.”

  “Who?”

  “Your friend from the train.”

  “Marcus?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why would he kill Delacroix?”

  “Presumably to get to us. That would explain how that drone found us.”

  “Who is he with?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “I feel terrible,” Rosenfeld said, grabbing her forehead. “It’s our fault.”

  Crow banged the table beside the loveseat with his fist. Rosenfeld jumped.

  “Son of a bitch!” he screamed. He composed himself. “Well, that tells me the monk was right. That man in Montreal was a rogue First Facer. This guy, Marcus, is probably one of them and he’s trying to kill me before I stop the next prophecy.”

  “Wait a minute. What makes you say that?”

  “It’s only logical.”

  “Only logical?” she said. “Marcus could very well be Custos Verbi.”

  “And following us—following you—all the way from America?”

  “If he thinks you’re a First Facer and I’m helping you, then yeah.”

  “Either way,” Crow said, “I’ve got to somehow let the CV know I’m on their side.”

  “On their side? Are you kidding? You’re trying to tell me the Custos Verbi are the good guys?”

  “I don’t think there are any good guys in all of this,” Crow said. “What I mean is I need to let them know that we’re working toward the same goal.”

  “That’s kind of like trying to pet a cobra,” Rosenfeld said. “And we checked in right across the street from the snake pit.”

  “They’re not here,” Crow said.

  “How
do you know?”

  “That’s what Father Simonin at the church told me.”

  “Where are they?”

  “He wouldn’t say. He only said no man is an island, and if I found the defender of the rock by the sea, I’d find my answer.”

  “John Donne,” she said.

  “What?”

  “The English poet, John Donne. He’s the one who said, ‘No man is an island.’ What did the priest mean by the defender of the rock by the sea?”

  “I don’t know.” Crow remembered the rolled up piece of paper in his pocket. “Oh, and this.” He pulled it out and unrolled it.

  “What’s that?” Rosenfeld asked.

  “Father Simonin gave it to me.” He read the words out loud. “Sánchez Muñoz.” He looked up at Rosenfeld.

  She shrugged her shoulders. “Who’s that?”

  The rolled paper struggled to stay flat on the table. Crow jotted the name down on the hotel’s pad so he could search the name exactly as Simonin wrote it. “Let’s find out.”

  He brought up a search engine and typed in the name. The first hit was the name of an associate professor at Cal State.

  “Hers is hyphenated,” Rosenfeld pointed out. “The one on your piece of paper isn’t.”

  Crow kept looking. There was Miguel Angel Sánchez Muñoz, a former Spanish football player. His bio said he went by Michel. After that there were variations on the name, some with Carlos mixed in, others with Rafael or Juan, but nothing purely Sánchez Muñoz.

  “We’re getting nowhere.” Crow powered down the tablet. “Come on.” He balled up the note pad sheet and tossed it in the waste can.

  “Where’re we going?”

  “To the palace.”

  They left their suite and took the elevator down to the lobby. The doors opened and they were startled to see a bald man with a black patch over his left eye standing there.

  “Ah, excusez-moi,” he said.

  The man stepped aside and allowed them to exit then boarded the elevator. He watched them intently between the elevator doors as they closed, then he hit the button and the door opened again. He watched them rounding the corner into the front entrance hall. The bald man exited the elevator and paused a moment then walked through the corner of the central atrium that led to the front door. He followed Rosenfeld and Crow out onto the sidewalk. Watching from behind a newspaper in the atrium lounge was Marcus Foster.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Crow and Rosenfeld passed through a pedestrian walkway cut through the palace wall around to the front of the Palace of the Popes. Stone walls rising 164 feet into the summer air were accented by two matching towers with spires on either side of the main entrance doors. They walked up the side-set steps of the largest Gothic palace in the world. Crow paid for two tour tickets and they shuffled along with the rest of the tourists to get closer to the guide who spoke perfect English with a pleasant French accent. She began in the Grand Chapel by giving a quick history of the palace.

  “The palace construction began in 1252. Pope Clement V moved the residence of the Popes from Rome to Avignon in 1309 to escape violence and chaos in Rome. What you will see on this tour is the result of several major renovations that took place over the decades the papacy resided here in Avignon. Pope Gregory XI was the last Avignon pope recognized by the Catholic Church. He moved the official residency back to the Vatican in 1377. After Gregory’s death the following year, the cardinals elected Pope Urban VI and this is where it gets tricky. Follow me, please.”

  “If the CV aren’t here, why are we?” Rosenfeld asked, walking along with the tour group toward the North Sacristy.

  “Because Simonin said he’d studied this palace his entire life. Whatever meaning Sánchez Muñoz has it’s bound to be connected to this palace.”

  “So, what are we looking for?”

  “I don’t know. We’re just looking. Hopefully, we’ll know it when we see it.”

  The tourists gathered close to the guide who waited for the last of them to enter the room, then she resumed. “The French cardinals, some of the same who elected Pope Urban VI, became disillusioned with Urban and decided to elect another pope while Urban still reigned. They elected Clement VII in September of that same year and Clement reestablished a papal court back here in Avignon which led to what is known as the Western Schism.”

  “When it’s not too conspicuous,” Crow said softly, “we’ll ditch this tour and do some exploring on our own.”

