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THE NOSTRADAMUS PROPHECIES

Page 32

by Mario Reading

Ale­xi cur­sed long-suf­fe­ringly. He stretc­hed out a hand and to­uc­hed Sa­bir lightly on the sho­ul­der. ‘I’m sorry, Da­mo. Sorry for what I just sa­id. I’m ti­red. And I’m in pa­in. If anyt­hing hap­pens to me, of co­ur­se I want you to know whe­re the prop­he­ci­es are bu­ri­ed.’

  ‘Not­hing’s go­ing to hap­pen to you, Ale­xi. You are sa­fe now. And to Hell with the prop­he­ci­es.’

  Ale­xi le­ve­red him­self up­right. ‘No. This is im­por­tant. I was wrong to say tho­se things to you, Da­mo. I am frigh­te­ned for Yo­la. It ma­kes my ton­gue mis­be­ha­ve.

  The­re is a gypsy sa­ying: “Every­body se­es only his own dish.’’ ’

  ‘So now you’re vi­ewing Yo­la as a dish?’ Ale­xi sig­hed. ‘You are pur­po­sely mi­sun­ders­tan­ding me, Da­mo. May­be this is an easi­er exp­res­si­on for you to un­ders­tand: “When you are gi­ven, eat. When you are be­aten, run away.’’ ’

  ‘I get what you are sa­ying, Ale­xi. I’m not trying to mi­sun­ders­tand you.’

  ‘The tho­ught of bad things hap­pe­ning to her ma­kes me sick with fe­ar, Da­mo. I even dre­am of her - of pul­ling her from evil pla­ces. Or from out of mud-ho­les and qu­ick­sands that try to ta­ke her back from me. Dre­ams are im­por­tant, Da­mo. As a com­mu­nity, the Ma­no­uc­he ha­ve al­ways be­li­eved in the ca­ci­pen - in the truth of dre­ams.’

  ‘Not­hing bad is go­ing to hap­pen to her.’ ‘Da­mo. Lis­ten to me. Lis­ten ca­re­ful­ly, or I will shit on yo­ur he­ad.’

  ‘Don’t tell me. That’s anot­her of yo­ur gypsy sa­yings.’ Ale­xi’s eyes we­re fo­cu­sed on the back of Sa­bir’s neck. He was wil­ling him­self not to pass out. ‘To re­co­ver the prop­he­ci­es, you must go to whe­re I fo­und Gav­ril. It is twenty mi­nu­tes ri­de north of the Bac. Just be­fo­re you get to the Pan­per­du. The­re is a gar­di­en’s ca­ba­ne the­re. It, too, fa­ces north, as pro­tec­ti­on aga­inst the blo­wing of the Mist­ral. You can’t miss it. It is thatc­hed with la sag­no and has a plas­te­red and ti­led ro­of and a chim­ney-stack. No win­dows. Just a do­or. With a hitc­hing ra­il in front of it and a vi­ewing po­le be­hind it, whe­re the gar­di­ens can climb up and see far ac­ross the mars­hes.’

  ‘Plus, ac­cor­ding to you, it will so­on be­co­me a cri­me sce­ne. With po­li­ce se­et­hing aro­und everyw­he­re with the­ir snif­fer dogs and the­ir me­tal de­tec­tors and the­ir plas­tic BVDs.’

  ‘That do­esn’t mat­ter. You don’t ne­ed to be se­en when you pick up the prop­he­ci­es.’

  ‘How co­me?’

  ‘Hi­de yo­ur­self. Then pre­tend as if you are at the ca­ba­ne and turn to lo­ok so­uth. You will see a sing­le cypress tree stan­ding out from the ne­arby wo­od. The prop­he­ci­es are bu­ri­ed di­rectly be­hind that, abo­ut two fe­et from the trunk. Not de­ep. I was al­re­ady too we­ak for that. But de­ep eno­ugh. You will so­on see that the earth has be­en dis­tur­bed.’

