The Tenth Saint (30 page)

Breathless, Daniel rolled onto his back. “Lady, you are a hellcat.”

She laughed. “Hey, you reap what you sow. And it gets better. Wait till you see what tomorrow brings.” Smiling, she kissed his shoulder.

He propped himself on his elbow and stroked her hair, gazing into her eyes. “Sarah, when you asked me earlier where I was staying, I didn’t want to tell you my hotel is by the airport. I leave for Riyadh first thing tomorrow. I have no idea when I’ll be back.”

Sarah had taken for granted that they would have more time together. The notion of his departure stung her more deeply than she would have expected. “Of course. I knew that. It’s just that I …”

“Yes?”

She hesitated, unsure if she should put it out there.

“What’s this? The great Sarah Weston at a loss for words?” Daniel grabbed his phone from the night-stand and punched away at the keys. “I must text everyone I know.”

“I’ve come to think of us as a team. In fact, I don’t know that I would have survived if not for you.”

“Sure you would have. You’re a tough little lady. You don’t give yourself enough credit. You may be a product of the upper class, but you’re nothing like them. You don’t do what you do to keep up appearances or because the establishment expects it. You do it because your conscience compels you to. Your father, your people—they don’t have soul like you do.”

She stroked his chest with her fingertips. “Danny, you do see me.”

”Yes, I do, Sarah. And I like what I see. So much so that I’m willing to take a gamble on you.”

She tilted her head. “What do you mean?”

“I’m looking for an archaeologist to join me in the Empty Quarter. Remember I told you one of my head guys just quit? So … the post is open. And it’s yours if you want it.”

The proposition caught her unawares. “I don’t know what to say.” Her face warmed. “What about Cambridge?”

“You mark my words: those guys will sell you out before it’s over.” He ran the back of his fingers down her rosy cheek. “Think about it. You don’t have to give me an answer today. But don’t wait too long. You know, people are lining up to work in hundred and twenty—degree heat and swallow sand for a living.”

She wanted to keep up the volley of conversation, but words escaped her. She pulled him close for a kiss. They made love until both their bodies gave out as a lavender dawn rose above the rooftops of Paris.

The sound of a persistent buzz woke her. It took her a while to figure out it was the phone and to remember where she was. By the time she found the phone, it had stopped ringing. She stared vacantly at the flashing red light indicating waiting messages. The clock showed one o’clock. She rubbed her eyes and started to reconstruct the evening. Could he have left without saying good-bye?

In the bathroom, she found a note atop her cosmetics case that confirmed her suspicions.

You own my heart, Sarah Weston.

She had no doubt he was en route to Saudi Arabia. Surprisingly, she didn’t feel disappointed. She knew she would see him again.

Over a pot of strong black coffee, she read the
International Herald Tribune,
the
Times,
and
Le Monde.
The headline in the
Herald Tribune’s
page-four article read, “Message from the Grave.” The deck: “Cambridge team uncovers fourth-century prophecy.” The
Times
featured the piece at the bottom of page one: “Ethiopia’s Tenth Saint: Could an AngloSaxon prophet have changed the course of a nation’s faith?” The article described Sarah, “the only daughter of Sir Richard Weston,” and Daniel, “the legendary American anthropologist,” less like scientists and more like Indiana Jones types willing to risk life and limb to uncover hidden treasure.

Sarah cringed. She had always abhorred British journalists’ flair for the dramatic. Still, the piece was effective in that it could capture the attention of the public and make them read further, tricking them into actually learning something. The author obviously had gotten a hold of the inscriptions of King Ezana, including the one Matakala had shown her on their first encounter, and had further interviewed Ethiopian cultural and theological experts, raising the question that Gabriel was indeed the country’s tenth saint, the one who had delivered a message from God about the apocalypse. Sarah marveled at how much research the guy was able to do in such short time.

The phone rang.

“Sarah Weston,” she answered.

“Darling, it’s about time.” Her father’s voice came across urgent and impatient. “Where on earth have you been? Why haven’t you picked up your phones or messages?”

“Sorry, Daddy. I had a long night. Slept in a little. What’s the bloody emergency?”

“I have news.”

“Good news or bad?”

“A bit of both, really. The police just found Matakala at his house in the highlands.”

Sarah’s mood soared. “That’s brilliant. So he’s under arrest?”

“Not so fast, darling. They found him at the bottom of the well in the back of the house.”

Sarah dropped the newspaper.

“He’d been dead several days. It was a nasty scene, from what I’m told.”

“What? How?”

”Police are investigating with the help of our agents. Seems like an inside job. He had a wound to the head that preceded the fall. Someone must have knocked him unconscious and dragged him into the well.”

“Surely Brehan knows something. Can’t you ask him?”

“Brehan is the one who tipped us off to start with. Apparently he went to the house to deliver something and saw Matakala struggling with a white man. Says he got frightened and didn’t stick around to see what happened. Our deal, of course, was that if he led us to Matakala, we would let him go free. So we held up our end of the bargain and put him on a plane to the UK day before yesterday. Only he hasn’t been at his flat since we dropped him off there. Hasn’t touched his bank account either.”

“What do you make of that?”

“Probably doesn’t know what to do with himself in a civilized country, poor chap. Probably wandering around somewhere, lost and unable to communicate. But don’t worry, darling. All dogs return to their lair sooner or later.”

“Sure.” She felt that familiar metallic taste rise in her throat. Her mind was suddenly crowded with thoughts of dread. “Do let me know if you hear anything. Cheers then, Daddy.”

