by Brett King
“At first, only the north tower had bells. They all had names. The bell Guillaume was installed around 1248. Later, his brothers Pugnaise, Chambellan, Pasquier, Jean, Nicolas, Gabriel, and Claude joined Guillaume. Among the ladies were the sisters Marie and Jacqueline in the south tower along with Françoise, Catherine, Anne, and Barbara.”
“You didn’t mention Emmanuel,” Wurm said as they moved inside the belfry.
“I haven’t finished.” Annoyance crept into her voice. “Jacqueline was recast in 1681. She underwent a sex change, so to speak, and was renamed Emmanuel. This bell is Emmanuel.”
Cori imagined Quasimodo swinging from the enormous bell.
“At almost thirty thousand pounds, Emmanuel possessed the deepest voice,” Bettencourt continued. “During the revolution, the bells were seized from their towers. Insurgents planned to melt them into cannon at the foundry. The great bell Emmanuel was the one to return home. The others are lost in the mists of time.”
“Why would Jung want us to visit a bell?” Wurm asked, looking around the south belfry.
Cori remembered her mother’s notes. “You mentioned the architect who oversaw the restoration. Do you know if he headed the Office of Historic Monuments here in Paris?”
“As a matter of fact, he did,” Bettencourt answered. “How did you know?”
“A Freemason in charge of the Office of Historic Monuments visited Jung’s grandfather. Must be the same man. What was the name of the architect who restored Notre-Dame?”
“Eugène-Emmanuel Viollet-le-Duc.”
“Emmanuel?” Wurm asked.
“Maybe the ‘God with us’ refers to him and not the bell,” Cori said. “Can we find Viollet-le-Duc’s name around here? Like on a plaque?”
Bettencourt thought about it. “His name appears on that statue.” She pointed to the cathedral spire east of the bell towers. Surrounded by floodlights, the steeple cut into the night sky like a barbed spearhead. Twelve statues surrounded the spire’s base, three on each side. “During the restoration in the 1840s, Geoffroy-Dechaume sculpted twelve apostles for outside the spire. He carved a likeness of Viollet-le-Duc’s face on one. The name Emmanuel is engraved on the staff in that apostle’s hand.”
“Which apostle?”
“Eleven apostles face the city,” Bettencourt explained. “Only the Viollet-le-Duc statue looks away. He is turned toward the spire, admiring it. Geoffroy-Dechaume thought it fitting to put Viollet-le-Duc’s face on the patron saint of architects.”
“Which apostle is the patron saint of architects?”
“Thomas. Viollet-le-Duc’s face appears on the Saint Thomas statue.”
“When one is in doubt, turn away.” Cori repeated Jung’s rune as she gazed at the statue. “The doubting apostle is turned away.”
“Doubting Thomas?” Wurm’s eyes brightened. “The saint with the sash.” He slammed his fist into his hand. “Nicolette, take us to him at once.”
Like many Gothic cathedrals, Notre-Dame was rendered in a cross-shaped design. Heading down the tower staircase, Cori listened as Nicolette Bettencourt explained that twelve apostles were positioned outside the cathedral spire on the roof where the transept intersected with the apse. The spire rose above the center of the cross.
“Tell us about your security,” Wurm said.
“You are fortunate,” Bettencourt answered. “Our Christmas Mass concluded last night. Because of funding cutbacks and the holiday season, we have one security man tonight. I will keep Anton Vaden busy. He is an unrepentant flirt, so please do not take long.”
When they reached the nave, she directed them to hide behind a pillar. She gave directions. “There are no security devices in the spire,” Bettencourt whispered, handing Wurm a key. “This unlocks the door. After I lure Vaden into my office, you may go up. Text me when you are finished.” She headed across the nave.
At the altar, a guard with thinning black hair lit a votive candle. Bettencourt ran her hand across his back. Their conversation spiraled into flirtation. They walked the aisle, turning toward her office.
“She’s good,” Cori admitted. “But how long can her flirting keep him busy?”
“You’d be surprised,” Wurm answered. “Let’s go.”
Notre-Dame’s spire soared to a height of 295 feet. Halfway up, a ring of metal barbs curled out from the spire, giving the look of a crown of thorns. Cori rushed to the spire’s arched opening. Twelve apostles were stationed around its base. On each of the four sides of the spire, a staircase-shaped flèche supported three disciples, with each statue posed on a different step. From below, floodlights illuminated each figure.
