The Nostradamus File

by Alex Lukeman

  Ronnie looked relaxed. Lamont looked like a piece of spring steel. His eyes were icy blue, a mark of his Ethiopian ancestry. There was a thin scar of pink tissue across his face from a shrapnel wound he'd gotten in Iraq. Sometimes young children stared wide-eyed and clung to their mothers when he walked by. It hurt his feelings, but there wasn't much he could do about it.

  Harker cleared her throat. "Interpol confirmed that Bertrand was offering the Nostradamus manuscript on the black market. He put it up on a hidden website that can only be accessed by people with the right code."

  She brought the page up on the big wall monitor.

  "This is the announcement. It's still up. Interpol is using it as bait."

  It was written in English, French, German, Russian and Chinese. They read it in silence.

  For the discriminating collector: a unique opportunity to acquire the legendary lost quatrains of the Seventh Century of Les Propheties by Michele de Nostradamus. An original manuscript in the Seer's own hand.

  Guaranteed authentic.

  A photograph of the quatrain about the cherubim was prominently featured. Selena sighed, a sound of disappointment.

  Jean-Paul, she thought. What happened, to make you do this?

  "So now we know how the bad guys knew about it," Nick said.

  Harker continued. "Someone killed the boss of the French Mafia yesterday. His name was Sarti. He was a major player in stolen antiquities. My intuition says it's related to Bertrand's death."

  Nick scratched his ear. Harker's intuition was usually dead on. "What do the French think?"

  "That Bertrand's death happened during a robbery and Sarti was killed because of a power struggle within the mob. They found the body of Sarti's killer. He was wounded by Sarti's bodyguard but someone else killed him, probably to keep him quiet. Interpol doesn't much care if the bad guys kill each other and they're not pursuing it. The French are watching to see who takes Sarti's place, but that's all."

  "Any ID on the shooter?"

  "That's interesting. He was American, former Special Forces."

  "A mercenary? What would an American be doing working for the French Mafia? They have their own shooters. That doesn't make sense." Nick paused. "Maybe someone hired Sarti to get the manuscript and it pissed them off when he didn't come through, so they got even."

  "Kind of extreme," Ronnie said.

  "So was killing Bertrand."

  "Selena, what have you found out?" Harker asked.

  "The manuscript is definitely by Nostradamus. It's not complete, but it's part of the quatrains no one has seen before. Jean-Paul would have been able to read them." She paused. "I think I know why he was killed. It ties into the letters and number he scrawled on the floor."

  "E X 25."

  "EX 25 is a biblical reference. Exodus, Chapter 25."

  Harker was getting impatient. Her pen began its drumbeat on her desk. Nick waited. He knew what was coming.

  "What does that have to do with the manuscript?"

  "Chapter 25 describes God's instructions to Moses for building the Ark of the Covenant. Nostradamus knew where it was hidden."

  Harker's pen stopped moving. That got her attention, Nick thought.

  "Are you telling me those pages hold the key to the location of the Ark of the Covenant?"

  "Nostradamus thought so. So did Jean-Paul. So far I've found one quatrain that could be about the Ark. There are three more grouped with it, but I'm not sure what they mean."

  She read them out loud.

  A dark prince seeks this which is stolen

  With the sound of trumpets

  The golden cherubim shake the heavens

  They will stand or fall, the outcome in doubt

  In the land of Moab where Moses stood

  Two kneel at the feet of the shepherd

  Five signs mark the path

  If no one follows, a terrible fate

  That which was sought was not found

  Fire and death no tongue would loosen

  In the land of the fair king

  The Pale Rider reigns supreme

  Where water is bartered as gold

  A small castle guards treasure beyond price

  A cross and dome point the way

  Beware the Red Horseman

  "That's it?" Harker said.

  Selena nodded. "Some of it is clear. The golden cherubim fits the biblical description of the Ark. I don't know what he means by 'shake the heavens'. The Pale Rider is the first of the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse."

  "Pale Rider. Clint Eastwood," Lamont said. "I saw that. Good movie."

