Eye of the God

by Ariel Allison

  Marie Antoinette waited silently as the driver climbed down and opened the coach. He gently lifted each of her daughters into the cab, and then offered a hand to her as well. She climbed into the coach with exaggerated dignity, as a smile played at the corners of her mouth.

  The coach, now crowded, rolled away a final time, and instead of circling the palace grounds, found its way into the streets of Paris. Once a safe distance away from Tuileries, a triumphant cry erupted from the passengers as they celebrated an apparent victory.

  “Isn't this just glorious?” asked the queen, her face aglow with the flush of adventure.

  Élisabeth looked sick to her stomach. “Will you just look at me? I'm dressed as … as … a courtier!”

  “You didn't expect to walk out of the palace as the king's sister, did you?”

  Élisabeth shot Marie a sour look and crossed her arms. “Some of us don't share your enthusiasm for dressing like peasants!”

  “Considering this little costume will most likely save not only your place in the royal court, but also your life, I think you ought to show a little more appreciation for the lengths we have gone to get you out of Paris.”

  Élisabeth turned away from the queen, her eyes resting on the darkness outside the carriage as they rolled northeast toward the border with Belgium.

  The tired children, at first terrified, lay their small heads in the nearest lap and were soon lulled to sleep by the rhythmic motions of the coach and the steady clip clop of hooves. They rested peacefully, unaware that their success was tentative at best, still reliant on the wisdom of parents who had never shown a great measure of the attribute.

  One by one, the adults followed the children into slumber, far less comfortable in the crowded carriage. By the time they reached Meaux, all were fast asleep and the coach drove undetected through the French countryside. The brilliant escape plan of Marie Antoinette gave every indication of success. And yet, in all her months of scheming, the one thing she failed to take into account was her very nature and that of her husband.

  Louis woke first, hunger drawing him from restless sleep, as the lowest edges of the horizon tinged with gray. Finding himself still alive on this new day, the king of France was infused with confidence. He straightened his wig of gray curls and opened the velvet curtain. Forests of pine, oak, cedar, and spruce stood sillhouetted against the quickly lightening sky. All was quiet. All was safe.

  As the realization of freedom dawned on him, Louis's feelings of entitlement revived.

  By God, am I not the king of France?

  His brows furrowed at the indignity of fleeing his own country in a carriage hardly worthy to transport his tailor. The gnawing realization of discomfort and hunger did not help his mood. Why should they dine on stale bread, dried fruit, and cold cheese when they could sup at any number of small inns along the way? They had escaped after all. What was another hour added to their journey when their destination was just over the next hill, where awaited the king's army and the intervention of the Duke of Brunswick? Louis had gained the victory, and if he chose to celebrate a little earlier than anticipated, that was of no concern to anyone.

  Yes, I would much prefer a hot meal to these beggar's provisions.

  Louis reached overhead and pulled a braided cord that ran through the length of the cab; it rang a bell beside the driver. They slowed to a stop, and the driver jumped down to attend to the king.

  “How much farther to Reims?” Louis asked.

  “An hour and a bit,” the coachman said, not quite daring to meet the king's eyes.

  “I would like to stop for breakfast when we arrive.”

  A short time later the carriage rolled to a stop in the village of Ste.-Ménéhould, and the small party entered an inn in search of breakfast. As Louis pushed through the worn wooden doors, he was met by an old soldier. They exchanged a nod but nothing more.

  As the king and his family dined on a breakfast of roast lamb, fresh bread, cheese, and fruit, the soldier, a man by the name of Jean-Baptiste Drouet, mounted his horse and raced to the next town. In Varennes, along with help from the outraged locals, he blocked the bridge across the Meuse River.

  It was noon before the berlin coach, carrying the satiated royal family, approached a small river. When the coach slowed and stopped, Louis yanked on the bell, too lazy to stick his head out the window. He waited for the driver to dismount and open the door.

  “Why have we stopped?” he demanded.

