Matt Drake 14 - The Treasures of Saint Germain (2 page)

Should he?

The man looked wimpy, kind of bookish. No doubt the submissive in that relationship. The woman was loud, confident, athletic and vigorous. Webb liked the look of the challenge. He almost started to move, practically put one foot in front of the other, before remembering the crucial and time-dependent significance of his situation.

The scroll led you here. The first clue led you here. Despite everything that has happened you still have . . . contacts . . .

Webb had maintained just a few, mainly those who could facilitate his efforts, turn a tricky situation into a manageable one. Take the Palace of Versailles, for example. Only a man with clever and secretive means could sneak in there uninvited, at night, with a dark, clandestine purpose in mind. Webb surveyed the scene. Too many tourists, too much light. One shady character across the way who almost seemed to be studying him.

Webb shook off the paranoia. It wasn’t good. It was what
he
did to others.

But still . . .

The already-thick miasma that surrounded his intrigues and schemes had recently thickened. Another party was in play, one Webb had not counted on. Chiefly, because he’d never heard of them and still didn’t really understand their agenda. Webb shrugged. Those were the breaks, the twists and turns of lifelong dreams and maneuvers coming to fruition. You rolled with it or you lost.

Rather than branching off any of his Pythian dealings, Webb thought the new players were centered around the Saint Germain conspiracy and had been alerted to him purely because of his most recent investigations and breakthroughs. He had the same people who’d facilitated entry into the palace tonight looking into them and their plots. It wouldn’t take too long and should prove to be an interesting new dossier of information when complete.

It was time to lose even the barest hint of a trail and enjoy a good hunt in the process. The couple had melted away, much to his chagrin, but he soon saw another acceptable candidate—a man and wife, probably locals—hurrying past the palace without even a glance, heads down, and carrying a heavy shopping bag between them. How quaint, Webb thought. How sweet. A shame he didn’t have the time to utterly destroy all they held dear.

Webb slipped away quickly, careful to take note of faces, colors of clothing, backpacks and other stand-out items at all his peripherals so he could later double-check any that might stay with him. The man and wife hurried along, not speaking, and he followed in their wake. He took a while to move up close, made his presence felt, then pretended to dally so they pulled ahead. Already he could see the tell-tale signs in the woman, the half-glances backward, the increase in pace, the tense set to her shoulders.

A quick check of the time revealed he could take things a bit further, so he pushed ahead and made eye contact with the woman, unable to hide the smirk that creased his features. Her look of fear mingled with distaste excited him. He made a move toward them. The woman slowed, then took in her immediate surroundings so fast Webb worried her neck might snap.

Sadly, there were many others around so Webb melted into the background. No longer a threat. It was time to return to the palace, but then a familiar perverse craving pulled him up short.

Take it a little further.

He ran across the road, making a beeline for the woman and her daughter, grinning from ear to ear. She stopped and now her husband noticed, staring at Webb with narrow eyes. He reached into the waistband of his trousers, hoping they’d think he had a gun there but not really caring which way they took it. The man stepped in front of the woman, visibly trembling. Passersby stared at him with curiosity. Webb ran hard, straight up to him, and then slowed, leaning in.

“Be seeing you later,” he whispered, then ran on.

Dark excitement and deep pleasure bubbled through him.

Score one to Webb
, he thought.

And left them staring at his back.

Chuckling then, he slowed and blended back in with the tourist crowd as the gates to the palace once again came into view up ahead. In all his vicious diversions he now realized he’d failed to carry out the one task he’d set out to do. Lose any tail. He put it down to enthusiasm and moved on. In a previous life as leader of the Pythians he’d have dropped someone down a well for such insubordination.

Webb was different now. This new life had changed him. He blended with the other peasants and riff-raff without any sign of distaste, and was pleased to see how far he’d come in just a few weeks. Give him another month and he’d be riding the freakin’
bus.

