Rogue Command (The Kalahari Series) (14 page)

Richard dutifully followed the older woman in front of him. She was dressed in a traditional habit that comprised a
tunic
covered by a
scapular
and
cowl,
and although not a pin was out of place her clothes looked shiny, even threadbare in places. Presently, she turned into a long colonnade hewn from off-white limestone. The architecture was Gothic style with pointed arches and ribbed vaults. On the ground, interlocking honey-coloured flagstones were scuffed and even grooved in some areas where the concentrated passage of feet told of centuries of devotion. There were nooks and crannies that were wet and green with moss and mould. This caused Richard to reflect on his own home, built of plastic composites and advanced metal alloys, and where the only life to survive outside was invisible anaerobic bacteria. Overall, he felt a most uncommon heaviness of faith pressing down on his shoulders.

After walking twenty metres or so they stepped into a nave. This ecclesiastical building that had been badly eroded in some areas by the elements was much older. He was fond of architecture and Richard speculated a Romanesque origin, because of the thick walls, round arches and sturdy piers. A millennium of prayer seeped from cracks in the granite flags, the tones hovering above them. This was the heart of the place.

“This part of our establishment was built in 1120 by our Lady Teresa,” the woman said over her shoulder, and then she stopped abruptly, seemingly reconsidering her actions, before turning into the shadowy hallway on her right, where, at its end, another ageing oak door tried to bar the reality of running walls, decaying fabric and the icy atmosphere.

Lifting a latch – and with some effort – the woman pushed the door open. Inside was different: a small room that was simply furnished but warm, with wall-hung tapestries and framed pictures. Two large cast iron pipes suspended on stout brackets set low on the far wall passed through the room. This antiquated central heating system provided the only comfort readily apparent to Richard. There were only two chairs and the lady offered Richard the one close to the pipes. It was covered in a faded and tatty woollen throw, whilst she took up position behind a functional wooden desk of dark wood and with a top that shone with the rubbing of heavy sleeves and elbows.

“Please make yourself comfortable, Mr Reece. I have something to tell you.”

Richard unbuttoned his coat, pulled it tight across his back and sat down, while the lady opened one of the desk drawers with a key that hung on a chain around her neck. She rummaged inside for something. Richard sat in anticipation and dropped a hand onto the warm pipe. Eventually finding another key, the lady used it to unlock the drawer below and from there she withdrew a clear plastic bag about 150 millimetres square. Inside, there was a small plastic box about the size of a cigarette packet.

“My name is Antoinette Rousseau. I became
La Mère Supérieure
of this nunnery only nine months ago when our mother of long standing passed away. She told me that Madame Vallogia did speak of you while she was here. Sometimes, when she was in a reflective mood, she would speak fondly of you and other times, in her sleep, when she had no control over her words she . . .” The woman’s eyes narrowed. At least in her eighties, she looked squarely at Richard, gauged his intent and then sighed. “It seems she regarded you as more than a friend, I think. Some broken hearts never mend, I fear.” The woman spoke English well, although occasionally her strong accent subjugated clear pronunciation.

Richard leaned forward. “Reverend Mother, please,” he said in a concerned way. “What do you mean, when she
was
here?”

“Madame Vallogia left our care a little over two weeks ago. Quite unexpected . . . during our preparations for Christmas. She always loved this time of year. Really, quite unexpected, we were all . . .”

“What!” Richard’s shocked response brought the Mother Superior’s head up. “She’s gone . . . Why?”

“She had her reasons I am sure, Mr Reece, but would not say specifically. I questioned her myself – why leaving was so absolutely necessary. I wanted her to stay; we all did. Someone she knew was in peril – that was all she would say. They needed her.”

“Was there a call? A message?”

Reverend Mother nodded. “There was something, a telephone call, and then this visitor a few days before she left. We would not let him in of course; Madame Vallogia did not know him. But they had a conversation through the door, as we did, and he handed her a slip of paper with scribble on it. After that she was beside herself. She began packing immediately. A car arrived the next day and took her away.”

“What! No names? No forwarding address? She just left!”

