He bristled and pulled his arm back as she reached to unbuckle the straps. “Don’t address me like a child,” he said, stiffly. “I’m fine, and I’d like to continue.” In actuality, he was famished, but he didn’t want to break for dinner just yet. If they had dinner, then he’d have to reply to Anaya, and he was definitely avoiding that as long as possible. Which, honestly, actually was rather childish.
“Tomorrow will be day five,” he protested. His heart sped up as he thought how much ground they had yet to cover. He started to tick off all that loomed ahead. “We’ve got to finish Orléans, and then the battles to clear the road so the king can get crowned, and then Paris, and then—”
“Not another word.” Her voice was strong, sharper than he’d ever heard it. “I’m tired of arguing with you at every turn. We’ve done so much in such a short period of time, and I think we’ll be able to determine where she lost the sword. That’s your job, Simon. And you’ll be no good at it if you’re too exhausted to notice what you need to.”
He blinked, then stepped out of the Animus and regarded her. “Our job,” he said, coolly and precisely, “is to demonstrate to Alan Rikkin why my approach is so valuable.”
“By figuring out how to get that sword,” and she pointed to the wooden box, “functioning as something other than a glorified filet knife. I’ve seen it in action now. Rikkin will see it in action. It’s amazing. It’s astonishing. And if you can find out how to fix it, your case will be ironclad.”
She was right, of course. She also looked like she was under a lot of strain. Simon suddenly wondered what it took out of someone to be on the other end—watching, monitoring several different things, always ready to pull him out in a heartbeat if need be.
But none of that excused her anger. “You’re behaving in a very unprofessional manner, Doctor,” he said, pointedly using her title. “Might I suggest that you follow your own advice and make it an early night. We’ll meet at Temp’s at eight tomorrow morning.”
A muscle twitched near her eye, but she nodded. “I apologize,” she said. “I shouldn’t have spoken like that to you. Sometimes the doctor does need to take her own advice.”
Despite his annoyance, he patted her awkwardly on the shoulder. “Let’s blame Rikkin and his absurd deadline and not be cross with one another, hmm?”
“Deal,” she said, and gave him a wan smile.
They said good night at the lift and Victoria headed for the parking garage. Simon decided to stop off in his office. He wanted the comforting smell of books for a moment to settle his mind. On an impulse, he took his Joan of Arc books from the shelves, stacking them on a pile. He’d made extensive notes on his tablet, but books were his favorite choice for research.
He looked at his phone and was both chagrined and annoyed to see several texts from Anaya, all of them brief, all of them reiterating that she wanted to talk to him.
Simon ran up the white flag. In lobby. Come down, he replied, gave the books a last caress, and went to get on the lift.
She was there within a few minutes, smiling cheerfully at him, but for some reason the smile didn’t reach her eyes. “Have you had dinner yet?” she asked.
“No, and what—”
“I’m starving,” she said. “I’d love to have some good old-fashioned fish and chips before I have to leave London. Oh! And it’s Oktoberfest. We can see what the local pubs are featuring.”
“Well, let’s do that, shall we?” Simon was hardly in the mood to go pub crawling, but fish and chips did sound good. They took a taxi to Marylebone to one of their favorite chip shops. Simon ordered a pint and found himself relaxing, which surprised him.
As they finished their meal, he said, “So… what did you want to talk about? Or was this just about getting me to buy you fish and chips?”
“Oh, so you are paying, brilliant,” Anaya said. She still had that odd look on her face. She waved a hand airily. “Let’s chat while we walk.” Obviously Simon was not going to escape being dragged from pub to pub to try the autumnal specials.
They stepped out of the warm darkness of the pub into the icy night outside. She slipped her arm through his as they started walking, and he stopped, giving her a confused look. “What, a girl can’t keep her hands warm?”
The edges that the beer had taken off returned with new sharpness. This wasn’t like Anaya; she was an excellent respecter of boundaries. Something wasn’t right. He forced himself to smile as they strolled down Thayer, past the overly precious antique stores, cute boutiques, and smart men’s tailor shops.
