Zane turned around and looked back at the cathedral. It was perfect. Setting up at the tree would give him a clear view of the entrance. Although it didn’t seem possible, the snow was falling even harder as he got down on one knee next to the trunk of the largest tree. The wind was blowing sideways, dropping visibility down to just about zero.
I need to talk to Ross about inclement weather pay, Zane thought as he settled in.
Even though Geneva was used to rough winter storms, Zane doubted any scheduled event would still be on tonight. The weather was bad, even by Swiss standards. That said, they would wait it out and see what happened. Zane couldn’t help but think about how clever Higgs had been with the clue he had left in Vienna, and that they could expect him to come through in Geneva as well.
Zane glanced at the time again and noted that it was five minutes before ten. They would soon know if the night was going to give up any secrets. He thought about what they would do next if things came up empty tonight and again in the morning. He knew that at some point they had to go inside and look around, perhaps even talk to some of the staff. That might raise questions, but it also might be their only hope of finding out what Higgs had left behind.
But what if the cathedral had nothing to do with the clue? After all, Higgs had only given them the name of the square, Place Bourg-Saint-Pierre. Zane quickly dismissed that thought. They’d look elsewhere if they needed to, but the cathedral needed to be the focal point for the moment.
Just as Zane was about to check the time again, he heard the noise. Despite the wind, it was distinct to his trained ears. It was a scraping sound approximately fifty yards away. Seeking greater concealment, he moved to the other side of the tree and removed the Glock from the pocket of his trench coat. He remembered the events in Vienna and wasn’t going to take any chances.
The sound came again, louder than before. Finally, Zane figured out what he was hearing. What had seemed like scraping was actually the sound of someone walking down the alley to his left. The person was wearing boots or heavy shoes that occasionally rubbed against the frozen surface.
A gust of wind blew across the back of the church, further lowering visibility. Zane leaned around the tree and squinted as the sound of each step grew more and more distinct. The gust died down, and Zane could finally see the shape of someone walking. As the person drew closer, he realized that it was a man of slight frame, walking slowly, with his head down. When the man reached a point even with the tree, Zane drew back so as not to be seen.
A few steps later the man turned left, causing the hairs on the back of Zane’s neck to rise. The man was moving directly toward the rear door of the church.
And it was ten o’clock.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Pastor Philippe Bachand kept his head low as he walked up the steep alley toward St. Pierre Cathedral. The snow was blowing too hard for him to raise his head, but then again, looking up wasn’t necessary. He had made the walk virtually every night for the last six years and knew every twist and turn of the route like the back of his hand. In fact, he once joked to his staff that if a crack developed in any of the stones, he would know immediately.
Having lived in Geneva for most of his adult life, Philippe could tell that the storm blowing in was not the typical one that hit Geneva in December. It was going to be bad. He had seen the soot-black clouds rolling in during his afternoon walk along the waterfront a few hours earlier, and as he looked down at his feet, he observed that the stone pathway was already covered with about an inch of snow. He knew he’d need to be careful when he returned home in an hour or so.
As the alley leveled off, Philippe lifted his head and stole a quick glance ahead. The light at the rear entrance to St. Pierre glowed like a small beacon in the storm. A couple more minutes and he would be inside the old cathedral, shielded from the wind and praying to his Lord. His nightly vigil had deepened his faith, allowing him to set aside time to be alone with God, regardless of what was going on in his life. Philippe had always come here during the worst storms of life, and he wasn’t about to let an actual storm stop him.
Just about the time that he exited the alley and crossed into the courtyard, the strange feeling hit him. He sensed that there was someone out there, hiding in the storm, watching him.
Are you speaking to me, Lord? He paused for a brief second, but when the feeling passed, he continued on his way.
"That was strange," he muttered under his breath, unable to quite discern what had just happened.
The snow was blowing sideways when he finally stepped under the light at the rear of the cathedral. He was so glad Mario had changed the bulb the week before. He’d have a rough time getting it open in the dark on a snowy night.
Removing his thick gloves, Philippe dug into the pocket of his coat and removed a bulky set of keys. He chose the largest one and inserted it in the weathered lock. It turned with a groan and a click, and the heavy wooden door slid open.
A deep voice broke the silence behind him. “Bonsoir, monsieur.”
Philippe jumped and then swiveled around, while still holding the door open. Standing behind him, just inside the perimeter of the light, was a tall, handsome man with long brown hair that flowed out from underneath a black toboggan. Philippe saw that the man’s left hand was hanging at his side, but the other was buried at a weird angle in his right coat pocket. The placement of the hidden right hand concerned him.
“Bonsoir,” Philippe answered nervously, using his back to keep the door open.
The man took another step closer. “Est-ce que vous parlez anglais?”
“Yes, I speak English,” Philippe answered.
“I know this may seem weird approaching you in the middle of a storm like this, but I think you might be able to help me with something.”
Philippe realized from the accent that the man was American. “Sir, if you would like to come back in the morning we would be most happy to help you—”
“No, it’s not that kind of help,” said the long-haired man. He paused for a moment, as if choosing his words carefully. “Do you know a man named Ian Higgs?”
Philippe’s eyes widened a bit, but he didn’t answer. He took a slight step backwards and was now partly inside the building.
“You do know him, don’t you?” the man asked. “Look, I’m here on his behalf. Something—”
Before the man could finish, Philippe stepped quickly back, slammed the door, and turned the latch. He then stood there for a moment in the dark, catching his breath. His heart felt as though it was going to beat out of his chest, but he was safe.
Could it really be true? His thoughts flashed back to a meeting that had taken place in his office about a month before. It was the last time he talked to his American friend, Ian Higgs. It was coming back clearly now, almost like a vision. They were sitting in Philippe’s office at the rear of the cathedral, and Ian was drinking a cappuccino.
The American had come to say good-bye. He told Philippe that he was going to return to the States, and he expressed his appreciation for all that the pastor had done to minister to him during his time in Switzerland.
Despite the lucrative pay, Philippe could tell that the new job had weighed heavily on his friend. The only good thing was that it had caused him to explore faith for the first time in his life, which in turn led him to travel regularly to St. Pierre for spiritual guidance.
About fifteen minutes into their conversation, Ian had set his empty cappuccino cup on the table and just stared at Philippe. Philippe was not about to say anything, as it was obvious the American was about to convey something important. A few seconds later, Ian had drawn a deep breath, pulled something out of his knapsack, and handed the object to Philippe. It was a gift for his daughter, Amanda, and it was only to be given to her, and only if she came to the church to claim it. The statement that it was only to be given to his daughter, and only if she showed up, was strange enough, but it was Ian’s next statement that Philippe found even more disturbing. Ian said it was possible other people might come to the cathedral asking questions, and under no circumstances was Philippe to give the gift to them or even discuss what it was.