Cradle of Solitude by Alex Archer Page A

low-power magnifying glass Annja could see that two edges of the paper were evenly cut, while the others were ragged, indicating it had been torn from a larger source.
    A few words had been written on the small slip of paper in a hurried scrawl. Using the magnifying glass, Annja read them aloud.
    â€œBerceau de solitude.”
    Annja didn’t need Bernard to translate. She knew the words were Cradle of Solitude, but she hoped he might have some insight on what it meant, because she didn’t have a clue.
    â€œOnly place I know by that name is a monastery in the Pyrenees,” he told her.
    â€œA monastery? Can you think of any reason it might be connected to our mysterious friend here?” she asked.
    â€œNot particularly. If memory serves, it started out as a convent in the early 1500s, was abandoned about a hundred years later and then was bought by a sect of Benedictine monks just before the French Revolution. They’ve been running the place ever since.”
    Benedictine monks. She couldn’t think of any obvious connection between the religious order and the Confederacy, but it wasn’t her area of expertise. Still, there had to be a connection, for no one went through the kind of trouble Parker had to hide a piece of paper if it wasn’t important.
    The monastery was the key to this mystery.
    She was sure of it.
    â€œIs it far from here?”
    Bernard shrugged. “Four, maybe four and a half hours by car. There’s a train that runs in that direction, as well, but you’d have to find transportation up the mountain. Not much sense in going, though.”
    â€œAnd why’s that?”
    â€œIt’s closed to the public. Outside visitors have to be approved in advance by the abbot and the process takes several months. I spent some time there a few years ago examining one of the books they have in their library and I remember the process being an absolute nightmare to get through.”
    â€œSo you’ve met the abbot?”
    â€œThe abbot, hmmm. Abbot Deschanel. Yes, I have. A charming man, actually.”
    â€œWould he remember you?”
    â€œI should think so,” Bernard told her. “We spent several evenings discussing a variety of topics over a glass of wine or two and I…” He paused, finally putting two and two together. “Oh, no.”
    Annja smiled at him sweetly. “What?”
    â€œYou want me to call over there and try to get you in to see the abbott without going through the standard process.”
    â€œYou’d do that for me?” she replied, letting her eyes go wide and feigning innocent surprise.
    Bernard laughed. “I’m supposed to believe that the idea never even occurred to you, right?”
    â€œYou can believe what you want. But now that you’ve brought it up I think it’s an excellent idea.”
    â€œIt’s been more than a hundred years, Annja. What do you expect to find?”
    She shrugged. “I don’t have any idea. But I’m suresomething will occur to me once I’m there. There has to be a reason that Parker went through all the trouble of hiding the name of the monastery inside the seam of his shirt. That doesn’t just happen by accident.”
    Bernard considered that statement. “You think he knew he was going to run into trouble,” he said slowly, thinking it through, “and he took precautions in case he did?”
    â€œI do. And I think somewhere in that monastery is the answer to just what kind of trouble he was expecting. If we know that, we might be able to figure out just what he was doing here in France in the first place. Isn’t that the point of all this?”
    She knew she was stretching things a bit. The authorities hadn’t been all that clear on exactly what they wanted her and Bernard to do. Identify the body if at all possible, sure, but given the state of the skeleton they probably didn’t expect them to have all that much