  Everyone looked at him.

  "What?"

  Harker sighed. "Go on, Selena."

  "The Red Horseman is War. He's the second of the Four Horsemen in Revelations."

  "Nostradamus was a cheerful kind of guy, wasn't he?" Lamont said.

  Selena ignored him. "The land of Moab is modern day Jordan. Mount Nebo is where Moses stood when God showed him the Promised land. I don't know what the five signs are, or the shepherd. Nostradamus is saying bad things will happen if someone doesn't figure it out. Maybe that's us."

  Stephanie said, "Then the Ark is on Mt. Nebo?"

  Stephanie's voice was soft. She wore a dark blue skirt and blouse. Large gold hoops dangled from her ears. Her brown eyes reminded Nick of a doe. Unlike a doe, Steph had a pistol in a quick draw holster at her waist and knew how to use it. She had a quick intelligence and a genius ability with computers.

  "I don't think it's still on Mount Nebo, if it ever was," Selena said.

  "The Ark of the Covenant could cause serious problems in the wrong hands," Harker said. "The real article could light a fire in the Middle East. If it exists, we have to find it."

  "You really think it's that important?" Lamont said.

  "The Ark is part of the tradition of three major Western religions. Of course it's important. An important religious artifact could start a war. The whole Middle East is ready to explode, right now. There's the Israeli election, the problems with Syria, the rhetoric out of Iran. The discovery of the Ark could be the last straw. This has to be why people are getting murdered over that manuscript."

  She tapped her pen, thinking. "If we can get an idea of where it is, I'm going to send the team after it."

  "You're going to send us after the Ark of the Covenant?" Nick said. "Do I look like Harrison Ford?"

  "Maybe with the right hat."

  Everyone laughed.

  "Do I get a bullwhip?"

  "No. You get a SIG .40. I want everyone to switch over. The guns are already downstairs in the armory. I know you like your .45, Nick, but I want everyone carrying the same thing. We have to standardize."

  "I'd rather keep my H-K."

  "It's not open to discussion. You want the .45, take it as backup. You're the one who said it might be a good idea, remember?" She fixed him with one of her don't mess with me looks. He might have mentioned it as an idea in passing, but he didn't remember. He decided to let it pass for the moment.

  "Where do you want us to begin looking?"

  "Jordan. Go to Mount Nebo and see if you can find those five signs."

  "I need to finish translating the manuscript before we go anywhere," Selena said.

  "How long will it take?"

  "I don't know. Steph and I are going to work on it when we're done here."

  Harker looked at her. "You said some of the quatrains were missing."

  "That's right."

  "Could Bertrand have had them?"

  "If he did, why not send them to me with the rest?" Selena brushed a hair from her forehead.

  "You told me he was paranoid," Nick said. "He could have split the file up, sent one part to you, one to someone else. "

  "Maybe it's still in his shop."

  "The police have been all through the shop," Harker said. "There's nothing like that."

  "Where else would he send it?" Ronnie asked Selena. "Family, someone like that? Maybe a lawyer?"
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  "He had a lawyer. No family, though."

  Harker made a note. "What's the lawyer's name?"

  "I met him, once." Selena frowned, trying to remember the name. "Durand, that's it. Jacques Durand. He's in Paris."

  "Let's look him up." Harker said. She pulled a hidden keyboard out of her desk and tapped a key. The wall monitor lit. She entered Jacques Durand + Lawyer + Paris in a Google search.

  The top hit was a headline. French mob lawyer found murdered.

  Harker clicked on the link. It was a newspaper article from the day before. Durand had been working late when someone had killed him. His office had been ransacked. Police were investigating. Durand had defended members of L'Union Corse in the past. The article speculated on a possible link to the death of Marcel Sarti and suggested that a gang war had started.

  "Someone else thinks like we do," Nick said. "This can't be a coincidence. They were looking for the manuscript."

  Elizabeth said, "I wonder if the lawyer had the other part? If there is one."

