But even if they did reach it, then what? Their assailant was a mere fifty metres behind them. He had a gun with a silencer. No doubt he intended to follow them through the portal. Then pull the trigger with no one the wiser.
‘I th-think we should s-summon the g-gendarmes,’ she stammered, grasping the front of Cædmon’s jacket to get his attention.
Barely glancing at her, Cædmon scotched the idea with a terse shake of the head. ‘Too much is at stake. If we go to the police, the Montségur Medallion will end up in the bloody Louvre.’
‘B-better that than the two of us ending up in the grave,’ she retorted.
Cædmon made no reply.
Fear level spiking, Kate took a deep stabilizing breath. In through her nostrils, out through her mouth. She kept a mental count until finally they reached the guichet.
‘Quickly! Take the lead!’ Cædmon ordered, pulling her in front of him.
Shoving wet hanks of hair out of her face, she did as instructed, belatedly realizing that Cædmon was shielding her with his own body, protecting her from the monster to the rear of them.
Although a full storey in height, the dimly lit guichet was stifling. Kate was pressed in on all four sides. The crowd’s mood having noticeably soured, the thick stream of soaking wet tourists trudged through the dank chasm.
Craning her neck, Kate caught Cædmon’s eye. ‘Is he still –’
‘Yes. About forty metres back.’
‘How are we going to elude him?’
‘I’m not altogether certain.’
Seconds later, like projectiles fired from a cannon, they burst free of the guichet, the summer tempest no less severe on the other side. Many in the throng rushed across the street, taking shelter under the covered arcade that ran parallel to Rue de Rivoli.
‘We mustn’t tarry. Our assailant will emerge from the portal at any moment.’ Snatching hold of her hand, Cædmon turned to the right and ran up to a middle-aged man holding a large black umbrella over his head.
Tapping the bespectacled gentleman on the shoulder, Cædmon, speaking in flawless French, told the stranger that he’d give him fifty euros for his umbrella.
Brown eyes opened wide. ‘Mais, oui! ’
Ten seconds later, the transaction complete, Cædmon shepherded the two of them, now huddled under the umbrella, down Rue de Rivoli.
‘Cædmon, have you lost your mind?’ Kate hissed. ‘You just paid that man the equivalent of sixty-eight dollars. For an umbrella! ’
‘I didn’t think that twenty euros would seal the deal. Trust me. There’s a method to my madness.’
‘Who cares if we get – Oh, I get it,’ she said abruptly, noticing that the pavement teemed with people carrying umbrellas, most of which were basic black. Just like the one that Cædmon now held over their heads. ‘The black umbrella isn’t to keep us dry. It’s to camouflage us.’
‘Our assailant will, hopefully, assume that like everyone else who doesn’t have an umbrella, we sought dry shelter under the arcade.’
‘So, what’s our next move?’ she huffed, barely able to speak and draw breath at the same time.
Cædmon jutted his chin towards the taxi stand a block away. ‘Do you have enough energy left for one last sprint?’
Despite the fact that her shins ached and the sides of her abdomen were painfully cramped, Kate gamely nodded. She hoped fear would make her fleet of foot. Or at least keep her on her feet.
Hand in hand, they sloshed down the pavement.
A few moments later, her lungs on fire, they reached the taxi stand. Opening the door of the cab, Cædmon motioned her into the back seat. He then closed the umbrella and sidled next to her.
Red hair plastered to his skull, Cædmon leaned forward and said, ‘À la Tour Eiffel, s’il vous plaît.’
42
‘… avec le citron.’
Nodding, the waiter scribbled the drink order on to a notepad before heading back into the café, muttering under his breath about the crazy Englishman who insisted on sitting outside during a deluge.
What the sulking Frenchman failed to mutter was that Cædmon and Kate were protected from the rain, their small table situated beneath a canvas awning.
‘Where is he?’ For the fourth time in as many minutes, Kate anxiously glanced at her wristwatch.
About to inform his overwrought companion that he didn’t know and, moreover, he didn’t give a monkey’s, Cædmon thought better of it at the last. ‘He’s only six minutes late. Let’s not sound retreat just yet, eh?’ At least, not until my G&T arrives.
‘What if Finn didn’t make it? Maybe the gunman shot him at the Arc de Triomphe plaza. If that happened, he could be injured or –’
‘But he’s not,’ Cædmon interjected in a firm tone, alarmed by Kate’s runaway imagination, concerned that she might be suffering from a mild case of hysteria. An understandable enough reaction given the recent hair-raising episode.
In truth, the skin on the back of his neck still prickled, his senses in a heightened state of awareness.
Feigning an interest in the large potted palm diagonally opposite their table, he surreptitiously scanned the bustling cityscape; the driver of a panel truck parked directly across the street was in the process of delivering plastic tanks of bottled water; motorists weaved in and out of traffic; pedestrians, huddled beneath their brollies, scurried down the pavement.
Nothing out of the ordinary.
So, why this dread feeling in the pit of my stomach?
The waiter, lips turned down in a classic Gallic sneer, returned with their drinks. Cædmon, accustomed to the French and their infernal bad manners, wordlessly handed the man ten euros.
Reaching for the white ceramic cup set in front of her, Kate smiled weakly. ‘If I didn’t need the caffeine fix, I would have joined you.’
She referred, of course, to the fact that he’d ordered a gin and tonic. And a double, at that.
Unable to meet her gaze, Cædmon squeezed the wedge of lemon before dropping the mutilated piece of fruit into his glass. ‘Having successfully outwitted the evil ogre, a celebratory drink is in order.’ Affecting a jovial air, he toasted the sentiment with a raised glass. A glass punctured with a red light beam.
No sooner did the unexpected image hit his ocular nerve than the glass shattered in his hand.
‘Shite!’
In the next instant, a green bottle of Perrier exploded.
Lurching at Kate, Cædmon none too gently yanked her out of the bistro chair, pulling her under their table. Hunched over the top of her, he grabbed the nearby potted palm and dragged it in front of them. Because of the rain, all of the outdoor tables were vacant. Because the gunman’s weapon was suppressed, no one inside the café was even aware of what was happening, the bullets silently lodging in the stucco wall behind them.
‘Oh, God!’ Kate moaned, her body contorted into a quivering ball.
Acid churning like mad in the pit of his gut, Cædmon ventured a glance across the street. The gunman had to be hiding behind the delivery van parked on the other side of the road!
Just then, a taxi pulled up to the front of the café. Both rear doors, as well as the front passenger door, flung open. Four tall Swedes, businessmen on a working holiday from the looks of them, got out of the cab.
Cædmon, seizing what might be their one and only chance to escape unscathed, quickly stood up. Extending a hand, he helped Kate to her feet. ‘She lost a contact lens,’ he said to one of the men in the group who glanced quizzically at them.