Labyrinth (46 page)

A car put-putting up the hill slammed on its brakes. Alice didn’t stop. She hurled herself over a rickety wooden farm gate and tore through the rows of vines, stumbling on the furrowed earth. She could feel the men at her back, gaining on her. Blood pounded in her ears, the muscles in her legs were pulled tight as piano strings, but she kept going.

At the bottom of the field was a tight-meshed wire fence, too high to jump. Alice looked round in panic, then spotted a gap in the far corner. Throwing herself to the ground, she crawled along the earth on her belly, feeling the sharp rocks and stones digging into her palms and knees. She slithered under the wire, the frayed edges catching on her jacket, holding her as fast as a fly in a spider’s web. She pulled and with a superhuman effort, yanked herself free, leaving a scrap of blue denim on the wire.

She found herself in a market garden, filled with long rows of tall bamboo frames supporting aubergines, courgettes and runner beans, which shielded her. Keeping her head down, Alice zigzagged through the allotments, heading for the shelter of the outbuildings. A huge mastiff on a heavy metal chain lunged at her as she rounded the corner, barking ferociously and snapping its vicious jaws. She stifled a scream and jumped back.

The main entrance to the farm led straight out on to the busy main road at the bottom of the hill. Once she was on the pavement, she allowed herself a glance over her shoulder. Empty, silent space stretched behind her. They’d stopped following.

Alice put her hands on her knees and doubled over, panting with exertion and relief, waiting for the shaking in her arms and legs to stop. Already, her mind was starting to click into motion.

What are you going to do?
The men would go back to the hotel and wait I for her there. She couldn’t go back there. She felt in her pocket and was relieved to find she hadn’t lost the car keys in her panic to get away. Her rucksack was squashed under the front seat.

You must call Noubel.

She could picture the scrap of paper with Noubel’s number in her sack under the seat of the car with everything in it. Alice brushed herself down. Her jeans were covered in dirt and ripped on one knee. Her only chance was to go back to the car and pray they weren’t waiting for there.

Alice walked fast along rue Barbarcane, keeping her head down every time a car went past. She passed the church, then took a shortcut down a small road to the right called rue de la Gaffe.

2>Who’d sent them? 2>

She walked quickly, keeping to the shadows. It was hard to tell where one house ended and the next began. Alice felt a sudden prickling at the back of her neck. She stopped, glanced to her right at the pretty house with yellow walls, expecting to see someone watching her from the doorway. But the door was firmly shut and the shutters locked. After a moment’s hesitation, Alice continued.

2>Should she change her mind about Chartres? 2>

If anything, Alice realised that having confirmation she was in danger- that it wasn’t just her imagination - strengthened her resolve. As she thought about it, she became more certain Authie was behind what was going on. He believed she’d stolen the ring. He was clearly determined to get it back.

Call Noubel.

Again, she ignored her own advice. So far, the Inspector had done nothing. A policeman was dead, Shelagh was missing. Better to rely on no one but herself.

Alice had arrived at the steps that connected rue Trivalle to the back of the car park, reasoning that if they were waiting for her, they were more likely to be at the main entrance.

The steps were steep and there was a high wall on this side of the area, which stopped her from being able to see in but gave a dear view to anyone looking down from above. If they were there, she wouldn’t know it until it was too late.

Only one way to find out.

Alice took a deep breath and ran up the steps, her legs powered by the adrenalin racing through her veins. At the top, she stopped and looked around. There were a couple of coaches and cars, but very few people about.

The car was sitting where she’d left it. She picked her way between the lines of parked cars, keeping low. Her hands were shaking as she slid into the front seat. She was still expecting the men to loom up in front of her. She could still hear their voices, shouting, in her head. The moment she was in, she locked the doors and rammed the key into the ignition.

Her eyes darting in all directions, hands white on the steering wheel, Alice waited until a camper van was pulling away and the attendant raised the barrier. She accelerated and shot across the tarmac, too fast, aiming straight for the exit. The attendant shouted and leaped back, but Alice took no notice.

She kept driving.

