After pulling the truck off the road, the men, with Adi in tow, marched a quarter-mile through forest and fields. Not a word from the men, other than Freddie and Nantes quarreling in harsh whispers at the back of the line.
Their breath visible in the cold, they watched from the dark woods as a guard made his rounds before the massive walls of La Maison Chinois. Though she had never seen the royal estate from this direction, there was no doubt where they were.
They watched the guard in his tall boots and grim black uniform pass before the huge stone wall. The only guards Adi remembered seeing were ones with big colorful feathered hats that stood by the front door sometimes. The guard passed by.
“We’ve got an hour,” whispered Freddie.
• • •
Adi looked up through the ornate ironwork of the gate into the garden. The only sound was the splash of water from the fountains. A half moon, rising up over the trees, made shadow shapes of the acres of sculptures and topiary.
It was just as she remembered it.
Almost.
“What are you waiting for?” Nantes hissed to Freddie. “Get on with it then. Show him.”
The men turned and stared at Adi. Ferret snickered. She could make out his rotted teeth in the moonlight.
Freddie stood next to her, head pressed up against the bars of the gate. He put an arm around her neck, staring at the landscape, like they had all the time in the world.
“Nice, ain’t it?” he said. “Used to be somebody’s castle. Which I guess explains—this.” He slapped a hand against the massive stone wall. “Secure gates on the front and on the north side. The back side’s right up against the mountain. And this wall, twenty-five, thirty feet high, around the rest of it. Which,” he glanced over to Nantes, “some people think you can throw a rope over.”
Adi looked up. It seemed to go up forever.
“Anyway, there’s no unguarded entrance, ’cept for this.” He nodded to the garden gate.
Adi pulled at the heavy iron bars. Rusted and ivy covered. Solid as a rock and cold as ice.
“It’s fastened from the inside,” he said. “But only with a sliding bolt. Nantes’s brother was a footman in the house, before the duchess had him hanged. It opens. Or so he told Nantes.”
“And he better not be making it up,” Joe said under his breath.
Adi looked over at Freddie, puzzled.
“What’s this got to do with you?” he said with a grin. “Step this way, little buddy.”
He took Adi by her coat sleeve and pulled her through the circle of men, down a couple of meters to the right. Adi winced and rubbed her shoulder with her hand. It ached with a dull throb. If she hadn’t seen the point on the spike, she would think it was still deep in her arm.
At the base of the wall, amidst the weeds, Adi saw water pouring from a mossy drainpipe into a shallow ditch; a runoff for one of the fountains, maybe. It was no more than eighteen or twenty inches wide. She stared at the pouring water for a few seconds.
Oh, no!
Adi took a step back, shaking her head, adamantly.
“I told you he wasn’t going to like it,” said Joe, looking down at the pipe. “I sure as hell wouldn’t want to go up in there.”
“Now, now,” said Freddie. “I’m sure it’s not as bad as it . . . looks. Anyway. He’s going. Nobody else here fittin’ in that thing.”
• • •
Freezing water filled her pants legs as she lowered herself down onto her knees in the ditch.
Thibodaux held on to her overcoat. There wasn’t much point in keeping it on. It might be warmer, but it would weigh her down and broaden her shoulders. And she’d definitely want something dry to put on when this was over. Assuming, of course . . .
“Hurry up,” hissed Nantes. “We’re running out of time.”
Adi took a last glance at the pistol barrels pointed at her, and slid into the pipe on her stomach, gasping as the runoff soaked the front of her shirt and vest.
“Hold it,” said Joe. He slipped something into her back pants pocket. “This might come in handy.” She had no time to wonder what it might be before a couple of the men grabbed her boots and gave her a shove. After that she was on her own.
The slippery algae from the runoff made it easier to slide herself forward up the slight incline, but when her boots hit it, she got no traction at all. The trick was to push against the dry sides of the pipe, though that was easier said than done. After a couple of minutes, the muscles in her legs were screaming. She had to stop till the burning let up.
A gun barrel tapped impatiently at the bottom of the pipe. She continued.