“I have already told you,
monsieur
. She would not speak of the matter. I knew her well enough though, and someone’s life depended on her actions – that I could see.”

“Where did she go? Surely she said something? A dropped word . . . anything!”

The Mother Superior looked down at her lap and pondered for a moment. “Madame Vallogia swore me to secrecy. I should not say anything of this, but I fear for her safety and that of someone held very dear to her. I can see in your eyes you have feelings for her.”

“Yes . . . and!”

“She mentioned Cairo, and . . . and, her duties. How she could not continue without him!”

Richard half-stood and muttered something under his breath: a name; a possibility; a gut feeling. “And what of the Ark, Mam? Is that still here?”

“No, it is not. Madame Vallogia had us replace the artefact into its wooden casket. A vehicle came to collect it the day after Madame left. It was her instructions. We acted on her instructions.”

Richard sat back in the chair and drew a deep breath. “There is someone – a man,” he said thoughtfully, “someone very dear to her. They are bound together through some kind of unspoken understanding. And there is a mark, a sign of the clan if you like: an ancient order . . .”

“Is her life in danger . . . Mr Reece?”

Richard snapped out his reflective repose. “I don’t know. The honest answer is that I don’t know. Why should she be? It could be anything – a friend in need . . . a family problem . . . No, not a family problem – she has no immediate family. But why would she take the Ark – unless somebody else wanted to see it . . . ? Wanted to learn something from it?” His thoughts raced.
The Ark was built to house a crystal. I should see if there was any other information inscribed on it, written in the old language, post the renovation work. And the
Hera
incident? That tragedy was related to the crystals, even if those in the Ministry and the ISSF would not admit to it. And then the trespassers at mother’s cottage – the place was turned upside-down but nothing taken. Could these events be linked? Surely this indicates that there is something more to that burglary than just a petty criminal act?
He swallowed hard. “There is something I must do!” Richard said suddenly and he stood up.

“I see you have an impulsive streak,
monsieur
?” the Mother Superior said, frowning. She picked up the plastic bag from her desk.

“I need to go, Reverend Mother,” Richard answered curtly. There was a moment’s silence. Richard realised his rudeness. A smile threatened and warmed his expression and he gestured an apology. “Thank you so much for your time. I know that you have made an exception for me.”

The Mother Superior nodded politely and looked Richard in the eye. “The exception is made on behalf of Madame Vallogia, Mr Reece. You must find her and return her to us.” She held up the plastic bag and handed it to Richard. “I am not sure if you are meant to have this – Madame Vallogia said nothing of it. But it was forgotten; left in her study when the Ark was collected.”

Richard took what appeared to be a laboratory sample bag. It had a self-sealing strip across the top and, on the inside, with the small plastic box, was a piece of paper. “What is it?” Richard asked.

“It is the residue from inside the artefact. Dusted from the corners and the loose, flaking material brushed from the walls. Occasionally, I would help her with her restoration work. She was a perfectionist, a trained archaeologist you know . . . a wonderfully gifted woman.”

Richard nodded in agreement and placed the bag in his pocket. “Indeed she is,” Richard said softly. “Don’t worry Reverend Mother, I’ll find her.”

“Tell me
monsieur
. One thing, before you go, as Madame’s happiness is close to my heart. I do not know you, yet at the mention of her name I see something in your eyes.” She appeared unsettled for a moment. “Are you . . . ?” The Reverend Mother cut herself short and then shrugged. “Oh, what do I know of these things?” she added flippantly and turned away. “Now, follow me.”

Richard followed her to the vestibule.

The heavy door closed with a thud and Richard heard a number of bolts clunk into position on the other side. He walked briskly down the alleyway, then beneath the arch, before turning left towards the waiting car. He checked the time; surprisingly more than an hour had passed. The square was deserted and to Richard it felt frigid. A damp afternoon mist had begun to settle. His mind elsewhere, he walked around the vehicle and climbed into the front passenger seat. He looked across at Dubieu, who sat in a relaxed, slightly reclined position, his head back on the headrest. “Longer than a few minutes, then, Mr Dubieu. So much for your local history,” he said with a little sarcasm. “Back to Le Bourget as soon as possible, please. I’m going to bring the take-off forward.”