A chirp alerted him to a cellphone message. It was time to get serious. Webb saw many tourists were now drifting away, which made him more noticeable in the wide expanse before the main golden gates. Flat, paved ground stretched out in all directions, broken only by the low walls and railings that surrounded the great palace.

The French chateau was a magnificent structure, filling the horizon. Webb left the main gate behind and wandered around the perimeter for a while, moving purposely but carefully toward a predesignated spot. Now, his heart was pounding. Now, he would seek out and find the second clue on the road to St. Germain’s greatest treasures.

So far the scroll he’d bought from Ramses had proven utterly invaluable.

Webb thought about the scroll as he moved in. The tattered mishmash of parchments had paid off; Leopold had spent decades searching for St. Germain, closely, jealously guarding every secret he’d found until dying in the 1940s. Webb wasn’t entirely sure what had happened to the scroll after that and how it came to Ramses, and didn’t care a jot. All he cared about was that it was now tucked safely inside his coat pocket, double-zipped and wrapped in plastic. Webb had already studied it at length, though had taken care not to get too far ahead. Some pleasures were worth savoring.

The pages were in the order they had been written; and in the order Leopold had traveled whilst on his great quest. Each passage an insight into what had happened that very day, sometimes even written as the German walked and searched. Webb found he could get into the man’s mind, feel his excitement just by reading a paragraph. Many musings, thoughts and random ideas littered the passages—it took some doing to pick the bones out of it.

Purpose? Or circumstance? Leopold must have been a lonely man, living with himself and his notes, his obsession. Webb wanted it all, but knew he had to progress at Leopold’s pace, not his own.

The ciphers were the key.

CHAPTER TWO

Webb approached a small, insignificant gate: a staff or service entrance. A shifty looking man stood there, transferring his weight from foot to foot. His eyes locked with Webb’s and the requirement was known.

“This way. Hurry.”

Webb wanted nothing less. He enjoyed the straight talk. He followed in the man’s wake, straight into the closing palace, searching the lengthening shadows all around for any signs of pursuit. Nothing. If someone else was there, they were good.

“We have to be quick,” the man said in an English accent. “They don’t start getting antsy for a half hour after the doors close, but then . . .” he left it hanging, such a terrible threat.

“Who are you?” the man asked as he led the way inside.

But Webb, never one to reveal too much, found he could speak no words as he stepped through the old king’s palace. The sudden onslaught of all that gilded gold, the mirrored-surface floors, the painted masterpieces that adorned the walls, the high, open spaces all lavishly decorated with exquisite detail, touched with an expert’s eye. Webb could have spent days in here, studying this stunning symbol of the ancient regime, deciding what he’d most like to destroy or purloin.

“They said to leave you alone,” the Englishman now said. “But I’m not sure I can do that.”

Webb finally acknowledged the vulgarity with legs, seeing not for the first time one of the downsides of setting out on one’s own. Normally he’d have some thick-necked Neanderthal teach this slug its place—but Webb had never been a real fighter.

“Carry out your instructions to the letter,” Webb said without emotion. “I assume they said they would release your son or daughter when I was done?”

“Wife.” The man swallowed quickly, his face furrowed with anguish.

Webb slowed a little, enjoying the man’s fear. “Don’t worry, I’m sure they’re taking very special care of your wife.”

“What does that mean?”

“Do you have a picture?”

The man fished out a folded photograph, worry making him appear a decade older, shoulders hunched in submission. Webb saw a pretty brunette with wide eyes and an even wider smile.

“Ah,” he said. “Yes. So long as she keeps them happy I’m sure she’ll remain safe.” He had absolutely no idea as to her fate, but loved to instil the dread and see the panic take hold.

He waved at the gleaming rooms ahead. “Maybe you should hurry.”

“Yes, yes.” The man took off as if his feet were on fire. Gilt, gleaming wood and sparkling chandeliers lashed by as Webb was spurred along to a comparatively small room somewhere in back. Webb knew this was the bedroom where Le Comte de Saint Germain had stayed on countless occasions whilst visiting and advising the King of France. It was here that Leopold had found a second clue, a cipher, and wrote about it in his scroll.

