Nicholas couldn’t help himself, he grinned like a fool. Adam had managed to upset three major government agencies in a very short amount of time.

“I hope the message will make sense to you since the sender has been using your name liberally in his transmissions. Know Morse code, by any chance?”

“I do, sir. Play me the message.”

“Hang on. Gray will upload it for you.”

Nicholas said to Mike, “We’ve got him. Sophie, your brother is amazing.”

For a moment, there was nothing, no sound, only static. Then he heard the clicking. He listened carefully. It started with a series of repetitive clicks, over and over and over again. Then a series of coordinates, the words Paris, Curie, Lab, and a series of seemingly meaningless letters and numbers—19 G 13 R—followed by a brief explanation of their meaning, and the name Havelock, three times.

Nicholas asked Gray to play it for him again, then a third time. He finally looked up to see Mike’s excited face.

“Is this what I think it is?”

Nicholas nodded. He tapped Sophie on the hand with his pen. “Your brother is alive, and in the process of pissing off the government. I’ll say it again, Sophie, your brother is amazing.”

“You know where he is?”

Nicholas nodded. “Adam’s managed to give us both his location and the location of Madame Curie’s secret lab.”

85

Paris

1:15 a.m.

Nicholas called Pierre Menard of FedPol to help clear the way through the French bureaucracy.

The call was answered on the first ring.

“Allo, Nicholas. When you call in the middle of the night, I assume bad things are happening.”

“Good things, for once, my friend. But I do need your help.”

He explained some of what was happening. “Our plane is due to land in ten minutes. We have an address for Manfred Havelock, but I don’t think he’s there at the moment. We believe he’s gone into the Paris underground after something quite priceless. We need to find him, Pierre, now.”

“The weapon you discussed with me last evening?”

“The very same. We have to move fast, as if there is an imminent terrorist attack on Paris, but we need a needle to handle this, not a sledgehammer. Can you help?”

“Of course. Tell me exactly what it is you need, and I will make it so.”

“Send the police to the address on Quai d’Anjou and rescue Adam Pearce. Then we’ll need a guide, Pierre, which is why I thought of you. Isn’t there a group of revolutionaries who meet down in the catacombs and cause a ruckus?”

“I don’t know if we could call them revolutionaries. The French police call them cataphiles.”

“That’s it, cataphiles. I recall reading about a group of cataphiles who have mapped the tunnels between the limestone quarries that run under the city. Not the quarries the city turned into ossuaries, I’m not speaking of the Empire of the Dead. This would be the uncharted areas, north into the sixth arrondissement. I believe they call themselves the Extreme Underground?”

“Oui, I have heard of these people.”

“Since it is illegal to be in the tunnels, and I know the Paris police are quite serious about rousting the cataphiles, do you think there may be a name in their files, someone who may be a leader of this organization?”

“Oui, you do indeed need an experienced guide, Nicholas, but not one of the cataphiles. They would not cooperate even if you offered to reward them handsomely.

“I believe you would be better served by using the skills of an elite police unit responsible for the catacombs. I will contact the commander of this unit. Do you have any idea where to start?”

“Near the Sorbonne.”

“I will have someone meet you there.”

“Hurry, Pierre. Havelock has quite a head start.”

“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.”