Angel City (45 page)

“Bono matin.”

Harper watched the man listen, then talk . . .

“Conter vos recontrar, monsieur. Mercé. Adieussiatz.”

. . . then hand over the phone.

“It's for you,” he said.

Harper took it.

“Yes?”

“Get your roller skates on, brother, I got a lead on Astruc and the kid.”

It was Krinkle. Harper could hear the same trippy sound in his voice, trippy music blaring in the background.

“Where?”

“A guy driving south of Auzat found him walking in the middle of the road last night. He was carrying the kid in his arms. The kid was mauled pretty bad. Looks like the bad guys got to them.”

“What happened?”

“The driver stopped, thinking they'd been in a car accident. Astruc pulled a Micro UZI on the driver, told him to take them to the nearest hospital. Driver headed back to Auzat with Astruc raving about the kid being the light of the world and the Dark Ones finding them at Heaven's Gate.”

“Heaven's what?”

“It's a pass across the Pyrenees. Astruc and the kid must've been trying to cross into Spain when the bad guys found them. Looking at a map, Astruc must've carried the kid all night to reach Auzat. He passed out in the backseat.”

“Where are you getting this info?”

“I told you, I'm in the communications business; I was tuning in to what the French cops were communicating with one another. And let me tell you, it's mighty weird.”

“What?”

“Cop sees a car speeding through the streets of Auzat, sees blood dripping from the trunk. Cop stops the car, realizes it's a taxi, finds Astruc passed out in the backseat with the kid in his arms and a Micro UZI machine gun hanging from his neck, both of them covered in blood. Cop opens the trunk, and there's a dead deer with a bullet in its head. I mean, the French like it surreal, but this was one step beyond.”

“The cabbie, from Toulouse.”

Took two seconds for that one to sink into Krinkle's head.

“Yeah, how did you know?”

“Long story. Where are Astruc and the kid now?”

“The kid was medevaced to a small hospital in Foix. Astruc tried to patch him up, but he's in critical condition.”

“The kid is a half-breed; the doctors can't help him. They might kill him.”

“Don't worry about the kid, I got him covered. You need to get Astruc.”

“Where's he?”

“In a French jail.”

“What?”

“You show up in the back of a taxi, machine gun hanging from your neck, bloody and passed out, with a half-dead kid in your arms, you'll probably get arrested in this country. He came to as they were locking him up, got rowdy. The police hit him with fentanyl, he went down. More fun: Cops in Foix ran Astruc's prints, ID'd him as the long-lost Christophe Astruc, OP. Toulouse is sending down a paddy wagon to pick him up on outstanding charges of murder and kidnapping.”

“When are they picking him up?”

“ETA at twelve thirty. Which gives you enough time to get to Foix and nab Astruc before he's hooked and booked. Oh yeah, you've got clearance to touch the locals if you have to, but do no harm.”

“What's that supposed to mean?”

“How should I know? Maybe scare the crap out of them, just don't kill anyone. Bottom line, get Astruc to Gare de Foix by twelve fifteen.”

“There's a train to Lausanne?”

“Yeah, but don't take it, don't even go in the station. Just wait outside.”

“Where outside?”

“At the bus stop, brother, where else?”

The line went dead.

Harper handed back the mobile to Serge.

“You wouldn't happen to have an automobile, would you?”

“Why do you need an automobile?”

“I need a lift. Have to make a couple stops in Foix.”

“Where must you go in Foix?”

“The gendarmerie, then the train station. You know where they are?”

“The gendarmerie is on Allée de Villote, Gare de Foix is nearby on Rue Pierre Semard. But if you don't mind my asking, and seeing as you're asking me for transportation, what must you do at the gendarmerie?”

Harper tried to imagine a polite way of putting it. There wasn't one.

“I need to break someone out of jail.”

Serge scratched his chin.

“I see.”

He wrapped the broken cup and bloodied nail, replaced them in their proper tins, set the tins back on the shelves. He turned back to Harper.

“I do not have a car, but I can borrow a bread truck.”

FOR THE LORD GOD OF ISRAEL HATH SPOKEN IT

I

I
T WAS A BREAD TRUCK.
A
YELLOW, 1971
C
ITROËN
H-T
YPE. FOUR
cylinders, forty-six-horsepower. A bloody antique.
Gasca Boulangerie & Pâtisserie, Avenue Alsace Lorraine
painted neatly along the sides. It belonged to Serge's cousin. He lived in Montségur, had a bakery in the next town. Worked nights, slept in the day. Rattling along at forty klicks per hour through the snow, it was slow going. The truck's interior smelled of freshly baked bread. Harper looked in the back. There were some croissants in a bin.

“Suppose your cousin would mind if I had a croissant?”

“They are leftovers from the morning, but help yourself. I'll have one, too.”

Harper undid his seat belt, hunched down and walked into the back, grabbed two croissants. He got back in his seat, handed over one of the croissants.

