The Last Sicarius

by Van R. Mayhall Jr.

  CHAPTER 33

  The Tunisian coastal police vessel located the three survivors only a few hours after they had gone into the raft. The sea cops had heard the Mayday calls and had homed in on the GPS locator signal from the raft. After the group had been picked up, given blankets, and served strong coffee, the vessel continued for some time to search the debris field. But darkness had temporarily halted the search, and Cloe, J.E., and the monsignor were the only survivors found thus far.

  The three were questioned closely by the Tunisian authorities about what they were doing and what had brought the plane down, but they simply responded that they were doing historical work on ancient Christian martyrs from the region and had no idea why the jet had crashed. After a while, they were dismissed, and the monsignor contacted a local hotel and made arrangements for them.

  The prefect of the police, Captain Reynaud, said, “Mademoiselle, there is nothing for you to do here at our headquarters. We will search again tomorrow, and doubtless, we will find your colleagues.”

  A while later, a cab deposited them at the Les Berges Hotel. As tired and as worried as they were, it was necessary to get some clothes and supplies. Cloe went to the ladies’ shop and quickly replenished her wardrobe and toiletries. J.E. and the monsignor were attended at the gentlemen’s store. When she saw them later for dinner, Cloe wondered whether she could ever get used to seeing the monsignor without his priestly garb.

  “Albert, you look … different,” she said, observing his smartly tailored, Western suit.

  “Yes, signorina,” he replied sheepishly. “Unfortunately, there were none of my usual clothes for sale in the hotel’s shops.”

  “From my point of view, that’s probably best,” said J.E., looking around warily. “At least for today, until we get the lay of the land, the less attention we attract, the better. There are likely fewer Catholic priests here than religious of other types. You would stand out like a neon light.”

  The mood among them was one of fatigue from the day’s events and cautious optimism about the whereabouts of their colleagues.

  “I’m tired and sunburned, but I’m also hungry,” said Cloe.

  They ordered wine and the Tunisian lake bass special as Cloe looked around at their surroundings. They were seated on the hotel’s open-air terrace overlooking the lake. The sun had set, and a near-full moon was rising in the east. Cloe sipped her wine, perhaps a little more quickly than she had intended, but she remained concerned for Father Sergio and the others.

  “J.E., I think the moonrise over the river at home would give this place a run for its money,” mused Cloe, beginning to feel the effects of the wine and getting a bit homesick. “Still, it’s absolutely gorgeous.” She turned to the monsignor. “Albert, I was thinking of Father Sergio. When we were introduced in the pope’s quarters, you said something about the need for a person close to the pope to be found worthy … something about a test. What did that mean?”

  “Yes, Father Sergio aspires to be camerlengo, an important officer of the pope’s household,” replied the monsignor. “Such candidates must prove themselves by satisfactorily completing tasks assigned by the pope.”

  Cloe smiled at the monsignor’s optimism in using the present tense for Father Sergio and asked, “This was his test? He was assigned to our team to prove himself?”

  “Yes, the pope feels he has great promise and is ready,” said the monsignor. “He certainly helped us in France.”

  “Yes, I am becoming quite attached to him,” said Cloe.

  J.E. grunted and said, his voice rising a bit, “They’re going to find Serge. He was amazing at Lyon. We need him.”

  Just then, Cloe heard a band—an orchestra, really—begin to play. They were situated at the end of the terrace. The sweet notes of the strings and the low song of the brass rolled over Cloe in an almost enchanting way. She stared at the moon, listened to the music, and wished to forget that someone had tried to kill them all earlier.

  She was swaying in her chair when she opened her eyes and saw a man about her age standing in front of her, bending at the waist. He was garbed in a summer tuxedo, white jacket, black trousers, and black bow tie. A red rosebud adorned his lapel.

  “Señorita, my name is Miguel,” said the man, “and if I do not presume too much, my American friends call me Michael. May I request the honor of a dance?”

