Counterfeit Conspiracies (20 page)

 Of course, the woman's extortion was outrageous, but I wanted to get to Le Puy now, not later. While I was ready to pay what she wanted, I didn't want to draw attention to the fact I was willing to even go beyond her first offer.

I kept my expression neutral. "I'll give you twice the original price." I was willing to go up to ten times, but she stared at me with the cold calculating look of a vendor who knows she has someone hooked. It was important to make her work for her money. I swung my pack around and fumbled as if unable to remember where I put my euros. Like any disorganized tourist.

"Three times," she said, stubbornly. "I will take nothing less."

Rollie's indignation rose in volume as her friends' voices died down, obviously recognizing she meant business. The resigned looks on their faces let me know they had been through similar experiences with her in the past.

I pulled out a group of euros and closed my pack. Rollie gently touched my arm, luckily the uninjured one, and leaned down to talk into my ear. The cacophony of voices continued on around us. "No, Laurel, do not pay. It is too much . . . she is taking advantage."

I smiled at him. "It's all right, Rollie, don't worry."

I quickly counted out the money before glancing at her again. "If you wish to count it, I want to see your ticket."

Grudgingly, she pulled the ticket from her pocket and held it out. Rollie looked it over and confirmed the authenticity. I counted out the right amount and held it out to her. She snatched at the euros, and I held them higher, out of her reach

"You don't want to count it?" I asked.

She shook her head impatiently, clearly wanting her money.

"So we have a deal? Your ticket for these euros?" I questioned over the catcalling.

"Yes, yes, we have a deal," she shouted and thrust her ticket at Rollie.

I murmured something in his ear before handing the cash to her, making a big production out of handing her the money. Groans of disappointment and shouts of approval resonated from the crowd, accompanied by the loud stomping of feet, mostly in the line behind us. I didn't blame them. I was just as anxious to be on the bus headed to Le Puy.

I held out my ticket to be stamped. With a flourish, the clerk did so, saying something about time and waving his arm for us to be on our way.

Before we pushed our way through the crowd, Rollie asked if I needed food. I shook my head indicating my pack. Then he did something I noticed French men doing many times in my work and travels for the foundation. He nodded and held out his hand. I took it and he gracefully opened up a path through the throngs of people, exchanging pleasantries all around. There was much back-clapping and greetings. Rollie had most definitely attended this festival before, so maybe he was who he claimed to be. I hoped so.

We made our way outside to yet another line. The bus had not started loading people, only bags people wanted stored below. There were several benches scattered around, all taken, and the sun hid behind a cloud. I rubbed my arms, chilly once more.

Rollie noticed my shiver and smiled. "September." He shrugged. "It begins the cooling. Some days like summer, but others warn us of the coming winter. I would offer you my jacket, but it is gone already into the bus." He pointed to the man loading duffle bags into the cargo hold. "I can offer you my arm, very innocently,
naturellement
." He grinned, and so did I.

"I accept the offer of your arm while we wait," I said. "But only to get warm." He feigned disappointment and wrapped his arm around me. Thankfully, his hand remained higher than my wound.

I moved into his body heat, grateful for both the warmth and the opportunity to be seen as a couple. Not an American woman traveling alone in a bus filled with mostly French people, going to what appeared to be a mostly French festival. My discreet surveillance had not revealed any other discernable tourists or possible enemies out to get me.

Something else really bothered me, though. The entire time in the bus station, I had seen no evidence of cell phones. Not one.

"May I ask you a few questions?"

He smiled and his arm tightened just a bit—not enough, however, for me to object.

"Of course."

"Don't people in this area of France have cell phones?"

He laughed. "
Oui
,
naturellement
. But for our festival, we make a deal. To put away all except for emergencies. It is not a rule, but is a point of honor to try and live as people did centuries ago. Not really,
certainement
, but just a bit. Cell phones, they are the most obvious technologies to give up as are iPods, this type of thing."

