Magic Lantern

by Des Sheridan

  Kirsten had been momentarily struck dumb. The script might have been written with her in mind. Astrid must have noticed a change in her facial expression.

  ‘Oh yes. Sorry, my mind had drifted’.

  ‘As long as I am not boring you, dear,’ Astrid remarked sarcastically.

  Not at all, thought Kirsten to herself. She wanted to know more about this Mórríoghain – a lot more. At that moment she became aware that a tall shadow had interposed itself between her and the light coming in from the window. ‘Hello,’ she said, greeting the newcomer with interest but it was Astrid who spoke next.

  ‘Ah, there you are. I was wondering what was taking you so long. Am I glad you have brought another bottle! We have just finished this one. Kirsten - may I introduce my next door neighbour? His name is Morten.’

  Chapter 3

  Arz, France, 21 October 2014

  Robert sat on the riverside terrace at the hotel in Arz taking in the stillness and warmth of the early evening. Across the water the great curtain walls of the Château D’Arz towered over the far bank of the river Oust. After the adrenalin of the day he was relishing the sense of peace that imbued the scene. Arriving in the medieval town was like stepping into another world, a sleepy world where life passed at a slower pace. The shops were closed now and apart from a few patrons coming and going from the restaurants immediately across the bridge from where he sat, the small town was quiet.

  Robert recapped the day’s hectic events. He felt good - that sense of exhilaration that a soldier has after a successful mission. You pushed yourself to a peak of physical and intellectual focus and rolled with events as they unfolded. If you were able and lucky you got through in one piece. He knew how lucky they were to be alive and in particular how fortunate he was. Tara had saved his life, simple as that. And he had been delighted by how she had handled herself throughout the day. Plucky wasn’t the word. She had shown courage and decisiveness. At this rate she would make it as a member of the ARAD field team.

  What’s more, the visit to Mont Saint-Michel had taken them significantly forward in their quest. The housekeeper’s information was a major breakthrough. She had recounted a family story, passed down from parent to child for generations, about a mysterious object called the Triskell. It was a rare Celtic treasure but when the French Revolution erupted in1789 the monks had realised that, along with their many other treasures, it was at grave risk. Initially they had hesitated and taken no action. The countryside was very unsafe and no one could agree a safer place for relocating their treasures at this time of turmoil. They resolved instead to do nothing and put their trust in God - with the exception of one man. A monk by the name of Armand Bihan had secretly taken the Triskell and removed it to the family seat in the Château d’Arz. Perhaps if they inquired there someone would help them in their search, Jeanette had suggested.

  Once they had checked into the hotel, Tara announced that she was going to bed to recuperate for a few hours. She said she still felt chilled from the immersion. Robert suspected there was more to it. He reckoned she was in shock but agreed, nevertheless, when she said that bed was a good place to rest and recharge her batteries. He, by contrast, had been restless, so he had crossed the bridge by the hotel and, mounting a steep lane, found a turning that led directly up to the main gate of the Château. There he joined a party of tourists on the last guided tour of the grounds for the day, it being too late to join an internal tour of the buildings. The trip enabled him to scout out the gardens ahead of their intended visit to the Duc d’Arz. He telephoned the Château from the hotel upon his return and persuaded the Duc’s private secretary to book them an audience for the following morning. It was the link to Rosnaree that had clinched it. Curiosity had got the better of the secretary and an appointment for ten thirty was duly forthcoming.

  Looking across the river, Robert studied the magnificent façade of the castle, from his vantage point on the terrace. Three powerful round towers were rooted firmly in jagged outcrops of bedrock and rose to culminate, at a height of perhaps two hundred feet, in a steeply-pitched conical, grey-slated roof. The antiquity of the towers was attested by the paucity of windows, which were limited to one set, four storeys tall, high on the side of each tower. Sheer vertical stone walls filled the spaces between the towers, the upper reaches of which boasted three splendid Gothic dormer gables that punctuated the steep slated roof. Each gable was two storeys high and had two tall mullioned windows, sitting one above the other. The full façade spoke of medieval stone simplicity and strength metamorphosing upwards into fairy-tale, soaring Gothic beauty.

