Eric Lustbader - The Testament

Outside, the fog had settled like a blanket of snow. The centuries-old image of St. Michael slaying the dragon curled at his feet was visible, but of the massive fortress-isle below it nothing could be seen, so that the fierce and avenging archangel appeared as if borne through the air on vaporous wings.

Camille allowed Bravo to sit in silence for some time, then she began to speak: "Tired as we both are, we must make some decisions. Was this the form of attack you escaped from in America?"

"More or less, yes." Bravo was sitting forward, flexed elbows on drawn-up knees. He seemed hollow-eyed, his face empty.

"Then Jordan was right. The Germans-"

"The Wassersturms have nothing to do with this!" he exploded. Rising, he returned to the bedside, stood staring down at Jenny's pale face. Her freckles had all but disappeared; a faint spiderweb of blue veins was visible at her temple.

Camille gave him some time with her, but not too much. She rose and went quickly to his side.

"Bravo, I'm terribly confused," she said softly. "Isn't it time you told me what's happening?"

When he didn't respond, she turned him around to face her. "Why won't you confide in me?"

"I want you to leave right now."

"What?"

He took her by the elbow and led her to the door. "Get in the car and go back to Paris."

"And leave you here like this? You can't be serious!"

"But I am, Camille. I'm deadly serious."

She made to break away from him, but he held her all the tighter. She struggled for only a moment, then she was still. They stared at each other in an odd contest of wills that mimicked the impassioned struggle between a headstrong teenager and his mother.

"This is no game, Camille. These people are out for blood-"

"What people? Do you know who is behind this? Bravo, you're frightening me."

"Then I've succeeded. Camille, I've put you in enough danger as it is. I'd never forgive myself if something happened to you."

"And what about your friend, Jenny Logan? You would risk losing her?"

At that moment, a sound came to them, like the soft mewl of a cat that hadn't been fed. They both turned, and Bravo let Camille go as he rushed to the bed. Jenny's eyes were open; they were looking blankly around the room.

"Bravo?"

"I'm here." He took her hand as he sat beside her. "And so is Camille."

As Camille came into her line of sight, Jenny said in a cracked voice, "Where am I?"

"In a hotel," Camille said with a smile. "You're perfectly safe here."

Jenny's eyes settled on Bravo. "The Mercedes?"

"Destroyed, utterly," he said. "It hit a gas pump and went up in flames."

"God…" Her head turned to one side and a single tear rolled down onto the bedspread.

"Thank you for saving my life," Camille said, kneeling beside her. "Your courage is extraordinary."

Jenny looked at her but said nothing.

Camille leaned against the night table. "You must rest and regain your strength. We have brought you to Mont St. Michel. It is a sacred place, Jenny. A place for healing both the body and the spirit. It has been so ever since the first abbey was built in the eleventh century. But the very site itself is holy. The monastery was founded in 708 by St. Aubert, the Bishop of Avranches, who was visited in dreams by the Archangel Michel himself. Ever since then Mont St. Michel has been a magnet for people in need from all over the known world. Be at peace now, you need time to recover. Call me if there is anything you want and I shall bring it."

She rose and, smiling, told Bravo that she was going to lie down for a while.

Bravo waited until she closed the door behind her, then said, "How are you feeling?"

"Like I was run over by a freight train."

"You very nearly were," Bravo said, "or something very much like it." He took a breath. "Jenny, did you see who was inside the Mercedes?"

"I had only the briefest glimpse and that was… I keep getting flickers of images. There were two figures."

"Male or female?"

"The one with the gun-he was a man, I'm sure of that. He had a long, narrow face, dark hair and eyes, mid-thirties or so." She closed her eyes for a moment. "Everything's spinning around."

"Here," Bravo said, "see if you can sit up."

He helped her put her back against two pillows. Then he gave her some water. Jenny stared down into the bottom of the glass as if it were a sorcerer's bowl in which the images of her encounter with the Mercedes could be conjured up.

"The driver was a man, as well."

Standing in her room, smoking a cigarette, Camille had to admire the ingenuity of the microcircuits on the listening device she'd planted on the underside of the night table as she knelt down. Her conversation with Jenny had been a diversion while she pressed the tiny device into the unpainted plywood.

"Yes, he was," Bravo said. "I saw him slumped over the wheel after you shot him dead. I think we can reasonably assume that your recollection of the other man is accurate." A small noise interrupted the flow, then Bravo's voice returned. "The Mercedes had German plates. Camille thinks that Jordan might be right about the Wassersturms being after me."

"Surely you don't think that."

"I don't," Bravo said, "but I suppose it would be best to be certain."

"The Wassersturms are a blind alley, and a potentially dangerous one," Jenny said in a voice audibly more firm. "We can't allow anything to interfere with finding the cache of secrets."

"Dear God, no, we can't have that," Camille said into the ensuing silence. When she was certain that the conversation was at an end, she took out her cell phone and tapped in a number.

"Bravo doesn't know where the cache is," she said when her son picked up the phone. "On the other hand, he isn't going to tell me a thing about the devilish labyrinth Dexter has set up."

"Did you actually expect him to?"

"There was always the chance."

Jordan laughed, a piercing, thoroughly nasty sound. "How disappointed you would've been if he'd proved himself such a fool!"

"He's his father's son, after all, isn't he?"

There was a small silence.

"He won't go for the Wassersturm story, and neither will Jenny. I told you," she said, abruptly changing the subject. "That was Osman Spagna's idea, wasn't it?"

"What if it was?" Jordan said somewhat defensively.

"I don't like that man, Jordan. I've told you before. Get rid of him."

"I didn't think Bravo would go for the Wassersturm story, either, but that wasn't the purpose," he said, avoiding an answer he did not want to give. "We needed to build your credibility with them."

"Yes, it's an old confidence trick. The girl didn't like me from the outset, now there's a bond of trust between us." She paused a moment. "About the Mercedes, there were no survivors."

"Survival of the fittest," Jordan said. "If they were good enough Jenny wouldn't have been able to kill them."

"How did you know Jenny did it?"

Jordan laughed again. "I have to have some secrets, Mother, even from you, otherwise I'm just too good a boy."

"Make sure there aren't any more," Camille said sternly as she broke the connection.

Silence.

Jenny, her eyes half-closed, whispered, "Why are you looking at me that way?"

Without answering, Bravo disappeared into the bathroom. A moment later, she could hear the water running. The sound soothed her and her gaze drifted to the picture window, beyond which only the largest form-that of Mont St. Michel itself-could be seen, though indistinctly, no more than a shadow towering from the salt beds of the unseen tidewater. The long afternoon had progressed, but within the white void of the fog there was no sound, no movement, not even a hint that the sun continued to cross the sky. It was as if time itself stood still.