Faridani.
It was all there, the last pieces falling into place in the message he was finally able to pick up from Innis earlier when he'd drive to the village.
Captain Jack's people had been watching the gallery, watching for the next shipment of artifacts that never came. Everything had been cleared. Faridani was gone. But there was more. It had been all over the news in the aftermath of the explosion in Paris two days earlier.
Cross, double-cross, and Kris was right in the middle of it.
He got out of the car and slowly approached the van, the old 9mm pistol held in front of him. He stopped and listened several times, but there was only the sound of the forest. He picked up a small branch sticking up out of the snow and tossed it at the van.
It hit the rear window with a loud crack. Nothing. No sudden movement inside the van, no movement outside the van or from the perimeter. He slowly circled the van.
A quick glance inside the front passenger window confirmed it was empty. He reached for the handle to the rear compartment. It moved freely. He swept the cargo door open. The cargo area was also empty, except for several empty water bottles, a knit ski mask that had been thrown aside, a couple of wadded-up rags, and blood on the floor of the cargo area. He sensed rather than heard Albert come up behind him.
“Blood,” Albert said, and his thoughts mirrored James.
“Not a lot,” James commented, making a sweep of the inside of the van.
He made a quick search under the driver's side instrument panel and he found what he was looking for. He took out the knife and severed the wires to the van's electrical system. Then he made a thorough search of the cargo area.
Something caught his attention. He picked up one of those wadded rags. He recognized the chemical smell. They'd been drugged to make everything easier. He handed it to Albert.
“They're still alive,” the old man said.
At least until Faridani had what he wanted, James thought.
Valentine knew the way to the quarry, but Kris knew the rest of it, from what Sophie Martin had told them, and that letter with the pictures and symbols on the edge.
He returned to the rental car, retrieved the backpack, and slung it over his shoulder.
“This way,” Albert motioned from the dense tree cover. “Less chance that we will be seen.”
James hesitated. It had been in his mind to have the old man wait at the car, then if he needed to leave quickly, at least one of them would get out.
Albert settled the argument by removing the shotgun from the scabbard on his back. He set off through the forest at a steady pace, the loaded shotgun held in the crook of his arm. Any doubt he had about Albert Marchand disappeared as he pushed to catch up.
The taste was metallic, slightly sweet, nausea backing up into her throat.
She'd been drugged, everything slowly coming back in bits and pieces—the white van at the end of the road, the desperate attempt to bolt the kitchen door, Ju-Ju barking frantically as she tossed the print-out of that letter into the woodstove, the look of fear on Valentine's face as they came through the door.
Albert had been struck as he confronted them. Valentine screamed as he went down and went after his attacker. Kris raised the shotgun but never had the chance to fire it. The blow caught her on the back of her head. Dazed, slipping in and out of consciousness, she was hauled to her feet, and then dragged from the farmhouse.
She caught a brief glance of Valentine as they were both pulled into the van. The rest of it was a blur—her wrists bound, then that sickly sweet smell as the cloth was pressed against her face and a hood was pulled over her head. There were four of them, she thought, as she sank into darkness and the vanlurched out of the driveway. Then another voice from the front of the van and something familiar.
“Be careful. We need them alive to help us find the tapestry once we reach the mine.”
She had no idea how long they rode in the van, she was only aware when it stopped. She was dragged from the van, then heard a muffled sound certain it was Valentine. At least they were still together. Then she was shoved forward, stumbling through the snow, the cold seeping through her jeans. A tree branch whipped at her face. She stumbled and sank up to her knees in the snow. She was dragged back to her feet.
“Keep walking!” the warning, a woman's voice, hissed at her. “Or I will kill you myself.”
“A quelle distance?” one of their captors shouted in French.
How far?
Valentine cried out as she was struck.
Tell them! she wanted to shout. Nothing was worth dying for. But nothing came out, that metallic taste dry in the back of her throat.
Someone shouted the question again. She finally heard Valentine's muffled reply. There were other sounds, and then she was being pushed forward again.
