The Expected One (9 page)

Paris
June 19, 2005

T
HE
C
AVE OF THE
M
USKETEERS
was less ominous by day, lit as it was by an unforgiving fluorescent bulb. The occupants were dressed in their street clothes and without the strange red cords that identified them as the Guild of the Righteous tied around their necks.

A replica of Leonardo da Vinci’s portrait of John the Baptist hung on the rear wall, a mere block away from where the priceless original resided in the Louvre. In this renowned painting, John looks out from the canvas with a knowing smile on his face. His hand is raised, right index finger and thumb pointing toward heaven. Leonardo painted John in this pose, often referred to as the “Remember John” gesture, on several occasions. The meaning of that hand position had been debated for centuries.

The Englishman sat at the head of the table as usual, his back to the painting. An American and a Frenchman sat on either side of him.

“I just don’t understand what he is up to,” the Englishman snapped. He picked up a hardcover book from the table and shook it at the two men. “I’ve read it twice. There’s nothing new here, nothing at all that could be of interest to us. Or to him. So what is it? Do either of you have any thoughts on this at all? Or am I talking to myself?”

The Englishman tossed the book onto the table with obvious disdain. The American picked it up and thumbed through it absently.

The American stopped at the inside cover and looked at the photograph of the author. “She’s cute. Maybe that’s all it is.”

The Englishman scoffed.
Typical ridiculous Yank, missing the point.
He had always objected to American members in the Guild, but this idiot was from a wealthy family connected to their legacy and they were stuck with him.

“With Sinclair’s money and power, he has far more than ‘cute’ at his beck and call, twenty-four hours a day. His playboy exploits are legendary in Britain and the Continent. No, there is something other than a romp going on with this girl, and I expect the two of you to figure it out. Fast.”

“I’m almost certain he believes she’s the Shepherdess, but I’ll know soon enough,” asserted the Frenchman. “I’m traveling to the Languedoc this weekend.”

“This weekend is too late,” snapped the Englishman. “Leave no later than tomorrow. Today would be preferable. There is a time element here, as you well know.”

“She has red hair,” observed the American.

The Englishman growled. “Any tart with twenty euros and an inclination can have red hair. Get in there and find out why she matters. Fast. Because if Sinclair finds what he is looking for before we do…”

He didn’t finish his sentence; he didn’t have to. The others knew exactly what would happen then, knew what had happened the last time someone from the wrong side got too close. The American man was particularly squeamish, and the thought of the red-haired author without her head made him very uncomfortable.

The American picked up the copy of Maureen’s book from the table, tucked it under his arm, and followed his French companion out into the glaring Paris sunlight.

When his underlings were gone, the Englishman, who had been baptized with the name John Simon Cromwell, rose from the table and walked to the rear of the basement. Around the corner and out of view from the main room was a shallow alcove. Within the space was a heavy cabinet made of dark wood; a small altar sat to the right of the fixture. A single kneeler made room for one supplicant before the altar.

There were wrought-iron fixtures on the doors of the cabinet, and the lower compartment was protected by an oppressive-looking lock. The Englishman reached into his shirt to find the key he wore around his neck. Kneeling, he applied the key to the weighty lock and opened the lower cabinet.

He extracted two items. First, he took out a bottle of what appeared to be holy water, which he poured into a golden font that rested on the altar. Next, he removed a small but ornate reliquary.

Cromwell placed the reliquary gently on the altar and dipped his hands into the water. He rubbed the water into his neck with both palms and said an invocation as he did so. Then he held the reliquary at eye level. Through a tiny window in the otherwise solid gold box, a glint of what looked like ivory was visible. Long, narrow, and notched, the human bone rattled in its casket as the Englishman peered at it. He clutched the bone to his chest and said a fervent prayer.

“O great Teacher of Righteousness, know that I will not fail you. But we beseech that you help us. Help us who seek the truth. Help us who live only to serve your exalted name.

“Most of all, help us to keep the whore in her place.”

The American, alone now, walked down the rue de Rivoli and shouted over the noise of Paris traffic into his cell phone.

“We can’t wait any longer. He’s a complete renegade, totally out of control.”

The voice on the other end echoed his American accent — polished, northeastern, and equally angry.

“Stick to the plan. It accomplishes our goal in a methodical and complete way. And it was created by those far wiser than you,” clipped the elder voice across the miles.

“Those wiser than me aren’t here,” the younger man spat into the phone. “They don’t see what I see. Goddamit, Dad, when are you going to give me some credit?”

“When you earn it. In the meantime, I forbid you to do anything idiotic.”

The younger American flipped his cell phone shut abruptly, swearing as he did so. He had rounded the corner in front of the Hotel Regina, cutting through the place des Pyramides. Looking up, he stopped just in time to avoid a collision with the famous gilded statue of Joan of Arc, sculpted by the great Frémiet.

