by Kate Mosse
‘Is there a problem?’
To start with, Will thought she hadn’t heard him. She looked as if she’d forgotten he was even in the room. Then, she glanced over.
‘Something has come up,’ she said.
Will waited, until he realised it was all the explanation he was going to get and she was expecting him to go.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said, in a conciliatory tone. ‘I’d much rather stay with you, mais . . .’
Annoyed, Will got up and pulled on his jeans.
‘Will I see you for dinner?’
She pulled a face. ‘I have an engagement. Business, if you remember.’ She shrugged. ‘Later, oui?’
‘How late is later? Ten o’clock? Midnight?’
She came over and threaded her fingers through his. ‘I am sorry.’
Will tried to pull away, although she wouldn’t let him.
‘You’re always doing this. I never know what’s going on.’
She moved closer so he could feel her breasts pressing against his chest through the thin silk. Despite his bad temper, he felt his body react.
‘It’s just business,’ she murmured. ‘Nothing to be jealous about.’
‘I’m not jealous.’ He’d lost count of the times they’d had this conversation. ‘It’s more that — ’
‘Ce soir,’ she said, releasing him. ‘Now, I must get ready.’
Before he had a chance to object, she had disappeared into the bathroom and closed the door behind her.
When Marie-Cécile emerged from her shower she was relieved to find Will had gone. She wouldn’t have been surprised to find him still sprawled across the bed with that little-boy-lost expression on his face.
His demands were starting to get on her nerves. Increasingly, he wanted more of her time and attention than she was prepared to give. He seemed to be misunderstanding the nature of the relationship. She would have to deal with it.
Marie-Cécile put Will from her mind. She looked around. Her maid had been in and tidied the room. Her things were laid out ready on the bed. Her gold, hand-made slippers were on the floor beside it.
She lit another cigarette from her case. She was smoking too much, but she was nervous tonight. She tapped the end of the filter against the lid before lighting it. It was another mannerism she’d inherited from her grandfather, like so much else.
Marie-Cécile walked over to the mirror and allowed the white silk bathrobe to slide from her shoulders. It pooled around her feet on the floor. She tilted her head to one side and stared in the mirror with a critical eye. The long lean body, unfashionably pale; the full high breasts, the flawless skin. She ran her hand over her dark nipples then lower, tracing the outline of her hip bones, her flat stomach. There were a few more lines around her eyes and mouth perhaps, but otherwise she was little marked by time.
The ormolu clock on the mantle above the fireplace began to chime the hour, reminding her she should begin her preparations. She reached and took the full length, diaphanous shift from the hanger. Cut high at the back, with a sharp V-neck at the front, it had been tailored for her.
Marie-Cécile hooked the straps, narrow ribbons of gold, over her angular shoulders, and then sat down at the dressing table. She brushed her hair, twisting the curls around her fingers, until it shone like polished jet. She loved this moment of metamorphosis, when she ceased to be herself and became the Navigatairé. The process connected back through time to all those who had filled this same role before her.
Marie-Cécile smiled. Only her grandfather would understand how she felt now. Euphoric, exhilarated, invincible. Not tonight, but the next time she did this, it would be in the place where her ancestors once had stood. But not him. It was painful how close the cave was to the site of her grandfather’s excavations fifty years ago. He’d been right all along. Just a matter of a few kilometres to the east and it would have been him, and not her who stood poised to change history.
She’d inherited the de l’Oradore family business on his death five years ago. It was a role he had been grooming her for, for as long as she could remember. Her father — his only son — was a disappointment to him. Marie-Cécile had been aware of this from a very early age. At six, her grandfather had taken her education in hand — social, academic and philosophical. He had a passion for the finer things of life and an amazing eye for colour and craftsmanship. Furniture, tapestries, couture, paintings, books, his taste was immaculate. Everything she valued about herself, she had learned from him.
He had also taught her about power, how to use it and how to keep it. When she was eighteen and he believed her ready, her grandfather had formally disinherited his own son and named her instead as his heir.
