The last of the route took him past more vineyards, and yellowing copses of oak. Then the lane gave out, onto a wide sweeping meadow. And in the middle was the monastery of La Tourette.

Alone in the car, he said: 'Wow.'

He'd done a few hours' research on this modernist building, quizzed his architect father about the designer, Le Corbusier, but the reality was still pretty startling.

In the middle of the greenery was this...thing. It looked like the offspring of a multi-storey car park mated with a sour medieval castle. The building was almost uniformly grey. The only colour came from the various big windows, adorned with bright red and orange curtains.

Slowly he rolled the car towards the priory complex. More unusual aspects came into view. A surreal concrete pyramid jutted primly from the centre. Several grey corridors seemed to be angled, haphazardly. The whole edifice was supported on one side by a bank of gra.s.s, and on the other by spindly, irregular concrete legs.

Simon parked, and sought the entrance: it was a kind of concrete gantry that led to the core of the building.

The exterior may have been shocking, but his induction into Sainte Marie de La Tourette was simple, almost flippant. The monastery and the monks were obviously used to visitors and pilgrims, especially people interested in architecture. Simon was greeted by a monk in blue jeans and grey T-shirt, in a concrete side room.

As Simon confirmed his bogus, telephone-booked ident.i.ty Edgar Harrison, a visiting British architect he twitched with apprehension, and searched the monk's face for a hint of curiosity, or scepticism, or suspicion.

But the monk just nodded.

'Monsieur Harrison. Un moment Un moment.'

The monk jotted down the name and details, on a computer. on a computer. Simon scanned this side room as he waited to be processed. The s.p.a.ce was humdrum, an average office, with files and paperwork, cordless phones and a fax machine, and a big gla.s.s case with keys for various rooms, hanging from hooks with neat little labels. Simon scanned this side room as he waited to be processed. The s.p.a.ce was humdrum, an average office, with files and paperwork, cordless phones and a fax machine, and a big gla.s.s case with keys for various rooms, hanging from hooks with neat little labels. Le Refectoire, Le Libraire, La Cuisine. Le Refectoire, Le Libraire, La Cuisine.

Le Libraire? At least there At least there was was a library. But if its contents were so secret why was it just casually mentioned here? a library. But if its contents were so secret why was it just casually mentioned here? Le Libraire? Le Libraire?

The monk had done his work; he stood and took a key from another case, then escorted Simon to the concrete upper floors to show him his allotted room, the monastic cell where he would spend his three days on 'retreat'. The stairs were steep. They didn't speak. They reached their upper-level corridor.

The doors were lined up and down the concrete corridors like tall soldiers on parade. It really was like a prison.

The monk handed over the key, then left the pilgrim to his own devices. Simon entered the room, chucked his bag on his narrow bed, and gazed around in dismay. The cell was homicidally oppressive: little wider than a coffin, with a low, damp concrete ceiling. The room terminated in a gla.s.s door and window with rusted surrounds. And there were sullen noises everywhere. Rattles of water in the pipes. A cough.

Then a phone call: on his new mobile. When Simon pressed Accept Accept, the worry in his chest was like an incipient heart attack. Only his wife had this new number. What had happened?

But it was David.

'Simon...Where are you? Suzie gave me the new number.'

The journalist looked around. At the grey concrete walls. Patched with ugly dampness. He stepped outside into the corridor, to get a better signal.

'I'm in that monastery.'

'With the archives?'

'Well I hope so, David. I hope so.'

A monk came striding down the corridor. A wooden cross hung around his neck, contrasting with the surfing T-shirt underneath. He smiled, vacantly, at Simon. Who smiled keenly in return.

David was whispering into the phone. 'We're going to Namibia. Now.'

'Eloise is already there? Correct?'

'Yes.'

'OK. Well...' The journalist sighed. 'Please be careful. It's, ah, clearly ludicrous. You're being pursued by a b.l.o.o.d.y madman. But...Be careful!'

A silence. Then David said: 'Same for you, Simon. I know I never met you, but...y'know...take care of yourself?'

'Thank you.'

The journalist closed the call. And began his exploration of the building. Le Priore de Sainte Marie de La Tourette. Le Priore de Sainte Marie de La Tourette.

Two hours of wandering told him that the rest of La Tourette was as bizarre, and intimidating, as the cells. Odd doors opened into misshapen rooms. Occasional skylights showed the grey clouds from startling angles. Concrete joists thrust into empty s.p.a.ce: they seemed to have no purpose other than to knock an unwary pilgrim on the head.

