The Painted Messiah (2 page)

While Kate cleared the brush away, Ethan inflated the keel and checked the pressure in the other chambers. Taking the grab lines, they lugged it toward the water, jumping in just as the craft cleared the marsh. Ethan dropped the ten horsepower motor into position and pressed the ignition. The Honda purred quietly to life, and he steered the craft away from the shoreline. Over the next three minutes they worked their way past three large estates. The great houses were darkened, apparently empty, easy targets but of no interest tonight. They pushed on and finally came to a small densely wooded hill. One lone mansion occupied the crest of it. To either side of the property, for nearly a quarter of a mile in either direction, there were no other houses, no lights, no roads. Just as the land began to rise up sharply, they glided into shore.

Kate jumped out first and pulled the raft over a stretch of gravel while Ethan heaved out their equipment. Wading back into the lake with their gear in a watertight bag, they swam another fifty yards or so, coming to a piece of grey rock that rose up almost vertically over the lake. Kate took the equipment and swam ashore. Ethan veered off toward the estate's private dock. This was secured by a high stone wall and closed off with a set of steel gates. It offered one large boathouse, built as a replica of the main house. In one of the two berths beneath it sat a luxurious Fountain 48 Express Cruiser. In the second was a Pantera 28, the fastest boat on the lake. Two Jet Skis were tied next to the Pantera. There were no lights on in the boathouse or around the dock. The perimeter was protected electronically. The slightest movement would trip both an alarm and security lights. Taking the bicycle chain lock latched around his waist, Ethan keyed it open and slipped under the surface. Close to the dock's entrance, he reached out blindly until he touched the moss-covered steel bars. Snapping the lock closed, he dropped the key and swept back from the gate.

He returned to the surface and swam back to Kate. She had already set out their gear in neat his and hers piles. Before he did anything else, he took a towel and began drying himself. Still in his wet suit, he slipped on a Cobra vest. Next he put on a pair of black pants and a matching jacket. Finally, he slipped on a pair of black sports socks and his climbing shoes. Both the pants and jacket had been specially modified by a seamstress in Milan Kate used for all her jobs. Every object and tool they would need had a reinforced slot to hold it tightly against the body. He inventoried each as he slipped it into place, reviewing the various points within Kate's plan: a silent whistle, a pair of thin leather gloves, handcuffs, a couple of lengths of rope, a small, flat steel crowbar, a Navy Colt .45 semiautomatic pistol with silencer attached, the first round already in the chamber, a combat knife, a small flashlight, a climbing pick, and a concussion hand grenade - in case things went to hell.

When these were in place, Ethan reached for a small backpack with a dart rifle attached. The pack fastened to his body snugly and offered a small ripcord neatly tucked away. One tug and a canopy would snap open. He could access the dart rifle simply by reaching behind his head. He finished with a full hood, night vision goggles, and a headset.

Kate began working over the tarp and rope with one of the towels. Together they dragged the tarp to the water, throwing the towels after it. As these sank into darkness, Kate whispered into her headset, 'Ready, Two?'

Ethan heard the second team's response, two voices answering in sequence, 'Ready, One.'

Kate turned to Ethan, 'Ready, Boy?'

Ethan gave a slight nod of his head, 'Ready, Girl.'

Kate walked up close to the rock and tipped her head back, planning her ascent one last time. Ethan did the same even though he had studied the rock a number of times from the lake. The stratification was typical of the area. It offered finger and toeholds all the way to the top. At about forty-five feet, a good third of the climb finished, the rock tilted, allowing for a rest, if he needed it. He was plotting his next move when he saw Kate start up the rock. She took the first ten feet in half as many seconds.

Ethan had made more than a dozen practice climbs under these conditions on a far more difficult rock. When Kate ran a job, she was nothing if not thorough, but they had used pitons and rope for night training. This was his first free climb in the dark, and it left him a bit uneasy as he began. Hazarding a glance in Kate's direction after he had started up the rock, he saw her passing the midway point. He listened a moment and caught the steady rhythms of her breath. His own methodical plodding embarrassed him suddenly, and Ethan pushed himself to emulate his partner. Never a smart thing to do. When he looked down, the distance was perfect for getting himself killed, too close for him to get to his ripcord in time, too far even to think about a lucky fall. He could see exactly the rock that was going to kill him, too. Angrily, Ethan stepped up his pace. He reminded himself just how easy this rock was. He moved quickly now for several steps, pushing off one fingerhold and reaching for the next without pausing to consider or to test or even to think. Exactly as Kate climbed.

Stopping at last if only to understand his progress, Ethan felt his nerves betray him. He began to reach for his next hold but then hesitated. Kate was waiting just under the top of the cliff and watching him now. Could she see he was getting into trouble? Hear it in his breathing? He made a long reach, and found himself unable to catch a decent toehold. He pulled back and probed more carefully. Nothing. He looked down at his rock and felt his hands beginning to sweat. All he could think about was a climb in the Bergell Valley some years earlier. The rock had frightened him before he began. About halfway up, fighting it every inch of the way, his fingers had suddenly released their hold as if they had a mind of their own. It happened sometimes when a climber was tense or frustrated or scared. If you were wearing a harness, you could kick away and hang quietly until you got your focus back. In a free climb you were dead.

For a moment, he could not bring himself to let go with his left hand. It was the same thing that had happened on that day. First the muscles locked up. Then the fingers opened. Still clutching the rock, Ethan brushed his toe over the stone until he found a small crevice. It was not sufficient to hold him, only to take some of the weight out of his fingers. He looked now for another ledge, and realized his left hand had begun to cramp.

