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At 2:20 p.m. her vigilance was rewarded.
A car approached the main gate and she saw the driver.
Cassiopeia Vitt.
Chapter 6
Cassiopeia drove onto the premises of Beláncourt Aerospace.
Her first visit, though she’d seen the massive industrial complex while flying in and out of Toulouse, as it sat adjacent to the main airport.
Her home, Givors, was a beautiful place to live. The ancient city sat on the confluence of the Rivers Rhone and Gier. Wooded fields and mountains rose all around, especially to the south where her chateau and castle project were located. The city was originally known for its coal and pottery industries, but both had long died away. Now it was mostly a bedroom community for those who worked in nearby Lyon, approximately a half hour drive away.
Which was the closest airport.
But she’d not had the time to drive to Lyon and wait for the next commuter flight, so she’d arranged for a direct helicopter trip from her chateau to Toulouse. Her father had taught her that some indulgences were worth the price, especially when they saved time, which was one commodity that money could not buy. When he died, far too young at age seventy-two, he’d more than proved his point. Her mother passed a few months later, some say from a broken heart. Occasionally she engaged in wishful thinking that they were still alive, back at home in Spain. An impossibility, she knew, but the dream soothed the raw edges of grief that still rose.
During the flight, she’d read up on Roland Beláncourt.
Born and raised in Toulouse, he’d attended university nearby and, after graduating, started Beláncourt Aeronautics, a small company that manufactured recreational aircraft. Now the conglomerate, known as Beláncourt Aerospace, employed over ten thousand people and, along with Airbus, Air France Industries, and Dassault Aviation, it had become one of the top five corporations in Aerospace Valley—the land between Toulouse and Bordeaux—so called because there were more than five hundred aviation companies clustered in the region.
Personal information about Beláncourt, though, seemed more sketchy.
He was a well-known philanthropist, creating endowments at the Aeronautics, Space and Civil Aviation departments at his alma mater, the Université Fédérale de Toulouse Midi-Pyrénées, one of the oldest in France. Established in 1229, if she wasn’t mistaken. Perhaps about the time when the Book of Hours had been created. In addition to scholarly donations, Beláncourt also gave generously to historic renovation, especially religious buildings. She’d also read an account of his rebuilding of the cloister and ramparts of the Cathédrale Saint-Étienne de Toulouse, whose unusual architecture was renowned within the region.
Like her father, Beláncourt was an avid art collector, which he lent out to museums around the world. Little about his family situation existed other than he’d once been married, but that union had ended, after eleven years, with no children. There were women in his life, the most recent a well-respected novelist, Nina St. Clair, whose books Cassiopeia enjoyed, but nothing to suggest he was a playboy.
She stepped from the car and faced a glass building with the corporate logo emblazoned in cobalt above the entrance. Arranging the meeting had been simple. A call to Beláncourt telling him she wanted to discuss the book and a car had been waiting for her at the nearby heliport when she landed.
Inside, she was greeted by a placid blonde woman with a capable air and a kindly face, who led her back outside through a rear door, toward a row of hangars. On the way she was asked if she’d like any refreshments. Water sounded good, so she put in a request. Their destination was one of the smaller hangars adorned with the blue logo and she was surprised to see the entire inside comprised Beláncourt’s executive office.
The entrance was divided into three separate spaces. Most likely for assistants. A set of oak doors led into a cavernous room with walls of caramel colored leather affixed with rivets, the arched ceiling identical to the silver sheet metal exterior. That color combination echoed in the modernistic design woven into a massive floor rug. Couches and chairs were covered in the same caramel leather. Beláncourt’s desk, and a long conference table with chairs around it, were fashioned from what looked like airplane wings. A few choice paintings and lithographs adorned the walls.
Then there were the artifacts.
On a table against the wall stood a Tibetan buddha. Several other busts rested atop pedestals. Shelves displayed old volumes of biology and nature, well bound in cloth casings. One cabinet with glass-fronted drawers held oracle bones and what appeared to be megalodon teeth. A stereoscope displayed a collection of centuries- old views. It all had the feel of a museum, untouched by human warmth.
