"It's a compa.s.s," Ascher said in an awe-filled gasp. "The navigational device has always been with the sword. So clever!"

"I discovered a drawing of this very pommel in Francois Mansart's papers at the library. I couldn't make a copy, but I didn't need to."

The heavy gold piece was cool on her palm, a chunk of history that still made her giddy to think about it. She turned over the pommel and traced the threaded column, which fit the piece onto the sword hilt. "Do you think d'Artagnan knew this was the way to read the map?" she asked.

"Possible. But why then put the map back in the hilt if he had found the treasure?"

"That is the question we'll never have answered. See here, this jagged line on the underside," she said.

Along the rim of the pommel a finely etched line jagged a complete circle. It matched the drawing exactly. First glance could a.s.sume it was merely a random line, perhaps an unsmoothed mark the goldsmith ignored. One side of the circle consisted of short straight lines, crenellated, as if a medieval tower.

As he leaned in, Ascher's head blocked her light source from the tiny window. The warmth of his presence, the closeness of him, startled Annja.

A handsome Frenchman was sitting too close for comfort and smelling too good for her better judgment. Vacations should involve fun activities. Hunting for an infamous sword. Picnics. Laughing. s.e.x with a handsome treasure hunter.

"What?" His eyes darted back and forth. "Annja?"

"Huh?" Giving her head a mental shake to jar the debauched thoughts from her brain, Annja then pressed Ascher back with two fingers to his shoulder. "You're blocking my light. Hand me the map."

Studying the underside of the pommel against the map, she determined the pommel fit exactly upon the serrated corner.

"You've done it," Ascher whispered. "North is that way, and-we've got to secure it so we can follow it."

"I've got a better idea." Annja reached into her backpack and retrieved a Sharpie marker. Positioning the pommel just so, she then marked out the four points of the compa.s.s right on the lamination.

"So where do we start? We still have not figured how this is positioned to the Louvre or the river," Ascher said.

Annja tugged her laptop from the backpack. The hotel did not offer WiFi, but she thought to give it another go. Sometimes if it was a windless day...and she was two floors lower than previously...

"What are you looking up now?"

"I was going to check a hunch, but the hotel doesn't offer WiFi. Though I do have a WiFi vampire program. And, if the restaurant below offers it..."

"Vampires?"

"It's a WiFi detection program. If there's a signal in the area, I might be able to tap into it."

The program scanned for a signal-and found one. Within minutes she was online.

"My guess is it's not on the Right Bank," she said. She typed in a search for Mansart. "When did Mansart design Val-de-Grace?"

"Mid-1600s. You think? But yes. Anne of Austria commissioned the cathedral from him. There is a connection. What made you think of Mansart?"

"There was a notation on Lambert's copy of the map. I think it might have been a conjecture. Here." Annja scrolled down a page on the architect that Wikipedia brought up, and read aloud portions relating to the creation of the Val-de-Grace cathedral. "Mansart was surprised when construction began that there were numerous cave-ins. Limestone quarries beneath the building site had to be filled to support the church."

She looked to Ascher. "He had to have spent some time underground, in the tunnels. Who better to hide the map and a trail to the treasure?"

"I understand. So you think it is under the cathedral?"

She pulled up a map of the Left Bank, circa seventeenth century. The two of them studied the ancient map alongside the map they'd discovered inside d'Artagnan's sword.

"Turn it to the right," Ascher directed. "Yes."

The streets aligned. Or rather, the landmarks aligned to the larger blocks of s.p.a.ce on the map, and some of the tunnels exactly matched the streets.

"It is on the Left Bank," Ascher said. "I think this is Val-de-Grace right here. And here, this larger s.p.a.ce, the Luxembourg Gardens, surely. Which means the red line is not actually the Seine, as I'd originally guessed...."

"I think it's the path to the treasure. And here, the fleur-de-lis, which we believe is the X X that marks the spot," Annja noted, "is to the west of the gardens. Close to the Seventh Arrondiss.e.m.e.nt?" that marks the spot," Annja noted, "is to the west of the gardens. Close to the Seventh Arrondiss.e.m.e.nt?"

"Yes, perhaps. Not so far as the Invalides. There would be some tunnels directly beneath a street. This is boulevard Montparna.s.se, I'm sure. If we go down close to the cathedral and find a street marker, we should be able to follow this."

"Well, then, I think we've got ourselves a treasure hunt, Monsieur Vallois."

"I think you are a genius, Miss Creed."

Ascher slid his hand around behind her neck, his fingers gliding up into her hair, and pulled her close for a kiss.