• • •
It was pitch black, not the slightest difference if her eyes were open or shut. She began to panic, her imagination running away. Strange scraping sounds. Creeping just behind her. What was that? Something slithering up the pipe? Touching her leg? Her face. Spider’s silk over her eyes. The occupant skittering across her scalp! Was it going down her shirt collar!? She shook her head, couldn’t reach back. The pipe was growing narrower. She was sure of it! She would be stuck, unable to go back?! She was lying in her coffin!
Stop, stop, stop!
She lay still. Took a breath. Another.
Just a bug, dammit. Just a pipe. You’ve been in worse than this.
She imagined Doc and Gershom there. They’d laugh. Gershom would say something funny in Yiddish.
More tapping from the bottom of the pipe.
Yes, yes. She took a deep breath. I’m going.
• • •
It was hard to tell how long it took, maybe twenty minutes. Maybe twice that. The tapping and hissing from below faded away into the sound of water splashing ahead. She’d lost all her body heat and was shaking uncontrollably.
Water fell across her hands and arms as her fingers touched a wall—a ninety-degree turn upward in the pipe. She tilted her head as best she could and peered up into the splash of frigid water. Three feet above, there was a flicker of cold moonlight.
For a few dreadful seconds, it seemed she wouldn’t be able to bend enough to make the turn. Her damaged shoulder seized as she scraped against the stone; she wriggled upward. The overflow from the fountain poured down on her like icicles. She made it up onto her knees.
Oh, dear Lord! There was an ornate metal lattice between her and freedom. Clutching at the solid metal, she looked out, the moon reflecting off the surface of the water. She was going to freeze to death right here!
Then it came to her. What have I got in my pocket?
Squeezing her arm behind she carefully pulled the thing out. A screwdriver with a black wooden handle.
At least someone had been thinking about what might be at the end of the pipe.
It wasn’t the perfect tool. The screw-heads were on the other side of the grate. But it was something. Something to get leverage with. Her fingers ached so much from the cold, she could hardly grip the thing. Commanding her hand to obey, she jammed the head into a sliver of an opening and leaned hard into it.
The screwdriver snapped.
With a splash and a clink, the metal shaft fell into the dark water. Merde!
But—another tiny noise. One of the screws plopped into the water in the fountain. She’d bent the grille. Was it enough? She wrapped her fist around the wooden handle and began hammering away.
• • •
The third screw broke, the grate twisted aside—and she dropped forward into the water. It closed over her, sucking the air from her lungs. Shaking and sputtering, she climbed up over the side of the fountain.
For all the time it took, she was not nearly as far up from the garden gate as she would have imagined. She could see gun barrels—one of them, the Russian’s rifle—pointing at her through the bars. It would be ill-advised to make that kind of noise with the guards this close, but she didn’t put it past them.
Didn’t matter. She was going to freeze to death in these wet clothes. Wiping the water off her hair and face, she scrambled down to the gate. She had to get that coat on.
“Good work, son,” whispered Freddie. “Now one more thing.” He pointed his pistol in to the bolt on the side of the gate.
Adi dug around through the ivy till she found it. She would have to lift it up and then slide it free.
She wondered how long it had been since the brother had reputedly thrown this bolt. Couldn’t have been that recent from the look of it, if at all.
She took hold of the metal bar and yanked upwards.
Nothing. She tried again—the cold cut into her fingers like a blade.
“Monsieur,” growled Nantes. “If you do not open this gate, I will shoot you, and the crows will have your eyes for their breakfast.”
“That’s very colorful, Nantes,” said Freddie. “Now, shut up.
“What am I thinking?” muttered Freddie. He turned to Joe. “Oil can!”
“Right,” said Joe, digging around in his duffel bag for a moment. Out came a little gray can. Followed by a good-sized wooden mallet.
Adi applied the oil to the hinges and Joe handed in the hammer.
The Frenchmen with the black-rimmed glasses ran up. “Guard. About a minute.”
Even with a rag over it, the mallet was making more noise than they wanted.
Once, twice, three times.
“Come on, come on!” hissed Nantes.
With all her might . . . Adi threw the bolt.