He found the corner.
But the stone ledge did not round it smoothly. Instead it stopped with a gap that stretched around the corner to where the adornment began again.
Just great.
The tree he was seeking was on the other side of the corner. A stout limb within easy reach from there. His balance was being affected by the bulky laptop tucked at his waist. After a quick assessment he leaned out from the wall as far as he dared, swinging his right leg around the corner, searching for the ledge. Once found, he planted his foot and thrust his weight around the corner, reaching with a hand that found more rough brick. His left foot came down perilously close to the end of the ledge, his heel not secure. He strained his weight forward on the ball of one foot, clutching for any handhold as he could feel his body wanting to fall. His fingernails tore against the brick, then caught a small chink, digging in. He kept moving, now on a much darker side of the building, pressing his body flat against the wall.
He was fairly invisible here, as there were no outside floodlights on this side of the building. Anyone below would have to stare directly at him to make anything out in the darkness. He kept edging ever closer to the tree that nestled next to the outer wall. He made it there and grabbed the thick branch with both hands. Then worked his way toward the trunk and climbed down to the ground, the sweet smell of the grass and leaves thick in the air. He was still within the convent grounds, so he stole a few glances around and jogged toward the iron gate. He made it out and was turning to leave when a window on the third floor opened. He quickly sought cover behind a parked car and watched as a woman appeared in the lit rectangle.
He recognized the face.
The same woman from the corridor.
Claire?
She poked her head out and looked down, seeing the barely open sash one floor below. She banged a protesting fist on the sill, lingered for a moment, then withdrew from the window, closing the sash and drawing the sheers together.
He mentally sorted through all of the elements in the situation, searching for options. He抎 learned long ago that his job demanded a more moderate personality. No hotheads allowed. Patience over impertinence. Skill over force. Diplomacy instead of confrontation. He was an official United Nations envoy without any law enforcement authority whatsoever. To get the job done he had to inspire trust, not generate controversy. But what he抎 just done violated all of those principles. He chalked it up to Kelsey. She had that effect on him.
The excitement began to pass.
And the possibility of failure faded.
He ran quickly down the street, disappearing into the night.
Chapter 10
11:05 p.m.
Bernat strolled up the cobbled incline toward the open gate that led back inside Carcassonne. The city抯 towering ramparts stood defiant, brightly lit in all their awesome glory. Across their summit stretched a widow抯 walk protected by merlons and battlements, flanked by towers that had acquired a host of fanciful names. The Tr閟eau with its Gothic windows and vaulted rooms. The circular Tower of Justice. The ever-present Bishop抯 Tower. The Valde, a cylinder five stories high that had long ago accommodated both a toilet and a well. Each had once served a specific purpose, faithfully protecting the city and its residents, a need that existed no more.
He realized that most of what could be seen was part of a fanciful nineteenth-century makeover that had saved Carcassonne from demolition. So he should be grateful. The whole place could not exist. But the fact remained that little of what had once been had survived. Which had not stopped the city抯 tourist board from conjuring up fanciful romantic images. Its motto桝 dream you can live with梬as not subtle in any way.
After the massacre at B閦iers, the next major target for the Albigensian Crusaders had been Carcassonne. Well fortified at the time, but conveniently vulnerable thanks to an overflow of refugees. The invaders marched the eighty kilometers between B閦iers and Carcassonne in six days. The siege lasted a mere week thanks to a cut in the city抯 water supply. When it surrendered its inhabitants were spared, forced to leave, as one contemporary chronicler described, in only their shifts and breeches. Everything else, including all of their personal possessions, remained.
What an insult.
He passed through the arched tunnel that opened into the city. The path was twisty and inclined so that any attacker would have to turn corners and run uphill. Closed souvenir shops lined both sides. He had to admit that the restorers had done a good job preserving the narrow winding paths, half-timbered fa鏰des, and cobbled squares. At this late hour few people were around, the tourists all gone for the day. He entered one of the squares that fronted the Castle of the Counts, a twelfth-century edifice reinforced by a moat and barbican that transformed it into a citadel within a citadel. Now it was just one more stop for visitors to make.