was doing great, until a moment ago,’ she replied acerbically, and he could just see her, halted in the snow, one hand on her hip, one eyebrow raised, in that questioning way of hers. ‘Living the dream. Single, free and contented, and I gave up long ago waiting for you to call me. Yet now here you are. What’s the matter?’
‘I don’t have time to explain,’ he said. ‘Listen to me. You need to get out of town, right this minute.’
‘Wow. Not a word from you for months and years, now this. You really know how to lay the charm on a lady, Hope. In the desert of life, you are my mirage.’
‘I’m serious. Something’s happening. Don’t ask me what, because I don’t know. Just get away from there immediately.’
‘Are you nuts? Just like that? Get out of town, no explanations, no nothing? I have classes. I have a job, Ben.’
‘Never mind all that. You might not be safe and I need you to do as I say.’
‘Why – am – I – not – safe?’
‘Someone tried to get me. They got Luc Simon.’
‘The Paris cop? What do you mean, got?’
‘He wasn’t a Paris cop any more. And I mean, they killed him. They could be coming after you next.’
Her tone changed to one of shock. ‘What the hell’s happening? Are you okay?’
‘It’s not me I’m worried about. It’s you.’
‘I can look after myself,’ she said defiantly. ‘Remember?’
‘So can Jeff Dekker. But he’s lying in the hospital with a bullet hole in his chest, meant for me. These people aren’t messing about. How much money have you got on you?’
‘About seventy bucks. You are officially freaking me out right now. Is Jeff going to be all right? Who’s doing this?’
‘No more questions, Roberta,’ Ben interrupted. ‘Please, just do as I say. Don’t go back to your apartment. Grab all the cash you can from the campus ATM and jump on a bus. Keep changing buses, taxis, whatever you have to do to cover your trail. You see anyone following you, anything out of the ordinary, go straight to the police.’
‘Following me?’
‘Keep your eyes open. Head north into the mountains, where nobody can find you. Book into a hotel, cash, using a different name, and don’t do anything until I call you again. Promise me you’ll do that.’
‘Ben, I—’
‘I mean it, Roberta. I know how it sounds. But you have to promise me. I can’t have anything happen to you.’
‘Does this mean you love me after all?’
‘No jokes. Do it.’
‘Who said I was joking?’
‘I’ll be in touch.’
‘I’ve heard that one before. I can’t wait.’
‘Will you do it?’
‘YES! All right! I must be even crazier than I thought, but I’ll do it. This is going to cost you big-time, Ben Hope. Of all the goddamn lunatic things I ever did for y—’
He cut her off by ending the call. He could only pray she’d take him seriously. What was it with red-headed women? Without a doubt, she was the most stubborn, headstrong person he’d ever known. That was, besides himself.
The next name on Ben’s list was Father Pascal Cambriel. Ben had checked in on him now and then since the Gladius Domini business, mostly to ask after his health. Now in his mid-seventies, the old priest still lived in the same humble cottage in the little village of Saint-Jean in the south of France. A little slower, more dependent on his walking stick, but still active and enjoying his simple rural existence – feeding his chickens, tending to his little vineyard, kindling his fire and reading the Bible by candlelight every night as he puffed on his old briar pipe and indulged in more of his homemade wine than perhaps was good for him. Life didn’t change a great deal for Pascal Cambriel, including his tendency to not always answer the phone, a piece of modern technology the old man could take or leave. If he even possessed such a thing as a mobile, it wouldn’t survive the first battery discharge.
Ben dialled Pascal’s landline number. He wasn’t surprised when it rang and rang, but it didn’t allay his worry much either. Le Val to Saint-Jean was an eight-hour drive that Ben was prepared to make if he got no response that night.
In the meantime, he had one more name to check on the list.
Ben had lost contact long ago with the dusky, black-haired history professor Anna Manzini. The last time he’d seen her had been in the private hospital room, filled with the scent of scores of red and white roses, where she’d been recuperating after the violent assault by Franco Bozza that had nearly killed her. Ben had gone there to say goodbye and tell her how sorry he was that she’d become involved. Even bruised up from the attack, with a dressing on her right cheek where Bozza had slashed her with his knife, she’d managed to look beautiful.
That day, Anna had told him she’d had enough of France and was going back to live in Italy to take up her old university professorship. Her last whispered words to him, as he’d sat on her bedside and she kissed him tenderly on the cheek, had been: ‘If you ever find yourself in Florence, you must give me a call.’
Ben hadn’t found himself in Florence since then, and he didn’t have a number for her in any case. Returning to the computer, he Googled the Pagine Bianche, the white pages online phone directory for Italy. When the website came up he entered MANZINI and FIRENZE into a search box and punched TROVA. The computer came up with ‘30 Risultati trovati’, lots of Manzinis but not the one he was looking for. Unlisted. Damn.
Next he brought up the Florence University website and clicked open the faculty page to check through the list of academic staff. Unlikely that the university would divulge the phone details of faculty members, but there might be an email contact.
He found neither, because Anna Manzini was no longer listed there. Instead, he found her on a separate page for former faculty members, which gave no details at all except her name, department and the dates of her service. She’d left Florence University nearly two years ago.
It looked as though he’d lost her trail, until a new idea came to him. Anna had always been more than just an academic; she was a successful writer too, which was what had brought her to live in France in the first place, where she’d been researching a new project on the Cathars. ‘Who knows?’ she’d said to Ben during that last meeting. ‘Perhaps one day I’ll finish my book.’ When he widened his online search on her, Ben discovered her author website and found that she’d not only finished it, but that it had been a bestseller – the first of several successful works of historical non-fiction she’d churned out in the last few years. Her latest biography of the mystic, visionary, and polymath, Hildegard of Bingen, had sold quarter of a million copies.
Anna’s picture beamed at him from the screen. She’d been forty-two when he’d known her, but looked thirty-eight. She seemed not to have aged a day since. Either thanks to the wonders of plastic surgery, or else maybe
