The Omega Factor(66)

“We are aware of that,” Isabel said. “But your images are no longer an issue.”

“What is?”

“Monsieur Lee.”

That raised red flags inside her. “Is Nick all right?”

He hadn’t called her back since much earlier when she told him about summoning the police. Since then she’d been consumed with her prioress and now with these two. She needed to talk to him.

Now.

“I want my phone back,” she said to the prioress.

“I can’t do that.”

“Then I’m leaving.”

She turned.

Isabel lunged toward her, one arm wrapping her neck, the other bringing a cloth to her face. A sickly-sweet smell invaded her nostrils, reminiscent of cleaning day at the convent or a visit to the hospital.

Her head began to spin.

Isabel kept a firm hold. She tried to resist but her muscles would not react. The world winked in and out.

Then vanished.





Chapter 42



Claire was back in Belgium.

She’d been driven north from the mountains to Toulouse and caught the only nonstop flight from there to Ghent. Normally, maidens shunned air travel, preferring car or train. Less expensive and less noticeable. But there were exceptions to that rule, especially when time was of the essence. Like here, over the past two days.

Nick Lee’s offer to help retrieve Sister Rachel’s body could not be refused. They desperately wanted to return her to the abbey for a burial befitting a maiden, especially one like Joan of Arc herself, who’d made the ultimate sacrifice. She’d been at a loss as to how that could be accomplished without risking even greater exposure, but their new ally had assured her he could make it happen. And, to fix this mess, she’d accept help from wherever it might be offered.

She’d taken a cab from the airport and caught up with Sisters Ellen and Isabel, directing them, on orders from the abbess, to take control of Sister Deal. While that happened, she would connect with Nick Lee. He’d been told to wait for her in the Groentenmarkt which, long ago, had been Ghent’s main vegetable market. A nineteenth-century water pump still filled its center, a high obelisk atop a square pedestal. Bordering the cobbled square were a variety of specialty shops selling things like high-end chocolate, sweet cuberdons, and tangy Tierentyn mustard. She was familiar with Oud Huis Himschoot, the oldest bakery, which produced some wonderful bread.

She’d dressed in pants, a dark blouse, jacket, and comfortable shoes with laces. She’d left the fleur-de-lys necklace off, nothing indicating that she was a maiden other than the tattoo on her left shoulder. The ability to blend in was one of the things that had long aided their effectiveness. But she could not help feeling a little exposed.

The cab dropped her near the square and she walked right over. She’d been texted a picture of Nick Lee found on the internet, so it was easy to find him near the fountain.

“I’m Sister Claire,” she said, introducing herself.

And she took measure of her adversary.

Medium height and build. Brown wavy hair cut in a boyish fringe that definitely made him look younger than mid-thirties, which was most likely his age. Clean-shaven, the face as yet not sheathed with any fine lines from age. And the eyes. A pale gray. Warm. Playful. Engaging. She told herself to be careful. This man was physically attractive, forceful, quick-witted, and surely charismatic, the type who gave just enough of himself to inspire trust, dropping the other person’s guard. She’d tried to learn what she could about him, but the UN and UNESCO websites mentioned little to nothing.

Which made her wonder. “Who exactly do you work for?”

Nick produced a badge from something called the Cultural Liaison and Investigative Office. “We deal in the loss or destruction of cultural treasures for member states. Belgium and France are members.”

“I would imagine you have precious few powers to go along with that badge.”

He grinned. “It gets me by.”

She supposed it did. He was definitely competent and resourceful. After all, he’d gotten the better of her. She’d thought about how to handle this situation on the trip north from Toulouse. Everything was in motion. Fluid. Changing by the minute. Police were involved. A convent violated. Dominicans had arrived. It was only a matter of hours before all of them appeared in southern France. Isabel and Ellen had reported how Lee had helped them with the police and the Dominicans. So she’d decided on conciliation and diplomacy, until a more definitive course became evident.

“You followed me last night?” she asked.

He nodded. “I tailed your accomplice and watched as they shot her, then found a boat and kept close to you.”

“And broke into a convent. That will look good on your résumé.”

“You do what you have to do. Right?”

She smiled. Right.

“Your minions are tight-lipped,” he said to her. “They told me to come here, and you would explain everything.”

“Can you obtain Sister Rachel’s body?”

“That depends.”

“On what?”

“Whether I want to help or not.”

“I have to tell you, Mr. Lee—”

“How about you call me Nick?”

“Going to a first-name basis isn’t going to change things between us.”