  Nick tugged on his left ear, where a Chinese bullet had taken off most of the earlobe. His ear was a built-in genetic warning system. It itched and burned when things were about to get dicey. They all knew it. He saw the look the others gave him.

  "Just an itch," he said.

  "I wish you wouldn't do that when it doesn't count," Lamont said.

  "You want me to just let it itch?"

  "Better than getting everybody upset."

  "That's enough, Lamont." Harker picked up her pen. "Selena, where else could it be if the lawyer didn't have it?"

  "Jean-Paul had a country house in Provence, in the south of France. I think there was a housekeeper who took care of it when he wasn't there."

  "He could have mailed it to himself at the house," Ronnie said. "The cops wouldn't turn that up when they checked the messenger services."

  Harker's intuition was setting off alarms. It rarely failed her. No one outside of the Project knew she sometimes used intuition to make major decisions. Intuition wasn't high on the list of acknowledged intelligence analysis skills. She made a decision now.

  She turned to Nick and Selena. "Go to France and check out that house. See if something's there. You can go on to Jordan after that."

  "The French cops are pissed at us," Nick said. "We'll never get out of the airport."

  "Don't worry about that. Take your weapons. I'll clear it with the French."

  Nick scratched his ear.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  They flew into Paris and on to Avignon. Harker had called in a favor so they could carry their pistols. They rented a white Renault and headed for the vacation retreat of Jean-Paul Bertrand.

  The first part of the drive passed in silence.

  The melody of a folk song was stuck in Nick's head.

  Joshua fit the battle of Jericho, Jericho, Jericho

  Joshua fit the battle of Jericho

  And the walls come a-tumblin' down.

  "Damn song is driving me crazy," he said.

  "What song?"

  "The one about Joshua and the battle of Jericho."

  She hummed a few bars. "All I can remember is the chorus."

  "Yeah. It wouldn't be so bad if I could think of the rest of the words."

  "Something about Joshua and the trumpets blowing, I think."

  "The Ark was at the battle of Jericho," Nick said. "That's what made me think of the song. I wonder how Joshua knocked down those walls? Jericho was impregnable, the ultimate fortress of its time."

  "All that history is lost, except for Bible stories."

  Nick scratched his ear. "You think God knocked the walls down to help Joshua out?"

  "I believe in God. I don't believe God intervenes like that. I think it's a teaching story based on the actual battle. But those walls were real. I don't think Joshua's army could have smashed through them without something we don't understand."

  "Like a secret weapon."

  "Yes. The Bible says the priests carried the Ark around the walls blowing horns for six days and on the seventh day the wall came down. Maybe they had something that amplified those horns."

  "In the Ark?"

  "Sound at the right frequency will shatter stone. In terms of modern technology, that would make sense."

  "3000 years ago isn't modern."

  "No one will ever know how they did it." Selena had her GPS out. "Take the next right, up ahead."

  The road became a narrow lane between low stone walls covered with vines.

  "Slow down," she said. "The entrance is coming up on the left."

  They turned onto a long, straight drive of crushed rock lined with trees. Stunted oaks and juniper and grass fanned out on both sides. The grass was green and tall, dotted with yellow and blue flowers.

  The house was a single story made of stone, washed white in the afternoon sunlight, with a tiled roof and covered porch. It seemed like part of the natural landscape, a house out of another time. Nick could imagine Cezanne or Van Gogh painting in the back yard.

  "Nice," he said.

  "It was a farmer's cottage in the old days. Jean-Paul renovated it. I've never been here, but he talked about it a lot. He loved it."

  "I can see why."

  Nick parked. They got out and walked to the porch.

  "The door's open," he said.

  Both reached for their pistols at the same time. Nick nudged the door with his foot. It swung inward. He couldn't see anyone inside, but he could see the mess.

  It only took a minute to clear the house. There was a bathroom, a bedroom and a combined kitchen and living area. A back porch looked out over a garden and a small, natural pool shaded by oaks. No one was there.

