Eye of the God (23 page)

Louis reluctantly turned to his secretary and asked, “Monsieur Laurent, what is the date?”

“The 24th of January in the year of our Lord, 1789.”

“Very well then. Let us begin with that.”

Laurent nodded blankly, but remained as he was.

“For God's sake, man, are you an imbecile as well as a sluggard? Start writing!”

Laurent quickly bent his head and dipped the quill pen in his inkwell. He scratched at the parchment with elaborate sweeps of his hand.

“Beloved and loyal supporters,” Louis began. Laurent kept pace, word for word. “We require the assistance of our faithful subjects to overcome the difficulties in which we find ourselves concerning the current state of our finances, and to establish, as we so wish, a constant and
invariable order in all branches of government that concern the happiness of our subjects and the prosperity of the realm.”

Louis paused long enough to look at his wife for approval, and when she nodded he continued. “These great motives have induced us to summon the Assembly of the Estates of all Provinces obedient to us, as much to counsel and assist us in all things placed before it, as to inform us of the wishes and grievances of our people; so that, by means of the mutual confidence and reciprocal love between the sovereign and his subjects, an effective remedy may be brought as quickly as possible to the ills of the State, and abuses of all sorts may be averted and corrected by good and solid means which insure public happiness and restore to us in particular the calm and tranquility of which we have so long been deprived.”

Laurent stopped writing but a moment or two after the king grew silent. He dared not look at the king as he waited for him to continue.

“The Estates will convene at Versailles on May 5th of this year.”

When the king had gone some length of time without speaking, Laurent dared another glance, to which Louis responded, “You may sign it for me and be done.”

Bertrand Laurent closed the convocation with a flourish. He then weighted the corners of the parchment down with gilded bookends so that it would not curl as the ink dried.

King Louis XVI turned back to the window as his scribe rose to leave. “I will need copies of that made and sent to all the provinces.”

“Yes,
Milord
,” Laurent said, bowing deeply as he left the presence of the king and queen of France.

“I fear this will not work” Louis said. His gaze rested on the great mahogany doors leading from his chambers to ensure they were beyond hearing of the courtiers outside.

Marie approached Louis with confidence and stood next to him at the window. Her careful decorum was far less noted when not within earshot of their subjects. “How could it not? You are the king of France.”

“Indeed,” he muttered.

“You are worried?”

“
Les États-Généraux
has not been convened for 175 years.”

“It will comfort the people to know you are convening the Estates General. They will see you are taking steps in the interests of France.”

Louis turned toward his wife. “I am not bringing them together for a banquet, Marie. I am bringing them together in order to ask them to pay higher taxes. Taxes that will pay for your jewelry and
petits fours
.”

“Necessities of the crown, dearest. It is an honor for them to serve their country.”

“You don't seem to understand the brewing crisis.”

“Crisis?”

“There is a shortage of food within the land. Many have insinuated that due to recent crop failures, the people may actually starve.”

“My dear, why do you trouble yourself with such small matters? The common people are of no concern to us!”

“Common people? Marie, the Estates General is formed of three parts, the clergy, the nobility, and the
bourgeoisie
— the
common people
.”

The queen waved her hand in disgust. “The
bourgeoisie
. I have never understood why commoners are given a role
in government. Such matters are too important for simpletons to understand.”

“Considering the
bourgeoisie
make up ninety-eight percent of the national population, and that clergy and the nobility are exempt from paying taxes, I regret there is no way to exclude them from government.”

Disgust contorted her face. “Not everyone can be noble.”

“I have but a few moments before I meet with the Privy Council. I fear the
bourgeoisie
is going to create trouble when the Estates convene, and we need a plan for dealing with them. They are already asking for double representation, which would give them the controlling majority.”

“But that is outlandish! Who would ever consider giving power to the people? Such a thing is unheard of.”

Louis bent slightly and kissed Marie's forehead. “Don't worry, my dear. I have no intention whatsoever of handing over control of France to the common man. I am formulating a plan that will appease them while making them impotent.”

Marie wrapped her arms around the king's neck, and then she ran her hands down his chest, slowing to brush her fingers against the Golden Fleece.

“It is a pity,” she said, tracing the blue diamond lightly with her finger. “There is a stunning gown of blue organza in my wardrobe that would complement this jewel exquisitely.” She dared a glance at her king and asked, “Will you continue your stubbornness and refuse my enjoyment of this trinket?”

Louis grabbed her wrist firmly. “Last I checked you were not the king of France.”

She tightened her jaw and yanked her hand free. “That has not stopped you from allowing me use of the other
crown jewels. I do not see why you remain so selfish with this one.”

“This one,” he hissed, “is mine. Will you be demanding use of my crown next?” Louis covered the brooch with his palm and stepped backward.

Marie Antoinette stared at his hand, cheeks flushed. “Of course not,
Milord
. Forgive my indiscretion.” She turned on her heel and marched from the room, the train of her gown whipping across the floor.