And she kissed him back. It felt right to surrender to a moment of success. They'd figured it out. X X finally marked a real and tangible spot. finally marked a real and tangible spot.

"All right, Frenchman, that's enough," she said. Though it was bittersweet to stop the kiss. The world wouldn't be completely right until she got some aspirin and some breakfast. "We've got work to do."

"Treasure hunting?"

"Shopping first."

20.

"Where are we headed?" Annja scanned the streets as they walked along the parked cars fitted closer together than a stack of Oreo cookies. "Wasn't the manhole down the road as good as any other?"

Ascher chuckled. He'd slung a leather backpack over his broad shoulders, and walked briskly. His rubber soles shucked along the cobbled street. "We mustn't be quite so bold, Annja, though I do admire your fort.i.tude. There is an entrance to the underground ahead. I know the owner."

"Someone owns owns an illegal entrance?" an illegal entrance?"

"Oui." He flashed her an innocuous smile, and led onward. "You will see!" He flashed her an innocuous smile, and led onward. "You will see!"

At the end of the Luxembourg Gardens, and out of eyesight of Val-de-Grace, was where Ascher said they could enter the underground. If they had placed the church correctly on the map-the treasure was not there-but perhaps closer to the east border of the Seventh Arrondiss.e.m.e.nt. They should start closer to the end, but it was the only entrance Ascher was familiar with. To find someone who knew otherwise would take too much time.

And if there were any thugs on their trail, the diversion would prove necessary.

The cheese shop smelled pungent and stinky. The air of it immediately overwhelmed Annja's olfactories. Good thing the aspirin she'd purchased at the supermarche supermarche had worked fast. had worked fast.

A rotund woman in a utilitarian brown dress that matched her eyes greeted Ascher. The woman bussed both of Annja's cheeks and made it clear she was delighted to meet her. Then she bustled off behind the counter, calling gaily to Ascher in French that she must have a.s.sumed the American girl couldn't understand.

"She's going to let you taste the goat's cheese," he said.

"I got that," she said with an angled smirk.

"It's fresh made and my favorite."

"I'm not much for cheese." Feeling as though she'd just been introduced to a boyfriend's mother, Annja pushed down the nervous clench in her gut. "Why are we in a cheese shop? I thought we had some spelunking to do?"

"We do. I'll return shortly." Ascher then slanted back and slid a hand along Annja's neck and leaned in close. "Whatever she hands you, taste. I promise you won't regret it."

He slipped behind the counter and disappeared, leaving Annja with the weird thought that Ascher and the woman were allied, and she was right now preparing a slice of poisoned cheese. Take the American girl out of the picture. Ascher finds the treasure, and she goes home in a coffin.

She swished a hand along the back of her neck where Ascher had touched her. Thoughts of their kiss in the hotel surfaced. Nice. If only this vacation had really been a vacation, she might have been more leisurely with him-h.e.l.l, s.e.x wasn't out of the question. But not with so many unanswered questions threatening more than her own well-being.

The initial olfactory attack of the premises had begun to wear off. Now Annja noted the musty-wood scent that must be a cheese, but could be the old walls and floor. The counter boasted a gorgeous butcher block with a thick slab of rosy granite laid over the top.

To her right a wall of pickled vegetables seeped a vinegar aroma into the atmosphere. Green string beans, whole eggs and sliced carrots were just a few of the jarred concoctions.

Adjusting her backpack, she shifted the weight of her supplies. She now wore gray rubber boots that climbed to her knees, jeans and a windbreaker jacket over her T-shirt. Knowing there was a helmet with headlamp in her bag, she surrendered to the excitement of the quest.

"All for one," she murmured. "And one for all."

Tracing a finger along a gold fleur-de-lis st.i.tched into a folded tea cloth, she mused, "Did you really allow a queen's treasure to slip through your fingers, d'Artagnan?"

What would the musketeer have done with jewels and riches?

"Probably buy a few rounds at the local tavern for his regiment and invest in those exploding grenades he desired." She smiled and leaned over a table of a.s.sorted cheeses to inspect.

"You try?" The woman reappeared, and rumbled across the creaking wood floor in her sensible, st.u.r.dy leather shoes. "Chevre." "Chevre." She thrust a cheese knife laden with a hunk of gooey white substance toward Annja. She thrust a cheese knife laden with a hunk of gooey white substance toward Annja.

The cheese knife lifted expectantly, and behind the hand a pair of eager brown eyes waited.

"Oh, why not?" To refuse would be beyond rude. Annja took the cheese and popped it in her mouth, impulsively closing her eyes as she chewed. Initially tangy, she could detect the flavor of goat's milk. It was firm but creamy on her tongue. This isn't so bad. Actually, it's quite good. "Tresbien," "Tresbien," she said. she said.

