Catherine Willoughby . . . My fuzzy brain searched for a moment, then remembered: She was the Duchess of Suffolk, who had taken but resented the orphaned baby. It was under her care that the child disappeared.
“So? What is Cadaqués?”
“It’s a fishing and artists’ village in northeast Spain. You’ll like it,” he predicted, brushing some loose strands of hair from my face. I loved the touch of his fingers on my skin.
“But . . . Father Ramon?” I asked, forcing myself to concentrate.
“I think I may have traced his descendants to a villa in Cadaqués. Maybe they have some of his papers, and maybe he mentioned Lady Mary somewhere.”
“That’s a lot of maybes,” I said.
“Yes,” he said. “But I thought it was worth the trip—especially if I can make it with you.”
I smiled to myself, and he kissed my mouth.
“Of course,” he added, “that was before I saw the car you rented.”
Leo was right: Gilles Messur left a message for me at the front desk that night. I was to meet him at a café in the Place de l’Horloge.
“I know that café,” Leo said. “It has a small parking lot. Let’s take the Queen Mary and dock her there so that we can leave for Spain directly after we meet with Gilles.”
“Okay,” I said, a little dubiously. A “small” parking lot didn’t seem quite right for the Queen Mary, but we got into the car, and it took Leo only six maneuvers to get out of the parking space. I sat back and watched him drive.
“Merde alors,” he said distinctly. He had been muttering under his breath in an impressive array of languages. I couldn’t understand a word but assumed they were all curses. Merde I understood, though.
“Leo,” I said, “I really don’t think you can make it around this corner.” Sudden claustrophobia gripped me as I looked at the dark stone walls of the buildings on either side of us, so close I could reach out and touch them. Allegedly it was a two-way street, but the Queen Mary took up the entire roadway.
Leo swore again as a car approached from the other direction. The driver leaned out his window and grinned at the sight of our behemoth.
Leo reversed the car and tried to edge it around the corner for a right turn but had to stop, back up, and maneuver again. His lips tight, he said to me, “Am I going to make it this time?”
I peered out. “I don’t think so. . . .”
“Well, open the bloody window and stick your head out if you can’t see!”
“Leo, I couldn’t see over the hood of this car if I were on stilts.”
“Try!” he snapped.
The other driver, now laughing out loud, had gotten out of his car and was standing across the street, a respectful distance away from the Queen Mary. He had been joined by more grinning observers, highly entertained by the spectacle. No one offered to help.
Leo brushed some sweat out of his eyes and backed up again. “Can I make it now?” he ground out.
I closed my eyes and prayed. “Maybe.”
The car edged around the corner with a millimeter to spare on either side, and the watching crowd erupted in whoops and catcalls. We nosed up another two blocks, and then Leo stopped short, staring in disbelief at the GPS.
“Is this a joke?” he said sharply. “Is this a bloody joke?”
The GPS called for another right turn, this time into a street that was no more than an alleyway. I broke out in nervous giggles.
“Next time, I say let’s get another car,” he bit out.
The “small” parking lot, of course, was impossible. With a shrug, Leo pulled the Queen Mary onto the sidewalk and killed the engine. “Maybe they’ll tow it,” he said hopefully.
I doubted anyone would be fool enough to try to tow an oil rig–size vehicle through the lanes of medieval Avignon. Unfortunately.
Leo got out of the car and shook himself, aiming a vicious kick at the car’s bumper as we headed for the square. It was a charming spot, bordered by the ancient stone buildings of old Avignon and filled with gaily colored café tables and umbrellas. The cafés were overflowing with chattering, animated tourists and townies, comfortably sharing the pleasantly cool fall day and Provençal sun. I wondered if there was a souvenir shop nearby.
Leo took my arm and steered me toward a man sitting alone at a table, reading Le Monde and sipping a café au lait. The man was small and dark. Sunglasses covered his eyes, and his hair was light brown, thinning at the top. I had never seen a more nondescript person in my life. I doubted that I could pick him out of a lineup.
