The Book of Lost Fragrances

Forty-three

PARIS, FRANCE

MAY 27, 1:36 P.M.

The fog was wet and cold. Like a thick winter rain. Lost in it, Jac shivered. She was dizzy. Disoriented. Somewhere in the distance, she could hear voices. Maybe she could follow them and find her way out of these shadows. Struggling, she concentrated. Where were they?

“What did you do with the man’s gun?” Griffin asked Robbie.

The stone vault came into focus around Jac. The water dripped methodically. The air was again suffused not with the scents of exotic oils and spices but with dry clay and dirt. How long had this hallucination lasted? It had seemed like twenty minutes. But based on recent episodes, probably less than a minute had passed.

“It’s behind a rock in the first tunnel,” Robbie answered Griffin.

It was difficult to concentrate on their conversation. Jac felt groggy, as if she were breaking through the surface of a deep sleep.

Yes, sleep. The doctors had trained her to remember dreams in order to analyze them and find the clues to her illness.

Last night she’d dreamt she was in the garden, caught in the maze. Someone inside was calling out to her. Not asking for help but offering it. Promising she’d understand everything if she just found the center. A man’s voice or a woman’s? She couldn’t tell. Or didn’t remember.

In reality, the maze was small; in the dream, it had grown to infinite proportions. She couldn’t find her way.

But dreams could mean nothing, too. The maze had been her childhood hiding place. Her refuge and sanctuary. And her brother’s. Of course she’d dream about it.

“Jac. Let me have those,” Robbie said.

What did her brother want? He was pointing at her hand. She looked down. She was still holding the pot shards, cupped in her palm. Her brother took them.

“Do you have any idea who would go to such trouble to get those?” Griffin asked Robbie.

As her brother wrapped up the broken bits of baked clay, he nodded. “They aren’t worth anything financially; someone must want them for what they’re worth symbolically.”

Griffin nodded. “Or… maybe someone wants to prevent them from being used as a symbol. Make certain you don’t give them to the Dalai Lama.”

“Why would anyone care if you gave the pottery to the Dalai Lama?” Jac asked.

“I hadn’t thought of that,” Robbie said to Griffin. “That’s brilliant.”

“I’m lost. Can you explain what you’re talking about?” Jac asked the two of them.

“Despite everything they’ve done, the Chinese have failed to crush the Tibetan spirit,” Robbie said. “Their newest effort is a law they’ve put into effect requiring people to register to reincarnate. Ridiculous, I know. But they’ve done it. It’s a desperate ploy to discredit any child born in a holy area in Tibet-where we expect the true incarnate will come from-from being named a lama.

“If the Chinese retain power over who the lamas are, they can choose His Holiness’s successor when he dies.”

“But the shards? What do they have to do with anything?” Jac asked.

“Whoever has the pot shards will hold in his hand the possibility that there is proof of reincarnation.”

He finished rolling up the pottery and replaced the packet in the pouch around his neck.

“And they’d go to all this trouble?” Jac asked. “The shards don’t actually prove anything.”

“No. But they suggest something crucial. The way the system goes, Jac, a Karmapa or a Panchen Lama is the only one who can recognize a Dalai Lama. The last three Panchens who have emerged from Tibet have disappeared. The search for reincarnations of high lamas has been completely corrupted by the Chinese. Their power base depends on it. Tibet’s future is at stake, and this is one more piece of ammunition.” He patted the pouch.

“And how far are you willing to go to deliver the ammunition?” she asked. “Someone is dead. You are living underground in a cemetery, Robbie. Can’t you just throw those things down some hole and leave them with the bones? We can go to the police. You acted in self-defense-”

“Stop. Stop.” Robbie put his arm around her. “I have to do this.”

“Why?”

“Do you have a plan?” Griffin asked.

“I can’t risk being taken into custody until I can get the shards to His Holiness. He’ll be in Paris in two days, and-”

“You’d stay here till then?” Jac interrupted.

“Yes.”

“It’s too dangerous here,” she insisted.

“This is the safest place for me in all of Paris. Do you know how complicated this labyrinth is? If anyone was coming who I wasn’t expecting, I could disappear in minutes.”

Jac didn’t understand his spirituality or share it. But even here, a hundred feet underground in this giant graveyard, she sensed Robbie’s deep belief and saw the equanimity it gave him. She used to envy his faith. Not now.

“There could be criminals down here. Crazy people. You’re just not safe.”

“I was safe up there?”

“Robbie, a Buddhist nun contacted me,” Griffin said, interrupting. “I met with her. She said she’s from the center and that they have been working on your request and that she can help you.”

“The lama can get me a meeting?”

Griffin nodded. “She offered to help Jac and me find you. She even suggested that she had some mystical powers that could help us.”

“You should have taken her up on her offer; you might have gotten to me sooner. She said she’s part of the center here in Paris?” He was excited.

“Yes, and she wants to meet with you.”

“Yes, fine. Bring her here.”

