The Medusa Amulet

Chapter 26

That’s the second time I’ve seen that old taxi, Julius thought, as he waited on the train platform. And even here, he noted a couple of suspicious-looking travelers, one of them carrying a too-prosaic sack of groceries, the baguette sticking up out of the bag. Julius waited for the train to whoosh to a stop, got on board, then, just as the doors were closing, ducked out again. But no one else got out with him.

He had just taken a huge chance, back at the cafe. If word of his betrayal ever got back to Escher, or God forbid Emil Rigaud, he’d vanish as thoroughly as the Turks had. You didn’t erase Rigaud’s emissaries without, eventually, being called to account.

But damn them all, he thought, as he paced the platform. God damn the whole organization. He had been systematically sucked in, his career destroyed, his reputation shot. And all in the service of what? He was damned if he could even remember how Rigaud and Linz had ever sold him such a lunatic bill of goods. Blood-purification rituals, a mysterious essence called vril, endless cell rejuvenation. Not to mention the promise of untold riches and universal acclaim as the doctor behind it all. Lunacy, pure lunacy. And all he could muster, in defense of his own actions, was that he hadn’t been himself back then. He had been writing himself far too many prescriptions, for a host of potent drugs. But still… what had he come to? A man of his gifts, reduced to traipsing after a couple of supremely naive academics as they strolled, oblivious, through a veritable minefield. What a waste.

A train rumbled in on the opposite track, but after it left, the platform was empty. Julius looked around, but on his side the only other people waiting were a couple of Muslim women, their scarves tied tightly around their hair. Europe was changing, he thought. Perhaps he should consider emigrating. On the wall, there was a travel poster for New Zealand. Would that be far enough away to escape his past?

When the next train came, he got on, glad of the warmth, but still keeping a wary eye out. Ever since Escher had shown up on his doorstep, he’d had to keep looking over his shoulder. But after all the killing, brutality, and deception he’d seen over the past week, he’d finally done something to expiate the guilt. He had entered something on the other side of the ledger. He just wasn’t sure if he’d gotten through to them. The girl had a combative streak, he could see that, and the man-David Franco-looked, despite his spectacles and scholarly demeanor, like a man on a mission. A mission, Julius thought, that could still wind up costing him his life if he didn’t take the warning to heart.

At his stop, he got out quickly, scurried up the stairs, and out onto a seedy street in the Pigalle section of the city. Escher had checked them into a hotel where he was clearly a regular customer-the ancient lady at the concierge desk had given him a toothless smile while sliding a room key across the counter.

“Your usual, monsieur.”

Escher had thanked her and slipped her some money.

Their room, on the top floor and facing the front, was furnished with double beds, threadbare carpeting, and a view of an alleyway. But as he approached, Julius saw that the lights in the room were on, which meant Escher had returned from his visit to the Crillon and would be awaiting word on what David and Olivia had been up to. Julius had not wanted to go too close to the town house-he could see a camera above its door-but he had texted Escher the location and address.

He plodded up the creaking staircase, already editing in his mind what he was going to say, and looking forward to a pot of hot tea, when he opened the door and saw Emil Rigaud standing between the beds, slipping a cell phone back into his pocket.

“We’ve been waiting,” Rigaud said, and it was then that Julius took note of the young man with a scar across his neck-it looked as if someone had once tried to cut his throat-lurking just behind the open door. The man shoved the door closed with his foot, then stood in front of it like a sentry. Another man, in a white shirt and red tie, emerged from the bathroom, drying his hands on a towel. Julius could hear the water running in the tub.

“Monsieur Rigaud, what an unexpected pleasure,” Julius fairly stammered.

“It is?”

“Of course, of course,” Julius said, his heart hammering in his chest. Rigaud was seldom the bearer of glad tidings. “But what are you doing here?” Gesturing around the shabby room, he tried to make a joke. “As you can see, I am traveling budget class.”

Rigaud didn’t crack a smile. “I’ll tell you why I’m here,” he said, though Julius was still focused on that water running in the tub. “I came up to Paris to see why you and your friend have been making such a hash of things.”

Rigaud was nearly fifty, but in admirable shape-taut, lean, wearing one of his hand-tailored suits. Only his hair-dyed a too-bright blond-struck a discordant note.

“I don’t know what you mean,” Julius said, his mouth going dry and his pulse pounding. He had a momentary thought of trying to bolt past the guard at the door, or even of getting out the window and onto the fire escape.

