After making a financial killing on several arms deals in the mid-1990s, he bought a castle on the outskirts of Bruges, which he named Château Dubois. Then he travelled Europe in search of the perfect furnishings to adorn his home. Most men in his position would have hired a decorator to take care of such trivial tasks, but Dubois considered himself a new breed of criminal — classically educated, exquisitely dressed, and, above all else, culturally superior to all those round him. Sure, he had dabbled with street gangs in his youth, but he had done that strictly for research purposes. His intent hadn’t been to befriend the dregs of society or to make a fortune with his escapades; instead, his goal had been to understand the criminal mind so he could always be several steps ahead of his rivals. Sort of like a grandmaster playing chess.
Once again, it always came back to inside information for Dubois.
The more he acquired, the better off he would be.
Dressed in slacks and a cashmere sweater, Dubois read his notebook near a roaring fire in his study. A snifter of Armagnac and an encrypted phone sat next to him on a hand-carved table he had acquired at an auction house in Malta.
Much like his furniture, he was solidly built and well maintained. Neither short nor tall, he exercised just enough for his clothes to fit him properly. Broad shoulders and a thick chest showcased his tailored suits. His shoes were always polished, and his pants were always cuffed. His chestnut hair, tinged with a hint of grey near the ears, was always slicked back with an all-natural gel that he imported from the Orient. Last but not least, his scent had been custom-designed at a small boutique in Paris. A single bottle cost more than some cars.
Despite all this pampering, which might suggest he was a little too familiar with his feminine side, Dubois was a raging heterosexual. To help quench his libido, he flew in female courtesans from all round the globe, sometimes partaking in several at once. Although he had a few personal favourites who were flown in monthly, that was as close as he came to having an actual relationship. For him, women were disposable, meant to be used and discarded like toothpicks.
Usually at this hour, some exotic beauty would be writhing on top of him in his bedroom, but due to a business concern in America, the fire and the alcohol were the only things keeping him warm. All told there were twelve fireplaces in his château, which had seemed like overkill until he moved in and realized how draughty a fourteenth-century castle could be. The temperature outside was in the low thirties — pretty typical for a December night in Belgium — but would warm up to the fifties during the day. Normally Dubois spent this time of year in his exquisite vacation homes, particularly the ones he owned near tropical beaches.
Otherwise, his suntan faded and his mood soured.
As an antiquarian book collector, Dubois possessed one of the finest rare-book collections in Europe. Recently, thanks to a very expensive bribe or two, he had been given new information about the mythical manuscript he had been dreaming about since he was a little boy. Although many historians doubted the book ever existed (they claimed it was the figment of someone’s overactive imagination), Dubois was confident it was real. In fact, he was so convinced he had learned several ancient languages just so he could read first-hand accounts of all the people who had searched for the book before him.
By learning about their failed attempts, he hoped to achieve success.
Thumbing through his notes on The First Face of the French Janus by Jean-Aimé de Chavigny, a sixteenth-century writer who had guided his search on multiple occasions, Dubois heard the phone ring. Glancing at his watch, he noted the time and approved. The call had been placed within the timeframe they had discussed.
Apparently, everything had gone as planned.
‘Hello,’ he said in Dutch. ‘Do you have news?’
‘Yes, sir, the leak has been found. It will be plugged shortly.’
Dubois shook his head, irritated. ‘You consider that news? That is not news. That is a waste of my time. I already knew about the leak. That’s why you were sent there in the first place. Call me back when the leak has been eliminated!’
6
Payne was known for his gut feelings. Sometimes they went against empirical evidence, and often they defied common sense. But he had learned long ago to trust his instincts, even if he couldn’t rationally explain them. Sometimes he just knew when something was wrong.
And this was one of those times.
From the moment he had spotted her in the back of the crowd, Payne knew she was there for him. For what purpose, he didn’t know. But he planned to find out as soon as they found her.
Trying not to draw attention, he walked calmly but quickly down the long corridor. He passed the Irish, Lithuanian, and Romanian Classrooms, nodding to several guests along the way, then made a sharp right. The English Classroom, the last place the woman had been seen, was at the far end of the hallway. In between were dozens of people, multiple classrooms, and plenty of places to hide.
This would be harder than he had thought.
In a hostile situation, Payne would’ve had a weapon in his hand and would’ve been ordering everyone out of the corridor, possibly firing a warning shot to stress the urgency of his directive. He had a lot of experience with urban warfare, and the minimization of civilian casualties was priority number one. His current objective was a lot less dramatic, yet challenging nonetheless. The woman wasn’t a criminal, a suspect, or a terrorist. So far, her only transgression was wearing jeans to a formal gala. Outside Muslim countries, dress-code violations were rarely a punishable offence, although fashion critics in Hollywood were notoriously vicious.
Payne continued to move forward, his eyes scanning everything in the corridor, looking for the slightest hint of green or blue — the colours of her coat and jeans — in the black and white world of men’s formal wear. Some of the women wore colourful gowns, often complemented by lavish jewels and designer accessories, but none of them fitted the criteria he was searching for.
‘Shit,’ he mumbled to himself, realizing she had probably left the hallway for the sanctuary of a classroom or the freedom of nearby stairs. But first things first. Before he concerned himself with other floors, he knew he had to search the nearby rooms, starting with the one on his left.
The door to the Swedish Room was wide open, and several guests were standing inside. The walls were built with 200-year-old handmade bricks coated with multiple layers of whitewash. The sloped ceiling and back wall were covered in murals, many of which showcased the subtle humour that Sweden was known for. A fresco depicted the Three Wise Men, dressed as cavaliers, riding to Bethlehem in opposite directions. In another image, Lady Justice used her blindfold to hold a scale that appeared to be balanced but actually had an off-centre fulcrum.
Ignoring the scenery, Payne focused on the people. A quick scan of the room proved that the mystery woman was not there.
A few seconds later he stepped next door and visited China. Inspired by a reception hall in the Forbidden City, the Chinese Room was dedicated to the memory of Confucius and his democratic model of education. Teachers and students sat at the same level around a moon-shaped teak-wood table. Above it, the ceiling contained a golden five-clawed imperial dragon, the symbol of nature’s energy. Surrounding squares portrayed the dragon as a guardian of the pearl of wisdom and the phoenix as a symbol of cultural wealth. All the walls were painted red, which reminded Payne of his last trip to the Far East, a gruesome mission where he and Jones had been asked to investigate a cave bathed in blood on the tiny island of Jeju, South Korea. During his military career, he had witnessed and inflicted his fair share of carnage, but something about that cave still haunted his dreams.