“Gilles, it’s good to see you again! This is my friend . . .” Leo hesitated, and I realized he almost never used my name.
“Amy Schumann,” I said, shaking his hand. “Thank you for meeting with us.”
“It is my pleasure,” the man said, his French accent making the rote words seem meaningful. “And a double pleasure to see you again, Leo!” He addressed Leo briefly in French, and Leo responded in kind. The two men laughed, and Gilles slapped him on the back. I wondered what they had said.
“But we are being impolite,” Gilles said, turning to me. “Sit, sit. Let us order some café and some pain au chocolat and talk.”
I wasn’t sure if I should trust this man, especially now that I knew he was a connection of Leo’s. So I hesitated, but Leo broke the slightly awkward silence and told him all about my sheikh and the FBI, much more succinctly than I could have. At the end I put in, “And I think he’s sent his people after me. To scare me out of cooperating with the FBI. As if I would anyway!”
“Of course not,” Gilles said, shaking his head. “They would ruin everything.” He mused for a while. I watched him hopefully. At last he said, “I still have some contacts. Perhaps I may be able to discuss this with a few people. Let me see.”
I beamed at him.
Leo said briskly, “Well, that’s sorted, then. Shall we . . .”
Surprised, I realized he was trying to keep the conversation away from his family’s business. I said tentatively to Gilles, “Another thing. Leo’s family business, Schlumberger, is also under investigation for money laundering.”
Leo frowned at me, but Gilles chuckled. “I know all about that. I’ve discussed it with Leo and his uncle Schmuli.”
Leo had talked to him that recently? I glared at him.
Gilles went on, oblivious: “Ça ne fait rien! That is to say, there is nothing there. Leo’s brother-in-law Jacob . . .” He paused and looked at Leo. “Forgive me. . . .”
Leo said, with feeling, “Believe me, there’s nothing to forgive.”
“Well, then Jacob is our modern version of the village idiot. Believe me, young lady, Jacob Sephardi is not capable of masterminding his way out of a paper bag, let alone a money-laundering scheme. Now, if it were you, Leo . . .”
And we all laughed merrily at the very idea.
Chapter 29
Motoring out of the old city was even worse than driving in. By the time we got out of the ancient town and onto the highway, Leo was white around the mouth, and I had developed a headache from giggling. After a while he said mildly, “I can’t imagine what you found so amusing about that.”
“I’ve never seen you so flummoxed,” I told him. “Not even when gunmen were chasing us and you got shot.”
“Well, I’m glad I entertained you,” he said, but without heat.
“And you really shouldn’t blame yourself for the bicycle,” I assured him. “After all, who would leave a bike lying in a traffic circle like that?”
“I suppose it was pretty funny,” he admitted. “After all, what kind of idiot would take this vehicle into the backstreets of medieval Avignon?”
The same kind of idiot who would insist on leaving a note of apology and two hundred euros in the basket of a rusted bicycle that probably dated back to World War II.
I laid my hand on his thigh and enjoyed his slight movement of surprise and pleasure. My idiot, I thought. But I didn’t say it aloud.
Leo found a
classical music station and began humming along. I fell asleep, exhausted from my fit of giggles. When I woke up, he was conducting the orchestra with one hand, the other draped over the steering wheel. “Good morning,” he said with a smile.
I yawned. “Where are we? Are we almost there?” I glanced around, surprised to see that the road signs were still in French. Surely we should have crossed the border into Spain by now.
“We’re taking a slight detour,” Leo said blandly.
I eyed him suspiciously. “Where?”
“Relax, motek, this is not an abduction. It is a delight.”
“Where?” I asked again.
“To Carcassonne.”
“What?” In all my travels, I had never heard of Carcassonne, any more than Cadaqués. “Why?”
“My dear girl, I have no ulterior motive. Carcassonne is one of the most beautiful places on Earth, and I have it in mind to take you there.”
