Ulster opened his door a few seconds later. He was unsure of what had happened, but knew it wasn’t important. All that mattered was that his friends had arrived safely. ‘Jonathon! It’s so good to see you.’ He gave him a bear hug. ‘How are you, my friend?’
‘I’m great, Petr. How about yourself?’
‘Wonderful. Just wonderful!’
Jones walked over timidly. ‘Hey, Petr. Good to see you.’
‘David! I just had a dream about you.’
‘Really?’
He paused and pointed. ‘Strangely, you were wearing those same clothes.’
Jones hoped his host wouldn’t put things together. ‘All this talk about Nostradamus, and now you’re seeing the future. How crazy is that?’
Ulster laughed. ‘Yes, that must be it!’
‘So,’ Jones said, trying to change the subject, ‘why are you here?’
‘Why? Because this is my home. Wherever you go in Switzerland, I go.’
Payne put his hand on Ulster’s shoulder. ‘I appreciate the offer, but I’m afraid we have to refuse. People have been hunting us since Saturday, and I get the feeling they’re not going to stop anytime soon. I’d never forgive myself if you got hurt in the crossfire.’
‘And I’d never forgive myself if you got hurt in my homeland.’
‘But Petr—’
Ulster cut him off. ‘Jonathon, this isn’t open to debate. I know the streets of Geneva like my own back yard, and I have trustworthy friends who can help us throughout the city. Furthermore, I can speak and read all the languages that Nostradamus used, plus my knowledge of the prophet is greater than all of yours combined. Pardon me for saying so, but you’d be foolish to turn down my expertise.’
Jones glanced at Payne. ‘He’s got a point.’
‘But—’
Ulster cut him off again. ‘And take a look at this.’ He trudged towards the SUV and opened its hatch. Inside the trunk was a wide assortment of guns and ammunition. All the weapons looked brand new. ‘I come bearing gifts.’
Jones eyed the merchandise. ‘Merry fuckin’ Christmas.’
Ulster laughed. ‘I took your advice after the last attack on the Archives. Now we have a modern armoury at our disposal.’
Jones grabbed a Benelli semi-automatic 12-gauge shotgun. ‘Much better than those war relics we used a few years ago. With this thing, Santa and his reindeer wouldn’t stand a chance.’
Payne took a few seconds to consider their options. Although he didn’t like the thought of Megan and Ulster in the fray, neither of them would be deadweight. Megan had been invited by name and might be the key to whatever they were searching for, and Ulster was one of the few people in the world who could interpret all the clues along the way.
‘Fine,’ he said reluctantly, ‘you can tag along. But in the field, I’m in charge. If I say something, you do it. No questions, no quarrels, no hesitation.’
Ulster nodded and grinned.
‘One more thing, and this isn’t negotiable. Both of you need to wear bulletproof vests.’
Ulster grinned even wider as he pulled up his sweater. Hidden underneath was the largest Kevlar vest that Payne had ever seen. Custom-built to protect Ulster’s massive stomach and man boobs, it had been decorated with red and blue paisley. ‘I’m ready to rock and roll!’
Jones grimaced at the sight. ‘And I’m ready to throw up.’
The airport was located north-west of Geneva, a short drive to Quai du Mont-Blanc, the road inscribed on the Nostradamus document. Jones drove the SUV while Payne rode shotgun. In this case, it wasn’t just a nickname. He actually had the Benelli in his lap as he surveyed the surrounding terrain. While navigating from the back seat, Ulster described the research he had done during the night, which explained why he had been napping at the airport.
‘As soon as I got off the phone to you, I hustled to the Renaissance Room at the Archives and located a copy of Les Prophéties in its original French, and all the materials I had on Nostradamus. That included some handwritten correspondence to his son. Although nothing will be conclusive until your document is tested, I can assure you the handwriting is a perfect match. If your letter wasn’t written by Nostradamus, it was done by a master forger.’
Sitting next to Ulster, Megan shook her head in disbelief. ‘You mentioned he had a son. Did you find any connections to my family?’
Ulster patted her on the leg. ‘If I had, my dear, I would have called.’
‘So where does that leave us?’ Payne wondered.
‘Actually, it leaves us in a very good place.’
‘How do you figure?’
Ulster explained. ‘Although I found nothing definitive about Megan’s family, I uncovered a few titbits about his family that might come in handy. First of all, his son’s name was César. According to some accounts, he was named after Nostradamus’s mentor, a man named César Scalinger, who was a famous philosopher and botanist.’
‘Why is that important?’ Jones asked in his rearview mirror.
‘Because his initials were C. S., just like the initials on your document.’
Payne tried to make sense of it. ‘So the letters might stand for César Scalinger, and the number is the year that Nostradamus died. Any thoughts on what that might mean?’
Jones guessed. ‘Maybe there’s a statue or a plaque on Quai du Mont-Blanc honouring them?’
‘I don’t think there is,’ Ulster said, ‘but we can certainly look. As I mentioned yesterday, it’s a very short road. We can cover it on foot in less than an hour.’
‘Anything else?’ Payne asked.
Ulster nodded. ‘The last line of Megan’s text message mentioned the blood of his first wife, so I tried to find all the information I could about this woman. During my search, I found something rather surprising. No one knows her name. At least not with any certainty. A few sources claim it was a woman named Henriette d’Encausse, but most sources say that it is incorrect and her actual name has been lost over time.’
Megan looked puzzled. ‘How is that possible? Nostradamus was famous.’
‘Remember, my dear, this was his first wife. At the time they were married, Nostradamus was a physician, not a celebrated prophet. According to my research, they married for love, not convenience, and the couple had two children whose names are not known.’
‘What happened to them?’ she demanded, hoping one of them had carried on the bloodline of his first wife.
‘Sadly, there was an outbreak of Black Death in France, and Nostradamus was called away from their home in Agen to help heal the afflicted. While he was off helping others, his entire family caught the plague and died before he returned. Obviously this devastated him on a personal level, but it also ruined his professional reputation. Nobody wanted to be treated by a healer who let his own family die from the plague.’
‘You’re right,’ Jones said, ‘that wouldn’t look good on a business card.’
Ulster continued. ‘Because of this stain on his résumé, he left Agen and roamed throughout France and Italy for the next six years, helping the sick and grieving his loss. For him, it was a deep period of reflection and personal growth that altered his life for ever.’
‘In what way?’ Payne asked.
‘No one knows when and no one knows why, but at some point during his travels, Nostradamus found his gift for prophecy.’
54
Ulster wasn’t exaggerating about the short length of Quai du Mont-Blanc. It ran for 2,000 feet along the north-west shore of Lake Geneva. Sandwiched between Rue du Mont-Blanc to the south and Quai Wilson to the north, Quai du Mont-Blanc was a picturesque road filled with banks, monuments, and luxury hotels. It offered a distant view of Mont Blanc, Europe’s highest mountain, which towered above the Alps on the French-Italian border.