by Gigi Pandian
“You’re not serious,” I said. “What kind of alias is that?” I handed the passport back to him and sank onto the couch with my coffee. I took a sip, happy he’d remembered exactly the way I like it, thick with sugar.
“There’s history to the name,” he said.
“But it’s not your name!” I felt my stomach tighten. “Is it?”
“You know my name.”
“Do I?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You can’t be serious about using a fake passport. I thought all that was behind you.”
“It is. But this situation—”
“You never got rid of your old fake IDs.” My voice trembled as I spoke, the truth sinking in. “You never planned on getting rid of them.”
I was so rattled by what I’d realized that I thought my head might pop. It was one thing to have thought he wasn’t completely honest with me about his past. This was his future. A future I had been stupid enough to think I might be a part of. We knew each other so well in some ways, but in other ways, we hadn’t begun to scratch the surface.
“It’s coming in handy, if you hadn’t noticed,” he snapped. I’d hit a nerve. A nerve that was there because he hadn’t fully committed to giving up his old life.
“You never planned on giving this up, did you?” My voice was flat. I wasn’t scared. I wasn’t angry. I was hurt. I’d been betrayed. At every turn, I tried to trust him. I wanted so much to believe him. But how could I? It wasn’t just the fake IDs. There were also the multiple hidden apartments.
Lane swallowed hard. “This isn’t the time for this conversation, Jaya.”
“If you use that fake ID,” I said. “I’m out.”
“Good. That’s what I wanted all along. You should be out.”
“Don’t be stupid. I’m the one who figured out what’s going on!”
“We don’t know what’s going on yet. You know I wish you could stay with me. I wish, more than anything, that there was a way to have you in my life that wasn’t like this. You know that. But I don’t want you to be a part of this. I never did.”
“You can’t do this alone.”
“I’ll manage.”
“We do this together. But we do it above board.”
“After robbing the Louvre, isn’t that a little late?”
“That was different,” I insisted. “We were being coerced. From this point on, do this right.”
The rational part of my brain told me I shouldn’t trust him. And yet, I was overwhelmed by the feeling that I trusted him completely. I didn’t blindly trust Lane to give up who he was, but I believed his motives were good in all the ways that mattered.
“We can do things without the fake ID,” Lane said, “but you’ve given me another chance to think about your involvement in this. I don’t want North seeking retribution against you, after everything we did to protect you in the first place. If he knows you’re coming after him, all bets are off.”
“I’ve been thinking about that, too. What if we can find the treasure and catch North, all without him realizing it’s us who did it?”
“How do you propose we pull that off?”
“The same way North is pulling it off. If we’re right about what he’s doing, his men are disguised as workmen who are working on the renovations to the Mont.”
Lane shook his head. “Even if we put on the best disguises, North would know us.”
“Not if he doesn’t see us,” I said. “He doesn’t know we’re onto him. We can spy on them, then make sure their work happens to be discovered by the proper authorities, tipped off by an anonymous good Samaritan who saw what they were doing. If we do this right, there’s no way he’ll know it’s us.”
Lane studied my face for a moment before speaking. “That might just work.”
“There’s one more thing.” My voice quivered, but I had to ask. “Show me your passport. Your real one. You’ve never let me see it. If you want me to trust you, you need to trust me completely.”
Lane’s face flushed red, but he nodded. “Here goes nothing. If you don’t walk out the door after you see it, I know you’ll stick with me through anything.”
He retrieved a passport from a hidden compartment of his bag. “This,” he said, “is the real Lane C. Peters.” He handed me a U.S. passport.
“Lancelot?”
“You can see why I prefer Lane.”
“Caravaggio?”
“I completely understand if you no longer want to be under the same roof as me.”
“Lancelot Caravaggio Peters,” I said. “It’s a bit fanciful for your father, isn’t it? From everything you’ve told me about him—”
“It was my mother who named me. She was bored from my father being away at work so much. She retreated into art and literature. I bet you can guess who two of her favorites were. She didn’t think too much about the significance of either one. At least I hope not. And I doubt my father even noticed what she’d named me until it was too late to change the birth certificate. So here I am.”
For dinner, Lane made bowls of mushroom risotto, and an arugula salad with beets, shaved radish, and a tangy vinaigrette.
“How did you make this in that tiny little kitchen?” I knew I’d been concentrating on additional research, but I hadn’t thought I’d missed so much.
“A chef never reveals his secrets.”
“I thought that was magicians.”
He shrugged. “Same difference.”
“God, this is good,” I said through a mouthful.
“I cheated. Risotto is one of those dishes that sounds complicated, but really all it needs is patience. With only two burners, it’s a good choice. I boiled the beets for the salad on the other one.”
“Thank you, Lancelot.”
“If you ever call me that again, I’ll slip a sleeping pill into your risotto and put you on the next flight home to California.”
CHAPTER 27
Over dinner, we caught up on our lives over the past five months. Lane had been bouncing around from place to place as he contemplated his options, using Paris as a home base. It was after two a.m. before we got back to our plan of action. First thing in the morning, we could head to the Mont to see if we were right. I wanted to leave right away, but Lane pointed out that my insistence on taking public transportation hindered our options. The plan wasn’t to confront North. Instead, we would see what was going on and then call in an anonymous tip once North’s men were close to finding whatever it was they were after, leaving the authorities to take it from there.