There had only been one stumble in their relationship, her unexpected and unwanted pregnancy. Despite his dedication to the Quest for the ancient secret of the Grail, her grandfather’s Catholicism was strong and orthodox and he did not approve of children born outside marriage.
Abortion was out of the question. Adoption was out of the question. It was only when he saw that motherhood made no difference to her determination — that, if anything, it sharpened her ambition and ruthlessness — that he allowed her back into his life.
She inhaled deeply on her cigarette, welcoming the burning smoke as it curled down her throat and into her lungs, resenting the power of her memories. Even more than twenty years later, the memory of her exile filled her with a cold desperation. Her excommunication, he’d called it.
It was a good description. It had felt like being dead.
Marie-Cécile shook her head to shake the maudlin thoughts away. She wanted nothing to disturb her mood tonight. She couldn’t allow anything to cast a shadow over tonight. She wanted no mistakes.
She turned back to the mirror. First, she applied a pale foundation and dusted her skin with a gold face powder that reflected the light. Next, she outlined her lids and brows with a heavy kohl pencil that accentuated her dark lashes and black pupils, then a green eye shadow, iridescent like a peacock’s tail. For her lips, she chose a metallic copper gloss flecked with gold, kissing a tissue to seal the colour. Finally, she sprayed a haze of perfume into the air and let it fall, like mist, onto the surface of her skin.
Three boxes were lined up on the dressing table, the red leather and brass clasps, polished and gleaming. Each piece of ceremonial jewellery was several hundred years old, but modelled on pieces thousands of years older. In the first, there was a gold headdress, like a tiara, rising to a point in the centre; in the second, two gold amulets, shaped like snakes, their glittering eyes made of cut emerald; the third contained a necklace, a solid band of gold with the symbol suspended from the middle. The gleaming surfaces echoed with an imagined memory of the dust, the heat of Ancient Egypt.
When she was ready, Marie-Cécile moved over to the window. Below her, the streets of Chartres lay spread out like a picture postcard, the everyday shops and cars and restaurants nestling in the shadows of the great Gothic Cathedral. Soon, from these same houses, would come the men and women chosen to take part in tonight’s ritual.
She closed her eyes to the familiar skyline and darkening horizon. Now, she no longer saw the spire and the grey cloisters. Instead, in her mind’s eye, she saw the whole world, like a glittering map, stretched out before her.
Within her reach at last.
CHAPTER 15
Foix
Alice was jolted awake by a persistent ringing in her ear.
Where the hell am I? The beige phone on the shelf above the bed rang again.
Of course. Her hotel room in Foix. She’d come back from the site, done some packing, then had a shower. The last thing she remembered was lying down on her bed for five minutes.
Alice fumbled for the receiver. ‘Oui. ’Allo?’
The owner of the hotel, Monsieur Annaud, had a strong local accent, all flat vowels and nasal consonants. Alice had trouble understanding him face to face. On the phone, without the benefit of eyebrows and hand gestures, it
was impossible. He sounded like a cartoon character.
‘Plus lentement, s’il vous plaît,’ she said, trying to slow him down. ‘Vous parlez trop vite. Je ne comprends pas.’
There was a pause. She heard rapid muttering in the background. Then Madame Annaud came on and explained there was someone waiting for Alice in reception.
‘Une femme?’ she said hopefully.
Alice had left a note for Shelagh at the site house, as well as a couple of messages on her voicemail, but she’d heard nothing.
‘Non, c’est un homme,’ replied Madame Annaud.
‘OK,’she sighed, disappointed, ‘J’arrive. Deux minutes.’
She ran a comb through her hair, which was still damp, then pulled on a skirt and T-shirt, pushed her feet into a pair of espadrilles, then headed downstairs, wondering who the hell it could be.