  The coachman, pale with fright, lifted a hand and pointed to something Louis could not see. “We have been ordered to stop, Your Majesty,” he gulped.

  “Ordered! And just who would have the gall to order the king of France to stop anything?” he bellowed, tumbling from the carriage like a dizzy cat.

  “I did,” a voice sounded from the foot of the bridge.

  Louis immediately understood his fatal error. “Jean-Baptiste Drouet,” he murmured.

  “You did not recognize me so readily this morning with the distraction of a hungry belly.”

  Louis was not ready to surrender so quickly, and he tucked a hand inside his jacket, searching for a bag of coins, now significantly lighter after their meal. “Come now, this is but a small matter, and I believe it can be settled for a reasonable fee.”

  Drouet smiled but it did nothing to warm Louis's heart. “You would buy me off, Your Majesty? I am not a man so weak as that.” He stepped off the path to reveal a great number of peasants holding pitchforks and other makeshift weapons. “Besides, I doubt you will find them so easily bribed.”

  PARIS, FRANCE, AUGUST 13, 1792

  It was the Knights Templar who first used stone, trowel, and mortar to construct the medieval fortress known as the Temple. At one time it was used for the more noble purposes of education, worship, and defense. But that was five hundred years before King Louis XVI found himself under arrest by armed guards. Now it served only as a prison.

  The knights were less concerned with form than function and built a fortress of bare simplicity. A series of round turrets rose from the sharp square base, like spears pointing skyward with their butt ends rammed into the earth. Five-foot-thick stone walls rose seven stories high and were topped with a buttress notched at even intervals for archers. A long row of them stood now with needle-sharp points aimed squarely at the king of France, as his carriage rolled to a stop, its hinges creaking.

  King Louis stepped from the carriage and set foot in the silent courtyard, with lips pursed and jaw clenched. He tilted his chin upward, taking in the height of the Temple. High above him flapped bright red triangular flags, cracking in the wind. Generations of harsh rain and biting wind had ground the stone walls smooth. Long thin windows were scattered irregularly across turret and walls, wide enough to see through, but incapable of allowing siege or escape.

  The soldiers posted at the Temple allowed him the brief luxury of inspecting his prison. Many had never been so close to their sovereign before. Many felt this moment should have come years earlier.

  The silence was broken by the slamming of a great door deep within the fortress, and it broke the stoicism of the soldiers. They whispered to one another and directed an occasional coarse gesture at their king. The rattle of footsteps echoed through the courtyard, followed by the grinding of wood upon stone as the massive wooden gates swung open, revealing twenty armed guards ready to escort Louis to his cell.

  The king regarded them with chin held high, and his hands planted on his hips.

  “Will citizen Louis Capet please step forward?” The call came from within the courtyard.

  Louis's upper lip twitched, and he ground his teeth together at the familiar voice. He turned his head slightly to the left and beheld Jean-Baptiste Drouet. “I am Louis XVI, Sovereign King of France, and you will address me as such.”

  Drouet approached the king, with steady eyes and a commanding voice. “You are a criminal, a mere citizen of France. You are my prisoner. And you will step forward.”

  At Dro
uet's command, two foot soldiers approached the king from behind and gripped his elbows tightly. He shook loose of their grip before they could push him forward.

  “Unhand me,” he spat. He approached Drouet until they were practically nose to nose. “I see you have been rewarded for your betrayal. No longer a peasant grinding bread, hm? Captain of the guard. Are you pleased with yourself Jean-Baptiste Drouet?”

  A smile of deep satisfaction spread across Drouet's face. “Immensely.” The captain then took a step back and ordered, “Take him to the Grosse Tour.”

  The Great Tower to which Drouet referred was the largest turret at the Temple, stretching nearly twenty feet above the rest and home to The Keep, where many a prisoner met his end.

  “Sir, the queen will arrive momentarily,” said one of Drouet's captains. “Where is she to be taken?”

