Labyrinth

CHAPTER 22

Toulouse

TUESDAY, 5 JULY 2005

At Blagnac airport in Toulouse, the security official paid more attention to Marie-Cecile de l’Oradore’s legs than the passports of the other passengers.

She turned heads as she walked across the expanse of austere gray and white tiles. Her symmetrical black curls, her tailored red jacket and skirt, her crisp white shirt. Everything marked her out as someone important, someone who did not expect to stand in line or be kept waiting.

Her usual driver was waiting at the arrivals gate, conspicuous in his dark suit among the crowd of relatives and holidaymakers in T-shirts and shorts. She smiled and inquired after his family as they walked to the car, although her mind was on other things. When she turned on her mobile, there was a message from Will, which she deleted.

As the car moved smoothly into the stream of traffic on the rocade that ringed Toulouse, Marie-Cecile allowed herself to relax. Last night’s ceremony had been exhilarating as never before. Armed with the knowledge that the cave had been found, she had felt transformed, fulfilled by the ritual and seduced by the power inherited from her grandfather. When she had lifted her hands and spoken the incantation she had felt pure energy flowing through her veins.

Even the business of silencing Tavernier, an initiate who’d proved unreliable, had been accomplished without difficulty. Provided no one else talked-and she was sure now they would not-there was nothing to worry about. Marie-Cecile hadn’t wasted time giving him the chance to defend himself. The transcripts provided of the interviews between him and a journalist were evidence enough, so far as she was concerned.

Even so. Marie-Cecile opened her eyes.

There were things about the business that concerned her. The way Tavernier’s indiscretion had come to light; the fact that the journalist’s notes were surprisingly concise and consistent; the fact that the journalist, herself, was missing.

Most of all she disliked the coincidence of the timing. There was no reason to connect the discovery of the cave at the Pic de Soularac with an execution already planned-and subsequently carried out-in Chartres, yet in her mind they had become linked.

The car slowed. She opened her eyes to see the driver had stopped to take a ticket for the autoroute. She tapped on the glass.“ Pour le peage,” she said, handing him a fifty-euro note rolled between manicured fingers. She wanted no paper trail.

Marie-Cecile had business to attend to in Avignonet, about thirty kilometers southeast of Toulouse. She’d go on to Carcassonne from there. Her meeting was scheduled for nine o’clock, although she intended to arrive earlier. How long she stayed in Carcassonne depended on the man she was going to meet.

She crossed her long legs and smiled. She was looking forward to seeing if he lived up to his reputation.