CHAPTER 52

Audric Baillard stood on the railway station platform at Foix with Jeanne, waiting for the Andorra train.

“Ten minutes,” Jeanne said, glancing at her watch. “It’s not too late. You could change your mind and come with me?”

He smiled at her persistence. “You know I cannot.”

She waved her hand impatiently. “You’ve devoted thirty years to telling their story, Audric. Alais, her sister, her father, her husband - you have spent your life in their company.” Her voice softened. “But what of the living?”

“Their life is my life, Jeanne,” he said with a quiet dignity. “Words are our only weapons against the lies of history. We must bear witness to the truth. If we do not, those we love die twice over.” He paused. “I will not find peace until I know how it ended.”

“After eight hundred years? The truth might be buried too deep.” Jeanne hesitated. “And perhaps it is better that way. Some secrets are better for remaining hidden.”

Baillard was looking ahead at the mountains. “I regret the sorrow I have brought into your life, you know that.”

“That’s not what I meant, Audric.”

“But to discover the truth and set it down,” he continued, as if she had not spoken. “It is that I live for, Jeanne.”

“Truth! But what about those you fight, Audric? What are they seeking? The truth? I doubt it.”

“No,” he admitted in the end. “I do not think that is their purpose.”

“Then what?” she said, impatient. “I am going, as you advised me to do. What possible harm can it do to tell me now?”

Still he hesitated.

Jeanne persisted. “Are the
Noublesso Veritable
and the
Noublesso de los Seres
but different names for the same organisation?”

“No,” the word escaped from his lips more severely than he’d intended. “No.”

Well then?“

Audric sighed. “The
Noublesso de los Seres
were the appointed guardians of the Grail parchments. For thousands of years they fulfilled this role. Until, indeed, the parchments were separated.” He paused, choosing his words with care. “The
Noublesso Veritable
, on the other hand, was formed only one hundred and fifty years ago, when the lost language of the parchments began to be understood once more. The name
Veritable
meaning true or real guardians - was a deliberate attempt to give validity to the organisation.”

“So the
Noublesso de los Seres
no longer exists?”

Audric shook his head. “Once the Trilogy was separated the reason for the guardians’ existence was gone.”

Jeanne frowned. “But did they not attempt to regain the lost parchments?”

“At first, yes,” he admitted, “but they failed. In time, it became more foolhardy to continue, for fear of sacrificing the one remaining parchment for the sake of regaining the other two. Since the ability to read the texts was lost by all, the secret could not be revealed. Only one person…” Baillard faltered. He felt Jeanne’s eyes on him. “The one person with the knowledge to read the parchments chose not to pass on his learning.”

What changed?“

“For hundreds of years, nothing. Then in 1798 the Emperor Napoleon sailed for Egypt, taking savants and scholars with him as well as soldiers. They discovered there the remains of the ancient civilisations that had ruled those lands thousands of years ago. Hundreds of artefacts, sacred tables, stones, were brought back to France. From that moment on, it was only a matter of time before the ancient languages - demotic, cuneiform, hieroglyphs - were deciphered. As you know, Jean-Francois Champollion was the first to realise that hieroglyphs should be read, not as symbols of ideas or scripts, but as a phonetic script. In 1822, he cracked the code, to use the vulgar expression. To the ancient Egyptians, writing was a gift from the Gods - indeed the word
hieroglyph
means divine speech.”

“But if the Grail parchments are written in the language of ancient Egypt…” she tailed off. “If you are saying what I think you are, Audric…‘ She shook her head. ”That such a society as the
Noublesso
existed, yes. That the Trilogy was believed to contain an ancient secret, then again, yes. But, for the rest? It’s inconceivable.“

Audric smiled. “But how better to protect a secret than allow it to be concealed beneath another? To appropriate or assimilate the powerful symbols, the ideas of others, is the way civilisations survive.”

“What do you mean?”

