The Delphi Agenda (27 page)

What wasn’t clear was how long this cozy situation could last. He would have to confront Lacatuchi soon or it would be obvious he wasn’t as dedicated to the cause as the Prior General believed.

In fact, he wasn’t entirely sure what that cause was. They had kidnapped and probably killed the banker known as Rossignol. Now they wanted the girl, just as Hugo did, probably not for the same reason. What did she know or have that these people would go to such lengths to get? It had to be valuable.

To Hugo she was a murder suspect. The Americans wanted to interrogate her. Everyone wanted whatever she had. He would have to choose which party he would sell the information to first.

All this only increased her value. There could be great profit for a lowly policeman. He raised the binoculars and watched the monk and the nun leave the room.

Lacatuchi again stood at the window looking directly at him. For a brief moment Dupond thought he must have seen him, but there was no recognition on the bland, puffy face, only a scowl, as if he hated the very water flowing between them.

The Prior General returned to his desk and picked up the phone. A moment later Dupond’s portable vibrated in his jacket pocket. He let the binoculars dangle while he fumbled for it. He raised them again and answered.

It was odd watching Lacatuchi talk in close-up and hearing him speak in his ear at the same time. The Rumanian was saying, “You have a new mission.”

“Yes?”

“Say, where are you?” Lacatuchi asked, looking out the window, again directly at him. “It sounds like you’re outside.”

“I am outside.”

“I don’t hear any traffic. Are you in the country.”

“Of course. I’m taking a walk. Sometimes I need a break. It’s not easy doing two jobs at once.”

This ready response threw Lacatuchi off guard. “Ah.” For a moment he seemed about to say something else, but thought better of it. “Defago and Sister Teresa,” he continued. “I want to know what they’re up to.”

“You want me to spy on them?”

“Get close to them. Let me know what they’re doing.”

“Am I looking for anything in particular?”

So the tension between Lacatuchi and the others was increasing. Interesting.

“Not anything – everything,” Lacatuchi said. “Where they go, who they see, what they do. They’re becoming… unreliable.”

“What makes you think that?” Even from here Dupond could see how tensely the man gripped on the receiver and absently stroked the bony bend in the bridge of his nose.

“I have my reasons. Follow them, call me any time if they do anything out of the ordinary.”

“I hardly know what ordinary would be.”

“Never mind. Just report everything.”

Five minutes later his cell phone rang. “What about my suspects?” Hugo demanded.

“I thought the case was closed. The Ministry…”

“My suspects!” Hugo’s voice was hard; the Ministry was not going to stop his investigation and he no longer cared who knew it.

Dupond looked around, as if Lisa Emmer and Steve Viginaire might be lurking nearby, but everything was quiet. He could see one or two of the few remaining inhabitants at the far side of the flax fields. No traffic disturbed the access road to the abbey. Lacatuchi had turned off the lights and left the office. The buildings looked as deserted as this village.

He wasn’t going to tell Hugo he didn’t know. “I’ll get them,” he said. “I know where they are, but I’ll need a couple of days.”

Hugo answered promptly, “You have until tomorrow afternoon, Dupond. My office, four o’clock sharp.”

Was it a threat, an order, or a request? Hugo seemed to borrow his dialog from the cinema. Merde, he though, he would have to give Hugo something just to keep him off his back. It occurred to him that the Americans had let slip Rossignol’s true name. That should keep him off my back for a while, he thought.

“Excellent, Dupond,” Hugo replied with evident satisfaction. “That should help with the Quai d’Orsay.”

Dupond smiled his relief the captain hadn’t asked how he learned it. He had no easy answer.

Time passed. He was finishing his sandwich when the van drove away from the abbey, leaving a plume of dust settling slowly in its wake.

Although he was on the other side of the river he wasn’t worried. There would be no more trains and buses for him. Despite Lacatuchi’s insistence he use public transportation “for security reasons,” today he had used his nondescript Peugeot parked next to the old tractor. It was streaked with rust but he kept it in excellent condition. He drove along the road by the river with one eye on the van on the opposite bank. He could intercept them at the bridge a few kilometers upstream.

He imagined the stolid driver at the wheel of the van carefully maintaining forty kilometers per hour. In the back would be the nun with her nervous rosary and Defago wearing his dour expression.