17

I
T TOOK LONGER THAN THIRTY MINUTES FOR WAYNE EDWARD TO CALL
Daniel back. But when he did, Daniel was waiting, wide awake, and The Castle was empty except for a skeleton crew of night security. He monitored the security terminus alone.

“Sorry that took so long,” Wayne said when Daniel answered on the first ring.

“Don't worry about it. I'm awake.”

“Yeah, what's new? Have you ever slept in the fifteen years I've known you?”

“Rarely.”

“Well, here's what I've got. I ran both images through Identix. Neither one has a confirmed criminal history, and believe me, if they did, Identix would find it. As far as that goes, they're both clean.”

“And the surveillance footage?”

“That,” Wayne said, “is where things get interesting. I got one confirmed hit of the male suspect on that length of tape. He's on camera for almost an hour taking pictures the entire time. My guess is that he's not using a standard digital camera, but I can't confirm it. In one shot he gives
the security camera a direct glance for about ten seconds. He knows he's being watched.”

Daniel sucked on his front teeth, pondering. “Interesting. What about the girl?”

“Wait till you hear this. According to the time stamps on the footage you provided, I've got about six months worth of tape.”

“Yeah, that's about right.”

“Well, I was able to get a facial recognition hit of the female suspect's face more than one hundred and twenty times.”

“What?”

“From what I can tell, she went to the display every Monday through Friday during that time.”

Daniel tilted his head to one side and narrowed his eyes. “I see. Thanks.”

“She's not bad looking.”

“Don't be deceived. She's a clever one.”

Wayne laughed. “They usually are. Well, good luck with that, man. Seems like you've got an issue on your hands.”

Daniel glared at the computer screen. “Nothing I can't handle.”

It was well past midnight when Douglas Mitchell returned to his penthouse in Bethesda, Maryland. He walked through the dark rooms, not bothering to turn on the lights. There was no furniture to maneuver around, and his footsteps echoed from the walls. As usual he went straight for his laptop. Its cold blue light flashed across his face, casting distorted shadows on the blank wall behind.

There was a single message in his inbox from Dr. Peter Trent. Douglas pursed his lips and opened the email immediately.

He sat on the edge of his bed, back straight, and palms flat on his legs as he pondered his next step. He typed a quick message and sent it into cyberspace, indifferent to the consequences.

Somewhere in the early morning hours the murky darkness grew less dense. The change was imperceptible at first, but Abby felt it even when she could not see the difference. She lay in bed, eyes open, and stared into the blackness. A thought tugged for entrance at the fringes of her mind.

Breakfast with my father. Why did I agree to do that?

Out in the living room, her alarm clock broke the silence with a harsh metallic buzz. She jerked into a sitting position and crawled out of bed. She had developed the habit in college of putting her alarm in the living room; it forced her to get up instead of hitting the snooze button.

Abby navigated through the apartment until she found the green numbers flashing 5:00. She turned off the alarm and stood for a moment, longing for the warmth of her bed. Instead, she turned on a lamp and threw open the curtain. Only the faintest hint of dawn broke the darkness along the horizon, and yet the city was already awash with activity.

It took her but a few minutes to fix coffee and curl up in the red blanket on her usual spot on the couch. She looked for traces of sunlight to illuminate the chapel across the street, but it was still shrouded in darkness. She reached for her laptop instead.

Abby intended to spend a few moments putting the finishing touches on her speech before taking a shower, but first, she checked her email. A single message from Douglas Mitchell appeared in her inbox.

Her neck stiffened, and hot tears pressed at her eyes. She didn't need to open it to know what sort of message she would find. Abby felt more of a fool than she cared to admit. She closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and clicked open the email.

Abby,

I got caught up on business and won't be able to make our breakfast date. I'm headed to Paris this afternoon, so I'll catch up with you next time I pass through D.C.

Dad

Abby read the e-mail three times. She pressed her lips together, holding back the all-too-familiar emotion. But she was not strong enough to restrain the tidal wave that broke over her. A moan, deep and primal, clawed at her throat. Abby tried to swallow the tears, but was overcome by the collision of anger and sadness. She pushed her laptop aside and threw herself down face first, sobbing into the pillows.

She lay there for the better part of an hour, with liquid emotion spilling from her eyes. Slowly, the first ray of new sunlight crossed her face. Abby rose, eyes red and swollen, and looked out the window.

As if on cue, the small chapel was bathed in light, a dark silhouette against the sun. She stared at the worn stones and bright stained-glass window, almost daring them to speak, to give her reassurance that she was a daughter wanted by someone. She looked and she longed, but the
words on a computer screen a few feet away shouted louder than the gentle beckoning of the church across the street. She was not wanted; she was not loved.

Abby turned her back to the window and walked toward her bedroom, passing the wall of framed photographs on the way.

“Why can't you love me!” she screamed, raking her arm across the wall. Three pictures flew across the room, shattering on the hardwood floor. Abby knelt beside them, picking shards of glass from the sepia photographs. She studied the churches for a moment, hesitated, and then stuffed them in the wastebasket beneath her desk. Abby thought about retrieving them, but instead sought comfort beneath the hot water of her shower, attempting to scour her heart from the outside.