Matt Drake 14 - The Treasures of Saint Germain

by David Leadbeater

  The godlike powers of his master were absolute. Years before his supposed birth in 1712 it was believed that Saint Germain—under a different, famous title—faked his death, attended his own funeral, and made his way from England to Transylvania where the new legend was then born. The Count’s ‘magnum opus’ was the search for the Philosopher’s Stone that, far from being an inanimate object as many believed, was actually a living, breathing, scorching alchemical substance able to impart immortality into those who drank it. For centuries it was the most sought after prize among men.

  Very few found it.

  Webb didn’t believe every legend, every myth, but his investigations into Saint Germain and the man’s many attributes, accomplishments and dealings pointed to truth. Who else in history could mix a previously unknown substance for the good of man one day, compose a sonnet the next and then head out to deal with kings and commanders in the hopes of staving off a war? This romance, this brilliant and wondrous narrative, captured his imagination long ago but became more and more intriguing as months and years of deep investigation rolled by. Webb became convinced. He’d learned of Leopold and the scroll and used Ramses’ last bazaar to obtain it.

  Full circle. The crowds thickened as Webb headed down Piccadilly. Maybe he should have taken Regent Street for even more anonymity but the decision was made now. Then he saw an Eat on the corner of Swallow Street, headed up that quiet road and switched to Saville Row. The police would be out in force. Webb needed to hide, but he also needed to move forward.

  Germany next, for the penultimate prize and then . . .

  He faltered. Nobody knew. Where was the ultimate goal, the final objective?

  Shaking it off, he gripped the composition tighter. It held clues for the Germany trip. Interestingly, it was full circle for Beau too. He tapped the Frenchman on the shoulder as they hurried past a shop named Huntsman and Son.

  “I have to admit there were times I had my doubts, but you did well, Beau. You switched sides so easily. Made them believe.”

  “They believed Michael Crouch. They believed Alicia Myles. The hardest part was convincing Crouch. He is wily and intellectual. But the time I took won him over. It was good we began so early.”

  Webb agreed. “And despite all that business in New York, which we did not plan for, all seems to be right with the world.” He then turned slowly to his other companion. “Except for you.”

  Sabrina had made no move to leave them. She knew of Beauregard’s reputation and Webb’s hidden arsenal. Her face, acceptably, was turned to the floor, her shoulders slumped. She made no comment.

  “For years I held you under retainer, paid your way. I always kept you in mind for this, the final chapter of my mortality. You. You, Sabrina! My chosen acolyte a decade in the planning and . . .” he tailed off, unable to accept her deceit and wiping at the tears in his eyes. “Truly, I am shocked.”

  “Shall we . . . drop her off?” Beau murmured.

  Webb shrieked a gout of laughter. “Don’t be an ass. Despite her stupidity she is the best thief in the world. We still require her skills, of course, for the next job and then, potentially, the final one. It would be cutting at our noses to spite our faces if we . . . dropped her off now.”

  Beau accepted this in silence.

  Webb contemplated the middle-distance. “That doesn’t mean she shouldn’t be taught the error of her ways,” he mouthed. “When opportunity knocks.”

  Sabrina made no movement save for walking. Beau allowed a brief nod. The threesome twisted along several side streets, crossed Oxford Street and headed toward Bayswater. Webb stopped in a street behind a hotel and nodded at the man standing outside, smoking a cigarette.

  Beau shifted slightly. “Friend?”

  “I have none. But the best hiding places usually go to those with the biggest wallets and there is a, shall we say dastardly, shadow network of bellhops, doormen, hotel receptionists and restaurant serving staff operating in London that can find you the quietest of places to hole up for a while.”

  “Interesting.”

  “Isn’t it? These people are the true heart of this city. Little happens here that they don’t see. Few people pass by that they don’t note. Everything and everyone is currency to the network.”

  “And we are?”

  “Rich and privileged.” Webb laughed and approached the smoking man. In moments they were off the street and being led through dark rooms that appeared to have no purpose, along a corridor that hadn’t been cleaned in years. Webb wasn’t fussy where they ended up so long as it gave them some breathing space.

