The Lazarus Vault Part 9

She began to dread their nightly phone calls. Whether it was the distance or the weather, they could never agree, grinding on each other like the wrong key in the wrong lock. Doug went to Paris on a new pa.s.sport, but wouldn't tell her what he'd found. Once, she heard a woman's voice in the background and spent a long, furious night lying awake and wondering. When she asked Doug about it the next day, he said it had been a radio play and called her paranoid.

One Thursday in early November, Blanchard invited Ellie to lunch. Some of his good humour seemed to have returned: he told her she needed fattening up and pinched her cheek like a wicked uncle. To her surprise, when they stepped out the door his car was nowhere to be seen.

'The restaurant is just around the corner. The exercise will do you good.' He raised an umbrella and made a chivalrous gesture with his arm; Ellie took it and clung close, struggling to dodge puddles and keep pace with his long strides. Some children from a local school had put out a stuffed straw man on the pavement and were collecting for their bonfire. Ellie couldn't imagine how they'd find anything dry enough to burn.

He took her to the Coq d'Argent, an exclusive restaurant on the top floor opposite the Bank of England, all walnut panelling and red leather chairs. Ellie ordered smoked ham with roasted figs; Blanchard asked for Marennes d'Oleron and something called Imperial Al Baeri. Ellie sneaked another look at the menu while he studied the wine list. Marennes were oysters; Imperial Al Baeri was caviar. Price: 118 for fifty grams.

She closed the menu and looked away to hide her shock. Beyond the windows the building tapered like the tip of a spear, supporting a roof garden which was as sodden as the rest of London. And sitting at a table by the windows overlooking it, a briefcase by his knee, a face she'd have been happy never to see again.

She almost grabbed Blanchard's arm. 'That man over there. I know him.'

'It's the City. Most of the men in this room, I have done deals with them.' He sat back and let the waiter pour two gla.s.ses of champagne.

'Pol Roger. Churchill's favourite.'

'His name's Lechowski,' Ellie bore on. 'He was in Luxembourg doing due diligence on Talhouett.'

Blanchard looked amused. 'Did he ask you to go to bed with him?'

That brought Ellie up short. She blushed crimson; she began to stammer a couple of different answers, but none would come out right. She took a long draught of the champagne to buy herself some time. Blanchard never took his eyes off her.

'Lechowski has a reputation. In the world of investment banking, he's known as "the letch". You know, he once offered Christine Lafarge to give her his client's complete defence strategy if she would sleep with him.'

The waiter had come back and was setting out the food. Ellie sat in awkward silence until the business of plates and napkins and cutlery was concluded. Blanchard paid him no attention.

'What did she do?'

Blanchard squeezed lemon over his oyster, then picked up the sh.e.l.l and tipped it into his mouth. He licked his lips with a smile so carnal it made Ellie blush all over again.

'Who knows? But next morning, Christine had the doc.u.ment and we completed the takeover.'

Across the room, Lechowski stood. His jaws mashed reflexively on a piece of gum. For a horrible moment, Ellie worried he'd seen her. But he was looking elsewhere, towards an older man with brusquely chopped white hair and a sharply etched face striding towards him. They shook hands; Lechowski gestured the older man to sit.

'Who's that?'

Blanchard suddenly seemed much more interested in Lechowski's table. 'His name is Lazarescu. He is a judge in Romania. He is in London for a conference.'

His dark eyes fixed Ellie, laying down a challenge. Choosing her words carefully, she said, 'I thought we abandoned the Talhouett deal.'

Blanchard smiled, pleased. 'The management of Groupe Saint-Lazare considered your presentation very carefully. Ultimately, they felt that Talhouett holdings is too important strategically to abandon the acquisition.'

He spread caviar on a piece of toast and popped it in his mouth. Ellie tried to count the little black globules and wondered how much each one cost.

'This puts us in an awkward position. We know that the company is worth less than it appears, but our rivals do not. If we bid the correct value, we will lose.'

By the window, the briefcase had somehow migrated from Lechowski's side of the table to the judge's.

'So you're telling Lechowski?'

Blanchard swallowed another oyster, chased down with a mouthful of champagne. 'Did they teach you the efficient market hypothesis on your course? In an ideal market the price of an a.s.set will reflect all available information about its future prospects. All we are doing is correcting an inefficiency in the market.'

