Day of Atonement

by Alex Archer

  While he wasn’t sure exactly which journal was missing, he knew the time of its writing, and that it tracked back to the death of Joan. He didn’t know the documents word for word, but was familiar with almost all of the secrets they contained, because they were his secrets. He had been there. He had lived through those dark days. If Cauchon had even the vaguest concept of the secrets he’d managed to procure, he could be a very dangerous opponent.

  Roux used shop windows and car windshields to see if anyone was following, deliberately doubling back to retrace his steps and move counterintuitively against the flow of bodies, always checking the reflections to see if anyone followed him. To the casual observer his actions might have appeared erratic and more than a little strange, but Roux didn’t care about that. He wanted to flush out his tail. Get them to show themselves, to make a mistake. He’d happily face anyone head-on. He’d had showdowns before, even gone up against ArmaLites and AK-47s with nothing but his bare hands, and come out alive. And if he got to take one of them down, put a few questions to Cauchon bare-knuckle-style, then he’d happily take the opportunity to get a little exercise and learn more about this incarnation of the man.

  Twice he thought he had spotted someone tailing him, but both came to nothing. They were just heading in the same general direction, attracted by items in shop windows that made them pause for a while before moving on again.

  He was becoming paranoid.

  He needed to shake himself out of it.

  There was nothing on the route that seemed out of the ordinary, nothing that might have attracted Annja for more than a moment. She wasn’t a fashion-obsessed kind of girl. She was only happy when she was getting her hands dirty. Once the cathedral came into view he knew that there was no point going any farther. Philippe, her cameraman, would have seen her once she was this close to the site. He wouldn’t have missed her in the crowds.

  As he turned to retrace his steps and return to the hotel, his phone rang.

  He checked the caller ID.

  It wasn’t Annja.

  “Garin.” He said it fast, like he wanted the call over before it had begun so that he could free the line up in case Annja was trying to get through. “I gather you have taken care of your business?”

  “It’s under control. It got a bit hairy there for a while, but I’ll join you shortly. I should be at your hotel within the hour.”

  “And the number I gave you?”

  “My guy’s on it. So far, he’s confirmed that the last time it was used was in Carcassonne, in the past twenty-four hours, but it’s inactive now so there’s no telling if he’s moved on or is still in the area until he puts the battery back into the handset. He knows what he’s doing, in other words.”

  “Nothing that helps, then.” Roux wasn’t sure what he had expected, but being able to pinpoint Cauchon’s base of operations from a cell phone number would have been a good start.

  “When you say Carcassonne, is there any chance of narrowing that down? I don’t know how these things work, triangulating cell phone towers and such, but everything you see on the internet these days seems to talk about a surveillance society and these cell phones of ours being nothing more than electronic tags tracking our every movement.”

  “Pretty much, but our boy is covering his tracks—or at least making it difficult for us. My guy’s monitoring the number. The second the phone comes online, he’ll let me know.”

  “And in the meantime we do nothing?”

  “In the meantime we do what we do best, we make trouble. If Cauchon is as keen to speak to you as I think he is, he’ll make contact. He’ll want to goad you. We’ll be ready for him.”

  “Not much of a plan, Garin.” Sometimes it felt like he was talking to a small child who always made light of everything.

  “If you don’t want my help, I’ll just turn around and head back home.”

  Roux bit his tongue. He wanted to say, Yes, do that, do exactly that, but instead he said, “I think you owe Annja more than that.”

  “It’s always about Annja,” Garin said after a few seconds of silence. “Have you noticed that? It’s never about us anymore. The only time we talk is about her.”

  “We ran out of things to say to each other about two hundred years ago,” Roux said, and this time Garin did laugh.

  “Probably. Look. You’re right. I owe her more than that. And given everything else, my part in it—which I didn’t realize at the time—I owe you more, too. So no, I’m not going to head back home. I’m going to be with you in an hour and we’re going to put an end to this threat once and for all. You, me and Annja. The three slightly cranky musketeers.”