"Have you attended this festival before?" I asked, already knowing the answer.

"
Oui
, many times. " He called a greeting to someone several yards away.

"Do many tourists come?"

"Many people come throughout the year to Le Puy-en-Velay, to do the ancient pilgrimage route. St. James Way to Santiago de Compostela. They come to visit the old churches, the Statue of Notre Dame de France, to see the extremely high quality of architecture, and to visit the production of lace and lentils. A few more tourists, what you would call renaissance groupies, come during the
Roi de l'Oiseau
festival. But that is fairly recent. Not much interest in other countries for shooting the bird and becoming king." He grinned.

"Excuse me?"

  He sighed but the grin remained, so I knew he was happy to go on. "It is saying." He pulled his arm free and pretended to put on his thinking cap. Then he clasped his hands together in the way children are taught to do across the globe when presenting material to their classmates. "In 1594, whomever shot the Papagai . . ." At my puzzled look he substituted, "Parrot." At my dismayed look, he laughed. "It was not a real parrot. It was handmade of material. But shooting this 'bird' and winning the archery competition carried great honor. The winner gained high esteem for the following year, since being a great archer meant you were the best at defending the town from your enemies. The winner became good friends with the mayor, and held keys to the city. Best of all, he had no tax to pay!"

Rollie's look changed to a downcast one as he continued to play the part of presenter and entertainer. "However, after the French revolution the festival was banned as barbaric and backward." He dramatically paused, and I played along.

"So no celebration for the town?"

"
Oui.
No celebration." His expression brightened. "But in the 1940s the celebration was revived and by 1986, a very important year because it was the year I was born, the fête was revived," he grinned again, "and started what it is today, a grand festival allowing everyone to celebrate the past in the present, or have a legitimate reason to party, as you say in the States."

His face turned serious again, and he waggled a finger. "But make no mistake. The festival is very much family friendly. Although, there are solely adult pleasures if you know where to look. And I definitely know where to look." He grinned, letting me know he was teasing while pointedly staring down at me.

"So, you've been to the States?"

"
Oui
. After graduation, I traveled there for a year. Where are you from, Laurel?"

Touchy. "Originally, I'm from upstate New York. I've also traveled quite a bit."

"I too have traveled over the years, to the complaints of my grandfather who wants me to take over his business in the next year. So he can retire to his vineyard and spend every day in the sun."

 "What kind of business do you have?"

"My grandfather is head of the family's businesses—the main one being an architectural firm that has grown into a . . ." He paused and fought for the right word. "Group . . .
non
, conglomeration of related businesses."

"You mean a conglomerate?"

"
Oui,
a conglomerate. The headquarters are in Paris, but I have so far resisted moving permanently there."

"You spoke of a shop?"

"
Oui
, we also deal with textiles and construction to name but a few. We are now gearing up to prepare for the holiday celebrations, and groaning for having to return to work after the August holidays. That's why he gets upset, because I'm leaving again so quickly after August, and September is the time when we make a lot of decisions about the holiday preparations for the cities."

"So you have government contracts?"

"
Oui
."

Before he could elaborate, people started shifting toward the front bus and we gathered up our things to move into the boarding line, to be on our way to Le Puy.

 

 

 

 

 

Le Puy-en-Velay, the small capital of Haute-Loire, was a beautiful, very theatrical looking town on the right bank of the river Borne. According to my guidebook, the city sat on an undulating plateau on the eastern border of Auvergne, one of the regions in Massif Central. The area was known for geographical oddities, called volcanic thrusts that appeared visible aboveground.

As we approached the municipality, two of the hills stood sharply visible amidst the terracotta roofs. I knew one was St. Michel d'Aiguilhe and the other Rocher Corneille, both places I wished to visit. For now, however, I was content to fill my gaze with the beauty of Le Puy.