“Take you there” could have two possible meanings.
But wait a minute. “I thought you were on fire to get to Cadaqués and see those papers. Why are you suddenly willing to take a detour?”
“I’m on fire for other things as well,” Leo said.
This time, there was no mistaking the double entendre, and I swallowed hard.
“But why Carcassonne?” I persisted.
“Mon amie,” he said, “why not? It is romantic and lovely, and it is on our way. More or less,” he added, in a burst of honesty.
Why not? That had been my mantra for my first night with Leo—and look where that had gotten me. I gave up and sat back in my seat to Google Carcassonne, curious to see what Leo, who had traveled almost as much as I, would consider the most beautiful place on Earth.
Carcassonne, it turned out, was a walled medieval town not far from the Spanish border. I shrugged. Medieval was Leo’s thing, not mine.
We exited the highway and made our way through a series of successively narrower, winding roads lined with flowering bushes and stone walls. Leo had the feel of the car by now, though, and swore only once, when we fetched up behind a farm vehicle that was chugging along at approximately five miles per hour. I closed my eyes as he swung into the wrong lane to pass.
Leo caught a glimpse of my face and said, as he smoothly steered the car into the proper lane, “Relax, motek. You can trust me.”
But that was just the problem: I couldn’t trust him.
Eventually, Leo pulled into a prosaic, graveled parking lot and shut off the engine. I looked around at the sea of cars and said, “This is Carcassonne?”
He shouldered our bags and held out his hand to me. “Wait for it,” he said.
We walked through the parking lot and turned right into a narrow stone passageway. Leo pointed up. “That is Carcassonne.”
Following his gaze, I looked up at the massive, mellowed stone walls of the ancient city. Just beyond the walls, I could see rooftops—thatched and stone—and the graceful spires of an old church. “Hmm,” I said, reserving judgment.
Our passageway took us to the base of the walls themselves, and a stone staircase cut into the timeworn stonework. We began climbing. There was no one else around. It was nearing dusk, and the staircase was silent and dark. Leo said, “Imagine the line of medieval monks and pilgrims passing through these walls, huddled behind them for protection from the Saracen invaders.”
My imagination caught, and I could see it too. We climbed some more stairs, and then still more. Leo pointed at some slits in the stone wall. “Arrow slits,” he said.
“Did they pour boiling oil on the invaders?” I asked, some dimly remembered history class surfacing.
Leo laughed. “Oil was much too expensive. Mostly, they threw rocks.”
I shifted my mental image.
We continued climbing. For Leo’s sake, I did some heavy breathing and paused once to rub my (perfectly nimble) thighs. He climbed easily, with no noticeable effort.
When we emerged from the walls, it was to find a small square bordered by the medieval church and monastery on one side, the ancient town hall on another, and a lovely old building on another. Carved into its stone lintel was the discreet HÔTEL DE LA CITÉ DE CARCASSONNE, 1635.
“Wow,” I said, admiring the hotel’s flower-draped windows and beautiful old stone facings.
“Voyez-vous,” Leo said, turning me around to look back over the walls we had just climbed through. “The valley.”
The view was spectacular. Lights were blinking on in the valley, and the rough, rambling Pyrenees loomed in the background. “Wow,” I said again.
Leo said complacently, “I thought you’d like it.”
Our room, once again, was actually a suite, this time with two fireplaces—one in the sitting room, one in the bedroom. Leo suggested “le room service,” and while he was on the phone, discussing what sounded like a very complicated menu, I sank into the deep, welcoming sofa and held out my hands to the crackling fire, trying not to think.
Leo called out, “Do you like les tartes aux fraises?”
“Huh?”
“Never mind.” He went back to the phone.
I went back to trying not to think. But I couldn’t. I was remembering all the omissions and half truths I had gotten from Leo. He had told me he had nothing to do with his family’s business, but obviously he was involved. His sister had called on him when there was a problem, and he had dropped everything (me, in particular) to perform a rescue. He had not said a word about his family’s troubles with money laundering when I poured out my troubles to him. He had never mentioned Gilles, a money-laundering expert whom he apparently knew quite well.
