It could have been clouds making shadows on white rock, had there been any clouds in the brilliant blue sky. The angle of the sun to any number of rocks could have also been the origin of the shadows. Or, possibly, the shadows could have been the result of a far-ranging sheep, moving from boulder to boulder so quickly that the eye was unsure if it had really seen movement.
The sniper didn't think so. The scope moved to a place fifty or so feet from the cave's entrance.
3
Cardou
A haze of white dust threw the flashlight's beam back into Lang's eyes. He couldn't see until he was completely inside the cave. He couldn't see the walls and he certainly couldn't see the low ceiling. He smacked his head against unforgiving rock. At least the impact made him see something, even if only spinning balls of color.
Wary of another collision, he stooped before moving forward. Of course, he thought. He should have known the damned roof would be low. Men centuries ago rarely stood more than five feet. He had never seen a suit of armor that he could have gotten into.
The dust was settling enough that Lang could see chisel marks, the tracks of the stonemasons Pietro had observed.
This cave had been enlarged by a process more laborious than Lang wanted to imagine.
He stepped deliberately, placing each foot softly to minimize stirring the powdery white dust carpeting the floor. Still, there was enough of it in the air that he didn't see it until the flashlight silhouetted it against the far wall. A stone box, squarely carved, about twenty inches by fifteen and maybe a foot high. Only its shape distinguished it from the pieces of rock that had fallen from the ceiling as the centuries passed. An indentation in the coat of covering dust indicated it had a-lid. Closer inspection revealed irregularities in its coating of grime that may have been letters. With a tentative hand, Lang rubbed the stone, the slightest touch sending motes whirling into the light's beam. The surface felt warm, almost hot to his touch, in contrast to the cool of the surrounding dark.
He tried to remove the top without success. The lid had been carved to such a perfect fit that aeons of dust and grime had provided a sealant as effective as cement. Once again, Lang experienced warmth that seemed to reside in the box itself.
He squatted, sitting on his heels to bring his face closer to the stone. He closed his eyes and gave a gentle puff as he had in law school to blow dust from a book long unused. When he guessed the ministorm had quieted, he looked.
Much of the carving had cracked, fallen away as the stone had expanded and contracted in response to the cave's temperature fluctuations. One series of characters resembled the Hebrew inscriptions Lang had once seen in a synagogue. Aramaic, the ancient language of the Jews? And Latin, the letters barely legible.
Lang's lungs seemed to expand involuntarily as his surprise made him suck in a mouthful of dust and dirt that sent him into a spasm of coughing. He did not remember going from a squat to sitting splay-legged on the cave's floor, staring at the ancient letters in the halo of the flashlight. Solving the riddle of the painting had been one thing, a cerebral exercise. Finding this was quite another. His mind was spinning like a fishing reel, unable to even guess at all the implications from this discovery. Saunière, Pietro… they must have felt the same as Lang did now.
The cavern filled with light from behind him.
"Very clever, Mr. Reilly. I congratulate you."
For an instant, Lang thought the police had finally caught up to him. Then he was afraid they hadn't.
Forgetful of the low ceiling, he started to his feet.
"Stay right where you are if you want to live, Mr. Reilly. And be sure to keep your hands where I can see them."
Lang lifted his arms, the universal gesture of surrender. There was no point in provoking these people. Not that They needed provocation to kill. Rough hands from behind snatched him to a semistanding position and slammed him against a wall. A quick but thoroughly professional pat-down followed. A hand reached into his pockets, removing all contents before the nearly dry shirt was pulled from his face.
"He's not armed," a second voice said. "But here's a copy of some sort of letter."
The copy made in the post office.
Lang risked looking over his shoulder. All he could see was a blinding light.
"You might want to read that letter," Lang said, "before you do anything… rash."
He was grabbed by the shoulders, spun around and shoved towards the entrance, again whacking his head on the low rock as he stumbled into daylight that made him wince after the darkness of the cave.
When Lang's eyes adjusted, he saw a man, perhaps in his fifties, certainly dressed more appropriately for the boardroom than a mountainside in France. He was reading the letter. From his expression, he was less than amused. It was an old trick, the if-something-happens-to-me letter, not exactly original. But Lang was guessing that, trite or not, the letter was going to save his life, at least for the moment. At this point, he would have been perfectly willing to be saved by lost letters, infants on doorsteps or any other literarily hackneyed device including having the cavalry ride over the hill.
Beside the man in the suit were two more guys, younger and bigger. They looked as though they might have once played some sport where collisions were likely: football, rugby, hockey, something where inflicting pain is encouraged. Their necks overflowed the starched shirt collars and the tailored suits were stuffed as tight as the skin of a sausage. They each wore what Lang guessed to be thousand-dollar-plus Italian toe caps, footwear for the corporate elite. From the sheen of the black leather, those shoes hadn't made many excursions like this one. Their wardrobes were complete with the Heckler and Koch 10millimeter MPIOs they each held, a submachine gun small enough to fit in a briefcase with the stock folded, heavier artillery than the goons in London had. It was the weapon of choice of both the Secret Service Presidential Detail and Navy SEALs. These guys were neither.
Lang didn't turn but was certain the one behind, the one whose push had ejected him from the cave, was from the same mold.
The older man looked up from the letter. Tan under a full head of long silver hair, his face was lean, the sort of face AARP likes to use in its brochures.
"To whom did you send this?" he wanted to know.
"Santa Claus," Lang said. "I'm beating the Christmas rush."
He dipped his chin, the slightest of nods, and Lang's arm was snatched upward from behind, a Quick snap that sent a jolt of pain across Lang's shoulders. It hurt enough to make him gasp.
"No one likes a smartass, Mr. Reilly," the man said without a trace of anger, as though he were lecturing a dull child. "I assure you, I will have an answer. The question is, how much will you have to endure first?"
Lang made a show of glancing from left to right. "Don't see the rack, thumbscrews, any of the interrogation tools Philip and the boys used on your people. Sure you can ask questions without equipment?"
Another wrenching of the arm. Lang may have only imagined the sound of tearing ligaments. He was certain he saw stars brighter than when he had banged his head.
"And the answer?" Silver Hair asked. "And what happens when you get it?" Lang asked. "Don't guess I'm walking out of here with your thanks."
The man in the suit wasn't the first to call Lang a wiseass and Lang devoutly hoped he'd live long enough for this guy not to be the last. But the purpose of the conversation wasn't social banter. Agency training taught that, in a tight spot, stall, play for time in hopes you'll find a way out. With two, probably three men armed with automatic weapons; it looked like Lang was going to need a whole lot of time.
The older guy, obviously the leader, gave Lang a smile that wouldn't have melted ice in July. "Very perceptive of you, Mr. Reilly."