Cradle of Solitude (13 page)

Annja spent the night in Garin's spare bedroom, emerging from the suite to find him standing before the television in the living room, watching a newscast. He heard her come in and said over his shoulder without turning, “The events at Berceau de solitude have made the news.”

The details were sketchy. Armed gunmen had invaded the monastery, killing fourteen residents. Some of the monks must have fought back, it was theorized, because two of the gunmen were found dead on the front lawn beside the burned-out hulk of their vehicle. A female caller had phoned in the tragedy and had then disappeared from the scene. The police were keeping her identity to themselves.

Annja could see Commissaire Laroche's hand in the fact that the media didn't have her name yet, but she knew it wouldn't stay that way for long. They were just too good at their jobs. And the commissaire's goodwill would only last so long. He wouldn't be happy that she'd left the scene of the crime but at least she had a
good excuse for that. After all, people had been trying to kill her!

Still, she knew she'd better get in touch with him and explain what had happened.

“Can I use your phone?” she asked.

Garin pointed to a table on the other side of the room, where a slim telephone receiver rested. She was mentally rehearsing what she would say to the inspector as she crossed the room when the announcer's voice on the television behind her caught her attention.

“In other news, Professor Bernard Reinhardt of the Museum of Natural—”

Click
. Garin changed the channel.

Annja spun around. “Wait! Go back!”

Garin shrugged, then flipped the television channel back to the news. The announcer was still talking.

“A neighbor stated that she saw Professor Reinhardt being forced into a dark-colored van by three men in their mid-to-late thirties, and when he tried to call for help, he was struck in the face by one of his abductors. Police are asking anyone with information that might help them locate the professor or his abductors to call the hotline. We turn now to our foreign correspondent…”

Garin flipped through several other newscasts. Reinhardt's abduction was mentioned more than once, but there was no more information on any of the other broadcasts. Nor had any made the connection between the break-in at the museum, the attack on the monastery and the professor's kidnapping.

It wasn't lost on Annja and she was furious with herself for not seeing it coming. A simple phone call last night might have saved Bernard from the entire ordeal.

Apparently sensing what she was feeling, Garin said, “It's not your fault.”

“Of course it is. I should have called him when we arrived last night, no matter what the hour.”

“Don't be ridiculous, Annja. You had no way of knowing they would target Reinhardt next. They got what they were after. Logically that should have been it.”

Annja realized he was right. That should have been it.

So why did they need Bernard if they had the clues to find the treasure?

The answer, when it came to her, was obvious. They had the instructions from Captain Parker, but they didn't know what to do with them. They must have kidnapped Bernard in order to get him to work it out for them.

When she said as much to Garin, he agreed.

“So now what?” he asked.

“Now we find out who did this, rescue Bernard and make them pay for what they've done.”

Garin regarded her soberly. “And just how do you expect to do that? We don't even know where to begin.”

“There's got to be something. They didn't just appear out of thin air.”

But even as she said it, she knew that, for all intents and purposes, that was, indeed, precisely what they had done. She had no idea who was behind the activity or why. Nor did she have any real clue where to start. She supposed the police report from the museum break-in might contain some information, but getting her hands on that…

It seemed hopeless.

“The best bet is to beat them to the treasure.”

Annja stared at Garin. “Is that all you can think about? Your share of the treasure?”

To give him credit, Garin was actually offended by the statement, which was Annja's first clue that he was actually trying to be helpful.

“Don't give me that crap. I'm trying to help you rescue your friend. I don't give a rat's ass what happens to him, personally.”

No surprise there, Annja thought.

But something about his very truthfulness made her want to hear him out.

“Sorry,” she said, albeit grudgingly. “How will going after the treasure help Bernard?”

“If we're correct that the professor was taken to help them recover it, then they'll keep him alive until they do so and that means he's not in immediate danger.”

“I'm sure he'd be thrilled at how blithely you're dismissing the danger of his situation.”

“I'm not dismissing anything. I'm simply saying that running off half-cocked isn't going to help him.”

“Okay, fine. Point taken.”

“They want the treasure,” he went on. “That's the point of all this. That's also our bargaining chip. They're not going to just let him go when they're through with him. You know that as well as I do. That would be stupid. Since they haven't done anything that fits that description so far, I think it would be a stretch to think they'd start doing so now.”

“Agreed, but you still haven't answered my question.”