Richard unbuttoned his coat and reached inside to a zipped pocket containing his telephone and telephonic pager. There was no response from Dubieu. Richard looked across again. An impatient frown formed in his brow. “Really, we need to get going as soon as . . .”

It was the small circular hole in the windscreen that Richard noticed first. Tiny cracks radiated from it. Dubieu remained motionless. Richard leaned forwards in order to look at his face and as a result gulped a breath. There, in the middle of Dubieu’s forehead, was a neat red mark. From it dribbled a line of congealed blood. It had run down his nose, past the corner of his mouth and chin and fallen onto his shirt before the neat wound had dried.

The shock made Richard almost drop his pager and with a reflex action he regained it. An expression of horror crept over his face. The windscreen was made of clear glass but the side windows were tinted. He crouched forwards to align the wound with the perforation and to approximate the direction.
Obviously not a drive-by shooting,
he concluded.
Someone has stood deliberately in front of the car and, before Dubieu could react, just shot him!

At that moment there was a loud crack; splinters of glass exploded and then an accompanying thud from the door upholstery and a torn hole appeared just inches from Richard’s right arm. The shot was from the left side and another quickly followed. Instinctively, Richard ducked. Tiny shards of glass showered his face. He partly slithered into the foot well. Whoever was responsible was shooting blind and from an elevated position.
I have to get out; if not, I will be a sitting target. What can I do?
Someone wanted to finish the job! His mind raced. Without thought for the consequences he released the handbrake. Immediately the vehicle began to roll backwards. Richard grasped the steering wheel. He pushed himself up in the seat and strained to look back through the rear windscreen. The car picked up speed. He could see the fountain and the statue. Another shot followed and a second forced him back down into the foot well.

Richard needed to steer the vehicle if he was to escape. He reached across and switched on the ignition. A nearby plaque indicated
Hybrid Drive
. He pressed the adjacent button and heard the electric drive cut in and then he shuffled the dead man’s leg and dropped his foot onto the accelerator pedal, flooring it. The Citroen jerked, the wheels skidded and the electric drive whined. Almost simultaneously the vehicle bounced off something and it shuddered violently. Another thud accompanied by an off-target shredding of fabric in the left-hand door had Richard wincing. His eyes darted in all directions. This time the sublet was stopped by Dubieu’s body. It may have been an official car but it certainly was not armoured.

Richard pressed the button that controlled the electric window on his side and then reached up and wrenched the rear-view mirror from its mounting on the windscreen. Keeping low in his seat he held it outside and positioned it such a way as to see what was behind. Haphazardly and swerving from side to side he negotiated the square. The narrow street from which they had entered loomed into view; he could not hope to reverse down it and certainly not at that speed, but the opening, he could do a good job of blocking it! Instead, thoughts of being trapped inside the car occupied his attention. He had seconds to react.

Miraculously, Richard remained on course. By now he had mind of the sniper’s position as shots were peppering the front windscreen. Finally, the panel gave out and shattered glass rained down on him. The reflection of the street swept in and out of view as an unsteady hand and blurring vibration frustrated his attempts to hold the car steady. He held the mirror as best he could in one hand and steered with the other, aiming for the mouth of the road. As he moved, fragments of glass fell from his hair and clothing; he blinked a shard clear from the corner of his eye. He heard the whistle of sublets just inches above his head and the simultaneous thuds from behind as the back seat absorbed the deadly projectiles. He steered and manoeuvred in desperation. He had some skill, as it was similar to backing a hover jet into a hardened bunker – an operation that he had performed many times during his fighter pilot days.

Now!
Richard thought, and seconds before he rammed the vehicle into the opening he squirmed in his seat, got his feet up and kicked open the door. Then he curled into a ball and covered his head with his arms as a deafening crash followed and the door was ripped from its hinges by the corner of a building. Twisting metal and the noise of shattering glass surrounded him. The vehicle’s motion stopped in an instant but not the electric drive – that still whined loudly. Sporadically, the front wheels screeched and skidded on the wet cobbles and the car shuddered.