His eyes took on a faraway look. “I suppose while Margaret was still alive. Rome. And Florence. She always loved the statue of David. She would sit and stare at him for hours. Quite the fan of Michelangelo was my dear wife. It was a nice visit. She became ill after we returned. Six months later she was gone.”

“If I recall that was eight years ago.”

“Yes, yes, I suppose it was. Time does march on, Liza.”

“Everyone here is under considerable strain, but some more than others. You are our leader. We cannot afford to lose you.”

“I’m fine. Or as fit as an overweight and sedentary old professor can be.” He looked around. “I do love it here, this old wreck of a place. Regina loves it here too. I hear her wandering around at all hours of the night.”

“She visits the cemetery regularly. Did you know that?”

Mallory nodded. “In particular the grave of Laura R. Campion. No connection that I have ever been able to discern. Yet she does seem drawn to the woman.”

Liza gave him a piercing stare. “Was there a particular reason you targeted Reggie for recruitment?”

He gave her a hard look before saying, “None different than any other. She passed all the hurdles. But it really starts off with a simple judgment call on my part. In that regard Regina Campion was hardly unique.”

She eyed him for a few seconds before looking away.

“Now this American,” Mallory began.

“Bill Young.”

“Yes, it’s not good. A distraction. Perhaps more. We have no real information on the man. Anyone can pose as a former lobbyist.”

Liza ran a hand along the drawstring of her robe. “True enough. By the way, Whit also reported that Reggie will be traveling to Les Baux with him tomorrow.”

Mallory looked startled. “Les Baux? For what purpose?”

“Whit didn’t know why. He felt strongly that she should be working on Kuchin instead.”

“As do I. I think I’ll ring her right now.”

“Don’t do that, Miles.”

“But-”

“She’s under a lot of stress, but Reggie has the best instincts of anyone we have in the field. I think we can trust her. I think she’s earned that, don’t you?”

Mallory seemed frozen with indecision, but his features finally relaxed. “All right. I largely agree with that assessment,” he added stiffly.

Liza rose and glanced at the desk once more. “I suppose you’re working on the next one?”

“Never wise to let the grass grow, you know.”

“Well, let’s pray Reggie and the others come back alive so they can do it all again.”

She closed the door softly behind her.

Mallory stared after her for a few moments, then went back to his desk, rummaged in a drawer, and pulled out the photo he’d received from Whit. He sat down and began studying the picture of Bill Young.

A troubling premonition was creeping up his spine. And something told him it had everything to do with this man. He did trust Reggie, but there was always a limit to trust in anyone. And nothing could interfere with their getting to Kuchin. It was too important. He debated for a bit and then decided to do it. He slipped a mobile phone out of his pocket and thumbed in a text message. The professor was not nearly as electronics-illiterate as he let on. He put the mobile away and sat back in his chair. He hoped he had done the right thing.

Sometimes in this line of work all you had were your instincts. When you were right all was well. When you turned out to be wrong, however? Well, innocent people sometimes died.

40

REGGIE’S AND SHAW’S journey to see the Goya exhibit consisted of a winding ride over mountains and a series of stomach-churning switchbacks. The topography had changed completely as they ventured southwest. The area was dominated by calcium and limestone quarries. It reminded Shaw of the white cliffs of Dover in England.

“This really is quite extraordinary,” said Reggie after they’d arrived at the exhibit and she peered around the rock walls. They were on the outskirts of Les Baux-de-Provence at the top of the Alpilles mountain range in an old stone quarry that had a bird’s-eye view of the Val d’Enfer, or Valley of Hell. It was an unusual place for an art experience.

Every wall that she and Shaw could see was lighted up and the masterpieces of Spaniard Francisco José de Goya y Lucientes stared back at them in pixeled glory. There were typical portraits of Spanish royalty, but also the nude and clothed Majas that had created a public uproar when they were unveiled and were subsequently confiscated during the Spanish Inquisition for being obscene.

The works of the late Spaniard were also displayed on the floors. It was a little unnerving to be walking on acknowledged masterpieces, but after a few minutes one simply became entranced with the spectacle. Thematic music filtered across the darkened space, but there was no accompanying narrative audio. Prose was displayed along the walls, giving information about Goya’s career. The images constantly changed as Shaw and Reggie walked along. One moment they were awash in brilliant colors, other times the hues darkened, casting a sobering feel over them. A few attendants in uniform were present, not to direct the patrons but only to admonish anyone attempting to touch the walls.

When Reggie and Shaw arrived at the section of the caves depicting Goya’s later, far darker work, she fell silent. Shaw glanced over the brochure they’d been given at the entrance. However, it was bare-bones and did not tell what any of the paintings were.

“Pretty grim,” he said to Reggie as a sad tune filled their ears.

“That’s The Third of May 1808,” she said, gesturing to the painting depicting French soldiers firing on defenseless Spaniards. “It commemorates Spanish resistance to Napoleon’s invasion of their country.”

“Were you an art history major?”

She shook her head. “No, just interested in it.”

Reggie stared at the man in the white shirt in the portrait, his arms raised in either surrender or, more likely, defiance. His eyes captured the full horror of his situation. He and everyone around him were about to die. “When I told Waller that Goya was hardly an uplifting artist he said something strange.”

“What was that?”

“Though he agreed the paintings were bleak, he said they were also powerful insights into the human soul. And he said something that really gave me a chill.” She hesitated, as though she simply wanted to drop this thread of conversation.

“What did he say, Janie?” Shaw prompted.

“He said that the potential for evil lurks in everyone.” She turned to Shaw. “I told him I didn’t believe that. Do you?”

When Shaw didn’t answer right away, she said, “Never mind. It doesn’t matter.” She looked over at the painting again. “This piece actually inspired later works by Manet and Picasso. People slaughtering other people. What an inspiration.” Reggie wrapped her arms around herself and shivered. The temperature had dropped thirty degrees as soon as they passed through the entrance to the quarry and stepped inside the Cathédrale d’Images, as it was known.

The next section of the exhibition was from when an older Goya had become deaf and ill, reportedly suffering from a disease that was destroying his mind. The so-called Black Paintings were nightmarish in scope. A set of aquatint prints titled The Disasters of War were equally horrifying. After that came the piece titled Saturn Devouring His Son. It showed a monstrous, disfigured creature eating a headless, bloodied torso.

“I wonder if they give out free Valium when you exit this place,” said Shaw, only half-jokingly.

“It’s important to see this, Bill,” said Reggie.

“Why’s that?”

“If we don’t we’ll just keep repeating the same mistakes over and over. War, violent death, misery, all man-made and preventable.”

“Well, we seem to keep making the same mistakes anyway.”