“I'm getting to that. If the treasure is what they want, then the treasure is our most important bargaining chip. If we control the treasure, we can call the shots. Including forcing them to let the professor go.”

“We have to beat them to the treasure,” Annja finished for him.

“Right.”

It made sense. As much as she hated to admit it.

Find the treasure, then use it to bargain for Bernard's life. It seemed like their only option.

Before they did anything, she knew she still had to get in touch with the police inspector.

She grabbed Garin's phone and made a call to Laroche's office. The operator wasn't able to locate Laroche, so Annja left a message telling him she was all right and that he could call her back or she would be in to speak with him later that day.

When she hung up, Annja found Garin watching her. He inclined his head in the direction of the phone.

“Do you think that was wise?” he asked.

“I don't know about wise, but it was certainly necessary. My wet clothes are still at the monastery, as is the car that Bernard loaned to me. Never mind that I identified myself on the emergency call. Not getting in touch would make it seem like I was complicit in some way.”

Garin wasn't entirely convinced, but agreed to go along with what she thought best for the time being.

It didn't take long for Laroche to call back. He wasn't happy that she had left the scene and was far more brusque than usual in dealing with her. They made arrangements for Annja to come in for an interview later that day.

Two hours later Annja presented herself to the desk sergeant at police headquarters, Garin at her side. She was directed to wait off to one side of the crowded lobby for the inspector to come down to get her.

Thankfully, he didn't take long.

Laroche came out of the elevator a few minutes later and moved directly to her side.

“Miss Creed,” he said, by way of greeting.

I'm getting the official treatment, she thought. “Commissaire.”

The inspector turned to face Garin. “I am Commissaire Laroche. And you are…?”

“Neil Anderson,” Garin said.

Annja had to stifle a laugh.

“A pleasure. If you wouldn't mind waiting out here, we'll only be—”

“Sorry. I do mind,” Garin said.

The inspector frowned. “This is a police matter, Mr. Anderson.”

Garin smiled and Annja was instantly reminded of a wolf sizing up its prey. “Of course it is,” he told Laroche. “Which is precisely why I'm here, representing Miss Creed.”

“I see. Very well, then, if you would both follow me,” Laroche said, frowning.

The police officer turned to lead them to the interview room, and as Garin's gaze caught Annja's he winked.

She had to hand it to him. He'd given the impression that he was there as her legal representative, ready and able to protect her rights, without actually saying he was an attorney. He'd used familiar phraseology and let Laroche hear what it was he expected to hear. Very smooth and very dangerous, she reminded herself.

Inside the interview room was a table and two chairs. Laroche took one and motioned for Annja to take the other. Garin, apparently, was going to have to stand.

Bet that's meant to annoy the solicitors, Annja thought. Bet it annoys Garin, too.

The inspector didn't waste any time.

“Please tell me what you know about the events at the monastery known as the Cradle of Solitude yesterday afternoon.”

Annja had worked out what she wanted to say in advance, so she was prepared for the question. She told the inspector that she was at the monastery to try to find any records that might have been kept by Brother Markum, a former abbot who was also William Parker's distant cousin. She'd been getting ready to leave when armed gunmen burst through the front door. She and the rest of the occupants had run for their lives when the intruders started shooting. She managed to find her way to the roof, only to be cornered at the edge overlooking the river. With no other option, she'd jumped.

After surviving the fall, she'd returned to the monastery, discovered the bodies of the fallen and had immediately called emergency services. While waiting for their arrival, she'd become concerned that the intruders might still be about the grounds and so she'd escaped while she could.

She had no idea what the intruders were looking for, no more than she'd had with regard to the museum break-in. Perhaps it was something Bernard was involved in?

It was very close to the truth, which reduced the chances that she'd inadvertently give something away. Revealing what the intruders were really after might put Bernard's life at greater risk and that wasn't something Annja was willing to do. Since taking up the sword she'd discovered just how evil men could be and she'd lost what little faith she had that the authorities could handle problems like this. She and Garin had agreed that the best way to bring Bernard home safely was to
keep the authorities as far away from the situation as possible.

Laroche took notes throughout her statement and when she was finished he began to use them in an effort to pick her story apart.

“You arrived at the monastery about what time?”

“Two-thirty.”

“You went alone?”

“Yes?”

“Why?”

“Why did I go alone?”

“Yes.”

“Who else would I have gone with?”