Lane looked as if he was going to pass out, so we agreed we should get a few hours sleep. At sunrise, we donned disguises from Lane’s closet, primarily consisting of hats and scarves, which would look natural given the cold weather.
After packing a few additional items of clothing into a small daypack of Lane’s, in case we ended up staying the night, we took the metro to the Gare Montparnasse train station. From there, we could catch a train to Rennes, then board a bus to Mont Saint-Michel. Lane wasn’t kidding that renting a car would’ve been much easier. Still, my resolve didn’t waver—not until we’d been subjected to stale croissants on the train.
We now stood waiting on a cold, rainy sidewalk with twenty rowdy Australians who were also waiting for the bus to Mont Saint-Michel. I wished it could at least have been snowing instead of sleeting, because then I wouldn’t have been both cold and wet. Lane gave me a pointed look that clearly said “I told you so,” but he remained silent.
The bus driver spoke highly accented broken English as he pointed out interesting sights visible from the bus windows, and even some invisible points of interest, such as when we passed from one region of France to the next. The regions had friendly rivalries, and the bus driver was a Breton who poked fun
at the Normans. The border between the two regions was determined by the placement of a river which had changed course years ago, effectively moving Mont Saint-Michel from Brittany to Normandy.
Only thirty people called the Mont their home, the driver informed us. It was a tourist destination, with thousands of tourists flocking to the site each day. Even most of the locals who worked on the Mont lived in nearby villages on the mainland and took a shuttle bus to reach their shop, restaurant, or tourist site. No vehicles were allowed inside the gates except for small delivery vans. Mont Saint-Michel was very much like it was when pilgrims walked hundreds of miles on foot to reach it.
“Shopkeepers,” the talkative driver said, “are in the same spot they were over a thousand years ago. Only instead of selling you a religious trinket, today they sell you a plastic gargouille. You understand? A gargoyle, en anglais. You are pilgrims, all of you. When you arrive, you will walk on the same street as your ancestors. You will visit the same restaurants, the same shops. Impressive, no?”
When the bus deposited us in front of a Tourist Information Center in a small town a couple of kilometers outside of Mont Saint-Michel, the rain had stopped. Stepping off the bus, I breathed in the salty air of the nearby ocean. But although I could smell it as well as if I were hovering above it, I couldn’t see either the ocean or Mont Saint-Michel. Seeing my confusion, Lane pointed. There was yet another form of public transportation we had to take. A shuttle bus to the Mont.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I mumbled.
“Rethinking the car option?” Lane asked.
“Shut up.”
He kissed my forehead underneath the wool hat that covered my hair to make me less recognizable, and we followed the herd onto the bus.
Looking out the window of the shuttle bus, my grumpiness drained away, just like the receding tide alongside the causeway leading to the Mont. Looming in front of us, the castle’s ramparts rose from the rock formation. The jagged rock sprang forth from the ocean on the lonely stretch of coastline. Fierce storm clouds were gathering in the distance beyond the majestic spire.
I was so in awe of the sight that Lane had to nudge me to get off the bus, once we’d stopped a few dozen yards from the entrance to the Mont. I nearly tripped, unable to pull my eyes from the fortress.
Even before we entered the Mont, it was clear that massive renovations were underway. A footbridge of flat wooden planks covered rough ground and formed a walkway guiding people to the front entrance gate. Ubiquitous scaffolding caused tourists to frame their photographs creatively, lest they be reminded it was the early 21st century, not the romantic Middle Ages they’d come to see. I felt like a character in a video game as I zigzagged around dozens of modern-day pilgrims who stopped in the narrow path without warning whenever they saw what looked like a good shot to photograph their family.
In spite of the attempts to turn the island into a gaudy tourist attraction, Mont Saint-Michel refused to be cheapened. Gaudy wax museums telling the brutal history of the Mont and shopkeepers selling t-shirts with silkscreen silhouettes of the abbey couldn’t diminish the power of the structure that had been carved out of solid rock over 1,000 years before. Like the scaffolding, the shops and attractions were momentary distractions quickly forgotten as soon as you looked up.
Lane had been right to suggest I put on my running sneakers so I could maneuver around tourists on the steep cobblestone streets. But not for the reason he thought. It wasn’t that I couldn’t handle the uneven paving in my heels. It was the fact that the city planning of the Mont was created for a single purpose: to lead pilgrims toward the monastery and its abbey. The Mont had but one main road, a narrow cobblestone street that snaked upward toward the entrance of the abbey. With the architectural wonders that lay above us, I couldn’t be bothered to look at the ground. Inside the gates, a drawbridge led the way into the monument. I craned my neck to see the ramparts and towers that loomed above.
“You’ve got the awestruck tourist role down to a T,” Lane whispered in my ear.
“I’m not kidding around,” I said. “I couldn’t stop staring if I tried.” Now that we were here at the Mont, it felt like a travesty that we were there to foil a plot rather than explore the living history of the French fortress.
