by Tom Wilde
“Sure,” I said, hoping I sounded sincere.
Ombra closed his eyes again, and then said, “Château de Joux.” His head rolled forward, as if he was under a weight too heavy to bear. “You will find what you want at Château de Joux.”
I was about to ask what he meant, but I saw his eyes were tightly shut, though not so tightly as to prevent tears from leaking out. I heard the door behind me hiss open—obviously my summons to leave. I didn’t make it out before I heard Ombra say ever so faintly, “I am sorry as well.”
Coming through the double-doors was like being released from a decompression chamber. Rhea was waiting for me in the hall. She was smiling. “Well done, Mr. Blake. For a moment, I was afraid Ombra wasn’t going to talk to you after all.”
“It’s a trap,” I said flatly.
Rhea’s smile twitched slightly. “Really? What makes you so certain?”
“The last time Ombra told me he was sorry, I got shot in the chest. His apologies are a danger alarm. So what are you going to do with him now?”
“We’ll have to keep him around, of course, in the event the information he gave us doesn’t produce results,” she said as casually as if discussing a family pet.
“And then?”
Rhea’s smile never wavered, but her eyes looked as hard as polished obsidian. “And then there should be no more reason to keep him around.”
“No,” I said.
“No what?”
“I meant every word I said to Ombra. So from now on, no more torture. We keep him alive, and when all of this is over, we let him go. End of story.”
Rhea laughed. “Oh, really? Just like that? What if the tables were turned, as you Americans like to say? Do you think a dedicated religious fanatic like Ombra would do the same for you? He’s tried to kill you at least twice already.”
“Big deal. That’s not exactly a unique occurrence in my world.”
“Are you as forgiving with all your other enemies?”
“No,” I admitted. “But there is one thing that makes Ombra different from all the rest.”
“What’s that?”
“He’s the only one who ever apologized for trying to kill me.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Rhea took me to another room, one that was deeper under the mountain by my reckoning, and left me there. This new area also had the now-familiar armored doors and was a large rectangle shape, dominated by an oval conference table made of richly inlaid wood surrounded by comfortable, leather-upholstered chairs. On one of the long side walls was a large flat-screen television monitor, while the other held a framed, recently produced map of the world. Besides the metal entrance door the room had three others: one was locked, one opened up to an executive-style washroom, and the last admitted me into a small but well-stocked bar. Both furnishings were well appreciated, especially as I was left alone for over four hours.
My watch was still on Paris time, but it kept good track of my solitary confinement. The only other thing that vexed me was the presence of a telephone, set at the head of the table. I had no illusions about trying to call up the outside world; I knew for a fact that there was no way something like that would go undetected in Vanya’s kingdom. And I really didn’t want to find myself strapped to a table next to Ombra.
Finally, my solitude was interrupted by the arrival of Rhea, still clad in her shorts and tight, abbreviated top, and Pete Weir, who came in the room with an armload of long rolls of paper, nodding a greeting to me. A few moments later, the previously locked inner door opened and admitted Vanya, who was accompanied by a large, tough-looking man decked out in desert camouflage and a gun belt. Vanya made the introductions for the newcomer. “Mr. Blake, this is Commander Vandervecken, our head of security.”
Vandervecken looked to be a very fit man in his forties, with a bronzed, craggy face, ghostly blue eyes, and a thatch of nearly pure-white hair mostly covered by his military-style beret. His gun belt sported a worn-looking Beretta 9mm and a knife that looked too big for a bowie but was not quite a scimitar. The commander smiled and nodded at me, no doubt thinking to himself that he could take me on in a fight. I smiled and nodded back, knowing he couldn’t.
Vanya still wore his white robes, though now he had his snow-colored hair tied back, and I caught a glimpse of something that looked like a hearing aid in one ear. I was certain that this was actually a radio receiver, one of the devices Vanya used to keep up the appearance of omnipotence over his island paradise. Vanya made a gracious gesture, indicating we should all be seated (I had stood up at the arrival of Rhea, but not because I considered her a lady), and settled in his own chair with a practiced flourish of his robes. Vanya opened the meeting by saying, “Dr. Weir, tell us all about this Château du Joux.”