“People dig for the truth. They think they have found it. They stop, never imagining that something more astounding lies beneath. History is full of religious, ritualistic, social signifiers, stolen from one society to help build up another. For example, the day Christians celebrate the birth of Jesus the Nazarene, December the twenty-fifth, is actually the feast of the Sol Invictus, as well as the winter Solstice. The Christian cross, just like the Grail, is actually an ancient Egyptian symbol, the
ankh
, appropriated and modified by the Emperor Constantine.
In hoc signo vinces
- by this sign shalt thou conquer - words attributed to him when seeing a symbol in the shape of a cross appear in the sky. More recently, followers of the Third Reich appropriated the swastika to symbolise their order. It is in fact an ancient Hindu symbol of rebirth.”

“The labyrinth,” she said, understanding.

“
L’antica simbol del Miegjorn
.‘ The ancient symbol of the Midi.

Jeanne sat in thoughtful silence, hands folded in her lap, her feet crossed at the ankles. “And what of now?” she said at last.

“Once the cave was opened, it was only ever a matter of time, Jeanne,” he said. “I am not the only one who knows this.”

“But the Sabarthes Mountains were excavated by the Nazis during the war,” she said. The Nazi Grail hunters knew the rumours that the Cathar treasure was buried somewhere in the mountains. They spent years excavating every site of possible esoteric interest. If this cave is of such significance, how was it not discovered sixty years ago?“

“We made sure that they did not.”

“You were there?” she said, her voice sharp with surprise.

Baillard smiled. “There are conflicts within the
Noublesso Veritable,”
he said, avoiding her question. “The leader of the organisation is a woman called Marie-Cecile de l’Oradore. She believes in the Grail and would regain it. She believes in the Quest.” He paused. “However, there is another within the organisation.” His face grew sombre. “His motives are different.”

“You must speak to Inspector Noubel,” she said fiercely.

“But what if, as I said, he is working for them also? It is too great a risk.”

The shrill blast of the horn split the quiet of the station. They both turned towards the train drawing into the station with a screech of brakes. The conversation was over.

“I don’t want to leave you here alone, Audric.”

“I know,” he said, taking her hand to help her up into the train. “But this is how it is supposed to end.”

“End?”

She slid open the window and reached for his hand. “Please take care. Do not gamble too much of yourself.”

All along the platform the heavy doors slammed shut and the train pulled away, slowly at first, then picking up speed until it had disappeared into the folds of the mountains.

CHAPTER 53

Shelagh could sense there was someone in the room with her.

She struggled to lift her head. She felt sick. Her mouth was dry and there was a dull thudding in her head, like the monotonous hum of an air-conditioning unit. She couldn’t move. It took a few seconds for her to identify the fact she was sitting on a chair now, her arms pulled tight behind her back and her ankles strapped to the wooden legs.

There was a slight movement, a creak of the bare floorboards as someone shifted position.

“Who’s there?”

Her palms were slippery with fear. A trickle of sweat ran down the small of her back. Shelagh forced her eyes open, but she still couldn’t see. She panicked, shaking her head, blinking, trying to bring back the light until she realised the hood was back on her head. It smelled of earth and mould.

Was she still in the farmhouse? She remembered the needle, the surprise of the sharp injection. The same man who brought her food. Surely someone would come and save her? Wouldn’t they?

“Who’s there?” No one answered, although she could feel them close. The air was greasy with the smell of aftershave and cigarettes. What do you want?“

The door opened. Footsteps. Shelagh felt the change in atmosphere. An instinct for self-preservation kicked in and she struggled wildly for a moment to get free. The rope only tightened, putting more pressure on her shoulders, making them ache.

The door shut with an ominous, heavy thud.

She fell still. For a moment, there was silence, then the sound of someone walking towards her, closer and closer. Shelagh shrank back in her chair. He stopped right in front of her. She felt her entire body contract, as if there were thousands of tiny wires pulling at her skin. Like an animal circling his prey, he walked round the chair a couple of times, and then dropped his hands on her shoulders.

“Who are you? Please, take this blindfold off at least.”

“We need to have another talk, Dr O’Donnell.”

A voice she knew, cold and precise, cut through her like a knife. She realised it was him she had been expecting. Him she feared.