The Prophecy

‘Actually, I do.’

Dubois smiled. ‘We were at war. Now we’re at peace. This is reason to celebrate.’

‘I don’t know about that.’

Dubois ignored the comment. ‘Are you a connoisseur, Mr Payne? My cellar is filled with some of the finest wines money can buy — and a few money can’t. Shall I send for a bottle?’

‘I appreciate the offer, but there’s still business to be discussed.’

‘Ah, yes, the quaint American tradition of not mixing business with pleasure. I don’t know whether to applaud or complain. Perhaps some other time then.’

Payne walked along the shelves, looking at relics. ‘Perhaps.’

‘I didn’t until recently, but the last few years have opened my eyes to ancient cultures. Slowly but surely, my interest is starting to grow.’

‘I read about your discovery in Greece. Well done.’

Payne smiled. ‘And I heard about your obsession with Nostradamus.’

‘Obsession is too strong a word. I think curiosity would be sufficient.’

Payne stopped and turned. ‘Come on, Frankie, don’t downplay your fixation on my account. A man who merely has curiosity wouldn’t go to such lengths to add to his collection.’

‘Perhaps not.’

‘Speaking of which, I have to admit I’m kind of disappointed. I was fully expecting to see your collection on display. That was one of the reasons I was willing to fly to Bruges. I’ve heard amazing things about the items you’ve assembled.’

Dubois stared at him, trying to determine if Payne was being sarcastic. ‘If your interest is sincere, I will happily appease your curiosity. If not, I’d rather not waste our time.’

A smile crossed Dubois’s face. ‘In that case, it would be an honour.’

Jones prided himself on many things, and multitasking was one of them. Whether it was shaving while driving or downloading music while answering e-mail, he had the ability to do two things at once without a drop in performance. Therefore, when his phone started to vibrate in his pocket, he didn’t hesitate to answer it even though he was staring through his scope at his target. He simply hit the mute button on his earpiece, which prevented Payne from hearing what he was about to say — but still allowed Jones to listen to Payne and Dubois.

‘Hello,’ he whispered, not bothering to look at the caller ID.

‘Mr Jones, this is Butch Reed calling. Did I catch you at a bad time?’

Reed was head of security at Payne Industries. An ex-Marine who had lost a foot in the Gulf War, he had been hired by Payne’s grandfather as a security guard and quickly moved up the ranks, impressing everyone with his intelligence and work ethic. Now he was in charge of all security

‘Kind of,’ Jones whispered. ‘Can I call you later?’

‘Actually, sir, this can’t wait. It involves your safety, and potentially Mr Payne’s.’

‘Go on.’

‘I’m afraid I’ve got bad news, sir. Someone tried to burn down your house.’

Jones blinked, suddenly distracted. ‘My house?’

‘The blaze has been contained, but I’d estimate the damage at 60 per cent. It would have been worse if not for the snow. As it melted, it helped put out the flames.’

Jones took a deep breath, trying to keep his emotions in check. ‘Arson?’

‘Yes, sir. Someone threw a Molotov cocktail through your front window, according to a neighbour. By the time the authorities arrived, the man was long gone.’

Jones connected the dots in his head. To him, there was no doubt who was responsible. Just as Dial had warned, Dubois wouldn’t stop. No matter what.

‘Sir,’ Reed continued, ‘please tell Mr Payne that

‘His phone is broken, but I’ll tell him. You better believe I’ll tell him.’

Reed heard the anger in his voice. It was a tone he had never heard from Jones before and one he never hoped to hear again. ‘Be careful, sir.’

‘Fuck careful,’ he snapped as he hung up the phone.

Walking towards his fireplace, Dubois pointed to the elaborate mantel that surrounded the roaring fire. Made out of grey stone, it was intricately carved and featured knights on horseback and battling dragons of all shapes and sizes. ‘Are you familiar with medieval architecture? Many artisans, particularly those from the lower class, had a fascination with mythical creatures. Some of their pieces I find primitive and rather distasteful, but this one I enjoy. Notice the repetition of triangles on the rim of the fireplace. It represents the teeth of the dragon.’

‘I like it,’ Payne admitted. ‘I’ve always liked dragons.’

Dubois smiled. ‘And I’ve always liked fire.’

‘Like the prophet himself, I am someone who values secrecy, which is one of the reasons I fell in love with this chateau. Hidden behind its walls are dozens of corridors and chambers that protect my most precious possessions. Including my collection.’

Dubois placed his hand on the side of the mantel and pulled a latch concealed by the stonework. As if by magic, the bookcase to the left of the fireplace swung away from the wall, revealing a secret passageway that wasn’t on the blueprints.

‘I call this room the Dragon’s Lair.’

68

Payne couldn’t believe his ears. Dubois had just referred to the secret room where he kept his collection as his lair. It was the same term Nostradamus had used in his quatrain. He claimed the book that belonged to his heir would be ‘Hidden in ink inside his lair’.

That couldn’t be a coincidence, could it?

Even to a realist like Payne, he had to admit too many coincidences in a row meant something else was going on, something beyond his understanding of the world. He still wasn’t ready to believe that Nostradamus had foreseen all the events of the past few days, but he was no longer willing to dismiss things quite as easily.

‘After you,’ Dubois said with a slight bow.

‘Sorry,’ Payne said as he grabbed the box from the crate, ‘my parents warned me about older men and secret rooms. That’s why I wasn’t an altar boy.’

Dubois smirked at the vulgar joke and led the way into the hidden chamber, pausing to flip a

‘Please take a closer look,’ Dubois encouraged.

Payne moved forward, searching for anything that resembled the object described in the third line of the quatrain. Of all the items, the most likely candidate seemed to be a leather-bound journal displayed in the very centre of the case. ‘What’s that?’ he asked.

‘That is the crown jewel of my collection. It is the earliest known edition of Les Propheties, handwritten by Nostradamus himself. The first public instalment was not published until 1555, a full two years after his last entry was dated.’

‘Wow, that must have cost you a lot.’

‘Actually,’ Dubois said as he backed away, ‘it didn’t cost me a cent.’

‘Quite simple, really. I took it.’

‘You took it?’