Taking his weight into his toes he finally broke free with his hand and tried to shake the blood back into it. As he did this, he stretched his left leg out, going for a fresh toehold, and almost fell when a cramp struck his hip. This was the point when you kicked out and laughed, trusting to your ground person and the rope. You lost, the rock won. Maybe you tried again tomorrow. Maybe you took up hiking.

He heard Kate now. 'Get left. You've got a decent shelf not more than ten feet away. Ethan tried looking for it. 'Trust me. It's there. Get to it now. Take your time, but do it, don't think about it.' It was not what she said, but the fact that she was there, that she understood he was in trouble.

Ethan focused on her voice with that faint, soft feminine British accent. He forgot his feet, his cramp, his fingers. Forgot death itself. 'Your left foot is on it, Boy. A little higher. Good.' He pulled himself higher, stepping into a thin shelf, and found another fingerhold, nothing more than a pocket within the stone. His hands felt soft, the cramp in his hip faded. He shook his hands but it was only habit. The blood was flowing, his strength returning. And then he found himself directly opposite Kate, both of them just under the edge of the cliff.

'I thought I was going to lose you,' she whispered.

'Cramps,' he said.

'They don't ask how, they just ask how far down. Are you good now?'

'I'm good.'

'Team Two, we are in place. Repeat. We are in place.'

The Palace Hotel, Lucerne

From the rooftop of the Palace Hotel Sir Julian Corbeau pulled his gaze from the explosion of colour in the sky over Lucerne and fixed his eyes upon the Contessa Claudia de Medici, a slender, middle aged woman standing close to the parapet. She had been in the country almost two decades without once venturing out to a social gathering of this sort. Corbeau wondered why she had finally relented. It wasn't a fondness for fireworks, he was sure of that. The bankers never failed to invite her, of course, but it was only a matter of form.

Her sole extravagance was her annual party for a hundred or so of Switzerland's social elite. Everyone Corbeau knew attended it. It was, they liked to say, the party of the year - littered with luminaries from around the world. When they had begun, Corbeau's troubles in America had created something of a scandal, and that may have been the reason she had overlooked him, but more recently, as America-bashing had become something more than just posturing, Julian Corbeau had enjoyed a burgeoning reputation in Europe. To be positively vain about it, Sir Julian was fashionable again. And still she had not extended an invitation.

He could not, of course, approach her directly like some blushing schoolboy anxious for her attention. He would not give her the satisfaction. He mingled with others. He talked about politics and society, as one does. He even talked briefly about a business venture with a French concern. Eventually, the contessa's name came up. The famous parties she threw. Hadn't he been to one of them? No, Corbeau answered. In fact, he said, he had been under the impression she was Jewish.

A bit of surprise at this. Not at all!

'My mistake,' Corbeau answered with a slight smile, noticing with satisfaction the sudden doubt in the other's face.

'Worth I don't know how many million,' the gentleman offered, as if that might make up for failings of the blood.

'Certainly not
the
de Medici family?'

'Married a poor cousin, I believe.' A careful, thoughtful sip of champagne. 'Got a title for her troubles, as I understand it. I believe she brought the money into the marriage, however.'

'Divorced, then?'

'I really don't know. She's very mysterious about her private life. I think he might have died, come to think of it.'

'Any idea how she came by her money?'

'I'm not sure, but I'll vouch for this, she has plenty of it.'

As the man who was speaking to him at the moment

happened to be an officer in one of Switzerland's leading banks, Corbeau was quite sure of the contessa's bona fides. In fact, he had rarely seen such passion in a Swiss banker's eyes.

'And yet one never sees her,' Corbeau offered, as if baffled by her failure to embrace Swiss society.

'Rarely, I'd say. Shy of publicity mostly. When she accepted this evening, she wanted assurances there would be no cameras.'

'I wonder why.'

'If you can believe it, I think she is a genuinely humble person.'

'I was under the impression that humility had gone out of style.'

The banker laughed politely. 'An extraordinary woman, by all accounts. May I introduce you?'

She had lovely eyes, the contessa, so much so that one hardly noticed she refused to extend her hand. 'I've heard a great deal about you,' she said in French, though she was not French. The dusky skin and cool dark eyes intimated a far older race. She wore an exquisite ruby at her neck in a setting that looked to be a skilful imitation of jewellery from the Roman Empire, if not an original. Instead of a wedding band the Contessa de Medici wore an extraordinary antique cameo ring. It depicted two lovers holding hands. It might have been a Baroque fantasy of Arcadia, worth how many hundreds of thousands, one could only guess, but Corbeau was inclined to believe it was an original, worth closer to a million.

Corbeau's response to her courtesy was humorously self-effacing, a skill he had learned only with great difficulty. 'One should never listen to rumours. They are always so painfully accurate.'

'Rumours are all I can afford. You see, my work keeps me too busy to get out much.'

'You mustn't be a slave to your work. Life is to be lived!'

'I'm a slave to my passion, Sir Julian, which is scholarship.'

'The contessa is an author of some repute,' the banker remarked in a well-schooled French that sounded like a pale imitation compared to the contessa's.

'The Forgotten Jerusalem
,' Corbeau answered, using the English title. 'I believe it is the finest book I've ever read on the Roman occupation in the first century.'

'Have you read a great deal of history, Sir Julian?'

'Not much of value, I'm afraid, but more than most people, I'm sure. Books happen to be
my
passion. Of course, I still manage to find time for the occasional evening with friends, so perhaps my passion is not as all-consuming as it ought to be.'

The banker, playing his part, explained that Corbeau possessed what was widely regarded as the finest private collection of occult literature in all of Europe.

With a faint smile to soften her obvious distaste for him, she asked, 'Are you a magician, then?'

It was a question Julian Corbeau generally despised. The contessa, however, seemed to understand what she was asking. Certainly she was a woman who knew the difference between parlour tricks and the work of a true magus.

'I don't believe in nonsense.'