The Medusa Amulet (37 page)

“We’re looking for an artifact that we believe the marquis may know something about.”

“He knows about a lot of things,” the man said, the door swinging more closed by the second.

“It dates from the Renaissance,” David blurted out, “Florence probably, and it’s a mirror.”

Although the man said nothing, the door stopped closing. David could see him debating what to do.

“Come back tomorrow,” he said.

And then the door closed, though David was sure they were still being monitored.

“I’m freezing,” Olivia said, stamping her feet. “There was a restaurant on the boulevard. Let’s get something to eat.”

They were seated at a table in the window, with a view of the park, and ordered some hot sandwiches and coffee. The barren branches of the trees across the way were bending and swaying in the rising wind; the air smelled like rain. There were only a few other customers, bundled in their coats, trying to get the chill out of their bones. But David was feeling more optimistic than he had in weeks—he felt that he might finally be onto something, and the reaction of that man at the door only bolstered it.

For her part, Olivia was thrilled that by following her nose with Cagliostro, she had again picked up the trail of Dieter Mainz, and now she was rattling off more of the Third Reich’s crackpot theories—“in 1937, a rocket engineer named Willy Ley broke away from something called the Vril Society and had the courage to openly speak about their aims in public.”

“Which were?” David said, listening, really, with only half an ear. He could not get his mind off meeting this antiquarian Sant’Angelo, and his eyes stared past his own reflection in the window to watch the night grow more turbulent. A smallish man, in a bulky jacket and hat pulled low, was lighting a cigarette at the entrance to the Metro station across the street.

“The members of the society—and most of the Nazis’ upper echelon, including the Führer, by the way,
were
members—believed that by pursuing esoteric knowledge and ancient teachings, they could awaken their latent vril.”

“Their what?”

“It’s a meaningless word, really, invented for a science-fiction story by Edward Bulwer-Lytton. The vril was supposedly an essence in the blood, a mystical power, that could grant them virtual immortality.”

The waiter brought them more coffee, asked if they would like to see the pastry selections, and when David looked back at the window,
he was surprised to see that the man with the cigarette was standing just outside the glass, studying them like fish in an aquarium.

And damned if it wasn’t the same man who had doctored their drinks on the train.

“I can’t believe it!” Olivia said on seeing him there, and they were both incredulous when he casually ground out his lighted cigarette, came inside the bistro, and, as if they were old friends, pulled up a chair at their table.

David thought Olivia was going to grab her fork and try to stab him, and he laid a calming hand on her arm.

“I don’t suppose you expected to see me again,” the man said, taking off his hat and calling for a glass of the house red. His curly hair was squashed down tight around his crown.

“No, I can’t say that I did,” David replied, automatically hooking his wrist tightly through the handle of his valise.

“But rest assured, I have no schnapps for you tonight. In fact,” he said, taking his wine from the waiter’s tray, “I have some advice I’d like you to take instead.”

He sipped his wine, while Olivia stared daggers at him and David wondered why on earth he would think that any advice he offered would be taken seriously.

“I regret what happened on the train,” he said. “I’m a doctor, and—”

“I thought you sold medical supplies,” David interrupted.

“In a manner of speaking, yes. But I am a doctor, and as such I have taken an oath to help, not to harm, people. I know that you are carrying something precious,” he said, nodding at the valise, “but I have not been told what it is. Frankly, I don’t care. But other people do care, very much, and you have already met some of their … employees.”

“Your friend with the knife?” In case he had had any doubts about that muddled night on the train, David had found the puncture wounds in his duffel bag when unpacking at the Crillon.

“Yes,” he replied. “But there are others.” The self-proclaimed doctor
sipped his wine while David and Olivia waited. “My advice to you—and I tell you this at considerable risk to myself—is to drop your search immediately, pack your bags, and go home. Live a long and healthy life. Forget whatever it is you think you know because—trust me—you know nothing.”

“Then why are you here?” David asked. “If we know so little, why would anyone be bothering to pursue us?”

The doctor sighed, as if weary of trying to explain himself. “Because you’re like a couple of clumsy children playing with a loaded gun.”

Olivia bridled. “I am no child.”

“And when guns go off,” the doctor continued, “there’s no telling who will get hit.”

“Then tell us who these people are,” David demanded, “and what they want.”

“They’re people who have been playing this game a lot longer than you have. They have no scruples, they have no moral reservations, and they make their own rules. It doesn’t matter what they want—they will get it in the end.” He finished his wine in one big swallow and stood up, pushing his chair back. “That’s all you need to know,” he said, throwing enough money on the table to cover the entire bill. “Don’t say you haven’t been warned.” He pulled his hat down low over his ears, and as he turned to leave, Olivia put a hand on his sleeve and asked, “Why are you telling us all this?”

“Because I can’t have any more blood on my hands.”

With that, he left, and David watched as the doctor ducked out of the café doorway, waited for a rusty old taxi to pass, and darted, like the white rabbit in
Alice in Wonderland
, down into the hole of the Metro station.

Chapter 26

That’s the second time I’ve seen that old taxi
, Julius thought, as he waited on the train platform. And even here, he noted a couple of suspicious-looking travelers, one of them carrying a too-prosaic sack of groceries, the baguette sticking up out of the bag. Julius waited for the train to whoosh to a stop, got on board, then, just as the doors were closing, ducked out again. But no one else got out with him.

He had just taken a huge chance, back at the café. If word of his betrayal ever got back to Escher, or God forbid Emil Rigaud, he’d vanish as thoroughly as the Turks had. You didn’t erase Rigaud’s emissaries without, eventually, being called to account.