“They’re green men,” Wurm marveled. “Not like Esus, but green men nonetheless.”
Cori leaned out, seeing a disciple’s mint green head. Dressed in a robe, the statue embraced a cross-shaped staff. On the step below, a second apostle clutched an open book. The third was positioned in a twisted pose, with his left arm outstretched and his right reaching down. Bent at the knees with his feet sideways on the step, the third apostle looked as though he were trying to regain his balance before toppling off the flèche. Either that, or he was posing as a biblical surfer dude, cracking open a gnarly wave. On the bottom step, a little winged bull craned up his green neck as if worried the surfer apostle would fall and knock them from the roof.
“I found him,” Wurm announced. “On this side.”
She peeked out the archway above the southeast flèche. Wurm shone the flashlight at Saint Thomas’s green face. The statue’s left hand seemed to shield his eyes as he peered into the light. In his right hand, he held a flat staff that resembled an oversized yardstick.
Saint Thomas faced the spire, admiring it with his back turned away from the city and the two disciples behind him. When one is in doubt, turn away. Among the twelve figures mounted around the spire, only the doubting apostle turned away.
“We’re on the right track. Now what?”
“See the sash around his waist?” he asked. “Remind you of anything?”
“Jung’s scytale.”
“And the staff in his hand?”
“We need to wrap the scytale around Saint Thomas’s staff. Jung’s sash had characters sewn on both sides. One side was meant for Bollingen. Maybe the other side was intended for Notre-Dame. But there’s one problem.” Her voice moved from excitement to disappointment. “The sash is back in Switzerland.”
“Wanna bet?” Wurm raised his shirt, revealing Jung’s sash around his waist. “After we argued about taking Jung’s Bible, I decided it was a waste of time debating the sash. I took it.”
“Okay, maybe it’s a good thing you’re a klepto.”
As he brought out the sash, she added, “You know how the letters on this side look less faded? I bet Jung added the words here after his grandfather embroidered the other side.”
“His grandfather created a scytale on his cherished Wartburg sash, intending it for Notre-Dame. Decades later, Jung made a scytale keyed to Bollingen on the same sash.”
She nodded, then leaned out the spire opening, looking down. “We’ll need to climb onto the roof to reach Saint Thomas. There’s not room on the flèche for both of us. I’ll go.”
“Nonsense.” He pulled the climbing rope from his backpack. He tied the rope in a figure-eight knot around the spire opening. “I’m the experienced climber. I’ll go.”
“See your bandaged fingers? After Adriana’s manicure, you shouldn’t hang onto ropes.”
“I didn’t have a problem climbing down into Jung’s Nekyia chamber.”
“There’s one impartial way to decide,” she smiled. “Rock, paper, scissors. Ready?”
He cocked his head. After a three count, he balled his hand into a fist. He looked at Cori’s hand. Flat like paper. His eyes lowered to slits. “Best of three.”
“No time,” she answered, taking the sash. Sliding out the arched trefoil window, she grabbed the rope and lowered herself out the opening. She moved onto the wooden fl
èche. It was narrower than she had expected. She glanced east at the city lights reflecting off the River Seine. With floodlights projected at Notre-Dame, she realized they might be spotted from the Île Saint-Louis or the Left Bank. Holding the rope, she balanced on the flèche while hugging Thomas’s waist with one arm, looking small beside the oversized green sculpture.
“What are those letters on Thomas’s staff?” Wurm called down.
“The architect’s name is engraved in abbreviated Roman text,” she answered, reading the words EVG-EMMAN VIOLLET. Below the apostle’s thumb, Viollet-le-Duc’s name continued with LE DVC, followed by his title as architect. She pressed the sash against the top of the staff as she wrapped it. A raindrop splashed on her cheek. She looked up at the overcast sky, hoping it wouldn’t rain. She coached herself to focus on the sash. “The scytale spells a French word. This staff is thicker than the Bollingen branch. The sash ends right at his thumb.”
“What does it spell?”
“L-E-S-T-R-Y-G-E,” she called. “A French word, I guess. Le stryge.”
“Any idea what it means?”
