With a shake of his head, Foucault whispered, “Imbécile.”
At that moment, the distant chime of the chateau doorbell filtered outside, rousing Foucault from the disheartening thoughts. Rising from the bench, he extinguished the cigarette in a nearby snuffer and headed toward the chateau. As he mounted the terrace steps, an impeccably dressed man appeared through the drawing room door and greeted Foucault. With a bearing as formal as his attire, the ebony-skinned man spoke with a crisp British accent. “Good morning, Monsieur.”
“Christian! Allô!” beamed Foucault, his gloom vanquished by the arrival of his longtime associate, Christian Hunte. “How was the flight across the pond? Henri did not bump you around too much, I hope.”
“Henri was skilled as usual. We enjoyed a smooth ride.”
“Bon! Do you bring me good news?”
Christian paused, then said, “I am afraid not.”
“Ah, that is unfortunate, but not unexpected. Reynolds is with you?”
“Yes, he is waiting in the vestibule.”
Foucault gestured for Christian to join him at the patio table. While Christian unbuttoned his suit jacket and delicately lowered himself onto a chair, Foucault poured two glasses of a pink-tinted juice. Handing one to Christian, he toasted Christian’s continued good health and said, “Very well. I will deal with him momentarily. But first, tell me what you learned of the map.”
“I could not confirm its whereabouts,” Christian said. “Reynolds believes Cully retains the map and the Sinethal, but he has no proof to support the claim.”
“What of this Corchran woman and her brother? The papers say they ransacked Devlin Wilson’s home. Could they have taken the map?”
“I am sorry, Monsieur. I was unable to discover much about the Corchrans. I was rather occupied managing Reynolds’ paranoia whilst sneaking him out of the country.”
“He gave you trouble?”
“He was tiresome, but nothing I couldn’t handle. I believe you will find his attitude unchanged.”
Foucault frowned. “Pourquoi?”
“I told him Li Wu was a ruse. He is unhappy we lied to him. He says the pressure we applied led to his current situation. He thinks the press is treating him unfairly, calling him a thief and murderer. He sees police at every turn. His list of complaints is unending,” Christian said.
“Then it is good we have brought him here,” Foucault said. “Did you learn anything new about Klaus Navarro?”
“Beyond what’s in the press reports? Not yet.”
Foucault’s face turned grim. “His presence in this comédie worries me more than the others, Christian. If he is as greedy a profiteer as rumors suggest, The Betrayer could easily manipulate him. Either way, the map in Navarro’s hands would be very dangerous.”
“Agreed. Given that Cully is hospitalized, and Margaret Corchran missing, shall I prioritize Navarro, then?”
“Possibly. We will talk more when I am done with Reynolds.”
“Very well, Monsieur.”
For a moment, they sat in silence. Foucault fingered the medallion hanging from his neck and thought again of how close they’d come. He uttered a deep sigh and then said, “Ah, well, let’s get this over with. Have him meet me in the garden.”
Without further discussion, Foucault rose from the table and descended the terrace stairs. As he walked along the cobblestone path, he gazed lovingly upon his treasured garden. In truth, it was more than a garden to him. It was a place of worship and sacrifice. A cathedral.
The walls of Foucault’s cathedral were formed by a dozen towering ceiba trees arranged in a horseshoe pattern. Their sprawling roots weaved over and under each other to form a bocage-like wall that stood nearly three feet high around the inner garden. When sunlight glowed into the garden from behind the trees’ crisscrossing branches, the gaps between limbs sparkled like panes of stained glass.
The core of the garden was devoted to a single subspecies of flower, the fragrant Nerium oleander. Planted in an unearthly, inky soil, the pink-blossomed flowers dotted thousands of tall bushes arrayed in arching rows. With branches that reached for the sky like outstretched arms, the oleanders served as Foucault’s flock.
At the terminus of the cobblestone path was the small oval courtyard with several stone benches positioned around its edges. In the center of the courtyard sat a stand-alone plot of oleanders ringed by black rocks. Here, at Foucault’s altar, the Painted Lady still feasted.
Relaxing onto a bench, Foucault lit another cigarette and awaited his guest.