  Drouet tilted his head to the right and looked upward at another tower, second only in size to the Great Tower. “Caesar's Tower will suffice for the queen. Now, why don't you see our most esteemed monarch to his cell?”

  The foot soldiers again grabbed Louis by the arms, this time with a great deal more confidence, and shoved him forward through the heavy wooden gates. The armed guards parted as they passed, taking up ranks in the rear.

  Louis was brought before a massive pair of solid wood doors that led to the Great Tower. These were parted with great difficulty by a set of four guards, two on each side. A cold gray staircase rose before them, disappearing into the blackness above. Two smoky oil torches were retrieved from brackets in the wall and handed to guards at each end of the procession.

  Louis did not wait for the sharp nudge of the guard behind him, but stepped forward on his own, taking the steps lightly as though untroubled by the situation. Before long, the muscles along the fronts of his legs began to burn, and beads of sweat formed on his brow. Still they climbed, ever curving to the left as the steps took them up the circular tower. Halfway up the tower Louis's lungs, unaccustomed to physical exertion, burned and begged for oxygen. Yet Louis would not grant his captors the privilege of hearing him gasp for breath. He maintained his pace and sucked air between his teeth with all the control he could muster.

  Before him the shaky torchlight bounced off the walls, a pale and sickly yellow, offering sparse light and no warmth. The pounding of his heart matched the rhythm of footsteps. The guards thundered up the staircase behind him. Just as his muscles buckled under his weight, they rounded a corner and, with it, took their last step.

  Two soldiers reached out to steady the king, but he swatted away their hands. “Do not touch me,” he panted, voice dry and cracking. “I do not need your help.”

  Before Louis stood a short wooden door, one foot thick, that opened into a bare stone room.

  “Your chambers, Your Highness,” said the lead guard with an exaggerated bow. “We pray you find our hospitality satisfactory.”

  The company of soldiers roared with laughter. Louis sniffed indignantly; his nostrils flared. He regarded the door with disgust, not because it led to his prison, but because to enter, he must bow and humble himself. He could not walk in with head held high.

  “Perhaps we should help you in, Your Majesty,” said the guard. He forced down the king's head, half pushing, half throwing the king of France into the small room. The door slammed shut behind Louis, and a large steel bolt fell onto brackets with a clang, locking him inside.

  Louis clenched and unclenched his shaking hands. He faced the door and realized for the first time the reality of his situation. The door through which he entered his cell had no handle, latch, or grip on the inside. It was sanded smooth and flush with the stone walls.

  Still panting from the climb, he approached the small window hewn into the rock. Through it he could see a patch of bitter gray sky and a sliver of courtyard below. No more than six inches wide, it was far too narrow to fit his head through. The king had even been robbed of the option of throwing himself from the window and choosing his own manner of death.

  His lips quivered despite desperate attempts to bring them under control. Louis sniffed and shook his head.

  “I will not cry,” he hissed. “They will not break me. I am the rightful king of this godforsaken country, and I will not cry.”

  24

  ABBY STOOD BEFORE HER LIVING ROOM WINDOW LONG AFTER ALEX WAS gone, the details of her plan falling into place. After some time, she took her hair down, and let it rest against her shoulders. She set her jaw in determination, and her moist eyes burned with a deep fire.

  Abby peeled the evening gown off as though she were a snake shedding its skin and left it lying on the living room floor. In her bedroom she slipped into a pair of jeans, tennis shoes, and an old sweatshirt. She scrubbed her face and pulled her hair into a ponytail.

  A quick glance at the clock on her nightstand proved she was running out of time. Abby grabbed the phone and stuffed clothing into a duffel bag. Her fingers were steady as she dialed the number from memory.

  She was greeted by a familiar voice on the first ring. “Abby, are you okay?”

  “I've been better, Dow.”

  “That was quite a … I mean I've never seen anything like—”

  She smiled grimly. “They put on quite a show, don't they?”

  “Oh, Abby, I didn't mean—”

  “It's okay,” she soothed. “You don't have to tiptoe around me. I'll be fine.”