“I couldn’t be happier to see you,” Beláncourt said, staying with French, standing from his desk and walking toward her.
He was dressed, as yesterday, unwrinkled, in a dark suit, stiff-collared shirt, and silk tie. His face was smoothly shaved, his hair brushed into place, the brown eyes clear and steady. The woman who’d escorted her poured a glass of Evian and squeezed a slice of lime into it. She accepted the glass and enjoyed a few sips. “I’m not sure you’ll be so happy to see me after you’ve heard what I have to say.”
He looked perplexed. “I’m a grown man. I can handle it.”
“Your attempt to steal the book this morning failed.”
His expression changed from one of bewilderment to concern. “I’m disturbed to hear that something like that happened. Truly, I am. But, I assure you, my attempts never fail.”
“And yet you’ve failed twice with me.”
He chuckled. “I like you. You’re direct, and that is refreshing.”
“I’m sorry, but I can’t say the same about you.”
“I assure you, I made no attempt to steal that book. None at all.”
“And why don’t I believe you?”
“Because I’m suspect in your eyes. And I understand how you would think I might try such a thing. But, again, it was not me.”
For all the distaste she held for Beláncourt, something troubled her. Either he was a world-class liar, which was possible, or he really didn’t know what she was talking about.
“I assume you’re not here, then, to sell me the manuscript,” he said.
She enjoyed more of the water and decided a little misdirection on her part would be good. “You went to a lot of trouble creating this office. Quite an effort.”
“I don’t care for ordinary. I prefer things to be different.”
“This space certainly qualifies.”
She liked strong men. But where Cotton tempered his strength with humility and compassion, Beláncourt oozed pride and arrogance. And that she detested. But she detected no lies, no embellishing flourishes to provide a stronger feeling of truth. No warning flags. “Someone tried to steal the manuscript this morning. A woman, we believe. Her head was hooded. She managed to escape, but we were able to save the book.”
“That’s good to hear. But I don’t steal things. I buy them. That book is worth, at most, a hundred thousand euros. I’d gladly pay twice that right now.”
“You were quite emphatic yesterday that your next offer would be much different,” she said. “You were right. It is different. Now you’re offering double its value?”
“You have no idea what my offer yesterday would have been. We never got that far in our discussion.”
Good point. “Surely you can see how I would assume that you were behind the theft, trying to obtain the book for nothing.”
He nodded. “But it was not me.”
Which begged the question. “Then who?”
He shrugged. “Could be an art thief, after something to sell. There are many who make their living peddling stolen objects. The person probably saw the same internet postings we all did and thought it an easy thing to acquire, considering the remoteness of your property.”
That was entirely plausible. Still. “Why is the book so important to you?”
“I collect objects
of knowledge and beauty. Books of Hours are of a particular interest. I saw the images online and they spoke to me. I had to have it.”
Now she felt he was lying. This was not about art. Or a collector’s lust. Something else was at play here.
“I have one of the largest private collections of illuminated manuscripts in the world,” he said. “I would love to show them to you.”
Now he was trying charm.
“Monsieur Beláncourt, I don’t believe in coincidences. I’m still not totally convinced you were not behind the theft attempt today. But I will take you at your word. I came to tell you again, to your face, that the manuscript is not for sale. Please stop your efforts to obtain it.” She paused. “Whatever they might be.”
“I’m afraid that is quite impossible.”
Now she was puzzled. “Why?”
He stood at attention, hands folded behind his back. “As I mentioned, I would never steal anything. But my statement to you yesterday still holds. My next offer will not be anything close to two hundred thousand euros.”
There was that arrogance again.
“As you will soon learn,” he said, “the ways I go about obtaining what I want are much more effective than robbery.”
She did not like the sound of that.
His lean face creased into an irritating smile.
“Au revoir, mademoiselle.”
Chapter 7
Cassiopeia greeted the Chairman of the Board, Jean Paul Weil, and the company’s legal counsel, Marie L’Etoile. Both had worked for her father, and now worked for her at Terra. Two days had passed since her meeting with Roland Beláncourt in Toulouse, his last words a clear threat that he’d seemed unfazed with issuing.