  He needed to study the composition.

  “Four hours,” he told the man. “Then, an unmarked taxi. I’ll tell him the destination en route.”

  “Just ring the bell,” an eastern European accent rang out, and the man indicated a button set into the wall.

  Webb settled in one overstuffed chair. “Get comfy, people. Sabrina—I do believe it’s time for Beau to deal out your comeuppance whilst I read quietly, don’t you?”

  “If you want my help you will hold your fists,” the Italian sputtered.

  “Then you will assist me when I command it. Is that understood?”

  “Only if your pet freak leaves me alone.”

  Webb felt the pull of the composition almost as if Saint Germain was calling his name, calling him toward the extraordinary. Without a nod for Beau to refrain he opened up the old papers and began to read.

  “Here we move into legend,” he said. “And the Devil take all who oppose us.”

  CHAPTER FORTY THREE

  Drake stumbled as an entire shelf of books thumped and clattered down his back, hard edges hammering his spine. Ahead, a stack of crates toppled, hitting the floor with an ear-splitting crash and filling his vision with dust and debris. Dahl cleared a path through, kicking and wrenching the wreckage apart. Another shelf, this one over eight feet high, threatened to crash among them and the tottering heavy pots and urns, the statues and oversized artefacts, promised more than just bruises if they fell.

  Mai pulled away. Drake herded Alicia past the last shelf as it collapsed. Dahl made the exit door, then turned to help Lauren and Smyth through. Hayden found herself propelled by Kinimaka so that her feet practically skimmed the ground. Yorgi sprang, nimble and fleet as a cat, picking his way through the destruction. Kenzie came last and then, only inches behind, Drake. As they raced, the rumbling eased and quieted, the shake of the building stopped. Only seconds had passed since the localized explosive went off.

  Drake slowed, staring back the way they had come. No chance of them following Webb; the floor was nothing but rubble, the endless high stacks crumpled and ruined.

  “Some treasures never see the light of day because scientists can’t explain them,” he said. “We learned that from the Odin thing. These treasures . . . stored, hidden perhaps, now spoilt, will end their days in devastation.”

  “Don’t get over-weepy,” Alicia huffed. “Most of them do.”

  A sense of the surreal and the incredulous hung over the team. Drake summed it up in true Yorkshire fashion. “So that French arse-end is gonna need a slap, no mistake.”

  Dahl, for once, just nodded. “I’ll be happy to oblige.”

  Hayden made a phone call, explained the situation, and asked for all eyes to be turned toward Webb. She also mentioned they might still have an ally in Sabrina without tabling the question as to the thief’s fate. All there hoped Webb had further uses for her. Truth be told, he had to have known she was compromised in the first place—yet still he’d desperately used her services. And the quest was not yet done.

  Dahl cleared his throat noisily. “And may I address the brand new elephant in the room?” He paused. “All those things Webb was spouting? Are any of them true?”

  Drake didn’t like to think too hard about them, and assumed the rest of the team needed some time to ponder. “Let’s chat later,” he said. “I need some air.”

  Almost in silence, they troope
d along the corridor and found a way to the museum’s entrance. Fresh air helped revive Drake and he was soon casting around, wondering what the next move might be.

  Then Alicia surprised them all by pushing her way into their midst. “Look, guys,” she muttered. “I’m apologizing here. I don’t know how,” she shrugged. “But I’m sorry my relationship with Beau helped keep his cover.” She drew a heavy breath. “That’s it.”

  Drake smiled at her. The new and improved Alicia Myles, and even more startling with each passing day.

  Mai ignored the apology and turned to Hayden. “We won’t be able to rely on Sabrina anymore. If she’s still alive.”

  “I know.” Hayden bit her bottom lip and looked over at Lauren. “I seem to remember a snippet of conversation, do you?”

  “Yeah. Webb’s a talker, all right. He told Sabrina the next clue will be found ‘where he died’, or something like that. Obviously that doesn’t mean Webb, but the crazy obsession he lives and breathes—Germain.”

  “I dunno,” Smyth grumped. “Sounds like a long shot.”

