Matt Drake 14 - The Treasures of Saint Germain (6 page)

Approaching wasn’t easy; there were no easy ways to reach the front door and the side entrances bordered on a well-lit side road. Webb sauntered at first, then sped up past the green area. The blueprint in his head should lead him straight to the area of the house in which Germain’s lab was located, well below ground level, his major concern that someone had tampered with it in the last few centuries.

Of course, that seemed less likely now with the radical group involved at every step—hopefully there would have been people of influence observing the changes to Germain’s residences down the years and discreetly ensuring certain areas were left untouched. He guessed this could probably be achieved in any number of ways—from sticky red tape and planning control to downright bullying, discrediting and ruination. Maybe they even went further.

Not by luck but through diligent and constant investigation, Webb’s small network had learned where the service entrance was. Service entrances were notoriously left unlocked, for several reasons from frequent smoker’s breaks to keeping delivery schedules at any time of the day so as not to annoy the residents. When Webb tried the door, however, it was locked, showing how fickle his life had become and how everything could turn on a mote of luck. Of course, more in-depth preparations had been made. Some service staff could quite easily be paid off.

Webb waited, standing in the shadows. The feeling of unease that trickled across the breadth of his shoulders was an alien one, and rather thrilling. It almost felt as though he might be a little vulnerable. Webb worried only for the scroll, and was relieved when a faint click came and the door inched open.

“Oui?”

Webb played the game and spoke a password.

The door opened and Webb entered, making sure it closed and locked behind him. Then he waved the dubious looking man away and followed the outline in his head. Corridors branched off this way and that, and Webb got the impression that only about a third of the vacation home was in use, as he switched from side to side and walked carefully toward his first destination: An old set of stairs built against a far wall.

Down these he spiraled, stopping once to listen to the house and hearing no suspicious movements. He licked his lips, feeling the dryness there, and tried to quell his rapidly beating heart. The wooden bannister was rough under his fingers. Reaching a level below ground he found the walls peeling, the floor rough and a peculiar odor hanging around. A great deterrent to the curious.

Moving forward, he flicked on a small torch, illuminating the way ahead. No need to stop and investigate the slightly ajar rooms down here, they would be full of junk, unwanted items and newspapers for the most part.

The next significant movement he made involved a dusty, dirty chimney breast and a heavy trapdoor set in the floor to the left of it. Webb fell to his knees and used a couple of tools to dig around the trapdoor, found the thick metal ring that lifted it, and tugged. It took some effort, but eventually the door came grating upward, spilling debris all over his knees. Webb rose and dusted off, then shone the torch below.

A rickety set of timber steps led below, cobweb-covered and thick with dust. No footprints anywhere. Webb felt elated to see that nobody had been down this way in decades, or longer.

“Wait.”

He forced himself to take a breath, pay attention to the house. This would be no quick getaway. He needed valuable information from this, the third clue. The building remained silent all around as if it sat with bated breath, waiting to see what would happen.

Webb took the first step, then descended below ground, deciding to leave the trapdoor open. No way did he want to risk being trapped below ground. The steps were evenly spaced and eventually he came to a rocky floor. Now, the hard bit. Four overlarge, pitch-black rooms sat down here.

Webb broke out a bigger torch—a flashlight now. At length, he found that the third room had been partitioned—a strong plasterboard wall effectively cut it in half. Webb attacked the plasterboard with gusto, coughing as the dust swirled, and began to choke. He ripped off a chunk with his bare hands, seeing himself as an aggressive conqueror destroying everything that stood in his way. He threw plasterboard portions to the corners of the room, and stamped on others. He stood amidst the churning powder, a god.

The enlarged hole revealed all he sought. One of the labs set up by the Count himself; one of the labs built to further his investigations and delvings into alchemy.

Webb entered, finally humbled.