Weir grinned and selected one of the long paper maps he carried, unrolling it like a rug merchant displaying his wares. “This here’s fresh off the printer,” he announced. “The chateau is in fact a castle, and it’s a beauty!”
I looked at the black-and-white overview with a baleful eye. “Castle” was a deceiving term for the melded cluster of structures depicted on the blueprint. It looked like something Escher would have come up with if he went in for medieval military designs.
“Actually,” Weir continued, “it’s more of a collection of fortifications built over time. The chateau itself is situated in the Jura Mountains of France, right near the Swiss border.” Weir consulted another paper he held in his hand. “The first fort was built in the eleventh and twelfth centuries, and there’ve been a succession of improvements and additions over the years. Even the famous military engineer Vauban designed some of the later fortifications in the 1700s. But mostly, the place was used as a prison.”
I couldn’t help myself from saying, “Prison?”
“Yeah,” Weir enthusiastically confirmed. “Matter of fact, this is the very spot Napoleon had Toussaint L’Ouverture confined after he was captured in Haiti. Poor bastard died here, too.”
Rhea must have caught a look on my face. “Is something wrong, Mr. Blake?”
Not that I’d confide anything to the present company, but besides my early bad experience with prisons of the Central American variety, I had all my romantic illusions regarding castles crushed out of me during my very first field trip for the Argo Foundation. I was sent to the rough and rugged mountains of central Romania and the crumbling ruins of Poenari Castle, once a residence of Vlad Tepes, also known as Vlad Dracul. The mission was to follow up on a nebulous lead as to the location of the famous Golden Cup of Vlad Dracul, and it turned out to be a complete failure. A failure compounded by the fact that all my local experts who were guiding me through the woods that night demonstrated their survival expertise by running away the moment trouble arrived in the form of renegade ex-Romanian army troops, who mistakenly believed we’d found treasure. I wound up getting away on my own, running through the moonlit, steep, wooded mountainside with only the howls of the wolves for company.
My bad trip down memory lane was interrupted when I realized I had all eyes in the room on me. I indicated the picture of the castle on the table. “I was just wondering what kind of shape the château was in. I’m not overly fond of going through unstable ruins.”
“It’s in great shape,” Weir confirmed happily. “It hasn’t been used as an active fort since the First World War, and these days it’s used as a military history museum. It’s supposed to house a collection of over six hundred weapons. And get this—the museum displays mostly Napoleonic-era stuff.”
Oh, just great, I thought to myself: a combination castle and prison with its own armory. I had a bad premonition that I was looking at a map of my future, short as it may be.
Vanya spoke up. “So it’s now a public museum?”
“Yeah,” Weir answered. “Although it’s closed throughout the winter months. As a matter of fact, it’s not scheduled to be reopened to the public until this July. There’ve been active reconstruction projects going on for the last few years. Someone’s been
pouring a lot of money into the old place.”
“Interesting,” Vanya murmured. “Thank you, Dr. Weir. This is most helpful.”
Weir looked around the table, surprised at being dismissed. “Oh, okay. Well, here’re the printouts I got, and some overhead satellite photos, so, I guess if there’s nothing else?” Weir shrugged and laid his other papers down on the table. “Adios,” he said as he left the room.
When the main door shut, Vanya said, “This must be it; I can feel it.”
“What?” I asked.
Vanya stood up and tapped the printed sketch of Château de Joux. “Think about it. Where else would Napoleon choose to hide one of his greatest treasures, except in a well-defended location?”
I looked at the castle plans, wondering how much of the fortified edifice would be hidden from view. “You think the sarcophagus of Alexander could be here?”
“Why not?” Vanya said, his dark eyes gleaming. “It’s perfect.”
Vandervecken had unrolled one of the satellite photographs. “It’s perfectly bad,” he said in a lilting Afrikaans accent. “I am thinking it is a place that will be hard to get inside of.”