Though they were responsible for a number of deaths, Hugo had seemed more interested in catching the Emmer woman. Guardian of the Peace Dupond had to wonder why. It was almost as if Hugo really had dropped the investigation of the murders. Was he really so convinced the woman was responsible, despite all the evidence to the contrary?

All right, he thought, Quai d’Orsay and the Americans both wanted the Emmer woman. Good. An opportunity like this seldom came along. Despite the menace of the nun and her keeper, Dupond would seize it. If it was something physical and he could get his hands on it, he could sell it to the highest bidder. If it was information, he might extract something from all three clients.

He regretted losing the Emmer woman Saturday at the Bastille but traffic had been bad and there had been others pursuing her. She had disappeared in the confusion.

He hoped he could find her before tomorrow morning, but it didn’t seem likely unless the monk and nun did it for him. He would have her tomorrow for Hugo, or he wouldn’t. He had to report to Lacatuchi, and he would have to give the Americans something, too. Well, he’d just have to improvise.

The van stopped and the driver walked to the river’s edge.

Dupond continued on to the bridge. The van, now out of sight behind him, would catch up. There was no other road.

Once he had crossed the river he backed among some trees to wait. A few minutes later his patience was rewarded. The van swept by and he eased onto the road behind it.

It was easy to follow. By mid-afternoon they had passed through desolate outskirts and deep into the heart of Paris, stopping on a side street near the Place de la Bastille. His quarry went into a bland nineteenth century apartment building. Dupond parked two cars behind the van and checked the address on his police computer: the owner was the Dominican Order.

He called Lacatuchi, who told him to keep watching. “I’ve been on duty since early this morning,” he complained.

“Five hundred euros extra,” Lacatuchi snapped, terminating the call.

With a grin Dupond tilted his seat back, pulled his hat over his eyes and made himself comfortable. It could be another long wait.

By 16:35 local time Lisa, Steve and their guide were looking up at the Camondo Stairs.

Twin flights of white concrete steps bracketing a planter descended to a single flight of four steps, which in turn led to another semicircular flights cupped around another, taller planter. Four more steps led down to a third pair of staircases ending at the narrow street on which they stood. People flowed up and down the street, the stairs, and the street above. Cars honked, boys carried hanging trays with glasses of tea or small cups of Turkish coffee. A line of hardware shops stretched off to their right.

It was Monday and thirty-four degrees centigrade in Istanbul, with scattered clouds and a light breeze out of the southwest off the Sea of Marmara. The Citation had landed at Sabiha Gökcen Airport on the Asian side. Despite the fearsome traffic Ilkay, the slim, elegantly dressed guide Alan had arranged for them, made record time bringing them over, sweeping across the Bosphorus and down to the old European town of Pera just north of the Galata Bridge over the Golden Horn. Now he stood to one side with an amused expression, as if anticipating something pleasant. The breeze ruffled his thin, graying hair and he smoothed it down.

“Not that impressive,” Steve observed. “A one block flight of concrete stairs. They just build moulds and pour. Not even carved.”

“But they’re charming, Steve. Lovely curves, balanced, harmonious, serene, don’t you think?”

“Right.” His expression was sour. “Now what?”

“I don’t know.” Lisa looked at Ilkay, thinking he must be hot and uncomfortable in his dark business suit, starched white shirt and red tie, but he met her gaze openly with raised eyebrows and clicked his tongue. He must be used to it. “All right, let’s take a look.” She started up the right-hand flight, examining the treads and risers and sliding her hand along the balustrade. She stopped to read the plaque on the middle planter. In Turkish and English it informed her the stairs had been built between 1870 and 1880.

At the top was a street called Kartçinar Sokak and the Sankt Georg Austrian School. Otherwise the area seemed to be mostly residential.

When they had descended the other side and crossed the street she murmured, “It
is
lovely.”

“Yes,” Steve agreed. “But we’ve come a long way and we’re not getting anywhere.”

“Not true, sir! We’ve climbed to the top and come down again.”

He had to laugh. “Full circle.”

“What do you see when you look at them?”

Steve tilted his head and squinted. “I don’t know. A child’s drawing of a dog, perhaps. Or a four-legged spider.”