  “Oh great,” Lauren said. “Now you don’t believe a thing I say.”

  “I didn’t say I didn’t believe. I said—”

  “You’re both right,” Hayden interrupted quickly. “Webb was referring to Germain but he rambles and fantasizes and builds all his castles in the air. It’s a leap. But . . .” She gave them a small smile.

  “We see if it matches the merc’s list,” Yorgi said.

  “And,” Dahl said, “it is what he told Sabrina so I’m inclined to believe. She has become a true and believable asset.”

  “Calm down,” Kenzie muttered. “Don’t forget the ole lady.”

  Dahl frowned. “Eh?”

  “Yer main squeeze.” She effected an accent. “The old battle axe.”

  “You probably know her as ‘boo-bear’,” Alicia put in.

  “Oh, you mean Johanna?”

  The two laughed.

  “Maybe he’ll never get out of London,” Kinimaka offered.

  “He will find a way behind our backs,” Mai said with a sly glance over at Alicia. “The slippery ones always do.”

  Drake almost gulped, but luckily the Englishwoman was still feeling a little humbled and brooding over all that she had said, and most likely her relationship with Beau. How many times would she replay their conversations through the next weeks and months? Drake ignored Mai and found himself thinking about all that Webb had said.

  Some gigantic bombshells dropped.

  And such personal information. But then the man who boasted of private footage of Hayden Jaye—ex-CIA and at the top of her game—no doubt had the resources to breach any wall, delve through any record. Our personal worlds were there for all to see if a despicable individual knew where to look.

  “Shouldn’t be hard to find out where Saint Germain died,” Drake extended the option.

  “Already done,” Lauren said. “The merc said northern Germany and there’s a place there called Eckernförde. On the coast of the Baltic Sea. The town’s history contains an interesting anecdote. The Count de Saint Germain was buried in Eckernförde near the Saint Nicolai church. His grave was destroyed in 1872 by a storm surge.”

  Even Smyth had to affect a wry grin. “Convenient,” he said. “No body.”

  “It all adds to the conspiracy and the legend,” Lauren said. “No remains. No proof he died at all.”

  Mai snorted. “Do not tell me you are buying into this immortal nonsense.”

  “Me?” Lauren drawled. “I’m from Manhattan and believe absolutely nothing that I’m told. I just paint the pictures, darlin’.”

  “I imagine this Eckernförde is a big place,” Dahl said. “Maybe Webb thinks the old grave site is intact? He would go there.”

  “And what was Germain doing in Germany?” Kinimaka said. “From what we know of him he always seemed to travel with purpose, not by whim.”

  Hayden turned her nose up at the London drizzle. “So unless there are any objections we’re out of this murk.”

  “And quickly,” Drake urged them. “Maybe this time, with the manhunt slowing him down, we can actually get ahead of Webb. I don’t believe we should wait. Fact is, even with measly resources he’ll be able to fly anywhere in the world.”

  “So let’s go.” Alicia was the first to move. “Because I know one big, fat penis with whom I want to set a very special date.”

  CHAPTER FORTY FOUR

  The German town of Eckernförde was a popular coastal town, well-liked by tourists. The team flew to Hamburg and then choppered toward the coast, lines of communication always open for word of Webb or Sabrina or even the new Secretary of Defense, Kimberly Crowe. But the wires remained silent, as did most of the team.

  Dahl quietly evaluated Webb’s words.

  I know one of you is a lesbian. One of you is embarrassed all the time. And one of you is dying. I know that. I know one of you killed their parents in cold blood. One of you who is missing is far from what you believe. One of you will die by my hand in three days’ time just to wring those tragic emotions from those who remain. One of you cries themselves to sleep.

  It struck him that most if not all of these statements were true. Yes, Webb would profit from sowing unease among the team, but despite all his terrible flaws he wasn’t known for lying. He had no reason to concoct such wild yarns. Some of it didn’t even matter, but there were a few profound statements there that Dahl wanted to make sense of. In addition, he was worried about Sabrina. Despite her crimes, her past sins, she had been forced into helping the team.

