If she'd been any hotter she'd have burst into flame.
41
• 3:00 P.M.
It took a very long walk before Marten could get Demi to calm down enough to even talk to him. It took even longer to convince her to join him for lunch. And after that, nearly half a bottle of a good local cava—champagne—to become at least halfway civil.
Now they sat at a table in the back room of Els Quatre Gats—The Four Cats—a café on a narrow street in the city's Barri Gòtic section, eating suquet de peix, a hot fish and potato mixture, and drinking still more cava. Slowly she was coming around.
Demi still wore the navy blazer over the striped man-tailored shirt and tan slacks she had worn that morning in Valletta. Professional photojournalist or not she was clearly used to traveling quickly and light. Which was probably the reason for her short hair too, not a lot to do with it except wash and fluff. She was smart and determined and, as he knew, fiery. But as true as those things were, she also seemed strangely unconnected, as if everything she was about, even her profession, had to do with something else. What that was he couldn't begin to guess, but it gave her a strange air of vulnerability that made her hard to figure out. Her big, deep brown eyes didn't help either because they drew your attention and threw you off, especially when she was looking directly at you, the way she was at Marten now.
"You want me to trust you," she said, "yes?"
"It would help."
"But you don't think you can trust me."
Marten smiled, "I asked you in Malta if you knew where Dr. Foxx or Reverend Beck or the girl Cristina had gone and you said no. Yet you knew all along Beck was coming to Barcelona and to what hotel and—"
Demi cut him off. "The concierge called me shortly before you arrived at my hotel room. He said the reverend had asked him to apologize for his leaving so abruptly. He told me where he had gone and said an airline ticket had been left for me if I wished to follow. That was what was in the envelope I picked up from the concierge as I left."
"The details of how you got here or why don't interest me. What does is the fact that you flat out lied. Tell me where 'trust' fits in there."
"Let's just say your showing up in Malta and the way you handled things with Dr. Foxx put me in a very awkward position."
"That's why you told me I could ruin everything."
"What do you want with me?"
The way Demi avoided the question and the way she looked at him when she did told Marten that for now, at least, that was as far in that direction as she was going to go.
"Look," he said directly, "I'm here for the same reason I was in Washington and in Malta, to find out the truth about what happened to Caroline Parsons. Whatever you want to talk about or don't is your business but from where I sit it's clear you came to Barcelona because of Reverend Beck, and that's why I'm here. Beck and Foxx were together in Malta for a reason. They both left suddenly and separately. That tells me they just might get back together as quickly, especially since Beck is still hanging around this part of the world. Beck is a curiosity but it's Foxx who's my real interest and I'm betting the good reverend will lead me to him, and sooner rather than later."
"And you think Dr. Foxx has an answer for you about Mrs. Parsons."
"Yes," Marten's eyes were suddenly intense. "He started to talk to me about it last night, then he realized he was going too far and got upset. I want him to finish what he had to say."
Just then their waiter, a pleasant, delicate-faced man with dark hair, stopped at their table. "May I get you something else?" he asked in English.
"Not now, thanks," Marten said.
"Of course," the man nodded and left.
Demi took a sip of the cava and looked at Marten over the top of the glass, "You seem to have cared about Mrs. Parsons a great deal."
"I loved her," he said without embarrassment or apology.
"She was married."
Marten didn't reply.
Demi half smiled. "Then you are here because of love."
Marten leaned forward. "Talk to me about 'the witches.'"
"I—" Demi hesitated and looked down at her wine glass, as if she was uncertain what to say, if anything. Finally she looked up, "Do you know what a strega is, Mr. Marten?"
"No."
"It's the Italian word for female witch. I have a younger sister who came to Malta two years ago and disappeared. I found out later that she was a practicing strega involved with a very secretive coven of Italian witches. Whether that had anything to do with her disappearance or not I don't know. What I do know is that Malta is old and filled with ancient places and secretive things. My sister was there for three days and that was the last anyone saw of her. The authorities searched but found nothing. They said she was a young woman and might have done anything.
"For me, that was no answer, so I kept looking on my own. That was how I heard about Dr. Foxx. He has many connections on Malta and knows people and things that others would not, not even the police. But they are things he would never reveal to a stranger. I didn't know what to do, and besides, I had to get back to work. My job put me on a photo assignment in Washington covering the social lives of U.S. congresspeople. It was there I learned about Reverend Beck and discovered he knew Foxx well. This was a huge opportunity to find out what happened to my sister, so through a French publisher I arranged to do a photo-essay book on clerics who minister to politicians. I made Beck a primary subject so that I could become his friend and gain his confidence. Because of that I was able to go to Malta and meet Dr. Foxx personally. But I didn't get to speak with him the way I needed to because—" for an instant her eyes flashed with anger, then she seemed to get over it, "—you suddenly arrived and it all fell apart. I followed Reverend Beck to Barcelona because, as you guessed, he is to meet with Dr. Foxx again soon. Maybe even tomorrow."
"You know that for certain?"