*

Seeking the true secret of alchemy, delving into the deep enigma that surrounded its very name, had always been the quintessential goal for a certain kind of treasure hunter—namely those in search of the Philosopher’s Stone. Webb didn’t see himself that way, naturally; he wanted everything that Germain pioneered. A way to turn base metals into noble ones. A way to fashion gold. An alternative to accepted science.

Using a heady and complex mix of lab techniques, terminology, theory, experimental method and a firm belief in the power of the four elements, the Count was also guided by magic, mythology and religion. A dangerous mix then, unsurprising that its very practice set the hands of kings and priests trembling and native pitchforks a-twitching.

Webb trod the hallowed floor as gently as he might sneak upon an unsuspecting victim, biting his bottom lip to hold in the excitement. A waist-high wooden bench dominated the room, stretching almost wall to wall, and upon this sat various items; a flotsam and jetsam accumulation that was potentially centuries old. Webb skirted the table, spying a cupboard in a far corner and a stack of boxes in another.

On the table sat an array of beakers, a cylindrical shaped vessel Webb knew to be a boiling glass, a flask, a funnel, a measunder, a meabul and a medicine glass. Vials lay everywhere and he also spotted a mortar vessel and crucible with some kind of ancient, furred mush inside. A spirit lamp sat at one end, a vial claw and stand at the other. Webb had found at least one set of Saint Germain’s sacred alchemical tools. The path of his future was now set.

The book that lay half open on the table revealed the first alchemical formula. Without reading Webb knew part of the recipe would be missing. Real alchemists thought if the one who followed wanted to aspire to greatness he would be able to fill in the missing piece himself. Masonic symbols stared back at him, and words for base metals, other formulas.

The path of the
seed
of the metal.

I see it now.

First—
distillation.
Separate the sanctified metal from the crude; the blessed essence from the basic crust. Next,
digestion.
When it becomes a black glutinous matter and attains purity. And then it is drunk, or molded or poured into vials for further manipulation.

The perfect seed,
Webb thought.
Fit for proliferation.

The use of water, air, earth and fire in conjunction with salt, mercury, sulfur and other elements was paramount and divinely sound.
A medieval chemical science?
So it had been said, but Webb believed differently.
Speculative?
Not anymore. He touched the dusty leaves of the book, reverently, as a priest might touch the hand of the greatest martyr. Oh, if only things had gone differently and he could linger here. Linger for days, weeks. The agony of being forced to forge ahead tore ragged strips from his soul.

But in this room somewhere was written the type of cipher to use on the next part of the scroll. Webb had to locate it quickly in case he was interrupted. The many secrets of alchemy were in plain sight; the cipher would not be. Shaking off his humble reverence, Webb took out the scroll and read the last clue once again in conjunction with the Baconian cipher. It pointed him toward the open book itself, the tome Webb least wanted to tamper with. Inside here . . .

Inside here is . . . everything.

He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. No time to double check, no time to dally. The hallowed shouldn’t be besmirched, however, so Webb slipped on gloves and took his time turning the pages. Inside, they were unsullied, the symbols and words leaping up at him like playful children, demanding attention. He fought against considering them, at last finding the page he sought.

The next clue in the scroll would be decoded using the Shakespearian Cipher. Made sense, of course. Many down the years had unearthed facts proving Sir Francis Bacon had actually written the Shakespearian works. And Sir Francis Bacon was Saint Germain. Depended how far you bought into the histories. Webb knew from this new group that if you followed them blindly all the way to the nth degree you’d end up believing the Count was an Ascended Master and still alive to this very day.

He shook it off, already seeing the next clue in the text. In addition to alchemy, Germain had been a master of languages too, and the key to that discipline lay in another European city the Count had visited—only by resolving that clue would he learn how to find the next.

Another day, another trip.

Webb had done all he could in this lab, on this day. He assumed all would remain in place until he found a way to return. It was well concealed, even with the wall busted. He would take this to the very end, earn the greatest reward and then take all of Saint Germain’s treasures to a place only he deemed worthy, to own for the rest of his very long life.