  “You look like you’re moping.” Kenzie nudged his knee with hers. “Thinking about the old ball and chain?”

  Dahl shrugged. Johanna hadn’t figured in his thoughts today. “Maybe,” he said. “And Sabrina. I feel for them both.”

  “Well at least now we know who the lesbian is.” She chortled at him and flicked eyes at Drake, who couldn’t hide a smile.

  “Don’t encourage her,” Dahl stretched his legs out as the chopper cut through the clouds. “What happens to Sabrina Balboni will be on us.”

  “Not on me,” Kenzie blurted. “I am but a follower and she a nasty criminal.”

  “She actually never hurt anyone,” Drake said. “Unlike you, Bridget.”

  “I only kill in retaliation,” she said. “Or for revenge.”

  “Sweet.” Drake turned away as Alicia tapped his arm.

  Dahl tried again with Kenzie. “Then let somebody in. There’s a real, caring person hidden deep within you. I know. Let her out, even for just a minute.”

  “You’re wrong, Dahl. Inside me there’s only ashes. Barren emotions. And longing. I long for a redo.”

  “A redo?”

  “In life. I want to go back to before. Do it all again differently. I want my family to be alive.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “You can’t possibly know what it’s like.”

  The Swede skimmed over recent near misses. “I agree. I can’t physically stomach contemplating it.”

  “So where would I find my heart?”

  Dahl swallowed drily, unable to answer. Drake came to his rescue in inimitable fashion.

  “Dudes, just follow the unwritten Matt Drake rule. When you’re talking and start sounding too much like Taylor Swift, it’s time to end the conversation.”

  The helicopter descended toward Eckernförde, seeking out a helipad. The team were operating under Interpol’s dominion, but locals would always be around. Sometimes they were helpful, most times not.

  Dahl watched his friends and team-members jump down from the chopper. From old comrades to new they all had their secrets.

  But who fitted which ones?

  He exited, knowing that, even now, he was running from a decision. Recently he’d learned he couldn’t juggle family life with a soldier’s lot. The two would never gel. So where did he go from here?

  Outside, the German town was bathed in sunshine. Hayden herded them all int
o a hangar where a large vehicle waited and Lauren chose that moment of relative peace and quiet, and dim coolness, to transmit all she had learned during the flight.

  “I believe I’ve found what Saint Germain was doing here. Apparently, he decided he would die here after arrival. He was weary of life, careworn and melancholy. Feeble. He died leaving nothing, not even a gravestone. He was the guest of a man called Prince Charles of Hesse-Kassel, who would later give no details of Germain’s death, or of what he had left behind, and turned the conversation every time he was asked. Further discrepancies exist. Reliable witnesses say he died here in 1784, yet the documents of Freemasonry, relatively reliable, say the French took him as their representative in 1785. The Comtesse d’Adhémar reports a long conversation with him in 1789, a matter of record.”

  Lauren took a long breath. “But I digress. This Prince of Hesse-Kassel also had a vested interest in mysticism and was a member of several secret societies. Gems and cloths were passed around, it seems, and Charles was convinced that Germain could invent a new way of coloring the cloth and preparing the gems. He then installed the Count in an abandoned factory in Eckernförde.” Lauren grinned. “Which was later converted into a hospital.”

  “How the hell did you learn all that?” Alicia asked.

  “As I mentioned, it’s a matter of record. This is the greatest part of Saint Germain’s mystery—that all the facts are out there, in the public domain, and attested to by princes, kings, queens and heads of state. We’re not talking mysterious grails, legendary kingdoms or mythical weapons. We’re talking fact after fact after fact. Alchemy. Freemasonry. The arts. Diplomacy of the highest order. Councilor. Linguist. Virtuoso. Every title earned and documented. This mystery—” she shook her head “—runs deep.”

  “To the Philosopher’s Stone and the secret of immortality?” Mai said wonderingly. “Now you’re back in fantasy land.”

  “I’ve been to Fantasy Land,” Dahl laughed. “There’s no Saint Germain ride there.”

  “Mock all you like,” Lauren said. “The facts, as they say, will out.”