Chapter 21: Chapter Twenty One

Braxton

There was no direct ferry to and from Svalbard. The only way I could travel by boat was to hitch a ride with one of the excursion ships. I bargained my way onto the Ocean Atlantic, a robust Arctic ship that was large enough to navigate through Greenland’s ice-choked waters, and docked at Tromsø, Norway. I then had a nineteen-hour drive to Stockholm, Sweden. Lucky for me, I passed no tolls on route to Slussen. My eyes stung with fatigue through driving such a long distance. I needed to rest, so I checked into the Hilton and grabbed some much-needed shut-eye.

After a revitalizing sleep, I resumed the persona of a wrinkly old bastard who was here on a soul-searching mission. That’s the thing about old people, the crankier they are, the more people tend to give them a wide berth. I have an abundance of crankiness. My brothers can vouch for that. Right now, I’m hangry, and a food-deprived Braxton is worse than any bad-tempered geriatric you’re ever likely to meet.

The room service was dismal, barely enough to feed a pigeon. If I wasn’t undercover, I would have made a complaint, but I chose not to because I didn’t want to draw any unnecessary attention. I checked my phone app to scout out the local eateries, needing something substantial to fill my stomach. We still didn’t know what we were looking for; the clues could be tangible items or scratchings on a wall, they could be anything. It would be difficult to gain entry at night without permission from the church, and that would arouse suspicion. I had to get in and out of there without people noticing, which meant blending in with all the other visitors.

I had to remember that I was supposed to be an elderly man, not an able-bodied soldier as I ambled through the streets taking laboured steps. Just to add a little authenticity to the act, I stopped every few yards to catch my breath, using the opportunity to assess my surroundings. The weather was mild, the wind rustled the leaves on the trees, people were passing me by on the pavement, cars drove past at a leisurely pace. I used the nearest crossing and headed to the small café on the corner of the street. In a typical Swiss style, the pristine modern establishment was warm and welcoming, the coffee and pastry infused air hitting my tastebuds with a bang. I chose a table beside the restrooms as most elderly people do, and perused the rectangular menu as if I was ordering my last supper. My stomach roared like a mountain lion awaiting a fresh kill. People looked around to see what was making the noise. It could be worse, like a bad case of flatulence. I ordered meatballs and a refillable coffee, opting for decaf because of my gastro-inflammatory problems. I don’t really suffer from that but it prevented the waitress from asking any further questions.

To my delight, I was served quickly. And like a dog with a bone, I was likely to bite the hand of anyone who dared to disturb me.

“Excuse me, dear?” a voice called out from yonder.

I continued to feast away in blissful ignorance.

“You’re not from around here, are you?” the same voice spoke, and I placed the voice to her face as she took the seat opposite me.

Frowning, I replied, “I’m on my holidays.” My abrupt tone didn’t put her off, she just smiled, reminding me of Helen Mirren, a silver vixen of the Bond films. Cruz would have taken a selfie with her, but I was just irked about being disturbed.

Couldn’t she see I was eating? My food is getting cold.

“What a coincidence. I’m here on holiday too,” she replied. “Would you like to do a spot of sight-seeing together?”

I shifted uncomfortably on my seat, thinking of a polite way to decline. This lady was old enough to be my grandmother. I didn’t want to come across as rude.

Remember what Asher would say . . . be subtle, Braxton.

“I’m acting on my late wife’s last wishes, God rest her soul,” I answered, hoping that she would take it as a hint and leave of her own accord. “She wanted me to scatter her ashes in the memorial garden. It wouldn’t feel right for me to enjoy the company of another woman so soon after her passing.”

The mortification etched across her face. “Oh, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to . . . ugh, I’m so embarrassed,” she rushed her words, hiding her face with her hands.

“Don’t be,” I returned, softening my tone. “I’m rather flattered you asked,” I played along to ease the moment. “I don’t get approached by beautiful women often, as you can probably tell.”

She chuckled, dabbing the wrinkly skin beneath her eyes. “You have to grab the bull by the horns at our age,” she joked, then reached out to grasp my hand. The prosthetic liver-spotted skin felt natural to touch. She gazed deep into my eyes, her ice blue irises sparking with a hint of mischief. “If you ever change your mind and decide you’d like some company . . .” I got the feeling she was after more than a late-night chat the way her thumb circled my skin, suggestively. “I’ll be staying at the Hilton. I noticed you are too. Maybe we could keep each other occupied if you know what I mean.” She winked.

