“Oui?”
“Are you Gabriel Duval, the reporter from La Découverte?” Alex inquired in poor French.
The man replied in English.
“Who’s asking?”
“I’m Alex, and this is Sam. We’d like to ask you a few questions about an article you wrote about a year ago.”
“Which one?”
“The one about The Resistance.”
The man slammed the door shut in their faces and made no further attempt to release the safety chain. Stunned, Alex reached for the door knocker again, but before she had a chance to use it, the green-brown eyes appeared again.
“Who are you?”
“I’m Alex and—“
“No! Who are you really?”
It was Sam who spoke next, “We believe they’re trying to kill us.”
“We need your help,” Alex added.
The man’s heavy eyebrows lowered even further before he closed the door and slid the safety chain off to invite them in.
“I wasn’t expecting any guests,” Gabriel said with a sheepish tone while he cleared empty pizza boxes off the only couch in the small open-plan room. The studio apartment was small and sparsely furnished. A large bookshelf divided the unmade bed from the rest of the tiny space. Apart from the excuse for a kitchenette opposite the bed, there was a desk squashed in the corner next to the bookshelf. The only wall shouldering the make-shift office was entirely covered in newspaper clippings, French phrases, a few black and white photos of men and a map with an assortment of yellow and black thumbtacks all over it. Alex turned and walked across the uneven squeaky wooden floor, pausing in front of the wall to take it all in.
“What can I do for you?” Gabriel spoke grumpily from the other end of the room, drawing her attention back to him and away from the information on the wall.
For the first time, Alex noticed his artificial leg—her eyes lingering on the titanium instrument a tad too long. Sam cleared his throat, nudging her in doing so.
“Sorry, I wasn’t expecting—“ Alex paused but then continued, “I saw the article you wrote in your magazine. I’m not that fluent in French, so I didn’t quite understand it all, but we believe it’s the same people who have been after us. To tell you the truth, they’ve been trying to kill us.”
“I don’t work for the magazine anymore.” Gabriel pulled a sweater over his head and tossed a couple of empty red wine bottles into a waste bin in the kitchen. “How do you know it’s The Resistance?”
“Well, we don’t know for sure, which is why we’re here.” Sam spoke as he took a seat on the couch.
“Why are they after you?”
“We’re not sure of that either.”
“I can’t help you. You should go.”
Alex turned to face the wall, taking in the red rings drawn around a few names. “I think you can, Gabriel. You see, I recognize a few of these names on your wall.”
Her comment seemed to have caught the closed-off reporter’s attention. He uncrossed his arms and placed it on his hips.
“Who?”
“Jean-Pierre DuPont and Maurice d'Andigné.”
The reporter’s heavy eyebrows lifted in surprise.
“How do you know them?”
“Jean-Pierre DuPont is an industry colleague of mine at UNESCO, and the billionaire, Maurice d'Andigné, wrote me a letter requesting our help. We never got to meet him. They killed him and framed us for his murder. Now the police are after us too.”
A few uneven steps had the now interested reporter next to her staring at the names on his wall. He remained silent, and then, as if his body was taken over by an entirely different person, his suspicious closed-off demeanor turned into effervescent excitement. He stretched across his desk and pulled a notebook and pen from underneath a pile of loose papers and notepads and hurriedly made his way to the couch.
“I’ll help you, but I need to know everything. You don’t mess with these people. Their authority reaches far beyond the borders of France. We’re going to have to be very careful. They did this to me, you know? Bastards! My career is over thanks to them. All I’m good for now is writing food blogs for the local newspaper.”
Chapter Sixteen
Gabriel Duval secured the locks on his apartment door and then hobbled to the only window in the room. He parted the yellowed voile curtain with two fingers, allowing a small gap that he peered through down into the street.
“Does anyone know you’re here? Have you been followed?”
“No, we lost them before we boarded the train to come here.”
“Good, we’re going to have to make sure we’re prepared for them.” Gabriel took two strides into his kitchen, took a 9mm pistol from a cookie jar, checked the clip, and stuck it into his waistband. Taking a seat on the couch, he extended his titanium limb to one side. “Do you have any defense skills?”
Alex nodded, confirmed by Sam as he emptied their ample arsenal on the coffee table. Gabriel whistled, impressed by the unexpected weaponry his guests carried.
“We were also trained by British Special Forces.”
“That covers it then,” Gabriel said, pausing briefly before frowning. “Thought you said you worked for UNESCO?”
“With them, not for them. We’re archaeologists, well actually, Sam’s head of the archaeology faculty at Cambridge and I’ve since opened my own antiquities recovery firm. A recent mission had us working with DuPont.”
“I see, and you say d’Andigné sent you a letter requesting your help.”
“Correct, a series of letters actually. He brought us to Paris and the next thing we knew both he and his driver were dead.”
“What did he need your help with?”
Alex had no way of knowing if Gabriel was trustworthy, but her instincts said he was. As it happened, there was little else they could do and no one else to trust.
“We’re not certain, but it has something to do with this,” she said, reaching into her bag.