  “I heard about Dr. Trent. That was a bad decision on his part.”

  “Yeah, I didn't see that coming. But there's nothing I can do about it now.”

  Dow paused on the other end. She knew he was trying to subdue his eagerness. “So do you think—”

  “Yes, Dow, it was the Collectors.” She tugged at the end of her ponytail, thinking over the events of the last few hours. “Don't forget I've been unlucky enough to be in the room twice now when they've struck. I must admit they do it with flair.”

  “Well, I honestly never thought I'd see the day that I'd witness one of their thefts.”

  “And here I thought that you always secretly wanted to.”

  “Perhaps from a distance, just to see how they work. But I didn't see a thing except the back of my eyelids.” His voice took on a slight note of appreciation. “As much as I hate to admit it, their little display was quite impressive.”

  “Dow. These are the bad guys remember?”

  “I have little chance of forgetting that.”

  “How's DeDe?”

  Dow grunted. “She could have done without it. Never did have the stomach for that kind of thing.”

  “Tell her I'm sorry.”

  “It wasn't your fault, dear.”

  “I certainly feel like it was.”

  “I guess I need to ask how you're doing, I mean really doing?”

  “Good question. Difficult answer. I don't honestly know.”

  “Let me know if there's anything I can do, okay? I'm here. DeDe is, too, and you know we love you like a daughter.”

  Abby swallowed the lump that rose in her throat caused by his genuine concern and the word daughter. Her voice wavered. “That's actually why I called. There is something you can do.”

  “Name it.”

  She took a deep breath, fully resigned to the course of action she planned. “I need you to get me on the next flight to Paris.”

  An uncomfortable silence lingered between them for a few moments.

  “Paris?”

  “My father. I have to find him, Dow.”

  “Abby, that is not a good idea.”

  “Dow, I have to try.”

  “Listen,” his voice soothed, “I know you're really upset, and I know your dad disappointed you yesterday, but I don't think anything will come of you chasing him halfway across the globe. Why don't you let Interpol handle this?”

  His words stung, and she physically recoiled. “Yes, he hurt me, but it wasn't the first time. My need to see him has less to do with our relationship than it does with the diamond.”
>
  Dow's words were measured. “Your father is a very powerful man, Abby.”

  “That's my point exactly.”

  “This is not a good idea. You were ordered not to leave the country.”

  “Dr. Trent is no longer my boss.”

  “No, but you are still a person of interest in the case.”

  “The last I checked, I haven't been charged with anything other than stupidity.”

  “Abby, listen—”

  “Dow,” she interrupted, “I'm getting on a plane tonight with or without your approval. It would be much easier if you just helped me.”

  “I have a bad feeling about this.”

  “And I don't have any other options. If I don't find my father in the next few hours, that diamond will be lost forever.”

  Dow clicked his tongue as he thought about the ramifications. “All right,” he conceded after a lengthy silence. “When do you need to leave?”

  Abby grabbed her duffel bag and walked toward the door. “As soon as possible.”

  Isaac greeted Alex on the tarmac at Warfield airstrip outside Columbia, near D.C., ready to celebrate the success of their biggest heist ever. Alex only glanced at his brother. He pushed past him and climbed the steps into the luxurious eight-passenger private jet. Isaac followed him.

  “Tell me, Alex,” Isaac growled, settling into an empty seat opposite him. “When did it happen?”

  “What?”

  “This sudden growth of a conscience.”

  Alex didn't look at his brother, nor did he answer the question.

  “Because you know,” Isaac continued, draining half his glass. “I remember a time when you were a ruthless crook and could get in the pants of twenty broads while keeping your head screwed on straight. Now one brown-eyed woman smiles at you, and you lose your edge. Great man. Just great.”

  Alex gripped the armrest until his knuckles turned white. “You know, it must be nice,” he said, each syllable loaded with animosity.

  “What?”

  “Keeping your distance. Dealing with the logistics. Never getting your hands dirty.”