“Here?” Jac asked. She shook her head. Stood up. She walked to the chamber’s exit, put her hand on the lintel, felt the cold stone and looked into the space beyond it. She’d taken off her helmet, and there was no lamp lighting the way. All she saw before her was a dark walkway dropping off into black eternity. She inhaled dusty stone and fungus and imagined she’d smell this mineral and mold combination forever. Without realizing it, she was playing their old game. Jac turned back to her brother.

“If I had to create the Fragrance of Futility, I’d start here.”

He went to her and put his arm around her. “It is going to be all right.”

“No, Robbie. It’s not. We’re not children, and we can’t pretend.” She threw off his arm. “The world is falling down around us. Someone tried to rob you. Was willing to murder you. The police think you’re a killer. Our deadline with the banks is up in less than two weeks. We have to sell Rouge and Noir. There are no ghosts. No reincarnated souls. You are in danger and I’m having those-” She stopped herself. Telling him wouldn’t help. “You can’t stay down here till Saturday.”

He was staring at her, a look of wonderment in his eyes. “Something happened to you when you smelled the pottery, didn’t it?” He had lapsed into French and was talking rapidly.

“What do you mean?”

“You have a much more sensitive nose than I do. Than anyone I know. What happened when you smelled the pottery shards, Jac?”

“Nothing. You’re dreaming,” she said. “Like Papa.” Spat out the word like it was poison. “This isn’t the time for dreams.”

“What did you see?” Robbie insisted.

“You saw something?” Griffin asked.

She didn’t look at either of them. Part of her wanted to confess, to whisper it, because to say it out loud would be giving too much credence to the vision. But she couldn’t. It was only one small step from psychotic episodes to reincarnation memories if that’s what you wanted to believe. Malachai had been at Blixer Rath studying just that. He’d probably told Robbie and Griffin. They’d want to investigate. It would fuel the fire already burning so strongly in all of them.

“I didn’t see anything.”

But what if there was a connection? She’d been free of the horrific episodes all these years, but they’d returned now that she’d returned to Paris and the boutique. What was the link? Not a psychic paranormal connection. Not a spiritual one. But it was possible the hallucinations were a reaction to a scent. Some ingredient present both in the shop and in the shards? She’d wondered about it on Wednesday. Now it seemed even more likely. There were known cases of mental affliction triggered by sensory overload-why not olfactory overload?

Griffin had started to unpack one of the knapsacks, laying out the supplies they’d purchased earlier that morning. A roll of toilet paper. A high-powered lamp. Batteries.

Unwilling to argue anymore, Jac lifted up her knapsack too. She pulled out a baguette. A round of cheese. A knife. Four apples. A sack of hard-boiled eggs. Energy bars. Water.

“An embarrassment of riches.” Robbie laughed. “The only thing missing is wine.”

Griffin laughed. “Actually, there is wine. Decanted, too.” He pulled out a plastic bottle. “It’s filled with a Bordeaux from your cellar, so I’m assuming it’s good. Only drink it if you have a safe place to sleep it off.”

“I’m not going back up. I’m going to stay down here with you,” Jac suddenly announced. “It’s not safe for you to be alone down here.”

“That will be very helpful when the police notice that you are missing too.” Robbie shook his head. “Absolutely not. The best way to help me is to go back up there and keep the police busy following you around. And if there’s any way, try to find out who the curator at Christie’s told about the pottery. Because other than Griffin, no one else knew what I had.”

“That’s not true,” Jac said.

Both men looked at her.

“Malachai Samuels knew. You told him, Robbie. Remember?”

Robbie nodded. “He thinks I found a memory tool. But you don’t suspect him, do you? You’ve known him since you were a girl.”

“He’s eccentric, yes, but not dangerous. He’s a doctor. Works with children.”

“Except,” Griffin said, “he’s desperate to find proof of reincarnation. It’s his life goal. He was there in Rome when the first set of memory tools were found and then stolen. He was in Vienna when a second tool-a flute made of a human bone-was discovered. Maybe it’s not Malachai, but maybe someone is following him.”

There was a sound. Distant.

“Shut off all the lights, fast,” Robbie hissed.

In seconds they were all plunged into darkness.

“What do you-” Jac started to whisper.

“Shhh!” Robbie chided.

The footsteps were closer now. And Jac could hear voices.

“Shouldn’t we leave?” she whispered again.

“No time,” her brother said.

The low murmurs were clearly chanting. Not French. Or Latin. Not a language Jac had ever heard. Low pitched and steady, it sounded both melodious and otherworldly.

A scent wafted in with the sound: paraffin, sulfur and smoke.

Suddenly in the solid darkness of the chamber, a pinprick of light appeared in the west wall.

Robbie crept toward it. Jac and Griffin followed.

He put his eye up to the hole. It was barely big enough for a mouse to crawl through. He watched for a few seconds, then stepped back and let Jac look.

It was the same six people-four women and two men-Jac and Griffin had seen before. But this time they had reached their destination.

As she watched, they arranged themselves in a circle around a pentagram of candles. Their faces were in shadows, hidden by their black hoods. They swayed in time to the indecipherable chant.

Jac turned back to her brother. “What do we do?” she whispered.

“We wait,” Robbie said and smiled ruefully.

Patience had never been Jac’s strong suit.