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She smiled back at him and mouthed, “Thank you for this.”
He shook his head. “He’s a terrific kid, and I love being here.”
Nina was in town for the week. She lived in Italy but visited often, many times bringing young Georges along. He’d blocked off his Monday schedule and rented the boat so they could spend some fun time together. He and Nina had dated for nearly three years. Was it going anywhere? Probably not. His self-confidence, which he knew attracted her, was more an illusion, a wafer-thin puncturable envelope around him, always threatened by the past. He fought hard to resist its effects, but there was no denying their power over him. He enjoyed her company, though, and was keeping an open mind, especially when it came to Georges. But no matter how much time he spent with the boy, how close they became, one fact was clear.
He’d never be his father.
An ex-husband would always hold that position.
Georges had been seven when they first met. Nina had introduced them and the young man had quickly extended his hand to shake, saying nice to meet you. He’d been immediately touched by the courtesy and the two of them had hit it off. They’d gone mountain hiking, snow skiing, and, of course, flying. Georges seemed to love planes, showing a real interest in aviation. He’d taken him through the manufacturing plant and they’d spent hours talking about flying.
The dock was rapidly approaching.
He waved for Georges to let go and swung the boat around to retrieve the boy from the river. Fifteen minutes later they were all seated on the terrace at L’Emulation Nautique, staring out at the river. The restaurant was a local favorite, heavy with rural ambiance. Georges enjoyed a burger and fries. Beláncourt chose the tuna tartar and Nina ordered grilled langoustines.
“Can I ski some more after lunch?” Georges asked, still high from the activity.
“If Roland has the time to take you,” she said, providing an out.
Which he did not take. “We have nothing but time. Sure. I rented the boat for the entire day. I might even try the water myself.”
“Does that mean I can drive?” Georges asked.
“Perhaps,” he said. “With your mother’s help.”
They enjoyed the meal, and he savored his time with them both. He’d built some of the world’s great planes, but a family was the one thing he’d never been able to create. Fate and circumstances had combined to deprive him of a child of his own. Adoption had certainly always been an option, as was a stepchild like Georges, but he’d wanted one from blood. For the Beláncourt genes to continue on.
But that would never be.
And all because of Simone.
Seeing her on Sunday had refueled his bitterness and reminded him once again that the future he wanted was absent, only the present existed.
And it was not pleasant.
They finished lunch.
He was walking back to the dock when his cell phone buzzed. He’d left specific instructions with his office that he not be bothered unless absolutely necessary. He checked the display. Not the office. Something else.
Important.
“I’ll meet you at the boat,” he said to Nina.
She nodded and smiled, then she and Georges headed off.
He drifted to a quiet spot near the riverbank and answered the call. “What do you have?”
“Your ex-wife came straight to Vitt’s chateau this morning. She’s been here ever since.”
“Were you able to see or hear anything?”
“Both. The parabolic mic worked great, even though they were inside the site’s field lab the whole time.”
He waited.
“Simone deciphered something within the Book of Hours and determined a possible location for what she called ‘the truth.’”
The exact words he’d wanted to hear.
Simone was smart. As was Vitt. Together, they’d make a formidable team. That was why he’d sent his man to follow Simone, which had led his eyes and ears straight to Cassiopeia Vitt.
“Tell me everything.”
He listened to more of what Simone and Vitt had discussed.
“They’re planning to travel south tomorrow to take a look,” his man said.
“Do you have an exact location?”
His man gave him more of the details he’d heard.
“Do you want me to follow them tomorrow?”
“No,” he said. “I’ll handle that myself.”
Chapter 18
Cassiopeia climbed from the vehicle and admired the epic wilderness. The Pyrenees extended from the Atlantic to the Mediterranean, a line of rust-stained, limestone peaks along the French and Spanish border, forming a four hundred and fifty kilometer natural wall. Pot-holed with lakes, many were secreted in high, inhospitable places with little vegetation. Springs bubbled out of nearly every hole, forming torrents and waterfalls that people came from all over the globe to enjoy.
