The Treasures of Saint Germain

CHAPTER TWO

Webb approached a small, insignificant gate: a staff or service entrance. A shifty looking man stood there, transferring his weight from foot to foot. His eyes locked with Webb’s and the requirement was known.

“This way. Hurry.”

Webb wanted nothing less. He enjoyed the straight talk. He followed in the man’s wake, straight into the closing palace, searching the lengthening shadows all around for any signs of pursuit. Nothing. If someone else was there, they were good.

“We have to be quick,” the man said in an English accent. “They don’t start getting antsy for a half hour after the doors close, but then…” he left it hanging, such a terrible threat.

“Who are you?” the man asked as he led the way inside.

But Webb, never one to reveal too much, found he could speak no words as he stepped through the old king’s palace. The sudden onslaught of all that gilded gold, the mirrored-surface floors, the painted masterpieces that adorned the walls, the high, open spaces all lavishly decorated with exquisite detail, touched with an expert’s eye. Webb could have spent days in here, studying this stunning symbol of the ancient regime, deciding what he’d most like to destroy or purloin.

“They said to leave you alone,” the Englishman now said. “But I’m not sure I can do that.”

Webb finally acknowledged the vulgarity with legs, seeing not for the first time one of the downsides of setting out on one’s own. Normally he’d have some thick-necked Neanderthal teach this slug its place — but Webb had never been a real fighter.

“Carry out your instructions to the letter,” Webb said without emotion. “I assume they said they would release your son or daughter when I was done?”

“Wife.” The man swallowed quickly, his face furrowed with anguish.

Webb slowed a little, enjoying the man’s fear. “Don’t worry, I’m sure they’re taking very special care of your wife.”

“What does that mean?”

“Do you have a picture?”

The man fished out a folded photograph, worry making him appear a decade older, shoulders hunched in submission. Webb saw a pretty brunette with wide eyes and an even wider smile.

“Ah,” he said. “Yes. So long as she keeps them happy I’m sure she’ll remain safe.” He had absolutely no idea as to her fate, but loved to instil the dread and see the panic take hold.

He waved at the gleaming rooms ahead. “Maybe you should hurry.”

“Yes, yes.” The man took off as if his feet were on fire. Gilt, gleaming wood and sparkling chandeliers lashed by as Webb was spurred along to a comparatively small room somewhere in back. Webb knew this was the bedroom where Le Comte de Saint Germain had stayed on countless occasions whilst visiting and advising the King of France. It was here that Leopold had found a second clue, a cipher, and wrote about it in his scroll.

Only the finer details were left blank, ensuring any who came after would have to search with the same fervor as Leopold himself. Which suited Webb just fine.

At last, the man paused outside a room.

“Are you sure?” Webb made his voice threatening.

“Yes, sir. This is the room.”

Webb nodded. “Wait outside. I’ll need a fast getaway.”

“Please… please don’t dally too long, sir. They will see us on the cameras.”

Webb shrugged as if it hardly mattered to him and then turned every ounce of his attention to the door that stood before him and the room beyond. Even as he stepped through, a sense of wonder overcame him, rescinding all else. Gilded walls vaulted up all around to join at the apex of a high ceiling. Pristine, emerald-green paper covered the walls which were also beautified by old masterpieces, by man-sized, gold-plated mirrors and by hanging drapes of rich, crimson-red. Webb stood in awe, imagining the times over two hundred years ago when the Count himself would have slept and deliberated and planned right here. The man’s intrigues were legion.

Webb carefully removed the scroll from its plastic cover and leafed through the stiff, old pages. The thick leather embossed cover felt like a soft balm to his fingers, Leopold’s errant scrawl a surprising comfort blanket. The first few pages were now done with, describing the hiding place of the first clue that he’d already found in Transylvania, and then offering a further hint as to the type of cipher Germain had used to encrypt messages to his subsequent hiding places.