“I don't know. You tell me.”

It went on like that for the better part of two hours, with Laroche asking the same questions several times in different ways, continually circling back to the reasons why she had been at the monastery in the first place and what she thought it was the assailants were after, and what it was that was worth killing over.

Annja stuck to her story.

Finally, as Laroche prepared to start in with another round of questions, Garin spoke up for the first time since they'd entered the room.

“Is Miss Creed under arrest, Commissaire?”

“No.”

“Is she a suspect in the murder investigation?”

“No,” he said, grudgingly.

“Then I think we're finished for today. You know where to reach her if necessary.”

With that, Garin rose and led her out of the interview room. Laroche chose not to follow, which Annja took as a good sign.

By the time they reached the sidewalk, Garin's driver had the limousine waiting for them.

“Airport, James,” Garin said as they pulled smoothly away from the curb.

“We can't go to the airport yet,” Annja protested. “All of my things are still at the hotel and I'd like to—”

Garin cut her off. “I'll have someone collect your things or we'll simply buy new ones. But I think it would be best if we get out of France now, while we still can. That police inspector doesn't strike me as the stupid sort and he isn't going to be content with that bullshit you're feeding him for long. “We're leaving,” Garin said, “while we still have the ability to do so.”

They arrived at the airport thirty minutes later. Griggs was waiting for them, with Annja's backpack and luggage that he had collected from her hotel after Garin had a few words via telephone with the general manager. Her passport, which they needed to get out of the country, was in the backpack. Annja wasn't surprised Griggs had been able to retrieve her things so easily; Garin had connections everywhere, it seemed.

Inside the airport, they discovered that there was a flight leaving for Atlanta in just forty-five minutes that would get them there before sundown that day. Thanks to Garin's charm and money, they were able to secure two first-class seats and pass through security with a minimum of fuss. As evening approached, they were out over the Atlantic, winging their way toward the United States.

They were seated beside each other in the nearly empty first-class cabin, so Annja wasn't worried about being overheard when she turned to Garin and said,
“I think it's time you told me about the Friends of the South.”

Garin was quiet for a moment, long enough in fact that Annja thought he was going to ignore the question, but then he began to speak.

“The Civil War was of great interest to many forces in Europe. Some for purely economic reasons. The trade with America had been booming before the war, and much of what was taken for granted among European society was considered the height of luxury in the States. The war had slowed profits considerably and many were looking for an end to the conflict and a return to the good old days.”

As always, Annja listened with apt attention. Not because what Garin was saying was in and of itself news to her, but because when he mentioned historical events, it was always from a personal perspective rather than an analytical one. He'd witnessed some of history's most amazing moments and Annja envied that.

“A group of French businessmen with trade interests linked to the Confederate States, namely the importing of tobacco and cotton, banded together and formed a group known as the Friends of the South. They provided monetary and material support to President Davis's government throughout the conflict.”

Annja was aware of some of the assistance that had filtered to the South from a few European nations, so Garin's information wasn't earth-shattering. But what he said next caught her attention.

“What most people don't realize is that the Friends of the South was actually just a puppet arm of a much more secretive group known as the Order of the Golden Phoenix. Membership was restricted to the richest and most ruthless French businessmen at the time and their
ultimate goal was nothing short of French dominance worldwide. From exploiting the West Indies to bank-rolling that megalomaniac Napoleon's return to power in 1815, they had their hands in just about everything.”

Annja considered the implications of that for a few minutes. “Parker stated that the Friends of the South were ‘more than they appeared to be' in his note to his subordinate, Sykes. Could that be what he was referring to? That the Friends of the South was really the Order of the Golden Phoenix?”

Garin shrugged. “It's certainly possible.”

“But why should that matter?” Annja asked. “The South borrowed money from the French to help bankroll the last few years of the war. That's a well-documented historical fact—no one really disputes it. What difference would it have made if the money came from the Friends of the South or from the Order itself?”

“Perhaps it was a political issue.”

Annja wasn't sure what he was getting at. “How so?” she asked.

“It was just a rumor, mind you, but at the time the Order was supposedly trying to instigate a British invasion of the United States. That might not have gone over well with the allies of President Davis.”

Annja stared at him. “An invasion?”

“It wasn't such a bad idea actually. The Northern Army was exhausted, its supplies were dwindling and its manpower spread all to hell and back. The Southern Army was still going only through the generosity of its French backers. A sizable force could easily have landed in New York or Baltimore and threatened Washington in a matter of days.”

