Devil.
But how would one go about such a thing? Surely not homeopathically?
Calque stood up. It was time to talk to the Countess again.
77
Achor Bale lay where he had fallen. His wound had opened again and he could feel the blood pulsing weakly down his neck. In a moment he would move. There might be something in the kitchen with which to staunch the bleeding. Failing that, he could go out to the marshes and collect some sphagnum moss. In the meantime he would lie here on the floor and recuperate. Where was the hurry? No one knew he was here. No one was waiting for him.
Outside the house there was the crunch and hiss of a car.
The police. They’d sent a watchman after all. He and his partner would be almost certain to check through all the rooms before settling down for the night. Men did that sort of thing. It was a kind of superstition. A marching of the bounds. Something inherited from their caveman ancestors.
Bale dragged himself angrily towards the bed. He would lie underneath it. Whoever drew the short straw for upstairs would probably content himself with flashing his torch about inside the room. He’d be unlikely to bother with more. Why should he? It was only a crime scene.
Bale eased the Redhawk out of its holster. Maybe there would only be one of them? In that case he would overpower him and take the car. The Maset was so isolated that no one could possibly hear the shot.
His hand brushed against the cellphone concealed in his inside pocket. It might still have some juice left in it, if it hadn’t been damaged in the fall. Perhaps he should call Madame, his mother, after all? Tell her he was coming home.
Or would the flics be monitoring the frequencies? Could they do that? He thought not. And they had no reason to suspect Madame, his mother, anyway.
No sounds from downstairs. The coppers were still outside. Probably checking the periphery.
Bale keyed in the number. He waited for the tone. The number took.
‘Who is this?’
‘It’s the Count, Milouins. I need to speak to the Countess. Urgently.’
‘The police, Sir. They know who you are. They are here.’
Bale closed his eyes. Had he expected this? Some fatalistic djinn whispered into his ear that he had. ‘Did she give you a message for me? In case I called?’
‘One word, Sir. Fertigmachen.’
‘ Fertigmachen?’
‘She said you would understand, Sir. I must put the phone down now. They are coming.’
78
Bale slept for a little after that. He seemed to drift in and out of consciousness like a man given too little ether before an operation.
At one point he thought he heard footsteps coming up the stairs and he pulled himself up on the side of the bed and waited, for fi ve endless minutes, with his pistol at the ready. Then he slipped back into unconsciousness.
He awoke to a noise in the kitchen. This time it was certain. The rattling of pots. Someone was making themselves coffee. Bale could almost hear the pop of the butane gas. Smell the grounds.
He had to eat. To drink. The noise in the kitchen would disguise his footsteps. If there were two of them, tant pis. He would kill them both. He had the element of surprise on his side. The flics apparently thought he was on his way to Cap Camarat. That was a good thing. They must figure he had escaped their cordon sanitaire. They would be standing down in their droves.
If he drove out in a police car, they would be flummoxed. He could dress up in one of their uniforms. Wear sunglasses.
In the middle of the night?
Bale shook his head slowly. Why did he have no energy anymore? Why did he doze so much?
Water. He needed water. He would die without water. The blood loss had merely compounded the issue.
He forced himself to his feet. Then, holding the Redhawk down by his side, he stumbled towards the stairs.
79
Sabir held the bamboo tube out in front of him and cracked the wax seal. A strange odour assailed his nostrils. He allowed his mind to wander for a moment. The scent was sweet and warm and earthy at the same time. Frankincense? Yes, that was it. He held the tube to his nose and inhaled. Incredible. How had the scent stayed sealed inside the tube so long?
Sabir tapped the tube on the table. Some resin fell out. He felt the first pinpricks of anxiety. Could the frankincense have been used as a conservation agent? Or was the tube merely an incense container? Sabir tapped the tube again, this time a little harder and a little more fretfully. A thin roll of parchment tumbled on to his lap.
Sabir unrolled the parchment and spread it hastily out on to the table. It covered an area approximately six inches by eight. There was writing on both sides. In groups of four lines. It was the quatrains.
Sabir began the count. Twenty-six quatrains on one side. A further twenty-six on the other. He could feel the tension building inside his chest.
He pulled a sheet of paper towards him. Adhering scrupulously to the text, he copied down the first quatrain. Then he began his first tentative translation.
80
Calque looked across at the Countess. They were alone in the room, just as the Countess had insisted when Calque had requested the interview. ‘So your son wants to come home?’
The Countess waved her hand in irritation, like someone trying to disperse a bad smell. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
Calque sighed. ‘My people intercepted a telephone call, Madame. Between your son and your footman, Milouins. The same footman found attempting to lock your secret meeting chamber. Your son used Milouins name, so we are certain of our facts.’
‘How do you know it was my son? Milouins may receive calls from whomever he likes. I am extremely tolerant with my servants. Unlike some people I know.’
‘Your son introduced himself as the Count.’
The Countess’s eyes went dead. ‘I’ve never heard anything so absurd. My son has not called here for years. I told you. He left to join the Legion. Against my express instructions, I should add. I can’t understand why you are harassing us in this manner.’
‘Milouins passed your son a message.’
