premonition about this entire escapade. But he didn't want to share his anxieties with Natalya. Better, he thought, to play along with Guy's instructions, but stay vigilant.
Finally they approached the tower where they were to meet Guy. They were about a hundred yards away. The ocean stretched out flat and infinite on three sides, while behind them there was the rocky, sparse ground of the broadened pathway. The bell tower of the monastery was visible in the distance, rising up above the poplars and Aleppos, which waved back and forth in the strong breeze off the ocean.
'Seventy-two steps,' read Benjamin from the brochure. 'One for every chapter in something called The Rules of St. Benedict. ' He saw the look of skepticism on Natalya's face. 'I have an idea,' he said. 'Why don't I climb all those nasty steps myself. I'll get the passports and meet you back in the courtyard of the monastery. Here.' He handed her the camera. 'You can take more pictures.'
Natalya looked up at him, placed her palm against his cheek.
'Very chivalrous,' she said. 'But I believe I have more experience with such things than a librarian does.'
Benjamin was about to object when a man approached them on the pathway, coming from the tower.
He was tall, quite thin, with old-fashioned wire-rim glasses, wearing a pullover sweater. His brown hair was trimmed very close to his skull-like Benjamin's now-and as he came closer Benjamin noticed he had the most intense blue eyes he'd ever seen. He walked with a certain ease and confidence, as though he were on a holiday lark without a care in the world.
'Excuse me,' he said, coming up to them. 'Are you friends of Guy's?'
Benjamin wasn't sure what to say. Before he could think of something, the man continued. 'He couldn't make it. Held up on business. And in his business… well, they don't exactly keep regular appointments, do they.'
'I'm sorry,' Benjamin said. 'I'm afraid I don't-'
'Know what I'm talking about?' the man finished for him. 'Of course you don't. And of course you don't know anyone named Guy. Neither do I.' He turned and looked at Natalya. 'And of course this morning your charming wife didn't have blond hair and perfect vision.'
Still Benjamin was silent while he tried to think of something appropriate but not incriminating. His first thought was that this was someone from the French police and that they were about to be arrested.
'Look,' Benjamin said, 'I don't know you, and I don't know what-'
'But you do know you'll be wanting these,' said the man. He held out a manila envelope. Benjamin looked at it as though it were something explosive. 'Take it,' the man said. 'Everything you need is inside. Along with a bonus.'
'Bonus?' Benjamin asked, finally accepting the envelope. He began to open it.
'Not here,' the man said, stopping his hand. 'Just something to perhaps make things easier… where you're going.' He looked back toward the tower. 'I wouldn't bother with the tower,' he said. 'Those damn steps are a real killer.'
And with that, he nodded to Natalya, said, 'Good luck,' and then continued on down the path, resuming the appearance of a tourist on holiday.
For a moment Benjamin and Natalya simply looked at each other. Then they laughed, and, with a final glance at the tower, turned and headed back down the path toward the ferry dock.
It was some time before anyone else came down the path-this was indeed past tourist season, and St. Honorat was not one of the typical stops even during season. But this couple had come all this way and they weren't about to go without visiting the famous Norman tower, seventy-two steps or no.
And so they made their way through the ruins, found the crumbling steps, carefully picked their way up first one flight, then another… until finally they stood at the summit, breathing heavily. They walked to the thick portico in order to get a better view of the wide ocean beyond.
It was then they noticed a man sitting on a stone bench in a cloistered part of the tower. The husband took out his camera, approached the man on the bench-apparently he wanted to ask him to take their picture. But when he spoke, the man on the bench didn't answer. He just sat there, slumped slightly forward. He was heavyset, wearing a blue leisure suit, with a very round face and a stark white streak in his brown hair. He looked almost peaceful, as though he were taking a nap.
'Excuse me,' the man with the camera said, touching his shoulder.
At the touch, Andrei tipped sideways and fell off the bench with a thud. It was only then the tourist noticed a bright red spot on Andrei's white T-shirt and a small pool of blood that had gathered beneath the bench.
CHAPTER 40
'Well, it looks like everything is here.'
Benjamin and Natalya were sitting on a couch in their hotel room in Cannes, the Hotel InterContinental. It was centrally located, a beautiful example of Belle Epoque architecture-and, most important, huge, somewhere they felt they would be lost in whatever crowds were around in the off-season. Spread out before them on the coffee table were the contents of the manila envelope the man on St. Honorat had given them.
There were two passports, both French. Benjamin was now Charles Levebre, born in Marseilles; and Natalya was his wife, Sophia Levebre, nee Martel, originally of Lyon. In the passport photo, the brunette hair and glasses made her look slightly older, much more ordinary, and somewhat less intelligent.
'Looking at this photo,' Natalya said with obvious disappointment, 'I do not know why you ever married me.'
'Obviously for your wit,' said Benjamin. 'And you haven't seen mine.' He showed her his passport photo. The bad lighting and shorter hair made him look like a criminal posing for a mug shot. 'Why did you marry me?'
'For your carte de solvabilite, ' she said. 'Of course.'
But he didn't respond. He was examining something else from the envelope. Besides their visas, he'd discovered what the man on St. Honorat had meant by a 'bonus.'
'They're press credentials,' he said, waving the laminated cards at Natalya. 'Apparently we work for a magazine in Paris, La Matrix. '
'It sounds very avant-garde,' said Natalya.
'At least we're employed,' Benjamin replied, and Natalya laughed-for the first time since their strange encounter on St. Honorat.
They'd found they could take a flight from the Nice airport the next morning to Moscow, then a train to Dubna. Nice was less than thirteen kilometers to the east, so they'd decided to spend the night in Cannes. And Benjamin had decided it was time for a distraction.
'Look,' he said, 'we're in one of the most elegant hotels in one of the most expensive cities in Europe, with an almost bottomless bag of money. Let's see how much we can spend on dinner tonight. Let's be Charles and Sophia Levebre, wealthy honeymooners with a cash gift from their billionaire Uncle Renault-'
'Is that not a car?' Natalya interrupted, smiling.
'-and forget everything else,' he continued. 'Just for tonight.' He reached over and took her hand. 'All right?'
As they quickly discovered, there were any number of five-star restaurants nearby, any of them equal to the task of making a dent in their finances. When Benjamin-or Charles, as he made sure to have Sophia call him-made it clear that they desired the highest in elegant surroundings and that money was absolutely no concern, the clerk looked both ways, then leaned conspiratorially over the desk.
'I should tell you to eat in our own restaurant,' he said in French. 'But I believe you will find what you're looking for at Gaston-Gastounette. It's on quai St. Pierre.'
Benjamin gave him a twenty-euro tip, thanked him, and then thought of something else. He told the clerk that he and his wife had left on their honeymoon avec la grande rapidite and without many clothes. Could he recommend a good clothing store nearby? Somewhere they could also buy luggage?
The clerk looked at him as though he understood the situation exactly, winked, said something about affaires
