Day Of Atonement

And as far as Annja knew, maybe it was.

The tractor rumbled on its way relentlessly.

It disappeared out of sight, greeted by the sound of a blaring horn. The Mercedes. It was considerably wider than her rental car, and wasn’t going to have a lot of success getting around the tractor. She guessed that this was what counted as congestion in this part of the world.

Annja drove even slower for the next couple of miles, bringing the needle down under the twenty mark, and keeping her eyes fixed firmly on the road ahead, expecting the unexpected to be lurking just around the bend. The snowfall thickened in the air ahead. The wipers were hypnotic, swinging back and forth, back and forth, but as fast as they went they couldn’t cope with the gathering swirl of the snowstorm.

A quick glance at the dashboard clock promised she’d have just about enough time to sneak a shower before she hooked up with Philippe for dinner.

She didn’t see another vehicle until the huge castle was in view on the horizon, a blur in the white. The lane began to widen. It was only then that she realized just how tightly she’d been gripping the wheel.

Annja glanced in the rearview mirror. The silver Mercedes had managed to work its way around the tractor and was back on her tail. She could see the thin-faced driver leaning into the steering column, and a brute of a man crushed into the passenger seat beside him. The Mercedes drew up close behind her as she reached the next junction. She took advantage of the moment to study the two men in her mirror.

The driver revved his engine, meeting her gaze in the mirror. Annja didn’t look away. She was in that kind of mood.

She used the blinkers to signal a right and eased out, taking the road back toward Carcassonne.

The Mercedes followed.

Of course, it was the logical way to go, back into the town. That didn’t mean they were following her.

The snowplows had been out on this stretch of road, making the going decidedly less treacherous.

After a hundred yards, she pulled over to the side of the road, allowing the Mercedes to overtake her, but even as it did, she knew it was just as easy to follow someone from in front as it was from behind. She watched the Mercedes disappear into the swirling white of the snow.

There was something really off about the whole encounter.

4 (#ulink_6e55db59-88c4-5b93-8cb7-95fa90913afe)

The call came out of the blue.

Garin listened to the voice on the other end of the line, unsure whom he was talking to and incredibly curious as to how he had managed to get hold of his private number. Both problems were tempered by the fact that the man had a job that he was interested in. It wasn’t every day a gig turned up that piqued his interest, and this time it wasn’t all about the money.

“Obviously, given the nature of the artifacts I am looking to acquire, this is a sensitive undertaking,” the voice said. “But I have been led to understand that you are the man for the job.”

“Well, I’d say that rather depends on a combination of things, but right now I’m listening, which puts you ahead of the game. So, let’s put the bush over there and stop beating about it, shall we?”

“By all means.”

“What you are looking for?” After the lure of the cloak-and-dagger approach, the worst thing that could happen now was that voice would spoil everything by asking for something mundane. There was nothing more disappointing. There was no joy in locating something bland, even if it involved a great deal of money. It was all about how you valued time, and sure, Garin had more of it than most, but his time was the most precious commodity he possessed, meaning giving it up had to be worth something. And even then he might be inclined to refuse. No, the thrill of the chase, the great hunt, the glittering prize…they were all part of the package. If one of them were missing from a job, the likelihood of him getting out of bed to deal with it were poor.

“The initial task is a relatively simple retrieval job. I would like you to locate the private papers of Guillaume Manchon, a court scribe at the church court in Rouen for the years 1430 and ’31.”

Manchon? The name rang a distant bell, but that was nothing next to the Klaxon the date and place set off in his head. The year 1431 was burned in his memory; it was the end and the beginning of all things. It was the date of Joan of Arc’s trial and execution and the beginning of the curse that saw him walking this earth more than five hundred years later.

“You have my attention,” he said, which was true. Anything that pointed back in that direction was intriguing.

“I had rather hoped I might. Alas, the papers are no longer there, so you will need to be, ah…creative. Guillaume made his notes in French, and they were later translated into Latin with five copies made. The French original and three of the transcribed Latin copies are in private collections, and unfortunately getting access to them is next to impossible.”

“So by retrieval you mean theft?” Garin decided to come straight out with it. Breaking the law wasn’t a deal breaker for a man like Garin Braden. More often than not a brief flirtation with the dark side only added to the thrill.

“Ah, no, no. Actually, I want you to find me one of the missing copies.”

“How can you be so sure that they still exist? Do you have a lead on one of them? Evidence, perhaps, that there is another copy that hasn’t been destroyed?”

“Sadly, no. I am laboring purely under the apprehension that what is lost can be found, and that you are the right man to track them down.”

“Remind me again who recommended me?”

“Remind? I didn’t actually say a first time. Suffice it to say it was a most impeccable source or I wouldn’t be talking to you now.”

“That’s really not saying very much, is it?”

“And yet it speaks volumes, if you care to think about it for a moment.”

Garin wasn’t so sure.

“Okay, let’s assume this mysterious benefactor knows his stuff and that I am indeed the man for the job. Why do you want these papers? What’s so fascinating? What makes them special, apart from the fact they’re nearly six hundred years old obviously?” More often than not, the answer to that question was more money than sense, with the buyer willing to throw cash at some mythical El Dorado.

“Please, don’t take me for a fool, Mr. Braden. I am sure that you know full well why a scholar such as myself would be interested in documents created in Rouen in that particular year.”

“Do I?”

“Put it this way—if you don’t, then I will have to reconsider the recommendation, and believe that I have made a gross error in judgment.”

“So these documents relate to the trial of Joan of Arc?”

He could almost hear the man’s smirk as he said, “That’s more like it. No need to be coy. As I said, these papers are just the first of several artifacts I am seeking. In the interests of full disclosure, I will email a complete list once we have agreed upon a fee for your services.”

Garin’s mind raced to an extortionate figure; after all, if the man was as determined to get hold of these artifacts as he sounded, he was ripe for a little extortion. “Three million, plus expenses,” he said, plucking the number out of thin air. He expected the man to counter with a lower offer and a back-and-forth of offers and counters to follow. It didn’t.

“Dollars or euros?”

“Euros,” he said without missing a heartbeat. “And this is purely for the papers. Anything else I turn up is extra.” It was a fishing expedition, of course. The hook baited, he wanted to see just how desperate the man was to get his hands on these lost words. “If I can’t find them, you don’t pay me. Fair?”

“Of course.”

The man hung up without another word.

Garin was glad that the caller could not see the smile that had spread across his face.

He wasn’t smiling because he was looking forward to the challenge of the hunt, though that would normally be the case. Garin wasn’t the kind of man who chased legends. He left that sort of thing to Annja Creed. He wasn’t interested in history’s monsters. He had gone toe-to-toe with more than his fair share of them. No, he was smiling because he knew the exact location of one of the two missing transcriptions of Guillaume Manchon’s papers.

They were currently locked up safe and sound in a vault in Roux’s house.

Sometimes it was just too easy.

5 (#ulink_bebe43c2-a297-5ffd-b74d-b634e9800b82)