The Lost Key (A Brit in the FBI 2)

“I will. Oh, yes, we have no records of Manfred Havelock owning a home on the Quai d’Anjou. We will have to look further.”

“Check the name Elise—I don’t know her last name. Perhaps she is listed as the owner. Call me when you recover Adam Pearce, please.”

“Very good. Once we get you through security, you will proceed to the Sorbonne, and wait at the corner of rue des École and rue Saint-Jacques. You will be met. I will handle the rest.”

“Thank you, Pierre. I owe you one.”

“Good luck. Be very careful in the catacombs. It is a very dangerous place.”

—

AN HOUR LATER, they were standing in front of the limestone buildings of the Sorbonne when a handsome dark-haired woman approached them, six officers in tow. She introduced herself in lovely accented English. “I am Commander Beatrix Dendritte. I will be taking you into the tunnels.”

They shook hands. “I’m Special Agent Nicholas Drummond and this is Special Agent Mike Caine. And this is Sophie Pearce.” Nicholas looked at her and came to a decision. “She is our—civilian consultant. She’ll be coming with us.”

“Pierre said you know where we are to go?”

“We have an address of sorts, but we don’t know how to get there.”

“An address?” She laughed. “Mon Dieu. You are already far ahead of the normal. There are street names in the underground, carved into the walls, some dating back to the beginning of the Révolution in 1789. Some street names are written even now by the cataphiles to map new tunnels. What is this address you have?”

Nicholas gave her the numbers. “Wherever we are headed, this will be on the wall. It’s how we’ll know we are close. Nineteen, G; thirteen, R.”

She wrote it down. “And you think the Sorbonne is the closest starting point?”

“The person who hid the items we’re looking for worked here in 1915. The space this person created would have needed to be within walking distance of the Sorbonne. We’re looking for some sort of room, guarded by a wooden door with a lock, which has been there for over a century.”

“A wooden door? I don’t think I have ever seen such a thing in the tunnels, but it does not mean it is not there. The cataphiles, they dig, they create entrances, new exits. They also put up walls of stone to rearrange the connecting tunnels. It not only confuses things but it hurts the structural integrity of the ceilings, so we must have a care.” She shrugged. “Alors. Perhaps we will find this door. And perhaps we will not.”

Mike said, “Commander Dendritte, this is a matter of life and death.”

The commander gave her a long look, then another shrug that said everything and nothing at all. “D’accord. This life and death, that seems always to be the case. Okay. We look.”

She spread a large piece of paper on the hood of her Citroën. “Do you have anything other than these numbers to go on?”

“I do not.”

She wrote the numbers and letters on a sticky note and affixed it to the map. She pointed at them with her finger.

“The thirteen R, that is easy. It is the thirteenth year after the end of our Révolution. It was written on the walls in about 1812. Nineteen G—I believe it is Guillermo’s signature. He was the leader of a group of Rats who lived in the tunnels after the Révolution. Nineteen—I do not know.”

Sophie said, “Are there rats?”

The commander looked at this young woman who was too pale, who was possibly in pain. Special consultant? Why was she here if she was injured? “Do not worry, the rodents, they only come two or three a year. Non, I speak of Rats, a gang of revolutionaries. Even today, the gangs of Paris meet in the tunnels. But this”—she pointed at the map—“I believe we need to go down at rue Saint Jacques. This numbering is familiar, and I think I know where to start looking.” She folded the map.

Nicholas asked, “Is there an official entrance into the tunnels?”

Commander Dendritte pointed down to the street. “There are ladders down from the manholes in certain places. It will be best to start there.”

86

Paris Underground

Off rue Saint-Jacques

2:00 a.m.

Their flashlights barely made a dent in the dark. The air smelled ancient, musty, and dead flat, like a tomb. Mike wondered how Marie Curie could stand to come down here day after day. She looked at Sophie, saw her face was white and set.