"No, not for certain. But Cristina, the woman who was with us at dinner in Malta, told me that the reverend and Dr. Foxx had talked about it just before Foxx left the restaurant. 'Until Saturday,' Foxx said. Since that took place Thursday night, I would assume he meant this coming Saturday, which is tomorrow. That's why I came here, to continue work on the book with Reverend Beck and because of it, hopefully to get to see Dr. Foxx when he meets with him." Suddenly her eyes came up to his and the anger returned, "Maybe I can do that if you stay away."
Marten ignored her outburst. "There's one thing you're leaving out: why you asked me if Caroline Parsons said anything about 'the witches' before she died. What makes you think she would know anything about them?"
"Because—" She looked up. Again their waiter was at the table and topping off their glasses with cava as he had twice before. Now the bottle was empty.
"May I bring you another? Or perhaps something else from the bar?" he asked.
"No, thanks," Marten said for the second time. The man looked at Demi and smiled, then turned and walked off. Marten waited until he was out of earshot, then looked back to Demi, "Because—what?"
"Of her doctor."
"Stephenson?"
"Yes," Demi reached into her purse and took out a pen. "Let me show you." She pulled a paper napkin toward her, then carefully drew a simple diagram on it and pushed it across the table to Marten.
He exhaled loudly when he saw what it was. The same balled cross he had seen tattooed on Merriman Foxx's thumb, the same balled cross Caroline had described in her fearful description of the white-haired man.
"It is the sign of Aldebaran, the pale red star that forms the left eye in the constellation Taurus. In the early history of astrology it was considered to emanate a powerful and fortunate influence. It is also called 'Eye of God.'"
"What does it have to do with Dr. Stephenson?"
"She had it tattooed on her left thumb. It was small, you could barely see it."
Marten was incredulous. "Foxx has the same thing."
"I know. So does the woman, Cristina."
"What d
oes the tattoo have to do with 'the witches'?"
"It's the sign of the coven to which my sister belonged."
"Foxx and Stephenson are witches?"
"I'm not sure. But my sister had the same tattoo. Why else would people so dissimilar have the sign of Aldebaran tattooed on their thumb, specifically the left thumb?"
"What led you to think Caroline was involved with them? I held her hands for a long time, I never saw that mark or any other."
"She was dying. Dr. Foxx had been nearby and Stephenson had been her doctor for some time. I don't know their rituals but I hoped she might have had some knowledge of it. If she was frightened she might have wanted to share it with someone she completely trusted, and quite frankly that seemed to be you. I had to find out."
"She never said a thing."
"Then I was wrong. Either that or it was a secret she took into eternity."
"Does Reverend Beck have the mark?"
"Have you ever looked at his hands?"
"He has a pigmentary skin disorder, vitiligo. The skin on his hands is blotched," Marten said, then he understood. "You mean that even if he had the mark it would be very difficult to see."
"Yes."
"So you don't know if he's a member of the coven."
"I think he's involved, but whether he's a member or not I don't know."
"Tell me about the coven itself. Is it some kind of cult? Satan worshipers? Religious extremists? Or with Foxx's background some sort of military group?"
"Does the name Nicolo Machiavelli mean anything to you?"
"You mean Machiavelli, the man."
"Yes."
"As I recall he was a sixteenth-century Florentine writer famous for a book called The Prince about the ways to gain and keep raw political power, where authority is everything and expediency is placed above any kind of morality. A sort of how-to book for becoming a dictator."
"Yes," Demi nodded appreciatively.
"What does Machiavelli have to do with the coven?"
"There is a story that on his deathbed he wrote an addendum to The Prince, a kind of secondary blueprint for gaining power. It was based on what he called a 'necessary prerequisite,' the creation of a secret society to be governed by the rule of complicity; a brotherhood of blood where members would participate in an act of ritual murder. It was to be an elaborate, carefully orchestrated human sacrifice held once a year at a remote and secured spot, a church preferably, or a temple, that would give the ceremony religious impact. The rules required every member to sign a heavily guarded, dated journal that included his name, place and date of birth; name and manner of death of the victim; and a print of his thumb dipped in his own blood and pressed in the journal alongside his signature. This was done to confirm his presence there, his allegiance to the society and his willing involvement in the killing. The journal was the key to the society's power because public exposure of it would mean ruin, even death, for them all. Once the murder was done, and the participants' presence recorded, the society could set forth its agenda for the year with the knowledge that what they did was wholly protected from treachery within, thereby freeing it to execute whatever plan was agreed upon.
"Those familiar with the story believe the addendum, if it existed, never reached its intended audience—Florentines oppressed by the ruling Medici family that Machiavelli hoped he could unite in blood to overthrow—and instead was smuggled to Rome where it fell into the hands of an already powerful and influential group who used it, and have continued to use it over the centuries, as an ideology to further their own ends. For those who follow such things, the addendum has come to be known as the Machiavelli Covenant."
"And you think that's what the Aldebaran coven is about, a present-day edition of the Covenant?"
"That, Mr. Marten, is what I have been trying to find out for a long time."
Abruptly something caught Marten's eye. He picked up his glass and sat back, casually scanning the room.
"What is it?"
"Get up as if you're mad at me, pick up your purse and walk out of the restaurant," Marten said quietly. "Go up the street, turn the corner, and wait."