Annja found the idea disturbing, probably because it would have had an excellent chance of succeeding.
“The Union Army would have been forced to march back north to deal with the intruders, leaving the Confederates to retake the territory it had lost,” she said.

“True, but you're not taking it far enough yet. How would a strengthened British involvement in the U.S. have benefited France and, by extension, the Order?”

It took a few minutes of puzzling it through, but the answer finally came to her. “The Union wouldn't have gone down without a fight, which meant the British forces would have been tied up for some time. While they were otherwise occupied, the French could have taken advantage of the situation, by attacking British interests elsewhere.”

Garin smiled and nodded as Annja continued to think out loud.

“Given the financial instability of the Confederacy at that point, it likely would have ended up a vassal state of France in all but name only, for it would have taken even larger infusions of French capital to help it recover on its own without the North's assistance. France wins on both sides of the war.”

It was an audacious and cunning plan, one that would have required not only patience but skillful political maneuvering behind the scenes to put all the pieces in place at the proper time. The entire scheme could have been ruined with just a few words in the wrong man's ears.

The wrong man's ears…

Just like that, the whole tangled mess straightened itself out in her mind's eye and she could see the picture it formed clearly for the first time. She
knew
what had happened. William Parker had stumbled upon the Order's plans. Continuing the negotiations and returning the gold would have placed not just his president but his
very country at stake. Unable to communicate quickly with those above him in the chain of command, Parker most likely acted on his own initiative, doing what he could to derail the process from the inside. Arranging to have the gold hidden in order to delay repaying the earlier loan would certainly have caused some waves.

She wondered what, exactly, had led to the fateful confrontation in the catacombs. Had he challenged his contact? Had he inadvertently let something slip? There seemed no way of knowing.

After laying out her thoughts to Garin, Annja asked, “So what happened to them? The Order, I mean?”

“The answer to that depends on who you want to believe. Some say there was a falling-out among the central members at the start of the twentieth century and the group eventually dissolved. Others suspect that the Order still exists and is still directing things behind the scenes in an effort to regain some of the glory that France has lost over the years.”

“What do you think? Or better yet, what do you
know
?” Annja asked.

“As a long-standing member of the Order, I'm sworn to secrecy. Now, if you don't mind, I'm going to get some rest.”

He leaned back and closed his eyes, leaving Annja gasping and wondering if he really had been a member of the Order.

He certainly seems to know a lot about them, she thought. She glared at his peaceful face knowing there was no point trying to get any further information out of him.

Since Garin had made the comment specifically to keep her wondering and to keep her attention on him, Annja resolved to do the exact opposite. She decided to
find something else to occupy her attention. She wasn't particularly tired, not yet at least, so she pulled her laptop out of her backpack and fired it up.

She used the plane's Wi-Fi connection to log on to the internet and do some background research on the Chennault plantation.

The house had been built in 1853 by Dionysius Chennault, an elderly planter and Methodist minister, known to friends and family as Nish. He and his wife, his brother, John, and several other family members were present when Captain Parker arrived with his wagon train, seeking a place to shelter for the night. Chennault allowed them to use a nearby horse pasture but neither he nor his family members were aware of what Parker was transporting. At least, there was no mention of that in any of the records that Annja could find. Unfortunately for Chennault and his family, General Wilde, the Union officer in charge of the area, heard about the treasure and believed that the Chennaults knew more about it than they would admit. He arrived on site with soldiers and ordered them to torture the male family members, stringing them up by their thumbs until they talked. When they pleaded their innocence, he had them all arrested and transported to Washington, Georgia, for further questioning. Eventually, the Chennaults were declared innocent and released. The family returned to the plantation and remained there until the end of their days.

In the process of looking for information on the location, Annja discovered that the house was actually up for sale. The webpage listed the Realtor's name, Catherine Daley, as well as her cell phone number and email address, so Annja sent off a quick message stating she and a wealthy companion were flying into Atlanta that
afternoon and were looking to tour the property that evening on extremely short notice. Could she accommodate them?

The Realtor returned her message within five minutes, stating she'd be happy to see them and provided directions from the airport to the plantation.

Gotta love mobile technology, Annja thought as she confirmed that they would be there and logged off. Satisfied she'd done what needed doing before landing, she settled back to get some sleep.