The Medusa Amulet

Chapter 35

It had been many years since Ernst Escher had tried to cram himself into such a tiny car, but the beige Peugeot was all that the rental agency had left-and besides, it was a good car for surveillance purposes. Easy to park, and utterly inconspicuous. And Escher was pretty much living in it now.

After leaving the hotel the night before, he hadn’t dared to check in anywhere else. Who knew how many desk clerks might be on the take from those murderous Turks? He’d parked down under one of the bridges, slept for a few hours, and after looking over the last photos and text that Julius had sent him, he’d driven to the quiet street across from the boating park.

The town house was impressive, with a walled garden and a driveway on one side. Escher had slowly cruised past, then turned around and parked fifty yards up the street. The rearview mirror was positioned to show him anything that happened at the house. This was the last place Jantzen had tracked them to, and when Escher had done some checking at the Crillon he discovered that Franco and his friend Olivia had not spent the night in their room.

Chances were they’d spent it in the town house, with what was apparently some very well-heeled friend.

When his own phone rang, he saw it was the ex-ambassador Schillinger, calling from Chicago for his regular progress report. But Escher, who’d been circumspect all along (omitting any mention, for instance, of that bloody fracas in Florence), was even less inclined to tell him much now. He no longer knew whose side anyone was playing on.

“Where are you?” Schillinger complained the moment Escher picked up.

“Still in Paris.” He wasn’t about to be any more specific than that.

“With Jantzen?”

“No.”

Schillinger sighed. “Don’t tell me you’ve had a falling-out with him, too? Julius is no fool. He might be able to help you.”

Escher knew that Schillinger had no great regard for his intelligence, but then, he was happy to return the compliment.

“Have you made any progress at all? Or, more to the point, has Franco? I’d dearly like to know what he’s up to. That information could be very important-and valuable-to certain people.”

“Would one of them be me?”

“When have I ever not rewarded you for a job well done?” Schillinger snapped.

“The job is getting done all right,” Escher replied, keeping an eye on the rearview mirror, “but it has gotten a lot more complicated.” He’d checked the morning newspapers, but so far the murders in Pigalle hadn’t made it into print.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Schillinger said, losing what little patience he had ever had. “Please don’t tell me you’re trying to renegotiate the terms of your employment? I have sometimes regretted my generosity as it is.”

“I’m way past that,” Escher said, leaning back in the seat with one eye fixed on the rearview mirror. As far as he was concerned, he wasn’t even working for Schillinger anymore. He’d been a fool-a lackey working for a lackey. Now he was a freelance bounty hunter, and if this Franco character turned out to be carrying anything of real cash value, then Escher was going to take it to the highest bidder. Schillinger might be out to score points and kiss ass, but Escher was simply out to make a score.

“Oh, Ernst,” Schillinger said condescendingly, “it sounds to me like you are about to make such a grave mistake.”

Escher could picture him slowly shaking his shaggy white head.

“By now, even a man of your limited imagination should have been able to figure out that it’s not only me you’re working for. I’m just a functionary, if you will. The organization is more extensive than you know. And frankly, I’m the best protection you’ve got.”

“That’s funny,” Escher replied, reflecting on the two most recent attempts on his life, “but I’m not feeling particularly well protected these days.”

“Why, did something happen?” Schillinger asked, and Escher couldn’t decide whether to believe him or not. More and more, he’d come to suspect that he was caught in the middle of a cross-continental rivalry-a bitter and deadly contest that Schillinger, an old fool marooned in Chicago, would surely lose.

And Escher didn’t like being on the losing side of anything.

In the rearview mirror, he spotted a sleek, silver Maserati pulling up to the side door of the house. A tough-looking guy in a black windbreaker-he looked like a tradesman, Italian or maybe a Greek-tossed some duffels and backpacks into the open boot. Then the girl, Olivia, came out of the house-wearing a black coat, different from the day before-and slid into the backseat. David followed, and got in the front on the passenger side. He was dressed all in black, too. They looked like a troupe of mimes, or second-story men.

