“Yes, with a new pilot.”
She searches my face. “Not scared to fly again so soon after the crash?”
“I don’t scare easily.”
“What if the people that attacked us yesterday come back?”
“If by now they’ve discovered I’m here, which I doubt, there will be several decoys to keep them busy. Also, additional measures have been taken to protect me.”
“But what if the search for Darrel and Jordan is still ongoing?”
I square my shoulders. “The key Simon hid in Normandy means everything to me and my family, Elise. It’s my top priority. I’m going after it tomorrow, no matter what.”
“I’m coming with you.”
“That would be both imprudent and unnecessary.”
“Please!” she begs. “I got you this far, didn’t I? It’s been a true adventure, the biggest of my life, and I’d like to be there for the grand finale. Please, don’t deny me that!”
“All right,” I say just before I exit her room.
ELISE
Theo, his new pilot Abdel, his new personal assistant Roberto, and I make our way across Aéroport du Havre-Octeville to the car waiting outside. With Abdel at the wheel, we drive along the coast, past rolling fields toward the village of Sandeville. Atop a soft hill is a typical Norman abbey with its gray stone walls covered in moss and its tall slate roof. I like to think it’s welcoming us to Normandy.
Theo seems to know both men well. Though I don’t sense anything like the bond he shared with Darrel, who seemed more like a friend to him than an employee, he clearly trusts these guys.
I shouldn’t think about Darrel in the past tense!
No matter how tiny, there’s still hope. The search hasn’t been called off yet, even though the chances that Jordan and Darrel are still alive almost nil.
Yesterday, after Theo joined the search party, I spent the rest of the day roaming the valley. I trekked as far as the village of Vosier-en-Haut, curious to see the “satanists” with my own eyes. And of course, they were just regular village folk going about their ordinary business in the most unexceptional Savoyard village I ever saw.
I got back to Vosier-en-Bas after dark and had a royal dinner in the hotel’s restaurant. Alone. I stayed up late, reading and hoping for a knock on the door, which never came. At one in the morning, I threw on a hotel bathrobe and went to Theo’s door. My knocks went unanswered. There was no telling if he was in there or not.
In the morning, he turned up at the restaurant while I was having breakfast. He looked tired and defeated. A parachute was found, but no trace of Jordan or Darrel. The working theory is that they parachuted from the helicopter and landed all right, but then fell through the treacherous snow, or were swept off a cliff to their deaths.
Their bodies may not turn up until March or April, when enough of the snow melts.
Theo let me finish breakfast, before taking me to his private jet. During our brief and uneventful flight from Savoie to Le Havre, Roberto briefed us. He’d spent yesterday afternoon in Sandeville, investigating. He’d talked to a bunch of local residents and identified the big farmhouse where the Germans had kept prisoners in the summer and fall of 1944. Roberto’s findings were corroborated by the newspaper clippings that another assistant of Theo’s found in the archives in Le Havre.
How many men does Theo have at his disposal, exactly?
And why would a delinquent member of a mafia organization—if that’s what Theo is—refer to some of his subordinates asagents? Also, why do none of them act, look, or talk remotely like Doc, or my brother, for that matter? Is Theo’s an elite criminal syndicate that trains and educates its members like good spies so they can blend into polite society?
Above all, I wonder why finding great-grandfather Simon’s key means so much to Theo. And why is another powerful man willing to kill to stop him from getting to the key?
But, back to the task at hand. The farmhouse where we’re headed has been in the Mesnil family since 1940. The current owner, Virginie Mesnil, moved here from Le Havre only recently after she inherited her grandparents’ house.
She’s expecting us.
Abdel parks the car by the townhall, and the four of us walk the short distance to Virginie Mesnil’s house. Sandeville is very pretty. It’s one of those atmospheric bourgs along the coast in Normandy, inspiring painters and writers alike. And deservedly so. Ragged cliffs, pristine beaches and lush vegetation surround the colorful village. Yes, it’s verdant even in the dead of winter with a milder climate than in Savoie. The only element missing from this postcard image of Normandy is green pastures dotted by happy black-and-white dairy cows. I’ll have to come back in spring for that.
A miraculous number of traditional half-timbered houses have survived the World War II bombings that razed most of my hometown to the ground. Only a few kilometers away, Le Havre sustained even more damage than Chambéry during the war. Standing in Sandeville feels worlds away. The houses are older, the streets narrower, and the landscape much more pleasing to the eye.
Villagers walk up and down the steep, winding lanes to reach their homes or places of work. All public spaces are very clean, even cleaner than in Vosier-en-Bas. The larger, best-kept homes line the streets that take advantage of the sea view. Smaller houses surround the heart of the village with its saintly trinity of church, baker, and bistro.
When we reach the Mesnil farmhouse, Roberto rings the bell. A woman in her midforties opens the door at once and invites us into her living room. Roberto must’ve warned her about Theo’s uncommon appearance, because she doesn’t startle at his sight like others do. Still, she averts her eyes from his face.