'I thought market inefficiencies were where profits were made.'

Blanchard acknowledged the point. 'It was a superb piece of work you did, Ellie. I know you do not want to see it thrown away to our enemies. But c'est la guerre. Sometimes we must sacrifice a p.a.w.n to capture the king.'

Ellie wondered which she was.

'Do you have plans for this evening?'

His question caught her off balance.

'I have tickets to the opera and my client cancelled. Wagner Tristan und Isolde. Do you know it?'

Ellie shook her head. Opera, like caviar, wasn't on the menu much in Newport.

'It is sublime. Perhaps the most shattering work of art ever created. The tenor who sang the first performance died two weeks afterwards. The composer was so afraid of its power he banned all further performances in his lifetime.'

'It sounds dangerous.'

She only said it for lack of anything more intelligent to say. Blanchard took her seriously. 'The music takes you across the threshold to another place a place governed by obsession. That is to say, without boundaries. Sometimes it is difficult to return.' He waved to get the waiter's attention. 'Of course, if you have other plans ...'

She caught his glance, daring her, and held it. She was still angry about Lechowski. She didn't even think she liked opera. But the thought of another evening alone in her tower, combing her e-mails while she waited for the inevitable squabble with Doug, filled her with a sudden, palpable dread.

She drained her champagne. 'What time does it start?'

Brenner Pa.s.s, Austria Two men sat in a cafe at the rasthof on the autobahn, watching the trucks labour up the high pa.s.s. They called each other Harry and George, though they didn't attach a lot of weight to those names. George was tall and lean and stooped, with a white beard and white hair that grew in woolly curls. Harry was shorter and wider, with tousled, sandy hair and a friendly face that always seemed to be apologising for something. At the moment he was studying the inside page of a three-day-old Italian newspaper. A handwritten translation had been taped next to one of the articles. It didn't make it any easier to read.

'Can they trace him back to us?' Harry asked at last.

'They won't even try. Italian police get so many of these they probably cla.s.s it as natural death.'

George grimaced. Both men knew there had been nothing natural in the way their friend had died. The newspaper detailed it with weary dispa.s.sion: the burns and broken bones, the minor amputations, the scars that had had time to form before he finally died.

'We have to a.s.sume he gave them Mirabeau. G.o.d knows I would have.'

George sipped his coffee and made a face. 'This whole operation was a mistake. All we've done is put them on the scent. Saint-Lazare won't stop now until he's pulled that company inside out.'

'He has to buy it first.'

'We'll fight him.' George tipped a second packet of sugar into his coffee. 'Drexler might help; perhaps Koenig. We'll give it everything we can.'

'So will they.'

They sat in silence for a moment. On the autobahn, a truck crested the pa.s.s and gathered speed as it began the descent towards the Italian border.

'What about Ellie Stanton?'

Harry studied his fingernails. 'Difficult. They're working her hard. Evenings she mostly spends in her apartment. Doesn't even walk to work.'

'Has she told Blanchard about your encounter in Oxford?'

Harry shrugged. 'I don't think so.'

'We need to get her on her own. Tell her more. If she could get into the vault for us ...'

'I thought we agreed we wouldn't try that again,' Harry said quietly. Perhaps George didn't hear him.

'Where is she now?'

London In a bare room, a woman in a white strapless dress wandered among long, empty tables. The lights were dim and smoky: it must be late, or very early morning. She stroked her hand along the tables, as if the touch brought back memories. She looked lost.

Ellie settled into the plush velvet seat. Her new dress, bought that afternoon, was tight against her skin. Under the lights, the woman in white hesitated under the false proscenium, then stepped through onto the raked stage sloping towards the orchestra pit.