A moment later, Foucault heard a sharp rebuke echo from the terrace. He turned to see Christian and Reynolds standing at the top of the terrace steps. As Christian pointed in the direction of the garden, Reynolds grumbled something and shook his fist. A thin smile crossed Foucault’s face as Christian bowed politely and returned to the chateau, leaving the rotund professor stewing on the terrace.
Adjusting his crimson silk robe, Foucault puffed on the cigarette and retrained his gaze on the Painted Lady while Reynolds stomped toward the garden, muttering all the way.
When Reynolds reached the courtyard, he pushed his crooked glasses up on his nose and stared down at the seated man with a mix of anger and confusion. Foucault met his stare and motioned for him to sit on an opposing bench.
Reynolds remained standing and gruffly said, “See here! What’s the meaning of all this? Who are you?”
Foucault removed the cigarette, glared at the light-skinned African American and flicked ashes onto the cobblestones. As the buffoon hovered above him, Foucault admonished himself once more for his choice of marionette. Alone, the man’s rumpled suit and partially untucked shirt spoke volumes. When combined with wild shocks of snow-white hair and the scruffy layer of white stubble upon his face, Thatcher Reynolds looked more like a hobo than a tenured archaeology professor.
Dropping the half-smoked cigarette to the ground, Foucault crushed it beneath his foot and exhaled the last of its fumes. With a slight bow, he softly said, “My name is Jacques Foucault. Please be seated, Dr. Reynolds.”
Reynolds stomped a foot. “I want to know what’s going on! Why the canard about Li Wu?”
“Calm yourself and sit, s'il vous plaît.” Foucault’s voice was suddenly stern.
As Reynolds slunk onto a bench opposing his host, Foucault said, “Merci. Li Wu was a small deception to shield my involvement. I am the man who hired you, not the fictional Li Wu.”
Foucault watched his guest absorb the totality of the admission. The man’s eyes darted back and forth and beadlets of sweat formed on his brow. Reynolds slapped his thighs and said, “Do you understand the trouble I’m in? Do you?”
The question was met by a stony response: “Your situation difficile is minuscule next to the problèmes your failure has created for me.”
“I don’t understand. Who are you, then? What’s your interest in the map? The Flash Stone?”
“None of your concern.”
“Of course, it’s my concern! I know nothing about you. For all I know you’re an outright criminal.”
“Come now, Doctor. How much did you know of Li Wu? Eh? Did you bother to ask for credentials? Did you demand a face-to-face meeting? Non. You cared only about payment…and the chance to usurp Devlin Wilson’s discovery. To take credit for his labors. Is this not so?”
“How…how dare you!” Reynolds sputtered.
“Did you ever question why Li Wu sought Devlin’s map? Or the Tuliskaera?”
“The what?”
“Tuliskaera, the Flash Stone, as you call it.”
Reynolds rose off the bench and jabbed a finger at Foucault. “Look, I wasn’t hired for any of that. I was hired to recruit Pacal Flores. Which I did. I knew nothing of the map or Stones until then.”
“Your memory is selective, mon ami,” Foucault coolly answered. “But it is irrelevant. We are not here to argue over the past.”
Stalking closer to Foucault, Reynolds said, “Irrelevant? My reputation is
ruined! Kaput. The media, they’re calling me a murderer! I killed no one! They say I’m a thief. I stole nothing!”
“Bah!” spat Foucault, rising to face the man. “If you are innocent, why did you run? It was stupide — it made you look coupable.”
The comment shook Reynolds. He staggered backward and slumped onto the bench. He bowed his head. “I didn’t know what else to do.”
Foucault considered the man in front of him. His display was pathetic. He was so full of indignant bluster, he could not see his own culpability. And he was a liar. Once Reynolds was paid for the introduction to Pacal, he willingly, enthusiastically, inserted himself deeper into the plot to steal the map.
At the heart of it, however, Foucault realized the whole fiasco was his own fault. As soon as Devlin started making inquiries about the Stones, Foucault should have snuffed out his interest by any means necessary. But, he had been too worried such an action would draw the attention of The Betrayer. So, he opted for a subtler approach — an approach that backfired spectacularly.