  “That’s one way of describing us,” the old man said, and ended the call. Garin could always infuriate him. All he had to do most days was open his mouth and he’d manage it. But so many times that same infuriating man had turned out to be the solution to problems that were beyond Roux. Like it or not, they made a good team.

  A horn sounded.

  Roux took a step backward, not noticing that he had been so close to the edge of the sidewalk.

  A woman on a scooter smiled at him, blond hair flowing from the back of her helmet, then blew him a kiss.

  He smiled back, not knowing if his cheeks were flushed with embarrassment at almost walking into the road or at attracting the attention of a beautiful woman.

  He watched as the woman rode away, her hair getting caught in her own slipstream as it trailed behind her. For a moment he wondered if he knew her, if that airborne kiss had been meant to remind him somehow, but the glimpse of her face had been so fleeting he couldn’t possibly place her from this lifetime or any other.

  33

  Moving the oil burner behind her back wasn’t easy. Annja worked it around so she could lift it with her hands, but before she’d taken half a dozen steps the heat from the wick was burning her skin.

  She gritted her teeth against the pain, only just managing to lower it to the ground without dropping it in the process.

  That would have been a disaster.

  Her heart raced, as she couldn’t help but imagine all of the potential consequences of the thing smashing.

  The worst was that it was only a short step away from what she was contemplating.

  The wooden door at the top of the short flight of stone steps felt dry enough that she might just get away with the crazy notion she had: smashing the lantern against it.

  If she got really lucky, the oil-fueled flame would be enough to start it burning. But to undermine its integrity enough that she could batter her way out? It was a long shot.

  And for all that to happen before the woman returned? Perhaps impossible.

  In the absence of any windows she had no idea how much time had actually passed since the woman had left. Annja didn’t even know what time of day it was. She hadn’t been able to hear any telltale sounds coming or going from the other side of the door, even when she’d kicked against it with her heel trying to get someone’s attention.

  She was beneath some kind of church—that much was obvious—quite probably not in use. Her assumption, heavy on the irony, was that she was in the crypt of the cathedral where she’d been supposed to meet Philippe. The idea forced a bitter laugh from her.

  When it finished, she heard the sound of a key being rattled into the lock.

  She strained again at the ties, hoping that the heat from the lantern might have weakened them. They showed no sign of breaking no matter how hard she pulled at them. The plastic was uncomfortably hot from where the lantern had burned at it. Given a few minutes longer she would have tried to melt the ties, but knew that chances were the plastic would just fuse with the blood and abraded skin beneath them rather than snap. That was the kind of luck she was having today.

  Annja scrambled back to her feet, ready to face the woman.

  She had no intention of letting her look down at her.

  Even with her hands behind her back she knew that she had a chance no matter how sl
ight. If the woman had wanted her dead, she would have killed her by now. The fact that she’d taken the trouble to drug her and transport her to this subterranean crypt boded well for her opportunity to survive. As long as that hadn’t changed in the intervening hours.

  Annja backed away as the woman descended the short flight of steps.

  It was a ploy to appear subservient, deferential. In other words, make sure the woman didn’t see her as a threat. She needed to draw her into the room and work enough space to get past her if she could bowl her over bodily.

  “Good to see you up and about,” the woman said, pausing when she saw that the lantern had been moved from the sarcophagus. She nodded slightly, but made no comment as she bent to pick it up.

  Instinctively, Annja knew that this was chance to strike. It wasn’t much of a disadvantage, but the woman was off balance and off guard. It was as good as it was going to get.

  She took two quick steps and swung her right leg hard, in a high arc, before the woman knew what was happening.

  The point of her toe made contact beneath the blonde woman’s jaw, snapping her head back and sending her sprawling to the ground.

  She hit the stones hard, losing control of the lantern. The momentum sent it crashing against the side of the sarcophagus.