Webb approached the very bed, the very footstool, the very chair Germain once sat in. He read aloud from the scroll, hearing a scuffle outside the door but ignoring it completely. The Englishman was too impatient. Maybe Webb would pay him a little visit…

He shut it down quickly. Concentrate. Leopold described his entry into the palace in the early 1920s, essentially the same route as Webb had taken and ending up in the same bedroom.

“Take heed, questor,” Webb intoned softly. “This is no light journey. An end to everything you think you know is all that you will find. Hold nothing dear, for all fades away.” Webb paused, thrilled.

“Except you.”

He moved deeper into the room, skirting the bed and approaching the back wall. He knew these words off by heart, knew what was coming.

The road to Germain’s greatest achievement, and the paramount accomplishment throughout all of human history led past every one of his lesser but no less incredible triumphs. Transylvania had offered a clue into the early stages of his experiments with alchemy. The Palace of Versailles would hopefully further that exploration, revealing to Webb even more of the Count’s secrets.

Alchemy was more of a tradition, attempted mostly in Europe and Egypt. It was aimed toward the purification and perfection of certain objects, and the potential creation of new, powerful talismans. Some say a few down the ages came to understand alchemy at all its levels — Germain at least was one of those people, believed to be able to manipulate metal and form elixirs, and even a universal solvent in his day. Webb believed the clue in the Palace of Versailles would reveal some of those, but was quickly disappointed.

For there, carved in the wood beneath the mattress of the single bed was merely another cipher, this one leading no doubt to a third clue. Of course, Webb had half expected that. Surely the secrets of alchemy and their disclosure required a lab.

Nevertheless, disappointment cowed his soul as the cipher was revealed. He compared it to the scroll and then took a quick photo. This was a Baconian cipher, designed by Sir Francis Bacon, another mysterious, revered and enigmatic figure from before Germain’s time, but also a dabbler in the methodologies of science, disputing known facts.

It had been postulated that Germain and Bacon were the same person.

But Webb had no time for that now. Scuffles again sounded outside the room door and now a cry that sounded decidedly English in tone. What on earth…?

Unless…

Quickly, he tucked the scroll away, safeguarded the phone with the photo of the cipher on it and searched the room. Of course, there was an interconnecting door, this one surprisingly obvious for such an old chateau. Oh, how the French used to love their intrigues and secret passageways. Germain must have loved those times.

Hold nothing dear, for all fades away.

Webb ran those words through his head as he approached the door, understanding their deeper meaning and what they stood for where Germain was concerned. As he reached for the handle, the door at the other end of the room crashed open.

The Englishman fell through, face bloodied.

Webb paused, startled, unused to seeing such sudden violence. A life of pampering never helped in these situations.

Someone pushed the Englishman into the room. A thug, Webb thought. But it was a thug he recognized. This was the group who’d been dogging him since Transylvania, the group he had people investigating.

Beset by a strange fear and confusion, he pulled hard at the door handle.

The Englishman tried to rise, but the thug and one of his colleagues kicked at his skull, sending him reeling, sprawling across the polished floor. The blood leaked faster now. Webb experienced an insight into the world he used to help create as the men kicked out again and the Englishman stopped moving.

Now they locked eyes with him.

“You stay right there,” one said, a local judging by the accent.

“The group wants a word with you,” another said, this man swarthier, possibly of eastern origin.

Webb wrenched the door open, thankful it wasn’t locked, and ran through. He wasn’t a fit man, never worked out, but he wasn’t overweight either and had already told himself that if these men caught him his lifelong dream was over.

Adrenalin fired his heart and his limbs. Webb raced through another bedroom where the bed was separated from the rest of the room by a golden railing lined by footstools and then twisted back toward the outer corridor, pausing at the door before peeking out.

Coast clear. Only two pursuers then.

He sprinted, arms flapping, knees pumping. He would be no match for anything short of a fit school mom, he knew, but need galvanized him. The halls were clear, each sweeping expanse of magnificent architecture blurring past so fast he felt a little giddy, until the shout was barked out from behind.

