The Chimera Sanction Read online

  Contents

  Title Page

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Epilogue

  Copyright

  PROLOGUE

  Château de Montségur, France, 16 March 1244

  In the castle’s main hall, Knight Jean de Combel, his once proud frame thinned and bent by months of starvation, knelt hesitantly before The Perfect One and swore the consolamentum, the Cathar’s final oath. Besieged and without hope, the Cathars were about to surrender their fortress to Hugues des Arcis and his 6,000 Catholics. Defeat and death lurked patiently, their aura already permeating the thick stone walls of the castle’s rooms. De Combel crossed himself then rose, looking anxiously across the room for his young son Pierre.

  After a moment de Combel spotted him standing next to two older boys, the sons of The Perfect One. He signaled Pierre to join him, took his son by the arm and ushered him into an empty room. De Combel locked the door, then turned and faced the boy. ‘Pierre, you must escape, flee this madness.’

  His son stared at him in bewilderment. ‘I, I want to be with you, Father,’ he said, wrapping his emaciated arms around his father’s waist.

  The knight looked upwards, fighting back tears of pain and sorrow. Images of the massacres at Béziers, Lavaur and Minerve flew briefly before him. Bloodied ground everywhere, raped women screaming for mercy, heads of children … children for God’s sake … on soldiers’ spikes. He steeled himself. No, not Pierre, not my son. He bent down, took the young boy’s head between his hands and kissed it. ‘Pierre, you are small. You can get through. You can avoid the sentries. They’re—’

  ‘No, no. I want to stay,’ pleaded the boy as he gripped his father’s waist with all his might.

  De Combel tore himself free and dropped to his knees. Holding his son’s thin shoulders, he looked fixedly into the frightened eyes. ‘Listen to me, Pierre. Tomorrow we surrender. You must escape. You must carry on our faith.’

  The boy’s shoulders convulsed and he began to cry.

  ‘None of that. You’re a man now. You must go. You must survive. Do you understand?’

  ‘Yes, Father,’ he answered meekly between sobs.

  ‘That’s better. Now promise me, Pierre, never, never recant your faith.’

  ‘I promise.’

  De Combel hugged his son for a long moment, then handed him a small leather pouch. ‘Take this, go to the village and give one écu to Godefroi. Keep the rest for food and shelter. Tell Godefroi to take you to Genoa, to your aunt Jordane. You’ll be safe there. Now go,’ he said and thrust him away.

  In the moonless night, the boy, crying softly, squeezed through the small hidden opening in the castle’s outer wall, careful to avoid the Catholic sentries’ scrutiny. He made his way cautiously down the steep trail from the mountain peak to the safety of the dense woods below, the woods he loved and knew so well. Finding an old rotted trunk, he lay on the soft moss beside it and fell into a restless sleep. Throughout the night, fits of fear mixed with the hurt of separation prodded him awake.

  Now it was dawn. The crackling of a fire and the smell of burning wood roused him from his tormented sleep. Dizzy with hunger, the boy crept to the edge of a small clearing on the outskirts of the woods. In the middle of the clearing, the Catholics had built a huge pyre.

  Alongside stood a staircase, its timbers glazed with mud to prevent it from burning. Purification by fire, thought Pierre. His father had warned of the Catholics’ horrific punishment that awaited any unrepentant Cathar. Dread overtook the boy. Peering from behind a large oak, he watched the soldiers as they fed the fire with large branches of pine.

  The fire reawakened his thirst. He stared at the Catholics, hatred in his heart, when suddenly the memory of that day resurfaced: soft singing, peals of laughter while she played in the courtyard with her doll. Then, without warning, the dull thud of the stone, hurled by the Catholics’ catapult. The singing stopped. He’d rushed outside to see her small body, lifeless, lying in a pool of blood. His little sister Anne …

  He pushed away the horrible vision. The flames rose higher, their orange hue licking the sides and top of the wooden pyre. Around its base, the Cathars sat on the damp grass in small groups, their hands tied, praying quietly. As Pierre searched in vain for his father among the groups of seated Cathars, a ray of hope began to form, lifting his spirit. Had the knight escaped?