  ‘They’ll rot. In the first ra­in. They’ll be­co­me il­le­gib­le. And all this will ha­ve be­en for not­hing.’

  ‘No, Da­mo. They are con­ta­ined in a bam­boo tu­be. The tu­be is se­aled in the mid­dle with hard wax. Or tree sap. So­met­hing li­ke that. Not­hing can get in.’

  An unk­nown hor­se sud­denly whin­ni­ed ahe­ad of them, the no­ise of its cry ec­ho­ing thro­ugh the mars­hes li­ke a la­ment for the de­ad. The­ir own hor­se was abo­ut to ans­wer, but so­me be­la­ted sur­vi­val ins­tinct in Sa­bir ca­used him to clamp the gel­ding’s nost­rils shut just as the ani­mal was ta­king a pre­pa­ra­tory bre­ath. He sto­od, the gel­ding’s no­se loc­ked be­ne­ath his arm, lis­te­ning.

  ‘I told you.’ Ale­xi was whis­pe­ring. ‘It is the eye-man. I told you he tor­tu­red Gav­ril. Got the lo­ca­ti­on of the Ma­set off him.’

  ‘I can see lights thro­ugh the tre­es. Why wo­uld the eye-man switch on a bunch of lights? It do­esn’t ma­ke sen­se. It’s mo­re li­kely that Yo­la has re­ce­ived a vi­sit from so­me of her girlf­ri­ends from the town. Every­body knows abo­ut this pla­ce - you told me so yo­ur­self.’ Des­pi­te his ap­pa­rent con­fi­den­ce, Sa­bir strip­ped his shirt and wrap­ped it tightly aro­und the gel­ding’s no­se. Then he led him on thro­ugh the wil­low cop­se and down to­wards the re­ar of the barn. ‘Lo­ok. The do­ors and win­dows are wi­de open. The pla­ce is lit up li­ke a cat­hed­ral. Has Yo­la go­ne mad?

  Per­haps she wan­ted to gu­ide us in?’

  ‘It’s the eye-man. I tell you, Da­mo. You must lis­ten to me. Don’t go stra­ight to­wards the lights. You must check the pla­ce out from the out­si­de first. Per­haps Yo­la had ti­me to run away? Eit­her that, or she’s in the­re with him.’

  Sa­bir lo­oked up at him. ‘You’re se­ri­o­us?’

  ‘You he­ard his hor­se.’

  ‘It co­uld be any hor­se.’

  ‘The­re was only Gav­ril’s and the eye-man’s left. I ha­ve Gav­ril’s. And the third hor­se is de­ad. The hor­ses know each ot­her, Da­mo. They know the so­und of each ot­her’s steps. They re­cog­ni­se each ot­her’s whinny. And the­re aren’t any ot­her hor­ses wit­hin half a ki­lo­met­re of he­re.’

  Sa­bir at­tac­hed the re­ins to a bush. ‘You’ve con­vin­ced me, Ale­xi. Now wa­it he­re and don’t mo­ve. I will go and re­con­no­it­re the ho­use.’

  53

  ‘What are you bur­ning? I can smell bur­ning.’ Yo­la ins­tinc­ti­vely tur­ned her fa­ce away from the light and to­wards the dark­ness be­hind her.

  ‘It’s all right. I’m not set­ting fi­re to the ho­use. Or he­ating up the pinc­hing tongs li­ke the Hang­man of Dre­is­si­gac­ker. I’m me­rely bur­ning cork. To blac­ken my fa­ce.’

  Yo­la knew that she was pe­ri­lo­usly clo­se to ex­ha­us­ti­on.

  She didn’t know how much lon­ger she co­uld hold her po­si­ti­on. ‘I’m go­ing to fall.’

  ‘No you’re not.’

  ‘Ple­ase. You ha­ve to help me.’

  ‘If you ask me aga­in, I will shar­pen a bro­om hand­le and sho­ve it up yo­ur ar­se. That’ll ke­ep you up­right.’