Vanya waved away Vandervecken’s concern. “We’ll need more information, of course. Rhea? Do you think our guest could be persuaded to talk some more?”
By “guest,” Vanya was no doubt referring to Ombra. Rhea gave a weary shrug. “Maybe,” she said doubtfully. “He’s exhausted, and so am I. The problem is that his associates know he is missing, and time may not be on our side.”
Vanya leaned back and tented his fingers. “Of course,” he said absently. Then he smiled and looked at me. “Do you know why Ombra decided to reveal this location to you?”
“Sure. Like I told Rhea already, it’s got to be a trap. Ombra wants me dead.”
Vanya traded looks with Rhea, and then said to me, “Then I believe it will be necessary to proceed with caution, Mr. Blake. Rhea, when can you and Mr. Blake be ready to go?”
“Go?” I asked. “Go where?” But I already knew the answer to that.
“In the morning,” Rhea replied. “I’ve been working almost all night already.” The sight of Ombra’s tortured, abused body sprang unbidden into my mind.
“Whoa,” I said. “Just what do you expect me to do once I get to the chateau?”
It was Vandervecken who supplied the answer. “We’ll need information on the layout. Someone needs to do a reconnaissance mission.”
“Reconnaissance,” I echoed. “So now I’m expected to be on the scouting party?”
Rhea smiled, and said in a voice that was almost a purr, “I’ll be there to hold your hand, Mr. Blake.”
“Thanks, I feel so much better now.”
“There is another concern,” Vanya stated to me. “Do you think that your former government agency will be actively trying to find you?”
I shrugged. “Probably. Things got pretty noisy back in Paris. Somebody must be looking into everything that happened that night.”
Rhea returned to her chair. “According to the Parisian news reports, the fire at Troyon’s apartment and the bodies that were found there are being attributed to an organized crime assassination. The most recent news about the explosion near the church of Val de Grâce is that it occurred due to an underground gas main accident.”
Which meant that someone, somewhere was covering up the real reasons for all the murder and mayhem, I thought. “Well,” I said. “In that case, I’d say we were in the clear for now. I don’t think the G-men will waste too much time looking for me, but I’m toast if they ever catch me.”
Vanya rubbed his hands together. “Very well. For now, I suggest you get some rest. Tomorrow may be a very interesting day. Rhea? Please escort Mr. Blake to his quarters, then come back quickly. We have more planning to do.”
I cast a bitter look at the plans of the castle on the table as I got up to leave, letting Rhea lead the way. Once we were back in the concrete tunnels, she led me back toward the elevators, where we passed a figure exiting one of the armored air lock doors, dressed in what looked like a blue plastic spacesuit. Rhea showed no reaction to the sight, so I made no comment, and asked instead when we reached the elevators, “So now what?”
Rhea punched the button. “So now you get some rest, as will I. I believe we’ll have an early start tomorrow.”
“To go and storm the castle? Seems a tall order for just the two of us.”
The elevator doors opened, and as we entered, Rhea activated the control for the topmost floor. As she turned, I caught a glimpse of an earpiece receiver like the one Vanya wore, hidden within her raven-black hair. “I’m certain we’ll manage together,” she replied casually.
We rode in silence until the elevator stopped and the doors admitted us into the topmost lobby. Rhea led the way to the room Caitlin and I shared, and then took me farther down the hall to a set of double doors nearer the corner. “Your new rooms,” Rhea explained. “I strongly suggest you get some rest tonight. Also, say nothing of our plans to your wife.” She gave me a conspiratorial smile, opened the doors, and then walked away without another word.
I entered the room and found myself inside a large, penthouse-style suite that looked fit for visiting royalty. Caitlin launched herself off an enormous sofa and came to me. “Jonathan! Check this place out! Looks like we’ve moved up in the world.”
She wasn’t kidding. The room was L shaped, taking up the whole corner of the building, and everything inside, from the bed that could accommodate a party of eight to the huge entertainment center, was pure luxury.
