“Wonders like the key to immortality.” Keir touched his hairline, a robust growth accentuated by transplanted plugs. “One consistent story about the Count is that he never seemed to age.”
“Such tales are suspect.”
Keir wasn’t so sure. Over the centuries, whispers seeped out of theGardiensconcerning this very possibility. Keir had taken special interest in such rumors. Beyond the financial and political advantages of theConfrérienetwork, this prospect had been a driving force behind his involvement with theConfrérie. If he could discover the truth—whatever that might be—it could potentially transform NeuVentis Pharma into one of the most powerful corporations in the world.
Not to mention, extend my own life.
Despite a vigorous fight against aging, the unflinching march of time still wore at his body, slowly eroding it—which both frustrated and terrified him. NeuVentis had more than eight hundred laboratories across sixty countries. His net worth at the end of the last fiscal year was more than twenty billion. Yet, all his wealth and resources could not extend his life in any significant degree.
He stared at the two feeds on the laptop.
But what if that could change?
Burman pointed to the same videos. “The book remains too important to let it vanish again. We must find where our targets fled. We’ll dog their trail until they’re run to ground. It’s only a matter of time.”
“No need,” a voice scolded from behind.
Both of them turned as Tissot crossed closer. The cardinal had shed his formal red vestments and wore a crisp black suit with a white roman collar. The only marks of his station were the pectoral cross and ring.
“I know where our targets are going,” Tissot announced. “It took some finessing, but my contact within theGardienscame through once again.”
“Where?” Burman pressed him.
“London.”
“How?” Keir snapped, still irritated that Tissot remained so guarded about his mole. “By car? By train?”
“That I cannot say. But it doesn’t matter.”
“Why?”
“I have the address where they’re headed.” Before they could respond, Tissot raised a palm, as if blessing them. “And with the help of my contact, I’ve already baited a trap—one they will not escape.”
Third
17
November 1, 3:30 p.m. GMT
London, England
Sharyn shivered with trepidation as she passed the wooden expanse of the Traitor’s Gate. She tightened her grip on the crossbody bag, all too aware of the weight and responsibility she carried.
This place can’t be right . . .
On the train ride from Exeter, a set of coordinates had been texted to their burner phone, marking the location of the safehouse in London. They had all expressed various levels of incredulity upon realizingwherethose coordinates led. The location lay within the grounds of one of the most fortified and historic locations in the city.
Sharyn gaped at the spread of ramparts and fortresses that made up the infamous Tower of London. According to a plaque near the entrance, the main castle—the White Tower—had been built by William the Conqueror in the eleventh century as a key defense to the city, commanding a hill overlooking the Thames. Circling the central keep, massive curtain walls bristled with towers and barracks, all enclosing more than a dozen acres of parks and gardens. It had now become a tourist attraction, where one could visit the vaults that held the Crown Jewels or be entertained by colorfully dressed Yeoman Warders—known as Beefeaters—who shared stories of the Tower.
Sharyn had no interest in such tales. She had her own pressing question that she wanted answered.
Why were we sent here of all places?
Sharyn turned her back on the Traitor’s Gate, where prisoners were hauled in chains to be interred in cold cells within the ground’s many towers. She kept her shoulders bowed, her head down, expecting to be nabbed for trespassing—though, their grouphadbought entry tickets and traveled with the crowded press of tourists.
Duncan must have been worried about the same. “If the police catch us here,” he commented, “we’ll be joining a long list of the Tower’s famous prisoners: Anne Boleyn, Lady Jane Grey, Guy Fawkes.”
“If it comes to that,” Tag said, “I’ll accept incarceration.” Still using his umbrella for a cane, he hobbled along the cobbled path, which passed under an archway, guarded over by the spikes of a black-iron portcullis. Ahead, a groin-vaulted tunnel burrowed through the base of a hulking fortification. He waved his free hand overhead at it. “Let’s hope we don’t suffer the same fate as those interred in the Bloody Tower above us.”
