Yesterday's Enemy

She spent the rest of the day settling into the ballroom, too busy to think of anything other than the task at hand. Later, though, while heating up the cassoulet Madame Leyton insisted she take, the seeds of doubt returned. Sipping a glass of vin ordinaire, she found herself wondering if another, deeper significance lay behind the baron’s request.
Why should there be? she rebuked herself. As your employer, and a very considerate one too, he’s entitled to ask for any favor—within reason.
And the trip to Genoa was not only reasonable but also a welcome confidence booster. Her inglorious dismissal from the Academie still smarted.
After eating every mouthful of the delicious cassoulet, Katrina took the last of her wine into the living room to watch television. Curled up in an armchair, she put on a popular soap opera, but the intricacies of the plot proved beyond her elementary French and she soon dozed off.
The clock on the mantelpiece showed almost midnight when she eventually opened her eyes, awakened by the cold. Massaging a crick in her neck, she crossed the room to the window, drawn to the sound of staccato tapping. A quick glance outside told her the drums were imaginary but the rain was very real.
In the kitchen Katrina rinsed out her glass, idly thinking of all the advertisements extolling the sunny south of France. Written, she decided ruefully, by people who’d never visited the Alpes-Maritimes in April. While not constant, it had rained every day since Saturday’s downpour.
Saturday. Abruptly she grew as stiff as a statue.
Saturday. The day she’d overheard Dominic Santini talking about a delivery.
Unbidden, the entire conversation replayed in her memory, her fingers tightening on the wine glass when she reached the end and the questions began.
Were the two men referring to the delivery of fertilizer? Did they suspect it was something else, something sinister? If so, Santini would be out investigating at a suitably late hour, rainstorm or not. In fact, remembering back to the conversation in the cellar, he’d figured the bad weather lessened the chance of discovery, although he’d worried about keeping his stuff dry. What stuff?
Quite an imagination, Kate, she mocked. The baron was an aristocrat and eminently respectable. Why would he be involved in anything dishonorable, especially considering the chateau’s bucolic location? With just two buses a day to Nice, it was far too isolated to be the hotbed of any sort of intrigue.
But once raised, the point refused to go away and curiosity started to get the better of her. Far from sleepy after her nap, the questions hammering in her brain only made her more restless. And, she reasoned, some fresh air wouldn’t hurt after being cooped up inside the chateau all day. Although delightful, the short walk through the pine forest twice a day didn’t really provide much exercise.
Slipping a plastic poncho over her jeans and U-Penn sweatshirt, she grabbed her key and headed out into the heavy drizzle. As she emerged from the forest, the chateau loomed into view, an ominous silhouette against the midnight sky. No lights showed and only the splash of raindrops among the trees broke the silence. At the edge of the courtyard Katrina wormed her way inside a huge rhododendron bush that faced the outbuilding. The thick leaves kept out the worst of the rain but, crunched uncomfortably in the center, she soon felt like an idiot.
Suddenly a hint of movement across the courtyard disturbed the darkness. In disbelief, she watched a black blob roll toward the building opposite, elongate itself into a human form, and disappear through the door. Her astonishment swiftly evaporated. Despite his unorthodox arrival, she recognized Dominic Santini.
* * *
Alerted by an early-morning text from Beraletti’s regional director, Santini had been ready for the truck. In keeping with his regular routine, he’d left home shortly after breakfast and headed for his favorite hillside. Topped by a grove of cypress trees, the elevated ridge had a partial view of the chateau’s courtyard. With his surveying equipment prominently in view, he settled himself against a tree and began to wait.
The sun blazed down from a cloudless sky and more than once Santini’s eyelids grew heavy as the morning turned steadily warmer. From time to time he tramped around the ridge and was on his fourth circuit when the sound of a heavy truck broke the silence.
Hurrying back to the trees for his field glasses, Santini focused them on the courtyard and within minutes the truck lumbered into view. Twenty minutes later the truck roared off and Santini relaxed against the tree again. With everything apparently going as planned, the cargo would be in the storeroom waiting to be moved again. Satisfied, he took out his ham sandwich and ate hungrily. Maybe their luck was finally about to change.
After finishing lunch, he gathered up his equipment and spent the rest of the afternoon conspicuously surveying the mountains behind St. Veran. At the end of the day he followed his usual custom of stopping into Jamin’s bar for a quick drink. Returning home, he ate a light meal and then stretched out on the sofa for a nap. It was going to be a long night.
He awoke near midnight to the patter of rain and lay for a few moments listening to the welcome sound. Few people would be out in such a downpour.
Walking toward the chateau, Santini soon revised his opinion of the weather. Water seeped through his supposedly weatherproof jacket, leaving his shoulders unpleasantly damp. A curious stillness enveloped the forest, and when the trees parted to reveal the chateau, it loomed out of the darkness, a blackened shell and seemingly abandoned. The outward appearance didn’t fool Santini for a second. A sophisticated alarm system meant entering the cellar through the former stables. The rambling structure now housed the chateau’s five cars, the extra rooms converted to general storage. Santini’s interest lay in just one room, near the end. At the entrance to the courtyard he dropped into a crouch and scuttled across the cobbles. Since anyone looking for intruders would be watching the walls at head height, the element of surprise more than compensated for strained thigh muscles.
Opening the storeroom door, he waited a few minutes until the silence convinced him no one was inside. Cautiously he switched on his flashlight and played its beam over the room. Sacks of fertilizer stood like sentinels against one wall but the center of the floor was clear. Congratulating himself on his continued good luck, he lifted up the trapdoor and descended the stone steps.
At the bottom lay a labyrinth of tunnels that Santini already knew led nowhere. Turning on the receiver in his backpack, he heard a faint beeping and he followed it down one of the tunnels. It grew steadily louder until peaking near the end, surprising him. Son of a gun, he’d already worked on that section.
Switching off the receiver, he took out the sensor and swept it over the nearest wall but the lights on the monitor never flickered. About to start on a lower portion, he abruptly stiffened, alerted by a noise that shouldn’t be there. The thick silence magnified every sound, often making him imagine the worst, but this time his greatest nightmare was a reality. Someone was lifting the trapdoor.