  Swept away momentarily by the need to escape from the ugly reality of the day’s events, Cloe looked at J.E. and then at the monsignor, and seeing no objection, she nodded and smiled. “Michael, I am Clotile. My American friends call me Cloe, and … I accept.”

  As they danced, J.E. studied Miguel closely, doing the civilian version of a threat assessment. After a few moments, he relaxed, but he kept his antennae tuned for any cause for concern for his mother with this newcomer. “Seems okay,” commented J.E. after a while, to no one in particular.

  On the dance floor, thoughts of the horror of the last few months, including her near death at Hakeldama and in New Orleans, the plane crash, and the whereabouts of her colleagues, had all fled as Cloe and Michael danced to the strings and horns under the stars and the moon.

  CHAPTER 34

  “Karik, the woman and some of her cohorts are alive,” said the servant Noosh when he entered the hotel suite.

  “What? I thought you said they were all dead, that they could not have survived the crash,” responded the Karik, turning his back on the man to hide his bitter disappointment and growing anger that somehow his men had failed to properly execute his perfect plan.

  “It cannot be explained,” said the servant. “The airplane’s controls were destroyed, and it should have hit the water at a fatal speed. Somehow they thwarted our efforts. They were rescued and have now checked into the Les Berges Hotel here in Tunis.”

  “Do you mean that you failed the Karik?” asked the Karik directly, rounding on the servant. This was not the Karik’s fault. Someone else had failed.

  Noosh, visibly shaking with fear, said, “Yes, Karik, I do not know what went wrong, but I did not achieve the result desired.” The servant hung his head and awaited his fate. He knew the Karik could not abide failure and could be expected to punish it severely, even unto death.

  The Karik paused and studied his servant. Complex emotions washed over him. He knew the Kolektor would have made an example of Noosh. A slight tremor passed through his left hand. Sometimes a near brush with fate was a more effective management tool, rationalized the Karik. In this, he was different from his predecessor. “What else do you have to say?” he asked.

  “Sir, we have retained local guides to lead us into the mountains to search for the cave,” he responded. “They are provisioned and prepared to depart at first light tomorrow.”

  “Have they seen the map?” asked the Karik, testing him.

  “No, sir, as you instructed, they only know we wish to enter the Atlas Mountains in search of archeological ruins,” replied the servant. “You were very clear they were not to see the map or know our destination for fear they would talk about these things among their friends.”

  “Yes,” said the Karik. “Except for the fortunate doctor and her friends, all seems to be in order. Soon we will have the treasures from the cave.”

  “What shall we do about the woman and her group?” questioned the servant, eager to correct his near-fatal mistake.

  “Patience, my friend,” said the Karik. “Tunisia is still a wilderness. If they choose to follow us or to look for the cave on their own, some terrible accident may yet be visited upon them. Only death awaits them in the Atlas Mountains.”

  CHAPTER 35

  The casino in the hotel was small and intimate. Gambling in Tunisia was like the other vices, tolerated for those with the right resources. Unlike the American casinos, this was a black-tie affair. One had to dress to gamble. Only four games were licensed: craps, blackjack, roulette, and baccarat. Cloe looked around at the crowded tables. So many people with so much money, she thought.
>
  She and Michael had danced until the band could or would play no more. Although Cloe still felt a deep sense of concern for her colleagues, the wine and Michael had pushed the worry back a bit. She had needed this release. Now, in the early morning hours, she should feel dead tired from the day’s events, but she felt uplifted. Indeed, Cloe felt marvelous. As she thought about it, she could not remember ever having felt marvelous, except with J.E. But that was a different kind of marvelous. She had felt good before, even great! But had she ever felt this kind of marvelous? She couldn’t say. But she did know the reason for this feeling: Michael.

  “Cloe, do you like to gamble?” Michael asked.

  “I’ve never been in a casino,” she whispered. “I have no idea whether I would like it or not.”

  She gazed at his handsome profile, but her thoughts returned to her friends. A deep sense of guilt rolled over Cloe. Still, she suspected that if Father Sergio were here, he would say “marvelous” only comes along once in a while, so why not enjoy? She smiled as she thought of the young camerlengo’s probable reaction.

