testament to a time when bloody deaths were a part of everyday life here. That was made with black smoke. Quarrymen of that day carried candles and oil lamps, and they’d place the flame close against the wall, which baked carbon into the stone. Pretty smart.”
He pointed with his light. “That’s from the French Revolution?”
She nodded. “This is a time capsule, Sam. The entire underground is that way. See why I like it?”
He glanced around at the images. Most seemed conceived with sobriety, but humor and satire were also evident, along with several titillating pornographic additions.
“This is a pretty amazing place,” she said to the darkness. “I come here a lot. It’s peaceful and silent. Like a return to the womb. Going back to the surface, to me, can be like a rebirth.”
He was taken aback by her frankness. Apparently cracks did exist in her tough veneer. Then he understood.
“You’re scared, aren’t you?”
She faced him and, in the glow from her light, he caught sincerity in her eyes. “You know I am.”
“I am, too.”
He gently laid his hand on her shoulder. It was the first time they’d touched, and she did not pull away.
Surprising himself, he was glad.
“We’ll be okay,” he told her.
“Those men yesterday, in the museum, I think they would have eventually hurt me.”
“That’s really why you forced things, while I was there?”
A hesitation, then she nodded.
He appreciated her honesty. Finally. “Looks like we’ve both bit off a lot.”
She grinned. “Apparently so.”
He withdrew his hand and wondered about her show of vulnerability. Through emails, they’d communicated many times over the past year. He’d thought he was speaking to a man named Jimmy Foddrell. Instead, an intriguing woman had been on the other end of the Internet. Thinking back, she’d actually reached out in some of those communiques. Never like this-but enough that he’d felt a connection.
She pointed with her light. “Down those corridors you’ll eventually find the catacombs. The bones of six million people are stacked there. Ever been?”
He shook his head.
“Don’t.”
He kept silent.
“These drawings,” she said, “were made by ordinary people. But they’re a historical essay. The walls down here, for miles, are covered in pictures. They show people’s life and times, fears, and superstitions. They are a record.” She paused. “We have a chance, Sam, to do something real. Something that could make a difference.”
They were so much alike. Both of them lived in a virtual world of paranoia and speculation. And both of them harbored good intentions.
“Then let’s do it,” he said.
She chuckled. “I wish it were that easy. I have a bad feeling about this.”
She seemed to draw strength from this underground spectacle. Perhaps even some wisdom, too.
“Care to explain that one?”
She shook her head. “I can’t, really. Just a feeling.”
She came closer. Barely a few inches away. “Did you know that a kiss shortens life by three minutes?”
He considered her strange inquiry, then shook his head.
“Not a peck on the cheek. A real kiss, like you mean it, causes palpitations to such a degree that the heart works harder in four seconds than it normally would in three minutes.”
“Really, now?”
“There was a study. Hell, Sam, there’s a study for everything. 480 kisses-again, like you mean it-will shorten a person’s life by one day. 2,300 will cost a week. 120,000? There goes a year.”
She inched closer.
He smiled. “And the point?”
“I can spare three minutes of my life, if you can.”
FORTY-FIVE
LONDON
MALONE WATCHED AS STEPHANIE DISAPPEARED INTO THE night and another man immediately approached Graham Ashby, toting a Selfridges shopping bag. Malone had immersed himself among the walking tour, embracing the talkative crowd. His task was to cover Stephanie’s back, keep a close eye on things, but now they may have finally caught a break.
He noted the features of Ashby’s companion.
Reddish hair, thin nose, medium build, about 160 to 170 pounds, dressed like everybody else in a wool coat, scarf, and gloves. But something told him that this was not just anybody else.
Many in the tour were making their way into the Ten Bells pub, the rattle from a multitude of conversations spilling out into the night. Entrepreneurs were actively hawking Jack the Ripper T-shirts and commemorative mugs. Ashby and Red loitered on the sidewalk, and Malone crept to within thirty feet, a spate of boisterous people between them. Flashbulbs strobed the darkness as many in the group stole a picture before the pub’s colorful facade.
He joined in the revelry and bought a T-shirt from one of the vendors.
ASHBY WAS CONCERNED.
“I thought it best we speak tonight,” Peter Lyon said to him.
“How did you know I was here?”
“The woman. Is she an acquaintance?”
He thought back to his conversation with Stephanie Nelle. They’d kept their voices low and had stood apart from the crowd. No one had been nearby. Had Lyon heard anything?
“I have many female acquaintances.”
Lyon chuckled. “I’m sure you do. Women provide the greatest of pleasures, the worst of problems.”
“How did you find me?” he asked again.
“Did you think for one moment that I wouldn’t discover what you are doing?”
His legs began to shake, and not from the cold.
Lyon motioned for them to drift across the street, away from the pub, where fewer people stood and no street lamps burned. Ashby walked with trepidation, but realized that Lyon wouldn’t do anything here, with so many witnesses.
Or would he?
“I’ve been aware of your contacts with the Americans from the beginning,” Lyon said to him, the voice low and controlled. “It’s amusing you think yourself so clever.”