  Yo­la hung her he­ad. This man was im­pos­sib­le to to­uch. All her li­fe she had be­en ab­le to ma­ni­pu­la­te and thus to do­mi­na­te, men. Gypsy men we­re easy ga­me that way. If you sa­id what you had to say with eno­ugh con­vic­ti­on, they wo­uld usu­al­ly gi­ve in. The­ir mot­hers had tra­ined them well. This man was cold, ho­we­ver. Not ame­nab­le to the fe­mi­ni­ne. Yo­la de­ci­ded that the­re must be a very bad wo­man in his li­fe to ma­ke him this way. ‘Why do you ha­te wo­men?’

  ‘I don’t ha­te wo­men. I ha­te every­body who gets in the way of what I am do­ing.’

  ‘If you ha­ve a mot­her, she must be as­ha­med of you.’

  ‘Ma­da­me, my mot­her, is very pro­ud of me. She has told me so.’

  ‘Then she must be evil too.’

  For a mo­ment the­re was de­ad si­len­ce. Then a mo­ve­ment. Yo­la won­de­red whet­her she had fi­nal­ly go­ne too far. Whet­her he was co­ming ac­ross to get her.

  But Ba­le was only sto­wing away the re­ma­in­der of the so­up in or­der to gi­ve him­self a cle­arer li­ne of mo­ve­ment. ‘If you say mo­re, I shall whip the back of yo­ur legs with my belt.’

  ‘Then Ale­xi and Da­mo will see you.’

  ‘What do I ca­re. They don’t ha­ve guns.’

  ‘But they ha­ve kni­ves. Ale­xi can throw a kni­fe mo­re ac­cu­ra­tely than any man I know.’

  In the dis­tan­ce a hor­se whin­ni­ed. Ba­le he­si­ta­ted for a mo­ment, lis­te­ning. Then, sa­tis­fi­ed that it had be­en his own hor­se and that the­re had be­en no ans­we­ring call, he re­su­med the­ir con­ver­sa­ti­on. ‘He mis­sed Sa­bir. That ti­me in the cle­aring.’

  ‘You saw that?’

  �
�I see everyt­hing.’

  Yo­la won­de­red whet­her to tell him that Ale­xi had mis­sed on pur­po­se. But then she tho­ught that it wo­uld be a go­od idea if he con­ti­nu­ed to un­de­res­ti­ma­te his op­po­nents. Even the smal­lest thing might be eno­ugh to gi­ve Ale­xi or Da­mo a cru­ci­al ed­ge. ‘Why do you want the­se wri­tings? The­se prop­he­ci­es?’

  Ba­le pa­used, con­si­de­ring. At first Yo­la ex­pec­ted him to ig­no­re her qu­es­ti­on but he sud­denly ap­pe­ared to ma­ke up his mind abo­ut so­met­hing. In do­ing so, ho­we­ver, his to­ne chan­ged in­fi­ni­te­si­mal­ly. Thanks to the cla­ust­rop­ho­bic in­ten­sity in­si­de the bre­ad bag, Yo­la had be­co­me mor­bidly sen­si­ti­ve to each and every nu­an­ce in the eye-man’s vo­ice - it was thus at that exact mo­ment that she un­ders­to­od, with to­tal cer­ta­inty, that he in­ten­ded to kill her whic­he­ver way the han­do­ver went.

  ‘I want the wri­tings be­ca­use they tell of things that are go­ing to hap­pen. Im­por­tant things. Things that will chan­ge the world. The man who wro­te them has be­en pro­ved right many ti­mes over. The­re are co­des and sec­rets hid­den wit­hin what he wri­tes. My col­le­agu­es and I un­ders­tand how to bre­ak the­se co­des. We ha­ve be­en trying to lay our hands on the mis­sing prop­he­ci­es for cen­tu­ri­es. We ha­ve fol­lo­wed co­unt­less fal­se tra­ils. Fi­nal­ly, thanks to you and yo­ur brot­her, we ha­ve fo­und the true one.’

