Eric Lustbader - The Testament

The city was founded by Father MacLaw, a Welsh bishop who fled Wales to Brittany in 538, Malo being the French pronunciation of his name. Despite its advantageous location, the city did not attain real prominence until it was adopted by corsairs, who, growing rich and powerful, fortified it against their enemies both on the sea and on land. By 1590, the St. Malo corsairs had become so influential that they dared to declare the city a republic independent of both the federal and the municipal Breton governments.

Throughout the sixteenth, seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, St. Malo acquired considerable wealth, not only from its maritime trade between the Americas and Europe but from its so-called Newfoundlanders, whose fleets fished for cod in the chill waters off the east coast of Canada. However successful these intrepid fishermen were, the bulk of the city's riches and fame was the result of the constant raids of its feared corsairs.

If one knew what to look for, St. Malo's rich and storied history was visible all around in the stone houses, the fortified walls, the brightly colored corsair pennants. Striding along cobbled streets, Jenny and Bravo reached the formidable seawall and now mounted the stone stairs set into its inside face. Gaining the top, they looked out onto the Gulf of St. Malo, beyond which were the gray-blue backs of Jersey and the Channel Islands, rising from the channel like breaching whales. The day was fair and what little breeze came to them was as soft and downy as a feather pillow. The summer sun blazed down from a clear sky. Because of yesterday's rain the normal heat haze had not yet reasserted itself. Every object stood out, sharp as a knife blade, and the vista seemed endless, the thick swath of sun-dazzle as solid-seeming as a pale stone road through a cobalt wood.

"There," Bravo said, pointing. "That's the spot!"

"But for miles and miles there's only water here," Jenny said. "Could your father have etched the wrong coordinates?"

Bravo shook his head. "He knew just what he was doing."

"Then how do you explain this?" Her arms swept out to encompass the infinite waterscape. "And what about the last four numbers-one, five, three, zero-what do they signify?"

Bravo glanced at his watch. "I don't know about you, but I'm hungry. Let's go down and have lunch at that pretty little cafe we passed."

Jenny looked at him sharply. "You know what the last number sequence means, don't you?" She shaded her eyes from the sun with the flat of her hand. The color had returned to her face, the spray of freckles across her nose clearly visible again. "Tell me."

"I don't want to spoil the surprise," he said with a laugh.

They sat in the tiny stone courtyard of the cafe, beneath a gaily striped umbrella, not three yards from the seawall. They could smell the tang of the brine and the sharp mineral scent of the ancient stone blocks. Jenny ate with little appetite. She drank no wine but insisted on iced coffee.

She wanted to talk about Camille Muhlmann but said nothing, afraid of Bravo's reaction. Fear of another sort, terribly familiar, was slithering through her belly like a serpent. Their sublime moment of intimacy should have changed everything, but when she had awoken this morning, her self-made wall had reasserted itself. Worse, she didn't trust her own feelings. After all, she admonished herself, she'd been no more than half conscious-perhaps the whole thing had been nothing more than a fever dream.

Seeing her shiver, Bravo said at once, "Are you all right?"

"I'm fine." There was a patch of sunlight on his face, making the electric-blue color of his eyes even more extravagant. "You don't have to keep asking me. Really."

"But you looked-"

Her face flushed with sudden anger and she shot him a poisoned look. "For God's sake, don't scrutinize me! Paolo Zorzi trained me-and trained me well-for this life. Do we have that straight?"

The remainder of the meal was passed without either of them uttering another word. The happy burble of voices, sudden bursts of laughter, clink of wine-filled glasses, amorous glances passed between couples at neighboring tables all served to depress her so thoroughly that before dessert and a refill of her iced coffee she was forced to closet herself in one of the two minuscule stalls in the cafe's bathroom so that she could burst into tears undetected. Dexter Shaw had charged her with protecting his son. Bad enough that Bravo had already seen her in a weakened state, she was certain he would lose all respect for her if he knew that she'd sunk so low.

After lunch, they mounted the seawall again and stood in the same spot as before. Again, Bravo pointed. "Look!"

As they watched, they saw a ghostly shape rising slowly out of the sea.

Jenny, glancing at her watch, said, "One, five, three, zero. Fifteen-thirty-it's military time! Three-thirty in the afternoon."

Bravo nodded. "My father was referring to the tide tables. See there, the ebbing tide is bringing his piscina to us."

The ghostly shape began to resolve itself as the water of the bay continued to recede. Soon it became clear that they were looking at concrete walls.

"A swimming pool!" Jenny exclaimed.

"Yes, and a damned clever one, too. Look, it's three-sided to hold the sea water and allow anyone coming from the shore to enter, so that people have a place to swim all afternoon long while the tide is out."

They went a little way along the seawall until they came to a flight of steps on its far side.

"Come on," he said.

Clattering down the steps, they emerged onto the beach. Immediately, they were struck by the reflected heat and a stronger scent of brine, along with the odors of aquatic decay, suntan oil and pleasantly perspiring bodies. Down the beach some way was a shack selling raw oysters, frites and cold drinks. The beach was filled with people-women in skimpy bikinis or bare-breasted, men talking, arms folded across their chests. Three children kicked a multicolored striped ball into the surf, where bathers were coming and going.

Bravo and Jenny removed their shoes. He rolled up his trousers and she lifted her skirt, wrapping it like a Turkish towel around the tops of her thighs. Then they walked across the sand, wading out toward the swimming pool, which was still rising from the restless waters of the bay.

Using the GPS, Bravo guided them deeper into the water, which rose to their thighs. When they reached the left wall of the pool, Bravo moved along it to the farthest point. He ran his fingers down the inside of the wall as far as they would go.

"Anything?" Jenny asked.

He shook his head.

Not far from where they stood, Camille leaned against the seawall. She had on a scarf that completely covered her hair, and she had bought a man's felt cap whose shallow brim she kept low on her forehead. Her elbows were on the top of the seawall, and her hands gripped a pair of powerful binoculars through which she peered at Bravo and Jenny. She watched with extreme concentration as Bravo handed the GPS, his passport and his cell phone to Jenny and then sank beneath the water.

Within three minutes, Bravo reappeared. Water streamed off him and his shirt clung to him like rags.

"There's a small, square door flush with the wall," he said as he wiped water out of his eyes. "The problem is that the door has no handle."

"Does it have a lock?"

"That's the other problem," Bravo said. "It's utterly unconventional."

"I know a bit about locks," Jenny said. "What does it look like?"

"It's a tiny square. Do you know of any kind of key that would open a square lock?"

Jenny shook her head, frowning. "But your father wouldn't have led you here unless he'd provided you with a way to open the door."

"I only have the one key he entrusted to me," Bravo said. "I promise you it's not going to open that peculiar lock."