It was intriguing enough, but also disappointing. There was no intimation of mystery, no sense sense of any concealed archives. And the library was just a library on the third floor of the building. It was not hidden at all and the contents were thoroughly ordinary of any concealed archives. And the library was just a library on the third floor of the building. It was not hidden at all and the contents were thoroughly ordinary. There were no ancient texts chained to shelves. No papal parchments in mahogany chests. No musty ma.n.u.scripts bound in goatskin. There was nothing but racks of regular books and large metal tables. Even a drinks machine. There were no ancient texts chained to shelves. No papal parchments in mahogany chests. No musty ma.n.u.scripts bound in goatskin. There was nothing but racks of regular books and large metal tables. Even a drinks machine.

It felt positively munic.i.p.al.

Sighing, heavily, Simon sat down at one of the tables, to search in some of the books but his lifeless research was interrupted by another phone call.

Why so many?

He stepped outside into another bleak concrete corridor.

It was Bill Fanthorpe, the psychiatrist from St Hilary.

'Hi, Bill, I '

'h.e.l.lo, Simon. I'm sorry to bother you. But...' The doctor's voice was tinged with anxiety.

'What is it, Bill?'

'I'm afraid Tim has disappeared.'

A faint rumble echoed through the building. The sound of the LyonParis TGV rumbling in the forested distance.

'Disappeared?'

'Yes. But please do not concern yourself, not overly.'

'Jesus. Bill Bill ' '

'This happens all the time, of course.' Fanthorpe's tone of worry had quickly faded, replaced by studied calmness. 'Schizophrenics can be exceptionally perambulatory. And of course Tim wandered off before, two years ago.'

'But when? When did he run away? How?'

The doctor hesitated.

'We think last night. As I was saying ' A thoughtful pause. 'I understand you have personal concerns for the safety of your family. Your wife told me. Therefore...We have been in touch with the police but they a.s.sure us there is no question of...' Another, slightly awkward pause. 'No question of foul play, as it were. But it was a serious lapse in security. My apologies.'

'Jesus Christ Christ.'

'Please. Calm down. We will find him. Quite likely by tonight. Just as we found him the last time.'

Simon stared at the damp grey patch on the opposite concrete wall. This was all his fault. He had run off. He had left his family unprotected for no good reason for no good reason. Why was he even here?

He had quit the house in the early morning, not telling the cops what he was doing taking a taxi, then the train, then the first plane from Heathrow to Lyon just so he could chase the wildest wildest of geese, the of geese, the ludicrous ludicrous dream that he was some Watergating superjournalist, going to crack the biggest story in a decade. dream that he was some Watergating superjournalist, going to crack the biggest story in a decade.

What a fool he had been. In reality he was just a second-division crime reporter, already in his forties, who'd wasted too many years on booze, and was all-too-desperate to catch up with his peers, by pursuing some deluded fantasy. He was going nowhere. And his brother was now...escaped, on the run, in the wilds. Doing what? How was he surviving?

Now he thought of Tomasky; he tried not to think about Tomasky. Tried very hard.

With a jolt, he realized he was still holding the phone in his hand and Bill Fanthorpe was still on the line. He apologized to the doctor, rang off, and instantly called his wife.

She confirmed what Fanthorpe had said: it seemed innocent enough, Tim had indeed just wandered off, it was not the first time he'd gone walkabout, last time they found him within twelve hours...

But Simon was not rea.s.sured. He told Suzie he loved her, loudly, not caring who might overhear his conversation. Then he told her he was coming home as soon as he could.

'OK, Simon. Of course...' Her tone was solicitous. Loving. More than he deserved.

'I'll call you later, sweetheart.'

He made his second urgent call of the day. The airport. The information was not what he wanted. He had already missed the last flight of the day from Lyon to London.

The next flight was at dawn. That was the fastest way back to London. If he wanted to go back immediately he would have to wait until dawn.

After the briefest hesitation, he booked the flight.

So that was it. He would stay today, then leave before sunrise, and fly home from Lyon. He had this afternoon, and the evening, to see if he could find anything. And then he must return to his family. Protect them.

Simon continued his doomed and hapless search. He felt like a jerk even as he explored. He made for the roof. The roof was flat as his mood. It was gra.s.sed over. Odd, boxlike structures formed modernist gargoyles.

Then he took the lift down. The depths of the building comprised the religious core of the monastery: a large, dark, enigmatic chapel, semi-submerged into the slope underneath, and illuminated by slender stained gla.s.s windows on one side only.