"Why? What's going on?"
"Just do it. Now."
"Alright," deliberately Demi pushed back from the table, glared at Marten, then picked up her purse and left. He stared after her for a moment then signaled the waiter for the check. Purposely he took another sip of cava, then put the glass down and sat back. A moment later the waiter brought the check. Marten paid cash, then got up and walked out, passing without a glance the fortyish-looking tourist who had taken a table near them and was looking at a menu. A tourist with salt-and-pepper hair who now wore a dark-colored sport coat over his yellow polo shirt. If there was any doubt he had been handed off at the Barcelona airport, it was gone now.
42
• 3:40 P.M.
Marten stepped through the door and pulled on dark glasses against the glare of the sun, then walked quickly up the street. At the corner he glanced back toward the entrance to Els Quatre Gats. If Salt and Pepper was coming after him he hadn't done it yet. Another step and he was around the corner looking for Demi. The sidewalk was crowded and he didn't see her. For a moment he was afraid she might have gone off on her own, that she still didn't trust him and that he would have to find her and fight the same battle all over again. Then he saw her waiting beneath the overhang of a storefront.
"What is it?" she said as he reached her.
"A man with salt-and-pepper hair and a yellow polo shirt. I've been followed, and all the way from Valletta. It's got to be Foxx's doing but I can't be sure."
"You were followed."
"Yes."
"That means we've been seen together."
Marten could see the fire in her start to roar back. "You can dodge the whole thing by telling Beck straight off that I tracked you to Barcelona and insisted you talk to me. In the restaurant I asked you a bunch of crazy questions you knew nothing about and when I kept pushing you got mad and left."
"You're right, I did get mad and I am leaving," she said angrily and abruptly turned and started off into the crowd.
Marten caught up with her. She ignored him.
"Whether you like it or not we're in this together. You want to know what happened to your sister and I want to know what happened to Caroline Parsons." He glanced around and then lowered his voice, "Dr. Foxx seems to be key in both situations."
Still she ignored him, just kept walking.
Marten stayed in stride. "If Foxx is here and Reverend Beck is meeting him—where and when, that's all I want to know. Other than that I'll stay out of your hair, I promise."
She didn't reply. They reached the end of the block and stopped in a crowd waiting to cross a main boulevard. Marten stepped close to her. "You're alone in all this, aren't you?"
Demi said nothing. The light changed and she stepped off with the others. Again Marten caught up with her. "These are not terribly nice people, Foxx especially. At some point you're going to wish you had a friend."
They reached the far curb and she suddenly turned and confronted him.
"You won't go away, will you?"
"No."
She stared at him a second longer, "All you want to know is when and where," she said finally and in resignation.
"Yes."
"I'll do what I can."
"Thank you," he said, then quickly looked up and stepped off the curb to hail a passing taxi. The driver crossed two lanes of traffic and pulled up beside them.
Marten opened the rear door. "Go back to the hotel. Hopefully by now Beck will have checked in. See how comfortable he is with you, if you think the situation has calmed enough for him to actually talk about Foxx and his meeting with him." Demi slid in and he handed her a slip of paper, "The number of my cell phone. I don't hear from you by five o'clock, I'll call you." Abruptly he closed the door, the taxi moved off and Marten started quickly back the way they had come.
43
Mart
en and Salt and Pepper saw each other the moment Marten rounded the corner heading back to Els Quatre Gats.
At that instant Salt and Pepper realized what was happening and bolted. He ran across the narrow street, then darted down another, turning at the end of the block onto the heavily congested Via Laietana. Marten came after him on the dead run. As he ran, Marten's foremost thought was how the man had tracked him to the restaurant when he was certain he had lost him earlier. All he could think of was their attentive waiter, maybe not so obviously pushing drinks to build the bill as he'd first thought but making sure he and Demi stayed where they were until Salt and Pepper was informed and could get there. If that was the case what was going on had far more reach than he had imagined. Some kind of cult embracing medieval witchcraft that controlled, or least paid, a network of street informers who probably had no idea where their money was coming from. People like Salt and Pepper and the young man who had followed him from Valletta.
Running, dodging around people on a sidewalk jammed with shoppers, Marten tried to keep his eye on his man. But there were too many people and he lost sight of him. He slowed and was about to give up when he saw him suddenly dart out of a crowd a half block ahead and then cut left onto a side street. Marten jostled around a pair of arguing shopkeepers, nearly knocked over a woman carrying a baby, then turned the corner just in time to see Salt and Pepper glance back, then cut left again, running onto a broader street filled with heavy traffic.
This was all old neighborhood, part of the Gothic Quarter, Barri Gòtic, with its thirteenth- to fifteenth-century buildings, outdoor cafés, street-level shops with apartments above. Lungs on fire, heart pounding, Marten ran on. Pulling up sharply to avoid a fast-moving motorcycle, he took the same turn Salt and Pepper had and ran on, his eyes searching the crowds on either side of the street. He was in full stride when he heard the sharp blare of a horn. A split second later a cry of horror went up from the people on the block in front of him. Then the horn stopped and the entire area went silent.