“Aveatque vale,” Trout said softly. Hail and farewell.
About the same time Trout was saying his good-bye, Joe Zavala was among the pallbearers carrying a simple wooden casket along a dirt path that ran between the moldering headstones in an ancient churchyard near the cathedral city of Rouen. The other pallbearers were all descendants of Captain Pierre Levant.
At least twenty members of the extended Levant family surrounded the open grave set next to the headstones that marked the final resting place of the captain's wife and son. The gathering included a contingent of men and women representing the French army. As the country priest intoned the last rites, the army people saluted briskly and Captain Levant was lowered into the grave, given the rest that had been denied him for so long.
“Ave atque vale,” Zavala whispered.
By prearrangement, high above the Fauchard vineyards, the small red biplane circled like a hungry hawk. Austin checked the time, banked the Aviatik slightly and, by prearrangement, dumped out the ashes of Jules Fauchard, whose body had been removed from the glacier.
There had been some discussion whether Jules should be cremated, a practice frowned upon by the Catholic Church. But since there were no living relatives, Austin and Skye took the matter into their own hands, deciding to return Jules to the soil that nurtured his beloved vineyards.
Like Trout and Zavala, Austin, too, gave the old Latin funeral salutation.
“Well, that does it for Jules,” Austin said, speaking into the microphone that connected him with Skye, who was in the other cock
pit. “He proved the best of the bunch. He deserved better than being frozen like a Popsicle under that glacier.”
“I agree,” she said. “I wonder what would have happened if he had made it to Switzerland?”
“We'll never know. Let's imagine that in a parallel time stream he was able to stop the bloody war.”
“That's a nice thought,” Skye said. Then, after a moment, she added, “How far can we fly in this thing?”
“Until we run out of fuel?”
“Can we make it to Aix-en-Provence?”
“Wait a minute,” he said. He tapped the keys on the GPS and programmed in a route that showed airport fueling points. “It will take a few hours and we'll have to stop to refuel. Why do you ask?”
“Charles has offered us the use of his villa. He says we can even use his new Bentley if we promise not to drive it into the swimming pool.”
“Tough condition, but I guess I can agree to that.”
“The villa is a wonderful place,” Skye said with growing excitement. “Quiet and beautiful with a well-stocked wine cellar. I thought it might be a good place to work on my paper. I must thank the Fauchards, for one thing. Using what Racine said about their family background, I'll be able to prove my theory linking Minoans with early European trade. We can talk about your theory that they went as far north as the Faroe Islands. Maybe even to North America. What do you say?”
“I didn't bring any clothes.”
“Who needs clothes?” she said in a laugh that was ripe with promise. “That's never stopped us before.”
Austin grinned. “I think that's what they call a deal clincher. We're picking up a tailwind. I'll try to get us to Provence in time for dinner.”
Then he glanced at his compass and pointed the nose of the plane south, on a course that would take them toward the beckoning shores of the Mediterranean Sea.
Clive Cussler, Lost City
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