The Prophecy

Payne smiled warmly, appreciative that she had shared such a wonderful memory with him. Yet in the back of his mind, he couldn’t help but wonder what her story had to do with the letter. Why had the line ‘a filly with no mother’ affected her so deeply? Obviously there were thousands of adopted women from Philadelphia, and many of them had lost their adoptive parents over the years — just like Megan had — so why was she so confident the message was about her? Couldn’t it have been about any of them? Unless he had been focusing on the wrong aspect of the story. Maybe her emotional connection with the third line of the poem had nothing to do with her adoptive mother. Maybe it had something to do with her biological parents.

‘I don’t mean to pry,’ Payne said, ‘but what do you know about your birth mother?’

Megan blinked a few times, and when she did, tears ran down her cheeks. Slightly embarrassed, she brushed them away with the sleeve of her

‘That’s quite all right. Take your time. I’m not going anywhere.’

She managed a slight smile. ‘Ironically, I never even knew my birth mother, yet she’s the reason I’m crying. She’s the reason I’m so certain the poem is about me.’

‘Go on.’

‘You’ve heard of mothers dying during childbirth? Well, my birth mother has that beat. She actually died six hours and seventeen minutes before I was even born.’

Payne furrowed his brow. ‘Excuse me?’

‘Yeah,’ she said, sniffling, ‘I thought that would get your attention.’

‘Hold up. How did, um, I mean—’

Megan explained. ‘According to medical records, my birth mother was eight and a half months pregnant with me when she had a severe brain aneurysm. They rushed her to the hospital and tried to save her life, but she passed away in the emergency room. For the next six hours or so, machines kept her heart beating while they pumped her full of drugs that would help me survive a Caesarean section. Whatever they did must have worked because I came out healthy.’

‘There aren’t a lot of us, that’s for sure. That’s why I got so emotional when I saw the third line of the poem. ‘A filly with no mother’ — that has to be about me, right?’

Payne stood up and walked round the room, trying to figure out some other explanation for the quatrain. Yet the more he thought about it, the more he became convinced it was referring to Megan. It simply had to be. But why would someone take the time to write a poem in a series of ancient languages and send it to a total stranger?

Furthermore, why were people willing to kill for it?

None of it made any sense.

46

Once the commercial hub of the city, the Grote Markt is now a traffic-free square, surrounded by picturesque buildings and small cafes with matching green awnings. Whenever the weather cooperated, Dubois would sit outside for hours at a time, conducting business by phone while his bodyguards looked for potential

Recently, tourism in the city had increased significantly thanks to the award-winning movie In Bruges, which starred Colin Farrell and Ralph Fiennes. Much of the movie had been filmed in the old city and Grote Markt, including a climactic scene at the top of the belfry. Dubois had never seen the film and never would — he preferred operas and symphonies to the silver screen — yet several filmgoers had told him the movie had presented the city in a favourable light. To Dubois, that was a blessing and a curse. He was delighted the rest of the world could see the beauty that he got to see every day, but he loathed the sudden influx of tourists.

Despite the falling temperatures and the chance of snow flurries, Dubois bundled himself in a tailored coat and made his way to the market place for an early dinner. His driver stopped the car as close to the cafe as possible, and Dubois waited for one of his bodyguards to open his door. A few minutes later, he was sitting in a window seat, staring at the neo-Gothic provincial court on the northern side of the plaza. The building had been built on the site of the old water halls and had been reconstructed in 1878 after a fire destroyed most of the complex. Critics argued that the neo-Gothic style conflicted with the medieval architecture found in the rest of the city. Ironically, that was the reason Dubois found comfort in the building. In many ways, it reminded him of the cathedrals back in Paris, a city he loved deeply but rarely got to visit.

‘Good evening, Mr Dubois,’ the waitress said in Dutch.

He nodded but refused to address the help. It was beneath him.

She unfolded his cloth napkin and carefully placed it on his lap. Then she handed him a leather-bound menu. ‘Would you like to hear our specials?’

if and when he needed assistance. Until then, he didn’t want to be disturbed. Glancing at his Vacheron Constantin watch, he discovered it was time to make his call. First, he would handle his business in America, and then he would order dinner and a nice bottle of wine.

Dubois dialled the number from memory and waited for his intermediary to pick up. This was standard procedure for Dubois, who preferred for his subordinates to get their hands dirty any time they were operating outside the letter of the law.

The phone rang three times before Haney answered.

‘Hello,’ he said in English. Haney wasn’t his real name, but it was the one they used when they were talking on the phone — even though their phones were encrypted.

‘Where do things stand?’ Dubois asked.

‘I’m afraid we’ve had some trouble.’

‘What kind of trouble?’

‘We’ve had some… interference.’

‘Please explain.’

This was a moment that Haney had been dreading. Up until now, he had let his boss believe that everything was under control in Pennsylvania.

‘The girl from Philadelphia passed the document to two outsiders before we got to her. Since that time, we have been unable to retrieve it.’

His nose flared with anger. ‘Why not?’

‘Unforeseen circumstances.’

‘Meaning?’

‘The outsiders have a special set of skills that we weren’t anticipating.’

‘What type of skills?’

‘Special Forces, sir.’

Dubois snatched the napkin from his lap and flung it against the window. His bodyguards, who were positioned a few tables over, scanned the room for an impending threat, but they quickly realized Dubois’s outburst was related to his conversation.

‘When did this happen?’ he demanded.

‘Saturday night.’

‘You’ve known about this for two days, yet you’re telling me now?’

‘Define failed.’

Haney cleared his throat. ‘My associate silenced the girl, but died in a traffic accident shortly thereafter. I sent a replacement to retrieve the document, but he failed as well.’

‘Another accident?’ he said sarcastically.

‘Actually, sir, it was. He fell off a cliff.’