“Ernst? Are you still there?”

“No,” Escher replied, snapping the phone shut and turning on the ignition. He felt like a falcon that had just flown free.

The boot was slammed shut, and the driver stopped to exchange a few words with a formidable-looking man, well dressed, leaning on a black walking stick. The lord of the manor, Escher assumed.

The Maserati-a car that Escher knew cost no less than ninety thousand euros-purred out of the driveway, and as it passed the stubby Peugeot, Escher slumped down in his seat, waited for a delivery van to get between them, then promptly pulled out. The street was quiet and serene, with the park on one side and the row of elegant town houses on the other, but soon the Maserati had entered the thick, late-morning traffic of the city. The congestion actually made it easier for Escher to follow unnoticed; for all its horsepower, the Maserati couldn’t get through the honking horns and red lights and stop signs any faster than anyone else.

Still, he wished he’d had the chance to attach a transponder under its bumper. Technology always helped in situations like this.

He especially regretted it when the car rounded a busy traffic circle and signaled a turn onto the ramp leading to the A 10, a major motor route heading southwest into the Loire Valley. Once they got out onto the highway, where the speed limits were 130 kph and enforcement, even of that speed, was virtually nil, it was going to be a struggle for his little Peugeot-which wasn’t exactly a new model to begin with-to keep pace, much less without being spotted.

And Escher didn’t doubt that David and Olivia had wised up enough to check if they were being followed. They might be naive, but they weren’t stupid.

Schillinger’s crack about his limited imagination came back to him, and before focusing again on his driving, Escher entertained a brief fantasy of retribution, stuffing the old man’s mouth with whatever precious papers were in that valise. The Maserati had flown down the entry ramp and merged seamlessly with the swifter highway flow. Fortunately, this close to Paris, there were still plenty of other cars and lorries and tour buses-dozens of the buses, in fact, packed with tourists setting out on the chateau circuit-to impede its progress. But that wouldn’t last long.

Escher checked his gas, and at least he was still running on a virtually full tank.

Within a half hour, however, the buses had all moved to one lane, and the other traffic had sufficiently thinned that the driver of the Maserati could start to step on it. And he did. The silver car zoomed ahead, and Escher had to put his foot to the floor of the Peugeot just to keep it in sight. The cabin whined with the sound of the engine and the doors rattled, as, on both sides of the road, fallow fields and barren vineyards flashed past. The car was going so fast that Escher, who had to keep one eye on the Maserati at all times, barely had a chance to read the little blue-and-white signs marking each town and tourist site they passed. Several times, one bus or another would peel off, but the silver car stayed in the passing lane and barreled straight ahead like a bullet.

Escher adjusted himself in his seat, and kept both hands tightly on the wheel. But he was afraid that if he kept up this speed much longer, the motor might die, or something else might go wrong. He berated himself for not having gone to some other rental agency and getting a better, more powerful car.

And then, just as he was sure he was about to lose the Maserati altogether, it suddenly, and without warning, cut across the traffic lanes, causing one truck to swerve wildly and another to hit its brakes, before shooting toward the exit ramp for a couple of towns called Biencie/Cinq Tours. It was standard procedure for losing a tail, and Escher wondered if he had actually been spotted, or if the driver was just doing what came naturally.

But with only seconds to react, Escher simultaneously flipped on his flashers and his turn signals, and navigated as fast as he could toward the right side of the road. Other cars blasted their horns and one driver flew by giving him the finger. But he was too far along to make it down the ramp, and it was all he could do to stop the Peugeot on an overpass a hundred yards ahead and jump out of the car.

With the roar and the wind of the traffic rushing by, he ran to the guardrail. Below him he saw empty fields, a white farmhouse, and a two-lane blacktop going north and south. The Maserati was sitting at the crossroads, plainly waiting to see if any other car came down the exit behind it. Escher instinctively ducked lower, and watched as the car sat there for a full minute before turning to the right, where a blue arrow pointed toward the town called Cinq Tours.