The Secret Prophecy (3 page)

Chapter 7

T
hey were traveling first class. The railway carriage had really neat beige seats with bright orange headrests and new carpet on the floor. A pretty girl in a trim blue Eurostar uniform swooped in with a tray as they were in the process of sitting down. “A glass of champagne, sir?” she asked, smiling. “Compliments of the management.” She was talking to Tom, of course.

“Thank you,” Tom said gravely. He gave the two of them a grin that said
Aren’t you jealous that you’re not grown-up?

“I’ll have a Coke. Lots of ice,” Charlotte told the hostess without being asked.

That’s what came of living in California,
Em thought. American confidence rubbed off on you, like picking up the accent. He wished some of it would rub off on him. He realized the hostess was looking at him now, dropped his eyes, and muttered, “Me too.”

As the train pulled out of St. Pancras station, Tom Peterson stood to retrieve his laptop from the luggage rack. “Do you think you two could stay quiet for the next couple of hours?” he asked. “I need to finish my symposium paper.”

Em groaned inwardly—he’d been looking forward to a real chat with Charlotte—but Charlotte herself said firmly, “Oh, don’t be such a
bore
,
Dad. You know we can’t possibly keep quiet for two hours.” She glanced around the carriage with its light sprinkling of fellow passengers. “Em and I will go and sit somewhere else. Then we can talk and you can get on with your rotten paper.”

“I’m not sure they let you do that,” Tom said uncertainly. “We have reserved seats. I expect everyone else does too.”

“The cabin is half empty!” Charlotte exclaimed. “And if they don’t like us sitting somewhere else, what are they going to do: spank us? Honestly, Daddy, we’ll just come back and irritate you if they move us.”

It was obvious that she had him twisted around her little finger despite the years with her mother.
Or
maybe because of them, Em thought. Either way, Tom was grinning as she wriggled out of her seat and scurried down the aisle to take another vacant place as far distant as she could get. Em glanced at Tom helplessly, then got up and followed her.

After making all the fuss, Charlotte lapsed into silence and gazed out the window as the rolling cityscape gradually gave way to countryside. Em, who’d always been a bit shy around girls—especially the pretty ones—couldn’t think of anything to say, so he stared woodenly ahead, feeling stupid.

Eventually he coughed and asked casually, “Where are we? Do you know?”

“Somewhere in Kent probably,” Charlotte said. “I looked at the map yesterday, and we go through Kent before we reach the Chunnel.”

The Chunnel was the Channel Tunnel, and Em was frankly just a little freaked out about it. What worried him was the thought of traveling through a shaft that carried the weight of the entire English Channel, not to mention several hundred thousand tons of rock. What would happen if it all just . . . collapsed? Actually he knew perfectly well what would happen if it all just collapsed.

He coughed again. “Have you ever traveled this route before?”

“I’ve never even been to France. I might as well have been an American since Mum and Dad divorced. Californians never go anywhere, except to other parts of America.”

“So you don’t know when we go into the tunnel?”

“They tell you,” Charlotte said. “According to Dad. They announce it, like the pilot telling you to fasten your seat belts. But anyway, you’ll know in daylight. You can’t see the scenery, and they put the lights on.”

“Does it take long? Like, inside the tunnel?”

“About fifteen minutes, I think. Maybe twenty.”

“Is that
all
?” Em asked, suddenly relieved. Fifteen minutes was nothing. Even twenty wasn’t much.

Charlotte turned to look at him. “You aren’t worrying, are you? About going through the tunnel?”

“What, me?” Em spluttered. He gave a bright, loud laugh. “No, of course not.”

“Oh good,” Charlotte said, and turned back to the window.

It was exactly as she predicted. A male voice came over the intercom. “Ladies and gentlemen, I hope you are enjoying your journey with Eurostar. We shall soon be entering the Channel Tunnel, and interior illumination will be switched on for your convenience. I’d like to take this opportunity . . .” And so on, just like an airline pilot. The lights did go on shortly thereafter, and the outside world disappeared, leaving Em to stare at his reflection in the window.

“Know what?” one of the pasengers said to his wife. “If there was ever a good time for a terrorist attack, this would be it. Couple of well-placed bombs, and the whole place would come down.”

“Let’s hope there won’t be a terrorist attack then,” his wife said calmly.

Ten minutes later, while they were still in the tunnel, all the lights went out.

Em barely mastered an impulse to grab Charlotte’s hand. His stomach was suddenly tight.

