The Omega Factor(27)

He listened as she explained how Van der Veken signed the back of the reproduction, then inscribed it with a poem.

I did it for love.

And for duty.

And to avenge myself.

I borrowed from the dark side.



“His contemporaries, as well as the police at the time, were baffled by the verse. But he refused to explain himself in any way, and took whatever he knew to the grave in 1964.”

“Looks like you solved that mystery too.”

“It’s still odd. I’ve been thinking about what he might have meant for the past few weeks. He did it for love and for duty? To avenge myself? What did he mean? And borrowing from the dark side? That’s a strange choice of words.”

He agreed. But those motivations really didn’t matter anymore. “Tell me about de Foix.”

“I don’t know a lot about him. I was told he’s the owner of an auction house in Toulouse. A man of means and a known art collector.”

“Anything about him ever strike you as suspicious?”

She shook her head. “Not a thing. He was genuinely shocked when I told him what I found.”

“And I imagine people weren’t lining up to donate money for the restoration of a twentieth-century reproduction.”

She grinned. “To say the least.”

Which made the man even more suspect. “Have you met de Foix?”

She nodded. “Twice. He came to see my work. Both times he was complimentary and professional. He was supposed to return here in a few days. Why all the questions about him?”

“Because there’s a leak. Somebody talked. Those women knew exactly where to go, what to get, and what to do. That means they had good intel.”

“But why destroy the panel? That makes no sense. It was priceless.”

Good question. But he decided not to press any further. The police and the cathedral authorities would be doing plenty of that over the next few days. And it was their job to investigate, not his.

“We never got to visit,” she said to him with a smile. “I was so looking forward to that.”

“Me too.”

And he meant it. Seeing her, talking to her, it wasn’t nearly as painful as he’d envisioned. “Maybe we could have lunch tomorrow, before I head back to Paris.”

“So soon?”

He nodded. “I need to head back by tomorrow evening.”

“How exciting it must be to work for UNESCO. Do you like it?”

“I think I found my niche. I’ve enjoyed my time there.”

“Then, please, tomorrow, before you leave, let’s have lunch and I want you to tell me all about it.”

He’d missed talking to her. Though he was sociable and enjoyed people, he wasn’t all that forthcoming with others. Kelsey had been the one exception. He’d never been afraid to tell her anything, and that intimacy had eluded him over the past nine years. No other woman had measured up. Maybe one day. He certainly hoped so. But not yet.

He turned for the door, then a thought occurred to him. “How about I hold on to that laptop tonight. No one knows I exist.”

“I think that’s a good idea. I was told to keep it safe.”

“Why didn’t the curator take it?”

“I didn’t offer it to him. Nor did he ask.”

And she handed it over.

He’d wondered what it would be like to be near her again. Long ago his love for her had evolved into something different, something respectful of the path she’d chosen in life. She was a woman he’d once loved, someone he still admired and missed. His hope was that this visit would allow them the opportunity to evolve from occasional social media posts to something more personal. What friends would do. And he desperately wanted to be her friend.

Something told him she wanted the same.

“Thank you for doing what you did,” she said. “You may have saved things.”

He smiled. “Glad it worked out.”

“I’ll see you tomorrow.”

That she would.





Chapter 17



Claire settled into the seat of the private plane, rented hastily at the Ghent airport. No time existed for cars or trains and there were no commercial flights available at this late hour.

But she had to leave Belgium.

Now.

The flight south would take a couple of hours. She should be tired but she wasn’t. The pilot had brought along some drinks and sandwiches, but her appetite seemed gone too. She was dressed in street clothes, ditching her habit since this journey needed to go unnoticed. But the chain with the pendant remained around her neck. With her thumb she gently felt the outline of the fleur-de-lys. Its presence always brought her comfort. However fleeting that might be at the moment.

Thankfully, only a precious few in the world knew the true significance of the Just Judges panel. Most of those were members of her order. Others lay within the Vatican. Two diametrically opposed sides. At war with each other for centuries. A conflict that had remained dormant for the better part of the nineteenth and twentieth centuries.

But that had not always been the case.



The four-month trial had ended.

An inquisitorial court, composed of dozens of judges and a hostile presiding officer, had convicted and sentenced Joan of Arc to death. They decreed that her supposed visions did not exist and her explanations for wearing men’s clothing—that heaven had ordained it—were blasphemous. She was found to be bloodthirsty, idolatrous, rebellious, and working at the instigation of the devil. The verdict? Death. But since the church could not lawfully carry out an execution, the nineteen-year-old was handed over to secular authorities for execution.