Legend clung to these mountains. Other ranges outstripped them in height, but none in beauty and romance. Everywhere, virgin summits gleamed against the blue sky. She knew that crumbling villages lurked among the hills, many castle-topped and breathing the atmosphere of vanished centuries. The manners and customs of lost ages colored their inhabitants. Among the valleys lived tales of Charlemagne, Franks, Visigoths, Saracens, Moors.
And Cathars.
They were deep inside a French national park, the land having been publicly preserved since the 1950s. Nearly five hundred square kilometers of pristine mountainous landscape, all the way to the Spanish border. To save time, they’d flown south from Lyon in a helicopter. She’d dispatched one of her employees last evening to drive the five hundred kilometers in one of her Range Rovers, the vehicle waiting for them when they landed. That had also allowed her to send along the proper equipment they might need, based on Simone’s recommendations.
Her newfound ally had spent the night at the chateau and they’d had a lovely evening, talking history and France. She seemed like an intelligent woman. The only subject that remained off limits was Roland Beláncourt. And she’d respected Simone’s reluctance hoping that, at some point, she would open up about what had happened between them.
Simone stepped out into the crisp morning air.
They’d driven into the park and followed a twisting, rising road that meandered through the foothills, climbing ever steadily toward peaks that were not all that far away. Little human expression was in sight, save for the asphalt road, the view from the car park out across a long valley, flanked by protecting hills.
“I’ve long suspected that this area was the place,” Simone said. “Where exactly? I had no idea. But I thought somewhere in these mountains would have been the perfect spot for the Cathars to hide their most precious object. What we are looking at, this particular valley, was once underwater. An alpine lake, high in the Pyrenees, called Rose.”
Cassiopeia admired the high valley, rock-strewn and wild, its floor overgrown with briers, scrub oak, heather, and lavender. Towering walls of naked limestone, streaked with blue shadows, rose on three sides, the rock face bare with few cracks, crevices, or protrusions. Sure, there’d been centuries of weather and erosion, but the clear outline of what could have held a lake remained.
“Look there,” Simone said, pointing. “Off to the right. The terrain rises sharply, levels off, then falls on every side. That had to be the island in Rose Lake we saw on the map.”
“Have you been here before?”
Simone shook her head. “Not here. But other spots a few miles away.”
> They’d spent hours last night studying the illustrated manuscript, taking pictures of the pages and analyzing the maps. Simone had brought her notes from previous study, along with photos of symbols carved into rocks she’d located all across southern France. The book itself remained back at the chateau, locked in the safe, under Viktor’s guard.
Their perch offered an excellent view of the magnificent scenery. No other visitors were in sight, Tuesday apparently not a busy day in this park. She allowed Simone time with her thoughts, practicing what Cotton loved to say.
Those in a hurry usually get fooled.
“Let’s get our gear,” she finally said.
Beláncourt lowered his binoculars.
He’d traveled south last evening after finishing his day with Nina and Georges. He’d enjoyed himself, relishing, if only for a few hours, in the joy of a family. Thoughts of marriage had again crept into his mind. But though he liked Nina, and he worshipped Georges, he did not love her. It had been so long since he last loved anyone that he’d simply forgotten how. Simone was right. Hate had consumed him, and every time he thought himself past it, he discovered that it was not the case. Luckily, he remained rational enough to know that loving Nina’s child would not substitute for loving her. He’d keep seeing her, keep spending time with Georges, but the relationship would eventually end. A shame. But inevitable.
That’s what came from a shattered heart.
One that nothing could put back together.
Earlier, he’d stopped all speculation and allowed his emotions to subside, his mind to stop questioning, resolving that the time had come to act. He stood on a ridge, about five hundred meters away from Simone and Vitt, hidden by the trees. He’d been waiting at the national park for them to arrive, his spot already staked out thanks to what his man had learned yesterday, since they’d continued to electronically monitor the conversations into the night. Now he knew that eight centuries ago the valley below him had been underwater, everything submerged save for an island in the northwest corner. That high ground remained and, somewhere near there or perhaps on it, lay the greatest treasure of the Cathar religion.