The main team were all staying in a small auberge close to the excavation site. In any case, she’d already said her goodbyes to those who wanted to hear them. Nobody else knew she was here. Since she’d broken up with Oliver, there was no one to tell anyway.
The reception area was deserted. She peered into the gloom, expecting to see Madame Annaud sitting behind the high wooden desk, but there was no one there. Alice took a quick look round the corner at the waiting room. The old wicker chairs, dusty on the underside, were unoccupied, as were the two large leather sofas that stood at right angles to the fireplace draped with horse brasses and testimonials from grateful past guests. A lopsided spinner of postcards, offering dog-eared views of everything Foix and the Ariège had to offer, was still.
Alice went back to the desk and rang the bell. There was a rattle of beads in the doorway as Monsieur Annaud appeared from the family’s private quarters.
‘Il y a quelqu’un pour moi?’
‘Là,’ he said, leaning out over the counter to point.
Alice shook her head. ‘Personne.’
He came round to look, then shrugged, surprised to find the lounge was deserted. ‘Dehors? Outside?’ He mimed a man smoking.
The hotel was on a small side street, which ran between the main thoroughfare — filled with administrative buildings, fast-food restaurants as well as the extraordinary 1930s art déco post office — and the more picturesque medieval centre of Foix with its cafés and antique shops.
Alice looked to the left, then to the right, but nobody appeared to be waiting. The shops were all closed at this time of day and the road was pretty much empty.
Puzzled, she turned to go back inside, when a man appeared out of a doorway. In his early twenties, he was wearing a pale summer suit that was a little too big for him. His thick black hair was neatly short and his eyes were obscured behind dark glasses. He had a cigarette in his hand.
‘Dr Tanner.’
‘Oui,’ she said cautiously. ‘Vous me cherchez?’
He reached into his top pocket. ‘Pour vous. Tenez,’ he said, thrusting an envelope at her. He kept darting his eyes about, clearly nervous that someone would see them. Alice suddenly recognised him as the young uniformed officer who’d been with Inspector Noubel.
‘Je vous ai déjà rencontré, non? Au Pic de Soularac.’
He switched to English. ‘Please,’ he said urgently.
‘Take.’
‘Vous étiez avec Inspecteur Noubel?’ she insisted.
He had tiny beads of sweat on his forehead. He took Alice by surprise by grabbing her hand and forcing the envelope into it.
‘Hey!’ she objected. ‘What is this?’
But he’d already disappeared, swallowed up into one of the many alleyways that led up to the castle.
For a moment, Alice stood staring at the empty space in the street, half minded to follow him. Then she reconsidered. The truth was, he’d scared her. She looked down at the letter in her hand as if it was a bomb about to go off, then took a deep breath and slid her finger under the flap. Inside the envelope was a single sheet of cheap writing paper with APPELEZ scrawled across it in childish capitals. Below that was a telephone number: 02 68 72 31 26.
Alice frowned. It wasn’t local. The code for the Ariège was 05.
She turned it over in case there was something on the other side, but it was blank. She was about to throw the note in the bin, then thought better of it. Might as well keep it for now. Putting it in her pocket, she dumped the envelope on top of the ice-cream wrappers, then went back in, feeling mystified.
Alice didn’t notice the man step out from the doorway of the café opposite. By the time he reached into the bin to retrieve the envelope, she was already back in her room.
Adrenalin pumping through his veins, Yves Biau finally stopped running. He bent over, hands on his knees, to get his breath back.
High above him, the great Chateau of Foix towered over the town as it had done for more than a thousand years. It was the symbol of the independence of the region, the only significant fortress never to be taken in the crusade against the Languedoc. A refuge for the Cathars and freedom fighters driven from the cities and plains.
Biau knew he was being followed. They — whoever they were — had made no attempt to hide. His hand went to his gun beneath his jacket. At least he’d done what Shelagh asked him. Now, if he could get over the border into Andorra before they realised he’d gone, he might be all right. Biau understood now that it was too late to halt the events he’d helped set in motion. He’d done everything they told him, but she kept coming back. Whatever he did would never be enough.