And that was it, that was the chapel, and that was the monastery. Acceding to his nerves, he retreated to a concrete cloister and frantically texted Suzie the question: any news? any news?

She texted back: no news. no news.

Anguished, almost furious, he aimed himself at the library, yet again. Maybe there was was something here. There were certainly lots of books. But they were boring books. French books. Irrelevant books. Books by Aquinas. A history of the Blackfriars. A life of St Dominic. A selection of architectural monographs for the architectural pilgrims. One slim French biography of Pope Pius the Tenth did pique his interest, but then he noticed maybe three hundred other books in the same series: lives of all the other popes in history. something here. There were certainly lots of books. But they were boring books. French books. Irrelevant books. Books by Aquinas. A history of the Blackfriars. A life of St Dominic. A selection of architectural monographs for the architectural pilgrims. One slim French biography of Pope Pius the Tenth did pique his interest, but then he noticed maybe three hundred other books in the same series: lives of all the other popes in history.

There were two other people in the concrete room, besides himself. A young woman was immersed in a yellow jacketed volume by Le Corbusier: Vers un Architecture Libre. Vers un Architecture Libre. The other companion was a monk, wearing a cardigan and slacks, and gla.s.ses so thick they made him look like a nervous treefrog. The other companion was a monk, wearing a cardigan and slacks, and gla.s.ses so thick they made him look like a nervous treefrog.

Simon drove the thought of Tim from his mind. The thought climbed back into his brain, through the window of his soul. Where was Tim? Wandering some road? Asleep in a stairwell? Buying a big fat knife?

There was nothing Simon could do, not from here, not right now. He needed to distract himself with work. Pessimistically, he leafed another text: a glossy modern volume about the monastery's unique design. It mentioned several interesting features: the book went into great detail about 'light cannons' and 'pilotis'.

Sitting back, he sighed, and looked around. The large tall windows of the library gave onto the endless farms and vineyards. The monastery was very isolated. Squat and strange and lonely under the grey-black Lyonnais sky.

An autumn storm was brewing: a grandiose affair. The first thunderclaps drumrolled across the Rhone Valley, making the building positively vibrate. Even the mute little monk looked up from his studies at the noise, his bug eyes rolling.

The noise of the booming thunder was like two parents arguing upstairs, overheard by a small and terrified child; it was like the m.u.f.fled but ominous sounds of someone falling to the floor, in a bedroom.

Das Helium und das Hydrogen.

The journalist shuddered, and turned to the book at the end of the table. The visitor's book. It was a huge leather job: at least a thousand pages thick, with entries dating back decades. He flicked through the most recent entries, at least those written in English.

'The noises at night: unbearable.'

'An expression of pure genius.'

'The most beautiful building in the world. And also the ugliest.'

'I have found serenity here. Merci. Merci.'

Lightning flashed across the darkling valley, briefly dazzling the grey walls and the orange curtains. Vast curtains of rain were marching down the valley. Drenching the little hamlet of Eveux-sur-L'Arbresle.

Eveux and L'Arbresle?

Eveux...sur...L'Arbresle.

A stir. Something stirred in the middle of his whirring anxiety, centred on Tim; he realized he was was forgetting something. forgetting something.

The star on David's map: the asterisk so carefully inscribed by David's father, Eduardo. The monastery might be a narrative cul de sac, but Eduardo the asterisk so carefully inscribed by David's father, Eduardo. The monastery might be a narrative cul de sac, but Eduardo had had thought it was important. thought it was important.

Could he? Had he? Had he?

Quick and urgent, Simon paged back through the visitor's book, working out dates in his head. When was the accident that killed the Martinez couple? He recalled the information, and fixed the date in his mind, and then he turned to the correct page in the visitor's book. Fifteen years ago.

He was at the correct page. He looked down the list of names. People from France, America, Spain, Germany...Then a lot of people just from Germany and France. And then...

There?

His heartbeat matched the booming thunder in the valleys of the Beaujolais.

He'd found a piquant comment in English. The comment said: To search is to find? To search is to find?

Then came the details of the pilgrim. City: Norwich. Norwich. Country: Country: England. England. Date of visit: Date of visit: August 17th. August 17th.

Then finally the name.

Eduardo Martinez.

31.

It took three days for them to arrange flights to Namibia. At last they headed out of the hotel for their furtive evening flight to Frankfurt. From Germany they made the nightflight eight thousand miles south.