It was a short declaration uttered, Chiron supposed, in the same strange tongue the woman had used earlier with the chauffeur. That their killer shared the mysterious form of speech with the woman ought to have been troubling to him, but somehow it seemed only a minor concern. He did not need to be fluent in their language to comprehend what the man had said. It was unquestionably a gloating pronouncement of victory: a death sentence. As if to underscore this supposition, the man extended the gun toward the woman and aimed down the barrel so that they were looking into each other’s eyes.
A sudden flash of light filled the interior of the wrecked limousine. The gunman flinched involuntarily, blinded by the brilliant burst. The muzzle of the gun wavered as he blinked furiously to clear away the retinal fireworks.
A flash camera, thought Chiron. Someone is here to save us.
But any well-intentioned passerby with a camera would be ill-equipped to deal with a vicious, armed killer. That Good Samaritan would simply be added to the list of victims when the assassin’s eyesight recovered. Chiron knew he had to act.
He thought about trying to leap at the man and attempting to wrestle the gun away, but dismissed the idea instantly. He was no fighter, and would have only the vaguest idea of what to do with the gun in the unlikely event that he succeeded in capturing it. Then his eyes fell upon the one weapon he was familiar with, not for close-quarters combat but rather battling the elements.
Without thinking, he snatched the umbrella off the floor and gripped its hook-shaped handle in both hands. The gunman must have seen the movement in his peripheral vision because the end of his weapon shifted toward Chiron, but the French scientist had the advantage. He thrust the metal tip of the umbrella up at the man’s face.
Whether due to good aim or sheer luck, his attack struck home, extinguishing the fierce glow in the man’s left eye. The lupine assassin’s head snapped back and the cane handle was ripped from Chiron’s grasp. The gun fell away as his hands flew up to his face to wrap around the shaft of the object that had reduced his eyesight by half, and he unleashed a bestial cry of pain and rage as he tore it free.
In a moment of unreal clarity, Chiron saw that the tip of the umbrella was now stained red and clumps of tissue were clinging to the metal point like bits of paper plucked up off the grass by a groundskeeper. The wounded assassin continued to cover his ravaged eye with one hand, but the remaining orb was bright with intensity of purpose. He scanned the interior, looking for his lost weapon, then gazed past his victims at the approaching throng of devotees drawn away from the healing waters by the commotion. His attention returned to Chiron.
“Well done.” His voice quavered slightly but was otherwise restrained. “But you now find yourself on the wrong side of this war. Ask her and she will tell you what sort of enemy you have made today.”
Dismissing Chiron, he turned to the woman and made another brief utterance in their shared tongue. She continued to hold her wounded shoulder, but her eyes were triumphant. When she spoke, it was in French, doubtless for the benefit of her companion, and though her comment was cliché, the sentiment rallied Chiron. “Go to hell.”
The assassin chortled as he pulled back through the doorframe and vanished from sight. Chiron slumped in relief, and then roused himself to thank their savior. He turned to the door he had opened but there was no one there. Certainly no one with a camera, close enough to have activated the blinding flash that had distracted the assassin from his lethal task. The closest person — a young man running toward them — was still a hundred meters away.
That’s odd, he thought. Was it only lightning?
“Pierre, listen to me.” The woman’s voice remained defiant, but he could hear a faint hiss of anguish in her gasping breaths. “This man would not have acted alone. He is a soldier, not a general. But I do not know who gave the order, nor whom to trust.”
“You can trust me,” Chiron replied, instantly feeling foolish for his eager promise.
She chuckled through the pain. “You are more right than you’ll ever know. Alas, this will likely be our only meeting.”
“I don’t understand.”
“The timing of this crisis is unfortunate for you, Pierre. It would have been a great privilege to offer you a seat at our table, but now I must implore you to forget everything.”
“Forget?”
“Trust no one, Pierre. If someone tries to persuade you that the danger has passed, then you will know that the enemy is close at hand. Only in ignorance will you find safety.”
Chiron sighed, comprehending the wisdom of her strategy, but nevertheless felt a pang of loss. So close. “And the tests? The atomic tests?”
Her eyes darted sideways, then fixed his stare once more. “The tests must proceed as I described.”
He nodded earnestly. “It will be so, madame. And will you be safe?”
“I’ll manage.” She looked aside once more, her gaze shifting to the open doorframe behind Chiron. “There is one more thing, Pierre. A personal favor.”
“Name it.”
“Soon, you will cross paths with a young man. He is very special to me.”
“I will welcome him as I would my own son.” Even as he spoke the words, the irony of the statement rang in Chiron’s ears.
“Thank you, Pierre. But he must never know of this conversation, nor anything about the group. He will find those answers in due time.”
“How will I recognize this young man?”
“Oh, I don’t believe you will have any difficulty. Your rendezvous will seem like an act of fate.”
“Are you injured?” shouted a voice in French. “What happened?”
He turned and saw the man he had earlier spied now drawing even with the wreck of the limousine. The newcomer wore casual clothes, a navy blue polo shirt with khaki chinos, but Chiron saw none of the expected accouterments of a devotee; no gold chain around his neck, no crucifix. The man was a tourist, marking this place off a list in a guidebook rather than seeking a blessing from the Divine. Somehow, the scientist found that encouraging. The young man was the vanguard of a small army of Good Samaritans, leaving their devotions at the grotto in order to render assistance to the victims of the accident.
Chiron did not know how to answer the latter question, so he addressed the former. “Yes. For God’s sake, call the medics.” He then turned back to the woman. “Everything is going to be fine…”
The words died on his lips. The woman was gone.
Chiron pulled himself across the seat and thrust his head through the opposite doorway, but there was no sign of his host. She had vanished as completely as the assassin before her. Only the crimson-tipped umbrella remained to give evidence that the encounter was not merely a delusion. Stunned by the disappearing act, he fell back into the seat, a wave of nausea creeping over him.
The tourist stuck his head inside and made eye contact with Pierre. "Help is on the way. I'm going to check on the driver."
The man then splashed into the shallow water surrounding the front end of the vehicle and forced open the driver’s door. Chiron found himself wondering if the chauffeur had likewise evaporated, but a shocked exhalation from the young rescuer affirmed that such was not the case.
The young man reappeared before Chiron, his eyes now accusatory. “That man has been shot, murdered. What happened here?”
Chiron opened his mouth to reply without really knowing what he was going to say. He stared back at the tourist, trying to formulate a plausible fiction to conceal a truth he barely understood. “I’ll wait for the gendarmes to arrive before I tell the story,” he said finally, forcing his eyes away from the young man.