“He did. Maybe he came back out… or they’ve added another man.”
I said, “If they open the door, you shoot the dog. I’ll jump the men.”
Montbard didn’t reply. We waited as the men neared, close enough now to hear one say, “Who’s that getting outta the van?”
I couldn’t make out the response, but heard the first voice say: “Yeah, one of the maids, probably. The Widow got her a big night planned, man.” Their laughter moved with them away from the house, toward the garden.
Montbard exhaled a long, slow breath, nervous for the first time. “I agree, Ford. Lethal force-last resort only. I don’t need any more nightmares.”
I smiled-the man was human. But I also knew I could count on him to pull the trigger. The nightmares told me he’d pulled the trigger before.
The Englishman had the door cracked again, looking out as I finished dressing. He told me there was a white van parked near the chateau now. Said the upstairs lights were off even though it was getting dark enough; someone should have turned them on by now. The maid, Isabelle Toussaint… someone.
I was going through the backpack-a flashlight, the night-vision monocular, rubber surgical gloves, rope. Holding up my old silk sports coat, I said, “I thought you were kidding about this.”
“The Orchid’s cocktail party started fifteen minutes ago. Would you prefer to be mistaken for a guest or correctly identified as a burglar?”
I said, “You just convinced me. Maybe that’s why the house is dark- she’s at the party.”
“I didn’t see her. But, if she’s in the house, I’ve arranged another diversion that should lure her out. In half an hour, her beloved orchid house will catch fire. Appear to catch fire, anyway, if the timers work- no guarantees. It’s not easy to find reliable detonators in the islands. I expected to be operating alone, so I went heavy on the fireworks.”
“What kind?”
“Exactly what I said-fireworks. People love them in the islands, and they’re easy to get. In the confusion, we’ll pop into the house, nick Madame Toussaint’s video collection, then it’s back to Saint Lucia in time for a late supper. Your friend Beryl is absolutely stunning, by the way. I wish she would have accepted my invitation to stay with us at Bluestone.”
I was putting on the jacket, but stopped. “Beryl’s not staying with you? Don’t tell me she came back to Saint Arc.”
“Nothing I could do. She took the ferry. Supposed to meet a friend who flew in this afternoon. I overheard the friend’s surname-Money. Impossible to forget. Beryl said they had a lovely place rented, and that you approved. Senegal was thinking about joining them for dinner.”
Like in the old silent films: Step carefully over the banana peel, then fall down an open manhole. Damn it.
I could hear Beryl saying, I bet the party boys are hanging out at the resort. They’ll scout the beach house at sunset, like before.
I said, “Shay Money is my goddaughter. Beryl didn’t tell you?”
“No. If she had, I would’ve never allowed her to leave.”
“That’s why she didn’t tell you. They’ve gone back to the rental house on the beach. Shay and Beryl have talked themselves into believing they can handle the guys who conned them. We’ve got to get down there.”
Montbard said, “Sorry, Ford, I had no idea.”
“It’s not your fault.”
“You’re sure it’s the same house?”
“Yes. Ritchie Bonaparte and Clovis what’s-his-name are the ones who slapped me around this morning, then locked me in here. They talked about cruising the bars tonight. I heard them.” Ritchie had taken my Rolex-a watch I’d owned for two decades-so I had to ask, “What time is it?”
“Six forty-five.”
The sun was setting now. “And you set the detonators for…?”
“Seven-thirty, but I used bloody egg timers-all I could manage-so it’s not exact.”
I said, “Screw the videos, we’ve got to get down to the beach. There’s too much at risk.”
Montbard remained matter-of-fact. “Yes, there’s some risk, I agree. But there’s even more risk if we don’t get the tapes, not only for Senegal and your friends, but for dozens-maybe hundreds-of others. We’ll never get this opportunity again.”
I thought about it. Damn. I hated that he was right. I said, “Okay. Then let’s make it quick.”
“Of course! The entire operation should take less than an hour. I suggest we move to the back garden and wait for the fireworks. When the old girl rushes out to save her precious orchids, we’ll have a solid block of time to search the house.”
I took the flashlight from my bag and shined it on the wall where I’d been prying rock with my fingers. “No need to wait. I found one of your passageways. I think it leads into the basement of Toussaint’s house.”
The Englishman went to the opening, knelt, and levered another rock free. “By God, you’re right.” He shined his light into the hole, then stood and removed his blazer. “Doesn’t look more than a few meters to where it exits. Rather narrow, though. A damn tight squeeze.”
I told him, “Heretics were smaller in those days-” then paused, head tilted, hearing men’s voices again, and the choleric rasp of a dog. Waited for several seconds, expecting to hear the jangle of keys. Instead, the voices faded, moving toward the front of the chateau. I continued, “Can you figure out a way to jam the door, so they can’t open it from the outside?”
He nudged the door closed with his knee. There was a metallic click. “Already done.”
I said, “Then let’s move. Isabelle will be sending someone for me soon.”
“Isabelle? On a first-name basis, are we?”
I told him, “I’ll explain later,” as I got down on hands and knees and pulled away more rock so my shoulders would fit through the opening.
34
The Maji Blanc’s chateau was built over the ruins of what Sir James Montbard believed was the original monastery. He said the architecture was older than the ruins where previous monks had lived and died. Told me this after scrutinizing masonry and twin columns that bordered steps leading up to a stone landing. He had also brought his grandfather’s journal-yellowed pages bound in leather.
The hidden entrance inside the chateau, I guessed, was just above the landing, where stairs disappeared into a modern section of basement. The modern section was walled off with brick and sealed with a steel door.
I’d already checked the door. Snapped on surgical gloves before I tested the knob. It wasn’t locked, but I didn’t open it.
Montbard wanted to search the oldest section first. We used flashlights. We whispered. Sometimes, we heard heavy footsteps overhead, and the occasional tap-shoe scrabble of a dog’s claws on a hardwood floor. Maybe Toussaint was up there stomping around, restless, moving from room to room. She sounded heavier than I would’ve guessed.
The western section of the monastery was intact. Montbard panned his flashlight slowly along the walls and remnants of two doorways before whispering, “The pointed arches… the tracery, everything-the way it’s laid out-all typical Gothic architecture. The dry stone masonry could be older. Just as Grandfather described it.”
I wanted to locate the tapes and run, not talk, but the man had switched into archaeology mode. “The Gothic dates from the Middle Ages-twelfth century to the early fifteen hundreds. Remember the rhyme about Columbus sailing the ocean blue? Work on this monastery could have begun before 1492. A hundred years or more.”
I thought, Uh-oh, thinking about the article on the Templars, their missing ships and treasure. I said, “Hooker, let’s stick to business.”
Montbard was standing between the twin columns, using his flashlight, scanning ornate carvings of monks praying, sheaves of wheat… a cross with four equal arms. He held the light on the cross for a moment, then moved it to the base of the column. He whispered, “This is what I’m talking about. Have a look.”
I knelt and used my own flashlight, seeing monks… oak clusters… a carpenter’s square… a silver-dollar-sized seal etched in rock, so worn I couldn’t be sure, but it might have been a skull and bones, the eyes oddly misaligned.