  Books and papers were scattered about the living area. Drawers had been pulled out and dumped on the floor. There was a broken vase by the door, knocked off a side table.

  "Seems like someone is always one step ahead of us," Nick said.

  Selena looked out the window. "There's a car coming."

  An old Citroen 2CV came up the drive, trailing blue smoke. The wheels crunched on the rock. They watched it from the living room.

  "Maybe the bad guys missed something," Nick said.

  "I don't think the Mafia would drive around in something like that," she said.

  "You're a car snob. Maybe it's all they could find."

  The Citroen parked next to their rented Renault. A woman got out of the car. She was dressed in a purple, flowery print dress that bagged loosely around her body. A bandana was wrapped around hennaed hair damaged by too many trips to the beauty parlor. She was around fifty, plump, with swarthy skin. She wore white plastic sandals. She reached inside the car and brought out a basket. Nick could see spray bottles sticking out and a roll of paper towels. He put his pistol away.

  "Cleaning lady, looks like." He stepped out on the porch with Selena.

  "Bonjour, Madame," Selena said.

  "Bonjour." The woman reached inside the basket and took out a Swedish machine pistol and pointed it at them. "Get on your knees," she said in English. "Now."

  Selena looked at Nick. "I don't think she's here to clean."

  Another car pulled into the drive, this one a black Mercedes. "That the right kind of car?" Nick said to Selena.

  "Shut up," the cleaning lady said. "Put your hands up. Get on your knees or I shoot."

  They got on their knees, hands in the air. The Mercedes stopped. Two men got out of the car. One was tall and thin, one short and squat. They wore casual clothes that looked expensive. Guns came out, pointed at Nick and Selena.

  "They're armed," the woman said. "The man has a shoulder holster."

  The tall one spoke. "Take out your weapons and put them on the ground. Be very careful. Do it slowly."

  He's American, Nick thought. From somewhere on the East Coast.

  "Selena, do as he says. Remember how we did it in Mali."

  "Shut up. Take out the guns. Two fingers."

  Nick took out his new SI
G-Sauer, holding it by the butt between his thumb and finger. He laid it on the porch. Selena did the same.

  "Very good. Get up. Keep your hands in the air."

  They stood, slowly.

  "Kick the guns away."

  They kicked them off the porch. The cleaning lady lowered the barrel of her gun and moved behind the others. The two men stepped onto the porch. Short Man had plastic ties in one hand, his pistol in the other.

  "Turn around," the tall one said. "Put your hands behind you."

  They turned. Short Man stepped close.

  Selena moved first. She whirled and knocked the gun from his hand. It went off, sending a flock of birds shrieking into the sky. She slammed the edge of her rigid palm against his neck, harder than she'd meant. Something broke.

  Tall Man hadn't expected trouble. He froze for an instant. It was enough.

  Nick swept the gun away with a quick crossing motion of his hands and moved in. The pistol fired into the ground. He drove his knuckled fist into Tall Man's throat, a killing blow to the larynx. The cleaning lady brought up her gun. The man clutched at his throat, trying to breathe. His face went purple. Nick pushed him off the porch into the cleaning lady as she fired, using him for a shield. The bullets hit him in the back. The woman fell backward with both men on top of her. Nick reached past the dead man and slammed his fist into her face, brought his hand up and struck down across the bridge of her nose. It shattered. She screamed curses at him, trying to bring her gun to bear, firing into the air. He hit her again, a hammer blow. She fell silent.

  On the porch, the second man lay dead. Nick got to his feet.

  "Mali?" Selena said.

  "Maybe not exactly the same. But you knew what I meant."

  In Mali, they'd been attacked on the street. Selena's martial arts had kept them alive.

  "Yes. I did."

  "Did you mean to kill him?" he asked.

  "No. But he asked for it."

  She'd changed a lot since Nick had met her. Two years with the Project had stripped away most of her hesitation about hurting people who tried to hurt her. It was a question of survival. You couldn't hesitate. The second man had hesitated, which was why he was dead.