Webb smiled in the dark, then headed for the door.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Outside again, and it seemed an age since he’d seen the same darkness, smelled the same air. Paris had changed considerably; the entire world was smaller, less significant. Webb, questing alone, had solved age-old mysteries.

Not that he’d doubted himself.

Out here, the air should be his to manipulate, the earth a possession he might control.
One day.
A patch of lamplight pooled off to the right, and Webb shied away. He left the Parisian vacation home and checked the time, surprised to find it was only around 9 p.m. He’d imagined he’d been down there half the night. And that was a shame, because tourists still littered the streets with their cameras, food bags and backpacks, and Webb wanted them all to himself.

Everything changed a moment later.

From out of the shadows and through the solitary lake of light they came, six this time and all with faces as hard as forged steel. Webb took off fast, bruised muscles from a few days ago flaring up as if in warning. Heavy boots thundered after him. Not a word was spoken though, and that sent a bolt of fear through Webb’s very soul. They would wipe him from the face of the earth tonight, if they could.

He raced head down, and aimed toward the only people he could see, but in the direction of the famous Champs Élysées. The crowds roamed there twenty-four-seven it seemed, and offered Webb his best chance of melting away. A car crossed his path, almost silent in the night, a freakin’ electric mutant that he never heard. Webb’s heart leapt in surprise, his awareness increasing exponentially. He followed the car as best he could, hopeful the owner would slow, but of course, on this occasion, he had no luck.

Dark windows lined the street and several rows of topped trees. A small group of tourists stared, watching the action, one even starting to take the cap of his big Nikon. Webb veered toward them with an idea in mind, then sprinted past only to hear shouts from behind as the cameraman was assaulted.
Good.
The goons thought he’d taken a snap and were now wasting precious time teaching him a lesson.

He glanced back. No such luck. Only one goon had remained back there, the others were closer still. He saw garbage cans lined up ahead, ready for recycling day, and toppled them in his wake. Leaves, branches and vegetation spilled over the road, the big bins getting in the way of one pursuer and sending him headlong and face-first into the road.

Webb then experienced some more misfortune, landing badly as he crossed a standard curb and turning his ankle. He went down. The goons were on him in eight seconds as he struggled to his knees.

“ ’Old ’im,” one said in British accent.

“No,” Webb said. “Not now. I’m too close. I—”

A fist slammed off the side of his head, sending spots dancing all across his eye line.

“Shut the hell up.”

Webb hung his head, making himself heavy. His ankle throbbed. “Please.”

They shook him violently and the spots kept on dancing.

“Gun,” one of them said menacingly.

“I have money,” Webb tried. “More than you can imagine. Shit, a month ago you were all probably working for
me.
”

“Shut yer gob.”

“Who do you work for now?”

“Our employer doesn’t like violence,” another man said. “So he employs others who do. That’s us.” A jab to the ear. “Get the picture now?”

“Yeah, but I could double your pay.”

“You got the wedge on ya?”

“No. It’s—”

“Then stop wastin’ my time. I’m already knackered from the run and gobsmacked you even got this far. Now stop all yer kerfuffle and die.”

Webb understood little of it, but got the general idea. He cast around for anything he could use, but the mercs were covering him well, all angles spoken for. This time he had no way out. This time Tyler Webb’s lifelong dream was really going to sputter to a stop.

Webb was down to the desperate measures he’d hoped never to have to call upon.

A small incendiary device, almost like a firecracker or vigorous sparkler, might make these hardened men laugh in the battlefield, but one shoved inside their clothing was no lightweight matter. Webb had palmed one from his small backpack earlier and now thrust it inside the Englishman’s jacket. The reaction was instant, flames singeing and scorching, and the man jumped back with a screech, smashing at his own chest.

Everyone stared.

Except Webb.

Pushing from his heels and with every ounce of strength, he broke through the shocked men just as flames burst through the man’s jacket. These men didn’t know whether to stop and help their leader or give chase. This then, was why the Pythian mercenary force never conquered the world.