She hung up. Matakala’s killer was at large. Could he have been silenced by his so-called benefactor because he knew too much? Could Apocryphon have sought revenge because the inscriptions were brought to light?

And Brehan … She didn’t buy the lost dog scenario for a minute. He knew more than he’d let on to Scotland Yard; she was sure of it. He likely had gone missing because he had something to hide.

There was a heavy knock on her door.

The panicked thumping of her heart resounded in her ears.

A second, more furious knock followed.

She frantically looked around the room. A heavy glass ashtray, the spent bottle of Dom Perignon— either could cause damage if called upon.

An envelope appeared under the door, and she heard footsteps, which grew fainter.

Slumping to the floor, she cursed her paranoia. After a few deep breaths, she mustered the courage to open the envelope.

It was from the concierge desk.

Mlle Weston,

I have something that belongs with you. Meet me at 65 Quai d’Orsay, 22:00 sharp.

Marie-Laure Olivier

Sarah ignored the directive, certain it was a trap, until the second missive came.

The prophecies said, “I was one of three.” I know who the second was.

M-L. O.

Twenty-One

T
he church at 65 Quai d’Orsay was cold and eerie in the ghost light of the streetlamps. The sanctuary, a towering masonry structure on the left bank of the Seine, was framed by a tangle of leafless branches, harbingers of the Paris autumn. A gothic spire, enveloped in the patina of the ages, stood like a beacon to the faithful. A small sign at the entrance marked The American Church in Paris welcomed her.

Sarah ascended the steps to the breezeway connecting the church’s two cloisters and stood behind a massive stone column to survey the surroundings. In the utter silence, her head buzzed with the rush of adrenaline, whether from the fear of walking into a trap or the anticipation of unlocking another piece of this puzzle, she did not know. She looked over her shoulder, checking once again if she was followed. She saw no one, not even the woman she was supposedly meeting.

She stepped lightly toward the courtyard garden and stopped beneath a jasmine vine hanging over a stone bench. She closed her eyes and inhaled the intense perfume.

“Sarah Weston?” A French female voice cracked the silence.

With a start, Sarah turned to face a slim woman gazing intently at her.

Madame Olivier was dressed in a fitted grey wool crepe dress with a black manteau draped over it. Her glossy black hair, twisted into a chignon held by a tortoise clip, framed her narrow face and fine features. Except for the creases around her eyes, her face was unlined and serene, as though she had not worried a day in her life. She extended a delicate hand. “I am Marie-Laure Olivier.”

She sat on the bench and shot a few furtive glances around the courtyard. “We are alone.” She pulled out a silver case and offered a cigarette to Sarah.

Sarah gladly accepted. She lit up and inhaled the menthol smoke. “Forgive my rudeness, but I am eager to learn the purpose of this meeting.”

Marie-Laure nodded and exhaled a puff of smoke. “Before I tell you, I must give you a little background. It will help you understand.”

Sarah gestured for her to continue.

“My family has been in France since the twelfth century. My ancestors on my mother’s side lived in Paris for the most part. Some hailed from the south. My paternal ancestors are French and English. Myself, I’ve spent time in both countries. I went to boarding school in England. Kent College. Do you know it?”

“Yes, of course. Some of my friends went there. Did you continue your studies in England?”

“Actually, I studied all over. Art history in Florence, classical studies in Athens. I did the requisite couple of terms at the Sorbonne. I was more interested in travel and adventure than I was in a strict education. When I met my husband, I tossed it all aside to follow him. He was an historian working in West Africa. I could think of nothing more romantic. We lived in Cameroon and Mali for fifteen years, but then I got very ill and had to return to Europe. I have been in Paris since.”

“Your family. What was their business?”

Marie-Laure spoke openly. “They were landowners in the Middle Ages. As such, they amassed a great deal of wealth and were members of the aristocracy. Later, in the Renaissance years, some of my ancestors were scholars and literary figures. Men of letters. And in modern times, they have been industrialists, mostly in transportation. They had the first automobile factories in France and later got into manufacturing airplanes.”

“It must be wonderful to know so much about your forebears. I wish I knew half as much about mine. How have you managed to learn all this?”

“My family kept meticulous records from very early on. But over the years, they were scattered and some were even lost. As the wife of an historian and a student of history myself, I took great interest in recovering and restoring these records and organizing them into an archive, not only for the benefit of my family but also for the greater good. You see, Sarah, some of my ancestors were very important to French history.” Marie-Laure assumed an enigmatic tone. “And others were deliberately erased from the history books.”

Sarah was intrigued. “Was this deletion … just?”

“I have my opinion.” She took a final drag and extinguished her cigarette in a flowerpot. “But you can be your own judge.”

“I’m listening.”

Marie-Laure took a book out of her black leather Birkin. Inside was a family tree. “My husband and I had produced this just before he died.” She ran her finger down the document and stopped in the year 1318. “Bernard de Bontecou,” she read. “Maternal ancestor, born 1318, died 1348. He was a shipping merchant in Marseilles who later moved to Paris, where he died during the Black Death. He opened trade routes between France and some of the Italian city-states and moved foodstuffs overseas. Apart from that, we don’t know much about him other than the fact that he moved to Paris in the thirteen forties and apparently let his brothers run the shipping empire he built. Those final years of his life were spent essentially in isolation. No one is sure why. What we do know is that he wrote several manuscripts.”