  Fuel splashed against the stone and spread in a pool across the floor.

  There was a moment’s breath, a deep and profound silence, before the flame chased across its surface with a whoosh, sucking the air to the flame.

  The fire blazed, forming a barrier between them.

  Annja was on the wrong side of it.

  The woman struggled to get to her knees, disorientated by the blow.

  She shook her head, trying to gather her wits, leaned forward, hands flat on the cold stone, and spit out a mouthful of blood.

  Annja took her chance while she still could.

  There was no time to go around the flames; instead, she had to run through the fire, gambling that it wouldn’t catch onto her clothes. Burning fabric wouldn’t be easy to put off with her hands tied behind her back.

  She launched herself forward, five rapid steps and she was through and on the other side, rushing awkwardly toward the stairs, her bound hands making it difficult to run properly.

  Her foot came down on the first step just as the woman’s hand snaked out to grab her ankle, fingers taking a grip too tight to shake off.

  It was enough for Annja to lose her balance.

  She stumbled forward with no hope of saving herself from falling even as she twisted sideways, trying to take the brunt of the impact on her shoulder instead of her face. Even so, the pain of impact was jarring. Annja cried out as she hit stone. She gasped for air that was rapidly filling with smoke.

  In an instant the woman was on top of her, her weight pressing down, and then Annja felt the sharp sting on the back of her neck.

  She fought to dislodge the woman, but even as she did so the strength started to seep away from her struggle. She heard words—they could have been hers, they could have been her attacker’s. They were just a slurred mumble that she couldn’t understand.

  Annja barely felt the kick that the woman planted in her ribs.

  34

  Roux waited in the lobby.

  There was no point in going up to his room while he waited for Garin. Besides, he’d be happy never to set foot in that monastic cell again if he had anything to say about it. He was tempted to go up to the suite, but ordered black coffee and stared out through the glass doors while the drink grew cold on the table in front of him. Twice a server approached to see if he needed anything else; he shook his head to say, No thanks, before she could ask.

  Eventually Garin appeared in the doorway as the first fat flakes of a new snowfall filled the air.

  “No luggage?”

  “Traveling light.”

  “Any more news?” Roux asked.

  “Nothing yet. I take it that he hasn’t reached out to you.”

  Roux shook his head.

  “Let’s head up to the room. We can talk without worrying about being overhead.” He knew procedure. The museum would have alerted the police to the theft from their archives, and given them his name as the last known signatory, meaning he was a person of interest. Eventually someone was going to come looking for him if they weren’t already.

  “Devious.” Garin chuckled appreciatively when they were in his room. It wasn’t quite the reaction Roux had been expecting.

  “Is that what you really think?”

  “Of course. Look at it this way. He got you to blame me and put the blame squarely at your door at the same time. I’d say that was pretty devious. And pulling it off without half the world realizing it was missing…brilliant.”

  “It wasn’t you?”

  “Not this time, boss,” Garin said, shaking his head.

  “Pity.”

  “Sorry to disappoint.”

  “That’s twice. I’m not used to you apologizing. It’s really quite disconcerting. Maybe now would be a good time for you to tell me what happened to you and why you decided to steal from me.”

  “It’s no big deal, really. Nothing out of the ordinary. I was approached by a broker to ask if I could locate some historical documents for his client in exchange for a very generous fee. It was supposed to be the first of a few objects the client had his eye on, and given that I knew exactly where it was, it felt like an easy buck.”

  “I hope it was worth it.”

  Garin shook his head. “I didn’t see a cent outside of the retainer. Some people just don’t like to pay. Shame, because I’d enjoyed the haggling.”

  “What did you take?”

  “Papers recording Joan’s burning, documented by Guillaume Manchon, a court scribe at the church court in Rouen at the time.”

  Roux knew them well.

  They mentioned him by name.