Afterwards, Ellie found she couldn't recall the evening with any sort of precision. She had memories, vivid memories, but they were disordered, pages plucked from a book that couldn't be rea.s.sembled. Hours in the warm womb of the theatre that pa.s.sed like a dream, a woman in white and a man in black and a love so immense that only music could properly describe it. The cup meant to kill them that instead made them fall in love or did he only fall in love because he thought he was dying? Drinking champagne in the gla.s.s hall where girls like her had once sold flowers; and, later, on the roof terrace, watching the tourists and the street artists far below while a full moon rose over London. Blanchard's hand slipping over her seat-arm to rest on her thigh somewhere in the darkness of the second act, his touch hot through the thin silk of her dress. The lovers who surrendered themselves to night because they couldn't bear the starkness of day, careless of the wounds they inflicted on those they loved less well. The faithful, unheeded friend: Take care, take care. Soon the night will pa.s.s. And always the music, more beautiful than she had ever imagined music could be. Circling, overlapping, rolling in like great ocean waves and breaking over her as if it would dash her to pieces.

She left the theatre in a daze. She felt limp, bruised by the music and yet desperate to hear more. She clung to Blanchard's arm and he told her it was called Tristan-intoxication, that it was a well-known phenomenon of the opera. Part of her was glad to know it wasn't just her; part of her resented it. The emotion was so strong she couldn't bear to share it.

The Bentley was waiting for them on Floral Street, a faithful dog who always knew where to find its master. Blanchard held the door open for her.

'Would you like to come back to my home? It is not far.'

Ellie's world had shrunk again. All her choices, her past and her future, had reduced to this single point, a fulcrum. To move would tip the balance irrevocably. She could taste the champagne sweet on her tongue, smell the scent of her own perfume intoxicatingly strong. She looked at Blanchard for rea.s.surance and saw only intent.

Take care, take care. Soon the night will pa.s.s.

The car drove down Shaftesbury Avenue, past theatregoers emerging from the shows with their souvenir T-shirts and shopping bags held over their heads against the rain. Down Piccadilly where wet crowds huddled in the bus shelters, and right into Mayfair, to the brightly lit arcade of Claridge's hotel.

Ellie stiffened. For a moment, the spell flickered.

'I thought you said we were going to your house.'

'My home. This is where I live.'

Ellie didn't question it. A doorman held an umbrella and escorted them to the lobby. She saw Blanchard slip something in his pocket and wondered if he did that every day. The lobby was golden and bright. A man in a white dinner jacket sat at a piano playing Cole Porter and Gershwin. The concierge nodded to Blanchard and smiled respectfully at Ellie. The lights from the crystal chandelier winked back from the chequerboard floor, polished like a mirror.

Stars of bliss shine smiling down.

Blanchard's suite was on the third floor, a dimly lit world of heavy fabrics and elegantly outsize furniture. He took a bottle of champagne from the fridge and poured two gla.s.ses. The liquid was so cold it hurt. Ellie drained it in one gulp. There was nowhere in reach to put down the gla.s.s, so she let it fall on the carpeted floor. Blanchard stepped behind her to turn out the light; for a moment she felt the giddy illusion of being alone in unbounded s.p.a.ce.

Blanchard's hands, surprisingly gentle, slid the straps of her dress off her shoulders. It slithered to the floor. He leaned around and kissed her throat, while his hands traced out her silhouette: her thighs, her hips, her taut stomach and her b.r.e.a.s.t.s.

Ellie sank onto the bed. Darkness enfolded them.

XVI.

Normandy, 1135 October brings rain. Rain chews up the roads, rusts iron, spoils fodder. You can't build a campfire with wet wood, or a siege engine. There will be no more wars this year, and no more wars means no more knights. It will be a long winter of regret and resentment, listening to water drip through the roof and trying to keep our quarrels from spilling into violence.

All the squires feel the disappointment, but I think I feel it worse than others. I'm tired of waiting. Waiting for my spurs, waiting for my revenge, waiting for Ada. The hope that flowered in the summer has withered. Now I stand behind my lord Guy at the table and scowl. I still contrive excuses to b.u.mp into Ada in the courtyard or the corridors I can't help myself but when I see her I'm curt to the point of rudeness. I always regret it afterwards. Worse, it doesn't seem to bother her.

One day, I'm pa.s.sing by the door to Guy's chamber when I hear Ada's voice. I pause, lurking in the impenetrable winter shadows. To my surprise, I hear my own name spoken.

'Don't leave me with Peter. If I have to be chaperoned, let Jocelin do it.'