  Michael led her to the roulette wheel and said, “What’s your lucky number?”

  She stammered and thought about the first clue—Matthew chapter seven, line seven—and said, “Seven.”

  “Okay, we’ll put a hundred dollars on number seven, and we’ll hedge it with lower odds, line bets, and an odd/even bet,” Michael said, his brow furrowed in concentration.

  As she watched the wheel spin and the ball drop, Cloe was mesmerized by the money, by the risk, and by Michael.

  “Number seven,” called the croupier. “We have a winner!”

  They raked in the number bet at odds of thirty-five to one. Thirty-five hundred dollars won on one bet, thought Cloe. And Michael said that was before the winnings on either the line or the odd/even bets. They played on and won more.

  After a while, Michael said, “Let’s try our luck at something else.” He wrapped his arm around her waist like they had been lovers for years. Cloe was more afraid of herself than of Michael. But she moved easily toward a game of higher risk and, perhaps, higher reward.

  “This is baccarat … the chemin de fer version,” Michael told her. “It’s the prince of games. It’s a combination of poker and blackjack but not like either. The object is to make an eight- or nine-point hand and to beat the banker’s hand. It sounds complicated, but you’ll quickly catch on.”

  Cloe sat at the immaculate green-felted table and watched the croupier deal cards from a shoe. She and Michael ordered drinks. After thirty minutes she and Michael had, somehow, won a considerable pile of thousand-dollar chips. Cloe studied the stack and knew the total was several times her academician’s annual salary. Although she had put nothing up, she somehow felt she had already risked much this day and had lost. Or had she won? Conflict rippled through her.

  Cloe leaned over and whispered in Michael’s ear, “Michael, let’s have a final nightcap on the terrace.”

  “Excellent,” he said, gathering the winnings. As he stood, he tossed five one-hundred-dollar chips to the dealer and led Cloe to the terrace.

  The air had cooled a bit, and Cloe shivered. Michael wrapped his arm around her, and when he had seated her, he removed his jacket and put it around her shoulders. The waiter brought a brandy for Michael and a B&B for Cloe. They sipped silently and smiled at each other.

  “Michael, this has been wonderful,” said Cloe. “This has been a day of such highs and lows. I have never had an experience like this. I don’t know what to say. Thank you for tonight.”

  “Cloe, the pleasure is all mine. Thank you,” he replied graciously. “What now?”

  “It’s very late, and I must meet my son and our friends tomorrow. We have urgent business we must complete,” said Cloe. “I have to reluctantly call it a night.”

  As they arrived outside the door to her suite, Michael turned to her and said, “Cloe, I must see you again. Perhaps after your business is finished tomorrow, we can have dinner. Your son and the monsignor would be welcome.”

  The monsignor? Cloe blinked at this, but before she could think about it, Michael took her into his arms and kissed her. Marvelous, thought Cloe, and she kissed him back for all she was worth.

  CHAPTER 36

  Cloe sat bolt upright in her bed. Monsignor, she thought. What was that about? How did he know about Albert? Trying to orient herself, she shook her head and studied the curtained window. She knew from the color of the light that it was not early. Looking at the clock by the bed, she saw it was midmorning. J.E. and the monsignor had cut her some slack. Now she needed to get herself together and find them.

  Forty-five minutes later, J.E. and the monsignor were seated with late-morning coffee in the living area of her suite. Cloe had showered and dressed and now felt pretty good in spite of the lack of sleep.

  She sat with them, swallowed the black coffee with steamed milk, and said, “J.E., I don’t know what came over me last night. I’m so sorry to have pushed you and Albert off like that. It’s just that …”

  “Mom, don’t worry about it. Miguel was very courteous and proper. You needed a respite after all that had happened. We knew you would be fine here in the hotel. I hope you had the time of your life,” replied her son.

  “Well, I guess I did,” said Cloe, smiling. “What of Father Sergio and the others?”

