That resource remained the best hope of finding where the book had gone.
Burman called Keir back to her group. With a grim expression, she reported on what she had learned from reviewing all available CCTV footage.
“We tracked the group to the Waterloo station, but we lost them there. With the crush of passengers at that hour, they hid themselves well. And with trains leaving every few minutes, there’s no telling where they went.”
Keir closed his eyes. “Then how do we find them?”
Burman looked across the room toward Tissot.
Of course . . .
Keir shook his head and bit down a curse.
Still, Burman offered an additional possibility. “After a decade in MI5, I’ve learned to place my trust in one certainty. It’s proven true countless times.”
“Which is what?”
She turned to the windows overlooking the city. “No matter how careful... someone always makes a mistake.”
29
8:38 a.m. CET
Meaux, France
Where are we?
Duncan stretched a kink from his back as he climbed out of the van with the others. He frowned across the winter gardens to the façade of a large French estate. The centuries-old building, flanked by two pointed towers, rose in archways and ornate iron balustrades to a slate-tiled roof frosted with moss.
What is this place?
After hours of driving, they had arrived at the picturesque commune of Meaux. The village clustered around the snaking course of the Marne River. A large cathedral—Saint-Étienne—anchored the town with its fanciful Gothic spire. They continued past it and followed along the green river, which was bordered by buildings both modern and old. Finally, they climbed a hill to this walled and gated estate at the commune’s rural edge.
“Welcome to Château de Barbier,” Laurent introduced. He hauled out a large hardshell case and led them down the gravel drive toward the château’s porch. “The home was built in 1610, though part of the home was set afire during the French Revolution and reconstructed in 1844.”
“Why have you brought us here?” Sharyn asked.
“I have deep roots locally, though few know of it, which is one of the reasons I chose this spot.”
He hurried them forward. While the château was old, it was certainly well-kept. The expansive gardens were lined by boxed shrubbery and raised bricked flowerbeds. A grove of ancient-looking lime trees surrounded a languid emerald pond that reflected the cloud-scudded sky.
“Did this place once belong to your family?” Tag asked.
Laurent scowled. “No. Never. The château has been with the Barbiers since it was built and remains so today.”
Naomi frowned at their guide. “Then what’s your connection here?”
“My ancestors were brought to France from Senegal in the mid-seventeenth century. As slaves. We were purchased by the Barbiers, who freed us a century later.”
Duncan stared aghast at the man. “That’s your connection to this place?”
“After so much time, my people became enmeshed with the Barbier family. While certainly not treated as blood, we were respected and cared for enough. They kept us employed, paid for our education. They did their best, especially for people of that time. In fact, it was my great ancestor, Malick—whom I was named after—who helped put out the fire during the Terror, battling the flames alongside the master of the house, Gerard Barbier, to save the estate.”
“And that’s reason enough to bring us here?” Archie scoffed.
“As I said, it was onlyoneof the reasons.”
Duncan scowled, tired of this trickling of information. “Then what’s the other?”