Only the finer details were left blank, ensuring any who came after would have to search with the same fervor as Leopold himself. Which suited Webb just fine.

At last, the man paused outside a room.

“Are you sure?” Webb made his voice threatening.

“Yes, sir. This is the room.”

Webb nodded. “Wait outside. I’ll need a fast getaway.”

“Please . . . please don’t dally too long, sir. They will see us on the cameras.”

Webb shrugged as if it hardly mattered to him and then turned every ounce of his attention to the door that stood before him and the room beyond. Even as he stepped through, a sense of wonder overcame him, rescinding all else. Gilded walls vaulted up all around to join at the apex of a high ceiling. Pristine, emerald-green paper covered the walls which were also beautified by old masterpieces, by man-sized, gold-plated mirrors and by hanging drapes of rich, crimson-red. Webb stood in awe, imagining the times over two hundred years ago when the Count himself would have slept and deliberated and planned right here. The man’s intrigues were legion.

Webb carefully removed the scroll from its plastic cover and leafed through the stiff, old pages. The thick leather embossed cover felt like a soft balm to his fingers, Leopold’s errant scrawl a surprising comfort blanket. The first few pages were now done with, describing the hiding place of the first clue that he’d already found in Transylvania, and then offering a further hint as to the type of cipher Germain had used to encrypt messages to his subsequent hiding places.

Webb approached the very bed, the very footstool, the very chair Germain once sat in. He read aloud from the scroll, hearing a scuffle outside the door but ignoring it completely. The Englishman was too impatient. Maybe Webb would pay him a little visit . . .

He shut it down quickly.
Concentrate.
Leopold described his entry into the palace in the early 1920s, essentially the same route as Webb had taken and ending up in the same bedroom.

“Take heed, questor,”
Webb intoned softly.
“This is no light journey. An end to everything you think you know is all that you will find. Hold nothing dear, for all fades away.”
Webb paused, thrilled.

“Except you.”

He moved deeper into the room, skirting the bed and approaching the back wall. He knew these words off by heart, knew what was coming.

The road to Germain’s greatest achievement, and the paramount accomplishment throughout all of human history led past every one of his lesser but no less incredible triumphs. Transylvania had offered a clue into the early stages of his experiments with alchemy. The Palace of Versailles would hopefully further that exploration, revealing to Webb even more of the Count’s secrets.

Alchemy was more of a tradition, attempted mostly in Europe and Egypt. It was aimed toward the purification and perfection of certain objects, and the potential creation of new, powerful talismans. Some say a few down the ages came to understand alchemy at all its levels—Germain at least was one of those people, believed to be able to manipulate metal and form elixirs, and even a universal solvent in his day. Webb believed the clue in the Palace of Versailles would reveal some of those, but was quickly disappointed.

For there, carved in the wood beneath the mattress of the single bed was merely another cipher, this one leading no doubt to a third clue. Of course, Webb had half expected that. Surely the secrets of alchemy and their disclosure required a lab.

Nevertheless, disappointment cowed his soul as the cipher was revealed. He compared it to the scroll and then took a quick photo. This was a Baconian cipher, designed by Sir Francis Bacon, another mysterious, revered and enigmatic figure from before Germain’s time, but also a dabbler in the methodologies of science, disputing known facts.

It had been postulated that Germain and Bacon were the same person.

But Webb had no time for that now. Scuffles again sounded outside the room door and now a cry that sounded decidedly English in tone.
What on earth . . . ?

Unless . . .

Quickly, he tucked the scroll away, safeguarded the phone with the photo of the cipher on it and searched the room. Of course, there was an interconnecting door, this one surprisingly obvious for such an old chateau. Oh, how the French used to love their intrigues and secret passageways. Germain must have loved those times.

Hold nothing dear, for all fades away.

Webb ran those words through his head as he approached the door, understanding their deeper meaning and what they stood for where Germain was concerned. As he reached for the handle, the door at the other end of the room crashed open.