They had all given statements to both the French and British authorities, along with everything they had uncovered about the connection to the terrorists, playing up Albert's role in tracking them down. Shortly afterward, James was called backto London. There had been phone conversations, checking up on her after surgery on her arm and she was released from hospital. Then she returned to London and work.
In the investigation that followed, there had been the usual skepticism over the weapons found at the quarry, along with Albert's age. Then his role with the French Resistance during World War II and his relation to Micheleine Robillard, who was still revered as a hero of the war, made it into the media.
In that curious, often bizarre way that a family connection creates momentum, often outright notoriety, the small village of Montigny and Albert's apple farm had been inundated by the curious, reporters, and historians.
There had been no questions about Alyia Malik's death. During the investigation, Albert had simply stated that he was afraid for his life, she came at him with a gun, and he fired to protect himself. And then there was the connection to her brother, a known terrorist. Anything else was lost in the media frenzy about the death of one of the most notorious terrorists in recent history, who had terrorized the people of Paris and other cities around the world in the past with a series of fatal attacks.
“Eh?” Albert replied with a hand cupped behind his ear. “Je ne vous comprends pas.”
He didn't understand the questions being asked?
Wily old fox, Kris thought with a smile as Albert continued to toy with the journalist, and wished Cate was there to see it.
“Please,” Valentine played her part. “All of this has been very difficult. He is an old man who saw his responsibility and wishes now only to return to his farm.”
She slipped her arm through Albert's and appeared to offer physical support as they were escorted by an officer of the court that had conducted the investigation into the incident at the quarry mine, and had concluded it that day with no charges to bebrought against the elderly hero of France, who had once fought with the Resistance.
Her smile deepened as the elderly man bent his head toward his granddaughter to catch something she said as the reporter continued with his segment completely. They both smiled. Checkmate, Kris thought.
“An incredible story from Normandy during World War II,” the reporter continued. “A priceless work of art, known as the Raveneau Tapestry, hidden from the Germans for over seventy years, found in an underground hospital from World War I.
“It was recovered and is currently in the possession of the Louvre Museum at an undisclosed location in collaboration with UNESCO. The Louvre, with the assistance of Ms. Diana Jodion, an expert in Medieval tapestries who is curator at the Bayeaux Museum, will be overseeing the restoration. It is anticipated that restoration will begin immediately, now that the investigation into recent events has concluded.”
Kris looked at the scans Diana had sent her. Contrary to the reporter’s statement, restoration had begun just after the tapestry was recovered from that room in the quarry not quite a month ago, by representatives of the Louvre under supervision by Diana, and with special permission by the Ministry of France.
It was critical, Diana had argued, to avoid damage and possibly theft by fortune seekers or others, after the story first hit the media. In the weeks since, with her team assembled and hard at work, Diana had sent those first photographs.
The tapestry was in surprisingly good condition, considering its age and conditions inside the quarry filled with debris, explosives, many areas caved in, and exposed to the elements. Micheleine Robillard had chosen its hiding place well.
Those first images were now spread across her office wall at Brighton House Publishers, a work in progress, along with Cate's last book.
Kris had been given the monumental task of seeing that unfinished project completed. Just the week before, she'd finished negotiations between Cate's estate, her publisher, and Trevor Allen, a well-known author in his own right, who had agreed to co-author the book and finish the manuscript.
After the negotiations, she had taken a few days off to deliver the contract to Cate's legal team, and take a meeting with Dickie Simson, Inspector of the Inverness Police, after it was determined that Cate's death was no accident, but a homicide.
It was Candlemas, and after everything that had happened, and with James still in London, Anne Morgan had suggested a holiday getaway to the Shetland Islands. The locals who claimed Viking blood were celebrating Up Helly Aa.
There were traditional feasts, a lot of single-malt whisky, and a full-sized Viking galley with dragon’s head, complete with shields and oars, and a processional with participants dressed as Viking warriors that looked as if they could have stepped off a television soundstage for the series.
The last night of their stay, the galley was pulled by a torch-bearing procession to the beach. After a traditional blast from a ram's horn, the galley was set ablaze by hundreds of torches, then cast adrift in true Viking tradition.
She had returned to London with an extensive file of Cate's notes and had been knee-deep in work ever since. There were daily Skype meetings with Nina and David, roundtable discussions with the marketing department in New York and Trevor Allen, not to mention coordination with distributors in the US as well as the European market. It was possible they might be able to make the Frankfurt Book Fair for prelaunch.
And there had been regular calls with James Morgan as he handled inquiries by the military about his involvement in hunting down Faridani. Anything else he was involved with, hecouldn't talk about. She had hoped they could get together for dinner, but that hadn't happened.
There was a light knock, and Jewel poked her head inside. So much for do not disturb, Kris thought.
“There's a gentleman to see you,” she explained. “From the telly,” she whispered.
Kris groaned. She'd made only one brief statement to the media after returning to London; any further comments were handled by their legal team out of the New York office. She pulled the latest draft from Trevor out of the printer. She'd be burning the midnight oil the next few nights, then get back to him with any changes, and they just might stay on schedule.
“Tell them 'no comment,'” she said, adjusting her glasses.
“He said you would say that.”
Kris shoved her reading glasses back on her head as Jewel pushed the door open.
James Morgan stood just outside the door to the office.