“Mercé,”
Serge said, biting into the bread.

Harper chomped his own.

They wound down the north slope of the Pyrenees and onto the plain. The storm followed close after them. Soon the snow came in fat flakes, quickly covering open patches of ground at the sides of the road. Then came a farm where horses in a field quivered to shake the snow from their backs and withers. Serge flipped on the windshield wipers. The blades made squeaking sounds over the glass.

“It's a big storm,” Serge said.

“Looks it.”

And thinking about it, Harper imagined Astruc and the kid crossing the Pyrenees through a place Krinkle called . . .

“Heaven's Gate.”

Serge was chewing.

“Excusatz-me?”

“There's a pass across the Pyrenees called Heaven's Gate. You know it?”

Serge nodded warily. “I know it. La Porta del Cel. It's a high mountain crossing from Spain to France. A very difficult crossing.”

“Where is it from Montségur?”

“Southwest, about sixty kilometers as the crow flies.”

“Could a hiker reach it in a day, two days?”

Serge glanced quickly at Harper, then back to the road.

“Yes, if they were fit. One day to reach the base of the pass, cross over the next day. Are you considering taking a hike? It is a popular trek for tourists. Very scenic. Though I would not recommend it in this weather. There would not be a lot to see, and you would most probably freeze to death.”

Harper looked ahead. Snow drifted over the two-lane road.

“I'll keep it in mind. How did it get its name? Heaven's Gate?”

Serge shrugged.

“It's more than twenty-five-hundred meters high.”

“Must be more to it than that.”

Serge shrugged again.

“It was used by Catholics fleeing the conquest of Spain by the Saracens in the eighth century. It was used again by Republicans fleeing the Fascists during the Civil War.”

“So that's how it got its name.”

They passed through a small forest. It grew dark on the road; Serge switched on the headlights.

“I suppose so,” he said.

Harper listened carefully to the sound of the man's voice. As if sensing Harper's attention, Serge shifted uncomfortably behind the steering wheel. There was a turnoff to the motorway. A long line of taillights in the direction of Foix said the motorway was jammed because of the weather.

“I'm afraid we must take the side roads, through Montgaillard. We will be at the gendarmerie in ninety minutes, and the train station is two minutes from there.”

Harper checked his watch: 10:15 hours. Gave him a half hour to snatch Astruc and get to Gare de Foix by 12:15.
Swell,
he thought.
Running late, no backup or time warp for support. Have to get in and get out the old-fashioned way.
But running late gave him time to focus on Serge. Harper bit into his croissant again.

“Not bad,” he said.

“My cousin is a very good baker.”

“How is he at watching the shed when you're away?”

Serge kept his eyes on the road. “What do you mean?”

“Your family name is Gasca. It's a Catalan name, from the other side of the Pyrenees, yeah?”

“Yes, and what has this to do with my cousin the baker?”

“I'm just killing time on the way to Foix, filling in the rest of your family history, pre–Cathar era.”

“I do not understand.”

“You said your family was one of the first to settle under the pluton in the eighth century. From near Sant Pau de Segúries, yeah?”

“Yes? So?”

“You left something out. It was your family who brought the reliquary box to Occitania.”

Serge had another bite from his own croissant, chewed thoughtfully.

“Why would you say this?”

“The History Channel.”

“Compreni pas.”

“I watch a lot of the History Channel.”

“I know, on my wife's television last night.”

“That's right. And last night, between looking at stars and smoking fags in the garden, there was a program about the Caliphate in Spain, 711 to 1492. Just now, driving through the snow in your cousin's bread truck, the penny dropped.”

“You are very strange, I think.”

“You're not the first man to mention it. Would you like me to tell you what I think?”

“Perqué pas?”

“After 720
AD
, the Caliphate would have extended from Gibraltar to the Pyrenees, just south of Montségur.”

“This is true. So?”

“I think one fine summer's day, in the eighth century, your family carried the reliquary box across Heaven's Gate and hid it in a cave beneath Montségur.”

“Why would we do this?”

“Because you were told to, by someone like me.”

“Someone like you.”

“You know, like the one your family found in the ashes in the Field of the Burned.”

“Are you saying it's the same person, this someone like you and the one my family found in the ashes, separated by five hundred years?”

“Maybe, maybe not.”

“So are you saying someone like you commanded my family to carry the box from Spain to keep it from falling into the hands of the Caliphate?”

“The religions and flags of men mean nothing to me, or those like me. Religions and flags come under the heading of free will. We can't make those sorts of choices for men. It's a certain breed of evil hiding behind the religions and flags, the ones who sow fear and greed among men, that we're interested in. But I'm sure you've heard all about it from your father, as he heard it from his father.”

“You give my family too much credit. We were superstitious shepherds.”

“You also said they were nomads. Someone like me would look at such a family and think they'd be good cover.”

“To do what?”