“They’ll sort it out in a minute,” Charlotte said.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” said a cheerful female voice over the intercom. “A slight technical hitch with the lights as you may have noticed, but the engineer tells me he’ll have it corrected before you”—the lights came back on—“ah, there we are! Our apologies about that, but we’re almost back to daylight in any case.”

Em looked around. The worried husband and wife were gone. There was no sign of a terrorist attack, no sign of anything unusual. At least he didn’t think so. There was a man in a well-cut suit seated near the back of the carriage behind a group of Japanese businessmen. Em didn’t think he’d been sitting there before, although his face did look vaguely familiar. But probably Em was wrong. Probably the man had been sitting there all the time.

“Have you been to France before?” Charlotte asked. She seemed completely unfazed by the whole lights business.

“School trip,” Em said. “It was awful.” He glanced back toward the end of the carriage. The man behind the Japanese businessmen was gone. It wasn’t until the train was pulling into the Paris Gare Du Nord that Em realized why his face looked familiar.

It was the same man who’d been carrying the gun at his father’s funeral.

Chapter 8

T
here was a full-color brochure that featured a chorus line of showgirls on the reception desk of the hotel. Em turned his head away while trying surreptitiously to get a better look. He’d decided that the man on the train couldn’t possibly be the same man who’d been at the funeral; but all the same he was feeling a bit emotional, reminded of his father’s death, and a bit nervy, probably from being in an unfamiliar city. And the showgirl brochure underlined how unfamiliar Paris really was. The girls were only wearing feathers, which didn’t cover very much. You’d never see a brochure like that in a London hotel.

“Freshen up,” Tom said as he handed them their key cards. “Have a rest or a bit of a nose around, practice your French. I’ve got a couple of things to do in my room, so don’t disturb me unless you absolutely have to. Don’t get into trouble. Don’t leave the hotel. Don’t charge up anything more than a Coke—”

“How big a bottle, Dad?” Charlotte asked deadpan.

“Very droll, darling. Now, all three of us will meet up here, in the lobby, at quarter to seven for an early supper. We’re off first thing for my big day, so you need to get a good night’s sleep. I don’t want to have to drag either of you out of bed in the morning.”

Tom’s big day was the symposium on something where he was delivering his paper. Em would have avoided it if he could, and so, he suspected, would Charlotte; but there was no way Tom was going to let them loose in Paris on their own, so attendance was compulsory. As was guaranteed death by boredom. It was the only bit of the whole holiday that Em was actually dreading. He realized his father’s old friend was looking at him. “Right,” he said.

He was in his room trying to figure out how the shower worked when there was a quiet knock at the door. Charlotte slipped in without invitation when he opened it. “Fancy a walk?” she asked.

“Where to?” What he actually fancied was a long, cool shower, but he didn’t want to say no. He wasn’t sure how he felt about Charlotte. She was terribly pretty and very friendly, but he was wary of her. She seemed a lot older than he was, although he knew she couldn’t be. Maybe living in America had made her more sophisticated or something. Her confidence felt alien.

“Just explore a bit,” Charlotte said easily. “See the artists in the Latin Quarter or visit Notre Dame or stare at the Seine or whatever we can do from here and still get back in time for supper.”

“Your father said we weren’t to go outside.”

She gave him a withering glance. “Do you always do what you’re told?”

“Well, no,” Em said uncertainly, “but . . .”

“Then come on!” Charlotte urged. “This is my first time in Paris. Tomorrow we’ll be cooped up in Daddy’s miserable symposium, and the day after that we’re on the road again. This is our only chance. The City of Light! Gay Paree! Do you have cab money?”

“A bit,” Em admitted, “but . . .”

“Then we can go absolutely anywhere.” She gave him a huge grin. “Wouldn’t you like to look at the posters outside the Folies Bergère?”

He realized suddenly he was being a total wimp. “Okay,” he said. “Let’s explore.”

He felt nervous passing the door of Tom’s room, but they reached the foyer without incident. The hotel entrance faced onto a quiet side street. “I don’t suppose you have a street map?” he asked.

Charlotte glanced up at him. “I do, as a matter of fact. There was a brochure thing in my room at the hotel. It has a map of the city center.” She pulled it from her pocket. “Is there somewhere you specially want to go?”

There was a hint of excited enjoyment rising from his stomach. He was beginning to realize he actually was in Paris, with money in his pocket (not a lot, but enough) and could go anywhere he wanted. “I’ve always fancied seeing the Louvre ever since I read
The Da Vinci Code.
”

“There’s a coincidence.” Charlotte grinned. “Me too. I think we can walk from here. We need to get onto the main streets though.”

