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The laptop dinged.
A new e-mail.
From Cotton.
She clicked off the music, opened it, and saw only a link. She shook her head and smiled. A romantic he was not. And while he rarely spoke of matters of the heart, she never doubted how he felt about her.
She clicked on the link, which sent her to a video about a Russian oligarch who they’d dealt with a few years ago. The oligarch’s wife had supposedly committed suicide, but the Russian internal police had arrested the oligarch for murder. Unusual, to say the least. Money bought power in Russia. But, apparently, their former nemesis had fallen out of favor. She agreed with the short note Cotton had typed above the link. Couldn’t happen to a nicer guy.
A shout arose outside.
She sprang from the chair and rushed out the open French doors. On the lawn, just beyond the rose garden, Viktor and Shelby chased a hooded figure, yelling for the person to stop.
What was going on?
The figure was fast, with a solid head start, disappearing into the trees just as Shelby fell hard to the ground. Viktor kept going, but Cassiopeia rushed to see if Shelby was all right. Joining the pursuit seemed impractical in a bathrobe, considering she had little on underneath.
“Are you hurt?” she asked.
“The…book,” Shelby said, panting hard. “Get…the book.”
“Someone has the manuscript?”
Shelby nodded, fighting to catch her breath. “I’m…okay. The bitch whacked me…in the head with a…metal tray. My head is…spinning. Get…the book.”
“No need,” Viktor said as he ran up.
His face was scratched and there was a thin stream of blood trickling down his right cheek. He was holding the plastic container with the Book of Hours.
“I got it. Hopefully unharmed.”
He handed it to her.
“Which is more than I can say for your face,” Cassiopeia said.
He waved away the injury. “I ran through the orchard. I managed to tackle whoever it was, but she kicked me in the gut and got away.” He pointed. “She left that behind.”
This was a first. A full-fledged theft attempt. Dogs patrolled the construction site at night, there to chase off deer and boar who made a mess of things. But they’d never employed anything grander.
“We’re too lax around here about security,” Viktor said. “Maybe it’s time to institute some new protocols.”
Maybe so. “But I don’t want to start living like I’m in a prison.”
Still—
That made two people interested in the manuscript.
Or, maybe only one, making two different attempts.
From that point on, my negotiations only go down.
Time for her to pay Roland Beláncourt a visit.
Chapter 5
The Perfecti’s leg ached.
Her escape from Cassiopeia Vitt’s chateau had aggravated an old injury. But what hurt more was that the God of Evil had prevailed.
It behooves us of necessity to confess that there is another principle, one of evil, who works most wickedly against the true God and His creation, and this principle seems to move God against His own creation and the creation against its God.
The God of Good wanted her to have the manuscript. Why else had she been sent here? That certainty had become even clearer when she found no obstacles to walking right across the grounds without anyone noticing. She’d watched yesterday as Cassiopeia Vitt had taken the Book of Hours from the chateau to an out-building labeled Laboratoire. When Vitt departed empty-handed she’d known the prize had been left inside. She’d wanted to make her retrieval last night, but the worksite was patrolled by dogs who kept a steady watch, never abandoning their post. The animals had not been taken away until a little after seven a.m.
That’s when she made her move.
Only a handful of people had been around, so she’d hustled across the site, using the various waste piles and work sheds for cover, her head sheathed in a black hood. At the lab she’d forced the door open, which was restricted only by a simple door lock. Inside, she’d found the book, tucked safe inside a plastic bin. She’d opened the container, seen the worn leather cover and rose window, then caressed the exterior with her fingertips, feeling the glory that God washed through her. She’d replaced the lid and was preparing to leave when the devil interfered.
“What are you doing?” a female voice asked.
She’d whirled to see a woman at the lab’s door, who advanced her way.
Take unto you the armor of God that you may be able to resist in the evil day, and to stand in all things perfect, wherewith you may be able to extinguish all the fiery darts of the most wicked one.
The threat had to be dealt with.
She’d grabbed a stainless steel tray and slammed it into the woman’s head, stunning, but not disabling her. The woman lunged. They both went down and she brought a knee into her attacker’s stomach. Which allowed her to roll to her feet, grab the plastic bin, and rush from the lab. She’d abandoned caution and raced across the open grass, past the chateau, toward the trees. Someone yelled stop. A quick glance back and she saw the woman from the lab and a man about fifty meters behind. But racing her way. The woman had fallen in her pursuit, but the man kept coming.
Her throat had burned from heavy breathing, her knees ached.
But she’d kept running.
Then something slammed into her from behind. Her legs folded beneath her, head snapped back, air squirted from her lungs as she hit the ground hard, two arms wrapped around her waist. The grip relaxed and she used that instant to wrench herself free and kick the man in the chest. He rolled to one side, the breath leaving him, and she sprang to her feet.
He ignored her and grabbed the plastic bin.
Could she take him?
Probably not.
So she’d fled, finding her car and driving away.
How awful.
She’d searched for so long, the better part of the past decade devoted to the quest, one clue leading the way. Not in the preferred Occitan. But in French.
Le livre de roses conduira au lac de l'apprentissage mènerae.
The rose book will lead to the Lake of Learning.
She’d studied every existing treatise and text, which weren’t many. Examined every carving, sculpture, and artifact that
was, in any way, tied to Cathar history. She’d long lived in southern France. Breathed air that contained particles of the same dust that her ancestors had inhaled. She might well have been one of them centuries ago, her soul reborn over and over into envelopes of sinful flesh. Going through cycles of life, searching, wanting, seeking a final release.
She had to find the Lake of Learning.
Yet she’d failed.
Again.
Tears formed in her eyes.
What to do next? More important, what would Vitt do next? Everything she’d read suggested Cassiopeia Vitt was highly intelligent and rational. A collector, but not a fanatic. An historian and architect. Clearly a risk taker. The fact that someone had tried to steal the book would not be taken lightly. Would she blame Beláncourt? Possibly. No, probably. So maybe the way to possess the Book of Hours was to take it after Beláncourt managed to obtain it?
Allowing him do the heavy lifting first.
Her car kept heading for Toulouse and she turned over the options in her mind. Vitt would go to Beláncourt and confront the man whom she believed had attempted the robbery. When? Today? Tomorrow?
Hard to say.
But she would go.
The drive west took five hours, which included one stop for the bathroom, some hot coffee, and an apple. The pain in her knee continued to throb. She drove straight to Beláncourt Aerospace and parked in the visitor’s lot, her car blending with the hundreds already there. The facility’s main entrance sat across the street and she told herself to be mindful of the cameras that surely watched every square centimeter.
What was the saying?
Keep your friends close and your enemies closer.
Roland Beláncourt, the papist, was perhaps her greatest enemy. She knew his habits and haunts. His likes and dislikes. His wants and desires. The time was approaching 1:30 p.m., so he was just finishing lunch. He liked to take his midday meal at Emile’s on Saint-Georges Square, later than most people. Right on cue, at 1:45 his chauffeured Rolls Royce motored through the gate without stopping for the guard. Later, he would leave the office at 6 p.m. Dinner was always at home, in his chateau that sat a few kilometers out of town. The only exception came if he had a meeting or an event, which was rare, as he liked to end his work day early. He was in bed by nine and up at five a.m. Nothing mattered now but the book and the possibility that, after so many centuries, its secrets may finally be within reach. Her first attempt had been dismal. She could not fail this time.
