watertight booth, this time the cascading water flowed in through the broken windows, flooded the control room and tried to pull Austin and Zavala from their anchor. They hung on with every ounce of strength.
Just when their lungs were ready to burst, the main force of the wave spent itself and the water began to subside.
They stood on shaky legs and peered through the jagged-edged framework, which was all that was left of the window.
Zavala looked down on the river flowing under their feet, amazement on his dark features. 'How did you know that high tide was coming?'
'I opened and closed a few sluice gates in another part of the system and diverted water this way.'
Zavala grinned and said, 'I hope that Fauchard and his pals are all washed up.'
'My guess is that they're feeling a bit flushed by now,' Austin said. Miraculously, the control monitor was in a secure housing and had escaped damage. Austin punched in some keyboard commands. The water level dropped until the rushing river became a narrow stream. Both men were shivering in their wet clothes by then. They had to get out of the tunnels to someplace dry and warm before hypothermia set in. They climbed down the ladder. This time, no one tried to stop them.
They plodded through the tunnels with no idea of where they were going. Their teeth had started to chatter from the cold. The batteries in their flashlights were getting low, but they kept on because
they had no alternative. Just when they were about to give up all hope, they saw an object ahead.
Zavala yelled with joy. 'Fifi!'
The Citroen had been picked up by the wave and deposited sideways in the tunnel. It was covered with mud and the paint was scraped off in a dozen places where it must have banged against the walls. Austin opened the door. The map was floating in a few inches of water on the floor. The key was still in the ignition. He tried to start the car but the engine wouldn't turn over.
Zavala fiddled around in the hood and told Austin to try it again.
This time the motor started.
Zavala got in and said, 'Loose battery cable.'
It took a half hour of driving through the tunnel grid before they figured out where they were, then another half hour to find their way back through the system. The car was running on gas vapors when they saw gray daylight ahead, and moments later they drove out of the mountain.
'What next?' Zavala said.
Austin didn't even have to think about it. 'Chateau Fauchard.'
WHEN SKYE WAS a girl her father had taken her to the Cathedrale de Notre Dame and she had seen her first gargoyle. The grotesque face leering down from the ramparts looked like a monster from her worst nightmares. She had calmed down after her father explained that gargoyles were nothing more than rain spouts Skye had wondered why such talented sculptors could not have fashioned things of beauty, but she had put aside her childhood fears. Now, as she blinked her eyes open, the gargoyle of her restless dreams was back. Even worse, it was talking to her.
'Welcome back, mademoiselle,' said the cruel mouth only inches away. 'We have missed you.'
The face belonged to Marcel, the bullet-headed man in charge of the private army at Chateau Fauchard. He spoke again.
'I'll be back in fifteen minutes,' he said. 'Do not keep me waiting.'
She closed her eyes as a wave of nausea swept through her body. When she looked again, he was gone.
Skye glanced around and saw that she was in the chamber where she'd changed into the cat costume for the Fauchard masquerade ball. She recalled walking up to her apartment building. She dug deeper into her recollection and remembered the lost American couple, the bee sting on her backside and the slide into oblivion.
Dear God, she had been fydnapped.
She sat up in the bed and swung her legs over the side. There was a brassy taste in her mouth, probably the remnant of the chemical that had been injected into her veins to render her unconscious. She took a deep breath and stood up. The room began to swirl around her. She staggered into the bathroom and vomited into the sink.
Skye gazed at her reflection, hardly recognizing the face in the mirror. Her face was ghostly pale, her hair lank and straggly. She felt better after she had rinsed her mouth and splashed cold water on her face. She brushed her hair back with her fingers and patted the wrinkles out of her clothes as best she could.
She was ready a few minutes later when Marcel opened the door without knocking and beckoned for her to follow. They walked down the long carpeted corridors, eventually passing through the gauntlet of faces lining the walls of the portrait gallery. She looked for the painting of Jules Fauchard, but it was gone, leaving only blank wall in its place. Then they were standing outside Madame Fauchard's office.
Marcel gave Skye an odd smile, and then he knocked gently and opened the door. He pushed Skye inside. Skye saw that she was not alone. A blond woman with her back to Skye sat at Madame Fauchard's desk, staring out the window. She swiveled around in the chair at the click of the door shutting and stared at Skye.
The woman was in her forties, with creamy skin set off by probing gray eyes. She parted her red, almost voluptuous lips. 'Good afternoon, mademoiselle. We've awaited your return. You left in such a spectacular fashion.'
Skye's mind reeled. She wondered if she were still feeling the aftereffects of the knockout drug.
'Sit,' the woman said, pointing to a chair in front of the desk.
Skye obeyed, moving like a zombie.
The woman regarded Skye with amusement.
'What's wrong? You seem distracted.'
Skye was more confused than distracted. The voice that came from the woman's mouth was that of Madame Fauchard. It had lost its cracked, old lady quality, but there was no mistaking the hard-edged words. Crazy thoughts ran through Skye's mind. Did Racine have a daughter? Maybe this was a clever ventriloquist.
Finally, she found her own voice.
'Is this some sort of trick?'
'No trick at all. What you see is what there is.'
'Madame Fauchard?' The words came out falteringly.
'One and the same, my dear,' she said with a wicked smile. 'Only now I am young and you are old.'
Skye was still skeptical. 'You must give me the name of your plastic surgeon.'
Heat came to the woman's eyes, but only for a moment. She rose from her chair and came around to the other side of the desk with silken movements. She leaned over, took Skye's hand and placed it on her cheek.
'Tell me if you still think this is the work of a surgeon.'
The flesh was warm and firm, and the skin was creamy without a trace of wrinkles.
'Impossible,' Skye said in a whisper.
Madame Fauchard let the hand drop, then stood upright and returned to her chair. She tented her long, slender fingers so that Skye could see that they were no longer gnarled.
'Don't worry,' she said. 'You're not going mad. I am the same person who invited you and Mr. Austin to my costume party. He's well, I trust.'
'I don't know,' Skye said, guardedly. 'I haven't seen him in days. How '
'How did I turn from a cackling old crone into a young beauty?' she said, a dreamy look in her eyes. 'A long, long story. It would not have been so long had it not been for Jules absconding with the helmet,' she said, spitting out the name with bitterness. 'We could have saved decades of research.'
'I don't understand.'
'You're the antique arms expert,' Madame Fauchard said. 'Tell me what you know about the helmet.'
'It's very old. Five hundred years or possibly older. The steel was of extremely high quality. It may have been made with iron from a meteorite.'
Madame Fauchard arched an eyebrow.
'Very good. The helmet was made with star metal and this strength saved the lives of more than one Fauchard in battle. It was melted and recast through the centuries and was passed down through the family to the true leaders of the Fauchards. It rightfully belonged to me, not my brother Jules.'