  On the tour Robert had been told that the towers and main curtain walls dated from the thirteen-hundreds. They were a remarkable statement of strength, reflecting the implacable determination of their builder to dominate his world and keep his enemies at bay. When you thought back to how primitive life was at that time, in terms of technology and machinery, it was evident that such a feat could only have been achieved through the exercise of immense power. No doubt the builder had compelled obedience through the right of droit de seigneur. Robert thought of his and Tara’s faceless enemy and his relentless pursuit of them and the Triskell, realising that it might help to think of him as someone from another age. A ruthless force bursting forcefully into contemporary lives from another time.

  Robert turned over a number of issues mentally, to see if he could pin them down. Topmost was the possibility that tomorrow they would find nothing – the trail would go cold. If that happened he was minded to leave Brittany, regroup somewhere safer and re-evaluate the situation. He was certain that their pursuers, having waited for them at Mont Saint-Michel, would be on their trail again before too long. At best, he estimated, they had five days’ grace. He knew clearly what was required to escape that noose. They had to assess whatever information Nico had gained about their enemy and use it to turn the tables. Start moving in on them and make their lives uncomfortable for a change. Only that would really alter the situation he and Tara were in. Robert didn’t like people taking pot-shots at him and he wouldn’t hesitate to retaliate if he got the chance.

  Wondering what the world was making of events at Mont Saint-Michel, Robert powered up his tablet to check the news coverage. What he found was relatively reassuring. Yes, images of Tara and him, captured on a tourist’s mobile phone, were all over the place. But they were distant fuzzy figures and their disguise had really helped. Since they had dressed like ordinary French citizens and dyed their hair, Robert was certain no one would identify them as the normal-looking tourist couple that had arrived in Arz. Nico’s idea of going in disguise, which had seemed over the top at the time, had bought them valuable time. That was really heartening.

  The pursuers too had been captured on film. The police had recovered two dead bodies and, a detective was quoted as saying it was probably a shootout between rival criminal gangs, most likely drug-related. A sigh of relief escaped Robert. This was looking good; against the odds they had got away scot-free from Mont Saint-Michel. And he knew why. It was the first time ARAD had run an operation like this and it had come through with flying colours. He felt proud of the team.

  Chapter 4

  Mont Saint-Michel, France, 21 October 2014

  Pascal de Waverin-Looz had supervised the operation at Mont Saint-Michel from the Cloisters at the heart of the Abbey complex. It meant that, should he be questioned, he had been in public view at the critical time. He controlled his team through a small radio phone, about the size of an old feature phone. Being located high in the complex facilitated quick movement – should it be needed - to any other part of the site as it was downhill in all directions.

  He heard immediately when Tara and Robert were located and listened to subsequent events unfold over the radio phone in real time. When their quarry had eluded them on the ramparts at Mont Saint-Michel, with two of his people down, Pascal at once ordered the remaining crew to go to ground and evade capture. But he did not pull out. Instead he headed d
own the Grand Escalier Intérieur with his companion, Jean le Vache, and made straight for the Abbey House. Events had gone against Pascal and he was angry. Whatever had attracted the pair of fugitives to the Mont was not tourism. It was not a question of what they had come to see, he reasoned, it was a question of whom they had come to meet.

  When the housekeeper of the Abbey opened the door, less than ten minutes after the shootings by the tower, Pascal didn’t wait to be invited inside. Pushing through, he took hold of the woman’s throat, and ordered her to take them to her Master. The Abbé had not long returned from Sext, the midday reading of the Liturgy of the Hours. As he had done a thousand occasions before, he had led the assembled monks with the opening lines from the psalm, “God come to my assistance, Lord make haste to help me”. Little did he know how prophetic the prayer would be this day. It didn’t take Pascal long to get the Abbé to talk. A swift and vicious beating ensured that the old man very soon told him about his visitors and the woman disclosed the link to the Bihan family.