Foucault slid his hands into his robe pockets and curled his fingers around two cookie-sized stones. Stepping close to the altar of flowering shrubs, he stooped to inhale the oleander’s light aroma and casually withdrew his hands from his pockets. In each palm, he cupped a stone.
“Tell me, did you see the map yourself?” he asked.
Reynolds, clutching strands of his snarled hair, shook his head.
“Did you speak of it to anyone besides Pacal?”
“No, why would I?” said Reynolds.
“You told Christian you believe Cully has the map. Is this true?”
The despondent man nodded.
“Where did Cully get it?”
Reynolds peered up. “Excuse me?”
“Where did Cully get the map? It went missing after Devlin died.”
“I don’t remember.”
Turning his back to Reynolds, Foucault began to slowly rub the stones together in a circular motion. They made a scratching sound, like sandpaper smoothing a rough surface, though it was barely detectible from where Reynolds sat.
“Think harder. Where did Cully get the map?”
Foucault continued to grind the stones. Soon, their etchings began to glow and their heat rose in his palms. Reynolds stared at the ground and mumbled, “Why does it matter? Cully has the Master Stone. That’s where Devlin got the map.”
Foucault wasn’t listening. His concentration was focused on the stones. When they glowed a bright red, he ceased grinding and tapped them together. A spark leapt to a nearby bush, instantly withering an unsuspecting blossom.
Reynolds saw the flash and flinched. He said, “Look, I did the best I could! I can’t help it if I don’t remember.”
Spinning around, Foucault advanced toward the seated man, the stones now searing his palms. Reynolds rose to his feet, then edged from shadow into sunlight and held up his hands. “What are you—”
Without further warning, Foucault flung his arms wide, palms facing Reynolds. The flustered archaeologist cowered when he saw the glowing discs clutched in Foucault’s hands. He screamed in protest just as Foucault crashed the throbbing stones together. A flaming bolt surged forward into Reynolds’ chest. He writhed uncontrollably as the bolt pierced deep into his body.
With a wild sneer carved on his face, Foucault pounded the stones again, this time with more intensity. Another bolt, brighter than the last, flared at Reynolds. He convulsed as it sliced a second trail through his chest.
Terror filled the stricken man’s eyes. He teetered, clutching his chest, and toppled to the ground, his shirt and jacket afire. A sickening odor quickly filled the air, overwhelming the sweet scent of oleander all around the two men.
Releasing the crackling stones, Foucault grimaced and stared down at his singed, swollen hands. He backed away and collapsed on a bench just as the Painted Lady drifted back into view. It hovered briefly over the burning, motionless body before flitting off again toward the altar. Foucault watched its snaking path until it vanished into the bushes.
Rapid footsteps sounded from the terrace. A moment later, they came to an abrupt halt and Christian called out, “Monsieur! Are you injured?”
“I am fine, Christian. Get some ice, s'il vous plaît.”
“Right away, Monsieur.”
As Christian scurried away, Foucault turned his back on Reynolds and left the cathedral. Through clenched teeth, he seethed once more, “Imbécile!”
CHAPTER 2
FROM UNDER THE ROCK
San Carlos de Bariloche, Argentina
June 10
Klaus Navarro hovered over the worn volume of Olmec legends and once again scanned the Rivers of Gold excerpt. It read like a fairy tale — a godlike figure who melted rock into a bubbling stream of gold.
As a third-generation miner, Navarro had been fascinated by the story since childhood. On many occasions, his grandfather would lead him down the stepped bowl of the family’s original copper mine to act out the legend.
The patriarch’s eyes would narrow to mere slits as he bent low. In hushed tones, he’d prowl the mine floor and arrange the scene — the natives cowering at the canyon’s precipice, the god in elaborate headdress surrounded by raging torches and the wall of glittering rocks awaiting transformation.
Suddenly, his grandfather would rise up, utter an incantation and slam his hands together with a thundering clap. Navarro still recalled the echoes reverberating around the bowl. Flashing his hands all about, his grandfather would animate the rocks exploding into colorful tendrils that arced through the sky before splashing to the ground and pooling into a molten river. Then his grandfather would grow wild-eyed, seize Navarro’s arm and dash up the stepped walls.