A draught blows through the open window. My heart turns to ice. I edge further along the corridor so that Guy and Ada come into view around the doorframe. She's kneeling in front of him, lacing up his leather gauntlet. It looks obscene.

'I want Jocelin beside me for the kill.'

'Peter looks at me as if I'm something that fell down the chimney.'

Guy strokes her hair. His hands are clumsy; he'd take more care brushing his horse.

'He's obedient and trustworthy. You'll be safe with him.'

It flashes across my mind: he doesn't trust his own son with his wife.

Ada stands and turns away, frustrated. 'As you wish.'

If we can't make war on each other, we make war on the animals. Hunting keeps our arms strong and our aim true through the winter: it also keeps us out of mischief. Normally I enjoy it, but not today. Ada's words were like a knife through my heart the sharper for being so private, so true. I wish Lady Death would take me.

But if Hautfort's taught me one thing, it's to bury my emotions. I keep my eyes tight on my tasks as we gather in the courtyard. I fasten my riding cloak; I saddle Ada's horse, tightening the girth and the breast-straps; I remember to look surprised when Guy tells me I'm to accompany her. It's no risk. Four of her ladies will be with us.

We ride into the woods. One of the foresters has seen boar, and Guy wants one for his table. The hounds bay and sniff about the bushes; behind them, the kennelmen walk with the mastiffs on tight leads. I think I see a resemblance to Jocelin.

I can see dark clouds gathering. The rain will return, but it doesn't put off Guy. Two of Ada's maids return to the castle; we ride further, deeper. It isn't like the Welsh forests of my childhood. The trees are more spread out, the stretches of heath and scrubland broader between.

We're in one of these open s.p.a.ces when the hounds catch the scent. The wind's rising: it snaps their baying away through the long gra.s.s. I can't smell the boar but I can smell rain in the air. The unleashed hounds bound away towards the line of trees at the edge of the heath. Guy spurs after them, followed by Jocelin, Gornemant and his retainers. I stay with Ada and her ladies and watch them go. By the time they reach the trees, they're already well dispersed. In this weather, it might be hours before they raise the boar.

A plump drop of rain lands on the back of my hand. The sky looks as if it's about to fall. I gesture to the trees on the near side of the heath.

'We should get under cover.'

Ada nods, though she doesn't look at me. She looks as if she wishes she were back at the castle. We walk the horses towards the forest. I glance back, in case the hunters have changed their minds, but there's no sign of them. Thunder rolls across the heavens.

We're halfway there, riding past a lone beech tree, when the lightning strikes. It sears the air; the thunder pounces so fast that it masks the sound of cracking wood. I only hear it when a heavy branch, half a tree's worth, crashes into the gra.s.s in front of me. The lightning's blasted it clean off the trunk.

My hunter rears up with a shriek of terror: it takes all my strength and practice to rein her in. By the time I've mastered her, the other horses have scattered. I can see one galloping up a hillside without a rider; another's vanished completely. Ahead, through the rain, I just glimpse Ada's piebald mare disappearing into the forest.

I canter after her, oblivious to the wet branches clawing and pawing at me. Ada's horse seems to be following some sort of path, though I don't know where it goes. All I can see is the flash of her cloak flitting through the trees, leading me on. We're climbing; the trees thin, oak and ash giving way to pine and fir. The ground becomes steeper and stonier. It slows the horses. Now she's only a few dozen paces ahead of me. If she were a doe, I'd risk the shot.

Ada emerges into a high clearing and halts. The rain pounds through the scrawny trees; a pile of twisted rocks makes an ominous backdrop. I slide down from the saddle and run to take her bridle. I whisper in the horse's ear to calm her, then look up at Ada. 'Are you hurt?'

'No.'

Her eyes are glazed; she's shivering. I look at the rocks and find a place where an overhang makes a rudimentary cave. In my mother's stories it would be the door to another world; here, it's just somewhere to get out of the rain. I tether the horses to a fir tree, letting the reins out loose, and join Ada under her shelter. Thunder roars over us. The storm doesn't seem to be moving.

'It won't last long.'

Ada doesn't answer. She sits with her arms around her knees, staring into the rain. She looks as if she's thinking hard. I put my cloak around her shoulders, careful not to touch her. Her dress is soaked through, plastered against the curves of her body. I try not to notice.