“To take the reliquary box, follow the constellation Draco north across a place described to them as Heaven's Gate, then travel to another place called Montségur. Hide the reliquary box and watch over it till someone like me returned to you again. Your family turned from nomads to farmers to do just that. Fast forward to 1244: This time evil is hiding behind a royal crest and a cross, and they're closing in. The rest brings us to nowtimes.”

“What is nowtimes?”

“You and me in your cousin's bread truck at this very moment in space and time.”

Serge finished his croissant, brushed crumbs from his coat.

“All this was on the History Channel last night?”

“No, most of it was me imagining.”

“Imagining, you say.”

“That's right. It's how the ones like me do things.”

“I see.”

They didn't speak for a long time.

The snow-covered countryside gave way to gas stations, used auto dealerships, and discount shopping outlets. Locals were at their doors with shovels and brooms, fighting a losing battle with the mounting snow. A road sign advised they were traveling the Route d'Espagne, and after turning left at a rotary, another sign advised they were now traveling the Avenue de Barcelone. There were old stone houses along this road. Harper saw children making a snowman in one front garden. He heard the thump of a snowball hitting the thin side panel of the bread truck, then the sound of young laughing voices. The clouds lifted a little here, but the snow kept falling. Harper saw a river running along the left side of the road, and above a clump of buildings beyond the river, a medieval castle on a low hill.

“This is Foix,” Serge said. “There is an old city under that castle. If you were not in a hurry to break someone out of jail, you might enjoy visiting it.”

“Something to look forward to the next time I pass this way.”

Serge nodded, turned left at a rotary, and crossed a small bridge onto a tree-lined road. There was a parking area set between the opposing lanes of traffic.

“It was your eyes,” Serge said.

“My eyes.”

“We were always told about a light in the eyes of those who visited my family. The story was, we were given a gift to see that light. A gift that was passed down through the generations. When I saw you outside the shed last night, you were surrounded by darkness, but I saw a flame in your eyes.”

Harper flashed back, saw it happen. He blinked.

“That's why you didn't want me to tell you my name, that's why you wouldn't shake my hand. You know we can't touch the locals.”

“So I was told.”

“You were expecting me last night?”

Serge shook his head.

“Not really. The Field of the Burned was nine hundred years ago. Family stories lose their hold on the soul with time. Then I saw the comet.”

Harper thought about the impact on a disbelieving man to have a family secret, long thought to be no more than legend, to suddenly burst across the night sky in a revelation of brilliant light.

“You were told the comet would appear one day by the one your family found in the ashes. That it would be a sign that he would return to this place again, that it would mean the time of the prophecy was at hand.”

“No, that's not what happened. The one my family found knew nothing more than there was a treasure beneath Montségur, and that he needed to remain alive for one hundred more days.”

“You know what it means, don't you?”

“Of what do you speak?”

“The prophecy. Your family didn't just carry the reliquary box to Montségur, they carried the prophecy and passed it to the one they found in the ashes.”

“That was what we were meant to do from the beginning. That was the mission given to us by someone like you thirteen hundred years ago.”

Harper watched the road.

“What is the prophecy?”

“Do you command me to tell you?”

“Is that what it takes?”

“According to the story, yes.”

“Then I command you to tell me about the prophecy.”

Serge rounded a hairpin turn; the bread truck slid a little, but steadied and drove on.

“That when the comet appeared in the northern sky and was eclipsed by the pluton, it would mean a child, conceived of light, had been born. That he would lead mankind to the next stage of evolution.”

Harper flashed back to Karoliina, the girl on the train. She was connected, but a local, and she'd said the same damn thing.
What the hell?

“Has anyone in your family ever told anyone else about this?”

“Of course not, it was our sacred duty to say nothing. Why do you ask?”

Harper finished his croissant.

“No reason, just checking up on you. Making sure you were keeping to your sacred duty.”

Serge smiled.

“I understand. By the way, what should I do with the sextant?”

Harper saw it, in the reliquary box, sitting on the kitchen table. Shit
.
Serge saw the expression on Harper's face.

“Do not worry,” Serge said. “Shiva is a very good watch dog. The greatest danger is my wife opening the box and putting the sextant on the mantle above the fireplace. She likes to collect junk.”

Harper chuckled imagining it.

“Keep the sextant in the box, hide it in the shed. Might as well put the broken cup and the nail in the box, too.”

“As you command.”

Harper looked at him.

“For the record, I'm not really in the business of giving commands.”

“No?”

“No.”

“Whose business is it to give commands then?”

“Well, there's a cop in a cashmere coat above me. Beyond that, no bloody idea.”

“Interesting.”

Serge came to the end of the road, looped to the opposing lane, and drove back toward the river. Halfway along the road he pulled into the parking area and shut down the motor. He looked at Harper.

“My family has been in the service of the noble lord for thirteen hundred years. Today, I am very proud to be a member of my family. Do you understand this?”