“Okay,” Em said. “I’m game if you are.”

They found their way onto a main road; but as they were crossing the river, Charlotte suddenly hesitated. “I keep getting the feeling we’re being watched. You know, like when somebody stares at the back of your neck.”

Em glanced around him. Traffic on the bridge was heavy, but none of the hurrying pedestrians seemed to be paying them any particular attention. “I don’t think so,” he said uncertainly. “What’s given you the feeling?”

Charlotte smiled. “Oh, you know—woman’s intu-ition.” The smile became apologetic. “It’s probably just my imagination.”

“Yes, probably,” Em said.

As Charlotte promised, the museum was not far, but as the pyramid came into view, they realized that the queue to the ticket desk stretched across the square and down one of the surrounding streets. Em stared at it for a moment. “I don’t fancy standing in line for hours,” he said.

“Neither do I,” Charlotte said at once. “Let’s find somewhere and have a cup of coffee.”

They discovered tables set out in a colonnade to one side of the square, most taken by chattering couples and groups drinking wine. A scurrying waiter pointed to a small table for two beside one of the pillars and said cheerfully,
“Ici!”
As they sat down, he asked, “You do not require a full meal?” Em shook his head quickly. “In that case, this menu.” The waiter handed them a printed card. “I shall return when you have time to consider.”

“How did he know we were English?” Em asked, frowning.

Charlotte shrugged. “Perhaps we look English. When he comes back, I’ll order us
citron pressés
in French; that’ll confuse him.”

From their vantage point they could still see the queue for the Louvre. A coach had pulled up in the square, disgorging an enormous party of very young schoolchildren who milled about noisily, quickly filling much of the free space. Em was watching them, and pitying their poor teachers, as their
citron pressés
arrived. The drink proved chilled and very sour, much like lightly watered lemon juice. He fought down the instinctive reaction of his mouth to purse violently, managed something resembling a smile, and gasped, “Delicious!”
Citron pressés
were for sophisticated people with sophisticated tastes. He didn’t want Charlotte to think he was a bumpkin.

Charlotte smiled back, then leaned across the table until her lips were an intimate distance from his ear and asked quietly, “You know that feeling I had?”

“On the bridge?”

Charlotte nodded. “We should have paid attention to it. Someone has been following us.”

Chapter 9

C
harlotte said, “I want you to look back into the square as if you’re still watching the schoolchildren. Then I’ll say something to you; and when you turn to look at me, check out the man sitting at the table at the far end of the colonnade just beyond the door. Linen suit, dark glasses—he’s actually the only person in the whole place sitting alone.”

Em set down his drink and glanced quickly back to the square. Two harassed adults, presumably teachers, had somehow managed to herd most of the children into ragged lines and were currently trying to round up the stragglers. The coach driver was slowly backing up his empty vehicle, obviously preparing to leave his passengers to their fate. The queue for the pyramid looked changed, but undiminished, and was now largely composed of what Em took to be Japanese and American tourists.
Followed?
Em thought as Charlotte said something to him.

As he turned toward her, everything seemed to go into slow motion. He stared along the colonnade past family groups and couples, past two gaggles of brightly dressed girls at adjacent tables clearly celebrating something, past the busy waiters in their white aprons, past a cluster of businessmen who had shed their jackets because of the heat, and beyond the restaurant doorway to a solitary table squeezed in right at the very end.

The linen suit Charlotte had mentioned looked Italian in cut and made of lightweight, cream-colored cloth ideal for a sunny summer’s afternoon. The man wore it with a white, open-necked shirt stretched over a muscular chest. There was a Panama hat on the table in front of him; and like maybe 80 percent of the other patrons he was wearing dark glasses—no surprise in this weather. As his gaze swept past, Em had the uneasy feeling that their eyes met briefly, but it was probably imagination: there was no way to see past those shades.

Em recognized him at once and felt his chest tighten. “I think we should get out of here.”

“I haven’t paid for the
citron pressés
,” Charlotte said. “I’ll call a waiter.”

“Don’t do that,” Em told her quickly. He leaned forward. “How do you know he was following us?”

“I saw him in the street earlier. He—”

“Outside the hotel?” Em interrupted.

Charlotte shook her head. “No—later. When we were crossing the bridge. And then when we turned down the boulevard, he pretended to look in a shop window. You know, the way they do in detective movies.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I wasn’t sure,” Charlotte said. “It might just have been a coincidence. Then when I saw him at the table . . .” She hesitated. “You don’t think it’s a coincidence, do you?”