  The crackling of burning branches suddenly broke the spell and even from where he stood at the edge of the clearing, Pierre began to feel the pyre’s increasing heat. To his left, a hundred yards away, a row of knights on horseback sat waiting while their squires, bridles in hand, tried to control their nervous steeds. A movement, a jostle within the column and suddenly a knight broke rank, advanced and pointed his sword at a Cathar sitting close to the pyre. The Cathar rose, and the soldier beside him led him to the base of the staircase. As he started upwards, the Cathar appeared calm, resigned, purposeful, as if transported by his faith. As he reached the top, a gust of wind sent flames swirling around his tunic and it caught fire. The man looked upwards briefly, hesitated for a moment then fell into the blaze.

  A collective gasp, then silence interrupted the Cathars’ praying below. The knight on horseback signaled again, and soldiers began prodding the Cathars up the staircase, into the raging inferno.

  The boy stared in horror as moments later, his Uncle Robert de Sasseville fell into the pyre and hung, impaled on the half-burnt trunk of a large pine until the fiery timber broke and his body dropped to the embers below. Pierre choked back a cry and started to shake.

  The smoke’s color changed from gray to brown and the fire abated slightly, now fuelled by human flesh. Gradually, a nauseating sweet stench filled the air. The boy turned away, bent over behind the tree and vomited until finally, his stomach empty of bile, his retching stopped. He got up weakly and peered from behind the tree, mesmerized by the horrific scene. He watched transfixed as the Cathars, as though in a trance, kept ascending the massive staircase. Women followed their husbands, pulling their children up, up the steps of death. Suddenly Pierre saw the knight point his sword to a Cathar, seated alone. ‘Father,’ the boy uttered, and his shoulders started to convulse again.

  A soldier grabbed de Combel’s arm, but he shrugged free. De Combel got up, his gaze taking in the remaining Cathars. ‘Courage my friends,’ he shouted. ‘Today we meet again in Heaven.’ He walked up the staircase, stood defiantly on the last step and yelled, ‘Long live Montségur! Long live the Cathars!’

  De Combel turned and plunged headfirst into the holocaust.

  Chapter 1

  Mount Assiniboine, Canadian Rockies

  Inside the alpine shelter, nestled in the warmth of his duvet sleeping
bag, Thierry Dulac looked at his watch: 6:25 a.m. He noticed the rain had finally stopped its relentless pounding on the Hind Hut’s aluminum roof. Beside him Karen was still fast asleep, snoring peacefully. Dulac rose from the uncomfortable wood cot, stretched his tall, thin frame, and dressed quickly. They would have to start their ascent soon if they were to summit and get back down before dark. He rummaged in his backpack for the small Icom VHF radio and went to the hut’s door, opening it discreetly. Outside, the air was damp, windless. A thin gauze of mist hung precariously over the valley below, its veil beginning to evaporate under the heat of the morning light. Behind the hut, Mount Assiniboine’s daunting pyramid rose imperially, its outline etched into the mauve sky. ‘The Matterhorn of the Rockies’, boasted the lodge’s brochure. And just as dangerous, Dulac thought. He inhaled deeply, savoring the purity of the thin atmosphere, then glanced at the thermometer on the side of the hut. It read -3°C. Perfect for summiting.

  Dulac turned on his VHF radio and pressed the small WX button, the weather channel. The electronic voice droned in a monotone, interspersed with static: ‘This is the 6 a.m…. forecast for the greater … which includes Mount Magog, Mount Assiniboine, The Marshall and … A hazardous weather warning is in effect from 11 a.m. to 4 p.m. today. A strong cold front is moving … Winds of … to 60 km an hour, with gusts to 80. Expect heavy snowfall, up to 25 cm in higher elevations. Repeat, a hazardous … warning is….’

  Damn. A spring blizzard. Just our luck. He stood looking at the mountain, its peak clear, inviting. A cool chill ran up his spine at the thought of how quickly mountain weather could change, how deadly it could become. The memory of Mount Mercedario started to resurface. He willed himself not to dwell on it, pushing it back into the recesses of his subconscious. After a moment Dulac, despondent, returned to the warmth of the prefabricated hut, went to the cot, and gently shook Karen’s shoulder.