“Sit down,” Rigaud said, slinging a wooden chair in front of the clanking radiator.

“If I may just take off my coat first?” Julius said, his mind racing, as he placed it and his hat on the end of one bed.

The tub was still filling.

Julius took the seat, the man at the door moving to stand just behind his chair.

“First there’s that little mix-up in Florence, with Ahmet and his friends.”

“What mix-up?”

“Please,” Rigaud said. “This will go so much more smoothly if you just answer my questions.”

“You mean, when he came by to make a pickup? The last time I saw him, he was-”

The back of Rigaud’s hand slapped him so hard in the mouth that Julius heard a tooth crack on his ring.

“Understand that I am reconciled to his loss,” Rigaud said, turning away and shaking his fingers.

Julius did not imagine that the loss had been very painful for him.

“All he had to do,” Rigaud continued, “was persuade that Swiss errand boy to go back to the States and get out of our way. Schillinger should know better by now than to meddle above his pay grade.”

Julius suspected that Schillinger had a hard lesson coming, too, if he hadn’t already received it. But what difference did it make? Julius had far more pressing concerns than that.

“It appears that Ahmet got distracted. Is that what happened?”

Julius was torn between coming clean and sticking with the lie he’d already begun.

“Drugs can do that to a person, wouldn’t you say?”

Julius knew that he wasn’t really expected to answer that-and he knew now that the general outline of the incident was fairly well-known to Rigaud. He’d missed his chance to take the high ground and confess.

“But now that Ahmet and his friends have disappeared,” Rigaud said, “it’s like somebody’s poked a stick in the hornet’s nest.” Waving his hands at his two helpers, he added, “You know how our Turkish associates like to stick together.”

Julius dug his handkerchief out of his pocket and held it to his lips. To his shame, he felt a trickle of warm urine running down his leg.

“And then there was that embarrassment on the night train. How could you two have bumbled such a simple task so badly?”

Julius debated keeping silent, or speaking, and when Rigaud didn’t add anything, said, “I did speak to them, in the dining car. As I’m sure you know.” At this point, he was just trying to feel his way along, admitting to nothing that might get him killed but supplying whatever information seemed safe. “And I do believe I got a good idea of who they are.”

“Yes? And who are they, exactly?”

The radiator clanked like a string of tin cans being thrown down a chute.

“A couple of idiots. Babes in the woods. They know nothing. The girl-Olivia-will be back leading tour groups, and Franco will be back at his library desk by this same time next week. I’m sure of it.” Then, dabbing at his lip, Julius told him about following them to the Louvre, throwing in as many details as he could think of, whether they were relevant or not, in a vain attempt to seem utterly transparent. He mentioned how long they had stayed there, the precise time they left-“That’s when Ernst went back to the Crillon, to see what he could find in their room”-their subsequent visit to the Natural History Museum, and their excursion at dusk to the town house in the Sixteenth Arrondissement.

“They were turned away at the door,” he said, “and went off to a nearby cafe.”

“What was it called?” Rigaud asked.

“The cafe?”

Rigaud waited, and Julius knew that he had come to the moment of truth-how much more could he divulge? And had he-despite his best efforts-been under surveillance when he went across the street to join them?

“I don’t remember the name.”

The man in the necktie went into the bathroom and turned off the faucet.

“And then what did you do?” Rigaud asked in a measured tone.

What could he say? If he went so far as to admit that he had joined them, he would have to come up with some plausible reason for having done so. But given his role in drugging their drinks on the train-a ruse that Rigaud would assume even these babes in the woods would have been bright enough to figure out by now-how could he say it had been an attempt to ferret out any more information? Even David and Olivia couldn’t be presented as that dumb. His mind was racing, but getting him nowhere.

“Well?”

On the other hand, if he suggested he was trying to feel them out-perhaps for a bribe of some kind?-he would have to explain that the offer was of course extended as a sham. The seconds were ticking away, and with each one Julius knew that he was looking more suspicious.

“What did I do then?” Julius finally said, pretending as a last resort to be taken aback by the very question. “I left them there, eating I don’t know what-should I have gone inside to see what they’d ordered?-and I came back here.” He wiped his bloody lip again in a show of false bravado. “To this reception.”

“Really?” Rigaud said. “So you haven’t had your dinner yet?”

“No,” Julius said, confused. “Not yet.”