  ‘If I had the­se prop­he­ci­es I wo­uld dest­roy them.’

  ‘But you don’t ha­ve them. And you will so­on be de­ad. So it is all an ir­re­le­van­ce to you.’

  54

  Sa­bir lay on his belly at the ed­ge of the stand of tre­es, watc­hing. He co­uld fe­el the hor­ror of his po­si­ti­on le­ac­hing thro­ugh his body li­ke a can­cer.

  Yo­la was stan­ding on a three-leg­ged sto­ol. A bre­ad sack co­ve­red her he­ad and a no­ose had be­en slip­ped aro­und her neck. Sa­bir was cer­ta­in that it was Yo­la by her clot­hes and by the timb­re of her vo­ice. She was tal­king to so­me­one and this per­son was ans­we­ring her - a de­eper, mo­re do­mi­nant timb­re. Not up and down, li­ke a wo­man, but fl at - all on one no­te. Li­ke a pri­est in­to­ning the li­turgy.

  It didn’t ta­ke a ge­ni­us to re­ali­se that the eye-man had sta­ked Yo­la out as ba­it to catch him and Ale­xi. Nor to re­ali­se that the mi­nu­te that they sho­wed them­sel­ves, or ca­me wit­hin ran­ge, they wo­uld be de­ad me­at - and Yo­la with them. The fact that the eye-man wo­uld the­reby inad­ver­tently lo­se the best chan­ce he had ever had to dis­co­ver the lo­ca­ti­on of the prop­he­ci­es was yet anot­her of li­fe’s ten­der lit­tle iro­ni­es.

  Sa­bir ma­de up his mind. He squ­ir­rel­led him­self back­wards thro­ugh the un­derg­rowth to­wards Ale­xi. This ti­me he wo­uld not blun­der in and risk every­body’s li­ves. This ti­me he wo­uld use his he­ad.

  55

  When Mac­ron’s cel­lpho­ne rang, he was in­ter­vi­ewing three re­luc­tant gi­tans, who had only just cros­sed the Ca­ta­lo­ni­an bor­der that mor­ning, ne­ar Per­pig­nan. They had ob­vi­o­usly ne­ver he­ard of Sa­bir, Ale­xi or Yo­la and didn’t obj­ect to ma­king this cle­ar. One of them, sen­sing Mac­ron’s ill-con­ce­aled hos­ti­lity, even pre­ten­ded to fend him off with the fl at of his fo­re­arm - just as if he had the ‘evil eye’. Mac­ron might ha­ve ig­no­red the in­sult in the nor­mal run of things. Now he res­pon­ded ang­rily, the con­cent­ra­ted me­mory banks of his mot­her’s ing­ra­ined su­pers­ti­ti­o­us be­li­efs erup­ting, un­cal­led for, thro­ugh the ha­bi­tu­al­ly dor­mant sur­fa­ce of his own sen­si­bi­li­ti­es.

  The truth was that he felt dis­he­ar­te­ned and bo­ne-we­ary. All his inj­uri­es se­emed to ha­ve com­po­un­ded them­sel­ves in­to one all-encom­pas­sing ac­he and, to cap it all, Cal­que se­emed to be fa­vo­uring one of the new de­tec­ti­ves to ma­ke the re­al run­ning in the in­ves­ti­ga­ti­on. Mac­ron felt hu­mi­li­ated and iso­la­ted - all the mo­re so as he con­si­de­red him­self a lo­cal lad, whilst the six pan­do­res Cal­que had se­con­ded from Mar­se­il­le - his ho­me town, for Christ’s sa­ke! - still in­sis­ted on tre­ating him li­ke a pa­ri­ah. Li­ke a sa­ilor who has aban­do­ned ship and is bu­sily swim­ming to­wards the enemy, ho­ping to gi­ve him­self up in exc­han­ge for pre­fe­ren­ti­al tre­at­ment. Li­ke a Pa­ri­si­an.