Anaya leaned against him and murmured, softly, “Victoria is a liar.”
Simon stopped dead in his tracks. “Come on,” she hissed, tugging him along. Her eyes darted about nervously.
“All right,” he said, thinking he’d play along. “What makes you say that?”
“She lied about Bella Cibo,” Anaya said. “I saw her there the other night.”
“That does seem a queer thing to lie about, but—”
“I saw her with Alan Rikkin.” That almost made him come to another complete halt, but he forced himself to keep going. His heart started a slow hammering in his chest.
“She’s one of the key people at the Aerie,” Simon said. Now he, too, was starting to look around at passersby: families with babes in arms or in prams; couples, old and young, holding hands; a group of teenage girls clustered at the windows of one of the popular boutiques. “It’s entirely possible she was discussing something about that. Or something I don’t need to know about.”
Even as he said the words, he thought about Victoria’s increasing stress levels. The fact that Rikkin had replied to her, not him. And just tonight, the out-and-out unprofessionalism of their tiff. He suddenly felt the cold air knife through the sturdy wool of his overcoat.
“People do that all the time at Abstergo,” Anaya murmured, “we’re bloody Templars. What we don’t do is lie about being spotted in a restaurant.”
They kept walking while thoughts raced through Simon’s head. Finally he said, “I trust your instincts. You were the field agent, not me. What should we do?”
“I think we’re safe enough out here. We’re not bugged, I checked before we left the taxi.”
Of course she had. Simon suddenly wished he hadn’t ordered the large fish and chips. His stomach felt like he’d swallowed lead. “Well, I suppose that’s good.”
“Can you tell me anything about what you’re working on?”
It was a high-level project, so he hadn’t volunteered information, but he trusted Anaya and saw no reason why he shouldn’t tell her. He gave her the short version about his approach, Victoria’s expertise and assistance, Piece of Eden 25, and, of course, the ludicrous deadline. “Rikkin appointed her himself, and thus far, it’s been a good partnership.”
“Except for the lying.”
“Except for the lying. I have to keep working with her if I’m going to have any hope of making the deadline. And I do want to make it, dammit. I just don’t know why there would be any deception involved in this. If my approach works, everyone stands to benefit.”
“Everyone?” pressed Anaya.
Simon thought about it. The Templars? Yes. Abstergo? Possibly, but this sort of behavior didn’t reflect a concern with a corporate bottom-line. Rikkin? Definitely. “Everyone,” he said firmly.
Unless my approach and Joan of Arc somehow aren’t really what this is all about. But what the hell else could it be?
It was time to go all in with Anaya. “I’ve been noticing things. They sound so stupid, but… well, one night I dozed off in a car that was bringing me home. I dreamed I heard the driver speaking in Latin.”
She snorted. “Only you, Simon.”
“You know I don’t know it, and thank you so much for making me feel even more foolish.”
“Sorry, go ahead.”
He told her about the doorman he didn’t recognize. Then about how he hadn’t seen Poole at Temp’s for a couple of days. “I mean—all
of these things have explanations. Latin had been involved as part of the project I’m working on. I could have simply caught another man’s shift at the flat. And Poole could be on holiday—he certainly deserves it, the man’s a fixture.”
“True,” she agreed, “but we’re Templars. That means we can’t afford to make assumptions.” She forced a grin, belied by the worry in her eyes. “I think,” she said quietly, “I’d like to go back to your flat.”
They took a taxi back to Abstergo, and Simon drove them to his flat in his two-year-old Jaguar sedan. They were silent the whole way. Simon had no idea what to say, what to think, and dreaded what might be about to happen. Once they were inside, Anaya looked around.
“You always did keep a tidy place, Simon,” she said.
“It’s much easier when you’re never home. Nightcap?” he asked. He hoped he didn’t sound as tense as he felt. “I think I have some of that nasty American bourbon you’re so fond of.”
“Lovely, thanks.”