The new parts of the town blended well with the medieval. While the buildings boasted little color, they were picturesque all the same. Every turn of the head showed booths and vendors setting up their goods. Many people were already dressed in their sixteenth century clothing, or at least approximations of those types of costumes. Although, I saw one I'd swear was an updated version of Madonna's outfit in the long ago "Like a Virgin" video.

The bus crawled into the area. Traffic appeared in waves and layers; a lot of buses, cars and slow moving vehicles, bikes, and motorcycles. Even wagons and horses helped pack the streets and lanes.

The trip took longer than I'd planned, mostly due to the heavy traffic. Our bus overflowed with people, and each shouldered a couple of carry-on bags.

 Thanks to Rollie, I'd secured a window seat at the beginning of the journey, so only one person sat in direct access to me. Upon settling in the seat, I'd protected my bad arm and my pack by wedging the bag between me and the side of the bus. My arm was additionally padded by the pack's thick straps. It wasn't a lot, but everything helped until I could better assess the damage. All these preparations insured that if I fell asleep no one could get into or grab my pack without my knowledge.

Temperature control in the bus came via passengers opening windows when the effects of too many bodies crammed into a small space began to overheat the inside of the bus. Fortunately, thermoses of coffee, flasks of liquor and freshly baked food traveled with us too, and their lovely aromas helped mask the other more earthy human odors. We sang and carried on lots of cross-aisle conversations from one end of the bus to another. I was tired, but felt relatively protected by my anonymity and Rollie's presence, so I dozed a bit before we rolled into Le Puy.

Rollie encouraged me to question his extensive knowledge of the area. A local friend opened his home to my traveling companion every year, so Rollie was a festival regular. As he put it, there was a mutual exchange of homes throughout the year, which sounded like a nice practice. Rollie offered to let me stay with him, no strings attached. I agreed to consider it, but made no commitment. Whether I crashed at the friend's house or not, the place offered a good drop site to leave gear. From this point on, I planned to be moving, and there was no sense renting a room when something was available.

The die had been cast for this plan from the moment I left the hotel in the wine region.

First stop on my personal agenda included a visit to the Cathedral of Notre-Dame du Puy, which stood at the foot of the Rocher Corneille, above the old town. The chapel and art there came up in information related to Simon's disappearance.

For my cardio workout of the day, accessing the Rocher Corneille meant a step-climb to the statue of the Virgin. I had no idea what to search for, only that I was looking for something to point out a clue to my next move.

I also hoped something would tell me how to find Moran's estate. That was my best bet to gain a lead to Simon and the sword. I really didn't think my schoolgirl French would prove very effective in searching for the estate, and Moran was too smart, too wealthy and too connected to let his real name be known in the area. I had to count on luck, good critical thinking skills, and damned good eyesight.

After finishing the last of my water, I stuffed the empty bottle back into my pack. I hadn't been able to even look at the sandwich. I was getting antsy. The bus barely moved at this point.

"We can get off the bus and walk if you would like," Rollie said, turning to me. "We will have an uphill climb, but Thierry's home is only a few kilometers away."

"The bus allows someone to exit before reaching the depot?" I don't know why I was surprised. I guess living in a place where computer schedules and authoritarian rules of security were everything made me question the freedom of movement.

"
Oui
. People will start getting off the bus any minute now. No one wants to wait while the bus rests in unmoving traffic."

"I'm game," I replied. Before we could stand, several people at the front of the bus called to the bus driver and gestured toward the exit. He argued, sighed, shook his head, and magically the door opened.

Like cake icing squeezed out of a tube with a tip too small, the majority of people on the bus happily jostled and pushed their way out onto the street. Rollie and I joined them. I kept watch, but no one followed me. No lone gunmen or redheaded women, just people in groups having a good time.

By the time we turned down another road, everyone else had pretty much disappeared, and we were alone. I almost decided to trust Rollie. He really appeared to be what he was, a charming, well-traveled, educated, much loved grandson of a wealthy man. I allowed myself to relax a bit and followed dutifully as we headed for his friend's house.