  ‘Yes?’

  Fi­ve hund­red met­res from the Ma­set Sa­bir nod­ded gra­te­ful­ly to the mo­to­rist who had lent him the pho­ne.

  Fi­ve mi­nu­tes ear­li­er he had le­apt in front of the man’s car, wa­ving dra­ma­ti­cal­ly. Even then the man hadn’t hal­ted, but had ve­ered over on to the hard sho­ul­der, mis­sing Sa­bir by inc­hes. Fifty met­res furt­her up the ro­ad he had chan­ged his mind and stop­ped the car, do­ubt­less ima­gi­ning that the­re had be­en an ac­ci­dent so­mew­he­re in amongst the mars­hes. Sa­bir co­uldn’t bla­me him. In his pa­nic, he had for­got­ten all abo­ut his shirt, which was still wrap­ped aro­und the gel­ding’s no­se - he must ha­ve pre­sen­ted a dis­tur­bing sight, lurc­hing out of the un­derg­rowth on a mi­nor co­untry ro­ad, half na­ked and in the pitch dark­ness.

  ‘This is Sa­bir.’

  ‘You’ve got to be joking.’

  ‘Who is this?’

  ‘Li­e­ute­nant Mac­ron. Cap­ta­in Cal­que’s as­sis­tant. We ha­ven’t met, un­for­tu­na­tely, but I know all abo­ut you. You’ve be­en run­ning us a merry lit­tle dan­ce ac­ross most of Fran­ce. You and yo­ur two Ma­gi.’

  ‘Pass me Cal­que. I ha­ve to talk to him. Ur­gently.’

  ‘Cap­ta­in Cal­que is con­duc­ting in­ter­vi­ews. Tell me whe­re you are and we’ll send a stretch li­mo­usi­ne out to col­lect you. How’s that for star­ters?’

  ‘I know whe­re the eye-man is.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘He’s ho­led up in a ho­use, abo­ut fi­ve hund­red met­res from whe­re I am spe­aking to you. He is hol­ding a hos­ta­ge, Yo­la Sa­ma­na. He has her stan­ding on a sto­ol, with a no­ose aro­und her neck. She’s lit up li­ke a son et lu­mi­ère. The eye-man is pre­su­mably hi­ding in the sha­dows with a pis­tol, wa­iting for Ale­xi and me to show our­sel­ves. As far as ar­ma­ment is con­cer­ned, Ale­xi and I ha­ve got exactly one kni­fe bet­we­en us. We don’t stand a chan­ce in Hell. If yo­ur pre­ci­o­us Cap­ta­in Cal­que can get so­me pa­ra­mi­li­ta­ri­es in pla­ce and if he can gu­aran­tee me that he will pri­ori­ti­se Yo­la’s sa­fety - and not the cap­tu­re of the eye-man - I’ll tell you whe­re I am. If not, you can both go and piss aga­inst a drysto­ne wall. I’ll go in myself.’

  ‘Stop. Stop. Wa­it. Are you still in the Ca­mar­gue?’

  ‘Yes. That much I’ll tell you. Is it ag­re­ed? Ot­her­wi­se I’ll switch this pho­ne off right now.’

  ‘It’s ag­re­ed. I’ll go and fetch Cal­que. The­re are CRS pa­ra­mi­li­ta­ri­es on per­ma­nent standby in Mar­se­il­le. They can be dep­lo­yed stra­ight away. By he­li­cop­ter, if ne­ces­sary. It will ta­ke no mo­re than an ho­ur.’

  ‘Too long.’

  ‘Less. Less than an ho­ur. If you can be ac­cu­ra­te abo­ut the lo­ca­ti­on. Gi­ve me an exact map re­fe­ren­ce. The CRS will ha­ve to work out whe­re to land the he­li­cop­ter wit­ho­ut gi­ving away the­ir pre­sen­ce. And then ap­pro­ach by fo­ot.’