  “Captain Reynaud called earlier and said the search began again at dawn, but there’s nothing yet,” replied J.E. “I left all our contact information with him.”

  “Signorina, we have some good news,” said the monsignor, now properly dressed in his freshly laundered and pressed black cassock with scarlet piping.

  “Wait a minute, Albert,” Cloe said with some urgency. “When Michael and I returned to the table after that first dance, do you remember how I introduced you?”

  J.E. responded before the monsignor could. “Well, you introduced me as your son J.E., and you introduced the monsignor as Albert Roques.”

  “That’s correct,” confirmed the monsignor.

  Cloe then related to them what Miguel had said about dinner the next night when they parted—that her son and the “monsignor” would be welcome. “How could he have known you were a cleric, much less your rank as a monsignor?” asked Cloe, beginning to feel distressed. “You were dressed in civilian clothes.”

  “I have never seen the man before,” replied the monsignor quietly. “I think we have to assume Miguel has some foreknowledge of us.”

  Cloe lowered her head. Her heart hurt like never before, except on that fateful night when she had learned that Evan, J.E.’s father, had been killed in an accident aboard a dredge in Lake Pontchartrain. She had screamed then, a black scream from deep within her breast. She wanted to scream now. How could she have let herself be taken in like this?

  “Oh, Mom, I’m so sorry,” said J.E., coming to her side and putting his arm about her.

  “J.E., for a while, I felt like Cinderella with her prince. But it seems my prince had a bit of a different agenda. I wonder who he really is,” Cloe said sadly, tears filling her eyes.

  The monsignor said, “J.E., let’s give your mother a few minutes.”

  “No!” responded Cloe sharply. “We have important business to complete. I’ll worry about the prince later. Now we have to focus on our clues and find the cave. We’ve got to find Speratus. Remember, if we seek him, we shall find the cave. As the pope said, we have to find the cave before anyone else.”

  “I quite agree,” said the monsignor. “Our research indicates that the hometown of Speratus was in the Atlas Mountains, but it probably no longer exists independently as an entity. It was a small village outside of a Roman installation of the time.”

  “Right,” said J.E. “The name of the Roman fort might seem familiar—Fort Roumain a Elguettar. It’s high in the mountains overlooking the village, now town, of El Guettar, which is the very place mentioned in Thib’s letter as the site of the battle during which he came upo
n the cave. We are really hot here. The cave has to be in the vicinity of the fort.”

  “Makes sense,” said Cloe. “Where is it, and how do we get there?”

  “Hmmm,” said the monsignor.

  “What’s that, Albert?” asked Cloe.

  “I was just thinking that whoever knocked our plane down must be after the same thing we are after—the cave. Could this be the successor to the Kolektor, this ‘leader’ as they call him?”

  “Well, we have known since the meeting with the pope that he was after the cave because he was searching for the Sicarii to lead him to it,” said Cloe. “What we didn’t know was that he was aware of us and that we were going after Thib’s cave.”

  “Yes,” said J.E., “his people were probably watching us in Lyon. If so, I suspect the plan was to follow us to the cave. He was covering all bases, searching for the Sicarii but also keeping an eye out for our team. One way or the other, he would have the cave and its treasures.”

  “Quite so,” replied the monsignor. “But if he thought he might need us to lead him to the cave, why sabotage the jet? Something has changed.”

  “Oh my God,” said Cloe, gasping. “This ‘leader’ and his forces have some other source of information as to the cave’s location.”

  “Yes,” said J.E. thoughtfully. “That makes us excess baggage and has turned what has always been a race to find the jars into one of life or death.”

  CHAPTER 37

  The Karik stood, robes flowing, on a promontory overlooking El Guettar in the far distance. Only a smoky miniature of the city was visible. It had taken three days to get here, but one of those days was spent addressing equipment problems. A curse on this place, thought the Karik. Nothing works properly.

  “Karik, the landmarks on the map don’t match the detail here on the ground,” said Noosh. “We are unsure of the location of the cave.”