“Don’t make me run after you, homme.”

Webb pushed it, already seeing the side door up ahead and knowing all he needed to take from this place was the cellphone in his pocket. Once clear, he’d accelerate the investigation and put an end to this annoying group once and for all.

How dare they?

For now he smashed against the outer door and raced into the night, a chill breeze cooling the sweat on his forehead, the distant chiming of bells giving the city a solitary air. Not what he needed right now. What he needed was a crowd, a busy road, a parade of shops. What he needed was not to be chased into the streets as his, so far, very careful avoidance of CCTV would then be rendered ineffectual. Many of them were so good these days they’d ping your face over to Interpol in a matter of seconds.

Webb heard the pursuit gaining ground. Despite the shadow-jamboree he managed to spy the outer gate, the same he’d been spirited through. He lengthened his stride, almost tripping in the process and tried to stop the endless flap of his arms. It wasn’t easy with his heart threatening to burst through his chest. And no respite was upcoming. The palace sat amid a great expanse of flat courtyard, stretching far and wide. Webb chanced a glance over his shoulder.

Hurry!

He knew the way by heart. Out of the gate and hang a left, past the Orangerie toward the train station. He already knew where the scroll would take him to next. The scroll provided the places, the ciphers the exact locations; the locations themselves provided the ongoing and unraveling wonders of Saint Germain.

Webb wrenched the gate closed behind him, spitefully hoping it might catch one of his pursuers in the mouth. A dreamlike moment hit him then, when he saw the same man and wife, hand in hand, hurrying the other way across the street — the woman staring at him. A small smile broke out across her features when she saw the panic in his face and the two large brutes chasing him down.

Webb puffed hard and continued on. But he was fighting a losing battle. As the train station finally came up ahead, one of the chasers came close enough to snag his outer jacket. A vicious tug and he was spinning, falling, going down to one knee.

He overbalanced, not realizing but actually helping himself as a haymaker smashed through the empty space where he’d been. The brute grunted, slipping. Webb shuffled away on his knees, looking for a place to stand. The jeans of his knees were scraped raw, and possibly his skin, a new experience. A low wall gave him purchase and helped him stand, and then he stood there, panting hard, taking in deep lungfuls of air whilst he still could.

One of the men crouched low, hands on knees, also panting. “We… told you not to run. But you ran. Now… now we have to hurt you as well as take you to our leader.”

Webb would have laughed if he’d been able. “What are you, aliens?”

The man looked surprised, then angry. He went to sucker-punch Webb in the gut, but Webb stepped back out of the way and the blow whistled by.

Both the thug and Webb looked surprised that he had managed to dodge.

“Stand still.”

“Why? So you can hurt me?”

“So I can break your skinny ribs and use them as a toothpick, homme,” the Frenchman growled. “Make me run, will you? We’ll see…”

The dangerous bully moved in again. Webb saw no reason to stand around, spun and tried to make off. Smashed into the second man’s chest. Grunted.

“Don’t you know who I am?”

It slipped from his mouth before he could rein it in.

The swarthy man laughed. “Not yet. But we will soon.”

“Why are you chasing me?”

“Are you stupid? I already said the group want to speak with you.”

Which group? Webb opened his mouth to ask, then found it filled with a bunch of knuckles. The pain came a split second later, then the blood, and a decidedly loose feeling in one of his teeth. I could have made Beau train me. I could have fought my way out of this. He moaned in pain as another fist connected with the side of his head. The train station now seemed so far away.

“Let’s get him back to the car.”

They hefted Webb, each one taking an arm, ignoring the stares of passersby. Webb struggled weakly, but even the threat of another punch doused his ire. The cell remained in his pocket along with the picture of the Baconian cipher, but anyone worth their salt would soon find it.

“That’s better,” the Frenchman said as Webb quit his resisting. “Know your place, homme.”

That infuriated Webb all the more, but again he was no fighter. Best to wait… wait for an opportunity.

“Hey! Stop right there!”

It came sooner than expected.