Lost City

Skye's mind reeled. She wondered if she were still feeling the aftereffects of the knockout drug.

"Sit," the woman said, pointing to a chair in front of the desk.

Skye obeyed, moving like a zombie.

The woman regarded Skye with amusement.

"What's wrong? You seem distracted."

Skye was more confused than distracted. The voice that came from the woman's mouth was that of Madame Fauchard. It had lost its cracked, old lady quality, but there was no mistaking the hard-edged words. Crazy thoughts ran through Skye's mind. Did Racine have a daughter? Maybe this was a clever ventriloquist.

Finally, she found her own voice.

"Is this some sort of trick?"

"No trick at all. What you see is what there is."

"Madame Fauchard?" The words came out falteringly.

"One and the same, my dear," she said with a wicked smile. "Only now I am young and you are old."

Skye was still skeptical. "You must give me the name of your plastic surgeon."

Heat came to the woman's eyes, but only for a moment. She rose from her chair and came around to the other side of the desk with silken movements. She leaned over, took Skye's hand and placed it on her cheek.

"Tell me if you still think this is the work of a surgeon."

The flesh was warm and firm, and the skin was creamy without a trace of wrinkles.

"Impossible," Skye said in a whisper.

Madame Fauchard let the hand drop, then stood upright and returned to her chair. She tented her long, slender fingers so that Skye could see that they were no longer gnarled.

"Don't worry," she said. "You're not going mad. I am the same person who invited you and Mr. Austin to my costume party. He's well, I trust."

"I don't know," Skye said, guardedly. "I haven't seen him in days. How "

"How did I turn from a cackling old crone into a young beauty?" she said, a dreamy look in her eyes. "A long, long story. It would not have been so long had it not been for Jules absconding with the helmet," she said, spitting out the name with bitterness. "We could have saved decades of research."

"I don't understand."

"You're the antique arms expert," Madame Fauchard said. "Tell me what you know about the helmet."

"It's very old. Five hundred years or possibly older. The steel was of extremely high quality. It may have been made with iron from a meteorite."

Madame Fauchard arched an eyebrow.

"Very good. The helmet was made with star metal and this strength saved the lives of more than one Fauchard in battle. It was melted and recast through the centuries and was passed down through the family to the true leaders of the Fauchards. It rightfully belonged to me, not my brother Jules."

The words took a second to sink in, but when they did, Skye said, "Your brother?"

"That's right. Jules was a year younger than me."

Skye tried to do the calculation, but her thoughts were whirling around in her head. "That would make you "

"Never ask a lady her age," Madame Fauchard said, with a languid smile. "But I'll save you the trouble. I'm past the century mark."

Skye shook her head in disbelief. "I don't believe it."

"I'm hurt by your skepticism," Madame Fauchard said, but her expression belied her statement. "Would you like to hear the details?"

Skye was torn between her scientific curiosity and her revulsion.

"I saw what happened to Cavendish because he knew too much of your business."

"Lord Cavendish was a bore as well as a blabbermouth. But you flatter yourself, my dear. When you're as old as I am, you learn to keep things in perspective. You're no good to me dead. Live bait is always more effective."

"Bait. For what?"

"Not what. Whom. Kurt Austin, of course."

SHORTLY AFTER FIVE O'CLOCK, the workers at the Fauchard vineyards ended the day that had started with the rising sun. As the men headed back to their crude do/mitories, a fleet of dump trucks laden with newly picked grapes rolled along the dirt roads that ran through the rolling hills and converged on the gate in the electrified fence. A bored guard waved the line through the gate and the trucks headed to a shed where the grapes would be offloaded for crushing, fermentation and bottling.

As the last truck slowed to a halt near the shed, two figures jumped off and darted into the woods. Satisfied that they had not been seen, Austin and Zavala brushed the dirt off their clothes and tried to wipe the grape juice off their faces and hands, but it only made the stain worse.

Zavala spit out a mouthful of damp earth. "That's the last time I let Trout talk me into one of his crazy schemes. We look like a purple version of the Blue Man Group!"

Austin was picking twigs out of his hair. "You must admit it was

a stroke of genius. Who'd expect anyone to disguise themselves as a bunch of grapes?"

Trout's plan was deceptively simple. He and Gamay had taken another tour of the vineyards. This time Austin and Zavala were hunkered down in the backseat. The Trouts stopped and got out to say hello to Marchand, the foreman they had met on their first visit to the Fauchard vineyards. As they chatted, the dump truck pulled up in front of the car. Austin and Zavala waited until the truck was loaded, then they slipped out of the car, climbed onto the back of the moving vehicle and burrowed into the grapes.

The dark woods were like something out of a Tolkien novel. Austin carried a device Gandalf the wizard would have envied. The miniaturized Global Positioning System could put them within yards of the chateau. Using a compass in the initial stages of their journey, they struck out through the woods in the general direction of the chateau.

The woods were thick with clawing brambles and foot-catching underbrush, as if the Fauchards had somehow extended their malevolence into the flora surrounding their ancestral home. As the sun sank lower in the sky, the woods grew darker. Traveling in the dusky light, the two men stumbled over roots, and needle-sharp thorns caught at their clothes. Eventually, they broke out of the forest onto a dirt path that led to a network of well-used trails. Austin frequently consulted the GPS and it proved its worth when he saw a glow through the trees from the turrets of Chateau Fauchard.

At the edge of the woods, they crouched in the trees and watched a lone guard make his way along the edge of the moat. When the guard rounded the far wall of the chateau, Austin set the timing mode on his watch.

"We're in luck," Zavala said. "Only one sentry."

"I don't like it," Austin said. "Nothing in my brief acquaintance

with the Fauchard family leads me to believe that they treat their own security lightly."

Even more suspicious, the drawbridge was down and the portcullis up. The water in the strange war-the med fountain tinkled musically. The tranquil scene stood in stark contrast to his last visit, when he'd driven the Rolls into the moat under a hail of bullets. It seemed all too inviting.

"You think it's a trap?" Zavala said. "All that's missing is a big hunk of cheese." "What are our options?"

"Limited. We can turn around or keep moving and try to stay one step ahead of the bad guys."

"I've had my fill of grapes," Zavala said. "You didn't say anything about an exit strategy."

Austin clapped Zavala on the shoulder. "Here you are, about to take an exciting tour of Chateau Fauchard, and you're already thinking of leaving." .