If that wasn’t enough motivation for me to find the clue and get the fuck out of Sweden, then I didn’t know what was.

“I’ll bear that in mind,” I replied. “I’m George by the way.”

“Rose.” She stood up to leave and grabbed her coat and handbag. “I’ll see you later.”

I waited until she left the café before choking into my paper napkin, having suddenly lost my appetite. My meatballs belonged to Bexley, not to be fondled by a saucy gran called Rose. There was no way that I would ever tell this to my brothers, or Bexley. They would never let me live it down. I paid for the half-eaten lunch and hailed a taxi at the side of the road. I made a mental note of the road signs: Renstiernas Gata, Borgmästargatan, Skånegatan, Stora Mejtens Gränd.

Oh, fuck, what was the first one again?

The road circled the Sofia church and the manicured lawns surrounding it. Tourists and locals were lounging lazily across the green. The ostentatious architecture stood proudly from the earth like it was offended by it, boasting magnificent stained-glass windows and a blue slate roof and steeple.

Like a devil in disguise, I felt judged from the moment I crossed the threshold, ambling across the medium oak floorboards and into the heart of the building. The cream walls surrounded me, caging me in like a claustrophobic sinner. I brushed my fingertips against the oak wood pews as I marvelled at the painted mural wall at the head of the alter and the tall organ pipes that climbed the highest pinnacle.

Where in God’s name would our aunt choose to hide the fucking clue?

I searched everywhere. My eyes scanned the room, looking for the slightest scratch, disturbed artefact, or anything remotely suspicious. It was getting dark, and the church was almost empty except for the caretakers who came in to clean it. I leaned against the font at the foot of the alter and let out an exhausted sigh.

My feet almost gave way beneath me as the stone moved an inch. Alarmed that I had damaged it, I attempted to drag it back into place. But then a small gap in the floorboards drew my eyes to the darkness within it, and I realized that there was a hidden compartment beneath the heavy object. Sparing a glance to check that the coast was clear, I moved the font to one side, almost bursting a vein in my forehead. I was on my knees in a heartbeat, reaching between the boards until my fingers coiled around something small and solid. Footsteps alerted me that someone was coming, so I quickly dragged the font back into place and shoved what looked like a flash drive inside my jacket pocket. That had to be it. I had found a hidden clue, or some dirty priest’s sordid little secrets, who knows? I had searched the place from top to bottom and found nothing else.

A caretaker yelled at me in Swedish, urging me to get out or else she would lock me inside. I made my apologies and ventured back to the hotel, narrowly avoiding my admirer. Rose popped her head out of her doorway and I could see she was dressed in a black satin negligee and robe.

There was only one thing she was after, and it wasn't a tube of denture adhesive.

I shuddered, hoping that I could contact Dad and make a sharp exit. After gathering my things, unplugging my phone from the charging cable and tossing the remainder of my belongings into a backpack, I dialled my father.

Dad picked up on the third ring, answering with a gruff, “Hello?”

“One down,” I announced. “Where’s the rendezvous point?” I asked.

“Paris,” Dad answered, gruffly. “Father Fournier is expecting you all to arrive at Notre Dame in two days. We have another mission for you to complete before you head to the waterfall.”

My shoulders sagged. “Another church?” The sarcasm was real.

“Yes and no,” Dad replied vaguely. “You’ll be attending the Versailles Masked Ball. I will brief you when you arrive. From there, you will seek shelter in Father Fournier’s chateaux until the coast is clear.”

“Who is the target?” I inquired, out of interest.

“The real traitor to our country.” Dad paused, causing my innards to twist with anxiety.

“Who?” I felt my heart pulse with adrenaline.

"We're counting on you to find out," he replied.

A knock on the door startled me temporarily, and I ended the call, shoving my phone into my pocket.

“George, are you okay in there?” Rose murmured.

Thrusting my arms through my backpack, I crawled through the window and pulled the hook from my utility belt, making sure it was secure before abseiling onto the pavement. I cut the wire with a pocket knife and jogged around to the car park. After conducting a quick scan of my Jeep, I was good to go. The digital display screen lit up blue, determining the fastest route out of Stockholm.