Nicholas Flamel s power.
What else could I do? Nicholas protested. You had your hands full.
Scatty curled her lips in disgust. I could have taken him. Remember, who got
you out of Lubyanka Prison with both hands manacled behind my back?
What are you talking about? Where s Lubyanka? Josh asked, confused.
Moscow. Nicholas glanced sidelong at Josh. don't ask; it s a long story,
he murmured.
He was going to be shot as a spy, Scathach said gleefully.
A
Following Scathach and Flamel through the winding streets of Montmartre, Josh
thought back to how John Dee had described Nicholas Flamel to him only the
day before.
He has been many things in his time: a physician and a cook, a bookseller, a
soldier, a teacher of languages and chemistry, both an officer of the law and
a thief. But he is now, and has always been, a liar, a charlatan and a
crook.
And a spy, Josh added. He wondered if Dee knew that. He peered at the rather
ordinary-looking man: with his close-cropped hair and his pale eyes, in his
black jeans and T-shirt under a battered black leather jacket, he would have
passed unnoticed on any street in any city in the world. And yet he was
anything but ordinary: born in the year 1330, he claimed to be working for
the good of humanity, by keeping the Codex away from Dee and the shadowy and
terrifying creatures he served, the Dark Elders.
But whom did Flamel serve? Josh wondered. Just who was the immortal Nicholas
Flamel?
CHAPTER SEVEN
steps of Sacre -Coeur, the fog curling and swirling behind him like a cloak.
Although the air was beginning to clear, it was still touched with the odor
of vanilla. Machiavelli threw his head back and breathed deeply, drawing the
smell into his nostrils. He would remember this scent; it was as distinctive
as a fingerprint. Everyone on the planet possessed an aura the electrical
field that surrounded the human body and when that electrical field was
focused and directed, it interacted with the user s endorphin system and
adrenal glands to produce a distinctive odor unique to that person: a
signature scent. Machiavelli took a final breath. He could almost taste the
vanilla on the air, crisp, clear and pure: the scent of raw untrained power.
And in that moment, Machiavelli knew beyond a doubt that Dee was correct:
this was the odor of one of the legendary twins.
I want the entire area sealed off, Machiavelli snapped to the semicircle of
high-ranking police who had gathered at the bottom of the steps in the Square
Willette. Cordon off every street, alleyway and lane from the Rue Custine to
the Rue Caulaincourt, from the Boulevard de Clichy to the Boulevard de
Rochechouart and the Rue de Clignancourt. I want these people found!
You are suggesting closing down Montmartre, a deeply tanned police officer
said in the silence that followed. He looked to his colleagues for support,
but none of them would meet his eye. It s the height of the tourist season,
he protested, turning back to Machiavelli.
Machiavelli rounded on the captain, his face as impassive as the masks he
collected. His cold gray eyes bored into the man, but when he spoke his voice
was even and controlled, barely above a whisper. You know who I am? he
asked mildly.
The captain, a decorated veteran of the French Foreign Legion, felt something
cold and sour at the back of his throat as he looked into the man s stony
eyes. Licking suddenly dry lips, he said, You are Monsieur Machiavelli, the
new head of the Direction G n rale de la S curit Ext rieure. But this is a
police matter, sir, not an external security matter. You have no authority
I am making this a DGSE matter, Machiavelli interrupted softly. My powers
come directly from the president. I will shut down this entire city if
necessary. I want these people found. Tonight, a catastrophe was averted. He
waved his hand vaguely in the direction of Sacre -Coeur, now beginning to
appear out of the thinning mist. Who knows what other terrors they have
planned? I want a progress report on the hour, every hour, he finished, and
without waiting for a response turned and marched over to his car, where his
dark-suited driver waited, arms folded across his massive chest. The driver,
face half hidden behind wraparound mirrored sunglasses, opened the door and
then closed it gently behind Machiavelli. After he had climbed into the car,
the driver sat patiently, black gloved hands resting lightly on the leather
steering wheel, and awaited instructions. The sheet of privacy glass that
separated the driver s section from the back of the car buzzed down.
Flamel is in Paris. Where would he go? Machiavelli asked without preamble.
The creature known as Dagon had served Machiavelli for close to four hundred
years. It was the name by which he had been known for millennia, and despite
his appearance, he had never been even remotely human. Turning in the seat,
he pulled off his mirrored sunglasses. In the dim car interior, his eyes were
bulbous and fishlike, huge and liquid behind a clear, glassy film: he had no
eyelids. When he spoke, two rows of tiny ragged teeth were visible behind his
thin lips. Who are his allies? Dagon asked, shifting from deplorable French
to appalling Italian before dropping back to the bubbling, liquid language of
his long-lost youth.
Flamel and his wife have always been loners, Machiavelli said. That is why
they have survived for so long. To the best of my knowledge, they have not
lived in this city since the end of the eighteenth century. He pulled out
his slender black laptop and ran his index finger over the integrated
fingerprint reader. The machine blipped and the screen blinked to life.
If they came through a leygate, then they came unprepared, Dagon said
wetly. No money, no passports, no clothes other than those they were
wearing.
Exactly, Machiavelli whispered. So they re going to need to find
themselves an ally.
Humani or immortal? Dagon asked.
Machiavelli took a moment to consider. An immortal, he said finally. I m
not sure they know many humani in this city.
So which immortals are currently living in Paris? Dagon asked.
