Day Of Atonement

Roux punched in her number and waited for it to ring at the other end.

It seemed to go on forever.

Cauchon.

The name was in there somewhere, locked away in some dim, distant memory. No more than that. Truth be told, he’d made a habit of forgetting the names and voices of those people who, when it came right down to it, meant nothing.

It was harder to forget those who did.

“Hi,” Annja’s perpetually perky voice answered, and he felt a wave of relief even though he knew she was more than capable of looking after herself.

“Annja,” he said, only to be interrupted by the rest of the message.

“Sorry, I can’t take your call right now—you know what to do.”

Voice mail.

The devil’s own damned invention. Knowing that he could leave a message was no help.

He hung up.

She’d see that he’d called and would call him back. He didn’t contact her unless it was important. That was the nature of their relationship. It wasn’t about frivolity and social niceties. There were no “How are you doing?” calls or “Happy Birthday” moments.

Of course, now that he was rattled, there was no way he’d be able to concentrate on anything other than Annja, so there was no real point in pressing Play and waiting to see if this time maybe Bogie would get the girl.

His phone rang a few seconds later, jerking him back into reality.

Roux answered, half expecting it to be this Cauchon calling to mock him again. “Yes?”

“You called?” Annja said, sounding like she was right behind him. He felt like a weight was lifted off his shoulders. And again, he couldn’t say why he’d been worried, not really; she was a force of nature was Annja Creed. He felt stupid for worrying.

“Ah, yes, sorry, my dear,” he said, offering an easy deflection. “I must have dialed the wrong number. Fat fingers and all that.”

“No worries,” she said, then paused as if she was on the verge of saying something, but decided against it.

“Is everything all right?”

“Well, yes, I guess. I mean, nothing’s actually wrong, but it probably depends on your definition of all right.”

“Talk to me, Annja. Right now. Tell me what’s going on.” He didn’t care if she could hear the edge in his voice.

“It was the weirdest thing. We were filming less than an hour ago…”

“Are you still in Carcassonne?”

“Yes. I was doing a piece to camera below the walls of the fortress, and somehow a huge chunk of masonry came crashing down. It could have been pretty nasty.”

He closed his eyes. “But you aren’t hurt?”

“We’re fine. The camera took a battering, but we’re not even talking cuts and bruises. It was a lucky escape.”

Roux didn’t say anything. His mind raced. Cauchon’s call took on a darker meaning, taking it beyond the strange into threatening. It wasn’t a coincidence. Live six hundred years and a person learns that there’s no such thing. It’s all cause and effect. He almost told her about the peculiar call, but there was no point in worrying her before he knew what the hell was going on.

“And you’re sure it was an accident?”

“There was no one on the ramparts, if that’s what you mean. Don’t worry. It’s not like I haven’t done this before,” she said. “Maybe I’ll come up and visit you at the chateau when we’ve wrapped things up here. We’ll spend Christmas in front of an open fire roasting chestnuts and toasting marshmallows or whatever the French do.”

“Sounds lovely,” he promised her.

She hung up.

He needed someone to try to trace where Cauchon’s call originated, but no doubt it had run through a dozen satellite relays and masking services to make that all but impossible, but if anyone could do it, it was Garin.

7 (#ulink_292eeb80-e48b-5433-8b1b-e337d44a6605)

“Roux, you old bastard, what an unexpected and, if I might say so, delightful pleasure,” Garin said, laying it on thick. The universe worked in mysterious ways, he thought, smiling to himself. He’d been agonizing over what excuse to use as a pretext to call the old man, even going so far as to suggest a good old-fashioned Christmas dinner at the chateau, just the three of them. “What can I do you for?” Apart from liberate Guillaume Manchon’s papers from your vault. Though, if he stole Guillaume Manchon’s papers during a cozy visit, the wagging finger of suspicion would point toward him—but it always was. And Roux would forgive him; he always did.

They were peas in a pod—him and the old man. Partners in crime. They were, even without the blood bond, family. They needed each other. What was a little theft and profiteering against a backdrop as profound as that?

“I need your help,” Roux answered.

Interesting, Garin thought. The old man never made a habit of asking for anything lest he be beholden to someone. He’d negotiate, blackmail or manipulate Garin into getting what he wanted before he would say please. This wasn’t exactly uncharted territory, but it was seldom-ventured waters. He knew Roux well. There were a lot of things he was unable or unwilling to try to deal with, including technology and murder.

“So who do you want killed?” he laughed, only half joking.

“It’s the exact opposite…”

“You want someone brought back to life? I’m good, but I’m not even that good.”

“Shut up, Garin.”

“Is that any way to ask for help?”

“I’ve already asked. I’m not asking twice. Now stop being an ass. I’ve just had a most peculiar telephone call…”

“A mouth breather? I hate those.”

“I need you to see if you can trace the call.”

“I’m assuming this won’t be as simple as hitting last-number redial? You have tried that, right? I know you’re not exactly down with the kids.”

“I’m not an idiot.”

“Time?”

“Twenty minutes ago, maybe a little less,” Roux said. The old man was using that annoyingly matter-of-fact tone he always had when he was worried. That was the giveaway. There was no banter. No back and forth. He was genuinely worried. That meant Garin, in turn, was fascinated—because anything that worried the old man was worth digging into.

“On this number? Not the main line of the house?”