  Jean had wanted to let the Abbé and his housekeeper live but, after the Arundel episode, Pascal was having none of it. They had pushed the prisoners roughly down into the deserted crypts deep under the fortress. These were wonderfully vast gothic chambers and, although clinically stripped over the years of any ornament, Pascal had no difficulty imagining them in their prime. To previous generations the Mont was the heart of a world of passionate belief and occupied by men ready to use violence to uphold it. Had he more time he would have sent his captives more fittingly into the otherworld, letting them experience an infinity of pain en route. Instead he had shot the Abbé in the head, at close range, leaving a scorch mark around the entry point of the bullet. Then, to add spice to proceedings, he had forced Jean to shoot the woman. Sweat had stood out on Jean’s forehead as she pleaded with him for mercy. But Jean had finally done it, blasting half of the woman’s head away, her brains splattering messily on the ancient tiles because he had stood too close, and with wrong type of gun. When it came to wet jobs Jean was hopelessly inept, a burden, but Pascal sadistically enjoyed forcing him to take part. The two men had dumped the bodies in a large disused wooden cupboard, reckoning that it would take days for anyone to find them there.

  Chapter 5

  Arz, France, 21 October 2014

  Two floors up in the hotel Tara awoke, the memory of what had happened hitting her at once. Starting up in the bed in anxiety, sweat drenched her as she recalled that she had killed someone! At least she thought she had - but maybe she hadn’t? Perhaps the woman had just been injured? Then the memory of stepping past the fallen woman returned. She had looked very still lying on the ramparts. Blood was draining from under the body - a horrible deep-red trickle moving swiftly across the pavement as though in a rush to escape and spread the news of what had had happened. Of what Tara had done. For an instant Tara tried to tell herself that maybe it was OK, perhaps the woman was just unconscious and she would live. But her shaking body told her that she was deceiving herself. How could she justify killing someone in pursuit of some historical puzzle? It was criminal and, worse than that, it was evil. She had taken a life!

  After more tossing and turning she realised that she wasn’t going to get any rest, so she got up and paced the room. Her mobile tinkled. It was Robert texting to ask if she was OK and suggesting they meet for dinner. She couldn’t face the thought of meeting anyone or eating anything. She replied that she was fine but tired and wasn’t hungry. She would see him at breakfast, she texted. There was no way she could face him.

  Lying back on the hotel bed she opened the plastic bottle of sleeping pills that she was clutching in her hand. She had to stop the shaking, stop the remorse going endlessly around her head. She just couldn’t stand any more of this.

  Chapter 6

  Mont Saint-Michel, France, 21 October 2014

  After they left the Abbey, Jean started to panic.

  ‘Pascal, the police will seal off the island and vet everyone departing through the Porte du Roi. They will get us! We must hide somewhere!’

  ‘Don’t be a fool! You think the Gendarmerie is going to coop up five thousand visitors while an unknown number of gunmen are on the prowl, at one of France’s prime tourist locations during a world-wide recession? Use your brains, Jean. Hold your nerve or I will bloody shut you up myself.’

  Jean realised that Pascal was most likely right. But the police did close the island to new visitors and with every passing moment more police swarmed about and then a police helicopter swirled overhead. Pascal’s response was to insist that he and Jean go into the most expensive restaurant on the Mont and have a seafood banquet. Incredulous at first, Jean began to see that it was a shrewd move. It would be a distraction, keeping both him and Pascal out of sight. Some of the time, ensconced in the artificial security of the restaurant, Jean managed to control his soaring anxiety levels. When they emerged, however, his stress levels escalated afresh. The crowds had thinned but the police presence remained high and Jean felt more exposed than ever. His state of inner turmoil was not driven entirely by fear. Reason played its part for he knew that if they were stopped they would be a forensic goldmine.

  He watched Pascal carry on assuredly down the hill ahead of him, paying no heed to the police, his boundless confidence seeing him through. Some policemen eyed them as they sauntered past but no one challenged the two well-dressed men. Within minutes they were in the back of the car, speeding away from the Mont, with Pascal issuing orders into his mobile phone. Luck of the Devil, thought Jean.