“Bitch,” he grumbled at the female savior of France, pausing just long enough to spit on her, and not caring who saw him do it.

Paris
June 20, 2005

I. M. P
EI’S GLASS PYRAMID
gleamed in the morning rays of the French summer sun. Maureen and Peter, both refreshed after a real night of sleep, waited in line with the other tourists to enter the Louvre.

Peter looked around at the patrons waiting in the long queue, clutching their guidebooks. “All this fuss over the
Mona Lisa.
I’ll never understand it. The most overrated painting on the planet.”

“Agreed. But while they trip over each other to view it, we’ll have the Richelieu wing all to ourselves.”

Maureen and Peter purchased their tickets and double-checked the Louvre floor plan. “Where are we going first?”

Maureen replied, “Nicolas Poussin. I want to see
The Shepherds of Arcadia
in person before we do anything else.”

They moved through the wing that contained the French masters, scanning the walls for the enigmatic Poussin masterpiece.

Maureen explained, “Tammy told me that this painting has been the center of controversy for several hundred years. Louis XIV fought to obtain it for two decades. When he finally got it, he locked it up in a basement in Versailles where no one else could see it. Strange, isn’t it? Why do you think the king of France would fight so hard to obtain an important piece of art and then hide it from the world?”

“It’s just another in a mounting series of mysteries.” Peter was checking numbers on the guide as he listened. “According to this, that painting should be right about…”

“Here!” Maureen exclaimed. Peter came up behind her and they both stared at the painting for a minute. Maureen broke the silence, turning to Peter.

“I feel so silly. Like I’m waiting for the painting to tell me something.” She turned back to the painting. “Are you trying to tell me something, Shepherdess?”

Peter was struck by a thought. “I can’t believe I didn’t think of this before.”

“Think of what?”

“The idea of a shepherdess. Jesus is the Good Shepherd. Maybe Poussin — or at least Sinclair — was indicating the Good
Shepherdess
?”

“Yes!” Maureen shouted, a little too loud in her excitement over the idea. “Maybe Poussin was showing us Mary Magdalene as the Shepherdess, the leader of the flock. The leader of her own church!”

Peter cringed. “Well, I didn’t exactly say that…”

“You didn’t have to. But look, there’s a Latin inscription on the tomb in this painting.”

“Et in Arcadia ego,” Peter read aloud. “Hmm. Doesn’t make sense.”

“How does it translate?”

“It doesn’t. It’s a grammatical mess.”

“Give me your best guess.”

“It’s either very bad Latin or it’s some kind of code. The literal translation is an incomplete phrase, roughly ‘And in Arcadia I…’It doesn’t really mean anything.”

Maureen attempted to listen, but a woman’s voice began calling out with urgency across the museum, distracting her.

“Sandro! Sandro!”

She looked around for the source of the voice before apologizing to Peter. “Sorry, but that woman is so distracting.”

The voice called out again, louder this time, annoying Maureen. “Who is that?”

Peter looked at her, puzzled. “Who is what?”

“That woman calling…”

“Sandro! Sandro!”

Maureen looked at Peter as the voice grew louder. He clearly didn’t hear it. She turned to watch the other tourists and students who were absorbed in the priceless artwork on the walls. No one else appeared to be aware of the urgent voice calling across the Louvre.

“Oh, God. You don’t hear it, do you? No one else hears it but me.”

Peter looked helpless. “Hear what?”

“There’s a woman’s voice calling across the museum. ‘Sandro! Sandro!’ Come on.”

Maureen grabbed Peter by the sleeve and hurried off in the direction of the voice.

“Where are we going?”

“We’re following that voice. It’s coming from this direction.”

They hurried through the museum corridors, Maureen apologizing over her shoulder as she bumped into various museum patrons. The voice had turned into an urgent whisper, but it was leading her somewhere, and she was determined to follow. They ran back through the Richelieu wing, ignoring the glare of an irritated museum guard, then down some steps and through another corridor, passing the signs that indicated the Denon wing.

“Sandro…Sandro…Sandro…!”

The voice stopped suddenly as Maureen and Peter came up the grand staircase to pass the iconic statue of the goddess Nike in all her winged victory. As they turned the corner to the right at the top of the stairs, they came face-to-face with two of the lesser-known masterpieces of the Italian Renaissance. Peter made the first observation.

“Botticelli frescoes.”

The realization struck them simultaneously. “
Sandro.
Alessandro Botticelli.”

Peter looked at the frescoes and then back at Maureen. “Wow, how did you do that?”

Maureen shivered. “I didn’t do anything. I just listened and followed.”

They turned their attention to the nearly life-size figures in the frescoes that stood side by side. Peter translated the plaques for Maureen. “This first fresco is called
Venus and the Three Graces presenting gifts to a young woman.
The second is called
A Young Man is presented by Venus? to the Liberal Arts.
Fresco painted for the wedding of Lorenzo Tornabuoni and Giovanna Albizzi.”