“My French is awful,” she admitted. Raindrops pounded as she unwrapped the sash from the green apostle’s staff. “Let’s ask Nicolette.”
She wrapped the sash around her waist, then took the rope and climbed from the flèche to the spire. Wurm hauled in Cori as if she were a rag doll. Catching her breath, she texted a message to Nicolette. After sending it, she saw a call coming in. She couldn’t believe it when she saw Tessa’s number. She answered her roommate’s call as she joined Wurm on the stairs.
“Where are you?” her roommate asked, sounding weak.
“Never mind, it’s not important,” she replied, unsure if the police were listening to their call. “How are you? I’ve been worried.”
“I’ll be okay.”
“I’m so sorry. I feel terrible that Adriana hurt you.”
“Um,” Tessa said in a dreamy voice. “Who’s Adriana?”
“She almost killed you. You know, tall and spooky, and strong. Black hair.”
“Wait, Cori. That’s not who attacked me.”
Chapter Forty-seven
Las Vegas
8:00 P.M.
Brynstone and his team searched the Helios Tower lobby, circling the vast room in their search for Metzger. Looking around the unfinished condominium hotel, he pointed to an elevator. Large and scrawled in blood, the number sixty-five marked the elevator doors. Was it Shay’s blood or Kaylyn’s? He hated the thought, but couldn’t stop it from entering his mind.
“This place is under construction,” he said, punching the button. “Assuming there’s power, we’ll take the elevator.”
“Elevator could be rigged,” Cloud replied. “Stairs might be safer.”
“Metzger likes control. We’ll play the game his way. Let him feel in power. For now.”
“Good point,” Jordan added. “If he wanted to kill us, he would have done it already.”
The elevator doors opened. He started to step inside, but stopped.
Jordan touched his arm. “John, what’s wrong?”
A stuffed bunny rested on the elevator floor. Blood speckled the pink fur. He remembered buying the Christmas gift for his daughter. His face tightened with anger. Metzger, you’re a dead man. He stepped into the glassencased elevator, checking the ceiling as he entered. He picked up the stuffed animal. “Let’s go,” he said, tucking it inside his coat pocket.
Jordan came in, then patted his shoulder. Tilton and Cloud fell in behind.
During the ride up to the sixty-fifth floor, he stared at the city glittering in the desert night. He felt his phone vibrate. He answered the call from Cori.
“John, this is important,” she said, sounding worried. “Have you found Kaylyn?”
“Not yet. Where are you, Cori?”
“Paris. Where’s Jordan Rayne?”
“She’s right here,” he said, looking at her. “Why?”
Jordan cocked her head, listening.
“I talked to Tessa,” Cori rasped. “Remember her?”
“Your roommate. Look, this isn’t a good time to talk.”
“Listen to me. Tessa described the woman who attacked her at my home in Baltimore.”
“Adriana Borgia.”
“No, John. It wasn’t Adriana. Tessa’s description fits Jordan Rayne. The red hair. Even the beauty mark. I think Jordan tried to kill Tessa. She faxed pages from my mother’s journal to Lucrezia Borgia in Switzerland.”
Can’t be, Brynstone thought as the elevator shivered to a halt. He flinched, glancing at Jordan, then looking away. He couldn’t believe it. He closed his phone, then began to swing around with his sidearm. Jordan understood what was happening. In a quick motion, she shoved Spencer Tilton into Brynstone, forcing them against the back wall of the elevator.
The doors opened and she darted out.
Tilton’s eyes widened. “What’s going on?”
Brynstone pushed him aside. “We can’t trust her.”
He saw it all now. She was working with the Borgias. That’s how they knew about Wurm’s hospital ward. Jordan told them. She had shown up at Cori’s house and assaulted Tessa to get Ariel Cassidy’s notebook. She’d known where to find the slaughterhouse all along. She met the Borgias there and gave them the notebook before he had arrived. Jordan let them torture Wurm.
Why didn’t I see it before? But why would she work with the Borgias? Because she wanted the Radix, that’s why. Jordan hadn’t seen him give the Radix to Cori. A thought burned in his mind. She thinks I have it. That’s why Jordan didn’t go to Europe.
