Ulster stared at him. ‘A book?’
Payne grabbed the paper and handed it back to Ulster. ‘Read line three.’
He did as he was told. ‘Hidden in ink inside his lair.’
‘Didn’t you tell us that Nostradamus might have been working on a book of prophecies before he died? Some kind of journal?’
Ulster nodded. ‘I read several rumours about it. Nothing certain, but a lot of speculation.’
‘And if he wrote it in ink, wouldn’t it be in “black and white”?’
‘I guess it would, but—’
Payne continued. ‘And if someone finds it and reads his words after all this time, wouldn’t his journal be beating death? After all, Nostradamus has been dead for several centuries.’
Ulster groaned. ‘I suppose so, yes.’
‘What about the first two lines? Are they about me?’ Megan wondered.
Payne shrugged. ‘Maybe. Of course, we still don’t have any proof that you’re related to Nostradamus. Despite the letter you received, we don’t have verification that he’s actually talking about you. Maybe he is, maybe he isn’t. But as I’ve said all along, that’s the beauty of Nostradamus. Everything is ambiguous.’
‘I have to admit, I’m kind of relieved. When I read that “out of breath” part, I thought it meant I was going to die.’
Jones grinned. ‘I thought you were a goner for sure.’
Payne shook his head. ‘Even if she is the heir, it might simply mean that people will always be chasing her, trying to get an interview or trying to borrow money.’
‘Which brings us to the fortune,’ Jones said.
‘What about it?’
‘It’s been mentioned more than once.’
‘True,’ Payne said, ‘but something dawned on me while reading this poem. What if the fortune isn’t monetary? After all, Petr told us that Nostradamus wasn’t a wealthy man. So maybe he’s not talking about money. Maybe he’s talking about the type of fortune that he was known for. Maybe he’s leaving his heir information about the future.’
‘Oh,’ Megan muttered, disappointed. ‘Maybe he’s right.’
‘Or maybe I’m wrong,’ Payne admitted. ‘For all I know, Nostradamus might have been talking about a giant treasure in your future, and he might have been talking about DJ and I killing Frankie Death. Or maybe we’re just seeing things in his words that aren’t really there. The truth is we don’t know what’s going to happen — who’s going to live and who’s going to die. For that reason alone, I need to approach this thing like any other mission.’
‘Meaning?’
He stared at Megan. ‘I’m sending you and Petr to the Archives.’
‘The hell you are!’ she said.
‘I don’t care what you say or how loud you scream,’ he said in a calm tone. ‘You are not coming with us to Belgium.’
‘But this is my fight, too!’
He shook his head, resolute. ‘You didn’t start this fight, and you’re not going to finish it. Right now the only thing I care about is your survival. Hell, I don’t care if you never talk to me again. I just want you to live long enough to make that decision when all of this is done.’
She glanced at Ulster, looking for support. ‘And you’re okay with this?’
Ulster nodded. ‘More than okay. In fact, I fully support it. Trust me, my dear, the Archives are a tad more comfortable than that vault at Sotheby’s. Remember how dreadful that was? Although I admire your spunk, I think it’s time for us to step aside. While the boys are in Bruges, we can make a large contribution in Küsendorf.’
‘Doing what?’
‘Research, my dear, research! We need to authenticate your letter, and the puzzle box must be examined in much greater detail. Of course, there’s also the matter of your family tree. I have some wonderful new software that will aid our search. Simply type in what you know, and we can follow the leaves and branches back to your roots. I promise, my dear, it will be time well spent. And it might help us understand how you’re connected to Nostradamus.’
65
Located near the Belgian coast in the Flemish province of West Flanders, the Ostend-Bruges International Airport is a small facility that mostly handles charter and cargo flights. Because of a scarcity of passengers, the terminal’s security was typically a rubber-stamp procedure. Customs officials checked passports and cargo manifests, but if everything appeared to be in order, people and crates were cleared without much hassle.
Payne and Jones weren’t worried about their identification. They had fake passports with fake names made by the Pentagon. However, they were concerned with the cargo they were bringing into the country. Before Ulster’s security staff picked up Megan and Ulster and took them to the Archives, they filled a wooden crate with guns and supplies and loaded it onto the plane. The guards covered the crate in stickers that said: FRAGILE: ARTEFACTS. They also printed a fake manifest, listing a number of items that were supposedly on their way to a private collector in Bruges. Of course, none of them were actually in the crate, but because of their alleged fragility, they made it through customs without a thorough inspection.
Custom officers were afraid of breaking a priceless relic.
A cargo van and additional supplies, arranged by Ulster, were waiting for Payne and Jones when they arrived. They loaded the crate into the back, then pulled through the main gate of the terminal. It was early afternoon, and Bruges was less than thirty minutes away.
They had plenty of time to prepare for their mission.
Belgian days are quite short in mid-December. The sun doesn’t rise until after 8.30 a.m., and it sets well before 5 p.m. That gave Payne and Jones more than two hours of darkness to play with. Two hours to survey Château Dubois and search for guards before Keller would be called at 7 p.m. After that, they would use the element of surprise to gain the upper hand.
For two ex-MANIACs, home-field advantage made little difference.
While flying to Bruges, the duo had studied photographs of Dubois, blueprints of his house, and a topographical map of the terrain — all provided by Randy Raskin. He had even been willing to give them access to a live aerial feed from one of the military’s reconnaissance satellites, but they had politely refused, not wanting to bring any unnecessary attention to their operation.
Wearing dark clothes, Payne and Jones parked the van in the nearby woods and hiked a half mile to the edge of Dubois’s property. His fourteenth-century castle sat in the middle of several acres of land, most of which was overgrown with trees and bushes. In the summertime when everything was in bloom, passage would have been difficult without a machete. But in the wintry cold, the trees were bare and vegetation was at a minimum. The only thing slowing them down was the snow on the ground and their desire for stealth.
Built from red brick that had faded over the years, Château Dubois was an impressive medieval structure. Standing four storeys tall with spires that climbed even higher, the peaked roof was covered with grey tiles that appeared pale green in a certain light. Under the cover of darkness, the roof couldn’t be seen from the ground. The castle seemed to stretch from the snow-covered lawn up into the clouds, like something out of a fairytale.
It was unlike any building they had scouted before.
The château’s security system had not been activated and wouldn’t be until after ten at night. There were too many people (Dubois’s personal chef, his butler, and his cleaning staff) working inside for alarms or motion sensors. A few armed guards patrolled the outer perimeter and another was stationed at the front gate; otherwise, Dubois had very little protection. His reputation as a cold-blooded killer was what kept rivals at bay.