Chapter 27
Suspicious and worried, Sharyn waved everyone back from the parked van, but there was nowhere to retreat. They were fully exposed on the beach. Even the trawler’s crewman had not wasted any time. He had shoved off and was headed away with the dinghy, abandoning them to their fate.
Finally, the door to the van popped open. The interior lamps silhouetted a tall shadowy figure as he exited, dressed in an ankle-length coat. He appeared to be alone. Still, she prayed it was not another ambush.
“I’m Malick Laurent!” the man called over, keeping his distance, likely noting Duncan’s raised weapon. “I see you’ve reached our shores safely.”
Recognizing the man’s voice, Sharyn swallowed hard and responded. “I don’t know if I’d use the word safely, Monsieur Laurent.”
If that’s who you are.
After all of this, she refused to take anything at face value.
“Fear not, let us get you all aboard and put more distance between you and any further threat.”
Duncan turned to her, slightly lowering his weapon. “What do you think?”
She weighed the risk and came to a decision. “We’ve trusted him this far. We might as well finish the journey.” She waved to the others. “Let’s go.”
As they crossed toward the vehicle, Sharyn studied Laurent.
From his accent, from his sense of authority over the phone, she had expected an older gentleman, picturing some pale French aristocrat.
But Laurent was Black, possibly West African, with stubbled hair so dense that it appeared like a dark skullcap.
His physique was muscled, and his complexion hard, roughened by a scar at his chin and one brow.
Still, he looked to be no older than his mid-thirties.
Naomi also eyed him as they approached and whispered, “Who knew Idris Elba had a son?”
“Be on your guard,” Duncan warned them.
Laurent slid open a large hatch on the side of the vehicle. It was a black Mercedes Sprinter van, some executive model with darkly tinted windows. Inside, leather seats welcomed them, as did a well-stocked bar to one side, glittering with bottles on ice.
“At least the bloke brought us a party bus,” Archie commented, wincing as he climbed aboard, holding the elbow of his wounded arm. He crossed over, grabbed a bottle of scotch, cradled it to his chest, and dropped heavily into a rear seat.
Tag took a spot opposite him. “Hope you’re planning on sharing that.”
“No promises, mate. I need it for medicinal purposes.”
Naomi surveyed the bar, then passed Sharyn a bottle of Perrier before joining her near the front. Duncan tucked away his Glock and took the passenger seat next to Laurent.
The Frenchman climbed behind the wheel, started the engine, and called back to them. “Settle in. We still have a two-hour drive ahead of us.”
“To where?” Sharyn pressed him.
“To Meaux, a small village forty kilometers outside of Paris.”
“And we’ll be safe there?” Duncan asked.
Laurent sighed. “As well as can be managed,” he answered, offering no real reassurance.
Despite this lack of guarantee, Sharyn appreciated his candor.
Laurent bumped the large van out of the beach parking lot and headed down a dark country road.
Once underway, the Frenchman continued, “I understand your worry. We plainly have a mole in the Gardiens. Someone who has been leaking intelligence to the Confrérie. I fear—in making arrangements to rendezvous at the Tower of London, along with acquiring new papers for you all—word must have reached the wrong ears.”
“Does your group have any idea who this traitor might be?” Sharyn asked.
“Not as of yet.”
As his gaze flicked to the rearview mirror, she noted the slight narrowing of his eyes.
He must be wondering if one of them could be complicit.
While Sharyn refused to believe this, she could not help but consider it.
Their small group had separated multiple times during their escape to London.
One of them could have secured another burner or borrowed a stranger’s cell to alert the enemy of their destination.
Still, she pushed down such doubts before they unnerved her. Instead, she raised a worry that had troubled her all the way to this shore. “Have you heard anything about Sir Kelly or his daughter?”
“Ah, oui. Of course. I should have told you at the outset. Moira Kelly is being cared for at the hospital and faring well—though worried. Last I heard, her father was in surgery. He suffered sorely but still lived, managing to take out all but one combatant, who was killed when the Warders, alerted by Moira, went to his aid.”
Sharyn sank deeper in her seat, relieved to the point of tears.
Thank god . . .
She could not bear any more deaths on her shoulders.
“Moira informed the authorities of the attack,” Laurent continued, “while denying any knowledge of five students who were being sought by the police.”
“Still, the Brotherhood will not stop hunting us,” Duncan said.
“No. Not as long as you carry the book.”
“What about now?” Naomi shifted forward. “How many know we’re headed to Meaux?”
“Only those inside this vehicle. Even the trawler who carried you here, I arranged personally, using my former contacts with military intelligence.”
Duncan frowned. “Military intelligence? Did you once serve?”
“Oui. With the First Marine Infantry Parachute Regiment.”
From Duncan’s raised brows, Sharyn assumed it must be a significant battalion. He turned to her and explained. “They’re the French equivalent of the SAS.”
“But I took leave of them four years ago,” Laurent said. “After finishing my graduate work.”
Sharyn eyed the man, framing him in this new light. “Graduate work? In what field?”
“Archaeology.”
Naomi sat straighter, clearly intrigued, as this was her field, too. “Why archaeology?”
“A passion, of course. Generational. Following in the footsteps of my father and grandfather. The latter served with the Free French Brigade in Libya, while also being a part of the Gardiens. He had been involved with the search for the cache of King Solomon’s gold, only to lose it to betrayal.”
“And you’ve picked up that torch,” Sharyn said. “Continuing with the Gardiens.”
“How could I not? I’ve been working with a team to decipher the Second Adage, to discern where its treasure is hidden.”
Sharyn wondered if the man’s desire to achieve this goal was driven by an effort—consciously or not—to redeem his grandfather’s failure, to right that wrong.
Archie called from the back, where he had been silently nursing his bottle. Still, he raised an issue that Sharyn had never considered. “Mate! If you’ve been working on that puzzle, it means your group’s already made a copy of the book.”
“True, Monsieur Bailey. The entire volume has been digitized and locked behind firewalls and doubly encrypted using AES-256 and a quantum key.”
Duncan looked at Archie, then to Laurent. “Wait. If you’ve preserved its content, why is the physical book so important?”
Sharyn’s face heated up. “That’s right. Why haven’t you already destroyed it? Then there would be no need to hide it or risk the lives of its Keepers. It would also assure that the Confrérie never got their hands on its contents.”
Laurent answered, while concentrating on the curves of the dark road. “For three reasons. First, one does not destroy such a rare artifact out of hand. As a librarian, you must recognize the necessity of preserving historical treasures, especially one this unique.”
Sharyn found it hard to argue against this. She pictured the fiery destruction of the Old Library at Exeter and remembered the pain of that irreplaceable loss.
“Second, back during World War II, the physical book acted as a key to unlock access to the treasure in Africa. So, we must assume it will be needed for the others.”
Sharyn grimaced, appreciating now why protecting it had been so important, but Laurent was not done.
“Third and most important, Saint-Germain was adamant about preserving his book. And the Gardiens swore to do so. Still, regardless of that pledge, many believe there are yet secrets hidden in Saint-Germain’s book, mysteries beyond what is inscribed on its pages or its use as a physical key.
If the volume was destroyed, we do not know what might be lost forever. ”
“So better to be cautious,” Naomi said.
“A wisdom we’d best heed from here,” Laurent warned. “Which is why no one knows where I’m taking you.”
Sharyn furrowed her brow, finding little comfort in those last words. She stared out at the passing countryside, at the rolling orchards and windswept fields, tilled over and dark.
Where the hell is he taking us?