The Treasures of Saint Germain

CHAPTER FORTY TWO

Tyler Webb was ecstatic, proud, practically orgasmic. The fruits of long years, the labors of his lifetime had finally come to fruition.

So to speak. He cackled aloud.

London was a crackling hub of movement and motion. Webb melted among the crowds, slipped through the comings and goings, wondering when the locals might employ their much-vaunted CCTV facial recognition software on him.

On them.

The two mortals he currently allowed to share his air: Beauregard Alain, his magnificent triple agent; and Sabrina Balboni, the master thief come major betrayer. French and Italian. Cunning and fire. The hardest part was treating them like the human beings they clearly were. Webb was above all that now — in his mind already ascending. The trail of Saint Germain had been tough so far and fraught with danger, but someone worthy — like him — took one more step toward immortality with each passing day.

And now he had the great composition that Germain had gifted to the British. And what had they done to it? Thrust it into some deep, dark and grimy hole in the ground beneath a thousand lesser treasures. Later, he would visit a special kind of retribution down upon them.

The godlike powers of his master were absolute. Years before his supposed birth in 1712 it was believed that Saint Germain — under a different, famous title — faked his death, attended his own funeral, and made his way from England to Transylvania where the new legend was then born. The Count’s ‘magnum opus’ was the search for the Philosopher’s Stone that, far from being an inanimate object as many believed, was actually a living, breathing, scorching alchemical substance able to impart immortality into those who drank it. For centuries it was the most sought after prize among men.

Very few found it.

Webb didn’t believe every legend, every myth, but his investigations into Saint Germain and the man’s many attributes, accomplishments and dealings pointed to truth. Who else in history could mix a previously unknown substance for the good of man one day, compose a sonnet the next and then head out to deal with kings and commanders in the hopes of staving off a war? This romance, this brilliant and wondrous narrative, captured his imagination long ago but became more and more intriguing as months and years of deep investigation rolled by. Webb became convinced. He’d learned of Leopold and the scroll and used Ramses’ last bazaar to obtain it.

Full circle. The crowds thickened as Webb headed down Piccadilly. Maybe he should have taken Regent Street for even more anonymity but the decision was made now. Then he saw an Eat on the corner of Swallow Street, headed up that quiet road and switched to Saville Row. The police would be out in force. Webb needed to hide, but he also needed to move forward.

Germany next, for the penultimate prize and then…

He faltered. Nobody knew. Where was the ultimate goal, the final objective?

Shaking it off, he gripped the composition tighter. It held clues for the Germany trip. Interestingly, it was full circle for Beau too. He tapped the Frenchman on the shoulder as they hurried past a shop named Huntsman and Son.

“I have to admit there were times I had my doubts, but you did well, Beau. You switched sides so easily. Made them believe.”

“They believed Michael Crouch. They believed Alicia Myles. The hardest part was convincing Crouch. He is wily and intellectual. But the time I took won him over. It was good we began so early.”

Webb agreed. “And despite all that business in New York, which we did not plan for, all seems to be right with the world.” He then turned slowly to his other companion. “Except for you.”

Sabrina had made no move to leave them. She knew of Beauregard’s reputation and Webb’s hidden arsenal. Her face, acceptably, was turned to the floor, her shoulders slumped. She made no comment.

“For years I held you under retainer, paid your way. I always kept you in mind for this, the final chapter of my mortality. You. You, Sabrina! My chosen acolyte a decade in the planning and…” he tailed off, unable to accept her deceit and wiping at the tears in his eyes. “Truly, I am shocked.”

“Shall we… drop her off?” Beau murmured.

Webb shrieked a gout of laughter. “Don’t be an ass. Despite her stupidity she is the best thief in the world. We still require her skills, of course, for the next job and then, potentially, the final one. It would be cutting at our noses to spite our faces if we… dropped her off now.”

Beau accepted this in silence.

Webb contemplated the middle-distance. “That doesn’t mean she shouldn’t be taught the error of her ways,” he mouthed. “When opportunity knocks.”

Sabrina made no movement save for walking. Beau allowed a brief nod. The threesome twisted along several side streets, crossed Oxford Street and headed toward Bayswater. Webb stopped in a street behind a hotel and nodded at the man standing outside, smoking a cigarette.

Beau shifted slightly. “Friend?”

“I have none. But the best hiding places usually go to those with the biggest wallets and there is a, shall we say dastardly, shadow network of bellhops, doormen, hotel receptionists and restaurant serving staff operating in London that can find you the quietest of places to hole up for a while.”

“Interesting.”

“Isn’t it? These people are the true heart of this city. Little happens here that they don’t see. Few people pass by that they don’t note. Everything and everyone is currency to the network.”

“And we are?”

“Rich and privileged.” Webb laughed and approached the smoking man. In moments they were off the street and being led through dark rooms that appeared to have no purpose, along a corridor that hadn’t been cleaned in years. Webb wasn’t fussy where they ended up so long as it gave them some breathing space.

He needed to study the composition.

“Four hours,” he told the man. “Then, an unmarked taxi. I’ll tell him the destination en route.”

“Just ring the bell,” an eastern European accent rang out, and the man indicated a button set into the wall.

Webb settled in one overstuffed chair. “Get comfy, people. Sabrina — I do believe it’s time for Beau to deal out your comeuppance whilst I read quietly, don’t you?”

“If you want my help you will hold your fists,” the Italian sputtered.

“Then you will assist me when I command it. Is that understood?”

“Only if your pet freak leaves me alone.”

Webb felt the pull of the composition almost as if Saint Germain was calling his name, calling him toward the extraordinary. Without a nod for Beau to refrain he opened up the old papers and began to read.

“Here we move into legend,” he said. “And the Devil take all who oppose us.”