by Alex Archer
They barely managed another mile during their second hour on the road and Parker was starting to consider where they might find a place to hole up for the rest of the night when they were confronted by several figures who suddenly loomed out of the rain ahead as they rounded a bend in the road.
“Whoa!” Parker cried, and pulled up quickly on the reins, stopping them a few dozen yards apart.
At this distance it was hard to see anything for certain, but Parker thought there were at least a dozen men in the party ahead them. Three or four on horseback, it seemed, and another ten or so on foot.
They weren’t significantly outnumbered, which was good, but given the level of experience of the men under his command, even that wouldn’t be too much of a blessing.
He glanced at Sykes. The other man held his musket lightly, the muzzle pointed forward. Not enough to be overtly threatening, but ready to be used if things went south.
Sykes must have sensed his attention, for he turned his head and gave Parker a slight nod, letting him know he was ready for whatever was to come.
He was a good man, Parker thought.
Before Parker could do anything, however, one of the riders ahead kicked his horse into motion. Parker let him close half the distance between them and then shouted, “That’s far enough. Identify yourself or my men will open fire!”
The rider pulled his horse up short.
“Easy, Captain,” the man called out. “Didn’t mean to startle you.”
Parker knew the voice, but sheer surprise kept him from responding right away, and while he struggled to find his voice the other man unveiled the lantern in his free hand, letting the light fall upon him.
Even through the downpour Parker recognized the face of their benefactor, secretary of the Treasury, George Trenholm.
Still, Parker was cautious. “Be ready for anything,” he told Sykes as he handed over the reigns. “If this looks like a trap, get the wagons out of here as best you’re able.”
Sykes never took his eyes off the men ahead of them. “You can count on me, sir.”
Parker climbed down from the wagon and walked forward to where Secretary Trenholm was waiting for him. As he drew closer the other man dismounted, as well, which helped put Parker at ease.
Trenholm extended his hand and the two men shook.
“Good to see you, Captain. I was starting to think we’d missed you.”
“The rain, sir. You know how it gets.”
Parker didn’t know much about Secretary Trenholm’s history, but it seemed a safe bet that the man had never had to lead a wagon train through a torrential downpour. Trenholm came from money, and old money at that.
But war has a way of leveling social classes, Parker knew, and he found it mildly ironic that the two of them were to meet here, in the midst of a muddy track that could barely be called a road, the rain beating down on both their heads with equal abandon.
Oblivious to his subordinate’s thoughts, Trenholm went on. “There’s been a change of plans, Captain. I’m to escort you to an important meeting where you will receive your new orders. If you would come with me…”
Parker frowned. “My men, sir?”
“About a hundred yards up the road there’s a place where they can get off the main thoroughfare and wait for your return. I’ll leave several of my own men to stand guard with them. On a night like tonight, I doubt they’ll run into any difficulties.”
Trenholm was probably right, but that didn’t make Parker feel any better about leaving his men in the middle of nowhere, particularly given their level of inexperience. Still, an order was an order.
“Yes, sir. Give me a moment to explain the situation.”
He returned to Sykes and let him know what was going on. The young lieutenant wasn’t thrilled with the situation, either, but there was very little that they could do about it. Parker ordered him to keep his eyes open and wait for his return.
One of Trenholm’s men loaned him a horse and five minutes later they were under way. Trenholm led him a mile or so through the woods on a narrow track that was little better than a game trail really, until they came to a clearing. Parker could see that several campaign tents had been erected there and men in Confederate uniforms were moving about.
Trenholm took him to a larger tent set slightly off from the others and asked him to wait inside.
“Someone will be along shortly to give you further instructions.”
Ever the dutiful soldier, Parker complied.
He found the tent was sparsely furnished, with just a pair of camp chairs on either side of a makeshift table made from a few scraps of wood and a blanket-covered cot off to one side. It was warm inside, thanks to a camp stove that was burning in the far corner, and Parker soon found himself literally steaming as the heat sucked the moisture out of his clothes.
He didn’t mind. Being out of the rain, even if only for a few minutes, was a welcome relief.
When, after fifteen minutes, no one had yet arrived to deliver his new orders, he dragged one of the camp chairs closer to the stove and sat down.
I’ll take a few minutes of rest, that’s all, he thought.
He must have dozed off, however, for he came awake with a start when he heard someone enter the tent behind him. He leaped to his feet and spun about.
He didn’t know who he expected to see waiting there for him, but President Jefferson Davis himself was not on his list of possibilities.
So surprised was he that for several long moments all he could do was stand and stare. The president didn’t seem to notice.
“Thank you for coming so quickly, Captain,” he said as he laid the books and papers he was carrying on the desk and hung his coat on the back of the other chair before dragging it closer to the stove. “Please, sit down.”
Parker nodded, then found his voice at last as he waited for Davis to sit down before doing so himself. “Thank you, Mr. President.”
“Don’t thank me yet,” Davis said, his expression darkening at some private thought. “Not until you’ve heard why I’ve called you here, at any rate.”
