The Prophecy

54

Ulster wasn’t exaggerating about the short length of Quai du Mont-Blanc. It ran for 2,000 feet along the north-west shore of Lake Geneva. Sandwiched between Rue du Mont-Blanc to the south and Quai Wilson to the north, Quai du Mont-Blanc was a picturesque road filled with banks, monuments, and luxury hotels. It offered a distant view of Mont Blanc, Europe’s highest mountain, which towered above the Alps on the French-Italian border.

After parking on the quay near the Genève-Pâquis ferry terminal, the foursome climbed out of the SUV and felt the cold sting of the Geneva winter. All of them were bundled up in warm clothes and Kevlar vests, but it was no match for the frigid wind that whipped across the water.

‘From now on,’ Jones mumbled to Payne, ‘we only take missions near the beach.’

Payne turned up his collar and nodded. When he was younger, he used to love downhill skiing and snowmobiling at the great resorts near Pittsburgh — Seven Springs, Hidden Valley, Snowshoe, etc. But the more he aged, the more his body ached in the cold weather. Years of sports injuries, martial arts, and bullet holes had slowly taken their toll. Now when he visited a ski lodge, he spent half the time on the slopes and the other half in the hot tubs.

As they walked along the water, Ulster pointed towards the eastern shore, which was less than a half mile away. ‘The Jet d’Eau fountain is over there. During the warm season, it shoots water five hundred feet into the air.’

‘I find that hard to believe,’ Jones said.

Ulster stopped. ‘I’m serious, David. It shoots the water very high.’

‘No, I meant the part about a warm season. Right now I’m freezing my ass off.’

Ulster laughed and started walking again. As he did, Megan moseyed up to Jones and locked her arm in his. ‘You know, for an ex-soldier, you’re kind of wimpy.’

He shrugged. ‘Maybe so, but at least I’m not a… um… Ah, fuck it! It’s too cold to be funny.’

‘That’s fine,’ she teased. ‘No need to talk. Just shut up and look pretty.’

Jones grinned and leaned closer. ‘Same to you.’

Starting near the Pont du Mont-Blanc, the scenic bridge that crosses the Rhone where it flows from Lake Geneva, they explored the north bank of the city. During the first block, most of the buildings looked remarkably similar. Made of stone and painted neutral colours like beige and white, they housed storefronts on the ground floor and living quarters above. Most of the residences had porches with iron railings that offered great views of the scenery below, but due to the cold weather, the balconies were empty except for a thin layer of snow.

Cars whizzed by as they walked past several Swiss banks and businesses on the busy street. A few blocks later, they came across the Beau-Rivage, the only privately owned hotel in Geneva and one of the most famous hotels in all Europe. It was so luxurious it served as the headquarters for Sotheby’s, the most prestigious jewellery auction house in Europe. Even from the sidewalk, the hotel overflowed with extravagance.

‘Have you heard of the Beau-Rivage?’ Ulster wondered.

Jones answered. ‘I’ve been to the Beau Rivage Casino in Biloxi, Mississippi, but I’m going to guess it’s not affiliated.’

Ulster smirked. ‘I doubt it. This is the finest hotel in all Geneva.’

‘Does it have slot machines in the lobby?’

‘Certainly not.’

‘Then it can’t beat the one in Biloxi.’

Payne, who considered himself a hotel aficionado, was quite familiar with the Beau-Rivage, a lavish five-star hotel. If not for the task at hand, he would have strolled through the marbled atrium and the Sarah Bernhardt Salon, soaking in the history and enjoying the decadence. Despite his personal wealth, he rarely bought expensive toys like gold watches or fancy yachts, but whenever Payne was travelling abroad, he always stayed in the grandest hotels. It was one of the few luxuries he truly enjoyed. ‘Have you ever eaten at the chef’s table?’

Ulster’s eyes widened with surprise. ‘You know of the chef’s table?’

‘Who doesn’t?’ he joked.

Megan raised her hand. ‘I don’t. What’s the chef’s table?’