  It wasn’t good, but it could have been worse. He remembered Manchon, a particularly disagreeable runt of a man who had wormed himself into favor with Cauchon and delighted in the burning of the young woman. He’d been sure she’d been possessed by a whole host of demons. It was really quite pathetic. But that didn’t stop it from being dangerous.

  “You actually handed them over without getting the cash up front? You’re slacking.” It was Roux’s turn to laugh. “I take it there was a woman involved?”

  “How did you guess?”

  “I know you, my friend,” Roux said, and for a moment it was as if all of the betrayals between them had never happened. “Any idea who she was?”

  “Not a clue. She certainly wasn’t the person I spoke to on the phone. He certainly wasn’t a beautiful blonde.”

  “Beautiful blonde?” Roux’s mind raced, making connections.

  It was another of those coincidences that could be a coincidence but absolutely wasn’t. He knew that deep down in his ancient bones. One day a beautiful blonde is outwitting Garin, the next another drives by on a scooter blowing him a kiss? They had to be one and the same.

  “I may have seen her,” he said, “which confirms my suspicions that it’s all connected.”

  Garin shook his head. “How long has it taken you to work that out? Both of us getting phone calls from people we don’t know, the only person that we both know well going missing? Absolutely it’s all connected. Every single thing that’s happened is connected. It’s a web. Every strand, from the museum to the library to the falling masonry to us getting here, all strands of the same dark web. I’ll bet I can even tell you who they got to pull off that robbery at the museum and how he set you up to take the blame.”

  “Who?”

  “Jake Thornton.”

  “Should I know the name?”

  “He’s a thief who likes to try his hand at robbing institutions. He also likes to think of himself as a bit of a high-end cat burglar, or did at least.”

  “Do you know where we can get hold of him?”

  “By séance.”

 
; “What?”

  “That problem, I mentioned? Being framed for murder. Thornton’s corpse was on the bed in the hotel suite where I was expecting to meet my buyer. I was drugged, and pretty effectively framed, right down to them stealing a Ferrari the same color as mine and putting my plates on it, and making sure the valet knew my name. Like I said, a little problem. I called in the cleaners and left them to it. I’m assuming his body’s long gone now and there’s nothing left in the room to tie me to the crime—and no actual evidence of a crime for that matter.” They had both seen enough death over the years, but that didn’t mean that they were completely immune to it.

  “And Annja is missing,” Roux said, not finishing the thought. It went in an obvious direction. Neither of them wanted to follow it.

  “So what’s the plan?”

  “We don’t have one.”

  “That’s not ideal.” Garin chuckled mirthlessly. “We could tap into the hotel CCTV system to see if we can spot Annja leaving the hotel, but it’s not like this place is wired, eyes everywhere. It’s an ancient settlement. It’s going to be filled with blind spots even if we get in.”

  “But it’s a good start. Can you get the equipment you need in a place like this?”

  Garin smiled smugly. “With these fingers I can work magic, my friend. Even in a place like this. All I need is a laptop and an internet connection.”

  “Fair enough,” the old man agreed.

  Garin picked up the phone at the side of the bed and spoke to someone at the reception desk. Within a couple of minutes he had the directions to the nearest computer store and was heading out the door.

  “I’ll be back in twenty minutes,” he said. “Why don’t you order from room service? I’m starving.” He closed the door behind him without waiting for a response, leaving Roux alone in the room.

  35

  Annja felt the bruises even before she was completely awake.

  Her body bounced up and down on the unforgiving metal floor as the vehicle rocked and rolled on its suspension.

  The ties binding her wrists had been supported by another set around her ankles and there was a gag across her mouth. She could taste the wad of cloth that had been stuffed in behind the gag to make sure she couldn’t be heard. Swimming back toward consciousness, it felt like she was drowning on the material, choking and gagging as she tried to suck down precious air. It took her a moment to master the panic and focus on breathing in slowly, calmly, through her nose.