When she opened her eyes the woman had already returned to the counter and was slicing off another hunk of something pale yellow streaked with blue veins.

"Oh, no, I mustn't," Annja said in French. Not anything with mold in it. Not so soon after her Armagnac hangover. "Really, one new cheese a day is my limit."

Ascher popped his head out from a door behind the counter. "Come along, Annja. La vie sous-terraine! La vie sous-terraine!"

Skirting the proffered hunk of cheese, Annja slipped through the door, which immediately opened on a flight of dangerously narrow wood steps, the edges of which were rounded, likely from centuries of shoes and feet.

"It is good, oui? oui?" Ascher called up to her.

"It was gouda," Annja tried, and smiled to herself.

The joke went over the Frenchman's head faster than a sniper's bullet. She should never attempt her goofy sense of humor more than once in a great while.

Annja stepped onto the earth floor of a small cellar lined with walls of stacked cheeses. Down here the smell was not so pungent, but perhaps that was only because her nose had adjusted. Or it could be the dirt walls balanced out the smell with a thick, earthy, moist scent.

A naked lightbulb hanging from an electrical cord tied with thin strips of what looked like cheesecloth to the overhead beam glowed over their shoulders.

Her heart sped up. She'd once spelunked Ellison's Cave in Georgia. It boasted one of the longest vertical drops in the country, over a thousand feet. Quite the rush. Yet the darkness and sensory deprivation always initially unnerved her. Soon enough, though, she got her climbing legs and it was all good.

Cheeses of all shapes and colors perched on wooden shelves in the cool darkness. Wooden-handled tools with silver corkscrews and long curved knives hung on hooks. A caliper, a wooden hoop and a stack of mesh cheesecloth sat on another shelf. She had no idea of any of their uses-tools of the trade.

The creak of a wood bar shifted across iron latches. A squat little man, a match to the cheese woman-he even wore an ap.r.o.n fashioned from the same brown cloth the woman had worn-removed three wooden bars from a small door hinged to a wall that would have made a perfect hobbit entrance.

"This guy has his own private entrance to the underground tunnels," Annja said. "Awesome."

"Doorways like this exist all over the city," Ascher offered.

She knew that from some of the historical texts she'd read on Paris. Most were decrepit old stairways, crumbling or closed off decades ago with homemade brickwork. The city bolted all manholes, and any official entrance to the underground tunnels through government buildings required keys, some of which, she had heard, crafty tunnel explorers had obtained for their midnight visits to such places as Notre-Dame, the Conciergerie and a few noted museums.

"Many residents had secret escape tunnels during the German occupation," Ascher explained. "And before that, well, there has always been reason for people to hide, or run, and secret away from those above ground."

"To hide a spy during the Revolution or a medieval horse thief," Annja said.

"Oui, can you imagine? I enjoy tinkering around in these tunnels with fellow cataphiles, but to be pursued with your life in danger, and forced to go underground? It must have been frightening." can you imagine? I enjoy tinkering around in these tunnels with fellow cataphiles, but to be pursued with your life in danger, and forced to go underground? It must have been frightening."

"You come here often?" Annja asked.

He c.o.c.ked his head into a suggestive tilt. Gascon charm crinkled the sun-browned flesh at the corners of his eyes. "It is the first time I've brought along a woman."

"Should I consider this a date?"

The old man smiled up at Annja, though she could tell he didn't understand the English they used.

"It would please me if you would," Ascher said. "But now tell me, is it often you allow men to escort you into creepy dark places?"

Annja gave the question smirking consideration. "It happens more often than you might think," she said.

The door sprang open and, though she expected an eerie cold breeze, she felt nothing, save the increased beat of her heart. Adventure waited.

Ascher slapped the cheesemaker across the shoulder, and, turning to hand Annja his backpack, he then stepped through the doorway-and dropped out of sight.

Peering inside, her hands clinging to the iron-framed doorway, Annja looked down. A brilliant flash blinded her. Ascher had turned on a small flashlight. There were no steps, not even an iron ladder such as a city tunnel would install for access.

"Jump!" he called.

"Right behind you!"

Into the unknown, she fell, and landed in a crouch, ready to roll to take the brunt of her landing, but finding it wasn't quite as far as she'd originally judged.

Their backpacks dropped at their feet. "Bonne chance!" "Bonne chance!" the old man called. the old man called.

The sound of the iron door slammed shut above, sealing them in what felt and looked like a tomb.

Drawing out the helmet from her backpack, Annja flicked on the headlamp and flashed it around. The thickness of the dark cut off the beam three feet in every direction.