He emerged from the elevator with a steady gun. He wasn’t just watching for Metzger now. He had to keep an eye open for Jordan Rayne as well. Individual suites were framed, but sheets of drywall waited in stacks. The open walls gave the sixty-fifth floor the look of a cavernous maze. He searched the high-rise with Tilton and Cloud close behind. Clinging to support beams, ghostly plastic sheets flapped in the breeze. The exterior walls weren’t up yet on the bare top floors, giving a panoramic view of Las Vegas. Peering through the forest of girders, he searched for Kaylyn.
“There,” Steve Cloud said, pointing over Brynstone’s shoulder.
Tied to a beam, a woman struggled to get free. Another drug addict? They hurried across the sawdust-littered floor. A bullet sizzled through the darkness, cutting down Cloud.
“Don’t take another step,” Metzger barked.
They stopped. Brynstone listened, trying to track the direction of the voice. Tilton bent over the fallen man, checking Cloud’s pulse. He shook his head and whispered, “Dead.”
They crouched in the dark, taking refuge behind exposed steel girders. He glanced at the woman tied to the beam. Couldn’t tell if she was Kaylyn.
“At last, we meet,” Metzger’s voice echoed from the blackness.
“Easy now,” Brynstone said, searching for him. “Tell me what you want.”
“Are we pretending?” Metzger asked. “You know why I’m here.”
“You were sent to kill me.”
“But first—”
“You want the Radix. Delgado sent you to get it.”
“You are mistaken,” Metzger said. “I was hired by a man who calls himself the Knight.”
“How do you know you can trust this knight?” Brynstone asked, wanting him to talk. “Huh, Metzger? How do you know he won’t put a bullet in your head as soon as you deliver?”
“Tell me, Herr Doktor. Do you take me for such a simple man?”
That’s it. Keep talking. He followed the voice. The assassin was moving.
“There is a danger in trusting the Knight,” Metzger stated. “He is a psychopath.”
And you’re not? Brynstone thought. He tried to track Metzger’s voice as he moved around the unfinished high-rise tower. He couldn’t get a bead on the assassin.
“I think I see him,” Spencer Tilton called as he took aim.
Dumb thing to say. Gunfi
re blasted through the night. Tilton’s body convulsed as bullets ripped through his flesh, trapping him in midair and refusing to let him fall. Brynstone hit the floor, rolling. He returned fire as Metzger darted for cover. Gunshots echoed against the steel girders. In the back of his mind, he never stopped thinking, Where is Jordan?
The woman tied to the beam was caught in the middle. He didn’t want to draw fire to her, but he had to know if she was Kaylyn. He started to move in her direction, but stopped when he heard a helicopter roar thirty feet away.
Hovering outside the Helios Tower’s exposed skeleton, the MH-6 “Little Bird” blasted a spotlight on Brynstone. Painted black for nighttime ops, the helicopter carried three commandos on each outboard bench. Tasked for counterterrorism ops, each team member was armed with an M4A1 carbine. Delgado hadn’t sent Metzger. True to his word, he had sent a commando team.
“John Brynstone,” the pilot called over the aerial loudspeaker. “Drop your weapon and raise both hands in the air. I repeat: drop your weapon. This is your sole warning.”
He cursed. He had nowhere to run in the blinding light.
From the periphery, a figure moved near an exterior beam. Metzger raised an assault rifle and took aim at the bird. Before Brynstone could react, Metzger fired his G36, taking out both men in the cockpit. The pilot slumped forward, forcing the yoke to one side. As the commandos struggled to hang on, the chopper whirled away from sight.
Brynstone aimed his gun in Metzger’s direction, but his eyes were adjusting after the spotlight’s glare. He needed cover. He ran toward the exterior girder, still too blind to get a bead on the assassin.
One commando managed to scramble inside the cockpit. He took the controls as the chopper plunged toward the Strip. He avoided crashing into another CityCenter high-rise tower. Even with a new pilot, the bird seemed ready to crash into the traffic clogging Las Vegas Boulevard. The helicopter swerved, missing cars and a crowd lingering on the sidewalk. The chopper dove toward the eight-acre lake facing the Bellagio hotel. It splashed into the dancing fountains, blasting up a wall of water. The chopper flipped, then rolled twice before landing on its side in the lake. The long blades of the main rotor shattered against the concrete floor of the pool and burst up, spinning in every direction.