  ‘The man I bor­ro­wed the cel­lpho­ne from may ha­ve a map. Go get Cal­que. I’ll stay on­li­ne.’

  ‘No. No. We can’t risk yo­ur bat­tery run­ning out. I ha­ve yo­ur num­ber. When I’ve re­ac­hed Cal­que I will call you back. Get me that map re­fe­ren­ce.’

  As Mac­ron ran to whe­re he knew Cal­que was con­duc­ting his in­ter­vi­ews, he was al­re­ady scrol­ling down for the co­de to the­ir Pa­ris h
e­ad­qu­ar­ters. ‘André. It’s Pa­ul. I ha­ve a cel­lpho­ne num­ber for you. We ne­ed an ins­tant GPS. It’s ur­gent. Co­de One.’

  ‘Co­de One? You’re joking.’

  ‘This is a hos­ta­ge si­tu­ati­on. The man hol­ding the hos­ta­ge kil­led the se­cu­rity gu­ard in Ro­ca­ma­do­ur. Get me that GPS. We’re in the Ca­mar­gue. If any ot­her part of Fran­ce co­mes up on yo­ur giz­mo, you’ve got in­ter­fe­ren­ce or a mal­func­ti­on. Get me the exact po­si­ti­on of that cel­lpho­ne. To wit­hin fi­ve met­res. And in­si­de fi­ve mi­nu­tes. I can’t af­ford to blow this.’

  ***

  Wit­hin thirty se­conds of Mac­ron exp­la­ining the si­tu­ati­on to him, Cal­que was on the pho­ne to Mar­se­il­le.

  ‘This is a Co­de One pri­ority. I will iden­tify myself.’ He re­ad out the num­ber on his iden­tity card. ‘You will see a ten let­ter cip­her when you type in my na­me on the com­pu­ter. It is this. HKL481GYP7. Do you ha­ve that? Do­es it match the co­de on the na­ti­onal da­ta­ba­se? It do­es? Go­od. Hand me over to yo­ur su­per­vi­sor im­me­di­ately.’

  Cal­que spent an in­ten­se fi­ve mi­nu­tes tal­king down the pho­ne. Then he tur­ned to Mac­ron.

  ‘Ha­ve Pa­ris co­me back to you with Sa­bir’s GPS?’

  ‘Yes, Sir.’

  ‘Now pho­ne him. Com­pa­re it with the map re­fe­ren­ce he gi­ves you.’

  Mac­ron got back on the pho­ne to Sa­bir. ‘Do you ha­ve a map re­fe­ren­ce for us? Yes? Gi­ve it to me.’ He mar­ked it down in his no­te­bo­ok, then ran ac­ross and sho­wed it to Cal­que.

  ‘It matc­hes. Tell him to wa­it exactly whe­re he is un­til you ar­ri­ve. Then get in­to pla­ce yo­ur­self and call the si­tu­ati­on in to me at this num­ber.’ He scrib­bled down a num­ber on Mac­ron’s pad. ‘It is the num­ber of the lo­cal Gen­dar­me­rie. I will ba­se myself the­re, co­or­di­na­ting the ope­ra­ti­on bet­we­en Pa­ris, Mar­se­il­le and Les Sa­in­tes-Ma­ri­es. I ha­ve be­en re­li­ably in­for­med that it will ta­ke at le­ast fifty mi­nu­tes to get the pa­ra­mi­li­ta­ri­es in pla­ce. You can be at the Ma­set in thirty. Twenty-fi­ve, even. Stop Sa­bir and the gypsy from pa­nic­king in­to any pre­ci­pi­ta­te ac­ti­on. If it lo­oks as tho­ugh the girl is be­ing im­mi­nently thre­ate­ned, in­ter­ve­ne. If not, ke­ep yo­ur he­ad down. Do you ha­ve yo­ur pis­tol?’

 

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