But damn them all, he thought, as he paced the platform. God damn the whole organization. He had been systematically sucked in, his career destroyed, his reputation shot. And all in the service of what? He was damned if he could even remember how Rigaud and Linz had ever sold him such a lunatic bill of goods. Blood-purification rituals, a mysterious essence called vril, endless cell rejuvenation. Not to mention the promise of untold riches and universal acclaim as the doctor behind it all. Lunacy, pure lunacy. And all he could muster, in defense of his own actions, was that he hadn’t been himself back then. He had been writing himself far too many prescriptions, for a host of potent drugs. But still … what had he come to? A man of his gifts, reduced to traipsing after a couple of supremely naïve academics
as they strolled, oblivious, through a veritable minefield. What a waste.

A train rumbled in on the opposite track, but after it left, the platform was empty. Julius looked around, but on his side the only other people waiting were a couple of Muslim women, their scarves tied tightly around their hair. Europe was changing, he thought. Perhaps he should consider emigrating. On the wall, there was a travel poster for New Zealand. Would that be far enough away to escape his past?

When the next train came, he got on, glad of the warmth, but still keeping a wary eye out. Ever since Escher had shown up on his doorstep, he’d had to keep looking over his shoulder. But after all the killing, brutality, and deception he’d seen over the past week, he’d finally done something to expiate the guilt. He had entered something on the other side of the ledger. He just wasn’t sure if he’d gotten through to them. The girl had a combative streak, he could see that, and the man—David Franco—looked, despite his spectacles and scholarly demeanor, like a man on a mission. A mission, Julius thought, that could still wind up costing him his life if he didn’t take the warning to heart.

At his stop, he got out quickly, scurried up the stairs, and out onto a seedy street in the Pigalle section of the city. Escher had checked them into a hotel where he was clearly a regular customer—the ancient lady at the concierge desk had given him a toothless smile while sliding a room key across the counter.

“Your usual, monsieur.”

Escher had thanked her and slipped her some money.

Their room, on the top floor and facing the front, was furnished with double beds, threadbare carpeting, and a view of an alleyway. But as he approached, Julius saw that the lights in the room were on, which meant Escher had returned from his visit to the Crillon and would be awaiting word on what David and Olivia had been up to. Julius had not wanted to go too close to the town house—he could see a camera above its door—but he had texted Escher the location and address.

He plodded up the creaking staircase, already editing in his mind what he was going to say, and looking forward to a pot of hot tea, when he opened the door and saw Emil Rigaud standing between the beds, slipping a cell phone back into his pocket.

“We’ve been waiting,” Rigaud said, and it was then that Julius took note of the young man with a scar across his neck—it looked as if someone had once tried to cut his throat—lurking just behind the open door. The man shoved the door closed with his foot, then stood in front of it like a sentry. Another man, in a white shirt and red tie, emerged from the bathroom, drying his hands on a towel. Julius could hear the water running in the tub.

“Monsieur Rigaud, what an unexpected pleasure,” Julius fairly stammered.

“It is?”

“Of course, of course,” Julius said, his heart hammering in his chest. Rigaud was seldom the bearer of glad tidings. “But what are you doing here?” Gesturing around the shabby room, he tried to make a joke. “As you can see, I am traveling budget class.”

Rigaud didn’t crack a smile. “I’ll tell you why I’m here,” he said, though Julius was still focused on that water running in the tub. “I came up to Paris to see why you and your friend have been making such a hash of things.”

Rigaud was nearly fifty, but in admirable shape—taut, lean, wearing one of his hand-tailored suits. Only his hair—dyed a too-bright blond—struck a discordant note.

“I don’t know what you mean,” Julius said, his mouth going dry and his pulse pounding. He had a momentary thought of trying to bolt past the guard at the door, or even of getting out the window and onto the fire escape.

“Sit down,” Rigaud said, slinging a wooden chair in front of the clanking radiator.

“If I may just take off my coat first?” Julius said, his mind racing, as he placed it and his hat on the end of one bed.

The tub was still filling.

Julius took the seat, the man at the door moving to stand just behind his chair.

“First there’s that little mix-up in Florence, with Ahmet and his friends.”

“What mix-up?”

“Please,” Rigaud said. “This will go so much more smoothly if you just answer my questions.”

“You mean, when he came by to make a pickup? The last time I saw him, he was—”

The back of Rigaud’s hand slapped him so hard in the mouth that Julius heard a tooth crack on his ring.

“Understand that I am reconciled to his loss,” Rigaud said, turning away and shaking his fingers.

Julius did not imagine that the loss had been very painful for him.

“All he had to do,” Rigaud continued, “was persuade that Swiss errand boy to go back to the States and get out of our way. Schillinger should know better by now than to meddle above his pay grade.”

Julius suspected that Schillinger had a hard lesson coming, too, if he hadn’t already received it. But what difference did it make? Julius had far more pressing concerns than that.

“It appears that Ahmet got distracted. Is that what happened?”

Julius was torn between coming clean and sticking with the lie he’d already begun.

“Drugs can do that to a person, wouldn’t you say?”

Julius knew that he wasn’t really expected to answer that—and he knew now that the general outline of the incident was fairly well-known to Rigaud. He’d missed his chance to take the high ground and confess.

“But now that Ahmet and his friends have disappeared,” Rigaud said, “it’s like somebody’s poked a stick in the hornet’s nest.” Waving his hands at his two helpers, he added, “You know how our Turkish associates like to stick together.”

Julius dug his handkerchief out of his pocket and held it to his lips. To his shame, he felt a trickle of warm urine running down his leg.

“And then there was that embarrassment on the night train. How could you two have bumbled such a simple task so badly?”