The Treasures of Saint Germain

CHAPTER FORTY SEVEN

New Orleans smoldered beside the great snake of the Mississippi River, a city rebuilt and rebuilt again and still thriving not the least from the great community spirit. The French Quarter was New Orleans’ oldest neighborhood, a tourist hotspot and home to almost every vice, amusement and entertainment a person could imagine. Mostly pronounced new oar-linz, and seemingly unaware of compass directions — neighborhoods were uptown, downtown, river or lake — it appeared subject to its own rules and regulations… one of the few places in the United States where you could drink liquor outside, where people rode streetcars not trams, and where the dead were always buried above ground in raised mausoleums.

A good place then for procuring odd constituents and mixing old elements, a good place to find the impossible and attempt the incredible. The hard part? Almost nothing is pronounced as it’s spelled.

Drake exited the car first as they stepped out onto Bourbon Street, the center of the vibrant hive. The area was busy, noisy and incredibly alive. He felt exposed, atypical, though nobody noticed. The big van was unmarked as were the two that came after, the weapons kept concealed for now. No threats had been issued, no uncommon activity registered. The authorities were subtly heightening their presence and drafting in help. Drake wanted to bag Webb before larger contingents arrived.

But where’s the madman? he wondered. Where do the loonies congregate around the Quarter?

Their research aboard the plane, whilst not of Karin Blake quality, had yielded some results. The legend was that Saint Germain had reinvented himself some time ago, moved to New Orleans and passed into obscurity. No questions were posited as to why or how, not even the simple ones, but Drake found that was usually the way with legends that endured. Webb himself believed in it and was on the final hunt for the elixir of life right here. The gloves were well and truly off.

The team spread out around and behind him, Alicia at his side. As a bunch, they had been rather subdued since leaving Sabrina, and had received no updates since. Alicia saw that as a good sign. During the long flight they had either slept or feigned it; nobody wanted to deal head-on with the issues Webb had raised.

Drake caught Alicia looking at him and gave her a wink. Then he saw Mai also watching and was reminded of the last time they were together. In bed. The sudden recollection dried his mouth out.

Hayden led the way up onto the sidewalk. “So rather than aimless wandering we do have a plan.” She spoke into the comms for benefit of the other teams present. “Do not forget that Amari will be here, and potentially even more of a destructive threat than Webb. Do not forget Webb has bet his whole deviant life on this very day and night. They both have resources — Amari’s as far-reaching as Webb’s used to be. And Beauregard Alain? Do not underestimate him. Lethal force may be required. I think that’s about it. Shall we move out?”

The question was rhetorical, but then a voice spoke out. “Umm, not quite yet.”

A new vehicle pulled up. Drake dropped his hand and moved closer to cover. Dahl and Kinimaka stepped to the front; Smyth and Lauren to the back. The doors opened and three serious looking bodyguards stepped out, surveying the area. Black sunglasses and suits spoke of government, and the busy surveillance shouted Secret Service. Drake attempted to keep his jaw stuck together.

Hayden failed. “Is that…? It’s a woman. Ah crap. Not now. We can’t guarantee her safety.”

But there was no stopping Kimberly Crowe. The middle-aged, new Secretary of Defense was a slim, fit woman who clearly worked out. The bones of her cheeks were prominent, the clip of her heels quick and sharp. She approached Hayden, then stopped just a meter away.

“You think this is inappropriate don’t you?”

Hayden measured her response. “Is this a flying visit, Madam Secretary?”

“I’m here to help.”

Drake saw the determination on Crowe’s face. Nobody would say the obvious aloud, so he started to wonder how to phrase a response, but then Alicia stepped in.

“Our track record ain’t that good with Secretaries of Defense.”

“To safeguard you, Madam, would impact our effectiveness,” Hayden amended.

“I have my guards.” Crowe swept her hand toward the three men.

Dahl snorted. “You steal ’em from kindergarten?”

“And you might be subjected to some coarseness,” Hayden added quickly.

“We can take it. And I can take a back seat.” She motioned. “Lead on.”

Conscious that Crowe’s appearance could mean anything from an inquisitive visit to a brief evaluation, to a full-on appraisal of the team’s value to the nation, Hayden turned away. The Secretary knew the risks.

It was time to hunt.