  ‘Karen, wake up.’

  ‘What time is it?’ she said drowsily.

  ‘It’s get-off-the-mountain time.’

  ‘What?’ Karen sat up abruptly, pushing aside wisps of hair from her face. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘The weather just went south. There’s a blizzard coming in. We’ve got to get back down.’

  ‘But last night’s forecast was fantastic.’

  ‘This morning’s is downright ugly.’

  ‘Shit! Just once I’d like to get a hold of one of those meteorologists and….’

  ‘There’s plenty of time if we leave now. It’s five hours to the lodge. We’ll be down and off Gmoser’s Highway before the storm hits.’

  ‘And then what?’

  ‘We wait it out at the lodge and try again later. We still have a full week.’

  ‘But we’re so close to summiting. Why not wait here?’

  ‘And risk being trapped? No thanks. That storm could last a day, maybe a week. I … I….’ Mercedario flashed before Dulac’s eyes. His younger brother Eric….

  ‘What is it, Thierry?’

  ‘Nothing. It’s just a…. Nothing. We must go.’

  After a breakfast of tepid, glue-like oatmeal downed with cups of rancid coffee, they finished packing their gear. While Dulac adjusted the scope of their walking poles for the descent, Karen tidied up the inside of the hut. Moments later, they started their downward trek to Assiniboine Lodge, the clanging of their poles against the path’s stones marking their brisk, steady pace.

  An hour later, the path had widened. On either side, the dull green lichen had given way to buds of yellow cinquefoils and pods of white avens, piercing through a luxuriant bed of purple saxifrage. Dulac was admiring nature’s rich bounty when something far ahead on the horizon caught his attention. He stopped short. Karen, following a few steps behind, smacked into his backpack.

  ‘Hey, careful,’ she said, annoyance in her voice.

  ‘Look.’ Dulac pointed to the speck in the distance.

  The speck grew quickly, until Dulac could see the distinct bubble and skids of a helicopter and hear the rhythmic whirring of its blades. The helicopter approached, slowed, then began to hover, a hundred yards away. Dulac recognized the red Canadian maple leaf insignia on the helicopter’s yellow tail, surmounted by large red letters: SAR. Search and Rescue. That’s odd. Why…? Suddenly, Dulac’s satellite phone started ringing in his backpack. He threw the pack off his shoulders and grabbed the phone.

  ‘Dulac.’

  ‘This is Search and Rescue chopper Bravo Juliet Uniform. Are you Inspector Thurley Doolake?’

  ‘Thierry Dulac, yes?’

  ‘We’re coming down.’

  ‘Why? We’re fine.’ Dulac threw an inquisitive glance at Karen and hunched his shoulders in bafflement.

  The pilot didn’t answer and the helicopter landed, coming to rest slightly off-kilter to the right of the path. The chopper’s blades were still rotating slowly when a helmeted man jumped from the open side-door and made his way towards the couple.

  ‘We have orders to pick you up, you and Ms Dawson,’ said the man, lifting his helmet’s visor.

  Dulac looked quizzically at Karen, then back to the man, busy rubbing his left eye. ‘From whom?’

  ‘From our base colonel in Edmonton. It’s urgent.’

  ‘What’s this about?’

  ‘Don’t know. I just execute. Something to do with a secretary general or something?’

  ‘You mean the General Secretary of Interpol?’

  ‘That’s it.’

  ‘We’ll see about that,’ said Dulac, fuming that Harris had interrupted his first vacation in three years. He punched Harris’ number into the sat phone. After three rings, the all too familiar voice came on.

  ‘Harris.’

  ‘Dulac. We’re being told to get into an SAR ’copter, supposedly on your orders?’

  ‘Don’t talk. Your phone is corrupt. They’ve hacked our lines. See you back here in a few hours.’

  ‘But why…?’

  ‘Just get on the damn chopper.’

  The line went dead.

  Chapter 2

  ‘Where are we headed?’ yelled Karen to Dulac, seeking reassurance in the Frenchman’s deep-set brown eyes.