“How about a spiral?”

“That too.”

“A caduceus — two snakes twined around a baton?”

“OK, maybe, but that’s a symbol for medicine. What would it have to do with the Camondos, or the Pythos?”

“The caduceus was also the symbol for Hermes, messenger of the gods. It was his job to lead the dead and protect thieves and merchants.”

“Very good, then, Greek mythology might be appropriate. But the Camondo were bankers. Don’t you think it might be a bit insulting to say they were thieves? Merchants, perhaps, but even that seems a stretch.”

“Sensitive about bankers, are we? And still dubious.” She started up the left stair again and stopped so suddenly Steve bumped her. “A helix!”

“Excuse me?”

“A
double
helix. Oh, it’s obvious once you see it.” She looked back with a smile and started up again.

He followed, shaking his head.

“Don’t you see?” she continued, leaning over the balustrade to examine the outside edges. “This stairway was built a century before the discovery of DNA.”

“You’re daft.”

“If the Camondos were connected with a Pythos, this would be announcing the most important discovery of the twentieth century. Or a way of stressing the importance of genetic heritage.” She paused on the four steps in the middle and, balancing on her stomach over the banister rail, she examined the outside of first one side, then the other. “I wonder,” she murmured.

“Daft,” he repeated, leaning over beside her. “What are we looking for?”

“Probably this.” She rubbed her fingertip over one of the aggregate pebbles in the outside edge of the capstone.

He breathed, “I’ll be damned.”

“Very likely, M. Viginaire.”

He was dubious. “You’re saying the Camondos had this symbol carved on one of the pebbles? That’s insane.”

“Delta enclosing a Phi: Delphi.” She was irritatingly smug.

He straightened. “It’s not possible. First of all, it’s so small you can barely see it. Second, why is it still there? The plaque says the stairs have been repaired.”

“Ask
him
why it’s still there,” Lisa suggested.

Ilkay’s smile had grown even wider. “It has been our responsibility to assure it was always there. Those instructions have been standing for over a hundred years.”

Steve frowned. “OK, OK, but in the end this doesn’t bring us any closer to the disk.”

“Of course it does,” she said. “The Camondos were keepers of the disk.”

“Fine. So where is it?”

Her smile was strange. “In a bank. Right, Ilkay?”

“A bank is most correct.” The Turk swept his hand along the row of buildings across the street below them, all banks. “This is the street of banks. In one of the banks I work.”

Lisa grinned at Steve. “You see? And what do they have in banks, M. Viginaire?”

“Besides money? Vaults.” Steve made an effort to look angry but couldn’t help laughing. She was right.

“You work for M. Alain?” she asked the guide.

The Turk nodded.

“And?”

“You are to discover the number, Mademoiselle Emmer. If you find the sign and the number, I am to take you to the bank.”

“The account number, I suppose.” She looked around wildly, calmed herself and took a deep breath. “All right, then, let’s find it.”

Cars honked, jockeying for position. Some came dangerously close, passing one another on the narrow street. Conversations started up, moved away. Several men paused to shout into their cell phones.

Suddenly she grinned and crossed the street to the stairs, ignoring the cars. Steve and Ilkay followed.

She made a rapid circuit of the staircase. When she had returned to the bottom she said, speaking to herself, “Ten up, then four, fifteen, ten, same coming down, with one extra riser on the right side for the slope of the street.” She smiled brightly.

Steve looked his question: so?

"The account number is 20-4-30-4-21,” she said.

Ilkay’s smile broke wide open. “Very good, Miss Emmer. Now, if you don’t mind, time is getting short. The bank closes at five.”

Steve shook his head. “How did you do that?”

“Add the number of steps for each flight, starting at the top, descending to the street of banks.”

“How do you know it’s right?”

She shrugged. “Everything points to it.”

She looked at Ilkay, who bowed graciously and said, “Shall we go?” He gestured for them to accompany him to the bank less than fifty meters down the sloping street.

A painted green and white sign worn nearly illegible by rain and sun identified it as Revabank. It was a narrow, three story brick structure dating from the early nineteenth century. Its modesty made it easy to overlook, dominated as it was by its taller and more impressive neighbors, one a bank with a newly renovated marble façade, the other an even more imposing national financial institution.