  The guide continued, “Clement VII is now officially recognized by the Church as an antipope, but he was succeeded here in Avignon by Benedict XIII. Benedict wanted to grow support for his papacy beyond France, Scotland, Portugal, and a few other countries. His eye was on Spain, so he sent his most trusted advisor as an envoy to the Bishop of Valencia to court his support for the Avignon papacy in Spain.”

  “They only let the public see about 20 rooms,” Crow said. “Do you realize how massive this place is? 160,000 square feet.”

  “I’d hate to clean it,” Rosenfeld muttered.

  “Interestingly enough,” the tour guide said, “that envoy would later succeed Benedict as Antipope Clement VIII. His given name was Gil Sánchez Muñoz y Carbón.”

  “I’m sorry, mademoiselle,” Crow said, “did you say Sánchez Muñoz?”

  “Yes.”

  “And who was he again?”

  “He was Antipope Benedict XIII’s envoy to the Bishop of Valencia who would later become Antipope Clement VIII.”

  “Thank you. Sorry to interrupt. Please, go on.”

  She smiled and continued, “The pontiff actually dressed here in the North Sacristy when he was hosting ceremonies at the palace. These plaster effigies are of prominent figures during the papal rule of…”

  Crow and Rosenfeld peeled off from the rest of the group.

  “Where are we going now?” Rosenfeld asked. She tried to keep pace with Crow heading toward the front of the palace.

  “Back to the hotel. Now that we know who Sánchez Muñoz was, we need to do some research to see what that means.”

  “I don’t mean to kill your Sherlock Holmes buzz, but I’m starving,” Rosenfeld said.

  “You can order something in the room.”

  They headed straight for their suite at La Mirande. Crow grabbed his tablet, opened the cover, and sat down at the table. The screen lit up. He brought up a search engine and began typing. He typed Sánchez Muñoz into the search engine. Rosenfeld picked up the phone to dial room service.

  “Hold it a second,” Crow said.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “This tablet. I powered it down before we left. It’s on.” He slammed the cover shut and stood up from the desk looking anxiously around. “Somebody’s been in here. Hang up the phone.”

  “What?”

  “Hang up the phone. We gotta go.”

  They both grabbed their bags and began stuffing any loose belongings into them.

  “Hurry,” Crow said. “We gotta get out of here.”

  “Just a second. I have to get my things out of the bathroom.”

  Rosenfeld walked into the bathroom and threw items into her makeup bag. A few feet away, just behind the shower door, through a slight opening just above the smoked glass, eyes watched her reflection in the mirror.

  The woman with the auburn hair pulled back in a bun deplaned the private jet into the hot summer sun. Shapely legs stretched below her navy business skirt and a gentleman in a tropical shirt extended his hand to help her down the last step onto the tarmac. She walked the short distance with purpose to the waiting limousine. The uniformed chauffeur closed the door and took his place behind the wheel. The man with the gold tooth sat waiting in the backseat beside her.

  “Beatrix Cambridge,” she said without offering her hand.

  “I am Juan. We spoke on the telephone. I thought I would come personally to greet you.”

  “And collect your fee,” she said dispassionately.

  “That would be nice,” h
e admitted.

  “You will collect your money once I’ve inspected the package and I’m satisfied. Is that understood?”

  “Sí, señorita.”

  Sidney Rosenfeld finished piling items into her makeup bag and turned toward the shower. The eyes behind the shower door narrowed. Rosenfeld stopped and turned to her right to examine the toilet in the water closet opposite the shower making sure she’d left nothing on it. She finished examining the water closet and closed the door, casually looking up at the mirror. She caught the reflection and let out an audible gasp. Marcus Foster’s hand moved toward his gun. Rosenfeld whipped around to meet the image in the mirror face to face. Crow stared back at her from the doorway.

  “What?” he said.

  “You scared the crap out of me is what.”

  “Let’s go.” He headed back to the main door.

  Rosenfeld followed, stuffing items into her shoulder bag, and got all the way to the door then snapped her fingers.

  “Hold on,” she said. “I left my shampoo in the shower.”

  Marcus Foster looked over to see the bottle of shampoo resting on the ledge beside him in the shower. Rosenfeld turned toward the bathroom. Foster raised the gun and pointed it at the shower door.

  “I’ll just be a second,” she said.

  Foster gripped the gun tighter.

  She had taken two steps when Crow reached out and grabbed her by the arm. “Screw it,” he said. “We gotta go. We’ll buy more down the road.”

  The hotel door latched shut behind them. Complete silence filled the empty room. They bypassed the elevator and bound down the grand stone staircase. Crow instructed the desk clerk to have their car brought around and left their things to be placed in the trunk.

  “Where’re we going?” Rosenfeld asked.

  “I need more to go on than just a name. I’m going to see if Father Simonin will tell us anything more now that we know who Sánchez Muñoz is.”

  Crow held Sidney’s hand to ensure that she kept up. They wound through the narrow streets until they came to the open space of Clock Square. They hurried past the National Opera Theater and the carousel and City Hall and turned right down Rue Saint-Agricol. Approaching the church, they saw a crowd gathered at the bottom of the steps outside the entrance. Blue lights reflected off the side of the building just beyond the mob. Rosenfeld tapped a gentleman on his shoulder.