Gabriel fixed his eyes on the encased organ on his coffee table then shook his shoulders and winced as if a spider had just crawled down his shirt.
“What is that thing?”
“A human heart. Actually, a two hundred and twenty-four-year-old heart of the once heir to the French throne,” Sam informed the squeamish reporter.
“That’s the most disgusting thing I’ve ever heard of. Where do you even find something like this?”
“It was hidden in d’Andigné’s office.” Alex took the confession letter from the base. “Then we found this letter. DuPont said it was a confession of some sorts just before he tried to murder us for it.”
“You took it to DuPont? He knows about this?” Gabriel said agitated as he messed up his hair again.
“It’s not like we had anyone else to go to. Who knew the man was twisted?” Sam defended.
“All we know is that the guys who tried to kill us all carried these.” Alex placed the brass pawns on the table in front of him and then continued. “Both DuPont and d’Andigné wore signet rings with the emblem of a particular chess piece—DuPont had the knight and d’Andigné had the bishop. We suspect it’s linked somehow. Can’t be a coincidence.”
Gabriel threw his notebook across the table and, with one arm loosely draped over his knee, stared at the chess pieces on his coffee table. “Do you know how many years I’ve been trying to get my hands on one of these?”
Sam glanced at Alex and then sideways to Gabriel. “Why, what are they?”
“These, my friends, are our way in.” Gabriel fell back on his couch and expelled a jubilant cheer before jumping to his feet. He rubbed his hands through his already messy hair while he paced to his intel wall. With his fingers locked behind his neck, he stared into a faceless photo and muttered something in French under his breath.
“Duval, care to tell us what you’re so ecstatic about?” Sam, who now sat on the edge of the couch, said with irritation.
Gabriel swung around, a smile so big it was hard to bel
ieve he was the same miserable guy who’d opened the door a mere twenty minutes ago. “You really don’t know.”
“Know what?” Alex asked, shoving the chess pieces back into her pocket.
“These are the keys to their headquarters. The keys!” He cheered again throwing his hands in the air. “I can’t believe it. The day has finally come.”
And as suddenly as his triumphant celebration had surprised Alex and Sam, Gabriel’s personality just as quickly changed back to the paranoid reporter from before. He dashed to his desk and rummaged through the loose papers, flicking several pages to the floor. Alex and Sam could do nothing but wait and hope that their new colleague’s sanity would return.
“Found it,” he said, waving a paper above his head and then pinning it to his wall. “See this? That’s the blueprint of La Conciergerie, at least as far as it can be proven.”
Alex and Sam stood by his side, trying to make sense of the paper he’d stuck to the wall. It was a poor photocopy displaying a diagram of rooms and tunnels.
“Why are we looking at this?” Sam questioned. “Looks like a child drew it.”
“It’s where they meet, the headquarters of The Resistance. And now, because you have the keys, we can get inside.”
“And do what?” Alex said, confused.
“What do you mean, do what? I’m going to give this guy what he deserves. I finally have my chance to put a bullet through both his legs.”
“Not going to happen, Duval. That’s not our fight to fight.”
“I don’t see you trying to get through life without a limb, Sam. I lost my wife, my kids, and everything I’ve worked for. It’s payback time.”
“So you’re going to shoot the guy’s legs off. That’s ridiculous!” Sam retorted.
Gabriel pulled his gun from his waist and pointed it at Sam’s leg. “Okay tough guy, let’s see if you can handle being without a leg. I bet you won’t sing the same tune then, buddy.”
“All right, boys, calm down! Gabriel put the gun down. We didn’t come here for this,” Alex spoke sternly. “I said, put your gun down, Gabriel!”
He finally did as he was told and lowered his gun, all the while keeping his gaze fixed on Sam.
“I get that you want to take revenge on the guy, but there’s a lot more we can do to bring him and everyone that’s in The Resistance down. They’re hiding something. Something huge, and my gut tells me they’ve done a lot more than take your leg. You can get your life back, Gabriel. Think about it. If we do this the right way, you won’t go down as a disgruntled victim who sought revenge. You’d be the investigative reporter responsible for the biggest exposé the world has ever seen! Instead of being locked up in a prison cell, your name would be written in the history books. Every tabloid in Europe, heck the world, would want you.”
Alex watched as Gabriel took her words in and then shuffled to his kitchen to open a bottle of wine. She was right, and he knew it. He pulled three paper cups from a dusty cupboard and filled each with some wine.
“Fine, what do you suggest?” he said, plonking the cups down in front of them.
Sam took a large swig of his wine then lightly pressed his cup to Gabriel’s. “Don’t ever point a gun at me again, got it? I’m not here to make enemies,” he said, gesturing for him to accept the toast.
“Sorry, I get carried away sometimes.”
“Can we leave the bromance for another time and come up with a strategy, please boys?” Alex spoke over her shoulder as she walked to the intel wall. “How do you know they meet at La Conciergerie?”
“I knew a guy on the inside. He’s dead now. They killed him.”
“And he drew this?” Alex referred to the sketch.
“Yes.”
“Can we get our hands on a better one?”