  Chapter 7

  Arz, France, 22 October 2014, 08:20

  The morning sun, low in the sky, stole through a gap in the awning over the terrace and reflected off the table fork that Nico was twiddling as he spoke. Robert saw that the glare must be irritating Tara’s eyes as she kept switching her gaze out onto the river. Following her stare, he saw the dappled sunlight reflected in shimmering pools on the surface. It was going to be a hot day. Tara pulled her sunglasses down over her eyes and returned her attention back to Nico, so Robert did the same. Nico continued updating them on what he had been planning overnight. They sat at the far end of the hotel’s terrace and an elderly German couple, located a good distance away, were the only other early risers. For the most part, as a precaution, the Italian disguised his meaning in innocuous-sounding comments but they were able to read his intention.

  Lowering his voice, Nico shoved a copy of Le Monde onto Tara’s lap.

  ‘Look at this.’

  A blurry photo of Tara and Robert jumping through the air was on the front page, although most of the story was on page four. Unable to read French she passed it on to Robert, who quickly scanned the report, then put the paper aside.

  ‘I still can’t credit it. They opened fire on us so readily in a public place. This is insane.’ He spoke quietly.

  Nico shrugged his shoulders.

  ‘They act impulsively and are taking risks, which means they are in a big hurry.’ He paused a moment, looking out over the flowing river. ‘You need to be careful today. I have brought new ... protection for you both and I will stick around too.’

  Robert stole a glance at Tara, but her wan face betrayed no response and he couldn’t see her eyes as they were hidden behind her shades. He guessed that she hadn’t slept much and was worried at the strain she must be bearing. She would be racked with feelings of guilt over the shooting, yet she hadn’t said a word. She hadn’t even asked how the woman was faring. Then again, although her French wasn’t good, the headline she had seen was explicit enough. Deux morts was not difficult to figure out. It was not a good idea for her to carry arms so soon after Mont Saint-Michel, he thought, deciding to scotch that suggestion.

  ‘I am not expecting a re-run of yesterday, Nico. These things take time to arrange. They don’t know where we are. I reckon we will be fine.’

  ‘OK, but where’s the harm...’

  ‘I said no, Nico. Move on!’ Robert barked back.<
br />
  ‘OK, OK, but we really need to be out of here once you have seen the Duc. We need to go to ground somewhere...,’

  Nico’s voice trailed off. He flapped a hand impatiently, his face a picture of exasperation.

  Robert said nothing, just nodded. Nico looked at his watch - it was 8.30 a.m. - and changed the subject.

  ‘So, to business. Are you ready to meet your enemy?’

  Smiling grimly, he pulled a brown A4 envelope out of his man bag and passed it over. Tara opened it and pulled out a wodge of A4 photos. Robert pulled his chair closer to hers and, leaning sideways, looked over her shoulder. Her hair had a nice smell, a scent like apple. He could get used to that, he thought. The prints were in colour and with a distinctive grainy texture. Zoom lens, blown up, he thought. Tara silently flipped through the photos. There were ten in all.

  ‘Are you sure? He was really charming when I met him. He seemed a nice person. Maybe.....it’s a mistake?’

  Tara sounded dubious or tired - or both - and passed the photos to Robert.

  Robert looked at them. They were taken on Mont Saint-Michel and showed two of the watchers meeting three other men and a woman near the southern access to the ramparts. One shot was a side view of a man with a shaved head and tight features. Robert recognised him from the wood that night at Rosnaree and knew straight away what else to look for. The other two heads were shot from behind, but there it was on one of them: a splash of blond hair.

  The next photo showed the second man’s face in full. A handsome face with a high brow, the long streaked hair swept straight back. An arrogant cast to the features could be attributed to the somewhat staring eyes, while the nascent double chin and fleshy lips added a touch of encroaching corpulence to an otherwise youthful visage. Here at last was the face of their pursuer. In the next photo the man was caught smiling, looking eminently human – charming, that was the word Tara had used. Was this really the face of the murderer of Shay, Andre and God knows how many others? Robert thought back. In the woods at Rosnaree three weeks ago he had seen these two faces briefly and had recognised them for what they were - killers. He had no doubt then and there could be none now.