  ‘I’ll ask the pilot,’ said Dulac. After a moment, he turned to Karen. ‘Canadian Forces Base, Edmonton.’

  ‘But our things are at Assiniboine Lodge.’

  ‘They picked them up earlier,’ he said and pointed to the suitcases behind them. Karen looked at Dulac in stupefaction. As the Griffon banked steeply left, she caught a last glimpse of the arched-shaped Hind Hut, their love nest for a night. Behind it, Mt Assiniboine surged suddenly into view, its sharp summit piercing the cloudless azure sky. Karen felt the pang of yet another foreshortened vacation coming rapidly to an end. And it was going so well.

  Dulac’s resentment was growing by the minute. See you back in Europe in a few hours? Is he drunk? It’s at least thirteen hours from Edmonton to Paris by the polar route. Even more if we fly east. Harris was not in the habit of being inaccurate. At least not when sober.

  Just as Dulac strapped himself into the narrow seat, the rotor’s vibrations shook the helicopter, awakening his old demons again. He nervously ran his fingers through his thick locks. He hated flying. ‘Flying is strictly for the birds,’ he’d proclaimed during a dinner with Rebecca, the humorless airline pilot, after enduring her endless lecture on landing an Airbus 360 with only one engine. She’d ended their relationship that night.

  He was beginning to feel nauseous when Karen pointed out the window. ‘Look down there. Mount Magog. Beautiful, isn’t it?’

  ‘I suppose.’

  An hour later, the fog wrapped itself around the low-flying Griffon and the pilot, adjusting the main rotor’s pitch, signaled their impending arrival. As they landed and the din subsided, Dulac could hear Karen mumbling something to the co-pilot. He nudged her.

  ‘Just asking him why we’re going to Edmonton,’ she said. ‘He doesn’t know.’

  It was raining hard, and as they f
ollowed the pilot and co-pilot towards the small, gray building, Dulac shot a side glance at Karen. Despondency and reproach were sketched all over her face.

  ‘Inspector Dulac, Ms. Dawson, I presume,’ said a mustachioed, bald-headed man standing in the open doorway of the building, clad in a beige and maroon uniform one size too small for his bulging gut. ‘I’m Colonel John Pettigrew, senior officer, CFB Edmonton. I—’

  ‘What the hell is this all about, Colonel?’ interrupted Dulac. ‘Why all this cloak and dagger crap?’

  ‘I haven’t the foggiest. I was told to pick you up, you and Ms. Dawson.’

  ‘Why are we at your base, Colonel?’ Dulac said, glaring at Pettigrew.

  ‘You’ll see. It should be coming in any minute,’ said Pettigrew, almost nonchalant. He went behind the small counter and reached underneath it, pulling out a clipboard and pen. ‘We need you both to sign here. Government formalities. By the way, Mr Dulac, have you had a medical recently?’

  ‘What bloody business is that of yours?’

  ‘Just a precaution,’ said Pettigrew, holding up his right hand defensively.

  At that moment, the unmistakable wail of a jet engine on final approach pierced the opaque fog. Not knowing exactly why, Dulac felt his stomach lurch.

  ‘That will be your limo, sir,’ said Pettigrew, pointing to the tarmac and bending over slightly like an obsequious bell-hop.

  The F-16 Viper attack fighter emerged menacingly from the fog. Dulac watched, incredulous, as its gray, lithe shape taxied slowly down the runway onto the tarmac. A hundred feet from the terminal, the Viper turned its missile-like nose toward the building and came to a stop.

  ‘Merde,’ said Dulac, butting his cigarette on the edge of the water fountain.

  ‘We’ve arranged for Ms Dawson to take the next commercial flight to Paris,’ said Pettigrew.

  Dulac watched as the yellow and white fuel truck pulled up alongside the Viper and a man stepped out and went to the rolled-up hose at the back of the truck. The pilot signaled to him. After affixing the hose to the jet’s fuselage, the man began quenching the gray bird’s thirst for JP-8 kerosene. The canopy opened, the pilot alighted nimbly from the aircraft and walked towards the building, carrying an extra flight suit and helmet.