“It wouldn’t help. The blueprints registered with the council don’t include what’s underground.”
“So you’re saying these tunnels are underground,” Sam queried, to which Gabriel nodded.
“And your friend, he walked these tunnels.”
“Yes, he was part of The Resistance.”
“How do you become a member?”
“You don’t. It gets passed on through the family. If your father or uncle was one, then you inherit the right to join. The males only, that is.”
“Do we know how far they go back? What do they stand for?” Sam asked again.
“As far as I know it dates back to the French Revolution when an elite of wealthy commoners, mostly manufacturers, professionals, and merchants, formed a social order who aspired to political power. It is said that they were extremely influential and largely to blame for the overthrow of the monarchy. Over time their membership grew, spreading across the world, and with it, their influence. And yes, before you ask, no one knows for sure who the members are but, over the years many of the names associated with them have been heads of corporations, senior government officials, Supreme Court justices, and even presidents. I’ve heard so many theories as to what their motives are but the ones that seem to stick the most range from controlling the Central Intelligence Agency, belonging to a global network aimed at world domination and even being part of the Illuminati.”
Alex and Sam fell quiet.
“Told you these guys aren’t to be messed with.”
“So you’re saying they use these chess pieces to gain access to La Conciergerie.”
“Each member has a chess piece. Depending on your hierarchy, you get anything from a pawn to a knight and a bishop. I’m assuming the queen would belong to the highest-ranking member.” Gabriel’s knuckles whitened against the wine bottle in his hand.
“And the rings? Do all of them wear a ring, like a rank or something?” Sam asked, trying to distract Gabriel from his anger.
“That I don’t know. It’s the first I’ve heard of the rings, but hey, seems appropriate.”
Alex paced the tiny room, eventually pausing in front of the heart. “I just don’t understand where this heart fits in.”
“Maybe it doesn’t. You said you found it in d’Andigné’s house. He was an art collector. Could just be a valuable piece he decided to hide.”
“No, I don’t think so. DuPont was pretty stuck on wanting it.”
“Yeah, so stuck he was prepared to kill us for it,” Sam added.
“Can you see if you can perhaps make out what this letter’s about? My French language skills don’t extend to the antiquated eighteenth century’s. It’s also full of squiggles and blotches.”
She passed the handwritten letter to Gabriel, who seemed to take his time with it. Alex tapped her fingers on the side of her paper cup. When Gabriel finally lifted his head, he topped up his paper cup and threw back the red liquid without saying a word.
“And? What does it say?” Alex pushed impatiently for an answer.
“It’s the ramblings of a mad man if you ask me. Can’t make heads or tails of it.”
“Why not? You’re French. Surely you can understand something,” Sam added, annoyed with the man.
“I’m telling you what I know, okay. I can’t understand it. The French used extremely complicated phrases back then, and it’s more like poetry and parables than straightforward writing. Besides, I’m only half French. My mother was an American.”
“That explains why you’re fluent, then. Still doesn’t help us with the letter,” Alex said, placing it back into the hidden pouch.
“I might know a guy who can help with that, though. He used to be one of my contacts. I haven’t seen him since, well, since I lost my leg and all, but I can try to make contact with him again.”
“Can you trust him?”
“He saved my life. If it weren’t for him, I’d have been six feet under the ground.”
“Fine, how do we find him?” Alex said while securing a gun in the small of her back and another in her waistband in the front.
“We don’t. I will. You two stay put until I get back, and stay low. There’s still some of my ex-wife’s
clothes under the bed, and I might have something for you in there too, from before I lost all the extra pounds.”
As Gabriel Duval shut the door behind him, Sam turned to Alex. “Think we can trust him?”
“I’ll shoot his other leg off myself if he crosses us.”
Gabriel eventually returned to his apartment some three hours later.
“Where have you been, Duval? How long does it take to find someone?”
“Hey, I haven’t seen him in almost five years. It’s not that easy to find someone who’s in hiding.”
“But you did, right?” Alex came between the men who were at it again.
“Of course. Turns out he was right where one would expect to find him. We’re meeting him in ninety minutes.”
Alex had slipped into black leather pants and a matching black leather jacket that belonged to his ex-wife. Gabriel’s eyes settled in a forlorn look on her attire, and Alex was confident she spotted tears in his eyes. “I’ll return it,” she said gently.
“No need, she’s gone for good.”
Chapter Seventeen
An hour later the trio stepped out onto the Richelieu station’s platform in the center of Paris. It was close to ten pm and apart from a handful of young adults waiting for the last train out, the station was quiet and somewhat eerie. Out in the streets, weekend socialites roamed in and out of busy street clubs. Restaurants and take out shops were equally lively while the last of the clothing boutiques had shut down for the night. They turned into a narrow street between tall buildings. Lined with scaffolding on the one side and rows of bicycle stands on the other, there were hardly any streetlights. Loud music from a noisy bar with a bright red door had a line of at least fifty youths waiting for entry on the sidewalk.
“Where are we meeting this guy?” Sam asked when a small gang of bikers sped by.
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