Читать книгу Day Of Atonement - Alex Archer - Страница 12

The call was unwelcome when it came, just as most telephone calls were, as far as the old man was concerned.

Roux sank into a large leather recliner. He had been doing his best to try to enjoy the old black-and-white movie on the huge flat-screen TV, which was the room’s one and only concession to modern living. The buttery leather of the armchair was almost enough to transport him back the two hundred years to the time it had been made. Casablanca was quite possibly the greatest film ever made, and Ingrid Bergman the most beautiful woman ever to grace the silver screen. She was certainly one of the most beautiful women he had ever met, and he had met his share of beautiful women across the centuries. Even as fashions changed what people professed to be beautiful, there was never any mistaking true beauty. Of course, the fair lady had only ever seen him as an old man, but Roux had had the privilege of watching her age with grace and poise, and seen her slowly fade while he had remained the same.

That was the nature of his existence.

He’d been forced to drift out of her life before she noticed he wasn’t aging as she had.

Although she would always be the lovely woman captured on celluloid.

The temptation to ignore the call was great. He hated to have his privacy invaded. He couldn’t understand the obsession that the modern generation had with always being available. Time alone with one’s thoughts was precious. He had an answering service. It would be easy enough to check any messages once the movie was over. But the caller was persistent, dialing again. And again when he ignored it a third time. It could, of course, be Annja. Or Garin—he always had impeccable timing.

Roux paused the image on the screen with Bogart and Bergman close to a kiss that might never happen.

He didn’t recognize the number.

“Yes?” One word, not offering his name or number. There were few people who knew how to get hold of him. He wasn’t in the habit of sharing his secrets, and he considered the sanctity of his own home the most precious secret of all.

“Have you heard from Annja?”

He didn’t recognize the voice, despite the obvious familiarity the opening gambit suggested. “I’m sorry, who is this?” The old man had met a lot of people during his long life. Some, quite simply, didn’t make enough impact to be worth remembering.

“My name? My name is Cauchon.”

“What do you want?”

“Want? Nothing. I just thought you might want to be sure your precious Annja is safe, that is all. Consider it a public service.”

The phone clicked and fell silent before it was replaced by the dial tone.

He didn’t like it.

Forget the fact that the stranger had found his number, forget the fact that he knew his connection to Annja, which was hardly public knowledge. Why would someone call to ask if she was safe if not to goad him because the person knew for certain that she was anything but?

Roux punched in her number and waited for it to ring at the other end.

It seemed to go on forever.

Cauchon.

The name was in there somewhere, locked away in some dim, distant memory. No more than that. Truth be told, he’d made a habit of forgetting the names and voices of those people who, when it came right down to it, meant nothing.

It was harder to forget those who did.

“Hi,” Annja’s perpetually perky voice answered, and he felt a wave of relief even though he knew she was more than capable of looking after herself.

“Annja,” he said, only to be interrupted by the rest of the message.

“Sorry, I can’t take your call right now—you know what to do.”

Voice mail.

The devil’s own damned invention. Knowing that he could leave a message was no help.

He hung up.

She’d see that he’d called and would call him back. He didn’t contact her unless it was important. That was the nature of their relationship. It wasn’t about frivolity and social niceties. There were no “How are you doing?” calls or “Happy Birthday” moments.

Of course, now that he was rattled, there was no way he’d be able to concentrate on anything other than Annja, so there was no real point in pressing Play and waiting to see if this time maybe Bogie would get the girl.

His phone rang a few seconds later, jerking him back into reality.

Roux answered, half expecting it to be this Cauchon calling to mock him again. “Yes?”

“You called?” Annja said, sounding like she was right behind him. He felt like a weight was lifted off his shoulders. And again, he couldn’t say why he’d been worried, not really; she was a force of nature was Annja Creed. He felt stupid for worrying.

“Ah, yes, sorry, my dear,” he said, offering an easy deflection. “I must have dialed the wrong number. Fat fingers and all that.”

“No worries,” she said, then paused as if she was on the verge of saying something, but decided against it.

“Is everything all right?”

“Well, yes, I guess. I mean, nothing’s actually wrong, but it probably depends on your definition of all right.”

“Talk to me, Annja. Right now. Tell me what’s going on.” He didn’t care if she could hear the edge in his voice.

“It was the weirdest thing. We were filming less than an hour ago…”

“Are you still in Carcassonne?”

“Yes. I was doing a piece to camera below the walls of the fortress, and somehow a huge chunk of masonry came crashing down. It could have been pretty nasty.”

He closed his eyes. “But you aren’t hurt?”

“We’re fine. The camera took a battering, but we’re not even talking cuts and bruises. It was a lucky escape.”

Roux didn’t say anything. His mind raced. Cauchon’s call took on a darker meaning, taking it beyond the strange into threatening. It wasn’t a coincidence. Live six hundred years and a person learns that there’s no such thing. It’s all cause and effect. He almost told her about the peculiar call, but there was no point in worrying her before he knew what the hell was going on.

“And you’re sure it was an accident?”

“There was no one on the ramparts, if that’s what you mean. Don’t worry. It’s not like I haven’t done this before,” she said. “Maybe I’ll come up and visit you at the chateau when we’ve wrapped things up here. We’ll spend Christmas in front of an open fire roasting chestnuts and toasting marshmallows or whatever the French do.”

“Sounds lovely,” he promised her.

She hung up.

He needed someone to try to trace where Cauchon’s call originated, but no doubt it had run through a dozen satellite relays and masking services to make that all but impossible, but if anyone could do it, it was Garin.