Em shook his head. “I’ve seen him before.”

She was quick off the mark: “So he’s not following us, he’s following you?”

“I suppose,” Em said.

“Why?” Charlotte asked.

Em had just been asking himself that question. Why had he pretended it never happened? Why had he pretended the man wasn’t really carrying a gun at his father’s funeral? Or that he hadn’t seen the same man on the train? “I don’t know,” he said truthfully.

“I’ll call the waiter,” Charlotte volunteered again.

“We don’t have time!” Em hissed urgently. His mind was racing at top speed. “It’s me he’s following, but he knows we’re together now. I want you to stand up and walk directly toward him, then go into the main restaurant as if you’re looking for a loo. He’s bound to focus on you since you’re moving; and when he does, I’ll slip away. If you go straight through the restaurant, there’s bound to be another way out. It’ll be easy to throw him off since he’s not following you anyway. We can meet back at the hotel.”

“He may know where we’re staying.”

“You saw him on the bridge, not outside the hotel.”

Charlotte shrugged. “That doesn’t mean anything; maybe I just didn’t notice him before. I think we should meet up somewhere else. How about the main entrance to the Musée d’Orsay? You remember—we passed it on the way.”

“Yes, all right,” Em muttered. Although he was working hard to control it, there was more than a hint of panic rising from his stomach. “Now will—?”

But Charlotte hadn’t finished. “It’ll never be enough for me just to wander off looking for a restroom. You leave this to me. Once I have his attention, you slip away.” She stood up abruptly. “See you at the museum.”

“No, wait a—” But it was too late. She was already weaving her way through the tables, headed toward the man in the linen suit. For a moment he thought she was going to follow the plan he’d suggested, but she walked past the door to the main part of the restaurant and directly up to the man’s table. Em’s view was blocked for a second, then he heard a sudden shout, part anger, part pain. The man in the suit was on his feet, gesticulating. Charlotte seemed to be talking to him urgently, her words lost in the general buzz of conversation in the colonnade.

Em moved without thinking. He ran along one of the lines of schoolchildren, cut across the square, then dived behind the empty coach, which was crawling forward at a snail’s pace because of the milling tourists. With no trouble keeping up, he looked around wildly, trying to work out an escape route. It occurred to him that if he could keep the bus between him and the man for another fifty yards, he could take one of the side streets without being seen. Then, if he made it to a corner—or even another side street—he would be free and clear without the man having the slightest idea where he’d gone.

The bus stopped suddenly and so did Em. They were too far from the side street for him to reach it unseen. But if he stayed where he was, he might be discovered. He crept toward the front, hoping to find out why the driver had stopped. If it was simply because of the press of pedestrians, he would move on again in a moment. But if he was preparing to park, Em was in real trouble.

He slowed as he neared the bus’s entrance door so the driver wouldn’t see him. He still had no idea why the vehicle had stopped and began to debate the wisdom of moving away from it a little to get a clearer view. Then a better idea occurred to him and he dropped down to look between the wheels. So far as he could tell, they were nowhere near a parking bay, but there was a steady stream of people ahead. He was climbing back to his feet when a heavy hand fell on his shoulder.

“Yipes!” Em started in shock, then spun around, bit the hand, and jerked himself free. He was poised to run for his life when he realized he was facing the waiter who had served them in the colonnade.

“Six euros cinquante, s’il vous plaît!”
the waiter hissed. He’d obviously abandoned his English for he added,
“Pour les deux boissons.”

Three euros twenty-five seemed a lot for a glass of stuff that turned your mouth inside out. But that was beside the point. The focus of Em’s mind was that he had two euro coins in his pocket—not enough to pay for the drinks—and a twenty euro note in his wallet that would certainly pay for both drinks but leave him waiting for change, and he hadn’t time to do that. So unless the waiter kept the change, which Em didn’t want either—it was all the money he had, for Pete’s sake!—his only option, his
only
option . . .

Em ran. He ran for the side street. Which meant he ran out from behind the cover of the coach.

He’d scarcely covered fifteen yards when he heard Charlotte scream.

Em spun around, almost losing his balance. He was right out in the open now, completely exposed. But the man in the linen suit was otherwise engaged. Four waiters were gathered around him, gesticulating furiously. Every patron in the colonnade was looking in his direction. Charlotte seemed to be weeping, comforted by an elderly woman with blue-rinse hair. She looked over the woman’s shoulder directly at Em. And winked.

Em twisted around again and ran for the side street. Minutes later, he’d left the Louvre far behind.