“I looked in all the old guide books at the chateau, and the only abbey I could find is hundreds of Ks from here, way up north,” Sayid offered.
Max toweled himself dry. The wind was dropping; the weather would worsen soon and then Bobby and his friends would be off to Switzerland for more snowboarding. He had to use Bobby’s local knowledge while he could. Trouble was, Bobby Morrell’s local knowledge extended mostly to surfing conditions and girls, which at any other time would be an asset, but not now. Max looked across the sand dunes to the chateau. The comtesse stood at a window. As Max gazed in her direction, she moved away. Max felt something more than a trickle of cold Atlantic water slither down his spine.
Time to take another risk.
The black Audi slipped through the early-morning streets like a feral cat searching for prey. Biarritz’s roads were deserted; cars were clumped on pavements-parking, as in all cities, was a nightmare. Within a couple of hours traffic would choke the narrow streets and then Corentin and Thierry would never find the small side street they were searching for.
They had lost the girl, and the boy had slipped through their fingers back in Pau, but the girl had rented a car, and with any luck she’d be returning it today. The two killers had entered the northern side of the city, turned down Avenue de l’Imperatrice, past the Hotel de Palais, where the rich came for self-indulgent pleasures of five-star luxury. There must have been every top model parked in the hotel’s car park, Corentin thought as they glided past. Thierry was checking a street map, cursing under his breath as he tried to figure out the bottlenecking one-way- street system. Corentin had no envy for the rich or their lifestyle; his path had been chosen for him when he was a boy. And as a man he had made good, casting aside the mindless violence of his childhood. The Legion had channeled his aggression, taught him to think and behave. He adhered to a set of values that seemed right, and it was known that, if a contract touched some deep instinct within Corentin, he would do a job without payment. There were times when he saw killing someone really evil as an act of charity, a contribution to society.
After a few minutes of avoiding the wrong-way street signs, the car eased into a narrow road. Shops were still shuttered and closed. Thierry pointed to a lane behind the marketplace. A small sign: SIMONE’S AUTOS. An archway led to an inner courtyard, where older cars were parked.
Corentin and Thierry watched, and waited, for Sophie.
Comtesse Villeneuve sat at a small baize-covered card table at the window, her back to the door. She slowly turned oversized cards while a cigarette smoldered. After a moment of watching her, Max raised his hand to tap on the door, but before his knuckles found the wood, she lifted the cigarette to her lips and, without turning, said in a low voice, “Don’t stand there all day, young man. I’ve been waiting for you.”
Max, unnerved by her knowing he was there, walked closer. Through the window he could see Sayid still under the umbrella, more for protection from the sea mist than the weak sunlight. He was stretched out on the ground, using his wheelchair as a footrest. Bobby had caught a good wave: his angular body scuttled towards the front of the board, his sea-soaked hair twisted like seaweed-his speed and elegance on the surfboard demanded attention.
“What do you mean, Comtesse?” Max said, turning to face her.
“You’re not the same as these other boys. You’re not as carefree. You think. Your brain-it works. I don’t know what it thinks about, but you look at everything, you see things other boys do not. You are careful before you speak. You hold secrets. You are unsure of the girl. Well, maybe that is correct. Some girls, like Mademoiselle Fauvre, are … complicated. You watch her, you watch me. You have many questions that need answering.
“I didn’t think it was that obvious.”
“My dear Max, I am an old lady. Age is like standing on top of a mountain-you get wonderful views of everything-before you fall, of course.” She laughed at his serious expression. “Come along, Max. What is it?”
“The Basques? Ah, there’s a strange and unique people. These are their mountains that go down to the sea, and they are also shrouded in mystery. Their people are blessed with ancient blood. Did you know that thousands of years ago they migrated from Finland? That they traveled down across Europe, bringing with them their own beliefs and a determination to find a new land? There is very little written about them. It’s as if they are their own secret. And there are few remaining who can speak their language. No. Of course you did not know. Why should you?”
She paused, gazing out across the sea, past the crumbling stonework. When she turned to look at him again, Max felt as though she knew his deepest secrets. Maybe she was some kind of witch after all.
“My late husband was a soldier of France. Wherever we went he studied the people and the place, as if he was looking for an ambush. Just like you.” She laughed. “You are safe here, but you are correct to exercise caution.”
“Even with you?” Max dared to ask.
She thought for a moment. “Yes. You have given me information, now I share what it is you are seeking. Yes, caution. Always.” She went back to shuffling the cards, as if their conversation had ended.
“It’s really important I find this place. It’s an abbey with something to do with a snake and a crocodile.”
Her hands immediately stopped fingering the cards. Max’s heart thumped. She knew. She looked at him. He didn’t flinch. Challenging her to tell him. Her eyes never wavered from his face. Less intense than moments ago- more dreamy-looking. Why should this boy seek a place filled with exotic knowledge, created by a most extraordinary man? An Irishman, a Basque father and an Irish mother. Basques and Celts, rich in esoteric myth and legend. What was this boy doing? Why did she feel a sense of discomfort? A separate energy possessed this Max Gordon. A primeval element that could be evoked.
“Sit down,” she told him.
Max dragged a rattan chair over and sat. She beckoned him closer. He scuffed forward a few more centimeters.
“Give me your hand.”
He did as she asked and she held it tenderly in both hands. Max felt her calloused fingertips trace the whorls and lines on his skin. She half closed his fingers, studied the deepening creases in his palm, then turned his hand again, stroking the back of his fingers. She hesitated. There were sadness and loss in his hand.
“Your mother.” She shook her head gently. “You were so young when she died.”
Max said nothing, remembering his dad holding him, and his tear-filled eyes. He’d never seen his father cry before-or since.
The comtesse waited, sensing the boy’s subtle energy of strength and determination. No evil. But a darker power lurking, accessible.
“Your father’s energy flows in you. You grieve for him-but he’s not dead.”
“No,” Max replied, his dad clearly in his mind. She whispered a truth Max had not dared tell anyone.
“You blame yourself. Something happened in the past. And you feel guilty.”
Max swallowed, his throat dry. Memories of the race to save his father when he was captured in Africa still tore him with regret. If his rescue mission had reached his dad sooner, then perhaps Max could have saved him from being tortured. And his dad’s mind wouldn’t now be fractured like a cracked mirror.
The comtesse decided. The boy’s search was for genuine reasons.
“It is not an abbey you seek, Max. It was built by a scientist-explorer in the nineteenth century. It is named after him. The Chateau d’Antoine d’Abbadie.” She smiled. “Actually, it’s a tourist attraction.”
“What?”
“Not very well promoted, and I doubt many know of it.”
“Where?”
“Hendaye, on the Spanish border. An hour or so from here.”
He had misunderstood Zabala’s frantic, desperate cries in his dying moments. What he had heard as “abbaye” was the name Abbadie.
“Can you keep this to yourself?” Max asked her.
“A tourist attraction? No,” she teased.
“That you’ve told me. Please. Don’t mention it to Sophie.
