“If you insist, Herr Gesler,” she said, her voice brittle, then stepped aside.
“I’ll make this as painless as possible, Miss Brocklebank,” he said, stepping into the house.
Betty Brocklebank led him across a short foyer and into the grand hall, all glowing inlaid wood and parquetry with a gigantic fieldstone fireplace beside the twisting stairway, the severed heads of a number of North American game animals hanging from the walls, glass eyes staring at nothing. The floor was covered by an enormous Persian carpet that was obviously the real thing.
They turned right into a large room, floor covered by smaller throw rugs, two walls covered by built-in oak bookcases, the third wall holding another big fireplace, this one gas, and the fourth wall taken up by a picture window of leaded panes that looked out onto the front gardens.
The outer row of windowpanes framed the view, with stained glass showing what had to be the Brocklebank coat of arms: a complicated device of swans, coronets and swords in blue, green, purple and gold.
The furniture was colonial India or Siam with huge wicker fan chairs and bamboo side tables. A second old woman sat on a curving rattan couch set under the window and upholstered in a dark blue fabric set with huge, colorful magnolia blossoms.
The old lady looked exactly like Betty except for her hair, which was permed into tight curls, the white shaded slightly blue, pink scalp showing underneath. Her suit was the same as Betty Brocklebank’s, the colors reversed, white with blue piping.
“Margie,” said Betty Brocklebank, “this is Mr. Gesler from the bank in Switzerland. Mr. Gesler, my sister, Margaret Brocklebank.”
“She was born three and a half minutes before me, which makes her the elder, so she thinks she’s also the wiser, Mr. Gesler.” Margie Brocklebank gave him a curious look. “I didn’t know they had Negroes in Europe now. I don’t remember seeing any there before the war.”
“My mother was from Alexandria in Egypt. She met my father at the University of Zurich. He was taking mathematics; her degree was in physics,” Saint-Sylvestre said blandly, pulling the lies out of the air like plucking cherries off a tree.
“I see,” said Margie Brocklebank, obviously not seeing at all. A black man in her living room was difficult enough to fathom; a black woman taking a degree, let alone getting it, was too far out of the box for her to conceive. Saint-Sylvestre sat down in one of the fan-backed chairs opposite the couch, a bamboo-and-glass coffee table between them.
“I’ll fetch the papers, then, shall I?” Betty Brocklebank said. She didn’t wait for an answer and left the room, her footsteps clattering as they crossed the parquet between the carpets.
“I was valedictorian at Crofton House, you know,” said Margie Brocklebank, whispering. “Betty was only salutatorian.”
“Is that so?” Saint-Sylvestre said. He didn’t have the slightest idea what she was talking about.
“Yes, it is,” said Margie Brocklebank.
Betty Brocklebank came back into the room with an accordion file in her hands. She sat down on the couch beside her sister and put the file case on the coffee table. “Has she been telling you her ‘I was the valedictorian’ story, Mr. Gesler?”
Saint-Sylvestre said nothing. Margaret Brocklebank blushed. Her sister removed her hat, smiling triumphantly.
“Of course she was,” said Betty Brocklebank. “It’s her favorite except for the one about Mickey Hill standing me up at the Crofton House-St. George’s Prom.”
“Well, he did stand you up.” The younger sister pouted.
“At least I was invited,” said Betty Brocklebank sourly. She turned to Saint-Sylvestre. “Shall we get down to business, Mr. Gesler?”
“Of course,” said Saint-Sylvestre. He lifted the attache case onto the coffee table, unsnapped the locks and opened the case. He reached inside, took out the H amp;K P30 and shot both women twice in the chest. True to his word he’d made his business as painless as possible.
Never one for half measures, he stood up, went around the coffee table and shot the women again, one round to the head each. He wiped down the pistol carefully using the hem of Betty Brocklebank’s skirt and laid it on the coffee table. When they ran the pistol’s serial number it would slowly but inexorably lead back to Allen Faulkener, and from there to Matheson, hopefully putting the cat among the pigeons. That done, he emptied the contents of the accordion file into the attache case, closed the case up and got down to work. The entire fate of Silver Brand Mining was now in his hands.
Fifteen minutes later Saint-Sylvestre stood on the covered porch of the Brocklebank house and breathed in a lungful of fresh air. In another fifteen minutes, with the gas jets wide-open and the pilot lights snuffed out in the kitchen and the fireplaces throughout the house, the simple cigarette-and-matchbox fuse he’d left behind would turn the entire downstairs of the old house into an inferno. It would take the local fire department another ten minutes to answer the call, and ten minutes after that for the news stations to receive the news.
This gave him a forty-minute window to take the limousine back to the Hotel Vancouver and get a taxicab to the airport. If everything went reasonably well the limousine driver wouldn’t connect his last passenger to the fire on the Crescent for at least an hour or so, and by then the inimitable Leonhard Euhler would have been put to rest for good.
By the time Saint-Sylvestre reached the bottom of the steps the limousine driver was out of the car and standing beside the open rear door.
“Thank you,” said Saint-Sylvestre.
The limo driver dipped into his pocket and handed the policeman what appeared to be a fairly clean, crumpled tissue.
“Got a spot of something on your tie,” said the man.
“Thanks again,” said Saint-Sylvestre. He dipped his head and sat down, the limo driver closing in behind him. Saint-Sylvestre lifted his tie and wiped the small gelatinous blob of Margie Brocklebank’s brain tissue off the silk with the tissue. The limo driver climbed behind the wheel and they headed off.
25
They reached Kazaba Falls and the valley of the Pale Strangers at sunset the following day. They stood on the cliffs beside the smooth, hypnotic curve of the water as it raced over the precipice with a thunderous, all-consuming roar, a veil of mist rising like rainbow-tinted fog all around them, dampening the stone. The lowering sun had tinted all that it touched a shade of copper-gold.
“This is it!” Holliday said, raising his voice above the hammering bellow of the waterfall. “Your Templar Knight’s vision of Eden.”
It was the mural in the tomb on the island brought to life-the three separate cascades of the falls, each one flanked by a jutting prow of dark stone, the valley broken by the silver snake of the river far below and the three hills rising out of the jungle like the humped torsos of gigantic prehistoric beasts. It was the vindication of everything Rafi had speculated on since they’d left Jerusalem.
“The only things missing are those high-sided dugouts in the river and the miners with their baskets of ore winding down the middle hill.” Rafi nodded.
“You sound as though you have been here before,” said Limbani, who had been standing behind them, listening.
“A Templar Knight came here five hundred years ago,” said Rafi. “He painted this place as a fresco on the walls of his tomb. His name was. .”
“Julian de la Roche-Guillaume,” said Limbani, nodding.
Rafi turned to him, startled. “Now, don’t tell me you learned that from Osman, our Catalina flier, because I never mentioned it around him.”
“I knew the name long before I ever met Osman,” said Limbani with a wistful smile. “I knew it as a child when my father brought me here.”