“Remember the plan.”
“We ask a guide about stonemasons, then go through to the cloisters and the crypts of the abbey. And if that doesn’t tell us what we need to know, we trace the walkways of the Mont for additional instances of scaffolding, to make sure we’ve covered all the possibilities.”
“The whole island shouldn’t take more than half the day.” Lane paused and steered me away from a family with a stroller that had stopped in front of a souvenir shop. “This place is even smaller than I thought it would be.”
“Says the tall person. I feel so strange in my running shoes when I’m not on a run.” I wriggled my toes, feeling the uneven surface below my feet. I might as well have been naked and barefoot with how vulnerable they made me feel. There’s power in height. Sure, there’s power in other things, too. But when you’re not even five feet tall, stepping into three-inch heels is like taking an elixir to feel powerful.
“I know I should start paying attention,” I said, “but it’s just so hard to concentrate—hey, is that a gargoyle up there? It’s so weathered and covered in moss that I can barely tell.”
“Your scarf is slipping.”
“It’s not as cold today. Not yet, at least.” I glanced past the gargoyle toward the stormy sky.
“I can see too much of your face. Not that I’m complaining, but I’d hate to see what happens if anyone else notices.”
I wound the long scarf around my neck one more time, covering my nose. The gray woolen scarf smelled vaguely of an unexpected mix of sandalwood, tarragon, and smoke.
“I can see too much of your face, too,” I said. “You’re smiling. You’re enjoying this place, too.”
“It’s impossible not to.”
The main road, no wider than a path, led directly to the abbey. After fifteen minutes climbing upward, during which I’d nearly forgotten about our quest, we found ourselves at the base of a steep set of stone stairs that led to the abbey’s entrance.
We bought entry tickets and asked about an English-language guide. We found a friendly young woman who was going to be giving a tour shortly, but had a few minutes to answer our questions.
“Let me show you the ‘jobbers mark’ stones!” The perkiest French woman I’d ever encountered led us into the abbey’s front courtyard. “Stonemasons and their workers were often paid by the stone. In many sections of Le Mont, you will find their inscriptions.” She pointed at a section beneath our feet with various symbols.
From the courtyard high on the Mont, the wind was stronger than it had been on the narrow street shielded by tall buildings. I was glad for my scratchy hat and scarf. I took a few steps to the edge to enjoy the view of the barren sandy beach that surrounded us. The powerful tides had painted deep swirls in the sand. Looking over the thick stone ledge, with the wind whipping around me, the sand below seemed miles away.
“What about the stonemasons who built the cloisters and crypts?” Lane asked the guide.
“Yes, most of Mont Saint-Michel is made of stone.”
“We wondered,” he said, “if there are records of the stonemasons who built the cloisters and the crypt.”
“You mean crypts.”
“There are multiple crypts?” I said, turning back from the view.
“Oh yes. There are many crypts. Three are on the tour.”
“And the men who built them?” Lane asked.
“Their individual names are not recorded,” the guide answered with a smile.
“There’s no information about them?” I asked.
“Only an image of the likeness of two of
the masons, in the cloisters.”
“There are paintings in the cloisters?” I said, surprised.
“Not paintings. A carving. Stone carvers who carved themselves in stone.” She beamed at me. “Though it was not looked favorably upon, they wanted to be remembered.”
“Are there any rumors about the stonemasons building any secret rooms?” I asked. “Perhaps underneath one of the crypts?”
She must have been used to people asking her strange questions, because her smile didn’t falter. “There are enough mysteries at the Mont without secret rooms. If you come on the tour, you will learn about Aubert’s message from Saint-Michael, and the miracles...” She prattled on for the next two minutes, until her tour was scheduled to begin.
“Are you sure you don’t want to join the group tour?” she asked.
Lane thanked her in French and tipped her generously, before grabbing my hand and running into the abbey. I understood the urgency. With the type of exploring we’d be doing, we wanted to stay ahead of the tour groups.
In the cloisters, we found the carving of the stonemasons. It was easy to find, because it was one of the few carvings that hadn’t been worn beyond recognition.
The weather-worn stone faces of two men who’d lived nearly a millennium ago looked down at us.
“These stonemasons don’t appear to be telling us how to follow them,” I said.
Lane snapped a picture with his phone. “North is the one with more information. Let’s go see if he’s already set up scaffolding in any of the crypts.”
Over the next few hours, we walked over ancient stones and through the hodgepodge of architectural styles used over the centuries. The result of the varied building methods was harmonious splendor.
“I can’t think straight,” I said. “This place is a maze.”
“Labyrinth,” Lane said with a wink.
“I get the feeling I got this all wrong. You’re right. I’ve got an overactive imagination. Hugo ran off of his own free will after being roughed-up by an associate of his less civilized than North, Dante could have visited Saint-Malo because he loved that chocolate shop, the illuminated manuscript page really was North’s endgame, and we’re free and clear of him forever. Let’s still check out the rest of the island, but I doubt we’ll find anything. Then we can take a break for a meal.”