An aide came in bearing two glasses of brandy on a tray. He gave one to the president, then offered the other to Parker.
Drink in hand, President Davis turned to him and said, “I have a very special assignment for you, Captain.”
3
Paris, France
Present day
Annja came out of the dojo’s locker room drying her long hair with the towel she kept in her gym bag for just that purpose. She was startled to find a man waiting outside the door for her. He was of medium build, with a short, dark beard, and was dressed in a nicely fitted suit of a deep chocolate brown.
He stepped forward as she approached.
“Excuse me. Miss Creed?”
He had a strong French accent.
“Yes?” she replied.
She searched her memory, but she was pretty sure she didn’t know him. Having strangers approach her was nothing new. People often recognized her from Chasing History’s Monsters, the cable television show she cohosted, but something told her this guy wasn’t a fan looking for a quick autograph.
“Please forgive the interruption. I am Commissaire Laroche, of the Police Nationale.”
Annja knew the Police Nationale was the main civil law enforcement agency in France. Commissaire was a commissioned officer rank, sort of analogous to a senior detective in the United States. In other words, this guy was a heavy hitter in the local police community. Annja was alarmed. She’d stayed out of trouble while on vacation and hadn’t done anything to elicit interest from the police.
This time around, at least.
Seeing he had her attention, Laroche continued. “I’m looking for some assistance with a—how do you say…peculiar? yes?—situation. Your name was given to me by Monsieur Garrison at the embassy.”
That, at least, was a name she recognized. She’d met Billy Garrison at a press junket she attended on behalf of the show the las
t time she’d been in Paris. He was on the ambassador’s staff and had taken her to dinner a few nights later, but there hadn’t been any spark and she’d declined his offer for a second date.
Being dateless was preferable to listening to Billy ramble on about French politics for hours again. Thanks, but no thanks.
“May I see some identification, Commissaire?”
He bowed slightly, an outdated but courtly gesture. “Of course, Miss Creed. And please, call me Henri.”
He handed over a leather case that contained his badge and ID. She glanced at it, confirmed that the man in the picture and the one standing in front of her were one and the same, then handed it back.
“Thank you. One can’t be too careful these days….”
“Of course, of course,” he replied, waving off her apology.
“So how is Billy?” she asked, more to gauge the inspector’s reaction to him than anything else.
He didn’t disappoint. “Monsieur Garrison is as long-winded as usual,” he replied, giving her a tight smile.
Yep, that was Billy.
“So what’s this peculiar situation that you need help with, Henri?” she asked.
Laroche hesitated, glancing over her shoulder as he did so. “Perhaps we might take this outside?” he asked.
When she followed his gaze and found the rest of the dojo’s students watching their discussion, Annja readily agreed.
She accompanied him out the door into the bright spring sunshine and fell into step beside him as he walked slowly up the street, explaining as he went.
“For the past several weeks construction teams have been working on the southern line of the Metro, widening the existing tunnels to make room for the new branch that will be added to the system in May.”
Annja was aware of the project, for the construction workers with their bright orange reflective vests were a familiar sight on the trains in and out of the area.
Laroche went on. “Late yesterday afternoon the floor gave way beneath a work crew in one of the newly expanded tunnels. Thankfully, only two of the men sustained injuries and in both cases they were minor ones. When the dust cleared the crew discovered that they had fallen into a previously unknown second tunnel, running parallel beneath the first. Further exploration revealed several antechambers just beyond, each one filled with stacks of human bones.”
Annja could scarcely believe what she was hearing. A previously undiscovered section of the catacombs? Her heart skipped a beat at the thought.
Prior to the creation of the catacombs in the mid-1700s, the dead of Paris were buried in small cemeteries alongside local churches. But as the city grew, the cemeteries ran out of space. Mass interments became common, often without caskets, and over time this led to the contamination of ground water as the bodies decomposed in the earth.
To deal with the problem, city officials moved to outlaw all burials within the city limits from that point forward. Existing graves were exhumed and the remains were relocated to a series of abandoned limestone quarries that were, at that time, on the outskirts of town. The process of disinterring the bones from their original resting places was carried out with reverence for the dead as well as consideration for the living. The quarry space was blessed, the long trains of carts moving the bones were accompanied by priests and the activity was always conducted at night. No attempt was made to identify or separate the individual bodies, but each set of bones was marked with a plaque indicating the cemetery from which they originated and the year they were moved. By 1860, when the relocation was completed, some five to six million skeletons had been moved to the catacombs.
Eventually, the city expanded and what had once been outside the city limits now lay hidden beneath its streets. Annja knew only a small section of the massive tunnel network was accessible to the public. That left close to two hundred miles of tunnels and caverns extending like a spider’s web beneath the city that only a handful of people had ever seen.
“Most of the men on the crew had seen the catacombs at one point or another in their careers so the rooms full of bones were not at all surprising to them,” Laroche said. “However, the discovery of a fully intact skeleton, partially buried beneath a pile of those older bones, was.”