He poured her two fingers, trying to keep the bottle’s neck from clattering against the glass, and poured himself a Macallan. He had to fight to not down it in a gulp.
Anaya wandered around, taking in the beautiful antique furniture, running a finger along the spines of the old leather books, stepping into the study. “Are you ever going to finish your novel?” she asked, looking at the comfortable leather chair and the state-of-the-art computer.
“One of these days.”
She placed her glass down on a coaster and said, “Let me just duck into the loo,” and winked at him.
What are we getting ourselves into? he wondered.
Anaya emerged a few minutes later, looked at him for a moment, then slowly draped her arms around his neck. His hands went to her waist, tentatively, and he closed his eyes as she nuzzled his ear.
“I’ve spotted two bugs already,” she said. “No need for me to go into the bedroom. Your car has one, too. Act as if you’ve no idea… and watch what you say and write.”
“The computer too?” he murmured.
“Most likely.” What was the old joke? That it wasn’t paranoia if they really were out to get you? Impulsively, he slid his arms around her and held her tightly.
“Thank you,” he whispered. She nodded ever so slightly, then as they had agreed, she pulled back.
“Simon,” she said, in a slightly louder voice, “I—I don’t think….”
“Of course,” he said, making sure he sounded understanding but slightly disappointed. Which, curiously enough, wasn’t difficult. “This would be a very bad idea, with you being a short-timer.”
She stepped back, then planted a quick kiss on his cheek. “You’re a good man, Simon Hathaway. I’m glad we’re friends.”
“Always, Anaya,” he said. “Montreal has no idea what a gem they’re getting.” He fetched her coat and helped her into it, opened the door for her, and said good night.
Alone in his apartment, he poured out Anaya’s unfinished bourbon—anyone observing would know he never drank the stuff—sipping his scotch as he wondered how the hell was he going to pretend he didn’t know that both his flat and car were bugged, that a trusted colleague had betrayed him, and that his fellow Inner Sanctum member was behind all of it.
CHAPTER
TWENTY-TWO
DAY 5
Simon had barely been able to sleep, and what dreams he’d had had been fraught with symbols so odd that Carl Jung would have rubbed his hands in glee: Jacques de Molay climbing out of the portrait during Simon’s initiation ritual, brandishing the Sword of Eden as Simon lay prostrate on the cold floor. The teardrop-shaped sun etched into the stone wall of the Coudray dungeon. And worst of all, Joan, bound to a stake, flames licking at her feet and an enormous hole in her chest, screaming in agony.
After jolting out of sleep a second time drenched in sweat, he glanced at the clock and decided that 5:16 was indeed not too early to go to his office. He trudged into his kitchen, made some tea, and poured it in a travel mug. Somehow, though he believed that his office as well as his flat was bugged, if he were going to be watched, he’d rather it be there than here.
A strange peace settled over him as he sat down with the pile of books he’d assembled last night. Last night, in all ignorance, he’d done exactly the right thing. Over the next few hours, Simon, with old-fashioned pen and paper, jotted down notes from his collection of tomes. He had a plan, and he was fairly certain he could convince Victoria to go along with it.
Simon was also fairly certain he’d give himself away the moment he showed up at Temp’s. Lyndsey greeted him with a smile. He knew he shouldn’t, but he asked, “I’m just wondering—where’s Poole?”
“On holiday,” she said, shrugging. “Getting it in before the Christmas season hits, I imagine.”
He forced a polite smile. He wondered if she was just a regular employee, or if she was a Templar field agent, or if Lyndsey was even her real name. He wondered if the teapots were outfitted with recording devices. But that way lay madness.
He ordered tea for himself and Victoria, wondering if Anaya and the American would show up. He thought not; it would be safest if they weren’t seen together. Don’t panic, Anaya had said last night as they bought burner phones before going to his flat.
Rather late for that, he’d muttered.
I mean it. It could just be Abstergo being Abstergo. They watch us a lot more often than you think.
Also not comforting.