“No chance to drop into some little cafe or restaurant?” he said, his eyes still riveted on Julius, whose wet pants were sticking to his leg.

“It’s all right,” Julius said, “I’m not hungry. Just exhausted.”

Rigaud, as if deliberating, ran a hand carefully over his blond hair-Julius saw blood glittering on the ring that had cracked his tooth-then nodded to the young man behind the chair. A gag suddenly dropped over Julius’s head and cut into his mouth, stifling his scream, as the Turk in the necktie went into the bathroom to turn the taps back on.

Leaving Hamid behind to mop up and deal with Escher, Rigaud ordered Ali to drive him back to the Crillon. Although his quarry was staying there, too, that wasn’t the real reason he had checked in. The Crillon, to his mind, was simply the finest hotel in Paris. The Gestapo had thought so highly of it, in fact, that they had made it their French headquarters during the Second World War, and what better recommendation could you get than that?

Rigaud sat in the backseat of the Land Rover, looking out at the busy streets of the city, and thinking about what he’d tell Linz, and that impossible-to-please wife of his, when he got back to the Chateau Perdu. On the bright side, he could tell them that he had eliminated any further problems from Julius Jantzen, and, shortly, Ernst Escher. They had both gone off the rails and proved to be more trouble than they were worth. He made a mental note to call Joseph Schillinger in Chicago and give him some cock-and-bull story about what had happened to his faithful hound, Escher. He’d undoubtedly see right through it, but wasn’t that half the point? To scare him back into his usual compliance? And even if he wanted to protest, who would he do it to? Auguste Linz? Christ, the man was too scared even to say his name.

“Can I tell my cousins now?” Ali asked from the driver’s seat.

“Tell them what?”

Ali turned his face so that the scar on his throat was especially prominent. “That it’s done? That Ahmet and the others have been avenged?”

“Oh, yes, go right ahead,” Rigaud said. He’d forgotten for a moment that one of the reasons for this little expedition was to quell the rebellion among the worker bees. All things considered, the Turks were a useful crew, content to ask no questions and, when paid on time, willing to do anything required. It was Linz who had first suggested enlisting them. “They’re one step up from dogs,” he had observed, “and they can be trained the same way.” Rigaud might have differed in his assessment-he thought they were at least two steps up from dogs-but he never forgot that they were punctilious about their honor and their vendettas.

As for the librarian and his tour guide, there he was less certain of his estimation. So far, they seemed like a couple of industrious drones, who had managed, by some miracle, to hang on to their bundle of papers and whatnot. But were they a threat? Did they pose any real danger to Auguste Linz and his secrets?

Not for one second did Rigaud think that.

Nor did he think that their efforts would wind up revealing anything worthwhile to add to Linz’s inventory.

That Palliser fellow, for instance, the one who’d once worked for the International Art Recovery League, he had been more of a problem. There was a mercenary streak in him that made his actions more unpredictable. That was why Rigaud had decided to nip that one in the bud. Palliser, like a couple of the other investigators before him, had been a pro… and as soon as he had shown signs of getting close to the center of the web, Rigaud, on instructions from Linz, had plucked him up, flown him by helicopter to the chateau. After a bit of casual interrogation, they had dropped him down the ever-reliable oubliette. It was all like a game of chess, and if removing Palliser was like taking the queen, dispensing with David and Olivia would be like eliminating a couple of pawns. They were less trouble alive than dead.

At the hotel, Rigaud and Ali surveyed the lobby, just on the off chance that the two young sleuths were there, then went up to their own suite. As Ali called room service, Rigaud, getting undressed, called out to him to order his usual-a Campari and soda, with a twist of lemon. Then he stepped into the shower and turned the hot water on full blast.

He let his head hang down under the spray, his ropy, well-muscled arms leaning on the wall, and thinking, not for the first time, what an empty game it all was. Linz already had what he wanted; his position was unassailable. But he always kept his guard up, always kept his network of spies and loyalists, experts and assassins, working for him. He lived for intrigue-what else was there?-and the possibility, however remote, that someone, somewhere, might stumble upon some dark secret or device that he had so far overlooked. Sometimes, Rigaud suspected that he did it just to keep his mind alive and his spirits engaged.

Linz could no more exist without an adversary than night could exist without day.

There was a cool draft as the bathroom door opened and closed, and a moment later, the door to the shower stall opened. Ali held out a glass of Campari, with a lemon twist clinging to the rim, and then, naked, stepped into the stall to join him.