Annja considered that for a moment. “Sounds like a job for the police rather than an archaeologist,” she said.
“Ordinarily, I’d agree with you,” Laroche replied, “but this particular discovery turned out to be a bit more complex than first thought.”
They paused, waited for the light to change, then crossed, continuing walking along the other side of the street.
“When the crime scene unit arrived, it didn’t take them long to determine that the job would be better off in the hands of a forensic anthropologist. While arrangements were being made to bring one in, word of the find was also sent to the American Embassy.”
Annja was surprised. “The embassy? So your mysterious skeleton is that of an American?”
“In a manner of speaking.”
That’s like saying you’re kind of pregnant, she thought, but when she pressed him on it Laroche wouldn’t explain any further.
“I’d rather not prejudice your opinion,” he said as they turned left onto another thoroughfare. Caught up in the puzzle he was laying out before her, Annja barely noticed where they where headed.
“What’s my opinion got to do with any of this?” she asked.
Laroche smiled. “Because of the nature of the find, it was agreed that a representative from the United States should be present when the skeleton is excavated. Mr. Garrison suggested that you would be ideally suited for the task.”
“Is that so?”
Laroche grinned devilishly. “Oui. In fact, it sounded like he said something about you preferring the company of the dead over that of the living, but perhaps I misheard him.”
He is so going to pay for that one, Annja thought, before realizing that in order to carry out her threat, she’d have to see him again.
Perhaps he wasn’t as dim-witted as she’d taken him to be.
Putting the thought aside for the time being, she focused on the opportunity being offered to her. “So are you asking me to get my hands dirty or will this be strictly observational in nature?”
“You can get as dirty as you like, Miss Creed.”
“Am I being brought on as an official consultant?” she asked.
Reading between the lines, Laroche said, “The embassy has agreed to cover your costs and to provide a reasonable fee for your time. Monsieur Garrison would not discuss the specific details with me, but stated he would be happy to take your call so he could provide you with the specifics.” So Billy wasn’t so dim-witted, after all, she thought.
“Well, when do you want to get started?” Annja asked, chuckling to herself.
Laroche slowed, and then stopped. “As a matter of fact, I was hoping you would be free right now.”
Startled, Annja glanced around, only then realizing that they were standing in front of a Metro station. A pair of sawhorses stood in front of the entrance, holding a sign noting in French that the station was currently closed for repairs.
This time Annja laughed aloud. “You certainly know how to show a girl a good time, Henri!” she said. “You’ve piqued my curiosity and given me an intriguing puzzle to boot. How could I say no?”
“Excellent!” Laroche said.
They descended the stairs and entered the station proper, where Laroche used his badge to get them past the police officer stationed there.
Once past the turnstiles, Annja followed Laroche onto the subway platform and over to the far end, where a selection of equipment was stored under a tarp. The detective removed two lanterns from beneath the cover, turned them both on and passed one to Annja. Then he led her off the platform and onto the track.
The air was cool in the tunnel and Annja was glad she’d had the foresight to grab a sweatshirt when she’d left her hotel that morning. At the moment the change in t
he temperature felt refreshing after the heat of the bright sun above, but it wouldn’t be long before the chill seeped into her bones if they spent any length of time down below.
She was starting to suspect they would.
As if hearing her thoughts, Laroche spoke. “The entrance to the catacombs is several hundred yards ahead. I’m sorry, but there is no alternative but to walk.”
Annja smiled at his apologetic tone. “Walking’s something an arcaheologist gets used to very quickly. It’s no problem at all.”
They kept to the center of the track, where the pathway was reasonably clear of debris and the chance of one of them turning an ankle was reduced. Not that the chances of doing so were all that great in the first place; the subways in Paris were far cleaner than those back home in Brooklyn.
Annja had spent much of her professional life clambering around inside crumbling ruins and forgotten old tunnels, so the weight of all that earth above their heads didn’t bother her in the slightest. The same couldn’t be said about her companion, however. No sooner had they started down the tunnel than the conversation dried up and his repeated glances at the roof over their heads let her know just how uncomfortable he was. Figuring he’d say something if it got to be too much, Annja kept her thoughts to herself and simply walked along in his wake.
They’d been underground for about fifteen minutes when a faint glow could be seen coming from around a bend in the tunnel ahead of them. The light grew brighter as they approached, until, rounding the curve in the tunnel, Annja could see that it was coming from a set of portable arc lights that had been erected on stands near a hole in the tunnel floor. Several people were milling about, but didn’t appear to actually be doing much of anything.
Waiting for the boss to return, Annja thought.
It turned out she was right. As soon as the group caught sight of the two of them approaching, they settled down and waited to be told what to do.
“Please wait here for a moment,” Laroche said, and then stepped over to confer with his people. After listening to an update from one of his subordinates, the detective issued a flurry of orders, sending his people scurrying off in a variety of directions on several different tasks. Doing so seemed to help him forget the weight of all that earth above and it was a steadier man who rejoined her a few moments later.