Caitlin was smiling and playing the part of the bubbly newlywed. We hugged and exchanged perfunctory kisses. “They just brought dinner up,” she said, indicating a wheeled cart loaded with silver-domed trays. “Let’s take it out on the balcony.”
As I went to get the cart, I saw that the enormous flat-screen television was on and showing a picture of Vanya, looking for all intents like Zeus Almighty himself, while behind him was a moving panorama of stars and the planet Saturn. Vanya was saying something about “the Universal Brotherhood of Man,” and in the background I heard the strident musical strains of Holst’s “Mars, Bringer of War.”
“Good-looking special effects,” I commented, “but what else is on?”
Caitlin picked up a remote from the sofa and flicked the television off. “It’s closed-circuit TV,” she said. “It’s like the all-Vanya-all-the-time network. Although he really is a fascinating man.”
“Is that all there is to watch?”
“No,” Caitlin said flatly. “There’s another channel. One we won’t be watching.”
“Why’s that?”
“It’s just pornography.”
“Pornography?” I asked. “Really?” I caught the look in Caitlin’s eye and was suddenly certain what caused the death of her fourth husband. Or were we up to her fifth? “Right,” I said as smoothly as I could. “I mean, who’d want to watch that sort of thing? So, what’s for dinner?”
Dinner turned out to be braised and roasted lamb kabob with Greek salad and a bottle of Syrah. The French wine just served to remind me of my pending journey in the morning and sour my disposition, despite my lovely dinner companion and the exquisite view of the sun as it slowly melted into the calm, dark blue sea.
Throughout the meal, Caitlin chatted away about her tour of the island with Vanya as her guide, and in the process managed to inform me that (1) there was another complex east of here that looked “like a cross between a Greek amphitheater and a miniature Roman colosseum” where she saw “about a hundred” young men going through military-style drills and training; (2) to the west was a boat harbor; and (3) Vanya’s yacht, the Phaeton, was fully crewed and always ready to sail, although Vanya himself rarely left his island.
When I’d digested this unpleasant set of facts, I said to her, “I have to go away for a while, starting tomorrow.”
Caitlin smoothed back an errant strand of her hair. “Where are you going?
”
“I can’t say. And I’m not sure when I’ll be back. Like Odysseus, I’ve been drafted into Vanya’s version of the Trojan War.”
“You still can’t tell me what you’re doing for Vanya, or where you’re going?”
“Right. But I promise, when I’m done, we’ll be set for life,” I said for the benefit of any unseen eavesdroppers. I’m convinced Vanya would agree with my statement, considering that I was certain that “set for life” translated to “deceased” in his dictionary.
“I see,” Caitlin said quietly, looking out over the sea. “What am I supposed to do while you’re gone?”
“Well, Odysseus’s wife Penelope spent her time weaving. And fighting off suitors.”
Caitlin’s golden-brown eyes locked on to mine. “Penelope sounds like an idiot. Didn’t it take Odysseus twenty years to get home from the war?”
“Well, yeah. There were some unavoidable detours, like Cyclopes, Sirens, and stuff.”
“Not to mention the witch Circe, as I recall. And speaking of witches, is the Rhea woman going with you?”
“Um, yeah,” I admitted. “I think that’s the case. So in any event, I should probably get some rest tonight.”
Caitlin, her hair set aglow in the rays of the setting sun, looked at me with her unfathomable eyes. Then she stood and came to me and simply held out her hand, and as I took it she said, “Even though I don’t know what’s going on here, I know this: You saved my life in Paris. You came back for me. And when I think of that, I think that maybe you really do love me.”
I was about to make an off-hand reply, but the look in her eyes stopped me. Her face told me everything she was feeling at the moment, and I didn’t dare to break the spell with my clumsy words.
“So tell me,” she said, in a voice low and husky. “How would Penelope send her man off to sail beyond the sunset?”
Later, when our private storm subsided and we were left entwined together in the warm, gentle night, I wrote on her skin the name of the French castle. With her head resting on my arm, she nodded to tell me she understood the message, then she pressed my hand to her thigh and I drifted off to sleep.