He had been in military intelligence, so deeply undercover that his service record was impenetrable.
And then there was Jules. She should have been even more opaque; no ordinary mortal could dig her up. And Leo’s tracking skills—the only way he could keep finding me was by hacking into multiple computers. What ordinary mortal could do that?
I couldn’t doubt his passion for saving Sudeley Castle and Katherine Parr. But could I doubt his passion for me?
On that note, Leo hung up the phone and came to sit next to me. He reached for my hand, which had been fiddling with my hair, and curled his own fingers around mine. “Stop fidgeting,” he said. “What are you so nervous about?”
“Leo, really,” I said. “Why are we here? What’s this all about?”
“Didn’t I tell you before to stop thinking?”
Yes, that was what he had told me on our first night together.
With some effort, I pulled my hand from his and turned to face him. “Why didn’t you tell me about Gilles? And about the investigation of your family’s business? Don’t you think it’s a funny coincidence, both of us being accused of money laundering?” There. It was out. I held my breath, waiting for his response.
He was silent, studying my face. “Wait a minute,” he said. “Are you thinking that my family’s money-laundering problems are somehow related to your sheikh?”
“Well . . .”
“Are you nuts?”
I shrugged. “I don’t think so,” I said. I watched him.
He seemed more surprised than angry. “First of all,” he said. He cleared his throat and started again. “First of all . . . Sacrebleu, I don’t even know where to start! This is madness.”
He had never sounded more French.
“Is it?” I asked evenly.
“Oh, for . . . All right. First of all, every art and antiques house worldwide has to be on constant guard for money launderers. It’s a perfect vehicle for bad guys to get their money into the banking system. All of us have been investigated at one time or another.”
I supposed that was true. But still . . .
“Second,” he went on, “my family’s mission has always been to find art that was stolen by the worst people on Earth and restore it to its rightful owners. Do you seriously think we would knowingly collaborate with terrorists and human traffickers to wash their mo
ney clean?”
“Most of the organizations in need of money laundering are drug traffickers,” I said.
He stared at me. “And do you think I am someone who would help drug traffickers?”
I bit my lip.
“Et enfin,” he said, forgetting his English for a moment. “So. Is your sheikh an art collector?”
“No. At least, not that I know of.”
“And you would know because you would have to transfer the funds.”
“Yes.”
“Is your sheikh Muslim? Saudi?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Do you really think he and his family would do business with an Israeli firm? Are you familiar with the Arab boycott of Israeli businesses?”
That was a good point too.
“We don’t have any Arab Muslim clients,” he said, a little stiffly.
I digested that in silence. “But still,” I said lamely, “it’s quite a coincidence.”
He snorted in disgust and got up. “If that is how you feel,” he said, “then I have nothing more to say to you.”
I called after him, “But what about Jules?”
He turned back, lifting a dark eyebrow at me. “What about Jules?” he countered.
“How did you . . .” I stopped short, not sure how to finish the question.
“How did I find her? I am a historian, my girl, a researcher. That’s what I do. I research. And I have very useful contacts—as I’ve told you before.”
I shook my head, disbelieving.
“And I don’t believe you either,” he said. “Now. I think our lovely meal has arrived, and I plan to enjoy it. You can do as you will.”
Stiffly at first, I sat down across from him after the waiter had left, eyeing him across the expanse of snowy white linen and savory, bubbling dishes.
“First,” Leo said, “we have le cassoulet.” He lifted the lid, and a warm, herbed aroma drifted out.
“What’s in it?” I asked as he ladled some into my bowl.
“Ça ne fait rien,” he said. “I’m not trying to poison you.”
I sniffed and took a small bite. “It’s delicious,” I said.
“Mais bien sûr.”
The Long-Lost Jules Page 17