No, really, it should be business as usual at Abstergo. It’s Victoria who’s the wild card as far as I’m concerned. Something about whatever it is you’re doing has gotten someone’s attention. So don’t volunteer anything, don’t do anything out of the ordinary, and we’ll see what happens.
The new mobile was in his jacket pocket, next to his heart. He resisted the impulse to pat it, and was absurdly and horrifyingly reminded of the peculiar gaping hole in Joan’s chest.
“Simon?”
He started. “Oh, sorry. Woolgathering.”
“You look like the sheep trampled you,” Victoria said, and he smiled faintly.
“I’ve looked better, I’m sure. But I have tea, and I shall soon have bacon, so I anticipate rapid improvement.”
“Good.” Victoria poured milk into her tea and was silent for a moment, then said, “I want to apologize again for last night. There was no call for me to behave that way.”
Twelve hours ago, he’d have believed her. Now, he wished he knew whether any of her concern for him had ever been genuine. Focus, Simon.
“We’ve both been a bit off our game,” he said. “I’m not proud my own behavior, so let’s just move on.”
Her brow furrowed, but she nodded. “Of course,” she said. Then, with something approaching her usual warmth, she added, “So, what’s next?”
“Well,” he said, “Orléans is pivotal for Joan, of course—I mean, it was after this that she became known as the Maid of Orléans, rather than simply the Maid.”
Victoria nodded. “I do know how much, as a historian, you want to see everything.”
“She has back to back battles on the seventh and eighth of May. Both vital, both long—all day affairs—and both, ah, terrifically bloody.” He paused for a moment and let his hand shake, just a trifle, as he refilled his tea.
Victoria didn’t miss the motion. “Simon… I’m not sure how much of that you really need to see,” she said. “There’s a reason Abstergo Entertainment alters the memories they use for their games. Otherwise, most would be too traumatic for ordinary people to handle. You’re not watching a film or playing a game. You’re experiencing the memories as if they are actually happening to you. And with this model, you are physically moving along with the simulation, so there’s a kinetic aspect to the experience that further locks it into your mind. You don’t need to live every minute of a battle. You simply don’t.”
What made his ploy work, Simon thought, is that she was right. He hadn’t been prepared for Gabriel’
s memory of jabbing a sword into a fallen foe’s eye. Or the smells and the sounds of battle, of ruptured bowels and blood and high-pitched screams of torment. A movie or a game, it most assuredly wasn’t.
He sighed as if in resignation. “So how do we cherry-pick times when Joan is going to be carrying the Sword of Eden?”
“Let me know where you think she’d be likely to utilize the sword’s abilities. I’ll enter that information into the simulation parameters, and we should be able to identify the most important moments. If it’s too intense, don’t worry, I’ll bring you out. And for pity’s sake, Simon, be honest with me about how much you can handle. I can’t have another Robert Fraser. I won’t.”
She handed him her tablet. For a moment, her eyes glinted as if with unshed tears, but perhaps it was just the light. His heart lurched. Right now, she looked as though she really did care about him.
Simon muttered a protest to keep up the pretense, but entered this morning’s notes into Victoria’s tablet. “If we like how this works, I think this is how we should move forward,” he said. “Plus, eventually we’ll come to a place where Gabriel and she are separated. He’s not likely to have seen much of…. Well.”
He didn’t want to go down that path, not now, not when everything inside him was raw with disillusionment and suspicion and his nerves were bowstring-taut.
“On May seventh, the French achieve a major victory. They take the boulevard of the Augustins—the old friary that sits in front of the Les Tourelles. It’s all military tactics; they made a bridge of boats to get to one of the islands in the Loire, then crossed to the boulevard of Saint-Jean-le-Blanc. They found it deserted and took the attack to the Augustins. There, well, they pretty much simply threw four thousand men against it in a very fierce fight. While that’s impressive, it isn’t one of the great moments I want to see. I mean—that I think we should see. And… we do have to witness Les Tourelles. We must. However rough it is.”
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