chills. Even now, she wore a sweater buttoned to her neck.
She didn't have the luxury of mistakes.
Gray checked his watch. They were scheduled to meet Kowalski and Seichan in another hour. The pair had gone off to the prison, to scope it out and study it for weaknesses. It was up to Seichan to discern a way into the maximum-security facility. She had left with a doubtful expression fixed to her face.
Rachel stirred from her book, her complexion waxy and pale, her eyes red and puffy. 'I can't find anything more than I have,' she finally conceded in defeat. 'I've read Malachy's whole life story, from his birth to his death. I still could not discover a reason why Malachy, an Irish archbishop, was buried in France. Except that he and Bernard were the deepest of friends. In fact, it states here that Bernard was buried with Malachy at Clairvaux.'
'But are they still there?' Gray asked.
'From everything I've read, the bodies were never moved. But the historical record after the French Revolution goes blank.'
Gray turned to Wallace. 'What about Saint Bernard? Were you able to find anything about the man or the founding of the abbey that might be useful?'
'A couple of items. Bernard was closely associated with the Knights Templar. He even authored the Templar rules and was instrumental in getting the Church to recognize their order. He also instigated the Second Crusade.'
Gray weighed that information. The Knights Templar were considered to be the keepers of many secrets. Could this be one of them?
Wallace continued, 'But one item stood above all the others, the story of a miracle. One that happened here. It is said that Bernard became deathly ill from an infection, but as he prayed before a statue of the Virgin Mary, it bled milk that healed him. It became known as the Lactation Miracle.'
Rachel closed her book. 'Another example of a miraculous healing.'
'Aye, but that's not even the interesting part,' Wallace said with a sly cock of one brow. 'According to the story, the statue that bled the milk...was a Black Madonna.'
Gray took a moment to absorb the shock of it. 'A Black Madonna healed him...'
'Sounds familiar, doesn't it?' Wallace said. 'Maybe it was allegorical. I don't know. But after Malachy's death, Saint Bernard became a major advocate for the worship of the Black Madonna. He was instrumental in starting the cult.'
'And that miracle occurred right here.'
'Aye. Definitely suggests that the dark queen's body might have been transported here to Clairvaux-along with the key.'
Gray hoped he was right, but there was only one way to know for sure. They had to get into that prison.
12:43 P.M.
Clairvaux, France
Seichan headed through the woods.
Her scouting expedition to Clairvaux had produced few results. Wearing cold-weather hiking gear, she had binoculars around her neck and a walking stick. Just a young woman out for a day's hike. Only this traveler packed a Sig Sauer in a holster at the small of her back.
The prison and former monastery lay in a valley between two wooded ridges. According to Rachel, it was common for the Cistercian order to build their monasteries in such remote locations. Preferring an austere lifestyle, the monks withdrew to woodlands, mountaintops, even marshes.
Out of the way, it also served as a good prison site.
Seichan had hiked completely around the perimeter of Clairvaux, noting the position of all the guard towers, the rows of walls, the steel pickets, and the razor-sharp rolls of concertina wire.
It was a fortress.
But no castle was impenetrable.
A plan was already building in her head. They would need uniforms and passes and a French police truck. She had left Kowalski at an Internet cafe in the neighboring village of Bar-sur-Aube. Through a Guild source, he was gathering a list of the names of both prisoners and guards, including their photos. She believed she could have everything ready by tomorrow. Morning visiting hours would allow one or two of them to get inside. The rest would need to come in the marked truck with fake photo credentials.
Still, there remained many variables. How long would they need to be in there? How would they get out? What about weapons?
She knew they were moving too fast, too recklessly.
Seichan suddenly ducked behind the thick bole of a white oak. She couldn't say why she felt the need to hide.
Just a prickling at the base of her neck.
She knew better than to ignore it. The human body was a big antenna, picking up signals the conscious mind often missed, but the deeper part of the brain, where instinct was rooted, continually processed them and often sounded the alarm.
Especially if trained from childhood, like Seichan, whose survival had depended on listening to those darker folds of awareness.
As she held her breath, she heard the crackle of dried leaves behind her. Ahead, a rustle of branches. She dropped into a crouch.
She was being hunted.
Seichan knew that spotters had followed them to France. Before leaving England, she had reported in with her contact. Magnussen knew their destination. The tail had picked them up again in Paris. It hadn't taken Seichan long to spot them.
But she would have sworn no one had followed her from Bar-sur-Aube after she dropped off Kowalski. She had left her car parked at a roadside rest stop and headed into the woods alone.
Who was out there?
She waited. Heard the rustle behind her again. She fixed the location in her head. Pivoting out, she took in the view in one unblinking stare. A man with a rifle, camouflaged, crept through the woods, clearly military-trained. Even before she was done pivoting, she snapped out her arm. The steel dagger flew from her fingertips. It shredded through the leaves and impaled the hunter through the left eye.
He fell back with a cry.
She rushed forward and closed the distance in four steps. She slammed her palm into the hilt, driving it deep into his brain.
Without slowing, she snatched his rifle and continued upslope.
A boulder lay near the ridge. From her earlier survey, she had the entire terrain mapped in her head. Reaching the shelter, she slid and flipped over on her belly. She came to rest in a sniper's crouch, her eye already at the scope.
A ping ricocheted off the boulder near her head.
She heard no gunshot, but the round's passage had brushed through a pine branch. Needles puffed. She fixed the trajectory through the scope, spotted a solid shadow moving through a dappled one, and squeezed the trigger.
The rifle spat with no more noise than the snap of a finger.
A body crashed. No scream. A clean head shot.
Seichan moved again.
There would be a third.
She ran along the ridgeline, triangulating the most likely spot for a third assassin. She kept to the high ground. The map of the terrain overlay her vision, like the heads-up display inside a helmet.
If she had been setting up an ambush in this region of the woods, there was a tempting roost ahead. A lightning-struck dead oak with a hollowed-out trunk. If she had hiked another thirty yards, she would have moved into its field of fire. The other two assassins, sensing their prey about to stumble into the snare, must have let their guard down and closed in prematurely, foolishly exposing themselves in their haste.
Surely Magnussen would have warned them of their target's lethality.
But these were men, mercenaries with egos to match.