“Quickly!” he’d blurt. “Run before the river burns you alive!”
Navarro smiled. No matter how many times his grandfather retold the legend, each portrayal was so convincing, he truly expected the mine walls to burst into a river of gold.
Flipping through the Olmec tome to read other versions of the tale, the child within Navarro thanked the old man for diluting the myth’s scarier elements. For none of the translated excerpts contained the wondrous fireworks display his grandfather described. Instead, they depicted a ferocious battle between a serpent and snakes.
The fish man stood atop the rocky mound and touched the teeth together. A serpent leapt forth and bit the rocks until they woke. They moaned and their hearts glowed. The serpent bit again and the rocks turned to snakes. Hissing smoke, they slithered around the serpent and bit back. The serpent danced among them and ate every snake it touched. Soon, smoke filled the sky. The hissing stopped and the fish man opened the teeth. When the smoke cleared, the serpent and the snakes were gone and the hill flowed with golden water.
Navarro closed the book and pondered the possibility, a simple tool that could melt rock. If true, the Flash Stone might forever change how precious metals and gems were mined. No more would it take months of drilling and blasting to uncover rich deposits. Gone would be the hordes of day laborers sifting and chipping to find small nuggets. Costs would plummet and profits would soar. A new world, one that Navarro would dominate.
Stroking the long strands of his ponytail, Navarro stared out the parlor’s floor-to-ceiling windows. Surveying the panoramic view of the Andes, he thought, “Once it is mine, even mountains will kneel before me.”
Savoring the fantasy, Navarro imagined the stunned faces among the world’s diamond cartel when he cut stone like butter before their eyes. Gold diggers? Ruby miners? It wouldn’t matter. He’d make them all bow. They would have no choice. They would pay him to gain access to his rock-melting stone, or his “serpent” would drive them out of business. Either way, Navarro would win.
Eight months ago, the Olmec legend was just a favorite childhood story. Then, out of the blue, came an unexpected whisper of Devlin Wilson’s discovery…a set of curious stones…stones with unusual magnetic characteristics…powers unlike anyt
hing ever seen. Navarro was still surprised at how quickly that whisper led to the possibility the story was more than myth — and by how quickly he found himself mired in intrigue.
He thought back to when Matthew Dobson and Margaret Corchran first described the discovery to him. He remembered listening with passive interest when they told him one person could lift and move heavy objects simply by humming on one of the stones. They claimed another stone could turn the flowers of poisonous plants into fountain-of-youth nectars. They even described a stone that held audio and video recordings made by an ancient civilization. Navarro recalled scoffing at such notions.
But then they described a stone that cut through rock using a beam of light and the childhood tale suddenly leapt to his mind. He demanded to know more and was shown a statuette of a man using the device. It looked strikingly like a stone relief Navarro had acquired years before that depicted the mythical serpent’s tooth in use.
He recalled offering Dobson and his niece, Margaret, an obscene sum for the Flash Stone’s procurement, but he was told Devlin didn’t possess it. Instead, they said, Devlin had a map, a map that led to caches of all the stones. They offered to sell him a copy of the map.
Navarro had been skeptical. He demanded proof of the map’s authenticity before committing to its purchase. Dobson came through with that proof — a stash of gold coins found at one of the map sites. That sealed it for Navarro. He wanted everything: the map, the gold, the statues and all the magical Stones in Devlin’s collection.
Dobson and Margaret readily agreed to purloin the artifacts, and an alliance was formed. But Devlin caught Dobson with his hand in the till before the fool delivered the treasure or the map. Then Margaret panicked and stupidly killed Devlin and suddenly, Navarro’s fantasy turned to nightmare. Instead of netting the prized relics, he found himself in a Buenos Aires jail, charged with grand theft. Extradition to the U.S. hung over him.
Navarro gritted his teeth thinking about that Buenos Aires jail cell. But he’d gotten lucky. His attorney struck a deal with the Argentinian government and Navarro was placed under house arrest while the two governments bickered over the Americans’ extradition demand. So long as Navarro kept his cool and no new evidence came to light, his attorney was confident he’d walk free.
Race for the Flash Stone (The Anlon Cully Chronicles Book 2) Page 2