Kate Mosse - Labyrinth

From her vantage point on the hill, Alice watched as the solemn convoy zigzagged away down the valley, getting smaller and smaller until it was no more than a smudge on the horizon.

The camp had grown quiet around her. Realizing she couldn’t delay any longer, Alice was about to go back up too when she noticed Authie hadn’t yet gone. She edged a little closer, watching with interest as he laid his jacket carefully on the back seat of his expensive-looking silver car. He slammed the door, and then took a phone from his pocket. Alice could hear the gentle drumming of his fingers on the roof as he waited for a connection.

When he spoke, the message was brief and to the point.

“ Ce nest plus la ,” was all he said. It’s gone.

Chartres

The great Gothic cathedral of Notre Dame de Chartres towered high above the patchwork of pepper-tiled rooftops and gables, and half-timbered and limestone houses which make up the historic city center. Below the crowded labyrinth of narrow, curving streets, in the shadows of the buildings, the river Eure was still in the dappled light of the late afternoon sun.

Tourists jostled one another at the West Door of the cathedral. Men wielded their video cameras like weapons, recording rather than experiencing the brilliant kaleidoscope of color spilling from the three lancet windows above the Royal Portal.

Until the eighteenth century, the nine entrances leading into the cathedral close could be sealed at times of danger. The gates were long gone now, but the attitude of mind persisted. Chartres was still a city of two halves, the old and the new. The most exclusive streets were those to the north of the Cloister, where the Bishop’s Palace once stood. The pale stone edifices looked out imperiously toward the cathedral, shrouded with an air of centuries-old Catholic influence and power.

The house of the de l’Oradore family dominated the rue du Cheval Blanc. It had survived the Revolution and the Occupation and stood now as a testimony to old money. Its brass knocker and letterbox gleamed and the shrubs in the planters on either side of the steps leading up to its double doors were perfectly clipped.

The front door led into an imposing hall. The floor was dark, polished wood and a heavy glass vase of freshly cut white lilies sat on an oval table at its center. Display cases set around the edges-each discreetly alarmed-contained a priceless selection of Egyptian artifacts acquired by the de l’Oradore family after Napoleon’s triumphant return from his North African campaigns in the early nineteenth century. It was one of the largest Egyptian collections in private hands.

The current head of the family, Marie-Cecile de l’Oradore, traded in antiques of all periods, although she shared her late grandfather’s preference for the medieval past. Two substantial French tapestries hung on the paneled wall opposite the front door, both of which she had acquired since coming into her inheritance five years ago. The family’s most valuable pieces-pictures, jewelry, manuscripts-were locked away in the safe, out of sight.

In the master bedroom on the first floor of the house, overlooking the rue du Cheval Blanc, Will Franklin, Marie-Cecile’s current lover, lay on his back on the four-poster bed with the sheet pulled up to his waist.

His tanned arms were folded behind his head and his light brown hair, streaked blond by childhood summers spent at Martha’s Vineyard, framed an engaging face and little-boy-lost smile.

Marie-Cecile herself was sitting in an ornate Louis XIV armchair beside the fireplace, her long, smooth legs crossed at the knees. The ivory sheen of her silk camisole shimmered against the deep blue velvet upholstery.

She had the distinctive profile of the de l’Oradore family, a pale, aquiline beauty, although her lips were both sensuous and full and her catlike green eyes were fringed with generous dark lashes. Her perfectly cut black curls skimmed the top of chiseled shoulders.

“This is such a great room,” said Will. “The perfect setting for you. Cool, expensive, subtle.”

The tiny diamond studs in her ears glinted as she leaned forward to stub out her cigarette.

“It was my grandfather’s room originally.”

Her English was flawless, with just a shimmer of a French accent that still turned him on. She stood up and walked across the room toward him, her feet making no sound on the thick, pale blue carpet.

Will smiled expectantly as he breathed in the unique smell of her: sex, Chanel and a hint of Gauloise.

“Over,” she said, making a twisting movement with her finger in the air. “Turn over.”

Will did as he was told. Marie-Cecile began to massage his neck and broad shoulders. He could feel his body stretch and relax under her touch. Neither of them paid any attention to the sound of the front door opening and closing below. He didn’t even register the voices in the hall, the footsteps taking the stairs two by two and striding along the corridor.

There were a couple of sharp raps on the bedroom door. “ Maman !”

Will tensed.

“It’s only my son,” she said. “ Out? Qu’est-ce que c’est ?”

“ Maman! Je veux te parler .”

Will lifted his head. “I thought he wasn’t due back until tomorrow.”

“He isn’t.”

“ Maman !” Francois-Baptiste repeated. “ C’est important .”

“If I’m in the way…”he said awkwardly.

Marie-Cecile continued to massage his shoulders. “He knows not to disturb me. I will talk to him later.” She raised her voice. “Pas maintenant, Francois-Baptiste.” Then she added in English for Will’s benefit, as she ran her hands down his back: “Now is not… convenient.”

Will rolled onto his back and sat up, feeling embarrassed. In the three months he’d known Marie-Cecile, he’d never met her son. Francois-Baptiste had been away at university, then on holiday with friends. Only now did it occur to him that Marie-Cecile had engineered it.

“Aren’t you going to talk to him?”

“If it makes you happy,” she said, slipping off the bed. She opened the door a fraction. There was a muffled exchange that Will couldn’t hear, then the sound of feet stomping off down the hall. She turned the key in the lock and turned back to face him.

“Better?” she said softly.

Slowly, she moved back toward him, looking at him from the fringe of her long, dark eyelashes. There was something deliberate about her movements, like a performance, but Will felt his body respond all the same.

She pushed him back on to the bed and straddled him, draping her elegant arms over his shoulders. Her sharp nails left faint scratch marks across his skin. He could feel her knees pressing into his sides. He reached up and ran his fingers down her smooth, toned arms and brushed her breasts with the back of his hands through the silk. The thin silk straps slipped easily from her sculptured shoulders.

The mobile phone lying on the bedside table rang. Will ignored it. He eased the delicate camisole down her lean body to her waist.

“They’ll call back if it’s important.”

Marie-Cecile glanced at the number on the screen. Immediately, her mood changed.

“I must take this,” she said.

Will tried to stop her, but she pushed him away impatiently. “Not now.”

Covering herself, she walked away to the window. “ Oui. J’ecoute .”

He heard the crackle of a bad line. “Trouve-le, alors!” she said and disconnected. Her face flushed with anger, Marie-Cecile reached for a cigarette and lit it. Her hands were shaking.

“Is there a problem?”

To start with, Will thought she hadn’t heard him. She looked as if she’d forgotten he was even in the room. Then, she glanced over.