The package had gone by the last post to his grandmother. She would know what to do with it. It was the only thing he could think of to make up for what he’d done.
Biau looked up and down the street. No one.
He stepped out and started to walk, heading home by a circuitous, illogical route, in case they were waiting for him there. Coming from this direction, he’d have a chance of spotting them before they saw him.
As he crossed through the covered market, his subconscious mind registered the silver Mercedes in the Place Saint-Volusien, but he paid little attention. He didn’t hear the soft cough of the engine ticking over, nor the shift of gears as the car started to glide forward, rumbling softly over the cobbled stones of the medieval old town.
As Biau stepped off the pavement to cross the road, the car accelerated violently, catapulting forward like a plane on a runway. He spun round, shock frozen on his face. A dull thud and his legs were taken out from under him as his suddenly weightless body was thrown into and over the windscreen. Biau seemed to float for a fraction of a second before being hurled violently against one of the cast-iron stanchions that supported the sloped roof of the covered market.
He hung there, suspended in mid-air, like a child in a centrifuge at a fairground. Then gravity claimed him and he dropped straight to the ground, leaving a trail of red blood on the black metal pillar.
The Mercedes did not stop.
The noise brought people in the local bars out on to the streets. A couple of women looked out from windows overlooking the square. The owner of the Café PMU took one look and ran back inside to call the police. A woman started screaming and was quickly hushed as a crowd formed around the body.
At first, Alice took no notice of the noise. But as the wailing of the sirens grew closer, she moved to her hotel window like everyone else and looked out.
It’s nothing to do with you.
There was no reason to get involved. And yet, for some reason she couldn’t account for, Alice found herself leaving her room and heading for the square.
There was a police car blocking the small road that led from the corner of the square, its lights flashing silently. Just the other side, a group of people had formed a semi-circle around something or someone lying on the ground.
‘You’re not safe anywhere,’ an American woman was muttering to her husband, ‘not even in Europe.’
Alice’s sense of foreboding got stronger the closer she got. She couldn’t bear the thought of what she might see,
but somehow couldn’t stop herself. A second police car emerged from a side street and screeched to a halt beside the first. Faces turned, the thicket of arms and legs and bodies thinning just long enough for Alice to see the body on the ground. A pale suit, black hair; sunglasses with brown lenses and gold arms, lying close by.
It can’t be him.
Alice pushed her way through, barging people out of the way until she reached the front. The boy was lying motionless on the ground. Her hand went automatically to the paper in her pocket. This can’t be a coincidence.
Struck dumb with shock, Alice blundered back. A car door slammed. She jumped and spun round, in time to see Inspector Noubel levering himself out of the driver’s seat. She shrank back into the mass of people. Don’t let him see you. Instinct sent her across the square, away from Noubel, her head down.
As soon as she rounded the corner, she broke into a run.
‘S’il vous plait,’ shouted Noubel, clearing a path through the onlookers. ‘Police. S‘il vous plait.’
Yves Biau was spreadeagled on the unforgiving ground, his arms flung out at right angles. One leg was doubled under him, clearly broken, a white ankle bone protruding from his trousers. The other leg lay unnaturally flat, flopped sideways. One of his tan loafers had come off.
Noubel crouched down and tried to find a pulse. The boy was still breathing, in short, shallow gasps, but his skin was clammy to the touch and his eyes were closed. In the distance, Noubel heard the welcome wail of an ambulance.
‘S’il vous plait,’ he shouted again, hauling himself to his feet. ‘Poussez-vous.’ Stand back.
Two more police cars arrived. Word had gone out over the radio that an officer was down, so there were more police than bystanders. They cordoned off the street and separated witnesses from onlookers. They were efficient and methodical, but the tension showed in their faces.
‘It wasn’t an accident, Inspector,’ said the American woman. ‘The car drove right at him, real fast. He didn’t stand a chance.’