‘The Beau-Rivage has a special table inside the kitchen of Le Chat Botté, its famous restaurant. Those who dine within have their meal specially created for them by its world-class chef. All done tableside.’

Ulster gushed, ‘Not only does he prepare the meal for you, but he describes every ingredient, explains his advanced culinary techniques, and allows you to sample dishes along the way.’

Payne smiled. ‘I guess that means you have eaten at the chef’s table.’

‘Indeed I have. Many times. It’s a magical feast for all your senses!’

Jones cleared his throat. ‘If you guys are done salivating, can we get back to our mission? I mean, what’s this world coming to when I’m the guy trying to keep us focused?’

Payne rolled his eyes. ‘You’re just cranky because you’re cold.’

‘I’m fucking freezing, but that’s beside the point.’

‘Fine. What’s your point?’

Jones explained. ‘While you guys are bragging about eating in the kitchen — something black people have been forced to do for centuries — I’m over here solving mysteries.’

‘And what mystery is that?’

‘I just figured out what CS stands for. And it’s not his mentor, César Scalinger.’

Payne furrowed his brow. ‘What is it then?’

Jones motioned towards a building up the street. ‘I think it’s a bank.’

‘A bank?’

He nodded. ‘Ever heard of Capital Savings?’

Ulster answered for him. ‘Heard of it? I have several accounts there. In my country, there are two major banks that handle more than half of all Swiss deposits. Union Bank of Switzerland is number one. Capital Savings is number two.’

‘Have you been inside this branch?’ Payne asked.

‘Many times. It is where I do my banking when I’m in Geneva.’ He paused for a moment. ‘I’m sorry I did not think of it sooner. I was focused on landmarks, not businesses.’

‘Don’t worry about it,’ Payne said. ‘We still don’t know if DJ’s right. It might simply be a coincidence.’

‘Maybe so,’ Jones admitted. ‘But the text message said something about her fortune. It seems to me that a bank would be a perfect place to stash it.’

‘If that’s the case, what does 1566 stand for?’ she wondered.

‘Don’t ask me. I’ve done my heavy lifting for the day. What do you guys think?’

Ulster shrugged. ‘It can’t be an account number. It’s way too short. Besides, unless Megan’s name is on the account, she wouldn’t be able to access the funds.’

Payne considered other possibilities. ‘Was Nostradamus a wealthy man?’

Ulster shook his head. ‘He was an apothecary and an author, not a duke or a king.’

‘In other words, he wasn’t rich.’

‘Comfortable, but not rich.’

‘If that’s the case, what’s his fortune?’ Payne asked. ‘It can’t be cash or jewels. It has to be something else.’

‘Like what?’ Megan wondered.

‘I don’t know. Maybe something he cherished. Something priceless.’

Ulster gasped softly. ‘His journal.’

‘What journal?’ Payne asked.

Paranoid, Ulster glanced in both directions. ‘During the past few days, I’ve come across several rumours about a secret journal that Nostradamus might have been keeping. Although he never admitted to its existence, it was widely believed that he wrote all his prophecies in a single notebook and stored it somewhere safe. Since it was never intended for publication, his visions were written in simple, straightforward language. No puzzles, or codes, or verses of any kind. Nothing but his most vivid predictions, all compiled in one journal.’

Payne frowned. ‘What happened to it?’

He shrugged. ‘No one knows for sure because it’s never been found. Some scholars have speculated that Nostradamus destroyed it on his deathbed, afraid that his immediate family might be charged with heresy if the Inquisition ever discovered it. Others believe that he died before he had a chance to retrieve it from wherever it was hidden.’

‘And what do you think?’

Ulster smiled. ‘If the man could see the future — and that’s still a very big if — then he didn’t die without a plan. If Nostradamus was a prophet, I’m sure he realized that future generations would cherish his work, not condemn him for it.’

Payne continued the thought. ‘If that’s the case, then he definitely figured out a way to get his journal into the hands of someone he was connected to. Perhaps a distant relative.’

Megan gasped in understanding. ‘Someone like me.’